. . . .

House has come bearing gifts, which is dangerous.

I'm leaning against my desk and he's next to me, sitting on it. We're both eating ice cream sandwiches that have softened during House's trip from the vending machine, so we're not talking. It takes concentration to not let sticky vanilla ice cream escape and run down my arm.

House is doing a lot better than I am, licking deftly around the edges. I try to take a bite, and ice cream squishes out from between the two pieces of chocolate-flavored... cake? What the hell am I eating, anyway?

"It seems unethical to even sell these in a hospital." My technical difficulties with the snack are making me defensive.

"Ice cream sandwiches keep me lean and mean," he replies between licks.

It's still in the office, and House is softly knocking one of his shoes against my desk. It makes a quick detour in mid-air, and the heel of his Nike bounces off of my shin before continuing along its regular path. This begins happening every sixth bounce.

I don't even bother shooting him a look, because I don't mind. It's been four days since he's touched me, and the gesture seems weirdly affectionate.

My last bite of the sandwich results in a dribble of vanilla ice cream down my chin, and before I can do anything about it, House's thumb has swiped across the skin below my lip. He licks it off of his thumb, his tongue flicking twice, before balling up his wrapper and tossing it expertly into the trashcan across the room.

I can't look at him. I run my tongue under my lip, panicking slightly at the thought that I might taste House. Instead it's all vanilla, sticky and sweet.


. . . . .

Later that afternoon, while I'm trying to act as a consult in front of his team, House knights me with his cane. He raises it high, moving it to both of my shoulders. It's not quite a touch, but I again welcome the action. It's comforting, somehow.


. . . . . .

We're watching The Jerk on Comedy Central, and he keeps complaining about the edited version.

"Why don't you get up and put the DVD in, then?"

He tells me that cripples can't afford luxuries like standing up and walking all the way over to the DVD player just so that they can hear Steve Martin's character call his dog Shit Head. That, he says, is what non-crippled best friends are for.

I roll my eyes and sink lower into the couch. The truth is, there is no way in hell that I'm moving because House's hand is resting on my leg, which is pressing against his leg. I'm terrified of getting up, of looking at him or even leaning forward to grab my beer. I'm terrified of House, and I hate myself for it.

I've been scared for House, but never of him, not even when we'd first met. Suddenly though, he's touching me and knighting me and scooping ice cream off of my face, and I'm overly concerned with every move I make around him.

I hear him huff some air out of his nose, and I turn to see him smiling at the movie.

It's House. I can't be scared of House.

Shifting my torso closer, I slowly lay my head down on his shoulder. After a moment, House's fingers slowly start walking in place on my thigh. I let my muscles relax, shifting until I'm comfortable. I focus on his fingertips sliding over my black pants, rhythmic and steady. I tilt my head up slightly, brushing my nose against his neck.

He smells like soap. Plain, generic soap, clean and simple. It's perfect. I kiss his skin.

At first it's too fast, too dry. I lick my lips and try again, parting them slightly and kissing his neck slowly, below his jaw. His fingers freeze and dig into my leg.

I press my lips against the stubble on his jaw. He feels warm and good, and I swallow thickly when he sighs and lets his hand wander.