HATES -- House/Stacy
TITLE: Hates
PAIRING: House/Stacy
RATING: PG13
SUMMERY: House is losing Stacy. Based loosely on aftermath of THREE STORIES.
HATES
He comes to hate having sex with her. It is difficult and frustrating with Stacy trying to position herself so as to keep away from his right thigh - which is practically impossible, when it comes to sex.
“Greg, say something,” she urges, after waiting patiently for nearly 20 minutes after he peaked, rolled over, buried his face in his pillow and fell silent.
“It hurts.”
He hates that after sex, all he can think about is his leg.
He squints at the sunlight, golden rays slipping between the blinds and making his head hurt. But Stacy doesn’t like dark rooms, and he doesn’t even try to ask her. All it will earn him is a practical talk about seeing where he’s going, being careful. House doesn’t want to be careful; he wants to be better.
She places a hand gently on his shoulder and tries to roll him onto his back. “Did I hurt you?” She asks with pressing urgency, her words laced with fear.
He hates even more that every time he shows signs of suffering, Stacy panics and blames herself.
“What the hell do you think?” he mutters wearily into his pillow.
She squeezes his shoulder, digging her nails angrily into his skin. Because the way she was brought up tells her she can’t yell at a cripple. She pulls her hand back and takes the blanket with her into the living room.
“Run away.” He says, watching her retreat. It takes him a long time, but he pulls himself up with his crutches and finds her curled up on the couch, looking determined to burn a hole through the floor with her eyes.
She doesn’t want to forgive him, doesn’t want to apologize or hold him or even look at him. But he looses his footing on the rug, and her glare is immediately replaced with concern as she jumps up, running to his side.
He hates that she has to forget herself just because he can’t walk. Why can’t she just stay mad at him, let him get up himself?
But he cannot deny her aide, because they both know he couldn’t make it to his feet on his own. His legs are trembling when he lets himself fall onto the couch with a low moan at the back of his throat.
It’s juvenile, and she winces on the inside, but she gets up and walks back into the bedroom. “Just… stay there and rest,” she calls, choking back tears. She doesn’t want to be near him.
All they ever talk about anymore is his health, and his leg, and it makes for damn boring conversation. When he asks her about her day, she is brief, and always changes the subject. “I was thinking of this therapy you could try,” or “Maybe if you stayed on the crutches just a little more,” and “I could stay home tomorrow if you need me to.”
“Do what you want,” he says, hurting her with his indifference. So she stays late at the office, calls Wilson and begs him to help her.
“It’s your choice,” he says helplessly, “No, actually, it’s really his choice.”
“But he won’t tell me anything. All he does is take those pills and sit around, there has to be something…”
“I shouldn’t be making these decisions for you. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be so loyal to him!” she says, on the verge of yelling. “You’re his friend, but you’re not living with him! I can’t… I don’t know what to do.”
“Talk to him,” he supplies feebly, drumming his fingers on his knees on the other end of the phone.
Before Stacy hangs up on him, she lets herself cry, just a little, then pulls herself together, and apologizes. Twice. “It doesn’t work. This doesn’t work.”
They don’t have sex again, and from the next night on, she sleeps on the couch. “I could roll over, hurt your leg,” she says, tired, not even trying to sound convincing. He is too tired to think of an argument, so he takes a pill to help him sleep.
When she leaves him for good, it is no surprise. Except now, he just has to tread more carefully, because she won’t be there to help him up. Because he knows he’s going to fall.
PAIRING: House/Stacy
RATING: PG13
SUMMERY: House is losing Stacy. Based loosely on aftermath of THREE STORIES.
HATES
He comes to hate having sex with her. It is difficult and frustrating with Stacy trying to position herself so as to keep away from his right thigh - which is practically impossible, when it comes to sex.
“Greg, say something,” she urges, after waiting patiently for nearly 20 minutes after he peaked, rolled over, buried his face in his pillow and fell silent.
“It hurts.”
He hates that after sex, all he can think about is his leg.
He squints at the sunlight, golden rays slipping between the blinds and making his head hurt. But Stacy doesn’t like dark rooms, and he doesn’t even try to ask her. All it will earn him is a practical talk about seeing where he’s going, being careful. House doesn’t want to be careful; he wants to be better.
She places a hand gently on his shoulder and tries to roll him onto his back. “Did I hurt you?” She asks with pressing urgency, her words laced with fear.
He hates even more that every time he shows signs of suffering, Stacy panics and blames herself.
“What the hell do you think?” he mutters wearily into his pillow.
She squeezes his shoulder, digging her nails angrily into his skin. Because the way she was brought up tells her she can’t yell at a cripple. She pulls her hand back and takes the blanket with her into the living room.
“Run away.” He says, watching her retreat. It takes him a long time, but he pulls himself up with his crutches and finds her curled up on the couch, looking determined to burn a hole through the floor with her eyes.
She doesn’t want to forgive him, doesn’t want to apologize or hold him or even look at him. But he looses his footing on the rug, and her glare is immediately replaced with concern as she jumps up, running to his side.
He hates that she has to forget herself just because he can’t walk. Why can’t she just stay mad at him, let him get up himself?
But he cannot deny her aide, because they both know he couldn’t make it to his feet on his own. His legs are trembling when he lets himself fall onto the couch with a low moan at the back of his throat.
It’s juvenile, and she winces on the inside, but she gets up and walks back into the bedroom. “Just… stay there and rest,” she calls, choking back tears. She doesn’t want to be near him.
All they ever talk about anymore is his health, and his leg, and it makes for damn boring conversation. When he asks her about her day, she is brief, and always changes the subject. “I was thinking of this therapy you could try,” or “Maybe if you stayed on the crutches just a little more,” and “I could stay home tomorrow if you need me to.”
“Do what you want,” he says, hurting her with his indifference. So she stays late at the office, calls Wilson and begs him to help her.
“It’s your choice,” he says helplessly, “No, actually, it’s really his choice.”
“But he won’t tell me anything. All he does is take those pills and sit around, there has to be something…”
“I shouldn’t be making these decisions for you. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be so loyal to him!” she says, on the verge of yelling. “You’re his friend, but you’re not living with him! I can’t… I don’t know what to do.”
“Talk to him,” he supplies feebly, drumming his fingers on his knees on the other end of the phone.
Before Stacy hangs up on him, she lets herself cry, just a little, then pulls herself together, and apologizes. Twice. “It doesn’t work. This doesn’t work.”
They don’t have sex again, and from the next night on, she sleeps on the couch. “I could roll over, hurt your leg,” she says, tired, not even trying to sound convincing. He is too tired to think of an argument, so he takes a pill to help him sleep.
When she leaves him for good, it is no surprise. Except now, he just has to tread more carefully, because she won’t be there to help him up. Because he knows he’s going to fall.