For some reason I've decided to add another ongoing Fic to my already ongoing Fics that I never work on; obviously I'm insane – and as for those damn rabbits…

Anyway, something Houseian this way comes. It's not a crossover fic, but there will be crossover elements (Ha! Figure that one out people). I'm also thinking about maybe making it a House/Cuddy affair, but we'll see – Mr Romance I am not.

For those of you who've never had the misfortune to read something of mine, I like long complex sentences, strange words, and word games; remember, perseverance is good for the soul. (BTW: This is non-beta'ed, so all mistakes are the result of my ego refusing to acknowledge that it isn't infallible)

I'd like – and this is unusual for me – to dedicate this fic to imsanehonest, whose fic 'Drenched', inspired me to write House again. In my humble (OK, not humble0 opinion, it is the pre-eminent House Fanfic out there.

Please review if you feel so inclined.

History, n.:
Papa Hegel he say that all we learn from history is that we
learn nothing from history. I know people who can't even learn from
what happened this morning. Hegel must have been taking the long view.
-- Chad C. Mulligan, "The Hipcrime Vocab"

When I was seven years old, I was once reprimanded by my mother for an
act of collective brutality in which I had been involved at school. A
group of seven-year-olds had been teasing and tormenting a
six-year-old. "It is always so," my mother said. "You do things
together which not one of you would think of doing alone." ...
Wherever one looks in the world of human organization, collective
responsibility brings a lowering of moral standards. The military
establishment is an extreme case, an organization which seems to have
been expressly designed to make it possible for people to do things
together which nobody in his right mind would do alone.
-- Freeman Dyson, "Weapons and Hope

"Just tell me why." The statement came through the clenched teeth of the very obviously enraged, Lisa Cuddy, as she glared at her rogue diagnostician. House, for his part appeared unconcerned, regarding the Dean of Medicine's tantrum in much the same manner as ambulance chasers regarded road accidents; that is, with fascination and a hint of arousal.

"You're hot when you're angry; did you know your nipples get perky when you start ranting?"

Cuddy, used to House's continual campaigns of obfuscation and avoidance ignored the blatantly harassment-filled statement that would have seen the man dismissed, if not lynched, by any other female hospital administrator in the country and stuck to her guns.

"Again, just tell me why? I know you don't like the guy but did you really have to authorise a barium enema?"

"It seemed appropriate."

"Your job is not to determine what is appropriate, you are not one of the Furies sent to inflict divine punishment on …" she paused and reconsidered that last statement, certainly it was possible that House could qualify as some deity's idea of a divine punishment detail it was just that she wasn't entirely sure what she'd done to deserve such on her staff; maybe if she'd been nicer to small children and animals when she was younger…

"…Earth to Cuddy, hello? Cuddy?"

"…What? Oh…House…Sorry, for one brief, merciful moment I'm managed to forget about your existence."

House appeared slightly wounded by this statement for despite his near-perpetual misanthropy he still used his gift as a constant irritant to all and sundry to justify his existence. Intimation to the effect that his presence had been banished from the consciousness of Primary Target Cuddy was a struck a disheartening blow to his worldview.

"Did you want me to answer your question?"

Cuddy, resigned herself to yet another improbable explanation for the man's wholly inappropriate conduct, decided that her day was going to be long and arduous enough without having to deal with a – probable - piece of fantasy vivid enough to challenge Dali at his most delusional. "You know what, House? I don't want to know. In fact, I don't actually care. However, to reinforce with you that I do take your actions somewhat seriously I am adding an additional five hours of clinic time to your roster."

"You can't do that."

"Watch me."

"But that's not fair."

"What's fair got to do with it?"

"Because…but…bu… because it does."

"…And if you don't do the clinic hours I'll make sure the TV in your office is removed…"

"That's theft."

"It's on hospital property."

"But it's my TV…"

"Alright then, I'll have the hospital electrician come in and disconnect power to your office."

"Then how will I do my job?"

Checkmate, thought Cuddy, with a degree of satisfaction wholly inappropriate to her position. "Well let's see. Cameron answers your correspondence, Foreman does your administration and Chase runs around and gets everything else done. You apparently use your computer solely for games and you perform the majority of your diagnoses on your white board which, I might add, is un-powered…"

House, knowing he'd been completely outmanoeuvred, surrendered. "…Fine, I'll do the clinic hours."

"…and…"

"I won't have that bastard given another enema."

"House," growled Cuddy warningly, "Mr Khan is a patient, not a bastard."

"Nope. He's definitely a bastard, his records don't mention a family history, says he's an orphan."

Cuddy shrugged, better to let the man have this small victory otherwise he'd be insufferable for the rest of the week. "Fine then, Mr Khan's hereditary origins are indeterminate. However, irrespective of whether or not said genetic donors were known to him, there will be no more enemas; clear?"

"Clear," mumbled the doctor much in the manner of a chastised schoolboy, "Can I go now?"

"Not just yet," Cuddy's eyes gleamed with an unholy light and House, ever wary of consequences, prepared to make an escape; however, House being House, he couldn't leave without sating his eternal need to get in the last word, one final riposte. "You know Cuddy, you get all flushed when you're angry; I think that authority thing's turning you on."

"…And speaking of that authority thing, I have a new case for you."

"You can't do that," exclaimed House, "who the hell do you think you are, my boss…or… something?" The sentence tailed off somewhat weakly, for not even House at his most contrary could deny that when it came to all things administrative, Cuddy was indeed his superior in every sense of the word. While Cuddy was more than prepared to concede that yes, House was a better doctor than her, there was a lot to be said for reminding him – on occasion – that the world did not revolve around him and his Greg-o-centric view of the universe.

"Look, I'm very busy. I have things to do, people to see and deals to be made."

The Dean of Medicine arched a finely manicured eyebrow in her rogue colleague's direction "Has no one ever told you that the people on General Hospital aren't real, that inside the little magic box those things you see aren't really happening."

"How cruelly your jibes wound, your wit is a sharp an cutting as a scalpel; or not, perchance, I think a scalpel by any other name would resemble a brick."

"Yes, House, how very poor man's Shakespeare of you."

House shrugged, "Chase and Cameron have been at a conference the past week; no one else stays around long enough for me to get in any practise; except Steve, of course, but eventually he gets fed up and goes to run in his wheel."

"You consider that a surprise?"

"No, but it is a sad commentary on people's ability to engage in the noble art of verbal combat."

"Either that, or an exemplar of the evolutionary process at work. Face it, House, you're like an old, bad-tempered crocodile that hangs out at the same waterhole year-around, eventually even the dumbest of animals gets the idea and stays away."

"So how do you explain Wilson?" noted House.

Ignoring the diagnostician's jibe that his best friend was no better than a dumb animal, Cuddy shrugged, "I don't know, maybe misery loves company; more likely, all his troubles seem manifestly manageable in comparison to the burden you bear."

"…And what burden would that be…"

"Why the chip on your shoulder of course," responded Cuddy, smiling a sweet – and completely false – smile, "now, about this case."

"I told you, I'm not interested."

"And yet somehow I can't bring myself to care. Now, the patient presents with no pulse, no heartbeat and has a temperature of 5.5 degrees."

House gazed speculatively at the woman trying to determine if he was being manipulated into being the butt of some sort of joke. "I think you need to go back to medical school, Cuddy, the operative term for the condition you've described is 'corpse', not 'patient'."

'Gotcha', she thought, "Well, in that case, I'm sure you'll have no problem explaining to the woman that she is in fact, not sick, but dead."

Rising from her desk, Cuddy, determinedly marched towards her target brandishing a sheaf of official looking papers. House, who from long experience of suffering the consequences when his antagonising of his colleagues went just a little bit too far, recognised the malicious glint in her eye and gave momentary thought to making a break for it at full hobble, but knew that, even perched on her ridiculously high heels, the buxom administrator would chase him down with the ease of a cheetah hunting a comatose tree sloth; thus he sighed, girded his loins in preparation for the Damocletian sword that held his fate to descend with brutal efficiency.

"What do you mean by 'explain'?" House asked, suspiciously.

Cuddy sighed, "An explanation," she began assuming a clipped didactic tone, as if talking to a particularly slow five year old, "is when you talk to a person in order to provide information pertinent as to why you hold a particular position relative to a topic being discussed or, where you provide information pertaining to said topic in order to render the topic in greater clarity. It is not," she continued "as you appear to believe, where you insult the intelligence of anyone who disagrees with anything that comes out of your mouth."

Cuddy turned on her heel and walked back to her desk as House taking time to admire the seductive sway of her taut buttocks encased as they were in a exceedingly tight – and even more exceedingly flattering – business skirt; "…And House, stop checking out my butt."

"You didn't seem to mind when I was giving you those hormone injections."

"Out!" House, smirked at the women, and wandered off deciding that getting ordered out of Cuddy's office, yet again, was reason enough to consider their latest battle a draw – despite the fact that he still held the unwanted patient file in his hands.

As she watched House depart, Cuddy let out an exasperated sigh; dealing with the man was hard work. The biggest problem wasn't his arrogance, although, to the uninitiated, that would have been the easiest target, for, unfortunately or not, Doctor Gregory House was indeed as good as he thought he was. No, the problem with House was that he didn't care; about, work, authority, others or – perhaps most tragically of all – himself. Again, Cuddy sighed, this time in resignation, she knew there was no point in disciplining House because in the grand scheme of things the punishment meant absolutely nothing to him.

Another thing House didn't appear to care about was paperwork, an attribute he had apparently infected Chase with, and he was, apparently, well on the way to corrupting the soul of Eric Foreman; or at least just as soon as the older man was able to override the black doctor's internal reflex; that is, for acting in a manner considered appropriate to being a doctor, be it suit, tie and lab coat or fulfilling one's administrative obligations.

Cuddy gave up a silent prayer of thanks for Allison Cameron's unwavering diligence, industry and preparedness to do the donkey work although there were also signs that House's unremitting assault on the younger woman's ethical sensibilities and soft skills was weakening her attachment to the more 'romanticised' elements of her existence. Now, of a certainty, Cuddy was prepared to admit that a degree of detachment, which allowed a measure of surcease from the continual emotional and psychic assault, was a good thing, she wasn't sure, however, that it should be taken to the extremes that House took it. There was detachment and then there was emotional obliviousness…

…Even if was nothing more than a well-constructed sham for nothing had displayed House's inherent humanity – or his loathing of his humanity - more than his complete desolation at Stacy's violation of his self when she had authorised the surgery on his leg. In Cuddy's experience no one could shut down so completely on an emotional level and then claim complete indifference to the human condition; it was, she mused, much like people who claimed to love and not hate; you couldn't have one without the other and House, to segue into Shakespearean mode, protested far too much for his misanthropy to be taken seriously.

Nevertheless, he was still an insensitive bastard, an arrogant son-of-a-bitch and a pathological liar and cynic but he wasn't as far gone as he liked to pretend or, indeed, tried to convince people he was. Of course there were those who would always view the man in shades of black and white or, more accurately, black and black for, irrespective of the facts (or truth, or reality for that matter), it was rumoured that the Head Nurse Brenda, had had her fireman boyfriend transfer House's image to all the mannequins the local department used in their drills, apparently, on her days off, she'd go down to the station and cheer on the fire.

She could have sold tickets, Cuddy thought.

Perhaps, in a free moment, she'd approach the woman and inquire whether it was possible to stage an annual fundraiser based on the concept, she was fairly certain she would be able to attract large numbers of well-heeled donors to a ritual burning of House-in-effigy; most of the board, for example.

Cuddy smiled at the mental picture of House going up in flames before she returned her attention to the paperwork on her desk: bills, accounts, transplant requests, responses from donors, something suspicious from a lawyer (all things from lawyers were, by definition suspicious), lab results, performance appraisals – from all the departmental heads with the exception of diagnostics, no surprise there, thought Cuddy, and a letter in a childish hand wishing Aunty Lisa a happy birthday: at least somebody loves me, she thought.

Pushing the majority of the material to one side, with the exception of her niece's card, which she propped against her desk lamp, Cuddy turned her attention to the suspicious lawyer-y thing. 'Please don't let it be a lawsuit, please don't let it be a lawsuit, please don't let it be a lawsuit' she incanted three times in a long-established ritual before she ripped open the envelope. Withdrawing the contents from the tattered receptacle, she took a moment to briefly scan the contents.

"Well I'll be damned…"