This angsty AU fic is based on a (great) prompt from my girl Z. Certain details about the episode Joy were changed to make it work.
House entered Becca's room and inspected her: Stringy blonde hair, pock-marked skin, plain features—not much to look at. In fact, she was the opposite of Cuddy. She projected neither intelligence nor good breeding.
"So you're the one giving her little bundle of inconvenience to Dr. Cuddy?" he said.
"I'm Becca," she said, skeptically. "Who are you?"
"House," he said. He pulled up a chair beside her bed, straddled it. "And you're totally sure about your decision?"
"What's it to you?" she said.
"Friend of Dr. Cuddy's," he said. "Just protecting her best interests."
"I'm sure," she sniffed.
"Because there's no takesie-backsies you know. Once you give the kid to Cuddy, it's hers."
"I'm aware of that."
"So, like, if you wake up a month from now and are overwhelmed by maternal instinct, you'll just have to adopt a cat."
"I'm allergic to cats," Becca said.
"Huh," House said. Then, musingly: "It's probably for the best. You probably don't even like kids that much, do you?"
"I like them just fine—when they're someone else's," she snorted. She looked up to see if he acknowledged joke, but his face remained stoic.
"It's funny because I've heard the opposite is true," he said. "That you find other people's kids annoying and insipid, but your own kid—it's biology. You're programmed to love it. To want to protect it. The minute that helpless creature enters this world, you'll just want to smother it with love."
"Why are you saying all of this?" she said, irritably. "I thought you were friends with Dr. Cuddy!"
"I am friends with her," House said. "That's why I'm here. I don't want you changing your mind a few months from now, getting lawyers involved, disrupting everyone's lives."
"I wouldn't do that," Becca said.
House rested his chin on his cane.
"Of course you wouldn't. You'll probably forget about the baby the moment you hand it over to her."
"I never said that! I love this baby. I want what's best for it."
"Right," House said. "Of course. Because the biological mother is never what's best for a baby."
"I didn't say that! Dr. Cuddy is a wonderful woman. She'll give my baby a wonderful life."
"Stop calling it 'my baby.' That'll just make it hurt more when you hand it over to a near stranger."
"You're not a very nice person, are you?" she said, scowling at him.
"Sometimes telling the truth is the nicest thing you can do," he said, standing up. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll do the right thing. Have a nice day."
And he left.
####
He didn't give the conversation much thought—House acting like an asshole to complete strangers was so ordinary for him, it barely registered—until he bumped into Wilson two days later in the hall.
"Did you hear the news?" Wilson said.
"What news?"
"Becca had the baby."
"Oh."
House's shoulders slumped. He had never articulated the thought, "I am jealous" clearly to himself. He just had a general, freeform sense of anxiety and dismay when it came Cuddy getting that baby.
"So I imagine Cuddy must be buying out the baby department at Barney's as we speak."
"Not quite," Wilson said.
House looked up, sensing the catch in Wilson' voice.
"Why not?"
"Because Becca's keeping the baby. She had a change of heart."
House actually went pale. Of course, when he had spoken to Becca that was exactly what he had in mind. But he never actually thought she'd listen to him. Or did he? Sometimes his own motivations alluded him.
"Oh shit," he said. "How's Cuddy?"
"Kinda numb, actually," Wilson said. "Last time I saw her, she was just staring into space. I would've stayed longer, but"—he glanced at his watch—"I have to go see a patient. In fact, I'm already late." He started to walk away, then stopped. "I know I don't need to say this. Or at least I hope I don't need to say this, but don't be an asshole, okay? I know you never wanted Cuddy to have this baby, but don't gloat. She's in a bad way right now."
"I would never. . ."
"In fact, it's probably best if you avoided her altogether for a few days," Wilson said, striding briskly toward his office.
#####
Of course, House ignored Wilson and went immediately to Cuddy's office.
She was sitting on the couch, her shoes kicked off, her legs folded underneath her.
"I just heard," House said.
She looked up and he saw that her face was streaked with tears. There were several Kleenex wadded up on the table.
Oh shit.
"I'm not in the mood for your gloating right now," she sniffed.
Why did everyone think he was going to gloat?
"I'm not. I'm. . .are you okay?" He shoved his hands in his pockets.
"I'm. . .I'm. . ." And much to his astonishment, she burst into tears.
House didn't know what to do. He stood there, uselessly.
Wilson would know what to do. Wilson was a hugger, a consoler, a speaker of comforting words.
"There are more babies in the sea," he said, the words feeling hollow and meaningless in his mouth.
Cuddy blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
"Can I have one of your Vicodin?" she said, out of the blue.
"What?"
"One of your Vicodin. I just want to take something that makes the pain go away. Surely you're familiar with that desire."
"I'm not sure that's the best. . ." He felt himself begin to sweat.
"Okay, nevermind. I just though you of all people might be able to understand the need to get a little numb."
"I'll write you a 'script for some sleeping pills," he said, evenly.
"I don't want sleeping pills. I'm in pain," she said.
He gaped at her.
"Here," he said finally, limping up to her, shaking some pills into her palm. "Take these. But one at a time. And for no longer than two days, okay?"
"I know how addictive Vicodin can be," Cuddy said testily. "Do you?"
House gulped a bit, continued to stare at her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Ignore me. I'm in serious self pity mode. Thanks for the pills. You're a real friend."
"You're welcome," he said.
"I do kinda want to be alone, if that's okay."
"Of course," he said, backing out. "Cuddy, I truly am sorry."
"Why?" she said. "It wasn't your fault."
######
That night, he rode his bike past her house several times, finally cut the engine, and mustered up the nerve to knock.
She came to the door in an oversized sweater, no makeup. He could tell she had been crying.
"I was, uh, in the neighborhood," he said, sheepishly.
He looked past her, into an adjacent room—a nursery, painted a cheery color of yellow. He felt slightly ill.
"How you holding up?" he said.
"I'm still standing," she said.
"You chose not to take the pills?" he said.
"How could you tell?"
"Your eyes. Red from crying, I guess"—he looked down—"but not glassy."
She gave him a look: His ability to instantaneously read and assess things—mostly things having to do with her—had always been slightly disconcerting.
"I was going to take it before bed," she admitted. Then she gave a little smile. "In the neighborhood, huh?"
"Yeah," he said.
"You're checking up on me."
"A little."
"I confess I'm not entirely unhappy to see you," she said, ushering him in. "All this brooding can get lonely." Then, with a dry chuckle, she added: "Maybe you can give me some pointers."
"You don't want to brood too often," he said. "It can be habit forming."
"I'm drinking red wine," she said, moving toward the kitchen. "That okay?"
"That's, um, great."
She poured him a glass, handed it him. They sat down on the couch.
House kept studying her. Seeing Cuddy vulnerable, not in control was such an aberration, it almost felt surreal. His need to protect her had a primal quality. He would kill the son of a bitch who had hurt her. (An awkward paradox, since he, in fact,was the son of a bitch who had hurt her.)
"I'm beginning to think I wasn't meant to have a child," she said, leaning back on the couch closing her eyes.
"Don't say that."
"But it's true. The signs are all there, right? Some higher power is trying to tell me that I shouldn't be a mother."
"You know I don't believe in higher powers," House said.
"Of course you do," she said. "You just think you're the higher power."
"And I think you'll make an excellent mother."
In this moment, he believed that. Also, in this moment, he would say anything to make her smile.
She sighed a bit, took a long sip of her wine.
"Look at that stupid room," she said, gesturing to the nursery. "I spent so much time making it pretty. I fussed over every single detail. I wanted it to be perfect for Joy when she came home."
"It looks. . .nice," he said, lamely.
"I bought a book on knitting," she said. "I thought I'd be one of those mothers who knit booties and patchwork blankets."
Suddenly, she was crying again, her shoulders shaking, the tears flowing freely.
And then, before he knew what was happening, she was hugging him and he hugged her back, holding her close. And because she was so tiny and perfect and beautiful, he nuzzled her neck and kissed it, not in a sexual way but not in a not sexual way. And she looked up—needy, vulnerable, desirous—and found his mouth. And her tongue was in his mouth and his own desire for her overwhelmed him, threatened to swallow him up.
And even as he was grabbing her, tasting her, wanting to be inside her in the worst way—he knew it was the wrong thing to do.
"I. . .We can't," he said, pulling away.
She looked at him, furtively. Her eyes still wet with tears and her lips were swollen, parted.
"But I want to," she said, stubbornly.
"Because you want me or because you want to block out the pain?" he asked softly.
"Both," she said and roughly pulled him toward her.
#####
They began sleeping together, every night. And he recognized in some way that he was her distraction, her drug, her way to get through her grief—but he didn't mind, especially because he knew that he was at least partially the cause of her grief.
And although he didn't traffic in guilt—guilt was for suckers—he did feel guilty. Not just because he felt personally responsible for Becca changing her mind, but because it couldn't have worked out any better for him. He had Cuddy all to himself which was what he had secretly wanted all along.
He was gentleman enough not to tell anybody, even Wilson, but it was hard. How then to explain how happy he was, the permanent dumb grin on his face, the overall lightness of being he had suddenly acquired?
"What's with you?" Wilson said over lunch. "Your good mood is …alarming."
"I made a killing this weekend at the track," House improvised.
"Yeah? That's all it takes to put you in such a good mood?"
"Like, a I'm-thinking-of-buying-a-Ducati killing."
"Wow. That must've been some underdog," Wilson said.
"He was," House said.
######
Mostly, together, they were good—laughing, fucking, distracting each other. (Hell, he was even taking less Vicodin. But that was probably just a coincidence, right?)
But he felt restless in his uncertainty.
He hated being the sort of needy bastard who needed to put labels on thing, but he couldn't help himself. So one night, when he and Cuddy were lying in bed—he was giving her a massage, kneading the small of her back, caressing her ass, marveling over the beautiful contours of her naked body—he heard himself say: "So what exactly . . . is this?"
"It's a massage," she murmured. "And a good one, too."
He laughed, uneasily.
"No," he said. "I mean. . .us?" God, he hated himself right now.
She turned to him sharply. He had harshed her mellow.
"What do you mean?" she said.
He continued to massage her, trying to get her back into a state of pre-coital relaxation, but it was too late.
"I know I've been a great distraction for you these last few weeks."
"Last few weeks?" she chuckled. "Try last 10 years."
"But I mean this new, um, phase of my distracting you. What is it? Just one friend taking comfort in another?"
"You know it's more than that," she said.
"Do I?" he said.
Now she sat up. So much for the massage.
"I can't. . .I'm not in any sort of place to define what we are. I like being with you. I like having sex with you. I assumed you feel the same way."
"I do," he said, quickly.
"Then why the third degree?"
"I'm just afraid that it's only. . . temporary. Until you're feeling more like yourself."
There was a tiny part of him that couldn't imagine a happy, well-adjusted Cuddy would want to spend this much time with him.
"I don't see any reason to stop doing something that feels so. . . natural," she said.
"Me neither."
He had a million questions: When could he actually call her his girlfriend? When could they start telling their friends? When could they go on actual dates? But right now he had other, more pressing thoughts.
"Only you could get an erection while we're in the middle of discussing the status of our relationship," she chuckled.
"But you're naked!" he protested.
"And soon you will be, too," she said, pulling his tee-shirt over his head.
#####
It wasn't like he spent all day dwelling on his role in Becca keeping the baby. But it was there all the time, lurking in the corners of his mind, making unexpected intrusions into his thoughts, especially when he saw how sad Cuddy was.
Every once in a while her face would go slack, or she'd get that faraway look in her eyes, or he'd catch her standing alone in Joy's empty room.
In those moments, he thought of unburdening himself, confessing his sins, living with the consequences. But then she would see him and this light would enter her eyes and she'd say something flirty or teasing or jump playfully into his arms and he thought: Some other time.
Then, one night, she had a nightmare. She was lying next to him in bed, thrashing a bit.
She kept saying the same thing over and over: "Don't take her away! Don't take my baby! Noooooo!"
"Cuddy," he said, gently rubbing her arm. "Wake up. You're having a nightmare."
Her eyes opened, and for a brief flash, there was something resembling terror in them. Then she came to her senses and blinked herself awake.
"I. . .I. . .dreamt I had Joy and she was sleeping in her crib and Becca came with these two men—wearing all black, like burglars—and they tried to take her. And she was crying and I was screaming and. . ." She shook her head. "It was so real."
"I know," he said, still rubbing her arm, trying to comfort her. (Since his initial reluctance that day in Cuddy's office to console her, he had found, much to his great surprise, that he was expert comforter. "I like having your arms around me," she would whisper at night. "Funny coincidence that," he would reply. "My arms like being around you.")
But tonight, when he tried to hug her, she pulled away—not in a hostile way, more like because she was distracted, determined to solve a riddle.
"I feel like I'm never going to get any sleep until I found out why she changed her mind."
"Did you ever. . .ask her?" he said, feeling the dread beginning to creep up his neck.
"I did. She just said she realized that she loved her baby. And that a baby needs its real mother."
"It's not that uncommon for a birth mother to have a change of heart," House said, lamely.
"I know," Cuddy said, musingly. "It's just that one minute she seemed so sure and the next. . .a complete change of heart. If I could just find out why she changed her mind, I might have some peace."
He glanced at her. She was sitting up, hugging her knees. She looked freaked out.
"I think I may know what happened," he said, softly.
Her neck jerked toward him.
"What do you mean?" she said.
"I mean, I. . ." he looked down, swallowed hard. Was he really doing this? "I. . .might've said something to her."
"Said what?"
"I told her that she was biologically programmed to love her baby," he blurted out. "And that she would regret giving it to you."
Cuddy's face turned white.
"Why would you joke about something like this?" she said, her curiosity mixed with anger
He looked at her, grimly.
"I'm not joking."
"You told Becca to keep the baby?" she said.
"Not in so many words. . . but yeah."
Now the fury on her face was real and it was mixed with frustrated tears.
"But why?"
He looked down at the blanket.
"I . . . don't know," he said.
"Why would you intentionally try to hurt me?"
"I would never hurt you," he said, earnestly. "Never."
"I knew you were jealous," she said, almost talking to herself. "I knew you were afraid the baby would take me away from you. But I never imagined you were capable of something so unspeakably cruel."
"I'm. . .sorry!" he pleaded. "I never thought she'd actually listen to me. . .I . . acted on impulse. I wasn't thinking."
"I feel sick," she said staring at him like she had suddenly found herself lying naked next to an ax murderer. "I feel like I'm actually going to throw up."
"Let me explain! Let's talk this through."
"Get out of my bed, House," she hissed.
"Cuddy, please!"
"Don't make me ask you twice or so help me, I will not be responsible for my behavior."
The iciness in her voice sent a chill down his spine.
He got up, sadly, fumbled to find his clothing in the dark.
"We can talk about this tomorrow," he said, trying to act like this was just a minor setback, a simple lover's quarrel. "When you're less angry."
"House, I never want to talk to you again."
#######
The next few days were hell for him. She wouldn't answer his phone calls, she wouldn't talk to him at work ("put it in an email" she said, when he tried to discuss a case). And because he had never told Wilson—or anyone—about the affair, he had no explanation for the bags under his eyes, his extreme irritability, the overall darkness of his mood.
"Do you have any idea what's wrong with House?" Wilson asked Cuddy over lunch. "The last few days, he's been acting like somebody cut off his supply to monster trucks, porn, and vicodin all at the same time. Although definitely not the vicodin part, because he's been popping those at an unprecedented rate. I'm genuinely worried about him."
Cuddy squinted at him. Although she had sworn House to secrecy, she'd always assumed he had at least told Wilson about their affair.
"He didn't tell you?" she said, cautiously.
"Tell me what? Do you know something?"
She studied him. Completely oblivious. One thing about House she always had to remind herself: He was a good secret keeper.
"No. . .I just meant that he usually tells you stuff. If you don't know what's wrong, I surely don't."
Wilson shrugged.
"Well, I hope he gets over it soon. Because this is unsustainable."
"Whatever House is going through, I'm sure he brought it on himself," she said, hoping not to betray her anger through her tone of voice.
If had picked up on the anger, he didn't show it.
"Well, I hate to see him hurting like this. And I know you do, too. So hopefully he'll snap out of it soon."
Cuddy gave him a curious look and didn't reply.
######
She had become a regular at the diner where she and Becca had first met.
She told herself this was because she like their turkey bacon and the friendly waitresses who called her "hon," but in truth, she was hoping to spot Becca and the baby one day.
And damned if they didn't show up: A young mother wheeling a stroller, bundled up against the cold, nothing the least bit remarkable about them. Cuddy's breath caught in her throat.
Becca looked good—healthier, more put together than the last time she had seen her. Motherhood clearly agreed with her. Cuddy couldn't really see Joy, who was tucked into the stroller. But she heard her gurgling.
Cuddy smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, then walked over to their table.
"Becca!" she said, trying to keep her voice cheerful.
"Dr. Cuddy!" Becca seemed both shocked and chastened to see her.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm. . .we're. . .doing great."
Cuddy couldn't help herself. She peered into the stroller.
Joy was awake, squirming a bit. She was sucking furiously on a pacifier. She was covered in a pink blanket, but Cuddy could see the cotton shirt she was wearing: It read "Princess" in glittery, cursive letters. Her nails were also painted pink.
"She's just . . .adorable," she said.
"Thanks, Dr. Cuddy. She is. She's a gift." Then Becca peered into the crib: "Aren't you mama's little gift, Savannah? Aren't you?"
Cuddy stared at them for a second, dismayed. Savannah. Pink nail polish. Princess.
"Well, I'll let you get back to your menu. . ." she said, apologetically.
She started to walk away, then stopped.
"Becca, do you mind if I ask you something?"
"Of course. Anything, Dr. Cuddy," Becca said. Savannah's pacifier had fallen to the ground. Much to Cuddy's horror, Becca wiped it off with a napkin and was now placing it back in the baby's mouth.
"Why did you change your mind? I mean, it was so sudden. One minute you were giving me the baby, the next minute you weren't. I've just been trying so hard to figure out what I did wrong."
"It wasn't you!" Becca said, adamantly. "You're. . . perfect."
"Then what changed your mind?" Cuddy said. (Or who? she thought bitterly.) "Maybe if you just could explain. . ."
"I . . .smelled her," Becca said.
"You smelled her?"
"They handed her to me, this little wriggling, crying, red-faced thing and I smelled her and I suddenly knew she was mine. Until that very moment, I had every intention of giving her to you. I know you would've been a great mother, Dr. Cuddy. That you would've given her a great life. But she was . . .mine."
"What about Dr. House?" Cuddy said, leadingly. "The things he said. Wasn't he the one who planted the idea of keeping her in your head? I know he can be very persuasive"
"Dr. House? He's a strange one, isn't he?" Becca said. "And no, I've never done anything because a man told me to do it. I sure as hell wasn't going to keep my baby because of one. . .It was just because of her smell. I can't really explain it any better than that."
"No, you explained it just fine," Cuddy said, feeling her eyes well up with tears. "I truly wish you the best. Both of you." She allowed herself one last look at the child. She knew she's never come back to this diner, never see the baby again.
"Speaking of Dr. House," Becca said. "Can you tell him to stop bugging me?"
"Bugging you?"
"Yeah. Ever since the day I left the hospital, he's been calling me, coming by the house, trying to get me to change my mind about Savannah. I know he's a respected doctor and all, but I swear, I'm this close to calling the cops on him."
Cuddy stared at her.
"I'll. . .tell him," she said.
"Thanks."
#######
That night, a knock on Cuddy's door.
When she opened it, House was there, holding stacks and stacks of paperwork. Before she could say a word, he began to ramble:
"I know you want to slam the door in my face but I'm here for a very good reason. You see, I hacked into the server at the adoption agency," he said.
"You what?"
"Never mind the illegality of that. I've found some very promising prospects. There's a 17-year-old Jewish girl from Great Neck who's on her way to Brown University in the fall. I flagged her with a Jewish Star sticker. There's a mother of 5 children—all healthy and hale, by the way—whose husband recently lost his job. She's flagged with a birth control reminder sticker. There's a lesbian couple who broke up and want nothing to do with each other. . I flagged them with a rainbow sticker. . .There's a. . ."
"I spoke to Becca," Cuddy interrupted.
He stopped.
"You what?"
"I spoke to Becca. She told me to ask you to stop bugging her."
"Oh," House said, kicking at the welcome mat with the toe of his Nike. "That."
"Yeah, that."
"I figured if I could convince her to keep a baby, I could convince her to give one up."
"It wasn't you," Cuddy said. "You weren't the reason she kept the baby."
"I wasn't?" he said, wide-eyed.
"She said it was because of the way the baby. . .smelled."
House nodded, comprehendingly. "Biology," he said. "So I had nothing to do with her decision?"
Cuddy shook her head.
"She says no."
He exhaled a bit.
"Does this mean you hate me any less?"
"I never hated you, House. I'm physically incapable of hating you."
"Biology," he said, again. "So can I come in then?" he asked, tilting toward the living room.
"Not today, House. Not. . .yet."
"But not never, right?"
"No, not never," she said.
Even though he was carrying mounds of paperwork, he suddenly felt 100 pounds lighter.
"Good," he said. "Because I miss you so much."
"I miss you too."
They looked at each other for a long time.
"Goodnight, Cuddy," House said finally.
"Goodnight, House." Then, gesturing to the contraband documents in his hands: "You can leave those with me."
THE END