Author's Notes: Please don't try to look up what Peter has. You will probably be disappointed, because it does not exist. : ( .. As far as I know. Also, don't be a doctor while you read this. What happens probably makes little to no sense.

Part B:

His mother started working full-time when he was six.

She left before he and his brother were woken to get ready for school, and came home around five in the afternoon, complaining of leg and back pain. His father then left for an additional part time, overnight shift, coming home just as his mother walked out the door, getting four good hours of sleep after sending his sons to school, and heading for his day job around ten or so.

The problem was the neighborhood, his aunt said, whenever she came to visit. She would insist on them joining her out in Minnesota, where living was cheaper, where they'd be near family, support. Talk was made every so often, but that was all it ever amounted to.

The problem was his father's boss, and this was where Foreman learned words like bigot, cracker, bastard, through a thin wall that separated his and his brother's room from angry, badly hushed conversations. Never from his father, who was too exhausted at that point to do more than toe off his shoes and slump on the bed, even if he did want to complain. It was his mother that would say things like, quit and you don't have to take this, while his father would sigh and Eric would pretend to be asleep when his father came to wake them, never asking any questions.

The problem was his brother, who was always angry, always slamming doors and storming out in the middle of the night when Mom was just too tired, in too much pain to follow. Always in trouble, there were always meetings with the school and counselors and, later, the police.

Eric was too young to hate the cause of the problem; all he saw was the refrigerator growing more and more barren toward the end of the month, that his shoes had holes worn in the heel while his friends had five pairs of chucks that they alternated for each day of the week. He never asked about what the problem was, why he didn't receive toys still in the box on his birthday, because his mother and his father were so very tired, and obviously doing the best they could to fix it.

He knew there were people out there who lived a better life, he was surrounded by it, but it felt pointless to speculate seriously on coming up with ways of obtaining it, or ruing his parents for not providing it. It was as abstract as wishing to be a prince of his own country. That was not his life, it would never be his life.

When he was twelve, he skipped a grade and his brother went to prison for the first time. His mother quit her job and Foreman, when he bothered to think about it, figured this was because three mouths were easier to feed than four, having not noticed she was mixing up names more and more often. Getting lost in the grocery store became a regular occurrence, to-do lists were pinned everywhere, getting more and more asinine as time passed. Turn on machine, put in clothes, add detergent (bleach for whites), close lid, was brought along to the laundry mat, not for Foreman's benefit, but his mother who began to rely on it more and more.

Had they been living in better conditions, a trip to a doctor would've no doubt been arranged the first time she put up resistance on getting corrected-- when 'It's Eric, mom,' received 'I'm not in the mood for games, Rodney,' instead of an embarrassed chuckle. It seemed impossible to handle something so serious, though, when one was putting on two pairs of socks on rainy days, instead of getting a new pair of shoes.

The fact that there was something Wrong hung heavy and dark over their home, and when his brother finally served his time, Foreman followed him back into the street, just to get away from his father's desperate silences and his mother's lists.

Problems like these; cruel bosses, paying rent, saving food for harder days, the inability to get healthcare, must've seemed incomprehensible to any child living in the Chase home. Remembering objects that held value in their family -- his mother's jewelry, his grandmother's silver -- felt ridiculous when staring at a library filled with first editions, first editions that were obviously not held in any particular regard by their owner.

He'd visited luxurious homes without blinking, his own place was certainly nothing to be scoffed at, but the same unnamable quality in Chase the man that set Foreman on edge seemed to rest in Chase the home. It pulled him straight back to stained carpets, duct taped holes in windows, going to bed hungry. Nothing Foreman was ashamed of, but it definitely set a somber tone.

Maybe it was the dead feeling saturated in the very walls that made the nostalgia so strong, a sort of feeling only land marked, homes turned museums had. Places meant for touring, observing -- not living.

House would've loved it, Foreman was sure. House would've dissected everything that made the place so lifeless with masturbatory glee. It was as if the entire Chase family had called it quits at the same moment, dropping everything and not looking back. In the first room Foreman had looked in, an office of some sort, a lone book sat on a desk, open and waiting for the next page to be turned in obvious vain. The top drawer was open enough for Foreman to make out pens and pencils, highlighters. Someone had paused with the intention of resuming, and he couldn't help but wonder. Had it been forgotten, or abandoned?

Weirdness and oddities and little bits of the Chase puzzle were scattered every which way. Foreman had to ignore pieces -- rooms with bold, framed art on one wall, wallpaper ripped crudely off on the other. If it was looters taking advantage of an abandoned home and duct taped keys, they were remarkably courteous thieves -- the kind that leave behind anything of apparent value and wait to take out their frustration on pillows and bathroom mirrors.

All the doors on the upper level were fitted with locks, but three of those locks had the latches on the outside. To keep people in, was what House would've guessed. But Foreman wasn't House and he didn't go around assuming things about people. It was entirely possible it was just a style of knob that just looked like a lock -- or not, actually, once he tested it, but maybe they just enjoyed the look, but Foreman wasn't speculating, so it didn't matter.

The upstairs room Foreman picked had the luxurious bedding arrangement department stores often tried to mimic, but failed; pillows made stiff and awkward to look fluffier. Unsurprisingly, this bedding was the genuine article, with pillows that actually were that soft and despite his uneasiness, he slept peacefully.

Chase didn't.

"Shouldn't've slept on the plane," he muttered miserably upon waking, then stumbled from one random room to another and proceeded to take a three minute shower, one that was cut short when he realized what time it was.

They'd woken later than either of them would've liked. The alarm Foreman set on his phone was for eight in the morning, but in his after-fight-desperate-for-sleep-wisdom, had lacked the foresight to adjust for the time difference.

Noises were made about picking up breakfast on the way to the hospital, but as 10:30 became 10:34, and 10:36 as they pulled into the hospital's parking lot, agreed that they could wait for a big lunch.

Blond hair was still drying as they made their way inside Chase's relative's hospitals, which Foreman was relieved to find had walls. Solid, oak walls, something the open spaces of Princeton-Plainsboro taught him never to take for granted.

Dr. Harrison was the head diagnostician and first doctor to greet them. Tall, blond and astoundingly polite. He spoke with a soft, warm confidence that could probably start saying, 'Why don't we take a walk off the third story balcony?' and you'd find yourself nodding along, if just to please him.

"It's great to finally meet you," was how he greeted Chase, shaking his hand as if it were an actual pleasure to do so. "We've heard great things, great things. We were really looking forward to your visit -- if only it was on better terms, right? And Dr. Foreman," he had turned to him, serious and grateful, and just the smallest bit eerie. "It's an honor, really, it is. Peter has had us all chasing shadows, we've been looking forward to some fresh eyes."

"Well," Foreman said, and glanced at Chase, but he was no help, looking just as disarmed as he felt. "Yes."

Dr. Harrison nodded as if he'd said something intelligent, "I assume you want to visit with Peter? Or go over some of his history?"

"A look would be nice," Foreman said, thankful for something to say, and a thick folder was put into his hands before he could finish. "Dr. Chase has been kind of tight lipped."

"Of course," Dr. Harrison said, sympathetically, and Foreman wondered how someone could manage being that sincere without imploding. "This must be difficult, your brother told me how close the two of you were."

Foreman took a quick glance at the file of Peter R. Chase, then back at the Robert one; "Brother?"

"Half brother, yeah," Chase said, shrugging once. Apparently treating one's own brother for an unnamed disorder was old hat, just not worth mentioning. Foreman had to keep this in mind, it might come in handy later.

"Very tightlipped, apparently," Dr. Harrison said with some amusement, then straight to business again. "Dr. Chase and I will tell Peter of your arrival, and you can join us when you feel caught up?"

"Sounds good," he agreed, and didn't bother to watch the two doctors disappear down the hall, delving into the folder immediately.

It was thick with a detailed history, results from various tests, notes. A suspiciously elevated SED rate was how Peter's story began, taking a surprising twist at hallucinations and a sudden fever, climaxing at a seemingly random and abrupt liver failure, followed by a sudden bout of seizures, heart difficulty, and ending in a cautious period of recovery.

Individually, the symptoms were little better than boring, but the combination was almost fascinating, and he could understand not only why House had agreed to look at it, but why Chase had been unwilling to discuss them. There was nothing hard to speculate about at this point, nothing that brainstorming would help with. The only logical steps left were retests-- which and guesses.

Lupus was tempting, but only at first, losing its appeal when one realized both steroids and immunosuppressants had slowed down exactly nothing.

That ruled out any obvious autoimmune disease, Foreman sighed, held the MRI up the light for a second look as he walked down the hall, into Peter's room.

Either a very quiet conversation abruptly halted when Foreman walked into the room, or they had been sitting in an awkward silence the entire time. Judging by Chase's rigid posture -- one didn't work shoulder to shoulder with a man for two years without learning his various postures -- the latter was entirely possible, and, more than likely.

They stared as he awkwardly replaced the MRI, and Foreman was pretty sure Peter was Chase's half-brother, but only because it would've been an absurdly complicated lie. The man propped up on the hospital bed looked too large for life; huge hands and long limbs, and not that Chase was terribly short, but he certainly wasn't anywhere near the exaggerated size of his brother. The most striking difference had to be the face, though. Even with the obvious wariness that hung heavily on the shoulders of any one afflicted with a serious illness, the large man looked ready to joke, and would like nothing better than to make someone else laugh.

Settled beside the bed was an older woman, who was skinny in the way that looked unhealthy and fragile but Foreman knew was entirely natural. She stood at his entrance, hugging herself defensively as she approached.

"Is this Dr. House, then?"

"Actually, I'm Dr. Foreman," he said.

"Cathrine," she said, taking Foreman's hand. Her face was long, thin and drawn and especially miserable, even for her situation. "Peter's mother. Tell me, when is Dr. House going to get here?"

Chase refused to make eye contact with anyone other than the tips of his shoes, answering stiffly. "Dr. House will be in constant contact with us while we're here--"

"So he's not coming?" Cathrine said, and Foreman wondered if it was the accent that made her seem so curt. It was the same bizarre mix that Chase's father had, except she wasn't nearly as skilled at it. Each word sounded like a fumbling battle between the two languages, and the Czech tongue was much stronger. "You said you would be able to get him to come, Robert."

"Dr. House is notoriously hands-off," Foreman said, calmly. "Trust me, you'll be getting just as much attention from him as you would if he were in the same hospital. Maybe even more."

He might as well have said, 'Please stare at me as though I am a complete and utter idiot,' because that's all she seemed able to do for about three seconds.

"What does he think then?" she said, crossing her arms. "What is his first diagnosis?"

Chase answered in a dull way he used when arguing with House and knew he wouldn't be listened to, as though he expected to be interrupted, "House wants us to approach this as though it were a blank slate--"

"Of course, all the tests he's," a wild gesture toward Peter, who looked mildly exhausted with his mother's actions, "been put through were worthless."

"Any possible changes that could've occurred since the original tests were taken could help figure out what's happening to your son," Foreman said, trying a sterner tone that usually got the less reasonable of people to listen. "The best thing for Peter would be to have the freshest information possible."

She opened her mouth undoubtedly to say something unpleasant, when Peter finally spoke up.

"Mum, it's fine. Rob knows what he's doing."

"Yes, because Robert has such a great record already," she bit out. "And this isn't Robert. This isn't House, like he said it would be. This is Doctor American, Doctor Affirmative Hire, that's what they call it?"

Barefaced racism, and Foreman was so used to underhanded, clever jibs that it took him a moment to do more than stare.

Dr. Harrison didn't have that problem, though, wincing. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

"Excuse me?"

"Well -- you've just made us all aware of a huge person shortcoming you have, I'm assuming from how you were raised. I'm sorry, that must be terribly embarrassing," Dr. Harrison said. "Don't worry, leveler heads have done nothing but praise Dr. Foreman's performance. I can assure you, it's an honor to have him here."

And that was that. Cathrine frowned tightly, Peter shifted and Chase's bangs fell forward, looking mildly ill. The man, that is -- the hair was dry now and looked as floppy and blond as ever.

"Right then," Dr. Harrison said, but it was too short to really fill the awkward silence that had settled, and every set of eyes in the room watched Foreman as he moved to the chair placed next the bed, desperate for something to distract them from the fact that they were forced to be there.

Foreman shifted and did his best to rise above the silence, the woman glaring in the corner and the man who had dragged him here, only to shrink into the opposite corner.

"So, Peter," he said, his voice bravely beating at the silence with loud, flat strokes, and staring down at the file because it was probably the safest place to look at this point. "You were twenty-four when your diabetes was diagnosed?"

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Type one," Foreman noted idly. "Doesn't normally develop that late in life."

"So we've heard," came Cathrine's voice from what was no doubt a very miserable corner of the room.

"And your first symptoms?"

"I thought you were running tests again, not having him tell to you what you could just as easily read," Cathrine said before Peter could even open his mouth.

"How about Mrs. Chase and I go over some family history again?" Harrison said, with oddly sincere cheeriness, as if the woman resembled a person more than she did an acid spitting toad.

"I didn't miss anything the first time," she insisted.

"I'd be surprised of you did," Harrison said agreeably. "But I could've overlooked a question or two, and Dr. Foreman's right, it's never a bad idea to double check."

She allowed herself to be led out the door, and Foreman couldn't tell if Harrison was a saint or idiot.

"So," Chase said, once the door closed, drawing their attention back to the man in the bed. "Your first symptom?"

"I don't know if it's important," Peter said, and both doctors leaned forward unconsciously; the lucky phrase, the phrase that cracked open every case, nearly without fail, "but I switched from briefs to boxers two days before it all started happening, so everything was a little floppier than usual down there, if you know what I mean."

Chase muffled his snort badly.

"You aren't going to write that down?" Peter asked once he noticed Foreman's still hand, scarily earnest. "There's a chart on the door for how often I piss, and you're letting gold like that go?"

"I don't think we'll need notes to remember it," Foreman assured him.

"Let's go through the events that led you to getting admitted," Chase said.

"So, the first thing was the out of breath, right? I was jogging -- and flopping --"

"Yeah, we got that," Foreman said quickly.

"Right," Peter said, obviously amused at causing discomfort. "Out of breath, and started feeling lightheaded, so I scheduled the check up. They found something 'worrying' and I haven't left a hospital since."

"And you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary before going for your jog?"

"Not that -- Well," and against his better judgment, Foreman found himself leaning forward again. "They've faded now, but I started getting these weird little freckle things on my thighs a while before all this happened."

Foreman gave the file a quick glance. "You didn't mention that in the first report."

"Didn't think to. Does it mean anything?"

"We'll be looking at every angle," Chase said. "Do you remember anything distinctive about them? How could you tell they weren't just freckles?"

"They were bright red, but they didn't itch, and I could tell they weren't zits cause they were all flat," Peter said, and didn't miss the glance Foreman and Chase exchanged. "There weren't very many of them -- what does it mean?"

"It could mean nothing," Foreman said, but was sure to take note of it because it could just as easily mean everything.

"And there weren't any other symptoms you didn't think to mention?" Chase asked.

"Nothing I didn't go to the hospital for," Peter sighed. "Then . . . "

"Then your file might as well belong to five different people," Chase muttered. "Symptoms appear and disappear again for no discernable reason."

"And there was no change in routine before all this happened? No changes in diet, no new places?"

Peter shrugged. "Not especially."

"Even the not especial changes are important."

Peter was either extremely honest or manipulative, Foreman wasn't sure. He did the whole deal of raising his eyebrows and looking to the ceiling bit as he concentrated. He'd just started to speak when the door opened, and a nurse popped his head in.

"Is either of you a Dr. Foreman?"

Chase and Foreman exchanged briefed, surprised glances wondering who in Australia could possibly want anything with him. "Yeah," a Dr. Foreman said.

"You've got a call from," the nurse closed his eyes, resigning himself, "Oliver Clothesoff."

He exchanged another brief, this time unimpressed look with Chase. "Have fun," Chase said, "I've got this."

"Sure," he said, only adding, "only if Cathrine doesn't come back," once he was alone at the nursing station, lifting the phone. "This is Foreman."

"Your cell phone's off," House said, disgruntled.

"I wonder if that has anything to do with me being in a hospital," he said flatly.

"I thought I told you to call once you got in."

"I thought you were getting a hotel."

"At those prices? You could've paid some Kirks and Spocks to sleep out in the hall if you got desperate."

Foreman rolled his eyes. "We're running all the tests over again, but it doesn't look like anything we haven't seen before. Although he did mention some maculing occurred before the asthenia hit. "

"Interesting," House said, pretending to be French for no apparent reason. "How before? Weeks, hours?"

"Didn't say."

"Find out. Anything new in family history?"

"Not yet, Dr. Harrison is getting it a second time."

"As much as I admire Dr. Harrington--"

"Harrison."

"He doesn't work for me. Get it again."

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "Chase knows the history, unless you think he's hiding medically relevant information just so this whole trip can have a dramatic ending?"

"You think Chase's family is completely honest with him? Or do you think if he asks real nicely they'll be honest with him now?"

Foreman thought of Cathrine's pinched face and resisted the urge to shudder. "I'll do what I can."

He took a deep breath before rounding on the woman in the sitting room, trying his best to smile before settling down beside her.

"Have Peter and Robert always been so close?"

She raised an eyebrow and blew cigarette smoke out through her teeth. "Most people start conversations with 'hello.'"

Foreman kept the smile on, but it was a marvel. "Heh, sorry."

"No. Peter did not get anywhere near Robert or his mother for a very long time. We moved here when he was five so he could be close to his father, and that's when we found out about Rowan's little girlfriend," she sneered. "It was disgusting. She was a child, not even half his age, and he looked ridiculous. And it's not as if she was mature, either. I was sure she'd be around for not even a year, but then she got herself pregnant. Maybe with Rowan's son, I've always doubted, but he married her anyway. I did not want Peter to interact with such a family until he was not so impressionable."

The girl in the picture had looked so . . . wholesome. But, as unreliable of a source that Cathrine was, Foreman could think of very few reasons why a girl that young would get together with someone Rowan Chase's age. Actually, only one reason. "So how old was he when you decided they could be around each other?"

"Peter started staying over his father's house when he was ten, eleven. Rowan would go off to work and that little . . ." she shook her head. "She would leave them alone in the house to go 'hang' with friends. Drink. When I found out about that, though, Peter was much older and had decided that he enjoyed keeping Robert company. I was not in a position to stop him." She took a shaky inhale of her cigarette, closing her eyes. "This whole thing is some awful joke. Rowan's gone and our Peter's last chance is Kathleen's bastard son. No mother on earth deserves this."

Foreman had a feeling she was one of the closest. "I understand it can feel like a hopeless situation, but--"

"Oh please," she snorted. "We've taken him to the best doctors in the world, you think you and Robbie will save the day?"

"I've seen stranger things."

"Pete--"

"Just one more, alright?"

Chase's sigh was extremely put upon. "One more."

Foreman hesitated just outside the door, figuring he felt about as guilty for eavesdropping as Chase did about dragging a coworker to another continent.

"Circle jerks," Peter said, Chase groaned and Foreman blinked, "No, cause, really, you don't actually touch the other guy, so is it a sin? And maybe you're not even looking at him, he just happens to be in the room, you know?"

"Any sexual encounter outside of marriage is frowned on by the church," Chase said, sounding like he'd said the same thing countless times before. "You finished?"

"Yes," Peter said. "Almost."

"You said one more--"

"I know, and this time I mean it, just one more."

"If it's another question about gay sex--"

"It's not, I swear," Peter said in a tone that spoke of expecting to believed, more than actual cajoling.

"Go ahead."

"Alright, so, say you're having sex--"

"With a woman?"

"Yeah, I said no gay sex."

"You also said just one more question."

"It's like you don't trust me at all, Robbie. Anyway, so you're having sex with a woman and it turns out she's kind of a freak, and decides she wants to go exploring a little. In the back if you know--"

"Yeah, I got it."

"But instead of just using her fingers, she has an actual strap-on or whatever she wants to use. Is that a sin, to get fucked up the ass, if it's by a woman?"

"Is she your spouse?"

"Sure."

"Then you won't have sinned, but when you get to heaven you'll be forced to wear a sign around your neck that says, 'I am a massive pussy, feel free to point and mock.'"

"God is cruel."

"Tell me about it," Chase said, but Foreman could hear the smile in his voice. Now would be the best time to walk in, Foreman thought, make them aware of his presence. Familial bonding took backseat to doing their job, and it sounded logical and right in his head, but he couldn't bring himself to go toward the door.

Never mind this was probably the least helpful way Chase could be spending his time, considering.

"You want details?" Peter was saying, "Bebe is off the market."

"Bebe -- Double D Bebe?"

"Double D, spread her legs for free, Bebe," Peter's sigh had layers of an unspeakable tragedy. "Now Mrs. McCormick. "

"Pete . . . I'm so sorry. You're never going to have sex again." It had been a while since he'd heard Chase sound so . . . relaxed.

After a moment of indecision, Foreman stepped back, and decided to see if he could find Dr. Harrison. There had to be something he could do to keep his hands busy.

"Your family is a trip, man," and Foreman winced inwardly. He hadn't meant for it to come out of nowhere, but a big lunch had gotten pushed back to a huge dinner, which they were both too busy shoveling food during to talk for the first five minutes. This was the first time he'd had the change to speak since leaving the hospital. Still, the case persisted, the folder open and taunting, beside a plate of chips, given occasional, lingering glances.

"I've always thought so." Chase actually seemed amused, stabbing at a large bowl of pasta.

"Seriously," Foreman insisted. "Cathrine has issues."

There was a wad of food in Chase's cheek, and he froze, but didn't look up from his meal. "She's not normally so . . . "

"But people who get so?" Foreman shook his head, "have issues."

"Yeah," he said, swallowing thickly, and twirled his fork briefly, risking the danger of staining everything in the area red for the sake of his twitch. "I'm sorry about that."

"About what?"

"The whole . . . " Chase said uncomfortably, obviously glad to have food in front of him, to have his hands busy, now using both a fork and spoon to gather noodles. "She's a bitch."

Foreman snorted, "The only person who should be apologizing for her is herself. And maybe her mother."

Foreman ate, and Chase watched.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just," Chase shook his head, going back to his bowl. "Nothing."

"Any new ideas?" Foreman asked after a bit, nodding toward the folder.

Chase shrugged. "An infection and aggravated TKS?"

"Steroids would've sent TKS into overdrive, there's no way they would've missed that."

"His immune system was suppressed, there'd be no sign to check for it," Chase pointed out. "Blood work will tell us."

"Think we could talk them into doing a lumbar puncture?" he asked offhandedly, imagining any sensible doctor's look of shock and distaste at the mere suggestion.

Chase actually considered it. "House would."

"That's convincing."

He made a noise of amused agreement, but it sounded almost flat, and Foreman realized that would be because it was; but only when compared to the honest amusement he'd shown when talking with Peter.

"I'll give it four more days before his heart starts giving out completely," he said, suddenly quite somber, "I'll bet they'll be willing to do one then."

"Probably," Foreman said, refusing to get pulled down under. "Four days seems kind of soon, though."

"I'm an optimist."

"Refills?" an extraordinarily chipper voice asked, just moments before an extraordinarily chipper young lady appeared.

Foreman nodded, and their empty cups vanished quickly in her best impression of Please Leave Me A Good Tip, or maybe just, I'm Still Sorry For Carding Your Friend When You Ordered Alcohol.

"You drank all that?" Chase asked, sounding scandalized.

"So did you."

"Yeah, but I want to get buzzed," Chase said. "You drank it for . . . enjoyment, I'm guessing?"

"It's not that bad."

Chase stared at Foreman for a moment. "I would honestly not be surprised if she was taking those cups into the bathroom and squatting--"

"You're the first two I've ever seen ask for refills on these!" Chipper Voice returned, placing their drinks on the table and chipper as ever in the face of the charming smile Chase plastered on.

"Then why do you still carry it?" Chase asked, taking a sip and looking, now that Foreman was actually paying attention, remarkably pained.

Chipper Voice rolled her eyes, "It's from a local brewery, one that my boss's sister just happens to run. We tried to fix it up some, but most people still can't stand it."

Foreman ignored Chase's pointed look, "I think we're ready for our checks."

And Chipper Voice took off. Chase shifted, grabbing his coat from the other end of the booth, "You willing to go look for a hotel with actual room?"

"I already checked around," Foreman said, and at Chase's puzzled look, "at the hospital, I called around."

Chase blinked. "You -- that's what you were doing at the hospital? When I couldn't find you? You were on the phone?" It wasn't accusatory at all, but he was certainly disarmed.

"As opposed to what?" Foreman asked blandly. "Grabbing Peter's shoulders and shaking out whatever's wrong with him?"

And Chase's expression said, why yes, he had expected him to do just that.

It was an odd moment. He hadn't hidden the fact that he chose Foreman because he was the best choice, but Foreman hadn't really bothered to think about what that meant: Chase was pinning his hope on Foreman, wholly and utterly. He was putting his faith in the fact that Foreman was smart, and he worked hard, and he did whatever he could.

Foreman had never thought of himself as infallible, so he'd never really had to come to terms with making a mistake -- it was always a possibility, each choice he made was fifty-fifty. It was odd, to see someone else swallowing that. Not only swallowing it, but obviously finding the taste of it bitter. It was something he supposed he should've been used to by now, working with patients and families that depended on him, but he wasn't often chosen to deliver bad news to people with clenched hands in waiting rooms.

"I did all I could today," Foreman said firmly and Chase nodded immediately, of course, it would be ridiculous to think otherwise. But the revelation he'd had was obviously still there, firm, and Foreman wasn't sure why he felt guilty about it.

Chase had downed both their drinks by the time the checks arrived, and didn't put up any protest when Foreman took the keys, just in case.

Chase slept like a child, splayed across the bed, shifting and occasionally sighing, as if this whole sleeping business was harder than previously anticipated. Also like a child, he resisted getting up.

"You can't always be like this," Foreman said, leaning on the wall on the outside of the bathroom as Chase shaved hurriedly. "You're usually the first one in the office."

"It's the middle of the night for me," Chase protested, slightly muffled, and a peak in the room revealed him working on particularly delicate areas of neck. "And you. So you're the freak, here."

Foreman didn't respond, as the mild jibe wasn't nearly as interesting as staring at Chase's bare upper body, which was a fascinating mix of strength and fragility; muscles were there, certainly, but they were smooth and unimposing. Slender. He was a very slender man, and there was almost a boyish quality to his narrow chest, but it was obviously there to stay. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't often appreciate other men's chest that made Chase's seem so appealing.

He wasn't sure how a throat clearing could sound accented, but Chase managed it, and Foreman glanced up to see Chase's amused expression, briefly giving Foreman a once over in return.

The staring contest was broke by Chase, turning on the faucet and running the razor under the tap. "Hand me my bag?"

The bag laid just behind Foreman's feet and was easy enough to hoist in the wide, marble counter, and before he could think of leaving to give Chase privacy, the paler man zipped it open, and Foreman's mouth fell open, just a bit.

"What?" he asked, digging through the mess of clothes, yanking out a tie that reminded Foreman of a particularly messy surgery, jerking twice to free it of various hangers-ons.

Foreman closed his eyes. "You just shoved everything in there."

Chase stared blankly. "So?"

Foreman was speechless. Each article of clothing was sloppily, individually balled up and shoved in every available cranny of Chase's duffle bag, disorganized and chaotic. "Have you ever heard of folding? You can't wear this!" Foreman declared, lifting a random ball of cloth, shaking it out twice to get it to regain a recognizable shape, and even then with all the creases and wrinkles, it looked more like a caricature of a button up shirt, scribbled out by a child with an unsteady hand.

"I'll have a jacket on," Chase protested, grabbing said shirt out of Foreman's hands and slipping it on, working the buttons from the bottom up.

"You didn't wear something from this yesterday, did you?" he asked, wondering how he could've possibly missed it.

"We were late, I wore what I did on the plane," he muttered, finishing the top two buttons. He winced at the crinkled mess, winced a little more when smoothing it down just made it worse. "This isn't going to work, is it?"

"That depends on your definition of work," Foreman shook his head. "You -- hold on."

The way Foreman's shirt hung on Chase's frame could've been a stylistic choice, if one was trying to bring to mind pirates and frontiersmen. The collar was low on his throat, the cuffs ending near his first knuckle, but it was infidelity better than anything he had.

"You wore this yesterday?" he asked, buttoning the cuffs as they trooped down the stairs and out the door. "It smells like you."

"Sorry," Foreman said, but didn't bother to hide that that was a lie. Chase was more than welcome to go back upstairs to his mess of luggage--

"No, not -- it doesn't stink." He was blushing, ducking his head as he climbed in the car. "Never mind."

--He swallowed down any blatant smug, and tried not to sit too comfortably on the way to the hospital.

"All the blood work should be done," Chase speculated as they pulled into the hospital.

"Should," Foreman agreed. "We'll probably have to wait for the MRI results, though, which will be more helpful."

"You're hoping Peter has a tumor so small every specialist in Australia missed it?" He sounded more tired than skeptical.

"I'm hoping it's grown in size since the two weeks the last MRI was taken."

The comment was apparently worth a shrug and a cock of the head, but not much else.

He made a show of parking, slowly turning, and pausing before he took the car out of gear, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes.

"Maybe Cathrine stayed home today," he said flatly.

"Maybe Cathrine got hit by a truck today," Foreman suggested brightly and Chase snorted.

Sadly, Cathrine hadn't done either; she sat miserably in the waiting area, practically pouncing on the two of them when they exited the elevator, demanding the results of various tests that they had no information on. Dr. Harrison was quick to bat her away, however, ushering the two of them into a lounge.

"No changes," Dr. Harrison said. "we should have him prepped for some of the blood work in a few hours, if you want to observe."

"Any results we can look at now?" Foreman asked, and Dr. Harrison's head cocked slightly to the side.

"Pardon?"

"The results of the tests you ran last night?" Chase asked.

Dr. Harrison eyed the two of them slowly, "I don't know how fast you work in the states, but I had to pull strings to get Peter scheduled this soon. And the results of today's work won't be ready for a week, at least."

"In that case, schedule a lumbar puncture now, cause he'll need it in a few days anyway."

"We're doing what we can. If he does become a high risk, he'll get priority. Until then, we'll just have to be patient," Dr. Harrison said. Foreman wondered how the same accent could make one man so dignified, and another's words simply rounded off and child-safe. The older doctor nodded his goodbye, drifting down the hall.

"You don't have anything?" House actually sounded near tears. But Foreman decided to discard this as evidence for his humanity; the tears were closer to disgusted, I-Can't-Believe-It tears more than any actual human emotion.

"We can't run the tests, House, we're not licensed here. All we can do is give input and ask pretty please, so they probably haven't put any importance on our results."

House either sighed or growled, it was hard to tell with the reception.

A moment of complete silence later, Foreman checked the call's status and discovered House had either hung up, or the Cell Phone Gods had frowned upon him.

"What'd House say?" Chase asked, settling down beside him with two muffins. One he started picking the wrapper off the bottom, and the second drifted closer to Foreman than not.

"You'll have to ask Cameron, cause he hung up on me," Foreman said, trading his phone for the muffin.

"So we have a day of thumb-twiddling."

"Or," Chase suggested, "We could go look through Peter's home, his pub."

"His pub? As in, his own pub?"

"He's been working there for the past fifteen years. The guy who owned it died a while back, left it to Pete," Chase explained, already going for his keys. "I could go, you could stay and observe."

"As charming as Cathrine is, I think I'll pass."

They were already driving off the hospital property when Foreman's phone rang.

"The results will be in tomorrow," House said, because 'hello' is just boring. "How about you do something useful with the thousands of dollars it took to fly you both down there and look around his home and work?"

"Already on our way," Foreman said. Silence. Foreman's brow creased -- they were still connected. "Hello?"

"I- I'm just so proud," House said. "You work so hard, moments like these make it all worthwhile."

"Goodbye, House."

"What?" Chase asked, indicating he could tell the difference between normal Foreman and not impressed Foreman.

"Just House."

Peter's apartment came as something of a shock after the splendor of Chase's.

"That was my father's home," Chase corrected irritably. "He didn't pay for any of his kid's places."

Foreman wanted to say, 'it shows,' but he really wasn't House and had some self control. In any case, it was cozy at best. Small, somewhat messy, and it reminded Foreman of a dorm or frat house, there was nothing of real value of substance. Posters hung on walls with tacks, a stack of DVDs beside an impressive television, a stained sofa, and clothes. Clothes were everywhere, left to fend for themselves and Foreman had a disturbing image of Peter simply shedding his pants, as soon as the mood hit him.

Surprisingly, and thankfully, the kitchen was spotless, dishes stacked neatly in the cabinets. "I don't think he's touched these since I helped him moved in," Chase laughed, swiping at a top plate, his finger coming back gray and dust-covered.

"I don't think we'll find anything," Foreman said, emerging from an equally suspiciously clean bedroom. "It doesn't even look like he lived here. He definitely didn't eat or sleep here."

Chase nodded, kicking a pair of shorts from the middle of the hallway to the side, "I'm pretty sure the only reason he bothers to come back here at all is because that's where his clothes are." He said this in an amused, almost proud tone, and Foreman couldn't fault him. His older brother, for all his stupid, awful mistakes, was still the coolest person in the world in some corner of his mind, too.

"Think he's been living with a girlfriend?" Foreman asked, taking a quick peek in the bathroom, just to make sure. Barren. Not even a toothbrush.

"Not that I'm aware of, but that doesn't mean much."

"We can ask around at the bar," said he, and it was about a two minute walk to Pete's Pub.

The wood work of the sign was either homemade or an extremely expensive imitation of homemade, the es awkward and each letter nailed individually above the single, plain door, that turned out to be made of thick metal and clanged shut obnoxiously loud behind them.

All one of the pub's inhabitants stood sharp at the noise, her ponytail flopping around her neck as she swung around to see them. The young woman relaxed almost immediately at the sight of two strange men wandering in, and Foreman couldn't help but wonder she'd been expecting if that was a comfort. "Sorry mates, it's not open till four," she said, her accent thick and almost undecipherable, "come back in an hour, it's lady's night."

"Actually," Foreman said, when Chase gave no indication he was going to, "we're here to talk to someone about Peter Chase."

"You aren't cops," she said, approaching, shifting a tray half filled with dishware that had looked so at home propped on her hip that Foreman hadn't noticed she was even carrying it until she set it aside.

"No," agreed Chase, "we're his doctors. And I'm Robert, Peter's brother." Foreman really shouldn't've been surprised at the introduction; he'd had enough warning that Chase was Robert. It was still odd to hear.

"Kathy's boy?" said the woman, sticking her arm out with a smile. "I'm Wendy, I'm in charge until you all get Pete on his feet again. You're?"

"Eric Foreman," said Eric Foreman, and was mildly thankful they weren't going anywhere soon where he'd be known as Charlotte's boy.

"Pleasure," Wendy said, and lifted the tray back onto her hip, "You had some questions? I was here the last time Peter was --sorry, I gotta take these to the back -- but I don't know what help I'll be."

They followed her into a narrow, well used kitchen. "Any new people food, places. He talk about a new girlfriend?" Foreman asked, sidestepping pots that dangled over a metal stove, into the walkway.

"You guys don't have any ideas yet?" Wendy asked. "It's been a month, hasn't it?"

"Well, we literally just got in, hit the ground running," Chase said.

"They sent away for you? So this is really serious?" she said. "Um, no, no new girlies, no new hangouts, and I'd know. He wasn't exactly quiet about his personal life. He was perfectly fine last time I saw him, too. I was sure he was faking."

"How about you walk us through Peter's last day here, and then maybe we can have a look around?"

"Not for too long," she said, the first sign of wariness in the two strange men she had just met. "Pete's last day. Let's see, he came in at two, to help opening. Went to the back to fix some of stools. Spent the rest of the time in his office, testing Norville's new batch of junk for the bar."

"Norville's?" Foreman asked, at the same time Chase asked, "Junk?"

"Do you have any of it around?"

"It tasted like shit, so probably not. Hold on," Wendy turned and screamed, "Leo! See if we got any of that Norville shit in the back!" Chase climbed down from the ceiling as Leo, presumably, hollered back a presumed, 'alright!' and Wendy stacked cups, shaking her head. "It's made of all this all-natural stuff, and this local brewery tries to sell it to the local pubs. It always tastes like piss, but Peter always gives them their shot. Tests out each flavor before turning them straight down."

They exchanged a glance. "You wouldn't know if they serve the same stuff at Doyles?"

"I would have no idea," Wendy said. "Sorry."

"None of it in the back," Presumably Leo said while passing by the kitchen entrance, heaving a table from the presumed back. "Could always check Pete's office, though, I think he was tasting some last time he was in."

"His office is the down that hall, last door on the right, help yourself," she said. " If you have any other questions, I'm here."

If Peter wasn't living at home, he certainly wasn't living at his office. There was a fairly cluttered desk and a trash can, and that was about it. There were remnants of fast-food from long ago, but not the trash heap he'd been expecting.

"It can't be the same stuff," Foreman said, going for the desk. "We'd been showing symptoms, too."

"Peter could've gotten his hands on a bad batch," said Chase, drifting toward a closet Foreman hadn't noticed at first.

"Tox screen didn't show any contaminants," Foreman pointed out, opening drawers and discovering things as devious as pens and notepads.

"Maybe they didn't test for it."

"They've tested," Foreman jerked the bottom, and largest, drawer open with a mighty pull. "For everything under the sun."

"Have not," Chase said with false petulance, in the voice he sometimes used to mimic a grumpy Cameron as he went through jacket pockets. "They've tested for everything reasonable under the sun."

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I should've made it clear I didn't think they were testing for beach balls," Foreman said, and when it took longer than a beat for Chase to respond, looked up from the desk.

He had his cell phone to his ear, brow creasing. "Chase."

"House?" Foreman guessed, thankful he'd finally found Chase's number.

Chase went white, gripping the phone tighter, "Oh. Thanks for calling."

Not House, then. "What?"

"Good news," he said, but it was not in the traditional 'happy' tone that usually occupied such news. "Dr. Harrison is scheduling that lumbar puncture."

"Peter's heart --"

"Has three days, at best." Chase's lips were a thin, tense line.

"You knew it was gonna happen," Foreman said after a moment. "Just sooner. This is good. Faster tests, right?"

"Yeah," Chase said, but Foreman was pretty sure he didn't agree. He looked like he wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands, eventually tucking his phone away in his back pocket, and Foreman was abruptly aware of how quiet it was. The distant sound of something heavy hitting the ground drifted in, then Wendy and Leo laughing hysterically.

"You go visit Peter. I'll finish up here," Foreman said, and when Chase opened his mouth to protest, "I can call a cab."

"I can stand around there looking worried or I can continue to be doing something useful," he said shortly.

Foreman tried to meet Chase's gaze but he refused, the latter staying as firm as he could, eventually crossing his arms. It wasn't often he went head-to-head in an argument, and he obviously wasn't sure how to brace himself for it, so Foreman struck before he could get it together, "You're going to go to the hospital, sit with your brother and keep House and me updated. I probably won't be long here anyway."

Chase looked like he was about to argue, his expression tense, but painfully young, emphasized by the oversized shirt. Something in Foreman's own expression must've convinced him it wasn't worth it because he shook his head, leaving the room without another word.

When Foreman arrived at the hospital, he found Chase sitting beside Peter's unconscious body, feet hooked under the chair, elbows on his knees.

"Find anything?" he asked without looking up, obviously expecting a no.

Foreman didn't disappoint. "Nothing. Any changes?"

"Yeah, Pete stood up and walked out an hour ago, just fine."

"Ah," Foreman said, taking the neighboring seat. "House'll be disappointed, considering he doesn't believe in God and all."

Chase didn't respond, eyes trained on not Peter, but the heart monitor beside his bed, the constant green spikes that were destined to die out, flat line. Unless he came up with something to stop it.

Foreman was about to suggest going to get Dr. Harrison, harassing him until the results were in or they were allowed to run them themselves, when Chase started talking, abruptly, as if Foreman had asked a question and it had just been hanging awkwardly.

"When my mum died," he said, "everyone kept saying how it expected it was. How they saw it coming. And I kept agreeing, but honestly, I always just assumed she'd get better, it was just taking a while. I never gave up on her, I couldn't. I should've seen it coming," he paused for a moment, and the heart monitor kept going. "I don't know . . . what should I do? Should I be giving up?"

"No one's saying anything about giving up," Foreman said, wondering when he became Cameron. "We've pulled people back from much further away than this."

"House has," Chase said, still not looking anywhere but the heart monitor. "House isn't here."

"When has he ever needed to see a patient?"

"He has three days."

"I had thirty-six hours."

"So you don't think I should be letting go?" Chase asked, actually making eye contact for the first time Foreman could remember in a long while.

He looked at his face, open and honest and so entirely removed from the House Jr. Foreman had been so desperate to dominate and fuck into the mattress, he wondered if what he saw before had ever actually been there, and he couldn't do anything but lie shamelessly. "No."

He didn't feel guilty. There was no reason to feel guilty, really, not yet. And, if there was a God who took a sudden liking to Peter, he might not even have to. As it was, Chase apparently trusted his opinion enough to pull himself together, follow Foreman down to the hospital's cafeteria for lunch.

"So TKS is off the table," Foreman started, barely got it out before Chase snorted.

"This is classic TKS, it's just angry, grumpy TKS."

"I didn't see any bacteria spewing fly traps in his home or work, did you?" Foreman asked.

"I think we've established that Peter was rarely at his home or office," he said, and was about to go on when his phone buzzed energetically on the table. He flipped it open, saying, rather blandly, "none of the results are in. The LP will be back tomorrow."

Foreman could make out three very distinct and rude words from the other side of the table, but Chase didn't blink.

"Yeah, apparently, in normal hospitals -- you know, the kind where cane-wielding psychopaths don't have blackmail material on every staff member? An LP takes about a day to schedule, even if it's a rush." Chase eyed his fingernails for a moment, glanced up at the clouds and pointed one out to Foreman that looked particularly giraffe shaped, and Foreman had to agree. Finally, House paused long enough for Chase to say, "I've got another call."

"I don't think there's --" Foreman blinked, "you actually have another call?"

Chase answered with, "Chase. You -- really? Ace, perfect. Thank you. I'll be right there. Thank you." Chase stood, grabbing his coat and forgetting his salad, "They found the cases of Norville's Peter was drinking."

"I thought we agreed that was a long shot?"

"It's the only shot we have right now," Chase said. "Can't hurt to check it out. I'll grab them, you get Dr. Harrison to let us use the lab."

"We aren't licensed--"

"I'm not licensed to treat alcohol in any country. I think it'll just be a matter of lab equipment."

Foreman watched him take off, then shrugged to no one.

It couldn't hurt.

Dr. Harrison was more than happy to allow them full access to the lab, observing for about a half hour and two of the bottles before getting called away.

"Think this is the same stuff as Doyles?" Chase asked, watching the machine spin.

"No idea," Foreman said. "I hope so, for the sake of everyone in this area, if they're both as horrible as they say."

Chase eyed one of the bottles that had been given a clean bill of health. "There's nothing in this for flavoring," he said, sounding mystified, staring at the ingredients.

"They did say it tasted like crap -- Did you just take a sip of that?"

Chase was shuddering. "Ugh, God. My tongue. It's like someone just pissed into a bottle. Worse than Doyles, easy." He held it out to Foreman, "here, you'll love it."

Foreman was not impressed.

"No, I'm serious. Give it a try."

"Take a sip of something we were just testing for possible mutagens and contaminations?"

"And it came back negative. This is probably the safest drink in Australia."

Foreman eyed the progress of the current bottle and shrugged, taking the beer and a tentative sip.

"This -- it's pretty good, what are you talking about?" Foreman asked, and going ahead to take another, larger gulp.

"Tastes just like that Fosters crap, doesn't it?" Chase said, licking at the edge of his lip and wincing at the taste he found there. Foreman tracked the movement, not bothering to hide it. Chase's lips weren't especially lush, but they were still lush, and they were especially pink, a shade that women all over the globe tried to duplicate. They would've been something of a joke, on any other man's face, Foreman was sure. But it fit, in a sickeningly attractive way, they sat pretty on Chase's face.

"We're not drunk," Chase's lips warned, and Foreman shifted his gaze upward, to pale, knowing eyes.

He was suddenly very aware of how charged the silence had become as he stared, and the very, very short distance between their thighs, shoulders. "Yeah."

"We're not even buzzed," Chase said, lips perking upward fearlessly, and it made a ridiculous sort of sense that this was the thing he could face, head on.

"Yeah," Foreman said, and could feel Chase's thigh flex next to his, the warmth fading then returning just as fast, the slight brush of the pant leg against his own. "I'm okay with that. You?"

Chase's eyebrows said, in a very non-impressed. "Hello?"

"How many bottles left?" Foreman asked.

"Three, counting this one."

Thirty minutes.

He could wait thirty minutes.

"Just -- we're almost to the door--"

Three bottles given a clean bill of health, a hasty ride to their temporary place, a few rushed steps and they were at the door. Chase's back, especially, was becoming very intimate with said door.

"Jesus," he panted when Foreman finally released his mouth, just to start on his neck. "How long have you been holding that in?"

Truthfully, it probably started after 'oops' and the attempt to button up a shirt when there weren't enough buttons to be found. But that was more of a reflex, as a Foreman wasn't anyone's oops. More recently, it was probably after seeing Chase in his shirt. "Thirty minutes," Foreman muttered, which was also true, moving a hand from Chase's hip and to the doorknob, rolling them both in.

They stumbled up the stairs, to the room Foreman had been sleeping in, shoes and ties abandoning this madness along the way.

Foreman had just unbuttoned his own shirt from Chase's frame, and was working on pulling the tight, white one beneath over his head when one of their cell phones began singing for attention. The lips against Foreman's hesitated, drifting away, and the whole bed moved with Chase's wild gropes for his phone.

"Don't. Do not answer it," Foreman said.

"Don't be stupid" said Chase's expression. Then, out loud and hopefully, "It's House," he said. "Chase." He batted halfheartedly at Foreman's hands, which weren't about to let a measly phone call cancel their exploration of what could be hiding beneath Chase's belt. "You brought in my mail? . . . No, of course. A proper family history would've been remiss if you didn't go through the personal belongings of someone who hasn't been in contact with your patient for over twelve years." Foreman idly wondered where he'd learned to keep his voice so steady as he bent to work on Chase's throat. "I obviously like the painting, I have it on my wall . . . no. Nothing. You don't have any . . . yeah, he's right here."

Foreman took the offered phone, easily overwhelming the other man's attempts to get up with a well placed weight shift. One didn't live the streets without learning a few good ways to keep a man down. "You have to see this painting. It speaks layers. And that's just about the person who would want it in their home." House's voice was one of the most unwelcome things he'd heard in quite some time.

"My hands are kind of full at the moment, House," Foreman said, smirking as he groped Chase firmly through his slacks, and the blond barely stifled a gasp, biting down on his own wrist. "If you want to make fun of Chase's decorating skills, I can clear up my schedule as soon as we get back."

"And I'll hold you to that. But seriously, you should see some of these websites Chase has found--"

"You're going through Chase's computer?" Foreman repeated, and felt Chase stiffen beneath him. "Did you have anything useful to share?"

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure he could be arrested for at least half --"

Chase nabbed the phone from his ear; "House -- What? . . . No. Like you don't. Are you even -- No. . . . No!" He scowled, hanging up the phone and tossing it on the nightstand. "He hung up on me," he felt the need to add.

"About time," Foreman muttered, and got back to the task at hand.

"If he had something to say about Peter--"

"Then he would've said it," Foreman assured him. "Or called back."

Foreman's phone sprang to life. He looked upward, but reached for it, lifting his lips until they just brushed against Chase's chest as he answered. "Foreman."

Chase squirmed pleasantly beneath him, giving a fascinating moan when Foreman bit down on a pink nipple just for the heck of it, hips thrusting upward, disparate for friction.

"Since you're so terribly busy, I'll keep this short," House said.

"Thanks," Foreman said, and began making his way down Chase's smooth chest, sucking sharply on the fragile skin. A trail of red markings proclaimed 'Foreman was here' on the near pure white skin, and he felt darkly pleased with this fact, unable to stop himself from giving a particularly vicious bite against a jutted hip, and was forced to reach up to clamp a hand down on Chase's mouth to smoother his sharp cry.

"Chase's eyebrows are dark blond. You ever notice that?" House asked, tone suddenly quite serious.

"Huh?" Foreman asked, glancing up to check, but Chase's hand was thrown back and all he could see was his throat. "Sure."

"Know what I heard?"

"I thought you were going to keep this short," Foreman said, pulling down Chase's boxers and slacks in one move.

"I am, you just keep interrupting me," House said. "I heard that a Aussie's eyebrows are always the same color as his hair down there," Foreman forgot to breathe, just for a second. "Tell me, Foreman, is that true?"

"What are you talking about?" Foreman asked, praying his voice kept steady.

"I'd ask Cameron, but I don't think her memory will be as good as your view right now. So? Do the cuffs match the collar?" House asked, and when Foreman didn't answer, chuckled darkly. "I didn't see it coming, honestly. I mean, I knew Chase would be all for it. But Foreman, I thought you were straight."

"What? Is it about Peter?" Chase asked, shrugging Foreman's hand away and sitting up. Foreman glanced back up, and his face must've shown absolute horror because Chase started grabbing for the phone. He quickly swatted the hand away.

"I guess if a guy's pretty enough, it doesn't really matter," House continued. "You like holding him down as you fuck him? I'll bet he likes that -- or have you not gotten that far yet?"

Foreman swallowed. "Not -- no."

"Good. Hey, could you do me a favor while you're down there? Check Chase's thigh."

Methodically, he ignored Chase's confused stare and continued his earlier task, pulling pants down pale legs to pale knees. Chase gave him a look when Foreman lifted his leg, but allowed it.

A collection of tiny red dots freckled on the skin.

"Fuck."

"What?" Chase asked, eyes wide, trying to bend to see.

"That's what I thought," House said, and Foreman knew the man too well to be surprised by the underlying smugness in the tone. "Get Chase checked in. I'll be there in about four hours."

" . . . You're on a plane?"

"I thought he was at my place?" Chase asked with remarkable patience, gripping his own knee tightly and Foreman knew he must've seen the macules.

"As I have been for the past twelve hours. I went to Chase's place, like, an hour after you two left."

"Did-- is Cameron--"

"Cameron's back in Jersey. So far your secret life of plowing Chase is only known by you and me. And Chase. You told Chase, right?"

"We'll meet you at the hospital," Foreman said, and closed the phone.

'BUMBUMBUUUUUUMMMMMMM!' said the writer! APOLOGIES that this took so long. :x The next part will be up in less than a month, I promise. But it will probably be shorter. But it will TOTALLY be sexier. :D The next part is totally No Children Under 17 Admitted. Totally.

AND for FFN readers: I will probably end up cutting the porns, and putting a link to my ficjournal instead. :3