Thanks for all the reviews! Due to multiple POVs, Wednesday night is not strictly run chronologically, so there is a little bit of overlap on the time line from one section to others.

(H/C)

The alcohol's bite was hard and fast, and Wilson welcomed it. After six months of abstinence, he no longer had any tolerance built up, and that plus the Ativan he had taken earlier only enhanced the effect. Part of him was still half waiting for somebody to show up and scold him, to challenge his actions, and he had a defense prepared for why his guilt proved the others would be better off with him out of the picture, but the rest of the world apparently wasn't looking his way at the moment, and no jury appeared to present his case to. He settled down at the bar, drinking shots steadily, and waited to forget.

Only it wasn't working.

The alcohol was doing its part. He could feel his coordination decreasing, his balance on the stool getting slowly more precarious, and the heat in his empty stomach rising to his brain, distorting thought. The fuzzy blanket of scotch tucked in around his mind. But the more he drank, oddly, the more he remembered. And the more he remembered, the less his memories were focused on him and the more the spotlight sharpened on her.

He remembered her face, the way she lifted her chin slightly to emphasize a point. He remembered her hands, smallish but steady, helping people on her job, reaching out for him. The way she had been there beside him just two days ago on the visit to Danny, and the way she had been there on previous visits. Her hand along with his on her abdomen, feeling the baby move, lost in half wonder, half anxiety. The way in their discussion about a name that she had asked him one night if it would be too painful to him to name their son Daniel after her dead father. She had truly wanted that and yet had been willing to let it go without a backward glance if he had objected. The way she had looked in recovery, pale and fragile, still unconscious, cut open not only by the scalpels but by his own stupidity.

And then he had turned and walked away. Walked away from both her and their son. He remembered the child, too, in his brief glimpse of him, surrounded by medical personnel, obviously struggling.

His son. The woman he loved.

Wilson shook his head and nearly lost his balance and fell off the bar stool as the truth hit him squarely, even through the alcohol. The more scrambled his other thoughts became, the more that central one focused.

It wasn't about him, what he had done and couldn't change. The relationship was about them now, and Wilson was being a selfish coward. Jensen had told him once months ago that he didn't have the right to walk out on her, that that would be a cop-out on his part. At that time, Wilson had only heard the words and had resented them. Who the hell was Jensen to tell him he was being selfish? Didn't he see how hard that decision would be on Wilson, that it could be for their benefit? Tonight, finally, he understood the statement.

A hand claimed his arm softly, and he turned, expecting to see someone here to lecture him. Instead, he focused with difficulty on a blond who had almost as much lipstick and makeup on as she had alcohol in her system. Sandra only wore minimal makeup. She was gorgeous without it, not in a classic beauty pageant way but far deeper in terms of the character that was visible in her face.

"Hi there, handsome," the blond stated, her words slurring slightly. "You look lonely. What's a nice guy like you doing sitting here all by himself?"

Wilson literally felt sick. He recoiled sharply and did lose his balance that time, falling off the stool onto the floor. "Easy there," she giggled, reaching a hand down to him. "Think you might have had one too many."

Wilson cringed, ignoring her hand and trying to grab the bar stool legs to pull up on instead. "Get away from me!" He hauled himself upright with difficulty. The room was spinning slowly around him, and he blinked at the shot glasses on the bar, trying to count, but they kept blurring together. How many had he drunk?

He had to get back to Sandra and his son.

The blond closed the gap again. "Jus' trying to be friendly."

Holding onto the bar, Wilson worked his way along in front of the next three people, trying to put a barrier between them. "No. Stay 'way." His own voice, heavily slurred, was rising now. "Leave me alone."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the other patrons he'd just wiggled in front of demanded. The line reverberated in Wilson's mind, a perfect summary of his actions tonight. What the hell did he think he was doing?

The bartender closed in rapidly, as well as the bouncer. "Is there a problem here?"

Wilson shook his head again and swayed dizzily. "No. I'm jus' leaving." He fumbled in his pocket, and the bouncer firmly captured his keys.

"No way. You're not driving anywhere. Give us somebody to call."

Somebody to call. Wilson tried to think of somebody. The only clear center to his thoughts right now was Sandra and the child; everything else was distorted by the scotch. Think. Who did he usually call?

House came to mind, but that was immediately followed by the memory that House was saving his son's life. Hopefully. Definitely didn't need to distract House.

Sandra. He shrank inside, remembering the several times he had called her to haul him out of a bar. But she was in the hospital and had just had surgery.

A drunk and flickering lightbulb went off, and Wilson pulled out his wallet, trying to find a card, but his eyes weren't cooperating. He offered the wallet to the bartender. "There's card there. Sponsor. 'm in AA." He could feel the sympathy along with condemnation in all of the surrounding eyes as the bartender took his wallet, found the card, and called from the bar phone.

Yes, what the hell did he think he was doing? He needed to get back to his family. He heard the bartender as if at a distance, telling his sponsor that there was a James Wilson in the bar who needed a ride home. The words were muffled. Only Sandra and the child were clear.

The wallet was returned to him, minus enough for his bill. "Okay, buddy, he's coming. You sit over there and wait for him and stay quiet, okay? And you're not getting any more drinks." The bouncer guided him over to an empty slot, and Wilson sat there waiting, watching warily in case the blond resumed her attentions, but she had melted away at the mention of AA, as if the society might be contagious. Good. She couldn't hold a candle to Sandra, anyway. Even to Sandra in the hospital bed, pale and still under anesthesia. Even then, she was beautiful.

Lost in thought, he didn't see his sponsor until the man appeared right in front of him. "Come on, James. Time to go." There was no judgment, no condemnation in the tone, just deep sadness.

Wilson stood up eagerly and wavered on his feet, and the other man steadied him. "Got to get back to her," he said. "Hoshpital. I left her there, ran 'way. 'm an idiot. Got to tell her I'm an idiot." He started for the door, and his sponsor kept a much-needed stabilizing hand on his arm.

"James, I think you'd better sleep this off before you try explaining anything. If you tried right now, you wouldn't be helping your case much."

Wilson shook his head and wobbled again. Damn it. He could tell now how thoroughly drunk he was, knew on some level that the man was right. He couldn't show up at the hospital like this. But he needed to be there for her, for them.

"Come on." They were outside now, and the other man was tucking him into the passenger's seat of his car. "Trust me, James, never try to explain things to a woman while you're drunk. Been there, done that myself. It doesn't work."

Wilson stared through the windshield as his sponsor went around to the driver's side and got in. "I'm an idiot," he repeated. "Coward. Got to tell her."

"Don't tell her right now. You couldn't hide your condition at the moment, and it would make her mad. Tell her tomorrow once you're sober." The car started, and Wilson slumped back against the seat in defeat. "Do you want me to call and give her a message?"

She would be sleeping off the anesthesia tonight, anyway, and no, he didn't want her to get a message that her boyfriend was too drunk to even talk to her. He needed to apologize in person. "No," he said mournfully. His sponsor took one hand off the wheel and reached over to put it on his arm, silent sympathy and contact. Wilson closed his eyes.

He never thought about checking the switched-off cell phone.