The page came in the middle of haranguing his ducklings about their ideas on how to diagnose the latest patient. The price of Cuddy keeping his secret. Letting her get involved. And she kept his ducklings, or anyone else, from finding out about his addiction, about the blob of cells that had grown and changed, and made havoc of the welcoming silence of Bridget's home.

He didn't bother to look for an excuse to ignore the page. Just a cutting remark, and orders for the ducklings to figure it out. Not telling them that they would be on their own for the rest of the day. That they'd be better off not expecting him to be at anything less than his worst for weeks, if not months, after this.

He knew where to go without even stopping in Cuddy's office, calling her only just long enough to tell her to keep his ducklings from finding him, then turning off his cell phone. He still hadn't solved the puzzle that had shown up nine months ago, and never gone away. That niggling sense of responsibility, and that craving for more than silence and sex. For intimacy. Not the romantic crap that Cameron would like - favorite colors and sappy movies and expensive dinners. Just the intimacy of knowing he would wake up, and he wouldn't be alone.

She'd chosen a birthing clinic near a hospital, because she didn't want the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital itself, but her doctor - and he - had been concerned. Not that he told her. Disconcerting enough to realize he cared that much; she didn't need to know about it. Seeing as she agreed with her doctor readily enough.

A half-dozen broken speed limits, two ignored stop signs, and several miles later, he pulled into a parking space, hobbling into the center. He hadn't meant to push the limits that much, just to get here. Or maybe he had. It didn't really matter right now.

She was walking, pacing, a line between her brows that only faded a little when she saw him, a faint smile tilting the corners of her mouth up. He leaned against the wall nearby when she waved off the offered hand, continuing to pace.

Her doctor arrived a few moments later, raising an eyebrow when she saw House. As if she'd expected he wouldn't come when paged, told that Bridget was in labor. That his child, his child, was about to go through the first traumatic experience of its life. He hadn't even wondered yet if it was male or female. Just the thought of it being his was enough to unsettle him, even now.

He had never thought about procreating. Or becoming a father. How unsettling it would be to watch a woman's pregnancy progress, knowing that he had a part in the process. How nerve-wracking the wait for her labor to proceed to the inevitable end. Or how a tiny, squalling creature could captivate the attention of even a cynical, sarcastic cripple. For just a moment, at least.

Even with the concerns, it went smoothly, and her doctor said they'd only have to stay the night. House looked down at the now-sleeping infant, a frown furrowing his brow as he studied her. A howling banshee soothed by food, and the warm presence of her mother into sleep. Aisling.

His daughter.

House looked up at the sense of being watched, meeting her tired gaze, and the amused smile. She reached for her ever-present pad of paper, and he hobbled over to see what she was writing.

You look like someone hit you between the eyes with a hammer.

He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head, and plucked the pen from her hand to write a reply. She howls like a banshee. And she looks too tranquil when she's sleeping. She's probably plotting to wake everyone up at an unholy hour of the morning.

Bridget rolled her eyes. That's what babies are supposed to do. At least according to anyone I know who has had one.

Plot the destruction of the world through sleep deprivation?

Wake you up at all hours, eat, dirty their diaper, and be cute enough to get away with anything.

House snorted, rolling his eyes. They can't get away with everything.

Perhaps not. She tapped the pen on the pad a moment. You look tired. Go home, sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up. So will Aisling.

Your car?

With my TA. She drove me here, and is coming tomorrow when I text her.

House nodded, hobbling over to look down at Aisling once more before making his way out of the clinic into the chill of the late October evening.