This is a fic for chickloveslotr, because she wanted me to do an angst fic. I've never done one before, so it might be really bad. I'm planning on eight chapters. This is completely unbeta'd (sp?), so all errors are my own. Except for the bit where Cuddy picks House up in her car. It's thanks to GhostWings that she even has a car. A beta would be much appreciated. So read and hopefully enjoy! Reviews are the best thing since peanut butter toast, so please review!

Disclaimer: I do not own House, MD or anything associated with it. All I own is the notebook I wrote this in.

Aftermath

She was dead. That realization hit him harder every day. He worked in a daze, drifted home to the apartment where every step was a painful memory, and floated off to sleep in a bed where her scent grew weaker with every passing night. When it was gone, he would sell the apartment. Then, he would have nothing left but the pain in his heart, and the pain reflected in his best friend's face.

"I'm not so sure about this, House." he said quietly. House paused in the action of pulling off his shirt, most of the rest of his clothes lying in a pile on the floor. They were in a hotel room, one Wilson didn't remember renting.

"Why not?" House asked, settling his shirt back over his shoulders.

"This just doesn't feel right." Wilson hugged himself and shivered slightly.

"So?" House asked, shrugging his shoulders questioningly. "You can do whatever you want, right?"

"Why would I be able to do that?" Wilson asked, a sudden sense of dread and confusion growing uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

"Well, because this can't be real." House said, looking at his friend knowingly. "It has to be a delusion, or a dream. Might as well make the most of it." He shrugged again, this time as if his logic was unquestionable and that the argument was settled.

"What? Why can't this be real?" Wilson inquired wildly, the dread growing and overwhelming him. He felt himself slipping, the mask of control beginning to shatter into a thousand pieces. What wasn't real about this? The sheets on the hotel bed, the cold air on his bare skin, they all felt real.

"Because I'm dead, aren't I?" House smiled a little condescendingly at him. "I didn't make it."

Wilson's eyes widened, his control disappearing like it had never existed, and maybe it hadn't. "What do you mean, you didn't make it? I saw you wake up, I saw you- alive! Just a few days ago!"

"And have you seen me since?" House laughed a little at Wilson's slowly dawning shocked expression. "What, you didn't think damage like that- a skull fracture, a heart attack, and then a seizure while my brain was being fried- you didn't think any of that wouldn't have had any long-term effect? You got the call from Cuddy last night. Funeral's tomorrow, hope you can make it." House grinned a little evilly. "Poor, poor Jimmy, losing so much in so little time. And it's all your fault. Your fault Amber died, your fault your best friend died." Suddenly House was Amber, and she spun around and around him, just out of his grasp. As he spiraled down into darkness he heard someone laughing and repeating, "Your fault, your fault, your fault…"

Wilson woke with a start, gasping for air through the sweat and tears that soaked his face. His cell phone was ringing on the bedside table, but the nightmare was still fresh in his mind, and he decided not to answer it. He rolled off the bed- he had slept on top of the covers- and stood up, stretching dejectedly. The phone's ringing was giving him a sharp, throbbing pain in the back of his skull, and he finally gave in and picked it up.

"What?" he asked sharply of the person on the other end.

"James," Lisa's Cuddy's voice said, calm but a little startled. "Are you coming tomorrow?"

"To what?" Wilson replied, deathly afraid that he already knew the answer.

"To the hospital. When they're discharging House."

"What? Discharging House?" Wilson noted with grim humor that "what" seemed to have become his mantra, I dreams and in reality.

"Yeah, he's going home tomorrow, and I though he might like to see you."

Wilson was silent for a long time. Could he face his best friend, after all that had happened? He knew that he blamed House, just as well as he knew that Amber's death was not House's fault. Could he show himself to this man that knew him so well, and not reveal the hatred and resentment that laced his every thought?

"James?"

"Maybe. I don't know." Wilson covered his face with his free hand. When would he know?

He hung up before Cuddy could say anything else, before she could ask any questions. He knew he couldn't hide forever, but he had resolved to try for as long as possible. He took off the suit he hadn't removed after the funeral the evening before. Wearing only boxers and a t-shirt, he threw himself onto the bed- the very bed he and Amber had bought so joyously, so triumphantly, barely two weeks ago. As he settled dejectedly into the mattress, unwilling to do anything at all that day, he noticed something horribly, unhappily, and devastatingly wrong. Amber's smell was gone.

House was sure his head was going to explode. It throbbed almost angrily along the fracture line, defying all painkillers. He was sure Vicodin would help, but Cuddy had told him no more of that. Unfortunately for her, he had managed to bribe one of his nurses into sneaking him his pills. Unfortunately for him, said nurse wasn't working that shift.

He set his face in a determinedly pain-free expression as the arrival of Chase and Cameron was announced by footsteps in the hall.

"How are you doing, House?" Cameron whispered, keeping her voice at a low pitch. Only she would remember something like that from years ago, back when he'd given himself a migraine trying to disprove an old college rival. Still, he appreciated it.

"Fine." he muttered, the hoarseness of his voice surprising him. It had been a long time since he had talked to anyone.

"D'you need more morphine?" Chase asked, reaching for the box that controlled House's dosage.

"No, my head is fine." House lied, glaring at Cameron's skeptical expression. "In fact, can you turn it down, it's giving me weird dreams."

Chase raised his eyebrows, but did as House asked.

They stayed and talked for a time, but after a while House couldn't stand it any more.

"I'm tired." he said abruptly, cutting Cameron off in mid-sentence. "Sorry." he added, realizing what he'd done. Cameron looked a little surprised at his apology, but Chase took it in stride.

"We'll leave you alone, then. We shouldn't have stayed so long." He smiled down at House, who could only manage a small one back and a slight shrug, as if to say , "Don't worry about it." Cameron stroked House's hair gently for a moment, and then the two former ducklings walked out, hand in hand, unaware that they were leaving their former boss to writhe in no longer concealed pain. Even as his body tried to reject it, ignore it, discard it, House reveled in his throbbing skull, his aching leg. Not only did it block out the pain of what he had done and how he had failed his best friend, but he knew that he deserved that pain, deserved every minute of it.

Wilson watched, silent except for his breathing, as his best friend was discharged from the hospital. It was a big deal, a happy moment. It meant that House was on the road to recovery, that the best doctors in the state thought he was going to be all right.

Wilson should have been there with him, laughing as House made faces at the brightly colored balloons, supporting him as he made his cautious and painful way across the hospital lobby. Instead, he hid behind the darkened windows of the clinic, closed in honor of the ornery doctor that was limping towards the open door. Except maybe he wasn't so ornery any more. Wilson looked on as House smiled at his fellows, at Foreman, at Chase and Cameron, at Cuddy, as each of them helped him on his way out. He accepted a flower from a young girl, and even ruffled her hair rather affectionately. Those who knew House were surprised but pleased at this change of attitude. Those who didn't know him didn't wonder long why he received such a huge reception. As House thanked all of his nurses personally (he even hugged one of them), Wilson wondered detachedly whether this event had really changed House so much, whether the new House was real. Just before he left, House glanced towards the clinic, but it he saw Wilson, he gave no sign of it. Even if House hadn't actually changed, Wilson knew that what had happened in the last week had changed him beyond recognition.

It was raining. Wilson stood by Amber's gravestone, watching rivulets of water trickle down the freshly engraved letters. He placed a rose on the mound of dirt, the redness muted by the rainy day. Roses had been her favorites, because they were strong and adventurous and they hurt like hell when you weren't careful. She'd had a beautiful brooch that was made of emeralds and rubies set in gold in the shape of a rose, but her parents had taken that with them when they'd cleaned out her apartment, along with she had owned. They'd left him with only the apartment- which he'd now sold- and one picture of him and Amber at a moment truck rally.

Wilson stared at the grave as if willing Amber to rise from the dead and run laughing into his arms. It had only been a few days since she'd died, but it seemed to Wilson to have been years. The grass was already growing over the place where Amber laid, and people were walking by, coming and going. His friends were recovering. The world was moving on, but Wilson stuck in one painful moment, as everyone- even House, the man who never changed, never forgave, never forgot- passed him by. And Wilson wasn't sure he wanted to catch up.

House watched Wilson as silently as he had been watched the day before. He hadn't brought an umbrella, but a broad-branched tree did a well enough job of protecting his already-soaked body from further barrage. He didn't think, didn't contemplate, he only watched and stored away for future use. He had always been good at that, not thinking. Whenever something was too painful, too deep, or too frightening to think about, he simply dismissed it from his mind and didn't bother to reflect on it. He knew, deep down, that the things Wilson made him think about would have to be addressed someday, but right now they were just too raw, too fresh, too painful. So he simply watched.

Suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, already knowing what to expect. The number on the caller ID was his home phone number. He was being called… by himself. He found this absolutely hilarious for some inexplicable reason, and he stifled a snort of laughter. He was sure, though, that Cuddy wouldn't appreciate this humor, so he opened the phone and put it to his ear.

"House, I need you to stop following Wilson and get your ass back to your apartment right now."

House sighed exasperatedly to let her know he had heard her.

"And if you ever pull this stunt again, I will personally beat you from here to Pluto."

"Which isn't actually a planet any more."

"Neptune, then. And after that I'll beat you back."

"Look, I'm touched that you're so worried, Mom, but how do you expect me to get back? And don't even think, 'Take the bus.'"

"Fine. Get here the way you left; walk." the connection went dead, and House rolled his eyes. Sometimes, he couldn't believe her. Then again, maybe he could.

He watched Wilson for a little while longer before he left. He was glad his phone was on vibrate, or Wilson would have heard it and- what? Ignored him? Confronted him? Punched him in the face? Whatever Wilson wanted to deal out, House was sure he deserved it.

As he began the long trek home, House took a deep breath and wiped it all from his mind.

Cuddy took pity on him after half an hour and picked him up in her car. He didn't speak, just got in the passenger seat and leaned back silently. Cuddy couldn't see it, but House was concentrating fiercely as he stared out the car window. Not thinking about Wilson was proving harder than he thought.

Wilson returned to work the next week. Cuddy protested, telling him that he didn't have to come back until he felt ready, but he was tired of lying around in his hotel room, visiting Amber's grave, drowning in his memories. He worked constantly, never allowing himself time to pause. He was colder and more distant with everyone except his patients, who he was marginally more pleasant around. He ignored House completely.

The truth was, he wasn't and couldn't pretend to be the man he had been. There was a shard of ice in his heart and a gaping hole in his being that prevented him from beginning to heal.

Every night, he stayed in his office typing patient reports ad going over files, tackling every available scrap of undone work until he ran out or Cuddy forced him to go home. The thing that frustrated him the most was that no matter how late he stayed, House always stayed later.

When he arrived at his hotel, Wilson allowed himself to sink into his grief, removing his clothes and then letting then lie on the floor. When he would get an apartment, he didn't know. He had no energy, no will to move, so he would lie on his bed, frozen in place until sleep claimed him.

Sometimes it didn't. Sometimes he would lay there until dawn broke and sleep was pointless. On those days, the ones where he arrived even earlier than usual, those were the bad ones. The ones when he had to reschedule patient appointments, when he locked himself in his office and cried, or pounded his desk, or just sat in silence until he couldn't bear it.

These were the days when he almost wished he could have House back.

"So, differential diagnosis?"

House had been different since he had woken up from his coma. Not different as in life-alteringly, brain damage different, but as in one less scathing remark here, one more kind word there, one door held open for someone who needed it.

It was nice.

It was also a little odd, but not nearly as odd as the fake recovery from nuerosyphillis. The ducklings managed to- not ignore it, exactly, but to incorporate it, not be shocked every time House walked in and was nice for another day.

Well, not nice, really, but decent.

House looked around at his fellows expectantly. "Come on, people, ideas."

Foreman shrugged.

Kutner suggested something stupid, and House shot it down.

Taub said something that rhymed with a plastic surgical procedure, and House made fun of him but wrote it down nonetheless.

Thirteen stared at her hands, which were shaking almost imperceptibly.

"Come on, it's not that hard, we do this every day. Well, almost." House waved a hand dismissively. "Point is, we're all grownups, we can do this." He looked around at his team. It had been what, a month, two months since Amber's death? He had moved on, why couldn't they? He understood Wilson still grieving, expected it even, but them?

"Come on!" he repeated, yelling this time. All of the fellows plus Foreman looked up, startled. "What is your problem?" he screamed, banging his cane on the floor. "You!" he turned to Foreman, who leaned back a little in his chair, scared. "You never do anything any more, you just sit there and stare at me like you're waiting for me to break down o\or something! Well, here! I've broken!" he turned to Thirteen now, who began to shake in earnest. "And all you ever do is sit there and watch your disease progress, like there's nothing you can do! Maybe there isn't, but at least don't act like it!" He whirled to face Kutner. "You don't even care, none of this matters, death doesn't matter, you must be some kind of psycho! Amber's death didn't even faze you, nothing changed!" He finally looked at Taub, who was holding his breath. "I don't have anything to say to you because you're so damn boring!"

House took a deep breath and stormed out of the office, leaving his underlings to ponder what he had told them.

Foreman walked into Cuddy's office, afraid of what he was about to do. Cuddy looked up as he came in.

"Ah." she said quietly. "I was wondering when this would come around."

Foreman looked confused, and she smiled. She had been vague on purpose. She waved a hand gently at the couch to the right of her desk, where Foreman was surprised to see House curled up on his side, his bad keg stretched out and resting on the table. "He has said that if any or all of you would like to resign, he will accept your letters, but he would prefer it if you'd stay."

Foreman looked taken aback, but he quickly composed his features. "Actually, I came because I was worried… about House." he whispered tentatively.

Cuddy nodded. "He's been getting worse and worse since Amber… you know." she paused and rested her face in her hand for a moment. "I think it's because of Wilson." she said. "The way he's been ignoring House." she added quickly, as if afraid of blaming Wilson outright. "I mean, you can't blame him he's had a hard time of it. What with losing amber, he must feel like it's House's fault…" she trailed off, staring at House with an odd expression on her face.

"Yes, you can." Foreman said suddenly, startling Cuddy. "You can blame him, he's acting like a an idiot, like a fourth grader with a grudge. We have to fix them or it'll destroy them both." Cuddy nodded slowly, unsure of what she was getting herself into. "Even if we have to lock them in a room together until they make up," Foreman continued, "we'll get them back together."

Cuddy looked strangely crestfallen at Foreman's words, but she nodded again. "I'm afraid that might be just what we have to do." she muttered.

"Dr. House!"

House looked up from the chart he was finishing, scribbled a few last notes, and put the chart up. Charting was something he still despised, but since Amber died he found it helped him keep his mind off of things. Clinic duty, too, was something he still disliked, but threw himself at with a previously unseen zeal. As long as Wilson wasn't there.

The nurse handed House the file, which he took without reading, as always.

"Exam Room Two." she said, nodding in that direction.

"I know where it is." House said tartly, and the nurse smiled to herself at this glimpse of the old Dr. House, the pre-crash House.

Cuddy watched him quietly as he made for the exam room, then followed.

The door to Exam Room Two opened slowly. This was the moment House hated the most- finding out who it was behind the door. Would they be male? Or female? Tall or short? Fat or thin? Would they bring back memories? Would they remind him?

He took a deep breath and closed one eye in anticipation. This is why House missed him, for one crucial moment, as Cuddy snuck up behind him and locked the door.

"Wilson?"

There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. There was never an answer, not when he called, not when he asked, not when he wrote.

"You're not going to even bother talking to me, are you?" House asked.

By way of an answer, Wilson turned and looked out of the sole window. He seemed indifferent to House's arrival, but inside he was roiling. He didn't want to be here, he wanted to be anywhere else. He didn't want to deal with this right now, didn't want to face this problem.

"Let me the hell out of here!" House called, banging on the door.

"Not until you make up!" came Cuddy's voice from the other side.

"We're not going to make up! The stubborn bastard hates me!" House yelled.

Everything Wilson had been holding back, hiding away before suddenly bubbled over and burst out like a shaken Coke.

"Me? Stubborn?" he yelled, standing up and advancing on House like an army of doom. "I'm not the one who won't even apologize-"

"Apologize?" House yelled back. "Why do I owe you a damn apology? I busted my ass for you and your bloody girlfriend, I nearly died because of you! I think you're the one who owes someone an apology, Wonder Boy!"

Wilson looked startled. He knew that every word of what House had said was true, and he'd known it all along. Maybe all he'd needed was for it to be slammed in his face like that, so that he couldn't ignore it.

"I'm sorry." he said quietly, sticking a hand out for House to shake.

"I guess I'm sorry, too." House replied, taking his friend's hand and shaking it. They nodded at each other, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Is it okay now?" Cuddy asked.

They looked each other over carefully. It was not okay. Nothing was okay, it was all wrong. Maybe nothing would ever be okay again.

"Yes." they called together, and they hid it silently as the lock clicked open.

Next: Conformity