Characters: House, Wilson
Genre: Friendship, Unadulterated Fluff
Summary: House injures himself. So naturally, this requires a call to Wilson, who--naturally--rushes right over.
A/N: For silja_b , because I said I'd do it. Oh, and btw Silja , the firstborn'll be arriving via parcel post. Today. :-)
PEANUT BUTTER & BLOOD
“Tell me again,” he says slowly to House, “Exactly how you managed to do…” His hand waves in the general direction of House’s knee, “this.”
House sighs with mock patience. “I’ve told you twice. Lucky for you I believe in thorough patient histories. So let’s try it again. Slower this time. And—just for you—I’ll leave out some of the harder words.”
House has the left leg propped on the coffee table;
“Well, it’s simple, really. And dull. Uh... the story's dull; the glass wasn't. I dropped a jar of peanut butter. It broke. And you weren’t here," House continues accusingly, "So I had to clean it up all by myself. Glass, like I said. Dangerous, and all. Especially to a cripple such as myself.”
“So I used the edge of the counter, lowered myself down to the floor. I thought. But turns out, I landed on the broken glass. Told you it’s a hazard for us cripples.”
“Yeah, because no able-bodied person ever breaks anything and gets cut during clean-up.”
“So anyway, that’s pretty much it. Me falling plus shards of lethal glass equals blood. And pain. Lots of both. Pain and blood. Oh, and peanut butter, of course.”
“Wait a minute. Back up. You fell?”
“I think I just said that.”
“No… what you’d previously said was you knelt on the floor. So let’s run the scene in slow motion, shall we?”
House heaves a forbearing sigh. “Simple. I lost my balance, grabbed for the counter, and came down on my knee, on top of sharp foreign objects.”
“You lost your balance… because?”
“I didn’t have my cane.”
And you didn’t have your cane, because?”
“Thought I’d be okay without it.”
This was like questioning a four-year-old about mommy’s broken lamp. “And you obviously thought you’d be okay because you generated new thigh muscle overnight. I’m so happy for you.”
House gives a snort of irritation. “Of course not. I was feeling… good.”
“Good enough to run the Boston Marathon—and win,” House says snidely.
Sighing, House says, “Might've had… an… extra Vicodin. Or two. So things were looking up. Until I went down. On the floor. Into danger.”
Bingo; House goes silent.
“House, you’re a fool. A reckless idiot who actually expected me to be sympathetic. Astounding.”
Defensively, House says, “I was stressed; been a tough week. Not like I’m allowed to have an extra drink or something to relax; could be harmful, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah—can we just forget all that? I’m bleeding to death here. I called you because I need help, not harassment!”
“You flushed it? Cleaned it? Any glass remaining?”
House reluctantly acknowledges yes, yes, and no.
“And you used an antiseptic?”
House huffs. “Well, yeah. World’s just crawling with superbugs, you know!”
House leans back and says smugly, “Any area lucky enough to have me in it qualifies as the world. Welcome to my world!” He widens his arms expansively.
“Probably won’t be a second,” House observes with mock sympathy—and a smug expression.
“I believe you’ve got everything under control here, Dr. House. So I’ll be leaving now.”
“But Jimmy! I’ve got beer, and porn, and an injury. And if you’d been here, we’d have beer and porn—and I wouldn’t be injured. Don’t you think you at least owe me—”
“Oooh, no. Stop right there. No way are you putting any of this off on me. Not this time. And it’s my considered, professional opinion that the patient will live, thanks solely to your amazing skills with a first-aid kit. I’m going to get back to my date, try to explain. Don’t normally have to explain the whole you thing this soon in a relationship, but then you don’t usually try to bust it up this early, either. So wish me luck.” He studies House’s pouting face. “Or not.”
“Hurts,” House sulks.
And just before the door closes behind him, he catches a glimpse of House’s grin—House’s surprised, amused, approving grin.