The first time it happened, they were both drunk off their asses. James hadn’t asked for details and Greg never offered (when did he ever offer?) but the impression he’d been left with was something about a knock-down, drag-out with Stacy that ended with slamming doors, promises to never speak again, and Greg had sped off into the night in Stacy’s little coupe, leaving her with his more conservative sedan (a car James had helped him pick out, a car he hated) as “one more fuck-you.” And James, living out of the Sheraton across the street from the hospital since Dani forcibly kicked him out, wasn’t too resistant to the idea of getting fall-down drunk in the hotel bar.

(“That’s what happens when you marry Dani and diddle Danielle,” Greg had chided him when he’d shown up at the townhouse. “Our couch has a one-day shelf life.”

“You’re a horrible friend,” Stacy had snorted, padding off in her bare feet and bath towel.)

But getting fall-down drunk had meant discussing the tight-dressed singer girl who was crooning out bluesy tunes a half-step off key, and by the time they stumbled into the elevator (Greg hanging on James; for all his talent in medicine, he tended to misestimate his alcohol tolerance), they were both drunk and horny, and Greg had to be physically restrained from groping the nubile twenty-something in the short skirt who squeezed in beside them.

Neither of them said a word as they peeled off their clothes, no pretense about it, and climbed into the standard-issue queen-size. James thought of the thousand things he could say (from “you love Stacy, even if you’re pissed” to “I’m not gay”; from “where’d you learn that?” to “this can’t be a good idea”), but they dissolved into noises in the back of his throat. Blunt nails scraped his chest, his thighs, his cock; the heat of a tongue contrasted with the cool exhalations of breath against his skin.

He came too soon, his fingers closing around the sheets until his knuckles were white. When he recovered, half-aware of what had really happened in the afterglow, his first impulse was to turn his head and reach for Greg’s lips. Greg shook his head, though, and instead took James’ hand in his own before closing it into a fist around his own erection. The angle was lousy, but he fell into a clumsy rhythm nonetheless, and when Greg grunted deep in the back of his mouth and shifted his hips upward, James wondered if this – sex in a hotel room, drunk off their asses – was the inevitable conclusion of everything.

Greg dressed silently after, uneasy on his feet, and stumbled toward the door. “Thanks for the drinks, Jimmy,” he slurred, and then was gone.

(“If you two ever have sex,” Stacy had once said over her fourth or fifth glass of Merlot, her left leg sprawled over House’s right as the three of them sat on the couch and made lewd jokes in low tones, “you have to invite me.”

“If we ever have sex,” James had replied with a snort, “you’ll have to check me into a mental institution.”

Greg had simply pinched both their thighs and smiled.)

==

The second time it happens, Greg is near the end of his rope. He wears his heart on his sleeve accidentally (when would he ever do it on purpose?), and the impression James is left with is that of an empty shell. He slumps in his wheelchair by the window and turns his prescription vial over in his hand, the slow shaking of pills against plastic as he passes the time by. He doesn’t speak, and neither does James, but they sit in an uncomfortable silence and listen to nothing, except the occasional clatter of the telephone’s tone when Alyssa calls to ream James out for another stupid mistake.

(“She’s a bitch,” Greg said conversationally at the wedding, waving his flask in James’ general direction. His tux, neatly pressed, almost made him look presentable, but there was something about his damned stubble that left him resembling a well-dressed hobo. “Don’t marry her. Or at least, marry a bitch with a brain.”

“We can’t all find the perfect woman,” James grumbled in response, and snatched the flask away from him.)

Stacy is the one who doesn’t call, doesn’t stop by, doesn’t do anything, but every time James keys himself into the townhouse (Greg never answers the door; the path is clear, but he never even tries) and wanders across the floors, he feels her presence. Greg remarked the first day that she’d gone without taking much, and it’s obvious; her books still crowd the shelves, her pictures still line the mantle, and one of her coats still hangs in the closet.

James doesn’t say anything about her books, photos, and coats, though, not as he crosses to the window and snaps the vertical blinds closed. Greg glares darkly at him and James can hear the things he’s not saying (from “fuck you, Jimmy” to “what the hell was that for?”; from “you don’t know what I’m going through” to “go home to your wife”), but no one says anything, not even as James drops to his knees and starts on Greg’s fly.

Greg growls, tries to push his hands away, but as soon as he finds the slit in the nondescript boxers and runs his fingers along the skin beneath, all complaints are silenced. James pulls his flaccid cock out and works it into slow hardness, watching the varied expressions that play across Greg’s face. There’s pain but also pleasure there, need and resistance, and the moment he licks the head, Greg sighs in a way that convinces him this was the right decision.

His come is salty and sour, bitter against James’ tongue, but he swallows in earnest and wipes his mouth. Greg breathes heavily for a few long moments before opening the blinds again and staring outside. He remains silent for the rest of James’ visit, and when James washes himself down the drain in his own house, he tries to pretend he doesn’t do it with Greg’s name on his lips.

(“It’s always about him, isn’t it?” Alyssa demanded, throwing down the dishrag. It smacked loudly against the kitchen sink. “Did you forget which one of us you married?”

“He’s sick, Al,” he replied darkly, hands on his hips. The kitchen was a war zones, various parts of the day strewn across the countertop and table. “He needs me to be there.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, and grabbed the next dish.)

==

The third time it happens, it will be a Tuesday. James will have no idea it’s coming, and Greg won’t warn him (when does he warn anyone?), but he’ll be left with the impression that this whole thing was an extended plot by an ingenious mind, the plot of a brilliant doctor to finally get exactly what he wants. James will lounge on the couch with a beer and a rerun of Family Guy, his feet kicked up on the coffee table, and Greg will keep his nose buried in a foreign-language medical journal, occasionally snorting out a half-laugh at the television before turning the page.

(“Remember the days when my couch had a shelf life of one day?” Greg asks one evening, waiting impatiently for James to put his legs down so he can get to the rest of the couch. “I think I want to reinstate them.”

“Yeah, right,” James replies with an eye roll, and moves his legs.)

They’ll spend most the night that way, sniping occasional comments and drinking beer, and when Greg moves to the couch (after bitching that James is screwing up the cushions; it’ll be the argument of the week), it’ll be casual and expected. He’ll steal the remote and scroll through the TiVo menu, and James will look around as he does and realize how much of Greg’s apartment is now his, too; he’ll notice the places his books have ended up, the way his coat and tie hang over the armchair, the way his journals now get delivered to 221B instead of the big house on Maple.

And when Greg leans over in the middle of last week’s The O.C. and kisses him, hard, on the lips, James won’t be surprised. He’ll think of everything he really should say (from “how long has this been going on?” to “I’m not gay”; from “I wanted to kiss you the first time” to “shave your stubble”), but he won’t say any of it, not even as Greg’s tongue teases his lips and then wriggles its way into his mouth.

They’ll stumble into Greg’s bedroom, they’ll throw clothes on the floor, they’ll maneuver onto the bed and, somehow, never lose that contact. James’ll grunt when his bare cock meets Greg’s, their hard, hot flesh grinding together, and Greg will bite his neck in a place not hidden by a collar. Their fingers will explore every contour of familiar and unfamiliar skin, from shoulders to knees and back again, and Greg won’t even still as James’ hand ghosts the scars on his right thigh.

Every motion will be perfectly uneven, perfectly awkward, perfectly imperfect. Greg will mutter nonsense against James’ ear, lips hot and wet against the side of his face, and James will shudder at every incoherent syllable. When he does come, he’ll come hard, spilling messily across Greg’s stomach and cock, and Greg will only wait for one more clumsy pump before joining James in release. They’ll slump together, fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, and when they wake up, Greg will rub his stubble and announce, “I’m not going to kiss you, Morning Breath. Go brush.”

(“I don’t understand you, Wilson,” Cuddy chides one day in the clinic, her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed. James looks down at a chart and Greg rolls his eyes. “You at least have the decency to pretend that you’re not a bastard. Why spend time around the real bastard?”

“You assume it’s a choice,” he mutters, and flips a page in the chart.

Greg smirks and leans in close to both of them. “It’s because I’m great in bed. Ain’t that right, Jimmy?” He punctuates the question with a completely indiscreet grope of James’ ass and, as James whirls around to smack him with his chart, Cuddy throws up her hands and stalks off.)