Wilson braced himself and sat across from Cuddy in the cafeteria.

"Bad news," he said, cringing a bit. "I can't go to the wedding."

She inspected his face to see if he was messing with her.

"You're joking!" she said finally. "We made this plan months ago."

"I know," Wilson said, as contritely as possible. "But something important came up."

"Someone better be dying."

"The opposite actually," Wilson said, trying to keep his voice bright. "Someone is living. You know my old med school buddy at New York General? Don Weinberg? His wife just gave birth. He was supposed to be the keynote speaker at the IMA conference in Denver tomorrow. Asked if I'd fill in."

"Let him get someone else to fill in!" she said.

"I'm his last hope," Wilson said.

"You're my last hope!"

"I feel terrible about this."

"Apparently not terrible enough," she said. Then she proposed: "Why can't Don go to Denver, give the speech, and fly back on the red eye? He'll be back in the nursery in less than 24 hours! They'll barely notice he's gone."

"It's twins," Wilson said, by way of explanation.

"So?"

"His first children!"

"So?"

"Born prematurely."

Cuddy sighed in defeat.

"Well, crap," she said. "I thought just once I was going to go to a wedding and not have to listen to a bunch of old Jewish women telling me I should smile more or trying to fix me up with their loser sons who live in the guest house above the garage."

"Sorry," he said.

Cuddy gave him a "I'm pissed, but I'll forgive you" look.

"You could always ask House to do it?" he said gamely.

"Not interested," House said, sliding into the booth next to Wilson. For a guy with a limp, he was surprisingly good at sneaking up on people.

"You don't even know what we're talking about!" Wilson sputtered.

"If Cuddy wants me to do it, fairly sure I'm not interested," House said. Then he noticed Cuddy's face, changed his tune. "But based on the atomic death stare Cuddy is giving you right now, it's something she really doesn't want me to do. In which case, I'm all ears."

"I was supposed to take Cuddy to her friend Patty's wedding this weekend," Wilson said, ignoring Cuddy's glare.

"I was right the first time," House said with a shrug. He grabbed half of Wilson's ham and cheese sandwich and began picking out the tomatoes like a child who was convinced they had cooties. Then he looked at Cuddy again, squinted. "But judging by the extreme relief now washing over Cuddy's face, you weren't just taking her to a wedding. You were going to pose as her boyfriend!" He was now grinning, in an evil sort of way. He took a bite of the sandwich. "I'm in."

Cuddy shook her head.

"Not happening," she said. "Not in a million years."

"C'mon, lover, it'll be fun!"

"Actually it would be the opposite of fun—it would be the fourth ring of hell."

"I'm excellent fake boyfriend material."

"The only kind of excellent boyfriend material you'd make is ex boyfriend material."

"Cute Cuddy."

"Let it go, House."

"I promise to be on my best behavior."

"Your best behavior is the moral equivalent of Wilson's worst behavior."

"Hey!" Wilson said, offended.

"I'll be a veritable dream date," House said.

Cuddy peered at him.

"Why?" she said.

"I have to have a reason to be on my best behavior?"

"Historically, yes."

"Six months off clinic duty," House said, with a small smirk.

"I'm not giving you six months off clinic duty!" she said. "I don't even want you there."

"No, but you wanted someone to come. A handsome, impressive male who will pretend to love you and, for one night at least, will make you feel less like the dateless loser you actually are."

"Well, you are male alright," Cuddy said, folding her arms.

"You have no idea how impressive . . .and handsome I can be," House said.

She looked at him. She had to be crazy to be even considering this.

"I can't just bring anyone," she said, lamely. "I've already RSVP'd for Drs. Lisa Cuddy and James Wilson,"

"Call me James," House said. "Or Jim. . . Jimbo, if you prefer."

"You could never pull it off," Cuddy said skeptically.

"Try me."

Cuddy folded her arms, contemplated him.

"Six months off clinic duty if all goes well. Six months extra clinic hours if you hit on Patty's sister, fall down drunk, make an offensive toast where you disparage the entire institution of marriage, or humiliate me in any other extravagant way."

House raised his eyebrows.

"Done," he said, holding out his hand.

She reluctantly shook it.

Wilson leaned back, resting his head contentedly on his crossed arms.

"There," he said. "It's working out for everyone."

#######

She had to admit it: When he wore a suit and bothered to give a crap about his appearance, House was impressively handsome. Sometimes she forgot how objectively good-looking he actually was. She tended to see her own regrettable attraction to him as a kind of perversion, an innate character flaw.

"So far, so good," she said, straightening his tie.

"You should dress like that more often," House said, taking in her white wrap dress.

And they left it at that.

The wedding was in Washington D.C., which meant they had to stay overnight. She'd already arranged two hotel rooms for herself and Wilson. House complained that not only was this a horrible waste of money, it was in direct contradiction of the whole "boyfriend" story.

"I can afford it," she said dismissively. "And if anyone notices we're in separate rooms, I'll just explain that I'm saving myself for marriage."

House snorted loudly, but let it go.

When they got to the wedding, she whispered in his ear, "Don't forget, you're James Wilson, head of oncology at Princeton Plainsboro."

"I'm a method actor," he said. "I'm already picturing puppies and kittens and cartoon hearts."

They sat at a table with several other couples, many who knew Cuddy from other social functions over the years (mostly other people's weddings.)

They all eyed House with naked curiosity.

"So how long have you been seeing each other?" asked Sally Bingham, a sorority sister of Patty's who lived in Washington.

"Uh, just a few months," Cuddy said hastily.

"And you work together?"

"James is the head of oncology at the hospital," Cuddy said.

"I prefer to call it oncareogy," House said, smiling.

The table returned his smile, pleased with this development.

"And how did things go from professional to personal?" someone else asked teasingly.

Cuddy was about to answer, but House interjected.

"Turns out, we both have a habit of visiting coma patients after hours. Because just because someone's technically brain dead, it doesn't mean they don't appreciate a tender squeeze of the hand, a few kind words, or just a little company."

House beamed at Cuddy.

"Go ahead, honeybuns," he said, smiling beatifically. "You finish the story."

"They don't want to hear our story, dearheart," Cuddy said, through gritted teeth.

"Of course they do," House said.

The guests all nodded eagerly.

"She can be shy," House said, giving Cuddy her own tender squeeze of the hand.

"One night, after a long day of saving lives, I went to visit Mr. Schlotsky," he continued. "82 years old. Hasn't opened his eyes since the Bush administration—the first one. I was going to sing to him. He was a musician back when he was conscious. But would you believe it? Dr. Cuddy had beaten me to the punch. There she was, singing some sort of traditional Jewish folk song. Horribly out of tune, of course, with a voice that sounds like screeching cats."

Cuddy glared at him.

"But to Mr. Schlotsky—and to me—she sounded like an angel," he said, giving Cuddy an adoring look. "Then our eyes met across his motionless, legally dead body, and, well, I don't want to get overly mushy on you guys. But I think you can figure out the rest."

They table all breathed collectively, positively enchanted by his story. They looked at Cuddy, eager for confirmation.

"It was um, a . . . special night," she said, half-heartedly.

"All this talk of music," House said. "Care to trip the light fantastic?" Then he turned to the table. "Unfortunately for me, I mean that quite literally."

More laughter. A man willing to acknowledge his handicap! This guy just kept getting better and better.

House grabbed Cuddy and guided her onto the dance floor—a slow song.

"Don't you think you're laying it on a little thick there, James?" she said.

"Just trying to earn my vacation from clinic duty," he said.

He rested his hands on her ass.

"How bout we move those hands northward?" she said.

"Everyone's watching," he whispered in her ear.

"So?"

"So if I move my hands northward, after just resting them southward, it'll look like maybe we're having a fight."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.
"Okay, keep them there."

Then she made a face.

"But you don't have to massage my ass," she said.

"When Neil Armstrong landed on the moon, did he not explore a bit?" he said.

"Less exploration, more sedentary contemplation, Neil."

House grinned, but kept his hands still.

"Aye-aye, captain," he said.

Then he pulled her closer.

"Have I been a model fake boyfriend so far?" he whispered.

She looked up at him. His face was so close to hers she thought he might go in for a kiss. She wasn't totally sure she would mind.

"Oddly yes," she said.

####

House kept forgetting that his name was supposed to be James. He'd be sitting at the table, daydreaming, or whatever it was that he did when he stared into space (solving quadratic equations for fun?) and someone would try to get his attention: "James. . .James. . .James!" until he'd finally look up, in a daze.

"Yeah?" he said.

"I was just asking you what it's like dating your boss," Sally said.

"She's the boss in the hospital and I'm the boss everywhere else, if you know what I mean," he said. Then he raised his eyebrows. "And I think you do."

"I would hardly say that," Cuddy said, a bit snappishly.

"She hates when I discuss our sex life in public," House said, with a grin.

"Almost as much as he hates extra clinic hours," she shot back.

"Actually," House said. "It's really more of a give and take, in all areas of our life."

Cuddy smiled, satisfied.

"But you must be so proud of her," Sally said.

House looked at Cuddy, took a bite of his chicken.

"I am," he said.

####

House was at the bar getting drinks for himself and Cuddy ("the usual, dearest?" he had asked, although he had no clue what the usual might be), when a 30something man approached him.

"Seth Bartel," the guys said, sticking out his hand.

"Gre. . . James Wilson," House said, shaking back.

Seth looked over at the table, where Cuddy was having an animated conversation with Sally.

"So have you guys been dating long?" he asked.

House shrugged.

"A couple of months."

Seth gave a weary sigh.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but I envy you."

"Yeah, she is pretty great," House said, then caught himself. "Once you get past the constant neediness and crippling insecurity," he added.

"It just seems like our timing is always off," Seth said, ignoring him.

"Meaning?" House probed.

"I probably shouldn't say."

"Too late."

Seth peered at Cuddy, then back at House.

"Two weddings ago, Lisa was seeing someone. The last wedding we both attended, I was. We joked that one of these days we were both going to be single at the same time and probably end up marrying each other."

"Huh," House said.

"But that's a terrible thing to say," Seth added regrettfully, slapping House on the arm. "She's with you now. I'm happy for you."

House squinted at him.

"She said she wanted to marry you?" he said. He took in Seth's appearance more closely. A definite tall, dark, and handsome type—perfect teeth, curly hair, twinkly eyes. "What did you say you did for a living?"

"I didn't," Seth said. "I'm an architect."

"Residential? Commercial?"

"Commercial, mostly. I actually just designed the new wing of the Modern American Art Museum for the Smithsonian," Seth said.

House gaped at him.

"Lisa and I aren't really that serious," he said quickly.

Seth side-eyed him.

"You're not?"

"Actually, we have what I would describe as a pretty open relationship," House said, shaking the ice around his glass. "I say if you want to pursue her, you should go for it."

"Really? Cause this sort of feels like a trap," Seth said, with a nervous chuckle.

"No trap," House said. "In fact, here. Take her this drink." He handed Seth the cosmo he had just ordered for Cuddy (seemed a safe enough bet).

"And you really don't mind?" Seth said, taking the drink, getting excited.

"I really don't mind. Truth be told, I had my eye on someone else at this party"—a lie— "so it works out perfectly."

"Wow, thanks, James. You've made my night. I promised myself I wasn't going to let another opportunity with Lisa slip away."

"Then what are you waiting for?" House said, with false enthusiasm.

Seth raised the glass in a "cheers" sort of way and quickly sprinted toward Cuddy's table.

Her face lit up when she saw him. They embraced. Then Seth sat down next to her.

"Fucking great," House muttered to himself, and took a sip of his scotch.

####

Half an hour later, Cuddy came to find him.

"Where the hell have you been hiding?" she said, slightly pissed.

"Not hiding. Just laying low."

"Now everyone thinks I have an inattentive boyfriend."

"That Seth guy seems pretty attentive."

Cuddy smiled, in a slightly dreamy way.

"Yeah, he does, doesn't he?" she said.

"He likes you," House said.

She squinted at him.

"How do you know?"

"He told me himself. Says you guys used to joke about marrying each other. . ."

"Joke, yeah. . . ." Cuddy said, skeptically.

"Well, he's into you. Are you into him?"

"I'm here with you," she sputtered.

"Your imaginary boyfriend."

Cuddy swallowed hard.

"Wouldn't it look a little weird if I suddenly started hanging out with Seth when I came to the wedding with you?"

"I never realized you were so concerned with what other people thought of you, Cuddy," House said.

"I'm . . .not!" she said, defensively.

"Then go dance with the guy. I told Seth that you and I had an open relationship."

She seemed genuinely puzzled.

"But . . . why?"

"Because I . . ."—don't want to stand in the way of your happiness—"was getting sick of the whole Being James Wilson routine. All that caring is giving me an ulcer."

She cocked her head, looked at him.

"You're sure?" she said.

"Positive," he said, trying to keep his voice breezy. "Go. Have fun."

"Okay?" she said. It came out more like a question than a statement. "If you insist."

And she walked back to the table.

A few minutes later, he saw Seth ask her to dance.

He sighed, scratched his head, ordered another drink.

"Gee, you look happy," a female voice said, sarcastically.

He turned. A punkish young woman—bleached blonde hair that fell into her eyes, pink eye shadow and lots of smudgy black eyeliner—had sat down next to him.

"This is me happy," House said. "I tend to smile when I'm miserable."

She laughed.

"You're really a guest at this wedding?" she said. "You don't seem like the rest of these bougie types."

House had no idea what "bougie" meant—but he assumed, correctly, bourgeois.

"Oh, I'm very bougie," he said back. "I'm so bougie that the letters MD come after my name."

She stared at him.

"Really? You're a doctor?"

"For reals."

"I never had a doctor who looked like you," she said. "If I did, I might try to catch colds a little more often."

House shrugged. She was pretty, even if he hated her contrived look. And he was bored. He continued with the flirtation.

"What about you? Is there a Courtney Love appreciation convention going on in D.C. that I didn't know about?" he cracked.

"Funny," she said, chugging her drink (Red Bull and vodka). "I work for the caterer. And I'm officially off duty."

"Lucky me," he said.

"I'm Bridget," she said.

"James," he said.

"I saw you dancing with that pretty lady," Bridget said. "Is that your girlfriend?"

"Does she look like she's my girlfriend?" House said, gesturing to where Seth and Cuddy were slow dancing near the band.

"I'd have to say no," Bridget said. And beamed at him.

#####

Even as she was dancing with Seth, Cuddy found herself thinking about House. It was true, she had always liked Seth. He was funny, charming, handsome, even Jewish. In some ways, ideal husband material.

But why had House suddenly stepped aside like that? Could it be because he was sacrificing himself for Cuddy? Looking out for her happiness? Could it be that the cynical bastard actually cared?

She shook off the thought. Naaaa, impossible.

####

When the wedding ended, Bridget wanted to go back to his hotel room for "a drink in a more intimate setting."

A guy who couldn't get laid at a wedding really had no game at all, House thought.

He looked over to where Seth and Cuddy were huddled in the corner, deep in conversation. He wondered what they were talking about. Then he looked back at Bridget. Maybe she could wipe some of that crap off her face before they hooked up.

"I have to talk to my date first," he said. "I'll come find you."

"Don't keep me waiting, James," she said, smiling dirtily. "I hate to be kept waiting."

"I don't move particularly fast," he said, gesturing to his cane. "If waiting's not your thing, maybe you've got the wrong guy."

"I'll make an exception for you," she said, sweetly.

He limped over to Cuddy and Seth, whose heads were bent toward each other. Seth looked up guiltily, as though he had just been caught doing something against the law.

"Can I. . . grab Lisa for a second?" House said.

"Of course, man. Anything you want. Of course."

House pulled Cuddy into another corner.

"Sooooo. . . what's the plan?" he said.

"The plan?"
"With you and Seth."

"Actually, he. . .wants to continue our conversation in a more intimate setting," Cuddy said, with a sheepish shrug.

"A lot of that going around," House said, under his breath.

"What?

"Forget it."

"Let me just say goodnight to him," she said. "And then we can leave if you want."

"Is that what you want?"

Cuddy inspected his face.

"I don't know," Cuddy said. "I feel weird about this whole thing."

"Don't worry about me," House said. "I've got company."

He cocked his head toward the bar, where Bridget was twirling a maraschino cherry around her tongue.

"You mean Pink over there?" Cuddy said, slightly aghast.

"The very one."

"Huh," she said. "Is that what you want?"

"I want what you want," House said. Again, he realized that he had perhaps revealed too much. "My Get-Out-of-Clinic-Duty-Free card depends on it."

"I don't know what I want," she admitted.

"Well decide."

They looked at each other searchingly, each waiting for the other to flinch first.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to have one more drink with him," Cuddy said, uncertainly.

"No, it wouldn't," House said, feeling deflated.

"And you're really going to go back to the hotel with her?" she said.

"Unless you can think of some reason why I shouldn't," House said.

"No," Cuddy said. "I . . . guess I can't."

"Checkout's at noon," House said grouchily. "Have fun."
######

Seth was a gentleman and really did want to have some meaningful conversation and drinks back in Cuddy's room. (He was hoping that it might lead to something. But only hoping.)

Bridget, on the other hand, was all over House the minute they entered his room. He had to physically fend her off.

"I thought you said drink," he said.

"Suddenly, you're shy?" she said, trying to kiss him.

"No, I just really want another drink," he said testily, pushing her off. "Problem is, there's no ice. I'll be right back."

He grabbed an empty ice bucket and made his way into the hall. He had noticed Cuddy's room at check in: 1213. He took the elevator to the twelfth floor. (He didn't really have a plan, beyond pressing his ear against the door like a pervert to see if he could hear anything.)

And just as the door opened, there was Cuddy, looking nervous, shifting her weight from one foot to the next.

When she saw him she bit her lip adorably. "I was just. . ."

Without hesitating, he grabbed her, pulled her into the elevator, slammed her against the wall, began kissing her.

She kissed back—desirous, relieved. She wrapped her legs around him, as his mouth migrated from her mouth to her neck to between her breasts.

"I don't want you to be with that blowhard Seth," he admitted, his breath hot in her ear.

"I don't want you with to be with Punk Rock Barbie," she admitted back.

Their hands were beginning to greedily explore each other—he was hiking up her tight white dress and she had managed to untuck his shirt and find some bare skin around his stomach near his pelvis—when the elevator door opened, revealing a shocked Sally Bingham and her husband Dave.

House and Cuddy unclasped, both a bit out of breath. House hastily pulled down Cuddy's dress.

"Get a room, you two!" Sally cracked, all smiles. Then she turned to her husband. "I told you."

"Told him what?" Cuddy said, trying in vain to fix her hair, embarrassed.

"That you two were doing some sort of role playing thing," Sally said. "No way you were really flirting with other people. You guys are way too into each other to pull that off. But hey, whatever keeps the old fires stoked."

"Believe me, I'm stoked," House said. "Way, way stoked."

Dave Bingham winked at him.

The elevator opened and Sally and Dave got out.

House and Cuddy were alone again.

He leaned back over her, pinning her against the elevator wall with his arms.

"Now what?" he said.

She wrinkled her nose.

"The problem is, Seth's still in my room," she said.

"And Bridget's still in mine," he said.

"Should we see if the hotel has any vacancies?"

THE END