Warnings: child abuse, House/ Wilson slash, slight AU and OOC, swear words, and my other usual stuff.

"How mad would you get if I told you that I was having dreams about Amber," House asked, soon after he woke up, looking down and away from me. I knew he wasn't lying because he always looked me directly in the eyes when he was being dishonest. He only looked away and avoided eye contact at all costs, when he was ashamed of something he was feeling, or thinking. It one was rare, but I had caught him in the expression enough times to know that it's always genuine. Unfortunately, he'd been making what I called his 'please don't hit me' face at least twice as much as he used to, ever since I moved back to Princeton. At first, I thought it was just residual shame and possible fear over the accident, or him being worried that I was going to leave again. But he should have realized I wasn't going to hurt or leave again months ago. I was starting to think he might actually be afraid of me, and (of course) anytime I tried to bring this up, he deflected, and managed to bob and weave his way out of the question. I had no plans of giving up; I just had to think of a better way to get him to open up.

"That depends. Was it a sex dream," I mocked, but he made that pathetic, sad, scared face, and scratched his chin. Greg was actually uncomfortable, upset. My making fun of him would only make things worse. He didn't usually feel guilty about sex dreams. Although, he might have been feeling guilty about what happened at the bachelor party. He came over after hearing that I was almost arrested because of him—again—popped a sleeping pill, and passed out on my bed, where he slept for nearly fifteen hours. During that time I wondered if he was alright, but then Cuddy called and told me he hadn't been sleeping for weeks; which meant he was as far from okay as one could get. He also wouldn't tell me what was bothering him which meant…something else, I didn't really know that one. "Tell me about it, please," I asked after making the stupid joke. House sat up slowly, looking around the room, and rubbing his eyes. "And also, uh—about last night… I was sort of, not exactly, I didn't have—"

"I get it. I screwed up. Should of just let you plan the bachelor party. Then, Chase wouldn't of almost died, and you wouldn't of gotten arrested, and," he said, quietly, staring at the sheets. "Cuddy called you, didn't she?"

"Am I that transparent," I asked, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that House is naked, in my bed, after twenty years of me desperately wanting to sleep with him. Luckily for him, I'm completely harmless drunk. He nodded, and started to rub his temples. "What's wrong? I know that expression; I know you."

"You didn't know I hadn't slept for two weeks," he muttered. I'm not perfect, but I had some idea when you asked me for Ambien, I thought, but didn't say. So, I wrapped my arm around his shoulder, and lay down beside him. Greg didn't say a word about it, he barely even reacted. "Maybe, it wasn't exactly a dream."

"Okay," I told him, still very confused, still trying to figure out just what was happening, and why he seemed so weirded out by all of this. "I promise I won't get mad. You can say anything, and I won't get mad."

"What if I told you I remembered more from that night and that she and I did it," he asked with a smirk. Oh good, now a conversation that should have taken five minutes is going to take two hours.

"You'd be lying. So no, it wouldn't bother me very much." As I said this, my hand reached out and started to softly run over the top of his head, almost unconsciously. I wanted to make myself stop; figuring he'd never speak to me again if he knew how I really felt about him, but this was very weird. He'd spent the night at my place a million times, and he had always slept on the couch. Now he was in my bed. This too had some sort of meaning I couldn't quite figure out. "Now talk to me, or I'll go back to ignoring everything you say except for whatever's actually upsetting you." He made the face again, but I was about 90% certain that he was only doing it to get sympathy. "There's a reason you came here instead of going home."

"I think my apartment might be haunted," he explained, eyes still directed somewhere besides my face. I knew he was either being honest or messing with me because he knew I'd figured out his tells and was using them against me, still pretty sure it was the former. "It's a—I think I've completely lost it. Way worse than I was before Kutner…" he started to say, paused, swallowed, and then started up again. "Before Kutner."

"It's normal to feel like that," I explained, and hugged him. Greg reacted awkwardly, but didn't rip himself out of my arms, which is what he'd usually have done. "I feel like that; Cuddy feels like that. Everybody feels that way."

"Yeah but they aren't hallucinating dead people," he said, pressing his face into my chest exhaustedly, and sighing. I patted him on the back, trying to control my body, trying to figure out what was happening to the poor guy. "I was already messed up, but now I'm just so…something." I know, I thought.

"So you're—seeing Kutner? Well, that's not entirely…but wait. I—why would you start talking about Amber if this was about him? Are you messing with me? Because it's okay if you are, but this is a big deal if you're not. If you're not, then we really need to do something. I have to take you to the hospital, and have you admitted for observation. I know you don't want that; so if this is a joke; I'm not angry. I won't yell at you. I won't hurt you. I won't—I don't care, but I need to know." He nodded, squirming a little, and made this soft little sound, like he was trying not to cry. "Oh God," I whispered. "You weren't lying." Another nod; no, I wasn't, he admitted. "It's okay. You're probably just tired. Now that you've gotten some sleep, this will stop."

"It hasn't," he whimpered. "I know she's not real. This is all in my—I've been…the way it made me think," he started to tell me, but stopped himself again. "The hallucination has all my memories, and I can access them better through it—her, something, but it's not going away. She—it is still there." I rubbed Greg's back and shoulders, softly, and tried to think of how to help him. "I told you I'd gone off the deep end!"

"This must be terrifying, and painful, and you must feel like you're losing your mind but I don't think you're crazy. Not any crazier than you were before Kutner killed himself." Greg laughed at my suggestion. "Three most common causes of hallucinations are psychosis, drug use, and brain tumor. You just had an MRI after the bus accident—which granted was almost a year ago, so if you want we can do another one, but you'd have other symptoms, and I'm guessing even you can't ignore those. So, that rules out the tumor, right?" He nodded, silently. "You been taking anything other than Vicodin and alcohol?" He shook his head. "Good, well that rules out drugs. So, you think you've had a psychotic break right?"

"Well maybe not a—I wouldn't, I mean," he stammered, sighed, stopped himself again, and finally, managed to continue. "I don't think it's that bad, but I could be having a nervous breakdown."

"If your hallucination were caused by a psychological issue, then you wouldn't be talking to me about it this way. You would be positively convinced that Amber's ghost, or spirit, or the real her—who hadn't actually died but only you knew that—was following you around, and no amount of logic would be able to convince you otherwise. You're not in that situation." He grunted, and was probably about to refute my point, but I wouldn't let the guy. "You're dealing with a tremendous amount of grief, and pain, and anxiety, and guilt. You can only pretend like you don't feel anything or care about anyone for so long before your armor gets cracked and bent and needs to be repaired. You need a break, and your brain is giving it to you in the form of something that will not only hold your interest but allow you to relax. Granted, it is screwed up, and you probably belong on a psych ward, but those people aren't going to be able to help you. You're like a five-year-old sexual abuse victim who escapes into a fantasy world to get by," I told him, but—as usual—he had his own opinion.

"So my hallucination isn't a hallucination because I know it's a hallucination? That's the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard. And I'm not escaping into a fantasy world, if I was, she'd be naked and I'd be seeing someone I actually liked."

"Except that you feel guilty about what happened to Amber, and about what happened to Kutner," I explained. He rolled his eyes, which meant he'd already considered this possibility, and rejected it. "You are stressed and depressed and you're still hiding things from me. If you don't wanna talk about her then we don't have to. If you never wanna think about Kutner again, then go ahead. Probably won't work, but if it makes you feel better, do it. If you can think of anything that makes you feel better, do that, or let me do it for you." House shrugged again, and I felt something warm and wet against my chest. "Are you—I am terrible at this, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, whatever," he muttered, and then got quiet for a while. I thought carefully about what to do for him, how to convince the guy that he wasn't completely loosing his mind. I believed all the stuff I'd told him about this, but none of them had done anything. Nothing I ever did seemed to help.

"Stop it, I know you care. You wouldn't be talking to me, if you didn't give a crap. You'd just hide it, and keep living your life like nothing had ever happened—are you listening to me?"

"It's kinda hard to pay attention to anything with your girlfriend rattling off the list of stuff I need to pick up the next time I go to the grocery store," he told me with a small chuckle, still not pulling his head out of my t-shirt. "I think maybe this doesn't have to do so much with Kutner and Amber as it does with something else." That's entirely possible. You've worked so hard to hide so much from me and everyone else in your life. It was only a matter of time before you used up all your strength and needed a mental vacation. I lifted his head up a little to let him see me nodding. "This isn't easy. I can't just break down, whimper for a while, and then tell you about… Nevermind."

"Then don't tell me yet. Relax, stay in bed, take a shower, or a bath, eat something, have a beer or a scotch if you want one, then we can go to the store, pick up the stuff you need, go to your place, get you some clean clothes, whatever you need. Take a day; take two, taken a hundred days. But you do have to deal with this eventually. When you feel ready."

"How do you even know that there is some sort of this to deal with," he asked, still trying to sound like he didn't feel anything ever, as if that worked on me. "It's nothing. I've been living with this for my entire life." I sighed, which he felt, and responded to by saying, "You think I'm seriously screwed up, don't you?"

"Seriously would be a slight exaggeration, but yes I think you are suffering, struggling, hurting, and—uh, sorry. I'm going about this in the worst way possible, aren't I," I asked, sort of hoping that he would tell me off, or turn back into his usual self. "At least I didn't do anything incredibly odd last night, right?"

"Except for trying to walk home from your apartment, with your pants off," he taunted. I smiled, and shrugged. He smiled for about half a second, and then lowered his head back on the pillow. "But yeah, you managed to keep from doing anything over the line; too bad though, I was sort of looking forward to watching you humiliate yourself."

"That would have been difficult even if I had, seeing as you spent the majority of the evening in the bathroom. What were you doing there anyway? You get sick or something?" Greg shook his head. "Okay, don't tell me why you were desperate to throw a party, to make it the sexiest, most fun, most exciting night of debauchery and drinking, pulled it off, and then hid like a toddler." He snorted. "That's it isn't it? This whole act of yours, it's not because you think your superior because of your intelligence. You're just a scared little," I quickly stopped myself before I hurt or upset him. "Something terrible happened to you when you were a little kid, and you've been running from it ever since."

"If I were a normal idiot, I would of coped a lot better, and wouldn't be in this situation right now. So actually, my massive intellect is a huge part of my problem, but yeah congratulations on taking twenty years to use basic reasoning skills to figure out something that should have taken five minutes to learn." I blushed, which luckily he didn't see, and looked away. "You're gonna make me talk about it now, aren't you?"

"Now wouldn't be the best term, but yes eventually you have to tell me—or someone—what happened," I explained, touching the back of his head. "Look, I had inklings before, but I never pressed the issue because…I knew you'd just deny it."

"Oh good, you're not a moron. I was worried for a minute there, thougt we might have to stop being friends," he mocked, but didn't mean.

"Yeah that's a good idea," I teased back, knowing he'd get stronger more quickly if I just played along and acted as if everything was the way it usually was instead of…like this.

"You started it," he pouted.

"Yes," I admitted. "But I pretty much always start it, don't I?" House made a soft sound, something in the neighborhood of an 'eh.' "Except for the times when you start it," I said with a smile. This got a small laugh out of him. "So she's just sitting on the other side of the room, and what, wearing a hospital gown, all beat up and…"

"Regular clothes and shoes. She also 'eats,' and drinks. And can manifest things from. Mostly just candy when I was trying to remember the name of that stripper; taffy, a giant lollypop, and she keeps commenting on everything I do and say, everything everybody else does and says. If it weren't for that, I'd just ignore her until I could relax enough for this to go away."

"What's she trying to get you to do," I asked, touching his cheeks and chin a little. "You need to do some maintenance work on that. Unless you want a full beard. It just doesn't look as good right now."

"I'm a fucking train wreck," he grunted. "I don't wanna pretty myself up just so Cameron doesn't cancel her honeymoon to baby-sit me." This time he looked up at me. "Will you tell your girlfriend to shut up?"

"What's she saying," I asked. He'd all but admitted to having been sexually abused as a child. I was not going to let myself push him too hard and end up back where we started.

"She says she likes sucking me off better than she did with you," House lied. A moment went by. He made himself sit up, turned away, and stared at the wall, breathing roughly. "She's screaming, 'tell him, tell him! You have to tell him! Tell him now. Do it, do it, do it.'"

"Well you know, there is another possibility, one we haven't considered," I said teasingly. "Maybe it's not a hallucination. "Maybe Amber's soul has taken gone into your body and taken control over—at least part of—your brain, and you're seeing her body and hearing her voice when you think about things because you and she are the same person now." He laughed. "Uh-oh, I know that face."

"If your dead girlfriend really has taken over half my mind, then we need to get rid of one of us. No offense, but I can't live my life and do my job, while switching back and forth between jumping on your dick every five minutes, and trying to solve cases," he explained, almost gently. I had to laugh at it. "What? All she ever said to me after you guys started dating was about how much sex you two had, how often she needed you, how I couldn't bring you home at midnight on Wednesdays because you wouldn't get enough sleep, after your two hours of fucking." He almost sounded jealous, but I convinced myself that it was all in my head. I was projecting; trying to convince myself he had feelings for me because I had feelings for him. Amber was the most demanding lover I'd ever been with; our relationship was still in that brand new, sexy, madly obsessed and in love stage. I wanted to tell him this, but know it wouldn't help. So I just smiled, and shrugged. "Eventually I might accidentally kill a patient, or two, or ten. At first I'd get away with it but after a while, people would start to get suspicious and pretty soon they'll be coming after me with torches and pitchforks."

"Now the only question is who to pick. Amber actually liked me, and was nice to me—sometimes—and her breasts were better than yours, but of course if I chose her Cuddy'll kill me for getting rid of your brilliant medical mind. Plus I won't have anybody to get drunk and make a fool out of myself with." He looked mildly worried for half a second. "I'm only kidding, you know that right?" Greg rolled his eyes, giving me the 'you fucking idiot'look, and I smiled. "Obviously part of you wants to tell, is desperate to tell, thinks you're ready."

"But the rest of me, the real me, the part of me who is actually in control—and yes you stupid Bitch, I am in control. So shut up!—doesn't want to tell, isn't ready, and sure as hell isn't desperate for anything." I nodded and squeezed his hand. Some time went by. He looked away. "It was my fake dad," he told me after at least half an hour had gone by. He was still sitting, with a pillow behind his back, staring at the door, barely able to speak, or move. I scooted close to him, wrapping my arm around his shoulder, and rubbing and massaging his back as he rested his head against my shoulder.

"You don't need to tell me anything," I swore, wanting to kiss his forehead more than anything in the whole world. I settled for hugging the guy once more, which he responded to far less awkwardly than usual. "Nothing, until you're ready. Okay?"

"Uh, maybe that it isn't completely useless. I never—I haven't ever told anybody about this before; so, uh—that is…can you," he was starting to stammer again, but he was more in control of himself than he had been earlier. He was shutting down, emotionally, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the guy stopped talking, and spent the rest of the day popping pills, drinking, and staring at the TV screen. "I was five when it started. Didn't even know how to put into words what was happening to me. He didn't. I can't do this." Greg lay back down, and stared up at the ceiling. "Why didn't do any of your usual, annoying, weird stuff last night?"

"Because I didn't—because I wasn't, I uh," I murmured. "Honestly, there was really only one thing on my mind, and I never got the chance to do that. You—I mean, sorry. I did want to be with somebody, but they didn't. I didn't see them all night, and when I told the cops I was trying to find…I didn't say I wanted to go home," I admitted more humiliated than when I got nabbed by the police.

"You were looking for me," he teased, but then—after about ten seconds went by—he started to look almost as uncomfortable as I was. "What exactly did you say to them?"

"I said I couldn't find my house," I told him, my cheeks and ears burning and (probably) flushing a bright pink color. He smirked and went back to staring at me. "I guess it had to come out eventually. Could only hide a crush for so long."

"Don't be stupid, Jimmy. I knew you were in love with me before you did. And to be honest, I was kind of glad, 'cuz I liked you too. I always hoped something would happen at one of those parties, thought you'd realize that I wanted what you wanted." He sort of smiled, and pressed his lips against my cheek without moving his head from my shoulder.

"I never knew. If I had, I would have made a move a long time ago." He nodded, tiredly, and started to look about the room, slightly nervous. "Is she still bothering you?"

"No, well yes, but that's not what this is about. I'm looking for where I put my clothes, I need my pants; need my pills." I nodded, helping him lay his head on the pillow, stood up, started looking for his clothes, found them, and brought Greg his prescription bottle along with a glass of water.

"Better?" I sat back down beside him, and Greg just sort of shrugged, took a pill and finished off the water, before letting me (sort of) hold him again.

"I'm just glad you don't hate me, or think I'm completely nuts," he admitted. "I'd tell you anything right bout now—because you're actually being nice to me, and I don't deserve it."

"Yes you do," I swore, kissing the top of his head. "And I'm always nice to you; sort of, in a way. I like you, Greg. So relax. Don't tell me anything you're not ready to talk about, okay?" He smiled, a little, but mostly I knew that the guy was about to tell me regardless of whether or not he was okay with this. "Don't start talking until you're ready, got it?" He shrugged. "She's still screaming at you to open up, isn't she?" He nodded, quietly, looking just a little bit nervous.

"I wanna tell you. I'm just not completely okay with it yet. I just—it's a lot. It's a huge, huge, huge thing. And I can't, talk. I don't know how to talk about it. I never said anything to anybody," he repeated. "My mom doesn't know, Stacy never knew, you don't know, Cuddy doesn't, didn't even tell Cameron and she was going to—she almost came up with it, so I lied to her and made her think I'm a crazy person who's bothered by the lying thing. Nobody knows," he murmured. "Nobody knows and I'm not completely sure—I'm a little... He told me nobody would ever believe me, and I sometimes. I believed him when I was a baby, but I'm doing better now. I know that people will listen. I think. Someone will believe me. Not everybody, but you will. I know that much."

"And yet you're still terrified that I might not," I pressed, my hand still on the top of his head because I didn't really trust myself to move it any lower. "Would it help if I got you started, told you what I've figured out on my own?" He shrugged. "I know that you've had previous bone fractures in your arms, legs, ribs and jaw, which means he must of beat the crap out of you on a regular basis. You have absolutely no concept of what is and isn't appropriate sexually, and you spend almost all your time looking at porn, but I think you spend a lot more time looking at it than masturbating. And you can spot an abuse case after taking a five minute patient history. So, obviously you understand what it's—what. Sorry, I don't know how to say this exactly." He nodded, still being quiet, and went back to work at rubbing his chin. "Maybe it would be easier if you told me what he didn't do to you," I joked.

"There's not much. I remember once—I was sucking my thumb. I was upset, and scared, and sad, and confused, he'd just started the…you know. He pulled my fingernails out, with a…he only did one hand, thank God—what God—but I had learned my lesson by the time he got through with the first one. You wanna hear more?"

"Maybe just the broad strokes instead of the intimate details of every single one of your…I don't know," I explained. "When he was—what did he…am I right about the? Nevermind, obviously you don't wanna talk about it, or else you would have said it. Just, uh relax. Maybe you should take an extra pill, and we can just calm down together, okay?" Greg just shrugged, sort of curling up at my side. "Is there anything else you want?" Another shrug.

"It started with him touching me and making me do the same to him, a lot of rubbing and stuff, then after about a year he started to put his—he started having sex with me," he explained. "It was awful, but I can't explain it to you. I can't make you understand. That's how bad it is. You can't even comprehend how horrible it was."

"I know that, and I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to somebody who hasn't been through anything even remotely approaching what you went through." House shivered, looking around again. "You need more pills or something?" He shook his head. "She left, didn't she?" Greg nodded. "Well that's good; I was right."

"Yeah, that's all that matters," he gripped. You know what I meant. "I still need a break." I nodded. I agreed fully. "Thanks for all this. Sorry for—I just feel bad 'cuz I spent the night in your bed and you didn't even get a blow job out of it."

"I can wait. I'm very patient and for now, I'm happy just to be your friend and take care of you, okay?" He nodded, letting me put my arms around him again. "So, let's take a few weeks off together; you can catch up on your sleep, and talk to me, and get to be more comfortable with yourself. Then, when you're feeling better, you and I can work on dealing with my unrequited crush on you."

"What makes you think it's unrequited? I came here last night instead of going home even though I haven't slept in a month! And regardless of the fact that I only fell asleep and snored all night, I am here, naked, in your bed. I want you, Jimmy. Maybe even," he whispered, slipping his hand down beneath the sheets, between my legs, "Right now."

"Don't start anything you aren't prepared to finish," I warned, running my hand over his head again. "I—you just got finished telling me you were violently abused, and I think you're only trying to get me hard because you don't want me to help you; you wanna be sad and miserable for the rest of your life but, most importantly, you want me to leave. If I'm an asshole who only wants to hurt you, then your world view is right, and as much as it'll hurt, you can go back to feeling secure, normal. If I'm not like that; if I never leave, if I won't hurt you, then everything you believe about people could be wrong, and man that's gotta be scary as Hell."

"Shut up," he muttered, but the guy lifted his hand back up, laying it at my side. "I don't—I'm not feeling…you're full of it, but. I just can't stop thinking that—and I know how screwed up this is," he started to explain, but I cut him off.

"You feel responsible for happened to Kutner. I feel responsible. Everyone who knew him, and didn't see this coming, or saw it and didn't try to stop him, feels responsible. That is normal. You're only half as screwed up as you think you are. These feelings, your "hallucination," the fact that you haven't slept; it's all normal. It's healthy. You're going to be—well not okay, but you are gonna get by. You'll be like your old self in no time; I promise." Greg eyed me suspiciously. "You will. It's gonna take some time. But you're getting there. You'll feel much, much better one day."

"If I said I was already starting to feel a little bit better from talking, do you think we could make up for the fact that you didn't do something humiliating, unexpected, and whatever last night," he asked, nuzzling my neck with his face. I shrugged a little. "I don't want you to do me, but…wouldn't be completely against making out and maybe, if you wouldn't mind me being on top, I could be okay with more," he explained pressing his lips against my neck, cheek, forehead, nose, and finally lips. He's really an unbelievably good kisser. I was worried that, after all those years of pining after him, it wouldn't be as good as I'd dreamed, but he used the exact right amount of force gentleness, and tongue. His mouth wasn't too wet or too dry, his breath didn't taste funny. He was sweet and possessive, loving and causal all at the same time. Greg slowly lifted himself up so he was lying on top of me, his legs somewhat straddled against each side of my body. He kept kissing, grinding against me roughly, his hard cock rubbing up against my stomach.

"Are you sure about this," I asked, pulling away from him even though that was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. He nodded, and started to kiss and suck, and—gently—bite his way down my chest and stomach. "I love you," I whispered, as his mouth found its way to my bellybutton, just above the waistband of my boxers. He laughed, ripped them off, and slowly started to kiss around my thighs, hips, and dick. "Please," I whimpered and he wrapped his lips around me, licking and sucking, hard. I didn't last anywhere near as long as I should have, but between the twenty years of fantasizing and the fact that he knew exactly where to touch me, I couldn't really hold on for very long.

"You are way too easy," he panted, pulling away just a bit, but still laying on top of me. He laid still, a tiny smile on his face. He looked incredible. I'd never seen the guy so happy. "My turn," he practically begged.

"Yeah, um—I've never actually done this before; so, it probably won't feel as good for you…I mean, you probably won't like it as much and…I'm just warning you so you don't completely hate me because I'm still learning," I stammered, stroking his hair, softly. He made the 'you idiot' face again, I felt myself blushing some more, and the two of us just stay there for a while. "You still want this right," I asked, nervously, as I placed my head between his legs, and very, very carefully kissed his thighs, trying to avoid the scar.

"You weren't kidding about not knowing what to do, were you?" I shook my head. "Okay, pointer number 1: relax; it's virtually impossible to hurt somebody through consensual oral sex, unless you bite them; which doesn't happen nearly as often as you'd think. Number 2: think about what you'd want, what you like. I assume that wasn't the first time somebody's done that for you," he asked. I nodded. "So you know you like, what feels good?" Another yes. "Do you think you can do that?" I smiled, weakly. "So, let's see relax, do unto others," he chuckled more. "Um…pointer number 3: this one's important. Be careful with your teeth. It's not—you won't…Chances are pretty good you'll do fine, but one out of a hundred will get distracted and do something stupid. But don't think too much about that or you're more likely to mess up and do something stupid, understand?" I nodded again. "Good, then I think we're ready to start. I'll save the rest of the pointers for when you've calmed down a little, and gotten started," he continued to explain, guiding my head into place, and holding it steady as I started to kiss the tip, and put it in my mouth. I was sweating, my hands were shaking, as I tried to push my mouth over it further, but I couldn't hold the whole thing in my throat. "Okay, relax—no actually relax. There you go, now just—not so much at once, you've gotta let yourself get used to it. That's it," he moaned, hips bucking upwards.

House's lesson/ my blow job took three times longer than the one he gave me, but he came—finally—and told me I'd done alright for a first time, rubbing my back and shoulders, and even holding me afterwards. We lay like that for a very long time, him almost silent; me a little tired, and a little scared. "Thanks, Jimmy," he whispered after about an hour.

"I wanna thank you too; for not laughing at me for not knowing how to…and for listening to me, and for trusting me enough to tell me about what was happening to you. And for this, all of this." I ran my hand over his naked shoulders, and down his back, pausing just below his ass.

"It's not that sensitive. You can touch my leg and not cause me to start screaming from the pain. And as far as the other stuff goes, I really couldn't care less. Except for you sucking at sucking. As long as you do better next time, 'everything will be just fine,'" he mocked. I tell him that all the time, I've been telling him the same thing for years, and he always laughed at me, but this time he was a little serious. One of the main reasons my marriages never worked out was because I'd been madly in love with House for years. I couldn't commit to any one person, because at least half off my heart always belonged to him. "You freaking out a little," House said, leaning in and kissing the top of my head. I shrugged. "First time with a man can be scary, confusing, bunch of other stuff. You might need some time to…" I nodded, kissing his cheek, and letting my hand drop onto his right leg softly. "See, doesn't hurt. Just, ah—a little bit, over here," he moved my palm an inch or to higher up so that only the tips of my fingers were lightly pressed up against his wound. "Thanks for not locking me up in the psych ward," he admitted after a little while longer. I nodded, pressing my lips against his forehead, and smiling a tiny bit. "And I guess I don't completely hate you," he explained.

"You mean you love me," I said, still playing with his hair, near the top of his neck. House shrugged. "I'm not going to tell anybody. They wouldn't believe me no matter what, but…that doesn't really matter, does it? Because you don't care about any of those idiots."

"I only care if they treat me differently, or if," he stopped, looking away. "I liked Kutner, not the way I like you, but he was a sweet kid, funny, and creative, and he just…I dunno. There was something about him, can't quite name it. I just—I'm so, messed up by all this. I can't tell my team about this, if they know how messed up I am, they'll question my judgment, my ability to do my job, and they'll treat me like a freak. That's why I had to do what I did last night, and why I hid in the bathroom. I can't stop being me. And yet," he paused, biting down on his lower lip, sucking in his breath. "I just want everything to back to normal!" House wasn't able to control his emotions this time. Instead, he started to cry again. He seemed to have relaxed a lot. Then, Greg began to sob hysterically. I watched him, touched his face and hair, held his body in my arms, but mostly we just lay there while he let it out, really crying too (the last time was just the tip of the iceberg) for the first time since Kutner died, maybe the first time since the bus accident.

"It's okay," I whispered, kissing his hair and head, but he didn't seem to believe me. "You hurt right now, but talking to me is going to help, going to make you feel better, stronger, more normal," I promised. "Everything will go back to how it was. I will; you will, we will. This stuff just—takes time." Through the tears, he managed to laugh a little. "You don't believe me. No big surprise there; regaining your trust is gonna take some time too, but after a while. I'm not gonna lie about this. You will never gonna be exactly the same again. This sort of thing changes people, even if it's only a tiny, little bit, but you are going to be alright," I swore, lifting his head, and kissing his tearstained cheeks. House stopped crying shortly after that, wiped his face. I think he was embarrassed to have done that in front of someone, even if it was just me. He took another pill, and sighed.

"I never should of hired him. If I had just given her the job, they'd both still be here," he confessed to me. I held my tongue, and I held him, but what I was really thinking was pretty harsh. Of course; everything is your fault. You're the all powerful, Universe controlling, God-like House.

"Maybe Kutner would have done that over not getting the job—of course you wouldn't have invested as much in him and might not have been so upset by it—and Amber could have been run over in the parking lot," I explained. "You can't stop the world from turning. Kutner and Amber were going to die regardless of how important they were in our lives, regardless of what you, or anybody else, might have done. This was—as much as shitty as it sounds—meant to be."

"I don't wanna hear any of your new-age pop-psychology bullshit. On one level, I know it's not my fault but that doesn't exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Does saying those things make you feel better about being here, all alone and cold at night, when you could be with that pretty, little nymphomaniac who wanted to spend all her time screwing your brains out," he mocked.

"Ah, no," I said, truthfully, but there were other issues to consider. "However, it's slightly more comforting than, say, sitting in the darkness and blaming myself for things that I have no control over." He rolled his eyes again, but didn't mock me. "You know I'm right," I added. "It's gonna take you a while longer to deal with this, to believe me, to forgive yourself." He laughed again. "Look, none of this really matters right now. "Too bad you stopped seeing the shrink; she'd know how to help you figure this out."

"I spent half our sessions lying to her, just to see if she'd catch on. Idiot never did. I left because it wasn't working. I have to be able to trust somebody, if I'm gonna talk to them about stuff like being molested as a toddler, or being locked in a room and not allowed to eat or use a regular toilet for four days when I was 10. I've known you for twenty years; you know virtually everything about me, and I couldn't even tell you about it until just a couple of hours ago." He had a point, so I nodded. "But maybe you're not completely wrong about absolutely everything," he admitted. "Maybe I can get a little better. Maybe we both can, together."

I smiled and told him, "I like together." He smiled a bit too, reaching for his clothes and slowly pulling them on. "Where are you going," I asked, reaching for his hand. "I thought you wanted to stay."

"I do, just kinda hungry; I need you to whip me up a snack," he explained. "Don't really care what, so long as it's yummy." House ran his tongue all around his lips, seductively. He smiled, standing up and taking my hand. Then, the two of us headed for the kitchen, together. Finally, together. We're on our way, I thought as I opened the fridge and started to look through its contents.