Title: Headwall 2/3

Author: Maineac

Genre: House/Wilson gen (friendship); angst/humor

Rating: PG

Summary: What a stupid move it had been, for Wilson to hope that House would not find out that he was going to the conference in Aspen.

Timeline: Set in January, 2006, the middle of Season 2

Chapter Two

The commuter-sized jet that connected Denver to Aspen was ridiculously small, at least in economy class, and not for the first time Wilson cursed Cuddy's penny-pinching ways as he entered the cabin. He, Simpson, Brown, and Blaine were crowded into two rows at—he checked his stub again—yes, at the very back of the small aircraft. Wilson hunched his head and followed the others down the narrow aisle, pushing his carry-on and cursing once again as he struggled to maneuver around a foot protruding from a first class seat. Didn't the bastards in first class have enough room, without having to take up the aisle too? He gave the foot a surreptitious shove.

"Hey," said a familiar voice. "Have a little respect for cripples."

Wilson looked from the Nike Shox-clad foot to its owner. His jaw dropped. House was sprawled across two seats, playing with a Gameboy and sipping a glass of what looked like champagne.

"What the--? How did you--?" He trailed off, at a loss for words.

House gave him an enigmatic smile. "Move along, buster. You're holding up the show. Get thee to thy cattle car. And stop hassling the first class passengers." House jerked his head toward the end of the plane, and Wilson, aware of the other passengers stacked up behind him, moved off without another word. As he settled into a seat beside Dr. Blaine, his cell phone went off. He flipped it open.

"How's the leg room back there?" asked House. Wilson peered around the seat-back in front of him and saw House leering at him from Row 2.

"Number one," Wilson said, tight-lipped, and in a whisper that got Blaine giving him a strange look, "number one, you're not supposed to use cell phones on planes. Number two—"

"You're not supposed to use cell phones in hospitals either," retorted House. "But that never stopped us."

"Number two…what the…what the hell?"

"Well, you and Cuddy are always telling me I should go to more conferences."

"You're attending the conference on chronic pain management? Then why aren't you sitting back in economy like the rest of us?"

"Now, I never said I was attending the conference."

"Don't be cute with me," hissed Wilson. "You're not going to Aspen for the skiing."

"No, but I am speaking at the conference."

"You—what? You're not listed as a speaker."

"I'm a last-minute fill in. The conference organizer called in a panic when Bastable cancelled on her. Practically begged me to speak. I held out for the big bucks and a first-class ticket. The way I figure it, if you're going to prostitute yourself to the pharmaceuticals, you might as well take them to the cleaners doing it."

"What are you speaking on?"

"Ketamine."

"Ketamine? What do you know about ketamine? That's a veterinary drug. Or a street drug, take your pick."

"If you read my article in the Journal of Pain Management, you wouldn't ask stupid questions."

"You…published an article?"

"Sure. A round-up of results of clinical trials in Europe using ketamine for chronic pain. Hey, I'm thinking of calling my speech tomorrow: 'Special K'—Off-label and Recreational Uses.' Think the pharmas will like that?"

"You—" but at that moment a flight attendant gave him a frown and told him he needed to turn off his phone, as they were preparing for take-off. Wilson flipped the cell phone shut, leaned back into his seat, and shook his head. Blaine gave him a toothy smile.

"Ever skied Aspen before?" he asked.

------

"What's all this?" asked Wilson, standing beside House at the baggage carousel, dumbfounded as the Sky Cap loaded House's bags onto a cart. "You didn't bring skis, did you?" For that's exactly what it looked like, the bag that the Sky Cap had snagged off the carousel, along with his and House's suitcases: a long, oddly bulging, ski bag.

"Skis? No. Just some special equipment." He bent down and unzipped the bag. Sliding his cane into the bag, he removed a pair of old-fashioned wooden crutches that Wilson had last seen years ago, when House was doing his rehab. He was surprised that House had held onto them. His first reaction, watching him prop one under each arm, was relief, for he'd been worried about House trying to navigate the ski resort terrain with just a—very slip-prone—cane.

His relief changed to a mixture of dismay and amusement as he watched House head for the exit. He'd forgotten how agile—acrobatic, actually—House had become on the crutches, and that he'd only abandoned them in favor of the cane because he couldn't stand the inability to carry anything in his hands. (That and the fact that crutches drew attention to his disability in a more insistent way than the cane.) As he tagged along after House and the Sky Cap he saw House crutch swiftly up to the automatic door and then in a smooth motion swing both legs up at the door as if to push it open with his feet. He balanced there on the crutches a long second, his feet on the door as it slowly opened.

"Better on snow and ice than a cane?" asked Wilson, looking at the crutches as they waited for a taxi.

"Among other things," replied House with a mysterious smile.