The Hilson Files: Operation Redemption Chapter Four
Author's Note: Shorter chapter, but the end took on a life of its own. If you read, and you want to review, that would be awesome.
Author's Note Two: I actually forgot to mention this when I first posted it to my journal, but a "Tahiti Drink" is an acutal drink - not me just using generic wording.
But Wilson knows that House's words are empty, so he makes no further effort to obtain a place of his own. Instead, he silently follows his friend back to his room, and once they're secluded, conversation turns to the New Plan.
"So, what are you thinking," Wilson asks. He's read a lot of Sherlock Holmes in the past, so he kinda gets that his role, as the sidekick (not that he's prepared to see himself that way - he decides that 'accomplice,' though slightly more sinister, is less insulting) is to keep House's mental juices flowing and keep him focused on the case. If he's completely honest with himself, he recognizes the nugget of emotion, amid the token horror and revulsion, as excitement.
House lowers himself into a chair and absentmindedly rubs his five o'clock shadow. It's a habit that Wilson is able to identify as nervousness. "I don't know," he mutters, leaning back against the cushion, and sighing deeply. "How do you catch a murderer. . ." Suddenly his eyes seem to sharpen as they move to Wilson. "I have an idea."
Wilson purses his lips, already sensing the direction of House's thought process. "I really don't think we should be breaking and entering a known murderer's house. It just doesn't seem like it would yield the most positive results."
"You mean that just because he killed someone, he would be willing to repeat the process? That's awfully judgmental, Wilson."
"Sorry." He grins and rolls his eyes.
"But anyway, there's some big shindig going down on the beach tonight that the hotel put together, so odds are Mr. Kingsley will be distracted long enough for us to search his room."
"For what? I'm guessing that if he killed some woman in the ocean he probably wouldn't bring the murder weapon back to his place. Might as well let the waves hide it."
But House shakes his head. "I don't think so. That guy didn't exactly take steps to hide what he did, I don't see him being concerned about ditching the knife. I mean, it was the middle of the fucking afternoon, in front of houses that would have contained several witnesses if anyone but me had been paying attention. But I guess that's what separates me from . . . well, everyone."
Wilson chooses not to reply.
"So I bet that damn thing is in his room. And you and I," he pauses to point significantly at the pair of them, "are going to find it."
Wilson looks up to see House smiling, though he supposes that it's not really that surprising. This is exactly the kind of thing his friend (former friend-what the hell is wrong with him?) loves. A puzzle, something to solve. There's a strange sort of energy in the room that is so familiar for the two of them that Wilson's throat closes up. It's hard to pinpoint what exactly he's been missing but he can't deny that, now, here, looking at House, he feels more alive than he has these last couple of weeks in the man's absence. It's the same thing that he'd told House after Amber: That strange, annoying trip we just took is the most fun I've had since Amber died. He hates it, but there's really no replacing House.
Not that it matters. Asshole drove through Cuddy's house, and almost into Wilson. No way is forgiveness in the works.
"Whatever you say," he decides is a safe reply.
He tries not to wonder if the light reflecting in House's eyes is affection.
***
The next several minutes are spent unpacking as WIlson works to ignore the question on his mind regarding sleeping arrangements. He hates House, he does, really, so he knows that it's a little irrational for him to continue to surreptitiously glance at the bed, picturing a myriad of things that have never happened, and (he firmly reminds himself) will never happen.
He takes an unsteady breath, dispersing the image of long fingers catching the bottom of his tee shirt, sliding it over his head.
"So, what are we going to do until Mr. Kingsley is otherwise occupied," he asks, and he's pleased to hear that his voice doesn't shake or sound otherwise off-kilter.
House grins. "Wanna get a drink?"
Wilson shrugs. "We can."
House leads the way to the outside bar, and it's a little annoying how they bump up against each other, and how Wilson can feel House's pant leg brush up against his own. Someone just got killed, and all he can think about is the goosebumps leaving pleasant trails up his arms. He's pathetic.
As they slide onto stools House glances at him. "How is she," he softly asks, and there's absolutely no question to whom he's referring.
Wilson is silent as he tries to think of an appropriate response. The Truth rarely has a place in their world, but he knows that this is the right time to use it. "She's okay," he says cautiously. He stops before this next part, because it's going to be a hell of a blow, and meets blue eyes with brown. "She's gone."
House nods slowly to himself as though he's been half-expecting it all along. "Gone where?"
"Florida. She didn't tell me where. Seems to think I'd relay the information."
"She should know better."
"Maybe it's good that she doesn't," Wilson mutters. I've never been all that good at telling you no. He doesn't say that second part though.
House lapses into silence as the bartender brings their drinks, a Long Island for him and a "Tahiti Drink" for Wilson. As Wilson picks up his glass to taste his own House down his entire Long Island.
"You know, there's no time limit," Wilson comments, arching his eyebrows.
House, for his part, stares out at the horizon and then says, "I really hate that all this crap happened."
Wilson blinks in surprise at the honest words. "That what happened?"
"This last year. Everything. You realize that, give or take a felony, this is where I was almost exactly where I was two years ago. Jobless and on Vicodin." He glances at WIlson, and there's that something again that confuses the hell out of him. "At least then I had, well, you."
Wilson freezes, utterly thrown. Unless he's mistaken House is . . . reaching out? He gives his leg a sharp pinch, but doesn't suddenly wake up. "Where is this coming from," he asks.
House flags the bartender down, and requests another drink, and Wilson, who has, of course, known House forever, it seems like, knows that he's buying time. "I don't want to not be friends with you," House blurts, as though the words cause him physical pain. "I didn't like it before, and I won't like it now. But I mean, what are you supposed to do? Forget that I almost ran you over?"
Wilson doesn't know what to say. There's the one hand, that reminds him that House has been systematically doing worse and worse things to their friendship since they met. Wilson's been called a coward, pathetic, a functional vampire; he's been bent over his best friend, trying to pump life back into his body on more than one occasion; he's been used, and lost more than he ever thought was possible.
But that's just one hand. Because the other hand reminds him that yeah, he's been called a coward and pathetic, but he's also been called House's hero; it reminds him that he's had to perform CPR on his friend, but because his friend was so determined to save the woman Wilson loved. It whispers that there's no denying that he has lost, but the friendship that he gained, the way he felt when he looked into the gallery to see House just being there for him . . .
"You are so irritating," he snaps, getting to his feet. "Every freaking time you decide that you can't be without your friend, you act all human, and nice, hoping I'm going to forget everything. Did it ever occur to you that maybe if you'd stuck around to make sure that I was okay or that Cuddy was okay, maybe things would have turned out differently?" He's stalking away before he knows he's considering it.
There's no sound of someone trailing behind him, but he can feel House following.
"Well, I'm sorry," House yells back, scaring a couple sunbathing on the beach. "I'm sorry that you almost got ran over, I'm sorry I didn't stay! But did it ever occur to you that I might actually be sorry? No, of course not. Because it's impossible for you to get it into your stupid brain that I might actually care about you, dammit!"
"Then maybe you should act like it!"
And as though acting on WIlson's specific instructions, House grabs his arms with his hands, and pulls him down, pressing his lips against his friend's.
Chapter Five
Author's Note Two: I actually forgot to mention this when I first posted it to my journal, but a "Tahiti Drink" is an acutal drink - not me just using generic wording.
But Wilson knows that House's words are empty, so he makes no further effort to obtain a place of his own. Instead, he silently follows his friend back to his room, and once they're secluded, conversation turns to the New Plan.
"So, what are you thinking," Wilson asks. He's read a lot of Sherlock Holmes in the past, so he kinda gets that his role, as the sidekick (not that he's prepared to see himself that way - he decides that 'accomplice,' though slightly more sinister, is less insulting) is to keep House's mental juices flowing and keep him focused on the case. If he's completely honest with himself, he recognizes the nugget of emotion, amid the token horror and revulsion, as excitement.
House lowers himself into a chair and absentmindedly rubs his five o'clock shadow. It's a habit that Wilson is able to identify as nervousness. "I don't know," he mutters, leaning back against the cushion, and sighing deeply. "How do you catch a murderer. . ." Suddenly his eyes seem to sharpen as they move to Wilson. "I have an idea."
Wilson purses his lips, already sensing the direction of House's thought process. "I really don't think we should be breaking and entering a known murderer's house. It just doesn't seem like it would yield the most positive results."
"You mean that just because he killed someone, he would be willing to repeat the process? That's awfully judgmental, Wilson."
"Sorry." He grins and rolls his eyes.
"But anyway, there's some big shindig going down on the beach tonight that the hotel put together, so odds are Mr. Kingsley will be distracted long enough for us to search his room."
"For what? I'm guessing that if he killed some woman in the ocean he probably wouldn't bring the murder weapon back to his place. Might as well let the waves hide it."
But House shakes his head. "I don't think so. That guy didn't exactly take steps to hide what he did, I don't see him being concerned about ditching the knife. I mean, it was the middle of the fucking afternoon, in front of houses that would have contained several witnesses if anyone but me had been paying attention. But I guess that's what separates me from . . . well, everyone."
Wilson chooses not to reply.
"So I bet that damn thing is in his room. And you and I," he pauses to point significantly at the pair of them, "are going to find it."
Wilson looks up to see House smiling, though he supposes that it's not really that surprising. This is exactly the kind of thing his friend (former friend-what the hell is wrong with him?) loves. A puzzle, something to solve. There's a strange sort of energy in the room that is so familiar for the two of them that Wilson's throat closes up. It's hard to pinpoint what exactly he's been missing but he can't deny that, now, here, looking at House, he feels more alive than he has these last couple of weeks in the man's absence. It's the same thing that he'd told House after Amber: That strange, annoying trip we just took is the most fun I've had since Amber died. He hates it, but there's really no replacing House.
Not that it matters. Asshole drove through Cuddy's house, and almost into Wilson. No way is forgiveness in the works.
"Whatever you say," he decides is a safe reply.
He tries not to wonder if the light reflecting in House's eyes is affection.
***
The next several minutes are spent unpacking as WIlson works to ignore the question on his mind regarding sleeping arrangements. He hates House, he does, really, so he knows that it's a little irrational for him to continue to surreptitiously glance at the bed, picturing a myriad of things that have never happened, and (he firmly reminds himself) will never happen.
He takes an unsteady breath, dispersing the image of long fingers catching the bottom of his tee shirt, sliding it over his head.
"So, what are we going to do until Mr. Kingsley is otherwise occupied," he asks, and he's pleased to hear that his voice doesn't shake or sound otherwise off-kilter.
House grins. "Wanna get a drink?"
Wilson shrugs. "We can."
House leads the way to the outside bar, and it's a little annoying how they bump up against each other, and how Wilson can feel House's pant leg brush up against his own. Someone just got killed, and all he can think about is the goosebumps leaving pleasant trails up his arms. He's pathetic.
As they slide onto stools House glances at him. "How is she," he softly asks, and there's absolutely no question to whom he's referring.
Wilson is silent as he tries to think of an appropriate response. The Truth rarely has a place in their world, but he knows that this is the right time to use it. "She's okay," he says cautiously. He stops before this next part, because it's going to be a hell of a blow, and meets blue eyes with brown. "She's gone."
House nods slowly to himself as though he's been half-expecting it all along. "Gone where?"
"Florida. She didn't tell me where. Seems to think I'd relay the information."
"She should know better."
"Maybe it's good that she doesn't," Wilson mutters. I've never been all that good at telling you no. He doesn't say that second part though.
House lapses into silence as the bartender brings their drinks, a Long Island for him and a "Tahiti Drink" for Wilson. As Wilson picks up his glass to taste his own House down his entire Long Island.
"You know, there's no time limit," Wilson comments, arching his eyebrows.
House, for his part, stares out at the horizon and then says, "I really hate that all this crap happened."
Wilson blinks in surprise at the honest words. "That what happened?"
"This last year. Everything. You realize that, give or take a felony, this is where I was almost exactly where I was two years ago. Jobless and on Vicodin." He glances at WIlson, and there's that something again that confuses the hell out of him. "At least then I had, well, you."
Wilson freezes, utterly thrown. Unless he's mistaken House is . . . reaching out? He gives his leg a sharp pinch, but doesn't suddenly wake up. "Where is this coming from," he asks.
House flags the bartender down, and requests another drink, and Wilson, who has, of course, known House forever, it seems like, knows that he's buying time. "I don't want to not be friends with you," House blurts, as though the words cause him physical pain. "I didn't like it before, and I won't like it now. But I mean, what are you supposed to do? Forget that I almost ran you over?"
Wilson doesn't know what to say. There's the one hand, that reminds him that House has been systematically doing worse and worse things to their friendship since they met. Wilson's been called a coward, pathetic, a functional vampire; he's been bent over his best friend, trying to pump life back into his body on more than one occasion; he's been used, and lost more than he ever thought was possible.
But that's just one hand. Because the other hand reminds him that yeah, he's been called a coward and pathetic, but he's also been called House's hero; it reminds him that he's had to perform CPR on his friend, but because his friend was so determined to save the woman Wilson loved. It whispers that there's no denying that he has lost, but the friendship that he gained, the way he felt when he looked into the gallery to see House just being there for him . . .
"You are so irritating," he snaps, getting to his feet. "Every freaking time you decide that you can't be without your friend, you act all human, and nice, hoping I'm going to forget everything. Did it ever occur to you that maybe if you'd stuck around to make sure that I was okay or that Cuddy was okay, maybe things would have turned out differently?" He's stalking away before he knows he's considering it.
There's no sound of someone trailing behind him, but he can feel House following.
"Well, I'm sorry," House yells back, scaring a couple sunbathing on the beach. "I'm sorry that you almost got ran over, I'm sorry I didn't stay! But did it ever occur to you that I might actually be sorry? No, of course not. Because it's impossible for you to get it into your stupid brain that I might actually care about you, dammit!"
"Then maybe you should act like it!"
And as though acting on WIlson's specific instructions, House grabs his arms with his hands, and pulls him down, pressing his lips against his friend's.
Chapter Five