wooedforyears | November 1, 2007

November 1, 2007

The Diagnostics conference room hadn't changed, but filling it with six eager, contentious doctors made it seem much smaller. Foreman couldn't imagine what had possibly brought them here. Did they think House's reputation as a doctor outweighed his reputation as the worst department head in the country to work for? Did they think there would be some sort of glory in playing the part of the man's lackey, without even knowing if they'd get the job? House was playing games again, dangling a future and a career in front of these people.

Foreman ignored their looks. They were here by their own choice. He wasn't going to warn them. He doubted any of them expected to get the rug pulled out from under them at the last minute. Even he'd been naive enough to assume that House wouldn't stop him from leaving. One sabotaged interview was all it took, and he knew that it wasn't going to be easy to escape Princeton-Plainsboro.

He'd still never expected to be back. He poured himself a coffee and glared around him, trying to put as much stand-offishness into his posture as he could. They knew he was Cuddy's spy. Nobody wanted to start a conversation.

That was fine with him. Foreman shook his head at himself, crossed his arms, and stared out the window. It was the same old balcony and the same old view. He'd never felt so trapped.

A minute later, House opened the door from his office. He stopped short and blinked at his six applicants--playthings--as if he'd never seen any of them before, and then started barking out orders.

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Great, he thought to himself. If this was how his new bright-eyed hopefuls were going to do their jobs, he'd be stuck with Foreman--just Foreman--until he could find slightly less moronic bright-eyed hopefuls. At least Foreman wasn't a moron. About most things. He really wouldn't have hired him in the first place if he didn't have the brains, but, Jesus, it was either someone with brains who, aside from direct orders, fought every single thing he said, or a bunch of puppets who were afraid to think for themselves. He'd rather Foreman, if those were his choices, because at least Foreman thought, and House needed the challenge. Foreman usually supplied, although it would be really fucking nice once in a while--when he was right, for instance--if Foreman shut it, watched and learned from the master. But, he reminded himself again, at least Foreman thought, even if there was only room enough for one enormous ego in the department. His.

In the elevator, House noticed CB glaring down Foreman before she turned her eyes to him. No shirking from him. He even smirked, just in hopes of pissing her off, when she spoke. He wasn't about to spout any more compliments about Foreman within his earshot. He'd already slipped up enough. "Nope," he said, falsely cheery. "Only if you quit." He paused. "Actually, probably not even then."

He ignored her, and Foreman, and hoofed it out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, heading for the patient's room.

Foreman chuckled when House tried to needle him about quitting again. He was right. House was going to harp on the same theme until Foreman didn't care anymore. The most annoying immunization ever, but an effective one.

Maybe it was true that House could only be bothered with people who'd tried to get away from him and then chosen to come back. He supposed he was proving House wrong on one count. House didn't trust people to stick around, but even House at his worst hadn't driven Foreman away entirely. It was a minor victory, but one he wouldn't mind rubbing in House's face, just by not letting up and arguing with him at every step.

24 didn't have time to answer back before the elevator doors opened. Foreman reviewed what he'd managed to read of the patient's chart. He was young, seventeen, admitted complaining of headache, blurry vision, and--the magic symptom that made the rest interesting--hearing loss. By the time they reached the room, two of the other candidates had arrived and had started working on the patient. They'd just managed to get the seizures under control.

Foreman stayed out of the action at first. The fellows were competent as a crash team--they'd have to be, working for House--and Foreman took the opportunity to observe what he could about the patient's condition. He already had a list of possible diagnoses ready...if House chose to ask him.

He'd missed the flurry of activity, he realized, as he walked into the room. He groaned inwardly. All that way and he didn't even get a show. If he'd known a flock of his do-gooders would appear to handle the situation, he would have spared himself the walk. He leaned against the wall opposite the patient's bed, shifting all his weight to his left and crossing his arms over his chest, watching.

He was still waiting on test results to confirm Lupus, but something felt off. It was moving too fast. As far as he knew, kidney function was good. No inflammation. It wasn't right, didn't fit well enough. With the seizures now under control--nothing more to see here--House pushed himself off the wall and, without a word, headed out the door.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Foreman hot on his heels. He stopped to press the 'up' button to call the elevator and waited for Foreman to catch up. "It's not Lupus."

"Is it ever?" Foreman asked, with a laugh, as he caught up to House, stuffing his hands thoughtfully in his pockets. "Did you notice his muscle tone? He could barely hold up his head."

That wasn't all he'd noticed, but what he was really following House for was another chance at the kid's file. "What kind of history did your new minions get?" he asked, feeling a hint of amusement that he wasn't on the hook for lab tests and talking with the family. "If he's had recent trouble in school, that could mean lack of attention. Not just from the hearing loss."

By the time they'd gotten back to the office, he was confident he'd worked out a diagnosis. It was a viable idea, anyway. "Lupus is a boring theory," he said, smirking at House's scowl. "Were you being nice to them? Letting them test for the first thing they thought of?"

One look at the whiteboard only confirmed what he'd thought so far. "It's Schilder's disease," he said, and held out his hand for House to give him the dry-erase marker.

When the elevator doors opened, House stepped inside, listening as Foreman rattled on about additional symptoms, alternate interpretations, wishing he'd get to his point. Sure, he'd noticed all of that, and he'd considered inattentiveness; he might not visit patients all that often, but he read their files.

House had had his own ideas about a diagnosis. Lately, he'd been doing a lot of "secret diagnosing", forming his own ideas while giving his candidates a test-run. In this case, Lupus had been an actual possibility, even though Foreman was right to call it boring, and he'd wanted to rule it out, but Schilder's had crossed his mind, and as the day had worn on, seemed like the most fitting diagnosis. He'd been wondering how long it would take Foreman (or anyone else) to suggest it.

"Testing them," he said, when Foreman asked if he was being nice to the new kids on the block. "And you, too. It's about time." He reached for the couple dry-erase markers on the board's tray--Foreman apparently wanted one--and slipped them into the pocket of his blazer. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your edge."

"So...what? You're going to let that kid suffer until somebody else figures it out?" Foreman considered the other explanation--that House might decide to rub Foreman's competence in the new fellows' faces. That was a compliment he didn't need. They'd certainly resent him, then, and that might make it all the more difficult for Foreman to try and earn their trust. Nobody would tell him about House's insane plans if they saw him as usurping their places. He wasn't part of House's game of elimination, and it would be best if he didn't look like he was begging for House's attention. On the other hand, the patient needed treatment, and Foreman wanted to show the candidates that he needed to be taken into account.

"I haven't lost my edge," he said, and then he frowned thoughtfully, entirely for effect, one hand stroking his goatee. He needed time to figure out how to treat the boy without getting in House's way. "On the other hand, it looks a lot like you're lost without me. What did you do while I was gone? Go running to Chase and Cameron for ideas?" No--even Chase and Cameron had more of a backbone between them than to let House use them like that after they'd left Diagnostics. That wouldn't stop House, though. Foreman smothered a grin, imagining the situation. "I bet you bounced your theories off the first person you could get to sit still--whether they had a clue what you were talking about or not."

He scoffed at Foreman's suggestion that he was 'lost' without him, crossing into his office to take a seat at his Eames chair in the corner. Sure, he worked best with a sounding board, someone--sometimes more than one someone, but one was usually enough--to bounce ideas off. It wasn't essential, though, that the 'someone' was Foreman. Not even close. There was no way he'd tell Foreman about his use of one of the hospital's janitors, and, besides, this wasn't about him. This was about Foreman.

House leaned back in his chair, propping both feet on the footrest. "Oh, wouldn't you love that? The whole department takes a spin down the toilet without Dr. Foreman's brilliance." House mirrored Foreman's gesture, and stroked his face thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes at Foreman. If Foreman wanted to push his buttons, he'd push back; Foreman should know that by now. "You know, now that I think of it, you're right, I've been so lost I've been trying to turn out Dr. Foreman clones. Hard to change their skin color, but Thirteen managed to kill a patient all by herself. Didn't even need to call you for a consult. She hasn't quite made it to your level, though. She hasn't quit yet."

Fuck. Every time he thought House couldn't reach him, Foreman found himself stepping right into another punch. He grit his teeth, but he just couldn't keep up that level of anger, as much as he was certain House wished he would. He felt stupidly desperate, instead, and he hated that feeling. House admired Cameron for helping Ezra Powell to die. And Thirteen, as far as Foreman knew, was still one of the candidates--House hadn't taunted her into needing to just get away, no matter what mistake she'd made.

Turning his back on House, Foreman picked up the tennis ball from the desk and tossed it to himself. The treatment for Schilder's was immunosuppressive therapy. He thought he'd laid Lupe's ghost to rest when he'd cured his patient at Mercy, but right now, he realized he didn't want to take the chance again. Maybe that was why he was back. He did still have something to learn--the courage of his convictions.

He placed the ball back in its dish on House's desk, leaning there for a moment. Then he turned around and crossed the office in two steps and leaned over House where he was lazing in his chair. He fished one of the whiteboard markers out of the pocket where House had stashed them, his knuckles brushing against House's side briefly. "Tell them," he said, holding up the marker as if he was using it the way House used his cane, to make a point and as a weapon at the same time, "that the only way to know what the patient has is to make him worse. Put him on immunosuppressants. See which ones tell you you're crazy and won't do it. See who guesses Schilder's when he gets better instead."

House freely let a smirk pull across his face as Foreman gritted his teeth, only vaguely disappointed when Foreman seemed to get a grip of himself--try, at least. He kept his eyes on Foreman, watching him turn and swipe his tennis ball, staying silent. It was too bad Foreman held his tongue and ignored House's bait; House was half-waiting for Foreman to explode with fury, hoping for it, but Foreman seemed to be thinking, not fuming. Too fucking bad. If Foreman thought that House didn't have the balls to push even harder--bug him, harass him, interfere with his job, his life--he was wrong.

He was about to dish out a few extra insults, opening his mouth when Foreman turned around. When Foreman leaned close, his hand diving into his pocket, House's mouth stayed open, and his lips moved, but no words made it out. House tried not to twitch as Foreman's hand brushed his side, and he made sure to wear a hardened expression when Foreman stood up and spoke.

Damn it. Sometimes he hated when Foreman had a good idea, even more when a grin tugged at his mouth before he could hide it. He liked the idea, damn it; he still got to mess with his new kids, even after the case was solved. Throw mind-fucking on the table, and Foreman knew he'd be hard pressed to refuse. "I'll gather the troops," he said, after a long pause. "Now get the hell out of my personal space and treat the damn kid." He made no move to stand up from his chair. He'd have a good fifteen minutes before the treatment was started and he had to show up in the lecture hall. "Or I might start to think you've got a thing for me."

Foreman answered House's grin with one of his own. He couldn't believe it had been that easy: he'd diverted House's attention from his own weak spots, he'd encouraged House to treat their patient, and he'd escaped being blamed by the candidates for coming up with a diagnosis they should have seen a mile away. He twirled the marker through his fingers. House wasn't the only one with manual dexterity. The manipulative bastard was obviously already on board with the idea of tormenting his playing pieces even further, though. House had tried to compose his face into his usual frown, but he'd already given himself away.

Foreman was already on his way out the door when House told him to start the treatment, but House's last words stopped him short. He rolled his eyes as expressively as he could to hide his hesitation. If the black jokes and the experimental pokes at Foreman's medical skills weren't getting through, then of course House would try a different tack. That's all it was. Four years, and House didn't have any clue about what he might actually make a legitimate joke about. Foreman was going to keep it that way.

The important thing was that their patient was going to get the treatment he needed. Foreman shook his head and laughed to himself as he paged the fellows to House's lecture hall. He probably shouldn't be...but he was already looking forward to the looks on their faces when House ripped into them.

It was a long way from his first first day in Diagnostics. Foreman knew that this time, at least, it wouldn't be boring.

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November 1, 2007

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