The Hilson Files: Chapter Three
Author's Note: Okay, so I've never been to the St. Regis in Bora Bora, but I'm pretty sure the employees are nothing like the way I depicted Hansa here. And if Hansa happens to be my boss's name too, well that's just a coincidence. I'll go to my grave saying just that.
It's a full ten seconds before Wilson begins to think that House might not be kidding. "What . . . Have you . . . What are you talking about," he stutters out. Murdered? Murdered?
House shoves a pair of binoculars at him and points to the middle of the ocean. "There! Don't you see him?"
Wilson pulls the binaculars up to his eyes and searches the crystal blue waters for what his friend could have seen. Suddenly the form of a man surfaces from beneath, looming large in the magnifying lenses. "The guy swimming," he asks, trying valiantly to keep his face void of the doubt he feels. "He seems okay."
House narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You don't believe me," he accuses, and it's as if Wilson confessed to flushing his Vicodin pills down the toilet. "You think I . . . What exactly? Made it up?"
Wilson may be furious with his best friend. He may want to scream at the top of his lungs about the idiocy that House exhibited the last time he saw Cuddy, and honestly, he does kinda want to flush his Vicodin. But he has known House a long time, and he's pretty sure that even he wouldn't pretend to witness a felony just to escape boredom. Well, maybe he would, but that's more of a House/Cuddy thing than a House/Wilson thing.
He sighs and relents. "No, of course not," he admits, taking a step back towards the front door. "Let's go talk to the front desk. Get them call the police."
So the pair of them make their way to the lobby, and reenter the house that Wilson just left. Niles is still standing behind the counter, and when he catches sight of them and the looks on their faces, the Customer Service smile vanishes from his face.
"Is everything alright," he asks, his eyes darting between the men.
Wilson notices that House grips his cane a little bit tighter before answering, "You need to call the police."
"Was something stolen?"
"Not exactly. Just call them."
"What's going on here," barks a sharp, angry voice from behind and all three heads turn to examine the newcomer. It's a woman in her mid-forties, with long black hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a face scrunched up in annoyance. The name-tag pinned to her shirt says "Hansa."
She addresses Niles. "What's. Going. On," she repeats slower, as though speaking to a child, and it's clear to both House and Wilson that Niles would really like nothing better than to strangle her right there. Nevertheless, he shows remarkable self control, though his right eye twitches tellingly.
"These guests asked me to call the authorities," he explains nervously. He shoots Wilson and House an apologetic look that Wilson isn't sure he understands, until Hansa rounds on them instead.
"Why do you want him to call the police," she demands. Honestly, Wilson is a little scared of her. She's not tall, but she seems to be a five foot two, person-shaped ball of fury. She steps closer to them and it takes all of Wilson's self control to resist taking an unsteady step back.
House, however, is not easily intimidated and draws himself up to his full height. "Because I just watched someone commit murder. So unless you want one of your guests to get an unpleasant surprise while snorkeling in brochure-worth ocean, you should probably get the police on the phone."
But Hansa doesn't move; instead she defiantly crosses her arms over her chest and eyes him over her glasses. "Dr. House, I'm sure you're mistaken."
Wilson glances at House and isn't surprised to see his face darken.
"I'm not mistaken. I saw some guy stab a woman in the heart. You think that red stuff on her bathing suit was ketchup," he asks sarcastically. "Seems a little weird for them to be dining in the water but I guess everyone's different. Call the police."
"Dr. House, with all due respect, isn't it true that you have a history of hallucinations and delusions," Hansa inquires unkindly.
House glares at her with more revulsion that Wilson's ever seen. "Tell ya what. You call the police, and I promise to have my sanity checked when my buddy and I get back to the States."
Hansa turns to Wilson. "Did you see anything out of the ordinary?"
Wilson fidgets for a moment before answering. He doesn't want to cast doubt on House's story, but he doesn't exactly want to lie either. He decides to avoid the question altogether. "If House says he saw something, you need to look into it. He tends to be right. When it comes to factual evidence, anyway."
"See? Now will you-" House's voice breaks off as his eyes focus on a man entering the room. The guy is probably not a day older than thirty-five, with wavy black hair, tanned skin, and a lean frame. When Wilson recognizes him he tries to catch House's arm to keep him from doing something insane, like, perhaps, antagonize a killer, but he doesn't move fast enough, and House slips through his fingers.
"You," House cries, pointing at the newcomer accusingly. "I saw what you did!."
Wilson is beside him in an instant, resting a restraining hand on his shoulder. "House," he mutters imploringly into his ear. "Don't do this."
The subject of House's berating glances between the men. "What do you mean," he asks, in a flawless imitation of innocence. It's so convincing that Wilson almost believes him, but as the situation is evidently going to be this man's word against House's, he already knows where he's going to place his trust.
"You killed that woman," House furiously yells. "You stabbed her! In broad daylight, no less."
At that moment Hansa and Niles hurry over, and Wilson can immediately see that House is swiftly losing all his credibility. He pulls on his shirt but House doesn't move.
"Mr. Kingsley," Hansa intercedes once she's close. "Please accept my apologies. One of our guests has confused a dream with reality."
"I am not confused. I know what I saw, which was this man killing someone."
Wilson holds his breath, torn between fear that Mr. Kingsley is going to take a swing at House, and fear that House is going to take a swing at Mr. Kingsley. And his friend is pretty strong, considering, but this younger man could definitely take him down, even if Wilson would be willing to jump in and help. Which he tells himself he's not sure he would do, even as his left hand balls up in to a fist.
Thankfully, it doesn't come to blows. Mr. Kingsley's cellphone goes off, and with one parting look of - is that amusement? - he walks away to take his call.
House stares after him in silence, and Wilson can see that he needs to take the lead. "We'll just go to the police ourselves," he says to no one in particular.
Hansa smirks, and takes her leave as well.
"Why is that funny," Wilson asks Niles, because he's still standing there with them.
Niles gives Wilson and House forlorn looks. "Her husband is the chief of police, gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you."
The words seem breathe new life into House, who says to Niles, "Just to be clear, you're saying that the police over here would be willing to let a murderer go free because . . . They don't want to damage the hotel's reputation? Correct me if I'm wrong, but won't covering up a murder cause a bit of damage to the hotel's reputation anyway?"
"I am sure Ms. Hansa doesn't truly believe that murder has been committed. She may not be the most friendly woman, but she certainly isn't evil."
"I doubt that," House grumbles petulantly.
There's another quiet moment and then Niles, who still hasn't departed, says suddenly, furtively, "The two of you should stay."
"Stay," Wilson repeats in confusion.
"Yes," House answers him. "I was supposed to checkout today. But since I saw one of the guests kill someone, and no one around here seems all that upset about it, I think I will make this a longer vacation."
Niles smiles, the relief clear on his face, which somehow Wilson finds comforting. At least one person on the island isn't writing House off as crazy, and plus, it's kinda nice, having someone on their team again. Wilson doesn't spend a lot of time missing the woman who, most importantly of all that she did, broke House's heart, but there is a loss, there, of sorts. A hole where a third person should be. And no, Niles isn't a replacement for the woman that's been a part of both men's lives for so long, but he does add something.
Finally he departs, and House and Wilson are alone again.
"So, we're staying," Wilson asks, turning to House.
House blinks, then raises his eyebrows. "We are doing nothing. You are going back to the U.S. to continue your lackluster little life, and I am going to remain here and prove that Mr. Kingsley killed his companion."
"No fucking way."
"This is not up for discussion."
"House, give up. There's no way you're going to convince me. Forget it. Case closed. If you're staying here to put your life in danger then that's fine, just know that I'm not going anywhere."
A rueful grin plays across House's lips, and Wilson's heart flips over, as it always does. "For the moment, anyway, right?"
From the corners of his mind plays a memory - House, his office, a paternity test, and a similar question: Is that why you're here? A colleague checking up on a patient? A question that reads so simple on paper, but is really asking several other different questions: Are you finally giving up? Have I pushed you away again? Are we still friends? Can we fix this?
It's a conversation that requires more sleep than jet lag can provide.
"So, I should get a room," Wilson deflects, but after all, he's learned that particular quality from the best. He begins making his way back to the registration area, but before he's gone two steps he's face to face with House, who's blocking his way. "Excuse me."
"Wilson, be real. You're going to stay with me."
"I can get my own bungalow . . . thing," he says, slightly incensed. "I don't know if you've heard this or not, but they pay oncologists pretty good money."
House glares at him, but Wilson can see the glint of amusement hiding behind his irises. He revels in it, the way he does with each tiny moment of affection that House offers.
"If it makes you feel any better, you can put my hut on your credit card. But if you think I'm going to let you wander around unattended with a deranged, knife-wielding psychopath on the loose, you're the crazy one. Do I make myself clear?"
"You're concerned," Wilson gently accuses, surprise filtering into his voice.
"Whatever. Go give Niles your card."
"You are! House, that's adorable." House shoots him a look of such loathing that Wilson can't help but laugh.
"You know what, get your own room. The psychopath can have you."
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It's a full ten seconds before Wilson begins to think that House might not be kidding. "What . . . Have you . . . What are you talking about," he stutters out. Murdered? Murdered?
House shoves a pair of binoculars at him and points to the middle of the ocean. "There! Don't you see him?"
Wilson pulls the binaculars up to his eyes and searches the crystal blue waters for what his friend could have seen. Suddenly the form of a man surfaces from beneath, looming large in the magnifying lenses. "The guy swimming," he asks, trying valiantly to keep his face void of the doubt he feels. "He seems okay."
House narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You don't believe me," he accuses, and it's as if Wilson confessed to flushing his Vicodin pills down the toilet. "You think I . . . What exactly? Made it up?"
Wilson may be furious with his best friend. He may want to scream at the top of his lungs about the idiocy that House exhibited the last time he saw Cuddy, and honestly, he does kinda want to flush his Vicodin. But he has known House a long time, and he's pretty sure that even he wouldn't pretend to witness a felony just to escape boredom. Well, maybe he would, but that's more of a House/Cuddy thing than a House/Wilson thing.
He sighs and relents. "No, of course not," he admits, taking a step back towards the front door. "Let's go talk to the front desk. Get them call the police."
So the pair of them make their way to the lobby, and reenter the house that Wilson just left. Niles is still standing behind the counter, and when he catches sight of them and the looks on their faces, the Customer Service smile vanishes from his face.
"Is everything alright," he asks, his eyes darting between the men.
Wilson notices that House grips his cane a little bit tighter before answering, "You need to call the police."
"Was something stolen?"
"Not exactly. Just call them."
"What's going on here," barks a sharp, angry voice from behind and all three heads turn to examine the newcomer. It's a woman in her mid-forties, with long black hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a face scrunched up in annoyance. The name-tag pinned to her shirt says "Hansa."
She addresses Niles. "What's. Going. On," she repeats slower, as though speaking to a child, and it's clear to both House and Wilson that Niles would really like nothing better than to strangle her right there. Nevertheless, he shows remarkable self control, though his right eye twitches tellingly.
"These guests asked me to call the authorities," he explains nervously. He shoots Wilson and House an apologetic look that Wilson isn't sure he understands, until Hansa rounds on them instead.
"Why do you want him to call the police," she demands. Honestly, Wilson is a little scared of her. She's not tall, but she seems to be a five foot two, person-shaped ball of fury. She steps closer to them and it takes all of Wilson's self control to resist taking an unsteady step back.
House, however, is not easily intimidated and draws himself up to his full height. "Because I just watched someone commit murder. So unless you want one of your guests to get an unpleasant surprise while snorkeling in brochure-worth ocean, you should probably get the police on the phone."
But Hansa doesn't move; instead she defiantly crosses her arms over her chest and eyes him over her glasses. "Dr. House, I'm sure you're mistaken."
Wilson glances at House and isn't surprised to see his face darken.
"I'm not mistaken. I saw some guy stab a woman in the heart. You think that red stuff on her bathing suit was ketchup," he asks sarcastically. "Seems a little weird for them to be dining in the water but I guess everyone's different. Call the police."
"Dr. House, with all due respect, isn't it true that you have a history of hallucinations and delusions," Hansa inquires unkindly.
House glares at her with more revulsion that Wilson's ever seen. "Tell ya what. You call the police, and I promise to have my sanity checked when my buddy and I get back to the States."
Hansa turns to Wilson. "Did you see anything out of the ordinary?"
Wilson fidgets for a moment before answering. He doesn't want to cast doubt on House's story, but he doesn't exactly want to lie either. He decides to avoid the question altogether. "If House says he saw something, you need to look into it. He tends to be right. When it comes to factual evidence, anyway."
"See? Now will you-" House's voice breaks off as his eyes focus on a man entering the room. The guy is probably not a day older than thirty-five, with wavy black hair, tanned skin, and a lean frame. When Wilson recognizes him he tries to catch House's arm to keep him from doing something insane, like, perhaps, antagonize a killer, but he doesn't move fast enough, and House slips through his fingers.
"You," House cries, pointing at the newcomer accusingly. "I saw what you did!."
Wilson is beside him in an instant, resting a restraining hand on his shoulder. "House," he mutters imploringly into his ear. "Don't do this."
The subject of House's berating glances between the men. "What do you mean," he asks, in a flawless imitation of innocence. It's so convincing that Wilson almost believes him, but as the situation is evidently going to be this man's word against House's, he already knows where he's going to place his trust.
"You killed that woman," House furiously yells. "You stabbed her! In broad daylight, no less."
At that moment Hansa and Niles hurry over, and Wilson can immediately see that House is swiftly losing all his credibility. He pulls on his shirt but House doesn't move.
"Mr. Kingsley," Hansa intercedes once she's close. "Please accept my apologies. One of our guests has confused a dream with reality."
"I am not confused. I know what I saw, which was this man killing someone."
Wilson holds his breath, torn between fear that Mr. Kingsley is going to take a swing at House, and fear that House is going to take a swing at Mr. Kingsley. And his friend is pretty strong, considering, but this younger man could definitely take him down, even if Wilson would be willing to jump in and help. Which he tells himself he's not sure he would do, even as his left hand balls up in to a fist.
Thankfully, it doesn't come to blows. Mr. Kingsley's cellphone goes off, and with one parting look of - is that amusement? - he walks away to take his call.
House stares after him in silence, and Wilson can see that he needs to take the lead. "We'll just go to the police ourselves," he says to no one in particular.
Hansa smirks, and takes her leave as well.
"Why is that funny," Wilson asks Niles, because he's still standing there with them.
Niles gives Wilson and House forlorn looks. "Her husband is the chief of police, gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you."
The words seem breathe new life into House, who says to Niles, "Just to be clear, you're saying that the police over here would be willing to let a murderer go free because . . . They don't want to damage the hotel's reputation? Correct me if I'm wrong, but won't covering up a murder cause a bit of damage to the hotel's reputation anyway?"
"I am sure Ms. Hansa doesn't truly believe that murder has been committed. She may not be the most friendly woman, but she certainly isn't evil."
"I doubt that," House grumbles petulantly.
There's another quiet moment and then Niles, who still hasn't departed, says suddenly, furtively, "The two of you should stay."
"Stay," Wilson repeats in confusion.
"Yes," House answers him. "I was supposed to checkout today. But since I saw one of the guests kill someone, and no one around here seems all that upset about it, I think I will make this a longer vacation."
Niles smiles, the relief clear on his face, which somehow Wilson finds comforting. At least one person on the island isn't writing House off as crazy, and plus, it's kinda nice, having someone on their team again. Wilson doesn't spend a lot of time missing the woman who, most importantly of all that she did, broke House's heart, but there is a loss, there, of sorts. A hole where a third person should be. And no, Niles isn't a replacement for the woman that's been a part of both men's lives for so long, but he does add something.
Finally he departs, and House and Wilson are alone again.
"So, we're staying," Wilson asks, turning to House.
House blinks, then raises his eyebrows. "We are doing nothing. You are going back to the U.S. to continue your lackluster little life, and I am going to remain here and prove that Mr. Kingsley killed his companion."
"No fucking way."
"This is not up for discussion."
"House, give up. There's no way you're going to convince me. Forget it. Case closed. If you're staying here to put your life in danger then that's fine, just know that I'm not going anywhere."
A rueful grin plays across House's lips, and Wilson's heart flips over, as it always does. "For the moment, anyway, right?"
From the corners of his mind plays a memory - House, his office, a paternity test, and a similar question: Is that why you're here? A colleague checking up on a patient? A question that reads so simple on paper, but is really asking several other different questions: Are you finally giving up? Have I pushed you away again? Are we still friends? Can we fix this?
It's a conversation that requires more sleep than jet lag can provide.
"So, I should get a room," Wilson deflects, but after all, he's learned that particular quality from the best. He begins making his way back to the registration area, but before he's gone two steps he's face to face with House, who's blocking his way. "Excuse me."
"Wilson, be real. You're going to stay with me."
"I can get my own bungalow . . . thing," he says, slightly incensed. "I don't know if you've heard this or not, but they pay oncologists pretty good money."
House glares at him, but Wilson can see the glint of amusement hiding behind his irises. He revels in it, the way he does with each tiny moment of affection that House offers.
"If it makes you feel any better, you can put my hut on your credit card. But if you think I'm going to let you wander around unattended with a deranged, knife-wielding psychopath on the loose, you're the crazy one. Do I make myself clear?"
"You're concerned," Wilson gently accuses, surprise filtering into his voice.
"Whatever. Go give Niles your card."
"You are! House, that's adorable." House shoots him a look of such loathing that Wilson can't help but laugh.
"You know what, get your own room. The psychopath can have you."
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