A/N: When I had the idea for the first part of this little tale oh so long ago, I couldn't finish it. I was stuck when it got time to actually eat dinner. But the idea for this scene – and the realization that it could go together with the previous scene – was what inspired me to get this whole thing done.
Sorry for the wait here. I wanted it done sooner, but life got the better of me.
Hope you like-y. It's not often I write more than a one-shot.
II. Resolution
He had been right to worry. He knows it the moment he walks into work the next morning, because she has that look on her face – the one where her walk was more of a strut and her eyes looked a little brighter and her mouth was just the slightest bit pursed.
That's the look she has when she wants something; and when her walk is faster than usual, approaching him even though he wasn't even all that far away, he knows exactly what she was after.
She doesn't chase it right away. She starts small, arriving at his side and falling into step, her fingers intertwining between his.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey," he replies – but defensively, so that maybe she'll get a clue that he already knows and he will decline at once.
Apparently it doesn't work, because she smiles like she's about to go for the kill.
"So…I was thinking, do you want to come back to my place again for dinner tonight?" she asks.
He pretends to consider this.
"Let's do take-out at my place," he says. "With a movie or something."
She had been expecting this, because her eyes get even brighter and he can tell she's got a counter-attack.
"We could do that tomorrow," she says, slow, tactful, "but tonight, my babysitter has been giving me a hard time. She can't come tonight, so I have to be home."
He nods slowly.
Of course. The babysitter card. She can always play that one when she wants to get her way. He'll have to steal her phone when she's not looking – steal that babysitter's number instead of hoping to bump into her like the times before, so that he can call her in advance and bribe her into going over.
It would probably work, too. If your job was babysitting some doctor's three-year-old, then clearly you could use the money.
But he is snapped out of this reverie by the expectant look on her face, waiting for him to say yes. He actually considers saying yes for a moment, because she wants him to and if it wasn't for the kid he would, and then his better (or stupider) nature wins out.
"Sure," he says. "Meet me in my office when you're done with work. We'll go together."
Her entire face brightens. "All right," she says, the epitome of agreeability now that she has what she wants. "I'll see you then."
She kisses him briefly and then continues on her way, leaving him to wonder privately exactly what he has gotten himself into.
Cuddy makes a real effort to get out early enough that she can drag House out with her in time for dinner. She pushes back meetings, hands off documents to her assistant, figures out what she's going to finish at four o'clock tomorrow morning before work and what she will just have to fake when it comes time to answer for it. And when she arrives in House's office, she is pleased that he is just as free – watching TV after having dumped the work on his fellows with his feet up on the table.
He looks up when she arrives at his doorway.
"You ready to go?" she asks.
He shrugs noncommittally but turns the TV off, puts his legs down, prepares to stand up. And then he joins her at the door and walks with her out of the office, out of the hospital, into the car park where he promises her that he'll meet her at her place. She smiles genuinely as she retreats to her car, becoming smaller in the distance, but his smile is more like the one you give when you try to convince someone you don't have a stomachache when you do.
He is nervous. Might as well admit it to himself. He is nervous and he doesn't want to do this. The kid may only be three, but she will have a profound effect on his life as his relationship with Cuddy continues forward. Rachel's approval is vital and he has to win it.
How is the question. And for once, he really doesn't have a good answer.
Somehow, he is sure that doesn't bode well for him tonight.
By the time he reaches Cuddy's place, the lights are already on inside. The familiar anticipation knots his stomach like it did last night as he bravely forces himself to ring the doorbell. And, much like last night, Cuddy and Rachel appear at the door – Cuddy smiling, Rachel's expression stormy.
"Hey." Her kiss is sweet – soothing somehow, like she is trying to remind him that this will work out just fine. As an added plus, she kisses him on the lips rather than on the cheek like last time. He wonders vaguely what that could mean but has no time to pursue the thought, because Cuddy takes him by the hand and leads him inside.
The table is pre-set tonight, but she didn't cook – the familiar smell of his favorite Chinese take-out fills the air, noodles and kung pao chicken. They settle in at the table – Rachel climbs into her booster seat without any help – and immediately begin to attack the food, because it's been a long day and both adults are somewhat starved.
Cuddy cuts up noodles and small bites of chicken in Rachel's bright pink plastic bowl to eat before she can fill her own plate. She hands the finished product to the little girl and she examines it carefully, deciding whether or not she will eat it. She pokes the chicken with her fork and holds up a noodle against the light.
Cuddy watches with amusement; House tries his best not to find this charming because he's still quite sore from the other night. But when Rachel is at last satisfied, she begins to stab the noodles and chicken and stuff them in her mouth as only a three-year-old can do, both very cute and troublingly Neanderthalic.
"So…that patient of yours finally responded to kelation?" Cuddy asks after a few silent minutes of eating. "Do you have it all under control?"
"I have Taub checking in hourly," House responds through a mouth full of kung pao. "If anything happens, he'll call."
"Well, that's good." She takes a sip of water.
"Anything interesting happening on the paper-pushing side of things?"
"Nothing you'd find particularly fascinating." She smirks over her noodles. "Just budget cuts and insurance premiums. Oh, and Dr. Trent filed a complaint against you for stealing his time-slot for the MRI last week."
He waves this away with an impatient flap of his hand. "I checked his patient before we barged in," he says. "She wasn't dying. My patient was."
"Well, astonishingly, he didn't quite see it that way," Cuddy points out. "You have to stop doing that."
"People tell me I have to stop doing a lot of things, but I never let that get me down." He makes a point of chewing loudly and obnoxiously with his mouth open.
In spite of herself, she smiles. "I'm serious about this one though," she says. "No more stealing MRI slots."
"Let's say, sure," he says.
"Let's say, yes," she corrects.
He gives her a look and she has to work hard to hold back a laugh. She takes refuge in her glass of water instead.
The easy banter continues for the remaining duration of the meal. For a time, he can even act as if Rachel isn't there, because she is quiet and somewhat surly, picking at her noodles rather than being disruptive.
It's rather nice, being able to pretend she doesn't exist. He could easily get used to this.
However, once Cuddy is finished – she always eats faster than him – and turns around to put her plate in the sink, Rachel takes the opportunity to strike. She picks up a small piece of the kung pao chicken in her bowl and, quick as a flash with deadly aim, she manages to bounce it off of his cheek.
He might as well admit it: he is shocked.
Rachel cackles with glee at the sight of her direct hit and instantly, Cuddy whirls around to see what's happened.
The look on House's face is ominously menacing as he tells her, "This means war."
Cuddy puts two and two together and her hands go directly to her hips.
"Rachel, did you just throw chicken at Greg?" she demands.
Rachel sees no reason to lie; her evil smile still plastered on her face, she nods.
"Rachel, no dessert for you," Cuddy scolds.
This seems a small price to pay for the luxury of hitting House with her chicken, so she leans back in her booster seat, mostly unconcerned. Cuddy sighs, and clenches her jaw, and throws him a diffident look; but before she can work out a way for justice to prevail, her pager goes off.
The noise startles all three, but Cuddy picks it up at once and checks it. She bites her lip in a way that makes his heart sink.
"There's an emergency at the hospital," she tells him, running for the hallway closet for her coat. "I have to go."
"What, now?"
"Someone is threatening to jump off the building," she explains, instantly gaining five years with the exhaustion suddenly present on her face. "I need to be there."
"So…"
"So I'll need you to do me a favor," she says, more pleading than she perhaps needs to be. "Can you stay here and watch Rachel until I get back?"
"No."
The word comes out of his mouth – cold and final – before he can stop himself. Cuddy looks almost heartbroken.
"I can't get my babysitter on such short notice and you're already here," she reminds him. "You can help yourself to my fridge. Please?"
She's practically half-way out of the house and although she looks desperate, they both already know she will get what she wants.
So he does what they both already know he'll do: he caves with a disgruntled, reluctant sigh, saying, "Fine."
She spares him one last apologetic glance and half a grateful smile, lips pursed, eyes worried, over her shoulder as she rushes out the door. But it's fleeting – barely there – and then she is gone.
The house is silent. Only House and Rachel remain.
He returns to the table where Rachel is sitting and eyes her carefully, waiting for her to make a move. Cuddy isn't here; she is technically free to do what she likes. This thought appears to have crossed Rachel's mind as well, because her returning gaze is challenging, daring him to make a move.
He is instantly reminded of one key reason why he had never wanted children: they are insolent boogers.
So he gives in and makes the first move, just to prove to them both who is really in charge.
"All right, kid, it's just you and me now," he says.
Rachel nods.
"So…what are we going to do?"
"I don't know," she says with a shrug.
"Me neither."
He leans back in his chair and surveys her again, wondering what to make of her. From an objective point of view, it dawns on him that she could be considered cute. Her eyes are big – and blue – and her mouth is small. These traits tend to elicit more of the "aww" factor than children with smaller, non-blue eyes. Unless, of course, they are of Asian descent, which keeps the "aww" factor about the same, if not more, depending on how culturally diverse the outsider is.
But Rachel would get quite an "aww" factor while out with Cuddy, he is sure. Even if Rachel is an obnoxious brat who doesn't like him. Objectively speaking.
He sighs now, still watching her, waiting for some sign, some cue, something to tell him how to act. Rachel tries to copy him and lean back in her chair as well, but it's awkward for her tiny body and she almost topples over. So she chooses instead to lean forward, her palms propping up her face, staring almost preternaturally back at him.
She is good at this. Almost as silent and penetrating as he is.
This either says something very good about her abilities or something very bad about his.
He luxuriously stretches out his arms and then decides to copy her stance so that they are both much closer, their eyes blue on blue. She is close enough to smell that childish smell of graham crackers, milk and vanilla. But she is also close enough now for him to see the mischief sparkling in her expression, the slight crinkle of her nose and twitch in her lip that gives away her playfulness.
He thought she was staring back at him as intently as he stared at her; but in actuality, he sees now, she was under the impression that they were playing a game. So she had tried to copy him but she's three – she couldn't remain serious for so long.
Now he feels stupid for overestimating her. She's three.
He breaks the eye contact and clears his throat, seemingly business-like. Rachel does the same, but she sounds more like she has a sinus infection.
Then he asks her, as casually as he can muster, "Do you want…dessert?"
Rachel's eyes narrow a little, as though searching him for signs of jest. But she's three, so she could merely be considering the offer with caution because she doesn't like him. Or she's trying to decide which flavor of ice cream she wants. Or she's trying to work out whether going behind her mother's back is worth the risk. Either way, she ponders.
And, after a moment, says, "Yes please."
Making a mental note to tell Cuddy that her off-spring is surprisingly well-versed in manners, he simply responds, "Sure."
He stands and limps in the direction of the freezer. It is well-stocked with frozen foods – and desserts, as it turns out.
"Chocolate, vanilla or mint?" he asks. He strongly believes the mint is there for the older Cuddy rather than the younger one. Mint is not a flavor one usually associates with a messy three-year-old.
He turns out to be right.
"Chocolate," Rachel announces.
He can't help a sly grin in her direction.
"That's what I thought," he says, extracting the corresponding container out of the freezer. It's Haagan Daaz. At least Cuddy wasn't cheap.
He sets himself to work looking for bowls, but remembers where Cuddy took them from last night when she got dessert out. It only takes him two tries to find them. Then he finds the scoop and a spoon – they're always in the drawer right next to the sink – and begins to hack out a modest amount of ice cream. Rachel watches with interest.
"What's that?" she asks.
"Quality ice cream," he responds.
"No, that."
He turns to look in the direction she is pointing. It's his cane – the one with the skull on top.
"That's my cane," he tells her.
"Why do you need it?"
The other unfortunate thing about three-year-olds – besides their fickleness and warped sense of humor – is that their understanding is limited to simple sentences with simple ideas. A sarcastic remark would be lost on her. He wracks his brain on the best way to respond.
"I just do," he ends up informing her gruffly.
"Is it for walking?" she presses on. "Is it because you're old?"
He whirls around to face her, something nasty already on the tip of his tongue, but all he can see is a little girl too small for the kitchen chair, with large blue eyes and complete, honest innocence mixed with curiosity. She is probably thinking of her illustrated storybooks, with the stereotypical old men hunched over with a cane. Making connections.
But still. To call him old like that…
He takes a breath.
"No," he says, tone stiff.
"Then why?"
He feels like a Scrooge, begrudging the poor little girl answers with too many syllables. But then again, what is he supposed to say? She couldn't even pronounce the word 'infarction' without some serious coaching.
So, hating himself – and her for putting him in this situation – he gives her the answer she wants to hear.
"It's because I'm old," he says.
This makes a world of sense to Rachel, who nods vigorously.
"Oh," she says.
He grimaces in her direction, but has the correct amount of ice cream in the bowl. He rummages through the different drawers and cupboards, certain that Cuddy has some Hershey's syrup in here somewhere, for one of her late-night indulgences. While he searches, Rachel hops out of her chair and approaches his cane. He doesn't notice at first, but then hears odd clunking noises from behind him.
He turns to find Rachel struggling with the cane – which is taller than her – and trying to play with it, bouncing it up and down. Instinctively, he snatches it up too quickly and startles her. He rescues his cane and the little girl slips, falling to the floor directly on her rear-end.
They freeze. How odd the scene must look: House, clutching his cane like it's his firstborn child, expression almost terrified; Rachel, on the floor, looking up at him with her big blue eyes, lip quivering like she's about to scrunch her face up and cry. Both of them utterly still. Waiting.
Rachel begins to whimper, a tantrum surely on the way, and House inwardly groans. Oh God. She's going to cry. What is he supposed to do with a little girl that cries? Normally, his job is to figure out which organ is failing, hand the kid off to the team and play with his ball in his office until the epiphany comes. He doesn't actually deal with any crying. Not in a long time, anyway.
But now he has to deal with it because she is crying. Vaguely, he is confused. He thought little kids fell down and got up all the time, resilient and ready to turn their short attention spans to something new. This girl seems to be a bit of a wimp in comparison, crying because he took the cane away and let her fall on the kitchen floor.
Maybe it's because she's scared. Maybe because she is a wimp. But either way he has to act fast, because otherwise she will never stop.
He glances down helplessly at her. She sobs, but gives him a clue, holding her hands up in his direction.
He knows this sign: she wants him to pick her up.
More nervous now than he had been a minute or two before, he squats down and puts his hands securely under the girl's armpits. His leg throbs, but he lifts her up like that, slightly surprised by her weight but not too much. And, feeling so deeply uncomfortable that he thinks he may accidentally drop her out of shock, he balances her on his hip mommy-style.
Rachel's crying begins to wane, but now she throws her arms around his neck, her head buried into his shoulder, her tears and sticky breathing even closer to his ear than before.
He feels like there is something you have to say to children when they are upset, something soothing that makes them feel better and shut up. But he can't think of it, so he does the next best thing: he plucks the girl off of his neck and shoulders, places her in her booster seat at the kitchen table, finally locates the Hershey's, and presents her with an ice cream sundae. All hers. Sort of a peace offering.
As expected, Rachel's attention diverts extremely quickly. Ice cream and chocolate syrup – the ultimate three-year-old dream. House hands her a spoon and she is about to dig in, but hesitates.
She looks up once at the man who knocked her down, picked her up and then bribed her with ice cream. The look on her face is much too old for her; too calculating, too ponderous. He finds himself under an investigative spotlight and can only wait for the final judgment. He sits back down across from her, elbows on the table, face supported by his palms, and cocks an eyebrow at her.
A smile suddenly breaks across her face at this, sunny and surprisingly sweet. All appears to be forgiven.
He has now officially been accepted by a three-year-old.
Perfect.
It takes Cuddy about three hours to finally return home from the hospital; but when she does, a strange sight awaits her:
Gregory House is sitting on the couch, Rachel beside him, playing absently with his cane, both intently watching a monster truck rally she can hear from outside the front door.
She doesn't know how to make heads or tails of it. Neither looks up when she enters the room.
"Um…hi," she says to get their attention. "What's going on?"
"We are watching a monster truck rally," House informs her.
"Isn't that a little violent for a three-year-old?"
He gives her a reproachful look. "It's vital education and your kid is vehicularly-retarded," he says. "I've done you a favor. You may thank me later. In bed."
"Carolina Crusher!" Rachel shouts, pointing vigorously at the screen. "GET 'EM!"
And House's smile is such a strange mix of thrilled, mischievous and slightly affectionate that she can't help but laugh.
"You are awful," she announces though her face holds nothing but joy.
He plucks the baby up off the couch and deposits her a few inches away. She doesn't even notice in the interest of monster trucks. He pats the sofa cushion on the other side of him and she falls into it with pleasure, letting him put his arm around her, her head in the hollow between his head and shoulder, the sound of his breaths in her ear.
The monster trucks race and crash before them, but the scene is so domestic – like last night, the three of them together on the couch – that somehow, you'd never guess what they were watching.
'Not so bad this time,' he muses to himself. 'Not quite so doomed either.'
Who knew?
A/N: Please remember to review on your way out.