Disclaimer: If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Photo Booth" lyrics belong to Death Cab for Cutie.
Notes: I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

Aside from west, House has no idea where he's going. Short Hills is east, but he'll never ride in that direction again. He's never been to her home in Short Hills and he never wants to. He never wants to see how much she's moved on. Never underestimate the power of denial.

Oh, but what he would have given to have her address five years ago. When she finally left, he had wanted her out. He'd been expecting it in fact, even pushing for it. Two days after she drove away with as many of her belongings stuffed into her Toyota as she could fit, he was tearing apart the apartment for any clue as to where she had gone. Calling her parents, Cuddy, Wilson (he told them he only wanted to know so he could return some things she'd left here, he was too proud to admit he had seriously screwed up the best thing in his life) but nobody knew.

There was no going back this time. Before this, the thought of himself showing up on a woman's doorstep awkwardly proffering flowers and an apology had never even crossed his mind. He had never even been in a florist's as a matter of fact. Stacy had always been happy enough to take him back before. Every fight before, he knew beforehand that she'd take him back. He'd never had to bother with flowers.

If that and more was what it would take to get her back, he had been willing to hold a few florists at gunpoint for all the roses in Princeton. Not this time though. No taking her into his arms and not saying anything aloud as he thanked all the Gods he didn't believe in for making her see something in him. No letting her playfully hit him for putting them through hell. No make-up sex and no more Stacy.

For a while, he thought she might come back. The months passed by, lonely and slow. After four months he gave up hope. That was when Wilson started to notice the change. House no longer wanted to do anything. He lost weight because he never ate more than a meal a day and he only ate that much because he knew he had to, not because he ever felt hungry anymore. He never felt anything anymore, only pain (which he took away with Vicodin) and the presence of that gaping hole deep inside him.

Eventually, though those two things were still constants in his life, he adjusted. He learned to like taking his pills and though the hole was never filled, he at least no longer sat on the edge of it, willing himself to give up and jump down that bottomless pit inside himself. Now he was back on the edge. These past few months, as he and Stacy had become reacquainted with each other; he had dared to walk closer and closer to the edge of that hole. When he finally thought he was going to slip and fall into the depths of the blackness, he discovered it was no longer there. She had filled it. Then he realized that as good as it felt to be whole again, he couldn't keep her down there with him. She didn't deserve that.

A bed and breakfast pulled into view on his right. Calvin's Cottage read the sign. House rolled his eyes at the alliteration. If he wasn't desperate he might've kept going. His leg was aching and the rest of his lower half was numb from the ride. He parked his bike up beneath an overhang on the side of the building and clambered off, taking his knapsack with him.

"One room, bottom floor, two nights." House said as he held out the required amount.

"That'll be $75 a night, but if you stay an extra day the third is half off," coughed the old man behind the desk. He had a long face with a white beard, he had green eyes and looked like he was ready for the quiet life Fulton seemed to offer. House could tell from his look and smell that he was a heavy smoker, probably not far from cancer, but his demeanor suggested he didn't much care either.

"And if I wanted to stay three nights I'd be holding out more than $150 right now. However, if you put your glasses on and squint really hard, I think the only thing you'll find is Mr. Franklin and his gay lover Mr. Grant. By Gosh! It's almost … it's almost like I meant what I said the first time." The old man did not find House amusing and responded only by taking the cash, setting the keys on the counter and glaring silently.

House checked the number on the room key and wandered back into the long hallway. The door creaked when he opened it. He looked around. It was a typical country room, completely bereft of any true authenticity or antiquity, but trying darned hard to exploit the tourists and convince them they were experiencing the true country life off the side of a highway. He tossed down his knap sack and shed his leather jacket. Well, it was better than his apartment. He was pretty sure Stacy had never been here in her life. She was way too attracted to the city life to come near a place like Fulton.

Bed and Breakfasts weren't her thing. No, it was a hotel or drive back the same night for her. He tried not to let the flood of all the times he had spent in hotel rooms with her into his mind, he had come here to forget her, not to remember her. They came anyway.

Their weekend trip to New York, Christmas 1997, neither of them had wanted to spend Christmas with their families, so Stacy pretended she had big legal business in the city over Christmas and of course House couldn't leave her alone over this special holiday, or at least that's what he told his mother. They spent Christmas Eve wandering around the city. Neither of them was truly Christian, even though she insisted on wearing that cross, but they liked the excuse to celebrate. They drank coffee while looking up at the tree in Rockefeller Center at 3 AM while most of the world slept. The Waldorf Astoria had a Jacuzzi tub. They made good use of it when they came back in from the cold.

Nashville, Tennessee, 1996, meet the parents. A room at an upper class bed and breakfast that she called "cozy" and he called cramped. She figured if she only exposed him to her parents for periods of two hours maximum at a time they could avoid serious conflict. It worked. The worst one he let slip was after a few drinks. Her father had said something about how he would just love to meet his parents too. Bringing up his dad was never a good idea.

"Why, so you can put better judgment on his son? Here, I'll save you some trouble: my father is an all-American, red-blooded ex-marine. Yeah, I'm just like him, I don't care about anything you've got to say because I've seen worse in the war. Oh wait! I've never been in a war! Wow, what excuse do I have for being such a son of a bitch now?" The silence that ensued afterwards seemed endless. He was lucky Stacy's dad was even-tempered and Stacy was a lawyer. "Dad, I know Greg and I've met his father. 'Son of a bitch' fits neither … most of the time" she said the last part with a meaningful glance that begged him to shut- up before he screwed everything up that night. Realizing Mr. Jameson didn't deserve the invective he had just spewed at him, he settled for moody silence for the rest of the evening.

She had been pissed when they got back to the room that night. "What the hell was that about, Greg? If you had told me you had some sort of daddy issues I would've told them not to bring it up! My dad makes simple small talk and you bite his head off? I'm sure he really does think you're a son of a bitch now!"

"Why does it matter to you? Why do I need some sort of stamp of approval from your parents? I didn't force you on a pilgrimage to meet mine!"

She gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes before answering. "No, you didn't even acknowledge their existence before I answered the phone and it was your mom on the other end of the line. 'Oh, hello, Mrs. House! Who am I and why am I in your son's apartment? Well, I don't know if he told you about me, but we've only been living together for the past three months.' Do you have any idea how awkward that was for me? I don't know why you hate your parents so much and I don't need to, but I want you to know I don't hate mine. It's not about getting their approval, Greg. I just want them to like you, because I … like you… no, I love you. I just wanted them to see why."

It was the first time either of them had just come out and said it. They'd only been together for six months. Everything was moving very fast, but it felt right when she slowly moved her things over bit by bit and just started sleeping there every night. Just like it felt right when they lay together, entwined into a perfect fit watching TV on the couch. Still, neither of them formally recognized it until just then. Both had been too afraid to scare the other by saying it. Now she'd laid her cards on the table, it was his move.

He walked over to her. She was sitting on the bed with her head down. She knew the implications of what she had just said. He sat down on the bed and leant in close tucking some of her hair behind her ear, "I love you," he whispered. "That's all anyone else needs to know."

She turned her head to face him, giving him a glare. "You had to wait until I was yelling at you to tell me?" she said as she shoved him down on the bed, her glare breaking and turning into a wide smile. "You know how turned on I get when you're pissy. I'll do anything if it means you get pissy and I get pissy sex," he answered, trying to conceal his grin.

"Did I ever tell you that I think you're a manipulative bastard?"

"Ooh, say it aga ---" he didn't get to finish the sentence. Having her tongue in his mouth made it rather hard to form words … or coherent thoughts. He rolled her over and started working his way down her neck with light kisses while grinding against her. She was moaning and his only thought was to find the quickest possible way he could get her out of her clothes. Shoes seemed like a good starting point. Yes, you had to get the shoes off if you wanted the pants off those fabulous legs. He came up for air and scooted back on the bed to slip her shoes off. He was just getting her jeans off when she seemed to decide that he had a ridiculously unfair lead on her where clothing was concerned.

As soon as her jeans were tossed to the floor she got up on her knees on the bed, gently biting his lower lip while her hands worked at his belt buckle. Soon, her hands were going places and doing things to him that made his head spin. "Wow, I have got to manipulate you more often," he drawled out when she began to unbutton her blouse, making a show of it. "Does that mean I have to bring you to meet my parents more often?" She was lying there naked, waiting for him. "If it ends up like this, yes," were the last words he said that night. Well, the last coherent ones.

Washington D.C. 1999, just before the infarction, one of her cases. They spent too much money on a swanky hotel room for two days. They were both earning more than enough then. He doesn't remember much about that trip. Everything surrounding the infarction, both before and after is a little blurry. That's what happens when your mind can't stand thinking about an event any longer. He's got a reminder of one thing he remembers clearly. Squeezing into a cheap photo booth for tourists near the Washington Monument. They let the lens play voyeur to their love. The photo strip is folded up in a corner of his wallet only he knows exists. Once in a while he takes it out for a look. He's holding it in his hand now, willing himself to tear it into pieces for the thousandth time this week, but he still can't do it. He folds it back up into its well-worn creases and slips it back into his wallet. It's hard to run away from your past when you're carrying it with you.

I remember when the days were long
and the nights when the living room was on the lawn.
Constant quarreling, the childish fits
and our clothes in a pile on the ottoman.
All the slander and double speak were only foolish attempts
to show you did not mean,
anything but the blatant proof was your lips touching mine in the photo booth.

And as the summers ending

the cool air will rush your hard heart away.
You were so condescending,
and this is all that's left
scraping paper to document.
I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on.

Cup your mouth to compress the sound,
skinny dipping with the kids from a nearby town.
And everything that I said was true
as the flashes blinded us in the photobooth.
Well I lost track and then those words were said,
you took the wheel and you steered us into my bed,
and soon we woke and I walked you home
and it was pretty clear that it was hardly love.

And as the summers ending,
the cool air will rush your hard heart away.
You were so condescending,
and this is all that's left, scraping paper to document.
I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on.

And as the summers ending,
the cool air will rush your hard heart away.
You were so condescending,
as the alcohol drained the days.
And as the summers ending,
the cool air will rush your hard heart away.
You were so condescending.
And this is all that's left,
The empty bottles spent cigarettes, so pack a change of clothes
'cause its time to move on.