![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Title: Paying the Price
Author: Mer
Characters: James Wilson, Greg House, a smattering of fellows
Prompt: #56 - Choke![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
100_situations
Word Count: 2079
Rating: G
Summary: The dangers of missing a meal
As the days grew longer, James Wilson liked to retreat to the balcony after his last appointment, letting the still strong sun bake all the frustration and fatigue out of his body. Most days, House came out to join him, and they stood on either side of the dividing wall between their balconies, talking about everything and nothing at all. It was Wilson's favourite time of day.
House was already out there when he emerged from his office, exhausted after difficult day. He hadn't seen House since late morning - they'd planned to have lunch together, but one of his patients came into the ER just before noon. By the time he stabilized the patient, ran a battery of tests, and explained the results of the tests to the patient and his family, he'd only had time to grab a pastry from the oncology lounge before racing off to a committee meeting. It was nearly six o'clock by the time he joined House on the balcony, munching on an apple he'd scavenged from the conference room.
"Behold the conquering hero," House proclaimed. "Find a cure for cancer today?"
"Nope. But I did discover a cure for insomnia. Governance committee meetings. Guaranteed to put you out like a light."
House tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm. I would feel sympathy, except there's this concept I've heard of, which you seem to have adopted as your personal mantra - volunteer. You don't get to complain when you signed up for it."
"What, you mean like clinic duty?" Wilson smirked. "It is part of your contract, whether you like it or not."
"Believe me, there is nothing voluntary about my presence in the clinic. You wouldn't believe the morons I had to deal with today." House lowered himself into his deck chair, tipping his head back to catch the sun full on his face. "I had one patient who came in complaining of lower back and shoulder pain. Turns out he went out with the boys last night and ended up in a tattoo parlour. He wanted to see what he'd had done, so he climbed on a chair to look in a mirror, the chair broke and so did his collarbone when he fell."
"What did you do?"
"I took a picture of the tattoo with his cell phone, told him he was too stupid to live, and sent him to radiology."
Wilson shook his head. "What was the tattoo?" he asked, taking a bite of apple.
"Santa Claus."
Wilson snorted out a surprised laugh, but when he sucked in a deep breath to try and replace the air forced out of his lungs, the partially chewed piece of apple in his mouth was swept down his trachea and lodged in his windpipe. His air - and laughter - cut off abruptly and he tried to cough loose the obstruction. But he couldn't build any force and he couldn't call out for help and he couldn't breathe. He grabbed his throat and turned to House, eyes wide with panic. He dimly heard House shout something and watched as he clambered awkwardly to his feet, but black spots were already forming in his vision and he knew he needed to do something immediately. Fifteen years of medical training and experience had to be good for something.
He fisted his left hand just above his navel and covered it with his right, stumbling a half step to the outer wall. He bent over the wall, driving his fist up below his ribcage. Nothing happened and he tried again, and again, the rough concrete scraping the back of his hand as his legs turned to jelly and he fell heavily forward.
Something slammed hard against his back and he tried to cry out in pain, but the sound lodged in this throat with the apple. He could hear nothing but the roaring in his ears and even that faded as blackness started to surround and swallow him.
And then arms circled his waist, pulling him upright, and a hard fist punched up into his diaphragm, over and over, until at last the apple shot free with one explosive cough, air flooded in, and the darkness receded.
The arms released him and he dropped to his knees, only the brick wall holding him up, as he coughed and gasped and coughed some more. He could hear now: a voice shouting in his ear, telling him to slow down, to breathe. This time, arms circled him gently, holding him steady as he coughed uncontrollably.
Then a mask was fitted over his face and pure, sweet oxygen flowed into his body, and at last the coughing tapered away and he could suck in much-needed air. It was only when he rested his head back against the shoulder of the person propping him up, and stubble scraped against his forehead, that he realised it was House holding him.
He blinked his eyes clear and saw Cameron squatting in front of him, holding the portable oxygen unit. Chase and Foreman were standing behind her, ready to spring to action, but looking oddly unsure. All three of them stared at him, eyes wide with shock and concern.
Awareness slowly seeped back to him and he realised he was trembling. Then he realised that the arms around him were trembling too. He was on the ground. House was on the ground. He was sprawled on House, his full weight resting on the other man. That couldn't be good. He pushed the oxygen mask up onto his forehead. "Your leg," he rasped, his voice raw. Each word burned its way out. He tried to push himself away, but House's arms tightened around him, just enough to discourage further movement.
"My leg's fine," he retorted. "Don't squirm. I'm trying to examine you."
Wilson could hear House's heart pound beneath his ear. "I'm hurting you."
"Damn it, Wilson, I'm all right. Hold still."
House's voice was nearly as shaky as his arms, so Wilson obeyed. Still, he turned his head and saw that while House was on the ground, none of his weight was on House's bad leg. That didn't explain the shaking, though. "What's wrong?" he asked, only dimly aware of how absurd a question it was.
"Nothing. Everything's peachy keen." House tucked his chin over the top of Wilson's head and his hands gently probed Wilson's torso, searching for cracked ribs and abdominal swelling.
With each breath feeling returned to Wilson's body: a dull ache in his gut, fire rippling down his throat, the back of his hand skinned and stinging. He shifted slightly and was rewarded with a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. His mind pieced everything together slowly. "Did you hit me with your cane?" he demanded, wavering between outrage and amusement.
"You were choking," House retorted, but Wilson knew his friend well enough to hear the apology behind the words.
"You didn't have to hit me that hard," Wilson muttered, hoping House could hear the gratitude behind the complaint.
House finished his examination. "No broken ribs. But we need to make sure there's no tearing in your throat. And an ultrasound wouldn't hurt."
"Now you're just being ridiculous." Wilson managed to pull away from House, but when he tried to push himself upright, his legs refused to cooperate and he slumped against the wall again.
House stood up with only a mild grimace. "Shadrach, Meshach. Help Wilson over to the chair. A-bed-we-go, get my bag."
Cameron shook her head. "Are you ever serious?"
Wilson didn't know why she bothered. She probably didn't either, for she slipped the mask off Wilson's forehead and hefted the oxygen unit up. He wanted to help her, but he knew he really would need House's two other strong-willed bondsmen just to move the few feet to the deck chair. He wondered if her parents had ever chased her to bed with the story of the three little Hebrew boys who survived the fiery furnace. He hoped House's parents had.
"I'm always serious." House watched critically as Chase and Foreman carefully pulled Wilson upright and nodded approvingly when Wilson was able to shuffle to the deck chair on his own power. When Cameron returned, he snatched his black medical bag from her hand and waved her away. "You can leave now," he said
She hesitated, ignoring House's glare. "Are you going to be all right?" she asked Wilson.
"I am a doctor," House snapped. "And he's not dying, so he can't possibly be of any interest to you."
Wilson was watching Cameron, but when he saw her expression change from irritation to understanding, he turned his head quickly enough to see the worry plainly visible on House's face. "I'm okay. Really," he said, the words directed at Cameron, though he kept his eyes trained on House.
"Good," Cameron replied. "You scared the hell out of us. I've never heard House yell like that."
House made an annoyed sound at her. "Get out of here. Shift's over. I'm not paying you any longer." He grimaced when she waved jauntily and dragged the other chair next to Wilson so he could sit down. He rummaged through the bag for a penlight and tongue depressor and examined Wilson's throat thoroughly. "Looks all right," he said grudgingly. "We should get that ultrasound just to be safe."
"I wasn't aware that word was in your vocabulary," Wilson teased. "And I don't need an ultrasound. You're not that strong."
"Still...."
Wilson shook his head. "I'm sore and a little shaky, but all my bones and organs are intact. I'm all right, House." He tried to put every ounce of conviction he could manage in the words, because House hadn't just looked worried, he'd looked scared. Then he remembered what had started the whole ordeal and chuckled. "Santa Claus?"
House grimaced. "It wasn't that funny." He eyed the apple, discarded on the ground next to his foot, as if he were expecting a snake to slither up.
"But it's Christmas all year round!" He nudged House with his knee, grinning. "And you have to admit. It gives new meaning to the phrase, 'I nearly died laughing'."
"Shut up," House snarled. "Six compressions. And that's not counting the ones you did on yourself. You were a minute away from a tracheotomy."
And Wilson knew what the shaking meant. "Thanks," he said.
House blinked at the sudden change in subject. "For what?"
"For saving my life."
"After I caused you to choke." House frowned. "I shouldn't have hit you on the back. It probably lodged the apple more tightly."
"Heimlich does advise against it," Wilson commented mildly. "But what does he know? Name a manoeuvre after a guy and he thinks he's an expert." He had hoped to spark at least a smile from House, but the older man almost looked stricken.
"I knew that," he muttered. "I know the procedure. But I..."
"...couldn't pass up the opportunity to hit me?" Wilson interjected before House could castigate himself further. That did earn him the hoped-for smile. He tried again. "You better not have broken it, because I'm not buying you a new one this time."
That resulted in a full-fledged grin. "You bought me a new one because you filed through the old one. If you were a Christian you'd be going to hell for that."
"It was a measured response to extreme provocation." Wilson grinned back at House and sat up gingerly. It didn't hurt nearly as much this time. His stomach rumbled. "I'm hungry. Buy me dinner."
"Why would I buy you dinner?" House protested. "Clearly you can't be trusted around food." The tone was disdainful, but House's hand clenched convulsively around the handle of his cane. Wilson noted that it appeared to be intact. That was good. He wouldn't have to buy a new one after all.
"All the more reason for you to be there," Wilson replied. "My own personal physician in case I have trouble with a poorly chewed piece of steak."
"Like I'm going to let you eat steak." House pushed himself upright and then held out a hand to pull Wilson up. "Soft foods for you, my child, until you've proven to me that you're capable of swallowing properly." He transferred his grip to Wilson's elbow, holding him steady when he swayed slightly. "And you're paying."
"Don't I always?" Wilson complained. He rotated his shoulders, almost welcoming the twinge of pain between the blades. Some things were worth the cost.
Author: Mer
Characters: James Wilson, Greg House, a smattering of fellows
Prompt: #56 - Choke
100_situationsWord Count: 2079
Rating: G
Summary: The dangers of missing a meal
As the days grew longer, James Wilson liked to retreat to the balcony after his last appointment, letting the still strong sun bake all the frustration and fatigue out of his body. Most days, House came out to join him, and they stood on either side of the dividing wall between their balconies, talking about everything and nothing at all. It was Wilson's favourite time of day.
House was already out there when he emerged from his office, exhausted after difficult day. He hadn't seen House since late morning - they'd planned to have lunch together, but one of his patients came into the ER just before noon. By the time he stabilized the patient, ran a battery of tests, and explained the results of the tests to the patient and his family, he'd only had time to grab a pastry from the oncology lounge before racing off to a committee meeting. It was nearly six o'clock by the time he joined House on the balcony, munching on an apple he'd scavenged from the conference room.
"Behold the conquering hero," House proclaimed. "Find a cure for cancer today?"
"Nope. But I did discover a cure for insomnia. Governance committee meetings. Guaranteed to put you out like a light."
House tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm. I would feel sympathy, except there's this concept I've heard of, which you seem to have adopted as your personal mantra - volunteer. You don't get to complain when you signed up for it."
"What, you mean like clinic duty?" Wilson smirked. "It is part of your contract, whether you like it or not."
"Believe me, there is nothing voluntary about my presence in the clinic. You wouldn't believe the morons I had to deal with today." House lowered himself into his deck chair, tipping his head back to catch the sun full on his face. "I had one patient who came in complaining of lower back and shoulder pain. Turns out he went out with the boys last night and ended up in a tattoo parlour. He wanted to see what he'd had done, so he climbed on a chair to look in a mirror, the chair broke and so did his collarbone when he fell."
"What did you do?"
"I took a picture of the tattoo with his cell phone, told him he was too stupid to live, and sent him to radiology."
Wilson shook his head. "What was the tattoo?" he asked, taking a bite of apple.
"Santa Claus."
Wilson snorted out a surprised laugh, but when he sucked in a deep breath to try and replace the air forced out of his lungs, the partially chewed piece of apple in his mouth was swept down his trachea and lodged in his windpipe. His air - and laughter - cut off abruptly and he tried to cough loose the obstruction. But he couldn't build any force and he couldn't call out for help and he couldn't breathe. He grabbed his throat and turned to House, eyes wide with panic. He dimly heard House shout something and watched as he clambered awkwardly to his feet, but black spots were already forming in his vision and he knew he needed to do something immediately. Fifteen years of medical training and experience had to be good for something.
He fisted his left hand just above his navel and covered it with his right, stumbling a half step to the outer wall. He bent over the wall, driving his fist up below his ribcage. Nothing happened and he tried again, and again, the rough concrete scraping the back of his hand as his legs turned to jelly and he fell heavily forward.
Something slammed hard against his back and he tried to cry out in pain, but the sound lodged in this throat with the apple. He could hear nothing but the roaring in his ears and even that faded as blackness started to surround and swallow him.
And then arms circled his waist, pulling him upright, and a hard fist punched up into his diaphragm, over and over, until at last the apple shot free with one explosive cough, air flooded in, and the darkness receded.
The arms released him and he dropped to his knees, only the brick wall holding him up, as he coughed and gasped and coughed some more. He could hear now: a voice shouting in his ear, telling him to slow down, to breathe. This time, arms circled him gently, holding him steady as he coughed uncontrollably.
Then a mask was fitted over his face and pure, sweet oxygen flowed into his body, and at last the coughing tapered away and he could suck in much-needed air. It was only when he rested his head back against the shoulder of the person propping him up, and stubble scraped against his forehead, that he realised it was House holding him.
He blinked his eyes clear and saw Cameron squatting in front of him, holding the portable oxygen unit. Chase and Foreman were standing behind her, ready to spring to action, but looking oddly unsure. All three of them stared at him, eyes wide with shock and concern.
Awareness slowly seeped back to him and he realised he was trembling. Then he realised that the arms around him were trembling too. He was on the ground. House was on the ground. He was sprawled on House, his full weight resting on the other man. That couldn't be good. He pushed the oxygen mask up onto his forehead. "Your leg," he rasped, his voice raw. Each word burned its way out. He tried to push himself away, but House's arms tightened around him, just enough to discourage further movement.
"My leg's fine," he retorted. "Don't squirm. I'm trying to examine you."
Wilson could hear House's heart pound beneath his ear. "I'm hurting you."
"Damn it, Wilson, I'm all right. Hold still."
House's voice was nearly as shaky as his arms, so Wilson obeyed. Still, he turned his head and saw that while House was on the ground, none of his weight was on House's bad leg. That didn't explain the shaking, though. "What's wrong?" he asked, only dimly aware of how absurd a question it was.
"Nothing. Everything's peachy keen." House tucked his chin over the top of Wilson's head and his hands gently probed Wilson's torso, searching for cracked ribs and abdominal swelling.
With each breath feeling returned to Wilson's body: a dull ache in his gut, fire rippling down his throat, the back of his hand skinned and stinging. He shifted slightly and was rewarded with a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. His mind pieced everything together slowly. "Did you hit me with your cane?" he demanded, wavering between outrage and amusement.
"You were choking," House retorted, but Wilson knew his friend well enough to hear the apology behind the words.
"You didn't have to hit me that hard," Wilson muttered, hoping House could hear the gratitude behind the complaint.
House finished his examination. "No broken ribs. But we need to make sure there's no tearing in your throat. And an ultrasound wouldn't hurt."
"Now you're just being ridiculous." Wilson managed to pull away from House, but when he tried to push himself upright, his legs refused to cooperate and he slumped against the wall again.
House stood up with only a mild grimace. "Shadrach, Meshach. Help Wilson over to the chair. A-bed-we-go, get my bag."
Cameron shook her head. "Are you ever serious?"
Wilson didn't know why she bothered. She probably didn't either, for she slipped the mask off Wilson's forehead and hefted the oxygen unit up. He wanted to help her, but he knew he really would need House's two other strong-willed bondsmen just to move the few feet to the deck chair. He wondered if her parents had ever chased her to bed with the story of the three little Hebrew boys who survived the fiery furnace. He hoped House's parents had.
"I'm always serious." House watched critically as Chase and Foreman carefully pulled Wilson upright and nodded approvingly when Wilson was able to shuffle to the deck chair on his own power. When Cameron returned, he snatched his black medical bag from her hand and waved her away. "You can leave now," he said
She hesitated, ignoring House's glare. "Are you going to be all right?" she asked Wilson.
"I am a doctor," House snapped. "And he's not dying, so he can't possibly be of any interest to you."
Wilson was watching Cameron, but when he saw her expression change from irritation to understanding, he turned his head quickly enough to see the worry plainly visible on House's face. "I'm okay. Really," he said, the words directed at Cameron, though he kept his eyes trained on House.
"Good," Cameron replied. "You scared the hell out of us. I've never heard House yell like that."
House made an annoyed sound at her. "Get out of here. Shift's over. I'm not paying you any longer." He grimaced when she waved jauntily and dragged the other chair next to Wilson so he could sit down. He rummaged through the bag for a penlight and tongue depressor and examined Wilson's throat thoroughly. "Looks all right," he said grudgingly. "We should get that ultrasound just to be safe."
"I wasn't aware that word was in your vocabulary," Wilson teased. "And I don't need an ultrasound. You're not that strong."
"Still...."
Wilson shook his head. "I'm sore and a little shaky, but all my bones and organs are intact. I'm all right, House." He tried to put every ounce of conviction he could manage in the words, because House hadn't just looked worried, he'd looked scared. Then he remembered what had started the whole ordeal and chuckled. "Santa Claus?"
House grimaced. "It wasn't that funny." He eyed the apple, discarded on the ground next to his foot, as if he were expecting a snake to slither up.
"But it's Christmas all year round!" He nudged House with his knee, grinning. "And you have to admit. It gives new meaning to the phrase, 'I nearly died laughing'."
"Shut up," House snarled. "Six compressions. And that's not counting the ones you did on yourself. You were a minute away from a tracheotomy."
And Wilson knew what the shaking meant. "Thanks," he said.
House blinked at the sudden change in subject. "For what?"
"For saving my life."
"After I caused you to choke." House frowned. "I shouldn't have hit you on the back. It probably lodged the apple more tightly."
"Heimlich does advise against it," Wilson commented mildly. "But what does he know? Name a manoeuvre after a guy and he thinks he's an expert." He had hoped to spark at least a smile from House, but the older man almost looked stricken.
"I knew that," he muttered. "I know the procedure. But I..."
"...couldn't pass up the opportunity to hit me?" Wilson interjected before House could castigate himself further. That did earn him the hoped-for smile. He tried again. "You better not have broken it, because I'm not buying you a new one this time."
That resulted in a full-fledged grin. "You bought me a new one because you filed through the old one. If you were a Christian you'd be going to hell for that."
"It was a measured response to extreme provocation." Wilson grinned back at House and sat up gingerly. It didn't hurt nearly as much this time. His stomach rumbled. "I'm hungry. Buy me dinner."
"Why would I buy you dinner?" House protested. "Clearly you can't be trusted around food." The tone was disdainful, but House's hand clenched convulsively around the handle of his cane. Wilson noted that it appeared to be intact. That was good. He wouldn't have to buy a new one after all.
"All the more reason for you to be there," Wilson replied. "My own personal physician in case I have trouble with a poorly chewed piece of steak."
"Like I'm going to let you eat steak." House pushed himself upright and then held out a hand to pull Wilson up. "Soft foods for you, my child, until you've proven to me that you're capable of swallowing properly." He transferred his grip to Wilson's elbow, holding him steady when he swayed slightly. "And you're paying."
"Don't I always?" Wilson complained. He rotated his shoulders, almost welcoming the twinge of pain between the blades. Some things were worth the cost.
no subject
no subject
Thanks for reading!
no subject
Everything just flowed so naturally in this story -- the terrifying description of choking, the brisk medical procedures, and the trembling recovery of not only the victim but also the saviour.
The balcony seems to be bad news for Wilson in your stories (well, bad for him, good for angst-loving readers). Good thing he has his own personal lifeguard!
no subject
I was hoping to convey the sensation of choking and its aftermath - I choked on a marshmallow (!?) when I was in elementary school and still haven't forgotten the experience, even many years later.
Oh boy, I better write a happy balcony story :) I blame the prompt table, the angsty words are just too tempting!
no subject
Prefect. Much love.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thanks for another lovely fic!
no subject
no subject
10 out of the 47 entries on my "Memories" page are your stories (this is now the newest entry).
Wonderful as ever. I particularly liked the image of House looking at the half-eaten apple as if expecting a snake to slither up. Heh!
Just excellent; as always, it is a huge pleasure to sign in and see a new story by you.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
no subject
You just keep giving me more brilliance to love. :)
What would I do without you in this fandom? Thank you. A million times, thank you. This is beautiful, in character, tender, loving, and friendship, thank God.
But hey -- not a surprise coming from you, is it?
no subject
no subject
I don't know if you're a Holmes fan, but despite the lack of an 'opponent' this reminded me of The Three Garridebs, where Watson gets shot and Holmes belts the shooter over the head before coming to fuss over him. I know the parallel isn't exact, but it's the reaction, I guess.
no subject
Yeah, I think House panicked. And of course the cane gives him a longer reach, so he could start "helping" sooner...
Thanks for reading - I'm glad you enjoyed the story!
no subject
no subject
no subject
You really do write H/W the way they're meant to be written. I could see this happening on the show exactly as it stands, and it would remain perfectly in-character, perfectly within the "standard bounds" established for the series at present, all the while pumping us up with mounds of subtext & caring & LOVELOVELOVELOVE. Love it!
no subject
Thank you for the great feedback - I do try to avoid the trap of telling too much rather than revealing, but it doesn't always work, particularly in exposition. I'm glad you enjoyed it!
no subject
This was wonderful. House and Wilson panicking -- the ducklings staring -- the concern and apology communicated beneath the words -- every moment is there. We're there. Mm.
no subject
no subject
Have a lollyicon.
no subject
Thank you for reading - I'm glad you enjoyed it.
no subject
no subject
Writing for House would be a dream job - though I doubt RSL would be pleased, since he seems to be enjoying his two-day work week and I certainly would make him work more!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
I was hoping you'd let me cite this story as an example in a piece I'm working on about point of view for The Clinic. Before you worry, it's for an example of how to do it! ;)
I'd want to say something like: "Being tight inside Wilson's point of view not only really conveys his panic, but it's the aftermath where his perspective really comes into its own. The reader can see how much House cares, just through Wilson's eyes, and without him ever having to tell us."
I've unlocked the post for people I want to quote, and it's here (http://jadesfire2808.livejournal.com/29926.html) for your perusal :)
thanks!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
I loved how House was panicked for Wilson, and that it was House the one who saved him. It's always nice to see House doing some "physical" doctoring.
and, of course, very IC.
no subject
Thanks for reading!
no subject
no subject
Thanks for reading!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thanks for reading!
no subject
no subject