Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blood on his face, on his hands. It was a puzzle like any House had solved before. But this was one he found himself reluctant to solve.

Blood on his face, for a moment he’d thought Wilson was injured. A wide gash where his mouth once was, he’d been afraid, until he’d noticed his lips and his chin intact underneath the coat of blood. His hands were dripping, something shiny clutched within them, like some glassy bloodsoaked spirit held down to earth---or like a plastic blood bag.

House leaned against the wall where he’d ducked behind. He didn’t usually get overwhelmed by blood. What he was overwhelmed by was confusion. He needed a moment to put together the pieces, before he could confront Wilson.

The facts did not suggest anything normal. 

House had noticed Wilson acting tetchy and clutching suspiciously at a large brown messenger bag he normally didn’t take to work. Of course, with Julie cheating on him and another divorce underway, it was no shock he was acting weird. But House was bored and quite ready to snoop around Wilson’s business, however dull it undoubtedly was.

They both drove back to House’s apartment, and the rest of the night went pretty normally. Except, no matter how much House tried to orchestrate a reason for Wilson to let go of that bag, he just wouldn’t do it. House tossed a jacket, keys, and even a bottle of beer at him, but he just caught everything one-handed, except for the beer, which he sheepishly cleaned up, the bag still close by his side the entire time. He rested his elbow on it the whole time they watched a movie, and ignored House’s egging about how he probably needed to use the restroom soon. Seriously, he must not have been hydrating enough. House was at the end of line and pretended to fall so Wilson would be forced to catch him and let go of the bag. In the chaos, House hoped, he would be able to snatch it away. All House got for his troubles were a few forming bruises and a deeply apologetic expression from Wilson---which was worth jack shit, for the record.

Finally, House subsided in his plotting and pretended to be turning in for the night. He waited until all the lights were off, until Wilson had laid down, and then he crept to the living room as quietly as he was able, holding the walls carefully to avoid stumbling and making a noise.

Wilson was laying on the couch in the dark, but he didn’t look like he was asleep. He looked tense. The brown bag was down by the side of the couch, right beneath Wilson’s dangling hand. House must have watched for only five minutes before Wilson got up.

He tensed, thinking Wilson must have noticed him somehow and planning to pretend at getting some item from the fridge. But Wilson just quietly picked up the bag and went to the front door.

The door was old, and made terrible creaking noises that would have woken House up if he wasn’t already up. Real subtle, House rolled his eyes.

He left shortly after Wilson and located him walked down the street at a carefully-controlled pace, the bag at his side. He followed from a distance, a hoodie he’d grabbed pulled over his head. It was the dead of night, but the streetlights made it easy to see.

Only a couple blocks from House’s apartment, Wilson veered off into an alleyway between a deli House had been banned from and another apartment building.

House’s mind rushed with exciting possibilities. The most likely, but also the most nonsensical, was that Wilson was stealing-and-dealing. Having the bag at the hospital, being so protective over it, and leaving with it in the middle of the night? It was classic. But House didn’t really buy the story. It had to be more interesting than that.

So he peeked around the deli, and that was when he saw Wilson, blood on his face, on his hands, hunched over near a dumpster.

As House thought over the facts of the situation, he could heard crinkling, grunting, and gasping from the alley. Then there was some spitting, and a variety of other familiar repulsed noises Wilson had made whenever House snuck something particularly nasty into his food.

There was quiet for a moment, and then a long, disgusted sigh. This was also a familiar sound to House.

House quickly realized that he needed to get back to his apartment before Wilson did, no matter how much he wanted to stay and listen for any more clues. Though he was still itching with curiosity, his walking pace was far slower than Wilson’s and he needed the head start.

He made his way home, doing his best to hide under trees and in asides. He didn’t dare to sneak a look behind him, knowing that was the number one way to make himself appear very suspicious. But if Wilson saw him, it wasn’t like there were a lot of guys with limps and canes living around here. House was pretty sure Wilson had memorized his gait at some point too, because he always knew when House had entered the room, even before looking at him.

At some point, he swore he heard quick footsteps behind him, though they could have come from anywhere. At another, he thought he heard Wilson grunting like he had in the alleyway. But it was a quick, glancing sound, and when he ran over it again in his head it didn’t really sound like Wilson at all. Regardless, he’d begun to sweat, his leg twinging sharply. His heartbeat was up and his hand squeezed more tightly around his cane than what he usually considered good handling.

His hairs standing up on the back of his neck, he was acutely aware of every creak, drip, and thud in his hearing radius. At some point, disconcertingly, he had begun to feel hunted .

He made it back to 221B Baker Street.

Feeling very much like a little kid, he closed his front door and scrambled under his covers, as if that would stop the big bad monster under the bed from dragging him down by the ankle.

What must have been less than three minutes later, he heard the door creak open again. He laid in bed with his eyes closed. He’d kept his bedroom door open, as that was how he’d left it when he turned in.

He could hear the sound of Wilson stepping through the apartment. The shuffle of fabric as something was set down. The kitchen sink was turned on, rushing water for a few minutes more until it was turned off, dripping very much like blood from Wilson’s hands in that alley.

Then the footsteps came closer, closer until House’s skin prickled the way it did when he was being watched.

He was standing in right outside of the bedroom. If House opened his eyes, he would see the silhouette of a man in the open doorway.

How long he watched, it was ridiculous. House kept his breathing steady and his eyes closed. It was difficult to fool a doctor into believing you were asleep when you were actually pumped full of adrenaline, but House had a lot of practice feigning sleep when he didn’t want to be bothered.

Wilson stood in the door for seven minutes. He counted.

Then he stepped away and returned to bed, taking that prickling feeling of being watched with him. House kept up the charade of sleep for a little while longer, and then turned over. He was stewing. He shoved his knuckle into his thigh as he thought with a mental whiteboard, turning over ideas in his head.

Finally, in the early morning, just as Wilson was going to be waking up and turning on his very annoying hair dryer, House settled on the only reasonable answer.

Doctor James Wilson, his longtime friend and colleague, as well as his current roommate, was a vampire.

House wasn’t one of those morons who dismissed vampires for fiction. Maybe he would have been a decade ago, when all he had to go on were stories and tentative government acknowledgement of those strange people who had cravings for blood and razor sharp teeth, but he’d treated one before. A little girl, at one of his previous positions. She’d been the strangest case he’d come across at that point, though later there were other cases that would trump it. She was inexplicably starving to death, despite eating much more than was necessary for a girl of her age and having no clear issues with her metabolism or any sort of cancer or HIV that would explain it. Another doctor had tentatively suggested the idea of feeding her blood. He’d been too embarrassed to even say the word “vampire”, but he’d eventually been convinced to speak about a cousin who was bit and began to change, craving blood to survive.

The blood was intended for transfusions, but they’d given her a small, juicebox-sized pouch. The moment she smelled it, those sharp teeth sprouted from her gums and she sucked it down instantly.

“It tastes like food. It’s cold,” she said, “It’s gross. But I want more. Warm.”

She’d been removed from the hospital by some government suits before House had the opportunity to really understand her condition. House still regretted not throwing more of a fit at the time.

But there was a lot of information about vampires floating around, if you knew where to look and what to discount.

By midday he’d collected a small document of vampire facts, some facts more fudgey than others. Since that little girl he treated ten years ago, research had advanced significantly. There had been one study done on a group of homeless teens presenting the symptoms of vampirism. This one had a lot of details, not all of them reliable. The most juicy-sounding paper was an autopsy of a dead vampire found on the street and taken to the Norfolk County coroner on suspicion of disease. When the coroner cracked him open, he was shocked to find a mutated digestive system. This could have meant a variety of things, but the key information came later, when a few local vampire nuts broke into the coroner’s office and took apart the jaw to find a set of extra teeth embedded in the skin above the normal human thirty-two. Unfortunately, because the coroner later denied vampirism and the extra teeth were stolen by enthusiasts, the paper was only so reliable. Since that case, vampire teeth dupes and other such memorabilia had flooded Norfolk, even more so than in other places.

Vampires were real, without a doubt. They were just under-researched and in hiding. Since confirmed cases of vampirism were pounced on by the state, it was really wise for vampires to be careful about being found out.

Wilson being a vampire was very bad news; he was about as subtle as a baseball bat to the knees. Which was why House was so confused it had taken him this long to figure it out.

Surely there had been other times Wilson was jonesing for a bite? Why hadn’t the fangs ever slipped out during one of the many bloody medical emergencies that occurred in his career? Even a simple blood draw should have been enough of a scent for him to react. That was how it had worked for the homeless teens in the vampirism study---except for a rare few. There was no way Wilson had been surviving off of blood bags all this time. For one, someone would have noticed the missing blood, and House or anyone else would have noticed his suspicious thieving behavior. It wasn’t like he carried that bag to work every four weeks, which was about how often the vamp teens had to feed to prevent starvation. Additionally, Wilson did not look like a vampire. The teens were all sallow and thin in the few pictures taken. They were the stereotype of a corpselike vampire. Wilson had always had a healthy weight and a flushed face full of life.

Perhaps, House thought, he was looking at this all wrong. The teens were a case study, in specific circumstances. They were all homeless and hungry, rarely getting blood from different hobos, for bribes or by force.

Perhaps Wilson was what a very well-fed vampire looked like.

He had money, he was respected, and he had a steady job. The amount of blood required to sustain a vampire wasn’t that much strain on a grown adult, especially if taken in small doses and given time to recuperate. It must not have been that difficult to pay some schmuck to let him slurp at their veins a little.

Except, Wilson hadn’t looked well-fed recently. He’d been a little pale, and a little snippy, and he’d stolen blood from the hospital and sloppily consumed it not far from House’s apartment.

The only recent change in his life was his divorce.

It clicked. Of course! Julie must have known about his vampirism, and must have been letting him feed on her. Oh, how delicious it was for the ever-gracious Wilson to be literally sucking the life from his spouse.

The reason he was hungry was because he didn’t have Julie anymore. Stealing blood was not a viable long-term solution. Wilson would need a new donor, and soon, before he got so hungry he was vamping out in the hospital like the homeless teens or the little girl he treated.

House reviewed the information he’d collected once more, rubbing his cane on his chin, and made a decision about how he would confront Wilson.

Chapter Text

The best spot would be in House’s apartment after work, for privacy. Perhaps it would be safer to confront him in a public place, but House knew that Wilson would not hurt him, secret bloodsucker or no.

“So,” House leaned against the door.

Wilson paused where he was about to slip off his jacket. They’d just come back, and Wilson still seemed frazzled from the day. Good. House wanted the advantage of him being out of sorts for this conversation.

“What is it?” Wilson asked warily.

“I’ve been wanting to do something charitable recently. So I’ve decided to volunteer.”

Wilson smiled a little, puzzled, “Volunteer for what exactly?”

“I’m volunteering to be your blood bag. Obviously.”

Wilson froze. Then he laughed the most unconvincing laugh he’d ever laughed, “What are you talking about?”

“I know about your toothy little secret, and I’m not talking about your vagina,” he tapped his mouth, “I’m talking about the teeth up here.”

Wilson spluttered, “Are you high?”

“Ohh no, you don’t get to deflect with that. I know you’re a vampire , Wilson. And I know that since your wife left you’ve been craving a ride on the red horse. That’s why you stole that blood bag, and that’s why you’ve looked so bad recently. Well, you’re in luck because I’m offering my services,” House stuck out his wrist in Wilson’s face, sure to turn his arm so the veins were visible, “So drink up.”

Wilson was quiet for a moment longer. For half a second, House was expecting more denial. Then he quietly said, “I’m not feeding from you, House.”

“Why not?”

“It’s the last thing you need right now. The last thing I need,” he dodged House’s outstretched arm and sat down heavily on the couch.

“It’s the first thing you need right now. You look like shit, if I haven’t already mentioned it. And if you get hungry enough you’re gonna start sprouting teeth at the hospital any time you get a whiff of blood.”

Wilson looked at him sharply, “I guess you’ve done research.”

“I treated one of you ghouls a while ago. I know my way around the block. Which is why I know you need to feed.”

“I’ll find another donor. It’s not hard. I have a few floating around I haven’t been in touch with in a while. I just got too comfortable feeding from Julie. Now I have to go back to doing it the old-fashioned way. No big deal.”

“Or you could let me replace Julie.”

“House,” Wilson rubbed at his brow, “It’s better that I don’t have a personal relationship with my donors. That’s what got me in trouble this time.”

“It’s not like we’re getting divorced anytime soon. We’re friends.”

“Which is why I won’t jeopardize your health by sucking your blood.”

“Is this because of the infarction?” House accused, “You don’t want my nasty tainted blood?”

Wilson jolted upright, “No, of course not! Your blood is tainted.”

House had been joking, but it was funny that Wilson thought that was actually something he would be insecure about.

“Then drink me!”

“I said no,” Wilson stood up, “Now I’m going to sleep and you’re going to stop harassing me about this.”

House crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow that said going to sleep on MY couch?

“Or I can go get a hotel room for the night, if that’s better,” Wilson raised an eyebrow right back.

Grumbling, House retired to bed, bested this time. But he was already brewing up a plot in his head.

Through the next two weeks, House did his absolute best to drive Wilson to the end of his rope.

He traced his every move so he was unable to get away for even a moment. Every time he thought Wilson might be about to go to a donor or about to steal blood, he dogged his steps relentlessly until Wilson gave up, looking queasily at him with the dim shine of rage in his eyes. If Wilson did say “fuck it” and decided to feed in front of him that was just as much of a victory as if Wilson didn’t feed. But it was weird that Wilson consistently preferred to not feed in front of House to feeding at all. Surely he was hungry, especially after so many years of consistent satiation. Perhaps he just didn’t want House uncovering all of his secret methods. Probably a smart impulse; House would just start sabotaging them too.

Every time he knew Wilson was coming in for a consult, House made sure that the smell of blood was in the air, either by pricking his fingers on a sterile needle, or by drawing a small vial of blood and hiding it behind a monitor so the smell filled the room like a gory potpourri. The metallic stink was undetectable to House in such small amounts, but Wilson clearly smelled it, because he stiffened whenever he entered the room, glaring at House’s hands or at the approximate location of the vial. 

Still, he was controlled enough not to slip any teeth or pounce for a taste, which was disappointing but not unexpected. Wilson could be stubborn as hell when he wanted to be.

Wilson just took to avoiding consults and passing along information through one of House’s fellows, all of whom kept shooting them confused looks every time they started snipping.

Wilson briefly entered his office to give him a few scans, and immediately stiffened up when he smelled the room.

House grinned and held out a hand to take the scans, his ring finger punctured just a tiny bit before Wilson entered the room. He’d been trying to get Wilson close enough to rub traces of blood onto his skin, but Wilson had a radar for the stuff and always managed to get away.

Wilson tossed the scans onto his desk from far enough away that House couldn’t contrive a reason to brush his fingers against his hands.

“Boo,” House pouted.

“Surely your fingers are all sore by now,” Wilson crossed his arms. He was looking particularly pale today, “And there’s no way this is sanitary.”

It was true. House’s fingers were sore. He’d been consistently pricking them most days, not to mention the back of his hands where he’d been extracting vials worth of blood.

“So just give in and drink me then.”

“House.”

“I won’t give up until you do it.”

Wilson turned on his heel and walked away.

Fine. House would have to escalate.

He set it for a time when he, Cuddy, and Wilson would all be in the room. House had only tried targeting Wilson when they were alone or in front of his fellows before. Wilson probably thought he wouldn’t dare try anything in front of Cuddy. He was stupid for thinking House had any limits.

Cuddy’s desk had metal supports, one of which was jagged at the edges and over-long. It needed to be fixed, hammered back into place, but she hadn’t gotten around to it. Probably, she was hoping to instead get a new, nicer desk. But in the meantime, House had bumped into that jagged corner hard many times, and it hurt like a bitch.

Some ways through the meeting, as their arguing was reaching a head and everyone was distracted with anger, House stood up and started pacing as he spoke. It was a very calculated series of events that led to him tripping and scraping his arm right against that jagged metal corner.

It hurt more than the needles he’d been using. It was blunt and rough, but it did the trick of ripping open a sizable gash in his forearm.

Cuddy gasped, jumping to her feet at the sight of the bright red blood and House on the floor. It was a good place for strong flow, and a drip of blood had already crept around his arm and onto the tile.

He looked up. Wilson had slapped a hand over his mouth. He was trembling, clutching hard at the armrest on his chair, and curved over with his eyes trained ravenously on the gash.

House had already pretty much confirmed it, but this was the first time he saw proof with his own eyes of Wilson’s vampirism.

He smiled.

“I’ll get help,” Wilson blurted through his hand, and fled the room.

House hadn’t expected to immediately be sucked dry in Cuddy’s office, but it was still a little disappointing.

Long after the gash was securely bandaged, Wilson grabbed him and hissed, “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“No, I’m trying to feed you, which is actually really generous.”

Wilson scoffed, “You’re never generous. You’re just being stubborn. You want me to feed on you and you don’t care how I feel about it. This is about control for you. You just want to win and have it your way.”

House scowled, because he was fucking right, “Why. Why don’t you want to drink from me?”

“House.”

“I deserve to know, at least. And if your answer makes sense, I’ll respect your wishes and leave you alone.”

Wilson laughed, “That does not sound like you.”

“I pinky promise. The only reason I’m still harassing you is because you haven’t given me any decent reason. I’m curious.”

“Aren’t you always,” Wilson rubbed at his wan face, his cheekbones sharper than usual, “If I give you a reason, you’ll leave me alone?”

“If it’s a good reason, and I can’t fix the problem.”

“I just don’t want to jeopardize your health at all. You have enough issues with your leg. I won’t add to it.”

House rolled his eyes. Ever selfless, this idiot. House had no idea how he’d managed this long. Still, it gave him a new avenue to convince Wilson this was a good idea, “Not sure if you know this, but when you guys feed you actually release a natural painkiller. Relaxes the muscles, prevents squirming, relieves discomfort. It’s supposed to be pretty full-body.”

House was semi-hoping this information was true. The studies he got it from weren’t the most reliable.

“I’ve heard that,” Wilson shifted uncomfortably, “So you’re just using me to get high, is that it?”

“No, I’m using you to lessen my Vicodin dose.”

Wilson stilled.

“I know it’s not healthy to take as much as I do. If you’re feeding every once in a while whatever vampire shit you produce can replace some of the Vicodin, and preserve my health a little.”

Wilson grudgingly said, “The blood loss still isn’t healthy.”

“I’m guessing you have at least one donor still lined up. You can divide between us. If I’m estimating right, the amount you need is about a quart every week.”

“A little more than that, but yes.”

“That’s not enough to have an effect on me, especially if you have other donors to fall back on. I can be a consistent source of blood for you, and you won’t have to steal, switch donors, and risk getting caught.”

Wilson winced, a mixture of guilt and embarrassment crossing his face.

“You’re awfully eager about this,” Wilson said, “Most people would be scared.”

“You’re a big teddy bear, even about sucking blood. Imagine being scared of that.”

“I can be scary if I want to be.”

“Do we have a deal?”

Wilson sighed, looking a bit ill. This was the expression he got whenever he was about to do something he thought was stupid. This game belonged to House.

“Fine. We’ll try this out. I feed on you, you cut down on the Vicodin, and we’ll see how it goes. If I doubt your safety at any point in this trial, I’m pulling the plug.”

“And I’ll do the same,” House promised, smiling unconvincingly when Wilson gave him a doubtful frown.

“I’m surprised you’re offering up something for once. It’s quite the sacrifice,” he sounded rueful.

“Yeah, well. I’m getting more than enough in return.”

Less pain in his leg and less nagging about his addiction was just fine in his books. Also, House was really, really curious about the feeding process. This was almost entirely a selfish offer. But House would never have offered up his blood if it wasn’t going to benefit him in some way.

“There’s a process we need to go through,” Wilson was suddenly businesslike, “A basic checkup, some tests for bloodborn diseases. You’ll look at my own tests too, of course. This is what it’s like for all my donors.”

“I don’t need to look at your tests. If you’ve been sucking as carefully as this the whole time I doubt you have anything.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, “I want you to look anyway. Do it for me.”

“Fine.”

There was a pause.

House began, “I do have a few questions, just medical curiosity---”

“Don’t push it.”

Chapter Text

House let Wilson go about his business, though he still seemed pale and thin even after he went out one night to visit a donor. It was probably hard to convince a random person to part with the amount of blood necessary to feed Wilson, money or no. Before Julie, Wilson must have had a whole host of donors to take tiny amounts from which could altogether keep him hale and hearty. But he got too reliant on his ex, and now that they were separated he wasn’t in contact with his old donors. Perhaps some of them had moved, or decided they didn’t want his money anymore, and since he hadn’t been in the market for new donors while relying on the wife, he was left scrambling.

That was no sweat off House’s back. All the better for him to be desperate. It would make him more likely to go along with what House wanted.

He came back to Wilson with a full panel of tests. Everything negative. They perused one another’s test results while sitting very awkwardly on the couch. Or rather, Wilson was awkward. House was feeling normal and very comfortable. Well, normal and in pain. He’d lowered his dose earlier in preparation for this, at Wilson’s insistence. The burning in his thigh was bothering him a little more than usual. He tried not to tense it, and mostly failed. Trying not to do something was harder than just doing it.

On the table in front of them was a pile of first aid supplies to bandage up the bite when Wilson was finished. Frankly, House doubted they would need that much for two tiny punctures, but he let Wilson do his fussing if only for his comfort.

After what felt like a million years, Wilson put down the papers. House copied him, having finished reading the very boring results a long time ago. Wilson had gotten herpes congenitally, who knew? 

“I guess we’re doing this,” Wilson clutched his hands together.

“You don’t have to sound so bummed.”

“Should I be excited?”

“A man’s got to eat. No use feeling bad about it.”

“You would say that,” but Wilson was smiling, just a tiny bit, as he shook his head.

“Sooo, where do you normally bite? You do it phlebotomist style on the median cubital, or do you just go for the neck?” he made a lunging sort of motion with his fingers.

Wilson looked a little ruffled, “I would never---the neck would be a bad idea. But, ah, when it comes to where I normally bite…I kind of…don’t.”

House blinked, “Huh?”

Wilson looked embarrassed now. He would have been blushing if he could muster up the blood flow necessary, “I’ve never bitten anyone. I usually just draw the agreed-upon amount of blood into a bag and I take it to another room to drink.”

House was bewildered, “What are you, a shy vampire? Can’t get hard when someone’s watching?”

“I just can’t monitor how much I’m taking if I drink directly. And I’d heard stories about baby vampires, feeding on their first live prey and going crazy and draining them. I didn’t want that. The only reason I’m agreeing to bite you is so you can get off the Vicodin.”

House hadn’t actually said get off , but he chose to correct Wilson later.

“You don’t trust yourself to stay under control. So you’re denying yourself the thing you really want, your most basic desire.”

“I don’t need live prey to be healthy and happy.”

“But it’s what your body wants. The little bloodsucker I treated hated the donated blood we got her at the hospital. She only ate it because she was starving. And you’ve been subsisting on that your entire vampire life. Like eating microwaved meals three times a day when you could be having steak. It’s sad.”

“Most of the time I’m not taking old donations from the hospital. When I drink the blood it’s still fresh, only removed from the body for a minute or so. It’s warm. That’s satisfying enough for me.”

“Because you’ve never had anything better,” House stuck his arm out so his inner elbow rested under Wilson’s drawn face, “Do the median cubital. We’ll see how well that works.”

“I don’t want to take more than a quart. I’ll do my best to measure it, but if I lose track,” or control was left unsaid, “I need you to tell me. Drag me off of you if necessary, and call the cops,” he pointed to the phone laid next to the first aid supplies.

“If I call the cops, they’ll lock you away,” House pointed out, “Probably kill you or whatever they do to your kind.”

“Do what you need to do,” Wilson told him firmly, “Now close your eyes.”

“No way, I wanna see this.”

“This is not for you to satisfy your curiosity. This is for me to feed and you to reduce your pain. Close your eyes, please .”

“If you don’t let me look, I’m just going to estimate the approximate size and shape of your chompers from touch,” House told him.

Wilson was unimpressed, “Shut ‘em.”

Reluctantly, House leaned his head against the couch and closed his eyes. By the whoosh of air in front of his face, Wilson must have been checking if he was peeking under his eyelids.

“Get on with it,” House made sure to sound as bored as possible.

Wilson’s hands were cold and clammy where he held House under his elbow and around his wrist.

Something wet and slimy touched House’s inner elbow, making him squirm. He was a bit ticklish in that area. The wet thing lapped across the vein, three times. The skin tingled slightly, cooled.

House was equal amounts perplexed and amused, “Are you licking me? If you wanted to---”

He didn’t get out the rest of his joke because that was when Wilson sunk his teeth into his arm.

It was faintly painful for maybe a second, and then a tingling pleasure spread from the site of the wound. He felt like he’d dipped his arm into a bowl of heaven. 

He tensed, then relaxed all over. The room was spinning now---the painkiller must have hit his heart and was being pumped all through his body. All of his muscles seemed to come unwound, including the ones in his thigh. The pain wasn’t completely gone in his leg, although it certainly was in his arm. But he felt much more relaxed than he had, as if the ache was hiding behind a thick sheet of glass.

Somewhere far away, he was aware of a sucking, lapping noise coming from his left side, where his numbed arm was limply resting in Wilson’s tight grip.

He’d opened his eyes at some point, forgetting to keep them shut, and stared at the ceiling, a pudding stain next to the light where it was flung many years ago.

With great effort, he turned his head to the side. All he could see was the back of Wilson’s head as he leant over House’s arm, but he could hear the disgusting noises coming from his mouth, like someone eating a rotisserie chicken with their bare hands.

Which was kind of what was happening.

It was this reminder, of the fact that he was feeding Wilson, that made him realize he hadn’t been keeping track of how much blood Wilson was taking. He didn’t know how much time had passed, and the part of his arm Wilson had pierced was entirely numb, like it had fallen asleep.

He wasn’t sure what was an effect of the painkiller and what was a symptom of blood loss. A drop of worry trickled through the quicksand of his drugged mind.

He swallowed. He was, for some reason, salivating.

He reached his other hand out, weakly, and pawed at Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson didn’t react. He struggled to get a grip on the fabric of his sweater, and tugged at him. He was immovable, either through his own strength or because House was very, very weak right now.

His vision was started to blur. His eyes begged to slip shut again.

Swallowing again, House slurred out, “W’lson.”

With a squelch and a gasp, Wilson violently pulled himself back from House’s arm. He was neater than he’d been in the alley, just a few smudges of red on his lips, a trickle running down his chin. His teeth were flat and human, to House’s disappointment. He definitely hadn’t been paying enough attention to estimate their size and shape from the feel of them in his arm.

The punctures on his arm were a little messier than House had been expecting. Not two neat holes, but two longer, slightly jagged slits near the vein. He was truly impressed that it didn’t hurt more, because it looked deep and painful, and it was still gushing loads of blood, much more than the small lacerations should have been producing. 

House had suspected something like an anticoagulant in the saliva, especially after noticing the way Wilson fed, licking up the blood that flowed from the wounds. 

“Shit,” Wilson hissed. He snatched gauze from the pile of first aid supplies and packed it hard against the bite, the way they’d learned in med school. Not a better person to punch holes in him, House thought serenely, so far removed from the panic in Wilson’s demeanor.

House couldn’t feel the pressure on his still-numbed arm, although the rest of his body was no longer tingling with the high and his leg had begun to twinge again behind that sheet of glass.

House wanted to sleep. He was very tired, and oh-so-relaxed, especially now that he wasn’t responsible for dealing with this situation.

It was to the sight of Wilson frantically wrapping up his wound that House drifted peacefully off to sleep.

He was forced awake for brief periods of time to choke down some sort of overly-sweet liquid before he was left to sleep again.

Finally, House peeled his eyes open by himself, filled with a sudden awareness. He was laying in bed, fully clothed except for his shoes. He checked the time. It was nearly one in the afternoon. House estimated he’d passed out between nine and ten last night. The painkiller from the feeding must have still been in effect, because his leg, although aching sorely, felt way too good for not having taken a pill in something like fifteen hours.

“Thank god, you’re awake,” Wilson whispered from the doorway. His face was startlingly clear and clean. His hair was shiny and smooth enough that it must have been washed recently. He seemed to have gained back some of the padding in his face and body overnight, and there was a new, healthy flush to his cheeks. He looked good, closer to normal than he had been ever since he left Julie. As a matter of fact, he was glowing.

It was such a contrast from the ravenous animal of last night that House had to laugh.

Shushing him like a mother hen, Wilson fed him another glass of some sugary electrolyte drink. House swallowed it down without complaint.

When he’d finished the glass, he smacked his lips and said, “How much did you end up taking?”

Wilson’s face shuttered, “We can never do this again. This was a terrible mistake.”

“How much?”

Wilson dipped his head shamefully, “Almost two quarts. You passed out.”

House sat up slowly in bed, worried that the low-level nausea creeping at the back of his throat might not like him moving. He swiveled himself to place his legs over the side of the bed while Wilson watched, his very impressive eyebrows scrunched together.

House stood up, and took a few test steps. He was limping, and it hurt. But it was completely manageable. He wasn’t curled on the bed screaming and crying.

“When did I last take my Vicodin?” he asked Wilson.

Wilson cocked his head, obviously calculating behind his pretty brown eyes. He looked up to House, his mouth dropping, “Oh.”

“Pretty good, right? Bet you didn’t know you had such a powerful drug hidden up in there,” House tapped above Wilson’s mouth, where his incisors had surely retracted, and he flinched, smacking House’s hand lightly away.

Wilson scratched at the hem of his shirt, “I’m really happy about that, don’t get me wrong. But what happened last night can’t happen again.”

“It won’t. You were starving. You said it yourself. And it was your first time. What you took still wasn’t enough to do me permanent damage. I’m big, I have a lot of blood to spare.”

“You passed out because I took so much. Any more could have meant permanent damage. If you didn’t snap me out of it I could have drained you.”

“You wouldn’t have. I know you wouldn’t have, because the moment I whispered your name you were off of me. Sure, I don’t want to repeat the whole passing-out thing. But I know you can stop yourself as long as you stay fed, and you have time to plan ahead and control yourself. You were taken off guard. We both were.”

“Greg House, admitting his human flaws?” Wilson joked weakly, “I must have taken enough blood to give you brain damage.”

“Ha-ha. Make me some breakfast. I’m starving.”

Wilson went for the kitchen and started to mess around in the fridge. House leaned against the wall behind him, still a bit dizzy and nauseous but hoping food would settle his stomach.

Wilson paused, his back to him, “I don’t---I want you to stop dosing. But I don’t know if putting your life in the hands of my self-control is worth it.”

“Wilson, I would put a million people’s lives in your hands.”

Wilson closed the fridge, “That was…actually a really nice thing to say.”

“I was lying,” House snapped. To make up for the uncomfortably mushy amount of conversations they’d been having, House lobbed as many insults and complaints as he could think up all while Wilson faithfully made him pancakes. He’d just wanted to get a nice high from vampire juices, not deal with this emotional shit.

Chapter Text

Wilson continued to look great the rest of the week. House was…not as good. His arm stung a little. When he peeled off the mountain of gauze, he was surprised at how tiny the wounds were, just two torn red pits in his elbow. They scabbed and looked a bit nastier later, but that was easy to hide with his sleeves.

The team raised their eyebrows when Wilson came into the room to argue with House about a patient who was experiencing hallucinations, headaches, hair loss, weight loss, and bloody stool. She was apparently part of some weird religious group that sounded more and more like a second-rate, alien-flavored reboot of Mormonism every time she talked about it, but none of the faith healing had worked so her mother had stolen her away to the hospital. She was a top-secret patient, since her cult---that is, religious group---was strictly anti modern medicine and would excommunicate her for the sin of not wanting to die.

Shockingly, Wilson thought it was cancer. If he was a podiatrist he would have blamed it all on bunions.

“Are you feeling okay?” Cameron asked at some point, with an infuriatingly sympathetic expression on her face.

House looked around the room, as if she could be talking to someone else.

“I’m asking because you seem like you might be sick,” Cameron continued boldly, with the same sort of awful sympathy.

“I’m going to be if you keep oozing your sickening womanly concern at me,” House told her, aware that he was pale and tired.

“It’s funny because Dr. Wilson’s been looking really sick recently, and now he looks fine and you’re really sick,” Chase pointed out.

“Yeah, we’ve been passing back and forth a sexy little parasite. Now it’s my turn with the baby.”

“You have a parasite?” Foreman asked, like a fucking idiot.

“It’s the new weight loss fad. Everyone’s doing it. Could help you three out. The room is looking a little chubby right now.”

Chase, that self-fellating narcissist, actually seemed worried for a moment, glancing down at his own body assessingly.

Wilson cleared his throat, “Neither of us has a parasite---”

“We’ve been spitting it back and forth between us, but there are other ways we can exchange worms, if you know what I mean,” House leered down at Wilson’s crotch.

Foreman thought about it for a moment before he made a disgusted face, “I don’t want to hear about your worms. Can we please focus on the dying patient?”

“Alien mormon girl. Maybe she has worms, did we ever think of that? Alien mormon worms.”

Cameron shook her head, “Her symptoms aren’t likely to be caused by parasites. How do you explain hair loss?”

“How do you explain hair loss?” House looked accusingly at Wilson, “Unless she’s been doing secret alien mormon chemo to treat the cancer she doesn’t know she has.”

Wilson lifted his hands defensively, “I can’t. I’m just saying we should check for masses in her head.”

“I still think it’s radiation poisoning,” Foreman contributed, “The hair loss fits. So do all of the other symptoms.”

“You’re still riding the high from the last radiation poisoning case,” House scoffed, “This is the problem with you people. Always getting so comfortable with whatever you just did that you can’t think beyond the distance of your hand from your slack jaw.”

“‘You people’ being respected doctors who you hired?” Foreman asked.

“‘You people’ being black people. Duh-doy.”

He was interrupted from verbally harrassing his fellows some more by the patient vomiting blood and then instantly having a seizure.

Alien mormon girl occupied the next few days, but when Friday rolled around again, House was determined to get Wilson to drink from him.

Wilson, the clever little minx, thought he could get out of it by going to a bar with some of the cute nurses, but House quickly put a stop to that by systematically eliminating every single person at the hospital who was planning to go out on Friday through a series of targeted pranks. Even the ugly receptionist, although it would have been really funny to leave only Wilson and her untouched. 

With House chaperoning him like a naughty middle-schooler, Wilson was finally, reluctantly, back on his couch.

“We’ll do the other arm this time,” House said pleasantly, “If you don’t mind, it’d be nice if you kept it to a clean puncture.”

Wilson shrugged a little, “I’m not sure I can. Last time, when I got close to the vein my body just did whatever it wanted to.”

“Like licking me?” House recalled.

“Uh. Yeah. It just felt right.”

“My skin started to tingle when you licked it,” he noted thoughtfully, “That must be what the painkiller feels like applied on the outside.”

“Maybe the licking behavior serves as a way to numb the skin before the bite,” Wilson suggested.

House shook his head, “You’re thinking about it wrong. It’s not designed for comfort. It’s not designed at all. It’s a disease that lives on by infecting more people. If there’s any evolutionary advantage to any of your blood-seeking behaviors, it will only be the one that allows you to produce more vampires.”

Wilson drew back, “It is not a disease.”

“It’s spread through the population, it causes adverse effects on the body, and will kill you if you don’t treat it by drinking blood. That sounds healthy to you?”

“Right, so it’s a disease to need water to survive?”

House scoffed, “You’re being stupid on purpose. When were you infected?”

“I wasn’t,” Wilson raised his head, “I was born a vampire.”

For some reason, House was surprised. In retrospect, it made a lot of sense. Wilson had been raised knowing how to manage his cravings. That was why he’d turned out in such a great position. All of the vampire teens in House’s favorite study had been turned later in life, according to them. Wilson’s family had always seemed too nice to not be hiding some bodies.

“You should have just said you were infected by your parents,” House said stubbornly.

“I wasn’t infected! I was born as a vampire. It’s not a disease, it’s a genetic trait. It’s who I am.”

“Yeah, let me tell that sickle cell anemia patient we had that it’s just a genetic trait and it’s ‘who she is’,” House mocked.

“First you want me to enjoy drinking blood and now you’re telling me I have a disease. Pick a lane, House.”

“I can drive in both lanes.”

Wilson rolled his eyes.

“Maybe your obsession with marrying as many women as possible serves to increase the amount of people you want to turn into vampires. Join you in your immortal lifespan or whatever,” House suggested.

“I’m not immortal,” Wilson said.

House stared at the first aid supplies, then at the gatorade, and then at Wilson’s socks, which were old and had holes in them.

“You’re not?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Dunno. You look the same as when we met.”

“Maybe. I mean, we age slower. Something to do with collagen production. And we’re really damn hard to kill if we’re fed. But vampires live a normal human lifespan. I’ve aged in the time you’ve known me.”

“Huh.”

Why would you turn another person into a vampire, then, if not to ensure a fellow immortal companion? House decided to think over the question some more and come back to Wilson when he had the time to surprise him with it.

This time, Wilson picked up his arm and held it in his lap. He was wetting his lips nervously.

“Go on,” House said.

“Close your eyes. Don’t think I forgot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” House, who had been hoping he forgot, shut them. 

Today, the bite came after a long pause. Wilson must have been self-conscious, because he didn’t do that licking thing he’d done last week. House felt the scrape of teeth more sharply today, made worse by how slowly Wilson was piercing his skin. He kept pressing in a little, then pulling back, making noises with his mouth that suggested he was running his tongue over his teeth.

“Just put it in already,” House barked, momentarily amusing himself with a few innuendos he could follow that up with.

Wilson sunk his fangs in deep. The painkiller was as quick-acting as it had been last time, washing over the sting in moments. With a small sucking sound, Wilson pulled free from the wound, and House heard the sound of him licking his teeth again.

Before House could needle him some more, he was back on the wound, lapping up blood, his teeth glancing over the skin but not making any more tears, although it seemed like that was what he wanted to do, grunting and pulling back whenever he threatened to make a deeper cut. House tried to focus on the feel of the teeth as his head got cloudier and he flopped backwards into the couch. They were at least an inch long, maybe longer. Needle-sharp at the ends like puppy teeth. Longer and flatter nearer to the gums.

He lost sensation in his arm before he could figure out more. Steeling himself against the whispering pull of the painkiller that told him to lay back and think of nothing, he opened his eyes and watched the back of Wilson’s head. He was counting the time in his head. By his memory of the speed of blood flow from last week, he guessed that this shouldn’t take longer than thirty minutes.

So he watched and waited, pinching himself any time he felt himself start to lose focus.

He’d only counted to twelve minutes before Wilson started to reach to the side for some gauze.

“You didn’t take enough,” he pointed out.

“I’m just being careful,” Wilson muttered against his inner elbow, catching more blood with his mouth before it dripped onto the couch.

House was too caught up in the pleasant haze to argue with him. Wilson packed the wound with gauze, pressing it tight and wrapping it up.

After ensuring that he wasn’t bleeding through the dressing, Wilson got up, rinsed his face in the kitchen sink, and left through the front door.

“If you’re having a ciggie, I want one,” House called plaintively.

Wilson shuffled in the doorway, “I’m just having a breather.”

“Lame,” House said lowly.

With a huff, Wilson was gone.

The apartment was very quiet and empty without another person in it. Like a crypt. Vampire crypt. House snickered a little, and then leaned forward to turn on the TV with his less gnawed-on arm. The little scabs in the elbow were so tiny now, but the other arm was stiff and numbed. 

He got through a few episodes of General Hospital before his leg began to twinge again, and the reminder of how temporary the bite was made him sigh. He would need to go to sleep soon if he wanted to take full advantage of the painkiller to get through the night. He also suspected because Wilson had fed for less time, he’d gotten a lowered dose. The stingy bastard.

He slept without being woken by leg pain. 

The thigh was tender in the morning. He limped to the counter where he’d left his pills. The process of swallowing the pills was much less interesting than being bitten, although the relief was similarly instantaneous, if only by psychological effect. 

He peeled the gauze and the tape from his arm. Now his elbows were mirrored images of puncture marks, one fresher and more irritated, although composed of neater punctures, and the other sealed shut by dark, jagged, little scabs. House examined the new punctures. The area around those two neat holes was littered with tiny scratches from Wilson’s attempts to avoid ripping at the wounds.

Wilson wasn’t in the apartment. House didn’t remember him having work today, so it was a mystery where he’d gone. House wondered if he’d ever come back last night, after he ducked out. 

His leg twinged. He grunted and reached down to knead at the stiff muscles.

House went into the bathroom and rubbed his finger over the bristles of Wilson’s toothbrush. They were slightly damp. So Wilson had been here as recently as a few hours ago. He’d come back, at some point.

Well, duh. Wilson wouldn’t let him spend the night alone after feeding on him, if only to make sure he didn’t bleed out unattended.

The wave of pain had eased a little by the time he was done with this. He limped to the shower and turned it on.

The patient was now consistently seizing up and her mother had flipped faces and was blaming the devil for leading her astray to the den of sin that was the Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital.

Cameron had been put on distraction duty so they could keep the patient in the hospital for now, but pretty soon Cuddy would be on his ass, and not in a sexy way.

House has called in Wilson to consult even though it was supposed to be his day off, and they didn’t really need him, strictly speaking. House was still a little pissy that Wilson abandoned him right after sucking on him, after all.

“Symptoms are still consistent with radiation poisoning,” Foreman was saying as they all (sans Cameron) huddled like penguins outside of the patient’s room. It was a pity, because Cameron would have probably been the most into the penguin-huddling idea.

“She doesn’t have radiation poisoning,” House said.

A man passing by shot him a disconcerted look. House made a face right back.

Wilson said, “What else could it be, at this point? The hair loss, bloody stool, seizures---”

“We already know the seizures are cause by the brain swelling, not any radiation tumors.”

“Brain swelling that occurs more often in cases of radiation poisoning,” Foreman pointed out.

The patient cried out loudly from inside the room.

Chase pushed open the door, opening his mouth, probably to ask her something stupid like if she was okay. He was interrupted by her leaning over the side of the bed and hacking up blood.

Chase and Foreman were quick to tend to her, but Wilson hung back---so did House, but he always did that.

“Think you can handle it?” House only half-joked, cocking his head at Wilson, “All that blood…”

Wilson smirked, “No, I think I might faint.”

“I’d forgotten about your fragile constitution,” House stepped over the puddle of bloody upchuck as he entered the room. He looked at the patient’s hair thoughtfully. Perhaps once a pretty head of long blonde hair, it was now missing large clumps, “Let me get a look at that patchy cap of hers.”

“Now isn’t the time to make fun of her hair---”

“Have you noticed if she’s lost any more clumps since she entered the hospital?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t noticed,” Chase admitted.

“Whoever cleans the floor in here probably has,” House said.

“Speaking of which, we need cleanup on aisle four,” Foreman gestured down at the puddle.

“Go on, then, track down our unlucky cleaner,” House shooed away the two of them. The patient was fine, laying back in bed and breathing evenly. Out of respect, House waited until the door closed to talk to Wilson, “So you’re fine with the blood now?”

“I’m fed. It’s easy to ignore the smell right now,” Wilson dipped his head.

“Good. It would get annoying if you kept having to cover your mouth like a chick in a horror movie every time someone got a nosebleed.”

There was quiet. Wilson looked at the puddle of blood, then back up at House. He really was so human, so lifelike. House had heard that when a vampire was turned, they died for just a few minutes. Was Wilson born dead?

“The teeth can come out at will,” House said.

“Yes. I can control them. I’ve been able to since I was seven,” his tone suggested this was some obvious and unimpressive thing, like learning to tie shoelaces, “They just slip when I’m hungry sometimes.”

“I wanna see them.”

“No.”

“You never let me watch you feed,” House very nearly whined, “I want to know what they look like.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“They’re going in my body. If anyone has the right to see them, it’s me.”

“If you don’t feel comfortable with me feeding from you, just ask me to stop,” Wilson crossed his arms smugly.

“Don’t be thick,” House went for the door, “One of these days I’ll orchestrate some unpleasant prank to get a look at them, and you’ll wish you just showed me.”

Wilson shook his fist and put on a horrible mimicry of his voice, “One of these days I’ll catch you and your little dog too!”

House seriously considered going for the family jewels, “Are you calling me old?”

Wilson shrugged. 

House gave into his violent urges and jammed the tip of his cane into Wilson’s foot, leaving him hopping and cussing.