Item One: I don't own House or Cyrano de Bergerac. I'm not making any money of this...not that I could if I tried.

Chapter Three:

At eleven thirty that night, Wilson had just snuggled into his bed when his doorbell rang. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding—whoever it was sure wasn't going to take no for an answer. He sighed and flicked on his light. Marching down the stairs, he mentally ran through all the people that could conceivably be at his door at this hour and only came up with one name: House.

"Take a wrong turn on the way home?" he asked as he opened the door, too sleepy to argue.

"Not me," he replied, stepping in. "I was bored, I got scared of the bogeyman, I haven't paid my rent in three months—take your pick."

"Nice try. So why are you—"

"We need to talk."

"About what?"

"Your love life…or lack thereof."

Wilson blinked. "Okay…So what's the big deal? Why now, at eleven thirty at night?"

"I figured you'd be awake anyway, moaning softly to yourself about love and loss as you cried yourself to sleep."

"You figured wrong," Wilson said, gazing forlornly up the stairs. "I was just settling in for the night."

House nodded. "So I see—there aren't even any tearstains on your cheeks yet."

Wilson's patience was beginning to wear thin. "What do you want, House? What's so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

"The chief, the boss, the big cheese—she's into you."

"…What?"

House, feeling increasingly sickened by the idea, grumbled, "Cuddy thinks you're cute."

"You're kidding."

"Actually, I am. She said you were nice. I read between the lines, though, and concluded that she believes somewhere inside that dorky lab coat beats the heart of a genuine babe."

Wilson grinned, unable to believe his good fortune. "You really think so?"

"Trust me, she wants nothing more than to rip your clothes off and help you remember what sex feels like…if there's any remembering to be done on your part, at least."

"Hey. No raunchy jokes. Not about Cuddy."

"Oh, yes, we wouldn't want to dishonor Cuddy. God knows, she's so pure, so modest, so virginal."

"Not for long," Wilson said, smiling mischievously.

"What's that thing the kids say these days? Oh, yeah: TMI." At Wilson's confused look, he elaborated. "Too much information."

"You're just jealous because Cuddy likes me."

"She's interested in you. Stop sounding like such a middle-schooler."

"So what do I do now?"

"Now?" House blinked. "Now you might need to actually talk to her."

"Talk to her? Why?"

"To ask her out on a date. I know it's been a while, but those are those things where you and the object of your affections get together and you wine and dine her until she's so drunk she can't remember her name—"

"So that's what you owe your romantic success to…or lack thereof."

House smirked. "Touché," he said. "So tell me: what are you going to do?"

"What should I do? Should we go to a movie? Do people still do that?"

"Last I heard, Hollywood was still in business. Nothing good's out, though."

"Any horror flicks playing?"

House rolled his eyes. "Some date. Cuddy doesn't seem like the type for horror movies. She might get scared."

"If she does, I can—"

"Pull the comforting act. I know. It's too clichéd—she'd find you out in a second. Try again."

"What about…miniature golfing?"

"Too cold this time of year."

"She can snuggle up to me and—"

"She'll see right through it. Jesus, I know you're new at this, but give poor Cuddy some credit. She's not an idiot."

"All right, Yoda, what would you do?"

"Cuddy. That's the whole objective."

Wilson glared at him. "If you're not going to be serious about this, then you can just—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," House told him. "Hold on there. I never said I wasn't serious."

"Well, you're sure not—"

"I'd take her to a museum," House mumbled.

Wilson shook his head. "Too nerdy. I'm trying to steer myself away from that image, not dive right into it."

"Cuddy likes that you're nerdy! That's why she wants to date you! Besides, she's the kind of woman that needs her mind stimulated. If you don't excite her mentally, you're a lifetime benchwarmer on Cuddy's baseball field."

"I disagree."

"Disagree all you want. I'm right."

"I think I should go with the classic approach. Dinner and a movie."

House rubbed his temples exhaustedly. "We already looked at the movie angle. And for God's sake, whatever you do, don't go to dinner."

"Why?" Wilson looked truly puzzled.

He sighed. "She has Irritable Bowel Syndrome," he said sarcastically. At his friend's disgusted look, he quickly added, "Good Lord, it was a joke."

"Not a very funny one. But tell me, what's wrong with going to dinner?"

"You have nothing to stimulate good dinnertime conversation."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Wilson scoffed. "We have so much in common, like the hospital!"

"Boring! Picture this: you pick her up, negotiate plans for the evening, directions to said plans, and that takes about the entire ride to the restaurant. You're seated by a charming maître d', you steal cute little glances at each other while pretending to scan the menu, and finally you order."

"Sounds almost…oh, what's the word I'm looking for? Just right."

"I'm not finished. As I was saying: you order. This is the real deal now: no food to talk about, no suggestions to make, no distractions. Just you, her, and the wine. You burst into a long-winded story about this irritating clinic patient you had, and she says, 'Oh, let's not talk about work tonight. Let's catch up. Tell me how you are.' And you say…"

"I'm fine; how are you?" Wilson replied automatically.

"I'm great, thanks," House said, doing his best to imitate Cuddy. He flashed Wilson a brilliant smile to help the illusion along.

Either the smile didn't help or Wilson truly didn't know what to do, but the two men stood gazing at each other for over ten seconds before Wilson finally protested, "But this isn't how it's going to be!"

House threw up his hands in frustration. "Yes, it is! Don't you get it? You can't even play pretend with your best pal in the world. How do you think it's going to feel when you're sitting across from her, with her hands right next to yours and her cleavage hanging out all over the table and her huge pearly whites shining out at you…and you don't know what to say?"

"I won't be looking at her cleavage. I'll be looking right into her eyes."

"Wilson," House said authoritatively. "Whatever you do: don't look into her eyes."

"Why not?"

"Because then you'll really lose it. You'll sweat, you'll stammer, you'll feel like you're choking. I'm telling you: don't do it."

"You know what? I think you're making all of this up."

"Yeah—I'm the one who's never gone on a bad date. I wouldn't know," he said, thinking of Cameron.

"You're just jealous because…because you like Cuddy!"

"I don't like anybody."

"Forget it. I don't need your help—all you're trying to do is sabotage me. I can handle this on my own. In fact…" Wilson turned and dashed up the stairs. "I'm going to do something about it right now!"

"It's too late to call her!" House cried, amazed at his friend's naivety. How the hell was he going to get up those stairs? Stupid cane…

"I'm not going to call her, dummy!" Wilson called. "I'm going to shoot her an email!"

House rolled his eyes. "My, my, aren't we getting bold."

"Dear Cuddy," he read aloud.

"Oh, for the love of God, don't call her 'dear,'" House pleaded.

"And I suppose you could do better?"

"Infinitely. Now get your ass down here and let me write a real email."

Within ten minutes House had composed an email that even Wilson had to admit was nothing short of genius. It read:

Hey Cuddy,

I can be naughtier than nice. Don't believe me? Be ready at seven tomorrow night and I'll prove it.

Until then,

James

"Isn't just a little too forward? I mean, naughty: is that what I want to come off as?"

"If you want to get some before the end of the decade," House told him.

"And why did you sign it 'James?'"

"Would you rather I put my own name at the end?"

"I'm just saying, it sounds too…I don't know…"

"Relax, Jimmy. You want it to sound different. It shows you're really ready to take your relationship out the doors of that hospital and out to dinner, into bed, on the beach, wherever."

"I still don't know if—"

House hit the Send button before Wilson could finish his sentence. "Too late. Destiny has spoken. Get some sleep. With any luck, you'll need it for optimal performance tomorrow."

At six thirty the next evening, Wilson was a nervous wreck. He'd only spoken to Cuddy briefly during the day, but judging from the smile on her face, she hadn't been too upset to learn that he wasn't all nice. Still, he was petrified.

After the sixth attempt at knotting his tie, he threw it to the ground in frustration and decided to brush his teeth one last time instead. He studied himself in the mirror when he was through. "Looking good," he said out loud, and, dear God, his voice was cracking like he was going through a second puberty. He'd have to fix that, and fast.

He glanced at the Listerine next to the sink. A final gargle, he decided, for luck…

"Ouch!"

Cuddy was in the shower after getting home late and somehow she already knew this evening was going to be a disaster. She looked at the red stripe of blood running down her calf and muttered, "It's like bathing with Jack the Ripper." She forced herself to slow down, finished shaving without another incident, and got out of the shower.

Twenty minutes later, she gave herself the once-over. Apart from the band-aid on her knee, she didn't look just hideous, but was it right? Hair down, meticulously applied make-up—she'd even managed to squeeze herself into that little black dress she hadn't worn since God knew when. It had better have been right. If she messed this up…

The doorbell rang.

Oh, God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God….

Cuddy opened the door and smiled at him. "Hi," she said pleasantly.

"Hi," he said. "Ready?"

"Absolutely." She stepped onto the front stoop—which, she noticed happily, was quite cramped, perfect for a goodnight kiss, should there be one for her in the near future—and asked, "So where are we going?"

What had he decided to tell her? Ah, yes. "That's for me to know and you to find out," he replied, and she giggled. He was all right now—just stay calm…and for God's sake, don't…what had House said he wasn't supposed to do?

Who cared? He could handle it.

They got into Wilson's car and drove away.

Gimme an R!

R!

Gimme an E!

E!

Gimme a V!

V!

Gimme an I!

I!

Gimme an E!

E!

Gimme a W!

W!

What's that spell?

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I've always secretly wanted to be a cheerleader. :)