Hello everyone! I'm back with a new one for you. This story is Part 1 of a two part story. Of course it is House/OFC. Those who have read me before know that. If you're new to my stories, welcome, but be warned, there be no Huddy here (*shivers at the thought*).

This story came about from a discussion with my fellow OC writers about where House went after the disastrous Season 7 finale. I started thinking about that and created this story with a heroine that I have been wanting to use for a while.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this one. Reviews are like crack to writers.

Chapter 1

"He's a bum." Tom said in disgust.

"You think everyone is a bum." Julia told him, with a smile.

"He is."

"Why? He pays for his scotch. He hasn't asked us to give him any freebies."

"Look at him! He's been wearing the same shirt every single day he's come in here. And he comes in here every single day."

She shrugged. "He could just be short on cash. Lots of people are these days."

"Then he should go get a job."

She shook her head. "Have you read any of the news? It's not so easy to do."

Tome waved his hand dismissively. "There's jobs if you want them. You found the job here."

"Only because you'd rather spend your days fishing than tending bar. I was lucky. Not everyone is."

"Well, speaking of fishing, today in the boat wore me out. I'm gonna take a nap. Keep your eye on that one. I don't trust him."

"You also don't trust anyone."

"'Cept you." He walked out while Julia stayed and wiped off the bar. As she did, she glanced at the man in question. Not because Tom had told her to, but because he was interesting.

He was probably only a few years older than her, very tall and with the most striking blue eyes she had ever seen. The cane leaning against the wall by the table where he sat was not an affectation. She saw him lean on it as he walked, the limp pronounced. His face was worn, but in a good way and the scruff of beard only made him more so.

There was intelligence in that face, but pain as well and not just from his leg. She wondered what he was running away from. That he was running away was a given. Everyone here was running from something. Even her.

San Paolo Island - San P to the residents - was too small to really attract many tourists. Oh, there were some. Their mayor often convinced (read: bribed) travel agents to send people here, but they usually didn't return. Not that the island lacked the beach and sunshine. It had that in spades. But the town was …shabby. Not just the buildings, but the people as well. Most had wandered here while traveling to one of the larger Caribbean islands and had stayed when they realized they could hide here. There were a few natives, but not many. Most of them had moved on to better tourist islands where they could get good jobs.

Industry in the town was practically non-existent. There was some commercial fishing and a small cannery which employed most the residents who didn't work in the miniscule tourist trade. There were two or three small motels, a long way from five star. They'd be lucky to claim a half a star. Still, they were decent enough for the few tourists that came. Two of the motels had small restaurants in them and there was one other nice restaurant. Tom's, the bar where Julia was currently staring at the man, was just that – a bar. Oh, he served some barely edible sandwiches, but it was certainly not a culinary paradise.

The man usually came in around two in the afternoon and ordered a scotch. He nursed it for as long as he could before ordering another. He sometimes ordered a third, but that was pushing it. And she could see him wobbling when he left after three. He never ordered food, and by the time he left, it was early evening.

Julia wondered if he ever ate. He was slim when he first came in, but he seemed even thinner now. He'd been coming in about three weeks now. She'd seen him going into Ralph's motel. He must be staying there, which was probably a good choice, since it was the cheapest place on the island.

When a sandwich was slipped onto the table in front of him, House looked up. The woman, the day bartender, was standing there.

"I didn't order this." He told her.

"I know." She said. "But you look like you need it."

"I'm not paying for it."

"You already did. You get a free sandwich with every three drinks. I figured you have about a dozen coming to you."

He knew she was lying and she knew that he knew. She didn't bother to hide it in her expression. If he refused it, he'd be acting out of stubbornness only. If he took it, well, what would it hurt really?

Besides, if attractive women wanted to feed him, who was he to refuse?

She was attractive. He had noticed that the first day he'd come in. Which was one reason why he'd kept coming back to this bar. She was tall, with a few curves. She could lose a few pounds, but she wasn't fat. Her short brown hair was pulled back from her face with a wide hair band. Mostly, he assumed to keep her hair from getting into the drinks. No one could accuse her of being a fashion plate, with her knee length shorts and loose t-shirt. Still, they were clean, and he'd seen different ones on her, so she owned more than one set. Her green eyes were visible despite the glasses that she wore, as was the hint of sadness in them even though she was smiling at him.

She saw the look of curiosity and speculation that he gave her. She sat in the other chair.

"Whoa," he said, "I didn't realize the sandwich came with strings. Do I have to talk to you to eat?"

"No. Just taking a short break. Gets tiring behind the bar."

"Yeah, the crowds in here must be hard to handle." He replied sardonically and she chuckled.

"I know. Most days, you're the only one in here for most of the time. A few guys from the cannery come in after work, but we don't exactly get a rush. That's why Tom lets me handle it so that he can go fishing. Or, actually, napping in his boat with a fishing pole beside him."

"He pay you a lot to do this?"

"No, he pays me very little. But I get to keep my massive tips." She said with an exaggerated expression. "It's fine."

She hesitated for a moment, then said, "How close are you to running out of money?"

His head shot up. "Why do you think I'm running out of money?"

"When you first came in, you had three drinks and your tips were good. Now, you're down to two and the tips have lightened up. You also haven't been eating, other than the crappy donuts at Ralph's motel where you're staying."

"You know where I'm staying?"

"It's not that big an island. Everyone knows everything that's going on here."

"It's a strange place. A little too run down to be a good tourist stop, but not much else going on."

"There's a lot going on, but you're right, we're not a tourist destination. This is a place for people who are running away from something. Like you."

"Why do you think I'm running away?"

"Well, anyone who stays here for any amount of time longer than about a week, is usually here because they're running away. Besides, you have that look."

"I'm not going to ask what look. I suppose now you want to know what I'm running from?"

"Nope. Your business. All you need to know is that we all understand."

He'd been listening to her well-modulated, intelligent voice and realized she was talking about herself too.

"How long has it been since you ran away?" he asked her.

She smiled, but the sadness from her eyes was there too. "About three years. I used to work with Tom. He retired a long time ago and moved here. I kept in contact with him and he told me to come here, so I did."

"When whatever you're running away from happened."

"Yes."

He nodded.

"Look," she said, "If you're running short on money, you can't keep staying at the motel. There are some other places to stay that would be cheaper. And maybe you should think about getting a job."

"Didn't know that I was staying here."

"Well, that's your choice of course. But this is a good place to run away to. No one will bother you. No one cares why you're here."

With that, she walked away from him and returned to the bar. He watched her go, then turned to the sandwich, picked it up and took a bite. Some sort of fish, with some seasonings. It was very good.

And the truth was, she had hit it on the head. All of it. He wasn't eating very much and he was running short of money. After his, uh, 'accident', running away to a tropical island had seemed like a good idea. He'd withdrawn as much money as he could from the bank, but after paying a last minute air fare and the hotel on the first, very expensive touristy island he'd gone to, he realized his money wasn't going to last if he went through it like that.

Someone had mentioned San Paolo island as a much cheaper place to hang out and they'd been right. The motel was a bit shabby, but basically clean and very cheap. And they provided coffee and cake in the morning. A good deal.

He'd walked the beach a bit, but even before his leg, he hadn't been much of a beach person and now it was really hard with the cane. So when he'd seen Tom's Bar just sitting there near the beach, he figured it was a sign – a good sign. He'd wandered in and ordered a scotch – which was ridiculously cheap – and had gone back every day.

He'd seen the attractive bartender, but other than ordering his drink and saying thank you, he hadn't conversed. He was surprised when she'd approached him with the sandwich and had hit everything on the head.

He knew there was a limited amount of money and it wouldn't last too much longer if he continued at the motel. But he hadn't known where else he could live. Maybe he should ask her what she was referring to. And if she knew where he could get some work to tide him over.

But what sort of work could he do? Not medicine, not here, not now, maybe not ever again. He really didn't have the training for anything else. He'd noticed a battered old piano in the corner of the bar. Maybe…

Julia wasn't surprised when he approached the bar. A shame about the limp. He was really tall and very sexy. Not that she was interested in that anymore, but it was nice to look.

"So," he began. "You said something about getting a job. What did you have in mind?"

"There's lots of things. You could take a day or so here bartending and give me some time off, for one."

"Don't know much about bartending,"

"Neither did I when I got here. Luckily the usuals don't order anything fancy. The tourists try some tropical drinks, but that's only a few and most of the tourists don't wander in here."

He nodded, then inclined his head towards the piano. "Anyone play that?"

"Not that I've ever heard. Tom inherited it when he bought the place. One of the locals used to play occasionally, but he got too old and doesn't get out much."

"If I tried that out, what do you think? Would I get paid?"

She shrugged. "If Tom thinks you're any good and would bring some people in, he might give you a few dollars and you might get some tips. Do that a couple of nights, and tend the bar another day or two and you'll make a little money."

"And what about a place to live that's cheaper than the motel?"

"Tom owns a few beach huts that he rents out. I live in one. There are some empty ones. He might give you a good price for renting it. Especially if I ask him."

He stared at her. "Why would you? You don't even know me."

"We're all strangers on San P, until we're not."

"That's not an answer."

"I know. By the way, I'm Julia."

He stared at her without speaking.

She sighed. "The correct response is, 'Hi, Julia, nice to meet you, I'm—" she stopped and looked hard at him.

"Greg." He said finally.

"Nice to meet you, Greg."

"So what should I…?"

"Go on back to the motel. I'll talk to Tom when he gets back and come and let you know."

He nodded and turned to leave, then turned back and said, "Thanks."

She had a feeling it took a lot for him to say that and she smiled at him as he left.

Thanks for reading! More to come in a few days.