Disclaimer/Notes: I don't even own a car, let alone any iota of House, M. D. Thanks go to my beta who is not only an inspiration, but also one of the finest individuals on this planet.
When the bereaved, emotional family of a recently deceased patient spoke of closure, Dr. Gregory House had never thought much of it. His mind had usually been preoccupied with other things: whether or not they were going to sue him; whether or not there was anything he could have done differently; whether or not he would lose sleep that night. Now, however, he knew there was no such thing as closure.
Closure meant, what, being able to put an end to painful reminders? Reaching a point where the reminders didn't sting quite so much? She had taken what was hers, when she left, as well as a big enough piece of him to serve as a constant reminder. This most painful, irreversible reminder was incapable of being put to any kind of an end, incapable of being dulled. Closure did not exist.
House had, consequently, been above any sort of grave-dressing activities. There had been no deletion of her number from his cell phone, no backyard bonfire of old birthday cards and photographs. Apart from the potential fun of dancing around a fire, chanting maniacally, as photo paper shriveled and scorched in the fla – wait, limping around a fire never bore the same mental image, so forget it. Under the bed, next to the wooden chest from Egypt, was a simple box full of his all-but-simple past with her. It lay forgotten most of the time, but the cleaning lady had bumped it with the – whatever it was she used – and now it poked out a few inches from its hiding place.
The photos were his favorite. She and her friends were the ones who were big on photographs; she probably had thousands, if she had been above grave-dressing, too. He had kept only the handful that he considered the best. They had never actually made it to the frames he hadn't gotten around to buying for the private office he hadn't had at the time.
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Sitting on his shoulders at a concert. James Wilson's then-girlfriend (whatever her name was) had taken it at a '95 Stones show. Stacy was grinning, arms above her head in a wide-arching rhythm clap. He had her balanced effortlessly, with his hands resting on her knees and a contented look on his face. Despite being fairly tall, she hadn't been able to see, so he had wordlessly bent down and lifted her up. Five songs…that's how long they had spent like that; House swaying and bobbing in place, his Stacy calmly enjoying a better view, perfectly confident he wouldn't drop her.
Play-fighting on the floor. It had been taken at one of her dinner parties and, judging by the look on her face, he had probably said something obnoxious. That "oh no, you didn't!" look was on Stacy's face – eyes wide, mouth open in the shape of a small O. Her left hand held his right arm against his chest, pinning him to the floor as she half-kneeled, half-stood over him. He was on his back, left arm up to deflect the impending blow of her raised right hand, a mix of cheeky glee and "oh yes, I did" written on his face. James was in the background, eyebrows raised, a smile tugging at his lips, as he laughed. House had never liked dinner parties, but he had never denied her, as long as James could be there to rescue him from the pitiful conversation skills of her friends.
Hugging him from behind. His mom had taken it on his 36th birthday. Stacy had snuck up on him as he sat at the bar. She was leaning heavily on him; her right arm was over his right shoulder, right hand cradling his jaw and neck. Her left arm was wrapped around his left side, hand resting on his chest. Their faces were pressed together with perfect happiness written in their broad smiles. (He knew now how fragile happiness was, especially the kind plastered on their blissfully ignorant faces, but it wasn't like closure. It existed; it used to, at least.) He had never liked his birthday, not even then; a quiet dinner with his Stacy was all he was willing to put up with. However, a group of coworkers, friends and close family had been waiting at his favorite pub when they arrived, and the evening had been anything but quiet. The owner had stayed open three hours past closing for them, and even his father had been amiable - off in the corner, but amiable. …All right, so he enjoyed that birthday.
Watching a movie on the couch. He wasn't sure who had taken this one, but someone else must have been there. He was stretched out on the couch, turned slightly on his left side. Stacy was sitting on huge floor pillows in front of him, head reclined against his stomach, his left hand held between both of hers and resting on her lap. Their eyes were synchronized in their focus on the television. He looked pale and tired, and he briefly wondered why, before noticing a pair of crutches leaning against the wall behind the couch. He had probably been home for a month. The breakdown had yet to begin, and based on the presence of crutches, it was about two years before it had finished.
New Year's Eve 2000. Definitely taken by Julie; she probably wanted him to have a nice pictorial representation to augment the pain. (He wondered if she was as sadistic in bed.) He was sitting on the couch, an apathetic, there's-a-camera-in-my-face-so-convention-says-smile hint of a smile on his face. Stacy was on his left, smiling naturally. She had one arm around him, pulling him into her, the other across his chest, hand on the right side of his face. His cane was on his right, propped against the couch, and his hands were folded in his lap.
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House's cane was still on his right, propped against the couch. He picked it up, closed the box and took it back to the bedroom.