Disclaimer: I unfortunately own nothing but my deranged mind and my exquisite taste. House MD belongs to David Shore and FOX.

Olá, my bravest readers! It's been ages, huh? I missed you too, guys, more than I can possibly express with my poor non-native English. You see, I don't know which of you still craved for an update to this tale, but in order to at least try to win you back I must use the ace I have up my sleeve: I have a thing for my creepy baby FIC as a mother protects the black sheep child. I confess. And the fact that every reader who got this far on my story had the guts to pass the purposefully terrifying first chapter makes me respect each of you even more.

So here it is, guys, for my JB readers (Jason Bourne, Jack Bauer, all the really though guys you can think of), a "pleasant Sunday afternoon, cool lemonade, shorts and flip flops" reading material to soothe your House MD summer withdrawal crisis. Yeah, I think it sucks too. TO THE BONE.

BTW, this chapter is dedicated to Lisa Edelstein and the stubborn tears that sprouted in her eyes when Kristin told her about the five Tater Top trophies – with her name on the plate! - she was about to receive. Lisa E. honey, let me just give you the news: there is not much merit in our love since you already make us fans ecstatic by your solely smile; it's a pretty easy job to like you girl!

XOXO

Andie

Incubus – Part III

There are days in my life when I wish I had an average job. You know, 9 to 5, Mondays to Fridays, reasonable paycheck… Lisa Cuddy MD, Head of Endocrinology. That does not sound bad, does it? After all, that is exactly what I once hoped for back in my college days, when even in my greatest and widest ambitions it never occurred to me I would eventually become the Dean of Medicine at an Ivy League college.

Evidently, being just a mortal doctor would have its cons; well, everything else in life does… My closet is packed with some really cherished friends it has gotten used to hanging out with: Armani, Prada, Blannik and Birkin are definitely mandatory in presence. Then again, flaunting those famous surnames all over your powerful persona does not serve as much of a consolation when you are forcefully dragged out of your man and daughter's side, right in your restful, almost sacred day off, to deal with the utmost junkie food crisis of 2010.

Who cares that I was finally getting to finish the last pile of paperwork while my boyfriend skillfully played the solo of Hotel California on guitar and my baby girl put a lot of effort into my first official finger painting portrait? Who gives a damn about my personal life when a moron with a minimum wage job was not careful enough while performing his highly complex burger-making duties, and as a result five hundred students who ate from Princeton's biggest cafeteria ended up with severe food poisoning? Those people need treatment, right? They need proper care at the nearest hospital of excellence. My hospital. Neither one of them can be bothered with my needs.

After five interminable hours standing in my four-inch heels struggling to sort out the unprecedented chaos that PPTH's ER has become after the invasion of a throwing up twenty-year-old multitude, I am finally home. My feet hurt, my head hurts, my back hurts… Oh hell, let's just summarize this: I hurt. It is a few minutes past midnight as I smoothly close the front door careful not to wake them up; the sound of TV coming from the living room tells me they have probably fallen asleep on the couch. Again.

I glance at the 42" Plasma for a moment; The Late Late Show is on, Craig Ferguson is interviewing the cast of that famous vampire saga. I chuckle at the thought that Greg must be really out of it for that thing to be playing before his eyes. As I mindfully approach the couch, the characteristic sound of his light snoring and steady breathing gives me the confirmation I need. However, as my eyes take in the lovely and almost miraculous scene before me, the glistening is automatic. No matter how many times the sun dies and rises again on the horizon, day after day, I do not think I will ever get indifferent to observing House and Rachel together like that. I will never take for granted the fact that they have naturally recognized and adopted each other as father and daughter, and my interference was hardly ever required. As well as decades ago, when the accomplishments in my career seemed too unachievable to even dream of, I never even dared to hope that Rachel would eventually form an even stronger bond between House and I as the love we feel for each other and the baby boy I am carrying in my womb grows. These are sentimental times that will ever change, independently of what comes out of our, hmmm, unorthodox romantic relationship.

As absolutely cute and totally screensaver material the scene is of Rachel comfortably nested on House's chest and protectively held in place by his strong arms, I am obliged to mess it up. Neither of my beloved ones will remain that adorable in half an hour when they wake up sleepy, sore and grumpy. Cautious not to awaken my baby girl, I deliberately manage to yank her out of House's embrace, though he instinctively holds on his grip in reaction to my harassment, stirring up all of a sudden. His startled eyes soften once they register my image, and his arms automatically loosen up and let go of Rachel. "I'll tuck her in", I whisper, smiling warmly while heading to Rachel's room.

There is nothing comparable to the feeling of my daughter cradled against my chest. I do not rush in carrying her to her crib, welcoming her warmth and her unique baby scent to my hospital-chastised senses. Even though I secretly hope she stirs up and gives me the chance to lull her back to sleep, Rachel is still sound asleep when I lie her on the soft mattress and cover her with her favorite light yellow afghan. Another missed bed time, I mouth regretfully. Stupid, stupid toxin!

I run my finger over her pink cheek as her tiny facial muscles continue to rhythmically suck on her pacifier. "Time to get rid of this, young lady…" I admonish and brush my lips on her forehead "God bless you, baby." I can feel his presence leaning on the threshold while I kiss Rachel one last time and unwillingly move away from her crib, the now familiar guilt of absent working mothers burning in the pit of my stomach.

I am positive he can read the angst openly displayed on my face by the moment my worn out eyes lock with his beautiful aquamarines, though he does not say a word about it. As much as it infuriates me ninety percent of the time, Greg's aversion to talk about feelings fits me just fine right now. After twenty years of coexistence, he knows exactly what I currently need and seems very pleased on giving it to me as his mouth sensually claims mine without any pointless warning. As always, I melt instantaneously in his arms, catapulted to another galaxy once his fingers entangle themselves in my hair, my small frame lost beneath his robust one as he deepens the kiss and his tongue invades my mouth to explore it unhurriedly.

After less than one year of practice, I have mastered the art of interpreting House's actions, which speak much louder than the words that never leave his mouth, even though the ones that actually do are often just as unhelpful. His kisses, especially, are loaded with meaning. As he parts his juicy lips from mine, my mind works on recognizing every emotion in his gesture: missing, complicity, protectiveness. I open my eyes lazily still numb from the air-depriving kiss and raise my hand to touch his stubble cheek. He keeps his secure grasp around my waist, my body still locked with his. He creases his forehead and his lips slightly curl up in a mockery grin "Lemme guess… (-)?"

I simply nod my head, unsurprised. The instant they called me earlier from the hospital telling me about the food poisoning incident that demanded my attention, he listed at least fifteen possible diagnoses that matched the patients' symptoms, among bacteria, viruses and toxins. (-) obviously included. And then people pick on him for being arrogant. It is not really his fault if he was born a genius, is it? Not that I ever plan to tell him that, though. His already abnormally huge ego would inflate like a hot-air balloon and impale us against the house's walls and I do not feel like dying of suffocation.

"Well, after five hours smelling yummy microorganism infected stomach contents I assume you're not hungry, are you?" he jokingly questions me, and I feel my stomach protest vehemently at the very idea of ingesting any sort of food.

"Not really", I scowl at him in disgust, and he laughs openly at my revolted expression. God, how do I adore the sound of his laughter, I wish I could hear it more often... "Then I guess I'll just have to eat all the Yakisoba I ordered you…" He gives me a peck on the lips and lets me go, walking to the kitchen in order to burgle the fridge. I notice he is barely limping, even without his cane; today must have been a nice day.

I follow him and smile at the sight of a 1,89m man bending over to withdraw the takeout boxes from the small refrigerator "And then you blame an asexual Incubus for your nightmares… I wouldn't find it odd if you dreamt of an evil Ninja chasing you in the medieval woods tonight after all the Japanese food you must have eaten…" I taunt him and his lips curl up a bit in response "Late night meals won't help your insomnia, you know."

Dexterously handling the hashi, he shoves the first bunch of noodles inside of his awaiting open mouth and chews a little before replying saucily, pointing to his zesty body with the chopsticks "This is not easy to maintain, you know? Where do you think I get the energy from to scandalize your sexually repressed suburban neighbors every single night? I don't have chlorophyll in my skin to do photosynthesis, sorry… Well, I'd probably be green if I…"

While he delivers his extra-long witty comeback, I cannot help but be a little diverted by his male beauty. Geez, Greg is hot. His height and presence, his hard, manly and sexily tortured features, his just-brawny-and-hairy enough torso, his big and skillful hands, his almost hypnotic baby blue eyes. My body is already starting to respond to my lustful staring when a sharp - and turn off - bolt of pain shoots up my worn out legs. Marveling at my boyfriend's good looks does not seem to be a priority to my body right now as getting rid of my extra-high stilettos. I slip out of them, and my feet almost shout 'thank you' after my soles get to touch the wooden floor.

"You sure you don't want some?" he insists and I shake my head no wrinkling my nose in disapproval. The shoyu smell is making me nauseated. "Then don't come accuse me later of eating the whole thing and starving my own son", he warns me, finishing the first takeout box and reaching for the second one. How can he still be hungry?

"Your son and I are fine, don't worry." I reassure him, perfectly able to identify the real concern about my nutrition weakly disguised in casualness veil. "I'll let you proceed on your determined pursuit of indigestion and go take a hot shower, ok? I'm exhausted." And with that I heavily drag myself to the bathroom, yearning for the renovation only hot water can bring.

I close my eyes and surrender to the unique sensation of the smoky water wrapping my body in a hot relaxing embrace. Little by little, all of the stressful thoughts enslaving my mind abandon it like demons being exorcized from a possessed body, tension deserting from my muscles while I gently run the bath sponge all over my skin. No more paperwork, no more budgets, no more donor indulging, no more board meetings, no more nurses' strike threatening, no more of House's crazy demands… The list of PPTH's irons to pig under water is about to cross the dozen's mark when an almost imperceptible fluttering suddenly causes the remnant items to puff like a Jeannie going back inside of her bottle. Suddenly there is no room in my mind for anything but my baby, my Matthew James. Matt. The next world renowned Dr. House.

For two days I have been anxiously waiting to feel this again, since the other afternoon when I was bickering with House and the ducklings in the Diagnostics conference room and Matt performed his moving première, most likely annoyed by the incomprehensible and uninteresting medical quarrel. His dumbfounded dad was not able to feel it, that fact I considered to be enough punishment and rendered my authorization to another stupid and unnecessary brain biopsy. Back to the present, my hands automatically move down to caress my bulging belly in a silent plead for more action, but it does not take me long to notice that Matthew House has apparently inherited his father's fascination for teasing me pitilessly. He is clearly done indulging me with his little nudges - or kicks, or somersaults - for today. I hope my little miracle also gets the same eye color, intelligence and musical talent from the man I love, to say the very least.

Twenty minutes later, the healing power of hot water starts to wear off, and I decide it is time to quit wasting the world's most valuable and scarce natural resource. I switch the shower off and reach for my bath robe. The extra fluffy fabric feels good on my chamomile-smelling skin. I walk out of the bathroom and enter my room just to spot Greg sprawled on my bed, shirtless, attentively reading a medical journal. Gorgeous… I love it when he has his reading glasses on, sexy as hell.

Acknowledging my presence, he puts the magazine aside and takes the object of my fetish off. As if he has just read my thoughts… Killjoy. "Feeling better?" he asks me, this time not bothering on hiding his preoccupation.

A girlish pout adorns my face. "A little." I answer whiningly. I can see his face instantly enlightening like it always does when he pops up an impossible epiphany that will probably save someone's life. That means he is up to something. After hesitating for no longer than two seconds, he leaves the bed and limps to the bathroom. "I'm thinking about skipping work tomorrow so I can get some rest. It's only fair, after losing half of my day off watching the ER's floor being dampened in puke." I babble, and the memory immediately sickens me "I must have been the only person there who managed to keep her lunch down… I guess three long months of daily morning sickness gives you some practice…" I trail off, rummaging around my drawers to find a comfortable piece of underwear and an old loose t-shirt to sleep in when Greg exits the bathroom with my roast coconut body butter in hand.

One quick glance at his excited eyes and I figure out his hidden intentions. "Massage sounds good?" he suggests with this lethally charming half-grin of his and takes my hand in a chivalrous way, conducting me to bed. I suspect there is hardly anything chivalrous in his real agenda, yet I am honestly ok with that and eagerly accept his offer "Yeah, sure."

I sit comfortably on the mattress and he positions himself right behind me, gaining full access to my naked back once his hands slide the bath robe down my shoulders and forearms. My eyelids surrender at the first delicate contact of his buttered hands on my still tense shoulders, spreading the initially cool product all the way from my stiff neck, down my spine, easing the remaining strain that the previous shower has not been able to relieve. His touch is feather smooth and his movements purposefully deliberate; I can feel the tiresomeness escaping my body with every single press of his fingers on my muscles, as if I am his baby grand, and he is playing one of his favorite tunes.

As my mind blanks out and gives in completely to the soothing sensation of his delightful rubbing, my body starts showing its appreciation somewhere else just as enthusiastically. Desire builds up in between my legs, my clit determinedly making its presence known by a faint yet insisting throbbing. I wonder if his current actions are having the same effect on him when I sense his body spooning behind mine, his hands sliding down my waste and pulling by body against his. I gasp when his shaft gets to press on my lower back. The heat emanating from his skin is scorching, and a moan breaks free from my mouth when his stubble scrapes that particular sensitive spot on my neck. "Feels good?" he asks unnecessarily, planting wet kisses on the soft skin right under my right ear while his left palm descends all the way to my lower belly. Oh yes, it does.

My mouth temporarily loses the ability of speech, and all I can do is murmur my obvious answer when his warm tongue licks my cartilage. My eyes roll uncontrollably inside their cage when he engulfs my earlobe in his hot mouth and his teeth sink in. The throbbing downstairs intensifies considerably, desire spidering through my lower limbs, and I unconsciously move my hand to cup his nape and encourage his mind-blowing assault on my neck. I hear him chortle lightly at my gesture and whisper in my ear "I guess I've given enough attention to the back…"

With that said he moves to my side, leading my shoulders against the mattress until I am comfortably lying on my back. I watch passively as he pulls on the string of my ivory bath robe and denudes me, yanking the humid garment from underneath me and throwing it unceremoniously on the floor. A wicked grin adorns his face as he drinks in my nudeness as if it is a cold beer on a very hot summer day, and I out of the blue become the sexiest woman in the planet. For him, that is, and I really care very little about anyone else's opinion. He is such an inveterate ego-feeder making me feel this way, desirable, feminine, even more confident than I already am. Suddenly this ego-inflating thingy seems like a real threat again.

His lascivious stare is so incredibly flattering that I resolve to return the favor. Like half an hour earlier my eyes are lost in the handsomeness before me. Every detail of his figure invites me in, and the urge of getting up and meeting him on the other end of the bed is almost overpowering. I manage to stay still, though; I can tell by the sinful look in his baby blue eyes and the salient prominence in his sweatpants that he is having a blast taking care of this vulnerable and extenuated version of myself. In fact, he is having way too much fun torturing and teasing me during this relaxing process. Luckily enough, tonight I am game.

Moreover, I have had two decades to learn that nothing turns Gregory J. House on like finding a worthy opponent. One of the few personality traits we have in common. I work on my naughty look and cocky smile, flexing my knees and swinging my legs provocatively in my best Catherine Tramell's performance, providing him a panoramic view of, well, that. "This is highly unprofessional, you know?" I state in mock seriousness, pointing at his evident hardness and pulling another chuckle out of him "All masseuses share such inappropriate behavior?"

"Of course not." he protests, a heroically persistent grin refusing to leave his lips. "Just the good ones." he completes smugly, playing with the string that fastens the hem of his sweatpants. "Do you mind?" he asks mischievously, his forehead creasing in self-satisfaction, half-parted lips curling up, oh so kissable... "Not at all", I hum in response, my blood fervently racing inside of my veins as he strips the inutile piece of garment that was just ruining my fun. I dry swallow in anticipation.

My heart speeds up its beating inside of my ribcage and I bite on my lower lip at the sight of his engorged well hung member exposed in front of me. So tempting… My core is set in flames, yearning to be entered, and my mouth waters as some interesting verbs immediately cross my brain: kiss, lick… nip, suck… "Anything on your mind, Dr. Cuddy?" I hear him ask teasingly, his tone coated in sexy evilness, and I gasp audibly when his right hand grabs his length and proceeds to stroke it lazily. Up and down, up and down, up and… Ok, this should be illegal! There should be some articles… No, better, a whole Human Rights Convention should be written on House's merciless teasing. Now, in addition to resisting the urge of attacking him, I have to fight the impetus of mirroring his moves and pleasuring myself. Awesome.

My body aches for him, like he is my own personal brand of heroin. All the need I have been bravely able to ignore until eight months ago has became impossible to disregard from the moment he made me his. The memories of those smokin' hot afternoons in my office are not very cooperative either, so it takes me a 10-to-0 mental countdown to control the imperative to jump him but I eventually make it. I am so not handing him the gold that easily, it would give him the impression that torturous sexual provocation is his prerogative… "Hmmm, just wondering whether or not you plan to finish what you started, cuz… I am still very tense, you know?" I complain in marginally true annoyance. He smiles – my favorite ever-so-adorable and breathtaking smile - and reaches for the body butter. "Aw, sorry. The view from here is quite distracting."

Lying in bed by my side, he proceeds on doing his magic to the front part of my body. He starts with my breasts – first Patty, then Selma – caressing them very delicately rather than grasping at them firmly as he truly appreciates, as well as I do. Greg has a very close relationship with my boobs - not to say obsession - and I can tell he has been having a hard time watching his ministrations since the pregnancy hormones got 'his girls' swollen and sore and pretty much out of order. When he does not resist and succumbs to the temptation of licking my nipples, I hold his head in place and laugh to myself at the memory of him telling me a couple of weeks ago that since parenthood is all about abnegation, sharing my "funbags" with Matthew during the six minimum months of lactation will be his first great gesture as a father.

The memory just slips away as he keeps worshipping my breasts, licking and tenderly biting at the rock nubs while his stubble scratches the milky skin nearby… I moan in appreciation and entangle my fingers on his grey tufts to press his face against my chest. My mind is working way too poorly in the moment to come up with a metaphor that does some justice in properly illustrating the feeling, so, let's just say it feels great… My clit pulsates violently and my core overflows in moisture begging for his attention, and he seems to realize it as his left hand and mouth abandon my breast to head south and north, respectively. The change in position allows me to feel his hardness pressing on my right groin.

It may sound a little adolescent but, even though we have been having a lot of fun in bed since we started dating, I cannot foresee the day when kissing Greg will become commonplace. It does not seem to get old, the chill that jolts through my spine and spread through my limbs when his lips claim mine, momentarily satisfying an everlasting thirst that does not take long to come back once we part. The deaf groans that escape his throat every time I massage his tongue with mine give me a clue that he feels the same way... "I guess we're done with the massaging, right?" I whisper matter-of-factly when his lips abandon mine and move to my jaw and neck, his hand roaming around my right hipbone and greedily grasping the outside of my thigh.

"Any objections?" he inquires rhetorically, nipping a bit too forcefully on my earlobe and motioning to reach beneath my thighs to inspect my wetness. His grinding hips move unconsciously forward and I can tell he is just as ready as I am. I intercept his deliberately moving hand before it can get to its target, intertwining our fingers and bringing them to my lips. "I think we can skip this part" I murmur, brushing my lips on his knuckles. Sliding my foot over the back of his leg and invitingly widening my stance do accommodate his hips, I beg him "Make love to me, Greg".

His expression is almost solemn and he guides himself to my opening and penetrates very delicately. Since we found out about my pregnancy, Greg has been overly cautious during sex in spite of knowing there is no actual danger for the baby. He says he just cannot risk it. I can feel every inch of him immersing itself in my warmth, setting my nerve endings on fire and defeating by eyelids, which automatically drop in ecstasy. His thumb runs over my cheekbone and his lips plant a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth while he retreats and thrusts for the second time, deeper, harder, hotter… I manage to open my eyes to scrutinize his expression and am instantly drowned in the waves of baby blue elation. Greg loves to take things slowly, but I rarely allow him to do it as he pleases, urging him to go harder and faster after he nearly gave me a cardiac arrest during an invariably teasing foreplay session. His slow rhythm is absolutely torturous, and normally my Taurus impatience would stop me from enjoying it properly but there is something special about tonight. I feel like melting in his skin and absorbing every molecule of scent while he makes me writhe in his arms. I want to overdose on Gregory House.

He keeps on leisurely sliding in and out of me, and a smile creeps upon my face at the sensation of fullness. Not in the naughty way, well, not only… I mean plenitude. I feel whole. Body, mind and soul in a perfect and peaceful synchrony, I taste the genuine bliss losing myself in his unique love. After decades of trying to foolishly convince myself that I did not need this, I stubbornly believed I could get it with someone else, and that is when life taught me the right concept of loneliness. It is not really about being without someone as I used to think; it is about being without the one person you want. And Greg is the one I have always wanted; my one and only chance of being truthfully happy. It took me long enough to admit it, as well as it did for him to claim his leading role in my life, but I have finally learnt my lesson: Greg is irreplaceable.

Reviews are love, especially the long, thoughtful, positive ones... LOL! Just kidding. Speak your mind and make us both happy. :D

How did you guys like this update? Too fluffy? Do you miss some action? Well, this is not Chinese food, but you are welcome to order and I see what I can deliver, how about that? ;)

Uh, and one last question: who demands September now? Hands?