The drive home had been made mostly in silence. Wilson was buckled into the passenger seat, reclined into an almost flat position. House couldn't tell whether he was asleep or resting, but he was definitely quiet. It was one of the things House appreciated most about Wilson – the man rarely felt the need to talk simply to fill silence.

For the first two hours, House felt fine. The two Vicodin he'd swallowed before leaving the hospital had kept his pain at bay. They were making good time and, with a little luck, might be in Princeton before sunset.

The pain started with an ache. Nothing unusual; his leg always ached. Twenty minutes and as many miles later, the ache became a throb and his hand reflexively reached into his pocket for the bottle of Vicodin, stopping only when his brain reminded him that it was now empty. He stole a glance at Wilson, slumped in the passenger seat, eyes still closed. Thought about saying something; decided against it. The man needed rest.

By hour three, they'd hit traffic and the throbbing in his leg was replaced with outright pain. House recognized the cause – the Vicodin was wearing off. Bumper-to-bumper traffic meant frequent stops and starts, which translated into constant pressure as his right foot switched from brake to accelerator. Tail lights in front of him blared bright red. Again, he braked, sending pain cascading from foot to hip. This wasn't working.

Beside him, Wilson continued to snooze. House slowed, edging the car toward the right lane and the nearest exit.

Wilson awoke to the car rounding the curve of the exit ramp. "We there already?" he asked, pulling the seat into an upright position.

"Pit stop."

"Bathroom break?"

"Not exactly," he replied through clenched teeth. Ahead on both sides of the road, were low-rise chain motel chains that promised they were designed by business travelers for family vacations, or something like that.

By now, Wilson had sensed something was awry. "House, what's wrong? Why are we stopping?"

He ignored Wilson, his attention focused on simply inching the car toward the nearest motel. By the time they reached the covered entry, he was breathing heavily, one hand on the wheel, the other gripped tightly on his thigh. Using his left foot to brake, he brought the car to a stop.

"Your leg?" Wilson asked tentatively. "Bad?"

House nodded, now beyond words. Immediately, there was a shuffling beside him that his brain registered as Wilson climbing out of the car. Wilson shouldn't be moving.

House lost track of how much time had passed before the car door opened and strong hands reached under his shoulders. Not Wilson's hands.

"Easy, I got you," an unfamiliar voice said. The one with the strong arms.

"Careful with his right leg." That was Wilson.

His body was lifted, twisted from the car. A cane appeared in his hand.

Damn! He leaned into the stranger, who easily absorbed his weight. Words were murmured in his ear; encouragement that only a portion of his brain registered. Something about a room right in front of them. A step, a stumble, another step.

"Almost there. Hold on."

He allowed himself to be manhandled into the room and onto the bed, immediately curling into a fetal position, hands hugging his thigh. More soft voices and then the unfamiliar presence disappeared.

"Where are your meds?" Wilson asked, rummaging through his pockets. Within seconds, he'd pulled out the amber plastic vial. "House, where are your meds?"

"Out."

"You're out?" Wilson's voice was disbelieving. "How long have you been out? What were you doing driving without your meds?"

House was too tired and in too much pain to answer.

"Okay, hold on another minute."

Pressure lifted from the bed, a door opened and closed, and House was alone with his pain. Minutes that seemed like hours later, the bed dipped and his left arm was held in a vise grip. Attempts to pull away met with firm resistance.

"Hold still. This'll help."

There was a tightening on his upper arm, a needle prick, and then the rush of relief through his veins. As the pain slowly rescinded, he was aware of light pressure on his wrist. "Morphine?" he whispered, his brain unable to process how Wilson had managed to obtain the drug.

"Yeah." A moment later, "Better?"

House carefully opened his eyes. Wilson—Wilson looked like hell. Rings of his normally perfectly coifed hair hung down his forehead, mixing with beads of perspiration. His breath was hitched and lips were in the tight line that meant either anger or pain. Shit, Wilson had just been released from the hospital. Broken ribs, sprained wrist. How'd he manage to inject the morphine right-handed? He struggled to sit up.

Pressure against his chest competed with stabbing in his leg. The leg won and he dropped back onto the bed. "Where'd you get the morphine?"

"Secret stash. Brought some along just in case." House tried to imagine where Wilson had stashed the morphine – the glove box? – but was too tired and relieved to care.

Wilson eased himself off the bed. "Need to take off your pants so I can check your leg."

House shook his head. "You know what's wrong with it."

"Yeah, and I've seen it before and I'm going to see it again. And," he said firmly, "I'm gonna look at it now."

House rolled his eyes to a point on the ceiling.

"House. You gotta help." Wilson held up his bandaged wrist.

"You shot me with morphine."

"That—was different."

The more alert portion of House's brain reminded him that Wilson performed most medical procedures with his right hand. "Just forget it."

"Take 'em off or I cut 'em off."

Arguing with Wilson in one of these moods was pointless and, after a dramatic, frustrated sigh and a few tugs, House's jeans were around his knees and his eyes were again fixed on the ceiling. There was little he hated more than someone looking at, let alone touching, his damaged thigh. But the hands that probed him now were non-threatening, familiar, gentle.

"Seems the same," Wilson said after a moment.

"Told you," House replied tiredly.

"But," Wilson stressed the word, "you're obviously having breakthrough pain. So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to call in a Vicodin scrip. In the meantime, the morphine should hold you for the night and I'll give you some of my Percocet in the morning. When we get back, you're getting another workup."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You'll start with the orthopedist, and if that doesn't work, the pain specialist, and if that doesn't work, a psychiatrist. I don't know if the pain is physical or psychological or a little of both. But it's obviously real and it's getting worse."

His forearm dropped lazily over his face. "There's nothing they can do."

"You don't know that."

Out of the corner of his eye, House saw Wilson sink into the other bed, carefully straightening out his body and settling his head on the pillow.

"This is why you're depressed, isn't it?" Wilson asked after a moment. "Worsening pain coupled with decreasing options."

"It's called reality, not depression."

"Reality can be depressing."

"How profound."

"I'm not trying to be profound. I'm trying—"

"To help, I know."

"And, from the sound of it, doing a lousy job."

"Is that what's making you depressed?"

The question was met with silence. House turned on the bed, thanking the morphine for making the transition relatively painless. "Wilson, why didn't you tell me you were depressed? And don't give me the 'it's personal' bullshit."

"You're not exactly one for discussing my feelings."

"I didn't think we needed to. I thought what we had—what we have–was okay with you."

"What do we have?"

House forced himself to repress an annoyed snort. This was what he got for inviting these touchy-feely questions in the first place. "We have . . . an arrangement. We hang out. Watch porn and soaps. Drink beer. You buy me lunch. I steal your food."

"Do you realize how crazy that sounds?"

House considered the question. Crazy, sure. But always okay, at least with him. Who needed anything more? Oops – wrong question. "What do you want from me? Am I supposed to turn into Cameron – all squishy and smothering?"

"Of course not. It's just that you . . . oh, forget it."

"No, I want to hear it."

"You never want to hear it."

"I do now."

"That's because you're on a morphine high, I'm in pain, and we're sitting in a motel room with nothing better to do."

House silently nodded. Point. "I still want to hear it."

"It doesn't matter. You're not going to change."

"Of course I can change."

"House, you've had the same job, same apartment, same office, same stubble, same everything for years. Heck, you've even had the same fellows going on four years. Not gonna change."

"At least tell me how I'm supposed to change."

Suddenly, there was a chuckle from the other bed.

House frowned. "What?"

"It's funny."

"What's funny?"

More laughter. Then a harsh intake of breath and a groan. House raised himself off the bed to get a better look. And groaned himself.

"You okay?" He said it; Wilson said it. Same time.

Wilson was the first to reply. "Laughing hurts."

"Then stop."

Another snicker. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"House, do you realize that we're two middle-aged men, half naked and high, lying in bed in a cheap hotel room discussing our feelings?"

Wilson had a point. It was crazy. It was screwed up. It was them.

"You've got a problem with that?" he deadpanned.

"Not me."

"I can change, you know."

Wilson let out a contented sigh. "Not sure I want you to."