The routine had been the same for months after he was released from the hospital. They would have blow out fights and epic arguments about the smallest little things. Sometimes it was about dinner plans, other times it was about how many shows the DVR recorder held. The fights would last into the wee hours of the morning, both of them going to bed angry. And it was as if the Great Wall of China separated their sides of the mattress. The nights he woke up in pain and she'd try to sooth him at least back into slumber, the anger fizzled away into nothing, and the anger was buried back into the ammunition stock for the next time. Other nights, the anger was there between them, thick and heavy in the air like a gas seeping in on them, but cleared by morning. Both of them left truths unspoken.
Tonight they'd fought about the apartment. She'd felt that perhaps a less cluttered space would be better for him, easier for him to get around with his new handicap. A bigger place with more open space could help him live easier in their home. He'd outright rejected the idea, retreated immediately after stating his feelings and making them blatantly clear. He'd always done that, and he shut himself off to her after making sure she knew he thought he was right.
"I like my apartment." He'd said.
Her brain was instant déjà vu to the first day in the hospital after the infarction; Cuddy had told him that amputation was the best option.
"You said the same thing about your leg, and now look at you!" She'd reasoned, knowing it was futile to do so.
"And it's still true. I like my leg. I like my apartment. What I don't like right now, is my girlfriend who thinks she's a doctor." He'd barked at her, with his biting sarcasm.
That was the last thing he said before limping clumsily, with the cane he'd yet to master, to the piano. She'd told him to use it correctly but he'd ignored her, and it had led to one of the battles of epic proportions that never had a victor. He used the damn piano as an escape these days. Escape from her, and the pain in his leg. In retrospect, she supposed that he had always escaped through his music, but it used to be an enduring quality. She remembered spending hours listening to him play, and nights out back in the yard listening to him play his guitar under the stars with glasses of wine. She used to love the sound of the piano but lately the plunking of the keys made her insides boil. He was hiding from her in it now with each note that rang in their silence. If she could get away with it, she'd smash the thing apart with a sledgehammer just to make him talk to her.
She watched him sit with a glass of whiskey and the bottle of Vicodin resting on the top of the instrument. He almost always looked at peace when he sat at that bench and his long fingers graced effortlessly about the keys. It was if he and the piano were the same entity. He seemed genuinely happy there, infarction and all. It was a happiness she used to bring him.
"You are never going to forgive me." She finally said.
He didn't respond to her. His back still facing her and his stance on the bench unchanged.
"Greg?" She barked. "You will forever hold me responsible for this. No matter what I do you will always blame me and hold me guilty in that court of your head. Those who wrong Gregory House condemned to an eternity of anger and guilt."
He still remained silent except for the music his fingers used to fill the room with anything but silence between them. The sound was the only thing that passed between them, though the sound was somber and he didn't even remotely waver from it. She approached and stared at him, waiting for reaction. He cracked open one of his devastatingly blue eyes and looked at her before opening the other and turning his gaze to keys as he played. She had finally had it and took the glass of whiskey and dumped it on his lap. He flew back off the bench.
"What the hell, Stacy?" He barked.
"Talk to me! You are just ignoring me you bastard. I'm trying to discuss our relationship with you and you just sit there playing that fucking piano!"
He started to wipe at his pants, his weight steady on his left leg. The look of him almost broke her heart. She didn't want him to know she blamed herself too, every time she saw his pathetic stance.
"You seemed to be doing a good job of filling in my thoughts… I didn't want to interrupt." There was the sarcasm she was waiting for.
He replaced his seat on the bench and she threw the glass at him. He caught it and rolled his eyes, placing it out of reach on the other side of the bench. She picked up the bottle of pills and threw it at him. It hit him in the head and he caught it when it fell, for a brief moment looking hurt by her action, and then quickly replacing it with his usual scrunched angsty expression.
"Answer me!" She demanded.
"You didn't ask me a question. And I don't read minds." He snarked.
"Will you ever forgive me? Will you ever not blame me for your pain?" She almost was pleading to him.
Greg seemed to consider it heavily. The question was dancing in his head for what seemed like an eternity to her. His mind was clearly working as he toyed with the bottle in his hands. Finally he looked up at her, but his expression was one that was hard and not that of a man who had good news. His eyes however, held a deep regret. Her heart sank.
"No." He said simply. "I won't."
Stacy was speechless. That hurt her more than she wanted to admit. She wanted to pretend that it wasn't true. She'd expected that answer but imagining it and hearing it ring true were two different worlds. She wanted to believe that one day he'd be able to forgive her. That he still loved her enough to forgive her and realize that she was just trying to save his life. Because she loved him.
"You're not the man I fell in love with." She choked.
"Whose fault is that?" He snapped.
That was the last straw. "You don't love me anymore. You can't love me anymore."
He stood. It clearly hurt him to do so, but he bit back the pain. He wasn't really accustomed yet to standing up with weight on the one leg. He balanced himself, let the worst pin return to the usual tolerable pin. Finally, he returned his gaze back to her. She felt her heart stop by the look on his face.
"I do love you. Don't you ever tell me that I don't! That's the problem. I will always love you and I hate myself for it. I can't stand the fact that I both love you and despise you for what you did. Yes, I will always blame you and you can either do what you can do to deal or you can leave. It's your call Stacy. It's always been your call."
She looked at him. Her nose stung and her eyes were welling up with tears. Hours passed between them in just seconds. Days passed with minutes. She almost longed for the music so there wasn't this painful, thick silence. And when he started to play again, his shoulders a little more hunched over, she made her decision.
"Good-bye Greg." She said.
He didn't respond. The music however said everything. It answered everything about his feelings. She knew it said every word that he wouldn't say to her. It was the saddest collection of bars strung together in a dissonance that broke her heart with each new note. It was worse than funeral music. It signaled to her the demise of what they were. It was the demise of the man he used to be and the birth of a man she was sure she didn't want to know. It was the inevitable coda to their opera tragedy of a relationship.
Stacy gave one last look at the apartment where she'd spent the past five years. And her final picture was of the hybrid of the man she loved and the man he'd become, sitting at the precious escape tactic. Her heart broke when he didn't turn to give her one last plea to stay.
He heard the door close but finished playing his song. She'd made up her mind and nothing that he could do would stop her. He wasn't going to change; she'd already changed him for the worse. She couldn't accept the man she'd turned him into. The days of House and Stacy were over. He was almost she he'd regret it, until he popped a Vicodin to ease the pain in his damaged leg. He stared at the keys on the piano for a good five minutes before picking up the nearby phone. He dialed the only number he could.
"Wilson, it's House. Stacy's gone."
He hung up, holding the phone for a minute. He moved and poured himself another glass of whiskey before sitting back down at the piano. He placed his fingers on them gently and paused, just looking at them for a long moment before pressing down and beginning to play.