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21 August 2007 @ 11:52 pm
FOR THE WIN - HOUSE, M.D.  
Title: For The Win
Author: loudxmusic
Challenge/Prompt: cuddy_fest's 137th prompt: Cuddy, Wilson, House - poker rematch in which Cuddy owns their asses.
Fandom: House, M.D
Genre: Gen.
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: None.
Character/Ship: Cuddy, House, Wilson
Disclaimer: I am in no way affliated with David Shore, the FOX network, or House, M.D in any other way.



“Daaaamn,” you groan as you sit on the couch in the room right of your front door. Rain beats heavily down onto the glass of the window, thunder booms in the distance. You’re already dressed for sleeping, her white tank top and long, white cotton pants. The pants she hates wearing, they cover everything. They are only brought out on special occasions, for instance, when it’s cold as hell.

There’s a beat, then another boom of thunder. The cat is meowing at her feet, and you lift him into you lap, attempting sooth his fears by petting him slowly. “Miles, it’s okay,” you coo, but he continues meowing, a look of terror planted in his dark green eyes. You sigh and let him down and watch as he scampers under the end table.

Thunder storms really are horrible, especially for you in particular. There’s more car accidents. There’s more falls down slick steps of apartment buildings. There’s more homeless people looking for shelter. The ER floods with patients and you are constantly having to double-staff, which is huge pain in the ass.

The phone rings loudly and Miles meows timidly before skidding out of the room. “Miles!” you call with a slight laugh, but he doesn’t come back. With a sigh, you reach for the phone before it rings again, and lifts it to her ear. “Hello?”

It’s a familiar and surprising voice on the other end. “Cuddy? Hi, it’s-“

“House,” you cut off. He doesn’t need to say who it is.

“Wilson is crashing here. Freeloader.” He pauses, and you hear Wilson say something about where House can stick the phone before he continues, “Poker. We’re going to play poker and Wilson wanted you to come.”

“Wilson wants me to come?” you repeat. “You have no opinion?”

“I have no objection. Anyway, what are the odds that you’ll be wearing those cute little white two-piece pajamas?”

You roll your eyes, though his comment is only to be accepted. “Let me think about that. Give me a minute… Let’s try zero to three million. How does that sound?”

“Fine. Fifteen minutes, or we’re starting without you,” House says with a dramatic, I’ve-Never-Had-Sex-In-My-Life sigh.

“I’ve never said weather or not I’m coming,” you clarify.

“Ten minutes? Okay. See you then.”

There’s a bit of laughter, then a click. You shake your head, though stand and retreat to your bedroom, ready to change into something almost as modest as the pajamas on your back.

--

The rain threatens to hit the front step where you stand, barley covered by the slight arch of the roof above you. Quickly, you hit the doorbell, and then again, to signify some sort of urgency.

Wilson is the one who open the door first and you figure that House probably didn’t even stand from his place to save you from the showers of rain. “Hey, come in,” Wilson says to you, holding the door open with his foot.

House’s apartment is a mess. Books are strewn around the living room, on the couch, on the coffee table. Dirty dishes, magazines, and miscellaneous patient files. Glancing around, you notice the guitar propped in the corner and the pens and manuscripts scattered over the piano. You can’t help but smile. It’s so him.

Wilson leads you into the apartment, and you see House sitting at a card table, half it in the kitchen and half of it in the living room. He turns at her entrance and smirks at her Michigan sweatshirt, he can’t help it. “Nice shirt,” House says, as if it was nothing. Wilson glances suspiciously from you to House, but says nothing. Same with you, in fact, you’re surprised he even remembered.

“So,” you begin, breaking the silence and sitting down across the table from House, “are we going to start or what?” Chips are already placed in neat stacks, by Wilson, of course, in front of you.

Wilson nods quickly and sits down. “Ante at… Five bucks?”

“Ten,” you say. If you’re going to play poker, you’re going to play with at least somewhat high stakes.

“Fine,” House and Wilson agree at the same time. “I won last time, anyway,” Wilson added.

Along with the other two, you throw in your ten and House shuffles, then deals. You glance down at your cards, and force the smile away from your face.

“Beer,” Wilson says. “Beer, I forgot beer.” He stood and went off into the kitchen.

“He always says that when he’s got a shitty hand,” House tells you.

“I’m sure.”

Wilson returns with six drinks in hand, and places them in the center of the table and both you and House eagerly reach for one.

You push in three chips. “Thirty.”

“Raise you ten,” House replies, dropping in four chips.

You glance to Wilson, who frowns at his hand. “I fold,” he says with a sigh, dropping his cards in front of them.

“Call,” you say and move another chip into the pile. Lightening blinks through the window before you lay your cards down in front of you. “Straight.”

“Damn,” House mutters and lays his own cards down. “Two pair.”

With a grin, you pull the chips towards you. House deals again with a bit of anger each time he slaps a card down on the table. “What?” you begin, “Mad that you lost? Poor House.”

Wilson chuckles, then reaches for his cards at the same time you do. “I’ll take two cards,” he says before dropping his ten dollar ante onto the table. House quickly slides two cards back to Wilson, and then the three of you begin.

“Thirty,” you say again.

“Repetitive, this could be a good sign,” House says suggestively as he glances at his cards and waits for Wilson to take his turn.

“Call,” Wilson says to the two of them and drops three chips into the pile.

“Damn you,” House mutters before dropping in his own three chips. He flashes his cards, three of a kind.

Wilson flashes his own, three of kind. “And high Queen.”

“Damn you,” House repeats. Both of them turn their attention to you, girl with another huge smirk on your face.

“Flush,” you say, that smirk still plastered on your lips. “So I guess it’s me two, the both of you… Zero?” You pause to pull the chips towards you. “Cool.”

After an hour, the lights have already flickered on and off. You wonder how Miles is doing, in the dark, all by himself. But after eighteen consecutive winning hands, you are not leaving, not to check on your frightened cat. With a swig of your second beer, you lay down your cards yet again and you can’t help but smile. “This… This is extraordinary. A royal flush. What are the odds?”

“Yeah,” Wilson mutters. “What are the odds?” He flops down his cards with another loosing hand. House sighs and does the same.

The light flickers again and the room goes dark. Candles are placed on the table from a previous power outage earlier that night, and Wilson quickly lights them. As soon as the room is dimly illuminated, you say, “So this has been what, nineteen, twenty hands? And I’ve won every one of them. You guys ready to give up?” Your words have a twang of glee in your voice, mixed with sarcasm and a little bit of your own ego.

Wilson heaves out a sigh and rubs his hand across his forehead. “I’m out.”

“Same,” House replies with that same heavy sigh.

“Cool,” you say and collect your money from a very reluctant House and Wilson. You stuff it in your wallet with a grin still on your face. “So… Next week, same time?”

Wilson glances to House. House glances to Wilson. “Fine,” Wilson says.

“Next week, my place, nine o’clock.”

“Fine,” you reply, turning on your heal and leaving the apartment without another word. Even through the heavy rain, you can’t help but grin as you run down the steps and to your car. For once, you were right. For once, you beat them. But the biggest thing was that you beat House. He always proves you wrong, he always finds away to make a better argument, but for once, you got the best of him. Even if it was in poker.