A/N: I make absolutely no promises as to the frequency of updates. None whatsoever. Many thanks to holadios for helping with the transition from staring uncertainly at the document on my MacBook to clicking the "New Story" button. This is my first House chapter fic, though not my first fic in general, and, I'll put it out there that I like thorough reviews and really dislike text speak in reviews. Or life. So, yeah. That's all. Read and be merry.

"Crimson"

"I need a heart." The gravelly sound of his voice was closely followed by the sharp smack of his cane down the center of Cuddy's desk, narrowly missing her fingers.

She didn't bother to look up at him, simply slid his cane back off her desk and onto the carpet beside him. "After all these years, what makes you think you need one now?"

House guffawed loudly. "Oh, Cuddy, you little minx, you." He turned to address his team, who lingered by the doorway of the office. "See, what she was doing there was attempting to imply that I lack the ability to love. Which, obviously –"

"House, I have a budget meeting in ten minutes. The wizard lives on the sixth floor. You can ask him for a brain and some courage while you're at it." She shooed him away with one hand, still not looking up from her work.

"Another one!" House slapped his good thigh dramatically. "See, that time, she was alluding –"

"House!"

House turned to his team once more. "Go run some tests or something. I have important wheel-greasing to do, and I work better without an audience."

Cuddy snorted softly as House's team exited. "Give me a break, House. You thrive off of spectators."

"True." House clambered to his feet and began pacing – albeit awkwardly – the expanse of Cuddy's office. "But the children tend to get upset when Mommy and Daddy fight."

"Then we won't fight. I'll just say no and you can go away."

"No deal." House inspected the contents of Cuddy's bookshelf, squinting at the various leather-bound books and knickknacks. "Why do you have a nasty old copy of Gray's in here?"

"First edition. It was a gift." Cuddy sighed. "What do you want, House?"

"I told you." House pulled a plastic anatomical doll from the shelf and opened the polished shell, spilling various plastic organs on the floor. "Whoops." He bent down and picked up a piece of crimson plastic in his thumb and forefinger. "I need one of these. Slightly larger, preferably."

The plastic heart bounced onto Cuddy's desk, landing directly in front of her. She sighed and studied the miniscule model. "So you said. What I'd really like to know, however, is why you need one."

"Well, duh. Because the one my patient has currently doesn't work." House rolled his eyes.

"Thank you, I figured that much out myself. What I'm asking is what the underlying condition is that has caused your patient's heart to fail."

"Still working on that." House frowned as he attempted to fit the various organs back in the doll. "I think your doll is on 'roids."

Cuddy snatched the model out of House's hands and placed it back on the shelf. "We already have two patients awaiting heart transplants in the ICU and another three outpatients who are on the list. And that's just as of this month."

"Yeah, but my guy really needs it."

"How long does he have without a transplant?"

House lowered himself into a chair, lazily taking in the view of Cuddy's backside over his shoulder as she swept the scattered organs into a pile. "Less than a day."

"And with the transplant, assuming it's even feasible?"

"Well, longer than a day, probably."

Cuddy sighed audibly. "What are the chances that this mystery disease will ruin a perfectly good heart as soon as it's transplanted?"

House narrowed his eyes. "Well, if we have a little more time to figure out what's killing him before he kicks it, we can probably avoid that scenario altogether."

"I'm sure UNOS will be thrilled to hear that."

"Come on, Cuddy. This guy is as good as worm food without a new heart."

"And so are my other patients waiting on hearts, except there's a significantly higher chance of them putting the heart to good use. For all we know, your patient is terminal with or without the transplant. There's no way the committee will approve this unless you can figure out what he has and how to treat it."

"But Mo-om –"

"Go back and diagnose your patient, House. I'll schedule the committee to hear your case at five 'o clock. If you can come up with some answers by then – answers that actually warrant a transplant – I'll give you my support."

"He could be dead by then."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "In which case, he wouldn't make it to the OR anyway. Go deal with your patient."

House thumped his cane on the floor a few times. "Fine."

House didn't have answers at five. Or at six. Or at seven, when a seething Lisa Cuddy phoned the transplant committee to apologize again and cancel.

The click of her heels echoed off the tile and walls as she strode with a purpose towards House's office, jaw set, eyes flickering. The lights coming from the interior were apparent through the blinds. So he was here, she surmised. She could practically feel the itch in her fingertips as a brief fantasy of strangling him came and went. "House!"

Foreman barely flinched at the shrill outburst, but Thirteen and Taub both jumped in their chairs at the sudden assault on silence. "Where is he? And why didn't a single damn one of you show up to the UNOS committee meeting?"

Thirteen shot a look of confusion across the table before responding. "He didn't call you?"

"Obviously not."

"The patient died earlier today." Foreman slid a case file across the table. "Coxsackie B3."

"So House just…left?" She really wanted to strangle him now.

"He said he had an appointment," Taub offered.

Cuddy frowned. "Why are you all still here?"

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Looking through all his undiagnosed cases for the past three years."

"For what?" She shook her head. "No, you know what, I don't want to know. Did he say where he was going?"

"No. But I think Wilson went with him." Thirteen didn't look up. "And he had his bowling ball with him."

"Of course he did." Cuddy could feel the beginnings of a migraine. "Unless what you're doing is actually productive and benefitting someone other than House, go home. And from now on, don't leave it to House to report anything to me. Do it yourselves."

It had taken three tries to find them, which was not bad, considering the sheer number of bowling alleys in the area. She ignored the protests of the counter attendant, shouting after her that high heels were stricktly forbidden, and made her way to the back where she could see House lounging in an orange plastic chair, swigging from a beer bottle.

"You idiot!" She cried. She could feel people stare, hear her sharp tone magnified as it bounced off the polished floors, but she was far too angry to care. It wasn't tonight, it wasn't this one thing, it was everything, and his sheer nonchalance at how his actions affected her. Twenty hears of this, and she'd been putting up with it because for some twisted reason she couldn't let go. "You selfish bastard! The committee waited two hours for you! I called your cell phone, I called your team –"

"Hello to you, too." He smirked. "They were on assignment. No outside contact."

"You did this specifically to screw with me, didn't you, you arrogant sonofabitch? Do you get off on making my life more difficult than it needs to be? Is that what this is?"

She could see Wilson frozen, bowling ball in hand, staring at her, but she continued her tirade. "My hospital is not your plaything, House. It's not a video game, just for your entertainment, that you can put aside when you get bored. It is an institution of higher education and public service –"

"Did you know your breasts get flushed when you're angry?"

"House!"

"Yup. Just like that, keep yelling. It's pretty hot, to tell you the truth."

Her eyes narrowed. "No more, House. No more screwing around. I'm done."

"You're breaking up with me?" His face softened into something akin to disappointment.

"I'm giving you an ultimatum. I'm tired of this. I don't have the luxury of hanging around all night while you think up new ways to get to me anymore. I have a child. And you might be content to inconvenience me, but I'll be damned if she grows up thinking her mother cares more about her job than her daughter."

House snorted softly. "Don't kid yourself, Cuddy, you –"

"I am finally seeing the error of my ways. Two weeks, House. You have two weeks to shape up or you're gone."

"You won't fire me." He shifted in his seat, setting his beer down. "You can't."

"I can and I will." With that she turned to Wilson. "He listens to you occasionally. I suggest you convince him to take me seriously."

Her eyes returned to House, contemplating whether she'd gotten out all of what she'd needed to say, almost pleased as he squirmed uncomfortably in the cheap seating. It was not like him, she thought, to stay quiet and squirm, but there he was, doing exactly that. She felt a small sense of triumph. Finally she'd succeeded at shutting him up. It had only taken her…what…twenty years?

"House," she began, preparing a final victory remark, but she was cut short by one word.

Four letters.

"Lisa."

The last time he'd called her that, she was nineteen, barefoot and naked save for an oversized tee-shirt of his, stalking across the moist grass in front of his apartment, the first and last walk of shame she would ever let herself experience. A shiver ran from her toes to the roots of her hair as she gaped at him in shock.

"I think," he intoned calmly, holding her stare, "that you should stop verbally abusing me and get your car."

"Excuse me?" She fumbled for words. "Why would I do that?"

His voice was low. "Because I'm having a heart attack."