Warnings: AU, hybridized steampunk, minor character death, pinches of slash, different world = different RL rules. Courts and laws diverge from ours. Story does not follow canon timeline.
Disclaimer: [H]ouse isn't mine, never will be.
A/N: Written with Yarroway & Blackmare's Positively House/Wilson Slash Challenge in mind.
Beta: The awesomely talented and patient Yarroway. All remaining errors are my own.

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"In consequence of inventing machines, men will be devoured by them." —Jules Verne

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Prologue

The rooftop terrace suited summer nights. A breeze that would get lost below gently brushed his cheek like a chaste goodnight kiss. The stars, disinterested spectators, made him feel safe and less alone.

By two in the morning the solar street lamps had dimmed. The last activity triggering the sensors was a shuffling old man walking his mangy, stiff-legged poodle. The overhead buzz of broad-hipped commuter airships blotting out entire constellations as they floated by had ended shortly after midnight. Sometimes a high-pitched squeal from a bat or mouse pierced the wall of nocturnal white noise erected by frogs and crickets, but that was as lively as it got. The sole indication of motor traffic was a ghostly trail of mist hovering above the highway in the distance.

No one would witness what he was about to do. No one would get hurt. Three objects sat upon the raised parapet before him. He drew one last puff from his dwindling cigar. Drained the last drops of bourbon from his glass. Then, inch by inch, nudged the perfectly square box to its tipping point until it plunged into the dark. The sharp crack of breaking branches and the shush of leaves followed in its wake. As an afterthought, he tugged off the chain that held a silver key from around his neck, and threw it with all his might, aiming for sewer grate across the street.

He turned in the general direction of the whisky bottle. The ambient light from his apartment outlined it and a small cluster of patio furniture. In more or less a straight line he headed toward it, determined to finish the balance before going to bed. The first half was his reward for saving idiots like himself from the blasted Snitch. The last was reserved for getting totally bombed. He wanted to spend one night blissfully unaware of how much Wilson hated him; and to be scrupulously honest, how much he hated himself.

Collapsing onto the lounge chair, he filled his glass a gentlemanly one-third. Midway to his lips he paused. Something was off. Why hadn't the clatter startled the night creatures into silence? Why hadn't he heard the screech of metal and wood contacting cement? Or a thud, if the box had soft-landed onto grass?

He scrubbed at his stubble. Tomorrow he'd send Cuddy in search of the remains, unless remembering was more than he and his future hangover could cope with.

Eyelids drooping, he drank until the glass slid from his numbed fingers.

His last thought was the image of Wilson chugging off in that stupid car of his with the tailpipe huffing clouds of steam like Puff-the-Magic-Dragon.

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Chapter 1

Past Imperfect

House tossed the chalk into the tray and wiped the dusty residue from his hands onto the closest labcoat, Chase's. Since his fellow was wearing it, House's irritation came through loud and clear.

"Let's do the math, people. Three deaths in the same day. One patient." He paused to drive the point home. "Anyone think that's acceptable?"

Chase raised a finger.

"Right, nobody. Revive him and pinpoint the diagnosis, or at the very least, keep Creepy Guy alive for another twenty-four hours before he expires again and becomes even creepier."

Without a backward glance he headed for his office, noting the soft scuffle of feet beating a hasty retreat behind him.

Nearing his desk he scanned the view from his window. Lazy, pus colored clouds floated across a pale peridot sky which bled to white as it neared the horizon. They looked like a flock of freshly dipped sheep foraging in a frosty spring meadow.

Today was a good leg day. His thigh muscles mewled like a discontent kitten, not a snarling lion. He lowered himself into the chair cautiously, so not to set the frayed nerves jangling. He grabbed his notebook and recorded the team's progress. So far, the only promising candidate was his hand towel, Chase. Hard as it was for him to face the possibility, he might have to write off Cameron and Kutner in favor of new fellows.

Idly ruffling through the pages, he stopped when a slight movement caught his eye. A puff of opalescent steam evaporating in front of the window was leaving a calling card of lacy film upon the glass. House inspected the street. A car was parked at the entrance. The trademark scum could only come from one make and model, a Glof XF120, a chick car, or to be more precise, a car so safe, it was the first one purchased by parents for their little princesses.

A tingle of excitement coursed along his spine. A young woman was about to breach his domain. Normally, anyone entering through the main entrance was discouraged by an obstacle course of security: guards, locks, and the best screening techniques available. But the ongoing failures with Creepy Guy left him feeling uneasy. A pretty face would be a welcome distraction.

Twisting around, he pressed a button on his console. "Desk, buzz the visitor in." Rapidly flipping another series of toggles, a moon-faced monitor blinked into existence, displaying featureless snow, then resolving into crisp black and white images.

House frowned in disappointment as he leaned back in his chair. Not a woman, but a man had strode in, and stopped at the receptionist's desk. House tilted his head. Not a bad looking sort. The grayscale hugged the planes and shadows of the face in a loving way, but still… a man.

He pushed a switch. "Cuddy."

"On it, House. I'll get his ID and escort him outside in less than five minutes," came the brisk reply. He caught the faint squeak of her chair and nodded silent approval. No moss grew on his Number One's ample ass.

A moment later the screen displayed the two in profile, looking like models on a greeting card. Cuddy flashed a warm smile and offered the stranger a clipboard with an attached stylus. A southpaw, House noted. He pushed a series of buttons and tapped a panel, sliding it open to expose a screen. Steepling his hands, he prepared to enjoy the show.

A torrent of words scrawled down it, gaining speed as it went. Trapped in the current was an occasional photograph or an illustration. James Evan Wilson, 40, a doctor instructing at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. An oncology diploma flashed by along with, trophies, awards, pets. House was beyond nauseated by the time a stuffed teddy bear dressed in a lab coat made an appearance. He turned away from the reader in disgust. The guy was a goody-two-shoes. The sooner Cuddy sent the man packing, the better.

He viewed the monitor impatiently to gauge Cuddy's progress. Was his first impression of James Wilson incorrect? The crookedly adorable smile warming Cuddy's face suggested her mission was in jeopardy. The guy had matched her look with a uniquely appealing grin of his own and raised the ante by tilting his head. And yet, his legs were splayed in a way that suggested his feet were putting down roots. House checked the time. Six minutes and Wilson wasn't smelling freshly mowed grass yet.

So James Wilson was charming and a stubborn ass. Not that House would hold the latter against anybody. And the charm, slathered on as thickly as whip cream piled atop pumpkin pie, might be masking a manipulative nature. Perhaps the afternoon's entertainment wasn't a bust after all.

He grabbed the mic. "Cuddy."

Everyone in the lobby looked at the speakers.

"Halt the love fest and escort the visitor to my office immediately."

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