| |
Formula Forty-Four
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Apologies to Van Morrison fans for using lyrics from "Moondance". Mad props to jazzypom for beta-ing!
~~~~~
At first, House said nothing when he found the empty box of Grecian Formula Forty-Four hair gel for beards and mustaches (medium brown) sitting on top of the toilet tank in the bathroom.
For one thing, it was way too early in the morning, and House wasn't even fully awake yet. Even so, the package cheerily mocked him with its abstract novelty as House, blinking the remnants of sleep out of his eyes, went about his usual morning bathroom business. Finally, all done, he picked up the box, and woke up as he scanned the instructions on the label.
He knew it certainly wasn't his; so obviously it had to be Wilson's. Wilson had after all moved in with him, temporarily at least, after leaving Julie. Even though, as of yet, five days into his stay, he showed no signs of moving out. (Of course, scuttling Wilson's deal on a new apartment by deleting that particular phone message didn't count.)
House tolerated (barely) all Wilson's existing hair paraphernalia that littered his bathroom cupboard and sink: salon-brand dandruff shampoo for normal-to-dry hair; extra-strength conditioner and volumizing mousse that made the bathroom smell like a tropical fruit salad on steroids; the selection of styling combs and brushes sitting in a neat jar; and especially the ProAir ionizing hair dryer that sat with its cord neatly wrapped around its handle, tucked in his towel closet.
Privately he thought it was like living with Stacy all over again. Except for the missing tubes of Very Berry lipstick and pots of medium-tone face powder scattered on the vanity.
The sheer volume of Wilson's hair products made his own meager selection of hair care essentials: consisting of exactly one bottle of medium-quality brand shampoo/conditioner sitting on the ledge of the shower and one lone comb--appear positively shabby. Though admittedly he wasn't above "borrowing" the occasional dollop of shampoo, conditioner, or mousse from Wilson; he just drew the line at using the ProAir. He had to deal with enough hot air blown at him daily as it was.
Yet why Wilson needed Grecian formula for men (medium brown) of all things was a complete mystery. He had no beard to speak of, let alone any mustache. The man shaved religiously, sometimes twice a day if the five o'clock shadow was too pronounced by three pm. Unlike House, of course. But it wasn't House's fault if his razors were allergic to his stubble.
And it wasn't as if James Wilson, wonderboy oncologist, were actually going gray...
That he knew of anyway.
Or was he?
Well.
Perhaps it was time to find out.
In the most annoying, humiliating way of course.
He set the package back down and hurried back towards his own bedroom when he heard the telltale sounds of a barely-awake Wilson stumbling towards the bathroom. He filed this little tidbit away, deciding to wait and broach the subject later.
Much later, yes. When it would be to his advantage.
~~~~~
"Much later," however, turned out to be longer than even House expected. He expected the coiffing confrontation to go down at lunch over pilfered chips and salad-camouflaged T-bones in the cafeteria. But instead a new case distracted him as soon as he arrived at Princeton-Plainsboro that morning. A patient had arrived in the ER earlier with grossly enlarged lymph nodes on his neck, a mysterious ring of blisters and a blackish-red discoloration around his mouth that could not yet be explained (since the patient was unable to speak past his swollen throat). The ER turfed the case to his department, and it was just unusual enough to pique his interest. At least it deflected his mind enough to forget all about Wilson's empty hair dye package waiting patiently in his apartment.
Until later that evening, when his patient's dropping oxygen sats and rising fever were finally stabilized for the moment, despite the growing buboes in his neck; buying enough time for him to come back to the matter at hand.
Or in his hair, as it were.
He'd only seen Wilson once in passing all day, down by the snack food machine when he grabbed a bag of chips (that he had to pay for himself); Wilson was accompanied by a petite curly redhead in violet surgical scrubs, and Wilson's hand was brushing the small of her back as he smiled down at her. House had frowned deeply at this development. He was sure that Wilson, after having been burnt for the third time, would have learned all about Julie-clones by now.
After sending Foreman and Chase to break into the patient's residence to search for the usual culprits that would cause such distressing symptoms in his patient, House stepped out onto his balcony for a breath of fresh air. He inhaled deeply, savoring the exhaust-tinged evening air and plotting Wilson's comeuppance. Glancing over through Wilson's patio door, he saw the man in question hunched over his desk, writing on some pink-hued forms or something. Not a perfectly groomed hair out of place either.
Excellent.
He clambered over the low railing separating their balconies, picked up a few pebbles (that, if anyone were to ask, he actually kept for that purpose), and threw them at the glass door.
Wilson startled at the scattering like buckshot, his pen flying across the room; then his eyes narrowed as he saw House waving cheerily at him.
"Can Wilson come out to play?" House shouted, smirking.
With a pronounced sigh Wilson rose from his desk and stepped out onto the balcony to join House.
"Don't you have a patient? Some of us have work to finish," Wilson said wearily, leaning over the balcony railing to survey the neat rows of cars parked below him.
"Or more correctly, ladies to date," House said, hopping up to sit on the railing. "You're just killing time until her shift's over." At Wilson's annoyed glare House shrugged and added, "Word spreads fast. So who's the Julie-clone this time? Carlie? Kelly?"
"Karen," Wilson admitted, gazing off into the parking lot. "And it's not a date. She's having some relationship issues with her kids that she just needs to talk over with someone--"
"Uh huh. That's what they all say," House interrupted. "So, should I wait up then or just start the evening's festivities without you?"
"Wait up--what? No! Not on my account."
"Thought so." House's smirk grew until it looked like he could fit the whole canary into his mouth.
"Do you have a point, House? Because even though you think I'm just 'killing time' I am behind on my paperwork, and I'd like you to get out of my hair so I can finish it before I meet Karen."
House seized Wilson's brilliantly inadvertent opening. "Hmm. Speaking of hair--" he mused, twirling his cane.
"House--" Wilson backed away from the railing like a cornered mouse, his eyes widening in sudden fear; then he put his hands on his hips in a clear "don't go there" stance.
Not that House ever paid attention to such blatant non-verbal warnings, or attempted deflections. "At first I thought the Grecian formula for facial hair was an interesting commentary on your part about how I look. But seeing as how you know I am perfectly secure with my appearance, even with all the gray in my beard, I thought it was a little too obvious to be a joke. Gray is distinguished, don't you know. Plus, normally, gifts like that? Aren't usually left sitting empty on the toilet tank."
Wilson froze, his lips murmuring something unintelligible. House couldn't hear him, but he clearly saw it as "Dammit."
"If it were just Grecian Hair Formula For Men I wouldn't say anything. I mean, you're still young and far be it for me to pass judgment on any appearance." House slid off the railing now to lean jauntily on his cane. "But I know you aren't going gray. At least not on your head, nor on your face."
Wilson stood stock-still for a minute, his face blanching for a brief moment, before replying deliberately, "I'm quite--touched that you care enough about my appearance to notice that, House. Seeing as how you don't care about your own--"
"Except facial hair dye products are ideal for coarser hair elsewhere too," House continued, as if he hadn't even heard. "Better penetration you know." House leered. "So just where are you going gray, Jimmy? Chest? Lower?"
At that House trailed off, ignoring Wilson's humiliated expression as something clicked in his brain. His eyes darted around, his mouth working for a moment, then he dived for his cell phone in his pocket. He punched the speed dial button and waited impatiently for an answer.
"Foreman!" House barked. "Track down the patient's girlfriend. Find out what she used to color her hair." He paused for a brief moment. "Allergic reaction to black henna with a superimposed cellulitis. No I'm not going to tell you how I know. Just do it."
He disconnected and promptly made a second call. "Cameron! The discoloration around the patient's mouth is black henna...Yes, an anaphylactic reaction. Get cultures of the blister fluid around his mouth and check for lesions in his oropharynx. Screen for Chlamydia trachomatis.--yes, all three serovars! What do I pay you for?" There was a brief lull as Cameron made a reply, then: "Lymphogranuloma venereum. His girlfriend's infected too. Foreman's tracking her down. Start doxycycline and erythromycin. Right."
He hung up again and stared in triumph at Wilson, who, even in the fading light of sunset, was a remarkable shade of red. Wilson's look of shame was oddly endearing.
"Dare I even ask how the patient got black henna around his mouth?" Wilson finally said weakly.
House simply grinned. "Well, when a man and a newly-dyed woman get together--"
"Shut up, House! Not. One. More. Word." Wilson reached up to rub his neck and sighed. "This is--great. This is just great. You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"
"There's nothing wrong with going prematurely gray," House said quietly. "Or accepting yourself as you are."
Wilson did a double-take at House's sudden candidness, then he relaxed a little, his shoulders loosening; and he ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah. I suppose. Just--yeah." He grinned, shyly avoiding House's keen gaze.
House himself nodded in satisfaction. At least it was a start. A companionable silence fell between them for a few minutes, as they both stood and listened to the distant sounds of the freeway drifting across the shrouded campus.
House broke the silence first. "So. Gonna tell me where you needed that extra burst of color?"
Wilson simply glared daggers at him.
House shrugged. "Fine. I don't need to know. But I hope you did a spot test first," he added. "Don't want you suffering any nasty reaction in a sensitive place."
Wilson stared at him for a full minute, his mouth moving soundlessly; then shook his head. "You--you are utterly incorrigible," he finally said, resigned, then turned on his heel to go back to his desk.
"That's why you love me, Jimmy!" House called at his retreating back. Wilson waved him off, sat down at his desk and picked up his pen again. House watched him for a minute, then hopped the low wall and went back, grinning, into his own.
When seven o'clock rolled around, he got up from his desk chair where he was sitting, listening contentedly to his iPod, and got ready to go home. Wilson wasn't going to be there tonight, so he was going to have to fend for himself in the food department. Oh well, he would just raid Wilson's leftovers in the fridge. Wilson wouldn't mind. He'd already taken to making extra portions anyway.
He knew one of these days he would pay for his current obnoxiousness. He'd do anything though, to get Wilson to realize he had to move past his current funk over Julie and the loss of his marriage. Taking out Julie-clones like Karen wasn't going to let him do that either, yet Wilson always seemed to gravitate towards them like the proverbial moth to a flame.
Speaking of which--in that department, he knew there was one more thing he needed to do.
Hurrying out of his office, he passed by Wilson's and noted the light was already out. Dammit. He might be too late already. He moved as fast as his gait would allow to reach the elevators.
He finally caught up with Wilson, already standing amidst a small throng of people waiting for the next car, with Karen beaming at his side. Time to move in for the kill.
"It's a marvelous night for a moondance/With the stars up above in your eyes," House sang deadpan, channeling Van Morrison as he cut right through the group to hit the elevator down button with his cane.
He felt two pairs of eyes glare on either side of him. "House--" Wilson warned.
House turned and smiled innocently at them, watching with glee as Karen instinctively shrank back from his faux-concerned look and Wilson's eyes narrowed in a wordless challenge. House simply turned his gaze up to the lit up floor numbers above the elevator door, trailing off under his breath while tracking the car's descent: "A fantabulous night to make romance/'neath the color of October skies..."
The elevator finally arrived at their floor, cheerfully dinging as it slid open; House quickly stepped forward. "Good night, Dr. Wilson," House said solicitously. "Curfew's at ten." Then, passing between Wilson and Karen he leaned down towards her and whispered, loud enough for everyone around to hear, "He's not a natural brunette."
Disappearing into the elevator, he smirked as he heard the embarrassed silence fall like a brick behind him.
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|