"Any more eggrolls?" House asked as he scraped for a few runaway morsels of orange chicken.

"I ate the last one," Cuddy answered.

"Thief."

"So sue me," she grinned. "After all that rich gourmet food I was in the mood for something greasy and filled with preservatives."

"A woman after my own heart." House grinned back and slurped down some ginger ale.

She eyed the cardboard box still on the table. "Checkers?"

"Yup. I had to do something while you were gone."

"So you played checkers?"

"With Wilson. And I kicked his ass."

"Think you can win against me?"

"I should warn you, Dr. Cuddy," he said with his Cheshire cat grin. "I won one hundred and fifty bucks off Wilson before he gave up. I have no qualms with taking that much, if not more, from you."

"Did you play dirty?"

"No, I played mercilessly."

"Double or nothing I win the first game." Cuddy leaned into the table.

"Three hundred dollars for a game of checkers?"

"I'm good for it, and so are you."

"You're on." House opened the box and unfolded the board. "I'm red."


"How many tee shirts does one person need?" Cuddy piled the shirts on the bed as House lounged and watched impassively, propped up on the pillows.

"They're comfortable," he said, as if that was all the explanation anyone needed as to why he owned so many. "Are you going to go through each and every one?"

"Three hundred dollars or two tee shirts, Greg," Cuddy smirked without looking at him. "Do you have another Jack Daniels shirt?"

"No."

"Too bad. I really liked that one," she said, sifting through the pile. "Oh, this one looks familiar." She held up the colorful Ramones shirt as if it were a trophy. "What do you think?"

"It's you," he deadpanned, though his eyes glimmered with amusement.

"I think so too," she beamed and tossed her prize on her shoulder.

"Why don't you just buy some of your own?"

"This is more fun," Cuddy replied as she continued to search through the dozens of shirts. "If I buy my own they'll just be mine and not yours, therefore they won't remind me of you." She stopped and scowled. "Motley Crue?"

"It was a gift."

"Sure it was." A roll of her eyes and the sifting started up again.

"So when do I get to pick out one of your tee shirts?" House asked just for the hell of it.

Glancing over, she said, "If you're man enough to wear a pink tee shirt with kitties on it, be my guest. But seeing as how you're nine inches taller than me it probably wouldn't reach your navel."

He pretended to think it over. "Pink really isn't my color."

"Here we go!" A large gray shirt with emblazoned with Jim Morrison's picture was held up to the light.

"You want it, it's yours," House sighed, then gave her a friendly swat on the rear with the cane. "Just don't let those near any ancient washing machines."

"Believe me, I won't," Cuddy replied as she stuffed the rest of the shirts back in the drawer and glanced at the time. "It's ten-thirty and I have to be in early tomorrow. Let's say we call it a night."

"I'm not tired."

"Don't you ever go to bed before midnight?" she asked, sitting at the foot of the bed.

"Nine times out of ten, the answer is no," he said.

"What about tonight?"

"I'm not tired," he repeated. "I'll just get restless and fidgety, toss and turn and keep you up all night."

"Can you at least try to come to bed at a decent hour?"

"We'll see what the insomnia decides," House said. "I can't make any promises. But if you decide you're in the mood for a rematch, Lisa, just let me know."

Cuddy wore the Ramones tee shirt to bed. Piano music echoed in and out as she fell asleep.