It's late. Dark; far past the time he should have gone home, but he hasn't.

Don't have a home. It's a cruel realization, a dawning of knowledge. He's insignificant. Alone. Tied to this world by a hotel bill. Hands rub tired, worn eyes, sink into the soft flesh and press down so hard eyelashes stick together when the fingers are removed.

Long day, he tells himself. That's all. Just a long, sad day where nothing went right and everyone gave up. It's fine, he's used to it, but today just hit hard so he'll sit in his office and wait until he feels like getting up, going back to his hotel and watching Spanish soap operas until dawn.

Big episode waiting for him, too. Miguel reunites with Anna Maria, only to find he's gotten his mistress pregnant.

He thinks about the too-soft bed he'll sleep on, the over-spiced food he'll eat and decides to stop wallowing in his own misery. People die. Get over it, move on. Don't waste your life mourning theirs.

He laughs quietly; he's hiding behind borrowed sentiments and he knows it. Nihilism isn't his forte. He hasn't lost enough to fear hope just yet.

But the apathetic thoughts spur him into action and muscles connected to bones produce movement, motion that carries him into the hall with his coat draped over an arm and a briefcase in hand. He reads the letters that spell a name on the adjacent office and starts; House sits there, under dim light, studying a file. He pulls the door open, asks what House is doing and is answered with an eye roll that tells him what an idiot he is.

"Must be a tough case."

"We can't all have easy jobs."

"Yeah, yeah, oncology is a lowly form of medicine, I know." Wilson shakes his head, knows it's best just to leave House to his thoughts. He waves goodbye and leaves the office, walks down eerily dark hallways until he's out. Out. Cool air embraces him, sinks into his skin and he's breathing through his mouth, taking the cold inside.

Then he's walking to his car, listening to the sharp tapping of his shoes; the harsh sound pulses, surrounds him until he reaches his destination and is met with silence. He gets in, sinks into the leather seat that bends to his form; he grips the wheel tightly and watches as flesh turns white and knuckles stick out farther than they should. Then the key is in the ignition and it turns, fires the engine to life, shatters the silence for a moment before quieting to a low purr. The engine vibrates under him and he turns the heat on, blasts it so it warms him, takes some of the numbness away. Wilson slides the car into drive and wishes it were standard. But Julie couldn't—can't—drive standard and so he bought this.

The car lasted longer the marriage.

So he pulls out, leaves the hospital and heads to the hotel; it isn't until he parked outside a bar that he realizes his intentions were never to go home. The watering hole is a dive that's seen better days; the outside paint is chipped and the neon sign that illuminates 'The Tavern' flickers on and off; an accidental strobe light. But he ignores the dilapidation and gets out of the car; the small group of smokers near the door looks at him as he walks past; he nods at them and isn't surprised when the courtesy isn't returned.

----------------------------------

The amber liquid in Wilson's glass shines red under the dull lights of the bar. The air is hazy, thick with smoke that curls in tendrils toward the ceiling. He sips slowly, lets the harsh liquid spread over his tongue, down his throat. It moves quickly, spreading through his blood, clouding his consciousness. A smile stretches across his face; he'll escape for a few hours. Everything will make sense tonight; he'll deal with reality tomorrow. The glass hits his lips again, passing over the threshold easily. He drains it, throwing his head back to get the last drop.

The bartender makes his rounds, asks him if he'd like another. Wilson means to say no, he means to say that he's had enough. But somehow he's nodding, mouthing a yes and the words fall out, hit the bar and reverberate towards the man in front of him who nods, brings a long bottle up from beneath the bar. He's absorbed, watching the liquid splash into the glass, jumping up toward the top of the before settling, lying placid. Then the bottle's gone and his drink is alone, waiting for him; clumsy hands reach for the too-full glass and tequila spills out, dripping onto the bar on the way to his mouth. He downs it, coughs a little, winces and puts the emptied vessel down. His hands curl around the glass and it becomes an island in the triangle of his thumb and pointer fingers. He breathes deeply and leans back a little; he's all fluid now and it's a release; it's a break.

He's out because his hotel—no, not his; the hotel he stays at—stagnates him. It saps his energy, sucks him dry until he can barely move, barely think. It reminds him that he's a grown man hiding away in an overpriced fantasy. But now he's surrounded by people and feels more isolated than ever. But he does it to himself—or at least, he lets someone else do it for him and so he can't complain; he can't whine about his own ambivalence.

"More?" The bartender's materialized—Joe, maybe? It's always a name like that; Joe, Chris. Monosyllabic. Easy. And so Wilson tells Joe or Chris, or maybe even Keith that he'll have one more, one last, and hands over a twenty to prove he's done. The drink is poured but it sits in front of him, rippling slightly from the movement around his own still body.

Sick to death, he thinks, then rewords it. Sick of death. He wishes he had someone, someone to touch and press against, someone's name to roll around in his mouth while his hands explore recklessly. He hasn't had sex in a long time; the only relief he's seen lately is a morning ritual that reminds him just how pathetic he is.

He decides to take the shot and leave; call a cab and pick up his car tomorrow. But then his elbow is knocked into his drink and a woman is touching his arm, apologizing, asking if he wants another because it's on her. She's sober, he can tell, but he's having a hard time looking at her straight. His eyes slide all over her, taking in body parts one at a time. He says it's fine, the drink is barely spilt; he caught most of the liquid in his hand and he holds it up as evidence. See? It's ok, no harm done.

He doesn't expect her to take his hand, to lick it until the tequila is gone and all that remains is her saliva sinking into his skin. He meets her eyes and they're a bright blue, so familiar and a gasp escapes his lips, then a giggle and he shakes his head to clear his mind, to force coherent thought out. She reaches around him without breaking eye contact; the glass is between her fingers now and she tips it back, swallows it and licks red lips with a pink tongue and all of a sudden his pants are too tight. He's staring and she knows it so he breaks the silence with a stunned utterance of some sort, maybe a wow, and she smiles at him, mouth widening, eyes sparkling. She's asking him something, whispering in a low voice near his ear and all he can think of is her heat on his skin; then she's in front of him again, looking expectant.

"Do you live far?"

Words won't form so his muscles contract, move his head from side to side. She moves away, takes his hand and tells him to lead the way to his car. He protests, says he's too drunk to drive, but she just laughs and asks what makes him think he's driving.

Ten steps and they're out, getting into a boring car that he hates. He gets in the passenger seat and she drives; they reach a stop light and her hand is on his crotch, stroking softly and he's moaning, asking her name and telling her to turn left here. She tells him that names aren't important and that he won't remember tomorrow, anyway; they turn and the hotel appears before them, shiny and sterile. He can walk but barely so she snakes an arm around his waist and helps him to the elevators where he presses the button and waits for the doors to close. The elevator jerks to life, leaving his equilibrium on the ground level; he leans back into the cool metal and looks at his reflection. He feels hot, feverish, but her hand entwines with his, covers his and it cools him somehow.

The elevator stops and there's a short walk then he's fumbling for a key until she takes it from his hands, opens the door quickly and kisses him, slides her tongue along his neck until she reaches his collarbone and they've reached the bed. Her hands are on his chest and he's falling, pushed down by graceful hands that clutch his biceps.

The room is spinning so he closes his eyes, lets her do what she will; she asks him if he's tired of life and he opens his mouth to respond, ask what she means but then there's a sharp pain in his neck and she's telling him to relax; telling him he won't ever tire again.

Consciousness abandons him before he realizes she didn't speak out loud.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's the cold that wakes Wilson. It confuses him at first; he rolls over in bed, forgets where he is for a moment, then wonders if the windows are open. He squints when the washed-out light of early morning hits his eyes, looks around his hotel room and sees that noting is amiss; the windows are shut. His head goes back into the pillow, burrows in until his face presses against the too-firm mattress. He whispers a few muffled expletives and pushes the covers away, stretches, feels his muscles tighten, twinge under his skin.

The bed creaks under him so he gets up, begins to take a step but his equilibrium hasn't been relinquished just yet; he stumbles, catches himself on the wall. The cheap wallpaper is thin, flimsy, like parchment paper under his fingers; he slides his hand along the wall, moving towards the closet when the thermostat catches his fingers, stubbing them. His eyes catch the temperature as he pulls his stinging digits toward his chest.

It reads 70 degrees.

Huh.

He's sick. That must be it. The flu; it's been going around. No big deal. He'll take a shower, sweat it out. His pallid reflection greets him as he walks into the bathroom; he turns the knob of the shower; cool spray runs across his hand and he shakes it absentmindedly. While he waits for the water to warm up, he goes back to the mirror.

Death warmed over, he decides. It's the only way to describe the collective mess that is his face. Large bags sit under his eyes, emphasized by dark rings. Bloodshot eyes, hair mussed to the point that it stands up straight on his head. He stares into his own eyes, sees the exhaustion there and wonders what he could have possibly done to come out looking like this. He doesn't i feel /i hung over; he can't remember drinking. He can't remember anything, really, except for saying goodbye to House.

The phone rings behind him and he counts the rings absentmindedly; the steam begins to pour over the top of the shower as a voice begins to speak on the answering machine.

"Cancer kiddies get you down, Wilson? Cuddy expects me to play hooky, but you're Mr. Responsible." The machine clicks off and Wilson wanders back towards the bed. His cell phone lies on the bed-side table, plugged into the wall.

He doesn't remember doing that.

He unplugs the mobile; it's warm in his hand. When he flips the cell open his breath catches; it can't be right. There must be some mistake.

It's Monday.

He can't remember the past two days. Two days. Forty-eight hours that he doesn't remember. Before he replaces the phone, he glances at the screen. Six missed calls, all from House. His hands shake; he tosses the phone onto the bed and goes back to the bathroom. He'll shower first. Then go to work. Take it in steps. Try to piece things back together. Try to figure out why two days of his life are missing.

The bathroom greets him with humidity; steam envelopes him and he breathes it in, swallows reflexively when it turns into liquid in his throat. It splashes over his head, rolls off his hair until it saturates him; plasters brown locks to his scull. Rivulets run down his face like tears and he sighs into them, turns his head up, catches the wet heat in his mouth and spits it back out in a stream aimed through his front teeth. His fingers move absently; he scrubs himself quickly. The soap smells good, better than he remembered. It's got hints of sandalwood, cinnamon, eucalyptus; he realizes he's never smelled those before—would never have been able to identify them, anyway.

Probably just read the package, he reasons, then realizes he's appeasing himself. But he's willing to believe it. As much as Wilson wants to linger under the soothing stream of hot water, he knows he should get to work. He shuts the water off.

The clothes that he pulls on are wrinkled; he wrinkles his nose at this, but doesn't have time to iron them. His car is where it should be when he leaves the hotel; he goes twenty over the speed limit, though he's already three hours late.

He enters the hospital quickly; stops by Cuddy's office and tells her his alarm didn't go off. She accepts it, lets him go without a reprimand.

He heads to his office on autopilot; he wants to sit, to sort out reality.

He can't always get what he wants.

House sits in a swivel chair in the middle of the room, spinning.

"What are you doing, House?"

"Testing the laws of physics."

"Right." Wilson moves past House, sits at his desk and asks why the other man is really there.

"Nothing. But the homage is flattering, I will admit."

"Homage?"

"Coming in late, clothes wrinkled. Hair air-dried. Though it looks better on me," House says, eyes scanning up and down Wilson's bedraggled form. "You look like shit."

"I woke up late; I had no time to get ready. And it's a wonder you're not married, what with your conscientious nature." Wilson opens a drawer, picks out a file and begins to read.

"I don't like to be tied down;" House says, finally bringing the chair to a stop. "Although, under the right circumstances…"

"House," Wilson warns. His hands move to his forehead, clutch it. Pain explodes there, jagged behind his eyes. He hasn't felt this bad in years.

"I don't feel well; I was in my hotel all weekend, fighting off the flu." It's a lie, but it could be true. Wilson doesn't meet House's eyes, instead closes them, pinches the bridge of his nose until the screaming in his head lessens to a dull roar.

"You're not sweating. Or shaking. You don't have a fever. Try again."

"I don't have a fever because I fought it off."

"Whatever you say." The tone is light, but blue eyes linger on his.

"Why are you so pale?"

"Because I'm sick, House!" Wilson stands, opens his mouth to tell House to go to his office, go torment his fellows—to go anywhere but here. But then spots roll into where his vision should be; he hears a pounding in his ears and thinks it's the ocean; just before he loses consciousness he realizes the rhythm is that of a heartbeat.

Flashes, momentary images run through Wilson's unconscious mind. They flow fast and free, leaving only vague impressions. A woman he doesn't know; heated kisses; stages of undress. Blue eyes gazing into his, but not like's House's. A steel blue, almost grey. Dark hair, almost black. Words, whispered. They tell him relax, lay still. It'll be over soon, Jimmy. Drink this. It'll make you feel better. You want to feel better, don't you?

Feel better.

When Wilson wakes, he's on his own couch, curled uncomfortably into the leather. He, groans at the sun that wakes him, burns through his eyelids like a laser.

"Who turned the sun up?" He mumbles to himself, under the impression he's alone.

"Wilson."

House is still in the office, this time sitting on the couch across from him. He rolls over, tries to smile, say he's fine. But the expression that greets him is too sober; House isn't going to let this go.

Something's wrong.

"What's wrong, House? I'm fine." But there's no answer. Instead, House moves closer. He reaches out, take Wilson's wrist. He finds the pulse, tells Wilson to watch the clock. Wilson's distracted; the warmth of his friend's hand on his wrist is comforting; for some reason heat rushes to his face. But the pressure of House's fingers brings his attention to a more serious matter.

His heartbeat.

One beat. Every three seconds.

"Your temperature is 87 degrees." Wilson sits up; the spots don't come back, but he feels so weak; like he hasn't eaten in days. God, he's hungry. But then House moves closer still, looks into his eyes.

"You shouldn't be alive. Anything below 97 degrees and the body stops synthesizing proteins."

"I—" He's trying to say something, trying to make an excuse but it's House; he can't fool House, never could. He's breathing heavy; the world is closing in, abandoning him. He deals in science, in fact and reality and it's all slipping away.

So he says that he doesn't know, that he can't answer, that things are starting to happen and he doesn't understand why. But House is too close; his scent washes over Wilson, goes right through him. It's fabric softener, detergent, deodorant and his own animal smell and it's magnetic; Wilson wants to lean in, lick House's neck and taste the scent that's driving him insane. It teases him, tests his willpower.

He's never been good at resisting temptation.

So he shouldn't be surprised when lips meet, though when his actions aren't rebuffed his eyes open, widen and then shut again so he can concentrate on the feel, on the taste. Because House tastes good. Like mint and coffee and something bitter. Wilson concentrates on his lower lip, nipping a little when House's tongue slides into his mouth, tests the cavernous space. The older man's mouth is hot and he warms Wilson, gives him heat.

House breaks the kiss first, mumbles that he has to know what's going on with Wilson, has to find out what's wrong. Needs an explanation.

"House." Gazes meet; Wilson stares into eyes, light eyes that are the antithesis of the person attached to them; he doesn't say anything but House stops, returns his gazes and leans closer again. His eyes take on a glassy look and he moves past Wilson's face, edging to the side, offering access to a long neck.

Wilson doesn't know what's happening; he moves lower, frames the outline of House's jaw with kisses until he reaches that smooth, exposed neck. He's near the main artery and the pulse throbs, just barely visible underneath delicate skin. He can practically hear the blood being forced through House's body, can almost taste it, that liquid that keeps the other man alive, keeps him moving. Breathing. Kissing.

There's a slight pinch in Wilson's mouth; he doesn't notice it until something coppery floods his taste buds; it glides over his tongue and wets his mouth, it's not saliva, and now it's on House's neck.

Wilson is running down the hall before House snaps awake from his trance. The older man feels something warm, something wet, oozing near his collar.

His fingers come back red.

Wilson runs away, just away, and ends up in his car. He breathes a few times, steadies himself and says aloud that this isn't happening; this is impossible. Not real, not real, not real. But his heart is still too slow when he pulls into traffic; his skin is still far too cool. So he drives as quickly as he can toward his sterile hotel room, praying his absence won't be missed. He goes through the motions of normalcy; parks his car, smiles at the concierge on his way in. He breathes evenly, steadily. Waits for the elevator; when it arrives he presses the button for the second floor and waits for the doors to slide shut before his head hits his hands. He rubs his eyes, brings cool fingers across his forehead before looking at his reflection in the gold metal of the doors.

It's still there.

He gets to his room and rushes to the bathroom where he stares at himself, braces his arms against the sink and wonders if this is real. It can't be real. It's impossible. Nope.

No.

The hotel phone sits on the desk, normal as ever. He cradles the receiver gently, holds it tight with shaking fingers. He asks for a wake up call for tomorrow morning, then goes back to the bed. He sits; it's moments before he's fidgeting, shaking. Rocking back and forth. Keep busy. Keep moving. Don't think.

A knock sounds at his door and he gets up to answer it. It'll be ok. It's the maid. He'll leave the room, go downstairs and have a drink. Take the edge off. He moves to the door, twists the knob and moves out of the way to let the maid in.

House is in the room before Wilson can shut the door. He stalks in, moving far too fast for a man with a cane. House's eyes are everywhere, on the 'living room' and the bed; he looks for clues, for explanations.

Wilson wants them too.

"What's going on?" House doesn't shout, but he doesn't need to. His tone is sharp, to the point. He wants the truth. Wilson laughs to himself as Jack Nicholson flashes through his mind; he thinks about telling the older man he can't handle the truth. Wilson sure as hell can't.

"I—something's wrong with me."

"You think? You fainting and bleeding all over my neck weren't signs of illness, or anything." House moves closer as he speaks, closer until he's touching Wilson's face, trying to pry open his mouth.

"How long have your gums been bleeding?"

"Just today," he mumbles, House's hands pulling his lips back, obscuring his speech. He steps back. The blood—his blood—is still on House's neck. He can see it, smell it. But he shouldn't. He shouldn't be able tosmell blood.

Then his mouth hurts again and he's turning away, whispering, Oh, God, Oh, God House, This can't be happening. Can't be. He sinks to the floor, collapses into carpet that embraces him, lets him sink down into its depths. He curls away from House, who immediately drops to his left knee.

Wilson tries to resist, resist the strong hands that try to pull him close, pull him back. But he can't; he's being straightened out, turned over. And then House is looking at him and Wilson gasps for breath before snapping his mouth shut.

But House has already seen what can't be; he opens his mouth, closes it and bends over Wilson, brings his hands back to the younger man's face.

"Wilson," House's breaths come ragged; he's scared but he has to know, has to see. Has to. "Open your mouth."

Wilson's eyes close, shut tight. He gives up, opens his mouth. Lets House have his answers.

"You're a Vam—" Wilson's eyes open and he looks up at House; the older man looks so confused, so unsure. But he's saying these words and if Wilson lets them pass into air, lets them hit his ears they'll be true so he reaches up with a freezing hand and covers House's mouth.

"Don't say it. Please, please don't say it." House nods under his hand, frowns behind his fingers, but doesn't pull away. Instead he pulls Wilson's hand away with his own; opens his mouth and says that Wilson doesn't look good.

Wilson laughs. His mouth opens, showcasing elongated incisors, teeth that come to a delicate point just long enough to be inhuman. He gasps for breath, chokes out words between laughs.

"Of course I'm not good, House. I can't exist."

But House is frowning, looking down at him with concern—not fear, not disgust.

"No, I mean…You're really pale. Have you—have you had anything that—" He pauses, takes a moment, then continues. "Have you had blood?"

"No."

"God, Wilson, You're pathetic. Here." House pulls Wilson into a sitting position, bringing him even with his own neck.

"Do what you have to." Wilson shakes his head, tries to refuse but he can barely move and House is close, so close that he can hear the blood, can almost taste it. He opens his mouth, tries to refuse, tries to pull away from House, but he's in a vice grip and his protests fall to the floor as his lips press against a flushed neck. His tongue licks the salty skin, searches for the pulse and finds it; for a moment he's suspended, unsure of what to do, but instincts he doesn't know he has take over. He reaches up, supports House's neck and back before biting down, breaking through skin as if it were paper. And then he lets go, lets hot liquid coat his tongue, run down his throat. He swallows once, then again before he realizes he's seeing things.

Images.

A baby with blue eyes clasping a finger in its tiny fist.

A young boy, about six or so being yelled at by an older man; the boy smirks, laughs until a hand is brought down swiftly across his face. He stops laughing.

House in bed with Stacy; he's above her thrusting powerfully, looking into her eyes, telling her she's beautiful. She laughs, wraps her legs around him tighter and pulls him in for a kiss.

Wilson's own face greets him, but it's from the outside looking in. Nothing happens, but there's something…strange, some emotion he can't name.

Wilson drinks deeply, swallows quickly. He's absorbed, lost in sensations that are too new, too good to bring to an end. But something is tugging him, grasping at his collar weakly. What is it? He shrugs, tries to shake it off.

"Wilson…sto—please stop…" House twitches in Wilson's arms, slides from the younger man's grip. Wilson tries to bring him back up, tries to reopen the already closing wounds on House's neck.

"Wilson," House coughs, takes a gasping breath. It's enough, enough to break Wilson from his trance. He gasps, looks down at House, who lies prone in his lap. The older man is pale, shivering.

"Oh, God," Wilson leans in, listens to the heart that beats weakly in House's chest. "You're ok. You'll be ok."

"Wilson," House's voice is still weak, but he continues. "Consider that a $15,000 drink." Wilson nods, forces out a laugh. He begins to smile but catches himself.

"Considering what you just did, House, I'd buy you another bike on the spot if you wanted me to."

House's lips quirk, jumping so quickly it seems more like a twitch than a smile. Glassy eyes move back and forth and then there's a voice, a familiar voice that wonders why it felt so good.

Wilson is transported back to Friday night; voiceless words whisper that everything is fine, that he'll be ok. He'll never hurt again, never be tired again.

He can hear thoughts.

House would kill to do that. For a moment he's motionless, absorbed in a daydream about the havoc House would wreak if he could probe others minds…or at least, more accurately than usual.

House coughs beneath him and something wet hits his cheek. He can smell it before he has time to investigate. But he needn't anyway; what didn't hit his face covers House's face and teeth. Flecks of blood are splattered across his face, highlighting the unshaven areas of gray and silver. Wilson's fingers move to wipe the blood away but all they do is smear it into slashes, lines that decorate House's chin and cheekbones like war paint.

"Hospital," Wilson says, pleads. "We'll get you a transfusion."

"No," House gasps, coughs again and clears his throat. "Not enough time."

"House, you'll die. You'll die."

"They'll question…why…pints low."

"No, I'll explain—"

"Cuddy…knows I went after you. Can't get caught."

"House, I don't care. You can't—" He's gritting his teeth, fighting against tears that will win. He's always protected House, always taken care of him. The only time the older man would reciprocate would be on his death bed.

Bastard.

Wilson's looking at House, looking at his ashen face, half-lidded eyes with long, dark lashes curling almost sweetly against sunken cheeks.

"No," he says. "No." And though he doesn't have any idea what he's doing, he makes up his mind. He will not let his best friend die. He will not kill House.

So he tries what he's seen in movies; brings a shaking hand to his mouth and bites at the wrist, tearing a vein open. The dripping arm moves toward House's mouth, but the older man has gone limp. His head falls to the side, bobbing uselessly on his neck. Wilson holds his head, brings him close and prays that he'll wake up. He angles his wrist over House's mouth, keeps it flush against still lips and waits. A moment can seem like an eternity when you're alone; Wilson was sure it had been several lifetimes before he feels House's tongue snake up toward his wrist, licking the gash clean. Euphoria settles over him; his mind slows until House gasps beneath him, shudders and lies back onto the floor. Wilson gets up, staggers a bit but manages to pull House up with him; he drags him over to the bed and lets him down as gently as he can.

He's pale, and so still that Wilson leans close, breathes in the strong scent of House's neck and hears the slow but steady beating of the man's heart. He means to pull away, but he can't help running his hand down House's face, feeling the lines and crevices of the man's skin. Pale fingers stand out against House's mouth; what was a delicate pink is now stained red. He traces over the soft skin and then gently moves the top lip up, revealing normal teeth.

Wilson sighs, sits on the bed and leans back. He doesn't know what he was expecting; after all, he doesn't remember how it happened for him. His hands shake when they leave House's face; they're cool against his own skin and it's comforting, like a wet cloth to help bring down a fever. He looks at House again, moves closer to his sleeping form until he's laying next to him. His arm is on top of House's and so he arranges their fingers until they're meshed; Wilson stares at the ceiling, feeling anchored for once.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson dreams of an earthquake. He's in his house—his ex's house, in the kitchen. He watches the cereal shake, jumping on the counter until it tips over, hits the floor and covers the ground in sugar-coated flakes. Someone's calling his name; his eyes lift from the floor. Where's it coming from? He glances around, but the sound is faint, as if it's coming from far away.

"Wilson." He's turning, searching but the voice comes from all directions; he can't find the source.

"Wilson!" It's louder now, frightened. He feels warmth on his neck; it spreads over his chest and toward his back.

He follows the voice, lets it carry him away from his dreams and back to reality. When his eyes open, he sees that he's in House's arms.

"Thought you were dead," House's voice is terse; his face is nonchalant but his forehead is furrowed.

"You almost were," The words are reflex; they aren't thought through but then it's too late—they're gone.

"And now?" House's fingers move to his neck; he notes his slow pulse, as well as the pallor of his skin.

"And now….you're like me." House's fingers have reached his mouth; they pause for a moment before pushing past his lips, feeling the teeth and gums beneath. Normal.

"Why don't I have…" But House doesn't need to finish, because Wilson's already answering.

There needs to be blood. House's eyes widen for a second as he realizes Wilson didn't speak; but he nods, then cracks a lopsided smile.

"God, this is cool."

"Oh, yeah. It's awesome. I almost kill you, and now we're both….you know."

But House isn't paying attention to him; his eyes drift shut and he breathes in loudly through his nose; he drifts closer to Wilson, inhaling deeply. Wilson feels House's lips brush his neck, light as a butterfly. The touch down for a moment, leaving a kiss behind before House pulls away, opens his eyes and looks at Wilson.

"God, you smell good." House speaks easily around elongated incisors; like his own, the come to a delicate point just above his bottom lip.

"We can get blood from the hospital," Wilson says; the words come out in a whisper, a sort of strangled cough. Because House is close, and all Wilson wants to do is lean forward, capture the other man's mouth with his own and take his taste in.

"We can do that later," House whispers as he moves for Wilson's neck once more. He licks the skin near Wilson's pulse, before biting down and letting Wilson's life flow past his lips.

He sees images, thoughts and moments.

Wilson, about four, hidden in the branches of a tree, watching other children play.

Wilson holding his mother's hand as she cries over his lost brother.

Wilson, looking at him on the first day they meet.

Wilson, as he presses against Julie, calling out her name but thinking of his.

Wilson looking down at House, praying the blood leaking from his wrist would work.

House gasps; the image dissipates as he swallows. Wilson's peering at him, concerned.

"You ok?"

"Never better." House laughs, presses his mouth against Wilson, who tastes his own blood moments later.

So this is really ok? Wilson asks House silently, pressing close until their chests touch, slow hearts synchronizing.

Yes. Can you imagine all the new ways I can torture Cuddy?

Wilson laughs into House's mouth. Vampire or not, the man is incorrigible.