CRASH

He walks slowly out of House's office, less than reassured, still unsure how all this came to be; how he ended up here, in this hospital, in this life. How-how had he been so happy such a short time ago, and now-now?

What the fuck happened?

He tries to breathe, tries to walk without stumbling.

It will be okay. It has to be okay. House will fix it.

Wilson freezes in the hallway.

What if House could remember? What if there's one key piece of the puzzle, locked in House's mind?

But what if it kills him?

But it won't, it won't, House always figures it out, he can fix things like this-

Wilson ignores the glances of passersby as he stares wildly at the floor.

What if they both die? What if she dies? What if he dies?

They won't! House can still fix this!

What if he doesn't?

Miserable and shaking, Wilson imagines all of the pills and poisons, scalpels and sharp edges all around him.

He should just do it now. If he'd done it before they wouldn't be going through this - she wouldn't-

No! She'll need you when she's recovering! His inner voice is sounding more desperate as the seconds pass.

House could at least try…

Would House do it? He had offered to do it earlier…would he still be willing to do it?

Wilson can't think straight. All he knows is that there's a possibility, a possibility dammit, and what if it's the answer to everything?

He's done so much for House, surely House can do this for him. It can all still be okay.

He has to try. House has to try.

He turns around, fighting the urge to vomit.

DEATH

He's gotten so used to the idea of his own death that it's like he forgot it could happen to other people.

People he loves.

He's worried about House over the years, of course, has tried to fend off death when he could and hoped for the best when he couldn't.

But House remained alive; though each year that Wilson worries about House's life probably shaves one off of Wilson's, House is still alive.

Amber is not.

He had never worried about Amber dying. He can't recall it having entered his mind even once. She was confident and healthy, and she didn't need anyone. And once he had accepted that someone like that could love him, she had seemed quite happy with him.

No longer. She was dead, gone to the place he'd longed to be for most of his life.

Of course the obvious option occurs, and he thinks of House, and of what House would do without him.

He thinks of what he and House have been through; what House has put him through. How much of his life has been spent worrying about House and House's problems, when House has so rarely seemed to care about Wilson's.

Whenever Wilson worried about House, he could pick up the phone or drive across town and reassure himself. Or he could sweat it out and just wait for House to walk into work the next day, and let that beautiful feeling of relief wash over him.

He'd gotten addicted to that feeling over the years.

Now he does the same thing, for as confused and hurt and angry as he is, he can't shake the need to see if House is still alive.

And he is. He looks stable but incredibly pathetic; and even though he is asleep, he looks immeasurably sad.

Cuddy is curled up, asleep, in the chair next to him. Wilson willfully ignores the pang of jealousy that stabs his already broken heart.

Even in the current circumstances Wilson longs to go to him, but he is frozen by what he sees.

Actually he doesn't see it, but he can sense it - Death is there, waiting for House, just like Wilson has always felt it waiting for him.

All the other times he's worried about House pale in comparison to this moment, when he honestly feels as if he is about to watch the person he's built his life around die in front of his eyes.

It feels like an eternity but can't last more than five seconds, because before Wilson can move or speak or react, House's eyes open.

Wilson blinks and Death is gone.

House looks him in the eye, clearly alive, and Wilson turns away.

He doesn't know what he's going to do but right now he just has to get away. Out of this hospital, out of this life, before anyone can catch him and spew their phony condolences.

House is lying there because of him. Death almost took House because Wilson put him in Death's way - it's irrelevant at the moment that House started this whole process. No, it's not irrelevant - but it's something Wilson can't process right now.

He can't process any of it. He doesn't know what to do. His brain has checked out, so his body uses physical memory to head back to Amber's apartment.

NO OUTLET

There's no coming back from this.

Amber's dead. She's dead because she loved him; dead because he loved House.

Part of him is angry with her. He wants to grab her and shake her; hold her face in his hands and bury his face in her hair and yell House could have sat in that bar all night. He could have taken a cab. He could have taken the bus. You didn't have to go get him just because he called!

Part of him is angry with House. He wants to grab him and shake him; bury his face in House's neck and scream Why were you even out? You could have gotten drunk at home. Why couldn't you have just taken care of yourself for once?!

But neither of those people is here right now, which is fine because it's himself he's most angry with.

He can't forget the look in House's eyes when he thought Wilson valued someone's life over his; the hurt and the acceptance.

He already knows it's what he'll see when he dies.

He can't forget the look in Amber's eyes after he turned off the bypass; the love and the ... well, the acceptance. The forgiveness. She seemed so at peace with it all; he's almost jealous.

This is it. He won't recover from this. He's been dragging himself along for forty years and finally, finally it'll be done soon.

He actually feels some relief, and he presses his nails into his right arm to focus.

If he can push House away, he'll be free. He has absolutely no faith that he'll be able to do that, but he has to try. He has to try.

He shouldn't even still be alive at this point. He certainly can't be for much longer. How could he ever justify it?

He should do it now. He could. He could do it whenever he wanted.

He stares at Amber's perfume bottle on the dresser, his leg bouncing up and down, his heart pounding and his nails drawing blood on his arm.

He has to do it before he sees House again. He hasn't seen him since that night, and he knows if he sees him again his nerve will be lost.

It's best if House thinks Wilson hates him. Everyone else probably thinks Wilson hates him…everyone else. Fuck them all. Every single last one of them and their fake fucking concern for-

He's dug so deep into his arm he actually cries out. He lies back on the bed, too trapped inside his anger and despair to move.

The thought of House (and everyfuckingoneelse) believing that Wilson would really be mad at him for that - for basically being part of a series of horrendous coincidences - like some fucking ten-year-old with no cognitive reasoning skills…

He can only imagine the things being said. The fake expressions of sympathy; the sincere if meaningless expressions of sympathy. Probably more than a few snickers that the bitch got what she deserved...

The ones closest to the situation are probably waiting for him to come back, trying to convince House to say he's sorry; assuming Wilson will forgive him if he does.

But there's so much more to apologize for, don't they see that? Don't they see?

Maybe he should go back, give one last fuck-you. Okay, his only fuck-you.

God he's been a pussy for so long.

He closes his eyes and wonders if he'll have the guts. To say fuck you, to say I'm leaving, to say I never loved you House…

At least he's got nothing, and nothing to lose.

ALONE

It's not so bad, this isolation thing.

He goes out once a week, to get a few supplies and sit through the support group he only signed himself up for so he'd have an excuse to leave the house occasionally.

Sometimes someone he barely likes from the hospital will call or show up with condolences or food, and he tolerates them because he just doesn't have the heart to tell them to fuck off.

None of them has mentioned House. Not once. He's dying to know if House is talking about him, but he doesn't dare ask. If he asks, House will find out, and it's best at this point if House gets used to the idea of being without him.

House of course has called countless times and stopped by once, but Wilson has managed to deflect him. He has to keep House away, or he'll break. And this is the best time for him to die and get it over with; if House thinks Wilson is lost to him already, it won't hurt as much when he's lost to him for real.

He supposes. Not that he's really made much effort to jump on the suicide train recently - he's too damn tired. And really, it's kind of nice to have no patients to worry about; no people to fake politeness around; no reason to give a shit about anything really.

He's free to read, watch television, work through the puzzle books he buys on his weekly grocery trips.

And if he indulges in the odd fantasy here and there, who cares? There's no one around to feel embarrassed in front of. No one to even suspect that he has silly visions of House knocking on his door again, and of Wilson letting him in this time.

Stupid visions. He should he having visions of how he'll kill himself, but there's always tomorrow for that. If nothing else he'll probably just get the impulse one day and do it without really thinking.

In the meantime, he can hunker down in this empty apartment with his memories and just let the minutes tick by.

OLD HABITS

He's almost run off the road twice because he can't stop looking over at House.

If anyone happens to have a camera trained on him, recording his blatantly longing glances, he'll say it's because he needs to make sure House is still breathing. That he, you know, doesn't have a reaction to the sedative.

Actually, of course, he has to get his fill of looking freely at House before House wakes up, because he cannot let House think he cares. He's done well to stay away, and really this whole trip is a mistake.

So why's he driving this car then, with his erstwhile best friend in tow?

…For the friend's mother, of course. She obviously didn't know about Wilson's grand plan to dump House and die, so he supposes he can't blame her for fucking that plan up.

He hates how good he feels right now, just having House close again. Hates it, hates it so much he's sorely tempted to run the car into a tree.

But he doesn't, he just drives along at a reasonable speed while House dozes away next to him.

He's determined to not show his hand. He can't, dammit! House is just going to have to learn to live without him…

…Wow, how arrogant is that? he marvels. House has been without him for months and hasn't curled up and died yet - hell, maybe House really doesn't miss him all that much.

Maybe what House misses is having someone to control, to cater to his every whim, to abuse and mock and -

No, that's not fair. House risked his life to save Amber, and as painful as the entire ordeal has been, a tiny selfish part of him is glad. That one act proved what House hadn't been able to for decades - that he -

-loved Wilson.

Dammit! Wilson furiously rubs his moistening eyes. It would not do to have House wake up and see him like this.

He'll savor this last bit of time with House, even if he can't let House see it.

Yes. This is a good thing, the perfect excuse to spend a last day with House.

He just can't let House know he's enjoying it.

ADMIT IT

Wilson is in hell.

He should never have agreed to bring House here.

He was just starting to maybe be able to get used to the idea of possibly never seeing House again, and now all of the emotions are back on the surface, white-hot and looking for blood.

House is barking at him, and Wilson is barking right back.

Of course House knows why Wilson pushed him away; House knows everything. As long as it serves his purposes; as long as it proves him right about what he already thinks he knows.

Now he's yelling at Wilson to admit that he's right, to admit that Wilson pushed him away because he's afraid of losing the person he cares about the most.

To admit that that person is House.

He wants to punch House, punch him right in his know-it-all face.

He wants to tell House he has no idea how close to being right he is.

House is repeating the phrase like a petulant child, right in Wilson's ear.

The sound of House's voice mutates into a raging locomotive, threatening to run right over him if he doesn't. Do. Something-

He grabs the bottle without thinking, hurling it across the room. It shatters the stained-glass window before he even registers what he's done.

He stares at the broken glass, calmer in spite of himself.

"Still not boring," House says.