TITLE: Eden Sank to Grief
AUTHOR: shutterbug_12
PAIRING: House/Stacy
RATING: R
SUMMARY: "You are not a medical expert, despite what you might think."
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. Ridiculous amounts of thanks to _vicodin, who helped this through some grueling revisions. Feedback and concrit is always welcome.



December 1996

“Clear!”

The volume of Greg’s voice carried over the flat, screeching tone of the monitor and into the corridor where Stacy stood, peering through the open blinds.

She had been walking to Greg’s office when she’d heard the code, hoping to deliver a goodnight kiss before she left the hospital. The alert came as no surprise; Greg’s patient had already crashed once, earlier in the evening. He had called her office, vexed and apologetic, to explain his patient’s condition and to cancel their dinner plans. He'd assured her that he would have a diagnosis before midnight.

By two a.m., he had diagnosed and treated his patient twice. Each time, he had been wrong.

“Clear!”

Sweat lined Greg’s hairline, shining under the fluorescent light. Stacy could see the strain in his arms, in his hands, muscles corded and knuckles bleached as he gripped the paddles.

She had seen him at work in the past--performing exams, submitting or collecting patient prescriptions, reviewing test results. Routine, clinical work. Greg would have undoubtedly added ‘boring’ and ‘uninteresting’ to the list of descriptors, and, as she watched the frenzy of activity behind the glass, she understood why. She felt as though she had walked onto the set of a television drama.

“House!” The shout came from Dr. Fischer, the head of Greg’s department. He stood near the foot of the patient’s bed.

“One more minute,” Greg said, repositioning the paddles on the man’s chest.

Fischer lunged and wrenched the paddles from his hands. “The man’s had multiple system failures. He’s already coded once—”

“So you’re just hanging around to call time of death? Productive.”

“There’s nothing left to do.”

“I haven’t diagnosed him.”

“Death,” he spat. “That’s your diagnosis.” Fischer tossed the paddles onto the equipment cart, turned sharply, and shut off the monitor.

As silence fell over the room, Greg sagged forward to brace himself on the edge of the bed, his head bowing between his shoulders. He looked as though he’d taken a physical blow. He tensed, cringing, when Fischer patted his shoulder and spoke quietly to him.

Stacy’s eyes followed Fischer’s path to the elevator and, once he had disappeared from view, she approached the room.

Greg didn’t move until she stepped inside and slid the door shut behind her.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, raising his eyes to her. His eyelids fell heavily, and he paused, keeping his eyes closed for a moment before his lids fluttered open again.

“You saw me?”

He nodded once. “When Fischer left,” he said, plodding towards her. “The bastard wants me to spend tomorrow in the Clinic, as if I’m incapable of successfully treating anything except stuffy noses and ear aches.”

“You had a rough day. He probably just wants to give you a rest.”

“I don’t need a rest. I need—”

He stumbled over himself, grunting. He managed several uncoordinated steps before he grabbed hold of the footboard and steadied himself, breathing hard.

“You need to learn to walk, apparently,” Stacy teased, hoping to evoke a grin from him. Instead a hot, red flush crept up his neck, and he lowered his head. A sad grin tugged at her mouth as she raised her hand to stroke the curve of his jaw and slowly tip his chin up. She motioned toward the door with her head. “Come on.”

She led him into the corridor, pausing while he instructed a nurse to begin postmortem care, and le him toward the elevator. She was eager to take him to bed, to coax his body and mind to relax with slow, soft touches.

But when her car rolled to a stop outside their apartment, Greg bolted from the passenger seat and, without a word, headed for the door. By the time she stepped into the foyer, toeing off her black pumps, he was perched on the couch and hunched over an open book. Hardcover reference volumes covered the cushions, leaving nothing but the armrest empty.

Biting her bottom lip, she rounded the couch and balanced on the armrest. Her hand slid across his back as she whispered, “Greg, you should come to bed.”

He huffed, twisting away from her touch. “Stop it. I’m busy.”

She forced a swallow. “You’re tired.”

“I am not,” he said, his eyes still scanning the book.

“Right. You were stumbling over your own feet. You have circles under your eyes. You're--”

Greg turned his head sharply to look at her with mock surprise. “Wow, I didn’t know you were a doctor, too. Next time I won’t waste my time consulting colleagues and medical texts. I’ll just ask you.”

“What?”

“Tell me, Stacy. What course of treatment would you recommend for someone diagnosed with Candidiasis?”

Her face grew hot, but she resisted from raising a cool hand to the skin. “Greg, I don't—”

"Yeah, you don't know. Because you are not a medical expert, despite what you might think,” he snapped, then looked down at his book. “And the correct answer was 150 milligrams of fluconazole, by the way, which you might have known if you actually read the labels on your prescriptions.”

Stacy tangled her hands in her hair, fingers locking onto her scalp and pressing. She didn't have the energy for this. Her tongue stumbled over words, and she uttered an incoherent mumble before swiveling to stand and retreating into the bedroom. Fury welled in her stomach as she slammed the door. Impossible. He was impossible. She tore off her clothes, then balled up her garments to hurl them, one by one, against the wall.

When she fell onto the bed, she turned her face into the pillow, muffling rapid, hiccuped breaths. Her hand searched for something to hold, and she fisted the bed sheet. Her winter-dry skin stretched painfully over her knuckles, and she repressed a grimace. The audible flip of the panel alarm clock offered a distraction, and she tried to count the minutes. She lost track somewhere around twenty-six when the door opened with a loud, slow creak.

She squeezed her eyes tightly as she listened to the sounds of Greg’s shuffling feet against the wood floor and his clothes being stripped from his body. The mattress dipped. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach, and she was suddenly unsure if he would avoid her, keep to one side of the bed, or if he would reach for her. Set aside his damn pride and search her out as earnestly and unreservedly as he hunted for answers.

She felt the bounce of the bed as he shifted within inches of her. His breaths lapped her shoulder like a steady, warm tide. Heat radiated from his body, bridging them and enveloping her with its familiarity. For a moment, she was tempted to lean back, fit her body against his, and allow the angry knots in her shoulders to loosen and vanish, escape into the air like a peace offering. But her stubborn will dictated that she hold out, and she feigned sleep, drawing full, smooth breaths until her ribs ached with the efforts of too-far stretches.

Focused on the rhythm of her own breaths, she never noticed Greg’s subtle shift behind her as he propped himself up on one elbow. But when his arm curled around her, her eyes flew open and her breath faltered. He touched her tentatively, his open palm gliding slowly across her stomach and applying so little pressure that her eyes flickered downward to confirm its presence. Stacy’s heart thundered, and she would have been surprised if Greg couldn’t feel its beat under his hand.

If he knew she was awake, he failed to acknowledge it. He stayed silent as his hand slid to her hip, fingertips dragging across her skin and eliciting a shiver from her. Greg knew the difference between harmless and symptomatic shivers, but before the tremble subsided, he was pulling her against the warm length of him. He waited, stroking his thumb across the pointed bone of her hip, then placed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

Stacy blinked rapidly to trap the tears that stung her eyes, but felt herself bending to his silent plea for forgiveness. She wanted to speak, tell him that they were all right, that she was glad he was there now. She tried to dislodge the scratchy lump in her throat and accidentally released a loud, strangled sob.

Another kiss, longer but no less gentle, fell in the same place as the first. She still felt the warm press of his mouth when she heard his voice, low and barely audible; if he hadn’t been so close, she never would have heard him.

“Stacy.” He paused for a shallow breath. “Sweetheart.”

A hot, burning ache burst outward from the center of her chest, forcing a hard hitch in her breath. Almost in response, Greg pressed his whole body to her, burying his face into the curve of her neck. She felt the gust of a shuddering breath on her skin, felt his chest heave against her back, and she wished that she had the energy to turn and wrap her limbs around him, kiss him anywhere her mouth would reach.

She felt the simultaneous brush of his eyelashes, soft and delicate, and his cheek, rough since his morning shave. It was, she thought, a sensory representation of his personality. An inseparable combination of stubborn and abrasive, playful and warm. She accepted it—accepted him—when she moved in, when they joined their bank accounts and executed living wills and health care proxies. When she fell in love with him, endeared to his unique set of qualities that could fill her with fury and affection.

A sudden cool rush of air vanquished her thoughts, her unasked questions, as Greg rolled away, his hand falling to the mattress. Alarm sent her heart into a wild frenzy. She groped behind her to find him in the darkness, and, when she reached his upturned hand, she held it tightly. His fingers wrapped around her hand and squeezed. Then, gently and wordlessly, she guided him back to her.


Previous chapters can be found here.