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wooedforyears2008-12-01 06:27 pm
foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com) wrote in wooedforyears2008-12-01 06:27 pm
November 10, 2007
Foreman paused before the doors of the clinic and took a deep breath. He had no idea what to expect when he walked in. The whole nursing staff might be lined up to gape at him incredulously, or worse, there would be nothing but carefully blank expressions and little sideways stares, and whispers that would follow him up to the fourth floor. Even if no one looked, Foreman knew he'd feel their eyes on him anyway. House could have gone through Chase and started a pool, or simply let the wrong word fall too loudly in the wrong ear. Or he might have done nothing. Foreman wouldn't put it past House to have told everyone or no one that they'd had sex. He hoped like hell that House had decided that his privacy was reason enough to respect Foreman's. If it came to a battle of wills over who'd blurt out the most embarrassing parts of the weekend, Foreman knew that House had the advantage of not caring in the least what anybody else thought of him, that fucker. Foreman had arrived early, but that was never any guarantee, not when House felt he had some juicy news to spread. Tightening his shoulders, he walked through the clinic, glaring straight ahead and not pausing until he made it to the elevators.
After House had walked out on him, Foreman had thrown himself back into bed--it had still been five in the fucking morning on a Sunday--but House's restlessness seemed to have infected him, because he tossed and turned and was completely unable to get back to sleep. Every time he thought he'd managed to excise House from his mind, the bastard popped back up, and Foreman was furious all over again. He refused to touch himself--he wasn't going to give House that satisfaction. He knew it was irrational, that House would never know if he'd jerked off or not. But Foreman wasn't interested in replaying the sex. Not in his mind; not at all. He wasn't going to think of it.
Finally getting up, still exhausted, he'd turned off his cell phone and taken his landline off the hook, locked the chain on the door, and spent the rest of the day glaring at the television and not taking in a single minute of it. He wouldn't have put it past House to break in all over again, although he couldn't imagine for what purpose--he'd already done a hell of a good job already at humiliating Foreman. What more could he possibly want?
When Foreman finally went back to the office, it was only to make sure that House hadn't had time to do even more damage than he'd first thought. There were papers everywhere--House wouldn't know organization if it punched him in the fucking face--but from what Foreman could tell, he hadn't spammed Foreman's entire contact list with penis-enlargement emails, or even answered any of Foreman's reference requests pretending to be him and destroying whatever goodwill Foreman had left. Foreman ignored his inbox, even though several people, Cuddy and Hamilton among them, had answered him.
He'd stayed up too late again Sunday night, and woke up with gritty eyes and a tension headache. He'd taken care dressing, wearing his charcoal suit, even as he told himself that trying to prove to House that he was missing something was the most infantile revenge tactic he could think of.
Foreman breathed a tiny bit easier to find Diagnostics dark when he got off the elevator. After turning on the lights, he hung up his jacket and started a pot of coffee, then opened the Financial Post and determinedly lost himself in tracing his portfolio back over the last quarter. They didn't have a patient; he only had to be present from eight to five; House could play his little head games on the idiots who'd signed up to work for him as if medicine was a brainless reality show; and Foreman was going to sit through it all and not say one word. He was not going to react to House. He wasn't going to even fucking acknowledge him.
Let the day of hell begin.
After House had walked out on him, Foreman had thrown himself back into bed--it had still been five in the fucking morning on a Sunday--but House's restlessness seemed to have infected him, because he tossed and turned and was completely unable to get back to sleep. Every time he thought he'd managed to excise House from his mind, the bastard popped back up, and Foreman was furious all over again. He refused to touch himself--he wasn't going to give House that satisfaction. He knew it was irrational, that House would never know if he'd jerked off or not. But Foreman wasn't interested in replaying the sex. Not in his mind; not at all. He wasn't going to think of it.
Finally getting up, still exhausted, he'd turned off his cell phone and taken his landline off the hook, locked the chain on the door, and spent the rest of the day glaring at the television and not taking in a single minute of it. He wouldn't have put it past House to break in all over again, although he couldn't imagine for what purpose--he'd already done a hell of a good job already at humiliating Foreman. What more could he possibly want?
When Foreman finally went back to the office, it was only to make sure that House hadn't had time to do even more damage than he'd first thought. There were papers everywhere--House wouldn't know organization if it punched him in the fucking face--but from what Foreman could tell, he hadn't spammed Foreman's entire contact list with penis-enlargement emails, or even answered any of Foreman's reference requests pretending to be him and destroying whatever goodwill Foreman had left. Foreman ignored his inbox, even though several people, Cuddy and Hamilton among them, had answered him.
He'd stayed up too late again Sunday night, and woke up with gritty eyes and a tension headache. He'd taken care dressing, wearing his charcoal suit, even as he told himself that trying to prove to House that he was missing something was the most infantile revenge tactic he could think of.
Foreman breathed a tiny bit easier to find Diagnostics dark when he got off the elevator. After turning on the lights, he hung up his jacket and started a pot of coffee, then opened the Financial Post and determinedly lost himself in tracing his portfolio back over the last quarter. They didn't have a patient; he only had to be present from eight to five; House could play his little head games on the idiots who'd signed up to work for him as if medicine was a brainless reality show; and Foreman was going to sit through it all and not say one word. He was not going to react to House. He wasn't going to even fucking acknowledge him.
Let the day of hell begin.
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After sleeping fitfully for a few hours overnight, into Monday morning, House had found himself up earlier than usual. He'd glanced at the alarm clock--just past four o'clock in the morning--and his brain had taken the opportunity to remind him of what he'd been doing, where he'd been, twenty four hours ago. He'd curled his hands in his hair, groaned to himself, and threw himself out of bed, determined to scrub the memory from his mind with mundane activities--sorting his laundry, watching early-morning TV, showering. Stupid shit, anything to keep his mind off of the previous night, of Foreman, of the fact that his ass was a little sore because of--No. No. He'd stopped himself from going there, thinking of that, several times. He'd driven his motorcycle to work, concentrating on the biting chill in the air that crept under his helmet and made his eyes water. Once he'd stepped through the door, he'd been sure to adopt his usual demeanor--aloof, distant--and he'd blustered into his office, dumped his backpack beside his chair, then walked out again without ever turning on the lights.
He wasn't worried about Foreman talking; Foreman was too concerned about himself, what everyone else would have to say about him. House was slightly concerned about what Foreman might say to him in private, or how he might try to undermine him, but House was ready to push back if Foreman made a move like that. House was relieved that Foreman wasn't around at the moment, that he wasn't forced to deal with him yet. He'd rather just avoid him, at least until he could get all of the past couple days out of his head, distract himself with something else. If House hadn't wanted to forget about the entire encounter so badly, he would have made an effort to humiliate Foreman in front of the remaining candidates. Of course, if Thirteen paved the way for an opportunity, maybe let something slip, House wouldn't be able to resist the chance to embarrass the both of them, but he doubted any kind of opportunity would open up for him. He would open one for himself, but, right now, all he really wanted to do was avoid the entire subject. It was easier to deal with anything if he pretended it just didn't exist.
After stealing Wilson's lunch for his own breakfast--a nice way to establish normalcy to start his day--he pow-wowed with Cuddy about a number of possible cases. A case would be useful; it would be a good distraction. When he got to the lecture hall, he found all of his eager candidates waiting, and was intrigued to find Foreman absent. He wondered if Foreman had went ahead and quit, had already gotten a job offer with someone else. Or maybe Foreman was avoiding him, which wouldn't make sense, if he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. His absence wouldn't go unnoticed by any of his potential fellows. And, even though he'd rather it if Foreman stayed the hell away, he found himself curious about where he actually was.
House paused inside the doorway and scanned the seats of the lecture hall before he said, as casually as possible, "Any of you seen your babysitter lately?"
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Carrying his book and coffee, Foreman headed for the elevators. The more props he took with him, the better chance he had of ignoring House. He stopped before the lecture hall's doors, steeling himself, and then pushed the handle forcefully, enough to give a confident-sounding thunk as the door opened.
He glanced at the candidates as he entered, all of them sprawling to one degree or another into desks too small to hold them. He met House's eyes briefly, thought about saying "Good morning," even more briefly, and settled for crossing the front of the room to the desk, where there was a stack of charts waiting. House looked wrinkled and unrested, not that that was a huge difference from usual, but Foreman felt a stab of satisfaction anyway. He set his shoulders, trying to look as professional as possible. There hadn't been any murmurs as he came in, and no one seemed particularly interested that he'd arrived. So far, so good. Focus on the medicine; that's all he needed to do. He set down his coffee and started paging through the various presenting symptoms.
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He kept his own gaze focused on Foreman as he followed Foreman's path towards the desk, his eyes taking in the smooth, unwrinkled fabric of Foreman's shirt, a tie that matched so perfectly House would have sworn Foreman bought them as a set, and an equally neat and unwrinkled suit, and House struggled not to admire, to think about what was under all of those expensive designer clothes. Foreman looked as put-together as ever, too put-together, too collected. As much as House wanted to forget about everything that transpired over the last couple days, his curiosity was pulling at him. Foreman's professionalism wasn't unusual--Foreman usually tried harder than most to come off looking good and authoritative, especially lately--but House could detect more distance from Foreman than usual, as if Foreman was trying to be as distant and professional as possible. Avoid. Foreman wanted to avoid him, because he had been thinking about the weekend. House knew he wasn't imagining it, but he felt compelled to test it, know for sure if Foreman was keeping this quiet because he wanted to avoid any mention of the weekend, anything to do with him.
Forcing himself to look away, set Wilson's-lunch-but-soon-to-be-his-breakfast on the desk, and crept behind it to Foreman, House's eyes focused on the stack of files he'd placed there when he'd arrived. He could practically feel Foreman's aloofness as he stepped closer, stealing the files out his hands. House only knew one way to test his theory, and if it produced results, he was willing to risk exposing his own part in what happened over the weekend, especially if it got a significant rise out of Foreman, either now or later.
"Okay, everyone gets a file," House said, tucking the folders against his arm. He moved across the room to Thirteen, extending a file in her direction. When she reached for it, he raised it up and away from her and, with a staged, falsely-friendly smile, said, "But first, let's all share what we did over the weekend with the class. Doesn't that sound like fun? Get to know each other a little better as colleagues."
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He watched as House stalked away, carrying the files, wishing he could simply banish the last seventy-two hours from his memory. Whatever he'd felt for House hadn't started out serious. It had never been serious. Just idle speculation. The idea that, in his mind, he could make House do exactly what he wanted, could make up for all of House's stupid shit by having him obey every word Foreman said, was too hot to let go of entirely. He'd let it grow, let it take hold. Foreman swallowed and glared at House's back. The fact that it wasn't just some stupid fantasy, that he could have House at his mercy, that he had, only made it worse. He knew that every time House started spouting off one of his theories, Foreman would only have to look at him to remember the look on his face when he'd come, and he'd lose track entirely of what House was saying. With House probably ready to jump on every mistake, that would destroy his reputation faster than killing a patient would.
Instead of handing Thirteen the file, though, House swiped it away from her grasp at the last second and asked about her weekend.
Bastard. Foreman nearly rose right up out of his seat, but restrained himself at the last second. "House--" he started, but House was staring at Thirteen, waiting for some reaction. Obviously he was referring to her date, not to anything that had happened between them. Foreman clamped his mouth shut. Except that he'd just given himself away, too; Brennan glanced at him, and Taub raised an eyebrow. Volakis looked like she was trying to figure out what kind of trick House was playing and what the right answer was.
"If we're talking about our weekends, I saw a kickass movie on Saturday," Kutner piped up. "The effects were so cool--"
"We're not," Foreman said, throwing a sharp look House's way, hating himself for rolling over and reacting to the slightest provocation. But he wasn't going to just sit back while House dangled Saturday night over his head. "I know it may not seem like it, but we're actually here to treat patients."
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House nearly threw a folder at Kutner for opening his mouth, eagerly sharing the details of his weekend--if the file took off his head, it wouldn't be the biggest loss, House thought. But he couldn't tell Kutner to shut up without giving himself away, so he silently grumbled to himself, cursing Kutner for killing his brilliant set-up. He never thought that Foreman would stop Kutner--Kutner had nothing to tell that would remotely relate to him, unless Kutner fucked a colleague for the first time over the weekend, too, in which case House was very, very interested--but Foreman surprised him by speaking again.
Twisting around to look at Foreman, he caught the fleeting expression on Foreman's face and felt even more satisfied. He'd not only provoked Foreman, but Foreman knew it, just a few seconds too late. Turning back to Thirteen, dangling the file above her, he couldn't resist pushing a little more, wondering how much Foreman really wanted to avoid any mention of it, any hint of what had happened. "True, but how are we supposed to work as a team if we don't know each other," House said, falsely sincere, and glanced over his shoulder at Foreman, "right, Foreman?"
He extended the file back toward Thirteen, ready to pull it away again if she reached for it. "So about your weekend. Make any new friends?"
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Thirteen barely glanced up at the folder House was waving above her face. Good for her. Foreman waited for the other shoe to drop, for the realization to cross her face when she figured out that House knew too much to just be making shots in the dark. He felt an urge to rescue her; she might have signed up for this, but she didn't deserve House's ridicule any more than Foreman did. The sooner they moved off this topic, the better. None of the cases in the stack House was carrying could possibly be interesting in the least, if House was this willing to play games rather than get to the differential--the heatstroke might actually be the best of the bunch. Foreman glanced away, then back at House, debating just how dangerous he wanted to make this game. The only way to make House shut the hell up was to call his bluff, and Foreman had no idea if he was actually bluffing. After House had walked out on him, though, not even responding to Foreman's accusation that he was too chickenshit to deal with what he'd done...yeah, Foreman had the idea that House wouldn't care to have the tables turned on him.
"You don't have to answer that, you know." Foreman raised an eyebrow at Thirteen, who so far had done a better job than he had at staying inscrutable. Practice, he supposed--practice that he was going to be getting plenty of in the next little while. "They're not that stupid, House," he added, keeping a cap on his irritation and making his voice as bland as he could. "They might learn that you're not the only one who can ask personal questions." He paused, and put on his own version of House's stupid 'innocent' look, pretending to be suddenly struck with confusion. "Like...how did you spend your weekend?"
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House could practically hear the dare behind Foreman's words, and his mind burned with Foreman's parting words before he had stepped out of Foreman's apartment--You're a coward. He figured Foreman was playing a game of chicken, that he was banking on him not going through with his veiled threat to expose exactly what he had done on Saturday. He was tempted to leap straight to the juicier parts of the story before Foreman could interrupt, blurt it all out in a rush and not give a damn what the rest of them thought about it. It would be more dramatic, but it would rob him of any chance he had to really fuck with Foreman's head. Plus, if he deflected and offered no answer about himself at all, it could raise suspicions and turn the focus onto him. He didn't give a shit about what they assumed about him, but he'd rather keep Foreman on the hot seat, not himself, which left him with the options of being crudely honest about himself--a move seldom believed--or lie before moving on to Foreman's weekend. They would all probably brush off the lie as quickly as they brushed off the honesty. Foreman's reaction was tougher to call, but House doubted Foreman would push too far, mar his own image so willingly. Foreman cared a hell of a lot more about what his colleagues thought of him, and House would be extremely surprised if Foreman kept pushing here, but he anticipated an interesting show-down the next time he and Foreman had a room to themselves.
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House turned to head back toward the desk, meeting Foreman's eyes directly as he lowered his voice to a serious tone. "Not nearly as exciting as your weekend. Word at the nurse's station is that, after you spent an afternoon breaking into a colleague's apartment, you brought a dude to yours. Next time, save yourself a run on the rumor mill and kiss in private."
He stared at Foreman, knowing he'd stepped too far over Foreman's personal boundary, but Foreman had pushed. He shouldn't push if he wasn't prepared to get pushed back. Of course, Foreman could do the same thing, but House had a feeling Foreman would want to keep as much of his personal life private as he could, not to mention that sabotage was a move too low Foreman; House suspected that Foreman would think he was above humiliating someone in public, too good to stoop to that, even if it was about him.
With a small grin, House set his cane on the desk and took a seat, pulling the lunch container closer to him. He figured it wouldn't hurt to dangle an out in front of Foreman; it would still confirm his theory if Foreman took advantage of it. "But Foreman's right," he said. "We're here to treat patients." He nodded toward the candidates, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "So what do you got?"
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House's dig about the sex being sub-par didn't even touch him. Knowing how the night had actually gone down did a lot to insulate him against being insulted. And if House needed proof of exactly just how easy he'd been, then Foreman would be all too happy to get him alone and deliver a reminder. The scenario popped up immediately: Foreman would get House behind a locked door and slide to his knees, opening House's jeans and then pinning his hips back to a wall while Foreman sucked him, lingering and slow. Making House stand the entire time, leaning back against a wall and clutching his cane for balance while Foreman brought him to the edge and left him hanging for as long as he wanted. Foreman raised an ironic eyebrow, letting his self-satisfaction show. If House wanted to play with the truth, then he should pick on the details that might actually hurt. Whether or not the sex had been good wasn't even in the ballpark.
Foreman kept control of his reaction when House actually followed through on a threat and said--quietly, but loud enough for the whole room to hear--that Foreman had slept with a man, even if he left out the crucial detail of who that man was. Foreman felt suddenly frozen, his stomach clenching, but he didn't let his expression change from amused disdain. He managed not to look around House to see how the fellows were reacting. They had to be catching the by-play, but their curiosity didn't bother him as much as House's remark about the nurses. If House had told the nurses, then it was already too late for damage control. If he hadn't yet, then Foreman didn't think he would. House was having fun dropping hints so that he could screw with Foreman's head, but he certainly wasn't putting himself in the line of fire. Foreman glared just a little harder, and thought about how easy--how freeing--it would be to say, Right, and was that a woman who picked you up at the bar. Tell me another one. Once it was out, he'd never be able to take it back, but House wouldn't be able to hold it over him, either.
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Foreman sat back, crossing his arms, when House moved off towards his food and seemed so suddenly interested in patient care. Foreman was just fine with moving on; that was supposed to be his job, to keep House on track. He'd been failing dismally so far. He hoped the cases House had gathered actually had something to recommend them.
"Uh--I got a forty-year-old male, apnea, joint pain, and writhing spasms," Kutner said, reading from his chart, sounding particularly impressed by the last symptom. Foreman shook his head. Probably rheumatic fever. Where the hell had House gotten these cases from? He'd order penicillin and bedrest: even the treatment was boring.
"Was this the best you could do?" he muttered, mainly for House's ears. "What happened to ducking work until Cuddy hunted you down?" He opened his book, prepared to ignore the rest of the differential. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were distracted."
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House volleyed Foreman's cool comment with an amused tone. "Just wait until all of the male nurses start harassing you. I want front row seats for that."
When Kutner started relaying the information in his file, House's eyes widened at the image of 'writhing spasms', his mind recalling the way Foreman looked when he came above him. The helpless jerk of Foreman's body. The tension easing out of his face, jaw slackening and eyes closing before his head dropped down to the curve of his neck. Hot, humid puffs of air against his skin. The heavy press of him as his orgasm faded. God. He'd been struggling to get those images out of his head for the last day and a half, and the fact that a symptom triggered them was fucking ridiculous. House bowed his head, just in case he was giving anything away--he wasn't sure what, if anything--and shook it as if he could clear his thoughts with a physical action if not by force of will.
Foreman's voice gave him something to focus on, although House couldn't decide if it was a suitable distraction. No, he decided. It wasn't. Fuck. "You want me to get more explicit?" House said, turning his head to look at Foreman, who was studying the book in front of him. "I can."
House wasn't interested in gaining the fellows' attention or inviting them to eavesdrop, and he interrupted Kutner--it wasn't the case he was remotely interested in. "Not nearly as impressive as you'd like to think. Next!"
When Cole began to list another set of symptoms--headaches, hearing loss, seizures--House gave Foreman a sideways glance and continued. "Never thought you'd be this cranky if I decided to make your job completely obsolete. Cuddy has no use for you, and you're free to bolt off to California. Or wherever. That's what you want anyway, right?"
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House did seem distracted. Maybe it was the sheer boring emanating from Kutner's recitation of symptoms. Out of the corner of his eye, Foreman caught House's frown when he looked down, the tightening of his lips. And there was the slightest hint of a flush warming his ears. Not enough that the fellows would notice. Foreman barely did, except that he was looking for it. He turned back to his book, wondering what it meant, what House was thinking about. There was no way he should be this concerned in whether House was having regrets. If House's last two days had been anything like his.
He got his answer when House completely missed the point of his question. Foreman wanted to know why they were being saddled with the dullest cases he could remember in three years, and House was dwelling on everything explicit they'd done. That would explain the distraction, the reddening of House's ears. Foreman swallowed and stared down at his book, none of the words making sense. "Don't bother," he said, aiming for indifferent. He had enough trouble keeping his mind on the job. He didn't need to think about the slow hitch in House's movement when he eased his way down to his knees, the clutch of House's hands on his ass when Foreman forced his cock deeper into his mouth. Fuck. If House was having the same problem concentrating, then... There was no then. Once should have been enough to teach Foreman his damn lesson about inviting House into his life. House could damn well suffer through his own blue balls. Foreman tried to listen to Cole, but the case sounded like simple barotrauma. He needed something more interesting than that to occupy him.
"You think because I'm cranky, you're driving me away?" Foreman asked, matching House's quiet tone and keeping his gaze straight ahead. He still hadn't replied to Marty, although it seemed from his email that he might actually have a position for Foreman. Foreman didn't know if it was stubbornness or a feeling that things weren't going to improve for him no matter where he went that kept him from answering. It sure as hell wasn't House.
Taub was frankly watching him--probably wondering if he'd turn out like Foreman, if he got the job--and Volakis' eyes were narrowed as she tried to read the subtext between them. Foreman snorted. If House did start laying bets, Foreman wouldn't mind putting some money on their reactions. "I'm not that easy to chase off," he said. Unlike you. "Do you have any patients that the ER doctors couldn't diagnose with their eyes shut?"
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House actually wasn't sure what he meant by 'this'. He didn't really want to think about it, and he figured Foreman wouldn't either, which was the only reason why he mentioned it. Foreman could assign whatever meaning to 'this' that he liked.
He listened to the fellows continue to recite list of symptoms, shooting down patient after patient, already knowing which case he planned to take--the race car driver's. At that second, House couldn't imagine a better distraction than a some time behind the wheel of a race car. The prospect sounded as justified a reason as any to take a case--none of them were very interesting otherwise. At least one of their potential patients had an interesting profession.
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Feeling contrary, Foreman shot down House's shooting down of the rest of the cases the fellows were presenting. Foreman would probably have to find some time later today for all six patients to get treatment; if House had accepted them, that meant they were signed in to Diagnostics. At least they'd be simple enough, and there were more than enough fellows with too much time on their hands to run the tests and monitor treatments. Foreman had figured out which case House wanted before he even got to it. "You don't care about any of these patients," he said, feeling like he was speaking from far too much personal experience. "All you care about is which one's going to be the most fun to mess with. You'll probably take the girl with heatstroke just so you can make jokes about women drivers."
Foreman smirked a bit at his ability to predict House's reactions. He'd had enough practice at it professionally, and he was beginning to get an insider's look to just how obstinate House was personally, too. If he pushed, House pushed back; if he pushed too far, House rolled over and loved it. Foreman was most uneasy about the fact that he kind of wanted to find out exactly where that line was drawn. "There's nothing wrong with her that IV fluids won't cure."
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It also didn't surprise him that Foreman began shooting down all of his rejections or, at least, his justifications for his rejections, as if he knew him. He felt tempted to tell Foreman that his insights hardly scratched the surface of all of his impressively complicated layers, that Foreman would have to spend more time with him to discover what really made him tick. He might have if Foreman, in this case, wasn't actually right. Foreman's reasons weren't right, though, which gave House a small spark of satisfaction, and he corrected Foreman, explaining the draw of a thank-you-in-race-car-form, purposefully leaving out any direct refute about his heatstroke theory. When House had initially glanced over the file, heatstroke was the first diagnosis that came to mind, and he figured that, all race car rewards aside, it would be interesting to see if the new bunch could think in simple terms as well as complex ones. He would possibly get to escape home early if the fellows were fast enough about it.
He was contemplating on ways to spend his evening--possibly drunk, sprawled on his couch, not jerking off, and not thinking of Foreman--when a guy walked into the lecture hall. House searched his brain in a hurry, trying to think of patients, parents of patients, any of the guys he'd ever slept with, any of the guys he now suspected Foreman might have slept with. Nobody came to mind. When the guy addressed him, he stalled for time, but felt all at once intrigued and wary that this guy apparently came armed with an enlarged copy of his drivers license photograph.
He glanced at Foreman, silently trying to determine if he'd had anything to do with this, if this was even for real. If it wasn't for real, there was always the possibility that Foreman had arranged for a male stripper to show up just to see how he'd react. No. Wasn't quite Foreman's style, but it would be fun to play along with that idea, to mess with either Foreman or the fellows.
As he stood from his seat, he instructed the fellows to arrive at a number of brilliant diagnoses by the time he returned. Despite all the attention he'd placed on Foreman so far, House still wanted to execute his test of the fellows, but he didn't have much confidence that they'd focus while he was meeting with whoever this suit was in the hallway. Foreman would be the best choice to get shit done. Besides, once they were alone with him, they might hit him with personal questions. So, hoping that the fellows would rip into him once he left, he turned and pointed at Foreman. "You're in charge."
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Now, he wasn't so sure. If he let his career define him, then he was going to end up disappointed--already had. Getting fired wasn't nearly as bad as nearly dying, but it did make him want to reevaluate his life. Was that all he was to House? A foil? Someone to spar with? If House's increasingly pointed and personal questions actually meant anything, Foreman might think that no, there really was more there. And he was curious. Damn House, but he'd done this to Foreman, made him question everyone's motivations, made him wonder. If Foreman turned those skills on House, House would have no one to blame but himself.
The door at the top of the lecture theatre opened, interrupting his thoughts. A man in a suit walked in, asking for House. Foreman eyed the man suspiciously, before turning to House with his eyebrows raised. This didn't quite have the feeling of one of House's stunts--if Foreman expected anything along those lines, it would be a guy asking after him, not House--but the man looked mostly unconcerned with anyone's reactions, and House seemed just as bewildered as the rest of them. Foreman could imagine a dozen different reasons why a guy in a suit would be after House. He figured they'd all find out a minute after the 'private consultation' what the reason was; House was the sort who just couldn't resist sharing.
Foreman stifled a smirk when House tossed a casual you're in charge over his shoulder. He couldn't help that his mind jumped straight into the gutter. "I know," he said, perfectly assured that House would jump there too.
He cut off the fellows' speculations once House was out of the room. "Don't think we're just going to be treating 'speed racer girl'," he said, leaning lightly on the nickname House had already assigned her. "You'll each be the primary on the cases you presented, and you'll report to me before you jump to any conclusions that could get somebody killed."
Foreman glared down their grumbles. Brennan was puffed up over having the case House was actually interested in. Cole looked sulky, but the others mainly accepted Foreman's orders, although Volakis would probably try to ditch her work on one of the others if she could find a way to do it. But Foreman was enforcing his authority, and happy to do it. At least there'd be some proof for Cuddy that his job was necessary.
He glanced over at the closed door, catching a glimpse of the suited guy's back. Foreman couldn't quite tamp down his curiosity--he wanted to know what the hell House was up to. It wasn't his business, and he shouldn't care, but he did. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to say a word when House walked back into the hall. As soon as House had finished getting half a dozen possible different diagnoses for speed racer girl--all of them so remote as to be ridiculous--Kutner immediately piped up, "So, do you, like, know this guy?"
no subject
With his thoughts still saturated with sex, House couldn't resist the urge to snap a few male stripper jokes in front of this guy, who claimed he was from the CIA. House didn't completely buy it, but if it meant going along with this--gag or not--would allow him to avoid Foreman for a while, he'd take advantage of it. If all he could think about were memories of the weekend, just because Foreman was six feet away, he might as well take his mind off of it as well as he could, concentrate on something that had the potential to be interesting. Definitely more interesting than heatstroke.
When he stepped back into the room, he listened to several possible diagnoses--all wrong--and to Foreman dismiss it as heatstroke again. He hardly had time to order several procedures, just to irritate Foreman and make all of them do pointless work for being stupid, before Kutner attacked him with a question. "Yeah," House drawled, setting his cane on the desk to pull his jacket off his chair, slipping it on. "I asked him for the scoop on Foreman's new boyfriend. Thought it would be more fun if he dished the goods under the guise of a CIA agent." He adjusted his jacket, then grabbed for his cane and followed Mr. CIA out of the lecture hall, not fully convinced he'd actually been selected for a trip to headquarters. As he opened the door to leave, he looked over his shoulder, his gaze settling on Foreman as he said, as ominously as he could, "My employees have no secrets from me."
He let the door close behind him, sure he'd be back to the lecture hall before the fellows even figured out it really was just heatstroke.
no subject
Which was why he was taken totally by surprise by House's remark. He wanted to say, "There is no boyfriend," but that kind of categorical denial would only prove it true as far as House's hand-picked underlings were concerned. "Just try and get back before General Hospital," he said, throwing House a disgusted look. Foreman had had plenty of secrets from House just three days ago. The fact that he didn't any longer had nothing to do with House hiring detectives, or hookers dressed up as CIA, or whoever that man actually was.
Foreman let out a short, irritated sigh when the doors closed behind House with no further acknowledgment. So he'd be stuck shepherding six newbies for as long as House felt he wanted to ditch work. Wasn't that just perfect. He supposed this is what he'd been hired for, but right now it only looked like House had ditched him (again, his mind sneered, with the memory of House's last, aborted handjob) in for six curious sets of eyes trained on him, and six eager beavers who were learning to be just as blunt and invasive as House.
Thanks, House, Foreman thought, shaking his head. But he'd do it. Not to prove anything to House, but just because he was qualified for this job. He could run the team as well as House could, especially when the patient had not one thing wrong with her. Thanks a lot.