Summary: Sandwiched between the bickering pair at a fund raiser dinner, a bored and ignored Wilson invents a Huddy drinking game.

Rating: PG-13

Notes: For the Cuddyfest on LJ.

Ninety-nine Bottles

My name is Dr. James Wilson. I'm an oncologist, and I work at Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital.

I'm also bored out of my mind and starting to get just a little annoyed.

I am sitting at the bar, a beautiful woman on my right, a sadistic bastard to my left. And the night's only getting started.

I knew it was going to be trouble the minute House marched over here. Frankly, I was surprised he had even come. After all, he had already been to one function this year, and that was generally his quota. He was even wearing a suit.

I know Cuddy noticed, too. As much as she tried to conceal it, I saw the flickering in her eyes the moment House entered her line of vision. And it had nothing to do with surprise or annoyance. Okay, maybe a little of both, but it was mainly something a lot more intense and primal.

House didn't even try to cover up what he thought of Cuddy's attire...or at least what it revealed. His first comment of the night was "My, the twins are looking perky tonight. Are they enjoying their night out?"

Cuddy shot him a look, but didn't reply. He then proceeded to plop down on the previously empty bar stool on my right side.

Naïve, I know, but I thought that just might be the end of it. Maybe I could continue my conversation with Cuddy, and House would just ignore us. No such luck.

Don't know what the hell I was thinking, anyway. It's not his style to just sit there and do nothing when he could be making a perfect ass of himself.

The moment I turned back to Cuddy to continue where our talk had left off the minute before, House spoke again. And this time, Cuddy shot back. And that was how it started.

The great House and Cuddy argument of 2007.

Actually, what was worse was that this probably wouldn't be their greatest argument. It probably wouldn't even make the top three.

So I've been sitting here for the past five minutes, bored and a little aggravated. I tried to inject myself into the conversation a couple of times but it didn't work. I didn't expect it to, anyway. Both of them are completely focused on each other. They're managing to keep their voices low so as not to make a scene, but I know that they're just barely managing.

It occurs to me as I sit there nursing my beer that if I were to reach out both of my arms and shove the two together, they would probably start making out right then and there. Of course, if I actually voiced this statement -- and they heard me -- they would both look at me like I was insane and go back to their sparring match. They can deny it all they want, but I'm not blind. I know the truth; anyone who isn't completely dense or braindead knows it. There's enough sexual tension between those two to light the entire hospital. And then have enough left over to shoot a rocket to the moon.

As House hurls an insult back at Cuddy, an idea comes to me. A drinking game. My drink is practically full, and it's about the only thing left to do, anyway.

The rules should be fairly simple to make up.

Take a sip for each insult, command, or curse word.

Take a drink for each comment House makes about a part of Cuddy's body and any time Cuddy brings up clinic hours. Also when either of them mention Vicodin.

Take a gulp if their faces get within an inch of each other or they touch. (They avoid touching, I've noticed. Must be part of denying the attraction...or maybe a way to simply help your self-control. Who knows?)

Down the whole thing if Cuddy makes a comment about a part of House's body. Or if House brings up clinic hours.

Buy a whole damn case and drink them all if they confess to any form of attraction -- not including House's usual comments -- lust, or love for each other. Or if they start kissing right then and there.

And let the game begin, I think as I take an already mandatory sip.

And then another sip. Followed by a drink, three more sips, and a gulp because Cuddy reached out and touched House on the arm.

I was going to need more beer the way this was going.

Sip. Curse word, courtesy of House.

Drink. Clinic hours, courtesy of Cuddy. Shocking, really, that they never develop any new material. Who knows, in their own sick way, they probably enjoy this game that they play. They just go round and round over the same things again and again.

Another gulp. House leaned down toward Cuddy's face and gave her a dirty look.

Ah, yes, nothing like resorting to the third grade to win an argument.

I wonder what they would say if they knew I made up a drinking game about them.

The thought makes me laugh a little, and two heads swivel toward me for half an instant before turning back to each other.

In the midst of all these thoughts, I had downed the rest of my beer, and another is set in front of me.

I make a mental note to tell the bartender afterward what I'm doing. He'll think it's funny, judging by the look in his eyes when he glances at the two

Soon enough, I'm done with my second beer. I don't think I should order a third -- it's no good to be drunk at a hospital function. Besides, the dispute from Hell seems to be winding down.

After a few more seconds, it becomes apparent that they seem to have reached a truce. Or at least a stand-off. I don't think a truce is really possible with these two.

Completely unobserved by anyone else, Cuddy slips a tiny piece of paper into House's hand as she leaves, moving across the room to greet some potential donors. I pretend to ignore it, but that doesn't stop me from being curious.

What could it be?

Two hours later, the event is drawing to a close, I'm making conversation with an attractive red-head named Kara. House limps by, pausing only to talk to me.

"See ya later, Jimmy! Gonna go get me some," he comments, wiggling his eyebrows.

Kara makes a face and excuses herself. I would ask her to stop, but I know it's probably no use. Besides, I may as well head home, too.

As I follow a few yards behind House, I notice a small scrap of paper flutter down from House's jacket pocket as he opens the door to escape into the muggy New Jersey air.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and when I bend down to retrieve it, I recognize it as the mysterious paper Cuddy passed to him earlier this evening.

I see no use in waiting until I get home to open it; it's probably just one last jab, a reason he has to do clinic hours in the morning. Or maybe it's a picture of a llama. Who knows.

It will probably be completely disappointing, but I can't help it. The thought of what it might be has been tormenting me off and on the entire night.

I unfold it, and it turns out to be a note, written unmistakably in Cuddy's flowing scroll. My eyes widen as I read it.

Meet me at 10 tonight. Usual spot.

And wear the tux...I like it. The twins do, too.

Oh. My. God.

End