Disclaimer...I don't know nothin' 'bout ownin' no show! House is not mine. Now quit asking me or I will continue to revert to butchering literary quotes.

Author's Notes...Like what you see? Go to my LiveJournal and friend me--fics always hit there first. I love talking about writing, and just about everything else--I'm very friendly! Oh, and if you enjoy this, please review. They're lovely, and there's nothing like being appreciated. Anything--criticism, praise, nods of acknowledgement--is love. Thanks!

The first person that asked you why you liked House was a nurse. He was young and handsome and probably wondering why you chose to go out with some old crazy rather than him. It was windy that day. Drizzled a little. Your hair was frizzy. You couldn't answer him, not for the life of you. You weren't offended. You weren't defensive. You felt your hair kink above your head, and that was the most acute sensation that day.

The second was Foreman, and that was two days later. You brushed him off. You thought he'd forget. He did not, and he didn't let you either. You still haven't answered him, though. You're very good at deflecting questions.

The third was your neighbor. The fourth was a surgical intern. The fifth was the cafeteria lady. The sixth was House himself. The seventh was your mom. The eighth your grandmother. It is not until your sister takes the place of lucky number nine that you realize how ironical it is that you've never asked.

And really, that's not like you. You've always been the questioning type. Not that you've delved into the mysteries of the world; but wonders had always managed to weave themselves into all your big emotions. In first grade, you asked who invented the alphabet when you were made fun of, because you had couldn't seem to learn how to read. In ninth, you wanted to know exactly whose footprints were embedded on the sidewalk in front of your new house in your new neighborhood, where you had no friends. You wanted to know who left. Why. In the beginning of medical school, when you couldn't for the life of you figure out how it was that Cain and Abel, the only children of the only humans, managed to have children when you couldn't keep one alive inside of you for two damned months.

That's not the only thing he's changed about you. You were cool, even urbane, with all your friends, but when you're around him, it's all you can do not to terrifically embarrass yourself, and some days, you can't even manage that. If he's within a five foot radius, your heart skips a beat if it's not beating ten times as fast. It doesn't do that with anyone else, and it never used to do that before. You've never considered your heart as stupid, but now it seems likely.

It really is thick, though. Falling in love the first time was forgivable; it was still innocent. But the second time…that was thick. Really thick.

But the dumbest thing about it, the absolutely, positively, dumbest thing about it, is that it hasn't broken yet.

You never thought you would want to be hopeless, dejected, but now the longing for that is so great you think your skin will crack for containing such a wish. It hurts, it's like spring fever, you want so badly to not love him anymore…but you do. You do, and you've run out of ways to stop it.

But G/d knows you want to. G/d knows you want to.

You told this to your sister, who came around one lonely Saturday, sans All-American Husband and Perfectly Perky Daughters.

"And the worst part is," you told her, "I hate him for this. I hate him. I hate him. But I…I hate him!" You gestured helplessly. "I really, really hate him."

She smirked at you, and across the table, you could see her rub her swollen belly. "So the consensus is a general dislike?"

But it's not. Your hate is very specific. His eyes. His rumpled clothing. His cane smacking against the floor. His way of making your stomach flip just so. His oneliners. His twoliners. His liners that go on for days and days before you begin to understand them. The way when he stands, he sort of leans to the side. The fray of his collar. His hands. His insane work protocol. His everything.

You hate that you hate him. You hate that you love him. You hate that you don't hate him. You hate him. You hate him. You hate him.

And you love him. And that, you know, makes all the difference.