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In Darkness
by Evilida
Wilson knew that he was dead. He had to be dead because there was no possible way that he could have survived, trussed up so tightly that he couldn't move, and confined in an airless coffin. How could it be then that he still thought, that he still felt the darkness pressing down on him with an almost physical weight? It was impossible; it defied all natural laws.
Thinking about his situation made him feel panicky and confused and lost, so Wilson concentrated on staying awake. He made lists - every woman he had ever kissed, the bones of the human body, Alfred Hitchcock movies - grounding himself with the mundane details of a life that was already over.
When House finally removed the lid of the coffin after fifteen seemingly endless hours, Wilson struggled weakly against the shroud that bound him, but the effects of House's bite hadn't completely worn off. House tore the shroud from Wilson's face and looked down on him. Although the room was lit only by the light of a single candle, Wilson's eyes were acutely sensitive to light. He blinked, and House smiled at this sign of life.
"Is he dead?" asked a bored voice, and Wilson knew that it must be the other vampire, the one who had initiated House. He remembered what House had called him - the Professor of Esoteric Medicine.
House didn't answer. He was busy tearing Wilson's shroud. Wilson's paralysis was lifting, and he was able to help. House leaned down and kissed Wilson, and Wilson responded passionately, clinging to the vampire who had killed him, because he was the only thing in this strange new reality that Wilson recognized. Wilson sat up, and then stood, shaky at first but growing stronger by the second.
"Am I changed?" Wilson asked. "Am I like you?"
"Yes," House said. "You're perfect."
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The Professor was impatient to get on the road. He was heading for Las Vegas, a city that could have been created specifically for vampires, with its nocturnal and transient population of tourists and drifters. Wilson was wearing only the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms from the night before so House convinced the Professor to delay their departure for a few more minutes, long enough to stop by Wilson's house so that he could change clothes and pack a few things.
"No personal items," House ordered. "Nothing distinctive that could identify you."
Wilson nodded, and entered his house for the last time. The door was unlocked. He headed to the bedroom, took out a small overnight case and began packing methodically, as if he were merely going away for a short trip. He peeled off the clothes he was wearing and tossed them into the laundry hamper. He wanted to take a shower, but he hesitated at the door to the bathroom. Then he opened the door, turned on the hot water, and quickly backed out of the room. He carefully avoided looking directly in the bathroom mirror. He waited until bathroom was so steamy that he could barely see his own hand in front of his face, and the mirror had fogged over entirely, before he went back in to shower.
Wilson dressed quickly and didn't take the time to dry his hair, knowing that the other vampires were waiting impatiently for him. He picked up the overnight bag, and headed for the door, then paused. He went quickly to his hall closet, took out a photograph album and stuffed it in the bottom of the bag.
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The Professor drove a twenty-year old luxury sedan. He kept to back roads and empty two-lane highways, and he drove very fast for the winter roads, at a speed that would be foolhardy for anyone without a vampire's reflexes. Being on the road soothed him. House sat beside him on the front seat with Wilson in the back. The Professor talked to his apprentice as he drove, obviously enjoying his role as teacher and expert.
"The nature of the transformation is basically biochemical," the Professor lectured. "I've analyzed my own saliva, and I've isolated the chemical that calms the victim and slows down his heart and lungs. I hope to discover the substance that brings about the metamorphosis from human to vampire soon. I've found several promising chemical compounds."
Wilson remembered what he saw in the bathroom mirror out of the corner of his eye - a swirl of darkness where his reflection should have been. That phenomenon hadn't been `biochemical'. He wanted to protest that the Professor's view was too narrow and that there had to be a supernatural component to his metamorphosis. However, he'd already learned that vampire relationships were feudal in their emphasis on hierarchy and place. House, as the Professor's chosen apprentice, might disagree with him on occasion, but not Wilson. The Professor regarded him as House's servant.
"Is the metamorphic agent always secreted," House asked, "or is it only present when the vampire bites with the intention of initiating his prey?"
"That's an interesting question, and one I can't answer yet."
Wilson shut his eyes and dozed, and the miles flew past.
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They stopped at a rundown motel a few hours before dawn. The place was desperate enough for business that the proprietor didn't complain about being woken at four in the morning or ask for a credit card.
Wilson grabbed the bags from the trunk. House took out a couple of boxes of aluminum foil and rolls of duct tape and added them to Wilson's load.
"Have you suddenly lost the ability to carry anything?" Wilson asked, annoyed.
House slapped him hard, his talon-like fingernails raking Wilson's face. Wilson stumbled and almost dropped the bags, although he was more surprised than hurt. He looked up at House, whose teeth were bared aggressively. Behind him, the Professor watched, arms folded, enjoying the brief eruption of violence immensely. Wilson didn't say a word. He left the Professor's bag, a box of foil and a roll of tape outside the door of his room, and then carried the rest to the room he and House would be sharing. Wilson busied himself covering the windows of the room with aluminum foil and tried not to think about what just happened.
The room was furnished with a single sagging bed covered by a stained coverlet and an ancient television balanced atop a chest of drawers. Everything was covered with dust, and the bathroom doesn't bear thinking about. When Wilson was human, he wouldn't have entered a place like this without a gallon of Lysol and a thick pair of rubber gloves. His standards as a vampire were considerably lower.
The Professor and House were going hunting, but Wilson stayed behind. He wasn't physically ready for his first kill yet. He should have felt excluded because they didn't ask him to join them, but he was actually grateful for some time to himself.
He pulled out his photo album and opened it to the first page. The photograph was a family portrait. James Wilson was a baby in his mother's arms. His father stood beside her, and his two brothers stood in front of their parents. Somehow, the photographer captured an image of perfect contentment. Wilson touched his mother's face through the plastic that covered the photograph. This photograph always used to make him smile, even though he knew that the image of happiness was an illusion, and that his family was no more perfect than anyone else's. He turned the pages and looked at the faces of friends and family, ex-wives and lovers, and wondered if any of these people mean anything to him anymore. He wondered whether he was capable of feeling anything at all.
He stuffed the album back into his bag and, when House returned, was innocently watching an infomercial on the motel room television. He could smell the blood on House. He knew that House's victim had been a young man, but didn't ask himself how he knew.
Wilson got up and fetched the duct tape. He sealed the gap between the door and its frame to prevent any sunlight from entering the room. He was down on his knees taping the bottom of the door when House abruptly pulled him up. House was elated from the kill, and he wanted to share his excitement with Wilson.
House kissed Wilson on the mouth, smearing blood against the newly-made vampire's face. He forced his tongue between Wilson's lips and Wilson could taste the young man's blood. It was thick and satisfying and delicious, but it was too rich for him. It made him feel sick. Wilson pushed House away, spat out the blood, and wiped his mouth.
House hit him again, but this time Wilson bared his teeth and seemed ready to fight back. House couldn't allow this insubordination. He launched himself at Wilson. Wilson kicked and punched and snapped, but House was naturally more aggressive than his friend, and his aggression gave him strength. He overpowered Wilson, pinning him to the filthy carpet. He stared into Wilson's eyes and grazed his sharp teeth against his carotid artery, nicking the delicate skin. His tongue licked at the droplet of blood that welled from the cut. He savoured it like a connoisseur enjoying a rare wine. Wilson struggled to escape his grip.
House opened his mouth wide and Wilson went still, transfixed by the sight of his sharp fangs. Wilson only shut his eyes when House lowered his head to bite. Instead of biting into the carotid, as Wilson had expected, he neatly pierced Wilson's earlobe. He sucked Wilson's blood and then kissed him, and Wilson opened his mouth this time and let House's tongue in, and he could taste his own blood. Wilson was crying now, tears of frustration and anger and humiliation, and the salt of his tears mixed with the sharp metallic tang of blood.
House released him and Wilson backed away. He couldn't stop crying and his wounded ear dripped blood. House came over and sat beside Wilson on the floor. He put his hand on Wilson's shoulder, and this time his touch was soft and caring. Wilson didn't resist as House gathered him into his arms. He didn't flinch as House licked his bleeding earlobe.
"You have to learn to obey," House said gently.
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Later, House undressed and climbed into bed and Wilson followed him. The polyester sheets were slippery and cold against the skin. When House turned out the light, the darkness was absolute. This motel was so cheap it hasn't even supplied the usual clock radio to illuminate its grim interior, and Wilson had done a good job in blocking out the sunlight. The darkness reminded Wilson of his ordeal in the coffin, and perhaps it had the same effect on House. They held each other and Wilson kissed House, grateful that he allowed him this comfort. He felt House harden and used his hands and his mouth to please him. He was nervous because he had never done this before with another man, and because his teeth were sharp and he was afraid of nicking House. House didn't seem to mind his clumsiness though.
Afterwards, House held him in his arms and Wilson relaxed, almost asleep. House nipped his earlobe again to wake him up, but this time it seemed a gesture of affection rather than a punishment.
"You taste so good," House murmured, kissing the nape of his neck. "Like innocence and sunshine. I wonder if you'll still taste so sweet after your first kill."
"You taste good too," Wilson said, his voice already heavy with sleepiness.
"We're not done yet. There's something else I want from you."
House pressed himself against Wilson, and Wilson knew what he wanted. He was afraid. He shook his head, though of course House couldn't see him, and he moved away from him. House reached for him before he could get out of bed. House could feel the younger vampire's tension and resistance, but his hold was firm and unyielding. House wanted obedience. He couldn't let Wilson refuse.
"Relax or this will hurt a lot more," House warned.
He pulled Wilson down on to the bed, nuzzling and kissing him, touching and stroking him, until he could feel the tension in his body ease slightly.
"I don't want to," Wilson protested. "I've never..."
Again, Wilson felt House's teeth graze against his neck.
"You're mine," House said. "You can't deny me anything."
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In the dark, Wilson couldn't tell whether his eyes are open or shut. House's arm was a dead weight against his chest. The other vampire was asleep, but Wilson was still awake. It had been hours. It had to be night by now. He tried to extricate himself without waking House, but he wasn't successful.
"What are you doing?" House asked, his voice sharp and disconcertingly alert.
"I want to see what time it is," Wilson replied. "I left my watch in the bathroom."
House rolled over, and Wilson got out of bed. He felt around the floor until he found his overnight bag and picked it up. He shut the door to the bathroom and turned on the light. He pulled a thin towel from the rack and threw it over the mirror above the sink.
Sitting on the cold dusty floor, back against the door, he pulled his photo album from the bottom of the bag. He leafed through the pages until he found the photograph he wanted. The occasion was a dinner held to honour Wilson for raising a hundred thousand dollars for cancer research. He'd invited House, knowing that he wouldn't come, but Cuddy had intervened on his behalf. She'd offered House a week off clinic duty if he would attend. Wilson had been so pleased and surprised to see him there. House must have made a joke, or maybe he had, because they were both laughing. The camera fortuitously captured a moment of affection and joy. Their friendship had been real. This photograph wasn't lying.
Except now House wasn't House any more. House wouldn't have done to him what the vampire did a few hours ago. He wasn't Wilson either. He was going to kill someone in the next few hours, and the prospect should have horrified him but it didn't. He was apprehensive, afraid that he might screw up the kill and embarrass himself in front of House and the Professor, but that was all. His conscience had died when he became a vampire.
House and the Professor shared a curiosity about the world. Maybe they could be content, spending their endless existence learning and experiencing new things. It didn't matter to them that their knowledge would never be shared or put to any use. Wilson's focus in medicine had always been primarily practical rather than intellectual. He didn't think that solving scientific mysteries was going to be enough for him. The living Wilson, the real Wilson, had devoted his life to caring for people and making them happy. That was his purpose in life. This new Wilson didn't seem to have a purpose. People didn't matter to him anymore, now that he was no longer one of them. House didn't need him; he was obviously much better at being a vampire than Wilson was.
"Wilson," House called, and Wilson hurriedly returned the photo album to the bottom of his bag.
"Coming," he said, and he turned out the light and went to join House in the dark.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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