Holy Updates, Batman!
Alright, I haven't updated my fic since May and I'm very sorry about that. I was busy with my life and hit a small bit of writer's block. Anyway, on to the update!
Title: "Gone" (was "Goodbye")
Author:
Voxified
Pairing: House/Stacy
Rating: Teen
Warnings: If you utterly despise songfic, this isn't for you. These have songs as titles and epilogues to each chapter, but I don't base it on songs.
Summary: It's not a real concrete plot to tell you the truth. 8 fairly short chapters with 8 song inspirations. Omniscient third-person narraration for House's POV. There is a plot, but it's a sluggish one; this fic is more about character exploration.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Your Legs Grow" lyrics belong to Nada Surf.
Notes: I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. It's not finished, and if it is finished, it will be slowly since school (and now summer work) interferes with my life. It's not BETA'd but I do my best and have decent grammar. Also, this chapter concludes this story and the next update will be a sequel.
Chapters 1-7 can be found here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/494459.html
Your Legs Grow
He dreamt of the infarction again that night. He’s been having this one a lot lately. The increase in leg pain (he can’t be sure, there are plenty of reasons he could be experiencing increased pain, but he thinks it’s because he’s building up a tolerance to the Vicodin, it doesn’t work so well anymore) likes to find a nice match in his psyche.
It’s always the same dream. He makes the same decision, but she doesn’t. He sweats out the poison flowing through his veins and he survives. Just like he was so convinced he would.
In his dream, he wakes up from the chemically induced coma to a blurred confusion. He doesn’t know where he is and it’s too bright for him to take a good look around yet. It smells like antiseptic, plastic, latex, illness, urine, sweat, dried blood, and death. He knows that smell … the hospital, that’s where he is. Then the events of the hellish past two days come rushing back to him, startling him enough to make him open his eyes. His eyes take in light blue sheets and curtains, white walls, and blinking machinery under harsh fluorescent lighting. He shuts his eyes quickly. They’ve been closed for so long that the light is hard on his eyes.
He doesn’t see Stacy but he can smell her perfume in the air. His leg is intact and it still hurts. It’s not as excruciating as before, but some morphine would be nice if he could get it. “Stacy …” he wants to hold her again, reassure her, maybe affectionately rub it in her face that he was right again, and ask her to get a nurse to administer some morphine. “Stacy?” When he again receives no reply, he slowly opens his eyes and lets them adjust to the light. She’s not in the room, but her coat is; that must be what’s giving off the perfume. She hasn’t been able to shower for a few days. She’s probably been applying it liberally to cover up any smell.
He’ll have to convince some nurse to up his morphine himself. Maybe he’ll get lucky and get a young one who he can scare into it. The experienced ones can tell when a patient just wants to make himself more comfortable from the ones who really need the addictive opiate. He presses the call button several times and waits, but no one comes. “My girlfriend’s a lawyer! I can sue you for being negligent you know!” he yells out into the hall. There’s still no nurse coming to check on him; there’s something wrong here.
It’s probably not a good idea, but he does it anyway. He sits up and hastily disconnects himself from the IV and several monitors. He slowly swings his legs over the side of the bed and tests them, one at a time on the cold floor. Whichever idiot he runs into first is going to have a lot of questions to answer. His right leg supports some weight, but he’s not going on any long walks soon either. There’s a wheelchair next to the empty bed next to him. It doesn’t look like it’ll be missed if he takes it.
He wheels himself into the hall. No wonder no one immediately rushed to check on him when he threatened legal action - the nurse’s station is abandoned. It’s eerily quiet out here too, up until then he had assumed PPTH had actually soundproofed their patient rooms, the place did look swank enough to afford that. But no, the whole floor is silent. He can’t hear a sound save for his own breath, which is coming in shorter and quicker gasps than he likes.
Nothing is right about this situation. Nothing makes sense. House searches his brain for reasons why he could be the only patient left on the floor. He can’t come up with anything, especially with this distracting pain in his leg. He pushes the button for the elevator three times before it finally opens. He pushes his way in and presses ‘L’ for the lobby. The soft ding of the bell snaps him out of his worried state. Another abandoned floor greets him.
He checks the cafeteria - empty. But wait, there’s laughter coming from the patio. House rushes toward the sound of people. Wilson and Cuddy are sitting there having lunch, acting casual as hell, as if the whole hospital is not completely abandoned.
“What? She just grabbed her purse and left?” Wilson said, his eyebrows rise as he takes a bite out of his turkey sandwich. He looks tired.
A stressed-looking Cuddy swallows her spoonful of yogurt, “I went in to do the last check-up. I told her that everything looked well and he would be waking up within the hour. You know how lucky he is to have survived this. I told her that she should be happy, because the chances of him making it out of this alive and fully limbed were so slim. She gave me the most tortured look; I could tell the decision was just tearing her apart. She said ‘He would’ve died… He would’ve left his entire life … left me… just to keep his damn leg.’ She asked me if I thought he really believed that he thought he would make it out of this…”
“What did you say?” Wilson is getting upset because Cuddy isn’t getting to the point. House knows it must fuck with Wilson’s mind to realize that he and Stacy aren’t the couple that survives everything.
“I told her … I told her that he knew the numbers better than anyone, and the numbers aren’t good. I didn’t know it was going to make her leave.”
“Just because the numbers aren’t good doesn’t mean he didn’t believe he could make it through this. And look, he did, he was right, just like he always is.”
“House is not God. He’s just lucky as hell.”
“No, he’s not. Because you know what? He doesn’t have much to come back to anymore. You shouldn’t have told Stacy what you did. You just confirmed all her worst fears - that Greg House, the ultimate narcissist, cares about himself more than he cares about her and he only refused the surgery because he couldn’t deal with being crippled.”
“How do you know that’s not the reason he refused it?” Cuddy had guilt ridden all over her face, but she wasn’t about to take all the blame for this.
“Because I’ve seen House without Stacy. And he’s just as crippled.” Wilson let his features soften when he saw Cuddy’s guilt. This wasn’t all her fault, even if she was the catalyst. He gave a sigh and said, “I better go up to his room. He’ll be awake soon.” Wilson got up from the table and went to throw the rest of his lunch in the trash. That was when he saw House sitting there in doorway, his face set in stone, revealing nothing.
“House!” Wilson went bug eyed and dropped the bag of Doritos he was holding. House would’ve found his reaction amusing if he hadn’t just overheard that conversation.
“So where is everyone?” House squints at the bright sunlight and looks around at all the empty tables.
“What do you mean?”
House gestures around at the empty patio incredulously. “Hello! Empty hospital …” House spreads his arms out with his palms up, once again pointing out the emptiness.
“House, everyone’s here.”
That’s where the dream ends. House wakes up in a bed at Calvin’s Cottage wondering what it all means. He thinks about the subject a lot … what would’ve happened if she had left his leg alone? He’s starting to understand why only Wilson and Cuddy are left in the dream too. They’re the only ones left in his life who seem to understand him, the only ones he can stand talking to. It doesn’t matter if everyone else is there. He doesn’t care about them and they don’t care about him, so why should they litter his subconscious? And Stacy … would she have left him if she felt that way? He cuts up his leg and she leaves him and if he keeps his leg she leaves him; there’s no winning. Or maybe there’s just no winning if you decide to give up.
If you were here
baby we'd increase the dose
there was no fear
in my room when we got close
call me anytime you've got a ghost
you're the only person in the world
I feel that way about
and if you move off to the side
I'll get swept back out
where it's cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
there's a light that rises up
from the bottom of the lake
and its beam has hit me hard
now I'm wide awake
where it's cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
if you were here
baby we'd increase the dose
there was no fear
in my room when we got close
call me anytime you've got a ghost
****************************************
Woot for cryptic endings with cliff hangers!
Title: "Gone" (was "Goodbye")
Author:
Voxified
Pairing: House/Stacy
Rating: Teen
Warnings: If you utterly despise songfic, this isn't for you. These have songs as titles and epilogues to each chapter, but I don't base it on songs.
Summary: It's not a real concrete plot to tell you the truth. 8 fairly short chapters with 8 song inspirations. Omniscient third-person narraration for House's POV. There is a plot, but it's a sluggish one; this fic is more about character exploration.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Your Legs Grow" lyrics belong to Nada Surf.
Notes: I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. It's not finished, and if it is finished, it will be slowly since school (and now summer work) interferes with my life. It's not BETA'd but I do my best and have decent grammar. Also, this chapter concludes this story and the next update will be a sequel.
Chapters 1-7 can be found here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/494459.html
Your Legs Grow
He dreamt of the infarction again that night. He’s been having this one a lot lately. The increase in leg pain (he can’t be sure, there are plenty of reasons he could be experiencing increased pain, but he thinks it’s because he’s building up a tolerance to the Vicodin, it doesn’t work so well anymore) likes to find a nice match in his psyche.
It’s always the same dream. He makes the same decision, but she doesn’t. He sweats out the poison flowing through his veins and he survives. Just like he was so convinced he would.
In his dream, he wakes up from the chemically induced coma to a blurred confusion. He doesn’t know where he is and it’s too bright for him to take a good look around yet. It smells like antiseptic, plastic, latex, illness, urine, sweat, dried blood, and death. He knows that smell … the hospital, that’s where he is. Then the events of the hellish past two days come rushing back to him, startling him enough to make him open his eyes. His eyes take in light blue sheets and curtains, white walls, and blinking machinery under harsh fluorescent lighting. He shuts his eyes quickly. They’ve been closed for so long that the light is hard on his eyes.
He doesn’t see Stacy but he can smell her perfume in the air. His leg is intact and it still hurts. It’s not as excruciating as before, but some morphine would be nice if he could get it. “Stacy …” he wants to hold her again, reassure her, maybe affectionately rub it in her face that he was right again, and ask her to get a nurse to administer some morphine. “Stacy?” When he again receives no reply, he slowly opens his eyes and lets them adjust to the light. She’s not in the room, but her coat is; that must be what’s giving off the perfume. She hasn’t been able to shower for a few days. She’s probably been applying it liberally to cover up any smell.
He’ll have to convince some nurse to up his morphine himself. Maybe he’ll get lucky and get a young one who he can scare into it. The experienced ones can tell when a patient just wants to make himself more comfortable from the ones who really need the addictive opiate. He presses the call button several times and waits, but no one comes. “My girlfriend’s a lawyer! I can sue you for being negligent you know!” he yells out into the hall. There’s still no nurse coming to check on him; there’s something wrong here.
It’s probably not a good idea, but he does it anyway. He sits up and hastily disconnects himself from the IV and several monitors. He slowly swings his legs over the side of the bed and tests them, one at a time on the cold floor. Whichever idiot he runs into first is going to have a lot of questions to answer. His right leg supports some weight, but he’s not going on any long walks soon either. There’s a wheelchair next to the empty bed next to him. It doesn’t look like it’ll be missed if he takes it.
He wheels himself into the hall. No wonder no one immediately rushed to check on him when he threatened legal action - the nurse’s station is abandoned. It’s eerily quiet out here too, up until then he had assumed PPTH had actually soundproofed their patient rooms, the place did look swank enough to afford that. But no, the whole floor is silent. He can’t hear a sound save for his own breath, which is coming in shorter and quicker gasps than he likes.
Nothing is right about this situation. Nothing makes sense. House searches his brain for reasons why he could be the only patient left on the floor. He can’t come up with anything, especially with this distracting pain in his leg. He pushes the button for the elevator three times before it finally opens. He pushes his way in and presses ‘L’ for the lobby. The soft ding of the bell snaps him out of his worried state. Another abandoned floor greets him.
He checks the cafeteria - empty. But wait, there’s laughter coming from the patio. House rushes toward the sound of people. Wilson and Cuddy are sitting there having lunch, acting casual as hell, as if the whole hospital is not completely abandoned.
“What? She just grabbed her purse and left?” Wilson said, his eyebrows rise as he takes a bite out of his turkey sandwich. He looks tired.
A stressed-looking Cuddy swallows her spoonful of yogurt, “I went in to do the last check-up. I told her that everything looked well and he would be waking up within the hour. You know how lucky he is to have survived this. I told her that she should be happy, because the chances of him making it out of this alive and fully limbed were so slim. She gave me the most tortured look; I could tell the decision was just tearing her apart. She said ‘He would’ve died… He would’ve left his entire life … left me… just to keep his damn leg.’ She asked me if I thought he really believed that he thought he would make it out of this…”
“What did you say?” Wilson is getting upset because Cuddy isn’t getting to the point. House knows it must fuck with Wilson’s mind to realize that he and Stacy aren’t the couple that survives everything.
“I told her … I told her that he knew the numbers better than anyone, and the numbers aren’t good. I didn’t know it was going to make her leave.”
“Just because the numbers aren’t good doesn’t mean he didn’t believe he could make it through this. And look, he did, he was right, just like he always is.”
“House is not God. He’s just lucky as hell.”
“No, he’s not. Because you know what? He doesn’t have much to come back to anymore. You shouldn’t have told Stacy what you did. You just confirmed all her worst fears - that Greg House, the ultimate narcissist, cares about himself more than he cares about her and he only refused the surgery because he couldn’t deal with being crippled.”
“How do you know that’s not the reason he refused it?” Cuddy had guilt ridden all over her face, but she wasn’t about to take all the blame for this.
“Because I’ve seen House without Stacy. And he’s just as crippled.” Wilson let his features soften when he saw Cuddy’s guilt. This wasn’t all her fault, even if she was the catalyst. He gave a sigh and said, “I better go up to his room. He’ll be awake soon.” Wilson got up from the table and went to throw the rest of his lunch in the trash. That was when he saw House sitting there in doorway, his face set in stone, revealing nothing.
“House!” Wilson went bug eyed and dropped the bag of Doritos he was holding. House would’ve found his reaction amusing if he hadn’t just overheard that conversation.
“So where is everyone?” House squints at the bright sunlight and looks around at all the empty tables.
“What do you mean?”
House gestures around at the empty patio incredulously. “Hello! Empty hospital …” House spreads his arms out with his palms up, once again pointing out the emptiness.
“House, everyone’s here.”
That’s where the dream ends. House wakes up in a bed at Calvin’s Cottage wondering what it all means. He thinks about the subject a lot … what would’ve happened if she had left his leg alone? He’s starting to understand why only Wilson and Cuddy are left in the dream too. They’re the only ones left in his life who seem to understand him, the only ones he can stand talking to. It doesn’t matter if everyone else is there. He doesn’t care about them and they don’t care about him, so why should they litter his subconscious? And Stacy … would she have left him if she felt that way? He cuts up his leg and she leaves him and if he keeps his leg she leaves him; there’s no winning. Or maybe there’s just no winning if you decide to give up.
If you were here
baby we'd increase the dose
there was no fear
in my room when we got close
call me anytime you've got a ghost
you're the only person in the world
I feel that way about
and if you move off to the side
I'll get swept back out
where it's cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
there's a light that rises up
from the bottom of the lake
and its beam has hit me hard
now I'm wide awake
where it's cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
cold but not that deep
’cause your legs grow
if you were here
baby we'd increase the dose
there was no fear
in my room when we got close
call me anytime you've got a ghost
****************************************
Woot for cryptic endings with cliff hangers!