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Percussion
It's the third day of Foreman's fellowship, and his first day on the wards. He spent the first two days touring the hospital, updating his paperwork, and letting Dr. Lee, the head of the department, introduce him to a dozen other neurologists whom Foreman will call his friends while he competes with them for promotions and publication credits. He's found an apartment nearby, a one-bedroom that's far smaller than the place he lived with Marty in Los Angeles. He's called his dad to say he's in town, but he hasn't visited yet. So far, phone calls have been enough. Foreman's more than ready to get started working his way up the ladder at Princeton-Plainsboro, so he's actually eager when Dr. Singh finds him signing in at the nurses' station and hands him a chart.
Singh is a big, hearty guy who likes to clap his subordinates on the shoulder while he doubles their caseloads. He sat in on Foreman's interviews and asked trick questions with a smile on his face, and Foreman answered them correctly and then sat back while Dr. Lee raised his eyebrows, impressed. Singh wears good suits, but he always looks the slightest bit uncomfortable in them, like he's picked the right size off the rack but never had them fitted. He laughs loudly at Dr. Lee's bad jokes, and if half the gossip is true, he's on the tenure-track after just five years at Princeton-Plainsboro. Foreman's read some of his articles in Neurology. He spent most of the time scratching cramped little criticisms in the margins, until there's not much left of Singh's work but cross-outs and red ink.
Foreman plans to have Singh's job by this time next year.
He takes the chart and glances through it, enough to get the gist. "Possible URTI?" he asks, not bothering to hold back his disdain. The patient's been admitted, but it's not even a neurological issue.
"Gotta start somewhere, right, Eric?" Singh smiles like he knows Foreman's the competition.
"Right," Foreman says, and smiles back. His third day on the job, and already Singh knows well enough to be scared. When Foreman was deciding whether to move here or stay in California, he read up on the statistics: this hospital has the youngest Dean of Medicine, the youngest department heads, and some of the highest turnover for a teaching hospital of its size. The message is clear. Princeton-Plainsboro is the place to go to get singled out, to get noticed, to get ahead--and then to get gone.
Foreman definitely chose the right fellowship.
He finds the patient's room without much trouble, and he's reviewed the chart more thoroughly, enough to be interested by the apparent anomalies in the patient's presentation. Chris Parker came in to the free clinic downstairs and got kicked up to Neurology pretty quickly, so someone knew better than to tell him to eat a bowl of chicken soup and sleep until he felt better. Foreman has a feeling that Singh would've tossed off a scrip for amoxicillin and had done with it, but he'd rather get Foreman to do the grunt work as much as he can.
Foreman knocks briefly on the doorframe and walks into the room. Chris is sleeping restlessly in the bed, and there's an older man standing over him and holding his hand. "Hello," he says. "I'm Dr. Foreman. Are you Chris's father?"
"Nope. If your next guess was secret lover, then you're going to be disappointed again." The older man drops Chris's hand--actually, it looks more like he was holding Chris's wrist to find a pulse--and picks up a cane that was hooked on the bed's railing. He shifts his weight and grimaces, a pained look that's gone as fast as it appeared. "I bet you go around asking fat women if they're pregnant. Do you get much action that way, or just a lot of knocks to the head with brick-filled handbags?"
Foreman scowls. Where the hell did this guy come from? He's scruffy, dressed in jeans and a wrinkled button-down shirt under a blazer, and from the way he dropped Chris's arm like a bag of garbage, he's not a visitor. He's watching Foreman, now, as he takes a bottle out of his pocket, pops off the top, and rattles out a pill that he dry-swallows quickly. Foreman ditches his bedside-manner-for-parents attitude and says, "If you're not immediate family, I'm going to have to ask you to leave while I examine Mr. Parker."
"Just one more ignorant cog in this soulless machine that passes for a hospital, huh?" The guy brushes his finger next to Chris's eyelid, watching for the flutter that will indicate if he has a gag reflex.
Chris doesn't flinch or wake up. Foreman frowns and moves closer, on the other side of the bed. He's not asleep. He's unconscious. This is no cold. Foreman sets the chart down to examine him. The other guy snatches up the file and starts flipping through it.
"Hey!" Foreman wants to make a grab for it, but holds himself back. The guy is grinning and already waving the chart out of reach, like Foreman's a five-year-old whining for a toy, and he's tall enough to make Foreman look ridiculous if he tried. "That's confidential--"
"Sorry, white privilege trumps doctor's privilege." He takes a limping step back, out of reach, and waves the chart again.
Foreman balls his fists. He can't believe the guy was just such an asshole. Foreman wants to strangle him, but the way he's acting isn't like most of the racist jerks Foreman's encountered. It's completely over the top. The guy is laughing at him, waiting for him to take offense. Foreman grinds his teeth and doesn't say anything.
"Headache, trouble with balance, and double vision," the guy reads off the chart. "Think it's sphenoidal sinusitis?" He looks up then and studies Foreman for a moment, a steady, evaluating look.
"No," Foreman says shortly, "I don't. Now get the hell out of here so that I can examine my patient and decide what it is."
The guy pouts, like this time he's the five-year-old deprived of a toy, and tosses the chart back on the bed. "Fine," he says. "Let me know how the malpractice suit goes after you screw up. Oh, wait, don't--I hate listening to stories when I already know how they end." He smirks at Foreman again, leaning on his cane, and then limps out of the room, sliding the door shut with as much of a slam as he can manage.
"Jackass," Foreman mutters, dismissing him completely, and turns to examine his patient.
The next morning, Foreman has five more patients in addition to his mystery case, a raging headache, and an appointment with the Dean of Medicine. "Why does Dr. Cuddy want to see me?" he asks Nurse Previn, who handed him the message, but she just stares at him balefully and shakes her head as if he's already too hopeless to bother with.
Foreman sighs and heads downstairs. He met Dr. Cuddy during the interview process, and again when he was hired, and she strikes him as competent enough to be scary, like the best kind of elementary school principal. Still, she's the perfect professional when her assistant shows him in to her office, standing up and coming around her desk to shake his hand, then showing him to the couch in the corner. There are about three minutes of small talk--Foreman has a feeling that Dr. Cuddy has scheduled them in precisely--asking how he's getting along, is he finding everything okay, does he like the city; and then she says, "What can you tell me about your sinusitis patient?"
"That it's not sinusitis," Foreman answers, but he's already suspicious. He's one new fellow in an entire hospital, and no matter how obsessive the Dean is, she's not going to have hands-on knowledge of every single case.
"There were some abnormalities in the original work-up," Dr. Cuddy says. "How are you proceeding?"
"The physical exam showed altered consciousness and ataxia," Foreman says. "I've ordered bloodwork and an LP with count, culture and band studies."
Dr. Cuddy raises her eyebrows. "You think it might be MS? With this kind of onset?"
"We'll know when the tests come back," Foreman says, not willing to commit himself. He's new enough to the hospital that he doesn't want to overstep his bounds, and it looks like he already has. There's no question in his mind that the guy he interrupted in Chris Parker's room yesterday is responsible for this little chat with the Dean. He's certainly stepped on somebody's toes, and he hasn't even been working here long enough to know from doctor-lounge gossip just how bad his mistake was.
Dr. Cuddy nods sympathetically. "Perhaps you're aware that we have a very...unusual opportunity here at Princeton-Plainsboro when cases like this come in," she says.
"Cases like what?" Foreman asks, starting to frown.
"Cases with some odd symptoms," Dr. Cuddy says. "Diseases that aren't easily categorized."
Foreman gives his best you're-the-boss smile. "Listen," he says, "I'm aware you have a department of diagnostic medicine here, but my patient doesn't qualify. I haven't even had time to rule out some of the more everyday explanations. Maybe once I've had a chance--"
"Dr. House has expressed an interest in the case." Dr. Cuddy stares at him neutrally. Her eyes are very bright, and very hard.
Foreman bites back an impatient sigh. So that's who the guy was. He should've guessed. It's probably impossible for a doctor to move from Los Angeles to Princeton without hearing a dozen "friendly" professional warnings about Gregory House. Marty pointed out that a lot of it had to be jealousy, and laughed at the stories. Foreman wasn't so sure. Diagnostic medicine has put Princeton-Plainsboro on the map far more than their staff turnover rate, and Dr. House publishes erratically in the neurology journals as much as anywhere else. Foreman's restless red pen has always been still when he reads House's articles. They're more like the best sort of horror story than any kind of documented case history. He can't believe that any doctor gets away with the treatment plans that House writes about so dismissively, but here's Dr. Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine, telling him that what House wants, House gets. "This is my case," Foreman says, because he has to try. "If I take it to Diagnostics, will I still be the primary?"
"No," Dr. Cuddy says. "Dr. House will be the physician of record. You can present the case to his team, and provide whatever support they require. You can make yourself available for consult."
And there's the final offer. Foreman grits his teeth, feeling like someone's drilling burr holes in his skull. Three days in and he's already been swallowed by hospital politics. He used to have Marty to handle this sort of thing for him. Marty's the one with a talent for grinning and bearing it and then dropping the right word in the right ear to ensure that he gets what his program needs. Of course, part of the reason Foreman moved was to make his own contacts. He couldn't rely on Marty forever. And networking won't be easy if he's at odds with Dr. Cuddy. "Of course," he says.
"Fourth floor," Dr. Cuddy says, smiling like she knows exactly what he's thinking. "They're expecting you."
Meaning, of course, that there was never any choice at all. Foreman should be glad that she even offered him the courtesy of this meeting. He nods shortly and leaves, saving his scowl for when he's alone in the stairwell. This is just great--he gets to work with the hospital's resident racist jackass. Amazing. Foreman takes the stairs two at a time, and by the fourth floor, he's not one bit calmer, but he's winded enough that he has to stop and breathe at the top. He pauses at the door and closes his eyes. It's one case. He's got his own practice here. It's not forever.
And, Foreman has to admit, he's kind of curious exactly how House's methods work.
The diagnostics conference room is glass-walled, so Foreman gets a good look at House's staff before they know he's there. There's only two of them, a man and a woman, both of them looking like they've just stepped out of a magazine ad for the middle-class American dream. Coincidence, or just more evidence that House hires the kind of faces he likes? Foreman raises his eyebrow and taps the file against his thigh. There's no sign of House, and that is fine by him. He sighs and pulls open the door, stepping inside and waiting for them to look up.
The woman smiles at him first, and comes forward to greet him warmly. "I'm Allison Cameron," she says. "You must be Dr. Foreman."
He shakes her hand and doesn't ask her to call him Eric. He turns to the man, who offers him a smile and a pot of coffee. "Robert Chase," he says, his Australian accent rounding the words, making them richer. "Can I get you a cup?"
"Sure," Foreman says, still somewhat reserved, but trying to sound at least half-way friendly. These aren't the people he's pissed at, after all. He does kind of wonder how they can stand to work for House, though. "Thanks."
"I hear you've got a case for us," Chase says. "Some kid Cameron saw in the clinic yesterday?"
Foreman rounds on Cameron, who has the grace to look the slightest bit embarrassed. "You're the one who admitted Chris Parker?" Foreman asks. "For a sinus infection? If you thought this was a diagnostics case, why did you drag neurology into it?"
Chase takes a seat at the table and starts stirring in an ungodly amount of sugar into his coffee. "Told you you should've given it straight to House," he says.
"If I had, he never would have taken a second look," Cameron replies calmly. "Mentioning the ataxia to him was enough. This way he hunted it down himself, which means he's actually engaged."
"Plus he got to yell at you." Chase grins around his coffee stirrer. "You do like giving him what he wants."
Cameron shoots him a quelling glance. "As long as we're treating the patient."
"Oh, of course," Chase says, grinning at Foreman as if he's letting him in on a joke.
Foreman stares at Cameron, putting his mug down on the table. He's quickly revising his opinion that it's not their fault their boss is an asshole. "This was my case," he says, waving the folder. "It's a neurology issue."
"Still trying to kill the patient all by yourself?" a voice says behind him, and Foreman spins around to see House standing in the doorway. He's a sneaky bastard. "Don't you know it works better if you've got backup to help you falsify the medical records--or hide the body. Just FYI, Cuddy's office is so not the place to reenact Weekend At Bernie's."
Now that Foreman knows who House is, he takes a longer moment to study him. House still looks like a guy that walked in off the street and decided to play at being a doctor. He looks like he hasn't shaved since yesterday--or since last week. He's standing with most of his weight on his left side, his shoulders set unevenly because of the cane. Foreman glances at his right leg, wondering just for a second what the story is there, and then deciding very firmly that he doesn't care. House watches Foreman with an amused glint in his eyes. He didn't miss the evaluation of his leg and his cane, but he's still looking very satisfied with himself for getting away with stealing the case.
"Time to share with the rest of the class, Eric," he says, and Foreman wonders when the hell House learned his first name, and what else, exactly, he's found out since Foreman saw him last. House stalks across the room, and despite whatever injury he's suffered, he moves with something like agility. He picks up a marker from the tray under the whiteboard and starts writing up symptoms. "Headache, ataxia, double vision, vomiting--"
Foreman frowns. "He wasn't vomiting when I examined him."
"Lucky you," House says. "Since then, the patient's condition has changed. You can save your shock for another time." He finishes scrawling up the symptoms, under the heading "The NEW GUY in the NEUROLOGY DEPARTMENT with INCOMPETENCE".
"Sounds like hydrocephalus," Chase says.
"Or a dozen other causes of raised intracranial pressure," Cameron says. "Maybe it's vascular."
Chase scoffs. "What's the history? It might just be a subarachnoid hemorrhage."
"He didn't report any head trauma," Cameron says.
"Sure, didn't report any," Chase returns quickly. "We can't be sure without a head CT."
That seems about to set the two of them off on some old debate that already has their positions well mapped out. House is watching them thoughtfully, spinning the whiteboard marker between his fingers like a magician's coin. He glances up at Foreman, over their heads, something almost like a smile on his face, as if he's a parent boasting about his precocious children. Foreman stares back flatly. All of this speculation is pointless until his own tests come back. Of course it's not a sinus infection, but he could very well be right about the MS, despite the onset period.
House tosses the whiteboard marker back in the tray and takes out his pills, shaking them in the bottle once or twice before taking one. Cameron and Chase barely react. Foreman wonders what he's on. From the way he handles the pill bottle, it's chronic, and that suggests it's to do with his leg. Hydrocodone, maybe, but the pain has got to be incredible if it is. House doesn't seem to be following any kind of dosage regimen, from the casual way he swallows the pill without even glancing at his watch. "So what's your theory?"
Foreman realizes the question's directed at him. He raises his eyebrows, surprised to be included. It looked like House's team were going to go through an entire medical textbook's worth of possibilities before arriving right back where they started, needing more information. "Multiple sclerosis," he says. "The double vision, the lack of balance, the muscular weakness--"
"He only came in yesterday," Cameron says.
Foreman catches Chase's eye, and he thinks he understands the message there. Cameron's too eager to believe the patient. People are usually idiots. They'll ignore intermittent symptoms, thinking that they're cured when they disappear, confident that their relapses won't last. "Maybe he wouldn't tell a pretty doctor that he's been getting weaker for months," Foreman says. "Maybe he didn't notice at first. Or maybe the symptoms finally got bad enough that he decided to do something about them."
"It still doesn't fit," Cameron argues. "If he's been getting progressively worse over a short period of time--"
House is grinning, now, but he's looking down, too, as if he gets a joke that none of the rest of them have clued in to yet.
Foreman wonders what the hell he's thinking, but he's caught up defending his idea. "Not if it's--"
"Balo concentric sclerosis," House interrupts.
Foreman stops short. "Yeah," he says, deflated. It's one of the rarest forms of MS, not one most doctors would think of off the top of their heads. Of course, the whole point of House's department is that he isn't most doctors.
"Would explain the rapid progression and no previous attacks," House says. "Interesting. Okay, Chase, get the bloodwork, spinal tap, run the CSF for the markers, get an MRI of his spine. Cameron, redo the neuro exam and take a better history, then get a culture to rule out sinusitis."
"Hey!" Foreman wants to stop them, but Cameron and Chase are already standing up and gathering their things. "I did order those tests. I'll be getting the results back today-- And it's not sinusitis."
House ignores him completely and leaves the conference room through the connecting door to what Foreman assumes is his office. Cameron smiles at him placatingly. "Tests lie," she says, as if that's an explanation.
"The lab isn't going to screw up a simple gamma globulin level--"
Chase shrugs and sort of half rolls his eyes, as if to say he's sorry, but he leaves with Cameron without a word.
Foreman's left with no one to glare at. House has retreated to his office, where he lifts his legs up to the desk and pulls out a pair of headphones. Foreman sets his jaw and pushes through the door, marches right up to House, and turns off the iPod docking station on the desk.
House looks up at him mildly. It feels like there's a lot more going on behind those blue eyes than he wants Foreman to see. "Are you still here? Aren't you people supposed to be able to blend into the background while you're working for me?"
Foreman is definitely going to strangle him at some point. He doesn't care about hiding the body. He's pretty sure most of the hospital would cheer. "This is my case!"
"Not anymore," House says, putting his headphones on. "Bye!"
Foreman yanks them off his head.
This time, House glares. "Sure, assault the cripple," he says. "That'll go over well during your fellowship evaluation."
Foreman looks at House incredulously. "You've been making racist comments the entire time I was here," he says. "I could take this up with Dr. Cuddy."
"Cuddy won't fire me," House says. "Neurologists, though, are a dime a dozen." He leans back in his desk chair, looking like he's enjoying this entirely too much.
"Look," Foreman says, "I know we have to work together, but we might as well make it as painless as possible."
"Not possible," House says sharply, and Foreman remembers the pills. Through the glass surface of the desk, he can see House's hand gripping his thigh like he's warding off a cramp.
He might be suffering, but that doesn't excuse anything he's said. Foreman says, "As pleasant as possible, then."
"Try that line on Chris Parker," House says, with a bitter chuckle. "Two LPs in two days, the kid's not going to be very happy."
"I am not going to just go away," Foreman says, keeping to the point. Dr. Cuddy may have wanted him to dump this case on House and get back to Neurology, but fewer than one in two thousand people develop this variant of MS. Foreman is not going to let Cameron and Chase do the write-up while he goes obediently trotting back to do Singh's paperwork. He holds up House's headphones, out of reach, just like House did to him earlier with Chris's chart. "You're going to have to put up with me."
"Fine," House says, eying the headphones. "If you're going to hang around, you might as well make yourself useful. Go start him on a round of prednisone, thirty milligrams over eight hours."
Foreman rolls his eyes. "We don't even know if it's MS yet."
House tilts his head, that almost-grin on his face again. "No confidence in your diagnosis?"
"It's not that--"
"Great," House says. "High-dose IV prednisone. Bye." With that, he snatches the headphones back and turns on his iPod, then starts tapping out a drumbeat on his desk.
Foreman watches him for a moment, but House closes his eyes. He's still frowning ferociously and hunched a bit, as if he can't fight off the discomfort, but he's lost in the music, looking almost...peaceful. Even after knowing him for only a day, it's kind of weird to see. Foreman shakes his head, sighs, and leaves to start Chris Parker on a round of prednisone. Maybe this is how the horror stories start.
Foreman's hanging the prednisone from Chris's IV stand, next to the saline drip for his dehydration, when he realizes he's thinking about Marty, about home. A month ago it was easy to tell Marty he was leaving because of his mother's condition, even though they both knew that wasn't even close to the whole truth. Los Angeles just didn't offer Foreman the kind of opportunities he wanted, and Marty's program didn't have anything left to teach him. Maybe he should have been happy with what he had. Instead he had to go haring across the country, and look where he ended up--no friends left who care that he's come back, his family a mess, and Marty, back in California, who's not likely ever to forgive him for leaving. Foreman finishes his check of the IV line and sighs. He watches Chase draw a final vial of blood, then press a cotton ball to Chris's inner arm.
"I'm sorry about all the needles," Cameron says, smiling at Chris sympathetically. Foreman snorts. She's leaning forward just enough that Chris must have a great view down her shirt. Chase is just as interested, trying to crane his neck so that he looks like he's labeling blood samples while taking a peek. Cameron looks smug enough that Foreman doesn't think she minds. Foreman wonders if there's some variant of Stockholm syndrome that makes the prisoners fall in love with each other. Fortunately, she's getting close to the end of her questions. "I need you to concentrate, Chris. Any family members with a history of diabetes?"
"No," Chris murmurs, blinking. They've got him on an analgesic for the headache, but it's making him groggy, and he hasn't been fully oriented since Foreman examined him. This history isn't going to tell them much more than they knew before.
"Any cancer?"
"My mom. Breast cancer. Treated it."
Cameron makes a note on the chart and nods. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Any family nearby?"
"No," Chris says. "They're all in Michigan. Can't get here."
Cameron smiles again, and pats his hand. "Okay. That's all for now."
"Do you know what I've got?"
"We're working on it," Cameron says, with such false cheer that Foreman wonders how she manages to fool any patient who's halfway awake. "You just need to rest."
"'Kay," Chris mumbles, and he's asleep almost before they leave the room.
Foreman follows Cameron and Chase into the hall. He should be treating his other patients, or at least checking on them, but he wants to get the results from Chris's tests back first. Chase and Cameron are heading for the labs, and Cameron glances over her shoulder, inviting him to join them with a smile. Foreman falls into step with them. "Is your department always like this?" he asks.
Chase laughs. "You mean, is House always like this."
Cameron mutters, "Mostly he's worse," under her breath, like it's some kind of blasphemy to admit it.
"Yeah," Foreman says. He can't help comparing House to Marty, but maybe that's not fair--he knew a lot more about Marty's good side than most of the doctors who worked for him. There were plenty of people who thought Marty was a snob, arrogant and condescending. So did Foreman, at first. But House is in another league altogether. "How do you stand him?"
Chase shrugs. "Ignore him, mainly."
"Learn how to shut him up," Cameron says.
Chase's eyes are bright with laughter. "And how's that plan going?"
Cameron is at least willing to smile at herself. "I'll let you know. Shouldn't you be off to charm Rhonda?"
Chase raises his eyebrows. "You think I'm charming?"
"I think Rhonda thinks so, and we need to get that spine MRI today."
"All right, all right." Chase hands her the blood samples. "Foreman, are you going to be joining us for a beautiful afternoon spent doing blood tests?"
Foreman stares at him. "You do your own tests? What about the lab techs?"
"They hate Diagnostics," Cameron says. "And House doesn't trust them."
"Well, they did screw up that test for Erdheim-Chester's--" Chase starts.
Cameron shakes her head. "Twelve years ago. Whoever made that mistake probably doesn't even work here anymore."
"The patient died, Cameron."
"I know." Cameron sighs. "I do the lab work, don't I?"
Chase pats her awkwardly on the shoulder. "Yeah. Guess I'd better turn on the charm. Short notice. Maybe I'll grab Rhonda a latte."
"Good luck." Cameron smiles at him, then turns to Foreman. "Coming?"
"Maybe later," Foreman says. "I've got other patients."
Cameron looks surprised for a moment, then she nods. "I'll page you when we have some results."
"Thanks." Foreman watches her go down the hall, and heads back to Neurology. Maybe if he discharges a few patients he can get back on time to see the look on House's face when it turns out Foreman was right all along.
The spine MRI comes back negative for myelin lesions the next morning. The CSF doesn't show elevated gamma globulin. It's not MS.
"Paralyzed eyeballs" has been added to the list of symptoms on House's whiteboard.
"Chase, were you telling your shark-fisting story again?" House says, balancing the marker on his index finger. "When did you realize he wasn't fascinated, he just couldn't look away?"
Chase looks mildly offended, but he just says, "Shark punching. His blood pressure's up, too, 130 over 86."
"Ooh," House says, with a bright and eager leer at Chase, "was this the naked shark-fisting story?"
"I don't have a naked shark-fisting story."
House pouts. "Well, people might actually be legitimately fascinated if you did," he mutters. Then he drops the disappointed act and goes back to studying the whiteboard, tapping his cane against the floor. "So we can assume that it's not Chase naked that's making him hypertensive," he muses. "What else presents with raised BP and papilledema?"
"Graves disease," Cameron says.
"Kearns-Sayre syndrome," Chase offers.
"Yeah, and so does lead poisoning," Foreman says in disgust. "That would explain the vomiting, too. But there's no evidence at all that he's been exposed. Are we going to go on a wild goose chase for that on top of everything else?"
House grins evilly at that, like he's just played the world's best prank. Chase and Cameron exchange a long-suffering glance. Foreman rolls his eyes. He's stepped in it again, he can tell, although he wasn't even serious about suggesting lead poisoning. They might have warned him what not to say, at least.
"Could be environmental," Cameron admits at last, looking resigned. Chase, on the other hand, smiles as if he's won this round. They're both acting like admitting that an environmental cause is possible only rates just above being on-call for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and their birthdays combined.
"Okay," House says. "Chase, muscle biopsy. Cameron, TSH test."
This time, Chase and Cameron don't move right away. "What about the lead poisoning?" Cameron asks. "Who's going to check the home?"
House looks surprised. "This is Foreman's case," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "He won't mind a little B and E on the patient's behalf. He's even got the skills for it, right, Foreman?"
Foreman feels like he's been punched in the gut. "What?"
"Don't worry that it'll be like the Felkers'--this time you have a great doctory excuse." House makes a hearty go-to-it gesture with one fist. "Checking for lead contamination! Saving lives!"
"How the hell do you know--"
"Blabby gym teacher," House says. "Have fun. Be sure to use protection. Your dad doesn't need another invalid on his hands."
Foreman freezes. He feels sick, his muscles clenching as he fights not to smash a fist into House's jaw. House knows about his mother. He's using her to see just how far Foreman will let himself be pushed. Foreman tenses his shoulders, glaring murder at House, while Cameron and Chase watch, waiting for the explosion.
"Nosy postman," House says softly, watching Foreman with that testing, evaluating smirk on his face.
"Don't," Foreman says. The rest of the words seem stuck in his throat, Don't you ever talk about my mother, like a junior high kid's threat. He feels helpless, and he hates that.
House's eyes narrow. Foreman wonders what House sees on his face. Whatever it is, apparently it's enough to make him back off, although Foreman has a feeling that House isn't done picking at him over this. "Meet me in the parking lot in fifteen," House says. "I'm driving."
Foreman wants to yell that he's not going anywhere with House, but House is already limping back to his office, grabbing a backpack and stuffing things into it.
Chase grimaces. "Sorry about that," he says. He shuffles from foot to foot, as if he isn't really sure how much comfort he should try to offer. "That's House for you. Made my life a living hell when my dad dropped by."
"I'm just glad my family still lives three states away," Cameron says quietly. She's staring at Foreman like she might start crying on his behalf any second.
"A different continent, and it didn't help me," Chase mutters.
Foreman doesn't want their sympathy. He turns on his heel and leaves the diagnostics office.
Dr. Cuddy waves off her assistant when Foreman stomps into her office without an appointment. He has a feeling she's been expecting him. "Dr. Foreman," she says. "What can I do for you?"
"I want to file a complaint against Dr. House," Foreman says, keeping control of his voice even though he's still seething. It's the only way he can think to put it that doesn't involve saying that House was being mean to him. He feels enough like a child already, coming to Dr. Cuddy because he can't solve his own problems.
Dr. Cuddy purses her lips, studying him. "Sexual harassment?"
"What?" Foreman asks. "No!" He has no idea how she knows, even though he and Marty weren't exactly discreet, but California's on the other side of the continent and he's barely met Dr. Cuddy. A second later, Foreman gets it, and he blurts out, "House is gay?"
Dr. Cuddy drops her eyes to her desk and mutters something that Foreman incredulously makes out as, "More like omnivorous."
Without quite believing it, Foreman chuckles bitterly. "He's the most intolerant bastard I've met in the whole hospital."
"Surprisingly, he manages to combine intolerance with not giving a damn for what anybody thinks about him personally," Cuddy says. "He's not exactly waving a flag at a Pride parade, either." She pauses and sits down, waving him to the chair in front of her desk. "I shouldn't have said anything, but House and harassment lawsuits aren't exactly uncommon. What's the problem?"
Foreman settles into the chair across from her, most of his anger drained away with that burst of laughter. "How do you deal with him?" he asks. Just this morning, he wouldn't have dared to talk back to Cuddy, accepted her decisions without a second thought, but House is such an obvious sore spot with her that he's curious.
Cuddy gives him a sardonic stare. Foreman's suit might be bad publicity for the hospital, but House has weathered worse over the years. Foreman's not in any kind of position to be making demands. Still, Cuddy sighs and answers. "I give him enough rope to run with, then I haul him back when he goes too far."
"Why put up with him at all?" It's the same question he's been trying to frame for Cameron and Chase, but they both seem so resigned to their lot--even happy, when House gives them a pat on the head.
Cuddy spreads her hands on the surface of her desk. "He's an ass, but he's good," she says. "I think you know that by now. I told you to give him this case two days ago. Why are you still involved?"
Foreman sits back and considers. If Chris hasn't got Balo's, then it's something even rarer, and Foreman's not going to give up the chance to find out what. He's caught up in the puzzle. Even if House drags him along on his break-and-enter scheme. House is right, anyway, that at least they'll be able to tell the police they were there legitimately. "I want to know what's wrong with him," Foreman admits.
"Don't suggest it's the leg," Cuddy says tiredly. "He'll eat you alive."
"I meant the patient," Foreman says flatly, and he's gratified by Cuddy's startled look.
It quickly turns calculating. "If you're volunteering for some shifts in Diagnostics, knowing Dr. House's methods--"
"Then I don't have any room to complain," Foreman finishes for her.
"Exactly." Cuddy smiles, a little dangerously.
"Fine," Foreman says. "If I'm going to be working with Diagnostics, it might be best if someone let Dr. Lee know." As long as they're wrangling concessions, Foreman might as well get out of his neurology obligations for the next few days.
"Of course," Cuddy says, and stands to shake his hand. Foreman accepts, carefully, still a little afraid of her smile.
When he reaches the parking lot to see House pull up on an orange monstrosity and hold out a helmet to him, shouting, "Hop on!" over the clatter of the engine, Foreman rolls his eyes and realizes what Cuddy's smile meant.
She is the Dean. She will always win.
"I am not getting on your motorcycle." Foreman holds out the helmet to House, but House is gripping the handlebars, watching him with bright blue eyes, and ignoring the offer. "House. I am not--"
House revs the engine with a manic grin until he has to shout to be heard. "Are you chicken?"
Foreman rolls his eyes and waits for House to let the engine idle before he answers. "You are not going to goad me to ride on your motorcycle by calling me chicken."
"Would it help if I made clucking noises?"
"No."
Foreman half-expects House to pout, but he just grins wider, and twists the throttle a few more times to show off the motorcycle's willingness to break any and all landspeed records. Finally, he turns the key and the racket is thankfully cut short. "You're not an idiot," he says finally, out of nowhere.
"No," Foreman says ironically, tilting his head and staring flatly at House for his half-hearted non-insult, "I'm not."
"I've heard more moronic suggestions than Balo's."
Foreman's not going to let House soothe his ego, even if it's kind of funny how badly House sucks at reassurance. Foreman was wrong, and House was right--he would have killed Chris if he'd treated him on his own. "It wasn't Balo's," he says.
This time, House's exasperation bleeds through. "So we keep looking. Now get on."
Foreman sighs and looks at the helmet. He's already traded his lab coat for his leather jacket. The last time he was on a motorcycle, it was Marcus's little Honda XL, and he'd been sixteen. Marcus always tried to scare the shit out of him, taking corners so fast that their knees nearly touched pavement, and Foreman had avoided motorcycles ever since. He's not afraid, by any means, he just hates the image of the bad-ass biker. House, though, sitting astride the bike with his cane attached in some sort of holder, with his worn jeans and motorcycle jacket, looks like an eager kid who's just trying to show off. It's pretty obvious he'll think less of Foreman if he insists that they walk all the way down to the parkade where Foreman's assigned low-man-on-the-totem-pole parking spot is. Foreman doesn't care, but now House is playing at a pleading look, and Foreman is not going to give him more ammunition to make jokes if he can help it. He offers House an annoyed look, and then pulls on the helmet, threading the strap through the D-rings.
House smiles, starts the motorcycle again, and hands Foreman his backpack. "Let's go."
Foreman slides his leg over the seat and finds the foot pegs. He barely gets a chance to get settled and put his hands on House's waist before they're pulling out, House completely ignoring the SLOW - 15 MPH sign posted at the intersection.
It doesn't take long before they're flying along the streets, House shifting smoothly and accelerating until Foreman has to resettle his grip around House's stomach, clutching harder. House powers the bike into the corners, heeling over while he uses the engine to brake, but Foreman refuses to squeeze him any tighter. They seem to be hitting every red light in Princeton, and House brakes hard at every single one, throwing Foreman forward into his back as he stops on a dime. Pretty soon Foreman's curled closer around House just to avoid the jar every time a light turns yellow ahead of them. When he does, House suddenly reverses tactics and starts slowing as gently as possible, until Foreman can barely feel the moment when they stop moving. He's not so certain, now, that he should have dismissed Cuddy's worry that House might hit on him. This bike ride is one big sexual harassment suit waiting to happen. Before he can think about that too much, they've arrived, in front of an older apartment building that looks like it hasn't seen a new coat of paint in thirty years--so lead contamination is definitely still on the table. House pulls over to the curb and flicks off the engine.
Foreman climbs off the bike, making sure to avoid the exhaust pipe. His legs still feel the vibration of the motorcycle, and he unbuckles the helmet to hand it back to House. House takes it with a carefully blank face, as if he expects Foreman to call him on his driving.
Foreman doesn't, just turns to take in the neighbourhood. He won't give House the satisfaction. He waits for House to haul the bike up on its stand and unhook his cane from the holder. "I hope you at least lifted Chris's key," he says.
House gives him an ironic look while he takes out his pill bottle and rattles one into his hand. "With your lockpicking skills available? Why bother?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but heads up the sidewalk instead. His gait is stiffer and more awkward after the drive, and he's leaning heavily on his cane. He doesn't say a word, but the pain is there, etched on his face and in the way he moves every part of himself cautiously, like even breathing sets off his leg.
And, as Foreman goes after him, he realizes that he's noticing. It's stupid, but he's calculating House's pain regimen based on the pills he's seen him swallow, and he's watching that hipshot walk, calculating the damage. The rectus femoris is definitely impaired, and probably the sartorius and the adductors, too. From there, it's easy to notice the length of House's legs, the unexpected grace of his body. Foreman shakes his head. That is definitely the wrong place to let his thoughts go.
At the door, House brandishes the key out of an empty palm, then vanishes it with sleight of hand before unlocking the deadbolt. Foreman almost, almost laughs, but instead he just follows House in, wondering what the hell he's getting into.
"Think his mommy cleans up after him? Maybe there's a girlfriend in the picture we haven't heard about?"
Foreman shuts the apartment door, takes one look at the living room, and has to agree. For a twenty-five year old living on his own, the place is unusually neat. There are a few books lying around, and a sweater tossed over one chair, some piles of paper and an empty glass on the coffee table, but that's about it. Breakfast dishes in the sink. In the bathroom, the cap is on the toothpaste and the towel's on the rack. Foreman follows the sound of House's cane to the bedroom and finds him sitting on the bed, rooting underneath the box spring with one hand. He grins slyly at Foreman when he comes up with a magazine--Maxim, pretty tame, but porn nonetheless.
"At least we know he's not a freak," House says, and flips to the centerfold. "Elsa Pataky's looked better." He lifts his leg on to the bed and settles against the headboard, then starts paging through the magazine. "Sample kits are in the backpack," he adds.
Foreman stares at him pointedly, but House doesn't even look up. Giving a disgusted snort, Foreman unzips the pack and takes out gloves and the kits. Of course House is going to dump the work on him--he's the same guy who has his fellows pulling all-nighters in the path lab. The motorcycle ride certainly didn't prove anything different. After all, it's the perfect excuse to get out of the hospital instead of whatever he's supposed to be doing--paperwork, probably, or maybe clinic hours. Even department heads owe Cuddy some time in that pit of fevers and minor dislocations. He might be hurting, but he's ditching the work so smugly that Foreman knows it's more evasion than any concern for his leg. Foreman starts with paint chips and moves on to water samples. He's kneeling on the kitchen floor, halfway under the sink and chipping at the piping, when House says behind him, "Multi-infarct dementia isn't anybody's fault."
Foreman saves himself from startling upright and slamming the back of his head into the cupboard. House can be irritatingly silent when he wants to be. He takes a breath and keeps scraping. "It's actually not your business, House," he says.
"Diagnostically, no, since even a monkey with a stethoscope couldn't miss the symptoms." House is standing behind him, tapping his cane arhythmically against the linoleum. "Of course, it's no Alzheimer's. As early-onset senility goes, it barely registers. And there's nobody to blame. Must be convenient."
Foreman pauses, and presses his hands against the shelf, reining in his anger. House's sarcasm almost overwhelms the stink of garbage and Ajax under the sink. If it was Alzheimer's, then no one could have done anything, no one could be blamed. He and his father would have watched his mother fade, but at least they'd know there was no current therapy, nothing that would help. He knew House wasn't ready to drop this yesterday. Probably it was half the reason he wanted Foreman with him while they investigated Chris's place. "I don't feel guilty about my mother," he says.
"No, of course you don't," House says. Foreman can feel him rolling his eyes. Maybe this is his way of distracting himself, figuring Foreman out rather than enduring the pain. "It's not like you didn't tell her to keep up her cardiovascular health. It's not like you didn't suggest she get on blood thinners after the first TIA. After all, you're only the neurologist. Who says you know better?"
Foreman caps the last sample and stands up, placing it in the pack with the others, moving very carefully, deliberately, keeping his back to House. House must have called up every geriatrics specialist in Trenton, probably lying his head off about being asked for a consult, to get all the details on Alicia Foreman. He's got to know that she's been on warfarin almost longer than her family doctor believed there was anything wrong at all. Foreman's gone past being angry into just shaking his head and laughing, because this is so ridiculous. Not that House traded on his name to get confidential information, but that he was so goddamn persistent. Like Chris Parker isn't enough of a mystery for him, so he had to invent another one just for his own amusement. If it means he gets to play with Foreman's mind, then all the better.
"It's not her fault, either," House says, pushing, intent.
But after two days, Foreman's got his measure, and he's not going to react. He zips up the pack and turns around, raising an eyebrow. "Is this supposed to be an apology?" he asks, with a hint of amusement.
House's lips twitch into a sort of feral grin. "An earlier diagnosis, though, might have changed things--for a while. Kind of inevitable eventually, though, isn't it--"
"Listen. I did exactly what any doctor would do--"
"But you just weren't good enough. You didn't catch it--not at first. And now your family gets to suffer for the rest of her life."
Foreman glares at him, lips tight. "Your leg--it was tissue necrosis, wasn't it?" It's not a question. House's eyes widen, and his hand tightens on the head of his cane. Foreman glances down at his thigh. House's jeans are tight enough that Foreman has a sense of the depression underneath the fabric, the extent of the missing muscle. "How long before anyone figured it out?"
"Three days," House answers, so fast Foreman knows he's never once stopped thinking about it.
"Who--?"
"I did."
After three days. The great diagnostician. Doesn't look like he has much room to rag on anybody about late calls. He must be in agony all the time, pills or no pills. That's a hell of a reminder. Foreman raises an eyebrow. "At least my mother's forgiven me," he says.
"And she wouldn't remember if she hadn't."
Foreman does laugh, then. Just a chuckle, but it's enough to turn House's bitter scowl to confusion. "I'll remember that she did," he says, swings the pack to his back, and leaves House in Chris Parker's apartment with another puzzle to solve. Foreman hopes it makes him happy.
The drive back to the hospital is almost tame in comparison. Foreman keeps a conservative hold around House's waist and definitely isn't disappointed. They seem to be taking a longer route, and there's something effortless and absent in House's driving, as if he's leaving the mechanics entirely up to his body while his mind drifts. Foreman isn't bothered, exactly, and he doesn't think House would care if he was. He doubts House even registers his presence on the back of the bike. He's getting a personalized tour of Princeton, places he hasn't seen since he left for Los Angeles. That was after his chief residency at Hopkins, and he could have had his pick of positions. He met Marty Hamilton on a standard wine-and-dine, and made his choice.
Three years. Two years not caring if anyone knew, the last one spent living together. Maybe it could have survived Foreman's move back East, the length of his fellowship at Princeton-Plainsboro. But when Foreman looked at his life, the comfortable just-so apartment, the collie Marty wanted to adopt from the SPCA, Marty's job turning more to fundraising and less to patient care, Foreman's own subspecialty training finished and no room to move up at the hospital--all Foreman saw was more of the same into the future. It was convenience, and easy sex, and complacency. It wasn't enough.
"It's not you, it's me," hung between them for the last three weeks that Foreman was in Los Angeles. He packed up his half of their apartment, resigning himself to leaving all the matching furniture to Marty. Then John Henry Giles's ALS flared up, and Marty nearly lived at the hospital. In the end, when the taxi came to take Foreman to the airport, Marty said good luck as if Foreman was a donor with money Marty had already earmarked for the neuro program. Foreman left quickly, before Marty could try to say goodbye with a handshake and an arrogant smile like a stranger's.
Now that he's on the other side of the continent, it's easier to miss him. The way Foreman would get home first and offer Marty a glass of red wine and a kiss at the door, something casual that more often than not ended up anything but casual. Marty's crisp shirts under his hands, the way he'd smile when Foreman stopped playing and kissed him seriously. He misses that, but that's the ideal--easier to miss it than to remember the last time it happened. More often it was rough handjobs because that's what was expected, Marty's teeth in his shoulder while his hand worked furiously, wishing they could slow down and fuck, and at the same time just waiting to get it over with. Work got in the way at first, then indifference, and maybe all Foreman really misses is touching someone who'll grin into his kiss because Foreman doesn't care about hiding what he wants, someone who's inventive and surprising and interested.
Something of House's thoughtful mood seems to have seeped through to him, a weird little osmosis. When Foreman climbs off the motorcycle at the hospital's doors, House takes the helmet from him without a word. His eyes are still miles away, and for the first time Foreman really notices the distant fall-sky blue of them. He shakes it off. It's easy to get stupid with sentiment, just because he's had five minutes to think without distraction.
They were a good five minutes to have, though, something he hasn't allowed himself since well before the move, so he mutters, "Thanks," not really expecting House to hear him over the engine.
House focuses on him, and anything thoughtful in his expression vanishes so quickly that Foreman wonders if it was ever there at all. "Don't expect me to resolve all your Freudian issues."
Foreman shakes his head. "The number of people who must be grateful you never went into psychiatry--that's pretty scary, House."
House holds back a grin, but Foreman can see the twitch at the corners of his mouth. "Go rob a bank next time," he says. "Court-ordered analysis can't be worse." He pulls out, the engine whining upwards as the bike accelerates away from the curb.
Foreman chuckles, cracks his neck, and heads in to the hospital.
Much as he preferred California's winters to New Jersey's, Foreman doesn't think he's going back.
Chase and Cameron are laughing and making googly eyes at each other across the lab bench when Foreman walks in. He clears his throat and they look up. Chase coughs to cover his surprise and Cameron watches him with a mischievous look in her eye and a hint of a blush. Foreman eyes them, but it looks like they haven't gone as far as to turn the hospital into their private playground in the few hours that House has left them unsupervised. He has a feeling that it's not going to last, but it's none of his business. He pushes aside the paperwork left over from whatever tests they've been running, to make room for the paint and water samples from Chris's apartment.
Cameron reaches for the first of them and starts to set up for the lead contamination tests. "How did it go?" she asks, looking a little worried.
"Where's House?" Chase adds.
They're obviously more concerned for House than for him, but Foreman supposes if he had to negotiate working with House every day, calculating his pain and his pills and working out the number of insults they could expect, then that's only natural. "I assume he's still waiting for an elevator. I thought this was important enough to take the stairs. How's Chris today?"
"He's hanging in there," Chase says. "He actually got better for a while last night, but now his blood pressure's rising, and he's vomiting again. Nothing the head CT didn't predict."
"The tests ruled out hyperthyrodism and Kearns-Sayre," Cameron says, taking out his samples and preparing them. "Did you find anything else at the apartment?"
"Nothing obviously environmental," Foreman says. And a hell of a lot of weirdness from House that he could have done without. He sighs. "No mould, no contaminants. Lead poisoning's a long shot, too."
Cameron frowns as she runs the chemical analysis. The water doesn't show any precipitate, and a few minutes later, the paint chips are just as unresponsive. "Nothing," she says.
"So much for that waste of time," Foreman says. He's been at the hospital since eight in the morning and skipped lunch for the pleasure of risking arrest and having House poke through his private life. "What next?"
"We kick him out of the hospital for being just so darn difficult to figure out," House says, pushing through the lab door. He pauses thoughtfully. "Or we keep treating him. I'm pretty sure it's one of those two." He turns to Cameron and Chase. "What've you got?"
Cameron sums up the tests, all of which add up to exactly nothing. House nods along, not seeming surprised by any of it. "The steroids should have had more of an effect, even if it's not MS," he says.
"Maybe there's a second underlying cause that's making the hydrocephaly hard to treat," Foreman says, trying to follow House's logic.
"What did Occam's razor ever do to you?" House asks, turning on him with a look of incredulity, as if he expects Foreman to dish details. "Did you tell everyone you just cut yourself shaving while you plotted revenge?"
Foreman stares at him. He's pretty sure the only reason House keeps up the game is that he expects the laughs--Chase is already grinning. Foreman doesn't intend to. There's got to be something else that shows the symptoms they've been seeing. "Vasculitis would--"
Chase snorts and Foreman looks up to see Cameron trying to hide her smile. "It's just--" Chase shrugs. "It's never vasculitis."
Foreman rolls his eyes, even though Chase is probably right--the prednisone would have reduced the swelling. "And just because it usually isn't, it couldn't be this time? Besides, if it's not vascular, then there's some other source of hydrocephaly."
"Sarcoidosis?" Chase suggests.
"The CSF would have shown lymphocytosis," Foreman says. "It didn't."
"And the prednisone would have had an effect," Cameron says.
"He did improve," Chase says. "But it was just a blip. He got worse again before we took him off the prednisone."
House frowns thoughtfully. "It wasn't the prednisone," he says. "He improved after the lumbar punctures." He looks up sharply. "CSF circulation's obstructed. We lowered the pressure with the tap." He paces into the lab, turns around, and comes back. "Get Wilson in here," he says, stopping in the doorway. "He gets so hurt when we don't assume it's a tumor. Foreman, up the kid's antiemetics, give him doxazosin to get his blood pressure down, and get an MRI of his brain."
Foreman tilts his head and watches House leave, annoyance warring with a weirdly perverse pride that House seems to finally believe that Chris's problem is entirely neurological instead of systemic. "That's it?" he says. "Does he expect the Head of Oncology to just drop everything because our one patient may have a brain tumor?"
"Wilson is House's best friend," Cameron says. "He doesn't mind the consult requests."
"House? Has friends?" Foreman shakes his head. "And I notice that I'm the only one with orders this time."
Cameron nods, looking almost jealous. Chase claps him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the team, Foreman. We'll bring you some lunch."
"Thanks," Foreman says dryly, and doesn't mention that the last thing he wants is to end up as one of them.
James Wilson is a friendly man with a firm handshake and an engaging grin. "Dr. Foreman," he says, the next morning, when he finds Foreman in the Diagnostics conference room. "I heard you were working with House."
"It wasn't really my choice," Foreman says, trying to take the measure of a guy who's supposed to be House's friend. They're nothing alike. Wilson's only a few years older than Foreman, dressed professionally in a shirt and tie under his lab coat. He's good-looking in an unassuming, boyish way that has probably made the world fall at his feet for so long that he pretty much expects it by now. Foreman's fallen for guys like him before, usually only to discover that there's nothing to back them up. But Wilson took over as head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro at thirty-seven, ridiculously young. He's good, the lead author on half a dozen clinical trials that Foreman's read because they touch on neuro-oncology in some way, and it isn't even Wilson's main specialty. Foreman hands him Chris Parker's chart and leans back, crossing his arms. "House hijacked the case from Neurology."
"He does that," Wilson says, with a faint air of apology to his smile--more like he's sorry for House's attitude than his tendency to poach cases from other departments. He pages through the file, making a small hmm sound before he looks up. "It's a difficult case," he says, studying Foreman. "Most doctors would be happy it wasn't their responsibility any more."
Foreman raises an eyebrow. "Is that how you run your department?"
"No," Wilson says, meeting Foreman's eyes directly. There's nothing offended in his tone, but it's still a reproof. Foreman's respect increases a notch. He can imagine Wilson handling House pretty damn adroitly with that attitude. "But House is hard to work with."
Foreman holds back from rolling his eyes in agreement. Wilson's weighing him up just as surely as he's trying to gauge Wilson. "I'm going to figure this out," he says.
Wilson nods thoughtfully. "He thinks you might."
Foreman blinks. "Excuse me?" So far he hasn't seen any evidence that House has done anything other than tolerate him. He doesn't quite know what to do with the idea that House appreciates him.
"He hasn't kicked you out," Wilson says. "I've never seen him let doctors from other departments contribute to the differential before."
Probably because any other doctor in this hospital knew better than to get involved with the Diagnostics department to begin with. Although it's with an uncomfortable sort of pride that Foreman realizes he's managed something no one at the hospital has--Chase and Cameron don't count, since they signed up for this masochism. "House wants me as far away as he can shove me," he says, not sure whether to be exasperated or amused. "He's done nothing but insult me and make jokes at my expense."
"I don't know what's worse," Wilson says, with a strange smile. "House's contempt, or House's respect."
Foreman snorts, because it's easy to figure out where he stands in that equation. "Respect is the last thing House has for me."
Wilson just shrugs. "Believe that," he says. "It might be easier."
Foreman's still mulling that over when he arrives in the MRI booth. Chase's charm with Rhonda didn't work twice in a row--they had to wait for an early morning appointment. Cameron's reassuring Chris over the microphone and Chase is tapping instructions into the computer. Foreman takes a seat and watches the screens with them when the hum of the machine in the next room begins. When Cameron sits back and Chase starts the scan, Foreman says, "Wilson says House respects me."
Chase raises his eyebrows at Cameron. "Does he?" he drawls, eying Foreman sideways, clearly curious. "He's never told me that."
Cameron rolls her eyes. "Are you waiting for him to?"
"No," Chase says, making a show of pouting self-importantly. "House will tell me himself." He gives them a sudden grin. "When hell freezes over."
Cameron smirks. "Save me a snowball."
"I think he's just messing with me," Foreman says, threading his fingers together, thinking out loud. He keeps his eyes on the computer screens. They're through the cerebellum and there's not so much as a shadow on the scans. "He's House's friend. He's probably just as much of a bastard."
"Wilson?" Chase asks, surprised. "He's too nice."
"Yeah, too nice," Foreman says. "That's what I mean." He can't exactly explain the way Wilson was perfectly friendly, but there was a thread underneath that felt like he was enjoying a joke Foreman couldn't see. He wasn't laughing at Foreman--more at himself, self-deprecating and slightly wistful, and Foreman wishes he knew what the hell that was all about. Wilson probably knows what it's like to be the object of House's attention, to have all that energy centered on him. Foreman wonders if it makes him uneasy, or if it's just something he's used to--except Foreman can't imagine not noticing the way House watches him, not just curious but interested, in a way Foreman can't quite describe.
"Wilson takes care of House," Cameron explains, leaning forward to get a better look at the computer. "If he's talking to you out of nowhere, it's because he's worried about House."
"I was bringing him up to speed on Chris Parker," Foreman says. He narrows his eyes at Cameron, who's staring a little too intently at the screens. "How would you know?" he asks.
Chase grins. "Cameron went on a date with House," he says, then, "Ow," a laughing protest as Cameron swats him.
Foreman watches her dryly. "You and House? Really?" He can't think of a stranger match, maybe because he's only known Cameron long enough to see that she's just waiting for Chase to make a move. But then, from what Cuddy said, it seems like House isn't the kind of guy to say no--to anyone--so he supposes it's possible.
"Not anymore," Cameron says tightly. "It was one date."
"It was blackmail," Chase says, still laughing. "And Wilson gave her the big brother talk."
Foreman shakes his head. "I don't want to know," he says. He tries to picture House on a date with Cameron, at a nice restaurant, acting civil, and he can't imagine it. A date with House would probably involve a near-death experience on his motorcycle, activities that were only fun because they were vaguely illegal, and a pointed inquiry into everything personal his dates wanted to keep to themselves.
By that standard, Foreman thinks, he's probably been on a better date with House than Cameron could ever imagine, and he can't help grinning at the thought. He's pretty damn glad that Cameron and Chase aren't asking about it. House would make jokes rather than tell, so it's not like anyone would believe him. But Foreman had actually...enjoyed himself. He wonders if the Stockholm syndrome is setting in already.
"It didn't mean anything," Cameron says, to his amused look. "I'm pretty sure House doesn't even like women--"
"Oh," Chase says, "right. He puts you off so you think he's gay."
"Well, the way he's always with Wilson--"
"Not unless Wilson's trying to hide it by having an affair with Debbie from Accounting," Chase says.
Cameron frowns delicately behind her glasses. "You can't prove that--"
Chase smiles slyly. "Rhonda can. Wilson's still married, but barely."
"So that's what your lattes are getting you," Cameron says sharply. "The best gossip."
"There's more to life than easy access to the MRI machine," Chase says loftily.
Foreman ignores their argument--it's mostly flirting--and leans forward. "Do you see that?" he asks. "In the fourth ventricle?"
Chase pauses the scan and they all move in to study it. There's a shadow, low in the midbrain. "We'd better get House to take a look at this," Chase says.
Foreman apologizes his way out of two exam rooms in the clinic before he finds House in the third, long legs stretched out in front of him, intent on a kid's Gameboy. "House," he says, "there's something on the MRI."
"This end boss is hard," House says conversationally, staring fixedly at the game's screen, his thumbs stabbing at the buttons. "And what do you mean by 'something'? A tumor? A lesion? Your grocery list written in red sharpie because paper's so hard to come by these days?"
"Could be a glioma," Foreman says. "But the position makes it hard to tell--would you shut that off?"
"Show it to Wilson," House says absently as the game's beeps and music grow more frantic. Foreman makes an exasperated noise and does the only thing he's found effective in getting House's attention. He snatches the Gameboy out of his hands. There's a horrible scream from the game as House's avatar dies a bloody death. Foreman tries not to feel too smug.
House looks up at him, pouting. "Neurology's for losers," he says.
Foreman's moved well beyond taking House seriously, and he is not--he's decided--going to laugh, so he gives House a moderate glare and says, "Wilson's already looking at it, with Cameron and Chase. We're--"
"Why'd you pick neurology?" House interrupts, as if he hasn't heard a word. "Because the mind is so mysterious? That actually means you know less than most other specialists, you know. Do you just think it sounds sexy to say you perform brain surgery?"
"I'm not giving you the game back," Foreman says. He's gotten plenty of attention by dropping his specialty into conversations. He is not going to tell House that. He's going to get him upstairs to look at the MRI, and ignore the rest. He looks at House, who looks back, and before Foreman knows it he's gotten himself into a staring contest with House. It's the stupidest, most childish thing in the world, and he is not going to stand here and just look. Even if he can see the grin hiding behind House's pout, and Foreman knows he's going to make House crack any second. Then he realizes that he's playing exactly to what House wants, to ditch work for a few more minutes. He looks away, and House smirks. "If I'm so wasted in neurology, what should I be doing instead?" Foreman asks, to put off House's gloating.
House rolls his eyes. "At least you didn't pick diagnostics," he says. "Because your deductive logic sucks."
"Wait," Foreman says, with a laugh. Looks like Wilson was right. House does respect him--he just has a piss poor way of showing it. "Are you saying you'd hire me for a fellowship in your department?"
"No," House says, like an eight-year-old caught liking a girl. "I'm saying you would fail at diagnostics. See how you aren't able to pick out meaning from simple sentences? That'd be a drawback."
"Yeah," Foreman says, still grinning. He can't quite seem to stop. "But everybody lies, right?"
House eyes him briefly. "So I've heard." He picks up his cane and gets to his feet slowly.
"Do you know how many useless and unnecessary tests we've performed on Chris Parker in the last three days?" Foreman asks. "That's diagnostics--overbilling, over testing, and over treating. Excuse me if I don't see the appeal."
"And I'm sure Chris Parker would have been completely happy being treated for Balo's," House says, heading for the door. "It's a good thing he didn't have, oh, say, a brain tumor instead. Those things can kill people."
"Do you tell all of them that hindsight is twenty-twenty?" Foreman asks, laughing incredulously. "I'm sure that's very satisfying for them when their insurance companies won't foot the bill."
House stares at him, strangely, and Foreman tilts his head, wondering what House could possibly say to that. He's still laughing a bit, soundlessly. Then, faster than Foreman believed he could, House steps forward, and Foreman thinks for a second that House is going to hit him.
Instead, House grabs him by the front of his lab coat, pulls him forward, and kisses him. Foreman jerks back, but there's nowhere to go. He's vaguely aware of the moment when the exam bed slams into the back of his thighs. House's mouth is insistent, and Foreman grunts, trying to say House's name. He knows he should be objecting, somehow--and then House is really kissing him, and his tongue is warm and persistent and not as unwelcome as Foreman would have thought.
It feels good, mixed up with his pride and his laughter, and Foreman might just be kissing House back, but it's hard to tell because his eyes are closed. House uses his height to bend Foreman back--and they're pressed together, House's body against his, and Foreman feels bright and intense and House's stare is nothing compared to how much he concentrates when he kisses. Foreman has time to think that he hasn't kissed anyone for more than a month, or that House is really, disturbingly talented, or that the scrape of House's stubble feels vivid, and familiar, and right against his skin. Foreman grabs for him, as best as he can, catching House's waist with one hand and his upper arm with the other. Just when he's decided to make his brain shut up while he enjoys what's happening, since it seems it isn't stopping, House steps back. Foreman's breathing hard and almost dizzy with it. "What the hell?" he asks, trying not to gasp.
House grins, very pleased and very hungry. "I tell them," he says, as if he hadn't just been kissing the hell out of Foreman, "sometimes you need the test just to be sure."
"The gadolinium enhancement is barely there," Cameron says. "We could still be looking at communicating hydrocephaly."
"Caused how?" Chase asks with a laugh. "He's had no history of meningitis or ACM. The onset rules out anything congenital."
"Why didn't we see this on the CT?" Cameron asks, frustrated.
"It's barely there even with this resolution," Chase says. "We must have missed it."
"It has to be a tumor," Wilson says. "With the CSF circulation obstructed to this extent, we've got to assume it's malignant."
The three of them are crowded around the lightbox in House's office, peering at the films. House is sitting at his desk, legs up, turning a giant tennis ball over in his hands. Foreman stands at the far end of the room, arms crossed, and he can't stop watching House: the vague furrow of his forehead as he listens to Cameron and Chase argue, the way his lips soften and his mouth opens slightly when he concentrates, the length of his fingers as he runs them over the seams of the ball. House kissed him. It's crazy--Foreman doesn't know if he was trying to prove a point, or if the kiss was the point, or if House was just looking for a way to make him react.
If that's what he was looking for, then he succeeded. Foreman reacted, and it's not like House could have missed it.
"Foreman? What do you think?"
Foreman glances up. He's completely missed the question. Cameron's looking at him expectantly, and Chase looks like he wants Foreman to back him up in whatever disagreement they're having now.
Wilson is watching House.
House stares back at Wilson, doing his innocent look, but from what Foreman can tell, Wilson isn't falling for it. "He likes Coke better than Pepsi, Yankees over the Sox, and he thinks Brad and Angelina really are going to make it, those crazy kids," House says, mostly to Wilson, who's getting more suspicious by the minute. House shrugs and lifts his legs down from the desk. "If it's a pontine glioma then Cameron might as well marry him right now."
Everyone turns to look at Cameron. She glares back and starts, "I'm not--"
"He's too young for you, anyway," House interrupts, as if he was just waiting for her to protest. "We need to get a better look at this thing."
"We need to start him on radiation treatment and chemotherapy," Wilson says. "I'll get him admitted to Oncology. We can get a biopsy."
"Not yet," House says, standing up and limping across to the lightbox. Wilson glances at him again, at his leg this time. Foreman wonders how well he knows House's pill intake, the rise and fall of his pain. He looks at Foreman next, his eyes narrowing. Foreman stares back as blankly as he can, although it looks like Wilson believes his innocent look about as much as he does House's.
Wilson sighs and turns back to the films. "House, midbrain tumors are incredibly aggressive. If we don't move quickly, then we're not going to get a handle on this."
"He's still my patient until we know what he's got. There's no surgical solution until we can get a better image of it." House tosses the ball a couple of times in his hand, staring at the MRI films. "Ever tried teaching a kid to swim by throwing his toys to the bottom of the pool?" he asks absently. "If the kid really wants a look at those toys, he just might drown trying to get them."
Foreman has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but Chase raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Why learn to swim when you can drain the pool?" he says. "He needs a shunt."
"And I just happen to know a brain surgeon," House says. "Think you can install a ventricular catheter without turning the kid into a vegetable, Foreman?"
Foreman lifts an eyebrow. "Of course," he says, knowing from House's smirk what he's thinking--very sexy.
"I can get an OR booked by tonight," Wilson says. "We'll have the results tomorrow."
"Great," House says. "Chase, keep him alive until then. Cameron, keep your false hope out of his room--it always makes the floor sticky."
"And what are you going to do, oh Great One?" Wilson asks dryly. "Since I notice I'm suddenly going to be working here for the evening instead of sitting on your couch watching One Tree Hill reruns."
House steps across the office to where Foreman's standing. Foreman doesn't back up, because everyone's watching, but if House tries anything, Foreman decides he's going to be very surprised by his reception. But House just reaches into his lab coat pocket and plucks out his Gameboy. "I've got to get past this end boss," House says. "She might be even worse than Cuddy." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Foreman and adds, "Although even Cuddy couldn't pull off the spandex suit." He heads out to the balcony, shouting as he goes, "Get going. It's not one of those magical tumors that shrinks itself. Even Wilson can't pull that schtick off twice."
"Guess I'll go check on Chris," Chase says.
Wilson rubs a hand over his face tiredly. "I'll leave you to it. Foreman, I'll let you know when I have the OR available." He takes Chris's chart and leaves House's office.
"I'll make coffee," Cameron offers, and follows Chase into the conference room. Foreman watches them go, then looks out to the balcony where House is leaning over the balustrade, resting his elbows on the edge. His left leg is holding his weight, the right bent at the knee, his cane propped beside him, his head once again dipping over the game. From this angle, Foreman can see that his hair is thinning. He's taken off his blazer, and through the cotton of his t-shirt, the unevenness of his shoulders is emphasized. He's more muscled along his right side, from years spent compensating for his leg. Foreman pushes his hands into his lab coat pockets, watching, tilting his head in exasperation at himself. He's thinking of going out there. No, he wants to go out there.
It's the thought that House expects him not to that has him walking outside.
It's late afternoon, and it's warmer out here than in the hospital's air-conditioning. Foreman stands next to House, looking over the edge of the balcony to the wide pavement in front of the hospital's entrance. The tinny music from House's game is seriously getting on his nerves. "Busy," House sing-songs, not looking up, although Foreman's sure House knows it's him. "Pencil in an appointment with Cameron if you're having a personal crisis."
"This isn't a crisis," Foreman says. He knows he sounds pissed off. He's not angry, exactly, he's just damn tired of House toying with him and expecting to get away with it.
House pauses the game and glances up at him, curious. It's all the opening Foreman needs. He's close enough, and standing sideways. As House straightens, Foreman moves in closer and kisses him. House lets out a breath and an edge of sound, and Foreman easily translates the mmph to Oh, I see, of course. House moves his head as if he's going to make a comment, but Foreman knows what he wants, this time, and he is not going to let House fuck with his mind.
He twists his hips enough to push House back, until he's standing against the brick wall, out of sight from his office and from the conference room. Foreman hopes there aren't any other windows that look out on this balcony, but it's already too late to care. He's got one hand on House's collarbone, high enough that his fingers brush against his throat, below the scrape of his stubble. His thumb hooks in the collar of House's t-shirt. House is taller than Marty, but he's not pulling back, and Foreman can feel the quick warmth of House's breath against his lips. The kiss is firm and unhesitating and Foreman feels his heartbeat blurring into adrenaline, like he's in freefall, like he's riding on the back of House's motorcycle again and they're speeding so fast that the wind whips his breath away until he's panting. Their chests press together, and Foreman can feel the uneven muscles he only imagined before, stronger than he would have expected and bunching under his touch. House's right hand catches his wrist, not gripping hard, but enough that his callused fingertips skim over Foreman's skin until he shivers.
When he pulls back at last, House is looking at him without trying to cover up whatever he's feeling with some stupid pretense. It leaves him looking blank, almost uncertain. "What's the problem?" Foreman asks. "No confidence in your diagnosis?"
House blinks. He turns his head slightly, his eyes sliding away. "No interest."
"Funny," Foreman says, "how I don't believe you." He's not bothered in the least--House's body is still warm against his, and when House moves to take the weight off his leg, it just happens to leave room for Foreman to settle closer. "Do you usually interrogate doctors working for your department about their family history before kissing them in exam rooms?"
House looks back, and that faint humour is back in his eyes. "Remind me to add that to my schedule. Might make clinic duty bearable."
"You knew I'd be--" Foreman hesitates, thinks of Marty, then thinks of House's over-the-top racist jackass routine. It's an act, he gets that now, but it's not something he's going to forget. "Interested," he finishes.
House studies him again. Foreman watches him steadily, and doesn't care at all what House sees in his eyes.
His pager goes off, then, an almost-ignorable buzz against his belt. House doesn't react, and Foreman lets out an annoyed breath before checking it. "Wilson's got the OR prepped," he says. "We need to get that shunt into Chris before he starts seizing."
"Wilson never lets me have any fun," House mutters, and shrugs Foreman out of his personal space. "The CSF won't drain before tomorrow. Get another MRI when he's stable." He hop-steps to the balustrade to grab his cane and then limps into his office where he starts throwing things into his backpack. He pulls on his motorcycle jacket.
"You're going home?" Foreman asks, affronted for no reason he can name.
"Yeah," House says. "A lot fewer pesky romantic entanglements where I live. Don't feel you have to call."
He slings his pack over his shoulder and pushes the office door open. Foreman rolls his eyes at House's back. "What if Chris Parker dies?"
"Nah," House says as he goes, "that's a lot less interesting, trust me. Dying, and I just might care."
Then he's gone, and Foreman's left to figure out whether killing him or fucking him would be more satisfying right now.
He's kind of annoyed that he really can't tell.
Foreman scrubs in beside Wilson while Dr. Hendrickson, the anesthetist on call, monitors Chris in the next room. "Do I want to know how you got an operating team together so quickly?" Foreman asks, finishing with the soap and letting the water run down to his elbows. There aren't many of them--just Hendrickson and two scrub nurses, but it's enough.
"Probably not," Wilson answers blandly, drying his hands and watching Foreman finish up. His look sharpens, and he adds, in the same diffident tone, "I hope I wasn't interrupting anything when I paged you."
Foreman turns to him, raising an eyebrow. So Wilson knows. It's not really a surprise. Foreman saw the way he was watching House earlier, and he's probably not the sort to miss a lot, especially not his best friend's newest--whatever Foreman is to House. He'd really rather not think about it. "Nothing you need to worry about," he says dismissively. "It's not important."
Wilson's lips tighten. "That's what worries me, actually."
Foreman sighs, cracks his neck, and backs into the OR, holding his hands up in front of him. Wilson follows, his eyes dark. Maybe he's jealous. Foreman's certain that House is the type who leaves a disaster area behind when a relationship ends. There's no such thing as a clean break, and House is obsessive enough to cling to every detail of his ex's life. Even though Foreman knows from Chase's gossip that Wilson's married as well as carrying on with some woman from the Accounting department, it doesn't mean there wasn't something between him and House at one point.
"Do you arrange things like this for Diagnostics often?" he asks, as they approach the operating table. Arrange things for House, he means, but he's pretty sure Wilson gets it. Chris has already been prepped, his head shaved and the surgical field outlined by draped blue cloths. Foreman looks across to Dr. Hendrickson, who checks the monitors and then nods that she's ready.
"It's...easier," Wilson says. "Less chaotic."
Foreman glances up and meets Wilson's eyes. Yeah, there's definitely history there, and Wilson's just as wary as he is to bring it right out in front of Hendrickson and the nurses. "How long?" Foreman asks as he measures Chris for the catheter, from his ear to the top of his head.
"Twelve years." Wilson steps closer to observe, careful to stay out of Foreman's light.
Foreman makes his first incision, peeling the scalp away from the bone. It's easier to concentrate on the surgery than on what Wilson's telling him, so he focuses, makes each movement count. The surgery passes mostly in silence, beyond the murmurs of Chris's vital signs and his orders. Wilson's known House since long before the infarction, long enough to have seen up close and personal the people House has been with. Foreman would like to know where he fits in, exactly, but it's a stupid thing to be concerned about. He's kissed House, yeah, but it was more about proving something than anything else. Wilson can keep his damn speculation and sanctimonious silences to himself.
"Drill," he says, and soon the whine of the bit and the smell of powdered bone rises up around them. The burr hole's set just behind the coronal suture, on the same plane as Chris's eyes.
"Are you interested in a diagnostics fellowship?" Wilson asks, eventually, when Foreman's finished the burr hole and he's preparing the shunt.
Foreman watches the monitors as he begins to insert the catheter. He wonders what, exactly, Wilson thinks he's asking, and he smiles behind his mask. "No," he says. He knows he doesn't want the job and he doesn't know what the hell he wants from House, so it's the safest answer.
"You're doing good work," Wilson says mildly. On the screen, the catheter reaches the fourth ventricle, and Foreman nods, satisfied. Once the shunt is in, Foreman checks the placement again on the monitors, and sutures the flap of skin over the burr hole. When they're sure Chris is stable, they can check the catheter's position more accurately with a head CT, and determine if the intracranial pressure is falling.
"Keep him on prophylactic antibiotics," Wilson tells the nurse, "and page Dr. Chase if his condition changes."
Foreman stretches out his hands, shaking out the cramps from the tight, precise movements of the operation. They're finished here. He leaves Dr. Hendrickson to bring Chris out of the anesthetic, and walks back into the scrub room to pull off his gown and gloves. He leans back on the wall, the tile cool against the back of his head. When Wilson walks in a minute later, Foreman straightens up and goes to the sink to scrub his hands. Wilson leans his shoulder on the door jamb and watches him. Foreman washes quickly, and dries his hands on a towel, ignoring Wilson as best he can.
"He's not good at these things," Wilson says, finally, when Foreman had almost decided he wasn't going to say anything and was ready to walk out on him. "Worse at letting them go."
Foreman snorts. "Is that experience talking?" he asks, though he's not quite sure he wants to know. He didn't miss Wilson's comment earlier about spending the night watching TV on House's couch.
"I've picked up the pieces more than once," Wilson answers.
Foreman shoots him a look. Wilson's tense, something like anger in the way his face is set, his lips turned down. It looks like Foreman won't be getting the whole story. It's easy to picture, anyway, whether it's House's leg or some girlfriend or the love of his life. He was in pain, and Wilson couldn't fix that. Foreman, at least, knows he won't be able to help House, no matter what he does. That's definitely not what any of this is about. That was Cameron's mistake, probably--caring. Wilson obviously does, too, though he hides it better. Foreman doesn't. He shrugs and heads out into the hospital corridors. The night shift has started, and the fluorescent lights leave hard shadows behind.
Wilson follows him towards Diagnostics. "He's not...He doesn't get better," he says. "The insults, the jokes--that doesn't stop. You've known him--how long? A couple of days? Do you think--"
Foreman turns around, stopping Wilson in his tracks. "Are you together?"
"No," Wilson says, but he blinks and Foreman narrows his eyes. He's not lying, but that isn't the whole truth, either.
"Then I don't see how this is any of your business," he says, heading towards the diagnostic offices again. "I'm supposed to stop because you're concerned?"
Wilson sighs and reaches a hand behind his head to massage at his neck. "Are you--are you saying you like him?"
"No," Foreman says, which isn't the whole truth either. He doesn't like House. He is interested. House is like Chris Parker's case--frustrating because it makes no sense, interesting because there's a solution, somehow. Diagnostics he could do without, but he does like the look on the faces around him when he gets the answer right after no one expected he would. "But you've set yourself up as some sort of expert. You want me to ask you to explain how House works?"
"Why he's like he is," Wilson says, and hesitates. "It's not the leg."
Foreman holds back an eye-roll. "I know."
Wilson studies him for a moment, his head tilted slightly, amused and condescending. Of course you know, that look says, and it pisses Foreman right off. He doesn't know where Wilson gets off lecturing him--this isn't his fault. House kissed him first. "Bastards like that aren't made," he says. "At least, not over one stroke of bad luck."
"He's in pain," Wilson says. "All the time. That's 'one stroke of bad luck'?"
Foreman shrugs. He's seen House in pain. There are probably days when it's worse, days when it's better, days when House would rather be dead and makes every one around him feel the same way. "If he was able to deal with it, then he would've dealt with it," he says. Chronic pain doesn't equal asshole. That's probably the mistake Wilson's been making all this time. And yeah, he's jealous, maybe not in the way Foreman thought at first, but it's there, nonetheless.
They've reached the Diagnostics conference room. Foreman puts a hand on the door, wondering how long this conversation is going to last, but Wilson stops at the next door down.
"My office," he says, with a faint smile. "Nice view."
Foreman watches him go in, laughs at himself in disgust, and wonders what the hell happened to the life he had a week ago.
He manages to scrounge something to eat from the hospital cafeteria, smiling winningly at the cashier just as she's about to cash out. He eats in the Neurology lounge. A few residents chatting over coffee pause their conversation when he comes in. He's forgotten their names, and they don't invite him to join them. For once the easy explanation probably isn't the right one. Chase isn't the only one with an ear to the hospital grapevine. They probably think he's insane for working with House, even on just one case, even temporarily. Foreman can't really blame them.
After he eats, he finds his way to the staff locker room, showers, and changes back into his OR scrubs, leaving the clothes he'd been wearing in his locker. It's getting late, but he feels refreshed enough to hang in with Chase and Cameron for the night shift. He hasn't pulled forty-eight hours since he was a resident, but after a few cups of coffee, the body doesn't forget. Just as he's putting on his lab coat, his pager goes off. CODE - CHRIS PARKER - CHASE, it says, and Foreman curses to himself and heads out of the locker room at a run.
Chris's room is filled with a flurry of nurses and a crash cart. Cameron's barking orders while Chase bends over the bed, his blond hair falling into his eyes. "What happened?" Foreman asks, moving in to take over bagging from Cameron. "He's not getting any air."
"Esophageal spasm," Chase says. "He's choking. I'm going to intubate."
"He was stable after surgery--" Foreman starts.
"It's not the shunt," Cameron says. "We need House."
"Then page him," Foreman says, moving out of Chase's way as he stands at Chris's head, putting the scope in place.
"I have. He's not picking up his phone."
"He's on call," Foreman says. "What the hell!"
"Is Wilson still in?" Chase says, sliding the tube in place. Foreman attaches the bag again while Chase hooks up the respirator.
"I don't think so," Cameron says, checking Chris's pulse. Foreman follows her gaze to the monitor. Chris's heart hasn't stopped, at least, and he wasn't without oxygen long enough to cause permanent damage. "And Cuddy left hours ago--"
"Don't you know where he lives?"
"Of course," Chase says. "But I'm not going over there. And I'm not waking Cuddy up to tell her our patient's dying."
Cameron says, "I'll call Wilson. He'll--"
Foreman wants to throw his hands up at them. They're letting House walk all over them, and he's not even here. "I'll go get him," he says.
"Wilson?"
"No, House."
Cameron stares at him in shock. Chase raises his eyebrows. "Your funeral," he offers.
"Just get me the address," Foreman says, and doesn't bother asking himself why he cares.
Baker Street isn't far from the hospital. Foreman remembers Princeton well enough to find it quickly. He parks on the street and takes note of House's motorcycle pulled up on the sidewalk near the front step. It's the middle of the night, but there's a lamp glowing in the living room window on the bottom floor. Foreman pushes into the hall and pounds on House's door. Inside, he can hear the soft chords of a piano pause, and then stop. Foreman knocks again, for good measure, although House is probably already making his way across the room.
The door opens, and House stands in the opening, leaning one forearm against the jamb. He looks tired, his face still and his eyes direct, as if it's the only time he can be serious. "Oh," he says. "It's you."
"Yeah," Foreman says. "You're coming to the hospital. The patient needs you."
House grunts and leaves the door, letting it swing open behind him as he limps into the apartment. He's left his cane somewhere, but he seems to manage all right for the few steps he takes. "Thought he was your patient. You figure him out." He sits on the couch, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The lamplight outlines his long body, the way he stretches out, warm and loose, as if he can't quite be bothered to control his limbs.
Foreman frowns and crosses the room, letting the door close behind him. He crouches in front of House, who opens his eyes enough to glance at him and then lets them slide shut again. "Are you on something?" Foreman asks. House doesn't answer, and Foreman swears under his breath and pulls out his penlight. He pries House's eyelids open and runs the light over them. His pupils are contracted and stay that way. "Shit," Foreman says. "How much did you take?"
"I'm pretty sure that varmint Cameron rustled my high horse," House says. He's not slurring at all. The only sign that he's high is that there's no edge in his voice, no anger. "You seem to have one, too, though. Very imposing for a man whose brother is in jail for dealing."
"That's just great, House." Foreman starts to move away, but House catches his wrist. Foreman shakes him off. "Chris is getting worse. We need you."
"You need me," House says, as if he's just repeating Foreman's words.
"Yeah, I just said--"
"You need me."
Foreman stares at him. "Fine," he says. "I need you. Happy now?"
"The morphine definitely makes it easier."
"No wonder Cameron and Chase told me not to bother. You're acting like a child. We don't need a pouting five-year-old, Chris is dying and--"
"In the next four hours?"
"He's losing involuntary muscle control," Foreman says tightly. "His eyes, now his throat--how long until his respiration shuts down, House? If he keeps vomiting--"
"He won't. The vomiting and the headache were artifacts of the intracranial pressure. He'll improve with the shunt."
"So the only symptoms left are caused by the brain tumor," Foreman says. "I don't think that's going to reassure him!"
House's look sharpens. "How's his balance?" he asks. "Since the surgery?"
"No better," Foreman says, wondering where the hell the sudden spate of questions is coming from. "He can't grasp objects in front of him."
House blinks, and suddenly Foreman feels like he's not even in the room anymore. House's eyes are absent, the pupils tiny. Fuck, he must be out of his mind on morphine. "A pouting five-year-old," he says, like he's drifting somewhere far away.
"Yeah, House," Foreman says. "Useless." He might as well get back to the hospital, do what he can. Why the fuck the world relies on House, like he's some fucking genius, is completely beyond him.
"Like a kid," House says. He looks at Foreman, and just as quickly as he faded out, he's back, focused, intent. "Let's go," he says. He makes a move to stand up, blinks, and adds, "I know how much you love riding bitch, but I think this time you'd better drive."
Foreman finds House's jacket on the floor of his closet, and the cane underneath the piano. He shoves both into House's hands, none to gently. Wherever House's change of heart came from, he doesn't trust it, and he doesn't plan to help. If House can't walk on his own, Foreman's not taking him anywhere near patients. House shoots him his best glare of death, but he pushes himself to his feet and follows Foreman out. Foreman unlocks his car with a click and gets in behind the wheel. House opens the passenger side and climbs in stiffly. "Princeton-Plainsboro, Jeeves, and step on it, would you? I'm being kidnapped by an uppity doctor and it'd be nice to get it over with before the good drugs wear off."
Foreman shoves the car into drive. "Shut up, House."
"There's a Driving Miss Daisy joke here somewhere, but I can't quite put my finger on it."
"House, you're not Jessica Tandy. So shut up."
House gives a snort that might be a laugh and leans his head against the window. He looks tired, and old, the streetlights showing up the grey in his hair. He might be nauseous from the morphine, depending on how much he's taken, how habituated he is. Foreman shakes his head. House isn't Marcus, but it's damn hard to remember that right now. He might have had a breakthrough episode, and maybe the morphine is legitimately prescribed. Knowing House, that doesn't seem likely. Still, he already seems better, sharper, more present. "You couldn't have saved the fucking off for when we've diagnosed Chris Parker?" Foreman asks, tapping his fingers against the gearshift, impatient.
House glances him. Foreman only catches the edge of his look in the glow of the dashboard, and then House picks up his hand.
Foreman tugs back irritably, but House doesn't let go. "House, what the hell are you doing?"
"Fucking off in transit," House says. He traces the creases of his palm, then massages the heel of Foreman's hand. He frowns lightly, as if he's entranced, as if he's trying to remember each muscle and tendon as he traces them. Foreman makes another half-hearted attempt to pull his hand back, but it's not like he needs it for driving. The light touch turns on every nerve in his hand, tingling, until he's covered in goosebumps. Then House is dragging his fingers along the inside of Foreman's arm, up to his elbow and the edge of his scrubs, leaving lines of sensation behind, like after-images.
"House..."
"Busy."
Foreman sighs. He tries to watch the road, but he can't stop glancing over. House is still intent on his hand, spreading his fingers apart, and it's stupid how Foreman can feel that simple touch as if it's everywhere at once. It's different from the way House kisses, but completely familiar at the same time--interested, Foreman thinks, and shivers. "You're high," he says, because he's had enough assholes hit on him that way.
"Is that supposed to be a 'stop, stop, please, you're not in your right mind'?" House asks absently. "Because you suck at playing the sacrificial virgin, if so."
"Maybe because I'm not," Foreman says, annoyed. He takes a breath and keeps his eyes on the road when he says, "If you want me to fuck you, just let me know, House."
"That would be too easy," House says. "And I'm not talking about your appallingly low standards."
Foreman takes his hand back. House lets him, this time. "Are you going to tell me what the big epiphany is?" he asks.
"And ruin the moment in front of Cameron and Chase?" House says. "The romance is gone."
Foreman laughs derisively. "This isn't romance," he says. He doesn't know what the hell it is, but it's not romance.
Maybe it's better that way.
House picks up his fellows as he enters the hospital as if they're following lines of magnetic force, falling into formation behind him. House listens to Cameron's update on Chris's condition as they head to Diagnostics. He's stable for now. They might be able to extubate him if they can get him onto assisted ventilation, but he won't be able to swallow unless they can figure out how to get him control of his reflexes back. They flock into the conference room, and House walks up to the whiteboard without pausing. He wipes away 'headache', 'vomiting', and pauses at 'papilledema', but leaves it. He picks up the marker and taps it against the whiteboard a few times before turning towards them.
"The Archbishop or the grasshopper?" he asks.
Foreman eyes Cameron and Chase sideways. Cameron's staring at the new symptom list like it holds the meaning of life. Chase frowns thoughtfully. "The headache and vomiting were caused by the hydrocephaly," he says. "They weren't proximate to the tumor at all."
"We have a wiener!" House declares. "And that beautiful infatuation with your shark story?"
"The ataxia's still there, and the muscle weakness," Chase says. "The papilledema could be from the intracranial pressure...but if it's cranial nerve paralysis..."
Foreman crosses his arms, watching the grin threatening to take over House's face. He glances at the whiteboard, trying to put it together. The way House looked, Foreman thinks the answer must have hit him like a light switched on in a pitch-dark room. He frowns, and gropes for something that's almost there. Like a five-year-old, he remembers, and he gets it. "It's a medulloblastoma," he says.
"He's not a child," Cameron protests. "He's twenty-five years old! Medulloblastomas are time bombs. He should have died before he was fifteen."
"And yet," House says, getting misty. "He's such a little trooper!"
"It's an embryonic tumor," Chase says, not like he doesn't believe it, but slower, as if he's slotting this information into his world-view.
"They're rare, but adult-onset medulloblastomas are treatable," Foreman says. "He has a chance."
House frowns at the list of symptoms, his manic grin fading back to seriousness. "Good news: he's safe from the zombie apocalypse," he says. "Bad news: best treatment gives him a sixty-five percent chance of survival over five years." He tosses the marker back into the tray beneath the whiteboard and heads for his office. "Send him to Wilson," he says. "We're done here."
It's eight AM.
Last week that would have meant the start of Foreman's shift. He'd have arrived at the hospital, with coffee and briefcase in hand, fifteen minutes beforehand, to check on his patients or finish paperwork. Instead, he's wearing yesterday's scrubs, trying to blink past the sandy, fuzzy feeling in his eyes, and drinking Cameron's coffee, which is burnt and over-sweet.
"What do we do now?" he asks, sitting heavily at the conference table. Cameron's already erased the symptoms from the whiteboard. It's like Chris Parker never existed.
Cameron looks up from the forms she's filling out--transferring the case to the Oncology Department and finishing the notes on the chart. "That's it," she says, with a small smile.
"No follow-up?"
Chase grins across the table as he stirs his coffee. "As far as House is concerned, the case ends with the diagnosis. Our patients are lucky they get treated. And you can forget follow-up, unless they knock our doors down to get it."
"Which some of them do," Cameron murmurs, mostly to the computer screen. "I'll call Chris's family. You can ask Wilson for details on the chemo courses and radiation if you're interested, and he'll refer you to the oncologist who gets the case. Probably Dr. Thompson will let you scrub in on the surgery--he's the senior neuro-oncologist on staff."
"Yeah," Foreman says. In other words: forget it, go home, wait for the next case. That might be SOP for Diagnostics, but it's not how he works. He stifles a yawn, and stretches his shoulders discreetly. He won't be worth much to Singh today, but he ought to get back to his own department.
"We'd better go give Chris the news," Cameron says, standing up reluctantly.
Chase gets to his feet immediately after. "I'll go with you," he says. They're not halfway out the door before he has his hand resting on the small of her back. Foreman watches them go, and chuckles to himself. Chase is going to get squashed like a bug.
Foreman stands up, grabs the briefcase he left here yesterday, and throws his jacket over his arm. He takes a look around the conference room: the glass-topped table, the coffee maker, the whiteboard, Cameron's desk with a pile of House's mail sitting on top. And he looks towards House's office. The blinds are half-pulled, so he can't see much.
He could just leave. Drop by Cuddy's office and let her know he's finished, his patient is diagnosed.
Except he doesn't want to. Foreman lets his head fall, then looks again towards House's office. Stupid.
He goes in anyway. House is stretched out in a reclining chair in the corner of the office, his leg propped up on the ottoman in front of him, his eyes closed. Foreman drops his briefcase and jacket beside the chair. House cracks one eye open and looks him over disdainfully. "Is this the tender farewell scene?" he asks. "And me without my hanky."
"House..." Foreman shakes his head. "I was going to thank you for keeping me on the case. I shouldn't have bothered."
House pushes himself up, grabbing his cane and limping towards the desk. "Do you seriously think you're going to learn anything from Dr. Lee?"
"Yeah," Foreman says, "I do. How to run a department. Encourage clinical trials. Attract residents and interns. Get grants."
"How to be an administrator," House sneers.
"Cuddy seems to like it just fine."
"Oh, our lovely Dean of Medicine has caught your eye, has she?"
Foreman looks up to the ceiling and sighs. That's the stupidest thing he's ever heard House say, since he knows Foreman is gay. "House, I came in here to tell you I was going back to Neurology, not to argue with you about my career."
"Cuddy yanking the leash?" House asks viciously. There's nothing cool and amused about his taunts, now. Foreman wonders what the hell his problem is. "Trying to get the most out of you that she can? You know, they say a man's never the same afterwards. I like to think I escaped the curse, but--"
"No," Foreman says, getting pissed off in his own right. "That'd be you, wouldn't it, House? Working people until they drop, to see how far they'll go for you? Just like you do with Cameron and Chase--"
"I'm turning them into doctors!" House shouts, slamming his hand down on the desk. "Not glorified paper pushers. Not bureaucrats."
"I am a doctor--"
"You could be better."
Foreman stops at that. House respects you, Wilson told him, and maybe, finally, here's proof: House staring at him across the office, angry as hell, his eyes blazing. House wants him to stay. If Foreman says it, he's opening himself up to House's ridicule, so he doesn't. He grins until he's laughing, because damn, he should have been more specific when he wished he had someone who was interested in him. "House," he says, "I don't like you," and it's still true when he steps across the room and kisses him.
House is half-sitting on the edge of his desk, enough that Foreman has the height advantage for once. House drops his chin for a moment, as if he wants to look away, but Foreman raises a hand to his face--House's stubble pricks against his palm--and when he turns House's face so that their mouths slant together, then House kisses him back.
This time it's kissing with a hell of a lot less bullshit between them. It's not a test, it's not revenge. Foreman's been curious about what it would be like if he kissed House without any ulterior motives, and he wants this, wanted it even before he stepped into the office. House is impatient, making lunging little pushes with his mouth, catching Foreman's lip between his and sucking. It's still crazy, it's still stupid, but Foreman steps closer, nudging House's legs apart, slowly enough that he doesn't jar his thigh or unbalance him. House grabs at his shirt, until he's almost, almost got his hands resting on Foreman's stomach. Foreman hmms into his mouth, because, Jesus, he's forgotten what this is like, to get light-headed just from kissing. Even when it's House. Maybe especially when it's House--he's a lot more bearable when his mouth is occupied. Which gets Foreman thinking about House sucking him off, that talented, curious, interested mouth working over his cock. He gasps and shoves his hips forward a bit, until his half-hard dick presses against House's through their pants. The sound of House's groan rumbling in his throat is a fucking turn-on. Foreman runs through a lightning-quick calculation that ends with the conclusion that venetian blinds aren't going to cut it for hiding office sex from the world, so he pulls back from the kiss and mutters, "Fuck."
"Not here," House says, pretending to look scandalized. "This is the desk where I do my doctoring. And I'm not as bendy as I used to be."
Foreman lets out another laugh. "I was right," he says, "I don't like you." This is such a bad idea, no matter how interesting it might get. They're both at work, he's a week into his new job, and this is not going to happen. Foreman steps back, and hopes House's legs are too wobbly to let him stand up for a good long time. He's not too steady himself. "Goodbye, House," he says, and turns to leave the office.
"Cocktease," House scoffs behind him.
Foreman just shakes his head and lets the door fall shut behind him. It's not a relief, like he thought it would be, but maybe it's for the best.
"Dr. Foreman," Cuddy says, smiling and flicking her assistant away when he shows up at her office two days later, once again summoned by Nurse Previn. "Come in."
Foreman feels the difference the moment the door closes behind them. Cuddy sighs and shakes her head at the pile of paper in her in-tray, and when she smiles at him it's real, and beautiful, instead of the tighter professional smile she's offered him before. Instead of boss and employee, or administrator and underling, Cuddy's treating him like a person. Someone who's been in the trenches with House.
"How was your first day back in Neuro?" she asks, with an ironic tone of voice that goes with the smile. All the hospital gossip is in that question--she knows what it's like working for Dr. Lee and Dr. Singh, enduring the painful, drawn-out jokes and the even more painful sycophantism, and she's letting him hear it.
"It was fine," Foreman says, a little stiffly, because Cuddy's good at getting what she wants, and if she can get it by showing a more personal side to the Dean of Medicine, then he's pretty sure she'll do exactly that.
Cuddy nods, and waves at the couch. They sit, and Cuddy lets one shoe slide off her heel. She looks comfortable, and still scary. It's a good look for her. "I want to be clear," she says. "You've managed to work well with the diagnostics team this week. Chase and Cameron both spoke highly of you."
Foreman crosses his legs and sits back, twining his fingers together. It's not much of a mystery where this is going. "That's very flattering," he says, "but--"
"There is a third fellowship position available in the Diagnostics department," Cuddy says. "I've been trying to get House to look at resumes for the last two years."
"I'm not sure you understand," Foreman says. "I'm not interested."
Cuddy looks like she already understands, but she continues anyway, "You'd have more seniority than in the Neurology Department--"
Foreman raises an eyebrow. "And I'd be answering to House."
"You managed fine during this case."
"Yeah, for a week." Foreman shakes his head. "I agreed to that. But I am not going to take more of House's bullshit than I choose to. And I am not going to work with him."
"We don't all get that choice," Cuddy says.
"No," Foreman says, thinking of House's hands, the easy way he kisses when he's not playing games. "But I do."
Cuddy stands up, sliding just as quickly back into her shoes and her Dean of Medicine mask. "I'm sorry to hear that," she says. "You'll do well in Neurology, but don't think you can't still learn from House if the opportunity arises."
Foreman stands and follows her to the office door. "Of course," he says, giving her a professional smile, and wonders if she knows.
After three days back in Neurology, when Foreman's so busy catching up that he doesn't so much as run into Cameron or Chase in the halls, and House might as well have vanished from the face of the Earth, he arrives home to see an obnoxiously orange motorcycle parked on the street in front of his apartment building.
Foreman stops and tilts his head back. It doesn't vanish, just sits sleekly on its kickstand, about as arrogant and faux-innocent its owner.
He keeps an eye on it as he opens the lobby door, before heading for the stairs out of habit. He's surprised House had the patience to wait for the building's elevator--ice ages have come and gone faster. When he reaches his hallway, there's nothing out of place, and his apartment is locked, but it's no surprise when he opens the door to find House sprawled on his sofa. Foreman glares at him, more resigned than angry. "Privacy doesn't mean much to you, does it, House?"
House glances over from where he's flicking past channels on Foreman's TV. "Not when it's pointless. Don't you get HBO?"
"I don't want you here," Foreman says.
"Emphasis on here," House says, "meaning you want me, but you hoped I'd never see the inside of your soul-of-a-serial-killer apartment."
Foreman sighs. The place is pretty bare, mostly piled with boxes of medical texts for the shelves he hasn't set up yet. "I moved here two weeks ago," he says, taking off his suit jacket and pulling his tie loose. "Spent one of them on call twenty-four hours a day."
"There's no excuse for basic cable." House clicks off the TV.
Dress shoes next to the briefcase, jacket on a hanger. Foreman crumples the tie in his hand. House's strategy doesn't change, even when his tactics do. What the hell are you doing here? would be a pointless question. He's here to provoke a reaction, that's all he ever wants. Whether it's an argument or something else. This time, Foreman thinks he might just give it to him, in the hopes of shutting him up. "It's a bad idea," Foreman says. "It'd get complicated."
"Flattering as that is, it's also completely wrong," House says. "Not unlike most of your ideas."
"You ran away from the hospital and got high in the middle of a case!" Foreman says, turning away from the closet and stalking across the room to stand in front of the sofa. "Was that me, or just a Wednesday afternoon?"
"Good to see you've got no shortage of ego," House says. He gets a look in his eyes, appraising and careful, like he's testing Foreman. "My leg hurt."
Foreman stares at him, the way House's hands move restlessly on his cane, holding it between his knees. "I know," he says. "Do you think I care?"
"Everyone cares," House snaps. "Cuddy feels guilty, Wilson feels responsible, Cameron feels like she can fix me--even Chase thinks it's why I'm a bastard."
Foreman crosses his arms. "It's not."
"Strange, I don't remember knowing you before the infarction," House says.
"I know you now," Foreman says. Which is true, and which is also why he should be throwing House out of his apartment instead of letting this go any farther. But whenever House pushes, all Foreman can think to do is push back, prove that he's right, prove that House doesn't know everything, can't learn everything just by watching and prodding and challenging him. And Foreman's never backed down from a challenge.
House sits on the couch and looks up at him, that dissecting laser stare. As if he can figure Foreman out--as if it's that simple.
"Look, I'm sorry your leg hurts," Foreman says in exasperation. "But I don't care that it does. It's not what makes you who you are, and it's not what's stopping you from--cuddling puppies, or what the hell ever! Your leg isn't an excuse with me, House. Your leg is a fact. You're a cripple. It isn't what stops you from getting what you want."
"What does, then, Dr. Foreman?"
"You're a coward, House," Foreman says. "You expect everyone else to do the work while you jerk the puppet strings. That's why I'm glad I'm not one of your lackeys. That's why I'm not taking the third diagnostics fellowship."
House's eyes narrow. "I didn't offer it to you."
"Cuddy did."
House grins faintly, probably more at Cuddy for offering him the position behind House's back than at Foreman. "So, you've solved one diagnostic mystery," he says, more lightly, as if he thinks he's got Foreman diagnosed. "What are you going to do now? Give it up? Go back to draining subdural hematomas and calculating Glasgow scores?"
"Yeah," Foreman says. "And performing surgery, and writing up cases, and getting published, and presenting at conferences. Dr. Lee's getting close to retirement--five more years, tops."
"Head of the department at thirty-seven?" House asks, still with that edge of humour in his voice. "Ambitious, aren't you? Or should I say 'cut-throat'?"
Foreman raises an eyebrow. "Wilson did it."
House snorts. "You're not Wilson."
"No," Foreman says. "I'm not. So you might actually get somewhere if you made a move on me."
He doesn't know if it's true. He never got the whole story, just edges. But House isn't the only one who can diagnose people the same way he does diseases. Foreman saw it in Wilson's discomfort when Foreman had asked if he was with House, in his strange smile when he'd spoken of earning House's respect. The rest of it is easy to imagine: House tried something, Wilson mumbled that he wasn't like that--probably danced around the embarrassed straight-guy apology--and they're both still pretending nothing ever happened.
House stands up. His eyes are hard, and the pain-creases around them are deeper. If Foreman was looking for a way to get him out of his apartment, then he's just found it. "Get out of my way."
"You came here." Foreman stops him with a hand on his chest. "I thought you didn't want this to be easy."
House looks disdainfully at his hand. "And you don't want it to be complicated," he says, mocking, like something off a soap opera.
"Like you care," Foreman says, leaning closer, "what I want."
House scowls, but he doesn't try to push past to leave. Foreman waits, glaring back, trying to read past House's anger. This time he's the one to win the staring contest, because House looks away, and Foreman can't help laughing a bit, just satisfied knowing he's right. House looks back, more curious than angry now, and Foreman thinks he sees the hint of a smile before House leans in and kisses him. It's rough and deep, right away, and House's left hand comes up to hold the back of his head and pull him closer. Foreman lets him, because this is good, angry and honest. House is no better than anybody else, just as frustrated, just as damaged, and he shows it when he kisses--like if he's chosen to go that far, then he'll let it all out, instead of hiding behind his stupid jokes and childish insults. Foreman meets House's tongue with his and sucks it into his mouth until House groans, a short sound, low in his throat. Foreman grins, and pulls back long enough to breathe. House isn't the only one who likes to make people react.
He moves in again, letting his mouth drift along the line of House's jaw, tasting the texture of his stubble. "I am going to fuck you through the mattress," he mutters, and maybe he only imagines the way House tenses quickly, the way his breath hisses next to Foreman's ear. Satisfied, Foreman leans in further, tonguing whatever parts of House's neck he can reach, the rough stubble and the surprisingly soft skin lower down. House's hand slides down from his head to his back, massaging slow circles near the base of his spine and along his ass. His anger's gone, now, and in its place there's something almost gentle, that shouldn't fit with anything about House but somehow does. Foreman pauses to pant into his shoulder, not wanting to meet House's gaze and see that look in his eyes. Not yet.
Instead, Foreman runs his hands up House's shirt, which is mostly hanging open, and undoes the last few buttons. When he gets past the button-down to House's t-shirt, he pulls until the dress shirt comes off his shoulders, letting it fall on the couch. House doesn't seem interested in returning the favour, so Foreman works on his own his own buttons next, one-handed, interrupted whenever House's arms get in his way. "Would you just--"
"No," House says, not waiting for him to finish the question, and then dips his head to bite Foreman's lower lip. Foreman grunts. The pain is bright and sudden and fades quickly, leaving him even more sensitive as House licks over his lips and kisses him again. His hand drags down the front of Foreman's shirt, popping off whatever buttons he missed, and Foreman would yell that that was a good shirt, except then House's hand lands on his dick, through the linen of his pants, and all his breath seems to fall out of him at once. Now House seems eager to get through his clothes, and opens his belt and his fly one handed, pushing his boxers down to grip his cock. House takes a half-step back, adjusting his weight--somehow through all this he's kept hold of his cane. He leans on it, just his left hand pushing through Foreman's clothes and stroking him.
They're not touching anywhere else, not that they need to be, not that Foreman's complaining, because House's fingers are long and callused and fucking precise. When Foreman manages to drag his eyes open, House is watching him with a smug half-smile on his face, and just then he twists his grip and Foreman's moan jerks out of him before he can stop it. House's grin widens and he slows down, until the friction is barely there. Foreman reaches out and grabs a fistful of his t-shirt, needing to lean on something even if that something is House. He is not going to ask for more, he is not going to beg, even though House's hand is warm, there and gone, fucking teasing him--
House leans closer and says, conversationally, "Probably a good thing I fuck myself with my cane on a regular basis."
Foreman can't think, and House definitely didn't just say what he thought House said, except he's House, so of course he did. "No, you don't," he says, his voice harsh, still holding on as best he can.
House's hand pauses. Foreman thrusts forward, just a bit. There's a groan building in his throat. He clamps it down.
"Fine," House says, "I don't." Another pause, and he's jerking Foreman again, hard and fast, when he says, "The hooker with the strap-on was a good investment, though."
Foreman doesn't care, doesn't care. House could have had a hundred call-girls fuck him and he doesn't care. "I don't want to know, House. Just--"
"Because if you're going to fuck me," House says, still sounding insanely normal even as his hand's working furiously, "there had better be a gallon of lube involved."
Then he stops, waiting for a response, and Foreman could quite murder him quite happily, except at this point he's come down quite firmly on the fucking side of the equation. His shirt's open, his pants are around his hips, his dick is so hard it's brushing against his stomach, and House is still in t-shirt and jeans, looking mostly unruffled. Mostly. Foreman can see that his face is flushed, his eyes are wide and dark, and there's a spot under his chin where Foreman's bite mark is going to show up dark and tender before tomorrow. And when Foreman says, "Bedroom," tightly, and moves down the short hallway, he can hear the hitch of House's breath when he follows.
Foreman hasn't done much setting up in the rest of the apartment, but the bedroom is the exception. The bed's a king-sized, covered in cool soft sheets, because some things are just not worth skimping on. He can tell already he's going to like the look of House's skin against their deep navy blue. House comes in, takes one look around him, and leans his cane against the wall next to the head of the bed. He sits down on the edge, watching Foreman appraisingly as Foreman pulls off his shirt and pants. House hesitates a second before tugging off his t-shirt. He looks good, his chest muscled and lightly covered in gray-brown hair, the rest of him long and lanky. He's a dozen years or so older than Foreman, and it shows, but only enough that it's there, it's evident. He rests one hand on his right thigh, and Foreman knows what that's about, so he bends over until he can push House back, kissing him and finding the crotch of his jeans with one hand, enough to feel that House is already hard. House grunts when Foreman touches him, and then bats his hands away and undoes his jeans himself. He strips them off quickly, along with his boxer-briefs, in a way that would be awkward if it wasn't so obviously practiced.
Foreman looks at his leg first. The crimped edges of the scar twist from just above his knee nearly to his hip, dipping into the space where most of his quads used to be. Foreman's seen worse, during his ER rotation as an intern. He knows that if he pays the least bit of attention, or asks if House is okay, then this is over. So he spreads his hands across House's hips and leans down, not with all his weight, but enough to pin House to the bed. He gets on his knees and bites low on House's stomach, hard enough to make him grunt and shift under Foreman's mouth. Foreman grins, and sucks along to House's hipbone, massaging a bit with his thumbs as he goes.
"Moving along," House says somewhere above him, twisting a bit, his erection brushing against Foreman's cheek.
It might be worth it to hold off, just to see what House would do, but Foreman has a feeling that 'what House would do' probably involves a knee to Foreman's ribs, so he lets House nudge him sideways until he takes House's dick in his mouth. House moves again, restlessly, and says, "Fuck, oh," when Foreman sucks harder.
Foreman pulls off long enough to mutter, "Like that, don't you." It doesn't need an answer and he doesn't get one, just House shifting back on the bed until he's lying down, and then Foreman sucks him in again, moving his head, using his fingers to squeeze lightly just above House's balls. House's stomach muscles tighten, and he pulls up his left leg, giving Foreman more room, and he's panting hard now, a groan hidden under every breath.
So Foreman stops. He looks up, and House is smirking at him like he knows exactly what Foreman's trying to do. Then, he reaches up and back, off the side of the bed, and flips open the banker's box sitting there. He pulls out Foreman's box of condoms and a bottle of lube.
Foreman sits back, exasperated. "How the hell did you know--"
"Because 'next to the bed in the only box in the room' is such a mystery," House says, and his smirk grows even more evil. "Besides, you think I broke in just so that I could watch television? Nice porn collection--at least we know you're not a freak."
House throws the box at his chest. Foreman grabs it after it hits him, rolling his eyes. He takes a moment to wonder what else House found when he was snooping around the apartment, and for once he's grateful that he hasn't had time to unpack. He's distracted, though, when House pops open the top of the lube and pours out a handful, then slides his hand down his dick, watching Foreman the whole time with lazy intensity. He moves back, then, reaching behind himself and pushing up. Foreman palms the length of House's erection, unable to look away. House's face is still and open, his eyes dark blue and direct like Foreman's never seen before. Then his eyes flutter closed, and he bites back a sound. He tenses, then relaxes, adding a third finger while Foreman slides his hand along his dick, slick with the lube, hot and firm against his hand.
House tenses again, then opens his eyes, his chest moving quickly with his breathing. "This isn't a spectator sport," he says. "Get going."
Foreman realizes he's dropped the box of condoms to the bed and picks it up again. A moment later he's rolled one on, tossing the wrapper and the box off the side of the bed. He finds the lube and uncaps it again, pouring plenty into his hand and stroking it on to his dick. Yeah, it works for him, watching House work himself open, like he's done this plenty of times before, knowing that Foreman's going to fuck him senseless. "Other way," he says.
"No slacking off when I'm not watching," House says, and rolls over.
Foreman laughs, breathless. "I'm not the one with the work ethic problem."
"So prove it," House says, moving enough that Foreman knows he's trying to get friction against the sheets without showing it.
Foreman rubs his forefinger across House's asshole to watch him roll his hips at the sensation. "I don't need," he says, positioning himself, "to prove myself to you," and then he pushes in.
Slow, at first, but when House moves back, impatient, Foreman shoves in the rest of the way. Jesus, he's tight, but he's clearly in no pain. He pushes back, slanted and awkward but there, and Foreman grips his hip tighter and fucks him. Deeper, enough to feel him shudder when Foreman hits his prostate. House's hands scrabble at the sheets, the muscles in his back rolling as he clenches his fists.
Fuck, it's been a while, and Foreman's close, feeling the sweat coming up on his skin and House's. He rocks forward again, hard, and works his hand under House's stomach to touch his dick. "Come on, come on," he says, moving his hand, thrusting, until it all joins together and unravels at once. He comes, his eyes closed, still jerking House roughly, and it's a moment later before House comes too, spilling messily onto the sheets.
"Jesus," Foreman gasps, and rolls off. When he can breathe again, he grabs for a handful of tissues from the box by the bed. He wraps the condom in a few before throwing it in the trashcan, and offers the rest to House, throwing his arm across his face, still recovering.
He hears the rattle of House's pill bottle and opens his eyes long enough to see House swallow two, then put the bottle back in his jeans pocket. House is sitting up, moving slowly and stiffly, without his usual grace. Foreman could ask if he's okay, if he wants to get his head taken off, if it wasn't obvious. So he ignores House instead, and shifts on the bed until he's comfortable. He could use a nap. House will go or stay, and Foreman doesn't really care which. He's got nothing worth stealing and no secrets left.
He listens to the awkward sounds of House finding his clothes and getting dressed. So he's going. Foreman wonders if he's good to drive, but that's one more question House doesn't want to hear. And Foreman doesn't care.
House is already halfway out of the bedroom when he says, "See you Monday."
Foreman opens his eyes at that, but House is already gone. "I'm not working for Diagnostics, House," he shouts to the other room.
"We'll see about that," House shouts back, and the apartment door slams shut.
Foreman thinks about all the ways House could drag him back to his department. The wild plans, the stupid pranks--House, that irritating, annoying son of a bitch, doing his best to fuck Foreman over as well as he knows how.
Foreman realizes he's grinning.
When his grin turns to laughter, he knows he cares, after all.
Three weeks later, Foreman's sitting in on the Neurology departmental staff meeting and doodling on his agenda--there are fifteen items left to go, and the first fifteen have already taken them two hours of debate and idiocy--when the door bursts open and House stomps in. He flips off the projector and jerks the string on the screen, sending it rolling upwards with a clatter. He flourishes a whiteboard marker and starts writing on the glass wall at the end of the room. "Cognitive impairment, broken ribs, personality changes, and abdominal pain," he says with relish, then turns and looks at them. "Anyone? Bueller?"
"House, what the hell are you doing?" Singh demands.
"Requesting a consult," House says. "Eighty-six year old woman, just as sweet as you could like, until she assaulted her nursing home staff and made a break for it. I like her--she's feisty."
"We were in the middle of budgeting for the upcoming conference schedule--"
"And I have a dying patient. Strange how mine gets priority." House snaps his fingers. "Come on, come on. We want this woman's grandkids to eat her cookies again without checking for arsenic."
"She's eighty-six and has weak bones and decreasing mental faculties?" Singh says. "Osteoporosis and senile dementia. Now would you get out, House?"
"Bone density was age-normal at her last check up, a month ago, and last week she won the Princeton Seniors' Scrabble Tournament," House says. "You lose. Boring. Try to include all the symptoms on your next turn."
Foreman watches this mildly. He should probably be annoyed--House acts like he's entitled to everyone's time whenever he needs it, and drops them when he's done. But he did interrupt Dr. Lee's apparently never-ending monologue on the mis-use of expense accounts, and Foreman can't help sifting through the patient's symptoms to find some commonality. Singh is an idiot; of course House wouldn't have mentioned the neurological symptoms if they were long-term, and with the abdominal pain.... "Hyperparathyroidism," he suggests.
"Wrong!" House says, pointing the whiteboard marker at him. "Hormone tests showed no abnormalities, and the calcium level is nominal. But--not moronic. Consolation prize is an all-expenses paid trip to Diagnostics." He turns to Dr. Lee. "I'll take this one," he says, waving the marker in Foreman's face. "Apply to Cuddy for compensation. Let's go, Foreman."
Foreman sits back in his seat and watches House fondly. "You're an asshole, House."
"Convenient that you love me anyway," House says, fluttering his eyelashes.
It's a nice threat: no one believes a word that House says, of course, but it'll be harder for Foreman to distract his colleagues if House goes for a kiss. Foreman doesn't mind being outed, but he'd rather keep whatever dignity he's managed to earn at Princeton-Plainsboro, which won't be much if the hospital learns he's--sort of--House's boyfriend. They'll probably know soon enough, anyway, but Foreman rolls his eyes, grabs his briefcase, and stands up. "It's convenient that your case is interesting."
"That," House says, "is also true." He holds the door for Foreman, playing the gentleman. His eyes plead, "It was an accident," when he knocks Foreman in the shin with his cane as he lets the door close.
Foreman glares and gives House's cane a kick, just before his weight comes down on it. House stumbles, but Foreman timed it well enough that he recovers quickly. "This is abuse," House mutters, but Foreman ignores him and walks ahead, already thinking through the symptoms that House left tattooed the Neurology Department wall. "Have you tested for Cushing's?" he asks, turning back.
House stops. His face goes blank and his eyes are far away. "Huh," he says. "Interesting. Probably completely wrong, but--"
"I'll let you blow me later," Foreman offers, satisfied, and follows House to Diagnostics.
It's a damn good thing that Foreman has no intention of giving up his apartment.
It's not as convenient to the hospital as House's place, or as big, but it's about the one place where Foreman can slam the door shut in House's face and not expect him to break in three minutes later with a smirk and a smart remark. It's still about as bare as when he moved back to Princeton, and he hasn't had time to bother making it feel like his. He's been working crazy shifts and crashing at House's when he just doesn't care any more and needs to sleep.
House wakes him up by poking him with his cane or blasting the stereo next to his ear or dropping ice-cold sopping wet washcloths on his stomach. There's enough room for them to pretend the other doesn't exist while Foreman showers and makes himself something to eat. He doesn't share. Food isn't safe around House--he learned that lesson early on. House always refuses to drive to the hospital with him, even when his leg is acting up and he knows the motorcycle will only make it worse, but Foreman doesn't need to hear the bitching or the comments about his radio stations--NPR and all-talk news--so he shrugs and leaves House behind. At work, House ignores him until he needs him, or he's on the run from Cuddy, or he's bored; which means that there will come at least one moment every day when Foreman finds himself in an impossible situation that he has to explain or yell or kiss his way out of.
And when he'd rather punch House in the face than spend one more minute looking at him, he goes home. He thinks about decorating, or getting furniture that matches, or adopting a dog that will wag its tail when it sees him, and he laughs at himself before picking up the latest issue of JAMA. He can read in silence, without interruptions, and watch an episode of Numb3rs without House solving the mystery first and wrestling him for the remote. He goes to bed and links his fingers behind his head and stares into the dark for a long time before he falls asleep. The next morning, he wanders into Diagnostics for a cup of Cameron's coffee and stays for the latest differential. Afterwards, House says, "Monster trucks are on tonight," and Foreman says, "I hate monster trucks," and House looks at him like he's a moron and Foreman laughs and says, "I'm not watching monster trucks with you, House," but he goes over anyway, and they end up fucking on the couch in front of the stupid goddamn trucks.
Other times, House looks up at him as if he's noticed for the first time that Foreman's in his apartment and says, "What are you doing here? Go away." Foreman might show up after work and find the door locked and the spare key gone, or he arrives and sees Wilson's car parked out front. He knows better than to even bother, on those nights. So he goes home; and he thinks about Marty, and California where it's warm instead of this freezing-rain winter; and he finds himself dialing his parents' number on his cell.
"Hey," he says, after his dad's rough hello. "It's me."
"I know I haven't been to visit," he says. "It's been hectic, Dad, that's all." His father's voice over the phone is as close and real as when he closed his eyes to listen to grace every night at dinner, his mother's hand in his on one side and Marcus's on the other. He strains to hear his mother in the background, but when her voice comes, she's never saying, Eric? Is that Eric calling? Give me the phone, I need to speak to my son! Her voice wavers, barely there, and then Foreman says, "Yeah, of course, I'll--I'll visit, Dad, I'll be there."
"No," he says next, "I won't be bringing anyone," and a pause before he adds, "Yes. I am, he's--"
"No, Dad," he says, and, "I'm careful," and "I work with him. Sometimes."
He listens again. The apartment is dark and silent around him. Then: "I know. I love you too, Dad."
And, finally:
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think I'm going to stay."
end