November 1, 2007

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.

Comments

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

"She doesn't have to believe it," he said, as if Foreman was some kind of moron. "All threats must be taken seriously. There's protocol. Police responses, paperwork." Cuddy's schedule will be thrown off course until the afternoon. She'll be frustrated long after the ordeal was over. Too bad he couldn't watch it all unfold. Well, he could, but Foreman would ruin his fun, he was sure.

His eyes followed Foreman's coffee mug as it rose to his lips. He could smell the coffee's aroma, and it made his mouth salivate. He had a cup earlier, but another would tip the discomfort in his bladder from 'tolerably full' to 'piss-his-pants-at-the-sound-of-dripping-water full', and he couldn't exactly make a sprint for the bathroom. Damn, he could use a cup, though. He tapped his cane on the carpet to expel some energy, then reached into his pocket, fishing for his bottle of Vicodin--if he couldn't have one drug, he'd have another. He opened the lid, tossed back a pill, and slipped the bottle back into his pocket, aware of Foreman's eyes on him. He took a smug pleasure in that knowledge, and didn't bother letting it show as he tipped his head down to look Foreman in the face.

He let the silence linger for a moment before answering Foreman's question. "I'm shocked you actually have to ask that question. Would've thought you'd be all over my business. That's your job, isn't it?"

His case, at the moment, was on hold, waiting for test results. Kutner and Taub would be back by the time results came in, and he was certain he'd be able to harass (or guilt, if he tried hard enough) into handling any crisis that arose in the meantime. He wasn't concerned. Not about that, anyway.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"Next time why don't you just pay a clinic patient to leave behind a suspicious-looking package," Foreman muttered. He didn't think House would actually go that far--probably because he'd rather not shell out any money in his attempts to rile Cuddy--and if he made the suggestion, then probably House would think it was below his dignity to actually follow through.

He held back his sigh when House downed a pill. It was no surprise that House wasn't about to share information. Foreman could shadow the fellows and ask them what tests they were running, but he'd only be wasting his authority and look incompetent in front of them. He wasn't going to go running to Cuddy, either. Normally--before--he might have asked Wilson to intervene, but that was just another cop out. House needed to know that Foreman wasn't going to take his bullshit.

He shoved back from the table, leaving his coffee, and headed for House's office. None of the files on his desk were recent, and Foreman knew better than to actually check the filing drawer in the credenza. The shelf below the television was empty. He opened the desk drawer and found a chart underneath a mortar and pestle and a half-solved puzzle made out of linked metal rings. Chart in hand, he stepped back into the conference room.

"Not too subtle, House," he said, waving the folder. "You're going to have to find a better hiding place. I already know all the old ones."

Taking his seat again, he opened the folder and started to read.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House watched Foreman stand and leave the room, guessing that he was headed to loot through his office for the patient's file. It wouldn't take him long, and House had no qualms about him finding it. He just figured he might as well take every opportunity he had in order to poke Foreman's buttons, even just a little. It was worth it for the entertainment value alone.

His fingertips tapped the table, and he thought again about pouring a cup of coffee, but his eyes fell on Foreman's abandoned mug, and he recognized another chance at button-pushing, not to mention urge-satisfying. He had few reservations when it came to personal boundaries, and, in his book, coffee was not off limits. Foreman would either notice or he wouldn't--he probably would; House hoped he would--and, if he noticed, he would either push it away with disgust, and House would happily enjoy the rest of it, or he'd finish it himself in an attempt to prove that House couldn't rattle him. Either way, House would get enough of what he wanted, always an important goal.

He reached for the mug, stealing a glance at his office door, and brought it to his lips. He closed his lips around the opposite side of the rim, filling his mouth with coffee, then set the mug back on the table. As he swallowed the mouthful, still enjoying the lingering warmth and flavor, he pushed the mug slightly to the left, nearer the edge of the table, curious to see what Foreman would do once he noticed. He schooled his expression into a typical one--nothing too innocent, or Foreman would suspect something amiss too fast--and propped his elbows on the table, leaning forward, as Foreman returned to the room.

"Not meant to be subtle," he replied, watching Foreman open the file. If he didn't know better, he'd think Foreman was doing his best to ignore him. He grinned to himself. "I'm betting you'd know the new ones, too. You know this place." He amped up the confidence in his voice, hoping to get a rise out of Foreman, even if he was wrong. "You like that you know it."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman set his jaw at House's words. He was right. For a second, just by showing House up in a tiny way, he'd forgotten that he was supposed to hate working here. He wasn't going to give House the satisfaction, though. He forced himself to think how ridiculous this was--he was acting like Chase; he'd actually had a brief thought of having the epiphany that would make House's eyebrows rise in surprised respect. He was not doing this for the praise--certainly not for House's praise--but it felt good to know, at least, that he was lightyears ahead of House's new fellows. He let out a short chuckle. "Yeah," he said, and turned pointedly back to the chart. "You're right."

Ignoring House felt like old times, and Foreman let his satisfaction show. The patient's history wasn't very exciting, but when he saw the presenting symptoms, his eyes widened. This was interesting. He'd had the chance to run all of one case with his own team at Mercy before he'd been dumped back into the job market. The glow of satisfaction that came from being right--from recognizing the pattern and seeing his treatment work--he enjoyed that, and he'd missed that, but he'd missed the mystery, too, and House's patient was a lot more mysterious than his had been. Foreman gave a thoughtful hmm and turned the page, reaching out for his coffee.

His hand swiped through thin air. He frowned briefly and looked up. His mug was on the opposite side of the table, on his right where he never would have set it, teetering on the edge. Foreman picked it up, and it was noticeably emptier than it had been. House watched him with his 'innocent' look plastered on, and Foreman rolled his eyes. His first thought was to dump the rest of the coffee down the sink: who knew what else House had done to it besides drink some? But if he wanted House to respect his food--yeah, right, his brain supplied--he'd just finish it himself and damn the consequences. Neither way would work, though; both would just encourage House.

"Sorry," he said, forcing himself to sound civil and succeeding about as much as House's innocence had. "I was away so long, I forgot you had problems getting around." He got up, filled House's favourite red mug at the coffee counter, and then set it in front of him. "Wouldn't want you to strain yourself." Raising an eyebrow, he held House's gaze while he finished his own coffee standing over him--thankfully, it still tasted the way it should.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House waited as Foreman continued browsing the file, unable to help the grin that surfaced when Foreman's hand searched for his coffee mug. It faded fast as Foreman spoke, and House narrowed his eyes at him.

Oh, that bastard. House clenched his jaw, glaring at Foreman as threateningly as he could as Foreman stood and walked towards the coffee counter. He refused to acknowledge that God damned patronizing remark any further, and he ignored the patronizing coffee that Foreman--the bastard, the little, cripple-patronizing bastard--set on the table for him.

For about five seconds. House made a show of peering into the coffee he had no intention of drinking and inhaled the steam. He'd heard Foreman rip open two packets of sugar, and he could see he'd left out the milk--exactly how House fixed his own coffee. House glanced up at Foreman. "Aw, Cuddy's watchdog plays fetch, too? Quick, get me the ball on my desk. We'll have some fun."

He didn't expect him to listen; he expected an eyebrow raise, some kind of dismissal, but it was still satisfying to get in a return shot. He waited for a moment, still ignoring his coffee, and said, "You're no better off now than you were before you quit." In fact, Foreman was probably worse off, after his stunt at Mercy. House knew the new kids had his number, and it was only a matter of time before they realized that he was no better than they were. "Whatever happened to 'saving lives' and 'not turning into me'? Because, I heard you pulled a move worthy of nobody but me. I knew you were trying to make a name for yourself, but I didn't think it would be mine."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

With the last of his patience, Foreman brushed off the 'fetch' remark, but he gripped his mug hard enough to make his knuckles hurt. He'd known going in that House would have a field day with the job he was doing for Cuddy. That was most of the reason he'd turned her down the first time. Soon enough House would find something or someone else to make fun of, and in the meantime Foreman was determined to let every insult slide right off him, even if they did make his chest tighten with anger.

But what House said next shattered every last piece of his resolve. He knocked his cup down on the table and clenched his fists even tighter. What had happened at Mercy wasn't his fault. He'd been right, goddamn it. And he'd given in to the temptation to work outside the chain of command. He'd been impatient--following protocol would've taken too long--and he wanted to prove himself, show that he was just as good.

Just as good as House. "I am not turning into you," he said. "I made a bad decision. There were consequences. I'm not getting a free pass."

That was real difference. It wasn't that he was House; it was that Dr. Schaeffer wasn't Dr. Cuddy. "Go ahead and laugh," he said. "You weren't happy just getting in my way. You ruin whatever you get your hands on." He shook his head. House might be a great doctor--if you didn't talk to his patients--but everything he'd taught them, that they were invincible as long as they got the answer right--was all just so many lies.

"I saved my patient's life," he said. "I took a chance. I should feel great that it was great, right? You told me that."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

Finally. A good rise. A real reaction. House leaned back in his chair as Foreman slammed down his mug and unleashed a little frustration. He jumped in when Foreman, predictably, insisted he wasn't turning into him. He was still clinging to some kind of delusional hope.

"Didn't say you were, but you want to, on some level," he said, absently stirring his coffee--his coffee that he still refused to touch. "Maybe not so evil." He struggled not to smirk satisfactorily, and let Foreman shout until, well, until he shut up.

"Exactly," he said, pointing at Foreman before dropping his hand back on the table. His grin was back; Foreman had gotten himself so worked up he'd contradicted himself. "You don't think it was a bad decision, and it wasn't. You should feel great, but you don't. Why? Because I could get away with it, and you couldn't?"

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"I want to be a good doctor without alienating everyone around me," Foreman snapped. He'd always been the best. All throughout med school, his internship, his residency. He wasn't Cameron--he wasn't lobby art. And he'd worked damn hard for it. It had always been a simple equation. Put in the hours, do the studying, go the extra mile, and get rewarded for it. Get impressed nods from his superiors and envy from his colleagues. The only time it wasn't like that was with House. No matter what he did, he wasn't good enough. Being right wasn't enough.

And when he'd left--landed himself exactly the job he'd trained for--being right still wasn't enough. Yeah, the problem was that House could get away with it. He was so intolerably smug, like nothing that happened could touch him.

Foreman had felt great. Proud. Right up until the moment Dr. Schaeffer told him he was fired. With a sigh, Foreman sat down again. He didn't feel like showing how badly he'd been defeated, but it seeped through. It wasn't a bad decision. Wonderful reassurance. "Thanks," he said tiredly. It sounded sarcastic, but who cared? House didn't deserve his sincerity. "And I suppose you're going to teach me how to get away with whatever the hell I want next time?"

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House watched Foreman speak, taking note of the frustration bubbling to the surface. It bothered him, everything that went down at Mercy. It shouldn't have, not this much. He'd made a good decision--he'd meant it when he told that to Foreman--and not just a good one, but the right one, but it wasn't enough for him.

When Foreman finally posed his snappy question, then fell silent, staring at him, House said, returning the shortness in Foreman's tone, "You were supposed to learn that for the last three years. Not my fault you didn't pay attention." He tapped his cane several times on the floor, looking down at it, then back up to Foreman. "Look, you got fired. Do you think good doctors--right doctors--can't get fired? It's not enough for you to be right. If it was, you wouldn't be this pissed about what happened."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, somehow I missed the lesson where you put anything else ahead of being right," Foreman said. He let out a frustrated breath. It didn't do any good to rehash his mistakes. This time around, he just wouldn't make the same ones. What he needed to take away was that he could do the medicine. He had the skills. And Princeton-Plainsboro still had the best Diagnostics department in the country. He was still at the top.

When House looked down at his cane before speaking again, Foreman pressed his lips together. It was usually a sign that House was about to be serious, and he was pretty sure he wasn't going to like what House had to say. And he was right. It amounted to life is unfair, which made him feel like a whiny kid. He didn't need to open up to House, even though he supposed that's what he'd been doing. It made him curious, though. "When did you get fired?" he asked. He expected a joke, but House often left a grain of truth in his jabs. He raised his eyebrow ironically. "And aren't you still pissed off?"

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

He knew that ploy, he thought as Foreman posed his questions. Turn the tables, force introspection on someone else, point out their hypocrisy, their flaws, and that ploy usually worked. Worked on Wilson, Cuddy, Cameron, most people, actually--at least, usually, it got whoever was poking him at the time to shut up, give him enough time to escape mid-interrogation--but he played that game, knew the moves, and he wasn't about to spill his personal history just so Foreman could feel better about himself.

House waved his hand dramatically as if to physically shoo away the suggestion, and smiled insincerely. "You know me, I'm a bright, resilient little ray of sunshine. Always see the positive. One door closes, another opens." He dropped the act, switching the focus back to Foreman before he could interrupt him with a response. "Except I never walked through the same door. You think you'll be any less miserable in a place if you waltz through the back door instead of the front?" He wondered how hard he'd have to push to make Foreman admit he really was miserable. Maybe making him quit--again--wasn't that unlikely a possibility.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman tilted his head skeptically, scoffing at House's wide-eyed protestations. He knew the man held grudges. He hadn't forgotten House dosing himself with nitro in order to provoke a migraine, just to disprove a study conducted by a guy he'd hated in med school. After all, Foreman had been the one making sure House didn't stroke out afterward. That hadn't been faked. He'd never seen anybody in so much pain act so self-satisfied. It had been almost...appealing. At least, as appealing as House could get, which usually meant drugged to the gills and focused on humiliating someone else for a change. Which was, maybe, part of the reason he was back. He could hate House's methods and still respect him. House would put himself through hell just for principle--even if it was a stupid principle.

He was about to say so--even if it would mean giving House a backhanded compliment--when one of the fellows burst in the door. Foreman realized in annoyance that he didn't know her name, because House was still calling everyone by their numbers. He'd have to get their files somehow and do some research of his own, find out what their strengths were, because he sure as hell didn't trust House to select the most competent doctors. He'd probably pick this one just because she was blonde.

"The patient's crashing," she said. "Started seizing twenty minutes ago, while some of us were at the dry-cleaner's."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

It seemed as if Foreman was about to respond, but House's attention shifted to the human tornado that burst through the door. 24. The cutthroat one, always had to be right, the best. When she spoke, House raised his eyebrows, unable to hide his surprise, and he pulled his pager from his belt to check for a message. Maybe he'd missed it, too distracted by his make-Foreman-admit-to-his-misery mission. After a glance at the display--no message--his eyes flickered back to Little Miss Cutthroat Pixie.

"And you decided to tell me just now?" he asked, annoyance clear in his voice. He waved his pager at her. "I don't carry this around for kicks. It actually works." He clipped it back onto his belt before levering himself out of his chair. "Oh, but I get it. You wanted to prove you could do it on your own, prove you're a big girl doctor. Congratulations, you've proved you're an idiot. Next time, page me."

He reached for the door, glancing at Foreman and jerking his head toward the hall, indicating that he come along. As he swung it open, he said, "Come on. Time for the real doctors to take over." Giving CB a glare, he headed into the corridor, walking as quickly as possible to the elevators.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

The news about the patient had House out of the office like a limping-but-eager shot. The candidate, 24--Foreman caught sight of her number when she sneered at him with a rather scary look of speculative fury as House called him a real doctor--followed almost on House's heels. Foreman tamped down his own smirk and widened his eyes at her, tilting his head to show that nobody understood House, least of all when he chose to dispense compliments. He held the door for her, and then caught up with House on his right side. There, he was more in danger from House swinging his cane, but it tended to be the shoulder House looked over most often, because of how he placed his weight when he walked.

"I suppose you're going to make me guess what treatments you've already tried," Foreman said, pleased that they finally had something medical to attend to. It never helped to let House know that his praise, faint and far-between as it was, meant anything to him. Foreman surprised himself, though, with the satisfaction that bubbled up because of House's words. What was that, twice in the last half-hour? House must have really missed him. He almost snorted in amusement at the idea.

The three of them got on the elevator. Foreman kept his gaze on the floor indicator, ignoring 24's narrow-eyed look, the kind he recognized from long association as picking-apart-a-puzzle.

"So he's good?" she asked, half-interested and half-doubtful. When Foreman didn't respond, she turned to House and tried to pierce him with her stare. "I suppose if we get this job, we can expect you to become human with us as well?"

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"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."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.