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Wilson's head ached.

He slammed his desk drawer shut and stalked from his office.

His head ached and there was apparently no aspirin in this entire goddamn hospital. He yanked open the door to the diagnostics lounge and entered, barely acknowledging the three heads bowed over the many papers strewn across the glass table.

Wilson poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. The pain still throbbed at his temples. He took another drink, stomped across the room and entered House's office.

It was darker in here and Wilson's frustration, though not his pain, diminished slightly. He lowered himself into House's chair and took a large gulp of coffee. Wilson opened a drawer. Files. He opened another. More files, topped by a copy of Maxim. He opened the bottom one. There, beneath some paperback novels, TV guide and an obscene amount of loose lollypops was a bottle of acetaminophen. Wilson swiped it, shook out two, downed them with the rest of his coffee and stuck the bottle in his coat pocket.

The florescent lights glared down on Wilson as he exited House's office and made his way to the elevator. Once inside he leaned against the wall and rubbed his head. This really was the monster of all headaches. He pulled the bottle from his pocket and dry swallowed one more pill.

"Yuck," Wilson said, his face contorting. He looked down into the bottle and squinted, trying to think past the painful glare of white plastic. Tylenol was coated, wasn't it?

A few minutes later, he barged past Cuddy's assistant and into her office.

House had apparently done this moments before, as Cuddy was considerably more aggravated then normal. He ignored her vicious glare and slammed the bottle down on her desk.

"This wouldn't happen to have anything illicit in it? Would it?" he asked House.

"Of course not," House said, giving a wry smile. "Um...how many did you take?"

Wilson fell onto Cuddy's couch, clutching his still throbbing head.

"You kept prescription painkillers in an unmarked bottle?" Cuddy yelled.

"It's marked! See. It's just not marked correctly." He turned to Wilson. "Are you on MAO inhibitors or anti-depressants?"

"No." Wilson said.
"Then you're fine." He turned to Cuddy. "He's fine. Can we get back to my patient and why you need to...?"

"Your patient?" Cuddy screamed. "Your patient doesn't want you anywhere near him and you know what? I don't blame him. Your team will deal with the patient. You are going do nothing today but deal with this..." She gestured frantically at Wilson's slumped form. "Right after you get the hell out of my office."

House pushed himself to his feet and grabbed Wilson's arm, tugging him vertical "Come on."

Cuddy glanced at her desk. "And give me that goddamn bottle."

House sighed, removed the bottle from his pocket, where Wilson hadn't even been aware it was, and chucked it towards Cuddy's head.

House dragged Wilson through the clinic and into the elevator. As they rode up, he snaked his arm around Wilson's body, as though preparing to carry his weight.

"We could..." Wilson began, blinking against the bright lights.

"Anything we do would make you feel worse then the Vicodin. Enjoy the trip, some people pay for this."

They went to Wilson's office, House's hand still on his side. It felt nice, Wilson decided. House propped him up against the wall and grabbed the phone.

"What's your assistant's name?"

"Caroline."

"Carrie!" House snapped into the phone.

Wilson leaned his forehead against the wall. "Caroline."

"Cancel all of Dr. Wilson's appointments."

Wilson sighed.

"Because I said so, that's why. He's taking the day off," House grumbled. There was a pause as Caroline spoke. House rolled his eyes. "Because he's to stoned to work, that's why."

Wilson sighed a little harder.

House bundled him into the car and brought him home. House's home, actually, but Wilson often thought of it as home.

House dumped him on the couch.

"Does your head still hurt?"

"I don't know," Wilson whined miserably. He kicked off his shoes and curled his feet onto the couch.

"How's your stomach?"

"Why?"

A plate of something fell onto the table by Wilson's head. He ignored it, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and pulling it over his head.

"One good thing, though," House said, taking the seat at his feet.

"What?"

"You're talking to me."

Wilson pulled the blanket off his head.

"I had to think," he said.

House cocked an eyebrow. "That was two weeks ago. You've barely spoken to me since."

"I know," Wilson said, covering his face with the blanket again.

"Eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Wilson said. As the words left his mouth, he became aware of their inherent whining tone. I'm not hungreeeeeeee.

"Eat something," House repeated.

Wilson stuck a hand out from under the blanket and grabbed whatever was on the plate, bringing it under the blanket with him. He took a bite. Chocolate chip cookie. "Why?" He asked, bits of cookie still on his lips.

"Just in case," House said.

House turned on the television. Wilson watched a Law and Order rerun through the loose weave of the blanket. He found himself giggling a little more then necessary. When he suddenly guffawed as the street hustler attacked Lenny Briscoe, House pulled down the blanket roughly.

"Are you okay?" He asked and wasn't this the theme of the last few weeks? Wilson laughed.

House looked concerned and Wilson found himself very anxious to waylay that look.

"No, no. I'm fine," Wilson said, shaking his head slightly more emphatically then necessary. "It's just that's what you kept asking me that night, the night I freaked out and of course I freaked out, I mean I walked in on you having sex and you looked so hot and I guess I never really thought about it, I mean, you looking hot but you do, all the time, and you were looking at me like you were. I guess it's sort of funny, you know? Will you kiss me?"

House drew back slightly. "Why?"

"Because my stomach hurts." The moment Wilson said this he realized it was true. His stomach did hurt, quite a lot actually.

"I told you to eat something."

"I know. I did. Chocolate chip. Will you kiss me?"

House put his arms around Wilson rather tenderly and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. Wilson's eyes fell shut and stayed that way, even after House pulled away.

"That felt nice," Wilson said, dazed.

"I'm sure it did."

Wilson leaned over and dropped his head on House's shoulder. "The only other I time I've been on Vicodin was when I had my wisdom teeth pulled," he confided into House's ear. "This is much nicer."

"Um...thanks?" House slid his hand across the back of the couch and Wilson repositioned his head on House's chest, pulling the blanket up to his shoulder. They watched TV again. Wilson lay with his eyes closed, struggling to convince himself that A. he was not acting funny and 2. He was not about to fall asleep. As he rose up and down on the rhythm of House's breathing, he wondered why he'd spent the last week hiding in his office and avoiding the cafeteria. Him and House? He thought sleepily, this was nothing. Anybody could deal with this.

"Kiss me," He muttered, rolling onto his back.
House pushed Wilson's hair off his forehead.

"Please," Wilson said.

House leaned over and faintly touched his lips to Wilson's.

Wilson breathed in the lovely dry sugar and coffee smell of House. House's lips moved against his and he sighed opening his lips to accept House's tongue. It traced across the roof of Wilson's mouth. Wilson heard House moan, felt House's hand press against his chin, tilting his head upwards.

As they parted, Wilson looked up into the eyes that had started all this trouble and tried to think of something romantic to say regarding their current predicament.

"My stomach really hurts," he whispered.

House smiled.

Wilson reached up and touched his face. "You only smile around me."

House smiled wider. "You are so stoned."

Wilson giggled. "I'm sleepy. That's what I am." He stretched his arm above his head, dangling it off the arm of the couch.

"Do you want to take a nap?"

Wilson shifted around on House's lap. "I am taking a nap."

"No." House looked away awkwardly. "I mean, on my bed. I can put you to bed, if you want."

"Sure." Wilson sighed as he let his eyes close.

House got him into the bedroom with a minimal amount of fuss, aside from a put upon sigh and a mumbled, "I can't pick you up, you know."

Wilson sprawled out on the bed face up, pulling his belt from its loops and dropping it to the floor.

House made a little noise, as if swallowing a comment.

Wilson loosened his tie.

House turned to go.

"No!" Wilson called, as soon as he realized what was happening, which meant House was halfway through the door.

House turned.

"Don't leave me," Wilson said, half sitting. His tie bothered him suddenly and he wrenched it off, tossing it aside. He meant to rise and stop House physically, but the room wasn't keeping up with the speed his head was moving and it annoyed him. He fell back onto the bed. "You have to stay here."

"Why?" House asked.

"I can't go to sleep. You have to keep me awake."

House took a few slow steps into the room and sat on the end of the bed, tapping his cane against the soles of his sneakers.

"Okay." House said. "Let's talk then. Have you done any thinking lately?"

Wilson stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows change. "About us?" He asked, blinking slowly. "All the time. Every minute, every day." He strained to pull his head up. "It sucks," he spat, letting his head fall and rebound off the mattress. "All I can think about is you and your goddamn eyes and how you used to look at me." His hand gestured weakly, as though he were fanning away smoke. "Before the thing, I mean. When it was just us. You always used to look at me, stare, and I stared to and I was so stupid I didn't realize." He covered his eyes with his hands. "It was about sex. It's always about fucking sex."

"It's not about sex," House said, putting a hand on Wilson's ankle.

"Well, why the hell not?" Wilson said a bit louder then he meant to. "I'm actually pretty good at sex, all right?"

House was definitely laughing at him.

Wilson propped himself up on his elbows to give his witty retort. "I am great at sex. Wonderful. Better then you. I am Don Quixote." He flopped back down.

"Don Juan."

"One of them. God, my stomach hurts." He rolled on his side and shielded his face from the light with one hand.

"Do you want another kiss?"

"No, I want my stomach to stop hurting."

"You should sleep," House said.

"I can't. Lay by me and talk to me. Please? So I don't fall asleep?" If he'd been rational at all, he'd have been afraid of pushing this caretaker House thing any further, but the fact of the matter was he wasn't rational, he was so stoned, as had been said and he wanted House there, next to him. He reached a hand out, fluttering the fingers as though demanding a small child hold his hand at the cross walk.

House lowered himself onto the bed, slowly. Wilson studied him in the afternoon sunlight.

"Does your head still hurt?" House asked.

Wilson shrugged. "I can't tell."

"You should sleep," House said, yet again. "Really, it's the best thing."

"I can't," Wilson said, rearranging himself so that his head rested in the crook of his arm. One leg slid across the bed and his knee touched House's calf. "What if something bad happens?"

House lay his hand on Wilson's wrist, his thumb brushing against the smooth skin of Wilson's face.

"I won't let anything bad happen," House said.

Wilson slept.