So, this is me, getting another idea into my head which I had to write to get out. I think this is a little better than the last time I wrote to get something out of the jukebox of strange, meaningless tunes I call my brain. Im even considering writing another chapter, so please tell me if its passable and you think it justifies another half.
Wondering
(Possibly) Chapter 1
He often wondered what would have happened if he stayed that night. If instead of slipping away before the first light, he'd stayed and told her he loved her, that he always has and always will.
If instead of pointing her out to his "friends" the very next day, exclaiming he'd hit that last night, he'd told her how sorry he really was, that he regretted leaving and would do anything to see her again, and that he loved her, always has and always will.
If instead of walking away that night in the bar when she slapped him (hard) and embarrassed him in front of his friends when she exclaimed that he sucked in bed anyways and that she wouldn't miss him a second, (The slap he sort of earned, the words devastated him). If instead of walking then he'd begged her forgiveness and said that he loved her, whatever else, he always has and he always will.
Years later, when they met again, he wondered if he should start believing in fate. How big was the change that at the lowest point in his life he'd met her again, he wondered if he should make a quip about how this time it wasn't her that made him groan, but the agonizing vortex that was his thigh made him change his mind and instead groan some more, pretending the pain was so bad he didn't notice her. (The pain was bad, but nothing in the world could stop him feel her presence, maybe he should have told her that)
Weeks after that he wondered why he could not hate her, she was part in taking his leg away, (or as good as), and why his mind instead insisted on hating his girlfriend, who he should love enough to forgive. And if he started hating Stacy more because of the leg or because it was more obvious than ever that Stacy wasn't her.
When Stacy left, he realized he didn't hate her, he didn't need her either, but still he wanted her there with him, now. He considered calling her begging her to come back, but by then he'd drunk so much whisky he did not longer know which her he was thinking about, so instead he called Wilson, who came and stayed and made him pancakes for breakfast. He wondered then if it would be easier just being gay and become the third missus Wilson.
Days after that he knew which her he pined over most, he considered believing in fate again when she called him first and asked him to come in for an job interview, and he answered he would only show up if he got a view into her. She hung up.
Hours later Wilson came by, and said he just got promoted. House wondered (aloud) what job he could possibly get that involved more deaths, and asked if he got a job as an undertaker. Wilson ignored the question and said he came with an offer House could not refuse. It turned out he couldn't, since right after Wilson arrived a phone call came telling House he was fired.
A week again after that he limped into Princeton Plainsborough and found that all his terms were met; he got an office next to Wilson (which he said was only for the close proximity to food, not that he in anyway wanted/needed Wilson close.) and three underlings (not there yet, but the application was out.). The first thing he did upon entering his office was burning the note who gently ordered him to do clinic duty, the second thing was finding out just how many channels he got.
A month later, a blond-haired assize was sitting in the conference room doing crosswords and slowly losing his will to live. House knew that was 30 percent of the reason he waited to hire the last two, the 70 remaining thundered in to his office once a day, telling (screeching) him to get his butt in gear and hire some doctors and save some lives. Every day at the same she yelled at him for then minutes, getting angrier by the day by his glassed expression, not knowing he spent those ten minutes (and more) every day wondering if he would ever get the guts to tell her he loved her, that always has (since the second he met her) and always will (until his very last breath).
When he finally told her, years later, he was drunk of course, and she rolled her eyes at him, and then told him to go to bed. What she'd never know was that those words were the truest he'd ever said (alcohol, or no alcohol), and that the rolling of her eyes was (since the day of the slapping) the cruelest thing she could ever have done.
What he never would know, was that after he broke her heart by (what she thought was) jokingly telling her while drunk, what she had always wanted to hear from him, she followed him into his bedroom, tucked him gently into bed, kissed his forehead and told him she loved him too, and that she always has (from the very second he barged mercilessly into his life) and always will (until her very last breath).
And at this exact moment (or a few seconds before to be presise) I actually got stung by a wasp, so anyform of comforting reviews would make med exedingly happy!