Disclaimer: If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses.
2:08 A.M. That's what Greg's watch reads when she wakes up from the most blissful sleep she's had in years. He must've forgotten the watch when he left earlier; Greg wasn't the kind of man that liked to be held down by a schedule. Unless there was a puzzle to be solved; then he was relentless.
Stacy set down his watch and let her head lay down on his pillow for a minute more. Inhaling his scent just a little while longer. It didn't smell very strong, she could never place the ingredients of what made that scent; it could only be described as "Greg". So many people tried to pick Greg apart, to dissect what made him the way he was; she couldn't even pick apart his scent. Stacy didn't need to know what mixture of habits gave him that intoxicating smell for it to bring all the memories rushing back to her. And at 2 A.M. while she's lying in his bed that's all she needs to know.
Stacy rose from the bed at 2:10. Okay, one step down, a few more to go. First thing: find all articles of clothing. This proved to be a rather daunting task considering the state of Greg's apartment and the manner in which they had literally clawed their clothes off each other and strewn them about his apartment the moment the door was locked as they made a stumbling path towards the bedroom. She eventually found her bra on top of a copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment and her pants beneath the piano bench. Her blouse proved to be a bit of a problem, but for now she settled for wearing one of Greg's well-worn t-shirts. She doesn't think much of Motley Crue, but when she opened the closet it looked like the smallest ones. Must've been one of the early wash-it-yourself laundry experiments.
She smiled at the memory of their first time doing laundry together. A fairly mundane task, but her brain had committed it to memory. She had been surprised that he actually had a fairly good grasp on the concept of separating the lights from the darks. The fact that they had to be washed at different temperatures however…
"Darks in cold water, babe."
"Right… can't have the dark ones getting hot water privileges like the light ones now can we?"
"Hey, I once had to defend a client who was being sued for inter-clothing relations; I'm a lawyer, you should trust me with these things."
"I would say that I don't trust you because you're a lawyer, but that one was too easy."
That was when she decided that the shirt he was wearing definitely needed washing too, and his jeans, and he decided that even though her t-shirt was white it was definitely time for civil rights in the great country of washing machine.