AN: My silly little fic for the Pic Prompt Challenge #1 at sick_wilson .
Phone Propositions
"It's a phone."
"Very good."
"It's a phone."
"Are you hoping that if you keep saying that, it will change it into something else?"
House looks between the broken and tangled pieces of Wilson's desk phone on the floor, and his lover, who is seated at his desk, his chin in one hand, the other holding several white (now red) tissues to his head to stop the blood flowing in a rivulet down his face.
"I just don't get how you managed to get a laceration that bad from a phone."
Wilson sighs and takes the pile of tissues away….House nearly winces when he sees the wound continue to gush blood. He knows head wounds bleed a lot, but Wilson probably isn't putting enough pressure on it. House decides he can do better, so he limps over, moves Wilson's hand, tosses the bloody tissues to the floor and grabs a bunch of fresh ones from the box on Wilson's desk, then presses them to Wilson's head. He squeezes Wilson's shoulder in apology when he hisses in pain.
"You startled me when you called me."
"So, you hit yourself with a phone?"
"So," Wilson answers sarcastically. "I tripped over the phone cord on my way to your office. Maybe if you stopped calling me and telling me lewd things when I'm trying to get paperwork done, this wouldn't happen."
House snorts. "You started it."
"What?" Wilson says loudly, wincing again when pain shoots through his head. "All I did was leave you a note to tell you I was going to buy you lunch! Something I do…uh, everyday!"
"Wilson, you should really use your inside voice. People will talk," House responds condescendingly. "It's not my fault I found you buying me food particularly hot, today."
Wilson throws his hands up in exasperation, because he knows House doesn't give a damn what people talk about. "Whose fault is it, exactly?"
"Yours." the 'duh' in House's tone is implied. Wilson resists the urge to roll his eyes, afraid it will just make his head hurt more.
"Well, this-" he says, pointing to his bloody head. "-is your fault. You call me and tell me…that…and I just got a little…excited. I tripped over the phone cord and hit my head on the corner of the desk."
House shakes his head. "How'd you call me?"
"My cell phone. I was gonna go to the clinic, but then they'd just laugh and ask me if I needed domestic abuse counseling again."
"Cuddy did leave pamphlets on my desk about how to control anger, after that time you came to work with a bruise on your neck," House says thoughtfully, remembering how they came out…when Wilson had inadvertently come to work with a hickey above his collar that House had conveniently not told him he'd put there after he'd accosted Wilson on his way out the door. Later in the day, some cute little cancer kiddo had asked Wilson if someone had hit him. A nurse had over-heard it, and the story had spread through the hospital like wild-fire. They'd had to explain (or in House's case, relate their morning in explicit detail) how it had gotten there. The whole incident had been a long running joke ever since.
He takes the tissues away from Wilson's head and looks at the cut, noting that the bleeding has slowed a bit. He reaches up and pokes at it. "You're gonna need stitches."
Wilson heaves a sigh. "Great."
House helps Wilson up and they step over the mess of the phone. "Come on, I'll do it. Then you can buy me that lunch."
"I like how I get injured, and still have to buy you lunch."
"Well, if I bought you food, the space-time continuum might explode. Wouldn't want that, would we?" House asks cheerfully and Wilson shakes his head in amusement.
As they walk into the clinic, past the nurses, other doctors and patients, Wilson can't decide whether to laugh or cover his face with his hands in embarrassment when House loudly proclaims:
"Nothing to see here! He fell off his desk while we were having sex. Really, it's nothing to worry about."
So, he decides on both.
END