House and Wilson visit Porto on a very special night.
Chapter 1 of 5.
Tank you to BabalooBlue for the beta reading.
Chapter 1: Prelude
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On a grey June afternoon – not an unusual phenomenon for the city of Porto at that time of the year – two men entered the luxurious lobby of the Hotel Infante Sagres. A bigger contrast between them could not be found. One was short, the other tall. One had brown eyes, the other's were deep blue. One was wearing a common combination of shirt and jacket, the other a leather-jacket above a black t-shirt with the word "Megadeth" stamped on it. One had a shaved face, well-groomed hair, the other had a stubble, and his hair looked like it had never seen a comb in its life. One moved with ease, the other needed a cane to walk. One was dying with cancer, the other was officially dead. One was called James Wilson, the other Gregory House. They had three things in common: both were American, both were doctors and both were friends.
While Wilson waited with the suitcases, House headed towards the reception desk with confident steps. He walked like he owned the hotel. Despite the limp there was smoothness in that walk. Maybe even elegance.
"Boa tarde", said he in Portuguese to the young man behind the counter. The mouth curved in a smile that didn't reach the eyes.
"Boa tarde," answered the receptionist, caught a bit by surprise.
"My name is George Hall. I believe there is a reservation in my name."
The man stared at the American for a second before checking the hotel registration log.
"That's correct. A suite for two, for one night. May I see your passport, please?"
House removed the passport from his backpack and gave it to the receptionist while glancing in Wilson's direction.
"Thank you," said the receptionist inspecting the passport. "We are going to keep your passport with us until the end of your stay. Would you mind signing here, please?"
House signed.
"Welcome to Porto, Mr Hall. You arrived on the right day."
"Doctor Hall and… I know", answered House and winked. A mischievous smile spread across his face.
The young man smiled too, knowingly. "Here is your key, Dr Hall. You and your friend may go to your room. The suitcases will be brought up soon."
House took the key and thanked in Portuguese.
The receptionist watched the American walk in the direction of the other man. He saw them exchange brief words before moving towards the elevator. After a few minutes of waiting, the doors opened, and the two men disappeared from sight.
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"House, remind me why we are here," asked Wilson with a touch of tiredness in his voice.
"Surprise," answered House casually. His friend's fatigue had not gone unnoticed.
Wilson looked at House from the corner of his eyes but didn't say anything.
They were standing side by side, crammed into the tiny elevator, waiting to reach their destination. House started humming a song. Loose sounds danced on the air and disappeared among the white phosphorescent lights of the ceiling. Wilson felt slightly cranky. The long plane voyage had left him exhausted and now he saw himself a continent away from home, on a country he only knew by name, on a city that meant nothing to him. The song's pitch got higher, and so did Wilson's irritation. Where was House dragging him? He had a few months to live, and those months were passing fast. The clock was ticking. Relentlessly. He cursed the moment he had agreed to on this trip. They could be now… who knows… cruising the States on their bikes, climbing the Grand Canyon, swimming in the Pacific, eating the biggest burger that ever existed and being honored with their pictures on the Wall of Fame of an obscure restaurant in Nowhereville… You did that already. True, but he had liked the experience, and what was the problem in repeating it? He wondered if there were hamburgers in… what was the name of the city?
"Porto," answered House, his eyes fixed on an invisible dot somewhere on the elevator door.
Wilson made a face but decided not to give House the satisfaction of showing surprise, so he remained silent. He was used to House's powers of divination. It was one of the inconveniences of being friend to a… he didn't want to think "genius"… but he couldn't help it. Of course there was also some advantages. The fact that he needn't have to talk when he didn't feel like it. House understood his silences. And Wilson was grateful for that. He may not always respect them, true, but he understood them.
The elevator continued its ascension. First floor. Their suite was on the second. There was a slight detergent smell in the air, as if someone had cleaned the floor recently. House's nostrils dilated almost imperceptibly.
Wilson's thoughts returned to the problem at hand. A surprise, hah? What could it be? A good thing it wasn't, for sure. Since when had a House surprise ended well for him? Wilson tried to find an exception to that rule but failed. There was none. Not a crumb of an exception, not even a molecule. Nothing. It was a fact, an indisputable truth. Every House surprises ended up badly, period, and he was completely and undeniably screwed. Arriving here, Wilson couldn't suppress a sigh. Immediately, a shadow of a smile appeared on House's lips just to fade away as if it never existed.
Horrifying images were dancing in Wilson's mind: a stay in prison because of some ruckus, to a night in some hospital – and God only knew what the Portuguese hospitals were like –, roaming alone, naked, trough Porto streets… A shiver ran down his spine. He had to be ready and alert. That was what he had to do. Be ready and very very alert. And mainly, main-ly, be sober all the time. This was essential. Wilson knew the effect alcohol had on him, so he promised himself to drink only water that night, even if it was the last thing he would do in his life.
Ding… the elevator had arrived at its destination. The doors opened onto a corridor. The two men stepped out and started looking at the numbers on the doors. House went ahead and guided Wilson to their suite that was situated in one of the corridor wings, apart from the other rooms. The key turned in the keyhole and the door opened to a spacious and tidy room. They entered.
"Not bad," said Wilson appreciatively, noting the ample space, the quality of the furniture and the decoration, the two big beds, the high french windows that led to the balcony. "Not bad at all. Those mob guys really know how to lodge their guests."
"At least until the guests fall from grace," said House as he jumped into the nearest bed. "Hum… good mattress. I'll keep this one."
"Speaking of mob… Aren't you afraid of someone finding out that your passport is phony?" asked Wilson while he opened the windows to let the Summer air in.
"Nope, for the simple reason that it isn't phony. The truth is the biggest lie."
"You mean there is a George Hall out there?"
"Certainly…"
Wilson stepped onto the balcony and looked at the little square below. The day had left its grayness behind and the sun, albeit timidly, had decided to show its presence to the world. Sparrows chirped happily among the trees, pigeons flew around looking for food. Occasionally a seagull appeared in the sky. Everything was serene. Wilson felt his irritation melting away. Maybe this trip had not been such a bad idea after all.
"… although I wouldn't dare to guess in which state of decomposition," answered House from the bed.
Wilson turned back and stared at his friend lying on the bed.
"Hey," House said, "when you are face to face with a person with a gorilla on each side, without neck, and when said person is willing to buy a trip for two to Portugal and settle you and your best friend in the most expensive hotel in Porto, you aren't in a position to be picky. That would have been rude. And you know how I hate being rude."
Wilson said nothing but kept looking at House. "How is the leg?" he asked.
"Wonderful. I'm teaching it the piano to impress the ladies."
"House."
"It's good. Honest," said House.
Wilson nodded slightly.
"So, what is the plan?" he asked and rubbed his hands with excitement. He was feeling alive again.
Before House had time to answer they heard a knock at the door.
"The suitcases," pointed House out matter-of-factly but didn't move.
Wilson walked towards the door. House heard him speak something and then saw him return with the suitcases and put them on the floor. As soon as he did that, House jumped from the bed with a swiftness that seemed impossible for a cripple and started inspecting one of the suitcases. The Vicodin pills were still there, hidden in a secret compartment. It was a pity they didn't sell Vicodin in Europe. He had to ration them carefully. Tonight would be very stressful for his leg and besides that he, had Wilson to consider. He needed to be ready if Wilson felt any pain. He had to think for both of them now. House picked up one bottle and put it in one pocket of his pants.
"Stay here, rest, have a shower. I'll be right back," he said and picked up his cane.
"Where are you going?"
"To buy some arms," he answered while headed towards the door.
"Arms? What arms?"
"Nobody goes to a war without guns, Wilson," said House and paused, for a second, on the threshold.
"War? What war?" shouted Wilson but House was already gone.