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Chapter 43

Cuddy wakes up from a slumber on her couch. It's another Friday night at her house. She's twenty-nine weeks pregnant and tired a lot. Her eyelids feel like lead, so she decides to keep them shut for a little longer.

Someone is talking. A low rumbling sound emanates from a little further down the couch, very close to her.

It's House. It takes her a moment to realize he's talking to her bump.

She tries to remain still and breathe evenly.

"It's a shitty world out here. You'll be shocked by how cold it is. Right now, you have a nice, constant ninety-eight point some in there. The air in the delivery room will be around 75. And you'll be wet, so it's gonna be a real b-word. All capital letters. And breathing on your own will be tough. It won't hurt, but maybe burn a bit and be difficult in the beginning. And then gravity. You probably don't want me to get started on that… you're all floaty now, but this world really has the knack of pulling you down."

He pauses for a moment, and Cuddy worries he might have detected her state of wake.

After a minute or so, he continues, however. "But there'll be hands there, holding you up. And really soft and warm blankets. And your mom's cooing, and her arms, and her smile." A gentle warmth enters his voice, and Cuddy needs to remind herself to continue breathing. "She'll make it all better." Then a playful tone enters his musings. "She has boobies, too, you know? Which she'll let you suckle on." She hears the smirk in his voice. "So, it won't all be bad."

Cuddy bites back her laugh, but the act doesn't go unnoticed by House. She opens her eyes, a smile beginning to form on her lips, but it dies down quickly upon seeing his expression.

He sits sideways in front of the couch, his shoulder leaning against the cushions at the level of her hips. His upper body is angled towards her and the baby, and he probably assumed he'd catch the moment she woke up. His face is a mixture of utter shame and revulsion, and he immediately starts to scramble to his feet.

"House!" she protests against his retreat, confused by his severe reaction. "House, wait!" He is already on his feet and grabbing his cane. "I wasn't laughing at you." She is unsure what exactly made him this upset. She pushes her upper body up and half rolls, half scoots herself off the couch. "House, talk to me!"

He is almost out of the room and not looking back.

She takes four or five quick steps after him when her vision gets blurry. 'Shit,' she curses inwardly. She got up too hastily. Her blood pressure is too low because of the baby, and her brain is not getting enough oxygen. "House?" She stops in her tracks and tries to blink away the dark blotches in front of her eyes. Her breath becomes labored as she starts to panic. She's standing in the middle of the room with nothing close by to lean against or hold onto. "House?" she breathes again. If her legs give out and she falls… She can barely see anything anymore, and her arms instinctively go out to try and find something to hold onto.

Suddenly, he's there, right by her side. His left arm drapes around her lower back, and he bends down a little before he scoops her up in his arms, his right arm supporting her beneath the kneecaps. With great difficulty he limps the few steps over to the couch and flops her down rather unceremoniously, his right leg unable to bend with the weight of her on top of his own.

She remains conscious and covers her eyes with one hand, waiting for the blackness to subside. His breathing is heavy. She feels her legs being lifted, and he crashes onto the couch with a small grunt, settling her feet in his lap. He grabs a couple of pillows and stuffs them under her calves so that they are elevated, and her blood will flow back to her brain.

When she doesn't feel like passing out any longer, she removes her hand and looks at him. His face is contorted in a grimace; his right palm is pressed against his thigh, trying to rub out his pain. She feels awful. "I'm sorry."

He keeps his eyes straight ahead and gives a brief shake of the head. "You weigh a ton," he accuses, but not in a menacing way. "You should cut back on those frozen yoghurt swirl buckets you chow down every night."

She knows it's the pain talking and doesn't take offence. "Well, if you hadn't fled from the room like a felon from the crime scene…" she argues back.

His eyes drop to the ground, and the embarrassment she saw earlier creeps back into his expression.

She still has no idea what went wrong, and the option of talking about it obviously freaks him out, so she tries a different approach. "House, whatever your parents did, whatever happened at your home… I don't know if you were mocked or-or punished, even… It's not going to happen here. When you show affection to Rachel or me or the little one… it will be met with affection, not ridicule." She keeps her eyes on him, but he refuses to meet her gaze. "I want you to talk to your son! You don't have to wait for me to be asleep in order to do that."

He scrunches his nose a little. "Easy for you to say. You have him to yourself all the time."

"Fine," she shrugs, "I'll talk to him in front of you, too."

He briefly raises his brows. "As long as you don't start singing," he mocks her, but his tension has ebbed off slightly and his tone is lighter.

"You're just saying that to get me to sing," she banters.

"No, I don't."

She smirks and nudges his elbow with her foot. "I know you like hearing it. Deny it all you want."

He takes her foot in his left hand and applies pressure to the sole with his thumb. His right hand is still pressed to his thigh.

The mixture of pain and relief in her tendons makes her jolt a little. She hadn't quite realized how tense her feet were. "Do you want me to rub you leg?" She is aware of the futility of the attempt, but she wants to make the offer nevertheless. He rarely let her touch his thigh even when they were dating.

He shakes his head and silently continues to massage her foot.