A/N: I promised you angst and here it is. I hope it works. I plan to write the next chapter over the weekend. I hate when work interferes with my life.

Chapter 13

Wilson sat at the kitchen table picking at the food on his plate. "Your appetite hasn't returned," House said, leaning back in his chair watching him.

The young doctor looked up. "Maybe I just don't like the food."

"You don't like my cooking?"

Wilson pushed his chair back to get to his feet but House grabbed his wrist, keeping him seated. "You really need to eat."

"And you really need to stop telling me what to do."

He yanked his arm from House's grip and walked out of the kitchen.

House was dumbfounded. He placed his elbows on the table, leaning his forehead on his clasped hands. What the hell was that about? Then it occurred to him.

When he came into the living room a few minutes later he found the younger man lying against the back of the couch, his eyes closed. He leaned his cane against the coffee table and sat down next to him. Wilson opened his eyes and looked at him apologetically.

"House…."

The older doctor waved his hand. "It's okay. Irritability… delayed symptom. Or do you think it might be PMS?" he asked, causing the young doctor to snicker.

House cocked his head. "You really didn't like the food?"

"I don't mean to hurt your feelings but no, it tasted like cardboard," he said making a face.

"Loss of taste is also a symptom."

"Or maybe it's just your cooking."

House smirked. "Your argument sucks."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "My argument sucks because you don't agree."

"No. It sucks because you didn't eat enough to make any kind of informed judgment."

"Trust me, it was enough." He stifled a yawn. "Tired."

"You should go to bed."

He shook his head. "Not yet. How about we watch TV for a while," he said, taking the remote from the coffee table and switching on the television.

"Find something with a lot of sex and naked women," House said as he limped to his chair, easing into it and resting his cane against the side.

They ended up watching a movie about the Vietnam War, occasionally commenting to each other about a scene but remaining silent for the most part. Usually when watching movies, House would make inappropriate comments about the actors but had decided to forego the commentary on this night. During the film, he kept a watchful eye on his friend in case any additional delayed symptoms might present themselves.

Halfway through the movie, Wilson began rubbing his forehead, his face scrunched up from pain. He closed his eyes and lowered his head.

House switched off the television. "What is it?"

"My head…' he said, his voice strained.

"It just started?"

"It's…. been building."

I'll get the sumatriptan." House stood, grabbed his cane and quickly limped towards the bathroom.

He returned to find Wilson leaning on his elbows, his head resting in his hands. House sat down next to him. Without a word, the younger doctor leaned onto the arm of the couch and pulled down the waistband of his sweats allowing House to inject him. He winced.

"Done," House said as he placed the empty syringe and alcohol wipe on the coffee table. Wilson pulled his sweats back around his waist and sat up.

He sighed. "I was hoping this would be over."

"Your symptoms can last for weeks."

"Yes, I know. Yet you feel compelled to tell me anyway." He shook his head. "Sorry," he said, sighing, without looking at House.

"You should be sorry… I'm the one who has to put up with you." Wilson made a poor attempt at a smile.

"Give the meds a few minutes to work and then it's time to hit the hay. And speaking of meds…" House reached into his pocket for his Vicodin bottle, quickly swallowing a pill and returning the bottle to his pocket in one shot. He stood and limped towards the kitchen. "I just have to clean up the dishes."

Wilson laid his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

When House returned to the living room, he found his friend curled up on his side, asleep. He gently shook him awake.

"How's the head?"

"It's getting better, but I need to get some sleep." He stood and slowly made his way to the spare bedroom. When he reached the door, he turned to find House about to disappear into his own bedroom.

"Where are you going?"

House turned to face him. "To the room were I sleep. You have a problem with that?"

"You're not spending the night in my room?"

House raised an eyebrow. "Well, I just assumed….."

Wilson cut him off. "Do me a favor, don't assume."

House held his tongue, aware that this was the concussion speaking and not his friend. He stood silently, his eyes cast to the floor unsure of what he could say without incensing him.

"Sleep with me," the young man said quietly.

House looked into his eyes." Are you sure that's what you want?"

"I'm sure."

"Just promise you'll be gentle," he said, following Wilson into the bedroom. "This is my first time."

House switched off the light and slid into bed. He glanced over to see Wilson lying on his back staring at the ceiling. A moment later he felt the younger man touch his hand.

"I didn't mean to snap at you."

House squeezed his hand. "I know."

Neither man attempted to pull his hand back. House waited until he knew his friend was asleep before closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep himself.

He awoke to the sound of retching coming from the bathroom.

"Damn it."

He threw back the blanket and got out of bed as quickly as his leg would allow. As he stood he heard the toilet flush and water running. Switching on the lamp and noting the time - three AM - he grabbed his cane and limped to the other side of the bed, slowly sitting down on the edge and waiting for his friend to emerge from the bathroom.

Moments later Wilson walked into the bedroom looking pale and drawn, already showing signs of weight loss. He was startled to see House sitting on his side of the bed.

"Why didn't you wake me?" House asked. He couldn't hide the worry in his voice.

Wilson shrugged. "What could you do? I got to the bathroom in time." He sat down next to his friend.

"This concussion thing is really knocking you on your ass."

"I still say it's your cooking." Wilson said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You should…." He abruptly stopped talking.

Without warning the young doctor lurched towards the night stand with his arm outstretched, alarm on his face. House realized he was reaching for the plastic bowl and quickly retrieved it, placing it into his friend's hands. Not a second later, the young doctor began retching again, his entire body racking with painful spasms. House held onto him tightly, holding the bowl steady in his hands.

After several minutes, the spasms subsided and the older doctor could feel the tension in his friend's body slowly abating. Still clutching the bowl, Wilson stared at the wall, his eyes glazed.

House pulled him close as he took the plastic bowl from his hands, noting its contents as he placed it on the night stand. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a package of damp wipes, tore it open with his teeth and gently cleansed his friend's face. The young doctor leaned into him.

"Remind me not to eat your cooking again." His voice was weak and shaky belying his attempt at humor.

"It's not the food. You threw up bile and blood."

"That's because the food already went down the toilet."

House sighed. "I'm having you admitted to the hospital."

Wilson lifted his head and looked into the other man's eyes. "No."

"You'll be more comfortable there."

"I'm comfortable here."

"Jimmy…."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." He didn't intend the words to come out as sharply as they did.

Wilson became angry. "It's just delayed symptoms…you said so yourself."

Grasping him by his arms, House gently turned him around so they were facing each other. "Jimmy, listen to me. You're not eating and you're hardly drinking."

The younger man looked into his friend's eyes. "Give me a shot of cyclizine. I'll try to eat," he said, his eyes almost pleading.

House shook his head. "Even if you do, you can't keep it down. I'm concerned about you becoming dehydrated. I need to put you on a drip."

"Greg….."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy. I'm taking you to the hospital." His resolve broken, Wilson cast his eyes to the floor. He listened quietly as House notified Cuddy and made the arrangements.

tbc