Title: ((As always, untitled for now because…yeah. I never think of good titles))
Author: Michelle (CelticFaerie2)
Rating: Mature. This chapter is gen. But still. Overall rating will be mature.
Warnings: Uh…Not sure, because irritable!House doesn't really need a warning. Oh! Right. Language. Lots of bad words here in.
Fandom: House

Spoilers: None really…It's kind of my take on the whole House/Stacy break up, and why that happened…Not spoilery, because…well, I don't know the reason she left and I hope it's not what I'm writing here, except that the angst would be a beautiful thing…
Characters: House, Wilson. Stacy, Cuddy, a few others along the way
Disclaimer: Genius to David Shore for creating such an addictive show, and of course Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard for playing House and Wilson so beautifully
Summary: House is really just an over grown baby
Notes: 775 (Short, I know. But it's late. And want to post tonight. And it's a natural stopping point. And…)
Feedback: PLEASE!

She had a stomach ache. The school called Stacy to pick her up because she threw up after lunch and she'd been complaining all morning that her belly hurt. She didn't have a fever, no other symptoms. A stupid upset stomach, hardly a blip on the radar compared to what I was going through.

I tried to get up and go to the bathroom while Stacy was gone. It wasn't far. The furniture was placed so I could hold on and hold myself up. But without her, of course without her there, I fell. It took half an hour to get my broken body back in the bed, and I never did make it to the toilet.

I was out of breath when the phone rang, and almost didn't answer it. "I'm taking her to the doctor. Will you be all right for a few hours?"

"No. I want you to come home." I shouldn't have answered. She would have rushed right now then.

She sighed, clicked her tongue, disappointed, distressed, dismissive. I imagine she probably rolled her eyes too. "What did you do? Did you try to get out of bed? Damn it, Greg. You know you can't…"

I smacked my forehead with my hand. I wonder if she could head the slap through the phone. "Can't what? Can't take a god damn piss by myself? Thanks for reminding me."

"Greg…"

"Just come home." I hung up the phone. Probably not the nicest thing to do, and certainly not the best way to handle the situation, but a six year old with a tummy ache was hardly

life threatening.

Stacy would come home. Especially since I didn't answer when the phone rang again immediately, and then I took it off the hook so she'd only get a busy signal.

I knew she was really pissed when she came in. She didn't even say anything to me, but her steps were heavy on the stairs. I picked at the blanket and waited for her to come back down to my room. Five minutes, maybe seven.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Stacy stormed into my little room, which used to be my office, when I could freely walk up and down the stairs.

"My fucking leg hurts," I snapped back at her. She didn't deserve the attitude, and I hated myself for showing out to her, but I couldn't help it. She was there, and I knew I could hurt her. Maybe not as much as I hurt myself, but I'd take what I could get.

"Sit up. I'll help you go to the bathroom, then I'm taking her to the doctor."

"I am a doctor." I sat up, which shifted the muscles in my leg against my will. And damn, that hurt. Imagine a thousand knives digging in to the thigh. Not a pleasant feeling.

Stacy retrieved my crutches from their place against the wall. "You're in no condition to be diagnosing patients."

It took me a beat to catch my breath again. "I guarantee you it's the flu. It is flu season. All the kids have it. She told me last night her little friend Macy wasn't in school. I bet she has it too, and Emily got it from her."

"Then she needs antibiotics." She held the crutches out to me. Weakness. That's what they represent. I glared at her, then shifted my gaze to the wall beyond her shoulder.

"It needs to run its course." Forgive me for not wanting to be alone. I spend ninety percent of my time laying in bed or sitting up in a chair in front of the television. The other ten percent is spent struggling to get to the bathroom.

"Stop being such a baby, Greg, and use the god damn crutches."

I glanced at the crutches. Instruments of evil. I looked up at her and snatched them from her hands. A moment later, they clattered against the wall and each other. Still glaring at her, I pushed myself up to my feet.

My right leg buckled and spasmed. Fuck. I dropped back down to the bed, hands clutching my ruined thigh. I could literally feel the muscles clench, the dead nerves and tissue rubbing against each other. A steady rocket of pain streaked through my entire leg, up my spine, into my brain.

The whole world had gone black, as if nothing existed except my leg. And the never ending cycle of pain. I was only vaguely aware of Stacy. I could feel her hands on my leg, fingers digging in to the scarred flesh, trying to relax the muscles.

Then there was nothing.