Chapter Four: Bunny Boy

Wilson drew in a sharp breath, wishing he could frame this moment in time. Memory would do 
for now, but what he really wanted was a camera, a video recorder, hell even a picture phone, SOMEthing to immortalize the image before him.

“James!” Emily called to him with a smile. She was poised, one foot on the bookcase, the other 
on the edge of her desk and Wilson moved forward, feeling a sense of alarm mingling with the 
rise of lust at the sight of her stocking-covered knees only inches from his face. She held a 
framed diploma in one hand and he realized she was trying to hang it.

“I’m sure Maintenance has a ladder somewhere—this is too dangerous—“ he called up to her, 
his hands reaching out to brace her, and stopping half-way. She glanced down and sighed.

“Yes, but you know how it goes—you page them and it takes forever to get a response, 
especially for housekeeping issues like this. Hanging pictures is considered nonessential. 
Besides, you’ll stabilize me, right?”

“Uh, right—“ Having been given tacit permission, Wilson gently placed his outstretched hands 
on either side of her knees and looked up at her, determined to ignore the jolt of heat running 
through him at the contact. It had been months since he’d touched Julie on a personal basis, 
and Emily’s skin through the mesh of her stockings was warm.

Tempting.

“Woo, now I know you ARE a doctor, man, those fingers are chilly!” she teased, turning to face 
the wall once again. Wilson manfully turned his head, trying to keep from the temptation of 
peeking up her skirt. Emily spoke again. “So you’re in early this morning—couldn’t sleep?”

“Something like that,” he murmured, trying to block out the memory of the yelling match of a few 
hours past. Julie had been cruel and all too pragmatic in calling the marriage over; Wilson had 
opted out of getting drunk in favor of holing up at the Best Western and watching infomercials 
until dawn.

He’d thought about crashing with House, but Greg’s solution would definitely have involved 
whiskey and in any case, the man had already shouldered him though two divorces. Time to 
handle it on his own.

“Ow—“

“Sorry—“ his grip on Emily’s legs had inadvertently tightened. She looked down and the tinkle of 
the nail falling echoed in the room. Emily groaned.

“Damn it! Okay fine, let me back up . . . Woooahhh!”

Several things happened all at once in a rush: Emily came off the bookcase and dropped down 
in a rush of fabric and gasps; Wilson tightened his grip a second too late and felt the warm 
slide of her frame along his body as his palms skimmed up her skirt to snag at her waistline. By 
the time three seconds passed, Wilson had his hands up under her bunched skirt, holding it 
practically at her waist.

The door opened, and Mitzi, the floor desk nurse took one look at the tableaux with startled 
eyes. She leaned back out the doorframe and called out,

“Man! Tell Lisa Jane she won. Doctor Wilson, when you’re . . . ready, you’ve got a patient in 
Exam room two.” Mitzi lumbered out, closing the door once more as Emily pulled away from 
Wilson, frantically smoothing her skirt down.

“Gah! James, please let GO—“

Yanking his hands away as if he’d been burned, Wilson did, stepping back and knocking 
another framed diploma off the desk; the glass in it cracked as it hit the carpet. Emily spun, and bumped her nose against Wilson’s shoulder as he tried to turn himself. They both hopped away 
from each other, clutching injured body parts.

“Oww!”

“Em, are you all right?” Wilson asked, embarrassed and miserable. She looked up at him, a 
thin stream of blood trickling out of one nostril, but laughed.

“Yes—oh, lord, now I’m bleeding. This is NOT a good beginning, is it?”

Wilson plucked a few tissues from the box on the desk and moved to dab the blood from her 
upper lip, a twisted smile on his face. His touch was gentle and light; as if working on the 
professional level calmed him immediately.

“No, not really. Now that I’ve been caught with my hands up your skirt I’m sure we’re BOTH in 
for some looks and comments. Well—me at least.”

“It was an accident!” Emily muttered defensively. Wilson shrugged.

“With my reputation, I doubt anyone will see it that way. Which is too bad, really, because I was 
hoping to keep you out of it.”

Emily pulled the Kleenex away and checked it, then glanced at Wilson. “You mean the whole 
lady’s man status you have? Come on, it’s insinuation and gossip, nothing more. You’re a professional, James—you and I know that.”

Wilson laughed sadly. “You have a LOT to learn about Princeton-Plainsboro, Doctor Mansfield. 
A lot.”

***   ***   *** 

House fidgeted. He looked at the stack of medical journals on his desk. The larger stack of 
unopened mail. The ignored memos from Accounting, Pharmacy, Radiology and Cafeteria 
Services. He checked his watch.

The Tweedles and Alice were due back from Syracuse in two hours, and currently nothing was 
on the board. He knew he was off from clinic for the next two days, and now his restlessness 
had nothing to abate it. House glanced at the television, passed on to the stereo and then let 
his gaze move to the glass wall and the hall beyond it.

Needed to talk to her.

Stiffly he rose out of his chair, planting his cane firmly and began to deliberate trek to Cuddy’s 
office, his expression serious. He moved down the hall, a tall imposing figure cutting a swath 
through the bustle along the corridor. At the door to her office, House looked in and found it 
empty. He blinked a moment, then shifted direction, heading for the clinic.

“What room is Doctor Cuddy in?” he demanded testily of the triage nurse. She looked up at 
House with a hint of fear.

“Room Three, but she’s with a pa—“

“--Consult. I AM a doctor you know, I have privileges. Go back to reading Teen Beat and 
buffing your nails, I know the way.” He turned and stalked down the hall, reaching room Three 
and barging in, stopping only at the sight of the startled teenage boy with his pants down, and 
Cuddy with a latex-gloved hand on his member.

“Wow, is THIS embarrassing, huh? Think this is bad? Wait until it’s your mom or dad barging 
in. Doctor Cuddy we need to talk.”

“Doctor HOUSE, I am with a patient!” Cuddy snapped, her high cheekbones going bright red. 
The thrill of seeing him warred with her irritation at his intrusion. The boy was hunching 
defensively over his waist, hands over his flaccid, irritated penis.

House sighed and looked at the boy.

“Okay, listen up, Sport and welcome to the real world of how men entertain themselves. If you 
insist on firing your Surgeon General in the shower, I suggest you lay off the Lifebuoy as a 
lubricant, because that’s what’s rubbing you the wrong way, so to speak. Use conditioner, got 
it? Stroke one way, from the body out, hand under hand until you feel relief. Then in YOUR 
case, repeat as needed. And do NOT bring baby oil or anything of that sort into the shower with 
you. A little of that crap on the tile floor and you’ll slip and slam your head through the shower 
door, which will be a LOT harder to explain and fix. And in the meantime, give it a rest. If you 
can.”

The kid looked up at House, astonished. House gave a little nod.

“Conditioner. Trust me.”

After the boy had pulled his pants up and scooted out of the consultation room, House turned 
to look at Cuddy, who was glaring at him. He shrugged.

“What?”

“Conditioner?”

“Yeah, well that’s one of those guy secrets that women aren’t supposed to know, so you need 
to wipe it from your memory.”

“Would that I COULD.” She shuddered, distracted from her annoyance for the moment. Taking advantage of that, House stepped closer, looking down at her.

“I think I have something of my own that needs examining.” He muttered. Cuddy involuntarily 
glanced down, and her hand shifted, caressing the front of his jeans even as she cleared her 
throat.

“House, we’ve been over this. Last night was lovely, REALLY amazing, but we both know we 
have to put it behind us.”

“I was just thinking that very same thing—“ he growled, slipping his arm around her, nuzzling her 
ear. Cuddy gave a little moan, arching her neck to give him better access.

“I MEAN it.”

“Oh so do I—“ he assured her in a low tone. “My thoughts are often on your behind. As thinks 
the mind, so follows the deed—“ his hands slipped to cup her bottom firmly. Cuddy shot a 
worried look at the door, but it dissolved as House moved his lips to the tender little spot just 
under her ear; the one that made her hips wriggle every time he kissed it.

“We both agreed that seeing each other was risky—“ she reminded him in a husky whisper, 
“—and that we needed to THINK about this.”

“Yep. And I’ve thought about it. Point in fact it’s pretty much ALL I’ve thought about for the last 
six hours, twenty-two minutes and fifteen seconds. Mostly what I’ve been thinking is that we 
need to sleep on it.”

“Yes.”

“Together.”

“No!”

“Your lips say no, but I can sense your thighs are on MY side, and judging by the perkage going 
on upstairs here I’m sure I can win your breasts over.”

“My breasts have nothing to do with common sense—“ Cuddy gulped.

“Here here!”

“—House, it’s not about what my body wants, it’s about what’s best for this hospital!”

“Really?” he pulled away for a moment and looked into her eyes, struck again by how 
compelling the gray-green of them was. “And here I thought I was coming onto the woman, not 
the institution. Frankly, she’s the one I want to sleep with, sleep being a coy euphemism for 
screw deeply and vigorously.”

Cuddy couldn’t help but grin at his expression, the odd mix of frustration and wariness at war 
on that melancholy face. She pressed a hand to his chest.

“The woman is here, trust me. She’s completely insane to be considering your proposition, 
especially after the last fiasco she had in the intimacy department, but you put up an especially compelling case.”

“That’s not all I can put up—“ House interjected, batting his eyes in mock-modesty, making her 
snort and pull free of his embrace. He let her go, watching her move within the tiny confines of 
the exam room, and gripped his cane tightly. He spoke again, softly but compellingly.

“Listen to me, Cuddy. Yeah, sure this is all pretty much out of left field; we’re more comfortable 
on adversarial footing I’ll give you that. But I’m not quite willing to settle for the way things used 
to be, not after a taste of what they could be. Call me a sexist pig if you like, but I for one 
certainly want . . . more—“ he trailed away, eyeing her keenly. Cuddy had her arms crossed, 
but her woebegone expression brought a hard pang to his chest.

“I want more too,” she admitted reluctantly. “I’m not made of stone here, House. But there have 
to be limits—stud you may very well be, but I can’t run this hospital AND make goo-goo eyes at 
you at the same time. After hours is another story, and we can figure out what works for us 
then, but here and now--we’re professionals. Otherwise--” she trailed off.

Reluctantly House nodded, relieved and grudgingly pleased at her words. Cuddy picked up the 
patient file and pretended to examine it as he moved past her. Just as he did, House slid a 
hand under her skirt and up the back of her thigh in a quick caress. She jumped.

“Just trying out something Wilson told me about—“ House told her. “So. Can you make 
Sauerbraten?”

Confused, Cuddy looked down at his hand and pulled it away, then gave it a soft squeeze. “I 
can follow a recipe, I guess.”

“Great. I have one of those. My place, say, sevenish? I’ll pick up the ingredients, you make the 
dinner.”

Cuddy glared at him. “Free cooking too?”

House’s mouth twitched. “Old family recipe. Haven’t had it since I left home nearly twenty-two 
years ago. Just thought you might . . . “

She gave in, shrugging. “Okay, okay, stop with the puppy eyes already. Sauerbraten it is. Just 
don’t expect me to make dessert too.”

“Well DUH,” he replied, pulling open the door.  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You’ll BE 
that, of course—“

***   ***   ***

The official invitations were in the mail, but the notice concerning the Yamahana Corporation Celebratory Dinner had been delivered to every member of the senior staff, and the wording 
had been very clear: Attendance was mandatory, dress formal. Around the worktable, Chase 
and Foreman looked glum; Cameron, pleased.

“Oh come on, both of you will look great in tuxes.”

“This means I have to go RENT one—pain in the ass deal—“ Foreman grumbled, crumpling up 
his copy of the notice. Chase sighed, shaking his bangs.

“And I’ve got to dig mine out of mothballs—“ seeing the looks the other two gave him he glared 
back, “---what?”

“You have a monkey suit?” Foreman demanded accusingly. “Like OWN one?”

“Not by choice,” Chase defended himself. “Believe me, just because some of us have had a 
few more opportunities to wear them doesn’t make them any more fun to don.”

“Oh DON. Now he doesn’t even wear the damn thing, he just DONS it—“ Foreman needled, 
but he was smirking as he spoke; Chase balled up his notice and threw it at him. Cameron 
smiled.

“At least you can wear comfortable shoes. I’ll be stuck in heels all night. Hope the food’s worth 
the agony.”

“Probably not—“ House interjected, coming through the glass door slowly. “At functions like 
this generally the chicken’s tasteless, the steak is tough and over-spiced, the speakers 
hideously boring and the music the equivalent of Muzak Live. Add into that the ongoing need to 
make a good impression combined with fatigue, too much free booze and you have the 
makings for some great watercooler gossip.” He leaned over the table and glanced around conspiratorially. “My money’s on Henderson from Radiology taking his pants off again.”

Cameron made a moue of distaste and Foreman laughed. Chase rolled his eyes. “Was that the 
guy singing that horrid Village People song at the Annual picnic?”

“Same guy.  If he wasn’t a genius with isotopes he’d have been canned long ago.” House 
assured them. “Although we have a few other front runners possible too. Orthopedics has 
some high-strung types liable to snap like a marathoner’s tendon with the right provocation.” 
He looked vaguely gleeful at the idea, and the three doctors around the table shot glances back 
and forth.

“And you’re . . . going to go?” Foreman asked delicately. House gave a put-upon sigh, glaring 
down at the floor.

“Unfortunately. Apparently being the head of a department means a certain sense of noblisse 
oblige, particularly if you’re fond of receiving paychecks. But showing up is not quite the same 
thing as going, and in that thin divide of semantics, I might be able to get home in time to watch 
the Spice Channel.”

“You. In a tux. We’d better bring a camera,” Chase muttered. House winced himself, and then 
shot the younger doctor a piercing glare.

“Do it, and you’ll be Princeton-Plainsboro’s first rectal cane-ectomy, Kangaroo Jack.”

The others chuckled while Chase huffed a little.

***   ***  ***

“Tell me again about how you ended up with BOTH your hands up her skirt. That part never 
gets old—“ House muttered. Wilson pinkened right on cue and shook his head as he prodded 
at the vegetables on his tray. Around them, the day was overcast, but warm enough to sit 
outside.

“God, it’s a living hell, mostly because none of them say anything. They just look at me and grin.
I used to have such a good rapport with the nurses.”

“—And the accountants. And the candy stripers, the drug reps, the volunteers—actually, pretty 
much any staff member with a period and a pulse.” House observed, finishing off the last bite 
of his sandwich.

Wilson flashed House a long-suffering grin. “I suppose the only good thing out of all this is a 
chance to bask in your envy.”

“Yes, well from what you’ve said, Doctor Mansfield hasn’t finished hanging her diplomas, so I’ve 
still got a shot. I need one hand for Erica here—“ House thumped his walking stick, “But I could 
make the other one count, especially if she’s in a garter belt.”

“Not your type,” Wilson promptly informed House as he speared a forkful of green beans. 
House rolled his eyes.

“I assure you; generally what’s found under a skirt is JUST my type—unless we’re in Scotland.” 
House commented, pushing away his tray and fishing in his pocket for his prescription. Wilson 
watched him dry-swallow the tablets and winced.

“You know, one of the long-term side effects of Vicodin use is constipation—“ he tentatively commented. House turned a glare on him so merciless Wilson wilted like lettuce in a 
microwave. “Just an observation.”

“If I needed something to loosen my bowels I’d get the cafeteria chili. Now THAT’s a protracted exercise in evacuation.”

“Like makes like—“ Wilson shot back and they both smothered quick, commiserating grins. 
“Speaking of disgusting and painful, is it true that you’re going to make an appearance at this Investment dinner?”

“Why? Angling for a date?” House shot back. Wilson pretended to consider it, then shook his 
head with mock-reluctance.

“I’ve got enough of a rep as it is without going bi. Just wondering if the rumor is true.”

House gritted his teeth and balled up the cellophane his sandwich had been wrapped in. “Dingo 
Boy has a big mouth.”

“Yeah well Chase said nary a word. I heard from Cameron.”

House considered this and bit back a sigh, making Wilson smirk a bit. “I’m sure she still sees 
you as a diamond in the rough. A scruffy ne’er-do-well with a heart of gold.”

“If I had a heart of gold I’d have pawned it long ago. And yeah, I’ll be at the damn party. 
Wouldn’t miss Cuddy’s karaoke for the world.”

Wilson blinked, trying to picture it and shook his head.

“God, what would she sing?”

“Ain’t No Mountains High Enough—“ House shot back. Wilson sucked in his cheeks, trying not 
to laugh.

“Frankly I myself would pay a thousand bucks to hear her belt out Lady Marmalade. Just for the 
sheer audacity of the thing.”

House gave a low groan, trying to make it sound aghast, but some hint of enthusiasm slipped 
by; Wilson shot him a sharp look.

“House?”

“Forget it. Cuddy is NOT about to invite ANYONE to quote, give it a go, unquote. I LIKE my 
scrotum right where it is.”

Wryly Wilson nodded in agreement, and they sat in silence for a moment, watching a cluster of 
young interns saunter by, chattering and still full of optimism.

“I’ll be going stag myself, because I think the adipose-enhanced member of the opposite sex 
has finally graced my marriage with the final operatic solo.” Wilson muttered, his tone slightly 
forlorn. House gave a sigh, his sidelong glance glinting with quick compassion.

“Still get the A for effort, Gunga Din. Come on—I hear a rumor that we’re supposed to be 
saving lives or something.”

***   ***   ***

He was still unpacking the paper bags and wondering if the entire thing was a huge mistake 
when the doorbell rang. Drawing in a deep breath, House stumped his way through his living 
room to the front door and opened it.

Cuddy was there, looking grittily determined and in her eyes he found comfort in a very familiar 
hint of uncertainty. He gazed down at her for a moment.

“Not too late to chicken out,” he whispered, his tone oddly serious. She bit her lip, and looked 
as if she was going to consider it, then shook her head.

“Nah—I hate to waste finding a good parking space,” she told him, cocking her head slightly. 
House almost grinned, and stepped back to let her in, feeling the sweet tension ratchet up a 
notch. Her coat went onto the stand, and she stood in his living room, slowly rolling up her 
sleeves.

“So—kitchen?”

“Big room back there—can’t miss it, it has this rectanglar appliance that keeps things cold, and another one that mystically captures heat that can be harnessed for making food edible—or 
charcoal.”

“Nice bookstacking—is this some tribute to the Illuminati?”  Cuddy smiled sweetly, moving 
around various piles of journals, magazines and newspapers. House followed her in to the 
kitchen, watching her for a moment, oddly pleased to see her framed in the setting.

It was a corner kitchen, with an island and a breakfast nook near the sliding glass door leading 
to an overgrown back yard. Cuddy looked outside, noting the height of the grass. House 
shrugged.

“Still in negotiations with the neighbor kid over the price. I’m not paying ten bucks.”

“Sheesh, give me five and a machete—“ Cuddy murmured. “Are you sure there isn’t a hidden 
Mayan temple back there?” As she spoke, House slipped up behind her, slinging one lean arm 
over her shoulder and across her chest, pulling her back against him. He brushed his lips on 
the crown of her head.

“We could play virgin sacrifice. I’ll be the evil high priest you have to appease—“ he gave a 
playful purring growl from the back of his throat, and Cuddy laughed

“I’m afraid it’s been a while since I qualified for that sort of sacrifice—unless YOU want to be 
the trembling virgin and I can be the evil high priestess.”

“Ohh, be still my twitching loins,” he smirked, turning her in his arms and sliding into a kiss. It 
was a good one, playful and deep; Cuddy sighed gratefully when they drew apart for breath.

“Nice.”

“My very thought.” He agreed. House bent to kiss her again, and she laughed against his 
mouth, turning the kiss into a lighthearted flutter, their words muffled, their tongues tangling.

“Whhaa?” House smothered on her lips.

“Gaahhacooo—“ she protested.

“Coooo?” He snickered, breaking away from her. Cuddy breathlessly smirked, resting her 
forehead on his shirtfront. He was warm and smelled of soap and masculine warmth. A clean, 
inviting scent.

“Yes, gotta cook, if we want something to eat. Where’s this recipe you’re so fond of?” she 
demanded, trying to peer over his shoulder to the counters.

“So organized, so domestic! You already have the pearls—maybe I should get a pipe to go 
with this cane,” came his gruff response. Nevertheless he directed her to where the grocery 
bags sat, and companionably they finished unpacked them.

Cuddy was aware of him, her body increasingly aware of his proximity, and the little thrill of 
being in House’s personal space, both his home and his presence. Even the kitchen bore his 
stamp, from the oak cabinets and their porcelain knobs to the ancient silver percolator 
coffeepot and row of Matchbox trucks on the windowsill. She eyed them but said nothing; 
House followed her gaze and picked one up.

“Yes?” he challenged her. Cuddy lightly shook her head.

“Not saying a word.”

“That’s good. My trucks could flatten your spoons you know.” He waved the bilious green little 
4X4 at her. “Any place, any time.”

“Yeah, yeah--petrified here.” She replied absently, picking up a little index card from the 
counter. The handwriting on it was very feminine, the ink faded. A few spots of grease dotted 
one corner. “Hasi Greggie’s Favorite? Oooooh my God.”

House quickly plucked the card from her fingers, his expression a twisted blend of 
embarrassment and lost dignity. He cleared his throat warningly, but Cuddy was still laughing 
softly as he spoke.

“You WILL die a slow and painful death, Doctor Cuddy, should I ever hear Mrs. Faber’s 
unfortunate nickname for me ever cross your lips again in any context. Make no mistake; I 
have access to some of the world’s nastiest bugs out there.” His gaze glinted malevolently.

“Someone called you BUNNY?” Cuddy charge on, eyes wide with merry disbelief,  
“Bunny-Greggie?”

He snarled, waving the card. “I was FOUR at the time, okay? And our housekeeper had this 
misguided affection for me that I tolerated because  . . . well, her cooking was decent and she 
helped me with my German homework.”

“You had German homework when you were four?”

“No! Later on, in high school—look, are we going to make the recipe or not?”  House warned. 
Cuddy took the opportunity to glide closer and slip her arms around him; startled, he froze.

She realized then how unfamiliar the action was for him, and a hard throb choked her throat 
for a moment. House’s arms slipped around her just then, and he gave a squeeze; the warmth between their bodies relaxed them.

“Okay.” She murmured against the front of his shirt again, beginning to enjoy it, lifting her face 
to nuzzle the warm hollow where his teeshirt collar ended and the long lines of his throat began. 
“We’ll cook . . . .”

“Good.” He replied. She snickered, and added,

“—Bunny Boy.”