Six Random Thoughts in the Course of 

an Injection

House eyes the smooth expanse of rounded muscle under his fingers, trying to find the 
right spot.

# One

“You’re drinking—I didn’t think you were allowed to.”

“Go away.”

“It . . . didn’t take.”

“No. I started this morning. Go away.”

“No. If I leave you here in the dark you’ll sit and cry and tomorrow you’ll be humiliated 
that I saw you this way tonight. Pass me the bottle.”

“Greg—“

“It’s only the second try. I’m going to do you a favor and finish this, and then you’re going home.”

“I’m . . . I’m starting to have doubts.”

“That’s the estrogen talking. You’re not out, just two strikes down. One more try next 
month. Go the distance.”

“Why are you giving me a . . . fertility pep talk?”

“Free booze.”

# Two

The sound of Lisa Cuddy gently vomiting carries through the office door, and he winces 
even as he barges in, annoyed and slightly worried. She is dabbing her pale lips with a 
Kleenex and shoots him a stare of annoyance. He makes a greatly exaggerated great 
show of looking grossed out. “Tummy trouble? Let me guess—I’ve had a rough ride with 
the sushi around here.”

“God, don’t say sushi—“ Cuddy orders him, a fresh wave of green crossing her face. He 
shifts on his cane uneasily, wanting to torment her; to tease her in the callous familiar 
way he always has, and knowing he can’t anymore. At least not for another seven months 
or so. He fetches a bottled water out of his pocket and tosses it to her. Surprised, Cuddy catches it. House watches her drink it thirstily. He waits until she’s done.

“How long?”

“Six weeks.”

“Who?”

Cuddy looks uneasy, and not because of her stomach. She props her chin in her hand, 
trying to ignore the garbage can and its undignified contents just off to the side of her 
desk.

“Took your advice. Someone I like.”

And because it’s his fantasy, he looks in her beautiful blue eyes and knows.

# Three

She’s eating cottage cheese with mandarin orange slices and salsa on it. He’s repulsed, 
but unable to look away from the elegant bowl of the stuff. Cuddy is out of her shoes, 
reading a report and just rounded enough to be showing. He’s waiting for her to finish the damned report so she’ll sign it and he can order the test.

She squirms. His eyes narrow, and unwillingly he stretches out a hand. Cuddy cups it 
against the bulge of her abdomen, grinning.

A shift, a definite kick, right into his palm, and for a breathless moment, House is 
completely focused on the memory of that sensation; the audacity of life within Cuddy announcing itself. To hide the tremble of his fingers he presses harder, and she growls a 
bit.

“Save the shoving contest until after the kid’s born, House.”

# Four

He sees her in her eighth month, full and round, a fine-boned brood mare with glossy 
mane and bright eyes. Curvy and soft, learning patience as she moves more slowly now, 
still stylish in her business maternity wear. One long hand slips to her back, pressing to 
ease the ache out of it, fingers free of rings. Still.

# Five

Pushing. She’s red-faced, her hair wet with sweat, long fingers clenching the bedrails. 
She hasn’t yelled, hasn’t cried. House loves that about Cuddy; she’s pragmatic enough to 
focus on the job, just like she’s done with everything in her life up to this moment. Save 
the girly crap for someone else, it’s pushing time.

He’s waiting down in his office, doing jack shit, himself. This is what he normally does, 
but he’s doing it with a vengeance now, not even pretending to work while up in Maternity 
Cuddy is widening that Circle of Life without his damned help, thank you very much. 
Athos, Porthos and Camer-os are keeping themselves scarce, but everyone’s waiting for 
word.

Wilson of course is up there, holding her hand.

House tries not to jump at the ring of his cell phone. He flips it open, about to make a 
snide remark, but the puffing startles him.

“H-H-House, you’d BETTER be d-d-d-doing your damned clinic hours!”

The wave of relief hits him then; the sound of her redirected frustration is music to his 
ears. House doesn’t laugh—she really WOULD kill him—but he makes a smirky noise.

“Make me, Tubby,”

“I will s-st-STRANGLE you with my umbilical cord if y-y-youuuuuuGODDDDD!!!!”

He’s out of his chair, his office, the cell phone dropped carelessly on the carpet far behind 
him as for the first time in years, House drags himself the staircase, clinging to the 
handrail in frustration, not willing to wait for the elevator.

# Six

She’s small, and snuffly, and peers up at him with wide unfocused eyes of midnight blue. 
House is amused until Wilson hands her to him with a smirk. He doesn’t hesitate though, 
and that’s the most damning evidence of all. Wilson sees this; Wilson knows. House 
wraps a careful grip around the baby, bringing her to his shoulder, letting his big hands 
feel the warm weight of her, this little poop machine, this scream machine in a flesh box, 
this indignant little new PERSON who is half of Lisa Cuddy.

The baby opens her little mouth, pink gums and tiny tongue visible. House stares at her, 
trying to stay objective, wondering about Apgar results and college funds and everything 
in between. Finally House sighs, his breath moves over the delicate wispy hair on the top 
of the baby’s head in a shiver of love.

House plunges the needle in, and Cuddy jumps.

end