4.

Nausea.

Cuddy leaned against the bathroom sink, stomach roiling, one hand pressed to her diaphragm. Don't throw up, she told herself. Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up.

Since these spells had started she'd chalked them up first to something she ate, then to a touch of gastro, and then, once the dreadful suspicion started growing, she'd told herself she was making herself sick worrying about nothing.

Only as it turned out, it wasn't nothing, she knew that - and now so did House.

The encounter with him hadn't gone exactly as planned. To put it mildly.

He'd only just had time to look from the test stick up at her with something like shock in his eyes before a wave of nausea hit and she found herself with eyes closed, fingers pressed to her lips, willing it to go away.

She didn't even get to enjoy what was probably the one and only time she would ever witness House rendered utterly speechless. Because then her stomach had heaved and bile was threatening to rise and she'd thrown a hasty "I have to go" at him over her shoulder as she fled.

Which brought her here, hunched over in the ladies room, willing her stomach to settle.

She didn't have time for this, she had work to do, a hospital to run. She rubbed her hand back and forth as she straightened up, deciding to risk returning to her office.

She rinsed her hands under the cold water, wishing she could splash some on her face - but no, that would ruin her make-up. Bad enough running through the halls with a hand clapped over her mouth in a manner universally understood. She wasn't walking out of here with raccoon eyes on top of everything.

All you have to do, she told herself, is not vomit. She could do that. And as for House, she thought as she pulled the door open and left the bathroom, well, she had fulfilled her obligation and informed him of the matter. Sort of. It was up to him now to make the next move.

"When you said 'we have a problem', you meant the permanent kind," House said as he flung open the door and stalked in.

It was the kind of grand entrance he loved to make - especially when bursting into her office, it always seemed. And she'd been expecting it all day since the events of the morning. Now it was past seven at night and he'd had all day to think.

She knew part of him must have wanted to simply avoid her, slink on home and pretend none of this was happening. Part of her, too, wanted nothing more than to do just that. But the rest of him was apparently itching for a fight, if the look on his face and the tone of his voice were anything to go by.

"You never would have told me if you weren't going to keep it," he finished with an accusatory flourish, and threw himself down in the chair opposite her.

She sat back and regarded him levelly for a moment. "Maybe I thought you should know regardless of my decision," she said finally.

"Your decision," he sneered. "I'm going to be saddled with some kid because your biological clock is ticking? Or maybe the famous Cuddy guilt complex is kicking in. Tell me which it is, the suspense is killing me."

"You're not being 'saddled' with anything. I certainly don't need your help financially - I make more money than you do," she pointed out sharply. "I have a stock portfolio, you have a bunch of expensive toys and a gambling habit."

He ignored her point completely. "Wait, don't answer, let me guess. It's the age thing, isn't it? This is your last chance to have it all - well not quite 'all'. Still the small matter of finding a good little husband to keep you warm at night."

"All I am saying," she continued, making a valiant effort to ignore him in return, "is that you are under no obligation here."

"Nice martyr complex - goes perfectly with all the guilt. I'm impressed, I'll admit it. Your issues got game."

"I didn't ask for this!" she said, losing the tenuous grip she'd kept on her temper so far. "But I'm the one who has to deal with it. You can just go back to your insulated little world, where everything works just the way you want it to." She took a breath, forcing herself to calm down. "I don't have to tell anyone you're the father. I'll... tell people I went to a sperm bank - what do I care?"

He smirked. "Nice. A sperm bank is a downright respectable option compared to what really happened - getting trashed, screwing an employee - what would people say?"

She looked away with a huff.

That he was being even more of a bastard than she had expected was the least of her worries. She had anticipated him lashing out at her - House hated feeling out of control, backed into a corner. As a fellow control freak she could sympathise with him there.

But then there was the small matter of him being right.

She let out a short, humourless laugh. "Okay, no I don't want anyone to know... About any of this. But it's unavoidable, isn't it?"

"Unavoidable." He didn't say anything else until she met his eyes and then when he continued it was with a statement, not a question. "Because you're keeping it."

Yes.

The thought was there, but when she opened her mouth the sound wouldn't come.

The fact was, she didn't feel pregnant. All she really felt was sick and uncertain, anxious and overwhelmed. She looked away, hating the feel of his eyes watching her, taking in her every gesture and flaw.

She didn't want this to be happening at all. That was the real truth of it. She didn't want to be pregnant. Not like this.

Her head dropped forward and she rested her forehead in her palms, elbows planted on the desk. "God, this is a nightmare."

"I concur," he intoned.

She tilted her head up and looked at him between her wrists. She took the slight upward twist of his mouth, the hint of humour, as a peace offering.

"It doesn't even seem real," she confided, looking back down at the desk. It was easier this way, when she didn't have to look at him. "You're the genius diagnostician. Any chance this is a hysterical pregnancy?"

"How many tests did you take?" he asked after a beat.

She sighed, and after a moment raised her head and propped up her chin in one hand. "That one I gave you was lucky number four. So what are the odds?" she prompted as a look of concentration came over his face.

"On all four tests giving a false positive? That would be..." He scrunched up his face as if performing intense mental calculations. "Really unlikely," he finished.

She bit her lip to hold in a laugh, then sighed again and looked around for a moment. "It's late. I'm going to go home." He didn't respond or move, and she watched him surreptitiously as she began to straighten her desk, putting things away and shutting down her computer.

"I guess..." she began, and only at these words did he react, planting his cane on the floor and standing up.

"There'll be other conversations," he finished for her.

She stared at him. "There... doesn't have to be. You can bow out now, I'm not expecting anything here."

"Oh there will be other conversations," he said again, moving towards the door. "As in, stop talking now."

"Yeah, can't wait to do this again," she muttered.

He paused long enough to throw her an amused look over his shoulder, and then he was gone.