AN: My second House story! You may be able to tell that I'm slightly obsessed with Huddy + Rachel. I know it contradicts what House's character and the series as a whole stands for, but I'm a huge sucker for sentimentality and fluff.
AN #2: This is AU from pre-Bombshells (7.11) forward

Two

"House play! House play!"

Small hands tugged at his pant legs. House frowned, his fingers pausing over the white keys, and glanced downward. Rachel was on hands and knees beneath the piano, her big eyes staring up at him expectantly.

"I was playing." He said pointedly.

"My song!"

Rachel's song wasn't an actual song. Well, it was in the sense that it was a composition of musical notes that he could play on the piano, but it didn't have much musical merit. He'd come up with it one night a few months ago when he'd been enlisted to watch a very sick Rachel. Cuddy, who was attending a mandatory business dinner, had insisted she'd spend most of the night asleep in bed. Instead House found himself having to deal with a sobbing, retching, febrile, virus-carrying, germ-spreading mess.

Aside from the basic medical care – fluids, electrolytes, cherry flavored children's Tylenol – he had no idea what to do. Comfort was not his forte. Finally, after an hour of unsuccessful attempts to console the hysterical toddler, House decided to try one last thing before calling Cuddy.

He had wrapped the little girl up in the heavy comforter from her bed, wedged her between his chest and arm, and headed for the living room. There, he'd sat at the piano, secured Rachel on his lap, and began to play. It hadn't been an actual song – he was more or less just tapping on a few keys – but it had worked. Within moments the sobbing had ceased. A little bit later, she was slumped against his chest and breathing rhythmically, albeit nasally.

It was a gentle piece, softer than most things House preferred to play, and yet he found himself playing it again a few nights later. Rachel was coherent, then, and had demanded to know its name.

"It doesn't have a name," he had told her.

She'd frowned in dissatisfaction. Then her eyes lit up. "My song?"

"That's a bit possessive, don't you think?"

Oblivious, Rachel continued to smile at him.

House conceded, nodding. "Fine, fine. It can be your song."

So here he was, a few weeks later, hoisting Rachel up from the floor and onto his lap to play "Her Song." She clapped at first, undoubtedly pleased to be getting what she wanted. A few bars later and she was slouched against his chest, asleep.

Five

House glanced over the screen of his laptop at the loud thud. A familiar face was pressed against the glass wall of his office. Rachel was staring straight at him with her hands splayed out on either side of her head.

He pulled his reading glasses off and cocked his head to the side. It took a considerable amount of effort to not laugh.

After a few seconds of a stare down, Rachel banged on the glass with her fists. "House!" She shouted, her voice muffled by the glass and the fact that her mouth was smashed against it. "House! Look!"

House stared at her for a little while longer, allowing the suspense to build. At last, he concocted a horrendous face: his tongue hung out of his mouth, arched one eyebrow, and made the opposite eye go in the wrong direction in a way that always made his head ache. He could no longer see her, but could hear the eruption of her laughter. His face was regaining normalcy and his vision was coming back when his office door opened and cumbersome footsteps approached his desk.

"House!" Rachel stood next to her his chair.

"Rachel!" He mimicked, his tone high pitched to enthuse her.

"What'cha doin'?" She asked, attempting to casually maneuver herself in between House's chair and the desk.

"I was reading about a patient," House responded as he pushed his chair away from his desk and held his arms out to her. She climbed into them eagerly and made herself comfortable on his left leg.

"Wha's wrong with him?" She asked, her hand finding the stubble on his chin and absently rubbing it. The first time she'd done that, way back when she was even less of a person but somehow more of a hassle, House had been put off. He'd actually jumped, if his memory served him right. Now, a couple years later, he hardly noticed it.

"Do you really want to know?" He asked ominously. He knew she did, but couldn't help teasing her. She loved the stories he came home with: the weirder, the better.

She nodded enthusiastically, brown locks bouncing.

"Okay…let's call him…Raphael—"

"Raphael?" She exclaimed. "That's silly."

"No interruptions."

Rachel pretended to zip her lips and toss the key over her shoulder.

"So, Raphael was mowing his lawn one afternoon when—"

"The MRI came back clear and the lumbar puncture was a champagne tap—" Harris, House's newest fellow, stopped short when she realized her boss had company. The remaining two thirds of the team, Roberts and Yu, ran into her back. "Oh, uh, sorry." She stared at the scene in front of her, "Who's this?"

"My pet koala." House responded dryly, sliding his professional mask back in place. Rachel giggled. "'The lumbar puncture was a champagne tap' and what? Keep going, Harris."

"Oh, right. Uh, so we've ruled out MS. MG, sarcoidosis, and lu—"

"No." House said, holding his hand out in warning. "Do not say the l-word. And by the l-word I do not mean…well…the l-word." His eyebrows waggled suggestively.

"Wha's the l-word?" Rachel whispered loudly, looking at House curiously.

"Lupus," House said, looking down at Rachel before looking back at his team. "It's a disease that our patient definitely does not have."

Harris looked like she'd been punched in the stomach. House noticed and felt a little bad, much to his own surprise. She was only a week and a half into her fellowship and it'd be a while before she really learned the ropes. Hell, she hadn't even been around long enough to figure out the House/Cuddy/Little Cuddy situation.

After loading the kids up with another slew of tests, House dismissed everyone but Harris. He stayed seated, still holding Rachel, while the twenty-something neurologist stood in front of them.

"I'm sorry for inter—" she began, the silence making her nervous.

"You seem to be the only one in this entire hospital who doesn't know who this is or why she's sitting on my lap." House noted, "This is Dr. Cuddy's daughter, Rachel."

Rachel waved.

"You're…babysitting?" Harris asked carefully.

"The right hemisphere of your brain is pretty underdeveloped, huh?" House quipped. "I am bringing Rachel home. To our home. La casa de House y Cuddy."

Harris' eyebrows furrowed.

"Come on, Harris." House's eyes rolled. "Rachel is Cuddy's daughter. I am bringing Rachel home. Ergo—"

"—Oh. Oh!" Harris' eyes lit up. "You and Dean Cuddy…oh. Okay. Right. That…that makes sense."

House nodded. "Glad we cleared that up. We can't have you making a bigger fool out of yourself than you already are." Harris grimaced and House shooed her. "Go forth and heal. Page me if you minions actually figure something out."

Harris made a hasty exit. House redirected his attention to Rachel. "Where were we?"

"He was mowin' his lawn," Rachel responded confidently.

"Ah, okay. So, this was last Saturday, when it was really, really hot outside. He was so hot, he passed out. Fell down, right in the middle of his lawn, while the lawn mower was still going. Somehow, his hand got sucked up…"

House continued telling Rachel the story of the team's newest patient, adding inflections and exclamations throughout. Rachel gasped, giggled, and cringed, her hand remaining under his chin the entire time.

Nine

"Open the door, Rachel." House banged on the closed bedroom door with his fist.

He generally didn't care too much when she locked herself in her bedroom. She was a pre-preteen and it was to be expected. He had to care, however, when she locked herself in his and Cuddy's room.

"I need to be at work in an hour and you need to be at school in a half hour," he banged on the door. "So come out here. Right now."

Rachel's school had a two-hour delay because of that morning's snow. As always, House had been commissioned to make sure she didn't drown herself in the shower, set the house on fire, or get hit by a car before she could make it to school. It was what some might consider a tradition - he almost always stayed home with her on snow days, and always waited with her during delayed openings. He didn't particularly enjoy those days, but there were certainly worse things to have to do. For some strange reason, this morning had all gone to shit.

House rapped his knuckles against the door again, now leaning against the doorframe. "What's going on, Rach?"

"Leave me alone!"

"Do you feel all right?" He tried.

"Go away!"

House rested his forehead against the door in frustration. "Let me in, Rachel. My leg hurts and my pills are in the bathroom. You need to let me in." It wasn't a complete lie - his leg did hurt. But it didn't hurt any more than normal, and he didn't really need his pills at the moment; he was just trying to guilt her into letting him in the damn bedroom.

After a long pause the door clicked. House turned the knob and opened the door.

She'd retreated back to their bed before he had stepped fully into the room. She was lying on her stomach with her head burrowed in her arms. House frowned. This was not something he could ignore, and it was not going to be a quick fix.

Foregoing the unnecessary trip to the bathroom that had gotten him into the room in the first place, House sat on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me."

Without lifting her head, the young girl responded. Her words were muffled.

"I can't hear you, Rachel." He said. "Now lift your head and speak clearly."

She complied, turning her head to the side so he could see her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen and her cheeks were damp. "Please don't make me go to school." She pleaded, her voice hardly a whisper.

This was unsound territory. Cuddy was a stickler for rules, and while he had a penchant for breaking them and usually got away with it, it was different when it came to Rachel. They didn't break rules when it came to Rachel. There was a strict, no rule breaking policy.

"You need to tell me what's wrong first, then we can figure out what's going to happen next."

Rachel took a deep, shuddering breath. "I just want a break. Just today. I'll go back tomorrow, I promise."

"Okay, okay." House nodded and made a quick decision. He didn't want her to have a full-fledged breakdown. "You can stay home on one condition: you have to tell me why you 'want a break.' Deal?"

He held her gaze until she conceded with a small nod. "Deal."

House nodded his head once. "Good. Now, go clean up and get dressed. Your mom will be out to get me when she finds out I'm letting you stay home, but she'd absolutely kill me if she knew I let you stay in your pajamas all day. Brush your teeth, too – your breath smells horrible."

Thankfully, Rachel smirked, rolled off the bed, and went to her own bathroom.

House rubbed his hands over his eyes and grabbed his cellphone from the bedside table. He had three calls to make: Cuddy's office, Rachel's school, and the team. The first was initially annoyed but eventually understood, the second was machine-automated, and the third assured him they'd be fine. He doubted it, but didn't argue. He got dressed, then, before meeting Rachel in the kitchen.

"You hungry?" He asked as he poured himself another cup of coffee.

"We already ate breakfast."

"Touché." He sat down at the counter next to her. "So."

"So."

"Talk."

Rachel sighed. "People are stupid."

"Generally speaking, yes, they are."

"Like, I don't get why people have to be mean to other people." She was tracing invisible patterns on the granite countertop. "At least when there's no reason to be mean, when the person doesn't deserve it."

House bit the tip of his tongue, trying not to speak before he could think about what he should say. He didn't exactly have the best track record when it came to 'being mean.'

He was still mulling it over when Rachel spoke again, "These kids in my homeroom won't stop bothering me. They same I'm a nerd and call me a try-hard. At first I didn't care, but now it's…it's like they don't ever stop. They write it on my notebooks and pass me notes."

House watched her out of the corner of his eye as she relayed her story. She never lifted her head, allowing her dark hair to shield her face and prevent eye contact. She was really, really upset. "It sounds like…they're making fun of you because you're smart." He said carefully.

She picked her head up slowly and looked at him. "I…it's because I'm a know-it-all."

"Yeah, a know-it-all because you're smart. They're just angry because you're more intelligent than they are."

"Doesn't mean they have to be so rude…" she muttered, her voice shaky.

"You're right. They shouldn't make fun of you for being bright." He'd spent most of his childhood and adolescence being mocked by various people – peers, teachers and professors, his own father – for being of above-average intelligence. It had been hard when he was a kid, but he adapted quickly. By the time he was in his thirties, he'd established himself as a highly-skilled physician and was praised rather than persecuted for having a high IQ. "Mom and I can talk to your teacher, if you want."

Rachel cringed a little. "That'll make them hate me even more."

"Your teacher won't let that happen." It was a potential lie; he'd only met Rachel's teacher once and honestly had no idea if she'd follow through if they complained. That concern took a backseat to his current goal of calming Rachel down.

Rachel sighed.

"You are the smartest nine year old I know, Rachel, and –"

" – I'm the only nine year old you know."

"Small details." House waved his hand dismissively. "Anyway, you're the smartest nine year old I know, and that isn't something you should be ashamed of. It doesn't matter what any sad, obnoxious, unintelligent kid says or does. You're going to be the one who goes to medical school, or law school, or gets a PhD in biomedical science and finds a cure for cancer. Those other guys will be flipping burgers at McDonald's or getting degrees in…in creative writing or art history or something equally as ridiculous."

Rachel released a small but genuine chuckle.

"We'll talk to Mom tonight, okay?" House confirmed.

"Yeah, I guess so." Rachel replied.

"Good." House nodded. "Now, go put your boots on and get your jacket."

"Why?" Rachel asked anxiously, afraid he was bringing her to school after all.

"We're playing hooky, Rach. We have to make it worthwhile." He said, shooing her away. She obliged, sliding off the stool and walking towards her bedroom. House noted more a little more bounce in her step than there'd been this morning and couldn't help but smile a bit. He was pleased the problem had been temporarily resolved, and equally as pleased he'd been able to resolve it.

Twelve

Rachel's primary chore was loading and unloading the dishwasher. It wasn't her favorite thing to do, but she did it anyway. Unfortunately, their dishwasher had broken last week, and she was forced to wash each night's dishes by hand. She didn't mind it...not too much, at least. She liked the feeling of the hot water on her hands, and felt a strong sense of satisfaction when she could make a plate or a fork or whatever completely spotless. House had teased her about it, saying that she was just like her mother. Rachel wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but there were worse people to be compared to.

She was just beginning to wash one night when she sensed another body behind her. Her suspicion as to who it belonged to was confirmed when a large, masculine hand reached over her head and grasped the ceramic plate.

"You are so slow." House mocked.

Rachel rolled her eyes but gave up the plate willingly. "I like them to be perfect."

"Of course you do." House replied. Then then took a half step back so Rachel could step away from the sink. "I'll wash, you dry."

She grabbed a dishrag and stood to House's left, waiting.

"How was soccer practice?" He asked as he submerged the plate into the soapy water.

"It was good. I scored two goals during our scrimmage."

"Nice." He handed her the plate and grabbed another. "Did you win?"

"Well, no…"

"Bad refs?"

"Bad players."

House snorted. "Hopefully you'll have better luck next time."

"Are you coming to my game on Saturday?"

"As long as no one decides to die, I'll be there."

"Do you think your patient's gonna die?"

House paused, thinking. The patient was sick, and they still weren't sure what was wrong, but nothing indicated his imminent death. "No, I don't think so."

Rachel nodded, "Your patients don't die very often, do they?"

"They don't call me world-renowned for nothing, kid." House said with dramatized confidence.

Rachel's eyes rolled again. "But you're not actually world-renowned, right? You just say that because it sounds cool?"

House paused for a long moment, "How am I supposed to answer that without sounding like a you-know-what?"

Rachel's eyes widened. "So you are…like, famous…"

"People know my name, Rach."

"Everyone knows your name, House."

"Ha-ha." He flicked his fingers at her, sending a spray of water towards her face. "Like I haven't heard that before."

Rachel laughed before their conversation fell into a lull. They washed and dried dishes in silence for a while.

"Do you miss it?"

"What?"

"Playing sports. Do you miss it." Rachel knew House had been an athlete. She'd seen pictures of him in a baseball uniform as a kid and playing lacrosse when he was a teenager, had heard stories about the crazy hiking trips he and Uncle James had taken, and was pretty someone had told her he'd been playing golf the day he got sick.

House scrubbed the casserole dish with a modicum of more force. "Not as much as I used to."

"But you do miss it?"

"Of course."

"I'm sorry."

House's hands stilled immediately. He turned his body to look at Rachel. "What do you think you have to be sorry for?"

Rachel shrugged, "It just sucks that you can't…can't do the things you used to like to do. I'm sorry about that."

"You're right, it does suck," House agreed. "But it sucks a little less when I get to watch you enjoying those same things."

One of Rachel's eyebrows arched, "Really?"

"Of course," House nodded. He turned back to the sink and plunged his hands into the water. He could see Rachel's slight smile out of the corner of his eye. It reassured him that she felt reassured, and it reassured him that he had been telling her the truth.

Sixteen

The sound of plastic vibrating against wood roused her from a deep sleep. Opening her eyes, she groaned almost immediately. Her head was pounding, her mouth was dry, and she was not in her own bed.

The vibrating continued and Rachel reached out, her hand landing on a warm chest instead of the desired phone.

"Check who it is," she demanded. Her speech was slurred. She didn't know if the copious amount of alcohol she consumed the previous night or her lack of sleep was to blame. "Please?"

The body - Jake, her most recent endeavor - moved roughly, grabbed the phone, and turned towards her. "Says 'House.'"

Rachel sat bolt upright, sobering immediately. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." She muttered under her breath.

"Wha's wrong?" Jake slurred.

"It's home." She groaned, holding her hand out for the cellphone. He handed it to her, and she took a deep breath before answering. "Hi, House."

"'Morning sunshine." Rachel cringed at his false cheer.

"What's up?"

"Oh, you know, just hanging out." He said, his voice mockingly casual. "I just happened to wake up four a.m. Being the responsible family man I am, I decided I'd make sure all members of the House-Cuddy residence were safe and sound. I was already in bed with your mother, and I was obviously alive, so all that was left was to check on you. So - are you listening? You're going to want to hear this, it's a good one."

Rachel rolled her eyes. She really hated when he did this. "I'm listening."

"Splendid. So anyway, I go to your bedroom and push the door open. I see what I think is your body under the blankets and think, 'Okay, good, the child has survived another night. Back to bed.' But then I realized your body wasn't moving. Now I wouldn't say I panicked, but there may have been a bit of concern. Breathing is pretty imperative, after all. So I walk on over, say your name a few times, then pull back the blankets. Do you want to know what I found, or would you like to guess?"

"I'm sorry..." She began quietly.

"What was that? 'Pillows,' did you say? If you said pillows, you're absolutely correct. I found pillows in place of your body. Now, just close your eyes for a moment and picture my surprise."

Some people might take his light, joking tone seriously and think he really was laughing the situation off. Rachel, on the other hand, knew better. She knew he was angry, and that scared her.

"House..."

"Be quiet." He commanded, his voice suddenly low and serious. That scared Rachel even more. "Get out of his bed, put your clothes on, go to the kitchen and take a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and go outside. Wait for me on the front steps and drink the water. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Okay." Rachel responded timidly. Even more quietly, she apologized again. "I am sorry, House."

"Fifteen minutes." He had left their house ten minutes ago, immediately after realizing she wasn't home.

She nodded even though he couldn't see her. They hung up. Rachel sat for a second, considering what had just happened and what was about to happen, then began to move.

"What're you doin'?" Jake slurred as she climbed over him and off the bed.

"My dad's coming to get me. I'm sorry." She whispered as she gathered her clothes from the bedroom floor. She had her panties, bra, jeans and tank top but had no clue where her sweater was. She moved on.

"Gghh," Jake sighed, falling back against his pillows. Rachel heard his breathing become slow as she dressed. She thought he was asleep until he spoke, startling her. "You call your dad 'House'?"

"Uh, yeah..." She said, pulling her hair into a messy bun and coming over to the side of his bed. She bent over him and pressed her lips to his cheek. She could think of a few different reasons why that might confuse someone, drunk or sober. "I guess I do."

"Mmm..." Jake turned his head and kissed her back. He wasn't sure which one of them tasted like vodka and which tasted like rum. "You can explain it to me later, 'kay?"

She kissed him once more. His breath was disgusting. "See you later."

Rachel crept down the stairs, into the kitchen, then out the back door. She'd only been sitting on the granite steps of Mr. and Mrs. Spencer's McMansion for a few minutes when House's car pulled up. She stood and walked over, feeling a bit like she was walking to her own execution or public flogging.

He didn't speak to her until they were halfway home. "How much did you drink?"

Trying to remember made her head hurt worse. What she remembered made her nauseous. "A few shots...a beer or two."

"Did you take anything?"

"I don't do drugs." She snapped; she knew he knew that.

"Everybody lies."

"Well, I'm not."

"Well, you already did by sculpting a body out of pillows under your quilt. Pardon me for reconsidering how much I can trust you."

"I didn't take any drugs." She repeated.

"Did you use a condom?"

Rachel's head whipped to the left, a shocked expression on her face. House saw it and mockingly made the same expression back.

"How did you-"

"Your underestimation of my intelligence hurts, Rachel." He responded. "You are sixteen. You conned your way out of curfew. I'd bet money that your blood alcohol level is over the legal limit. And, to top it all off, you are wearing your shirt inside out and are missing your sweater. They were obviously torn off in a haze of passion and romance-"

"Stop! Stop. Please." She cut in, wanting almost anything else more than she wanted House talking about her hook-up. "Yes, we used a condom."

"Good."

A heavy silence filled the car. After a while, Rachel broached one of her more pressing concerns, "Does Mom know?"

House glanced at her through his peripherals. "Scared?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

He chuckled wryly. "If she's still asleep when we get home, you'll be in the clear."

"You're not going to tell her?" She asked in surprise.

"Nope. But I'm sure she'll put two and two together when you're bent over the toilet emptying the contents of your stomach in a few hours. Then it'll be on your shoulders."

Rachel's stomach turned. He was completely right.

They finally pulled into the driveway. House turned off the car but remained seated in the driver's seat. Rachel moved to get out but was stopped by his rough, calloused hand on her bare arm. All she could see of him through the dark were his eyes and the outline of his face.

"You can't do this again, Rach." He said, his voice soft. "You got lucky. You're not always going to be this coherent after drinking so much, you're not always going to be with people you can trust, and you're not always going to have me to come pick you up at four in the morning. You got lucky, but odds are you're not going to get lucky again."

She nodded slowly, staring at him. "Thank you."

He nodded before pointing to the house. "You better get to bed. You'll be up, praying to the porcelain gods soon enough."

She didn't really remember the walk from House's car to her bedroom when she awoke a few hours later. There was sun leaking in through her bedroom windows. It made her head throb a little more, which made her stomach turn violently. She rolled over quickly, ready to make a run for the bathroom, when she spotted the trashcan next to her.

Rachel emptied her stomach, dry heaved a little more, then fell back against her pillows. She'd thank House again later.

Twenty One

It's hot. Really fucking hot. It's hot and it's sunny and she's cursing whoever decided black gowns were ideal graduation attire.

It's the 5th of May and she's sitting in the sixth row at her college graduation. She'd rather be sitting with her friends, or her parents, or maybe even inside an air conditioned building watching a live-stream of the event online. Graduation ceremonies were pointless and incredibly boring.

She wondered where her mom and dad were sitting. She'd told them there was accessible seating on the ground level but had a feeling they'd opted out. House was old. The cane, gray hair, and permanently grumpy face made everyone think that he was her grandfather. And that, of course, annoyed him. So, he tried to act young. To him that meant masochistically choosing to sit high up on the bleachers of a crowded stadium.

She remembered her high school graduation vividly. It was on the 15th of June: the day before Father's Day. It had always been a weird holiday for their family. They never called it Father's Day but always celebrated it; a late breakfast or early lunch at House's favorite restaurant and a small gift - a handmade picture frame when she was five, a new book when she was eleven, a vintage record when she was fifteen. She never got him a card, though, and never explicitly said 'Happy Father's Day.' It had just never been like that.

For some reason, that year had been different. She'd been in Philadelphia visiting the University of Pennsylvania a couple months earlier. She was doing an overnight visit, solidifying her decision to matriculate there in the fall. She had made her way to the bookstore and was looking at all of the gear when she came across a particular tee shirt. Most days she'd have probably disregarded it and moved on, feeling like it wasn't really applicable to her life. But she was feeling inexplicably sentimental that day and grabbed one.

Two months later she was a newly minted high school graduate having dinner with her parents and Uncle James. She opened her cards and gifts after dinner: a tearjerking card and gold necklace engraved with her Hebrew name from Mom, a filthy card and Hebrew-English dictionary from House, and a sweet card with a check from Uncle James. She was going to Israel that summer, hence the thematic gifts. They were having desert after she'd opened her gifts, and she pulled a small package and envelope from her shoulder bag. She handed them across the table to House hastily.

"What's this?" He asked, studying the wrapped gift. "You're the one who just graduated, the star of the day, center of attention, et cetera, et cetera."

She rolled her eyes easily. "Just open it!"

He obliged and she began to sweat nervously. She referred to him as Dad, but never called him that to his face. He was her father-figure and had legal guardianship and had always been able to sign field trip forms and medical waivers, but had never adopted her as his daughter. But here she was, giving him a Father's Day card and a tee shirt that, in big navy letters, said "PENN DAD" with the school's seal printed in the middle.

Four years later as she sat at her college graduation, Rachel could still picture how blue his eyes got as the tears formed. They never fell, but they were there. He had risen from his seat and motioned for her to do the same, then wrapped her in the tightest hug they'd ever shared. The front of his button down shirt was damp with tears when they stepped apart.

She hadn't realized it before, but the small, empty space that existed in their relationship had never been House's intention. He had never purposely alienated her, had never wanted her to feel like she wasn't his daughter. It had been her; she had been the one wary to consider this man - the man who had rocked her sleep when she was ill, taught her how to cook and helped her study for her SATs, who let her play hooky and picked her up in the middle of the night when she was drunk - her father. She had always loved him, but had never shown him just how much.

That was the turning point for Rachel. After that Father's Day, she began to truly act like the daughter he had always treated her as. It wasn't a normal father-daughter relationship - she still called him House, still expected him to play good cop to her Mom's bad cop, and didn't tell him too much about her personal life - but it was something. It was what they wanted. It was what they needed. It was enough. It was good. It was theirs.