A/N: Takes place during s1 ep18 Babies and Bathwater

House swipes everything off the desk. Papers flutter in the air and he spins the woman around, stripping her of her ever-present turtleneck. Her round bottom rests against the desk. He covers it with his long fingers, squeezing the muscle and lifting her onto the glass surface. She unbuttons his shirt in kind, revealing the hard planes of his body.

Pressing on her sternum until she leans back, he trails down her front, caressing a breast on his way to her hips. She's the definition of scrumptious, all curves and smooth skin, her stomach flat and taut as if she was still in her 20s. The blinds around his gall office are open and he sees the outside but it's late, almost midnight, and there shouldn't be anyone strolling by.

"Greg," she pleads, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes. "Please." She undoes the hook on the back of her bra, letting her soft, weighty boobs dropping loose from their confines. Stiff, pink peaks cap each wobbling mound.

"Beg for it, Sweety," he teases, leaning in close to her, staying only a hair's breadth away. He loosens his fly, popping his button and pulling out his hardened cock. "Say my name again."

"I want more, Greg," she whines, squirming and clenching in ways that drive him crazy. "I want you."

It's more than he can resist and suddenly he's thrusting into her, a gasp slipping from her. The natural lubrication was almost too much, so slick when he pushes into her that it feels like a water slide. Soft moans leave her flushed lips, wanton sighs driving him closer to the edge.

"Hey," she says, and his hips stutter. He looks to her face and doesn't see any pain. She looks neutral, which is odd in itself. She reaches out, stroking his rough beard from his cheek to his jaw. She tightens around him and he lets out a low moan accompanied by a hot load of—

"Hey!"

Greg jerks awake, his arms uncrossing from their place on his chest. Sunbeams stream through the outside window, illuminating the clinic exam room.

"Up and at 'em big guy," Foreman continues loudly, Chase standing at his side. The black male has his hands together, a blue file clasped in one of them.

House groans and unlike the dream, it isn't a pleasurable one. Rubbing his palm on his forehead, he notices the tent he's pitching down south. "Sorry. Up late. Internet porn."

"How come you're not in your office?" Chase asks, hands fisted in his coat pockets.

"Because there is a computer in my office and if I log on, romance will ensue. My wrist might fall off." Turning to the side and standing from the exam table, Greg . His loose button-down and the counter in front of his pelvis should hide his little problem.

Foreman smiles, chuckling derisively. "Hiding 'cause Vogler's looking for you, huh? That's just pathetic."

"Not why I'm here." House still isn't telling the full truth, but he isn't lying. The probing stares from his fellows makes him admit, "It's a contributing factor.

"Right. You think you can avoid firing one of us by hiding out here?" Chase's Australian accent drips off the words like molasses. Everything he says sounds slippery because of it. "He'll find you sooner or later."

It's true that House doesn't want to fire them, and he is hiding from Vogler, but the reason he picked this hiding spot was unrelated. He hasn't seen Dr. Sweety in two days. Her pager was off. Her phone went straight to voicemail when he called. He didn't want to say he was worried about her, so instead he pushed the thoughts away. He was a doctor, not a detective, he reminds himself. If he didn't see her today, though, he would be bringing his complaints to Cuddy.

He grabs a paper cup from a shelf, running some water into it from the tap. "I'm okay with later."

Foreman interrupts their banter, getting them to focus on their newest patient. "39-year-old female, 28 weeks pregnant. G-4, P-Zero."

"Three miscarriages?" House furrows his brow then reaches out for the folder. "Gimme."

"What did she choke on?" House asks the two fellows, searching all around the office for the sweetness he needed. His strategy of avoiding Vogler worked until he needed something in his office. As soon as he stepped in, the man cornered him.

He'd checked the first few places he could think of like the cabinets and drawers next to the coffee maker, all bare. The stickers on the coffee pot's face were peeling, maybe a sign to get a new one.

Foreman is the quickest on the draw, an disbelieving look dawning on his face. "Her food. But muscle weakness isn't a symptom of preeclampsia."

He's been looking for his sugar packets for at least ten minutes and still coming up empty. His coffee would be cold by the time he found it. "What kind of food?"

"A little bit of cooked pear. Doesn't matter, shows weakness."

"She choked on soft, wet pear. Did she forget to take the bones out?" House turns back to his search, finding nothing but dust where he hoped there was sweetener. "That's way past muscle weakness. Did you do an upper endoscopy?"

"You think there's something obstructing her esophagus?" He hates it when Chase answers his question with a question. Clearly the answer is no.

His point has been made already when the glass door opens, a sigh falling from Wilson's mouth as he held it. "We gotta talk."

"Ooh. We gotta talk," House parrots, face twisted in feigned surprise. As he limps out the door, he calls back, "And check her eyelids."

His friend initially goes left, but corrects his course when House goes right. "Where are we going?"

"Sweety's office. She keeps a box of Sweet 'n' Low in there," House answers, sending a withering look at the inquisitive man.

"It's gonna be locked." Wilson shrugs his shoulders, hands in his lab coat. "Wait, you've been in her office?"

With Wilson having known her longer, House thought for sure that he would've know her better. If Wilson had not been allowed in her office, then somewhere along the way he'd become closer to her than Wilson was.

"You haven't?" he says with some astonishment, striding up to the door with her name on it. "She likes the privacy. Better than having someone walk in on us in a janitor's closet, right?"

"Stop." Wilson holds his temple with a clawed hand, looking pained. "Melina is nice. Stop bothering the poor woman. She clearly doesn't like you."

House refuses to believe that. She treats everyone the same, like complete strangers, except him. She works with Wilson and Cuddy, she's clearly comfortable around them, used to their presence, but she doesn't flirt with them, doesn't send them secret little smiles while blinking their soft lashes. She doesn't look at their faces.

Greg parts the leaves of a potted plant outside her door, pulling a small piece of brass from the soil. He shows it to Wilson, unlocking the door and limping inside.

The oncologist looks to him narrowly, filing in and closing the door. "Did we just break in?"

"Yes." The nephrologist moves behind the large mahogany desk in the center. A wide, windowed armoire behind it holds all kinds of nick-knacks and figures. The actual books are either stuffed on the bottom row or placed on the smaller bookcase by a black filing cabinet. "You're my accomplice now so you can't report me."

"Right. Then I guess you have free reign to do whatever you want in here. Just get on with it." Wilson's eyes search the room. Despite his nonchalance, he seems specifically interested in the myriad fingernail-sized statuettes, aligned by color and height, descending in size as they got progressively closer to the end of the rainbow.

Pulling out the office chair, he notices the exceptionally wide crease. Evidence of a woman with a large asset using it daily. Placing himself in it, he pulls out the bottom right drawer, knowing it was where she kept things not related to work. He shifts through the deep container. Tampons, phone chargers, and a pack of floss float to the top. He brushes aside an emery board and a box of matches.

"Aha!" House extracts a small box at the back of the drawer, shaking it and hearing the sweet noise of sugar packets inside. He peeked into the drawer last time he came by and saw the box, making a mental note of it for later. "Good thing I-"

His voice stops coming out of his mouth when he sees what was beneath the treasured box of sugar. A bulbous, pink rod, covered in silicone all over, sits innocently at the bottom of the drawer. His eyes find the nub at its base meant to stimulate the clitoris, several buttons below meant to change vibration pattern and intensity, and elects to force the drawer shut quickly. It clacks loudly. He spins the wheeled chair around and all his effort proves useless. He wasn't the only one that saw the toy.

Wilson stares agape at the closed drawer. Eyes wide open, his brown pupils glide to his friend's face. "I'll never be able to look her in the eyes again."

"No windows in this office, I've noticed." Teasingly, the diagnostician raises his brows at his friend. "Very private. Intimate, even. Still think she's too nice?"

Wilson holds his head with one hand, a crooked, incredulous smile spawning on his lips. "This is such an invasion of privacy, what we're doing."

Greg looks smugly at his companion, smirk growing. "It's good you used the term 'we' because I will take you down with me in court."

"How can I talk to her normally after this?" The oncologist paces in a tiny circle, running a hand through his ruddy brown hair. "I mean, she's a beautiful woman. Any time I see her I'll only be able to think of-of that."

Greg pulls down his blue oxford, straightening the wrinkles a bit. "Every time I see her, I already think of her great breasts. Now they've got some competition. It's a win-win for me." He can already imagine the fantasies he'll have when he goes to bed tonight.

His aloofness makes Wilson sigh, like a piece of his soul was leaving with the breath. "Can I tell you what I need to tell you, already?"

"Sure." House shrugs, rising from the swivel chair. "Then you can go take care of your little problem."

Wilson looks down at his crotch and immediately lets his arms fall from his hips, placing his coat in front of his rousing chub. "There's a special board meeting today. Only one item on the agenda: You."

It isn't impossible to vote him out, but Vogler would need unanimous approval to revoke his tenure, and he says as much. Wilson wouldn't vote against him. He was the only friend House had. Even Cuddy might vote for him to stay.

"Oh, well that settles it. Mr. Ruthless Corporate Raider will be totally stymied, go home, curl up on the floor of his shower, and weep."

"What can he do? I got a contract."

"Does it say how much your team is paid? Where your parking space is? Whether your work crush gets her bonus?"

"It's not a crush." They go back and forth like they always do, debating who's right. House thinks he'll win, Wilson thinks Vogler will. One of them has to be wrong.

"Vogler's smart. He's got some plan to get you."

"Does it involve candy?" House puts his cane under his arm, reaching into his pocket for a Vicodin. "I'm a sucker for chocolates."

Wilson gives him a dead eyed stare, as if trying to figure out what was going on in his head. The younger brunette turns to leave, almost running into a plump male with acne scars.

"Uh, hi. Sorry, is Dr. Melina available?"

"Sorry." The oncologist shakes his head, backing up a pace or two. "Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just a patient asking for her, wants her to be the one to insert his catheter." He looks down awkwardly, shuffling his feet. "She has kind of a reputation as the gentlest hands in the department."

"Hm. Now that is interesting." Gregory plasters on one of his forced smiles, teeth hidden behind his lips. "Haven't seen her. Check back tomorrow."

As the intruder and Wilson walk away, he pops the pill into his mouth.

The door flies open, flung by his hands on the glass. House steps through, into Lisa Cuddy's first floor office. She's at her desk, pointedly staring at her calculator.

"This is how Vogler's gonna destroy me?" Greg asks loudly, his emotions running close to the surface and he can't put his finger on why.

It was what Vogler had threatened earlier that day, taking down the people around him, only back then he was talking about board members. This was more personal, now.

Sweety isn't even a department head, just a doctor with her own practice. She'd be up for tenure soon, it wasn't right to mess with her employment now. What if she was forced to take time off or had her hours cut? Wilson's theory that she was on holiday had its perks, but he could be wrong. The timing was too perfect for it to be a coincidence, right?

"What did he do, grease your cane?" she quips, punching in a few more digits.

"I don't know what he did, but Sweety's gone." He lifts his eyebrows and moves his head, the zip of anger making him want to move somewhat, to let it out. "She hasn't been here in a day, maybe two."

"House, she's fine." Lifting up one sheet, her eyes darted up to meet his, then back to her paper. "She asked for time off. She does this every few months. She'll be back soon."

"You're sure he didn't pressure her into this?" Cuddy, for her part, just shrugs, unaware of what Vogler did or didn't do with his time. Greg huffs. "Where is she?"

Cuddy sighs, leaning back in her chair. "You know I can't tell you that. It's a personal matter."

"Which tells me so much by itself," the older man says, his face lighting up. "If it was a simple vacation, you'd have just told me. That means it's something juicier."

She scoffs, shaking her head, the same way she does when he catches her in a lie. "Sometimes, people need breaks. And it's not my business to share."

"I already explained why that isn't the case," he whines, slumping his shoulders exaggeratedly. "Is she going to rehab? Jail? Court date?"

"House," Cuddy warns, droll expression landing on him. "I'm not at liberty to say. These are private matters-"

He clenches his right leg, fingers pressing deeply into the denim. An ache in his leg just intensified suddenly, the old pain striking him brutally. He needs to sit and he does, almost knocking over the lamp in his haste. It has been coming and going in waves recently. The most harrowing part was everyone looking at him with this horrible face that says "I want to help but can't, so I'll just stare awkwardly."

Cuddy sighs and he can feel her pity. He'll allow it, but only because it'd work in his favor to change her mind. "She takes a few days off every other month or so. She'll be back by tomorrow. Why do you want to know?"

"She's not answering her phone. Need her for a consult." Greg's voice comes close to cracking, nerves fueling his false calmness.

"Holy shit." Cuddy's face breaks into a grin, one she tries and fails to hide under her hand. "You like her."

Greg feels the heat on his face, but he's never been a blusher. "Of course I like her. I like her sweet rack."

Her smile grows even further. "You actually like her! You don't need her for a consult, you just want her around. You are so screwed." She shakes her head, looking softly hopeful, but full of dread at the same time. "She doesn't like anybody. She's like you in that way."

He waves her off, turning around swiftly. She'll never change her tune unless he has a better reason and he just doesn't.

Wilson had said the same thing to him. That he bothered their precious Dr. Sweety. The only person not telling him to leave her alone was the urologist herself.

The next night, all he feels is relief. There are others that disagree, such as the Dean of Medicine. The joy he gained at losing the parasite was trumped by the moody way Cuddy downed her glass of champagne, reminding him of the money and how much good it could've done.

Without Cameron, his desk was darkened by the other two fellows, Wilson taking up his usual chair as House stood next to him.

"You should be mourning. I know I am," Cuddy says before leaving dourly. The darkness outside the window seems to perfectly match her dull mood. He stares after her, thinking about what she said.

The things she says about him are usually true, and tonight is no different. He should've just swallowed his pride and got along with Vogler, but he didn't, just like every other time he's encountered a bully in his life.

A flash of blue streaks by his transparent door. The woman wears a light blue sheath dress, one with no sleeves or neck. She's covered by her black undershirt, sleeves long and collar extending under her chin.

He starts when he sees her, snatching his cane from where it leans. Limping to the door, he ignores the confused glances and questions thrown his way. Her legs move quickly, but the height he has on her helps him catch up.

"Hey! Sweety!" He calls out and her pace lags.

Her braid falls over her shoulder when she looks back at him critically. She searches his body, looking at his cane and shoes before a muted surprise falls on her face. "Greg." The shock turns into happiness, her cheeks bringing up the edges of her mouth. "It's been a while."

"That's my line. I was worried." What comes out of his mouth isn't supposed to sound like that. He wanted it to be scathing, sarcastic, but it comes out soft. She turns around, looking at his face for the first time in days.

He was still worried, actually. She looks thin and wan, small circles appearing under eyes. Discoloration around her nose and eyes mars her usually hydrated and healthy skin. She doesn't look horrible, but at least a little out of sorts.

"Greg..." Deeply shining green orbs take in his appearance. As with every time she looks at his face, there's a tinge of awe that spirals in her gaze, like she wasn't expecting what she saw. "I was doing something nearby. I just stopped in to take care of some memos that've piled up."

If it were anybody else, he'd call them out.

Point out the overnight bag on her shoulder, the yellow hospital-issue socks she had on, tucked into her wedge ankle boots. Tell her her car isn't in her space. She wasn't on her way anywhere. She was in this hospital the whole time, doing something that would be done regularly every few months. Now she was heading home. He needs more information, he decides.

"You... got a ride?"

"Yeah, right. Like he just gave you a perfectly restored '66 Corvette because you lied about his brother's medication."

"True story. Cross my heart."

"Don't hope for that." There she goes again. Saying things that make him question whether she's playing along or totally clueless. It's something about the lack of typical facial clues, he thinks. The little things seem to mean a lot when it comes to her. He's good with languages, yes, but he hasn't found a perfect translation for hers yet.

Her eyes tighten and her ears pull back when she's mad. Her cheeks take on a rounder swell when she's happy, a dimple popping out on occasion. When she's sad, the line of her mouth seems to widen and her temples whiten, growing pale. There's a lot of things to notice if you're observant enough.

"I've missed this," she admits, blue-tipped finger pushing a hank of hair behind her ear. There's that dimple appearing on her cheek, a warmth growing in his chest at the prospect of her missing him.

"What, me bothering you?"

"No, your company." She turns a suspicious gaze on him, watching his movements closely. "Why would you say that?"

"Well, others tell me I'm mischievous, nasty, conniving, all kinds of things. They like to couch it in softer terms, like 'asshole'." His grip on the wheel tightens, but he forces it to loosen, sliding along it when he slides into a parallel parking space. "More often than not, they plead with me to stop bothering you."

If she sees the flash of pain in his eyes, she doesn't mention it.

"I'm not bothered by you, regardless of what others say." She appraises him, green eyes stroking up and down his body from the other seat. "What qualities you do have, I find very palatable."

He wonders what would bother her as she leaves his car, thanking him and saying goodbye, to which he waves. Is there anything that could turn her mostly neutral expressions into passionate visages? He tries not to let it tempt him.

How had she managed to worm his way inside of his defenses so quickly? Why did her words leave a bittersweet taste in his mouth, like guilt or shame? He reaches into his pocket, fiddling with a pill bottle.

The only thing that stops him from descending into a Vicodin-fueled storm is the business card sitting in the passenger seat, apparently having fallen from her pocket. A little white card with the name of their workplace at the top. Written in ballpoint is the time and date of the next appointment, six weeks from today. The name of the doctor on the card was almost unimportant compared to their title.

Doctor of Psychiatric Medicine.

She's seeing a psychiatrist and having a procedure she needed to stay overnight for. He racks his brain with what it could be, but comes up with nothing. The best thing he can think of is to go see this Dr. Henderson in Psychiatry and get what he can out of him.