Headwall

by Maineac

Title: Headwall 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 One

House tossed his tray down on the cafeteria table, and pulled out the chair opposite Wilson. Then he fished in his jacket pocket and produced two tickets, which he waved slowly under Wilson's nose. "Patriots-Jets," he said in a seductive voice, then passed the tickets under his own nose, inhaling deeply as if they were expensive cigars. "Mmmm. Fifty-yard line. Selling the extra ticket to the highest bidder. Do I hear $150?"

"Next Sunday? Whoa, I'd love to. Really. But you need to give me more warning. I, uh,... I'm tied up that weekend."

House gave him an appraising look. "Sure. Got to stay home and make nice with the in-laws, serve tea, go to the museum, is that it?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Well, I'll pretend to believe that. And you can pretend that you don't care that I'll find someone else to sit on the fifty with."

At that moment Blaine, an oncologist whom House went out of his way to annoy whenever possible, paused as he passed by with his lunch tray. Wilson braced himself as he saw House narrow his eyes and prepare to scare him off.

"Blaine, just the man I'm looking for," said House loudly. "Listen, I've been meaning to talk to you about my prostate. You got a minute?" Blaine glared at House and then paused and massaged Wilson's shoulder in a good-old-boy style that House was sure to find particularly offensive. "Peeing," House continued in a louder voice, "is really-"

"Sixteen inches of new powder this morning, my friend," said Blaine to Wilson. "And more in the forecast. It's going to be sweet!" He smiled thinly at House, and then moved on.

The silence was made worse by the chatter around them in the cafeteria. Finally House spoke.

"You know, those conferences are pure graft and corruption. Four days in Aspen, three hours of lectures in the morning, unlimited skiing all afternoon, luxury hotel--all courtesy of our friendly mega-pharmaceuticals. Pass the bill on to the consumers. Doesn't your conscience bother you? Oh, that's right-it does. Otherwise you wouldn't have lied to me about it."

"Greg-"

"Now you're going to say, why don't I come too? Chum around for a few days with medical big wigs from all over. Maybe go tubing on the kiddie slope. No thanks, buddy. I've got bigger fish to fry." He stood up, leaving his lunch behind, and limped out of the room, making a large detour around Blaine's table.

Wilson sat looking at their untouched meals. What a stupid move it had been to hope that House would not find out that he was going to the conference in Aspen. Yet it was one of the many painful areas in their friendship that neither had been able to broach since House's infarction. It was an unavoidable fact that their early friendship had formed around a couple of wild skiing weekends they had taken together in Vermont. House's reckless abandon on skis was the perfect complement to Wilson's flawless form, which translated into an ability to ski almost any slope the mountain could throw at the two of them, each one egging the other on to harder and harder slopes. It was Wilson who'd taught House how to ski moguls and how to jump. It was House who'd first dared him to go off piste, into the woods, skiing glades and back trails.

House could ski anything steep and icy, Wilson could ski anything steep and mogully. Between the two of them, as House once said, they could rule the world.

The only problem about skiing with House was that he was easily bored, especially on the smaller mountains of the East Coast. Once he had skied all the hardest trails, the black diamonds and double-black diamonds, he got restless. That's when he pulled stunts like skiing off-piste, trying to learn ever-more outrageous jumps, or even, on one memorable occasion when he broke a binding, skiing the rest of the day on one ski. Eventually he declared the mountains of the East too easy and announced that he and James should take a joint vacation in Aspen, along with Julie and Stacy, who were by then part of the scene. It had been a perfect week, at the end of which House had pronounced Aspen to be heaven, and they had all vowed to return every year. But that spring he'd suffered the infarction, and his skis had remained at the back of his closet, along with his golf clubs and other sports gear, ever since.

They both knew it was ridiculous for Wilson to forsake skiing just so House's nose wouldn't be rubbed in what he was missing. And yet that didn't make moments like this any easier for either of them. It felt intensely disloyal. There was no way around it.

Well, evasion hadn't worked. So maybe it was time to tackle it head on. Not just time to do it-way past time to do it. Wilson stuck his head into House's office on his way home.

"Hey," he said. House glanced up from his computer, and then back down at it.

"Come to apologize and atone? Wasn't Yom Kippur last month?"

Wilson entered and sat in his usual chair. "This is stupid, you know."

House typed a few words into the computer. "Something I've always wanted to ask you." He shot a glance at Wilson. "How did a Jew get to be such a good skier? Isn't it a WASP sport? And Jews don't do sports, period."

Wilson just raised his eyebrows at him. House continued. "Name a single famous Jewish athlete- aside from the Israelis who were murdered at Munich. You can't, can you? A basketball player? Nope. Baseball player? Nope. Jews love baseball, don't they, but name me one Jewish baseball player."

Wilson sighed. House was so good at misdirection. "Jews can't be good at everything," he said. "We have to leave something for the goys. Besides, I had a lot of expensive lessons. You, on the other hand, had no right to be a good skier." He didn't, either, living as he had in hot climates most of his life, and too poor, on his father's military salary, for the expensive sport. But apparently two years of living in Germany, close enough to the Alps to be able to beg, borrow or steal some time on the slopes, had been enough to create a passion for the sport.

House was silent. He made a pretense of going back to his computer. Wilson figured two could play at this game and determined to wait House out. At last House stopped typing, rubbed the stubble on his chin, and sat staring into the middle distance.

"God, I miss it," he said, swiveling to look at James for the first time since he'd entered the room. "Almost as much as I miss cigarettes. I dream about skiing. I dream about smoking, too. Weird, hunh? But kind of stupid for you to think you have to miss out on it too. I mean, I'm all for solidarity, but if the shoe was on the other foot you know I'd be out there every weekend, not caring a damn about you."

"Yeah, I know. You always were a heartless bastard."

"Thanks. So, go have a good time prostituting yourself for the drug companies. Just remember to eat your heart out about the Jets game."

"Roger that."

Wilson hesitated, feeling that it had all been too easy. The phone rang on House's desk. House checked the caller ID and lifted the receiver.

"House," he said. He listened for a few moments, then covered the receiver and nodded to Wilson.

"Sorry," he said, dismissing him. "Gotta take this call."

Wilson shook his head, still a little worried by how easy it had all been. Ridiculously easy. As he left, House was still on the phone.

"Ketamine?" he heard him say. "Talk to me, baby."

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 once been 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.

Chapter Three

Wilson knew that one of the reasons House avoided conferences-though he would never say it in so many words-was that he tended to run into colleagues and med school acquaintances he hadn't seen for years. There was always the stunned moment while they took in the cane and the limp and the scruff, followed by the awkward moment when they pondered whether to say anything, and the even worse moment when House had to try to ignore it all, or decide whether to go for the flip explanation ("pulled a hamstring playing Twister") or --rarely--the straight answer.

Bad enough to have all those one-on-one encounters as an attendee. As a very public speaker, and in the silence of the auditorium, it must have been even worse for him, climbing the four long steps at the front of the conference hall stage, to hear the murmurs start to circulate the room. Wilson felt fiercely protective and angry on House's behalf as some of the people around him exchanged glances, then snickers, and half-overheard remarks.

"God, he looks like he's been living in a dumpster."

"What the hell happened to him? He was always supposed to be such a wonder-boy?"

"I heard he's got a drug habit."

"Too bad about his leg." Followed by a snort. "But his ego could use taking down a peg, from what I've heard."

"Believe me, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." That was Blaine, unaware that Wilson was sitting directly behind him.

The murmurs subsided as House, with no preamble, launched into his speech. Wilson stopped paying attention to the people around him, and listened to what House was saying. He was, frankly, blown away. With the exception of the lecture House had given at PPTH last year on leg pain, he'd never really seen House in this setting before: he spoke for nearly an hour without notes, leaning hard on the podium but refusing to sit in the chair someone had provided for him. He was quiet, professional, and dead serious. His research had been meticulous and well documented and his conclusions were well thought out. House never mentioned his own struggle with chronic pain, but it was clear from the reactions around Wilson that his personal connection to the topic was not lost on the audience.

When he finished-and Wilson knew that by now his leg must have been agony-he didn't take questions, or acknowledge the crowd. Instead, he frowned, abruptly unhooked his cane from the side of the podium, and limped heavily over to the stairs in front of the stage. And there he stopped.

With a sinking feeling, Wilson realized what was going on. House was desperate to get off the stage out of the public eye, someplace where he could sit down--but he wasn't sure he could make it down the stairs. Going down was always harder than going up for him, and his leg had to be exhausted from standing the last hour. Wilson stood up and pushed out of the row as fast as he could. But the conference organizer, who'd been sitting in a front row, beat him to it. Wilson bestowed a quick blessing on the woman as she jogged up the stairs to the stage, with her hand extended to make it look like she had just come to thank House for his speech. At the same time, someone in the crowd began clapping, and the rest quickly joined in.

"Thank you, Dr. House," said the woman over the noise, pumping House's hand. And under cover of the sustained ovation, she said something in his ear and then, a hand on his elbow, guided him off stage left, avoiding the issue of the stairs altogether. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief, and collapsed into a chair. Just one more chapter in the continuing saga of Life with House, he thought ruefully.

------- Like most of the other doctors, Wilson changed into his ski gear before lunch, which was being served in one of the lift lodges at the foot of Aspen mountain. But he was having a hard time working up any enthusiasm for skiing, despite everything House had said to him about not worrying about him. He was worried about him. He hadn't seen House since the lecture, and his assumption that he'd gone to the hotel room to lie down and rest his leg had proved false when he'd gone back there to change and found the room empty.

When he didn't find him at lunch, either, he picked up the phone and called.

"Where the heck did you disappear to?"

"I'm enjoying the aprs ski scene."

"You can't, by definition, enjoy aprs ski until after skiing."

"Okay then. I'm enjoying the avant ski scene. In a hot tub. With some hotties."

"Where?"

"Open your eyes."

Wilson swiveled around. House was sitting a few feet away from him, not in a hot tub but on a sofa, facing a cheerful fire burning in the fireplace in the center of the lodge. His right leg was propped up on one of his crutches, which was laid across two chairs. On one side of him sat a blond woman in an Aspen ski instructor parka, who was laughing at his last remark. More surprising, House's right leg was encased in a long, thigh-to-foot orthopedic knee brace. Wilson hurried anxiously over.

"House," he said, looking at the brace. "What happened? Did you -"

"Dr. Wilson," said House abruptly. "I'd like you to meet Heidi." The ski instructor gave him a brilliant smile. "Heidi works in the Handicapped Ski Program at Aspen. She's from Austria. Aren't you, liebchen?" Heidi smiled at House warmly.

"But your leg-"

"Yes," said House hastily. "Good news. Turns out it's not fractured after all. Just torn ligaments."

"I'm...so relieved," said Wilson slowly.

"Ja, you should know better than to ski the Headwall on your first run down," said Heidi, placing a hand on House's leg. "Especially when it's sooo icy."

"Yes, that will teach me," said House. Heidi gave him a soulful look. House drained the drink he had in his hand, and raised his eyebrows at her.

"Ein anderes Glas Glhwein?" she asked solicitously.

"Bitte," said House handing her the empty glass mug, and she got up to go to the bar, making sure to wiggle her cute little ass as she went. Halfway there she paused to give him a smile over her shoulder. House watched her go, and then turned to the astonished Wilson.

"Did you know hot wine is the national drink of Austria? Sadly, it contains very little alcohol." Then, before Wilson could respond: "She's giving me a lesson in a few minutes. I'm going to try it on one ski, using these." He picked up a sort of modified arm crutch that had been propped against the sofa. Instead of a rubber tip, it ended in a short ski. "It's part of the handicapped ski program. You get your first three lessons free. Did you know that?"

Wilson sat down. "House, I...you...So this"-he gestured toward the leg brace-"this is the 'special equipment' you brought? In order to attract women?"

"Works like a charm, especially with the crutches. Hey, cripples are boring. But wounded veterans, so to speak-very sexy. Thanks for playing."

Wilson sat back with a sigh. It was hard to believe he had felt sorry for House and worried about leaving him behind while he, Wilson, enjoyed himself on the slopes. He pulled his mittens and hat out of his pocket.

"So, you're really okay with me going skiing?"

But before House could answer, Blaine and Simpson walked up. They cast questioning looks at House, and his knee brace, but neither of them mentioned it. Simpson was wearing a coat and tie, but Blaine was dressed in the most expensive ski gear money could buy: a shiny yellow parka and blue ski pants, with state-of-the art boots. In his hands he carried a short pair of brand-new-looking parabolic skis.

"Simpson, you're not going out dressed like that?" said House. "You'll get all frostbitten."

"I don't ski," said the orthopod sourly.

"Smart move," said House. "Hang out down here at the Ski Patrol headquarters and wait for them to bring the casualties down on the toboggans. The orthopedic version of ambulance chasing."

Simpson chose to ignore the remark, but Blaine gave House a pitying look, and then smiled at Wilson.

"Jimbo, you know what they say: never ski alone. You know the mountain. Are you up for showing me the best runs?"

Wilson, who had been buckling up his ski boots, paused and glanced up at House.

"You could take him down the Headwall," suggested House innocently. Then he looked at Blaine. "Depending on how good a skier you are."

"I'm an expert," Blaine declared. House appeared to think this over, tapping his fingers on his cheek and giving Blaine the once-over.

"Don't believe him," he said at last to Wilson. "Blaine-that's a Jewish name, right? You Orthodox or Reformed?"

"Catholic, actually," said the doctor, unable to conceal his irritation. "And I don't see what that has-"

"Stick to the intermediate trails, Wilson. Take my advice. Avoid the Headwall at all costs. It's not for the faint of heart. Tragically, my own skiing days are over"-he rolled his eyes dramatically at Blaine-"but the last time I skied it, I very nearly-"

But Blaine had shouldered his skis and was already on his way outdoors. "Come on, Jimbo," he said.

House leaned back into the couch. "Ski responsibly," he called after them.

Simpson turned to him as Heidi came back bearing two steaming mugs of gluwein. "What are you trying to do?" he asked House.

Another innocent smile. "Oh, Dr. Simpson. Some day you'll thank me."

When the cell phone call from Wilson came, at approximately 2:45, they both responded, Simpson walking and House stumping on his crutches up the short but steep slope to the Ski Patrol headquarters. There Simpson was able to do a quick assessment. He shook his head sadly.

"Looks like your ACL," he said to Blaine as the doctor groaned in pain on the cot. "But we'll have to do an MRI to be sure. I'll go with you to the clinic."

"The anterior cruciate ligament?" House repeated, raising his eyebrows. He glanced down at Blaine. "A damn shame. I'm afraid your skiing days are over, buddy. But don't despair." He gave the oncologist's shoulder a manly massage. "I've got a spare knee brace you can borrow."

++++ As Wilson and House exited the Ski Patrol building, the last crimson rays of the January sun were picking out the top of Red Hill, behind the glittering town of Aspen, and night skiing lights were winking on on the slopes above them. Wilson surveyed the scene, filled with the kind of pleasant fatigue that comes after a day of hard exercise. House had paused as well, his lanky form silhouetted against the sunset. It might have been seven years ago, if not for the crutches.

Wilson broke the brief silence.

"Mose Solomon," he said.

House cocked his head at him, and waited.

"The 'Rabbi of Swat,'" Wilson continued. "Batted .375 for the New York Giants."

"The 'Rabbi of Swat?' Doesn't have quite the same je ne sais quoi, does it?"

"No, but it does disprove the stereotype."

House snorted. "And the fact that he only batted in two games, what's that mean? And how pathetic is it that that's the best you can come up with after Googling 'Jew' + 'athlete' for five days?"

Wilson laughed and bent to pick up his skis for the short hike down the hill, but House stopped him. He was still wearing the single ski boot from his earlier lesson, and as Wilson watched he balanced on the crutches and stabbed his left foot into the binding of one of Wilson's skis, stomping it home with a firm click.

"Come on, Rabbi," he said, pointing to the remaining ski with his crutch. "I'm gonna teach you to ski on one ski."

Wilson's face split in a slow grin, then he thrust his boot into the ski and grabbed his poles. "Race you to the bottom," he said.

And off they went, side by side, the one skiing with a reckless abandon, perfectly complemented by the flawless style of the other.

Fin
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Headwall