Ficlet: Mood Lighting
Title: Mood Lighting
Pairing: House/Wilson, est. relationship
Rating: R (I guess - just a bit of language, and mentions of frequent, fabulous sex)
Spoilers: Nope
Words: 1,000
Summary: Wilson hurts his eye; House offers TLC and commentary.
A/N: Written for the Sick!Wilson Crafty Campers Challenge
A/N2: I have a wonderful book called The Big-Ass Book of Crafts, which provided me with this particular way to injure Wilson. And be forewarned: I have insomnia and wrote this at 5 a.m.
“Just for kicks, explain to me how you did this.”
House had his hand in Wilson’s hair as he dropped the antibiotic solution into the moron's right eye. He used the position to surreptitiously move his fingers through the silky locks.
Still surprisingly silky to House even now, after he’d managed to gain a handful of that hair, sometimes not so gently, on numerous occasions.
Wilson blinked a couple times in response to the drops, then rolled his eyes-a testament to his skills as the put-upon partner in this relationship.
“I told you, I was doing crafts with the kids in Ped Onc.”
“Aaaand?” House pressed. “Did one of those adorable walking tumors poke you in the eye?” He was already mentally working out how to best exact revenge on a child with cancer. There had to be a somewhat ethical way.
“No,” Wilson said firmly, trying to give House a warning look.
But his right eye was red and watery and blinking uncontrollably against the fluorescent lights. And the strabismic eye, left to its own powers, was almost laughably ineffective.
House smiled slyly. “Then tell me what happened. Or I get one of your short anemic friends to talk.” As he spoke, he got Wilson some gauze out of the exam room cabinet.
Wilson let out one of those low growls House so enjoyed. “Fine,” Wilson said, then mumbled a “thanks” as he grabbed the gauze and placed it over the offending eye.
“Fine what?” House prodded.
“Fine, I’ll tell you.” Wilson took a deep breath. “I poked myself in the eye with a straw.”
House barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “Seriously? You were confused by which orifice should accept the straw?”
Wilson pouted, so House continued, “And I was so sure I’d gotten you quite adept at sucking. I guess we need some remedial lessons.”
Wilson’s pout turned into a grimace. “Yeah, I can’t wait. I’m so turned on right now.”
House waggled his eyebrows and Wilson tipped his head skyward, as if beseeching any deities that might be kicking around.
“I wasn’t having a Big Gulp,” he clarified. “I was-I was making a wall sconce from straws.”
House wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “What does that even mean?”
Wilson sighed. “A sconce. Y’know, it’s a…lighting thingy that hangs on the wall.”
“Wait, you had your kiddies making home décor items?”
“Of course not. They were making a popsicle-stick village.”
It was House’s turn for an eye-roll. “Oh gawd. And was it full of tumor-ridden popsicle people who all helped each other and learned that sharing made life better?”
Wilson’s stony silence was all the answer House required.
“Anyway,” Wilson continued after a moment, “I was the only one making the sconce. It’s actually really cool. You put a nightlight at the center, in a deep-fryer basket. Then you stick the straws in the holes of the basket-“
“Why don’t you just make a monogrammed t-shirt that says, ‘I’m gay’?”
Wilson frowned. “Yes. Because having sex with you on a near-nightly basis isn’t gay at all.”
House internally smiled at the way Wilson mouthed the word “sex,” as if that single omission would befuddle any eavesdroppers lurking outside the door.
He had thought Wilson couldn’t get any gayer after his last craft project-an at-home event that produced several candelabras fashioned from copper tubing and glasses from Ikea.
House had teased Wilson mercilessly as he’d worked. But in the end, House had discovered that candelabra-lit sex was pretty fucking fantastic. He’d even said so out loud.
Just as House’s pants were starting to respond to the memory, an alarming thought hit their owner.
“Wait. Is that where my deep-fryer basket went?”
Wilson held up the hand that wasn’t holding gauze against his eye. “You’ve never even used the thing,” he defended.
“I was going to make frog legs last night!”
“Sure you were, Julia.”
House pulled a face, and Wilson crossed his free arm over his chest.
They maintained a silent standoff for a good thirty seconds before House could no longer take not talking.
“You’re buying me a new one.”
“Fine.”
“And this sconce better blow my mind.”
“Well, sconces are known to do that.”
House moved closer and put his hand in Wilson’s hair again, making sure his face conveyed clinical detachment.
“How’s it doing?”
Wilson slowly moved the gauze away, and his eye started tearing immediately. “The light is too much,” he said.
“What about the pain? You want something?”
Wilson shook his head.
“Well, Patch,” House sighed. “You’re no use to anybody around here. Let’s go home.”
“House, I can’t just leave because of a little corneal abrasion. I’ll wear your sunglasses. The kids will think I’m cool.” Wilson ended with a dorky giggle that obliterated the chances of that last statement becoming true.
House groaned. “You can barely see, you idiot. And I know you’re in pain by the way you keep clenching your left hand.”
Wilson looked down at his hand, as if betrayed.
“C’mon,” House said, jerking his head toward the exam room door. “We’ll get your incredibly manly sconce and I’ll help you finish it at home.”
Wilson, who had just hopped off the exam table, looked at House with his left eye. Or at least House thought he was looking at him.
“Really? I mean, I actually started more than one.”
House hesitated, but then took the plunge. “Yeah.”
“And each one takes, like, three-hundred straws.”
“Oh, motherfu-”
“No take-backs,” Wilson insisted, waving his stupid index finger.
“You really need to stop hanging out with those malignant midgets.”
Wilson rolled his eye. “Let’s go get the sconces, and your sunglasses.”
As they made their way out of the clinic, Wilson’s demeanor brightened. “They’re gonna look really neat,” he informed House. “The light goes through all of the straws, in different directions. It looks like a celestial…whatever.”
They arrived at the elevator bank, where House took the opportunity to lean into Wilson.
“Speaking of celestial bodies,” he said, close to Wilson’s ear. “Are these sconces of yours good for mood lighting? Y’know, in a candelabra kind of way.”
Wilson’s cheekbones colored a bit as he automatically glanced around. But then he turned to House with a small, sly smile. “Why do you think I’m making them?”
End
Pairing: House/Wilson, est. relationship
Rating: R (I guess - just a bit of language, and mentions of frequent, fabulous sex)
Spoilers: Nope
Words: 1,000
Summary: Wilson hurts his eye; House offers TLC and commentary.
A/N: Written for the Sick!Wilson Crafty Campers Challenge
A/N2: I have a wonderful book called The Big-Ass Book of Crafts, which provided me with this particular way to injure Wilson. And be forewarned: I have insomnia and wrote this at 5 a.m.
“Just for kicks, explain to me how you did this.”
House had his hand in Wilson’s hair as he dropped the antibiotic solution into the moron's right eye. He used the position to surreptitiously move his fingers through the silky locks.
Still surprisingly silky to House even now, after he’d managed to gain a handful of that hair, sometimes not so gently, on numerous occasions.
Wilson blinked a couple times in response to the drops, then rolled his eyes-a testament to his skills as the put-upon partner in this relationship.
“I told you, I was doing crafts with the kids in Ped Onc.”
“Aaaand?” House pressed. “Did one of those adorable walking tumors poke you in the eye?” He was already mentally working out how to best exact revenge on a child with cancer. There had to be a somewhat ethical way.
“No,” Wilson said firmly, trying to give House a warning look.
But his right eye was red and watery and blinking uncontrollably against the fluorescent lights. And the strabismic eye, left to its own powers, was almost laughably ineffective.
House smiled slyly. “Then tell me what happened. Or I get one of your short anemic friends to talk.” As he spoke, he got Wilson some gauze out of the exam room cabinet.
Wilson let out one of those low growls House so enjoyed. “Fine,” Wilson said, then mumbled a “thanks” as he grabbed the gauze and placed it over the offending eye.
“Fine what?” House prodded.
“Fine, I’ll tell you.” Wilson took a deep breath. “I poked myself in the eye with a straw.”
House barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “Seriously? You were confused by which orifice should accept the straw?”
Wilson pouted, so House continued, “And I was so sure I’d gotten you quite adept at sucking. I guess we need some remedial lessons.”
Wilson’s pout turned into a grimace. “Yeah, I can’t wait. I’m so turned on right now.”
House waggled his eyebrows and Wilson tipped his head skyward, as if beseeching any deities that might be kicking around.
“I wasn’t having a Big Gulp,” he clarified. “I was-I was making a wall sconce from straws.”
House wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “What does that even mean?”
Wilson sighed. “A sconce. Y’know, it’s a…lighting thingy that hangs on the wall.”
“Wait, you had your kiddies making home décor items?”
“Of course not. They were making a popsicle-stick village.”
It was House’s turn for an eye-roll. “Oh gawd. And was it full of tumor-ridden popsicle people who all helped each other and learned that sharing made life better?”
Wilson’s stony silence was all the answer House required.
“Anyway,” Wilson continued after a moment, “I was the only one making the sconce. It’s actually really cool. You put a nightlight at the center, in a deep-fryer basket. Then you stick the straws in the holes of the basket-“
“Why don’t you just make a monogrammed t-shirt that says, ‘I’m gay’?”
Wilson frowned. “Yes. Because having sex with you on a near-nightly basis isn’t gay at all.”
House internally smiled at the way Wilson mouthed the word “sex,” as if that single omission would befuddle any eavesdroppers lurking outside the door.
He had thought Wilson couldn’t get any gayer after his last craft project-an at-home event that produced several candelabras fashioned from copper tubing and glasses from Ikea.
House had teased Wilson mercilessly as he’d worked. But in the end, House had discovered that candelabra-lit sex was pretty fucking fantastic. He’d even said so out loud.
Just as House’s pants were starting to respond to the memory, an alarming thought hit their owner.
“Wait. Is that where my deep-fryer basket went?”
Wilson held up the hand that wasn’t holding gauze against his eye. “You’ve never even used the thing,” he defended.
“I was going to make frog legs last night!”
“Sure you were, Julia.”
House pulled a face, and Wilson crossed his free arm over his chest.
They maintained a silent standoff for a good thirty seconds before House could no longer take not talking.
“You’re buying me a new one.”
“Fine.”
“And this sconce better blow my mind.”
“Well, sconces are known to do that.”
House moved closer and put his hand in Wilson’s hair again, making sure his face conveyed clinical detachment.
“How’s it doing?”
Wilson slowly moved the gauze away, and his eye started tearing immediately. “The light is too much,” he said.
“What about the pain? You want something?”
Wilson shook his head.
“Well, Patch,” House sighed. “You’re no use to anybody around here. Let’s go home.”
“House, I can’t just leave because of a little corneal abrasion. I’ll wear your sunglasses. The kids will think I’m cool.” Wilson ended with a dorky giggle that obliterated the chances of that last statement becoming true.
House groaned. “You can barely see, you idiot. And I know you’re in pain by the way you keep clenching your left hand.”
Wilson looked down at his hand, as if betrayed.
“C’mon,” House said, jerking his head toward the exam room door. “We’ll get your incredibly manly sconce and I’ll help you finish it at home.”
Wilson, who had just hopped off the exam table, looked at House with his left eye. Or at least House thought he was looking at him.
“Really? I mean, I actually started more than one.”
House hesitated, but then took the plunge. “Yeah.”
“And each one takes, like, three-hundred straws.”
“Oh, motherfu-”
“No take-backs,” Wilson insisted, waving his stupid index finger.
“You really need to stop hanging out with those malignant midgets.”
Wilson rolled his eye. “Let’s go get the sconces, and your sunglasses.”
As they made their way out of the clinic, Wilson’s demeanor brightened. “They’re gonna look really neat,” he informed House. “The light goes through all of the straws, in different directions. It looks like a celestial…whatever.”
They arrived at the elevator bank, where House took the opportunity to lean into Wilson.
“Speaking of celestial bodies,” he said, close to Wilson’s ear. “Are these sconces of yours good for mood lighting? Y’know, in a candelabra kind of way.”
Wilson’s cheekbones colored a bit as he automatically glanced around. But then he turned to House with a small, sly smile. “Why do you think I’m making them?”
End