The usual: I don't own these characters or anything else you might recognize. Just borrowing them for some good, old-fashioned House/Cuddy fun. Thanks up front for reading!


Chapter 1: Jelly Bean Roulette

"Good Lord!"

His iron stomach had survived most of his college years, med school, and that two-month stint where he and his roommate had lived on nothing but Ramen noodles in order to buy a VCR and begin an all-important collection of porn tapes. And in two seconds and with a single piece of candy, the reputation that he had spent years of schoolboy pranks and dares building was dangerously close to toppling.

The repulsive flavor that had amped his gag reflex past eleven had assumed the shape of a single jelly bean, but surely it was some sort of clever guise – something this disgusting must have been fermenting in the center of a garbage heap for a thousand years before being dug up, chewed on, and spat back out by the devil himself.

Eyes watering, House grabbed at the paper napkin that was held out to him and spat into it, scrubbing his tongue like a five-year-old and glaring at the now-suspicious bowl of candy before him. "What the hell was that? It tasted like it had already been digested."

"Vomit's one option," Wilson answered, once he could stop laughing long enough to speak. Reaching into his desk, he tossed House a small purple box. "Or earwax or sardine."

House eyed the box of Every Flavor Beans, which included an array of tastes to satisfy almost any madcap craving: from cherry to grass to rotten egg. "Spew-flavored candy? We should stock this instead of ipecac."

"Gave a kid in the clinic fifteen bucks for the box – five for the candy, ten to separate out the favors. After seeing your face, it was completely worth it."

"What did I do to you – ?"

"Recently?"

There was a half-eaten Tupperware of something on Wilson's desk and House snagged it. It looked strikingly unsuspicious and smelled more-or-less okay, but Wilson's yelped protest at its sudden disappearance clinched it: House took a bite.

"Mmm. Deliciously vomit-free. My compliments to the chef."

"I'll let him know you enjoyed it," Wilson answered dryly. "He'll be thrilled." Seeming to resign himself to the fact that he would have to relinquish his lunch for the moment, he sighed, reaching for the bowl of candy and tipping it into the trash.

"Hey!" House reached out to stop him, grabbing the bowl and managing to save a few of the precious, grossly-colored jellybeans. "Give me that. That stuff's a disgusting goldmine."

Wilson took this opportunity to win back his lunch, hurriedly taking a bite before House could seize the container from him again. "They're revolting."

"You know that. I know that. But my three little pigs don't." He propped his cane up against the edge of Wilson's desk and leaned beside it. "I don't know about the other two, but I can definitely get Chase to down a couple of these. Wanna come watch?"

"As scintillating as that sounds – no. And why are you hiding from Cuddy?"

"Why do you think I'm hiding from Cuddy?"

"She's asked me where you were three times in the last two hours. And..."

He was watching Wilson carefully, saw his eyes flick to the doorway a split-second too late.

"House."

Her voice lilted roughly, unpurified honey straight from the hive and streaming stickily over him – sweet and abhorrent, unwanted and erotic all in a single word.

Something must have been jamming her radar, because he had successfully avoided her the entire morning – no easy task: Cuddy was an efficiently-trained general with built in tracking technology and artillery that he had not only become very good at dodging, but also, luckily, was very rarely switched from stun to kill. But just like that – in the course of a few seconds and with food as a decoy – all his careful efforts at evasion churned down the drain, and he hadn't even had time to reach for his weapon or radio for backup.

Only deviating half a moment to glare at Wilson, House turned, sculpting his features into the most innocent expression he could muster, puppy dog eyes included. He held out the bowl and shook it enticingly, its contents rattling. "Jelly bean?"

"No."

Her eyes were sizzling, flashing sparks at the end of twin fuses. A lesser man would have raised the white flag and begun slapdash negotiations for an immediate cease-fire.

House grinned.

"C'mon…" he snorted in disbelief, cocking his head. The jelly beans clinked against the glass as he swirled the bowl. "I saw you at the fro-yo machine in the cafeteria yesterday. You could've given that German kid in the chocolate factory a run for his money."

Cuddy didn't crack, folding her arms across her chest as she glowered at him. "If you're giving away food, there has to be something wrong with it."

"You tipped her off," House accused with a frown, turning to Wilson.

Wilson shrugged. "She's good."

"You're supposed to be in my office."

He'd known Cuddy long enough to realize her smooth tone was forced. It was written in the way her breath hitched as she tried to conceal emotion, how her chin tilted towards the ground so she had to peer up at him with raised eyes. The pose was characteristic of her, used to express a dozen different sentiments. But it was the ever-so-subtle way the corners of her mouth turned downward and the narrowing of the eyes that did it: this was pure, slowly simmering rage.

Anger, much like her many well-cut suits, was something Cuddy wore strikingly well. But she generally cast it off rather quickly (the suits, unfortunately, almost always stayed).

There was really only one thing to do: rile her. He threw a grenade up from the trenches, smirking wickedly. "Someone's a little anxious for some afternoon delight. You know, next time, you can always do a little composing on the single-key piano while you wait…."

She crossed the room, only needing a few quick strides to be practically on top of him – the heat of her body and wrath radiating, and he half-wondered if Wilson was close enough to notice. "Something, I'm sure, you're remarkably well-versed in."

He shook his head, near laughter but able to hold it in. "Nice try – doesn't really work both ways. I'm more for two hands on the solo air guitar."

Leaning toward him now, she was so close that he caught the minty scent of her breath as she spoke. Her voice was dangerous, thrilling and she emphasized each of her words as if it were its own sentence. "You owe me."

Caught between her and Wilson's desk, there was nowhere to go but sideways, and to do that would be too obvious an attempt at escape. House stayed where he was, raising an eyebrow. "You weren't that good last night."

She mirrored his gaze, a hint of amusement curdling her anger. "If that's the case, think of how awful your performance must've been. My office. Now."

"Demanding. Just the way I like it." Without taking his eyes from her, he managed to steal the plastic container back from Wilson. If she hadn't budged on this whole you're supposed to be in my office thing with the last few minutes' spin in the conversation, she wasn't going to. "Can I at least finish Wilson's lunch first?"

She sighed, ever a sucker for placating him, a flaw, perhaps, only because he knew it and wasn't above using it against her.

"Five minutes. Not a second more, House – I mean it."

"He'll be there if I have to drag him by his ear," Wilson chimed in, having watched this entire exchange without concealing his amusement.

"Traitor."

Cuddy eyed them both, no doubt unable to miss the sincerity oozing from every one of Wilson's pores, the stench of it stronger than that of sweat in a men's locker room. Finally, she nodded, pausing to glare at House one final time before striding from the room, the swift clicking of her heels like gunshots, fading as she disappeared down the hall.

"What did you do to set her off?" Wilson asked, seeming to think better of the question and tacking on, "This time."

"Do your lips have a thing for her ass just because its hers – "

"I've seen her angry before – even angry at you – but somehow this topped it…."

" – or would you kiss the hairy rear-end of a 65-year-old man if he happened to be your boss?" He paused for a moment, semi-considering what Wilson had said. "She wasn't even yelling."

"No," Wilson replied, adopting the deep, self-righteous tone that he considered sarcastic, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "It was that quiet female anger. Even someone like you knows how quickly that's going to explode in your face."

"I think you need at least two ex-wives to come to that conclusion." As predicted, this elicited an eye-roll. "Cuddy can't stay mad at me. It's against her genetic code."

"You go farther to piss her off than you're willing to go to the vending machine. Just add a couple of dead worms and a frog or two and you're a twelve-year-old chasing after his crush. Do us all a favor and ask her out already."

"But if I touch her, I'll get cooties," House whined.

Wilson sighed. "A twelve-year-old with a drug addiction, a sex drive, and a motorcycle license. Society's worst nightmare."

"Funny. You'd think it'd be something a little more globally-threatening like war or nuclear holocaust."

"Friday night. I have two tickets to an art exhibit."

"Are you asking me out?" House deadpanned. "Because I'm not sure I'm ready to take our relationship to the next level…."

"If you don't take her, I will."

The way Wilson twisted the words, it seemed almost a threat, but not one that House was even close to taking seriously. Fortunately, Wilson was much easier to annoy than Cuddy; so much so that it almost took all the fun out of irritating him. Almost.

The formula was simple, might have been printed in the faded blue of a mimeographed ditto, the instructions to a kindergarten art project: make a back-handed comment, color, paste together, and let dry.

House spun his cane, batting the crook from hand to hand. "What makes you think she'd even want to go out with you?"

"Right." There it was – aggravation just beginning to scribble itself over Wilson's tone. "That's a fair question from the guy who hasn't been on a date with her to the guy who's been on three."

"Those weren't dates," House scoffed. He never passed up a chance to point this out: the more he said it, the more he would begin to believe it himself. There had to be some magic number for the amount of times you had to repeat a lie before it began to sound true. So far, it wasn't anything under 37, but House was hoping he'd hit on it soon.

"If you don't want to go out with her, I don't see why it matters to you whether they were dates or not."

"Just trying to keep you in the kiddy league where it's safe. You might hurt yourself if you play with the big kids." He glanced up at Wilson before continuing, wanted to be sure he had a good view of his friend's face before delivering the final jolt. "You should try Cameron – she's the all-star T-baller for the New Jersey Cripple Lovers. I'm sure she'd let you pinch hit…."

"You're an ass. You couldn't get Cuddy if you tried."

This held about as much weight as a schoolyard threat. At this rate, Wilson would be triple-dog-daring him before his five minutes were up, even without the slowly tightening circle of a hundred playground brats and the chants of fight! fight! fight! vibrating the air.

"I forget: is this the part where I became an instant idiot and fall for your reverse psychology?"

"No, this is the part where you admit that somewhere inside that black heart of yours, there's a tiny part of you that actually cares about Cuddy."

Timing was of the essence. He couldn't miss a beat here: Wilson would surely notice. Wit and crassness, of course, would also help.

"Maybe some not-so-tiny parts of her…." House held his cupped hands up to his chest, palms up, and pretended to squeeze.

"And Gregory House's inability to have a happy long-term relationship is summed up in a single gesture." Exasperation now – they were already at the don't-eat-the-paste portion of the instructions, the bane of every five-year-old's existence. "Never mind. I'll take her."

"No you won't," House pointed out, grinning smugly. "You know she only has thighs for me."

Wilson watched him curiously, as if, having heard the statement once before, trying to gauge how much of it might actually be true. "Okay, we'll make it interesting. Lunch. A month's worth. You win, I'll make lunch for you. I win, you won't take mine."

"Isn't is usually customary to bet on something before naming the stakes?"

Now it was Wilson's turn to grin, and House had a sudden sneaking feeling that if he didn't watch his back, he'd find his nose pressed to the pavement. "That when you take Cuddy out Friday night, it won't be considered a date. And you'll be lucky if she doesn't strangle you before the night's over."

On a playground, a chorus of knowing ooohs would have echoed across the asphalt, stopping jump-ropes and swishing the nets on rusty basketball hoops. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were at stake here, the highest commodity on the grammar school black market. The question now was whether or not he would accept the challenge with dignity and stick his tongue to the frozen flagpole….

The phone rang.

It was the cue House had been waiting for. Taking it, he lurched to the door, only pausing to call over his shoulder. "Tell her I'll be there right after I grab the whip and handcuffs."

Wilson stuttered a flustered greeting into the phone behind him.


There's more in the works (if you're interested, of course). Please let me know what you thought!