(Untitled)

[imjustpretty]

Who: Ray Kowalski, Neil Howie, possibly infirmary people
What: Ray waking up after having gotten killed by the Master.
Where: Infirmary
When: Uh, probably backdated a little.
Notes: This is Ray's first death/death toll, and he is not going to react favorably to having gotten killed. Kim volunteered Howie to hang around and hold Ray's hand until Ray

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[the_house_rules]

House has been swilling coffee all morning and, in fits of twitchy near caffeine-toxicity, has been bouncing a ball in the office, doing push-ups because he finally can again, and playing games on his DS. Ray was ((ooc: as far as I know...)) the only patient in the infirmary, and the first person House had witnessed experience a death toll. Where House might normally avoid patients, he was lurking and waiting for him to wake up.

However, he was lurking on the next infirmary bed over, playing video-games at near super-human speeds. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked anything but doctorly, dressed as he was in faded rocker shirt, jeans and running shoes. House wasn't the only person there, there was a man waiting by Ray's bedside for him to wake up, and he and House had not exchanged more than looks and nods before House began to steadfastly ignore him.

When Ray started moving, touching his IV and his face, House hit pause on his game and turned his head to watch. When the guy was gonna hurl, he made a face.

"Hey hey, turn the other way, bro," yeah, not that doctorly at all. House isn't the 'run and grab something helpful' sort. He was the 'shhh, let it happen' sort. Besides, even as he said it, the guy's friend was up and rushing for something to catch it. It was gonna be too late, but that was unavoidable. And after all, someone would clean it up. Not him. Probably some infirmary lackey.

Sorry, House. Ray is pre-occupied with freaking out and didn't hear you.

[imjustpretty]

It is too late. By the time Howie thrusts a basin in his hand, Ray's already busy throwing up. Most of it goes on the sheets and blanket, some of it may go on Howie. A little bit ends up in the basin, which Howie hopefully didn't let go of, since Ray's grip is anything but firm.

Ray keeps his head down, catching his breath, and retches dryly a few more times as his stomach clenches at the sharp, tangy smell of vomit. His head is spinning, and he's still keeping his eyes shut firmly--even then, the little light that does reach them is making them sting, especially his right eye, which is moist and watery and feels too big for its socket. A hard, tight headache is lodged just behind his forehead, which isn't helping with the dizziness.

His stomach settles, and he vaguely pushes the basin away, in the direction where it came from. He's not sure who's here with him, since he really doesn't want to open his eyes, but whoever they are, Ray is pretty sure he just threw up on them.

"I'm--" His voice catches in his throat, which is dry and painful. He clears it. "Shit. Sorry. I'm--I mean, sorry."

The initial shock of waking up is dissipating, but the memories aren't. He can still hear that crack, still remembers what it felt like when there was pain the one moment, and absolutely nothing at all the next. He realizes that he's shaking, can feel his heart beating too quickly in his chest, and he takes a deep, somewhat shaky breath. Calm down. You're fine. Just calm down.

too heavy? (feel free to assume House left after, btw, and continue on)

[the_house_rules]

So this was what he'd waited to see, what he'd been avoiding really thinking about all morning. Thoughts of this had lingered beneath the surface as he fucked around and pretended not to give a damn.

'Cool,' was what he might have said, a long time ago. He might have said it with an excited grin and bright eyes. Maybe. It was its own puzzle, in a way, the death toll another curious gift from the Admiral. A fail-safe on death.

It was a cheat. House had seen him come in. He knew the extent of his injuries. He should have stayed dead. The death toll, as everyone called it, was just a fucking re-boot. A way to say "you can't get out of here that easily." House wasn't stupid, he saw the value in it. For fatal injuries - which apparently were often sustained en masse - it was invaluable. And considering they were, here, existing on the edge of reality, it seemed the most logical solution to a commonly recurring problem. But the reality of death was what made people value life. What was keeping people from killing themselves repeatedly, aside from the nausea and side effects of the toll? If death was pointless here, so was life. If a cure to your injuries was just one fatal blow away, why bother with a doctor? The solution to a gunshot wound that missed its target was another, aimed true. Destruction was the barge's greatest medic, and House?

House was even more useless here than he was at home.

House sat up and stared at Ray. Pathetic. He knew what happened, he had heard. The man had rushed into a dangerous situation and had conveniently forgotten his gun. Who just forgets they're unarmed? Who forgets they could die?

People who know they can't die, that's who.

This death toll, it's taken a lot of the care of living away. Ray was a warden, well intentioned, trying to play the hero. That was one thing, that was bad enough, perhaps, but for inmates… Death is one of those things, those drives, that perhaps rightly, perhaps wrongly, reigns us in. The reality of it, the black threat of it keeps us from going too far. But there is no too far, here. Actions don't have a lasting effect, death is transient and glimmering.

"Oh, bra-vo," House says, and begins a slow clap. "Tell me, did you learn your lesson? Not to try and be a hero when you're unarmed," his tone is venomous, and he's talking slowly, as if to a child. "No? Well I'm not fucking surprised. Almost dying changes nothing."

And that's what this is for House. He's aware that people are definitely technically dead, they're literally dead. Actually dead. But it's the coming back that makes it almost, because the dead don't come back. Bottom line, death is death, it's nothing, it's the end, and this is anything but.

Sounds good to me~ Ray would agree, actually, although less eloquently.

[imjustpretty]

When Howie speaks, Ray recognizes the hard, clipped accent. He reaches up and around, grasping Howie's sleeve in a firm, almost desperate grip. He died. He fucking died. How can you "be alright" if you died?

Ray opens his mouth, about to say something--maybe ask Howie that same question, or maybe just tell him that he was dead, and please tell him his eye is alright, because he really doesn't want to have to start wearing an eyepatch--when the sharp sound of a slow golf-clap makes him jump. He looks around, fingers still curled into the fabric of Howie's sleeve, and blinks his eyes open--only to immediately squeeze them shut again. Ow. Light. Is bad.

He's not in the right state of mind to make much sense of House's words--he's still preoccupied with those frighteningly definite memories--but he picks up on the hostility and the sneering accusation in House's tone. He also picks up on the words "unarmed" and "dying"--yes, he was the one, and yes, he did the other, and neither will ever happen again as long as he's on this boat, not if he can help it. When House finishes, Ray doesn't answer, though he feels like some sort of response is probably required--he doesn't know what kind, though. He can't even see the guy.

Instead, he turns back to Howie and takes a deep breath. Calm down. He thinks he is calming down; being startled by the unexpectedness of House's words helped. He licks his lips, his voice rough as he speaks.

"Who's he?"

House went to his office.

[the_house_rules]

((ooc: Carry on. House will come back later in the thread and dose Ray and make him go night night so he can get some sleep if you want, Ray-mun. If not, he can stay gone.))

[imjustpretty]

Ray nods, keeping his head lowered and concentrating on his breathing--deep breaths that gradually get less shaky, more even, and calmer. Eventually, he uncurls his fingers and pulls back, vaguely embarrassed. It's fine. He's okay. Not really, because he's still shaking and dizzy and slightly nauseous, but at least he's not panicking anymore.

He tries to open his eyes again, carefully this time, only cracking them open a little bit, just enough so he can make out vague shapes in his surroundings. It stings, but not badly enough to make him close them again. He looks down at the mess he made on the bed, and starts to ineffectively tug on the blanket, trying to flip over the vomit-soaked corner. He's really sorry about that, Howie.