It was hot. The room was dark, but the air was stale, stuffy. The bedclothes were suffocating him, and he pushed them off fretfully. He shifted about, trying to find a comfortable position, but his muscles twitched and his skin felt as if it were about to jump off his flesh, and he couldn't lie still.

He sat up and saw the outline of a glass on the bedside table. He picked it up and sipped tentatively, then gulped down the sweet, fresh water. His body craved more and he stood up, giving himself a moment to adjust to being upright again, and then shuffled towards the bedroom door, the glass clutched in both hands.

The door was closed, which explained why it was so stuffy. Maybe he'd open a window before he went back to bed.

He could hear the sound of voices coming from the living room and frowned. Even the short walk to the door had tired him, and he leaned against the wall, letting it support him as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The voices became more distinct, familiar, which only made him more confused. He peered into the room, surprised — and then not surprised — to see three-quarters of House's team sprawled about his living room, files and test results spread over the coffee table.

"If I'd known I was having a party, I would have stocked up on chips." He was pleased that his voice sounded relatively strong. He was even more pleased by the slightly guilty looks that flashed across the faces of House's fellows. "Where's Foreman? On a beer run?"

"He's keeping an eye on the patient. What are you doing up?" House demanded, not looking guilty at all. "I closed the door so we wouldn't disturb you." It was as close to penitent as House was likely to get.

"Tired of sleeping," he muttered, looking longingly at the couch a few feet away.

Thirteen hurried over to his side. "How are you feeling, Dr. Wilson?" she asked. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He looked down at the glass in his hands and nodded, letting her lead him to the couch. "Why are you still here?" he asked House.

House smirked at him. "Taking a sick day. No point in wasting them when you're actually sick."

That was typical House logic. He cocked his head and watched as House wrote something on the window with what looked like a tube of lipstick. "I hope you're planning on washing that off."

"Saving lives here, Wilson," House replied breezily, stepping aside to display the list of symptoms. "Show him the scans."

Kutner looked apologetic as he handed a folder to Wilson. Wilson squinted his eyes to bring the images into focus. "Did you show these to Roland?" he asked.

"We kind of hoped you'd take a look at them as well," Taub said, exchanging a guilty look with Kutner.

Wilson didn't know whether to be flattered that they valued his opinion or concerned that they were doing an end run around one of his senior attendings. He sighed and tried to concentrate on the case instead. He stood up, holding each scan closer to the light for a clearer look. "A first-year resident could identify the mass in the kidney. What aren't you telling me?" He didn't need to see the slight smirk on House's face to know that Roland hadn't asked that question. But Roland didn't know how House's team worked. "Show me the blood work."

Taub had it ready to hand to him. The numbers jumped in front of his eyes and he rubbed his forehead before looking again. "It's a cyst," he said. But House already knew that, so if he was showing Wilson the scan, the cyst had to be important. He squinted again at the window, noting the neurological symptoms. They triggered a memory of another patient, not that long ago. It was a different presentation, but the pieces fit together to make the same picture. "Have you done a CT scan?"

"Looking for?" House prompted.

Wilson scowled at him and sat back down. "You known damn well what you're looking for." He started to cough and for a moment couldn't catch his breath. Thirteen handed him a glass of water and he drank it gratefully, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Hemangioblastomas," Taub said. "You're thinking..."

"Von Hippel-Lindau disease," House proclaimed, before Taub could come up with the diagnosis. "CT's scheduled for tomorrow morning."

Wilson rubbed his forehead again, a headache building behind his eyes. "I suppose Roland ruled out cancer and walked away," he sighed. "You should schedule surgery to remove the renal cyst. They have a high proclivity to turn cancerous." He shivered and wondered if someone had opened a window. How had it gotten so cold? He wrapped his arms around his body, trying to contain the chills. A moment later somebody settled a blanket over him and a soft hand brushed against his forehead.

"Back off, Thirteen," House snapped. "I know he's all rumpled and irresistible right now, but that's no reason to switch back to the home team."

"He's really hot, House," Thirteen retorted, sounding worried, and Wilson opened his eyes to see her leaning over him.

"That's what all the dying women say," House retorted, but joined her for his own assessment. Wilson flinched at the cold palm against his cheek and forehead. "Your fever's up," House said, looking as worried as Thirteen sounded.

"Is your hand digital?" Wilson murmured, managing a cocky smile. He didn't like seeing House worried about him.

It worked marginally. "Do you doubt my super-human diagnostic skills? Fifty bucks says I'm within one-tenth of a degree."

Wilson had learned the hard way never to take House's bets on things like that, but Kutner was still gullible. "I'll take that bet," he said, producing a digital thermometer from a medical bag by the couch. "Make your guess."

House felt Wilson's forehead again. "I never guess," he replied. "103.7."

Not leaving anything to chance, Kutner took Wilson's temperature himself. "103.6," he said, reaching for his wallet.

But House wasn't interested in the money. "It's gone up a degree since I've been here. You shouldn't be out of bed."

"It's just the flu, House," Wilson protested.

"It killed 40 million worldwide between 1918 and 1920."

And one in Princeton this spring, Wilson thought.

"Let's get you back to bed," House said softly, and Wilson knew their memories had travelled down parallel paths. "You've earned your keep for the day."

The last thing Wilson wanted to do was move, but House was tugging on his arm and Wilson let himself be pulled up. Kutner and Taub hovered nearby, and when he faltered after only a few steps, they scooped their arms around him and essentially carried him to the bedroom.

"Sorry about the bet," he muttered, as Kutner helped him into bed.

Kutner shrugged. "Should have known better than to take it when you didn't."

"Did Roland really not look at any alternatives?" he asked wearily, wondering if he would have to speak to his senior doctor.

"To be fair," Taub said, "he was pretty much under siege. House wasn't happy about having to deal with someone other than you, and I doubt Roland wanted any reason to prolong the encounter."

Wilson groaned. "Tell me House didn't call him a moron," he begged. "Tell me I'm not going to find a letter of resignation on my desk."

"I don't think it was that bad," Taub said with relative conviction. "House tolerates Roland. He just doesn't want to talk to him. Next time, do us all a favour. Call House to let him know you're not coming in. I thought he was going to hit something or somebody when you didn't answer his calls."

Wilson rubbed his eyes. "He does realise I have a life, doesn't he? I can't be at his beck and call all the time." Yet he knew he was just being defensive. He should have called House.

"You don't get it," Kutner said. "The last time you didn't answer his calls, you resigned and threatened to leave the state. I think he was actually relieved when he found out you'd called in sick, but he still skipped work to make a house call. He'll probably kill me for telling you that," he mused, but didn't seem particularly concerned. "I hope you don't get sick too often."

Wilson managed a tight smile, even as he wondered how much interference he was going to have to run to get House back in Cuddy's good books after this stunt. "Don't worry. Every few years or so." He didn't count the occasional sore throat or headache that he usually managed to beat back before it developed too far. The last time he had been really sick — spend the day in bed kind of sick — he had woken up to find House and Julie glaring at each other across his bed. It had been as good as an inoculation to his system — it wasn't a scene he'd ever want to repeat. But this time Julie wouldn't be there. Amber wouldn't be there. House had still come, though. A coughing jag helped disguise the sudden tears that sprang to his eyes.

Thirteen joined them, carrying the inhaler and another glass of water. "He told me to make sure you took your meds. He said I was welcome to use my feminine wiles if you balked."

Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. He knew he looked like a sulky child, but he knew House's moves too well to allow an end run on him. "I'm not taking the antiviral. This is just going to have to run its course."

"He knew you'd say that. Which is why he wants you to at least take the Tylenol." She pulled the bottle from her pocket and shook two pills loose.

He swallowed the pills. "Tell House he doesn't need to stick around. I'll be all right."

"I doubt anybody will be able to budge House," Kutner replied dryly. "He has a sure-fire way to avoid clinic duty, he has his diagnosis, and he has your big-screen TV. Who could ask for more?"

"How about satellite and a decent DVD collection? Even your porn is pathetic," House complained, stalking in. "Scat," he said to the fellows. "You're done for the day. Let me know what the results of the CT are." He waited while his team said goodbye and then perched on the side of the bed, holding out a steaming mug. "Drink this," he ordered.

Wilson eyed it curiously, hesitating.

"I'm not trying to poison you," House snapped, forcing the mug into Wilson's hands.

He sipped and his eyes widened with delight. "Oxtail soup? You remembered?"

House shrugged and looked away. "Yeah, well, kind of hard to forget the heresy of a Jewish doctor turning up his nose at chicken soup. I'm shocked your mother hasn't disowned you."

"It was my mother's favourite," Wilson replied. He took another sip. "One of the times I nearly blinded myself..." He glanced up as House sputtered out a laugh. "What?"

"Oh come on," House exclaimed. "You can't make a statement like that and not expect me to bust you. Exactly how many times did you nearly blind yourself as a child?"

Wilson squinted, trying to remember. "Two, maybe three, if you count the time I rode my bike into a tree." He fingered an old scar just below his left eyebrow. "It took an hour for them to pick out all the debris that was embedded in my mouth. But that's not the time I was trying to talk about," he said pointedly.

House waved him forward, his eyes dancing with delight. "Don't let me stop your childhood reminiscences. Which time was it?"

"It was either the time I fell face first onto a rock off the jungle gym, or the time I snapped my swim goggles into my eyes," he mused. "Or the time my older brother bushwhacked me in the face with a branch down by the river."

House couldn't contain his laughter. "You're already up to four. I'm surprised your parents let you leave the house."

"I hate you," Wilson muttered.

"Inexplicably, you don't. Go on. You were blind. Or not. And somehow oxtail soup was involved."

"It must have been the goggles incident," Wilson decided. "I think that was the only time both my eyes were bandaged. I couldn't see at all, and I wouldn't let anybody feed me, so my mother made me soup in a mug. Oxtail soup. And I sat on the couch in the family room, wedged between my parents, listening to Gone with the Wind on TV. And that's what I think of every time I smell oxtail soup." He glanced warily at House, expecting to be mocked, but House seemed more perplexed than amused.

"And that's a good memory?"

Wilson sipped some more of the soup, letting the warmth lead him back in time. "Yeah," he murmured. He had been hurting, he had been scared, but with his father's arm around him and his mother gently stroking his hair, he had been loved. He realised, with some surprise, that the soup was finished. He didn't think he had been hungry, but nearly 24 hours had passed since his last meal.

House took the mug from his hands and put it down before laying his hand against Wilson's forehead. He frowned. "If your temperature doesn't go down within the hour I'm giving you the antiviral whether you like it or not."

There was no point in arguing, so Wilson just slid further under the covers. "Open the window," he said. "It's stuffy in here."

"That's the fever talking," House retorted. "I'm not opening the window so you can get chilled."

"Then at least leave the door open. Unless you're planning on having any more guests."

"I cancelled the hooker for tonight. Your couch isn't exactly conducive to hot sex."

Wilson smirked. "Some would beg to differ." He chuckled as House made an exaggerated moue of disgust, but he struggled to maintain his grin at House's retort.

"Better than a waterbed at least."

His chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with illness, but he coughed anyway, turning away from House, as if to avoid infecting him. Amber had been gone for nearly six months. It shouldn't still hurt like this. A hand settled tentatively on his back, rubbing gently between his shoulder blades, and the pressure in his chest eased. He smiled as he drifted back to sleep. With House it wasn't important what he said; it was what he did.