After the New Year (which she celebrated quietly with House in his apartment), Cameron returned to work so that she'd be able to take another month off when she brought Amber home in – she hoped – early February. The same week, she interviewed with PPTH's immunology department and board of directors and learned that she'd start her new position as immunology attending in May. Sarah recommended a (rather pricey) nanny service for infants with special needs – Amber would be severely asthmatic at least through early childhood – and Cameron's life in Princeton was set in place, except that she still didn't know exactly where she and her daughter stood in relation to House.

At the moment it didn't matter because Amber was alive and, as of January 20th, breathing on her own.

And besides, it was better not knowing whether (or when) House would break their hearts, she told herself.

Wilson made time to visit his goddaughter in the special care nursery every day.

One day, shortly after Amber had been successfully taken off the respirator, Wilson encountered House cradling his infant daughter near her hospital crib.

"She's going home in ten days," House told Wilson. "By next year she'll be able to say" – here he switched to a high-pitched child's voice – "I'm responsible for a new set of diagnostic criteria for congenital pulmonary hernia."

"House."

"You have to admit it's cool."

"Does Allison know you're here?"

"She's colonized part of my apartment. I don't think I need to ask her for permission to see our kid."

"She's moved herself in?" Wilson asked, not quite sure whether he should laugh.

"Not exactly," House said, setting Amber back in her crib. "She's there four or five nights a week."

"I'm sure once the baby comes home …"

"You and I, we need to go to Atlantic City one night, catch up, you know."

"Right, but you have her now" – he signaled to the crib – "and can't just gamble the night away at will."

House leaned over and looked at his daughter. "You want to go to Atlantic City?" he asked her, and Wilson chuckled.

"Listen," he continued, "you have to do something for me."

"Find you a getaway car?' Wilson asked.

"Just the opposite. I need you to make sure I don't leave." He pointed at Amber and twisted his face into a smirk. "She's kind of important."

"I can't do that."

"When she's a few months old and wheezing incessantly, I'll lose interest. I know how I work."

"Then change," Wilson suggested.

"I'm only concerned when I'm interested. You told Allison that a thousand times, didn't you?"

"Change," he repeated.

"I have no right to ask you for anything considering that I killed your girlfriend, but –"

"You didn't kill my girlfriend, you ass."

"But do this for Allison and the baby."

"House." Wilson made a fist with his right hand. "Look at what you're doing. You're making me responsible for Allison and the baby. You're shifting the burden to me, so if you give up, it's my fault. The burden of commitment needs to be on you."

"What can I say? Shifting responsibility away from myself is my third biggest talent."

Wilson offered him a confused look.

"One is diagnosing rare conditions," House explained, smiling.

"Change," Wilson said one more time. "Commit."

Wilson walked away knowing he'd look out for House and his new family anyway. He'd accept that burden any day, even though House would never have been supportive of him if he and Amber Volakis had started a family.

I hope you'll be okay with this, Wilson thought, not sure where his words were going.

During the next few months, House stayed with Cameron and their daughter almost every weeknight but kept his apartment, where he'd spend weekends with bourbon, medical journals, and soft-core Showtime porn. At Cameron's place, he kept his Vicodin on a high shelf in the kitchen; he'd always sit with his daughter in his lap while Cameron administered medication to Amber's lungs via a face mask and nebulizer.

He quit hookers and strip clubs and began (every once in a rare while) sleeping with Cameron and only Cameron. Still, every day involved at least six Vicodin and one bourbon.

As the weeks passed and House saw that his little girl was breathing better and starting to look more like him every day, Wilson's words rang in his ears: "Change. Commit."

Change, commit. For the first time in over a decade he recognized the possibility.