Sorry, the bunny crawled in and never left. Whether I continue this is based on its reception, for War Wounds is my main priority right now.

So if you like it, let me know.

"So we just need to start her on dialysis and flush the drugs out."

Wilson could have wept with joy if he wasn't so overcome with relief. He let his head fall into his latex-covered hands.

"She's going to be okay."

House stayed silent, sharing none of Wilson's happiness. He was thankful it was over – his head was a dull throb, and the numbness seemed to extend to the rest of his body. Wilson's fury would have to wait - right now House was too weary to care about anything else.

You never could care about anything else, a voice taunted, it's how you got into this situation in the first place.

Reprieve came in the form of a car's headlights, its blinding glow sending bolts of pain lancing through his skull.

He instinctively recoiled, and squeezed his eyes shut against the beam.

Chase started as House started to shake.

"He's seizing. Wilson, I need help here!"

Amber stepped cautiously toward the bus towering above her. The door hissed opened in invitation as soon as she reached it, but she stood outside hesitantly. She could not explain her trepidation; she was never one to be nervous, and the bus appeared empty from the outside. Still, being barefooted and wearing only a thin hospital gown made her feel exposed and naked, stripped of the defenses she had erected over the years.

She gingerly placed her foot on the first step. The metal step was cold and sent goosebumps up her leg. She froze after she ascended the steps - the bus was not as deserted as she thought.

He was stretched out casually in the backseat, long perfect legs extending lazily over the cushions. He was clad in similar attire, and the white glow around them seemed to illuminate his skin and smooth out his wrinkles, making him seem childlike and more peaceful than she had ever seen him. Yet there was an exhaustion that seemed to cling to him, settling about his shoulders like a weight.

She padded her way to the bench in front of him, and he ducked his head as she neared, sneaking glances at her through his periphery. Amber stared resolutely at him, silently willing him to face her. She decided to be the first to break the silence.

"Am I dead?"

He turned his attention back to his feet, raising one hand to scratch at the scruff on his cheek.

"Not yet."

"Are you dead?"

He chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head in frustration, but his eyes were soft as he turned to her. Jerking his chin toward the door, he whispered softly, "You should go."

Amber placed her own hand gently on top of his, and her expression betrayed nothing as she watched him pretend not to flinch. She waited calmly until he met her eyes again before murmuring, "Come with me."

She gave his larger hand a gentle tug. She smiled softly as she took in his startled gaze, pale blue eyes going wide as his entire body stiffened.

"He'll want to see us both."

"Wilson's going to hate me."

He deliberately avoided eye contact at his confession, as though shamed at his display. She refused to back off, and said the only thing she could to pull him out of his distress. Playfully shaking his hand to take the sting out of her comment, she teased, "You kind of deserve it."

It worked. His head snapped up in alarm and his stare reflected different shades of hurt, pain and betrayal before settling on resignation as he turned away, and replied in a small voice, "Yeah."

She bit her lip. Well that did not go according to plan. House was supposed to fight back like he always did, not clam up in surrender. Not used to the skittish and spooked creature in front of her, she iterated, "Come with me."

His voice was thick as he rubbed his forehead in agitation.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because."

Amber let the childish petulance slide; he was deflecting, she knew, running as best as he can from the emotions that threatened to spill from behind his closed eyelids. She said nothing, giving his hand a squeeze, silently urging him to continue.

"Because…it doesn't hurt here. I…I don't want to be in pain, I don't want to be miserable." House gave a nervous chuckle; he was not sure why he was opening up to her about this.

"And I don't want him to hate me."

Surprised at his heartfelt confesson, Amber leaned forward, and quoting him from one of his many tirades, said gently, "Well, you can't always get what you want."

She tugged again on his hand, smiling encouragingly as she sought to rise. He seemed to shrink instead, curling about himself and wrenching his hand from her grasp. His eyes grew hard as he looked away, resting his forehead against the rear window, effectively dismissing her.

"Get off the bus."

Helpless and unsure of what to do, she made her way tentatively toward the exit. Amber, with a hand on the rail, gave one final glance at her companion, and softly but firmly asserted, "House…it wasn't your fault."

She waited, and finding no response from him, she stepped resignedly off the bus, allowing the warmth to engulf her.

House heard her footsteps recede, and cast his gaze around the empty bus. He reclined on the seats, shifting his right leg experimentally.

Her forgiveness meant nothing. He knew, rationally, it wasn't his fault. The accident wasn't borne out of a secret desire to split Wilson and Amber up. He liked Amber, he really did, she complemented Wilson well, and managed to do what he failed to – get Wilson to stand up for himself. Her forgiveness meant nothing simply because she wasn't the one House wanted to hear it from.

Doesn't matter.

He had no intention of returning, back to a life of unrelenting agony and where his best friend – his only friend - loathed him. Where everyday was never-ending struggle of pain and addiction – either his leg or the vicodin would kill him; neither choice promised a peaceful end. House did not know where his mortality lay at the moment, but if it ended here, now, he supposed it could be worse.

He sighed and closed his eyes. His job here was done; CB was happily being delivered back to Wilson, the mystery was solved, another patient saved. So why was he still here? Could it be he was still hanging on to a small spark of hope that everything would return back to normal? His leg would magically heal?

He snorted.

Yeah, right.

He stretched his arms up, opening them up toward the ceiling, like a drowning man reaching for salvation.

"Come on! Take me to your leader!"

His sarcasm echoed in the silence, and he allowed his arms to flop bonelessly back to his side.

"Didn't think so."

How fucking ironic. Two pumping legs and nowhere to run.

House wondered if Wilson was fretting over Amber now, wide beaming smiles from everyone as the romantic couple live happily ever after. The dragon is slain, let us adjourn to the castle. He thought briefly about what happened to his body. It was probably abandoned in a dark corner of the hospital somewhere, as far away from the festivities as possible. That thing was useless anyway.

Try as he might, he couldn't take joy in Wilson's newfound bliss. Not when he wasn't the one to give it to him. Before Amber, House put up with Wilson's wives because he knew the relationship would fail. Wilson was also always there for him, through Stacy and the infarction, even risking his wives' fury. Then Tritter happened, and their friendship, though intact, was fundamentally altered. When Amber came along, Wilson had cut him out completely, placing his attention and affection on the shiny new bauble that came along. House's attempts at intervention all failed spectacularly, and even Cuddy was on Amber's side. House had tried removing himself from the equation - Wilson seemed happy enough without his help, and House didn't want a repeat of the Tritter fiasco, where he'd almost wrecked Wilson's career and freedom. By running away, House might be able to shelter his best friend from his own self-destruction.

Fat load of good that did.

Enough. House had done the best he could, and fixed the problem. Between the accident, the heart attack, and the fight to save Amber's life he had no time for pit stops. He'd worked himself to the bone for Wilson. House could only hope that was enough.

Right now, he needed sleep.

House relaxed and tumbled trustingly into the darkness.

"Amber, hey, hey…It's James, can you hear me?"

Amber awoke to her lover's worried face inches away, brown eyes shining with concern as he brushed his thumb across her temples. His shirt was rumpled and his hair mussed, but he had never looked more alert than he was now.

Her voice was croaky and her throat dry, but she had managed a hoarse whisper, "Hey."

Wilson had laughed in relief, tears rolling down the corners of his eyes as he touched his forehead to hers.

"Hey. You're okay now. You're gonna be fine."

He fed her some ice chips, and leaned in to kiss her softly on her lips.

Feeling slightly stronger, she ventured, "What happened?"

"You were in an accident. We didn't get to you till it was almost too late. You've been out for almost 96 hours. Thought I was going to lose you there.

But you're okay now. You're going to be fine."

Wilson cupped her cheek, and Amber couldn't tell if he was trying to reassure himself or her, probably them both. She noticed he failed to bring up House, but right now she was too content and tired in his arms to care. It can wait; they have all the time in the world.

Amber fell asleep with her hand wrapped around Wilson's, and not long after Wilson followed her into slumber.

Three rooms away, Cuddy fought to prevent House from choking on his own saliva as he seized for the second time.