A/N: This fic is inspired by 'You Might Die Trying' by the Dave Matthews Band. It was on House the other night (5x02: Not Cancer), and I fell in love. ;D Absolutely wonderful song, and I highly suggest you listen to it.

To change the world
Start with one step
However small,
The first step is hardest of all

"I'm sorry."

Wilson looked on expectantly, a cue for him to continue. The rat bastard knew what was coming; he just wanted to see House squirm.

"I know I didn't try to kill her, I know I didn't want her to..." he said weakly. He can't speak her name anymore, can't let it sweep across his lips; even if he could, who else is anything about anymore? "I know it was a freak accident, but I feel like crap and she's dead because of me."

Lies. Of course he knew that it wasn't his fault. He's got the cracked skull and haunting memories to prove that he did everything he could. But if it would bring Wilson back to him...

He looked in House's direction. Not quite at him, but more at a ghost, a memory blurring the lines of reality.

"I don't blame you."

His jaw fell slack, and the muscles in his hand contracted around his cane. His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm and red creeped up at the sides of his vision.

...What?

"I wanted to, I tried to..."

Then why am I fucking here?

"I must have reviewed Amber's case file a hundred times to find a way..."

His fingernails tasted bitter blood crawling out of his palm.

"But it wasn't your fault." Wilson shook his head almost innocently, as if there was anything innocent about what he was doing to House's heart.

Bite your tongue, Greg.

"Then...we're okay?"

Of course not, House's brain screamed at him, assaulting his ears with thoughts of life without Wilson. Lies. He's lying.

Shut the fuck up, he shouted back, hoping to quell their sadistic laughter for a moment. Hoping for a moment of hope.

"I mean, I know you aren't, but...maybe I can help."

And there the great Doctor House stood, within the blank of all of Wilson's hatred and grief.

There was only one question left:

Hit or miss?

Suddenly, maybe too suddenly, too abruptly now, came his answer.

"We're not okay."

A perfect bullseye.

"Amber was never the real reason I was leaving."

House's hand unclenched (was it even clenched in the first place?), his face a sorrowful blend of hurt and shock, as much as could be shown on his weary and expression-starved face.

He heard his friend, his former friend, talking again: he should listen.

"I didn't want to tell you because...because I was trying, like I always do, to protect you."

Tell me what?! His conscience practically deadened his eardrums with this question.

"Which is the problem."

With the second's blink, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly in confusion.

"You spread misery," he started, a malicious tone that wavered the smallest bit, giving away his insecurity, his remorse. "because you can't feel anything else. You manipluate people because you can't handle any kind of real relationship..." The quiver in Wilson's voice faded as fast as it came, and House found it disquieting and unfair.

"And I've enabled it, for years. The games,"

Picking the new team.
Almost killed several patients.

"the binges,"

The Vicodin.
Almost killed myself.

"the middle of the night phone calls..."

Amber.
Almost...
No.
Killed her.

"I should've been the one on the bus, not Amber."

House's heart jumped a little at that proposition.

No.

"You should have been alone on the bus."

Another hit, dead center.

He split his own arrow.

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