Epilogue
Cuddy had spent half the afternoon flitting around the university's ballroom, checking on details that she'd hired more capable people to handle. House would call her every five minutes, quizzing her on the bar's stock, on the dealers' qualifications, on the health status of the caterers, on the competence of the band. She'd have stopped taking his calls hours ago, but in between demands for top shelf scotch and requests that she document any runny noses and weeping sores on the wait staff for future civil suits, he'd throw in an innocent, "So, when you said no more sex if I fired another fellow…you were just joshin' me, right?"
Once he'd annoyed her enough, for a few minutes at least, House would hang up on her, glower at his remaining fellow (who just couldn't seem to understand that, no, it wasn't all just an act and, NO, he wasn't interested in attending next month's conference on the deleterious effects of iPods and cell phones), and then hassle some of the oncology nurses just to let Wilson know how bored he really was. Then it was back to calling Cuddy and back to glowering and it was a nice, warm cycle of killing time until his big date.
It would have made sense to carpool with Wilson to the charity function, and just meet Cuddy there, but she'd insisted on coming home to pick them up.
"What is this, a reenactment of your junior prom?" House had asked her. "Because I can totally get behind a game of poppin' the cheerleader's cherry, but I'd need reassurances that you're going to put out at the end of the night. Some sort of down payment. I accept cash, checks, major credit cards, and blow jobs."
"I just want to make sure you get there," Cuddy bitched.
"Please. There's free booze and gambling, and Wilson's here to drag me kicking and screaming. What more can a man possibly need?"
"You do know you have to pay to play, right?"
"Bring Wilson's wallet. Check."
For all he had teased her, House was looking forward to this evening out. Hell, he'd admit to being almost excited, like a cheerleader the night before…I really need some fresh metaphors. Like a fat guy at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Like a drug addict with an all-access pass to the pharmacy. Like a man hearing from James Wilson:
"God, you look so fuckable in that tuxedo."
"So you've said," House smirked, checking the knot of his tie in the closet mirror.
"Hey, the last time I saw you in a tux, I said you looked good," Wilson reminded him, batting his fingers away from the bow tie and then smoothing out the seams of his jacket.
"Still clinging to the delusion that you were one hundred percent straight until that night nine months ago when, whoops, you tripped and your dick landed in my ass, I see."
"Could you be any more disgusting?"
"Aww, Jimmy, you know I can," House beamed.
"Don't encourage him," Cuddy warned, interrupting House's nonverbal demonstration on just how fuckable Wilson looked in a tux.
"Curse you and your ninja-like stealth," House moaned, though part of that sound was due to the sight of Lisa Cuddy in the tightest red dress House had ever seen.
"Where are the hooker boots?"
"Wilson and I share custody and it's his turn to wear them," she answered, smiling when House's eyes, predictably, rolled back into his skull.
"That's it. Everyone: clothes off NOW."
"No time," Wilson smirked. "You'll just have to live with the anticipation."
"How about a little Chinese fire drill with the panties? I promise I'll behave at this stupid fundraiser if I have the mental images of you in Cuddy's thong and her in your tighty whities keeping me company all night."
"Everyone moves in a Chinese fire drill," Wilson reminded him. "What are you going to contribute to the party?"
"Well, I'm going commando, so I'm afraid I'll have to abstain."
"You're not!" Cuddy and Wilson both gasped, eyes drifting instinctively down towards House's crotch.
"Only one way to find out," he answered, wagging his eyebrows.
The three of them eventually made it to the ballroom, where House immediately stomped off to the bar to have a drink, leaving Wilson to buy them all some chips for the poker tables and Cuddy to mingle with the prospective donors.
"Nice place," House grunted when he joined Wilson ten minutes later. Holding the annual Black Tie Affair at the ballroom rather than in the clinic after hours meant there was room for more food, booze, and even a live band. It was only an hour into the event and some people were either drunk or comfortable enough to start dancing near the stage, while the poker tourney was in full swing.
"She looks good," House added, nodding towards Cuddy. She was talking to some rich blowhard, who she couldn't possibly like enough to justify that smile, that gorgeous laugh, but she did look happy and, when she glanced over at them and her smile brightened just so much, House couldn't help feeling a surge of warmth and…gratefulness, at the thought that he might be some small part of why she was glowing.
"We should go rescue her from that dillweed," he grumbled, grumbling being his top-secret code for "don't bust my balls about that fleeting look of happiness you may or may not have seen just now, Wilson."
"Leave her alone, House. She's in her element," Wilson nagged, trying to steer them both towards the nearest poker table.
"You should go dance with her or something."
"I hardly think that would be appropriate."
"I hardly give a crap. And I'm not talking about airing our dirty laundry. Nothing wrong with a thrice-divorcee giving his single and hot boss a test drive on the dance floor."
"What about you?" Wilson asked, and House couldn't tell if he was nervous about leaving him out or about putting himself and Cuddy on display.
"Right. Give me a top hat and tails and I'm Fred Astaire. Already got the cane," House answered, holding up his fancy (cough-PIMP-cough) cane, as if Wilson needed the reminder. "I'm serious. Go dance with her. You know I like to watch."
The leer is what did it, and minutes later, House was leaning against the bar and watching Wilson leading Cuddy across the dance floor. And every which way they twirled, one of them would always be smiling at him over the other's shoulder. No subtlety, he thought, but it wasn't something he'd call them on.
Hours later, they were back in the kitchen of Cuddy's (their) house, drinking water or setting up the coffee machine for the morning's first brew or laying out a baffling regimen of daily vitamins. Ties were undone, shoes abandoned at the door, sleeves rolled up and stockings stripped off. Not in the sexy come hither and do me way, but in the God, these things itch and I'm. So. Hot. way. Wilson was telling him about a new diner on Main that he wanted to try. Cuddy was weeping over her stolen yogurt. He was meeting his dish quota for the month, rinsing out that morning's breakfast bowls.
Then, he felt Cuddy's arms wrap around him, and saw Wilson reach to turn off the sink tap.
He loved their sneak attacks best.
"We didn't get to dance with you" Cuddy murmured against the back of his shirt, and he briefly wondered how much lipstick and eyeliner she'd leave in her wake. Then she started swaying, resorting to using all her weight to move him with her, one bare foot lifting off the ground at a time, providing an accompanying slap of skin against tile. He was sure she looked ridiculous, but he felt safe enough and good enough to smile, to trust her enough to lean back into her embrace, before finally he had to turn around.
"Hands in the air," he instructed, and she and Wilson both jumped back in alarm, sure that this was a replay of the water fight they'd had the week before, when, in an effort to sell washing dishes as fun, they'd shown off the hose they'd had installed in the kitchen sink.
House grinned and, grabbing one of Cuddy's hands in his own, caressed her lower back and began leading her into a twirl. Wilson stepped back to give them room, chuckling as he watched House twirl Cuddy over and over again until she pleaded, laughing, for House to stop.
"Come on, big boy," House teased, cajoling Wilson into taking a spin. Once, twice, and then he called uncle.
Someone yawned. Someone suggested pancakes for breakfast. Someone said time for bed.
"Great," House smiled. "Wilson can work on his dip. Unless you want to practice the basket hold."
"I…can't even tell anymore if you're trying to be dirty, or if you just come by it honestly," Wilson complained.
"Only one way to find out."
The End.