Disclaimer…I own nothing.

Author's Note…This one's for the amazing prinnie, whose birthday was a couple days ago. Go check out her stories; she's amazing! Also, I was very, erm, liberal with the timeline. But then again, so are the actual House writers in regards to continuity, so I don't think it makes a huge difference. That said, enjoy!

If Cuddy hadn't come into work the previous morning in such a happy state, House wouldn't have given her absence a second thought. Well, he assumed that she had been happy before he ruined it by skipping out on going to the Clinic. Usually, he can tell when she's in a good mood--her eyes are bright, there's a bounce in her step (even though she's wearing high heels), and her voice is…airy. She lights up a room when she's happy.

And she had presented with all the symptoms the day before. But there had been something else House had noticed--her skin. Cuddy had been glowing.

House had tapped her flat abdomen and suggested naming the child after himself. Cuddy had smacked him lightly.

But still, she was happy.

House could count the sick days Cuddy had taken on an amputee's hand, and when he called her and she didn't pick up, it was not hard to guess what had happened.

So after work, instead of settling into the reliable rut of his couch and watching an old baseball game, he went to her house.

"I lost it last night," she had told him without pretense.

"I know," he replied, and quite suddenly, his chest was her place, her rut in the couch. She cried into it, her hot tears soaking through his t-shirt. Cuddy's sobs were whole, and when she inhaled shakily, his top stuck to the dampness of her face, and clung gently to her skin whenever she tried to pull away to take a breath. They were, quite undeniably, attached to each other.

Twenty years ago, House could stand for hours, even if someone was leaning wholly onto him. But that day, he felt a searing, twisting pain in his thigh, and soon he was gripping her shoulder with gusto, and she felt it.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said as she stepped back and watched House quickly dry swallow two Vicodins.

House muttered something incomprehensible and looked at her, taking in the shining streaks the tears had left on her face.

"The next one will work," he told her quietly.

Cuddy sighed deeply and took a seat on her couch, patting the space next to her. House didn't take it, but gripped tightly to his cane, his knuckles fading to a stark white.

"No, it won't," she said sadly. "I'm done."

"No, you're not," House told her seriously. "You're not a cat person," he added as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"That doesn't matter," Cuddy replied, and looked up at him. Her eyes seemed to be a lighter shade of blue than they were yesterday, almost as if they had been…washed away. "I'm not a mother person. You said it yourself."

House thought that was the funny, wicked thing about it all, because who cared what he said? He had been going through withdrawal at the time, and was frustrated as hell. He would have done or said anything to get Cuddy to do what he wanted. He didn't even believe that Cuddy had taken his words to heart because…because she wasn't that type of person. Cuddy wouldn't put a kid through a bad childhood or give a baby a crappy parent if she could help it, even if it meant she had to sacrifice her own dreams of being a parent. She was a martyr like that.

And when it came right down to it, House thought she was also a good person like that.

"You're better than that," he said softly.

"That what?" Cuddy asked sharply. "Your opinions?"

Yes was the answer, but he was too proud to give it. House snorted instead, and finally sat down next to Cuddy. "You know that I didn't mean it," he told her.

"Oh, well that changes everything," Cuddy replied sarcastically.

House gripped his still-in-pain thigh, and shifted over a little so that his hips were touching hers, and for a wild, fleeting moment, he imagined hers widening to accommodate a child; her belly bulging; her ankles swelling. He squeezed her fingers.

"Let's try again."

She turned to him, one eyebrow raised. "Let's?"

"We; the two of us; nosotros. Let's."

"House," Cuddy said flatly, "you do not want to have a baby with me."

"How do you know?"

Cuddy blinked. "Because--fine. But I do not want to have a baby with you."

He gave her a cocky little grin. "Why?"

"You're irresponsible, misanthropic, impulsive--"

"And adorable!" House interrupted.

"Yes," Cuddy said dryly. "How stupid of me to forget your boyish charm. But you're also cold, rude, and--"

She was cut off again by House, though this time by his mouth, which was frantically, fantastically, finally, kissing hers. Cuddy's hand instinctively cupped House's cheek, her ring finger lightly touching the shell of his ear, and drew him closer. A chill ran up her spine as House ran his tongue ran against her lip, and she kissed him more deeply, bringing his face closer to hers. Out of the corner of her mouth, she sighed, and her hot breath rushed past House's cheek.

When they were so close House could feel Cuddy's fine eyelashes on his nose, he let his hands drift past the ridge of her collarbone, and slide under her shirt. Cuddy moaned quietly and, grabbing the frayed neck of his shirt, pulled House even nearer.

Cuddy felt hot all over, and her eyes flickered open. "And immature," she said softly, speaking into the rough stubble on House's face.

Using the couch cushion behind Cuddy's shoulders as leverage, House pushed himself away from her. "Right. And immature."

Cuddy grinned lazily at him, and House smiled back. But his tone was serious when he said, "I'll grow up."

Cuddy frowned at him. "For a baby?" she said, the mechanics of her mind working furiously at the irony of it.

"For you," House said simply. "And we'll try again"

A huge, all-consuming happiness blossomed inside Cuddy, and she suddenly found it impossible not to smile. "We will," she said, words to build a life upon.