Author's Note: My first House oneshot fic...I know it's not very good, but a friend of mine (who betaed it too; thanks Jordan!) encouraged me to post it here. What can I say? I know a lot (hell, most people) really don't like Stacy. The verdict's still out with me, she's hovering in "indifference" in my tolerance levels, so I don't know how I portray her in the story (keep that in mind!).
Um, this takes place during House's infarction, obviously (Three Stories one of my favourite episodes) and yeah. I don't have much to say...enjoy. Reviews welcome...don't flame really, REALLY harshly...I'm trying here :( AND I have a big ego, lol...don't want it crushed, do you:p

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He felt the pain spread through his body as the fiery tongues of hell itself were begging him to come join them. He had to arch his back slightly, closing his eyes as tight as they would go. He felt a scream coming on. He willed his eyes shut even more, shuddering as he released the scream silently. Nobody else needed to know of his inner torment. Nobody could know and truly understand what he was going through.

He collapsed back on the bed softly, listening to the calming notes of a Beethoven piece…one he's played since he was teenager. Even now, with the pain breaking through the wall that morphine had built, his fingers twitched in the familiar chord progression. He frowned as he realized that it could just be twitching because of the pain, but what mattered? It distracted him from focusing on the constant beeping of his EKG monitor.

It was mocking him. Somehow, he knew. Making fun of him and the incompetence of the rest of the human race. Well, the last part he could agree with, but not now.

Feeling the pain recede back into the centralized nothingness from whence it came, he opened his eyes a slit. Instead of seeing the bright white lines that stood in his vision providing the contrast to the blackness, he saw the clear glass door of his room. Off to the right side, two figures – one standing, one sitting. To the left, his moving wrist.

He gritted his teeth as he felt a slight wave of nausea sweep over him. Nausea was always a precursor to another tide of pain, crashing to the shore of his nerves before ebbing away, shying away from the damage it was causing.

"Greg…"

The voice was calm and caused him to open his piercing blue eyes fully. The sitting figure was reaching over to him, placing a hand gingerly on his leg. He didn't look at her; he didn't have the mental strength to deal with her pain on top of his. It was too much, even for him to handle.

"I'm. Fine." He managed to get out brokenly through his teeth. The standing figure looked at him and, he assumed, shook her head in pity. Any other day, he would have taken the bait, but not now. He let her walk away without a word from him.

Instead of thinking of a snappy comeback, he screamed. Not silently; not inside him, but a ringing baritone of anguish and impossibly complex pain. His left wrist dropped and joined his right hand in clutching the sheets beneath him until his knuckles were white, and it still didn't bring him any relief. He felt his leg engulfed in flames again, in an all too familiar routine.

Over and over, he screamed. Short outbursts of real emotion as the pain broke down and laughed at the morphine coursing through his body. His tones were overtaking the Beethoven piece.

He gradually quieted as the pain ebbed back slightly. His eyes, bleary and blue, with a red tint, opened slowly, as he let go of the sheets, leaving fingernail marks where he had dug into them.

The only thing in the room once again was the sound of Beethoven, the EKG monitor, keeping time to it, and his heavy breathing; his body trying to cope with the constant pain, not just with the obvious spikes in intensity.

"Wouldn't it be dull," he gasped, finally turning his sweaty head over to face the bedside figure, "if we rid ourselves of all the demons haunting us?"

She paused and grabbed his hand, placing her fingers carefully over his shaking ones. "No…you'd never be dull. Hell, you're…"

"Let me guess," he snapped back, the pain seeping into his voice, "I am my own demon. Getting rid of me would be my own damn suicide!"

"Greg…"

He let in a sharp intake of breath, trying to keep from screaming again. The morphine wasn't doing anything to his system…it was trying to, it was trying to help console him, but he supposed it didn't realize he was inconsolable.

He focused the rest of his mental power on the music, the mournful tones of the Moonlight Sonata. The constant chords, displaying the pain he didn't want to; the melody, showing rationality trying to rise above the rest of the chaos, coming together to epitomize his position in life at the moment.

He screamed again. He couldn't help it. He forced his jaw shut and bit his lip, but a small indistinguishable noise came out anyways.

"The morphine's…not doing anything!" he cried out, arching his back against the fresh onslaught of pain. "The morphine…Stace," he choked out, turning his head slightly.

"I know, Greg." She paused, leaning back in her chair. Her fear for him was showing in her eyes. "You don't have to do this to yourself…"

He shook his head softly, moving all of his mental energy to the music. Amidst all the shuddering that his body was involuntarily doing, his fingers began to twitch again, bringing a small comforting smile to her face. His was nothing but a pained look of vulnerability, something he wasn't used to.

"Greg," she said softly, her smile evaporating. He looked at her, his normally piercing gaze softened by the pain chewing at it. "I think you're being a moron. Hell, you are being a moron!" She frowned as he attempted to roll his eyes. "Why are you being so stubborn? You don't need your leg – you need your life!"

He coughed, before half-heartedly waving his left arm dismissively, "I could make a smartass comment right now, but I won't, because I like you." He interjected almost mockingly.

"You're an ass," she replied harshly, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

"Stacy, I am who I am," he murmured, biting his lip to prevent more screaming. "I don't blame you, and I'm not sure if I blame the other doctors who told me bed rest," he spat, "was all I needed. I blame myself. I should have realized what was wrong, and I didn't. And now I'm paying for it. But I'm still who I am. And if I can't be who I am, two legs in all, especially if it's my own damn fault, then I would rather be dead."

She opened her moth to retort, but nothing came out. Nothing could come out. She sniffed and put a hand to her face, trying to hide the moist cascading trails. Moonlight Sonata hit one of its ending chords, but the EKG monitor beeped on. A thick and eerie silence accompanied the music, he, trying to will the pain to go away; to disappear from his leg entirely, and she, thinking of the tragic heroism of him wanting to atone for his own sins.

"I've been playing piano for years," he whispered, closing his eyes slowly, shuddering in pain. "Nothing comes close to this. Not even Rachmaninoff…with a broken wrist."

She laughed sadly, wiping the fresh tears floating down her face.

Grimacing as a new flash of pain flared up his spinal column, he contorted his handsome face into a snarl, eyes shut so tight that they were watering. Ebbing tides crashing to the shores of his skin, in tune with the waves of pain threatening to destroy his body.

Or, was he trying to shed tears, but too proud to let them fall?