The Director's Ball was the crown jewel of New Jersey's charity circuit, the envy of every fund-raiser in the state, and Dr. Lisa Cuddy's baby—long before Rachel.

The lavish function was held in one of the state's most prestigious hotels built by robber barons and maintained by various scalawags ever since. Some thought it was only surpassed by the Vatican. Three-story high marble pillars melted into the ceiling's painted clouds where cherubs danced on chubby toes. Not one but two rows of shimmering chandeliers that rivaled the crystal confection in "The Phantom of the Opera" cast rainbows and radiant fire over the lobby. For the wealthy, only the best inlaid parquetry floors and velvet Aubusson carpets touched the designer label shoes fashioned from the leather mantles of aristocratic Italian cows. To dazzle the eye, gold leaf moldings spewed burnished lava over ivory walls, leaving tasteful spatters on the bronze ormolu mounts of Louis Quinze furniture.

The splendid foyer made the rich feel entitled, while the not-so-entitled yearned to learn French and build guillotines in their basements. It was the best of times and the worst of times depending on your tax bracket.

Most of the department heads and handpicked specialists found the evening to be a necessary evil. House and Wilson thought it was the first circle of hell.

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 my retinas are already damaged."

"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 mewed off-key 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 twisted to and fro like a caged lion looking to escape, but attempted a feeble stab at humor to deflect his panic. "Jesus, I can't afford to lose my hearing too."

"There are dogs willing 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 on patients with large, sharp teeth. Not an option, Wilson."

They were close to the entrance when Wilson's feet became attached to rebar and sank into the hotel's foundation. He turned into a statue right before House's eyes and would not budge. With feet splayed, hands on hips, bowed at the waist with head down, Wilson reminded House of the tragic comic book movie hero who loses faith in his superhuman abilities. The pivotal point in the plot when the audience forgets to eat popcorn and waits breathlessly for the inevitable and courageous comeback.

House intently watched while he leaned forward on his cane. 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, win one for the Gipper, or report the jaw-dropping news that a meteor was on a collision course with Earth and about to wipe out six of its seven land masses. It was his job - Robin, Tonto, Samwise, and Willow Rosenberg 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. 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 arm and displayed three fingers. He needed three minutes. It only took three seconds for a sleepy driver to cross into the oncoming lane of traffic and deposit Wilson's life and his own into this cockeyed universe. He hoped three minutes would be enough for him to galvanize his friend into action.

"Wilson…Wilson?!"

"Huh?" The lips barely moved and the body stood frozen.

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. Desperation 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 there would never be another chance. He dug into his inexhaustible bag of lies and rooted out the largest, stinking one he could find. He breathed in and let the air out with dramatic histrionics, sighing and sounding mournful. "Yeah, it doesn't matter if you go 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 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 its decision. If you want, I'll come to your exit interview and go on record about the big mistake they're making."

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

His friend was furious, and apparently, Wilson didn't realize he paraphrased Dr. McCoy's classic epithet, "Damn it, 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-effacing friend bit out, "People survive because of me!"

House waited and watched. It was up to Wilson to make the next move.

A cold, grim smile pulled at Wilson's 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 into that room and work that 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 etched in flint. "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."

The ballroom was a mini-me of the lobby. A row of chandeliers hung down the center axis from painted heavens where plump winged infants fed peeled grapes to each other and glided to a tango across the clouds. Flanking both sides of the room were gilded cream panels inset with long gold leaf mirrors that reflected an infinity of images and multiplied the net worth of the attendees into the bizillions.

As the men walked over the plush scarlet carpet toward the towering ice sculpture, House described changes in the layout since they last did a reconnaissance.

At the far end of the room was a glossy 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 tables covered in flowing ivory tablecloths with gold bamboo backed chairs next to each elaborate place setting.

In each corner a specialty station was 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." A block of pink ice was carved into a tall glass filled with champagne sherbet punch and a matching ice "straw." Countersunk into the surrounding crushed ice were containers of mounded sweet, creamy, pastel ice cream, and insulated containers overflowed with sauces and toppings.

The open bar had a glowing glacier that bartenders chipped chunks of ice to chill drinks.

A luminous green ice mural designed with arching fronds and palm trees soared behind glass topped teak humidors packed with contraband Cubans.

The martini bar drew the most attention. Two bartenders accepted requests, measured ingredients, and poured the concoction into one of the holes in the top of a four-foot block of ice engraved with deep, elaborate swirls and lit below by a slowly changing light wheel. 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." And it was Cuddy's clever floor plan that made this social event the biggest moneymaker of the year. 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 sprinkled up and down its lengths in no discernible order. It allowed the doctors to network with different donors, and not become monopolized every year by the same merchant princes.

Cuddy unashamedly deployed "above the salt" seating for the charity set. Corporate presidents could immediately gauge their financial standing by where they found their place cards. Many attendees groused 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 if more money could be donated the following year.

As the two doctors ordered and waited for their martinis, House spotted Cuddy charging over to them, her red dress fluttering around her like a warning 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. When she stopped, he shooed her off with wild swings of his arm. He was immensely relieved to see her walk away, but before she went back to her guests, she pointed to his and Wilson's seats and shrugged her shoulders in disbelief over his antics.

He turned back around to Wilson as he heard his sharp inquiry.

"What are you doing!?"

"Nothing." House was all innocence.

A cynical laugh escaped. "Oh, no. It's something. You're creating enough wind turbulence to lift an Apache helicop—"

"Dr. Wilson! How good to see you!" The enthusiasm of the greeting was exactly the opposite of the petite blonde's figure. Her wide smile was as genuine as 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 to be rescued, and bounced his cane as he listened with half an ear to the pair chat. He sipped a second martini while approving Wilson's deft segue into clinical trials that would benefit her mother's type of cancer, if funding could be approved. Before Cuddy finished 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 Dean of Medicine that very evening.

"Show time, Wilson. 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 on a tray with the other empty glasses. They headed to their chairs.

House thought of all the lies that he had fed Wilson this week, topped by his latest whopper in the lobby. It proved to be motivating, but also demonstrated once again that there was no God. If there was, House would be a pile of black ash smudged into the crimson carpet.

Everything started well enough. House was on Wilson's right, and he worked the wrong glass scam. Wilson found the glass easily and sipped from time to time while speaking to the woman on his left who hung 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 still 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 on Wilson's plate, and Wilson successfully speared a green bean. Red and white wine poured generously into glasses at each table setting. House noted the coordinates for the potentially destructive bubble glass full of cabernet and the tulip of chardonnay alongside 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 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 the top. The plunging neckline ensured a view of the two pink spheres crushing together with enough 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've wanted to make your acquaintance for the longest time, and talk to you about having a breast reduction. Find out if you thought it would be harmful to my breasts or 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 can'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."

House watched Deirdre's emerald eyes narrow and convert into ruby lasers. He could see she was taking Wilson's breezy mocking as a personal and unforgivable insult. She went on the offensive. "What happened? A polo pony accident? BB gun? Your fancy lab blew up?"

Wilson's head was back down, his left hand rubbing the scar above his eye.

House pushed back his chair and began to rise. A viper's nest of stinging insults that would drain the silicone right out of her bulbous knockers were about to launch out of his mouth 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 Wilson's career.

But Wilson wasn't finished. "Accidents happen, right Ms. Johnson? Why don't we drink to that?"

House caught a movement from the corner of his eye, Wilson's right hand. Thumb and index fingers tapping out a little dance on the table that sounded like Morse code. His eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, he got the message. He noticed the hand was poised as if 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 angled a fraction to the right, and then moved forward like a jet heading down a runway, picking up speed for liftoff 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. A glorious purplish-red flower pattern spread 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 screeched, "Look what you've done, you imbecile!"

It was Wilson's turn to stand up, his face composed once again in his best bedside manner. "If only I could, Ms. Johnson. By the way, the correct word is idiot, not imbecile. Please accept my apologies for being a clumsy one."

The woman's mouth opened and closed, intermittently emitting vowels and gasps until a balding, heavyset, and very red-faced man rushed over to the table and hastily steered his wife away. He nodded 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 picture 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 this opportunity.

Busboys hurried over to blot what was left of the wine from the tablecloth, and when Wilson sat back down, one of the waiters asked him if he would care for more. With weary acceptance Wilson answered, "Yes, some more cabernet, but pour it into a highball glass. Thanks."

He resumed eating as if nothing happened. House did the same, and soon the people around them took their cue, and conversation resumed to a normal level.

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 on my career tonight, but I'd die happy if you answered one question."

"Shoot."

"Please tell me Deirdre's dress was white."

"As white as the back of the blank check that husband will give Cuddy." House had little doubt that the CEO would write a check large enough to buy damage control, and prevent any rumors that would send his stocks into a tailspin. 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.

"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 leveraged up by holding one hand to the table and the other to 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." He removed the dark eyeglasses from the case and put them 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 had a sheepish grin on his face. House sensed another man-hug coming like the one earlier, but possibly more ferocious, and wanted to avoid a public display. By his estimation, another wasn't due for 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.

House watched his friend tapping and sweeping his cane until he made his way to a group of Trump-type real estate investors. He could make out Wilson introducing himself and joining in the conversation. Five minutes later one of the tycoons was laughing and leading the snake charmer to little Havana.

Turning away from the retreating figure, House muttered under his breath, "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.

The band played old favorites. Couples danced. Brandy flowed. 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.

Stray voices echoed 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. "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?" Wilson came to full alert and tilted his head to better catch what she said.

And the diagnostician carefully watched Wilson's reaction.

"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."

"Um-uh, good news, Cuddy. Keep serving steak, and I'll be your point man."

House looked at Cuddy. Her eyes sparkled. She looked two inches taller because she was floating on air. He launched his own version of a compliment 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 questioned, "How much are the contributions to my department?"

"Diagnostics is $12,000 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 smiled as if she had a secret. "Actually, you must be mellowing. Last year you cost your department $20,000." She winked at him and squeezed Wilson's shoulder before she headed off to review the final bill with the event manager.

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

The look flickered and became serious as all the pieces fell into place. Wilson wagged a finger. "You lied to me, House! 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 one of Cuddy's ice statues and had a meltdown."

Wilson's hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, and you came through by applying one of your unorthodox treatments. Scaring the crap out of me."

"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 twice 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 slipped into his jacket and pocketed the tie. Without the usual protocol, he reached out in the direction of his best friend's arm, and took hold of it.

"And, with the Silver Surfer's help, the evil witch was vanquished." House felt Wilson's hand move up his arm until it was level with his own heart. Transferring his cane to his left hand for a moment he brushed his fingers over his friend's. "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?"

This time, House spoke and offered a pat on Wilson's hand before moving forward. His words lingered in the lobby as they walked into the cool night air.

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

~fin~

Mazel tov = congratulations, good fortune, or good luck

As a thank you for reading "The Wingman," here are some DVD bonus features of deleted scenes, "House's Checklist." These are truly rough draft scenes that never made it into the finished fic because I thought they disrupted the flow of the story; however I thought some readers might enjoy reading how House helped Wilson prepare for the Donor's Ball. My apologies for the unfinished quality of these sections.

***

House's Checklist

House felt like Henry Higgins preparing Eliza Doolittle for the ball. It was not a simple task. He envied the God of his Sunday school days. At times he thought it would be easier to create heaven and earth in one day than whip Wilson into shape for the ball in four.

Wilson was a natural born control freak. An overachiever in his own quiet way. He was easy going, and problems appeared to roll off his back as long as behind the scenes he was the puppeteer who pulled the strings. Now, someone turned off the lights, changed the rules, and switched the games on him. From a round of "Operation" he was in a game of "Chutes and Ladders." Except the chutes were greased and the ladders embedded with broken glass.

House saw Wilson as an inside-out DDx. Subject: One blind middle-aged male. Symptoms: denial, severe loss of self-esteem, clumsy, stubborn, withdrawn. Object: Reverse all symptoms in order to safeguard job. He could hear the God of Moses moan, "Oy vey."

He began with a checklist, and started with what he thought were the easiest, first:

1) Wardrobe

2) Grooming

3) Drinking

4) Dining

5) Secret Passwords

6) Reconnaissance

Step 1 – Wardrobe (CHECK!)

He ordered a dress rehearsal of Wilson in his tux and dress shoes to see the condition and fit. The suit hung a bit more than previous years, but there was no danger of Wilson losing his pants as long as the suspenders were attached. House hoped the weight loss would translate into "mid-life adorable waif" for the moneyed widows and divorcees.

He personally supervised the polishing of the shoes to a spit shine. One of the few lessons he was grateful that his father taught him.

Step 2 – Grooming (CHECK!)

House dropped the tuxes off at the cleaners, and then chauffeured Wilson to the barber. On impulse he stopped at a nail salon that advertised "Man-i-Cures" on the window.

Ignoring the mild protestations of his friend he guided him through the strawberries-and-cream decorated salon to the nail station.

Wilson cocked his head at women giggling and chatting non-stop around him and hissed, "Couldn't you have found some place a little less girly? You're a dead man if you let them paint my nails pink and add little roses."

House was having misgivings too, but they were already there. He thought a little embroidering of the truth may give them both a comfort level. "Of course, not Wilson. This salon is for men only. You're hearing the salon operators, and some of the clients brought their girlfriends along." To further distract, he embellished, "You should see this place, signed pictures of all the AC10 players that come all the way from Atlantic City to get a manicure."

Thinking he was already up to his grizzled neck in lies, House began walking his friend in a semi-circle, avoiding the empty floor area in the middle of the salon. The operators watched mystified. "Careful now, don't want you to trip on the bearskin rug." He kept up a running commentary of the rugged phantom interior until the petite, dark-haired woman signaled that she was finished. He then guided Wilson back around the other side of the "bear skin" to maintain the false illusion he created. If he were Pinocchio, his nose would already be out the door.

Wilson solemnly shook his head, but cracked a smile and kept repeating, "House, you've got to be kidding." However, he didn't hesitate for a moment to pull out his credit card, and after signing the receipt passed it to House whispered to him to add a big tip and total it.

Back in the car, House spied Wilson looking pleased as he ran his thumbs over the polished surfaces of his trim nails.

If only he could guarantee the gala would go so smoothly.

Step 3 - Drinking (NULL)

House reserved a conference room during lunchtime where they could eat their lunch in privacy and Wilson could practice with plastic stemware.

Before bringing out the glasses, the two men ate. When finished, Wilson did the honors and cleaned up. He crumpled the sandwich wrapping and potato chip bags into one large ball. "Where's the trash can?"

House couldn't resist. "It's an easy shot. Ten feet away, at one o'clock."

Wilson aimed and threw the paper ball into the air, but there was no welcome, satisfying thud into a metal container.

"Oh, you just missed." House kept his smile from spilling into his voice.

Wilson walked over to where he heard the paper land, and picked it up. His hand sought the nearby receptacle but couldn't find it. "Very funny, House. Where is the garbage can?!

"On the opposite wall." House stifled a laugh.

When Wilson returned to the table, he muttered under his breath, "If I were you, I'd be careful about leaning too heavily on that cane of yours. It might develop an unexpected split in the wood."

The rest of the session did not make House smile. He gave Wilson cues and instructions, but it became obvious to both of them that Wilson was born with a rebellious right arm that channeled a caveman with ape-like appendages from the stone ages.

They agreed to call time on the practice session. House asked, "Why drink at all, that evening?"

"Because there will be toasts, and why shouldn't I? Why can't I master such a small thing?"

"Did King Kong toast Fay Wray with a wine glass? Why should you?"

Step 4 Dining (CHECK!)

House ferreted out from Cuddy what would be on the menu: steak, roasted rosemary potatoes and sautéed green beans. All very do-able. For the next three nights he and Wilson dined at various steak restaurants.

The first night the doctors ordered steaks at a neighborhood restaurant. House sat and observed Wilson's navigation of his place setting and then his subtle attack on his food. Interested, he rested his chin on his fist with his elbow propped on the table. Wilson acted bored and went through some picky eater's routine of pricking and tapping the food with his fork. It appeared random, but House realized Wilson was creating a topographical map so he could better picture his food and compartmentalize where it was on his plate.

Wilson began showing signs or irritation. He placed his knife and fork on the plate, but didn't look at him, "You're not eating, House."

"You always eat sandwiches. You go through this when you eat at home?"

"No. I was taught the clock method at the blind center and place the food accordingly." Wilson looked uncomfortable as he explained. "Meat at eight o'clock, vegetable at four, and beverage at one."

House studied the pattern of food on his plate, "Why can't we do that on Friday?"

"Do what?" Annoyance dripped from the question, Wilson's left dimple pulsed in his face as he worked the muscles in his jaw.

"I can signal the food layout on your plate like a football play. Call the meat first, then the vegetable, and so on. All I have to say is 2-8-10, and the string beans are at . . ."

"Eight o'clock." The annoyance and tension disappeared from Wilson's face as his eyebrows rose with appreciation.

House mentally marked #4 off his list, but he didn't tell Wilson since he agreed to pay for all three night's dinners.

Step 5 Secret Passwords (CHECK!)

As the days counted down to the end of the week, House tackled other issues, developing a code to communicate potentially embarrassing situations for Wilson. The dreaded piece of spinach stuck in an upper tooth translated into "Have you seen the new lupus patient on the top floor?" A crumb of bread on the mouth or clothes could be diplomatically wiped away after hearing, "Taub recommended a facelift to remove wrinkle lines around her lips," or "Hadley detected a spot on the upper right lung."

Step 6 – Reconnaissance (CHECK!)

On the night before the gala they ate at the hotel dining room where the event would be held. After they finished, House led the way to the ballroom, and they walked the perimeter marking the length and width, the dance floor's relation to the room, the doors leading out to the lobby, and the emergency exits.

He was concerned over Wilson's interest in the last feature, as he left House's side and his hands roamed over the door until it found the latch. "Don't think of bolting out of any of these doors unless you want holy hell to rain down on Cuddy's ball. These are wired to a fire alarm and will probably kick off the sprinkler system."

Wilson was about to ignore the warning, but hesitated, "You are so full of shit, House."

"If she finds out you made it rain on her parade, she won't wait for the Board's decision…"

Hands left the bar, and raised in surrender, "Fine, fine, when I walk through the doors tomorrow night, I'll stay until the bitter end." Wilson returned to House, and they continued their tour.

Step 3 – Drinking Revisited (WTF!!)

The wine glass remained Wilson's Waterloo. By Friday afternoon they gave up in defeat. There was no way he could successfully pick up the glass at normal speed, and was adamant about slowing down to a crawl or asking for a water glass.

House soon found out that Wilson was a fan of both the old and new versions of The Planet of the Apes, and had no sense of humor when he began called him Cornelius. He couldn't get away with Attar either.

They agreed that the best plan was for House to "mistakenly" lift Wilson's glass, apologize, and place it at the 1 o'clock position, but they both knew it was a trick that they could afford to try only once.

***

When House found a moment to himself, he reviewed the checklist. He accomplished a lot in three days, but it was not enough. He read over his notes about step 3, and didn't realize two words escaped heavenward in the form of a plea, "Oy vey."

Too bad he didn't believe in a higher power or the angels that caught the words as they flung up and out into the sky. They nodded knowingly to each other—God works in mysterious ways.

~fin~

Oy vey: Oh woe!

Thank you for reading. Comments are always welcome!