Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a paineater on the staff of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Or so the blogosphere claims.

The hospital has come under a fair share of scrutiny over the years, considering the controversial appointment of not just a woman, but a succubus as Dean of Medicine. People only talked more when she immediately began to hire more supernatural staff than any other hospital in the country, except for a few in Oregon and California.

Dr. Lisa Cuddy wanted to make her hospital the most prestigious institution in the northeast for the treatment of magical ailments and spell damage, and she wasn’t going to let anything as silly as what people might say stop her. As years went by, werewolves, vampires, banshees, trolls and more with medical degrees and magical proficiencies flocked to Princeton, and in turn, the populace slowly but surely began to tolerate, if not accept them.

Paineaters, however, are a very different story. Even supernatural species reject paineaters from their loose coalitions. Nobody knows how they’re created, whether they’re born with their condition or if some early-occurring trauma forces them to eat pain. They don’t inherit the disposition from family members, don’t have culture or customs that people can reference or relate to. They’re solitary, territorial creatures, physically indistinguishable from humans when they’re not feeding. They’re perfect monsters.

The rumor started spreading two days ago, hit a fever pitch last night with the publication of a column in a popular supernatural gossip blog. Everyone is agog and aghast about the possibility of an honest to god paineater in the hospital. House endures the chatter in the parking lot, the lobby, and every floor on the elevator ride up to his office. After hearing the conversation his fellows are having upon his arrival, he’s close to blowing his brains out.

“It’s unethical,” Cameron says, predictably. “It’s like letting a vampire run a blood-bank, or House run a pharmacy. The position is too easy to abuse.”

“Surprisingly bigoted take from our resident cherub,” House says, going to the back and pouring himself some coffee.

“It’s not about bigotry, it’s about biology,” Cameron says, her dark wings puffing out defensively. Even House winces at that. “You guys know what I mean.”

“I think it’s perfectly ethical,” Chase says. “Paineaters take away your pain. That’s the reason a lot of people go to the hospital.”

Foreman interjects, “We’re not here to take away people’s pain, we’re here to cure their ailments. If you eat your patient’s pain, you eliminate one of their symptoms, which might lead to a faulty diagnosis later. Besides, it’s a slippery slope. You can’t sustain yourself on work, it blurs too many boundaries, takes away your objectivity.”

“Bullshit,” House says, smirking. “Hypocritical bullshit, even. You don’t work for me if you care about setting boundaries in your work.”

“It’s like Cameron says,” Foreman says, ignoring House. “It’s too easy to abuse the position. We’ve all heard of paineaters taking thralls, suspending people in constant pain, keeping them like livestock. A hospital is an ideal hunting ground for that kind of predator.”

“What about people who are already suspended in constant pain for something that has no cure?” Chase asks. “Would it be unethical for a paineater to feed on them?”

“For a paineater, maybe not, but it would be for a doctor,” Foreman says. “We’re not on balance encouraged to eat our patients.”

“Besides, there are safer, healthier and less addictive ways to treat pain,” Cameron interjects. “Paineaters magnify the pain, focus your entire body on the sensation before they feed. That kind of agony can be unbearable.”

“Paineaters have a more sophisticated understanding of pain than any other species on earth,” Chase points out. “They instinctively know how much pain is too much for a patient to bear, which is a pretty useful skill for a practitioner of medicine.”

“That’s a predatory mechanism used to make sure they can harvest pain from prey for multiple feedings,” Foreman counters.

“Yeah, and humans don’t have any evolutionary advantages related to feeding?” Chase asks, getting heated. “Werewolves don’t? You tend to rely on your sense of smell in diagnoses, don't you?”

“You don’t want to make this personal,” Foreman responds evenly.

“Why are you making this personal?” House asks Chase, cocking his head to the side. “If you weren’t so completely the platonic ideal of an incubus, I’d suspect you of being the paineater.”

“So you believe the rumor?” Cameron asks. “That there’s a paineater on the staff?”

“It’s not that I believe so much as I don’t care,” House says. “I’m surprised you do though. I thought your bleeding heart would extend to the often maligned species.”

“It’s not that I think they shouldn’t have rights, I just think they shouldn’t be doctors,” Cameron responds.

“Unlike, say, angels of mercy?” House asks. Cameron freezes, her wings fluffing up a little bit in outrage. “Which would you prefer, a doctor who wants to keep you in pain, or a doctor who wants you dead?”

“Angels of mercy take souls to the other side when they pass,” Cameron bites out. “We don’t feed on death.”

“No, you just care more about the dying,” House says. “Don’t you think a doctor should be more concerned about keeping their patients alive?”

“Death is inevitable,” Cameron says.

“So is pain,” House responds.

“We have a case,” Foreman interjects, before the conversation can get any more vicious. “Thirty year old male human presented with shivers, two sets of teeth, fledgling wings, and translucent skin with black veins. He was also developing tree bark on the soles of his feet.”

“Why are we on this?” House asks.

“Orders from on high,” Foreman says, in that smug way he gets whenever he invokes Cuddy’s will.

“Well, if the orders are from on high,” House gasps, faking submission. “Chase, what’s your best guess?”

“Sounds like a monstrification hex to me,” Chase says. “The teeth, the wings, the tree bark, they’re all monstrous effects.”

“We checked for aura scarring,” Foreman points out. “All the patterns were non-violent. A hex would lead to deeper, more purposeful gouges.”

“So it’s not a hex and Chase is thinking lazily. Why am I not surprised?” House asks rhetorically. “Cameron, you’ve been fidgeting in your seat, which means either you need to go to the little girls’ room or you have an answer for me.”

“It’s seepage,” Cameron says. “Shivers, translucent skin and black veins are textbook symptoms for his age and sex.”

“Any history of exposure to industrial magic production or processing sites?” House asks.

“Nope,” Chase says. “All the schools he attended were low-magic institutions and had regularly inspected wards on all magical equipment or practices. Both his childhood home and only job were zoned to non-magical areas. The closest processing plant to either was miles away.”

“Could he have been exposed by the family?” House asks.

“Mother was a risk for wild magic surges, so she went on suppressors before he was born,” Foreman responds. “Father was a practitioner, but only in contracts. That kind of magic would stay bound to the paper, and all of his files were warded as well.”

“It has to be seepage,” Cameron insists. “Hemo panel returned with gold deposits in the blood. That kind of build-up indicates years of exposure.”

“Seepage doesn’t explain the two sets of teeth or the wings,” Foreman says. “It also doesn’t explain all the symptoms popping up at once. Shivers are an early indicator of seepage, black veins happen way later.”

“It’s winter in New Jersey,” Cameron says, exasperated. “They could have easily missed the shivers.”

“Still doesn’t explain the monstrous symptoms,” Chase points out.

“Any chance this was self-inflicted?” House asks. “Could he have pronounced a penis enlargement spell horrendously wrong?”

“We ran a tongue-tap,” Foreman says. “Last spell uttered was months ago, and given the residue, it had to have been a jinx or weaker, definitely nothing that would cause all of this.”

“You’ve shot a lot of ideas down, wolfman,” House says, narrowing his eyes at him. “It must be close to the full moon, because you’re being way aggressive.”

“I think it’s the Praepostero curse,” Foreman says, ignoring the dig. “Monstrous symptoms as well as translucent skin point to identity dysfunction to me. Shivers are common with curses because they trigger the intuition, fabricate the sensation of something looming over your shoulder. It explains the timeline too. If the curse was just cast, then all the symptoms would happen at once.”

“None of his family have displayed any symptoms,” Chase says. “Curses hit bloodlines, not individuals.”

“Typically, but not always. Praepostero targets one member at a time until it’s worked its way through the whole family tree,” Foreman counters.

“What about the gold deposits?” Cameron asks.

“The interaction of his wild magic and the curse could have caused the kind of build-up we saw,” Foreman says. “That kind of internal conflict often has a metallic residue.”

“The residue of those interactions is usually brass or copper,” Cameron says. “Gold is too precious a metal.”

“Again, usually but not always,” Foreman says. “And it could be the body’s appeal to nobility or royalty, which also plays into identity dysfunction.”

“Put your claws away, Teen Wolf, you’ve convinced me,” House says. “Get the spell components for the cursebreaker for Praepostero. It’s a three-man ritual, so all of you get warded and ready to cast.”

“If he has seepage, that amount of concentrated magic could send him into cardiac arrest,” Cameron warns.

“Good thing he’s in a hospital,” House says, walking out the door.

“Where are you going?” Chase asks.

“To chat with the voice from on high,” House calls, already halfway to the elevator.

*

Cuddy’s on the phone when House bursts in through the doors of her office.

“I have no additional comment,” Cuddy says, as fast as possible. “Please contact the hospital’s lawyers for any more statements.” She hangs up the phone. “House, I really don’t have time for this today.”

“What do they know?”

“Nothing,” Cuddy assures him, flipping through something on her desk. “Someone made an off-color joke during an exit interview, and then it was a game of telephone. It’s a good headline, that’s all.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” House grits out. “Who knows about the fire?”

“Nobody,” Cuddy says, still not looking up. “I’m telling you it’s under control.”

“Would you stake a career on it?” House pushes. “A life?”

Cuddy looks up sharply, before her shoulders soften in a way that makes House tense up. “House, I swear to god, nobody knows anything. I would never let that happen, ever.”

House stares at her for a long beat before nodding, looking away. Cuddy graciously allows him a beat of silence while he gets a hold of himself. “So what’s the deal with this patient you shoved down my throat with your stiletto heels?”

“He’s a sweet, phenomenally rich guy who wanted the best of the best but was willing to settle for you,” Cuddy says.

“How’d he make his blood money?” House asks. “Infernal ritual? Genie captivity? Defense contracting?”

“He won the lottery a year out of high school, made some smart investments, ended up richer than god at twenty-five.”

“I hope someone told him you’re a succubus,” House says, faking worry. “If he doesn’t watch his back, he might be subjected to your kind’s black widow routine.”

“He’s happily married to his high-school sweetheart. Besides,” Cuddy says, smiling meanly, “we only kill and eat the ones we don’t like.”

“Is that why I escaped that particular fate? You like me that much?”

“No, you’re just such a cheap bastard that it wasn’t worth my time to try with you.”

“Well, I may not have enough money for a lifetime, but I have enough for an hour,” House says, leering at her. “We don’t even have to do any foot stuff, I know you’re scared of how much you like it.”

“I thought Wilson cut your allowance last week after you stood him up for dinner,” Cuddy says.

“He can’t cut me off, he needs this ass too much,” House responds.

“Right, he needs you, not the other way around,” Cuddy says. She looks up from her work and stands, walking around the desk. “Why are you still here? You don’t need anything else from me, do you?”

“Maybe I’m just basking in the presence of your push-up bra,” House asks. “I cast an x-ray spell on the peepers this morning. It hurt like a bitch but god, was it worth it.”

“Nice try,” Cuddy says, grabbing House’s arm and towing him to the door, shoving him through. “If you had, you’d know I’m not wearing a bra at all.”

“Really?” House says, spinning around just in time for Cuddy to slam the door on his face.

*

He gets paged to the patient’s room almost as soon as he leaves Cuddy’s office. Another day, another catastrophe.

“He went into cardiac arrest as soon as we started the cursebreaker,” Foreman says when he arrives, a gaggle of nurses around the bed, stabilizing their lottery winner, “and the stasis and anesthetic spells only made it worse. I was wrong. It’s seepage.”

“Seepage doesn’t fit,” House says, genuinely confused. “It’s nowhere in his history, it doesn’t cover half of the symptoms--”

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Cameron interrupts. “If we expose him to any more magic, he’ll code again. I’m breaking all of the spells on him and moving him to a non-magic ward.”

“I’m coming with you,” Foreman says, following her back into the room.

“It doesn’t fit,” House mutters, scowling at the head of his cane. Chase shrugs in his periphery, before following them in. House glares at the floor as they wheel the patient out on a gurney, taking him up to the fourth floor wards.

The other symptoms gnaw at his mind, even as he receives word from Cameron that the patient’s condition stabilized as soon as the spells were broken. Something’s wrong with this picture. He’s just not sure what.

*

One hour later, the patient continues to improve. House throws a ball at the ceiling of Wilson’s office.

“I see,” Wilson says, rolling his fifth joint since House walked in from the balcony and flopped onto the couch. “You’ve grown tired of the complaints of your downstairs neighbor, so you court the ire of your upstairs neighbor as well.”

“I think I can safely frame this on you,” House says, slamming one of the ceiling tiles out of place with the force of his throw.

“Do you have to sulk so loudly?” Wilson says, sealing the joint with a quick flick of his pink tongue. “So it was seepage. Worse things have happened.”

“I’m not sulking,” House says. “I’m brooding manfully.”

“You’re throwing a temper tantrum,” Wilson says. “Engaging in a fit of hysteria. Nursing sorrow within your tender bosom.”

“Don’t speak of my tender bosom so loud, Wilson, people talk enough as it is.”

“Yes, they do,” Wilson says, almost under his breath.

House freezes, swings himself upright. “Been listening to the rumor mill?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Wilson at his desk. Under scrutiny, he looks like shit. Dark bags under his eyes, grayish undertone to his skin, eyes shinier than usual.

“Hard to avoid it,” Wilson says lightly. His usually deft fingers fumble one of his papers and a small cloud of green spills onto his desk. “Shit,” he bites under his breath.

“How are your patients?” House asks.

“You don’t care about my patients,” Wilson says, painstakingly collecting the spilled weed in the paper.

“Indulge me,” House says. “Are they giving you trouble?”

“As much as they ever are,” Wilson says, absentmindedly. “One’s a risk for wild magic surges. He doesn’t have any formal training for control, but he won’t go on suppressors.”

House tenses up. “Did you warn him that the longer he stays on them, the more it’ll hurt to cast later?”

“Well, he’s not the most talented magical practitioner of diagnostic medicine in North America, so it’s not as big a priority for him as it might have been for other unnamed people presented with the same decision,” Wilson says, easily. “Besides, it would be a low dose suppressant, not a total purge. ”

“Then why is he resisting treatment?” House asks.

“He’s stubborn, says suppressants aren’t natural,” Wilson says. “Says his magic might be killing him, but going without it isn’t living. He’ll change his tune once the pain gets bad enough.”

House doesn’t say anything, just takes a swig from his flask.

Wilson looks up at the hollow sloshing sound in the metal. “Running low? I can write you a new prescription.”

“I’ve got enough,” House says. “I’m more concerned about you. When’s the last time you fed?”

Wilson tenses. “I made a quiche this morning.”

“Not what I asked.”

“House,” Wilson says.

“Wilson,” House says, mocking his serious tone.

“Drop it,” Wilson says.

House is about to go after him, but his pager goes off. He reads the message before smiling grimly.

“You were wrong, Jimmy boy. It’s not seepage.”

*

Back in his office, House watches Cameron sulk out of the corner of his eye. Now this is a sulk. Wilson should take note for future reference.

“Patient started stroking out,” Chase says. “Presented with a dark blue rash and violet fluid buildup in his lungs. We’ve put a drain in his chest for the fluid, and put him on a drip of adders’ bane, but it’s a temporary solution.”

“So it wasn’t seepage,” House says, looking at Cameron.

“It was seepage,” Cameron insists. “His condition improved and half of his symptoms went away as soon as he was put in the non-magical wards.”

“Don’t tell me there are two conditions,” House says. He widens his eyes dramatically. “Foreman, you’ll save me, won’t you?”

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Foreman says, shrugging with his hands in his pockets. “But all signs point to him dying of two things right now.”

“Then we take him out of the ward, put him under a stasis field,” House says.

“The stasis field will trigger the seepage symptoms again,” Chase says.

“The seepage is killing him slower than whatever else this is,” House says. “Skip the healing and anesthetic spells, we don’t need to speed it up. Stasis should be enough to give us some time, maybe a day or two if we’re lucky.”

“On it,” Foreman says. The fellows all file out of the office, and House recedes into his office, sitting heavy at his desk, a timer ticking in his head.

*

House sits still and makes a coin disappear and reappear between his knuckles, over and over again as the world darkens around him. The patient’s condition deteriorates slowly enough that he sends his fellows home to get some sleep. Eventually, he heeds his own advice and levers himself out of his chair, making his way down to the parking lot and then to his apartment.

The snow comes down in small flurries, chilling House to the bone before he makes it inside. His leg aches the way it always aches in the winter, and sitting down on his couch is a profound relief, his body sinking into the cushions. The whiskey waits for him on the coffee table, his most stalwart companion, rivaling even Wilson in pure dependability. He goes to reach for it, but then stops himself, trying a summon spell instead, something so simple most toddlers can cast it with only limited training.

His magic creaks to life, cramped and miserable inside his body, caged by fickle flesh and weak bone. The pain starts almost immediately, as the magic searches for outlet, as his body goes haywire to keep it inside. It’s a dull, angry sort of pain, radiating from his core out into his extremities, heavy and malicious and absolutely everywhere.

Magic used to feel like light inside of him, like breathing, so natural, so completely perfectly correct. He can’t remember a time in his life without it. Even when his father shoved him into ice baths, locked him outdoors overnight, beat him and starved him and shuffled him from military base to military base, he always had his warming spells, his shelter wards, his Cross-Eyed jinxes, his summoned familiars.

He honed his casting skills through med school and residency, specializing in spell-damage and system failure, cultivating a practice in diagnostics. People came and went in his life, but he never let it bother him. He had his magic, after all, and he could never be alone, could never be scared, as long as he had his magic.

The pain from the summon spell sinks deep into his bones, his whole body shaking as his magic writhes inside him, trying desperately to get through the wall of misery into the world around him. The bottle shakes, but doesn’t come, House’s concentration slipping with every prolonged second of the malicious, brutish torment. He holds the spell in his mind for a few more seconds before giving up with a gasp, his eyes burning with unshed tears. The whiskey bottle sits still on the table, taunting him.

It was a sepsis hex that did this to him, disguised under an agony hex. By the time the doctors got around to breaking the hold the agony had on him, the second hex had turned his blood to poison, an irreversible effect, rotting him from the inside out. He should have died, but his magic reacted faster than the doctors did, swift and brutal in its defense of his life, fighting a civil war with his body as a battleground.

After a few hours of the most debilitating pain he’d experienced in his life, House asked to be put into a coma, trusting that his magic, honed and precise as it was, would fight the infection off in time. Cuddy, not so sure, insisted that they could circumvent the possibility of death by corralling the poison into the initial point of contact and then removing the muscle entirely. They would have had to purge his magic in the process, but Cuddy assured him that potentially losing the ability to cast was worth his life. House disagreed, vocally.

House won the argument, and went under. He woke up a week later to a weeping Stacy, a mutilated thigh, and cold resentful magic that ate him alive when he called on it. By the time Wilson returned from his honeymoon, Cuddy couldn’t make eye contact with him, Stacy was already on the brink of leaving, and House was indelibly changed, hollowed out and lonelier than he had ever been in his life.

House falls back in defeat, glaring at the whiskey on the table. He shakes his almost empty flask, staring at it bleakly. He goes to take a swig, but the image of Wilson, shiny-eyed and gray-faced, swims in front of his bleary eyes. He’s seen that face before. He knows what comes next.

House levers himself to his feet and pours the dregs of the potion down the sink, watching the shimmery liquid spiral around the drain. Then he shuffles off to bed, letting the weight of the day carry him to sleep.

His dreams are cruel and disorienting, full of dark shadows and sharp tongues.

*

The next morning, he wakes up with the taste of blood in his mouth. His whole body aches dully, and his leg almost gives out under him when he levers himself out of bed. The rest of the morning proceeds in the same fashion.

“You look awful,” Cameron says as soon as he walks in.

“Bangs don’t work on your face shape,” House responds, “if we’re being honest today.”

“I meant you look sick,” Cameron says, looking chastened.

“Not as sick as our patient,” House says, tapping on the whiteboard. “Discounting the seepage symptoms, we have two sets of teeth, fledgeling wings, bark on his feet, a dark blue rash and violet fluid buildup in his lungs. What’s causing them?”

“Rash and fluid buildup makes me think it’s a hex again, but the family said he didn’t have any enemies,” Chase says. “And it still doesn’t explain why there isn’t any significant scarring on his aura.”

“Scarring isn’t always apparent on an initial scan. Besides, he won the lottery and stayed rich after, he probably only has enemies,” House says. “Run hexbreakers with the names of every single person he interacts with on a daily basis, maybe we’ll get lucky and his wife wants him dead.”

“If he’s been living with seepage, it could have aggravated lesser magical maladies,” Cameron says. “Maybe this was actually a jinx that went wrong.”

“There’s thousands of jinxes that could cause these symptoms,” Foreman says, “especially if we’re factoring in the seepage as a variable.”

“Run counterjinxes for the twenty most commonly found in New Jersey,” House tells Cameron. “More than likely he’s been living with a few for years, but there might be one that explains more of this.”

“On it,” Cameron says, getting up.

“Foreman, I want you in the house,” House says. “The seepage might have been coming from an unshielded magical artefact--”

“Which might have caused the other symptoms as well,” Foreman finishes. “I’ll take a detector with me, make sure I don’t miss anything.”

“Move fast,” House says, calling after them as they disperse. The pain in his leg becomes a dull roar. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will it away. His empty flask sits heavy in his pocket.

*

In the lab, Cameron glares at the beakers in front of her, the small mounds of powders and pipettes necessary for counterjinxes.

“Do you really think paineaters can make good doctors?” she asks Chase.

Chase looks up from drawing the salt circle for his hexbreaker ritual. “You’re still on this?”

“Why do you think House was so supportive of them?” Cameron asks, muttering the words to the Slippery Fingers counterjinx. There’s a small explosion of dust in the test tube in front of her. “He doesn’t usually take such a strong stance on things like that.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Chase asks, lighting a candle. “He’s the paineater.”

Cameron stares at him. “You’re joking.”

“It makes sense,” Chase says, snapping a wax seal over the candle. “He’s misanthropic, people hate him, he’s constantly making us run painful and invasive tests on our patients. I expect he probably feeds on emotional pain more than physical. You’ve been around him when you’re in a bad mood, right? He brings it up, twists the knife, and gets off on it. That’s a classic paineater feeding tactic.”

“That makes him a sadist, not a paineater,” Cameron says, refocusing on her final task, the Back Acne counterjinx, making sure to get the right proportion of gunpowder into the narrow test tube. She whispers the counterjinx and watches the explosion. “Also if he’s a paineater, why is he always in pain?”

“It’s not like they can eat their own,” Chase responds. Cameron steps by him to put her test tubes into the bulky beige residue tracking machine. “Either way, it doesn’t make him any worse a doctor. He may be a callous son of a bitch, but by the time he’s done with his patients, no matter how horrible he’s been, they love him because he took away their pain. That’s what people care about at the end of the day, not the ethics of their treatment.”

Cameron rolls her eyes. “You’re conveniently forgetting all the malpractice lawsuits House gets served with.”

Chase shrugs. “Genius is rarely respected in its time.”

Cameron grins. The machine beeps and she looks at the reading it spits out. “Shit,” she says.

“What is it?” Chase says, peering over her shoulder, smudging one of the wax runes on the ritual platter.

“Every counterjinx returned with above .5 residue,” she says. “He had every single one.”

*

House scowls at his whiteboard, his teeth grit tight against each other. His leg is killing him.

“Alright. What causes all of our previous symptoms, and also gives you twenty of the most common jinxes?”

“Jinxes are maladies, not symptoms,” Foreman says.

“Not when you get all twenty of the most common,” House says. “Five to ten is normal, twenty means there’s an underlying malady. Chase, what did you find?”

“Hexbreakers all returned negative,” Chase says, “and I used the names of all of his family members, previous coworkers, staff, and even the people in the hospital. If he was hexed by someone, it was someone he doesn’t know.”

“If he didn’t know them, they couldn’t have gotten close enough to hex him to this degree,” Cameron says. “It would have to be a curse if it was cast long-distance.”

“The first cursebreaker we tried didn’t do anything but send him into seepage shock,” Foreman says. “Another will kill him unless it’s the right one, and even then it’s risky.”

“So we assume it’s not a curse or a hex right now. We’re right back to seepage and a shitton of jinxes,” House says.

“That many stacked jinxes on top of the seepage could replicate the effects of a malicious hex,” Cameron offers.

“True, but it doesn’t explain him stroking out when he was getting purged. The jinxes should have broken first,” House says. “Foreman, what did you find in the house?”

“No artefacts, but the floor gave off strange readings so I looked up the history of the property. Turns out the neighborhood used to be a magical processing plant. There might have been unwarded magic that sank into the foundations, which could have caused the seepage.”

“Wasn’t the ground cleansed before it got zoned residential?” Chase asks.

“It was,” Foreman says. “There were only trace readings.”

“That’s not enough for the seepage damage we saw,” Cameron says. “It wouldn’t even cause that much if he was sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s the only thing that explains any of the seepage at all,” Foreman says. “His previous workplace was strictly non-magical, and he doesn’t work anymore. He spends most of his time at home.”

“It doesn’t matter either way, because until we figure out what’s causing the rest of the symptoms, we can’t treat the seepage without killing him,” House says. “And it doesn’t explain the jinxes either.”

“It could have been wild magic,” Cameron says. “If he’s been surging but he hasn’t noticed, he could have been casting jinxes on himself.”

“It’s as good an idea as any other,” House says. “Get Wilson in there, he’s the wild magic expert. While he’s checking for surge patterns, break the next forty common jinxes and see how many return positive.”

Chase nods and he and Foreman walk out of the office. Cameron stays, her wings fluttering tentatively as she approaches House.

“Didn’t I just give you a direct order?” House says.

“You really do look terrible,” Cameron says, not without compassion. “When’s the last time you drank your potion?”

“I’m all out,” House says.

Cameron’s eyebrows raise. “I can write you a new prescription--”

“Later,” House says.

“You shouldn’t be in this much pain--”

“I said later,” House snaps. “I’m not dying, our patient is. You’re an angel of mercy, prioritize like one.”

Cameron’s jaw tenses, but she nods, turning and walking out after her fellow fellows.

House wipes some sweat off his forehead and staggers to his desk, collapsing into his chair. He stares at the ceiling and breathes slowly, ignoring the roiling fire that sits in his thigh, licking at the skin over his body.

Thirty minutes later, Wilson walks into the office, his eyes wide and concerned. He looks even worse than he did yesterday, his eye bags darker, his skin more gray.

“It’s not wild magic surges,” Wilson says.

“Didn’t think it was,” House bites out. “Worth a shot, though.”

“Cameron says you haven't been taking your potion. I thought you said you had more than enough.”

“White lie,” House says. “I’m going sober today.”

Wilson freezes. “On purpose?”

“I’m going to need a ride home,” House grits out, ignoring Wilson’s question. “You can stay for dinner.”

Wilson resembles nothing so much as a statue, except for his eyes, which have gone dark and hungry. “Are you baiting me?” he asks.

“It’s only baiting if I don’t follow through,” House says.

Wilson stands in the doorway, breathing heavily enough that House hears it over the blood rushing in his ears.

“I’ll be waiting at six,” Wilson says, something indescribable in his tone. House nods, and Wilson disappears down the hall, moving soundlessly.

*

Near the end of the day, the fellows file back in, looking defeated.

“Every single jinx was countered effectively. He had all of them on him,” Foreman reports.

“Did any symptoms disappear when you did?”

“Just the tree bark and the second set of teeth,” Chase says.

“Any consistency in the scores?” House asks. “Something that suggests a timeline?”

“No,” Cameron says. “All were above .5, but there was too much variation. Some must have been on him since he was a child, others might have been cast last week.”

Chase chimes in with, “Either way, it’s a waste of our time to keep breaking jinxes. So far, none of them have had any meaningful impact on our patient. If we don’t try something else, the seepage in conjunction with the stasis field will kill him in the next day or two.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” House snaps. “Does anyone?”

The room is silent. Cameron looks at her hands. House deflates, rubbing at his temples.

“Everyone, go home. You’re useless to me right now, and as Chase so aptly put it, we have forty-eight whole hours before we have blood on our hands.”

The fellows all stand, weary and despondent, begin to shuffle out.

“For homework,” House says as they leave, “figure out what can cause fledgeling wings, dark blue rash, violet fluid build up in the lungs, and a shit ton of jinxes.”

House sits alone in the conference room for a few terrible minutes, the pain from his leg so overpowering that he almost feels faint. Then, he propels himself to his feet and shuffles to Wilson’s office.

Wilson’s door is open when he gets there, and Wilson himself is already packed up and waiting in the entrance, fifteen minutes early.

“You ready?” he asks, deceptively mild.

House nods. “Take me home,” he says, his body heavy with exhaustion. Wilson turns to lock his office door, and House breathes him in, the sandalwood and vanilla smell of his hair.

Just a little longer, House thinks.

*

The drive to House’s apartment is quiet. House leaves his eyes closed for most of it. At some point Wilson’s hand migrates to his thigh. They don’t talk about it. When they get to House’s place, Wilson follows him wordlessly, taking his coat off and draping it over the couch.

“Beer?” House asks, hooking his cane over the kitchen entrance on his way to the fridge.

“I’m fine without,” Wilson says, crowding up against House’s back. His breath is warm on the nape of House’s neck, one hand reaching out to rest on the fridge, caging House into his arms. House lets himself lean back into his chest and Wilson shudders. “You’re in so much pain.”

“Are you planning on doing something about it?” House asks, his voice coming out lower than he wants.

“Are you going to let me?” Wilson asks, nosing up behind House’s ear. His hand comes down and kneads the ruined muscle of House’s upper thigh and House winces.

“What, do you want me to beg?” House asks, turning to face him.

Wilson swallows heavily, and House watches the motion under the smooth skin of his throat. “Would you?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “Beg?”

“Not sure yet,” House says. “Let’s find out.”

Wilson’s hands go to his hips, and he drags House closer, nuzzling into his neck, initiating the psychic link that allows him to feed.

It starts the same way every time, a pressure under House’s sternum that grows and grows, sharpening and warming until he feels like he’s about to burst out of his own skin, his vision blurring with tears that spill unbidden over his cheeks. He groans in agony, his hands coming around to claw at Wilson’s back and neck, clutching at him to stay upright.

Wilson pulls back just far enough to nose at his cheek, licking his tears away, sending shivers down House’s spine. His eyes glow pure white, as House feels the pain balloon inside of him, crackling through his fingertips, lighting his skin on fire, stinging and pulsing and throbbing and—

The pain suddenly melts away, in a wave of dam-breaking relief as Wilson moans in satisfaction. His eyes are incandescent, so warm and bright and radiant that House has to squint to see. Even that small pain flows into the link, into the tether of raw psychic power between them.

House huffs out a breathless laugh. This is his favorite part.

He wraps his arms around Wilson and mutters a levitation spell. The magic comes sluggishly at first, but the pain of casting flows like water through a sieve into Wilson who gasps and nuzzles closer to House’s neck, rubbing his cheek up against his stubble. Slowly, Wilson and House’s tangled bodies begin to rise, the air swirling around House’s bad leg as they spin and maneuver in the air as if it were water.

“Oh,” Wilson breathes into House’s neck.

“Take more if you need it,” House rasps, and Wilson doesn’t hesitate, biting hard over House’s collarbone and drinking the pain away. “Shit, that’s good.”

“House,” Wilson gasps, pulling away and mouthing wetly against his jaw. “Let me touch you, please let me touch you, please.”

“Twist my arm about it, why don’t you?” House says. A tube of KY flies into House’s hand, the summoning spell only a momentary shock before Wilson draws it away, his hips bucking against House’s at the taste. One of Wilson’s hands drops to House’s cock in his pants and squeezes hard.

“Get naked,” Wilson orders, tearing at his shirt, his belt buckle. House starts stripping, and soon enough their clothes are hovering in the air as they roll around on the ceiling, hands gripping tight enough to leave bruises, nails dragging hard enough to draw blood.

Wilson starts to work him open with deft fingers, and House hisses, his leg kicking out and hitting the ceiling fan. God, he really needs to dust up here.

“Faster,” House growls. “It’s not like I’ll feel the pain for long.”

“I want you hurt, not injured,” Wilson says, twisting his fingers with surgical precision to rub at his prostate. “There’s a difference.”

“Who gives a shit what you want?” House asks, casting another spell to make all of the lights in the apartment go red, then another to make his speakers play Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing. The resulting pain is sharp and violent, and then gone as it floods through Wilson, making him shudder and groan, his forehead against House’s chest.

“That’s not fair,” Wilson gasps.

“Fair is boring,” House responds, clawing at Wilson’s back. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“Well, since you asked so politely,” Wilson says with renewed conviction, manhandling House’s body around so they’re midair again, so all House can feel is Wilson’s skin, sweat-slick and fever-hot. He slings House’s thighs around his waist and lines himself up, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

House slides a hand up Wilson’s chest, getting his attention. “I want to feel it,” he begs. “Let me keep it, just for a second before you take it away.”

Wilson makes a wounded sound and nods, before pushing into him, slowly, inexorably. The stretch is gritty and sharp and sings through House’s body, as he writhes and pants for breath. There’s a brief eternity where House briefly doesn’t exist, the pain driving him out of his own mind, suspending his consciousness on another plane.

Then, Wilson whisks the burn away, leaving only sweet friction and aching pleasure in its wake. He bends forward to press his lips against House’s chest, spinning them around so House is pressed up against the wall, before rocking into him with smooth even strokes, hard enough to shake the hanging picture frames. It feels good, but practiced and impersonal.

House can fix that.

He murmurs another spell, the pain so brief it’s barely noticeable now, and sparks begin to shimmer out of his fingertips, playing along Wilson’s skin, sending shivers up his bowed spine. What little control Wilson possesses frays and snaps, and he pistons forward sharply, setting House’s nerves alight again.

“How can this be so good?” Wilson asks, almost upset against House’s neck, as he works his hips against House, grinding into him desperately. “How can anything be so good?”

“You're desperate for this, aren’t you?” House rasps.

“Shut up,” Wilson says, dragging his teeth across House’s throat hard enough to bruise. “Don’t talk. You did this to me.”

“And I’d do it again,” House says, leaning in and licking at Wilson’s teeth. Wilson kisses back viciously, biting House’s lip, breaking the skin there. The coppery taste of blood fills their mouths and they both groan.

House spins them around again, pulling Wilson towards the bedroom. The new angle makes Wilson buck and writhe, his face flushed pink, his lips raw and tender. House maneuvers them so he’s straddling Wilson midair over his bed, and then drops the levitation spell, so they plummet onto the bed in textbook cowgirl.

Gravity slams Wilson deeper into House than he’s been this whole night, and he whines and comes, pulsing thick and hot in House as he claws the skin on his hips, his eyes so bright they light up the whole room.

House rides Wilson through his orgasm, stroking himself off fast and rough until he comes as well, his head thrown back as Wilson finally breaks the link, his eyes going dark and sweet with hazy pleasure.

House hauls himself off Wilson and murmurs a quick cleaning spell while he’s still riding high on the feed. He collapses onto his stomach, his side pressed against Wilson’s golden skin.

For a long time, they breathe in perfect synchrony, their bodies cooling against each other. House thinks that he might like to spend a month of his life just like this, listening to Wilson breathe, feeling the wild pulse of his heart settle and align with his.

Eventually, inevitably, Wilson goes tense against House’s side, his ever present guilt and self-loathing no longer drowned out by hunger.

House buries his head in a pillow. This is his least favorite part.

“Going somewhere?” House asks, as Wilson carefully levers himself off the bed, as if House won’t notice him if he moves slowly enough.

“My TiVo is almost full,” Wilson says, as he starts the process of finding his clothes. “I promised myself I’d make a dent on the backlog tonight.”

“You don’t record anything on Wednesdays,” House says.

“I started watching One Tree Hill,” Wilson says from the living room.

“Liar,” House mutters. He raises his voice to say, “You could watch it here.”

Wilson reappears in the doorway, flushed and glowing, mostly dressed except for his halfway buttoned shirt and the tie draped loose around his neck. “We both know that’s not a good idea,” he says, as if that’s supposed to be convincing, looking down at his hands as he buttons his shirt to his neck. 

House wants to jump him, pin him to the ground and bite him all over until he bleeds. “It’s as good an idea as any of your other major life decisions,” House says, growing vindictive.

“Staying the night with you is a major life decision?” Wilson asks, tying his tie.

“Why else would you run away like this?” House asks.

Wilson freezes for half a beat, before finishing up with his tie and turning to leave. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“You know you'll be back, right?” House asks, one slit eye focused on Wilson’s silhouette in the doorway. Wilson looks over his shoulder at him and House smirks, feeling very hollow. “You can’t get a fuck like this anywhere else.”

Wilson’s eyes darken, but only for a second. “Don’t forget your flask tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The pain always comes back sooner than you think.”

Then he’s gone, leaving House alone in the empty apartment.

*

Chapter Text

The next morning, House only uses the cane for appearances. Contrary to what Wilson said, the effects of a prolonged feeding from a paineater last for up to twenty-four hours, and Wilson was exceptionally hungry the night before.

When he walks in, both Cameron and Chase double take at his appearance.

“What happened to you?” Cameron asks, staring at the vicious bruises on House’s throat, her eyes flicking up to his split lip like she’s not sure which is worse.

“I fucked a paineater last night,” House says, walking to the coffee.

“That’s not funny,” Cameron says, pursing her lips in her classic disapproving face.

“I didn’t think it was funny either,” House says, eyes wide as he pours himself a mug. “Just sort of painful, and then really really good. Then it was painful again.”

“Do we have to talk about this?” Foreman asks, aggrieved. “We have a patient.”

“Patient isn’t as interesting,” House says. “Unless there are new symptoms?”

The fellows all shake their heads. Chase says, “His condition is still deteriorating at pace.”

“So we’re up shit creek without a boat,” House says, spinning his cane in his hand. “Alright, then we start from scratch, tear up all of our assumptions. Foreman, retake the family history. We’ve heard about most of his life post-lottery, but there’s always the chance there’s a dark history with magic they conveniently left out the first time around.”

“We’re wasting time,” Chase says.

“We have no new symptoms,” House responds. “Unless you want to try a random cursebreaker because you’d like to see how much faster he can die—“

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” Chase says. “Physical stress can exacerbate magical symptoms, or cause new ones when the patient’s internal magic starts responding — let’s strap him to something that moves too fast and see what system fails first.”

“That’s a sadistic, half-baked idea borne out of impatience and boredom,” House says admiringly. “I love it. Cameron, help him with the test.”

The fellows file out, though Chase hangs back.

“You know, if you weren’t joking,” Chase says once the room is empty, “I know about a club that hires paineaters for regular shifts. It’s a pretty classy place, discreet and everything. Open every night.”

House blinks a few times. “Are you recommending a supernatural BDSM club to me?” he asks.

“Only if you’re interested,” Chase says, shrugging.

“I’m very interested,” House says. “Give me the deets.”

Chase pulls out one of his cards and scribbles a name, a number and an address on the back of it. “Call in advance and they can reserve a room for you,” he advises.

“This is why you’re my real favorite,” House says, conspiratorial. “Don’t tell Cameron.”

Chase grins, a surprisingly boyish expression, then leaves.

*

It only takes ten minutes for everything to go tits up. House doesn’t know why he’s surprised, when he gets the beeper message that his patient is coding.

Luckily he’s still painless, so it doesn’t hurt to run downstairs and see the chaotic scene that developed in his absence, Wilson on the ground with a man shaking from the aftermath of a violent wild magic surge, Foreman and Cameron weaving a spell over their patient, who is currently coughing up blood and salamanders on the linoleum, shaking and writhing.

“Let me guess,” House says to Chase, who is casting a ward to seal off the patient’s room from the rest of the hospital, “Wilson’s patient had a surge event and lashed out at ours.”

Chase nods, his eyes glowing gold as he finishes the spell. He turns to House, the look on his face grave and somber. “We don’t need to run the stress test,” he says. “We know what systems are shutting down.”

“Oh?” House asks.

“All of them,” Chase intones, right as the resuscitation spell Foreman and Cameron are weaving takes effect, and their patient stops convulsing, lying limp and sightless in the stasis field.

House turns to Wilson’s patient, standing and staring at his hands with an expression of pure horror. He’ll be on suppressants within the day, the poor sick bastard.

House’s eyes slip to Wilson with no input from his mind at all. It’s a mistake. He looks good. Really good. He’s practically glowing in the harsh hospital lights, his skin soft shades of gold and cream, his hair impossibly soft and smooth, the furrow in his brow perfectly concerned, as he walks his patient towards a nurse.

House wants to strangle him.

“Everyone upstairs,” House calls, wrenching his gaze away to the sight of Cameron banishing the blood and salamanders from the floor. “That includes you, Wilson.”

“What for?” Foreman asks, coming out of the sealed room.

“We have a new symptom,” House says, grim.

*

“Someone else’s wild magic surge isn’t a symptom,” Foreman says, as soon as they’re all situated around the table. Wilson isn’t meeting House’s eyes. House isn’t exactly meeting his either.

“Cameron, give me one reason Foreman is wrong,” House says.

Cameron looks apologetic but answers dutifully, “He could have a provocation curse on him that impels other people to cast on him.”

“Chase, another,” House says.

“Something as simple as the bad luck jinx,” Chase says, looking decidedly less apologetic. “Triggers the field of magical probabilities, causes the worst one to happen.”

“We broke the bad luck jinx already,” Foreman says, “before the surge. And a provocation curse wouldn’t cause the violet fluid, the wings, or the rash.”

“Those symptoms can be explained by the seepage and the jinxes,” Cameron responds.

“If we run another cursebreaker on our patient and we’re wrong, we’ll kill him,” Foreman says.

“If we don’t come up with something better, he dies anyway,” House says. “Chase, how much time do we have?”

“Thirty minutes ago, I would have said another day, but after that display downstairs, maybe three hours, four tops.”

“Provocation cursebreaker takes forty-five minutes to cast, fifteen minutes to take effect,” House says. “That gives us two hours to come up with a better plan. Cameron, Foreman, get the spell components ready. Chase, I want every stupid idea you’ve ever had on a list, ranked from least stupid to most in one hour. Annoy Foreman and Cameron with it if you have to, but I want options.”

The fellows nod and file out, but Wilson stays close, following House back into his office.

“How’s your patient?” House asks.

“Shaken, but fine,” Wilson says. “He’s going on the suppressors now. Said giving up his magic for some time wasn’t so bad compared to hurting the people around him.”

“Projecting a little bit there?” House asks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wilson asks.

“That’s why you leave after you feed on me, right?” House responds. “Guilt over hurting me? Or is it something a little deeper than that?”

“I leave because it’s not a good idea to stay,” Wilson says, conciliatory and amused, the perfect vision of a mild-mannered doctor. The performance makes House’s skin crawl. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“I’m feeling just fine,” House responds blithely. “Perfectly peachy. I was actually thinking of integrating feedings into my regular routine, probably twice a week to start.”

Wilson goes so still and tense that House suspects he stops breathing entirely. “Regular feedings can be addictive,” he says, looking furtively back at the door to make sure nobody is listening. He doesn’t need to worry. Cuddy ensured House’s office would have soundproof wards for reasons she claimed were self-evident. “For both of us.”

“Well, what’s one more addiction?” House asks, glib. “Besides, I wouldn’t put you at any risk. You have more important things to do than cater to the needs of little old me.” Wilson’s face twists at that, his eyebrows furrowing, his eyes darkening. “Apparently, Chase frequents a discreet BDSM club that hires paineaters specifically for people in my specific circumstances.”

“Won’t it be a little awkward if you run into each other?” Wilson asks, an edge in his voice now.

“Oh, I’m sure we could set up a schedule to avoid any fuss,” House says, pulling out the card and reading from it. “Chez Utopia, open every night from dusk ‘till dawn. Who knows, Wilson? Maybe one of the staff will fall desperately in love with me and take me as a thrall.”

“Maybe,” Wilson says, his jaw tense.

“Now, the popular conception of paineaters says they’re tremendously territorial over the people they feed on,” House says, flipping his cane around in his hand. “They distinguish between different kinds of pain, pick favorites. The stereotypical paineater might have a problem with me going and seeking someone else to eat my pain, but you’re not a stereotype, are you, Wilson?”

“Baiting me again?” Wilson asks, something low and dangerous in his tone, his eerily still posture.

“There’s nothing to bait,” House says, feigning innocence. “You’re not like the other paineaters. You’re better, more normal. You’re perfectly adapted to human society. In fact, you barely even need to feed. That’s why you don't for weeks on end, right? You’re not starving yourself out of self-loathing, you’re just the biological exception to the rule.”

“I’m leaving,” Wilson says, turning.

“Oh, just admit it,” House says, throwing his cane on the ground to reclaim his attention. “Admit you don’t want me to go to the club. Admit that you’re just like any other paineater.”

“You’re being a child,” Wilson says, but he turns back to face House, which means House has him on the hook.

“That’s the real reason why you always leave right after you feed. You don’t care about hurting me, you just don’t want to be the monster under everyone’s bed, the paineater on the Princeton-Plainsboro hospital staff, the walking ethical quandary.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Wilson says, his words clipped. “You don’t give a damn about what I feel, you just got it in your head that I should want to spend my nights with you, and now you’re trying to manipulate me into giving you exactly what you think you want.”

“That’s right, Wilson, I’m a bad person because I try to get what I want,” House says. “And you’re a good person, because you only think about what you should want.”

“That’s not what I said,” Wilson says, but House is on a roll.

“It’s like you have this little checklist of all the things you need to do to be the perfect human, and your whole life is just you trying and failing to tick those boxes. You never wanted a wife at all, much less three of them. You didn’t even feed on them, you just let them marinate in the slow creeping knowledge that they would never be enough for you, and then cheated on them when even that started to bore you.”

“Right, because you’re the expert on maintaining healthy relationships,” Wilson bites out. “Remind me how the last one worked out? The last one you didn’t pay, to be more specific.”

“You try desperately to be the perfect picture of the modern man, but the second it gets too hard, you revert right back to the predator you’ve always been,” House continues, ignoring him. “That’s what keeps you coming back to me. I’m the thrall you always wanted, the thrall you hate wanting.”

“I don’t want a thrall,” Wilson lies. “And if I did, I wouldn’t want you.”

“You leave because you can’t accept your true nature, which means you can’t accept that you make every choice that lands you back at my door every time,” House says, advancing on him. “You’re a monster, Wilson, just accept it.”

“I’m not a monster,” Wilson bites out, stepping forward to meet him.

“Put some pep into it, really convince me,” House goads him.

“I said, I’m not a monster,” Wilson snaps, and now there are milky clouds coming up in his eyes, as House’s head starts to throb with pain. “You just need me to be one, because you’re a shambling wreck of misery and cruelty, determined to make everyone and everything as awful as you. I take pain away from people, you force them to sit in it, to dwell on it.”

“Does that remind you of anyone?” House grits out, the tension headache building thick and mean in his skull.

Wilson’s eyes are now solid white, drawing the pain to the forefront of House’s mind, until his knees actually start to buckle under the force of it. “You're addicted to being pathetic, but you resent being pitied,” he continues, “so you push everyone else away and then demean them until they feel as pathetic as you.”

“You don’t need the help,” House snaps. His head is heavy, and he feels so tense and frustrated and miserable that his vision is blurring from unshed tears. “You’re the most pathetic person I’ve ever met. You’re a spineless wonder. You act like I force you to feed on me when your hunger inevitably outweighs your precious morals.”

“Right, because you don’t provoke me at all, don’t prey on my weaknesses when I’m vulnerable,” Wilson retorts. “You get off on it, hunting me down, cornering me when I’m desperate. It’s sadistic, it’s fucking monstrous.”

House snarls, “At least I know what I am. You call me needy, but your whole personality is a yawning pit of unsatisfied hunger, and every unhappy woman within a three mile radius of you is collateral damage in your starvation crusade.”

“I’m not the one doing damage here,” Wilson says, his eyes so radiant and white now that they’re throwing off shadows.

“If you’re not doing damage, when are you going to feed?” House asks, over the throbbing in his head, the blood thudding unhappily in his ears. “Or do you only eat my pain when you’re horny?”

Wilson’s eyes abruptly go dark and warm, so quickly that House’s own eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light of the office. The headache doesn’t vanish, but it does lessen, as the pain recedes back into his mind. House staggers back and holds onto the edge of his desk and Wilson takes a few deep breaths, visibly calming himself down.

“You didn’t feed,” House says eventually.

“I’m not a monster,” Wilson responds, but his voice is quiet, guilty and self-loathing all over again. He scrubs his hand over his face, hiding his eyes, before leaning down and grabbing House’s cane, holding it out to him. “Go see your patient’s family. Someone they love is dying, and you can’t fix it. They deserve to hear that from you.”

“What do you deserve, Wilson?” House asks.

“Just go,” Wilson says, still avoiding eye contact.

House takes the cane and goes.

*

The patient’s father is visibly upset when he walks into the waiting area, his hair mussed, his shirt buttoned wrong. The mother is gnawing her fingernails, the skin red and raw underneath, her blue nail polish chipped and mangled. The wife looks the most composed of all of them, but her gaze is hollow as she stares sightlessly at the outdated magazines on the table in front of her.

They all look up when he walks up, and House confronts the hope and dread in their expressions, his least favorite part of this job.

“Your son is dying,” House starts, because he’s not Wilson. The father nods stoically, though he blinks too often to be convincing. The mother puts her head in her hands and the wife’s face crumples entirely. He really hates this part. “A different patient had a wild magic surge in the hallway outside of his room and your son got caught in the crossfire. Prior to the event, he had a day to live. Now he has hours.”

“And there’s nothing you can do?” the father asks. “Nothing at all?

“There has to be something, right?” the wife says. “I’ll sign off on anything, I swear, but we can’t just give up on him.”

“We’re preparing a cursebreaker for something that might be able to explain some of his symptoms,” House says. “We’ll give you the consent form soon, but you should know we don’t expect it to work.”

“It can’t end like this,” the mother says, pulling her head out of her hands and shaking her head frantically, her eyes wild. “Not with Alex. Something will happen at the last minute, something always happens at the last minute, he always gets away with it at the end.”

“What do you mean by that?” House asks, focusing on her. Something sparks to life in his head. “Has something like this happened before?”

“Well, nothing medical,” his father says, still blinking rapidly. “But he’s always had the luck of the devil.”

“That’s right, he won the lottery,” House says.

“Not just that,” his mother says, settling down a little as she begins to reminisce. “One time he was thrown free of a roller coaster at an amusement park and came up with just a few scratches, not even a broken bone.”

“Even the way he met up with Rita,” the father says, gesturing to the wife.

“I thought you were high school sweethearts,” House says.

“We were,” Rita says. “But my family moved to Germany for my dad’s career in senior year. We completely lost touch, didn’t see each other for years. We only met up again because we got stuck in an airport together after our planes got delayed a few years ago. It was a crazy stroke of luck.”

“Were there any other instances like this?” House asks, feeling a little bit insane.

“Well sure,” the mother says, looking perplexed. “But the other stuff is smaller. He got pulled over for a DUI in high school, but the police officer got a notice that his wife was going into labor prematurely and completely forgot to give him the ticket.”

“There was that time he climbed up onto the roof to jump into the pool, and completely missed, just as I was tossing out a stack of mattresses we needed to replace,” the father says. “Shaved a few years off of my life then, let me tell you.”

“When did this all start?” House asks. “Birth?”

“No,” the mother says, thinking seriously. “It started when he turned thirteen, if I remember correctly. We thought it might have just been how teenagers were, until we realized he was getting in and out of more scrapes than almost anyone else in his class.”

“Did he make a wish?” House says, something wild and powerful tightening up his chest and throat. “On this thirteenth birthday, did he make a wish on any candles?”

“Yeah, sure,” the father says. “We threw a party for him like we did every year.”

“Do you know what it was?” House asks. “Did he say it out loud?”

“No,” his mother says. “He said he couldn’t tell us or else it wouldn’t come true.”

“Shit,” House says, turning and walking into the patient’s room as fast as he can. The family calls after him as he goes, but he doesn’t turn, unwilling to waste any more time.

There isn’t a nurse in the room, which is good because they would definitely try to stop him from what he’s doing. He finds the ward on the ground that maintains the stasis spell on Alex, and then scuffs and reshapes it so it wakes him up.

Alex wakes up with a gasp and then a sharp keening noise as his body reminds him that he’s in agonizing pain. Six different monitors start making loud and horrible noises. House hears the scuffing of a hundred nurses’ shoes and knows he’s running out of time.

“What happened?” Alex groans. “Why does--”

“Shut up and listen,” House interrupts. “We don’t have time for your questions. You’re dying right now, and there’s only one thing you can do to stop it.”

“What is it?” Alex says, his eyes bleary with pain.

“On your thirteenth birthday, you blew out candles on a cake, surrounded by the people who loved you most, and you made a wish,” House says. “What was that wish? Be exact.”

“My thirteenth birthday?” Alex asks, still addled. “I can’t remember that.”

House grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. “Think! Your life depends on it, and we’re running out of time.”

“It was so long ago,” Alex moans. House shakes him again and Alex screws up his face for an endless second. House fends off the nurses as they approach the door, waving his cane at them threateningly. Suddenly, Alex’s eyes pop open. “I wished to be exceptional.”

“That’s the word you used?” House asks, intent. “Exceptional?”

“That’s the one,” Alex croaks out, his voice hoarse. “People ignored me. I didn’t want them to ignore me anymore. I wanted to be exceptional.”

House sighs in a wave of pure relief, dropping his cane. The nurses flood in and rework the spells he broke as he walks out, paging Wilson and his fellows to meet him in front of the room, stat.

*

They’re all down in minutes, even Wilson, who still won’t make eye contact with him. House leans against the glass of the room, riding the high of solving the puzzle.

“I figured it out,” House informs them. “I really am as good as they say.”

“What do you mean you solved it?” Foreman says.

“It’s his luck,” House says. “It’s been his luck this whole time.”

“That doesn’t really clear anything up for us,” Chase says.

“Imagine a patient. He jumps off the roof of his house and lands on a stack of mattresses his father was about to throw out. He gets in trouble with the law, but through the miracle of premature childbirth, has the officer completely forget about him. He gets thrown out of a roller coaster at high speeds and doesn’t break a bone. Then, he wins the lottery, makes some good investments in the stock market, ends up a multimillionaire at the age of 25. A few years later, he runs into his estranged childhood sweetheart in a freak twist of fate and they get married. What does that tell you?”

“He’s got good luck?” Cameron asks.

“No, he’s got exceptionally good luck,” House says. “Now imagine a second patient. He attracts every jinx in a half mile radius, he gets advanced seepage damage from a cleansed lot that should have barely affected him, and he presents with a dozen symptoms that all cause him agonizing pain. Then, as soon as he gets his magic shut off and put into a non-magical ward, he strokes out and develops new symptoms, then gets hit with a stray wild magic surge from a patient who hasn’t had a surge before in his life. What does that tell you?”

“He’s got a maniac for a doctor?” Foreman asks.

“He’s got bad luck,” Chase says, “exceptionally bad luck.”

House grins. “Now imagine those two patients are the same person. Then imagine, before anything that I’ve described happens, on his thirteenth birthday, he gathers all of his friends and family into one room, lights candles, wishes to be exceptional, and then refuses to tell anyone what he wished for.”

“A dedicated audience, physical implements, unspoken casting,” Cameron says, the realization dawning on her as well. “Those are all the components of ritual magic.”

“And the thirteenth birthday is one of the most magically potent milestones,” Wilson says. “So any casting on that day would be magnified in intensity and duration.”

“Did you cast any wild magic at your bar mitzvah?” House asks, momentarily derailed.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wilson answers in the affirmative.

“It’s the exceptional luck ritual,” Foreman says, focusing them back on the patient. “He devoted his life to being exceptional and now that devotion is killing him.”

“Why does that sound so familiar?” Wilson mutters.

House ignores Wilson’s aside. “The least likely thing keeps happening to him. If he’s not hexed or cursed, the purge to treat the seepage should never have caused the stroke—”

“Unless, of course, we encountered the extremely rare case of the purge suppressing his natural magic before eliminating the jinxes,” Chase says, rubbing his hand over his face.

“So what do we do?” Cameron asks.

“Wilson will evoke and then break the spell. It’s deep-seated, but now that we know what we’re looking for, it should be easy to find. Then, we’ll take him out of stasis, stick him in the non-magical ward, and run another purge. The jinxes should break first this time, and then we just need to wait to take care of the seepage. He should be just fine in a day, maybe a day and a half if he’s unlucky.”

Wilson nods and heads into the patient's room, with Cameron and Foreman in tow.

“I’ll get the consent from the wife,” Chase says, turning and walking to the waiting area.

House watches Chase make his way over to the family, watches as he talks for a few seconds, watches as they burst into tears, as they hold each other and laugh and gasp for air. Then he turns and walks away.

*

House goes home as soon as Chase reports the ritual was broken. Nobody messages him any new updates, which means either the hospital has been demolished in a freak accident or the patient is fine. 

House sits on the couch with the fireplace lit, nursing his second glass of whiskey. The pain has crept back in, despite being within the twenty-four hour window. He pushed it today, the way he always does. Wilson was right. 

Maybe Wilson has been right the whole time. 

House sets down his glass on the coffee table, lets himself look at the card Chase gave him. He contemplates it for a long moment, before getting his phone out and dialing the number. 

The phone rings once, then twice. On the third ring, House hears Wilson’s characteristic knock on his front door. He hangs up just as a voice on the other end starts speaking, tossing the card onto the table in front of him. 

“You have a key,” House calls. “I’m not getting up.” 

Wilson lets himself in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He comes over to the couch and hands House a paper bag. House opens it to see three glass vials of painkiller potion. “I picked up your prescription for you,” Wilson says, lamely. 

“That explains the potion in the bag,” House says. “You want a drink?” 

“Yeah,” Wilson says, sitting down on the couch next to House. He grabs House’s glass of whiskey and downs it in one long pull. A man on the brink if House has ever seen one. 

“Something on your mind?” House asks, wary now. 

“You know he only got assigned to you because of that exceptional luck ritual, right?” Wilson says. “You’re the only person on earth who could have saved his life. The exception to every rule.” 

“I do know, actually,” House says slowly. “I’m surprised you would say it to me. You’re usually not eager to feed my ego.” 

“I wonder how he’ll feel when he wakes up,” Wilson says, staring at the dark screen of the television. “He won’t be exceptional anymore, after all.” 

“Better to be average than dead,” House says. “For some people, at least.” 

“You couldn’t be average if you tried,” Wilson says, his voice quiet and sincere. 

House genuinely starts to get a little worried. If Wilson is dying or something, he’s going to throw a fit. “Wilson,” he says, in the same tone he uses on crying women, and the occasional mugger. “Why are you here?” 

“I hate when you use that voice with me,” Wilson mutters. “It makes me feel like a hysteric.” 

“If you want to get Freudian, we can,” House says. “You’re a perfect study in castration anxiety. I don’t have any room to speak, of course, what with the phallus I use to walk every day and my obvious oral fixation.” 

Wilson ignores him with the ease of practice, his eyes locked onto the card in front of him on the coffee table. “Are you going?” he asks, gesturing at it with his chin, bearing a remarkable resemblance to a kicked dog. 

“Do you want me to?” House asks. 

“It’s not about what I want,” Wilson says. 

“Behold, the thesis statement of your entire life,” House says. “No wonder you’re so miserable, speaking as the resident expert on misery.” 

Wilson huffs out a quiet laugh, scrubbing his hand over his face. “What’s it to you if I’m miserable?” 

“Wilson,” House says, completely unimpressed by his self-pity. “You’re my best friend.” 

Wilson finally turns to look at him. “Don’t go to the club.” 

“I won’t if you stay the night,” House says.

“Why are you pushing this so hard all of a sudden?” Wilson asks. “I’ve left dozens of times before, you didn’t mind it then.” 

House grimaces, looking away. “I did mind it,” he says. “Every time.” 

“Then why didn’t you ever—“ 

“You were married,” House offers. 

“Bullshit,” Wilson says. “That’s not why.” 

“I thought we were talking about your dysfunction not mine,” House says, standing and walking to the kitchen to get a second glass. 

“You’re insane if you think my dysfunction has nothing to do with yours,” Wilson says, standing up too. “Why now?” 

“Do you want a beer?” House asks, pivoting to the fridge. “I need a beer.” 

“Why are you suddenly so afraid to talk about this? I thought you wanted to hash this out.” 

“I didn’t sign up for an interrogation in my own apartment,” House says, glaring at the bare insides of his fridge. He usually lives on take-out, but this has gotten depressing. 

“This whole relationship hinges on impromptu interrogations, House, would you just answer the damn question?” Wilson asks, his voice raising. 

House slams the fridge shut and turns to him. “Look, I just spent seventy-two hours of my life hearing every single person in that godforsaken hospital talk about how it makes you a bad person to need me,” he snaps. “How you should feel guilty for taking my pain, how I should feel exploited because when I’m with you, I can actually use magic without shredding my insides, how our entire relationship is something both of us should be institutionalized for wanting. Maybe I’m just sick of hearing it from you too.” 

Wilson blinks at him for a few seconds. House shakes his head and turns back to the fridge, grabbing a beer and slamming the cap off against the counter. 

“House,” Wilson says, his voice soft with something that makes House’s skin crawl. 

“I didn’t want to say it because now you will stay the night, but it won’t be because you’ve actually thought about your life, it’ll be because you pity me.” 

“No,” Wilson says. “I still won’t. I can’t.” 

“Why not?” House asks, suddenly exhausted. 

“If I stay, I’ll lose you,” Wilson says, like it’s obvious, a foregone conclusion, “so I can’t.” 

House furrows his brow. “Why would you lose me?” 

“Because that’s your pathology,” Wilson says, looking almost as tired as House feels. “That’s how it always goes with you. Someone interests you, so you stay with them just long enough to solve them, and then you get bored. And then you leave.” 

“That’s not true,” House says. 

“Look at this case today!” Wilson says. “That guy had to be magically exceptional to keep your attention, and even then it wasn’t enough. You were interested, and then you found the answer, and then you left, the way you always do.”

“I left because I wasn’t needed anymore,” House says. 

“You want to keep me overnight for observation so you can study me more effectively, I get that,” Wilson says, ignoring him, “but what happens to me when you finally get your diagnosis? When you dissect me, when you unravel me? Will I still have the attention of the Great Gregory House?” 

“Jesus,” House says, stunned by the depths of Wilson’s unfathomable stupidity. “Of course.” 

“Right,” Wilson says, rolling his eyes and turning away, pushing his hand through his hair. “Of course, he says. Of course, the man who can’t maintain any kind of relationship, who pushes people away constantly, who insists that every single part of his life be fabulously entertaining or else he just doesn’t show up, of course he’ll pay attention to me for the rest of my life. Because I interest him. It’s just so romantic, I wonder how I haven’t swooned yet.” 

“Wilson,” House says, blinking rapidly, scrambling for words, “you don’t just interest me.” 

Wilson goes perfectly still. House advances on him, trying to figure it out, the string of words that will communicate the complete insanity that descends on him whenever Wilson is involved, the fog of attraction and affection and pity and desire and fear and longing. 

“It’s more than that,” House says, only a few steps away. “You, you fascinate me.”

“Synonyms don’t count,” Wilson says, but his voice is quiet and his eyes are fixed to House’s expression, all open suspicion and shamefaced need. 

“You challenge me,” House continues, getting closer and closer, “you surprise me, you terrify me.”

They’re only a few breaths away now, close enough to feel the heat from each other’s bodies. House feels the answer rise inside of him, light and correct and painless, the way magic used to feel, the way it still feels whenever he’s with Wilson. He grins slowly, raising his hands to cradle Wilson’s face in his palms. 

“House,” Wilson warns, looking genuinely scared now, still and tense like a prey animal. Good. He should be scared. House just unraveled him, and now he’s never getting away. 

“Wilson,” he breathes, his smile only growing, “you enthrall me.” 

Wilson shudders all over, his eyes slipping shut, his eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones in the firelight. “That’s not fair,” he says, ungracious in defeat, his voice cracking a little bit.

“Fair is boring,” House murmurs, tilting Wilson’s face up to kiss him. He keeps it gentle and chaste, because Wilson expects that the least, and savors Wilson’s muffled gasp, his low hum of pleasure. 

After a few hushed seconds, Wilson groans and sticks both hands down the back pockets of House’s jeans. House shifts gears with him, drawing him closer and licking into his mouth greedily as their hands grow restless on each other’s bodies. Eventually, Wilson just shoves him back onto the couch and crawls into his lap, kissing him until his vision starts to go dark at the edges. 

“Will you stay the night?” House rasps when they come up for air, their noses bumping, neither of them willing to get too far from the other. His mouth feels hot and bruised and if Wilson takes that ache away from him, he’ll riot. 

“Will you be less of a pain if I do?” Wilson asks, transferring his affections to the stubbled skin of House’s neck, his eyes a thin ring of brown around his blown-out pupils. 

“No,” House says, because he has to set boundaries now or else Wilson will start demanding insane things from him, like talking to his patients or being nice to the nurses. Give that guy nine inches and he’ll take a mile.  

“Will you at least start paying for things?” Wilson asks, nuzzling him behind his ear.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” House says, biting back a moan as Wilson starts sucking a mark on his throat. “I’m your thrall, not your boyfriend.” 

Wilson grins against his jaw and bites him there, quick and sharp. “I’ll stay anyways,” he says, kissing him again, deep and possessive and sumptuous. House grabs Wilson’s hips and decides to not let go for the rest of the night. The rest of his life, even, just to be safe. 

*

The next morning sees Cuddy in an especially good mood, considering the lottery guy was grateful enough to donate a substantial amount of money to the hospital. Her gratitude does not extend to getting House out of his clinic hours, but House’s equally good mood is frankly impenetrable, even when confronted with the masses of magic-users with too much initiative and not enough training, guilty adults hiding affairs, children with sniffles, etc.

“Send the next one in,” he calls after sending a nineteen year old away with a scrip for a potion of temporary infertility, stripping off his gloves and tossing them in the trash.

“Have time for a consult?” Wilson asks from the doorway, looking polished and put-together and not even a little bit like he woke House up early to fuck him deep and slow in a time-dilation sphere for two relentless hours this morning.

“That’s not up to me. The nurses are running this particular show at Cuddy’s behest,” House says, trying to suppress the goofy grin that threatens to take over his entire face. “I think they keep whips back there, but they haven’t used them on me yet, no matter how much I beg.”

“Don’t worry, I cleared it with your taskmistresses already,” Wilson says, shutting the door behind him with a perfectly innocent expression. Then, he crowds House against the exam table, nudging his legs apart and pulling him into a hungry kiss that House almost ruins by smiling too much, before he breaks away to undo House’s jeans.

“I can’t believe you’re still horny after this morning,” House says, though he obviously has no room to speak. “You paineaters really are as insatiable as they say.”

“One of my patients threw up on my shoes, another burst into tears and refused to stop crying for half an hour after I told her her diagnosis, and another threatened to kill me because he thinks I’m sleeping with his wife,” Wilson says.

“Are you?” House asks, raising his eyebrows.

Wilson glares at him, before dropping to his knees and pulling House’s cock out of his boxers. “I’m already exhausted and it’s not even noon yet. I’ve earned this. I deserve this.”

“Yes, you do,” House says, suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of profound affection.

Wilson smiles impishly up at him, his face crinkling up, showing off his dimples. In the brief second before his eyes go white and he begins the feed, House experiences a moment of perfect clarity, seeing deep into the strange, hungry, messy truth at the center of Wilson’s being, keeping House in thrall.

House pushes his hand into Wilson’s soft hair and makes a wish, before it and everything else he has is pulled into Wilson, well-fed and somehow still ravenous. He doesn’t say the wish out loud, just in case it comes true and he gets everything he's ever wanted.

Stranger things have happened.