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Two handsome, tuxedo clad men with one cane between them walked nearly shoulder-to-shoulder through the lobby’s splendor. One was disgusted by the ostentatious display and the other oblivious. Wilson whispered, “Does the lobby still give off gamma rays?”

“I’d borrow your glasses, but it already damaged my retinas.”

“Insert ‘blind leading the blind’ comment here?”

“Or limping twerp leading whining asshole. Your call.”

Muted music from the string quartet buried inside the grand ballroom grew louder as they approached. One of the strings was off-key and sounded like a starving cat begging for a handout. House winced at the stray notes as Wilson withdrew his hand from his arm and stopped. His head was twisting to and fro like a caged lion looking for escape, but he bravely attempted a stab at humor to deflect his panic, “Jeez House, I can’t afford to lose my hearing too.”

“There are dogs that would line up to be neutered to have hearing half as good as yours.”

“I’m thinking small animal oncology is looking better all the time.”

“Examining x-rays, doing surgery, patients with large, sharp teeth. Not an option.”

They were a few feet from the entrance when Wilson’s feet became attached to rebar and sank into the hotel's foundation. He wouldn’t budge, and was turning into a statue right before House’s eyes. With feet splayed, hands on hips, bowed at the waist with head down, he reminded House of a tragic comic book hero when he and everyone else loses faith in his superhuman abilities. The pivotal point in the plotline when the audience forgets to eat popcorn, waiting breathlessly for the hero to make a comeback.

House leaned forward on his cane watching intently. Maybe the film snapped in this version, because nothing was happening.

He began analyzing. Who provided the motivation to spur the superhero on in the summer blockbusters or during sweeps week? Why, it was always the wingman with a sappy story about who would help the helpless, give one for the gipper, or report the jaw-dropping news that a meteor was about to wipe out six of the earth’s seven land masses. It was his job - Robin, Tonto, Samwise, and Willow all rolled into one. Where was the magic cape and secret decoder ring when you needed one? He decided on a brilliant strategy - act as if everything was normal.

Looking through the double doors, he made a thorough investigation of the floor layout and those assembled. Hell, more people than last year, everyone schmoozing each other up, and to top it off Cuddy was heading his way in a low cut red gown. What he wouldn't give to get a closer look at her neckline right now, but he needed her to keep her distance. He made a time out signal with his hands, and drew a silent sigh of relief as she stopped with her arms on her waist and her head tilted, she mimed a question, ‘What gives?’

He raised his hand showing three fingers. He needed three minutes. It only took three seconds for a driver to lose control and cross into Wilson’s lane depositing his life and Wilson’s into this cockeyed universe. He hoped three minutes would be enough to galvanize his friend into action.

“Wilson . . . Wilson?!”

“Huh?” The lips barely moved and the body stood frozen in place.

Keeping his tone calm and low. “Let’s go in. We’re missing a great party. Noisy, but not too many people. There are martini and cigar bars inside. I’ll treat you to your favorite girl-tini while I GPS the place for you.”

Wilson was going under for the second time this evening. A bitter edge laced the light cadence of his speech, “None of it is sticking to the walls, House. Can you fling it harder?” His friend’s face was hard and cold as he shook his head and refused the offer.

House was at a loss. Panic was beginning to override his own grounding cynicism. He was losing his patient. If he didn’t administer an electrical jolt to the system he was sure he would never have another chance. He dug into his inexhaustible bag of lies, and found the largest stinking one he could find. He breathed in and let it out with dramatic histrionics, sighing and sounding mournful, “Yeah, it doesn’t matter if you go in or not. The board doesn’t care what goes down tonight. I didn’t want to tell you, but Cuddy received word that they drew up a severance package. You’re out, and they asked for her to pull my contract for review. Should we buy an Airstream trailer, and with our new found freedom travel across the country?”

The statue began to sputter and come to life. “Wha-What do you mean I’m out?! Th-they’re not giving me a shot?!” Wilson’s surprised voice suddenly dipped an octave lower, and he snarled like a rabid dog, “They pulled your contract, those sons-of-bitches?!”

Pleased that Wilson was coming around, he pressed on, “I’m sorry, Wilson. I didn’t want to tell you. Thought there might be a last minute reprieve, but I saw Cuddy inside, and she wouldn’t look me in the eye. The Board made up its mind. If you want, I’ll come with you to your exit interview and go on record about the big mistake their making.”

The string quartet was packing up, and the dance music would be starting soon, but a side-long glance confirmed that people were still socializing. Some were mulling around the ice bar requesting their last cocktail before sitting down.

His friend was furious. In all seriousness, Wilson didn’t realize he paraphrased Dr. McCoy’s classic epithet, “Damnit House, I’m a doctor, not a banker! How dare they boil the medical profession down to dollars and cents?!” House thought he’d never see the day, but his self-deprecating friend bit out, “People survive because of me!”

Electric blue eyes waited and watched. It was up to Wilson to make the next move.

There was a cold grim smile on Wilson’s face that pulled at his dimple, “The severance agreement – I need to sign it before it becomes binding, right?”

“Right.”

“Then it’s not a done deal – even if they think it is. I’m not going down without a fight.” White-hot flames shot from each word, “Those assholes are going to regret every dime the legal department charged to write up that agreement. I’m going in and work the crowd like a politician running for office.”

Holy crap, Batman! House reined back his glee, “You’re going to exploit your evil panty peeler charm, and turn it into a cash raising machine?”

Wilson’s face was grim determination, “They want rainmakers? Let’s make it rain until the governor of New Jersey has to call out the National Guard.” The tight lips softened as he continued, “But, let’s make a run on the ice bar first. I look irresistible with a martini glass in my hand.”

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The ballroom was a mini-me of the lobby. A row of chandeliers hung down the center axis of the room from painted heavens where cherubs fed peeled grapes to each other as they glided to a tango across the clouds. Scarlet carpet stretched from wall to wall, and matching long gold leaf mirrors set in gilded cream panels flanked both sides of the walls reflecting an infinity of images and multiplying the net worth in the room into the bizillions.

As the men walked toward the towering ice sculpture, House described the layout. It was Cuddy’s clever floor plan that made this social event the biggest moneymaker of the year.

A third of the room was covered with a mirror-like ebony dance floor. Next to it and along the back wall a small orchestra tuned up and a slinky hot songstress adjusted her microphone. The other two thirds were filled with long flowing ivory tablecloths flanked with gold bamboo backed chairs.

In each corner there was a specialty station erected featuring lit ice sculptures to dramatically highlight its purpose and theme for the evening, “All that glitters.”

The ice cream table was a child’s vision of ‘Candyland.’ There was a block of pink ice carved to look like a tall milk shake glass filled with champagne sherbet punch and a matching ice sculpture straw. Countersunk into the surrounding crushed ice were containers of mounded sweet, creamy, pastel ice cream, and insulated containers overflowing with sauces and toppings.

The open bar had a glowing glacier of ice that the bartenders chipped away at to fill drink orders.

A luminous green ice mural soared behind the glass topped teak wood humidors packed with contraband Cubans. It was carved with arching fronds and 'birds of paradise' and shot through with brilliant hues of orange and red.

The martini bar drew the most attention. Two bartenders accepted requests, measured ingredients, and poured the concoction into a hole in the top of a four-foot block of ice carved with elaborate swirls and lit below by a slowly changing rainbow of colors. Gravity did the rest. The beverage traveled through a corkscrew tunnel depositing a perfectly iced martini into a waiting glass.

The unacknowledged theme for this year’s evening was the same as every year, “Money Will Move You Up The Ladder of Success.” The guests of honor, the Executive Board and their spouses or dates for the evening, sat at a long head table that faced the length of the room. Four long tables were arranged perpendicular to the Board’s table. Department heads and high profile specialists were seated randomly up and down its lengths. It allowed the doctors to network with different donors, and not become monopolized every year by the same merchant princes.

For the large and not-so-large wheels, Cuddy unashamedly deployed the ‘above the salt’ feudal seating system for the charity set. A corporate president could immediately gauge his or her personal worth or how well the company’s public affairs program was handling contributions to the hospital by where the place card happened to be. Many attendees groused during the year that the seating was too blatant, but no one turned down an invitation. They were all too curious to see if their status waxed or waned, and checked their budgets to see that they gave more than the year before.

As the two doctors ordered and waited for their martinis, House spotted Cuddy charging over to them, her dress fluttering around her like a red flag. He didn’t want her near Wilson until the evening was over, or before he could find a private moment alone to tell her about his scheme. She slowed when she saw his hand waving in front of his neck as if his fingers would machete his head off. He then shooed her off with wild swings of his arm and the back of his hand. He was relieved to see that she stopped, and was walking away, but not before she pointed to where their seats were, shrugging her shoulders in disbelief over his antics.

He turned back around to Wilson as he heard his sharp inquiry, “What are you doing!?”

All innocence, “Nothing.”

A cynical laughed escaped, “Oh, no. It’s not ‘nothing.’ Your creating enough wind turbulence to lift an apache helicop . . .”

“Dr. Wilson! How good to see you!” The enthusiasm of the greeting was diametrically opposed to the petite blonde’s figure. Her wide smile was genuine as was the boulder on her wedding finger.

“Mrs. Scott? It’s been a long time. That’s good news for your mother isn’t it?”

House was pleased at his rescue, bouncing his cane as he listened to his friend and the woman chat. She seemed to be aware of Wilson’s altered hospital duties, and was genuinely happy to see him. He sipped a second martini while approving Wilson’s deft segue into clinical trials that were beneficial for her mother’s type of cancer if funding could be approved. Before Cuddy began tapping on her champagne glass for attention and announced that everyone should be seated for the first toast, the woman walked away promising to drop off a check to the hospital administrator that evening.

It was show time.

“Ready?”

“Absolutely. I have nothing to lose.” Wilson raised the martini glass to his lips for one last swallow before handing it to House to place back on a tray with the other empty glasses. They headed to their chairs.

The blue eyes were unreadable as House thought of the whopper he told his friend in the lobby to motivate him. It proved to be working, but also demonstrated once again that there was no God because all that should be left of him by now would be a pile of black ashes rubbed into the crimson carpet.

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Everything started well enough. House was on Wilson’s right, and he worked the ‘wrong glass scam.' Wilson found the glass easily and sipped while he had the woman on his left hanging on his every word, nearly wringing tears from her as he talked about the children’s cancer ward.

House was impressed. His friend had hidden talents and the makings of an excellent door-to-door salesman.

Both were pleased that the chairs opposite them were unoccupied after Cuddy’s introductions. Maybe the couple was a ‘no show.’ Just as well, Cuddy had placed them higher up the table than either liked.

The entrees were served. House softly called the food positions, and Wilson began spearing a green bean. Red and white wine was generously poured into the glasses at each table setting. House noted the coordinates for the potentially destructive bubble glass full of cabernet, and the tulip of chardonnay along side it, murmuring the information while people engaged in conversation around them. Wilson could make the call if he wanted to drink or not.

The seats across from them remained vacant. House thought it looked like they were home free, but such a notion was the kiss of death.

A tall redhead with big hair and a boob job with enough silicone necessary only if she wanted three sets of breasts, wobbled on unsteady legs and sat down across from Wilson.

She tried to gain the oncologist’s attention by pouting and flashing her bright red collagen lips. She adjusted the top of her gown, corralling her bosom so it nearly overflowed over the top. The plunging neckline ensured a view of the two pink spheres crushed together with such force that a diamond could be formed from a lump of charcoal. Her nipples pointed upward with such a vengeance that the putti angels trembled behind their painted clouds thinking they were under siege.

Wilson’s head was down. He was concentrating on his steak.

She was more than a little drunk when she successfully captured his attention. She opened her mouth and slurred in a shrill nasal voice, “Why Dr. Wilson, I’m Deirdre Johnson from Long Island (It came out, Woi, Dawctah Will-sin, Oim Deerdruh Jawnson frum Lawng-Guyland). I so wanted to make your acquaintance for the longest time. I wanted to talk to you about having a breast reduction and find out if you thought it would be harmful to my breasts and cause cancer.”

The conversation went dead silent around them, and House almost choked on his food. The woman no more wanted to have a breast reduction than Miley Cyrus wanted a face-lift.

The silverware was placed carefully on the rim of the plate as his friend looked up with a gentle smile and eyebrows knitted together above the unfocused eyes, “You don’t mean for me to conduct an examination right here and now, do you?”

The woman let out an audible gasp, and House could feel his hackles rise. Wilson’s face immediately became blank and turned to stone.

“Oh my God, you poor, poor man! I had no idea you couldn’t see!”

Soft words poured from granite lips, “Yes, well thank you for caring.”

The knife cut deeper, “I don’t understand. How can you work at the hospital? You don’t do surgery, do you?”

Now, the whole room went quiet. The plump painted angels peeked over their clouds with their mouths open.

“There are new techniques to help the blind every day. You should come and observe me and my seeing-eye dog in the operating room.”

Deirdre’s green eyes narrowed. No matter how insensitive she could be to others, she never overlooked any slight aimed at her. She sensed she was being mocked and dug her heels in deeper. “What happened? A polo pony accident? BB gun? Your fancy lab blew up?”

Wilson’s head was back down again, his left hand rubbing the scar above his eye. House could tell the man was withdrawing. He began to rise and push back his chair. He was preparing to launch a viper’s nest of stinging insults that would drain the silicone right out of her bulbous knockers when he felt a restraining hand on his arm. A reassuring squeeze and tap followed.

With the earnestness of an eagle scout Wilson began, “Nothing that exciting. Two cars on a highway. An accident. Happens every day. Didn’t even make the morning news because it didn’t affect anyone’s commute.”

House slumped down in his seat.

Told with practiced ease by the doctor famous for being thanked when delivering fatal prognoses to his patients, this time it was more impressive – the speech would serve as the eulogy for his career.

But, Wilson wasn’t finished. “Accidents happen, right Ms. Johnson? Why don’t we drink to that?”

House observed a movement from the corner of his eye. It was Wilson’s right hand. Thumb and index fingers tapping out a little dance on the table. It sounded like Morse code. His eyes narrowed – what ever it was, he got the message. He noticed the hand was poised as if it was ready to push the plunger on a pinball machine. House estimated the trajectory, and in a quiet voice that would only be detected by canines and his friend, he breathed “11:58.” The hand moved a fraction to the right, and then moved forward like a jet heading down a runway picking up speed for lift off until the fingers contacted the stem of the huge glass of red wine . . . and fumbled . . . magnificently. The glass flew several inches down the table tipping on its side, the globe hitting the cloth with an off-key bell tone, and the contents exploding like fireworks on the 4th of July – spreading a glorious flower pattern all over Deirdre’s décolletage and beaded silk gown.

She rose from the chair, her hands balled into fists, and looked at the complete destruction of her dress. “You’ve ruined my genuine Valentino!” Her voice ratcheted up a notch, and she screamed, “Look what you’ve done, you imbecile!”

It was Wilson’s turn to stand up, his face composed once again into his best bedside manner, “If only I could, Ms. Johnson . . . and by the way? The correct word is idiot, not imbecile. Please accept my apologies for being a clumsy one.”

The woman was finally speechless, her mouth opened and closed like a fish as a balding, heavyset, and very red-faced man came rushing over to the table hastily steering his wife away as he nodded his head and mumbled a few words of apology. There was a flash of red, and House saw Cuddy follow the couple out of the room. He could imagine her making solicitous noises, and offering to dry-clean the dress. She might not be the best medical mind, but she knew when to exploit a weakness by kissing ass, and she wouldn't waste an opportunity.

Busboys came over to blot what was left of the wine from the tablecloth. As Wilson sat down, one of the waiters asked if he would care for some more. With weary acceptance he answered, “Yes, some more cabernet, but pour it into a highball glass this time. Thanks.”

He resumed eating as if nothing happened. House did the same, and soon the people around them took the cue, and the noise level rose to normal levels.

House was finishing the last of the potatoes on his plate when he heard a low voice next to him, “Guess I signed the death warrant to my career tonight, but answer one question?”

“Shoot”

“Please tell me her dress was white.”

“As white as the back of the blank check that husband will give to Cuddy tonight.” He had little doubt that the CEO would write a check large enough to buy him damage control to prevent his stocks from plummeting.

There was a twitch of a smile curling at the corners of his lips. First time tonight, he didn’t have to lie to Wilson.

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“Gotta go pee?” House was surprised when Wilson stood up from the table and unfurled his cane.

“No. I was thinking of checking out the cigar bar. This time the treat is on me.”

House began to rise, pulling himself up by holding one hand to the table and the other by the chair, but Wilson’s hand was already on his shoulder pushing him back down. “I think it’s about time that I try working the room on my own. Make ‘The Powers That Be’ weep before I go. Just point me in the right direction.”

House gave coordinates for a few landmarks, and watched as Wilson took a few steps, turned around and returned. He looked up and said dryly, “Got lost already?”

“No. I forgot these.” The dark eyeglasses were removed from the case and put on. “Don’t want anyone to miss my impersonation of a blind man." The eyebrows waggled up and down above the shades. "Should increase contributions by fifteen percent.” He turned, and took a step, but then turned back once again. “Uh, House?”

Wilson was looking directly at him with dead accuracy, a sheepish grin on his face. He sensed another man-hug was coming like the one earlier today, and wanted to avoid a public display. By his estimation, another wasn’t scheduled for ten or twenty years. Maybe he could head it off by concentrating his irritation into his next question, “What now?!”

The mouth widened into a full-strength smile. Wilson beamed his thanks with a nod, and walked away.

He watched his friend tapping and sweeping until he made his way to a group of high profile Trump-type real estate investors. House saw Wilson introduce himself and join in the conversation. Five minutes later one of the tycoons was laughing and leading the snake charmer to little Havana.

Mumbling so that no one would hear, the strain around the blue eyes disappeared as House turned away from the retreating figure, “Mazel Tov, Wilson.”

He then hungrily attacked his crème brulee with so much gusto that he didn’t stop until he demolished Wilson’s portion as well.

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The band played old favorites. Couples danced. Brandy poured. The evening mellowed and began to flag when the sexy twenty something lead singer left with an eighty plus millionaire. The musicians packed up their instruments. The angels on the ceiling gathered their clouds together, paired up, and went to sleep.

There were only stray voices echoing through the room.

Two friends sat and talked, jackets and ties off, collars unbuttoned as they sipped the last of their brandy and savored the final puffs on their cigars. Every once and a while, one could be heard mimicking a heavy New York accent, “You ruined my genuine Valentino!”

They were so busy laughing at their attempts at getting the exact inflection, neither one heard Cuddy come up from behind them, “Congratulations Wilson! You broke records tonight. The Executive Board was so impressed they're thinking of replacing me with you as head fundraiser." She finished with a good-natured laugh, "Now I’m fearing for my own job.”

“What was that?”

The diagnostician watched Wilson’s reaction to the news. He decided now would be the best time to pop two Vicodin.

“Mrs. Scott guaranteed to underwrite any new clinical trials your department wants to come up with, and Mr. Johnson insisted on completely funding our new pain management center as long as it's headed by you. After Deirdre’s dramatics and your networking, everybody wanted to show their support and pledged funds to your department.”

“Uhm, uh good news Cuddy. Keep serving steak, and I’ll be your point man.”

House looked at the hospital administrator. Her eyes sparkled. She looked two inches taller because she was floating on air. He launched his own version of a complement by first prefacing it with a raised eyebrow, “Mrs. Johnson’s breasts don’t hold a candle to your own.”

Before Cuddy could complete an eye roll, House continued, “How much were the contributions to the diagnostic department?”

“The diagnostic department is $6000 in the hole. I had to bribe a few donors with free tickets to next year’s dinner when they saw you were here.” She tilted one side of her face toward him with that crooked smile of hers. “Actually, you must be mellowing. Last year it cost your department $10,000.” She winked, and squeezed Wilson’s shoulder before she headed off to review the final bill with the catering manager.

He could hear a snort coming from Wilson’s direction. The man was lounging and looking relaxed for the first time this week. There was a smile on his cross-eyed face.

The look flickered and became serious as all the pieces fell into place. A finger wagged in his direction. “You lied to me! You told me I was out on my ass!”

“The threat was real, I moved it up a few weeks. What else could I do? Six feet from the door you turned into another of Cuddy’s ice statues having a meltdown.”

Wilson's hand rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah, and you came through with one of your usual unorthodox treatments - lighting a fire under my ass!"

"That's what friends are for, Wilson. I'm totally devoted to your ass."

"Remind me . . . What size glass slipper did you shove up there, because I think a half-dozen vials of vicodin and a whiteboard have taken up residence already, and I can't find my bow tie."

House allowed a smile when he stood up and stretched. As he pulled his jacket on, he saw a ribbon of black silk crumpled on the floor near Wilson's feet. He picked up and aimed it at the brown haired man's face. He then thumped the floor two times with his cane as if it was a holy staff, “I’m calling the evening a victory. Good triumphed over evil”

“The Daredevil raised money for the hospital.” Wilson slid into his own jacket, slipping the tie into one of its pockets, and without the usual protocol, reached out a hand in the direction of his best friend’s arm.

“And, with the Silver Surfer’s help, we vanquished the evil witch.” House felt the hand move to his upper arm. It was level with his heart as he gave it a reassuring pat. “And, you finally learned how to play the cripple card.”

They walked in companionable silence into the jewel box lobby where Wilson suddenly stopped short with a stricken look on his face. “My God House, I’m not becoming you, am I?”

The answer was sweet music to Wilson’s ears as House reassuringly squeezed the hand once again as they started walking. House’s words lingered in the lobby as they walked out into the refreshing cool night air.

“No, Wilson. It still takes the two of us to rule the world.”


Fin

A/N: Mazel tov = good fortune or good luck

Thank you for reading! Your comments are welcome. <3

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Click the link to go to the DVD bonus feature deleted scene - House's Checklist.