AN: This was written for menolly_au's Accidental Injury Challenge at the sick!wilson livejournal site. My prompt was 'An animal causing a bite/sting in the hospital entrance.' I'm a resident of the town mentioned, and the fic was loosely based on a real event that happened last year. Oh, and I have no excuse for the ending. None.
Perhaps it was the warm press of sunlight against the hospital windows, or maybe the slightly bored drone of the lecturer's voice, but Wilson had never been so pleased to see another day of conference draw to a close. As the noise in the hall began to swell with the low screech of sliding chairs and the murmured voices of his peers, he quickly gathered up his notes and made a break for freedom.
He paused at the front desk to confirm the schedule for the next day's lecture series, where he was due to speak about the latest treatment options for Acute Myeloid Leukemia in patients over the age of sixty-five. The inevitable discussion about the merits of monoclonal antibody therapy promised to be interesting, and Wilson was looking forward to wading into the debate. The remainder of this day belonged to no one but himself, though, and he was eager to shake off his responsibilities for a little while and step out into the Alaskan summer sunlight. At home, moments to himself were fleeting, and he deserved a few glorious, Houseless hours in one of the most beautiful cities in the country.
Digging out his cell phone, he exchanged farewells with Dr. Passingok, the head of Anchorage's Providence Cancer Center, before focusing his attention on the tiny screen in his hand. He typed out a quick update message to Cuddy and began walking towards the glass double doors, navigating around clusters of chatting people with the ease of long practice. The noise seemed to increase the closer he got to the entrance, the surrounding conversations taking on an excited pitch. Cuddy sent a reply at just that moment, however, and Wilson, sufficiently distracted, shouldered his way through the doors without looking up, ignoring the scattered voices raised in sudden alarm.
Warmth spilled over his face and shoulders, and he smiled a little as he pocketed his phone and looked up, anticipating the sight of a low-slung cityscape framed by snowcapped mountains.
What he got instead was a face full of hot breath that smelled like the underside of a compost heap, followed by the sight of a moving hillside of brown fur. He let out a strangled noise and dropped his notebook, papers scattering as the creature seemed to block out the sky. There was a deafening sound, like an old tuba smothered in wet burlap, and the next few seconds were a painful mishmash of yellowed teeth, impossibly long legs and mad, rolling eyes, before a cloven hoof the size of a dinner plate reared up and put out all the lights.
House had never before been grateful for the purgatory of clinic duty, but when a world-weary Wilson called his cell phone at seven that evening, it gave him cause to rethink. He listened quietly for a time, and then sandwiched the phone against his head with one shoulder, writing out a prescription for a topical antibiotic. Shoving it into the hands of his latest patient, he hurriedly saw her out, her ears ringing with an admonishment to stop sticking her fingers in strange orifices. He then locked the door and pulled the blinds, grateful for the privacy as he sat down on the examination table with his cane balanced across his knees.
"You were what in the where?" he asked, his face a study in incredulity. "Because why?"
"You're really going to make me explain again?" Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his hospital bed, and from a distance of three thousand miles, House heard him sigh. "Fine. I was leaving the hospital a couple of hours ago, minding my own business, when I was ambushed by a psychotic ruminant with an unreasoning hatred for all those in the medical profession. It was kind enough to leave me only bruised and concussed, but as some very nice orderlies were dragging me to safety, it left its signature on a place I refuse to mention over the phone."
"You were bitten. In the ass. By a moose." House blinked, and then stared into space with something akin to awe. "This may be the best day of my life."
When the reply came, it was caustic, deeply put-upon, and did absolutely nothing to curb House's rising glee.
"While I'm happy for you and your sense of schadenfreude, I just had delicate parts of my anatomy sewn up by an inappropriately giggly intern. Cuddy is probably still laughing in her office, and now the local paper wants to schedule me for an interview. Apparently, this the most exciting thing to happen in weeks."
"This is better than that hooker in Rio," House continued, as if Wilson hadn't spoken. He sounded a little dazed, like a life-long beggar who'd just won the lottery. "If I'm frugal, this'll give me mocking material to last for the next decade. Jimmy, this is better than the duck."
"Being savaged by a one ton deer is considered the height of comedy in most social circles." While the tone was wry, House could easily imagine the pained expression on his friend's face, those long fingers pinching at the skin between his eyebrows. "House, just... try to go easy on the ribbing for a few days, okay? At least until the stitches come out. This wasn't as fun for me as you might think."
"I don't know why you're complaining. Spackle that story with enough self-deprecating charm, and you'll have every Nanook nurse in town clamoring to change your dressing." A certain degree of 'We Are Not Amused' bled over the line, and House relented somewhat. Fifteen years of friendship had earned Wilson a concession or two. "Fine, fine. You don't sound loopy enough for the good drugs, and your whining's only at about a four, so the bite couldn't have been too bad. How many stitches did it take?"
"Just nine," the younger man replied, sounding grateful for the reprieve, "and the puncture wounds are neat enough that they shouldn't scar too badly. I was lucky. That thing had teeth the size of dominoes, I swear."
House was about to reply with something appropriately innocuous, when an idea suddenly came to him. It bordered on the cruel and unusual, but as a man who had issues with impulse control, it was just too fun to pass up. Ninety seconds of decency was good enough, right?
"How amooseing."
There was a horrified pause, and then Wilson slowly said, "You didn't. You didn't just pun at me."
"You might want to see an Otologist while you're there. It was probably an auditory Aleutian."
"That... barely makes sense, and I hate you. I hate you so much."
"Hey, Wilson. Hey." There was a reluctant grunt of acknowledgement, and House twirled his cane with a jaunty flourish, his grin stretching to indecent lengths."What do you call a lesbian from Alaska?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"A Klondike."
Wilson's groan of defeat was totally worth the dial tone that followed. House pocketed the phone and spared a moment of fond contemplation for his displaced friend, before unbolting the door and hollering for the next clinic case. If he happened to spend the majority of the examination humming the theme to 'Rocky and Bullwinkle,' his patient was too freaked out to comment on it.