Title: Blood Brothers
Author: SrslyNo
Summary: Maybe there is more to Wilson's cool behavior toward House. Maybe Wilson is a vampire.
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: R for language, R to NC-17 in later chapters.
Warning: AU. Scary at times. Spoilers for S5 previews. Eventual slash.
Disclaimer: Not mine or ever will be. Just playing with my anatomically correct House and Wilson dolls.
A/N: This chapter works up a slow head of steam. Other chapters move faster. Tried to incorporate some S5 previews scenes and embroider upon them, but it's not crucial to the story. Just a good jumping off place.
A big thank you and round of applause to bookfan85 for her sharp eyes, encouragement, support, motivation and assistance with some decisions about this story. Without her, I'm not sure this story would have been posted.
Please R&R. Thank you.
Chapter 1: Life Sucks
It was crystal clear to everyone at Princeton-Plainsboro that after Amber's death the friendship was broken. From Cuddy to the cafeteria cashier - everyone noticed one of three things: House and Wilson no longer consulted, spoke or ate together.
Oddly, there were two holdouts that believed in the friendship - House and Wilson. But in their misaligned universe, one didn't know how to repair it, and the other concluded he was a relationship biohazard and kept his distance.
House was convinced that Wilson was broken, not the friendship. A few more weeks to heal and his friend would make the first move as he did in the past to mend rifts between them. There would be a cup of coffee waiting on his desk or a casual lunch invitation issued from the office doorway. All would be forgiven.
He believed it was his job to demonstrate superhuman strength and wait patiently for a sign. He waited weeks, then waited some more, but nothing materialized.
Anyone else would take the hint, but not the diagnostician. Maybe it was denial but something didn't feel or look right to House.
It was understood that Wilson was wrapped in grief. Insulating himself from everyone, he was the GQ reject for a t-shirt that read: "I took the walking tour of hell, and am too stubborn to ask for directions to the exit." Clothes hung off him a little looser than six months before. Sitting in the cafeteria, staring into a cup of coffee, he held his emotions tightly checked; but, once in a while a haunted, lost expression would flit across pale features, only to disappear again like a hitchhiker seen by the side of the road and lost to the night after a car passed by.
House would swear on a stack of medical books that there was a slender thread that held fast between them. Whenever he passed Wilson in the hall, the oncologist turned his face away making sure to avoid eye contact, but it was never fast enough. House detected a lingering look of need or hunger. It was enough for him not to give up hope of reconciliation.
Wilson worked from a totally different premise. His was a hidden agenda. He loved House. Always did. Always would, but Amber's death gave him the excuse to act the inconsolable lover and isolate himself from House and the rest of the people who were concerned for him. He stayed away deliberately, not discouraging rumors that he blamed Amber's death on House. It worked, and it protected him from prying eyes while he searched for a solution that would save him and those he cared about at PPTH.
Going into the third month, he ran out of time, and was left with no other alternative but to speak with Cuddy about tendering his resignation and giving two week notice. He asked her to keep everything confidential especially from the diagnostic department head. She suggested not to be hasty, to think it over. Changing his mind was not an option, but he went along with her, hoping to leave with a minimum of fanfare.
As secrets went, Wilson's flew under the hospital radar for ten days before the whispering began, and the rumors reached House's ears. House was blindsided by the news. He was annoyed to be outmaneuvered by Wilson. He wanted confirmation before he declared war. He barged into Wilson's office and launched into a captivating and enticing explanation of the unusual symptoms of his latest patient, expecting the mysterious illness to seduce his friend as he had not.
The oncologist was having none of it. He could barely pull his eyes away from the notepad he was diligently scrawling over in his illegible hand. Wasting no time, Wilson pulled the pin on a verbal grenade and lobbed it at his friend. It exploded. Wilson was composing his resignation on the innocent white paper before him. This was his last week.
His friend advised him that he was not only leaving Princeton-Plainsboro, but most likely leaving the state.
They fenced around the subject. Sharp foils with cool stinging points. Neither gained ground or advantage. House admitted to himself when he left the office that he lost the first round, but swore the duel wasn't over. To believe that would mean Wilson was leaving his life forever, and that was unacceptable.
As Wilson's last day approached, House attempted numerous maneuvers. Dropping off bags of chips, candy bars, even a steak smothered under a heap of greens. Wilson ignored the offerings while Taub and Kutner adjusted their belt buckles to accommodate their expanding waistlines.
House tried sarcasm to shake Wilson out of his misery. When the dark haired man diplomatically explained in front of House and his team that he needed a change of scenery, House bit out, "Buy a plant."
He paged Wilson on consults for all his clinic patients. It seemed the Princeton-Plainsboro area was a booming cancer cluster.
The oncologist inspected the latest patient and questioned wearily, "Throat cancer again, House?"
"Absolutely, must have taken up smoking at an early age."
"Yes, I'd say five years ago when he was in diapers. It's a typical sore throat from a cold. Don't call me again." He was out the door leaving House to deal with a runny nosed kid and a hysterical mother.
The pages continued up until the last day, until Wilson sent down a member of his staff in his stead. House left the latest colicky baby with the oncologist clone, and bulldozed his way into a cleaned out office. Wilson was carrying out the last of his belongings and nodded goodbye as he went out the door.
That evening Wilson sat at his kitchen table in nothing more than an old khaki t-shirt and boxers. Even though his stomach grumbled from hunger, he half-heartedly swallowed bites of his dinner knowing that in the last few weeks he sadly miscalculated how much nourishment he could expect from his new diet. He'd lost, but was surprised to realize that he didn't really care if there would be no chance for a new life. He stared at the plate wondering if it was worth the effort to finish or just go to bed when he heard loud banging at the door. A whining nasally voice announced a pizza delivery. He carefully placed the knife and fork on his plate while he snarled under his breath, "Damn it to hell."
It was House. He should have known.
He prevented him from walking past the front door earlier in the day when House stood in the hall with a straggly sharp leafed plant looking suspiciously similar to marijuana.
"Have you lost your mind? What are you doing with this?" He snagged the plant, and quickly ditched it behind the door.
"Thought while you watched the scenery you could enjoy the 'trip.'"
He worked to keep a serious expression on his face. House's sense of humor was hard to resist. It was the last of a parade of hideous pots stuffed full of even sorrier vegetation. Each member of House's team showed up with one uglier than the next including Foreman who handed over something that looked like a bikini waxed cactus with no needles. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away without saying a word.
Wilson accepted this final gift, but kept the mask tightly in place while he listened to House's latest argument to stay. A wave of dizziness hit while holding the door open, but he steadied himself and was confident it was well hidden from House.
He ended the discussion by saying, "I have the right to walk away from you, House," as he closed the door on his one-time best friend.
From where he was sitting, his eyes roamed over the 'scenery' lined up on the kitchen counter. He didn't have the strength to throw it all away. It could wither and die for all he cared. He would be gone before the first leaf dropped.
Repeated knocking drew him from his melancholy thoughts.
House crooned, "Jimmy honey? Daddy's home, please open the door. Your snookums misses you." He considered ignoring the mock mating call, then he remembered House made a duplicate key. There was no way to keep the man out of his apartment. He tiredly called back, "Shut up, House. I'm coming."
Wilson covered his dinner plate with a napkin and hustled it into the fridge, hiding it toward the back of the shelf before shuffling to the front door. Damn, he was dizzy from hunger, but his one overriding desire was to be left to rest in peace. He laughed to himself. If only he could.
He put his game face on and opened the door. House was standing with pizza and beer.
The demon within screamed, You call this crap, food?! Get it out of my sight!
Instead he tamped down the beast, and slipped into his cloak of indifference coated with passive-aggressiveness, and turned his back on House standing there framed in the doorway. He walked to the bedroom, "I'm not hungry. I'm going to bed. Eat your meal, and lock the door on your way out."
His noble exit was foiled when half way across the room his leg buckled and he stumbled. Quickly recovering, Wilson hoped House would attribute it to clumsiness. By the time he shut the door and his head hit the pillow he could care less.
Of course, House couldn't care more. He could have sworn Wilson was having more trouble than usual focusing when he visited this afternoon. A touch of vertigo for the Hitchcock fan? Having difficulty walking fifteen feet? He was troubled, itching to solve what was wrong. First, he would do a reconnaissance. He dropped the pizza and beer on the kitchen table and looked around the apartment.
There was little to see on the bookshelves. Sealed as well as open packing boxes were strewn over the floor. Wilson was moving.
He checked the bathroom and the medicine cabinet. Other than a fresh vial of anti-depressants the rest of the drugs were over-the-counter and nothing hinting of illness.
His next stop was the kitchen. Opening drawers and cabinet doors yielded nothing suspicious, neither did the pipes under the sink. His forehead wrinkled with concern. The clean up was recent due to the decision to move. Evidence could be hidden on a paper towel in some dumpster.
Before broaching the subject with his friend, he decided to head for the refrigerator and snitch some of Wilson's icier, imported brew. When he opened the door he was under whelmed by its contents. Most shelves and all the bins were empty. No beer was to be found. The sole content was on one shelf. Several wrapped packages stacked into heavy lipped dishes. He didn't have to check the written scrawl on the wrappers to recognize meat from a butcher shop. Rosy pink stains mottled the paper, and lakes of blood formed in the bottom of the containers.
A covered dinner plate shoved behind the packages caught his attention. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he lifted the napkin and pulled it out for closer inspection. A finger tested the meat for freshness. Nearly room temperature, it wasn't in the fridge for long. Wilson was eating this before he arrived.
A mighty T-bone steak swam in its own red juice. A serrated knife and a fork with a hunk of meat hanging from its tines sat on the plate. Other chunks patiently stood in line like loose beads waiting to be threaded. The last time heat came close to touching the purple flesh, it belonged to a cow standing in a sunny meadow.
The meat was raw.
House wanted answers. Now. He dropped the plate on the counter and hop-stepped into Wilson's bedroom unannounced. A closed bedroom door didn't prevent him from entering any more than an office door did at the hospital.
The atmosphere was thick and quiet as a funeral chapel. Dark, except for moonlight streaming through cracks between the shade and window. He could make out Wilson stretched out on his back, his hands straight at his sides in the middle of the bed. He looked like a corpse.
The chest appeared motionless - no sign of breathing. Thoughts turned to CPR while he grabbed the ice-cold hand checking the wrist for a pulse. Impatiently, he placed his fingers upon the neck. He breathed easier, he could make it out, but it was a quarter of the normal rate. Then, he noticed the faintest rise and fall from the torso. He sat down on the edge of the bed. His own heart skipped.
Black winged panic played hide and seek with his fears. He wanted to slap Wilson awake. Be reassured that the lustrous brown eyes looked back at him. Imaginary sound effects of catgut shrieking across a violin from the Psycho shower scene ripped his concentration to threads.
He monitored the pulse again. The eyes moved under the lids in a normal sleep pattern but in slow motion. Wilson was in a heavy sleep, but not for a normal healthy man. He leaned over and checked the nightstand drawer for sleeping pills. None.
Adding and subtracting symbols to the equation, he came to one conclusion, and decided on a jury-rigged treatment to be administered as soon as Wilson awoke.
He swallowed two pills before easing himself off the bed with his cane and limped back to the kitchen. He performed culinary surgery before returning to the bedroom with the pizza box. He stretched out on the floor with his back to the wall waiting for Wilson to wake. If he understood the patient's condition, he would need to eat before having the strength to explain what was going on.
The body began stirring in less than an hour, but the nap did not appear to refresh his friend. Wilson looked more exhausted than ever.
Lids fluttered open and brown eyes hardened into bronze at the sight of House illumined in platinum moon glow.
Wilson looked like an invalid, but his voice cut like acid etching glass, "Why are you still here? Wasn't there enough money in my wallet to reimburse you for your plants and food?"
"I'm waiting for you to sign off on your IOU."
Wilson struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, "What are you talking about?"
House walked over to the lamp next to the bed and turned it on. He saw Wilson's eyes wince as his hand shot up and shielded them from the light. Photosensitivity was added to the growing list of symptoms.
"You owe me an explanation, but first why not eat a slice of pizza. I ordered it with your favorite topping." He lifted the cover and shoved the box under Wilson's nose. The slices were dotted with chunks of raw steak.
Without thinking, Wilson's hand plucked a cube nestling among the cold cheese and then dropped it. He turned his head away from the food, and sunk back upon the pillow, clasping his hands over his stomach to squelch the rumble of his stomach.
The silence held for five minutes as neither man made an effort to speak.
While each one bided his time, House glanced at his friend. He was shocked at how the handsome features deteriorated in an hour. Brown eyes glittered in a cadaver's face.
His first diagnosis was a migraine, but that didn't account for all the symptoms such as the bizarre food choice before him. Bloody raw meat was off the charts, and considering Wilson was so safety conscious that he could teach OSHA and the FDA a thing or two, this was a symptom that could not be discounted with a Safeway card.
House decided it was time to dig for answers. "Is raw meat your prescribed treatment for anemia? Where do you hide your Geritol? In the overhead light fixture?"
The questions were ignored, and all amiable pretence dropped, "Leave House. You're not welcome." But, his voice cracked just as the false words did.
House knew he was on the right trail. He rattled off his observations, "No night sweats. Slow pulse and respiration rate, low body temperature, pale, dizzy, muscle weakness, weight loss . . ."
Wilson was pulling himself into a sitting position. He looked shaky and his hands had a slight tremor. He was afraid the diagnostician was enjoying this game all too well, and wanted to put an immediate stop to it, "Not leukemia. I'm fine, and I should know. Have the credentials and diploma to prove it. Now go."
House shoved the pizza toward him, and stood up. He needed to stretch the cramp out of his leg as he paced, "If it's not leukemia, it's some rare blood disease. Your behaving like a dying dog hiding under a bed." A sudden revelation struck him, "Was that what your resignation was about? Are you running away and refusing to get help because you think you're dying? Afraid my team will torture you before saving you? You're a moron. You should be tested for mad cow disease, cause you're not thinking straight either.
Eat to your vampire heart's delight first, and then we'll have a long chat about what's wrong with you, and if you don't give me a satisfactory explanation I'm checking you into the hosp…" His back was toward the sick man as an outlandish thought struck him. He spun around and turned his laser eyes back onto Wilson who was sitting with his elbows on his knees, eye palming his face with his hands. No.Fucking.Way.
What he was thinking slipped out, "Wilson, tell me it's not fucking possible that you're..."
He caught what sounded like a death rattle, but louder. A serpent's hiss licked at his ears as he heard his question mirrored back by the man he thought he knew, "What? A vampire?"
He met Wilson's unblinking stare. For a moment, the irises reflected like glass marbles, like a dog's frozen in the glare of a headlight. Then, his attention was caught by the upper lip, and was mesmerized by extremely long and pointed fangs silhouetted against an open mouth. Each word was enunciated and weighted with venom, "Well, take a long hard look, House. What do you think?"
Despite the skin crawling up his back, House only had one thought...Cool.
TBC
Thank you for reading. All comments welcome.