"Craving" (sequel to "Goodbye")
Title: "Craving" (sequel to "Goodbye" " Mourning")
Author:
Voxified
Pairing: House/Stacy
Rating: Teen
Warnings: If you utterly despise songfic, this isn't for you. Each chapter has a song as an epilogue, but I don't base the fic on the songs.
Summary: Sequel to "Goodbye" " Mourning" (That is the official and final title. Sorry I kept changing it. I have more of an idea where I'm going with it now, and that title fits much better.) Omniscient third-person narraration from House's POV. The plot explores House/Stacy post "No Reason".
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. "Love Burns" lyrics belong to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
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.
Millburn has a good bar. House would know. He’s been to lots of bars in his lifetime. Been so drunk that he couldn’t walk straight. He can still walk now. Or at least he thinks he can. He hadn’t meant to get this drunk when he walked in. No, he had only wanted a quick couple of shots, enough to give him courage for what he was about to do. He’s about to ask Stacy Warner if she’s interested in reclaiming the title of world’s most dysfunctional couple with him.
He knows how stupid that is. That’s why he’s getting drunk in this bar. This bar is good because it’s nice and quiet. For now, House is content to lay his chin down in the palm of one hand and stare at his other hand tapping the rim of his Whiskey glass. At midnight, the barkeep tells him to hand over his keys if he wants a seventh shot. House hands them over without thinking and takes the drink.
“Hey, gimme my keys,” House commands as he holds out his hand to the bartender an hour later.
The bartender reaches under the counter. House thinks he’s actually going to give him the keys to his bike when the barman sets a phone in his hand. “Call for a ride.”
“Don’t have one, I’m from out of town.”
“Then call a cab,” he replies as he hands House a phonebook. House knows he’s drunk. He’s drunk enough to accept that the barman’s probably right. He’d fall off his bike if he tried to ride it now. Nevertheless, he glares at him as he flips open the book, trying to read the blurred letters.
Triangle Taxi service sends him a cab twenty minutes later. “5523 Chatham Road” House mutters as he climbs into the cab. “You got it.” House stares out the window, seeing nothing as the scenery whizzes past. What am I doing?
It’s been six months since he told Stacy to go back to Mark. Three months since his spontaneous, weekend trip to Calvin’s Cottage, three months since he tried to forget Stacy forever and only ended up reminiscing about their times together. Two months since his subconscious slapped him in the face. Almost a month since he regained the use of his right leg. Six months of Stacy haunting his thoughts, six long months of seeing Stacy everywhere. Four months of mourning the loss of what he thought was their dead relationship and two months of craving “Vindaloo Curry”. House was tired of it. He didn’t care if it burnt his tongue off, didn’t care if he got hurt, as long as he could stop obsessing about her.
There’s another way to stop it, he supposes. An easier choice than the one he’s executing presently. He thought about suicide, taking the coward’s way out. The bottle of Vicodin ever rattling in his pocket … the thought of swallowing ten too many came one lonely night after another. But Greg House was never one to take the easy route. He often took the smart route, which is frequently confused with the easy route, but never the easy route. He convinced himself that suicide was a stupid way to die. There’s no dignity in any death, but there’s even less in a self-afflicted one. It screams self-pity and helplessness and no one is better off for it.
That’s how he convinces himself not to swallow all the pills in the bottle. Utilitarianism. More people will benefit from him being alive than dead. If House lives, more patients live. If he did commit suicide …
To his father, it would be one more disappoint to add to the long list. But his mother would mourn him; it would devastate her. His coworkers would pay their respects if a funeral was held, but House doubted many of them would feel true sadness. Cuddy would feel guilty, that was inevitable. Wilson would be somber in between comforting the scores of needy women. Chase would pay his respects, leave flowers like a good Catholic boy, but it wouldn’t be a personal thing. If Foreman didn’t spit in his grave (House has made many enemies over the years - if Foreman didn’t do it, several others would) he’d surely wonder why anyone was crying. Cameron would cry silent tears, she’d make that pathetic, broken face; his death would only damage her more. And Stacy … he just didn’t know anymore. He’s not even sure that any of it matters. Up until two months ago he’d have said that none of it did, that it didn’t matter whether he lived or died, he was living without reason, but Moriarty had started the seed of doubt in that philosophy and for once, House is unsure.
For these reasons, for the benefit of others, Greg House has chosen life. Or maybe he’s just more afraid of death than he is of change. Change is his other choice. He can’t live the way he has been any longer. He can’t drift from day to day, alternating between Vicodin and alcohol induced hazes, waiting for a case interesting enough to pull him out of his isolation and practically living in his past. That was how much he had been thinking about Stacy since she left for Short Hills. He’d been re-living moment after moment until he could barely keep track of the present. His obsession with her was beginning to cause problems, even manifesting itself physically at one point. He couldn’t carry on living like that. Seeing her face in every crowd and torturing himself over a dead relationship, one that he’d killed twice.
Then there was Moriarty. That’s what he’s started to call the hallucination of the disgruntled ex-patient Jack Faragher, the man who shot him. Moriarty’s story turned out to be much more interesting than that of Jack Faragher. No, Jack had much less reason to shoot him than Moriarty. Well, maybe not a lesser reason, but a smaller reason for sure. A reason that pooped and peed in its pants, then cried for mommy and daddy.
House had convinced Jack’s wife to abort Jack’s baby without telling him about it a few months before the shooting. The wife, at least fifteen years younger than him, had come into the clinic by herself for a routine check-up. She said she was having the baby for her marriage, not because she wanted it. House convinced her that she shouldn’t be having the kid just to please her husband, and that her kid didn’t deserve to be born to a mother that didn’t want the responsibility and couldn’t handle it. House told her that he could make it look like a miscarriage. Somehow, Jack found out and decided to hold House solely responsible for his marriage combusting. Jack thought his marriage would’ve lasted if they’d had a kid. Jack was an idiot, but Moriarty wasn’t. No, Moriarty was much more complex and intelligent than Jack Faragher. That’s because Moriarty wasn’t Jack Faragher. He only borrowed his face because he didn’t have one of his own … because Moriarty was not a man. He was the conscience of a man, House’s conscience to be specific. Maybe that’s how House had come to respect him enough to listen to him.
“That’s all right, you don’t have to say anything. Just let me soak into your subconscious. You think that the only truth that matters is the truth that can be measured. Good intentions don’t count, what’s in your heart doesn’t count, caring doesn’t count, that a man’s life can’t be measured by how many tears are shed when he dies. It’s because you can’t measure them. It’s because you don’t want to measure them. Doesn’t mean it’s not real… And even if I’m wrong, you’re still miserable. Did you really think that your life’s purpose was to sacrifice yourself and get nothing in return? No. You believe there is no purpose to anything. Even the lives you save you dismiss. You turn the one decent thing in your life and you taint it, strip it of all meaning. You’re miserable for nothing. I don’t know why you’d want to live.”
“That’ll be $25.40,” snaps House from his reverie. House hands him what he thinks is $30 (he’s so drunk he can’t read the numbers on the bills) and tells him to keep the change as he steps out of the cab onto the well lit street. There are lights on in the house, but only one car in the driveway. It’s Stacy’s car, not Mark’s, just as House expected. One of Wilson’s nurses told Wilson that her home nurse friend Mary was dating a high school guidance counselor in Short Hills who had recently left his wife and walked with a cane. Like a good friend, or a friend that still thought House had made a mistake by pushing Stacy away, Wilson passed this information onto House. When Wilson told him, House acted nonchalant, but that was the moment this plan hatched in his mind.
House swallows and closes his eyes, gathering himself once more. He slowly and carefully makes his way up to her door and knocks softly, three times. Two clicks of the locks and Stacy’s standing in front of him in her bathrobe.
“Hi Stacy.”
Never thought I'd see her go away
She learned I loved her today
Never thought I'd see her cry
And I learned how to love her today
Never thought I'd rather die
Than try to keep her by my side
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Nothing else can hurt us now
No loss, our love's been hung on a cross
Nothing seems to make a sound
And now it's all so clear somehow
Nothing really matters now
Now we're gone and on our way
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
She cuts my skin and bruise my lips
She's everything to me
She tears my clothes and burns my eyes
She's all I want to see
She brings the cold and scars my soul
She's heaven sent to me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Never thought I'd leave you like the way I do, yeah
Kiss my love and I wish you're gone
You can kiss my love and I wish you're gone
Never thought I'd leave you like the way that I do
Kiss my love and I wish you're gone
You can kiss my love and I wish you're gone
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Author:
Voxified
Pairing: House/Stacy
Rating: Teen
Warnings: If you utterly despise songfic, this isn't for you. Each chapter has a song as an epilogue, but I don't base the fic on the songs.
Summary: Sequel to "Goodbye" " Mourning" (That is the official and final title. Sorry I kept changing it. I have more of an idea where I'm going with it now, and that title fits much better.) Omniscient third-person narraration from House's POV. The plot explores House/Stacy post "No Reason".
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. "Love Burns" lyrics belong to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
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.
Millburn has a good bar. House would know. He’s been to lots of bars in his lifetime. Been so drunk that he couldn’t walk straight. He can still walk now. Or at least he thinks he can. He hadn’t meant to get this drunk when he walked in. No, he had only wanted a quick couple of shots, enough to give him courage for what he was about to do. He’s about to ask Stacy Warner if she’s interested in reclaiming the title of world’s most dysfunctional couple with him.
He knows how stupid that is. That’s why he’s getting drunk in this bar. This bar is good because it’s nice and quiet. For now, House is content to lay his chin down in the palm of one hand and stare at his other hand tapping the rim of his Whiskey glass. At midnight, the barkeep tells him to hand over his keys if he wants a seventh shot. House hands them over without thinking and takes the drink.
“Hey, gimme my keys,” House commands as he holds out his hand to the bartender an hour later.
The bartender reaches under the counter. House thinks he’s actually going to give him the keys to his bike when the barman sets a phone in his hand. “Call for a ride.”
“Don’t have one, I’m from out of town.”
“Then call a cab,” he replies as he hands House a phonebook. House knows he’s drunk. He’s drunk enough to accept that the barman’s probably right. He’d fall off his bike if he tried to ride it now. Nevertheless, he glares at him as he flips open the book, trying to read the blurred letters.
Triangle Taxi service sends him a cab twenty minutes later. “5523 Chatham Road” House mutters as he climbs into the cab. “You got it.” House stares out the window, seeing nothing as the scenery whizzes past. What am I doing?
It’s been six months since he told Stacy to go back to Mark. Three months since his spontaneous, weekend trip to Calvin’s Cottage, three months since he tried to forget Stacy forever and only ended up reminiscing about their times together. Two months since his subconscious slapped him in the face. Almost a month since he regained the use of his right leg. Six months of Stacy haunting his thoughts, six long months of seeing Stacy everywhere. Four months of mourning the loss of what he thought was their dead relationship and two months of craving “Vindaloo Curry”. House was tired of it. He didn’t care if it burnt his tongue off, didn’t care if he got hurt, as long as he could stop obsessing about her.
There’s another way to stop it, he supposes. An easier choice than the one he’s executing presently. He thought about suicide, taking the coward’s way out. The bottle of Vicodin ever rattling in his pocket … the thought of swallowing ten too many came one lonely night after another. But Greg House was never one to take the easy route. He often took the smart route, which is frequently confused with the easy route, but never the easy route. He convinced himself that suicide was a stupid way to die. There’s no dignity in any death, but there’s even less in a self-afflicted one. It screams self-pity and helplessness and no one is better off for it.
That’s how he convinces himself not to swallow all the pills in the bottle. Utilitarianism. More people will benefit from him being alive than dead. If House lives, more patients live. If he did commit suicide …
To his father, it would be one more disappoint to add to the long list. But his mother would mourn him; it would devastate her. His coworkers would pay their respects if a funeral was held, but House doubted many of them would feel true sadness. Cuddy would feel guilty, that was inevitable. Wilson would be somber in between comforting the scores of needy women. Chase would pay his respects, leave flowers like a good Catholic boy, but it wouldn’t be a personal thing. If Foreman didn’t spit in his grave (House has made many enemies over the years - if Foreman didn’t do it, several others would) he’d surely wonder why anyone was crying. Cameron would cry silent tears, she’d make that pathetic, broken face; his death would only damage her more. And Stacy … he just didn’t know anymore. He’s not even sure that any of it matters. Up until two months ago he’d have said that none of it did, that it didn’t matter whether he lived or died, he was living without reason, but Moriarty had started the seed of doubt in that philosophy and for once, House is unsure.
For these reasons, for the benefit of others, Greg House has chosen life. Or maybe he’s just more afraid of death than he is of change. Change is his other choice. He can’t live the way he has been any longer. He can’t drift from day to day, alternating between Vicodin and alcohol induced hazes, waiting for a case interesting enough to pull him out of his isolation and practically living in his past. That was how much he had been thinking about Stacy since she left for Short Hills. He’d been re-living moment after moment until he could barely keep track of the present. His obsession with her was beginning to cause problems, even manifesting itself physically at one point. He couldn’t carry on living like that. Seeing her face in every crowd and torturing himself over a dead relationship, one that he’d killed twice.
Then there was Moriarty. That’s what he’s started to call the hallucination of the disgruntled ex-patient Jack Faragher, the man who shot him. Moriarty’s story turned out to be much more interesting than that of Jack Faragher. No, Jack had much less reason to shoot him than Moriarty. Well, maybe not a lesser reason, but a smaller reason for sure. A reason that pooped and peed in its pants, then cried for mommy and daddy.
House had convinced Jack’s wife to abort Jack’s baby without telling him about it a few months before the shooting. The wife, at least fifteen years younger than him, had come into the clinic by herself for a routine check-up. She said she was having the baby for her marriage, not because she wanted it. House convinced her that she shouldn’t be having the kid just to please her husband, and that her kid didn’t deserve to be born to a mother that didn’t want the responsibility and couldn’t handle it. House told her that he could make it look like a miscarriage. Somehow, Jack found out and decided to hold House solely responsible for his marriage combusting. Jack thought his marriage would’ve lasted if they’d had a kid. Jack was an idiot, but Moriarty wasn’t. No, Moriarty was much more complex and intelligent than Jack Faragher. That’s because Moriarty wasn’t Jack Faragher. He only borrowed his face because he didn’t have one of his own … because Moriarty was not a man. He was the conscience of a man, House’s conscience to be specific. Maybe that’s how House had come to respect him enough to listen to him.
“That’s all right, you don’t have to say anything. Just let me soak into your subconscious. You think that the only truth that matters is the truth that can be measured. Good intentions don’t count, what’s in your heart doesn’t count, caring doesn’t count, that a man’s life can’t be measured by how many tears are shed when he dies. It’s because you can’t measure them. It’s because you don’t want to measure them. Doesn’t mean it’s not real… And even if I’m wrong, you’re still miserable. Did you really think that your life’s purpose was to sacrifice yourself and get nothing in return? No. You believe there is no purpose to anything. Even the lives you save you dismiss. You turn the one decent thing in your life and you taint it, strip it of all meaning. You’re miserable for nothing. I don’t know why you’d want to live.”
“That’ll be $25.40,” snaps House from his reverie. House hands him what he thinks is $30 (he’s so drunk he can’t read the numbers on the bills) and tells him to keep the change as he steps out of the cab onto the well lit street. There are lights on in the house, but only one car in the driveway. It’s Stacy’s car, not Mark’s, just as House expected. One of Wilson’s nurses told Wilson that her home nurse friend Mary was dating a high school guidance counselor in Short Hills who had recently left his wife and walked with a cane. Like a good friend, or a friend that still thought House had made a mistake by pushing Stacy away, Wilson passed this information onto House. When Wilson told him, House acted nonchalant, but that was the moment this plan hatched in his mind.
House swallows and closes his eyes, gathering himself once more. He slowly and carefully makes his way up to her door and knocks softly, three times. Two clicks of the locks and Stacy’s standing in front of him in her bathrobe.
“Hi Stacy.”
Never thought I'd see her go away
She learned I loved her today
Never thought I'd see her cry
And I learned how to love her today
Never thought I'd rather die
Than try to keep her by my side
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Nothing else can hurt us now
No loss, our love's been hung on a cross
Nothing seems to make a sound
And now it's all so clear somehow
Nothing really matters now
Now we're gone and on our way
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
She cuts my skin and bruise my lips
She's everything to me
She tears my clothes and burns my eyes
She's all I want to see
She brings the cold and scars my soul
She's heaven sent to me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Never thought I'd leave you like the way I do, yeah
Kiss my love and I wish you're gone
You can kiss my love and I wish you're gone
Never thought I'd leave you like the way that I do
Kiss my love and I wish you're gone
You can kiss my love and I wish you're gone
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me
Now she's gone love burns inside me