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Diagnostics feels dead. The air conditioning is fighting a losing battle against the greenhouse effect of glass walls and southern exposure. Opening the door to House's office lets out a blast of heat, even at eight at night. Foreman wonders how Chase and Cameron can stand it, but he supposes that, like him, they're taking what shifts they can in other departments. Chase said something about updating his surgical qualifications, and Cameron's working in the ER. Nobody's been around to open a window. The conference room is heat-broken and stuffy, but it feels like it's just an effect of House's absence. Foreman frowns down at the scuffed brown stain on the floor. For Christ's sake, what kind of red tape does Cuddy have to hack through before replacing a carpet?
Foreman steps across to Cameron's desk and the pile of neatly-sorted mail. He flips through a few consult requests and picks up House's medical journals. House whines about missing exciting new developments in the field of idiocy. He steals Foreman's subscriptions and crosses out bits of the leading articles, leaving contemptuous little WTF?s in the margins, before Foreman can get to them and come to his own conclusions. It's easier to pick up House's mail, even if it makes Foreman roll his eyes at himself for doing anything for House when he's more able to fend for himself now than since Foreman met him.
The air stirs when the door opens, slightly cooler against the sweat that's sprung up at his temples and under his dress shirt. Foreman turns to the door, glad that the day is over. He hates the feeling of sweating through his shirt and antiperspirant.
Cameron blocks his escape. "How is he?" she asks. She crosses her arms and leans in the doorframe, all angles, looking...concerned.
Foreman flips his briefcase open and fills it with House's mail, a good excuse to hide his grimace. "I don't have any news for you," he says.
"Everyone knows..."
Yeah. Everyone knows. Foreman's been living with the raised eyebrows for a month or more, and it's entirely his fault. He clenches his jaw, until the tension threatens to turn into a headache. He thought the gossip might trail off while House wasn't at the hospital. He should have counted on Cameron. "Have you asked Wilson?"
"He says he doesn't know."
That might be true enough. House spends his time avoiding the hospital; Wilson's patient load hasn't gotten any easier. Foreman probably sees Wilson more than House does. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't intend to ask. He flicks the briefcase closed. Even though he sees House more, that doesn't mean he knows the answer to Cameron's questions. He throws his gym bag over one shoulder, picks up his briefcase, and shrugs as he passes by her. "He's House," he says, because no matter what he says, Cameron won't be satisfied.
The last thing he wants to tell her is the truth.
***
July's nearly over, and August looms ahead, hot and muggy and still. When Foreman's not at work, he loves the summer, the laziness of it, the bright glare of sun off the hospital windows, the sudden blow of heat when he walks outside. The sidewalk radiates up at him, until he can feel it through the soles of his shoes. Even though the sun's moving down the sky, the temperature's still in the nineties and likely to stay there. By the time he reaches his car and more air conditioning, Foreman's dripping in sweat, and sticky with it. He heads for the gym. Traffic's light, but he got a late start after work, and probably he'll have to wait to sub in to his usual pickup basketball game.
Foreman needs these late nights and the occasional Saturday afternoon, when he can pretend he's not a grownup, not a doctor, not responsible. It's every summer when he was a kid, chasing Marcus down and learning his moves. It's the tar-smelling asphalt of their neighbourhood courts, the chain link ringing, somebody's stereo blasting. It's playing until the black concrete is washed in the orange glow of streetlights. It's not dealing with House.
He doesn't know the guys who show up most nights. It's enough that they're good, that they can play. He can laugh with them and return their trash talk without bothering to ensure that they become friends. Once or twice he's gone out for drinks with them after their gym time is up, but mostly it works just as well to go home with a wave, calling out, "Next time, okay?" It doesn't matter if he means it.
In the change room, he strips off his shirt and pants and pulls on shorts and a t-shirt. He saunters into the gym, already grinning, as his heart starts to pump faster. There's a shout, and the squeak of sneakers on the laminate. The Shirts race down the court to defend. Foreman walks up the sideline, not paying much attention, and one of the players clips him as he runs past.
"Hey!" Foreman turns after the guy, ready to demand an apology--he had plenty of room to go around.
But it's House who smirks at him over his shoulder as he sprints into the play. He's already too far away to hear if Foreman shouts.
Foreman stares after him. He recognizes House's shirt, navy blue with the Columbia logo in fading gray, the sleeves ripped off years ago, leaving gaping holes at the shoulders--it's one of his. These days he has a rotating warddrobe of what's at House's place, what's at his, and what House has stolen for unfathomable reasons all his own. The only way to reliably gather his clothes together is to sort through House's laundry, which House lets marinate in athletic socks for as long as possible before having it all bundled together and sent to a cleaning service. This shirt, Foreman's been missing since June.
House snatched it one morning on his way out for a run, laughing at Foreman as he went. Foreman hadn't had the energy or the desire to stop him, since House had just spent the last half-hour making sure he wouldn't want to move at all, not even to argue. He closed his eyes against the slow advance of the sun, rolled his shoulders to feel the soft slide of the sheets underneath him, feeling deliciously exhausted. The echo of pleasure weighed his body down, left him aware of the position and heaviness of his limbs, and how good it felt just to breathe. How House had the energy to go running, he didn't know, but Foreman could afford to be happy for him. And happy for himself, sure, whenever House felt like making the most of the situation.
On House, the shirt is slightly baggy and just short enough that it rides up to show a flash of stomach and the curve of hipbone when his raises his arms to defend, and settles just barely over the waistband of his shorts when the play is done. The shorts are loose and knee-length, to hide the scar, but close enough to basketball shorts that no one notices. His socks are ragged but his Nikes are the flashiest on the court--House knows what he wants to spend money on, and it isn't things like his own food or personal grooming. It's sunglasses, or sneakers, or his motorcycle (only premium gas has ever touched the inside of its tank, no matter how expensive). Once he decides, nothing will stop him from getting the best.
Down the court, House gets in front of his man and blocks a pass. The Skins make a layup and check the ball back to the Shirts, and the action moves back up to the other end of the gym. House switches with one of the other players and stands at the bench. He takes a drink from a bottle, then spills water over his hair, rubbing it out of his eyes and running his hands through his dripping hair, plastering it to his forehead.
Foreman stalks over and grabs his arm. "What the hell are you doing here?" he says tightly.
"Playing some b-ball with my homies," House says--loudly and gleefully--in what's supposed to pass for a gangsta accent.
Foreman rolls his eyes. This is his place, his time, and House never could have done this to him two months ago. It would be childish to throw that in House's face, even though House probably expects him to. Mostly, Foreman really doesn't want to be associated with him. Nobody here knows either of them, though, so it's not like anyone will think he has anything to do with House as long as he plays along. "Whatever," he says.
House looks only mildly disappointed that he doesn't get an argument. Foreman brings his water bottle to the bench. The Skins are short a player, so Foreman pulls off his t-shirt and joins them. The air in the gym is just cool enough to make him shiver--he hasn't worked up a sweat yet--and he knows House is watching him.
House has seen him naked plenty of times, but this is different. House's gaze slides over him surreptitiously, like he might actually have learned the meaning of the word subtle. He's always pretended indifference to Foreman's body, even though he can't hide the heat in his eyes when Foreman uses his strength to pin him down. His eyes flick to Foreman's chest and shoulders when he pushes back, pretends he wants to wrestle free of his grip. He keeps a hand on Foreman's stomach when he's sucking him off, tracing the clench of his abs when he tries something particularly inventive with his tongue, or scrapes his bristles across Foreman's cock and makes him flinch and buck up at the same time. Standing on the sideline half-stripped feels too public and strangely intimate at the same time. The memory of those moments hangs over them while they're separated by half a dozen strangers.
A minute later, Foreman subs in and takes a pass, leading the Skins down the court, getting into the rhythm of give-and-go with a guy he's played with a few times before. He manages a shot that spins off the rim, and one of his teammates taps in the rebound. As they turn back to defense, the other team sends in a new line, and suddenly House is playing opposite him, guarding him as if the rules around personal fouls are a lot more like guidelines. He keeps one hand hovering over the center of Foreman's chest, waving the other in front of his face to distract him.
Foreman resists the urge to slap House's hand down--it's not annoying enough to hand him two foul shots--but he sets his jaw and glares. House grins like this is the best game ever. "What are you trying to prove?" Foreman asks him, between breaths.
"Showing off my mad skillz," House says, laughter like an undercurrent in his voice.
Foreman huffs out a breath. He's been like this all summer; different, open. Christ, it's strange to sprint across the gym and have House beat him to the key. All that running. Two months since the day he woke up and said he'd had this crazy dream and didn't need his cane anymore. Two months since he was shot. Foreman could have told him someday a patient would come after him. Anyone could have told him that. Trust House to turn a certainty into a miracle.
Foreman takes the ball again and snaps off a pass, sets his shoulder forward as he pushes around House. He jumps up for a rebound and another two points.
House takes the ball and bounces it to him from the back line. He's like a kid, having the time of his life. He looks like he just can't stop smiling, even as he's panting hard.
The ball is firm and perfect and familiar, trapped between Foreman's fingers. His shoulders bunch up as he squeezes it. He's starting to smile, too, because maybe he understands what House wants, what he's after. They're never going to be teammates. They're never going to agree. This is a deadly serious competition, and at the same time, it doesn't matter at all. "You're going down," he says.
House's mouth crooks, turning on the innuendo. "Bring it on," he shoots back, his eyes brightening. It's a game to him. All a game. Something he couldn't have, these past few years.
Foreman checks the ball at his chest, hard. House launches an overhand pass at one of the Shirts, cherry-picking at half-court, and they're off again, bumping each other as they run.
Actually, House's "mad skillz" aren't much. He has the basics, and he knows the rules, but he dribbles the ball too far out from his body, making it easy to steal, and his shot is terrible. He's better at defense, where his height helps him. He seems to know even before Foreman does which way he's going to break and when he's faking his shot.
Foreman thought that House would hate playing on a team, that he'd want to compete at something solitary, and win or lose only by his own merits. He shouldn't trust anyone enough for more than that. But instead, House uses his teammates perfectly. He's not an ego player. He runs Foreman into screens, and he passes instead of trying for bold, ridiculous three-point attempts that fall short of the net.
It's late enough that some of the other pick-up players are leaving. All that are left are the hardcore guys who hang on until their gym time's up. Pretty soon it's five-on-five and no pause for subs. Nobody wants to admit they need a water break; the first person to suggest it will be jeered, and then the game will break up, the rhythm lost.
Foreman falls into sync with House easily. He passes, shoots, fakes, dodges, plays off the other Skins, and always, House is there. Foreman's breath comes harshly, the dry air tasting coppery in his throat, sweat chilling his skin, and his thighs and calves are burning. He follows House, mirrors him, blocks him. He slaps hands with his teammates and calls out encouragement, but they don't really matter. He and House are playing their own game of one-on-one.
They're together, but House is still leading. Three days after Cameron told Foreman about the shooting--her clothes still splashed with House's blood, a streak of red on her forehead where she'd pushed her hair back with one wrist; she was shaking, and her eyes were wide with reaction, adrenaline--House woke up and walked out of the hospital without a word. Foreman stayed away from his place, went to work, carefully didn't care.
House knocked on his door a week later. Even without the rap of wood on wood, his knock was unmistakable. Foreman opened the door and stared at him flatly.
"Pouting?" House said. He wasn't using his cane, but he limped when he stepped forward. He'd already gained back more use of his leg than Foreman would have believed possible.
"No," he said. And then, because House was the most reckless, thoughtless bastard on the planet, he said coldly, "You were shot. You could have died. You think that doesn't matter?"
"Does it?" House asked. He was smiling, a faint, half-amused look.
Foreman let go of the door, about to turn away. Walk away. "Yeah, House, it does."
"Good," House said, and shoved him, hard, into the apartment. He kicked the door shut, clearly without a single thought for his leg, and pinned Foreman to the wall, chest to chest. "This a problem?" he said, and kissed Foreman before he could answer.
It wasn't. Foreman kissed him back like it was revenge, pouring anger into it, and bruising House's lips. He ran his hands up to House's shoulders and then down to grip his biceps as if he could only hold on tight enough, then nothing in the past two weeks would have happened.
Cuddy said this was what House wanted. Wilson had his medical proxy and agreed. Cameron and Chase had been there, had seen House fall, seen the blood pour out, seen the shooter take aim again--no one had stopped him--
House pushed against him, one hand pressed against his chest, making no move to shake off Foreman's grip. He sucked on Foreman's tongue, and arousal pounded through him, a cold wave falling into his stomach, making him tremble, heat following after, pooling in his groin.
"Come on--" Foreman pointed towards the bedroom with his chin. His body was buzzing, his cock twitching, eager. House could do this, would do this when he wanted, get single-minded and determined. His erection was pressed against Foreman's through their pants, fully hard already, as if he'd been waiting--no; as if the pain and the drugs weren't in the way anymore.
"Right here," House said. "Now." His hands were already busy on Foreman's belt, then on his own fly. The denim of his jeans rubbed harshly against his cock for an instant, and then House's hand was there in its place, holding both of them. "Now," he said again, almost a whisper, and he pushed his hips forward.
Foreman let out a sound, embarrassingly hoarse, as House's callused hand jerked them together. He crushed House's arms in his hands, simply holding on while House drove them higher, together, towards orgasm. He thrust hard enough to push Foreman back into the wall, using both hands now, massaging Foreman's balls. His grip twisted, slick with sweat and precome.
"Yeah," House said, and then again, like he was remembering how good this could feel. He bucked his hips, and his hand moved faster, wild and breathless and frantic. Foreman pulled him forward and kissed him again, less angry this time, open-mouthed and feverish. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft wet noises between them, the slick rhythm of House's hands and the gasped breaths caught between their lips. Felt good, legs shaking, and House was kissing him when he came.
"Jesus," Foreman said, and finally got his own hand in the action, taking over for House. He tipped his head back, watching House's face. His eyes were glazed, his mouth open, and he moaned when Foreman slowed his hand. He drew it out, so that House's climax came over him quietly, his dick spurting in Foreman's hands, once, and again, striping Foreman's shirt, adding to the mess between them.
House hasn't changed, not really. Foreman has caught him when he studies the floor, or stares at his leg, and Foreman knows he's thinking that the ketamine treatment won't last. It can't. It was a long shot to begin with. The fact that House has gotten so much back is wonderful, but it's not realistic.
Neither of them are optimists. But sometimes--tonight, at the tail end of the basketball game, when House leans over, his hands on his knees, his chest working like a bellows, he looks up at Foreman and grins, his dimple showing--sometimes, it's hard not to hope.
At ten o'clock, the big overhead lights in the gym are shut off, and all that's left is gray twilight falling in from the high windows above the stands. He and House are the last ones out, the other players too tired to do more than pick up their bags and walk out. Foreman's blood pounds in his pulse points like a drumbeat, washes adrenaline and exhaustion through his muscles in equal measure. His legs have gone beyond aching. They feel like they're not quite his, the muscles trembling, his knees loose and hot. He played harder tonight than ever before. Trying to prove something, maybe. House is in better shape than Foreman would have given him credit for. He squirts the last of his water into his mouth, luke-warm and tasting of plastic, and he can feel each swallow all the way down to his stomach.
House follows him to the change room. When Foreman takes out his gym bag, House swipes his towel and throws it around his neck. He smirks at Foreman, using one corner to wipe his face dry.
Foreman glances up the row of lockers. They're alone; the gym is closed, and the cleaning crew hasn't arrived yet. He steps into House's space and kisses him, pulling him closer with the tail of the towel.
House tastes sharp-salty, his lips yielding easily when Foreman deepens the kiss. Foreman steps forward again, without a thought for how he's making House step. House hisses when his back presses against the cool metal of the lockers. The change room is silent under the whirr of the fans. House's tongue swirls lazily against his, until it seems that they're the only ones in the world, as if even the air has emptied out of the room around them. Foreman caught his breath after the game, but it's escaping his control again. House's hand creeps up, touches his ribs, slides down to his side, then rests easily at the small of his back. Foreman's still not wearing a shirt and House's hand feels hot as a brand, rubbing warm lines into his skin.
He didn't mean for the kiss to last. All he wanted was to mark the game somehow, tell House that he's glad that he came. The words aren't worth saying. The room is dim, shadows and echoes, and House's breath is warm against his cheek and then his neck. Foreman's overheated and exhilarated, sweat tightening his skin as it dries. The sound of encouragement he makes gets no further than his throat, humming against House's lips when he leans down to taste the sweat that gathered in the notch between his collarbones.
Moments like this are rare. Were rare. House is less guarded now, less defensive. Foreman's not going to ask if that will continue once the ketamine treatment fails. He knows it won't, just like he knows that asking would end it. He enjoys it, then, for what it is. House is happy. It's a strange, quiet, distrustful happiness, but it makes Foreman grin to see it. He can ignore the fact that it won't last.
They've had sex more often, and more inventively, since the summer started. Foreman groans when House's thumbs dig into the muscles at the base of his spine, massaging out the beginning of tightness after the basketball game. Once, House licked his way down Foreman's back, his long, strong fingers kneading the knots of tension away as he went. He didn't stop when he reached Foreman's ass, and Foreman gasped to feel his tongue sliding warmly against the sensitive skin along his perineum, then inside, over and over again. Foreman ground his cock against the bed, giving up his control for once and not caring, not as long as House was doing his best to make him come with his mouth alone. House added a finger, finding his prostate with a slow, unerring push. Foreman nearly exploded, reaching down and squeezing his cock. House's finger and mouth and his own hand fused into one astonishing, bright flare of sensation, until he came harder and longer than he can remember.
It's not that he needs that. Needs House to be different, to change. Forever is two months long, House told him once. He believes it.
He kisses House like it's true. House has always enjoyed kissing, even when sex isn't on the table, and Foreman likes that about him. His curiosity, his relentless desire to know and to apply that knowledge...it works in his favour. He rests his hands on House's hips, then moves them up under the purloined shirt to feel the quiver in House's stomach muscles, the increased muscle tone in his chest and arms.
House's hand eases around to the front of his shorts. Foreman breaks the kiss and sighs.
"No," he says.
"Spoilsport." House underscores that by rubbing his palm firmly over Foreman's cock. The fabric of his shorts is thin and warms quickly under House's hand.
The slide of the material whispers over his skin, and he's half-hard already. Foreman rolls his hips forward lazily into the touch. "Not here."
"You want to."
That's obvious. But Foreman just grins at him, tilting his head back, breathing quickly, not caring if it shows. "I want to fuck you," he says. He keeps his voice even and warm with affection and arousal, but most importantly, in control.
House meets his eyes quickly. Foreman reads all he needs to know in that glance. He chuckles. "Your place," he says. "I want you on your knees. Holding on to the bed, while I fuck you hard."
House's eyes darken, blue as thunderheads, and his Adam's apple bobs even as he tries to level an indifferent stare at him. Foreman grabs him and kisses him again, harder this time, convincing, and House answers fervently. Until now, Foreman hasn't asked for anything House couldn't do before the ketamine. But House crashed the basketball game, trying to prove that he could--his own way of saying he wants more.
Foreman breaks off the kiss again before his imagination gets the better of him. He pulls on his shirt, even though he hates the idea of wearing the same stale, sweaty clothes in his car. He's in too much of a hurry to bother with more. He leaves the locker room without looking back, carrying his gym bag in front of him.
He makes it to House's place in record time and unlocks the door with his key. By the time he makes it to the bedroom he hears the door open and close again. He strips out of his t-shirt and shorts and looks up to find House standing in the doorway, watching him. Foreman's cock is still half-erect, and House crosses the room without hesitation and takes him in his hand. Foreman pushes House's shorts over his hips, his underwear falling with them, and pushes his shirt up until House pauses long enough to get it off.
"On the bed," Foreman says hoarsely. House shoots him an indecipherable look and moves closer instead, his hand working to drive Foreman crazy. Foreman grunts and pushes him off. He shoves House onto the bed, climbing on top and pinning him down. His knees are at House's hips, sitting carelessly on both his thighs, and he's balancing himself with a hand on House's chest. He strokes himself, staring down at House, daring him to try and push back. House's dick is starting to harden, and he sits back on his elbows and watches--which always serves to drive Foreman even crazier than his touch.
"Come on, faster," House mutters. He lifts his hips, frowning in concentration, but Foreman doesn't touch him. He reaches across House for the nightstand drawer, digging around for the lube and a condom. He opens the lube, pours it cool and oily into his palm, and smears his hand down House's dick, grinning at House's quick inhale. Before he can go further though, House supports himself on one elbow long enough to bat the condom packet out of his hand.
Foreman pauses. "Might want to use your words this time, House."
House rolls his eyes. "Picked up any diseases lately? Cute young things at the disco?"
It's no surprise House knows his medical history. "No," he says. "You?"
"No," House says simply, staring up at him.
Foreman hesitates a moment longer. Trust, from House, always feels like walking into a exam halfway through, one he hasn't studied for and barely knows the subject. "Fine," he snaps, and sets the condom aside. He's already more excited, the thought of skin on slippery skin overwhelming him as he slides his cock through his lubed fist. He pushes a finger behind House's balls and up; he loves this moment, when House shudders beneath him, trapped by his legs, and pushes down onto Foreman's finger. He doesn't need it, but Foreman goes slowly.
House moves his hips faster, and Foreman stops, one finger still inside him. House glares at him. "Anyone ever tell you that slow and steady gets you beaten to a pulp?"
"Yeah, and nice guys finish first and then fall asleep," Foreman says. He pushes in with three fingers, all at once, and House grunts, closing his eyes and frowning in concentration. Foreman finds his prostate, rubbing firmly, and House's mouth falls open as he pants. God, his face is...it's powerful. Not handsome, quite, and lined by age and pain, but when he's like this, his face is strangely open, showing everything... Watching him, Foreman takes his cock in his hand and pushes in.
House grits his teeth rather than let out a groan. Foreman doesn't care; this feels too good, every time, not to breathe out harsh and loud. Everything narrows; his focus is only on the pleasure surging through his cock, tightening in his balls, House's body rising up to meet him. Christ, he's silky and tight and hot, so much better without the latex between them, so fucking good.
House wrestles his way out from beneath him, shoving until he has enough room to spread his legs wider. Foreman pushes House's left leg higher, moving underneath it, and suddenly there's more room, everything's easier, and he groans again.
"Yeah, like that," he says. "God, fuck." He thrusts in, slowly, deeper, and pulls out again, panting, holding on to his control. The energy of the game is transformed, heightened, and he feels like he could move like this forever, his body and mind in perfect rhythm.
"Move--your lazy ass," House says, the words coming out on stuttering breaths. "Come on, I can--beat you on the court, and now this?"
Foreman laughs, his chest shaking, feeling it right down to the nudging, slick movements of his cock. "House, you couldn't beat my grandmother on the court. She's dead and she has a better shot than you."
House goes still, and Foreman looks up at him. He's not laughing, but his smirk says more than enough, and it's that look--almost tender, if Foreman ever dared to use that word about House--that finally snaps his control, and he thrusts hard, finding House's prostate mostly by accident, startling a moan out of him--finally--and then it's fast and hot and desperate, between them, until his orgasm slams through him and leaves him shaking. House grabs his hand and brings it to his dick, and Foreman jerks him off, fucking him while he's still hard, until House freezes, his whole body tight as a wire, and he comes in spurts up his stomach and all over Foreman's encircling hand. Foreman stretches up to kiss him, slow and lazy, because it was good, because he can.
"Challenge you to a rematch," House mutters, when it ends.
Foreman chuckles, rolling off House and laying face-down in the sheets. The upside of the ketamine, he thinks, is that House can damn well get his own washcloth to clean up. "Yeah," he says. "All right."
***
It rains in the night, and Foreman wakes up to a world washed cool. He leaves House sleeping and gets ready for work. He picks his Columbia t-shirt off the floor, the cotton smelling of House's sweat. Foreman grins to himself and throws it on House's naked back. He mumbles but doesn't wake up.
Everything is brighter and washed to pale colours on his drive to the hospital. The trees and grass are greener, and the city is less oppressive without the weight of the heat. Fall feels suddenly possible instead of a distant mirage. Foreman walks through the soft air to the hospital, and breathes in the change.
He's working on an article proposal for Schaeffer at Mercy when there's a light tap on his door. "Come in," he says.
Wilson enters, closing the door quietly. "I wanted to talk with you," he says. "About House."
"I don't have any news for you," Foreman says, letting the emphasis fall lightly on you. Anything Wilson wants to know about House, he should find out for himself.
Wilson smiles, a small, sheepish curl of his lips; he wants, Foreman thinks, to seem bashful, but there's something calculated about it, mischievous and almost proud. "I don't know if he's told you," he says. "But...knowing House..." He pauses and meets Foreman's eyes. "I kissed him," he says.
Foreman's pulse stops and then races. He's not going to let it show. "When?" he asks, unimpressed. Since they've been together, certainly, but he'd guess not recently.
Wilson shakes his head. "Does that matter?"
Foreman laughs. "No," he says. "It really doesn't."
"I thought you'd want to know the truth." Wilson shrugs, the innocent and the devil, but there's a hint of dismayed surprise behind his nonchalance. Foreman raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at the door.
Wilson goes.
Foreman turns back to his work. This is what he didn't tell Cameron, what he won't tell Wilson. He's sure Wilson was telling the truth; he's sure that House never will. Foreman doesn't care. It won't change the way House looked at him last night. No matter what Wilson thinks, what he hopes, it won't change them. House is happy. So is he. And the last thing Foreman wants is to lie to himself.
It's the truth, but that doesn't mean it will last.