Warning: A mix of sweet and salty. Angst, Supernatural
Disclaimer: Just playing with my anatomically correct House and Wilson dolls.
A/N: Written for Halloween and soophelia. This is a oneshot, but belongs to my Blood Brothers 'verse. For those who are new or need a quick recap, there's a quick rundown of pertinent information before the first chapter.
The story is set three years in the future.
Previously on Blood Brothers:
Wilson is a vampire. He was turned against his will while in med school. Contrary to vampire lore, he can walk in daylight as long as he wears sunblock.
House stumbled upon Wilson's secret when Wilson fell ill after Amber's death and lost his main source of food. House unwittingly gave Wilson a "transfusion" of his own blood. This caused a connection between them that eventually lead to a satisfying relationship.
Fang Fun:
* Wilson has a tattoo over his heart that only House can see. It is the insignia of Wilson's clan, "La Famiglia Della Rosa." A vampire line that Caesar Borgia began during the Renaissance. Caesar still leads the "La Famiglia" and is commonly called the Borgia, Borgia Prince, or the Godfather.
* Wilson's sire is Zehava, and she receives direct instruction for Wilson's education from the Godfather. Wilson was an experiment, and given minimal vampire training to test how much of a vampire's behavior can be attributed to nature or nurture. Eventually he is provided with a spell book to get him up to speed, but is of little use because of a curse.
* Vampire love is virtual but phenomenal. It happens when a vampire drinks from his/her minion/victim. House and Wilson eagerly indulge. A positive side effect: House does not suffer leg pain as long as he has virtual sex on a regular basis. He uses a cane outside of the apartment to keep up appearances.
* House discovers he is a vampire hunter and that the Borgia approves of his relationship with Wilson. The Godfather believes the rare coupling of vampire and vampire hunter can be powerful and put to good use in the future.
* The Borgia is the possessor of a magical ring. The gold from it is highly prized.
* House wants to be a vampire, but Wilson is hesitant. He constantly cites how excruciatingly painful embracing can be, and there's a good chance that a vampire's territorial instinct will tear their relationship apart.
* Every vampire fears becoming a Nosferatu and serving time in the Hell Pit.
Now, on to the good stuff:
Chapter One:
That damned book was back in their lives.
House pushed open the door of their apartment to reveal Wilson stretched out on the couch, grabbing the open tome as if it were a steering wheel, spinning and twisting it in his hands.
He slammed the door shut with exactly the right amount of force to get Wilson's attention.
"Hey, House. I brought home Thai. It's in the kitchen."
House heaved a sigh of relief. Wilson was still aware of his surroundings. It was hard to forget their last experience with Wilson positively hypnotized over the cursed book; but with it cleansed of the silver dust, life was back on track.
Wilson's eyeballs were spinning in their sockets when House returned to the living room with a container of food.
"The book is doing it again." Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose to help focus and held up the book for House to see. Sentences literally snaked over the page like a train hugging a mountain pass.
"This version doesn't suffer from constipation like the other. Just a bad case of dyslexia."
"Must you diagnose the book every time you fix it?" Wilson raised the volume higher over his head.
House ran a fingertip along the surface and everything froze. The only challenge remaining for Wilson was to translate the bastardized ancient Latin. "Done."
Babble from the television filled the space between them. House plucked noodles from the take-out container while Wilson occasionally mumbled incantations. Finally, Wilson shut the book and let out a frustrated sigh. "That's enough aggravation for one night. Let's talk about tomorrow. Looks like we're staying home this Halloween."
"We are?" The fork slowed, as House checked out Wilson.
"Yeah. I never received an invitation for the Come as You Were Ball."
"You didn't get one." House kept the question a statement as he considered the possibilities.
"No, and it's the thirtieth. We're safe. I turned over emcee duties to Brown this year for the kid's talent show, we're completely free. Want to pass out candy or catch a scary movie? The university's showing Dracula with Bela Lugosi."
"I'm busy."
"Busy? You do know you could go to jail for planting razor blades in apples?"
"No, I received an invite to meet with the Borgia. You're sure you didn't get a card?" House spoke slow and deliberate while he watched Wilson's reaction. Shadows flickered behind the brown eyes, and his fingertips danced on the tooled-leather cover before tossing it onto the coffee table.
"Nope. No card this year." Wilson said, too casually. He swung his legs off the couch, and rising quickly, headed toward the kitchen, his cell phone clutched in his hand. "Zehava…?"
The rest of the conversation was lost on House as Wilson shuffled into the kitchen. When he returned, his lips were curled into a careless smile, but his face was ashen. He shrugged. "The Godfather wants to see his favorite vampire hunter. A limo will be waiting for you at the curb, 9 PM sharp."
Wilson stood for a few beats panning over the room while his hand rubbed the back of his neck, his dark eyes troubled. He eventually settled his gaze on House, and moved toward him as if about to give him a kiss, then stopped. Instead, he murmured, "I need to get some fresh air." Turned away and walked out the front door.
When Wilson didn't return before midnight, House went to bed, but he couldn't fall asleep. His mind sifted through every small scrap of information he acquired about vampires and La Famiglia. The cold hard truth was Wilson had no aptitude for a vamp's life. If anything, he tripped over his vampirism like an oversized cape and turned it into a liability. Stanka had quickly sniffed out Wilson's pedigree, gifting him with a gypsy curse. The same with the invisibility spell. Wilson hadn't figured out how to become invisible, only how to be ensnared by Bill's insanity. Three years after the ball, and Wilson had not made any progress. Not even enough to command words to stay on the page.
Sleep overtook him, but always a light sleeper, he awoke to the dim, cool light of dawn when the bed rocked with Wilson's weight. He shifted to read Wilson's face. It glowed waxen like the moon. Stress had clearly siphoned energy from his vampire.
"You must be thirsty after your outing."
"I'm fine."
Wilson's arms encircled House's waist, and pressed his body close, reminding House of when he was a boy, floating on a cool river stream. He answered by wrapping his leg over his partner's and pulling it toward him. He needed to forget himself in Wilson. "Let's flip a coin. Heads we make love, tails we have sex."
Wilson's hand possessively stroked House's arm. Cool lips brushed his neck and teeth nipped at his pulse. Instead of the customary welcoming bite, Wilson's cheek moved up and nestled against his own. Wilson whispered an unexpected request. "Remind me what it feels like to be human."
Instead of rocking and soaring to a throbbing beat, they initiated a slow dance. House led. He simultaneously succored and fed from Wilson's mouth. His tongue lapped at Wilson's throat encouraging a purr of pleasure. He reciprocated as Wilson's hands, warmed from his own body heat traveled over his chest, stopping to tease his nipples. Wilson's hands roamed over his torso like a blind man committing a passage of text to memory. Love and neediness blended into a blanket of passion.
Hungry for his own needs to be satisfied, House took his time, his tongue and mouth lapping Wilson's sweet skin. No longer salty from sweat, it tasted like violet petals preserved in sugar. He continued down the chest, wiry tufts tickling his nose, and switched to wet kisses along the soft indent of the stomach. He did not stop until he made contact with his primary objective.
He'd forgotten how pleasurable human sex could be. His hand stroked responsive flesh. Wilson's hips bucked encouragement. Dizzy from his overloaded senses, House fell prey to his own animal instincts. He and Wilson blended as one. They were like two thunderstorms clashing and coming together in a magnificent act of nature. A roar escaped House's throat. Wilson was not equipped to gasp, nor could his cheeks blush with blood, but he hiccupped grunts that answered his own groans. When he was completely spent, he collapsed onto Wilson as his own heart raced and he tried catching his breath.
Medical training caused phantom alarm bells to go off inside his head when Wilson's chest did not raise or lower, and no heartbeat thumped under his ear. House ignored the clanging. These were frills Wilson put on as an act if the necessity arose. This awkwardness was one of the reasons they seldom indulged in physical sex. He tried rolling back to his side of the bed, but Wilson's arms held fast—the only sign that the man was very much undead.
As House drifted into a deep sleep, an errant thought crossed his mind that would be forgotten by the time he woke up. Wilson was an ugly duckling trapped between two worlds. If only others could see the swan that he saw, a doctor haplessly turned into vampire. House involuntarily shuddered. Even if others could see the swan, they would never see beyond the hunt and kill.
Gloom won out over sunlight. A thick cloudy gray sky varnished the hospital and surrounding roads with a slick mist. House hustled into the building, hunched over his cane, doing his best to look physically miserable, and hide the emotional turmoil below the surface. Wilson left early and hadn't said a word. He left behind a token of affection in the form of a fresh brewed pot of coffee.
The day plodded along in a surreal fifth dimension. House worked with his team on a case that moved from disease 'A' to disease 'B' and back again. Unfortunately, cancer never entered the equation, so there was no need for a neighborly consult. But every time he looked up, Wilson seemed to be drifting by, an exotic fish checking out the humans on the other side of the fish tank. Watching House, but never quite making contact.
They ate lunch together. House eating his food and most of Wilson's. Wilson busily pushing bits of a half sandwich around his plate, all the time quietly going over the usual litany of vampire warnings: not to speak unless spoken to, address the Borgia as Lord, keep his observations to himself—better yet, make his mind a blank slate, and most importantly, and don't behave like a jerk. House hoped Wilson was through when he stopped for a second, but it was only to reload and launch a zillion questions in his direction.
"Are your shirts back from the laundry?"
"Check."
"Are your shoes shined?"
"Nikes look better with a little wear on them."
"Jeeze, House. Your dress shoes. Where'd you put them?"
"Chucked 'em out the window. Tried shutting up our neighbor's amorous cat."
"What?!"
"Didn't work. Not until I tossed your sweater vest at him."
"The cashmere one? The one I've been looking for?"
"Could be, but not to worry, you get the litter's first pick of mittens."
Wilson shot a glare from under his eyebrows and returned to his original interrogation. "What are you planning to wear?"
"Are you my mother?"
"House, this is an audience with The Godfather. It's like meeting the Pope."
"I'm sure the dress code is completely different. The Borgia and his pals will insist I remove my honking silver cross before speaking to him."
"This is ridiculous. You know what to wear—your tux, like three years ago." Wilson shook his head and checked his watch. "I'm not continuing this conversation. My schedule is light. I'll clear the rest of the afternoon and check your wardrobe myself. You're gonna dress right if it's the last thing I do. Meet you back home, and don't be late."
The day ended much the way his morning started. As he left his office, the cloud cover sizzled with a thin stripe of golden apricot where it met the horizon, and melted back into the backlit clouds of the night sky before he made it to the elevator.
The door was thrown wide before he had his keys out of his pocket. Wilson hustled him into the bedroom, stripping off clothes as they went. His tux and shirt were laid out on the bed, a box with brand new shoes sat alongside. Leaving him alone to get dressed, Wilson went back in the living room. With two more hours before the arrival of the limo, House stretched out on the bed and tried to figure out the purpose of the Godfather's summons and Wilson's strange behavior.
All the questions and preparations were Wilson's way to hide that he was worried. House was worried too. If he timed everything right, he could dawdle until the last minute so there would be no time to talk. Wilson put an end to that notion a half-hour later when he stuck his head in to see how House was doing.
"You're not dressed or shaved? What are you waiting for?" Wilson hissed, "Get ready."
House reluctantly rolled off the bed.
With ten minutes to spare, Wilson did a three-sixty around House. His arms folded in front of him, his eyes inspecting every detail. House didn't receive any sign of approval until Wilson nodded and said, "You'll do." Little lines of worry intensified around the eyes, but his tone was light. "I don't have to worry about you, do I? You'll play nice with other boys?"
"Don't I always?"
"No." Wilson's voice broke.
Used to the connection between them, House never gave it a second thought, but tonight the pull was like a magnet. He stepped toward Wilson, and Wilson did the same. Close enough to see his reflection in Wilson's eyes, he did not reach out and touch. Neither did Wilson.
House cleared his throat. "One invitation spells trouble."
The answer was as loud as the silence that filled the room.
"You're on your own, House. Take care of yourself."
Lips brushed across his, and a deep kiss sent a thousand messages of love. He absorbed each one and replied in kind.
When Wilson pulled away, House saw a battle brewing behind the warm eyes. He caught Wilson flexing his hands into tight fists, and when he returned back to the eyes, they were filled with stone-cold onyx. Something snapped between them. A palpable wrenching. House knew at once it was the connection—it had gone dead. House had never felt so bereft. He reached out. Wilson was only three feet away, but the distance was a chasm. "Wilson—"
Hands shoved deep into his pockets, Wilson backed away and disappeared into the shadows of the empty hall. All that lingered was a barked command.
"Do whatever they ask."
The words rang in his heart as he walked out the apartment door. Why did everything come with a secret subtext today? The sex, the lecture, the kiss. Why did everything feel like goodbye.
tbc