Item One: The saga of chapter four is a very sad one. I power-wrote my way through seven pages of sheer idiocy, proofread for typos, and posted it without a thought. The next day I went to admire my handy-work…and realized that, frankly, it kind of sucked. So I took it down, re-wrote it, and waited for quite some time to make sure it was good enough for my darling readers to experience. I apologize for the pure and utter lameness of version 1.0 of this chapter; 2.0, I'm hoping, will be much better.

Item Two: I don't own House or Cyrano de Bergerac.


Chapter Four:

So far, so good. So far, so good. So far, so good…

It was Wilson's mantra for the evening, and he mentally repeated it as the night wore on. Everything was fine so far, but God, he was nervous. He had to make sure not to slip up. His soul, his dignity, his very life depended on it—he couldn't let House be right, not about this.

So far, so good.

Cuddy had seemed appropriately impressed but not just amazed when he drove up to the nicest restaurant in town. He figured he earned points for opening every door in their path and springing for the most expensive wine on the menu, although perhaps the incident involving a narrow aisle and a heavy tray of steaming hot entrees as they were escorted to their table may have not been his smoothest move of the evening. Nevertheless, they were sitting there now, menus open, casually discussing scallops and prime rib as though nothing was going on…

So far, so good.

A waiter approached the table. "What can I get for you?" he asked, expertly whipping out a pad of paper and pen.

"How about the spaghetti?" Cuddy ordered. "With lots of meatballs." She smiled coyly at Wilson; all he could do was wonder if that was supposed to be a metaphor for something.

"Spaghetti for the lady," the waiter said. "And for you, sir?"

"I'll have what she's having," he managed to choke, even though he'd originally planned on the flounder.

"Spaghetti for the lady…and gentleman," the waiter said. "Your food will be ready shortly."

Wilson waited until the waiter was out of earshot, then turned to Cuddy with what he hoped was an enigmatic grin on his face. "Did I tell you about the clinic patient I had the other day? Craziest guy ever—wanted to know if his kid could get chicken pox from going on a field trip to a farm with his class. So I told him no, and then he started asking me about small pox and whether I thought the kid looked scrawny for his age—"

"Let's just suffice it to say that patients are a different breed of people and leave it at that for the night, shall we?" Cuddy said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "I was kind of hoping that we could leave the hospital behind for just an hour or two. Get to know each other a little bit."

"Yeah," Wilson said confidently. "Okay."

"So," Cuddy said. "How are you?"

"Fine. How are you?"

"Fine."

There was a pause, and something House had said silently nagged him: You won't know what to say, you won't know what to say, you won't know what to say…

"Actually, I'm feeling a tiny bit…ummm…melancholy!" Wilson announced dramatically, hoping to inspire some deeper conversation.

"Melancholy? Why is that?" Cuddy asked, sounding concerned. Before he knew it, she had reached across the table and placed her hand gently over his. "I hope everything's all right."

"Everything's…fine," he stammered. Good God, the last time Julie had laid her own hands on him was when she caught him spying on their neighbor, a pencil-thin blonde who liked to parade through her backyard in nothing but a little black bikini, and that hadn't been anything like this… "Couldn't be better."

"So you're melancholy because you're…happy?" Cuddy said, confused. She leaned forward anxiously.

Wilson began to sweat profusely as he looked at her, trying not to remember House's words. They came to him anyway, rushing in and out of his ears like a series of slaps: How do you think it's going to feel when she's sitting right across from you, with her hands next to yours and her pretty smile flashing out at you and her cleavage hanging out all over the table? Wilson hadn't known how he would feel and, could he have chosen at this late date, would have happily remained ignorant to what he was feeling now, which could only be defined as severe carnal panic. My God, he thought, staring at her chest, now I see why House gets so worked up.

"Wilson? Are you all right?" Cuddy asked.

"I'm…oh, God…I think…" Wilson tried to loosen his tie, suddenly feeling suffocated. "Cuddy…"

"What's wrong?"

"I think…I think…" He stared at her, the proverbial deer caught in headlights. "I think I'm going to be sick." And he was, all over the pristine white tablecloth.


The last thing Wilson remembered was hurling. That was bad enough, but when he awoke in a hospital bed with the familiar faces of ER nurses and doctors all around him, he immediately wished he was dead.

"Wilson!" an anxious voice cried. He turned in its direction and saw Cuddy's relieved face smiling down at him. "How are you feeling?"

"All right," he said. "My head kind of hurts…what happened? Why am I here?"

"Well," Cuddy said, clearly embarrassed for him, "after you threw up, you were feeling so lightheaded that you fainted and, in the process, hit your head on the edge of the table. It turns out you had a pretty respectable concussion. I suppose calling an ambulance was futile, but—"

"There was an ambulance?" Wilson whispered. "My God, Cuddy, was that really necessary?"

"I didn't want to take any chances! I thought maybe there was something going on with you, something that you weren't telling me—" it suddenly dawned on her "—something that made you melancholy! Wilson, you were going to tell me something! What was it?"

Well, he couldn't very well tell her the only reason he had puked all over their dinner was because he was heartsick, now, could he? Wilson remained silent.

"Well? What's wrong? Are you sick? Maybe that's why you weren't yourself tonight! Oh, my God. Oh, my God, it's cancer, isn't it? Wilson, tell me!"

"I can't," he said pleadingly. "I can't, I can't!"

"If you were really my friend, if you really cared what I thought about you, you'd tell me what was wrong!"

"I…I…"

"You…what?"

Wilson sighed. "I need to rest."

Cuddy pursed her lips and stared at him, unsure of what to do. "Fine," she said finally. "That's probably a good idea. I'll let you sleep."

"Will you be all right getting home?" he asked.

"House is going to give me a ride. What do you think?"

Oh, God. Not that. Anything but that.

"Enjoy the ride," he told her as he watched her retreat. Once she was gone, Wilson sank back into his bed and groaned. It was over.


House was waiting outside of the hospital when Cuddy emerged from the doors, looking strangely old in her high heels and black dress—her default "fun" outfit. He watched her walk to the car, folded into her own embrace as she rubbed her bare arms in the cold. Poor Cuddy, he thought, and he actually meant it. He had never seen her like this.

He'd been at home when Cuddy had called him. He remembered how surprised he was when he picked up the phone to hear her say, "I'm at the hospital. Can you give me a ride home?" Wilson had, apparently, fallen ill with a severe strain of influenza or some such virus. Bullshit. House knew exactly what had invaded his system, and it wasn't any virus—au contraire, all his friend was suffering from was an unexpected overload of testosterone.

Still, he couldn't get over the fact that Wilson had actually barfed because of it.

House flipped the power locks open, and Cuddy got in. "So," he said conversationally, "was this your plan all along?"

"What plan?" she asked irritably.

"Ditch Wilson at the hospital so we could make our romantic getaway."

"House, I'm not in the mood right now."

"I could change that."

"I doubt it." Cuddy sighed and ran her hand through her hair. "I don't get it. What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't take my advice, for one thing," House said. "I told you to go spinster-chic, and what do you do? Hit him with the little black dress right off the bat."

"I just wanted to look nice!"

"For God's sake, Cuddy, you'd look nice in a garbage bag," House grumbled. Too late, he realized his mistake. "I mean, you know, Wilson would have thought you'd look nice in a garbage bag."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Thanks, but Wilson himself already disproved that theory. If you're trying to make me feel better, that certainly won't help."

Nice job, Casanova, House thought bitterly. "So what did you say he did again?"

They analyzed Wilson's inexplicable condition for the rest of the trip. When they arrived at her house, House unlocked the doors. Before Cuddy got out she said, "House, do me a favor."

"You know, I've been doing a lot of favors for you lately," House said. "I think I deserve some kind of…reward."

Cuddy sighed. "I only reward favors that actually work out."

"I got you the date!"

"And look how it turned out! The least you could have done was warn me that—"

"I did warn you that it was a bad idea!"

"You didn't warn me that I'd make him feel like that!" she cried. "I don't know, I suppose he could have really been sick, but what if that wasn't it? What if he was faking it to get out of that ridiculous awkward conversation we were having? What if I just make him feel that way anyway? Oh, my God, House, I literally made a man sick!"

House wasn't sure what to say. "The couple that spews together stays together," he said finally.

This sentiment didn't seem to help Cuddy much. "Thanks for the ride, House," she mumbled, shutting the door. House thought he saw her reach up and quickly swipe at her eyes, but he couldn't be sure in the dim light.

"That does it," he said to himself, putting the car into gear. "If Wilson won't do this on his own, I'm going to make him."


What the devil is House up to? Will Wilson's stomach ever settle? What will Cuddy be wearing next? Find out in the next installment of True Love is a Wooden Cane.

I swear, the next chapter won't take me quite this long to post.