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.

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There is a deli a few blocks away from the clinic, where I always take my lunch during workdays. That's where I take Dr. House for the continuation of our meeting.

Before we left the clinic, I loudly said to Norah, "I'll be back tomorrow, Miss N.—scheduled day off." Then I jab a thumb in Dr. House's direction, "We're going to continue discussing sizes. These men and their insecurities…"

A sharp nudge on my right calf rudely interrupted me. I trip a bit, but I caught myself in time and turn around to glare at my attacker. Dr. House didn't show any emotion, but his ears were getting red as he put on a leather jacket. Meanwhile, Norah tried very hard not to look at where she thinks the "insecurity" was located.

After House pays the cashier, we get our food from the counter and I lead the way to a remote corner in the deli. Dr. House obviously doesn't need any help; despite the heavily laden tray, he's able to hold it in one hand. Quite a strong old fella there.

When he finally takes his place opposite mine, he takes a moment to scan the contents of my tray with those big blue eyes. "You were deprived as a child, weren't you?"

I look at him like he'd lost the rest of his marbles. "Not really, but I did forget breakfast." And I never pass an opportunity when a meal is free. Granted, a large club sandwich, one bag of chips, chicken salad and a large glass of iced tea does seem to be too much…

Before he took a bite of his pickle-less Reuben, Dr. House took a pill bottle out of his pocket and shook out a couple of white pills. He promptly popped them into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Spotting my look of surprise, he says, "It's to aid my digestion."

"Oh yeah," I say in mock understanding. "I totally understand—painful leg equals indigestion. I went to med school too, you know."

House sticks out his lower lip—I try hard not to giggle, because pouting makes him look kind of cute. I'm beginning to understand how Al could have fallen for this guy, and it's frightening me.

Between mouthfuls of Reuben, Dr. House asks, "So, are you going to convince Al or not?"

I pretend to think about it as I chew on my mouthful of club sandwich—slowly. "I dunno—around the time Al announced her intention to resign from you, Dr. House, there were strangle marks around her neck and a note of commitment in her voice."

Dr. House suddenly found table-tapping with a fork to be an interesting endeavor. "The patient had a psychotic episode; he's not the first patient in our care who's had one of those…"

I butt in, "How about getting infected blood in her eyes? Does that happen often?"

He gets defensive—and kind of agitated. "She wasn't wearing protective goggles around him. Do you know the odds of getting infected by HIV like that?"

I look at him carefully. "Was that like the time Al found out her article was stolen by one of her co-workers?"

Blue eyes blink rapidly in confusion. "Yeah—the odds that someone can get HIV by coughing blood into their eyes and the odds that an ex-con would steal an idea for a medical article are so related…"

"Not that, funny guy," I snarl. Honestly, the times I try to make a point, it does not come out as planned. "You'd actually risk the lives of your fellows and their relationship with each other to find out what the outcome would be? Especially at the expense of their lives and the lives of the patients you're trying to save?" I violently stab at my chicken salad with my fork and place the unfortunate morsels in my mouth, but not before I added, "I don't know about you, but maybe that's the reason one of them has decided that all the shit her boss has been doling out at the expense of her self-esteem and her esteem for him just isn't worth it."

In the silence that follows, I take the opportunity to look up from my salad at my dining partner. It seems that I struck a nerve. Good.

The next words out of his mouth—unexpected.

"How'd you become friends with Cameron?" he asks curiously.

"When I was a little girl, I threw a silver dollar in a wishing well and asked for a friend of my very own," I answer in a sing-song voice. This made Dr. House smirk briefly before saying tersely, "Seriously."

I narrow my eyes. "Why do you want to know—so you can have more ammunition the next time Al tries to…?"

Dr. House holds up his hands—the left was holding a potato chip—in submission. "Call me a curious guy. How does someone like you get to be friends with someone like Cameron?"

Both my eyebrows must have vanished past my hairline, but I manage to get them back to where they're supposed to be. "What—you have something against a white girl being friends with an Asian girl?"

"No—though it would be nice to know that, too." He peers at me and waves half a Reuben in my direction. "Cameron always wears those pointy-toed high heels to work; you wear black socks and flat Aerosoles. Cameron always wears a different-colored, body-hugging blouse and vest to work; you are wearing a loose-fitting blouse. Cameron is everybody's friend; you are too snippy to be Cameron's friend..."

I cut in: "Cameron has excellent bedside manners; I bet your bedside manners are about as pleasant as bleach on a Technicolor dream coat. What is your point?"

Dr. House shrugs, chewing a mouthful and swallowing it before replying, "How can polar opposites become friends? You work for a guy who inflates women's funbags for a living, and yet here you are dressed up like an Amish girl with the diplomacy of Rosie O'Donnell."

My eyebrows did their disappearing act again. What he said—why does that sound familiar? Oh, yeah—"Well, for a Department Head, you sure know how to dress and act the part. If the point of this discussion is going to point out the obvious, I don't see why…"

"My point is that you are ultimately responsible for turning Cameron into Al! You've ruined her! Now she's running away because you turned her against me! Jell-O shots and wild sex—that didn't come from her! You brainwashed her."

The man is freaking out, which is freaking me and several patrons out inside the deli.

"I brainwashed her?!" I whisper harshly. "I'm not the Einstein who takes potshots at her reasons for marrying a dying man. I don't give her constant and humiliating reminders about her confessing her feelings. I have never made fun of her dedication to her job. So far, I haven't done anything to give her something to doubt about. All I did was to be her friend, and as her friend, I actually told her to move on and reconsider resigning from you. Between the two of us, it's kind of obvious who's doing her job."

I take out my aggravation on the remnants of my club sandwich while waiting for Dr. House to digest what I said. Once the sandwich was gone—it didn't take too long—I continue, "If anyone's going to point fingers, it should be me. I know Al longer than you have, buddy. She changed a lot since she started to work for you, but most of it was not for the better. In fact, you did the brainwashing! If anyone has to convince her to drop the resignation, its you—not me, you."

"Don't you think I already know that?"

That shocked the hell out of me. "What?"

Dr. House gives me a sardonic smile. "Of course I'm going to do the convincing—she works for me, not you. What do you take me for?" He nicks some chips out of my bag, but I didn't bother to stop him—well, I couldn't. "I needed some 'ammo', and you just handed me the entire armory."

He picks up his cane, which had been hooked on the far corner of his side of the table, and proceeds to stand up. "When I'm not too swamped with clinic duties, I'll schedule an appointment to check out the thigh implant sizes you've got. I think I'll be ready and superficial in five months, how's that sound?"

With that parting shot, Dr. House limps gracefully out of the deli. I am left to stare at his lean departing form and wonder what the hell I just said to make him so damn smug.

I had to warn Al STAT.

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Sorry for the delay.