"Do what you want, then," House says; not as though he doesn't care, but as though he can't stop her. He can't, except by turning and leaving her apartment, and he is less ashamed of being Greg House than he is of being sent home alone, cold, horny and angry.

His hands slip away from her, moving hers out of the way to slip pants and briefs down over his hips and to his thighs, before stopping. He lifts her hands by the wrists, rests them against her chest, the fasten of her shirt between her breasts. Leaning forward for another kiss, as hungry as the first, he traps both their hands between their bodies. Even the darkness isn't enough to make him forget the scars. He isn't ready for her to see them.

"Condom," he says pointedly, "Lube. Unless you're interested in doing this some other way. I'm all ears. Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm all hands right now. But you know what I mean."

The joke is defensive, but not sarcastic, and not entirely uncaring.