Disclaimer: House and Stacy belong to David Shore and Katie Jacobs. Like I always say, I'd really enjoy making money out of this but I don't, and that's just really unfortunate.
Warnings and spoilers: None. I guess nobody even cares about House and Stacy anymore. As for the warnings, I think a six years-old kid could read that.
A/N: This story has been sitting on my hard drive doing nothing for far too long. I didn't want to post it since Stacy just seems to be a stupid old bitch everyone wants to forget about but I have a wordpress blog now and as I promised to post one story a week and ran out of Huddy one-shots, I decided to give this a try. This is not meant to be a ranting about how much I want House and Stacy back together, 'cause I don't, it's just an attempt to understand better how they felt about each other, how much he cared for her and why he was still able to finally let her go. Also, this happens in Paris (Stacy's dream city right?) on a bridge called Le Pont Des Arts and the padlocks mentioned are what we call "love padlocks", you can read all about them here: http:/en(dot)wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/Love_padlocks. I tried to play both with what I know about France (which, by the way, is my country) and the clichés foreigners have about it. Hope you like the story. I won't beg you for review because it's incredibly rude but they are very much appreciated. Very, very much ;).
Paris
"How do you think this is going to end? We'll be happy for a while, a few weeks, a few months, then I'll – I'll say something insensitive or I'll start ignoring you; and at first it'll be okay 'cause it's just House being House but at some point, you will need something more. You will need someone who can give you something I can't." Gregory House in Need To Know.
The subway station is dirty and the exact same people have kept on running around the place for the last twenty years. The concrete walls seem to be turning darker and darker as you limp towards the turnstiles, just like the cashier's plump hands when she gives you your ticket. You grab your cane, decide to take line 1 in direction of Chateau de Vincennes and start going down the stairs. Your leg hurts but you doubt the French have ever heard about elevators.
It gets harder and harder each time one of your feet hit the ground; the pain is always there, lying under the surface. It hides, just like an eel before furtively sneaking out to strangle its prey. You smile. As ironic as it may seem, the thigh you fought so hard to keep is now nothing but a poor little helpless fish. You don't even remember how it felt before the infarction, before your leg started burning from the inside, before everything went blur and before she finally left. Wait, this is hilarious. You've been over and over that scene a thousand times already, memories becoming vivid images in your brain and still, nothing you can see is ever going to change what happened. Hospital bed. Steady lines on a TV screen. The pain. It takes all the strength you've got left to whisper you love her. Her lips move, she's apologizing. Fuck. You close your eyes and push the thought away. You're here on a mission; you have to blot her out of your mind.
A few minutes later, you hop on the next train and sit down on a folding sit next to the door, your cerulean-blue eyes scanning your surroundings. There's a young teenager sitting across from you, taking notes while quietly studying the passengers. She's a greedy scientist waiting for her red-eyed, white-haired rat to die. You wonder if she knows that this guy in front of you is a drug addict, that the old woman on your right has only six months to live and that this man, over there, did not bump into that girl accidentally. If only you actually cared, you could probably use your observation skills for the greater good.
You finally spot the blue sign "Louvre – Rivoli" pinned on the front wall of the next subway station and struggle as you try to rise, finally stumbling to the exit. Outside, under the sunlight, the heat is unbearable, piercing your skin to the bone like acid rain. It takes you forever and a ten minutes walk through the tiniest paved streets of the French capital to reach that famous bridge, the one Stacy told you about, the one you wanted to take her to on that special occasion.
Le Pont Des Arts.
There's a cheap Bollywood movie shooting above the river, actors pretending to be a lot much happier than they truly are, probably thinking that there actually is something exotic about Europe. The French artists settled around them are contemptuous and take tourism for granted; probably thinking the Mona Lisa is over-rated. Sadly, nothing about the casualty of this scene catches your attention because just like Wilson said, it's easier not to care.
You start walking along, the bright summer colors wildly assaulting your pupils as you make your way past the expensive cameras and the fancy costumes. You end up leaning against the railing and note that the padlocks are there, just like she said, blue, pink, silver and gold, attached to the metallic structure, supposed to be declarations of undying love from people you never really met. You can still see her staring intently at you as you mocked her romanticism, never breaking eye contact, a seductive dimple forming on her right cheek. You thought she was wrong. She couldn't possibly know, she had never been to Paris. Normal people wanted to see the Louvre; Stacy just wanted to be here. She wanted you to take her. Gosh she blamed you so much when you said you had to postpone your escapade.
Spontaneously, your rough hand finds its way to the right pocket of your jeans and you brush your fingers against a little box you've been trying to forget for years. Forget, say goodbye and wash away. You let your two hundred pounds rest against green railing, studying the water as it endlessly flows down the river. It's a battlefield, each leaf constantly trying to be lightest, the fastest to reach the ocean. Everything around you is a mix of green and gray, oaks and rooftops. You get the box out of your jeans, hold it in between your hands over the water and study it. Weight, color, texture, form, why is black such a sad color? You flip it open with your thumb.
The diamond is square shaped, old, but it still sparkles in broad daylight. You bought it for her but maybe you pretended not to give a damn for too long. You wonder about magpies and why men always compare women to tiny, little, vulnerable birds. You take the ring between your fingers and clap the box shut, putting it back in your pocket. The water moves slowly and your heart beats fast. It's not exactly blue but it will do, just for the sake of the symbolic gesture.
After a while, you finally open your hand and release the pressure, watching the golden jewelry fall until you see it hit the crest of the waves. It will fight for a moment; you know that, but the gravity laws you've been taught in school tell you that eventually, it will hit the riverbed. You're not a dreamer. It doesn't look like defeat; you've already said goodbye ages ago. The ring just doesn't really matter anymore since Mark already gave her one.