A Jew and an atheist sitting down together for Christmas dinner – it sounded to Wilson like the beginning of a not very funny joke. Nevertheless, that was what Wilson wanted. He was in the supermarket, picking up the items to make a traditional Christmas dinner. His cart was loaded with a turkey breast, the ingredients for home-made stuffing, potatoes, two vegetables (carrots and Brussels sprouts), and canned cranberry jelly. There was also canned pumpkin and a container of whipping cream for the pie he was planning for dessert.

Christmas dinner was going to be a surprise for House. Since House had been raised in the Christian tradition, as a child he must have eagerly anticipated the arrival of Santa Claus, happily munched on sugar cookie angels, and helped decorate a Christmas tree. Although putting up decorations or hanging up stockings for Santa would be going too far for either of them, House could not possibly object to a bit of seasonal comfort food.

Seasonal comfort was what Wilson really needed. He couldn't fool himself that he was planning a holiday meal for House's benefit. This time of year was stressful for Wilson because it reminded him of too many unhappy events. He remembered Julie meeting him at the door with his packed suitcase already in her hand, telling him that she had found someone else and he had to leave. Even worse was the memory of the Christmas Eve when House had overdosed on Vicodin, and Wilson had him found lying on the floor next to a puddle of vomit. Wilson knew that he wasn't going to be able to erase those painful memories entirely, but it did seem possible to overlay them with something more pleasant. For once, Christmas didn't have to mean pain and loss. This year, Christmas could mean enjoying a meal and conversation with someone he loved. For at least one evening, he and House could be a family of two.

Wilson added a dozen boxes of chocolates to the items in his shopping cart. Every year, he brought chocolates to the hospital employees who worked over the holidays. Working when everyone else was enjoying time with friends and family could be depressing, and they deserved to know that their efforts were appreciated.

-------------------

When House woke up, it was almost eleven. The apartment was silent and empty. Wilson had left a note saying that he had gone grocery shopping. House was relieved. He was going to have to tell Wilson about Stacy, since too many people had seen them leave the party together for their encounter to remain a secret. However, he wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say to him, or how Wilson would react.

House showered and dressed and ate a cold piece of pizza for a late breakfast. House looked out the window. The streets and sidewalks were clear of snow, and the sky was blue. Princeton was having a spell of unseasonably warm weather, so spring-like that even the trees were confused and some had come into bud months too early. It was, House thought, a perfect day to take his motorcycle. Riding his motorcycle always helped to clear his head.

He went to the hook by the door where his motorcycle keys were supposed to be, but they weren't there. He was absolutely sure that he had left them there. Wilson must have hidden them. If Wilson thought that riding a motorcycle was risky, he thought that riding a motorcycle during the winter was practically suicidal. He'd lectured House on treacherous winter weather – the sudden storm from nowhere, the patch of black ice – but House hadn't paid him any attention, so he must have decided to take the keys instead.

House was irritated. He knew Wilson was trying to protect him, but too often the methods he used often involved manipulation, subterfuge and even lies. Fortunately, House had another key that Wilson didn't know about. He retrieved it from its hiding place, inside an ugly but valuable vase one of his grateful patients had given him, and headed out the door.

------------

On his way back from the supermarket, Wilson stopped into the hospital to deliver the Christmas chocolate. He had a couple of boxes for each floor. He left two boxes at the reception desk on the main floor and then headed for the elevator. Some kind person held the elevator door open for him, and Wilson rushed in.

Unfortunately, the kind person was Dr. Birnbaum, a general surgeon and one of Wilson's least favourite people in the hospital. He couldn't fault Birnbaum's surgical skills. It was his personality that Wilson found objectionable. The man seemed to relish other people's misfortunes. He loved to be the bearer of bad tidings.

"Thanks," Wilson said. "Would you mind pushing the button for the second floor? My hands are full."

"Certainly. Anything for the Head of Oncology," Birnbaum said. "I saw your boyfriend at the fund-raising party last night."

Ever since Wilson's relationship with House had become public, Birnbaum had never spoken of House by name to Wilson. He always referred to him as "your boyfriend."

"He was hanging all over Stacy Warner. Looked like he wanted to eat her up for dinner."

"My floor," said Wilson, stepping out of the elevator.

He refused to react Birnbaum's words. Birnbaum followed him out of the elevator and went with him as he went to the nurses' station to deliver the second floor's chocolates.

Birnbaum said, "I thought to myself, Wilson hasn't quite converted him. He's not one hundred percent queer yet."

Wilson walked back to the elevator bank, still ignoring his tormentor. He awkwardly shuffled the boxes in his arms to press the elevator button.

"Then he was at the piano, playing Christmas carols, and she was draping herself over the piano and letting him get a good look at her cleavage. I guess you can't compete with her in that category, can you? " Birnbaum smiled, as if he were only teasing, but the malice in his voice was unmistakeable.

"Next thing you know, they're both headed out the door together, and she's hanging on to his arm like glue. They couldn't even wait for Cuddy to deliver her welcoming address. Not that I blame House. It`s probably been a while since he's had sex with a real woman. I guess he couldn't hold out any longer."

"You've got an ugly mind, Birnbaum," said Wilson, who couldn't remain silent any longer. "Go tell your lies to someone who'll believe you."

Birnbaum realized he'd gone too far. He had no respect for Wilson, but the man was a departmental head, and he had a lot of friends in the hospital. Birnbaum pretended to be offended.

"Don't shoot the messenger. If you don't believe me, ask anybody else who was there."

The elevator arrived at last, and Wilson stepped in. Birnbaum stuck out his arm to stop the elevator doors from closing.

"I heard that Stacy's husband divorced her because she couldn't keep her hands off her friends' husbands. If I were you, I'd keep my boyfriend away from her!"

Finally, the door shut and Wilson was alone. He pressed the button for his own floor and made his way to the sanctuary of his office. He let the boxes of chocolates fall to the floor and shut the door behind him.

House and Stacy. Inevitable, really. Had he really expected them to stay apart the rest of their lives, when their attraction to each other was so strong? He should have known better.

I can ride it out, he thought. I've done it before. They're both strong-minded people who never give an inch. Without me in the middle, showing them a way to compromise without losing face, they'll tear each other apart. House will come back. He'll be exhausted and wounded, but he'll be back. Eventually.

Wilson took a deep breath, picked up the boxes of chocolates and went out to spread Christmas cheer.

-----------------

Wilson decided not to mention Stacy until House did. He would pretend he didn't know about the events of the party and give House a chance to explain. Perhaps Birnbaum had misinterpreted everything, and House had just taken Stacy out for a cup of coffee. He had just wanted to catch up with an old friend. (There was only one problem with that theory: Stacy wasn't an old friend; she was the love of House's life.)

Wilson opened the door to the apartment and carried in the bags of groceries. He called out to House, but no one answered. After he had put the groceries away, he looked around on the off chance that House might have left him a note saying where he had gone. There was no note.

----------------------

House pulled up in front of the address that Stacy had given him. It was a sleek and featureless glass and concrete building. House went to the intercom and pressed her number.

"Stacy, it's me," he said. She buzzed him in.

Stacy's condo was on the eighth floor. She met him at the door. She was dressed casually in jeans and sweater, but she was still stunningly attractive.

"Come in," she said, greeting House with a kiss. "Take off your coat. I was a bad hostess last night. I just took you straight to the bedroom and didn't give you the full tour. This is the living room, of course."

The walls of Stacy's condo were painted white and the furniture was in unobtrusive shades of ecru and sand. Stacy had hung a single painting in the centre of the living room wall. It was a near abstract, showing bands of a thousand different shades of blue and green, that gradually resolved into an image of water, land and sky. Aside from Stacy herself, it was the only touch of colour in the room.

"This is the kitchen," she said.

The room was a marvel of efficiency with its sleek stainless steel appliances. The refrigerator was certain to be empty though, except for a container of milk or perhaps a half-full carton of noodles. Stacy had probably never even touched the oven. Like House, she lived on pizza and Chinese food deliveries, and the occasional microwaved meal.

"The bathroom," she gestured, pointing to a small brightly lit room full of high-tech fixtures and marble surfaces, "and finally the bedroom, which you should remember very well."

A picture almost identical to the one in the living room hung above Stacy's bed. This room also was decorated in bland and inoffensive colours. House wondered how someone as vibrant as Stacy could stand to live in such a sterile environment. Her condo was a blank, white box.

Stacy smiled, and put her arms around House and kissed him. She could feel his tension in his muscles.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I haven't told Wilson yet about what happened last night."

"I can tell him, if you think that would be easier," Stacy said. "I can be tactful."

"He's going to be hurt."

Stacy nodded. "He'll understand though. He knows what we are to each other."

"If he does," House said, "maybe he can explain it to me."

Stacy laughed. She sat down on the bed and grabbed House's hands, pulling him down to sit beside her.

"I love Wilson," House said.

"I know. That's why you don't want to hurt him. I'll be gentle though. I'll explain that when two people love each other as much as we do, they have to be together. It has nothing to do with the way you feel about him. I really don't mind that you love Wilson. Just as long as you love me more."

House shook his head.

"After I tell Wilson what happened, I'm going to ask him to forgive me. I think my chances are pretty good. Wilson has gotten into the habit of forgiving me. He even forgave me for killing his girlfriend."

House stood up and headed for the door.

"I'm sorry, Stacy. I think we both made a mistake last night. I love you, but I don't want to relive our past. I don't think we can change the unhappy ending. Good bye."

-----------------------

On the trip down in the elevator, House wondered whether he had made the right choice. He liked to think that he had chosen Wilson because Wilson represented his future and Stacy his past. He had finally managed to let go off his past and move on.

There was another possible explanation though. Maybe he had just chosen ordinary contentment over a great and consuming passion. It wasn't a decision he would have made twenty or even five years ago. It was a very middle-aged decision.

House couldn't help second-guessing himself. He replayed his decision over and over again in his mind. Most of the time, he picked Wilson.

-------------------------

The good thing about riding a motorcycle is that it demands total concentration. House had to pay attention to the road, to other vehicles, and to his own machine. While he was riding his motorcycle, House was free at last from the burden of his own thoughts.

Instead of going back to his apartment, where he faced the unpleasant duty of confessing his infidelity, House took his favourite scenic route out of the city. By mid-afternoon, it was already getting dark. The temperature dropped significantly as soon as the sun went down, and House shivered in his heavy leather jacket. He knew that he couldn't avoid Wilson any longer. He turned around and headed for home.

House was on a tree-lined street only a few blocks from his apartment, when a shape detached itself from the shadows and darted in front of him. It was a stray dog. Instinctively, House swerved to avoid it. The dog barked once and then disappeared into the darkness. House struggled vainly to control his motorcycle, which skidded into a parked car on the side of the street.

The sound of the collision sent people to their windows. A few of them came out to see what had happened. Someone pulled out a cellphone and called an ambulance. A cold wind blew and it began to snow. Snowflakes landed on the immobile form of the motorcyclist and on the people watching over him. One by one, those holding vigil drifted back to the warmth of their homes. A woman returned, carrying a blanket. She draped it over the accident victim to keep him warm. She was the only one still waiting when the ambulance finally arrived.