"Just sit. I'll clean it up," Wilson whispered. House was stretched out on the couch, half asleep and shivering with fever. Vomit covered the ground in front of him. He groaned. Wilson just shook his head and wiped it away with a wet cloth. He paused, putting a different cloth across House's head, feeling the heat.

Wilson got a bucket. He hunted down the anti-emetics hidden in the back of the sink cabinet. He changed the cloth on House's forehead. He took his temperature every hour. He shut the blinds and laid a light blanket across House's sleeping form. He sunk down against the fridge. He cradled his head in his hands and whimpered quietly against the building migraine.

"Wiiiiiilsooooooooon" House groaned from the other room. A knife twisted behind Wilson's eye at the noise. His stomach rolled, but he stood up. The room pitched left and he grabbed the counter. Black crept into his vision.

"I'm coming!" Wilson's voice was strong, calm, in control. Just like it always was. Nothing betrayed that he was doubled over in pain, barely standing against a counter. He pushed off, stumbling and lurching to the living room, where he drew himself up through the nausea and rounded the couch. "What?" Every word was like a needle.

"I'm thirsty."

"The water is right there." Wilson pointed to the bottle, sitting a foot from House's head on the coffee table.

"I'm sick. You can't expect me to care for myself!" House whined. It was a joke. Wilson knew, but it was undercut by the way his stomach was sitting in his throat. The water bottle slammed into House's hand.

"I'm not feeding it to you." Wilson turned to leave. He walked out of the living room back straight and stride even. As soon as he was out of sight he let himself lean on the wall and press his hands into his eyes. Hard, until that pain rivaled the pain in his head.

"Wiiiiiiiiiilsooooooon!" House called again. The noise was too much. Pain stabbed into Wilson's skull will suck force that he vomited on the spot, heaving for at least a minute and sliding to his knees, tears forming as each retch intensified the pain and dizziness. "Wiiiiiiiilsoooooon!" House yelled again. Wilson pressed his head into the wall, trying to dry the tears. The stench didn't help.

"Just a minute," he'd meant to shout back, but it came out as a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat, wincing. "Just a minute!" It came out right this time.

"I'm going to puke all over the carpet!"

"There's a bucket right there." Wilson knew he couldn't stand. He'd just vomit or pass out. But he stood anyway, falling hard against the wall and side-stepping his mess clumsily. He practically fell into the bathroom and hastily threw up the toilet seat before dry heaving into the bowl, nothing left to bring up. When it stopped, he grabbed a dampened washcloth, lurching back out into the hall and nearly face planting at least three times. God, everything hurt, and he couldn't see straight to boot. His perpetual vision had gone, along with his balance and concentration. He stopped just short of the living room. He steadied his breath to listen to House's whining. Even the hand wiping across his mouth sent waves of stabbing pain. Wilson felt like passing out.

But he didn't. He never did. He always rallied. Always stood up straight and picked House up out of whatever hole he'd fallen into. Wilson never faltered. No matter what.