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namasteTitle: The Past Is the Present (It’s the Future Too): Chapter Four
Author: Namaste
Summary: House always pushes people away. Just ask Stacy. Or Crandall. Chapter four of five, post-infarction time period. No spoilers. Gen, PG, about 4,200 words. House/Stacy, House and Wilson friendship, House and Crandall friendship.
Chapter Four:
“You want me to beg?” House shook his head.
"I didn't say that," Wilson said, "and what if I did? Would that be so bad?”
Wilson walked to the door, and paused a moment before walking out, looking at the room, at the boxes, at House, sitting there alone. "Talk to her. Before it's too late.”
Find previous parts here: Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
He dreamed he was flying.
He dreamed he was flying. He felt the vibration of the engines up through the floor and into his shoes, his feet, his legs. He leaned forward to look out the window. There was nothing below them but blue water and white clouds. For a moment he thought he glimpsed the plane’s shadow on the waves, but it disappeared as the plane banked to the left.
Mom still held her newspaper, the pages folded back to the crossword puzzle, but her head was back against the seat, her eyes closed. If he’d said something, she’d jerk awake, and claim she hadn’t been sleeping, just resting her eyes. She always fell asleep on long flights. Greg never could. There was too much to see.
The man in the row in front of them was wearing a suit when they boarded. He’d taken off his jacket and draped it over the empty seat next to him, but Greg had seen the tie still knotted around his neck when he’d called the stewardess over to order a drink. Greg peeked through the space between the seats and saw a briefcase on the floor next to the man’s legs and pages of typewritten notes spread across the seat tray. Every few minutes the man would write a few words next to one of the paragraphs. Maybe the man was selling something in Japan. Maybe he was buying something. Greg hadn’t decided yet.
Three rows behind them, a woman was trying to quiet her baby. She’d gotten on the plane in San Francisco, and Greg recognized some of the papers she’d been carrying -- the familiar list of instructions for families headed to overseas bases.
Mom had the same list in her bag, which was now stashed in the overhead compartment. Dad was already at the new base. He’d given them a quick call when he got there, and told them their base housing was smaller than they'd had in South Carolina, so they shouldn’t bring much.
Mom boxed up most of her books and her mother’s china and shipped them to her family in Florida to store until they got back to the states. “It won’t be for long,” she’d told Greg, as he sorted through his things to decide what to keep, what to throw away, and what to ship south with her things. “You’ll see them again.”
There was no point in getting upset, Mom always said. Nothing he said could stop the Marines from moving Dad to a new base. Dad always said it was his duty to go where the Marines sent him. Mom said their duty was to follow Dad. “But we’re lucky, aren’t we,” she’d always say whenever they boxed up everything they owned. “We get to see the world.”
Greg had nodded. It didn’t matter what he wanted. They’d pack, and throw things away and change, and then do it all over again in a few months -- a year at the most. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
The plane bumped as it hit turbulence, then bumped again. The baby started crying. The man in front of him sat a little straighter, looked up from his papers.
Greg went back to looking out the window. It was just turbulence, pockets of warm and cold air colliding. He looked down at the clouds, trying to see if he could spot where the atmosphere had gone rough, the lines where high and low pressure met. The seat jolted again, rougher this time. They’d be out of the pocket soon. The pilot would climb higher, or drop until the flight smoothed out.
Everything would be fine.
He felt the bumps again, then the ride grow even rougher. The sound outside changed, and the vibration felt different under his feet as the tires slid from asphalt to gravel.
Asphalt, he thought. Tires.
He opened his eyes and there was a blinking barricade outside his window, a construction worker flagging the car past him. Wilson turned left, followed the line of cars down the one-lane detour. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought they weren’t starting this project until next week.”
“It’s OK,” House said, and rubbed his eyes.
Rehab was a bitch, and he was finding it hard to remember why he’d agreed to the 8 a.m. appointments. Probably because it had been easier for Stacy. She could drive him in, drop him off, then head to the office and forget about him. The last few weeks Wilson had been the one showing up sometime before noon to take him home.
“Stacy’s tied up in a meeting,” he’d said the first time.
“Stacy got called in to court,” he’d said the next time.
“She’s waiting for a call,” he’d said the third time.
The fourth time, he’d just looked at House and shrugged. “You ready?” he’d asked, and never bothered with another excuse.
It was better this way, House told himself. Stacy always seemed to either rush ahead to open doors, or lag behind, reminding him with every step how slow he was now. Wilson just strolled beside him.
Stacy always wanted to know how the session went and if he’d made progress. Wilson told him about the latest hospital gossip.
Stacy fidgeted as he climbed in the car, reaching over to give him a hand when he didn’t need one, nearly knocking him over in her clumsy attempts to support him. Wilson waited while House settled himself into the seat, then tossed the crutches into the backseat without a word.
“I grabbed your mail,” Wilson said, turning the car from the rough road back onto asphalt as the detour ended.
“Stacy said she was going to get it,” House said. He watched the bored faces staring out from the cars backed up in the opposite lane, drivers waiting their turn in the construction zone. There was a business man in a BMW, a student in a Civic, a housewife with screaming kids in a minivan.
Wilson shrugged. “I was passing by your office anyway.”
They passed a furnace repair van, the driver sipping a Coke. “I asked Stacy to pick it up.”
“What difference does it make?”
The traffic cleared after an SUV and Wilson picked up speed. “None, I guess.”
Wilson glanced over at him. House thought he was going to say something, but then Wilson turned back to look out at the windshield again.
“Vandemeer asked about you,” he said.
“She probably wants to know when she can take over my office.”
“No,” Wilson said. “No, she ...” His voice trailed off, and House braced himself.
“She’s moving,” Wilson said, “to Boston.”
House let out his breath. “So she got the Harvard job,” he said. “Is that all?”
“They were considering you once,” Wilson said. “I thought maybe you’d be disappointed.”
House shook his head. “I let them buy me a few dinners,” he said. “Stacy was the one who wanted it. She thought Boston was a better town.” He stared out the window as they passed the Wawa two blocks before home, then the long row of apartments and condos that divided the students’ neighborhoods with the residential district. Wilson slowed to make the left turn onto Baker. “Maybe she’ll end up there yet,” House said.
“House, don’t ...” Wilson sighed, but didn’t say anything else and completed the turn. There was a spot open in front of the building, and he pulled up to the curb.
He paused just a moment after he turned off the ignition, and House already had his door open, had swiveled around with both feet on the sidewalk by the time Wilson grabbed the crutches. Wilson waited while House pushed down on the car door and the frame to get himself up on both feet and took the crutches.
House heard the car door close behind him as he lurched up the first step, then the sound of Wilson's footsteps as he pushed open the front door of the building. He turned and looked back. “I don’t remember inviting you in,” he said.
“I’m hungry,” Wilson said.
"Guess you didn't notice, but there are plenty of restaurants between here and the hospital,” House said. He entered the small lobby, then fished his key out of his pocket and put it in the lock. He was able to put more weight on his leg than he’d managed even a week ago -- was even able to free up his hands for a few seconds at a time -- but he still felt off balance, forced to rely on the crutches for every step.
“I just want a sandwich.”
“I’ve even heard rumors of something called a cafeteria at the hospital.” He pushed the door open and Wilson followed.
“I told you about the salmonella incident last week, right?”
“I’m sure the final report will cover up all evidence of the intentional poisoning designed to increase the emergency room’s monthly finance report.”
House stopped at the couch and lowered himself down. Wilson glanced at him, then continued into the kitchen. “You want one?” he asked.
“Sure,” House said. He rubbed a hand across his face. A few months ago, he would have been finishing up rounds at the hospital about now, taking the stairs two at a time rather than wasting time waiting for the elevator, grabbing a run after work or a looking for a pickup game of some kind, and he'd still have the energy that night to leave Stacy breathless. Now a morning sitting on his ass stretching abused muscles or making a few pitiful inches of progress along the parallel bars made his joints ache and left him exhausted.
“Turkey OK?” Wilson’s voice interrupted House’s thoughts.
He nodded. “Sure.”
“Mustard?”
“Whatever.”
Now he didn’t even have the energy to drag himself into the kitchen to make his own sandwich. Let Wilson do it.
“Want something to drink?”
House didn’t bother answering. Wilson would know to bring him something anyway.
A few moments later he heard the water running, then Wilson was walking through the door, a plate in one hand and a glass in the other. “Don’t bitch,” he said. “If you’re not going to tell me what you want, you’ll just have to take what I give you.”
House rolled his eyes, but took a drink. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. Wilson stepped into the kitchen again, then was back. He stood near the doorway, chewing and looking at the boxes stacked in one corner.
House followed his gaze. “It doesn’t mean anything."
Wilson turned and looked at him. He didn't say anything, just raised his eyebrows.
“Stacy said she just wanted to move some things around.”
Wilson crouched down and opened on of the boxes. He moved something inside it, then put it back and looked up. “And the fact that she’s only moving her own things doesn't mean anything?” He stood again, took a few steps over toward House. "You notice everything. Why are you ignoring this?"
"I'm not ignoring it," House said. He took a bite of his sandwich and swallowed. Wilson was still staring at him.
"Have you even talked to her about it?"
"She said she's not going anywhere.”
“Even you don’t believe that.”
House shrugged, took another bite. "Fine," he said, "let's pretend it means something. What am I supposed to do? Lock her in her room?”
“Of course not.” Wilson walked across the room, sat on the other end of the couch. “Handcuffs and chains would be a little extreme even for you. I’d recommend starting with something simple. Talk to her.”
“You want me to beg?” House shook his head.
"I didn't say that," Wilson said, "and what if I did? Would that be so bad?”
House didn’t have an answer. Wilson didn’t seem to expect one. He took another bite of his sandwich, then stood up. “I’ve got to get back,” he said.
He walked to the door, and paused a moment before walking out, looking at the room, at the boxes, at House, sitting there alone. "Talk to her. Before it's too late," he said, and walked out.
House dreamed of music. He was in the last row in the balcony at the Michigan Theater, the wooden wall hard against the back of head. Crandall was on stage, putting all of his energy into “My Favorite Things.” House had always told him he was a fool for wanting to play it in concert.
"Nobody wants to hear your cheap white bread remake," was the way he'd put it. He’d been wrong. Crandall's take played with some of Coltrane's themes, but gave them a lighter touch, took a different tempo and drew them out into something that respected Coltrane while still allowing Crandall to come through.
And the new piano player added a different dimension to Jamerson’s playing -- his bass lines sliding into something more fluid than House had heard before -- while also managing to tighten up Crandall’s timing. House had never been able to do that. House had never even really tried.
They finished to some halfhearted applause from the half-filled house. Everyone else was waiting out in the lobby, sipping wine and waiting for the main attraction.
“Thanks,” Crandall said from the stage, his amplified voice distorted as it bounced off the walls. “We’ll wrap up with this next one, but we’ll be out in the lobby later. Stop by and say hello.”
House didn’t recognize the song. It was an original, and House guessed it was something else from their new pianist. He started with an F, then moved up the scale to B flat, then C and E flat before dropping down to a D. The notes wrapped around, the chords returning to their start as Jamerson jumped in, then Crandall. They took the simple melody and added to it, played with time signature, moved smoothly from major to minor keys. It was something House knew he would have never been able to write, barely would have been able to play. His left hand was never as fast, never as nimble as he wanted.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, his hands on the backs of the chairs in the row in front of him, tried to picture his fingers hitting those notes. He couldn’t.
It wasn’t just the new manager that was getting them new gigs. They were better without him.
He headed for the aisle before the last notes even faded, forcing his way past two gossiping women clogging the seats at the end of the row. He worked his way down the stairs, against the flow of people moving up to take their seats.
He should stay for Corea. He’d paid extra to the scalper for the last minute ticket, and would have to pay for the night again at New Year’s by taking Stein’s shift. It didn’t make sense to leave early.
He didn’t care. He reached the lobby, turned right, and pushed his way to the exit.
“G-Man!” He heard Crandall’s voice, and caught a glimpse of his face, saw him waving. “Hey, G-Man!” Crandall called again. House just turned around and left.
It was cold outside, autumn finally setting in after a long hot summer, and he buttoned his coat. He turned to the left, the light from the marquee fading away behind him.
House walked to the end of the block, turned left again, headed for home.
He heard footsteps coming up fast behind him, and the street noise seemed to fade away. For a moment, he almost believed that if he didn't turn around, he’d go away.
“Didn’t you hear me?” He felt Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve, and stopped. “I called you,” Crandall said.
“I know.” House finally turned. Crandall was wearing the brown blazer that was his favorite, and his face was still lined with sweat from playing under the hot lights. “I was ignoring you.”
Crandall shook his head and smiled. “I’m glad you came, even if you are a complete bastard.”
House leaned back against the brick wall of a record shop that had already closed for the night. “Where'd you pick up the piano player?”
“Kurt? Would you believe it? We found him at a Holiday Inn in Connecticut." He laughed. "A Holiday Inn. The idiot doesn’t know how good he is.”
“But you do.”
“I always had an ear for talent.”
House looked down, saw that Crandall was wearing the same old boots he’d always worn. “He’s good.” He looked up again. "You plan on letting him know that, or just going to string him along for as long as you can?"
"You're the one with the devious mind, not me," Crandall said. "I keep telling him, but he doesn't believe me." He nodded back at the direction of the theater. "You should meet him.”
House shook his head. Why, so they could all brag about how good the golden boy was? How much better they were doing without him? “I’m busy.”
“What? No. You’re here. Let’s go.” Crandall turned toward the alley that led to the stage entrance. House didn’t follow him.
“G?”
House made it two steps away from him before Crandall was there again, stepping in front of him this time. “Why are you like this, G?”
“I’m a bastard. Why else?”
“No, we’re ... we’re friends, right?”
“Look,” House sighed, “you’ve got your boy genius piano player. He’s better than I ever was and you know it.”
Crandall had that confused look on his face again. “Did you think that’s all it was? That I only hung out with you because of the music?”
“Why ...” House stopped. It was warmer than he’d remembered that night. He was warmer than he'd been just a few minutes ago. His coat wasn't buttoned.
This was different. This was wrong. He looked at Crandall again. Crandall hadn’t been wearing that blazer that night. He’d been dressed all in black up on the stage. The blazer was one he’d worn back when they first met, when they first formed the band. “This never happened,” House said.
Crandall nodded. “Of course it did.”
“No.” House looked at Crandall again. Studied him from head to toe. Crandall had lost those boots two years earlier, when they were rushing out of a hotel room to avoid paying for an extra day.
“Sure it did. You came to the show. I saw you.”
“But you didn’t catch up to me. We never talked.” House stepped back. "This ..." he waved at the empty street, the clear warm night sky, at Crandall, "This didn't happen."
“I’m pretty sure you never banged Pamela Anderson, but that never stopped you from dreaming about that either.”
“Pamela Anderson is a hell of a lot prettier and less annoying than you.” House wondered why he wasn’t waking up. “And she doesn’t talk.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe you need to talk.” Crandall -- or the dream that insisted on calling itself Crandall -- leaned back against the wall in an alley that shouldn't be there. “Maybe you need to think about how you’re screwing things up again.”
“I’m not ...”
“Of course you are. That’s why she’s leaving.”
House turned to walk away, but didn’t move. He told himself that he wanted to move. He wanted to wake up. But he couldn’t. If this was a dream, he should be able to control it. Finally he sighed, stepped back over to Crandall. “So I suppose this makes you the ghost of Christmas past?”
“Why not?”
“Right," House shook his head, "and Wilson is the ghost of Christmas present.”
“If that would make you listen.” For a moment House thought he saw Wilson there, standing next to Crandall, thought he heard his voice, but he blinked and Crandall was alone.
“Too bad for you I don’t believe in ghosts,” House said, “or Christmas.”
“Or friendship?” Crandall asked, “or me?”
“Especially not you.”
Crandall stepped forward. “What about her?”
There was no point in answering, House thought. His subconscious already knew the answer.
“So what do you believe in?” Crandall asked.
House took one more look at him, then stepped back and let the night turn cold again. “Me,” he said, and walked away.
Crandall faded into the dark, into the alley that wasn't there anymore. House heard cars passing in the street, then a bus. Someone honked a horn, and his eyes flew open.
Stacy was just walking in the door, the sound of the city fading as the outside door closed behind her, then quieted as she stepped inside and closed their front door.
“Hi,” she said, and took off her coat. “Did I wake you up?”
House shook his head. “It’s OK,” he said. “I didn’t want to sleep anymore.” He looked up at her. “Thanks.”
She stopped, looked at him. “Sure.” She looked like she wanted to say more, to ask him something. She raised her eyebrows, took a deep breath, but then shook her head and walked into the bedroom.
House eased himself up on the couch, turned slightly to slide his leg down onto the floor. He could see the light come on from the closet, and heard the sound of her steps change as she took off her shoes, stepping lightly now on bare feet.
“You have anything interesting today?” The question sounded awkward even to him. He wasn’t sure why he’d even asked.
She stepped back in the living room, her face once again looking like she was on the edge of a question. He wondered if this was how she looked in court, when she was listening to the other side’s attorney, trying to judge what he’d planned to say to try to trip her up. “Not really,” she said. She sat in an armchair and put on her socks, then an old pair of leather slippers. She sat back and looked at him. “Why do you ask?”
House shrugged. “No reason.”
“What did you do this afternoon?” She seemed hesitant when she asked, though House wasn’t sure why.
“Caught up on some journals,” he said, “watched some TV. The usual.”
“And how is life in Port Charles. Anyone get killed today?”
“It’s Thursday. They save the maimings and murders for Fridays to bring you back on Monday.”
Stacy smiled a little. House realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile. “And what about kidnappings?”
“That’s strictly a Monday event, especially during sweeps month. It’s supposed to keep you tuned in all week.”
“I’m not sure if I should be reassured or worried that you know this,” Stacy said.
“Well, I’ve had plenty of time to bone up,” House said, and Stacy’s smile was gone.
She got up, walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. “How does pasta sound?” she asked.
“Fine.” House wasn’t sure if he should have said something different. He wasn’t even sure if he cared. He sat up. It wasn't worth even thinking about. He grabbed his crutches and pushed down on the arm of the couch and one crutch until he was standing.
He maneuvered himself past the coffee table, around the armchair and to the piano. He put his right hand on the keyboard, not certain what to play, waiting to hear what notes his fingers picked out.
F. B flat. C. E flat. D.
He repeated the notes again, then bringing in the chords his memory supplied, and added his left hand. He couldn’t create the same twisting tempo, so he improvised -- slowed things down until he created a rough imitation.
“That’s pretty.” Stacy stood in the doorway, the light behind her from the kitchen. “I haven’t heard you play it before.”
“It’s something I heard once,” House said.
He added to the melody, tried to improvise, to see if he could follow the unfamiliar tune. Stacy’s shadow hovered over the black lacquer finish of the piano, moving slightly in time with the music. He watched her shape as it moved, remembered a time when she would have come over and sat next to him on the bench.
She didn't do that anymore.
Maybe she was afraid to. Maybe she didn't want to.
He could hear Wilson's voice in his head, telling him that maybe he should ask her what she wanted. Maybe he should tell her that he missed her.
Maybe you need to talk, Crandall had said. No. That wasn’t Crandall. Just another dream.
He saw her shadow move, slide away from the piano. Away from him.
“Stacy?” he asked.
She walked back into the living room. “What?”
Even if he asked, she could still leave. He couldn't force her to stay. There was nothing he could do stop her. There was no point in even trying, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to stay anyway.
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
He turned back to the piano. F. B flat. C. E flat. D.
Stacy’s shadow lingered there for a moment longer, then disappeared.
Chapter Five
Author: Namaste
Summary: House always pushes people away. Just ask Stacy. Or Crandall. Chapter four of five, post-infarction time period. No spoilers. Gen, PG, about 4,200 words. House/Stacy, House and Wilson friendship, House and Crandall friendship.
Chapter Four:
“You want me to beg?” House shook his head.
"I didn't say that," Wilson said, "and what if I did? Would that be so bad?”
Wilson walked to the door, and paused a moment before walking out, looking at the room, at the boxes, at House, sitting there alone. "Talk to her. Before it's too late.”
Find previous parts here: Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
He dreamed he was flying.
He dreamed he was flying. He felt the vibration of the engines up through the floor and into his shoes, his feet, his legs. He leaned forward to look out the window. There was nothing below them but blue water and white clouds. For a moment he thought he glimpsed the plane’s shadow on the waves, but it disappeared as the plane banked to the left.
Mom still held her newspaper, the pages folded back to the crossword puzzle, but her head was back against the seat, her eyes closed. If he’d said something, she’d jerk awake, and claim she hadn’t been sleeping, just resting her eyes. She always fell asleep on long flights. Greg never could. There was too much to see.
The man in the row in front of them was wearing a suit when they boarded. He’d taken off his jacket and draped it over the empty seat next to him, but Greg had seen the tie still knotted around his neck when he’d called the stewardess over to order a drink. Greg peeked through the space between the seats and saw a briefcase on the floor next to the man’s legs and pages of typewritten notes spread across the seat tray. Every few minutes the man would write a few words next to one of the paragraphs. Maybe the man was selling something in Japan. Maybe he was buying something. Greg hadn’t decided yet.
Three rows behind them, a woman was trying to quiet her baby. She’d gotten on the plane in San Francisco, and Greg recognized some of the papers she’d been carrying -- the familiar list of instructions for families headed to overseas bases.
Mom had the same list in her bag, which was now stashed in the overhead compartment. Dad was already at the new base. He’d given them a quick call when he got there, and told them their base housing was smaller than they'd had in South Carolina, so they shouldn’t bring much.
Mom boxed up most of her books and her mother’s china and shipped them to her family in Florida to store until they got back to the states. “It won’t be for long,” she’d told Greg, as he sorted through his things to decide what to keep, what to throw away, and what to ship south with her things. “You’ll see them again.”
There was no point in getting upset, Mom always said. Nothing he said could stop the Marines from moving Dad to a new base. Dad always said it was his duty to go where the Marines sent him. Mom said their duty was to follow Dad. “But we’re lucky, aren’t we,” she’d always say whenever they boxed up everything they owned. “We get to see the world.”
Greg had nodded. It didn’t matter what he wanted. They’d pack, and throw things away and change, and then do it all over again in a few months -- a year at the most. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
The plane bumped as it hit turbulence, then bumped again. The baby started crying. The man in front of him sat a little straighter, looked up from his papers.
Greg went back to looking out the window. It was just turbulence, pockets of warm and cold air colliding. He looked down at the clouds, trying to see if he could spot where the atmosphere had gone rough, the lines where high and low pressure met. The seat jolted again, rougher this time. They’d be out of the pocket soon. The pilot would climb higher, or drop until the flight smoothed out.
Everything would be fine.
He felt the bumps again, then the ride grow even rougher. The sound outside changed, and the vibration felt different under his feet as the tires slid from asphalt to gravel.
Asphalt, he thought. Tires.
He opened his eyes and there was a blinking barricade outside his window, a construction worker flagging the car past him. Wilson turned left, followed the line of cars down the one-lane detour. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought they weren’t starting this project until next week.”
“It’s OK,” House said, and rubbed his eyes.
Rehab was a bitch, and he was finding it hard to remember why he’d agreed to the 8 a.m. appointments. Probably because it had been easier for Stacy. She could drive him in, drop him off, then head to the office and forget about him. The last few weeks Wilson had been the one showing up sometime before noon to take him home.
“Stacy’s tied up in a meeting,” he’d said the first time.
“Stacy got called in to court,” he’d said the next time.
“She’s waiting for a call,” he’d said the third time.
The fourth time, he’d just looked at House and shrugged. “You ready?” he’d asked, and never bothered with another excuse.
It was better this way, House told himself. Stacy always seemed to either rush ahead to open doors, or lag behind, reminding him with every step how slow he was now. Wilson just strolled beside him.
Stacy always wanted to know how the session went and if he’d made progress. Wilson told him about the latest hospital gossip.
Stacy fidgeted as he climbed in the car, reaching over to give him a hand when he didn’t need one, nearly knocking him over in her clumsy attempts to support him. Wilson waited while House settled himself into the seat, then tossed the crutches into the backseat without a word.
“I grabbed your mail,” Wilson said, turning the car from the rough road back onto asphalt as the detour ended.
“Stacy said she was going to get it,” House said. He watched the bored faces staring out from the cars backed up in the opposite lane, drivers waiting their turn in the construction zone. There was a business man in a BMW, a student in a Civic, a housewife with screaming kids in a minivan.
Wilson shrugged. “I was passing by your office anyway.”
They passed a furnace repair van, the driver sipping a Coke. “I asked Stacy to pick it up.”
“What difference does it make?”
The traffic cleared after an SUV and Wilson picked up speed. “None, I guess.”
Wilson glanced over at him. House thought he was going to say something, but then Wilson turned back to look out at the windshield again.
“Vandemeer asked about you,” he said.
“She probably wants to know when she can take over my office.”
“No,” Wilson said. “No, she ...” His voice trailed off, and House braced himself.
“She’s moving,” Wilson said, “to Boston.”
House let out his breath. “So she got the Harvard job,” he said. “Is that all?”
“They were considering you once,” Wilson said. “I thought maybe you’d be disappointed.”
House shook his head. “I let them buy me a few dinners,” he said. “Stacy was the one who wanted it. She thought Boston was a better town.” He stared out the window as they passed the Wawa two blocks before home, then the long row of apartments and condos that divided the students’ neighborhoods with the residential district. Wilson slowed to make the left turn onto Baker. “Maybe she’ll end up there yet,” House said.
“House, don’t ...” Wilson sighed, but didn’t say anything else and completed the turn. There was a spot open in front of the building, and he pulled up to the curb.
He paused just a moment after he turned off the ignition, and House already had his door open, had swiveled around with both feet on the sidewalk by the time Wilson grabbed the crutches. Wilson waited while House pushed down on the car door and the frame to get himself up on both feet and took the crutches.
House heard the car door close behind him as he lurched up the first step, then the sound of Wilson's footsteps as he pushed open the front door of the building. He turned and looked back. “I don’t remember inviting you in,” he said.
“I’m hungry,” Wilson said.
"Guess you didn't notice, but there are plenty of restaurants between here and the hospital,” House said. He entered the small lobby, then fished his key out of his pocket and put it in the lock. He was able to put more weight on his leg than he’d managed even a week ago -- was even able to free up his hands for a few seconds at a time -- but he still felt off balance, forced to rely on the crutches for every step.
“I just want a sandwich.”
“I’ve even heard rumors of something called a cafeteria at the hospital.” He pushed the door open and Wilson followed.
“I told you about the salmonella incident last week, right?”
“I’m sure the final report will cover up all evidence of the intentional poisoning designed to increase the emergency room’s monthly finance report.”
House stopped at the couch and lowered himself down. Wilson glanced at him, then continued into the kitchen. “You want one?” he asked.
“Sure,” House said. He rubbed a hand across his face. A few months ago, he would have been finishing up rounds at the hospital about now, taking the stairs two at a time rather than wasting time waiting for the elevator, grabbing a run after work or a looking for a pickup game of some kind, and he'd still have the energy that night to leave Stacy breathless. Now a morning sitting on his ass stretching abused muscles or making a few pitiful inches of progress along the parallel bars made his joints ache and left him exhausted.
“Turkey OK?” Wilson’s voice interrupted House’s thoughts.
He nodded. “Sure.”
“Mustard?”
“Whatever.”
Now he didn’t even have the energy to drag himself into the kitchen to make his own sandwich. Let Wilson do it.
“Want something to drink?”
House didn’t bother answering. Wilson would know to bring him something anyway.
A few moments later he heard the water running, then Wilson was walking through the door, a plate in one hand and a glass in the other. “Don’t bitch,” he said. “If you’re not going to tell me what you want, you’ll just have to take what I give you.”
House rolled his eyes, but took a drink. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. Wilson stepped into the kitchen again, then was back. He stood near the doorway, chewing and looking at the boxes stacked in one corner.
House followed his gaze. “It doesn’t mean anything."
Wilson turned and looked at him. He didn't say anything, just raised his eyebrows.
“Stacy said she just wanted to move some things around.”
Wilson crouched down and opened on of the boxes. He moved something inside it, then put it back and looked up. “And the fact that she’s only moving her own things doesn't mean anything?” He stood again, took a few steps over toward House. "You notice everything. Why are you ignoring this?"
"I'm not ignoring it," House said. He took a bite of his sandwich and swallowed. Wilson was still staring at him.
"Have you even talked to her about it?"
"She said she's not going anywhere.”
“Even you don’t believe that.”
House shrugged, took another bite. "Fine," he said, "let's pretend it means something. What am I supposed to do? Lock her in her room?”
“Of course not.” Wilson walked across the room, sat on the other end of the couch. “Handcuffs and chains would be a little extreme even for you. I’d recommend starting with something simple. Talk to her.”
“You want me to beg?” House shook his head.
"I didn't say that," Wilson said, "and what if I did? Would that be so bad?”
House didn’t have an answer. Wilson didn’t seem to expect one. He took another bite of his sandwich, then stood up. “I’ve got to get back,” he said.
He walked to the door, and paused a moment before walking out, looking at the room, at the boxes, at House, sitting there alone. "Talk to her. Before it's too late," he said, and walked out.
House dreamed of music. He was in the last row in the balcony at the Michigan Theater, the wooden wall hard against the back of head. Crandall was on stage, putting all of his energy into “My Favorite Things.” House had always told him he was a fool for wanting to play it in concert.
"Nobody wants to hear your cheap white bread remake," was the way he'd put it. He’d been wrong. Crandall's take played with some of Coltrane's themes, but gave them a lighter touch, took a different tempo and drew them out into something that respected Coltrane while still allowing Crandall to come through.
And the new piano player added a different dimension to Jamerson’s playing -- his bass lines sliding into something more fluid than House had heard before -- while also managing to tighten up Crandall’s timing. House had never been able to do that. House had never even really tried.
They finished to some halfhearted applause from the half-filled house. Everyone else was waiting out in the lobby, sipping wine and waiting for the main attraction.
“Thanks,” Crandall said from the stage, his amplified voice distorted as it bounced off the walls. “We’ll wrap up with this next one, but we’ll be out in the lobby later. Stop by and say hello.”
House didn’t recognize the song. It was an original, and House guessed it was something else from their new pianist. He started with an F, then moved up the scale to B flat, then C and E flat before dropping down to a D. The notes wrapped around, the chords returning to their start as Jamerson jumped in, then Crandall. They took the simple melody and added to it, played with time signature, moved smoothly from major to minor keys. It was something House knew he would have never been able to write, barely would have been able to play. His left hand was never as fast, never as nimble as he wanted.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, his hands on the backs of the chairs in the row in front of him, tried to picture his fingers hitting those notes. He couldn’t.
It wasn’t just the new manager that was getting them new gigs. They were better without him.
He headed for the aisle before the last notes even faded, forcing his way past two gossiping women clogging the seats at the end of the row. He worked his way down the stairs, against the flow of people moving up to take their seats.
He should stay for Corea. He’d paid extra to the scalper for the last minute ticket, and would have to pay for the night again at New Year’s by taking Stein’s shift. It didn’t make sense to leave early.
He didn’t care. He reached the lobby, turned right, and pushed his way to the exit.
“G-Man!” He heard Crandall’s voice, and caught a glimpse of his face, saw him waving. “Hey, G-Man!” Crandall called again. House just turned around and left.
It was cold outside, autumn finally setting in after a long hot summer, and he buttoned his coat. He turned to the left, the light from the marquee fading away behind him.
House walked to the end of the block, turned left again, headed for home.
He heard footsteps coming up fast behind him, and the street noise seemed to fade away. For a moment, he almost believed that if he didn't turn around, he’d go away.
“Didn’t you hear me?” He felt Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve, and stopped. “I called you,” Crandall said.
“I know.” House finally turned. Crandall was wearing the brown blazer that was his favorite, and his face was still lined with sweat from playing under the hot lights. “I was ignoring you.”
Crandall shook his head and smiled. “I’m glad you came, even if you are a complete bastard.”
House leaned back against the brick wall of a record shop that had already closed for the night. “Where'd you pick up the piano player?”
“Kurt? Would you believe it? We found him at a Holiday Inn in Connecticut." He laughed. "A Holiday Inn. The idiot doesn’t know how good he is.”
“But you do.”
“I always had an ear for talent.”
House looked down, saw that Crandall was wearing the same old boots he’d always worn. “He’s good.” He looked up again. "You plan on letting him know that, or just going to string him along for as long as you can?"
"You're the one with the devious mind, not me," Crandall said. "I keep telling him, but he doesn't believe me." He nodded back at the direction of the theater. "You should meet him.”
House shook his head. Why, so they could all brag about how good the golden boy was? How much better they were doing without him? “I’m busy.”
“What? No. You’re here. Let’s go.” Crandall turned toward the alley that led to the stage entrance. House didn’t follow him.
“G?”
House made it two steps away from him before Crandall was there again, stepping in front of him this time. “Why are you like this, G?”
“I’m a bastard. Why else?”
“No, we’re ... we’re friends, right?”
“Look,” House sighed, “you’ve got your boy genius piano player. He’s better than I ever was and you know it.”
Crandall had that confused look on his face again. “Did you think that’s all it was? That I only hung out with you because of the music?”
“Why ...” House stopped. It was warmer than he’d remembered that night. He was warmer than he'd been just a few minutes ago. His coat wasn't buttoned.
This was different. This was wrong. He looked at Crandall again. Crandall hadn’t been wearing that blazer that night. He’d been dressed all in black up on the stage. The blazer was one he’d worn back when they first met, when they first formed the band. “This never happened,” House said.
Crandall nodded. “Of course it did.”
“No.” House looked at Crandall again. Studied him from head to toe. Crandall had lost those boots two years earlier, when they were rushing out of a hotel room to avoid paying for an extra day.
“Sure it did. You came to the show. I saw you.”
“But you didn’t catch up to me. We never talked.” House stepped back. "This ..." he waved at the empty street, the clear warm night sky, at Crandall, "This didn't happen."
“I’m pretty sure you never banged Pamela Anderson, but that never stopped you from dreaming about that either.”
“Pamela Anderson is a hell of a lot prettier and less annoying than you.” House wondered why he wasn’t waking up. “And she doesn’t talk.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe you need to talk.” Crandall -- or the dream that insisted on calling itself Crandall -- leaned back against the wall in an alley that shouldn't be there. “Maybe you need to think about how you’re screwing things up again.”
“I’m not ...”
“Of course you are. That’s why she’s leaving.”
House turned to walk away, but didn’t move. He told himself that he wanted to move. He wanted to wake up. But he couldn’t. If this was a dream, he should be able to control it. Finally he sighed, stepped back over to Crandall. “So I suppose this makes you the ghost of Christmas past?”
“Why not?”
“Right," House shook his head, "and Wilson is the ghost of Christmas present.”
“If that would make you listen.” For a moment House thought he saw Wilson there, standing next to Crandall, thought he heard his voice, but he blinked and Crandall was alone.
“Too bad for you I don’t believe in ghosts,” House said, “or Christmas.”
“Or friendship?” Crandall asked, “or me?”
“Especially not you.”
Crandall stepped forward. “What about her?”
There was no point in answering, House thought. His subconscious already knew the answer.
“So what do you believe in?” Crandall asked.
House took one more look at him, then stepped back and let the night turn cold again. “Me,” he said, and walked away.
Crandall faded into the dark, into the alley that wasn't there anymore. House heard cars passing in the street, then a bus. Someone honked a horn, and his eyes flew open.
Stacy was just walking in the door, the sound of the city fading as the outside door closed behind her, then quieted as she stepped inside and closed their front door.
“Hi,” she said, and took off her coat. “Did I wake you up?”
House shook his head. “It’s OK,” he said. “I didn’t want to sleep anymore.” He looked up at her. “Thanks.”
She stopped, looked at him. “Sure.” She looked like she wanted to say more, to ask him something. She raised her eyebrows, took a deep breath, but then shook her head and walked into the bedroom.
House eased himself up on the couch, turned slightly to slide his leg down onto the floor. He could see the light come on from the closet, and heard the sound of her steps change as she took off her shoes, stepping lightly now on bare feet.
“You have anything interesting today?” The question sounded awkward even to him. He wasn’t sure why he’d even asked.
She stepped back in the living room, her face once again looking like she was on the edge of a question. He wondered if this was how she looked in court, when she was listening to the other side’s attorney, trying to judge what he’d planned to say to try to trip her up. “Not really,” she said. She sat in an armchair and put on her socks, then an old pair of leather slippers. She sat back and looked at him. “Why do you ask?”
House shrugged. “No reason.”
“What did you do this afternoon?” She seemed hesitant when she asked, though House wasn’t sure why.
“Caught up on some journals,” he said, “watched some TV. The usual.”
“And how is life in Port Charles. Anyone get killed today?”
“It’s Thursday. They save the maimings and murders for Fridays to bring you back on Monday.”
Stacy smiled a little. House realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile. “And what about kidnappings?”
“That’s strictly a Monday event, especially during sweeps month. It’s supposed to keep you tuned in all week.”
“I’m not sure if I should be reassured or worried that you know this,” Stacy said.
“Well, I’ve had plenty of time to bone up,” House said, and Stacy’s smile was gone.
She got up, walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. “How does pasta sound?” she asked.
“Fine.” House wasn’t sure if he should have said something different. He wasn’t even sure if he cared. He sat up. It wasn't worth even thinking about. He grabbed his crutches and pushed down on the arm of the couch and one crutch until he was standing.
He maneuvered himself past the coffee table, around the armchair and to the piano. He put his right hand on the keyboard, not certain what to play, waiting to hear what notes his fingers picked out.
F. B flat. C. E flat. D.
He repeated the notes again, then bringing in the chords his memory supplied, and added his left hand. He couldn’t create the same twisting tempo, so he improvised -- slowed things down until he created a rough imitation.
“That’s pretty.” Stacy stood in the doorway, the light behind her from the kitchen. “I haven’t heard you play it before.”
“It’s something I heard once,” House said.
He added to the melody, tried to improvise, to see if he could follow the unfamiliar tune. Stacy’s shadow hovered over the black lacquer finish of the piano, moving slightly in time with the music. He watched her shape as it moved, remembered a time when she would have come over and sat next to him on the bench.
She didn't do that anymore.
Maybe she was afraid to. Maybe she didn't want to.
He could hear Wilson's voice in his head, telling him that maybe he should ask her what she wanted. Maybe he should tell her that he missed her.
Maybe you need to talk, Crandall had said. No. That wasn’t Crandall. Just another dream.
He saw her shadow move, slide away from the piano. Away from him.
“Stacy?” he asked.
She walked back into the living room. “What?”
Even if he asked, she could still leave. He couldn't force her to stay. There was nothing he could do stop her. There was no point in even trying, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to stay anyway.
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
He turned back to the piano. F. B flat. C. E flat. D.
Stacy’s shadow lingered there for a moment longer, then disappeared.
Chapter Five