Dammit, he swore to himself as the cold, abrasive air plunged him into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. Stupid patients.
Rationally, Foreman knew his stupid patients weren't responsible for the fact that flu season was at its peak. Irrationally, however, he resented the hell out of whoever had passed the bug along to him. And he further resented Chase and Cameron, who had treated just as many flu cases in the clinic as he had, but somehow managed to stay as clear-eyed and healthy as ever.
Foreman, on the other hand, had spent the day steadily progressing from a mild sore throat to a nagging cough to a blistering, soupy-headed feeling. He'd known better than to attempt clinic duty in such a state, but when even his attempts to catch up on paperwork had been foiled by his inability to get the words to stop swimming around on the page, it was time to go home.
If only he could stop coughing long enough to get to his car.
Foreman doubled over, pressing one hand against the wall to steady himself and the other tightly over his mouth. No matter how fiercely he willed his lungs to stop spasming, they simply would not obey.
Stupid lungs, he thought. Stupid lungs, stupid brain-
"You're sick again?" House's acerbic voice bounced through the empty concrete parking deck. "Were you at the back of the line when they handed out immune systems?"
Jesus, Foreman thought, and when his coughing finally abated he looked up to see his boss leaning against a concrete pillar, nonchalantly spinning his cane.
"Wh... what are you doing here?" he rasped, trying to catch his breath. "Did you follow me?"
"C'mon," was House's non-answer. He set off in his uniquely rhythmic stride. "We just got a case."
"I don't care," Foreman argued, his voice low and rusty. But for some reason, his traitorous feet propelled him along behind his boss anyway. "I am NOT going back to work."
"Fifteen-year-old male," House continued, blithely ignoring Foreman's protests, "presenting with vomiting, seizures and uncontrollable laughter. And you know, I've got the craziest hunch my neurologist might come in handy."
"Uncontrollable..." Foreman repeated to himself. His irritation dissipated, and a remembered terror briefly shot through the fog in his head. "Have you tested for..." that, he did not say.
"Duh," House answered. "After you practically shut down the hospital, antiparasitics were one of the first things they tried. I thought you were the smart one here."
Not anymore, Foreman thought with a bitter sigh. "Whatever. Kid probably took some bad drugs. I'm going home."
"Are you sure you can afford to do that?" House needled him. "You've used up a lot of your sick days this year. I'd say you've only got about, oh... negative forty remaining."
Irritation transmuted into fierce resentment, fierce enough to make the hot, tight feeling in Foreman's head pound just a little harder. I still have dreams about that fucking apartment you sent me to...
"Tox screen was negative," House continued. His tone considerably less caustic, as if he suddenly cared that he was treading on thin ice. "Which means next stop is lumbar puncture central."
"N... ACHOO!" Foreman's sudden sneeze echoed through the deserted parking garage. "No way. You do it. You could use the practice."
House chuckled to himself, absorbing the jab with far more aplomb than Foreman would have given him credit for. Except - oh, crap. He was wearing that dreaded look of triumph, the one that usually meant Foreman was about to get his ass handed to him. He immediately began to replay the conversation in his head, trying to anticipate how House would pull the rug out this ti...
"Get in," said House.
"What?" Foreman asked blankly. He glanced around, trying to ignore the fact that it took his brain a second to catch up to his eyes, and discovered they were in the middle of a sea of parked cars. "Where are we?"
"At my car, smart guy."
"At your-" Foreman's shoulders sank in disbelief. "What about the case?"
"Oh, yeah, the case," House said airily. "Real doozy. Or at least it was fifteen years ago. Don't worry, Giggles made a full recovery and is probably a well-adjusted, taxpaying citizen by now."
Manipulative bastard. Foreman fixed fever-dulled brown eyes on House's car, the immaculate red Mustang House had received as a gift of gratitude from some Mafia goons. Never in a million years would it make sense that House could fudge the rules and get a cool car, while Foreman himself could follow them to the letter and end up getting his skull drilled. Twice. He felt dizzyingly stupid.
"Pimp enough for you, homes?" House cut into his thoughts. "I said, get in."
"No," Foreman refused automatically.
House sharply tilted his head. "You can't drive."
"I'll get a cab. I don't need-" Foreman stopped. "I'll get a cab."
"You trusted me to do brain surgery on you, but not to drive you home?" House snapped.
Foreman flashed him a brief, murderous look. "That is really not the best example you could use."
"Just get in the damn car."
Fucking humiliating. Foreman stared at the car again, contemplating it with an increasingly bitter curl of his lip. But still not as bad as when...
"Fine," he gave in at last, pulling the door open. It did feel good to let his weight sink wearily into the cool leather seat. Although he'd be damned if he let House know that.
Beside him, House slid his cane into the backseat. Gripping the roof to steady himself, he quickly hefted himself sideways into the driver's seat. An odd movement, Foreman thought. In no way could it be called natural, but it still had its own off-kilter grace --
His musings were abruptly cut short when his breath caught in his throat, and he began to sneeze violently -- again, again, again. Stop it, he admonished himself, dimly aware that House must be watching. He clamped the handkerchief over his face in a determined effort to suppress them, but only sounded more high-pitched and strangled than before.
"Jesus," he groaned thickly as the fit finally ended. House was looking at him, as expected. Except there was minimal mockery on his face, only an unexpected look of... curiosity?
"Will you cut that out?" House asked, turning the key in the ignition. The car roared smoothly to life, and he threw it into reverse. "It costs a mint to clean this thing."
"Yeah, well, misery loves company," Foreman answered. His gut tightened as they swung out of the parking spot and sped down the aisle of parked cars at a decidedly unsafe speed.
"I see your philosophy on being sick hasn't changed," House remarked.
Foreman glowered for a speechless moment, then spat back: "Unlike your noble philosophy of disappearing and letting Cameron make all the real decisions."
"Yeah," House replied, "I would've loved to get in there and REALLY screw up your brain, but wouldn't you know, my DVD of Jungle Sluts 4 came in the mail that day."
Beneath the jibe was a rare current of anger, and even only reflected in the windshield, House's eyes were like pale fire. Foreman couldn't meet them for more than a few moments without the sludgy ache in his bones growing to unbearable proportions.
"Yeah, okay," he finally blustered, dropping his gaze. Just a few minutes, Eric, and then you'll be home.
Foreman's gaze drifted out the window. The pale, cold early-winter sun flickered rapidly through the bare branches of the trees, which were flying past at a frightening speed. In his feverish state it felt like flying, both exhilarating and gut-churning, fast enough to make his vision spin... Okay, time to stop looking. Although it might be worth it to see House's expression if Foreman barfed in his million-dollar mob car.
Instead, Foreman dragged his gaze back inside the car, over the absurdly slick dashboard, over to House. In contrast with the hair-raising speed of the car, House was totally calm, totally concentrating, totally in control... and silent. The rarity of that struck Foreman, and he wondered if he'd have a better relationship with his boss if, every now and then, he would just shut the f--
"You were on the right track," House said quietly, and Foreman jumped.
Realizing he'd been staring, he quickly averted his gaze. "Uh, what do you mean?"
"The kid with seizures," House explained. "Giggles."
"What was wrong with him?"
"I said you were on the right track. Take a guess," House urged him.
Foreman sniffled. "I said it was... ACHOO! ...drugs."
"And I said the tox screen was clean," House replied. "I also told you to cut that out."
"Because a tox screen would catch absolutely everything, of course," Foreman grumbled into his handkerchief. "Also, bite me."
The corner of House's mouth darted upwards in a small smile. "We also ran tests for toxins, psychotropic prescription drugs, and heavy metals."
"And?"
"Giggles was positive for lead," he answered.
Foreman nodded. "So it was lead poisoning."
"No."
"But you just said-"
"I said he was positive. I didn't say there was enough lead in his system to explain his symptoms."
Foreman sighed in frustration, trying to cobble all the facts of the case into a cogent diagnosis, but the thick, hot fog in his head would not allow it. "Is there any other... you know..." fuck! "...any other conditions?"
"Patient has a history of migraines," House said cheerfully.
Foreman exhaled sharply. "Well, I can see how a minor detail like that might have slipped your mind."
"Slipped Giggles' mind, too." House shrugged. "Of course, the fact that he had a 104 fever and was hallucinating about ants probably had something to do with that, but still..."
Ants? Foreman wondered. That had to be drugs. "Are you sure you did the tox screen right?"
"Gosh, you mean we weren't supposed to be doing those lines of coke off the lab tech's ass?" House rolled his eyes. "Of course we did it right. And we did it right the second, third, and fourth time too."
"All right, forget it." Foreman pursed his lips. Migraines. Migraines. Had to be a key.
"Still think it's lead?"
Foreman shrugged helplessly. What are you trying to tell me? "It's possible it did its damage and left the body."
"Giggles' brain is about to dribble out of his nose. If lead poisoning is that severe, it's going to be off the scale when we test for it. It wasn't."
Foreman pursed his lips. "All right, maybe it's a brain tumor. The migraines, and e... ACHOO! ...everything else, are all symptoms of the same thing."
"MRI is clean," House informed him. "And stop that."
Foreman laughed grimly.
"I already told you you were on the right track," House reminded him.
"With drugs?" Foreman asked. He made the mistake of glancing out the window, where the late-autumn scenery whipped by and sent his train of thought swirling dizzily away. Focus, dammit, focus. "All right, he had migraines. Was... were those the drugs he was taking?"
"Patient's parents say no."
"All right, so we see if there are any other conditions we might not have known about besides migraines..."
"Holy gullible morons, Batman!" House exclaimed. "You're just going to take their word for it?"
"Why would they lie about their son taking drugs for a completely legitimate medical reason?" demanded Foreman.
"Patient's parents are Jehovah's Witnesses," House replied, "also known as idiots, even by the standards of the rest of their species. They are blissfully unaware that their son is risking eternal damnation by treating his migraines."
Let Jesus handle everything, Foreman thought sourly. But aloud he asked: "If Mom and Dad are Jehovah's Witnesses, what's the kid doing with you in the first place?"
House grimaced. "Giggles was admitted by the school nurse. By the time Mommy and Daddy were alerted, he was already in my tender care."
Foreman laughed thickly, imagining how that must have played out...
"Actually," House continued softly, "despite being idiots, they had more sense than most members of their cult. They took one look at Giggles and told me I could do whatever I wanted."
"Just like that?" Foreman asked in astonishment.
"For most people," House said gingerly, "Jesus takes a backseat to the millions of years of evolutionary instincts telling you to give a crap about the survival of your offspring." He slid a curious look over at Foreman. "For most people."
"Yeah." Foreman withered. Most days he could still live in pseudo-happy denial of that particular raw spot, but... Don't go there. House is just fucking with you. The wind having gone out of his sails, he halfheartedly continued, "So, uh... I guess it was one of the migraine drugs after all."
House seemed to accept the change of subject. "You're getting warmer."
Who even cares? Foreman wondered in frustration.
"You know, self-pity is a wonderful diagnostic tool."
"Shut up." But even as he knew House was manipulating him again, Foreman felt a little defiance kick in. He racked his muddy brain, and to his pleasant surprise, not all of his knowledge of migraines had evaporated with the biopsy...
"You are SO close," House taunted him.
"Will you be quiet and let me think?"
House gave him a knowing, lopsided smile in the rearview mirror, watching as Foreman's brow furrowed intensely.
"Ergotism," Foreman realized suddenly. "He's taking an ergot derivative for the migraines, he's a dumb kid and he takes too much, and boom. Convulsive ergotism."
"But dihydroergotamine usually causes gangrenous ergotism, not convulsive," House pointed out.
Foreman narrowed his eyes, feeling a prick of long-absent confidence. "Methysergide can."
"That's the one." A slow grin spread across House's face. "Congratulations. Bonus points for listing stupidity as a contributing factor."
"Yeah, it usually is," Foreman answered casually, repressing his own matching smile.
The car went quiet again, an unusually comfortable, satisfied sort of quiet. Still smiling, Foreman rolled his head back against the seat, enjoying the feel of the smooth, cool leather against his fevered skin.
Whatever little adrenaline had propelled him toward the diagosis began to recede. Through increasingly leaden eyes, Foreman watched the trees and buildings going by, all melting into one long blur...
Can't do that, he thought, jerking out of a near-nap. Immediately he glanced over to see if House had noticed; oh, yes, House was watching him like another science experiment, but when he caught Foreman's eye he smiled tolerantly.
No, Foreman thought irrationally, as the trees raced by, seemingly faster and faster. If I go to sleep, he'll crash the car...
But his eyes were already sliding shut, his head dropping forward, and despite the temporary triumph of solving the case, his treacherous brain plunged him into a familiar dream.
Foreman was opening the door - he could never stop himself - to a home that should have been his, but wasn't. Instead it was that rancid apartment, the one with the mold liquefying the meat and the excrement in the shower and the air that smelled like his med school cadaver. Smothering in the sweaty, stagnant air, Foreman pulled desperately at his collar. Too hot, too fucking hot! His chest went up and down faster and faster, his panic rising as he struggled to breathe.
Foreman staggered forward through the apartment, trying to find an escape before he suffocated. As he usually did in these dreams, he found the window. Only this dream was different, because now House was standing outside the window and peering in at him with heavy, mournful eyes. Foreman was startled, but nevertheless hurled himself toward the window with renewed hope.
"Help me," he tried to ask, but could not get air to speak. His vision reddening as he suffocated, Foreman banged an impotent fist against the glass. Unfazed, House only continued to stare.
He was still staring when Foreman sank to the ground, facedown on the disgusting carpet, choking to death...
"Foreman! Hey!"
A hand was shaking his shoulder.
"What," he groaned, his tongue made thick by sleep and fever.
"Wake up. We're at Grandma's house."
Foreman reluctantly forced his eyes open, squinting against the sharp white sun. Chilly air blew suddenly at his face, and even though it triggered a deep, dry cough it felt heavenly against his blisteringly hot cheeks.
With a small jolt, Foreman realized his door was open. As he slowly blinked awake, he saw that the car had been parked, his door was indeed open, and House stood just outside it. I slept through all that?
Propping his lanky weight precariously on the cane, House peered down with a look startlingly similar to the one Foreman had just dreamed of. Perhaps it was not an illusion but a memory...
"House," Foreman slurred impulsively. "Stop looking at me like that."
House blinked, staring as though he had begun babbling in Farsi. "Foreman, get out of the car."
Unconsciously glancing at the cane, Foreman nodded. With great effort, he swung his aching legs out of the car and onto the pavement. That wasn't so bad, he thought. But who unbuckled my seatbelt?
He gripped the side of the car and yanked himself all the way out and into a standing position. Fuck, bad idea. Foreman's vision lurched violently off-balance, and he staggered a little.
"'M fine," he protested, waving a dismissive hand.
House snorted, pushing the car door shut with his cane. He watched Foreman carefully.
"Not going to fall," Foreman muttered, and shambled toward the front door.
But his vision refused to right itself, and as he hazily looked down at the sidewalk, he did not recognize the alien cobblestones beneath his feet. Nor did he anticipate stumbling over the top step of his stoop. That wasn't always there, was it? And for some reason House was behind him, following him up the stairs, easily evading the one that had tripped Foreman. To his fuzzy bewilderment, House fished around in his pocket for a set of keys...
He didn't put it all together until House's key clicked in the lock.
"Why d'you have a key to my house?" Foreman mumbled, and a split second later his wan, tired eyes grew wide as he realized where they were.
"Come in," House answered quietly, holding open the door with an unusally serious expression.
No, Foreman realized, his heart beginning to trip-hammer. It was no illusion.
And for once, he did not resist.
-end-