Hi kids - I'm new, so I hope you enjoy. I welcome all reviews. I own nothing. xo

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The girl from Exam Room One really caught his eye.

She was completely his type. Young, hot, and clean cut - the type of preppy, rich girl he used to seduce in medical school - and yet just a little rebellious. Something about the steely glint in her eye, or the tattoo poking out from the sleeve of her blue thermal.

He managed to assess all of this even while clutching on to the railing she had knocked him back against when she had tried to barrell out of the room at a very reckless speed.

"God," He spat, "Don't you brake for cripples?"

"You ran into me," She snapped back without missing a beat, "You really think I give a damn about your leg?"

The way each short breath fluttered the hair around her face gave her a wild, fantastic look, but as he geared up to retort, he stopped, finding himself fiixated on her left eye, which was ringed in purple. It wasn't hard from there to see that her bold, defensive stance was already wavering, her feet shifting restlessly as if she might make another break for it. Her eyes were big and watchful as she looked at him, not realizing how much they gave her away.

Sighing, he wondered why he always got the broken girls. Sweet words and gentle tones and Bambi eyes were so much more Wilson's field. He himself would rather look at pustules or infections any day.

He stepped aside and made a gesture at the hallway. "Staying or going, kiddo?"

She glared at him, but failed to make a move either way, chewing on her lip in indecision as she looked over her shoulder into the exam room and then back at him.

When she turned her head, House noticed a few faint scratches appear, just out of sight at the neckline of her shirt. Curiosity and medical obligation got the better of him, and he cleared his throat. "Whatever got you all the way here isn't going to go away on it's own. Why don't you save yourself the trouble of making two trips when you change your mind later?"

The girl seemed to contemplate this, then wrapped her sweater more tightly around herself and shuffled back into the room, where she ignored the exam table and chose to stand in the corner next to the sink. He followed her slowly and hung back, unsure what the whole story was. He knew better than to crowd a rape victim, which at this point it seemed like the most likely possibility.

"So what brings you to our fine establishment?"

"My eye...it's not healing as fast as it should." She flushed pink, ducking her head. "And I think I might have an STD."

Definitely a rape victim.

"Okay," He said quietly. "I'll get you a female doctor."

Her head came up, eyebrows furrowed. "Why? Male doctors can't prescribe penicillin anymore?"

"No," He said stiffly, biting back a sharper response, "But there will have to be an exam, and usually in these situations, the patient prefers a female."

The girl stared at him for a few moments before asking, "What situation would that be, exactly?"

He stared at her. Was she playing coy or just stupid?

"A situation involving sexual assault." He had to admit he was holding his breath a little, because sometimes saying it bluntly like that made them start to cry. Cuddy had been threatening sensitivity training for months, and he really didn't need another patient leaving in tears.

Luckily, she didn't start to cry at all.

She started to laugh.

"Interesting," He commented, drumming his fingers on his cane while he watched her lean forward and laugh into her long blonde hair.

She looked up at him, eyes teared, and gave a little smile. "Sorry, I just...if you knew what I..." She shook her head a little, "It's weird for someone to have that concern, because of my job. I forget sometimes."

"Well, luckily you have this great chance to explain it. I need to take your history. Current employment?"

The smile dropped of the girl's face instantly. "What?"

"If there's something going on with you that's abnormal, I need to know what your day to day surroundings expose you to." It was stretching the truth - at this point, he didn't really need these specifics, but his interest was piqued. When she didn't answer, he went on. "You were highly amused by the idea of sensitivity to women just now, so I assume it's a male driven profession."

"I wasn't amused -"

"Your laughter would indicate otherwise."

She started to look very nervous again, and shook her head. "You don't have to know this for a simple diagnosis."

It was true, so he changed the subject. "Let's start with your name."

"Georgia."

He waited, but she didn't elaborate. "Full name, princess."

"Georgia Summer...W-Whitney."

Obviously fake, as people didn't usually stumble over thier own surnames, but he let it go, wanting to get on to the jucier details. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, "Georgia Summer? Was your mother a Gone With the Wind fanatic?"

"No, just a Southern debutante. It was almost Georgia Peach, so I try not to complain."

"Touche. So where is Mommy now? How old? Healthy?"

"Dead." She said the word as if it weighed about a thousand pounds.

"Cancer?"

"Car accident."

"No hereditary illnesses?"

"Nope."

He paused. "How long ago?"

He shouldn't have cared since it wasn't a medical detail. He could have argued that he was just trying to work out her level of mental stability, but the truth was that she was sort of starting to intrigue him. Young, hot, and full of secrets, and so skittish it was actually kind of charming. Plus, his day had been really boring up to now.

"Two months ago."

"I'm sorry." He said, watching her face for signs of misty eyes or lip trembling, but found none. "Father living?"

She completely stiffened. "Yes."

"Healthy?"

"I..." She trailed off, looking helpless.

"You don't know," He answered for her. "How long has he been out of the picture?"

"Ten years."

"How do you know he's living? You talk to him? Get a birthday card?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Oh, it doesn't. I'm just interested."

She leaned back into the wall, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow. "Let's move on then."

"Okay. Profession?"

She didn't answer again, and he sighed in frustration. "Look, I'm the doctor. I'm the person you tell."

She cleared her throat. "I'm...I'm a sort of...professional dater."

In a lot of cases, he would have dropped the pen for dramatic effect. This time it was actually genuine surprise. "You're a hooker?"

Georgia's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "No!"

"Let's clarify. Men pay you to spend time with them."

She seemed to be trying to decide if it was a trick question. Carefully, she nodded her head.

"You spend time with them as a professional occupation."

"Yes."

"Does this special friend time ever turn sexual?"

She flinched a little, before hedging, "Not always..."

"Okay, well, I think you'll find that in all fifty states that is considered -"

"I'm an escort," She burst out. "I work for a company and I have regular clients and it's safe and there are rules. Hookers are women in thigh highs, standing on a corner somewhere hoping for some hairy backed sociopath or to pull over and pay them in crack."

House tapped his chin with his pen. "And yet the bottom line is that it's still offering sex as a billable service. That's where the law gets you."

The girl blinked up at him, looking unapologetically afraid. "Are you gonna call the cops?"

He shook his head a little. "No. I'm going to ask you some questions, and I just want you to tell the truth. Does that sound manageable?"

She nodded.

"You work for a company. Would you describe it as upscale?"

"Yes. Exclusive."

"And you have regulars. You never take on new clients?"

She flinched a little, and he noted it. "Once in a while...I cover for someone, or meet someone new."

"And you're safe?"

"Condoms and birth control. The regulars have proof of testing, it's an agency requirement."

"Okay." He steepled his fingers together and looked at her over the tips. "If all of that is true, why do you think you have an STD?"

Realizing she had walked into his trap, Georgia felt her eyes heat up, and fought the emotion back. "Things don't always go as planned."

"Don't I know it," He muttered, "I thought I was coming in here to beat level six in Donkey Kong."

She stayed silent, folded in on herself, and seemed to shrink.

He stared at her for a moment, drumming his fingers on his knees. "So let me set this up. You go to an...appointment. It's someone new, but you don't worry much. When you get there, he insists he doesn't like protection. But he's new and untested, so you tell him it's not an option. He gets mad. He slaps you around, you get a black eye. He takes what he wants anyway, you get an STD. Am I close?"

Her hands were shaking, just the slightest bit. She picked at the seam of her shirt, and looked up at him with hollow but dry eyes. "I know the risks of my job. I'm supposed to be able to handle it. I knew this could happen. It shouldn't change anything."

"But it does."

She nodded faintly. "Yeah, it does."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know that."

"No, you don't. But you will." He sighed, kicking his feet out and stretching. "Can I ask you something?"

She laughed softly. "Why not? The worst dirt is already on the table."

He studied her. "You're young, you should be full of unrealistic dreams. Why do you do this?"

For a moment, he thought she was going to tell the truth. He could see it coming to the surface, but she hesitated, then fought it back, giving him a little smile and shrugging her shoulders.

"I have a lot of bills to pay."

"Fine," He said, smirking, "Don't tell me. Do you want a female doctor or not?"

Georgia scowled, "Can't we just skip this part?"

"Believe me, if there were any other way, I wouldn't have pet names for the genitalia of every hornball in the greater Princeton area."

She sighed. "Fine. Yes."

"It'll just be a minute."

"What's your name?" Georgia asked suddenly, stopped him before he reached the door.

He turned back, confused. "I've been sitting in here for the last -"

"I forgot to look."

Rolling his eyes, he flashed the name tag he was wearing at her, and she smiled at him and sat back.

"Thanks for your help, Dr. Foreman."

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