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You and House have finally worked things out. 

Or you might have just gotten drunk and ended up fucking each other senseless.  It might be the same thing.  You’ve never been clear on the semantics of funny things like this. 

See, it all started when you were out watching a game of football—not the American sort, the football that the rest of the proper world watches—in a bar and House suddenly appeared.  Seriously.  Out of nowhere.  One minute?  Not.  Next minute?  There.  It was just like that.  But House was drunk and started rambling on about all sorts of things that you can’t remember, and you somehow got it in your head that because it was your boss who was disgracing the bar with his presence, by default, it became your duty to take him home for the night.

It didn’t occur to you until much, much later that you could have just called him a cab. 

Following a very irritating and fruitless struggle to get House to wear a seatbelt, you drove him back to his apartment.  You very diligently ignored the way House kept talking about your pretty hair and your pretty eyes and your pretty, pretty lips, until you surprised yourself by opening your mouth and proclaiming (albeit, very sarcastically) that it was House sexy blue eyes that brought you over the edge.  Unfortunately, in that culminating moment of frustration, you’d forgotten the fact that House was drunk and was therefore entirely lost on the concept of sarcasm.  You were quickly reminded of this when House promptly said, “Excellent!  Let’s have sex.”

Only he hadn’t been joking.

The problem had lain with the fact that you’re not gay.   

Women are your thing.  Women are a fabulous thing.  You’ve never needed another thing. 

This became a mantra as you drove House back to his apartment.  A very long drive, during which you definitely did not listen to House talking in a logical, convincing voice about why the two of you screwing actually wouldn’t bring about the apocalypse.  Hypothetically, had you been paying attention to him, House would have probably been extremely persuasive with several very good reasons on his fingers.  It’s a little unfair for anyone to say that you actually started to agree with what he was saying, because that part of the night, you don’t remember very well.  It’s not clear whether you began nodding your head in agreement or had, by pure coincidence, decided to imitate a bobblehead doll at all the wrong moments. 

This somehow led to you following House into his apartment, where you’re pretty sure that House slipped something in your water.  You shouldn’t have accepted the glass of water in the first place, actually, but this didn’t come to you until later.  Like the cab thing. 

So then you were sitting on House’s couch with the drugged water in your hands and your inconvenient head-bobbling going full force.  Things get blurry after this.  You remember that House kissed you on the sofa, and you remember thinking that this was utterly wrong because House was a man, and men aren’t your thing.  Women are your thing.  But House hadn’t listened to you.  Typically.  Maybe you hadn’t said it loud enough.  It had been hard to talk because House was busy doing all sorts of interesting things to you, things that made you gasp and pant and moan—and when you’re making such noises, it gets hard to slip the word ‘no’ in between those syllables.  

The drugs must have really started kicking in by then, because you distinctly remember demanding that House take you to bed.  The fact that you remember this distinctly probably means that House didn’t actually slip something in your water, but you’re willing to overlook that detail for now.  All you know is that somehow, House tricked you into doing this.  The fact that you ended up in House’s apartment, following him into his bedroom, was in no way your fault. 

Unspeakably pleasurable acts commenced on House’s bed. 

That’s as much as you’re willing to remember about it.

You still maintain that women are your thing.  Women are a fabulous thing.  You’ve never needed another thing.  You didn’t know that you could have another thing.  If you do have another thing, that is.  How do you know if men are your thing? 

Men are not your thing, because you’re not gay.  It should be a simple as that.

Only it’s not. 

It was two nights ago that House lured you into his bed, and now you can’t sleep because the room is too cold.  Because your boxers are jumping with static electricity (which is because you forgot the dryer sheet for the millionth time).  Because you can honest to god hear your cell phone charging, and the noise is driving you crazy.  Because you had a Mountain Dew when you got off work.  There are lots of becauses, and none of them are associated with the word ‘House’, because why would you be up into the wee hours of the morning thinking about House?  The fact that you can’t sleep and the fact that you and House screwed exactly two days and three hours ago are not at all related. 

And the fact that you’ve got a count going on how long it’s been since that night has got nothing to do with it, either. 

You think that House must have freaky mind control powers, because it’s the only rational explanation you can come up with for why you find yourself sitting on the couch with your cell phone in hand and House’s number on the screen.  Why are you calling him? 

“This had better be good,” House’s voice says as he picks up.

“Uh.  Hi,” you say intelligently.

“Do you know what time it is?” House grouses, sounding like he just woke up.

“Yes.  Well, no, not exactly, but yes, I know it’s late.  Or early.  Or just a generally bad time to be calling.  Whichever way you want to look at it.”  You’re babbling.  “I want to come over.”

You do? 

House has similar thoughts.  “You do?” he says.

Your mouth moves before your brain can stop it.  “Not to have sex.  If you want, we can, but I’m not saying that I want to come over because of that, just if you want to, that’d be okay.  But I want to come over.  Please.  I can—”  Thank god, your brain manages to stop your mouth before you say that.  As you struggle to come up with a passable cover for your pause, it’s occurring to you that speaking without thinking makes you talk like a caveman.  “I can sleep on the couch,” you finish lamely.

“Are you drunk?” House asks.

“No,” you say immediately.  This doesn’t sound very convincing, so you quickly add, “I can’t sleep.”

“So you decided to spread the misery around?” House says, and you hear him shift on the bed. 

The mental image comes unbidden, and you find yourself shifting on the couch to get more comfortable.  “Can I just come over?”

House snorts.  “Why would I let you come over if you’re not soliciting your dick?”

“I can make waffles,” you say, like this makes all the sense in the world. 

“I like pancakes,” House says in return, and you wonder if maybe you should get a decoder ring, because you're completely lost.  Pancakes?

You almost ask House what he means, when he suddenly adds, “You better be a good cook," rather grumpily before he hangs up, and that's when it makes sense.  House wants you to make pancakes in the morning.  You're pretty sure that you can do that.

The dial tone is ringing in your ear a second later, and you realize that you’re going to spend the night at House’s for the second time this week.  And that’s all right, because you’re still not gay.  If you were making it a habit to go over House’s place every night, then you might think about it, but twice is just… coincidence.

And then three times is just a fluke.

Four times, you tell yourself that it’s just bad luck.

The fifth time doesn’t count, because House called you and did that funny mind-control thing and made you come over.

You’re sure that this is a conspiracy when you’re knocking on House’s door for the sixth time.

You don’t remember the seventh night, just the subsequent morning that you spent walking very stiffly down the hallways of the hospital.

Eight rings in as a pathological need that you should really seek treatment for.

But it’s at nine that you give up.  It’s not a habit, and you’re still not gay.  But you’ll admit that maybe going over to House’s has become a trend, and you’ll even go so far as to admit that it’s a trend that you really won’t mind continuing, for the time being.  Just as long as it doesn’t become a habit, because House and habits never end well.  That's why you worked out this trend business.  Because trends?  Tend to last longer than habits.