This is a shorter chapter than the previous few. Still very busy! But I hope it's at least a little bit satisfying :]

While a nurse is entrusted to look over Marissa, the ducklings meet with House in the conference room.

"What the hell changed," wonders House. "Seems to me that falling into a coma is not a treatment for any illness I've ever heard of."

"Maybe, if we left her in a coma for a few days, you know, induced it to remain, she'd wake up refreshed," says Taub.

House gives him a priceless "WTF?" look. "Taub, you're the one I'm supposed to trust not to be an idiot. You can't possibly think that all this is caused by a simple case of sleep deprivation."

Foreman cuts in. "He's out of ideas, like the rest of us. Isn't it about time you have one of your epiphanies?"

"Oh yeah," House replies. "Let me try—"he stares off into space for a few seconds, "no—"he raises his eyebrows, "not yet—"he tosses his ball up. "Nothing."

Thirteen rolls her eyes.

"Careful, Thirteen," House says nonchalantly. "You keep doing that all the time and they might get stuck that way." He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm going to get a consult from Cuddy."

Foreman is not convinced. "Since when do you give a crap about what Cuddy thinks? You're the one who always says she's a second-rate doctor."

House looks at him, scanning his eyes to see any trace of suspicion. The last thing he needs is for his mini-me to start asking questions or know anything he doesn't have to. When he's properly satisfied that if he does suspect anything, it isn't dangerous, he replies, "Since I became desperate to save a life." He leaves.

Kutner grins. "Maybe he finally realized that Dr. Cuddy isn't such a bad doctor after all! I always thought she had good instincts—"

The other three stare blankly at him. His smile fades. Damnit, he thinks.

The two males sigh. Thirteen excuses herself to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, she smiles a little bit, the kind of smile that she could only produce when she's sure nobody can see it.

House stumbles into the office of the Dean of Medicine. It's odd, he thinks to himself, when I'm in here for any other reason than to ask for a dangerous test or berate her. I don't know if I can do anything else.

Cuddy looks up from her monitor to see a very tired looking House. She takes her hands off the keyboard. "Hi."

"Hi."

A few moments of awkward silence.

"Well I'm not wearing a low-cut top right now, I don't think there's anything on my face, and I hope to God you're not having an absent seizure. In that case, do you plan to do anything besides stand there and stare at me?" Cuddy sounds weary.

He limps over and takes a seat in front of her desk. He waits a moment, and then says, "There, happy?"

Cuddy groans. "No, it's not. Say something, anything, preferably one of the things I've been pleading with you to say. Do it within the next thirty seconds, or leave. Believe it or not, I do have a job."

There is a clock on her wall. An analog clock. He takes a careful note of the tick, tick, tick. It sounds so familiar. He could swear that it matches his heartbeat perfectly, and it's ticking faster and faster.

25 seconds. He can't formulate what to say, much less how to say it, and least of all if he wants to.

20 seconds. Was that a palpitation? House doesn't get nervous, right? Especially not in front of her, she isn't anything scary, and he isn't going to give her any ideas that she is.

15 seconds. He wants to say something. He isn't the type to do things halfway, whether it is with patients or not.

10 seconds. What does he want from her? He doesn't really know, and that's the problem.

5 seconds. Fuck, House, do something!

"So what is it, my charm, my rugged good-looks, or how I was in bed that night that makes you want me so much?"

Dammit, dammit, dammit!

Cuddy looks like she's going to cry. She won't, of course. She can't cry for him anymore. It's just enough to rupture his insides, and make what's left of his soul slide out and slap him in the face.

"I'm so tired of feeding your ego, House."

Then, she doesn't say a word. She just points to the door. He takes the hint. Her face is in her hands; his hands are on his head. He opens the door, steps outside and closes it, so that he can lean on it and ignore the pain.

And it's not in his leg.

He wants to ignore it, completely disregard the blatant fact that this woman meant something to him. He'd much, much rather be a salty, heartless bastard and have life as he knows it go on.

He needs his drug, his addiction, his craving. Reaching his hand in his pocket for his Vicodin, he realizes something.

This time, he's going to satisfy his other addiction.

Feeding…

'Well Foreman, you want it, you got it."