Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Foreman sighed, standing in front of the door to House's apartment.

Dammit.

This was stupid.

Why was he encouraging House with the notion that he would be at the older doctor's beck and call just because he could barely stand up?

Oh.

Right.

Because he had said he would be, at least within reason.

He sighed, pulled out the key House had given him, and unlocked the door.

House was sprawled out on the couch, wearing only a pair of boxers, a fan blowing over his sweaty chest.

Foreman had seen his scar before, so it wasn't a big deal, and he personally had no objections to seeing House mostly naked. Or completely naked, if it came to that.

"Dude. Brain-damaged cripple dying of heat exhaustion here. What took you so long?"

"Nothing, I just wanted you to suffer."

House snorted.

He really did look miserable though.

"Where is it?"

House jerked his thumb towards the closet.

The first real heat wave of the summer, and House needed help with his air conditioner.

Foreman grunted, lifting it.

"Damn, how old is this thing?"

"Like ten years. Still works though."

Foreman grunted again, setting it down and opening the window House had indicated.

It slammed shut as soon as he let go.

He sighed, looking at House, who shrugged.

"The rope holding the weight rotted. I've been meaning to fish it out with a magnet, but you have to take the whole window apart to do that."

Foreman shook his head, looking around.

He couldn't see anything the right height to prop the sash open.

"Gimme a hand with the window?" he asked, uncertain.

House considered for a moment, then slowly started working his way to his feet, grabbing one of the elbow crutches resting beside on the floor beside the couch, and staggering his way over to the younger doctor.

Stupid brain damage.

Stupid bus crash.

He leaned heavily against the wall, holding the window open with his free hand as he untangled himself from the crutch so he could hold it with both.

Foreman got the metal case out of the closet, screwed it into the window.

Then he picked up the actual unit, shoving it in.

It slipped, he fell, and it landed on top of him.

When he regained awareness of the world beyond the pain, House was leaning over him, skillful right hand and unhelpful left carefully checking his ribs for breaks.

He pushed House off, shaking his head.

House sighed, sitting back on his heels.

"Moron."

Foreman rolled his eyes, climbing painfully to his feet.

He leaned against the wall, holding his side.

House looked around, reached for the crutch, fell over onto his back.

Foreman watched him, frowning.

"House?"

House looked at him.

"Can you get up?"

House shrugged.

"Ok."

House struggled upwards, breathing heavily.

He fell again, grunting.

Foreman sighed painfully, walking over and extending his hand downwards.

House gripped it, dragging himself upwa--Foreman fell on top of him with a loud yell of pain.

House grunted again, trying to shove him off with limited success--his good arm was trapped beneath the younger doctor.

After a while Foreman seemed to come around again, groaning quietly.

"Hit your head?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, still disoriented, "but I just got a little stunned."

"Good. Now get the hell off me."

Foreman looked down at him.

House looked up at him.

They both snorted.

"We're pathetic."

"You're pathetic. I'm brain-damaged and crippled. You're just a clumsy moron."

"You're the one whose air conditioner is impossible to lift."

"I managed it just fine for the last seven years, and I only had one good leg."

Foreman looked at him, blinking.

"How did you do that?" he asked, genuinely curious, "you couldn't have walked with it...."

House shrugged underneath him.

"There's a folding wheelchair in my closet. Lifted it onto that, pushed it over, lifted it into the window. The frame held the window sash open."

"That's... why didn't you just ask Wilson?"

A long silence, House had his eyes closed.

"I asked him to do it the first summer after my infarction."

Foreman blinked. House usually called it the infarction. My infarction sounded somehow more personal.

"What happened?"

"He put it in."

Foreman blinked down at him.

"Isn't that what you wanted him to do?"

"Yes and no. I wanted the air conditioner in the window, but I didn't want him to put it in. I wanted him to help me carry it over, but he just assumed.... whatever. That was like eight years ago."

"Oh."

A long silence.

"You gonna get off me? You're kinda making me hot."

Foreman looked at him.

House rolled his eyes.

"It's like a hundred degrees in here, and you're a big heavy heating blanket."

"Oh."

Foreman scooted off him, sitting up with a wince.

House sat up with some difficulty, looking around the room.

"Can you bring that bench over?"

Foreman nodded, dragging the piano bench over next to House.

The older doctor lifted his bad arm with his right hand, dropped it over the padded seat, held on to the rim around the bottom with his other hand, and heaved.

Ten seconds later, he slid back onto the floor with a grunt.

Foreman was standing over him, holding his side and looking amused.

"You didn't grab me."

Foreman looked at him, "what?"

"When I was sliding off, you didn't grab me and keep me on."

"Why would I have?"

"Because that's what people always do. Gotta help the poor cripple."

"Dude, I don't wanna touch your sweaty ass."

"Didn't have a problem with lying on top of me."

"I was getting my breath back!" said Foreman defensively.

House snorted, rolling onto his stomach to repeat the process of pulling himself up onto the bench.

"Do you want me to catch you?"

House looked at him, expression thoughtful.

"Maybe."

"Why?"

House shrugged, then lifted his arm again.

"You were smirking."

"Huh?"

"When I slid off, you were smirking. You thought it was funny."

"Don't tell me you're offended. I won't believe you."

"Exactly. You thought it was funny, you don't feel bad about that, you don't feel you have to defend the fact you thought it was funny. It was funny. It was also a brain-damaged cripple falling off a bench while trying desperately to get up."

"Sooo.... you don't mind me helping you because I don't wanna help you?"

"Yes."

Foreman looked at him.

"I've been spending way too much time around you. That actually made sense."

House snorted, heaving himself upwards.

He started to slide off again, Foreman grabbed him around the stomach and heaved him up, so he was lying across the bench.

Foreman also happened to have lost his balance, so he was lying on top of the older doctor--again.

The room was silent for a while, while they both caught their breath.

"You're doing that on purpose," accused House.

Another while of silence.

"What if I am?" asked Foreman, smirking.

A second later, he was landing hard on the floor of House's apartment, blinking, House having elbowed him hard in the shoulder, shoving him off.

"What? It was a joke."

"Why did you say it?"

"It was a joke."

"Freud would say--"

"Screw Freud, you hate psychology. You're just horny."

House, still lying across the bench, smirked.

"What if I am?"

Foreman blinked.

Then he smirked as well.

"Get your ass up, and we'll go from there."

House looked at him over his shoulder.

"Seriously?" asked House, the funny look that meant he wasn't completely sure what was going on firmly planted on his face.

"Dude, you have any idea how long it's been since I got any?"

"Yes," replied House, laughing.

Foreman snorted, watching House work his way towards standing.

Eventually he made it, and Foreman ducked under his bad arm, holding him up as he got situated with the crutches. That was ok to do without discussion; House just plain had too much trouble with that step to be annoyed.

Ten minutes later they were on House's bed, Foreman watching House struggle with the buttons on the younger doctor's shirt.

He seemed to be determined to undo them himself.

"Screw that," House muttered, going for Foreman's mouth instead, which needed no removal of clothing to get to.

The phone rang.

House grunted, tried to grab it with his bad arm, failed completely, and dropped his head on Foreman's chest in frustration.

Foreman went to pick it up, accidentally hit the speakerphone.

"House? This is Wilson."

....

"House?"

House froze.

"Yeah, I'm here," he said, voice low and slightly hollow.

"I started your patent on chemo."

House swallowed.

"Yeah. Thanks. Good."

Foreman tentatively touched his cheek, he slapped the hand away.

"Right. Um... bye, I guess."

"Yeah," said House, voice cracking, "bye."

A click from the other end.

The room was silent for a while, House looking at the phone.

Then he turned back to Foreman.

Foreman shrugged, waiting for him to make a decision.

It came in the form of House grabbing the two sides of Foreman's collar and yanking them apart, buttons or no buttons.

The next hour or so was spent in a desperate struggle for both parties to get the most pleasure possible for themselves, House paying no attention to Foreman's bruised ribs.

Foreman sighed, lying next to House on the bed.

House was still panting.

"Dude, you are so out of shape."

House looked at him.

"You're not."

Foreman blinked.

He had expected House to respond with something along the lines of, "brain-damaged cripple here," but he hadn't. He had actually said something vaguely resembling a complement.

"Since when do you say stuff like that?"

"Since I just had sex."

Foreman laughed.

"Want a beer?"

Foreman looked at him.

House was... there was no other word for it... smiling.

Not grinning, not smirking, smiling.

Foreman nodded, reaching down for his pants--his shirt was going to need some work before it stayed closed again.

He waited for House to put his boxers back on, then helped him stand up while he got his arms into the crutches.

House grunted, crutching out into the kitchen, digging in the fridge, and pulling out two beers.

Foreman took one before the awkward way House was forced to hold them caused them both to hit the floor, popped it open with a bottle-opener out of his pocket, took the other one, and carried them out to the living-room, plopping down on the couch and waiting for House to catch up with him.

House sighed, untangling himself awkwardly and carefully lowering his body onto the couch.

Foreman watched him, frowning.

"Are you ok? You look pale?"

House nodded, swallowing.

"Just a little dizzy. I was being stupid."

Foreman sighed.

"I'd say sorry, but I know you wouldn't want me to."

"Got that right."

Foreman watched him for a while longer.

"Seriously, are you gonna be ok?"

House had his eyes closed now, head pressed back into the couch, hand on his thigh.

He saw the older doctor's Adam's apple jump.

"House?"

"Yeah," he muttered, "just gimme a...."

Foreman put his fingers on House's carotid, looking at his watch.

"Damn House, that's way too high."

No answer.

"House?"

House grunted.

"House, you're hyperventilating. Calm down."

Nothing.

"Ok, look. If you don't calm down, I'm taking you to the hospital. In your boxers."

House shook his head.

"It'll... get better. Just... hang on...."

Foreman sighed, shaking his head, and got up to finish putting in the air conditioner, thinking that if House wasn't doing better by the time he finished, he would do something, at least.

He screwed it into the metal frame, ignoring the pain in his side, then turned back to House.

Leaning forward, rubbing his hand back and forth, still breathing quickly.

Foreman sighed, came back over, sat down close by him, and touched his shoulder.

House leaned into the contact slightly, trembling.

"You gonna be ok?" asked Foreman, more quietly than before.

"Yeah."

"For real?"

House nodded, eyes still closed.

"Kay."

Foreman left his hand where it was, resting on House's shoulder. The older doctor seemed to need the anchor.

House finally was able to let go of his leg, still panting, and curl up on the couch, utterly exhausted.

His head ended up on Foreman's hip, and the younger doctor smirked slightly, placing his hand on House's side.

A soft grunt and tiny shift in position was the only response.

House was asleep within a minute.

Foreman didn't really know when this thing between them had started, or even what it was. It had resulted in the agreement that if House actually, really needed help, or wanted help with something reasonable, Foreman would come. It had started well after the other, much more fun, thing between them had started going on.

House's phone rang, House didn't wake up.

The message came on, 'House, you're late.'

Foreman blinked. House was still on sick leave, since he could barely make it from one end of a room to the other.

The message continued, 'you said you'd come for a checkup today. House, I know you're home. I'll give you a ride, but you really do need to have a checkup. House, seriously, if you don't pick u--'

"Hi Cuddy."

Foreman's voice.

The hell?

"Foreman, what are you doing at House's apartment?" asked Cuddy, frowning at her desk.

'I was helping him with his air conditioner. He fell, pain got bad, fell asleep. That's why he's not answering.'

"Oh. Well, when he wakes up, can you drive him in here?"

'Sure.'

A while later, House lifted his head a little bit, looking around hazily.

"What happened?" he mumbled, "I fall asleep, or pass out?"

"Fell asleep."

"Oh. Good."

"Cuddy called. Wants you to know you absolutely have to come in for a checkup today."

"She's been telling me that for the last week."

"And you haven't done it because....?"

House looked quietly at him.

"Because I want to go back to work."

Foreman sighed.

"And why won't she let you if she does a physical?"

House sighed.

"The dizziness. She's gonna think it's from brain injury."

"You're still dizzy? How bad?"

"Irritating unless I move too fast."

"But...that's not a neurological presentation. That means the tubes in your inner ear are damaged."

"Duh. But Cuddy's not gonna go with that. She's gonna make me have an MRI, and a CT, and if that doesn't find the problem she's probably going to run a hundred blood tests, and...."

Foreman was looking at him oddly.

"What?"

"How many times have you been through this?"

"Not this this specifically, but.... she always worries that it's the worst."

House didn't mention that she worried because nine years ago, it had been the worst, and it had been brushed aside.

"What if I do the exam?"

House looked at him.

"What? It's not like I haven't seen you naked before."

House thought about it.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't think of it."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

Chapter Text

House sighed, sitting on the exam table as Foreman listened to his heart.

"Beat's a little bit fast."

"That's because I'm turned on."

Foreman snorted.

Then he picked up a small pink hammer, applied it to House's left leg.

Then he looked at House.

House gripped the side of the table, gritted his teeth, and nodded.

Foreman tapped.

He ended up keeping a semi-responsive House on the table, holding him across the chest.

House was loosely gripping Foreman's shirt as he panted.

Eventually he recovered; enough that Foreman could let go without him slipping off the exam table.

"Well, I guess your deep tendon reflexes are intact."

House snorted tiredly.

The rest of the exam went a lot more smoothly, until Foreman decided they needed x-rays of House's left shoulder--which was swollen--and head, to confirm, for Cuddy, that the damage was to House's inner ear, not brain.

House looked irritated, though not about the x-rays.

"It'd be less busy later," said House.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House objected with more inane and, though mostly true, unhelpful reasons why this should be done later.

"I can't walk that far," he said, after ten minutes of growling excuses.

Foreman stopped yelling at him.

Then he walked out of the room, and came back with a wheelchair.

"Hospital rules."

House smirked briefly, looking exhausted, and slowly climbed down off the table.

Foreman caught him around the chest, just in time to keep him from collapsing completely onto the hard clinic floor.

House seemed barely able to keep his eyes open.

Foreman knew that it was just because the pain was still bad, draining his energy, but still...

Some proof that he could go back to work.

Foreman helped House the two steps to the wheelchair, then squatted in front of him, fingers on his wrist.

"You're tachychardic. You need to lie down, get the pain under control."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

And with that, Foreman stood, gripped the handles at the back of the wheelchair, and pushed House towards the elevators.

House was only stopped from getting up and marching to radiology by the fact that he could barely stand.

Foreman sighed, parking the wheelchair.

House looked at him.

"The sleep lab?"

Foreman shrugged, "it's got beds with lockable doors."

"Uh, yeah.... which Chase and Cam had sex behind, which is creeping me out slightly."

Foreman rolled his eyes, "you just don't want to lie down."

House smirked.

"Fine. We'll make this official. Give you an EEG, find out why you're an insomniac."

"How do you know--"

"You're constantly calling us at two in the morning, and you're never asleep when we call you at eleven at night."

House sighed, "I know what causes it. Don't need sleep lab monitoring to figure it out."

Foreman sat down in one of the chairs.

"Right. And I'm supposed to believe you... why?"

House shook his head.

Foreman sighed.

House really did need to lie down and get the pain under control; he was pale, sweaty...

"Fine."

He got up, pushed the wheelchair into one of the rooms, and went back out into the monitoring room.

He saw House curl up on the bed, holding his bad leg.

House clenched and unclenched, as waves of pain hit and receded.

Foreman frowned.

The pain didn't seem to be getting better.

He stood, as House grabbed the oximeter lying on the bed next to him, shoved it on his finger, and looked at the camera.

Over two hundred.

Foreman grabbed a syringe out of a crash cart, hurried into the room, and jabbed it into House's arm.

House was so tense the needle barely went in.

"Damn, House. Why didn't you call me in before now?"

"Thought it... get... better...." he ground out, obviously in severe pain.

Foreman sat down on the bed next to him, sighing, and carefully helping him curl back up on his side without stressing his bad leg as the sedative started to take effect.

House closed his eyes, muttering something indistinct, as Foreman's hand started rubbing over his back.

Foreman wasn't sure if it was a complaint or an expression of enjoyment, but decided it had probably been both and kept rubbing.

House finally fell asleep, and Foreman sighed, pulling the blanket up over him.

He watched the slow rise and fall of House's chest, shook his head, and got up with the intention of getting some coffee.

A hand gripped his wrist, though.

He turned back.

Then he nodded, sat back down.

House curled a little, so his back was against Foreman's hip.

Foreman hesitated for only a brief moment, before lying down next to him, and placing his arm over House's side.

Then he realized that would probably look weird to anyone walking into the sleep lab, and hung his labcoat over the camera, locking the door.

Then he resumed his position.

House's hand gripped the wrist over his stomach, preventing Foreman from leaving again.

Foreman blinked.

House must be really loopy from the sedative--that was the only explanation.

In any case, he sidled up a little more closely, and House sidled back.

Foreman felt his eyelids starting to droop, as he lay there, the sound of House's slow, steady breathing carrying him off with its hypnotic rhythm.

Chase stopped cold, as he unlocked the door to the sleep lab room.

Well... at least they still had their clothes on....

And the wheelchair seemed to indicate that it wasn't necessarily what it looked like.

He walked in, shaking Foreman's shoulder.

A sleepy grunt was the only response.

"Chase, what's taking so--"

Cameron stopped, as she entered the room.

Chase shrugged, still shaking Foreman, who was displaying a surprising resistance to waking up.

He finally grunted again, opening his eyes and rubbing them.

"Hmm?" he mumbled.

Then he looked around, realizing exactly what the situation was.

He rolled his eyes at Chase and Cameron, who sighed, slightly relived.

Foreman sat up, looking at the other two.

"So... you don't tell anybody, I don't tell anybody you were planning on having sex in the hospital?"

Chase blushed slightly, nodding.

The blanket rustled a little, and House moved, sleeping brain wondering where the warm thing that had been lying along his back had gone.

He ended up with his cheek pressed against Foreman's hip, arm wrapped around the younger doctor's leg mid-thigh.

Foreman stared at him.

Chase and Cameron laughed.

Foreman sighed, gently easing House's arm off his leg.

House scooted further over, so his upper body was basically lying across Foreman's lap.

Chase looked like he was going to explode with held-in laughter.

Foreman rested his hand on House's back, making the other two blink.

He shrugged.

"He's not an ass when he's asleep."

They shrugged as well, walking out.

Foreman gently eased House off his lap, back onto the bed.

House whined quietly in his sleep, at the loss of the warm contact.

Foreman scooted over again, lying on his back this time, as House migrated over, half on top of the younger doctor, right hand tangling itself in the purple shirt.

Foreman sighed, rubbing House's back as he slept.

House really was miserable.

A doctor Foreman only sort of recognized came in, looking at them oddly.

Foreman shook his head, glancing meaningfully at the wheelchair.

"Ok... well, you need to move him, we're gonna need the room."

Foreman nodded, shaking House's shoulder.

A grunt.

Foreman rolled his eyes, sliding his arms under House and lifting the lanky diagnostician.

The other doctor held the wheelchair still as Foreman set House's sleeping form in it.

House woke almost as soon as Foreman's hands slid out from under his back and knees.

"What...?" he mumbled, frowning. Then he seemed to orient himself, and sighed as Foreman pushed him out of the room.

Foreman grunted, as House yanked the brakes on, making Foreman run into the back of the wheelchair.

"What are you doing, House?"

House was struggling out of the chair, pale.

"I'm not... some damned... patient...." he was swaying.

Foreman didn't move to help him--he knew House was just dizzy.

House swallowed, stumbled, and reached for Foreman's shoulder.

Foreman was under his arm in a second.

House hung onto him, physically unable to keep himself standing.

Foreman carefully lowered him down, sat next to him, let him hold on in an effort to tell which way was up.

House really looked like shit.

Someone came by, asked if they needed the wheelchair.

Foreman opened his mouth to answer, but House beat him to it, telling them they didn't need it.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House didn't notice; he was trying not to throw up.

It didn't work.

Foreman sighed.

Half an hour later, House was lying in the CT scanner, asleep.

An hour after that, House was lying in bed in his apartment, and Foreman was locking the door on his way out.

Foreman smiled, as he walked down the steps. House was pretty miserable, usually. But his mouth had twitched, just a little, as Foreman tucked him in with exaggerated movements and silliness.

"No, you are not going to go test the patient for that!" yelled House, as Taub wrote something on the whiteboard.

Everyone blinked.

Why had House shouted?

"Uh, you ok?" asked Taub, as House looked around, almost fearfully.

"Go the hell away! You're all morons! You're going to kill the patient!"

Foreman dropped his newspaper.

"House, you're having a temporal lobe seizure. Shut up."

Everyone looked considerably less confused after that.

"Why!? Just because you tell me to?! You're Cuddy's bitch, not my boss! You think you can just take over, but I'm not gonna let that happen!"

Foreman sighed, looking at the kids, who were starting to get worried again.

"One of you go get some ativan."

Taub got up, hurrying out.

"Now you're gonna sedate me?! I don't think so! No drugging for me! No way in hell! Get away! No drugs!"

Foreman shook his head when Kutner looked at him, worriedly.

"House. Look at me." said Thirteen, sounding completely calm, "What are the symptoms of a temporal lobe seizure?"

He stared at her.

"Uh... Short term memory impairment... Uncontrollable emotions, anger, fear, paranoia, irrationality..."

"I'm going to give you five random words, that's the standard diagnostic short term memory test, right?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Lamp, five, hat, red, marigold. Can you repeat them back to me?"

"Uh... a number... Uh...."

"Is that a good score for the test?"

"No."

"Do you agree that it is probably because you're having a temporal lobe seizure?"

He paused.

"Yes."

Thirteen nodded.

Taub came back in with the ativan, House saw him, and jerked away, yelling that he wasn't going to let them drug him, and that he knew they were just trying to hurt him.

Thirteen gently put her hand on his arm.

"What did we just figure out?"

He looked at her.

"Seizure."

She nodded, softly guiding him to a chair, which he refused to sit in, just tangled himself up with his crutches.

"It's ok. Nobody wants to hurt you. Taub, let him see the syringe."

Taub held it out, looking confused.

House looked at it.

"What's in it?" asked Thirteen.

"Ativan." answered House.

"What's ativan for?"

"Seizures, anxiety attacks."

"Are you having one of those?"

"Yes."

"Does it seem logical, and ok for us to give it to you?"

He nodded.

"Will you let me give it to you?"

Another nod.

Thirteen took the syringe, carefully inserting it into House's arm.

It took a few moments, but he finally seemed to calm some. Thirteen gently guided him into his office, got him to lie down on his recliner, and covered him with her labcoat as he slowly fell asleep.

She turned around.

Everyone except Foreman was staring at her; Foreman was just sitting with a raised eyebrow.

She sighed.

"Don't you think you should be focusing on the patient?" she asked, indicating the whiteboard, which was covered in life-threatening symptoms.

Kutner and Taub sighed, turning to look at the board, Foreman set his newspaper down to lead the differential until House woke up.

Chapter Text

House groaned, slowly opening his eyes.

"Wha'happ'n'd?" he asked in a sleepy slur.

"You had a temporal lobe seizure. Thirteen talked you down, got you to let her give you some ativan," said Foreman's voice, calmly.

House looked at him, rubbing one eye with his hand, sleepily.

"What'd I do?"

"Yelled. Told us we were going to kill the patient, thought we were going to hurt you."

House sighed, nodding.

"Thirteen seemed pretty practiced."

"Go wheedle it out of her. I'm--go away!"

Foreman blinked.

"Go... Go..."

House got off the recliner, stumbling, trying to pace, looking around, scared.

Foreman stood up.

"Who am I?"

House looked at him.

"Foreman."

"Do you seriously think I'm gonna hurt you?"

"No... No, but... Agh!" House jerked away from his desk, cowering in a corner.

Foreman stood up, walked over, and sat down on the floor.

House grabbed his shirt, terrified, pressing himself against the younger diagnostician.

"Shhhh. It's ok. It's ok. Shhhh." said Foreman, calmly rubbing the shaking back, "you're ok."

Ten minutes later, House lifted his head off Foreman's shoulder, looking around, completely disoriented.

"Another seizure," Foreman informed him, "the kids weren't here to get spooked so I didn't drug you."

House looked hazily at him, still coming out of it.

"'n you didn' get spooked? How-come?"

"Because I'm a neurologist and a doctor and I got over seeing you act like a lunatic that time you were on whatever it was and had a bad trip."

House blinked slowly, nodded, and put his head back down, closing his eyes.

Foreman sat there, practically hugging House, and sighed.

"Ok big guy. Get some rest."

House mumbled something sleepy and too quiet to hear.

About twenty minutes later, Thirteen came in, starting off on some idea for their patient, then stopping as she noticed the clearly exhausted House sleeping again the very awkward Foreman.

She smiled.

House looked kind of cute all curled up and drooling on Foreman's shirt.

Foreman looked at her.

"How'd you do that?"

She blinked.

"Um... open the door?"

Foreman rolled his eyes.

Thirteen sighed.

"Ok... Fine. House already knows and I know you're not a gossip. My mom died of Huntington's."

Foreman tilted his head.

Thirteen closed her eyes.

"I'm not gonna ask."

She opened her eyes again, blinking.

"Thank you."

Foreman shrugged.

House snuffled a little in his sleep, tangling his hands a little bit more in Foreman's shirt.

Both Foreman and Thirteen smirked a little.

It was kind of nice, seeing House completely disarmed and peaceful.

Thirteen wondered when he had stopped ever letting that happen when he was conscious.

Foreman wondered if House was going to sleep all day.

While the answer to Thirteen's question remained unanswered, House woke after about an hour, still close against the younger diagnostician.

He raised his head, frowning.

"You remember what happened?"

He nodded, still frowning.

Foreman gently started to push him off.

House sat up, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"You're warm," he informed the shorter doctor, voice thick with sleep, working his way to standing and stumbling his way over to his recliner.

Foreman blinked, watching him.

House curled up, and was asleep again in less than a minute.

House's leg would kill him in the morning...

But it wasn't like he would let Foreman help him, so...

Foreman sighed, getting up and going back to the differential room to read.

When he came back into House's office the next day, what he found was exactly what he had been expecting.

House sitting with his bad leg up on pillows, panting heavily and covered in sweat.

He didn't even seem to have enough energy to glare at Foreman, just gave him a vaguely unhappy look, and closed his eyes, obviously exhausted.

His hands were balled into fists.

Foreman sat down in of the chairs next to House's desk, watching the older diagnostician.

House looked weakly at him.

"What... get off on... watching... people in... pain?" he said, out of breath.

"No. Just waiting in case you give up and let someone help you."

House laughed, breathlessly.

Foreman shrugged, and stayed where he was.

He had already told the kids not to come in today.

House grunted, as a particularly bad wave of pain hit.

It finally subsided, but it left him trembling and nauseous.

He was forced to lean over the side of the recliner, gagging. Every movement jolted his bad leg, his ears were ringing, his vision was black...

He couldn't sit up.

Hanging over the side was twisting his bad leg, causing it to clench in further and further agony, but the pain was making him too weak to move...

He couldn't get enough breath to speak...

Arms under his, pulling him back onto the chair, setting his bad leg back on the pillows.

His vision cleared as the pain receded.

Foreman was standing next to the chair, lightly grasping House's wrist, measuring his probably tachychardic pulse.

His eyes were sliding closed, he was so tired....

He dimly registered someone covering him with something white, before falling completely and totally asleep.

House groaned, opening his eyes.

He didn't recognize where he was.

There was a cat asleep on his stomach.

His leg didn't hurt nearly as badly as before--though it was still really bothering him.

He yawned, gently lifting the cat off and setting it on the bed next to him so he could sit up.

Someone's apartment.

He rubbed his eyes, yawning again.

He heard footsteps in the next room.

He contemplated getting up, but he wasn't sure his leg would be so calm if asked to hold weight, and he didn't see his crutches anywhere.

"Hello?" he called, making the cat raise its head and look at him.

The footsteps came closer, the door opened.

Oh. Foreman.

The younger doctor came in, reached across him to scratch the cat's head, then looked at him.

"I take it you're feeling better?"

House nodded, yawning again.

"I assume this is your apartment?"

Foreman nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Why didn't you just admit me?"

"There weren't any rooms available for non-emergent patients."

"Ah."

There was a long, but not uncomfortable silence.

"What's your cat's name?"

"Marian."

House nodded, watching the warm ball of fuzz.

"Can you stand?"

House hesitated, "probably. But it'll hurt."

Foreman nodded.

House sighed, leaning back against the pillows.

He was still exhausted...

Foreman watched him for a while, then walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

House glared.

"It's my bed."

House looked away.

Foreman quickly gripped the older doctor's wrist, looking at his watch.

House glared, and pulled it back after around five seconds.

Foreman paused.

Then he looked at House.

"Your pulse is somewhere around 170, House."

House growled.

Foreman sighed.

"Look, I'm offering you drugs. Why are you upset?"

"Because I don't want drugs!" yelled House, suddenly, "I want to not be in pain!"

Foreman raised an eyebrow.

House sat up again, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands.

Foreman just sat, watching him.

Marian slid in between House's arm and his stomach, curling up in his lap.

House looked down at the cat, blinking.

"I can't tell if I'm having emotional swings or seizures..." he muttered, finally.

"Probably some of both."

House nodded, absently scratching the cat under her chin.

She started purring.

House's mouth twitched a little.

So did Foreman's.

House suddenly jerked back, eyes wide.

Marian climbed off his lap and sat at the end of the bed.

Foreman sighed, watching House convulse.

Twenty minutes later, House slowly opened his eyes, to find himself curled partially on top of Foreman, with a warm weight that was probably Foreman's cat pressed against his lower back.

He raised his head.

Foreman's arm was around his back, the younger doctor was reading a book.

"Foreman."

Foreman looked at him.

"Why didn't you leave? After the seizure ended."

"You keep having clusters. I wanted to be there when you woke up in case you had another one."

"I'm fine," said House, grabbing Foreman's book and making a show of reading it and ignoring its owner.

Foreman sighed.

"Look... are you even taking the meds?"

"Duh. Seizures aren't exactly fun, you know?"

"Then maybe you need to try a different drug."

"Or maybe, I need to wait more than a few weeks after my head got split open and my brain bled all over itself, and my eardrum got torn in half, and my inner ear got destroyed, and my only friend for the last twenty years left...."

"It's been over a month."

"Shut up, the principle still applies."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Maybe it has something to do with the opiates you're shoving into your system twenty-four seven. They lower the seizure threshold."

House looked at the younger doctor.

"What do you want me to do? It's not like I can just stop taking pain medication."

Foreman sighed, thinking of some way to ease into the conversation.

Marian suddenly hissed, and jumped off the bed.

Foreman looked at House.

Shit.

Well, that didn't work....

It wasn't a very violent seizure, but it wasn't just a temporal lobe one either.

Foreman put the older doctor on his side, holding him steady.

He wasn't breathing, his eyes were rolled up, and he didn't seem to be aware of anything.

The convulsions lessened a little, and Foreman had a chance to pull the book out from under House.

He sighed, still keeping House from hitting anything on any hard edges.

House stopped convulsing, and started to breathe in loud, shaking gasps.

Eventually his eyes seemed to focus again, but he didn't appear to recognize the younger doctor.

Foreman gripped him by the shoulders as he tried to bolt off the bed, pulled him close, and kept him from hurting himself.

House was having way too many seizures.

Over the next two weeks, House came in to work looking more and more haggard.

Foreman finally showed up at his apartment after work and asked him about it, standing in the doorway of the older doctor's bedroom.

"It's just the seizures. I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"Oh, come on. That doesn't even make sense."

House glared at him, silent, pulling the blankets up a little bit.

"Dude... just say what it is...." said Foreman, tiredly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

House looked at his knees, sighing.

"I... it's nothing."

Foreman didn't dignify that with a response.

"It's... I can't sleep."

Foreman tilted his head.

"Worse than usual?"

House shook his head, "no... But the seizures are really exhausting... and I can't make up for that."

"You said you knew why you can't sleep. Why?"

House looked away, fidgeting, shifting uncomfortably, upset.

"No reason."

"Yeah, right."

House glanced at Foreman, then looked away.

"Never leaves this room."

"Never."

A long silence.

"I... I can't sleep when I'm alone."

Another silence, this one tinged with surprise and slight disbelief.

House sighed, resting his forehead on his knee.

"Told you. Nothing."

He felt a tug on the covers, and raised his head.

"What? No! Dude, I don't want your pity sex!"

Foreman snorted, taking off his shoes.

"It's not pity and it's not sex. It a logical solution to the problem."

"No!"

Foreman looked at him.

"Why not?"

House sighed, head in his hands again, not answering.

"You're worried I'll think the fact that you're letting me stay the night means something it doesn't. Don't worry. This is purely medical."

House looked at him for a long time.

Then he nodded, hesitantly.

"Purely medical."

Foreman nodded.

House sighed, nodding again.

Foreman resumed taking off his shoes and getting under the covers.

House lay on his left side, and scooted backwards until he was up against Foreman. The same way they had been sleeping in the sleep lab, except in mirror image because House's leg wasn't in agony, so he could favor the sore half of his head.

Foreman put his arm over the older doctor's waist, and closed his eyes.

He felt and heard House start snoring long before he himself fell asleep.

Huh. Apparently House had been telling the truth.

Chapter Text

When the alarm went off, it woke Foreman up, but House just rolled over and... There was no other word for it... snuggled up against the younger doctor.

Foreman laughed quietly to himself, and shook House's shoulder.

"Hey buddy. Time to wake up."

House grunted sleepily, opening his eyes.

"Mmm?"

"Your alarm went off."

"Oh," he mumbled, "turn it off."

"Doesn't it mean it's time to get up?"

"No, it means it's time to give up on sleep if I'm still awake. Otherwise, turn it off and go back to sleep."

Foreman shrugged, turning it off, then laying on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

"Roll over."

Foreman looked at him.

"What?"

House looked unhappy.

Foreman sighed, and did so.

His hip was a little stiff, but the whole point of him being here was so House could get some sleep.

When Foreman woke again, this time to the phone ringing impatiently, Foreman was on his back, and House was lying half across him, soundly asleep.

Foreman picked up the phone.

Cuddy.

"Hello?"

A silence.

"Who's that?"

"Foreman."

"...oh. Right. Well, anyway, tell House to get his ass in here. Your kids found a case."

"Kay."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Foreman hung up.

Then he looked back down at House, who looked more peaceful than Foreman had ever seen him, and sighed.

House wouldn't let this happen again. One time when he was desperate, but...

Foreman gently shook the older doctor's non-numb shoulder.

House grunted, raising his head a little bit.

"Cuddy called. We've got a case."

House nodded sleepily, scooted further on top of Foreman, and closed his eyes.

Foreman snorted, gently pushing him off.

House persisted.

Foreman frowned.

"House?"

No response.

Foreman sighed, gently wrapping his arm around the older doctor's shoulders.

House eventually came out of it, and lifted his head, frowning.

"Did you say something about Cuddy?"

"Yeah. We've got a case."

House nodded sleepily, and slowly sat up, yawning.

Foreman got up as well, pulling his clothes on.

House seemed to have a lot of trouble getting his overshirt on his bad arm.

House glared at the younger doctor, obvious expecting Foreman to try and help.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House shrugged, tugged some more on the shirt, growled to himself, and yanked it off.

They headed out the door, and House hesitated.

He wasn't allowed to drive because of the seizures, so he had been taking the bus...

"Get in, already."

House didn't argue.

Foreman hadn't expected him to.

They drove to the hospital in relative silence, and Foreman stopped in front of the main entrance so House wouldn't have to walk all the way from Foreman's parking space.

Foreman sighed, opening the door to the differential room.

House was sitting on the floor.

Taub was ignoring the situation.

Thirteen was holding the crutches while reading, and obviously trying to not watch.

Kutner was being yelled at for trying to help House up.

Foreman walked in, bent over, gripped House under the armpits, and lifted.

House shook him off, landing on his back.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Foreman sighed, looking down at the older doctor.

House ran his good hand over his face, sighing.

He nodded, finally, and Foreman helped him up.

House stumbled, and was only saved from falling by Thirteen shoving a chair in behind him.

He didn't get up for the rest of the day.

After their patient was diagnosed and on the way to being cured, and the kids had gone home, Foreman pulled up a chair next to House's, sighing.

House refused to look at him.

A while passed in silence.

House finally sighed, looking at the younger doctor.

"Go home."

"No."

"I don't want you in the room."

"Ok."

House blinked, as Foreman got up.

"Why is that a yes but going home was a no?"

"One's respecting your privacy. The other's succumbing to your pointless misanthropy."

House snorted.

Foreman continued out the door, and stood leaning with his back against the glass wall.

Twenty minutes later, he looked into the office.

House was curled on the floor, breathing heavily, though he didn't look like he was in a lot of pain.

Foreman knocked quietly on the door.

House raised his head and looked.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head, grimacing a little as the room spun.

Foreman turned back to waiting in the hall.

An hour later, he heard a soft, unhappy call of his name.

He stuck his head in, "yeah?"

House was panting, obviously worn out.

"I can't get up," he grumbled, looking firmly at the floor.

"Ok... you want a hand?"

House looked wearily up at the younger doctor.

Foreman nodded, coming and helping him up onto the chair.

House leaned forward, head in his hands, still out of breath.

Foreman stood, waiting.

House finally nodded, and Foreman helped him up.

Three near-falls later, House was exhausted but upright, and Foreman had gone to get the car.

They hadn't actually said that Foreman would be driving House home, but... it appeared that they didn't really need to.

Wilson left the hospital, moving to work at some place in upstate New York.

House was quiet, irritable, and even more withdrawn than usual after he heard the news--Wilson hadn't even said goodbye to him.

House gasped, as his back spasmed once, twice, three times in a row, as he lay awkwardly twisted on his couch.

He had fallen trying to get down the steps, but....

Ah!

How late was he?

He didn't even care, at this point.

He hadn't come in at all yesterday, not wanting to be reminded of his friend at every turn, so why should he care if he made it in today?

He tried to move off his side, onto his stomach, but--OW!

It wasn't happening.

A knock sounded on his door.

He raised his head a little bit off the pillow it was resting on, panting.

"Who's there?" he asked, weakly.

"Foreman," came a muffled voice, "let me in."

"It's unlocked."

The door opened, and Foreman stood there, blinking.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing. Middle age. Years of leaning on a cane. Tripped. Whatever explanation suits you best."

Foreman nodded, closing the door behind himself and walking further into the apartment.

"You want a hand?"

"Does it look like I'm in a very comfortable position?"

"Don't do that. I'm here because you didn't show up for work two days in a row, not because I like taking your crap. Do you need a hand or not?"

House nodded, silently.

"Okay then," said Foreman, walking over and reaching down.

"No!"

Foreman stopped, "what?"

House swallowed, breathing heavily.

"Just... wait. Wait a sec."

Foreman sighed.

"Waiting a sec isn't going to help."

"I... I know. I just need to..."

"I think Cameron's a lesbian."

House opened his mouth to say something incredulous and witty, but a sharp yell of pain came out instead, as Foreman quickly, gently, and efficiently turned him onto his stomach.

He gripped the edge of the couch cushions, wave after wave of pain making his vision go dark and a roaring noise sound in his ears.

A pair of firm, skilled hands started rubbing over his back, easing the cramps and aching muscles.

He closed his eyes, as the pain started to recede enough for him to enjoy the sensation.

Twenty minutes later, he was still lying on his stomach, but with his body now relaxed, eyes contentedly half open, and a pleasant ache in his nether regions.

The pain had long since gone, but Foreman hadn't stopped rubbing, only pausing once to drag a chair over.

House wasn't exactly sure why Foreman had continued beyond the practicality of making the pain go away, but...

He wasn't about to complain.

A few days later, Foreman was in the middle of leading a differential because House couldn't get up to come in to work, when his phone rang.

It turned out to be House; voice weak and shaking with pain.

He asked, quietly, if Foreman would particularly mind coming over for a few minutes.

House was only polite when he was desperate, so Foreman dropped the differential and headed off towards his car.

The patient was probably just on drugs, anyway...

He didn't even bother knocking--House had sounded like he was in no shape to be making it all the way to the door from wherever he was collapsed.

Wherever he was collapsed turned out to be next to the toilet, eyes closed, shirt soaked with sweat.

"House?" asked Foreman, kneeling and taking the older doctor's wrist, "can you answer me?"

House's Adam's apple jumped.

"Yeah," he said, sounding even weaker than he had over the phone.

"What happened?"

A pause.

"I don't remember. I was taking a dump, and then I was on the floor, and I couldn't move."

Foreman looked him over.

"How long were you sitting there?"

House swallowed again, "my phone was under my left side. I couldn't reach it."

Foreman sighed, nodding, and dragged House out, being as careful as possible of the older doctor's bad leg.

House didn't start screaming, so he decided he had probably done a good job of being careful.

House closed his eyes, panting.

"'ll just... sleep..." he mumbled.

Foreman shook his head, lifting House, who didn't seem to notice, and carried him into the bedroom.

He weighed much less than he should have, but at the moment, Foreman wasn't complaining.

House yawned, opening his eyes.

Yay. For once, he was waking up in his own bed. Despite being on his stomach, he recognized the stains on his pillowcase.

A hand was on his back though, and something warm was pressed up against his right side.

Both felt good, and undoubtedly belonged to Foreman, so he didn't move or say anything.

To tell the truth....

Even beyond the physical niceness of contact and warmth....

Somebody--Foreman--sitting next to him, caring what happened to him... felt... even better.

"Hey," said Foreman's voice, softly, "you awake?"

He sighed.

There went the moment.

"Yeah."

"Kay."

Nothing happened.

Foreman didn't say anything else.

Or move.

Or do anything.

House closed his eyes, shifting a little bit closer to the warm form, rolling onto his side.

He felt the bed move... shit....

And the warmth extended all along his body.

He shifted closer, and Foreman's arm wrapped itself around House's waist.

He mumbled something indistinct but happy, and closed his eyes.

He fell back to sleep to the steady rhythm of Foreman's breathing behind him.

House sighed, leaning on his desk, hands on either side of his lunch.

The dizziness was worse than usual--a lot worse.

He closed his eyes, swallowing.

His leg hurt, too, which probably explained why he felt like he was about to pass out.

He had felt like this more and more since this morning.

Dammit...

"Are you bleeding?"

He raised his head, frowning dizzily at Thirteen, "what?"

She pointed to the wet trail of blood on the floor, leading from out in the hallway to....

His foot. His left foot.

He looked down at himself.

His pant leg was stained a dark red, wet to the touch.

"Shit..." he mumbled, twisting to see if the back was bloody too--it was.

"I'll go get Foreman," said Thirteen, closing the blinds as she spoke, "take your clothes off."

He nodded dazedly, starting to unbutton his shirt.

It occurred to House, then, sitting in his office chair, completely naked and still unable to see the source of the blood, that Thirteen had taken it as a given that he would mind Foreman seeing him naked.

Huh.

Smart woman.

Dizzy.

Falling.

He groaned quietly, lying on the floor.

The carpet was rough against his cheek.

"Shit, House!"

He groaned again, lifting his head.

"'m dizzy," he mumbled, "fell off the chair."

He felt something semi-rough rubbing over his back, legs....

"House... you must have sat on something. Your butt's bleeding."

House blinked at him.

"What?"

"Your butt is bleeding."

House closed his eyes.

"Mmkay."

Foreman snorted.

"Put your shirt back on. I'm taking you down to the emergency room."

House nodded sleepily, fumbling with the shirt.

Chapter Text

"How...exactly...did you get this?" asked Cameron, looking amused, as she stood over the bed, suture kit ready as an IV put enough AB positive back into House that he would be able to function.

"Mm... dunno. I guess sometime this morning."

"Not when. How."

"He won't know."

She looked at Foreman, "why not? I didn't think there were any lasting memory problems..."

Foreman took a needle from the kit, and pushed it hard into House's left calf.

No response.

"There was damage to the sensory cortex," explained Foreman, sighing.

House looked over his shoulder, blinking.

"Now that's weird," he commented, looking at the needle still sticking out of his leg.

Foreman snorted, pulling it out.

Cameron shrugged, put aside the anesthetic needle she had been about to jab into House's gluteous maximus, and picked up the suture instead.

"You're what's weird," she said, smiling.

House snorted, rested his chin back on the bed, and closed his eyes.

Cameron didn't comment on the fact that Foreman stayed there the whole time. Watching House's ass.

Foreman frowned, walking up to the main entrance.

There was a crowd by the bus stop... the people seemed to be focused on something on the ground.

"GO THE HELL AWAY!"

Ah. Not something, someone.

Someone Foreman recognized.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

He worked his way through the crowd.

"STOP! DON'T MOVE ME!"

Foreman knelt on the ground, touching the older doctor's good shoulder.

House was lying in his left side, eyes wild with pain, fear, frustration....

"Go away."

The crowd of hospital employees left.

"Is anything broken?"

"I... I don't.... I can't..."

"Does anything feel like it's broken?"

House shook his head quickly, panting.

"My leg's just a bitch. But... my left side... I don't know if I would even be able to tell."

Foreman nodded, and started feeling along that side.

House's breath, which had slowed when Foreman was the only one looking at him, was starting to speed up again.

"Nothing's broken, except maybe your ankle. Did you twist it when you fell?"

House shrugged, panting.

Foreman nodded, called for a wheelchair, and carefully helped House sit.

He ended up with House's head resting against his shoulder, his arm around the older doctor's back.

"Shhh," he said, without thinking about it, "it's ok. We'll get you some pain meds soon. Just hang in there, kay?"

House nodded, just a little.

Foreman sighed, and pulled him an almost imperceptible amount closer.

"Shhh."

Foreman had no way of knowing it, but that was the first time House had accepted emotional support for physical pain in over eight years.

House knew it, though. And wondered what the hell was going on.

"I'm driving you from now on," said Foreman decisively, as someone arrived with a wheelchair.

House didn't argue. He was sick of staring at the brushed steel bars and wondering which one's counterpart had been impaled through Amber's leg.

"I am NOT using a wheelchair!"

Foreman sighed, leaning against the wall as he watched House yell at Chase, and Chase's orthopedic surgeon friend.

"Ok, fine," said Chase, wearily, "tell me how you're going to walk with a broken tibia and fibula, and your bad leg."

"With crutches. I thought that was obvious."

"And the fact that your left arm was recently dislocated?"

Foreman frowned, "what?"

House glanced at him very briefly, then looked away.

"When did you dislocate your shoulder?"

House sighed.

"When I lifted the air conditioner off your sorry ass."

Foreman blinked, startled.

"But we...wait... oh, shit. We never x-rayed it. I just got a CT of your head to satisfy Cuddy... I forgot about your shoulder."

House shrugged, disinterested, "it's not like it hurt, or anything."

"How long was it dislocated?"

House didn't answer.

Foreman looked at Chase.

Chase sighed, "two weeks."

Foreman was silent.

"Oh."

House looked at him, frowning.

"Uh... so!" said Chase's ortho friend, "wheelchair. Yelling. Let's get back to that."

House turned to her, and snorted.

"No."

"House, you don't have a lot of choice here," said Chase, sighing.

House glared at him.

"I'm fine."

"Wrong argument. You already lost that one."

House rolled his eyes.

"Yeah... shut up."

Chase snorted, completely unaffected, "either you use a wheelchair, or I have Cuddy send out a memo to everyone in the hospital telling them not to give you a new set of crutches. Then you'll have to crawl. I don't want you killing yourself, or even just injuring yourself." House's current pair had been left by the sidewalk, and had disappeared, mostly likely into the hospital, by the time Foreman had gone back out to get them.

"I won't!"

"You almost bled out from a cut on your ass last week," said Chase's friend, "I think that counts as injuring yourself."

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" yelled House suddenly, snapping, "I'll be fine!"

"No, you won't," said Foreman, coming out of his self-bashing about House's shoulder, "you're not even ok as it is."

"I am not going to use a wheelchair!"

"Why not? You used one just to win a bet. Why do you care so much?" a thought hit him, as he said it.

House looked away.

"Because nobody pities someone doing something for a bet!"

Foreman snorted. Then he tilted his head. Yeah, maybe that would work.

"Fine."

House looked at him.

"You're giving up?"

"No," said Foreman, digging in his pocket, "I'm pausing while I look for my wallet."

House produced it out of his own pocket.

Foreman rolled his eyes, taking it.

"Three hundred bucks and a day of me doing whatever you want me to, if you'll stay in the wheelchair."

"No."

"That's what I thought you'd say. So here's the real deal. We both use them. If I give up first, you get the prize. If you do, I get it from you."

House looked at him for a long time.

Then he raised his single good limb, making his right hand into a fist.

Foreman bumped it with his own, and they realized they weren't the only people in the room again.

Chase's friend covered her mouth, Chase just smirked.

"What happened?" asked Kutner, looking up as the door opened, and their two bosses came in, both in wheelchairs.

"It's a bet," said House, smirking. Quietly, he was wondering exactly how Foreman had figured out how to make the situation the least difficult that was possible.

"And it's got nothing to do with that cast on your leg?" asked Thirteen, smiling.

"Shut up."

She shook her head, turning back to the journal she was reading.

Nine weeks later, Foreman had to go to a board meeting, and House won the bet.

When Foreman came back from the meeting--and a stop at the ATM--he paid House the three hundred bucks.

House was strangely quiet and non-gloaty.

Foreman pulled up a chair in front of him, frowning.

"What's up?"

House looked away.

"House... you've got me for a whole day. Not a week."

House looked at him.

"Anything?" he asked, very, very quietly.

"Anything... not illegal..." said Foreman, cautiously.

House swallowed, looking away again.

"What?" asked Foreman, frowning, "are you just horney? ‘cause that isn't even something you have to be controlling the agenda to get me to help you fix."

House shook his head.

"I... I'm tired," he mumbled.

Foreman sighed, getting up.

"Again. That's something that could happen anytime you wanted it to happen."

House frowned, looking at him.

He looked serious.

House looked away.

Then he shot out of the chair, landing face-first on the floor.

Foreman sighed, sat down on the floor next to House, and gently restrained him.

House ended up on his back, head resting against Foreman's stomach, shoulders in Foreman's lap.

He finally regained awareness, and realized someone was rubbing his good shoulder.

The rubbing felt really goo....

House groaned a little, slowly opening his eyes.

He was in Foreman's apartment, on the bed.

An arm was draped over his side. Someone was breathing into the back of his neck.

No wonder he hadn't woken up before now.

He closed his eyes again.

Foreman wouldn't count time that occurred while he was post-ictal.

And he was so tired... and this felt so... nice....

Foreman shifted behind him, a little bit more of him touching the older doctor, and House felt a little... what the hell? What the hell was he doing feeling a little "flutter of pleasure"? He wasn't the kind of person who felt that kind of thing--much less thought to describe it that way...

"Are you awake?"

House, already halfway back to sleepyland, muttered an answer.

Then he realized he shouldn't have said anything, and started mentally kicking himself.

"Sleep now. Bet later."

A pause.

"Mmkay."

Another slight shift in position, and House closed his eyes.

"Sooo... what? We just sit here?" asked Foreman, sounding vaguely disappointed.

This was not what he had imagined, when he had said House would have full control over him for an entire day.

He had expected lots of ‘pay for this, my servant for a day's or similar, as well as lots of ‘let's go, my hooker for a day'.

But....

House just wanted to sit.

He had that peculiar look on his face, which after this many years of knowing him, Foreman had decided it meant he was pretending to screw with someone, while actually not.

Which meant... he really did want to be sitting next to Foreman on the couch?

Close against Foreman, but the younger doctor didn't really see how that mattered.

House just wanted to sit.

Why?

Because he liked sitting next to Foreman?

That didn't make much sense.

But, as that was what he wanted to do, whatever twisted, knotted, and utterly confusing motives House might have had to provoke this particular order, obviously ended up with him wanting to sit next to Foreman. On the couch. Doing nothing.

He had his eyes closed. And when he opened them, he refused to make eye-contact with the younger doctor.

House shifted down, head in Foreman's lap.

Foreman looked down at him.

He had his eyes shut tight.

He cracked one open, reached to pull Foreman's hand on top of his head, and closed it again.

Foreman blinked.

Realization was slowly dawning on him.

House was... pretending... they were in a relationship.

That was what he wanted to do.

That was as close as he was letting himself get.

That was... really, really pathetic....

After about a half an hour, House sat up, and limp-stumble-hopped into the bedroom. He had gone back to the crutches as soon as he won the bet.

He came out, fully dressed--he had just been in pajamas before.

"You're buying breakfast," he informed the younger doctor.

Foreman shrugged, getting up and following House out the door.

The car ride was silent. Not awkwardly so, just... quiet. Neither of them said anything. Foreman ignored the fact that House was watching him, and didn't try to catch him before he had a chance to look away.

If this was all House wanted--cuddling, food, and being allowed to look and pretend--Foreman had no objections.

He had been worried he would have to enforce the ‘nothing illegal' rule at every turn.

House had an omelet and sausage.

Foreman had waffles.

House tripped getting up.

Foreman caught him by the arm.

House started to glare.

Foreman cast a meaningful look at the likely ‘good samaritans' in the restaurant, who probably would have been on a fallen cripple like flies on honey.

Catching him had been preserving dignity, not destroying it.

Halfway out into the parking lot, House stopped.

Foreman stopped as well, then gripped House around the waist, and pulled him out of the way of an oncoming car.

They ended up in a heap on the asphalt.

"Why the hell did you stop?!"

"Ow! Shit!"

"What?"

"When I tripped in the restaurant, it got my leg acting up."

Foreman sighed, nodding.

House gripped his bad--well, more painful--leg with both hands, panting, his healing leg sticking out at an angle so it wouldn't be in a puddle.

A car ran through a puddle, soaking them with mucky, oily water.

House coughed, spitting, with a disgusted look on his face.

Someone gave them an odd look.

House closed his eyes, leaning against the younger doctor.

He was clearly in a good deal of pain.

Foreman sighed, as another car splashed them.

House grunted, opening his eyes, as he felt himself being lifted.

"I'm not some damned girl!"

"Duh. I just don't want you to get wetter."

House glared at him.

"Because it'll get my car wetter, the wetter you are."

House stopped glaring, and closed his eyes.

Foreman blinked.

House trusted Foreman not to drop him. Interesting.

Foreman had to set House on his feet to unlock the car, but as soon as the older doctor's right foot touched the ground, his leg gave out, and he landed hard against the car behind him, sliding down it to curl into a ball on the ground.

Foreman finished unlocking the car, and opening the door, but House didn't move.

He knelt, frowning.

House groaned quietly, as Foreman's hand touched his shoulder.

"You ok?"

"No," House mumbled, in more pain than before.

"Kay."

Foreman lifted him again, but instead of shotgun, he set him down on the back seat.

House didn't seem to care all that much.

Foreman pulled the lap belt over House's stomach, then gently wormed it under his waist to lock it in.

House didn't move.

Foreman frowned, lifting House's eyelids.

House swatted at him, grumbling, "I didn't hit my head."

Foreman shrugged, closing the door, and went to get the crutches he had left near the entrance.

When he came back, putting them on the floor in the back of the car, House gripped his wrist, stopping him from going to start the car.

He stopped, frowning.

"What?"

House didn't answer.

Foreman sighed, unlocking the seatbelt.

"Hey," he said, touching House's arm, "turn over. See if it's gonna bruise."

House slowly, painfully turned over, facing the back of the seat. Every movement made House's breath catch.

Foreman pulled his shirt up, gently probing the red splotch on House's back.

"Yeah... looks like it's gonna be sore for a while."

House grunted, quietly.

Foreman sighed, pulling House's shirt back down.

House grunted again, but this time not out of frustration or pain.

Foreman was rubbing between his shoulders. In that spot that...

Uhhhh....

By the time Foreman stopped, his eyes were only half open, and he was feeling significantly less unhappy.

"Okay?"

He nodded sleepily.

Foreman smirked a little bit, latching the seatbelt again.

The ride back to House's apartment was a quiet one, but less weird than the one there. This time it was just quiet because House was half asleep.

House reflected, lying on the back seat, with his leg throbbing, and upper back feeling better than it had in... well, since the last time Foreman had had something to do with it, that it didn't take much for Foreman to turn him into a happily shivering blob of goo.

Chapter Text

House groaned, quietly, as he opened his eyes to Foreman's living room.

He was curled on the couch, head resting on Foreman's hip, as the younger doctor read a something with the help of a dictionary.

He blinked for a moment, contemplating making a scathing comment, then noticed it was a new issue of the Hindi neuroscience journal.

Foreman looked down at him.

"Hey. You fell asleep in the car, and I figured it wouldn't be a bad idea to let you keep resting, since you didn't even notice when I took off your pants."

"You took off my pants?"

"They were wet from getting splashed. Your shirt was already dry, that's why I left it on."

House shrugged a little, resting his head back down.

Close.

Warm.

Soft.

Live.

Foreman.

Back to the most pathetic thing he had done in... well... he wasn't sure if it was more or less pathetic than literally begging Wilson to talk to him.

His eyes landed on a flashing light on Foreman's stereo, but he didn't really see it.

A hand rested on his arm, rubbed a little, then was still.

His eyes slowly drifted half-shut.

They had just come home from a three-nighter, their patient had crashed over, and over, and over. He had eventually had to go talk to the idiot, after the kids had failed to find the answer. He had found out something radical, and tried to order a procedure for it, before the patient died. He and Foreman had argued--the procedure had been too dangerous. Foreman had pointed out that it would do no good to kill the patient with the treatment. He had known Foreman was right. They had started the patient on a slower treatment. They didn't know if the patient would make it through the rest of the day. They were tired, House was sore, and Foreman had driven them home. They had eaten breakfast, he had fallen. Foreman had taken his pants off, and they had... then they had crashed on the couch, Foreman was reading, House was going to take a nap.

Foreman looked down in confusion, as he noticed that his leg was getting wet under House's head. Was he drooling...? No.

Not drooling.

Crying.

Foreman swallowed, very confused, and didn't do anything.

Marian walked into the room, jumped up onto the couch, and, kneading the cushions a little bit, laid down against House's stomach.

Foreman wasn't really sure how to tell House he was interested in more than just a casual, convenient, purely physical relationship.

Them having sex had happened when Foreman had been on a date, and been called in after their patient had crashed. Michael had tagged along out of curiosity.

House had teased him mercilessly for a week, and then been distracted by Wilson apparently getting a girlfriend.

Foreman had been pretty sure he had forgotten, until he had mentioned that he could wear the beeper over the weekend due to his being recently single, and been dragged into the janitor's closet by a horny cripple.

Unfortunately, House's life had pretty much gone downhill from there, so nothing had really had a chance to happen. Foreman had stopped by his hospital room the day he woke up, but it wasn't as if anything had happened--sexually or otherwise. House had still been way too weak to even think about it.

Foreman had...

Foreman sighed, standing outside the door to House's hospital room.

The older doctor was lying there, eyes half open, not awake, but not really sleeping either.

Foreman shook his head a little to himself, sliding the door open.

House's eyelids fluttered a little bit, and his eyes found Foreman's, just long enough to confirm that it wasn't Wilson.

Then he closed them

Foreman sighed again, coming further in and sitting down on the almost unused visitor's chair, to the left of House's bed.

No reaction.

He put his hand on the older doctor's shoulder.

No response.

He frowned.

"House? Can you feel this?"

House opened his eyes, looking at Foreman, then at Foreman's hand, then back at Foreman.

He shook his head; swallowed.

Foreman nodded.

House didn't seem to care all that much.

Foreman got up, dragging the chair around to the other side, and gripping House's right hand.

House looked at him, startled.

He didn't say anything, but the meaning was clear--what the hell are you doing?

"Uh-uh. Either you talk, or you don't get to argue. I told the kids you woke up, but nobody knew if you were ok or not. Obviously, you're not really ok, but...."

House nodded, eyelids migrating down again. He looked exhausted.

Foreman paused, frowning.

"Can you talk?"

House swallowed, "yeah."

Foreman sighed.

"Well... that's good."

House blinked in agreement.

"Look... what do you want me to tell them? How long do you think you're stuck here?"

"I... Cuddy says at least two weeks. She wants me to wait the full month before going back to work, but... no, I'm not doing that."

Foreman nodded.

"I think I can go home soon... except..."

Foreman looked at him oddly, as he trailed off.

"What?"

House looked away. His expression was strangely upset.

"Except they don't let people with their head split open go home when nobody's gonna check on them," he said, bitterly.

The room was silent for a while.

"You know what? I'm not staying here any longer than I have to. Hand me that phone?"

Foreman looked at it, then at House.

"Why?"

"Because I want Cuddy to let me go home when I can go home."

"What are you going to do?"

House closed his eyes.

"Call a nursing agency," he ground out.

"That's stupid."

He opened his eyes, looking at Foreman in confusion.

"Well who..." he faltered, and looked away.

"I will, you moron. It's in my best interests to know you're not dead. Otherwise, my job might actually consist of more than saying no to you when you want to kill someone."

House was silent for a long time.

He really didn't want to hire a nurse....

"I... ok."

Foreman nodded.

"Seriously. If you need anything... just save yourself the trouble of cracking your head open again, and call me."

House looked away again.

"Fine," he mumbled, eventually.

"Good. Now get some rest, you look terrible."

House snorted, closing his eyes.

He really did seem exhausted.

In the present, Foreman sighed, looking down at House on the couch.

He had stopped crying, which was a relief.

A long while passed in silence.

Was... could this... did he........ yeah... yeah, he did.

"House... I think... I think this can be more than a fantasy."

No reaction.

He looked down.

Marian was a millimeter away from hissing, and House was seizing, eyes half open and blank.

Great.

Just great.

He knelt on the floor in front of the couch, waiting.

He frowned. The convulsions, which had been barely noticeable to start with, were getting more and more violent.

Eventually they tapered off.

House's eyelids fluttered a little.

He twitched.

Foreman put his hand on the older doctor's shoulder, shaking him gently.

A soft groan, and his eyes slowly focused on Foreman.

He jerked, tumbling off the couch and knocking Foreman backwards against the coffee table.

"Ow!"

Foreman grunted, pushing the coffee table out of the way as he held House in some semblance of a sitting position, the older doctor's knees drawn up nearly to his chest, his right side leaning against Foreman.

"Shhh," intoned Foreman, quietly, "Shhh. It's ok. It's ok. Shhh."

House groaned again, and rested his head against Foreman's shoulder, closing his eyes.

Foreman continued to sit with him until he woke.

House seemed to be having a bad time of it; he continued to stare at nothing in particular, an unhappy look on his face, even after waking.

Foreman frowned.

"Hey," he said, touching House's face, "you in there?"

A brief nod.

Foreman sighed, shrugging a little to himself, and let House continue to lean against him.

House stayed there for a long time, and Foreman wasn't sure what the problem was, but it was obvious something was wrong.

"House?" he asked, maybe fifteen minutes after House had woken up, "what's up?"

House closed his eyes briefly, then opened them.

"Just... don't feel good. Cold. Headache."

"Dude, it's like eighty degrees. You got a fever?"

House shook his head a little bit.

"No... just... they always make me cold. Dunno why."

Foreman shrugged a little, looking around.

The couch blanket was there, but...

It was sunny outside.

Sunny and warm.

"Come on," said Foreman, getting up and half-lifting House to his feet.

House stumbled, quiet clearly not up to much in the way of physical exertion--or mental, probably.

Foreman sat him down on the first step from the top, and sat behind him on the landing.

House's head was about level with the middle of Foreman's sternum, which was where it rested.

The sun was warm, and there was a nice breeze....

They sat there for a long while.

House eventually opened his eyes again, as a hand moved over his shoulder.

He reached up, entwining his fingers with the younger doctor's.

He really, really, really wished this wasn't just pretend.

Foreman wondered how he was going to get up the guts to tell House it didn't have to be just pretend, now that the moment had passed.

Foreman looked up, as House stumbled into the differential room, stumbled again, and landed hard on his ass.

"Uh... are you ok?" asked Taub, eyebrows raised.

Kutner, who seemingly never learned--at least when it came to dealing with House--got up to help, and was, surprisingly, allowed to.

This proved to be because House wasn't really conscious.

Thirteen frowned.

"Did he pee himself?" she asked, getting up, and helping Kutner maneuver their rather uncooperative boss to a chair.

Kutner sniffed.

"Uh... yeah. And... I think he did number two as well."

"Leaving now," announced Taub.

Foreman snorted.

They got House sitting, and pulled up chairs on either side of him, waiting.

Foreman watched, frowning.

That was four already, and it was only eleven.

Three in a day was pretty much the standard, now.

The hallway door opened, and Chase came in, holding a file.

"Got a case..." he stopped, frowning.

Then he looked at Foreman, who shrugged. Chase went to write the symptoms on the board, but turned around halfway through, wrinkling his nose.

"Did he..."

Foreman nodded.

Chase sighed, shaking his head, and turned back to the board.

House groaned, leaning forward, head in his hands.

Thirteen and Kutner got up, and Thirteen dragged Kutner out to "find Taub" and give House some privacy.

Chase sighed, sitting on one of the bookcases.

House groaned again, raising his head.

"Got a case," said Chase, voice cheerful.

House looked at him, obviously disoriented.

"What?"

"Case. Diagnostics."

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but only succeeded in making himself dizzy.

Then he looked down at himself.

"Ugh..."

Foreman got up, retrieving House's duffle of spare clothes from the older doctor's office.

Still pretty disoriented, but rather intent on changing his clothes and taking a shower, House got Foreman to close the blinds on the smaller of the two offices, while he attempted to get up.

Chase watched his attempts with raised eyebrows.

He hadn't had much to do with House since... well, since House had fired him, but more significantly, since he had been released from the hospital. Cameron had visited when House was still hospitalized, and said House wasn't doing so hot, but Chase hadn't really believed her. She tended to treat any illness like it was a horrible burden, requiring sympathy on all counts. But... this wasn't even very far from how she had described it.

Foreman came back out, sighing as he saw House on the floor, and dragged the older doctor to his feet in a very no-nonsense way, marching him into the office.

Chase picked up the duffle and carried it in inside.

House was sitting on his desk chair, looking miserable.

Foreman nodded to Chase, who smirked and left.

If House didn't mind Foreman helping him after he voided himself, something was definitely going on. Maybe it was just House still coming out of the seizure, but Chase doubted it.

House groaned, halfway through cleaning himself up, while Foreman stood waiting in case he fell over, as a knock sounded on the door.

"Little busy in here!"

"House, you need to do clinic!"

"Just give me a minute!"

"Get out here, right now!"

House dropped his head, utterly exasperated.

"No!"

He looked at Foreman, almost pleadingly.

Foreman nodded, and stepped outside, to make an excuse that did not involve House voiding himself.

Eventually he came back inside, holding a pair of scrub pants House could wear on the way to the showers.

House couldn't balance properly in the slippery tile stalls, so Foreman ended up stripping, and entering the stall with him to make sure he didn't fall.

House seemed to find this an extremely opportune situation for making out.

Foreman didn't object, although he was distracted to some degree by keeping House upright.

When the alarm went off, it woke Foreman up, but House just rolled over and... There was no other word for it... snuggled up against the younger doctor.

Foreman laughed quietly to himself, and shook House's shoulder.

"Hey buddy. Time to wake up."

House grunted sleepily, opening his eyes.

"Mmm?"

"Your alarm went off."

"Oh," he mumbled, "turn it off."

"Doesn't it mean it's time to get up?"

"No, it means it's time to give up on sleep if I'm still awake. Otherwise, turn it off and go back to sleep."

Foreman shrugged, turning it off, then laying on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

"Roll over."

Foreman looked at him.

"What?"

House looked unhappy.

Foreman sighed, and did so.

His hip was a little stiff, but the whole point of him being here was so House could get some sleep.

When Foreman woke again, this time to the phone ringing impatiently, Foreman was on his back, and House was lying half across him, soundly asleep.

Foreman picked up the phone.

Cuddy.

"Hello?"

A silence.

"Who's that?"

"Foreman."

"...oh. Right. Well, anyway, tell House to get his ass in here. Your kids found a case."

"Kay."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Foreman hung up.

Then he looked back down at House, who looked more peaceful than Foreman had ever seen him, and sighed.

House wouldn't let this happen again. One time when he was desperate, but...

Foreman gently shook the older doctor's non-numb shoulder.

House grunted, raising his head a little bit.

"Cuddy called. We've got a case."

House nodded sleepily, scooted further on top of Foreman, and closed his eyes.

Foreman snorted, gently pushing him off.

House persisted.

Foreman frowned.

"House?"

No response.

Foreman sighed, gently wrapping his arm around the older doctor's shoulders.

House eventually came out of it, and lifted his head, frowning.

"Did you say something about Cuddy?"

"Yeah. We've got a case."

House nodded sleepily, and slowly sat up, yawning.

Foreman got up as well, pulling his clothes on.

House seemed to have a lot of trouble getting his overshirt on his bad arm.

House glared at the younger doctor, obvious expecting Foreman to try and help.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House shrugged, tugged some more on the shirt, growled to himself, and yanked it off.

They headed out the door, and House hesitated.

He wasn't allowed to drive because of the seizures, so he had been taking the bus...

"Get in, already."

House didn't argue.

Foreman hadn't expected him to.

They drove to the hospital in relative silence, and Foreman stopped in front of the main entrance so House wouldn't have to walk all the way from Foreman's parking space.

Foreman sighed, opening the door to the differential room.

House was sitting on the floor.

Taub was ignoring the situation.

Thirteen was holding the crutches while reading, and obviously trying to not watch.

Kutner was being yelled at for trying to help House up.

Foreman walked in, bent over, gripped House under the armpits, and lifted.

House shook him off, landing on his back.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Foreman sighed, looking down at the older doctor.

House ran his good hand over his face, sighing.

He nodded, finally, and Foreman helped him up.

House stumbled, and was only saved from falling by Thirteen shoving a chair in behind him.

He didn't get up for the rest of the day.

After their patient was diagnosed and on the way to being cured, and the kids had gone home, Foreman pulled up a chair next to House's, sighing.

House refused to look at him.

A while passed in silence.

House finally sighed, looking at the younger doctor.

"Go home."

"No."

"I don't want you in the room."

"Ok."

House blinked, as Foreman got up.

"Why is that a yes but going home was a no?"

"One's respecting your privacy. The other's succumbing to your pointless misanthropy."

House snorted.

Foreman continued out the door, and stood leaning with his back against the glass wall.

Twenty minutes later, he looked into the office.

House was curled on the floor, breathing heavily, though he didn't look like he was in a lot of pain.

Foreman knocked quietly on the door.

House raised his head and looked.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head, grimacing a little as the room spun.

Foreman turned back to waiting in the hall.

An hour later, he heard a soft, unhappy call of his name.

He stuck his head in, "yeah?"

House was panting, obviously worn out.

"I can't get up," he grumbled, looking firmly at the floor.

"Ok... you want a hand?"

House looked wearily up at the younger doctor.

Foreman nodded, coming and helping him up onto the chair.

House leaned forward, head in his hands, still out of breath.

Foreman stood, waiting.

House finally nodded, and Foreman helped him up.

Three near-falls later, House was exhausted but upright, and Foreman had gone to get the car.

They hadn't actually said that Foreman would be driving House home, but... it appeared that they didn't really need to.

Wilson left the hospital, moving to work at some place in upstate New York.

House was quiet, irritable, and even more withdrawn than usual after he heard the news--Wilson hadn't even said goodbye to him.

House gasped, as his back spasmed once, twice, three times in a row, as he lay awkwardly twisted on his couch.

He had fallen trying to get down the steps, but....

Ah!

How late was he?

He didn't even care, at this point.

He hadn't come in at all yesterday, not wanting to be reminded of his friend at every turn, so why should he care if he made it in today?

He tried to move off his side, onto his stomach, but--OW!

It wasn't happening.

A knock sounded on his door.

He raised his head a little bit off the pillow it was resting on, panting.

"Who's there?" he asked, weakly.

"Foreman," came a muffled voice, "let me in."

"It's unlocked."

The door opened, and Foreman stood there, blinking.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing. Middle age. Years of leaning on a cane. Tripped. Whatever explanation suits you best."

Foreman nodded, closing the door behind himself and walking further into the apartment.

"You want a hand?"

"Does it look like I'm in a very comfortable position?"

"Don't do that. I'm here because you didn't show up for work two days in a row, not because I like taking your crap. Do you need a hand or not?"

House nodded, silently.

"Okay then," said Foreman, walking over and reaching down.

"No!"

Foreman stopped, "what?"

House swallowed, breathing heavily.

"Just... wait. Wait a sec."

Foreman sighed.

"Waiting a sec isn't going to help."

"I... I know. I just need to..."

"I think Cameron's a lesbian."

House opened his mouth to say something incredulous and witty, but a sharp yell of pain came out instead, as Foreman quickly, gently, and efficiently turned him onto his stomach.

He gripped the edge of the couch cushions, wave after wave of pain making his vision go dark and a roaring noise sound in his ears.

A pair of firm, skilled hands started rubbing over his back, easing the cramps and aching muscles.

He closed his eyes, as the pain started to recede enough for him to enjoy the sensation.

Twenty minutes later, he was still lying on his stomach, but with his body now relaxed, eyes contentedly half open, and a pleasant ache in his nether regions.

The pain had long since gone, but Foreman hadn't stopped rubbing, only pausing once to drag a chair over.

House wasn't exactly sure why Foreman had continued beyond the practicality of making the pain go away, but...

He wasn't about to complain.

A few days later, Foreman was in the middle of leading a differential because House couldn't get up to come in to work, when his phone rang.

It turned out to be House; voice weak and shaking with pain.

He asked, quietly, if Foreman would particularly mind coming over for a few minutes.

House was only polite when he was desperate, so Foreman dropped the differential and headed off towards his car.

The patient was probably just on drugs, anyway...

He didn't even bother knocking--House had sounded like he was in no shape to be making it all the way to the door from wherever he was collapsed.

Wherever he was collapsed turned out to be next to the toilet, eyes closed, shirt soaked with sweat.

"House?" asked Foreman, kneeling and taking the older doctor's wrist, "can you answer me?"

House's Adam's apple jumped.

"Yeah," he said, sounding even weaker than he had over the phone.

"What happened?"

A pause.

"I don't remember. I was taking a dump, and then I was on the floor, and I couldn't move."

Foreman looked him over.

"How long were you sitting there?"

House swallowed again, "my phone was under my left side. I couldn't reach it."

Foreman sighed, nodding, and dragged House out, being as careful as possible of the older doctor's bad leg.

House didn't start screaming, so he decided he had probably done a good job of being careful.

House closed his eyes, panting.

"'ll just... sleep..." he mumbled.

Foreman shook his head, lifting House, who didn't seem to notice, and carried him into the bedroom.

He weighed much less than he should have, but at the moment, Foreman wasn't complaining.

House yawned, opening his eyes.

Yay. For once, he was waking up in his own bed. Despite being on his stomach, he recognized the stains on his pillowcase.

A hand was on his back though, and something warm was pressed up against his right side.

Both felt good, and undoubtedly belonged to Foreman, so he didn't move or say anything.

To tell the truth....

Even beyond the physical niceness of contact and warmth....

Somebody--Foreman--sitting next to him, caring what happened to him... felt... even better.

"Hey," said Foreman's voice, softly, "you awake?"

He sighed.

There went the moment.

"Yeah."

"Kay."

Nothing happened.

Foreman didn't say anything else.

Or move.

Or do anything.

House closed his eyes, shifting a little bit closer to the warm form, rolling onto his side.

He felt the bed move... shit....

And the warmth extended all along his body.

He shifted closer, and Foreman's arm wrapped itself around House's waist.

He mumbled something indistinct but happy, and closed his eyes.

He fell back to sleep to the steady rhythm of Foreman's breathing behind him.

House sighed, leaning on his desk, hands on either side of his lunch.

The dizziness was worse than usual--a lot worse.

He closed his eyes, swallowing.

His leg hurt, too, which probably explained why he felt like he was about to pass out.

He had felt like this more and more since this morning.

Dammit...

"Are you bleeding?"

He raised his head, frowning dizzily at Thirteen, "what?"

She pointed to the wet trail of blood on the floor, leading from out in the hallway to....

His foot. His left foot.

He looked down at himself.

His pant leg was stained a dark red, wet to the touch.

"Shit..." he mumbled, twisting to see if the back was bloody too--it was.

"I'll go get Foreman," said Thirteen, closing the blinds as she spoke, "take your clothes off."

He nodded dazedly, starting to unbutton his shirt.

It occurred to House, then, sitting in his office chair, completely naked and still unable to see the source of the blood, that Thirteen had taken it as a given that he would mind Foreman seeing him naked.

Huh.

Smart woman.

Dizzy.

Falling.

He groaned quietly, lying on the floor.

The carpet was rough against his cheek.

"Shit, House!"

He groaned again, lifting his head.

"'m dizzy," he mumbled, "fell off the chair."

He felt something semi-rough rubbing over his back, legs....

"House... you must have sat on something. Your butt's bleeding."

House blinked at him.

"What?"

"Your butt is bleeding."

House closed his eyes.

"Mmkay."

Foreman snorted.

"Put your shirt back on. I'm taking you down to the emergency room."

House nodded sleepily, fumbling with the shirt.

Part Five

"How...exactly...did you get this?" asked Cameron, looking amused, as she stood over the bed, suture kit ready as an IV put enough AB positive back into House that he would be able to function.

"Mm... dunno. I guess sometime this morning."

"Not when. How."

"He won't know."

She looked at Foreman, "why not? I didn't think there were any lasting memory problems..."

Foreman took a needle from the kit, and pushed it hard into House's left calf.

No response.

"There was damage to the sensory cortex," explained Foreman, sighing.

House looked over his shoulder, blinking.

"Now that's weird," he commented, looking at the needle still sticking out of his leg.

Foreman snorted, pulling it out.

Cameron shrugged, put aside the anesthetic needle she had been about to jab into House's gluteous maximus, and picked up the suture instead.

"You're what's weird," she said, smiling.

House snorted, rested his chin back on the bed, and closed his eyes.

Cameron didn't comment on the fact that Foreman stayed there the whole time. Watching House's ass.

Foreman frowned, walking up to the main entrance.

There was a crowd by the bus stop... the people seemed to be focused on something on the ground.

"GO THE HELL AWAY!"

Ah. Not something, someone.

Someone Foreman recognized.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

He worked his way through the crowd.

"STOP! DON'T MOVE ME!"

Foreman knelt on the ground, touching the older doctor's good shoulder.

House was lying in his left side, eyes wild with pain, fear, frustration....

"Go away."

The crowd of hospital employees left.

"Is anything broken?"

"I... I don't.... I can't..."

"Does anything feel like it's broken?"

House shook his head quickly, panting.

"My leg's just a bitch. But... my left side... I don't know if I would even be able to tell."

Foreman nodded, and started feeling along that side.

House's breath, which had slowed when Foreman was the only one looking at him, was starting to speed up again.

"Nothing's broken, except maybe your ankle. Did you twist it when you fell?"

House shrugged, panting.

Foreman nodded, called for a wheelchair, and carefully helped House sit.

He ended up with House's head resting against his shoulder, his arm around the older doctor's back.

"Shhh," he said, without thinking about it, "it's ok. We'll get you some pain meds soon. Just hang in there, kay?"

House nodded, just a little.

Foreman sighed, and pulled him an almost imperceptible amount closer.

"Shhh."

Foreman had no way of knowing it, but that was the first time House had accepted emotional support for physical pain in over eight years.

House knew it, though. And wondered what the hell was going on.

"I'm driving you from now on," said Foreman decisively, as someone arrived with a wheelchair.

House didn't argue. He was sick of staring at the brushed steel bars and wondering which one's counterpart had been impaled through Amber's leg.

"I am NOT using a wheelchair!"

Foreman sighed, leaning against the wall as he watched House yell at Chase, and Chase's orthopedic surgeon friend.

"Ok, fine," said Chase, wearily, "tell me how you're going to walk with a broken tibia and fibula, and your bad leg."

"With crutches. I thought that was obvious."

"And the fact that your left arm was recently dislocated?"

Foreman frowned, "what?"

House glanced at him very briefly, then looked away.

"When did you dislocate your shoulder?"

House sighed.

"When I lifted the air conditioner off your sorry ass."

Foreman blinked, startled.

"But we...wait... oh, shit. We never x-rayed it. I just got a CT of your head to satisfy Cuddy... I forgot about your shoulder."

House shrugged, disinterested, "it's not like it hurt, or anything."

"How long was it dislocated?"

House didn't answer.

Foreman looked at Chase.

Chase sighed, "two weeks."

Foreman was silent.

"Oh."

House looked at him, frowning.

"Uh... so!" said Chase's ortho friend, "wheelchair. Yelling. Let's get back to that."

House turned to her, and snorted.

"No."

"House, you don't have a lot of choice here," said Chase, sighing.

House glared at him.

"I'm fine."

"Wrong argument. You already lost that one."

House rolled his eyes.

"Yeah... shut up."

Chase snorted, completely unaffected, "either you use a wheelchair, or I have Cuddy send out a memo to everyone in the hospital telling them not to give you a new set of crutches. Then you'll have to crawl. I don't want you killing yourself, or even just injuring yourself." House's current pair had been left by the sidewalk, and had disappeared, mostly likely into the hospital, by the time Foreman had gone back out to get them.

"I won't!"

"You almost bled out from a cut on your ass last week," said Chase's friend, "I think that counts as injuring yourself."

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" yelled House suddenly, snapping, "I'll be fine!"

"No, you won't," said Foreman, coming out of his self-bashing about House's shoulder, "you're not even ok as it is."

"I am not going to use a wheelchair!"

"Why not? You used one just to win a bet. Why do you care so much?" a thought hit him, as he said it.

House looked away.

"Because nobody pities someone doing something for a bet!"

Foreman snorted. Then he tilted his head. Yeah, maybe that would work.

"Fine."

House looked at him.

"You're giving up?"

"No," said Foreman, digging in his pocket, "I'm pausing while I look for my wallet."

House produced it out of his own pocket.

Foreman rolled his eyes, taking it.

"Three hundred bucks and a day of me doing whatever you want me to, if you'll stay in the wheelchair."

"No."

"That's what I thought you'd say. So here's the real deal. We both use them. If I give up first, you get the prize. If you do, I get it from you."

House looked at him for a long time.

Then he raised his single good limb, making his right hand into a fist.

Foreman bumped it with his own, and they realized they weren't the only people in the room again.

Chase's friend covered her mouth, Chase just smirked.

"What happened?" asked Kutner, looking up as the door opened, and their two bosses came in, both in wheelchairs.

"It's a bet," said House, smirking. Quietly, he was wondering exactly how Foreman had figured out how to make the situation the least difficult that was possible.

"And it's got nothing to do with that cast on your leg?" asked Thirteen, smiling.

"Shut up."

She shook her head, turning back to the journal she was reading.

Nine weeks later, Foreman had to go to a board meeting, and House won the bet.

When Foreman came back from the meeting--and a stop at the ATM--he paid House the three hundred bucks.

House was strangely quiet and non-gloaty.

Foreman pulled up a chair in front of him, frowning.

"What's up?"

House looked away.

"House... you've got me for a whole day. Not a week."

House looked at him.

"Anything?" he asked, very, very quietly.

"Anything... not illegal..." said Foreman, cautiously.

House swallowed, looking away again.

"What?" asked Foreman, frowning, "are you just horney? ‘cause that isn't even something you have to be controlling the agenda to get me to help you fix."

House shook his head.

"I... I'm tired," he mumbled.

Foreman sighed, getting up.

"Again. That's something that could happen anytime you wanted it to happen."

House frowned, looking at him.

He looked serious.

House looked away.

Then he shot out of the chair, landing face-first on the floor.

Foreman sighed, sat down on the floor next to House, and gently restrained him.

House ended up on his back, head resting against Foreman's stomach, shoulders in Foreman's lap.

He finally regained awareness, and realized someone was rubbing his good shoulder.

The rubbing felt really goo....

House groaned a little, slowly opening his eyes.

He was in Foreman's apartment, on the bed.

An arm was draped over his side. Someone was breathing into the back of his neck.

No wonder he hadn't woken up before now.

He closed his eyes again.

Foreman wouldn't count time that occurred while he was post-ictal.

And he was so tired... and this felt so... nice....

Foreman shifted behind him, a little bit more of him touching the older doctor, and House felt a little... what the hell? What the hell was he doing feeling a little "flutter of pleasure"? He wasn't the kind of person who felt that kind of thing--much less thought to describe it that way...

"Are you awake?"

House, already halfway back to sleepyland, muttered an answer.

Then he realized he shouldn't have said anything, and started mentally kicking himself.

"Sleep now. Bet later."

A pause.

"Mmkay."

Another slight shift in position, and House closed his eyes.

"Sooo... what? We just sit here?" asked Foreman, sounding vaguely disappointed.

This was not what he had imagined, when he had said House would have full control over him for an entire day.

He had expected lots of ‘pay for this, my servant for a day's or similar, as well as lots of ‘let's go, my hooker for a day'.

But....

House just wanted to sit.

He had that peculiar look on his face, which after this many years of knowing him, Foreman had decided it meant he was pretending to screw with someone, while actually not.

Which meant... he really did want to be sitting next to Foreman on the couch?

Close against Foreman, but the younger doctor didn't really see how that mattered.

House just wanted to sit.

Why?

Because he liked sitting next to Foreman?

That didn't make much sense.

But, as that was what he wanted to do, whatever twisted, knotted, and utterly confusing motives House might have had to provoke this particular order, obviously ended up with him wanting to sit next to Foreman. On the couch. Doing nothing.

He had his eyes closed. And when he opened them, he refused to make eye-contact with the younger doctor.

House shifted down, head in Foreman's lap.

Foreman looked down at him.

He had his eyes shut tight.

He cracked one open, reached to pull Foreman's hand on top of his head, and closed it again.

Foreman blinked.

Realization was slowly dawning on him.

House was... pretending... they were in a relationship.

That was what he wanted to do.

That was as close as he was letting himself get.

That was... really, really pathetic....

After about a half an hour, House sat up, and limp-stumble-hopped into the bedroom. He had gone back to the crutches as soon as he won the bet.

He came out, fully dressed--he had just been in pajamas before.

"You're buying breakfast," he informed the younger doctor.

Foreman shrugged, getting up and following House out the door.

The car ride was silent. Not awkwardly so, just... quiet. Neither of them said anything. Foreman ignored the fact that House was watching him, and didn't try to catch him before he had a chance to look away.

If this was all House wanted--cuddling, food, and being allowed to look and pretend--Foreman had no objections.

He had been worried he would have to enforce the ‘nothing illegal' rule at every turn.

House had an omelet and sausage.

Foreman had waffles.

House tripped getting up.

Foreman caught him by the arm.

House started to glare.

Foreman cast a meaningful look at the likely ‘good samaritans' in the restaurant, who probably would have been on a fallen cripple like flies on honey.

Catching him had been preserving dignity, not destroying it.

Halfway out into the parking lot, House stopped.

Foreman stopped as well, then gripped House around the waist, and pulled him out of the way of an oncoming car.

They ended up in a heap on the asphalt.

"Why the hell did you stop?!"

"Ow! Shit!"

"What?"

"When I tripped in the restaurant, it got my leg acting up."

Foreman sighed, nodding.

House gripped his bad--well, more painful--leg with both hands, panting, his healing leg sticking out at an angle so it wouldn't be in a puddle.

A car ran through a puddle, soaking them with mucky, oily water.

House coughed, spitting, with a disgusted look on his face.

Someone gave them an odd look.

House closed his eyes, leaning against the younger doctor.

He was clearly in a good deal of pain.

Foreman sighed, as another car splashed them.

House grunted, opening his eyes, as he felt himself being lifted.

"I'm not some damned girl!"

"Duh. I just don't want you to get wetter."

House glared at him.

"Because it'll get my car wetter, the wetter you are."

House stopped glaring, and closed his eyes.

Foreman blinked.

House trusted Foreman not to drop him. Interesting.

Foreman had to set House on his feet to unlock the car, but as soon as the older doctor's right foot touched the ground, his leg gave out, and he landed hard against the car behind him, sliding down it to curl into a ball on the ground.

Foreman finished unlocking the car, and opening the door, but House didn't move.

He knelt, frowning.

House groaned quietly, as Foreman's hand touched his shoulder.

"You ok?"

"No," House mumbled, in more pain than before.

"Kay."

Foreman lifted him again, but instead of shotgun, he set him down on the back seat.

House didn't seem to care all that much.

Foreman pulled the lap belt over House's stomach, then gently wormed it under his waist to lock it in.

House didn't move.

Foreman frowned, lifting House's eyelids.

House swatted at him, grumbling, "I didn't hit my head."

Foreman shrugged, closing the door, and went to get the crutches he had left near the entrance.

When he came back, putting them on the floor in the back of the car, House gripped his wrist, stopping him from going to start the car.

He stopped, frowning.

"What?"

House didn't answer.

Foreman sighed, unlocking the seatbelt.

"Hey," he said, touching House's arm, "turn over. See if it's gonna bruise."

House slowly, painfully turned over, facing the back of the seat. Every movement made House's breath catch.

Foreman pulled his shirt up, gently probing the red splotch on House's back.

"Yeah... looks like it's gonna be sore for a while."

House grunted, quietly.

Foreman sighed, pulling House's shirt back down.

House grunted again, but this time not out of frustration or pain.

Foreman was rubbing between his shoulders. In that spot that...

Uhhhh....

By the time Foreman stopped, his eyes were only half open, and he was feeling significantly less unhappy.

"Okay?"

He nodded sleepily.

Foreman smirked a little bit, latching the seatbelt again.

The ride back to House's apartment was a quiet one, but less weird than the one there. This time it was just quiet because House was half asleep.

House reflected, lying on the back seat, with his leg throbbing, and upper back feeling better than it had in... well, since the last time Foreman had had something to do with it, that it didn't take much for Foreman to turn him into a happily shivering blob of goo.

Part Six

House groaned, quietly, as he opened his eyes to Foreman's living room.

He was curled on the couch, head resting on Foreman's hip, as the younger doctor read a something with the help of a dictionary.

He blinked for a moment, contemplating making a scathing comment, then noticed it was a new issue of the Hindi neuroscience journal.

Foreman looked down at him.

"Hey. You fell asleep in the car, and I figured it wouldn't be a bad idea to let you keep resting, since you didn't even notice when I took off your pants."

"You took off my pants?"

"They were wet from getting splashed. Your shirt was already dry, that's why I left it on."

House shrugged a little, resting his head back down.

Close.

Warm.

Soft.

Live.

Foreman.

Back to the most pathetic thing he had done in... well... he wasn't sure if it was more or less pathetic than literally begging Wilson to talk to him.

His eyes landed on a flashing light on Foreman's stereo, but he didn't really see it.

A hand rested on his arm, rubbed a little, then was still.

His eyes slowly drifted half-shut.

They had just come home from a three-nighter, their patient had crashed over, and over, and over. He had eventually had to go talk to the idiot, after the kids had failed to find the answer. He had found out something radical, and tried to order a procedure for it, before the patient died. He and Foreman had argued--the procedure had been too dangerous. Foreman had pointed out that it would do no good to kill the patient with the treatment. He had known Foreman was right. They had started the patient on a slower treatment. They didn't know if the patient would make it through the rest of the day. They were tired, House was sore, and Foreman had driven them home. They had eaten breakfast, he had fallen. Foreman had taken his pants off, and they had... then they had crashed on the couch, Foreman was reading, House was going to take a nap.

Foreman looked down in confusion, as he noticed that his leg was getting wet under House's head. Was he drooling...? No.

Not drooling.

Crying.

Foreman swallowed, very confused, and didn't do anything.

Marian walked into the room, jumped up onto the couch, and, kneading the cushions a little bit, laid down against House's stomach.

Foreman wasn't really sure how to tell House he was interested in more than just a casual, convenient, purely physical relationship.

Them having sex had happened when Foreman had been on a date, and been called in after their patient had crashed. Michael had tagged along out of curiosity.

House had teased him mercilessly for a week, and then been distracted by Wilson apparently getting a girlfriend.

Foreman had been pretty sure he had forgotten, until he had mentioned that he could wear the beeper over the weekend due to his being recently single, and been dragged into the janitor's closet by a horny cripple.

Unfortunately, House's life had pretty much gone downhill from there, so nothing had really had a chance to happen. Foreman had stopped by his hospital room the day he woke up, but it wasn't as if anything had happened--sexually or otherwise. House had still been way too weak to even think about it.

Foreman had...

Foreman sighed, standing outside the door to House's hospital room.

The older doctor was lying there, eyes half open, not awake, but not really sleeping either.

Foreman shook his head a little to himself, sliding the door open.

House's eyelids fluttered a little bit, and his eyes found Foreman's, just long enough to confirm that it wasn't Wilson.

Then he closed them

Foreman sighed again, coming further in and sitting down on the almost unused visitor's chair, to the left of House's bed.

No reaction.

He put his hand on the older doctor's shoulder.

No response.

He frowned.

"House? Can you feel this?"

House opened his eyes, looking at Foreman, then at Foreman's hand, then back at Foreman.

He shook his head; swallowed.

Foreman nodded.

House didn't seem to care all that much.

Foreman got up, dragging the chair around to the other side, and gripping House's right hand.

House looked at him, startled.

He didn't say anything, but the meaning was clear--what the hell are you doing?

"Uh-uh. Either you talk, or you don't get to argue. I told the kids you woke up, but nobody knew if you were ok or not. Obviously, you're not really ok, but...."

House nodded, eyelids migrating down again. He looked exhausted.

Foreman paused, frowning.

"Can you talk?"

House swallowed, "yeah."

Foreman sighed.

"Well... that's good."

House blinked in agreement.

"Look... what do you want me to tell them? How long do you think you're stuck here?"

"I... Cuddy says at least two weeks. She wants me to wait the full month before going back to work, but... no, I'm not doing that."

Foreman nodded.

"I think I can go home soon... except..."

Foreman looked at him oddly, as he trailed off.

"What?"

House looked away. His expression was strangely upset.

"Except they don't let people with their head split open go home when nobody's gonna check on them," he said, bitterly.

The room was silent for a while.

"You know what? I'm not staying here any longer than I have to. Hand me that phone?"

Foreman looked at it, then at House.

"Why?"

"Because I want Cuddy to let me go home when I can go home."

"What are you going to do?"

House closed his eyes.

"Call a nursing agency," he ground out.

"That's stupid."

He opened his eyes, looking at Foreman in confusion.

"Well who..." he faltered, and looked away.

"I will, you moron. It's in my best interests to know you're not dead. Otherwise, my job might actually consist of more than saying no to you when you want to kill someone."

House was silent for a long time.

He really didn't want to hire a nurse....

"I... ok."

Foreman nodded.

"Seriously. If you need anything... just save yourself the trouble of cracking your head open again, and call me."

House looked away again.

"Fine," he mumbled, eventually.

"Good. Now get some rest, you look terrible."

House snorted, closing his eyes.

He really did seem exhausted.

In the present, Foreman sighed, looking down at House on the couch.

He had stopped crying, which was a relief.

A long while passed in silence.

Was... could this... did he........ yeah... yeah, he did.

"House... I think... I think this can be more than a fantasy."

No reaction.

He looked down.

Marian was a millimeter away from hissing, and House was seizing, eyes half open and blank.

Great.

Just great.

He knelt on the floor in front of the couch, waiting.

He frowned. The convulsions, which had been barely noticeable to start with, were getting more and more violent.

Eventually they tapered off.

House's eyelids fluttered a little.

He twitched.

Foreman put his hand on the older doctor's shoulder, shaking him gently.

A soft groan, and his eyes slowly focused on Foreman.

He jerked, tumbling off the couch and knocking Foreman backwards against the coffee table.

"Ow!"

Foreman grunted, pushing the coffee table out of the way as he held House in some semblance of a sitting position, the older doctor's knees drawn up nearly to his chest, his right side leaning against Foreman.

"Shhh," intoned Foreman, quietly, "Shhh. It's ok. It's ok. Shhh."

House groaned again, and rested his head against Foreman's shoulder, closing his eyes.

Foreman continued to sit with him until he woke.

House seemed to be having a bad time of it; he continued to stare at nothing in particular, an unhappy look on his face, even after waking.

Foreman frowned.

"Hey," he said, touching House's face, "you in there?"

A brief nod.

Foreman sighed, shrugging a little to himself, and let House continue to lean against him.

House stayed there for a long time, and Foreman wasn't sure what the problem was, but it was obvious something was wrong.

"House?" he asked, maybe fifteen minutes after House had woken up, "what's up?"

House closed his eyes briefly, then opened them.

"Just... don't feel good. Cold. Headache."

"Dude, it's like eighty degrees. You got a fever?"

House shook his head a little bit.

"No... just... they always make me cold. Dunno why."

Foreman shrugged a little, looking around.

The couch blanket was there, but...

It was sunny outside.

Sunny and warm.

"Come on," said Foreman, getting up and half-lifting House to his feet.

House stumbled, quiet clearly not up to much in the way of physical exertion--or mental, probably.

Foreman sat him down on the first step from the top, and sat behind him on the landing.

House's head was about level with the middle of Foreman's sternum, which was where it rested.

The sun was warm, and there was a nice breeze....

They sat there for a long while.

House eventually opened his eyes again, as a hand moved over his shoulder.

He reached up, entwining his fingers with the younger doctor's.

He really, really, really wished this wasn't just pretend.

Foreman wondered how he was going to get up the guts to tell House it didn't have to be just pretend, now that the moment had passed.

Foreman looked up, as House stumbled into the differential room, stumbled again, and landed hard on his ass.

"Uh... are you ok?" asked Taub, eyebrows raised.

Kutner, who seemingly never learned--at least when it came to dealing with House--got up to help, and was, surprisingly, allowed to.

This proved to be because House wasn't really conscious.

Thirteen frowned.

"Did he pee himself?" she asked, getting up, and helping Kutner maneuver their rather uncooperative boss to a chair.

Kutner sniffed.

"Uh... yeah. And... I think he did number two as well."

"Leaving now," announced Taub.

Foreman snorted.

They got House sitting, and pulled up chairs on either side of him, waiting.

Foreman watched, frowning.

That was four already, and it was only eleven.

Three in a day was pretty much the standard, now.

The hallway door opened, and Chase came in, holding a file.

"Got a case..." he stopped, frowning.

Then he looked at Foreman, who shrugged. Chase went to write the symptoms on the board, but turned around halfway through, wrinkling his nose.

"Did he..."

Foreman nodded.

Chase sighed, shaking his head, and turned back to the board.

House groaned, leaning forward, head in his hands.

Thirteen and Kutner got up, and Thirteen dragged Kutner out to "find Taub" and give House some privacy.

Chase sighed, sitting on one of the bookcases.

House groaned again, raising his head.

"Got a case," said Chase, voice cheerful.

House looked at him, obviously disoriented.

"What?"

"Case. Diagnostics."

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but only succeeded in making himself dizzy.

Then he looked down at himself.

"Ugh..."

Foreman got up, retrieving House's duffle of spare clothes from the older doctor's office.

Still pretty disoriented, but rather intent on changing his clothes and taking a shower, House got Foreman to close the blinds on the smaller of the two offices, while he attempted to get up.

Chase watched his attempts with raised eyebrows.

He hadn't had much to do with House since... well, since House had fired him, but more significantly, since he had been released from the hospital. Cameron had visited when House was still hospitalized, and said House wasn't doing so hot, but Chase hadn't really believed her. She tended to treat any illness like it was a horrible burden, requiring sympathy on all counts. But... this wasn't even very far from how she had described it.

Foreman came back out, sighing as he saw House on the floor, and dragged the older doctor to his feet in a very no-nonsense way, marching him into the office.

Chase picked up the duffle and carried it in inside.

House was sitting on his desk chair, looking miserable.

Foreman nodded to Chase, who smirked and left.

If House didn't mind Foreman helping him after he voided himself, something was definitely going on. Maybe it was just House still coming out of the seizure, but Chase doubted it.

House groaned, halfway through cleaning himself up, while Foreman stood waiting in case he fell over, as a knock sounded on the door.

"Little busy in here!"

"House, you need to do clinic!"

"Just give me a minute!"

"Get out here, right now!"

House dropped his head, utterly exasperated.

"No!"

He looked at Foreman, almost pleadingly.

Foreman nodded, and stepped outside, to make an excuse that did not involve House voiding himself.

Eventually he came back inside, holding a pair of scrub pants House could wear on the way to the showers.

House couldn't balance properly in the slippery tile stalls, so Foreman ended up stripping, and entering the stall with him to make sure he didn't fall.

House seemed to find this an extremely opportune situation for making out.

Foreman didn't object, although he was distracted to some degree by keeping House upright.

Chapter Text

House yawned, sitting on a stool in the clinic.

Brenda was just sending patients in the same room, instead of having him alternate between the two.

It was slightly slower, but it meant he didn't have to risk tripping in the always crowded waiting room, and, for
Brenda, it meant she didn't have to deal with him complaining.

He sighed, as the next patient came in.

An old woman, with a very obvious case of the sniffles.

"Hi," she said, sniffing, "my sniff nose sniff has been sniff running sniff since..."

"Since a long time," he finished, "new cat, dog, small animal? Anything furry?"

"Well... sniff no... but sniff my husband sniff
got a sniff toupee... I suppose sniff that could sniff be conACHOO!.... Considered furry..."

House snorted.

"Tell hubby to lose the hat, and I'll write you a script for..." he paused, frowning. He couldn't get the pad balanced on his leg so he could write on it... he tried to hold it with his left hand, but he dropped it.

The woman looked at him, confused.

He shrugged, got off the stool, bent down to pick up the pad.

His left leg didn't seem to want to place itself correctly, however, and he ended up flat on the floor.

"Oh, sniff dear! Are you sniff alright?"

He groaned, rolling onto his back and working his way towards sitting.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Bum leg." Bum body, actually, but...

"Oh sniff... well, if sniff you're sure sniff you're allsniff right..."

House nodded, scribbling on the pad and ripping the script off by pinning the pad to the ground with his left palm.

She left.

He groaned, lying back down on the floor.

Damn he was dizzy.

He grabbed one of the crutches, poking the call button with the tip.

Nurse Brenda arrived, eyebrows raised.

"What?"

He looked up at her, sighing. He really, really hated this. He also missed his cane, which was so much more useful than the crutches.

"Uh... could... could you push the stool a little closer?" he asked, felling utterly pathetic.

She blinked for a moment, then sighed, pushed the stool closer, and offered him her hand.

He closed his eyes, struggling with his pride and his nausea, then took the hand.

Half an hour later, a patient emerged from the exam room House was in, and informed Brenda that the doctor inside was insane.

"Yes, he is... but people usually get more of a ‘he's a bastard' vibe when he's just examining them..."

He shrugged, and asked for a different doctor.

"House?" she asked, opening the door a crack.

"GET OUT!"

Brenda sighed, shaking her head, and paged Foreman.

Then she walked further in, shutting the door.

"LEAVE ME ALONE! GET OUT! DON'T TOUCH ME!"

She sighed again, kneeling next to him and gripping his wrists as he threatened to tumble over backwards, keeping him from hurting himself.

A few minutes later, Foreman opened the door, sighing when he saw House sitting on the clinic floor, blinking owlishly and flinching at every sound.

"Get him out of here. We need the room."

Foreman nodded, sighing, and she left.

"Hey, big guy. You in there?" he asked, sitting down next to the older doctor.

House didn't respond.

Foreman sighed again.

"House?"

Nothing.

He waited. Brenda reappeared with a wheelchair, then left again.

"House?"

Twitch.

He waited.

"House?"

House looked towards him, but didn't see him.

Foreman gripped his hands, pulling him to his feet.

House just sort of stood close to him, face resting against his shoulder, but not actively pressed to it.

"Gonna take you back to the office, ok?"

Nod.

He got the older doctor sitting in the wheelchair, and managed to get him out past the crowd in the clinic without any major incidents, then stopped by the nurse's station.

"Was he seizing this whole time?"

Brenda looked up, shrugging, "no. two or three in a row."

Foreman sighed.

"Only one of them was convulsive, though. And I made sure he didn't hit anything."

He nodded, then continued towards the elevator.

They were barely in it when House yelled, shooting off the chair.

Foreman grabbed him by the back of the shirt, keeping him from running head-long into the steel doors.

Nearly everyone else in the elevator started, except the quiet nurse with the pigtail braids, who had, of course, heard what was going on, and moved to help.

House wouldn't get back in the chair, so Foreman ended up lifting him, and carrying him the ten or so yards to the diagnostics office.

House was lighter than he had been last time.

Foreman made a mental not to feed him more. Maybe take him to breakfast some time that wasn't a ‘let's pretend!--because we're to misanthropic to actually do anything!' day.

Thirteen, the only diagnostics fellow currently in the room, held the door open for him, and he set House in the recliner.

He curled up, eyes half closed.

Foreman covered him with the factory-stiff labcoat that was always hanging from the coat-rack, then went back out into the differential room.

"What happened?"

He shrugged, sighing.

"He had a bunch of seizures in one of the exam rooms. Brenda paged me."

Thirteen sighed, nodding.

"Where are the other two?"

"They thought it might be a tumor, so they're trying to get the CT scanner."

"And you are...?"

She shrugged, "waiting on test results. Thinking. Need me to do something?"

He shook his head, then went back into House's office, sitting on one of the chairs backwards, elbows resting on the back as he watched House drift off.

Eight in a day.

House was going to be completely exhausted by tonight.

Crap, he had left the crutches in the exam room.

"Watch him, will you? I forgot his crutches in the clinic."

Thirteen looked up.

"Sure."

She didn't move.

"No, I mean, watch him watch him."

She looked up, smiling.

"I know. I just think it's cute you're being protective."

"I... what?"

She smiled even farther.

"You two are like... the epitomy of a love-hate relationship. I'm just enjoying seeing the first part for once."

He stood, awkwardly, sure he was blushing.

She laughed.

"Don't look like that. It's a good thing."

House groaned a little, opening his eyes.

"Hey. Foreman went to get your crutches."

He looked at the source of the voice.

Uhhhh.... Thirteen.

"Mmm?"

"Foreman went to get your crutches."

He frowned.

"Where... urng..." he shook his head. Damn, he was dizzy, "what happened?"

"You had a bunch of seizures in a row."

He sighed, resting his head back against the chair cushions.

He was really tired....

He was out again before he managed to ask how many.

Purple.

Purple fabric.

Stereo.

Television.

Black and white movie.

Brown carpet.

Black cat.

Purring.

He groaned a little.

A hand rubbing over his back.

Warmth underneath him.

He slowly lifted his head a little bit.

"What..." he mumbled, sleepily, upon realizing that, once again, he was waking up in Foreman's apartment.

"You were exhausted enough to fall asleep, alone, in a chair. I figured I'd let you rest."

He nodded a little bit, resting his head back down.

"Do you just pity me immensely, or is there some other reason you keep letting me drool on you?" he asked, bluntly.

Foreman was silent for a while.

"There's some other reason."

House raised his head.

"What?"

"I think it's pretty obvious."

".... You like being drooled on?" asked House, sounding genuinely confused.

"No, you moron. I like you."

House started at him.

"Yeah, right," he scoffed, "nobody in their right mind would--"

"Whoever said I was in my right mind."

And it all went downhill... er... well... down torso... from there.

House groaned, slowly opening his eyes.

Had that really....?

Shit!

What the hell had he been thinking?

He couldn't do this...

He didn't know how to love someone anymore!

It had been almost ten years! He didn't remember!

He apparently even couldn't be a friend successfully, much less...

He tried to get off the bed--he would take a cab, leave a note, and hide at the jogging park until someone got fed up enough to call him and tell him whether or not Foreman was accepting the note. Yeah, that would work.

Except... he couldn't... he couldn't get off the bed.

He could barely move, he was stiff and sore, and an arm was around his waist, and he was lying on his right side, and he couldn't get the leverage to pull away...

He couldn't move!

Ow! His leg was cramping, ow!

"Ow!"

A grunt from behind him.

"House?"

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

"House, what's wrong... are you crying? Why are you crying?"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Foreman blinked, slightly taken aback.

"Uh..." he said, lifting his arm so House could roll out from under it, "you seizing?"

"No!"

Foreman blinked some more, as House hurtled off the bed--and onto the floor--then basically dragged himself out of the room.

"House, wait!"

House grunted, as Foreman shoved in between him and the door.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"This was a mistake. I shouldn't... it was a mistake. Now... let me go."

Foreman sighed, shaking his head.

"Ok..."

House looked at him.

He shrugged, sighing.

"I'd be an idiot to force something like this--especially with you. But... let me drive you. kay?"

House looked at him for a long time.

"You're not..."

Foreman shook his head.

"Like I said, I'd be an idiot."

House sighed, nodding, and promptly slid down the door, dizzy.

Foreman knelt, sighing.

"But... if you change your mind..."

House looked at him for a while.

Then he smirked a little, nodding.

Foreman helped him to his feet, steadying him until he managed to lean against the door.

He held the car door open as House awkwardly lowered himself into the passenger seat.

"What... whatever it was before... co-workers with benefits not limited to sex?"

House nodded.

"Good."

House yawned, curling close against the person in the other half of his bed.

An arm wrapped around his shoulders, and he smiled a little bit, turning onto his side, his forehead resting against Foreman's.

He loved this.

He loved waking up in the same bed as this person.

He loved spending time with this person.

He loved eating breakfast with this person, and talking between bites.

He loved waking up from a seizure and finding himself being held close to this person who gave a damn about him.

And he loved this person.

But... he couldn't do that. He couldn't open himself up like he had. He couldn't risk pushing this person away. He just... couldn't.

So the kisses remained at least outwardly just for pleasure. The sleeping in the same bed still only happened when they had sex, or when he was exhausted. The waking up after a seizure close against him remained practical.

And Foreman seemed ok with it.

Which, though he would never say it, was extremely reliving.

Maybe, at some point, he would let himself get attached.

Foreman was pretty sure House already was attached. But he didn't say anything.

He knew the point wasn't that House wasn't close.

The point was that House couldn't admit it, even to himself.

Which, as far as Foreman was concerned, was fine.

He wasn't particularly hung up on relationships being traditional.

Chapter Text

House sighed, lowering himself awkwardly down to a chair at the differential room table.

Foreman sat down next to him, and the kids filtered into the room over the next half hour or so.

House yawned, leaning forward and resting his head on his right hand.

Kutner got up, and left.

House watched him go, lazily, then looked over at Foreman.

Foreman was reading his newspaper.

House missed having the coordination required to play metroid.

Kutner eventually came back with a beaten up Clue game labeled pediatric ward, practically beaming.

House rolled his eyes, but still took the cards Taub dealt.

House had narrowed it down to Miss Scarlet with the rope in the somewhere, most likely the kitchen, when Cameron came in, tossing a stack of files down in the middle of the game board.

"Four people in the ER. Similar symptoms. Absolutely nothing in common."

House picked up the files, passing them around the table.

"Aggressive behavior, renal failure, lung problems, headaches," read Thirteen.

"Irritability, renal problems, insomnia, intestinal bleeding," read Taub.

"Headache, decreased appetite, lung problems," read Kutner.

"And the last one has aggressive behavior, headaches, insomnia, and intestinal bleeding," said Cameron.

House looked at Taub--it was the short doctor's turn to write the symptoms--"line matching symptoms up."

Taub nodded, and wrote the four sets of symptoms on the board, labeling the patients A, B, C and D.

"Differential diagnosis," said House, "for all that."

"Infection."

"Auto-immune."

"Not auto-immune, unless auto-immune suddenly became transmissible."

"Toxins."

"They have nothing in common."

"Good point. Toxins."

House snorted, "and it's not genetic because these people aren't related."

He was silent for a moment, then turned back to the team, "Thirteen, MRIs for brain abscesses; Kutner, LPs for infections; Taub, draw blood to check the white counts."

They left.

House peeked in the envelope in the center of the board as soon as they were gone.

Kitchen--as he thought.

Eventually, all the tests turned up negative.

House sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"What toxins did you test for?"

"Everything likely to come from multiple sources... pesticides, water contamination..."

"Their white counts aren't elevated, so it's not an infection. Which means it has to be a toxin," said Thirteen, stepping back out of House's way, as he struggled to his feet.

Kutner grabbed his arm, as House stumbled.

House glared at him.

He let go, but didn't seem that miffed.

"Meaning it didn't come from multiple sources, meaning it came from once source, meaning...."

They were all silent.

"Somebody's lying," supplied Foreman, setting down his newspaper and getting up to follow House out the door.

The kids looked at each other.

Then they shrugged, and followed their two bosses down the hallway.

"Why would they all lie?" asked Taub, hurrying forward to grab the elevator door before it shut.

"Because they're all doing drugs. And those drugs have a toxin in them. Because these people are either getting their drugs from the same dealer, the same source, or each other. It doesn't really matter which, as long as we can get one of them to admit to drugs."

"What if none of them do?"

"Then we test them for drugs, and when they all turn up positive, then we find out where they're getting their drugs."

"Why don't we just test them to start with?" asked Kutner, as they all disembarked from the elevator.

"Because," said House, "this way's faste--"

He grunted, because his left toe had caught between the elevator and the floor, and he had landed badly on the hard floor.

The kids stood, looking slightly dumbfounded.

House groaned, as Foreman knelt, running his hands over House's left side.

Several random people were staring.

House swatted Foreman away, rolling over onto his back.

"You hit your head?" asked Foreman, gripping House's wrist to reflexively take his pulse.

"No," said House, "and I need that hand to get up."

Foreman rolled his eyes, letting go and standing.

House grunted, struggling to sit up. He hurt enough to make it quite difficult.

Foreman gripped him under the armpits, dragging him to his feet before he had a chance to protest.

House glared at Foreman as soon as he got himself situated with the crutches.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House stumbled again.

Foreman grabbed his arm, looking at the kids.

They scattered, presumably off to convince a patient or two to admit to drugs.

House let Foreman hold him up, as he struggled to stand, dizzy and hurting.

Foreman got him over to a chair, and gripped his shoulders as he sat, eyes closed, trying to regain control of his body.

Eventually, he raised his head, and opened his eyes.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Foreman helped him lever himself out of the chair, then walked next to him on the way towards the closest patient room.

They entered, and House sat down in the chair next to the bed, folding his arms after taking them out of the crutches.

"So," he said, "have you been doing drugs?"

"No!" said the guy, "which is exactly what I told the other three people that asked five minutes ago!"

House rolled his eyes, "those guys are idiots. Look, if you're doing drugs, I don't care. Except medically. Medically, if you're doing drugs, telling us where you got the drugs will probably save your life, and the other three people that have got whatever you've got. And," said House, reaching into his pocket and popping a pill, "I'm not exactly the most organized doctor in the world. Sometimes I forget to write things down. Sometimes I misplace a chart. Sometimes I even write down that a patient has a stomach virus that caused an electrolyte imbalance, when they really got poisoned by toxic drugs."

The guy looked at him for a while.

"Fine," he muttered, grudgingly, "yeah, I do drugs."

"What kind?" asked Foreman, "and where did you get them."

House sat back in the chair, smirking.

It was good to know he still hadn't lost his touch.

"Thirteen, Kutner," said House, entering the third patient's room with Foreman, "go find out where patient B gets his coke."

Kutner turned around, "why Thirteen?"

House smirked, looking at Foreman.

Foreman rolled his eyes, "because it's always better to have a skinny white chick with you. Is that why you hired her?"

House snorted, "no, but it could have been."

Kutner, Thirteen, and patient D all looked very confused by the exchange.

Neither House nor Foreman seemed about to elaborate.

Three hours later, Taub was in the lab testing the drugs, Kutner was nowhere to be seen, and Thirteen was at the differential room computer.

House yawned, leaning forward to read the back of Foreman's newspaper, which was currently the funnies section.

Foreman folded it down, looking at House.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Reading the back of your newspaper."

"Go away. You're annoying me."

House snorted.

"That's not very nice," whined House, "I could not come over tonight..."

"No you couldn't," said Foreman, "since I'm driving."

House fake-pouted for about five seconds, then grinned, amused, "good point."

Foreman rolled his eyes, and went back to his newspaper.

Thirteen turned around, "are you two sleeping together?"

Foreman lowered his newspaper, and looked at House, who shrugged.

Then he looked over his shoulder at Hadley, "yes."

She smiled.

"I figured."

House smirked.

Foreman shrugged, and went back to his newspaper.

Taub entered the room, holding a sheet of paper.

"Tests were negative. There's nothing in his coke except coke."

House rolled his eyes, "do them again. The tests must have been wrong."

"Don't think so," said Kutner, coming in, "I just tested the other three patients' blood. They haven't been doing drugs."

House scowled.

Cameron entered, "I hope you've figured it out... six more people were just admitted."

House's scowl deepened.

Foreman looked at him.

"What now?" asked Kutner.

House closed his eyes for a moment.

"Taub, Thirteen, Kutner. Start testing for any toxin you can think of. Foreman, Cameron, you're with me."

"What are we doing?" asked Cameron, as House got to his feet.

"Trying to find a connection between the patients," answered Foreman, before House had a chance to answer.

House grinned. Foreman smirked.

Cameron looked between them, a little confused. Since when did they get along, much less enjoy each other?

"I'm going to read you a list of names," said Cameron, "tell me if you recognize any of them.

Patient G nodded.

House entered patient F's room, ignoring the nurse that was struggling to convince the patient to wear a hospital robe.

"I'm going to re..."

The nurse looked at House.

He had stopped talking, and started blinking rapidly.

The nurse sighed, gripping his arm in case he tried to go somewhere.

He eventually regained awareness, but he was distracted and confused, so she paged Dr. Foreman.

House had recovered, mostly, by the time Foreman got there, though.

"Any luck so far?" asked House, sighing.

Foreman shook his head.

House's phone rang.

Baba O'Rilley filled the hallway.

"Hello?"

House put it on speakerphone.

Cameron's voice issued from the small speaker.

"Patient C knows patient H from church."

"Good," said House, "see if anyone else has heard of the church."

"Right."

Cameron blinked, as she stood outside the differential room, watching its two current inhabitants.

House was sitting on the floor, head in his hands.

He seemed to be seizing, rather than upset.

Foreman was sitting on a chair close by him, hand on his shoulder, rubbing.

House slowly raised his head, expression miserable.

He looked at Foreman.

Foreman kept rubbing House's shoulder.

House leaned against Foreman's leg, looking exhausted.

Cameron smiled, a little, and entered the room.

"Patients A, C, F, G and H all go to the same church. Patients B and D know people who go there. It still doesn't explain how they got poisoned, but I doubt it's a coincidence."

"What about E and I?" asked Foreman.

Cameron shrugged, "lying?"

House continued to look tired and miserable.

Foreman sighed, watching the older doctor.

House closed his eyes.

Foreman looked at Cameron.

She nodded, and left.

Foreman got House into the recliner, and covered him with a blanket.

House mumbled something sleepy and unintelligible.

Foreman went to look something up on House's s computer, where he could easily keep an eye on the sleeping diagnostician.

Taub turned up around three in the afternoon.

"All of the patients have lead poisoning."

Foreman blinked, "that explains the neurological stuff, and maybe the kidney problems, but...not the intestinal bleeding."

Taub shrugged.

Foreman got up, gently shaking House's shoulder.

House groaned, moving sleepily as he turned his head, finally opening his eyes.

"What?"

"Can you think of any way lead poisoning could cause intestinal bleeding?"

House thought for a moment, "no. I take it they have lead poisoning."

Taub nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable.

House sat up, "do endoscopies."

Taub nodded, and left rather hurriedly.

Foreman looked at House, blinking.

House shrugged.

When Kutner arrived at the diagnostics office a few hours later, Foreman was sitting on the arm of the recliner, watching House sleep.

Kutner stood outside the room, smiling.

So that was why House had been a little less volatile, lately.

He walked away without disturbing them. Negative tests could wait until later.

"The endoscopies came up negative, except for some inflammation and sores," reported Taub, as they all stood in House's office, except House, who sat.

Foreman nodded.

House frowned.

"Sores? As in, ulcer-like sores?"

"Places where the irritation broke through the skin."

"That sounds like it was caused by an external substance... something they ate."

"They have lead poisoning and something else caused by a whole nother toxin?" objected Taub, sounding irritated.

House just ignored him, "what kinds of toxins would cause this?"

"Solvents," said Kutner, "could also contribute to the kidney problems."

"Acids... maybe industrial use? Did they do any work on the church, recently?" said Thirteen.

Taub said nothing.

"Taub," snapped House, "if you're not gonna contribute, you might as well do another round of endoscopies. Something might have changes since half an hour ago, when you rescinded the no-food orders."

Taub grimaced, "ammonia? Strong bases?"

House nodded, sucking on his teeth, "and we can't really test for any of those."

Cameron came in, "three more people were just brought in, same symptoms."

House nodded, "we're getting nowhere. You three, go ask about the church, the other patients, all that stuff. Though, Taub. Stick around a minute."

Cameron and the younger two kids left.

Taub clenched his teeth and looked at the floor.

"That nurse you screwed around with.... Was it a man?"

Taub flushed.

House nodded briefly to himself.

"How...?"

"You don't have a problem with Thirteen. You don't even seem to have a problem, you just seem irritable. And you only tell your wife you cheated on her after you threw away your career to stop her from finding out if you're still not telling her the whole story."

Taub grimaced, nodding.

House nodded as well, "go question the patients."

Taub left.

House and Foreman looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

"Two of them go to the church," reported the kids, entering the differential room.

House sighed.

"Great. Okay... since everything seems centered around that church, why don't you go check it out."

They nodded, and left.

Foreman yawned, leaning over the counter as he watch Chase sort through a stack of surgical files.

"So," said Chase, glancing up at Foreman briefly, "you and House?"

Foreman groaned, "is it possible to keep anything a secret in this hospital?"

"Nope," said Chase, cheerfully.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

Chase shrugged.

Foreman sighed.

"So... what is it, exactly?" asked Chase, taking six of the files and putting them in a separate pile, "just sex, or a real relationship, or what...?"

Foreman shrugged, "I don't know. There's sex, but... I mean, we spend the night together sometimes, but not all the time. And there was a brief thing where it actually was a relationship, but then he panicked and we agreed to not do that again. Except I think both of us really do want it..."

He shrugged.

Chase snorted, "sounds complicated."

"No kidding."

Chase grinned, a little.

"Still," he said, "it's good. For both of you."

Foreman blinked.

Had that been actual sincerity?

Chase smiled again.

"Good luck."

"There's absolutely nothing weird or useful about the outside of the church," said Taub, sighing.

"The outside?"

Kutner shrugged, "there was some surveyor guy there, wouldn't let us in."

"What's it look like?"

"White painted wood, looks like it's been washed recently... cross out front... cornerstone in the foundation that says with was built in 1979... like a church?" said Thirteen, slowly.

House sighed, waving them out.

Great.

House yawned, reading a journal at a table in the hospital cafeteria, waiting for Foreman to come back with food.

He blinked, as Cuddy sat down across from him.

She leaned across the table.

He leaned back, away from the table.

She rolled her eyes.

"I think it's great."

"God, you too!? Does anybody not know?!"

She smiled.

House sighed.

"What, you jealous?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes, "no, I'm just happy for you. And, I suppose, for Foreman. You were good thirty years ago. I imagine you've benefitted from experience."

House snorted.

Then his eyes glazed over.

"Thirty years ago..." he muttered.

Cuddy tilted her head.

House got up, stumbling over to Foreman and verbally dragging him out of the line.

Cuddy blinked.

"1978."

The kids looked at each other.

"The foundation of the church was finished in 1979. A year after 1978."

"Okay..." said Thirteen, "what are you getting at?"

"In 1978, a law was passed, banning lead-based paint. Thirteen, you said the paint looked like it had been washed recently?"

Thirteen nodded.

"Wrong. It'd been painted recently. Kutner was right about the solvent theory. The patients scraped and painted the church. Probably made a big pot of chili, or something, and someone got paint thinner in it. They didn't want to bring attention to the code violation. You said there was a surveyor there. I'm betting there are other violations, and that they painted the church before some kind of inspection, so it wouldn't pass some kind of threshold number of acceptable violations."

They left.

House levered himself out of his chair, with a satisfied smile on his face.

Foreman looked at him.

"Ready to go home?"

House nodded, "yeah."

They started to walk out.

House stopped, smirking to himself, as they reached the door to the hallway.

"What?" asked Foreman, turning to look at him.

House shook his head, "atheism saves lives."

Foreman groaned, rolled his eyes, and pushed House gently out the door.

Chapter Text

Hmm.

First time in two weeks the other half of the bed had been empty.

He found himself wishing it wasn't.

Which... was odd.

Even with Stacy, he had needed a break once in a while, usually once a week. Not from the sex, he just needed some alone time.

She had been fine with it, knowing she was with a peculiar and not particularly social person, and that it was a reflection of that, not of something about her.

But...

He had never missed her upon waking up those days.

He had missed her by the end of the day, but...

And he spent almost his entire day, every day, with Foreman. Which was way more than he had ever spent with Stacy.

He swallowed, sighing.

He had never felt like this before.

The knock came when he was still half naked, struggling with his shirt and his uncooperative arm as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He called out for the younger doctor to come in--Foreman knew where the spare key was--and went back to struggling with his shirt.

Foreman came in, but his footsteps sounded odd.

House looked up.

"What?"

Foreman shook his head, looking slightly upset, and leaned against the doorframe.

He didn't look upset enough for something to have happened, he looked more... thoughtful.

"I woke up, and I missed you," he said, finally.

House looked at him.

Foreman knew without House saying it that it had been the same on the other end.

He walked further in, sat on the bed next to House, and tugged the t-shirt down over House's bad arm.

House put on an obligatory annoyed look, but Foreman knew full well it didn't mean anything, and held the over-shirt up while House aimed and shoved his arm into the sleeve.

It got stuck halfway, and he sighed.

Foreman hesitated a brief moment, then scooted closer, and, making his movements seem more like groping than helping, pulled the sleeve the rest of the way on.

Foreman's hand, finished with pulling the sleeve on, slid down his back, his palm kneading the always sore muscles, making House's eyes close halfway, and a lazy smile appear on his face.

He turned around after a while, grinning, and shouldered Foreman down onto the bed.

Foreman smirked, under House's lips.

Nothing really happened, but just the nuzzling and closeness felt good. Nothing had to happen.

"Mmm," said Foreman, sighing, "you haven't washed."

House shrugged a little.

Arms encircled his waist, as he lay on top of the younger doctor.

He smirked a little bit.

"We'll be late."

"Like you care."

House closed his eyes, a slight smile tracing his lips.

He loved every moment of this.

He loved how just being in the same room as this person lifted his spirits.

The air was getting colder, and the nights were getting longer.

Leaves were starting to turn a golden-yellow.

House's leg was acting up more and more, but, as always, he didn't mention it.

Foreman's dad called, saying that Foreman's mom was doing a lot worse, had fallen, and, well....

Foreman flew out to visit one last time.

House didn't change his sheets because then they wouldn't smell like Foreman, and realized that he might be a little bit more attached than he thought.

Foreman came back, and was quieter than he had been before his dad had called.

House, feeling that this was out of his emotional league, called Cameron in after two days of Foreman not saying much.

House went grocery shopping while she talked to Foreman. He hated going shopping, especially now, when he got stuck using the electric wheelchair shopping cart things, which he really despised. But Foreman deserved a little privacy, and House wasn't interested in watching him be upset.

When he came back, Foreman was sitting on the couch, head in his hands, while Cameron sat next to him, rubbing his back.

House felt a strange pang of possessiveness, but dismissed it. She knew what she was doing, way more than he would, and therefore, it was a good thing that she was the one doing it.

But still.

She looked up, smiled briefly at him, and then turned back to Foreman.

He hiked the bag up a little further on his right shoulder, and went into the kitchen.

"House?"

He turned around, looking at Cameron.

"Um... go somewhere. Dinner. Something. He's ok... but..." she stopped, frowning.

House had his hands up, leaning heavily against the counter.

"What?"

"I'm not his boyfriend. I'm... we're not. Sex. That's it. And me being pathetic physically, and needing his help once in a while. And I called you ‘cause he'd do the same for me. But..."

She snorted.

"Call it whatever you want, House. Just get his mind off of it for a while. I know you know brooding isn't fun."

And she was gone.

He stood, ridged, against the counter.

That was the first time in... nine? Years, that someone had spoken to him on behalf of another person because they assumed...

He shook his head, grimacing a little at the dizziness it provoked, and hesitantly entered the living room.

Foreman was seated in much the same way as before, but without the jealousy-sparking hand on his back.

House dumped himself awkwardly next to the younger doctor.

Foreman didn't move.

House sighed.

"Life sucks some for live people. Death doesn't suck for the dead people, just the ones left behind. The only really hard part is the transition between life and death, and it's hardest for the people watching it happen."

Foreman didn't seem to have heard.

"Dying... isn't that bad."

Foreman raised his head, blinking at the older doctor. House never talked about the... four, five, or however many times he had ‘died'.

House sighed.

"The concept is a lot scarier than the reality. It's just white. And there's random images, scenarios. Like you're dreaming. And they get dimmer. And then... well, I don't know. As far as I know, then you wake up with someone pounding on your chest or standing over you with paddles, looking rather upset."

Foreman snorted.

House sighed, looking around the room uncomfortably.

"Look... I don't... I don't know what I'm doing."

Foreman looked at him.

"Why are you trying?"

House was silent for a while.

"I... don't know. I'm not good at any of this, ok?"

"You don't have to explain that to me, House."

"I know, but... I don't know, I feel like I should be doing something. Cameron told me to. And I just... I don't know why."

Foreman looked at him, slightly stunned by how clueless House was. He seriously didn't realize that, although they had agreed not to call it a relationship, Foreman had most of his clothes here, and... hell, even his cat had moved here. He hadn't been to his own apartment in at least a week before his dad called, and the last time had been to get his tux for the fund raiser thing Cuddy had made him go to.

"Bar. Let's go to a bar."

"You can't drink alcohol, and you can't be a designated driver because you're not allowed to drive."

"Bowling."

"You can't stand unsupported; much less throw a ten-pound ball."

"Park."

"Same as bowling.

"Movies."

"Not in the mood."

"Sex."

"Not helpful."

"Screwing with Kutner."

"No."

"You're seriously stressing my ability to think of activities other than sitting at home and watching TV."

Foreman snorted.

"House, my mom is dying. It's normal that I feel crappy."

"I don't like you feeling crappy," said House, petulantly, "you're boring when you feel crappy. Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Out."

Foreman shrugged, getting up.

"Where after that?"

"Down."

Foreman rolled his eyes, putting on his shoes.

"Where now?" he asked, as they reached the corner.

"Left."

Foreman sighed, resigned to just following House.

They stopped at the bus stop.

House sat down on the bench.

Foreman sat down next to him.

A bus pulled up.

House waited for the lift to go down, stepped on, and Foreman followed him on after.

House sat with his eyes closed.

They rode for a good while.

House suddenly reached up, yanking on the cord without looking out the window.

Then he opened his eyes.

Foreman was looking at him oddly.

He looked out the window as the bus slowed to a stop.

The same intersection.

Oops.

House pulled it again, a while later.

This time they were next to an ice cream shop.

They got off.

Foreman carried the cones over to a table, while House untangled himself from the crutches.

They sat down.

Foreman ate, but he kept staring off at nothing.

That was, until something slapped him on the back of the head.

"Hey. Stop thinking. Just eat."

Foreman glared at House.

"Yeah, let's see how cheery you are when your mom is dying!"

House shrugged.

"Brooding about it isn't going to help her."

Foreman gaped.

"No wonder Wilson left! You have no concept of what grief is like!"

House turned to stone.

Foreman looked down at his ice cream cone.

What was he supposed to say?

That had been more insensitive than House ever was.

"You're right."

Foreman jerked, looking at the older doctor.

"I've never lost someone I really loved. Because when I was a kid, I lost everyone I even remotely liked before I could really call it loving them. And by the time, say, my first ‘interest' got in a car accident and died, I had learned not to get too attached to anyone. But I do know what it's like to miss someone. I miss Stacy. I miss Wilson. And I know, from experience, that if it has to do with something you can't change, no matter what it is, brooding over it doesn't help."

"I shouldn't have said that. I can't believe I said it."

"Another thing I've learned, more from being a doctor than anything else, is that people with dying relatives tend to say things that they don't even remotely mean."

Foreman nodded.

"So..."

"We're fine. Now eat your ice-cream; it's dripping."

Foreman snorted, and took a bite.

House looked at him, head tilted.

Foreman quirked an eyebrow.

"Now you're dripping."

House looked down at his hand--his left.

There were some little dribbles of melted ice-cream running down the back of his hand.

He licked it off, eyes fixed on Foreman, who smirked.

"I take it you want some to go."

House nodded, looking like he was hatching some evil master plan, rather than subtly indicating that he was horney for melted ice-cream sex.

In fact, he was. If you counted cheering Foreman up as an evil master plan.

Foreman's Mom passed, and they flew out to Ohio for the funeral. House came, just because it seemed like the appropriate thing to do--at least to Cuddy, who suggested it to his oblivious self.

Foreman noticed that House kept looking over at a completely different part of the cemetery during the service.

He didn't look bored, exactly... just... distracted. Come to think of it, he had been wearing an odd look ever since they entered the county in the rental car.

House was using a wheelchair, just because the meandering ground was not really cripple-friendly, and had been sitting down for the service.

"What are you looking at?" asked Foreman, after patting his father on the shoulder, and telling him he would be back in just a moment.

"I thought you grew up in a city."

"I did."

"Why Ohio? Why this cemetery."

"Because this's where my parents lived for the last ten years."

"Oh."

"Why do you care?"

"Because I was born in the hospital we passed on the way here. My Grandpa is buried in that corner over there, as well as the rest of my mom's side of the family. Our old house is the one next to the gas station. My parents live in the next town over."

"And you didn't realize this until we got here?"

"Middleton is not exactly a unique name."

"Still. She was at that hospital you were born in."

"You never said the name."

Foreman sighed, shaking his head.

"I'm gonna go be with my dad for a while. Meet you back at the car?"

"Nah. I'm in this baby. I can do anything! Including go a quarter-mile down the road, into town, and up the ramp into your dad's place. I promise not to mess with anything, I just want to take a nap on the couch."

Foreman nodded.

House left.

He was most of the way down the main street, smirking every time he recognized something, when he heard an unfamiliar voice calling a familiar name.

He spun around, blinking.

Then he smirked at something he recognized.

"Greg... what are you doing back here? What happened? Why are you in a wheelchair? Where are you staying? Are you visiting your parents?"

House held up his hands, still smirking.

"Andy Hampton. Why the hell are you still living here?"

He shrugged, hands out.

"I took over the store after my dad kicked it. Never liked the old bastard... well, you know why."

House nodded.

"So... what about my questions?"

House sighed.

"My... person who is kind of a friend with benefits--their mom died. And happened to live here, which I actually had no idea of until we got close."

"The Foremans?"

House nodded.

"And... what happened? I mean, I heard about your leg, but..."

"I was in a bus crash. Hit my head."

"Damn, Greg. You have the worst luck."

House smirked a little.

"Well... see you?"

House nodded, and continued on his way.

Andy was somewhat older than him, and the last House had heard from him, he had been running off to Canada to be avoid being drafted.

Unfortunately, he also had a big mouth, because House ended up explaining the crash to about ten more old friends and acquaintances on the way.

He finally got to Foreman's dad's place, and lay down on the couch, exhausted.

And Mom wondered why he never visited....

Not that he had much of a choice, now.

He hoped he could put it off for a while longer. At least ‘till tomorrow.

Foreman sighed, holding the door open for his dad.

Rodney nodded to him, and went upstairs.

Foreman sat down on the edge of the couch, gently shaking House's shoulder.

House grunted a little, opening his eyes. He seemed disoriented.

"You have a seizure?"

He nodded, frowning.

Foreman sighed again, rubbing the older doctor's back.

House pushed his hands away, and he blinked.

"I'm fine. You just lost your mom."

Foreman looked at him.

"Is that actual sympathy?"

"No. It's me thinking you thinking a seizure outranks your mom dying is insulting."

Foreman snorted.

"I'm not allowed to want to get back to normalcy? You being a prick with brain issues and me not caring and being a doctor and something vaguely resembling a friend?"

House smirked.

"In that case..."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"You are such a horney asshole."

House didn't answer.

He had fallen asleep.

Foreman shook his head, sighing.

Chapter Text

The doorbell rang.

Foreman groaned a little, raising his head from where it had been resting--on House's right shoulder.

He shook House until the older doctor woke.

They heard muffled voices outside the guest room they had been sleeping in.

House had his pants half on, stuck on his left foot, and was growling in frustration, when Rodney came in.

"Dr. House? Uh..."

House sighed.

"They're here, aren't they?"

Rodney nodded, "you never mentioned..."

"I wanted to avoid seeing them. Damn Andy and his big mouth."

Foreman snorted.

Rodney turned around, as they heard footsteps.

Five seconds later, House was engulfed in a gigantic hug from his mother, and Foreman was sitting awkwardly on the bed, as House's dad gaped at him.

"Oh, sweetie... why didn't you tell us you were going to be in town?"

"I... uh... didn't know. It didn't occur to me until we got here that it'd be the same Middleton."

She smiled, gently smoothing back his mussed hair.

"Oh... you're so thin. John, look at him--" she turned to look at her husband. Who was not listening. In fact, he looked like he would rather murder Greg, than comment on the fact that he needed to eat more.

Blythe House looked between John and Foreman, sighing.

Then she looked back at House.

"Well, I for one, am happy for you."

House sighed, nodding.

"I would appreciate it if you would stop glaring at my son, Mr. House."

John looked at Rodney.

Foreman and House both groaned.

House had explained, last night, that John was completely against all, even remotely, unconventional relationships spanning gender, class, and race. And, since his idea of class was where you had been born, Foreman violated all three.

Thankfully, Blythe stepped between the two, perfectly calm.

"Come on, John. Have a little dignity," she chided, then turned to Rodney, "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. He was too tired, too drained, for this.

He left.

John immediately turned on House, mouth open to yell.

"I don't care what you say. You think you yelling at me will change how I feel about someone? Other than you? Oh, wait, it won't even change that, because you've always done this no matter what I did. So why don't you just let Eric's dad finish sleeping, hmm?"

"You're gonna get what's coming to you, boy."

House snorted.

"Yeah, like I haven't heard that before."

Blythe hurried John out of the room, before he could respond.

House sighed, fwumping back onto the bed.

"When's the flight leave?"

"Two days."

"Damn."

"We could try to get an earlier one..."

"Nah. My dad being a bigoted asshole should not stop you from being with yours."

Foreman looked at him.

House looked strained.

"You really can't stand him, can you?"

House shrugged.

"I dislike humans as a rule. I hate dealing with people. But I don't hate any specific group, and I don't hate a person unless they've proven that there's reason for them to be hated. As in, I hate Tritter. But he... he sees someone as a stereotype. And if you're, say, with a man, he hates you. And since I've violated about every one of his rules for not hating someone, he has to fight with himself that he doesn't hate me."

House was silent for a long time.

Then he sighed, and continued, "When I was a kid, he tried to beat anything he disagreed with out of me. Then he tried to make my childhood a miniature boot camp. Then he tried to make me enlist. Then he refused to pay for college. Then he refused to let me stay at home over the holidays because I wanted to bring Dylan--yeah, Crandal--home with me. Then he got really, really mad at me when I blew off a year of college because Dylan and I were starting a band. Then he got mad at me when the band failed, and I went back to college. Then he got mad at me when I finished top of my class despite that. Then he refused to pay for med school. Then he got mad at me for finishing top of my class, again. Then I stopped paying attention, because he was always mad at me no matter what I did."

Foreman said nothing, just scooted over a little closer to the older doctor.

House looked at him.

"I'm sorry."

House blinked.

"I... yeah. Don't be sorry."

Foreman shrugged, and tugged the blankets back up.

"Goddamn you, Greg!" yelled John, standing in the yard.

House, sitting on the back step, hands in his lap, sighed.

"What?"

"What are you thinking?"

"That I like spending time with him, I like having sex with him, and that he might appreciate not being alone for his mom's funeral."

"He's a black man from a ghetto!"

"So?"

"Do you realize how this looks?! How much you're embarrassing me?"

"Like I'm in a relationship with a black guy from a ghetto?"

"Yes!"

"That's ‘cause it's the truth, Dad."

John stopped.

"What?"

"I am in some kind of relationship with him. I don't exactly know what to call it, but... it's more than friendship."

"Even friendship!"

"Do you know why I'm sitting here, taking this, Dad?"

"... why?"

"Because I don't want you to embarrass me in front of one of the very, very few people who I care what they think of me."

John frowned.

House got unsteadily to his feet, picking up his crutches as he stood.

John watched him, silent.

House made his slow way around to the side of the building, frowning as he tried to get the gate open without--crap.

He landed hard on his ass, overbalancing as he tried to lift it and pull back at the same time.

He sat there for a moment, waiting for his vision to stop spinning.

"Greg?"

"What?"

"Are you alright?"

House looked over his shoulder at his father, sighing.

"I fell. It happens."

"Not that... your back."

"What about it?"

"Your shirt's ripped and you're bleeding."

House twisted, frowning.

"Crap."

"Can't... can't you feel that?"

House shook his head, "the left half of my body is numb. From the bleed after the crash. It damaged the right-brain sensory... and you have no idea what I'm talking about. Whatever. How bad?"

"It's... not nice."

House groaned.

"I'll drive you to the hospital."

"Get Foreman."

"You need stitches."

"Ok, get Foreman."

"You brought a kit?"

"No. I just want him there."

"What? You can't handle having stitches you can't even feel without your... whatever?"

House snorted, "not even close. I just want him watching whatever intern they slap me with so they don't completely botch the stitches."

John left, grudgingly.

Half an hour later, House was lying on his stomach in the hospital he had been born in, as Foreman stood, watching the guy doing the stitches, and John hovered near the door, uncomfortable, but at the same time unable to stop watching.

The cut was pretty deep, and there was a long flap of skin that got sewed on despite the fact that it might die, which sucked particularly because House wouldn't be able to tell if it hurt more or less than it should.

By the time House was set free, it was dark out, and pouring rain.

Foreman got the car, House sat down on the bench outside the hospital, under the awning, head in his hands. His vision was spinning. His bad leg hurt from falling. He felt like he was gonna puke.

John sat down next to him.

"Greg... you're really... not healthy. Are you?"

House looked at him.

"No. I'm not."

"Why didn't you tell us you were hurt?"

House shrugged.

"Because... I wasn't dying. Every time, when I was a kid, and I got hurt, and I even just mentioned it, you told me I was being a baby. I broke my arm when I was eight, and you yelled at me for crying. And now you're annoyed at me for not telling you."

"Yeah, but... Greg..."

House looked at him.

John looked away.

Greg shivered a little--they had disposed of his shirt, and nobody had had time to go get him a new one.

Foreman pulled up in the car, and Greg struggled to get to his feet.

The pavement was wet and slick, however, so he ended up falling again.

He grunted, landing painfully with his bad leg taking a good bit of the shock.

Foreman got out of the car, gripped him under the armpits, and pretty much lifted him into the back seat.

House leaned forward, spine standing out on his back as he rubbed his hand over his thigh.

"Damn, House. You need to eat more," said Foreman, shaking his head as he dug a blanket out from under the seat and shook the crumbs out of it.

House rolled his eyes.

This seemed to be an old argument.

"I eat fine. I just don't keep everything down."

Foreman shook his head again, wrapping the blanket around the older doctor's shoulders.

House tugged it tighter around himself, cold and exhausted.

Foreman covered House's hand with his own, just for a moment.

House's thumb wrapped around the top.

Foreman looked at him.

House nodded.

Foreman squeezed, then let go.

House watched him, an odd expression on his face.

John caught it, as Foreman stopped blocking his view.

Greg looked... he looked like he wished Eric had sat next to him.

He looked like he wanted to be close to the younger doctor, physically.

John shook his head, closing the door and getting in shotgun.

"John! Is he alright?! What happened?! Rodney said that you had to take him to the hospital!"

Blythe gripped House by the arms, looking him over.

"What happened?"

"I fell. I cut my back. I needed a few stitches, and Eric didn't have a kit."

Foreman coughed.

House looked at him.

"What?"

"You needed fifteen stitches. Slightly more than a few."

"Oh. No wonder it took so long. Whatever."

"Fifteen... let me see, Greg. Turn around."

Rodney Foreman came out of the House, walking over.

John glared at him, but he seemed to ignore it.

Foreman nodded to his dad.

House extracted himself from his mother's grip, stumbling heavily.

Foreman caught him, though, by the arm.

John went inside to get the wheelchair, as Foreman and Blythe gently lowered House back onto the car seat.

John gone, Foreman's hand lingered in House's.

Blythe smiled as she noticed it, and Rodney didn't seem particularly displeased.

John came back out, and Foreman steadied House as he transferred into the wheelchair.

By the time House was curled in the guest bed, his forehead touching Foreman's as he drifted off, his hand tangled loosely in Foreman's shirt, the sounds of Rodney and John yelling were echoing through the house. Children listening to their parents arguing.

Foreman gripped House's hand, as a particularly loud yell came filtering through the door.

House opened his eyes, sighing.

"I'm sorry."

Foreman shook his head.

"It's not your fault."

"Yes it is. I shouldn't have come. I should have realized it would be this town, and I shouldn't have come."

Foreman shook his head again, gripping House hand a little tighter.

"I really wanted you there. For the funeral. Before you said you were coming, I kept thinking that I really wanted you to come."

House blinked, looking surprised.

Since... since when had anyone wanted him there for an emotional event?

Since when had anyone wanted him, period?

Foreman scooted a little closer, gently kissing the confused doctor.

It wasn't a deep kiss. It wasn't for physical satisfaction.

House closed his eyes.

Then he opened them, and kissed back.

Then they laid there, watching each other.

"Ok," mumbled House, "I still can't say the words, but ok."

Foreman nodded.

House shifted himself closer, closing his eyes.

The sounds of yelling from outside the room drained away, and they lay there, falling asleep together.

Most of the next day was spent cleaning out Foreman's mom's room.

Rodney kept having to leave to go cry.

Foreman seemed stressed out.

John didn't appear all day.

Blythe turned up around noon with a tray of hot lunch, and she and Foreman's dad went outside to eat, while House and Foreman stayed inside. Foreman ate half a Reuben sandwich, then went back to work.

Foreman stopped, holding a scrapbook and looking down at it.

House stood up, looking over the shorter doctor's shoulder--though not very discretely, since he ended up having to hold on to Foreman's arm to stay upright.

A little boy riding a fairly beaten-up bicycle down a street full of boarded up windows.

"She... said, when they visited, that I used to look ahead in schoolbooks, to see where I would be in the future. She brought pictures so I could look back, but she couldn't remember where she put them."

House sighed, awkward, and slid his arms around the younger doctor's waist, standing close behind him. He had nothing to say. He wasn't even sure if the touching was the right thing to do. But it was all that came to mind.

Foreman turned around, and he let go, stumbling back a step.

But, instead of being in the process of walking away, Foreman had just been turning around so he could press his face into House's shoulder.

House patted him awkwardly on the back.

This... if someone had told him a year ago that Foreman was even capable of crying, he wouldn't have believed them. Now he was standing here, with Foreman crying into his shoulder, trying very hard to not screw up.

He couldn't bring himself to say the words.

That didn't mean it wasn't true.

Foreman calmed before long, and steadied House as he sat back down in the wheelchair.

"Sorry."

"For what?" asked House, innocently.

Foreman smirked a little, wiping his face.

The next day, John was standing opposite House, arms folded, glaring. Foreman and Blythe, halfway through packing the car, had stopped, watching.

"Fire him."

"What?"

"You're still his boss, aren't you? Fire him!"

House raised an eyebrow.

"Uh... no?"

"Goddammit, Gregory! You were so much less weak before now!"

House gaped.

"I was miserable before now!"

"And having sex makes you not miserable?! You're just going to get attached, you know that!"

"It's not just sex, dad!"

"You can do better, Gregory! You'll find a better friend!"

"He's not my friend--"

"See! You know it, you just won't--"

"--he's my partner. Boyfriend. Significant other. Lover. Whatever the hell you want to call it. That's what he is to me. And that's what I am to him. And he knows who I am. He knows what he's getting into. He's seen me at my worst, and he's seen me at my best. And he loves me anyway. And I love him. And I'm happy, Dad. I'm happy. For the first time in my life, I'm happy. And I am not going to throw that away just because where he was born, or what color his skin is offends you. If you make me chose between him and this family, you know who I'll choose."

John sat down on the front steps, looking lost.

Foreman stood, head tilted, a small twitch of a smile on his face.

House had said the words.

Chapter Text

House had fallen asleep by the time they got to the airport car rental place.

Foreman reached all the way over, shaking House's right shoulder.

House grunted a little, opening his eyes and lifting his head off his chest.

"Hey. We're here. Gotta get out of the car."

"Mmm? Oh."

He opened the door, spilling out.

Foreman a moment, watching.

House sat up, still looking sleepy, and waved at him.

Foreman got out, and started taking stuff out of the trunk, as someone came over to take their keys.

House managed to make it over by the time Foreman had finished unloading, and leaned against a light pole, waiting for the shuttle.

Foreman stood next to him, checking the flight number and gate.

The shuttle came, and they got on.

House still seemed worn out, but Foreman didn't comment.

If anything, it meant he would be able to sleep on the plane ride, which meant less whining.

They traded in House's crutches for an airport-issued wheelchair, and found their seats.

Foreman let House have the window seat, mostly because it was easier to sleep there, and was just putting House's backpack up in the overhead compartment when an unpleasant-looking woman sat down in the middle seat.

House looked at her, opening his mouth.

Foreman tapped her on the shoulder, quickly, hoping to avoid a cranky-House vs snooty-lady fiasco.

She looked at him.

"Get your hands off of me!"

He blinked for a moment, "uh, just... can I please sit next to my friend, ma'am?"

She hmpfed, and fastened the seatbelt, "I'm not giving up my seat to you."

Foreman's mouth dropped slightly.

"Excuse me," said House, coldly, "but your ticket does say you're in seat C. Mine says I'm in seat B. Technically, you're in my seat."

"It's a matter of principle!"

House, who, by all counts, had really been being very polite, glared at her.

"Move the hell over, lady."

"Don't swear at me!" she shrieked, whipping her handbag around to smack House in the side of the face. House raised his right hand just in time to stop it from giving him another skull fracture.

Foreman closed his eyes.

House had been stuck dealing with people's prejudices, and stubbornness, and everything that this woman was throwing in his face for the last three days. He was tired of it, and Foreman was expecting a meltdown.

"Sorry," said House's voice, quietly.

Foreman opened his eyes.

Oh shit. This was worse than a meltdown. This was House being so fed up that he didn't care how much he offended everyone. This was House being so fed up he would take one look at a person, size them up, and rapid-fire the most effective insults possible at them.

The woman nodded.

"But if you think I care whether or not a racist ugly person hits me with a handbag only slightly less attractive than her face, then your brain must be malfunctioning as much as your skin. Maybe there's big fat deposits in it as well as everywhere else on your body."

She swung her bag again, mouth open. House flinched back, and it only caught his ear.

"Apparently there's might be a problem with your memory as well, making you forget that I just told you I don't care if you hit me, and especially given that you seem to be stuck back when you were born, in the seventeen-hundreds."

She gaped at him.

"Oh, and your hubby might want to know you're cheating on him with someone with herpes, and that the electronics business trip you went to in Ohio was actually just a way to spread a std across the country."

"I am not cheating on my husband!"

"You've got a ring tan but you're not wearing a ring. You're sweating and you're slightly jaundiced. Oh, and you probably want to talk to your doctor, given the ugly nicotine stains on your teeth indicate you probably have a lung condition--which you'd think would limit the amount of panting and screaming you really would want to do, but maybe you get off on choking, eh? Might explain why you've let yourself get so fat that your blubber is likely to smother you in your sleep--"

"SHUT UP!"

House smirked, leaning against the window, "so... you've got a choice. Either move over a seat, or sit next to me for the next four hours. And I promise, I can keep going for as long as needed. Unlike you and your kinky lung condition."

She scooted over.

Foreman quietly slipped in between her and House. House looked at Foreman.

Foreman sighed, shaking his head.

"Was that really necessary?"

House said nothing.

Foreman looked at him.

He looked completely strung out.

Foreman pushed the armrest up, and House leaned his head against Foreman's shoulder, exhausted.

Foreman put his arm around House's shoulders, rubbing the older doctor's arm.

House fell asleep not too long into the plane ride, and Foreman joined him soon after.

Foreman was woken a while later, by the woman next to him yelling that a doctor was needed, and something poking him in the ribs.

House was seizing.

Great. Just what they needed.

The woman had already vacated her seat, which Foreman was thankful for, as he pulled House out from the confined space and laid him down in the aisle, rolling him onto his side.

A stewardess hurried over, asking frantic questions.

Foreman calmly explained that they were both doctors, that this wasn't new, and could she hand him a pillow.

She did, and Foreman gently put it under House's head, sighing as the convulsions continued.

They eventually tapered off, and Foreman moved around so he was in front of House, gently wiping the drool off the older doctor's chin. There was blood in it, and he sighed, carefully prying open House's mouth. Yeah, he had bitten his tongue.

Foreman barely cared that everyone was staring, just stayed kneeling, waiting for House to wake up.

Eventually he did, a little.

But he was still really out of it, and Foreman kept waiting, just rubbing his hand back and forth over House's arm, in a steady, comforting rhythm.

House coughed, a little, and blood dribbled down his chin again.

Foreman wiped it up with a napkin the stewardess handed him.

House closed his eyes, falling asleep.

Foreman sighed, and asked if there was somewhere that would be more out of the way, since House obviously wasn't recovering very quickly, and they hadn't served drinks yet.

She nodded, and together with a helpful guy from across the aisle, carried House to the open area at the front of the first class cabin.

A bunch of the passengers started making a fuss, but Foreman explained that House wasn't sick, he had just had a seizure from an old brain injury, and he needed time to recover.

They shut up mostly after the ‘he isn't sick' part.

House had two more seizures without waking up in-between, but after the third one he woke almost immediately, though he was still confused and disoriented and sore.

Foreman shhh-ed him, and held him still, and told him where he was and what was going on.

House finally nodded, eyes sliding closed. He was exhausted.

Foreman sighed, still rubbing the older doctor's arm.

House fell asleep.

Foreman stayed where he was, and eventually the stewardess said the plane was close to landing, and he went to get their stuff.

They got off the plane, and Foreman called Chase, who was supposed to be picking them up.

He ended up listening to an irritated diatribe about American airports, and finally got to the fact that Chase was lost trying to get to the terminal.

They headed over to the baggage claim, and waited for their stuff to get there.

Chase arrived before the baggage did, looking pissed off.

"I had to pay to enter three parking garages before I found the correct turn!"

Foreman snorted.

"That's what signs are for, genius."

"Oh," said Foreman, turning around and looking at the newly awake and snarking House, "you're back with the living."

House smirked. His teeth were slightly red from his tongue bleeding, which gave it an even more creepy effect than usual.

"Please tell me I at least drooled on herpes cheater fat smoker racist lady."

"No such luck. I think she thought you were possessed. Was standing about ten feet back by the time I woke up."

"Huh?" said Chase, confused.

"Some lady in the same row as us. Refused to let Foreman sit next to me."

"Ah," said Chase, smirking, "I assume all the qualities you just listed got said out loud to her face?"

House shrugged, looking... he looked very slightly embarrassed.

Foreman didn't blame him. He messed with people, but he almost never set out to really hurt someone--though he could do so quite efficiently--unless he lost it.

House lay in bed, Foreman snoring next to him, the younger doctor's arm draped across House's chest, Foreman's head resting on the corner of House's pillow, a little bit of drool coming out of his mouth. Marian was curled between them on the bed.

Foreman... Foreman was like a rock. House was like rapids.

His life was confusing, and rough, and his personality was turbulent enough that nobody could get close without being swept away.

But Foreman... Foreman just stood there, and everything flowed around him. House's bullshit, racist asshole plane passengers, John's prejudices, House's health issues, House's barbs, House's reluctance to get close.

He just... was. And he was steady. And he knew what he was getting into. He knew House. He knew House's issues. And he didn't care. Or rather, he let himself care despite all that.

House's mouth twitched, just a little.

It twitched again.

It raised itself to form a wry smile.

"I love you," he whispered.

Foreman cracked one eye open, smirking.

"I know. I love you too."

House smiled, scooting closer and turning onto his side, so their foreheads were touching.

"Oh, god, I'm drowning in sap."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, House."

House smirked and shut his mouth.

Marian started purring.

Chapter Text

Foreman woke up to House seizing.

This was not unusual.

Except it was the seventh time tonight.

He sat up, watching the convulsions.

Then he reached over, marking on the chart they kept to monitor seizure activity.

He frowned at the numbers.

The number per day was increasing.

And the ratio of convulsive to temporal lobe was getting bigger and bigger.

House stopped convulsing, and Foreman sighed, rubbing his back to get him to start breathing.

Eventually, he came out of it, and looked at Foreman, miserably.

Foreman gripped House's left hand.

House squeezed, clumsily.

"They're getting worse."

House nodded.

"Innuh..."

Foreman sighed.

House's brain still hadn't fully restarted itself.

"You know?"

House nodded.

Foreman sighed, lying down along House's side and resting an arm across the older doctor's chest.

"Pacemaker."

House looked at him.

"s'nnnot..."

"Not a heart pacemaker. There's an implant for controlling seizures."

House closed his eyes, and Foreman couldn't tell if he was trying to ignore Foreman, or just too exhausted to talk.

His right hand reaching up and entwining itself in Foreman's told him that it was probably the latter.

"Talk in the morning?"

House nodded, turning his head a little, so it was resting against Foreman.

Foreman sighed, watching him drift off.

The next morning, House woke after Foreman had gotten up.

There were a stack of printouts and journals next to him on the bed.

He picked the top one up, squinted at it, and decided he needed his reading glasses and some coffee, before he could tackle the research Foreman had obviously been working on for a while.

He sat up, and grabbed his crutches.

Foreman looked up, as House made his slow, awkward and sleepy way into the kitchen.

He had already poured House's bowl of cereal, and the milk was sitting on the counter next to it.

A cup of coffee was also there, and that was the one House went for first.

"You read the stuff?"

"Not yet," said House, between sips, "need my reading glasses. And coffee."

Foreman smirked.

"Figured."

House grinned, briefly.

Half an hour later, House was sitting on the couch, legs propped up on the table, reading.

Foreman sat down next to him, waiting.

House sighed, putting the papers down and looking at Foreman.

"No."

Foreman looked at him.

"Why the hell not?"

"I don't want someone digging around in my brain."

"You don't want someone digging around in your brain to do a procedure that wasn't your idea."

House glared.

Foreman glared back.

House caught something in the younger doctor's eyes.

His expression softened, slightly.

"You're really worried, aren't you?"

Foreman looked away for a long time.

Then he looked back at House.

"Yeah, I am. I don't want to lose you, House."

House nodded, grimacing slightly as the room spun.

"Pot might help," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Yeeeahhh... too bad it's illegal in New Jersey."

House smirked.

Foreman sighed, hooking an arm around House's shoulders and pulling him over, into a kiss.

Arguing wasn't going to do anything but get them mad at each other.

Foreman supposed House had to be more scared of lapsing into a status epilepticus than he was of further brain damage from a botched surgery. Which, unfortunately, would probably only happen after something bad happened.

He hoped it wouldn't be too bad.

But one thing he was sure of, was that he was not going to force this on House. Even if he hadn't known the history behind House's leg and relationship with Stacy, he would have known that House would never trust him again if he did something like that.

And he knew House would rather die than get let down again.

Not, thought Foreman, that there would be much difference in the end result.

House's hand slid down Foreman's chest, ending Foreman's more academic thoughts.

House groaned, slowly opening his eyes.

What the hell?!

He was intubated.

This was not a usual consequence of having sex.

He looked around as best he could.

Hospital room.

There were wires attached to his head.

Shit! Foreman hadn't--!

No way!

He tried to calm down.

No.

Foreman would not have pushed a procedure on him against his wishes. Foreman wasn't even his proxy, Wilson was.

Come to think of it, he should probably change that.

Agh, forget Wilson.

What the hell was going on?

He pressed the call button.

A groan from off to his right.

Foreman appeared, like a jack-in-the-box.

A nurse ran in.

Foreman shook his head, and the nurse left.

House realized the younger doctor had probably been sleeping on a cot.

Foreman sighed, placing his hand along House's cheek.

"It's okay. Nobody did anything. You had a grand-mal, and wouldn't start breathing after. You're just hooked up to an EEG to monitor your brain activity in case of another seizure. Nothing happened except you getting intubated."

House's eyes lost their nervous, fearful look, and he mimed pulling the tube out.

Foreman sighed. He looked irritated.

"I'll have to ask your proxy," he growled.

House grimaced, and gave Foreman a questioning look.

Foreman handed him a pad of paper and a pen.

‘Is he being difficult?'

"Yeah. But not ‘cause he thinks he's doing you a favor. I think he's just pissed off that he has to have something to do with you again. He wouldn't let me visit until I called Cuddy and she overruled him."

House scowled.

"Hang in there," said Foreman, "I'll go get Steinbeck and Wilson."

House nodded.

Foreman left.

House clenched his right hand into a fist.

Wasn't it enough for Wilson that he had left House broken and hurting and alone?

Why the hell did he have to screw with Foreman, too?!

Every bit of hurt and anger at his former friend was boiling up.

Wilson stood in the corner, while Steinbeck, a pulmonologist House vaguely recognized as being the head of some department, pulled the tube out of House's throat.

House coughed, half choking, for a moment.

Then he got his breath back.

"Foreman."

Foreman looked at him.

Then at Wilson.

Then he left, talking to Steinbeck about House's lung function.

Wilson's face was completely impassive.

House's face was furious.

"You asshole!" House yelled, suddenly, "why the hell were you messing with Foreman!?"

Wilson shrugged.

House started yanking the EEG leads off his head.

"You're not happy," he continued, voice hoarse, "you left because you weren't happy, and leaving only made you less happy. You left me because you wanted me to be miserable, but I'm not. I'm happy. You're supposed to be the happy one. But you're not, I am. And that pisses you the hell off, doesn't it?!"

Wilson's face twitched slightly, and he opened his mouth.

"Well grow up," growled House, getting off the bed and taking two wobbly steps towards Wilson, "grow up, and leave me the hell alone. And if you can't do that, at least leave Foreman alone. You want me to be miserable, fine. But go want me to be miserable somewhere else. ‘cause I don't want to have anything to do with you, asshole!"

Wilson looked upset.

"House, I--"

"Don't do that!" yelled House, struggling to stay upright, "don't try to worm your way back in! Denying Foreman visiting rights--what the hell was that supposed to accomplish?!"

Wilson held up his hands, as House took another unsteady step towards the younger doctor.

"House, listen. I didn't know. I haven't heard anything from here in months. I thought you would be angry if your team saw you sick. I didn't know. I'm sorry. You're right, I was surprised. I was a little pissed. But I would never have actively sabotaged you. I am... jealous. Part of me does wish you were as miserable as I am. But I would never act on it."

House blinked.

He seemed to deflate, and Wilson hurriedly gripped his arm, as he stumbled.

House was exhausted.

Wilson called Foreman's name, and the younger doctor entered, immediately.

Together, they got House back onto the bed.

House fell asleep almost immediately.

Foreman sighed, gently tugging the covers up over the lanky diagnostician.

Then he turned to Wilson.

Wilson swallowed, "Foreman... I'm sorry. I had no idea..."

Foreman shook his head.

House had believed Wilson that he hadn't intentionally been difficult. Foreman trusted House's judgment of Wilson more than his own.

"House believes you. I believe House. You don't have to explain yourself."

Wilson nodded. He looked worn.

"I really am sorry," he said, quietly.

Foreman nodded, gesturing towards the door, then placing his finger over his lips.

Wilson nodded.

They left the room, and Foreman slid the door shut as quietly as possible behind them.

"Wilson," said Foreman, leaning against the wall outside House's room, "why did you leave?"

Wilson sighed.

"I... was angry. Angry at him, angry at Cuddy, you, House's team... angry at the world. She shouldn't have died. It wasn't fair. I was happy, and that was taken away from me. In my head, everyone in this hospital was to blame for that. Especially House. And I wanted them to feel as miserable as I did. Again, especially House. So I left. I... it was a really stupid, selfish, idiotic, cruel thing to do. It wasn't House's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. I've really regretted doing it... but... it's the kind of thing sorry doesn't really cut it for."

Foreman sighed, nodding.

"You're right. You have no right to ask for forgiveness. And you probably won't get it. But if you want to take back a little of the hurt... tell House it wasn't his fault. Tell House you don't hate him. Tell House you were wrong to hurt him. And then when he explodes at you... just take it. Don't defend yourself. Don't ask for forgiveness. You are indefensible, and what you did is unforgivable."

Wilson looked at the floor, nodding.

Foreman put his hand on Wilson's shoulder, "but at least you know it."

Wilson looked at him.

Then nodded.

Foreman left, going back into House's room.

"House," said Wilson, quietly, sitting on the edge of the older doctor's hospital bed, "I...it wasn't your fault. I should never have blamed you. I should never have hurt you. I'm sorry."

House looked at him, silently.

"Don't be sorry," he said, quietly, "don't beat yourself up for it. Don't punish yourself."

Wilson blinked, "what?"

"If you already feel bad, there's no point in me being pissed at you. And that's just no fun."

Wilson looked very confused.

"For either of us. Because if you're so miserable I can't make you a bit more miserable, then I'm never gonna get back at you. And if I never get back at you, then we're never gonna be on good terms again. And if you're so miserable it's impossible for me to make you more miserable... then, well, you're pretty damned miserable. Which isn't good for you. Believe me, I know. So be happy."

"So you can take my happiness away?"

"Briefly. I'm not talking about killing your girlfriend, Wilson. Sabotaging your desk chair, on the other hand..."

Wilson blinked.

"You're talking about playing a practical joke on me?"

"Uh-huh."

"After I left you like I did."

"I blamed myself, Wilson. I knew it wasn't my fault, but I blamed myself anyway. How can I be mad at you for doing the exact same thing?"

Wilson swallowed, watching House's face.

"You've changed," he said, quietly.

House's eyes strayed past Wilson, at Foreman, leaning with his back against the glass wall of the hospital room.

Then they focused back on Wilson's face.

"I hope so."

Wilson nodded, closing his eyes and lowering his head.

"Are you crying?"

Another nod.

"Why are you crying?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know. Why are you crying?"

"Because you don't hate me."

House's mouth twitched.

"I know the feeling."

Wilson raised his head.

"Foreman thought you would blow up at me."

"Foreman continually underestimates his positive influence on me."

Wilson smiled.

He wondered if House knew how much he had changed.

He was smiling.

He was stuck in a hospital bed.

He couldn't walk.

He was having eight seizures a day.

And he was smiling more often than not.

Wilson smiled.

"She changed, too," said House, quietly.

Wilson blinked, "what?"

"She changed. Amber. You changed her. She was a better person for knowing you. And she knew it. And she was happy for it. She said she had always had to choose between love and respect, but with you, she knew what it was like to have both. I offered her the job she fought for, in my department. But she said you beat the fellowship. I know she would rather have known you and died, than not met you and lived. "

Wilson swallowed.

"Thank you, House," he said, voice choked.

House grinned, picked up his half-melted cup of ice chips, and splashed it over Wilson's face and chest.

"There," he said, smirking as Wilson spluttered, "now go be happy."

Wilson stared at him.

Then he laughed.

He kept laughing, until he was red in the face, and about to pass out.

Then he stopped.

"Okay, House. Okay."

Foreman looked, as Wilson exited House's room.

He was soaking wet.

"Uh..."

Wilson shook his head.

"He... he said he didn't hate me."

Foreman blinked.

Then he nodded.

"Good."

Wilson left, going to get a new shirt.

Foreman entered House's hospital room, and reached for a paper towel to mop up the water on the floor.

"Yes."

Foreman turned around, blinking, "yes to what?"

"I want the implant."

Foreman stood, mouth open slightly.

Then he nodded, walking over and sitting on the edge of House's bed, gripping the older doctor's hand.

"Good," he said, as House squeezed back, "I'm glad."

Wilson was right.

He had changed.

He was happy.

He had spent so long not caring if he lived or died.

He...

This was worth taking a chance of further damage for.

He didn't want to die.

Foreman blinked, as tears started running down House's face.

"House, what...? Why are you crying?"

He sniffed, "because I don't know what I'm feeling."

"Well... what does it feel like?"

"I'm scared."

Foreman blinked, "of what?"

"Of dying. I don't... I don't get it."

Foreman swallowed.

"Yeah, House. It's okay. It's a good thing, House."

House nodded, and Foreman kissed the older doctor's forehead.

"It's okay."

House nodded again, and Foreman climbed the rest of the way onto the bed, "get some rest."

House hadn't known what it felt like to want to live.

Now he did.

Chapter Text

Foreman thinks, as he leans on the rail of House's hospital bed, waiting for his partner to wake up from surgery.

He thinks, ‘thirty years of flossing,' and it's not an unpleasant thought.

He knew from the start of this, that he was committing himself to sticking around as long as House wanted or needed him to.

Because he wasn't going to pull a Wilson, and get House committed, then leave.

He wouldn't let House down like that, he had promised that, even if he had never said it out loud.

But...

Thirty years of flossing don't sound bad.

They...

He wants to have them.

He realizes, as he watches House continue to sleep, that, as sappy and pathetic as it sounds...

He has found the love of his life.

House groaned, slowly opening his eyes.

Foreman was there, slumped against the bed, asleep.

He grinned.

This wanting to live thing really felt pretty damn good.

Except for the pounding headache from surgery, but...

He was pretty sure that would fade.

Six seizure-free months later....

House grinned, as he sat behind the wheel of his car for the first time in ages.

Foreman got in the passenger side, also smiling.

House screeched away from the curb, still grinning.

He still couldn't ride his motorcycle, because of the balance issues, and the fact that he wouldn't be able to change gears reliably with his clumsy left leg.

But even driving his old clunker of a car meant he was getting a huge chunk of independence back.

Foreman yawned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

House was already gone.

Huh.

He stood, walking out into the kitchen.

There was a note on the counter.

‘Went to work.'

He smirked, a little, to himself.

He knew full well House was just gleefully enjoying his reclaimed drivers' license, not avoiding Foreman. Even if he had seemed nervous for the last week or so.

This was confirmed, when he turned the note over, ‘briefly. I left my IPod there. Should be back by 6:30.'

Foreman snorted, going to pour himself a cup of the already made coffee.

Sure enough, House came in, grinning his head off as he discarded his scarf and coat by the front door.

"Congratulations," said Foreman, rolling his eyes, "but all the gas you're wasting is coming out of your salary, not mine."

House didn't really seem to care, as he set a box of doughnuts on the counter.

"You're just jealous."

Foreman snorted, and took one of the doughnuts.

House sat down at the other stool, leaning into Foreman's shoulder.

Foreman looked at him.

Then laughed.

Puppy-eyes just did not look right on House.

"What?" he asked, half-laughing.

"Come with me," said House, and grabbed Foreman's wrist, and stumbling his way over to the front door, grabbing his coat again.

Foreman blinked, as he noticed that instead of the old gray-blue dodge, there was a shiny red corvette, the yellow streetlights glaring off it.

He hadn't seen it in ages....

House looked at him impatiently, "come on."

Foreman shrugged, and followed him down the steps, getting in the passenger side.

"It's still dark out," he said, slightly miffed.

What was House doing?

"I know said House, rolling his eyes as he pulled away from the curb.

Foreman reflected that December 18th was probably not the best day for riding in a convertible with the top down, as he hunkered down, coat pulled tight around himself.

House drove out of the city, out of the suburbs, into the hills, and stopped at an overlook, looking proudly--though also strangely nervously--at the younger doctor.

Foreman looked at him, confused.

"What?"

House pointed with his right hand, at the sun that was just beginning to peek over the hills in the distance.

"Oh," said Foreman.

He looked back at House, who was digging through his coat, muttering.

"House, what are you doing?"

"Crap!" said House, suddenly.

Foreman was thoroughly confused.

"There it is," said House, finally, turning back to Foreman.

He opened his mouth, hand still in his coat pocket.

Nothing came out.

He blushed.

Foreman started at him.

House tried again to say something.

It wouldn't come out.

The sun was fully above the hills.

He gritted his teeth, and pulled out a box, giving up on words.

Foreman looked at it.

Then at House.

Then at the box.

Then at House.

House had gone from flushed and embarrassed to pale and nervous in record time.

Foreman nodded, too surprised to speak.

House leaned in.

They kissed, the box falling to the floor of the car between them.

The sunrise was brilliant purple, pink and blue behind them.

House opened his eyes, slowly pulling back a little, watching the brown eyes.

"Yes," whispered Foreman's voice, huskily, "although I wish you had waited until tonight."

House sat back, looking confused.

Foreman reached into his suit jacket pocket, pulling out a small gold band.

House laughed.

"Well... yeah..."

Foreman grinned, as House picked up the box.

Brenda looked up, blinking, as she heard the familiar, stumbling-limping footsteps come into the clinic, accompanied by whistling.

And, she saw, a flash of gold.

She smiled, a little, and quickly hid it in a file as House turned towards her.

House entered Cuddy's office, still whistling.

"You called, mistress?"

She rolled her eyes.

"I've got something for you."

"Okay... why the personal handoff?"

She smiled.

"It's not a case."

He frowned, "what is it, then?"

She smiled, "it's a congratulations."

He blinked.

She pointed to his hand.

He blinked again.

"Oh."

"Congratulations, House."

He tilted his head.

Then he grinned.

"Thanks."

She nodded, and he left.

"Oh," she said, "by the way. I need you to help out with the Christmas celebration."

He groaned.

"I knew it!"

She smiled, "sorry. I really did want to congratulate you, though."

He rolled his eyes.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I need someone to be Santa."

House's eyes widened in horror, "oh god, no!"

She laughed.

"You're right, no. I just need you and your team to set up the tree. I'll let you off clinic duty for January. All the other departments are just too swamped."

He looked considerably less horrified by that job.

"Oh," he said, realizing that this meant Kutner would get to exercise his Christmas spirit somewhere other than the diagnostics office, "let me off February too."

"No, House. Every year, you say you hate Christmas, and every year you dust off a Christmas album and play it in your office when nobody else is there."

House scowled, "how do you know about that?"

She smiled, "Wilson could hear it through the wall of his office."

House groaned.

"I'll kill him."

Cuddy laughed, "just go, Dr. Grinch. Out. Ornaments, lights, tree. Go."

House glared.

"I don't like Christmas. I just wish I did."

Cuddy blinked, as he limp-stumbled out of the room.

"Hey," said House, pushing the door to the differential room open, "Cuddy says we've got to do Christmas cra..."

He stopped, scowling.

Somebody had written ‘congratulations' in large block letters on the whiteboard.

He glared at Kutner, who cowered.

"Whatever..." he muttered, "Cuddy says we have to set up the Christmas tree for the lobby."

Kutner brightened immediately.

Thirteen seemed ambivalent.

Taub looked mildly irritated at the prospect.

Foreman looked amused.

House turned around, and limp-stumbled out of the room.

Foreman got up and followed him.

The kids followed after the other two.

House sat down in a chair, watching the kids hang lights and paper ornaments on the tree.

Foreman walked over, sitting down on the arm of the chair.

"You don't want to help?"

House shrugged.

"I'm not a very Christmassy person."

Foreman tilted his head.

"Really?"

House shrugged.

"It was never really associated with any pleasant memories. We'd always go up to Aunt Sarah's, and dad would get drunk on the eggnog, and get into a fight with uncle Tim, and the food was always dried out, and my cousins would always drag me outside and..."

Foreman looked at him.

House shrugged again, "there was this big tree next to the house. So they'd take some ribbons and stuff from the roof and windows, and tell me I had to climb up and decorate the tree."

"So... what, you've got a phobia of Christmas tree decorating?"

House laughed, "no. I just... don't get excited about it, or anything."

Foreman watched him for a while.

"Marcus, my older brother, would lift me onto his shoulders so I could put the star on top of the tree."

"How nice," grouched House.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Stop sulking."

House looked away.

He really didn't seem to be in a good mood.

"Come on," said Foreman, gripping House's arm, "what's wrong?"

House sighed, shaking his head.

"I'm just not a Christmassy person," he repeated.

Kutner grunted, yanking as hard as he could on a large gold ribbon that was caught on a branch.

It snapped, and half of it drifted across the room, draping itself neatly over House's head.

He scowled.

Foreman laughed.

So did everyone else.

House got up and left.

Foreman blinked, and followed him to his office.

House sat down in the recliner, folding his arms.

Foreman pushed the door open.

House looked up, shaking his head and grimacing a little at the dizziness it provoked, "I'm gonna be sucky to be around. Go back downstairs."

Foreman shook his head, pulling up a chair.

House sighed, looking away.

"Just... leave me alone for a while. It's not important."

"It's obviously important enough to bother you."

House looked at Foreman, glaring.

"Just leave me the hell alone!" he snapped.

Foreman shook his head.

"Come on," he said, quietly, "what's bugging you?"

House gritted his teeth, looking away.

He realized he was fingering the band on his finger, and looked at the twinkling gold. It was thin, and round. Like a woman's engagement ring, but without the diamond.

Then he looked at Foreman.

He opened his mouth.

Then he frowned, got up, and stumbled out into the hallway, putting up a hand briefly to stop Foreman from following.

He poked his head in Wilson's office.

Wilson looked at him, blinking.

"Yes?"

House dug through Wilson's desk, found the younger doctor's ipod and earphones, then stuck them in Wilson's ears and started a random song.

"Don't listen through the wall."

Wilson blinked, "okay."

House went back to his own office, and sat back down.

Foreman tilted his head.

House sighed, looking at his feet.

"Dad would get drunk on the eggnog. Then he would get in a fight with Uncle Tim. Then Mom and Aunt Sarah would separate them. Tim would calm down and get the presents for my cousins. But... Dad wouldn't. He'd still be mad. And then he'd take it out on me. One time he took me outside, and shoved me into a snowbank. Wouldn't let me up for... I don't know, it felt like forever, but it was probably only half an hour. He was always doing stuff like that, said he was trying to turn me into a man. At eight," he sighed, taking a breath.

"But... this one time, I climbed up the tree me and my cousins decorated... he wouldn't let me come down. Eventually Mom came outside--she thought I'd already gone to bed, and made him come in. But I was too scared to come back down. I spent the entire night up in that tree. Ended up unconscious from hypothermia. Fell out of the tree, broke my arm and got a concussion. So... yeah... Christmas does not equal happy memories. It equals hypocracy and unfairness and really bad memories."

Foreman was quiet for a moment.

Then he smiled, a little.

"Then maybe it's time to change what it's associated with."

House looked at him.

A small smile twitched at his lips.

"Okay," he whispered, "what do you have in mind?"

Foreman grinned.

House yawned, leaning against Foreman's shoulder, as they sat in front of the crackling fire, a blanket wrapped around both their shoulders.

Foreman smiled a little, as House slid down into the younger doctor's lap, asleep.

He gently shook House's right shoulder. House sat up.

He looked at the younger doctor.

Then he struggled to his feet, making Foreman blink.

He sat down at the piano.

Foreman smiled, getting up and sitting down on the bench next to him, and leaning close.

"Better memories?" he whispered.

House nodded, "much."

House hadn't tried to play since the crash.

It was clumsy, and he couldn't do anything very well with his left hand, but...

Foreman didn't care.

So neither did he.

Chapter Text

House grunted, as one of his crutches caught on the corner of a shelf as he and Foreman meandered through the grocery store, sending House sprawling onto the floor.

"I'm sick of this!" he yelled, as Foreman turned around, offering him a necessary hand up.

Foreman blinked, still holding out his hand, "okay."

House pulled his arms out of the crutches, and folded them across his chest.

Foreman watched him for a moment, putting his hands in his pockets, "you want me to get you one of the wheelchairs from the front of the store?"

House gritted his teeth, "not an electric one."

Foreman shrugged, and left.

House continued to glower at the cheery display of tomato paste stacked in a pyramid that he had narrowly avoided crashing into.

He grabbed one of the crutches, and swung it at the bottom of the pile, creating a satisfying ruckus as the cans tumbled across the floor.

Foreman came back, looked at the pile of cans, rolled his eyes, and pushed the wheelchair through them.

He gave House a hand up into it, picked up the crutches, and handed them to House.

House leaned them between his knees, sitting the bases on the right footrest.

Then he wheeled himself through the scattered cans.

Foreman sighed, and followed him around the corner of the aisle.

"Seriously. What's up?"

"I hate the crutches."

Foreman tilted his head, "but you're okay with a wheelchair?"

House stopped, making Foreman nearly run into the back of the chair.

"Obviously," he growled.

One of Foreman's eyebrows raised itself to massive heights, "dude. What is the matter with you?"

House sighed, taking his hands off the wheels.

"Walking weird looks worse than not walking at all," he said, finally, grudgingly, voice low and quiet.

Foreman blinked.

That was the most honest admission of vanity he had ever heard from House.

The most honest admission that how people looked at him did affect him.

He said nothing.

House looked at him.

Then sighed.

Foreman looked exactly like House wanted him to look. Which pissed him off. He wanted something to be angry about.

He looked a little worried, and a little amused, and mostly like he didn't care, and not at all pitying.

House sighed, looking back at the people searching through a stack of apples for ones that weren't bruised.

He opened his mouth.

He felt really stupid.

Stupid, and ashamed that it was bugging him this much.

"I take it I should get the ramp back out?"

House looked at him.

Foreman was smirking.

House decided he would get Foreman back for that smirk at a later time, and nodded.

House had gotten rid of the ramp so triumphantly, almost a year ago.

He had only used it for a few weeks after the accident, and then he had called Foreman the day he convinced the physical therapist that it wasn't worth arguing to keep him in the wheelchair.

Foreman had come over, the ramp had been dismantled, and the wheelchair had been folded up and stored in House's closet.

House had been so damned happy about getting rid of the thing.

Now he looked miserable.

Foreman gripped his shoulder.

"Race you to the dairy section."

House looked at the younger doctor.

Then he grinned.

The wheelchair was faster.

Much. Faster.

House grinned, resting close against Foreman, as they watched the crowd in Times Square, waiting for the ball to drop.

10.

9.

8.

7.

6.

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

The ball fell, and House grinned, as Foreman kissed him.

"Happy new year," whispered Foreman.

"Happy new year," said House, in return.

"Do you wanna get married?"

House looks up from the book he has been reading, "if you haven't noticed, we live in New Jersey. And we're men. I think. Unless you've got something to tell me."

Foreman snorted, "there's civil unions."

House looked at him for a long time.

"Why would you want to do something that superficial?" he said, and his tone was slightly off.

'He's scared,' realizes Foreman, 'he was ready to wear a ring, but not to say the word... Why am I not surprised?'

House is always scared of saying the words.

He's always scared of making it official.

House is watching him, "you're not buying that, are you?"

Foreman shook his head.

House sighed, looking away across the room.

He had lived with Stacy for five years.

She had worn the engagement ring for four of them.

Every time she had brought up the subject, he had changed it.

Maybe... maybe that was part of why it had been so hard for her.

Because he hadn't been able to get himself to admit that it was the real thing.

He looked back at Foreman.

"I... I...I'm sorry..." he just couldn't do it. Still. Goddammit!

Foreman got up, walking over to sit next to House on the couch, leaning in for a deep kiss.

House reciprocated, vigorously, until Foreman pulled back, looking at him with those bottomless dark brown eyes.

"Don't be sorry. You wouldn't be you if you weren't scared of saying the words. And... I doubt I would have been able to ask if I thought you would have said yes. I'm... probably just as scared of commitment as you are."

House was silent for a moment.

Then he nodded.

And pulled Foreman back over.

House sighed, sitting in his wheelchair as the clinic patient rattled on about how he had swallowed some bad milk.

"I brought the rest of the carton," he said, holding it up.

House looked at it.

Then at the patient--a clean-shaven man with a crew cut and beer belly.

"The milk tasted sour, and a little salty. And thicker than usual," said House, questioningly.

The patient nodded.

"It's buttermilk. Read the label next time."

The patient looked at his carton, "I guess I need glasses..."

House rolled his eyes, starting to turn the wheelchair around.

"Hey... it's really blurry..."

House looked up, just in time to see the patient slipping off the exam table and straight towards him.

He grunted, as the wheelchair flipped over backwards on the back wheels.

He managed to keep his head from slamming into the tile, which was good, but he did tumble literally head over heels, landing with a thump against a cabinet.

He groaned, and raised his head, looking around, very dizzy.

Unconscious moron clinic patient.

Forcefully dismantled wheelchair. It looked like one of the struts had failed--which was probably what had saved his head, his butt had hit before the rest of him, taking most of the impact.

Damn, he hurt.

He sat up, scooting over to the door and opening it.

Unfortunately, it was Brenda who noticed him sitting there.

She came over, peeked her head into the room, looked at him, and, mercifully, only smirked, and didn't say anything.

Then she went to check on the patient.

She nodded to herself, and looked at House.

"Marry him."

House blinked.

What the hell?!

"What if it goes badly?"

"Then it goes badly. What if it doesn't go badly?"

He blinked.

"I..."

"You'll have acknowledged how much you love someone. You'll have let them know in no uncertain terms not just how much they can hurt you, but also... how much they mean to you. How much you love them. How much you care about him. How much you want to be with him for the rest of your life. So marry him, you bastard."

He paused.

How did she know Foreman had asked?

He groaned, as a bright light shone into one eye, then the other.

"House? House, can you hear me?"

Foreman's face was hovering over his own, and it looked worried.

He frowned.

Huh?

"Wh'appened?" he mumbled, frowning.

"Your patient fell off the table. You must have hit your head when you fell."

House groaned.

So that had been a hallucination, or a dream, or something.

Whatever it had been...

Brenda had been right.

"Yes," he said, oblivious to the fact that Cuddy, Cameron, Chase, Brenda, and half the staff of the clinic were all in the room, "I want to marry you."

Foreman blinked.

Then he grinned.

Cameron basically squealed.

Cuddy smiled.

Everyone else just stared.

Foreman helped House sit, and sat next to him, as he swayed, still dizzy from the fall.

"Cuddy, can you clear the CT?"

She nodded.

House took a deep breath, sitting in front of Wilson's office door.

He was back on speaking terms with the younger doctor.

But they still weren't really clear on where they stood with each other.

But Wilson had been his best and only friend for a long time, and... honestly... he didn't know who else to ask.

They really did not want anything resembling a ceremony, but Foreman had asked Chase and Cameron to be there, and House had asked Cuddy, who probably would have killed him if he hadn't asked her.

Now there was just... Wilson.

"Wilson... will you... I know it's not... I, uh.... will you be my best man?" he said, to the door. God, he couldn't even ask Wilson's door correctly. This was pathetic.

"Yes."

House looked over his shoulder.

Wilson was standing there, looking somewhat bemused, still wearing his coat and scarf.

Oh.

He hadn't been into his office yet.

"Uh..." said House, "good."

Wilson smiled, "I'm happy for you, House. Really happy."

House looked at his feet.

Wilson gripped his right shoulder.

"Maybe I could come over sometime?"

House looked up, face brightening.

Wilson smiled.

"I have to get to work, now... but... I'm glad you asked me."

House nodded, and wheeled himself towards the differential room.

House glared at the steps.

One would think a licensing office would be handicapped accessible.

Foreman came out, "there's no ramp."

House glowered.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Come on," he said, hooking his arm under House's right armpit, "I'll get you up there."

House grumbled something inaudible, wrapping his right arm around Foreman's waist.

Foreman took most of the weight off his right leg, and he concentrated on getting his left side to cooperate, and not catch on a step.

Eventually, they made it, and House sat on the top step while Foreman went to get the wheelchair.

House gritted his teeth.

This wasn't fair.

This wasn't fair to Foreman.

He hated always having to be taken care of, helped, accommodated.

When he had had the cane, he still could have made it up the steps by himself.

He wasn't having second thoughts, not even close.

But he was realizing just how enormous this was.

Foreman wasn't Cameron.

He didn't get off on helping a poor sick hurt puppy.

He did it because it came with House in a package deal, and he took that without question.

For once, the concept was bigger than the word.

Foreman thinks, as he drags the wheelchair up the steps.

He thinks House is probably pissed off about having to have been helped up the steps.

He thinks that House will not say anything about this, and will let it stew for days.

Then he'll suddenly get very cranky, and yell his head off at Foreman.

Foreman will ignore the yelling, stop him from knocking anything over, and wait.

And then when House realizes he isn't reacting, and looks at Foreman, he'll joke about carrying the bride up the steps, and grin when House snaps about not being a woman, but he knows House won't have any real anger left at that point.

He knows House will calm down and find the joke funny, and look vaguely apologetic for about five seconds.

Foreman will shake his head, House will grin, and they will either go back to what they were doing, or start making out, depending on where they are and who else is there.

It's how they function, and it's screwed up, and it's probably not very healthy for either of them, but it's part of what makes them work.

Foreman would be nervous in any relationship he wasn't sure arguments wouldn't be the end of--he knew he didn't back down easily, and for a lot of people, that would be a problem.

But House didn't back down either.

Which, again, could be a problem.

But they had both known each other for long enough to not expect anything else.

Half their relationship is conflict, being the other's verbal sparring partner.

The other half is built through that conflict.

An intimate closeness, gained not through discussion, but by pushing buttons until they had each other's keyboard all figured out. By knowing what really hurts, and what doesn't.

The only part that came without fighting... was the trust that let them start to show when something did hurt. That let them trust that knowing what really hurt meant that the other person would avoid it, not poke at it.

Foreman thinks, thirty years of flossing next to this person... and he feels only happiness.

This is what he wants.

Chapter Text

Foreman walked from the kitchen into the bedroom, glancing at House on the way.

The older doctor was on the couch, staring at the phone on the end table.

Foreman continued into the bedroom, and picked up his book.

A while later, he had to go to the bathroom.

House was still staring at the phone.

Foreman went back into the bedroom.

Two hours later, he came out, intending to ask House what he wanted to do for dinner.

House was still staring at the phone.

"Uh," said Foreman, "is it broken?"

House looked up at him, sighing.

"Mom'll kill me if she finds out and I didn't call her."

Foreman blinked.

He should probably tell his own dad, too.

"Okay... so?"

"So, she'll insist on being there."

"I thought you liked your mom?"

"I do. But she'll tell my dad. And he'll come with her to try and straighten me out."

Foreman frowned, "oh."

House nodded, "yeah. Oh."

"So lie to her. Tell her you want help putting up wallpaper, or something."

House looked at Foreman like he had grown a second head--actually, no. House would look more interested, less appalled if that were the case.

"First, I literally can't lie to her. She can always tell. Second... who the hell calls their mom to help them put up wallpaper?"

Foreman looked slightly embarrassed for a moment, and House laughed.

"It was my first place!" he said, defensively, "I'd never put up wallpaper before! I just needed her to show me how!"

House kept laughing.

Foreman glared.

House stopped laughing, snorted at the glare, and looked back at the phone.

"So," he said, soberly, "what do you think I should do?"

Foreman took a breath, letting it out slowly.

"I honestly have no idea," he said, sighing, "but I do know I don't want to deal with your dad again."

"No kidding."

The doorbell rang.

Foreman got up to answer it.

He opened it on House's parents... and Wilson.

He looked over his shoulder at House, sighing.

Then he stepped back, letting them in.

House groaned.

Blythe rushed over, squeezing him tightly around the shoulders, "oh, Greg! I'm so happy for you!"

John stood by the door, silent.

Foreman raised an eyebrow at Wilson, who nodded, and came up the steps.

House glared at him from over his mother's shoulder, but Wilson knew him well enough to see only annoyance, no anger, in that glare.

Wilson shrugged, sheepishly.

House rolled his eyes, gently easing Blythe off.

"You're suffocating me, mom..."

She straightened, "sorry."

He shook his head, then gripped the couch, dizzy.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Fine. Dizzy."

She bit her lower lip, watching him.

Then she stepped forward, and hugged him again, though less over-enthusiastically.

"He wanted to come," she whispered.

"Of course he did. Hard to hit people over the phone."

"Greg."

"What? You know it's true."

"He's happy for you."

"No he's not. He looks like he's about to murder someone--me."

Blythe squeezed tighter.

"No, Greg. You're wrong. I've known that man for longer than you have, and I know when he's mad and when he's not. He can't hide that from me. And he's not angry."

"Nope. Just a racist bigot."

Blythe pulled back.

"Greg."

He looked strung out.

A horn honked outside.

Blythe sighed.

"We have to check into the hotel, that's probably our cab. See you tomorrow, honey?"

House gritted his teeth and nodded.

Blythe left, and John followed her out, still without making a sound.

That left Wilson, Foreman and House alone in the living-room.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" yelled House, pissed off.

Wilson held up his hands, "I... I knew you weren't going to call. But... House, they should be there."

"Mom should. Dad should be as far away as possible."

"House, he's your dad. I know you two don't get along, but..."

House ran his hand down his face, "are you kidding? Did you forget what happened when your mom invited my parents over for Hanukkah? Or thanksgiving? Or that time my dad showed up in the middle of the night when you were staying with me between wife number two and wife number three and punched me because he thought we were together? or..."

Wilson grimaced.

"Yeah," said House, "it ever occur to you why I wasn't going to call?"

Foreman frowned.

"It ever occur to you, that I don't need to deal with him, after all of this?!"

"House."

House, who had been leaning forward, the closest thing to getting in Wilson's face he could do, looked at Foreman.

"If you're going to yell at him, yell at him about what you're actually angry about."

House looked away, gritting his teeth.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"No," said House, and made his exit slightly less dramatic than he had intended by slipping between the couch and the wheelchair.

Wilson made to help, but Foreman gripped his arm, shaking his head.

House grunted, pulling himself up on the couch.

He got stuck halfway between upright and horizontal, and looked over his shoulder.

Foreman let go, and walked over to House, giving him a hand up.

House sighed, and sat on the couch rather than the wheelchair.

Foreman sighed as well, held up a hand at Wilson, who nodded, and sat down next to House, whispering to him.

"You forgave him consciously. You got even with him consciously. But he still hurt you, and by doing that, betrayed a trust you thought he understood. You're worried that he did understand that trust, and hurt you anyway. And that's all bubbling up through everything else you say to him. Either just tell him, or get a hold of yourself."

House glared.

Wilson stepped closer, "House... listen..."

Foreman closed his eyes, grimacing.

"Why?!"

Wilson blinked.

"Uh... are you okay?"

House struggled his way off the couch, taking to clumsy, wobbling steps towards Wilson.

Wilson held up his hands.

"House, calm down."

"What? You don't think you deserve to be yelled at?! You had no right to call them! No right!"

Foreman gripped House's right arm as the older doctor stumbled, struggling to stay upright unsupported.

Wilson's slightly scared expression changed.

He blinked.

"House... are you okay?"

Foreman looked at House.

He had his eyes closed, a grimace on his face.

Foreman could feel his arm tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing.

It wasn't pain, he could tell that much--House was still bearing weight on his bad leg.

Wilson reached over, touching House's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, House," he said, quietly, "I... I did say you wouldn't be happy if John came."

House clenched his teeth.

"That obviously helped a whole hell of a lot," he growled, finally relaxing some. Foreman was right, this had little to do with the actual calling of his parents.

Wilson sighed.

Two pagers went off.

Foreman reached across House, unclipping the older doctor's--he couldn't get at his own without letting go of House's arm.

"Your clinic patient is vomiting."

"The one who passed out on me?"

"Yeah."

House sighed.

He glanced at Wilson.

"I'm not happy you called them, but that's not why I'm upset," he said, then stumbled the two steps over to the wheelchair, thumped down in it, and wheeled himself towards the door.

Wilson blinked for a moment, then followed House out.

Foreman grabbed his keys, and closed the door behind them all, "I'll drive."

House glared, "no."

"Dude, you just yelled your head off at Wilson for no good reason. And you didn't bring your keys."

House patted down his pockets, scowling when he realized Foreman was right.

He opened the back door of his car, stood, shoved the wheelchair into the backseat, then shut the door and got in shotgun.

Wilson stood by his own car, slightly bemused, as the gray-blue dynasty squealed away from the curb.

Then he sighed, shaking his head, and got in.

"What happened?" asked House, clumsily kicking the door open with his left foot, "I thought he was just dehydrat--"

House stopped.

Foreman ran into the back of the wheelchair, already looking at the file Cuddy had handed them on the way to the elevators.

He grunted, and looked up.

The office was draped with white and yellow crepe paper, there were ribbons hanging from the whiteboard... and the side of Kutner's head.

The kids were, however, sitting at the big table, pouring over files.

"What the hell is this?!" said House, loudly.

They looked up, looked around the room, and sighed.

"It was supposed to be a surprise shower. But the patient isn't stable enough to wait."

House snorted.

"Great. Well thank the patient for me, will you?"

Taub and Thirteen rolled their eyes.

Kutner looked back down at the file.

"Dehydration led to blurry vision and fainting. He thought his milk had gone sour because he was throwing up and it tasted sour. But he's still throwing up, and the milk wasn't sour. Which means the dehydration was caused by the throwing up," said Foreman, rubbing his hip where the handle of House's wheelchair had dug into it.

"But that doesn't explain the confusion about the milk," objected Thirteen.

House rolled his eyes, "guy's a moron. He just didn't read the label."

She nodded, "could be just a stomach bug."

"He's been vomiting on and off for three days."

"A bad stomach bug."

"Or it could be one of a hundred other things. Do you have any idea how many things cause vomiting?" said Taub.

"Yes," said House, rolling his eyes, "we do. Thanks for that useful insight. Go test the patient's stool for parasites."

Taub groaned, getting up and leaving the room.

Kutner and Thirteen looked at each other, a little confused.

House usually didn't kick people out before the end of a differential...

"What other general causes are likely?"

"Tumor. Something he ate. Virus. Bacteria," said Thirteen.

House nodded, "MRI for tumor, run gels. Kutner, run titers."

Thirteen nodded, getting up.

Kutner followed her out the door.

"Everything was negative."

House frowned.

"Do a tox screen, LP."

They left.

Foreman sighed, putting down his newspaper.

"Are you okay?" he asked, quietly.

House looked at the younger doctor.

"Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Foreman shrugged, "if you're having second thoughts... I want you to tell me."

House blinked for a moment.

Then he laughed.

"No, I am not having second thoughts. I'm just... stressed. At least we managed to avoid a damn wedding shower."

Foreman laughed.

"You do realize that wedding showers mean presents."

"Yes. Unfortunately, we already have dishes and a toaster oven."

Foreman shrugged, smirking a little bit.

House sighed, glancing around.

"So," said Blythe, as she, House and Foreman sat at one of the cafeteria tables.

House was comically low despite his lankiness, thanks to the wheelchair. He had to reach up to rest his elbows on the table.

John had stayed at the hotel.

"Yeah?" asked House, looking at her.

"I expect at least one grandchild," she said, smiling.

House blinked for a moment.

He looked at Foreman.

Then back at his mom.

"Uh... if you haven't noticed, mom... we're both dudes."

She smiled, unfazed.

"Well, there's other ways," she said, smiling, "anyway... I was telling you about last Christmas... Sarah outdid herself with the turkey..."

House wasn't really listening.

He and Foreman were looking at each other.

House looked up, as the door to his office opened.

He sighed, gritting his teeth.

John.

John walked in, face unreadable.

"I don't want to make you choose," he said, low and quiet.

House blinked.

"You... what?"

"When Eric was putting your bags in the car. You said that if I made you chose, you would chose him over your family. I don't want to push you to make that choice, if that's the way you're going to chose."

House blinked.

"Right," he said, half-laughing, "that sounds like you."

"I don't lie, Greg."

House frowned.

"No," he said, "you don't. You take not lying to an extreme. You say whatever you think in the most brutally plain way you can. You think even saying things nicely is a lie."

"Greg."

"You think focusing on the good even when the bad is bigger, is a lie. You think just not talking about something, is a lie."

"Greg. I'm trying to tell you that I... don't want you to make that choice."

"You think that saying things as plain as you possibly can, just saying the words, is the only way to tell the truth. But you fail to meet your own standards that way, Dad. On one thing. If what you're saying right now is true, then you fail."

John looked confused.

"You never once told me you loved me or cared about me."

A silence.

"Thanks," said House, wheeling towards the door, "for lying. It makes it easier to not give a shit what you're saying now."

Foreman opened the door to the showers.

Finally, there was the wheelchair.

House had been "missing" for three hours.

He sighed, and walked over to the stall, pulling off his shirt, and sitting on a bench to take off his shoes.

Naked, he entered the only running shower.

House was sitting on the bottom of it, head down, back jerking slightly under the spray.

Foreman sat down next to him, pulling him over.

He still had his clothes on.

He was crying.

Shit.

"What happened?"

House leaned his head against Foreman's shoulder, and didn't answer.

Foreman sighed, putting his arm around House's shoulders.

"Okay, buddy," he said, quietly, "it's okay."

Chapter Text

House sighed, slowly easing away from Foreman.

Foreman let go, and stood, turning the water off.

House struggled with the buttons on his soaking shirt, sighed, and looked exhaustedly up at Foreman.

Foreman knelt, and undid them for him, helping him get the shirt off his uncoordinated arm.

"You okay now?"

House nodded, sighing again.

"Yeah. I just... had a talk with my dad."

Foreman grimaced, "but you're okay now?"

House nodded again.

Foreman sighed, running his hand over House's bare chest, and kissing the older doctor, whispering, "That's good."

House was smiling, faintly, when Foreman pulled back.

"Come on," said Foreman, "let's get you dried off, then I'll get you some scrubs."

House nodded, and unbuttoned his sopping wet jeans.

"Your call your dad yet?"

Foreman nodded, "he's flying out tomorrow."

House sighed, easing himself onto the couch next to the younger doctor.

Foreman sighed, as House leaned against him.

"Your mom is weird," said Foreman.

House looked at him.

"She... just still has hopes for something resembling a normal family. The ultimate optimist."

Foreman nodded.

House looked at him, "did... was..."

Foreman sighed, knowing perfectly well what House was feeling awkward about, "I don't know. I'd kind of always thought I would have kids, but... I never really gave it serious thought."

House blinked for a moment.

Then he smiled, "Cuddy'd be so jealous."

Foreman laughed, quietly.

"Yeah, well..."

"Too bad Cuddy's a man."

Foreman rolled his eyes, "what is it with you and that rumor?"

House shrugged, "it's funny, given it's so obvious she's not a...."

Foreman looked at him.

House's face was completely blank.

Foreman grinned, got up, and grabbed his coat.

House followed suit, and after a brief fight with the wheelchair and the car door, they were off to the hospital.

"What's your theory?"

"The nausea was intermittent."

"Call Chase," said House, loudly, as he and Foreman entered the differential room, "our patient needs a c-section."

There was a silence.

"Our patient is male," said Taub, slowly.

That's exactly what she wants you to think. Go ask him-slash-her when the bottom surgery was."

They left.

Two hours later, House stood by the surgical table, holding himself up on Foreman's arm, as they watched the uterus open, and the small human inside become visible.

Foreman felt House's hand tighten slightly, and watched the older doctor's face, the brilliant blue eyes fixed on the baby girl held in Chase's arms.

Foreman reached over, and tugged the surgical mask down, just a bit--they weren't in the sterile area.

House didn't even notice that his slightly sappy grin was exposed to the world, as he continued to watch.

Foreman smiled beneath his own mask, and tugged House's back up.

House looked at him, then.

"Why'd you pull it down?"

"Wanted to see your expression."

House blinked for a moment, then shrugged, and looked back at the table.

House rolled over, straddling his lover.

"I... I know what you saw earlier today. And yes, I do like children. But I... I don't think I know what a dad is supposed to do. I don't know how a dad is supposed to act."

Foreman reached up, running his fingers along the sandpaper line of House's jaw, "then act like a mom."

House blinked down at him.

Then he smiled, just a little.

"That I could do."

Foreman smiled.

He was stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He was late for his own damned wedding.

Stupid tux, stupid dry cleaners, stupid, stupid, stupid!

Foreman sighed, standing next to Chase and Wilson, Cameron and Cuddy, and both his and House's parents, and Kutner and Thirteen and Taub and Taub's wife.

House.

Was.

Late.

House pulled into the single handicapped parking space.

He growled when the wheelchair got stuck on the seat, shoved it back in, and stumbled himself into the dry cleaners, "hey!"

The woman looked at him, "ci?"

House sighed, "I left a tux here a week ago."

The woman raised her eyebrows, holding out her hand.

House dug in his pockets.

Where the hell was the damned ticket?!

He finally found it, and slapped it into her hand, holding himself up on the counter.
Damn, his leg hurt.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Foreman sighed, looking at his watch.

House had had to discharge their patient.

But where the hell was he?

House tossed the tux into the passenger seat, slipped, and landed in a puddle.

He dragged himself up, and into the front seat.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He started the car, and roared out of the parking lot.

Sirens.

Damn!

He pulled over, hands trembling on the wheel.

An officer tapped on his window, he rolled it down.

"License, registration?"

House dug in the glove department.

He pulled out a stack of papers, digging through them.

He finally located the registration, and handed it to the officer along with his drivers' license.

"Sir, you were going fifty in a school zone. Care to tell me why?"

House sighed, rubbing his temples, "I'm late for my wedding."

The officer blinked at him.

Then looked at the tux in the other seat, House's soaking wet clothes, and trembling hands.

She laughed, quietly, and scribbled on a pad.

"I'll let you off with a warning. But if it happens again..."

House nodded.

She smiled, "good luck."

He nodded again, as she walked back to her car.

He pulled out, going exactly the speed limit.

Cameron rested her hand on Foreman's shoulder, "he'll be here. He probably just ran into a problem with your patient."

Foreman gritted his teeth, nodding.

House was on the highway, when he felt something he hadn't felt in nearly a year.

Shit!

He tried to pull over, but it was too late, he was gone.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up with someone in a paramedic's uniform leaning over him, talking, asking questions.

He couldn't understand but the person was saying, but he could guess what they were asking, "Dr. Greg House, proxy Dr. Eric Foreman, phone number, 609-867-5309 ..." he trailed off, as his leg started to spasm.

"Sir, do you know what caused the crash?"

"Seizure," he gasped, and his vision was going black, "call number. Supposed to be... shit..."

And with that, he passed out.

Foreman sat on the ramp, head in his hands.

House wasn't coming.

House. Wasn't. Coming.

He punched the ground, which did nothing but get his hand muddy.

Dammit!

Cameron sat down next to him, "Foreman..."

He shook his head, "don't tell me he's just late. It's three hours past when it was supposed to be over. He's not coming."

She sighed, and put her arm around his back, "it doesn't mean.... All it means is he couldn't bring himself to go through the ceremony. It doesn't mean anything about how he feels about you... he's just House... he's scared of commitment, he's scared of saying the words."

Foreman sighed, then frowned as his phone went off.

He picked it up.

"Is this Dr. Eric Foreman?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"This is Dr. Andrew Jenkins at St. Sebastian's. Someone named Greg House was brought in after an automobile accident."

Foreman felt a strange dichotomy of emotions rushing over him.

On the one hand...

House had been in a car crash.

On the other...

He had been in a car crash, which was why he wasn't here. He wasn't not here because he had decided not to come.

"Dr. Foreman?"

"Uh, sorry. How bad?"

"There's no significant damage, except for a left tib-fib fracture, which he won't stop moving. Also, some broken ribs on the same side. He's unconscious right now, but he was awake when the paramedics got to him, told us your name and number."

"Right," said Foreman, "he doesn't have any sensation on his left side, which is probably why he's moving it. He can't tell it's broken."

"That would explain it. We were starting to worry about a head injury, although there isn't any bruising or cuts. He said he thought the crash was caused by a seizure."

"Damn! Yeah, that's possible. I'll have someone fax his medical records over, that's probably a lot faster than me explaining."

"Okay. Are you coming?"

"Yes."

Foreman sighed, hanging up.

He looked at everyone there.

His and House's parents, Wilson, Cuddy, Chase, Cameron, the kids...

He sighed, "House was in a car accident. He broke his leg and some ribs, and he hasn't woken up yet, but they don't think he has a head injury."

Everyone sighed.

Blythe looked worried.

So did most of the other people except John, who basically hadn't reacted to anything all day.

Cameron took Foreman's arm, "I'll drive you. Your hands are shaking, and I came with Chase."

Foreman nodded, and she was right, he was trembling.

"House. Hey, buddy. Gotta wake up now, okay?"

A soft groan, and House opened his eyes.

"Foreman?" he mumbled, then jerked, "shit!"

Foreman sighed, looking up, "he's back."

Then he leaned back over his almost-but-not-quite husband.

"I'm sorry," said House, quietly, "I am so damned sorry."

Foreman scrunched his face, "sorry for what? Not predicting that you'll have one seizure a year?"

House shook his head, and sat up.

Foreman gripped his shoulders, pressing him back down, "hey!"

House blinked, "what?"

"You've got three broken ribs and a tib-fib fracture on your numb side, which they can't put a cast on ‘cause of the swelling. Don't move."

"I just had one! One damn beer... my hands wouldn't stop shaking... I'm sorry."

Foreman blinked for a moment, then shook his head, "House, one beer before getting married, while stupid, is not something I'm gonna be mad at you for. For any other reason, I would be pissed. But this... all that means is that the ceremony really does mean something to you. And that is something I wasn't sure was true.

House seemed to calm, "okay."

"Good."

Foreman smirked, and sat on the edge of House's bed.

"Damn," muttered House.

"What?"

"You would look terrible in a naughty nurse outfit."

Foreman smirked.

"Well, at least I can play doctor."

House grinned.

Cameron, standing outside the room, smiled.

She turned around, and went to tell the group of people waiting in dresses, suits and tuxedos that everything was okay.

Everyone looked extremely relived, except John, who hadn't reacted to basically anything.

Blythe finally looked at him, "John, will you stop! You're driving me up the wall with this. Go in there and speak to him!"

John shook his head, looking at her for the first time since he had spoken to Gregory.

"I can't."

She shook her head, pushing on his elbow, "talk to him. He could have died today, and the last time you ever spoke to him it was an argument!"

John shook his head again, "every time we speak it's an argument."

"So go in there, and don't argue!"

John walked away around the corner, Blythe followed him.

He turned to her.

"He never understood. He never understood that I loved him."

Blythe's eyes softened.

"Of course he did..."

John shook his head, "it... I always thought he fought me because he was just... incapable of behaving. But he... when he said I wasn't his father, that I never had been... he wasn't thinking that something changed because of who he was blood-related to. He didn't change his mind because of that. I just failed to be a father to him. The whole time, he never... what twelve year-old wants to think their father isn't their father? What twelve-year old searches for proof that he is someone else's son?"

Blythe wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

It was the truth.

"Then maybe," she said, stepping back, "now would be a good time to make him see that you do love him. Maybe you could let down that wall of yours for once in your life. Let someone hurt you. Because you've hurt them. Let him yell at you, let him win. And then tell him you love him. Tell him you're sorry. Tell him you were wrong. And tell him he was right."

"Right about what?"

"Anything. Something, but anything. Tell him he did good with his patient."

He shook his head, "I don't understand what telling him he's a good doctor is going to do. He already knows that. He's already proud of it."

Blythe shook her head, "and he knew he was good at lacrosse. And running. And boxing. And languages. And science. And piano. And guitar. But you never told him you knew it. He never knew you were proud of him. Just tell him you're proud, John. Tell him he's made you proud."

The kids eventually went home.

Cameron and Chase ended up talking to the doctors in the ER.

Cuddy had to go back to the hospital.

Wilson got roped into a consult by someone from oncology.

Rodney went back to his hotel, after promising he would stay until the new date.

Which left Foreman in House's room, and House's parents standing outside it.

Foreman eventually went to get House some water, and Blythe poked John in the ribs.

He looked at her, took a deep breath, and entered.

Greg glanced up, then quickly looked away.

"What do you want?" he asked, bitterly.

"I... I'm sorry, Gregory."

Greg laughed.

"For?"

"For everything. For not being a good father to you."

Greg gritted his teeth.

"Get out."

"Gregory..."

"Stop calling me that!"

John blinked, "it's your name."

"It's what you called me when I was a kid," growled Greg.

"I called you Greg."

"Not when you were being a father."

John realized.

He had called Greg that when he punished him.

He walked a step further into the room.

"Greg," he said, quietly, "I'm sorry."

Greg laughed, loudly.

"Get the hell out of here."

John shook his head, "Greg... listen..."

"No, you listen!" yelled Greg, suddenly, and John actually took a step back.

Greg looked angrier than John had ever seen him.

"Get out of my room! Get out of my room, out of my life, out of my sight! I don't need you screwing with me anymore, so just get the hell out of here, John!"

Greg had called him John that day, too. When he had said he wasn't John's son, and never had been.

"Get out!" yelled Greg, and John focused back on his son just in time to see the fist coming at him.

Let someone hurt you, because you've hurt them.

Not exactly what Blythe had meant, but John wasn't about to punch back.

Not this time.

The fist contacted... and then the rest of Greg.

He grunted, catching Greg around the chest.

He felt the broken ribs bend inward, sharply, as he squeezed, trying to keep Greg up.

He overbalanced, and ended up on his bottom, Greg half in his lap.

Greg sat up, looking very confused, "What the hell...?"

He looked down, at the ankle that had given out.

There were bones sticking out of it, now. There hadn't been before.

He also felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Uh..." he muttered, "Dad? Look at my windpipe."

He raised his chin.

John looked.

"It's bent."

"Okay," said Greg, seeming to be struggling for air, "get a doctor. Tell them I've got a plural effusion, probably from my ribs puncturing my lung."

John was off and running as soon as Greg finished speaking.

He literally ran into Eric, and tumbled to the floor.

"Uh... Mr. House?"

"Greg punched me."

"And you're running away from a guy that can't get off the bed?"

"No. He got off the bed, fell. He said he had a plura.... something..."

"Plural effusion."

John nodded.

Eric ran towards Greg's room.

John kept going towards the nurses' station.

Foreman knelt, gripping House's hand.

"Can you breathe?"

House shook his head, gasping for air.

"Does it hurt?"

House shook his head.

Blythe stood by the door, hands over her mouth.

"Oh my god," she whispered, eyes fixed on Greg's ankle.

House squeezed Foreman's hand, gasping, "I'm okay. Go tell my cough mom I'm okay."

"You're not okay, your lung's collapsed."

"She's more worried that cough she cough can cough secough see my cough cough bocough..."

House broke down, coughing, gasping for breath.

Foreman grabbed the oxygen canister off the wall, starting the flow and placing the mask over House's mouth and nose.

House held on to Foreman's hand, eyes wide.

"It's okay, buddy," said Foreman, "hang in there."

A doctor burst in, and within seconds, there was an incision in House's side, and a tube going into his chest.

House slowly started to breathe normally.

John came back in, panting.

Two nurses followed, and together with Foreman and the doctor, got House back onto the bed.

"Hey," mumbled House, as the doctor filled a syringe, "don't need painkillers."

The doctor blinked at him, "excuse me?"

"I don't have any sensation on that side. Don't need painkillers or a sedative. Actually... can I have a mirror? I wanna watch them pull my ribs out."

The doctor stared at him for a moment.

Then chuckled, nodding.

"Alright. Just as long as you're not lying to try and impress your boyfriend there."

Foreman shook his head, smiling slightly, "it's true."

The doctor nodded, "I'll get a surgeon."

House sighed, as the doctor left.

Foreman walked down to foot of the bed, checking House's ankle.

Then he looked up at House.

"This would probably hurt a bit."

House nodded, looking slightly weary, now that the doctor was gone.

John stood, ridged, by the door.

House sighed, looking over at him.

"The ribs were already broken," he said, tiredly, "and I forgot my leg was broken. Neither thing is directly your fault. Now will you leave?"

John looked slightly relived, and left.

Blythe watched him go, sighing.

"He was trying to make things right, Greg," she said, quietly.

House rolled onto his side, ignoring the way his foot flopped around as he did.

"I don't care."

Foreman blinked at House, for a moment.

He was being really moody...

House coughed, slightly.

Foreman sat down on the edge of the bed, gently curling House's good hand in his own.

"Hey. What's bugging you?"

"Go away," growled House, loudly.

Foreman stared at him for a moment.

Then he remembered, and almost laughed.

"Get the hell out!"

Foreman shook his head.

"Get out!"

"With your ankle like that, I might really have to carry you up the steps, if it were happening in a church."

"What, you think I'm a woman?!"

Foreman laughed.

House glared, but there was no real anger left.

"I hate you," he mumbled.

"I hate you too, House," said Foreman, sighing, as House closed his eyes, "I love you too."

It was a week after the rather disastrous first date, when the ceremony finally happened.

It was raining.

And outside, in Cuddy's backyard.

They ended up in Cuddy's living room.

The woman who they had gotten to do the ceremony read off the thing she had written, but neither of them heard it.

Blue eyes were fixed on brown, brown were fixed on blue, and there was nothing else in the world for them.

As House lowered himself back into the wheelchair, John walked up, his face a mess of emotions, and put his hand on house's shoulder.

House looked at him, swallowing.

"I'm... I'm happy for you, Greg."

House swallowed.

And nodded.

House and Foreman decided to spend the weekend in New York, and take a better trip if they had a chance after House got the cast off.

Chapter Text

Cuddy took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the differential room.

House was leaning back in his chair, right ankle resting on his cast, while Thirteen typed at the computer and Foreman read a journal. Kutner and Taub were playing checkers at the other end of the table.

"The hospital ethics board decided it was unethical to have a department head married to someone directly under them."

Foreman and House both looked up, blinking.

Then at each other, then back at her.

"They didn't have a problem with us before."

"They didn't know before. Everyone on it except Wilson and I was completely clueless. And we weren't about to speak up."

"So... what, House has to fire me?"

Cuddy shook her head, "no. they decided to split the department, in consideration of..."

She stopped, as House waved his hands, signaling her frantically stop.

She ignored him, and continued, "of the note House put in your file two years ago, saying you were ready to run a department of your own, just as soon as you knew you were."

Foreman looked at House, who just sighed, and looked slightly sheepish.

"You thought I was ready this whole time?!"

House sighed, "part of being ready is knowing you're ready. It's... kind of a tradition."

Foreman blinked, "tradition?"

House shrugged, looking at the kids and shooing them out, "I staged a coup and took my own case. So did the head of the department before me. And her teacher. And his teacher. The thing about diagnostics is that you have to be completely confidant in yourself--enough to take over a case. I was just waiting for you to get that last bit of confidence."

Foreman blinked for a moment.

Then he laughed, "that makes sense."

House nodded, "of course it does. I said it."

Foreman rolled his eyes, "don't push it."

"Ahem," coughed Cuddy, and they both looked back at her, "good luck, Dr. Foreman. You've got a budget for a staff of three. And please don't follow House's hiring methods."

House laughed.

Cuddy left.

House looked back at Foreman, who looked... thoughtful.

Eventually Foreman looked at him.

"You've had that much confidence in me this whole time?"

House nodded, "yes. I just couldn't tell you, because you needed to have that confidence in yourself, as well."

Foreman got up, and put his arms around House's shoulders, burying his face in House's thinning hair.

"Thank you," he said, and House smiled.

The next day, the panels over the door connecting to the next office over were removed.

The room, which had previously been used for storage, was emptied.

And Foreman's name was stenciled onto the front door. He and House stood and sat in front of it.

Eric Foreman, MD
Department of Diagnostic Medicine

House suggested consummating Foreman's new office by, well... consummating.

Foreman decided to consummate it by telling House to wait until they got home, because although it didn't have glass walls, it did have a door to the hallway, and that was enough.

House pouted for all of five seconds, before yelling Kutner's name.

Foreman looked at him, confused.

He hadn't even seen the cheerful doctor yet today.

A muffled, "ready!" came from inside the office.

Foreman looked at House.

"You did not give him permission for a surprise party."

House shook his head, grimacing slightly as the room spun, "just a surprise "we furnished your office for you"."

Foreman nodded, and opened the door.

It was dark, until the light flicked on, and then it was ribbons and confetti, and whistles.

Foreman stood, rather overwhelmed.

"Kutner!" yelled House, "I said no confetti!"

"You said no confetti unless I was the one who cleaned it up!" objected Kutner.

Foreman just laughed.

He looked around the room.

It was a lot like the old diagnostics office, with a small office adjoining a larger conference room through a glass door. The outside wall was glass, and there was a balcony. He walked out through the glass door to his differential room.

The same kind of table and ceiling light greeting him, although there were two of the lights to compensate for the solid hallway wall.

And, bolted to the Plexiglas of the outward-facing wall, there was a large black chalkboard.

Written across it in House's handwriting was, ‘The BlackBoard.'

He smiled.

House's old teasing about the whiteboard being white, except twisted, and made into an acknowledgement of this being his arena. His department.

He smiled, at House.

Who grinned, knowing Foreman had got it.

Cameron and Chase, who were also there, smiled as well.

Foreman ended up going through the resumes he received with House, over several nights.

They sat on the couch, and Foreman flipped through them, while House watched TV, and sometimes looked through with him.

He put them into four piles.

No, good credentials, interesting, and both.

By the end of the fourth night, no had most of the files, good credentials had many, interesting had some, and both had fifteen.

He spread out the fifteen on the coffee table, and nudged House, who had fallen asleep.

House shoved back, and Foreman rolled his eyes.

"House."

"Uhn?"

"Wake up."

House sat up, rubbing his eyes, "what?"

"What do you think?"

House looked through the open files.

Then at Foreman.

"I think they're all fine."

"That's it?"

"It's your department, Foreman. I don't think any of these are bad choices, but which ones are the best choices for your department is up to you."

Foreman blinked at him.

Then nodded.

Andrews, Oliver sat across the table from Foreman.

He kept swallowing, nervously.

"What?" asked Foreman, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry," said Andrews, "I just... I'm nervous. I'm sorry."

Foreman sighed, "okay... tip for job interviews. Don't act like a nervous wreck. Nine times out of ten, the person you're being interviewed by is not going to bite your head off."

"I just... I heard a lot of stuff from people who applied two years ago."

Foreman blinked, "for House's fellowship?

The guy nodded.

Foreman sighed, "don't worry, I'm not quite as insane as House. One wrong answer is not going to cost you the job. But being too nervous to answer isn't going to get you hired."

Andrews nodded.

"Okay," said Foreman, "why do you want to go into diagnostics?"

"I..."

And with that, Andrews, Oliver slid off the chair in a dead faint.

Foreman sighed, and mentally put a large red question mark next to this guy's name.

It could just be stories about House's reign of terror two years ago, or this guy could seriously be not cut out for... well, medicine.

Either way, he would have to come back in another time.

Michaels, Josephine walked in and sat down.

Foreman blinked, looking at the file, then back up at his applicant, who had a clipped beard, "Josephine Michaels?"

The person sighed, "John."

Foreman blinked for a moment.

Then shrugged, and shook Michaels's hand.

He looked slightly relived.

"So," said Foreman, looking briefly down at the file, then back up at Michaels, "why do you want to work diagnostics?"

Michaels thought for a moment, "because... you just have to get the right answer. That's all that matters, and how good a diagnostician you are is not determined by how good you are with patients. And... because objectivity is important. What you think of people, or what you're thought of, isn't."

Foreman was silent for a moment.

Then he nodded, and asked the next question.

Mentally, he was putting a large green check next to Michaels, John.

After Smith, he interviewed Johnson, Harold.

They did seem fairly competent, but nothing really stood out.

The next day, he had Harris, Randall, first.

Harris, Randall didn't show up.

After that, he had Murasaki, Sophia.

"Why do you want to be in diagnostics?" asked Foreman, sitting across from the Asian woman, whose black hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, and was dressed not unlike House had been that morning, except her clothes fit tighter and didn't have ketchup stains on them from last night's fries.

"I love anything that's really engaging. When you can just put everything you have into one task, one puzzle. I tried emergency medicine before this, but..." she shrugged, "I really didn't get along with the head of the department. A little bit... I don't know, too nice. I'm digging myself into a hole here, aren't I?"

Foreman smiled, and shook his head.

Another name on his mental list had a green check next to it.

Two more days of interviews, and he still hadn't found a third fellow.

Foreman sighed, head in his hands.

There was only one applicant left, although he still had Andrew, Oliver's re-interview.

Which... he didn't show up for.

Which left... Silver, Nathan.

Who finally showed up, somewhat late, and very flustered.

He had large circular glasses, a half-buttoned shirt, a vest, and a tie loose around his neck.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said, quickly, sitting down, "I got on the wrong bus."

"Okay... well, why do you want to work diagnostics?"

"I... really, really like puzzles."

"Patients are puzzles?" he didn't need a junior House working for him, no mater how much he loved the original.

Silver sighed, "cases are puzzles. Patients are people. I became a doctor for people. But I want to become a diagnostician for cases."

Foreman paused.

Then he nodded, and went on with the next question.

"Okay," said Foreman, sitting down on the couch next to House, and letting out a long breath.

"You've decided?"

Foreman nodded, handing House the three files.

"A transsexual nephrologist, a woman that specialized in emergency medicine and dresses basically like you except with a ponytail and C-cups, and a former coroner who can't tell what bus he's on and looks like he should be a telegraph operator."

House snorted, "like you can talk."

Foreman looked at him.

"You think I dress like a telegraph operator?"

House shrugged, "yeah. But it looks good on you. Seriously, good on you."

Foreman laughed.

"The vests?"

House nodded, flipping through the files.

Then he looked at Foreman.

"I'm curious... how did you decide?"

Foreman shrugged, "the thing that ruled the most people out was I asked them why they wanted to work diagnostics."

House nodded.

"Good idea."

Foreman yawned, walking into his office four months later, dumping his bag, and entering the differential room.

"We've got a case," said Murasaki, reaching across the table to hand Foreman the folder.

Foreman took it, flipping it open.

"Patient's only symptom is... tiredness. Is this Silver's..."

Foreman looked up.

"Where's Silver?"

"He missed the bus," said Michaels, tiredly, "and the patient also complained of muscle pains when I examined him."

Foreman raised any eyebrow, "you found the patient?"

It was almost always Silver or Murasaki.

"Yes," said Michaels, "Cuddy had me in the clinic this morning. Apparently you can only skip out for a week before Brenda tells on you."

"You haven't skipped it for an entire week before?"

Michaels shrugged, "we always had cases."

Foreman shrugged as well, and looked back down at the file.

"What'd I miss?" asked Silver, hanging his overcoat on the rack.

"Michaels found a patient who's tired with muscle pains."

Silver snorted, "more like Michaels had to work clinic and got sick of swabbing."

Michaels shrugged, not denying anything, "hey, the guy could actually be sick. He says it's been two years since the symptoms started."

"Wow," said Murasaki, "fascinating."

"Hey," said Michaels, "it's at least more interesting than Silver's allergy guy last week."

"Hey!" said Silver, "how was I supposed to know he was only intermittently allergic to wheat? It was a stress allergy, they aren't that easy to diagnose!"

"Okay," said Foreman, "enough. Michaels, do you really think this is a case, or are you just avoiding the clinic?"

"Why can't both be true?"

Murasaki snorted.

Foreman raised an eyebrow.

Michaels sighed, "I think it could be a case. I also think the guy could just be whiny and middle-aged."

Sliver looked at Michaels, "I know. If he insists we take it and he's wrong, it isn't a case, Michaels should have to do our clinic duty too."

Foreman snorted, "uh, no. Nice try. Ideas, people."

"Lupus, fibro... what's that iron thing? Hemo-something?" said Murasaki.

"Hemochromitosis," supplied Silver, "you took all the good ones."

Murasaki laughed.

"Could be a sleep disorder. Maybe some form of epilepsy," suggested Michaels.

"Right," said Murasaki, "suggest things that take time to treat."

Michaels rolled his eyes, "bite me."

"Happy to," said Silver and Murasaki at the same time.

Murasaki and Michaels looked at Silver, who blushed.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Can we stick to the medicine, people? Okay, Silver, draw blood, do an ANA and check the iron levels. Michaels, get him a bed in the sleep lab for tonight. You get to avoid clinic duty by staying up watching the patient's EEG. Murasaki, check for tender points for fibro."

They nodded, and left.

Foreman walked back into his own office, opening the door to House's office.

House was sitting in his wheelchair, feet propped up on the table, glaring holes through his whiteboard.

Foreman came in, touching House's shoulder.

"Hey," he said, "how's your patient?"

"Dying," said House, "how's yours?"

"Tired and sore."

"Sounds like a thrilling case."

"I think Michaels just wanted to avoid clinic duty."

House snorted, "at least you picked one smart fellow. Has Silver shown up on time once?"

"Yes. He fell asleep in the doctors' lounge watching TV and wandered into the office on time."

House laughed.

Then he reached up, and tugged Foreman down by his tie, "this was so much easier when I was taller than you."

Foreman smirked, as he kissed House.

House's pager went off.

House pulled away, looking at it.

"Damn."

"What?"

"The patient went psychotic and punched out Kutner."

"Ah," said Foreman, patting House on the shoulder, "see you later, then."

House nodded, and wheeled himself out of the room.

Foreman walked back into his own office, and stood, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

Yeah.

He was happy.

And he knew House was too.

It was a year later, when an email popped up on Foreman's computer.

‘A birthmother would like to meet you and your spouse. Please reply to set up a meeting time.'

He smiled, and pushed away from the computer.

"House!"