Getaway, Part 6
Disclaimer: I don't own House, Wilson or anything else related to House, MD. Don't even rent them. Only thing I'm looking for is the satisfaction of continuing the story for my own amusement.
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Progress was slow and painful. Once inside, House quickly peeled off his parka and then helped Wilson out of his coat, hat and gloves and maneuvered him onto the couch.
"Okay, sport," he said when Wilson was settled in a semi-reclining position, head propped up with cushions. "Where's the first aid kit?"
Wilson didn't open his eyes. "Pantry."
The "first aid kit" was an enormous bag that, to House's surprise and relief, contained enough supplies for a Caribbean missions trip.
"Planning to open a clinic?" he asked, returning to the main room, bag in hand.
"Prepared," Wilson mumbled.
"Got that already." House eased himself onto the sofa table and extracted a penlight, thermometer and stethoscope from the pack. He'd have to do this the old-fashioned way. "Open your eyes."
"Head's okay."
"Hard as a rock, I know, but it's your brain I'm worried about. Open."
Wilson grudgingly obeyed, fixing House with a tired stare.
"Pupils are okay," he said after a moment, clicking off the light. Experienced hands probed for bumps or contusions.
Wilson jerked away from the touch. "I didn't hit my head."
House pulled back his hands. Wilson didn't appear to be displaying any symptoms of concussion or CNS injury now, but these things could take hours or even days to manifest. Still, best to move on for the time being. "Okay, but you could be hypothermic." A thermometer slid into Wilson's mouth. "And now it's time to get naked."
"Huh?"
"ABCs of trauma management," House said. "Your airway's open, you're breathing, circulation's okay. I'm the disabled one. So, we're down to exposure." He pointed to the ice from Wilson's jeans that was melting onto the sofa. "You need to get out of this wet gear."
Wilson nodded, started to pull up his sweatshirt and immediately gasped, the thermometer nearly dropping out of his mouth.
House cursed silently, worried that Wilson's injuries were more serious than he'd let on. "I'm getting the scissors." He scrounged in the backpack and held up a surgical pair, slicing through the air.
"Favorite shirt," Wilson protested.
"And I'm so not buying you a new one." The thermometer beeped. "97.2," he read aloud. House made quick work of the sweatshirt, leaving Wilson somewhat pathetic in his white Jockey T-shirt.
Wilson's eyes widened and a shiver rolled across his body. "Cold."
"You get a blanket when I've finished examining you," House said, not unkindly, frowning as he peeled away the T-shirt. Bruises were already forming along Wilson's chest where he'd obviously smashed it against the steps, a log, or both.
Starting with the collarbone, House ran his fingers along Wilson's shoulders and arms, feeling for broken bones. He hadn't done a trauma evaluation since his internal medicine residency – more years ago than he cared to remember.
"Already told you," Wilson said, making a half-hearted attempt to push away his hands, "where it hurts."
"Yeah," he said, continuing his probe. "And I so believe you." The minute he touched the left wrist, Wilson gasped. "Need to see if it's broken." House lightened his touch as he manipulated Wilson's hand until he was satisfied that the injury was no worse than a sprain.
"I'll put ice on that when I'm done," he said, gently lowering Wilson's arm. "Okay, need you to sit up so I can check your chest. Won't be fun. Sorry," he added almost as an afterthought.
With Wilson again in a sitting position, he warmed the bell of the stethoscope in his palm and placed it against Wilson's bare back. "Deep breath."
Wilson started to comply but immediately groaned, caught himself, and quickly exhaled. House frowned and repositioned the stethoscope. "C'mon. Need a deep breath."
"Shit," Wilson said as he sucked in air.
House silently echoed the sentiment. Lung sounds were equal, but pain on inhalation suggested broken ribs. He moved the stethoscope to Wilson's chest. Heart rate was still elevated but otherwise the chest sounded okay. House supported Wilson's back, using his right hand to palpate the ribcage. Wilson didn't complain as he pressed along the left side, but the instant his fingers reached the right rib area, Wilson instinctively tried to pull away.
"Hold still." House held him tighter and continued his exam. "Looks like a couple of fractures," he announced, lowering Wilson onto the cushions before reaching to unbutton his jeans.
Wilson pushed him away. "I can do it."
Wilson obviously thought he could do it and clearly wanted to do it but, ended up creating a lot of pain for himself without making much progress. With a sigh, House tugged the soggy jeans over Wilson's hips and eased them over the injured leg. Even with the heat and nearby fire, Wilson was shivering. House grabbed a throw blanket and covered his torso.
"Thanks."
"It's not that I give a damn."
Wilson managed a half smile. "'Course not."
House's eyes were immediately drawn to Wilson's right shin. "You've got a three-inch laceration." The injury was deep but not bleeding heavily. "Should put in a couple of sutures. You bring a kit?"
"Yeah."
"Of course you did. Need to check your belly."
"House." Exasperation this time. "I'm okay, really."
"You've got broken ribs, a sprained wrist, lacerated leg, and who knows what damage to your knee. You're a klutz and a moron but you're not okay."
Wilson rolled his eyes but made no further protest. Careful palpation of Wilson's abdomen revealed no tenderness or rigidity. Good news for now. And a quick check of the knee showed Wilson hadn't sustained a serious tear. A more definitive diagnosis would have to await a date with the MRI.
"You'll live," he pronounced. "Let's start with the ice and pain meds and then I'll suture your leg." He pushed himself up from the table and promptly fell back, unable to repress a groan. Damn. In his concern over Wilson, he'd allowed his leg to cramp and it protested at the sudden movement.
Wilson's eyes snapped open. "House, what's—" It was Wilson's turn to groan as his ribs protested his attempt to sit up.
"Lie back down before you give yourself a pneumothorax," House barked.
Wilson complied, but House could feel the oncologist's eyes on him as he stretched out his leg and carefully massaged the muscles of his thigh.
"How bad?" Wilson asked.
"Well, I'd like to get you to a hospital for an MRI. But, I think you're okay here until the weather clears."
"I meant your leg."
Of course he did. "It's fine."
"It's so not fine. Give me a number."
"Hey, I'm the one playing doctor."
"House," Wilson said, warning in his voice.
"Six."
"You're lying."
He stood, this time without obvious pain. "Sue me."
In the kitchen, he made icepacks using cubes from old-style trays and Ziploc bags. It took two painful trips, but the result was dishtowel-wrapped icepacks on Wilson's wrist and knee and Advil down his throat. Satisfied, House pulled out the suture kit and set to work cleaning the wound.
Wilson's eyes opened into a squint. "When's the last time you put in sutures?"
House didn't look up as he injected the lidocaine. "It's like riding a bike."
Wilson frowned. "Hope not the way you ride."
"Har, har." He focused on his sewing – it wouldn't do to leave a nasty scar; Wilson would never let him hear the end of it.
Five stitches later, he removed the icepacks, propped a pillow under Wilson's knee, then wrapped an ace bandage. This patient care thing was hard work; no wonder he avoided it at all costs. "Too tight?" he asked apprehensively.
"It's fine."
He frowned. "Looks like crap."
"Not a beauty contest."
"Good, cause the rest of you looks like crap too." In truth, the bandage on Wilson's wrist was slightly tighter. He hobbled to the bedroom and returned with the quilt, carefully tucking it around Wilson's shoulders, legs and feet.
Wilson's eyes smiled. "Sorry."
"You're always sorry. About what this time?"
"You're supposed to relax. Not take care of me."
"If it makes you feel better, I'll quit."
Wilson merely closed his eyes.
"I'll see about breakfast."
"Not hungry."
"Need food to go with the ibuprofen. I'll fix eggs."
"You can't cook."
"Right now, neither can you."
House watched as Wilson struggled to eat scrambled eggs right-handed with a fork, then a spoon, and still little cakes of yellow dribbled down the front of the quilt.
"Want me to feed you?" House offered, setting aside his own now-empty plate.
"No way."
"Better than starving."
"Won't starve." Wilson handed back the plate.
"Okay, but you need to do deep breathing exercises."
"Later."
The lights in the cabin flickered briefly.
"Oh-oh," House said. "God wants you to do them."
"Later."
Crap. This was why he hated dealing with patients, even if the patient was Wilson. Why couldn't they just do what they were supposed to?
The lights went off and then came back on. Just as he breathed a sigh of relief, they went off again. This time they stayed off. Great. They'd have to rely on the fireplace for warmth and that meant he'd probably have to make the trip to replenish the log supply. Just great. He checked the position of Wilson's wrist and knee and took his pulse. Satisfied, he put another log on the fire, stretched out on the nearby loveseat, and welcomed the warmth of the crackling fire.