Gift of Screws, Chapter Nine, Part 2
Title: Gift of Screws, Chapter Nine, Part 2
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Characters: House, Cuddy, Rachel Cuddy
Author's Note: This piece takes place in the future when Rachel is five; House and Cuddy are in an established relationship. This fic also contains sex. If any of those things bother you, please hit your back button. This chapter is also split into multiple posts because of Livejournal's word limit.
Summary: For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations.
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 (Part 1)
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
His dirty dish was on the table, proof that he had been there earlier. But he was nowhere to be seen. To be honest, she suspected that this was a good thing; anything that took time away from Rachel at the moment was something Cuddy wanted to avoid. Not that House was a distraction, she told herself. He wasn't. He was just… not allowed to be her top priority right now.
Sitting down at the table once more (with Rachel, who refused to sit in her seat, in Cuddy's lap), she ordered, "Finish your lunch."
"I don't wanna," she mumbled, trying (and failing) to push away the plate Cuddy had put in front of her.
"Just a couple more bites, and then you'll be done."
Rachel sighed miserably but reached for her food. For her part, Cuddy hated making Rachel clean her plate; in Cuddy's own childhood, that rule had been the one she'd never wanted to pass down to her children. But in this case, it simply had to be done.
For her health, Rachel needed to eat what was in front of her. Other children could afford the luxury of skipping meals or eating only the items on the plate they liked, but if Rachel were to do that, she could get very sick. And since it was impractical for Cuddy (or anyone else) to make Rachel whatever she wanted, forcing her to eat the food she'd been served was Cuddy's only option. So it was with relief that she watched Rachel finish her sandwich.
Taking a few more bites of her own lunch, Cuddy silently planned out the rest of her day in her head. Between work and her deal with House, it felt as though she'd accomplished nothing today.
After all, it was past lunchtime; on any other weekend, she would have already done a load or two of laundry to lessen the workload of the housekeeper who had had much more to do since Marina's death. And granted, this weekend was a little different, seeing as how Rachel had had her recital and tonight would be Purim, but still.
She felt far behind.
And it was then that she remembered that it was Purim (well, it was tonight, anyway).
There'd been, thanks to her agreement with House, reminders of it all day, but none of that had had anything to do with the actual holiday. And now that she was thinking about it, she thought of all the things she'd originally planned on doing today.
Glancing at the clock, Cuddy supposed she'd have time to do a few of the things she'd wanted to do with Rachel.
In the very least, Cuddy felt that it was important to try. Although she couldn't even begin to pretend to be a good Jew, though she didn't even really identify as one religiously, she did want to pass on all of the traditions she'd been brought up with to Rachel. For reasons she didn't even understand, Cuddy wanted Rachel to know all of the things her ancestors had gone through to survive.
And in all honesty, she didn't want to shortchange any of the things she used to do to celebrate Purim. Now that the holiday was quickly approaching, Cuddy knew that they would need to get started soon if she hoped of teaching Rachel anything.
"I'm done," Rachel announced proudly.
Cuddy glanced down at her daughter and smiled weakly. "Yes, you are. That's a good girl."
"But you're not done."
"You're right." Cuddy hated to admit it, but there was no denying that there was still a good portion of her sandwich left to eat. And this was the part she detested about making Rachel clean her plate the most: Cuddy had to be the one to set a good example.
Sighing, she picked her food up. As she ate some more, she asked Rachel, "Do you know what today is?"
"Uh…" Rachel squirmed in her lap as she tried to think. "Saturday?"
Cuddy started to say no but quickly realized that it was indeed Saturday. "Well, yes, but I mean do you know what holiday starts tonight?"
"Um…." Rachel's tiny nose scrunched up in confusion. "No."
After forcing herself to finish the last of her sandwich, Cuddy said, "Do you know what Purim is? Do you remember?"
Rachel accidentally kicked her as she swung her legs back in forth in thought. "That's the stuff that's like oatmeal. I like oatmeal. Not when you make it but -"
"That's porridge. And there's nothing wrong with my oatmeal." Rachel didn't bother to correct her; the disgusted look on her face was enough of a response for Cuddy. "Anyway, Purim is a holiday we celebrate every year to -"
"We didn't celebrate it last year," Rachel pointed out.
Cuddy shook her head. "Yes, we did." But since House had been in Atlantic City with Wilson, she hadn't exactly put her heart into the celebration. She'd wanted to, of course, but her lover had been in stripper, prostitute, lonely housewife, and perky collegiate-looking-for-a-good-time central, so her mind had been on other things at the time.
"I don't remember that."
Slowly, she carded Rachel's long hair. "Well, a lot has happened since then. It's okay." As she peppered her daughter's temple with kisses, she explained, "So… like I was saying, tonight Purim starts. And every year, Jewish people, like you and me and Nana and Aunt Julia -"
"Does Mom-Mom celebrate it?" Rachel asked curiously.
Cuddy shook her head. "No. She and House aren't Jewish." She resisted the urge to tell Rachel that House celebrated the devil. "Just my side of the family celebrates it, because Purim is all about remembering one of the many times someone tried to get rid of all of the Jews."
For a brief moment, she prepared herself for Rachel to ask why that had happened, why anyone would want to destroy an entire group of people. It would have been - it had been what Cuddy had asked decades ago. But Rachel didn't ask the question no rational person could have an answer for. That just wasn't who she was.
What she did ask was, "So what do we do?"
"We… have fun. We have parties, and we eat lots of good food, make cookies and -"
"Cookies?" Rachel could barely contain her excitement. Though she was making sure she'd heard her mother correctly, it was impossible to miss the way her voice wavered with giddiness.
"Uh huh. We make hamantaschen to -"
"They're cookies?"
"Yes."
"And we're gonna make dem?"
Cuddy nodded her head. Although her day had basically been shot to hell, this was one of the few events that she'd planned far in advance. Having needed to purchase the ingredients to make cookies that were low in sugar, she had decided a long time ago to bake - and regardless of how many times work or House would decide to screw her today, she was going to make the damn cookies.
"Yes," she said sweetly. "We're going to make some cookies as soon as I clean up the dishes from lunch."
Rachel grinned. "And we're gonna eat dem?"
"I hope so." Although she could cook, she was not assured in her abilities as to assume automatically that baking with Rachel, especially if Rachel insisted on being held the entire time, would turn out well. "But if we're going to make cookies, I'm going to need both of my hands… which means I can't carry you."
Rachel understood what Cuddy was trying to say; she clearly didn't like what she was being told, but she understood. And though Cuddy was absolutely sure Rachel would choose her over the cookies…
Apparently, cookies were a big motivator, because it barely took Rachel more than a second to nod her head in agreement. "Okay."
But it wasn't really that simple. Even though Rachel didn't complain about being set on her feet, she still made a point of being as close to Cuddy as she could get. At first, she merely followed Cuddy to the sink. Then, as Cuddy began to wash the dishes, Rachel hugged her mother's leg.
And then boredom must have set in. Seeing as how House hadn't washed any of the utensils, plates, or pans he'd used, this wasn't a quick chore that was going to last only a few seconds. Too impatient to be understanding, Rachel was too eager to make cookies or do something to appreciate that this wasn't going to be done quickly.
Rachel suddenly pulling away, Cuddy thought for a moment that Rachel was simply too bored to shadow her any longer. And maybe for a brief second, that was true. Rachel moved a few feet away from her and started to do twirls around the kitchen. Cuddy was willing to ignore her - even as Rachel started to sing "The Trolley Song" off-key as she did so - until the little girl twirled right into one of the countertops.
She fell down and hit the floor with a loud thud. Cuddy tensed with anticipation. As she stopped doing the dishes, she waited to see how Rachel was going to react to her accident. If she were to cry, Cuddy knew she would need to be ready. But as she looked over her shoulder, she was relieved to see Rachel sitting on the floor with a smile on her face.
"Oops."
"I guess so," Cuddy agreed.
"Are you done yet? I want cookies," Rachel whined.
"Just a few more minutes."
Disappointed Rachel stood back up. She spread her arms wide at her sides. Obviously she was getting ready to spin some more.
But Cuddy was quick to say, "Maybe we shouldn't twirl in the kitchen, okay? You don't want to fall down again, do you?"
Rachel might not have been the smartest child in the world, but she was clearly more than intelligent enough to know that Cuddy wasn't making a suggestion.
"Fine," she grumbled.
Cuddy could hear feet stomping on the floor in defeat, but she didn't really care about that. As long as she didn't have to worry about Rachel getting hurt, she was content. But as was often the case in this house, the feeling didn't last long.
She'd just started washing dishes again when she felt it - something bump into her ass.
Instantly she stilled.
Surprise coursing through her veins like the soapy water was over the dish in her hands, it took her a few seconds to process what was going on. But when it happened again, when she felt whatever it was bump into her once more, she forced herself to put her shock aside and think about the matter rationally.
Without even looking, she could tell that it wasn't House. Which was odd, because when it came to phenomena involving her ass, House was the cause fairly often. In fact, she couldn't even remember the last time something happened to her ass that didn't originate with House.
But this clearly wasn't him.
House was rough, possessive. He liked to grab and squeeze, pinch and spank and, if he were really in the mood, bite. He did not casually bump. And even if he did, by now, he would have made his presence known in other ways. But that hadn't happened, so it wasn't House behind her.
That just left Rachel.
As she felt another bump, this one hard enough to shove her pelvis into the counter in front of her, Cuddy asked, "Rachel, what are you doing?"
"Nothing."
Cuddy turned off the faucet. "That right there," she said when she felt that sensation once more. "That's not nothing."
"I'm banging my head into your butt."
Cuddy's mouth opened in confusion of its own volition. What the hell was she supposed to do with that kind of an answer?
Clearing her throat, she asked hesitantly, "Why?"
"Cause it's fun." Rachel did it a few more times.
"Why?"
"I don't know," Rachel admitted in a cheery voice. "It's just fun. Your butt is bouncy."
Instinctively Cuddy braced for House to come out of nowhere and say something lewd. He had the habit of popping around corners when he wasn't wanted. But thankfully that never happened. And instead, she was able to concentrate on forming some kind of response to her daughter's bizarre behavior. "I… I don't even know what to say to that."
What she did know, however, was that she wanted it to stop. As Rachel lifted her head to bump her mother again, Cuddy spun around as quickly as she could. "But let's not do that anymore, all right?"
"But it's fun."
"Well, I don't like it."
"But -"
"I'm not a jungle gym, monkey." Again she waited for House to pop up out of nowhere and say something best described as offensive.
But the only person who spoke was Rachel. "Well, I'm not a monkey."
"You're bouncing your head off my bottom like it's a trampoline for your face."
"Do monkeys do that?"
Cuddy sighed and turned back to the dishes. "I don't know. House probably does, but -" Her train of thought was abruptly lost as Rachel, presumably in search of House, started to leave the room. "Get back here."
"Are we gonna make the cookies?" she asked miserably. "'Cause I'm bored."
"I got that."
"So…." Resting her chin on Cuddy's hip, Rachel looked up Cuddy. "Can we make cookies now?"
Cuddy looked down at the couple of dishes still in the sink. Truthfully, they could wait. And if only to shut Rachel up, maybe it was better to let them sit for a while. But at the same time, Cuddy knew that baking cookies would only yield more dishes. And it would be nice to have an empty sink to place all of the bowls and utensils from the cookies in. And it was important for Rachel to learn to wait her turn, even if teaching her that lesson was giving Cuddy a headache.
"Just a couple more dishes," she told Rachel in a strained voice. "And they'll go much faster if you wait patiently like a good girl."
"But I want cookies. Now."
Cuddy sighed. Shaking her head, she warned, "You whine one more time, and you know exactly where you're going."
Rachel pouted… but ultimately didn't say another word until Cuddy had put the last dish in the drying rack and given Rachel the medicine she usually took at lunch.
Even better, the tense moment ended (as it rarely did in this house) within seconds. In fact, by the time Cuddy was finished with the dishes, Rachel was in a considerably better mood.
As was Cuddy, it turned out, because making the hamantaschen actually ended up being far easier than she'd anticipated. The prune filling (the only kind of hamantaschen her family had made for generations) was surprisingly simple. The chopped, dried fruit placed into a pot with some orange juice to boil, that part was finished in a matter of seconds. With the only problem being Rachel whining, "These aren't cookies," Cuddy moved onto making the dough.
"The prunes are going to be the filling for the cookies," Cuddy explained as she headed towards one of the cupboards. Loudly (there was no way to avoid making noise), she pulled out a bowl and spoon and handed them to Rachel. "Take these to the table please."
"I want chocolate cookies," Rachel said in a voice that was a borderline whine. "I don't like prunes."
"Have you ever eaten prunes?"
"No."
"Then you don't know that you don't like them."
Rachel frowned and headed towards the table. "I know I like chocolate better."
Cuddy could have fought the point, but she didn't exactly feel the need to. Honestly she would have had to have been a fool to think that her daughter - or nearly any child, for that matter - would prefer dried fruit to chocolate. So to fight Rachel on the matter literally would have been to take the side of an argument she was never going to win.
But also, having experienced this with House (many, many, many times), she understood that the more she insisted, the more she tried to push prunes, the more Rachel would resist, the more likely she would refuse to eat the cookies as a matter of principle.
So Cuddy remained silent as she went around the room gathering the rest of the ingredients for the cookies. Grabbing the almond meal and whole wheat flour (substitutions her grandmother would have frowned upon), she asked Rachel, "Do you know what these cookies are called?"
"Yucky cookies that look like poop," she answered, still stuck on the filling.
"No. And don't talk like that."
"Sorry." Moping Rachel plopped the bowl on the table with a clang.
Next to it Cuddy placed all of the ingredients she'd retrieved. Pulling one of the chairs out at the table, she said, "Here. Stand on top of this."
"Why?"
"So you can reach everything better. I'm going to stand behind you and help you make the hamantaschen."
Rachel looked at her blankly. "The wha?"
"Hamantaschen," Cuddy repeated slowly, emphasizing each syllable of the word so that Rachel could hear it properly. "That's what the cookies are called."
"Oh."
"Wait a minute. I need to get the recipe, make sure I got everything," she said, quickly finding it tucked away behind a grocery list on the refrigerator.
At that, Rachel must have realized that this wasn't going to be an activity that ended in ten minutes with freshly baked cookies in her mouth. Because as Cuddy was walking back, Rachel asked, "How much longer?"
"It's going to be a while."
Rachel frowned. "I want Oreos."
"That's not happening."
"But -"
"You can either help me make these cookies or you can go play and not have any," Cuddy said smoothly, dumping a large, unappetizing lump of margarine into the metal bowl.
"I don't like those choices."
"Well, those are the only ones you have."
At that point, it wasn't even a question which choice she would make. Rachel was clearly going to take the option that ended with cookies in her belly, which was why it came as no surprise that she climbed up onto the kitchen chair. "Fine."
Gently Cuddy helped Rachel measure out all of the ingredients. Tiny hands inside of her larger ones, Cuddy guided Rachel to empty the measuring cups one by one into the bowl. As they did so, Cuddy asked, "Are you still upset by what Madison said?"
Rachel hesitated to respond. Whether she was embarrassed to say that it still bothered her or worried how her mother would respond, Cuddy didn't know. But it was obvious that the remark did still bother her.
Cuddy, wrapping one of her arms around Rachel's waist, brought her closer to her body. "It's okay," she whispered, offering another shower of kisses as though that alone could make Rachel feel better. But clearly, it didn't do that, and Cuddy had to press on.
Picking up the spoon Rachel had placed by the bowl, she said, "I think we need to stir this now." She moved to stand next to her daughter, so that she didn't have to reach over Rachel to stir. Mixing the batter by hand, Cuddy told Rachel, "The reason these are called hamantaschen - they're named after a man. Haman."
Trying to inconspicuously dip her fingers into the bowl, Rachel said, "That's a dumb name."
"Yes… it is - don't stick your hand in the dough."
"But I want to eat it."
"There are raw eggs in it. It'll make you sick."
Rachel, not at all a stranger to illness, had to take a moment to decide if becoming sicker was worth a nibble of dough. Apparently, it wasn't, because she pulled her hand back obediently after a few seconds.
"That's a good decision," Cuddy told her approvingly. "You'll enjoy a real cookie much more anyway."
Rachel seemed doubtful but said nothing, and Cuddy decided it would be best to move on. "So, Haman -"
"The guy who made the cookies?"
"Well, he didn't make the cookies. They're just named after him," Cuddy muttered, clearing a space to roll the dough out. It was noisy business; pushing the containers of flour and sugar, the carton of eggs, and everything else out of the way wasn't quiet by any means. As she floured the table, she explained in a louder voice, "So Haman worked for the King of Persia, right? And one day, one of the men who worked with Haman - Mordecai -"
"Their names are funny," Rachel replied, squeezing the dough in her hands the second Cuddy turned it out on the table. "It's gooey."
"That's because it's not cooked yet." It was probably also because the dough needed to be chilled for hours - a step which Cuddy had chosen to cut out (Rachel barely had enough patience to do this much; anything longer would be disastrous). "Anyway, Mordecai insults Haman, and Haman gets so angry that he thinks the best way to handle the situation is to kill Mordecai and everyone like him."
Rachel was too busy rubbing her hands on her pink pants to pay much attention. Immediately upon seeing this, Cuddy reached out and grabbed her daughter's sticky fingers. At that point, it wasn't so much about the pants as it was getting her to listen to what she was being told.
"Listen to me. This is important." Rachel nodded her head to show that she was paying attention. "He didn't succeed - Haman. He wanted to kill all the Jews, but he couldn't do it. Nobody has been able to do that, and believe me, Rachel, a lot of people have tried."
Cuddy reached for the rolling pin on the table. As she slathered it with flour, she said firmly, "If there's one thing you'll learn in life, it will be that there is always someone out there who won't like you for… whatever reason. Because you're Jewish or a woman or… whatever. It doesn't matter. There will always be someone who doesn't like you or what you do."
Rachel gave her a look of disappointment.
"I know," Cuddy agreed. It was an awful fact, one she couldn't sugarcoat, one she couldn't deny had infected and shaped a good part of her life.
Though it was changing, being a woman in medicine hadn't been - wasn't - an easy fit. There had been (and was) sexism and, to a lesser extent, antisemitism aimed at her every step of the way, and even now, she couldn't deny that there were people who treated her differently because of the way she looked.
Of course, dating House hadn't done anything to stop the rumors that she'd somehow slept her way to the top. But at the same time, no one had ever been able to get her fired; her success had spoken for itself, making her usefulness undeniable.
"It's not right," Cuddy continued. "People shouldn't be that way, but they are. They judge." She set the rolling pin down and turned to face Rachel more clearly. "I know it's hard; it doesn't make you feel good, and it's easy to let what Madison said - or what anyone else will say - get to you."
She crouched down to get closer to her daughter. "But doing that?" She shook her head. "It just makes you miserable."
"It's okay. I punch her when she say that," Rachel explained with a grin on her face.
Cuddy cringed. "No, don't do that, Rachel. Don't hit people." Rachel opened her mouth to defend her actions - probably by saying that she hadn't punched Madison hard or that Madison had deserved it or something along those lines - but Cuddy was quick to say, "I don't need an excuse."
"But -"
"Hitting her just makes her aware of how much she upset you. You really want to get back at her?" Rachel nodded her head enthusiastically. "Then you do your best… in everything you do, Rachel. You don't let what anyone says affect you."
Rachel was not impressed. "I think I like punching better."
Against her better judgment, Cuddy smirked. A breathy laugh escaping her, she couldn't say anything but "I know." She nodded her head. "I know. But… at the end of the day, nothing makes other people more miserable than seeing someone they hate doing well."
"I guess."
"Listen to me," Cuddy said, pulling her daughter closer to her. Their gazes meeting one another, she told her slowly, "If there's one thing you need to know about being Jewish, it's that there have been many times where someone tried to destroy us. And failed. A lot of people would have given up centuries ago, but Jews didn't. They fought to be who they were, to… believe the things they did."
Cupping Rachel's cheeks in her hands, Cuddy continued, "And that spirit is part of who we are. It's in our blood. Our grandparents, great grandparents - they all were Jewish, all determined to pass on these traditions to us - and I know that that is in you, just like it's in me."
She anticipated Rachel's response, wondering how she would feel about it, wondering just how much she would even understand. But Rachel didn't get a chance to say anything, because at that moment, there was a noise that attracted both of their attentions.
It was the sound of a wall being banged.
It was the sound of House.
The noise was obviously intentional, meant to draw both Rachel and Cuddy out of the conversation they were having. And his plan worked, because instantly they both looked at him.
Just glancing at him, Cuddy could tell that he had been listening to her for quite a while. He had heard her talk about being Jewish and what that meant for her, and though he had heard and seen her say and do things far more intimate… for some reason, this felt skin-crawlingly invasive.
She waited for him to say something, waited for the approval that she didn't even know she wanted until this very moment. In the back of her mind, she knew it was stupid to expect him to suddenly change his mind about religion. But part of her hoped nonetheless that he would come to appreciate her beliefs.
He didn't.
And realizing that he would never respect this part of her, childish though it was, she couldn't help but avert her eyes.
First she glanced to Rachel then to the dough that was sitting on the kitchen table. Instinctively Cuddy grabbed the rolling pin; pretending like nothing was happening wasn't an option, but at least this would provide a distraction.
Rolling the dough out in what could only be described as a violent matter, she asked gruffly, "What do you want?"
Her mood seemed to rub off on him, because he responded in kind, "Don't worry, Yenta Stewart. Just getting a Band-Aid."
She pressed down on the dough roughly. "You're bleeding?"
"No, I'm building a fort out of them," House said sarcastically. "Yes. I'm bleeding."
"I mean why are you -"
"I cut myself."
Cuddy bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from threatening to kill him. Tempting though it was, she rationally understood that saying those kinds of things in front of Rachel was not okay. Certainly, they wouldn't ever convince her to stop hitting people. And Cuddy knew that, so she instead told him, "I don't know if we have any, but you do know where to look."
"Yeah, I do, but silly me, I thought you might not like me bleeding all over the counter."
She was about to tell him to stop being dramatic. But by chance, she accidentally looked at him, her eyes catching him as he moved a little. And instantly, she could see that he wasn't exaggerating, not by any means.
He wasn't gushing blood, but there was more than enough trickling down his hand for her to notice, even at this distance. It was more than enough for Cuddy to push aside her irritation and spring to action.
"Oh God," she murmured in surprise. Setting the rolling pin down with a loud clunk, she asked again, this time more kindly, "What did you do?" But she didn't even wait for him to answer; she was already moving to the sink, so that she could wash her hands and then his. "Come here," she ordered over the running water. "You need to wash that off."
The fact that he listened was proof enough that he really did want her help. Walking toward her, he stopped only when he was pressed against her back. As he rested his chin on her shoulder, he gave her his bloody hand.
Up close and personal, it wasn't that bad. The cut was actually a series of small lacerations on his index finger and thumb, making it look like he'd stuck his hand in a bowl of glass. But as she washed his hand with warm water, she couldn't see any debris in the wounds or any indications that he would need stitches.
"You'll be fine."
"Really," he said dryly, kissing her shoulder. "I was hoping I'd need stitches, make you put on a naughty nurse outfit."
She dropped his hand. "I don't have one of those." Exasperation laced every word, and that feeling remained when she turned her head towards Rachel and told her, "And stop eating the cookie dough, Rachel, or I'm going to have to make another batch."
Rachel guiltily shoved the bit of raw batter she'd had in her hands into her mouth, as though eating it would make it as though it had never existed. But Cuddy wasn't really paying attention to that anymore.
Her words had ignited something inside of her:
An idea.
Though she had succeeded in not thinking about it for quite some time, the hospital's legal troubles still weighed heavily in the back of her mind. By now, she had already outlined in her head how the next couple of months would go. The D.E.A. would swarm around the hospital, buzzing for information and confessions; everyone's prescribing practices would come under fire, Roberts' behavior casting a long shadow over Princeton-Plainsboro. But that would be little more than a nuisance.
To be sure, it would reflect poorly on her, but it wouldn't affect her in the long run. Because really what it came down to, when it came to her job, was how much money the hospital was or wasn't making. Oh, the board liked to say they cared about patients, but at the end of the day, everyone came with a dollar sign attached, and that more than anything else was the bottom line. Which meant that the D.E.A. was nothing compared to the money the hospital would lose from David Howard's accounts being frozen.
And that was what really bothered her.
Her perceived incompetence for allowing this to happen was one thing to the board. But losing the hospital money would be something else entirely in their eyes - and that was what scared her. Because although she hadn't actually done anything wrong (logically she knew this), this was a fireable offense.
Nothing she had done in the past, none of the good she had done for the hospital would matter in light of this turn of events. And she had known from the second this had begun to unfold that if she wanted to keep her contract, she needed to find a way to replace whatever money they would lose from Howard. But up until now, she had had no idea how she was going to accomplish such a task.
Up until now.
Cuddy wasn't sure what it was that made her connect all of the dots in her head. But at that moment, as she spoke of the possibility of having to make another batch, she realized exactly what she needed to do. She would make more cookies… and give them to the one donor who she could manipulate with little effort.
John Kelley had been in and out of her life for years. She'd only meant for him to be a one night stand, but clearly that hadn't panned out. First he'd gotten sick and unexpectedly become a patient of House's. The fact that he'd been diagnosed with hereditary hemorrhagic telangiectasia meant that he was occasionally in and out of the hospital for blood or iron transfusions. And the more recent development - that he had also been appointed the New Jersey goodwill ambassador for his uncle's company - had made him the man to talk to about donations. In short he was the one night stand who refused to go away.
Of course, his presence was hardly a negative one. He was kind and generous and incredibly thoughtful. Over Christmas, he had brought her both a sizable check and a plateful of cookies (hence she thought of him now), and whenever she had asked him for money in the past, he had been more than willing to donate. And he cared about her enough as a person that, if she were to go to his house tomorrow under the guise of mishloach manot and explain what was happening, he would give her the cash without any hesitation.
She didn't want to do that, of course. John had become a friend of sorts over the years, and she hated feeling as though she was using their camaraderie to benefit her career. And she really hated it when House, acting like a jealous imbecile, threw that fact in her face and hated it even more, because she couldn't really deny that he was right.
But she would never tell him that, just as she wasn't planning on telling him that she was going to go see John tomorrow. Doing that would only make the rest of the day unbearable, what could have been a nice day filled with remarks about boy toys and The Village People (despite the fact that John had been in the marines). So she was just going to keep her machinations to herself.
And quite frankly, she liked her plan. It was simple, neat. Jews were supposed to give gifts of nourishment to friends and family anyway, so there was even a pleasant veneer of goodness on the entire endeavor. And if at some point House found out or she decided to tell House, fine.
She just wasn't going to do that now.
What she was going to do was bandage him up and get him out of the room, so she could continue baking.
Turning off the faucet, Cuddy told him, "I'll get a couple Band-Aids. I'm not changing my clothes."
He stood where he was, sensing that something was off with Cuddy. She was avoiding - he could see that very clearly. But what she was trying to hide and if she meant to be withholding from him, he wasn't so sure.
Quietly he decided to keep an eye on her. If she were hiding something, he would figure it out. And in the meantime, he would continue to mess with her.
In a voice just loud enough for her to hear, he asked, "If I buy you the nurse's outfit, would you wear it?"
Cuddy scoffed as she reached into the cupboard where the Band-Aids were kept. "I'm a doctor."
"Sort of."
She sneered at him but continued talking. "If the sight of me helping people or looking like I help people is what gets you off…" She hissed that last part, clearly worried about Rachel listening in on their conversation. "Then you can see me do that. Any day of the week."
Cuddy ripped open two Band-Aids. As she placed them on his fingers one right after the other, she said, "If you just want to see me in cheap polyester…" She bunched up the waxy paper the bandages had been in. Tossing them into the trashcan, she simply finished, "Too bad."
He cocked his head to the side, curious. "You'd let me pee on you -"
"House."
He kept talking undeterred and unconcerned about the kid (who, truth be told, was too busy chowing down on uncooked dough to pay attention to him). "You'd let me pee on you, but you won't wear something I intend on ripping off of you in five minutes."
For a brief instant, she looked at him as though she were trying to decide if he were wasting her time. And in all honesty, he couldn't figure out what side of the coin she fell on, but either way, she responded tersely, "All right, fine. You want to see me in that? Go ahead. Buy one. Just make it one that won't make me break out into hives."
She started to saunter away, but he reached out and grabbed her hand. "Hey," he said gently, catching her attention. "You forgot to kiss my boo boos."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" she asked sarcastically.
"Cute," he said with a sneer. But when she made no move to kiss him, he felt the need to prompt her. "Well?"
"You'll live. Now go away."
Yup. She was definitely hiding something, he decided. She was saying all of the things he would anticipate her to say. He would expect her to brush him off, to want him to go away. She was trying to do something right now, and given the way Rachel was making her way through the raw cookies, it was probably smart for Cuddy to get back to it.
But…
Still, there was something about her behavior that was… off.
"You're hiding something," he said knowingly.
"Not my irritation, I hope."
"Now, you're deflecting."
"Because I'm doing something," she explained in exasperation. "And as fun as it is to listen to you talk about all of your perversions, I have things to do."
"Uh huh."
She folded her arms across her chest. "What? You think I'm lying? You think I'm not doing something?"
He shook his head. "I think you're trying to get rid of me."
"Because you're annoying."
Looking at her carefully, House could tell that this wasn't the right approach. Whatever it was she was hiding, it wasn't something he was going to get from her by fishing for it. And the more he tried to get it out of her by asking, the less likely it was that she would tell him. Which meant he wouldn't be able to confront her until he had some sort of indication as to what was bothering her.
"Fine," he said, giving her - at least superficially - what she wanted. "I will be ordering all sorts of naughty things for you to wear."
At that he left, not missing her sarcastic "Great."
But it was much harder for him to think of anything other than what Cuddy was hiding. True, it didn't help that, when he retreated to his hidey-hole, he continued working on something that was completely Cuddy's.
The damn bowl.
He hated the thing. He hadn't before, but now that he'd spent a fair amount of time trying to manipulate the pieces, now that he'd cut himself trying to do that… he wanted nothing more than to shove the broken bits right back into the trashcan.
He wouldn't do that. He'd spent too much time working on it already, and now that he'd started, he was determined to finish reconstructing the stupid thing. It would be a pain in his ass to do, but he would do it. As tedious as it would be, it was definitely preferable to do this than to let Cuddy fixate on the broken bowl for the next month or so.
She would be appalled by the time frame he was giving her. If she were to know his thinking, she would think he was being overly dramatic; she would claim that she wasn't that upset about the bowl, that she certainly wasn't going to be upset for a month. But he knew better.
Just as he knew that the behavior he'd seen in the kitchen had nothing to do with the broken dish. True, it was more than apparent that she cared about it, but it was just as apparent that something else was going on… something new.
It wasn't work.
He didn't doubt that she was preoccupied by that, but nothing about that had changed recently. There was no reason why she should be more distracted by that now, no reason why she should keep any developments from him even if there were one.
It wasn't Rachel. Rachel was fine. The incident at the school and the fallout of it might have been bothering Cuddy, but again, that had happened earlier. And the same could be said for the whole… sex debacle.
Ugh.
Just the thought of it made House shiver with disgust.
He was trying very hard not to think about that, but given his penchant for fixating on things, it was an impossible task.
It should have been easy.
Given the way they had sex, he thought he should have known that this day would come eventually. And Cuddy was concerned and upset enough for the both of them that he should have been able to play the role of optimist; he should have been able to say and believe that everything would be okay.
But saying the words and believing them were two different things, and silently, he dabbled with the possibilities of how this would resolve itself.
House wanted to say with definity that this would simply cement Rachel's need for lifelong therapy. However, the bomb she'd dropped at lunch - the whole "Are you making babies" debacle - had added a spicy punch to their normal levels of dysfunction, and now he wasn't so sure he could predict Rachel's behavior with any accuracy.
All right, fine - using actual logic to understand someone completely embroiled in her own reasoning wasn't exactly a brilliant plan to begin with. She was five, and her comprehension of the world was hardly formed, so her ability to do things in a predictable and rational fashion was limited. And it went without saying that today, she'd gone way out of the bounds House had mentally set for her.
But as he thought that, he supposed that maybe the same could be said for Cuddy. Maybe she wasn't hiding anything from him; perhaps she was just shocked by what Rachel had said.
It made sense.
He hadn't seen Cuddy after lunch. The second Rachel had taken off down the hallway, he'd checked out of the whole family drama. And if Cuddy were avoiding him, keeping something from him, he supposed it very well could have been something that Rachel had told her after he'd run away.
But if discovering a possibility for Cuddy's behavior was supposed to make him feel better…
It didn't.
It really didn't.
Because there was nothing good that could come from that. He just had to look at the circumstances to know that much was true; talk about babies, Cuddy looking at him in disappointment the second he'd entered the kitchen, Cuddy avoiding him… yeah, that didn't end well.
Not for him anyway.
Cause, really, the only way all those puzzle pieces fit together was if Cuddy had decided she wanted another kid and feared his reaction to that news.
God.
It was true.
She wanted a baby.
Read the rest of the chapter
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Characters: House, Cuddy, Rachel Cuddy
Author's Note: This piece takes place in the future when Rachel is five; House and Cuddy are in an established relationship. This fic also contains sex. If any of those things bother you, please hit your back button. This chapter is also split into multiple posts because of Livejournal's word limit.
Summary: For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations.
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 (Part 1)
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
His dirty dish was on the table, proof that he had been there earlier. But he was nowhere to be seen. To be honest, she suspected that this was a good thing; anything that took time away from Rachel at the moment was something Cuddy wanted to avoid. Not that House was a distraction, she told herself. He wasn't. He was just… not allowed to be her top priority right now.
Sitting down at the table once more (with Rachel, who refused to sit in her seat, in Cuddy's lap), she ordered, "Finish your lunch."
"I don't wanna," she mumbled, trying (and failing) to push away the plate Cuddy had put in front of her.
"Just a couple more bites, and then you'll be done."
Rachel sighed miserably but reached for her food. For her part, Cuddy hated making Rachel clean her plate; in Cuddy's own childhood, that rule had been the one she'd never wanted to pass down to her children. But in this case, it simply had to be done.
For her health, Rachel needed to eat what was in front of her. Other children could afford the luxury of skipping meals or eating only the items on the plate they liked, but if Rachel were to do that, she could get very sick. And since it was impractical for Cuddy (or anyone else) to make Rachel whatever she wanted, forcing her to eat the food she'd been served was Cuddy's only option. So it was with relief that she watched Rachel finish her sandwich.
Taking a few more bites of her own lunch, Cuddy silently planned out the rest of her day in her head. Between work and her deal with House, it felt as though she'd accomplished nothing today.
After all, it was past lunchtime; on any other weekend, she would have already done a load or two of laundry to lessen the workload of the housekeeper who had had much more to do since Marina's death. And granted, this weekend was a little different, seeing as how Rachel had had her recital and tonight would be Purim, but still.
She felt far behind.
And it was then that she remembered that it was Purim (well, it was tonight, anyway).
There'd been, thanks to her agreement with House, reminders of it all day, but none of that had had anything to do with the actual holiday. And now that she was thinking about it, she thought of all the things she'd originally planned on doing today.
Glancing at the clock, Cuddy supposed she'd have time to do a few of the things she'd wanted to do with Rachel.
In the very least, Cuddy felt that it was important to try. Although she couldn't even begin to pretend to be a good Jew, though she didn't even really identify as one religiously, she did want to pass on all of the traditions she'd been brought up with to Rachel. For reasons she didn't even understand, Cuddy wanted Rachel to know all of the things her ancestors had gone through to survive.
And in all honesty, she didn't want to shortchange any of the things she used to do to celebrate Purim. Now that the holiday was quickly approaching, Cuddy knew that they would need to get started soon if she hoped of teaching Rachel anything.
"I'm done," Rachel announced proudly.
Cuddy glanced down at her daughter and smiled weakly. "Yes, you are. That's a good girl."
"But you're not done."
"You're right." Cuddy hated to admit it, but there was no denying that there was still a good portion of her sandwich left to eat. And this was the part she detested about making Rachel clean her plate the most: Cuddy had to be the one to set a good example.
Sighing, she picked her food up. As she ate some more, she asked Rachel, "Do you know what today is?"
"Uh…" Rachel squirmed in her lap as she tried to think. "Saturday?"
Cuddy started to say no but quickly realized that it was indeed Saturday. "Well, yes, but I mean do you know what holiday starts tonight?"
"Um…." Rachel's tiny nose scrunched up in confusion. "No."
After forcing herself to finish the last of her sandwich, Cuddy said, "Do you know what Purim is? Do you remember?"
Rachel accidentally kicked her as she swung her legs back in forth in thought. "That's the stuff that's like oatmeal. I like oatmeal. Not when you make it but -"
"That's porridge. And there's nothing wrong with my oatmeal." Rachel didn't bother to correct her; the disgusted look on her face was enough of a response for Cuddy. "Anyway, Purim is a holiday we celebrate every year to -"
"We didn't celebrate it last year," Rachel pointed out.
Cuddy shook her head. "Yes, we did." But since House had been in Atlantic City with Wilson, she hadn't exactly put her heart into the celebration. She'd wanted to, of course, but her lover had been in stripper, prostitute, lonely housewife, and perky collegiate-looking-for-a-good-time central, so her mind had been on other things at the time.
"I don't remember that."
Slowly, she carded Rachel's long hair. "Well, a lot has happened since then. It's okay." As she peppered her daughter's temple with kisses, she explained, "So… like I was saying, tonight Purim starts. And every year, Jewish people, like you and me and Nana and Aunt Julia -"
"Does Mom-Mom celebrate it?" Rachel asked curiously.
Cuddy shook her head. "No. She and House aren't Jewish." She resisted the urge to tell Rachel that House celebrated the devil. "Just my side of the family celebrates it, because Purim is all about remembering one of the many times someone tried to get rid of all of the Jews."
For a brief moment, she prepared herself for Rachel to ask why that had happened, why anyone would want to destroy an entire group of people. It would have been - it had been what Cuddy had asked decades ago. But Rachel didn't ask the question no rational person could have an answer for. That just wasn't who she was.
What she did ask was, "So what do we do?"
"We… have fun. We have parties, and we eat lots of good food, make cookies and -"
"Cookies?" Rachel could barely contain her excitement. Though she was making sure she'd heard her mother correctly, it was impossible to miss the way her voice wavered with giddiness.
"Uh huh. We make hamantaschen to -"
"They're cookies?"
"Yes."
"And we're gonna make dem?"
Cuddy nodded her head. Although her day had basically been shot to hell, this was one of the few events that she'd planned far in advance. Having needed to purchase the ingredients to make cookies that were low in sugar, she had decided a long time ago to bake - and regardless of how many times work or House would decide to screw her today, she was going to make the damn cookies.
"Yes," she said sweetly. "We're going to make some cookies as soon as I clean up the dishes from lunch."
Rachel grinned. "And we're gonna eat dem?"
"I hope so." Although she could cook, she was not assured in her abilities as to assume automatically that baking with Rachel, especially if Rachel insisted on being held the entire time, would turn out well. "But if we're going to make cookies, I'm going to need both of my hands… which means I can't carry you."
Rachel understood what Cuddy was trying to say; she clearly didn't like what she was being told, but she understood. And though Cuddy was absolutely sure Rachel would choose her over the cookies…
Apparently, cookies were a big motivator, because it barely took Rachel more than a second to nod her head in agreement. "Okay."
But it wasn't really that simple. Even though Rachel didn't complain about being set on her feet, she still made a point of being as close to Cuddy as she could get. At first, she merely followed Cuddy to the sink. Then, as Cuddy began to wash the dishes, Rachel hugged her mother's leg.
And then boredom must have set in. Seeing as how House hadn't washed any of the utensils, plates, or pans he'd used, this wasn't a quick chore that was going to last only a few seconds. Too impatient to be understanding, Rachel was too eager to make cookies or do something to appreciate that this wasn't going to be done quickly.
Rachel suddenly pulling away, Cuddy thought for a moment that Rachel was simply too bored to shadow her any longer. And maybe for a brief second, that was true. Rachel moved a few feet away from her and started to do twirls around the kitchen. Cuddy was willing to ignore her - even as Rachel started to sing "The Trolley Song" off-key as she did so - until the little girl twirled right into one of the countertops.
She fell down and hit the floor with a loud thud. Cuddy tensed with anticipation. As she stopped doing the dishes, she waited to see how Rachel was going to react to her accident. If she were to cry, Cuddy knew she would need to be ready. But as she looked over her shoulder, she was relieved to see Rachel sitting on the floor with a smile on her face.
"Oops."
"I guess so," Cuddy agreed.
"Are you done yet? I want cookies," Rachel whined.
"Just a few more minutes."
Disappointed Rachel stood back up. She spread her arms wide at her sides. Obviously she was getting ready to spin some more.
But Cuddy was quick to say, "Maybe we shouldn't twirl in the kitchen, okay? You don't want to fall down again, do you?"
Rachel might not have been the smartest child in the world, but she was clearly more than intelligent enough to know that Cuddy wasn't making a suggestion.
"Fine," she grumbled.
Cuddy could hear feet stomping on the floor in defeat, but she didn't really care about that. As long as she didn't have to worry about Rachel getting hurt, she was content. But as was often the case in this house, the feeling didn't last long.
She'd just started washing dishes again when she felt it - something bump into her ass.
Instantly she stilled.
Surprise coursing through her veins like the soapy water was over the dish in her hands, it took her a few seconds to process what was going on. But when it happened again, when she felt whatever it was bump into her once more, she forced herself to put her shock aside and think about the matter rationally.
Without even looking, she could tell that it wasn't House. Which was odd, because when it came to phenomena involving her ass, House was the cause fairly often. In fact, she couldn't even remember the last time something happened to her ass that didn't originate with House.
But this clearly wasn't him.
House was rough, possessive. He liked to grab and squeeze, pinch and spank and, if he were really in the mood, bite. He did not casually bump. And even if he did, by now, he would have made his presence known in other ways. But that hadn't happened, so it wasn't House behind her.
That just left Rachel.
As she felt another bump, this one hard enough to shove her pelvis into the counter in front of her, Cuddy asked, "Rachel, what are you doing?"
"Nothing."
Cuddy turned off the faucet. "That right there," she said when she felt that sensation once more. "That's not nothing."
"I'm banging my head into your butt."
Cuddy's mouth opened in confusion of its own volition. What the hell was she supposed to do with that kind of an answer?
Clearing her throat, she asked hesitantly, "Why?"
"Cause it's fun." Rachel did it a few more times.
"Why?"
"I don't know," Rachel admitted in a cheery voice. "It's just fun. Your butt is bouncy."
Instinctively Cuddy braced for House to come out of nowhere and say something lewd. He had the habit of popping around corners when he wasn't wanted. But thankfully that never happened. And instead, she was able to concentrate on forming some kind of response to her daughter's bizarre behavior. "I… I don't even know what to say to that."
What she did know, however, was that she wanted it to stop. As Rachel lifted her head to bump her mother again, Cuddy spun around as quickly as she could. "But let's not do that anymore, all right?"
"But it's fun."
"Well, I don't like it."
"But -"
"I'm not a jungle gym, monkey." Again she waited for House to pop up out of nowhere and say something best described as offensive.
But the only person who spoke was Rachel. "Well, I'm not a monkey."
"You're bouncing your head off my bottom like it's a trampoline for your face."
"Do monkeys do that?"
Cuddy sighed and turned back to the dishes. "I don't know. House probably does, but -" Her train of thought was abruptly lost as Rachel, presumably in search of House, started to leave the room. "Get back here."
"Are we gonna make the cookies?" she asked miserably. "'Cause I'm bored."
"I got that."
"So…." Resting her chin on Cuddy's hip, Rachel looked up Cuddy. "Can we make cookies now?"
Cuddy looked down at the couple of dishes still in the sink. Truthfully, they could wait. And if only to shut Rachel up, maybe it was better to let them sit for a while. But at the same time, Cuddy knew that baking cookies would only yield more dishes. And it would be nice to have an empty sink to place all of the bowls and utensils from the cookies in. And it was important for Rachel to learn to wait her turn, even if teaching her that lesson was giving Cuddy a headache.
"Just a couple more dishes," she told Rachel in a strained voice. "And they'll go much faster if you wait patiently like a good girl."
"But I want cookies. Now."
Cuddy sighed. Shaking her head, she warned, "You whine one more time, and you know exactly where you're going."
Rachel pouted… but ultimately didn't say another word until Cuddy had put the last dish in the drying rack and given Rachel the medicine she usually took at lunch.
Even better, the tense moment ended (as it rarely did in this house) within seconds. In fact, by the time Cuddy was finished with the dishes, Rachel was in a considerably better mood.
As was Cuddy, it turned out, because making the hamantaschen actually ended up being far easier than she'd anticipated. The prune filling (the only kind of hamantaschen her family had made for generations) was surprisingly simple. The chopped, dried fruit placed into a pot with some orange juice to boil, that part was finished in a matter of seconds. With the only problem being Rachel whining, "These aren't cookies," Cuddy moved onto making the dough.
"The prunes are going to be the filling for the cookies," Cuddy explained as she headed towards one of the cupboards. Loudly (there was no way to avoid making noise), she pulled out a bowl and spoon and handed them to Rachel. "Take these to the table please."
"I want chocolate cookies," Rachel said in a voice that was a borderline whine. "I don't like prunes."
"Have you ever eaten prunes?"
"No."
"Then you don't know that you don't like them."
Rachel frowned and headed towards the table. "I know I like chocolate better."
Cuddy could have fought the point, but she didn't exactly feel the need to. Honestly she would have had to have been a fool to think that her daughter - or nearly any child, for that matter - would prefer dried fruit to chocolate. So to fight Rachel on the matter literally would have been to take the side of an argument she was never going to win.
But also, having experienced this with House (many, many, many times), she understood that the more she insisted, the more she tried to push prunes, the more Rachel would resist, the more likely she would refuse to eat the cookies as a matter of principle.
So Cuddy remained silent as she went around the room gathering the rest of the ingredients for the cookies. Grabbing the almond meal and whole wheat flour (substitutions her grandmother would have frowned upon), she asked Rachel, "Do you know what these cookies are called?"
"Yucky cookies that look like poop," she answered, still stuck on the filling.
"No. And don't talk like that."
"Sorry." Moping Rachel plopped the bowl on the table with a clang.
Next to it Cuddy placed all of the ingredients she'd retrieved. Pulling one of the chairs out at the table, she said, "Here. Stand on top of this."
"Why?"
"So you can reach everything better. I'm going to stand behind you and help you make the hamantaschen."
Rachel looked at her blankly. "The wha?"
"Hamantaschen," Cuddy repeated slowly, emphasizing each syllable of the word so that Rachel could hear it properly. "That's what the cookies are called."
"Oh."
"Wait a minute. I need to get the recipe, make sure I got everything," she said, quickly finding it tucked away behind a grocery list on the refrigerator.
At that, Rachel must have realized that this wasn't going to be an activity that ended in ten minutes with freshly baked cookies in her mouth. Because as Cuddy was walking back, Rachel asked, "How much longer?"
"It's going to be a while."
Rachel frowned. "I want Oreos."
"That's not happening."
"But -"
"You can either help me make these cookies or you can go play and not have any," Cuddy said smoothly, dumping a large, unappetizing lump of margarine into the metal bowl.
"I don't like those choices."
"Well, those are the only ones you have."
At that point, it wasn't even a question which choice she would make. Rachel was clearly going to take the option that ended with cookies in her belly, which was why it came as no surprise that she climbed up onto the kitchen chair. "Fine."
Gently Cuddy helped Rachel measure out all of the ingredients. Tiny hands inside of her larger ones, Cuddy guided Rachel to empty the measuring cups one by one into the bowl. As they did so, Cuddy asked, "Are you still upset by what Madison said?"
Rachel hesitated to respond. Whether she was embarrassed to say that it still bothered her or worried how her mother would respond, Cuddy didn't know. But it was obvious that the remark did still bother her.
Cuddy, wrapping one of her arms around Rachel's waist, brought her closer to her body. "It's okay," she whispered, offering another shower of kisses as though that alone could make Rachel feel better. But clearly, it didn't do that, and Cuddy had to press on.
Picking up the spoon Rachel had placed by the bowl, she said, "I think we need to stir this now." She moved to stand next to her daughter, so that she didn't have to reach over Rachel to stir. Mixing the batter by hand, Cuddy told Rachel, "The reason these are called hamantaschen - they're named after a man. Haman."
Trying to inconspicuously dip her fingers into the bowl, Rachel said, "That's a dumb name."
"Yes… it is - don't stick your hand in the dough."
"But I want to eat it."
"There are raw eggs in it. It'll make you sick."
Rachel, not at all a stranger to illness, had to take a moment to decide if becoming sicker was worth a nibble of dough. Apparently, it wasn't, because she pulled her hand back obediently after a few seconds.
"That's a good decision," Cuddy told her approvingly. "You'll enjoy a real cookie much more anyway."
Rachel seemed doubtful but said nothing, and Cuddy decided it would be best to move on. "So, Haman -"
"The guy who made the cookies?"
"Well, he didn't make the cookies. They're just named after him," Cuddy muttered, clearing a space to roll the dough out. It was noisy business; pushing the containers of flour and sugar, the carton of eggs, and everything else out of the way wasn't quiet by any means. As she floured the table, she explained in a louder voice, "So Haman worked for the King of Persia, right? And one day, one of the men who worked with Haman - Mordecai -"
"Their names are funny," Rachel replied, squeezing the dough in her hands the second Cuddy turned it out on the table. "It's gooey."
"That's because it's not cooked yet." It was probably also because the dough needed to be chilled for hours - a step which Cuddy had chosen to cut out (Rachel barely had enough patience to do this much; anything longer would be disastrous). "Anyway, Mordecai insults Haman, and Haman gets so angry that he thinks the best way to handle the situation is to kill Mordecai and everyone like him."
Rachel was too busy rubbing her hands on her pink pants to pay much attention. Immediately upon seeing this, Cuddy reached out and grabbed her daughter's sticky fingers. At that point, it wasn't so much about the pants as it was getting her to listen to what she was being told.
"Listen to me. This is important." Rachel nodded her head to show that she was paying attention. "He didn't succeed - Haman. He wanted to kill all the Jews, but he couldn't do it. Nobody has been able to do that, and believe me, Rachel, a lot of people have tried."
Cuddy reached for the rolling pin on the table. As she slathered it with flour, she said firmly, "If there's one thing you'll learn in life, it will be that there is always someone out there who won't like you for… whatever reason. Because you're Jewish or a woman or… whatever. It doesn't matter. There will always be someone who doesn't like you or what you do."
Rachel gave her a look of disappointment.
"I know," Cuddy agreed. It was an awful fact, one she couldn't sugarcoat, one she couldn't deny had infected and shaped a good part of her life.
Though it was changing, being a woman in medicine hadn't been - wasn't - an easy fit. There had been (and was) sexism and, to a lesser extent, antisemitism aimed at her every step of the way, and even now, she couldn't deny that there were people who treated her differently because of the way she looked.
Of course, dating House hadn't done anything to stop the rumors that she'd somehow slept her way to the top. But at the same time, no one had ever been able to get her fired; her success had spoken for itself, making her usefulness undeniable.
"It's not right," Cuddy continued. "People shouldn't be that way, but they are. They judge." She set the rolling pin down and turned to face Rachel more clearly. "I know it's hard; it doesn't make you feel good, and it's easy to let what Madison said - or what anyone else will say - get to you."
She crouched down to get closer to her daughter. "But doing that?" She shook her head. "It just makes you miserable."
"It's okay. I punch her when she say that," Rachel explained with a grin on her face.
Cuddy cringed. "No, don't do that, Rachel. Don't hit people." Rachel opened her mouth to defend her actions - probably by saying that she hadn't punched Madison hard or that Madison had deserved it or something along those lines - but Cuddy was quick to say, "I don't need an excuse."
"But -"
"Hitting her just makes her aware of how much she upset you. You really want to get back at her?" Rachel nodded her head enthusiastically. "Then you do your best… in everything you do, Rachel. You don't let what anyone says affect you."
Rachel was not impressed. "I think I like punching better."
Against her better judgment, Cuddy smirked. A breathy laugh escaping her, she couldn't say anything but "I know." She nodded her head. "I know. But… at the end of the day, nothing makes other people more miserable than seeing someone they hate doing well."
"I guess."
"Listen to me," Cuddy said, pulling her daughter closer to her. Their gazes meeting one another, she told her slowly, "If there's one thing you need to know about being Jewish, it's that there have been many times where someone tried to destroy us. And failed. A lot of people would have given up centuries ago, but Jews didn't. They fought to be who they were, to… believe the things they did."
Cupping Rachel's cheeks in her hands, Cuddy continued, "And that spirit is part of who we are. It's in our blood. Our grandparents, great grandparents - they all were Jewish, all determined to pass on these traditions to us - and I know that that is in you, just like it's in me."
She anticipated Rachel's response, wondering how she would feel about it, wondering just how much she would even understand. But Rachel didn't get a chance to say anything, because at that moment, there was a noise that attracted both of their attentions.
It was the sound of a wall being banged.
It was the sound of House.
The noise was obviously intentional, meant to draw both Rachel and Cuddy out of the conversation they were having. And his plan worked, because instantly they both looked at him.
Just glancing at him, Cuddy could tell that he had been listening to her for quite a while. He had heard her talk about being Jewish and what that meant for her, and though he had heard and seen her say and do things far more intimate… for some reason, this felt skin-crawlingly invasive.
She waited for him to say something, waited for the approval that she didn't even know she wanted until this very moment. In the back of her mind, she knew it was stupid to expect him to suddenly change his mind about religion. But part of her hoped nonetheless that he would come to appreciate her beliefs.
He didn't.
And realizing that he would never respect this part of her, childish though it was, she couldn't help but avert her eyes.
First she glanced to Rachel then to the dough that was sitting on the kitchen table. Instinctively Cuddy grabbed the rolling pin; pretending like nothing was happening wasn't an option, but at least this would provide a distraction.
Rolling the dough out in what could only be described as a violent matter, she asked gruffly, "What do you want?"
Her mood seemed to rub off on him, because he responded in kind, "Don't worry, Yenta Stewart. Just getting a Band-Aid."
She pressed down on the dough roughly. "You're bleeding?"
"No, I'm building a fort out of them," House said sarcastically. "Yes. I'm bleeding."
"I mean why are you -"
"I cut myself."
Cuddy bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from threatening to kill him. Tempting though it was, she rationally understood that saying those kinds of things in front of Rachel was not okay. Certainly, they wouldn't ever convince her to stop hitting people. And Cuddy knew that, so she instead told him, "I don't know if we have any, but you do know where to look."
"Yeah, I do, but silly me, I thought you might not like me bleeding all over the counter."
She was about to tell him to stop being dramatic. But by chance, she accidentally looked at him, her eyes catching him as he moved a little. And instantly, she could see that he wasn't exaggerating, not by any means.
He wasn't gushing blood, but there was more than enough trickling down his hand for her to notice, even at this distance. It was more than enough for Cuddy to push aside her irritation and spring to action.
"Oh God," she murmured in surprise. Setting the rolling pin down with a loud clunk, she asked again, this time more kindly, "What did you do?" But she didn't even wait for him to answer; she was already moving to the sink, so that she could wash her hands and then his. "Come here," she ordered over the running water. "You need to wash that off."
The fact that he listened was proof enough that he really did want her help. Walking toward her, he stopped only when he was pressed against her back. As he rested his chin on her shoulder, he gave her his bloody hand.
Up close and personal, it wasn't that bad. The cut was actually a series of small lacerations on his index finger and thumb, making it look like he'd stuck his hand in a bowl of glass. But as she washed his hand with warm water, she couldn't see any debris in the wounds or any indications that he would need stitches.
"You'll be fine."
"Really," he said dryly, kissing her shoulder. "I was hoping I'd need stitches, make you put on a naughty nurse outfit."
She dropped his hand. "I don't have one of those." Exasperation laced every word, and that feeling remained when she turned her head towards Rachel and told her, "And stop eating the cookie dough, Rachel, or I'm going to have to make another batch."
Rachel guiltily shoved the bit of raw batter she'd had in her hands into her mouth, as though eating it would make it as though it had never existed. But Cuddy wasn't really paying attention to that anymore.
Her words had ignited something inside of her:
An idea.
Though she had succeeded in not thinking about it for quite some time, the hospital's legal troubles still weighed heavily in the back of her mind. By now, she had already outlined in her head how the next couple of months would go. The D.E.A. would swarm around the hospital, buzzing for information and confessions; everyone's prescribing practices would come under fire, Roberts' behavior casting a long shadow over Princeton-Plainsboro. But that would be little more than a nuisance.
To be sure, it would reflect poorly on her, but it wouldn't affect her in the long run. Because really what it came down to, when it came to her job, was how much money the hospital was or wasn't making. Oh, the board liked to say they cared about patients, but at the end of the day, everyone came with a dollar sign attached, and that more than anything else was the bottom line. Which meant that the D.E.A. was nothing compared to the money the hospital would lose from David Howard's accounts being frozen.
And that was what really bothered her.
Her perceived incompetence for allowing this to happen was one thing to the board. But losing the hospital money would be something else entirely in their eyes - and that was what scared her. Because although she hadn't actually done anything wrong (logically she knew this), this was a fireable offense.
Nothing she had done in the past, none of the good she had done for the hospital would matter in light of this turn of events. And she had known from the second this had begun to unfold that if she wanted to keep her contract, she needed to find a way to replace whatever money they would lose from Howard. But up until now, she had had no idea how she was going to accomplish such a task.
Up until now.
Cuddy wasn't sure what it was that made her connect all of the dots in her head. But at that moment, as she spoke of the possibility of having to make another batch, she realized exactly what she needed to do. She would make more cookies… and give them to the one donor who she could manipulate with little effort.
John Kelley had been in and out of her life for years. She'd only meant for him to be a one night stand, but clearly that hadn't panned out. First he'd gotten sick and unexpectedly become a patient of House's. The fact that he'd been diagnosed with hereditary hemorrhagic telangiectasia meant that he was occasionally in and out of the hospital for blood or iron transfusions. And the more recent development - that he had also been appointed the New Jersey goodwill ambassador for his uncle's company - had made him the man to talk to about donations. In short he was the one night stand who refused to go away.
Of course, his presence was hardly a negative one. He was kind and generous and incredibly thoughtful. Over Christmas, he had brought her both a sizable check and a plateful of cookies (hence she thought of him now), and whenever she had asked him for money in the past, he had been more than willing to donate. And he cared about her enough as a person that, if she were to go to his house tomorrow under the guise of mishloach manot and explain what was happening, he would give her the cash without any hesitation.
She didn't want to do that, of course. John had become a friend of sorts over the years, and she hated feeling as though she was using their camaraderie to benefit her career. And she really hated it when House, acting like a jealous imbecile, threw that fact in her face and hated it even more, because she couldn't really deny that he was right.
But she would never tell him that, just as she wasn't planning on telling him that she was going to go see John tomorrow. Doing that would only make the rest of the day unbearable, what could have been a nice day filled with remarks about boy toys and The Village People (despite the fact that John had been in the marines). So she was just going to keep her machinations to herself.
And quite frankly, she liked her plan. It was simple, neat. Jews were supposed to give gifts of nourishment to friends and family anyway, so there was even a pleasant veneer of goodness on the entire endeavor. And if at some point House found out or she decided to tell House, fine.
She just wasn't going to do that now.
What she was going to do was bandage him up and get him out of the room, so she could continue baking.
Turning off the faucet, Cuddy told him, "I'll get a couple Band-Aids. I'm not changing my clothes."
He stood where he was, sensing that something was off with Cuddy. She was avoiding - he could see that very clearly. But what she was trying to hide and if she meant to be withholding from him, he wasn't so sure.
Quietly he decided to keep an eye on her. If she were hiding something, he would figure it out. And in the meantime, he would continue to mess with her.
In a voice just loud enough for her to hear, he asked, "If I buy you the nurse's outfit, would you wear it?"
Cuddy scoffed as she reached into the cupboard where the Band-Aids were kept. "I'm a doctor."
"Sort of."
She sneered at him but continued talking. "If the sight of me helping people or looking like I help people is what gets you off…" She hissed that last part, clearly worried about Rachel listening in on their conversation. "Then you can see me do that. Any day of the week."
Cuddy ripped open two Band-Aids. As she placed them on his fingers one right after the other, she said, "If you just want to see me in cheap polyester…" She bunched up the waxy paper the bandages had been in. Tossing them into the trashcan, she simply finished, "Too bad."
He cocked his head to the side, curious. "You'd let me pee on you -"
"House."
He kept talking undeterred and unconcerned about the kid (who, truth be told, was too busy chowing down on uncooked dough to pay attention to him). "You'd let me pee on you, but you won't wear something I intend on ripping off of you in five minutes."
For a brief instant, she looked at him as though she were trying to decide if he were wasting her time. And in all honesty, he couldn't figure out what side of the coin she fell on, but either way, she responded tersely, "All right, fine. You want to see me in that? Go ahead. Buy one. Just make it one that won't make me break out into hives."
She started to saunter away, but he reached out and grabbed her hand. "Hey," he said gently, catching her attention. "You forgot to kiss my boo boos."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" she asked sarcastically.
"Cute," he said with a sneer. But when she made no move to kiss him, he felt the need to prompt her. "Well?"
"You'll live. Now go away."
Yup. She was definitely hiding something, he decided. She was saying all of the things he would anticipate her to say. He would expect her to brush him off, to want him to go away. She was trying to do something right now, and given the way Rachel was making her way through the raw cookies, it was probably smart for Cuddy to get back to it.
But…
Still, there was something about her behavior that was… off.
"You're hiding something," he said knowingly.
"Not my irritation, I hope."
"Now, you're deflecting."
"Because I'm doing something," she explained in exasperation. "And as fun as it is to listen to you talk about all of your perversions, I have things to do."
"Uh huh."
She folded her arms across her chest. "What? You think I'm lying? You think I'm not doing something?"
He shook his head. "I think you're trying to get rid of me."
"Because you're annoying."
Looking at her carefully, House could tell that this wasn't the right approach. Whatever it was she was hiding, it wasn't something he was going to get from her by fishing for it. And the more he tried to get it out of her by asking, the less likely it was that she would tell him. Which meant he wouldn't be able to confront her until he had some sort of indication as to what was bothering her.
"Fine," he said, giving her - at least superficially - what she wanted. "I will be ordering all sorts of naughty things for you to wear."
At that he left, not missing her sarcastic "Great."
But it was much harder for him to think of anything other than what Cuddy was hiding. True, it didn't help that, when he retreated to his hidey-hole, he continued working on something that was completely Cuddy's.
The damn bowl.
He hated the thing. He hadn't before, but now that he'd spent a fair amount of time trying to manipulate the pieces, now that he'd cut himself trying to do that… he wanted nothing more than to shove the broken bits right back into the trashcan.
He wouldn't do that. He'd spent too much time working on it already, and now that he'd started, he was determined to finish reconstructing the stupid thing. It would be a pain in his ass to do, but he would do it. As tedious as it would be, it was definitely preferable to do this than to let Cuddy fixate on the broken bowl for the next month or so.
She would be appalled by the time frame he was giving her. If she were to know his thinking, she would think he was being overly dramatic; she would claim that she wasn't that upset about the bowl, that she certainly wasn't going to be upset for a month. But he knew better.
Just as he knew that the behavior he'd seen in the kitchen had nothing to do with the broken dish. True, it was more than apparent that she cared about it, but it was just as apparent that something else was going on… something new.
It wasn't work.
He didn't doubt that she was preoccupied by that, but nothing about that had changed recently. There was no reason why she should be more distracted by that now, no reason why she should keep any developments from him even if there were one.
It wasn't Rachel. Rachel was fine. The incident at the school and the fallout of it might have been bothering Cuddy, but again, that had happened earlier. And the same could be said for the whole… sex debacle.
Ugh.
Just the thought of it made House shiver with disgust.
He was trying very hard not to think about that, but given his penchant for fixating on things, it was an impossible task.
It should have been easy.
Given the way they had sex, he thought he should have known that this day would come eventually. And Cuddy was concerned and upset enough for the both of them that he should have been able to play the role of optimist; he should have been able to say and believe that everything would be okay.
But saying the words and believing them were two different things, and silently, he dabbled with the possibilities of how this would resolve itself.
House wanted to say with definity that this would simply cement Rachel's need for lifelong therapy. However, the bomb she'd dropped at lunch - the whole "Are you making babies" debacle - had added a spicy punch to their normal levels of dysfunction, and now he wasn't so sure he could predict Rachel's behavior with any accuracy.
All right, fine - using actual logic to understand someone completely embroiled in her own reasoning wasn't exactly a brilliant plan to begin with. She was five, and her comprehension of the world was hardly formed, so her ability to do things in a predictable and rational fashion was limited. And it went without saying that today, she'd gone way out of the bounds House had mentally set for her.
But as he thought that, he supposed that maybe the same could be said for Cuddy. Maybe she wasn't hiding anything from him; perhaps she was just shocked by what Rachel had said.
It made sense.
He hadn't seen Cuddy after lunch. The second Rachel had taken off down the hallway, he'd checked out of the whole family drama. And if Cuddy were avoiding him, keeping something from him, he supposed it very well could have been something that Rachel had told her after he'd run away.
But if discovering a possibility for Cuddy's behavior was supposed to make him feel better…
It didn't.
It really didn't.
Because there was nothing good that could come from that. He just had to look at the circumstances to know that much was true; talk about babies, Cuddy looking at him in disappointment the second he'd entered the kitchen, Cuddy avoiding him… yeah, that didn't end well.
Not for him anyway.
Cause, really, the only way all those puzzle pieces fit together was if Cuddy had decided she wanted another kid and feared his reaction to that news.
God.
It was true.
She wanted a baby.
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