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.

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[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

For House, few things could put an interesting case on 'pause'. Mind-numbing pain. A gem of personal information about Wilson, Cuddy, one of his wet-behind-the-ears, ass-kissing fellowship candidates. Today, it was Agent Foreman, once a doctor; now, doctor-turned-kowtowing-spy. House didn't like it. He'd already had a taste of "boss Foreman", and he'd been a pain in the ass. He needed to lose the spy.

House tapped a pen against his desk, leaning forward to try to peek into the conference room, sitting back when he couldn't see anyone besides Kutner, playing with his shoelace. He guessed that nobody was talking, reluctant to talk around Cuddy's appointed errand boy.

This was Cuddy's fault. Foreman's, too, for being stupid enough to come crawling back, but mostly Cuddy's. Foreman already seemed miserable enough with the situation, so making him even more miserable wouldn't accomplish all that much. Plus, Foreman would expect it, some sort of retaliation. He already identified this place, as far as House could tell, with a living, inescapable hell, so proving that it was wouldn't do him much good, and he wasn't about to go proving Foreman right. So he'd have to make Cuddy miserable instead. Frustrate her, antagonize her, until she caved and pulled her spy from enemy territory.

Making up his mind to launch a personal campaign against Cuddy, he stood up and made his way into the conference room, stopping a few feet into the room. He kept his eyes far away from Foreman. "You four," he said, swept his cane through the air, pointing at all the hopefuls on the right side of the table, "go take care of my dry cleaning. It's back in my office." He nodded to Kutner. "You, go tell Cuddy that--" He pointed his cane back down to the floor, squinting with thought. "Would a bomb threat be too much?" House shrugged. "Who knows, maybe we'll all go home early." Another point, this time at Taub. "And, you, get me some lunch."

He pointedly ignored Foreman until they shuffled out of the room, then took a seat at one end of the table. "You, me, together again. I'm getting misty-eyed with nostalgia."