Gift of Screws, Chapter 10, Part 1
Title: Gift of Screws, Chapter Ten, Part 1
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), Chapter 9 (Part 2), Chapter 9 (Part 3), Chapter 9 (Part 4)
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." - Emily Dickinson
The night wore on slowly, the passing of time feeling long and drawn out to Cuddy. Gazing through the inky darkness up at the ceiling, she knew she was the only one with open eyes at the moment. Rachel was curled up in her bed down the hallway; House was sleeping next to Cuddy - unknowingly taunting her and her apparent insomnia.
It wasn't the sheets. She'd complained about them, but they'd dried, and they weren't the problem. It wasn't House's snoring. Loud though it was, it was something she could usually ignore, especially when she was tired. And frankly, given the amount of sex they'd had today, she was tired.
But she couldn't sleep.
Maybe it was pointless to even pretend like she didn't know why that was. Obviously she did. She couldn't sleep, because she was stressed, nervous. Everything was falling apart, and she could feel it - could actually feel her life disintegrating. It was worse now, when there was nothing to distract her from that fact.
She tried hard to rid herself of the thought, of the idea that the world was going to come crashing down in the next twenty-four hours. But rolling over for what seemed like the hundredth time, she realized that wasn't going to be happening any time soon.
"Would you stop?" House mumbled, his quiet voice booming in the silence.
Cuddy rolled over again so that she could look at him. "What are you talking about?"
"The rolling around," he said with a tired flick of the hand. "I feel like I'm on a boat."
"I'm sorry. I can't -"
The "sleep" she was going to say was swallowed by his order - "Come here."
He patted the mattress beside him.
"It's not the sheets," she said, thinking that he was only sharing his side of the bed out of guilt for making her take the unsavory side.
"Didn't think it was."
So then he knew she was upset, she deduced, which just made her even more reluctant to go anywhere near him. "I'm fine," she told him in a voice that wasn't nearly convincing enough.
"Didn't say you weren't."
"You don't need to comfort me," she said with disdain.
He shrugged. "I was just cold, wanted to warm up with your sweater puppies."
For a brief moment, Cuddy said nothing. Although she knew she probably needed to, she couldn't help but wonder if it were better to keep fighting him or to do what he wanted. If she were to keep pushing him away, she knew he too would push. But if she were to capitulate right then and there, he would be smug.
Or maybe not, she conceded; maybe he would reach into that well of human kindness that ran deeply within him. However, she would still feel awful about it. Even if he were nothing more than a loving, supportive presence (like that would happen), she wouldn't take it that way. She would just see it as a confirmation that she was acting like a child, too insecure and desperate to self-soothe.
But her indecision was the tipping point for him.
"All right," he said tiredly. "You won't bring them to me… I'll come to them."
She could feel him shifting on the bed, a sign that he was going to do exactly as he was threatening. And she responded by telling him, "Fine."
Unceremoniously - hell, maybe with even a little animosity - she rolled over. Her head on his chest, she curled her body around his.
His t-shirt was warm against her cheek, she thought sleepily, though it did little to curb her agitation.
Okay, maybe it did that a tiny bit. But she wasn't interested in letting him know that. Instead, she muttered, "How you can be so pushy when you've just woken up -"
"I've been awake for a while," he admitted quietly.
Cuddy sighed. "I woke you up?"
"I can't sleep when you're anxious," he told her. One of his hands cupping her hip, he added, "You make it impossible."
"Then sleep on the couch."
"So you admit it."
Cuddy frowned in confusion. "What?"
"You're anxious."
"More like annoyed."
His free hand stroked her cheek. "You'll be fine."
"I am fine."
He smirked into her hair. "You almost sold me on that one."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying - I'll be convinced any day now."
Cuddy started to roll away, but he refused to let her go. Holding her to him, he was more than prepared for her resistance. "Let me go."
"Don't think so."
"House."
"And now you're snapping at me," he said through a sigh. "So you've more than demonstrated how okay you are."
"I always snap at you."
"No kidding."
"Shut up." He could feel her smile pressed into his t-shirt.
"There you go again."
Settling against him once more, Cuddy told him, "If you're trying to make me feel better by being an obnoxious pain in the ass, it's not working."
It was actually. She would deny it, so he wasn't going to say anything about it, but he knew she was.
Smugness flowing through him, he pointed out snidely, "And I thought you were feeling fine."
She sighed. "I am."
"You'll get the money."
She didn't say anything for a couple minutes. He could tell that she wasn't asleep; she was still too tense for that. What he couldn't decide was whether she was actually being so foolish as to think she could pretend to be asleep or if there were some other reason for her behavior.
"Well?" she eventually asked.
"What?"
She looked up in surprise. "No joke about me being Jewish and therefore naturally able to con people out of their money?"
"I'm tired. Give me a good night's rest, and I'll come up with something."
She rolled her eyes before laying her head back down. "I can't wait."
"You'll get the money," he repeated, stressing each word to show her that he was confident.
And honestly, at that point, she was pretty confident about that aspect of things as well. In fact, there was now no doubt in her mind that she would get a check without very much effort. But that was the problem.
"It's not about procuring the cash," she muttered without even thinking.
It was stupid, literally thoughtless, to admit such a thing, because it naturally prompted House to ask, "Then what is the problem?"
She stiffened at the question. Telling him the truth would automatically lead to a huge fight - a huge one, one that would prevent them from getting any sleep.
On the whole, House didn't have many opportunities to be jealous of other men; she wasn't unattractive, but her job title had a way of scaring interested parties off. When it didn't though, House was… unbearable. And he would be that the second he found out that she was meeting John, which was why she wanted to postpone that conversation for as long as possible.
But then… what should she say now?
She could feel him looking at her for an answer. Literally she could feel his gaze as though it were an actual physical presence. And panicking in response, Cuddy blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Rachel."
"Rachel? Rachel's fine."
But that wasn't exactly true. And now that Cuddy had mentioned her daughter, it was all she could think of. Rachel wasn't fine, not by any means. Of course, when House said that she was okay, he meant okay for her.
However, House hadn't come to dinner; he hadn't seen her much at all after lunch, and so he hadn't seen any of what Cuddy had noticed.
"She threw up," she said quietly. "Twice."
"She ate a lot of raw cookies, and knowing her, I'm guessing she had a lot of baked ones as well."
"I didn't let her have any of the finished ones," Cuddy explained. "And after she burned her tongue trying to sneak one behind my back, she didn't want any."
"Still. She was eating the batter like -"
"She's got a yeast infection."
He could see where this headed. She was thinking that Rachel's medication needed to be readjusted, and though it was possible that Rachel's body had changed in some way, he wanted Cuddy to consider all of the other possibilities before going down that road. "There have been a lot of spandex and tights lately," he pointed out. "Though that does sound like something I would only see in a nightmare, I'm pretty sure that actually happened, so -"
"Don't do that," Cuddy snapped in irritation. "I'm not overreacting. Her glucose levels have been getting incrementally larger for the last week, and -"
"You are overreacting… probably because you're worried about being fired tomorrow," he said knowingly. She would pretend like it was an absurd idea, but House knew otherwise; anxiety in one area of her life tended to bleed into every other area. "Not that that will happen," he added as an afterthought.
But his last minute attempt at making her feel better was only met with ire.
Angrily she sat up. "I know you like to assume that I'm a lame duck, inexperienced, overly emotional -"
"And you're doing such a good job at proving you're not that last one."
"Doctor," she said with a sneer, her eyes narrowing angrily on him. She wasn't going to take the bait on his comment, but in that look, it was absolutely clear that she wasn't pleased. "But I am actually a pretty good endocrinologist and -"
"And you don't think that that might color your perspective on Rachel's health," House replied with only the slightest hint of a doubt. "You don't think that it's worth considering that before you force her to submit to painful -"
"Drawing blood, House," she interrupted, shaking her head. "Don't make it sound like I'm -"
"She's five, and you know she hates blood and doctors and hospitals, which is why I'm telling you: you should think about the road you're heading down before you take a wrong turn and run over some fluffy squirrel and…." He sighed. "The metaphor got away from me there, but you know what I mean."
"You're tired," Cuddy said quietly.
"I'm not wrong."
Her body slumped against his once more. "I know."
"You should sleep on it," he told her, one of his hands warmly rubbing the space between her shoulder blades. "We're both tired."
"I know," she repeated, sounding more exhausted than she had only moments ago. "I need a vacation," she blurted out, burying her face in his t-shirt. Her voice muffled, she suggested, "Lets go some place warm."
He smiled a little and kissed her hair. "Much as I'd like to see you in a bikini, I'm going to assume that you're talking like this, because you're tired."
"I mean it," she mumbled into his chest. "I want sand… and a sunburn. And drinks with little umbrellas."
It wasn't ever going to happen. He knew that as much as she must have. It was never going to be that way. Oh, he didn't doubt that she wanted a vacation; he was sure that she did, just as he was sure that it would never happen. She might have wanted to go away for a while, but she would never give herself the permission to have that luxury. Between Rachel and work, Cuddy would never do what she was talking about. Instead she would waste vacation days on awful medical conventions or even more tedious trips to her sister's, and neither of those things involved Cuddy in a bathing suit two sizes too small for her ass.
"Never gonna happen," he told her knowingly. "And it's very wrong of you to tempt me with -"
"It's your own fault for thinking about me in a bikini. I never said anything about -"
"You mentioned sand."
"And in your deranged little mind, sand means -"
"Seeing you half-naked, yes." He nodded his head for emphasis.
She raised her head just enough so she could look at him. "Tell me something; is there anything I could mention that wouldn't, at some point in your thought process, make you think of me half-naked?"
"Probably not."
"Okay then."
"All the more reason for you to -"
"What?" she asked tiredly.
"Go to sleep."
He sounded so annoyed that she couldn't help but think that wasn't what he was originally going to say. "'Go to sleep.' That's how you're finishing that sentence?"
"Yes."
Truthfully Cuddy debated whether it was worth pressing him on the matter. She was curious to know what he might have originally intended on saying. But that was all she was - curious. And getting an answer that would allay that feeling really didn't seem worth all the trouble it would naturally take to get such a thing from House. So instead she sighed. "Fine."
But ten minutes later, she was no closer to sleeping. And House must have known this, because he said with a sigh, "Go check on the midget, make sure she's, I don't know, alive, and then come back to bed."
"Don't talk like that," she muttered as she got out of bed.
"She'll be fine," he said, rolling over onto his stomach.
He waited to hear her footsteps retreating out of the room. But when that didn't happen, he couldn't help but turn his head to look and see what the issue was.
It was immediately apparent what it was; she was just standing there, looking at him with dismay. And as soon as his gaze was on her, she told him, "I wish you wouldn't do that."
She didn't elaborate, which forced him to say in confusion, "Right now, I'm doing at least ten different things you more than likely wish I weren't doing. You might need to be more specific than -"
"Make it sound like I'm overreacting every time I show the slightest bit of concern about -"
"You think I'm being patronizing."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"I thought I was being reassuring."
"You weren't," she said dryly. "You were… tempting -"
"Fate?" he offered. "I don't think so."
She shook her head. "Well, that's how it sounds when you talk like that."
"I'm not tempting anything," he told her quietly.
"You are."
"No -"
"You are," she repeated angrily.
"No, I'm not." He was being more stern than he wanted to be, but having taken that tone, he knew there was no backing off now. "The universe doesn't work like that, and you know it, Cuddy. There's nothing that happened to Rachel that's the result of something you -"
"Please don't do this," she interrupted at that moment.
It was hard to see her face, but there was no missing the pained quality to her voice. Huskier, tighter, shakier, it gave away everything the darkness tried to hide.
"Go check on her," House said quietly. He could have pressed her further, pushed her to admit that part of her always overreacted when it came to Rachel's health out of fear that she would be punished if she didn't react seriously enough. But he didn't do that. That was something she would need to admit on her own.
Choosing instead to walk away from the conversation, he wasn't surprised that she took the opportunity to escape. Had the situation been reversed, he would have done precisely the same thing - run away at the first moment possible. For that very reason, he didn't judge her.
Of course that didn't mean he didn't feel just the slightest bit smug when she came back looking slightly more relaxed. He did feel that way; if only because it had meant he was right about Rachel, he did feel a small desire to rub it in Cuddy's face. However, he was an adult and supposedly a supportive boyfriend, so instead, he simply welcomed her with open arms as she crawled back into bed.
Well, she didn't really crawl back into the bed as much as she carefully draped her body on top of his.
In his own mind, this sounded much sexier than it was. Not that it wasn't sexy; it was Cuddy, and as a result, every act, every move, every word she uttered could elicit some sort of desire from him. This was just not as sexy as it could have been - nowhere near that. Because this wasn't her lying on top of him to entice him into a much more fun way of touching tummies; this was "I'm going to sleep on top of you."
His hands squeezing her ass, he said quietly, "I think you missed the bed."
"You're warmer than the sheets."
"Okay."
Her feet tickled his shins as she said, "You can push me off if I'm too heavy."
"You're not."
"I'm not hurting you?"
"No." And that was the truth. She wasn't heavy or hurting him. She didn't weigh nearly enough to cause him any pain now. The morning would tell a very different story, but he was willing to suffer that if it meant that she would sleep now. "How was Rachel?"
"Fine," Cuddy answered with a sigh he could feel through his t-shirt. "She was sleeping."
"Good to know that someone in this house is," he said in a similarly breathy manner.
"House." It was as close to an apology as she could apparently get.
"It's okay."
She wanted to believe him. With everything that she had, she wanted to believe him.
But she couldn't.
He had been right earlier. There was no tempting of things going on, no bargain to be made with ephemeral beings. She knew that. In her heart, she understood that. And yet, every day, Cuddy also understood that she operated under those very ideas. If she worked harder, did better, inched closer and closer to perfection, some part of her believed that things could be perfect.
Some part of her still felt the keen disappointment when they weren't.
The truly unfortunate part about that was that it meant, for Cuddy, that she would never feel good about Rachel - or at least Rachel's health. The asthma, the diabetes, the thyroid - all of those things were problems that had no simple or foreseeable solution; it was about managing not mastering those conditions. They couldn't be mastered or fixed. And because Rachel was a stubborn little girl who didn't fully understand what any of her medical problems meant, because she had multiple conditions, even just managing her illnesses was difficult work.
It was a fact that broke Cuddy's heart
It was a fact that made every other problem in her life, no matter how big, seem large enough to destroy her. She tried her hardest to convince herself that Rachel was okay, that she would be okay. But it was impossible for Cuddy to contain that anxiety, impossible for her to ignore it and compartmentalize it - especially when every demon in Hell seemed to also sit on the hospital board.
"You're not sleeping," House interrupted.
"What?"
"You're not sleeping."
"I'm trying."
"You're tense. You need to relax."
Cuddy rolled her eyes and shifted on top of him a little bit as though she were trying to get comfortable. Truthfully, she was pretty comfortable pressed against House like this; he was warmer than the sheets - she hadn't lied about that. His pajamas were softer too, the cotton of his t-shirt and pants well worn from use. And there was something nice about falling asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in her ear. Not that she was sleeping, not yet, but when she would, it would be nice.
"I'm trying."
"You're stiffer than an airplane blanket." She wiggled around some more. Which, truth be told, he liked. But since sex was the last thing he wanted right now (okay, maybe not the last), he instantly stopped her by grabbing her hips. "Speaking of stiff… you keep doing that and -"
She groaned - not the reaction he was anticipating.
"What?"
"No more sex tonight."
They were in agreement on that but still. "No? But we -"
"I know you like proving that you have the libido of a fifteen year old who's just discovered his father's Playboys, and I get it." She patted his chest as though he were a little boy. "It must feel nice to be able to prove what a big man you are."
There was no missing the fact that she was teasing him. And though the mocking pout she was giving him was kind of hot, he wasn't particularly enjoying what she was saying. "I -"
"Probably want to brag to Wilson and your staff and anyone else who will listen. I know," she said with a nod of the head. "And that's fine. You go ahead and tell them what a manly stud you are."
"This isn't about my ego."
She gave him a dark look. "Monday morning, you're going to strut -"
"I don't strut."
"Like a peacock," she continued without even considering what he was saying. "Strutting and… singing."
He shifted underneath her. "I don't -"
"You do. God, you do. I fully expect to hear Gilbert and Sullivan in the halls on Monday and see everyone looking at me for the rest of the day as though I've completely lost my mind for dating you." He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. Pressing a finger to his lips, she was the one to speak. "And I'm going to look at them as though I am in absolute agreement with them… which I am more than willing to do, because I, for whatever reason, possibly the result of brain damage, love you."
Murmuring against her fingers, he said, "If you're trying to kill any interest I might have in having sex with you right now, I gotta tell you… it's pretty effective."
She exhaled and pulled her hand away from him. Replacing her finger with her lips, she kissed him briefly. "Good. Because I need a break - at least until the morning."
He gave her a look of annoyance. "Last I checked, I wasn't trying to get any. I was trying to sleep."
"I'm just saying," she told him calmly. "I'm going to start chafing."
"Oh, that's a good line. I'm gonna tell Wilson that." At that Cuddy rolled off of him. A little surprised, he couldn't help but ask her, "What happened to 'you're warmer than the sheets'?"
A half-smile on her face, she said, "Sounded like you wanted to be alone with your sexual prowess."
He followed her, spooning against her body. One of his hands sneaking underneath her shirt, he told her in a low voice, "Anything involving the word, sexual, should involve you too."
Her lips turned into a full smile. "You say that now, and the next thing I know, I'm measuring your penis."
"Hey, now there's an -"
"No."
"You're right," he admitted after a second. His free hand carding through her hair, he added, "We probably don't even have a ruler long enough to measure -"
"You're impossible." But he could feel and hear her slight chuckle as she said those words and knew that they were okay.
Knowing that, House kissed her neck. "Think you can fall asleep now?"
She sighed. "I don't know…. No."
"You've got to be tired."
"I am."
"You've been up for -"
"I know."
"Want me to get you something? Warm milk? Clonazepam? Vodka?"
She shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling his face. "I'm okay." When he pulled the covers up over her body further, she murmured, "You don't have to do that."
"I'm not trying to be nice," he said immediately. Actually, he was trying to be nice, but he wasn't going to tell her that. Pride mattered in these things, he guessed, and he figured a lie would do more good than the truth. "Sooner you fall asleep, the sooner I do, so anything I can do to make that happen…."
"Right," she replied, sounding more exhausted than he thought he had ever heard her sound before.
He stroked her side gently. "Just close your eyes."
She listened but repeated herself. "You don't have to do that."
"I do. I'm a selfish man."
She bristled. "I know what you're doing."
"Go to sleep."
"I -"
"Don't worry about it," he told her in a low voice.
She did, of course. Everything he was doing was soothing, she couldn't deny it, but it did make her feel uncomfortable at the same time. As she tried to fall asleep, she knew that it was stupid. She knew she should have simply allowed herself to take comfort in what he was offering. But it was hard for her, hard to appreciate and accept something that she felt he shouldn't have to offer.
"Don't worry about it," he repeated, as though he knew what she was thinking. "Just sleep."
Cuddy wanted to fight the feeling. She wanted to push him away, say something, do something to regain the pride she could feel slipping away. But it was a fight she couldn't win. His body warm against hers, his hands petting and rubbing and soothing what felt like every inch of her, she couldn't fight him. The sheets and bed and him so inviting, so soothing, she didn't have a chance in hell. As slumber quickly consumed her, in the back of her mind, she wondered when she'd last been tucked into bed.
House himself was asking that very question. One of his hands in her hair, the other moving around her back and side, he really wanted to know when Cuddy had last allowed anyone to do this for her. Had she ever let anyone? Sure, her parents had more than likely done this when she was a girl. But since then? He doubted Cuddy had permitted anyone to…
Tuck her in?
Hold her close and make sure she fell asleep?
He didn't exactly know how he should word what he was doing. After all, it wasn't like he was well practiced in… this; if Cuddy weren't used to being soothed, then he certainly wasn't used to being the one to do the soothing. He was more of an… irritant, to be honest, and, not that he liked pissing off his girlfriend, but the fact remained that she didn't often require his emotional support, so he didn't feel as though it were necessary (or even desirable) to console her over every little thing.
That she had let him attempt such a feat at all was proof enough that she was more upset than she was letting on. Rachel… work… it was all getting to her, and he was quite sure now that he hadn't really helped Cuddy at any point along the way today.
He hadn't intentionally set out to annoy her (for the most part anyway). But there was no denying that some of the events he'd had a hand in had just made things worse for her. Or maybe it was just the one he couldn't forgive himself for.
He'd hurt Rachel.
It had been accident, but he'd hurt her. And Cuddy had forgiven him - or at least said that she had - but he wasn't as quick to forgive himself for it. Rachel might not have been hurt seriously but still.
He'd grabbed her.
He'd scared her.
And maybe they'd been able to move past that during the day, but right now, in this particular moment, House didn't feel good about it. He felt awful about it, and the fact that it had made Cuddy's day worse only made him feel that much guiltier.
He supposed that was a triviality compared to everything else; making things harder for Cuddy didn't really compare to hurting Rachel. But it was the icing on top of the pile of crap - he knew that much.
Then again, he also knew that this wouldn't happen again.
He wouldn't let it.
Being Rachel's father would never happen, not if he could help it. But that didn't mean he wanted to be an unwanted presence in her life or the kind of person who scared her… who hurt her. He didn't want to be the boyfriend of one woman and a monster to another all in the same house. He'd never wanted to straddle that line, even if he had today.
And he wouldn't do it again.
Cuddy exhaled softly beside him. Immediately he stiffened, thinking that she might be awake. But after a few seconds, she hadn't woken up or moved, and he was relieved to see that she was still sleeping. She deserved it.
He liked to make fun of her, quite a bit actually. He liked to joke about her job, about how she wasn't a real doctor, but silently he understood that there was no way in hell he could ever do what she did. She was good at her job - amazing at it, and because of that fact, he could be good at his. In his eyes, she held his world together, and if he never admitted such a thing out loud, it was because he wasn't even sure he could put it into words properly. But inwardly, he knew exactly how important she was to him, just as he knew how hard she worked to make everything just right. And since nothing in their lives seemed to be simple, making things perfect (or as close to perfect as they could get) was no easy task.
Yes, he thought with sincerity, she deserved a good night's sleep and so much more. So much more that he couldn't necessarily give her, he realized. He might have wanted to - oh, he wanted to, but he couldn't give her anywhere near what she deserved. He could never be the man with no complications, the one who could unconditionally agree to do what she wanted from or of him.
He was too screwed up for that.
And he knew she deserved more, but at the moment, helping her sleep seemed like all he could do.
At the thought, House pressed his face into her shoulder. She was too good for him, he thought, pulling her closer to him. She was too good, and if he kept having performances like the one he'd had today, she would realize it. As he slowly fell back to sleep, he told himself that he needed to remember just how lucky he was to have her in his life.
Unfortunately, he didn't remember that. When he woke up, he didn't remember that fact at all. To be fair, it was impossible to remember much of anything, what with all of the screaming and crying.
He woke up before he even had a chance to register what was going on. His eyes popping open, he was immediately assaulted with noise and movement and the bright light coming from Cuddy's bedside lamp. She was hastily shoving the covers off of her, her limbs scrambling to free themselves.
But she wasn't the one making the noise, he realized dimly.
It was then that he realized that Rachel was in the room, standing right next to the bed. And there was the source of the screaming and crying.
In urine-soaked vivid pink pajamas decorated with brown squirrels holding yellow and purple flowers (why they were holding flowers, he didn't know, but they were, as stupid as that was), Rachel stood there. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, which were reddened from crying. She was sobbing for Cuddy, her entire body shaking with the effort. With each "Mama" she wailed, a shuddering gasp followed. The sound long and drawn out, it clearly said to House, who was still barely conscious, that she was so upset that she could barely muster up the ability to breathe.
As Cuddy pulled the kid into her lap, House decided that it wasn't an asthma attack. The way she was breathing made it seem at first glance as though that might be what was going on. But as consciousness grabbed a hold of him, he realized that she was too pink; she wasn't wheezing or coughing, and though an asthma attack would, understandably, be upsetting to anyone, Rachel had been through enough to stay somewhat calm. She would be anxious to breathe again (who wouldn't be?), but she wouldn't be crying and shouting Cuddy's name.
Not like this.
Which meant that this was a panic attack.
He looked to Cuddy to see if she understood what was going on. But she didn't meet his gaze; her focus was completely on Rachel.
Inching over on the bed, he didn't say anything. It wouldn't matter what he said right now; Cuddy would be deaf to every point he could possibly make at this particular moment. So really, his only option was to move out of the way, lest he end up with Rachel's piss on his pants.
He would have liked to point out how crappy things for him were when he was worried about getting the urine belonging to a five year old on his person. But again, Cuddy wasn't going to be paying attention, and Rachel certainly wouldn't be, so he made the point silently to himself and rolled away from them both.
He wasn't going to sleep.
If someone could sleep through this ruckus, he would have liked very much to meet that person and steal their soul… or something that made sense, House thought in confusion.
"Shhh," Cuddy whispered in Rachel's ear. "It's all right. Mommy's here."
Yeah, like that was going to stop the train wreck (or shut it up) that was in progress, he told himself miserably. Again, he would have said it aloud, but Rachel would have taken precedence anyway, so he kept his comments to himself.
Rachel, however, was decidedly not keeping any sound to herself. Her face was buried in Cuddy's shoulder; her thumb was jammed now into her mouth, but she was still making more noise than anyone should have at this time of night.
He would have wished for earplugs, except he knew that those wouldn't do anything for him. Rachel was being that loud.
In his mind, there was no doubt that this was all over a bad dream. It might have sounded like she was being beaten or murdered to the neighbors. It might have looked like there was something else going on; wetting the bed could be the result of or an indication of polyuria and/or polydipsia, both symptoms of high blood sugar; the kind of sadness and anxiety she was currently displaying could indicate diabetic ketoacidosis. But he knew that wasn't what was going on. Rachel hadn't been drinking or urinating any more than usual - and it wasn't like wetting the bed was anything new for her. So he was content to believe, no matter what her behavior might have indicated on a superficial level, that this was a nightmare and nothing more.
Cuddy, however, was not as convinced. Rocking Rachel, she looked at him with dismay, with concern, and asked quietly, "Could you get me her meter and inhaler?"
How he even managed to hear her request over Rachel he didn't know. He supposed that there could be something to the fact that Cuddy was calm, and that made her words completely distinct from what Rachel was saying, but he didn't know for sure.
What he did know was that Cuddy had already lost interest in him by the time he'd processed her words. He wasn't being particularly slow in understanding her, but in the milliseconds it took for him to comprehend what she was asking, she'd already turned her attention to Rachel.
The kid was still upset, alarmingly so. Again, he didn't think there was anything physically going on with her. But it was hard to deny that she was getting herself worked up enough to make herself sick. And Cuddy, convinced that her medical concerns were being addressed, fully launched herself into preventing Rachel from accidentally hurting herself. Problem was, House didn't agree that those medical tests and treatments were necessary.
He needed to tell her that, of course, but she wasn't paying attention. Instead, she was alternating between shushing Rachel and saying, "It's okay. Mommy's here. It's all right. Just calm down and tell me what's wrong."
It was a request Rachel couldn't even begin to follow, and understanding this, House felt like he was in the same boat as she was.
"Cuddy," he said softly. He didn't want to make things harder than they needed to be; he didn't want to start a fight, not now, not if he could avoid it. But Cuddy needed to know that this wasn't physical. Because as soon as she realized and accepted that, the easier it would be to calm Rachel down and shut her up and the sooner they could all go back to sleep.
But Cuddy was reluctant, apparently, to receive this knowledge. Pressing several kisses to Rachel's temples and forehead, Cuddy was slow - so slow - to look at him. And when she did, he could read in her eyes one word:
Don't.
He responded in kind with a look of exasperation, as though he were saying, "I'm not trying to fight. Stop thinking that I am."
And she must have understood that - or he was just reading into things - because she backed off. The warning in her eyes disappeared, the heated anger cooling off into something more amenable to his hesitation.
It was a look born from words she would never say. Words like that would never be spoken; she would never tell him, or at least not willingly tell him, that she knew she was being ridiculous. Over the years, if House had learned one thing, it was that she could be quite committed to her own insanity. Even if she knew she was wrong, she had the habit of defending herself anyway. He obviously couldn't judge her for that quality as he tended to do the same thing; however, in this particular moment, despite that part of her personality, despite the fact that she had been so defensive seconds ago, she was giving him a look that now said, "I know it's probably just a bad dream, but I need to make sure."
House thought briefly that it was odd that they could say so much to one another with just a simple look. But then on further reflection, he supposed it wasn't that odd. They were, after all, nothing if not masters in subtext, and knowing each other for decades had only provided them with a Rosetta Stone to one another's private language. The fact that they worked together, slept together, celebrated holidays (even lame ass ones like Purim) together - spent nearly every waking moment together in some way - could only make this kind of conversation an inevitability.
But it still felt odd.
A little bit anyway.
They spent so much time bickering, bantering, or just downright arguing that it was easy to lose sight of the connection they did share.
Of course that made it sound like he thought they fought too much. He didn't. Sometimes someone who didn't know them very well - her friends, her sister, random people flitting through the hospital - would imply that they must have been nearing a break up; those strangers would say that they must not have liked each other very much if they fought like that. And having heard those particular statements way too many times, House knew that none of it was even remotely true.
They fought, sure. They fought more than most couples probably. But what most people never understood was that House and Cuddy were okay with raising their voices and frequently being adversaries. In fact, a lot of the time, they found themselves content to be under those circumstances, because…
They liked the fight.
They enjoyed the challenge.
Never mind that work usually required them to get into it at least once a day. Never mind that they both took comfort in the fact that professionally she could stop him from doing something incredibly stupid. On the most basic of levels, they simply enjoyed verbally sparring with one another.
Sure, there were times where it probably would have been nice to come home to a quiet house and a partner who only wanted to agree with you. But at the end of the day, he, at least, was willing to sacrifice that for the privilege of seeing first hand her mind at work; as attracted as he was to the rest of her, first and foremost, it was her brain that he liked.
He liked listening to her, liked hearing her thoughts, even when that meant listening to her say something he didn't want to hear. And because of that, because they enjoyed the word play, there were times when it was almost easy to forget that they had the ability to understand one another without speaking. But here they were, saying all that needed to be said without uttering a single word.
Well, all right, it wasn't without words completely. With all of the noise and ways for Rachel to distract Cuddy, House wanted her to know with total certainty that he was willing to play along. He still thought it was stupid, of course; he didn't think for a second that Rachel was having a medical emergency of any sort. But he was willing to do whatever it took to ease Cuddy's nerves. So he said, "Okay," with a nod of the head.
For a brief moment, he contemplated leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek for reassurance. But he quickly decided against it. For sure she could have used it. He would have been stupid to think that at this moment, he was the only one feeling ill at ease. But at the same time, she was so intent on caring for Rachel that a kiss would have been seen as an unwelcome distraction. And that was the last thing he wanted to be.
That thought one that was firmly planted in his mind, he pushed the covers off of his body. He was willing to forego the kiss, but at that moment, as the cold air hit him, he suddenly felt resentful of having to get out of bed at all.
He'd been nice and warm, his leg only aching a little (which was to say that the pain was as bearable as it got for him). And now he had to part with all of that just so he could alleviate the concern stupidly imprinted in Cuddy's mind. He had to leave that sanctuary and for what - for a wild goose chase that would yield no geese or fowl of any kind.
But he'd said he would do it. He didn't want to get up, but he'd said he would. And the universal truth that everybody lied aside, his word with Cuddy, his word here meant something. It meant everything… or at least it was supposed to. So he had to follow through on the damn thing.
The problem with that though was that he didn't get very far.
Correction: he wasn't allowed to get very far.
His legs free from the bedding, he started to get up. But he didn't even have a chance to do much more than swing a leg over the edge of the mattress. Because the instant he did that, Rachel was on top of him.
Literally.
He had no idea why.
No idea.
All he knew was that one minute he was getting out of bed, and it was on top of him the next. And he had no rational reason as to why she would do this; he didn't know what it was she'd seen out of the corner out of her teary eyes that made her scramble for him.
And you know what?
He didn't want to know.
And it didn't matter.
It didn't. He was a man who liked to understand motivation, but he could see that trying to comprehend Rachel's behavior was about as useful in this particular instant as knowing how to cook puffer fish. Because as interesting as all of that might have been, none of it was going to get Rachel away from him any time soon.
Of course he could have been wrong about that. If you'd asked him five minutes ago if Rachel would ever cling to him, he would have said no - and he would have been very wrong about that.
But he wasn't the only one.
Cuddy was thinking the same thing; if someone had asked her earlier what would happen when Rachel came running into the room, Cuddy would not have said this. It was happening right before her eyes, but it felt completely unreal.
She'd had Rachel in her arms. She'd gotten House to agree to go get Rachel's inhaler - a feat, which was pretty amazing in and of itself, considering he'd been adamant about how ridiculous that kind of thinking was. Things had looked okay in that instant; Rachel had been upset still, but everything had felt pretty mundane.
And then it suddenly hadn't been.
House had been getting out of bed, and Rachel had seen this. And she clearly hadn't liked it. Wrenching herself from her mother's grip, Rachel had lunged for House. She hadn't done it in an angry way; she hadn't been trying to attack him. If anything, it had seemed like she'd been desperate to be near him.
She'd cried, screamed, "No!" And though Cuddy had tried to grab hold of her daughter once more, Rachel had managed to squirm away somehow. Her movements quick, it had been within milliseconds that she'd ended up in House's lap, her hands clinging to him tightly.
And now…
Cuddy didn't know what to do.
Rachel was still upset. That still needed to be resolved in some way. But now in addition to that, there was the problem of House, who looked absolutely…
Terrified.
She'd debated saying scared, but instinctively she realized that that word didn't even begin to describe the fear in his eyes. And it was fear that she saw.
It would have been easy to miss or misdiagnose the well of emotion permeating his entire being. Fear was a feeling he rarely experienced and even more rarely let show on his face. He was neither prone to being frightened (this despite all he had been through) nor eager to let others see that side to him. But he couldn't hide this from her. She knew him too well, knew all the signs to look for, and he was too distracted by Rachel to even begin to run interference anyway. Which meant everything Cuddy needed to see was laid bare for her consumption, whether he liked it or not. And looking at him now, she couldn't deny that he was both afraid and unsure.
Honestly, he looked like one of those animals you read about - the kind of creature that had been caught in a bear trap or something along those lines and had been so afraid for their life that they'd gnawed their own captured limb off.
Yeah, House looked exactly like that, like he was prepared to chew off anything that would keep him trapped between Rachel and the mattress.
Part of Cuddy - the sleep-deprived part - wanted to be angry at him. He'd lived here for how long now? He hated the idea of being near Rachel so much that he couldn't even bear to have her on his lap? Really?
She wanted to be so angry at him. The logic was there; there was a reason to be mad, and part of her really wanted to be.
But she wasn't.
Maybe she was too tired to put forth the effort, but she wasn't angry. She wasn't happy either; now instead of just dealing with Rachel, Cuddy was also going to have to talk House off the proverbial ledge. But she wasn't mad. Because although she could have been, maybe even should have been, she knew that, in his own way, he was trying. He was kind of awkward and not very good with Rachel, not very affectionate anyway, but the fact that he hadn't pushed Rachel off of him and run away screaming was proof that he was making some sort of effort.
Was it enough? Not for Cuddy. She wanted more. Of course she wanted more from him. Who wouldn't? Who would prefer to have the guy and the child and no connection between the two? No one would want that. Cuddy certainly didn't.
However, she had known from the start that living with House and a baby would be… challenging. She had realized that he wasn't interested in fatherhood in the same way she'd understood that Lucas had been. And when she'd made her choice, Cuddy had known precisely what kind of decision she was making. She hadn't been naïve enough to think that House would change his mind or cruel enough to insist foolishly that he did. She'd hoped - as she still did - that things would get better, but she hadn't started this relationship with daddy-daughter delusions. And though a very real part of her was discontent with the family dynamic, she knew she had to trust that she'd made the right decision.
For everyone.
It might not have made things perfect. How could it have really? She and House seemed to be the most screwed up people on the planet. They were as far from perfect as anyone could possibly be; their relationship could hardly be any different. And at this particular moment, it left her wanting.
But it was still the right choice to make. And she was completely sure of that fact, if only because she knew that, if she had to be awoken by her urine-soaked, screaming child in the middle of the night, House was the only person Cuddy wanted to share the experience with.
Even if he was participating in his own detached way.
Even if he looked ready to run away screaming.
Continue on to 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), Chapter 9 (Part 2), Chapter 9 (Part 3), Chapter 9 (Part 4)
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." - Emily Dickinson
The night wore on slowly, the passing of time feeling long and drawn out to Cuddy. Gazing through the inky darkness up at the ceiling, she knew she was the only one with open eyes at the moment. Rachel was curled up in her bed down the hallway; House was sleeping next to Cuddy - unknowingly taunting her and her apparent insomnia.
It wasn't the sheets. She'd complained about them, but they'd dried, and they weren't the problem. It wasn't House's snoring. Loud though it was, it was something she could usually ignore, especially when she was tired. And frankly, given the amount of sex they'd had today, she was tired.
But she couldn't sleep.
Maybe it was pointless to even pretend like she didn't know why that was. Obviously she did. She couldn't sleep, because she was stressed, nervous. Everything was falling apart, and she could feel it - could actually feel her life disintegrating. It was worse now, when there was nothing to distract her from that fact.
She tried hard to rid herself of the thought, of the idea that the world was going to come crashing down in the next twenty-four hours. But rolling over for what seemed like the hundredth time, she realized that wasn't going to be happening any time soon.
"Would you stop?" House mumbled, his quiet voice booming in the silence.
Cuddy rolled over again so that she could look at him. "What are you talking about?"
"The rolling around," he said with a tired flick of the hand. "I feel like I'm on a boat."
"I'm sorry. I can't -"
The "sleep" she was going to say was swallowed by his order - "Come here."
He patted the mattress beside him.
"It's not the sheets," she said, thinking that he was only sharing his side of the bed out of guilt for making her take the unsavory side.
"Didn't think it was."
So then he knew she was upset, she deduced, which just made her even more reluctant to go anywhere near him. "I'm fine," she told him in a voice that wasn't nearly convincing enough.
"Didn't say you weren't."
"You don't need to comfort me," she said with disdain.
He shrugged. "I was just cold, wanted to warm up with your sweater puppies."
For a brief moment, Cuddy said nothing. Although she knew she probably needed to, she couldn't help but wonder if it were better to keep fighting him or to do what he wanted. If she were to keep pushing him away, she knew he too would push. But if she were to capitulate right then and there, he would be smug.
Or maybe not, she conceded; maybe he would reach into that well of human kindness that ran deeply within him. However, she would still feel awful about it. Even if he were nothing more than a loving, supportive presence (like that would happen), she wouldn't take it that way. She would just see it as a confirmation that she was acting like a child, too insecure and desperate to self-soothe.
But her indecision was the tipping point for him.
"All right," he said tiredly. "You won't bring them to me… I'll come to them."
She could feel him shifting on the bed, a sign that he was going to do exactly as he was threatening. And she responded by telling him, "Fine."
Unceremoniously - hell, maybe with even a little animosity - she rolled over. Her head on his chest, she curled her body around his.
His t-shirt was warm against her cheek, she thought sleepily, though it did little to curb her agitation.
Okay, maybe it did that a tiny bit. But she wasn't interested in letting him know that. Instead, she muttered, "How you can be so pushy when you've just woken up -"
"I've been awake for a while," he admitted quietly.
Cuddy sighed. "I woke you up?"
"I can't sleep when you're anxious," he told her. One of his hands cupping her hip, he added, "You make it impossible."
"Then sleep on the couch."
"So you admit it."
Cuddy frowned in confusion. "What?"
"You're anxious."
"More like annoyed."
His free hand stroked her cheek. "You'll be fine."
"I am fine."
He smirked into her hair. "You almost sold me on that one."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying - I'll be convinced any day now."
Cuddy started to roll away, but he refused to let her go. Holding her to him, he was more than prepared for her resistance. "Let me go."
"Don't think so."
"House."
"And now you're snapping at me," he said through a sigh. "So you've more than demonstrated how okay you are."
"I always snap at you."
"No kidding."
"Shut up." He could feel her smile pressed into his t-shirt.
"There you go again."
Settling against him once more, Cuddy told him, "If you're trying to make me feel better by being an obnoxious pain in the ass, it's not working."
It was actually. She would deny it, so he wasn't going to say anything about it, but he knew she was.
Smugness flowing through him, he pointed out snidely, "And I thought you were feeling fine."
She sighed. "I am."
"You'll get the money."
She didn't say anything for a couple minutes. He could tell that she wasn't asleep; she was still too tense for that. What he couldn't decide was whether she was actually being so foolish as to think she could pretend to be asleep or if there were some other reason for her behavior.
"Well?" she eventually asked.
"What?"
She looked up in surprise. "No joke about me being Jewish and therefore naturally able to con people out of their money?"
"I'm tired. Give me a good night's rest, and I'll come up with something."
She rolled her eyes before laying her head back down. "I can't wait."
"You'll get the money," he repeated, stressing each word to show her that he was confident.
And honestly, at that point, she was pretty confident about that aspect of things as well. In fact, there was now no doubt in her mind that she would get a check without very much effort. But that was the problem.
"It's not about procuring the cash," she muttered without even thinking.
It was stupid, literally thoughtless, to admit such a thing, because it naturally prompted House to ask, "Then what is the problem?"
She stiffened at the question. Telling him the truth would automatically lead to a huge fight - a huge one, one that would prevent them from getting any sleep.
On the whole, House didn't have many opportunities to be jealous of other men; she wasn't unattractive, but her job title had a way of scaring interested parties off. When it didn't though, House was… unbearable. And he would be that the second he found out that she was meeting John, which was why she wanted to postpone that conversation for as long as possible.
But then… what should she say now?
She could feel him looking at her for an answer. Literally she could feel his gaze as though it were an actual physical presence. And panicking in response, Cuddy blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Rachel."
"Rachel? Rachel's fine."
But that wasn't exactly true. And now that Cuddy had mentioned her daughter, it was all she could think of. Rachel wasn't fine, not by any means. Of course, when House said that she was okay, he meant okay for her.
However, House hadn't come to dinner; he hadn't seen her much at all after lunch, and so he hadn't seen any of what Cuddy had noticed.
"She threw up," she said quietly. "Twice."
"She ate a lot of raw cookies, and knowing her, I'm guessing she had a lot of baked ones as well."
"I didn't let her have any of the finished ones," Cuddy explained. "And after she burned her tongue trying to sneak one behind my back, she didn't want any."
"Still. She was eating the batter like -"
"She's got a yeast infection."
He could see where this headed. She was thinking that Rachel's medication needed to be readjusted, and though it was possible that Rachel's body had changed in some way, he wanted Cuddy to consider all of the other possibilities before going down that road. "There have been a lot of spandex and tights lately," he pointed out. "Though that does sound like something I would only see in a nightmare, I'm pretty sure that actually happened, so -"
"Don't do that," Cuddy snapped in irritation. "I'm not overreacting. Her glucose levels have been getting incrementally larger for the last week, and -"
"You are overreacting… probably because you're worried about being fired tomorrow," he said knowingly. She would pretend like it was an absurd idea, but House knew otherwise; anxiety in one area of her life tended to bleed into every other area. "Not that that will happen," he added as an afterthought.
But his last minute attempt at making her feel better was only met with ire.
Angrily she sat up. "I know you like to assume that I'm a lame duck, inexperienced, overly emotional -"
"And you're doing such a good job at proving you're not that last one."
"Doctor," she said with a sneer, her eyes narrowing angrily on him. She wasn't going to take the bait on his comment, but in that look, it was absolutely clear that she wasn't pleased. "But I am actually a pretty good endocrinologist and -"
"And you don't think that that might color your perspective on Rachel's health," House replied with only the slightest hint of a doubt. "You don't think that it's worth considering that before you force her to submit to painful -"
"Drawing blood, House," she interrupted, shaking her head. "Don't make it sound like I'm -"
"She's five, and you know she hates blood and doctors and hospitals, which is why I'm telling you: you should think about the road you're heading down before you take a wrong turn and run over some fluffy squirrel and…." He sighed. "The metaphor got away from me there, but you know what I mean."
"You're tired," Cuddy said quietly.
"I'm not wrong."
Her body slumped against his once more. "I know."
"You should sleep on it," he told her, one of his hands warmly rubbing the space between her shoulder blades. "We're both tired."
"I know," she repeated, sounding more exhausted than she had only moments ago. "I need a vacation," she blurted out, burying her face in his t-shirt. Her voice muffled, she suggested, "Lets go some place warm."
He smiled a little and kissed her hair. "Much as I'd like to see you in a bikini, I'm going to assume that you're talking like this, because you're tired."
"I mean it," she mumbled into his chest. "I want sand… and a sunburn. And drinks with little umbrellas."
It wasn't ever going to happen. He knew that as much as she must have. It was never going to be that way. Oh, he didn't doubt that she wanted a vacation; he was sure that she did, just as he was sure that it would never happen. She might have wanted to go away for a while, but she would never give herself the permission to have that luxury. Between Rachel and work, Cuddy would never do what she was talking about. Instead she would waste vacation days on awful medical conventions or even more tedious trips to her sister's, and neither of those things involved Cuddy in a bathing suit two sizes too small for her ass.
"Never gonna happen," he told her knowingly. "And it's very wrong of you to tempt me with -"
"It's your own fault for thinking about me in a bikini. I never said anything about -"
"You mentioned sand."
"And in your deranged little mind, sand means -"
"Seeing you half-naked, yes." He nodded his head for emphasis.
She raised her head just enough so she could look at him. "Tell me something; is there anything I could mention that wouldn't, at some point in your thought process, make you think of me half-naked?"
"Probably not."
"Okay then."
"All the more reason for you to -"
"What?" she asked tiredly.
"Go to sleep."
He sounded so annoyed that she couldn't help but think that wasn't what he was originally going to say. "'Go to sleep.' That's how you're finishing that sentence?"
"Yes."
Truthfully Cuddy debated whether it was worth pressing him on the matter. She was curious to know what he might have originally intended on saying. But that was all she was - curious. And getting an answer that would allay that feeling really didn't seem worth all the trouble it would naturally take to get such a thing from House. So instead she sighed. "Fine."
But ten minutes later, she was no closer to sleeping. And House must have known this, because he said with a sigh, "Go check on the midget, make sure she's, I don't know, alive, and then come back to bed."
"Don't talk like that," she muttered as she got out of bed.
"She'll be fine," he said, rolling over onto his stomach.
He waited to hear her footsteps retreating out of the room. But when that didn't happen, he couldn't help but turn his head to look and see what the issue was.
It was immediately apparent what it was; she was just standing there, looking at him with dismay. And as soon as his gaze was on her, she told him, "I wish you wouldn't do that."
She didn't elaborate, which forced him to say in confusion, "Right now, I'm doing at least ten different things you more than likely wish I weren't doing. You might need to be more specific than -"
"Make it sound like I'm overreacting every time I show the slightest bit of concern about -"
"You think I'm being patronizing."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"I thought I was being reassuring."
"You weren't," she said dryly. "You were… tempting -"
"Fate?" he offered. "I don't think so."
She shook her head. "Well, that's how it sounds when you talk like that."
"I'm not tempting anything," he told her quietly.
"You are."
"No -"
"You are," she repeated angrily.
"No, I'm not." He was being more stern than he wanted to be, but having taken that tone, he knew there was no backing off now. "The universe doesn't work like that, and you know it, Cuddy. There's nothing that happened to Rachel that's the result of something you -"
"Please don't do this," she interrupted at that moment.
It was hard to see her face, but there was no missing the pained quality to her voice. Huskier, tighter, shakier, it gave away everything the darkness tried to hide.
"Go check on her," House said quietly. He could have pressed her further, pushed her to admit that part of her always overreacted when it came to Rachel's health out of fear that she would be punished if she didn't react seriously enough. But he didn't do that. That was something she would need to admit on her own.
Choosing instead to walk away from the conversation, he wasn't surprised that she took the opportunity to escape. Had the situation been reversed, he would have done precisely the same thing - run away at the first moment possible. For that very reason, he didn't judge her.
Of course that didn't mean he didn't feel just the slightest bit smug when she came back looking slightly more relaxed. He did feel that way; if only because it had meant he was right about Rachel, he did feel a small desire to rub it in Cuddy's face. However, he was an adult and supposedly a supportive boyfriend, so instead, he simply welcomed her with open arms as she crawled back into bed.
Well, she didn't really crawl back into the bed as much as she carefully draped her body on top of his.
In his own mind, this sounded much sexier than it was. Not that it wasn't sexy; it was Cuddy, and as a result, every act, every move, every word she uttered could elicit some sort of desire from him. This was just not as sexy as it could have been - nowhere near that. Because this wasn't her lying on top of him to entice him into a much more fun way of touching tummies; this was "I'm going to sleep on top of you."
His hands squeezing her ass, he said quietly, "I think you missed the bed."
"You're warmer than the sheets."
"Okay."
Her feet tickled his shins as she said, "You can push me off if I'm too heavy."
"You're not."
"I'm not hurting you?"
"No." And that was the truth. She wasn't heavy or hurting him. She didn't weigh nearly enough to cause him any pain now. The morning would tell a very different story, but he was willing to suffer that if it meant that she would sleep now. "How was Rachel?"
"Fine," Cuddy answered with a sigh he could feel through his t-shirt. "She was sleeping."
"Good to know that someone in this house is," he said in a similarly breathy manner.
"House." It was as close to an apology as she could apparently get.
"It's okay."
She wanted to believe him. With everything that she had, she wanted to believe him.
But she couldn't.
He had been right earlier. There was no tempting of things going on, no bargain to be made with ephemeral beings. She knew that. In her heart, she understood that. And yet, every day, Cuddy also understood that she operated under those very ideas. If she worked harder, did better, inched closer and closer to perfection, some part of her believed that things could be perfect.
Some part of her still felt the keen disappointment when they weren't.
The truly unfortunate part about that was that it meant, for Cuddy, that she would never feel good about Rachel - or at least Rachel's health. The asthma, the diabetes, the thyroid - all of those things were problems that had no simple or foreseeable solution; it was about managing not mastering those conditions. They couldn't be mastered or fixed. And because Rachel was a stubborn little girl who didn't fully understand what any of her medical problems meant, because she had multiple conditions, even just managing her illnesses was difficult work.
It was a fact that broke Cuddy's heart
It was a fact that made every other problem in her life, no matter how big, seem large enough to destroy her. She tried her hardest to convince herself that Rachel was okay, that she would be okay. But it was impossible for Cuddy to contain that anxiety, impossible for her to ignore it and compartmentalize it - especially when every demon in Hell seemed to also sit on the hospital board.
"You're not sleeping," House interrupted.
"What?"
"You're not sleeping."
"I'm trying."
"You're tense. You need to relax."
Cuddy rolled her eyes and shifted on top of him a little bit as though she were trying to get comfortable. Truthfully, she was pretty comfortable pressed against House like this; he was warmer than the sheets - she hadn't lied about that. His pajamas were softer too, the cotton of his t-shirt and pants well worn from use. And there was something nice about falling asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in her ear. Not that she was sleeping, not yet, but when she would, it would be nice.
"I'm trying."
"You're stiffer than an airplane blanket." She wiggled around some more. Which, truth be told, he liked. But since sex was the last thing he wanted right now (okay, maybe not the last), he instantly stopped her by grabbing her hips. "Speaking of stiff… you keep doing that and -"
She groaned - not the reaction he was anticipating.
"What?"
"No more sex tonight."
They were in agreement on that but still. "No? But we -"
"I know you like proving that you have the libido of a fifteen year old who's just discovered his father's Playboys, and I get it." She patted his chest as though he were a little boy. "It must feel nice to be able to prove what a big man you are."
There was no missing the fact that she was teasing him. And though the mocking pout she was giving him was kind of hot, he wasn't particularly enjoying what she was saying. "I -"
"Probably want to brag to Wilson and your staff and anyone else who will listen. I know," she said with a nod of the head. "And that's fine. You go ahead and tell them what a manly stud you are."
"This isn't about my ego."
She gave him a dark look. "Monday morning, you're going to strut -"
"I don't strut."
"Like a peacock," she continued without even considering what he was saying. "Strutting and… singing."
He shifted underneath her. "I don't -"
"You do. God, you do. I fully expect to hear Gilbert and Sullivan in the halls on Monday and see everyone looking at me for the rest of the day as though I've completely lost my mind for dating you." He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. Pressing a finger to his lips, she was the one to speak. "And I'm going to look at them as though I am in absolute agreement with them… which I am more than willing to do, because I, for whatever reason, possibly the result of brain damage, love you."
Murmuring against her fingers, he said, "If you're trying to kill any interest I might have in having sex with you right now, I gotta tell you… it's pretty effective."
She exhaled and pulled her hand away from him. Replacing her finger with her lips, she kissed him briefly. "Good. Because I need a break - at least until the morning."
He gave her a look of annoyance. "Last I checked, I wasn't trying to get any. I was trying to sleep."
"I'm just saying," she told him calmly. "I'm going to start chafing."
"Oh, that's a good line. I'm gonna tell Wilson that." At that Cuddy rolled off of him. A little surprised, he couldn't help but ask her, "What happened to 'you're warmer than the sheets'?"
A half-smile on her face, she said, "Sounded like you wanted to be alone with your sexual prowess."
He followed her, spooning against her body. One of his hands sneaking underneath her shirt, he told her in a low voice, "Anything involving the word, sexual, should involve you too."
Her lips turned into a full smile. "You say that now, and the next thing I know, I'm measuring your penis."
"Hey, now there's an -"
"No."
"You're right," he admitted after a second. His free hand carding through her hair, he added, "We probably don't even have a ruler long enough to measure -"
"You're impossible." But he could feel and hear her slight chuckle as she said those words and knew that they were okay.
Knowing that, House kissed her neck. "Think you can fall asleep now?"
She sighed. "I don't know…. No."
"You've got to be tired."
"I am."
"You've been up for -"
"I know."
"Want me to get you something? Warm milk? Clonazepam? Vodka?"
She shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling his face. "I'm okay." When he pulled the covers up over her body further, she murmured, "You don't have to do that."
"I'm not trying to be nice," he said immediately. Actually, he was trying to be nice, but he wasn't going to tell her that. Pride mattered in these things, he guessed, and he figured a lie would do more good than the truth. "Sooner you fall asleep, the sooner I do, so anything I can do to make that happen…."
"Right," she replied, sounding more exhausted than he thought he had ever heard her sound before.
He stroked her side gently. "Just close your eyes."
She listened but repeated herself. "You don't have to do that."
"I do. I'm a selfish man."
She bristled. "I know what you're doing."
"Go to sleep."
"I -"
"Don't worry about it," he told her in a low voice.
She did, of course. Everything he was doing was soothing, she couldn't deny it, but it did make her feel uncomfortable at the same time. As she tried to fall asleep, she knew that it was stupid. She knew she should have simply allowed herself to take comfort in what he was offering. But it was hard for her, hard to appreciate and accept something that she felt he shouldn't have to offer.
"Don't worry about it," he repeated, as though he knew what she was thinking. "Just sleep."
Cuddy wanted to fight the feeling. She wanted to push him away, say something, do something to regain the pride she could feel slipping away. But it was a fight she couldn't win. His body warm against hers, his hands petting and rubbing and soothing what felt like every inch of her, she couldn't fight him. The sheets and bed and him so inviting, so soothing, she didn't have a chance in hell. As slumber quickly consumed her, in the back of her mind, she wondered when she'd last been tucked into bed.
House himself was asking that very question. One of his hands in her hair, the other moving around her back and side, he really wanted to know when Cuddy had last allowed anyone to do this for her. Had she ever let anyone? Sure, her parents had more than likely done this when she was a girl. But since then? He doubted Cuddy had permitted anyone to…
Tuck her in?
Hold her close and make sure she fell asleep?
He didn't exactly know how he should word what he was doing. After all, it wasn't like he was well practiced in… this; if Cuddy weren't used to being soothed, then he certainly wasn't used to being the one to do the soothing. He was more of an… irritant, to be honest, and, not that he liked pissing off his girlfriend, but the fact remained that she didn't often require his emotional support, so he didn't feel as though it were necessary (or even desirable) to console her over every little thing.
That she had let him attempt such a feat at all was proof enough that she was more upset than she was letting on. Rachel… work… it was all getting to her, and he was quite sure now that he hadn't really helped Cuddy at any point along the way today.
He hadn't intentionally set out to annoy her (for the most part anyway). But there was no denying that some of the events he'd had a hand in had just made things worse for her. Or maybe it was just the one he couldn't forgive himself for.
He'd hurt Rachel.
It had been accident, but he'd hurt her. And Cuddy had forgiven him - or at least said that she had - but he wasn't as quick to forgive himself for it. Rachel might not have been hurt seriously but still.
He'd grabbed her.
He'd scared her.
And maybe they'd been able to move past that during the day, but right now, in this particular moment, House didn't feel good about it. He felt awful about it, and the fact that it had made Cuddy's day worse only made him feel that much guiltier.
He supposed that was a triviality compared to everything else; making things harder for Cuddy didn't really compare to hurting Rachel. But it was the icing on top of the pile of crap - he knew that much.
Then again, he also knew that this wouldn't happen again.
He wouldn't let it.
Being Rachel's father would never happen, not if he could help it. But that didn't mean he wanted to be an unwanted presence in her life or the kind of person who scared her… who hurt her. He didn't want to be the boyfriend of one woman and a monster to another all in the same house. He'd never wanted to straddle that line, even if he had today.
And he wouldn't do it again.
Cuddy exhaled softly beside him. Immediately he stiffened, thinking that she might be awake. But after a few seconds, she hadn't woken up or moved, and he was relieved to see that she was still sleeping. She deserved it.
He liked to make fun of her, quite a bit actually. He liked to joke about her job, about how she wasn't a real doctor, but silently he understood that there was no way in hell he could ever do what she did. She was good at her job - amazing at it, and because of that fact, he could be good at his. In his eyes, she held his world together, and if he never admitted such a thing out loud, it was because he wasn't even sure he could put it into words properly. But inwardly, he knew exactly how important she was to him, just as he knew how hard she worked to make everything just right. And since nothing in their lives seemed to be simple, making things perfect (or as close to perfect as they could get) was no easy task.
Yes, he thought with sincerity, she deserved a good night's sleep and so much more. So much more that he couldn't necessarily give her, he realized. He might have wanted to - oh, he wanted to, but he couldn't give her anywhere near what she deserved. He could never be the man with no complications, the one who could unconditionally agree to do what she wanted from or of him.
He was too screwed up for that.
And he knew she deserved more, but at the moment, helping her sleep seemed like all he could do.
At the thought, House pressed his face into her shoulder. She was too good for him, he thought, pulling her closer to him. She was too good, and if he kept having performances like the one he'd had today, she would realize it. As he slowly fell back to sleep, he told himself that he needed to remember just how lucky he was to have her in his life.
Unfortunately, he didn't remember that. When he woke up, he didn't remember that fact at all. To be fair, it was impossible to remember much of anything, what with all of the screaming and crying.
He woke up before he even had a chance to register what was going on. His eyes popping open, he was immediately assaulted with noise and movement and the bright light coming from Cuddy's bedside lamp. She was hastily shoving the covers off of her, her limbs scrambling to free themselves.
But she wasn't the one making the noise, he realized dimly.
It was then that he realized that Rachel was in the room, standing right next to the bed. And there was the source of the screaming and crying.
In urine-soaked vivid pink pajamas decorated with brown squirrels holding yellow and purple flowers (why they were holding flowers, he didn't know, but they were, as stupid as that was), Rachel stood there. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, which were reddened from crying. She was sobbing for Cuddy, her entire body shaking with the effort. With each "Mama" she wailed, a shuddering gasp followed. The sound long and drawn out, it clearly said to House, who was still barely conscious, that she was so upset that she could barely muster up the ability to breathe.
As Cuddy pulled the kid into her lap, House decided that it wasn't an asthma attack. The way she was breathing made it seem at first glance as though that might be what was going on. But as consciousness grabbed a hold of him, he realized that she was too pink; she wasn't wheezing or coughing, and though an asthma attack would, understandably, be upsetting to anyone, Rachel had been through enough to stay somewhat calm. She would be anxious to breathe again (who wouldn't be?), but she wouldn't be crying and shouting Cuddy's name.
Not like this.
Which meant that this was a panic attack.
He looked to Cuddy to see if she understood what was going on. But she didn't meet his gaze; her focus was completely on Rachel.
Inching over on the bed, he didn't say anything. It wouldn't matter what he said right now; Cuddy would be deaf to every point he could possibly make at this particular moment. So really, his only option was to move out of the way, lest he end up with Rachel's piss on his pants.
He would have liked to point out how crappy things for him were when he was worried about getting the urine belonging to a five year old on his person. But again, Cuddy wasn't going to be paying attention, and Rachel certainly wouldn't be, so he made the point silently to himself and rolled away from them both.
He wasn't going to sleep.
If someone could sleep through this ruckus, he would have liked very much to meet that person and steal their soul… or something that made sense, House thought in confusion.
"Shhh," Cuddy whispered in Rachel's ear. "It's all right. Mommy's here."
Yeah, like that was going to stop the train wreck (or shut it up) that was in progress, he told himself miserably. Again, he would have said it aloud, but Rachel would have taken precedence anyway, so he kept his comments to himself.
Rachel, however, was decidedly not keeping any sound to herself. Her face was buried in Cuddy's shoulder; her thumb was jammed now into her mouth, but she was still making more noise than anyone should have at this time of night.
He would have wished for earplugs, except he knew that those wouldn't do anything for him. Rachel was being that loud.
In his mind, there was no doubt that this was all over a bad dream. It might have sounded like she was being beaten or murdered to the neighbors. It might have looked like there was something else going on; wetting the bed could be the result of or an indication of polyuria and/or polydipsia, both symptoms of high blood sugar; the kind of sadness and anxiety she was currently displaying could indicate diabetic ketoacidosis. But he knew that wasn't what was going on. Rachel hadn't been drinking or urinating any more than usual - and it wasn't like wetting the bed was anything new for her. So he was content to believe, no matter what her behavior might have indicated on a superficial level, that this was a nightmare and nothing more.
Cuddy, however, was not as convinced. Rocking Rachel, she looked at him with dismay, with concern, and asked quietly, "Could you get me her meter and inhaler?"
How he even managed to hear her request over Rachel he didn't know. He supposed that there could be something to the fact that Cuddy was calm, and that made her words completely distinct from what Rachel was saying, but he didn't know for sure.
What he did know was that Cuddy had already lost interest in him by the time he'd processed her words. He wasn't being particularly slow in understanding her, but in the milliseconds it took for him to comprehend what she was asking, she'd already turned her attention to Rachel.
The kid was still upset, alarmingly so. Again, he didn't think there was anything physically going on with her. But it was hard to deny that she was getting herself worked up enough to make herself sick. And Cuddy, convinced that her medical concerns were being addressed, fully launched herself into preventing Rachel from accidentally hurting herself. Problem was, House didn't agree that those medical tests and treatments were necessary.
He needed to tell her that, of course, but she wasn't paying attention. Instead, she was alternating between shushing Rachel and saying, "It's okay. Mommy's here. It's all right. Just calm down and tell me what's wrong."
It was a request Rachel couldn't even begin to follow, and understanding this, House felt like he was in the same boat as she was.
"Cuddy," he said softly. He didn't want to make things harder than they needed to be; he didn't want to start a fight, not now, not if he could avoid it. But Cuddy needed to know that this wasn't physical. Because as soon as she realized and accepted that, the easier it would be to calm Rachel down and shut her up and the sooner they could all go back to sleep.
But Cuddy was reluctant, apparently, to receive this knowledge. Pressing several kisses to Rachel's temples and forehead, Cuddy was slow - so slow - to look at him. And when she did, he could read in her eyes one word:
Don't.
He responded in kind with a look of exasperation, as though he were saying, "I'm not trying to fight. Stop thinking that I am."
And she must have understood that - or he was just reading into things - because she backed off. The warning in her eyes disappeared, the heated anger cooling off into something more amenable to his hesitation.
It was a look born from words she would never say. Words like that would never be spoken; she would never tell him, or at least not willingly tell him, that she knew she was being ridiculous. Over the years, if House had learned one thing, it was that she could be quite committed to her own insanity. Even if she knew she was wrong, she had the habit of defending herself anyway. He obviously couldn't judge her for that quality as he tended to do the same thing; however, in this particular moment, despite that part of her personality, despite the fact that she had been so defensive seconds ago, she was giving him a look that now said, "I know it's probably just a bad dream, but I need to make sure."
House thought briefly that it was odd that they could say so much to one another with just a simple look. But then on further reflection, he supposed it wasn't that odd. They were, after all, nothing if not masters in subtext, and knowing each other for decades had only provided them with a Rosetta Stone to one another's private language. The fact that they worked together, slept together, celebrated holidays (even lame ass ones like Purim) together - spent nearly every waking moment together in some way - could only make this kind of conversation an inevitability.
But it still felt odd.
A little bit anyway.
They spent so much time bickering, bantering, or just downright arguing that it was easy to lose sight of the connection they did share.
Of course that made it sound like he thought they fought too much. He didn't. Sometimes someone who didn't know them very well - her friends, her sister, random people flitting through the hospital - would imply that they must have been nearing a break up; those strangers would say that they must not have liked each other very much if they fought like that. And having heard those particular statements way too many times, House knew that none of it was even remotely true.
They fought, sure. They fought more than most couples probably. But what most people never understood was that House and Cuddy were okay with raising their voices and frequently being adversaries. In fact, a lot of the time, they found themselves content to be under those circumstances, because…
They liked the fight.
They enjoyed the challenge.
Never mind that work usually required them to get into it at least once a day. Never mind that they both took comfort in the fact that professionally she could stop him from doing something incredibly stupid. On the most basic of levels, they simply enjoyed verbally sparring with one another.
Sure, there were times where it probably would have been nice to come home to a quiet house and a partner who only wanted to agree with you. But at the end of the day, he, at least, was willing to sacrifice that for the privilege of seeing first hand her mind at work; as attracted as he was to the rest of her, first and foremost, it was her brain that he liked.
He liked listening to her, liked hearing her thoughts, even when that meant listening to her say something he didn't want to hear. And because of that, because they enjoyed the word play, there were times when it was almost easy to forget that they had the ability to understand one another without speaking. But here they were, saying all that needed to be said without uttering a single word.
Well, all right, it wasn't without words completely. With all of the noise and ways for Rachel to distract Cuddy, House wanted her to know with total certainty that he was willing to play along. He still thought it was stupid, of course; he didn't think for a second that Rachel was having a medical emergency of any sort. But he was willing to do whatever it took to ease Cuddy's nerves. So he said, "Okay," with a nod of the head.
For a brief moment, he contemplated leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek for reassurance. But he quickly decided against it. For sure she could have used it. He would have been stupid to think that at this moment, he was the only one feeling ill at ease. But at the same time, she was so intent on caring for Rachel that a kiss would have been seen as an unwelcome distraction. And that was the last thing he wanted to be.
That thought one that was firmly planted in his mind, he pushed the covers off of his body. He was willing to forego the kiss, but at that moment, as the cold air hit him, he suddenly felt resentful of having to get out of bed at all.
He'd been nice and warm, his leg only aching a little (which was to say that the pain was as bearable as it got for him). And now he had to part with all of that just so he could alleviate the concern stupidly imprinted in Cuddy's mind. He had to leave that sanctuary and for what - for a wild goose chase that would yield no geese or fowl of any kind.
But he'd said he would do it. He didn't want to get up, but he'd said he would. And the universal truth that everybody lied aside, his word with Cuddy, his word here meant something. It meant everything… or at least it was supposed to. So he had to follow through on the damn thing.
The problem with that though was that he didn't get very far.
Correction: he wasn't allowed to get very far.
His legs free from the bedding, he started to get up. But he didn't even have a chance to do much more than swing a leg over the edge of the mattress. Because the instant he did that, Rachel was on top of him.
Literally.
He had no idea why.
No idea.
All he knew was that one minute he was getting out of bed, and it was on top of him the next. And he had no rational reason as to why she would do this; he didn't know what it was she'd seen out of the corner out of her teary eyes that made her scramble for him.
And you know what?
He didn't want to know.
And it didn't matter.
It didn't. He was a man who liked to understand motivation, but he could see that trying to comprehend Rachel's behavior was about as useful in this particular instant as knowing how to cook puffer fish. Because as interesting as all of that might have been, none of it was going to get Rachel away from him any time soon.
Of course he could have been wrong about that. If you'd asked him five minutes ago if Rachel would ever cling to him, he would have said no - and he would have been very wrong about that.
But he wasn't the only one.
Cuddy was thinking the same thing; if someone had asked her earlier what would happen when Rachel came running into the room, Cuddy would not have said this. It was happening right before her eyes, but it felt completely unreal.
She'd had Rachel in her arms. She'd gotten House to agree to go get Rachel's inhaler - a feat, which was pretty amazing in and of itself, considering he'd been adamant about how ridiculous that kind of thinking was. Things had looked okay in that instant; Rachel had been upset still, but everything had felt pretty mundane.
And then it suddenly hadn't been.
House had been getting out of bed, and Rachel had seen this. And she clearly hadn't liked it. Wrenching herself from her mother's grip, Rachel had lunged for House. She hadn't done it in an angry way; she hadn't been trying to attack him. If anything, it had seemed like she'd been desperate to be near him.
She'd cried, screamed, "No!" And though Cuddy had tried to grab hold of her daughter once more, Rachel had managed to squirm away somehow. Her movements quick, it had been within milliseconds that she'd ended up in House's lap, her hands clinging to him tightly.
And now…
Cuddy didn't know what to do.
Rachel was still upset. That still needed to be resolved in some way. But now in addition to that, there was the problem of House, who looked absolutely…
Terrified.
She'd debated saying scared, but instinctively she realized that that word didn't even begin to describe the fear in his eyes. And it was fear that she saw.
It would have been easy to miss or misdiagnose the well of emotion permeating his entire being. Fear was a feeling he rarely experienced and even more rarely let show on his face. He was neither prone to being frightened (this despite all he had been through) nor eager to let others see that side to him. But he couldn't hide this from her. She knew him too well, knew all the signs to look for, and he was too distracted by Rachel to even begin to run interference anyway. Which meant everything Cuddy needed to see was laid bare for her consumption, whether he liked it or not. And looking at him now, she couldn't deny that he was both afraid and unsure.
Honestly, he looked like one of those animals you read about - the kind of creature that had been caught in a bear trap or something along those lines and had been so afraid for their life that they'd gnawed their own captured limb off.
Yeah, House looked exactly like that, like he was prepared to chew off anything that would keep him trapped between Rachel and the mattress.
Part of Cuddy - the sleep-deprived part - wanted to be angry at him. He'd lived here for how long now? He hated the idea of being near Rachel so much that he couldn't even bear to have her on his lap? Really?
She wanted to be so angry at him. The logic was there; there was a reason to be mad, and part of her really wanted to be.
But she wasn't.
Maybe she was too tired to put forth the effort, but she wasn't angry. She wasn't happy either; now instead of just dealing with Rachel, Cuddy was also going to have to talk House off the proverbial ledge. But she wasn't mad. Because although she could have been, maybe even should have been, she knew that, in his own way, he was trying. He was kind of awkward and not very good with Rachel, not very affectionate anyway, but the fact that he hadn't pushed Rachel off of him and run away screaming was proof that he was making some sort of effort.
Was it enough? Not for Cuddy. She wanted more. Of course she wanted more from him. Who wouldn't? Who would prefer to have the guy and the child and no connection between the two? No one would want that. Cuddy certainly didn't.
However, she had known from the start that living with House and a baby would be… challenging. She had realized that he wasn't interested in fatherhood in the same way she'd understood that Lucas had been. And when she'd made her choice, Cuddy had known precisely what kind of decision she was making. She hadn't been naïve enough to think that House would change his mind or cruel enough to insist foolishly that he did. She'd hoped - as she still did - that things would get better, but she hadn't started this relationship with daddy-daughter delusions. And though a very real part of her was discontent with the family dynamic, she knew she had to trust that she'd made the right decision.
For everyone.
It might not have made things perfect. How could it have really? She and House seemed to be the most screwed up people on the planet. They were as far from perfect as anyone could possibly be; their relationship could hardly be any different. And at this particular moment, it left her wanting.
But it was still the right choice to make. And she was completely sure of that fact, if only because she knew that, if she had to be awoken by her urine-soaked, screaming child in the middle of the night, House was the only person Cuddy wanted to share the experience with.
Even if he was participating in his own detached way.
Even if he looked ready to run away screaming.
Continue on to the rest of the chapter