Work Text:
The mourning process was, well, a process.
He's started on job resumes that get typed out in 12pt Times New Roman, turned in his recommendations to companies who would want him, and cried when he thought about getting a new mattress- the insurance rates on this one were way too good to give up.
Wilson pointedly does not think about Him.
It's a bit childish, but if he's learned one thing over the years it's that being childish often gets you what you want.
Sorting through mail for responses sucks because it reminds Wilson of Amber's damning note, but he does it anyways because he's not a lazy slob like-
There's knocking at the door. Cameron said she'd have to cancel today and come over next week.
Wilson opens the door. Shuts it. A cane stops it from closing all the way.
“I'm getting a restraining order.”
“You know that wouldn't stop me and you don't need a court order to get kinky, relax.”
“I don't need to relax- I told you, next time you knocked- I wasn't answering.”
“Then why are we still talking?”
Silence. The door is pried open to reveal pale blue eyes.
“Get out.”
“You want me gone, yeah sure whatever, but that means you have to deal with it.”
“I-I am! I- that's what,” the door opens a little wider, “I am- that is literally exactly what I'm currently doing.”
“No,” he starts, shoving Wilson out of the doorway and closing it behind him, “You're running away, as we've previously concluded.”
“Get out of here before I call the cops.”
“You want me gone then you're going to have to deal with it.”
A .45 caliber is two inches away from his chest, the barrel pointing firmly at his heart.
“I-I, what are- I'm,” the gun is flipped, and he offers Wilson the handle, “...what?”
He motions for Wilson to grab the gun, so he does so, cautiously. A weathered hand firmly grabs the barrel and aims it at its owner's head. His forehead rests on the muzzle with a familiar weighted contemplation. Another hand keeps Wilson's secured on the stock.
“If you want me gone, you're going to have to deal with it,” Wilson didn't even know where his cane went, or when he put it down, “I mean, you never know. Third time really could be the charm.”
Tired blue eyes look at him and Wilson remembers Amber going cold beneath his hands. The steady sound of the dialysis turned off beneath his hands. I'm tired, she said. The gun is warm between their hands.
“This isn't a game.”
“No, it isn't,” the eyes don't blink, a heart doesn't beat. “The gun has no serial number- neither does the bullet. There's an address in my pocket with an unmarked grave and I've set up emails with fake receipts to flights in my checking account.”
“This is pointless-”
“This is closure,” he says, morose, “Third time's the charm, Wilson.”
“I'm-I’m just,” and the steady hands retreat.
“An idiot. Believe me, I know.” And he turns his back, hobbles to fetch his cane from the coat stand that Wilson bought for Amber’s place. Opens the door.
The gun clicks empty in Wilson's hands. Twice.
Gregory House pauses at his doorway, tilts his head, the door still open behind him with a hand on the doorframe.
“Third time's the charm,” and House is the last thing that sounds warm and loud in the whole apartment.
The gun is cold and silent and does not click blank again.
House smiles.
“...Goodnight Wilson.”
And the door doesn't close.