I do not own House, MD. Joy is my character, however.
NOTES: House is—well, the Tritter fiasco is still fresh. That's all I have to say. I've also taken the liberty of fudging with future episodes here: I borrowed a spoiler for/after the upcoming episode "One Day, One Room"

--

After all the times Al came to me to dump her House-woes, I can confidently say that I am able to identify the man in a line-up.

The man sitting on the exam room table is not Dr. House. The patient is around thirty years old with dirty blond hair. His crutches are leaning on one side of the table; half his ass is parked on the wine-colored leather—the half that has a leg wrapped tight in bandages. He looks up at me with a partially healed, banged-up face and a badly crooked nose. "I thought Dr. Page was a man?" he says in a Californian surfer dude's voice.

I exhale in relief and smile widely at the man to confuse him further.

--

After examining and giving Mr. DeMartino a schedule for a nose job and reconstruction on his left cheekbone, my cellphone rang. A quick look at the LCD shows me that Al is calling.

I answer it: "Girlfriend, I'll be there by 12:30—"

"There's a problem," Al mutters in a low voice.

My eyes widen.

"Hold that thought, Al!" I hiss. I race out of the examining room and grabbed a passing nurse by the elbow. "Sorry," I tell her in an "oh-jeez-I'm-in-pain" voice, holding my middle to make it convincing, "but could you lead the next patient in the examining room and tell them to wait? I've got a little girl-problem going on, and I need the bathroom BAAAAAAAAAAD…"

The girl's eyes blue-green eyes widen behind thick glasses. "Oh, okay!" she says in an anxious stage whisper. "Do you need something for it? I've got some Midol in my purse!"

I give her a small, grateful smile—or a wince, I can't really say—and say, "That's swell—I'll be in the little girls' room. I know me—it'll go away after I do my—uh—yogi thing. Helps with the pain! Thanks!"

I race into the restroom and lock the door behind me.

"Okay, talk to me!" I gasp into the phone.

Fruitlessly repressed giggles greeted this. "Have you done your YOGI thing yet?"

I roll my eyes and pace inside the restroom. "Yogi, yoga—whatever! Spill, woman—what happened?!"

"I can't get away," she mutters in the same low voice. In the background, I could hear car engines roaring softly. "He just popped into the conference room, we did the differentials, and told me and Chase to check out the patient's apartment. He didn't give me a chance to tell him about my resignation or my day off!"

"Shit," I hiss. Al had informed me two years back that her boss has a penchant for coming in late. "Well, can you ask Dr. Cuddy to reschedule a day off after Dr. Louse stole it away from you?"

"I'll try," she says. There's no shred of hope in those words. I clap a hand over my forehead; over the car engines in the background, I hear a deep, Australian-accented voice say something. "I have to go—call you later, Joy."

"Yeah."

I lean against the wall of the restroom and proceed to utter a list of profanities in Tagalog.

--

I left the restroom, feeling a bit better. The nurse I accosted in the hallway approaches me and hands me a plastic cup with some Midol tablets in it.

"Here you go, Dr. Medina," she says in an overplayed stage whisper that I'm sure was heard over in the waiting room.

"Uh—thanks," I tell her. "I'll save these when the pain comes back."

"Okay. Oh, there's a patient for you in the examining room—he's got a weird request: he wants a thigh implant."

"Thigh implant?" I tried not to snort as I took the file from the nurse and opened it. "That's a new one for this clinic." I scan the filled-out form and found the reason: hacked off. How glib for something so grisly.

"Ew," the nurse whispered as she peeked at the open file.

"Yum-mee," I retort, walking towards the examining room. I open the door without looking up from the file and automatically say, "Hi, sorry I'm late. Dr. Page is working on a patient at the moment. I'm Dr. Medina, and I'll be—"

I look up at this point and went into shock.

"You!" I squeak.

The tall, stubbly-faced man carefully hops off the examining table and lands on his left leg. With a speed I would never had imagined in a person with a bum leg, he managed to yank me further in the middle of the room and close and lock the door before I could yell for help.

After making sure that no one will walk in the room unannounced, the "patient" turns around and stares at me with the most astonishing pair of deep-set blue eyes I've ever seen. I got my senses back when the patient said in a deep, mocking voice, "I'm not into charades, so why don't we stick to being true to ourselves, hmm? I'll be Dr. House, and you'll be the devious best friend of Cameron's who managed to convince her to attempt to resign—again."

I snort as he shuffles away from the door and hooks a stool with his cane, which he promptly sits on. "Okay—just to clarify: I'll be Al's well-meaning friend, while you'll be the insensitive dolt who mocks my friend's good-nature and the circumstances of her widowhood every chance he gets."

I didn't think those large blue eyes would get any wider, but they did. "Mmm—feisty!"

I just lift a brow. "So, you want a thigh implant or what? I've got people outside waiting to look better, you know. Ever heard of superficiality?"

He pretends to think about it, cocking his head to the side and rolling his eyes upward. "Would that include your ensemble for today?" he asks innocently, giving my outfit a cursory glance.

I look down—under my white coat, I'm wearing a white blouse, black slacks, and black Aerosoles. I look at his ensemble consisting of a black shirt with some kind of rock band insignia on it, jeans, and a pair of Converse All-Stars. Obviously, my attempt at sarcasm had back-fired.

I just ignore that and take a stool from the other side of the room. "Cut the flirting, Dr. House. You're not here for a new thigh, and the fact that you mentioned 'Cameron' and 'resign' means that you're in the know. I'd like to know just two things—one, why are you here and two, when are you going to leave?"

House places his cane in between spread knees and started to make it spin. "To answer your first question, I have to tell it in excruciating detail. When I walked into work, I was informed by my superior officer that I'll be one less little Indian today and one day in the future. So, I conveniently ignored that and sent Cameron and another Indian to scout the patient's place while I did some background investigation in her inbox."

If I had been drinking something, I would have sprayed it all over him. "You hacked into her e-mail?!" I hissed. (I still haven't forgotten that I'm at work.)

He shrugs. "I needed answers. Cameron isn't the type to go sneaking behind my back without almost successfully giving me the slip. She can't keep her mouth shut around me, so I knew she had to have an accomplice, and after checking her inbox, I found out it was you. So, I did some researching of my own and snuck out to 'flirt' with you in the hopes that you can convince Cameron not to resign." House finished this with a look of smugness.

I tried to look detached during his diatribe. "Okay, so how about answering my other question?"

He looks at me in a strange way, reminding me of one of my grandmother's cronies when she's got an excellent set of tiles in mahjong. "I'll only leave if you can convince Cameron not to resign."

That made me laugh a bit. "What makes you think I'll be able to do that? Because I'm her friend?"

With much exaggeration, House looks taken aback at this. "Wow, you're good! Excellent idea! So, you'll do it?"

I start to bite the lining behind my lower lip in an effort to not laugh. "Why won't you do it? I know this isn't the first time Al tried to resign from your department."

House looks a little uneasy—how interesting. "She might ask for a wedding this time around." He looks at me and gives me an annoyed look. "Oh, come on—don't tell me she didn't tell you how she got her job back before!"

I give him a look of pity with a touch of amusement. "She did—and on the day of the date you told her, point blank, why she was attracted to you, basing your assumptions from her personal history. Way to win her back, Doc."

I think I shocked him (key words: "I think"). The angular face in front of me became impassive—except for the eyes, because Dr. House was now looking down. Vulnerable while trying not to show vulnerability.

What is he hiding from me?

"She had to know," he says softly, "that nothing good can come from a relationship based on neediness. There's also the fact that things could get very awkward between us—you know, because I'm her boss and she works for me…"

So what you did is chase after the ex who turned you into a cripple. But I'm too nice to point that obvious fact out to him. Something Al mentioned a while back and the man's inability to look me in the eye made the cogs in my head start to whir and elicit the following instead:

"You surprise me, Dr. House."

That catches his attention and makes his eyes snap up to me.

I cross my arms and look closely at Dr. House—like a med student analyzing a surprise patient presented by her professor—but really, I'm preparing to play devil's advocate here. "Within a space of some five minutes, you have listed several reasons why you ought to be celebrating Al's resignation. In your line of work, you can't afford someone like her on your team…flighty, needy, can't keep her mouth shut—"

Dr. House leans forward, blue eyes trying to bore holes into mine. "I need her on my team."

"Sure you do," I say in the most mocking tone I've got. "You need someone flighty, needy, can't keep her mouth shut." Then for effect, I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. "I dunno—the best you can do is let her go and be all those things at another hospital. Save your reputation and all that. You'll do better with another doctor who's not—"

"I don't need another doctor, I need—" His mouth clamps shut and shoots me a look that must have made babies cry. Me, I just shrug and take a cursory look at my watch, twiddled my thumbs, and then sigh dramatically. "Well, I'd love to stay and stare, but its lunch time and I have a free day ahead of me. If you really want that thigh implant, I suggest a consult with Dr. Page. I have his card with me here somewhere—"

"Your treat?" he asks hopefully. I give him a look before heading for the door, but my progress was cut short by a large hand on my wrist. Dr. House plants his cane firmly on the floor and stands up, looking down at me with a speculative stare. "Fine—my treat. But if the food's not good, we're going Dutch."

Sorry for the delay in updating--a Joy and House confrontation is a tricky thing to write. Part 4.2 coming soon--tomorrow at the latest. :)