black_cigarette (black_cigarette) wrote,
black_cigarette
black_cigarette

Distress Call 2.4: Reality Check

TITLE:  Distress Call 2.4: Reality Check
SUMMARY:  The truth really is stranger than fiction.
CHARACTERS: Wilson, House
RATING:
  R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS:  This is a very alternate universe. Adult themes and adult language.
SPOILERS: No.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The stories from this ficverse are numbered by chapter and scene.  Links to all chapters are here.




Wilson wakes up still sitting in the chair, slumped forward across House's bed.  House's fingers are clawing deep into his shoulder.

"Come ooonnn!" House howls at him, "Hurts, damn it!"

"Okay, okay.  I'm awake."  Wilson pushes himself groggily upright.  "You need, what?  Another nine mil?"

"Minimum," House groans, releasing his grip.  He's getting stronger; Wilson's shoulder will be bruised.  "You could just let me dose myself.  I'm a big boy; I know how."

Wilson doesn't reply, because he's staring at the clinic's monitor.  Those angry red numbers have all turned blue; House's organ functions are in the low eighty-percent range, and slowly rising.

So the blood was necessary, he thinks, and then stops himself.

No.  Impossible.  I dreamed that.  His memories of it feel detached, hazy.  He rubs his face and discovers that the soreness in his jaw is almost gone.  Also, there's a bandage on his left forefinger.  Because I cut it.  On House's fang.  Except, not.  It must have happened in some other way and his exhausted, overstressed brain made up the rest.

While he prepares the syringe, Wilson resists checking his wrist for the marks that won't be there.  Vampires don't exist, and if he's thinking that they do, then he's a lot less sane than he'd realized.

House lies still, panting from the pain, stretching out his arm.  Wilson eases the needle into the vein; images of needle-fine teeth spring unbidden into his mind.

Having given the drug, he sits back down, exhausted even though he's slept.  He swivels in the chair, turning his back on House, allowing him a little privacy while the worst of the pain abates. 

"Talk to me," growls House.  "I need a distraction."

"Got a favorite subject?"

"I don't care.  Anything.  You never shut up any other time.  Why change now?"

"You keep telling me to shut up," Wilson retorts.  "Why should you change now?"  He tries to think of something else, something other than those images of thin, sharp fangs.  It doesn't work.

"I ... had the most bizarre dream while I was out."

"A woman actually wanted you?"

"Very funny.  No, I dreamed about vampires.  Now I can't remember how I really cut my finger."

"Wilson, you ... 'idiot' doesn't cover it, but I'm too drugged to think of something better."

"I said it was bizarre."  Wilson turns around, slowly, to face House again.  Please tell me it wasn't real.  Please.

"I'm a haemovore, not a damn vampire.  That blood must've come straight from your brain."

"Oh God ..."  He's got that dizzy feeling, that this-can't-be-happening sensation, all over again.  At last, he lets himself look at his wrist.  Two tiny pinprick marks lie alongside a short, fading red incision. 

"If you're going to kill me," House says, flatly, "do it now.  It won't get any easier."

"Is there ... a reason I would do that?"  A spidery fear crawls down Wilson's back.

"You people never need a reason," snaps House.  "You just need a gun."

"I had heard ... stories," Wilson replies, quietly.  He catches a flash of surprise that flickers quickly across House's face.  "I never believed it, people killing vampires.  Because, you know, vampires don't exist."

"So you thought it was actually werewolves.  Fairies.  Space ghouls."

"I thought it was one of those ridiculous things people send around the subether.  Their uncle's mistress's daughter's cousin was on Zarquon Five and she saw it all happen.  That's the kind of thing I had heard."

House snorts at him, and Wilson continues.  "If you'd told me there was any truth to it at all, I'd have said it was ... some kind of third-world witch-hunt.  Incite superstitious fear in a mob of people, and then accuse and murder whoever you want.  Humanity is ... known for that sort of behavior."

House doesn't respond.  He lies perfectly still, staring as if Wilson's something utterly alien, a puzzle.  Maybe even something to be taken apart in order to see how it works. 

"House.  If I keep treating you, helping you ... will you hurt me?  Kill me?  Kill someone else once we get to my planet?"

"No, no, and no.  But I promise you'll regret it anyway."

"As long as I live to regret it," Wilson sighs, "that's a chance I'm willing to take."
Tags: distress call
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