Disclaimer: Greg house and Stacy do not belong to me. they're the amazing creations of the great Dvid Shore
tiny apartment's worn couch, the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the cracked blinds. Her hand rested on her small but growing belly, a reminder of the secret she had carried alone for four months.
She sighed, glancing at the framed photo of herself and Mark that still sat on the windowsill. The image felt like a relic from another life. She had tried to hold her marriage together after confessing her mistake—her night with Greg. But when she told Mark she was pregnant, his rage had been swift and final.
"You always wanted him," Mark had spat that day. "Now you've got what you wanted. Congratulations, Stacy."
The memory stung. Even though she'd tried to convince herself otherwise, there was a part of her that still ached for Greg House, even after he'd pushed her away. "You're better off without me," he had said, his voice as raw as her own tears.
But now, things weren't so simple.
It was late evening when her phone buzzed, dragging her out of her thoughts. She hesitated before picking it up, recognizing Mark's number.
"Mark," she answered quietly.
"I need you to sign the divorce papers," he said, his voice cold and detached.
She swallowed. "Mark... I'm sorry. It was a mistake, unintentional, and I—"
"Don't," he interrupted sharply. "We've been over this. I don't want to hear it again. Just sign the papers and send them back."
There was no room for argument in his tone. Stacy blinked back the sting of tears, forcing herself to nod as if he could see her.
"Okay," she whispered.
The call ended abruptly, and Stacy sat in the silence of her apartment, staring at the phone in her hand. She slipped off the wedding ring she had stubbornly kept wearing and placed it on the coffee table. Her finger felt strangely light, but the weight on her chest was unbearable.
Her name was hers again. Barrett. Not Warner. But it felt hollow.
- MANY MONTHS LATER -
Stacy Barrett pressed her back against the cold tile of her bathroom wall, clutching her stomach as the contraction ripped through her. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to regulate her breathing. She'd read all the books, watched all the videos, and spent sleepless nights preparing for this moment. But nothing could prepare her for the sheer intensity of labor.
Alone.
She'd been alone for the past nine months, nursing the fallout of her decisions. After Mark kicked her out, she'd rented the smallest apartment she could find in Princeton, working remote cases for a law firm to make ends meet. Her belly grew, and so did the ache in her heart for what could have been.
Greg didn't know. She'd made sure of that. He had been clear when he said she was better off without him, and she had tried to honor his words.
But now, as the pain surged through her and her vision blurred, she knew she couldn't do this alone.
She didn't remember much about the drive to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Her world had narrowed to flashes of streetlights, the roar of her pulse in her ears, and the overwhelming need to keep going.
When she stumbled through the emergency room doors, the nurse at the desk took one look at her and sprang into action.
"Contractions are three minutes apart," Stacy managed to gasp. "It's time."
"Stacy?"
The voice stopped her. She blinked through the haze of pain and looked up to see Lisa Cuddy standing at the end of the corridor, holding a chart. For a moment, Stacy thought she might be hallucinating.
"Lisa," she managed to whisper.
Cuddy's eyes widened in shock as she walked closer. "Oh my God. Stacy! What... what are you doing here? Are you—" Her gaze dropped to Stacy's rounded belly, visible even under the oversized coat she'd thrown on before rushing out. "You're pregnant?"
Stacy let out a weak laugh that turned into a grimace as another contraction hit. "Yeah. Surprise."
"Come on, let's get you to a room," Cuddy said, her shock quickly giving way to action. She signaled to the nurse, and together they wheeled Stacy into a nearby delivery suite.
Once Stacy was settled, Cuddy returned, her eyes filled with curiosity and concern. "It's been a year, Stacy. You disappeared. And now you're here—pregnant. What's going on? Where's Mark?"
At the mention of Mark's name, Stacy's expression crumbled. She looked away, tears brimming in her eyes.
"Lisa," she said softly, her voice trembling. "Mark and I... we're divorced."
Cuddy's brows shot up. "Divorced? When? Why?"
"It's... a long story," Stacy said, wincing as another contraction rolled through her.
Before Cuddy could press further, James Wilson appeared in the doorway, his face lighting up in surprise. "Stacy? Is that you?"
"Hi, James," Stacy said, attempting a weak smile.
Wilson walked in, glancing between Stacy and Cuddy, his expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "What are you doing here? And—" He paused, taking in the obvious. "You're pregnant?"
Stacy nodded, her grip tightening on the bed rail as the contraction passed.
"Where's Mark?" Wilson asked, echoing Cuddy's earlier question.
Stacy swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "He left. When I told him the baby wasn't his."
Wilson and Cuddy exchanged stunned looks.
"Oh, Stacy," Cuddy said, her voice soft with sympathy. "You've been dealing with this alone? For how long?"
"Since the day I found out," Stacy admitted, her tears spilling over. "Mark threw me out, and I... I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't stay in that house, so I came back here. I didn't tell anyone. I couldn't."
"Stacy," Wilson began gently, "why didn't you reach out to us? Or—" He hesitated, glancing at Cuddy.
"No," Stacy said firmly, cutting him off. "He doesn't know. And I don't want him to."
"Stacy," Cuddy said carefully, "he's going to find out eventually."
"Not if you don't tell him," Stacy replied, her voice breaking.
.
Hours later, Stacy was deep in labor, her cries echoing in the room as the contractions came closer together. Cuddy stayed by her side, holding her hand, while Wilson hovered near the door, an unspoken question lingering in his mind.
He didn't have to ask. House had already figured it out.
Gregory House barged into the maternity ward like a man on a mission, his cane tapping loudly against the floor. Wilson met him in the hall, trying to intercept him.
"What are you doing here?" Wilson asked, his voice tense.
"You're terrible at keeping secrets, Jimmy," House said, his tone sharp. "Where is she?"
"House—"
"Don't," House snapped, his eyes blazing. "Where is she?"
Wilson sighed, stepping aside. House didn't wait for further permission.
He pushed open the door to Stacy's room just as another contraction hit. She looked up, her face pale and glistening with sweat, and froze when she saw him.
"Greg," she whispered, her voice trembling.
House stood there, his piercing blue eyes locking onto hers, then drifting to the rounded curve of her belly.
"You didn't think I'd notice?" he said, his voice quieter now.
She couldn't speak, her emotions too overwhelming.
"Is it mine?" House asked, his voice raw.
Tears rolled down Stacy's cheeks as she nodded. "Yes," she whispered.
For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. Then, slowly, he limped closer, his gaze never leaving hers.
"You should've told me," he said, his voice low but filled with something she couldn't quite name.
"I didn't think you'd want this," she admitted, her voice breaking. "I didn't think you'd want me."
House's jaw tightened, and for once, he didn't have a quick retort. Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against hers.
"You're an idiot," he said softly, his eyes glinting with something between anger and affection. "But I'm here now ."
Stacy let out a choked laugh, gripping his hand tightly as another contraction hit. For the first time in months, she didn't feel so alone.
The piercing cry of her newborn son shattered the silence of the delivery room. Stacy Barrett collapsed back against the hospital bed, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief. Tears streamed down her face as the nurse gently placed the tiny bundle in her arms.
He was perfect.
His eyes were closed, his delicate features scrunched as he wailed, but the dark shock of brown hair and the faintest trace of House's sharp jawline were unmistakable. She let out a breathless laugh, brushing a finger over his soft cheek.
"Hi," she whispered. "Hi, baby."
Greg House stood nearby, leaning heavily on his cane, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. He was uncharacteristically quiet, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Stacy and the baby.
"Do you want to hold him?" Stacy asked, her voice trembling.
House hesitated, his gaze flicking to hers. For a moment, she thought he might refuse. But then, with a sharp nod, he limped closer and carefully took the tiny baby into his arms.
The sight of Greg House holding his son was something Stacy never thought she'd see. He looked awkward, almost unsure of himself, but his expression softened as he stared down at the baby.
"Blue eyes," he murmured. "And brown hair. Guess I can't deny this one."
Stacy let out a choked laugh, wiping her tears. "No, you can't."
House's thumb brushed over the baby's tiny hand, and for a brief moment, Stacy saw a vulnerability in him that he rarely let anyone see.
"Greg," she said softly. "I love you."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her heart pounded as she waited for his reaction. House's eyes flicked to hers, but he said nothing. His silence stretched, heavy and unyielding.
The fear she had tried so hard to suppress crept in, gripping her chest. Stacy's mother had raised her alone, and Stacy had vowed never to let her own child grow up the same way. But now, holding onto the faint hope that Greg would stay, she felt that fear become almost unbearable.
The next day, Stacy was resting in her hospital bed, cradling her son while House sat in a chair nearby, absently spinning his cane. The baby's name had been a point of quiet reflection for her. She wanted something meaningful, something that honored her family but also gave her son a sense of strength.
When a nurse appeared at the door with the birth certificate forms, she handed them to House.
"Time to make it official," the nurse said with a smile.
House raised an eyebrow but took the clipboard. "What's the kid's name?"
"William," Stacy said softly. "After my dad."
House nodded, glancing down at the form. His pen hovered over the last name field.
"You didn't put a last name," he remarked, his voice casual.
Stacy hesitated. "I wasn't sure..."
Without a word, House wrote in bold letters:William House.
When he handed the form back to the nurse, Stacy stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
"You gave him your last name?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
House shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "He's my son, isn't he? Might as well have my name."
Tears welled up in Stacy's eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. She wasn't sure what to say—thank you didn't seem enough. Instead, she simply nodded, her heart swelling with emotions she couldn't put into words.
Over the next few days, House stayed by Stacy's side. He was present in his own way—never overly emotional, never making grand gestures, but he was there. He held William when Stacy needed rest, grumbled at the nurses about hospital food, and made dry remarks that managed to make her laugh despite her exhaustion.
But their relationship remained complicated. Stacy couldn't shake the unease she felt after his silence when she confessed her love.
One night, as she fed William while House sat across the room flipping through a medical journal, she finally spoke up.
"Greg," she began, her voice steady but quiet.
He looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"I need to know... what you're thinking. About us. About this," she said, motioning to the baby in her arms.
House set the journal down, his expression unreadable. "What do you want me to say, Stacy? That I'm suddenly Mr. Commitment? That I've magically changed into the guy who's good at this?"
Stacy's chest tightened. "I'm not asking you to change, Greg. I'm asking you to let me in. To let us in."
He leaned forward, resting his hands on his cane. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"You're here physically," she said, her voice trembling. "But emotionally? You're still keeping me at arm's length."
House looked away, his jaw tightening. For a moment, Stacy thought he wouldn't respond.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Stacy's breath caught. "Then don't," she said, her eyes shining with tears.
The tension lingered, but House didn't leave. Over the following weeks, they found a rhythm, navigating the chaos of parenthood together. Stacy watched as Greg began to soften, as he grew more comfortable holding William, as he even cracked the occasional smile when the baby cooed or grabbed his finger.
One night, as Stacy rocked William to sleep, she looked over at Greg, who was stretched out on the couch with his eyes closed, his cane resting against the armrest.
"I love you, Greg," she whispered again, more to herself than to him.
This time, he didn't hear her. But as she looked down at their son, she felt a flicker of hope.
Their story was messy, imperfect. But for William—Billy, as Greg had already started calling him—maybe they could find a way to make it work. One piece at a time.