I really appreciate all the reviews, everyone! Fair warning: this chapter is definitely slashier.

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I'd met Julie at a party. My girlfriend's birthday party, actually, so that always makes for an interestingly awkward story. They'd been roommates in college, and still kept in touch years after.

I saw her, as all good clichés go, dancing in the middle of the room with a wine glass in her hand. Grape wine. She smiled vibrantly at everyone but there was an emptiness to it.

And we're back to neediness.

House… Not right now.

Aren't you going to confront her about your car?

Yes.

It's been three hours. What are you waiting for?

I need to think. I don't want to sound accusatory. I'm sure she had a good reason…

A good reason for slashing your tires? Ooh, Jimmy, this just gets better and better.

Look, she's upset. She just—probably didn't want to be left alone.

And she couldn't say, 'Hey, James, maybe you should stay home and keep me company'?

I don't know.

You lived with the woman for five years and you don't know if she's capable of deception?

Everyone's capable of deception.

Ah-hah. So you're learning. That's good.

It's just people usually have a good reason for deception.

Thoughts to ponder. So. Tell me more about Miss Julie. I think it's my turn to ask the "what was she like before?" question.

Julie… Julie was much the same, as far as I can tell. She's one of the few people I know who stare circumstances in the face and not bend to them. In the past five years, she's gotten married, her parents died, she's gotten promoted, we've divorced.

And she's still Julie.

There's a certain integrity to unwavering natures.

Some people call that stubbornness.

But it doesn't mean it's not admirable to a certain extent, either.

You must worship me then.

The very ground you walk on.

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The phone rang. After brief consideration, I answered, prepared to promptly hang up on the delusional phone salesman who thought trying to sell me life insurance at nine-thirty at night was a good idea.

"Dr. Wilson?"

"Foreman," I said, surprised. I glanced at the clock again, as if I might've been wrong. Nope. "Hey. What's going on?"

"I, uh…" He paused, as if feeling out the air to the conversation. "I just wanted to know if you've seen Julie Holloway lately."

I had to remind myself again who was talking to me. It seemed like such a strange thing to hear coming from Foreman. I hadn't expected him to know of her, given that I only ever really mentioned my personal life with House. "Yeah. Actually she's here at House's." The silence that followed stretched awkwardness to another level, and I hoped I wouldn't have to explain this one.

"Oh. Okay. Because we tried getting a hold of her today, but she wasn't answering her home phone number."

"Why would the hospital be calling her?"

"Because she had an appointment today," Foreman said, as if wondering why I hadn't known previously.

"For what?"

"Her ultrasound. She's been coming every other Sunday. She'd had to reschedule this one for Tuesday, and the doctors were surprised she'd missed this one without calling."

"Her…her what?"

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So tell me. When you met Julie, all she needed was a dancing partner?

At first glance, yeah.

And you helped her out. Your girlfriend at the current time didn't mind?

Julie was her friend. And Rachel had other guy friends to dance with too. We were just having a good time.

Rachel. You still remember her name? Are you secretly still pining over her?

I don't pine, House.

Of course not. Not over people who aren't whittling away with desperation, am I right?

I'' send your Vicodin tomorrow, by the way. I hope that'll improve your mood by the next time I talk to you.

And as you danced with Julie, she collapsed into a tearful confession of how unfortunate her life has been, and her sadness swept you off your feet.

If that's what you want to think, then think it.

Imagine if Galileo had said that to the priests about their whole geocentric theory. Pff! We'd still be going around as self-righteous Earthlings who think our planet is the center of the universe.

Right. So thanks to Galileo we just go around as self-righteous Earthlings knowing that our planet revolves around the sun. Big difference.

Maybe I should go back to weaning you off of needing neediness. That was working fairly well before, wasn't it?

House. Come on.

I hear that smile in your voice. Remember? Last Thursday, I believe it was.

Um… Yes. House, we don't really need to revisit this…

It's exposure therapy: an experiment in you not needing to provide for someone else. Tell me what happened again.

House.

It's good for you. Besides, I want to hear your version.

You… You waited up for me to come home. You'd skipped out on clinic duty. I know because Cuddy was threatening to leave phone messages until you disconnected the phone or came in feeling guilty to make up the time.

I believe the former is more likely. Stay on topic, Jimmy.

Fine. So I… I came home, and you were waiting. Usually you're playing your GameBoy or reading or catching a game, but not this time. You didn't say anything. You pulled me into your room quickly, wordlessly discarding my clothes like pretenses, not stopping to coax and compliment and admire like you've made a habit of doing. You grumbled something about my tie, how particularly ugly this one was, and then promptly slung it around my wrists and fixed it to the bedpost, tightly securing my arms above my head.

It was the worst shade of yellow I'd ever seen.

It was blue.

Blue makes for a miserable yellow, doesn't it? Perfect for restraint, though.

I struggled for effect until you growled in my ear to stay still if I even wanted to entertain the thought of you touching me. I stopped writhing.

Kind of.

Some of it I couldn't suppress. I gazed up at you. I felt… I felt helpless, entirely helpless, beneath your long, narrow build and the resolved steadiness in your face. You remained fully clothed, a dominant contrast to my exposed body beneath yours. Sweet, painful vulnerability clouded everything but the throbbing rush shooting through my chest, rippling through my limbs, whirlpooling with every glance and touch you gifted to me.

Jimmy…

You ran a critical eye down my frame. I was your white board; please, make a diagnosis, anything. You could just look at me and I'd ache.

I know.

I tensed, desperately pushing my body upwards to meet the hand you ran across my chest. Slowly, you traced the beguiling cut of shallow muscle that ran diagonally along my waist, fingers skimming my hipbone like you were making a casual turn on a well-traveled road. They took a deliberate detour toward my thighs, brushing, massaging—

I still hear you; I still see you.

I moaned protests about how unfair your teasing was. You whispered back things that made me groan even louder, twisting and contorting under the sweet torture of your touch everywhere but where I wanted it.

You wanted to touch me back.

But you wouldn't let me. I felt so objectified. God, it—it was incredible. The rest of my body screamed jealously for attention.

I wanted to see what you'd do if I did this. Action and reaction.

You ducked your head and nibbled at my neck, tasting my pulse as it beat frenetically against your tongue. Your scruff would leave brush burns for me to wear the next day; for me to trace over with a finger, revisiting the memory.

I was in love with you.

You still are.

Is that a question?

No. I know it doesn't have to be.

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I let the steak sit in its frozen glory on the counter. The green beans were open but uncooked. I'd eaten some cold, leftover pizza from who-knows-when and wandered into the bedroom, where Julie had kept herself in isolation for evening.

Leaning against the doorway frame, I waited for her to acknowledge me.

I stopped waiting when I realized she wasn't going to.

"Jules."

"What?" She lifted her head from House's pillow, then uncurled her limbs and sat up. She blinked at me, her verdant eyes tumultuously bright in the dim room.

"I want you to be honest with me."

She stared like she was incredibly interested in the blank space between us. I watched as her slender fingers entwined together, like roots tangling clandestinely beneath the ground.

I closed my eyes for a second. Easy questions first. "Why… Why did you do that to my car?"

Her head shot up quickly, which was enough to confirm that House had been right. Another point for the master manipulator.

"I told you. You wouldn't understand."

"You're not giving me the chance to," I said. I let an encumbered a silence follow, waiting for her to admit what I wanted to hear from her lips—a confession, not a frantic response to my accusation.

She kept staring, her bluntness statuesque. I swallowed the taste of pain coating the back of my throat.

"Is it because you didn't want me to know about your appointment?" I asked quietly.

"My—my what?"

"Sunday ere convenient. I don't work on Sundays; there was never a chance I might run into you. But Tuesday—Tuesday might be a problem. So you stopped me from going to work, but couldn't get out of the house without me noticing. Julie." I shook my head, wetting my lips. "Why couldn't you just tell me?"

Her breath hitched, and I inadvertently tensed, expecting her to yell. Instead, she wrapped a protective hand around her belly again and returned a steadfast stare.

"Because you can't handle anything long-term. I don't need you involved in this."

I suddenly wished she had yelled. Screamed, even. Threw something at me. Anything.

"I can't—can't handle—?"

The shock was coming in waves. Julie. Pregnant.

Slowly it occurred to me that I knew nothing about kids. When they happened to be patients, sure—that was different. It's always easier to deal with children who will be sent home in a day or week or so. There's an objective goal behind spending time with them: Make a diagnosis, give a treatment, see to it they get better. Then off they go, like a passing blip on the radar, no longer a cause for worry. They're much more upfront than adult patients, too, which makes consultations go much more smoothly. They're not trying to hide any details that might indirectly sway a diagnosis; they are candid about everything.

Yes. I know a lot about kid patients. But kids who are my own, I know nothing.

I stared at Julie and felt like two people stared back. It was awkward, like when a friend introduces you to one of their own friends, who they've known for years and who you've never even heard of. It's unnerving, at best.

Okay. Why? The first two years of our marriage we'd tried for children, until it became obvious that the forces that be decided we wouldn't make ideal parents. I offered to do the invitro but she declined. It just wasn't the same; besides, our respective careers were both becoming the most prevalent part of our lives.

Five years later—why now? This kid had impeccable timing. And now she thought I was incapable of being a part of it?

A part of it? A part of what? I'm not even part of her life anymore.

She swung her legs off the bed and moved to leave. I caught her hand and silently pleaded with her to stay, even if only for an explanation.

"How far along are you?"

She hesitated. "Three months."

I looked at her again, this time with the dedication usually reserved for artwork. So maybe that's what had been different. Maybe I'd subconsciously noticed. She still was petite; she'd never been pregnant before, either, I reasoned, which was probably why she wasn't showing it as obviously as other women might. Still, there was a slight swell to her stomach, mostly concealed under the bagginess of my shirt she still wore.

"Three months," I repeated quietly. A thought stung in my mind. The words just barely formed on my tongue. "It's…it's mine, right?"

A lock of blonde hair floated into her eyes as her head turned. "I don't know."

The bed beneath me suddenly seemed to crumble like sand recanted by tides. I waited for the words to echo back in the hollow cavern of my head.

I don't know.

"Did you—you didn't get a paternity test then?"

She shook her head. I was amazed at how capable she was of eye contact. "I don't want one."

"Well—well maybe I want one."

"I'm going to be leaving at the end of this week. I called Rhonda, and she said—"

"I don't care about Rhonda," I interrupted, my voice cracking. "I care about you, and this kid."

"I'm sure you do. Which is why you're still at House's, right?"

Again, I stopped. The conversation was as riddled as the pothole-laden streets coerced by Jersey traffic. There was something strange to her tone.

"What?"

"I know, James," she said simply, her voice coiled and tight. But somehow, it remained vacant of anger, repulsion, anything that I feared her reaction might include. It was absurdly systemic. "I've known for awhile."

The room suddenly seemed incredibly ill-shapen, uneven, bulging out at the sides. I heard her, but there was no way she could've said what I thought she said. I watched her mouth move as if lip-reading was more reliable than my ears.

She must have sensed me fumbling over my thoughts. My lame response consisted of limping, flailing syllables sprawling uselessly between us. She let me ramble for a few seconds before shaking her head, closing the levees of my confusion.

"Your shirts hang on one side of his bedpost. You hover around the piano like a ghost. And…and you talk in your sleep."

Condemning evidence if I've ever heard any. My face flushed, wondering with a bit of humiliation what uncensored words had streamed out of my mouth in slumber.

She either looked resignedly happy or depressingly morose, I couldn't tell which.

And then she was kissing me, and the word "stop" fled like a desperate, panicked fugitive from my vocabulary.