1. "Seriously, Wilson. Shut up before I bash your brains in," House groaned, leaning across the sofa and shoving me a little. I thought about pushing back but decided against it. Hitting Greg would only start something, which would no doubt end with one or both of us in traction.

"If you hit me, I'll hide your cane. Someplace you can't reach," I snapped. He only chuckled in response.

"It's this sort of playful bickering that makes people think we're a couple, you know," he replied, pulling the seat back and lifting up the footrest. I started on the next part of the song, ignoring his annoyed sigh. House bounced up. Suddenly, a peach blob flew into my face, sending a volcanic eruption of pain all through my nose. Something warm and wet ran down into my mouth.

2. "How exactly did this happen," the emergency room doctor asked—for the third time—as he bandaged my nose. "House fell and hurt himself. I tried to help him back up but we both tripped and I banged my face on the coffee table. And no, I don't need you to call a social worker, nor will I be pressing charges. He didn't hit me."

"Alright," the guy sighed, and wrote out a prescription for pain medication, handing the slip to me. When Greg came to pick me up, the guy had a heart-shaped box of chocolates under one arm, and a fake smile on his lips.

"Who are those for? You piss off your blowup doll again," I taunted, carefully making my way to the door, refusing his help. To be honest, I was a little afraid of him but for the most part, I knew that my broken, bloody nose had frightened him enough to keep Gregory House from ever trying to smack, hit, slap, pelt, punch, whip, or wallop me again. I was safe.

"Well, I was gonna get you flowers like a regular wife-beater but all the gift store had were these ugly, half-dead, yellow roses. Plus, those cost like…forty bucks. Besides, you like candy."

"So you are apologizing? Wow." He shrugged and we headed towards the door. I smiled and followed him to the car, munching on a piece of candy. "Yuck, everything tastes like blood."

3. Back at home, I sat on the sofa, drank a beer, and swallowed three of the pills I gotten from the ER doc. House led me to my bedroom sometime around midnight, helped me lie down, and removed my shoes. The next thing I knew, it was morning. The sun was shining, I was tucked in, and my nose hurt again. Now that my sinuses were no longer completely stuffed with blood, I was able to smell again. Sort of. The apartment air was full of maple syrup and French toast, and there seemed to be fresh laundry in my room. I got out of bed and discovered a basket of all my clothes by the door. I had been planning to wash them for the last two days but had been busy with the Nora thinking we were gay thing and then House beating me up. Everything had been folded neatly and was wrinkle-free, just as if I had done it.

"I never realized how loudly you snored until last night," House mocked as I entered the kitchen. "I went online and found a website with restaurant recipes. I figure you won't wanna to go out until the bruises heal, which means we can't eat at Mickey's, which is what I'd usually do to cheer you up. So, I brought the French toast tower to us."

"I get that you feel guilty about breaking my nose, but you don't have to do all this. It was an accident. Well…kinda." House turned and stared at me with sad eyes. I was hit with a sudden, overwhelming desire to kiss my best friend, and not a little peck on the cheek or an air kiss or some other friendly gesture. I wanted to shove my tongue down his throat. Must be the pain pills, I insisted and sat down to enjoy my breakfast. "But if you insist on making up for what you did, why not let me sell the couch?"

4. Four days went by, and things continued to get progressively stranger. One day, he actually vacuumed and dusted the entire apartment. He was planning on washing the windows until I made him sit down to rest his leg. He'd been working himself so hard the poor guy wasn't able to get back up for almost three hours.

He cooked for me at every meal, baked brownies, and did all the chores. He continued to tease me a little but, for the most part, Gregory House was nice! He was also sitting extremely close to me on the sofa, bringing me icepacks, helping change my bandages, everything. He even agreed to get rid of the ugly orange sofa.

"That's alright," I told him, and for some reason, I actually cared more about his comfort than how good or bad our new place looked. Also, I couldn't stop obsessing about him. I was unable to figure out why he acted the way he did. Usually he didn't feel guilty when I got hurt. Not even that time I fell down a flight of stairs and sprained my wrist. And he had pushed me then.

I kept thinking about how I wanted to kiss him…and more. But I'm not gay! I didn't know what it meant. I was convinced I was a freak and not for the first time. I'd been struggling to understand how I felt about House for years, why—despite what people kept telling me about him—I still spent time with him, why I realized that he was good for me. He made me happy in a way no one else ever could. I wanted to know why I felt closer to him than I had to anyone I'd ever slept with, why he stayed with me when I was such an obvious annoyance, and why he'd sat at my bedside while I recovered from surgery. I wondered what life could be like if we were more than friends, then I chastised myself and tried to think of something else. Finally, I wanted to know why Greg was unable to prove to Nora that we weren't together.

House was the most convincing person I'd ever met. He could trick a cup of coffee into believing it was a snow cone. He got anyone to do pretty much whatever he asked, whenever he asked. So I wondered, how come he couldn't get a pretty girl to think he liked pretty girls? UnlessNo, I shouted at myself, silently. He doesn't have the hots for you. You've got to stop thinking about this. He is your best friend. It's weird! Unfortunately, the more I told myself not to, the more I thought about him and the more obsessive and confused I became.

5. A week and a half after he punched me, I finally worked up the nerve to approach Greg. I said, "how come Nora didn't believe you? Were you having an off day, playing her from the start or what?"

"Actually," he said, letting out a small sigh and lowering his eyes. "She probably picked up on something I feel for you. I'm not gay. I don't like…labels are stupid. Me, I'm mostly into chicks, but that's pretty much a comfort issue, physically. With my leg. That and I like boobs. A lot. Otherwise, I'm open to just about anything as long as it feels good. And," Greg took a deep breath, let it out nervously, and it wasn't until my fingers made contact with his inner thigh that I realized I was reaching over to comfort the guy. "Have you ever wondered, Wilson, why I constantly find excuses for us to be together? Or why I feel the need to screw with and/ or destroy any relationship you enter into with somebody else, especially your girlfriends and wives?"

"Because you're so miserable, needy, and selfish, you don't see that I am capable of being there for you and loving someone else at same time," I replied, probably answering too quickly but I didn't want to let myself consider any other explanation. House is the only person who ever truly understood me. I didn't want to risk losing him, even if it meant missing out on something I was starting to want more and more.

"I don't know about you but that sounds like an extremely lazy explanation to me. It almost sounds like someone—and I don't mean God, more like a TV writer—created us, made us love each other and then decided that falling in love with your best friend was a cliché or maybe that even in the 21st century, gay couples were too controversial. So, we have these intense feelings for each other, which are never fully explained or dealt with. You and I are always together. You bought this loft to get back at Cuddy for hurting your best friend. You cook for me, pay for everything and anything I want. We love each other. We're already a couple but neither one of us is willing to say so out loud."

6. House was right. I knew it even before I called him needy and selfish. I always had feelings of love for him, which frightened me. So, I managed to convince myself it was just brotherly lovely. Before, I had thought about kissing him a few times but now my brain was refusing to stop picturing him naked. And I was okay with those things.

"You're not screwing with my head again, are you? And you didn't squirt on cologne with pheromones in it, or drop something in my coffee, right?" I expected Greg to get angry but he just took me by the hand, and led me to his bedroom. There were (unlit) scented candles strategically placed, and fresh, clean, sheets and a bottle of lubricant and condoms sitting out but part of me thought those two might always be close by, just in case.

"I didn't drug or hypnotize you. I'm not trying to mess with your head. This is not a dream or a hallucination or whatever. And I'm not lying. I love you, James Wilson, and I think you love me back. Also, I'm not a notch on the bedpost guy, but we need to make things physical tonight. We're both terrified of our feelings and if we don't do something soon, one or both of us could give into the fear and try to forget this conversation. Our friendship might never recover." I smiled, held his hand for what felt like a long time, and finally kissed him. Quickly.

Then, he squeezed his arms around my waist, and planted his lips on mine, pushing them apart. The side of his tongue danced all over my own, accurately locating every sensitive spot in my mouth and then licking and sucking and swirling so perfectly that I started to believe I might be fantasizing. Until Greg pulled away, wiped his mouth, and exclaimed, "Did you always slobber this much or is it a side effect of the broken nose?'

"Jackass," I growled, giving him a light shove. "If my "slobbering" bothers you so much, we don't have to kiss anymore. In fact, maybe I shouldn't do anything that involves combining my open mouth and your body."

7. "Alright, fine. I apologize/. Or whatever." House slid his hand up the back of my shirt pressing his warm palm between my shoulder blades, and pulling me closer to him. He rubbed his fingers along my back and neck, almost like a massage. His hands continued to explore as he unbuttoned my shirt. They touched me everywhere, as if making a map of my body.

As he did this, I slid his jeans off, and removed my own pants, and boxers, then his t-shirt. Greg's hand slid lower, investigating my hips, legs, and ass. I did the only thing I could think of, which was to kiss and gently massage his naked body.

"Uh, House; I appreciate that you're taking the time to study and understand me, but um…remember that thing you said when we were taking the cooking class?" He chuckled knowingly.

"Sorry, I just wanted to memorize every inch of you in case one of us decides we made a terrible mistake come morning, and says this should never happen again." By one of us, he meant me. And he had good reason to worry. I couldn't help but wonder what people might think of me if they knew what we were doing together. I almost ran screaming from the room.

"I'm not going to change my mind," I promised as I kissed all over House's face, neck, and chest, unable to get enough of his taste. He kissed me with passion and love. "I um…I haven't actually done this before, not with another guy anyway." Greg looked like he was going to mock me but controlled himself.

"I'd say the main difference between trying to please a dude and trying to please a chick is that every woman's body is different, especially…down there," he explained, pushing me onto the bed and wrapping his smooth palm around my penis. "But not so much with guys. What feels good to you will more than likely feel good on me. Frankly, a hand job isn't all that different from jerking off, except without the obvious benefits," he continued, as he tugged on himself with one hand and me with the other.

8. "Okay," I moaned, and started kissing him again, and using my fingers to stroke the area under his testicles. Greg responded with a gasp. "But what if I want to further than this."

"That depends on what you want and how detailed of a lesson you would like," he retorted, but also in a somewhat kind way. "There's the hand job tutorial, which I basically just gave you. Then, oral 101 and next—well you have to pass the "swim test" before you can take that course." He giggled, proudly.

"Wonderful," I groaned, as his thumb glided over the swollen dickhead. "I'm dating a 12-year-old." He snorted a little as he pushed his hips closer to my body, and started rubbing both of our penises against each other, stroking them in the same hand. "God—House," I gasped. He let go, and it wasn't until his mouth enveloped me, that I realized he hadn't stopped stroking me as a form of torture.

The realization was disrupted by my orgasm, and it was at least two minutes before I was able to speak again. As I regained control over my body, I felt bad for leaving House hanging…so to speak. Although, he didn't seem to mind taking care of himself. "You wanted to do that thing with your mouth. You wanted to taste my…" I blushed like a teenager girl. "Cum."

"Only because you inhale enough sugar every day to build six, life sized gingerbread mansions a year. Between that and the incessant niceness, I figured you had to taste sweet too. Don't worry; I was just testing my theory. It won't happen again." I let out a small laugh and pulled him into my arms.

9. House actually nuzzled my neck, and made soft almost cat-like sounds as I stroked his hair. He was snuggled to me, looking as happy and normal as anyone else I'd ever seen. "You tell anyone I enjoy cuddling, and I'll give you a sex change right there on the spot." We both knew the threat was empty but neither of us said anything, as he coiled his body around mine.

"So about that swim test," I asked, after we had been lying together for a couple hours. An enormous smile spread across Greg's face as he grabbed the lubricant and began to explain the process in both helpful and sometimes obnoxiously sarcastic ways. Then, he rolled onto his stomach, turned his head and looked over at me with absolute trust in his eyes.