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sick_wilson2007-05-08 11:19 am
genagirl.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-05-08 11:19 am
Entry tags:
Breathing Room
Title: Breathing Room
Author: gena
Summary: Wilson's heroic act almost cost House a friend.
A/N: Written months ago - just because I like for Wilson to suffer.
House was in the clinic when he heard the commotion. Any chance to escape from the idiotic masses of moronic nincompoops who habitually wandered into PPTH in some kind of delusional fog caused by their complete absence of mental acuity was an opportunity not to be missed in House’s opinion. “Hold that – thought,” he muttered to the middle-aged man with his pants around his ankles and his hands on his knees. House grabbed his cane and hurried for the source of the noise, which turned out to be dozens of people rushing towards the front doors. “What the hell’s going on?” He demanded. He thought he saw Wilson rush passed but his vision was obscured by a squadron of nurses heading in the same direction.
“A bus hit a car out front,” a nameless nurse answered, already directing some of the less damaged victims towards medical personnel. House peered out the glass doors, he couldn’t see much, huge clouds of thick black smoke were pressing greasy fingers against the glass before scuttling off. “Dr. Cuddy has asked all available personnel to help,” she added, eying him as if he were available.
“Damn, I’ve got a spastic colon,” House chirped. “Must run – so to speak.” He turned away, intent on making himself as scarce as possible when he heard a noise. He wasn’t sure then or even later lying awake through long, dark nights, what made him turn at that moment but he had. James Wilson staggered into the lobby, face streaked with grim, dress shirt filthy and torn. The expression of helpless panic in his normally composed brown eyes, mouth slightly open, chest heaving, told House his friend was in trouble. Wilson caught himself on the main counter, right elbow the only thing keeping him from slipping to the floor, left hand on his knee. Doctors and nurses swirled around him but none seemed to notice anything amiss, non save House. “Shit,” House whispered. Wilson looked up, locking gazes with him, each read a dozen emotions in the other’s eyes and House felt his own chest tighten. Wilson gave a small, weak nod and seemed to sag even more. “Shit,” House cursed louder. He caught sight of Chase coming back in beside a bleeding passenger. “Chase,” he snapped. “I need Albuterol now!”
“This guy is bleeding,” Chase protested.
“He’ll live, Wilson won’t!” Chase followed House’s gaze and made an involuntary move towards Wilson only to be stopped by a cane.
“Get the inhaler!”
House got to Wilson , gripping his arm and struggling to move him to one of the benches scattered around the lobby. It was difficult, not only to get through the crowd but to support Wilson ’s increasing weight across his shoulders without falling. He could feel his friend shaking, the heaving of his chest and desperate wheeze had gotten worse with each step they had taken and by the time they both sank onto the cushion Wilson was gasping, his face red. “Goddammit,” House rasped. “Why the hell don’t you have your inhaler? You always have it! You’re a doctor!” He didn’t get a retort from Wilson , the oncologist had leaned forward, eyes closed, his wheezing faded to long seconds of silence as his ability to breathe diminished. Sweat poured down his face, dripping off his nose as he held himself rigid. House thumped his cane forcibly against the tiled floor, counting seconds in German and trying not to curse. Ghost-like Chase appeared on the far side of the lobby, dodging the still frantic crowd, his white coat blowing back over his shoulders as he slid to a stop in front of Wilson .
“Give me!” House snatched the inhaler, prying Wilson’s fingers off the vinyl, so that he could press it into his hand and lift it to Wilson’s bluing lips. His own hand clenched into a fist as Wilson pumped the mist into his airway. For a long moment the three were frozen, an island of immobility in a chaotic ocean. House dragged in each painful breath with Wilson , holding himself as stiff and awkward as his friend. It took nearly a minute, counted in Japanese this time, but slowly, one breath then another, Wilson sucked air deeper and deeper into his lungs. “You idiot,” House said, his voice thick and dark as the smoke which had drifted past the windows. Wilson sank back, boneless now as his color returned to normal and the tightness inside him loosened. House slipped off Wilson’s stethoscope from where it hung around his neck and deftly unbuttoned his shirt. He set the chestpiece against the smooth, pale flesh of Wilson ’s upper chest and listened for several seconds. “Up,” he growled but when he helped Wilson lean up his hands were strong and gentle and he kept one arm braced so that his friend half lay against his shoulder. “Heartrate’s fast, probably from the med, bronchials are clearing.”
“Th-thanks,” Wilson whispered, to House or to Chase, neither really knew. Chase looked between the two older men, wisely remaining silent but also unable to keep his eyes off them. House settled Wilson back, buttoning the ruined dress shirt, and for just a moment Chase thought he was going to brush the fall of hair from Wilson’s sweaty forehead. Instead he curled the stethoscope and placed it into his own pocket, his expression suddenly pinched with anger.
“Go get his stuff, mine too,” House hissed. Chase scurried off, having witnessed too many of their bizarre arguments. The things they said in the heat of anger didn’t always make sense, it was like watching a subtitled movie where the subtleties of emotion had been missed, you might read the words but never known the underlying meanings. “What the hell were you doing? There are medical school losers paid to drag people out of burning buses, you know that.”
“Why should they have all the fun?” Wilson sounded stronger but he kept his head back, eyes closed.
“I’d say because they like risking their lives,” he rapped Wilson ’s arm with the handle of his cane, “you on the other hand won’t cross the street except in a crosswalk and then only if the light is green.”
“Decided to change my image,” Wilson said. He opened his eyes and looked at House. “I thought a burning bus would look good on my resume.”
“And running through the thick, noxious smoke? Would that look good on a headstone?”
“There was a faint hope it would obscure your view and allow me to be a hero without snarky commentary and snappy retorts,” Wilson said.
“A valiant attempt, yet in vain.” He regarded Wilson, his anger still simmering below the surface, but banked beneath a need to get out of there . “Come on,” he commanded and made to whack Wilson’s knee with the cane, pulling it back at the last second. “The bell boy has our luggage and it’s time to blow this joint.” Chase had arrived with House’s backpack and leather jacket and Wilson’s briefcase and suit jacket which House took and removed Wilson’s car keys. He jerked his head to the side and when Chase moved closer said, “Tell Cuddy she needs a better Emergency Response Team because Wilson almost died helping out.” He turned back to Wilson, and in loud voice said, “I better get this drunk home before he hurts somebody.”
Wilson gave a faint smile and rose shakily to his feet. House shouldered his pack and picked up Wilson’s briefcase eyeing him carefully before stepping in front of him and clearing a path through the chaos with his cane. “Cowcatcher,” Wilson said.
“You’ve never even seen a cow,” House chided. “I like to think of myself as Moses parting the Black Sea.” And with that he used his cane to whack Foreman on the leg and in the same motion brought it around to hit a black uniformed cop. They stepped aside, the cop with a confused look and Foreman with a exaggerated roll of his eyes.
House was still fuming an hour later as he leaned on the doorframe of his bedroom listening to the soft sound of Wilson sleeping. Wilson was idiot, he’d rushed headlong into something that could have gotten him killed just because he thought he could help. He sighed, knowing deep down he would never change Wilson. Something inside his friend made him reach out time after time even after getting his hand slapped, or his shin cracked, it was just the way he was – and it made House shake his head. He didn’t understand it, would never approve of it, but there were times when it was the only thing that had saved him. House limped over to the bedside chair and settled himself, prepared to spend the night just making sure Wilson kept breathing because someone had to watch out for the heroic idiots of the world and tonight seemed to be his turn.
Author: gena
Summary: Wilson's heroic act almost cost House a friend.
A/N: Written months ago - just because I like for Wilson to suffer.
House was in the clinic when he heard the commotion. Any chance to escape from the idiotic masses of moronic nincompoops who habitually wandered into PPTH in some kind of delusional fog caused by their complete absence of mental acuity was an opportunity not to be missed in House’s opinion. “Hold that – thought,” he muttered to the middle-aged man with his pants around his ankles and his hands on his knees. House grabbed his cane and hurried for the source of the noise, which turned out to be dozens of people rushing towards the front doors. “What the hell’s going on?” He demanded. He thought he saw Wilson rush passed but his vision was obscured by a squadron of nurses heading in the same direction.
“A bus hit a car out front,” a nameless nurse answered, already directing some of the less damaged victims towards medical personnel. House peered out the glass doors, he couldn’t see much, huge clouds of thick black smoke were pressing greasy fingers against the glass before scuttling off. “Dr. Cuddy has asked all available personnel to help,” she added, eying him as if he were available.
“Damn, I’ve got a spastic colon,” House chirped. “Must run – so to speak.” He turned away, intent on making himself as scarce as possible when he heard a noise. He wasn’t sure then or even later lying awake through long, dark nights, what made him turn at that moment but he had. James Wilson staggered into the lobby, face streaked with grim, dress shirt filthy and torn. The expression of helpless panic in his normally composed brown eyes, mouth slightly open, chest heaving, told House his friend was in trouble. Wilson caught himself on the main counter, right elbow the only thing keeping him from slipping to the floor, left hand on his knee. Doctors and nurses swirled around him but none seemed to notice anything amiss, non save House. “Shit,” House whispered. Wilson looked up, locking gazes with him, each read a dozen emotions in the other’s eyes and House felt his own chest tighten. Wilson gave a small, weak nod and seemed to sag even more. “Shit,” House cursed louder. He caught sight of Chase coming back in beside a bleeding passenger. “Chase,” he snapped. “I need Albuterol now!”
“This guy is bleeding,” Chase protested.
“He’ll live, Wilson won’t!” Chase followed House’s gaze and made an involuntary move towards Wilson only to be stopped by a cane.
“Get the inhaler!”
House got to Wilson , gripping his arm and struggling to move him to one of the benches scattered around the lobby. It was difficult, not only to get through the crowd but to support Wilson ’s increasing weight across his shoulders without falling. He could feel his friend shaking, the heaving of his chest and desperate wheeze had gotten worse with each step they had taken and by the time they both sank onto the cushion Wilson was gasping, his face red. “Goddammit,” House rasped. “Why the hell don’t you have your inhaler? You always have it! You’re a doctor!” He didn’t get a retort from Wilson , the oncologist had leaned forward, eyes closed, his wheezing faded to long seconds of silence as his ability to breathe diminished. Sweat poured down his face, dripping off his nose as he held himself rigid. House thumped his cane forcibly against the tiled floor, counting seconds in German and trying not to curse. Ghost-like Chase appeared on the far side of the lobby, dodging the still frantic crowd, his white coat blowing back over his shoulders as he slid to a stop in front of Wilson .
“Give me!” House snatched the inhaler, prying Wilson’s fingers off the vinyl, so that he could press it into his hand and lift it to Wilson’s bluing lips. His own hand clenched into a fist as Wilson pumped the mist into his airway. For a long moment the three were frozen, an island of immobility in a chaotic ocean. House dragged in each painful breath with Wilson , holding himself as stiff and awkward as his friend. It took nearly a minute, counted in Japanese this time, but slowly, one breath then another, Wilson sucked air deeper and deeper into his lungs. “You idiot,” House said, his voice thick and dark as the smoke which had drifted past the windows. Wilson sank back, boneless now as his color returned to normal and the tightness inside him loosened. House slipped off Wilson’s stethoscope from where it hung around his neck and deftly unbuttoned his shirt. He set the chestpiece against the smooth, pale flesh of Wilson ’s upper chest and listened for several seconds. “Up,” he growled but when he helped Wilson lean up his hands were strong and gentle and he kept one arm braced so that his friend half lay against his shoulder. “Heartrate’s fast, probably from the med, bronchials are clearing.”
“Th-thanks,” Wilson whispered, to House or to Chase, neither really knew. Chase looked between the two older men, wisely remaining silent but also unable to keep his eyes off them. House settled Wilson back, buttoning the ruined dress shirt, and for just a moment Chase thought he was going to brush the fall of hair from Wilson’s sweaty forehead. Instead he curled the stethoscope and placed it into his own pocket, his expression suddenly pinched with anger.
“Go get his stuff, mine too,” House hissed. Chase scurried off, having witnessed too many of their bizarre arguments. The things they said in the heat of anger didn’t always make sense, it was like watching a subtitled movie where the subtleties of emotion had been missed, you might read the words but never known the underlying meanings. “What the hell were you doing? There are medical school losers paid to drag people out of burning buses, you know that.”
“Why should they have all the fun?” Wilson sounded stronger but he kept his head back, eyes closed.
“I’d say because they like risking their lives,” he rapped Wilson ’s arm with the handle of his cane, “you on the other hand won’t cross the street except in a crosswalk and then only if the light is green.”
“Decided to change my image,” Wilson said. He opened his eyes and looked at House. “I thought a burning bus would look good on my resume.”
“And running through the thick, noxious smoke? Would that look good on a headstone?”
“There was a faint hope it would obscure your view and allow me to be a hero without snarky commentary and snappy retorts,” Wilson said.
“A valiant attempt, yet in vain.” He regarded Wilson, his anger still simmering below the surface, but banked beneath a need to get out of there . “Come on,” he commanded and made to whack Wilson’s knee with the cane, pulling it back at the last second. “The bell boy has our luggage and it’s time to blow this joint.” Chase had arrived with House’s backpack and leather jacket and Wilson’s briefcase and suit jacket which House took and removed Wilson’s car keys. He jerked his head to the side and when Chase moved closer said, “Tell Cuddy she needs a better Emergency Response Team because Wilson almost died helping out.” He turned back to Wilson, and in loud voice said, “I better get this drunk home before he hurts somebody.”
Wilson gave a faint smile and rose shakily to his feet. House shouldered his pack and picked up Wilson’s briefcase eyeing him carefully before stepping in front of him and clearing a path through the chaos with his cane. “Cowcatcher,” Wilson said.
“You’ve never even seen a cow,” House chided. “I like to think of myself as Moses parting the Black Sea.” And with that he used his cane to whack Foreman on the leg and in the same motion brought it around to hit a black uniformed cop. They stepped aside, the cop with a confused look and Foreman with a exaggerated roll of his eyes.
House was still fuming an hour later as he leaned on the doorframe of his bedroom listening to the soft sound of Wilson sleeping. Wilson was idiot, he’d rushed headlong into something that could have gotten him killed just because he thought he could help. He sighed, knowing deep down he would never change Wilson. Something inside his friend made him reach out time after time even after getting his hand slapped, or his shin cracked, it was just the way he was – and it made House shake his head. He didn’t understand it, would never approve of it, but there were times when it was the only thing that had saved him. House limped over to the bedside chair and settled himself, prepared to spend the night just making sure Wilson kept breathing because someone had to watch out for the heroic idiots of the world and tonight seemed to be his turn.