Emily looked over at Wilson and sighed. He was working on charting, sitting quietly in the
corner of the room, to all intents and purposes completely at ease. She could tell by the
set of his rangy shoulders, though, that a low-level tension was still there through his
spine. Carefully setting down her crocheting, she cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”



“I know you’re fine,” came his distracted little comment, which he followed up with a quick
glance and a smile. “I just thought it would be better if I were . . . closer.”



“James, nothing is happening. They’re going to let me go in about half an hour because
it’s a false alarm,” Emily pointed out. “I’m not in labor.”



“I’m aware of that,” he sighed, setting down his pen, “in an intellectual way--through a
medical perspective. It’s just that the anticipatory daddy inside of me isn’t calming down
yet.”



Emily grinned. She stretched one leg out and flexed her bare toes, making a happy little
groan as she did so, then repeated the gesture with the other foot. Wilson watched her
with affection and exasperation. “I resent that you’re so relaxed about all this, you know
that.”



“I was thinking of going home and taking a nap.”



“Sure you’re not going to wash the sheets, dust the dressers and scrub the baseboards
before you do?” Wilson teased, “Or is it safe for me and Oliver to tread with dirty paws
once more?”



“Your paws are always dirty,” Emily intoned flirtatiously. “That’s why it’s fun to clean you
up.”



“No fair,” Wilson grumbled through a twisted grin. “Playing the seductive preggo card is
just evil, Miss Snug.”



“Yeah, well you’re the one who’s always in the mood,” she replied with a pleased little
grin. “I never knew fertility was such a turn-on for you.”



“Me either,” Wilson admitted with a roll of his eyes. “But you’re extra sexy when you’re
pregnant and that’s just something we’ll have to live with.”



“Poor us,” Emily grinned. Her expression shifted a second later and she pressed a hand
to the small of her back; Wilson got up and came over to her, concerned.



“Em?”



“I felt that one. Damn it, if House was right, I will be SO pissed—“ she growled. Wilson’s
brows drew together.



“House?”



“He came by before I called you—he was the one who said my contractions were about
fifteen minutes apart,” she admitted, looking up in to Wilson’s slightly alarmed face.



“What did he come by for?”



Emily shook her head. “Confidential. Nothing about you, I promise, she added. Wilson
squatted down next to her bed and looked mildly annoyed.



“This sucks. I’ve been his friend for over ten years, and does he actually confide in me?
No. No, he decides to take up his personal baggage with my fiancé as she’s going into
labor—“



“Oh calm down,” Emily grunted. “I’m not in labor. We need to go home and feed Oliver.”



“Not until we’re both sure you’re not in labor.”



“I’m not,” she protested, glaring at him, reaching out to snag his tie and pull him over to
her.



Wilson sighed. “Don’t do that—it makes me want to have sex with you.”



“Everything makes you want to have sex with me,” Emily pointed out sweetly, “That’s part
of the fun. Hurry up and get me out of here so I can go home and finish scrubbing the
broiler pan.”



Wilson looked down at her hand curled around his necktie. “So you’re not going to tell me
what House said, and you’re going to scrub a broiler pan instead of . . . playing pirate.”



“No I’m not, and we can play Capture the Scullery Maid if you get me out of here.” She
pulled him down and rubbed her nose against his tenderly.



Wilson smiled and spoke against her lips. “I think you’re the only woman on the planet
who multi-tasks sex games with nesting instinct. Let me go talk to the doctor.”






Marlena Farber moved efficiently around the kitchen, slicing onions and setting them
aside in a small bowl. She hummed to herself, and shot an occasional glance over at the
long figure slouched at the kitchen table, bent over a racing form.



“Hasi—“ she murmured quietly. He looked up from the form at her, slightly distracted.



“She says she started this afternoon,” he commented in a soft little voice, and turned
back to the paper on the table. Mrs. Farber paused a moment, her expression softening
a bit. She leaned her hands on the counter.



“I’m sorry.”



“Too early for that,” he replied in the same soft voice. “Spotting isn’t the same as
bleeding, Marlena. She’ll need to test by tomorrow.”



“Need to?” Mrs. Farber questioned, her eyebrows going up. House nodded slowly and
circled a name on the paper.



“Yep. If the She-Beast is carrying evil spawn, she’s going to need to start vitamins and
get some pre-natal care as soon as possible.”



Mrs. Farber cocked her head and moved over to House, reaching one cool hand towards
his shoulder. He relaxed a little under her familiar touch. “Haf you talked to her?”



“Nope. I need you to talk to her.”



“Me?” she protested softly. “Grreg, no, I’m not ze person she needs—“



He looked up at her, his eyes sharp and very blue. “Marlena . . . you’re the closest thing
to a . . . parent . . . that either one of us has any more. I’m still not sure exactly how I feel
about a kid, and Cuddy will pick up on that. No, I need you to do that discreet motherly
thing you do so well.”



“Oooh, a compliment . . . I can die heppy now,” Mrs. Farber dryly commented. House
sighed dramatically.



“Fine, you want the truth? I’ll screw it up. If I tell her to take a test she’ll either balk or get
angry and either way it comes back she’ll be pissed at me.”



“Yah, I could see zat,” Mrs. Farber nodded. House looked pained, and circled another
name on the form.



“Therefore, I need you to play Old World Midwife and get my She-Beast to pee on a stick,
which I happen to have—“ House fished in his jacket pocket, “—right here.”



“A schtick. In mein day it vus a rrrrabbit test,” she sniffed, reluctantly pocketing the
pregnancy test in her apron.



“In your day it was urine on bags of wheat to see what germinated,” House replied loftily.
“Good thing the Pharaohs had plenty of grain.”



That earned him a light rap on the head with a wooden spoon; he turned to glare up at
her, but Mrs. Farber glared back.



“Go vash your hands, oont use soap.”



House rose and attempted to slink out with dignity, but it wasn’t a success. Moments
after he left, Cuddy sauntered in, decked out in a sundress, yawning a little and dropping
a hand over her mouth in apology. “S-s-s-sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tired lately . . . “



“Because you vork too hard oont you haf Gregg to look after as vell,” came the resigned
reply. Cuddly snickered and moved to the refrigerator, taking out a head of lettuce. She
moved next to Marlena and began to wash it at the sink, neither woman speaking for a
moment. Then Marlena cleared her throat.



“Anosser reason comes to mind too, Lisa, mein liebling. Somesing I don’t know if you’ve considered . . . “ Her slightly nervous tone made Cuddy look over at her questioningly.



“I’m probably just iron-deficient—I have vitamins but I get rushed in the mornings and
don’t take them a lot of times.”



“Yah, but not dat,” Mrs. Farber replied. “I vos tinking you may be . . . schwanger.”



“Schwanger?” Cuddy repeated, confused. “Is that some Austrian fatigue syndrome?”



“Not kvite,” Mrs. Farber hemmed. “More like—“ she gestured to her stomach, rounding a
hand over it. Cuddy blinked.



“Putting on weight?” She shook her head firmly. “I’ve been pretty good about watching
the scale. Although it HAS been tough to keep running in the morning—“



“--No, no, no, no, Schatzi; schwanger—pregnant,” Mrs. Farber broke in with a little chuff
of exasperation. “Mit child.”



Cuddy blinked a little, then vigorously shook her head, eyes wide. “Nnnnnnnno. My period
was late, yes, but I started spotting right after Greg and I—uh, after we got up from our
nap,” she replied, a little pink in the face. “That tells me it’s coming, so no. Not pregnant.”



Mrs. Farber looked at her; Cuddy looked back, trying to appear nonchalant, but the longer
the stare went on between them, the more self-conscious she became. “what?”



“Shpotting.”



“Yes,” Cuddy nodded, her pretty brows drawing together, “Shp--er—spotting. It’s the start,
I promise you.” She began fishing the utility drawer for a knife, quickly finding one to her
liking.



“Maybe . . . you shoult check. Just to be zertain, nu?” Mrs. Farber murmured gently.
“You’re probably right and I’m beink a foolish old voman, but vat’s a quik five minute test,
eh?”



Cuddy laughed a little. “Oh come on, it would be a waste of money, and besides I don’t
even have—“



Mrs. Farber reached in her apron pocket and pulled out the stick, laying it on the counter.
Cuddy looked at it and then at the other woman. “You’re . . . serious.”



“Ja,” Mrs. Farber nodded slowly. “Call me cautious, but it vould be nice to be sure.”



There was a long pause, quiet and slightly tense. Then, Cuddy stabbed the head of
lettuce, the gesture dramatically vicious as she left the knife quivering in the unfortunate vegetable.



Mrs. Farber gave a tiny smirk.



“Not. A. word. To. Him.” Came the low order. Mrs. Farber nodded. Cuddy scooped up the
stick, staring at it a moment, then sighed and slipped out the doorway of the kitchen.



Marlena Farber closed her eyes, listening. There was the slam of the bathroom door.
Then the sound of House climbing out of his recliner and walking across the living room.
For a long while after that nothing; then the flush of a toilet.



She found herself holding her breath. Marlena Farber wasn’t an overtly religious woman;
she attended church regularly because it gave her a sense of peace and order,
nevertheless she offered up a quick wordless prayer in the quiet of the kitchen, hoping
and fearing all in the same moment.



Some marriages didn’t survive moments like this, she knew.



The silence grew; absently Mrs. Farber checked the sauerbraten in the oven and moved
to pull the knife from the head of lettuce. She chopped the salad, still keeping an ear out
for any sound from the rest of the house.



Finally she couldn’t take it a moment longer and untied her apron. Just as she laid it over
one of the chairs, she heard footsteps and looked up. Both House and Cuddy were
coming through the kitchen door, their expressions unreadable.



“Zupper is ready . . . “ Mrs. Farber murmured, watching Cuddy’s face closely. The other
woman nodded, not meeting her eyes. House thumped his way to the head of the table
and sat down heavily.



Still nothing.



Mrs. Farber served up the sauerbraten, carefully setting moderate portions for herself
and Cuddy, then a larger one for House, along with an extra napkin. He noted that and
rolled his eyes. Cuddy snickered.



“I don’t spill.” House groused.



“Of course not—you inhale it too quickly for much to drop on the table or your shirt.”



“I don’t inhale; I eat with gusto.”



“I’ve seen hyenas with better table manners,” Cuddy murmured.



“That’s not saying a lot for Farber’s cooking,” came House’s retort. “Maybe you’ll have
better luck with our kid than she did in getting me to use the right fo—“



He stopped mid-sentence, looking chagrined. Cuddy’s nostrils flared, and she turned the
laser heat of her gaze on him, her fury rising like a tidal wave.



“You.”



House said nothing, but swallowed, and tried to hold his ground. Fascinated, Mrs. Farber watched, her gaze going from one to the other, like a spectator at a tennis match.
Cuddy’s grip on her fork tightened and she jabbed it in House’s direction. “YOU.” She
repeated, clearly caught on the pronoun.



“I,” House agreed, finally facing her wrath, his expression still wary. “We’ve established
my identity—or are you making an accusation, Miss I-sleep-with-no-panties-on?”



“House!” Mortified, Cuddy looked ready to fling the utensil at his face. Mrs. Farber
cleared her throat. Loudly.



They both looked at her. She reached out for one of Cuddy’s hands then one of House’s, gripping them tightly. “Schtop it,” she ordered in a deadly quiet voice. “Benehmen Sie
sich!”



“She started it,” House whined. Cuddy thinned her lips and glared at him. Mrs. Farber
squeezed each of their hands a little harder; both House and Cuddy winced.



“Oont I am finishing it, ja? Lissen up goot. You are doctors, oont you know vat options
you haf here. Choices, alvays. If parrrenthoot is not for you, zat’s fine. Don’t assume it is,
or zat ze osser vun of you doesn’t vant it. Sie bilden mich also Umkippen, die ich nicht
Englisch sprechen kann!” she growled.



A quick smirk appeared on the corner of House’s mouth as he translated. “You have me
so upset I can’t even speak English. It’s okay—the wrath of Farber is international,” he
rolled his eyes.



She squeezed his hand again and he manfully tried not to flinch. Mrs. Farber spoke again, menacingly. “I mate lemon loaf for dessert. Don’t make me flush it down ze potty.”



“You wouldn’t dare. First of all the sheer logistics of getting an entire pound cake down a
toilet is . . . mind-boggling,” House widened his eyes at the thought. “Secondly, even you
aren’t that heartless.”



Mrs. Farber glared at him, and after a moment of the showdown, Cuddy began to snicker.
Her silent giggles grew louder, and eventually even Mrs. Farber began to smile, cracking
under the strain. House fought it, but eventually even he smirked, shaking his head. They
sat around the table, their laughter slowly building up, and eventually Cuddy sighed,
leaning back a little.



“God, what would the plumber say?”



“Probably some crack about someone pinching too big a loaf,” House replied, setting
them all off again for a moment.



Finally, Mrs. Farber squeezed their hands once more, and cleared her throat again. When
she had their attention, she drew a deep breath. “Okay, enough. Ve neet to discuss vat
we are goint to do. Ze qvestion is zimple: Do you vant ziss baby?”



The answers overlapped in quick succession.



“No,” Cuddy murmured.



“Yes,” House mumbled.



House and Cuddy looked at each other across the table. “What?” they bleated at the
exact same time.



Mrs. Farber sighed again.