Another long, emotional chapter, I'm afraid. Enjoy! Steph

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Back in New Jersey, it was just past lunch and Cuddy was in the diagnostics room with Chase, Foreman and Cameron discussing a difficult case on a patient. It wasn't too difficult, though, as the blood tests showed the patient had Lupus, which is rare – not that Lupus is rare; it's rare they actually had a patient with Lupus.

Foreman stood and said he was going to go tell the patient and to start treatment, while Chase stood to go with him.

"Chase, can you stay a second?" Cameron asked as the door shut behind Cuddy and Foreman and he turned to look at her. "I just want you to know…" She hesitated a moment.

Chase looked at her blankly as he sat down in a chair across from her. "Know what?" he said, not mean or cruel or nasty, just matter-of-factly.

"I think you are really good with Gregory."

Chase's head flew back a tad as his eyelids flickered in surprise then frowned in confusion. "Okay, uh, thanks?" he asked, in more of a question than statement.

A smile crossed her lips, but that didn't comfort Chase any. "I just mean I think you'd be a good father."

"Okay – where did that come from?"

"No where. Things change, Robert, people change. I'm sorry about…you know. But when I see you with Gregory it's just…sweet – you're sweet with him, and I know he adores you."

"He's a happy little tyke for a six-month old, almost seven."

"Yeah, he is." She stood and took a few steps closer to where he was sitting and leaned against the conference table. "I would have wanted more from you, really, but not then. I just wasn't ready for a relationship with anyone." Chase simply nodded his head in understanding. "And I would have wanted a ton of babies from you…wait, let me have this one first and then I'll get back to you on that."

They both laughed and Chase thanked her for what she'd said. He stood to give her a friendly hug when an expression of excruciating pain crossed her face then she grabbed her swollen stomach and bent over a little, softly moaning.

"Cam…eron – what is it?"

"I…don't…just a sharp…" She bent over more as if she was going to fall to the ground, but Chase caught her and eased her into a chair.

He called Wilson on his cell phone and he was there in two seconds. While he was talking to Cameron he called for a wheelchair to take her to an exam room.

"Allison…is it a contraction?"

"I…don't know."

When the nurse brought in the wheelchair and the two men helped her up to get in it, Chase gasped at what he saw in the chair she was just sitting in: blood. He looked up at Wilson who shook his head, as if to say, 'Don't say anything.' She was wheeled into an exam room where Dr. Crooks could evaluate her.

Wilson stayed with Cameron in the room, holding her hand at her side, at her request, while she was being examined. The look on her face was mixed with fear and pain as Dr. Crooks did so, then announced he was finished.

"Dr. Crooks, is the baby okay?" she asked, her voice was full of fear and very shaky from nerves.

"Yes, the baby is fine, Allison."

There was a collective sigh in the room.

"What happened?"

Dr. Crooks took off the surgical gloves and pushed her knees together, draping the cloth over her legs again and told her to relax.

"There was a little tear at the cervix that caused blood to seep through; it didn't affect the embryonic sack at all, which is good news. You might have a few more spasms, but if there is a lot more blood than what you had, call me immediately. And I think I'm going to want to see you every week, just to be sure."

Cameron nodded her head and sighed heavily with relief. "Okay, good. Thanks."

Wilson left the room while Cameron got dressed and opened the door to the exam room to meet him. Wilson stood with her as she made her next appointment with Dr. Crooks and they walked the halls back to her office.

"Cameron, you should stay with me tonight."

She stopped at the elevator and pressed the 'up' button. "No, I'll be f…" She grabbed her stomach, but was in a lot less pain than before. "…fine." The doors opened and they got on; Cameron turned and looked at Wilson. "Okay, that might not be a bad idea, but you have to promise me you'll say nothing to him."

"Wha'…why? He'll want to know."

"I know…I know. I'm not doing it to be mean." The doors opened and they walked out, continuing down the hall. "He doesn't need to worry about me, or the baby. Everything is fine."

"Are you…"

"Yes! I'm sure."

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Debra Lynn House Wilson stared down at the body of her father in the navy blue silk-lined cloth that his body was lying on. She was emotionless, thoughtless, numb and empty inside. Not a single tear fell from her eyes. Her mother stood next to her with her arms around her, but Debra stood completely still with her arms stiff at her side.

It was the following day, two days after her father died, and it was the family's first private viewing of the body before the public viewing the next evening. Sharon's sisters and brother were there to support their sister. Debra's brother, Mark, was in the other corner of the room talking to the funeral director. House was also there, but he chose to stand in the back of the room to give immediate family time with his Uncle.

House felt for the syringe in his side pocket just in case Debra got out of control again, which was up in the air as far as he was concerned. He had no way of knowing what to expect from her at this trying time in her life. He'd told his Aunt Sharon he had it, although he thought it was stupid he did. But with Debra's heart condition she was at risk of a heart attack if she stressed herself out too much.

The night before, House greeted his mother lovingly, who had arrived earlier that morning to be with Sharon. House was indeed clearly tense, and gave his condolences to his aunt. He was dreading to see his father, and his heart beat fast and hard in his chest. Blythe explained his father wouldn't be coming in for the funeral, but he would be there for the burial. House was relieved; greatly relieved. Another unwanted crisis averted, for the time being, anyway.

Debra, on the other hand, was distant, cold, quiet and detached from everything around her when they first arrived at their house, and not from tiredness of the drive. House watched her with an eagle's eye for any signs she was in danger – and by 'danger' I mean possible heart attack from the stress.

Her mother was inconsolable but Blythe was there to console her, and Debra stayed as far away from facing her emotions as she could. She hadn't even really talked with her mom about the justification for ignoring their only daughter, which was fine with Debra. She spent most of the night on the patio deck, smoking too much and thinking too much.

"Those things will kill ya," House said as he sat in the lawn chair across from her. She looked up at him and gave him a cold stare. "Give me one."

She blinked a few times and handed him the pack with lighter. Debra hadn't smoked cigarettes since she first found out she was pregnant and he didn't have the heart to chastise her when he saw her hiding a cigarette when he came out of the restroom at one of the potty breaks.

They didn't talk; they didn't move; they didn't cry. They just stayed there for the other just in case one of them needed to say something. Neither one of them did. House dodded on her as if she were a fragile five-year old; he was trying to protect her, something he didn't do when they were younger. He wasn't there for her then, but he was there for her now.

Back in the funeral home, as Sharon and Debra looked over the body of their husband and father, Sharon lost herself and burst into tears. Blythe came and lead her away, leaving Debra standing there alone. Now House saw his opportunity to be there for her. He slowly limped up to her, his right leg screaming in pain. He'd forgotten to take a pill before they went into the room, but he swore to himself he'd take one in a few minutes. He stood directly beside her and took a deep breath, exhaling loudly; not that he needed to but to let her know he was there without having to say it.

After what felt like a century she said, "I hate him." House nodded his head. "I really, really hate him."

House was clueless – completely lost as to what to say. He just stared at her, watching her face. He noticed her neck and collarbone area was red and splotchy, a House family trait they both seemed to have inherited; and House knew she was boiling up inside. When he was nervous or uncomfortable or unusually stressed, his own chest would break out.

"I hate him for what he did to me," she said; her voice a little louder and filled with genuine loathing of the man.

Before House could react, she lurched forward and struck his chest once, hard. The cold body seemed to echo throughout the room, although that didn't really happen. She didn't strike him again right away so House didn't hold her back.

"BSTARD!" she screamed; her voice filled with hatred as deep as any cavern could ever hold.

With her left fisted hand she hit him again, followed by her right hand. She screamed at him while she continued to hit him, cursing at what he did to her and saying she was glad he was dead.

House was completely taken aback at her reaction; he sure wasn't expecting that to happen. He noticed movement coming up from behind her; it was her brother, Mark, and another man he didn't know.

"Hold her down," House said to the men as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the syringe.

Mark and the man had trouble getting a hold of her to pull her back from the casket because her arms were flailing in front of her, striking out at an invisible object and screaming, kicking at the casket with her feet. The funeral director approached the scene but House shook his head, telling him to stay away. The two men finally got her down on the carpeted floor and held her arms behind her, while Mark sat on her kicking legs.

"Don't touch me…no, Greg…damnit…I don't want…let me GO!" she cried out but to no avail.

Another man held Debra's arm still while House injected the sedative into her arm. House stood up and waited for it to take effect, which to him seemed too long.

"Sir, we have a private lounge you can take her to lie down," the funeral director offered, asking House.

"No, Sam. Thanks. Greg, can you take her back home? We still have a few things to discuss," Mark said, referring to Sam.

Debra's body seemed to deflate a bit as he said, "Sure, but there's no way I'd be able to carry her…"

"Oh, oh, of course. Sorry. Steve, can you go with him?" The other man that was holding her arm down nodded his head.

A few minutes later, a calm and sedated Debra sat in the back of the car leaning against House, her head on his shoulder with her eyes closed, but she wasn't completely out of it yet.

"Gawd…tha' fel' goooood," she mumbled barely above a whisper. House leaned in his head so his ear was closer to her mouth so he could hear her.

"Yeah?" was all House could think of to say.

"Yeah."

She was quiet for a moment when he felt her body shiver and she gave a crying-hiccup. He looked closer into her face and saw she indeed had several tears running down her cheeks. He lifted his arm above her head, slid it over her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Her head sank into his chest by his armpit and she wailed.

She wailed for a good five minutes before she finally passed out. But she wasn't wailing for the loss of her father. She was wailing for all the pent-up stress she held inside her for almost 42 years, and now was cleansed of the hatred she let escape onto her father.

Good, that's the best thing for her. Just sleep it off, Debra. Just sleep it off. Dream happy thoughts. That's all you can do. 'Cuz sometimes reality sucks, and now is one of those times.