FIC: Eden Sank to Grief (7/12)
TITLE: Eden Sank to Grief
AUTHOR: shutterbug_12
PAIRING: House/Stacy
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: When Stacy was a girl, her mother had told her to count. "Concentrate on the numbers," she'd said. "They can't make you angry. They're only numbers."
DISCLAIMER: Don't own them. Make love, not lawsuits.
NOTES: A series of twelve episodes set during House and Stacy's relationship. Title taken from "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost. Thank you to recrudescence, _vicodin and phinnia for the beta-reads. Concrit and general feedback is love.
March 1998
Stacy trailed Greg as he stormed towards the door, shouting at the back of his head, "Fine! Go!"
At the door, Greg whirled to face her. His arm quivered as his fingers gripped the doorknob. Though he'd been quiet for a few minutes, a red flush still colored his skin and deep lines creased his forehead. His lips, tight and straight, opened as he bellowed, "Fine!"
The word burst from his gut like an atomic explosion. She hugged her body and closed her eyes tightly as the door slammed shut. The needle of Greg's turntable jumped, but apart from the flutter of her hair, Stacy stood motionless, air stuttering out of her nostrils.
When Stacy was a girl, her mother had told her to count. "Count to sixty, one-hundred, one-hundred-and-fifty," she'd said. "Concentrate on the numbers. They can't make you angry. They're only numbers."
Stacy reached "two" and realized that her mother had been mistaken. Blinking rapidly against the sting in the corners of her eyes, she counted the numbers that marked the frustration that had been building for weeks. Two. She and Greg hadn't eaten a full meal together in two weeks. Three. She had only seen him for an hour, sometimes less, every day for three weeks. Four. She hadn't touched him, made love with him, in four.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, exhaling shakily before dropping them to her sides. Her eyes swept the room, noticing that the canvas painting above the fireplace had shifted and now hung off-kilter. One of its corners pointed to a shallow dent in the wall. Greg's pager, cracked into pieces, lay at the base of it. Stacy lurched past their unfinished plates of moussaka and scooped the pieces off the floor, closing her fist around them. The sharp edges hurt, but couldn't approach the pain they'd caused as a whole piece, when the thing had wailed as if it were alive and dragged Greg away from her.
At first, she'd followed him. Standing beside the phone, she'd fisted his t-shirt, pulled him to her, ignoring the béchamel sauce at the corner of his mouth, and kissed him. He'd never voiced it, but the regret had been apparent in his eyes and his swallow visible in his throat as he'd lifted the receiver and dialed. As he'd laced his sneakers, she'd exercised her last option; she'd boxed him into a corner and pushed for a fight, unwilling to watch the hospital consume him like the gaping, swirling mouth of Charybdis. She'd realized too late, when his regret had vanished and he'd started shouting, that she was fighting the wrong person.
Squeezing her fist, Stacy stalked into the kitchen, wound up, and hurled the remnants of Greg's pager into the trash can. She grunted as they left her hand, channeling her frustrations, her fears, and loneliness into the swing of her arm. Her hands clutched the rim of the can, her body threatening to crumple as the plastic pieces cut through a bunch of rotten cherry tomatoes. Greg would have liked them, she thought, if he'd known about them.
~~~
A cocktail of paranoia, self-doubt, and guilt drew her out the house. En route to the hospital, she detoured to the nearest Wawa for two cups of coffee--a meager offering, but the most appropriate ice-breaker available to her, besides perhaps a stripper-gram, at one-thirty a.m. She had doubts, but paired with an apology, she hoped the gesture would begin to repair the damage she'd caused before he'd left. While she hardly expected complete forgiveness, she would attempt to take a baby-step toward it.
Both coffee cups nearly tumbled out of their holders, however, when Stacy spotted Greg's car four blocks from the hospital. She swerved suddenly into an open space along the curb, staring at the flickering sign of The Vine, one of Princeton's local dives. Her mind immediately formed conclusions--Greg didn't want to be found, didn't want to come home, didn't want to see her--but she squashed them. Drawing a long, deep breath, she abandoned the still-warm Styrofoam cups and, five minutes later, hunkered in a tattered, pea soup-green booth, twisting her hands beneath her table.
Greg sat ten feet away, his head bowed over a wet glass of bourbon. He had been nursing it for a while; the ice cubes in his glass had melted to flat, dime-sized discs. Both of his hands cupped the glass as if he were shielding it, and he guided it through a puddle of condensation, painting several clear strokes before tipping it to his mouth.
A red-haired woman accompanied him. A caked layer of make-up hid a set of otherwise pretty features. A smile upturned the corners of full, flamingo-pink lips as one manicured hand slid across the table, reaching for Greg.
Stacy shifted uneasily, the soles of her shoes peeling away from the damp, sticky floor. She struggled with the simultaneous desire to sink beneath the table and dive over it, deciding, after a moment, to maintain her covert position. She slouched low in the booth, anxiety and jealousy boosting the guilt already welling in her gut. She knew, in the cores of her bones, that Greg would never cheat on her--he wasn't perfect, but he wasn't stupid--but, faced with the opportunity for actual proof of his fidelity, she could not bring herself to interfere.
Despite her decision, she squirmed nervously. She slid to the end of the booth for a clear view of Greg's table, and her hands pressed indentations into her vinyl seat, her fingers tense and straight. Stacy bristled, drawing a sharp intake of breath, as the red-haired woman dragged her fingers over the back of Greg's hand. Stacy's shoulders tensed with Greg's, and their eyes aimed a double-powered glare at the woman. Greg curled his hand into a fist and brought it closer to his body as if to silently communicate his desire not to be touched. Undeterred, the woman slid her hand up his arm, under the sleeve of his t-shirt, and squeezed his shoulder.
Fury flash-flooded Stacy's entire body. Her fingernails cut half-moon crests into the vinyl as the woman--this nameless tramp--touched Greg. Her Greg, Stacy thought, staring at the shape of the hand beneath his shirt. She flexed her hands, struck with the impulse to break all five of the woman's fingers, but Greg acted first. He scrambled off his chair, nearly knocking it over, and pointed sharply toward the door, speaking too low for Stacy to hear. As the woman made a hasty exit, Stacy released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She retreated to the corner of the booth as Greg drained his glass, slammed it onto the table, and stalked past her to the rear of the bar. Peeking over the top of the booth, Stacy saw him disappearing into the restroom and suppressed the urge to follow him, press him against the grungy concrete wall, and kiss him until he was dizzy. Instead, she hurried out of the bar, knowing better than to thank him explicitly for what he'd done. Greg didn't like to be caught doing the wrong thing, but he especially hated to be caught doing the right thing.
With a smile pulling at her mouth, Stacy rushed to their apartment, only managing to situate herself comfortably on the couch before Greg appeared in the foyer, softly closing the door behind him.
Stacy struggled to maintain a neutral expression as he wordlessly sank onto the cushion beside her, but her façade crumbled when one of his arms curled behind her back, gathering her close to him. Drawing her legs onto the couch and shifting to face him, she let his arms encircle her. An unsteady sigh parted her lips as she felt him lower his head and tuck his face into the side of her neck.
"I missed you," he whispered, the words muffled but unmistakable against her skin.
Stacy's eyes closed tightly. She slipped her hands beneath his shirt, pressed them to his back, clutching at him as if she were afraid he'd disappear. "You know that I--"
He nodded, his breaths suddenly coming quickly. "I know," he said, raising one hand to the back of her head and drawing her forward to kiss her.
Stacy let herself unleash all her pent-up emotions, releasing a high, broken sound as his mouth aligned with hers. Her hands rose to his head, her fingers curling tightly in his hair, desperately holding him still. She tugged at his hair, and his mouth opened with a short, soft groan. Her tongue pushed inside, absorbing his textures, his warmth, his taste. God, she'd nearly forgotten. Shifting onto her knees, one of her hands fell to his shoulder, squeezing gently. She pressed herself against him, sighing into his mouth as his body arched into the touch. Hers.
Air blustered out of her nostrils, and she forced herself to break the kiss to draw a proper breath. She inhaled deeply, pressing her forehead to his cheek. He smelled like alcohol, like he'd been doused with an entire top-shelf supply, and as she stroked the hair above his ears, she smiled softly. "God, Greg, you smell like--"
"Eau de vomette," he interrupted, half-heartedly adopting a French accent. "All the rage with patients these days."
She'd expected a lie. She let it pass, pressing another kiss to his lips. A grin spread over her face as she pulled away, and she arched an eyebrow at him. "Race you to the shower," she said, darting off the couch and across the room.
He caught her in the hallway, his arms circling her waist from behind. She let him drag her into the bathroom, their laughter overlapping, and thought, this, this was what she'd missed.
Note: Wawa is a chain of convenience stores, based in Pennsylvania; stores can be found throughout the entire Mid-Atlantic region. There is a Wawa in Princeton.
Previous chapters can be found here.
AUTHOR: shutterbug_12
PAIRING: House/Stacy
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: When Stacy was a girl, her mother had told her to count. "Concentrate on the numbers," she'd said. "They can't make you angry. They're only numbers."
DISCLAIMER: Don't own them. Make love, not lawsuits.
NOTES: A series of twelve episodes set during House and Stacy's relationship. Title taken from "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost. Thank you to recrudescence, _vicodin and phinnia for the beta-reads. Concrit and general feedback is love.
March 1998
Stacy trailed Greg as he stormed towards the door, shouting at the back of his head, "Fine! Go!"
At the door, Greg whirled to face her. His arm quivered as his fingers gripped the doorknob. Though he'd been quiet for a few minutes, a red flush still colored his skin and deep lines creased his forehead. His lips, tight and straight, opened as he bellowed, "Fine!"
The word burst from his gut like an atomic explosion. She hugged her body and closed her eyes tightly as the door slammed shut. The needle of Greg's turntable jumped, but apart from the flutter of her hair, Stacy stood motionless, air stuttering out of her nostrils.
When Stacy was a girl, her mother had told her to count. "Count to sixty, one-hundred, one-hundred-and-fifty," she'd said. "Concentrate on the numbers. They can't make you angry. They're only numbers."
Stacy reached "two" and realized that her mother had been mistaken. Blinking rapidly against the sting in the corners of her eyes, she counted the numbers that marked the frustration that had been building for weeks. Two. She and Greg hadn't eaten a full meal together in two weeks. Three. She had only seen him for an hour, sometimes less, every day for three weeks. Four. She hadn't touched him, made love with him, in four.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, exhaling shakily before dropping them to her sides. Her eyes swept the room, noticing that the canvas painting above the fireplace had shifted and now hung off-kilter. One of its corners pointed to a shallow dent in the wall. Greg's pager, cracked into pieces, lay at the base of it. Stacy lurched past their unfinished plates of moussaka and scooped the pieces off the floor, closing her fist around them. The sharp edges hurt, but couldn't approach the pain they'd caused as a whole piece, when the thing had wailed as if it were alive and dragged Greg away from her.
At first, she'd followed him. Standing beside the phone, she'd fisted his t-shirt, pulled him to her, ignoring the béchamel sauce at the corner of his mouth, and kissed him. He'd never voiced it, but the regret had been apparent in his eyes and his swallow visible in his throat as he'd lifted the receiver and dialed. As he'd laced his sneakers, she'd exercised her last option; she'd boxed him into a corner and pushed for a fight, unwilling to watch the hospital consume him like the gaping, swirling mouth of Charybdis. She'd realized too late, when his regret had vanished and he'd started shouting, that she was fighting the wrong person.
Squeezing her fist, Stacy stalked into the kitchen, wound up, and hurled the remnants of Greg's pager into the trash can. She grunted as they left her hand, channeling her frustrations, her fears, and loneliness into the swing of her arm. Her hands clutched the rim of the can, her body threatening to crumple as the plastic pieces cut through a bunch of rotten cherry tomatoes. Greg would have liked them, she thought, if he'd known about them.
~~~
A cocktail of paranoia, self-doubt, and guilt drew her out the house. En route to the hospital, she detoured to the nearest Wawa for two cups of coffee--a meager offering, but the most appropriate ice-breaker available to her, besides perhaps a stripper-gram, at one-thirty a.m. She had doubts, but paired with an apology, she hoped the gesture would begin to repair the damage she'd caused before he'd left. While she hardly expected complete forgiveness, she would attempt to take a baby-step toward it.
Both coffee cups nearly tumbled out of their holders, however, when Stacy spotted Greg's car four blocks from the hospital. She swerved suddenly into an open space along the curb, staring at the flickering sign of The Vine, one of Princeton's local dives. Her mind immediately formed conclusions--Greg didn't want to be found, didn't want to come home, didn't want to see her--but she squashed them. Drawing a long, deep breath, she abandoned the still-warm Styrofoam cups and, five minutes later, hunkered in a tattered, pea soup-green booth, twisting her hands beneath her table.
Greg sat ten feet away, his head bowed over a wet glass of bourbon. He had been nursing it for a while; the ice cubes in his glass had melted to flat, dime-sized discs. Both of his hands cupped the glass as if he were shielding it, and he guided it through a puddle of condensation, painting several clear strokes before tipping it to his mouth.
A red-haired woman accompanied him. A caked layer of make-up hid a set of otherwise pretty features. A smile upturned the corners of full, flamingo-pink lips as one manicured hand slid across the table, reaching for Greg.
Stacy shifted uneasily, the soles of her shoes peeling away from the damp, sticky floor. She struggled with the simultaneous desire to sink beneath the table and dive over it, deciding, after a moment, to maintain her covert position. She slouched low in the booth, anxiety and jealousy boosting the guilt already welling in her gut. She knew, in the cores of her bones, that Greg would never cheat on her--he wasn't perfect, but he wasn't stupid--but, faced with the opportunity for actual proof of his fidelity, she could not bring herself to interfere.
Despite her decision, she squirmed nervously. She slid to the end of the booth for a clear view of Greg's table, and her hands pressed indentations into her vinyl seat, her fingers tense and straight. Stacy bristled, drawing a sharp intake of breath, as the red-haired woman dragged her fingers over the back of Greg's hand. Stacy's shoulders tensed with Greg's, and their eyes aimed a double-powered glare at the woman. Greg curled his hand into a fist and brought it closer to his body as if to silently communicate his desire not to be touched. Undeterred, the woman slid her hand up his arm, under the sleeve of his t-shirt, and squeezed his shoulder.
Fury flash-flooded Stacy's entire body. Her fingernails cut half-moon crests into the vinyl as the woman--this nameless tramp--touched Greg. Her Greg, Stacy thought, staring at the shape of the hand beneath his shirt. She flexed her hands, struck with the impulse to break all five of the woman's fingers, but Greg acted first. He scrambled off his chair, nearly knocking it over, and pointed sharply toward the door, speaking too low for Stacy to hear. As the woman made a hasty exit, Stacy released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She retreated to the corner of the booth as Greg drained his glass, slammed it onto the table, and stalked past her to the rear of the bar. Peeking over the top of the booth, Stacy saw him disappearing into the restroom and suppressed the urge to follow him, press him against the grungy concrete wall, and kiss him until he was dizzy. Instead, she hurried out of the bar, knowing better than to thank him explicitly for what he'd done. Greg didn't like to be caught doing the wrong thing, but he especially hated to be caught doing the right thing.
With a smile pulling at her mouth, Stacy rushed to their apartment, only managing to situate herself comfortably on the couch before Greg appeared in the foyer, softly closing the door behind him.
Stacy struggled to maintain a neutral expression as he wordlessly sank onto the cushion beside her, but her façade crumbled when one of his arms curled behind her back, gathering her close to him. Drawing her legs onto the couch and shifting to face him, she let his arms encircle her. An unsteady sigh parted her lips as she felt him lower his head and tuck his face into the side of her neck.
"I missed you," he whispered, the words muffled but unmistakable against her skin.
Stacy's eyes closed tightly. She slipped her hands beneath his shirt, pressed them to his back, clutching at him as if she were afraid he'd disappear. "You know that I--"
He nodded, his breaths suddenly coming quickly. "I know," he said, raising one hand to the back of her head and drawing her forward to kiss her.
Stacy let herself unleash all her pent-up emotions, releasing a high, broken sound as his mouth aligned with hers. Her hands rose to his head, her fingers curling tightly in his hair, desperately holding him still. She tugged at his hair, and his mouth opened with a short, soft groan. Her tongue pushed inside, absorbing his textures, his warmth, his taste. God, she'd nearly forgotten. Shifting onto her knees, one of her hands fell to his shoulder, squeezing gently. She pressed herself against him, sighing into his mouth as his body arched into the touch. Hers.
Air blustered out of her nostrils, and she forced herself to break the kiss to draw a proper breath. She inhaled deeply, pressing her forehead to his cheek. He smelled like alcohol, like he'd been doused with an entire top-shelf supply, and as she stroked the hair above his ears, she smiled softly. "God, Greg, you smell like--"
"Eau de vomette," he interrupted, half-heartedly adopting a French accent. "All the rage with patients these days."
She'd expected a lie. She let it pass, pressing another kiss to his lips. A grin spread over her face as she pulled away, and she arched an eyebrow at him. "Race you to the shower," she said, darting off the couch and across the room.
He caught her in the hallway, his arms circling her waist from behind. She let him drag her into the bathroom, their laughter overlapping, and thought, this, this was what she'd missed.
Note: Wawa is a chain of convenience stores, based in Pennsylvania; stores can be found throughout the entire Mid-Atlantic region. There is a Wawa in Princeton.
Previous chapters can be found here.