Because she was so slender, she started to show early, a rounded little bulge between her lean hips, and House gloried in the opportunity to comment on it nearly every morning. Caught between vanity and pride, Cuddy responded according to her mood, but her griping lacked sincerity, and more than once House caught her gently placing the palm of her hand along the little curve in an absent-minded caress when she was preoccupied with other things.
Mrs. Farber dedicated herself to cooking, and somehow managed to make serious nutrition palatable; House tried to complain about her talent for hiding vegetables and adding fiber, but he ate what was set before him and occasionally fished food off of Cuddy's plate as well—or tried to, anyway. Marlena was still quick enough to smack his hand half of the time, and when she succeeded, House would sulk and fuss about his wounded fingers.
The architect came.
House brooded a bit; Cuddy assumed it was all that issue of changes, and in a way she was right, but not in the way she thought. House's concern wasn't so much for the blueprints or the cost; his apprehension centered more on what would come to light once the contractors began to dig out the foundation. It was this thought in mind that he walked into Lionel St. Simon's office and stared meaningfully at the lawyer.
St. Simon glanced up, gave a curt nod, and went back to his Wall Street Journal. House waited, leaning against the door until St. Simon's deep voice came from behind the newspaper, sounding wary. "Yes, Doctor House?"
"I need some information. Legal information."
"Is this a hospital-related matter or a private one?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"Billing-wise, yes," St. Simon murmured, peeking over the top of the paper. He studied House for a moment, and spoke again. "Not a single shyster comment . . . you're either seriously worried or losing your touch, Doctor House. Sit down."
House did, taking his time in settling himself into the chair. St. Simon folded his newspaper and sat back in his chair, waiting for the other man to speak. House did, slowly.
"What we discuss here is covered under client confidentiality, right?"
"Of course" St. Simon agreed gently. "So what's on your mind?"
"Cuddy is . . . remodeling our home. Since it's going to be . . . extensive, there's a very good chance that a few . . . things . . . might be uncovered in the process," House replied in a slow, measured tone.
St. Simon blinked. "A few . . . things?" he asked skeptically.
"Skeletal remains, specifically. And before you ask, no, none of them are former patients of mine," came the growl. House looked up at the ceiling and scratched his jaw. "Bottom line, Blue Brook used to be a mob dumping ground about thirty years ago."
St. Simon blinked again. "And you know this. . . . how?"
"Uncovered a few skulls in the flowerbeds, that sort of thing—" House muttered. "Nothing recent, but since I don't have any sort of map, or inventory, I have no clue about what—or who—else maybe taking a turf nap out along our peaceful domicile."
"Oh dear," St. Simon sighed. "Yes, I can see your dilemma, particularly if the first unearthed remains can be identified."
"Bingo," House agreed. "If the police ID one body, they'll figure on a dozen more and that will mean bulldozers, media publicity, legal hassles, and worst of all, potential threats to the She-Beast and myself." House looked grimly determined, "I've got no intention of going through all of that."
St. Simon gave a nod of commiseration, pursed his lips, and pulled a legal pad out of a drawer. "All right—if I'm going to figure out how to help you, I need to know everything about your property. Start at the beginning."
House did, speaking concisely as he laid out the history and acquisition of Blue Brook Dairy; St. Simon asked a few questions and jotted a note or two, then sighed after a while, setting his pen down gently. "This IS a bit . . . complicated. You and Doctor Cuddy clearly own the private land, but with the past history of the site, the police will have more than enough probable cause to issue a warrant for the entire property. Once the contractors uncover anything that can be identified as human remains, they're obligated to report it—"
"—That's it," House replied softly, narrowing his eyes. "The contractors."
"The contractors . . . " St. Simon murmured in confusion, and a moment later he gave a slow nod as he caught on. "Of course, the contractors. It's a wonderful thing when you can hire whatever construction company you want to do your private remodeling . . . particularly one like, say, the Arnello Brothers."
"Yessss," House nodded, back, his expression bright and merciless. "Because they're an . . . efficient . . . outfit. Probably be glad to do the job and clear out any . . . debris from the property."
"Precisely," St. Simon agreed, feeling both amused and wary. "I'm sure they'd be . . . discreet, as well."
"Since any adverse publicity might put them and their associates in the limelight as well . . . yeah, I think it's safe to say that a quick personal conversation with the head of Arnello Construction Inc. might do the trick."
House rose to his feet, turning for the door.
"Do be careful," St. Simon advised quietly. "Deals with the devil can have a habit of coming back to bite one on the ass."
"I've got the scars to prove it," House agreed nonchalantly. "Still—if it's a matter of facing the Mafia, or facing a pregnant and cranky Cuddy . . . "
St. Simon's deep laugh followed House out of the office.
00oo00oo00
"Hanna, Hanna, fo fanna," Wilson sang softly, wiping the baby's bottom gently and pulling the diaper up between her small legs. She watched her father alertly, small fists waving when he bent down and very lightly blew against her tummy. Instantly she broke into a quick smile, legs kicking happily. Wilson laughed. "That's my girl," he told her as his hands fastened the tape tabs securely.
He picked her up and brought her to his chest, tucking in his chin to look at her while he cradled her head gently. "There we go—dry again, and ready for lunch—"
Emily was seated in the consultation chair of Wilson's office, unbuttoning her blouse; she caught his brightly naughty glance and laughed. "You are enjoying this waaaaay to much, Hobbes."
"What? A natural biological function in a tender bonding moment, and I'm being accused of lechery?" he tried to protest, but the waggle of his eyebrows and dimple at the corner of his mouth made Emily smirk back. She took Hannah gently and shifted the baby along her arm, expertly teasing the nipple along the already open mouth; with enthusiasm, Hannah latched on and began nursing happily.
Wilson perched himself against the edge of his desk, watching them both, his expression soft. "I consider it the best of both worlds, actually."
"I'm glad your mother taught you to share your playthings—" Emily murmured back, delighted to see the blush across Wilson's face as his shoulders shook in quiet laughter.
"MY mother bottle-fed us, thank you SO much—" he protested firmly. "Not that I remember it personally."
"I'd hope not—" Emily grinned. She shifted Hanna a bit and looked again to Wilson, her smile widening.
Puzzled, he spoke. "Yes?"
"I stopped in to see Yang this afternoon. I've been given a green light for . . . piracy."
Wilson gave a happy little sigh, and came off of the desk, moving to bend and softly nuzzle Emily's hairline. "Oh ho—so that explains all the smirking."
"I wasn't smirking!"
"Not you; the nurses," he explained with a smile. "There are no secrets where they're concerned."
Emily rolled her eyes. "Oy. Well at least they're fairly discreet about it." Shifting a little she looked down at her daughter and murmured, "Slow down, Piglet—you've got a whole other side to go."
Wilson laughed and went around his desk, settling into his chair and leaning back into it still watching, his gaze gentle. "So . . . dare we make plans for this evening?"
Emily looked up at him. She gently worked a pinky along the corner of Hannah's mouth, breaking the suction, and shifted the baby to the other breast in quick, efficient moves. Hannah snuffled a little, then latched on, more slowly this time. "Oh I think that would be niiiiice, if we get a certain little person settled in for the night."
"Not if; when," Wilson corrected, his eyes twinkling. "Call it pirate prerogative."
"Sounds to me like someone's plank needs walking—" Emily snorted.
"I can't believe you just said that," Wilson laughed. At that moment Hannah gave a little snort of protest and let go of her mother's nipple, milky bubbles dribbling from the corner of her chin. Emily wiped them away with a burp rag and gently lifted the baby to her shoulder.
"It's the wench in me," came her reply. "I'll do my best to keep Hannah Banana here from napping, and if you can get away from the hospital by six, we'll see what we can do about—"
"—Getting my jollies rogered?" Wilson murmured. "My horn swoggled?"
"Your spyglass polished," Emily agreed with an arch of her eyebrow, "Captain."
00oo00oo00
Cuddy closed her eyes and yawned. The meeting was running long, and she'd already discarded her shoes under the board room table. Janet Cosovi was yammering on and ON about grants for the specialties in sports medicine and Khan looked as if he was about to fall asleep. The late August afternoon sunshine filled the entire board room with a sort of drowsy feel, and a sense of hunger was prickling at her.
Four months into the pregnancy and things were looking cautiously good. House was still sniping at her, but at times Cuddy would catch him watching as she popped her prenatals or faithfully did her hour of yoga out on the back patio. The amniocentesis had gone off just fine, and although Doctor Howard knew the sex of the baby, she was the only one that did—neither Cuddy nor House wanted to know.
"Black it out and keep it to yourself," House had ordered the obstetrician. "Let the Demon Spawn confound us all."
"Oy—" Howard had sighed, but done it with a Sharpie marker.
The mild morning sickness still hit periodically, but House's cracks about that usually centered on her unfairly hogging the bathroom. She'd passed the first trimester, feeling in turn confident and nervous, but now she could relax a little.
It was a unique feeling, and Cuddy indulged in moments of quiet gratitude for it all.
" . . . and that's where the matter sits until the mid-semester meeting. Any additions to the minutes?" Janet concluded dryly. A few people around the boardroom stirred, but no one spoke. Janet sighed. "Okay then. We'll all meet up in two weeks—meeting adjourned."
Everyone began shuffling, picking up folders and rising from their chairs. A few people smiled at Cuddy on the way out; she stayed seated until the last one left in the board room, and then pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, looking at it thoughtfully.
An old wive's tale. Nothing more than the power of suggestion coupled with heightened sense of taste and smell. Nevertheless---
Cuddy wanted it. Wanted it badly enough to . . . negotiate for it. She hit the first speed dial number and clutched the phone anxiously before common sense got the better of her.
"What?" came the distracted greeting. She took in a breath and played with her shoes under the table, moving them with her stocking feet.
"I—nothing," she mumbled and snapped the phone shut, feeling stupid. A second later it rang, and with a sigh Cuddy answered it. "House—"
"You called me, which means I can either get the truth out of you over the phone, or I can track you down and demand answers loudly and in the presence of others—choose wisely." Came the annoyed comment. Cuddy bit back a laugh.
"Fine. You want the truth? I want a funnel cake."
A long pause came over the line; Cuddy bit her lip, picturing House's expression.
"A . . . funnel cake. A deep fried concoction of flour, yeast, soda, sugar and eggs saturated in the harshest grease known to the human digestive system and liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar," he murmured in his most seductive tone. Cuddy squirmed, wriggling her toes.
"Yes."
"And you want me to go GET this toxic bit of fair food and smuggle it to you away from the protective glare of Marlena Farber, so you can wolf it down in an orgy of guilty pleasure and chalk it up to the Evil Sprog growing deep within your Mommy bits?"
"House—"
"Face the music time—yes or no?"
"Yes, okay? Yes I want a funnel cake and I want it now."
"Ahhh---" came the gloat. "So now that we have that out in the open, it's time for negotiations. A funnel cake means a trip out to Elizabethtown Fair Grounds, which means you can give me half an hour to fetch it, I won't tell Farber, AND no clinic for the rest of the week."
"You can go get it for me now, be back in half an hour and I'll give you the day off from clinic," Cuddy countered, leaning back and enjoying the banter. On the line, House snorted.
"Not good enough."
"I'll throw in a blow job later tonight—" she murmured.
"You have my attention. Move it up to before we leave work and we have a deal."
"Blow job, no time off from clinic."
"Sorry, my battery's dying—Funnel cake for the afternoon off and a meat flute concert, got it—"
Cuddy hung up and laughed softly to herself. With a sigh she slipped her feet back into her pumps and rose out of the chair. She made her way out and towards her office, wondering if she had time for a quick nap before House got back from the fair grounds.
The phone on her desk rang as she stepped in, and she picked up the receiver, cradling it between her shoulder and neck. "Cuddy here."
"Hel-LO dear, just calling to check in and let you know I've got the plans done! Any chance I can bring them by for a quick peeky-lookover today?" came the cheery tones of Ian Calder.
Cuddy smiled. "That would be great! When can you come by?"
"Oh I could pop in about three if that's good for you. I think you're going to love the designs. Even Mr. Evil should like them."
"He loves that name, you know," Cuddy told the architect, who laughed.
"Yes, well he might be an annoying antisocial bastard, but he's talented and good to you, so I'll put up with his asshole-ish shenanigans if we can get this remodeling done. See you at three?"
"We'll be here," Cuddy assured him and hung up.
00oo00oo00
Marlena Farber looked at the recipe card again, and added the next ingredient to the pot. The stew was supposed to feed four, which meant two servings for Greg, one for her and one for Lisa. It was an old one, and the printing was faded now, but a classic in the repertoire. Good for a pregnant woman, definitely.
She hummed happily and went to the back door to dump part of the vegetable cuttings to the compost heap when she saw the puppy hiding behind the corner of the flower bed. Startled, Marlena dropped one of the carrot tops and the puppy looked at her warily.
"Vot are you do-ink here?" she asked softly, not wanting to scare the little animal off. She'd had plenty of experience with strays and ferals back on South Lace Road, and knew the sooner she rounded them up and got them to the shelter the better.
The puppy trotted over at the sound of her voice, more confident now, and she held out her hand, letting him sniff it. He was a lanky pup, probably no more than three months old with some Shepherd and possibly Poodle in him, given the perk of his ears and the soft brindle color of his coat. Marlena cooed at him. "Sooch a brave vun . . . "
And within twenty minutes the dog was eating a mound of diced ham from a plate on the kitchen floor as Marlena washed her hands and consulted the recipe card once more. She glanced down at her companion who gave the now empty plate a last loving lick, and nudged it across the floor with his nose.