You'd think after my team won the SUPER BOWL (woohoo! Go Ravens!), I'd be in the mood to write some cheery fluff. You'd think wrong. This is hella angsty. Just throw it on the pile with the rest of my post-Bombshells fics. Warning: CD (Contains Dominika). But only briefly.- atd

He hated her.

He hated her because she had blindsided him, sucker punched him, kicked him when he was down.

He hated her because she was so unfazed by it all, stomping around the hospital in those three-inch heels of hers, not a hair out of place, acting as if she didn't have a care in the world. (Okay, there had been the tiniest chink in her armor when he had committed his Green Card revenge—but even that was hardly the histrionics he had hoped for. By the next day, she was as poised and polished as ever.)

He hated her for seeing the worst in him, for not believing him. (He had no chance of believing in himself if she didn't believe in him. No shot.)

He hated her for leaving him alone.

He hated her for lying to him, saying that she didn't want him to change when, in fact, nothing he ever did was good enough.

He hated her for the life she and Rachel were going to lead— without him.

But mostly he hated her because he still loved her.

#####

Even before they were dating, House had kept tabs on her schedule. He knew when she went to yoga, he knew when she jogged; hell, he even knew when she deposited her pay checks in the bank. And nothing had changed since she dumped his ass.

So he knew that today was her follow-up appointment with Dr. Spiegel, her surgeon.

It was routine, really. Just a check up to make sure that there were no complications from the operation. The odds of a second mass growing were virtually nonexistent. And yet. . . he had to know.

So he waited for Spiegel to go to the men's room, followed him in, managed to arrange it so that he was washing his hands next to him at the sink.

"You saw Dr. Cuddy today, right?" he said, as casual as you please.

"You know I can't answer that," Spiegel said, pumping soap from the dispenser into his palms.

"I know," House said. "But she and I aren't exactly—what's the phrase I'm looking for?—speaking to each other right now, so I thought maybe you could do a colleague a solid and give me a little peace of mind."

Spiegel side-eyed him. Then he reached over and grabbed a paper towel.

"She's fine," he said, wiping his hands, with a tiny smile. "But you didn't hear it from me."

House exhaled slightly. He nodded, said nothing.

As Spiegel got to the bathroom door, he said: "House, I'm so sorry."

House gave a shrug. "It's not like anyone ever thought I was actually going to keep the girl."

Spiegel shook his head.

"No, I meant about the baby."

House's mouth dropped open. He stared at him.

"The baby?"

Suddenly, Spiegel turned white.

"You knew Dr. Cuddy was pregnant, right?"

House gulped, collected himself.

"Of course I did," he said.

"Good," Spiegel said. "Because for a second there, I thought I had really just stepped in it."

Luckily for House, he was skilled at hiding his emotions.

"But Dr. Cuddy and I haven't been communicating much, as we established earlier," he said cautiously. "She never told me the gender of the child."

"I really . . .I shouldn't."

"Hey, it was my kid, too."

Spiegel pursed his lips.

"It was a girl," he said. "I truly am sorry."

And he left the bathroom.

House stood there, paralyzed in that spot. He felt weak. His leg bucked a bit.

He went into a stall, locked the door, sat down on the toilet, put his head in his hands.

And Dr. Gregory House—cynic, misanthrope, uncaring ass—wept for the loss of his child.

######

Cuddy was in her office, schmoozing a couple of donors, when House barged in.

"I need to talk to you," he barked.

She was shocked. House had misbehaved in front of donors before–his recent antics with the remote control plane, the infamous laser pointer incident. But this was a first.

Not only was it incredibly rude and inappropriate, it was artless.

"Not right now, House," she said.

"It can't wait," House said.

"Is it a patient emergency?"

"No."

"Then it can wait."

She smiled apologetically at the donors, who were beginning to look a little uncomfortable with this unexpected intrusion.

"Dr. Cuddy, I need to talk to you NOW," he said through gritted teeth.

"Dr. House, I'm obviously in the middle of something," she replied, with a fake smile.

He paused, seemed to consider leaving, then changed his mind and shouted:

"Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"

The silence in the room actually had a weight, a stunned presence of its own. The donors gaped at each other, appalled.

"Excuse me one moment," Cuddy said.

She shot up from her desk, strode over to House, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the hall.

"Are you out of your mind?" she snapped.

"Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant," he repeated.

"How did you even know?" she said.

"Never mind that," House said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"This is not the right time to discuss that," she said.

"Obviously, to you, NEVER was going to the be the right time to discuss it."

"House, these are very important donors. I promise I'll come find you after this meeting."

"And I want to talk about this now," House said stubbornly.

"House! I know you're upset, but you can't be so unprofessional. I could have you fired you for this."

"And then you would complete the Evil Bitch trifecta," House sneered. "Dump me, lie about my dead baby, and fire me. Medusa has nothing on you, honey."

And he limped away angrily.

Cuddy felt tears stinging her eyes that she hastily blinked away. She took a deep breath and re-entered her office.

"Now where were we?" she said, smiling.

#####

She had dreaded this moment.

It was, of course, impossible to keep a secret from House—about tiny things, let alone huge ones.

She was angry about his intrusion, but knew that she owed him an explanation.

As she made her way down the hall, she felt physically ill. It wasn't just that she was about to have a very upsetting conversation. It was the fact that—save for a few exchanged insults and a handful of painfully awkward medical consults—she and House had barely spoken since the breakup. This was hardly a way to re-open those lines of communication.

But she steeled herself and entered his office.

"Is now a good time?" she said.

"I don't know," he said. "You tell me. This doesn't seem particularly high on your list of priorities."

"I should've told you," she said, sitting down.

"Ya think?" he snarled.

"I was. . .afraid."

He folded his arms. Said nothing.

"I didn't know how you'd react to the pregnancy," she said shakily. "And to be honest, I never thought I'd go to term. I'm 42. And I've miscarried before."

House's eyes narrowed accusingly.

"Not yours," she clarified hastily. "Back when I was doing In Vitro."

House swallowed hard, kept staring at her.

She looked at the floor.

"So I. . .just decided to wait until I was in at least in my third month. And then I got sick. And then I lost the baby. And then, we, well . . ." She bit her lip. "We weren't seeing each other any more. And it just didn't seem necessary to tell you."

"It didn't seem necessary?" he said, his voice positively dripping with anger.

"What was the point?" she said.

"The point? It didn't occur to you that maybe I would want to know that my girlfriend was pregnant? That I might've wanted to grieve for the loss of my daughter?"

She looked at him. Her lip was trembling, but her face was defiant.

"Frankly, no," she said.

"Then fuck you and get out of my office," House said.

#####

It's amazing the lies we can tell ourselves.

Cuddy had convinced herself that the reason she wasn't telling House about her pregnancy was because there was no point in getting his hopes up. After all, she was likely to lose the baby anyway.

But that was only partly true.

In truth, she had no idea how House would react to the news. He had grown to love Rachel in his own way, but he certainly wasn't the paternal type. What if he didn't want a baby? What if, God forbid, he thought she was trying to trap him?

Then she had to ask herself: What was more important to her—having her own biological child, a child she had dreamed of having (not just any child, but his child)? Or staying with House? If House really didn't want the baby, what then? Would she . . . abort it? Or would she take Rachel and her unborn daughter and leave House and never look back?

So she delayed telling him. Delayed making any decisions at all. She knew how insanely observant he was, so she even half-emptied a box of tampons, complained of cramps. She didn't want him getting suspicious.

She intentionally deceived him.

It was all a moot point in the end. She lost the baby before she even had the surgery, during that time when House was missing in action. It filled her with dread, made her think of death—her own death. Like she couldn't sustain a living thing.

She had cried so much in those days in the hospital—cried out of fear for her own life, cried for Rachel, cried for the baby that never was, cried because man she loved was not at her side.

But what she did was wrong. She should've told him.

She knew it was wrong. And she knew that she owed him an apology. One without rancor or defensiveness. She was going to have to absorb his anger and push through it and apologize for her lies.

He deserved that much.

#####

The hallway smelled of cooking—something spicy and exotic. There was unfamiliar music, disco of some sort, coming from House's apartment.

She frowned, knocked on the door.

Of course, the whore answered.

"Dr. Cuddy!" she said, with stupid cheer.

"I need to talk to House," Cuddy said, stepping past her. "Is he here?"

"He's in his room," Dominika said. Then she whispered: "But he's in very grouchy mood tonight."

Cuddy gave an annoyed shrug.

She walked past Dominika and knocked on the door to House's bedroom.

"Go away," he said.

"House, it's me," she said.

He opened the door. He was wearing pajamas and a flannel robe and holding a bottle of scotch. Her presence obviously rattled him. His neck turned bright red.

"I've come to apologize," Cuddy said.

House peered at her. Then glanced at Dominika, who was lurking in the hallway.

"Scram," he said to Dominika.

"You want for me to leave you and Dr. Cuddy alone?" Dominika said.

"Brilliant deduction," he said.

"But where should Dominika go?"

"I don't know," he said. "Go to your boyfriend's house. Go to a strip club. Go to a Denny's. Just get the hell out of here. And please turn off that that God forsaken music on your way out."

Dominika sniffed, in a huffy sort of way. Then she turned the volume up on the stereo and stormed out of the apartment.

Cuddy walked over to the stereo, turned it off.

"She's a delight," she said.

"At least she's honest with me," he said.

"Okay, I deserved that," Cuddy said. Her voice softened: "Can we talk? I mean, really talk?"

"Talk," he said tersely.

"Can we at least sit down? And maybe you can get me something to drink?"

He clenched his jaw a bit. Then got her a glass, poured a healthy shot of what he was drinking, handed it to her. (He didn't bother to dilute it with any water or ice, even though he knew the scotch was too strong for her.)

She took the glass anyway, sat on the couch, took a long sip.

He sat next to her warily. There was a tiny hole in his pajama leg. She became fixated on that hole. She wondered if Dominika could sew.

Finally, she spoke.

"I want to say, first of all, I'm sorry. What I did was wrong."

"No shit," he said. He was still pissed.

Push through his anger. . .

"I was afraid that you wouldn't want the baby. Or, I was afraid that you would want it, and that I'd lose it. I was just . . .afraid. But that's no excuse. And I apologize."

He seemed slightly more satisfied with this.

"But why didn't you trust me?" he said. "We could've dealt with your fear—together."

Cuddy involuntarily snorted.

"Yeah, because you handle my fear so well," she said.

Then she caught herself.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm pretty sure it's exactly what you meant," House muttered.

"But that's not it. . .that's not why I didn't tell you. I think. . . if I'm truly going to be honest, I feared rejection."

"Rejection?"

"That you wouldn't want to have a baby with me," she admitted.

He looked at her. There was something unnervingly tender in his eyes.

"Of course I would've wanted to have a baby with you," he said softly.

"Of course?" Cuddy said, balking a bit. "How on earth could I possibly know that?"

"Because she would've been ours. Something we made together."

Gregory House, the man who believed that life began at birth and not a moment sooner, the man who mocked other people for calling a fetus a baby—was calling their two-month-old embryo "she."

Cuddy had promised herself she wouldn't cry. So much for that promise.

"House. . ." she said.

"What about you?" he said, his eyes widening. "Did you want her?"

She looked at the floor.

"I wanted her," she said. "More than anything in this world."

"Even with a fuck up like me?"

She smiled, sniffed a little.

"Even with a fuck up like you," she said.

Then she looked at him.

"Especially with you," she said.

House scratched his beard, absorbing what she had just said.

"And if you hadn't lost the baby, where would we be now?" he said.

"Are you still on drugs in this magical alternate universe?" Cuddy said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

"I wasn't on drugs," House said testily. "I took drugs to help me through a rough time. There's a difference." Then he sighed, rubbed his hands on his pajama legs. "Now I'm on drugs."

Cuddy thought about it.

"If I was still pregnant, I guess I might've tried a little harder to make it work," she said.

"Well, fuck me. . ." House said, almost to himself, leaning back in the couch. "Fuck me."

Her head flopped back on the couch, too. It made a tiny thud as it landed against the leather.

"We've really made a mess of things, huh?" she said, with a weary smile.

"Yeah," he said. Then he tilted his head toward her. "Cuddy, if I could do it all over, I'd . . ."

"I know," she said. "Me too."
They both fell into a kind of heavy silence.

"What are you thinking right now?" Cuddy said.

"You don't want to know," House said.

"Actually, I do."

"I was thinking how beautiful you would look pregnant."

It felt like a slap.

"Why would you say that?" she said, tears burning at her eyes. "That's a cruel thing to say."

"Because it's the truth," he said. "I was thinking that. And I was thinking how beautiful our little girl would be."

"House, why. . .?"

But she couldn't finish her sentence, because she had begun to cry—real tears now, the kind that made talking impossible.

On instinct, he reached for and held her close, letting her tears soak his bathrobe, holding her steady as she shook—and then suddenly, he found her mouth, and they were kissing. They had kissed once, years ago, after the loss of another child. This felt the same in some way—fumbling, grasping, needy—like it was the only way they knew how to express themselves. But that night, they had stopped with a kiss. Now, they were experienced lovers. So taking comfort in each other meant sex.

House picked her up and carried her to the bedroom and they made love. And there was something so easy and familiar and safe about losing herself in his arms, in his taste, in his smell. She had never stopped wanting him—not in that way at least. But she immediately felt guilty and full of regret. This was noy what she had planned. It was supposed be a reasonable talk, an apology, between two mature adults.

Why did everything always have to be so complicated with him?

"I should go," she said, fumbling for her underpants, which had been kicked to the very edge of the bed.

"No," he said, reaching for her arm. "Stay."

"I can't," Cuddy said. She shook free of his hand, got out of bed, began searching for her clothing in the dark.

"Is it Dominika?" he said, a bit desperately. "Because I can call her and tell her not to come home. . . Ever."

"No, it's not about her," Cuddy said. "House, we were both sad and we took comfort in each other, that's all. That's all this was. It doesn't mean anything more."

"It means something to me," he said.

He was watching her get dressed from the bed. He was shirtless, his head propped on his elbow

"House. . .I've got to go."

He started to follow her out of the room.

"No," she said. "Stay. I'll let myself out."

She went into the living room, got her purse and her coat. Just as she was about to leave, a set of keys jiggled in the door.

Of course. Dominika.

"Dr. Cuddy! You're still here!" Dominika said.

She assessed Cuddy's appearance—wild hair, smudged makeup, the guilty look of retreat. She immediately knew.

"I made a mistake," Cuddy said—and shoved past her into the hallway.

To be continued. . .