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  Cat's Pee on a Gooseberry Bush 
 by Mer  

 Some days, Lisa Cuddy looked at her desk and wanted to scream. Every time
she thought she had it neatly organized, the paperwork multiplied,
spreading across the desktop like an untreated rash. She would finish with
one file and two more would appear in its place, seemingly out of nowhere.

If it wasn't paperwork, it was an inbox of emails that never seemed to
diminish, or a phone that didn't stop ringing. By the end of the week, it
felt like she was further behind than when she began. It was a rare
weekend she spent away from the office. Sometimes she wondered why she
even had a home.

Friday afternoon. She glanced at her watch. She had a meeting in less than
fifteen minutes about funding for a new clinical trial in paediatric
oncology and she still hadn't finished reading the background report. She
sighed and opened the next file.

Just before two, James Wilson knocked on her door and stuck his head into
the office, his own stack of files tucked under his arm. "Ready for me?"
He looked nearly as tired as she felt, which wasn't surprising. A large
percentage of the paperwork that had made its way to her desk this week
had been generated from oncology.

"You've been busy," she said, gesturing for him to take a seat. "House
must be leaving you alone." Wilson's productivity tended to wax and wane
based on House's demands. It was one of the administrative compromises
that made employing the brilliant diagnostician possible.

Wilson grinned. "Everything's relative." He pulled a chair closer to
Cuddy's desk and arranged his files carefully in his lap. "He found a
mistake in methodology in an article in this month's Lancet and is happily
drafting a scathing rebuttal. Hasn't been in my office except to scam food
all week."

That explained the rest of the paperwork  requests from half a dozen
department heads for her to keep House out of their way. It was typical of
House to bother everyone except the one person who would willingly help
him. "Well, let's take advantage of his inattention and get this paperwork
finished." Sometimes she thought she underestimated House. He always
seemed to know exactly when Wilson had a looming deadline and found
alternate ways of entertaining himself. Unfortunately, those ways weren't
always pleasant for the rest of the hospital.

They worked their way through a grant application and a reorganization of
existing resources, finally deciding that they'd done as much as they
could for the day. Cuddy smiled apologetically when her phone rang and she
recognized the extension of another department head. "We'll pick this up
Monday." 

Wilson gathered his papers together with an understanding nod, rolling his
eyes when she mouthed "House" at him.

Cuddy swivelled her chair away from the desk, assuring the irate caller
that House had obviously been joking when he referred to him as an
incompetent boob. It only took a moment to calm him down, and when she
turned back, Wilson was still standing in front of her desk, shifting
nervously from side to side like a truant schoolboy facing the principal.
"Did you need something else?" she asked, both amused and annoyed by the
continued interruption.

Wilson shifted again, and his gaze circled the area around Cuddy, not
quite resting on her. He looked as uncomfortable as he had at the bondage
art exhibition, and Cuddy felt a little surge of affection. She much
preferred Wilson when he wasn't self-assured and scheming either to
control or support House.

"I was wondering," Wilson reached back to rub his neck. "Are you doing
anything on Sunday?"

"Are you asking me on a date?" Cuddy asked, hoping to fluster him even
more. She hadn't become the first woman Chief of Medicine in the country
without enjoying power more than a little.

Wilson eyes widened in pretend panic. "Shh," he warned. "House has his
hearing tuned to pick up that word from ten floors away." He relaxed and
gave her a crooked smile. "Not a date. A favour." 

Cuddy settled back in her chair, the self-replicating paperwork
temporarily forgotten. "Which means it's about House. You never ask
favours for yourself."

Now Wilson looked more surprised than uncomfortable. "It's for both of us,
I guess." He shifted again. "I can come back later if you're busy."

Now she really was intrigued. Wilson was a lot of things, but tentative
was not one of them. Anyone who had survived more than a decade's worth of
friendship with Gregory House had to have some strength of will. "Not at
all," she said. "If you can keep House out of trouble for the rest of the
day, I'll owe you more than a favour."

Just then, the door burst open, and House stalked in. Cuddy wondered if
he'd bugged the office. "Have you asked her yet?" House demanded, looking
disapprovingly at his reluctant partner in crime.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "See? You said the 'd' word. It's like a
summoning charm." But his mouth quirked in an affectionate smile. "I
thought I told you to wait in your office," he said to House.

Ah, Cuddy thought. Scheming, after all. 

"Oh, please. I leave you two alone long enough and Cuddy will trick you
into proposing." He tapped his cane impatiently on the floor. "Wilson and
I are coming over on Sunday. You can be there if you want, but I know
where you keep your spare key, so it's not necessary."

Wilson palmed his face, and Cuddy almost smiled. She didn't bother telling
House that she'd moved the key and changed the locks not long after his
last break-and-enter. "What do you want with my house?"

"Not your house, so much as your backyard. Though Wilson will need your
kitchen."

Wilson cleared his throat and glared at House. "You can't just..." He
looked at Cuddy apologetically. "House and I were wondering if we could
have a barbecue at your place on Sunday." His cheeks were flushed high
with embarrassed colour, but he kept talking. "I'll bring everything and
do all the work. I'd host it myself, but..." 

"...the HoJo frowns on in-suite hibachis," House interrupted. "It's
summer. I want steak slathered in HP sauce and corn on the cob. I
overlooked Wilson's failure to provide me with a backyard to drink beer in
last summer, but a man can only be so patient."

"So you expect me to let you invade my home, just because you have a
hankering for burned meat?" Cuddy snapped, but paused at the look of
disappointment on Wilson's face. "Fine," she sighed. It wasn't as though
she had anything other than paperwork planned for Sunday. And she couldn't
remember the last time she'd drank beer in her own backyard. "Don't worry
about bringing anything. I can defrost some steaks and order some salads
from the deli."

But Wilson still looked disappointed. "If we're invading your home," he
said, "the least we can do is provide the food."

Cuddy suspected House's only involvement with the food would be eating it,
but she didn't challenge Wilson on that point. It wasn't as though she
wanted House anywhere near her kitchen. "If you insist," she said,
wondering just what she was getting into. She had a sense of what
constituted bachelor cooking, so she made a mental note to avoid protein
for the next few days. "I have some errands to run during the day," she
said, wondering if she could book an extra visit from her cleaning service
on short notice. "How about any time after five?"

Wilson brightened immediately. "Perfect. We'll see you then." She couldn't
remember the last time she'd seen him smile so unguardedly. She even saw
the shadow of a pleased smile on House's face before he turned away to
herd Wilson towards the door.

"Not so fast," she called out to House. "Since you're here, you can
explain to me why I had five different department heads complaining about
you when you don't even have a case. And then you can explain to me why
you don't have a case." 

Wilson gave House a sympathetic grimace and slipped away before he could
get caught in the fallout. 

"What was that all about?" Cuddy demanded as soon as she and House were
alone.

House shrugged. "You're always telling me I should be a better friend to
him."

"This is your idea of being a good friend? Making him cook for you?"

"Hey, I'm making him cook for you, too. You should be grateful." He
glanced down, looking nearly as embarrassed as Wilson had earlier. "Wilson
hasn't barbecued since Columbus Day. He's starting to get twitchy."

It wasn't always easy to follow House's twisted paths of logic, but
sometimes the destination was worth the painful journey. "Wilson wants to
do this? He's not just satisfying one of your random whims?"

House rolled his eyes. "Do you really think hanging out in your backyard
is my idea of a good time? I'll lose my street cred if I'm caught
fraternizing with The Man."

"So this is an act of altruism on your part?" she said, not bothering to
hide her scepticism. Altruism and House were two words she rarely
associated with each other. It wasn't that she doubted his ability to act
selflessly; it was that she didn't think he'd waste the effort on
something as unremarkable as a summer barbecue.

House seemed to find the idea just as ridiculous. "You wouldn't ask that
if you'd ever tasted his cooking. I guess he wasn't lying when he said you
hadn't slept together." He peered around the side of her desk. "I should
have known. Your ass couldn't take a week of Wilson's cooking."

She ignored that in favour of a more interesting question. "Is that why
you let him stay with you last year?" She had thought that, at least, had
been an uncomplicated gesture of friendship, but she should have known
better. Nothing with House was uncomplicated.

"A clean house and a full stomach go a long way towards making up for lack
of sleep and privacy," House replied. "Wilson would make the perfect wife.
His problem is he's been trying to be a husband all these years."

Cuddy had to smother a giggle when she imagined Wilson in a frilly apron,
holding a feather duster. "For my own sanity, I'm going to try and forget
you said that. And you're going to find a case first thing Monday or I'll
be dragging you in here for real."

"Is that a promise?" he replied, giving her one last leer for good
measure, and then sauntered off before she could think of a cutting reply.

It occurred to her that she had just agreed to open her home to House,
giving him a tacit invitation to poke and prod and prowl through her
belongings to his heart's content. Fortunately, she had two days to hide
anything incriminating or embarrassing. She looked at her desk, once again
overrun with papers and files, and tackled the infestation with renewed
vigour. It looked as though she wouldn't be working all weekend after all.



On Saturday, Wilson called three times: once to check if she had any food
allergies or dietary restrictions; once to check her spice rack  she could
hear him scribbling disapproving notes as she listed the meagre contents;
and once to make sure she liked Bordeaux. "At least let me supply the
wine," she protested, but Wilson was as stubborn in his own way as House.

"I'll take care of everything," he assured her. "Besides, you have the
hard task. You have to keep House entertained."

Cuddy groaned. "You'll need a sous chef, won't you? I'm not a great cook,
but I can follow directions." She could hear him laughing before he hung
up and decided he wasn't nearly as nice as he pretended to be.

On Sunday, she woke up early and went for a long run, trying to burn off
some nervous energy. She wasn't sure why she was nervous  both House and
Wilson had been her guests (in House's case usually uninvited) on several
occasions  but she wanted the day to go well. She wasn't sure why. At the
end of it all, she'd still be their boss, and House would still be an ass.
It wasn't much of a recipe for friendship.

The doorbell rang just after five, and Cuddy opened it to find Wilson
laden with bags and a cooler and House carrying a single knapsack. "Let me
give you a hand," she said, grabbing two of the bags from Wilson. She led
them to the kitchen and shook her head as House pulled out a bag of
Doritos from the backpack and grabbed a beer from the cooler.

"Lead me to your remote," he said imperiously. "Trust me, you do not want
to get between Wilson and his steak knives." 

Cuddy raised an eyebrow when she realized that Wilson was indeed unpacking
not only raw ingredients and Tupperware containers, but also a full set of
knives. "I didn't know what you'd have," he said apologetically. 

It would have been insulting if Wilson's knives hadn't been much better
than her set. She made a note to go shopping soon  and to bring Wilson
along with her.

House wandered out of the kitchen, and Cuddy was glad she'd locked half
her CD collection in the trunk of her car. If House wanted to humiliate
her, he'd have to work at it. She raised an eyebrow as Wilson unpacked two
bottles of wine. "Bored Doe? Cat's Phee on a Gooseberry Bush?"

"Pee," Wilson corrected. "The h is silent. House insisted on picking the
wine," he said apologetically. "They're actually quite good. But I drew
the line at the Cold Duck," he added, pulling out a bottle of Heidsieck
Demi-Sec. "It just wouldn't stand up to the acidity in the pineapple." He
put the Champagne and Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge to chill.

"Is there anything I can do?" Cuddy asked, a little lost in her own home.

"You could fire up the barbecue," he suggested. "I have some snacks that
just need to be grilled a few minutes. The wine should be chilled by the
time they're ready." He rummaged in one of the bags and pulled out a bulb
of garlic. "Do you mind if I poke around in the cupboards for anything I
need?" 

"Knock yourself out," she replied, shaking her head slightly. She watched
as he broke the bulb apart with a firm press of his palm, then cut and
peeled half a dozen cloves, carefully cleaning the skins away before he
minced the garlic, the knife rocking deftly and rapidly. Finally, he
crushed the minced garlic with the flat of the blade and swept it into a
pile. Cuddy remembered her mother preparing garlic like that, refusing to
use a press because it altered the flavour. She decided it was safe to
leave Wilson alone in her kitchen. It wasn't safe to leave House alone
anywhere.

She found him in the backyard, brushing down the cooking grate. "When was
the last time you used	or cleaned  this thing?" House demanded. "I had to
burn off an entire colony of spider webs."

"I'm sorry my appliances don't live up to your high standards. Next time
bring your own barbecue," she retorted. "Or better yet, get your own
backyard."

"Hey, I'm doing you a favour. Wilson's making a meal that you'll be
dreaming about for months." He inspected his handiwork and held his hand
over the grill to test the heat. "Go tell him to get his butt out here and
start cooking. The Doritos aren't really cutting it." He took a long drag
of his beer. "And I need another drink."

"Go get it yourself. I'm not your lackey." The last thing she wanted was
to spend the afternoon being run roughshod by House in her own home.

House just smirked and leaned through the open patio door. "Wilson! Feed
and water me."

Wilson appeared barely a minute later carrying two bottles of beer. "Sit
down and relax," he told Cuddy, handing her one of the bottles. "We'll
switch to wine after the artichokes. The Sauvignon Blanc would probably be
fine, but beer is better. Just give me a minute to finish mixing the
mayonnaise." 

Cuddy stared after him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen
Wilson so completely in his element. He'd been off-kilter since the
Tritter investigation. Since the shooting, if she really thought about it.
It hadn't affected his work  if anything, he'd been putting in more hours
than ever  but he'd been muted, almost indifferent to anything outside of
his patients. Even on their social outings together, he'd taken pleasure
in her enjoyment, not his own.

"He's paired the courses?" she marvelled. "How much thought has he put
into this?" Her usual idea of cooking was throwing a cut of meat or
poultry on the indoor grill and steaming whatever vegetables hadn't
already rotted in the crisper. Some weeks, when the workload was
overwhelming, she didn't even dirty a dish.

House opened his second bottle of beer. "He came by and started prepping
at ten this morning. Fortunately, he was smart enough to make breakfast
first, or you'd be looking for a new Head of Oncology." His eyes glazed
over slightly. "I thought the pancakes were amazing, but he did something
today with French toast that was too good not to be illegal or immoral."

Cuddy couldn't imagine what House would classify as immoral, but she could
think of a few things involving House, Wilson and breakfast items that
might cause a protest by the American Decency Association. She turned
away, but not before House saw her cheeks flush.

He smirked. "Don't we have a naughty mind today. Would you like to know
what Wilson can do with syrup?" he asked. "I bet he's just as good with
marinade." 

There were only two ways of dealing with House when he was being perverse:
ignore him or try to match him at his own game. And the former rarely
worked. "Do I get to watch or participate?" she asked. She circled her
lips over the mouth of her beer bottle and gave House a speculative look.
He didn't blush  that would imply a capacity to feel shame  but he did
shift uncomfortably.

Wilson chose that moment to walk out carrying a Tupperware container. He
glanced between Cuddy and House and grinned. "Should I come back later?"
he asked.

"Cuddy and I were just discussing appetizers," House replied. "What have
you got for us?"

Wilson ignored him and took up position in front of the barbecue. He
arranged six artichoke halves on the centre of the grate and placed the
container to the side. "They should take about 20 minutes to cook," he
announced. "House, could you baste them with the marinade while I get the
mushrooms ready?" He frowned when Cuddy choked on her beer. "I don't want
to know what you've been talking about, do I?"

House dipped a finger in the marinade and tasted. "Olive oil? Extra
virginal? Oh, my."

Wilson just waved dismissively in his general direction and bustled off to
prepare the next course. As soon as he was out of sight, House rummaged in
his backpack and pulled out a balled-up apron. "What do you think?" he
asked Cuddy, shaking it out. "I've been waiting more than a year to make
him wear this."

It was a good thing Cuddy hadn't taken another sip of beer, as she would
surely have choked again. It was a plain white apron with two lines of
black text: 

Heywood U. Blowme Chef de Genital Cuisine

"I think that if you actually get him to wear it, you can have next week
off clinic duty." She'd cover the hours herself if necessary. "I also
think that if we embarrass him too much, he might not feed us."

"Ah yes. The undomesticated Wilson," House intoned. "Its habitat is the
long-stay hotels of Princeton-Plainsboro, but it can occasionally be found
passed out on random couches. The Wilson is a generous provider, but is
quick to withhold food or other resources when angered or threatened." He
looked meaningfully at Cuddy. "The Wilson can be easily domesticated by
any female of a related species, but does not thrive in captivity for
extended periods."

Cuddy didn't appreciate being warned off, particularly when she had no
plans for domestication. "I think I read somewhere that the Wilson
actually has no natural enemies, just those attracted by the antics of the
nearby wild House."

House glared at her and retreated to the furthest deck chair, sullenly
sipping at his beer. After a minute, he got up and basted the artichokes,
though he managed to make it look like a sacrifice akin to giving up a
kidney.

When Wilson returned, he was carrying a serving platter with two loosely
wrapped tinfoil bundles on it. He took one look at Cuddy and House and
sighed. "I take it you two finished the foreplay and went straight to the
arguing."

"You'd know all about that," House sniped.

Wilson just looked at him, much the way Cuddy's mother used to look while
she was waiting out a tantrum. "You promised me you'd play nice today," he
chided gently.

"I was under the influence of French toast," House protested. "You can't
hold me to anything I said."

"I can if you ever want to taste that toast again."

Cuddy decided to intervene before they were drawn too deeply into
bickering. "House, why don't you give Wilson the present you bought him."

Wilson looked immediately wary; his expression turned to horror when he
saw the apron. "No," he said firmly. "No way am I wearing that." He
glanced sidelong at Cuddy. "Don't you have any sense of propriety? She's
our boss."

"I don't mind if you wear it," Cuddy said, trying to look innocent. She
could tell by the wounded look Wilson gave her that he wasn't buying it.

"I'll be on my bestest behaviour if you put it on," House said with an
expression that might have been adorable on a six-year-old. On House it
was terrifying.

"You're under the influence of two beers and 40 milligrams of Vicodin,"
Wilson retorted, looking pointedly at the nearly empty bottle in House's
hand. "I'm supposed to believe you this time?"

"Do you want me to beg?" House asked. "Because I will. It means that much
to me."

"No it doesn't." Wilson looked as though he wanted to plant his hands
disapprovingly on his hips, but his hands were otherwise occupied. He
glanced suspiciously at House. "What's in it for you?"

Cuddy answered for House. "A week off clinic duty. And two for you." She'd
find a way to make House cover Wilson's hours and come out nearly even.
"But only if I get a picture."

"Please, Jimmy?" House begged, his voice pitched to a grating falsetto.
"Pretty please with icing on top."

Wilson shuddered at the sound and walked over to the barbecue. He placed
the sheet off to the side and tested the artichokes before basting them
one last time. "Fine," he said, snatching the apron out of House's hands.
"But no pictures. I prefer my humiliation not be spread over the
hospital's intranet." 

Cuddy capitulated gracefully. She'd take a picture with her cell phone
when Wilson wasn't looking. Between the smell wafting off the grill and
the verbal exercise, the day wasn't turning out to be the complete
disaster she'd feared. And when Wilson put the apron on  tying it neatly
around his waist  she decided it was worth the backlog of messages and
minor crises that would be waiting for her Monday morning.

Her father had been an enthusiastic  if inexpert  barbecue chef, and every
summer her family had feasted at least once a week on slightly charred
steak, baked potatoes, and salad, which was the extent of his culinary
repertoire. She hadn't realised until now how much she missed those
evenings. Nostalgia, she decided, smelled like fresh-cut grass and
charcoal.

Wilson moved the tinfoil bundles onto the grill and arranged the
artichokes neatly on the platter, pouring the rest of the marinade over
them. "Back in a second," he said, putting the platter on the patio table.
"Try not to kill each other in my absence."

"Best behaviour, remember?" House called after him. "But Cuddy can spank
me if I'm bad." 

"I am not acting out your fantasies," she retorted, following him to the
table. "This is just the first course?" she marvelled. "How much does he
expect us to eat?"

"Just enough of everything to make him happy," House replied. "If you
don't like it, fake it. I'm sure you've had plenty of experience doing
that."

But Cuddy suspected she wouldn't have to fake anything. House was right;
her ass couldn't take a week of food like this. She was going to have to
tack an extra couple of miles onto her morning run.

Wilson returned with three beers and a small dish of mayonnaise balanced
on three stacked plates. "This apron sucks," he complained, pulling
cutlery out of the left pocket of his golf shorts. "What kind of apron
doesn't have pockets?" But he didn't take it off, and Cuddy could tell
that he was pleased with the present. "Help yourselves," he told them,
heading back to the barbecue. "I'm just going to turn the potatoes."

Cuddy stripped a petal off one of the artichoke halves and dipped it in
the mayonnaise. There was no need to fake the sigh of pleasure that
accompanied the first taste. "This is wonderful, Wilson," she said with
unfeigned enthusiasm when he finally dropped into a deck chair and twisted
open a beer. "I taste citrus."

He smiled and ducked his head, covering his embarrassment with a long pull
of beer. "There's lemon in the marinade and a splash of orange juice in
the mayo."

House frowned. "You mean you didn't squeeze that orange juice just for me
this morning?"

Wilson smirked, the embarrassment gone. "Copernicus called. Apparently the
universe doesn't revolve around you." 

"Does everybody else know that? Because I wouldn't want people to get
confused."

"I'll send out a memo," Wilson replied, stripping off a couple of petals
and dipping them together in the mayonnaise. He pulled them through his
teeth slowly, and Cuddy thought about maple syrup and marinade. She was
glad there wasn't anything particularly sensual about potatoes. As it was,
she prayed for a cool breeze.

"No double dipping," House scolded, as she absently reached towards the
mayonnaise.

She jerked back her hand, realising that she hadn't discarded the first
petal. She pulled off a new one and deliberately took a big scoop of
mayonnaise, slowly licking it off, before scraping the artichoke through
her teeth. She smiled when House looked away.

"Do I have to ask you to play nice as well?" Wilson commented, pretending
to look disapproving. But a twinkle in his dark eyes gave him away. This
time, he relaxed for nearly five minutes before he bounced up again to
move the potatoes to the warming grate.

"You're making me seasick," House complained when Wilson dropped back into
his seat and reached for another artichoke half.

"Do you want them to burn?" It seemed to be a rhetorical question, for he
gathered the empty beer bottles and watched until House finished his third
beer. "Where do you keep your wine glasses?" he asked Cuddy. "Dining room
cabinet?"

"Dining room cabinet," she confirmed.

"I want another beer," House protested.

"Then you should have brought more than a six-pack," Wilson retorted. "Or
not guzzled those down. You picked the Sauvignon Blanc. You're drinking
it."

"Cat's Pee!" House proclaimed gleefully.

"That's an...odd name for a wine," Cuddy said diplomatically. 

"It sounds terrible, but it means something good, really," Wilson replied.
"A wine writer once described the aroma of Sauvignon Blanc as cat's pee on
a gooseberry bush. Truth in advertising. But I guess the regulatory board
here doesn't read wine columns, because they decided 'Pee' was
inappropriate." He rolled his eyes and started gathering the discarded
artichoke parts on the platter. "Do you have a place for compost?" He took
the platter to the composting barrel she pointed out, then detoured to the
barbecue to retrieve the potatoes. "Back in a minute."

"Let me help you," Cuddy protested. She wasn't used to just sitting around
while someone else served her in her own home. 

"No, no," Wilson said. "I can manage. Just relax and enjoy yourself." He
glanced at House. "Or at least enjoy yourself."

Cuddy waited until he was out of earshot. "Is this normal for him?" Wilson
had been attentive and courteous on their outings together  she didn't
dare even think of them as dates in House's presence  but not to this
extent. 

"Wilson doesn't know the meaning of normal," House replied. "But this is
weird even for him. Normally he bitches for hours if I refuse to get my
own beer. And nobody washes dishes more passive-aggressively than Wilson."
He shrugged. "He enjoys being a host. Let him have his fun."

Cuddy remembered the dinner or cocktail parties Wilson had hosted when he
was still married to Julie. They had been exquisitely catered affairs,
staffed by an outside company, and she'd never believed for a moment that
Wilson was enjoying himself.

"I'm not talking about the dog and pony shows the wicked witch of west
Princeton threw," House said, reading her mind, or more likely the dubious
expression on her face. "That wasn't hosting, that was performing. Wilson
likes to make sure everybody is happy himself, not stand around pretending
to be an important doctor while a stranger looks after his guests. Number
two was a nutbar, but at least she threw parties that were bearable."

To be fair, Cuddy thought, Wilson had been married to Bonnie before he'd
become a department head, with the responsibility of hosting more formal
gatherings for donors and staff. She didn't bother explaining that to
House, who had never hosted  and wouldn't even have attended  a strategic
dinner party for his department. And there was no point trying to defend
Julie. House was, in his own twisted way, loyal to Wilson. He might mock
Wilson's marital woes to Wilson, but to the rest of the world Julie was
public enemy number one.

"I'm surprised you ever made the invitation list," she said tartly. There
had been no love lost between House and Wilson's wives. Or any of the
girlfriends she'd met. She wondered if Wilson's family tolerated House.
She wondered if she could tolerate House if she were ever in a
relationship with Wilson. She wondered where that thought had come from.
The artichokes were clearly more potent than she'd suspected.

House smirked, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "I always know
the marriage is doomed when the dinner invitations stop arriving. They try
to put up with me at first. But when they stop trying, it's only a matter
of time until they're filing. I'm a litmus test for Wilson divorce."

Cuddy saw Wilson returning and gestured for House to shut up. She didn't
think it would work  House had never been one to shy away from an
opportunity to embarrass anyone  but he had apparently come to a natural
break in his theory. Either that or he was as eager to see the next course
as she was and didn't want to spook Wilson.

They had to wait while he delivered the wine and glasses  Cuddy was glad
she had both the red and white Riedel Ouvertures  and then fussed over
arranging the mushrooms around the potatoes. Finally, he brought the food
to the table, and busied himself by opening and pouring the wine while
they inspected the fare. The stuffed mushroom caps smelled delicious, but
it was the potatoes that momentarily left Cuddy speechless. They were
topped with dollops of sour cream, and sprinkled with fresh chervil and
what looked like...

"Is that caviar?" House stared at the potatoes in disbelief. "That's it.
You're out of control. This is a barbecue, not an embassy reception."

Cuddy was afraid he'd take the platter away. "Don't discourage him," she
hissed. She loved caviar.

But House was still staring suspiciously at Wilson. "You're trying to
impress Cuddy," he accused. "Caviar. French Champagne."

"That's redundant," Wilson interrupted.

"The whole domestic god routine in her face." House squinted. "You're
courting her."

"I'm not courting Cuddy," Wilson protested, a little too vehemently for
her liking. She didn't want to be courted by Wilson, but she didn't think
the idea was ridiculous.

"Oh, really. How do you explain the play and the gallery?"

"You gave me the play tickets. We had a nice time, so we spent some time
together as friends." He glanced at Cuddy, so she nodded confirmation.
"You didn't want to go to the play with me. You'd never go to a gallery or
a chamber concert." Cuddy saw House's eyes narrow and knew Wilson hadn't
mentioned that outing before. 

"I enjoy doing those things," Wilson continued, as if he hadn't noticed.
Cuddy didn't believe that for a moment. Wilson noticed everything about
House. "Am I supposed to just stop doing the things I enjoy because you
get threatened every time I even talk to a woman?"

"No one's stopping you from doing those things by yourself," House pointed
out. "Or with your mother. I bet she loves chamber music."

Wilson threw up his hands. "You're ridiculous. I have to go husk the
corn." He stalked away, managing to look dignified despite the pocketless
apron.

"Is that your idea of good behaviour?" Cuddy asked. "Because if he goes
home and I don't get my dinner, all deals are off."

House rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, Wilson!" he shouted. "You can court
Cuddy all you want. You can even sleep with her, as long as you take
pictures."

"I'm not going to sleep with Wilson," Cuddy retorted. And if she did,
she'd make damn sure he was too busy to be thinking about photojournalism.

"You say that now, but I talked to Bonnie. I know his MO. He acts like the
perfect gentleman  polite, supportive, considerate  until he's got these
women sucked so deep into his vortex that they have to jump him just to
survive."

"Has it occurred to you that it's not an act?" Cuddy retorted. "That maybe
he really does just want to be friends?"

"Please. No guy willingly goes to the theatre unless there's a chance he
might get laid."

"And yet you gave him those tickets." She put the pieces together.
"Obviously you don't object to him having sex in principle, just with me."
She thought that should flatter her, but his possessiveness was starting
to get grating. She didn't know how Wilson put up with it. "It's none of
your business who I sleep with or not. I'm not going to stay celibate just
because you think you marked me two decades ago."

"You can sleep with half of New Jersey for all I care  though if you're
getting some woman-on-woman action, I want to watch  just not Wilson."

"Why? Because you can't stand for him to have something you don't have?"

"Because when you two get together, it generally doesn't work out all that
well for me," House snapped.

That derailed her train of argument. It didn't matter that they'd done
what they had to protect House	she and Wilson had screwed up badly last
year, more than once. Still, she wasn't going to justify herself, and she
wasn't going to remind him that she and Wilson had also teamed up more
than once to save his ass and to make life a hell of a lot easier for him.


House might even have remembered that, because he looked away. "And
because one of you will end up getting hurt, and I can't take the weeping
and wailing."

"I'm a big girl, House. I'm not going to fall apart over a failed
relationship that doesn't even exist." But there was a relationship, even
if it didn't involve sex, and she was realistic enough to know that she'd
miss it if it were to end. She tried one of the stuffed mushrooms and knew
she'd miss it even more now.

"Who said I was talking about you?" House replied, smirking slightly, and
the last of the tension floated away on a summer breeze. "You'll eat
Wilson up and spit out the gristle. And then he'll have to get a new job
and I won't have anybody to pay for my lunch."

"So you're saying I can have sex with Wilson if I make sure your lunch is
paid for on the off-chance that we have a catastrophic break-up." She
calculated quickly. Two hundred and fifty workdays, maybe four dollars net
cost on a typical House lunch. "Given that I can probably pay another Head
of Oncology a lower salary not to have to deal with you, I'm sure I can
find a grand in the budget to keep you in Ruebens and potato chips."

"That's mercenary," House said admiringly.

"I've talked to Bonnie too," Cuddy replied, showing her pocket aces. "From
what I hear, the sex is worth way more than your lunches."

House smiled as if he'd drawn into a Royal Flush. "So you're just using
him for his body. Go at it, then. For a while there I was afraid you might
actually like him."

She read between the lines. Sex was fine, but companionship was crossing
into his territory. Still, she preferred House off-balance. "Why can't it
be both?" She glanced towards the kitchen. "How long does it take to husk
three cobs of corn?"

"He's not husking, he's sulking. I told you he did most of the prep work
at my place." He bit into a potato and for a moment his expression
transformed into one of rapture. "The steaks are trimmed, rubbed and
ready, the corn is husked, and the asparagus bundled. All that's left to
do is throw them on the grill. And if he's gone off in a huff, even you
can manage not to burn the rest of dinner."

"You're unbelievable," she said, getting up. He wasn't, really. Cuddy had
long since expected the worst from House in terms of behaviour, on the
faint hope that she might be pleasantly surprised one day. "I'm going to
see if he's all right."

"If you're going to have a quickie before dinner, make sure he washes his
hands. I don't know where you've been."

That was hard to believe. Like most of what came out of his mouth, she
decided to ignore it. She found Wilson in the kitchen, leaning on the
counter as the microwave hummed. He looked up at her entrance and smiled.

"They grill more evenly if you nuke them for a couple of minutes
beforehand."

Cuddy blinked at the seeming non sequitur, and then nodded in
understanding when the timer pinged and he pulled out a dish containing
three corncobs. "I was wondering what was taking you."

Wilson peeled back the husk of one of the cobs and tested a kernel with
his fingertip. "Sorry about that. I thought I should disappear before he
goaded me into saying something one of us would regret. He means well,
sort of. He just doesn't have any sense of boundaries."

"Sure, he does. One big one, right between the two of us."

Wilson smiled ruefully. "True enough. But even if he's not always right,
he's never entirely wrong either. I've wanted to cook for you for a while.
Not to court you," he added quickly. "At least not the way House means."
There was a flicker of embarrassment again, the one she'd found so
attractive at the non-Hockney exhibit. "I just wanted to do something
special for you. I guess I got a little carried away."

She wanted to reach out and touch his arm to show that she understood, but
there was another barrier between them that had nothing  and everything 
to do with House. Then she remembered what House had said on Friday. "So
you've been planning this? House told me it was his idea, that you were
pining away without a barbecue of your own."

His eyes widened in a way that was far from innocent. "Then it must be
true," he replied.

Cuddy was beginning to understand what House had meant when he told her
Wilson was never the safe choice. "You can't both be telling the truth,"
she pointed out.

"Is it a lie if you believe it's the truth?" He gave up the faux
innocence. "House wouldn't have come unless he thought it was his idea."

"You could have cooked for me without him." As far as she was concerned,
he could come over and use her kitchen any time, especially if caviar was
involved.

Wilson shook his head. "I want us to be friends. But I have to accept that
if I want a relationship  platonic or romantic	to be successful, House
will have to be part of it." He rolled his eyes when she raised an eyebrow
suggestively. "Not like that. Though I'm sure he wouldn't object. What he
would object to is being left out altogether. I figure he's less likely to
complain about a play or concert if we include him in things he enjoys."

"So you convinced House that your life would be complete if you could just
stand in front of a grill, so that he would convince me that he was being
a good friend to you, so that you could organize an evening for the three
of us together?" Cuddy shook her head in admiration and wondered how much
of his nervousness on Friday had been feigned. "He's right about you. You
do have a gift for manipulation." She wondered what it said about her that
she found that almost as appealing as his ability to cook.

"Just trying to use my powers for good," he replied lightly, but there was
too much history weighing down the words. Wilson glanced at his watch and
changed the subject. "Ten dollars says he starts shouting for me to refill
his glass in less than two minutes."

He won the bet with seconds to spare. When they returned to the deck after
just enough of a delay to annoy House, Cuddy saw that House had evenly
divided the remaining appetizers onto two plates. She took one and watched
House steal a mushroom cap off Wilson's plate.

Cuddy smiled and thought about what Wilson had said about that ridiculous
wine name. It seemed insane, but maybe this could actually turn into
something good. She might just end up with two friends instead of one.
After all, there was safety in numbers, even if they were both dangerous
men.  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
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nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.