Gift of Screws

by Duckie Nicks

For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations. House/Cuddy. COMPLETE.

10. Chapter 10

Author's Notes: I apologize for taking so long to update. Unfortunately my real life has thrown me a lot of curveballs lately. Hopefully though I will be able to update regularly from here on out. Thanks for sticking with this piece despite the wait lately between chapters. Also thank you to huddyholic, MissBates, TrudyGill23, IHeartHouseCuddy, Sydney, Ashville, Temo, scullyschik, jehabib1, lin12344, red blood, Josam, anon004, xxClouds, EllieShelly, dmarchi, Jane Q. Doe, Huddyphoric, tuckp3, newsession, and lhoma320 for taking the time to read and review. I never expected so much feedback and support when I started this. Thank you for proving me wrong.

Disclaimer: House is the product of people far more talented than I am.

Gift of Screws
Chapter Ten: [Dis]comfort
By Duckie Nicks

"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson

The night wore on slowly, the passing of time feeling long and drawn out to Cuddy. Gazing through the inky darkness up at the ceiling, she knew she was the only one with open eyes at the moment. Rachel was curled up in her bed down the hallway; House was sleeping next to Cuddy – unknowingly taunting her and her apparent insomnia.

It wasn't the sheets. She'd complained about them, but they'd dried, and they weren't the problem. It wasn't House's snoring. Loud though it was, it was something she could usually ignore, especially when she was tired. And frankly, given the amount of sex they'd had today, she was tired.

But she couldn't sleep.

Maybe it was pointless to even pretend like she didn't know why that was. Obviously she did. She couldn't sleep, because she was stressed, nervous. Everything was falling apart, and she could feel it - could actually feel her life disintegrating. It was worse now, when there was nothing to distract her from that fact.

She tried hard to rid herself of the thought, of the idea that the world was going to come crashing down in the next twenty-four hours. But rolling over for what seemed like the hundredth time, she realized that wasn't going to be happening any time soon.

"Would you stop?" House mumbled, his quiet voice booming in the silence.

Cuddy rolled over again so that she could look at him. "What are you talking about?"

"The rolling around," he said with a tired flick of the hand. "I feel like I'm on a boat."

"I'm sorry. I can't –"

The "sleep" she was going to say was swallowed by his order – "Come here."

He patted the mattress beside him.

"It's not the sheets," she said, thinking that he was only sharing his side of the bed out of guilt for making her take the unsavory side.

"Didn't think it was."

So then he knew she was upset, she deduced, which just made her even more reluctant to go anywhere near him. "I'm fine," she told him in a voice that wasn't nearly convincing enough.

"Didn't say you weren't."

"You don't need to comfort me," she said with disdain.

He shrugged. "I was just cold, wanted to warm up with your sweater puppies."

For a brief moment, Cuddy said nothing. Although she knew she probably needed to, she couldn't help but wonder if it were better to keep fighting him or to do what he wanted. If she were to keep pushing him away, she knew he too would push. But if she were to capitulate right then and there, he would be smug.

Or maybe not, she conceded; maybe he would reach into that well of human kindness that ran deeply within him. However, she would still feel awful about it. Even if he were nothing more than a loving, supportive presence (like that would happen), she wouldn't take it that way. She would just see it as a confirmation that she was acting like a child, too insecure and desperate to self-soothe.

But her indecision was the tipping point for him.

"All right," he said tiredly. "You won't bring them to me… I'll come to them."

She could feel him shifting on the bed, a sign that he was going to do exactly as he was threatening. And she responded by telling him, "Fine."

Unceremoniously – hell, maybe with even a little animosity – she rolled over. Her head on his chest, she curled her body around his.

His t-shirt was warm against her cheek, she thought sleepily, though it did little to curb her agitation.

Okay, maybe it did that a tiny bit. But she wasn't interested in letting him know that. Instead, she muttered, "How you can be so pushy when you've just woken up –"

"I've been awake for a while," he admitted quietly.

Cuddy sighed. "I woke you up?"

"I can't sleep when you're anxious," he told her. One of his hands cupping her hip, he added, "You make it impossible."

"Then sleep on the couch."

"So you admit it."

Cuddy frowned in confusion. "What?"

"You're anxious."

"More like annoyed."

His free hand stroked her cheek. "You'll be fine."

"I am fine."

He smirked into her hair. "You almost sold me on that one."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying – I'll be convinced any day now."

Cuddy started to roll away, but he refused to let her go. Holding her to him, he was more than prepared for her resistance. "Let me go."

"Don't think so."

"House."

"And now you're snapping at me," he said through a sigh. "So you've more than demonstrated how okay you are."

"I always snap at you."

"No kidding."

"Shut up." He could feel her smile pressed into his t-shirt.

"There you go again."

Settling against him once more, Cuddy told him, "If you're trying to make me feel better by being an obnoxious pain in the ass, it's not working."

It was actually. She would deny it, so he wasn't going to say anything about it, but he knew she was.

Smugness flowing through him, he pointed out snidely, "And I thought you were feeling fine."

She sighed. "I am."

"You'll get the money."

She didn't say anything for a couple minutes. He could tell that she wasn't asleep; she was still too tense for that. What he couldn't decide was whether she was actually being so foolish as to think she could pretend to be asleep or if there were some other reason for her behavior.

"Well?" she eventually asked.

"What?"

She looked up in surprise. "No joke about me being Jewish and therefore naturally able to con people out of their money?"

"I'm tired. Give me a good night's rest, and I'll come up with something."

She rolled her eyes before laying her head back down. "I can't wait."

"You'll get the money," he repeated, stressing each word to show her that he was confident.

And honestly, at that point, she was pretty confident about that aspect of things as well. In fact, there was now no doubt in her mind that she would get a check without very much effort. But that was the problem.

"It's not about procuring the cash," she muttered without even thinking.

It was stupid, literally thoughtless, to admit such a thing, because it naturally prompted House to ask, "Then what is the problem?"

She stiffened at the question. Telling him the truth would automatically lead to a huge fight – a huge one, one that would prevent them from getting any sleep.

On the whole, House didn't have many opportunities to be jealous of other men; she wasn't unattractive, but her job title had a way of scaring interested parties off. When it didn't though, House was… unbearable. And he would be that the second he found out that she was meeting John, which was why she wanted to postpone that conversation for as long as possible.

But then… what should she say now?

She could feel him looking at her for an answer. Literally she could feel his gaze as though it were an actual physical presence. And panicking in response, Cuddy blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Rachel."

"Rachel? Rachel's fine."

But that wasn't exactly true. And now that Cuddy had mentioned her daughter, it was all she could think of. Rachel wasn't fine, not by any means. Of course, when House said that she was okay, he meant okay for her.

However, House hadn't come to dinner; he hadn't seen her much at all after lunch, and so he hadn't seen any of what Cuddy had noticed.

"She threw up," she said quietly. "Twice."

"She ate a lot of raw cookies, and knowing her, I'm guessing she had a lot of baked ones as well."

"I didn't let her have any of the finished ones," Cuddy explained. "And after she burned her tongue trying to sneak one behind my back, she didn't want any."

"Still. She was eating the batter like –"

"She's got a yeast infection."

He could see where this headed. She was thinking that Rachel's medication needed to be readjusted, and though it was possible that Rachel's body had changed in some way, he wanted Cuddy to consider all of the other possibilities before going down that road. "There have been a lot of spandex and tights lately," he pointed out. "Though that does sound like something I would only see in a nightmare, I'm pretty sure that actually happened, so –"

"Don't do that," Cuddy snapped in irritation. "I'm not overreacting. Her glucose levels have been getting incrementally larger for the last week, and –"

"You are overreacting… probably because you're worried about being fired tomorrow," he said knowingly. She would pretend like it was an absurd idea, but House knew otherwise; anxiety in one area of her life tended to bleed into every other area. "Not that that will happen," he added as an afterthought.

But his last minute attempt at making her feel better was only met with ire.

Angrily she sat up. "I know you like to assume that I'm a lame duck, inexperienced, overly emotional –"

"And you're doing such a good job at proving you're not that last one."

"Doctor," she said with a sneer, her eyes narrowing angrily on him. She wasn't going to take the bait on his comment, but in that look, it was absolutely clear that she wasn't pleased. "But I am actually a pretty good endocrinologist and –"

"And you don't think that that might color your perspective on Rachel's health," House replied with only the slightest hint of a doubt. "You don't think that it's worth considering that before you force her to submit to painful –"

"Drawing blood, House," she interrupted, shaking her head. "Don't make it sound like I'm –"

"She's five, and you know she hates blood and doctors and hospitals, which is why I'm telling you: you should think about the road you're heading down before you take a wrong turn and run over some fluffy squirrel and…." He sighed. "The metaphor got away from me there, but you know what I mean."

"You're tired," Cuddy said quietly.

"I'm not wrong."

Her body slumped against his once more. "I know."

"You should sleep on it," he told her, one of his hands warmly rubbing the space between her shoulder blades. "We're both tired."

"I know," she repeated, sounding more exhausted than she had only moments ago. "I need a vacation," she blurted out, burying her face in his t-shirt. Her voice muffled, she suggested, "Lets go some place warm."

He smiled a little and kissed her hair. "Much as I'd like to see you in a bikini, I'm going to assume that you're talking like this, because you're tired."

"I mean it," she mumbled into his chest. "I want sand… and a sunburn. And drinks with little umbrellas."

It wasn't ever going to happen. He knew that as much as she must have. It was never going to be that way. Oh, he didn't doubt that she wanted a vacation; he was sure that she did, just as he was sure that it would never happen. She might have wanted to go away for a while, but she would never give herself the permission to have that luxury. Between Rachel and work, Cuddy would never do what she was talking about. Instead she would waste vacation days on awful medical conventions or even more tedious trips to her sister's, and neither of those things involved Cuddy in a bathing suit two sizes too small for her ass.

"Never gonna happen," he told her knowingly. "And it's very wrong of you to tempt me with –"

"It's your own fault for thinking about me in a bikini. I never said anything about –"

"You mentioned sand."

"And in your deranged little mind, sand means –"

"Seeing you half-naked, yes." He nodded his head for emphasis.

She raised her head just enough so she could look at him. "Tell me something; is there anything I could mention that wouldn't, at some point in your thought process, make you think of me half-naked?"

"Probably not."

"Okay then."

"All the more reason for you to –"

"What?" she asked tiredly.

"Go to sleep."

He sounded so annoyed that she couldn't help but think that wasn't what he was originally going to say. "'Go to sleep.' That's how you're finishing that sentence?"

"Yes."

Truthfully Cuddy debated whether it was worth pressing him on the matter. She was curious to know what he might have originally intended on saying. But that was all she was – curious. And getting an answer that would allay that feeling really didn't seem worth all the trouble it would naturally take to get such a thing from House. So instead she sighed. "Fine."

But ten minutes later, she was no closer to sleeping. And House must have known this, because he said with a sigh, "Go check on the midget, make sure she's, I don't know, alive, and then come back to bed."

"Don't talk like that," she muttered as she got out of bed.

"She'll be fine," he said, rolling over onto his stomach.

He waited to hear her footsteps retreating out of the room. But when that didn't happen, he couldn't help but turn his head to look and see what the issue was.

It was immediately apparent what it was; she was just standing there, looking at him with dismay. And as soon as his gaze was on her, she told him, "I wish you wouldn't do that."

She didn't elaborate, which forced him to say in confusion, "Right now, I'm doing at least ten different things you more than likely wish I weren't doing. You might need to be more specific than –"

"Make it sound like I'm overreacting every time I show the slightest bit of concern about –"

"You think I'm being patronizing."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"I thought I was being reassuring."

"You weren't," she said dryly. "You were… tempting –"

"Fate?" he offered. "I don't think so."

She shook her head. "Well, that's how it sounds when you talk like that."

"I'm not tempting anything," he told her quietly.

"You are."

"No –"

"You are," she repeated angrily.

"No, I'm not." He was being more stern than he wanted to be, but having taken that tone, he knew there was no backing off now. "The universe doesn't work like that, and you know it, Cuddy. There's nothing that happened to Rachel that's the result of something you –"

"Please don't do this," she interrupted at that moment.

It was hard to see her face, but there was no missing the pained quality to her voice. Huskier, tighter, shakier, it gave away everything the darkness tried to hide.

"Go check on her," House said quietly. He could have pressed her further, pushed her to admit that part of her always overreacted when it came to Rachel's health out of fear that she would be punished if she didn't react seriously enough. But he didn't do that. That was something she would need to admit on her own.

Choosing instead to walk away from the conversation, he wasn't surprised that she took the opportunity to escape. Had the situation been reversed, he would have done precisely the same thing – run away at the first moment possible. For that very reason, he didn't judge her.

Of course that didn't mean he didn't feel just the slightest bit smug when she came back looking slightly more relaxed. He did feel that way; if only because it had meant he was right about Rachel, he did feel a small desire to rub it in Cuddy's face. However, he was an adult and supposedly a supportive boyfriend, so instead, he simply welcomed her with open arms as she crawled back into bed.

Well, she didn't really crawl back into the bed as much as she carefully draped her body on top of his.

In his own mind, this sounded much sexier than it was. Not that it wasn't sexy; it was Cuddy, and as a result, every act, every move, every word she uttered could elicit some sort of desire from him. This was just not as sexy as it could have been – nowhere near that. Because this wasn't her lying on top of him to entice him into a much more fun way of touching tummies; this was "I'm going to sleep on top of you."

His hands squeezing her ass, he said quietly, "I think you missed the bed."

"You're warmer than the sheets."

"Okay."

Her feet tickled his shins as she said, "You can push me off if I'm too heavy."

"You're not."

"I'm not hurting you?"

"No." And that was the truth. She wasn't heavy or hurting him. She didn't weigh nearly enough to cause him any pain now. The morning would tell a very different story, but he was willing to suffer that if it meant that she would sleep now. "How was Rachel?"

"Fine," Cuddy answered with a sigh he could feel through his t-shirt. "She was sleeping."

"Good to know that someone in this house is," he said in a similarly breathy manner.

"House." It was as close to an apology as she could apparently get.

"It's okay."

She wanted to believe him. With everything that she had, she wanted to believe him.

But she couldn't.

He had been right earlier. There was no tempting of things going on, no bargain to be made with ephemeral beings. She knew that. In her heart, she understood that. And yet, every day, Cuddy also understood that she operated under those very ideas. If she worked harder, did better, inched closer and closer to perfection, some part of her believed that things could be perfect.

Some part of her still felt the keen disappointment when they weren't.

The truly unfortunate part about that was that it meant, for Cuddy, that she would never feel good about Rachel – or at least Rachel's health. The asthma, the diabetes, the thyroid – all of those things were problems that had no simple or foreseeable solution; it was about managing not mastering those conditions. They couldn't be mastered or fixed. And because Rachel was a stubborn little girl who didn't fully understand what any of her medical problems meant, because she had multiple conditions, even just managing her illnesses was difficult work.

It was a fact that broke Cuddy's heart

It was a fact that made every other problem in her life, no matter how big, seem large enough to destroy her. She tried her hardest to convince herself that Rachel was okay, that she would be okay. But it was impossible for Cuddy to contain that anxiety, impossible for her to ignore it and compartmentalize it – especially when every demon in Hell seemed to also sit on the hospital board.

"You're not sleeping," House interrupted.

"What?"

"You're not sleeping."

"I'm trying."

"You're tense. You need to relax."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and shifted on top of him a little bit as though she were trying to get comfortable. Truthfully, she was pretty comfortable pressed against House like this; he was warmer than the sheets – she hadn't lied about that. His pajamas were softer too, the cotton of his t-shirt and pants well worn from use. And there was something nice about falling asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in her ear. Not that she was sleeping, not yet, but when she would, it would be nice.

"I'm trying."

"You're stiffer than an airplane blanket." She wiggled around some more. Which, truth be told, he liked. But since sex was the last thing he wanted right now (okay, maybe not the last), he instantly stopped her by grabbing her hips. "Speaking of stiff… you keep doing that and –"

She groaned – not the reaction he was anticipating.

"What?"

"No more sex tonight."

They were in agreement on that but still. "No? But we –"

"I know you like proving that you have the libido of a fifteen year old who's just discovered his father's Playboys, and I get it." She patted his chest as though he were a little boy. "It must feel nice to be able to prove what a big man you are."

There was no missing the fact that she was teasing him. And though the mocking pout she was giving him was kind of hot, he wasn't particularly enjoying what she was saying. "I –"

"Probably want to brag to Wilson and your staff and anyone else who will listen. I know," she said with a nod of the head. "And that's fine. You go ahead and tell them what a manly stud you are."

"This isn't about my ego."

She gave him a dark look. "Monday morning, you're going to strut –"

"I don't strut."

"Like a peacock," she continued without even considering what he was saying. "Strutting and… singing."

He shifted underneath her. "I don't –"

"You do. God, you do. I fully expect to hear Gilbert and Sullivan in the halls on Monday and see everyone looking at me for the rest of the day as though I've completely lost my mind for dating you." He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. Pressing a finger to his lips, she was the one to speak. "And I'm going to look at them as though I am in absolute agreement with them… which I am more than willing to do, because I, for whatever reason, possibly the result of brain damage, love you."

Murmuring against her fingers, he said, "If you're trying to kill any interest I might have in having sex with you right now, I gotta tell you… it's pretty effective."

She exhaled and pulled her hand away from him. Replacing her finger with her lips, she kissed him briefly. "Good. Because I need a break – at least until the morning."

He gave her a look of annoyance. "Last I checked, I wasn't trying to get any. I was trying to sleep."

"I'm just saying," she told him calmly. "I'm going to start chafing."

"Oh, that's a good line. I'm gonna tell Wilson that." At that Cuddy rolled off of him. A little surprised, he couldn't help but ask her, "What happened to 'you're warmer than the sheets'?"

A half-smile on her face, she said, "Sounded like you wanted to be alone with your sexual prowess."

He followed her, spooning against her body. One of his hands sneaking underneath her shirt, he told her in a low voice, "Anything involving the word, sexual, should involve you too."

Her lips turned into a full smile. "You say that now, and the next thing I know, I'm measuring your penis."

"Hey, now there's an –"

"No."

"You're right," he admitted after a second. His free hand carding through her hair, he added, "We probably don't even have a ruler long enough to measure –"

"You're impossible." But he could feel and hear her slight chuckle as she said those words and knew that they were okay.

Knowing that, House kissed her neck. "Think you can fall asleep now?"

She sighed. "I don't know…. No."

"You've got to be tired."

"I am."

"You've been up for –"

"I know."

"Want me to get you something? Warm milk? Clonazepam? Vodka?"

She shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling his face. "I'm okay." When he pulled the covers up over her body further, she murmured, "You don't have to do that."

"I'm not trying to be nice," he said immediately. Actually, he was trying to be nice, but he wasn't going to tell her that. Pride mattered in these things, he guessed, and he figured a lie would do more good than the truth. "Sooner you fall asleep, the sooner I do, so anything I can do to make that happen…."

"Right," she replied, sounding more exhausted than he thought he had ever heard her sound before.

He stroked her side gently. "Just close your eyes."

She listened but repeated herself. "You don't have to do that."

"I do. I'm a selfish man."

She bristled. "I know what you're doing."

"Go to sleep."

"I –"

"Don't worry about it," he told her in a low voice.

She did, of course. Everything he was doing was soothing, she couldn't deny it, but it did make her feel uncomfortable at the same time. As she tried to fall asleep, she knew that it was stupid. She knew she should have simply allowed herself to take comfort in what he was offering. But it was hard for her, hard to appreciate and accept something that she felt he shouldn't have to offer.

"Don't worry about it," he repeated, as though he knew what she was thinking. "Just sleep."

Cuddy wanted to fight the feeling. She wanted to push him away, say something, do something to regain the pride she could feel slipping away. But it was a fight she couldn't win. His body warm against hers, his hands petting and rubbing and soothing what felt like every inch of her, she couldn't fight him. The sheets and bed and him so inviting, so soothing, she didn't have a chance in hell. As slumber quickly consumed her, in the back of her mind, she wondered when she'd last been tucked into bed.

House himself was asking that very question. One of his hands in her hair, the other moving around her back and side, he really wanted to know when Cuddy had last allowed anyone to do this for her. Had she ever let anyone? Sure, her parents had more than likely done this when she was a girl. But since then? He doubted Cuddy had permitted anyone to…

Tuck her in?

Hold her close and make sure she fell asleep?

He didn't exactly know how he should word what he was doing. After all, it wasn't like he was well practiced in… this; if Cuddy weren't used to being soothed, then he certainly wasn't used to being the one to do the soothing. He was more of an… irritant, to be honest, and, not that he liked pissing off his girlfriend, but the fact remained that she didn't often require his emotional support, so he didn't feel as though it were necessary (or even desirable) to console her over every little thing.

That she had let him attempt such a feat at all was proof enough that she was more upset than she was letting on. Rachel… work… it was all getting to her, and he was quite sure now that he hadn't really helped Cuddy at any point along the way today.

He hadn't intentionally set out to annoy her (for the most part anyway). But there was no denying that some of the events he'd had a hand in had just made things worse for her. Or maybe it was just the one he couldn't forgive himself for.

He'd hurt Rachel.

It had been accident, but he'd hurt her. And Cuddy had forgiven him – or at least said that she had – but he wasn't as quick to forgive himself for it. Rachel might not have been hurt seriously but still.

He'd grabbed her.

He'd scared her.

And maybe they'd been able to move past that during the day, but right now, in this particular moment, House didn't feel good about it. He felt awful about it, and the fact that it had made Cuddy's day worse only made him feel that much guiltier.

He supposed that was a triviality compared to everything else; making things harder for Cuddy didn't really compare to hurting Rachel. But it was the icing on top of the pile of crap – he knew that much.

Then again, he also knew that this wouldn't happen again.

He wouldn't let it.

Being Rachel's father would never happen, not if he could help it. But that didn't mean he wanted to be an unwanted presence in her life or the kind of person who scared her… who hurt her. He didn't want to be the boyfriend of one woman and a monster to another all in the same house. He'd never wanted to straddle that line, even if he had today.

And he wouldn't do it again.

Cuddy exhaled softly beside him. Immediately he stiffened, thinking that she might be awake. But after a few seconds, she hadn't woken up or moved, and he was relieved to see that she was still sleeping. She deserved it.

He liked to make fun of her, quite a bit actually. He liked to joke about her job, about how she wasn't a real doctor, but silently he understood that there was no way in hell he could ever do what she did. She was good at her job – amazing at it, and because of that fact, he could be good at his. In his eyes, she held his world together, and if he never admitted such a thing out loud, it was because he wasn't even sure he could put it into words properly. But inwardly, he knew exactly how important she was to him, just as he knew how hard she worked to make everything just right. And since nothing in their lives seemed to be simple, making things perfect (or as close to perfect as they could get) was no easy task.

Yes, he thought with sincerity, she deserved a good night's sleep and so much more. So much more that he couldn't necessarily give her, he realized. He might have wanted to – oh, he wanted to, but he couldn't give her anywhere near what she deserved. He could never be the man with no complications, the one who could unconditionally agree to do what she wanted from or of him.

He was too screwed up for that.

And he knew she deserved more, but at the moment, helping her sleep seemed like all he could do.

At the thought, House pressed his face into her shoulder. She was too good for him, he thought, pulling her closer to him. She was too good, and if he kept having performances like the one he'd had today, she would realize it. As he slowly fell back to sleep, he told himself that he needed to remember just how lucky he was to have her in his life.

Unfortunately, he didn't remember that. When he woke up, he didn't remember that fact at all. To be fair, it was impossible to remember much of anything, what with all of the screaming and crying.

He woke up before he even had a chance to register what was going on. His eyes popping open, he was immediately assaulted with noise and movement and the bright light coming from Cuddy's bedside lamp. She was hastily shoving the covers off of her, her limbs scrambling to free themselves.

But she wasn't the one making the noise, he realized dimly.

It was then that he realized that Rachel was in the room, standing right next to the bed. And there was the source of the screaming and crying.

In urine-soaked vivid pink pajamas decorated with brown squirrels holding yellow and purple flowers (why they were holding flowers, he didn't know, but they were, as stupid as that was), Rachel stood there. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, which were reddened from crying. She was sobbing for Cuddy, her entire body shaking with the effort. With each "Mama" she wailed, a shuddering gasp followed. The sound long and drawn out, it clearly said to House, who was still barely conscious, that she was so upset that she could barely muster up the ability to breathe.

As Cuddy pulled the kid into her lap, House decided that it wasn't an asthma attack. The way she was breathing made it seem at first glance as though that might be what was going on. But as consciousness grabbed a hold of him, he realized that she was too pink; she wasn't wheezing or coughing, and though an asthma attack would, understandably, be upsetting to anyone, Rachel had been through enough to stay somewhat calm. She would be anxious to breathe again (who wouldn't be?), but she wouldn't be crying and shouting Cuddy's name.

Not like this.

Which meant that this was a panic attack.

He looked to Cuddy to see if she understood what was going on. But she didn't meet his gaze; her focus was completely on Rachel.

Inching over on the bed, he didn't say anything. It wouldn't matter what he said right now; Cuddy would be deaf to every point he could possibly make at this particular moment. So really, his only option was to move out of the way, lest he end up with Rachel's piss on his pants.

He would have liked to point out how crappy things for him were when he was worried about getting the urine belonging to a five year old on his person. But again, Cuddy wasn't going to be paying attention, and Rachel certainly wouldn't be, so he made the point silently to himself and rolled away from them both.

He wasn't going to sleep.

If someone could sleep through this ruckus, he would have liked very much to meet that person and steal their soul… or something that made sense, House thought in confusion.

"Shhh," Cuddy whispered in Rachel's ear. "It's all right. Mommy's here."

Yeah, like that was going to stop the train wreck (or shut it up) that was in progress, he told himself miserably. Again, he would have said it aloud, but Rachel would have taken precedence anyway, so he kept his comments to himself.

Rachel, however, was decidedly not keeping any sound to herself. Her face was buried in Cuddy's shoulder; her thumb was jammed now into her mouth, but she was still making more noise than anyone should have at this time of night.

He would have wished for earplugs, except he knew that those wouldn't do anything for him. Rachel was being that loud.

In his mind, there was no doubt that this was all over a bad dream. It might have sounded like she was being beaten or murdered to the neighbors. It might have looked like there was something else going on; wetting the bed could be the result of or an indication of polyuria and/or polydipsia, both symptoms of high blood sugar; the kind of sadness and anxiety she was currently displaying could indicate diabetic ketoacidosis. But he knew that wasn't what was going on. Rachel hadn't been drinking or urinating any more than usual – and it wasn't like wetting the bed was anything new for her. So he was content to believe, no matter what her behavior might have indicated on a superficial level, that this was a nightmare and nothing more.

Cuddy, however, was not as convinced. Rocking Rachel, she looked at him with dismay, with concern, and asked quietly, "Could you get me her meter and inhaler?"

How he even managed to hear her request over Rachel he didn't know. He supposed that there could be something to the fact that Cuddy was calm, and that made her words completely distinct from what Rachel was saying, but he didn't know for sure.

What he did know was that Cuddy had already lost interest in him by the time he'd processed her words. He wasn't being particularly slow in understanding her, but in the milliseconds it took for him to comprehend what she was asking, she'd already turned her attention to Rachel.

The kid was still upset, alarmingly so. Again, he didn't think there was anything physically going on with her. But it was hard to deny that she was getting herself worked up enough to make herself sick. And Cuddy, convinced that her medical concerns were being addressed, fully launched herself into preventing Rachel from accidentally hurting herself. Problem was, House didn't agree that those medical tests and treatments were necessary.

He needed to tell her that, of course, but she wasn't paying attention. Instead, she was alternating between shushing Rachel and saying, "It's okay. Mommy's here. It's all right. Just calm down and tell me what's wrong."

It was a request Rachel couldn't even begin to follow, and understanding this, House felt like he was in the same boat as she was.

"Cuddy," he said softly. He didn't want to make things harder than they needed to be; he didn't want to start a fight, not now, not if he could avoid it. But Cuddy needed to know that this wasn't physical. Because as soon as she realized and accepted that, the easier it would be to calm Rachel down and shut her up and the sooner they could all go back to sleep.

But Cuddy was reluctant, apparently, to receive this knowledge. Pressing several kisses to Rachel's temples and forehead, Cuddy was slow – so slow – to look at him. And when she did, he could read in her eyes one word:

Don't.

He responded in kind with a look of exasperation, as though he were saying, "I'm not trying to fight. Stop thinking that I am."

And she must have understood that – or he was just reading into things – because she backed off. The warning in her eyes disappeared, the heated anger cooling off into something more amenable to his hesitation.

It was a look born from words she would never say. Words like that would never be spoken; she would never tell him, or at least not willingly tell him, that she knew she was being ridiculous. Over the years, if House had learned one thing, it was that she could be quite committed to her own insanity. Even if she knew she was wrong, she had the habit of defending herself anyway. He obviously couldn't judge her for that quality as he tended to do the same thing; however, in this particular moment, despite that part of her personality, despite the fact that she had been so defensive seconds ago, she was giving him a look that now said, "I know it's probably just a bad dream, but I need to make sure."

House thought briefly that it was odd that they could say so much to one another with just a simple look. But then on further reflection, he supposed it wasn't that odd. They were, after all, nothing if not masters in subtext, and knowing each other for decades had only provided them with a Rosetta Stone to one another's private language. The fact that they worked together, slept together, celebrated holidays (even lame ass ones like Purim) together – spent nearly every waking moment together in some way – could only make this kind of conversation an inevitability.

But it still felt odd.

A little bit anyway.

They spent so much time bickering, bantering, or just downright arguing that it was easy to lose sight of the connection they did share.

Of course that made it sound like he thought they fought too much. He didn't. Sometimes someone who didn't know them very well – her friends, her sister, random people flitting through the hospital – would imply that they must have been nearing a break up; those strangers would say that they must not have liked each other very much if they fought like that. And having heard those particular statements way too many times, House knew that none of it was even remotely true.

They fought, sure. They fought more than most couples probably. But what most people never understood was that House and Cuddy were okay with raising their voices and frequently being adversaries. In fact, a lot of the time, they found themselves content to be under those circumstances, because…

They liked the fight.

They enjoyed the challenge.

Never mind that work usually required them to get into it at least once a day. Never mind that they both took comfort in the fact that professionally she could stop him from doing something incredibly stupid. On the most basic of levels, they simply enjoyed verbally sparring with one another.

Sure, there were times where it probably would have been nice to come home to a quiet house and a partner who only wanted to agree with you. But at the end of the day, he, at least, was willing to sacrifice that for the privilege of seeing first hand her mind at work; as attracted as he was to the rest of her, first and foremost, it was her brain that he liked.

He liked listening to her, liked hearing her thoughts, even when that meant listening to her say something he didn't want to hear. And because of that, because they enjoyed the word play, there were times when it was almost easy to forget that they had the ability to understand one another without speaking. But here they were, saying all that needed to be said without uttering a single word.

Well, all right, it wasn't without words completely. With all of the noise and ways for Rachel to distract Cuddy, House wanted her to know with total certainty that he was willing to play along. He still thought it was stupid, of course; he didn't think for a second that Rachel was having a medical emergency of any sort. But he was willing to do whatever it took to ease Cuddy's nerves. So he said, "Okay," with a nod of the head.

For a brief moment, he contemplated leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek for reassurance. But he quickly decided against it. For sure she could have used it. He would have been stupid to think that at this moment, he was the only one feeling ill at ease. But at the same time, she was so intent on caring for Rachel that a kiss would have been seen as an unwelcome distraction. And that was the last thing he wanted to be.

That thought one that was firmly planted in his mind, he pushed the covers off of his body. He was willing to forego the kiss, but at that moment, as the cold air hit him, he suddenly felt resentful of having to get out of bed at all.

He'd been nice and warm, his leg only aching a little (which was to say that the pain was as bearable as it got for him). And now he had to part with all of that just so he could alleviate the concern stupidly imprinted in Cuddy's mind. He had to leave that sanctuary and for what – for a wild goose chase that would yield no geese or fowl of any kind.

But he'd said he would do it. He didn't want to get up, but he'd said he would. And the universal truth that everybody lied aside, his word with Cuddy, his word here meant something. It meant everything… or at least it was supposed to. So he had to follow through on the damn thing.

The problem with that though was that he didn't get very far.

Correction: he wasn't allowed to get very far.

His legs free from the bedding, he started to get up. But he didn't even have a chance to do much more than swing a leg over the edge of the mattress. Because the instant he did that, Rachel was on top of him.

Literally.

He had no idea why.

No idea.

All he knew was that one minute he was getting out of bed, and it was on top of him the next. And he had no rational reason as to why she would do this; he didn't know what it was she'd seen out of the corner out of her teary eyes that made her scramble for him.

And you know what?

He didn't want to know.

And it didn't matter.

It didn't. He was a man who liked to understand motivation, but he could see that trying to comprehend Rachel's behavior was about as useful in this particular instant as knowing how to cook puffer fish. Because as interesting as all of that might have been, none of it was going to get Rachel away from him any time soon.

Of course he could have been wrong about that. If you'd asked him five minutes ago if Rachel would ever cling to him, he would have said no – and he would have been very wrong about that.

But he wasn't the only one.

Cuddy was thinking the same thing; if someone had asked her earlier what would happen when Rachel came running into the room, Cuddy would not have said this. It was happening right before her eyes, but it felt completely unreal.

She'd had Rachel in her arms. She'd gotten House to agree to go get Rachel's inhaler – a feat, which was pretty amazing in and of itself, considering he'd been adamant about how ridiculous that kind of thinking was. Things had looked okay in that instant; Rachel had been upset still, but everything had felt pretty mundane.

And then it suddenly hadn't been.

House had been getting out of bed, and Rachel had seen this. And she clearly hadn't liked it. Wrenching herself from her mother's grip, Rachel had lunged for House. She hadn't done it in an angry way; she hadn't been trying to attack him. If anything, it had seemed like she'd been desperate to be near him.

She'd cried, screamed, "No!" And though Cuddy had tried to grab hold of her daughter once more, Rachel had managed to squirm away somehow. Her movements quick, it had been within milliseconds that she'd ended up in House's lap, her hands clinging to him tightly.

And now…

Cuddy didn't know what to do.

Rachel was still upset. That still needed to be resolved in some way. But now in addition to that, there was the problem of House, who looked absolutely…

Terrified.

She'd debated saying scared, but instinctively she realized that that word didn't even begin to describe the fear in his eyes. And it was fear that she saw.

It would have been easy to miss or misdiagnose the well of emotion permeating his entire being. Fear was a feeling he rarely experienced and even more rarely let show on his face. He was neither prone to being frightened (this despite all he had been through) nor eager to let others see that side to him. But he couldn't hide this from her. She knew him too well, knew all the signs to look for, and he was too distracted by Rachel to even begin to run interference anyway. Which meant everything Cuddy needed to see was laid bare for her consumption, whether he liked it or not. And looking at him now, she couldn't deny that he was both afraid and unsure.

Honestly, he looked like one of those animals you read about – the kind of creature that had been caught in a bear trap or something along those lines and had been so afraid for their life that they'd gnawed their own captured limb off.

Yeah, House looked exactly like that, like he was prepared to chew off anything that would keep him trapped between Rachel and the mattress.

Part of Cuddy – the sleep-deprived part – wanted to be angry at him. He'd lived here for how long now? He hated the idea of being near Rachel so much that he couldn't even bear to have her on his lap? Really?

She wanted to be so angry at him. The logic was there; there was a reason to be mad, and part of her really wanted to be.

But she wasn't.

Maybe she was too tired to put forth the effort, but she wasn't angry. She wasn't happy either; now instead of just dealing with Rachel, Cuddy was also going to have to talk House off the proverbial ledge. But she wasn't mad. Because although she could have been, maybe even should have been, she knew that, in his own way, he was trying. He was kind of awkward and not very good with Rachel, not very affectionate anyway, but the fact that he hadn't pushed Rachel off of him and run away screaming was proof that he was making some sort of effort.

Was it enough? Not for Cuddy. She wanted more. Of course she wanted more from him. Who wouldn't? Who would prefer to have the guy and the child and no connection between the two? No one would want that. Cuddy certainly didn't.

However, she had known from the start that living with House and a baby would be… challenging. She had realized that he wasn't interested in fatherhood in the same way she'd understood that Lucas had been. And when she'd made her choice, Cuddy had known precisely what kind of decision she was making. She hadn't been naïve enough to think that House would change his mind or cruel enough to insist foolishly that he did. She'd hoped – as she still did – that things would get better, but she hadn't started this relationship with daddy-daughter delusions. And though a very real part of her was discontent with the family dynamic, she knew she had to trust that she'd made the right decision.

For everyone.

It might not have made things perfect. How could it have really? She and House seemed to be the most screwed up people on the planet. They were as far from perfect as anyone could possibly be; their relationship could hardly be any different. And at this particular moment, it left her wanting.

But it was still the right choice to make. And she was completely sure of that fact, if only because she knew that, if she had to be awoken by her urine-soaked, screaming child in the middle of the night, House was the only person Cuddy wanted to share the experience with.

Even if he was participating in his own detached way.

Even if he looked ready to run away screaming.

God, he looked ready to bolt.

And with the way Rachel was clinging to him, the entire image, truth be told, was laughable. He was terrified to be close, and Rachel was desperate to be near, and her inability to see the horror in House's face was almost enough to make Cuddy burst into laughter.

However, she couldn't exactly find it in herself to do that. She could recognize the humor, but it wasn't nearly enough to make her forget the seriousness of the situation. After all, if Rachel – who seemed to want to be near House – realized that he wanted her to get away from him, things would decidedly become very serious. Rachel would be heartbroken, and House would become defensive in the face of Cuddy's inevitable ire… and whatever had driven Rachel to want House to begin with would be completely forgotten about.

It would not be good.

And knowing that, Cuddy understood that she needed to calm both of them down as soon as possible.

At that moment, the phrase, easier said than done, came to mind, but she wasn't going to let that distract her from what she needed to do.

And the first step to making all of this right was to reassure House. That would certainly be difficult, as she would need to do it without actually openly trying to calm him down. As a matter of pride, he wouldn't want her to comfort him, especially not in front of Rachel. And Rachel herself was a factor to be considered.

Pretending for a moment that it was a fact – House was too distraught to care much about appearances – Cuddy was still sure that she couldn't be too consoling. Because Rachel would witness it, would realize that House was upset, would slowly realize why, and again, that was something Cuddy wanted to avoid. So while truthfully, Rachel was the bigger concern, he was the factor that needed to be addressed first. Because if he weren't calm, patient enough to let Rachel be comforted, it would be game over. He would freak out and, in the process, make things worse for Rachel.

For all of them.

That possibility one Cuddy wanted to avoid, she scooted closer to both of them. She couldn't do this from her side of the bed. Her hips shimmying as she moved toward them, she realized that this would inevitably make House crave space even more. But there was no way around that.

Her knees knocked lightly against his leg. As close as she was ever going to get, tentatively she reached out for both of her companions. First, she touched Rachel, offering her a couple of back rubs.

"It's okay," Cuddy told them both, though her eyes only met his gaze. And that was when she made a move for him. The same hand that had been on Rachel leisurely meandered downward, off the little girl's body, until Cuddy was lightly touching House's forearm. It wasn't as overtly reassuring as a handhold. But that was why Cuddy liked it. "Everybody needs to calm down."

Out of the edge of her gaze, she could see that Rachel was trying to listen. House definitely wasn't; in fact, it was doubtful he had even heard Cuddy. But her daughter, thankfully, was. Taking intentionally slow, deep breaths, Rachel was trying very hard to calm herself down. And though it wasn't immediately working, Cuddy could tell that it was gradually having its effect.

None of this was entirely surprising. House not listening to her was as unusual as a hospital housing sick people. Though he wasn't being disrespectful (their professional relationship required an implicit belief in one another), the truth was he rarely took instruction at the first opportunity. He would instead bypass her thoughts until his own way of thinking left him with no other choice. Rachel, on the other hand, didn't have enough faith or arrogance to ignore her mother. Unlike House, Rachel trusted the advice and rules given to her. True, she didn't always comply; she wasn't a perfect child by any means, but she also didn't seem to have the compulsion to disobey and disagree – not like House did anyway.

And like every child who had nightmares – or more importantly, like every child who'd had a medical emergency, she had been taught to try to remain calm and explain what was wrong. Again, Rachel wasn't perfect; it took a while for to get control of her emotions, and sometimes, she never did, but she tried, and the fact that she was trying was hardly surprising.

But it did come as a relief.

Okay, so House's behavior still concerned Cuddy. But if Rachel were able to take deep breaths, it meant unequivocally that this was no asthma attack. There might have been some other physical cause, but this meant that at least she was able to breathe. And it meant that she would be able to say soon enough what was bothering her. Again, Cuddy understood that her daughter was only five, and she didn't have the understanding or terminology to say that she was hyperglycemic or anything remotely along those lines. But she would be able to describe, if terribly, if she was feeling sick, dizzy, etc; she would be able to guide Cuddy to what the problem was. And Cuddy was encouraged by that fact.

However…

As good as that was, there was still House to contend with, and the more time Rachel needed to calm down, the more likely it was that something bad would happen. Cuddy wanted to ignore that concern in her mind, but there was no pretending like they weren't already on borrowed time. Because they were – Cuddy was sure of it.

But at the same time, she was equally sure that she could manage.

Hardly a stranger to difficult situations, she was more than familiar with the nuances of serving two masters – or in this case, controlling two children. Handling them both wouldn't be easy, but deep down, she knew that the dread she was feeling wasn't wholly warranted.

She was capable of doing this.

Or so she told herself as she moved even closer to House. Her voice soothing, she kept saying to Rachel, "That's it. Deep breaths for Mommy. I need you to calm down so you can tell me what's wrong."

But as Cuddy lay her head down in the small space between House's shoulder and neck, it was clear that she was using her body to comfort him.

Admittedly that sounded dirty. So to her own ears, it did, and she was thankful that House would never be privy to that thought. Had he been, she would have been teased mercilessly until he found someone or something else to mock.

What she was doing was hardly dirty though. Her body spooned against his, her right hand now loosely clasped around his left, this was hardly smut. Under different circumstances, maybe it could have been the beginning of something. But there was no way anyone was going to be getting sexual now. He might have been bristling beside her like it was something inappropriate, but it wasn't.

The fact that he thought it was, that he thought intimacy without sex was, did not make her feel good. It almost made her feel clingy and overbearing. But at the same time, she didn't doubt that he loved her. Clearly he did… more so than he was comfortable accepting at times, she supposed.

And Cuddy knew she could have been mad – about that, about all of it. She had the right. But it was a right she had no intention of exercising. Because she loved him and understood him well enough to know that… above all else, this wasn't born out of a lack of appreciation for her. If anything it was just the opposite; he felt so unworthy of any affection that, when it came his way, he had no idea what to do with it. So he would reject it, resent it, mock it, or, in rare instances, seize at it so greedily that he made a starving dog consuming a meal seem restrained. Though it shouldn't have been that way, though he shouldn't have been that way, he was. Even after all this time, unsure and secretly insecure, he had yet to learn what to do in these kinds of situations. And she couldn't be mad at him for that.

He tended to punish himself enough already.

Which was a thought that never failed to make her frown, and now was no different. Without Cuddy even realizing it, her lips had turned downward. The full pout on her face obscured partially by her hair, no one saw it. And she didn't even realize it was there until, out of sympathy, she pressed a kiss to House's neck and felt it against his skin.

He must have felt it too, because his reaction was to turn his head slightly in her direction. A move so imperceptible that most would have missed it, it was something she eagerly clung to as a sign of hope.

Sure, it was possible that she was reading the signs wrong. A small change in his body could have been just that. But Cuddy didn't really believe that. She'd been with him long enough to know what every gesture meant, and given the situation, she doubted that this would be the time House chose to change the vocabulary.

He needed her to understand in this situation.

He needed her reassurance.

He needed her – more than she would ever need him.

Not that he would ever tell her that.

She had the right to know that fact, he thought, but he couldn't find it in himself to say it. It would sound so weak and pathetic coming from a man like him – especially right after a thing like this.

Whatever this was.

Like many things involving Rachel, he had no idea how to describe what was going on. The product of a nightmare or medical crisis – those mere designations couldn't properly articulate the bizarreness that was now all around him. Those words might have been able to explain why it was happening (to an extent), but he didn't care about the why. At this point, he didn't even really care why.

All he wanted was for it to not be happening.

But this too was another thing he could never say to Cuddy. She was too invested in seeing him adjust to and flourish in these situations to appreciate just how intensely uncomfortable he was right now.

True, she must have sensed that he was floundering. She wouldn't have been so close to him, holding his hand and kissing him, if she didn't. At least she wouldn't have been under these circumstances. But knowing that he was unhappy was apparently not enough to get Rachel off of him – to make Cuddy pick her damn kid up and deal with the problem on her own.

Cuddy was clearly trying to placate him, to calm him down, and given that he was completely freaked out, part of him greedily welcomed her efforts. But more than anything, he wanted this to be over.

Now.

Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to share his urgency. Rachel was too busy whimpering on his stomach, her tears and sniffles being absorbed by his t-shirt. And Cuddy was preoccupied with her, with repeatedly telling her in a gentle voice to stop crying and tell everyone what was wrong.

Mind you it was working. The encouragement Rachel was receiving was having its intended effect. But why this couldn't take place elsewhere he didn't know.

The question driving him to distraction, he barely noticed that Rachel and Cuddy were talking.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" Cuddy asked, using her free hand to push several strands of tangled hair out of her daughter's face.

Even before Rachel nodded her head and spoke, Cuddy could tell what was wrong. It was without a doubt a bad dream. Most parents would have started with that theory and would have had the good fortune of being right nearly all of the time. With Rachel though, there was just no telling at first glance. Unless there were other visible symptoms, crying on its own gave away nothing, making something that should have been simple fairly complicated.

But Cuddy wasn't complaining at the moment. A nightmare was easy to handle, after all. A nightmare was something Rachel could recover from fairly quickly.

This was completely unlike tears created from poor glucose levels, which almost always made the crying last long after her blood had been dosed with sugar or insulin.

No, a nightmare was safe. It was not the beginning of a hospital stay or even more meticulous medical monitoring. This might have taken longer for Cuddy to diagnose, but it was something she could fix.

And because of that fact, she had to work hard to keep the relief off her face when Rachel finally confessed, "I had a bad dream." It might have been nice to know that physically Rachel was okay, but Rachel would not have understood why her mother was happy in that moment. She would have been confused and hurt, so Cuddy was careful not to give anything away. Because when everyone was already on edge and exhausted, when her daughter was still terrified, the last thing Cuddy wanted to do was make things worse.

So she was as sympathetic as she could be when she said, "I'm sorry, baby." She shifted alongside House so that she could kiss Rachel on her sweaty forehead. "It must have been very scary."

Rachel didn't say yes or no. She didn't nod or shake her head like you were supposed to when someone said something. That was what Miss Claire, her last teacher, said anyway. "You let everyone know you understand," she taught them. Mommy liked nods and shakes and yeses, Mommy didn't like no unless it was the answer to "Did you break this lamp?" And then she wasn't happy anyway, cause it meant House was the one who did it, so then she was mad at him.

But Rachel wasn't saying no now either. She was being quiet. Like a mouse. Mice probably never had bad dreams though, so maybe she wasn't like a mouse. Maybe she wasn't like any animal. Maybe she was just a Rachel. She would have liked to be something else, but no, she was just a Rachel – a Rachel who didn't want to say she was afraid or anything else. Mommy would probably want her to talk, but Rachel didn't want to say anything. She didn't want to make House mad.

Mommy didn't seem to care about that though, cause she asked the question Rachel didn't want to answer. "Do you want to tell me about your dream?"

Rachel shook her head. Her nose accidentally rubbed against House's shirt and dripped on it. For a moment, she worried that he would yell at her for it. He didn't usually yell, but he had today, a little bit, and she didn't want him to do it again. He was really loud. Normally he wasn't like that. Normally he just liked to be grumpy and say things she didn't know the meaning of. But Rachel knew nobody liked boogers (except for Teddy Crane who ate his), and she didn't want him to be mad at her for that.

If he was angry though, he didn't have time to say anything. Mommy, not knowin' what Rachel had done, said, "You might feel better if you talked about it. Sometimes talking makes things seem not so scary."

Rachel wanted to shake her head, but she was afraid. So she lied and said, her voice hushed by his shirt, "Don't remember."

Mommy knew it was a lie. Mommy always knew. She denied having lasers that could tell her when people were lying (Mommy actually liked to laugh at that idea), but Rachel knew different. Mommy had superpowers.

And since Rachel didn't want to get in trouble for lying, she clumsily changed her story. "Not tellin'."

"Why not?" Cuddy didn't say it angrily; it wasn't a demand or an accusation. She simply wanted to know why Rachel didn't want to talk about her dream. But Rachel didn't offer a reason. "Why not, monkey?" Licking her lips, Cuddy hesitantly asked, "Are you embarrassed?"

Affronted Rachel replied with indignation, "No!" At that moment, House shifted his leg back on the bed, which made her scream even more loudly, "No!"

Her knuckles turned white as she clung to him. Literally, she clung to him, and Cuddy was stunned into silence at the sight.

Was this really happening?

She knew she needed to say something, but she had no idea what. This was just too bizarre for her to know how to respond.

In the end though, House was the one to break the silence. Peevishly, bitterly he snapped, "I'm not going anywhere. I was getting back in bed since there's absolutely no chance of me escaping the live action version of Little Women happening on top of me."

Tensing Cuddy waited for the loud sobbing that had filled their bedroom only moments ago to return. She didn't dare admonish House; she would later, but right now, doing that would just put him over the edge. And since Rachel seemed attached to him for reasons nobody but she understood, Cuddy absolutely wasn't going to do the one thing that would send him running. Truly her only option was to anticipate Rachel's tears returning.

But they didn't.

If anything it seemed like House's words, as unfriendly and rough as they'd been, had made Rachel... calmer?

That didn't make any sense, Cuddy thought, but that was what it looked like was going on. It really did appear as though Rachel had relaxed as soon as House had spoken. How that could possibly be… Cuddy didn't know. She didn't doubt that House could be comforting. She'd had more than enough experiences with him to know that he could absolutely be soothing, protective, and reassuring. He'd done it tonight. Even when she'd fought so hard to resist, he had been there for her. And because of that, maybe it shouldn't have felt so weird for Rachel to take solace seemingly in him.

But it did feel that way to Cuddy. Because she was used to House's own personal brand of reassurance; Rachel wasn't. Most people weren't. Most people didn't know to or didn't want to look beyond his gruffness to see the gentleness within him. Then again, he didn't want them to, and Cuddy didn't think that he wanted Rachel to at this particular second. He just wanted her to get away from him.

For whatever reason though, Rachel was embracing him and his words. And Cuddy had no idea why that was, but she supposed that it would be foolish to question the matter aloud. If Rachel didn't want to have a meltdown, fine. Cuddy might have been confused, but if it got everyone back to sleep sooner, she wasn't going to ask questions.

What she would do was try to get Rachel to talk about her bad dream. More than anything, that was the key to resolving this situation, and Cuddy knew it.

Gently pressing more kisses to her daughter's forehead, she attempted to console her some more. "It's all right, Rachel. Nobody's going anywhere. Okay? House and I are going to stay right here, so you can tell us what your dream was about."

She could practically feel House rolling his eyes at her. No doubt he felt her attempt at not so subtly telling everyone what to do was awful. He would take offense at the transparency, and she couldn't blame him; she was trying to console, but even to her own ears, it almost sounded like an ultimatum. Thankfully though House didn't say anything – a fact that she considered a small victory.

Returning her attention to Rachel, Cuddy asked carefully, "Was your dream about Marina?" She hadn't wanted to ask that question. Having hoped that Rachel would volunteer information about her dream, Cuddy hadn't wanted to waste time guessing what was wrong. But at this point, there really was no other option, and she'd guessed the one thing that seemed to torment her daughter regularly these days: Marina's death.

Rachel shook her head. "No."

"No?" Cuddy didn't know if she believed her. "Are you sure?"

"Uh huh."

It seemed like she was telling the truth, but then… if that were true, the question remained: what had upset Rachel so much? Cuddy supposed that it could have been just about anything – ghosts, goblins, going to school naked, etc. Not too long ago, Rachel had had a dream where she'd been a frog trying to escape an amphibian-eating toilet, so it really could have been about anything. But Cuddy doubted that this was a run-of-the-mill nightmare. If it was, there was absolutely no reason for Rachel to be seeking comfort from House.

The thought, bitter sounding even in her own mind, made Cuddy cringe inwardly. She shouldn't have been so suspicious about the moment taking place before her. But she was. She shouldn't have felt something she could only describe as envy growing inside of her. But she did.

Honestly, it made no sense. House holding Rachel… it was what Cuddy had been hoping for all this time. She'd wanted this. Maybe in her mind, she'd envisioned House being more affectionate, but basically, this was what she'd wanted. And yet, she felt some part of herself wondering why Rachel hadn't come to her.

As though Cuddy's confusion was beginning to funnel itself into an inkling of rejection, she couldn't help but wonder why Rachel had chosen House. He didn't even care. He wasn't even doing anything to console her. Cuddy was the one doing that. She was the one rubbing Rachel's back and offering her kisses and reassuring words. House was the one just lying there, praying that it would be over soon. And Rachel wanted him?

It made no sense.

Unless….

Had Cuddy been the source of the nightmare?

She guessed it was possible. Of course, that still didn't explain why Rachel wanted to be near House, but if Cuddy had done something cruel in the dream, maybe… maybe that was why Rachel didn't want to be around her. Cuddy didn't want to believe that that was the case, but she knew it was possible. Which was why she asked quietly, "Did you dream about me, baby?"

"No." But the way Rachel said it made Cuddy think that she'd touched on something. Because while she could tell that Rachel wasn't lying, there was a tightness in her voice that said that Cuddy was getting close.

"Okay," Cuddy said with a slight nod of the head. "Did you dream about somebody else?" Rachel didn't respond, which practically guaranteed that the answer was a yes. "Did you dream about –"

"Oh for the love of God," House finally snapped. He'd had enough.

Cuddy looked up at him, her gaze angry and cold. "House."

He shook his head. "I hung in there for as long as I could, but –"

"And you can wait a few more minutes," she said dismissively, the implicit warning impossible to miss.

"I could." He reached down and unceremoniously shifted Rachel towards the left side of his body. Every time Cuddy had asked a question, Rachel had squirmed; the movement hadn't been a lot (he doubted Cuddy had even noticed), but nevertheless, she was inching towards the right side of his body. And if she were to put all of her weight on his thigh or nudge it accidentally, he feared he wouldn't be able to control his reaction. So he moved her back to the spot she'd originally occupied on top of him.

Of course, House would have preferred getting Rachel off of him all together. But she was gripping him so hard, and it would have created such a scene that he settled for repositioning her and telling Cuddy nastily, "But this is like watching a toddler try to fit a triangle through the square peg."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm sorry this is boring you, but I'm trying to help my –"

"You still haven't figured it out?" he asked patronizingly.

Cuddy sat up abruptly. Were they really going to fight now? Was he seriously picking a fight with her when all she wanted to do was calm Rachel down? "I can't believe –"

"How slow you're being?" he offered. "Me neither."

Cuddy glanced over at Rachel. As though she were weighing her options, House knew she was debating whether or not it was worth fighting him on the matter. Cuddy was asking herself, "Do I start a fight with him now or focus on my kid?" It was a tough call to make, which was why he wasn't surprised that she went with the middle ground.

"If you think you know what Rachel's dream was about…" she challenged, folding her arms across her chest. "Then by all means… share it with the rest of us."

He hesitated. He'd figured what was wrong with the kid, but he was reluctant to do what Cuddy wanted. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but at that moment, it struck him that the truth would be altering in ways he couldn't even begin to predict. He hadn't really thought about it before; he'd been too smug with knowledge to consider the fallout. But now he had, and he wanted nothing more than to be wrong.

"Well?" Cuddy demanded. An arrogant smile toyed with the lines of her lips. Clearly she thought he had nothing. She thought he was bluffing.

She was wrong.

And he hated himself for being this way, but he wanted her to know just how wrong she was. Facts only had so much power when they stayed inside you; keeping the truth to himself would only make him miserable, because she would never shut up about how he'd bluffed and lost this little tiff. Which meant that, even if it would mean more for him than her, she needed to be fully aware of how stupidly wrong she was.

"Me," he said finally, the unfortunate word forced out on an exhale. "Her nightmare was about me."

Cuddy scoffed. It lasted just a second, but her immediate reaction was to assume he was lying. Well, what else was new? In this instance, he didn't blame her though. The whole idea was crazy, and though he'd been the one to realize that Rachel had dreamed of him, he could see that it was completely insane. Truth be told, he probably would have been able to deny the whole thing, pretend like it hadn't happened, if it weren't for the look of shame on Rachel's face. So it wasn't surprising that Cuddy's scoff quickly gave way to a mouth agape and eyes wide open.

Her attention now completely on Rachel, she asked, "Is that true?"

Of course it was. He'd put two and two together the second Rachel had denied dreaming of Marina. Usually, it was the dead nanny that made quiet nights with Cuddy an impossibility. Visions of babysitters meeting speeding cars had the tendency of turning Rachel into an affection-starved, teary-eyed pain in the ass. But then that had always been Mommy's problem, and if Little Orphan Annie was snuggling up to him like he was Daddy Warbucks without the usual emotional trauma fueling it, then he'd realized it meant something else was going on.

In this instance, the only way the pieces fit together was if she'd been dreaming of him. That was the something else. And honestly, at this point, even if he hadn't solved the puzzle, the way Rachel was blushing under her mother's gaze said it all.

"Oh Rachel," Cuddy said softly. Leaning forward she wrapped her arms around Rachel as best as she could. Given that her daughter was still clinging to House, it wasn't easy to hug her. Cuddy did her best though. "I'm so sorry you had that dream. But…" she said, preparing to smooth over any fractures Rachel's relationship with House was about to experience. "I know that whatever he did to you in your dream, he didn't mean it."

As soon as the words came out, she could see House's entire body language change. He was stiffening, the lines of his body shifting so he looked harsher. He was offended. Which made no sense, because all she'd been trying to do was prevent Rachel from punishing him for something that had never happened. And House knew that that was possible, because he'd been around long enough to understand that Rachel was more than capable of holding a grudge for something that had occurred solely in her dreams. So he should have known that Cuddy was trying to be nice.

She'd been mad at him seconds ago, sure. But that anger had disappeared the instant she'd realized that he'd been right about Rachel. Then Cuddy had been forced to consider that his outburst had been a reaction to what he'd figured out. Clearly feeling guilty about, even fictionally, harming Rachel, he'd lashed out as a result, Cuddy had realized.

Instantly, she'd forgiven him.

Without a second thought, she'd forgiven him. And her words had only been an attempt at putting everything right.

But House wasn't looking grateful, relieved, appreciative – or anything else that would have suggested that he understood her actions.

Sighing Cuddy asked tiredly, "What now?"

He shook his head.

"Tell me."

"That you assume the worst about me?" He sneered. "You already know that."

Cuddy was completely taken aback. "What are you –"

"Do you think she'd be clinging to me if I did something to –"

"I don't know, House," she interrupted, her voice harried and tight with emotion. "I have no idea what her dream…" Her voice trailed off as she realized Rachel was still in the room. Not wanting a huge fight (even though some part of her did), Cuddy gritted her teeth. Now was not the time to argue, and she knew that. So she simply said, "I was just trying –"

"And failed," House finished casually.

She grimaced. "I didn't –"

"He didn't do anything," Rachel said in a voice that was inexplicably clear. Normally in these situations – when she was upset or scared – she mumbled. But neither House nor Cuddy were confused by what Rachel had said. Her pronunciation had been perfect, her defense of House unquestionable.

And still Cuddy asked, "What did you say?"

Rachel must have felt she was in trouble, because this time she did mumble. "Didn't do nothing."

"Okay," Cuddy replied immediately despite her confusion. She'd been hoping she'd heard wrong. Obviously she hadn't, but she'd needed to hear Rachel say it again. And now that she had, Cuddy hated herself for it. House's smugness was nauseating.

With difficulty, she ignored it – him. Instead focusing all of her attention on Rachel, she said, "I'm just trying to understand why you're so upset. Mommy just wants to help you."

Her words must have touched something inside of Rachel, because instantly she reached for Cuddy. "Mama."

"Come here," Cuddy told her as she plucked Rachel off of House's lap.

No one resisted the move. House obviously wasn't going to protest, and Rachel easily settled in Cuddy's arms. With Rachel's face pressed into her chest, Cuddy expected to see House sprinting out of bed and out of the room. He hadn't said much, but he'd made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to be around.

Yet he didn't move at all.

Irritated Cuddy assumed that he wanted her to witness his sulking, wanted her to see how "upset" (quotation marks, because she doubted he actually cared) he was at her interpretation of Rachel's behavior. He wasn't staying, because he was interested in hearing what Rachel had to say. Cuddy didn't have the brain damage to even begin to think that.

No, he was staying here to prove a point.

A point Cuddy didn't give a damn about.

… Well, all right, she did. She did care. And she would apologize for her gaffe – just not right now. Rachel was the concern for the time being. She had to be. And as such, she was the one Cuddy chose to reassure.

Rocking her, she said, "So now we know who you dreamed about. Do you think you can tell Mommy what happened?"

"Don't wanna say."

"Why not?" House interjected, much to Cuddy's dismay. "You already copped to the embarrassing part… unless you dreamed about me being naked and then admitting that is the least of your problems."

Rachel scrunched her tiny nose up in disgust. "Ew," she whined, elongating the word for several seconds. "I didn't dream about you naked."

"Good," he replied. "Cause only Jenna Jameson is allowed to do that. And Mommy too when I'm willing to make the exception."

"House."

Cuddy was not pleased that he was mentioning a porn star in front of her daughter. She also wasn't thrilled at being ranked behind said porn star when it came to who had the right to imagine him being naked. But this wasn't personal (no matter what that voice inside of her was saying). This was about Rachel.

Not that she seemed to notice.

Squirming out of Cuddy's arms once more, she plopped herself back on top of House. "Rachel," Cuddy admonished. Again though, she was ignored.

"Are you trying to break my ribs?" House asked, shifting Rachel so her knees weren't digging into him.

Rachel didn't answer. Instead she said in a sing song voice, "I seen you naked already. Don't want to dream about it."

"I think we're all relieved to hear that," he replied.

At that moment, much to his chagrin and discomfort, Rachel chose to snuggle – snuggle – up next to him. Tucking her head underneath his chin, she was as close as she'd ever been to him. So near, she was making her previous attempt at being close to him seem distant.

Why she was doing this…

He had no idea.

She'd dreamed about him, okay. But that shouldn't have necessitated this. No nightmare should have required her to be this close to him. To her mother? Yes. Sure. Fine. If Rachel needed to hug someone, that was understandable, but then that was why she had a mother.

He was about to point this out, especially to Cuddy who was, of course, doing nothing. But Rachel spoke first. Her voice barely above a whisper, her breath hot on his skin, she confessed, "I had a dream about the shark."

He didn't understand at first. She'd used the words, the shark, like he was supposed to know what she was talking about. Sure, she wasn't anywhere near an expert on the English language. But if she'd meant to say she'd dreamed of a random fish, she would have said, "I dreamed of a shark." She'd said the, meaning this was a specific shark – one that he was supposed to be aware of.

It went without saying that he wasn't, aware that was. He had no idea what she was talking about. That wasn't his area of study. Infectious disease? Yes. Ichthyology? No. But she was expecting him to know what the hell she was talking about. And he wracked his brain for references that he and she would have, but the only thing that came to mind was…

Damn it.

In that instant, he knew what she was talking about. The words he'd said to Rachel suddenly began to echo in his mind, and like a train wreck he couldn't look away from, the events of this morning began to play before his eyes.

He had shown her his leg, his scar, and seeing its ugliness up close and personal, Rachel had assumed that something so horrible could only come from something equally terrible. Being five and not particularly imaginative, she'd come up with a shark bite, and not particularly concerned with Rachel's ability to understand, he'd let her think that.

For only a moment though.

The second it became clear that she actually believed him, he'd corrected her. He'd told her no.

"It looks like a shark bit you."

He rolled his eyes. "You know, that's exactly what happened."

Though it seemed impossible, her eyes became even wider. "Really?"

"No."

Recalling the moment easily, he knew he had put a stop to it; he had done the right thing.

All right… he could concede that perhaps the right thing would have been to never let Rachel think he'd been attacked. But she'd been thinking it anyway, and surely letting her believe it for a couple more seconds wasn't that wrong.

And yet he knew Cuddy would never see it that way. She would blame him. She would be furious, so it was a good thing she didn't want to get pregnant; by the time she was through neutering him, that wouldn't even be an option.

As though she could tell he was thinking about her, Cuddy asked him pointedly, "What is she talking about?"

He considered lying but only briefly. She would find out soon enough, so a lie would only make him look worse. It would just look like he'd tried to keep it from her or like he'd purposely created this situation.

On the latter count, he was completely innocent. Even if he'd wanted to mess with Rachel's head, he couldn't have had the power to dictate what her subconscious would do. He couldn't have predicted that she would dream the exact scenario he'd allowed her to believe. Whose subconscious even worked that way?

Rachel's did apparently.

And on the off chance that he was supposed to magically know this, he didn't want to answer Cuddy's question. So he did the mature thing and ignored her completely.

His attention on Rachel, he reminded her, "I told you that's not what happened."

Rachel pouted (as did Cuddy, he noted). "You said –"

"I said our conversation would be better if a great white gnawed my face off. I didn't say that it did happen."

She was unconvinced. "I saw your scar."

It was, in her mind, a counterpoint to his words. Using her logic, he could see as much; she had no idea what else could create such wounds. For her, it could only be a shark or a bear or some other huge animal or monster. She had no idea what an infarction was; that wasn't part of her vocabulary. And in her mind, if she'd seen the scar, then that was all the proof she needed to feel like she was right.

In his mind, her saying those words was all the proof he needed to know that Cuddy was going to kill him. They'd never had a discussion about his thigh – at least not in terms of how to handle it with Rachel. There'd never been a moment where Cuddy said keep it a secret or where he told her that he didn't want the kid to know.

Should they have?

For House, it was private. He wasn't… ashamed of it really. He wasn't hiding the truth from anyone, especially not from Rachel. But he'd also never considered it any of her business. And he wasn't sure where Cuddy landed on the matter.

To be honest, he was more ambivalent than anything else. He definitely didn't think it was something Rachel needed to know, didn't think that Cuddy had the right to divulge what was personal, but at the same time, he didn't want his girlfriend to view this part of him as something horrific. He wasn't ashamed, but if the woman he loved was or thought he was (or should be)…

He would.

And no matter how he felt, no matter how she felt, he didn't want to deal with that now. All he really wanted to do was sleep – not find himself knee deep in a conversation he wasn't prepared to have.

But there was no avoiding it, it seemed. Before he could even put a stop to the conversation, Cuddy interjected in confusion, "Rachel… I think maybe you're confusing what happened in your dream with what's real. House has never – I promise you – done anything with –"

"No, no, no!" Rachel practically screamed in frustration. "I'm not making it up!"

Cuddy gave her a dark look. "Don't yell at me, Rachel." Her voice was calm, nothing like the shrill tone House was used to when she was pissed at him. And unlike all of the times Cuddy had yelled at him, Rachel seemed to listen.

Taking a deep breath, she said in a whiny voice, "I'm not lying."

"I'm not saying you are," Cuddy replied in a firm but gentle manner.

"It really happened."

Cuddy shook her head. "I know you think it –"

"I saw his leg," Rachel insisted, her tiny fists pounding into House by accident. "I'm not making it up. He showed me."

Suddenly Cuddy understood. She hadn't before. Having been at work, she hadn't gotten a very clear picture of what had happened this morning. House and Rachel had told her snippets of events, some more troubling than others. But this was the first time Cuddy got an idea of the timeline for the hours she'd missed.

Quickly sequencing events, she thought that House must have fallen asleep after she'd left. And at some point, Rachel had woken up, wondered where her mother was, and sought House out. House had said that Rachel had accidentally touched his leg then, and Cuddy knew that as soon as that had happened, House had yelled. Rachel had been terrified, so she'd run outside – which had prompted the asthma attack. Since she was still alive, House obviously had given her her inhaler and made sure she was okay before sending her to change.

Cuddy knew, thanks to Rachel, that there'd been some sort of trouble doing that. And House, already on edge, had grabbed Rachel to help her change. Naturally that would have made things worse, made Rachel more afraid and House edgier and guiltier than he'd probably already felt. At that moment, he'd have realized that his actions would get back to Cuddy at some point; he'd have known that there was no escaping it, so he would have tried to apologize to Rachel. Rachel would have accepted, but she would have, no doubt, insisted that she'd done nothing wrong. And technically that would have been true; Cuddy had no doubts about her daughter intentionally hurting House. But for him, the pain would have been real nonetheless. The desire to explain his behavior would have been as well.

So he would have told Rachel about his thigh. She probably hadn't believed him, probably hadn't even thought it possible to hurt someone in the way she had. And that disbelief would have compelled him, as it apparently had, to show her the bane of his existence.

The rest of the morning was even clearer in Cuddy's head, thanks to the conversation she was witnessing. Rachel had obviously believed that a shark had bitten him. House being House had let her believe that. Since he was denying it now, Cuddy could only assume that that meant that he'd told Rachel the truth at some point along the way. Sure, Rachel had had a nightmare anyway, but Cuddy didn't doubt that House hadn't meant to cause this.

He simply wasn't that cruel.

If anything, he looked downright upset at the idea that he'd been the responsible party. And seeing that, Cuddy couldn't help but intervene. "Honey," she said maternally, her fingers carding through Rachel's messy hair. "House has never been bitten by –"

"But I saw it."

"I know," Cuddy replied quickly. "But he was sick. There was no shark."

Rachel looked back and forth between House and her mother. "But he said –"

"He was teasing you, baby. I promise you."

At that, Rachel looked angrily at House. "You –"

"I told you the truth," he said hastily.

She shook her head. "You didn't say you're sick."

"I'm not."

"But…." Her mouth closed shut. She wasn't sure what to say now. Mommy was saying there was no shark. That meant there was no shark. Mommy wouldn't lie. But then something had happened to House. Mommy had said that too. And House had said that his leg hurt sometimes, so that meant he was still hurt, and… so that must have meant he was sick. But he was saying he wasn't, and that didn't make any sense.

"Rachel," Cuddy said, seeing how confused her daughter was. "You need to understand: House was very, very ill. Doctors gave him medicine, and…."

She sighed. It was difficult enough trying to find the right words to make Rachel comprehend House's health. Granted, for a five year old, Rachel had a far better understanding of medicine than most of her peers. She'd spent enough time around doctors, in hospitals, and receiving treatment for her conditions that she knew more than she should have. She understood that there were diseases that required constant care. She had several of those illnesses.

She'd never experienced what House had though. Cuddy hoped she never would. That went without saying. But that lack of experience made it hard for Rachel to envision a situation where you could be healed but still in pain. In her world, you were either cured or you weren't or you were never going to be. House didn't fit into that tertiary. Rachel didn't understand that yet.

But honestly, trying to figure out the best explanation was easy compared to saying it in front of House. As hard as it would be to explain all of this to Rachel, Cuddy knew it would be harder to talk about House's health history in front of him. Not because he was ashamed or because she was, this would be harder simply because this was a history that they had both lived through.

This was something they'd both experienced.

There was an emotional history here that Cuddy didn't want to insult (or particularly relive). Even if it were possible to summarize what had happened in a few short sentences, part of her felt that it was wrong to do so. She shouldn't have been able to condense something that seemed to consume such a big, important part of their history and lives. She supposed for Rachel's sake that she had to. But the last thing she wanted was for House to think that she didn't take that aspect of him seriously.

He'd never accused her of glibness. He'd never done that. He'd come close – he'd accused her of plenty of other things – but he'd never actually gone there.

Thankfully.

Had he done so, she would have overlooked the insult implicit in the comment. Instead, she would have felt compelled to articulate just how awful his pain made her feel. Comments about her narcissism would have never stopped afterwards, but she would have said it anyway. Defensive though she could have been, she would have said it out of a desperate need for him to know that she loved him. She loved him so much that every day, every moment she saw him in pain, she felt horrible.

Guilty.

For her part in his current condition.

For denying him Vicodin on occasions when he'd needed it.

For letting him have the drugs until it nearly destroyed him.

For giving them to him at all.

For not being able to find some way to help his pain without harming him.

All that within her, no, she wasn't glib. There had been – and would be – moments where she struggled to understand, wavered with indecision when it came to making good medical choices for him. But she was never careless.

And it would have killed her to make him think, even for a second, that she was anything other than obsessed with doing the right thing for him.

But she guessed that was the risk she had to take. Rachel would never get it otherwise.

Clearing her throat, Cuddy continued, "And it took a long time to make him better. He was very sick. And because of that, even though we fixed what was wrong with him, his leg isn't going to get better. He's not sick now. He's just in pain."

Cuddy's eyes purposely searched Rachel's face; she didn't dare look at House. Rachel didn't really look like she understood though. Nevertheless Cuddy asked, "Do you understand?"

When Rachel spoke after a minute or so, her voice was hesitant, worried. "Is that going to happen to me?"

Cuddy shook her head in confusion. Surely she hadn't heard that right. "What? I… why would you think that?"

"You…" Rachel swallowed hard and shifted nervously. Her soaked underwear and pajama pants were clinging to her legs in what Cuddy could only assume was very uncomfortable. But that was not the reason Rachel was squirming about.

"I what?" Cuddy asked, wanting to end this conversation sooner rather than later.

"You say… 'It took a long time to make him better.'"

"I did. Yes."

"Well… I sick. You say to me I never get better. I always have needles." She sounded undeniably bitter about that fact, not that Cuddy could blame her. "So… does that mean it's gonna happen to me too?"

Nobody was answering. Sometimes that happened when she wasn't saying things right. But Rachel knew she was saying everything like she was supposed to. She'd made sure of it, cause she wanted Mommy to know what she was saying.

But nobody was saying anything.

Maybe that meant she'd asked a stupid question. But Rachel didn't think it was. House was sick for a long time. Mommy said to Rachel a long time ago that she would always need to get shots. She was gonna be sick for forever. That was a long time too! So Rachel didn't think she was being stupid.

Although… maybe she was being mean. She wasn't trying to be. Honest. But she didn't want to end up like House. She hadn't even touched him hard this morning, but she'd hurt him. She didn't want to be like that.

And his leg was ugly too. It was scary. The skin didn't look right; it reminded her of a raisin – all rippled and wrinkly, and Rachel wasn't so sure a shark hadn't been involved. What happened didn't really matter much though, cause she didn't want her leg to look like that.

No, she thought, changing her mind. That wasn't maybe mean. That was definitely mean. But when she was that way, Mommy always told her to be nice, and nobody was saying nothing.

So Rachel thought that must have meant she was right. Cause otherwise someone would have said no or something. And that made her afraid. "Mama?"

Cuddy didn't know what to say. Well, okay, she knew she needed to reassure Rachel. But Rachel's question had caught her off guard completely. And it was hard to find words when surprise rendered her speechless.

Of course, it wasn't lost on her that her silence was making Rachel panic. Cuddy could easily see the effect her inaction was having. But, in addition to her shock, she found herself debating what the right answer was.

Would Rachel absolutely end up like House? Of course not. Could she? Yes. And in fact her health made it more likely that she would suffer the same problem as House – far more likely. Her weight, her susceptibility to infection and disease, the likelihood that she would, at some point, have negative, even destructive, drug interactions – it all spelled out a person at risk. Having an infarction was just one of the many potential complications. Even if she never had the exact same medical problem as House, the result of another illness could create a situation just as dangerous.

And Cuddy didn't want to explain that truth, but she didn't want to lie either. Rachel was sick; she would always need some form of care. Lying to her about that or about any facet of her illness was wrong.

In the short term, Cuddy would agree that lying had its advantages; giving Rachel a date when or a promise that all of this would end would certainly make her more compliant now. Cuddy had seen plenty of parents who did that. But in the long term, not adequately preparing Rachel for her future would only backfire. At some point, Rachel would have to confront the ugly realities of her illnesses, and Cuddy didn't want Rachel to enter that moment unaware. For all of the parents she'd seen lie, she'd seen just as many instances where their lies had turned destructive.

She didn't want that for her daughter.

However, Cuddy wasn't sure she could be honest now.

Should she even try to be?

She never got a chance to answer that question. Before she could, House had made the choice for her.

"No," he said sternly. "That's not going to happen to you."

Rachel looked at him with reluctant relief. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." He was talking as though he had no doubt in his mind. He was lying.

Cuddy wasn't sure how to feel about that fact, so she said nothing. He didn't stay quiet though. Instead he explained, "I got really sick, because no one knew what was wrong with me. We know what's wrong with you."

Rachel considered his words before nodding her head. "Okay."

"You believe me?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

She nodded her head again. "Uh huh."

"Good." At that moment he looked to Cuddy as if to say, "We're done now. Put the kid to sleep."

But Rachel had other ideas. Rather than going away quietly, she confessed needlessly, "I dreamed you were attacked by a shark."

House replied dryly, "Yeah, I got that part."

"But you weren't bited by one." She said it as though she were making sure.

"Nope."

"And you can't be? Right?"

"Not unless I jump into the ocean wearing a suit made of fish heads, which, I gotta say, does have its appeal right now," he muttered in response.

His lack of enthusiasm went ignored.

Instead Rachel asked, "They can't get in?"

"No." Surely, he thought, a meteor could crash into his skull right now and spare him this conversation. Maybe a satellite falling out of the earth's orbit could do the job. But closing his eyes, as he waited for impact, he quickly realized he wasn't that lucky. And since Cuddy seemed to be incapable of helping, he knew that he would have to take care of this on his own.

"Know why?" he asked eventually.

"Uh…" Rachel thought about this long and hard, a fact that made House bang the back of his against the headboard a couple times. "Cause sharks don't have feet?"

Good enough, House decided. "That's exactly why."

But Rachel wasn't satisfied. "But couldn't they just walk on their fins like seals?"

This was precisely why he hated kids. "No."

By outright denying it though, he'd only encouraged her to keep talking. "You don't know that."

"I do too."

She was snotty when she replied, "Prove it."

He didn't need to accept the challenge. He was aware of that; he wasn't required to prove anything to a little kid. But he wasn't going to let her walk away thinking she'd bested him. "Fine. Sharks' bones are made of cartilage. Even if one could manipulate its fins, its skeleton wouldn't support all its weight on land."

"But –"

"I mean it. On land, Jaws is gonna be about as active as your Aunt Julia, meaning, unless your definition of 'active' is barely having the coordination and mental capacity to drool and wipe your own –"

"House."

He snorted at Cuddy's attempt to defend her sister. Like she didn't agree with him, he thought knowingly. Clearly she did; she had two eyes, so she must have. Anyone would have.

But he knew that this wasn't about Julia or her penchant for wielding her maternity leave and the poisoned fruit of her loins like weapons. He certainly would have preferred a conversation about the lawyer/mommy/fascist hybrid and her little pack of mouth breathers for children to the one he was having. However, he knew that wasn't going to happen. So he reluctantly got back on topic. "Besides, sharks need water to breathe. The thing could moonwalk out of the ocean, and it wouldn't matter."

Rachel nodded her head, satisfied. He wasn't sure why that was the tipping point, but apparently it was, and that was all that mattered to him. "Oh. Okay," she said after a moment.

Later on, in hindsight, he would note her relief. At that moment though, he missed it completely. He was too tired to notice it and maybe a little too annoyed as well. Whatever the cause, in that exact second, he took her response as dissatisfaction.

Sneering in reaction, he told her sarcastically, "Sorry to disappoint you. I know you came running in here hoping to find Mommy lying next to a really full shark but… didn't happen. Not gonna happen. So you'll just have to hope I accidentally drown in the bathtub, kid."

Did he really think she wanted him dead? Not really. She certainly didn't like him; she didn't care about him. He knew that much. But he also knew that she probably didn't have homicidal feelings in her toward him. Maybe she did; she could have, he supposed, but he was teasing her, not seriously telling her, "Better luck next time." He was just toying with her.

Rachel missed that point though. Her back suddenly becoming ramrod straight, she looked as though he'd slapped her. Her lips frowning, she told him in a hurt voice, "I don't want you to drown."

"Uh huh." He pretended to sound doubtful, not really paying attention to the effect he was having on her. Some part of him recognized that he should have been taking this seriously. But he just assumed that she was messing with him as he was her.

And then she said something he'd never expected her to say. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

His throat suddenly felt dry. His heart raced with realization, with fear. His mind tried to process what she was saying, what it meant, but this time he was the one who felt as though he'd been hit.

He might as well have been. He was stunned, the air knocked out of him. And though he needed to breathe, needed to respond, needed say something – anything – to blow past this instant, he couldn't. His mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide open, he couldn't do anything but look at her as though he'd never seen her before.

She didn't want anything to happen to him?

She was admitting implicitly that she cared about him?

It made no sense.

None.

Rachel cared – why should she? She shouldn't have; he'd never asked her to, and he'd never given her any reason to. No, she really shouldn't have been concerned for his wellbeing, and he was tempted to tell her that. Well, not so much tempted, he corrected, as much as he felt obligated to tell her that…

There were better people to care about.

But his mouth refused to speak those words.

Pushing her away seemed like the only good thing he could do, but House couldn't find it in himself to say or do that.

However, Rachel wasn't prepared to let him off that easily. "Why would you say that?" she demanded to know. Like he had an answer for that. "Why would –"

"Rachel."

Cuddy's voice was a welcome interruption. She hadn't been loud; to the contrary, she had spoken so quietly that he was surprised Rachel had heard her at all. But the kid must have, because as soon as her name had been uttered, her head jerked to look at Cuddy.

"It's very late," she explained in a soothing tone. "House knows you care about him very much." But the way Cuddy spoke made House think that she was just as surprised as he had been. Unlike him though, she was pleased and could barely contain it. "He's just… tired, baby. We all are. Aren't you feeling sleepy?" Rachel hesitantly nodded her head. "He's not thinking clearly right now."

House bristled at what she was saying, but Cuddy didn't care. He might not have liked her explanation, but by now, he would have realized that allowing her to intervene was the best way to resolve the situation at hand. And she wasn't going to apologize for something he only superficially despised.

"So," she said to Rachel, ignoring House's reaction. "Why don't you and I get you cleaned up and –"

"But," Rachel interrupted, clearly not liking the idea. "I –"

"Rachel," Cuddy told her gently. "It's late. It's bedtime. I promise you: House knows, and nothing's going to happen to him." She did her best to sound matter-of-fact without being condescending.

And she must have succeeded, because Rachel nodded her head. "Okay."

"All right," Cuddy said, getting out of bed. Waving at Rachel to join her, she added, "Let's go." She didn't bother to pay attention to House as Rachel got out of the bed. Cuddy didn't need to look to know that he was relieved.

And, truth be told, she wanted to give him his space. After all, if she was surprised that Rachel worried about House, then Cuddy couldn't imagine how he must have felt. Shock couldn't even begin to describe the emotion going through him, she thought. He was convinced – always so convinced – that he was disliked and unlikable that she was sure he was reeling right now.

Confused, terrified, and maybe (though he would never say this) a little happy, he needed time to sort this out. And though part of Cuddy wanted to help him through it, she understood that he needed to do this alone. She couldn't process this for him; he had to do that himself.

All she could do was give him the quiet space and time to do that.

That was much harder than she anticipated. Oh, taking care of Rachel was simple. They'd done this enough times that cleaning her up was down to a science. But it was difficult to pretend like House wasn't just a couple of rooms away, struggling to understand what had happened.

Rachel wasn't making it any easier. As Cuddy helped her into the bathtub, Rachel muttered, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Everybody has accidents," she said, kissing her daughter on the cheek. Cleaning her up, Cuddy added, "We'll just wash you, and then I'll change your sheets, and you can go back to sleep."

"No," Rachel muttered under breath quickly. "Mean… sorry I say that to House."

Cuddy stifled her desire to sigh. If she'd been hoping not to think about House, Rachel wasn't making that easy for her, no. But Cuddy knew that that wasn't Rachel's fault; this had happened to her as well, and the last thing Cuddy wanted her daughter to take away from this was that she should be apologetic for telling House how she felt.

"No, don't feel that way," Cuddy said. "I'm glad you told House that you care about him. You should tell him how you feel. He needs to hear that sometimes."

"He wasn't happy about it."

Cuddy shook her head. "He's just surprised, Rachel. He's not used to hearing you talk like that. Not about him anyway."

"I guess." Rachel wiggled her toes in the hot water as Cuddy washed her.

"You know that sometimes you're not very nice to him. When you say that you hate him, he believes you," she said knowingly. House would never admit that. Had she ever said that near him, he would have done everything he could to prove her wrong. But Cuddy knew the truth. He fully believed Rachel didn't like him or care about him. "So… he was surprised tonight. But it'll be okay. Everything will be just fine."

Cuddy wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. Truth be told, it shouldn't have been herself. Rachel admitting that she cared about House was the kind of thing Cuddy had assumed she could only dream about. She'd never expected that to actually happen. And now that it had, part of her was elated by the news, by the fact that there was some sort of bond between House and her daughter.

But at the moment, honestly, Cuddy mainly felt dread. She knew how House could be when his worldview was suddenly altered. She knew how he dealt with sudden outpourings of emotion, and she worried how he would deal with this. It wouldn't be good. She knew that much.

As though this weekend hadn't been difficult enough.

Of course, that made her sound resentful. And really… she wasn't. She loved House and willingly accepted and forgave his flaws. She just wished selflessly that he could understand how much he really was loved.

But he would probably never get that point. For reasons surpassing her understanding, unconditional love was something he couldn't comprehend.

Even when he was surrounded by it.

And now that he had heard Rachel say that she cared, Cuddy wasn't so sure that he would ever have a good reaction to it. But she didn't even consider telling Rachel that. Cuddy hated the idea of lying to her, but in this instance, the truth – or what could be the truth – was something Rachel didn't need to know.

And in the end, Cuddy's reassurances must have worked (on Rachel anyway). By the time she'd finished bathing and dressing Rachel and changing the bed sheets, Rachel was fast asleep. Her only noise a sigh of contentment as Cuddy tucked her in, she was sleeping as though nothing was even remotely wrong.

Only Cuddy herself seemed to be painfully aware of just how precarious things really were. And that reality brutally asserted itself the second she entered her bedroom once more.

Her eyes searching through the darkness, she instantly realized:

House was gone.

His dirty pajamas crumpled up on the floor in a ball, his dresser drawers open, he'd changed and left.

To be honest, Cuddy wasn't sure why she'd expected him to stick around after what had just happened. Looking at the situation now, she thought she should have seen this move coming. She should have known he would run away, their bed not large enough to give him the space he needed.

Nonetheless, she was surprised, shocked at how quickly he could be scared off. She would have liked to have had the opportunity to comfort him, to tell him that Rachel caring about him was a good thing. And Cuddy could see why he was afraid of having that moment, but she was still caught off guard at how fast the need to escape had hit him.

Hopefully, the need to return would seize hold of him just as quickly. That was all she could tell herself. As much as she wanted to go after him, she knew that it would no good. He would come back – and she had no doubt that he would come back – when he was ready.

Until then…

Sighing, Cuddy sat down at the foot of the bed. Her hand lightly running along his side of the mattress, she thought, with dismay, that the covers had already turned cold. Whatever warmth his body had provided was long gone… as she supposed was he.

Closing her eyes, she sighed again. She knew she should try to get some sleep, but she doubted she would be able to. Cliché and pathetic though it was, after years of sleeping next to House, it was difficult for her to do so without him. But right now, she didn't exactly have a choice, did she?

She might have wanted him here; she might have needed him here. But that didn't matter. It didn't change anything.

He was gone.

And there was no telling when he would be back.

To be continued