I always listen. I always listen when he talks tome, confides in me, even when he says I haven't been. I could recite word for word every conversation we'd ever had. Write it all down for him to prove it. But it wouldn't prove a thing. The one time I needed him to listen, he didn't.

I'm glad to be home, not stuck in that cell of a hospital room, as if I were on display. They could have made it harder on me; I'm surprised they didn't. Luckily, despite the extra morphine, I was coherent enough to explain that I wasn't, that I hadn't been suicidal. I mean seriously, hoe many suicidal people actually page someone right before they do it, so they can bring you back to life? They all looked for a tell; Cuddy, Wilson, the shrink. To see if I was really that messed up. I just wanted to prove, once again that THIS IS IT. That there is nothing, no happy life ever after.

I'm bored, which is a dangerous thing in itself. And I'm edgy. It's almost too late to go out. My hand is killing me, so at least my leg is somewhat tolerable. Thank the brain for that gating mechanism! I decide to go out, to replenish my scotch stores, and deal with the extra pain in the morning. I grab my jacket, and throw open the door.

Wilson is standing there. Brown paper bag in hand. He is just standing there. He has made no effort to take out his key. He looks worse than I do, and I died for a short time earlier this week.

I hold open the door for him and he comes inside. He still hasn't said anything, which is adding to my edginess. I know there is booze inside the bag, and that placates me some. He takes off his jacket and looks at me from across the room. He just looks at me. I have to look away; I've been scrutinized enough lately.

There is a rush of air and suddenly he is in front of me. Too close in fact; in my personal space. I want to take a step back, but he is looking at me and for some reason I just can't. And before I know what is happening his lips are on mine, and our tongues are fighting for dominance.

When we finally break away for air, I have no idea how long we have been kissing. Wilson's forehead is on mine, and he is looking at me again, and he has this look on his face, that if he doesn't stop, I'm going to have to say something sarcastic to keep my heart from breaking. Wilson smiles, as if reading my mind. "I love you too, " he says.