Title: Lost City of Refuge
Author: Ellie
Rating: PG13
Paring: House/Stacy
Summary: "He should have known better. Both of them should
have, should have remembered how it ended instead of how it
began."
Author’s Notes: These started as a second set of 100-word song
title drabbles, after titles came up I couldn’t ignore. Having done
quite a few 100-word drabbles lately, I decided to forget counting
words this time. Title taken from an eleventh, unused song that
was oddly fitting.

***

Uncle Jonny

"You’re a good shot, for a girl," he said, trying not to smile at
the vivid splatter of blue by her hairline.

"I used to hunt with my daddy and my uncle," she replied. That
tidbit seemed at odds with her well-coiffed hair and neatly
manicured fingers, though added to the faded southern accent,
intrigued him. "You’re not a bad shot yourself."

"Marine brat. It would have been harder not to learn. You want
to grab a drink?"

"After this, I could use one." She picked at a bit of green on
her arm.

"There’s a place right down the road with cheap pitchers and
really great buffalo wings." He noticed a splatter of pink at the
hem of his t-shirt and ignored it.

"If that offer wouldn’t win a lady over, I don’t know what
would," she laughed. "I’m Stacy, by the way."

When he shook her hand, the grip was firmer than he’d
expected, almost daring him to squeeze tighter. "Greg."

***

J’ai Demandé à la Lune

She’d never been one for camping, and had been reluctant to take
Greg up on his offer. But he could be a persuasive bastard when
his mind was set on something, so eventually she agreed. It
turned out to be a cabin, not a tent, and was much plusher than
she’d expected from a description of a weekend "roughing it."

It made her leery when he suggested going out in the boat at
night, but this was for him, not her, so she agreed, willing to see
what would happen. Watching the play of his muscles as he
rowed them out to the middle of the lake under the starlight left
her thinking this was an excellent idea.

The moon was full and pink, casting a silvery hue over the world,
reflected in the dark water along with a universe of stars.

She came without hesitation, though with caution, when Greg
gestured for her to move towards him in the boat. He could
point out the craters that made the Man in the Moon, and knew
the names of stars, but she was too absorbed in watching them
reflected in his wondrous eyes to pay much attention to where
they were tracking across the heavens.

***

Clap Hands

The bar is dark and smoky, blending well with the taste of her
drink as she saunters through the crowd, finding a place at the
bar where she can see the stage. It’s lit, but not well, leaving the
piano with only a bit of red key light, making him look more evil
than usual as his fingers fly over the keys like something
possessed.

He’d been reluctant to play in front of her for months, until once
night after too many drinks and an offer on her knees in front of
the piano, he’d settled on the bench and played until she lost
count of the songs and couldn’t identify the titles despite years
of being dragged to concerts and symphonies by her mother.
She’d rested her head against his thigh and been swept away, in
awe of the symphonic universe inside his head.

There’s a guitar solo that draws applause as she sips her
bourbon, but it’s the piano solo that undoes her, something so
raw and passionate that it’s hard to believe it flows out of his
fingers. That’s where all his emotion goes, out through his
fingers into his patients and his piano, and she has to catch his
eye while he’s playing for it to be about her, but he’s good now
about playing for her and letting her feel it too.

Tonight, he looks up from the piano and lets his gaze sweep the
room before settling on her, eyes resting on her while fingers fly
perfectly over the keys. He rarely says it with words, but soaring
notes let her know like the fingers were playing over her own
flesh.

The entire audience applauds, but she stands, tottering on her
heels, and is louder and more enthused than anyone else in the
room, eyes locked on the man at the piano.

***

Chicago

She trudged through the airport, still in her skirt and heels from
the funeral, looking out at the snow falling in the darkening sky.
Overhead, monitors flickered and dozens of flights changed from
"delayed" to "canceled." The last forty-five minutes of the
flight from Mobile had been turbulent, bouncing through the
snowstorm. She just wanted to be home, soaking in a hot tub
with a glass of wine and Greg on the guitar in the next room,
pretending not to care.

It seemed like miles of the same newsstands and coffee shops
before she reached the Delta desk, where the red notice of her
cancelled flight glowed. She dropped her battered Coach carry-
on at her feet and rested one elbow on the counter, but managed a
smile for the elderly clerk. "My flight to Philadelphia’s been
cancelled, and tomorrow’s my boyfriend’s birthday. I have a
surprise planned, and really wanted to get home tonight. Is there
anything you can do to help me?" She knew how to get what
she wanted.

The man returned the smile and nodded. "Let me see how I can
help, sweetie."

***

Conceived

Neither of them had ever wanted it, had discussed it and knew it
in the abstract. But it was different, sitting in the cold bathroom
waiting for a piece of plastic to provide their fate. The tile was
cold against his back as he leaned against it and studied her
drawn face.

"You’re sure you wouldn’t want it, Greg?"

He shrugged, wanting nothing so much right now as a very stuff
drink. "If you want it, I’m not going to say no. But I thought
we were both happy the way things are now."

"I am," she says, not sounding entirely convinced. "But I
don’t know if I could go through with not having it. Not
wanting to get pregnant and not having it once I am are very
different things."

She only uses simple descriptors like "very" when she’s very
nervous, and the tension is clear as she stares at the white plastic.
He doesn’t want kids, doesn’t care enough, is too busy, is too
stubborn, spends too much time working to be a good dad.
He’d rather cough up the cash for a good boarding school, but
he also knows that if she wants this, there’s nothing he can do
but end it all or support her. Both options terrify him.

After a long awkward silence, she picks up the stick and frowns.
"Maybe I’m just really late."

"You want me to make you an appointment with Whitman
tomorrow?" He reaches for his phone as she nods, looking
uncertain whether she really wants to know.

***

Cumulus

It was the perfect day to be golfing, warm and sunny with just a
handful of puffy, cotton-candy clouds marring the sky. The
breeze was light, just enough to send the flags on the holes
flapping.

He spotted the one he was aiming for, looking impossibly far
away down the rolling green. This hole was his worst; he always
ended up in the rough, or worse, the lake, and she always laughed
at him. Settling the ball on the tee, he straightened with a grimace
as his quads clenched and twitched. After a moment’s hesitation,
he shook out the leg and lined up his shot.

"Now I see what you were up to last night with wanting to try
that contortion thing. You were hoping I’d pull a muscle!"

"Please, as if I need any help to kick your ass at this. Besides, I
didn’t hear you complaining then." She ran a finger down the
back of his neck, her breath warm behind his ear.

He clutched at his leg as another pain shot through it.

"Greg, stop making excuses and hit the damned ball already."
She slaps his ass mid-swing, and the shot veers wildly into the
rough. He turns to glare at her, but can’t quite hold the look as
they break down laughing. By unspoken agreement, he gets
another shot, this time aiming straight and true, well on his way
to par.

***

Nessun Dorma

Greg lay stiffly on the bed, staring at the blank ceiling, trying not
to move and further aggravate his bandaged thigh. Even with
extra medication, it still hurt too much for him to sleep. He
didn’t tell anyone about the extra pills, but Stacy knew all about
the insomnia.

Beside him, she lay just as rigidly, breathing steady, deep
controlled breaths that neither acknowledged was not sleep.
They didn’t talk much, now. The circles under her eyes had
grown since he’d come home.

The bedside clock tick-tocked softly, the previously lulling sound
now counting the seconds he spent awake, aching.

***

50 Ways to Leave Your Lover

She agonized over it for weeks. When things were good, they’d
been very good. It was hard to remember that, now. Neither of
them had been the sort who needed any sort of paper to make it
official, had been content just to be.

That meant there was nothing official to sever now, making it
easier. Not less complicated, or any less painful, but easier.
Stacy contemplated just walking out after one of their
increasingly loud and frequent shouting matches. She wanted to
pick a fight and make it his fault for once. She debated starting a
discussion that she knew wouldn’t be the rational one she
wanted to have. She hoped for a mutual decision over dinner that
with starting her new job in Newark, it would be better if she
went.

She kissed him goodbye as she left for work one morning,
suitcase in hand.

***

Cry Me a River

In the middle of the afternoon he awoke and without leaving the
bed, knew she was gone. The apartment felt empty in a way it
hadn’t in years, in a way that couldn’t be assessed by what was
missing from the closet and bookshelf.

Carefully, he levered himself out of the sickbed and made his
way into the living room. The James Bond DVDs were still
there, but the first edition Fitzgeralds were gone. He sank onto
the couch, grateful the cable still worked, and flipped through the
channels until he found the soaps. He cried along with the lead
actress when she found out the baby’s father wasn’t who she
thought it was.

***

Against the Law

He remembered enough to let himself get sucked in again,
though he should have known better. Both of them should have,
should have remembered how it ended instead of how it began.
For the moment, he didn’t want to remember any of it, wanted to
forget anything had ever happened.

The feeling was different than anything else, and once upon a
time he’d done almost everything. Better even than the purr of
the Vette with the top down and the wind in his hair.

Now there was only cold wind on his face through the helmet’s
open visor, but the pavement rolled away, yellow and white lines
blurring past, road signs unreadable because of the tears
streaking from his eyes. He couldn’t read the speedometer as it
inched past one hundred, only felt the hum of the engine as it
kicked into a new gear and he was flying, free.

***