November 1st

"Are you sure this is a good idea? I'm not sure this is a good idea. At all."

Greg doesn't bother to reply to Wilson's comment. They're on their way to Philly. It's just past rush hour and traffic is beginning to lighten up a bit, though there are still snarls and congestion. Greg keeps his attention on the music. He hasn't been in a car since his return home from the hospital. He wouldn't be in one now if this trip wasn't necessary. Wilson had offered to take the back roads, but another hour of travel time holds no appeal either.

"From what you told me, it sounds like she's done. I hate to say that, but all the signs are there." Wilson passes a couple of trucks. When the silence goes on too long, he tries again. "House, you didn't talk to her for—"

He glares at Wilson in the rear view mirror. "Don't need a recap."

"Apparently you do." Someone cuts in ahead of them and Wilson brakes. Greg grips the seat back. It infuriates him that his hands are trembling.

"Dammit, watch where the fuck you're going!"

"Hey, it wasn't me!" Wilson sounds petulant. "I told you—"

"Oh, shut up." Greg forces himself to sit back and huddles inside his coat, closes his eyes. This has to work. He isn't sure what he'll do if it doesn't. "Put on some music." He takes a quick peek to see Wilson reach for the radio. "I know you're already listening to Christmas carols. Put it on something else."

His driver obliges. After a moment or two, a rhythmic melody fills the interior—jazz from the local college station. Greg feels his anxiety subside just a little.

"You really think she'll talk to you?" Wilson is careful to keep his tone neutral, that's abundantly clear—trying hard not to spook his friend. Greg stares out the window at the lights. It's sunset now, and darker than normal because of heavy overcast.

"Doesn't matter." He has no intention of giving up. He'd watched her in the café, had seen the pain he'd caused and the anger, but no revulsion or hatred. He could work with that.

"You're headed into stalker territory, you know. Forcing her to let you in—"

"I'm not forcing anyone. Mind your own business."

The other man sinks into a resentful silence after that, but Greg doesn't care. He's too busy wondering how on earth he'll pull this off. Even if Gardener doesn't hate him, she's still angry enough to keep a good mad on for some time. If he gets it wrong, it'll take even longer to get her back.

This is a spectacular fuck-up. It isn't the first time he's thought that. If he's honest with himself he knew it almost from the time he could think clearly, about two days after he instituted his scorched-earth policy. "I should have called her," he says aloud. Wilson snorts.

"Ya think?"

"No kibitzing from the cabbie."

"Uh uh. I'm driving and paying for the gas. I get to say anything I want." Wilson peers at the exit sign. "Might be a good idea to get something to eat."

Greg's stomach is already in knots. "Nope."

"Well, I could stand to pick up a burger. I haven't had anything since this morning."

They end up at a drive-thru, where Wilson gets a cheeseburger, a double order of fries and a couple of small Cokes. Greg stares at the food. It smells good, for cheap stuff; he just can't eat it.

"Wow. Never thought I'd see the day when you refused food." Wilson holds up a fry, munches it. Greg glares at him.

"You . . . you're enjoying this."

Wilson chews and swallows. When he can speak he says "Yes. Yes I am."

There's no reply worth offering that wouldn't start a huge battle, and he's not in the mood for once. Greg sets the Coke in a holder and places the fries next to Wilson's order. He could just roll down the window and dump them that way, but those innocent little potato sticks haven't done anything to merit that kind of treatment. Besides, if he leaves them behind it's inevitable that Wilson will eat them, and ruining the endless diet is a small but worthy payback for all the pontificating that's gone on in the last couple of days.

Soon enough they're on their way to Gardener's place. Greg watches the buildings go by, people congregated in doorways or sidewalks—it's a Friday night, prime time for dinner and dancing and sex. He wishes he was in a bar somewhere, killing his liver with plenty of whiskey or bourbon.

After much too short a time, they pull up in front of the townhouse. Someone's home; warm yellow light spills through the windows of what Greg knows is the apartment on the second floor. Wilson puts the car in park and shuts off the engine. "Here we are. I'll wait."

"No you won't." Greg takes a firm hold of his cane.

"But if she—"

"Doesn't matter."

"You're gonna walk all the way back to Princeton?" Wilson shakes his head. "Come on, House. Don't be ridiculous."

For answer he struggles out of the back seat and on his feet. It takes him some time, but he gets it done. "Go home," he says into the interior of the car, shuts the door, straightens, turns to face the house. His pulse rate is elevated, and he feels a little light-headed; he probably should have eaten something, but no doubt by now he'd be puking up anything he put in his stomach. As he moves forward he hears the car start, and then he's alone, to succeed or crash and burn.

The walk to the door is the longest he's made in some time, at least in terms of emotion. He knows Gardener has every reason to turn him away, but there's a chance, just a chance, she'll let him in, or at least listen. He hasn't thought yet about what would happen if she refuses. He can't think about it; he has to focus on this moment, this liminal space between what happened and what's to come, when he can half-convince himself anything is possible.

At last he's at the door. Greg stands there for a few moments. It's a chilly night, but even with the strong city lights he can see a few stars high above in between the clouds, sprinkled across the dark sky. He stares up at them, takes a deep breath, pushes the doorbell intercom.

"Yes?" Gardener answers after a short interval. She sounds tired, and preoccupied.

"Dana." And just that fast, his throat closes up. He can't say anything else. There's no answer. His heart sinks; she won't come to him . . . He fumbles for his phone and hopes it's charged. Wilson put a taxi app on it somewhere. As he brings it out the door opens and Gardener stands before him, clad in leggings and a long-sleeved shirt and her silk robe. She gazes at him for what feels like an eternity before she moves aside for him to come in. He does so, and crosses his fingers in a metaphorical sense as he limps over the threshold and into her place.