Chapter 58 — He Said He Had a Story
A/N: Thank you to Rubyia, Fernix13, Pfannkuchen07, BrySt1, OldSFfan, Iland Girl, Meme, wsmith, NikaJ, lizonia, LeePacefan, and SoleFaith for their reviews on the last chapter. I can't believe we've cracked 900 reviews. I am constantly in awe of the outpouring of love this story has received. I don't deserve you guys. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I'd texted Wilson to ask where House was, and he'd responded with, "Lecture Hall A" — he offered no explanation beyond that. When I reached the lecture hall and pushed through the double doors, I released a sharp breath of surprise.
"Three Stories," I whispered, entirely to myself.
House sat in front of a raptly silent crowd; the initial first five rows were entirely comprised of medical students. The further back the rows went, the more the crowd devolved into familiar faces. Nurses, MAs, doctors, surgeons—and of course, lining the back row was the ducklings and Wilson. House's lone figure beat his cane methodically against the stage, echoing harshly in the quiet.
I watched the eyes of the medical students, and for the first time, I saw how I felt about House reflected back in their eyes. Terror and awe. Even after all this time with him, the surreality and intrinsic, shocking nature of him had not worn off entirely. He was still larger than life. He was to them too, I could tell. World-renown genius, Gregory House, laying himself bare and broken for one very, very lucky class of young, hopeful doctors.
This would change them. This day. This room.
Because that's what life is. It's a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to the sum of who we are.
Three Stories was one of my favorite episodes of the series, and easily my favorite of season one. If I would have known it was going on specifically today, I would have been there from the lecture's start. It seemed I'd barely made it for the tail end. Granted, I'd seen the episode dozens and dozens of times over the years, but it still remained special for me. It was the only glimpse that existed as to what House might have been before his leg. A hazy suggestion, but there all the same.
Cuddy said his leg hadn't changed him much when Stacy asked, but I had a hard time believing that. I remembered Wilson's shout of, "You've changed!" in Detox, and the way he spoke of the time after Stacy left House, spoke of picking up the pieces. And he always, always used that phrase: picking up the pieces.
Wilson was right, the change in House wasn't just his leg, but his leg was the domino that started the chain reaction that would lead to...everything. To why I was here. To why House needed saving at all.
House was willing to sacrifice himself in the vain hope that he might regain full use of his leg. Even full cardiac arrest hadn't scared him into getting the amputation, forcing Stacy's failed attempt at a middle ground—not that I could blame her for trying. If House had continued trying to wait it out, I wouldn't have been standing there looking at him. He'd be dead.
A shudder ran through me. I didn't care about House's consent in that moment, Stacy did the right thing. Better to live in pain than to not live at all.
To be willing to risk his life for his leg...it showed how much weight House put on his physical mobility, his independence. Being able to get around easily by yourself was something everybody treasured, of course, but it was different for House. He was willing to die for the chance to keep it. I had a feeling that it was all the consequence of having a father who repeatedly told him he was weak growing up. Too weak, not enough, not enough of a man. So in House's mind, to lose his leg, it made him less. And for someone who didn't always feel like much to begin with, that would be terrifying to face.
I was learning to hate John House more and more by the day.
Even now, I saw shades of his father in House's absolute refusal to ask for help in anything. The reason why every single time I asked House if it was a bad pain day I got a sarcastic jibe or short "I'm fine" in response, never the truth. The reason that before I moved in House would rather live off of pizza and take-out than admit to someone that he could use some help grocery shopping. The reason that House went to one round of physio and then gave up entirely. To ask for help was to show weakness, something John House would've seen as abhorrent, and had passed that onto his son.
House deserved so much better than what his father gave him.
"Because of the extent of the muscle removed, utility of the patient's leg was severely compromised. Because of the time of the delay in making the diagnosis, patient continues to experience chronic pain," House said, voice low and subdued.
The med students set about battling almost immediately after House had spoken, breaking the silence that had settled on the lecture hall. I quickly named each in my head, as I was relatively sure they'd never been named in the episode proper.
"She had no right to do that!" burst out Caring.
Rebellious pointed out, "She had the proxy."
"She knew he didn't want the surgery," Caring shot back.
"Well, we don't know that. Maybe he would have been fine—" argued Keen.
"It doesn't matter! It's the patient's call," Caring insisted.
Rebellious just shook his head and scoffed. "The patient's an idiot."
Oh, I'm sure that checked all of House's boxes. House did seem faintly pleased, a half-smirk forming on his face. "They usually are." He swung his head around, a sudden tiredness seeming to wash over him. "Do you have a buzzer or something? What time does this class end?"
"Twenty minutes ago." I jumped, realizing Cuddy was beside me. I'd been so focused on House that I hadn't even noticed her enter the room. You'd think those heels would have been a dead giveaway.
House's eyes alighted on both her and I. "About time you got here," he said, directed at me. "You're late."
"Traffic was a bitch..." I could feel the eyes of all the medical students on me, so for the hell of it I added, "But you seem to be having fun, Dad."
Let them try to reconcile their image of big scary House with the new, confusing aspect of possible doting father mixed in. I liked to throw people off.
House's brow twitched in annoyance. "Looks can be deceiving, daughter." He rose from his seat with a wince, grabbing the World's Greatest Dad mug off the desk on the lecture hall stage. He limped towards us. "And this guy is not the World's Greatest Dad. Not even ranked. Who the hell lets their kids play with lead-based paint? That's why he's always sick. Find him some plastic cups and the class is all his again."
Cuddy accepted it from House, faintly stunned. House left, making a jerking motion with his head for me to follow him.
I tagged along dutifully. The ducklings rose from their seats, but I knew House wasn't going to want to talk to them just now. I left it to Wilson and Cuddy to play interference on that. They knew House better than his team could possibly hope to at this point in the series.
"What was that?" he asked. "Trying to show off to all those lame med-school kids with their bright shiny futures? Hey, I may have no career prospects, but my fake parent is really good at that doctor thing."
"I like to challenge the assumptions people make about you," I answered, shrugging off House's insults. He'd been heaping them on thick lately, but if it kept him from reading me the riot act like he had the other night, all the better. I'd not necessarily avoided him since, but I'd barely been present for Love Hurts, choosing rather to pull extra shifts at Ryan's or spend more time with Zach. "We are who people think we are, that's a House-ism, right?"
"And who do you want people to think I am?" House asked shortly. "World's Greatest Dad?"
"I'm not trying to ruin your mystique, more further it, really. Misanthropic, complicated genius doctor—oh, but he's got a kid, so he must have a softer side underneath the superiority complex and scorn. Whether it's true or not, it's fun to see people try to wrap their heads around information that contradicts the view they've already formed of someone."
"Look at you, getting philosophical. Isn't it nice to have so much downtime?"
I sighed heavily. "You ever gonna stop ragging on me for passing up med school?"
"I'll get bored someday." His response didn't grant me much hope. He pulled a brochure out of his sports coat and passed it to me as we made our way through the lobby. "ATP. It's a nursing school in Princeton, about a twenty minute drive from the apartment, barely five minutes from the hospital. You can be a licensed practical nurse in a year if you go full time, and their standards for entry are so low that as long as you can spell your name right on your application, they'll take you. Look around online for scholarships, they're easy to find—probably can get one for being an orphan, isn't that convenient?"
I stared down at the brochure in numb shock, flipping through. Achievement Test Prep. It even sounded cheap, but cheap was good—cheap meant I could afford textbooks, and hopefully student loans I could pay off before I died. "House..."
"Thank me when you graduate," House interrupted, clearly trying to stave off my tearful gratitude.
"If you're still pissed at me, this is a weird way to show it," I pointed out, a big, dumb grin spreading across my face.
"Please. You could have found that in ten minutes if you'd actually been looking. I'm just sick of you moping," he snapped, before pulling out his cell phone. "Now shut up, I need to make a call."
The other end rang only once before someone swiftly picked up. "Hello?"
I immediately recognized the dulcet tones of Sela Ward. Stacy, I mentally corrected myself. It was time for Honeymoon, wasn't it? Season one was finally coming to a close, after what seemed like years. I couldn't exactly claim that everything had gone as planned, or even close—but I hadn't killed anyone, and had even managed to save a few lives and avoid certain eventualities. Chase got to reconcile with his father before he passed, had never turned rat for Vogler, and Cameron and House seemed...closer than they'd been the first time around. For better or for worse.
I'd give myself a B- for season one.
"Hey Stacy, it's Greg," House greeted, and it was weird as hell to hear him identify himself by his own first name. "I've got an opening at ten tomorrow morning. Make sure your husband isn't late." He hung up before Stacy could manage a reply.
"So, you're seeing her husband," I said, tilting my head up to look at House once we reached Lola in the parking garage.
"I figured it would be more fun to just let him get sick and die, but any chance of gratitude sex would go out the window then, and I'm never one to pass that up," House said, meeting my eyes fleetingly before climbing in the front seat. "I'm driving."
"But House—" I whined.
"Lesson number one when it comes to being a nurse: nurses listen to doctors. Now get in," he ordered.
With a roll of my eyes, I obeyed. "Fine."
When we were about halfway home, House said: "You never told me the name of this episode."
"Three Stories," I replied soberly. "It was David Shore's—uh, the guy who created you, the House 'verse, etcetera—it was his favorite episode. He said nothing he wrote could ever top it."
"Peaked in season one? Curb your enthusiasm, everybody."
"Three Stories was a...special episode. The only one with flashbacks to your past, I think."
House's cheek twitched, but he showed no other reaction to what I said. "So you saw." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
I could tell he was intensely uncomfortable at the idea that I'd seen him at his absolute lowest. Scared and dominated by inconceivable pain and a surety of death. "House..."
House turned on the radio, effectively cutting me off. Maybe the two of us would talk about what he'd gone through with his leg someday—but it wasn't going to be tonight.
It was a week and a half and two missed appointments later before Stacy called House to a nice Asian-fusion restaurant in downtown Trenton, where she planned to trap Mark into getting looked at by House. For some godforsaken reason, House decided to take me with him, in spite of my many arguments.
"Whoa, House, this is between you two. You three, I guess, including Mark. This is not an episode I want anything to do with. Too many complicated interpersonal relationships for me to even try to wade through—"
"Who says I want you to interfere? Maybe I just want the pleasure of your company," House said, checking his hair in the mirror for the third time in as many minutes.
"One, you look fine, Mr. Transparent—and two, you're a better liar than that, come on. What's the real reason you're dragging me along? You don't need me to flirt with your ex." My head tilted sharply to the side as an idea hit me. "Wait a minute. You're not using me to try to get Stacy to like...view you differently, are you? Fall right into your waiting arms because now you're just a loving Papa Bear?"
"You said you liked to challenge people's assumptions about me," House countered, pulling on his coat. I was already fully dressed and waiting for him at the door, but I'd complained the entire time we'd gotten ready, as was my style.
"I meant strangers, associates. Not former lovers."
"She's not your former lover. What's the problem?"
"I don't like being used!" I protested loudly.
"So you're not coming?"
I opened my mouth, deflating. "Ahhh..."
"You know, that pathological fear of disappointing me actually works in my favor sometimes. Let's go."
Thirty minutes later, we met Stacy at the restaurant, where she waited patiently at a table for us. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me, clear confusion evident in her face. And gosh, Stacy was really a classic beauty. Long raven hair, dark eyes, and a jaw that could cut through steel. I hadn't met a new character since Vogler, and I enjoyed that familiar trippy rush of seeing a face I'd seen on screen embodied in reality.
"Greg." Stacy greeted him and gave him a short hug, which he returned, though he seemed reluctant to let go when she pulled away. "And who is...?"
"My daughter," House offered happily.
Stacy stared at me like I'd just grown another head. "I'm sorry—what?"
My eyes darted to House immediately. "You never told Stacy about me?"
"Technically, you should be blaming Wilson for this, since he sees her way more than I do," House said with an unaffected shrug.
Stacy and I gaped at each other a bit before I extended my hand. "Sorry House and Wilson suck at information sharing. I'm House's daughter, Anya. Don't worry, he hasn't known for long either."
Stacy shook my hand, but eyed me suspiciously. "And Greg didn't pay you to be here to freak me out for the kicks?"
"Surprisingly, no," I said with a faint laugh. "I'm just here for the free food and the chance to meet you. House has told me stories. You seem pretty cool." I was kind of floundering here, not expecting Stacy to be blind-sided by my presence, so I ad-libbed as best I could.
"Pretty cool, huh?" she arched both eyebrows at House before returning her attention to me. "Well, it's a pleasure, if you are real. You don't look a damn thing like him though."
"Mom had strong genes," House and I chorused. We were getting really good at my rehearsed backstory.
We all retired to a table in the center of the room. We ordered our drinks, and Stacy and House took up some obligatory small, which House played along with shockingly well for a guy who hated anything close to social niceties, but I think House was willing to tolerate a lot when it came to Stacy. The way he spoke, his mannerisms, his attitude—it all morphed before my very eyes, turning into something much...softer?
Not gentle, because House was never gentle, I don't think he had the capacity. But affection was there, something I'd only seen fleeting flashes of in him before—and almost exclusively with Wilson. I wasn't sure whether to read too much into that or not. Tension seemed to melt off of House with their back and forth, years shed from his face. It didn't hit me until then, that yeah, House truly, deeply loved Stacy. And it called into question his relationship with Cuddy. It had never seemed this easy for him.
"So, do I get the story?" Stacy asked, glancing between House and I. House looked up from his current project of trying to balance his fork and spoon on the rim of his beer glass.
"It's not as interesting as you'd think," I said, lying through my teeth.
"Her mom died in a car crash. She needed someone to live with until she finished high school. Her mom dropped the bomb about me in a letter the kid got after she died, gave her all my info. She turned up at the hospital and asked to be my roommate," House rattled off our rehearsed story without issue.
"Did your mom say why she never told you about House before?" Stacy asked tentatively.
"Uh...she didn't seem to think he was really father material," I replied, thinking on the fly. "Can't imagine why."
Stacy smirked at that. "Unfathomable."
"Little did she know, I'm the World's Greatest Dad. Got a mug that says so and everything," House said, before leaning back in his chair and looking around exaggeratedly. "He's not coming," he tacked on, and I could see him tightening up again, expression returning to its usual closed off state. I didn't know what had spurred the change on, but it was sudden and irreversible.
"No, no, he'll be here, he's just running late," Stacy told him.
"He's cancelled two exams, he's not gonna—"
"He's scared of you," Stacy cut him off.
"Makes sense. House is terrifying. And always armed," I lifted House's cane from beside his chair and wiggled it for emphasis.
"I'm the ever-so-intimidating ex boy-toy. Dangerous. Devilishly handsome..."
"He wasn't scared before," Stacy insisted, leaning forward.
House mirrored her. "Right. You think him being afraid of me is a serious ailment."
"Sudden mood swings, infantile regression, abdominal pain, he's passed out twice, yeah! I think it might be a medical problem!" Stacy huffed, apparently incensed by House's disregard.
"He's twenty minutes late. I'm out of here." House snatched his cane from me and went to stand up, but Stacy laid her hand over top of his. He stilled.
"Please," she leveled an even gaze at him, "he'll be here."
"Why? Because he loves you and does everything he's told?" House countered, letting his cane lean against the table once more.
"Because I didn't tell him you were going to be here," she elaborated, arching her eyebrows with a faint smile.
"Clever," I complimented.
House and Stacy commenced eye-fucking one another, and I excused myself to the bathroom, wishing House hadn't dragged me along to this. It was nice to meet Stacy, but I was going to have the first half of season two to interact with her. I didn't need my introduction to be tonight. There was...so much...between the two of them, and I didn't even know where to start with it, much less how or if I should interfere with anything set to happen in season two. The Stacy arc didn't have long term consequences, other than maybe possibly ruining Stacy's marriage and House being more of a miserable bastard after rather than before.
But what if...what if he should end up with Stacy?
I washed my hands in the bathroom four times over, too spaced out in my own thoughts. It really shouldn't be up to me decide what was right for House in terms of who he was with. That had to be one hundred percent on him. If things went just as they did in canon, I would nudge House into not going back on the drugs and therefore sinking Huddy forever, but beyond that, there wasn't much I could do. If I stayed hands off, and he ended up with Stacy, then I'd go from there. My best plan was to let House instigate whatever relationship he wanted with whoever he wanted, and I would just support him and try to keep his head on straight, Huddy shipper or not.
I was still praying he'd stay away from Cameron in that sense, though. I just didn't see that going well, and then without Chameron—no, that just threw the whole timeline off. Not good.
The women's bathroom door opened, and House poked his head in. "You wanna follow the ambulance to the hospital in the Corvette?"
Oh yeah, I was hearing sirens outside, wasn't I? I almost forgot that House drugged Mark.
"Sure," I said cheerily.
As intended, I stayed out of House's way when we got back to the hospital, instead choosing to hop on his computer to look up different syllabuses and enrollment events for ATP, the nursing school House had recommended to me. I studied the curriculum with a close eye, thinking of different ways I could get a head-start before the semester began in late August. I was a shoe-in to get in, and with student loans I could get most of my schooling covered, and my savings could cover the odds and ends. I wouldn't be expected to live on campus like I would with Princeton, and the textbooks weren't nearly as expensive. Hell, I was relatively sure House even had a few of them lying around the apartment.
The ducklings filtered in and out of the differential room, House occasionally joining them. At 1am, House found his way to his office. He plopped a bottle of Redemption bourbon down on the desk. "Scoot."
I obeyed, choosing to lay on the floor behind his desk. I was ready to go to sleep. House snorted and took his seat back. I heard the cork pop out of the top-shelf bourbon. I was surprised to find a glass being offered to me. I blearily looked up at House.
"You've tried scotch, time to try bourbon. Like any good parent, I'm making sure to set you on a path to functional alcoholism young."
"I can't imagine this'll be much better," I grunted, but I took the offered drink, as it was less than a shot's worth. "If I puke, you're cleaning it up."
"Don't be a baby." House poured himself a shot in a rocks glass and leaned down to touch it to mine. "To probably not killing my ex-girlfriend's husband."
I laughed, then took the shot. I sputtered immediately, struggling to keep it down. "Why does it burn like that—!?"
"It warms you up," House said, unaffected.
"It's like gasoline!" I squawked, discarding the rocks glass off to the side and curling into myself. Jeez, talk about heartburn. House chuckled under his breath, but he did toss me the lap blanket he kept in his office. I wrapped it around myself immediately. "Don't know how you drink that stuff," I muttered sleepily.
"You'll understand when you're older." He leaned forward, sliding a VHS tape into the small TV next to his desk.
"Watcha watching?" I asked with a yawn.
"Mark's guts. Did you bring the popcorn?" House hit play and leaned back in his chair, eyes intent on Mark's intestines.
I adjusted so I could watch too, even though I didn't even remember exactly what House found on the video. Staring at oozing bowels wasn't exactly ideal, but it was something to do while I built up the courage to ask House what had been on my mind for hours. After we'd watched the footage three times over, I finally balled up and asked, "Do you still blame Stacy?"
"Does it matter? Do you think I'm going to let her husband die if the answer is yes?" House asked, playing with his lower lip, not taking his eyes off the screen.
"I know you won't let him die," I said, and House knew exactly what I meant. "I don't care about Mark. I'm asking you if you still blame her."
"Wouldn't make much sense if I didn't, considering it's her fault," House replied shortly.
"You still haven't forgiven her?" I pressed.
"Forgiving her and not blaming her are two wildly different things. If I ram my car into Wilson's, it's still my fault, and he should blame me—he should also forgive me. Well, maybe not should, but he would because he's pathetic and can't hold onto anger like a normal person."
"You think holding onto anger for five years is normal?" I asked.
"Did I say I was angry?"
"...No, but you seem angry."
House sighed, crossing his arms and throwing his legs up on the edge of his TV stand. "I liked my leg."
"You still have your leg."
"Barely," he scoffed.
"House, she saved your life."
"Oh I'm sorry, did the show tell you that? That I would have died if she hadn't gone over my head to authorize the muscle debridement? That Stacy is just a perfect angel that scooped me up in her arms and saved me from an early death?" House just shook his head. "I could have been fine."
"The show didn't tell me anything, but I saw it, House. When you were out. What Stacy went through. She just didn't want you to die. She loved you," I told him, trying to keep my voice gentle. I didn't want to push him over the edge, which talking about this very well might lead to. "She still does, I'm sure."
"You don't know anything about Stacy."
"I realize that."
Quiet, for a time, and then I decided to push it just a little further: "When Stacy asked you if you would give up your leg to save her life, you said yes."
House finally tore his eyes away from the TV screen. "Anya, don't."
I almost relented upon hearing the rare use of my name, but no, I had to say this: "Your life is worth just as much as hers, House."
House didn't respond. He stared at me for a few moments, in that House-ish way, drilling straight through me, and instead of dropping his gaze like usual, I stared right back. I'd never meant anything I'd said to him like I meant that. I don't know why it was so important to me, but I needed him to know. He was more than just his leg. He deserved to be saved. Then, and now.
"You're a good man," I said, turning so my back was to him. "And I'm glad she did what she did."
I heard House's office chair squeak, the tap-tap of his cane on the floor, the office door pushing open and shutting. He'd left the room.