Summary: A sequel that I promised myself I wouldn't write, and then I did anyway. Sequel to "A Night to Forget." House is POed that he let that happen and Wilson didn't remember it. This whole thing takes place sometime after Wilson bought the organ but before Sam returned to his life.

A/N: This is a sequel, so it doesn't make sense unless you read the first part first. I wasn't intending to write this, but since thyla, paulac45, I-girl, Anonymous, LIGHTNSHADOWS, ProudToBe-LimpingTwerp, and elizajay all asked me to, I figured what the heck. I kind of feel like a sellout, but hey, I love you guys for reading and reviewing and I aims to please. Oh and ProudToBe-LimpingTwerp asked me to thank everyone for asking for a sequel and convincing me to write it, so thanks.

Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of the characters. If I did, you wouldn't be reading this on fanfiction, you'd be watching it on TV. Some parts on Fox, other parts on pay-per-view. And then on Fox again.

Making Memories

He looked up at me from the desk. "What?"

"We need to talk, House, now."

"About what?"

"I want you tell me what's going on."

"Wilson, I have no idea what you're talking about."

I scoffed and ran my hands through my hair. Of course. Of course he didn't. He'd only been avoiding me for a week. Coming home late at night, or going straight to his room and staying there. Not finding me for lunch at work, only half-heartedly agreeing when I came to get him. I wondered if he was on Vicodin again, but I'd searched his room thoroughly once while he was gone and hadn't found anything. At first I thought that maybe his leg pain was just worse than usual and it would go away, but whatever was bothering him was clearly still bothering him and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

"You haven't been yourself lately," I explained, sitting down in front of his desk. "I'm just concerned. Is it your leg? Does your medication need to be adjusted?"

"Yeah, because we all know that taking drugs solves all of life's problems."

"Come on, House," I said, irritated. "Help me out here. I'm just trying to figure out what's been upsetting you."

"Yeah? How's that working out for you?"

I turned to glare at him but I looked into his troubled eyes and couldn't. "House, listen to me. You're my best friend. I care about you. When something bothers you, I want to know about it. You can trust me. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I don't need to tell you everything that goes on in my life. You don't own me."

What brought that on? "You always tell me everything that goes on in your life. Which means that this has something to do with me. I did something to upset you. Well House, whatever it was, I'm sorry I upset you, but I can't fix it if you don't tell me what it is."

"No one ever said it was about you," he snarked. "The world doesn't revolve around you, you know."

"No, of course not," I said quickly. I furrowed my brow and tried to read his face. If it wasn't about me, why wouldn't he tell me? I didn't understand. But whatever it was, he didn't want to tell me. My shoulders slumped. If he didn't want to tell me, I couldn't force it out of him. "Can you at least give me a clue why you don't want to tell me?"

"Does the phrase 'none of your fucking business' ring a bell?"

I leaned closer to him, watching him. "What if I want to make it my business?"

"Then you're going to be sorely disappointed."

For a minute I just looked at him, and he looked back at me. He was glaring, he was definitely angry, probably at me, but I had no idea what I did. Without breaking eye contact he added, "You can go now."

I had two choices. I could leave, hope the problem would solve itself or that House would tell me of his own free will or approach it again later, or I could stay and harass him until he got so fed up he told me just to get rid of me. I folded my arms across my chest. "No."

"Fine," he shrugged, surprising me. "Stay. I don't care." He turned to his computer and placed his hand on the mouse.

I watched him for a few minutes. He didn't acknowledge me. I grew increasingly frustrated. Maybe I should just leave. "House, if I drop it will you stop avoiding me and be my friend again?"

He kept his eyes glued to his monitor and didn't answer.

"Come on, House," I pleaded. "I just want to know what happened."

"Then try growing a hippocampus," he snapped.

I blinked. What the hell did that mean? All right, it meant I'd forgotten something. Automatically my first thought was his birthday, but he doesn't care about stuff like that and besides it wasn't for another four months anyway. Maybe he'd already told me whatever it was that was bothering him but for some reason I didn't act on it. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out which of his comments over the last few days could be construed as telling me what was wrong. I couldn't think of anything. Come on, House, just tell me, I thought, scrutinizing him. He ignored me. All right, I needed to think back. When did this anti-social behavior-all right, more anti-social than usual behavior-begin?

Well, the first time he didn't barge into my office demanding lunch was Monday. And come to think of it, he didn't spend much time with me on Sunday either. But we were both pretty hung over that day. What about Saturday? On Saturday he seemed fine. We got drunk, it was a good time. In fact, I had a little too much to drink. I don't even remember going to bed, I blacked out half the...oh.

I must have done something while I was drunk, or said something, and whatever it was offended him somehow, and he decided to punish me by acting all pissed off and avoiding me for a week. I wracked my brain again, wondering what I might have done.

"House...on Saturday night..." he looked up at me, which I took as a sign that I was on the right track. "...did I...do something?"

"I don't know," he said in a mocking tone. "I can't remember."

"Well House, I'm sorry I don't remember what happened," I pointed out, annoyed. It wasn't my fault I was such a lightweight. All right, maybe I shouldn't have drunk so much, but how could I know I would black part of the night out? That hadn't happened to me since my second divorce. "House, I..." How was I supposed to apologize for something I couldn't even remember doing? And what could I possibly have done to earn this level of resentment? "Okay, House, I don't know what I did to upset you so much, but I'm sorry. Sometimes...I don't know, I do stupid stuff when I'm drunk. Don't we all? Sometimes I say and do stuff I don't mean. Obviously if I was drunk enough to black out, then I was so out of it that whatever I said...whatever I did...I swear, House, I didn't mean it-"

"Get out!" He didn't raise his voice, but the words were forceful enough to hurt nonetheless. He was glaring at me, his eyes a fiery combination of pissed off and just hurt, and I was just as baffled as ever. "Get out, Wilson!"

I didn't dare refuse him. I rose slowly from my chair, subconsciously raising my hands in front of me in a defensive position. I backed away until I was at his door, where I paused to look at him. I tried to convey my confusion in my expression, but his eyes were still fixated on me in a way that made me grateful that looks can't kill.


I heard the key turning in the door and scrambled up off the couch. Hurrying over to the hallway that led to our respective bedrooms, I stood in the center and stretched an arm out to each wall, essentially blocking his way should he attempt an escape to his bedroom.

He entered slowly, putting a lot of weight on his cane. This caused me a pang of concern but I held my ground. Maybe he would tell me what I said just to get me to leave him alone. He saw what I was doing and groaned.

"Wilson, move out of the way."

"No," I refused. It occurred to me that I sounded like a stubborn child, but I didn't care. "I'll move out of the way once you tell me what I said to you on Saturday night that provoked this whole...you avoiding me thing."

He glared at me, and then looked back toward the living room as though seriously considering spending the night on the couch. I felt my heart beating faster. It was really that bad, wasn't it? What could be so bad that he'd let me block the way to his room and sleep on the couch rather than tell me?

But he sighed, apparently decided that the best way to get me off of his back was to tell me, and looked me in the eye. "What you said was that one time in college you fucked another guy. And then you offered to blow me. Remember now?"

I felt the heat rising to my face. I didn't remember, but that only made it more mortifying. Why in the world would I tell him that? That was one time! It didn't make me gay! I was in college, I was experimenting. I was drunk. Just like I was drunk on Saturday night.

"House, I..." I didn't know what to say. God, what he must have thought of me! He must have been so disgusted with me. I'm his best friend, his straight best friend, and then I say I want to go down on him. Why would I do that? "I didn't mean it, House, I swear," I insisted, shaking my head but maintaining eye contact. "I don't know why I would do that, I...there'd be no reason for me to want to..."

His glare was still piercing; my stammers hadn't done anything to reduce it. Then he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "It's not like you're in love with me or anything."

I wondered if he could hear my heart beating, because I certainly could. "Did I say that?" I asked incredulously.

"No," he admitted.

My heart rate slowed down to a more normal pace, though still higher than usual. Of course I hadn't said I was in love with him, because I wasn't in love with him. Of course, I never would have thought I'd offer to give him a blow job either. But why would he think that? I wondered. Sex doesn't equal love. Maybe because I am straight. I am. I don't sleep with guys. So I wouldn't just want to sleep with him, there'd have to be something deeper behind it. There isn't. Why would I make that offer in the first place? There's no logical reason. It was the scotch talking.

"House..." I looked at him hopelessly.

"What?" His voice was bitter; I wasn't sure why.

"I'm not in love with you," I promised. "I really...I have no idea why I'd ask to sleep with you-"

"-Wilson, stop."

"No, let me finish," I insisted, a bit irritated suddenly for no reason. He needed to know I wasn't in love with him. This had to be the reason he'd been avoiding me. He'd thought my drunken offer of sex had been a confession of a love that didn't exist. Or doesn't it? my brain taunted me. Of course it doesn't, I argued. I didn't have time for that dispute with my brain right now; it always took to long. Now I had to focus on the House issue. I'd finally hit on the problem. I mean, if he'd done the same thing to me, that's the conclusion I'd draw, and I'd probably freak out enough to avoid him. "I'm telling the truth, House. There's no reason for us to stop being friends over this. I don't know what I was thinking, I was drunk, I never would have said that sober, I know you think I'm in love with you, but I'm not. I can't be. I'm straight-"

"-Wilson-"

"-Come on, House, you know I'm straight. I've been married how many times now? You make fun of my womanizing. You know I'm not gay. I don't know why I said what I said that night, but I take it back. I take it all back."

"Go to hell, Wilson," he snapped, shoving past me. In my desperate attempt to convince him I didn't have feelings for him, I'd forgotten to continue barricading the hallway.

"House, what more can I say?" I asked, my voice begging. "What do you want from me?"

He spun around. He came close to me, right in my face, and for one wild moment it seemed like he was going to kiss me before my senses caught up and reminded me how stupid that idea was. "What do you want?" he spat at me. "Why don't you tell me what you want?"

"I want...please, just ignore Saturday night. Forget what I said. Forget the whole night."

"Like you did? Go fuck yourself, Wilson."

He turned back around and hobbled quickly to his room. I didn't follow him. Everything I said seemed to just make it worse. I wished I could just remember what happened. This was so frustrating. I remembered the next morning; he'd woken me up by taking a piss in my bathroom and then pretended to get in bed with me. Probably making fun of me asking to sleep with him, I thought bitterly, and then paused. He wasn't angry the next morning. Why would he tease me about it if it pissed him off? I was wrong; his demeanor hadn't changed after Saturday night; it had changed after Sunday morning. But what happened Sunday morning? Nothing. He came in and messed with me, nothing unusual there. Which meant he was okay with...thinking I was in love with him. No, he couldn't be.

Besides, just because I said I'd blow him didn't mean I was in love with him!

I'm not in love with him.

I was perfectly aware that this was about the millionth time I'd had this argument with myself, but reiterating it couldn't hurt. Besides, maybe if I convinced myself of it enough times, the little thoughts I'd have of us every once-in-a-while would cease.

I'm not in love with House. I'm not gay, I'm straight. I'm only attracted to women. House is a man. Ergo, I can't possibly be in love with House.

The one time you did have sex with a guy it was good.

That's ridiculous! That was one time! Besides...well...he gave me a blow job. How could that not be good? Stimulation is stimulation, whether it comes from a guy or a girl. When someone's mouth is on your dick, it feels good. And the only reason I did it was because I was drunk.

You sucked his dick too.

I didn't do that because I wanted to! He did it to me, it was only fair for me to do it to him. It was a business transaction.

You offered to blow House without him blowing you.

I was drunk. Maybe I was horny. Maybe I just wanted to get off. I bet I thought if I blew him, he'd have to blow me. Like I said, a mouth on your dick is a mouth on your dick whether it's a guy's mouth or girl's mouth.

I felt overwhelmed with relief. It was just sex. I'd just wanted sex from him. I wasn't in love with him.

See? I thought triumphantly. I'm not in love with him. I told you I wasn't in love with him.

No, sometimes you just look at him and the words "I love him" run through your head uncontrollably.

Shut up. I love him as a friend.

Right, you love him as a friend and you want to use him for sex. You're not in love with him, you just want to be friends with benefits.

No I don't! I'm not attracted to him.

Right, because the dreams you have sometimes are just coincidence.

They are. And I'm done thinking about this. I need to go in there and tell him it was just me being horny and wanting sex so he stops thinking I'm in love with him and we can go back to being friends.

"House!" I pounded on the door. "House, let me in, please. We need to finish talking!"

"Haven't you said enough?" His voice was muffled from the door, but he'd raised it.

I tried the door and found it unlocked; I wondered if he'd left it that way on purpose or if in his rage he'd slammed it without remembering to lock it.

"House?" I said gently, peeking in.

He was sitting on his bed, digging his heel into his thigh. He glared at me. "What do you want now?"

I stepped slowly in, rubbing the back of my neck. "I...I was thinking about Saturday. And about that time in college."

"Yeah? Any epiphanies?" Still sarcastic, like he couldn't care less.

"Well...yeah," I shrugged.

He gave me a sidelong glance. It occurred to me that he was curious, just pretending not to be.

"It's...it was just sex, House," I explained. "In college, it was just another way to get off. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was a guy. Saturday night, House, all right, I don't remember offering to blow you, I can't say for sure what was going through my head, but I'm sure it was the same thing. I figured if I did you, you'd have to do me. I was horny, I just wanted to get off, I was drunk enough not to care who it was getting me off or what gender they were. It was just sex."

He wasn't looking at me anymore. "I know," he muttered.

This took me aback. "What do you mean you know? You were freaking out because you thought I was in love with you."

"No I didn't. You don't know anything."

The insult didn't hold any of his usual flippancy. It stung a bit, but I tried to move past that. I didn't understand. "I didn't tell you it was just sex until right now, House. How could you know?"

He shrugged, rubbing his leg and staring at the wall in front of him. "You didn't like it."

"I didn't like..." What? I wondered, staring at him. And then a bone-chilling thought occurred to me, and somehow I knew it was right. I hadn't just offered to blow him. I'd actually done it. We'd done it. The pieces started falling into place. The awkwardness over the last week, him being in my room the next morning...I noticed him glancing at me, and he could see on my face when it clicked.

"I was drunk, too," he reminded me.

I nodded, but then I started remembering other things. Images flashed in my brain. His crotch in my face, him leaning back against the headboard moaning, "James!" His body over mine, both of us moaning as he rocked against me. His tongue flitting across the inside of my mouth. Him kissing my throat, my chest, my mouth. I stared at him. He'd just said I hadn't liked it. But he...he had.

His eyes narrowed at me as he watched another realization click on my face.

He was in love with me.

"Are you happy now?" he snapped, using his cane to push himself off the bed. I watched him as he limped past me, into the hallway and back toward the living room. Something in my brain nagged to follow him, but I couldn't move. It was too much. House was in love with me.

So that makes it okay for you to be in love with him, my brain pointed out.

But I'm not! I reasoned back. I've been over this a hundred times.

Exactly. The fact that you continue to rehash the argument proves that you're just trying to convince yourself.

I'm straight, I reminded myself. Nothing can change that.

Except the fact that you've been having sex dreams about guys since you were fourteen, and most of them over the past fifteen years have been specifically about House.

That doesn't mean anything! So sometimes I'll dream about a guy! I dream about girls, too!

That doesn't make you straight, it just makes you bi.

I'm not attracted to guys!

Except you are. And you're in love with House. You know you are.

I'm not.

You are.

More images passed through my head. Him there in the police station, bailing me out. Him being best man at my wedding, me catching his eye over my bride's shoulder and smiling. Him grinning at me as he stole some fries from my plate at lunch. Him looking up at me from a hospital bed, telling me he loved me even though I knew it was just a thank you for drugs. Him on another hospital bed after having undergone surgery just to try and save someone he didn't even like, for me. His face in the observation room through the haze of drugs and surgeons as I donated part of my liver. A grin that he couldn't conceal as he wholeheartedly approved of the one piece of furniture I'd chosen for the condo.

All right, maybe I am, I conceded. Oh, fuck it, yes, I'm in love with him.

I went back down the hallway until I saw him in the kitchen. He was in front of the fridge, finding a beer. I stood in front of him, took it out of his hands, and placed it on the counter. He started to complain, but only the first part of the sound made it out of his mouth because I pressed my lips to his. He didn't move; I think he was actually surprised, but I used that to my advantage and wrapped my arms around his waist.

His mouth was warm, and he tasted like pizza which was nice because it was all the taste with none of the calories.

He was the one who pulled back, but I didn't let go of him. My left hand stayed anchored to his waist while my right went up to his hair. It wasn't long enough to brush out of his face, like mine was, but it was starting to grow back a little bit and I slipped my fingers through it.

"I do want to erase Saturday night," I whispered to his face. "I want to start over. I don't want my first time with you to be a drunken mistake that I can't even remember. You mean...more than that."

"You..." House said. He was breathing heavily, too close to me to make eye contact. "You said you weren't in love with me. Like, eight hundred times, you said you weren't in love with me."

"Everybody lies," I whispered, smiling against his lips. I kissed again, kneading his scalp as I leaned my body into him.

"I can't," he said, shaking his head. "I can't do it again. You didn't remember-"

"-Remind me," I flirted, kissing his lips. I liked that. I liked the way they felt. I wanted to kiss him, again and again, a million times, and every day. "And I remember a little, now." I kissed his face, the sides of his mouth, the scuffle adding an interesting but not unpleasant texture. "You said I didn't like it. That's not true. You were good. You were tender, gentle. You made love to me."

"When you were..." he had a hard time getting the words in because I kept borrowing his mouth. "...going down on...me...You didn't...like that."

"Yeah I did."

"It didn't...turn you on."

"I was drunk," I reminded, kissing him. "When I'm drunk, it takes a lot..." I took a break to kiss him again. "...to turn me on. The fact that you got me off at all...I liked it, House." I kissed him deeply, savoring his taste and the feel of his teeth and gentle tongue. I pulled back far enough to catch his eye. "I'm not drunk now," I flirted. I put on the smile that never failed to charm the pants off of a potential lover before, and slipped my hand from House's waist to the front of his jeans. I grabbed, using my fingers to gently massage what I felt beneath the denim.

He didn't say anything, but I think he leaned into me a bit. I fondled him, feeling him harden into my palm, and released his side so I could use my other hand to help unbutton his pants. I slid his jeans and boxers down his legs in one motion, careful of his growing erection and his bad leg.

"Here?" I heard him ask, but I ignored him, got on my knees, and took him into my mouth. He let out a half "Oh!" half gasp at the sudden feeling of my mouth around his hot cock, which encouraged me. He was warm and hard, and I ran my tongue along his length, feeling it against me. I found his balls with my hand and played with them, not rough enough to hurt, but enough that he'd feel it. I moved my lips down him as far as I could without gagging, and back up again, and down again, and sucked as hard as I could. He moaned a little bit, and I felt his fingers tighten in my hair. I'd been holding my breath, I realized, and I expelled it all at once against his cock, squeezing his balls at the same time. It proved challenging to suck and tease him with my tongue simultaneously, so I took a break from being a human vacuum cleaner and just swirled my tongue around him, listening to him moan. I flicked my tongue against him and snuck a hand around to grab his ass. I exerted gentle pressure with my hand and sucked on him a little bit. When I flicked my tongue against his tip, he shuddered, so I did it again and he gave out a low moan, almost a whimper. My right hand had been squeezing his ass; I replaced it with my left hand so I could put my right to better use. I slowly eased my mouth off his cock and he whined (really? He whined? Wow.), but I grasped his base firmly with my hand and then replaced my mouth on the tip.

Yes, that was definitely a whimper. I hoped he would come soon; I was going crazy here. I could feel my cock throbbing in my pants, aching to be touched, but it would have to wait. I slid my closed fist around him in circles and sucked on his tip.

"Oh!" he moaned. "Wilson, fuck. Faster."

I continued to pump, increasing pressure, and swirled the head of his dick with my tongue. He moaned, pushing himself into me, and even though I couldn't see I guessed he probably arched his back too. Almost there. Without biting, I let my teeth nudge his skin, making him gasp quickly before turning it into a moan. I positioned my lips right at his tip and, continuing to stroke his length, sucked in.

"Oh! Ah, James! Oh, ah!" he moaned, and I held him firmly with my lips to catch it all in my mouth. This was my kitchen, after all, and I didn't want ejaculate on the floor. I held onto his ass with both hands, letting him thrust into me until he finished. I swallowed it down and licked off the excess as he softened. He was shaking, leaning into me, his hands on my shoulders to support himself. I stood up carefully, holding him. Even though I swallowed again, I still probably tasted like him, but I kissed him anyway. I wrapped an arm around his waist to help support his weight and shifted my legs so my crotch was against his left hip.

He looked down, and then back at me, as though surprised to feel how hard I was.

"House," I moaned, looking at him. It was taking all my self-restraint not to thrust against his leg until I came, which probably wouldn't take too long. "Can I...I want you...I need you..."

He answered me by kissing my lips before nodding and leading me toward the couch, which was closer than a bedroom. If I weren't so desperate I might have complained about having sex on the new couch, but as it was I didn't care where we did it; I just wanted it done. He took off my belt as soon as we made it into the living room and slipped a hand beneath my waistband to feel me.

I half moaned, half whimpered. God, that felt so good. He unbuttoned and unzipped my pants-why was that taking so long?

"Mm-hmf!" I moaned, shuddering when his fingers brushed me, not even on purpose, as he slipped my pants and boxers off. I saw my dick throbbing and just wanted to touch myself, but held back. House wet his fingers with the pre-come that was streaming from me, then reached his hand back beneath himself.

"I..." I moaned. "I'm not sure there's time."

"It's fine," he said, raising his hips from the couch.

"Are you sure? I don't want to-"

"-You won't. It's fine."

I wasn't going to argue; I needed this too much. He used his arms and left side to support his weight as he straddled me, and then he slowly lowered himself down.

"Oooh," I moaned, throwing my head back as I entered him. "Mm-hm-m," I whimpered, feeling myself pulsing in his warm cavity. "You...you okay?"

He leaned back so my cock hit his prostate and shivered. "Yeah...good," he muttered. He wrapped his legs around me to get more comfortable and I planted my hands firmly on his waist. "Okay," he said, and started to raise himself up again. I moaned as I felt his body sliding against my cock; the air felt cool against my base as it exited him, but then he slid back down again and all was right with the world. I watched his body moving up and down over me and couldn't help thinking, Not gay, huh? I grinned in spite of myself and slid one of my hands up and down House's side, feeling his muscles beneath me as he moved. I leaned my head back, holding to him tight. This was ecstasy, right here. He seated himself on me and rocked back and forth, and the constant touching drove me wild. I felt something against my stomach and looked down. He was hard again; didn't the term "refractory period" mean anything to him?

Using my left arm to keep him firmly anchored to my lap, I started rubbing him with my right hand. He moaned and leaned into me, knocking my shoulder with his forehead, but I whined at the interruption and made him move up a bit so I could have room to thrust into him.

God, I couldn't even describe how that felt. In again, and again, my body shaking, gripping his sweaty waist as though my life depended on it and rubbing his cock just to hear him moan, feeling him bite into my shoulder and moaning but it didn't hurt it felt good. I couldn't last much longer and I didn't think I could get him to come again before I did but he would forgive me I hoped. He rocked against me and I thrusted into him, again and again and faster and faster because I could feel it building and I was almost there and I moaned and squeezed whatever parts of him I was holding and I plunged as deep as I could and there it was and I felt high and I was gasping and I felt like I couldn't move but I was moving, I was moving against him and I felt him all around me and everywhere and I could hear him calling my name and I couldn't really see and I didn't know if my eyes were closed or just blurry and I felt sweaty and sticky and wet and wonderful and happy and perfect and like an out of body experience except that I'd never been more in tune with my body and everything it was feeling and hearing and smelling and feeling, especially feeling, inside of me and out.

I wasn't sure how I ended up lying on the couch with him on top of me when just a moment ago we were sitting, but I felt so comfortable I wasn't about to complain. I moved my hand until I found his head, and I stroked his hair because it felt nice. His head was on my chest; he was kissing me there and I liked that. He must have come when I did; I heard him calling me James and he only does that when he comes...I smiled and stroked his hair some more. I liked that. He was still kissing my chest, and his beard tickled so I giggled involuntarily. He looked at me, smirking, and I shimmied myself under him so we could be more aligned and so I could reach his mouth with mine. Just another minute of soft kissing and I leaned back against the couch and sighed contentedly. Kissing took effort. I didn't want my body to stop touching his ever but I was tired.

"I'm not gonna let you fall asleep on the couch, Wilson, come on," he said.

I felt his weight leaving me and whined like a toddler. My eyes were closed but I could still clearly see him rolling his eyes at me. I smiled. I heard him limping off toward the hallway and realized the only way I'd get to touch him again was if I got up, so I did, reluctantly. However, I was surprised to meet him in the hallway; he'd been returning to me. He held up a wet towel and without looking in my eyes muttered that he'd gotten come all over me. I let him rub me down, and then took the towel from him and with the clean side wiped him down. He was kind of sweaty, after all, and I'd just changed the sheets yesterday. We went into my bedroom and it occurred to me how odd we must look: two grown men randomly walking through a condo, naked. Odd or sexy.

He threw the soiled towel on my floor making me cringe, obviously to negate the fact that he'd brought in the first place. I put it in the dirty laundry while he went back to his room to find pajamas. He reappeared in my doorway just as I was pulling a pair of flannel pants on. He looked from my bed to me and said, "Am I allowed to sleep in your bed now?"

I smiled at him. "Only if I'm allowed to spoon with you."

"Well in that case," he countered and made his way to turn around, but I laughed and moved toward him. I pulled his arm toward me and kissed him, marveling at how it felt, kissing a man, kissing House. Inwardly I shrugged my shoulders, outwardly I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him closer to me. It didn't matter. It felt good.


A/N: And they lived happily ever after. I hope you're happy now. I was all set to give it a good realistic miserable ending but no, it had to end fluffy and happy. Oh well it was fun to write. By the way, reviews make me dance like a fool, forget how to breathe, shine like gold, and buzz like a bee.