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Title: Charity Case
Author: moose_mcmoose
Prompt:  35. Wilson grows a moustache for Movember. Someone, probably House, hates it so s/he tries to forcibly shave it off and Wilson is cut. Or anything else that involves Wilson growing a moustache for Movember!
Pairing: House/Wilson Friendship
Category: sick!Wilson fest
Rating/Warnings: PG-13.
Words: 2314
Disclaimer: I am currently failing at life as I do not own them.
Beta: My darling mate PMB


Tom Selleck had nothing to be concerned about.

And House had seen better facial garnish on the pubescent paper boy who insisted on thumping The Star Ledger against his front door every morning. But Wilson had insisted on carrying on with his ridiculous hairy charity charade regardless of how increasing ludicrous he looked as the days progressed. 

Luckily, House thought, it was only for the month. By the first of December, the horror adorning Wilson's top lip will be consigned to history, a mere footnote and distant reminder of the stupid things people will do for the sake of charity. 

House would never get involved in something so ultimately pointless, and he had declined profusely when Wilson thrust the sponsorship form in his face and asked him to join in. 

"It'll be fun. And think of the money we can raise."

"Money for what?"

"It's for new equipment in Paediatrics." Wilson flapped the form. "Come on House, it's one month. You hate shaving anyway."

"I also hate looking like a 70s soft core pornographer." House ran a hand around his top lip and down his stubble.

"Well, with no thanks to you, nearly everybody knows about my apparent pornographic past, so I've nothing to lose."

"How about dignity? Respect? How do you expect to do breast examinations and dole out terminal diagnoses when you look like an extra from Smokey and The Bandit?"

"House, you carve up my dignity every single day. And besides, my entire department are taking part, so I won't be the only one. Even Foreman has signed up to do it."

"He can't do that. He has a moustache."

"He's gonna shave it off and start again." Wilson threw the form down in a fit of despair. "Just...sign up...come on."

"One condition. I'm not shaving this off."

"Fine. Now sign."

"No."

"Huh?...Wha-"

"You honestly think I would take part?" House blew the form onto the floor. "If Paediatrics really needed that equipment then it would be budgeted and since it's one of the priority departments it would be top of the list to get the money, so this wouldn't even be an issue. This is just an excuse for the hospital to bleed money off its employees by asking them to look like undernourished Hell's Angels for 30 days."

Wilson huffed, swiping the form from the carpet before folding it in half and slipping it into his pocket. "That's a no then."

"If it was 'Grope A Nurse' everyday for the next month, then I'd be the first in line."

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

There were some things that just didn't fit, didn't gel and were not meant to be, like sumo wrestlers in rubber dresses or tartan trousers for dogs. And it was around three o'clock in the afternoon on a unseasonably humid day in mid November that it dawned on House, that moustaches on Wilson was one of those things. 

Wilson had gone past the point of no return about three days ago. The moustache no longer resembling that of a man who was just too lazy to shave that week, but a man who wore it through choice and enjoyed it.  

House despised 'it' and despised the fact that Wilson seemed to be thriving off House's disdain for the aforementioned 'it'. 

'It' didn't even look right. 'It' didn't even have the decency to grow evenly. 'It' just hung there, like Wilson's eyebrows had just fallen to the lower half of his face, but without the thick consistency. 'It' barely met in the middle, separated by the facial hair equivalent of the invisible Iron Curtain. 

It had occurred to House that Wilson never seemed to grow facial hair often, except the depressed five o'clock shadow that sprouted after the two divorces he saw him through, and now he sees why. He wishes he could rewind back to the back end of October, rip that form from Wilson's hands and set fire to it. He should have stopped this, nipped this ridiculous folly in the bud that afternoon. 

He sees Wilson stride towards his office from the bathroom, 'It' wobbling merrily beneath his nose. If House wasn't so far away he would strike out and rip 'It' straight off his face. 

"Wilson!" House hoped it was all a joke. That as soon as Wilson turned his head, the offending moustache would fall to the ground with comedy precision, turning Wilson from looking like an underpaid porno extra back into the dorky, harried Oncologist he knew and loved.

Alas not. 

Wilson was slow to turn his head, like every movement was an effort. He squinted, a fidgety hand massaging his temples. "Mmmm. Not now House." He wafted a folder and scuttled into his office, closing the door slowly as he retreated. 

Naturally, House followed, twisting the door ajar and creeping his head into the gap. "Masturbation through the work day is not good for you, you know."

The office was dark, blinds were drawn, lights were off and House could just make out the shape of Wilson curled up in foetal position on the sofa, his lab coat draped over his head. 

"I said -"

Wilson grumbled. His words muffled and distorted through a pillow. "I heard what you said." Groaning, he flicked his shoes off his feet. "I'm in no state to move, never mind masturbate."

"Are you having an allergic reaction to your furry facial friend?"

"Oh, that's funny. I'm having a migraine if you must know."

"It's all that extra weight on your face."

Wilson moaned and pulled a hand over his face. "Shut up House."

"You know what would help?"

"I'm not shaving it off!" Wilson flinched, the rising decibel level sending a shock wave through his head. "Why me? Why do you do this to me?"

"What?"

"Can't you go and bother somebody else who's not ill?"

"We're in a hospital, Wilson." House rolled his eyes. "Everybody's ill."

"That's not what I meant."

"You weren't specific." House took his hand to rummaging through the drawers of Wilson's desk. Paper, paper, pens, paper, sentimental stuffed penguin, paper, tie, another tie, paper.

"Don't you...just..I..." Wilson huffed. "Go and bother Foreman, make an inappropriate remark at the nurse's station, fart a hymn in the Chapel, just do something that will mean you will leave me in peace. Because I genuinely think my brain will explode."

It was at the word 'Chapel', and when he hit the bottom drawer, that House stopped listening to Wilson's moaning. His hand and waved onto a small black toiletry bag. Of course! Wilson's back up, when his relationships break in half and his grooming becomes a secondary thought. A quick brush of the teeth and shave as an afterthought before any important meetings or rounds around the department. 

After the second divorce, Wilson had stayed five nights in his office, before finding a hotel a few blocks over. The sofa became a makeshift bed, the Touch of Evil poster made room for a temporary mirror, the balcony becoming the feeble temporary garden. That situation was so pathetic it was hardly worth House's mockery at the time. 

But now that pathetic situation was reaping rewards. He slid the zip around the top of the bag to reveal its contents. A ragged, overused toothbrush, dried up toothpaste, old shrivelled soap, and then the treasure he was looking for. A razor, old but clean with no rogue hairs spiralling out the sides. He slid his hand further down before he located the travel size shaving foam. Giving it a gentle shake, he surmised there was at least half a bottle. More than enough to be of use. He popped them both in his jacket pocket before carefully edging the drawer shut.

"Boring. If you had said go and fart a hymn at Foreman,  bother everybody at the nurse's station and make an inappropriate remark in the Chapel, then I may have considered the options. And isn't farting in the Chapel a little third grade?"

"I thought you were all about the third grade humour."

House guffawed. "Please. That's way too sophisticated." 

Wilson shuffled on the sofa. "I've noticed. Now will you please leave me -"

"Yes." House rose from the chair.

"Oh. Um...well...um... thanks."

"See you later."

House quietly edged his way through the door.

"House?"

"What?"

"What are you doing? What are you planning?"

"What?" House shrugged incredulously. 

"You don't just leave like this. You stomp, or shout, or slam the door."

"Oh I'm sorry." House heaved the door shut, sending a loud smack echoing through the corridor.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

He gave Wilson forty minutes, or more specifically, he gave Wilson's migraine forty minutes to have the desired effect. The predictable nature of his friend gave House an edge. Wilson would always try to sleep it off before testing the waters and doing a quick round through his department to make sure the migraine had suitably subsided into something vaguely manageable.

That gave him at least twenty minutes to put his plan into action. His plan to get that dirty, rabid monstrosity off his friend's face. 'It' was annoying, 'It' was bizarre, 'It' was just plain weird. 

When he got to the office door he found it unlocked and he half expected to find Wilson still petrified and contorted from his over excessive slamming of the door previously. Thankfully, Wilson was asleep, half curled into ball, his back to the door, the lab coat flung over the side of the sofa instead of over his head. 

The operation was delicate, requiring immaculate timing and a steady hand, and as he pulled the foam from his pocket, House saw that his hand is wavering. He composed himself before pulling gently at Wilson's torso, adjusting the sleeping man onto his back, his head flopping sideways onto the arm of the sofa. 

House listened for breathing, any mumbles or hisses to signify if Wilson is about to wake, but all is calm. Relieved, he adjusted
Wilson's head to face his, the horrid, repulsive lip carpet staring straight back at him. 

"This is the end of the road for you." He squirted a small ball of foam onto his palm and gently applied it to Wilson's face. He froze as Wilson's sniffed, seemingly awoken by the cloud beneath his nose, but relaxed as soon as Wilson settled back into his breathing rhythm. 

He produced the razor from his pocket and readied himself to begin the arduous but necessary task, placing a cup of warm water down on the floor beside him. 

He started at the left, or was it the right? 

House mumbled. "This is whole lot easier doing in it a mirror. On your own face. The things you make me do for your sliver of dignity."

As soon as he scraped the razor down the first slice of flesh the plan went awry.

Wilson jerked, like he'd been lying in wait the whole time, his eyes flashing open in horror as he sensed all was not well. "WHAT THE HELL-"

"Don't move! Don't move."

Wilson moved. "What? Ow!" 

"I told you not to move you idiot. Now look what you've done." House sighed and dropped the razor onto the desk. 

"What?" Wilson raised a hand to his mouth, wiping beneath his nose. A trail of blood ran down his fingers. "Wha...look...you...you cut me!"

"I did a duty to this hospital. This nation. I only had an...eighth or so to go. If you'd just let me finish."

"And end up with a sliced face? No, I decline your gracious offer." Wilson stomped over to his desk and pulled out tissues from the second drawer. 

"I guess your migraine has gone then."

"No. But I'm too pissed to give a crap." He dabbed a tissue, the blood absorbing and clinging the material to his face. "You've ruined my sponsorship."

"I've increased your chances of getting laid."

"I can't argue with that." Wilson wiped the rest of the foam from his face. "But I can't just start again. I got to fifteen days. That's $750 I've managed to squeeze from Hamilton in Cardiology. He bet I couldn't get passed three days without shaving it off."

"He's more of an ass than I am."

"Exactly."

"His wife's hot though."

Wilson nodded in agreement. "Can you imagine his tight-ass face when he has to hand over $750?"

"Can I be there? With a camera?"

"It would have been better if it was more." Wilson peeled the tissue from his face, the remnants that stay he wiped away with his sleeve. "I'll have to get a clean shirt."

"I think that's the least of your problems. Have you seen your face?"

"Do I want to see my face?"

"Are you in need of a good laugh?"

Wilson smiled, his now utterly lopsided moustache curling up at one side. "I guess I can't leave it like this can I?"

"I'll give you $1000 dollars if you keep it for a week." House was deadly serious. Any man who was willing to look that idiotic for a week deserved it.

"Seriously? Do you even have a thousand dollars?"

"I'll take it from my hooker fund and my gambling pool. I'm sure I can cope with a few weeks of skanky hookers."

"I need to see it first. I mean I...I can't commit without knowing."

"Your demands are fair." House pulled a five dollar bill from his pocket and waved it in the air. "Call this a down payment."

"I'll call it a deal once I look in the mirror." Wilson snapped the bill from House's fingers and stuffed it in his pocket. 

"Deal." House extended his hand.

Wilson eyed warily. "Half a deal."

"Half a deal it is."

House watched on as Wilson scuttled down the corridor towards the bathroom, head bowed, hand wavering over his forehead, and he smiled. 

There was no way he was losing that $1000.

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