"I didn't need to get divorced in Nevada. I've done it successfully back home before."

"More than once, if memory serves, but it's more fun here."

"No, not really." Wilson muttered as the elevator glided to a stop on the Fifteenth floor. "And I certainly didn't need you along for the ride."

"Why not? I'm the reason for the divorce after all," House said cheerfully, as the doors began to open. He said it loudly, as well, for the benefit of the bellhop who was lurking behind the brass cage of the baggage trolley. "That was a sticky wicket if I ever stuck one. I was traumatized. I deserve a vacation.

"Oh hello, Pierson! What are you doing here?"

Wilson wasn't sure which of the two men standing at the entrance to the elevator House was talking to. He assumed it was the pained-looking one. He was wrong.

"I told you a biopsy wouldn't give you anything," the skinny, beaky one said as they passed.

"Au contraire mon frere," House said. "It told me a great deal."

"Liar." The amused voice drifted out to them as the doors closed.

House shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to try. What's our room number again? Oh wait, it's the bridal suite, isn't it?"

"If that's a hint for me to carry you over the threshold…" Wilson slipped the key card into the door slot. The light turned green, and he opened the door to a room that was so mauve that it hurt. Everything was color coordinated from the mirror frames, to the counterpanes, to the dense sound-absorbing carpet, to the petit chocolat in lavender foil squatting in the middle the round accent pillows on each of the queen-size beds.

"…Forget it."

"Where's the spontaneity? Give in to the moment. I thought you were going to make an honest woman of me."

House sat down on the nearest bed while the bellhop unloaded their bags and demonstrated the features of the mini-bar. Wilson finally handed a five dollar bill, he finally wished them a pleasant stay and went away.

"You want the bathroom?" Wilson said.

"No. You go ahead…" House was leaning forward scowling at the television set.

Wilson disappeared into the bathroom. He reappeared minutes later damp and downy. "Drink now, or later?"

"Drink now," House said. Wilson reached for the room-service folder. "Downstairs."

"Are you sure?"

Trains, planes and automobiles will tire the strongest traveler. When you add pain pills and alcohol to the mix…

"I need the exercise," House said.

As they walked out, the television screen was still glowing with the announcement that the Bellagio was proud to host the 12th Annual International Conference of Forensic Archaeology. Welcoming mixer in the Monet Room.

In the lobby, acres of crystal and polished marble were working hard to embarrassing a breathtaking exhibit of Chihuly's glass flowers, and almost succeeding. Everything around them shouted that this was a stately pleasure dome that no one would ever want to leave it.

The confusion of glitter hid the exits from anyone silly enough to imagine they could, but Wilson had marked out the lounge on their way to the elevator. It was down the hall to the left. House turned right.

"What are you doing?"

"Turning this trip into a tax deduction."

"We're not going to crash a reception."

"Bet?"

Past the Grand Ballroom, the Monet Room's open double doors were open and emitting a buzz of excited chatter, along with a tinkling undertone as of glassware being struck lightly.

"It's a convention," Wilson groaned.

"Of course, it's a convention. And we're convening."

The double doors were defended by two tables, one manned by a vivid red-head and the other a soft blonde. Both of them were armed equally with badges, information packets, and lap-tops, but the red-head's name-tag read, Hi! My name is Cherry.

"Dear God!" Wilson groaned.

"Down boy," House said, under his breath. "I saw her first."

Exaggerating the limp, he advanced, smiling. "Dr. Gregory House and Dr. James Wilson."

Wilson inspected the ceiling. Cherry inspected the badges. Then she consulted her clipboard. "I'm sorry Dr. House. I can't seem to find your registration."

"Are you sure? Dr. Wilson was going to have his assistant, Miss Cuddy, put them in the mail."

"I can't find Dr. Wilson's either."

House spun on Wilson. "You forgot to tell her, didn't you!?"

"What…! I didn't forget anything!"

"Then she's incompetent! Fire that Cuddy when we get home!"

"No! Dr. House!" Cherry was flustered. "It's all right. We can sign you up right here. You just won't get the discount for early registration."

"Oh, well. In that case…" House permitted himself to be mollified. "Miss Cuddy can keep her job.

"That will be three hundred and fifty each. Are you going to want tickets for the banquet?"

"Of course we're going to want tickets to the banquet."

"That will be another hundred and fifty."

House looked sideways at Wilson. "I seem to have left my checkbook in my other pants," he said.

"Surrender Dorothy," Wilson said, staring inscrutably at the ceiling.

"Alright. If that's the way you're going to be."

Wilson got out his checkbook, as Cherry, oblivious of the fact that the option on her affections had been transferred, produced pens and blank registration forms. In very little time they were admitted to the crowded ballroom, equipped with programs, and badges. House made straight for the alcohol.

"I love an open bar," he said, dragging Wilson in his wake.

There was a short line, and they skimmed their programs, while they waited. "I'll bet we can get Cuddy to reimburse you."

"Never happen. This looks interesting, but it's not actually relevant to anything we do."

"I know, but I'm going to need something to occupy myself with while you're uncoupling. Scotch or rye?"

"Rye."

House, taller and quicker than the man in front of him,Ho caught the bartender's eye and made the universal sign of two doubles.

"What's wrong with spending your time gambling and whoring?" Wilson said, as House handed him a glass. They found an empty spot, clicked glasses and sipped. "I understand Las Vegas is famous for those two things in particular. In fact I thought that's why you insisted on coming."

"I was, but something came up."

"I though he went down."

"You're going to make me pay for this, aren't you?"

"And the banquet tickets." Wilson took a quick look around. It was a tweed and corduroy jacket crowd, with almost many jeans as chinos with the jackets. He was a bit overdressed, but House fit in. "I don't see him. What's the big deal?"

"I don't know. And I can't talk about it."

"Wow! Doctor/patient confidentiality. That's a first."

"Not exactly. More of a…" House made a face like he was being forced to suck a lemon. "Have you ever known me to be perplexed?"

"No, you tend to be the vector for perplexing in other people, unless… Are we talking about your people skills, by any chance?"

"No. I know you can't tell, because I hide it so well, but you see before you a baffled, bewildered and, possibly, bamboozled man, but definitely one who has been abso-fuking-lutely gob-smacked."

"Wow! I haven't got a clue what you're talking about."

"I know. But you do know how rare that is. It's so rare, that if I weren't me, I'd join a contemplative order just so that I could spend the rest of my life contemplating that fact."

Wilson contemplated the level of whiskey in his glass. All around him, enthusiastic conversions, possibly sane, meaningful conversations, were happening. Not one of which he was a part of. "Open bar, you said?"

He was saved by an older man nearby, who was leaning on an elbow crutch. The man had been standing with his back to them, when he wheeled around, and said, "I knew that smarmy voice had to be Gregory House!"

"Al Robbins! My God! You're still bald."

"And you're still a jerk. What are you doing here? I didn't see your name on the lists of attendees."

"I'm looking into changing specialties, and considering pathology."

"Good thinking. Dead people don't talk back."

"I know. It must be so restful."

Robbins had a fringe of silver hair and wicked blue eyes. Not as blue or as curious, though, as the man he had been talking to, who now cleared his throat.

"Sorry, Gil." Robbins brought him into the circle. "This is Dr. Gregory House. Dr. House is head of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital. House, Gil Grissom, CSI."

"CSI?"

"Forensics."

"Then you see dead things, too?" House said, probing to see if Grissom fit into the medical pecking order.

"All the time." Grissom said. "How long has it been since you two…?"

"Five years," Robbins said. "Before that, we were at Hopkins together."

"Now we're gimps together," House said, hooking his arm through Robbins'.

"Relax, House," Robbins said. "Gil's a bug man. Unless you have more than four legs, you can't compete."

"Why would I want to compete?"

"Actually, I was wondering what you were doing here, Dr. House," Grissom said. "Isn't this outside your purview?"

"A happy accident. My colleague here, Dr. Wilson, is shedding another of his brides. Unlike Bluebeard, a man whose efficiency I admire, he's doing it legally. I decided to tag along and do some casual whoring, but when I saw this delightful convocation was going on, it looked like a lot of fun, and I never resist temptation."

"Ever?" Grissom said.

"Never," said House.

"If you're going to flirt, gentlemen," Robbins said. "Do it elsewhere. You're making Dr. Wilson uncomfortable."

"Don't mind me, I'm only an oncologist." Wilson said, bitterly, to his whiskey. Grissom looked amused. "I was shanghaied. You said CSI, Dr. Grissom?"

Grissom didn't deny the title. "I did. LVPD Crime Scene Investigation."

Wilson blinked. "That relates to archaeology?"

"Absolutely, it does. Osteoarcheology. Taphonic processes. In a desert environment it can be difficult to tell the age of remains. The whole team is here…" Grissom glanced around. "Somewhere. This is one of the best cross-disciplinary learning experiences…experts in everything from Disaster Victim Identification techniques, to identifying what marks and wounds were inflicted by prehistoric weapons, to… " As Grissom was speaking he had continued scanning the room, and something had caught his attention. "Excuse me a moment, I have to go save someone's life."

"What?" Robbins said. He looked in the direction of Grissom's gaze. "Oh. Lord. Run."

Grissom took off and the three watched him work his way across the room and interrupt a group of five or six gathered around a man whom Wilson recognized as the pained-looking one who had gotten on the elevator earlier. He still looked strained but it the cause was probably the overwhelming enthusiasm of the group was bubbling around him like a swarm of puppies. It looked as if all of them were trying to talk to him at the same time.

Grissom broke in, saying something brightly, and took a grip on the elbow of the most enthusiastic talker. When he turned, towing his victim, and two other men in his wake, Robbins groaned. "Not here. Don't bring them here."

Almost there, Grissom's captive could be heard protesting, "But that two-handed broadsword has to be from—"

"Hodges! Give it a break," Grissom was saying. "Ask your questions after—"

"No, Gil! Hodges, is right!" one of the others broke in. "That can't be a—"

"Stop!" Grissom let go of Hodges, and help up his hands for silence. "I don't care. Mingle and socialize doesn't mean gang-up. Now, scram! Don't let me see two of you at the same time, in the same place."

Hodges and another took the hint. The third, and youngest, followed Grissom, who didn't seem to mind.

From the puff of relief he gave, neither did Robbins.

"What was that about?" he said.

Before answering, the newcomer shot a quick look at Grissom for permission and, receiving the nod, said, "The swords! You have to see the display of swords. That guy is one of the swordsmen." In his excitement he pulled his fists up to his shoulders. "Where's Nick? I have to find him."

"Go," Grissom said. "Look for Nick.

"Lab techs," he said, when the youngster had gone. "We need to let them out of their cages more often."

"Swords!?" House said. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as death," Grissom said. "Can I get you guys a refill?"

Wilson saw the swordsman joined by his beaky friend, who was laughing as they walked out of the room together.

TBC