Foreman knew that House wasn't staring at him, that he was only interested in what was happening across the street, but it certainly felt like House was leaning into his space and studying him. He had no idea where all these jokes were coming from. House never minded making snide comments about Chase, but Foreman had mostly escaped that kind of notice. He must have said something--or not said enough--to draw House's attention to him. Either that, or it was just enforced closeness; he could swear he could smell apple fritter on House's breath. He was getting more and more tense, and he didn't know whether to defend himself even further or just leap out of the car, march into the restaurant, and haul Thirteen out so that House could get his stupid interrogation over with.

He bit his tongue when House just kept pushing. He bet he could show House more 'fun' than he'd had in two years at least. This time, though, he had the sense not to say anything.

Instead, Foreman peered at the restaurant. When he saw Thirteen, for the first time since he'd announced his guess, he felt in control again. She was eating with a woman, and leaning in across the table, smiling. There had to be something going on there. From the way House was still craning his neck, he hadn't seen her yet.

Seeing her, though, made Foreman realize what he was doing. House was stalking her because he wanted to know something, and what was he going to do with that? Make a few jokes. Make her uncomfortable. And the only reason it would work was because she was trying to hide it. So what the hell was he doing? Cuddy was his boss now, not House; and he'd survived four years of racist remarks and learned to not even react. He'd much rather be the one who had the upper hand. Show House exactly the sort of thing he dished out to everybody else.

"Yeah, your single entendres are really unnerving," he said, leaning back against the headrest. "I've seen you, House. You talk a big game, but you never follow through."