He comes to hate having sex with her. It is difficult and frustrating with Stacy trying to position herself so as to keep away from his right thigh – which is practically impossible, when it comes to sex.

 

Greg, say something, she urges, after waiting patiently for nearly 20 minutes after he peaked, rolled over, buried his face in his pillow and fell silent.

 

It hurts.

 

He hates that after sex, all he can think about is his leg.

 

He squints at the sunlight, golden rays slipping between the blinds and making his head hurt. But Stacy doesnt like dark rooms, and he doesnt even try to ask her. All it will earn him is a practical talk about seeing where hes going, being careful. House doesnt want to be careful; he wants to be better.

 

She places a hand gently on his shoulder and tries to roll him onto his back. Did I hurt you? She asks with pressing urgency, her words laced with fear.

 

He hates even more that every time he shows signs of suffering, Stacy panics and blames herself.

 

What the hell do you think? he mutters wearily into his pillow.

 

She squeezes his shoulder, digging her nails angrily into his skin. Because the way she was brought up tells her she cant yell at a cripple. She pulls her hand back and takes the blanket with her into the living room.

 

Run away. He says, watching her retreat. It takes him a long time, but he pulls himself up with his crutches and finds her curled up on the couch, looking determined to burn a hole through the floor with her eyes.

 

She doesnt want to forgive him, doesnt want to apologize or hold him or even look at him. But he looses his footing on the rug, and her glare is immediately replaced with concern as she jumps up, running to his side.

 

He hates that she has to forget herself just because he cant walk. Why cant she just stay mad at him, let him get up himself?

 

But he cannot deny her aide, because they both know he couldnt make it to his feet on his own. His legs are trembling when he lets himself fall onto the couch with a low moan at the back of his throat.

 

Its juvenile, and she winces on the inside, but she gets up and walks back into the bedroom. Just stay there and rest, she calls, choking back tears. She doesnt want to be near him.

 

All they ever talk about anymore is his health, and his leg, and it makes for damn boring conversation. When he asks her about her day, she is brief, and always changes the subject. I was thinking of this therapy you could try, or Maybe if you stayed on the crutches just a little more, and I could stay home tomorrow if you need me to.

 

Do what you want, he says, hurting her with his indifference. So she stays late at the office, calls Wilson and begs him to help her.

 

Its your choice, he says helplessly, No, actually, its really his choice.

 

But he wont tell me anything. All he does is take those pills and sit around, there has to be something

 

I shouldnt be making these for you. Im sorry.

 

You dont need to be so loyal to him! she says, on the verge of yelling. Youre his friend, but youre not living with him! I cant I dont know what to do.

 

Talk to him, he supplies feebly, drumming his fingers on his knees on the other end of the phone.

 

Before Stacy hangs up on him, she lets herself cry, just a little, then pulls herself together, and apologizes. Twice. It doesnt work. This doesnt work.

 

They dont have sex again, and from the next night on, she sleeps on the couch. I could roll over, hurt your leg, she says, tired, not even trying to sound convincing. He is too tired to think of an argument, so he takes a pill to help him sleep.

 

When she leaves him for good, it is no surprise. Except now, he just has to tread more carefully, because she wont be there to help him up. Because he knows hes going to fall.