A/N: This is kinda short. And pointless. But fuck, this whole story is pointless, isn't it?

To all the readers of Stumble, I'd like to apologize for that fiasco of a last chapter I posted a few days ago. It just sucks. I make the same mistakes over and over again. Fucking self-indulgence of my sap-fetish that obliterates the canon characters. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have written it that way. I shouldn't have posted it.

I should just quit writing. There isn't any fucking point.

Please read and review. If it sucks, tell me why. I like to feel worthless.

Chapter 2

When House woke up, an infomercial about an instant hair removal product was on TV. It was still dark, but the kitchen light and lamp were on, just as he'd left them. He squinted around groggily, peered at Wilson's watch. 4:23. He was surprised the baby hadn't woken up again hours ago. They typically got hungry every three hours at this age. He blinked and looked at her. She slept on in that seductively adorable way that babies boasted. He turned his head carefully and looked at James, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. House smiled.

"So that's where you get it from," he murmured to Wendy. He didn't want to wake James – or the baby, for that matter. But he didn't know how long he could sleep on the couch before giving himself cramped muscles and a numb ass. On the other hand, he hadn't had such a warm sleep since Stacy had been around.

Wilson shifted against him. The baby's lips were puckered and kissable, shiny with drool. Her breaths made the faintest sound through her nose that House was somehow aware of. He looked back to the TV's quiet babble and sighed. What a mess, he pondered, shaking his head. What a mess he'd gotten himself into.

But if things continued like this – warm and close and constant – he thought he could manage somehow. He didn't know how he would juggle work and Wendy or how Wilson would tiptoe around his wife or how they would keep this a secret forever, but he figured he had time to sort it all out. Why burden himself now when he didn't have to deal with it yet? All he had to think about now was what sort of nursery he would set up and how well he could take care of her on his own, when Wilson was away.

He knew Wilson. He had seen the look on his face. Wilson was in love. And that meant he wouldn't be too patient, he wouldn't be able to stand long periods away from his new, one-true-love. It meant his days as Julie's husband were numbered. House wanted to laugh. She would think he was having another affair. Wait 'til she found out about this. He could picture her face – priceless.

Julie was okay, he guessed. He had never disliked her more than he disliked 99 percent of the human race. But Julie, like all of Wilson's wives and girlfriends, always ended up making James unhappy – stressed out, frustrated, and lonely. He didn't like it. Maybe he had nothing against the women themselves, but he didn't like to see James unhappy. And by now, Julie had definitely reached that stage, however unintentionally. He bet James made her unhappy too. The marriage wasn't good for either of them, and House was glad it would take lesser time to dissolve now. It wouldn't be pretty, though. He knew it would be much harder on Wilson now than if Wendy had never come into the picture. He made a mental note to be extra-supportive and cut back on the snark.

He had beat Julie. He grinned, mind bouncing off of the humane mental note and to this one. He had just unofficially beat Mrs. Wilson. He and Wendy. House chuckled to himself. He wasn't trying to be mean. He just found it amusing. This is what was going to make James happy again, perhaps for good – this insane arrangement that they had just spontaneously created. There was no way Julie could make up for it now. She was beat. The marriage was beat. And any other woman Wilson was currently seeing was beat too. Old Man Cripple and Baby Cakes had kicked ass. House laughed.

Wilson stirred, stretched, opened one eye at a time. He looked at House sleepily. House grinned.

"What's funny?" James whispered. House shook his head and told him it was nothing.

"God, what time it is?" James said, squinting at his watch and scratching his head. House suddenly missed the warmth on his shoulder but didn't say any thing. "4:45?" Wilson groaned.

"So what?" said House. "Go back to sleep."

It was gentle and unlike him. Wilson rubbed his eye and wanted to smile.

"I should go home," he said.

"Why?"

Wilson shrugged. "I can't sleep on your couch forever."

"Yes, you can. You have a thousand nights before. And what are you going home to anyway?"

"My bed."

House rolled his eyes and looked at the baby. Wilson did too.

"She didn't wake up again, huh?" he said. House shook his head.

"Nope. She's a good kid. You're lucky that genetics work the way they do."

Wilson grinned. "You know, you really haven't given Cherie any credit."

"Mommy isn't here anymore," said House. "She dumped her life on us. We get all the credit."

Wilson shook his head this time but made no verbal protest.

"I'm gonna go," he said. "I need to think about this."

"You're leaving me with your kid?"

Wilson gave a rueful smile. "It won't be the first time."

"I know. But you don't have to now. Stay."

House didn't try hard to sound demanding rather than pleading. He just wanted Wilson's company, despite Wendy's presence and the TV. It tugged at Wilson's lips. He held out his arms. House eyed him both gladly and reluctantly. He finally shifted out of his position, giving the baby to Wilson and trying hard not to wake her, but she stirred nonetheless. Wilson hushed her whining, tentative about holding her. It was his first time. That tug at his lips came again. House averted his gaze and gave him privacy, stretching as much as the couch and the coffee table allowed, trying to get up. He grunted once he was on his feet, picking up his cane and shutting off the TV. Wendy fussed despite Wilson's soothing.

"I think she's hungry again," he said.

"Probably needs a change, too," House added, limping stiffly into the kitchen. "I'll make her another bottle. Here." He handed the unopened diaper bag to Wilson, along with the wipes. "Take her into the guest bathroom. I won't be long."

Wilson didn't bother replying. He turned and struggled toward the right hallway, trying to hold Wendy, bag, and plastic can. House scratched his head and turned on the stove.

Once changed, Wendy didn't fuss as much, but she stayed awake and hungry. Wilson waited on House's bed, too scared to let her lie flat for some reason he didn't know and held her instead. He had lived through the first diaper. It hadn't been that bad. Maybe he could do this.

"All right, kid." House limped in, bottle in hand. "This better last you another three or four hours. It's a Saturday, and I need to sleep in."

He handed Wilson the bottle and let him feed her for the first time, while he plopped on the bed next to the oncologist. This was a night of firsts. She drank silently, and Wilson blinked at her in admiration.

"Still want to take her nun land?" House asked. Wilson grinned. House sighed.

"I want to go back to sleep," he griped. Wilson didn't need to voice his agreement.

"I guess I'll go back down to my couch once she's through," he said. "Should I put her back in the carrier?"

"You can have half the bed," said House. "You move around much?"

"No," said Wilson, tug moving to his heart now, while faint surprise touched his face.

"Good. Neither do I."

They ended up sleeping in House's bed, baby between them and content enough that she didn't wake until after House did around 8:30. Relief tingled in him when he found that nothing had happened to her, and he wondered at how he was already growing attached. Or maybe it was just his doctor's instincts. He watched Wilson sleep behind her, watched them both at the same time. Maybe not.

He let Wilson sleep with his baby, while he returned to the kitchen and put on some coffee, turned on the morning news. He could get used to this, he realized, as disturbing for him as that was. He shouldn't want to, but he did. He'd never tell. Over his dead body. He watched the news without really listening to it and sipped his coffee. For a brief moment, a desire to never go back to work passed through him. He was really losing it. He popped some Vicodin.

Saturday. Usually, he spent it alone, eating cereal around noon and watching cartoons or wrestling. He'd look over his latest case, play some piano, run to the grocery store, pay off any bills he had lying around. Petty stuff. But not today. Today, he had nursery shopping with Wilson. God. His life had come to this. He thought that maybe they could go out to brunch in an hour or two, once Wilson and Wendy were set. He realized they needed to buy a stroller, too, and more baby clothes.

He realized he was a man with a corvette and a baby.

He shook his head. They better take Wilson's car today.

He looked at the clock. 9:28. He set his empty mug on the counter and hobbled back to his bedroom. Wilson and Wendy hadn't moved from where he'd left them and still looked just as peaceful and sweet. He stopped and looked for a while, sighed. He didn't want to wake them up, but at the same time, brunch and shopping awaited. He also knew James didn't like to sleep in too late, which meant past eleven. He limped over to Wilson's side of the bed, stopped again. He watched Wilson's form rise and fall with his breaths, the curve of his shoulder and his neck, his mussed hair. His hand was near Wendy's.

"James," House whispered. His hand touched Wilson's shoulder. "James."

"Mm," Wilson sounded.

"Come on. It's almost ten."

Wilson shifted, peered at House through one, bleary eye. He turned back again.

"Okay. Hold on," he said. House straightened, wanted to shake his head. Apparently, his bed was magic.

Wilson waited another five minutes before moving again and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He rolled onto his back and stared up at House, then at Wendy.

"Guess we didn't crush her," he said.

"We're the best," said House.

"Ten?"

"Yup. Right about now."

Wilson half-groaned as he sat up, rubbed his face and the back of his neck.

"So eager to shop?" he asked, bemused. House was turning into a woman, and it was hilarious.

"I thought we'd get something to eat first – better than Lucky Charms."

Wilson grinned. "Okay. But I need a shower. You got any clothes I could borrow?"

House opened up a dresser drawer and threw an old T-shirt at him, one of the many he owned. This one was faded black, standard for House, and read The Who. Wilson thanked him and eased out of bed, careful not disturb his princess. He quirked a strange smile at his own thoughts. His princess? He'd never thought that about a woman before…

"Got some jeans, too," said House, as Wilson went into the bathroom. "One of my many cloned pairs."

He sat on the bed, mattress still warm from Wilson's body and imprint left on the cover. He watched Wendy sleep as the sound of the shower sprung to life, sounding distant. She was a pretty thing. She would be gorgeous one day, a knockout in heels with Wilson's winning smile. And Wilson's eyes. The more and more he thought about Wendy, the more her anonymous mother faded from the picture. This was Wilson's baby. Even less than twenty-four hours since she'd appeared, she was Wilson's. Even if Wilson didn't feel it yet. And House supposed, somewhere in a deep cavern of his heart, that she was his, too. He would never say so because it was unlike him and because it would seem vain – but if he was going to keep her here, at his place, until further notice and take half of the responsibility for her, alongside Wilson, then he probably wasn't blowing things out of proportion by feeling entitled to her.

The shower blasted steadily, and Wilson didn't make a sound. House blinked away from his thoughts and looked again at Wendy. She slept without a care in the world, familiar eyes shut and lips puckered and chest moving and feet still in her pink socks. House almost smiled at them – those little feet. He had to admit that they were cute. He reached out and drew the blanket over her, but she didn't wake. The water silenced. He heard the pop of the shower door and Wilson's wet footsteps.

What would she really be like – this baby? Who would she grow up to be? What would she think and what would she like? Would she like him? Would she talk to him? Would she ask him questions about life and medicine and her mother? Would she like spending time with him? What would her laugh sound like? Would she – love him?

He shook the thoughts from his brain. He was getting way ahead of himself. This wasn't his baby. This was Wilson's. What did it matter if she liked him? What did it matter if she was interested in him? What did it matter if she – loved him?

And yet he pondered how, if she was anything like her father, she would end up doting on him endlessly. He smiled.

"So where are we going?" Wilson asked, coming out of the bathroom, shaking a towel through his wet hair. He was wearing the T-shirt and a miscellaneous pair of House's jeans.

"Uh," House said. "There's this – place up on Cedar that should work. They make great omelets and decent coffee."

"Oh, yeah, I know what you're talking about. It's like a café, bistro thing. Cool."

"But first," said House. "We need a stroller."

After stroller hunting (during which they obsessively inspected every kind they looked at), House and Wilson drove to the Cedar St. Bistro, in time to make it for a late brunch. Wilson drove his Mercedes, while House lounged in shotgun, Wendy having another bottle before falling back asleep. He watched the shops and streets pass by in the Saturday morning light, while Wilson glanced at him and baby every now and then, smiling. House had popped a jazz CD in the player, and smooth piano guided the tires through town.

They sat outside at a table for two under the awning, drinking coffee. Wilson flipped through the paper, while House finished his ham-and-cheese omelet, peering into the stroller at Wendy every now and then. Neither of them noticed what few people passed by, smiling smugly at their trio. Wilson munched on a piece of toast, skimming some obscure article in the paper.

"So," he started. "Do you want to get paint next or furniture?"

"I was thinking clothes," House replied, and Wilson peered at him. "There's a store down the street that should have something suitable."

"Okay," Wilson shrugged, sipping at his lukewarm coffee. He chucked out a few dollar bills as a tip and folded the newspaper. "I'll start the car, then."

"Why don't we walk?" House suggested. Wilson shot him a dubious look.

"Walk?"

"Yeah. Like I said, it's only down the street. Beats loading up the stroller again."

They left the bistro and Wilson's Mercedes and headed away from the sun. Wilson pushed the stroller, while House limped beside him, and they strolled casually down the sidewalk. More people smiled at them unnoticed, until Wilson caught one of them and smiled back, confused.

"Are you sure you want lavender?" Wilson asked.

"What else do you suggest? Black?"

Wilson snorted.

"Actually, that would be cool. I should paint my whole house black. Fits my soul."

"You are not painting her room black."

"Guess it would make her predestined for a gothic adolescence, huh?"

Wilson thought. "I still think pink would fit best."

House sighed. "Pink? I'm a middle-aged bachelor, James. And I've already got an anti-pink, anti-sweet, anti-everything attitude as it is."

"Well – now you're a middle-aged bachelor with a baby for a house mate."

"It's all your fault."

"I was thinking – something bright but soft at the same time."

House blinked. "James. Pink is pink. We're men. We're not supposed to get into shades and hues and all that technical crap."

Wilson shrugged.

"So, what? Salmon? Magenta? Rose?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Oh, right, like I'd paint the kid's room salmon."

"Well, hell, it's pink, isn't it?"

Wilson sighed. "Maybe we should just go with lavender."

"You can figure it out at the store. They've got every color imaginable. Somehow they made a seven-band rainbow into six zillion shades with names trying too hard to be clever."

They ended up buying four buckets of Cotton Candy Pink, and House grumbled all the way back to the car. They'd bought her a sufficiently cute wardrobe before that, complete with matching socks, shoes, and a couple of hats Wilson had insisted on. They'd debated over whether to dress her in one of the outfits, since she'd surely been wearing her current clothes for over a day. Wilson said they should, House said they should put everything through the wash first. House won in the end.

They put the paint cans in Wilson's Mercedes, quiet during the walk back from the store. Women smiled with their backs to them, walking in the opposite direction, and the two doctors never picked up on it. They loaded up into the Mercedes and drove to a different street for the furniture. It took them another hour to decide on something, but they finally chose a set of white-painted wood, including crib, dresser, rocking chair, and full-body mirror. House grumbled about his manhood. Wilson grinned and said it would look lovely with the pink walls. The Italian cashier eyed them suspiciously as he ran Wilson's debit card through the machine.

"Oh, my God!"

House and Wilson looked over at the shrill exclamation. It had come from a plump, mousy woman who had just entered the store. She beamed at Wendy, who slept in her stroller, and lifted her hands and leaned in to coo and gush over the infant.

"Why, she's just a piece of pie!"

She was from the South.

"Uh, actually, she's a baby," said House, annoyed. Wilson smiled nervously.

"She's just as precious as anything!"

"She's also sleeping," said House. He didn't like strangers near Wendy. It was an unexpected feeling. Wilson wanted to elbow him. The woman looked up at House and Wilson with a toothy grin.

"Is she yours?"

"No, we're just taking her along for fun," House said. "Babies make the best shopping companions."

Wilson blushed a little but held his tongue.

"So which one of you does she belong to?"

House glared at her. Could she not get a clue? Why wouldn't she go away?

"Uh, she's mine," Wilson offered meekly. She smiled at him, while House pulled Wendy's stroller toward him.

"Is that all you want to know or should we give you our social security numbers and a brief sexual history?"

Her face fell.

"You know, that really wasn't necessary," said Wilson, driving down the road. "She was just trying to be nice."

"She was annoying," House said, as he fed Wendy. "Do you just let anyone go up to your kid? What if that cow had been a pedophile or a kidnapper or a bum with untreated tuberculosis?"

"Oh, come on," said Wilson. "You're overreacting."

"I'm looking out for her best interests."

Wilson rolled his eyes but thought it was cute. What was Wendy doing to House? What was she doing to himself?

"Want something to eat?" he sighed.

"Maybe just a beer," said House.

"How about a smoothie? It's healthier." Wilson neared a Keva Juice.

"You're daddy's going doctor on me, how cute," House said to Wendy. Wilson shook his head.

They sipped on their smoothies as Wilson drove toward home (and he mused over how he had begun to think of House's place as home). When they arrived, House took Wendy inside, while Wilson began to unload the car. It had never occurred to House before how many psychos were running around just waiting for someone to leave valuables in an open car. He wasn't taking any chances.

He heard Wendy's cry as he limped toward his open door with the last can of paint and felt the edges of his sour mood melt when he saw Wilson cooing to her, holding her against his shoulder.

"I'm going to change her, hold on a second," said the oncologist, making his way down the hall and toward the bathroom. House nodded and dropped the paint can. He sighed. God.

Cotton Candy Pink.