The slap left behind a colorful bruise. House's team thankfully picked up on his miserable frame of mind real quick and decided it was better not to ask about it.

Of course, when they needed to sit down and have a serious discussion, everything else got in the way. They saw only when they ran into each other in the corridors, sometimes literally. Too much to do and not enough time to do it. Cuddy was up to her eyeballs with trying to keep the hospital running smoothly, and House had a new patient: a young newlywed with burning skin, rapid hair loss, and numbness.

The patient had thallium poisoning. It was the oldest story in the book: her husband had been trying to kill her for the insurance money, giving her a massive dose in a milkshake before she was brought to the hospital The husband was arrested and the young woman was left paralyzed and could no longer speak. Just like Bobby told me, it's always for love or money, House commented with a brooding scowl before limping back to his office.

Needless to say, he was in a less-than-cheery mood by the time he stepped into her home two days later. That didn't stop him from picking up a pint Mocha Almond Fudge along the way.

"What's that for?" she asked, as he sat at the table and peeled off the safety seal.

"I can give a crude, tasteless answer about you and your womanly cycles and cravings," he answered, "or I can say that this is my way of apologizing. Which will it be?"

"I accept your apology."

"Somehow, I knew you would. How about bringing a couple of spoons before this melts."

House watched her walk over to the dishwasher and noticed a little detail that he was all too familiar with, except he never dreamed that he would see it on Cuddy. "Why are you limping?" he asked apprehensively.

"I stepped on a piece of shattered oatmeal bowl," she answered calmly, as if it were a part of her daily routine while plucking two clean, shiny spoons from the dishwasher. It had been running not long before the diagnostician had arrived. He could still smell the detergent.

"Hmm...I see." He relaxed and opened up the ice cream. "Then you got a tetanus shot. That's why you kept rubbing your arm while you were eating lunch in your office yesterday."

"Very perceptive," she said, handing over a spoon, a little wary that she hadn't noticed him watching her while she ate a salad at her desk.

Limping and a tetanus shot. A simple connection. Child's play for House. But sometimes she found his ability to read people and connect seemingly random incidents a bit unnerving. She was positive that he knew more about her, her thoughts and her habits than he let on.

"My forte." He pushed the ice cream over to her, letting her have the first spoonful.

She ate the first bite and pushed the container back to him before she said, "I shouldn't have slapped you." Her voice was dripping with regret.

"I called you a bitch. I deserved it."

"Yes, you did deserve it, but that doesn't make what I did right."

House paused to munch on a chocolate-covered almond, then said, "It doesn't make it wrong either."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

"I am."

"Lisa, you know damn good and well that I forgive you," he said, and pushed the ice cream to her.

Cuddy pushed it the middle of the table and left it there. "We're adults. We can share without fighting." She was pleased when he gave her a small smile, the first smile she had seen from him in days.

The ice cream was good and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

She put her spoon down. House ate one more bite and put his spoon down. Then he put the lid back on, got up, put the ice cream in the freezer and sat back down without saying a word.

"There are treatments and therapies out there that can help you cope, Greg," Cuddy began. "There are other non-addictive drugs you can take."

"Therapy?" He sounded suspicious.

"Psychological counseling–"

"As in some over-paid quack messing with my head? No thanks."

"There are good therapists out there and you know it. I know you're angry that the ketamine didn't work and I know you're in pain–"

"Goddamn right I am," he broke in, his voice flat.

Cuddy was glad there wasn't anything within his reach that he could pick up and throw across the room. "But you can get help," she continued. "Help that you need and that you deserve." A good therapist was exactly what he needed, and he wouldn't set foot in a therapist's office for all the Vicodin in the world. More than a little of his pain since the shooting, and probably before, was psychosomatic–the ketamine didn't work therefore he was supposed to be in agony–but decided to keep that thought to herself for the time being.

"Do I really deserve it?" he asked.

It always disturbed her to hear him talk about himself like that, like he had done something horrible and he was sentenced to live in agony for eternity to pay his debt to society, whatever that was.

"If I thought for a second that you really deserved to live like this, I would have never let you into my home and into my life," she said quietly. "I never would have loved you, Gregory House. Nobody deserves to live like this. Why do you think that you do? Why do you think that you deserve to be miserable? There are plenty of people out there ready to help you. Why won't you accept their help?"

"Because in the end, after all the pep-talks of what a fantabulous person I supposedly am, after I do the deep breathing exercises and sing Kum Ba Yah, after I take all the wonder drugs, I'm still going to be in pain."

"You don't know–"

"No, you don't know. But I do."

"There has to be something that someone can do for you," Cuddy said, pleading. "Name it, and I'll see to it that you get it."

House looked up and into her eyes. "Just stay with me, Lisa," he answered softly. "That's all I want right now."