Item One: Hi!
Item Two: For you unfortunate people who have not read Cyrano de Bergerac, here is a wee summary. Cyrano and Christian are a pair of cadets in the French military with their hearts set on Roxane, a brainy babe who values a quick wit and a pretty face in her men. Cyrano is a masterful speaker, but he is self-conscious because of his enormous nose and feels that he could never win Roxane's heart. Instead he joins forces with Christian, truly the epitome of "all brawn, no brain," to help him woo Roxane. Cyrano writes love letters, improvises sweet nothings, and pretends to know nothing of it—all in the name of another man's love! Will Cyrano ever speak for himself and so win fair lady's heart? Read the play to find out, because it truly is a wonder and exceptionally better than anything I could ever write.
Item Three: I am having a contest! Perhaps you've noticed, perhaps you haven't, but in any case…this story has no title! I launched all of my creative energy into this story, and consequently have none left to figure out what to call the damned thing. The first person to come up with a sufficiently likable title (subject to my discretion and mine alone) will have a character named after them later in the story! (Or, if you'd prefer not to give out your name—an understandable sentiment in this day and age—just choose a name you like and I'll use that instead.) All submissions must be made before I post the second chapter, prizes are non-refundable/non-exchangeable, employees of FanFiction and their families are prohibited from entering, blah blah blah. We all know the rules, and when we don't we make them up.
Item Four: I don't own House. Or Cyrano de Bergerac, come to think of it. So don't sue. If you sue me, I won't be able to afford to go to my first-choice college! (Yes, I was accepted to my university of choice. You may politely applaud, if you so choose, or just skip this part if it bores you. I just had to slip it in—I'm very happy.)
Item Five: Ha! There is no Item Five. Read. Enjoy. Review.

Chapter One:

"I have what?!"

House winced. "Easy," he told the enraged patient, mentally calculating how far her scream had carried. The clinic was full of chattering people, so maybe not too far. Maybe Cuddy hadn't heard. Maybe he was safe. He couldn't be sure, though. "It's treatable," he continued cautiously.

"I still don't get it. Lip—lip—how do you say it?" She crossed her chubby arms and glared at him from under her caterpillar eyebrows.

"Lipedema," House said. "That's the technical term. I find it easier to say 'Painful Fat Syndrome,' though. Rolls off your tongue. Paaaaaiiiinfuuuuulll Faaaaaatttt Syyyyndroooooommmme." He staged an amused chuckle at the infuriated expression on her face. "Mrs. Arnold, it's good news! We can make the swelling go away, the tenderness disappear, the joint pain stop! It's like winning the lottery, only you're losing weight instead of gaining a fat wad of cash." He grinned wolfishly at her.

"You're calling me fat and I'm supposed to be happy?" she asked disbelievingly.

He shrugged. "It's better than your diagnoses," he said. "I mean, come on—lupus? Leukemia? You wouldn't want those, would you? Not for some measly joint pain?"

"And it's so much better to be a fat cow," she grumbled. "I'm getting a second opinion."

"Oh, but then some other doctor will say you have something else! All that time together, all that work I did, all wasted!"

Mrs. Arnold regarded House with a tired gaze. "You took one look at me, glanced at my weight, and said I had lip—lip—"

"Painful Fat Syndrome?" he supplied helpfully.

"Forget it!" she said, grabbing her purse and waddling to the door. "I'm not going to take this mental abuse. I have some other problem—"

"Something that conveniently isn't your responsibility to fix, perhaps?" he suggested, following her into the clinic. "Something that you won't need to bother yourself with, other than taking a pill or two per day, maybe a little minor surgery? Certainly no diet, no exercise—"

"I drank Diet Coke this morning," she shot at him, holding up a McDonald's cup. House wondered if he should inquire what she ate with the Diet Coke, but decided against it. Probably her children, he thought, grinning. "What?" she growled angrily, noticing his expression.

"I was just thinking what a great start that was."

"'Great start.'" Mrs. Arnold snorted, her cheeks puffing out like two red balloons stretched across her face. "You think you know everything, already deciding what I need to do. Well, I'll tell you what, Dr…Dr…"

House rolled his eyes. "For the last time, it's Painful Fat—heyyyyy! Almost got me that time, didn't you? Jokester." He wagged his index finger at her. "Dr. House is my name."

"I'll tell you what, Dr. House. I don't think any doctor worth his salt would be walking around with that in his hand!" She pointed at his cane triumphantly.

House glanced down at it. "My cane?"

"Yes," she said, sounding pleased with herself. "That big dumb cane. Can't be that great of a doctor, now, can you, if you have to use a cane."

He mockingly clutched his chest in pain. "My heart is broken, Mrs. Arnold. 'That big dumb cane?' It wounds me to hear it."

"Well, then, maybe you'll—"

"What kind of person says something like that?"

Mrs. Arnold looked confused. "Did I really hurt your—"

"This cane is a virtual goldmine of repartee, and you don't even tap the surface of it? It's downright sickening."

"Repar-what?"

House was beginning to get annoyed. "Repartee. Banter. Witticisms. And your 'big dumb cane' is hardly an example of any of those. Anyone with half a brain would have snarfed that opportunity like it was an Oreo."

She crossed her arms, shifted all of her 194 pounds—he had weighed her, so he knew—to her left leg, and cocked an eyebrow expectantly. "And I suppose you could do better?"

"Abundantly," he said. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. "Oh, I see. You want proof."

"Yeah. Proof."

"I'll tell you what. I'll give you one example for every ten pounds you weigh." By this time a small crowd had gathered around the two contenders, and they oohed and ahhed at the prospect, stepping back so they could gage how much entertainment they would be getting. "So," House said. "Why don't you tell all the nice people how many one-liners I'm going to have to come up with before I can get the hell out of here?"

"Twenty," she said proudly, and everyone gasped.

"That extra four pounds doesn't count," he argued. "It's only nineteen, for all 194 pounds."

Mrs. Arnold didn't seem to mind the public slight. "What's the matter, Dr. House? Chicken?"

"No," he said. "If I was, you would have eaten me by now." Most of the crowd snickered, but House heard an infuriated groan from the back. He glanced in its direction and sighed. Cuddy. Better have his fun now, because he'd pay for it later.

"We're waiting," said Mrs. Arnold expectantly. "All twenty."

"All right, all right," he said. "I'm ready." And he began to rattle off insults as fast as he could think of them.

"Let's start slowly. In a hypothetical situation, supposing I had replied to your 'big dumb cane' statement with a hearty, 'Ouch,' you could have replied, 'How do you think the ground feels when you poke it with that thing?'" Some polite laughter came from the crowd.

"In a belittling tone: 'What, can't afford a wheelchair?'

"Knowledgeable: 'Did you know that that cane is almost twice as tall as the shortest person in the world?'" House eyed Mrs. Arnold for a moment, then added, "Good thing he's not standing behind you—that's a terrible view for a guy who drew the short straw in life anyway." A few more giggles surfaced around the waiting room.

"Complimentary: 'You know, I can't think of a better advertisement for a hospital.'

"Generous: 'I've got some baby wipes if you want to shine her up a little.'

"Reproachful: 'Think of all the tables that lost their legs just so you could carry that cane around with you!'

"Conversational: 'You know, I've been looking for some nice kindling. Where do you get yours?'

"Religious: 'I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a God who could take care of that leg—for a tithe.'

"Comical." House scanned his audience and went to a little girl with her blonde hair in pigtails. "Do you like knock-knock jokes?" he asked her, bending to her level.

"Yes," she said, nodding.

"Well, let's try one. Knock-knock."

"Who's there?"

"Cane."

"Cane who?'

"Cane you hear me?!" House cried animatedly. The little girl laughed, and the rest of the children joined her. Even their parents cracked smiles. It was a good sign—he'd won the favor of the majority of the crowd with only nine lines down. He went on.

"Disdainful: 'I hope you drive faster than you walk.'

"Pithy: 'Well, as the old saying goes, two legs are better than one—but three is the best of all!'

"Glib: 'Using that hook at the end must be easier than asking someone to pass the salt…that is, if you even have someone to eat with.'" The staff in the room hooted, knowing how true that was. The grin on House's face was almost humble, and he continued confidently.

"Piratical: 'I've heard of a peg leg, and I've heard of an iron hook—but never a peg hook!'

"Stuck-up: 'That shade of wood doesn't match your shirt, you know.'

"Sympathetic: I'll bet you get a lot of pity dates with that thing. Hell, even I'd go out with you.'" A few of the female patients giggled shyly, and even the nurses grinned. They had almost grown fond of him as his self-deprecating sideshow proceeded.

"I would not!" Mrs. Arnold cried. "I wouldn't go out with you—"

"For all the ice cream in aisle twelve?" he suggested, leering at her.

She glared at him. "You still have five more to go."

"Wow," House said, feigning mental exhaustion. "Five more? This is getting tough. I don't know how much more I can take." A ripple of applause waved through the crowd, and a few teenagers hooted in encouragement. House smiled, pleased. "Thank you, thank you. I'm ready now.

"Naïve: 'What do you do with it when you play hopscotch?'

"Yuletide: 'Surely you've got enough of that candy cane to share…'" Perhaps unconsciously, Mrs. Arnold licked her lips at the mention of candy. House imagined she liked that one.

"Helpful: 'I've got some pliers if you want to pull that splinter.'

"Racy: 'I'll bet that cane was the end of many a date, if you know what I mean.'" He saw the mothers that had smiled at him before now involuntarily clamp their hands over their children's ears and glare at him. He mentally winced at the loss of support, but was elated to hear Cuddy's surprised bark of laughter. Time to bring it home, he thought.

"And finally, dramatic: '"God bless us, everyone"—oh, wait, that's your line!'" House took a bow as the audience applauded. Out of the corner of his eye, he even saw Cuddy shake her head, hiding a small smile. He grinned—his work here was done. "Thank you, everyone, thank you. Oh, and Mrs. Arnold—good luck with 'lip—lip—'…Painful Fat Syndrome!"

"Oh…oh…" Mrs. Arnold stuttered, unable to think of anything to say that would top him. At last she settled on, "Oh, hobble back to your office, you terrible man!" and stomped out of the clinic.

No one said anything for an awkward moment, then House chimed in. "It's okay, people," he said soothingly. "Animal control will take care of Godzilla over there in no time. Back to business. Who wants to go next?"

The patients immediately sat down, carefully avoiding his gaze. He shrugged. "Nobody?" No answer. "Well, I guess I'll just hobble back to my office. Stop by if you change your mind. I'm in the Stay-the-hell-out wing, right next to the ICU. See you." House turned and walked out of the clinic.

Seconds later, he heard the tell-tale click of Cuddy's heels behind him. "Here we go," he muttered under his breath, turning to face her. "Yes."

"Yes what?" she asked, confused.

"Yes, I'll perform at the next charity dinner—for a tithe."

House saw the corners of her mouth twitching. "I think you mean price," she said.

"Nope," he told her. "Definitely tithe."

Cuddy sighed. "House, sooner or later you're going to have to realize that you're not God. I'm not even sure you're human."

"Somewhere between divinity and humanity, huh? An angel, perhaps?"

"More like somewhere between humanity and pure evil, like a Neanderthal."

"Ouch."

"Oh, wait, I know this one. Ummm, 'How do you think the patients feel when you treat them like idiots?'"

"The same as usual, considering most of the time they are idiots."

Cuddy looked pained. "House," she said.

"Yes?" He drew the word out as long as possible, making it insolent and cute all at once—at least, that's what he hoped.

"Don't be rude to the patients. Their egos aren't as healthy as yours is—they can't take insults like you do."

"Advice to grow up and live in the real world and, for God's sake, stop living out of fast food restaurants is not an insult."

"It is the way you do it."

"Because they won't listen the way you do it."

"The way I do it won't get the hospital sued."

"The way I do it saves lives."

"No one is going to die of Lipedema."

"I wish they would, if only so they'd stop coming to the clinic."

Cuddy blinked. "Stop. Talking. To. The patients. Listen to them, write a prescription, say good-bye. Rinse, lather, repeat until clinic duty is over. You'll get the hang of it sooner or later."

"You might as well pass out coffin catalogues with the placebos if you're going to be that way about it."

"You might as well roast your medical license over an open fire if you're going to be that way about it."

"You might as well shut up," House said without thinking.

They were standing squarely in front of each other, appearing almost angry. Cuddy had her hands on her hips, and her lips were set in a firm, humorless line. House had drawn himself to his full height, looking down at her much like a parent might at an obstinate teenager. To the passers-by, they looked to be seconds away from a physical brawl, but they knew better. House could see Cuddy struggling to even her breathing to keep from laughing, and Cuddy saw the laugh lines at the sides of House's eyes beginning to crease in amusement.

"So there, smarty-pants," House finished after a moment.

Cuddy took a deep breath, and for a moment he thought she might play along. "Six more clinic hours for the week," she said finally, bursting his hopes. "I want them logged by Friday."

House watched as she turned on her heel and walked toward her office. "Killjoy."

"Crippled half-wit."

"Bare-chested hussy."

"Cane-toting lowlife."

"Go manicure your nails."

"Go play in the amputee ward." She eyed his cane, then added wickedly, "Maybe you'll make some friends." Satisfied that she had won, she walked away, leaving House standing by the elevator.

"Touché," he murmured, pressing the button. He had to admit she was clever. And funny. And absolutely exquisite in those darling little outfits she wore. Yes, he decided as he climbed into the elevator, Cuddy was all right, for being such a formidable member of her sex. He pressed the second floor button and waited as the elevator went up.

His beeper went off just as the doors opened. Glancing at it, he sighed. Wilson. He closed the door and hit the button for the first floor, where Oncology was located—much, he noticed, to the chagrin of the group of people that had been waiting for the elevator. He sighed and thought, This had better be good.

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