Author's Note: Stayed tuned for the bonus chapter: The Boys of "House."

Keep some sorrow in your hearts and minds

For the things that die before their time

For the restlessly abandoned homes

The tired and weary rambler's bones

And stay beside me where I lie

--Counting Crows, "Mercury"

She didn't ever really like the roof until House showed it to her. She found it cold and not at all welcoming. But now, in the middle of summer, it's not cold. But it's still lonely.

"I'm Stacy Warner," she murmurs.

She's married, she's still in love with her former lover, and she's lonely. Not many people would pity her considering she's successful, pretty, and supposedly happy. Not many people like her. She knows that. She understands.

She has few friends. She's intimidating. She overachieves, she loves too much, she does everything better than she should.

She sometimes wonders where she would be if she stayed with House. She broke up with him because he was a Vicodin-addicted man with a tendency for cutting sarcasm that did cut her. That did hurt her. He might not have meant those words, but how many times did he say them? Hundreds. After the fiftieth time of telling herself that he didn't mean them, that they were the product of the drugs, it got old. Really old. And she stopped coming home at night, preferring to spend time with the nice, tame computers and constitutional laws instead of his uncontrollable mouth.

She left him. She didn't have a choice.

"My name is Stacy Warner and I am not going to regret leaving Greg House."

She says it with enough confidence and bombast that she believes it. She loved him once (maybe still does), but she's married. The past is written in black ink and there is no such thing as White-Out for the annals of history.

She wishes there was, actually. If she could erase all her memories of him, she could go on living her life with Mark quite nicely. But there are times when the thought creeps up on her—if she were with House, where would she be now?

It's never pleasant, she'll admit, to think about "could have been" and "should have been". But he had a leg infarction. He got a cane, Vicodin; he didn't need her. He adamantly refused to keep her as another crutch. She's never been good with being unwanted.

"Hi, I'm Stacy Warner. Mark's my husband."

What else was she supposed to do? Let him die? How could she do that? He walks with a cane, but that's better than walking around with a prosthetic leg. He'd be so much more miserable.

"Stacy Warner. Forty-three. Constitutional lawyer."

Maybe she should have let him die. Maybe that's what he wanted. What was she supposed to do? He knows she's a human being and he, in all his great adventures into the human psyche knows that humans are selfish. She couldn't let him go.

And that was their undoing from the start.

"This is Stacy Warner here. I graduated first in my class from Harvard Law."

The hot chocolate doesn't have enough milk in it, so it's too hot. It's July, but she loves drinking hot chocolate at all times of the year. Everyone she knows chides her being ungodly weird at times.

Sirens make merry music in the drifting night air. It is hot, she'll concede. But it's so much better than the winter. It's too cold in the winter. She doesn't mind drinking hot cocoa in the summer when it's hot, but she absolutely detests drinking it in the winter when she's supposed to. Rules, regulations, and expectations have always cut her deeper than she'd like to admit. She rebels in small ways—

Drinking hot chocolate in the summer. Abusing her medical proxy title.

She takes a sip. She thinks about him, and when she does think about him the smallest things trigger the thoughts. It's in the mall and she sees the Foot Locker store—he used to wear those shoes. She's at breakfast. He likes his eggs sunny side up. She's in the bookstore. He has a soft spot for bodice rippers. She's drinking hot chocolate in the summer—he teases her for liking hot drinks on hot days.

"My name's Stacy House. Yes, I believe in soul mates."

She hopes he finds happiness with that attractive, young doctor. Allison Cameron's a pretty, all-American name. As much as he won't admit it, he needs someone who can deal with him. Cameron looks at him with a mix of adoration and consternation—but she seems like she'll care for him—good or bad.

"Hi, I'm Stacy. You want fries with that?"

Stacy imagines things flying through the night air. She doesn't usually indulge herself in this particular fun, but she pretends she can see fairies and magic things all leaping around through the air. When she was growing up, she remembers watching the fireflies. There aren't any fireflies here. But even here in the city she can still hear the crickets of her youth chirping.

"I'm Stacy. How are you?"

She finishes her hot chocolate and pulls out of her pocket her trusty pack of Trident bubblegum. It's the only thing she ever chews and she chews it religiously when she is in private. She has a passion for blowing impossibly big bubbles. She's loved this gum for as long as she can remember. Her family and friends think she's quite odd not only for drinking hot cocoa in the summer but also for chewing three pieces of gum at a time. She's always been able to shrug it off as an eccentric quality.

But House'll bring it up every now and then, and it'll pain her. Mark tolerates her irritating bubblegum habit, but House calls her out on it. She's always missed a fleeting childhood; House knows this and let's her know he knows.

"May I please the court? My name is Stacy Warner and this is my co-counsel…"

Why? It's always bothered her that he knows everything about her. But she did live with him. They did (and still do) love one another. But no one should know her better than she does. He does, though. He knows her intricacies better than she does…

That's why she prances about the hospital with this "been-there-done-that" air. It's her cover. If she let's House find out that she's weak and she doesn't have the upper hand, he'll play her to his advantage. He'll take advantage of her muddled feelings. He'll make her question herself. She's afraid. But, she knows she'll have the upper hand for a few more weeks. She'll be able to get herself up and into a confident position…

Who's she kidding? Herself? She won't be here for a few more weeks. It's like in those old Westerns. This town ain't big enough for the both of us.

Well, he's no John Wayne and she's no Ann-Margaret. He and she are just two people—circling, avoiding, and hoping never to actually speak their feelings.

If they do, she fears, then there will be nothing left of either of them.

"Hello. I'm Stacy Warner. Pleased to meet you."