Rating: T

Disclaimer: The usual. I'm borrowing, kids, don't panic!

Author's Note: And here's chapter three for you. Once again, as most authors typically do, I really appreciate the feedback that I've recieved! Any constructive criticism is always noted, and hey, votes of confidence never miss the mark either. Grin. Anyway, this piece involves a sizeable chunk of Wilson/Cuddy (strictly friendly) interaction for the fun of it--who wants to tell me how it turned out? I think I mentioned this, but I'm not quite as sure-footed with those two characters, so if I'm missing the mark, I'd love to know. And finally, to clarify, the breaks that I put in chapters don't neccesarily indicate a lapse in time-- more of a pause in continuation. Something akin to where they put commercial breaks if you're watching a show on TV. Heh, Sorry for the long A/N! Enjoy this installment, I'll get the next one up soon.

If anyone had walked through the door labeled "GREGORY HOUSE, M.D." at that precise moment, they would have been rightfully confused, and probably concerned—the bearer of said title was slumped in his chair with his elbows on his knees and his forehead was resting flat on the desk. A piece of paper with striking resemblance to a wedding invitation was tented over his head, and every once in a while, a soft groan emanated from somewhere beneath that expensive stationary. In short, the person who walked into that office right then would have probably assumed the owner had himself contracted some sort of inexplicable and deadly disease. As the head of diagnostics, Gregory House would have agreed with them. He had, somewhere in the past fifteen minutes, fallen prey to a ghastly case of stuck-my-nike-in-my-mouth-itis.

House groaned for the umpteenth time and shifted a bit. He was getting a headache, but that was probably because the unforgiving edge of his desk was making a semi-permanent dent in his forehead. Stupid stupid stupid stupid… It was becoming his mantra, and only the return of pain in his leg caused him to grudgingly admit that he couldn't sit there all day like that. Blue eyes fluttered open and focused dully on the uninteresting carpet.

Did he actually just get himself into what he sincerely hoped he didn't..? He wondered, knowing that the answer was yes, and that now his mind was in danger of sounding like a broken record. Time to face fact: Yes, his cousin had called about the invitation. Yes, she had told him that his family was placing bets on his wretchedness. Yes, in a moment of ego-salvation, he had word-vomited his way into asserting that he was going to attend the wedding, he was going to bring an attractive woman who was allegedly his new girlfriend, and that he was now a regular old teddy bear as opposed to his typical misanthropic self.

"Oh. Crap." This time the words actually found their way from his mouth, and House let out one last sigh before lifting his face from the desk. The cursed invitation, his harbinger of doom, slid off of his head as he did so, and he spared it only one look of contempt where it landed on his keyboard. So— since we've come to terms with the idiocy— now what? He wondered wearily, knowing that stewing in his self-made stew of screwed probably wouldn't be that effective in solving his problem.

He needed help—now where could he possibly find some selfless sap who would not only serve as an outlet to unload his issues on, but would over-analyze the situation and produce some ridiculously shrink-esque solution..? For a cripple, House was on his feet and hobbling towards his balcony in record time.

...x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x...

"I was wondering, Dr. Wilson, if you would consider being my bill-board physician for this bunch of donors." Cuddy crossed one leg over the other, her hands absently smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. For his part, Wilson looked up from the prescription he was scrawling, one eyebrow raised.

"Excuse me?"

A few minutes earlier, the Dean of Medicine had knocked on his office door and asked if he had a spare moment to chat. Ever-reasonable, the oncologist had prudently decided that this woman signed his ample paychecks... and for that reason he could afford a few minutes to indulge her. So thinking, he'd graciously offered her the seat across from himself usually reserved for two types of miserable persons—those who were suffering with the slow and painful death of cancer, and House who was suffering with… being House.

Anyway, Cuddy had sat down primly in the uncomfortable chair, and proceeded to talk about everything and nothing in a way that made his head spin. What was it with women and dumping their issues into his lap—?Well, to be fair, there was a certain male diagnostician who regularly participated in the same past-time… Wilson had shaken his head as his thoughts once again began wandering from whatever topic his boss was going on enthusiastically about. Oh, this is stupid, won't she get to the point—? He had wondered dully, and it was then that he decided to ask just that. The answer, as it had come, caught him a bit off guard.

Cuddy chuckled shortly at the expression that had flitted across her friend's face—he looked down right befuddled. Clearly she'd have to take a different route. "Alright, so you remember how I asked you to baby-sit House this afternoon?" She started slowly, and he nodded.

"Uh-huh. Cost me money for his lunch, and then most of my fries." Wilson mumbled, and If she didn't know any better, Lisa Cuddy would have thought her Head of Oncology was pouting.

"What?! Gregory House used you for your food? Now who could have predicted that? Call up Chicken Little and go alert the king— the sky must be falling!" she gasped melodramatically and clutched at her heart. Wilson rolled his eyes and the woman seated across from him snickered knowingly. Those boys and their antics…

"Anyway—tattling on your buddy aside—" Cuddy began again, the smirk still lingering in her voice. "If you remember, the reason I asked you to get House out of the way was because I had to show a group of potential benefactors around the facilities." Gaining another nod, she continued in her best Dean of Medicine voice. "So, the reason I came down here is because I want you to be poster-boy for the hospital while this particular bunch is on the scene."

"Poster boy."' Wilson echoed vacantly, confusion still creasing his forehead. "You want me to be… Poster boy. As in… a poster boy?"

"Bingo. Don't know how, but I think you've managed to sum it up! " He was clearly still perplexed, and she smiled sweetly, waiting for the next obvious question.

"Well… what do you mean by poster boy..?"

Cuddy titled her head to the side knowingly. "And here I thought you were intuitive!"

The oncologist snorted derisively and gave her a rather pointed look. "Hey, you came here and asked me for a favor—Go easy on the sarcastic mockery." He half-sighed, but it turned into a chuckle. "C'mon Dr. Cuddy—What are you now, a House-wannabe? Pretty good imitation, but where's your cane?"

"Touché, Dr. Wilson."

This time both colleagues laughed, and the atmosphere was a bit lighter for it. Finally though, Cuddy, in all of her administrator-ness, brought them back to the topic at hand. "So, what do you think? Want to do this hospital a favor?"

What now..? Oh. Oh yeah, the 'poster boy' thing. Wilson leaned back in his chair a bit and fiddled with his tie—the green one, to be exact. "You still haven't told me what I'd be doing, exactly," he prompted and she steepled her fingers in contemplation before answering.

"Well, you'd be a kind of liaison for the current group of potential donors—you know, so that they could put a kind face on the otherwise chilly image of a sterile hospital. You wouldn't have to do much, I assure you; maybe give a few tours and take them out to lunch. Answer questions. Schmooze. Stuff like that." The Dean of Medicine waved her manicured hand around dismissively, as if it were nothing, and once again fixed him with that persuasively saccharine smile.

If the rapidity of her explanation and forced care-free tone hadn't tipped him off that she was leaving some part out of the equation, that smile certainly did. Wilson happened to know that that particular simpering expression was reserved for patients who wanted to sue her diagnostician… and the fact that she was now using it on him set off warning bells. Brown eyes narrowed slightly and she tried to maintain her nonchalant exterior.

"Okay… Lisa," he started, and she visibly ducked her head a bit at the use of her first name. Crap. So much for not appearing guilty.

Noticing the reaction, Wilson raised a brow knowingly. Schyeah. I thought so! His brown eyes seemed to say with a tinge of smugness. "So what aren't you telling me about this? What's the ulterior reason for wanting me to be Mr. Princeton-Plainsboro over anyone else?

It could be said of Dr. Lisa Cuddy that she was a woman of many qualities—but naïve wasn't one of them. She knew the jig was up and she would have to come clean, but the next bit of explaining would have to be done carefully. "You're a great doctor, and a likeable guy—" she started, only to get that skeptical stare. "Okay, okay, so maybe I had a… a reason for asking you before I offered the job to anyone else…"

The other doctor waited for what she was about to say, expectancy written across typically smooth features. Drawing a breath, Cuddy went on.

"So. Erm. The things ­is…"

"Is what?" He pressed in a bored tone, and stopped again and shook her head, smiling oddly.

"Okay, you know what? Pretty simply put, the reason I asked you is because you're the kind of person these donors can relate to."

"They have… what, terminal cancer? Bum legs and Vicodin addictions?" Cuddy started snickering again at that comment, and Wilson conceded a few chuckles too before returning to his skepticism. Ahh House—endless entertainment, even when he wasn't there. Or, more accurately, especially when he wasn't there.

"Seriously though. What condition could these people have that you would assume they'd have a better time relating to me?"

"Ovaries."

"Wai—wha—huh—?" Well that way of putting things had certainly caught him off guard.

"They're women, Dr. Wilson." Cuddy confirmed with an amused smile. She waited while he grappled with that statement for a moment, taking the opportunity to examine her fingernails. As expected, it was only a few seconds before he spoke again.

"Oh. Ohhh. Wait, so you're asking me to take these people out to lunch because… I have an extensive track-record in terms of. Of… of wooing females?"

His boss seemed to consider that statement for a moment, before nodding with a shrug. "Yep. That about sums it up."

Wilson threw his hands up in defeat and rolled his eyes skyward. "Great. My grandest contribution to this hospital has less to do with cancer break-throughs—and more to do with my… my… hair! Go on, it's my hair, isn't it? FINE, I BLOW-DRY IT DURING THE WINTER TO PREVENT CATCHING MY DEATH COLD! SO SUE ME!" he ranted haphazardly, and Cuddy stared at him in shock for a moment. The young oncologist sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Go ahead and say it: my golden locks are a bigger asset to this institution than my medical degree."

"Well… yes, the hair is lovely… But I tend to think it's more about those big, brown eyes. You've got quite the set of bedroom eyes, Dr. Wilson," She added in a helpful tone, carefully keeping her face straight, and he gaped at her in surprise. Ten seconds later, the still air of the oncology office was filled to bursting with raucous laughter.

James Wilson propped his elbows on his desk and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with unrelenting hilarity. Rather similarly, Lisa Cuddy had one hand covering her mouth and the other braced on the arm of her chair for support. Trying in vain to get her giggles under control, she fought to get out a coherent sentence.

"S-so… How ab-bout it, Dr. Strangelove?" she managed to gasp out, clutching rather pathetically at her aching diaphragm.

Still chortling himself, Wilson shook his head for the millionth time. "I-I'm probably going to re—to regret this…" he mumbled through laughing and wheezing. "B-but okay, you win-n. I'm a… a push-over. Just…" One more deep breath and composure returned a bit. "You can't tell House. I'd never live it down—"

"Can't tell House what that you'd never live down?"

Cuddy literally jumped in surprise and Wilson glanced up sharply as a very distinct voice lent itself to the conversation—A certain grouchy doctor had seemingly materialized from nowhere in their midst.

...x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x...

"Okay, maybe you misunderstood. Let me rephrase that: can't tell House what that you'd never live down?" House repeated after a pause, staring between his boss and his best friend suspiciously. Both looked ruffled, and the tell-tale signs of unrestrained laughter still on their faces. What've you done now, Jimmy?

Instead of answering, Cuddy gave the tall doctor a strange look. "Where the Hell did you come from?" It was a fair question—she couldn't fathom not having noticed if he had walked through the office door.

Okay, so Cuddy wasn't going to play along and answer—Not a huge surprise there. No matter, he'd get it out of Wilson later. The diagnostician returned the dry smile. "Nice to see you too, Dr. Cuddy. Now, as to your question: Once upon a time, there was a dashing military man named John House, and an innocent fair maiden named Blythe Sandbourne. One weekend, they decided that a nice weekend at John's family cabin would be a perfect escape, but neither counted on the effect that a few bottles of champagne and that alluring sheepskin rug in front of the fire place could have—" He started loudly, making wide gesticulations with his hands.

"UGH—STOP! ALRIGHT, I'M GOING!" and with a flurry of covering her ears and fairly running from the room, it was only seconds before Wilson and House were alone in the oncology office. The former turned to his friend with a raised eyebrow.

"Scaring your boss away with the potentially graphic story of your conception. That's a new one, House."

"Yep. Surprisingly effective too—might've been a new high-speed record for Cuddy-deterrent! I'll have to keep that one on call for when she remembers that I'm supposed to be in the Clinic right now." House smirked triumphantly, limping over and plopping himself down in the chair that their female colleague had so quickly vacated.

"Uh-huh." Wilson muttered, used to this sort of behavior after so many years of their somewhat dysfunctional friendship. "So. I actually do have things to get done today, so why not just cut to the chase and tell me what sort of favor you want," he said bluntly, running a hand through his hair.

Well that statement certainly brought him back to Earth—he had been going to ask for some patented Wilson advice on how to surgically remove his foot from his mouth. House stalled, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then stalled again by grabbing the stapler off of his friend's desk and beginning to fiddle with it.

Taking in this fidgeting, James regarded his friend with a new wariness—something was drastically wrong if Gregory House was at a loss for words. Click. Click. Click, Went the stapler, and the young oncologist massaged his temples for a moment in preparation for whatever was going to come his way. Finally, he reached across his desk and plucked the office gadget from the diagnostician's nervous grip. " Okay, Let's have it," he sighed and closed his eyes one last time. Brace for impact—

"What have you done now, House." It was a solid statement rather than an innocent question, and they both knew it. The other man inspected the un-interesting cuff of his jacket, noting absently that Wilson always seemed to say his name a lot when he was agitated—it was House this, and House that. Maybe it was the general idea that if things were exasperating, that surname was most likely involved.

"I opened my big fat stupid mouth."

"No, you—?" Wilson gasped, and received a withering glare. He chuckled. "Sorry, you're going to have to be a little more specific. What happened, did you volunteer for giving more student lectures by trying to convince Cuddy that you couldn't do the one this weekend?"

The next answer was a bit harder to discern, as it came from somewhere underneath limbs and sleeves; House had folded his arms on the desk and buried his face in them. "Mmph—No. At this point, that stupid kiddie talk isn't the biggest problem on my plate for this weekend…" he trailed off, figuring that the analytical Wilson could probably take it from there.

"Uh, why—what do have for…" the other man started, before realization bit him right in the ass. There were few things that really got to House, and even fewer that the guy would consider worse than having to talk to a pretentious group of med students. That meant it was something huge. Something that his friend would dread more than getting saddled with screaming, two-year-old, ear-infected triplets in the Clinic.

"That wedding." He breathed, and the other man only burrowed deeper in his sleeves. "That invitation Cameron was talking about is for this weekend and you… You're going. Wait, you're going?!" Wilson's expressive brown eyes shot open as the notion fully congealed in his mind. "Oh for Chrissake—an hour ago you wouldn't have been within a hundred miles of that family reunion for anything in the world—and now you're planning on attending—?! What the Hell happened, House?!"

Huh, there was his name again. House shrugged before dragging his eyes up to meet those of his shell-shocked companion. Not that he could blame Wilson for being blind-sided by the concept. Deciding to just get it over with, he looked down and exhaled heavily. "I might have mentioned that I would show up… And um. And maybe I alluded to the fact that I was bringing hot date…" he mumbled, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck uncomfortably.

The oncologist gaped at his long-time friend in blatant disbelief. "You said what..? To whom? And for the love of God—why?!"

"In order of your harsh enquiries: First, I said I might have announced that I would attend, and that perhaps I had a new girlfriend to show around. Second, the person who called earlier was Lindsay. Third: not a damn clue. Maybe I should get Foreman to schedule me for a CT scan."

"Lindsay as in… Your cousin?" a nod. "But—but something must have prompted you to jump off that cliff! What did Lindsay say to you, exactly—?" Wilson protested haltingly. The Greg House HEknew wasn't easily persuaded, and a concession such as this would have required one HELL of a list of perks…

"They kicked me where it hurts." House figured that explanation was simple enough, but the look he was getting indicated that he should clarify. He sighed before scrunching up his face in aggravation. "Ego, buddy. Busted me right in the Goddamned ego."

"Who is they?"

"Everyone. Whole fucking family." Another grunt. "Listen, Jimmy, there's a bet going—a bet on whether Gregory shows up at the lovely party. A bet on whether he's still destined to die alone. A bet on whether he's still a misanthropic sonuvabitch."

Wilson leaned forward a bit as his friend fell silent. What the Hell—? Was House being serious? If he was—what kind of sick family structure would allow that kind of thing? "House…"

"I had to say something, Wilson. I had to salvage what little pride I have left where concerning my relatives. I know, it was a stupid fucking thing to blurt out, but I couldn't help it at that particular moment…"

Uh-oh. This was dangerous territory where the caustic diagnostician was concerned… Aware that the other man was truly uncomfortable with the topic of family amongst anything else, Wilson nodded understandingly. "No, you're right. That's sadistic—I um. I probably would have done the same thing."

House sighed one more time as the office quieted again. God, this certainly wasn't helping anything, and he didn't really want to talk about acceptance issues—he had only come for advice. So thinking, the gruff older doctor shook himself mentally and then offered his friend a quirky half-smile. "Well thanks for that vote of confidence in my idiocy, Jimbo," he managed, trying to move the conversation tone back into the sarcastic banter they were accustomed to.

Catching on, his friend only smirked and rolled his eyes. "Oh you know me. Always on call for the sake of your pride."

"You just admitted to being the hooker to my ego."

"Shut up, House."

Ahh, comfortable territory at last. The two doctors shared an easy glance of mutual understanding before House slapped a hand to his forehead dramatically once again.

"Right. Shutting up. But Jimmyyyyy—" he whined piteously. "What am I gonna dooooo?!"

Wilson chuckled, tapped his chin, and seemed to contemplate the question for a moment. "Well, you could always just call back and make up some excuse about a last-minute seminar or something, right? How about a new patient that's going to kick the bucket if you don't fix them by Monday? You could lie. You know—that thing you're always doing to escape the wrath of Cuddy, or con other people into doing your dirty work?"

House rolled his eyes and shook his head stubbornly. "Can't. They'll know it's a lame excuse and then that'll just make those assholes think that they were right about me."

"House. They are right about you. You weren't planning on going, you don't have a girlfriend currently, and certainly haven't suddenly morphed into Mr. Roger—Ouch! Hey!" Wilson slapped a hand to his cheek indignantly as a bent paperclip was sent on a zinging path to his face. The man who had flicked the piece of metal snickered self-indulgently and stuck out his tongue.

"That's what you get for bringing up those trivial little technicalities."

"Right. The truth of the situation is just a 'trivial little technicality—OUCH! Damnit, House, cut that out!"!

House merely held up another bit of ammunition and raised an eyebrow. "Stop saying things that will just provoke my defenses then, would you? Jeez, Wilson, don't you know how to deal with me yet?"

"You're such an immature bastard."

"Yeah, yeah I think you may have mentioned that a few times before." The diagnostician waved impatiently, ignoring the sharp glance from his friend. "Listen, what've you done with the other Wilson?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I need the psych-ward Wilson who wants to diagnose my problems and dream up extravagant solutions to them! C'mon, I'm telling you that I need help on this one—I need some of that good ol' fashioned Boy Wonder advice!"

Wilson snorted and shook his head. "Uh. Let's recap: First it would have been an icy day in Hell before you'd think of going—and now you won't consider not going. Hmm," he began sarcastically, pointedly ignoring House's hand motions that indicated he should hurry up with the advice part. "Okay, so you're going, and apparently you've got to have a pretty shall we say, trophy, with you?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Um. How about a hooker? You could probably find one to play the part of a girlfriend for a weekend if you paid her enough—"

"Was Pretty Woman on TNT last night or something?" House cut him off rudely. "Listen, it's a cute story and all, but really, 80's-style Julia Roberts in that swimsuit-type get-up she had on in the beginning isn't exactly my cup of tea." Wilson sighed resignedly, muttering something about 'beggars can't be choosers.'

"Besides, this person needs to be at least of adequate intelligence—I can't show up with a brainless bimbo—that'd be worse than if I showed up with you dressed in drag!" The strangled snort that emitted from his friend brought a smirk to the diagnostician's face for a second. "So, should I take that as that a 'no, I don't want to be your date, Greggie darling'?"

The oncologist shot his friend a somewhat dirty look and decided not to even bother indulging in that particular line of mockery. "You know what? I don't know what the Hellyou're going to do about this—but it serves you right for letting that gigantic ego of yours cloud your judgment."

"Oh, oh no, don't go all self-righteous on me now, Jimmy—I really need you to help me out, here—!" House protested, only to get cut off.

"I'm sure you do. One thing though: I really don't have the answer for you this time. Good luck with all of it though—let me know what you come up with for your master plan!" Wilson smiled patronizingly before making a shooing motion. "Now run along and play, I actually have some work I have to get done."

He was expecting response to that, but it was at that moment, the pager on the diagnostician's belt went off. Both men stared at it for a moment, before House held it up to read the message. He snorted and shook his head.

"What's up?" Wilson asked, smoothing out the stacks of paper on his desk.

"Just Cameron letting me know that she's going to the lab. As if I care where she is when I'm not around. Jeez, that woman is needy—"

"You know, in light of recent pathetic events, I don't know if you're exactly in the position to be calling anyone else needy," the younger of the two pointed out. "You're the one who needs to find a decent girl charitable enough to accompany you to a wedding that's happening in less than a week."

Stuck without anything to say in rebuttal, House had to settle for letting out an annoyed grunt and levering himself to his feet. He'd figure this out by himself. However, as he made for the door, Wilson's teasing tone floated after him.

"Hah, maybe you should just ask Cameron to go with you—She needs validation from you, and you need a good reputation from her. You'd be mutually compatible in your neediness!" The statement was followed by that signature Jimmy Wilson chuckle, and House could think of no comeback other than to shut the door behind him harder than he needed to.

...x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x...

Schyeah, some helpful best friend Wilson is, he thought darkly as he hefted himself over the divide between their balconies and wandered back towards his own office. Pssh—even suggesting asking Allison Cameron makes him a ridiculous idiot… The stoic M.D. set about reassuring himself, but for some reason the thought wouldn't complete itself right away.

He made his way back into the building and sat down in his own chair. The diagnostics conference room was empty, and House thought that he could hear his watch ticking as that one thought chased itself around in his head. Hmm… Allison Cameron is a doctor, said that annoying sensible voice in his head. She's clearly intelligent, has an interesting job, is sickeningly endearing to everyone she meets, and then there's the obvious plus-side to the fact that she's gorgeous…

Uh oh. House's fingers tightened a bit and his heart jumped into his throat at the realization of what that stupid voice was trying to talk him into. Ask Cameron to a family wedding? NO WAY! He argued back in his own mentally cynical tone of voice.

Why not? Asked the first persuasive voice. You've got three days, Sherlock, and you don't know THAT many women—where are you even going to find another option?

But it's Cameron—!

All the more reason she's the obvious choice—she can STAND being around you, which is more than can be said for MOST women. Wow, even the voice in his head was poking acerbic fun at him. Hell, the woman wanted to DATE you at one point; and even if that's not the case any more, she's still way too nice and caring to say no.

House wanted to argue back against that insufferable reasoning, but fumbled with forming a viable case.

Oh admit it, taunted his own personal Jiminy Cricket. Allison Cameron would be the ideal choice for this stupid thing you've gotten yourself into. And anyway, there are worse things you could think of to do than showing up with a stunning young doctor on your arm and shoving it in everyone's smug faces!

After that there was no more mental debate—there simply wasn't anything else to factor in. Blue eyes fell upon that same invitation on the desk, the item that had started it all with its arrival, and the doctor snorted as he pushed it to the side. He would play his Nintendo DS for now while he waited for a certain immunologist to make her way back to the department.

Oh Jesus, he was actually going to do it—The screen flickered to life and the battery hummed quietly beneath his fingertips—He, Gregory House, was going to ask Allison Cameron to be his date to a family wedding. House popped another Vicodin and hoped she would be detained in the lab for awhile yet.