"Is it always going to be like this?" Stacy asked.
House looked up from the book he was reading. "Like what?"
"We've been sitting here for almost two hours and you haven't spoken to me," Stacy said.
House closed the book, heaving an exasperated sigh so she would know how little he wanted to have this conversation. "Let me guess. I hurt your feelings."
Stacy looked at him, amazed. "You know, if you'd said that a few years ago, you would've at least tried to sound like you cared."
"A lot's happened since then," House said. "Can I get back to my book now?"
"No," Stacy said. "We need to talk about this, Greg. How long are you going to give me the silent treatment? Because if it's two weeks, I can deal with that, but if it's the rest of my life, I need to know so I don't keep coming to you for something that's never going to be there."
"I'm here," House said. "That used to be enough."
"Your body's here," Stacy said.
"Well, most of it," House said. "There were a few minor alterations there, but nothing to write home about. I barely even notice the difference." He leaned on the arm of the chair he was sitting in, knocking his cane to the floor.
"Subtle," Stacy said. "Really subtle."
"Glad you liked it," House said. "I've been working on it all afternoon."
"You know what?" Stacy said. "If you're still mad at me, Greg, tell me. Yell at me. Scream. I don't care. But then you'll have gotten it out of your system and we can go back to being like we were."
"Some of us will never be like we were," House said, his tone sharp. Stacy might be able to get it out of her system; she was the observer, not the injured party. It was easy enough for her to forgive herself. But every time House couldn't bend his leg, every time he tried to take a step and there was pain, every time he had to pick up that goddamned cane because he couldn't walk without it, he was reminded of what happened and who did this to him. Get it out of his system? Christ, she was oblivious.
And yet—and yet—with all of that weighing against her, he still loved her. It was stupid and unhealthy and he knew it, but that didn't change how he felt. He wanted things to be like the old days too. He wanted to be able to make love standing up in a shower without having to worry about how to balance or whether or not he would fall down. But he had loved her once, and she had crippled him. He knew better than to trust her with anything now. After trust came pain.
"I realize you've rationalized this whole thing," House said, "but think about something. How would you have felt if you'd told them to remove the muscle and I'd died on the operating table? Or would you have explained that away too?"
"How can you say that?" Stacy asked. It was taking all the self-control she'd learned over her years as a lawyer to keep her demeanor calm; House had learned to see the cracks in the façade over the years. "You know I would've felt terrible."
"Well, as terrible as you would've felt if I'd died because of what you did," House said, his voice calm, "that's as terrible as I want you to feel right now."
Stacy flinched, and most of the color drained from her face.
"Okay," House said. "Now that we've talked, I'm gonna get back to my book." He picked it back up.
"Do you want to break this off?" Stacy asked, a tremor in her voice. "Is that really what you want?"
Once House would've been quick to comfort her. No, that wasn't what he wanted. That was never what he wanted. Now, he simply shrugged.
Stacy swallowed hard, trying to keep her face from crumpling into tears. "Okay. I'll have my stuff out of here by tomorrow afternoon."
No, said some inner voice in House. Don't you let her go. It isn't supposed to be like this.
House opened his book and found the paragraph he'd been reading last. "Good."