Puck saw it happening in slow-motion, but there was nothing he could do to keep the desk from smashing down on his finger. "Son of a…!" he groaned as he shouldered the desk so he could pull his hand away and stick it in his mouth. "Fuck!"
"What did you do?" Kurt called from the other side of the giant-ass piece of furniture they were trying to get up three flights of stairs into their apartment. "Did you break something? This is an antique!"
"It's an antique pain in my ass," Puck replied, wincing at the way the feeling was coming back into his finger as a dull, overwhelming throb. "And it tried to eat my finger, babe."
"Which finger?" At least now Kurt sounded properly concerned for his well-being.
Speaking around the finger in his mouth, Puck said, "Middle on my left hand."
Sounding almost relieved, Kurt replied, "Oh. Well, that's okay, then."
"It's okay that I won't be able to play my guitar until this fucking heals?" Puck asked, incredulous and wondering what the hell Kurt had been concerned about in the first place, if it wasn't Puck's health.
"Well, that wasn't my first thought, no," Kurt replied, looking around the desk and giving Puck an apologetic look. "Can we get this up the last few stairs before you need some ice or…?"
Shaking his head, Puck replied, "Let's just get this motherfucker in the apartment, babe. I'll be fine."
"You're sure?"
Laughing a little that Kurt was worried about him now, Puck called back, "Yeah, I'm sure. On three."