Title: Two Months
Author: hwshipper
Pairing/Characters: House/Wilson. References to Wilson/Amber. Also features a recurring OMC of mine, but only as a sounding board, no previous knowledge required.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: the ever-reliable triedunture
Spoilers: For season 5.

Summary: Wilson is heading back to Princeton from a break after Amber's death. Scene set between s4 & s5. Warning: angsty.
Excerpt: "Let me get this straight," Chris said slowly. "You haven't seen or spoken to House in two months?"

Two Months

Wilson pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder overlooking the sea. He turned the engine off and stared out at the view, at the water rolling white and sparkling towards the horizon. He saw it, tried to appreciate it, but couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel much at all.

He'd found over the last two months that if he let himself feel anything then everything became too much.

There was a reason he was driving back towards Princeton this way, but he hadn't given it much actual thought; he was acting on instinct and dimly remembered routine from a long time ago. Now he sat back in his seat, rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his head. Yes, he did know why he was here; he glanced at his watch. He wanted to talk to someone else he knew who had lost a loved one after a road accident. And yes, he was in the right place, at the right kind of time.

The sound of a large approaching vehicle came humming into the background. Wilson glanced around and saw it was a bus. It came roaring past, its tires huge and black, a few feet from Wilson's car.

Wilson sat very still, except for his hands trembling against the steering wheel.

After a few minutes, he was able to stop shaking. He took a firm grip on the wheel, turned the engine on again, pulled back onto the road and took the next right turn. The sign pointed down towards a beachside steakhouse.

The head waiter burst into Chris's office without remembering to knock, saying, "Chris, Wilson's here!"

Chris looked up from his computer, startled. He hadn't seen Wilson for several years; they'd kept in touch, exchanged sporadic friendly emails, but there'd been no occasion to meet.

"Sorry," the waiter said awkwardly. "Um, I've put him at the big window table."

"That's fine," Chris said hastily. That had always been Wilson's table. "Tell him I'll be out in a minute."

He took a minute to finish the calculation he'd been doing, hit save, then stood up and strode out into the restaurant.

Wilson was there, in his old favorite seat, looking out to sea. He was sitting slightly hunched up and still, very still. His gaze was dull and blank.

Chris recognized grief immediately. He'd suffered from it himself for too long not to be able to spot it in someone else. Grief that was still fresh, too; raw, all-encompassing grief. Grief that had been deliberately numbed so as to be able to function, to walk, to talk. Otherwise it would just choke everything up and make life impossible.

A wave of sorrow swept over Chris at the sight. He walked up quietly and took the seat next to Wilson.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Wilson muttered, his voice taut and strained.

There was a short silence, then Wilson said awkwardly, "I don't know if you know..."

"Linus said you'd written to him, to all your patients, said you were going away for a while," Chris said, trying to ease things along, but not knowing what the problem was. "That must have been a couple of months ago? You're back now?"

"Cuddy gave me two months off." Wilson said, and closed his eyes briefly. "Bereavement leave."

Chris felt a short sharp burst of anxiety--surely not House, no, Linus would have heard if it was House--followed by another wave of sorrow at the knowledge that it was indeed grief that was making Wilson sit here, barely holding himself together.

"Amber, my girlfriend," Wilson went on, apparently seeing through his dull haze that more explanation was required. "She was in a bus accident. She died the next day from complications... I had to turn off her life support..."

"Jesus Christ." Chris was horrified. A bus accident. Edward had been hit by a truck, but he'd died on the spot--and Chris had surely never thought he'd be grateful for that, but the thought of having to pull the plug on a lingering death made him feel sick to the stomach.

"I'm sorry," Chris said presently, and they sat for a while, not saying much.

The waiter came and brought them sodas; Wilson drank deeply, apparently thirsty, but shook his head when Chris tentatively suggested food. It made Chris recall how little he'd eaten after Edward's death. His body had wanted to gnaw away at itself rather than consume anything new.

Wilson put down the empty glass, and said, his eyes on the table, "I'm sorry to come and barge in on you here like this. I know it's been a while..."

"That's okay," Chris tried to sound reassuring.

"I hope Linus is still in remission?" Wilson asked, and Chris understood that although Wilson did want to know this, it was also a way of stalling, putting off what he had really come here to say.

"Linus is fine," Chris said firmly. "What about you?"

Wilson covered his eyes with the back of his hand, and said quietly, "It was House's fault."

Chris waited, but when Wilson didn't seem inclined to go on, had to ask, "What do you mean?"

Wilson dropped his hand, and Chris saw for a second brown eyes scorched with excruciating pain and flaring anger. "It was House's fault she was on that bus."

And then suddenly it all came pouring out. "Fucking House, drunk in a bar, bartender took his keys, Amber went to pick him up. She took the call because I wasn't there..." Wilson's voice petered out, then came back stronger and more agonized. "She followed him on the bus to give him back his cane. She died because he was fucking drunk and being fucking obstinate." He took a deep breath.

"House was in the bus accident too?" Chris asked, trying to get things clear in his head.

"Yes. He was hurt too, badly hurt actually, but he still managed to walk away and go to a strip club." Wilson's voice shook again. "Typical fucking House, doesn't care if he lives or dies most of the time, risks his life all the time for stupid, pointless reasons--he walks away, and Amber dies."

Chris was silent, not knowing what to say. He'd never heard Wilson talk about House with rage like this.

"I loved her, Chris, I really did. She was beautiful and intelligent, and she got me, Chris, it's hard to explain, but she really got me." Wilson put a hand over his face, stabbing his eyelids with his fingertips. "We hadn't even been going out that long, only a couple of months or so, but..."

Chris shrugged. He'd made some immediate personal connections in his life, not in the least with Wilson. He knew how irrelevant time could be.

"House always said she was like him," Wilson went on. "Which she was, but she was different too; she wasn't always taking, taking, taking, and never giving anything back, like House."

Chris had seen too much of House and Wilson's deep and long-lasting connection, dysfunctional as it was, to take this at face value.

"Wilson, it's obviously a fucking horrible tragedy. And I'm really sorry. But..." Chris hesitated, then went on. "It sounds like House was just being the awkward bastard he always is."

"Yes. That's exactly it. House behaving just like he'd always fucking behaved." Wilson's voice rose sharply. "Like he's not responsible, he can do whatever the hell he wants, the world will go on owing him and I'll be there to pick up the pieces. And look what happened. It cost Amber her life. And... the last two months I've been away, I haven't seen House, but I've been thinking a lot. I've been thinking about all the times I've done the same thing, gone and rescued him from being drunk or drugged out of his skull, or whatever... like a parasite. House has cost me my life too."

Chris didn't take in the last part, his attention had been caught at an earlier point.

"Let me get this straight," Chris said slowly. "You haven't seen or spoken to House in two months?"

"Nope."

Chris was astonished and incredulous. This just didn't sit with the House and Wilson he knew; with their twenty-year friendship, heck, twenty-year relationship. With their neighboring offices and shared balcony; with their easy conversation, synchronized walks, and blue eyes and brown eyes communicating silently over the same wavelength. This was... bad. "Have you ever not seen him for that long before?"

"Not for a long time," Wilson admitted. "But I don't want to see him, Chris. I can't stand the thought of seeing him. I went to see him just after Amber died, he was in the hospital too, and I looked at him and I just couldn't bear to be with him anymore." Wilson sounded cold now, remote. "In fact, I'm thinking now that I'm not going to go back to work."

Chris took a moment to absorb this. "You're not going back to Princeton?"

"I'm going home, but I don't think I can go back to work at Princeton Plainsboro. How can I?... How can I work with House in the office next door? He killed her, Chris." Wilson turned and looked directly at Chris for the first time. "I'm going to go back and hand in my notice, and pack up and leave. And if I never see House again, I won't be sorry."

This was major shit. Chris looked at Wilson, trying to see past the words, trying to get to the essence of the situation.

And he recollected the intense, passionate physical relationship he'd observed in messy close-up, and realized this wasn't just a broken friendship; this was a soul splitting in two. And Wilson was heartbroken not once, but twice; over the woman he loved who was dead, and the man he loved who had let him down so badly. And the fact that the second had caused the first was fate grabbing Wilson's heart, balling it up and ripping it to shreds.

No wonder Wilson was reacting so strongly.

Chris could only say, "I don't think you should do anything hasty..."

"It's not hasty, I've been thinking about it for two months." Wilson sat up straight.

Chris knew he had only been exposed to a tiny amount of information about a very complicated situation, but he didn't believe for a second that this was it. House and Wilson had worked through bad shit before; there would be a way through this. Even if it took a while to find. He didn't think Wilson would appreciate this thought, though.

Instead Chris observed, "House isn't going to let you go just like that."

"No," Wilson agreed and smiled for the first time, a sad smile. "He'll probably hire a private investigator or something to see what I'm up to."

Chris smiled back. He wanted to reach out and squeeze Wilson's hand, offer comfort, but he didn't actually think Wilson would appreciate it, and he didn't want to be misconstrued.

Instead, he remembered how Linus had forced him to eat at a time when he might have otherwise just let himself collapse. He raised a hand and clicked his fingers to summon the waiter and order lunch.

Wilson demurred again, but Chris wasn't taking no for an answer this time. Wilson insisted he couldn't stomach steak, but Chris managed to get him to eat a little fresh Atlantic salmon, blackened and chargrilled right off the barbecue outside. And when Wilson left a couple of hours later to continue on the road back to Princeton, Chris hoped he'd helped at least a little.

END OF PART 1