Sorry for the long delay. This began as a Halloween fic, but RL and other deadlines got in the way. Part of the Blood Brothers 'verse, but this is a stand-alone. The whole story is written, so there will be quick updates.
Thanks to my wonderful betas: bookfan85 and leakey_lover for their sharp eyes and support.
Warning: AU. Slash. A little dark. A scary moment or two.
Disclaimer: Not mine or ever will be.
"What's wrong with abracadabra?" Wilson said as he unlocked his office door. "Isn't that what magicians say?"
"Yes. Lame-ass magicians," House responded. He stopped and reconsidered. "You're right. Abracadabra is perfect for your act."
Wilson took off his top hat and checked his hair in a hand mirror and grumbled.
"It's Halloween. I could hardly dress like a clown with the ball scheduled for tonight. The kids liked the performance. They applauded my disappearing bird trick—"
"—Because those pigeons found a way to miss the rest of your act," House finished for him.
Stretching out on the couch, House impatiently checked the time.
"The invitation said 8 PM and no earlier. We still have ten minutes," Wilson said as he carefully hung up his magician's tails and put aside the black, scarlet-lined cape. He shrugged into a simple black tux jacket. "I can't believe I didn't have to argue with you to dress up for this occasion."
House watched Wilson run his finger around his collar as if the shirt was choking him. He was enjoying Wilson's discomfort. "An invitation to your family's ball? I'm all over it. Can't believe you thought you could hide it from me, your partner and minion."
"Only for your own protection, House. God knows why I even tried." His eyebrows crinkled in concern at what the night might hold in store for them. He was jumpy and could not shake the feeling that the evening was going to end in disaster.
The tasteful, black-trimmed, ivory envelope had arrived at work, and Wilson thought he had successfully hidden it from House's prying eyes, burying it in a locked bottom drawer, jammed into a back folder in the middle of last year's budget projections.
But when he returned from rounds, House was sitting on the corner of his desk, eyes shining with delight, as he read the announcement out loud:
Principe Cesare Borgia
requests the pleasure of
Vassali James E. Wilson's
presence
for the "Come As You Were" Ball
in celebration of your family heritage
October 31st
at eight o'clock in the evening
Waldorf-Astoria
Wilson quickly grabbed the heavy embossed paper and pocketed it. His arms folded in front of his chest. "Oh, no, House. The invitation was addressed to me."
In his other hand, House waved a small card. "The RSVP says plus one."
Wilson's hand shot out at the speed of light. House felt a tug and the small rectangle vanished too.
"I'm required to go, but you're not. It's going to be boring."
"No way in hell will I miss this event. How could mingling with a five-hundred-year-old Italian Renaissance prince and his vampire family be dull?
A strangled laugh escaped Wilson's throat. "Mingling. Right. I can see you now, chitchatting with a roomful of vampires. I'll be lucky if I can bring what's left of you home in a doggy bag."
"I'll be on my best behavior."
"You don't have one."
"Please?" House stuck out his bottom lip in mock pleading. "I'll pay for your lunch."
"You are my lunch."
Despite the asperity in his partner's voice, House could tell the tension around the eyes was softening. "I'll shave."
"And wear a tux?"
House suppressed the glint of triumph from his eyes as he answered, "Yes, Master."
And now they were waiting in Wilson's darkened office to be transported.
Wilson showed him how they were to stand before they would be whisked away, then stepped aside and draped black fabric around his shoulders. Not meeting House's amused gaze, he secured a dramatic high-collared cape around his neck.
Wilson looked damned sexy and dignified in the cloak, House thought. Not that he would ever utter the statement out loud.
Standing behind House, Wilson wrapped his arms tightly and enfolded him in the soft loose fabric as they watched the desk clock count down the seconds…30, 29, 28, House reveled in every moment…18,17,16…Wilson nudging his earlobe…10, 9, 8… Wilson' citrus aftershave was an aphrodisiac 3, 2, 1…
"Wilson! What the fuck?"
House was left standing alone in the room.
Reality smacked House in the face.
Wilson had tricked him.
Had him jumping through hoops while never intending to take him along.
Forgotten like Cinderella on the eve of the ball.
House thumped his cane in anger, but instead of the sound of wood on carpet, a sharp rattle protested under the prodding tip. He gazed down at Wilson's cell phone. Why did he leave it behind?
Just then a beacon of light shined up from the floor. The phone was set on mute, but a message proclaimed an incoming call from a blocked caller.
House wanted to know who was calling.
"Dr. Wilson," House answered.
"Dr. House, a limousine is waiting for you downstairs." The line immediately went dead.
Raising his eyebrows, House considered the danger or consequences of his actions no longer than a second before he left his prop cane behind and sped out the door.
This evening promised not to be in the least boring.
Cinderella's pumpkin had nothing on the limousine that purred along highways and local streets. The driver sat stoically. Shaved head partially hidden under a cap. He never turned around or spoke.
The sleek vehicle never went over the speed limit, but never stopped for red lights—they all turned green within yards of the behemoth's approach.
The interior smelled of rich fragrant leather, and gold-plated knobs invited him to see what treasures lurked within the hand-rubbed teak cabinets. He discovered newspapers, books, a television, DVD with movies, a computer and games, but he chose a glass of hand-cut crystal, and poured two fingers of 100-year-old scotch. A humidor was stocked with the best hand-rolled cigars. He sat back and puffed on a Havana and savored the smooth amber liquid running down the back of his throat.
He could get used to this kind of life.
Before nine o'clock his limo passed the awning of the grande dame hotel. He was about to inform the chauffeur of his mistake when the palace-on-wheels whisked him to a private entrance, where two refugees from a late-night creature feature stood at attention in front of a gleaming bronze door. Seven feet of solid muscle, bald headed and otherwise hairless, they had washed-out gray eyes and their long naked canines were exposed for everyone to see. They looked like clones from an experiment gone wrong.
He was at the right place all right.
One of the goons approached the limousine, opened the door, and bowed. "Dr. House." The voice resonated from a register locked away in a cavern.
House climbed out of the car, rethinking his rash decision to come. He even turned longingly to the black cocoon that drove him here, but his ride had vanished. Probably turned back into a caterpillar.
The bass fiddle stood in front of him, inclined his head toward the opened door, and began walking. House followed, and the second hulk fell in behind. Inside, the two men flanked him as they steered through plush carpeted hallways and a labyrinth of period rooms, each looking older than the last. At one point, the hotel's elegant public rooms appeared to be reflected in a series of mirrors, but were left far behind as they headed for a bank of gated elevators that looked unused since Teddy Roosevelt was President.
The gate rattled open and the sliding doors screeched a welcome. Inside, another solemn giant manned the equipment. His new pals indicated that House should get in by patting him on the back in what the Geneva Conventions described as a shove, and he was soon ensconced among the three guards.
The floor dropped from under him like an amusement ride. He expected a case of the bends as the elevator free fell to its destination.
They jolted to a halt. Out of habit, House grabbed at a wall for support to take the weight off his right leg, but Wilson had ensured his comfort earlier that morning by dosing him with a whirlwind round of sex.
Which was a good thing. Otherwise he never would have been able to tackle the obstacle course his jailers were taking him through.
He walked out onto a landing reminiscent of a 1920s gothic movie set. Something from The Hunchback of Notre Dame or Phantom of the Opera.
The windowless halls were high, with slender stone ribs arching upward, coming together at the peak of the ceiling like praying hands. A velvety red runner covered the stone floor, muffling the echo of his footsteps. His journey ended when one of the expressionless goons unlocked and opened a heavy iron door, revealing a simple square chamber resembling a bank vault. The walls and floor were made of black-and-white-flecked granite. Firelight from torches made the mica in the walls dance and sparkle. In the center was a backless bench from the same quarry, but the surface shined like a mirror.
The talkative one pointed to the bench.
House did as he was told and sat down. The two men took up sentry duty on either side.
There was little to claim his attention. The wall before him had a brushed steel door with no hinges or knobs. There were no windows, pictures, or warming carpet.
The impersonal stone chilled the room and darkened his soul.
He thought, Wilson has abandoned and sacrificed me to his family of demons.
House lay down with his back against the slab, hands clasped on his stomach, legs dangling and swinging over the edge, as if he hadn't a care in the world.
It was not the first time someone close threw him out in the cold to suffer and fend for himself.
He would manage.
He always did.
tbc (very, very soon!)
Thank you for reading. Any comments always welcome.