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  Paying the Price 
 by Mer  

 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 in 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.  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.