House carefully cultivated an air of not caring about his appearance, but Wilson knew better than anyone that he was just as vain as everybody else. Designer t-shirts aren't exactly cheap, after all, and the shoes weren't fooling anyone. The biggest indiscretion, as far as Wilson was concerned, was the toupée.
House could make all the cracks he wanted to about conditioner and hairdryers - maybe if the man bothered to moisturize his scalp once in a while it wouldn't be rejecting follicles at an unholy rate. And to be frank, when wearing socks in the apartment got one soles covered with graying hair, it wasn't exactly hard to notice the balding.
Lack of difficulty aside, Wilson found it hard not to ponder House's hair, or lack thereof. The fluctuating amounts of scalp showing through the brown and gray mop fascinated Wilson - it almost seemed like the hair ebbed and flowed with the weather, or perhaps with House's mood.
Over time, the fascination grew stronger and stronger. Wilson would find himself lurking on one of the ever-present hospital balconies, hoping for an aerial view of the shifting wonder. It began haunting his dreams, twisting and turning from atop House's head, speaking to him in medical terms. Alopecia Totalis, the strands would whisper in his sleeping ear - trichotillomania, lupus, hypotrichosis simplex, all in a chorus of tiny squeaking voices while the electric eyes underneath the weaving curls bored into him.
On several awkward occasions Wilson even found himself crouched on the balcony between his and House's office, angling toy binoculars (that he had swiped from little Chris in the pediatric oncology ward) to be able to peer at the back of House's head through the glass walls. Whenever he felt too ashamed of his obsession he would try to back off, to look at House in the eye instead of the side-burn, to try and banish thoughts of hair plugs and toupées from his mind. Inevitably, though, the fantasies of yanking sharply on House's straggly curls would creep up in his subconscious, and he would again find himself hanging around House's apartment in the hopes of seeing something fall off the other man's elongated skull.
On one of those nights Wilson, having drunk too much to drive home, tossed and turned on House's couch as one of the worn springs poked him directly in the left buttock. Lying there awake, he could hear the nasal snores of House's sinus-plagued sleep roaring out of the bedroom door. Seeing a chance he had been waiting for for months, Wilson rolled off the couch and onto his clammy socked feet, creeping down the hallway to the ajar door. Peering into the darkness of the room, he could make out the faint outline of House sleeping, and on the bedside table, a small furry thing.
Since Steve was, as far as Wilson was aware, neither alive nor sleeping next to House's face, it could only be one thing - the hairpiece! So it was real! Understanding that, given House's abnormal sleeping habits, this might be his only chance, Wilson slid into the bedroom, grabbed the hairpiece, and scurried back to the couch.
Cradling the toupée in his hands, Wilson examined it closely. It was slightly moth-eaten, explaining the changing appearance of the texture and thickness of House's hair. It was also a slightly darker brown than House's natural hair color, but it had been threaded through with the gray that graced the diagnostician's scalp.
It was surprisingly silky in Wilson's hands, the rougher side where it attached to House's head contrasting with the satiny texture of the false hair. Wilson wondered what it was made of - had it been shorn from the head of a lunatic? The texture suggested a source with adequate protein in its diet, though; perhaps it was domestic alpaca.
For some reason, now that the source of his obsession was in his grasp, Wilson couldn't stop fondling the short strands. The soft material was so appealing to the touch, and the success of his scheme so invigorating - he could even feel a familiar stirring in his boxers. A crazy idea floated through his head, immediately dismissed in disgust, but then quickly retrieved for further pondering.
He could try fucking the hairpiece...
Before the tiny voice in his head that had tried to postpone the death of three marriages could speak up and kill his burgeoning boner, he shimmied out of his boxers and wrapped the hairy side of the hairpiece around his dick. Stroking the toupée up and down, quickly, experimentally, he gasped out loud at the glorious sensation enveloping his delicate cock skin.
Moving his hand faster and faster, the delicate strands caressed his erection, further inflaming his senses. He squirmed against the sweaty leather of the couch, staring at the pulsating head of his cock peeking out of the hairpiece's folds. Jerking the toupée, he threw his head back and silently gasped as hot strings of semen shot onto the hairs.
The afterglow was a little bit of a let-down, as he shampooed the toupée in the sink, standing there in his socks and damp boxers, but finally satiating his fascination with House's hairpiece was priceless.