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“House!” Wilson’s tone is aghast as he examines the cracked skin scaling his knuckles. “That’s grotesque!”
“Oh please. It’s just dry skin.” He swats away Wilson’s hands and picks up the ball from his desk, momentarily redirecting Wilson’s concern to the safety of his own face with a fakeout before tossing it up into the air and catching it again.
“Uh, yeah. Scaly, cracked, bleeding dry skin. Have you considered moisturizer?”
House wrinkles his nose and makes a disgusted sound as he throws the ball again. Wilson settles back into his chair across from House’s perch on his desk.
“I don’t do moisturizer.” The ball smacks down into his palm to emphasize the word.
“What, are you allergic to taking care of yourself?”
“Taking care of yourself is for girls.”
Wilson scoffs.
“I’ve got some hand lotion in my office. Smells like pine tar. Very rugged and masculine.”
“I don’t need to smell like a pine tree took a dump, thank you.”
Wilson raises his eyebrows and gives House a scathing once-over that makes him scowl.
“I’m going to go grab it.”
Wilson springs from his seat and brushes out of the office. House stammers a half-hearted protest, cranes his neck to watch him go, but doesn’t move his leg from where it’s propped on his desk chair next to Wilson’s. He opts instead to sigh, slouch, and continue his private game of catch.
The ball has gone up and down at least a gazillion times before Wilson reappears.
“Think fast!” he shouts as he shuts the door behind him and a blurry object shoots forth across the room from his underhanded throw. House flinches as he snatches it out of the air, at the expense of his ball bouncing off his desk and onto the carpet. Wilson flashes him a dazzling smile as he saunters over. House narrows his eyes.
“Get your greasy cream away from me.”
With a flick of his wrist, the tube is rocketing back towards Wilson. With a frustrating lack of surprise, Wilson catches it and clears the rest of the distance between him and the desk. He places it next to House at an encouraging arm’s length distance. Like a cat, House bats it onto the floor.
“Uh huh. Very nice.”
House gives him a self-satisfied smile. Wilson bends down to retrieve the lotion, also grabbing the ball where it has settled beneath the desk. House reaches for it when he stands back up, but Wilson draws it back before he can get it.
“Heyyy.”
House frowns and crosses his arms. Wilson takes his seat and begins his own rhythm of toss-and-catch. The tube of hand cream in his left hand is a mild sage green with a picture of an evergreen above gold lettering. It looks like a moderately pricey Whole Foods purchase.
“Either you put on the lotion or I will.”
“But it makes my hands sticky,” House whines.
“And it makes your skin less decrepit. Seriously, that must hurt.”
Wilson hones in on a particularly rough patch where blood has dried between his knuckles.
“The pain builds character.”
“Or maybe you just don’t pay attention to it because of all the painkillers.” Wilson catches the ball, pockets it, and stands. With his thumb, he pops the cap open and squeezes a pea-sized amount of lotion into his palm. He reaches towards House. “Hands.”
House shoves his hands into his pockets. Wilson lets out an exasperated sigh and gives him an unimpressed look. Suddenly, he lunges forward and wrestles House’s hand from his jacket pocket. House bats at him with his other hand and flails.
“Hey! Get off!”
Wilson pins his arm against the wood and smacks the blob of lotion with fervor onto the back of House’s hand. House hisses like a feral animal as his struggle dies down. The air between them smells like pine needles. Wilson looks at House, finds him staring in bewilderment at Wilson’s hand smoothing circles into his skin. House glances up and suddenly he’s looking directly into eyes that are dark like living forests, fingertips tracing warmth and dew into the grooves between his knuckles. He yanks his hand back and snatches the tube.
“Fine!”
He squeezes it aggressively, and coils of lotion spurt out into his palm. Wilson makes a choked sound and then snorts a laugh. House vigorously lathers his hands together, coating them in oily white.
“It stings,” he pouts.
“It wouldn’t sting if you used it more than once a century.”
House sticks his tongue out. He holds his hands up awkwardly as he realizes he has nowhere to wipe the other five rations of hand cream.
“Here.”
Wilson holds his hands out. House raises his eyebrows as he hesitantly takes them, coats the soft backs of Wilson’s palms. Wilson looks away, keeps their eyes apart. House follows the profile of his strong nose, finds the downcast smile. Gently, he withdraws his hand, but Wilson’s stay until the last fingertip lifts and breaks contact. Then he wrings his hands to spread in the lotion, and when he faces House again he is grinning.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Actually, it was awful. I’ll never do it again. Now, can I have my ball back?”