So yeah. Sorry I took so long, I was uninspired for a while and then my dog (who was older than I was) passed away, so I've been dealing with that too... So whatever, read and review if you want. I don't own House MD, House, Amber, Cuddy, or Wilson. I do own Dr. Frist, though. Feel free to beat him up as you wish.

I'm sick of shaking
Never waking
From the hell I achieve
I never knew you till you left me
With the crying disease

Blue October- X Amount of Words

Wilson woke with a start, his chest heaving as it attempted to nurse several stitches in his side. He looked down, startled, and saw only the vague downy depths of his pillow, laced with many saliva stains. He had fallen asleep face down in the suffocating, somewhat appealing pillowcase that Amber had chosen herself- a toffee colored envelope of cotton that he had never quite liked, though he found that he was liking it quite a lot lately. Did his body have no instinct for survival anymore? He could hardly imagine a life with such a defect- would he eventually forget the art of breathing, or would he be more violent to himself, and simply walk in front of a bus someday, his brain unable to stop his body from what it wanted to do most? The latter, although quite unappealing to Wilson, had some form of poeticism about it- for what was more romantic than taking your own life in the way that your lover had died? Of course, it would be nearly impossible for one to engineer a suicide in the same way that Amber had died, as bus accidents in no way occurred every day, and there was no way to ensure that it would rupture his kidneys- but the medium would be the same.

He shook his head and got up. The psychiatrist- that godforsaken asshole- had told him that, by any means possible, suicidal thoughts should be avoided. For once, Wilson agreed. Suicide was bad. It did not take Einstein to figure that out.

Wilson found it odd that he had taken such an intense disliking to his psychiatrist; he was a painstakingly normal, almost boring man, much like Wilson himself. In fact, the most bothersome thing about him was his ever expanding waist and his increasing amount of chins; Wilson was quite perturbed by this for two reasons- he did not want to watch the man have a heart attack because he knew that he would not resuscitate him no matter what the circumstances and he did not want to start over with another psychiatrist.

His phone rang and Wilson let it go to voicemail- who said you had to have manners in your own house? – while he collapsed onto the couch once more. Cuddy's voice rang out, tinny through the minuscule speakers the machine provided.

"Wilson? Wilson, I know you're there. Listen, Dr. Frist called." Damn psychiatrist. Why couldn't he just choke on his Big Mac? "He says you're an hour late. I'm worried. If you don't go in now, I'm going to have to let you go. I can't have a doctor that's a potential suicide risk working in my hospital without psychiatric help." So that's what he was now. Potential suicide risk. He almost scoffed at the title. It was like having someone call him Lord Wilson, but with more empathy. "Would you like a seat, Potential Suicide Risk Wilson?" they would ask, and he would reply grandly, with a "No, thank you, I rather think I will contemplate suicide in the other chair."

"Wilson? You need to go." Ah, Cuddy. Her heart was always so warm and her car was always so cold. If she could reverse that, they would be driving instead of talking right now. "Wilson! You know we're all worried about you. You need to go to Dr. Frist. He'll help."

He could hear the clatter that meant the phone was being lowered into its cradle. His manners overtaking him, he snatched the phone quickly, placing the receiver near his mouth.

"Doesn't matter. I was considering resignation anyway," his voice, surprisingly bass and gravelly, as if unused for a long time (it was) rang out almost vehemently. However, his body, in addition to having no survival instinct, wanted him to be a hypocrite as well, and sat up; grabbed his coat and his car keys. He was out of the door in less than 5 minutes.

He had no taste for personal hygiene anymore.

"I see you did not brush your hair today…" Dr. Frist did not ask the question as a question, for he was one of those infuriating people in the world who left everything open-ended and strung out for one's own observation.

Wilson had to bite his tongue, as he almost said, "I see you did not stain your lapel with a McGriddle this morning…" Instead, he said, "I was sort of in a rush."

He had never tasted such infuriating sarcasm in his own voice! It frightened him. He supposed Dr. Lard had something to do with it…but he had hated him since the day he had seen his tweed jacket and sweaty brow. What made him so bitter, so cold and rough? He had always been the smoothest pebble in the pond, so to speak- calm and polite and soft everywhere, not a rough edge or unsightly bump of personality in sight. Society had seen to it that his manners were refined, his etiquette immaculate, his face always earnest, his words never rude or insensitive in any way. He refused to be the rough, abrasive rock at the edge of the water! That was always House's specific spot…for House had always been everything that Wilson was not.

Wilson had not seen hide nor hair of House since Amber had died and he was quite happy with that arrangement.

Yet what had become of him? He knew that he and House were on opposite ends of the manners pool. He would like to keep it that way, but he found himself floating toward the middle instead, like a child that could not swim clinging to an inner tube in the wave pool at the water park –he floated where the tide carried him. It was always the derelicts and troublemakers that floated to the deep end of the pool- was he one of them? Or did he just want to be one of them? Wilson realized, very suddenly, that he only ever stayed in the shallow end because he was afraid of the deep end- he knew who was there. By not being near the horrible people at the deep end of the pool, he had become one of them. It was a horrific, twisted fate. What if he and House simply switched lifestyles?

Wilson would rather kill himself first.

"In a rush…" Dr. Frist blinked slowly; like the great toad he was had just realized that he was standing among humans instead of in the swamp where he belonged. He scribbled fiercely on Wilson's patient file. Patient shows disdain toward others.

Sure. Whatever.

"Tell me about Amber," Dr. Frist asked. He had asked Wilson this question thousands of times. His answer was never any different. What did it matter? He considered giving Dr. Frist a round of new questions to ask.

What is your favorite color?

If you could go anywhere, where would you go?

Summer, spring, fall, or winter?

What is one illness you never want to have?

There weren't very relevant, but they were very entertaining. They were also very easy to answer.

Blue was his favorite color. It was deep and calm and nice.

He would go to France- he didn't know why, but he suspected it had something to do with the French Riviera…

Spring. He liked how everything grew back and pretended that nothing had died over the winter.

A leg illness. Maybe it made him a hypocrite, maybe it made him a horrible person, but he didn't want to be anymore like House than he already was.

"Amber was great," he said. "She always knew what she wanted, and she made sure that everyone else knew, too. She was a very commanding figure. She.." He paused and swallowed heavily in an attempt to not cry. He only failed slightly; his eyes became very wet. "She was always in charge…she knew what to do and how to make you do it." He paused. Did she really? It was almost impossible to imagine someone harboring Amber's personality dying…because she didn't know how to do that and she couldn't make you do it. How lost was she when she died? The only moment she wasn't in control of anything…

And it was House's fault. It was the indisputable truth- it was House's fault. Who cared that he was drunk off his ass? He convinced Amber to take a drink- he was the reason she couldn't drive her own car. Wilson closed his eyes and refused to tell Dr. Frist anything else for the rest of the session.

He was quickly discovering the effect of blame on one's soul.

An hour later, Wilson was back at home, staring at the couch. He had dated everything according to its relation to Amber- this was pre-Amber, that was during Amber, and this was post-Amber. He didn't like anything that was post-Amber.

He decided to go to bed early. He had a fuzzy little headache brewing in the back of his head, the eye of the storm (or perhaps the source?) House. His entire head buzzed a cacophony of House, and Wilson wouldn't have it. He fell asleep on the couch in a second, praying that tonight he would dream of nothing but sweet, dear blackness.

Sadly, his mind would have none of it, and he met the girl for the first time that night.

So here it is.. yeah. Just do whatever. Thanks for reading.

Le Person