Title: The Promise

Author: pgrabia

Disclaimer: House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

Genre: Drama/Romance/angst

Characters/Pairing(s): G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.

Word Count: ~1600

Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". Major character death. Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.

Rating: R (M) (to be safe) unless otherwise advised.

A/N: This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.

Unbetaed, sorry.

The Promise

Chapter Seven

Stacy sat on a stool next to the kitchen island, watching as House sautéed some onions in a pan over the countertop burner. She nursed a glass of wine.

"Why didn't you ever offer to cook when we were together?" she asked him with a smile.

"'Cause I was already doing you so I didn't have to impress you, and you automatically took it on so I didn't have to," House answered, smirking.

"I didn't know you knew how to cook," Stacy pointed out, rolling her eyes.

"Just because I'm too lazy to do something doesn't mean I don't know how to do it," he explained with a shrug. "Do you have Paprika?"

"In the spice rack on the counter behind you," Stacy told him, and then took a sip of wine. "Chicken Paprika," she hummed. "I could get used to this."

"My advice is not to," House said as he grabbed the bottle of Paprika and added some to the sautéed onions. "I won't be around much longer and I don't think the DOC would grant me passes to visit and cook for you."

"You won't be in prison forever," she assured him seriously. "Even if Deacon can't arrange a decent plea bargain, you won't be in there for the rest of your life."

"And you'll be waiting for me, right?" House sneered, rolling his brilliant blue eyes.

"Who knows?" Stacy replied, watching herself running her thumb along the rim of her wine glass. "Maybe I will."

"Right," House said, sounding unconvinced. "Don't. You haven't told me yet why you and Mark are no more."

"You're right," she agreed, grabbing the wine bottle resting on the island and pouring more wine into her nearly empty glass, "I haven't." She said no more, smiling knowingly.

"Hey, don't drink all of that," he told her, grabbing the bottle and placing it out of her reach. "I need to add that along with the chicken stock."

They were silent for a while as he cooked and she watched but it wasn't uncomfortable. After a few minutes Stacy broke the silence.

"We separated because I wasn't over you," she admitted quietly, avoiding looking at his face. As if looking for fortification she took a generous swallow of wine. "I went to your damned funeral without him; he hadn't wanted me to go to it but I went anyway. It was at the funeral, when I was convinced you were gone for good, that I realized I still had unresolved feelings for you—"

"Stacy," he interrupted but she cut him off.

"I know," she assured him. "Even if you weren't headed back to prison, you're still mourning James and besides, that ship has sailed, yadda yadda. I'm just explaining to you why Mark and I are in the process of a divorce."

She lifted soft eyes to meet House's gaze, which was focused on her. His facial expression was soft, contemplative. He didn't say anything, and after a moment or two he returned his attention back to his cooking.

"I realized that I was still…stuck…on you," Stacy told him with a sad sigh. "When I came home from Princeton I tried to put you behind me again. After all, you were dead, right? Except, I couldn't stop mourning you and I didn't do a very good job hiding it from Mark. Two weeks after you 'died', Mark packed his bags and left while I was in court. At least he left a note. I can't blame him, as much as I want to."

House added the chicken stock and then some wine to the pan. "I know what you're thinking. You're not in love with me," he told her frankly. "You're in love with the idea of what it might be like if we were together. There's a difference."

"Don't tell me how I feel," Stacy told him indignantly. "You don't know how I feel. Relax. I have no illusions about you feeling the same way, or ever wanting to try again."

"Stacy, I—," House started and then stopped himself, frustrated, searching for the right thing to say, but he had no idea what that right thing was. "I can't even begin to entertain the thought—look, my freedom is just an illusion. I'm a prisoner, I just haven't been apprehended yet. And yes, I'm still trying to adjust after Wilson's death. You're better off without me."

"Probably," she agreed, smiling wryly, "but I've always been a little masochistic."

"Which explains why you were attracted to me to begin with," House said, but he was smiling softly as he said it. He turned to grab the browned chicken breasts from the counter behind him and added them to the contents of the pan and then turned the heat down and covered the pan to allow the flavors to simmer together.

The phone rang, and Stacy got up to answer it. She went into the other room where the phone was. A moment later she returned to the kitchen still holding the cordless.

"That was Deacon," she told House without him having to ask. "He met with the ADA earlier today. He wants you to show up at our meeting tomorrow prepared to surrender yourself to the police." She sounded slightly stunned. "I didn't think things would move quite this fast."

House sighed quietly. "I did," he admitted, fighting the urge to grab his wallet and jacket and flee to the other side of the country at that very moment. "Did he say how the meeting went?"

Stacy shook her head. "No, but he sounded upbeat. Are you ready for this?"

House shrugged, rounding the island to stand in front of Stacy. "No one is ever ready to go to prison. It's not summer camp."

Before House knew what was happening Stacy had wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. He stiffened slightly but didn't push her away. After a few moments his arms came up to loosely hold her. She still knew how to fit perfectly in his arms after all these years. Knowing that he had to be careful not to transmit the wrong message, House broke the embrace gently.

"Dinner is almost ready," he told her before turning away and returning to the meal he was preparing, avoiding her gaze and fighting the feeling of doom coming upon him.

"Don't do that," Stacy told him firmly, moving to stand with the island between them. "Don't withdraw and become stony like you have to protect me, Greg. I'm a big girl. You don't have to face this alone."

"I am alone in this," he argued. "They aren't going to give you the neighboring cell, you know. Once they put the cuffs on my wrists I'm on my own. It's better that way."

"I'll visit you," she offered but he shook his head at that.

"It'll be better for you if you don't."

"Bullshit!" she snapped. "You faced prison alone last time, and I'm sorry about that. You don't have to face it alone this time. I won't let you."

She spun around and strode out the room giving him no opportunity to argue. He sighed in defeat.