I know, this is my third story in two days, and I'm on a roll for some reason. It just keeps coming because of my writer's block on my NaNo novel. I hope all of you who are reading are enjoying these stories, because I'm having a helluva time writing them. I would love to know what you think about my characterization in this fic, because it is my first House fic, after all. Even though I wrote my enemy ship (I'm a Wilson/Cuddy shipper at heart). Anyway, enjoy!

Turn around. Turn around, go back up there, knock on her door, and ask her out.

He stopped at the end of the walk, contemplating what the little bit of a conscience he had left was saying. Maybe Wilson was right. It could have been more than comforting Cuddy that had motivated his response that night. Yeah, he had a sexual attraction to the woman, but she could be so infuriating that acting on it would probably just make her that much more difficult to deal with.

But he wasn't talking about sex here. It was just a stupid little date that could end this whole blasted obsession with that stupid kiss. He would stop scratching at the damn mosquito bite and allow it to heal, and he wouldn't have to worry about sepsis or any other form of blood poisoning.

That settled it. He pulled out the small orange bottle, lifted off the cap, popped a pill in his mouth and swallowed it dry. He'd need his spinach to give him the strength to deal with his Olive Oyl.

Oh, for the love of God, he was making Popeye references. He had to be losing the last small bit of his mind.

At that moment, he came very close to making the Greg House equivalent of a run for it. Unfortunately, with the lack of his cane, he would quite possibly fall flat on his face.

"What are you doing here, House?" He remained frozen in place, turning on his good heel to face the curious glare of Lisa Cuddy.

"I was watching the news, and they said that there was an odd smell coming from your neighborhood. I came to check and see if you had showered lately."

"Ha, very funny." She smiled sardonically, her eyes still set in a glare. "Be serious."

"Wilson said I should come here," he responded honestly.

"To... what? Insult me?"

"Why, yes. In fact, he did." He prepared himself carefully, and then, in his best French accent, said, "Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries."

"Monty Python? Really? Are you going to tell me to go away now, with the threat of more insults?" she asked, rolling her eyes as she spoke. "Will you please tell me the real reason why you're here so I can go back inside and pretend this didn't happen?"

"Wilson really did send me here." She raised an eyebrow, and he rolled his eyes, and forced out, "Do you want... to go to dinner tomorrow... or something?"

"You're kidding me, right?" He gave her a confused look, unaware of anything he could have possibly done wrong. "Well, maybe if you hadn't said it with so much difficulty, I would have taken you seriously."

"My God, are women always so picky with how they are asked out?" She looked at him with her practiced, unaffected House glare, and he sighed in defeat. "Fine. Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow?" he asked without hesitation.

"Sure, why not? It's just one date."

"I never said it was a date," he responded coolly.

"Whatever you say, House. Whatever you say." She turned and headed back up the walk and into the house. Once the door closed, he turned and limped back to his motorcycle.

Wilson would never believe that he actually did it.

-Fin-