Foreman rolled his eyes at the idea that House 'had him', as if Foreman had taken responsibility for House's life just because they were together. Together--that was still a phrase that gave him pause, and Foreman tried to push the thought back wherever it had come from. He was more than willing to blame being late on House, and it wouldn't take much. He couldn't believe that House didn't have a clock, and this had all the hallmarks of House trying to mess with him. Foreman gave him another shove, not willing to let House roll over and ignore him. "No, you have tenure," he said. "I don't. And I don't think you want to get me fired." Not if House wanted to keep him around, instead of taking Marty or some other hospital up on their job offers.

His cell phone and pager were in his jacket pocket, so if Cuddy or the candidates had called, wondering where he was, they wouldn't have reached him. He could probably expect some angry messages on his home machine, too. Shit. Foreman crawled out of bed, leaving House to cocoon himself in the blankets. He wouldn't even have time to do anything more than shower and dress before he left. The relaxed, aroused feeling he'd woken up with would have to take a backseat to scrambling to get to work on time. That made Foreman even grumpier than he had been, because waking up next to House, he'd been anticipating something better than just masturbation. Circling the bed, Foreman grabbed up as many of his clothes as he could find--wrinkled, shit--and tried not to draw House's attention to his tented boxers, because he didn't need to add any mockery to the start of his day. The shower would have to be a cold one.