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Being legally dead is annoying.
House sighs, leaning on his good leg while waiting in line. Do all of these people really have to be in this godforsaken store at seven in the morning? He is certain he doesn't have to be here. But he's a changed man now, see, because people do that sometimes apparently; they change. House can do unreasonable things now, like going to the store at seven in the morning to buy shampoo and hair conditioner. Not for himself by the way. He is a "three in one" kinda girl.
Speaking of girls, the elderly woman in front of him really has too many things in her grocery basket.
"Excuse me," he says in a high voice, getting her attention. House gives her the best I-am-a-concerned-citizen face he can manage. "Is that green car outside yours?"
"Yes."
He presses his lips together. "I think you forgot to leave it in gear, ma'am."
Wide-eyed, the woman looks out the window, back at him, then out the window again. House silently offers his hand to hold her groceries for her, and then she is gone.
Bingo.
House drops the basket to the floor and takes his new place in line. A green car was a good guess. She just looked like someone with a green car.
So, being legally dead is annoying, go figure. He is glued to Wilson now, and he has been glued to Wilson since forever, that's his whole deal, but it has always been voluntary before. He used Wilson's credit cards and stole his food because he's House, not because he was trying to make the world think he was dead.
Now, however…
"Do you need a bag?"
Now he nods, enters Wilson's PIN, pays with Wilson's money, and grabs the bag with Wilson's stupid hair products.
***
House would love to say someone forced him to do it, but, newsflash, he came up with the idea himself.
Ever since the metaphorical clock started its five-month-long countdown, Wilson changed, though he didn't go all Kyle Calloway this time, choosing a more subtle approach. Mainly, Wilson doesn't shave anymore, he doesn't cut his hair, that sort of thing. His and House's wardrobes are getting increasingly similar, although Wilson still doesn’t show sneakers the appreciation they deserve. That’s because he doesn’t have any taste.
House initially didn't pay it much thought. It only made sense that someone would stop caring about looks after finding out they had only five months to live. He still kept up with general hygiene, which indicated that he wasn't any more depressed than the usual, not-dying Wilson had been. Case closed.
And the case had been closed. Right until the night House found Wilson standing in the bathroom in front of a mirror.
"Outta my way," House had said, stumbling into the room and reaching for the shiny, fortunately unoccupied toilet.
"You know, you don't have to get shit-faced every time you want to stay at a motel one day longer," Wilson commented from somewhere above him. "No need to compromise your liver."
"Sacrifices must be made."
"Did you miss the first part of what I just said?"
House ignored him. Once he was confident nothing else was threatening to leave his stomach, he braced himself on the toilet seat and got to his feet. Without much consideration—people change, but let’s not abandon all reason—he shoved Wilson away from the sink to wash his hands and face.
"What were you even doing here, summoning demons? Have you tried saying Chase's name three times?" he asked, wiping his hands with a towel.
He saw as Wilson's reflection crossed its arms in the mirror. "If you don't know why people might look in a mirror occasionally, House, that explains some things."
House threw the towel in the sink–Wilson would hang it for him later anyway–and looked at his friend curiously. He loved when Wilson got pissed off, truly the highlight of his day. Unfortunately, Wilson's demeanor softened the very next moment. Damn.
"Never mind." Wilson, who had just elaborately insulted House’s appearance, sighed. "Can I have the bathroom now?"
"Why?"
Wilson raised his eyebrows. "You want to know why I need the bathroom?"
"I want to know why you were staring at your reflection like it had stolen your childhood dreams."
And then Wilson raised his hands in feigned surrender, not even trying to rise to the bait for the old times’ sake. Rude. "Naturally, I just have a lot of repressed resentment for myself and when I'm alone I stare in the mirror and cry." He clasped his hands together. "Now, let me have a private moment with the toilet, please?"
House watched him for a few seconds. Then he left the room.
After that, it was impossible to ignore.
The way Wilson touches his new stubble absent-mindedly, almost like he is trying to trim it with his nails. Sometimes he fidgets with his bangs, coiling them around his fingers. And when he catches a glimpse of himself in a window or a car mirror he furrows his brows, like what he sees offends him.
All that means one thing: for some unknown reason, Wilson is torturing himself by pretending razors don't exist anymore. House isn’t a psychologist to be delicate about it. But Wilson wouldn’t be friends with him for so long if he actually expected House to be delicate about anything.
***
“Rise and shine!” he limps into their motel room, making as much noise as possible. Wilson mumbles something unintelligible into his pillow, but House ignores his pleas to let him sleep some more. “It’s not wise risking waking up after me, I’m sure I still have a sharpie around.”
Wilson covers his head with his blanket and turns on his side. “Too early. Go away.”
“A dozen of grandmas I met at the store would disagree with you.”
The Wilson-shaped blanket groans quietly. “Since when are you a m’rning person?”
“I’m not, so stop testing my patience and get your ass here.”
“Where?” Wilson peeks out to look at him. His eyes finally land on the bag in House’s free hand. “What’s that?”
“The janitor’s right eyeball,” he deadpans as he turns the lights on in the bathroom. “He really annoyed me so something had to be done.”
“That’s…” House can hear him sigh in the other room. “I’m so tired I can almost believe that.”
Soon, slow footsteps follow. House is getting his shaving cream and unused safety razor out of the cabinet when Wilson appears in the bathroom doorway. His reflection blinks one too many times, adjusting to the light, before he turns his attention to what House is doing.
“Did you wake me up to watch you shave?” he asks as he comes closer to the sink to look over House’s shoulder. “Is that a new shampoo? The old one is still half-full.”
“The old one is not shampoo, it’s a gender-affirming hair product for fragile men. This-,” he points to the peach-scented shampoo he bought, “-is shampoo.”
Wilson looks at the bottles on the counter. “Nice. Can I go back to bed now?”
“Nope, go get your towel.”
The look of defeat mixed with annoyance on his friend’s face is as satisfying as ever. “Why do you need my towel?”
“You need your towel because you are washing your hair,” he says. He grabs the bottle of conditioner and forces it into Wilson’s hands. “And you are also using this thing.” A confused face stares back at him. “Go!”
It doesn’t take a lot of convincing, mostly because Wilson still clearly aches to go back to bed.
House leans on the closed bathroom door, listening to the sound of the water running.
No matter how much Wilson complains about his antics, he must find them riveting. That’s why they are here, isn’t it? Damn, House missed having his thinking ball around, Wilson’s mind is a mystery case of its own. He taps his cane on the floor rhythmically. That must be why Wilson wants to spend the last five months on the road with him–House’s presence guarantees it won’t be boring. He’ll make him angry, bothered, scared, excited–Wilson just won’t have time to think about the boring stuff, the reason why there’s a deadline. It only makes sense. It was very reasonable, to bring along his ass of a friend.
And it is only reasonable for House to fulfill his role.
The door opens with a click and House has to put his weight back on his feet again. Wilson is ruffling his hair with a towel, dressed in his pajamas once again. A drop of water runs from his temple down to his cheek.
“When’s the part where you explain what this is all about?” he asks as the drop reaches his jaw and then falls to the floor.
Well, back to business. House walks past him, heading to the sink.
“Shirt off,” he says as he puts a small basin under the tap.
“Oh, well, if you say so!” The mirror is still cloudy from the steam so he’s not quite sure of Wilson’s facial expressions. Bummer. He’s busy though.
“Seriously, take it off, it’ll get all wet.”
“Well, maybe just don’t pour water on me,” Wilson continues in the same sarcastic tone. He’s so difficult. House gathers all the needed supplies together on the counter, along with a basin filled with warm water. “Hold on,” Wilson says, this time right behind him. “Is this- I do not need help shaving, House!”
“Look at him, he’s in denial,” he coos and takes a step away from the counter. “Take this to your bed. Then take your shirt off.”
Wilson looks at him, shakes his head, opens his mouth, shakes his head again. “Bed?” he asks.
House feigns horror. “Do you expect me to stand while shaving your manly stubble?” Wilson just blinks at him. Like an idiot. Because he is one. “For fuck’s sake, just take this to the room.”
For some reason, the idiot in question complies. Wilson still eyes him suspiciously, but he takes the shaving cream, the basin, and all the stuff House has assembled by the sink and moves all of it to the side table near his bed.
With some difficulty, House picks up a small stool with his free hand and brings it to the bed, too.
“What are you waiting for? A drum roll?” he says as he adjusts the pillow on the bed and covers it with a towel.
“Why are you doing this?” Wilson asks. House turns to give him an irritated look. “No, seriously, why?”
“I hate your beard.” Calling that a beard is a leap and then some, but House can afford a compliment when it serves him. “It itches like hell after we have hot gay sex.”
Wilson ignores his genius humor. Tough audience. Probably has something to do with the fact that the only joke this comedy routine has ever had always goes along the lines of, “Wilson and I come into the bar. The gay bar. Because we are gay.”
“Alright,” he says. “Truth is, I always wanted to be a barber, but mommy sent me to med school.”
“Are you allergic to admitting you are doing something nice?” Wilson says, but his hands finally reach to the hem of his T-shirt.
Bare-chested, he lies down on the bed, moving like he thinks he’s about to be cut open on a surgical table. Isn’t that a thought? It’s been a while since House got to handle something sharp around a person in a horizontal position. But, as he lowers himself on the stool, he decides he doesn’t really miss the hospital. He’s never coming back there.
Taking the basin of warm water closer to him, he dips a washcloth in it. Despite how weird his moron of a best friend has been about it, there’s nothing intimate in shaving someone. People do it for money after all. People also have sex for money, but that only proves the point: nothing is special unless you stupidly let it be.
It’s mechanical: dab the other person’s face with a wet cloth, apply the shaving cream, shave in the direction the hair grows, periodically rinsing the razor. Years of medical experience mean that his hands are steady and skillful. Years of shaving his own beard mean that he knows when he needs to turn Wilson’s head for a better angle.
He makes Wilson tilt his head upwards to let him work on his chin and he complies wordlessly. Which is good, because if he opens his mouth House's hand will slip. Intentionally. For medical reasons.
A few strokes, rinse, a few more strokes, rinse the razor again.
He notes Wilson’s heartbeat (95 bpm), steady breathing, and focused gaze. His pupils are slightly dilated despite the bright morning light from the window. House moves his head to the side again, noting the dry skin and artificial peach scent.
House throws the razor into the basin and stands up to change the water.
When he comes back, he wets the washcloth again and brings it to Wilson's face. The idiot finally closes his eyes then, relaxing as House wipes the shaving cream away. When he dries his face off with a fluffy towel, Wilson's heart rate drops to 90.
Blindly, Wilson’s hands reach for the lotion, but House bats them away. He grabs the bottle himself, unscrews it, and applies some aftershave on Wilson's face. His skin is warm; the facial muscles twitch slightly under House's touch. He can feel his frown. He can feel his fucking dimples.
House sits back on the stool in a very cool and unaffected fashion. He watches as Wilson touches his face, probably checking if the epidermis is still there. He runs his fingers down his jawline and under his chin.
“So. You helped me shave,” Wilson says slowly, putting his shirt back on.
“Yeah, I’m into that. Sick, I know.”
“Thank you.”
Funny how easily House’s gag reflex–that is supposed to be dead after all the Vicodin he’s dry-swallowed–can be triggered if Wilson is involved. Nurse, administer Change of Topic, fast. He stands up and goes to rummage in his bag.
“One last thing,” he says.
He hears as Wilson gets off the bed. “Are you giving me a manicure too?”
Frankly, he has considered it, but Wilson has ten fingers and only one face. So House chose the latter. Simple math.
Turning around, he throws an electric razor at Wilson, who nearly drops it. “I’m sure you can trim your hair yourself.”
“I… can, yeah,” he says, rotating the razor in his hands like he’s never seen one of those before.
“Bathroom’s all yours. I remember there was a mirror in there.”
***
He is sitting on the edge of the bed when the door opens and he gets to see Wilson for the first time this month.
He walks out of the room slowly, still messing with his hair, presumably trying to make it look more presentable by his standards. It’s only a bit shorter, enough for House to notice but probably not enough for some casual acquaintance to register. Shaved face, clean hair. Forever worried, kind puppy eyes.
Wilson.
See, House knows this is going to fucking break him. It will blow up in his face, it will tear his heart to shreds—everything about James Evan Wilson screams “GET AWAY”, really. Don't marry a dying man or whatever. You know, like some people. You'll end up alone and hurt and broken.
But that's fine.
Because people change, so maybe House doesn't have to run from pain all the time. Well, even if he tried, he wouldn't get far, what with the limp. That's the part where everyone laughs at the joke by the way.
Being legally dead sucks, but he doesn't really have time to complain. Sometimes he almost thinks he likes it.
***
“What are your thoughts on gay marriage?” House asks later that day while waiting for their order at the local diner.
To his credit, Wilson isn’t even slightly perplexed by the sudden question about marriage laws. He just scrunches his nose. “I grew to resent any form of marriage equally,” he says.
The waitress puts their food in front of them and leaves.
“Okay, forget marriage. Just the gay part.”
Wilson doesn’t even glance at him, unfolding his napkin. “Only if you shave as well.”
“That might be even worse than suggesting I cut off my leg,” he says. “I’m not gonna change myself for a man.”
Wilson chuckles, picks a fry, and dips it in ketchup. Then he says, “Ask me about it when I’m not starving to death.”
“Noted.”
And just to keep things normal, he snatches Wilson’s french fry right as he is about to eat it, which earns him a glare. Life is simple, really.