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namasteTitle: The Past Is the Present (It’s the Future Too) Chapter Three
Author: Namaste
Summary: House always pushes people away. Just ask Stacy. Or Crandall. Chapter three of five chapters, post-infarction time period. No spoilers. Gen, PG, about 3,600 words. House/Stacy, House and Wilson friendship, House and Crandall friendship.
Chapter Three:
“Stacy wants to help too,” Wilson said. “She needs to know that you still need her.”
“Right. I keep forgetting that this is all about Stacy.” House tossed his towel into the open hamper in the corner of the bathroom. “You’ll have to forgive me, my memory is a little hazy. Must be the drugs.”
Find previous parts here: Chapter One
Chapter Two
He dreamed he was floating, his body suspended in warm water, kept from drifting off into nothingness only by his head and shoulders propped against the low concrete edge of the pool. It was warm and humid, the late summer night giving up none of the heat of the day.
He dreamed he was floating, his body suspended in warm water, kept from drifting off into nothingness only by his head and shoulders propped against the low concrete edge of the pool. It was warm and humid, the late summer night giving up none of the heat of the day.
At home the fans only moved hot air from one end of the room to the other. Dad was gone, out on maneuvers for another two weeks, and it had been easy to sneak past Mom after she went to bed, even easier to pick the lock on the gate outside the officers' club and skirt past the empty deck chairs and slip into the water -- sweat and dust and sticky skin disappearing into the clear water, washing him clean.
He raised one arm out of the water, studied the way the skin on his fingertips had wrinkled, then lowered it back down, feeling the slight ripple in the still water from his movement. He stretched his legs forward, and frowned when he felt his feet touch solid surface at the far end. Mom would complain again about another growth spurt, shake her head when she saw the way his jeans had somehow gotten too short in just a few weeks, sigh and mutter about needing to buy him another pair.
"Sorry," he'd said after the last time she'd gone shopping for him, but she'd just laughed.
"You're twelve, Greg," she'd said. "I'd be worried if you weren't growing."
Before Dad left, he'd had Greg stand next to him, telling him to stand up straight until he saw that Greg was only about a half-head shorter than him now. "You better stop growing soon," he'd said, "or you'll be too tall to be a pilot."
Greg wasn't sure if that was a bad thing.
He stretched again, let the water carry him away from everything and everyone. He stared up at the sky, at the stars that managed to break through the haze hanging over the base. He should go home, but he didn't want to. He wanted to stay here, connected to nothing, with no one to please, no one to ask where he'd been, what he'd done, what he wanted.
He heard something bang against the wooden gate hard, once. Twice.
Someone knew he was there. Maybe if he was quiet, they'd go away.
The bang came again.
"House?"
He opened his eyes and sat up, water still clinging to the hair on the back of his neck, the white porcelain of the bathtub cool against his back, the bathroom coming into focus, the overhead light, rather than stars shining over him.
"House?" Wilson's voice again. "You OK in there?"
House scrubbed his hands over his face, saw the way his fingers were wrinkled from the water. "Yeah," he said.
He'd hoped the dreams would fade. They hadn't. At least Crandall hadn't made a repeat appearance since he started on the Vicodin. He looked over at the door, saw the outline of Wilson's shoe blocking the light from the hall.
"You've been in there a while," Wilson said. "I thought I'd check if you were ready to get out."
House sighed. The water was getting cool, and his muscles had finally loosened up. If he didn't move soon, they'd just cramp up again. "Yeah," he said.
Wilson opened the door, stepped in and closed it behind him. House couldn’t see if Stacy was on the other side, but wouldn’t be surprised if she was. She seemed to be everywhere since he came home, lurking behind every door, asking the same questions again and again.
“Do you need anything?”
“What can I get you?”
“Are you comfortable?”
He wasn’t. He never would be again. She should know that.
Wilson put a towel on the toilet seat, draped another across his shoulder, then waited. He didn’t ask any stupid questions. He didn’t have to. They’d both been through it enough times. Instead he let House set the pace.
House sighed and nodded. He sat up straighter while Wilson crouched next to the tub. He waited until House slung one arm over his shoulder, then wrapped his own arm around House’s torso.
He looked House in the eye, and House nodded.
“On three,” Wilson said. “One. Two. Three.”
Wilson rose up steadily, taking House’s weight as House scrambled to get his left leg under him, the water sloshing out from the tub to soak the mat that Stacy had placed on the floor before he’d been settled in for the bath.
If he had to, House could handle a shower on his own, the crutches under his arms and a step or two into the stall, then seating himself on the stool for a few minutes under the hot water. But lately he’d had daydreams -- waking nightmares -- of falling on soap slick tiles, of breaking something, of losing even more.
He wondered if Wilson had somehow sensed that. He was always nearby, sitting or standing in the bathroom with him. It settled House’s nerves.
But the showers don’t last for long, and stuck there on the stool, he feels like he never really gets clean. His muscles seem even more tense after maneuvering himself in and out of the stall. So every few days, there’s this. The ritual of the bath. Of easing down into the hot water, and letting himself go. Letting himself be alone. Completely alone.
It’s good. It’s nice. But it doesn’t last. Nothing good ever lasts. He has to pay for the peace with this uselessness. This waiting for help. Any relief he finds is replaced with clumsy scrambling to get out, of rising up out of the water only with Wilson’s help -- the warmth and grace of the water dropping away.
Wilson waited for House to steady himself on his feet, then for House’s nod and took his weight again, compensating for missing muscle as House put just enough weight onto his right leg to allow him to step his left foot out of the tub, then Wilson shifted once more as House maneuvered his right leg up and out.
Once they made it over to the toilet seat, House lowered himself down and Wilson handed him the other towel. House rubbed his hair dry, wiped down his arms and face, then dropped the towel down onto his lap, covering the scar, as if he could hide what had happened. The hollow gouged out of his leg that reminds him of the strip mines he’d seen in the foothills of the Appalachians. The damage Stacy left behind. Her permanent tattoo on his body.
Wilson turned his back and pretended he didn’t notice it. Instead he opened the drain in the tub, and mopped up the water from the floor. House could see the damp outline of his arm on Wilson’s white shirt, and noticed that Wilson’s dress shoes had gotten wet.
“Is it a kid?” House asked.
Wilson turned, the sponge in his hand damp from a puddle. “What?”
House nodded at Wilson’s shoes, at his dress shirt, at the dress pants he wore rather than the jeans he’d usually grab at home before he came by. “Whoever kept you late at work.”
Wilson shook his head. “No,” he said, “mother of two.”
“Anything you should have done differently?”
Wilson shook his head again, went back to mopping up the puddle.
“But you still feel guilty,” House said.
“Not guilty, just ...” Wilson stood up, put the sponge in the cabinet. “Some people just don’t deserve the crap life shoves at them.” He glanced at House for a moment, then turned away.
“And some do?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You could have. I can think of a few people who deserve at least a nasty case of the flu.” House shivered slightly as the water cooled on his skin. “Or shingles, maybe.”
Wilson handed him another towel, and leaned back against the wall, waiting while House finished drying himself off. House glanced at him, saw the way that he couldn’t seem to stop his fingers from twitching, the way he kept shifting his weight. Something was still eating at him, and he wondered if Wilson couldn’t stop thinking about the patient, or if it was something else that wouldn’t let him rest.
“You know,” Wilson said, and House braced himself. It wasn’t the patient on Wilson’s mind. “You should ask Stacy to help you out.”
“You tired of me already?”
Wilson put his hands out in front of him, as if he could wave away House’s thoughts. “It’s not that,” he said. “I don’t mind helping out, you know that.”
The stupid thing was, Wilson really meant it.
“But Stacy wants to help too,” Wilson continued. He sighed and shook his head. “She needs to help. She needs to know that you still need her.”
“Right. I keep forgetting that this is all about Stacy.” House tossed his towel into the open hamper in the corner of the bathroom. “You’ll have to forgive me, my memory is a little hazy. Must be the drugs.”
“House ...” Wilson sat on the edge of the tub, his elbows on his knees. House found himself thinking that the tub must still be wet, that Wilson must be uncomfortable sitting there, but also weirdly grateful that he didn’t have to look up at him. “I’m not saying you don’t have a reason to be angry or upset, but you’re going to make things worse.”
“How much worse could they be?”
Wilson shook his head. “Maybe you don’t want to know.”
Worse was all he had now, House thought. Worse was that mangled mess of a muscle. Worse was the pain that never went away. Worse was the pills and the rehab. Worse was the crutches. Maybe he’d been wrong to ever expect a life that could be better than what he’d had. Worse was what had been waiting for him all along.
Wilson got up and handed House the fresh clothes that had been hanging on the door. “Give me a yell when you need some help,” he said. “Or ask for Stacy. It might do you both some good.”
Wilson waited until House gave a slight nod, and left the room. Once he’d closed the door, House shook his head. Good? Sometimes he wasn’t even sure if anything had ever been good at all.
“I was just going to get something to drink,” Stacy said that night, after Wilson had finally gone home. “Do you want something?”
House shook his head. Beer, he wanted to say, or Scotch, but Stacy would have just given him a lecture about mixing his meds with alcohol.
Stacy stood in the doorway, for a moment, as if she expected him to change his mind, then turned and went into the kitchen.
He heard her getting a glass out of the cupboard, heard the water running. He turned up the TV and tried to block her sounds. She only seemed to get louder -- the sound of the freezer door opening, the sound of ice cubes tumbling against glass.
“Are you sure?” she called out from the kitchen, and House turned up the volume again.
Stacy walked back into the room and sat at the far end of the couch. She curled her legs up onto the cushions, and House slouched back further into the pillows on his side of couch.
“You’ve seen this before,” she said, and nodded toward the TV as Harrison Ford tried to send out a Morse code signal from Air Force One.
“That makes it easier to follow the plot,” House said.
Stacy took a drink, and watched the screen with him for a few minutes. Maybe she’d be happy just sitting there, just being with him, rather than trying to fix him -- to fix everything that she’d screwed up.
He felt her gaze turn from the TV to him, and tried to ignore it. Wilson was wrong. There was nothing she could do to help.
“Greg ...” she said, but then stopped. He didn’t bother looking her way, and after a moment she sighed, slid her legs down off the couch. “I’ve got a deposition I need to read over.” She stood, taking her glass with her. “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything.”
He nodded, and listened to her steps pass behind the couch and into the bedroom. He heard the door squeak, but she didn’t close it all the way.
House put down the remote and slid over to stretch out on the couch, using his hands to lift his right leg up onto the cushions. He’d be fine. He didn’t need anything. Not from her, anyway.
House dreamed that something woke him up. He couldn’t remember falling asleep but he lay there on the couch, blinking as the room took shape. There was an old movie playing on the TV and the lamp on the table was still burning bright.
Something was wrong, but he heard someone banging on the door again before he could figure out what it was. He struggled to his feet as they knocked again -- four hard raps in quick succession. He stumbled to the door.
He swung it open to see Crandall grinning at him. “Hey G-Man,” he said, “bet you thought you got rid of me.”
House leaned against the door frame. This wasn’t home. Not anymore. He recognized the hallway beyond Crandall from the old house on Washington where he’d rented a tiny studio apartment his second year at Michigan.
He rubbed his eyes. Crandall was still there. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Making a social call,” Crandall said. “You going to invite me in?”
Crandall took a step forward, but House didn’t move. He looked at House, baffled for a moment, then smiled and seemed to call House’s bluff. “Come on, open up,” he said, and pushed against the door. House found himself letting it swing open, without even meaning to.
It took Crandall only six steps to reach the middle of the room and he stood there, next to the couch that House had picked up from the curb the weekend after the university’s semester ended, the old stereo on a rickety stand that he’d hauled with him from Baltimore, the milk crates filled with albums -- Miles Davis’ face staring back at them from the cover of Birth of the Cool.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Crandall said as House closed the door.
“You come all this way just to bitch?”
“I came to see you,” Crandall said. “Bitching is an added bonus.”
House walked further into the room, but didn’t sit down. Sitting would only make Crandall feel comfortable, make him want to stay.
Crandall took a seat anyway. “Did you miss me?”
House stared at him. He could almost picture Crandall on stage, hear him follow House anywhere, as if he could read House’s mind -- know where he was going before House even knew; could see him in any of a dozen dives, lapping up every story from the old jazz hands; could see him laughing at some stupid joke; could see him waving House over to the table where he’d found the prettiest girl in town, who somehow always had a gorgeous friend.
“No,” House lied.
Crandall just rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I found you?”
House shook his head. “You asked around the hospital,” he said.
“All I has to do was ask where I could find the biggest jerk in town. They all knew who I was talking about.” Crandall shrugged. “Of course the hard part was finding where you lived. Nobody knew. You’re a mystery man there.” He waved his hand in a general circle. “Now that I see this place, though, I know why.”
“And more bitching.” House finally sat on an arm of the sofa.
“The trick was to find the right person,” Crandall said, “someone who knew someone who knew where to find your file.”
House wasn’t surprised that Crandall could track it down, could charm just the right person. He’d always had a way with words, a way of getting people to tell him stories, to trust him. It was why House always let Crandall book their gigs, and how he got them into places they never would have gotten into on their own.
The problem was that Crandall always seemed to trust everyone else too, buying into every lie, believing that each woman was the right one for him. So it had been up to House to get rid of them -- for Crandall’s own good.
“So you found me. Mystery solved,” House said. “Now you can leave.”
“Is that any way to treat your best friend? After I came all this way?”
“I never said we were friends,” House said. It was Crandall who had appointed himself House’s best friend, the second time they’d met, the first time they’d played together, the rich sound of Crandall’s sax winding its way into the blues riff that House played, changing it, making it lighter, turning it into something new.
All they’d ever had was nothing more than an improvisation, held together only by the loose interpretation of a melody. House had never expected it to last. Crandall never expected it to end.
Crandall stood up. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a drink. That should make you happy.”
House glanced at the clock. “It’s after one o’clock,” he said.
“So? The bars are still open.”
“I’ve got to present a case on rounds at seven.” House nodded down at his notes spread out on the floor.
Crandall pushed one of the papers away with his boot. “One drink,” he said.
House shook his head.
“You’re getting old, G-Man,” Crandall said. “I remember when you said the party didn’t start until the bars closed.” He sighed, shook his head. “At least come to the show tomorrow. We’re on the bill at the Michigan Theater.”
House already knew. Crandall’s band had picked up a new manager and a few new gigs since he’d left, including an opening spot for Corea’s midwest swing. He’d told himself he wasn’t jealous when he saw the announcement, but knew that was a lie.
“I’ll put you on the guest list,” Crandall said.
“I’m on call,” House said.
“Trade.”
House shook his head. Part of him wanted to go. He’d almost bought a ticket when they went on sale. He’d even had the money. But he didn’t. Why should he? Just to remind himself of what he’d lost?
“Come on,” Crandall said, “it’s a free pass. I’d put you down for two, if I knew you hadn’t pissed off everyone in town already.”
“Don’t bother.”
“God, but you’re in a crappy mood.”
“So leave,” House said. “It’s not like I invited you to visit.”
“Christ, what’s with you?” Crandall asked. “You’d rather just sit here by yourself? I’m only in town for a day.”
“I’ve got better things to do,” House said.
“I’m not asking you quit school, it’s just ...” Crandall shook his head. “I missed you.”
House shrugged. That wasn’t his fault.
“And I was hoping you’d come. It’s tough being the opener, you know? No one’s listening to us. It’s like we’re not even there. It’d be nice to know there’s a friendly face in the audience, that’s all. I thought you could do me a favor.”
House remembered this, the Crandall that always seemed to need something. The Crandall who wanted reassurances. The Crandall that asked him to stick around for another set when House was supposed to be somewhere else. The Crandall that needed House all the time. The Crandall that told him he’d make sure House had time to study between gigs.
“You knew what to expect when you took the job,” House said. “It’s not my job to make your life easier.”
Crandall sighed, rubbed his eyes. He looked older than House remembered, older than he should have been. “You can be a real bastard sometimes, you know? Guess I’d forgotten about that.”
House walked over to the door, opened it. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “It’s been a real treat.”
Crandall stared at him for a few moments, then turned to look down at the notes, and finally at the empty room. “You should have come out tonight, G-Man. It’s not good for you to be all alone.”
“But I like it that way.”
Crandall shook his head. “That’s what you always say, but it’s not true.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you better than you think, G.” Crandall walked over to the door. “And I know that one of these days you actually will be alone, if you’re not careful.” He looked back toward the apartment, and the room seemed to change shape, grow larger, the door under House’s hand phasing out from chipped white paint to a heavy dark wood. “You won’t be happy,” Crandall said, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
House jerked awake at the sound. He was home. The TV was still on, Harrison Ford was still saving the day. The couch under his back was leather, not cheap cloth. The bookshelves lining the wall were filled with his things, with Stacy’s things, with everything they’d bought together.
He heard water running in the bathroom and wondered if Stacy had meant to slam the door. Maybe she did.
He sat up slowly, easing his leg off the couch. He should go to bed, before Stacy came back in the room, asking him if he needed anything again.
Maybe Wilson was right, maybe Stacy was just trying to help, but Crandall ... Crandall had been wrong. Crandall didn’t know anything. He wasn’t alone. He was never alone. Stacy was always there.
And what if she wasn’t? House grabbed his crutches from the floor next to the couch, eased himself up. He heard the water shut off as he made his way to the bedroom.
Maybe if she wasn’t there, he could finally get some sleep.
Chapter Four
Author: Namaste
Summary: House always pushes people away. Just ask Stacy. Or Crandall. Chapter three of five chapters, post-infarction time period. No spoilers. Gen, PG, about 3,600 words. House/Stacy, House and Wilson friendship, House and Crandall friendship.
Chapter Three:
“Stacy wants to help too,” Wilson said. “She needs to know that you still need her.”
“Right. I keep forgetting that this is all about Stacy.” House tossed his towel into the open hamper in the corner of the bathroom. “You’ll have to forgive me, my memory is a little hazy. Must be the drugs.”
Find previous parts here: Chapter One
Chapter Two
He dreamed he was floating, his body suspended in warm water, kept from drifting off into nothingness only by his head and shoulders propped against the low concrete edge of the pool. It was warm and humid, the late summer night giving up none of the heat of the day.
He dreamed he was floating, his body suspended in warm water, kept from drifting off into nothingness only by his head and shoulders propped against the low concrete edge of the pool. It was warm and humid, the late summer night giving up none of the heat of the day.
At home the fans only moved hot air from one end of the room to the other. Dad was gone, out on maneuvers for another two weeks, and it had been easy to sneak past Mom after she went to bed, even easier to pick the lock on the gate outside the officers' club and skirt past the empty deck chairs and slip into the water -- sweat and dust and sticky skin disappearing into the clear water, washing him clean.
He raised one arm out of the water, studied the way the skin on his fingertips had wrinkled, then lowered it back down, feeling the slight ripple in the still water from his movement. He stretched his legs forward, and frowned when he felt his feet touch solid surface at the far end. Mom would complain again about another growth spurt, shake her head when she saw the way his jeans had somehow gotten too short in just a few weeks, sigh and mutter about needing to buy him another pair.
"Sorry," he'd said after the last time she'd gone shopping for him, but she'd just laughed.
"You're twelve, Greg," she'd said. "I'd be worried if you weren't growing."
Before Dad left, he'd had Greg stand next to him, telling him to stand up straight until he saw that Greg was only about a half-head shorter than him now. "You better stop growing soon," he'd said, "or you'll be too tall to be a pilot."
Greg wasn't sure if that was a bad thing.
He stretched again, let the water carry him away from everything and everyone. He stared up at the sky, at the stars that managed to break through the haze hanging over the base. He should go home, but he didn't want to. He wanted to stay here, connected to nothing, with no one to please, no one to ask where he'd been, what he'd done, what he wanted.
He heard something bang against the wooden gate hard, once. Twice.
Someone knew he was there. Maybe if he was quiet, they'd go away.
The bang came again.
"House?"
He opened his eyes and sat up, water still clinging to the hair on the back of his neck, the white porcelain of the bathtub cool against his back, the bathroom coming into focus, the overhead light, rather than stars shining over him.
"House?" Wilson's voice again. "You OK in there?"
House scrubbed his hands over his face, saw the way his fingers were wrinkled from the water. "Yeah," he said.
He'd hoped the dreams would fade. They hadn't. At least Crandall hadn't made a repeat appearance since he started on the Vicodin. He looked over at the door, saw the outline of Wilson's shoe blocking the light from the hall.
"You've been in there a while," Wilson said. "I thought I'd check if you were ready to get out."
House sighed. The water was getting cool, and his muscles had finally loosened up. If he didn't move soon, they'd just cramp up again. "Yeah," he said.
Wilson opened the door, stepped in and closed it behind him. House couldn’t see if Stacy was on the other side, but wouldn’t be surprised if she was. She seemed to be everywhere since he came home, lurking behind every door, asking the same questions again and again.
“Do you need anything?”
“What can I get you?”
“Are you comfortable?”
He wasn’t. He never would be again. She should know that.
Wilson put a towel on the toilet seat, draped another across his shoulder, then waited. He didn’t ask any stupid questions. He didn’t have to. They’d both been through it enough times. Instead he let House set the pace.
House sighed and nodded. He sat up straighter while Wilson crouched next to the tub. He waited until House slung one arm over his shoulder, then wrapped his own arm around House’s torso.
He looked House in the eye, and House nodded.
“On three,” Wilson said. “One. Two. Three.”
Wilson rose up steadily, taking House’s weight as House scrambled to get his left leg under him, the water sloshing out from the tub to soak the mat that Stacy had placed on the floor before he’d been settled in for the bath.
If he had to, House could handle a shower on his own, the crutches under his arms and a step or two into the stall, then seating himself on the stool for a few minutes under the hot water. But lately he’d had daydreams -- waking nightmares -- of falling on soap slick tiles, of breaking something, of losing even more.
He wondered if Wilson had somehow sensed that. He was always nearby, sitting or standing in the bathroom with him. It settled House’s nerves.
But the showers don’t last for long, and stuck there on the stool, he feels like he never really gets clean. His muscles seem even more tense after maneuvering himself in and out of the stall. So every few days, there’s this. The ritual of the bath. Of easing down into the hot water, and letting himself go. Letting himself be alone. Completely alone.
It’s good. It’s nice. But it doesn’t last. Nothing good ever lasts. He has to pay for the peace with this uselessness. This waiting for help. Any relief he finds is replaced with clumsy scrambling to get out, of rising up out of the water only with Wilson’s help -- the warmth and grace of the water dropping away.
Wilson waited for House to steady himself on his feet, then for House’s nod and took his weight again, compensating for missing muscle as House put just enough weight onto his right leg to allow him to step his left foot out of the tub, then Wilson shifted once more as House maneuvered his right leg up and out.
Once they made it over to the toilet seat, House lowered himself down and Wilson handed him the other towel. House rubbed his hair dry, wiped down his arms and face, then dropped the towel down onto his lap, covering the scar, as if he could hide what had happened. The hollow gouged out of his leg that reminds him of the strip mines he’d seen in the foothills of the Appalachians. The damage Stacy left behind. Her permanent tattoo on his body.
Wilson turned his back and pretended he didn’t notice it. Instead he opened the drain in the tub, and mopped up the water from the floor. House could see the damp outline of his arm on Wilson’s white shirt, and noticed that Wilson’s dress shoes had gotten wet.
“Is it a kid?” House asked.
Wilson turned, the sponge in his hand damp from a puddle. “What?”
House nodded at Wilson’s shoes, at his dress shirt, at the dress pants he wore rather than the jeans he’d usually grab at home before he came by. “Whoever kept you late at work.”
Wilson shook his head. “No,” he said, “mother of two.”
“Anything you should have done differently?”
Wilson shook his head again, went back to mopping up the puddle.
“But you still feel guilty,” House said.
“Not guilty, just ...” Wilson stood up, put the sponge in the cabinet. “Some people just don’t deserve the crap life shoves at them.” He glanced at House for a moment, then turned away.
“And some do?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You could have. I can think of a few people who deserve at least a nasty case of the flu.” House shivered slightly as the water cooled on his skin. “Or shingles, maybe.”
Wilson handed him another towel, and leaned back against the wall, waiting while House finished drying himself off. House glanced at him, saw the way that he couldn’t seem to stop his fingers from twitching, the way he kept shifting his weight. Something was still eating at him, and he wondered if Wilson couldn’t stop thinking about the patient, or if it was something else that wouldn’t let him rest.
“You know,” Wilson said, and House braced himself. It wasn’t the patient on Wilson’s mind. “You should ask Stacy to help you out.”
“You tired of me already?”
Wilson put his hands out in front of him, as if he could wave away House’s thoughts. “It’s not that,” he said. “I don’t mind helping out, you know that.”
The stupid thing was, Wilson really meant it.
“But Stacy wants to help too,” Wilson continued. He sighed and shook his head. “She needs to help. She needs to know that you still need her.”
“Right. I keep forgetting that this is all about Stacy.” House tossed his towel into the open hamper in the corner of the bathroom. “You’ll have to forgive me, my memory is a little hazy. Must be the drugs.”
“House ...” Wilson sat on the edge of the tub, his elbows on his knees. House found himself thinking that the tub must still be wet, that Wilson must be uncomfortable sitting there, but also weirdly grateful that he didn’t have to look up at him. “I’m not saying you don’t have a reason to be angry or upset, but you’re going to make things worse.”
“How much worse could they be?”
Wilson shook his head. “Maybe you don’t want to know.”
Worse was all he had now, House thought. Worse was that mangled mess of a muscle. Worse was the pain that never went away. Worse was the pills and the rehab. Worse was the crutches. Maybe he’d been wrong to ever expect a life that could be better than what he’d had. Worse was what had been waiting for him all along.
Wilson got up and handed House the fresh clothes that had been hanging on the door. “Give me a yell when you need some help,” he said. “Or ask for Stacy. It might do you both some good.”
Wilson waited until House gave a slight nod, and left the room. Once he’d closed the door, House shook his head. Good? Sometimes he wasn’t even sure if anything had ever been good at all.
“I was just going to get something to drink,” Stacy said that night, after Wilson had finally gone home. “Do you want something?”
House shook his head. Beer, he wanted to say, or Scotch, but Stacy would have just given him a lecture about mixing his meds with alcohol.
Stacy stood in the doorway, for a moment, as if she expected him to change his mind, then turned and went into the kitchen.
He heard her getting a glass out of the cupboard, heard the water running. He turned up the TV and tried to block her sounds. She only seemed to get louder -- the sound of the freezer door opening, the sound of ice cubes tumbling against glass.
“Are you sure?” she called out from the kitchen, and House turned up the volume again.
Stacy walked back into the room and sat at the far end of the couch. She curled her legs up onto the cushions, and House slouched back further into the pillows on his side of couch.
“You’ve seen this before,” she said, and nodded toward the TV as Harrison Ford tried to send out a Morse code signal from Air Force One.
“That makes it easier to follow the plot,” House said.
Stacy took a drink, and watched the screen with him for a few minutes. Maybe she’d be happy just sitting there, just being with him, rather than trying to fix him -- to fix everything that she’d screwed up.
He felt her gaze turn from the TV to him, and tried to ignore it. Wilson was wrong. There was nothing she could do to help.
“Greg ...” she said, but then stopped. He didn’t bother looking her way, and after a moment she sighed, slid her legs down off the couch. “I’ve got a deposition I need to read over.” She stood, taking her glass with her. “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything.”
He nodded, and listened to her steps pass behind the couch and into the bedroom. He heard the door squeak, but she didn’t close it all the way.
House put down the remote and slid over to stretch out on the couch, using his hands to lift his right leg up onto the cushions. He’d be fine. He didn’t need anything. Not from her, anyway.
House dreamed that something woke him up. He couldn’t remember falling asleep but he lay there on the couch, blinking as the room took shape. There was an old movie playing on the TV and the lamp on the table was still burning bright.
Something was wrong, but he heard someone banging on the door again before he could figure out what it was. He struggled to his feet as they knocked again -- four hard raps in quick succession. He stumbled to the door.
He swung it open to see Crandall grinning at him. “Hey G-Man,” he said, “bet you thought you got rid of me.”
House leaned against the door frame. This wasn’t home. Not anymore. He recognized the hallway beyond Crandall from the old house on Washington where he’d rented a tiny studio apartment his second year at Michigan.
He rubbed his eyes. Crandall was still there. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Making a social call,” Crandall said. “You going to invite me in?”
Crandall took a step forward, but House didn’t move. He looked at House, baffled for a moment, then smiled and seemed to call House’s bluff. “Come on, open up,” he said, and pushed against the door. House found himself letting it swing open, without even meaning to.
It took Crandall only six steps to reach the middle of the room and he stood there, next to the couch that House had picked up from the curb the weekend after the university’s semester ended, the old stereo on a rickety stand that he’d hauled with him from Baltimore, the milk crates filled with albums -- Miles Davis’ face staring back at them from the cover of Birth of the Cool.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Crandall said as House closed the door.
“You come all this way just to bitch?”
“I came to see you,” Crandall said. “Bitching is an added bonus.”
House walked further into the room, but didn’t sit down. Sitting would only make Crandall feel comfortable, make him want to stay.
Crandall took a seat anyway. “Did you miss me?”
House stared at him. He could almost picture Crandall on stage, hear him follow House anywhere, as if he could read House’s mind -- know where he was going before House even knew; could see him in any of a dozen dives, lapping up every story from the old jazz hands; could see him laughing at some stupid joke; could see him waving House over to the table where he’d found the prettiest girl in town, who somehow always had a gorgeous friend.
“No,” House lied.
Crandall just rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I found you?”
House shook his head. “You asked around the hospital,” he said.
“All I has to do was ask where I could find the biggest jerk in town. They all knew who I was talking about.” Crandall shrugged. “Of course the hard part was finding where you lived. Nobody knew. You’re a mystery man there.” He waved his hand in a general circle. “Now that I see this place, though, I know why.”
“And more bitching.” House finally sat on an arm of the sofa.
“The trick was to find the right person,” Crandall said, “someone who knew someone who knew where to find your file.”
House wasn’t surprised that Crandall could track it down, could charm just the right person. He’d always had a way with words, a way of getting people to tell him stories, to trust him. It was why House always let Crandall book their gigs, and how he got them into places they never would have gotten into on their own.
The problem was that Crandall always seemed to trust everyone else too, buying into every lie, believing that each woman was the right one for him. So it had been up to House to get rid of them -- for Crandall’s own good.
“So you found me. Mystery solved,” House said. “Now you can leave.”
“Is that any way to treat your best friend? After I came all this way?”
“I never said we were friends,” House said. It was Crandall who had appointed himself House’s best friend, the second time they’d met, the first time they’d played together, the rich sound of Crandall’s sax winding its way into the blues riff that House played, changing it, making it lighter, turning it into something new.
All they’d ever had was nothing more than an improvisation, held together only by the loose interpretation of a melody. House had never expected it to last. Crandall never expected it to end.
Crandall stood up. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a drink. That should make you happy.”
House glanced at the clock. “It’s after one o’clock,” he said.
“So? The bars are still open.”
“I’ve got to present a case on rounds at seven.” House nodded down at his notes spread out on the floor.
Crandall pushed one of the papers away with his boot. “One drink,” he said.
House shook his head.
“You’re getting old, G-Man,” Crandall said. “I remember when you said the party didn’t start until the bars closed.” He sighed, shook his head. “At least come to the show tomorrow. We’re on the bill at the Michigan Theater.”
House already knew. Crandall’s band had picked up a new manager and a few new gigs since he’d left, including an opening spot for Corea’s midwest swing. He’d told himself he wasn’t jealous when he saw the announcement, but knew that was a lie.
“I’ll put you on the guest list,” Crandall said.
“I’m on call,” House said.
“Trade.”
House shook his head. Part of him wanted to go. He’d almost bought a ticket when they went on sale. He’d even had the money. But he didn’t. Why should he? Just to remind himself of what he’d lost?
“Come on,” Crandall said, “it’s a free pass. I’d put you down for two, if I knew you hadn’t pissed off everyone in town already.”
“Don’t bother.”
“God, but you’re in a crappy mood.”
“So leave,” House said. “It’s not like I invited you to visit.”
“Christ, what’s with you?” Crandall asked. “You’d rather just sit here by yourself? I’m only in town for a day.”
“I’ve got better things to do,” House said.
“I’m not asking you quit school, it’s just ...” Crandall shook his head. “I missed you.”
House shrugged. That wasn’t his fault.
“And I was hoping you’d come. It’s tough being the opener, you know? No one’s listening to us. It’s like we’re not even there. It’d be nice to know there’s a friendly face in the audience, that’s all. I thought you could do me a favor.”
House remembered this, the Crandall that always seemed to need something. The Crandall who wanted reassurances. The Crandall that asked him to stick around for another set when House was supposed to be somewhere else. The Crandall that needed House all the time. The Crandall that told him he’d make sure House had time to study between gigs.
“You knew what to expect when you took the job,” House said. “It’s not my job to make your life easier.”
Crandall sighed, rubbed his eyes. He looked older than House remembered, older than he should have been. “You can be a real bastard sometimes, you know? Guess I’d forgotten about that.”
House walked over to the door, opened it. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “It’s been a real treat.”
Crandall stared at him for a few moments, then turned to look down at the notes, and finally at the empty room. “You should have come out tonight, G-Man. It’s not good for you to be all alone.”
“But I like it that way.”
Crandall shook his head. “That’s what you always say, but it’s not true.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you better than you think, G.” Crandall walked over to the door. “And I know that one of these days you actually will be alone, if you’re not careful.” He looked back toward the apartment, and the room seemed to change shape, grow larger, the door under House’s hand phasing out from chipped white paint to a heavy dark wood. “You won’t be happy,” Crandall said, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
House jerked awake at the sound. He was home. The TV was still on, Harrison Ford was still saving the day. The couch under his back was leather, not cheap cloth. The bookshelves lining the wall were filled with his things, with Stacy’s things, with everything they’d bought together.
He heard water running in the bathroom and wondered if Stacy had meant to slam the door. Maybe she did.
He sat up slowly, easing his leg off the couch. He should go to bed, before Stacy came back in the room, asking him if he needed anything again.
Maybe Wilson was right, maybe Stacy was just trying to help, but Crandall ... Crandall had been wrong. Crandall didn’t know anything. He wasn’t alone. He was never alone. Stacy was always there.
And what if she wasn’t? House grabbed his crutches from the floor next to the couch, eased himself up. He heard the water shut off as he made his way to the bedroom.
Maybe if she wasn’t there, he could finally get some sleep.
Chapter Four
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-25 10:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-26 03:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-25 10:26 pm (UTC)You always get the details right, and I love how richly detailed this is without ever getting bogged down. House's fear of falling, the details of the shower as opposed to the bath, and the slow destruction of his relationship with Stacy are just pitch-perfect.
Crandall is wonderful in this. It's a very thoughtful look at how he and Greg came to be in what Crandall thought of as a friendship. And there's a world of insight into how House regards relationships in this line: All they’d ever had was nothing more than an improvisation, held together only by the loose interpretation of a melody. House had never expected it to last. Crandall never expected it to end.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-26 03:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-25 11:02 pm (UTC)And poor Stacy, doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons; and House needs her but he won't tell her what she should do. It's only Wilson who instinctively understands well enough to simply help and not ask the same useless questions.
I spotted a minor tense glitch (probably just a typo really) here: Wilson waited for House to steady himself ... as House puts just enough weight.
This is just so painful. I'll keep following, hoping to spot some kind of light at the end of this tunnel. Even though, knowing House, the light might be the 5:15 to NYC.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-26 03:40 am (UTC)The hard thing about writing post-infarction House -- especially where Stacy is concerned -- is that it can't turn out well (unless it's AU, which this isn't). Yet I'm intrigued by it, by that image of House shutting down. (But I am planning on giving him at least a glimmer of light.)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-26 05:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-26 01:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-26 05:13 pm (UTC)Beautiful as ever... love the fact that House's unconscious mind, through the faces from the past, is trying desperately to warn him of the dangers of his actions. And it is heartbreaking to see how much he is not paying attention to them. I know... as you say, unless you change the story, you can't change it, but still... it is heartbreaking to watch it happening, knowing what is to come.
Still absolutely ADORE your scene changes!!! And the sprinkling of small details that brings a story to life w/o overwhelming.... *takes notes*
Hadn't thought about the floating until you mentioned it in the comments here, but yeah, I can really see it now. Will have to go back and reread and see if there is any change to the quality of that floating as he moves through the story....
I just realized... it's about risk, the helping of others, particularly folk who have a disability. The risk of respecting too much v. too little, the risk of simply helping even when it might be taken badly v. asking a question that there may not be enough energy or inclination to answer. Stacy's scared... for possibly the first time, what she stands to lose is too much for her, and she blinks, which, as it turns out, is exactly the wrong thing to do. One feels for her....
" waking nightmares -- of falling on soap slick tiles, of breaking something, of losing even more."
Love this line!
"the warmth and grace of the water dropping away"
Beautiful desc....
"House shook his head. Part of him wanted to go. He’d almost bought a ticket when they went on sale. He’d even had the money. But he didn’t. Why should he? Just to remind himself of what he’d lost? "
So powerful... and so true....
One piece of concrit, if I may... with apologies for not writing more clearly in the betapost.... I really like what you did w/the first dream of the first chapter... bolded the first paragraph, then went on w/the story. In the second and third chapters, I find the repeating of the bolded paragraphs in plaintext distracting and unnecessary, rather like a skip on a record. Also, I keep expecting the second dreams of the sections to be treated the same way, and they aren't, which also breaks the pattern of the story for me. This is a time when layout really matters to the flow, imo.
Overall, excellent as always! And there are two more chapters to look forward to!!! *happy dance*
-Katrina
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-26 07:44 pm (UTC)As to the bolding ... I actually decided to bold the first paragraph pre-cut as an enticement, but the story itself begins with the cut -- it's the teaser, if you will. Mostly I did it because I know some people put the first few graphs before the cut, but then you hit "read more" and you have to scroll up to remember where you were. It's just one of my peeves of setting it up that way.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 06:21 pm (UTC)Ah... got'cha! I tend to scroll up anyway, just b/c I'm like that.... :lol
Thank'ee's for the explanation! :-)
-Katrina
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 12:27 am (UTC)Crandall's presence in House's subconscious is very interesting and telling.
Looking forward to more.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 01:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 01:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 02:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 02:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 01:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-27 02:13 am (UTC)