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sick_wilson2008-12-18 07:22 am
ohliamylia.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2008-12-18 07:22 am
Entry tags:
Side Effects (PG)
I came to post my first sick_wilson fix and discovered, to my horror, that I wasn't actually a member. I assure you, that was quickly remedied. So now I bring you my third-ever House fic, of which I am slightly proud...?
Title: Side Effects
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship (but there's maybe a little UST going on)
Words: 989
Summary: Wilson has a bad reaction to a drug. House tries to be helpful.
Disclaimer: I don't.
Note: Zolpidem is perhaps better known as Ambien and citalopram is an anti-depressant. This is a usually rare but entirely possible complication. (Also, mods, there's no relevant tags for this, so...should I invent them? :S)
Hm.
He was awake.
House groggily lifted his hand to rub his eyes, letting out a sigh. His alarm clock brightly informed him that it was 3:16 AM. His leg didn’t hurt more than usual, the sun wasn’t up, the apartment wasn’t on fire, and it was too early for Wilson to be clipping his toenails. So why wasn’t he sleeping blissfully?
Gradually, House became aware of what sounded like a zombie shuffling toward his bedroom. He was mildly alarmed until he remembered that zombies didn’t exist (that he knew) and that Wilson was (supposed to be) asleep on the couch. So it was Wilson. Great. House pulled the comforter back up to his shoulders and had a pillow over his face when the shuffling stopped.
“House?”
House snored exaggeratedly. A moment and some shuffling later, the bed dipped and a hand shook his left knee.
“House.”
He sounded more urgent. The bed moved again as Wilson stood up. House made a show of pulling the pillow off of his face, ready to ream his friend for having a nightmare. Wilson was whiter than the moonlight from the window. His pupils were dilated, blocking out nearly all of the brown. He swayed and almost fell.
Ataxia. B12 deficiency?
“House,” Wilson repeated hoarsely, trembling, in nothing but his boxers. “I’m hallucinating.”
House sat up.
“I – I slipped, in my dream, and there was dirt falling – it woke me up and the – the wall was melting.”
House pushed himself closer to Wilson, grabbing his wrist to feel his pulse and to pull him down to the bed. “Sit down.”
Wilson nearly fell onto the bed, managing to sit cross-legged. He looked awake and lucid, though his eyes were unfocused. “There were faces looking at me and the hallway…the floor was moving, like water. I could feel it.”
House gave up trying to take his pulse when he realized he had nothing with which to mark the seconds. “Did you take something?”
Wilson raised a shaking hand to point at the ceiling, staring upwards with horror on his face. “The ceiling is moving.”
House tugged at the comforter and pulled it over Wilson, who put up no fight and curled up on his side. House gently pushed his head under the comforter. “Stay under there. Keep your eyes closed. What did you take?”
“Zolpidem,” Wilson said muffledly, “but I couldn’t fall asleep…kept waking up every few minutes, paralyzed.”
House leaned against the headboard. “Explains the ataxia and the hallucinations…are you on anything else?”
A pause. “Just citalopram,” Wilson said reluctantly.
“Are you dizzy? Having trouble breathing?”
Another pause. “No…I’m fine.” House snorted. The comforter shifted and Wilson’s head emerged hesitantly from underneath. He shifted and sat up slightly, leaning on his elbow. He still looked disoriented. “I…sorry. I’ll go back to the couch.”
House watched him, frowning. “No, you’re staying here tonight in case you get worse.” He felt Wilson’s bare leg brush his knee. “But go put some pants on first.”
Wilson blushed, his cheeks bright red against his pale skin. He moved the comforter aside and slowly got out of House’s bed, taking a moment to right himself and walking like a drunken sailor from the room. House listened carefully as he thumped around in the living room, hoping that he didn’t fall over because House really didn’t feel like getting out of bed. After a minute, the zombie shuffling returned, then paused.
“House!”
House sat up straight and pushed himself half out of bed, reaching for his cane. “Just close your eyes! It’s alright.”
Wilson almost sobbed. “I can’t move. The floor is moving.”
House stood, leaning heavily on his cane and quickly making his way out into the hallway. Wilson stood only a few feet away from the doorway, frozen, his fists clenched and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. House hooked his cane over his forearm and took Wilson’s clenched hands, pulling him close and leading him slowly (and awkwardly) back to the bedroom. “Just keep your eyes closed,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Wilson gave a short nod, a quiet whimper escaping him as House helped him back into bed and lifted the comforter over him. House limped to the other side of the bed and leaned his cane against the nightstand before sitting and slipping back under the covers. “Stay under there, okay? Try to go to sleep.”
House heard muffled sniffling and sighed to himself, patting the top of Wilson’s head through the comforter.
“I’m not tired,” Wilson said, sounding like a petulant child.
“You are, you just feel lucid,” House assured him. “Just try. It'll be better when you wake up.”
Wilson tried and gave up fairly quickly, instead choosing to talk (babble) to House for the better part of an hour – hospital things, life things, even lingering hallucinations (until House pushed his head back under the covers again). House nodded and made affirmative noises and certain points. Over that hour, Wilson shifted and stirred and slowly made his way closer and closer until his head was resting on House’s arm.
Around 4:30 AM, they both fell asleep.
At 8 AM, House pounded the snooze button on his alarm before it could wake Wilson. Trying to stay still, House reached for the phone on the nightstand and speed dialed Cuddy’s office.
“Wilson and I aren’t coming in today.”
“House…”
“Wilson hallucinated for an hour last night.”
He heard Cuddy’s intake of breath. “Is he alright?”
“He’s sleeping, hence the not coming in.”
He hung up before Cuddy could protest, quietly resting the phone back in its cradle. Wilson snored peacefully on his shoulder. House stretched ever so slightly to reach his bottle of Vicodin and swallowed two. He wanted to take a shower but if he woke Wilson now he’d be tired, grumpy, and possibly embarrassed, so it was probably best that both of them slept together at least until noon.
Title: Side Effects
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship (but there's maybe a little UST going on)
Words: 989
Summary: Wilson has a bad reaction to a drug. House tries to be helpful.
Disclaimer: I don't.
Note: Zolpidem is perhaps better known as Ambien and citalopram is an anti-depressant. This is a usually rare but entirely possible complication. (Also, mods, there's no relevant tags for this, so...should I invent them? :S)
Hm.
He was awake.
House groggily lifted his hand to rub his eyes, letting out a sigh. His alarm clock brightly informed him that it was 3:16 AM. His leg didn’t hurt more than usual, the sun wasn’t up, the apartment wasn’t on fire, and it was too early for Wilson to be clipping his toenails. So why wasn’t he sleeping blissfully?
Gradually, House became aware of what sounded like a zombie shuffling toward his bedroom. He was mildly alarmed until he remembered that zombies didn’t exist (that he knew) and that Wilson was (supposed to be) asleep on the couch. So it was Wilson. Great. House pulled the comforter back up to his shoulders and had a pillow over his face when the shuffling stopped.
“House?”
House snored exaggeratedly. A moment and some shuffling later, the bed dipped and a hand shook his left knee.
“House.”
He sounded more urgent. The bed moved again as Wilson stood up. House made a show of pulling the pillow off of his face, ready to ream his friend for having a nightmare. Wilson was whiter than the moonlight from the window. His pupils were dilated, blocking out nearly all of the brown. He swayed and almost fell.
Ataxia. B12 deficiency?
“House,” Wilson repeated hoarsely, trembling, in nothing but his boxers. “I’m hallucinating.”
House sat up.
“I – I slipped, in my dream, and there was dirt falling – it woke me up and the – the wall was melting.”
House pushed himself closer to Wilson, grabbing his wrist to feel his pulse and to pull him down to the bed. “Sit down.”
Wilson nearly fell onto the bed, managing to sit cross-legged. He looked awake and lucid, though his eyes were unfocused. “There were faces looking at me and the hallway…the floor was moving, like water. I could feel it.”
House gave up trying to take his pulse when he realized he had nothing with which to mark the seconds. “Did you take something?”
Wilson raised a shaking hand to point at the ceiling, staring upwards with horror on his face. “The ceiling is moving.”
House tugged at the comforter and pulled it over Wilson, who put up no fight and curled up on his side. House gently pushed his head under the comforter. “Stay under there. Keep your eyes closed. What did you take?”
“Zolpidem,” Wilson said muffledly, “but I couldn’t fall asleep…kept waking up every few minutes, paralyzed.”
House leaned against the headboard. “Explains the ataxia and the hallucinations…are you on anything else?”
A pause. “Just citalopram,” Wilson said reluctantly.
“Are you dizzy? Having trouble breathing?”
Another pause. “No…I’m fine.” House snorted. The comforter shifted and Wilson’s head emerged hesitantly from underneath. He shifted and sat up slightly, leaning on his elbow. He still looked disoriented. “I…sorry. I’ll go back to the couch.”
House watched him, frowning. “No, you’re staying here tonight in case you get worse.” He felt Wilson’s bare leg brush his knee. “But go put some pants on first.”
Wilson blushed, his cheeks bright red against his pale skin. He moved the comforter aside and slowly got out of House’s bed, taking a moment to right himself and walking like a drunken sailor from the room. House listened carefully as he thumped around in the living room, hoping that he didn’t fall over because House really didn’t feel like getting out of bed. After a minute, the zombie shuffling returned, then paused.
“House!”
House sat up straight and pushed himself half out of bed, reaching for his cane. “Just close your eyes! It’s alright.”
Wilson almost sobbed. “I can’t move. The floor is moving.”
House stood, leaning heavily on his cane and quickly making his way out into the hallway. Wilson stood only a few feet away from the doorway, frozen, his fists clenched and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. House hooked his cane over his forearm and took Wilson’s clenched hands, pulling him close and leading him slowly (and awkwardly) back to the bedroom. “Just keep your eyes closed,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Wilson gave a short nod, a quiet whimper escaping him as House helped him back into bed and lifted the comforter over him. House limped to the other side of the bed and leaned his cane against the nightstand before sitting and slipping back under the covers. “Stay under there, okay? Try to go to sleep.”
House heard muffled sniffling and sighed to himself, patting the top of Wilson’s head through the comforter.
“I’m not tired,” Wilson said, sounding like a petulant child.
“You are, you just feel lucid,” House assured him. “Just try. It'll be better when you wake up.”
Wilson tried and gave up fairly quickly, instead choosing to talk (babble) to House for the better part of an hour – hospital things, life things, even lingering hallucinations (until House pushed his head back under the covers again). House nodded and made affirmative noises and certain points. Over that hour, Wilson shifted and stirred and slowly made his way closer and closer until his head was resting on House’s arm.
Around 4:30 AM, they both fell asleep.
At 8 AM, House pounded the snooze button on his alarm before it could wake Wilson. Trying to stay still, House reached for the phone on the nightstand and speed dialed Cuddy’s office.
“Wilson and I aren’t coming in today.”
“House…”
“Wilson hallucinated for an hour last night.”
He heard Cuddy’s intake of breath. “Is he alright?”
“He’s sleeping, hence the not coming in.”
He hung up before Cuddy could protest, quietly resting the phone back in its cradle. Wilson snored peacefully on his shoulder. House stretched ever so slightly to reach his bottle of Vicodin and swallowed two. He wanted to take a shower but if he woke Wilson now he’d be tired, grumpy, and possibly embarrassed, so it was probably best that both of them slept together at least until noon.