House continued to play, and Stacy felt her eyes closing. She curled her legs up to her chest on the couch, and rested her head on the armrest, contented despite herself. His was a comforting presence, despite everything she knew about him. There was something about knowing that the person you were with could understand you, could connect with you intellectually and emotionally, despite his abrasive, offensive nature. She found just the fact that he was sitting in the room conducive to those few crucial relaxing moments.
"Were you playing solitaire just now?" She asked, glancing over at the coffee table.
House shuddered. "Doesn't that just scream "lonely, dejected nursing home?" He rolled his eyes. "The answer to your question is yes. It gets pretty boring after hours while I'm trying to find more work to avoid doing."
"You could avoid avoiding it," she countered.
"Stop talking," House suggested. "You're starting to stop making sense."
"What?" Stacy asked, but she was too far from consciousness at that point to honestly listen to his answer. As she drifted off to sleep, she could hear the flow of House's lazy chords, accompanied by a deep chuckle. "Hey," she murmured, "Don't laugh at me," she attempted drowsily. "Or I'll leave."
"No," House chuckled, "You won't."
The next morning, Stacy stretched out, her arms extending behind her head, and meeting with the leather armrest. Jolting fully awake, she sat up and blinked around blearily at House's living room. Settling back into the couch, Stacy slowly remembered the events of the previous night. She thought back to the fight with Mark, the rented hotel room, knocking on House's door at ten PM, and then the piano. He'd left his jacket lying on the piano bench when he'd gone to bed, and Stacy picked it up out of habit, folding it, and placing it back on the bench.
House stepped into the room, looking more rumpled than he had the previous night. "Okay," he said, "I know this doesn't look too good, but the reason I didn't give you the bedroom was that-!"
Stacy cut him off. "You didn't give me the bedroom so that I wouldn't think you'd tried to take advantage of me. Not that you'd have had an easy time of it, I don't sleep very soundly when I'm sober."
"Actually," said House, "I just didn't want you ripping through my sheets with those heels." He sat down next to her on the couch, and noticed the folded shirt with a little snort of laughter. "How'd you sleep?"
"Pretty well, I guess," Stacy replied. "Sorry about the crashing." She looked around again with a frown. "Maybe in return I could help you clean this place up a little bit." She gestured at the papers littering the floor. "Please tell me these aren't medical documents."
"Duly noted," said House, "I won't tell you." He shrugged at her suggestion. "Maybe you could stick around and prevent me from having to play solitaire all the time like the old guy that I am. Or you could get me a black coffee while you're out."
"Tell you what," Stacy said, "We'll compromise. We'll both go out and get that black coffee."
House shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Mark'll be looking for you. You either have to lay low, or go home." He waited for a response, but Stacy just avoided his gaze. "Probably cried himself to sleep last night," House continued, watching Stacy wince. "Go home, Stace. You can say you went to the hotel after all. With any real luck, he'll believe you."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Stacy countered defensively.
House nodded. "That you didn't," he replied, "But good luck convincing Mark of that if he finds out where you spent the night, invited or uninvited. And I personally like my head on my shoulders." He nudged her gently towards the door. "We'll get coffee another time. Go home."
Stacy glared at him. "Why do you care if I go back to Mark or not?" She asked. "You can't tell me with a straight face that you care whether or not he cries himself to sleep night after night. In fact, you'd probably enjoy it." She watched him, but he chose to ignore her, turning instead to pick up the folded jacket from the chair. He walked back into the hall closet, and Stacy called to him from where she stood by the door. "You can't, can you?"
"No," admitted House, walking back into the room, "No, I just care whether or not you cry yourself to sleep at night. Wouldn't let you do it last night, and I'd be pretty pissed off if you decided to do it tonight."
"You're impossible," Stacy muttered, as House opened the door for her. She stepped outside, and he shut the door behind her with a snap, heaving a contained sigh as he saw her getting into her car through the window.
Suddenly cold, he went back into the closet to retrieve his jacket, but found himself burning up as soon as he put it on. Irritated, he went back to his game of solitaire, but was unable to concentrate on the mundane card game for more than five minutes at a time. He swept the cards off of the table with one hand, and let them fall one by one to the floor, mingling with the papers and occasional plastic sandwich bag.
His head hurt, a level on the pain scale of at least six, he thought as he strode into the kitchen. Empty medicine bottles lay around, having been emptied several mornings before by Wilson in a hopeful attempt to expedite House's recovery.
He couldn't decide if the chills he was experiencing were withdrawal, cold, or a lack of Stacy, and he wasn't sure he liked any of the options. "Damnit," he muttered, slamming one of the pill bottles into the trashcan. "This is getting out of hand."