A/N-This is a multi-chapter story. I will update at least once a week. It comes from a prompt from freeasabird14 who wanted a story about what would have happened if House would have went out for dinner with Cuddy at the end of the Season 6 episode "The Choice". I didn't change the episode at all, this picks up right at the credits.

Disclaimers-I don't own the characters. The story contains adult language and situations.

-Playing Friends-

The image of her crestfallen face burned in his head as palpably as the alcohol tingled while it slid down his throat. It was unavoidable for those few minutes while the heel of his hand roughly ground down into his thigh. His statement may have been blunt, but it was entirely true. He had no interest in being her friend. It should have been satisfying, perhaps even cathartic, to voice his intentions in a way that seemed to get through her willful avoidance of the topic. So far, she had managed to sidestep, ignore or blatantly walk away from each suggestion he had made. Much to his frustration, she simply disregarded his interest.

The feeling that remained in her absence certainly wasn't satisfaction. Any possible gratification to be taken from finally getting through was destroyed by her uncomfortable, disillusioned response. He stood, uncertain of his exact intentions, and trudged out into the hallway. He heard the elevator ding before he was close enough to catch up to her. He followed though, at some point becoming committed to supplanting her latest reaction to something he'd said with something less disappointing.

It was easy to see her moving around in her office. The blinds were open, and a lamp cast her silhouette as he watched. There was a bit of defeat in the way that she moved that did nothing to ease the edgy awareness that was whispering its discontent in his ears.

Striding out with purpose, her coat flung over her arm, she slowed her determined escape from the building when she saw him standing in the lobby. "I'm leaving," she stated with an obvious attempt at conveying professional courtesy and nothing more, "is there something you need now or can it wait until tomorrow?"

His eyes settling on the recently polished floor tiles, he swiveled his cane in his hand while he planned.

"You may not be hungry," she said, her voice sounding more impatient, "but I am. So do you need something or can I go eat?"

There were several long seconds of silence before he answered, "Where are you going?"

"Why?"

"Reevaluating my hunger level."

"Oh," she answered with slow confusion before offering the trace of a smile, "does that mean you want to come along?"

"Maybe."

"I'm thinking about that new place on Broad. My last assistant said their avocado salad was really good."

"Avocado salad?"

"They don't exclusively serve salads. Tex-Mex stuff…lots of grilled things. I'm sure there's something you would like. Come on, you can catch a ride with me."

They drove to the sounds of forced conversation about hospital news, awkwardly replacing silence with irrelevant words. When they walked inside, she turned suddenly, "God, House, I'm sorry. There's a bar."

"Do you mean, 'House, thank god there's a bar'? I, personally, am relieved."

"I shouldn't be facilitating bad behavior."

"So don't facilitate, engage. I'm not going to spiral out of control if I see liquor. I still drink. Have one with me over dinner. Hopefully then you can relax so you don't sound like making conversation with me is as pleasant as wearing a barbed wire bra."

She shook her head, "It's not unpleasant to talk to you, I don't-"

"Two," he told the host so they could get a table. House explained as they walked to their seats, "Stop being so tentative. You don't have to act any differently than you would have last year or the year before or the year before that. I'm not suddenly delicate."

"I'm not the one acting differently," she answered as she took her seat and picked up a menu.

"So I usually make you this nervous?"

"I'm not nervous, just uncertain."

"Because you think I shouldn't be drinking?"

"Because…," she shook her head, pausing and redirecting, "what are you getting?"

He was obviously weighing the potential outcomes that could result from continuing his line of questioning. In fact, his expression seemed to make it clear that he wasn't going to allow her to sidestep the conversation so easily, but when he finally spoke, he answered with great consideration, "Carne asada."

When they ordered, House, with surprising subtly, tacked on two shots of tequila.

"Tequila?" she asked in a warning way.

"One tequila, two tequila, three tequila…what comes next?"

"Let's just stick with one tequila and then we don't have to worry about it."

"You're getting cautious and uptight in your old age."

"I've always been cautious and uptight."

"No you haven't," he replied with a stare that held her prisoner until the shots of tequila thunked on the table.

He shoved one in her direction with the back of his finger and pointed at the lemon wedges that were provided. "Do it right," he ordered. As she hesitated, he offered, "Need me to lick your hand?"

"No."

"Or if you prefer, you can lick a line of salt off me instead."

She countered with a muffled chuckle, "I can handle it on my own."

"Come on, Cuddy, it's one fucking shot," he griped after she still hadn't touched the glass.

In the next blink, she had thrown the shot down properly and was smirking at him with a slice of fruit pinned between her teeth. His eyebrows raised slightly at the center as he stared at her mouth when her fingers retrieved the remaining lemon from her lips. "Happy?" she asked victoriously.

He waited for a few seconds before confessing, "Definitely," and downing his own shot of the drink.

When he signaled for two more, she reached out, her fingers falling over his other hand. He looked down, his first instinct was to pull back, so he did a bit, but the gentle yet firm weight of her fingers was enough to prevent his retreat. She requested through a whisper, "Not tonight. Please?"

His eyes dropped as he stopped signaling for more shots, and he agreed, "OK."

"Some other time maybe."

"Maybe."

He seemed uncomfortable again after the momentarily easy exchange between them. So she tried to change the subject, "The food in Ecuador was so good. I don't think there's any place around here that serves anything like that. So many good dishes with mango…and those fried plantains. You like those?"

"Never had them."

"There's something you haven't tried?" she teased, hoping that the tenseness was gone.

"A few things. Plantains and naked bull fighting, that's probably it. I think I've actually tried everything else."

"No bull fighting?"

"Sure. Just not naked."

"Seems unnecessarily dangerous."

"It's not the danger. I'd hate to make the bulls feel inadequate."

She snorted a laugh, leaning forward with a broad smile and they found themselves lost in conversation that didn't seem to be forced or unpleasant at all.

After nearly two hours, they were going back to the hospital. "Can we do this again?" she asked as she parked in the spot next to his car.

"Go to that restaurant?"

"Do something. After work. Something fun."

"Look, Cuddy," he started stiffly.

"No! Don't say no. We had fun."

"Lucas-"

"He makes you uncomfortable, I get that. And I know I'm at least part of the reason for that. I'm sorry-"

"I don't want an apology," House interrupted, "but I'm not going to hang out and play nice with him and act like everything is fine."

Cuddy seemed particularly awkward and flushed, "I'm really sorry."

"I told you, I don't want an apology. It doesn't change anything. But don't ask me to hang out with him. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't run home and report on my mental state every night."

"I wouldn't do that, let me explain-"

"I'd really prefer it if you didn't."

"Anything we talk about is completely between us," she promised. "He's away this Friday. And my mom has Rachel."

"Where's he going?"

"I don't know. It's something for work."

"Check with me on Friday," House answered as he grabbed the door handle.

She reached out, touching his arm for the second time that night. "You know, you aren't like your patient. You have a home. More than one. You have your apartment and Wilson's…even this hospital is like a home to you."

His eyes shifted away as his chin dropped toward his chest, avoiding any real response.

"You have lots of places where you belong. People…who care about you," she added.

"Tolerating and caring are not the same thing."

"I know that," she answered decisively, but he was already gone from the conversation. "Come out with me on Friday. I know the perfect thing to do."

"Administrators Anonymous meeting?"

"Something that will cheer you up."

"You're taking me home to help you go through your bikini collection?"

Her expression was mid-way between flattered and uncomfortable, and fearing that she might lose any progress she had made, she joked back, "As much as I was looking for an official ogler…" His gaze became less displeased for a moment, and she responded, "I was thinking about going down to that old theater. The one they fixed up last year."

"I'm not into chick flicks, even old ones."

"Friday is Action Night, I was just looking at it online. Someone will be blowing something up or shooting a bad guy. Come on."

"Sure," he conceded.

She leaned over, her soft cheek pressing against his face before her lips glanced over his stubble with a friendly kiss. Her smile met his look of disgruntlement. Bewildered, she asked, "Are you angry?"

There was an uncertain moment before he decided, "Not angry. Goodnight," and left her car.

Friday after work, they went immediately to the theater because there wasn't enough time to go home to change. As she waited for tickets, she stared ahead to avoid the obvious interest of the man in the next line. He was clearing his throat to get her attention, angling his body to try to work into her line of sight, but she kept focusing her eyes ahead.

When House joined her, she stood possessively close, smiling up sweetly at him. He looked down at her with more confusion than disapproval, "What are you doing?"

"Getting tickets," she answered as she paid. She tugged his sleeve when they walked away from the counter, "That guy…I thought-"

"Yes, I know, you were avoiding unwanted propositions. What I meant was, what are you doing at a movie like this? Explosions and heists aren't your thing."

"I like lots of different things. Sometimes, in small doses, the tough-guy thing can be sexy," she said as they entered the darkened theater.

Before he could argue, the opening scene began, and they took their places to watch the movie. She found herself staring at him more than the screen. Only a few minutes in, she could see how he was getting lost in the story. Initially his hand was on his thigh, rubbing with constant pressure against the ache that seemed to linger at all times. His hand remained there throughout the film, but the rubbing lessened or faded as he watched.

The moment the lights came back on, she asked, "Did you like it?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I liked it," she commented as she stood.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I am not."

"You're not a terrible liar?"

"I'm not lying," she retorted angrily enough that the discussion tapered off to silence.

When they returned to the hospital, they both went back inside. House had test results he was hoping were finished, and Cuddy needed to take some things home with her.

"You're lying about liking the movie," he said while she unlocked her office door. "Do I look particularly pathetic tonight or is Wilson paying you so he can date with a clear conscience and zero interruptions?"

"You look great, healthy. And Wilson had nothing to do with this."

"You had a night on your own, and you want me to think that you wouldn't rather be sitting with a glass of wine or working or…hell, pretty much anywhere but at that movie with me?"

"I wanted to be there."

"You felt obligated to be there. Guilt is a powerful motivator."

"That's not what this is."

"OK. Then what is it?"

She paused momentarily while she hung up her coat and then replied, "Isn't this nice? Hanging out?"

"Sure."

"I've had fun both times. You?"

"Yea."

"We're good like this…as friends."

"We're not friends," he answered immediately.

"Sure we are. Or…we're becoming friends."

"I don't want to be your friend. I told you that before."

It was obvious that she was searching for words, her eyes filled with sadness, "You're just saying that to hurt me."

"I'm not. It's the truth."

"Fine, if it's not a friendship what would you like to call this?"

"An opportunity."

"How's that?" she scoffed.

"I have a chance to show you what it's like to spend your time with an actual man as opposed to that…overgrown toddler you've taken in."

"In this scenario, you are the mature one?"

"I know how to have fun. But I can also use multisyllabic words and discuss things other than spy games and cartoons. Imagine the conversations you've had with him…and now imagine those same conversations repeating for the next decade."

"Not everyone is a genius."

"He's safe…obedient. I'm more interesting, more exciting and much better in bed. Do you really want to spend the next few years bored, uninspired and sexually frustrated?"

"What makes you think I'm any of those things?"

He smirked knowingly, ignoring her question. "And this is your chance to recognize and correct the gigantic mistake you made when you chose him over me." Before she could really respond, he added, "Thanks for the movie."

Uncomfortably lost, she replied, "Sure."

"I can keep up the act though, if it makes you feel better." He leaned down, pressing his cheek to hers, his stubble scratching along her skin. She moved her face toward his, instinctively, and then felt the soft touch of his lips below her cheekbone for a second before he pulled away. He stood completely upright, remaining just as close. "Since you did that the last time we played friends, I figured that was the goodbye protocol."

Barely nodding, she stood still with an almost completely blank expression.

"Good night," he added succinctly as he walked out the door.

After he left, she tried to direct her mind to the appropriate reaction. She should have been frustrated by the entire discussion about her relationship, offended by his audacity, furious that he insulted her choices in that way. Sitting down in the chair behind her desk, her attempt at a suitable reaction faded into an unintentional smile.