.

It's not all that surprising that it starts out on the couch while we're halfway though our second six-pack, watching an old football game on ESPN. We're talking about the usual nonsense while we watch, sitting too close so that we keep bumping each other when reaching for another beer.

His elbow is sort of propped up on the back of the couch, his arm dangling down between us.

My head is buzzing and I'm pretty sure we're both grinning goofily while we talk, and I must be using my hands more than usual because they keep brushing against House.

Almost every night this week has been like this, and it feels good.

Our feet are propped up, beer bottles in hand, and we're both watching the TV while House makes up stories about various football players. He's saying something about Bruce Smith when I feel his hand brush the back of my head. I sip my beer slowly, keeping the smile quirked on my face and trying not to look at him.

His fingers are moving slowly, thoughtfully, over the back of my head, raking up through my hair. A thumb swipes smoothly against the back of my neck. He keeps talking casually while his hand moves, and it's hard for me to not turn towards him and raise my eyebrows.

It's also hard to not lean into him a little bit, so I do.

He lets it happen and finally stops talking, so I concentrate on his hand. His fingertips run along the skin of my neck before he curls up some of the hair at my hairline.

The human contact feels nice. Better than false handshakes and attempted comforting touches under the harsh lights of the hospital. It's nicer here, with the TV on and the beer cold. With House.

He keeps it up for maybe half an hour, but then the game is over and the beer is gone and before I know it I'm lying on the couch alone. The room isn't spinning, but floating in the air around me. I wish House would play some piano while I relax. The blanket he's given me is softer than I remember, and I even remember to kick off my shoes and shimmy out of my khakis before wrapping up and falling asleep.


. .

He's doing it again a few nights later, lazily running his hands through my hair and across my skin. This time I let the entire side of my body press against his, and he takes to murmuring his jokes in my direction.


. . .

A week later we're in my office, me hunched over my desk, him leaning against my bookshelf. I'm using highlighters to color-code my desk calendar while he tells me about one of the potential fellows, a bright, insistent kid who "isn't a complete and utter idiot."

We're starting to agree too much about the guy's competence, so House changes the subject by leaning over my shoulder to check out my project. He rests a hand on my shoulder, then slides it to the top of my back, below my neck. He makes a sarcastic comment about the way I choose to spend my time while he rubs a finger over the base of my neck.

Maybe it's because we're not on his couch, close and warm and happy, but I feel myself blush.

My retort is lame and not all that relevant, and he smirks at me and tugs on a lock of my hair before he limps out of the room.

Part 2