Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

Thanks for the reviews! Perils will be coming back soon. I'm trying to finish a long scene instead of breaking it into two short scenes, and it's taking longer as a result. Sorry for the wait! I don't know why the boys are so angry in this fic – it wrote itself that way. Hmm…

Chapter 2: Old Cane, New Cane

Wilson was in another world by the time House wrested his tired body from the comfort of the worn leather chair he loved and dialed the hospital to let the ER monkeys know who would be hobbling in soon and what he would need. He bullied his way through the receptionist to the senior nurse and though he could tell she wasn't pleased to be talking to him, he heard her tough tone melt when he mentioned who the patient was. She told him thirty minutes was the best she could do even for the beloved Dr. Wilson, he barked at her about freeing up machines and personnel, threatened to call Cuddy when he wasn't catered to as quickly as he would've liked, and they hung up after affirming mutual dislike.

House paused over the couch. Wilson's eyes were rolling furiously under his half-closed lids. He smiled a little—Wilson was in a place without pain right now—and gimped back to the bedroom for his old cane.

As a rule, he didn't like to keep them around, but he'd found it was easier to have a spare in case something happened than to wing it. His leg was not happy, nor was the rest of his right side. He'd promised himself a full hour of reclining; fifteen minutes was barely a drop in the bucket. And now he'd be in and out of uncomfortable plastic chairs for at least two hours—if Wilson didn't need surgery. He'd studied Wilson's foot while Wilson told him what had happened and it looked and sounded to him like a clean break, but he couldn't be sure.

The offending stone trout caught his eye as he left the bedroom and he sneered at it. Today was supposed to be relaxing. Tonight was supposed to be about love—or about food and sex, at least. Instead, Wilson would be doped up and sleepy, and he'd be left to scrounge something from the cafeteria or make a sandwich or get something else that could only be unappetizing after the length of time he'd spent picking out ingredients for dinner tonight. The timing of Wilson's little trout incident was very bad indeed.

As usual, one of Wilson's pet patients had up and died on him a few days ago and he'd taken it especially hard. At the same time, House had gone toe to toe with Cuddy yet again and despite the long hours he and his staff had put in, this was one of the rare cases they correctly diagnosed too late. He was also demoralized and when he was demoralized, he took it out on Wilson. He'd quickly learned that that arrangement wasn't going to work now that they were living and sleeping together. Over the past few days, he'd spent a lot of time awake, sneaking out of bed after Wilson fell asleep, and Wilson had given him crap about it. The sex had been angry, guilty, or mechanical since Wednesday. Today was supposed to be relaxing. They'd agreed on that after last night's argument. They hadn't gone to bed angry, but they hadn't gone to be happy either.

Dammit. He really wanted to kick that trout. Today wasn't supposed to involve work at all. And to top it off, he was too sore to bother putting on clean shoes. He sneered at the trout again, stopped in the kitchen to grab something for Wilson to barf into if the need arose, and came to rest next to the couch again. He wrinkled his nose at the splatter on the floor. Someone was going to have to clean that up before it became encrusted.

He whapped the couch once mercilessly with his cane. "Hey."

Wilson's eyes snapped open, pupils dilating. "Jesus," he breathed.

"Close," House quipped. He nodded toward the door. "Come on."

Wilson blinked heavily at him and lifted a shaky hand to his head. "Gimme a second," he mumbled.

House tossed the plastic grocery bag he'd selected to Wilson. Wilson stared dumbly at it for a moment before he remembered what had happened. Wasn't there something about House's shoes? Surely he didn't… his gaze traveled to House's feet and…yes, he did. Oops. He remembered he was annoyed at how House had reacted, but he couldn't help himself from looking sheepish. House was particular about that pair of Nikes…

"It's going to heal that way…" House prodded.

Wilson clenched his teeth—this too felt familiar—and slowly sat up, doing his best not to hiss at the new pain moving caused in his foot. He wanted to ask House for a sock for his other foot, but he also remembered that House was tired. And the fact that House was shoving his old cane in Wilson's face…okay, no socks.

Carefully, he transferred his foot from the couch to the floor, holding his knee the same way he saw House hold his knee at least once a day. Eerie. He accepted the cane and got to his feet with the help of the couch. House had one of those contemplative expressions on his face and Wilson couldn't tell if he was about to smirk or offer a helping hand. House gazed at him for another long moment and Wilson was ready crack and ask what he was looking at when he turned without a word and started for the door.

Wilson took a tentative step forward and began putting weight on his foot. He grunted, grabbing the arm of the couch to keep himself from falling. That hurt.

House had stopped halfway to the door and was waiting, his back to Wilson, listening.

"Can't put weight on it," Wilson said, getting his balance back.

House turned his head to look back. "You can hop, can't you?" he said.

Wilson noted House's stiff posture and bit his lip. He knew that most of the reason House wasn't helping was because he was tired and had enough trouble moving his own weight around right now, but he also detected silent anger. Or maybe just irritability, but it seemed to him like a holdover from last night's fight. Well. He hadn't dropped the fish on his foot on purpose. Gritting his teeth, he did his best to hobble toward House, letting his heel touch the floor as lightly and quickly as possible and using the cane on his left side to keep his balance and take some of his weight. He'd always known this was harder than House made it look—he'd been there for the adjustment, after all—but he hadn't thought it would be this hard.

House glanced at him when he came to a stop. "You forgot the bag," House said.

Wilson looked back across the room, which had tripled in size since he'd crossed it, and his heart sank. There was no way he could go all the way back there and come all the way back here again.

"Am I being punished?" he asked, trying not to sound angry. He wasn't angry. Just tired and disappointed.

House glanced at him again, his expression still unreadable. "Not by me."

He started forward and Wilson, sighing, followed.