Quite predictably she ends up driving him home. Now he's sitting next to her. He's inexplicably antsy and somewhat hyper, his left knee constantly bouncing up and down. It's making her nervous, so she lays her hand on his knee when they stop at the next traffic light and throws him an imploring look. "Please, stop it."

"Yes, Mum," he replies and sticks out his tongue at her. He's in a better mood than usual. Maybe because they finally let him out of the hospital. Maybe because he's finally able to self-medicate again, without anyone noticing how many pills he's really popping. Oh, scratch that last thought! Of course, nobody could keep him from taking his beloved Vicodins. So what is it? She has to admit she hasn't even the slightest idea.

For once she decides to stop analysing everything to death and smiles back at him. Why shouldn't she allow herself to be in a good mood as well for no reason whatsoever? She looks at him, takes in his smile, stores the picture away in her memories. Sunlight catches in his blue irises and makes them look almost grey. She notices the wrinkles around his eyes. She doesn't see them often. He's not very generous with those smiles of his. A car honks behind them. The traffic light is green again.

Cameron flinches out of her daze and shifts gear. The car is moving again. He is chuckling silently, amused by her behaviour. She finds that it's not in her power to hold grudges today, so she lets it go without a comment. They're driving in companionable silence for a while until she decides to finally speak up. She has to ask him that question sometime. She's postponed it several times for his benefit, wouldn't ask it as long as he was recovering, but now she suddenly feels the need to hear an answer to it.

"Have you talked to Wilson yet?" There, it's out in the open. It was quite inevitable, really.

He looks at her sharply for a moment, she can feel his eyes regarding her profile not all too gently, then he finally answers. "No," it sounds like 'duh', "I prefer not to fight a two-front war, thank you. Didn't bode well for that little French guy either." His answer is not as hostile as she expected. After all it was better than getting no answer at all.

"A two-front war?" She looks at him questioningly. It's not like she doesn't have a vague idea what this could mean, but she prefers him to spell it out for her. Maybe that makes her a bit vain but she needs to hear him say that she's important to him in some way.

"Oh please! As if you don't know! Wilson's Russia, you can still choose. Spain or Britain?"

"History has never been my forte, but wasn't Napoleon forced to retreat from Russia?"

"Yup, that's why I prefer not to go there at all. Frosty and rather unwelcoming."

She laughs. "Don't you think we've taken that analogy far enough?"

"It's served its purpose, though."

She just nods and concentrates on driving again. She hasn't driven to House's apartment that often. Maybe a dozen times over the last four years. Usually her visits have been work related.

After a few minutes the car stops. They've reached their destination. She opens the door to get his things from the trunk. She has already shouldered his bag, when he steps up next to him. He's leaning against the side of her car casually, watching her. His gaze is lacking its usual detachment, it's almost tender. He reaches out and slips his long fingers under the strap of the bag, taking it off her shoulder.

She protests weakly, "No." For some reason it doesn't seem right to let him carry it. He's barely out of hospital. She wants to make things easier for him. It doesn't stop with the bag.

He throws her a lopsided grin and tugs more instantly at the strap. She relents with a disapproving frown.

"I'm not angry anymore," she blurts out. She's been holding in those words for too long now. It's been days since she's last felt angry at him. Now she mostly feels the need to be there for him. It hasn't escaped her how hard he's been trying to make things right with her, though the way he went about it was rather clumsy. But clumsy meant it was him, him trying to win her over again. He's made an effort. One small step for man, one giant leap for House. She would have to have a heart made out of stone not to forgive him.

"You're not angry anymore," he repeats, staring at her as if he wants to make sure that his self-established everybody-lies-rule doesn't apply to her. The question mark at the end of the sentence cannot be overheard.

"No," she shakes her head, "no two-front war anymore." For once the look in his eyes is too intense for her, she averts her eyes shyly because she isn't ready for that degree of intimacy yet. The looks passing between them have always meant more than words.

Even though she is fasinated by his eyes, even though she's curious to find out what he tries to communicate with mere looks, she doesn't feel comfortable enough to simply wait how this situation will turn out. So she the first to move towards the steps of the apartment building and after a brief moment of deliberation he follows as well.

She accompanies him to his door, waits till he has fiddled long enough with his keys to find the right one and has unlocked the door. The strange urge to leave takes a hold of her. She's suddenly jittery and nervous like a teenager. The situation between them is awkward. What happened between them before the accident seems so long ago. They were moving in a certain direction. Moving, yes, but where they would end up eventually was never clear.

"Okay, I'll better go now," she says and leans forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. In her thoughts she's already halfway down the corridor, almost in her car, very nearly driving away to her apartment where she will hopefully be able to sort out that emotional mess she's in. But he stops her. Quite unexpectedly she suddenly finds herself in his embrace.

"No, don't," he says.

She melts, just because of those two words. It's like 'I love you' in curmudgeonese, which she's speaking quite fluently by now.

"Okay," she breathes, "I won't." There is no way avoiding eye contact right now. As a kid she always liked "the Jungle Book" a lot. She always found Kaa's hypnotizing eyes with those red spirals coming out of them rather funny. Back then she didn't have the faintest idea that it was possible to be transfixed by someone's gaze either or else she wouldn't have thought it funny in the first place. Her mouth suddenly goes dry and her mind's completely blank.

He does what she doesn't expect him to. Makes himself vulnerable. Because she can pull back anytime she wants to. His arms are now wrapped around her loosely. She can step out of the embrace anytime she wants. But she doesn't. She stays, waiting what will happen next.

He leans in slowly, almost tentatively. Their lips meet briefly. The kiss is not seductive. It's shy and hopeful like a first kiss, which it is in many regards. They start over, not from scratch but from square one. It's good, because for the longest time she's thought it was impossible for them. That they were fresh out of chances. She's suddenly feeling incredibly relieved like a weight is lifted of her shoulders.

He pulls back only to rest his forehead against hers and take a deep breath. Maybe she's not the only one who's relieved, she realizes. He looks at her with a serious expression on his face. She waiting for what he has to say, judging by the time he's taking for it, it has to be something big. "I'm sorry," he says with unexpected sincerity. She's surprised to hear him say it again and even more surprised that he so desperately craves her forgiveness. He needs to hear her say those words.

"I know that you are. And it's okay really," she pulls him closer to her impulsively. "I forgive you." She can feel him hug her back fiercely, his chin resting on her shoulder while her hands are rubbing soothingly over his back. She doesn't know how it feels for him but there's a lump in her throat and her vision is getting blurry. She doesn't want this to turn into a sobby scene, probably his neighbours are already lurking behind their spyholes already, she's particularly suspecting the old lady from 13B, so she disentangles herself him after a short while, quickly wiping at the corners of her eyes.

"No, waterworks," he admonishes with a lopsided grin, his voice softer than usual.

"No, waterworks," she promises sincerely and they step inside his apartment together.

The corridor is quiet after they close the door. After a few seconds the two shadows that have partially obscured the light-flooded space that is the space between the door of apartment 13B and the floor start moving. Mrs. Fink-Nottle makes her way to her comfortable armchair in front of her television, shaking her head. The age difference! And if that wasn't enough, on top of all things, he's a drug addict. She sits down, switching on her favourite soap. It's about doctors. The chief of medicine has just slept with his pretty young resident.

The room is dark. The blinds are drawn. He can't remember when he last got out of bed. He's still wearing the same clothes, the same shirt and trousers he had on when he last saw her. It feels like an eternity has passed since then and for all he knows it might have. He can't tell how much time has passed, how many days and hours, minutes, seconds. Knowing what date it is won't make things any easier.

There is no sound inside the room except for his even breathing and the occasional rustle of the sheets when he turns. Sometimes the silence is interrupted by the ringing telephone. He lets it ring, lets the answering machine take care of that nuisance. He doesn't want to deal with people and their regrettful reassurances. The pity in their voices would only make him angry. And anger is not the appropriate response to condolences, he's quite sure of that.

He's counted the times the telephone has rung. At first the calls came quite hesitantly but the last couple of days the phone has been ringing more and more. He's counted sixty calls. Certainly some of them have called twice because he doesn't know that many people. He tries to distract himself, in order to not have to think of her, tries to guess who those callers might have been. Cuddy, yes, Cuddy for sure. Why would she call? To tell him that he can take a few days off, maybe. To tell him she's sorry. And perhaps Cameron. He dimly remembers her visiting him in his office. But it's been so shortly after, after what happened to Amber, that he can't seem to remember what Cameron said, but he knows without a doubt what their conversation must have been about. Who else has called? His parents, of course. He goes through the list of names, but deliberately leaves out one name. The one friend in particular he doesn't want to hear from right now. House.

But it's no use wondering about the identity of those callers. Sooner or later the answering machine will play those missed calls to him anyway. He dreads that moment, but doesn't have the energy to simply get up and delete them. He suspects it will happen rather sooner than later, because sixty calls? Who's he kidding?

And as if someone had heard those thoughts, the phone starts ringing again. He's listening to the obnoxious sound that echoes in his ears and merges with the next ring. This time the phone is bothering him more than the last couple of times. The caller must be particularly annoying. The answering machine picks up. He's relieved the noise has finally stopped, but the relief disappears instantly. "Hey Wilson," he hears House's voice over the answering machine. House pauses, apparently at a loss for words. As he should be. Wilson sits up in bed and stars hostily towards the living room where the answering machine sits on a table quite innocently. "It's me. Yeah, guess you really don't want to talk right now," House has the audacity to sigh. Wilson is outraged. "Anyway, let me know if you do." Another pause. Wilson is fuming. He gets out of bed. Is that bastard expecting him to actually answer the phone or what is he waiting for?

"Bye," House says and hangs up. Wilson's standing in his bedroom. He's breathing heavily. He's furious. But for the first time in one week he's out of bed.

tbc