Eighteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, and fifty-three seconds after Cuddy found it necessary to complicate House's life even further, he decided not to go to work. Although this was not exactly an irregular occurrence, he actually had a legitimate excuse this time. He'd woken up well before the alarm was due to ring incessantly in his ear. This simply never happened. In fact, if anything, he usually slept right through it for an impressive amount of time. Therefore he immediately knew something was not right.
However, it didn't take long to figure out the source of his unpleasant awakening. He was hot – way too hot. Confused as to what the cause of this uncomfortable situation, House rolled onto his left side to face Wilson. Mystery solved. The younger man's face was flushed, sweat soaked every visible inch of him, and his head was moving weakly from side to side as he slept, hands clutching his abdomen in obvious pain. House frowned, pushed the damp hair off of James' forehead, and replaced it with his wrist, testing his temperature. He had a high fever but nothing dangerous. It was probably the flu. He took a moment to bask in the idea of the amount of pleasure he would get out of rubbing in the fact that he'd remembered to get a flu shot whereas the Boy Wonder had put it off.
"House?" Wilson's weak question brought him back to reality.
"Wakey, wakey, Wonder Boy!" House smirked. Wilson grimaced.
"Not so loud," he groaned, squeezing his eyes even more tightly closed.
"Headache?" House questioned, not lowering his voice. Wilson nodded and hummed his agreement before speaking.
"I think I'm gonna throw up." House became serious then.
"Whoa! Try to keep it in until I get a bucket or something!" he said as he ran from the room, slightly awkwardly as he had not bothered to put his brace on yet. Rummaging through the kitchen, he spotted an old plastic ice cream pail sitting next to the trashcan. He figured that would work. Snatching it, he made his way back toward the bedroom. Suddenly a harsh retching sound filled his ears, followed by the inevitable splash. Too late. Dropping the bucket, he hurried into the bathroom to find Wilson, sweaty and shaking almost violently, slumped over on the floor, practically hugging the toilet. In hindsight, it probably would have made more sense to have helped him to the bathroom instead of running off, but it was too late now.
"Feel better?" House asked as he opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the thermometer, Tylenol, and Emetrol.
"I wish," Wilson mumbled painfully. House ran some water in a glass.
"Here take these," he said as he handed them over. Wilson slowly obeyed. House inwardly noted the pain each movement seemed to cause." Now, come on. Let's get you back to bed," he told him as he replaced the glass. Wilson nodded in agreement and took House's outstretched hand.
"Greg, honey, is everything all right?" asked the concerned voice of Blythe House. She'd woken to the sounds on crashing and banging in the kitchen and had gotten up to investigate, stopping short of the entrance to the bedroom.
"Yeah, mom, everything's fine. You can come in, but you might wanna stay back. Looks like Wilson's got the flu," House replied as he helped Wilson back into bed and covered him up as the young man continued to shake. "I wanna take your temperature before the Tylenol kicks in," he told Wilson as his mother quickly stepped inside.
"Oh, James, sweetie how did you manage to come down with the flu? Didn't you get your shot?" House smirked at his mother's words, but the expression was quickly wiped from his face as she swiped the thermometer from his hands and stuck it in Wilson's mouth. "Now keep that under your tongue," she instructed as she would a child as she fixed the blankets around him.
"I thought I was the doctor here," house said indignantly, placing his hands on his hips in a very Wilson-like fashion. Blythe nodded in agreement.
"And a very good one too. But it's time for all the good, healthy, doctors to get ready for work."
"But mom!" he complained in a long, drawn out voice.
"No buts. You are going to work and that's final. James and I will be fine here without you," the beep of the thermometer interrupted her. House reached down to take it, but Blythe beat him to it. "101.8. My goodness! I'll go and make some chicken and noodle soup. That always made Greg feel better when he was a little boy." House rolled his eyes.
"We don't have any soup," he pointed out, his voice staying as polite as possible only for his mother.
"Sure we do. I went grocery shopping yesterday. You really need to eat better, you know," Blythe frowned slightly at the thought of the bare cabinets she had found.
"Come on, I'm a doctor. What do I know about health?" he questioned jokingly. Blythe gave a small, resigned grin.
"Go and get a shower, Greg," she told him then turned to Wilson. "Will you be okay by yourself for a while?" James gave a short nod, squeezing his eyes closed at the pain this slight movement caused.
"I'm fine," he answered quietly, pulling the covers over his head.
"Come on. Get going or you'll be late," Blythe ushered House out of the bedroom, leaving the door open a small crack behind them.
Twelve minutes and forty-two seconds later, the apartment was filled with the distinct aroma of chicken and noodles. Stepping out of the steamy bathroom, House inhaled deeply. He loved that smell. It reminded him of the comfort and concern of others being focused solely on him for all the right reasons. He'd never admit it, but he missed that feeling. Shaking himself, he grabbed the cordless phone from the living room, looked around for any signs of the mother hen, and dialed PPTH.
"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy! I hope the girls are nice and perky today cause I've got some bad news," he told her in his usual 'conversation with Cuddy' tone.
"My pores are oozing with anticipation," she replied dryly, all too use to receiving this sort of phone call.
"Wilson's caught something – can't come in today. Probably won't be going away anytime soon, so I guess we'll see you in a few days," he made a move to hang up, but Cuddy's shout stopped him.
"Wait a second!" she all but yelled, knowing he would be hanging up. "If Wilson's the one that's sick, what exactly is keeping you from coming in?"
"Well, he could have anything! Maybe it's mono! I'd definitely have it then! I could be carrying some deadly Ethiopian plague for all you know!" House emphasized dramatically.
"What are his symptoms?" Cuddy asked impatiently.
"Temperature about 102, chills, nausea, vomiting, headache, muscle ache –"
"The flu? You're wasting my time with the flu?" annoyance was becoming increasingly evident in her voice.
"It's highly contagious!" House defended.
"House, I expect to see you walking through those front doors at exactly 10 a.m. or else I will fire you. Your choice."
"You'd fire your future baby daddy?" House asked in mock surprise. "There goes your child support check!"
"Not now!" Cuddy scolded. "I don't have time, and I am not in the mood."
"Awe, is it that time again already?" he mock pitied this time.
"I have a meeting. 10 a.m., House. Not a minute later." Her voice carried a warning, but House loved to live dangerously.
"All you had to say was please," he smirked. The line went dead. "Well, that was rude," he said to no one as he pulled the phone away from his ear.
Replacing it on the receiver, he looked up at the clock above the television and sighed. It was already 9:30. Of course he had no intention on actually going in on time, but he figured he should at least be in by 10:30. Cuddy seemed excessively pissy today. Sighing once more, he made his way back to the bedroom, limping as quietly as possible to the bed and sitting down. He pulled off his pajama pants quickly and strapped on his brace. House then walked to the closet and pulled out the first T-shirt and pair of jeans he saw, fearing that digging around would make too much noise. Out of force of habit, he sat back down on the bed to put them on.
After pulling his jeans all the way up, House plopped back onto the bed a bit harder than he had intended, wincing when he heard Wilson moan behind him. He quickly slipped the black Monster Truck Jam shirt over his head, turned sideways, pulled his legs up onto the bed, and smoothly slid over to Wilson's side. A bowl of soup sat, untouched and cooling rapidly, on the nightstand next to James, who's head was still covered by the bed sheets.
"Hey, Wilson, where's momma bear?" he whispered questioningly, pulling the sheet away carefully. He could feel the heat the younger man's body was generating without even touching him.
"Dunno," was the hoarse answer, followed quickly by an impressive amount of coughing.
"What's the matter? Porridge too hot?" House indicated the soup with a jerk of his head as he brought his right hand up to massage the young man's chest gently, instinctively.
"Not hungry," Wilson replied, shifting uncomfortably as he continued to shake with the chills.
"Have to eat. You know what they say, 'Feed a fever, starve a cold.' Or is it the other way around?" House shrugged. "I don't know. I'll have to consult Dr. Mom." Wilson offered a small grin.
"Sorry, it's not gonna happen. I'll just throw it back up again," he moved his left arm up to rest across his forehead then squinted his eyes open. "Shouldn't you be going to work?"
"Gotta be late today," House answered with a mischievous smirk.
"Gotta or gonna?" questioned the sick man.
"Both, I guess. Cuddy said she'd fire me if I wasn't in at exactly ten, but I think she's bluffing. She'd miss my dashing good looks and sparkling personality too much." Wilson snorted. House made a feigned hurt face. "Why, Jimmy, I can't believe you! After all these years, you have to have seen something in me!" This earned another small laugh.
"Your personality sucks. I only want you for your body," James smirked. It was House's turn to laugh.
"Wow. Your standards are pathetic," he commented dryly.
"Aim low and you're never disappointed. That's my philosophy," James replied in an equally dry voice.
"Ever so sad, yet ever so true," House agreed. "Now eat your porridge before it gets too cold."
"Maybe later," Wilson responded. "When my stomach settles down."
"Fine. You're the one who has to lay here and listen to mom worry about it all day," the older man resigned, leaning down to kiss James softly on his burning lips.
"What was that for?" the oncologist asked absently.
"Just wanted to," House answered, doing it again.
"But I'm sick," Wilson stated obviously.
"Yep," House agreed, kissing him twice. James responded every time.
"Probably contagious," he warned, leaning into another kiss.
"Most likely," the diagnostician replied, pressing their lips together three more times.
"You're just trying to get out of work," Wilson accused. House kissed him longer.
"Yep," he replied with a grin, giving the sick man another drawn out kiss. Wilson smiled into it and laughed shortly.
"Well stop. The last thing we need is for you to get sick as soon as I get better," he scolded unconvincingly. "Go to work and take out your displeasure on the kids."
"Fine, but I'm telling them you said that. I'm tired of you being the nice one. People need to know the real you."
"House, I could be really be Jack the Ripper and everyone would still consider me the nice one," Wilson attempted another smirk.
"Now you're just being mean," House replied. Wilson tried to respond, but a coughing fit took the place of any actual words. House continued to rub the younger man's chest soothingly and grimaced slightly when the memory of doing the same to a sick Stacy came to mind.
"Heavens, that cough sounds nasty!" his mother's voice welcomely chased the image away. She rushed back into the room holding a washcloth and a bowl of water in one hand and an extra pillow in the other. "I hope you're not getting pneumonia."
"I'm fine," Wilson wheezed between coughs. "Just a tickle." Blythe did not look convinced.
"Greg, shouldn't you be heading to the hospital" she questioned with a knowing look in her brilliant green eyes.
"Why else would I still be lying here?" he responded.
"Get going now, dear. You're not too big for a spanking, you know," she grinned that mischievous 'House' grin.
""You know, it's funny, Wilson was just saying the same thi –" a hand blindly swatting him across the chest cut off the response. "Ow! See what I mean?" Blythe gave a small laugh, all too use to her son's antics. "Fine. I'll go. But I won't enjoy it."
"I'd be worried if you did," she replied.
"Okay, momma bear, take care of baby bear while Papa bear works long and hard to bring home the bacon," House smirked, kissing Wilson once more before standing and walking to the door. "And don't open the door for any strange wolves. I hear they have a thing for old ladies and small children."
"Your mixing your fairytales together," Wilson commented.
"No, I'm not. The fever's just made you delirious. I'm gonna get out of here before you start seeing flying purple elephants," House said as he grabbed the black blazer he'd worn the day before and lunged out the door. Wilson then sighed, closed his eyes and said a brief prayer for everyone unlucky enough to set foot inside Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital that day.
"What's the differential diagnosis for a forty-seven year old male who woke up this morning to find himself living once again with his mother, his boyfriend vomiting all over the good toilet seat, and his boss wanting to both sack him and have his baby?" House questioned forty-nine minutes and twenty-three seconds after leaving his apartment. Traffic had been backed up a bit more that he'd expected due to a rather violent car accident. Sad, yes, but at least the hospital had some more business. However, he'd managed to avoid a confrontation with Cuddy, who was currently MIA.
"Lucky," Chase offered quickly. House raised an eyebrow but wrote it on the whiteboard anyway.
"Chronic Boredom," Foreman suggested, not looking up from his newspaper.
"Severe Pretentiousness Syndrome," Chase answered once more.
"Acute Imbecile Disorder," Foreman continued.
"Chronic Endearment and Exultation Syndrome," Cameron chimed in, smirking mischievously. "Now more commonly known as Wilson's Disease." All eyes went to her. Foreman had an eyebrow raised, Chase looked slightly shocked, but House simply smirked back and jotted it down.
"Okay, we have five possible diagnosis," House said as he wrote 'Tall, Slim, Sexy, Pain free, Genius, Bisexual, Middle-aged Doctor' at the top of the board. "Let's start with what it's not."
"Luck doesn't account for the sick boyfriend, mom moving in, or the possibility of losing a job," Cameron replied.
"Right, Cuddy wanting my sperm is the only upside," House said as he crossed it out with the barest hint of sarcasm in his voice. He knew the ducklings would write it off as a joke.
"We can rule out boredom as well," Chase suggested. "New relationships are anything but boring." House marked 'Chronic Boredom' off the list.
"Pretentiousness accounts for the threats to his job but not the mother or the boyfriend," Foreman offered. "If it were that much of a problem, neither would want to be around him, let alone live with hem."
"And then there were two," House said as he crossed it off. "So, either this guys a complete and total idiot or absolutely, maddeningly, head-over-heels in love," he spoke in a contemplative tone while staring at the board. For the longest time he did nothing, simply stared at the words in front of him in deep thought. The fellows watched him curiously, wondering vainly what could possibly be running through that intricate brain of his. After a while, Cameron frowned in concern as she realized that this had indeed become more than just a game. Standing slowly, she made her way over to him and slowly extracted the marker from his loose grasp. No part of him acknowledged her presence at any point, as he remained completely focused on the neatly written black words. Carefully, the small woman reached up and drew a line straight through the center of the words "Acute Imbecile Disorder,' and looked up at House.
"You're not an idiot," she told him confidently. House stayed silent for a moment more, turning to look her in the eye. She gave him a small smile as he searched for some unknown rectitude, then he turned back to the board, grabbing the red marker from the tray and uncapping it.
"Congratulations, Cameron. Looks like you solved the case," he said in his usual tone as he circled the remaining diagnosis. "Treatment options?"
"You want to cure love and happiness?" Foreman questioned.
"Easy," Chase told them. "A wedding ring."
"Congress says no," House dismissed.
"Not in Massachusetts," Chase continued.
"Speaking from experience?" House asked.
"Yeah," Chase affirmed without thinking. All eyes now went to him. "Not me! My cousin. She married her girlfriend there last year."
"Wait a second, you went to a lesbian wedding, and you didn't even invite me and Foreman?" House inquired, looking appalled. "I think I speak for both of us when I say that we're very hurt."
"She's my cousin!" Chase responded, flabbergasted.
"Is she hot?" House continued.
"She's my cousin," Chase repeated.
"Oh, yeah. Australian. Never mind. Anything else that doesn't involve me spending thousands of dollars for jewelry, plane tickets, and a piece of meaningless paper in Massachusetts?" House questioned, lisping the last word mockingly.
"Death?" Foreman suggested.
"Hmm," House pretended to contemplate the idea. "Too messy and still too expensive."
"Murder?" Chase spoke again.
"That's very, very illegal and generally pretty messy. Remember?" House indicated the bloody stain in the carpet. Chase mentally kicked himself. "But it depends on who you're getting rid of."
"All of 'em," Foreman offered. "Solves every problem in one simple step."
"You believe love just ends when a person dies?" Cameron questioned, looking slightly shocked.
"Are we seriously going to turn this into a philosophical conversation?" Foreman replied with his own question. "We're fighting boredom, not contemplating the meaning of life." Cameron blushed softly, embarrassed.
"I guess what I was trying to say was that there is no cure. No matter what you do, love never goes away." Beside her, House wrote 'Love' on the board, followed by 'Neurological Disorder?' and 'Parasite?' "What are you –" Cameron left the question open.
"The symptoms fit both," House answered.
"Love isn't a parasite, it's an emotion!" said the appalled Cameron. House turned to her.
"Prove it," he turned back to the whiteboard and drew a double-headed arrow connecting 'Neurological Disorder' and 'Parasite' to each other. "Could be a parasite that infects the brain and causes the disorder."
"House, this is ridiculous," Cameron continued, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
"To you maybe," he responded, speaking to her but continuing to stare at the board. "See, people like you and Wilson are blissfully oblivious to this condition simply because they are the cause. They have this way about them – an aura, if you will – that draws even the most unwilling people to them. Then those people start getting all dreamy-eyed and sensitive; they slowly start losing pieces of themselves. Those pieces are taken and molded into something else – something insane. Something that makes the carrier run through the victims mind every minute of everyday, making concentration and clearheadedness a thing of the past. Eventually, the victim permanently loses their mind," House worked out then circled both explanations together. "It's contagious, infectious, and it prays on the brain cells of every man, woman, and hormonally charged teenager it comes in contact with. It runs rampant in every corner of the globe, and there's no known cure. Love is the single largest epidemic in the history of the world. I wonder why no one's noticed before. I should write a paper." He recapped the marker and placed it back in its tray. Without another word, he turned and left the conference room for his office.
"All right, what was all that about?" Chase questioned once House was a safe distance away.
"Who cares?" Foreman replied. House is just trying to find an explanation for his insanity."
"No," said Cameron, sounding sullen and quiet. She was now staring at the board in front of her in much the same way House had. "He's confused. He's in love with his best friend – really in love. He's just trying to get through it the only way he knows."
"Get through it?" Foreman questioned. "Now you're making it sound like a disease." Cameron capped the black marker she was still holding, placed it back in the tray, and slowly looked up through the glass wall to House's office.
"Maybe it is," she replied, and unexpected wave of sadness washing over her. Foreman and Chase exchanged a knowing look before Chase stood and approached the small woman. Picking up the red marker, he uncapped it and wrote 'Recurrent' next to 'Love.' Cameron turned her head to look up at him, and he responded in kind. Their eyes locked, and suddenly the grief began to fade into the background. Cameron smiled. Chase smiled back.
"Thanks," she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
"Anytime," he replied, replacing the marker. It turns out House was right – love really is contagious.
So ends chapter nine! YAY! Thank you to all my beautiful reviewers! The comments are what keeps this story alive! I hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter coming as soon as time allows!