Written for the livejournal spook_me community, the story is also a gift for hwshipper who kindly loaned her original characters, Linus and Raul for this story.
Enjoy!
"What are you waiting for? Don't care how you do it, but get the patient to eat the fruit bouquet sent to his room, and give him an MRI. If Foreman's diagnosis is correct, our patient will be cured. In the future, math teachers everywhere will cite Foreman's research paper as undisputed proof apples can't mix with oranges."
After the team dispersed, House sprawled in his chair and tossed his ball against the wall, going over last evening. Wilson had mastered a new skill in his spell book. To think once upon a time he had felt jealous whenever Wilson cracked open the cover. Now it topped his personal erotica best seller list. Wilson introduced him to a new position that had him floating on air. Literally. Wrapped in a tangle of arms and legs, Wilson had sucked his neck. They levitated two inches above the mattress and stayed that way as long as they were connected, body and soul, engaging in heated, dazzling sex.
He rubbed the scarred trough underneath his jeans. Not a squeal or a twinge. No drug or therapy could quench the fire in his leg the way Wilson could. The only side effect was Wilson developed a limp for a few hours. On a workday, he usually stayed put in his office until it went away.
House's stomach suddenly pinged him. Wasn't it lunchtime? He had lost all sense of time while teasing a decent diagnosis from the team, albeit a wrong one. He relaxed and shut his eyes. Dialing into Wilson's frequency was always easier The Day After. Depending upon what Wilson was doing, he expected a reluctant hello wrapped in weariness or exasperation. Since he knew Wilson liked playing the martyr, it never stopped him. What he sensed now made him sit up in his seat. Chilly fear prickled the base of his spine, racing upwards. He broke the connection and went to Wilson's office.
Barging in, no horrific tableau greeted him, but a swatch of tension hung in the air so thick, fabric shears could cut it. Wilson was consulting with a patient—one House recognized and actually tolerated. Linus's number must have come up. A part of Wilson's job he didn't envy. "Not a good time?" He stepped back into the hall.
"No it's not, but it's not what you think. Since you're here..." Wilson waved him toward the couch. "I was going over Linus's latest test results." Wilson glanced reassuringly at Linus. "No sign of cancer. We were interrupted by a messenger delivering a package," he pointed to a small box in Linus's lap, "addressed to him."
"I was expecting Raul," Linus explained. "The dear boy insisted he'd take off work early to be with me. It's not like him to be late, but I chalked it up to traffic."
House grew impatient. Linus, in his charming way, was always willing to take the scenic route before getting to the point.
Wilson blurted, "Show him, Linus." If it weren't for the odd feral gleam glinting from the dark eyes, House would have read the look as impatience, but it registered in his gut as something else.
"I was mistaken. Raul had arrived." Linus peeled back the flaps on the cardboard container, and placed it in House's hands. "At least a piece of him."
He threw a cursory glance at the note before fishing out a plastic baggie. House peered at the contents closely. There was a handsome catseye ring with something undeniably surprising attached. "Awesome."
"House!" Wilson's tone implied dire consequences awaited him if he didn't say something sociably acceptable.
"Come on," he whined. "It's not everyday someone receives a severed finger."
Wilson was right. He shouldn't have said what he did. Shortly after, Linus went into hysterics. Only a syringe of proponol could quiet him. Sleeping peacefully, his large frame occupied every inch of the couch, his long legs overflowing the armrest.
Wilson's hands were planted firmly on his hips. "Why aren't we calling the police? The FBI?"
"Linus and Raul aren't the target. We are. Your everyday kidnapper doesn't read WebMD. The finger was wrapped in moist gauze with a gel pack in the box. There's every possible chance for a successful reattachment, providing Raul isn't returned dead and incapable of using any finger." House waved the note under Wilson's nose. "And this isn't a typical message from a kidnapper. No mention of money. Just an Atlantic City address written in a flowery scroll as if it were an invitation to high tea. What do you make of the red ink?"
Wilson snatched the note, eyes glazing slightly as he brought it to his face. He sniffed it and the contents of the bag. "It's written in Raul's blood." His skin tone drained to pearly white, revealing his undead origin. "The Count. This is his revenge for us interfering with his plan to embrace Cuddy." As if on cue, the note fizzed and vaporized into a curl of smoke, establishing Vlad as the author while destroying the evidence. "Now what?"
"We sit tight. We have twelve hours until the finger is cat food. I'll bet you a hundred bucks Vlad dumps him in front of the hospital before the time is up."
"Do nothing?" Wilson collapsed into his chair. "What if—" He shuddered. "What if Vlad has a Plan B? Replace Cuddy with Raul?"
Wilson had a point. Raul was one hunk of gorgeous manflesh. House shrugged. "Win some, lose some."
Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but House cut him off. "I get Linus is a friend of your very good friend, Chris, but attempting to save Linus's boy toy will get us killed. Vlad is counting on us to fall into his trap."
Wilson shook his head and stood up. "There's no reason you have to come with, but I have to go. What was the address? Six sixty-six something? A hotel?"
"The days of Camelot are long gone, Wilson." House rolled his eyes. "Stay out of it."
"I want to, House, but I'm bound by the Code." Wilson's looked miserable. "Disobeying a summons from senior management is a punishable offense."
A heavy weight pressed against House's heart. "Hell Pit punishable?"
Wilson nodded, shrugging out of his lab coat. "If there's a den, I shouldn't have any trouble finding the place on my own. I'll call you when I get there."
House put his hand out. "Wait." He reached for his pager. "Chase can babysit Linus and Little Raul until we get back."
They pulled up to the Ocean Court Hotel. It was nowhere near the ocean or courtly. What it was, was a no frills six-story building constructed of red brick held together with crumbling mortar. The last paying guest had dropped his room key at the front desk in 1970.
They walked the perimeter, testing doors and boarded windows until they reached the front entrance, which opened with ease. "Of course," Wilson said, walking in first, waving that the coast was clear.
Nothing in the lobby seemed recently disturbed. At the stairwell House sniffed the air. "Dusty with a sharp note of musty." House nodded at Wilson. "Laced with the faint stench of your landsman. Let's see what my cane tells us." Waving it around the space like a Geiger counter, he felt heat pulsating through the handle. "I can't get a fix on an exact location. It's moving too fast."
"Are you sure it's a vampire?" Wilson's concern shadowed his face.
Pointing to the opposite wall, House focused on the flow of warmth in his palm. "Nothing. Nothiiiing. Now! Nothing."
"Nosferatu move at off-the-chart speeds," Wilson said, his voice cracking.
"Confirming we're in the right place," House answered with more bravado than he felt. "What about your tracking powers. Any telltale heartbeats?"
Wilson bowed his head and went stock-still. "There's someone in the east corner below us. Must be the basement."
House's foot clanked against the metal step just as Wilson touched his shoulder. "This is as far as you go. I'll take it from here."
He twirled his cane, making light of the situation. "You know we're better together."
"If something should happen to you..." Wilson chewed on his bottom lip, not looking him in the eye.
"It won't."
"It could."
"Don't make me play my minion or hunter cards."
"No you don't." Wilson pointed a finger. "Granted you have a knack for locating vampires, but so do I. And don't guilt me into believing you take your minion duties seriously. If you're a minion, I'm Betty Crocker."
"Not Betty. Her granddaughter." House thought Wilson's mouth twitched. "Look, I don't know when or what or why it happened, but we're locked into this vamp universe for good or bad together. I'm coming with."
"Yeah." Wilson rolled his eyes. "Glad we reached an agreement whether or not you behave like a minion. Let's go."
Enough light entered through the waxy street-level windows to avoid tripping over the decades-old hotel décor that was strewn everywhere. He and Wilson walked single file past three legged chairs, dented televisions, lopsided stacks of orphaned drawers, and mildewed storage boxes marked in crayon, "This side up." Rat and mouse droppings caught in the tread of his shoes. The further he advanced, the taller the wreckage grew until it was higher than his head. He looked back. "You're sure there's someone here?"
"The heartbeat's louder."
He continued until he reached a dead end—a wall constructed of cartons. With Wilson's help they were jiggled boxes until there was enough space to squirm in between. On the other side, the area opened onto a flat landscape filled with discarded food wrappers, drug paraphernalia, and torn, urine soaked mattresses.
"Jackpot," House said, not wasting his energy on enthusiasm. At the far end Raul slumped in a chair, ropes biting into his biceps, his right hand a boxing mitt of gauze. Wilson dashed ahead.
House took up guard while Wilson checked vital signs. "Is he in shock?"
"No. He's sedated."
"Cozy. He and Linus are a matched set."
House scanned the bleak surroundings. Everything was quiet. Nothing moved. Nothing. But the handle of his cane grew hotter. It was also doing a fair job imitating a foghorn. "No time for physicals. We gotta get out of here."
The place was giving him the willies. When Wilson pulled out a pinky-sized pocketknife attached to his key ring, House fought hard to dial down his sarcasm. "This would be a good time to show off your superpowers, Master."
Slipping the knife back into his pocket. Wilson tugged on the rope. It snapped like sewing thread. Hoisting Raul over his shoulder, he returned to House's side, immediately focusing on the thrumming. "Why does your cane sound like a lightsaber?"
"I don't know." House loosened the foil from the scabbard. No longer silver-white, it glowed orange and shed heat like freshly forged steel, transforming to a flat, double-edged blade.
A piercing shriek was followed by gurgled screams. Something on the top of the cardboard fortress moved—a swollen, purple hand, fingers jerking uncontrollably as if they wanted to break free. The skin burst like an overripe grape, exposing ivory phalanges.
Wilson broke a long strip of iron from a bed frame. He traced a figure eight in the air, ready to do battle.
A rushing roar as if from a broken dam echoed off the walls and a river of zombies dropped from their perch. Lurching, Technicolor entrails dangled from their abdomens. Strips of muscle wiggled in a gothic hula. House held his blade above his head with both hands, willing himself not to gag on the stench of sour stomachs and full bowels.
A zombie broke from the pack howling, coming within striking distance. The sword crashed against its neck. With a satisfying crunch of metal shattering bone the head flew off and the body crumbled. He developed a rhythm: Manic zombie, whoosh, decommissioned, next.
While never letting go of Raul's limp body, Wilson managed to crack skulls open like they were walnuts. Gray oatmeal splattered the walls.
The parade of zombies seemed endless until suddenly, there were none left. Standing in the vanquished's muck, he shared a relieved smile with Wilson.
"The Count underestimated us again," Wilson said smugly, repositioning Raul on his shoulder, wrapping his arm around the back of his legs.
"Haven't you watched enough horror films to know you never say that?"
They trekked through the narrow Neverland of cheesy furniture. "Watch for any incoming," House warned as the hellish stink returned. Two zombies appeared from nowhere, blocking escape or retreat.
These walkers were different than the other flock. Mostly skeletal, the muscle tissue looked mummified as if they spent off time in a bouncy tent filled with silica crystals. They were wiry and fast.
House swung his sword, but was hampered by the confined space. He couldn't get enough power behind his swing to do damage and was forced on the defensive. His back to Wilson, he had no idea how he was faring.
Nothing slowed his combatant. Slipping on a curtain rod, House lost his balance and fell to the ground. The zombie pounced, digging bony fingers into his neck, strangling him. But without the maxi load of organs and muscle, it was a lightweight. Dropping his sword, he clutched onto the clavicle, pushing upward and down, successfully turning the tables and pinning the zombie to the ground. He kneed it in the chest, caving the ribs. The teeth clacked and went still.
Before he could help Wilson, war whoops announced another contingent. Two zombies jumped him from above, punching and kicking. He grabbed a wrist, but three fists constantly battered his face and shoulders. How many had he already fought? A dozen? A hundred? Short of breath, he closed his eyes and waited for searing pain to drive the life out of him.
The nasty scent of tar stung his nostrils, thick woolen cloth fluttered over his face, and the high-pitched whine of yelping dogs rang in his ears. The pummeling had stopped. Opening his eyes, he saw a dark beast efficiently pulverizing his attackers by smashing their skulls together.
"House!" Wilson yelled.
The black cloud disappeared. Wilson's worried face and Raul's round firm ass occupied the airspace above his head. "Are you alright?"
"Yep, but less than factory fresh condition." He held out his hand. "Help me up."
"Mmm, fresh enough for me." Wilson's mouth sought his, planting a deep, affectionate kiss.
Too short to suit him, Wilson disengaged and retrieved his sword, which had returned to original form. Returning it to the sheath and wobbly from the beating, House used it for support.
When they were safely outside, House asked, "Did you recognize who the Uncle Fester was that saved me?"
"The Nosferatu? Frankly, they're hard to tell apart, even for clan members."
House had a new puzzle. Why was a Nos in the midst of Vlad's crew, working against him?
Stowing a sleeping Raul safely in the backseat, he and Wilson buckled up. House checked his watch. "Even if we hit commute traffic we have…" He noticed a tiny pinprick in his shirtsleeve. The skin underneath felt warm and sensitive to the touch.
Fussing with his hair in the rearview mirror, Wilson absently finished his sentence for him. "Plenty of time."
A tingling sensation in his forearm urged him to look, but not in front of Wilson. "Don't take the scenic route. The sooner we get to the hospital, the more likelihood Raul's surgery will be a success."
While Chase was operating, Wilson sat with Linus, reassuring him that everything would be fine.
Feeling achy after the day's activity, House went to his office in search of a stray bottle of Vicodin. He downed two pills, and pocketed the rest. Ducking into a supply closet, he snatched first aid supplies and ditched into an unoccupied men's room, locking the door.
The merciless fluorescents revealed a half-moon of rosy dots and dashes under his sleeve. The bite had bruised but not pierced his skin. But if that were true, why couldn't he shake the sensation of ants crawling beneath his skin? A closer look with his reading glasses showed one spot darker than the rest—a puncture from an incisor.
This called for a test. Releasing the foil, he waved it over his skin. It hummed with a soft purr. Whenever the weapon passed over the bite, a small portion of the foil flattened and blushed like a new dawn, darkening to a robust sunset and discharging waves of heat. Was there such a thing as a non-deadly bite? Was there an antidote? Where would he go for information?
House studied the blade. It had made slaying the walking dead child's play, slicing off heads like a hot knife through butter. He downed another Vicodin and positioned the blade across his arm. When the heat singed the hair, he pressed it against the wound until the flesh sizzled and dark spots clouded his vision.
Dropping the sword, he clutched the sink with his good arm, hissing in pain. As soon as he recovered enough to concentrate, he applied salve to the raw, red welt and covered it with a bandage.
House paused the chaos on the big screen, realizing Wilson had returned from the hospital. "Are we still heroes?"
"Do you care?" Wilson signaled House to move his feet so he could join him on the couch. "Raul and Linus were disappointed when I showed up without you."
House made a lewd gesture. "They didn't need me. I had already given them the finger."
"Actually, the Count did. You reunited it with its owner."
"Same difference." House grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl resting on his chest, and crammed it into his mouth. "What did you find out?"
"Last thing Raul remembered was working on a boat. A young couple came on board, asking what he charged. The next thing he knew he was in the hospital. He had no idea how he cut his finger and too high on painkillers to care. Chase said there was a good chance of minimal nerve damage. Linus couldn't stop beaming. He's sending you a case of his best Cabernet."
"Wish I had it instead of a beer." House took a hefty swig. In doing so, his sleeve rode up, revealing the bandage. Wilson was on him like latex gloves.
"When did you get hurt?"
"It's nothing."
"Yesterday? At the hotel?"
House tried heading off the interrogation by shaking his head, but he wasn't fast enough. Wilson had already ripped off the dressing and was staring at his arm. The skin was smooth and a healthy pink. All but three teeth marks had vanished. The rest had faded. He smiled. "I didn't want to worry you, but you can see the bite never broke the skin."
"Crap. You could have told me."
"Was there something you could have done?"
Wilson flopped back onto the couch. "No. You're one lucky bastard, House."
"I am." He took another swallow of beer and smacked his lips. "Can you shut up now and let me get back to the documentary?"
"What are you watching?"
House idly scratched the bite mark while punching the remote. "Shaun of the Dead."