By the time he reaches the third step in the narrow stairway, his shoulders are burning and his legs are trembling. What the hell does she have in this box? And will his apartment floor be able to take the weight of whatever it is? He lifts his knee onto the next step and turns so that his back is against the railing. He rests the box on his knee for a moment and looks up at the remainder of the stairs: three down, ten to go.
They've been at this for all of thirty minutes, including the drive over from Stacy's old place. For all but the two minutes he'd been latched onto her lips, House had wondered if this wasn't some grandiose mistake that would be over in a month. Less than a week ago, he'd stood at her door wondering if she was going to let him into the apartment. Three days later, they hadn't spent a single night apart and he'd found himself (more than once) having to explain to his boss that he'd needed a legal opinion and that was why he was in Stacy's office instead of with his patients. Either his boss was a nitwit or he didn't care: House was sure that he had lipstick smudged on his own mouth more than once.
On the fifth morning, Stacy had gone back to her apartment to pick up a few things before going to work. House had begun to wonder where she was when she didn't come get him for lunch. She showed up in his office near 2pm, looking uncharacteristically disheveled and pissy. He'd shut the office door and the blinds on the window, but she'd been unresponsive to his mouth and stiff in his arms.
"What's wrong?" he'd asked.
She backed away, arms crossed and shook her head. "Nothing." .
"You get what you need from home?"
She'd nodded and moved past him to stand at the window, fiddling with the blinds.
House had been suspicious of her movements. They spoke of uneasiness, secrets, break-ups. Of all the women that he'd seen in the past few years, Stacy had felt the most right. After only a few days, he felt closer to her than to any of the others. She matched his wit, she was attractive, and the sex had been great. He wasn't ready to give this up.
"We've only been sleeping together for a few days, so I know you can't already be pregnant. And even if you were, you wouldn't show for a few months. So we've got time to conjure an alien abduction."
She looked over her shoulder at him, a little amused, and gave a sighing laugh.
House moved to stand over his desk, looking down at the mess of paperwork on top. He picked up a paperclip and began twisting it out of shape, wrapping it around his index finger.
"You were okay this morning, you were late coming back here," he started. "So either you ran into someone or…"
"I didn't have anyone pick up my mail. My newspapers were piled up."
House had briefly wondered if he hadn't made a horrible judge of personality. Maybe she was mentally ill, obsessive compulsive. He really hadn't done any in depth research on her. He'd just assumed that the lack of gossip about her around the hospital and her lawyer credentials were enough to avoid worry. The paperclip was cutting off circulation to his fingertip and it was beginning to bulge and redden.
"It was stupid really. Lights off, newspapers at the front door." Her hand lifted up for a moment, then fell back to it's crossed position.
Bells began going off in his head. He dropped the misshapen paperclip onto his desk and approached her at the window. "Break in?"
"You could say that."
House brought his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him.
"They take anything?"
"Everything." Her head fell back against his chest with the admission. "They must've had a moving truck…TV, stereo, cd's, dvd's, jewelry, they even took my crystal."
"What did the police say?"
She huffed and turned to face him, sitting on the desk against the window. "They shrugged their shoulders and looked at me like I was an idiot."
He had stepped closer to her, sighing, and uncharacteristically sympathetic.
"You're not an idiot."
"I know, I just…" She sighed again, running her fingers against the buttons on his shirt. "I should've known…"
This was trouble, he knew. Sex had a tendency to make people stupid and he wasn't an exception to genetics. Stacy could blame herself all she wanted for leaving the apartment obviously vacant for a few days. And that blame could've fallen on him for his insistence that she stick around at his place every night. But in the end, a third party had decided to break a law. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't his fault. But he had found himself feeling so guilty, that the words came out of their volition:
"Come live with me."
He had cursed himself the moment he said it and her eyes had widened, disbelieving.
"Greg, I've only known you for a week…"
"Just for a while- until you can replace everything. You've been living with me for the past few days anyway."
She laughed and stood up, separating herself and bringing her arms to cross against her midsection again. "Spending a few nights together is not living together."
"Why not?"
"Laundry," she responded. "Dishes, bathrooms, nasty habits, rent."
"Rent will be cheaper, we know each others' nasty habits, and I promise to put the toilet seat down. You're doing the dishes though."
"How about the laundry?"
He smirked and pulled her to him again. "We'll buy new clothes every week."
The memory of the conversation from two days ago makes House smirk now, but the weight of the box is pinching on his knee. He takes a breath and gathers his reserve for the remaining stairs.
When he gets to the top, his face is red and sweat is dripping down into his shirt collar. He feels like he couldn't possibly take another step so he goes to put the box on the nearest surface that doesn't involve bending over or lifting, the kitchen table. The sounds of rattling glass at first alarm him as he sets the box down heavy on the table, but he is more alarmed by the fact that the box must contain kitchenware and that he doesn't have space for it. His cabinets are full of dishes and cookware that his mother insisted on buying, but that he rarely uses.
"Greg, did you see my photo albums in that last box?"
Stacy turns the corner into the kitchen and heads towards the box that House has just labored into the apartment. His breath hitches and he breathes heavily before plopping into a chair at the table. He shakes his head. She places a hand on his shoulder for a moment before beginning to open the newly arrived box. It takes her a moment to realize what's in it.
"You brought this up yourself?" She's exasperated. "You should've asked for help!"
"At least I don't have to go to the gym today."
"It's my mother's old dishes. They're very sturdy."
"Uh huh," he mutters.
"Surprised that the burglars didn't grab them."
She goes to the sink and returns with a glass of iced water, which she hands to him. His arms are still trembling from exertion, but the water slides down his hot throat, immediately cooling his skin from the inside out. Stacy moves off to rummage around in his cabinets, presumably looking for space. He watches her, gulping from the glass to replenish the fluids that he's lost going up the stairs. "I'm not really sure I have the space for fine china…"
Stacy puts her hands on her hips and looks around. "I can put it in storage with the furniture. No big deal."
He smirks. This is why he likes her so much. Too bad that moving the box of dishes will involve maneuvering it down the stairs again. Not to mention that the rest of the furniture is actually in the back of the moving truck. It, too, will have to be moved at some point. He hopes that it doesn't involve stairs.
House suddenly realizes that someone's shoes are pounding up his wooden staircase. "Hey, House," a voice calls from the stairway. House is suddenly self-conscious and on edge. He hasn't told anyone about Stacy moving in this weekend. "Oh, hi… Stacy."
Wilson stands at the top of the stairs and looks around at the half empty boxes littering the apartment floor and the full box on top of the table, a perplexed twist on his features. Both Stacy and House stay quiet for a moment, unsure of what to say. Somewhere between calling moving companies and reorganizing personal belongings, both of them forgot to tell Wilson (or anyone else) exactly what was going on.
"I just… we have a tee time of 8:30… tomorrow," Wilson says, still looking around.
"Good." He takes a sip of water.
"Are you going to be here or should I pick you up somewhere else?"
House and Stacy look at each other for a moment before he turns back to his friend. "I'm not moving. Stacy had a break-in. She needs a place to stay for a little while."
Wilson winces and moves into the sunlit living room. House is sure that he's taking in the fact that there are more than just clothes and toiletries here. There are blankets, a new chair, and books laying about on the wooden floor. There are too many things here to be just a place to stay. House knows Wilson and he knows what'll try to say. But House also knows that Wilson has no ground on which to stand. He's on his second marriage and it already sucks.
"Uh huh," Wilson responds. "I can see that." He turns and comes back to the kitchen.
"You think we're rushing," Stacy says. It's House's turn to wince now and he stands, moving into the more comfortable chairs in the living room with his glass of water. He flips on the television and begins sifting through Saturday afternoon television.
"No." Wilson crosses his arms and one lifts to rub the back of his neck as he glances at House when he moves past. "I just… I didn't know that you were that serious… together… I mean… It just… " He stumbles for a moment and then sighs. "You've been dating a week."
"It's temporary, Wilson," House yells back to the kitchen.
There's an awkward pause during which Stacy gives Wilson a confirmation nod. Wilson sighs, puts his hands on the back of the chair that House has vacated. "So, I guess it would be rude of me if I didn't ask if you needed help."
House smiles from the living room and swallows another cooling mouthful of water. That box isn't making it back down the stairs on its own.