Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, please don't sue me.
Summary: House finally accepts Rachel. Takes place one year after "Painless".
Acceptance
Juggling Rachel on one hip, she quickly let herself in and shut the door behind her. She dropped her briefcase to the ground and gently pried the infant's little fingers from the dark curls she had been tugging on. She pulled off her daughter's hat, pausing a moment to run a hand through her silky hair, before slipping the wriggling child out of her winter jacket.
She knew immediately that he had broken in. Again. Cane marks in the fresh snow are a dead giveaway. She could only speculate why he was here, and she had learned long ago that speculation is meaningless. Trepidation is useless. The most effective thing to do was to just go about her business and trust that House could work himself out.
Yeah, because that's worked so well in the past.
Rachel wriggled again, eager to be free of her mother's constricting grasp. Cuddy deposited the baby in her playpen, and shed her own winter layers. She followed the wet footprints through the house, to the door of Rachel's room.
"What's that?" She asked accusingly, crossing her arms over her chest.
"What's what?" He didn't look up, focused intently on the computer on his lap. The rocking chair squeaked under his weight.
She sauntered into the room, Jimmy Choos sinking into the plush carpet, until she stood directly in front of him.
"That." She said, pushing the laptop closed.
"It's a computer." He said slowly, mockingly, while pulling it open again. "You're old, I know, but…"
"Please don't tell me you're looking at porn in my daughter's bedroom."
"It depends on your definition of porn."
"House."
"I'm downloading music. For the gremlin."
"She's a year old. She's more interested in Cheerios and stuffed animals then The Beatles and Rage Against the Machine."
"Rage Against the Machine? Seriously?" She sighed, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for him to explain. "The kid needs something to put on her Ipod."
"She doesn't have an Ipod. She's one."
"She does now." He said, tilting his head to the right. Beside him, in front of the giant stuffed animal Wilson had brought over a year ago, was a white plastic bag. She reached down and picked it up, sifting through its contents. Inside were two boxes—a bright pink Ipod and a dock with speakers.
She felt her eyes well up and quickly turned away from him, setting the bag down and slipping silently from the room. She walked to the living room, picked up her daughter, and buried her face in the little girl's hair. She inhaled deeply, allowing her daughter's scent to slow her racing heart. Rachel cooed, her little fingers once again finding a stray lock of hair to tug on. Cuddy chuckled, loosened the baby's grip, and smiled broadly.
She allowed herself one, only one, ecstatic moment. Right now, at this moment, things were perfect. Her daughter was healthy, happy, and in her arms. And House…House was here. If not entirely enjoying Rachel, at least accepting her. Acknowledging her permanent presence.
Kissing the top of her daughter's head, she carried her back into the bedroom. House was still working intently, one Nike tapping rhythmically on the carpet.
"Why are you doing this?" She asked, setting Rachel down. He stopped rocking, glancing down warily at the baby's tiny fingers creeping closer and closer to the chair.
"If the child welfare people knew you were making her listen to Celine Dion, they would take her away for sure." He said, finally meeting her gaze. "And if they took the little runt away you'd get all pouty again, and then you'd never lie to the police for me or let me cut off a patient's head."
"I see."
Rachel's chubby hands found their way to his jeans, and a after a couple of attempts she hauled her little bottom off of the ground and giggled. House peered over the top of the laptop and down into the baby's big brown eyes. Sighing, he shifted uncomfortably in the rocking chair and stared at the computer once more.
"Sir Mix-A-Lot." He said, as Rachel gripped the computer with one small hand. "What do you think, Cuddy, does your Baby Got Back?"
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