Exhaustion had more effect on his inhibitions than alcohol ever had, though trust may also have been a factor. Before he knew it, House had told Kelly the whole story.

Just the facts. The feelings were too obvious to even mention.

He'd turned the lights back off and was laying on top of the covers. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw her profile but not her pity as she sat cross legged facing him and listened with rapt attention. She didn't touch him and he didn't reach for her.

"And you saw him tonight," she prodded, bringing him back to the present.

"Yes."

"And did you talk about Amber?"

"No. We didn't talk about anything. Except the car with the California license plates that I was about to drive away in, and the woman I borrowed it from."

She ignored his attempt at levity. "House..."

"Don't say it. Please."

"Greg, I need to say it because it's the truth."

"Seriously, just don't." He rolled away from her and pushed himself upright, but her hands on his shoulders stopped him from standing.

"Greg." She was kneeling behind him, her touch changing from firm restraint to tender reassurance. "You aren't to blame for this. It wasn't your fault."

He resented her in that moment for giving him the rote answer, the first answer that anyone would give. He expected more from her. He NEEDED more from her.

But when he started again to pull away she was on her feet and standing in front of him, blocking his way. She pulled his chin up so he would be forced to meet her eyes. "Do you hear me? It isn't your fault," she repeated with fierce conviction.

And then he saw the street light through the window reflected in her watery eyes, and all at once he understood: Kelly had sent her husband to the store, and he'd been killed on the way. If House was to blame, than so was she. And no one could ever make that accusation. "It's not your fault, either," he told her quietly.

The tears spilled over, but she held his gaze. The hand under his chin moved to cup his cheek without breaking contact, her thumb brushing briefly over his lips as she did so. Then she rested her forehead on his, her breathing slightly ragged as she fought for control.

After a few moments, when her breathing had returned to normal, he wordlessly maneuvered her back into bed, helping her to get settled onto her stomach and pulling the blankets carefully over her recovering back. Impulsively he dropped a kiss onto the exposed skin of her neck, and then he returned to his own bed for the remainder of the night.

Nothing had really changed. He still didn't want to be in pain. He still didn't want Wilson to hate him. He still didn't want to be miserable. But his biggest fear had always been being alone. And he wasn't.

When he awoke the next morning, she was laying quietly beside him, watching him with a small smile. And from the disarray of the bedclothes around her he realized she hadn't just arrived. He rolled on his side to face her, smiling back. "I didn't expect to see you here."

She shrugged. "Well, you did say "please", after all."