What Kelly appreciated was that he'd made them something to eat without being asked. He'd showered first while she'd taken a Christmas call from a relative, and when she'd finally got off the phone and showered herself, she'd found him in the downstairs den tearing the plastic off of a Gilmore Girls box set, a pile of sandwiches and two glasses of milk on the coffee table.

What House appreciated was that it seemed she'd made no effort at all to impress or entice him. She was back in her new Christmas pajamas (he himself was wearing the bottoms, but with a soft T-shirt on top), her toweled dry hair messy and starting to curl, face free of makeup, expression free of pretense.

For both of them, their appreciation stemmed from a feeling of normalcy, or perhaps more accurately, the feeling of having traveled back in time. Despite the earlier awkwardness and intensity, things suddenly felt simpler and easier.

They didn't need to catch up; they spoke almost every day in one way or another. There was nothing pressing to ask or learn, no blanks to fill in. All that had really been missing was what they made quick work of their food and drink to get to: a heavy lean, a comfortable hand on a thigh. Familiar warmth. Familiar scent. Contact. And when House's jet-lagged body betrayed him and he began to doze, they shifted to horizontal, his head pillowed on the plush armrest of the couch, hers on his right arm. Her back flush against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, his left arm around her middle, covered by her own.

"I've missed this," she breathed as they settled, and he hummed and hugged her closer in assent.

House was sound asleep when Wilson entered the den, smiling at Kelly as she reached to pause the DVD. Her voice was low as she asked, "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Actually, I did. It's been a long time since I've done something like that, and I found it really uplifting."

What Wilson appreciated is that Kelly didn't seem at all uncomfortable with his presence, gave no indication that he was interrupting an intimate moment. And so he flopped into the recliner facing toward her and settled in. "I'd ask if you were feeling better, but something tells me..."

"My mother is a wonderful person. A wonderful, beautiful, DETERMINED person who has become a champion meddler in the last while." Kelly smiled fondly. "I suppose she's always been this way, but it's only been since meeting Greg that I can remember her being so overt and unapologetic about it." She sat up then, careful not to disturb House too much, the hand that had been resting warmly on her belly slipping to her hip as she made herself comfortable again. "So, tell me more about your experience."

They talked about that and more, his physical weariness aided by the darkness that was broken only by the light from the TV, making him less inhibited than he might normally be. And then they were talking about her dead husband and his dead girlfriend but it wasn't sad: they were somehow able to celebrate their memories. A Christmas miracle, or so it seemed to Wilson.

Kelly could tell when House had awakened, felt the difference in his breathing, the movement of his fingers where his hand touched her. But she allowed him listen, knowing that if he'd wanted anything else he would have exposed his voyeurism with a sarcastic interjection. Which is what eventually happened, but much later than she would have expected.

Just as well; Evan joined them a few minutes later, chastising Wilson for breaking the cardinal rule of Campbell Christmases by being caught out of his pajamas, announcing that their presence was requested upstairs.

Wilson lagged behind to change as ordered, and when he made his way to the living room he found a quiet, peaceful scene: the room lit only by a twinkling tree and roaring fire, soft holiday music playing from the stereo, Philip and Colleen on the love seat talking quietly to Evan, who sat on the floor with his head resting on his mother's knee, her hands affectionately toying with his hair, massaging his scalp.

And there were House and Kelly, sharing an oversized chair opposite the identical one Wilson took for himself. House's bare feet were propped up on an ottoman and hers were resting the armrest, legs bent over House's lap. One of his hands was clasped in both of hers, while the other drew little patterns on the skin above her ankle. A quiet, unheated intimacy that made Wilson feel shallow pity for himself and deep happiness for his friend all at once.

Without announcement, Philip began half-reading, half-reciting from memory the Christmas story; apparently one of their traditions. And while Wilson didn't share in their faith or even their religious heritage, the atmosphere in the room carried the words in a new way to his mind and heart, and the story - while he still felt it was just a story - seemed more beautiful than ever before. And then the family sang a familiar Christmas hymn, and Wilson could just hear House's humming tenor adding a rich dissonance of resolving seconds and fourths and sevenths to the Campbell's well practiced harmonies, though didn't recognize it in those technical terms. All he knew was that it was flawless and soothing and that it lulled him to a place only far enough from sleep that he was still aware of a later quiet when a blanket was tucked gently and soundly around him.

He assumed from the care taken that it must be Kelly or perhaps her mother, but when a warm hand rested briefly on top of his head, he emerged closer to the edge of consciousness to hear the humming again, under breath and unaccompanied but reflecting a deep contentment. And when he heard the quiet voice, there was no question. "Merry Christmas, Wilson."

"Merry Christmas, House."

Alone now, but feeling oddly content himself after such a long stretch of knowing only loss and misery, Wilson found his tired mind mulling over all he had in that moment to appreciate. And he fell asleep.