Happy new year, all! Sorry for the delay--the holidays were crazy, and my computer was acting up. As always, thanks so much to everyone reading, especially, Shikabane-Mai, wrytingtyme, CaptainTish, mandy9578, gidget89, glicine, Casper1311, scheggia, HolyMacaroni, Schulyer Lola, Nerds United, and Snivellusly Ozalan for the awesome reveiws. I can't thank you all enough!

Insanity

"But it's not just that! She's always nauseous, completely lost her appetite, and won't—"

"Sore throat? Swollen tongue? Blisters or pustules on the insides of the cheeks?"

"What? No!" The mother glared at him as if the questions were absolutely absurd, cheeks pinched, lips pressed together in a tight, thin line. Her so-large-they-can't-be-real diamond earrings glinted as she suddenly stopped her pacing, not a hair so much as moving on her perfectly-coifed head.

House was all too familiar with this model of motherhood: June Cleaver 4.0—hyped up on steroids and the Beaver's Ritalin in order to deal with the mounting pressures of life outside the picture-perfect 1950s (what a lie that decade was). Or, even more likely, she just had a stick up her ridiculously tight ass like 98 of the human population. Some people should simply not be allowed to procreate. Period.

"Is she always this quiet," House began, jerking the chart towards the 'darling' daughter perched on the exam table, enough makeup on her to put most cross-dressers to shame. "Or is it just when you're talking?"

There was a derisive snort, the girl this time—though if she knew how much the sound and accompanying flippant hair-toss were reminiscent of her mother, she might have refrained. "Nobody'd ever be able to talk if we had to wait for her to shut up."

"Don't you start, young lady…."

Turning his attention from the girl's just-too-tight shirt, House reexamined the test results, hiding his smirk in the chart. "Little late for that."

"The mouth on her. It's a wonder I don't—"

"I'm right here, Mom," 'Darling' Daughter moaned, emphasizing with a wild wave of her arms and practicing her I'm so mortified I just might die face.

"Convenient, huh?" House cut in, turning to the June Cleaver wannabe before she could snipe back at her daughter (family meals in this house had to be an absolute scream). "Even more convenient if she stays here and you take a seat in the waiting room. Chairs there are much more comfortable."

Doing little more than wrinkling her nose, the mother managed to look as though House had calmly suggested she take a seat in some back alley and wait for the pickpockets and hoodlums to arrive. "I didn't suffer through thirty-two hours of labor and God knows how many years of mouthing off to be kicked into the waiting room of a free clinic!"

"See, this whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing is set up so I don't have to deal with you."

"Well, for the love of God…." June had her hands on her hips, eyes flashing, but she was going to have to do better than that if she wanted to try to intimidate him. "You're worse than she is!"

"If you were in the waiting room, you wouldn't have to deal with either of us," House pointed out matter-of-factly, grinning at the girl, who returned the gesture readily, glad to have one up on her mother. "And it'd be easier for us to talk about you behind your back. Everybody wins."

June apparently chose to interpret this as a personal insult, quite clearly needed to get a grip. "I want to speak to your supervisor."

House chuckled, earning himself another glare. "No, you don't."

"Can we just get this over with?" 'Darling' Daughter whined, having forgotten the camaraderie of just a moment ago. "If I'm not back at school by lunch, Coach won't let me practice."

Well, since they were apparently no longer BFF, the truth wouldn't hurt, even in front of her mother. "Another few weeks and Coach won't let you be on top of the pyramid either. The other girls on the squad are gonna start to complain once that first trimester weight gain really kicks in."

The girl's mouth opened and shut like that of a fish out of water. Denial was futile—her eyes averting, cheeks flushing, fingers drumming nervously on the exam table. Her mother was a little less quiet, voice about two decibels from where only dogs would have been able to hear it (and how fortunate that would have been). "You… you must've made some mistake."

"I don't make mistakes," House stated with mock solemnity. "But look on the bright side… you'll make one hot grandma."

At this, June positively blanched—even more than she had with the blow of the initial news—so much of the color draining from her face that she probably shouldn't have been able to stay conscious. "No. There's just no way. Tessa's in the Abstinence Clu—"

House hadn't heard the door open but recognized the new voice immediately. Maybe because he had heard the words before, and the tone—commanding (the way he liked it) with an underlying hint of something like desperation. "House. Need you. Now."

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it." If Cuddy was going to treat him like a petulant child, there were some ways he didn't mind playing the part (others, he had no control over, as much as he tried—hormones, physical reactions, a wandering mind… he was only human, dammit).

"Who's in charge of him?" June ground out, jerking her head in his direction.

A slight cringe—like a mother forced to lay claim on the child who's just completely decimated a (no doubt hideously ugly) collection of antiques worth more money than she would see in a lifetime. "I am—"

"She wishes," House charged in automatically, covering the place where unfortunately would have been.

"—Is something wrong?"

Cuddy's voice was tired, strained in a way that was (and shouldn't have been) conspicuous to him, probably wasn't noticed at all by the girl or her mother. But to take this as a sign of weakness would have been feeding himself to the wolves—and on a silver platter, no less. When he finally made eye contact, cobbling together as innocent a face as he could manage, Cuddy's expression flashed so quickly from her best I'm a doctor and I care in a purely professional way to I'm the Queen of the Damned and will disembowel you with my bare hands that House was surprised little hell demons didn't materialize at once and begin stabbing him with fire-glowing pitchforks. He probably should've just counted his blessings and left it at that—the little fiends would've had a devil of a time trying to pry the silly grin off his face (and would have gone about it with frightening zeal).

"I need a second opinion," June huffed self-righteously (pathetically). "Dr. House—"

"Has been perfectly nice. As ordered. And, more importantly, is right."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes. "I don't call interrupting—"

Some might think taking the bait too easy—House just considered it good plain fun.

"She's not my patient." He roughly thrust his cane in the mother's direction, nudging it more gently towards 'Darling' Daughter as he continued. "This lovely young lady is, and I think if you ask her, you'll find I've minded all my P's and Q's."

The warmth of her proximity radiated towards him a split-second before Cuddy grabbed the chart from his grip, a little too violently. Her eyes skipped over him, darting back and forth as she scanned the chart and flicking quickly to the girl (downcast, with a small sigh), before finally landing on him. She pulled at his elbow, her voice was low, almost nonexistent, even with her lips so close to his ear.

"You actually tested this one, right?"

"Results are in the chart," he answered, mimicking tone. "What kind of doctor do you think I am?"

The only answer he got was the chart shoved into his chest (his hand grazing hers as he scrambled to grab it). Cuddy's gaze had moved on, her smile forced—too cheerful and all business. The professional, caring doctor had returned, with a touch of the Dean of Medicine's authority besides—a useful combination in certain instances, perhaps, but it couldn't hold a candle to his own suave frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn mentality.

"We can re-run the test if you like…." She paused here, was pointedly refusing to make eye contact. "But based on the findings and Tessa's symptoms, I have to agree with Dr. House."

June didn't allow him much time to revel in this—or gloat.

"It's impossible. Tessa hasn't—"

"Had sex?" House dropped the chart, watching the women and girl jump as it clattered loudly on the linoleum, and turned towards Cuddy, flabbergasted. "You got a red-line to the Vatican? Haven't had a good Immaculate Conception for about 2000 years—the Pope'll be all over this."

"House," Cuddy warned, eyeing the mother, who, at the moment, was doing a remarkable impression of a lioness readying to pounce on a gazelle. "Not helping."

On audiences like this, his genius was wasted.

"So…" House stood and approached 'Darling' Daughter, pausing only to shoot Cuddy a quick grin before springing as nimbly as he could (which admittedly wasn't very) up onto the exam table in his best teenage-girl-at-a-slumber-party imitation. "Dish. What's his name?"

"Jeremy," the girl admitted after a moment, heaving a sigh. "Or David. Or maybe Asher."

Victory was sweet. And hilarious. June was in danger of hyperventilation, a hand clawing over her heart as if trying to rip it out through her ribcage. "Tessa Elizabeth—"

House was off the exam table before June had even finished her daughter's first name, halfway out the door by the time she had shrieked out the middle. "I'll just leave you girls to chat."

The mother/daughter screech-off carried through the door behind him—there were the generic snippets of get your act together, you're ruining my life, and how you grew up into a…. But he had pegged the Catholic thing—even if it was somewhat lapsed—the threat of a convent, though outdated, was shouted at least twice in the span of time it took Cuddy to follow him out the door and shut it behind her. Now, House would have been first in line to throw rotten fruit at anything to do with psychic powers, spirits, or auras, but even he had to admit that Cuddy's presence was practically pulsing through the air at his side (nothing but anger, he told himself—though the line between that and other more ardent emotions was as thin as the single string of a spider's web).

He had one chance to redeem himself, a few last words before the command to take aim and fire was decided upon. If he valued his life, he'd have to choose them—and any accompanying gestures or expressions—well.

Batting his eyelashes, he simpered sweetly. "Miss me already?"

Cuddy's nostrils flared. Her glare could have cut through steel, somehow managed not to slice through him—though he almost thought it had when her fingers clenched his arm and she jerked him towards her office. He should have resisted (to uphold his image if nothing else), but would have been forced to surrender his arm—to high a price with a limp already. Once through her office doors, Cuddy let go of him, kept moving, and as his mind began to flit with thoughts concerning other tight grips he might find more interesting, he decided it was best to start talking.

"Just because a fifteen-year-old has seen more action in the past two months than you have the last two decades, it's no reason to dismember me."

Cuddy grumbled something that he couldn't quite make out, and he almost asked her to repeat it just to see the particular color of frustration wash over her that he elicited at least half a dozen times a day, an intensity there that could roast him alive (almost had on countless occasions, though the day he told her that—or anyone else—would also be the day he refrained from making any sarcastic or harassing comments whatsoever).

Pausing at her desk for a moment, Cuddy finally plucked a file from the top of a pile and whirled to face him. "Sixty-five-year-old male—"

"Even you can do better than that."

"Insomnia, arrhythmia, ataxia. T-cells are through the roof."

"You pulled me out of your beloved clinic for this?"

A tap of a foot, a hand on her hip, and with the tilt of her head and a flashed, forced smile, Cuddy was the picture of irritation and impatience. Except for the smudge on the lens: the slight hesitation just as her eyes skidded from his before locking on determinedly—as clear an answer to his question as if she had put her voice behind those two consecutive letters, or even the smallest amount of force into shaking her head. "He's bounced from the Sleep Lab to Cardio—"

"To Oncology!" he shouted, banging his cane on the floor. "Pin a note on his gown and leave him outside Wilson's office. You're just trying to keep me from getting my hands on your…."

Pause. Smirk. And, well, his eyes blazed their own path, hands twitching to follow but staying out of habit. She couldn't possibly expect more gentlemanly behavior while she was parading the girls around like that. Come to think of it—with the floats taken care of, all Cuddy needed to do was throw in some ticker tape and the brassy rhythm of a marching band, and PPTH would have quite the celebration on its hands. Or better yet: lose the top, string on some beads, and lock everyone under eighteen in the pediatric wing with Brenda—who wanted the family fun of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade when they could have a full-out Mardi Gras?

Amused (and amusingly), Cuddy followed his gaze almost immediately, eyebrows raising just as his hands moved. "Don't even think about it."

"Can't control my thoughts," he pointed out simply. But when she placed both hands on her hips, chest puffing out on a sigh, he was almost forced to retract his statement. He widened his eyes and shook his head (was that the sound of marbles clanging? a few screws, maybe?), gripping his cane tightly with both hands and leaning heavily against it. "Or read them. I was gonna say cold, hard cash—to match your heart."

"Testosterone controls your thoughts," Cuddy murmured as she made her way around her desk, bending to unlock one of the drawers. When she rose, she was holding three bills, pressed them into his hand before backing carefully away.

He stared at the three twenties—the bills so crisp they had either come straight from the Federal Reserve or she had actually taken the time to iron them—back at Cuddy, her arms folded as she leaned back against her desk. Fanning the money out in one hand, House took two long steps forward at a pace that could have been pitted against snails and sloths and still would probably lose a race. "I saw seven patients."

"But you were only nice to six."

She seemed cool and collected, but he hadn't missed the way her hands gripped the edge of her desk, ready to propel herself forward and out of the way before he could come any closer. There was something here she wasn't saying, that he would extract if he had dig through every trash can in the hospital, chase her around the hospital and wear out his other leg. But either Cuddy had actively chosen not to move or House was faster than even he gave himself credit for. He was within reach now. She staid her ground.

"You didn't say anything about being nice to moronic family members."

There went the eyes, just as expected, the blue of both irises cartwheeling simultaneously. "Do I have to spell everything out for you?"

His shoes clicked against hers, and he resisted the urge to see her reaction if he had stepped on them solely because there was no way in hell her toes were at the ends of those absurdly pointed tips. Her head still tilted, Cuddy flicked her eyes upwards with what he chose to interpret as frustration, because, oddly, that was safest. And all he had been going for (seriously—and not even that pout of hers would make him change his mind).

"Won't make a difference." His voice had pitched itself so that it was teeming with different shades of meaning, not all of which he was sure he'd intended, but it was much too late for reconsiderations. "I live for loopholes."

The comment should have earned him another tally on his metaphorical scoreboard (House: somewhere in the double digits for his unceasing cleverness; Cuddy: 3—breasts and ass, and maybe an added half-a-point for that cunning grin she had almost killed him with earlier). But those eyes… that smile that even now was sneakily sidestepping suppression no matter how hard she tried for fierce… how she was letting him stand so close and hadn't yet tried to push away—and neither had he. They should both be given padded cells (or one together—just to cut down on costs).

The three swift raps that sounded weren't his pulse or the beginnings of a heart attack, but a clipped knock on the door—just a formality because it swished opened automatically (and why did he feel the sudden need to groan… or shoot whoever entered?).

"Traded in your backstage pass for two front row seats?" the intruder asked with a snort—a beginner's mistake: sound gave away location, made an easier target for a bullet. "What's next—all-access on the tour bus?"

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you if you get a chance!