Hello, Friends!  Well, I just wanted to let those that have me on their friends list know that I added another livejournal account.  I'm branching out into different fandoms and thought, for other communities, that this journal is way too specific.  I'll still post my Hilson stuff here and on house_wilson, but Torchwood, and Queer as Folk and stuff will go up there.  In case you wanted to keep tabs on me, and make sure I'm being fair in distributing my updates, you can find me here.  There's nothing added yet, but there probably will be before I leave work in the morning.  Probably.  And I'm going to friend everyone over there too, so that my f-page will have awesome writers from all fandoms. 

So, if you get invites from pen_traveler, that's me.

That's the end of your public service annoucement for the evening.

Author's Note:  Dedicated to demi, who gave me creative CPR just when I needed it.

There's a moment of absolute joy.  A swooping in his stomach, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage, and Wilson's thoughts fly from his head.  He's seen this exact moment play out in his mind so many times that his body reacts as though with practiced ease.  His lips move searchingly, and House tastes so, almost, familiar that he's trembling with excitement before he can stop himself.  His arms move up, wrapping around House's neck, and he shivers when a foreign tongue slips between his lips.

It's . . .  This that is happening is more than he could have wanted, even the whole time when he was insisting that he didn't.  He realizes that this is why he flew across the world, because, well, he can't live without House.

And then reality sets in.

It's as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice water on him.  He yanks himself away, jumping backwards, and trips over the sand, where he lands with a thump.  Angrily he scrambles to his feet.

"What . . .  Have y-you lost your . . .  House," he stutters, searching for words that will convey what he's feeling, though he's not sure what, exactly, that is.

"What," House answers, having, at least, the grace to look slightly embarrassed.  But it's not completely embarrassment there.  Because he's sort of grinning too, which annoys Wilson to no end.  "You said you wanted me to show that I care!"

"Yeah!  By sending a card, or a singing telegram.  Not by shoving your tongue down my throat!"  Wilson fights for breath, still reeling, still fumbling for coherent thought.  He absolutely cannot be feeling what he is almost inarguably feeling.  The word "love" catches him unawares. 

But this isn't undefined jealousy or a this-doesn't-mean-anything organ.  This is, well, everything. 

"Why did you do that," he demands, because he needs a real answer, one that makes sense.

House's grin widens.  "I don't know.  You were standing there, yelling your head off, your mouth moving so fast, I couldn't help myself."

"You couldn't-  Have you lost your mind?"  And then Wilson is moving again, continuing his furious trek back to their lodgings.  "You know, you have a reputation for doing things people don't understand," he yells over his shoulder, though it hardly seems necessary as House follows him at a short distance.  He's pretty quick for a man with a cane.  "You always have.  And people have always come to me, hoping I'd shed light on some sort of soul, knocking around in there.  Obviously their first instincts were right."

"I don't have a soul because I kissed you?  Do you find that's true of the women that have?  I mean, yeah, Sam's a given-"

Wilson stops so short that House careens into him.  "Why are you doing this," he asks with a small sigh.

"Defending kissing you?"

Red creeps up Wilson's cheeks.  "Yes!"

He waits for House's sharp response, something characteristically sarcastic and cutting, though nothing comes.  Finally, after several seconds of utter silence, he relents, and raises his eyes.  They meet crystal blue without even trying, and he realizes that House has been staring at him, searching for something, and it terrifies and thrills him.  He swallows hard, wondering if he should speak but before he can even try, House answers him.

"Okay," he says, and Wilson tells himself that it's his imagination that House's expression doesn't line up with his words.  "Okay.  I'm sorry."

God, those words are insane to hear.  Wilson clears his throat because he never really knows what to say when House apologizes.  "Uh, I think I'm going to lay down," he says after a moment. 

House smirks, which is a relief.  "Wilson, you are so fucking old."

***

Wilson dreams that he's standing by the ocean.  The sun is shining, the waves crash behind him.  He listens to the chatter of the people on the beach, enjoys the laughter of those around him.  In the distance he can see a group of college kids playing volleyball.

He idly turns around, and stares out into the turquoise water and as it begins to hit him that House should be around here somewhere, he sees Cuddy, sitting on a small rowboat, a 100 yards from the shoreline. 

He starts to call out to her, until he realizes that House is sitting to her left, and neither of them seem to even see Wilson there.  He watches with mortified fascination as they lean in, as they gently kiss. 

They pull apart for a moment, long enough for Wilson to hear House say, "Cuddy, you know I'll always love you." 

Then, with a caring smile, he hits her over the head with an oar, sending her falling into the ocean, and Wilson watches as the water turns red.

His eyes snap open, and the nightmare dissipates.  House is standing over him, poking him with the bottom of his cane, and looking slightly nervous. 

"You okay," he asks, his eyebrows raising in concern. 

Wilson tries to nod, but his throat is too dry to attempt words.  House seems to hear his thoughts, because he disappears from Wilson's line of sight, then returns with water which Wilson gulps down so fast that excess runs down throat. 

He passes the cup back to House with a grateful smile, and it's only then that he realizes he's sweating.  He drags the back of his hand across his forehead and swallows hard.  "It's hot in here," he finally mutters.

"Right . . .  That's why you were thrashing around in the bed like you were being chased by enemy forces."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine with me."  Though it's several seconds before he speaks again.  "So, the party is getting ready to start," he prompts. 

Wilson blinks, trying to regain his focus.  Party?  Oh, right.  "So, what's the plan?  Hang around outside all the houses until he comes out, so you can figure out where he's staying, and then . . .  I guess pickpocket his key?"

House rolls his eyes, as though it's Wilson's description of the plan that is ludicrous, and not the plan itself.  "Obviously I'm not going to loiter," he replies in annoyance.  "I already know what his house number is.  But, yeah, we're going to have to get the key."

"How do you know which villa is his," Wilson asks, rubbing his face.

"Our buddy Niles told me.  I think he thinks he's the Watson, but I already have one of those."

Wilson glances out the window, and can see that night has fallen since he fell asleep.  "So, I'm guessing you want to leave, like, now?"

"Yeah.  Unless you wanted to try to finish your dream."

"Thanks, but I'm good."

So Wilson follows House outside once more, and silently takes in his surroundings.  It's nice, he has to admit, the lights they've strung up, the round tables facing the newly-set-up stage area, the food set up at the front, buffet style.  A group of dancers perform as the crowd watches in amazement.

"Hungry," House asks, helping himself to a piece of chicken, and a baked potato.  Off Wilson's look, he rolls his eyes.  "The guy is sitting down so it's not like I can get the key this second.  Might as well enjoy ourselves in the meantime."

Wilson wants to argue but his stomach growls, undercutting whatever statement he would have made, so he relents, and grabs his own piece of chicken.  Then a bit of broccoli casserole.  Then six cookies. 

House doesn't comment on the amount of food on his plate, which should have immediately made him suspicious, but he's distracted by the dancers, so he doesn't notice the out-of-character behavior until they're sitting down, silently eating their dinner.

"Uh, House," he eventually prompts. 

His friend looks over at him, and then says, quietly, thoughtfully, "You know, it's not as if you were struggling against me."

Wilson doesn't have to ask what he's referring to.  His heartbeat begins to speed up, as though having worked it out on its own.  "I was caught off guard," he replies, wondering if House can hear the lie. 

"Weird.  Because what I thought happened was that you pulled me in closer."

Wilson doesn't answer, scared that anything he might say would be too much.  Instead, he quickly shoves a bite of food into his mouth.  "Hmm," he replies noncommitedly.

House cocks his head to the side and examines him through his narrow eyes.  "But that would be ridiculous, right?  Because that would mean that you wanted me to kiss you, which, of course, you didn't." 

"Ridiculous," Wilson repeats, avoiding his eye.  He bites down hard on a cookie. 

House sighs.  "Wilson-"

But what he's preparing to say, Wilson is not destined to know.  Because all of a sudden, commotion from the shoreline several hundred yards away draws the attention of everyone outside.  Mr. Kingsley seems to having a fight with a young, pretty, blonde woman.  Her shrieks of fury can not be misunderstood.

"Get away from me, Robert," she screams.  Mr. Kingsley steps towards her, and she steps back.  "I mean it!  Get the hell away from me, or I swear to God I will call the police."

"Heather, be reasonable," he shouts back.  "Just come back to the-"

"Just stay away from me and do not call me!  Unless you want everyone to know what you did!"  And without another word, she spins on her heel, and stalks off towards the lobby.

House turns to Wilson.  "Huh.  I wonder what all that was about."

Author's Note:  So, I'm definitely new to Torchwood, and I've never seen Dr. Who (though for the story I did do a little research), but this plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, making writing the next chapter in my House story freaking impossible.  I'm hoping that by bring this fic to fruition I can move on.

Author's Note Two:  I don't do AU's.  I don't know why, but for some reason, all I can do is write fix-its, and make them take place in the future.  So, suffice it to say that this piece right here begins after Children of the Earth (obviously), after Miracle Day, after Torchwood's eventual demise (because I'm assuming at some point in the future they'll dissolve Torchwood), after all of it.  Oh, and if anyone wants to Britpick, that would be straight-up awesome, just send me a message because I'm doing the best I can, which unfortunately merely consists of switching out words like "apartment" for "flat."

*

Ianto Jones never thought he would end up as a ghost.  After all, the best years of his life were spent destroying spirits and the like, so naturally he'd assumed that he wouldn't exactly be welcomed into their fold when his time finally came.  He had expected the darkness that had been described to him by others in the past, but somehow he had emerged from Death a floating, transparent being. 

Life, and death as it turned out, were weird.

It had taken some getting used to, of course, though learning to travel from one place to another hadn't been hard.  Common sense had told him to try just thinking of somewhere he desired to be, and desire to be there, which had worked flawlessly.  Unfortionately, however, figuring out how to move objects around by channeling emotion through his ethereal hands hadn't been such a cakewalk. 

He had known from the beginning that it was something that could be done.  Years of working for Torchwood had instilled that knowledge in him.  Though several frustrating months of swatting at Jack's surroundings fruitlessly tested his faith.  Finally, in a fit of fury, Ianto had aimed a slap at a nearby book and the damn thing had actually shifted a little to the left.  Ianto's following yell had been so loud that he later wondered if it was his imagination that Jack's eyes had narrowed slightly in suspicion.

Jack.  Fuck.  After everything he still loved Jack.

Jack.  Who had still, in Ianto's final minutes, been unable to say the words that had risen so readily to his own lips.  But he'd promised to never forget him, which Ianto had supposed was something.  For a boyfriend destined to live forever, never was quite a long time. 

And it had been to Ianto's immense relief that Jack seemed to be following through with his word.  No, it wasn't as if his Time-Traveling-Unable-To-Die-Ex spent years, lives, still crying over the consequences of the lethal fog, but there was a small picture of the two of them that Jack kept on the inside door of his closet, and every Sunday, like clockwork, he swung the door open and stared at it. 

The reason Ianto knew this was slightly embarrassing: even in the afterlife, Jack was still his entire world. 

He had tried to waste his time doing other things; he really had.  Once he'd become good at moving objects around, he had picked up a book and began teaching himself Italian, and after that, the violin.  After that, he'd visited every place in the world that he had ever wanted to see.  But nothing kept him entertained, not one damn thing because nothing could replace the excitement that he'd felt every time he had opened his eyes to see the long masculine form lying beside him.  And so it hadn't been long before he gave into the temptation and began invisibly stalking Jack, though he tried to tell himself that that wasn't what he was doing.  But morning, noon, and night he loitered around wherever Jack happened to be, listening to his conversations, reveling in the sound of his voice.  Every so often, when Jack was talking to Gwen, or occasionally to others, Ianto's name would come up and each time "Ianto" was uttered with an American accent, tears ran down his cheeks. 

He was, even in death, slightly pathetic.

Which was how he had ended up in South Africa that Tuesday evening. 

Since Torchwood had disbanded, Jack had taken it upon himself to handle whatever alien remnants he could find.  He'd heard some whisperings about a small cave on the Southern side of the continent so he'd traveled that way, with Ianto following, muttering the entire way about the "fucking heat" (as he was a ghost he actually didn't feel different temperatures, but it relieved some of his concern for Jack to complain). 

The cave in question was easy enough to spot - not too many others gave off light from the inside.  As Jack stepped inside the lights went out and both man and ghost were left in total darkness.

"Fantastic," Ianto heard Jack mutter, and he found himself grinning lightly.  He'd forgotten how amusing Jack could be when he was frustrated. 

It's odd, he thought, with a touch of melancholy.  The things you miss. 

Ianto wasn't sure at what point Jack withdrew the flashlight, but suddenly the cave was bathed in bright yellow light, making it possible to step forward without walking into things.  The pair moved further inside, Jack going further than Ianto, who was distracted by a small, glittering stone wedged between the floor and the wall of the cave.  He wondered how Jack had missed it, then reached for it, his hand acting of its own accord. 

His fingers closed around the smooth, black stone, and as he brought it up to his eye line, carefully watching to make sure Jack wasn't paying attention, he caught sight of the silver chain dangling.  Oh.  Right.  So it was a necklace then.  There was minuscule writing carved into the bottom of the stone, almost invisible due to a thick layer of dirt, so Ianto did the only thing that made sense: he dusted it off. 

Immediately he realized that he had made a grave mistake.  The air in the cave began to pick up, and if ethereal hair on the back of his neck could have stood up it absolutely would have. 

He spun around to face Jack, who of course couldn't see him, and wasn't really looking his direction anyway (which Ianto counted as a plus because he might have been a little unnerved to see a piece of crude jewelry just floating in air).  Instead, Jack was staring at the opening to the cave as though it was the culprit, smiling, almost laid back about the entire thing. 

Ianto followed his gaze, not sure what he was looking for, but when no sentient being came running into the room he relaxed slightly (though he couldn't begin to guess why he had been worried - it wasn't as if Jack could die). 

Until an unfamiliar female voice from behind him said, rather flatly, actually, "Oh.  So you're dead then.  Well, I guess I know what your first wish is going to be."

So I've found that all the criticism of House seems to have stifled my creativity, and murdered my poor, defenseless muse.  I have no clue what the heck I'm going to do about this.  Hopefully it'll pass. 

In the meantime I'm still dealing with the engagement of the girl with whom I share a soul.  Life is extremely irritating at times.

I should be writing, but instead, I've spent my whole shift just sort of going back through the Harry Potter fandom, visiting my ship (Harry/Ron) pages, stuff like that.  We can blame the announcement of Pottermore, whatever the hell that is. 

Anyway, one H/R writer had this on her livejournal, and because I'm too tired to think too hard, I thought I'd work on it myself. 
( Click to learn a LOT about KatieCollapse )

So, my sister moved in wtih my mom and me yesterday, and since then she and I have spent every moment together watching various episodes of House (if I could only get her to board the good ship Hilson, we'd be golden).  Today it was Frozen and House vs. God.  Tonight, after a <i>lot</i> of begging, I got her to agree to watch House's Head with me when I get off (which is in like, 15 minutes) because she said she'd only watched it once because it's so sad.  I know this is pretty random, but I just had to say that I love having someone watch it with me. 

Except, honestly, sometimes she gets on my nerves a little, but that's to be expected, since she only ships hetero.  And for some reason she really doesn't like Wilson as much as I do, though I have told her on many occassions how alike he and I are. 

To each her own.  Maybe in time I can teach her.

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:  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."

Previous Chapter

Author's Note:  Okay, just for the record, I could probably curl up in the floor right now and go to sleep, but they frown on that at my job, so I'm forced to stay awake.  So any errors, please let me know, because my eyes are so dry that the words on the screen are blurring together.  And I tried to incorporate what seem to be the biggest issues the fans had with the finale, but House is nowhere near off the hook.  I'm just laying the groundwork.
Author's Note 2:  The update took this long because I had to do huge research about this hotel. To give credit where it's due, I got most of my information here 

He stares at the hut containing the lobby, and tries to tell himself that this is going to be a very short trip.  He reminds himself that his plan is simply to go in, locate House, force him to call his wife, and be back on a plane by the end of the night.  He determinedly refuses to think about the open-ended plane ticket or the suitcase packed with a week's worth of clothes. 

With no one around, he allows a rueful smile to play across his lips.  In another lifetime he would be in one of those houses with his friend, mocking him for choosing a resort to stay in, checking out the women tanning on the beach.  He'd be paying outrageous prices for tropical drinks with names he's never heard of, and after two or three nor he or House would remember anyway.  They'd be laughing together, strolling along the edge of the ocean, and he would be happy.

At that moment he misses House so much that he's nearly knocked breathless.  But he clears his throat, and presses onward.

He steps into the lobby and attempts to look around without gawking too much, though he can immediately tell what House has found so enticing about this place, and why he's probably spending his entire life's savings out here.  There's white granite flooring, a long white check-in station, white paintings with black frames.  Bright white lights.  Honestly, it's a bit like Wilson envisions heaven.

The man behind the desk, 'Niles,' looks up at him appraisingly, and though Wilson knows he's doing nothing wrong, he feels his face redden just a bit.  Nevertheless he allows his feet to carry him over, and he wordlessly hands Niles the piece of paper he worked on during his flight.  He has no idea whether or not the grammar is correct because he didn't take French in high school, and so he'd had to completely trust the English to French online translator. 

The paper says Salut. Pouvez vous dites-moi s'il vous plaît où Greg House reste?

Niles reads the words in silence, then raises his eyebrows at him.  "James Wilson," he asks in perfect English, and Wilson's heart begins hammering frantically against his ribcage.  House guessed he would come?  But, honestly, he's not sure if that makes it better or worse. 

"Yes, I'm James Wilson," he answers, and he can't pretend that his voice doesn't shake.  "Can you tell me where he's staying?  I just need to give him a message."

"Dr. House is staying in Villa Number Four."  Niles gestures to the exit, and then to the right.  "It is one of the one bedroom houses situated on the water.  Just follow the wooden walkway down to the third villa."

Wilson gives a half-nod to show he understands the instructions, then starts for the door, though before he's even halfway, he turns back and addresses Niles once more.  "How's he seem," he asks before he can stop himself.  If his (former?) friend has been tortured with despair and in solitary confinement since his arrival Wilson thinks he should know ahead of time.

It's a moment before Niles responds.  "He's been fine, sir," he says, but his eyes move to Wilson's and there's something there that sets him a little ill at ease. 

The villa House is staying in is easy to find, and before he's even had time to adjust to the warm, outside climate he's staring at the door to Number Four with his fist raised up, preparing to knock.  Somehow, however, he cannot make his hand move.  The whole trip to this point has been theories and what-ifs and he realizes that it's a little terrifying to be confronted with the possibility of actually seeing House, knowing he's on the other side of the door.  What the hell is he supposed to say?  Lovely weather out here.  Oh, and by the way, you could have fucking killed me and four other people, you selfish bastard. 

But it's pointless to stall, so he slowly turns the handle.

The first room that he enters is a small sitting area.  There's impeccably-done hardwood flooring, a black, wicker couch with white cushions, and a pair of chairs to match.  A black wicker coffee table sits in the center, and below it a rectangle is cut out of the floor to reveal the ocean beneath.  The doors on the far end of the room open to an outside deck, so Wilson makes a sharp right to follow the hallway instead, and his heart stops.

Well, it doesn't actually stop.  But he is suddenly stuck with breathing trouble, and he can't believe it but there, leaning against the railing in the bedroom and staring out at the ocean is House.  Greg House.  His back is to Wilson, but it's not as though there can be any mistaking it, considering that he's seen that back almost every day for the last twenty years, and it takes every inch of self-control that he possesses to keep from cheering aloud.  Because House is a total ass, and technically, yeah, he did almost kill Wilson and Cuddy and that guy she was having dinner with, but it doesn't mean that Wilson gets to stop loving him. 

For some reason he moves very slowly as he draws closer to House, and it's then that he realizes that House has his ear buds in, which is why Wilson's echoing footsteps don't alert him to his presence.  And it would be so easy to just forget that he saw him, and leave the room, the island, the country without House ever knowing he'd even been there.  But he doesn't really consider it because he can't come all this way, he can't be this close to him and just leave.

It's then that bravery seizes him, and he crosses the room in three long strides before snatching the headphones out of House's ears and spinning him around. 

"Call your wife," he snaps, pretending he doesn't notice the utter astonishment on House's face when he sees who's standing in his villa.  He holds out his cell phone.  "Call her.  Now."

House raises his eyebrows as shock gives way to familiarity.  "Um.  Pretty sure you don't get to tell me what to-"

"Call your wife," Wilson cuts him off.  Oh, God, how many times has he been in this situation?  Being furious with his best friend, and yet always always always doing anything for him.  He supposes that's what makes him an enabler.  "She's worried.  You remember what it's like to care about other people, right?  Well, probably not, actually."

"So this is how it's going to be," House challenges, and Wilson recognizes the way the bright blue eyes flash dangerously.  "You're just going to act like a dick to me for the rest of your life?"

"Well, tell me, what's the appropriate way to behave around someone who runs you over with a fucking car?"  And he's doing it, exactly what he promised himself that he would not do.  He's fighting with House, fighting for their friendship.  He's supposed to be acting aloof, as if there's nothing that House can say or do to change the situation or how he feels about the situation.  Argument implies the desire to fix things, and he is so not trying to fix things.

"Oh please, Wilson, don't be so melodramatic.  You're obviously fine."

A sharp, sarcastic laugh escapes his lips.  "You're right, House," he replies.  "No problem that you drove straight through your ex-girlfriend's dining room.  No problem that your stunt could have killed her, her sister, her date.  Or, hell, no problem that for all you knew you could have run over Rachel!"

"Oh, good, we're getting to the lecture part.  I was wondering when we would."

He throws up his hands in defeat.  "You know what, House, you're right.  I really don't know why I'm wasting my time continuing to rehash things that aren't going to make a difference.  You aren't going to change, you don't care.  So just call Dominika and I'll get out of your way, here."

But House isn't done.  "What am I supposed to say?  I told you to get out of the car."

"Yes, but neglected to inform me that Cuddy's front yard was going to become your new road."

"Whatever you say."

They glare at each other mutinously until Wilson continues.  "You should have stopped the car when you saw me standing in front of it," he mutters, all the fight gone from his voice.  "You watched me get in the way and try to stop you.  And you kept going."

"I knew you'd move," House replies, and Wilson wonders when his voice got all low. 

"Whatever you say.  Call your wife."

"So help me God, Wilson, if you do not leave me alone about Dominika I-"

"You'll what?  Run me over?"

"You know I'll do it, now."  They fall silent again, and this time the quiet is so encompassing that Wilson thinks he would hear a pin drop.  And just as he's thinking that this whole thing has been a huge mistake, that he should have just ignored Dominika's phone call in the beginning, House says the last thing Wilson would have imagined.  "I didn't mean to hurt you."

His mouth literally drops open.  "Excuse me," he says.

House rolls his eyes.  "This cannot be news to you."

"Who says?"

"Wilson, get a life.  You know I wouldn't actually try to hurt you."

He did know that, once.  Once, House had looked him in the eye and told him that maybe he didn't "want to push this until it breaks."  Once, House had had a P.I. follow him around because he just missed his friend that badly.  Once, Wilson had looked up into the gallery over the O.R. to see his best friend watching his surgery.  Once, House had lit up like a Christmas tree just because Wilson had bought him an organ.

That was a different friendship, he thinks now, but the look of something is in House's eyes in a way that it has been so many times before, and it's the look that seems to speak to Wilson, and makes him hesitate. 

"House," he begins, but he gets no further than that.  Because House is staring out at the ocean as though he's just seen a ghost, and he's ditched the something for downright fear.  Comforting!Wilson kicks in the way it always does and he steps closer to House.  "You okay?"

House turns to him.  "I don't know.  I think I just saw someone get murdered."

DUM DUM DUM

Next Chapter