wooedforyears | 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.

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Foreman's confident response nearly stopped House mid-step. I know. House barely had the time to struggle with the thoughts and images invading his mind as that tone, and those words, sounded with a low echo in his ears. His imagination leaped to the memory of Foreman pushing him onto the bed, Foreman's hand gripping his arm, his whole body forcing him down, and--fuck--House felt the desire to do it all over again. Jesus. With an unblinking stare in Foreman's direction, communicating clearly that he understood exactly what Foreman meant, unable to disguise the surprise on his face, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

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.

Foreman didn't pay much attention to the ideas the fellows threw out, as if they were lobbing darts and hoping something would hit the target. He was paying too much attention to House and his...guest. Foreman was still thinking about the open, wide-eyed expression on House's face when Foreman had flat-out told him that he was in charge. It ignited a warm feeling at the pit of his stomach, pride and satisfaction and arousal. Yeah, when Foreman caught House off-guard, when that startled, uncertain look came into House's eyes...Christ, that worked for him more than it probably should.

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.

November 10, 2007

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