Author's Notes: Thanks to Neelie2009, dmarchi, Thayna, miss-Lore, Sydney, HouseBroken, Huddyphoric, red blood, Miz iNDePEndANt, lhoma320, and tuckp3 for leaving me reviews and encouraging me to keep writing this fic. I appreciate it more than you'll ever know. Thanks again.

Disclaimer: It's not my show.

Gift of Screws
Chapter Four: Shark in the Water
By Duckie Nicks

"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson

Rachel sat shivering on the counter, her large round eyes trained intently on House. She wanted to get down now that she could breathe. She wanted to take off her sticky clothes that were making her chilly skin itchy. She wanted to take back whatever she had done wrong to make House angry, and more than anything, what she wanted, what she really, really, really, really, really wanted was Mommy.

But her car wasn't in the driveway, and she wasn't in the house anywhere, and she wasn't outside, because it was cold, and Mommy didn't like to be cold or in the snow (and there was a lot of snow). So she couldn't possibly be here, but when she wasn't here, she was at work, and she couldn't possibly be at work either, because Mommy had said that she would take Rachel to her recital.

But Mommy said a lot of things that never turned out to be true.

Like when she said they'd visit Nana for Hanukkah, and they ended up staying at home because House had a patient instead. Or like when Mommy promised her a puppy for her birthday but then never got one because of allergies.

Or like when Mommy said that things would be fun with House around.

Aside from being told that needles didn't hurt and that school was fun, Rachel thought that had been the biggest lie of all.

So she probably was going to miss the recital today. And just the thought of not being the blue jay in the dance that she'd practiced so hard for made Rachel want to cry.

But she didn't dare.

House was standing beside her, towering over her with a laugh escaping him that didn't sound like he was all that happy. And she was afraid.

Of him, of what he might do… she wasn't really sure, but the fear froze her in a way that belly flopping into the snow had not.

Sitting absolutely still, she waited for House to leave.

But he didn't.

Instead, he gently pulled her off the counter, which was easy to do, thanks to her wet pajamas. "You need to change," he told her.

Taking that as an opportunity to get away, Rachel nodded her head before sprinting towards her bedroom.

House watched her go in boredom. Her feelings towards him couldn't have been more obvious, and he was tempted to tell her that he was just as dissatisfied with this arrangement as she was. After all, it wasn't like he'd asked the hospital to call Cuddy and make her go to work, so he could watch the little brat.

He was just as screwed over by this whole thing as Rachel was.

Not that he could tell her that.

It would be cruel to do so, but more importantly, it would tell Rachel that he didn't want to be in her life. And if she knew that, as unhappy as she was, she would do everything she could to make him miserable. Because if she knew that he didn't want to be there, she would try and force him into giving into his desire to flee. She would do whatever she could to get him to call Cuddy.

And House was determined not to do that.

If only because he didn't want to give into the whims of a five year old, he didn't want to give her what she wanted.

But that seemed almost inevitable when he heard a loud thud and the sound of Rachel crying coming from down the hallway.

Immediately he headed toward her room; it was hardly what he wanted to do, but for the moment, it was his responsibility to make sure she hadn't… bludgeoned herself with a lamp or something equally stupid.

Luckily for him, her brand of idiocy was of the harmless variety.

The second he pushed open her door with the palm of his hand, he saw what the problem was.

Her pajama top was pulled up but too tight and small for her to actually get it off her head. And since it was wet, it clung awkwardly to her neck, cheeks, and arms, so she was stuck with her arms in the air and her face pressed into the dark blue and pink polka dot fabric.

Her bare stomach hanging out, Rachel was crying in frustration as she stumbled around the room.

Frankly, House was tempted to let the little train wreck continue to do her impersonation of Wilson after his bachelor parties. Yet he knew he couldn't. Her cat piggy bank was already on the floor, and the way she was flailing about, it would only be a matter of time before she broke something or hurt herself.

Sighing, he stepped into the room. "Stop moving," he ordered. His voice scaring her, she jumped. So he added, feeling rather feeble about the whole thing, "I'll help you."

His words naturally fell on deaf ears. It was hard to be surprised by that, given the way Rachel was continuing to flail about; she was easily too concerned with what she was doing to pay attention to him. And in any case, she didn't trust him to do anything for her; even if she weren't focused on getting undressed, she wouldn't have listened to, much less believed, him.

Knowing that, House could only watch her try to take care of herself for a few minutes.

He was not trying to be cruel.

That wasn't what he wanted.

But the fact of the matter was that, at the moment, he felt completely inept. He felt totally unable to care for someone who had about as much an interest in him as he had in her.

And normally, he was okay with the way they ignored one another; it usually made his life easier to not have to deal with a five year old on a daily basis.

Now though…

It didn't feel like such a good situation.

Now, he was realizing that the relationship he didn't have with Rachel was not of his choosing. It was not something that could be good if he wanted it to be.

What this was was something completely out of his control.

And though he'd never wanted (nor would he ever want) Rachel to be his daughter, House did not like that he wasn't the one making that decision.

Not that he wanted her to be keeping her fingers crossed for a relationship, of course. He just wanted to be the one in charge of how things were; for some reason, that made the situation seem less depressing, made him seem like less of a mismatch in this family. In short, it wasn't a reminder that his relationship with Cuddy was doomed to fail.

Fatalism surged within him, the familiar, bitter companion reminding him of its existence suddenly. That feeling rising within him like a tide threatening to drown the world, it seemed as though, no matter how long he could convince himself that he was happy, the emotion always returned with renewed vigor. Almost as though it could sense within him when he was at his happiest, it would eagerly thrust itself upon him once more and force him to consider how tenuous his relationship with Cuddy really was.

He hated it, and what he hated even more was the fact that it was nothing new for him. He was never convinced that things could last forever, never confident enough to believe that she would never change her mind about him.

And this was just proof that he had good reason to feel that way.

As Rachel punctuated the thought by banging into her dresser, House reluctantly moved closer towards her. The chances were she would hit or kick him when he grabbed her; she would scream and piss him off easily, but at this point, he didn't think he had any other options.

Grabbing her as she stumbled back towards her bed, he wasn't surprised to hear her shout, "No!"

"Just relax," he told her through gritted teeth, as he shoved her pajama top back onto her body.

"No!"

She tried to pull away, but he wasn't going to let her go. One of his hands wrapped around her arm, it was hard to keep hold of her and undo the buttons on her top. "Stop moving," he snapped out of frustration.

Rachel paused at the sound of the booming voice. She was too afraid to do anything else.

As mean and loud as he could be, she'd never seen him this mad. He'd yelled at her before, but today was different.

She could tell.

He was angrier, meaner looking. His eyes were weird and cold looking – reddened in the part that was normally white.

And it was scary.

Really scary.

So scary that she stood still and let him help her out of her clothes.

She didn't like it.

Not at all.

The grip he had on her hurt a little, and she didn't like being this close to him.

Ever.

She didn't trust him.

He'd never given her a reason to.

Then again, he'd also never given her a reason not to.

House had never hurt her. He'd never punched her like Madison Swanson had when Rachel had tried to steal her Princess Tiana doll. He'd never spanked her like Marina had (not that Rachel had ever told anyone about that or how she'd made Marina dead by wishing she would die) when Rachel had chased her ball into the street.

House had never done anything like that.

But he was big and loud and wouldn't play Barbies with her the few times she'd asked, and he was always around her Mommy.

So Rachel didn't like being near him.

And she really didn't want to be near him now.

"Me go," she cried loudly, the let completely left out of her sentence.

Her shirt only halfway unbuttoned, he shook his head. "You'll run away."

"Won't," she whined.

But he wasn't going to relent, knowing all too well what would happen if he did. "Just stay still, all right, kid?"

He certainly didn't think that was going to happen obviously. Asking her to do something was akin to asking a whale to do a headstand. So it came as no surprise that she tried to shake his hand off.

"It hurts," she cried.

Undoing the last button of her pajama top, he looked at her face carefully. As much as he'd been hoping to make a quip about how sex with Cuddy had made undoing buttons single handedly easy, if Rachel was saying something was hurting, he needed to check that out.

And deep in the gray-blue irises of her big round eyes were indeed all the signs of someone in pain.

She wasn't lying.

But he didn't know what she was talking about.

Her stomach maybe? From using it to break her fall?

Okay, so the idea was a rather lame one. But at the moment, it was all he could think of as a source for her pain.

Instinctively needing to test the theory out, he awkwardly got down onto his knees. It hurt like hell, but he needed to get a better view of what was going on. Silently, using his free hand to palpate the pale expanse of exposed skin, he lightly ran his palm over her stomach. "Your belly?" he asked, looking for clarification when he couldn't see or feel anything wrong.

She shook her head immediately. "My arm!"

House didn't get it at first. For a brief period of time, he remained blissfully ignorant of Rachel's predicament. Instead of hearing what she was trying to say, he thought that maybe she'd fallen on it oddly. But then he thought that if that were true, he would have noticed something before now, and even if he hadn't, she certainly wouldn't have been able to flail about as she had been only moments ago.

So something must have changed.

And it was then that he understood:

He was hurting her.

Bile tunneling into his throat, House immediately let go of her. Almost as though touching her burned him, he released her as quickly as he could.

He hadn't meant to hurt her, but the fact that he had… killed him.

He'd hurt Rachel.

And after scaring her, after nearly killing her with an asthma attack… after years of ignoring her, he was now – without a doubt – every bit the monster he'd always feared he would be. Whatever good Cuddy had thought she'd seen in him had been completely eradicated in this moment, and he knew she would never forgive him for it.

Nobody would.

And he wouldn't want them to.

After what he'd just done, he didn't deserve anything even remotely approaching forgiveness.

Given the way Rachel was looking at him with fearful eyes, House knew forgiveness was the last thing he'd earned.

But nevertheless, he felt compelled to say, "I'm sorry."

Coming from his mouth, the words were surprisingly sincere. As much as he'd hoped to convey genuine apology in his tone, he had been half-convinced that he would actually sound indignant or sarcastic. Which made sense, seeing as how that was usually how the words sounded coming from him.

This time though, there was no pretending that he hadn't done something wrong. This time, there was only the option of accepting what he'd done. Because if he even wanted Cuddy to consider forgiving him, he needed to play his cards carefully starting this second.

Rachel wasn't going to make that easy though.

Completely ignoring what he'd said, she simply said, "I'm cold."

He frowned. The fact that she wasn't even acknowledging what he'd said was not a good sign. Not that he'd expected her to forgive him, but he had at least anticipated some sort of response from her.

That she wasn't giving him anything left him feeling let down and at a loss as to what he should do next. His eyes searching her for some sort of answer, when he came up empty, he said, "All right."

He half-expected her to run away when he turned his back to her. As he searched her drawers for something to put on her, he thought she would take the opportunity to run away. But when he turned back around, she was still exactly where she'd been seconds ago.

Silently, he peeled off the clothes she'd been wearing. Instinctively his gaze fell to the area of her arm he'd been holding only moments ago. Almost as though he expected the proof of his actions to already be blemishing her skin, House felt sick to his stomach at seeing that her pale flesh appeared unharmed. Because although a part of him would have liked to feel relieved at seeing that he hadn't hurt her that bad, in his mind, it just felt as though her body was complicit with his crime.

And if Rachel were to tell her mother and he were to deny it…

Maybe Cuddy would believe her daughter, but there was a good chance she wouldn't, and seeing her do that was the last thing he wanted.

Feeling guiltier than he ever thought possible, House helped Rachel into a fuzzy, yellow-with-pink-butterflies pair of pajamas that nobody liked.

Oh, House supposed that Cuddy had thought they were cute when she'd purchased the fleece onesie; certainly, it would be thick enough to keep Rachel warm. But they were without a doubt the most reviled set of pajamas in the house. Because it was a one piece, Rachel had to nearly undress herself to use the bathroom. And though there was a zipper, not buttons, holding the thing together, the fact of the matter was that Rachel was rarely quick enough in undoing it in order to make it to the bathroom in time. Several puddles of piss on the floor later, the pajamas had been relegated to the back of Rachel's drawers.

Right now though, they would keep her nice and warm, which was all House really needed.

Once she was zipped up, Rachel asked, "Can I go now?"

The last thing he wanted to do was say yes. He didn't want to let her go before…

Before what?

Before he made her reassure him that things would be okay?

Before he made her agree to never tell Cuddy?

Things would never go that way, he knew, and so he could only say, "Yeah."

And though he expected her to take off running, she didn't; instead she scuttled to her bed, hurriedly crawling under the covers. Watching her scurry about, House carefully considered his options.

He could leave now. Doing that would certainly help him avoid an awkward conversation with the kid, and that definitely meant something to him.

On the other hand, it wouldn't make things any better. In fact, if walking away now did anything at all, it would be to make him seem even more guilty than he already was. It would make it seem as though he didn't care that he'd hurt her, as though he thought that he hadn't done anything wrong. And when Cuddy heard that he'd just left the room without a second thought…

It would be over.

Of course, chances were it would be over anyway.

But if he wanted a shot, if he had any hope of keeping Cuddy in his life, he knew that he would need to… reach out now.

Which sounded quite simple but really wasn't, because he had never really tried with Rachel before. There might have been a couple of moments over the years where they were… agreeable to one another's presence, but watching Scooby Doo together once or twice hardly constituted a relationship.

He didn't have the basis for anything with Rachel, and trying to forge some sort of connection with her now would only be met with suspicion.

But he knew he had to try.

Knowing that, he hobbled over toward Rachel's bed. His leg hurt more than it had in months, each calculated step one he regretted the second he'd taken it. Yet there was no use in stopping himself; he had to do this if he wanted to even have a chance of keeping Cuddy.

Eventually standing beside her bed, he waited for the little girl to pop back out of her cocoon, so he could talk.

But she didn't.

She just stayed buried under the covers.

Whether that was out of being afraid, exhausted, or cold, he didn't know. So he decided to answer that mental question, knowing that it could help him determine how to proceed.

Clearing his throat, he awkwardly asked, "You tired?"

She didn't even pop her head out of the covers much less give an answer, so he had to forcefully peel the sheets. "Are you tired?"

Her eyes wide with shock, she could only answer honestly by shaking her head.

"Cold?"

She nodded her head quickly.

As he reached for the blanket at the foot of her bed, he told her, "You'll warm up. Your body just needs time."

Of course, it would probably take her longer. Her hypothyroidism made her incredibly sensitive to the cold, and even when her condition was well managed, that was one thing that did not change.

Draping the afghan across her body, he asked her what he really wanted to know. "You afraid of me?"

Rachel immediately shook her head no. But the speed with which she did it told him that she was lying. And though he hadn't expected anything else, he hadn't expected her to be okay with him, it definitely did not feel good to have his suspicions confirmed.

Shifting on his feet to try and alleviate the ache in his thigh, he tried to make things better with Rachel by saying, "Well… it's… you know, it's okay if you are." But those words, awkwardly, clumsily, spoken were hardly reflective of what he meant. "Well, all right, not okay. But I would understand if you were."

She didn't say anything right away. Her gaze trained on him, it was almost as though she were silently trying to assess whether or not he meant what he had said, whether or not he was in a good enough to mood to listen to her speak.

Whether or not it was even worth trying to do so.

But she must have seen something she liked, because eventually she spoke up. "You're mean," she accused. "I didn't do anything wrong, and –"

"I know," House admitted in an accepting tone. Although he knew that technically she had done something to set all of this off, it hadn't exactly been wrong to wake him. And when she had no real idea of the pain he would feel when she touched his leg, it wasn't exactly a choice to do something bad when she'd woken him. "I shouldn't have done that."

Rachel wasn't willing to let it go though. "I just wanted to know where Mommy is, and you –"

"I get it," he told her a little more gruffly.

He didn't mean to sound so fed up. Really, he didn't. But between her insistence and his leg hurting like hell, it was hard to be apologetic.

And that was when he realized that the best thing he could do for both Rachel and himself was to get off of his leg. It sounded odd, but if he could just give his thigh a break, he could focus more on what she was saying and not on the pain coursing through his body.

But knowing that she wouldn't follow him to the couch or his bedroom, he understood that if he wanted to lie down, he would have to do it here.

With her.

And the very fact that that seemed less repulsive to him than it normally would have was a testament, he thought, to just how much his leg really did hurt.

Crudely climbing into the bed next to Rachel, he was not surprised when she immediately asked, "What you doing?"

His head had barely been on one of her pillows when she'd demanded predictably to know what was going on. And though he knew she would ask, he did not know how to explain to her why he was lying next to her. Rachel ate glue after all; she wasn't going to understand what chronic pain meant.

Yet House could see that he would need to offer some sort of explanation – not only to diffuse the weirdness of being in bed with her, but also to put his earlier behavior in some sort of context.

Of course, it went without saying that the chances of that working were slim to none. But he supposed he had to try.

"I'm lying down," he explained dryly. "My leg hurts. After you touched it this morning –"

"I didn't do wrong," she practically shouted nonsensically.

House bit down on his cheek to keep from yelling back at her. Carefully choosing his words, he told her, "I know you didn't mean to, but when you put your hands on my thigh –"

"No!" She squirmed on the bed angrily.

"Yes," he insisted. "It hurt."

"I poked."

"Yeah, you did."

"I didn't do it hard," she said defensively.

"It still hurt, kid."

But Rachel didn't want to believe him. "Nuh uh."

"Yuh huh," he replied in a similarly childish manner.

"You're lying."

"Rachel, I'm really not." His patience having worn thin, he wasn't interested in continuing this fight.

"Yes –"

"You ever notice how I walk with a cane and most people don't?" he asked her in as calm a voice as he could. When she nodded her head, he asked, "You ever wonder why that is?"

Rachel shrugged, tiredly pushing her long, dark hair out of her eyes. "No."

He sighed. "Of course not," he muttered under his breath. But then more loudly, he explained, "Years ago, before you were born, I got sick. My leg hurt, and…." He shook his head a little before continuing. "They fixed the problem, but the pain never really went away. So… when you grabbed me, even though you didn't mean to hurt me, it hurt."

There was no accusation in his tone; though it wouldn't have been wrong to include a little of it, House knew that no good could come of it.

As it was, good things were unlikely to happen – especially when Rachel looked at him doubtfully. And in a snotty tone that would have made Cuddy proud, the little girl challenged him. "Prove it."

House understood that there were many ways he could do just that. "Ask your mother" first and foremost, the words were practically on the tip of his tongue when he realized that that wasn't a viable option. Even if he could get Cuddy on the phone, even if Rachel heard her mother say that House wasn't lying, it wouldn't do any good; at some point, Rachel would want more than talk.

So instead he told her, "Fine. I will."

"Good." She had that look on her face that said in the brattiest way possible, "I'm waiting," and House really couldn't help but think that, if Cuddy were here, she would be proud of her child. He was obviously less enthused by the prospect of having two women (three, if you counted Wilson) giving him the side eye all day long, but Cuddy would have been pleased to know that her daughter was willing to pick up the slack when she wasn't around.

Would have been pleased if she ever found out about this, House thought to himself, knowing that he would never tell her. Rachel might, but as he yanked one leg of his pajama pants down to show her his thigh, he suspected she would have other things on her mind after this.

He was slow to reveal the long, meandering scar that was the physical representation of the bane of his existence. Inches of skin being revealed slowly, it would have seemed as though he was doing this for dramatic effect. Indeed, the way Rachel's eyes were widening with each patch of thigh he was showing made it seem that he was doing this just to scare her. But the fact of the matter was that he was more interested in making sure he didn't accidentally show her something other than his thigh.

Having been too dazed and paradoxically annoyed by Cuddy's games, after showering, House hadn't thought about much besides killing her; though he'd thought about clothes, it had only been in the context of "Yelling at your girlfriend in a towel equals pathetic." And so, he'd put on pajama pants but not underwear, and remembering that now, House knew that he couldn't just yank his pants down.

Though exposing himself to a five year old did seem par for the course, what with the way the rest of the day had gone anyway, he wasn't interested in giving Cuddy any more reasons to kill him.

So he was careful to make sure that he was only showing Rachel his thigh and nothing else.

Not that she was really looking at anything else; the second she saw his scar, it was all she could pay attention to. Her eyes wide in shock, in disgust, she could only stare at the mass of scar tissue.

And it was then that he considered how odd it was that she'd never seen it before. After all, he'd known her since she was a baby, since Cuddy had first fostered her. With all of that time passing, it seemed almost bizarre that Rachel hadn't ever caught a glimpse of something so inescapable for him.

But here she was, catching her first sight of the monster he couldn't destroy. Her repulsion palpable, he understood why he'd kept this hidden.

Her reaction was too honest.

Having lived with it for years now, he was used to the way he looked. And though he hated it, his appearance was nothing in comparison to the pain he felt. So he just… ignored that aspect of it all – which was easy to do when he was the one banging Cuddy.

She was hot enough for the both of them.

And when she didn't look at him as though he were inferior, it was almost easy to forget that there was this hideously unattractive part of him.

But here Rachel was, reminding him of it. Especially when she scrunched her nose and said, "Eww."

"Thanks," he replied dryly.

"That's gross. Can I touch it?"

"You already did," he pointed out. Deciding that he'd had enough of her staring, House readjusted his pajama pants.

"It looks like a shark bit you."

He rolled his eyes. "You know, that's exactly what happened."

Though it seemed impossible, her eyes became even wider. "Really?"

"No."

She seemed oddly disappointed by that. Although on further reflection, he could only think that he would have been just as disappointed if his own father had admitted and then denied being attacked by a shark. Of course, House would have been disappointed even if the story were true, given the fact that his father would have lived….

"Anyway," he said, forcing himself back into the present. "When you woke me up, I was in a lot of pain – a lot," he emphasized, stressing the point as best as he could. "And when I'm in a lot of pain… it's hard for me to think about the other stuff I'm doing."

He looked toward her to see if she was reading between the lines. But it was almost immediately clear that she wasn't. "There wasn't a shark?" she asked sadly.

"There was no shark." He was trying to be patient, but right now, it felt like he was banging his head into a brick wall.

"It would be better with a shark."

"Well, that's true of most things. For instance, this conversation would be way cooler if a great white swam over here right now and gnawed my face off." Rachel giggled, though House wasn't sure if she actually got what he was saying. He was okay with that though, and the mood slowly becoming more serious, he murmured, "I wasn't trying to be mean to you or hurt you. But I know I did, and I'm sorry."

The words couldn't have come out quicker if he tried. Although the sentiment was genuine, he wasn't comfortable with having to apologize, and frankly, he thought that if he could just railroad over the whole thing, he would.

Thankfully, Rachel's room temperature I.Q. had risen a degree or two. Topping at a balmy eighty, maybe even eighty-three, it allowed her to figure out what he was trying to say. "It's okay," she told him honestly. "Sorry I hurt you."

He waved her off, though part of him was oddly relieved and disappointed that what he'd done to her could be forgiven so easily. "It's fine. Nothing a morphine drip can't cure."

But there was no amount of morphine to eliminate the discomfort he felt when Rachel then rolled over toward him and hugged him.

Hugged him.

No, hugging him, he corrected, because she wasn't moving away. Her head resting on his chest, her arms wrapped around him as best as she could, she was still actively hugging him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dreading the answer she would give.

"Mommy says you have to hug the person you apologize to," Rachel said matter of factly.

To himself, House thought that Cuddy would be doing a lot more than hugging to make this up to him. Then again, he also thought that he would be doing a lot more than hugging to earn her forgiveness over how he'd acted this morning.

But to Rachel, House simply said, "That doesn't have to be our rule though."

"Yes, it does."

"Why?"

"Cause hugging you is fun," she told him. "You're squishy." As if to prove the point, she buried her head further into his chest.

"Squishy?" He couldn't have sounded more horrified if he'd tried. "I'm not – I'm not squishy, okay?" Rachel giggled, which only seemed to add to his displeasure.

Because, sure, he hadn't really been able to work out in years (his leg had prevented that from happening). But he didn't weigh hardly any more than he had five or six years ago, and he certainly didn't have the physique of a beanbag chair.

"Okay," Rachel said doubtfully.

"And I think it's time for breakfast," House announced, sitting up. Unfortunately she came with him, her body still pressed against him like they were… father and daughter or something.

"Can we have cookies?" she asked, he started to pry her off of him.

House frowned. "We don't have cookies."

"Uh huh. Mommy brought them home two days ago. I sawed them." She nodded her head for emphasis, her cheek rubbing against his t-shirt.

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"She put them in the cupboard behind the oatmeal. I sawed her."

House considered the information he'd just received for a moment. On the surface, it was plausible. Cuddy was the kind to hide cookies, especially if she'd bought them in a moment of weakness and planned to eat them herself. But Rachel wasn't exactly the type to leave a box of cookies where they were. "Then why haven't you eaten them?" he asked curiously.

"Cause if I taked them, I would get in trouble."

"And if I take them -"

"Then I don't get in trouble," Rachel said with a smile.

He blinked in shock. "And the I.Q. reaches boiling. Nice."

"Huh?"

He sighed. "And the world has righted itself once more."

Rachel clearly had no idea what he was talking about, so it came as no surprise when she asked, "Does that mean we can have cookies?"

He shrugged, mentally recalling (and ignoring) Cuddy's requests for a good breakfast for the runt. "Sure."

Unfortunately, it wasn't going to be that easy (in this family, nothing ever was).

Because he'd just made stacks of Oreos for Rachel and himself when he heard, from behind him, Cuddy ask, "What are you doing?"

He turned around as Rachel shoved a cookie into her mouth. And he was not surprised to see Cuddy, hands on her hips, looking at him as though she were going to murder him. "You weren't supposed to be home until after the –"

"You were right: it's amazing what I can accomplish when I'm frustrated." A sneer on her lips and daggers in her gaze, she asked, "Would you like a demonstration?" He didn't get a chance to tell her no, because she snapped, "Rachel, if you eat one more cookie…"

The threat went unfinished, but it had had its intended effect nonetheless; Rachel set the cookie in her hands down with a big frown.

"Go brush your teeth and hair," Cuddy told the little girl. "And you," she said in a dangerously low voice, her gaze trained on House once more. "Put the sweets away. Now."

As she walked away from him, Cuddy was sure that he was making a face. But she was so worked up at the moment, thanks to her damn job, that she didn't really care. She was too busy wondering why her employees were either completely inept or morally bankrupt to care what he was doing. Short of House setting himself on fire, there really was little he could do to distract her from the fact that one of her employees and one of her biggest donors had colluded with one another to form a drug ring. And even House setting himself on fire was unlikely to change her focus from the inevitable scrutiny she and the hospital would be under to something else.

Sighing, Cuddy closed her bedroom door and began to change. But she'd no sooner slipped out of her skirt when she heard someone push the door back open. At first she thought it was House, but when she turned around, she saw that it was Rachel.

"I finished. Can I have cookies now?"

"No."

Rachel pouted. "But I brushed my hair and my teeth."

But since she looked just as rumpled as she had moments earlier, Cuddy knew that her daughter was lying. "No, you didn't."

"Uh huh!" Cuddy gave her a stern look that stopped Rachel's protests in their tracks. "Okay… I didn't. But –"

"No cookies. And no lying to your mother."

Rachel morosely moved toward the bed, as though she was going to die without having an entire sleeve of Oreos. Collapsing onto the mattress, she whined, "I'm starving."

"I'll make you breakfast as soon as I change, and you brush your hair," Cuddy told her as she pulled a sweater dress out of her closet.

"No cookies?" Rachel asked, obviously double checking, just to make sure.

"Not right now," Cuddy replied smoothly.

And though Rachel seemed resigned to that fact, Cuddy wasn't ready for the conversation to end just then. Considering her daughter had just spent the morning with House, considering he wasn't in the room right now, Cuddy supposed that this was as good a time as any to see how it went.

"Did you have fun with House?"

Rachel shrugged. "I had more fun when we were eating cookies, but –"

"Enough with the cookies," Cuddy ordered. Rachel looked angry but said nothing. "Other than that though," Cuddy continued, as she pulled the gray dress over her head. "Things went okay?"

"Yup," Rachel replied happily, honestly.

"Why was your inhaler on the counter? Did you have a problem?"

"Yeah." Her response was less happy.

"But House helped you?" Rachel nodded her head. "Good."

Taking a quick glance in the mirror, Cuddy smoothed down the few flyaways that were straying from the rest of her dark hair. And once that was done, once she was satisfied with her appearance, Cuddy turned to face Rachel once more. "Go brush your hair; I'll make you breakfast."

But Cuddy soon realized that she didn't need to do that. The second she stepped into the hallway, she could smell something wafting from the kitchen.

House was cooking, she thought curiously, confusedly. He must have been since there was no other rational reason for the scent of cinnamon and brown sugar in the air. But that didn't exactly make sense, because, although he could cook, he never did.

Well, that wasn't exactly true; she supposed it made sense if he were trying to assuage his guilt over feeding her diabetic daughter cookies for breakfast.

Truly it did make sense, because the more she thought about it, the more she was sure that this reeked of appeasement.

And she sure as hell wasn't in the mood to give him an easy way out.

Entering the kitchen, she saw him making oatmeal. But instead of thanking him, she practically snarled, "What were you thinking?"

She was ready to say more, ready to direct all of her anger unfairly at him, but she didn't have the opportunity. He was too quick for her when he apologized. "I'm sorry. I know I hurt her, but that wasn't my intention, Cuddy," he told her sincerely. "She was wet and wouldn't let me help her, but that's all I was trying to do, okay? I didn't mean to hurt…"

His voice trailed off.

He could feel the anger radiating off of her.

And turning away from the pot of oatmeal he'd been cooking, he could see her – practically purple with rage, shock and disgust in her gaze.

Immediately he understood. "You were talking about the cookies."

"Yes," she hissed, looking as though she were about to punch him.

His stomach seemed to fall to his knees as he realized just how badly he'd screwed up. "Rachel didn't tell you what happened."

"No," Cuddy answered, taking steps toward him. Now dangerously close to him, she seethed. "But you will."

To be continued