Gift of Screws

by Duckie Nicks

For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations. House/Cuddy. COMPLETE.

9. Chapter 9

Author's Notes: Thank you, thank you, thank you to those of you who reviewed my last chapter. To TrudyGill23, huddyholic, dmarchl, MissBates, yoleah, lin12344, xxClouds, Temo, scullyschik, avid, jehabib1, Thayy, red blood, Patricia Dubose, CuttingOnions, HouseBroken, Sydney, Jane Q. Doe, Michelle, wrytingtyme, DoctorLisaCuddy, Huddyphoric, TetraFish06, lhoma320, Lennz, and tuckp3, thank you so much for taking the time to let me know how you feel about my work. I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to update, but hopefully, future chapters won't be so lengthy, and I can get post more promptly. Thanks for waiting.

Disclaimer: I own neither House nor Screwin' for Two 2. They belong to David Shore and Steve McQueef respectively.

Gift of Screws
Chapter Nine: Faith
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

Maybe she should have been asking herself what the best way to handle Rachel was, but truthfully, Cuddy's reaction was to turn and glare at House. As immature as that might have been, she couldn't help but feel as though he had lied to her or worse, created this awkward situation all on his own.

He had said that Rachel had believed that awful lie he had spun. He had said in as many words that the matter had been dropped. But clearly, Cuddy told herself, he had lied to make her more miserable or maybe even told Rachel to ask that question to make Cuddy even more upset.

And knowing that, she wanted it to be similarly clear to him that she was definitely going to blame him for this. No, not just blame him; she wanted it to be known that she was going to kill him if he was behind this.

But as she glared at him, she could see the surprise lingering in his own gaze. And she realized that he had had nothing to do with this. In fact, he looked just as taken aback by Rachel's question as she was. Which freaked Cuddy out more than she could even begin to say. If only because it meant that she would now need to come up with some sort of explanation, she suddenly felt the urge to vomit once more.

Swallowing as hard as she could, she cast her gaze on Rachel once more. Her daughter was looking at her with eyes bright with curiosity and the expectation that she would get an answer. But all Cuddy could focus on, probably the result of some internal defense mechanism, was the food all over her daughter's face and hands.

The tips of Rachel's fingers were dusted in breadcrumbs. Egg yolk painted her hands and cheeks yellow in thin streaks that were accentuated by the occasional smear of mayonnaise.

Instantly Cuddy sprung to action, seizing at the chance to give herself more time to think of a proper answer for her daughter.

"You need to wipe your face," Cuddy said in a tone that made it absolutely clear that she was going to reach across the table and clean her daughter up. Not that that stopped Rachel from squirming in her chair and whining as Cuddy reached over with her napkin and began to scrub her daughter's face clean. "Give me your hands," Cuddy said after a minute.

And though Rachel begrudgingly did, it was obvious that she didn't want to. Her lips turning downward into a frown, there was no doubting that she wasn't pleased by her mother's attempts at making her look less like a wild animal incapable of eating food nicely.

But if Cuddy had secretly hoped that that resentment would distract Rachel from her question, she was wrong. Because the second Rachel handed Cuddy a hand, she said in a singsong voice, "You didn't answer my question."

"No."

Cuddy blinked in confusion. For a brief instant, she wondered how she could speak without even opening her mouth. But then, she realized that it hadn't been her to say anything at all.

It had been House.

That fact had not been missed by Rachel.

Glaring at him, Rachel whined, "I wasn't talking to you!"

Cuddy was quick to admonish her. "Rachel." It felt hypocritical to do it, of course; being rude to House was a temptation she could hardly resist even on her best days. But at the same time, she knew that she couldn't let her child treat him similarly. Even if he deserved it, even if Cuddy herself rarely resisted, she had to try and set some sort of example – hypocritical or not.

"You should be talking to me," House taunted, making Rachel forget all about her mother. "Cause I was the one giving you an answer."

Immediately Rachel forgot what she'd just said and ignored Cuddy completely. Her dark blue eyes training themselves on him, Rachel said, "But you said no."

He rolled his eyes. "As in we're not making babies."

Even he couldn't help but cringe at the language he was using. It was so juvenile. As it should have been since it was the phrase Rachel had used, but it just sounded bizarre coming from his own lips.

However, that barely had time to register in his mind before he realized that Cuddy was looking at him with a mixture of disgust and doubt. She was clearly accusing him of lying to Rachel, clearly telling him, though silently, that he was just making things worse.

Miffed by that fact, he couldn't help but tell her, "Maybe you missed out on a couple anatomy lessons, but I'm pretty sure you can't get pregnant by –"

"Rachel," Cuddy said, clearing her throat, as she turned once more to look at her daughter. She was obviously trying to divert Rachel's attention away from him, which he wasn't entirely opposed to. "Where did you get the idea that –"

"Madison said that –"

"Who?" House asked in confusion. Apparently though this was the wrong question to ask as both Cuddy and Rachel glared at him. "What?"

Cuddy scowled. "Madison is Rachel's best friend. You've met her." When that still didn't register in his mind, she said more pointedly, "You've also met her mother… whom you threw up on after Chase's bachelor party."

House couldn't decide if she was lying about that or not. But he didn't have much time to consider what she was saying before she added, "You also accused her of having breast implants and –"

"I don't remember any of this," he interrupted in all seriousness.

"Because you're a pig."

House looked at her in mock disappointment. "Watch it. I made you a sandwich."

There was an unspoken threat, that he would take the sandwich away, and it did not go unnoticed by Cuddy. Instinctively pulling her plate closer to her, she told him, "You asked her to –"

She abruptly cut herself off as she remembered Rachel was sitting there, watching them. Cuddy had wanted to tell House that he had asked this complete stranger if she would be interested in having a threesome (a question he had only asked to piss the woman off – not because he actually wanted to have sex with her). But with Rachel in the room, Cuddy could only say, "Look at your leg with me in the room."

His eyes widened in shock… and then in amusement at his own antics. "Still don't remember it, but if she ended up saying yes, please tell you have it on video –"

"Like I said, you're a pig," Cuddy replied smoothly. "And it's going to take much more than this sandwich to –"

"Can we talk about me?" Rachel asked in frustration.

Cuddy and House turned to look at her, as though they hadn't anticipated their squabble to be interfered with in any way. Granted, neither had forgotten that she was in the room; they'd just, and Cuddy hated herself for even thinking it, expected Rachel to wait quietly.

Clearing her throat, Cuddy decided that she would give her child the attention she so obviously wanted. "Yes," she said with a nod of the head. "You were saying…"

Rachel gave them both a dirty look but continued with her story nevertheless. "Madison said that she walked in on her parents doing funny stuff on their bed, and they told her they was makin' babies, so I thought –"

"And as usual, that was your first mistake," House interrupted callously.

"House." Cuddy gave him what felt like the thousandth glare she'd aimed his way today. There was no doubt in her mind that he'd deserved every single one of those facial expressions, but at the same time, it still felt like they kept ending up at the same place over and over again.

And there was a reason why that was. Though he was a fifty-five year old man, he acted like a child – an insolent, hurtful little brat who kept making things worse by saying things that no actual child needed to hear.

"Either be nice or go away," she warned him in a lethal tone. Not even giving him a moment to respond, she turned her attention back to Rachel. "We weren't making a child. That… is something different."

Sure, it was a lie, one that House had created, but since he had done that, Cuddy felt trapped by it. As much as she had originally wanted to tell Rachel the truth, now that a lie had been set, Cuddy didn't feel that it would do any good to tell her the truth at this point. That would just confuse her further, and like House had thought…

Technically, they had not been trying to have a child or doing something that could create a child. So it wasn't really a lie, she told herself. And even if it was, she was just going to blame House for all of it anyway, so it didn't exactly matter.

But Rachel didn't seem to have any trouble believing her; House's lie had apparently been good enough to carry over – even after Rachel had remembered what her best friend had said. And yet… that didn't stop her from asking, "Are you going to have babies together?"

Without even considering it, Cuddy said, at the same time as House did, "No."

They had never talked about more children. Though they probably should have, Cuddy couldn't deny that they had a habit of avoiding conversations that could potentially destroy them until not talking about that thing threatened to unravel their relationship more quickly. In this particular case, when it came to babies, she never asked House, because she knew how he felt. And if he didn't ask her about it, she could only assume that he was terrified as to what her answer might be.

So she could only imagine how relieved he must have been at that moment.

What she hadn't anticipated was Rachel reacting to this news with… disapproval.

And almost as though she needed to know that she would have a sibling, Rachel asked leadingly, "But I'm gonna have one soon, right?"

"No," House answered, elongating the single word for several seconds. Now knowing that Cuddy herself didn't want kids, he obviously had no problem demonstrating for everyone in the room just how opposed to the idea he was.

But Rachel just ignored him. Her eyes imploring Cuddy to say something different, Rachel asked quietly, "Mama?"

She undoubtedly wanted Cuddy to reassure her that there would be brothers and sisters. There was no question in Cuddy's mind that that was what was being asked of her. But there was also no question as to how she was going to respond.

She didn't want to tell Rachel no. She didn't particularly want to crush that apparent dream of her daughter's.

Yet…

Cuddy knew she couldn't lie, not about this, and it would be wrong to give her daughter hope for something that would never happen.

"Sorry, baby," she said in a quiet voice that she hoped would lighten the blow. "It's just going to be you."

She was trying to be kind – as kind as one could be about things like this.

But it didn't work.

As soon as the last word had been uttered, Rachel took off running.

"Rachel!"

But no amount of trying to call her back worked, leaving Cuddy to wonder what the hell had just happened. A quick glance at House told her that he didn't know… or care; he was too busy munching on some potato chips to concern himself with what had just happened.

Cuddy scowled at him. "You are completely useless," she complained half-heartedly, feeling the insult just enough to say it but not enough to hurl it with the necessary conviction. And because of that, he didn't even look up at her, didn't even dignify her with a reaction.

Later on, looking back at it, she would be able to see that that had been the best way to defuse the situation. But at the moment, it just made her growl and walk away, her feet stomping in much the same manner as Rachel had.

Was it childish? Sure. Cuddy could see that much. But at that point, she was too concerned with finding Rachel and dealing with that to care about the impression she was giving House. Not that she ever really cared about that these days, of course, but she really couldn't have cared less in that moment.

All that mattered for the time being was finding Rachel and smoothing things over.

For the life of her, Cuddy couldn't understand why the news that Rachel would be an only child was getting such a huge reaction. Okay, fine, Rachel wanted a brother or sister. But just hearing that it wouldn't happen shouldn't have been enough to have her sprint towards her room.

And yet it had, and Cuddy wanted to know why – needed to know why.

However, Rachel was clearly in no mood to cooperate. That fact became more than apparent the second Cuddy entered her daughter's bedroom.

Rachel was lying on top of the giant stuffed giraffe in the room. Her arms around its neck, she looked like she was trying to ride the thing. But there was no mistaking her behavior for play; her face was too sad for that. And her words – "I not talkin' to you never" – were too angry for that.

For a brief moment, Cuddy flinched at her daughter's syntax. It was getting better with age, but there were still too many moments where Rachel would say things that sounded absolutely awful. And the worst part about that was that Rachel only talked this way when she was incredibly upset or scared, making correcting her nothing short of cruel.

Knowing that, Cuddy bit her tongue and sank to her knees. Now eye level with Rachel, Cuddy could see even more clearly the hurt in her daughter's eyes. But for the life of her, Cuddy didn't understand why.

Reaching out, she gently rubbed Rachel's back and decided to get some answers.

But that was easier said than done.

Cuddy opened her mouth but abruptly closed it once more. Without any idea of what was bothering Rachel, she had no idea what to say. And so, she fumbled when she said, "Well… you could do that – although I would be very lonely if you didn't talk to me ever again."

Rachel didn't respond, perhaps proving just how committed she was to the silent treatment.

Sighing Cuddy tried again. "Baby… I know that you're… mad at Mommy, but… I don't really know why." She frowned a little before shaking her head. "I want things to be okay between us. I want you to be happy. But if you don't talk to me, I can't make any of this better, Rachel." Gently brushing the hair out of her daughter's face, Cuddy asked, "Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

Reluctantly Rachel nodded her head. Almost as though she weren't sure she could trust what her mother was saying, almost as though she knew that nothing she said would give her a brother or sister, she was visibly hesitating.

But in the end, Rachel must have felt that talking to her mother was the best thing to do; what her reasons were, Cuddy didn't know, but there must have been some reason that seemed convincing enough for Rachel to speak, because after a long period of silence, she mumbled, "You hafta have more babies."

Cuddy fought the urge to say, "I don't have to do anything." She definitely wanted to say it, regardless of how immature it was. Yet she knew that that wouldn't get her anywhere with Rachel. If anything, saying that would just make her daughter clam up even more. So instead, Cuddy said as tactfully as she could, "I didn't realize you wanted a brother or sister so –"

"I want brothers and sisters," Rachel interrupted, sitting up on the giant stuffed giraffe.

The fact that she had said brothers and sisters – as in multiple siblings – was not lost on Cuddy. Though, for the life of her, she wished she hadn't heard it, there was no pretending that she hadn't been paying attention. Standing up, Cuddy knew that she had to maturely address the situation.

"Brothers and sisters?" she asked lightly. "I don't know about that," she said, reaching for Rachel and pulling her off of the large stuffed animal.

It wasn't easy to pick her daughter up, and it was harder still to resist the urge to say what a big girl Rachel was becoming. For Cuddy, the issue wasn't about the exact number of pounds Rachel weighed; it was the simple fact that she was no longer a baby, no longer even a toddler. Weight aside, Rachel's legs and arms were longer, and not exactly tall herself, Cuddy found it hard to contain her daughter these days.

But Cuddy knew she couldn't say anything. For Rachel, "big" unfortunately meant one thing and one thing only:

Fat.

Though it had taken Cuddy at least until middle school to understand that big usually meant fat, for Rachel, that time had already come. And even as Cuddy tried her best to steer her daughter's weight to a healthier number, she had no intention of ever saying anything that would ever make Rachel think she was criticizing her or making fun of her.

That would never happen.

So Cuddy kept her mouth shut as she carried Rachel in her arms.

Well, all right, that wasn't exactly true. As she walked them both over to the rocking chair she'd used to sit with Rachel in when Rachel had been just a baby, Cuddy did say, "I'm pretty sure brothers and sisters would make House's head explode."

Rachel laughed. "That's not a bad thing," she said with a giggle, as Cuddy sat down in the chair.

"That's not very nice, Rachel."

"Sorry." But Cuddy didn't think she sounded all that apologetic.

On the other hand, dealing with House and Rachel's relationship was hardly a simple task, one that Cuddy wasn't going to make better overnight (no matter how much she wished that to be the case). And so she couldn't help but think that maybe it would be smarter to tackle a topic she could resolve quickly.

How family planning became the easy conversation to have, she didn't know. But at this point, there was no denying that it would be easier. Besides, it had been the reason she'd chased after Rachel to begin with.

So she let the comment about House slide… for now. And instead, she tried to steer Rachel back to the topic of children. "Well… if I'm supposed to convince him that we need to have more children, then I'm going to need reasons. Which means I need to know why it's important to you that we do that."

As far as changing the subject, this was about as transparent as it went. But seeing as how this was Rachel, subtlety wasn't exactly necessary.

Indeed, she easily forgot what she'd been saying about House and repeated herself by whining, "You hafta have more babies."

"Why?" Cuddy was trying hard not to lose her temper, but it wasn't exactly easy.

"Because."

"Rachel, that's not an answer."

"Cause I want them."

"That's not an answer either."

Rachel hesitated to speak at that moment, and Cuddy couldn't think that it was by chance that that had happened. Clearly there was something going on right now that she didn't understand, something that Rachel didn't want to tell her. Which meant that this was more than likely all the product of something Cuddy herself didn't want to know.

But of course, it was also something she was doomed to find out about.

Chagrined Cuddy tried once more. As she reached forward and brushed a long strand of dark hair out of Rachel's face, she said, "You know, we've never talked about having siblings. You've never asked, so you and I… we've never really said anything about it." Rubbing Rachel's back with the warm palm of her hand, Cuddy added, "Maybe it's normal for you to want a brother or sister –"

"I want both, Mommy."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I got that." Sensing that she was losing control, she cleared her throat and shook her head. She needed to be nice and calm, she reminded herself. "But if there's something going on, something you need to tell me, I want to know it. I… want to know why you want siblings. I need to, Rachel."

Rachel looked downward at her belly. She would have looked down at her feet, but they were stuck underneath her butt, so she couldn't see them. And it didn't really matter what she could or couldn't look at anyway, cause she was just trying to not look at Mommy, so Rachel was happy to see her tummy and would have been happy to see anything – even House's butt (ewww!) if it meant not lookin' at Mommy's face.

Rachel didn't really know why she needed to look away, but she did. She had to. She could feel it in her belly that she had to look away.

Not that it was gonna stop Mommy from wanting an answer. Rachel wasn't that dumb. She just didn't want to look at Mommy while she answered the question.

"I just wanna be a big sister," she said, even though that wasn't the truth.

Mommy must have known this instantly, cause she asked, "Are you lying to me?"

Rachel fought the urge to say yes. When Mommy asked are you lying, it was always, always, always a trap. And if you said yes, it never ended good, cause you were in trouble. And Rachel didn't want to be in trouble, so she didn't say yes. "No."

"Rachel."

She knew. Rachel shifted on Mommy's lap, knowing that she was in trouble – or going to be in trouble if she kept lying. But she couldn't tell the truth now… right?

"Not lying."

Cuddy looked at Rachel carefully. There was no doubt in her mind that her daughter was withholding something. Mother's intuition aside, she'd been with House, known him way too long to not know when she was being lied to. And it drove her nuts when Rachel lied to her, because Rachel was so bad at lying that it almost seemed like an affront to Cuddy's intelligence to hear something so incredibly ill thought out.

Of course, Rachel didn't exactly have the capacity to tell a good lie. Cuddy understood that much. But she also felt that her daughter did have the ability to understand that she couldn't tell good lies and would therefore realize that she shouldn't do it.

Apparently though, that thought had yet to dawn on Rachel.

"I want you to tell me the truth. Now," Cuddy ordered, sick of giving her daughter chance after chance to lie.

"But I am telling the –"

"That's four times, Rachel," Cuddy interrupted in displeasure. "Do it again and you're going to spend some time in time out."

Rachel looked up at her with hurt infused in every feature. And looking at her daughter, Cuddy couldn't help but feel that she was blackmailing her child for information. No one else would see it that way (they would hopefully see it as parenting), and Rachel surely wouldn't; she didn't understand what that word meant. But nevertheless she was visibly upset by the punishment looming over her. And that made Cuddy feel just as awful.

The fact that Rachel sagged in defeat didn't make her feel any better. Actually, truth be told, it made Cuddy feel even worse. She'd wanted results, but victory gave her no pleasure.

Especially not when Rachel finally explained, "Madison's getting another brother soon. She says I don't have none cause I'm sick and you don't want another baby who's annoying and stupid like me."

Cuddy was stunned into silence.

The need to speak was so consuming that she felt as though each quiet second bore down on her heart so heavily that she feared the muscle would stop beating. And yet, she didn't know how to speak, didn't know if her body could physically alter itself to allow words to form. She was too shocked by what Rachel was telling her.

She was too shocked and disgusted by it, by the idea that little Madison Reynolds could have said such awful things.

Oh, Cuddy didn't doubt that all of this had occurred. Being an awful liar, Rachel didn't have the capacity to come up with something so heinous. And perhaps this was wishful thinking, but Cuddy hoped that Rachel didn't have the ability to consider herself a burden, to think that she was unwanted or disappointing in any way. Just the idea that Rachel was lying about Madison was too much for Cuddy to ever pay lip service too – and out of self-preservation, she had to believe that Rachel was telling the truth.

Which just made the entire situation that much more unbearable.

Speechless and feeling not just a little sick to her stomach, Cuddy pulled Rachel forward. It was rough, Rachel's little body jerking abruptly as Cuddy messily enfolded her into her arms, but Cuddy couldn't help but give into the need to bring her child as close as possible.

Instinctively Rachel laid her head down on Cuddy's chest. And for a brief moment, they were both seemingly content to stay that way, their arms thrown around one another, the rocking chair gently creaking as it swayed back and forth.

But Cuddy knew that this alone wouldn't be enough. Not for her, not for Rachel – or anyone else in this position – and Cuddy wanted to leave no doubt in her daughter's mind what the truth was.

Slowly, she moved her hands to Rachel's face, cupping the little girl's chubby cheeks with the much larger palms of Cuddy's own hands. "Look at me," she ordered in a soft tone. "Come on," she said gently when she noticed Rachel's reluctance.

When Rachel finally did look up, Cuddy told her in a voice so sure that she hoped it left no doubt within Rachel:

"I love you."

Cuddy kissed her forehead before repeating, "I love you. More than anything, Rachel. I know you think that I'm angry right now because of the things you broke earlier."

At that Rachel frowned and looked away guiltily. And Cuddy had to use her hands to force Rachel to look at her once more. "Listen to me. I'm not mad. I'm really not."

Rachel uttered a meek "Okay."

"I mean it. I love you. And that doesn't change." Again Cuddy kissed her. "And it doesn't matter that you're not as…"

She closed her mouth as she tried to figure out how she wanted to finish the sentence. The truth was she didn't know what she wanted to say. All she knew was what she couldn't say.

She could not say, "It doesn't matter that you're not as healthy as other kids." She could not say, "It doesn't matter that you're not as smart as the other kids in your class." She couldn't compare Rachel to anyone else in any way.

And Cuddy didn't want to.

Whatever Rachel's problems were, Cuddy never really thought of them in terms of what other children were doing or experiencing. If she hated that Rachel had diabetes, it was because Rachel suffered – not because it was a pain to manage. And if Cuddy was less than pleased at Rachel's progress in school, contrary to what House believed, it was not because Cuddy expected her daughter to be a genius. No one, she thought, could reasonably demand that of their child, and Cuddy certainly didn't. All Cuddy had ever really wanted was for Rachel to… realize the potential locked in that tiny body – as cliché as that was. And for Cuddy, making that happen meant pushing her daughter every now and then, which admittedly might have made it seem like Cuddy was comparing Rachel to the other children.

But truthfully, Cuddy wasn't, didn't, and never had.

And if the other children were as vile as Madison seemed to be, then no comparison would ever need to be made, because Rachel would always be in Cuddy's eyes the clear victor.

So with that in mind, Cuddy realized that what she'd been starting to say was not at all what she wanted Rachel to hear. And shaking her head, she decided to completely start over. She didn't want Rachel to doubt in any way her sincerity.

"It doesn't matter that you're sick. None of that matters, Rachel," she said slowly. "If House and I don't want any more children… that's got nothing to do with you."

Rachel nodded her head in understanding slowly. But she said nothing, and that made Cuddy feel the urge to talk more.

"I promise you: it's not about you. At all," she emphasized in a louder voice. "You are… everything I could have ever wanted in a baby." Rachel smiled a little. "I couldn't have had a better daughter. I mean that. I can't imagine having anyone else."

Cocking her head to the side, Cuddy couldn't help but admit however, "But any more kids and… it just wouldn't work, Rachel. House and I are… really busy people," she said with a stern nod of her head. After all, it was the truth. "And, we're not as young as most parents are – we're not young enough to chase after babies."

It was undoubtedly a short version of the truth. Clearly, they were busy people. Clearly, they were not young. But those were only small parts of the equation. They were very small parts compared to the other issues that made Cuddy hesitant to pursue more children. Hell, they didn't even exist when compared to the fact that House would never want a baby, to the fact that, even if he did, physically they probably couldn't, and to the fact that no one would ever allow them to adopt a child together.

Actually, now that she was allowing herself to think about it, when it came to having more children, House's reluctance hardly mattered at all. In fact all of the reasons they shouldn't have a child were nothing when juxtaposed to all of the reasons they couldn't have one. Because even if she could find the time to have another baby in her life, even if she could convince House that another baby would be okay, at the end of the day… they still wouldn't have another child.

Part of her hated even thinking it, but she knew it was true. Her age made getting pregnant nearly if not completely impossible. She wasn't menopausal; she wasn't even experiencing the symptoms of perimenopause, which she would have expected given her age. But that didn't matter. Statistically the eggs of women her age were unviable; the chances of her having a full-term pregnancy were slim; the chances of the child who did survive a pregnancy having some sort of medical complication were great. IVF could have increased her ability to get pregnant, but it couldn't erase all of the potential complications she would face. And between the likelihood of needing someone else's eggs or womb and the likelihood that something would be wrong with the baby, Cuddy didn't feel as though it was worth going down the road of trying to have a biological child.

It would be too painful.

But then adopting another baby wouldn't be any better; she knew that much. Again, House would be an obstacle here – both in his unwillingness to go along with it and in their ability to get approved with him in the equation.

That made it sound like she thought he was an awful person when she actually didn't. Truly, it sounded awful, even in her own mind. But she understood, having gone through the process, that social workers and pregnant teenagers would not like him. Cuddy felt as though she'd barely been able to convince anyone that she was a good parent; there was no way he would be able to kiss enough ass, no chance of his better qualities outshining the ones that everyone seemed to notice first and foremost.

They would see that he was a drug addict (clean but an addict nonetheless). They would see that he had a history of mental illness.

They would hear him open his mouth and say something offensive.

And that would be that. There would be no adoption.

And if that were to happen… if he were the one to ruin her only chance at giving Rachel a sibling…

Cuddy knew she would never be able to forgive him.

And if they were to be approved, if they were to get a child, if the biological parents were to change their minds…

It would destroy Cuddy.

She'd done it before, experienced the pain of losing a child – both in her womb and in her arms – and she couldn't do that again. Maybe she was supposed to feel as though Rachel was a safety net of sorts, an incarnation of hope to keep her going, but for Cuddy, at the end of the day, if Rachel symbolized anything, Cuddy felt that it was everything she would be missing when she lost that child. Rachel would be a reminder of everything Cuddy didn't have if they were to go down this route.

And she couldn't take the risk of going through that again. Though she kept all of this from Rachel, it was the first thing in Cuddy's mind, constituted her entire reason for saying no to more children.

Still, what she had told Rachel seemed convincing enough. Because at that moment, unaware of what her mother was thinking, Rachel said, "Okay, Mommy."

Cuddy looked at her to see if she was telling the truth. "You sure?" There seemed to be something lingering in Rachel's eyes that Cuddy couldn't help but think looked like doubt.

But Rachel nodded her head. "Yup."

That wasn't the end of the conversation, however. Cuddy wanted it to be, but it certainly could not be, because Rachel suddenly asked, her words showing just how innocent she was, "Why would Madison say that if it's not true?"

How Cuddy wanted to answer the question was not appropriate for Rachel's ears. The things she wanted to say, though something Madison's mother would inevitably learn, were things Rachel shouldn't be exposed to – Cuddy was aware of that much.

So she was forced to utter instead the phrase she hated when anyone said it to her. "Everybody lies."

Rachel was clearly unimpressed with that little tidbit. Not placated in the least, she kept looking at her mother for a better answer.

But the truth was Cuddy didn't really have one. Even though she rationally understood why people lied, it was still hard to… appreciate that fact when you were the one being lied to. And it was going to be even harder to get Rachel to understand that.

Knowing that, Cuddy realized that she had to elaborate. "Rachel… sometimes, people say things that they know aren't true, because they're… upset about something… or, or angry."

She was tempted to joke, "Just look at how House and Mommy behave when they're fighting," but didn't. Hardly unaware of just how true those words would really be, Cuddy couldn't find it within herself to say that; it wouldn't be amusing, and saying it would only call attention to the dynamic she could best describe as dysfunctional on good days.

And since that was the case, she could only say, "I don't know why Madison said those things, baby. Maybe she was sad that she was going to have another brother and saying something about how you don't have any brothers and sisters was her way of trying to make herself feel better." She shrugged. "I really don't know."

It was the truth… a truth that Rachel couldn't exactly appreciate. Though she was at that age where she was beginning to realize that her mother didn't know everything, Rachel still looked at her for all of the answers. Cuddy couldn't really fault her daughter for this as she would have liked to have been able to give her daughter all of the answers.

But lacking that quality, she stroked Rachel's cheek with her thumb and said, "What I do know is that nobody can tell you how I feel besides me. For sure, Madison has no idea how I feel about you."

"Yeah." The word was just barely audible though, making it impossible for Cuddy to tell if Rachel actually meant what she was saying.

"You believe me?"

Rachel nodded her head. "Uh huh."

To Cuddy's trained ears, she sounded as though she were telling the truth. She sounded convinced. But at the same time, it was impossible to deny the effect Madison's words had had on Rachel. Because even though she seemed okay, even though she nodded her head when Cuddy suggested they finish lunch, Rachel still did not act like herself.

The second Cuddy tried to ease Rachel off her lap, the little girl whined. Practically sobbing out a loud "No," she clung to her mother with an almost bruising force. Her head was pressed into Cuddy's chest, arms wrapped around her neck so tightly that it pulled uncomfortably on Cuddy's curls.

Of course, this wasn't exactly a new predicament.

On the best of days, Rachel had always been a clingy child. Well, all right, not always; having been abandoned by her biological mother and then taken from the homeless couple who had somehow managed to keep her alive, Rachel had been understandably (though it hadn't felt that way at the time) hesitant to bond with anyone and even less eager to accept all of the things other babies her age were familiar with.

At the time, nothing had made her happy. Nothing had made her enjoy simply being held by her mother. And how they'd ever managed to get beyond that, especially when Cuddy had gone back to work so quickly, she never really knew. But the fact of the matter was that they had gotten past that. For whatever reason, they had, and since that point, Rachel had been a mommy's girl in every sense of the word.

And though Cuddy couldn't find it in herself to complain about that fact, there was no denying that it was inconvenient at times. Like, for example, when she would be ten minutes late for work and Rachel would latch onto her leg and practically beg her not to leave - then it was less than wonderful. But for the most part, Cuddy was willing to indulge her daughter.

And after Marina's death, Cuddy had had to do that. Sure, at some point, she would probably have to push Rachel to be more independent, but that certainly wasn't going to happen right now. Cuddy had resigned herself to that fact, deciding to patiently wait Rachel out.

But now thanks to Madison, it seemed like it would take Rachel even longer to accept that her mother wasn't going anywhere. And as Cuddy stood up, Rachel in her arms, she couldn't help but lament that fact.

It wasn't the inconvenience that bothered her the most. Actually, the more she thought about it, the less she cared about how awful it was going to be to drop Rachel off at school on Monday morning and the more she understood that Rachel's clinginess bothered her on a more fundamental level. It made Cuddy think that, underneath it all, Rachel was still that same little girl who didn't trust that the love and attention she received today would be there tomorrow.

It didn't seem to matter that Cuddy had been there for five years. It didn't seem to matter how often she said, "I love you." Almost as though the fear of abandonment had been etched into her genes, some part of Rachel seemed incapable of accepting the truth Cuddy was desperate to show her daughter.

And though it broke Cuddy's heart to admit that there might… never be a time where that message completely seeped into Rachel's subconscious…

It was the truth.

The way things were now might be the way they would be for the rest of their lives.

Obviously, Cuddy didn't want to live the rest of her life knowing that her daughter was never fully convinced that she loved her. But it was impossible to deny that the possibility existed, just as it was impossible to pretend as though Madison's words hadn't taken their toll on Rachel. They clearly had. And now the only option Cuddy had was to deal with the ramifications as sensitively as she could.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Having lived with House for this long, she was familiar with how hard it could be to reassure someone of something they were so reluctant to believe. Although common belief dictated that he was a jackass, she had found him in truth to be inexplicably fragile. He wouldn't appreciate being described as such naturally, but she knew it was true. As cocky and rude and childish as he could be, there was also a well of vulnerability that ran through him, which frequently upset the balance they worked hard to maintain. And when that happened, when a patient died or they had had a particularly long, drawn out argument, it took effort (and quite a bit of it) to bring him back from that.

True, this was different. House had more demons than an exorcism, and he'd had plenty of time to let them fester inside of him and transform him. Rachel, on the other hand, was still young, was still malleable and open. And maybe in the end, that would make things easier for Cuddy.

But it still wouldn't be easy.

And yet failure (or throwing in the towel over the fear of failure) was obviously not an option. So she could only try and reassure Rachel that she was loved very much.

As Cuddy walked them both back to the kitchen table, she murmured into Rachel's hair, "I love you."

Rachel repeated the words back to her, but the "I love you" was lost for Cuddy. Because it was at that precise moment, as Cuddy carried her daughter into the kitchen, that she realized: House was gone.

His dirty dish was on the table, proof that he had been there earlier. But he was nowhere to be seen. To be honest, she suspected that this was a good thing; anything that took time away from Rachel at the moment was something Cuddy wanted to avoid. Not that House was a distraction, she told herself. He wasn't. He was just… not allowed to be her top priority right now.

Sitting down at the table once more (with Rachel, who refused to sit in her seat, in Cuddy's lap), she ordered, "Finish your lunch."

"I don't wanna," she mumbled, trying (and failing) to push away the plate Cuddy had put in front of her.

"Just a couple more bites, and then you'll be done."

Rachel sighed miserably but reached for her food. For her part, Cuddy hated making Rachel clean her plate; in Cuddy's own childhood, that rule had been the one she'd never wanted to pass down to her children. But in this case, it simply had to be done.

For her health, Rachel needed to eat what was in front of her. Other children could afford the luxury of skipping meals or eating only the items on the plate they liked, but if Rachel were to do that, she could get very sick. And since it was impractical for Cuddy (or anyone else) to make Rachel whatever she wanted, forcing her to eat the food she'd been served was Cuddy's only option. So it was with relief that she watched Rachel finish her sandwich.

Taking a few more bites of her own lunch, Cuddy silently planned out the rest of her day in her head. Between work and her deal with House, it felt as though she'd accomplished nothing today.

After all, it was past lunchtime; on any other weekend, she would have already done a load or two of laundry to lessen the workload of the housekeeper who had had much more to do since Marina's death. And granted, this weekend was a little different, seeing as how Rachel had had her recital and tonight would be Purim, but still.

She felt far behind.

And it was then that she remembered that it was Purim (well, it was tonight, anyway).

There'd been, thanks to her agreement with House, reminders of it all day, but none of that had had anything to do with the actual holiday. And now that she was thinking about it, she thought of all the things she'd originally planned on doing today.

Glancing at the clock, Cuddy supposed she'd have time to do a few of the things she'd wanted to do with Rachel.

In the very least, Cuddy felt that it was important to try. Although she couldn't even begin to pretend to be a good Jew, though she didn't even really identify as one religiously, she did want to pass on all of the traditions she'd been brought up with to Rachel. For reasons she didn't even understand, Cuddy wanted Rachel to know all of the things her ancestors had gone through to survive.

And in all honesty, she didn't want to shortchange any of the things she used to do to celebrate Purim. Now that the holiday was quickly approaching, Cuddy knew that they would need to get started soon if she hoped of teaching Rachel anything.

"I'm done," Rachel announced proudly.

Cuddy glanced down at her daughter and smiled weakly. "Yes, you are. That's a good girl."

"But you're not done."

"You're right." Cuddy hated to admit it, but there was no denying that there was still a good portion of her sandwich left to eat. And this was the part she detested about making Rachel clean her plate the most: Cuddy had to be the one to set a good example.

Sighing, she picked her food up. As she ate some more, she asked Rachel, "Do you know what today is?"

"Uh…" Rachel squirmed in her lap as she tried to think. "Saturday?"

Cuddy started to say no but quickly realized that it was indeed Saturday. "Well, yes, but I mean do you know what holiday starts tonight?"

"Um…." Rachel's tiny nose scrunched up in confusion. "No."

After forcing herself to finish the last of her sandwich, Cuddy said, "Do you know what Purim is? Do you remember?"

Rachel accidentally kicked her as she swung her legs back in forth in thought. "That's the stuff that's like oatmeal. I like oatmeal. Not when you make it but –"

"That's porridge. And there's nothing wrong with my oatmeal." Rachel didn't bother to correct her; the disgusted look on her face was enough of a response for Cuddy. "Anyway, Purim is a holiday we celebrate every year to –"

"We didn't celebrate it last year," Rachel pointed out.

Cuddy shook her head. "Yes, we did." But since House had been in Atlantic City with Wilson, she hadn't exactly put her heart into the celebration. She'd wanted to, of course, but her lover had been in stripper, prostitute, lonely housewife, and perky collegiate-looking-for-a-good-time central, so her mind had been on other things at the time.

"I don't remember that."

Slowly, she carded Rachel's long hair. "Well, a lot has happened since then. It's okay." As she peppered her daughter's temple with kisses, she explained, "So… like I was saying, tonight Purim starts. And every year, Jewish people, like you and me and Nana and Aunt Julia –"

"Does Mom-Mom celebrate it?" Rachel asked curiously.

Cuddy shook her head. "No. She and House aren't Jewish." She resisted the urge to tell Rachel that House celebrated the devil. "Just my side of the family celebrates it, because Purim is all about remembering one of the many times someone tried to get rid of all of the Jews."

For a brief moment, she prepared herself for Rachel to ask why that had happened, why anyone would want to destroy an entire group of people. It would have been – it had been what Cuddy had asked decades ago. But Rachel didn't ask the question no rational person could have an answer for. That just wasn't who she was.

What she did ask was, "So what do we do?"

"We… have fun. We have parties, and we eat lots of good food, make cookies and –"

"Cookies?" Rachel could barely contain her excitement. Though she was making sure she'd heard her mother correctly, it was impossible to miss the way her voice wavered with giddiness.

"Uh huh. We make hamantaschen to –"

"They're cookies?"

"Yes."

"And we're gonna make dem?"

Cuddy nodded her head. Although her day had basically been shot to hell, this was one of the few events that she'd planned far in advance. Having needed to purchase the ingredients to make cookies that were low in sugar, she had decided a long time ago to bake – and regardless of how many times work or House would decide to screw her today, she was going to make the damn cookies.

"Yes," she said sweetly. "We're going to make some cookies as soon as I clean up the dishes from lunch."

Rachel grinned. "And we're gonna eat dem?"

"I hope so." Although she could cook, she was not assured in her abilities as to assume automatically that baking with Rachel, especially if Rachel insisted on being held the entire time, would turn out well. "But if we're going to make cookies, I'm going to need both of my hands… which means I can't carry you."

Rachel understood what Cuddy was trying to say; she clearly didn't like what she was being told, but she understood. And though Cuddy was absolutely sure Rachel would choose her over the cookies…

Apparently, cookies were a big motivator, because it barely took Rachel more than a second to nod her head in agreement. "Okay."

But it wasn't really that simple. Even though Rachel didn't complain about being set on her feet, she still made a point of being as close to Cuddy as she could get. At first, she merely followed Cuddy to the sink. Then, as Cuddy began to wash the dishes, Rachel hugged her mother's leg.

And then boredom must have set in. Seeing as how House hadn't washed any of the utensils, plates, or pans he'd used, this wasn't a quick chore that was going to last only a few seconds. Too impatient to be understanding, Rachel was too eager to make cookies or do something to appreciate that this wasn't going to be done quickly.

Rachel suddenly pulling away, Cuddy thought for a moment that Rachel was simply too bored to shadow her any longer. And maybe for a brief second, that was true. Rachel moved a few feet away from her and started to do twirls around the kitchen. Cuddy was willing to ignore her – even as Rachel started to sing "The Trolley Song" off-key as she did so – until the little girl twirled right into one of the countertops.

She fell down and hit the floor with a loud thud. Cuddy tensed with anticipation. As she stopped doing the dishes, she waited to see how Rachel was going to react to her accident. If she were to cry, Cuddy knew she would need to be ready. But as she looked over her shoulder, she was relieved to see Rachel sitting on the floor with a smile on her face.

"Oops."

"I guess so," Cuddy agreed.

"Are you done yet? I want cookies," Rachel whined.

"Just a few more minutes."

Disappointed Rachel stood back up. She spread her arms wide at her sides. Obviously she was getting ready to spin some more.

But Cuddy was quick to say, "Maybe we shouldn't twirl in the kitchen, okay? You don't want to fall down again, do you?"

Rachel might not have been the smartest child in the world, but she was clearly more than intelligent enough to know that Cuddy wasn't making a suggestion.

"Fine," she grumbled.

Cuddy could hear feet stomping on the floor in defeat, but she didn't really care about that. As long as she didn't have to worry about Rachel getting hurt, she was content. But as was often the case in this house, the feeling didn't last long.

She'd just started washing dishes again when she felt it – something bump into her ass.

Instantly she stilled.

Surprise coursing through her veins like the soapy water was over the dish in her hands, it took her a few seconds to process what was going on. But when it happened again, when she felt whatever it was bump into her once more, she forced herself to put her shock aside and think about the matter rationally.

Without even looking, she could tell that it wasn't House. Which was odd, because when it came to phenomena involving her ass, House was the cause fairly often. In fact, she couldn't even remember the last time something happened to her ass that didn't originate with House.

But this clearly wasn't him.

House was rough, possessive. He liked to grab and squeeze, pinch and spank and, if he were really in the mood, bite. He did not casually bump. And even if he did, by now, he would have made his presence known in other ways. But that hadn't happened, so it wasn't House behind her.

That just left Rachel.

As she felt another bump, this one hard enough to shove her pelvis into the counter in front of her, Cuddy asked, "Rachel, what are you doing?"

"Nothing."

Cuddy turned off the faucet. "That right there," she said when she felt that sensation once more. "That's not nothing."

"I'm banging my head into your butt."

Cuddy's mouth opened in confusion of its own volition. What the hell was she supposed to do with that kind of an answer?

Clearing her throat, she asked hesitantly, "Why?"

"Cause it's fun." Rachel did it a few more times.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Rachel admitted in a cheery voice. "It's just fun. Your butt is bouncy."

Instinctively Cuddy braced for House to come out of nowhere and say something lewd. He had the habit of popping around corners when he wasn't wanted. But thankfully that never happened. And instead, she was able to concentrate on forming some kind of response to her daughter's bizarre behavior. "I… I don't even know what to say to that."

What she did know, however, was that she wanted it to stop. As Rachel lifted her head to bump her mother again, Cuddy spun around as quickly as she could. "But let's not do that anymore, all right?"

"But it's fun."

"Well, I don't like it."

"But –"

"I'm not a jungle gym, monkey." Again she waited for House to pop up out of nowhere and say something best described as offensive.

But the only person who spoke was Rachel. "Well, I'm not a monkey."

"You're bouncing your head off my bottom like it's a trampoline for your face."

"Do monkeys do that?"

Cuddy sighed and turned back to the dishes. "I don't know. House probably does, but –" Her train of thought was abruptly lost as Rachel, presumably in search of House, started to leave the room. "Get back here."

"Are we gonna make the cookies?" she asked miserably. "'Cause I'm bored."

"I got that."

"So…." Resting her chin on Cuddy's hip, Rachel looked up Cuddy. "Can we make cookies now?"

Cuddy looked down at the couple of dishes still in the sink. Truthfully, they could wait. And if only to shut Rachel up, maybe it was better to let them sit for a while. But at the same time, Cuddy knew that baking cookies would only yield more dishes. And it would be nice to have an empty sink to place all of the bowls and utensils from the cookies in. And it was important for Rachel to learn to wait her turn, even if teaching her that lesson was giving Cuddy a headache.

"Just a couple more dishes," she told Rachel in a strained voice. "And they'll go much faster if you wait patiently like a good girl."

"But I want cookies. Now."

Cuddy sighed. Shaking her head, she warned, "You whine one more time, and you know exactly where you're going."

Rachel pouted… but ultimately didn't say another word until Cuddy had put the last dish in the drying rack and given Rachel the medicine she usually took at lunch.

Even better, the tense moment ended (as it rarely did in this house) within seconds. In fact, by the time Cuddy was finished with the dishes, Rachel was in a considerably better mood.

As was Cuddy, it turned out, because making the hamantaschen actually ended up being far easier than she'd anticipated. The prune filling (the only kind of hamantaschen her family had made for generations) was surprisingly simple. The chopped, dried fruit placed into a pot with some orange juice to boil, that part was finished in a matter of seconds. With the only problem being Rachel whining, "These aren't cookies," Cuddy moved onto making the dough.

"The prunes are going to be the filling for the cookies," Cuddy explained as she headed towards one of the cupboards. Loudly (there was no way to avoid making noise), she pulled out a bowl and spoon and handed them to Rachel. "Take these to the table please."

"I want chocolate cookies," Rachel said in a voice that was a borderline whine. "I don't like prunes."

"Have you ever eaten prunes?"

"No."

"Then you don't know that you don't like them."

Rachel frowned and headed towards the table. "I know I like chocolate better."

Cuddy could have fought the point, but she didn't exactly feel the need to. Honestly she would have had to have been a fool to think that her daughter - or nearly any child, for that matter - would prefer dried fruit to chocolate. So to fight Rachel on the matter literally would have been to take the side of an argument she was never going to win.

But also, having experienced this with House (many, many, many times), she understood that the more she insisted, the more she tried to push prunes, the more Rachel would resist, the more likely she would refuse to eat the cookies as a matter of principle.

So Cuddy remained silent as she went around the room gathering the rest of the ingredients for the cookies. Grabbing the almond meal and whole wheat flour (substitutions her grandmother would have frowned upon), she asked Rachel, "Do you know what these cookies are called?"

"Yucky cookies that look like poop," she answered, still stuck on the filling.

"No. And don't talk like that."

"Sorry." Moping Rachel plopped the bowl on the table with a clang.

Next to it Cuddy placed all of the ingredients she'd retrieved. Pulling one of the chairs out at the table, she said, "Here. Stand on top of this."

"Why?"

"So you can reach everything better. I'm going to stand behind you and help you make the hamantaschen."

Rachel looked at her blankly. "The wha?"

"Hamantaschen," Cuddy repeated slowly, emphasizing each syllable of the word so that Rachel could hear it properly. "That's what the cookies are called."

"Oh."

"Wait a minute. I need to get the recipe, make sure I got everything," she said, quickly finding it tucked away behind a grocery list on the refrigerator.

At that, Rachel must have realized that this wasn't going to be an activity that ended in ten minutes with freshly baked cookies in her mouth. Because as Cuddy was walking back, Rachel asked, "How much longer?"

"It's going to be a while."

Rachel frowned. "I want Oreos."

"That's not happening."

"But –"

"You can either help me make these cookies or you can go play and not have any," Cuddy said smoothly, dumping a large, unappetizing lump of margarine into the metal bowl.

"I don't like those choices."

"Well, those are the only ones you have."

At that point, it wasn't even a question which choice she would make. Rachel was clearly going to take the option that ended with cookies in her belly, which was why it came as no surprise that she climbed up onto the kitchen chair. "Fine."

Gently Cuddy helped Rachel measure out all of the ingredients. Tiny hands inside of her larger ones, Cuddy guided Rachel to empty the measuring cups one by one into the bowl. As they did so, Cuddy asked, "Are you still upset by what Madison said?"

Rachel hesitated to respond. Whether she was embarrassed to say that it still bothered her or worried how her mother would respond, Cuddy didn't know. But it was obvious that the remark did still bother her.

Cuddy, wrapping one of her arms around Rachel's waist, brought her closer to her body. "It's okay," she whispered, offering another shower of kisses as though that alone could make Rachel feel better. But clearly, it didn't do that, and Cuddy had to press on.

Picking up the spoon Rachel had placed by the bowl, she said, "I think we need to stir this now." She moved to stand next to her daughter, so that she didn't have to reach over Rachel to stir. Mixing the batter by hand, Cuddy told Rachel, "The reason these are called hamantaschen – they're named after a man. Haman."

Trying to inconspicuously dip her fingers into the bowl, Rachel said, "That's a dumb name."

"Yes… it is – don't stick your hand in the dough."

"But I want to eat it."

"There are raw eggs in it. It'll make you sick."

Rachel, not at all a stranger to illness, had to take a moment to decide if becoming sicker was worth a nibble of dough. Apparently, it wasn't, because she pulled her hand back obediently after a few seconds.

"That's a good decision," Cuddy told her approvingly. "You'll enjoy a real cookie much more anyway."

Rachel seemed doubtful but said nothing, and Cuddy decided it would be best to move on. "So, Haman –"

"The guy who made the cookies?"

"Well, he didn't make the cookies. They're just named after him," Cuddy muttered, clearing a space to roll the dough out. It was noisy business; pushing the containers of flour and sugar, the carton of eggs, and everything else out of the way wasn't quiet by any means. As she floured the table, she explained in a louder voice, "So Haman worked for the King of Persia, right? And one day, one of the men who worked with Haman – Mordecai –"

"Their names are funny," Rachel replied, squeezing the dough in her hands the second Cuddy turned it out on the table. "It's gooey."

"That's because it's not cooked yet." It was probably also because the dough needed to be chilled for hours – a step which Cuddy had chosen to cut out (Rachel barely had enough patience to do this much; anything longer would be disastrous). "Anyway, Mordecai insults Haman, and Haman gets so angry that he thinks the best way to handle the situation is to kill Mordecai and everyone like him."

Rachel was too busy rubbing her hands on her pink pants to pay much attention. Immediately upon seeing this, Cuddy reached out and grabbed her daughter's sticky fingers. At that point, it wasn't so much about the pants as it was getting her to listen to what she was being told.

"Listen to me. This is important." Rachel nodded her head to show that she was paying attention. "He didn't succeed – Haman. He wanted to kill all the Jews, but he couldn't do it. Nobody has been able to do that, and believe me, Rachel, a lot of people have tried."

Cuddy reached for the rolling pin on the table. As she slathered it with flour, she said firmly, "If there's one thing you'll learn in life, it will be that there is always someone out there who won't like you for… whatever reason. Because you're Jewish or a woman or… whatever. It doesn't matter. There will always be someone who doesn't like you or what you do."

Rachel gave her a look of disappointment.

"I know," Cuddy agreed. It was an awful fact, one she couldn't sugarcoat, one she couldn't deny had infected and shaped a good part of her life.

Though it was changing, being a woman in medicine hadn't been – wasn't – an easy fit. There had been (and was) sexism and, to a lesser extent, antisemitism aimed at her every step of the way, and even now, she couldn't deny that there were people who treated her differently because of the way she looked.

Of course, dating House hadn't done anything to stop the rumors that she'd somehow slept her way to the top. But at the same time, no one had ever been able to get her fired; her success had spoken for itself, making her usefulness undeniable.

"It's not right," Cuddy continued. "People shouldn't be that way, but they are. They judge." She set the rolling pin down and turned to face Rachel more clearly. "I know it's hard; it doesn't make you feel good, and it's easy to let what Madison said – or what anyone else will say – get to you."

She crouched down to get closer to her daughter. "But doing that?" She shook her head. "It just makes you miserable."

"It's okay. I punch her when she say that," Rachel explained with a grin on her face.

Cuddy cringed. "No, don't do that, Rachel. Don't hit people." Rachel opened her mouth to defend her actions – probably by saying that she hadn't punched Madison hard or that Madison had deserved it or something along those lines – but Cuddy was quick to say, "I don't need an excuse."

"But –"

"Hitting her just makes her aware of how much she upset you. You really want to get back at her?" Rachel nodded her head enthusiastically. "Then you do your best… in everything you do, Rachel. You don't let what anyone says affect you."

Rachel was not impressed. "I think I like punching better."

Against her better judgment, Cuddy smirked. A breathy laugh escaping her, she couldn't say anything but "I know." She nodded her head. "I know. But… at the end of the day, nothing makes other people more miserable than seeing someone they hate doing well."

"I guess."

"Listen to me," Cuddy said, pulling her daughter closer to her. Their gazes meeting one another, she told her slowly, "If there's one thing you need to know about being Jewish, it's that there have been many times where someone tried to destroy us. And failed. A lot of people would have given up centuries ago, but Jews didn't. They fought to be who they were, to… believe the things they did."

Cupping Rachel's cheeks in her hands, Cuddy continued, "And that spirit is part of who we are. It's in our blood. Our grandparents, great grandparents – they all were Jewish, all determined to pass on these traditions to us – and I know that that is in you, just like it's in me."

She anticipated Rachel's response, wondering how she would feel about it, wondering just how much she would even understand. But Rachel didn't get a chance to say anything, because at that moment, there was a noise that attracted both of their attentions.

It was the sound of a wall being banged.

It was the sound of House.

The noise was obviously intentional, meant to draw both Rachel and Cuddy out of the conversation they were having. And his plan worked, because instantly they both looked at him.

Just glancing at him, Cuddy could tell that he had been listening to her for quite a while. He had heard her talk about being Jewish and what that meant for her, and though he had heard and seen her say and do things far more intimate… for some reason, this felt skin-crawlingly invasive.

She waited for him to say something, waited for the approval that she didn't even know she wanted until this very moment. In the back of her mind, she knew it was stupid to expect him to suddenly change his mind about religion. But part of her hoped nonetheless that he would come to appreciate her beliefs.

He didn't.

And realizing that he would never respect this part of her, childish though it was, she couldn't help but avert her eyes.

First she glanced to Rachel then to the dough that was sitting on the kitchen table. Instinctively Cuddy grabbed the rolling pin; pretending like nothing was happening wasn't an option, but at least this would provide a distraction.

Rolling the dough out in what could only be described as a violent matter, she asked gruffly, "What do you want?"

Her mood seemed to rub off on him, because he responded in kind, "Don't worry, Yenta Stewart. Just getting a Band-Aid."

She pressed down on the dough roughly. "You're bleeding?"

"No, I'm building a fort out of them," House said sarcastically. "Yes. I'm bleeding."

"I mean why are you –"

"I cut myself."

Cuddy bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from threatening to kill him. Tempting though it was, she rationally understood that saying those kinds of things in front of Rachel was not okay. Certainly, they wouldn't ever convince her to stop hitting people. And Cuddy knew that, so she instead told him, "I don't know if we have any, but you do know where to look."

"Yeah, I do, but silly me, I thought you might not like me bleeding all over the counter."

She was about to tell him to stop being dramatic. But by chance, she accidentally looked at him, her eyes catching him as he moved a little. And instantly, she could see that he wasn't exaggerating, not by any means.

He wasn't gushing blood, but there was more than enough trickling down his hand for her to notice, even at this distance. It was more than enough for Cuddy to push aside her irritation and spring to action.

"Oh God," she murmured in surprise. Setting the rolling pin down with a loud clunk, she asked again, this time more kindly, "What did you do?" But she didn't even wait for him to answer; she was already moving to the sink, so that she could wash her hands and then his. "Come here," she ordered over the running water. "You need to wash that off."

The fact that he listened was proof enough that he really did want her help. Walking toward her, he stopped only when he was pressed against her back. As he rested his chin on her shoulder, he gave her his bloody hand.

Up close and personal, it wasn't that bad. The cut was actually a series of small lacerations on his index finger and thumb, making it look like he'd stuck his hand in a bowl of glass. But as she washed his hand with warm water, she couldn't see any debris in the wounds or any indications that he would need stitches.

"You'll be fine."

"Really," he said dryly, kissing her shoulder. "I was hoping I'd need stitches, make you put on a naughty nurse outfit."

She dropped his hand. "I don't have one of those." Exasperation laced every word, and that feeling remained when she turned her head towards Rachel and told her, "And stop eating the cookie dough, Rachel, or I'm going to have to make another batch."

Rachel guiltily shoved the bit of raw batter she'd had in her hands into her mouth, as though eating it would make it as though it had never existed. But Cuddy wasn't really paying attention to that anymore.

Her words had ignited something inside of her:

An idea.

Though she had succeeded in not thinking about it for quite some time, the hospital's legal troubles still weighed heavily in the back of her mind. By now, she had already outlined in her head how the next couple of months would go. The D.E.A. would swarm around the hospital, buzzing for information and confessions; everyone's prescribing practices would come under fire, Roberts' behavior casting a long shadow over Princeton-Plainsboro. But that would be little more than a nuisance.

To be sure, it would reflect poorly on her, but it wouldn't affect her in the long run. Because really what it came down to, when it came to her job, was how much money the hospital was or wasn't making. Oh, the board liked to say they cared about patients, but at the end of the day, everyone came with a dollar sign attached, and that more than anything else was the bottom line. Which meant that the D.E.A. was nothing compared to the money the hospital would lose from David Howard's accounts being frozen.

And that was what really bothered her.

Her perceived incompetence for allowing this to happen was one thing to the board. But losing the hospital money would be something else entirely in their eyes – and that was what scared her. Because although she hadn't actually done anything wrong (logically she knew this), this was a fireable offense.

Nothing she had done in the past, none of the good she had done for the hospital would matter in light of this turn of events. And she had known from the second this had begun to unfold that if she wanted to keep her contract, she needed to find a way to replace whatever money they would lose from Howard. But up until now, she had had no idea how she was going to accomplish such a task.

Up until now.

Cuddy wasn't sure what it was that made her connect all of the dots in her head. But at that moment, as she spoke of the possibility of having to make another batch, she realized exactly what she needed to do. She would make more cookies… and give them to the one donor who she could manipulate with little effort.

John Kelley had been in and out of her life for years. She'd only meant for him to be a one night stand, but clearly that hadn't panned out. First he'd gotten sick and unexpectedly become a patient of House's. The fact that he'd been diagnosed with hereditary hemorrhagic telangiectasia meant that he was occasionally in and out of the hospital for blood or iron transfusions. And the more recent development – that he had also been appointed the New Jersey goodwill ambassador for his uncle's company – had made him the man to talk to about donations. In short he was the one night stand who refused to go away.

Of course, his presence was hardly a negative one. He was kind and generous and incredibly thoughtful. Over Christmas, he had brought her both a sizable check and a plateful of cookies (hence she thought of him now), and whenever she had asked him for money in the past, he had been more than willing to donate. And he cared about her enough as a person that, if she were to go to his house tomorrow under the guise of mishloach manot and explain what was happening, he would give her the cash without any hesitation.

She didn't want to do that, of course. John had become a friend of sorts over the years, and she hated feeling as though she was using their camaraderie to benefit her career. And she really hated it when House, acting like a jealous imbecile, threw that fact in her face and hated it even more, because she couldn't really deny that he was right.

But she would never tell him that, just as she wasn't planning on telling him that she was going to go see John tomorrow. Doing that would only make the rest of the day unbearable, what could have been a nice day filled with remarks about boy toys and The Village People (despite the fact that John had been in the marines). So she was just going to keep her machinations to herself.

And quite frankly, she liked her plan. It was simple, neat. Jews were supposed to give gifts of nourishment to friends and family anyway, so there was even a pleasant veneer of goodness on the entire endeavor. And if at some point House found out or she decided to tell House, fine.

She just wasn't going to do that now.

What she was going to do was bandage him up and get him out of the room, so she could continue baking.

Turning off the faucet, Cuddy told him, "I'll get a couple Band-Aids. I'm not changing my clothes."

He stood where he was, sensing that something was off with Cuddy. She was avoiding – he could see that very clearly. But what she was trying to hide and if she meant to be withholding from him, he wasn't so sure.

Quietly he decided to keep an eye on her. If she were hiding something, he would figure it out. And in the meantime, he would continue to mess with her.

In a voice just loud enough for her to hear, he asked, "If I buy you the nurse's outfit, would you wear it?"

Cuddy scoffed as she reached into the cupboard where the Band-Aids were kept. "I'm a doctor."

"Sort of."

She sneered at him but continued talking. "If the sight of me helping people or looking like I help people is what gets you off…" She hissed that last part, clearly worried about Rachel listening in on their conversation. "Then you can see me do that. Any day of the week."

Cuddy ripped open two Band-Aids. As she placed them on his fingers one right after the other, she said, "If you just want to see me in cheap polyester…" She bunched up the waxy paper the bandages had been in. Tossing them into the trashcan, she simply finished, "Too bad."

He cocked his head to the side, curious. "You'd let me pee on you –"

"House."

He kept talking undeterred and unconcerned about the kid (who, truth be told, was too busy chowing down on uncooked dough to pay attention to him). "You'd let me pee on you, but you won't wear something I intend on ripping off of you in five minutes."

For a brief instant, she looked at him as though she were trying to decide if he were wasting her time. And in all honesty, he couldn't figure out what side of the coin she fell on, but either way, she responded tersely, "All right, fine. You want to see me in that? Go ahead. Buy one. Just make it one that won't make me break out into hives."

She started to saunter away, but he reached out and grabbed her hand. "Hey," he said gently, catching her attention. "You forgot to kiss my boo boos."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" she asked sarcastically.

"Cute," he said with a sneer. But when she made no move to kiss him, he felt the need to prompt her. "Well?"

"You'll live. Now go away."

Yup. She was definitely hiding something, he decided. She was saying all of the things he would anticipate her to say. He would expect her to brush him off, to want him to go away. She was trying to do something right now, and given the way Rachel was making her way through the raw cookies, it was probably smart for Cuddy to get back to it.

But…

Still, there was something about her behavior that was… off.

"You're hiding something," he said knowingly.

"Not my irritation, I hope."

"Now, you're deflecting."

"Because I'm doing something," she explained in exasperation. "And as fun as it is to listen to you talk about all of your perversions, I have things to do."

"Uh huh."

She folded her arms across her chest. "What? You think I'm lying? You think I'm not doing something?"

He shook his head. "I think you're trying to get rid of me."

"Because you're annoying."

Looking at her carefully, House could tell that this wasn't the right approach. Whatever it was she was hiding, it wasn't something he was going to get from her by fishing for it. And the more he tried to get it out of her by asking, the less likely it was that she would tell him. Which meant he wouldn't be able to confront her until he had some sort of indication as to what was bothering her.

"Fine," he said, giving her – at least superficially – what she wanted. "I will be ordering all sorts of naughty things for you to wear."

At that he left, not missing her sarcastic "Great."

But it was much harder for him to think of anything other than what Cuddy was hiding. True, it didn't help that, when he retreated to his hidey-hole, he continued working on something that was completely Cuddy's.

The damn bowl.

He hated the thing. He hadn't before, but now that he'd spent a fair amount of time trying to manipulate the pieces, now that he'd cut himself trying to do that… he wanted nothing more than to shove the broken bits right back into the trashcan.

He wouldn't do that. He'd spent too much time working on it already, and now that he'd started, he was determined to finish reconstructing the stupid thing. It would be a pain in his ass to do, but he would do it. As tedious as it would be, it was definitely preferable to do this than to let Cuddy fixate on the broken bowl for the next month or so.

She would be appalled by the time frame he was giving her. If she were to know his thinking, she would think he was being overly dramatic; she would claim that she wasn't that upset about the bowl, that she certainly wasn't going to be upset for a month. But he knew better.

Just as he knew that the behavior he'd seen in the kitchen had nothing to do with the broken dish. True, it was more than apparent that she cared about it, but it was just as apparent that something else was going on… something new.

It wasn't work.

He didn't doubt that she was preoccupied by that, but nothing about that had changed recently. There was no reason why she should be more distracted by that now, no reason why she should keep any developments from him even if there were one.

It wasn't Rachel. Rachel was fine. The incident at the school and the fallout of it might have been bothering Cuddy, but again, that had happened earlier. And the same could be said for the whole… sex debacle.

Ugh.

Just the thought of it made House shiver with disgust.

He was trying very hard not to think about that, but given his penchant for fixating on things, it was an impossible task.

It should have been easy.

Given the way they had sex, he thought he should have known that this day would come eventually. And Cuddy was concerned and upset enough for the both of them that he should have been able to play the role of optimist; he should have been able to say and believe that everything would be okay.

But saying the words and believing them were two different things, and silently, he dabbled with the possibilities of how this would resolve itself.

House wanted to say with definity that this would simply cement Rachel's need for lifelong therapy. However, the bomb she'd dropped at lunch – the whole "Are you making babies" debacle – had added a spicy punch to their normal levels of dysfunction, and now he wasn't so sure he could predict Rachel's behavior with any accuracy.

All right, fine – using actual logic to understand someone completely embroiled in her own reasoning wasn't exactly a brilliant plan to begin with. She was five, and her comprehension of the world was hardly formed, so her ability to do things in a predictable and rational fashion was limited. And it went without saying that today, she'd gone way out of the bounds House had mentally set for her.

But as he thought that, he supposed that maybe the same could be said for Cuddy. Maybe she wasn't hiding anything from him; perhaps she was just shocked by what Rachel had said.

It made sense.

He hadn't seen Cuddy after lunch. The second Rachel had taken off down the hallway, he'd checked out of the whole family drama. And if Cuddy were avoiding him, keeping something from him, he supposed it very well could have been something that Rachel had told her after he'd run away.

But if discovering a possibility for Cuddy's behavior was supposed to make him feel better…

It didn't.

It really didn't.

Because there was nothing good that could come from that. He just had to look at the circumstances to know that much was true; talk about babies, Cuddy looking at him in disappointment the second he'd entered the kitchen, Cuddy avoiding him… yeah, that didn't end well.

Not for him anyway.

Cause, really, the only way all those puzzle pieces fit together was if Cuddy had decided she wanted another kid and feared his reaction to that news.

God.

It was true.

She wanted a baby.

There was no other explanation.

She… wanted another child.

And since he didn't want any, she was realizing that this was obviously a problem.

A big problem.

A problem that would… probably end their relationship.

No.

As he looked over the pieces of the shattered bowl, he understood that this situation would end their relationship.

How could it not?

If she wanted a baby, then he was one big obstacle in that occurring. He certainly wasn't the only problem; he was more than aware of Cuddy's journey to motherhood and everything that had entailed, and he knew he wouldn't the only obstacle.

But he would be the first one she came across.

And if he said no…

That was it.

She would have to decide what she wanted more – him or a baby – and he knew what the choice would be, what the choice would have to be. Perhaps she wouldn't dump him outright. But… the absence of a child would gradually get to her. At first she would accept the way things were; she would tell herself that she could get used to a small family, that she didn't really want another kid. And that would work until it didn't, and then she would start to resent him. Cuddy would deny it, of course, but she would eventually resent him. And then… then they would break up anyway.

Sooner or later, that was what would happen if he didn't agree to a kid.

So… if he wanted to keep her (and it went without saying that he did), he would have to say… yes?

Instantly he felt the need to distance himself from his thoughts. It was safer that way.

House reached for the tweezers he'd been using to arrange the pieces of the bowl. For a brief moment earlier, he'd thought he could get away with doing this by hand. But the bandages on his fingers now were proof that he couldn't.

Changing tactics, he slowly began to sort through the broken bits. The ceramic pieces scraping and scratching against the wood of his desk fairly noisily, it still wasn't loud enough to silence the thoughts floating in his mind. But it did allow him to consider the matter with enough detachment to prevent himself from losing it.

Testing two misshapen pieces to see if they would fit, he mentally did the same with the idea of him entering parenthood.

He didn't want to be a father.

He'd made that much obvious. But the real question for him was not whether he wanted kids. It was whether he could give that up for Cuddy.

Could he?

He wanted to say no. His first instinct was to believe that he could never give her what she needed. But if that were true… breaking up with Cuddy would become an inevitability. And so, understandably wanting to avoid that, he knew that his only option was to give her a kid. Which meant that at this point, it wasn't even a matter of could.

He had to.

Which meant that he had to accept that and move on. He just… had to find some way of being all right with fatherhood and then go from there.

He was very purposely trying not to think about how life would change. No good could come from thinking about how he was doing this – giving Cuddy another distraction – in order to keep her in his life. So he focused on what was right in front of him, the one indisputable truth he was now facing:

Sharing Cuddy with two people was better than living without her.

Far better.

But knowing that didn't make his choice settle in the pit of his stomach any easier.

As he worked on the bowl, there was every now and then a moment where he would think – briefly – that maybe he really could do this. After all, it wasn't like he'd ever dated Cuddy without a kid being involved. Rachel had been there since the beginning. And though there were times when House didn't appreciate Little Orphan Annie in his life… he couldn't really imagine life with Cuddy without the rug rat. She was annoying, yes – yes. But he never found himself thinking that Cuddy didn't love him because Rachel existed.

So…

Maybe…

Maybe it would be okay.

But for each moment of optimism, there were hundreds more capable of dragging him back down into the muck of despair and doubt. He couldn't do this… right?

Or could he?

Hours later, long after he'd made this decision, he still didn't know what the answer to that fundamental question was. He still felt unsure, scared… perplexed in every way by his future. The back and forth had exhausted him without resolution, and it had consumed his entire evening.

He'd hoped to use the bowl as a distraction, but in truth it had been completely abandoned (as had dinner) in favor of wondering what the next couple of years would be like.

IUI?

IVF?

Pregnancy?

Birth mothers?

Adoption agencies?

It all seemed so… daunting and ill fitting, especially since he didn't really want to do any of it.

This was obviously all Cuddy – her dreams, her desires, her needs.

And though he was choosing to go along with that, he couldn't help but have a hard time envisioning what all of it would be like for him.

Part of him wanted to believe that things with a new child could be like how they were with Rachel; he would be the closest thing the kid had to a father, but he wouldn't be the father, and nobody would ever call him that. He would just be… the bystander in all of the parental stuff.

He would have been okay with that… he guessed. However, he knew it wouldn't be like that.

It would never be like that.

Already Cuddy was pushing him to be closer to Rachel, to take more responsibility, and he doubted that that pressure would be any less with another kid. In fact, he was sure Cuddy would be a thousand times worse than she was now. More children meant more needs, which meant more demand on Cuddy, which would inevitably lead her to being proportionately demanding of him.

But wanting to keep – protect – this relationship, House wasn't willing to let that concern derail his plan.

Was that – this – completely insane?

He was getting the distinct feeling that this was crazy.

All right, it was definitely nuts. Maybe it wasn't as bad as hallucinating a night with Cuddy; maybe it wasn't actual mental illness, but it was… not good.

Then again, it wasn't like he was swimming with options here.

At that second, House reached for the phone on his desk. He needed to talk to Wilson. He didn't think he was missing something, but he was so blinded by fear (he admitted it) that maybe he was. And if he was going to be thinking that this was his only option, he wanted to know that that was actually true before Cuddy delivered the placenta.

God, he thought with a sigh.

Pregnant Cuddy.

The concept was so discombobulating that he couldn't help but pause mid-dial. The very idea so strange and so awful, House reacted by hanging up immediately. He'd wanted to talk to Wilson, but realizing it would come at the expense of being able to pretend that this wasn't happening…

Yeah, he could wait to talk about this.

Part of him might have felt like he would burst if he didn't, but right now, the majority of House was afraid to give voice to the choice he was making. And that was something he couldn't get past.

So… for the time being, he would just have to deal with this on his own.

Of course, how he was going to do that, he had no idea.

What the hell, he though peevishly, bitterly. Why couldn't his girlfriend want something normal like… flowers or jewelry or whatever the hell it was that women liked? He could give her those things. Why did she want a baby?

Really – why?

Was there supposed to be something appealing about baby barf and dirty diapers and loud crying at two in the morning? Sure, he could rationally understand that there was a biological imperative at work here; he could comprehend that Cuddy wanted to reproduce for reasons that were out of her control. But that was why she had a brain – to rationalize her decisions regardless of what the rest of her wanted. And either she wasn't doing that or she had and still felt that another baby was a good thing, which brought him right back to his original question:

Why?

Was there something he was missing about pregnancy that made it seem awesome (he couldn't help but say that word derisively in his mind) to Cuddy? Was there some hidden joy in mucus plugs and afterbirth that he was missing? Was he supposed to think that there was something appealing about crapping your pants in front of a bunch of strangers? Cause he'd seen that, thanks to his years as a doctor (and Wilson's friend, but he preferred not to think about that time), and frankly he couldn't see the appeal – especially if the result of all of that was a kid.

But maybe he was getting too far ahead of himself there. Before the baby, before the birth, there had to be the pregnancy (assuming they were to go that route). And truth be told… House just couldn't see it.

Okay. He knew that there had been a time when he'd seen Cuddy pregnant. The fall after he'd been shot, there had been a very brief period of time when she'd been pregnant. And though he had known, sensed it at the time, she still hadn't looked the part. But if she didn't miscarry this time, things would be different.

And he wasn't sure he could handle that. Because although her body wasn't the only thing he liked about her, he couldn't deny that he was attached to it as it was. He liked the way her breasts fit nicely in his hands, the warm weight just enough to be satisfying without making him feel like there was too much to handle. He liked being able to skim her ribs and clavicle with his fingertips, liked the way her hipbones pressed into his palms when he gripped her hips. He liked her ass, loved everything about it; in fact, he could have waxed poetically for hours about her ass if he wanted to. But since it and everything else about her physique were going to change, he didn't want to think about what he was about to lose.

In fact, now that he thought about it, maybe the right thing to do was to focus on what he would gain from Cuddy being pregnant. Granted, off the top of his head, he couldn't think of a single thing, but he figured that there must have been something he was missing. Sure, men had a biological drive to spread their seed everywhere, but the fact of the matter was that some men had been capable of monogamy. Odd though it might have been, there were men who stuck around after impregnating their wives, girlfriends, and mistresses. So there must have been something to look forward to… aside from the whole parenting thing.

What that was exactly, he still had no idea. But he did suspect that the answer was at his fingertips.

Almost literally.

Reaching down, House opened the lowermost drawer in his desk. In it were the contents of many of the things he'd taken from patients' homes. Not for personal use, mind you, but every now and then, he would come across a patient so intent on lying that blackmail became a necessary tool to diagnose.

Sometimes, that meant using possessions to make the threat potent.

In this particular case, he hadn't actually needed to use the DVD copy of Screwin' for Two 2 to get the patient to own up to her elicit behavior. But House had kept the DVD he'd stolen nonetheless. Again, not for personal use; pregnant ladies didn't exactly do it for him (he just assumed that there'd be a time when Wilson, in the process of a divorce, would need a good laugh, and Steve McQueef's fine work would certainly accomplish that).

But now he was wondering if it might illuminate for him the possible good that could come from getting Cuddy pregnant.

Clutching the DVD to his chest, he realized that this was the very definition of pathetic. Looking to porn for any sort of advice was pathetic. He could freely admit as much. But at this point, what did he really have to lose?

Since he could only answer that question with nothing, he decided that anything that could make this situation better was something he was going to use to his advantage.

Even if it was porn.

Glancing at the clock, he was pleased to see that it was late. Cuddy would be wrangling Rachel for bed, and since Rachel had more cookies in her than a box of Oreos, that would take a while. Which meant that he would have plenty of time to watch Screwin' for Two 2 without interruption.

Or not.

He'd barely had the movie on for five minutes before Cuddy came trudging into the bedroom. Her footsteps heavy and sluggish, she muttered, "I smell like prunes."

He watched her silently as she crawled onto the bed. Curling up next to him, she pressed her face into his chest and exhaled. She was warm against him, the small of her back heated under his fingertips. And she was right, he thought, as he pushed her hair out of her face; she did smell like prunes. "A little bit," he said in agreement, pulling her closer to him.

She made a noise that sounded like a whine-groan hybrid, her voice almost lost completely by the pregnant brunette moaning as she rode some guy sitting in a Lazy Boy. "I need to shower."

"You smell fine," House told her honestly. The prune thing aside, more than anything, he thought she smelled like cookies – sweet and warm in a way that could only be the product of baking. He liked it.

Cuddy did not. "You're watching porn. Your opinion –"

"Is irrelevant because I'm doing a little research? I don't think so."

She sat up a little, propping herself up on her elbows. Although he expected her to argue with him, she simply asked, "What are you watching?" And he supposed that it made sense that she acquiesced the point; after all, how many times had she watched porn with him? Answer: too many for her to think that being a fan of pornography automatically invalidated your opinions.

But House couldn't exactly feel smug. As she turned her head to see what he was watching, he understood that the upper hand was quickly moving to her. As if the ground were swelling, cracking, and shifting beneath him, he could feel things sway towards her advantage.

If she felt it though, she didn't say. All she did was repeat in confusion, "What are you watching?"

Maybe he should have told her everything he knew right then and there. But, although the conversation about children seemed an unavoidable one, he couldn't say the words. So he simply said, "I know what you've been hiding."

She looked at him as though he were crazy. "And you think I've been hiding a pregnant woman fetish? Because…" She chuckled lightly. "This isn't attractive."

"So then I shouldn't pre-order Screwin' for Two 3 when it comes out?"

She wasn't so much amused by the joke as she was by the title. "That's what this is called?" He handed the DVD case to her in response. As she read the box, she scoffed. "'A pregnant woman just can't seem to get enough… they eat all the time, wanna fuck all the time,'" Cuddy quoted with disdain. "'These out of control bitches with buns in the oven' – House, I really hope you don't think that this is what –"

"You want a baby," he said in a tone as emotionless as he could make it. "I know that much."

At first Cuddy wasn't sure she heard him right. Of all the things he could think that she wanted, babies… was the last thing she expected him to say. And though she could recognize what the words meant, as they washed over her, she found herself wondering if there weren't some hidden message that she was missing. Because surely he was not thinking that she wanted a child.

But he must have been.

He was offering no other explanation, no smirk that said, "I'm screwing with you." And so, he must have been completely serious, which made no sense at all.

Her eyes darting back and forth from him to the DVD box to him once more, she was hesitant when she asked, "What are – what are you talking about?"

"I thought I was clear. You want a baby." His gaze was intent on hers, his rigid body, as though he were uncomfortable saying the words, reinforcing the idea that he was being serious.

Cuddy shook her head and tossed the DVD case onto the nightstand. "No."

"You –"

"I don't want a child." He looked at her with disbelief, which only infuriated her. Louder, angrier, she repeated, "I don't want a child."

But as the words came out of her mouth for a second time, she realized that that wasn't exactly true. She did want Rachel. So Cuddy had to immediately add, "I don't want another child."

Still, House didn't seem convinced. It didn't matter that she was rebuking the entire notion of another child; it didn't matter that she had said earlier today that she didn't want another baby. He clearly refused to believe her.

However, she wasn't going to go to bed with him thinking – as he obviously was – that she needed a son or another daughter. And though making him understand that required her to immerse herself into his insanity, she knew it had to be done.

Sitting up, she tucked her feet under her ass and looked at him. "Why would you even think that I wanted that?"

He didn't answer right away. He couldn't. The way she was vehemently denying the whole thing made him wonder if he hadn't overlooked something, if he hadn't screwed something up along the way.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to explain with a slight shake of the head, "Rachel said at lunch… and then you were avoiding me…"

His thoughts were broken, half-completed and barely uttered with any volume. Facing the possibility of being incorrect, he was reluctant to explain fully, to demonstrate just how wrong he'd gotten the whole thing. And if Cuddy could read between the lines at all, it was because she clearly understood him better than he her.

"House…" Her voice was equally quiet and filled with pitiful understanding that felt suffocating to his sensibilities. "If you'll recall, I told Rachel I didn't want –"

"Then she ran away, and you –"

"Rachel was upset, because her friend told her that we didn't want any more kids, because we didn't love her," Cuddy explained, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "Rachel doesn't actually want a brother or sister. She just thinks she does, because she is terrified that I think she's a burden."

She bit down on her lip, her anger nearly getting the better of her. As it had been with Rachel, Madison's words would not be forgotten any time soon. But Cuddy was determined not to dwell on them either.

Clearing her throat, she added, "I calmed her down. I told her that I loved her and that her friend was an idiot. I didn't promise her a sibling, and I don't ever plan on doing that."

"Oh."

Reality stupefied him, left him unable to speak beyond that single word. But it obviously wasn't enough for Cuddy.

"'Oh'?" She was lightly mocking him.

His head bobbed a little as he tried to process what she had told him. "I… you don't want another kid?"

"No."

But her answer was a little too exasperated, a little too hurried to be believable. Even to her own ears, she could recognize as much.

"All right," she conceded. "I won't deny that… having another baby would be… nice. It would be. But…" She shrugged. "I don't want to go through that process again."

"Because of me," House said, as though he were finishing the thought for her.

However, truthfully, her choice had nothing to do with him. And the last thing she wanted was for him to believe that he had somehow kept her from having more children when she really wanted them.

"No," she said loudly with as much earnestness as she could infuse into her tone. "Not because of you. Because… getting Rachel? It wasn't easy, and I don't want to go through all of that again without any promise of there actually being a baby at the end of the road."

But that just seemed to make him even more displeased.

"So you're afraid to –"

"I'm not a coward," she interrupted insistently.

"No? You're just –"

"Yeah." She could feel her anger build. She hated when he did this to her – when he put very complex, difficult choices in simple black and white terms that only seemed to degrade her decision. "I'm just choosing to avoid putting my family through –"

"So you're doing this for us," he said, the words dripping with disdain.

"I'm doing this, because, as nice as the whole idea is, another baby would be hard to obtain and… even harder for all of us to adjust to." He opened his mouth to say something, but Cuddy was too quick for him. "This isn't about you. This isn't about me being afraid. I'm just not willing to risk my happiness – or yours or Rachel's – for something I don't feel compelled to have."

Almost immediately she could tell that he was finally listening to her; there was no instantaneous comeback, no insult or quip for her to respond to. And though she didn't really understand why those words were the ones getting through to him, they very obviously were.

There was no explaining how grateful she was for that.

Smiling a little, she leaned over, hands on his chest, and kissed him. He was slow to respond, despite the fact that her warm mouth craved a response. Almost as though he weren't sure how to react, it took him a moment to move. But eventually, he did, his lips quivering ever so slightly as he captured her lower lip with his mouth.

His hands were warm, rubbing along her back. His fingers splayed as widely as possible, his palms flush against her skin, he held her close to him, as though he feared her slipping away from him.

His words a whisper along her mouth, he asked, "You sure?"

Her smile widened, and he could feel the changing contour of her lips pressed against his own. His stubble scraping and snagging as she spoke, he felt it in his body when she explained without any hesitation or doubt, "You, me, Rachel – that's our family."

The honesty in her words was startling. House didn't know what he'd expected her to say, but he did know that it hadn't been that; it hadn't been the idea that Cuddy viewed them as a family – and a complete one at that. Perhaps he'd suspected – feared – it, but hearing it now…

It was a truth that frightened him, even as he recognized that his body thrummed with the pleasure of having heard it. And he couldn't help but make a joke out of it (it was easier, safer that way).

"What – no dog?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes and pulled away. "I'm allergic to dogs."

"Barely."

"They make my eyes water."

"Fine. A cat?"

"Would send Rachel into anaphylaxis, which you know."

"Lizard? Fish? Bird? Rat?"

He was irritating the hell out of her, but for some reason, she couldn't help but laugh anyway.

"Never mind," she replied with a chuckle. "A dog. If we have to have a pet in this equation, a dog. God only knows it can't be any more filthy than you."

House opened his mouth to reply, but at that exact moment, one of the women from Screwin' for Two 2 moaned loudly, drawing both of their attentions to the television.

Cuddy groaned. "For the love of God, please turn that off." As he did, she asked curiously, as though the question were just entering her mind, "You thought I was avoiding you earlier?"

At that moment, he remembered that she had been avoiding him, that that had been the impetus for all of this to begin with. And if she weren't desperate for a baby (thankfully), then she must have been avoiding him for some other reason.

He jerked his head to look at her. "Yeah. I did. Why were you avoiding me?"

She started to say, "I wasn't." But that was a lie. She knew it. And in the face of him seemingly offering her a baby (in the most roundabout, repulsive way possible), it felt wrong to lie; it felt like she had no other choice than to offer him at least something equally revealing in turn.

Resting her back against the headboard, she didn't look at him when she explained, "I was… talking to Rachel when we were making cookies. You heard me say… things…" Her voice hitched in the back of her throat. Honesty, though necessary, wasn't easy for her, and she couldn't help but feel raw and ill at ease at trying to explain to him why she had been upset.

Or at least partially why she'd been upset; what she was saying now wasn't a lie. But it was only part of the truth.

It was the part he could handle.

Not that he couldn't handle hearing about how she was going to see John Kelley tomorrow. Though House would behave otherwise, Cuddy knew he could deal with that. But since he would act like a two year old sharing a toy, she wasn't going to tell him that… not now anyway.

So she swallowed hard and forced herself to say the one thing she thought she could handle uttering. "I was talking about what it meant to be a Jew, and you were there, and you said… nothing."

He looked at her in confusion. "Was I supposed to say something?"

She shook her head furiously. "I don't know. Maybe I was hoping that you would…" Her voice drifted off in mid-thought.

"I would what?"

She bit her lip, her mind fighting the desire to tell him to just forget about it. "I don't know what I wanted. But you were just… standing there, watching me like… and – and not saying anything –"

"What did you want me to say?" he asked, sitting up in interest.

"I don't know."

"You're lying."

"I don't –"

"You do," he insisted knowingly. "Or else, you wouldn't have avoided me, and you wouldn't –"

"I wanted you to be supportive," she blurted out loudly. And now that the truth was out there, she couldn't hold back. "I wanted you to give me this weekend, not as part of some bet, but because you –"

"What?" he demanded to know. "Because I suddenly believed in God?"

"No," she snapped. "Because you knew it was important to me. Not because you wanted me to fuck –"

"Oh, come on!" He held his hands up to his chest as though to tell her to stop it. "Who says those things are mutually exclusive?"

It wasn't the answer she was expecting. "What?"

"Why can't it be both?" he asked her in a calmer manner. "Why can't it be that I get that it's important to you and that I like taking every opportunity that I can to have sex with you?"

She looked at him dumbfounded. "What?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's important to you. I might not like that, but I am capable of understanding that it matters to you."

"I wish you did," she said in a shaky voice that was barely above a whisper.

There.

She'd said it, one of the many things she thought but never said out of fear. Fear of rejection, being mocked… all of it, and by uttering those words, she had now foolishly put herself in the position of being on the receiving end of all of that.

But in the end, he didn't mock her at all. Instead, he told her, "I know. You want me to believe the same things. You want my approval..." He shrugged a little and said with utmost seriousness, "You don't need it."

"You act like wanting it is a bad thing." She scoffed a little at the idea. "Considering you were thinking you had to agree to have a baby with –"

"I never said that."

She laughed mockingly. "You didn't have to. I read between the lines."

"Well, good for you," he snapped. Quickly though he got his temper under control. He didn't want a fight, not really.

His voice calm once more, he continued, "You want me to approve of everything you believe in, and that's not going to happen. I'm not… someone you answer to."

What he was saying was all nice in theory. But she was reluctant to simply accept it. Looking at him doubtfully, she said, "Right. I don't answer to you. But I do something you don't like, and I get to listen to you taunt –"

"It's what I do," he replied easily.

"So I see."

"I never said I was perfect."

"Well, that much is obvious."

He looked at her as though he were wounded. However, she didn't feel guilty at all, because she could see the mirth in his eyes.

"And here I was, offering you sperm and compliments, about to say something nice," he told her in dismay.

"Don't let me stop you."

House shook his head. "Too late now."

She opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment, he rolled over on the bed. The motion startled her, forcing her into silence as he settled between her legs. Without a word, she moved her thighs farther apart to accommodate his warm weight. His hips pressed into hers.

Leaning down until his lips were close to her left ear, he said in a husky voice, "Now I'm going to have to do all sorts of naughty things to you."

She welcomed the change in tone eagerly. Though it didn't feel as though much had been resolved, she realized that they had come to some sort of agreement: they didn't need to change for one another. And although it wasn't the most satisfying way to end a conversation, she was okay with that for now.

Her fingers curled under the hem of his t-shirt. "Like you needed a reason to do that."

He smirked and reached to undo the jeans she'd put on after her bath. He slowly pulled down her zipper. The soft hiss of the fastener being undone tooth by tooth tantalized her ears, the knowledge that they were going to have sex making her heart race. The noise of the zipper and her heartbeat made her head feel as though it were buzzing, and her entire body began to thrum with that erotic energy.

However, he didn't undress her right then and there. Instead he asked her in a teasing voice, "What color panties are you wearin'?"

Given the argument they'd had earlier, it was a question Cuddy had no intention of answering. A groan the only noise escaping her lips, she brought one of her knees to her chest. Perhaps it was childish to want to respond to someone by kicking them, but she hardly cared. And he caught her by the ankle before her foot had even had a chance to connect with his chest, so it didn't exactly matter anyway.

His hand powerfully gripping her, he shook his head in dismay. "That's not very nice, Cuddy."

She was unremorseful. "You deserve it."

"For asking a question?" He was toying with her, trying to annoy her. She knew this, because as stupid as he could be, he wasn't that much of an idiot.

"For –"

"You know," he interrupted loudly. "You're just lucky that that impressive display of flexibility has earned you a reprieve. Otherwise your ass –"

"You keep saying you're going to do all these things to my ass, but so far…" She looked at him challengingly. "That's just been talk."

"Don't dare me, sweetheart."

"I wasn't," she replied innocently, sitting up just enough so that she could pull his shirt off. As she tossed it to the floor, she said, "I was just wondering if you planned on having sex with me or boring me to sleep."

He squeezed one of her breasts lightly. "I like a lot of foreplay."

"Well, as long as you plan on getting me off at some point." She tried to sound as peevish as she could, but it was hard; she could feel his cock, just beginning to stiffen, against her inner thigh and his thumb circling around her nipple. And though she wanted to sound annoyed, everything he was doing was making her want him above all else.

"Believe me," he said intently, as he untangled his body from hers. He moved to the foot of the bed and wrapped his hands around the bottom of her jeans. "I definitely plan on doing that."

Her response was to raise her hips off of the bed. He hadn't said that he was planning on taking her pants off, but she didn't doubt that that was exactly what he was going to do. And by lifting her ass off of the bed, it was now easy for him to pull her jeans off of her body.

"Wow," he said, dropping the pants on the floor. Eloquent it was not, but House thought that it was apt. Because "wow" was the perfect description for discovering that his girlfriend hadn't been wearing any underwear at all.

She spread her legs wider for his benefit. "After you judged my choice in lingerie earlier today, I decided it wasn't worth your hassling to put on another pair."

Sitting on the bed, he took off his socks and undid his pants. "I think you should take that approach to all clothes from now on."

"That's surprising," she replied drolly. "Next thing you'll be telling me that I should start my morning right by sucking you off every –"

"I already tell you that… although where you put my penis doesn't really matter."

But Cuddy was in no mood to joke. As though she'd suddenly reached her limit, she said in a voice that approached a whine, "Can you please hurry, because –"

"Relax," he told her, pushing his pants and underwear to the floor. He was naked before her, a fact that never failed to give him a semi. Admittedly House knew he wouldn't last that long this time, knew that all of the sex they'd had today was pushing the limits of what his aging body could handle. Still, he couldn't fight the power the idea of having sex with her had over him. His voice lower, he said promisingly, "You'll get some."

He started to crawl on his hands and knees back up the length of the bed. But he paused when she asked, "Would that be happening any time soon? Do I have time to read a book or –"

"You want a time frame?" Taking one of her legs in his hands, he raised the limb into the air. Her skin was smooth underneath his fingertips, and he could feel the taught muscle of her calves, the product of more yoga and runs than he could imagine. She was perfect, he thought, everything he wanted and never thought he could have. And the thought heavy in his mind, he pressed a kiss to the back of her knee.

She hissed through her teeth, the noise thankfully killing whatever complaint she was clearly ready to utter.

He kissed her there again; the back of her knees were, for reasons unknown to him, incredibly sensitive, and just a skim of a thumb or lick of the tongue were enough to get her further into the mood. Indeed, with one past peck and nip of his teeth, she was right where he wanted her.

"House…"

Letting go of her body, he crawled the rest of the distance. When he was sitting next to her, he reached over and cupped one of her breasts. "Wanna take this off?" he asked, referring to the sweater and bra she was wearing.

She nodded her head enthusiastically.

"Sit up," he ordered.

She did, making it easier for him to grasp the fuzzy material of her sweater and pull it over her head. He tossed the shirt across the room; he didn't exactly care where it landed, as long as it was nowhere near them. As he did so, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cuddy fingering through her hair (cause clearly, he was going to care about the effect the static had had on her dark curls).

Thinking she was too self-conscious, he kissed her. His body, practically corkscrewed at the torso, loomed over top of hers. He balanced his weight on one elbow, so that he could unclasp her bra with his free hand. His eyes were closed, so his fingers searched blindly. Which apparently took too long for her, because as he skimmed her back, she bit his lower lip.

She wasn't teasing either. It wasn't a playful little twinge to urge him on. House didn't want to say that she was trying to hurt him either (though it did hurt), but he definitely got the impression that she was attempting to get a rise from him.

It made sense, he thought, purposely taunting her by delicately flicking his tongue into her mouth and along her teeth. She was stressed, undeniably so. And when she was stressed, she liked sex as rough as they could make it.

He doubted she was even fully aware of it, of her need to control by being controlled, by being dominated. And he sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up, because he knew she would say it was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard.

He wasn't wrong, of course; in every aspect of her life, when things were stressful, she took comfort in being able to complete even the littlest of tasks. It made her feel more in control, and when it came to the bedroom, whether she admitted it or not, she felt protected and reassured in doing what he ordered.

And he had no problem giving her what she wanted. But he didn't appreciate being bitten.

Pulling away from her, he said mockingly, "That wasn't nice."

If he expected her to fight him on that point, what he got in response was decidedly different. Completely serious, she replied, "I want your dick in my mouth. Now."

He blinked in surprise but quickly recovered. Rolling off of her, he settled his back against the headboard. He hadn't thought she'd be all that interested in blow jobs after what Rachel had walked into earlier today. But hey, if Cuddy wanted to do that, who was he to refuse?

Of course, he wasn't going to let her control the whole endeavor completely. He had no intention of letting that happen. And she didn't really want to direct things anyway (he knew that much), so it would all work itself out in the end.

But as of right now, he was willing to let her guide things.

The bed dipped as she rolled onto her side. His penis still wasn't all that hard on account of the fact that they hadn't done much up to this point. But the sight of her naked body and the knowledge that they would soon be joined together in a way that felt amazing and life altering every time they did it was beginning to breathe life into him.

At that moment, almost as though she were thinking the same thing, she looked into his eyes and smiled a little bit. Teasing she asked, "You think I wouldn't want to do this after –"

He groaned, stopping her from finishing the thought. "I think that we should make it a point never to speak about that again."

Without even thinking much about it, House reached over and stroked her throat with the back of his hand. His knuckles raked lightly over the muscles, taut with the effort necessary for her to look up to him, and she smiled even wider. "All right," she said gently.

Honestly, she didn't really want to talk about it either. Clearly Cuddy would have had to have been mentally ill to want to discuss at length how her daughter had walked in on them having sex; if anything, if Cuddy had her way, this would never be brought up, mentioned – referenced in any way ever again. So she couldn't have been more relieved to know that House felt the same way. Not that she really thought he would want to talk about it, of course, but she didn't put it past him to bring it up to distract her, shame her, etc. If anyone was the kind of person to bring up that horribly embarrassing moment for personal gain, it was House.

That said, she had been the one to bring it up now. Aside from the fact that she suspected House was thinking about it anyway, she thought that it was important to let him know:

She didn't blame him.

Earlier she had. She couldn't deny that. When it had first happened, underneath all of the shame, underneath all of the fear that Rachel would be screwed up for life, Cuddy had blamed House - had hated him for somehow letting this happen. And though she had kept her temper as in check as she possibly could, she worried that she hadn't been as successful at that as was necessary to keep House from realizing that she did blame him. In fact, she was sure that he knew on some level that she had.

And now, all she wanted him to know was that... it was over. Rachel was fine – albeit sick from having way too many cookies. Though the little girl had brought up the notion of having babies, it had turned out that that had less to do with what she'd seen and more to do with what Madison had told her. Actually, given the way Madison had hurt Rachel's feelings, Cuddy was sure that Rachel would have asked about brothers and sisters soon enough anyway. And because of that, there was no rational reason to be upset at House.

... Well, at least, there was no reason to punish him for that.

She was prematurely feeling irritation over how he would react tomorrow upon learning that she was going to talk to John Kelley. But she wasn't willing to let that get in the way of what she wanted tonight, what she wanted right now.

And what she wanted was House.

In every way, as completely and totally as possible – she wanted him.

She wanted to be consumed by his desire for her and vice versa.

She wanted her body to be set ablaze with the embers of need and lust and love; she wanted the burn of the searing hot fire that hadn't been extinguished even after all of this time to consume her totally.

But in order to do that, she needed to get him hard.

He wasn't, unfortunately, though she knew that he would quickly rise to the occasion; he might have been an older man, certainly older than when they'd first done this. But he was more than capable of giving it to her the way she wanted as many times as she wanted (and then some).

She just had to give him a little preparation.

And she was more than willing (and eager) to provide it.

As one of his hands skimmed the length of her body, his fingers dancing along her ribs, she reached for his cock. It was warm under her palm, the desire to taste him compelling her to lean forward.

Her hair slipped past her shoulders. The strands tickled his thigh and her upper chest. She started to lower her head, so that she could lick him. But at that moment, House stopped her by ordering, "Move up on the bed."

That was nearly impossible to do. She'd been resting against the headboard, and, thanks to the pillows and a wall, there really wasn't anywhere she could go. "I –"

"I want to touch you," he told her in a deep voice.

She nodded her head. She couldn't refuse him. The bed rocked as Cuddy shifted on the bed as best she could. House helped her move her pussy closer in reach. His hands on her hips, he guided her further up on the mattress. And though it absolutely broke the mood she'd been going for, in the end, she was glad to have the order.

As she lowered her head once more, House allowed his hand to skim across her ass. His touch was gentle, so feather light that she almost questioned whether or not it was actually happening. But it must have been, because as she pressed her first kiss to his penis, she felt him dip his fingers between her warm folds.

She gasped, blowing hot air onto his sensitive flesh (which only served to make his hips flinch in burgeoning desire). His hand possessively cupped her bottom. Though he was doing it in a way that was gentle for him, his grip was quickly becoming one she couldn't ignore. And didn't want to; his fingers were splayed as wide as they could possibly be. The tips of his middle and ring finger were just beginning to slip past her labia.

The sensation wasn't strong enough to make her soaking with desire. She doubted he expected it to. But the soft little caresses he was giving her were slowly warming her up.

And they were definitely making her quick to please him.

She placed one last sloppy kiss along the side of his cock. Her hand, lightly cupping his balls, eagerly slid back to his penis; now that there was a little moisture there, she could more eagerly stroke him to hardness. And as she fisted him, he muttered his approval. "That's good," he told her, the "good" coming out so slowly as though there were at least six or seven o's in the word.

She smirked, though he, with eyes closed, took no note of her satisfaction. If he thought that was good, she would love what she planned on doing next. She ran her tongue along his swelling prick toward his head. All the while, she kept stroking him.

"Keep going," he told her, gripping her ass tightly, as though that was going to encourage her (it did).

For a brief moment, she lapped at the tip of his dick. She did it gingerly, not wanting to give him too much for fear of things ending too quickly. Although she certainly didn't mind stopping things with oral sex, she wanted him inside her... in a different way. And she didn't want to give him so much pleasure that he came within seconds.

But perhaps that was unavoidable, she thought. As she allowed the rest of her mouth to follow her tongue, he cried out in pleasure. His hips bucked lightly as she let his swollen member pass through her lips.

He couldn't help it. Her mouth was warm, warmer and wetter than he remembered it being from earlier. Of course, all he really remembered from earlier was the terrible way things had ended.

Fearing that his own mind would allow that memory to replay in his mind, he suddenly cleared his throat. His hands moving to her shoulders, he told her, "Stop."

Her hand still fisting his dick, she looked up at him, "'Stop"?"

"On your back."

The order left no room for discussion, which she understood immediately. Nevertheless, she didn't move. Well, all right, she did; she bowed her head once more and sucked the tip of his penis into her mouth. But unlike before, he didn't seem pleased.

"Cuddy."

She hummed in response as she pulled him in deeper, and though he was going to make her stop, he couldn't help but be tempted to let her continue. The vibrations she was creating in her throat were echoing in his body, making it nearly impossible to hold back a gasp. That he did was surprising, he thought.

That he could reach down and tug her off of him was nothing short of a miracle.

She had no choice but to let his now wet cock slip out of her mouth. She might not have wanted to do what he said, but she also didn't want to hurt him.

When she released him, she looked up in annoyance.

"On your back," he repeated, each monosyllabic word coming out in a halting, serious-to-the-point-of-angry voice.

But once again she didn't move. "What are you going to do if I don't?"

He could tell what she was doing. She was being so transparent with the way she was trying to provoke him. And he knew precisely what she wanted – she wanted it to hurt – which was why he had no intention of letting her force his hand.

He wasn't against giving it to her roughly. But if the whole point of her behavior in these times was to give him the upper hand, he thought that it defeated the purpose to give her expressly what she wanted.

Still, he couldn't help but cater to her needs a little bit.

His hands gripping her forearms tightly, he physically pulled her off of him and pushed her down onto the mattress. "Don't move," he warned.

"Or what?" she challenged playfully.

He sighed and stroked her stomach. Not for very long – all the talk about pregnancy filled the act with all sorts of potential deeper meaning that, when recognized, forced his hand to her thigh. "Just relax."

She shifted on the mattress a little bit. She was clearly trying to do what he was telling her, but it was hard, and he could practically feel the tense energy radiating from her form.

"Relax," he repeated, spreading her legs with his hands. "Close your eyes."

She didn't want to, but the stress from work and Rachel and everything else was wearing on her quickly. And if House wanted her to close her eyes, if only to avoid getting more stressed (which would happen, because they would fight), she would do that.

"Fine."

"You're cranky," he commented, leaning down to lick her pelvic bone.

She jerked in surprise, controlling herself just enough so that she wouldn't accidentally hurt House. Oh, part of her absolutely felt that he deserved it. But the rest of her was far too focused on the long, wet trail his tongue was creating along her body.

So of course he had to stop.

One of his hands was warmly rubbing her knee when he suggested, "Maybe I should just put you to bed now – you know, since you're acting like a –"

Her eyelids fluttered open. "I'm not acting like a child."

He paused for a moment before responding, "Yeah, that doesn't convince me."

"Are you actually planning on having sex with me, or are you just interested in toying with me?"

Shifting on the bed, House curled up next to Cuddy. His head on her pillow and now right by her ear, he said quietly, "You know me better than that."

He slipped his hand down her body leisurely. There was no way she didn't know where he was headed, and he wanted the anticipation to eat away at and supplant the tension she'd been victim to all day, thanks to work and her daughter.

It worked.

Even before he touched Cuddy, he could tell that she was falling prey to what he wanted; by the time he circled her belly button with his index finger, she let out a little grunt. Though it was one of frustration, it was an indication that she didn't want him to take his time. The fact that, the second his palm brushed against her mound, she was spreading her legs as widely and lewdly as they could go just reinforced that idea.

His fingers searching for her clit, he kissed her ear lightly and whispered, "I always take care of my pussy, don't I?" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear just in time to see her swallow hard. The proof right before him, he could see that his words and actions were getting to her.

His middle finger circled her opening, each loop more insistent than the last. He wasn't hurting her, of course. She hadn't exactly been wet when he'd started, but everything he was doing was getting her juices going.

"You didn't answer my question," he pointed out as though he disapproved of her lack of response.

"I..." She shook her head a little, as though she didn't even really understand what the question was.

His thumb lightly stroked her clitoris, the tight little bud now straining for her touch. This too he stimulated in little circles. But he didn't apply nearly as much pressure; he didn't need to, of course. He didn't know if she was just that easy or if the years she'd gone without sex had made her easy, but what he did know was that she was quick to orgasm, especially when there was direct stimulation to her clitoris. And though he normally liked using this to his advantage, he didn't want her to come right away.

He wanted her to feel it in her entire body first.

So he made circles that were just slightly too wide, slightly too obtuse. She would feel it; it would drive her nuts. But it wouldn't be what she needed.

"Do you need me to repeat the question?" he asked tauntingly as he moved his face closer to her neck. He wanted to be as close to her as possible. Though he was usually one to advocate personal space, in this instance, he wanted absolutely nothing separating her from him. He wanted to know, to feel each shift in her body. He wanted her to feel completely and helplessly exposed to him.

"I..." She chuckled quietly, nervously.

"Hmm." His lips pressed to the space where her shoulders and neck met, he hoped she felt it. "I think I do need to repeat myself."

He was patronizing her, and she knew it. There was no way she didn't, he thought. But he was hardly ashamed by the fact. If anything, he was purposely being condescending; though she would undoubtedly hate that kind of behavior in any other area of her life, he knew she was oddly turned on by it in this one.

"Don't worry," he cooed. "I won't hold it against you too much."

He slipped one finger inside of her. She gasped a little, her walls clamping down on him as hard as she could. God, she was tight, he thought. "I get that it's hard for you," he said slowly, withdrawing his finger with equal languidness. "It's difficult to concentrate when you know you're going to have your pussy stuffed in a couple minutes."

Cuddy tried to laugh at his language; it was ridiculous, admittedly. But she didn't actually laugh. As he pushed his finger back into her insistently, the giggle she'd been trying to utter morphed into something that sounded more like a hiss.

"But I do want an answer," he said kissing her neck, her shoulder, and then her jaw. Little pecks peppering her in odd places, it made her reluctant to look at him. Obviously she didn't want him to stop. But when he cupped her jaw with his hand, thumb on her chin, and forced her to look over at him, she was forced to deal with the situation head on.

Her voice breathless, she asked, "What was the question?"

He let go of her jaw. Now that she was looking at him, he knew that she wouldn't look away until he told her to. Though obedience had never been her strong suit, nor something he wanted from her on a daily basis, when it came to sex... submission was something she liked to dabble in with perfect mastery. No, she wouldn't look away. She would do exactly what he wanted, because it was what she needed right now.

Truth be told, House wasn't sure if that was a curse of a gift. Having complete control was incredibly hot, but he was also always mindful that he couldn't push too far. Obviously he would push her boundaries a little bit; she liked that. But there was always the risk of scaring her, hurting her, going too far with her that made this specific kind of encounter something he was hesitant to have on a regular basis with her.

On the other hand, he supposed she was aware of those facts. She couldn't be so ignorant as to not think that handing complete control over to someone else put her at risk for being asked to do things she wasn't necessarily comfortable with. The fact that she so rarely let anyone have any control over her choices and actions he took as proof enough that she understood how easily things could turn for her. And she must have been equally aware that he feared his ability to control himself, because she didn't ask – well, she never asked – for him to do this until she thought she was going to lose it.

Although he never said it, he appreciated her restraint – just as he hoped she appreciated his. Perhaps it shouldn't have made him feel reassured, but it did; it just made him feel like she was willing to go down whatever path he wanted to in these moments.

Using his now free hand to tweak one of her nipples, House pushed the lingering doubt from his mind. Things would be okay.

And with all the arrogance that knowledge provided for him, he repeated his question, "I said, 'I always take care of my pussy, don't I?'" He emphasized the possessive pronoun, feeling in that moment as though it was important for her to know that she was absolutely, completely his.

But she didn't give him the yes or no she was expecting. Instead, she told him snidely, "I didn't realize you had one."

He pulled his finger from her cunt and stilled the thumb that had been circling her clit. If she was going to play that way, he wasn't going to make her feel good.

Purposely bumping his groin into her hip, his erection tickling her skin and the earliest trace of precum marring her pale flesh, he asked, "Does it feel like I have one on my body?"

She didn't answer the question; her hips were too busy shifting to try and rub herself against the fingers that had stilled in between her labia.

So he responded by pulling his hand away completely.

"Don't," she practically pleaded.

Inwardly she wanted to groan at the sound of her own voice. Though it was probably exactly what House wanted to hear, she hated the way she sounded like she was one step away from begging for a hand job.

"I will do what I want," he told her admonishingly. "You will do as I say, or I'm going to stop right now, and you can wait until morning to get off."

She wanted to punch him in the face; he was being such an arrogant little prick (so it was kind of business as usual), and she would have liked nothing more than to wipe that smirk, which he probably wasn't even aware existed, off his face.

But in the end, she stopped moving, fulfilling the silent expectation of her, because she knew that she wanted to get off. And in order to do that any time soon, she would need to give him what he wanted, and punching him in the face, though tempting, probably wouldn't get her what she wanted.

"Sorry," she muttered, the word sounding as perfunctory and obligatory as it was.

"I'm sure," House said doubtfully.

Unfortunately for her, he made no move to touch her again. And she knew that there was only one explanation for it; he wanted her to ask for it – to beg. Peevish, she wanted to do anything but that. But again, giving him what he wanted in this instance was easier than trying to wrangle control from him.

Besides, did she really want to be in charge right now?

The answer so clear in her mind (no), she didn't even have to think it.

"Fine." Her voice sounded like a grumble. "You're... good at... what you do," she said vaguely, wanting to avoid having to call herself his pussy if she could. "Now will you please get –"

"That's not I asked."

She rolled her eyes. "Close enough."

"I don't think so."

"Yes, it –"

He looked at her in all seriousness. "I would rethink that logic," he warned. "Because if you don't do what I want... I might be tempted to do the same when I'm inside you and feeling the need to come way before you're ready."

There was an unspoken threat in his words, a threat that she was not oblivious to. And knowing that her hand had been forced, she sighed. "What do you want me to say?"

At that, his hand skated across the flesh of her thigh and back to her core. Two fingers immediately pushing inside of her with enough power to make her exhale loudly, he said nothing. She waited for him to say something; her gaze was intent on him, just in case she was supposed to pick up on some House version of Morse code. But he just kept pushing and withdrawing his fingers as though the conversation had never happened.

"House?" she asked, her voice unsure and shaky. She hadn't meant to sound so pathetic, but the way he was coaxing her fluids from her body, the way it felt like he was touching every bit of her, made her unable to control her emotions.

"Shhh," he whispered into her ear. His breath was hot against the delicate shell of cartilage, and long after he'd finishing hushing her, the hiss seemed to linger on within her.

All of a sudden, she felt hot and confused, her desire and his behavior making her feel a little drunk. "But –"

"It's okay," he told her gently.

"But –"

"Just enjoy it, all right?"

It was an easier command to say than to follow apparently. And honestly, he wasn't surprised by her confusion. He probably would have been too if the situation were reversed. After all, they weren't the kind to back off.

But he had.

That wasn't by any means normal for them. He knew it, which was why he could understand her confusion. They weren't the kind of people to back off. Especially when it came to dealings that only they were privy to, they rarely capitulated. In a way, there was no need to; they understood fully that they loved one another, that they were as screwed up and awful as two people could be, and that almost all (if not all) was forgivable. And he knew full well that making her say something she clearly didn't want to utter would be forgiven.

Honestly though, House just wasn't in the mood to do that tonight. He could, but more than anything, he thought it was in bad form to force your girlfriend, who was wonderful enough to say no to more babies, to say something she didn't find the least bit sexy.

Maybe it said something about him that he felt that there were times where it was okay to make her do those things. But in his defense, she let him do it, wanted him to do it on occasion, so it wasn't like she was really against it. He just thought that in this case, maybe... maybe it was better to...

He didn't like the way he wanted to finish the thought. But after a couple seconds of hesitation, his mind on his thoughts and absolutely not on the way Cuddy was meeting his fingers' thrusts by grinding her hips against his hand, he decided that his initial ending was good enough – if not very clever and completely saccharine.

He didn't want to make her say the words, because he thought that maybe it was better to take the time to remind himself how lucky he was to have her, someone who was so perfect and so unlucky as to have him in her life.

He wanted to cherish her, wanted to worship her body. He knew that it wouldn't even begin to do her justice, to do the way he felt justice. But any attempt was better than no attempt at all, and he was nothing if not headstrong enough to try.

With that in mind, he focused once more on the task at hand... on the task covering his hand?

Her juices were flowing freely now, coating the fingers he was pushing into her repeatedly and dribbling down onto his palm and heel. He could smell her, that wonderful scent that he could only describe as her. Every now and then a moan catching in the back of her throat, he could tell that she had taken his order to enjoy it seriously.

He smiled and laved the outer shell of her ear. His voice rough and throaty, he encouraged her further. "That's right. That's good."

At that moment, he let his thumb slide along the ridge of her clitoris. And though it wasn't substantial contact, it was enough to make Cuddy agree with him. "Yes," she crooned.

"You like that? Hmm?" He kissed his way in short pecks towards her mouth, which was already slightly ajar.

Totally focused on the way her stomach seemed laden with that ever-winding need to orgasm, she was taken aback when she felt his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth.

He swallowed her "Oh," her surprise muted by his body and her sudden desire for it.

She was close. Despite all of the sex they'd had during the day, the way he was making her feel, the precision with which he was feeling all of her with just the perfect amount of speed, destroyed any notion of "too much." His thumb on her clitoris stroking her in soft touches, it didn't feel like she'd come several times today.

It didn't feel like she'd ever had sex.

Her thirst unquenchable, her need a force greater than her own body, she reached for him. She needed him, all of him at that moment. His fingers, his mouth, it wasn't enough. She needed more than the stubble burning her and the thumb setting her ablaze in a whole different way.

This just wasn't enough.

But the hand on his hipbone woke no sense of exigency inside of him. And it just figured, she thought almost bitterly; he was the one who could fuck almost the second it had been suggested. But now he was the one who wanted to take his time when she wanted to hurry things up.

She pulled away from him. "Please," she urged.

"Not yet," he told her, adding a third finger to the other two.

Immediately, she felt fuller, her body stretching to accommodate him. Now, he was really touching every bit of her; now she felt as though she couldn't take any more. She just wanted him, all of him. "House," she told him, aiming for a voice that was stern enough to show that she wasn't kidding.

"I want you to come first," he told her, reaching for her breast once more.

His hand was warm against her soft flesh as he cupped her. A bead of sweat dislodged itself from underneath the curve of her chest and slipped lazily down her ribs. She hadn't even realized he'd made her that hot, that... unconscious to what her body was doing. But as the wet sensation tickled her, she was forced into feeling all sorts of other sensations – ones that didn't originate between her legs.

There was sweat between her toes and fingers, pooling along her back. The rational part of her couldn't help but think that sleeping tonight would be particular miserable, but she didn't really care about damp sheets. She did care about getting off.

And if House wanted her to come before he had sex with her...

She supposed she couldn't disappoint him.

As he tugged at the nipple trapped between his fingers, she hissed, "Well, if you insist."

He kissed her again. It was soft, short and simple. "I do." His forehead resting against hers, he explained in a tone that left her clit throbbing, "I want you so wet for me, Cuddy."

She squeezed the muscles around his fingers. "I'm not wet enough for you?"

"You're getting there," he admitted. "Just a little bit more."

"And then?"

The question had barely had enough time to reach his ears before a loud groan followed. He thought he must have hit a particularly sweet spot, because she was so much more flush now than she had been seconds ago.

He pulled again at the nipple in his grasp. It was behaving nicely, hardening into a delicate peak from his ministrations. "You know what happens next."

"Not with you," she muttered.

Normally, she would have said that as a complaint. But this was more teasing, as it was hard to be too angry with the man who was getting you off.

He leaned down, so that he could rub his nose against her clavicle. The bone had always been prominent, but these days, it was much more visible – thanks to her new exercise regime. And to be honest, it made her look... more vulnerable, more... fragile to him. But he wouldn't ever complain about it to her; she was thin but not to the point of harming herself, and he wasn't going to make her self-conscious about one of the few ways (though it was decidedly less fun) of relieving the stress that always seemed to overwhelm her.

Against her flushed skin, he said, "Good to know I don't bore you."

She panted as he kissed her skin and tasted her sweat. "You could... never bore me," she told him in halted tones.

"I don't know." He pretended to be doubtful over that fact. "How many minutes have I had my fingers in you, and you haven't come?"

She shook her head as best as she could without accidentally smacking him in the face. "Close," she reassured, straining for more sensation. "I could come if you were inside me."

He scoffed. "I am inside of you."

At that, she practically growled, and he knew that she was much closer than he'd originally thought. Because if she were this frustrated over some stupid remark, then she was either ready to orgasm or so not even remotely close to that. And he would have had to have been foolish to think the latter was even an option at this point.

"Not the way I want," she whined. "Harder."

"God, you are just full of complaints." He didn't actually care that she was whining, of course, but he was a little surprised at her commitment to it. "Maybe you should just keep your mouth closed until –"

"Screw you."

"You are. You will," he told her firmly. "As soon as you come, I will be right there."

Her eyes fluttered shut, a subtle indication that what he'd said had done something for her, had turned her on.

He decided he could work with that.

"That's right," he said, rubbing her clit harder. "The second you come, I am going to spread your legs and take you." He ran a thumb over her nipple, his palm cupping her breast with enough pressure for her to feel him. "I'm not going to care how sensitive you are. I don't care if you're not ready. The second, your pretty, tight, warm little box squeezes my fingers, I'm going to penetrate you," he told her, nipping at her collarbone. "Do you understand me, Cuddy? I'm going to give you the best pounding you've ever had, baby."

"Yes," she moaned, liking where this was going. His words flashed in images before the inky darkness behind her eyelids. She could see everything he was talking about – her cunt still trying to adjust from an orgasm being forced to take him inch by inch inside of her sensitive body.

She wanted that.

"You feel that?" he asked her, pressing his penis into her hipbone. "That's all for you, and like a good girl, you're going to take it over and over," he said. He emphasized the overs, his voice louder and the words in time to his fingers thrusting inside of her. "And I'm not going to stop until I come inside you, deep inside you."

She couldn't take anymore.

The fingers on her nipple tweaked her insistently. The fingers inside of her pumped as hard as they could. Each motion met with the downward motion of her hips, she was matching him thrust for thrust. His thumb rubbed her clit in circles that echoed through her body as though he had been skipping rocks and she was the body of water. Every ripple of pleasure coursed through her body. Each one larger than the last, she felt her entire body vibrate with that energy until the ripples had mixed and mingled together and there was no way to separate each pulse from the other.

Her fingers digging into the sheets, she came to the sound of his words. Her muscles clenched his fingers tightly, so tightly that he stilled his thrusts.

He had said that the second she had an orgasm, he would fuck her. But in the actual moment, House was a little more forgiving, allowing her to ride out her orgasm with all the help he could give her without hurting her.

His thumb moved away from her clit, so that he could stimulate her without direct contact. The rest of his fingers still, he let her rock herself through the rest of her orgasm patiently.

When she'd stopped moving, her body settling on the bed once more, he withdrew his hand from her. And eagerly he moved on the bed, so that he was once more between her legs. The show she'd inadvertently put on for him had made him harder, much harder, than the direct stimulation of her mouth on his dick had or ever could. Perhaps that sounded odd, but there was quite frankly nothing sexier than watching his girlfriend come.

Correction, he thought within seconds; there was nothing sexier than watching his girlfriend recovering from an orgasm as he entered her.

Nothing.

She whined a little (in a good way) as he pressed the head of his penis against her labia. She was wet against him, that sticky sound of her juices coming into contact with his flesh like music to his ears. Using his hand to guide himself, he pushed himself inside her. Her muscles were still contracting, and now they were squeezing him in a way that almost made him lose it right then and there.

Unable to control himself, he fell forward onto his elbows and thrust all the way in.

She screamed.

Not loudly, not in a you're-hurting-me sort of way, not even in surprise; this was a shout of the good kind; though hard to describe, it was something she only did when she was so overwhelmed (again in a good way) by the desire inside of her. It meant that she was almost instantly ready to come again.

Her body shaking underneath him, he knew that, no matter how quickly he came, she would come away satisfied.

Withdrawing from her, he said before pushing himself back in, "See? I said you would get what you wanted."

She nodded her head in agreement, her arms wrapping themselves along his shoulders. "Yes."

Cuddy wasn't really answering the question. She was far too interested in what he was doing to her body than to even paying attention to what he was saying.

And he knew that – and contemplated using it to his advantage. If she wasn't going to listen, then he could safely say whatever it was he wanted to say without fear of repercussions.

His hips rocking back and forth, her slickness tight all around him, he said in between grunts, "Love you."

It was such a false thing to say. He did love her, very much, but he realized that it was easy to say those words to someone who was letting you go ball deep. It was also easy to say the words when she wasn't listening.

"Harder," she moaned, her hands moving to his ass. As she cupped him, her nails dug into him. "More."

But instead he slowed down, taking her in languid, long strokes. It wouldn't be hard to come quickly. The way her mouth hung open and a few strands of dark hair clung to her pale skin; her nipples taut and yearning for his mouth; her body, sopping wet and hot, tight around his penis – it would have been easy to fall apart now and never look back.

However, he wasn't ready for that to happen. He didn't want it to happen, because he never wanted this to end.

"House," she insisted. "Don't..." She licked her lips. "Do it right," she said vaguely.

He refused on principle to do what she wanted. "You're awfully whiny," he told her. As though punishing her, he took one of her nipples in his mouth. Giving her just the slightest hint of teeth, he felt her reaction; her muscles clenched him, almost painfully so.

And she came again, her body entire body arching off of the bed (as best as it could underneath his weight anyway). Her head resting on his shoulder as he continued to pump, she couldn't see his face of triumph when she shouted, "Oh God."

She was practically clamped around him in every way imaginable. Her arms had moved once more and were wrapped around his upper back; her legs were slung tightly over his hips; her internal muscles rhythmically tensed and released against him.

Her breath was hot on his shoulder, and he felt completely trapped by her. He couldn't thrust into her with as much ease now; she was clinging to him, which made pulling out of her nearly impossible.

But House didn't mind. The way he was practically wearing her was enough of an aphrodisiac to make the short thrusts he had to make more than pleasurable.

He wanted to make fun of her, wanted to point out that she'd been wanting him to go harder and he hadn't needed to. He wanted to but couldn't. He could feel his own need quickly becoming too great for him to handle; his balls swayed heavily against her ass; his nipples were impossibly hard, though she hadn't touched him. Each nerve ending on his skin seemed to be stimulated by her mere presence. He wanted to make fun of her, but he wanted to come inside of her more.

House grunted loudly at the idea of it. Though they'd had sex plenty today, there was never going to be a time where filling her with his come wasn't going to be something he wanted to do.

She must have felt the same way, because at that moment, she told him loudly, "Keep going."

"I'm trying," he said through gritted teeth.

"I want you to come. In me."

He wanted to mockingly ask her if there were really any other place he was going to do that but didn't. Words were lost to him when compared to the feeling of the cunt he was pumping. She was soaking wet, coating him with the proof of her attraction for him. And growing inside of his body was some proof of his own for her.

Rocking against her, he drove into her as far as he could, as hard as he could - as though there were some place of her he hadn't touched, she thought to herself. Or would have thought to herself if his thrust hadn't set off another orgasm for her.

She was loud, unconsciously, explosively loud in crying out, "Yes!"

The feeling tunneling in on her quickly, it was met with House coming inside of her. A long "Oh" escaping him, he drove himself into her. His semen spraying her in long, generous pulses, she cried out again as her body milked him of everything he had.

He sagged against her. Exhausted he could barely hold himself up, thanks to their mind-blowing sex, and she was still coming down from her high as he pressed her into the mattress.

It felt good at first, to have his weight on top of her. She liked the feeling of being unable to escape him (at the moment anyway). But it quickly became a problem. He was making her hot, sweaty. "Hey," she told him quietly.

She didn't even have to finish the words before he rolled off of her. Her eyes watching him, she was a little surprised that he didn't simply move to his side of the bed.

Granted, getting up to brush your teeth before sleeping wasn't exactly odd; she was just surprised that he didn't feel the need to strut like a peacock about the number of orgasms he'd given her. That he wasn't doing that made her suspicious to the point that she felt obligated to follow him into the bathroom.

However, she only had to peel herself off of the damn sheets to understand what was going on.

Looking at her side of the bed, she could see that it practically wet with their combined sweat. And though it was her side of the bed, she didn't want to sleep in that. The simple solution would be to make him switch sides.

And it suddenly became clear why he'd nearly bolted from the bed seconds after coming inside of her. He didn't want to give her a chance to steal his side.

Well, that just wasn't going to happen.

But in the end, it did. She'd been too slow, had too much to do in order to beat House to the sought-out side of the bed. And by the time, she'd put on pajamas, he was already nestled under the covers with a victorious smirk on her face.

"Switch sides with me?" she asked nicely, hoping that maybe she could appeal to his better nature.

"Nope."

Apparently he didn't have a better nature.

"Come on."

"Sorry."

She stomped over to his side of the bed and yanked the sheets down. "I had sex with you in a school."

He looked up at her as though he'd forgotten. "How many orgasms did you just have?" She growled, and he said over top of the noise she was making, "I don't think you want to use sexual performance as a –"

"Shut up and move," she snapped.

… Well, all right, it came out more of a whine, but she was okay with that.

"Not gonna happen." He patted the space next to him on the bed. "So just park those sweet –"

"Never mind."

At that point, she realized that he would never share with her. And too exhausted to fight him any longer, Cuddy simply capitulated and crawled under the covers that had yet to dry.

It was miserable. He was happy next to her, but she was hot and uncomfortable, despite the season. And the longer she thought of her situation, the longer she lay in the darkness not saying anything, the more her mind was allowed to wander to other unpleasant things.

"House?" she asked, trying to push the dark thoughts out of her mind.

"Not trading," he muttered into his pillow.

She shook her head, concern for her job and her daughter filling it already. "That's not what I mean."

He exhaled loudly. "What?" She hesitated to say anything, not knowing what she should really tell him, and this fact just made him repeat (albeit with agitation), "What?"

"Never mind."

He muttered something under his breath that she couldn't really hear, though she could assume it was something about how annoying she was. "Just tell me."

And she didn't know why she did end up saying something. Later on, she would claim exhaustion, but in reality, she didn't know why she opened her mouth. Maybe it was because of the safety she found in the darkness.

Whatever the reason, at that moment, she couldn't help but say, "Just… tell me things will be all right."

"Everything's going to be fine," he said hastily.

"Forget it."

"What do you want me to say?" he asked in frustration.

She rolled away from him, turning her back on him. "Next time," she said bitterly. "Try to sound like you mean it."

It was only hours later, long after he'd fallen asleep, that she realized he had meant it.

She just hadn't believed him.

To be continued