Work Text:
Stacy shuffled down the street, holding her umbrella over her head with one hand and carrying her bag of groceries in the other. She stopped on the street corner, then turned her head over her shoulder to get a better look at the man huddled in the doorway of an old, closed bar. Slowly, she approached the man to get a closer look. "Greg?" she asked, her voice full of a combination of shock, relief and confusion.
The man blinked at her through grime coated eyes and the cap pulled far down over his face. "Ma'am," he grunted in non-response.
"Greg? Is that you?" she half-stammered. "God, I thought you were dead." Her one hand hovered near his face, the grocery bag now on the ground.
He curled his fingers gently around her hand, lowering it from his face. "No, ma'am, I'm not who you think I am." Though he knew well who she was.
She shook her head. "No! I know my Greg!" she insisted.
The man wanted to cry for her. He knew her pain. He shared it even. He broke character, purely for her benefit. "My name is Gregory, Mrs. Warner. We met at my father's funeral."
"Oh, heavens no. I shot you with a paintball gun. I can remember it like it was yesterday. You were boorish, but sexy. And you asked me out. So arrogant."
"Yes, ma'am. Should we get you home and out of this weather?" he asked, collecting her grocery bag and walking her in the direction she'd been moving before she turned back to speak to him.
They walked to where Stacy was meeting someone for coffee and lunch and Gregory waited with her until her date arrived. Admittedly, he was a bit stunned to see who was meeting Stacy.
"Mom?" he asked, surprised.
"Oh my, Gregory, honey, what happened to you?" she demanded, picking at his clothes and hair.
He turned away, a bit ashamed of his beggarly appearance. "Oh, this?" picking up his father's penchant for playing off the embarrassing, "I was working with a protest group. I'm fine," he reassured her. "Mrs. Warner saw me and mistook me for Dad."
His mother nodded and patted his shoulder. "It's okay. She's not doing so well anymore. We try not to let her wander on her own, but she's stubborn. The memory loss has gotten worse over the last few weeks."
"I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?" he asked, smiling at Stacy when she looked at him again.
"No, we're fine. Thank you. Do you need to get back to your protest?" she asked in such a way to indicate that it would be better if he left. Better for Stacy's mental health at any rate.
"Yeah. Yes, ma'am," he corrected. He understood. He placed a hand on Stacy's shoulder, "I've gotta go. I'll see you later." Then, to his mother, "I'll call you later."
Cameron smiled at him as he left. When she turned back to Stacy, she could see the streak of a tear on her cheek and wondered if it was because she remembered that House had passed several years before or because she couldn't remember him at all anymore.