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sick_wilson2007-07-08 05:23 pm
nightdog-barks.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-07-08 05:23 pm
Welcome to Wherever You Are (11/11)
Cross-posted to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson.
TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A strong "R".
WARNINGS: No.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Well, this is the end of my version of this ficverse. Want to read more?blackmare_9 has written what I'm happy to call Chapter Twelve of this story, and it's posted here: Epilogue. I urge everyone who followed this story to go give it a read. You won't regret it. And for everyone who might have been waiting to read deelaundry's lovely interlude to this fic, I Am Happy To See You (rated NC-17), go, read, and spread the happiness of reading.
BETA: My awesome First Readers. Their patience, thoughtfulness, and words of encouragement keep me going. I will never be able to say enough good things about you guys.
Chapter Eleven
It's noisy, so noisy inside the helicopter, and for a moment House can't understand how anyone could possibly communicate in this clattering whirlwind. Then someone hands him a helmet and he slips it on, and he's jacked into the internal comm system, hearing the sharp, staccato voices of the medics and pilots.
"We're good, we're good!" one of the medics shouts. "Go go go!"
House grunts as he feels the Pave Hawk bank and accelerate. A surge of adrenaline makes him feel more alive than he has in years. He puts on a pair of latex gloves someone's thrust into his hands.
The medics are still working; they've ripped open the Velcro straps that held Wilson safe within his airborne cradle and are packing more of the icy gel bags around his body.
"We need a core temp!" someone barks, and House stares for a moment at the slicked rectal probe that's appeared in his right hand. He shakes his head and calls for a medic to lift Wilson's hips a little.
Full circle, House thinks, but doesn't flinch as he slides the probe home.
"And then what happened?" Wilson asks.
You died, House wants to say. The first of three times. You were slow-roasting from the inside out -- your core body temp was over 107 degrees and still climbing. Your heart stopped and we had to shock you back to life there in the belly of the bird.
"You know what happened," he drawls. "You just like hearing about how everyone jumped to take care of you because they thought you were some kind of hero -- which you're not, by the way -- and how Cuddy drooled all over you and the mayor gave you a key to the city."
"I got a key?" Wilson pretends to peer around the hospital room. "I never saw it. Which city?"
"Loserville," House smirks.
Wilson huffs softly and drops his head back against the pillow. "You're just jealous of my excellent adventure," he says.
The pilots brought you to Nellis instead of UMC because the base was five minutes closer. Your heart had already quit once, so the flight surgeons didn't want to risk an ice bath -- they rushed you into the neurological ICU, put you into deep sedation.
House rolls his eyes. "Oh, yes," he says. "I so wanted to have the experience of working on a chain gang led by a refugee from Cool Hand Luke, eating bologna sandwiches three times a day -- "
"Twice a day."
"Whatever. Not to mention being at the complete mercy of a gang of psychopathic wannabe Brownshirts, and the near-death experience of dehydration and extreme heatstroke. Yeah. I wish I could've been there."
Your liver function was shot to hell. You were in shock and presenting with pulmonary edema and multisystem organ failure. We were losing you. Again.
"I knew it," Wilson says. "Envy is an ugly thing, House. I hope you don't let it control you."
Your temperature wasn't coming down fast enough so we stuck a heat-exchange catheter in your left superior vena cava and pumped cooled saline through a closed loop. We forced you into diuresis because your renal system was about to crash. You were still dying.
"Tooey said to tell you he's sorry."
Wilson blinks at the sudden change of subject. "I know. You told me that too."
"Why?"
House notes how Wilson's eyes shift away and how he plucks at some loose threads on his blanket. It's been two weeks since Wilson's rescue, two weeks of a slow, painful recovery, and there are still some things House doesn't know because Wilson refuses to talk about them.
Your temp started to come down, but every time we tried to wean you off the endovascular cooling it went right back up. You were on a vent, so many tubes and monitors you looked like a broken puppet whose strings had been cut. It took five days for you to stabilize enough to take out the cath.
"It's not important now. Tooey's good. He did what he had to do." Wilson fingers his blanket some more, smoothes out a small mountain range of wrinkles. "Whatever happened to that Polish guy?"
It's House's turn to blink. "What Polish guy?"
"The guy you were with, the one who helped you find Camp Five. Jack. Jack Wovoka."
House sighs in mock exasperation. "He wasn't Polish," he grumbles. "He was -- " He stops, realizes he never found out exactly what Jack was. He'd looked for him after things had calmed down, after it was clear Wilson was going to live. No one had known who he was talking about. "Well, he wasn't Polish," he concludes gruffly.
Wilson closes his eyes, and House thinks he's fallen asleep again. He's still doing a lot of that, and he's had some pretty vivid dreams that House has tried not to listen to. He's heard enough, though, to know that Wilson thought him dead, murdered by the same crazy Warden and merry band of thugs who'd stolen Wilson.
House looks around the hospital room, trying to keep the thought of Wilson's nightmares at bay. Instead he thinks how funny it is, what a big cosmic joke that he should be here on this Air Force Base where every fifth person reminds him of his dad. It hasn't been all bad, though. The docs of the 99th Medical Group play a mean game of poker, and he's met the pilot of the Pave Hawk who took them away from that particular circle of Hell -- a tall, lanky guy named Sheppard. House has managed to cajole him into taking him up almost every day. Skimming over the desert floor at 170 mph, scaring the bejesus out of jackrabbits and coyotes, pulse pounding in his ears and he thinks he would've done it, would have joined the Air Force to spite his Marine pilot father, if he could have done this one thing every day of his life.
Then Wilson's eyes open, and he's talking again, and House knows he's where he belongs.
"Hey, I heard they never caught the Warden."
House shifts in his chair. "No. Apparently somebody tipped him off, but they're still looking. Meanwhile, the Hellebore County Sheriff's Department is having to answer some pretty tough questions."
"Good," Wilson murmurs absently. "Bunch of bastards."
House doesn't say anything for a while, and neither does Wilson.
I didn't know if you'd be you when you woke up. If you woke up.
"So," Wilson says at last. He looks up at House with a shy, quiet smile. "Where do we go from here?"
House thinks for a moment, wonders if he should tell Wilson about the gun he's bought, that he intends to practice with every week -- no, twice a week -- at the local range. Just in case.
Because apparently while Wilson has been watching out for House all this time, trying to protect him, House had really been needing to protect Wilson.
You lived.
"Home," House says. "We go home."
~ fin
Drafted June 4th - July 8th, 2007
No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again
-- from On the Radio, Regina Spektor
NOTES:
The intravascular medical procedure performed on Wilson is real; an absolutely fascinating case history is here.
Nellis Air Force Base is very real. Their website is here.
Complete lyrics of Regina Spektor's On the Radio may be found here.
Want to read more in this ficverse?blackmare_9 and deelaundry have written into it, here:
I Am Happy To See You: An Interlude, bydeelaundry. Rated NC-17.
Impossible, byblackmare_9.
Never Saw It Coming, byblackmare_9.
Light Fuse and -- , byblackmare_9.
house_wilson.TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A strong "R".
WARNINGS: No.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Well, this is the end of my version of this ficverse. Want to read more?
blackmare_9 has written what I'm happy to call Chapter Twelve of this story, and it's posted here: Epilogue. I urge everyone who followed this story to go give it a read. You won't regret it. And for everyone who might have been waiting to read deelaundry's lovely interlude to this fic, I Am Happy To See You (rated NC-17), go, read, and spread the happiness of reading. BETA: My awesome First Readers. Their patience, thoughtfulness, and words of encouragement keep me going. I will never be able to say enough good things about you guys.
Chapter Eleven
It's noisy, so noisy inside the helicopter, and for a moment House can't understand how anyone could possibly communicate in this clattering whirlwind. Then someone hands him a helmet and he slips it on, and he's jacked into the internal comm system, hearing the sharp, staccato voices of the medics and pilots.
"We're good, we're good!" one of the medics shouts. "Go go go!"
House grunts as he feels the Pave Hawk bank and accelerate. A surge of adrenaline makes him feel more alive than he has in years. He puts on a pair of latex gloves someone's thrust into his hands.
The medics are still working; they've ripped open the Velcro straps that held Wilson safe within his airborne cradle and are packing more of the icy gel bags around his body.
"We need a core temp!" someone barks, and House stares for a moment at the slicked rectal probe that's appeared in his right hand. He shakes his head and calls for a medic to lift Wilson's hips a little.
Full circle, House thinks, but doesn't flinch as he slides the probe home.
"And then what happened?" Wilson asks.
You died, House wants to say. The first of three times. You were slow-roasting from the inside out -- your core body temp was over 107 degrees and still climbing. Your heart stopped and we had to shock you back to life there in the belly of the bird.
"You know what happened," he drawls. "You just like hearing about how everyone jumped to take care of you because they thought you were some kind of hero -- which you're not, by the way -- and how Cuddy drooled all over you and the mayor gave you a key to the city."
"I got a key?" Wilson pretends to peer around the hospital room. "I never saw it. Which city?"
"Loserville," House smirks.
Wilson huffs softly and drops his head back against the pillow. "You're just jealous of my excellent adventure," he says.
The pilots brought you to Nellis instead of UMC because the base was five minutes closer. Your heart had already quit once, so the flight surgeons didn't want to risk an ice bath -- they rushed you into the neurological ICU, put you into deep sedation.
House rolls his eyes. "Oh, yes," he says. "I so wanted to have the experience of working on a chain gang led by a refugee from Cool Hand Luke, eating bologna sandwiches three times a day -- "
"Twice a day."
"Whatever. Not to mention being at the complete mercy of a gang of psychopathic wannabe Brownshirts, and the near-death experience of dehydration and extreme heatstroke. Yeah. I wish I could've been there."
Your liver function was shot to hell. You were in shock and presenting with pulmonary edema and multisystem organ failure. We were losing you. Again.
"I knew it," Wilson says. "Envy is an ugly thing, House. I hope you don't let it control you."
Your temperature wasn't coming down fast enough so we stuck a heat-exchange catheter in your left superior vena cava and pumped cooled saline through a closed loop. We forced you into diuresis because your renal system was about to crash. You were still dying.
"Tooey said to tell you he's sorry."
Wilson blinks at the sudden change of subject. "I know. You told me that too."
"Why?"
House notes how Wilson's eyes shift away and how he plucks at some loose threads on his blanket. It's been two weeks since Wilson's rescue, two weeks of a slow, painful recovery, and there are still some things House doesn't know because Wilson refuses to talk about them.
Your temp started to come down, but every time we tried to wean you off the endovascular cooling it went right back up. You were on a vent, so many tubes and monitors you looked like a broken puppet whose strings had been cut. It took five days for you to stabilize enough to take out the cath.
"It's not important now. Tooey's good. He did what he had to do." Wilson fingers his blanket some more, smoothes out a small mountain range of wrinkles. "Whatever happened to that Polish guy?"
It's House's turn to blink. "What Polish guy?"
"The guy you were with, the one who helped you find Camp Five. Jack. Jack Wovoka."
House sighs in mock exasperation. "He wasn't Polish," he grumbles. "He was -- " He stops, realizes he never found out exactly what Jack was. He'd looked for him after things had calmed down, after it was clear Wilson was going to live. No one had known who he was talking about. "Well, he wasn't Polish," he concludes gruffly.
Wilson closes his eyes, and House thinks he's fallen asleep again. He's still doing a lot of that, and he's had some pretty vivid dreams that House has tried not to listen to. He's heard enough, though, to know that Wilson thought him dead, murdered by the same crazy Warden and merry band of thugs who'd stolen Wilson.
House looks around the hospital room, trying to keep the thought of Wilson's nightmares at bay. Instead he thinks how funny it is, what a big cosmic joke that he should be here on this Air Force Base where every fifth person reminds him of his dad. It hasn't been all bad, though. The docs of the 99th Medical Group play a mean game of poker, and he's met the pilot of the Pave Hawk who took them away from that particular circle of Hell -- a tall, lanky guy named Sheppard. House has managed to cajole him into taking him up almost every day. Skimming over the desert floor at 170 mph, scaring the bejesus out of jackrabbits and coyotes, pulse pounding in his ears and he thinks he would've done it, would have joined the Air Force to spite his Marine pilot father, if he could have done this one thing every day of his life.
Then Wilson's eyes open, and he's talking again, and House knows he's where he belongs.
"Hey, I heard they never caught the Warden."
House shifts in his chair. "No. Apparently somebody tipped him off, but they're still looking. Meanwhile, the Hellebore County Sheriff's Department is having to answer some pretty tough questions."
"Good," Wilson murmurs absently. "Bunch of bastards."
House doesn't say anything for a while, and neither does Wilson.
I didn't know if you'd be you when you woke up. If you woke up.
"So," Wilson says at last. He looks up at House with a shy, quiet smile. "Where do we go from here?"
House thinks for a moment, wonders if he should tell Wilson about the gun he's bought, that he intends to practice with every week -- no, twice a week -- at the local range. Just in case.
Because apparently while Wilson has been watching out for House all this time, trying to protect him, House had really been needing to protect Wilson.
You lived.
"Home," House says. "We go home."
~ fin
Drafted June 4th - July 8th, 2007
No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again
-- from On the Radio, Regina Spektor
NOTES:
The intravascular medical procedure performed on Wilson is real; an absolutely fascinating case history is here.
Nellis Air Force Base is very real. Their website is here.
Complete lyrics of Regina Spektor's On the Radio may be found here.
Want to read more in this ficverse?
blackmare_9 and deelaundry have written into it, here:I Am Happy To See You: An Interlude, by
deelaundry. Rated NC-17.Impossible, by
blackmare_9.Never Saw It Coming, by
blackmare_9.Light Fuse and -- , by
blackmare_9.
no subject
Stargate Atlantis reference? Please say it is b/c that would be made of win and love and awesome. It was an amazing story, totally gripping, and most importantly (IMO) in character.
Keep the wilson woobies coming.
no subject
Yup, that's John Sheppard. I could not resist sneaking one half of my other OTP in here. I actually didn't think anyone would recognize him but I'm tickled that a few folks did.
I'm glad you liked it! It was a terrifically fun story to write (even the Awful Horrible Bad Guys) and it makes me happy that people enjoyed reading it.