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When choosing between two evils, always choose the one you haven't tried yet. – Mae West

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She opened the door in her coat. House's face fell.

"I'm not flashing myself to the street, so come in and let me shut the door," she said, with a note of irritation. He looked down, saw the shoes, smiled and stepped into the hall.

"If you tell anybody about this I'll have your genitals on a plaque on my wall." He screwed his face up as if in deep concentration. "And I'll obtain them without anaesthetic. I don't care how many lies you have to tell Wilson or even if you have to kill him and dump his body afterwards."

"Okay," he squeaked.

She led the way into the kitchen. She couldn't decide whether to keep her back turned to him or if she should face him as she took her coat off. She'd really like to see his face but if his comment caused her to wince she didn't want him knowing how much it hurt. If she were facing him there was no doubt that he'd see any change in her expression. She mentally slapped herself again. Remember he's a man. Nonchalantly, she gently pushed the coat off her shoulders as she walked along. In a smooth movement, she allowed it to slip down her arms, caught it with the fingers of one hand and draped it over a chair as she passed. She heard a swift intake of breathe, almost a gasp and she waited for him to speak. And she waited. And she waited.

She busied herself with the dinner for which, this time, she was much more organised. She stirred the casserole and prodded the vegetables. The possibility that House might not make any comments at all had not crossed her mind. This might be worse than inappropriate comments. It was just so unlikely. He always paid attention to what she wore and commented on it -- which not many people did, her being the boss.

After several more minutes of faffing about she realized she was letting herself be cowed, so taking the bull by the horns she grab the bottle of wine and turned round. House still didn't say a word -- it was… unnerving. Finally she looked at him. He was… he looked… awestruck. He was just staring at her, eyes moving from top to bottom repeatedly, mouth slightly agape. Okay. Coyly audacious, she walked towards the table and put the bottle down in front of House. Finally, both pairs of eyes met.

He opened his mouth but no sound came out. He swallowed, tried again and sort of croaked. His eyes were dilated. She glanced down, involuntarily you understand. Was he? Oh my, yes! Well, actions spoke louder than words and that sort of auto physical response spoke very loudly to her. Sometimes, through all their fights and flirting, she forgot he was human. Now she felt more relaxed. She smirked which seemed to galvanise House into speaking. He made a spinning motion with his finger.

"Give us a twirl," he said. She gave him an exasperated look but she supposed it was only fair, so twirl she did.

"It looks good on you. A job you do in you spare time?"

She was not fazed by his jibe, a somewhat pathetic return for House – perhaps something to do with all the blood flowing south. She awarded herself extra points. "What no French tart comments?"

"I was saving those for dessert. Unless you are the French tart for dessert? He added with a leer, trying to make up lost ground.

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the oven.

"Please tell me there's meat this time," he asked, with almost a pleading note in his voice.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled.

"I could tell you that if you want, but it wouldn't necessarily be true." He groaned.

"As last time, the bet was for dinner, you didn't specify what," she continued.

"Yeah, but…"

She took pity on him. "I thought I'd stick with the French theme – it's coq au vin… and claret. Make yourself useful and open it." She pointed to the bottle in front of him. "The corkscrew is in that drawer," she said, pointing. He opened his mouth to reply.

"Don't push your luck" said Cuddy, without turning round. Perhaps he shouldn't make a comment about being waited on. He opened the wine, poured it into a couple of glasses and passed one to her.

"Must make sure the chef's well lubricated."

She accepted the glass, and took a sip. His gaze was so intense it was almost daunting. She needed to keep the upper hand. She turned to take the casserole out of the oven, bending provocatively. When she turned round she found House brushing drops of wine off his shirt. She smirked.

"How did you manage to miss a mouth as big as yours?"

"I was distracted by your humongous ass – which is considerably bigger than my mouth. We could put it to the test if you don't believe me?"

"Are you ready to eat?" Which was perhaps not quite the right question to ask after that suggestion.

"Starving," was House's reply, with a look that implied a double meaning to his response. She found herself colouring and having to remind herself that she wasn't going there again. Remember the hooker.

"Sit down and I'll bring it over," she instructed. House picked up the wine and took it to the table with him. Then he sat, leaning back, one arm draped over the back of the adjacent chair, and watched her intently as she brought the dishes to the table and served the meal. She felt more comfortable when she sat down to eat, less exposed. He still hadn't really said anything, it was rather weird.

"I think I need a new word to describe… perhaps a portmanteau word," he finally broke the silence.

"New word to describe what?"

"You. Dryad perhaps…?"

"That's not new…"

"Dry Administrator – a new meaning rather than a new word." He screwed his face up in thought. "No, that's not really the image I what to verbalise. Foxy – fetching doxy… closer, but still not right."

Her lips compressed in disdain, and she carried on eating. He let his thought processes wander freely. He stared at the ceiling as if in deep thought.

"Ludite -- luscious Aphrodite… that's so not you. Ludicrous hypocrite… accurate but not the concept I'm after."

"More like ludicrous sprite or spite," she added, drawn into the game despite herself, her competitive streak unable to let him have free rein.

"Don't be so hard on yourself." His eyes snapped down to hers, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"I was thinking of you," she smiled, sweetly.

"Then get your own word. Bitch – butt-ugly witch… bawdy witch… hmm, not bad."

"Gremlin – great male cretin," she returned.

"That's not really a portmanteau word." He pulled his face as if disappointed.

"Sorry," she said insincerely, "You'll have to give me a bit of slack for being a beginner. Cad then – carnal dog or Pan – philandering man."

"Dragon – dangerously rabid Gorgon… hmmm, no, that's not it. Dangerously randy wanton… no, I've missed a 'g'."

"How about Cerebus -- cerebral doofus or Satyr – salacious tyro… hmm, tyro's not really you perhaps tyrant would be better." He gave her a mock smile.

"That's more you, you're the one who cracks the whip."

"But you're the randy old goat."

"I think I'll go with Gorgon…" he didn't elaborate. She waited, eating a few mouthfuls of food as if unconcerned with the conversation. However, it didn't last. She had to know.

"I hate myself. Meaning?"

"Aren't you going to have a guess?"

"What's the point? You'd just change it if I guessed correctly."

"No, I wouldn't." He actually sounded sincere. However, as it would be derogatory she was not going to give him ammunition to use against her later by effectively saying negative things about herself now. She noticed he was eating slowly.

"You don't have to eat it if you don't like it." Which seemed like a stupid deflecting gambit when she thought about it -- House eating something to be polite?

"I'm savouring it."

What? Dr. 'Inhale food don't let it touch the sides' House savouring? She looked up. There was that double meaning look again.

"It's delicious. Why wouldn't I like it?" he added. That look was what? Lascivious? Lubricious? Salacious? All three.

"I don't think there's a single one of your normal food groups in it," she said, keeping to the food theme.

"You think my taste buds are insensitive, incapable of appreciating the finer foods in life?"

"Well…"

"Chicken -- organic, corn fed. Mushrooms-- field, no doubt also organic. Onions, ditto. Lightly smoked streaky bacon, bay leaf, herbs… bouquet garni? And a soupcon of garlic for that final perfect flavour balance."

"Ohh," she was stunned – sometimes he was so abrasive, crude and such a jerk she just tended to assume he was uncouth, untutored, uncultured in all aspects of his life – shallow even -- apart from his medical prowess. So it pulled her up short when she was reminded that he wasn't. His apartment for, example full of books, pictures, antiques, knick knacks -- some of them complete tat but obviously what? keepsakes – House keepsakes? Certainly all sorts of paraphernalia of places he'd been, things he'd seen. Dozens of magazines, giving a lie to the fact he never did any work. Well stocked kitchen… she'd assumed that was a hangover from Stacy but perhaps not now she thought about it… and considering what appeared to be his diet and lack of exercise he was in a remarkably well preserved state for his age. Then there was his music… well, Mozart had been, supposedly, an uncouth and vulgar man. If there was anything to the karma view of the world no doubt that's how House's life was balanced out -- his medical genius was equalized by him being completely incompetent with more personal things. House spoke bringing her back to the present.

"You think I don't appreciate the good things in life?" He looked her up and down as he said it. She found herself blushing, again, and her heart was being unpredictable, again.

"As you run contrary to everyone else, what you consider the good things in life are probably what everybody else considers bad," she countered.

"So instead of good food, good wine, good music, good women. I like bad food, bad wine, bad music and bad women…. Okay your 25% right. Whereas for you good food, good wine, good music and good men is 25% wrong. You're attracted to bad men." He smirked, and took a swig of wine.

"Maybe, once…"she admitted, grudgingly, "but now I have a daughter, I need a good man, a reliable man."

He suddenly looked serious and took his time chewing his mouthful of casserole before swallowing.

"Good in what aspects? One who can take you to the heights of ecstasy every night?"

Once a jerk always a jerk, she thought. "No, one who likes children, would play with my daughter and wouldn't be jealous of the attention I give Rachel. One who could be relied on to be home when he says, doesn't go cruising bars, isn't selfish, puts the trash out, wouldn't complain about doing the shopping, knows how to cook, knows that clean underwear doesn't magically appear in the drawer from the hamper without human intervention and use of the washing machine…" She carried on eating as if there was no undercurrent to their conversation.

"You're not talking about a man, your talking about Wilson – he paints his nails and blow dries his hair, you could have cosmetic parties with him, too. You'd be bored within a month."

"I would not! Just because my ideal..."

"Bored!" He pointed his knife at her to emphasise his point.

"You're projecting," she said, dismissively.

"I read an article about women becoming slightly less fussy as they mature." Was this related to the conversation or was House circling the subject ready to ambush her? There was usually a reason for his apparent non-sequiturs. She ventured to follow the conversation, cautiously.

"Fussy?"

"Females mate with the first male that comes along as they get older, especially if they've been deprived from breeding when they're younger. The biological imperative makes a woman less choosy as she ages."

"That article was about mice."

"You don't think the conclusion can be extrapolated to humans?"

"Well… maybe ideals get toned down with experience. You don't think it's applicable to men, too? What's your personal experience, House? Are you more successful in the mating game now than when you were younger?"

"Can I plead the fifth?" She rolled her eyes.

"So, you're saying I should pick someone less reliable because I'm desperate?"

"No, I'm saying you'll only pick someone reliable if you are desperate."

She huffed, stood up and started collecting the dishes. She gasped as he reached out and touched her skirt. Well, the apron actually, fingering the frill between his thumb and index finger.

"This really is tiny – glad I won the bet. I certainly wouldn't have been cooking anything that involved frying wearing that."

Another non-sequitur -- a deliberate redirection? She was intrigued nonetheless.

"Would you have worn it?"

"Do you think I'd have reneged? You think I'm that unreliable?" His focus moved from the apron to her face.

"No, I…"

"Why are you so uncomfortable wearing this? The skirt's less revealing than those hot pants you wore at Uni and the top's no worse than some of the blouses you wear to work. Overall it's quite demur." He echoed her thoughts from earlier, damn him. "The seamed stockings and stilettos are a nice touch though. Looks like you could really get into role playing."

"House..." she paused, considering. "This isn't appropriate between us… I'm your boss."

"So, if I were your boss it wouldn't be a problem?" He had that tilt to his head and twinkle in his eyes that meant he was teasing. She ignored it.

"House, why are you doing this?"

"A man should live with his superiors as he does with his fire: not too near, lest he burn; nor too far off, lest he freeze -- Diogenes. I thought we were doing what we always do – playing games, winding each other up, pressing each others buttons, although I think I'd rather be undoing them." He reached forward and got his hand slapped.

"We are not doing what we always do. This has… escalated."

"You don't think this is me pushing the boundaries as usual?"

The thing was he could well be doing that and it would be within his 'bounds' of power play, and she could be getting all bent out of shape for no reason. In fact, her very reaction could well be feeding House's curiosity and she could find herself getting very embarrassed as House twigged why she was uncomfortable with it and proceeded to tease her or expose her. Better to attack first.

"You're pushing outside your usual boundaries."

"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go. (T.S. Eliot) I'm pushing your boundaries. That's usual." If they were tigers they'd be circling each other.

"The question is, why are you pushing yours?" There was the odd swipe of a paw in the others direction, eyes raking the other in search of weakness.

"I'm well within normal parameters." Tails swished as they planned their next move.

"For what?" She wore an aura of scepticism.

"Duh! For pushing your boundaries." The tigers did a dummy rush in trying to unbalance the other.

"No, you're changing the paradigm. The bet was personal. You're getting personal."

"Don't be ridiculous…" The tigress lost patience and went for the charge.

"Which doesn't make sense because you've made it perfectly clear you don't want a personal relationship."

"Cuddy…"

"You see, even the name -- Cuddy is your boss, House is my employee. If you were trying for a personal relationship you'd be calling me Lisa and I'd call you Greg, because we'd need to differentiate between work and not work." She was agitated and building up a full head of steam.

"So if I call you Lisa we'd be in a relationship and you wouldn't have a problem wearing this?" He tried reason, in the hope of catching her in a faulty bit of logic.

"You won't call me Lisa. And even if you did and I did want a relationship with… a bad man, I'd draw the line at one with the morals of an alley cat." That caught him out.

"What?" Did we not just establish I like the finer things in life?"

"Yes, apart from women."

"Hey, don't do yourself down."

"You're not denying you want a relationship?" She poked him just because.

"I…" he started to reply but she waved him off.

"It doesn't matter. Don't bother lying. I saw you with the girl with the tattooed arms."

"What girl with tattooed arms?" House was genuinely puzzled.

"I came to thank you for the desk. You were… occupied… I didn't interrupt."

"What are you tal… Oh, you mean DeeDee? The thespian, the one I used to scam Taub and Kutner – the one... ahh." The one that owed him three hours. Shit! Well, that explained the non-response to the desk. Still, why hadn't Cuddy just interrupted? If she'd been gearing herself up to thank him for the desk then why didn't she just do it? She was confident enough and assertive enough to have walked into his office when DeeDee was there. She should have been beside herself in glee at the opportunity to get her own back. Failing that, she could have brought the subject up later but she didn't.

Okay, so an hour before he'd screwed up big time, when she'd taken control of the conversation, tried to steer it in the direction she wanted, but not actually committed herself. He still wasn't sure whether she viewed him as anything other than an asset to the hospital, his usual fears had surfaced, consequently he'd misread and mishandled the situation… literally and figuratively. But she'd come to thank him after this, so the desk had trumped the earlier jerk response – which was good to know, he thought he'd completely missed the mark there but obviously not.

However, since then she'd seemed so composed and controlled, so resigned and… remote. So not angry. Initially, he'd found her attitude a bit odd but if he put the two events together maybe it made more sense. Morals of an alley cat… so Cuddy obviously thought DeeDee was a hussy at best or a harlot at worst. Therefore, on a personal level, she shouldn't have found her a threat. But she obviously did. So that meant… what? The desk really meant something… Cuddy sees him with hooker equals... hmm, coming up blank. Desk's a positive, Cuddy sees him with another woman… that meant… she was hurt? She was hurt so she had pulled back. Total avoidance of the subject – yes, he understood that behaviour only too well. He also understood that this was a bigger screw up than his fondling in the office. She was irrevocably set against him. No wonder she was calm, cool and collected, her mind was made up. He was laid out on the relationship morgue table as far as Cuddy was concerned. In fact, he was probably embalmed, incinerated and buried six feet under. Although, that meant she cared for him other than just as an asset, right? Well, had cared for him.

But something still didn't add up. Why on earth would she be hurt by a hooker when they weren't actually in a relationship? Even if she was seriously thinking about starting a relationship with him, there was no reason for Cuddy to feel threatened by a hooker. In a relationship, yes, she'd expect exclusivity, but outside she surely realised that it was just a distraction, a release. Unless her trust issues were more serious than he realized. She'd never been brilliant with relationships but…trust… everybody lies… there was something he was missing. And he couldn't work on his resurrection miracle without more information.

"You thrive on conflict, why didn't you just barge in? It was an opportunity for you to get your own back for me interrupting your dates."

He was subjecting her to the blue laser stare, the one that indicated he was focusing on something, chasing down some elusive point that he thought would lead to an epiphany. Nevertheless, she maintained her cool.

"That would have been childish," she replied, placidly.

"Not in the games we play, it would have been rather a neat move in fact… especially if you thought she was a hooker, it would have been an exquisite irony – you'd have been using up valuable time I'd paid for. There's something more here…"

"The games 'you' play. There's nothing more than a respect for your private life. I know this is a strange concept for you so don't try to understand it, just accept it."

"Nooo, you're dodging." He paused, thinking. She had that exasperated look on. She was about to speak when House interjected. "What happened between you and Llyn?"

"What?" The shock on her face should have been a warning but he was curiously unaware when it came to his own safety.

"Well, there you were hurtling for the altar faster than I could dial a hooker. Then it was all over. I know you ride 'em rough but you don't normally break them that quickly."

"None of your business." The controlled clipped tone was another warning that House just breezed through.

"He cheated on you, didn't he? Well, a name like Llyn what could you expect but a loser."

"Get. Out." Her eyes flashed daggers. If looks could kill he be dead – hung, drawn, quartered, crucified, flayed, incinerated, emasculated, decapitated, impaled, and struck with a plague of boils… with maybe a bit of electrocution on the side.

He looked stunned. Well, he'd touched a nerve there. There as a heavy silence… Rachel started crying.

"Leave now!" said Cuddy, with one last blistering look in his direction before she turned heading for the nursery.

My turn to be saved by the wail, thought House. He gave her long enough to get to Rachel before he moved.

"I'm not going until I've had dessert," he called, loudly. He'd screwed up again but he wasn't going until he'd done some damage control this time. Sometimes he wished he could just keep his mouth shut but he just got lost in the analysis and forgot. He opened the fridge door – Ooo, chocolate mousse!