Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

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Brooding

February 1998

"Greg. Come to bed."

House yo-yoed in silence at his desk in the spare bedroom that served as their office, rocking his precariously-tilted chair back and forth with his right foot, clad only in boxers. If he had a thinking position, this was it.

"It's two a.m.," Stacy yawned, wrapping her robe more tightly around herself. The heat was spotty in this room and she was cold just looking at him.

"Gotten so used to me you can't sleep alone?" he said distantly. The yo-yo went up and down, his chair went back and forth, and he stared blankly at nothing.

"Your side of the bed is cold," Stacy whined.

"Nothing but a human heater, am I?" House said.

"Yes, that's all you're good for," Stacy said sarcastically.

Realizing this wasn't going to happen quickly, she stepped closer to lean on his desk next to his foot.

"Judging from how angry the sex was, someone died today," she said nonchalantly. "Care to talk about it or are you going to ruin my night's sleep as well as your own?"

"You're so co-dependent," House remarked vacantly.

Stacy waited. Fifteen to twenty seconds: he couldn't stand a silence longer than that. She counted down slowly, first watching the yo-yo, then tallying the flaming chili peppers on his boxers.

"She was twenty-six," he said at length. "In perfect health until last week. Seizures, partial paralysis, a laundry list of other symptoms. Arrested around six p.m. No idea what killed her. Autopsy report in the morning."

Stacy sighed. "Y'know, if you had mentioned this at dinner, we both might've slept tonight," she groused.

"No point in ruining a meal," House said, still steadily yo-yoing, rocking, and refusing to let her catch his eye.

"So, am I going to find a wrongful death suit on my desk tomorrow?" Stacy asked conversationally.

"Probably."

"Good," she said. "Then you can wake up at some god-awful hour to cold sheets."

"Be sure to tell the judge I was too wracked with guilt to sleep," House quipped. "I'm sure that'll be a great comfort to her family."

"Just like playing with that yo-yo is," Stacy said. She rubbed his leg. "Come on," she said. "You can beat yourself up while you lie awake just as well as you can sitting in here."

"The yo-yo isn't going to snap at me for tossing and turning," House retorted.

"There are a lot of things the yo-yo won't do," Stacy said. "And a lot of things figuring this out won't do, too, like keeping me warm or bringing her back to life." She paused. "Not that you care. You're just miffed you couldn't find the cause."

"Harsh," House said. "I must be one uncaring son of a bitch."

"You're forgetting jealous, vindictive, manipulative—"

House caught the yo-yo with a thwap and looked up at her for the first time since she'd come in.

"Where'd you learn to argue?" he snipped. "Some kind of arguing school? Because you're very persuasive."

"Not persuasive enough, apparently," she said standing up. "I'll be in bed if you decide to snap out of it," she called over her shoulder.

House grunted and threw the yo-yo out again.

Twenty seconds later, he caught it, took the string off of his finger, and turned the light out.

It wasn't that she was right, he mused as he found his way to the bed in the dark. Not at all. Just that he was a little chilly and he could think of a better place to pass the night.