She Can't Save Him
She can hear his car as it pulls in the drive
She can whisper a prayer, "Thank God, he's alive"
She can meet him at the door and catch him when he falls
She can even believe that it isn't his fault
But she can't save him
The light coming from the lamp on the end table cast a soft glow over the sleeping face of the dark-haired woman curled up on the end of the couch. Her arms were wrapped tightly around a pillow and her pale face was tightened with worry even while unconscious. A dark gray sweatshirt and old, faded jeans swallowed her body and it was obvious that she had tried in vain to stay up waiting for someone.
The clock read 1:43 am.
Suddenly, hazel eyes blinked open. Quickly, the woman on the couch moved to the front window of the apartment she and her boyfriend shared. When her suspicions were confirmed, she rocked onto her heels and took a small breath.
He was back.
She threw open the door just as James Wilson stepped out of the driver's side of his car.
"Hey, Stacy," he greeted quietly.
"Where was he?" she whispered back, moving toward the passenger door.
Wilson sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "Bar. He called me. He was out before we'd left the parking lot."
Sure enough, it was a slightly snoring Greg House Stacy found herself faced with. Gritting her teeth, she reached into the car and put both arms around his waist, expertly navigating the dead weight of his body until he was almost completely out of his seat and leaning on her, numbing her arms and causing her to nearly stumble to the sidewalk.
Wilson took pity on her. "Here," he offered, pushing her aside lightly, "I've got him."
She watched silently as the oncologist practically carried his slumbering friend to the apartment door. Together, they maneuvered him this way and that until, finally, with one last heave, Dr. Gregory House lay sprawled across his bed.
"Thanks, James," Stacy murmured gratefully. She turned and grabbed some quilts off of the small armchair in the corner of the room and draped them across House.
Wilson watched her fuss with the covers for a moment before asking, "Why don't you just leave it? He'll be fine without blankets for one night."
"He'll complain about his leg being cold when he wakes up," Stacy replied, not meeting his eyes.
Wilson snorted. "Next time, we're leaving him on the couch."
Stacy shook her head. "I know it's a pain to have to drag him all the way back here but, trust me, not having to listen to him rant in the morning is worth it."
"Stacy, you don't—"
She cut him off. "It's fine, James. Everything's fine. It's just hurting him now, but he'll be better in a little while."
Wilson left without another word.
She can make his coffee in the cold light of day
She can make his excuses, tell the boss he'll be late
She can wave at the neighbors, kiss him goodbye
And not say a word 'bout what happened last night
But she can't save him
"Yeah, Lisa. Oh, no, no, it's fine. I'll see if I can get him in today. He'll be late if he does show up, though. Ok. I'll see you around. Bye."
Stacy hung up just as the coffee machine beeped its finish. Sighing gratefully, she grabbed a mug and poured herself a cup of the caffeinated goodness. She sipped it slowly, mug in one hand and pen in the other, filling out forms and keeping one eye on the clock at the same time.
It read 11:03 am when House finally stumbled into the kitchen.
"Hey," she greeted, looking up at him, "You're up early."
He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath as he shuffled toward the coffee machine, attempting to walk, cover his eyes, and clutch at his right leg all while suffering through the inept clumsiness that comes with a hangover.
Stacy, for her part, merely sat and watched him as he eased his way around, footsteps painfully slow and unsure. She bit her lip when he tripped near the sink, almost collapsing right then and there. It was hard to force herself to not help him, but she'd made that error once before and she did nothing if not learn from her mistakes.
Not only until he was at last seated and had downed half the mug in one gulp along with a handful of Vicodin did she speak.
"You know you have to go in today," she informed him casually.
He grunted and laid his cheek against the tabletop.
"Greg? Are you listening? I spoke to Lisa. She said you have to—"
"Alright, alright!" House yelled suddenly, cutting her off. His blue eyes blazed with unrestrained anger. "Just because you and Lisa decided to get together and figure out my life for me, I'll drag my damn ass in to work. It doesn't matter to the two of you that I'm in pain. You don't give a fuck that I don't have half of my goddamn leg! You don't even—"
"I saved your life!" Stacy shrieked back, already weary of having to tell him the same thing over and over every single time they got into this argument. "You were dying for Chrissake!"
"You didn't know that," House hissed.
Stacy opened her mouth to shoot something equally accusing back, but stopped. How many times had they said they exact same things to one another? How many fights over the past two months had boiled down to this same damn ultimatum—whether he would've lived or died that night? They couldn't go a day without bringing it up.
In that split second, she realized that she was tired. He was never going to give it up.
Standing up, she scraped back her chair and dumped the rest of her coffee down the sink. Ignoring House's shouts, Stacy strode to the bedroom and grabbed a rumpled shirt and a pair of week-old jeans. Her face was a mask of calm as she marched back into the kitchen and threw the clothes at him.
"Get dressed," she commanded, "Now."
House glared. "Make me."
She narrowed her eyes at him. Faster than he could blink, she'd reached across the table and whisked the Vicodin bottle sitting near his elbow away from him.
"Get dressed," she ordered again through clenched teeth, holding out the small brown bottle tauntingly.
House bared his teeth at her, but stood up and began to change, albeit much more slowly than normal.
Stacy rolled her eyes and turned away from him. Grabbing her briefcase and car keys off the coffee table, she headed outside to start up her car.
"Good morning, dear," a voice called the moment she stepped out of the door.
Stacy glanced around until she spotted the tiny old woman with the laugh-line wrinkled face the voice belonged to.
"You too, Mrs. Heiferman," she called back to their next-door neighbor.
"How are you today?" Mrs. Heiferman enquired pleasantly, leaning further out of her door to talk to Stacy.
"I'm just fine," she replied.
"And how's our dear Gregory doing?"
Stacy resisted the urge to snort. Since when did anyone refer to Greg as "dear"?
"He's alright," she answered, trying to remain as honest as possible. After all, he hadn't thrown anything at her when she took his Vicodin.
"Oh, that's nice," Mrs. Heiferman said, a smile lighting up her face, "Because for a moment there, I thought it was him bumbling about in the wee hours of the morning. Must've been that new boy a few doors down. I knew he'd be trouble from the minute he moved in."
The younger woman forced a smile onto her own face.
"Must've been."
Sometimes she dreams that he's caught in a stream
And the water keeps pulling him down
She reaches for him as he pulls her in
She wakes just before she drowns
That night, after a long and tiring day of juggling paperwork and House-work, Stacy collapsed into bed. House was already snoring away, spread out over his half of the bed and most of hers, but she'd stayed up late to finish up some last minute notes for an upcoming case that she hadn't gotten around to doing at her office because of yet another complaint about her boyfriend Lisa had forwarded along to her.
Stacy took a deep breath and pushed House's arm onto his own stomach so she would have enough room to curl up without winding up facedown on the floor.
Five hours later, she shot straight up, cold sweat trickling down her spine and her hair a matted, tangled mess. She frantically pushed aside twisted sheets until she could see House's face. The second she noted that he was still breathing, she let out the air she'd been holding in.
God, it'd been so real.
Closing her eyes, she lay back down and tried to forget the nightmare that had plagued her on occasional nights for the past two months.
It was always exactly the same—she and Greg were walking in the woods (although God knows how she'd talked him into it because the Greg House she knew would never, ever just go for a walk in the woods) when they came upon a wickedly fast-moving stream. She wanted to turn back but he just laughed and stripped down to his swim trunks, fully prepared to dive right in. He looked at her and she warned him one more time before he leapt in. Then he screamed as he was pulled further and further down, only one leg flailing along with his arms, the other rendered completely useless and scarred where the muscle had been cut away. She ran to him and grabbed his hands and he pulled and pulled until she toppled in with him. Then the overwhelming feeling of not being able to breathe took over but she held on as tight as she could until he let go and the last thing she saw was his lifeless body floating away before…
Before she woke up.
But she can remember the man that he was
And still shed a tear for what he's become
She can live in that house until the day
She sees that it's only herself she can save
'Cause she can't save him
Stacy had been up and waiting for a while by the time House wandered into the kitchen the next morning. Patiently, she waited as he stole her mug, too lazy to reach over and grab the one she'd left out for him on the counter, and poured himself a cup of long-cold coffee.
He sat down and they blinked at each other for a moment before she broke the silence.
"I called Wilson," she told him, "I'm not going in today so I thought he could drive you."
"Sure," House sneered, "Nice to know you've got everyone ready and waiting to take pity on the poor cripple."
She tried one last time. "Greg, you aren't a cripple. With therapy you could—"
"I could what? What could I do, Stacy? I could walk down the street before passing out?! I could drive myself to work so you wouldn't have the burden of taking care of someone you maimed for life?! If you're going through hell, then you deserve it!"
Stacy felt herself choking on her own saliva. Really, the man was a genius. He always knew just where to push to cause the maximum amount of pain in his victim. She didn't know how he did it, and she didn't want to know. Because, this time, he'd hurt her and given her the answer she needed at the same time.
"You aren't a cripple, Greg," she said softly, wanting to flinch away from his cold glare but forcing herself not to, "And nobody's taking pity on you. Do you think Lisa and James are doing all of this because they feel sorry for you and your damn leg? Do you think I'm doing any of this because I feel guilty about making that decision? Because if you do, you've got to be the most idiotic son of a bitch I've ever met! We're putting up with your crap because we care!"
"Yeah," House snorted, "Keep telling yourself that."
She had nothing to say to that so, for the next eight agonizingly long minutes, they waited in silence, Stacy staring down at her hands and House staring down into his mug. The knock on the door startled them both into action and Stacy practically ran to answer it.
"Morning, James," she said a tad breathlessly.
"Hey, Stacy," Wilson greeted, smiling slightly at her. Then her peered over the top of her head. "He ready yet?"
"Just about," Stacy assured him. "Greg!" she called to the apartment in general, "James is here!"
"Duh." House came into view, leaning heavily on his cane and still pulling his left arm through yet another band tee shirt that looked as if it hadn't been washed for weeks.
There was an awkward moment when House joined the two of them, all three standing by the door not knowing what to do. After a few seconds, however, House pushed past both his best friend and his girlfriend and stomped his way to Wilson's car.
"Well," Wilson shrugged, "Guess I'll see you later then."
"Yeah," Stacy said faintly, "See you later."
She stood in the doorway and watched the oncologist pull away, not taking her eyes off of his car until she couldn't see it anymore. A lone tear trickled down her cheek as she shut the door and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.
"Hi. U-Haul? Great. I've just got a few boxes I need to move out. How fast can you get here? Really? No, that's just fine. The address is…"
And that day she'll know she hasn't failed
'Cause nothing can change until he saves himself
'Cause she can't save him
No, she can't save him
Ten years later, a petite, dark-haired woman is curled up on a hard plastic chair in the clinic waiting room of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. In her left hand she clutches a folder full of x-rays and doctor's notes belonging to her husband, one Mark Warner. In her right is the cross her mother had left her. She has a feeling she's going to need it.
She sees him before he sees her and she takes the time to observe him unabashedly. He hasn't changed much. Still the same old hair, the same old clothes, the same old limp. She takes a deep breath and assures herself that the only reason she's forced herself into his presence once again is because she's sure her husband is dying. Her husband. The man she loved enough to marry. The man she would die to protect. The man who isn't Gregory House.
She tells herself it's all for Mark, that the fluttering low in her stomach is dread and not anticipation. She's repeating these words in her head even as she approaches him. He was the one who had pushed her away. She'd tried to help him, but he didn't want it. She'd given it all she could. She didn't need or want him back.
Right.
No, she can't save him