With a frown, House sat back on his heels. The Bitch had barely flinched. Her greeting wasn't even fakely sweet, a sign that she knew they were both playing the same game; she meant it. Or as close as cutthroat ever got. She was happy because she was happy, not because she needed to get the better of him. House gripped the handle of his cane, stopping its spin, and then pointed the tip at her. Her little quip didn't even have the zing of her usual efforts. Made no sense. He wasn't interested in finding out how Foreman tamed the shrew. Cuddy already had him ear-marked to play the vole in question, and House wasn't about to get fucked straight--as it were--by anybody. It was just disappointing to see that Amber Volakis was that easy after all.

"Black's not my colour," he said, dismissively, and then went on the attack, to the much more interesting side of this very domestic fluff-fest. "I'm disappointed," he said, pouting the way mothers did when they thought they couldn't get away with being angry. "I went to all that work to give you a nickname. But you're not that cut-throat anymore, are you? You're too happy to be good."