Disclaimer: Nope.

Author's Note: I am admittedly terrified to write this.

Probably because it's my first time writing a fanfic for House M.D., and playing around with new characters scares the crap out of me. I'm a creature of comfort, you see. But I guess you have to start somewhere… in any case, please be kind about OOCness. I'm doing my very best.

Anyway, this was inspired by the season one episode called "Role Model." I'm sure you've all seen it… so you know of the part where House murmurs soothingly after having stolen the senator's oxygen mask. (Wow, just writing the words "murmurs soothingly" feels OOC. X3) His tone of voice in that very short section made me go: "Awww! House needs to be a daddy."

…please don't hurt me.

Enjoy! (:

Warnings: House as a daddy/big-ol-softie. X3 Hints of HouseCameron, if you squint. But subtle enough that they can be ignored, if you don't like the pairing.

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Another 2 A.M.

First thing in the morning, he decides, he is fixing the damn rocking chair. He means it, this time.

Squeak… squeak… squeak…

"Shh," he murmurs, voice low and hoarse—as voices often are at 2 AM— but loud enough to mask the whine of the rocker. It sways rhythmically, soothing and slow, to the pace that his good leg decides. "It's okay… it's all right."

The bundle of pink blankets in his arms sniffles wetly, fidgeting; a tiny hand reaches upwards and balls into an irritated fist. A hiccup, a whimper, a sob… a little sneeze that would have been cute had it not been causing the child such obvious discomfort.

"It's all right," he repeats softly, carefully cradling her head. It's frightening how delicate she is… "You're okay, now…"

Her voice gives a weary warble, as if in protest. And despite the situation, he can't keep a small, wry grin from tugging on the corners of his mouth. She is certainly daddy's little girl, isn't she, already able to catch such an obvious lie…

Everyone lies. He supposes that makes him an "everyone." She isn't okay—she knows it, he knows it. But he doesn't really care. He tells her that she is, all the same, hoping that she'll believe it.

And, in his defense, as lies go, he hadn't fed her such a big one. It is, after all, only a cold. A diagnostic snooze-fest.

But that doesn't stop each tiny snivel from tearing at his heart.

"Everything's fine…" Surprisingly gentle fingers ghost over the baby's warm forehead, brushing wisps of curling brown hair from her blue eyes. Her mother's hair; his eyes. A perfect combination of the two… She wriggles again, towards the warmth of his touch, as her lashes flutter and flicker, heavy with exhaustion. He knows the feeling. "Shhh…"

She swallows a half-hearted cry.

The room gradually grows silent; the rocking chair slows to a stop. He cradles her little body, unable to stop himself from checking her breathing and heartbeat. Half habit, half paranoia— he can breathe again only when he is sure that she is asleep, not…

It's just a cold!

He stands— still with some difficulty, but steadily mastering the skill it takes to carry her— and hobbles back to her crib. A mobile of shapes and colors spins lazily beside his head; moonlight illuminates the teddy bear-bedspread and sheets. He hesitates, not wanting to let her go.

But eventually common sense wins out, and he lowers her back onto her bed. She sleeps on, breathing regularly, despite the occasional cough.

…and it scares him, how empty his arms are without her. How helpless he feels, listening to her snivels. How he can't protect her from something so common; a cold. If he can't save her from a damn cold, how is he going to be able to save her from the bitter, cruel, stupid world full of idiots and assholes and perverts? Cribs, play pens, baby walls— human arms— can only hold onto a child for so long…

Hesitantly, he runs a knuckle down her chubby cheek, reassuring himself that she is there, that she is okay, that she hasn't grown-up yet. She hums and squirms; he can't help but smile, heartened by the sight.

Thus encouraged, he retrieves his cane and limps back to bed.

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