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External Signs
by Mer
House was sitting in front of the television, chips and dip spread over the coffee table, when he heard the familiar knock on the door. "It's open," he shouted, not taking his eyes off the game. Wilson was late, which was not only unusual, but also unforgivable, as he had the beer.
"Sorry," Wilson called back, as he pushed the door open with his shoulder and shifted the beer back into both hands. He limped to the couch and dumped a six-pack on House's lap. House frowned at him.
"What's with the cripple act?" he asked, popping loose a can. "That's my shtick."
Wilson frowned and dropped onto the couch, catching the can House tossed him. "What are you talking about?"
"You were limping."
Wilson drained half his beer. "Was I? Must just be stiff. I got caught up in the neighbourhood ball hockey game this morning. That's why I'm late."
"Ball hockey? What are you, twelve?"
"Thirteen," Wilson replied agreeably, propping his feet on the coffee table.
House was about to chastise him for getting his dirty shoes on the furniture, when he noticed something. "There's blood on your shoe." The white tip of the right toe was stained red.
Wilson peered at his shoe and shrugged. "Wonder how that happened," he mused. "It was a pretty cut-throat game, but I don't remember anybody literally getting cut." He wriggled his toes and winced slightly.
"Take off your shoe," House ordered, wondering when he had become the responsible one. When Wilson just rolled his eyes he leaned forward and grabbed the shoe himself and untied it. Wilson winced again when he pulled the shoe off. The whole top of his white sport sock was soaked with blood. "Jesus Christ," he exclaimed. "Into the bathroom," he snapped. "You're not going to bleed all over my furniture."
Wilson hobbled after him, carefully walking on the heel of his foot and sat on the side of the bathtub while House rummaged about for first aid supplies. He wiggled his toes tentatively. "Must have happened when I stopped that shot."
House sat across from him on the toilet set and grabbed his foot. "No kidding." He peeled the sock off carefully, but Wilson hissed when he rolled it over his big toe, revealing the source of the blood. The toenail had been torn nearly off and was only hanging on by a tiny strip. "What were you playing with? Concrete?"
"I don't know. It was hard and round." He shrugged. "I should pick them up something a little more forgiving. Somebody could get hurt."
"You got hurt. Did you get hit anywhere else?" He cleaned the blood off Wilson's foot and noticed a welt on the side of the same foot. "You got hit twice on the same foot. Didn't you get the hint the first time?" He probed the bruise, relieved not to find any broken bones. "You're lucky you didn't get hit on the head."
"I don't know what you're getting so worked up about," Wilson complained. "Just put a bandage on it and we're done. It'll fall off when it's ready."
"You're pretty cavalier about parts of your body falling off." He put the bandage on anyway. "You can't tell me that doesn't hurt. Or do you have a freakishly high pain threshold?"
"I'm friends with you, aren't I." Wilson stood up and rinsed the sock out in the sink, pink water splashing up the sides of the basin. "Besides, it's not that bad. Just stings a bit." He wrang the sock out and hung it over the shower rod to dry. "We're missing the game," he said and limped back to the living room.
Watching him walk on the side of his foot was painful and House wondered if that was what Wilson saw every day. He detoured into the kitchen and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. "Use this," he said, flinging the pack at Wilson. The younger man just grunted, but draped it over his foot.
House kept stealing glances at Wilson during the first half, noting the lines of tension around his mouth and eyes. Once he caught him gnawing on his bottom lip. As soon as halftime started, House got up and checked the bathroom cabinets for anything other than Vicodin. He thought about sharing, but Wilson was a stickler about things like that. Convincing him to take a Tylenol after he'd had a couple of beers was going to be hard enough.
Sure enough, Wilson protested that he was fine, but swallowed a caplet when House refused to move from in front of the TV set until he did. "It's not a crime to feel pain," House snapped as he sat back down. "Or are you saying it is?"
Wilson glared at him and shifted his foot out of sight. "I wouldn't be much of a doctor if I dismissed pain. But there are relative levels, and I'm hardly going to complain about a stubbed toe."
"There are apparently relative levels of stubbed toes as well," House replied dryly. "Why is it that your relative levels are never high enough to justify complaint?"
The pain was clearly great enough to breach Wilson's usual defences. "Because I do it to myself. I stuck my foot in front of a slapshot. I cheat on my wives. I have nobody to blame but myself."
House barely blinked at the change in direction. "I take it that means I don't have to buy you an anniversary present next month."
Wilson sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Since when have you ever bought me an anniversary present?"
He had a point. It was House's turn to score. "So you have been horn-dogging around. I don't know why you bother denying it."
Wilson was apparently still in denial. "I'm not cheating. This time," he admitted. "The cheating's just a symptom. Apparently I'm perfectly capable of ruining a marriage without resorting to infidelity." He smiled, but House recognised the expression and knew it had nothing to do with amusement. The last time he had seen that particular smile, Wilson was telling him he'd voted to save House's job and had lost his own as a result. "I don't want to talk about it," Wilson said, staring resolutely at the television screen.
House considered pointing out that Wilson was the one who brought up the subject, but that would only prolong the conversation. Teasing Wilson about his failing marriage was fun; talking seriously about it was about as enjoyable as a hangnail. "Fine. Don't expect any sympathy though when she kicks you out and takes half your money." He tossed Wilson another beer, smirking when Wilson fumbled and dropped it on the floor.
"Pre-nup," Wilson retorted, cautiously popping the tab and then slurping down the bubbling foam. "I may suck at marriage, but I'm finally mastering the art of divorce." He put the can down on the coffee table, less cavalier with his liver than he was with his feet. "Game's on," he said, the universal signal that the conversation was over.
The next time House looked over, Wilson's mouth was drawn in a thin line and his left hand was clenching and unclenching convulsively. "Foot hurt?" he asked.
Wilson glanced down at his foot, as if surprised to see it. "Yeah," he said, and they both pretended that was the whole answer.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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