A/N: Here's something a million miles from the other stories I have written. I was in a weird mood and this weird little story popped into my head. I hope you like it.
It was like a dream, and that's what House thought it was at first. The living room seemed foggy, muting the golden glow of the lamps. Chills, touching like icy cold fingers, ran up and down his spine. He wanted to move from the sofa, to climb into his bed, but couldn't. Every limb felt like a lead weight, immobile. He was tired. He was scared.
"Greg? Greg, are you awake?"
That too familiar voice floated down to his ears, and soon the familiar face that went with it was in his line of sight. Wilson smiled down at him and sat at the edge of the coffee table.
"Jimmy?" House felt the relief crash over him, and was only vaguely concerned at how weak his voice sounded. "Jimmy, where have you been? It's been nearly two days..."
Wilson chuckled, it was deep and low like he was sharing a private joke.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," House continued. "I was so scared. Where did you go?"
"I'm sorry I scared you," the oncologist said, still smiling. House found it to be rather creepy. "It's incredible, Greg. Absolutely incredible."
"What's incredible? What are you talking about?"
"I never dreamed it was real..."
"Dammit, Jimmy, will you give me a straight answer. What on Earth are you talking about? Are you drunk?"
"No."
"Where the hell were you?"
"I don't know," Wilson answered, and he noted his friend's face was contorting into an expression of confusion and concern.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" House demanded.
"It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter where we've been up until now. The question should be where are we going from here?"
"Where we're going? Wh-What?" the diagnostician stammered, suddenly sure that his best friend had gone completely mad. But when House took a closer look, he was taken aback by what he saw. James Wilson looked better than ever–his clothes were clean and free of any wrinkles, not one hair was out of place. His brown eyes sparkled with gold and amber highlights. Have they always done that? His skin was as smooth as a marble statue and milky white, reflecting what little light there was in the room. He looked perfect–almost too perfect, especially since it was the middle of the night. What had he been doing?
"Where are we going, Greg? You and me. Where do we go from here?"
Wilson reached out and took House's hand. It was something he had done a million times before, and vice versa. House expected to feel the warmth of his friend's skin and the comfort that friendly gesture always brought. Instead he felt ice, coldness down to the bone. The hand he held was as cold as a February night. No heat emanated from Wilson's body, no pulse came from beneath his skin.
The wave of relief House felt earlier rose into a crushing panic. He wrenched his hand out of his friend's grip. "My God...oh, my God," he gasped and tried to stand up. A bolt of pain shot up his leg, nearly drowned out by the panic that threatened to carry him away. "My God, Jimmy, you're dead. You're dead...you're dead..."
House's eyes were wide and scared. Wilson could feel his fear. He didn't want his friend to be afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. He moved from the table to the sofa, taking hold of House's wrists, being careful not to hurt him.
Wilson spoke softly and calmly even as House continued to struggle underneath him. "Listen to me, Greg. Listen to me. This isn't an ending. This isn't death. This a brand new life, a brand new beginning."
"You're dead," House whimpered, as hot, salty tears rolled down his cheeks. "Oh Jesus, Jimmyyyyy..."
"I'm here. I'm here," Wilson continued in his calm manner, letting go of one of House's wrists and gently wiped the tears away. He could see, actually see, the pulse racing along under the skin of his friend's throat. The throat...the rich red blood. Wilson forced himself to look back into the frightened blue eyes. "It's a new beginning. I've been given a gift."
"No! It can't be!"
"It's a gift, Greg, and I want to give that gift to you."
"No, no, no!" House cried, and tried to push the oncologist away.
Wilson seized his friend's wrists again, holding on to them like iron manacles, still being careful about causing House any unnecessary pain. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do," the brown-eyed doctor began.
"Jimmy, please, just go away!"
"Greg, I know you're scared–"
"This isn't real. It can't be!"
"–but I want you to listen to me. I want you to realize what is being offered to you–this is your chance to be free. You can be free of the pain, free of the Vicodin, free of the cane, free of everything. It'll be just you and me. Nothing to stand in our way. The whole world will be ours. Think about it, Greg. Think about the possibilities. If you want it, just say the word."
House had stopped struggling. He had listened.
"This is real," Wilson said. "I want you to share it with me."
"Why me?"
"Because I want to spend the rest of forever with you."
You can be free of the pain.
Just the possibility...could it true?
"No pain?" House asked, his voice shaking.
"None," Wilson replied and smiled. "Your leg will be good as new."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes."
House thought about the possibilities, the two very different futures that were waiting for him to make a choice.
Who was the one person who actually cared, the one person who was always there for him? James Wilson. Without Wilson he had nothing. Nothing, unless he was ready to count long nights with only a bottle of booze to dull the loneliness, and even longer days spent wondering if he had enough pills.
Wilson kept him sane. Without him there was nothing worth living for.
It'll be just you and me.
House had to ask, "If I don't say the word, what happens then?"
"I'll miss you," Wilson said, a genuine sadness in his words.
Gregory House couldn't live without James Wilson. He couldn't. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. It was as simple as that.
And if he had to be with him in death...so be it.
"You're taking me with you," House said, aware that he was as strangely calm as he had ever been in his entire life.
"I am," Wilson smiled, and helped his friend sit up. He smiled again when House pulled him into a long, deep kiss.
The diagnostician broke away and said breathlessly, "Don't you ever scare me like that again."
"I won't."
"All right." House was suddenly fidgety and looked uncomfortable. "Is, uh...is this going to hurt?"
"I'm afraid so," the oncologist replied apologetically. "I'll make it as quick as possible."
"Please."
"Scout's honor," Wilson said. Though he already knew the answer, he asked the question anyway. "Greg, are you sure?"
"Jimmy, please, just shut up and make it quick." House unbutton his shirt and pushed the collar away from his neck.
Wilson saw the pulse in his friend's neck and gave in, relishing in the heat pooled around the other doctor's body, in the dark, rich blood streaming down his throat, the sweetness of the life being taken and the life beginning anew. His friend's cries of pain were far away. He felt House instinctively resist, could hear House's heartbeat race and then slow. Slower and slower until there was nothing left to sustain it. The end of the life. Another one just beginning. He tore himself away.
House lay there, lifeless, bled white, a few thin rivers of red stood out against his throat. There wasn't much time left, the oncologist had to hurry before the other man was gone for good. Wilson bit into his own wrist, tearing open a gash. The blood flowed freely. He held his bloody wrist to his friend's mouth.
"Greg, drink it."
House slowly began to stir, taking the new life being offered to him. Every red drop filled him with a fresh, renewed vigor. Soon his shaking hands were rock-steady, holding on to Wilson's wrist for dear life. The sweet blood. Sweet, so sweet. It was so delicious. It was now all he was aware of–
"Enough!" Wilson yanked his arm away and House groaned, reached out and begged for more.
"Not from me," Wilson panted. "That was too much as it is." Then he stared, fascinated, as the new life began to rush into the other doctor, how he seemed to be glowing from the fresh blood. "Greg, how do you feel?"
"Fine," House replied, and began to absently wipe the blood off his chin and lick it off his fingers. "I feel fine. I feel good."
"Do you?"
"Yes! Damn, I feel amazing!" He looked over at the oncologist. "Jimmy, my leg doesn't hurt."
"And it's not going to." Wilson stood up and held out his hand. "Stand up."
Feeling giddy and shaky with excitement, House took the hand offered to him and stood up. No pain, no groaning protest from his right leg for having some weight put on it. He took a step, then another. No pain. No pain in his leg ever again.
"See, just like I promised," Wilson said, watching House's astonished reaction.
"This...this can't be real." House looked around the room as if it was all going to blow away in a puff of smoke, leaving only a dark nothingness behind. "How can it be?"
"It's real, that's all I know," Wilson replied. "Come on, I want to show you something." He tugged House's arm and led him into the bathroom.
Their reflections in the mirror were crystal clear. House saw that right away. He reached up to touch the glass, then pulled his hand away as if he was afraid that his own mirror image would reach out and grab him. He studied the man staring back at him. His eyes were bright, his skin was pale and lustrous. He looked fifteen years younger. His hair and perpetual scruffy beard were no longer filled with grey.
Wilson took a washcloth, ran it under some water and began to clean off the other man's chin. "This is us, Greg," he said to his friend and their reflections. "This is the beginning of forever."
"I can see that."
"What do you think?"
"Can I answer that later?" House asked, and listened to Wilson snicker at his request. "What do we do now?"
"Anything we want. Like I said, the world is ours."