Gregory House stood by his front door, cane in one hand, wristwatch in the other. His date, the ever-punctual Allison Cameron, was sixteen minutes late. In the seven months, two weeks, and five days since they had started seeing each other, she hadn't been more than four minutes late to anything they had done together. Granted, he usually picked her up, but rare occasion that they met someplace or on the frequent occasion that they went to his apartment rather than going out, she arrived exactly on time, if not ten or fifteen minutes early. Always.
He looked at his watch again. Seventeen and a half minutes late. He hadn't tried calling her, didn't want to seem overbearing, decided to call at the half-hour late mark.
House began a mental sprint over the possible causes of her absence, didn't want to spend too long on any one thought. He picked up his phone, decided to call at twenty-five minutes.
At twenty-one minutes, there was a soft knock on the door. Seconds later, he had swung the door open to reveal a faintly smiling Cameron, box of cheez-its in hand.
"You're late," he said matter-of-factly, stepping aside to let her come in.
She took three steps inside, stopped, didn't turn to face him.
"You're late," he repeated.
"I'm pregnant," she said softly.
"You're pregnant," he said, less of a question, more of an echo.
"I'm pregnant," she confirmed, turning around and looking him in the eyes. "And I'm late."
"I see," he said, still in shock. "Late in more than one way, apparently."
She smiled, but it was a barely-there smile; if he hadn't been looking closely, he would've missed it altogether.
"What's with the cheez-its?"
"My mother said to never show up empty-handed, and you didn't tell me to bring anything."
"Since when do you listen to your mother?"
She shrugged. "I figured, I'm pregnant; might be a good time to start."
He laughed; was almost surprised that he had laughed, was still digesting her announcement. "Seriously?"
She laughed; held out the red box. "I've had them in the pantry since my little sister visited, but neither of us like them."
He took the box, took her hand, led her into the kitchen, where he had already set the table and laid out Chinese takeout.
Two and a half hours later, they were on the couch, some lame made-for-television movie on the hallmark channel, not really watching it anyway. He was holding her in his arms, playing with her hair, letting his hand drift down to her for now flat stomach. He shifted, removed one hand from around her waist, reached for the red box sitting on the coffee table, opened it up, took out a small orange cracker, held it to her lips.
"I told you," she said, turning her head. "I don't like them."
"Yeah, I know," he said, following her mouth with the cheez-it. "Didn't your mother ever make you eat something you didn't like?"
"Not when it was junk food anyway."
He sighed faux-exasperatedly. "Oh, come on. Maybe the kid will like it."
She smiled- this one huge and unmistakable happy. "We're having a baby."
He nodded, smiling. Well, smirking- his version of smiling. "Can we name it Mick?"