Title: Below the Surface
Authors: amazonqueenkate and subluxate
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters: Dr. Gregory House, Dr. James Wilson
Community: slash_me_twice
Prompt: 058. Mask
Word Count: 1,047
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not ours, sadly.
Authors' Notes: Spoilers for “No Reason”.


Sometimes, Wilson swore that the name “Greg House” was synonymous with “disaster.”

In the fifteen years they’d known one another, Wilson had seen the disaster that was Greg House work his magic in all realms of being. His apartment resembled a war zone, his car could probably be declared a state of emergency, his personal life laid in shambles around his feet. Two wives had cited House as one of the back-breaking camel straws, and Wilson figures the first one would have if she’d only had the opportunity to meet him.

The current mess House had managed to get himself in, though, didn't involve any of that. It was a physical disaster, different than his body turning on itself years before. Now he was fighting against the intrusion of bullets and the damage they'd done. House had been lucky, even he'd admit that, but it was still difficult.

In a way, it figured that a man who ate, slept, and breathed disaster would end up shot by a disgruntled ex-patient or ex-almost-patient or whoever the hell this Moriarty character was. According to Cuddy’s frazzled voice over the inter-office phone line, the shooter’d been dragged out of the hospital by the resident armed security and had yet to indicate any sort of motive.

Wilson had almost laughed, but after the initial, “Cuddy, if you’re going to try to freak me out, make it realistic” reaction faded into the silence of her sincerity, he was out of his desk and on his way down to the emergency room.

Predictably, Chase talked to him first, still covered in blood—House's blood. "First bullet nicked his bowel," he said wearily, swiping at fallen strands of hair. "The second tore the edge of his jugular. He's in surgery now."

The swiping left a streak of red on his forehead from the latex gloves and Wilson stared at it for a moment, wet against his skin. Nearby, Cameron looked about ready to burst into tears, and Foreman’s cool exterior gave only the most flickering indications of his mental state.

”Which O.R.?” Wilson asked after a moment of processing.

"Four. Cuddy's already observing." Chase looked ready to collapse, probably from the stress of treating someone he knew. This couldn't have been one of his most difficult cases.

Briefly, Wilson wondered how it was that he was remaining so calm about it all.

The calm remained as he nodded silent thanks and started for the observation gallery, taking the steps in twos. Usually, when something happened with House, he felt frantic. Now, he felt oddly grounded, and caught himself mulling over the reality in clinical terms—the possibility of sepsis from the nicked bowel, the amount of blood lost via the jugular, how many stitches would run up and down his side and neck, adding to the other scars.

God, the scars. House was going to bitch about that more than anything, except maybe how ungrateful the shooter was.

No, he'd understand the ungrateful thing. He'd been in that position. He'd just hate the evidence on his body, always reminding him.

Maybe that’s why he’d pushed Stacy away in the first place. Not because he needed his personal life to be one chaotic mess after another, but because Stacy was, in so many ways, a walking, menthol-smoking scar who tried not to hate herself for hurting him.

Cuddy was, as promised, in the observation room when he arrived, and pulled her eyes away from the scene below only long enough to glance at him.

”How’s he doing?” Wilson asked, joining her at the window.

She turned to stare back down at the operating table.

"He's got Gillis and McCain working on him." Not really an answer, but they were two of the best. Cuddy folded her arms more closely around herself. "Once they took care of his jugular, they got his blood pressure stabilized."

Turning, she eyed him again. "He'll be out for a week on ketamine."

Wilson had been ready to respond when she added that last comment, his jaw slackening slightly.

“Ketamine?” he repeated, and she gave him the slightest nod. “Gillis’ idea?”

"His," she sighed. "He told his fellows on the way to the ER he wanted ketamine. There's a theory about chronic pain and a dissociative state."

“I’ve heard,” he replied, the first words that came into his mind. He’d noticed an obscure German journal at House’s apartment when he’d stayed there with a dog-eared article on that very thing. His German was rusty but not hopeless, and he’d Googled the topic at the office the next day.

He considered this for a moment, staring down at the operating room. He wondered what the surgery for House’s infarction would have looked like, had he been in the gallery then. “Did he say anything else?”

Cuddy shook her head, staring down at House's open abdomen. "Not that they caught."

She looked worn, ten years older than her age, and it occurred to Wilson how hard she must be taking this. In spite of themselves, House and Cuddy were friends since college, and this had to be hurting her almost as badly as it hurt Wilson.

He reached up and placed his hand on her back, near her shoulder blades, and wondered to himself what House would think. “He’ll be all right,” Wilson said, using the most comforting voice he could find. It reminded him of the tone he used with patients, all soothing doctor with no actual reason to back up his assurance, and he sighed. “He’s House. He’ll come out of this just to bitch about it.”

Cuddy snorted, smirking slightly, and turned to him.

"Are you saying that for my benefit or yours?"

Fair question, especially considering how tightly he'd been holding himself together.

“It could be both,” he replied, and tried to smirk back. He couldn’t, though, not now. Maybe later, when House was out of the O.R. and into recovery. And into a coma, Wilson thought to himself. A bit like last time.

They stood and watched the rest of the surgery together, a marked difference from the last time when he wasn't even there. Maybe, just maybe, it meant everything would keep being different, and the only lasting marks of this one would be on the surface.

Tags: greg house, house md, james wilson, lisa cuddy, slash me twice: greg house/james wilson
feeling: hungry