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housefic, gate_house, and sick_wilson
Title: Five Times James Wilson Was Sick Freshman Year (And a Couple of Times He Wasn’t), Part 1 of 6
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: Wilson/OFC (this part), Wilson/Other Male Character (later parts)
Rating: R
Words: 896
Notes: Includes crossover character from Stargate Atlantis in later parts. Set in late 1980s (as was my US college experience). Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mer_duff and topaz_eyes for providing Canadian expertise, and daisylily for beta. Warning for teen drinking, if that kind of thing disturbs you. Written as a Secret Santa present for samaurai_pyoko.
i. Veisalgia
From the floor of the handicapped stall in the common bathroom blissfully close to his room, James Wilson made a list of the pros and cons of his current situation.
Pros: When he moved his head from place to place – floor, stall wall, side of the toilet bowl – he could find cool spots that would provide a quick second of pleasant relief.
Cons: Everything else.
His head was pounding, his joints ached so bad he could barely move, and his stomach was a fiery, roiling hell-pit. And there was a horrible, grating noise that kept assaulting his ears: “How much did you drink, James? You look like total crap.”
James had found his university-assigned roommate annoying and dull from the first conversation they’d had, at the pre-orientation for first years. Having Fred Smythe-Blakeston gloating over him now was just the icing on the worst-hangover-of-his-life cake. “Shut up,” he managed to get out, before having to clamp his lips shut against another tidal wave of nausea.
“Total crap,” Fred repeated. “You drank the trashcan punch, didn’t you? Everybody knows not to drink the trashcan punch. I heard two years ago somebody put antifreeze in a batch. Three first years were hospitalized – one of them was permanently brain-damaged.”
Loser. “Urban legend,” James replied and then lost his battle with his digestive system. Innate politeness forced his head toward the toilet bowl and away from his roommate, but he desperately hoped Fred was getting at least some of the backsplash.
When James was down to just coughing and spitting to try to get the taste out of his mouth and nose, Fred took up his annoying commentary again. “You’re such a disaster. I can’t believe Sheila Esterbrook agreed to leave the party with you. She must have been drinking that punch, too.”
“Shut up,” James ordered, but with the grater in his throat it came out barely above a whisper. He grabbed toilet paper, wiped a little segment of the bowl’s rim clean, and gratefully let the coolness sink into his skin. He couldn’t picture ever feeling well again, but maybe Fred would fall, hit something, black out, and stop talking. That’d be heaven, right there.
Fred shifted – please fall, please fall – but it was simply to bang the stall door closed. Oh, James’ head. He had almost forgotten that during the puking. Oh God.
“At breakfast today,” Fred continued – James couldn’t figure out whether Fred’s ‘sharing confidences’ faux-whisper or the thought of runny cafeteria eggs was more nauseating – “Terrilyn said that Beth said she thinks you and Sheila went all the way last night. So, is it true?”
“Shut –” and then he was off again, the lining of his stomach coming up and out and hitting the already gross water in the toilet. God, he was never going to drink again, ever in his entire life.
Nothing was left in his stomach, not a molecule, but it wouldn’t stop, the rolling aching straining, and he dry heaved over and over again. Mercy, he needed mercy, but Fred wouldn’t give it to him, raising his voice to demand, “So did you?”
A huge breath of beautifully cold air – it stank, everything stank, but at least it was cold – and a tiny fraction of James’ brain started to stutter to life. Had he had gone all the way with Sheila Esterbrook? He didn’t know for sure.
He remembered seeing her at the party. She was gorgeous: large eyes, beautiful long hair, slender, reedy figure. She wouldn’t smile more than a fraction, though, and while her friends gabbled on around her, her lips stayed shut. He remembered later finding her alone in a relatively quiet hall, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, and letting her lean into his chest as she poured out the sad tale of the scum who’d ditched her. He remembered walking her to her residence hall; remembered kissing her, the two of them holding tight, and almost falling off her extra-narrow bed; remembered slowly pulling off her pants and watching her pull off her underwear.
He remembered rolling on a condom – through safe sex you show respect for your partner – and thought maybe he could remember thrusting into her while she made strange little squeaky sounds like a happy cartoon mouse.
But he didn’t remember having an orgasm. It was generally the part of sex he remembered the best, but this time… the memory went dark gray and then totally black. He had woken up on the floor of his room with no socks, his shirt on backwards, and a dry unrolled condom in his back pocket.
It didn’t count if you didn’t come, did it?
“You’re such a sleaze,” Fred said, and James risked upsetting the precarious equilibrium he’d reached by turning his head upward to look his roommate in the eye. Fred was standing over him, pious and smug, and it was a wonder Fred could even shake his head, with how far that stick was up his ass. “Preying on a vulnerable girl who’d been cruelly deserted by her boyfriend.”
James wanted to protest that it wasn’t like that, because it wasn’t, but the words that came out of his mouth were far different. “At least I’m not still a virgin.”
The spikes that jabbed James’ head with every slap of Fred’s departing shoes against the tile floor were totally worth it.
Part Two
housefic, gate_house, and sick_wilsonTitle: Five Times James Wilson Was Sick Freshman Year (And a Couple of Times He Wasn’t), Part 1 of 6
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: Wilson/OFC (this part), Wilson/Other Male Character (later parts)
Rating: R
Words: 896
Notes: Includes crossover character from Stargate Atlantis in later parts. Set in late 1980s (as was my US college experience). Many, many thanks to
mer_duff and topaz_eyes for providing Canadian expertise, and daisylily for beta. Warning for teen drinking, if that kind of thing disturbs you. Written as a Secret Santa present for samaurai_pyoko.i. Veisalgia
From the floor of the handicapped stall in the common bathroom blissfully close to his room, James Wilson made a list of the pros and cons of his current situation.
Pros: When he moved his head from place to place – floor, stall wall, side of the toilet bowl – he could find cool spots that would provide a quick second of pleasant relief.
Cons: Everything else.
His head was pounding, his joints ached so bad he could barely move, and his stomach was a fiery, roiling hell-pit. And there was a horrible, grating noise that kept assaulting his ears: “How much did you drink, James? You look like total crap.”
James had found his university-assigned roommate annoying and dull from the first conversation they’d had, at the pre-orientation for first years. Having Fred Smythe-Blakeston gloating over him now was just the icing on the worst-hangover-of-his-life cake. “Shut up,” he managed to get out, before having to clamp his lips shut against another tidal wave of nausea.
“Total crap,” Fred repeated. “You drank the trashcan punch, didn’t you? Everybody knows not to drink the trashcan punch. I heard two years ago somebody put antifreeze in a batch. Three first years were hospitalized – one of them was permanently brain-damaged.”
Loser. “Urban legend,” James replied and then lost his battle with his digestive system. Innate politeness forced his head toward the toilet bowl and away from his roommate, but he desperately hoped Fred was getting at least some of the backsplash.
When James was down to just coughing and spitting to try to get the taste out of his mouth and nose, Fred took up his annoying commentary again. “You’re such a disaster. I can’t believe Sheila Esterbrook agreed to leave the party with you. She must have been drinking that punch, too.”
“Shut up,” James ordered, but with the grater in his throat it came out barely above a whisper. He grabbed toilet paper, wiped a little segment of the bowl’s rim clean, and gratefully let the coolness sink into his skin. He couldn’t picture ever feeling well again, but maybe Fred would fall, hit something, black out, and stop talking. That’d be heaven, right there.
Fred shifted – please fall, please fall – but it was simply to bang the stall door closed. Oh, James’ head. He had almost forgotten that during the puking. Oh God.
“At breakfast today,” Fred continued – James couldn’t figure out whether Fred’s ‘sharing confidences’ faux-whisper or the thought of runny cafeteria eggs was more nauseating – “Terrilyn said that Beth said she thinks you and Sheila went all the way last night. So, is it true?”
“Shut –” and then he was off again, the lining of his stomach coming up and out and hitting the already gross water in the toilet. God, he was never going to drink again, ever in his entire life.
Nothing was left in his stomach, not a molecule, but it wouldn’t stop, the rolling aching straining, and he dry heaved over and over again. Mercy, he needed mercy, but Fred wouldn’t give it to him, raising his voice to demand, “So did you?”
A huge breath of beautifully cold air – it stank, everything stank, but at least it was cold – and a tiny fraction of James’ brain started to stutter to life. Had he had gone all the way with Sheila Esterbrook? He didn’t know for sure.
He remembered seeing her at the party. She was gorgeous: large eyes, beautiful long hair, slender, reedy figure. She wouldn’t smile more than a fraction, though, and while her friends gabbled on around her, her lips stayed shut. He remembered later finding her alone in a relatively quiet hall, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, and letting her lean into his chest as she poured out the sad tale of the scum who’d ditched her. He remembered walking her to her residence hall; remembered kissing her, the two of them holding tight, and almost falling off her extra-narrow bed; remembered slowly pulling off her pants and watching her pull off her underwear.
He remembered rolling on a condom – through safe sex you show respect for your partner – and thought maybe he could remember thrusting into her while she made strange little squeaky sounds like a happy cartoon mouse.
But he didn’t remember having an orgasm. It was generally the part of sex he remembered the best, but this time… the memory went dark gray and then totally black. He had woken up on the floor of his room with no socks, his shirt on backwards, and a dry unrolled condom in his back pocket.
It didn’t count if you didn’t come, did it?
“You’re such a sleaze,” Fred said, and James risked upsetting the precarious equilibrium he’d reached by turning his head upward to look his roommate in the eye. Fred was standing over him, pious and smug, and it was a wonder Fred could even shake his head, with how far that stick was up his ass. “Preying on a vulnerable girl who’d been cruelly deserted by her boyfriend.”
James wanted to protest that it wasn’t like that, because it wasn’t, but the words that came out of his mouth were far different. “At least I’m not still a virgin.”
The spikes that jabbed James’ head with every slap of Fred’s departing shoes against the tile floor were totally worth it.
Part Two
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 08:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 08:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 08:43 pm (UTC)Drinking age is indeed 18 in Quebec - I roadtripped to Montreal a couple of weeks after my 18th birthday for my first legal drink in the Peel Street Pub (known for serving recycled beer).
This is a great start to the series - looking forward to the rest of them!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:10 pm (UTC)Would you be willing to be on a Canada beta for the other parts in this? I'd love to catch any more inaccuracies before I post.
Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:26 pm (UTC)I'd be happy to be a Canadian beta - there probably aren't a lot of differences, but I do still have vague memories of being drunk in Montreal (and even more vague memories of being drunk in Hull)...
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 08:48 pm (UTC)Just a question about this fic-verse: did James live in an international house? I'm assuming Fred's British. I got thrown by the names of the characters. I don't ever remember meeting a Fred or a Sheila in university (my time was 1988-1992). Jennifer was a common name, or Karen; and I remember a lot of British men named Nick.
Hope you don't mind some Canuck nitpicks? I wouldn't know about McGill, but where I went, we used the term "residence" or "hall" more than dorm. We used the terms "first year", "second year" and so on to refer to "freshman", "sophomore" etc. Though first years were often called "frosh". *g* Sounds like this took place during frosh week.
“At least I’m not still a virgin.” FTW! \o/
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:01 pm (UTC)Fred's American, based on a boy I met one summer in high school. Not many people hyphenate last names nowadays, but a certain snooty segment of the American population who was into it back then.
I know Sheila's not a popular name, but that's what my brain came up with (although I went to school with a Beth and a Terrilyn and an Estabrook).
I'll change 'dorm,' but will probably stick with 'freshman' some of the time, as that's what Americans new to Canada would think.
Thanks so much!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-14 12:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 08:50 pm (UTC)Starting to comfort the troubled ladies already I see :p
Cant wait till the next part!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:50 pm (UTC)Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:27 pm (UTC)He means well, he really does.
The thing I love about this is that we start to see that wicked little edge that creeps out from beneath Wilson's politeness. The part of himself that makes him understand House, because really? They're an awful lot alike.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 09:52 pm (UTC)But that's Wilson -- the good boy and the rebel warring for dominance. The world sees the good boy, but House knows the rebel is in there.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 10:18 pm (UTC)Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-13 10:36 pm (UTC)“You’re such a sleaze."
That made me giggle out loud. Because it's true and not true at the same time. Hee!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-14 03:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-14 12:51 am (UTC)I love both your terrific descriptions of a trashcan punch hangover (aggh, what awful stuff!) and James' deliciously caustic thoughts about Fred.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-14 03:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-14 06:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-14 03:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-22 04:47 pm (UTC)I love his vow of "never to drink again". It's typically the hangover talking. :)
and his last cutting remark? oh, yes! Go away Fred!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-26 07:50 pm (UTC)