Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

This fic is progressing more slowly than I'd expected. Sorry!

Chapter 3: The Ride

Wilson relished the feel of the cool passenger's side window glass against his temple. If God or the universe or someone else was trying to teach him a lesson in empathy…well, he wasn't very interested in learning.

"I can't believe you didn't take your cell phone with you," he muttered.

This was the third or fourth time he'd said it, but he felt entitled to grumble. His foot hurt despite the Vicodin, House was being an asshole, and he was already embarrassed enough about the accident without all the extra embarrassment of having his colleagues treat him he was about to encounter.

"I didn't drop that monstrosity on your foot," House griped. "Why were you bringing it over in the first place?"

Wilson sighed. "I don't know." Talking to House was a bad idea. House was in one of those snappish moods that made communicating with him impossible. Wilson concentrated on breathing instead.

He listened to "Black Dog" and "Rock and Roll," and waited for House to skip forward to "Misty Mountain Hop." The fade in of "The Battle of Evermore" and—there. But House was always attentive to music. He'd taken over the stereo in Wilson's car completely since Wilson had moved in. House had two cars and a motorcycle and yet he'd led Wilson to the Volvo. Wilson understood that the Corvette was for special occasions because driving it made a mess of his leg—he knew it had been difficult for House to let him drive it a few weeks ago to one of the more secluded make-out spots, but in his opinion, the intensity of the sex they'd had that night more than made up for not getting to drive—but House's other car was as plain and boring as this one. He hadn't asked why House preferred his car. He didn't plan to ask. But right now, it bothered him.

He felt the car come to a stop and imagined House breaking with his left foot. It was a smooth stop; he remembered being in the car for the jerky stops five years ago when House was learning to drive with both feet. Yes, dammit, he had been there. Most of the time he'd been worried about dying in a horrible accident and he'd let House know all about his fears while House alternately grumbled and jibed, stopping and starting shakily. But he'd been there. He'd been supportive. He had, dammit. He hadn't been sour or vitriolic. …but then again, his foot hadn't been broken then, nor was he missing a chunk of skeletal muscle.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you holding up?" House asked.

There—that was what he wanted. But he was going to be as miserable as House had been. He'd earned that right.

"I want to go home," he mumbled.

House squeezed his shoulder, gave it a brief pat, and let go. I know.

House glanced at the light to see if it had changed, then back to Wilson. Wilson was pale and sweaty, clearly still in pain. House recognized the stage of pain he was in: despondent indifference. I don't care what you do—anything is better than this—but you've got to do something. It wasn't a place anyone liked to be. He would never wish this on Wilson—probably on certain clinic patients, and maybe on Cuddy, but never on Wilson.

The light turned green and he accelerated with a wince, almost happy that Wilson wouldn't notice it. Naturally independent, even with a lover, he'd learned to bury his reactions at home the way he buried them at work in the weeks he'd been with Wilson. Wilson knew he didn't like anyone fussing over him, but he forgot sometimes. House would be in the middle of a serious wave of pain, wanting only to be left alone to ride it out, when he'd feel Wilson's eyes him. It was never more than that—well, he would notice Wilson going out of his way to keep him seated for a few hours, treating him more carefully than he liked to be treated—but even that gaze was too much. He didn't ask for it and he didn't want it. It felt too much like pity. He'd snapped a few weeks ago, they'd fought, and then they'd made up. If he chose to linger over this relationship, he would have found that they spent a good portion of their time fighting in one way or another. He chose not to linger.

Ten minutes later, he turned the engine off and waited for Wilson to stir.

"Think you can make it inside," he asked uncertainly, "or should I grab a wheelchair?"

Wilson took a deep breath and opened his eyes, squinting in the daylight. House had finagled a handicapped placard for this vehicle and though Wilson's designated parking space was just as close to the door as most of the handicapped spots were, he was putting the placard to use right now. Good thing too, Wilson thought. They couldn't get this close to the ER entrance any other way.

Wilson took another deep breath. "I'm good," he exhaled, rubbing his eyes. He heard House opening his door and reached for the handle on his side. This was going to be so much fun.