The O.R. was silent, each quiet moment following Chase pulling the little girl from the uterus morphing the room into a tomb. A potential funeral procession of blue scrubs, of sterile equipment and bright lights surrounding her, Cuddy could feel it all slipping through her grasp – her dreams, her future, her daughter.

Her daughter.

Nanoseconds expanding into hours, her hope was stretched beyond the breaking point. Following what must have only been the first ten seconds, each moment the silence continued was too painful to comprehend. Her daughter making absolutely no sound, Cuddy could feel the tears well in her eyes; her body was beginning to understand what her mind could not.

How could there be nothing?

How could House be quiet when he seemed so intent on getting her attention since he'd learned about the adoption? How could a team of her employees stand around without an immediate solution? How could a birth be filled with so much silence?

The painful reality clamping tightly around her heart, she couldn't help but wonder how all of this, how almost thirty-eight weeks of pregnancy and years of trying to have a child – how the efforts of two could-be mothers could end with nothing.

A pleading voice suddenly filling the silent air, Cuddy didn't recognize it as her own. The noise too desperate, too sad, a part of her was unable to put the two together – the sound and the one responsible. Two plus two somehow not totaling four in the same way a newborn and silence didn't equate to something rational, her pleas went unnoticed by herself.

Because all she could think was cry, cry, cry. Cry.

An internal chant she couldn't stop repeating, cry cry cry, Cuddy could almost believe if she said it enough times, it would come true. Her body thrumming on that energy, it was all she heard. Not the apologies from Becca, nor the slick sounds of Chase trying to rouse the baby – just the sound of herself and the sight of her future becoming bleaker by the second.

Hope quickly began to funnel itself into something darker, something she didn't dare to name. Her hands shaking, fidgeting around her, her feet took slow steps towards the lifeless infant.

Absolutely sure that Chase was going to turn to her at any moment and shake his head, she nearly let out a cry of her own when Joy did. The tiny wail quieter than any sound Cuddy had ever heard a baby make, she was almost sure she'd imagined the noise.

Until it got louder.

And then, holding the squirming, warm bundle in her arms, Cuddy could see:

There was still hope. Because…

There was life.

There was joy.

VI. Four Years Old

Her head resting against the flannel covered pillow, Cuddy was easily on the cusp of sleep. Eyelids heavy and desperate to stay closed, giving into her exhaustion would have been so easy… if not for the four year old who expected to be read to.

Lazily propping her head onto her elbow, Cuddy glanced over toward the bookshelf the blonde was looking at. "Sweetie," she said tiredly, her voice already raspy with sleep. "Please pick something already. Mommy's going to fall asleep very soon if you don't decide."

Turning back to look at her with a frown on her face, Joy asked sadly, "Just one story?"

"Yes, Joy." Her daughter opening her mouth to whine, Cuddy explained, "I'd love to read more but not tonight. Mommy can't." She wanted to add, "Now hurry up before I'm too tired for one" but didn't. The words harsher than Joy deserved, they remained inside of Cuddy where they belonged.

Closing her eyes once more, she didn't know how much longer the blonde spent looking for the perfect book. It could have been a few seconds, minutes, or easily longer, but Cuddy did know that, when Joy climbed back on the bed, she had two books in her hands.

Cuddy's tired eyes suddenly turning steely, she pointed out, "I said I would read one story."

"I can't decide," Joy whined, the late hour apparently wearing on her mood as well.

"All right," Cuddy replied with a sigh. "Lets see what the options are."

As she mulled over the choices, Joy settled down under the covers beside her mother, who couldn't have been less enthusiastic about the two selected books.

Oh, she supposed they were good enough choices, ones she wouldn't have minded under normal circumstances anyway. But right now, too exhausted to think much less enunciate her words perfectly, Cuddy immediately realized that a book called Click Clack Quackity Quack was hardly something she should attempt to read; the chances of her messing the words up too great, she set the book aside quickly.

Not that the other option was much better. If you give a cat a Cupcake was easily one of Joy's favorites. The whole series made her laugh, but somehow Cuddy couldn't quite appreciate the books in the same manner. How could she when, in so many respects, her own life resembled those stories? Her own personal book, If you give an ass a Job, she couldn't ever truly enjoy the series.

Somehow, reading about one bad thing happening after the other hit too close to home on days like this. On days where House nearly set the hospital on fire to get what he wanted to, anyway.

And yet almost immediately, Cuddy knew her life was so much richer than that. Forcing herself to adopt a better mood, she put the book aside. "You know…" she said carefully, an idea slowly coming to her. "I think I have a better idea." Dark eyes peering up at her expectantly, Cuddy asked, "Would you like to hear how Mommy decided to name you Joy?"

Truthfully of all the stories she had ever created for her daughter, this was the only one that Joy had deemed any good. Or at least this was the only one she'd ever wanted to hear over and over. Their personal record three times in one day, Cuddy was not surprised to see the blonde enthusiastically nod her head up and down. Thick strands of hair moving every which way, Cuddy began to slowly card through it as she started her tale.

"Years ago," she said, "Before Mommy was your mommy or anyone's mommy, she was all alone."

"Did that make you sad, Mommy?" Joy interrupted, already knowing exactly where the story was headed. Her face was sweetly full of concern.

"It did, Joy," Cuddy replied with a nod of her head, her arms instinctively bringing the little girl closer to her. Pressing a kiss to Joy's crown of white blonde curls, she said, "It did. I was very sad."

And that was no exaggeration, she realized. At the time, she hadn't really seen it, her melancholy somehow hidden from her own eyes. Which might have been because of her job – how could she recognize her own misery when there were people suffering from so much worse around her?

"All I ever wanted," Cuddy said fervently. "Was my own little baby to love and care for and raise."

Joy smiled, looking up at her. Seemingly unable to resist interrupting her once more, she asked, "And my other Mommy gave me to you?"

"That's right," Cuddy replied, her own grin natural. Arms pulling her daughter into an even fiercer embrace, she continued, "Your other mommy was a very nice girl who was just too young to take care of you. And she loved you very much, but she knew she couldn't give you all of the things she wanted you to have. So she gave you to me, and I became your mommy."

Kissing Joy on the forehead, she told her, "And that made me happier than I ever thought possible, sweetheart. You, Joy, have made me so happy that the moment I held you, I thought my heart was going to burst from being so full." Smiling, Cuddy admitted, "I still feel that way – that's how much I love you."

Her lips moving towards Joy's ear, Cuddy nearly whispered conspiratorially, "And that's why I called you Joy. Because you are. You're my joy – sweet and perfect, and I love you."

"Love you too, Mommy," Joy replied, the words intoxicatingly sweet to the mother's ears.

How she could have ever gone without this, Cuddy would never know. The memories of coming home to an empty house too potent to ignore in that moment, she couldn't help but change her mind then and there; she was tired, but sleep could wait. Reaching over, she grabbed the two books she'd placed on the nightstand and murmured, "You know… I think we have to read both of these after all…"

VII. Five Years Old

He was stuck with Cranky-Barfy Pants here – the irony of the situation all too clear to him even from the beginning.

Of all the people who should baby-sit, House was absolutely sure he was at the bottom of the list. Well, honestly, how could he not be convinced of such a fact? In his attempts to suggest people much better suited for looking after Joy, he'd learned why everyone else couldn't. Cuddy couldn't take the puking pipsqueak with her – the meeting across down not appropriate for a five year old. The rest of Cuddy's family lived too far away; no daycare would take a sick child. The babysitter, the one responsible for Joy getting sick in the first place, was out. As were Cameron and Chase, the former too busy working, the latter too disturbed by Joy's obvious crush on him.

Wilson had work, Cuddy had said, to which House had protested, "So do I."

"You are bouncing a ball, while your fellows run tests," she'd pointed out, putting her daughter, who looked disturbingly green, onto his Eames chair. "You can handle this. All you'll have to do is hold her hair back when she throws up, give her the Pedialyte that she likes when she asks for it, and walk her to the bathroom if she needs to go."

"Those are three things I don't want to do," he'd said honestly.

"House." Cuddy had sounded frustrated, imploring, but not angry. "Please?"

Seriously he'd asked, "What do I get in return?"

"What do you want?"

His silence, coupled with a pointed look, had been answer enough, and with a roll of her eyes, she'd told him, "I'll reserve accepting that romantic offering until I see how you do with her."

"Meaning what exactly – I drop her on her head, I only get a hand – "

"Finish that, and my answer's no," she'd warned.

So House had stayed quiet, and she'd left, and everything had seemed okay at first. The runt had whined a bit, but Joy had fallen asleep quickly afterwards. And for a moment, a very brief moment, he'd actually believed that this was the least effort he'd ever had to make to get laid (by someone who didn't require cash upfront, anyway).

But then the barfing brat had woken up, and now he was sure there was no move in the Kama Sutra that could make up for this.

In the hours she was with him, Joy threw up three times. The smell of artificial bubblegum flavor and stomach acid filling the room as she puked into his trashcan, he tried very hard to imagine all of the inappropriate things he could make Cuddy do. Schoolgirl fantasies and the like giving him the slightest bit of hope, House was just beginning to think he could handle things.

But then she started crying, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks, and asking for Cuddy. And resisting the urge to sarcastically say that Mommy had abandoned her, he instead started to wipe the puke off the side of her mouth (using her t-shirt as a rag, naturally). Gruffly, he told her, "Your mom's in a meeting. You're stuck with me."

The "Nooooo" she wailed in response was not that different from the way he felt in that moment.

"Oh, shut up," he told her. "She's coming back." She'd better, he added mentally. If only so he could tell her just how inappropriate the name "Joy" had been; obviously "Bed-of-Nails" or "Annoyance" would have been better choices, he thought grimly.

And as if to prove the point, her cries at that moment got louder. Wailing "Mommy" over and over, Joy was quickly working herself up, much to his dismay. Or rather much to his head's dismay. Because he could have honestly listened to her cry and ignored her easily, he supposed, but he could not take the high pitch of her voice and the headache she was beginning to cause.

"Hey!" he said loudly, the sheer volume of the word giving her pause. As she sniffled, her tiny body shaking from the effort, House told her, "I get it – you want Mommy. Right about now," he said pointedly. "So do I."

"You want your mommy too?" Joy asked sadly, looking up at him.

He scoffed. "No. I want your Mommy. Preferably naked and tied up. But, like I said, Mommy's in a meeting, which means," he said slowly, gesturing with his hands, as he brought them both to the end of the thought process. "I'm stuck with you, and you're just going to have to deal with Mommy not being here like everyone else does: grow up, do lots of drugs, have lots of dangerous sex with boys you don't know. Drink until you puke and then get tons of therapy."

As if to prove his point, House reached into his pocket and pulled out his prescription of Vicodin.

Not entirely following the conversation, she could only whine in response, "But I don't have anything to drink." She stomped her foot for good measure.

Remembering what Cuddy had said, House rolled his eyes and limped towards the Eames chair. She'd mentioned Pedialyte and had left a hot pink and purple bag by the chair; the colors clearly not her taste, it had to belong to Joy. Or maybe Cameron's, he thought wryly. But since she didn't work here anymore…

Quickly searching through the girly backpack, he found the bright pink drink that Joy was apparently fond of.

Holding it out to the small blonde, he told her, "Drink this."

She did.

Quietly she did, thankfully.

The temporary respite from puke and tears and whining absolutely appreciated, House couldn't help but curl up in the recliner by the door. His eyes shut and mind purposely trying to ignore the nuisance currently inhabiting his space, he was unprepared, if not surprised, by Joy eventually climbing onto the chair with him.

Tiny hands and feet, sharp elbows and kneecaps pressing into his stomach and thigh uncomfortably, it was all he could do not to violently push her away. His own hands curling into fists as she situated herself around him, he didn't dare to breathe, much less speak. His sight going white as her heel scraped against his thigh, the pain lanced through him hotly, and he couldn't help but cry out in pain.

The sharp ache all he could pay attention to, it took him a moment to comprehend what happened next. "Joy!" Cuddy said loudly, her heels noisy even on the carpet. The little girl's uncomfortable weight immediately vanishing, House didn't understand at first what was going on.

But the waves of pain slowly, achingly slowly receding to normal levels, he was able to open his eyes once more. Sweat pooling uncomfortably on the small of his back and along his forehead, he was made even less comfortable by the way Cuddy was looking at him. Her gaze almost tender, she seemed to be under the delusion that he'd just done something amazing.

Concerned etched on every feature, Joy in her lap, she carefully sat down next to him. "Are you okay?"

"Just peachy," he replied sarcastically through gritted teeth.

"Vicodin?" she asked with concern.

Unfortunately aware of how quickly his liver could process the acetaminophen, House shook his head.

Cuddy placed a hand on his then, her fingertips and voice warm as she admitted, "I thought you were going to… I'm surprised you didn't kill her."

His own thoughts not much more hopeful about his self-control, House said nothing. Unable to deny what she was saying, nor in the mood to maintain his sarcasm any longer, he simply closed his eyes instead. Very eager for his pain to subside to something manageable, he tried to ignore it.

And trying to focus on what was going on around him, he listened to Cuddy turn her attentions to Joy. "Sweetheart," she said calmly. "Why were you climbing on Dr. House? You know you can't do that because of his leg and…" She kept talking, but he no longer wanted to listen. Harder to forget about something if you had to listen to it being discussed, he thought.

So, eyes closed, he mused about the deal he'd made with Cuddy. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd get laid now, although that was obviously going to have to wait; there was no way in hell his leg would handle that today.

But… eventually, he'd be able to collect.

Of course, House realized almost immediately, all of that hinged on living long enough. And frankly, he was more convinced than ever of one thing:

The Cuddys were going to be the death of him.

VIII. About Thirteen Months Old… he thinks

Thanksgiving 2009 (or to be technical, the day before Thanksgiving 2009).

That had been the first time they had sex – since Joy had been born anyway. And looking back on it now, House kind of wished they hadn't done it then.

Or no.

That wasn't true.

He would never actually regret looking at Cuddy naked. But doing it right before a holiday meant that he would never really forget the date (even though Thanksgiving wasn't usually on the "anniversary"), and that meant it would always look like it… meant something.

And maybe it did, to Cuddy anyway.

Thanksgiving 2009, she'd made plans to fly to her sister's for dinner. He had made plans as well… to stay in his apartment and get drunk enough so that he'd have a legitimate reason for watching the Westminster Dog Show. And, deciding to be pro-active, House had decided why not start drinking the day before?

Preparing himself for a two-day binge, he had barely started on his first beer when the phone had rung. His first instinct to ignore it, he'd taken a long pull from the bottle instead. The answering machine picking up, he hadn't expected it to be her, hadn't expected it to be anyone of importance actually. And so, when she'd started to speak, he hadn't been able to stop himself from glancing over at the small appliance on a stand by the couch.

Her voice sounding unlike he'd ever heard it before, House had immediately noted that she'd obviously been crying.

"I know you're there… I… please don't ignore me," she'd said, as though she'd been able to tell that he was listening. Cuddy's voice getting softer, she'd said, "I, um, I need you to do something for me." At that moment, she'd sniffled loudly into the phone. "There's been a thing at the airport, and a little girl went missing, and now they're saying that…" She'd paused, her voice becoming higher pitched on the last word. "They're saying Joy isn't mine, and."

She'd stopped talking.

Unable to continue, she'd broken down into tears, into loud audible sobs that he'd been unable to ignore. Quickly snatching the phone up, House had gruffly asked, "What do you need?"

The answer had been obvious: proof – in the form of birth certificates, adoption records, and photos tucked into a lock box inside of Cuddy's home. And having gotten pretty good at breaking into her house, he'd managed to be in and out with the procured items in under ten minutes.

But with the drive to the airport, finding a parking space on the day before Thanksgiving and then locating Cuddy, he'd taken more time than he supposed she wanted him to take. Although, as he'd walked through the little airport police station, House had thought to himself, if she planned on yelling at him, he could just turn around and walk out and be done with the whole thing.

His mind gearing up for a fight, it had been shocking for him to find a quietly crying Cuddy with Joy in her lap sitting on one of the dark plastic chairs. Her head had been bent, forehead pressed to her daughter's. Dark curls messily framing Cuddy's face, it had made it hard to tell how things were going.

Having no idea what had happened since he'd last spoke to her, House had approached her slowly. His mouth suddenly feeling dry, he hadn't known what to say, hadn't known how to broach the subject. So instead he'd stood in front of her, hands tapping on his cane, waiting for her to look up.

His presence almost immediately known to her, Cuddy had looked up, her eyes red and watery. Giving him a weak smile, she'd answered his unspoken question, "Finally believed me." She had swallowed hard and explained. "Of course, nothing I said mattered. They… brought the woman whose baby went missing, and she said that Joy wasn't hers, and they still thought she wasn't mine. Until Joy, the little girl who calls everyone Mama, said it to me." Shaking her head, Cuddy had added in frustration, "By luck."

His reaction had been to contemplate sarcastically asking her to say that louder. Really, he'd thought in irritation, did she think it was a good idea to announce to everyone in a five foot radius that Joy was dumb enough to call anyone, including Wilson, "Mama"? The question just on the tip of his tongue, it had been with effort that he'd kept it to himself.

Which hadn't been to say that he'd kept the sarcasm completely to himself. "So I just wasted the last couple hours of time for nothing," House had concluded.

"You can drive us home," Cuddy had told him, her voice almost making it seem as though she were offering him some sort of consolation prize.

Really, he'd thought he should have refused. After all House had had better plans for himself; getting trashed for two days wasn't exactly a productive way to pass the time, but it had been something he'd practically set his heart on doing. His schedule for the next two days already neatly laid out for him, he hadn't been all that interested in giving his boss a ride home.

But then it had almost seemed stupid to refuse to do it. All things considered, House had realized that it wouldn't be the worst way to waste a few hours of his life. Cuddy was being weepy and emotional, he'd understood, and that was a downside, but overall? He'd realized things could have been worse.

The year old pipsqueak could have been crying, and she wasn't, he'd reasoned. The blonde's focus on the necklace Cuddy was wearing, she'd been more quiet than he'd ever thought possible. Little fingers tugging lightly at the pearls, she'd been practically entranced by the tiny white spheres.

And in the very least, if he agreed to do it, House had understood… he'd be able to use this against Cuddy in the future.

He would be able to manipulate her into giving him what he'd wanted.

So he'd said, "Lets go."

For the record, and not that there was any record other than his own memories, he'd never planned on having sex. As opportunistic a bastard as House would admit to being, he hadn't ever contemplated using this against her for that.

Not that anyone would ever believe him on the matter – not even Wilson who had never quite looked convinced when House had said Cuddy had been the one to initiate things.

But she had been.

In all honesty, House realized much later he probably should have seen it coming. On the ride home, as Joy had slept soundly in her car seat, Cuddy had admitted to him slowly, "I thought… having her would make me less lonely."

Sighing, he'd responded quickly, "I'm going to regret asking this. It didn't?"

Her answer hadn't been immediate. Her silence stretching out for nearly a minute, it had almost convinced him that maybe Cuddy had no plans to say anything. Which he'd automatically taken as a sign, as proof that he really shouldn't have asked the question.

"All I kept thinking today," she'd said shakily. "While I was trying to convince them that she was my daughter was –"

"That you'd had to call me?" he'd finished for her. "And that if you had to call me to bail you out of baby trouble, you must have made some wrong choices in life?"

There'd been no venom in his tones, no hurt in his words. Because if there had been one thing he'd come to accept over the years, it had to be that he wasn't exactly a very good friend. To anyone, but especially to Cuddy herself, he hadn't been kind. Spending most of his time taunting her about the whole baby business, House had understood that he'd been particularly unsupportive in this.

And so yes, if she'd had to rely on him to help… then he'd believed that it truly did reflect on her choices.

Shaking her head in short, quick movements, Cuddy had finished, "I kept thinking… if that woman comes in here and says Joy is hers… there's nothing I can do. I'm all alone in this. I…" She'd paused, trying to find the words she wanted. Exhaling loudly, she'd continued, "I don't have a husband; Joy doesn't have a father. I can produce documents, but I know that those things can be faked, and I don't…" Glancing down at the unpolished curves of her fingernails illuminated by the first night rays of the moon, Cuddy had said, "I don't have anything else to show. Don't have any other proof."

His gut reaction had been to mention that that wasn't true, that if he'd had to, he would have made sure the diaper filler stayed where she belonged. But immediately, House had realized that saying that was almost akin to saying, "We're in this together." And frankly, they weren't, because he didn't care about the kid, even if she'd managed to weasel her way into his life, he'd told himself.

So he'd offered instead, "Could draw stretch marks on your stomach. That could work."

A second's worth of a laugh escaping her, the smile flashing on her features had failed to reach her eyes, he'd noted at the time. But the joke had seemed to lighten her mood anyway, even if it hadn't completely erased what had happened earlier in the day. The tears and sniffles had abated – thankfully. As much as he didn't care about the condition of his car, somehow the idea of Cuddy snot in the interior hadn't been an appealing one.

And more importantly, despite the fact that she had no longer spoke, he'd been able to tell that she was… doing okay. His gaze every so often catching her blue eyes sliding over to the rearview mirror, he'd watched her make sure that Joy was still there. The sight of her daughter sleeping more likely more reassuring than anything he could have said, House had smartly kept his mouth shut.

The two adults not saying anything else to one another until hours later when he'd pulled up to her house, Cuddy had been the one to break the silence. Looking over at him with warm eyes, she'd asked, "Do you want to come in?"

"I want to go home and get drunk. This baby drama has cut into my buzz. You know how it is" had been his curt response.

But seemingly not interested in taking no for an answer, she'd offered, "I have beer in the fridge… might have some bourbon."

His eyes had narrowed on her. "Are you actually trying to lure me into your home with booze?"

"Yes."

"That's interesting," he'd said snidely. "Because I'd have thought you'd try to convince me that trashing my liver for the fun of it isn't very smart. But then," he'd continued, his mind realizing the other scenario possible. "Guess you could be trying to kill me. Not a very nice way to thank someone for driving Miss Daisy, but –"

"If you're worried about your liver," she'd offered awkwardly. "There are… other things we could do." A small amount of heat radiating from her gaze, it had been impossible not to know what she'd wanted.

"That is, actually, the worst proposition for sex I've ever heard, which is saying a lot cause I've seen Wilson pick up hookers" he'd told her earnestly. "And if we're ranking potentially stupid things to do tonight, that takes number one."

"Why?" Her voice had sounded insistent, challenging.

"Oh, I'm sorry. No, you're right," he'd replied sarcastically. "Emotional situation, tears, loneliness – way better than candles and rose pedals. Sure, I'd be taking advantage of you, but who can resist sex when you've set a mood like that?"

She'd shaken her head. "You wouldn't be taking advantage of me, House." One of her small hands coming to rest on his knee, Cuddy had insisted, "Right now… I am… very glad to have you in my life. Because if you hadn't shown up today –"

"I didn't do anything," House had pointed out.

"But you would have… and that means everything to me." Squeezing his kneecap, she'd asked, "Please? I don't want to let you go just yet."

The come on just a little too b-list romantic comedy for his taste, it had been almost enough for him to shove her hand away and refuse. Because as tempting as the offer was, House hadn't been sure that it was the right thing to do.

Or rather, he hadn't cared if it were the right thing to do; he wasn't Wilson, after all. But at the time, he'd worried that if he said yes and went inside, she would eventually turn around and be angry. And any strides he'd made since Joy's birth to keep himself involved in Cuddy's life would be for naught.

"Please," she'd repeated.

His "no" begging to escape the back of his throat, it had been almost shocking to House himself that he should discover his head nodding in acceptance. Never understanding quite sure why he'd agreed, he'd only been able to figure out one thing.

As Cuddy had waited for an answer, her light eyes trained on him, she'd seemed so… different. Quieter. A lost look radiating from her gray blue irises, House had only understood that he hadn't liked it, that he'd been too afraid to let go, unsure of what might happen if he did.

IX. Fifteen Months Old

The pregnancy test sat unused on the back of her toilet for two weeks. Cuddy hadn't planned on going that long without knowing the truth; indeed, regardless of how busy she was, her mind refused to let her think of anything else. Every time she wanted a cup of coffee, her brain instinctively began to rattle off the statistics she didn't even remember reading about caffeine and miscarriage. Two hundred milligrams consumed or more and her already increased-due-to-age risk would leap to making her twice as likely to miscarry as the women who didn't consume any caffeine. And that alone would have her avoiding the Starbucks and coffee carts all around her.

She purposely took a five-minute detour in her stroll from the parking garage to her office to avoid the smokers. She didn't treat patients with Chicken Pox – despite knowing that her potentially unborn child was safe from infection.

No OTCs, no alcohol, no feta on her salad, or homemade apple cider that they sold at the store – there was no question in her mind that House knew what was going on. Too many clues to ignore, Cuddy could only decide that he hadn't said anything, because a pregnancy would affect him as well. His attitude seemingly one of "If I ignore it, it will go away," he was almost convincing enough to have her believe that she wasn't pregnant.

But nausea hitting her at odd intervals, her period non-existent, she couldn't quite believe it, and she understood she needed to take the pregnancy test before she really had her heart set on being pregnant.

As though that hadn't happened already, Cuddy lamented.

But between Joy getting the croup and work getting its normal influx of winter-related patients, she really hadn't had the time to pee on a stick and wait for the results. Each minute of her day booked and bleeding into the next, unless she'd wanted to stop doing her job, as an administrator or a mother, she'd have to wait for an opening.

Which happened, finally, in January. Joy was feeling better, although nights were still filled with coughs and tears. And as a result, or maybe this was just proof that she was fifteen months old, there were more tantrums during the day. This morning's meltdown so bad that Joy had coughed hard enough to gag and throw up, Cuddy didn't have much of a choice but to take the day off. Because even if she could convince the hospital day care or another babysitter to take her, Cuddy understood that it would just take that much longer for the little girl to get well if she cried and screamed all day long.

Morning and lunch passing quickly, they were approaching naptime. And although Cuddy had planned on using that time to take the pregnancy test, her daughter clearly had other plans.

She whined at the word when Cuddy told her, "Naptime," outright cried when she saw the crib, and screamed, "Mama," until she threw up after being left in her room alone. The gagging noises heard through the baby alarm, Cuddy had no choice but to put the pregnancy test aside and go to her. Because even if she could agree with her own mother that she should let Joy cry it out on her own, Cuddy knew that her daughter was sick. And allowances had to be made.

Which meant instead of sleeping in her crib, Joy spent naptime in the bathroom with Cuddy. Of course, she wasn't going to take the pregnancy test in front of her daughter, lest she begin to believe that peeing on a plastic stick was a normal part of going to the bathroom. Besides, Cuddy was still hoping to get a nap out of her, the little girl definitely in need of sleep.

She quickly changed Joy's clothes; the opportunity for a nap closing, Cuddy knew that, if she didn't get her down to sleep now, it would be too late. And although she wasn't opposed to screwing up the very carefully constructed schedule they both lived on, having to entertain her toddler at four am didn't sound like fun.

The mother blindly grabbed a few books on her way out, Joy, with her favorite blanket trailing behind her, quietly toddling along side.

Once in the bathroom, Cuddy turned on the shower so that it was hot enough to easily scald. The water instantly created a lot of steam. The cold January weather helping things along, the bathroom air was soon warm and moist – just what Joy needed for the croup.

Sitting down on the bathroom rug, her back flush against the wall, Cuddy pulled her daughter toward her. It took them both a minute to get settled, the little girl finally laying her head down on the tops of her mother's thighs. Very blonde hair fanning out on Cuddy's dark pants, it was almost amazing, she thought, that Joy should be so compliant with reading now. Because up until even a month ago, Joy had still been reluctant to read books with her. And really, if there was one good thing that had come from the fifteen month old being sick, it was that she was more willing to sit still.

Before, reading books was about as useful as reading the Nuremberg Code to House. Joy had hated books overall, and Cuddy didn't really understand why. The little girl loved to be held and kept close; as much as she was beginning to discover the world around her, she was still most happy when Cuddy was right there with her. Why Joy should hate reading, then, was a mystery to her. The only thing she could figure was that, perhaps, Joy thought there were better things to do with her time.

But thanks to the croup, the little girl hadn't had enough energy to run around and play. And because of that, she'd learned to appreciate curling up in Mommy's lap for a story.

Which wasn't to say the toddler kept still. Because she didn't, not by any means. Even when she was most intrigued by the story being read, she still fidgeted. She would suck her thumb or burrow under her blanket. But as of late, her favorite activity was to explore her own body or Cuddy's. Somehow amazed at learning that they were, in fact, two separate beings, Joy seemed preoccupied with delineating what was hers and how the two differed from one another.

The little girl nearly constantly curious about it, Cuddy had tried to satiate Joy's appetite for anatomy by buying every book she could find on the human body for children. Although, truthfully, she didn't really want to do that; unsure of how she felt about Joy potentially becoming a doctor – or more to the point, unsure of whether Cuddy herself could avoid pushing her down that avenue, she'd hesitated at first to buy those books.

But then, realizing it would be just as wrong to withhold that knowledge from her daughter, she relented.

Not that it made any difference it would seem. Because when it came to paying attention to Cuddy's stirring reading of Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb versus groping and playing with whatever body part she could grab, Joy preferred the latter.

As if to prove the point, the toddler began to tug at the hem of Cuddy's sweater. Little hands suddenly pressing against her stomach, it shouldn't have meant something. It should not have had an effect on her, she thought.

But it did.

Because even though Cuddy knew it was impossible for a toddler to know if her mommy was pregnant or not, somehow it felt like a… sign anyway. And with tiny fingers lightly poking around her belly button, she couldn't help but imagine two children, one inside, the other out, separated only by a small barrier of skin.

They'd be very different at this point, one fifteen months, the other only seven weeks in utero. One almost too big for her crib, the other was the size of a blueberry and had a tail. Which frankly would have been all the proof she'd needed to believe that the child potentially inside of her was the spawn of Satan (as if she needed proof of that), if she hadn't been aware of how fetal development worked.

But even putting the Rosemary's Baby fantasies and jokes aside, Cuddy wondered how this would work. How would she explain to Joy that she hadn't come from her womb? How would she explain to this other child that he or she had been created with a man Mommy spent most of her time trying not to kill?

And even if she could come up with explanations that satisfied both of them, she wondered if she could do it. Could she really handle two children two and under? Truthfully, Cuddy already felt guilty about not being able to spend every waking moment with the one, and somehow…

She didn't think she could handle having to split what time she had away from work in half.

And, as Joy continued to explore, Cuddy wondered if having two children was really what she wanted. She'd never actually thought past one, the road to get that far too foggy to look beyond the immediate end in sight. Really, she'd only considered the one, and the one she had was absolutely perfect, and what were the chances of perfection being repeated – especially when that baby had drawn the short straw when it came to genetics.

Her mind churning at the sheer volume of questions, Cuddy could feel herself becoming nauseous. Bile practically pooling in the back of her throat, she didn't know if this was just nervousness or something more telling. Setting the book aside, she glanced over at the toilet and wondered if she'd have to shove Joy to the side to make it in time.

The grip on her purple sweater suddenly becoming insistent, the little girl said loudly, "Mama!" Loud enough to echo in the small room, the word immediately pulled Cuddy from her thoughts.

Looking down she couldn't help but immediately smile at the halo of blonde curls on her lap and dark eyes trained seriously on her stomach. "Mama," Joy repeated, hooking Cuddy's belly button with the slick thumb her daughter had been sucking.

In all honesty, Cuddy didn't really believe anymore that Joy would grow up to be a doctor. As much as this might have been proof that the toddler was, in fact, a toddler, the little girl, it seemed, was less interested in the names of the body parts, less interested in what those parts did. Her focus almost always on the way things felt, looked, or were shaped, Joy never seemed happier to know what the part she was touching was called.

Because even though Cuddy said, "That's Mommy's bellybutton, sweetheart," Joy didn't care. Yes, she was only fifteen months old, her attention span and level of understanding only so big, but Cuddy could tell when the words she was saying had no effect on her child.

So she said, "You have one too."

"No." Whether Joy said that because she was unconvinced or because she was simply saying one of the six words she knew at this point, Cuddy didn't know.

"Yes, you do," she told her sweetly. "Mommy will show you."

But she'd no sooner than curled her fingers around the bottom of Joy's shirt when the little girl screamed, "Noooo." Pushing at Cuddy's hands, Joy whined loudly.

Letting go, Cuddy asked knowingly, "Are you cranky because you haven't taken a nap?"

The answer she got was a nonsensical, shrill objection to the question. The taciturn toddler tenaciously turning onto her side, she buried her face into Cuddy's stomach.

Silence, save for the sound of the running shower, fell over them then. Cautiously waiting to see if there were more to the tantrum, Cuddy was pleased at how Joy quickly settled down. And as soon as her daughter began sucking her thumb calmly, Cuddy began to read once more.

A hand carefully running through Joy's hair, it was a tricky business, trying to untangle the snarls that her curls created. Cuddy had to be careful; if there were one thing to put Joy in a foul mood, it was having her hair brushed in any way, shape, or form. The sight of a comb enough to make her cry, she had to be tricked (or bribed). So far this trick seemed to be working, Joy's warm body relaxing into her mother's.

And, for a brief moment, as she read the words to a book she'd read five times this week, easily, Cuddy couldn't help but think that maybe two children wouldn't be so bad. Her sweet daughter listening quietly in her lap, the moment was so enticingly sweet. Cuddy's hand stilling in a thicket of blonde curls, she wondered how she could have ever doubted that two would be more than okay.

It would be… perfect.

But at that moment, it seemed that her own body had an incredibly different idea in mind. The sudden cramping, the subtle trickle of what had to be blood from inside of her – she didn't need her medical degree to know exactly what that added up to. Her period, a miscarriage, the exact cause was unknown and unimportant. Because it all amounted to the same thing.

She wasn't pregnant.

And in her heart, it didn't matter whether she'd actually been pregnant before this moment. She wasn't pregnant now, and despite her hesitation to accept that she might have been before, Cuddy had somehow come to believe it anyway; she'd thought she was pregnant. What the truth might actually be, she didn't know, and she didn't care.

A potential family member gone before he or she had even had a chance to truly exist, Cuddy wondered how she'd ever forgotten the sting of this.

How had she ever forgotten how much not being pregnant hurt?

The question a punishing one, it was also one immediately answered. The key coming in the form of the little girl in her lap letting out a quiet cry in her sleep. Tearfully looking down, Cuddy understood:

It was Joy.

Having her daughter had made her oblivious to the pain she'd been in before. Only her child had made her forget just horrible it could all be. And, brushing a strand of blonde hair away from Joy's face, Cuddy couldn't help but pray she could do it again.

X. Sixteen Years Old

He'd been in a foul mood all week, the only constant thought in his mind: this is why you don't have children. Or rather, the thought should have been: this is why you don't let your friends have children.

Because even though House hadn't set out to… care about Joy, that didn't matter anymore. Sixteen years of thinking that she was little more than a pain in the ass still amounted to sixteen years of knowing someone. And apparently, that was more than enough time for him to get used to her being around, enough time for him to be blinded by her lies when it had become necessary to see clearly.

She'd told Cuddy that she was going to visit an "art camp," whatever the hell that was, with a friend. Three days later, when they'd come back, Joy hadn't been feeling well, and nobody – not even House himself – had thought anything of it. Really, why would he have? Irritability and nausea were symptomatic of millions of things, including being a PMSing or hung over sixteen year old.

But they'd been wrong not to suspect anything; he'd been wrong. Because two days after she'd come home, Cuddy had had to take Joy to the hospital. Rash, stiff neck, photophobia – those things had an easy explanation, as Cuddy had been, no doubt, aware.

And he'd taken the case right then and there, not because bacterial meningitis was a particularly interesting diagnosis, but out of guilt. Out of not having seen her symptoms for what they really were.

His interest in treating Joy strictly personal, it should not have surprised him that he hadn't been able to see things clearly since then. It should not have been shocking for him that he hadn't been able to diagnose her successfully until now. As he headed towards her room, House couldn't help but see all of the mistakes he'd made along the way.

He'd believed the lie, almost at face value, that Joy had gone to art camp. He'd ordered his team to search her bedroom, but he hadn't, they hadn't, paid much attention to what they might find. Convinced already that it was meningitis, they'd all gotten lazy with the diagnosis.

One on one with Joy, he'd been nice – well, nice enough about the whole thing. He'd done the lumbar puncture himself, only calling her a baby once when she'd started to cry. And even that act of callousness had had its roots in concern for her staying still.

So of course, the cerebrospinal fluid hadn't been consistent with bacterial meningitis. Of course, House had had to look for other explanations.

Which meant wasting another two days of time until thirty minutes ago when he'd personally glanced through the things brought back from Joy's room. There hadn't been anything there, so he'd moved onto plan B – the clothes she'd been admitted in.

And that was where the diagnosis had lie. The clues so small that nobody else had noticed, the answer had come to him bit by bit. A bus ticket to Chicago dated the time she'd supposedly been in Connecticut for art camp in her jean's pocket. A hospital business card with a phone number written in Joy's scrawl on the back. The answer within reach, House had called the number.

And he'd known within two minutes of talking to the mother of a meningitis-infected teenager what was wrong. The answer was so obvious, even if Joy's reasons weren't. The pieces of the puzzle neatly falling into place, now all he had to do was accuse Joy.

Not that that would be hard, he thought grimly, as he rounded on her hospital room. House never felt incredibly shy about sharing his annoyance, and, right about now, he was feeling even more open than usual; ready to give her as much pain as she had caused the entire week, he only needed to decide now how.

Should he pretend to diagnose her with an incurable disease that would kill her? Go for something a little less deadly and way more embarrassing?

He decided on neither as he pushed open the doors to her hospital room. Because, given that Cuddy hadn't left this room in two days, she too would hear what he had to say. And stupidly exhausted with sleep and blinded by her love for Joy, she would probably believe that her daughter was dying, should he mention it in front of her. Doing that to her an unacceptable price to pay, even for him, House had to improvise.

Which was really easy when the person you wanted to torment had both photophobia and hyperacusis-related phonophobia. Because even though both of those conditions were entirely the product of a nasty case of conversion disorder, House knew, it felt real enough. And using both of those things against her, it would easy to give Joy a taste of the pain she'd been giving everyone else the past week.

At the moment, she was in the hospital bed, her eyes screwed shut tightly, despite the fact that the lights in the room were off and the shades drawn. Her head was resting in Mommy's lap, one of Cuddy's hands playing with her hair. The older woman hunched over, she was whispering something he couldn't hear into Joy's ears. Only the gentle murmur of her voice making its way over to him, House had no doubt she was saying something along the lines of, "It's not your fault" or "It's okay."

But none of that was true.

The scene straight out of Little Women or some other garbage Joy had read over the years agitating him even further, it was with relish that House destroyed the moment.

Noisily, he slapped the lights on. The sudden brightness enough to make Joy whimper, Cuddy gave him a pointed glare. "House," she hissed.

"What?" he asked loudly, moving toward the windows. "Thought the little ray of sunshine might like some sunshine," House explained, sarcasm creeping into his voice. One of his hands shoving a shade up as raucously as he could, House couldn't help but frown. The mini blinds not nearly as noisy as he would have liked, when he moved to the next set, he just yanked as hard as he could.

The aluminum shades crashed stridently onto the floor. The noise shrill and enough to almost make him wince, it was not surprising that Joy let out a yelp, muffled by the sound of her mother's skirt.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said with a smirk on his face. "Was that too loud for you?"

Stalking towards the side of her bed, House ignored Cuddy when she said, louder than Joy probably wanted, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

His gaze focused on teenager, he explained, "Nothing. This is just how I get when I lie to everyone and disappear to Chicago for two days, and –"

"You've been here for months, House," Cuddy pointed out, her brow furrowing in confusion.

But he ignored her, finishing his thought, "Meet a twenty year old boy."

By that point, Cuddy had started to move, but even amongst the shifting on the bed, he could see Joy react. Her muscles tensing slightly, back stiffening nervously, she knew that he knew. His eyes trained on her, he ignored the way Cuddy angrily snapped, "Unless you met with the Marquis de Sade, I have no idea what this has to do with anything."

"No?" Still focused on Joy, House waited for her to say something, for her to admit that she'd been lying to him – no, them, this entire time.

But she stayed silent.

And frankly, he thought he shouldn't have been surprised by that. After all, he'd been the one to coin the phrase, "Everybody lies," and he'd done it with good reason; everyone did lie, even when it didn't necessarily benefit them to do so. They denied and fudged the truth and did whatever it took to keep their secrets secret, and Joy doing the same should not have been surprising.

But it was.

It truly was, because in the sixteen years he'd had to deal with her, Joy had never learned to lie. Well, to him, anyway, because she quickly realized it was pointless. When she was young, her fidgeting gave it away, and even if he was complicit in her getting away with the lie, House had no problem pointing out that he knew she was lying.

Even as she grew older and got better, he knew all her tells. He knew the way her voice would get just slightly more high-pitched than normal and the way the bottoms of her ears would flush a light pink. He knew when she gave times that were too specific to be believable and when she became flustered about naming the people she'd been with.

And, again, he had no problem with her getting away with the lie. What did he care if she lied to Cuddy about going to see a rated R movie when she was twelve?

But now House realized that he'd been wrong… about so many things. Because now, she had lied to him, and it hadn't been over something small. She'd lied, and it could have cost her her life, and he'd been too confident in his ability to read her to realize it. And he wasn't sure what pissed him off more, truthfully.

But in this moment, it didn't matter. His anger getting the best of him, he didn't care what was fueling him. His only concern giving her as much pain as she had recently caused, revenge was on his mind, the need to hurt her more consuming than the fact that he'd screwed up.

Joy still silent, House said, "Guess she doesn't know what I'm talking about either."

"Of course she doesn't," Cuddy snapped, turning the lights off once more. "How is anyone supposed to understand your nonsense?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. She just seems like the type to understand what it's like to run off for a few days with a friend and –"

Rounding on him, Cuddy demanded, "Did you take something?"

"What?" His gaze momentarily turning away from Joy, he sneered. "No."

"No Vicodin or crack, perhaps?"

He ignored the question as he turned back to Joy. Her tiny body shaking under the sheets, she was obviously affected by the fight. But like an idiot, she wasn't going to say anything. And realizing that, House decided he'd had enough. "No," he repeated annoyed. "But since I'm the only one who has any idea what's going on, guess it's time for me to explain."

Leaning over, House grabbed Joy by the wrist. Her skin warm to the touch from having the limb tucked under her blankets, the contrast to his cool grip was one to make her gasp. Her dark eyes finally opening, if only in a squint, she looked… scared. "Dr. House," she said tentatively.

"Kid's gonna be fine," House said loudly, suddenly reaching towards her IV line. He ignored the tape running along her arm, didn't bother with it. The motion so smooth she didn't have time to pull away, he quickly yanked the IV out.

Blood immediately began running along the contours of her arm. The startlingly red rivulet infiltrating each shallow groove of her lightly tanned skin, it was enough to have Cuddy running the rest of the distance to Joy.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted over Joy's cries. Her gaze alternating between the blood and his face, she looked as though she couldn't decide whether to kill him now or wait.

Ignoring the display of maternal anger, House defended, "Not like she needs the antibiotics."

As Cuddy ransacked a drawer for gauze, she argued, "You don't know that. It's obvious you have no idea what she has, and you're taking your frustration out on her." The sound of syringes and plastic being shifted around punctuating the moment, Cuddy said, "I can't believe you did that. She could have –"

"What she has is conversion disorder," he retorted immediately, leaning on his cane, his gaze intent on Joy. Pretending to act surprised by this fact, he said, "Apparently swindling Mommy for money to travel halfway across the country with her best friend, meeting the dreamiest boy ever, watching him get sick, and then having to abandon him at a hospital, come home, and pretend like nothing happened is just too much for a little girl to handle. Who could have guessed?"

Since she was already crying, it was hard to tell whether or not his words were having an effect on Joy. But they clearly were having one on Cuddy, who was obviously refusing to believe what he was saying. "You are insane. Joy would never –"

"Steal? Lie? Do something stupid like run away so that, if something happened to her, you'd never know?" With a cock of his head, House admitted sarcastically, "Yeah, she'd never be that big of an idiot. I mean white slavery does sound so enticing in the brochures, but -"

"You have lost your mind, House," Cuddy snarled.

"Funny, cause I have the proof –"

"Just stop it, all right?" Joy finally cried out loudly. Nearly begging, she sobbed, "Just stop" before her words dovetailed into little more than a series of apologies. "I'm sorry" murmured over and over, it was then, much to his irritation, that Cuddy finally believed. His word suddenly not good enough on its own, it was only because Joy was admitting it that Cuddy could accept it.

And it was that betrayal, coupled with the one that had lasted all week, that had him say coldly, "See, Cuddy, this is the problem with raising hand-me-downs. Scrape the bottom of the barrel for offspring, and all you get is the chance to parent crack babies and sludge. Next time, do us both a favor and get a goldfish. It's smarter and easier to flush down the toilet."

His words hit home. And it was not surprising when she turned to him, her blue eyes icy, ordered, "Get out. Now."

For the first time in a very long time, he listened to her. Because, if House had learned one thing this past week, it was that he'd gotten too close; he'd come to care for them both, maybe even… love them.

And they had hurt him return.

Determined never to make that mistake again, House turned and left, Joy's cries and Cuddy's words comfort burning his ears as he went.

End Part Two