AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to my temporary beta, Animagus-Steph. She did a fantastic job!

DEDICATION: Okay, let's see here . . . I'd like to dedicate this chapter to fisharecoolies, for her regular awesome reviews; Ninavs2, Kayleighbough and Evangelina Lilly for being three of the earliest and most recurrent reviewers I've had; and to my nephew, Zachary, who I've recently discovered is my inspiration for Jake. If he only knew . . . ;-)

House lay wide awake in Cameron's bed, thoughts of the evening playing in his mind with amazing force. Even though they had come to the conclusion that it wasn't just about the sex, they had ended up kissing less than a minute later. And two minutes after that, they had stumbled into her bedroom, House popping two vicodin along the way. Over the month that they'd been engaging in this thing, this had become par for the course. But last night had been entirely different.

Rather than the unrelenting, crashing kisses, their lips and tongues had joined in slow, tender movements. Instead of the urgent, frenzied thrusts, their bodies had moved purposefully, evocatively. Rather than insistent, hungry stares, their eyes had met in challenging, tender looks. It really wasn't just sex anymore.

If he was honest with himself, he would have admitted that the change had been more gradual. But he wasn't ready to be honest with himself. And he definitely wasn't ready to wrap his mind around the idea that it wasn't just sex anymore. He didn't know if he ever would be.

So he pushed aside the warm, tender feeling that struck him deep at the feel of Cameron's head resting on his chest. He ignored his desire to reach out and twist one of her silky strands of hair around his pointer finger. And he evaded the thought that he actually enjoyed having her in his arms.

Instead, he gently raised her head and placed it on the pillow beside his own, and then carefully pushed himself out of the bed.

By the time she awoke, he was halfway across New Jersey, attempting to make sense of the thoughts that were rushing through his mind.

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House was exhausted. Since the night that he'd had the fight with Cameron – and single-handedly quelled the flood of Egypt emanating from her toilet – he'd been haunted by thoughts and memories. It was even worse than in the few weeks prior to the incident. At least then, he'd been able to get to sleep after a tumbler of scotch or an assault on his piano. Now every time he tried to close his eyes, the kid's accusing stare popped into place behind his eyelids. And in the instances when he could successfully push the image away, it would be quickly replaced by the picture of Cameron's smoldering gaze. And then his thoughts would head on down to her lips . . .At which point he would be overwhelmed with several emotions, none of which he felt like owning up to.

So he had decided to focus on the kid's accusing stare. Tossing and turning had become a given.

Add to that the fact that his latest case was turning out to be even more of a headache than he'd first gambled for. He'd spent the better part of the previous day beating his tennis ball against the wall of his office, running through the list of possible diagnoses in his mind. Nothing seemed to fit, and it was driving him nuts. Finally, at the very end of the day, Pinky and the Brain had announced a positive test result for tuberculosis. It had fit the symptoms. So the patient's bickering parents had been notified, he had been started on meds, and House had gone home. To toss and turn.

Now he was two hours late for work, and endeavoring to avoid Cuddy and her endless platitudes about how good doctors show up to work on time. And do clinic duty.

Unfortunately, Cuddy had gotten good at anticipating her employee's moves.

"You're late," she said as he stepped into his office, closely flanked by his two lackeys.

"I'm sorry," House replied, shooting her a faux apologetic look while snapping his fingers in a 'gosh darn' play of witticism. "I forgot we were having a party. Did you want me to go home and get the chips and dip?"

"I want you to be here on time," she replied, rolling her eyes. "We've been paging you all morning."

"Yeah, I turned that off," he replied, taking a seat and propping his feet up on the conference table. "It kept beeping." Truth be told, he had left it in Wilson's office the day before.

Cuddy sighed and gritted her teeth in irritation. "Your patient has gotten worse," she informed him.

House raised his brows. "Do you hear something?" he asked his team. "It sounds almost like that weird phone static."

Cuddy rolled her eyes in annoyance, but a concerned Foreman spoke before she could say anything in response. "He's developed two more symptoms," he said, stepping beside Cuddy. "Hallucinations --"

House's brow knitted. "That's not conducive with TB," he stated.

"– And blood in the urine," Foreman continued. "His kidneys are failing."

The news magnified the contemplative concern reflected in House's eyes, and suddenly his muscles appeared to tense. Dropping his feet to the ground, he pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed his cane, limping to the whiteboard. "His kidneys weren't failing yesterday," he stated, studying the whiteboard. "And if it was just TB, the meds would have stopped it from happening today."

"You think you messed up the results?" Cuddy asked, furrowing her brow.

"I'm sorry," House replied, shooting her an exaggerated look of surprise (mixed with annoyance). "Are you still here?"

"His parents are threatening to sue," Cuddy stated, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want to make sure you don't screw up."

"Too bad I can't diagnose their son," House replied, placing the marker back on its ledge and crossing his own arms over his chest.

Cuddy shot him a look of disbelief. "Work on the case, House."

"I work better when the big-breasted dragon's not breathing fire down my neck," House stated. "Unless, of course, you want the kid to –"

"Fine," the administrator snapped, glaring at her employee. "But I want a report on my desk by the end of the day." With that, she turned on her high heels and stalked out of the room.

When she was gone, House turned back to the whiteboard with set jaw. "TB weakens the immune system, leading the way for other infections and diseases," he stated. "Even if we didn't screw up the results, it's possible that something else is going on. What?"

"Legionnaires'?" Foreman queried, taking a seat and arching a brow. "He's only six, but it is possible."

House appeared to think about it. "Is it hallucinations or delirium?" he demanded.

"Hallucinations," Chase spoke up. "He thinks his father's girlfriend is in the room with him."

"That must make mommy real happy," House grumbled, before narrowing his eyes in thought. Legionnaires' was more likely to cause delirium, but it required fairly simple tests and they were running out of ideas. "Okay," he said, writing the disease on the board. "Give him a sputum culture and an antibody test to check for Legionnaires'." Then: "What else?"

"What about Reye's Syndrome?" Chase pondered from his vantage point by the coffeepot. "It's more likely to happen to a six-year old."

"Has he had chicken pox recently?" House asked, glancing at the Australian.

He flipped through the chart. "Yeah, actually," he said, looking up at House.

"We'll start with that then. Ask mommy and daddy if they gave him aspirin," House replied, jotting Reye's Syndrome onto the board. He paused. "On second thought, don't ask them anything. They're probably too busy trying to sue us to worry about their son. Just redraw his blood and give him another CT scan." He turned to Foreman. "I need you to break into his house. See if there's anything unusual that might cause these symptoms."

"My car's in the shop," the neurologist stated. "Chase drove me to work."

"Then steal one," House returned, glaring at his fellow. "Just get it done."

MDMDMDMD

House sat in his darkened office, leaning back in his leather chair as rock music blasted its way into his ears via his headphones. They had finally figured out what was wrong with Wilson's patient. But now that he didn't have a distraction, the thoughts of the previous weeks came flooding back to him. The return of Stacy, the discovery of Mark. The affair, the departure, the emptiness that followed. Moriarty. And the return of the pain in his leg.

The pain was becoming overwhelming.

So he had retreated to his darkened office, attempting to drown the thoughts and the pain with incredibly loud music. So far, it was having a marginal effect. His mind was just wandering to his lockbox at home when his office door suddenly swung open and in walked Cameron – the lucky winner of the short straw. House took off his headphones and arched his brow.

"The treatment isn't working," she stated, striding up to his desk. "The patient's kidneys are failing him."

House furrowed his brow and dropped his headphones onto his desk. "Barmah Forest Virus doesn't cause kidney failure," he stated, naming the mosquito-borne virus they'd assumed the patient had picked up on his recent trip to Australia.

"Exactly," Cameron said, crossing her arms over her chest. "We got the wrong disease."

But everything had fit. House narrowed his eyes in baffled contemplation. "What else could it be?" he pondered aloud.

"What about Cryoglobulinemia?" Cameron questioned. "It could present itself along with Barmah Forest Virus."

It was a testament to just how much his leg was killing him that House didn't mock the diagnosis. "Fine," he said. "Test him. And while you're at it, check him again for Barmah Forest and lupus."

"All right," Cameron agreed. Then – because she, too, had noticed his leg pain – she said: "Is your leg okay?"

"It's fine," House replied, a bit snappish. "Go test the patient."

Cameron tucked her lips and raised her eyebrows. "Okay," she said, and then turned and left.

The moment she was gone, House grabbed his cane and began hitting his tennis ball in a measured assault against his office wall.

MDMDMDMD

Four hours later, they had made two discoveries. It wasn't Reye's and the antibiotic combination therapy prescribed for the tuberculosis still wasn't working. House had ordered (demanded) more intensive meds for the TB, and a fluid replacement program for the more immediate kidney failure. Afterwards, he had holed himself up in his office, repeatedly throwing his tennis ball against the wall with the use of his cane. Every time the ball whacked against the wall, he was reminded that he was that much further away from figuring out what the hell was ailing this kid.

Unfortunately, his thought processes were impeded by the image of his kid's accusing blue eyed stare. Among other things. Every time he felt that he was on the verge of a major brainstorm, the image kept popping into his mind. Finally, after an hour of marking repeated assault on his office wall, he had gotten fed up with the rampant circles his deliberation seemed to be taking and allowed the ball to drop to the floor.

And had somehow found himself standing in the nursery, clutching a bag of french fries (purchased from the cafeteria and generously paid for by an unsuspecting Wilson) and seeking out the kid.

He spotted him almost immediately. Standing at the side of the room with a truck clutched in his small fist, a look of – triumph? – spreading across his chubby face. Nearby was a screaming toddler and Medusa herself, who appeared to be shooting the kid a disapproving glare. House narrowed his eyes at the look, but didn't have much time to contemplate where it had come from. Almost as soon as he had stepped inside, Jake dropped the truck and came running up to his father on shaky toddler legs. "Dada!" the little boy cried, a grin lighting up his face.

At his delighted expression, a weight seemed to lift from House's chest, to be replaced by an increasingly familiar warmth. "French fry?" he asked him, taking out a golden potato and handing it to the child.

The little boy's grin widened. "Dank you," he said, grabbing the treat and stuffing it into his mouth. House smirked, making a mental note that the way to the kid's heart was through fried potatoes. It was definitely cheaper than sports cars.

Unfortunately, the father/son moment came to an abrupt end when Medusa – er, Miss Natalie – came stalking over. "Dr. House?" she queried, her mouth set in a firm line.

House exhaled in annoyance, but turned toward the teacher. "No, actually," he said flippantly. "I'm the new intern. Rodrigo."

The strict look in Miss Natalie's eyes became clouded with confusion. "You're Jake's father, aren't you?"

House sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Actually, that was a vicious rumor started to hide the fact that he was fathered by an ex-convict." He leaned toward her conspiratorially, as Jake wandered off in another direction. "His mother has these odd tendencies . . ."

"Clearly," replied Miss Natalie dryly, causing House to narrow his eyes once again. Then: "I need to speak with you about your son."

"What about him?" The diagnostician asked in irritation, glancing around the room for the wayward toddler. He seemed to have disappeared.

Miss Natalie cut right to the point. "He's a brat," she said. She opened her mouth to say more, but House cut in.

"And you're a harpy," he returned, glaring at her. "What's your point?"

"My point," Miss Natalie continued, an affronted blush appearing on her cheeks. "Is that he isn't behaving. He's willful, he's defiant, he's rude to other children, he –"

"He's not even two," House interrupted, his irritation growing. "What do you expect?"

"I expect him to behave," Miss Natalie snapped, her lips pursed.

"And I expect you to be able to handle a baby," House returned. "But you can't always get what you want." (At this point, the kid toddled over with a book clamped in his chubby fist.)

Miss Natalie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Dr. House, I –"

But House cut her off once again. "If you don't mind, I was in the middle of bribing my son." He shook the bag of french fries at the teacher just as Jake started beating his left leg with the book. ("Story?")

"No wonder he's such a well-adjusted child," the woman grumbled, shooting a look of disgruntlement at both father and son before turning on her heel and stalking into her office.

House watched her go, his jaw working as he thought of several other well-placed remarks he'd like to send her way. But then it dawned on him that the kid was still beating his leg with the book. "You're a pest, you know that?" House asked him, grabbing the book out of his grasp.

"Story?" Jake asked, fixing his father with hopeful blue eyes.

"I don't do stories," he said hesitantly, placing the book on top of a nearby plastic table. Which gave him an excuse not to look at those eyes.

But Jake would not be deterred. "Story," he demanded, toddling up to the table and grabbing the book.

"No story," House said, beginning to regret his decision to come to the nursery in the first place.

"Story!" Jake demanded again, holding the book out to his father.

House sighed in annoyance, wondering not for the first time where the kid had gotten his streak of stubbornness. "No story," he repeated, firmer in tone.

Unfortunately, the word 'no,' coupled with the firm tone seemed to have a negative effect. Upon hearing it, Jake's lower lip jutted out and began to tremble, and his eyes filled with unshed tears. Within seconds, House was the victim of the same look that had haunted him for the past two days. A pang reverberated in his chest at the sight, and he placed his fingertips to his forehead.

"Story," Jake said miserably, holding the book out to his father as the tears pooled in his eyes.

House sighed heavily. "Fine," he grumbled, grabbing the soft-cover and taking a seat in a nearby chair. "But just a little."

"Little?" the child repeated with innocent eyes, the tears already forgotten.

House couldn't help but smirk and shake his head. But then something odd happened, and the smirk left the diagnostician's lips. Jake grabbed hold of his father's left knee and hoisted himself into House's lap. Oddly enough, he seemed to be taking care not to rattle the diagnostician's bad leg.

The effect this had on House's mood was tangible. At the feel of his son on his lap, a variety of emotions flooded through him almost simultaneously. The amused annoyance was replaced first by a jolt of bewilderment, which tapered off into surprise. Then a gradual feeling of endearment. And finally an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. The smirk returned to House's lips. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you?" he asked his son.

Jake craned his neck back to look up at his father with wide, innocent eyes. "Story?"

House snorted and rolled his eyes, but opened the book and started to read.

MDMDMDMD

In the four days since their last night together, Cameron had been making regular attempts to get a hold of House. She had made repeated calls to both his cell and home phone – during which she had decided that she would force him to change his answering machine message under threat of death – and had even gone to his house twice. But the shades had been drawn, the lights had been off, and no one had answered the door. He appeared to have fallen off the face of the earth.

At first, she had figured that he needed the time to think. She sure as hell did. Things between them had gotten so intense, it was becoming hard to remember to breathe. But four days? With no contact? At the very least, he could have answered one of her calls and let her know that he was all right. If he was out of town, he would have at least brought his cell phone.

Which left Cameron in serious emotional turmoil. Had he taken off to get away from her? Did he regret his proclamation that it wasn't just about the sex? Had he decided to just end things? If he had, she wished he'd just tell her and let her deal with it. She was beginning to feel like she was dangling from a string.

And then something else had occurred to her. She was late. By three days.

In the six weeks they had been having sex, they had been so careful.

But she was never late.

The realization had been enough to knock her already tumultuous emotions into full overdrive. If she was . . . But she wouldn't let herself go there. Not yet. Instead, she purchased one of those EPT gadgets – it would have been too risky to get it done at the hospital – and now she was pacing the length of her living room, wringing her hands to keep them from shaking as a cluster of butterflies fluttered throughout her stomach.

She felt like she was going to be ill.

In fact, by the time the results were ready, she was experiencing full waves of nausea. She took the test three times just to be sure. And on the third time, when she could no longer deny what she saw, she rushed to the toilet and dry heaved as a slew of memories battled their way into her mind.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: What I am about to show you is for entertainment purposes only. This in no way meant to reflect reality (or fiction) on the show or otherwise. (It is simply mocking the recurrent joke.)

Me: (Walking around the set) Strangely, Foreman seems to have disappeared directly after his scene with House. I have recently received reports that he might be in the back lot, so we're headed there now.

We step out into the back lot and immediately spot Foreman, who is doing something odd to a car. Is he . . . trying to jack open the door?

Me: There you are, Foreman!

Foreman: (shooting up like lightening and dropping his crowbar; there is a large clattering of metal on cement) What up?

Me: Uh, Foreman, what are you doing?

Foreman: Nothin'. (he crosses his arms over his chest and adopts an impassive expression)

Me: Uh-huh. Did you know that there have been several reports about attempted car robberies in the neighborhood?

Foreman: Nuh-uh. Brother don't know nothin' 'bout dat. He on the down low.

Me: Uh, okay. Listen, do you remember what we talked about?

Foreman: Hells yeah. (turns to you all whilst sirens blare in the background) Get busy writing reviews, all. This lady here die for dat. Mmhmmm, you best believe it. She write 24/7 if ya'll just leave reviews. Ohh yeah. Mmmhmmm. She write like a mothah.

Me: Thanks, Foreman.

I smile and walk away. The second I'm gone, Foreman discreetly looks both ways before picking up the crowbar and going back to work.

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