House Fic: Consolation Prize
Title: Consolation Prize
Characters: Foreman, House, and (though he's absent) Wilson
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Yes, through 8.06 "Parents."
Summary: They say that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Too bad this was Atlantic City.
Notes: Wondering why Wilson forgave House so quickly, and why Foreman went from trying to be House's buddy to being a total hardass? Yeah, so was I. Here's what might have happened.
The first thing he knew was that his head hurt. Not so bad that he wouldn't be able to function, or anything, but enough to remind him that he'd been stupidly buying drinks for himself and House, both during and after the fight. Too many drinks, really, but House when he was drunk said even crazier things than House when he was sober. Drinking with him was fun, and the truth was? Foreman hadn't had much fun in a long damn time. His dream job was still his dream job, but he'd misjudged how tedious it could be, how stifling the air could get up there in the ivory tower. How much he might miss being the guy doing the crazy shit instead of the guy trying to stop the crazy shit.
That wasn't what he was thinking about just at the moment, though. He was realizing he'd gone to bed in nothing but his boxers and that those boxers were not now on his body. As his blurry vision cleared, he realized, further, that House was missing, too.
Bolted, Foreman thought. House bolted, and I'm responsible, and when I find him I'll kill him with my bare hands. The headache was instantly forgotten.
He reached for the nightstand, and discovered that his phone was gone too.
Everything he needed was gone.
His boxers? He found the two halves of them in his bed. House had snipped them neatly along the side seams as Foreman slept. Snipped with what, Foreman couldn't say; probably the bastard had packed a pair of scissors in his overnight bag, planning this.
His suitcase was missing. So was House's. There was not a stitch of clothing anywhere in the room. The robe was gone from the bathroom hook. The big fluffy bath towels were soaking in the tub. If House needed a head start for wherever he was going, this was a clever way to get it, but it wasn't going to work as well as he'd thought. Foreman picked up the hotel phone.
And found it dead. There was no longer a cord connecting telephone to jack.
He fought back the urge to throw the useless phone at the wall, and faced up to the reality of his current situation.
Eric Foreman had never been to a toga party in his life.
It therefore took him considerable time to work out how to arrange the bedsheet in such a way that it wouldn't fall off the moment he moved. It was humiliating and ridiculous, but hopefully wouldn't get him arrested before he had a chance to find some helpful person (who spoke English, because the housekeeping staff did not) and explain what had happened. Most of what had happened.
And then he'd probably have to call the cops.
The journey down to the lobby took some care. Their room was on the fifth floor and Foreman, not wanting to suffer an elevator ride with a bunch of freaked out tourists, took the stairs. Barefoot, because House had swiped his shoes along with everything else. The metal edging on the steps was gritty and cold. Foreman was hungry, House had taken his wallet, and he couldn't even go to the free breakfast bar like this. People in Atlantic City regularly lost the shirts off their backs, but that didn't mean the hotel management would look the other way when a big black man in a white sheet came wandering in. Some things were too much, even for this town.
Absently he thought that it wouldn't be such a big deal, if only this were Vegas.
"I'm going to fucking kill you, House," he said, letting the hollow words echo up and down the stairwell.
He was so busy pondering House's demise that he was surprised when, the moment he walked into the lobby, he was blinded by the flash of a camera. The second surprise was that it wasn't House taking the pictures. The photographer turned out to be female and attractive, smiling brightly, her hair in a long golden ponytail that bounced as she moved away. She was gone before Foreman could ask whether or when House had put her up to it.
A different shutter-sound made him turn the other way. A lanky, pasty college kid in sweats and Birkenstocks was snapping away with a pro-grade Nikon and a ... what was the word for that? The machine gun of the camera world, the thing they use at sporting events. A motor drive.
He approached the kid slowly, acting the part of a man who knows he's just been the butt of a joke he can't escape. "Where," Foreman said, "is House?"
The kid grinned at him, and Foreman, in a feat of superhuman restraint, did not punch him in the mouth.
"Said to tell you he'd be halfway to Bora Bora by now."
"He's an idiot," Foreman said, but damn if he wasn't feeling like one himself. This was either a prank, or else somewhere, right this moment, the cops were converging upon an abandoned anklet in the men's room of some third-rate casino, and House was on a flight (or a cruise, or a bus) with his suitcase and Foreman's credit card. That was the thing about House: either scenario was plausible. "He took my phone, and I need to call him. Or the cops, maybe." Foreman stretched out his hand, waiting for the offer, but the kid just grinned again and backed away.
"Not what he paid me for, man. And if you go for my camera, I'll call the cops myself."
Over to his left, Foreman saw two figures in black and blue, moving toward him with intent. Not cops, not yet; hotel security.
It was at that moment that he realized he no longer had a key card to even get back into his room.
"I need your help," he said to the approaching men, straightening himself as if he were wearing his best suit and tie. "I'm in 528, and I've been ... pranked."
He didn't say robbed, even if he was, because chances were still fair that this was a joke and not an escape. That he could salvage both House's freedom and his own reputation, which would be much the worse for wear if House had in fact fled. "My friend is messing with me, he took my phone, and --"
Yet another camera was flashing and clicking at him. Foreman turned to glare at it.
"There you are, honey!" House crowed. He had shaved for the occasion, presumably because gay stereotypes don't generally include three-day stubble. "Come on back, sweetcakes; I know it didn't mean anything, with that guy. I mean, you were so drunk, and ... just come back to the room. I've ordered us breakfast."
Foreman looked from House to the security guys and back again. Defeat. House had him; there was no other option. He followed his should-be-fired employee back to the elevator, and tried to ignore the click-whir of that stupid kid and his stupid motor drive Nikon following along.
House's impromptu rendition of Livin' La Vida Loca ensured that they got the next elevator all to themselves. "You are so fired," Foreman said, as soon as the doors slid shut.
"For pranking you when we're not even at work? Wuss. You can't handle that, you should fire yourself. Anyway, you walked into a trap that was never meant for you. I'd been planning to do this to Wilson."
"Funny. I had the idea you'd be grateful to even be here." He stepped out of the elevator on their floor and had to snatch the trail of his toga before the doors closed on it. "I got you the ticket and the clearance. Not cool, House."
"I saw an opportunity to do something I wanted to do, and I took it. You should know about that, Mr. Log-in-Your-Own-Eye."
"You're blaming me for getting you here?"
"I'm blaming you because you could have sent me here with Wilson. Who went to you for help, and you screwed him over, and don't you think for a minute I don't know that."
"You told me you were pissed at him!" It felt just like he was House's underling all over again, lost in House's labyrinth, helpless. House, in control in that old familiar way, pulled out the key card and calmly opened the door to their room.
"You think I'm such a simpleton that I can't be mad at two people at once? Yes, he'd have gone without me, and I was pissed. I got back at him by taking you up on your nefarious offer. You, on the other hand, had no excuse whatsoever. Wilson's the kind of employee other bosses can only dream about. You have now generously made it up to him."
"I don't see how humiliating me does any --"
"You idiot." House sat down at the room's little table, which was loaded with covered dishes, a coffee carafe, and a pitcher of orange juice. House really had ordered breakfast. "I had your credit card and laptop for two hours before you woke up, so you've definitely sent him some appropriately contrite gifts. Those are just extras, though. Humiliating you, and providing photographic evidence of said humiliation -- now that's priceless."
"Wilson's too nice to want that. Where are my clothes?"
"In the closet, of course. Right where you left them." Right where House put them back, then, after Foreman had trudged downstairs in a damn bedsheet. House was loading eggs and bacon onto a plate. "Hurry up. It's getting cold."
"Seriously, House. If you don't give me the image files, I will prosecute you for, for stealing my credit card, and you will go back to prison."
"Sorry. It's out of my control now. You don't really think I'm having them sent to my email?"
"I don't -- if you paid someone to -- oh, hell no. You gave those people ..." Of course he did. Had it all sent to Wilson. The photos were probably already winging their way onward. Fuck. "I'd forgotten how much I hated you."
"By the time we get back to Princeton, he'll already have forgiven me for everything. Once he stops laughing." House poured two cups of coffee and pushed one of them toward the side of the table where Foreman was reluctantly sitting down, toga and all. "Fortunately for you, Wilson has the innate sense of mercy that I lack. Cream for that?"
Foreman grabbed the tiny pitcher and it splashed chilled cream across his hand. The morning just kept getting better, he thought. While there wasn't much he could do about it right then, once they got back to work? There'd be no more playing at being House's friend, and absolutely no more Dr. Nice-Boss.
And those pictures, if they really were on Wilson's hard drive? Foreman would never know for sure, because there was no way in hell he was ever going to ask.
Characters: Foreman, House, and (though he's absent) Wilson
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Yes, through 8.06 "Parents."
Summary: They say that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Too bad this was Atlantic City.
Notes: Wondering why Wilson forgave House so quickly, and why Foreman went from trying to be House's buddy to being a total hardass? Yeah, so was I. Here's what might have happened.
The first thing he knew was that his head hurt. Not so bad that he wouldn't be able to function, or anything, but enough to remind him that he'd been stupidly buying drinks for himself and House, both during and after the fight. Too many drinks, really, but House when he was drunk said even crazier things than House when he was sober. Drinking with him was fun, and the truth was? Foreman hadn't had much fun in a long damn time. His dream job was still his dream job, but he'd misjudged how tedious it could be, how stifling the air could get up there in the ivory tower. How much he might miss being the guy doing the crazy shit instead of the guy trying to stop the crazy shit.
That wasn't what he was thinking about just at the moment, though. He was realizing he'd gone to bed in nothing but his boxers and that those boxers were not now on his body. As his blurry vision cleared, he realized, further, that House was missing, too.
Bolted, Foreman thought. House bolted, and I'm responsible, and when I find him I'll kill him with my bare hands. The headache was instantly forgotten.
He reached for the nightstand, and discovered that his phone was gone too.
Everything he needed was gone.
His boxers? He found the two halves of them in his bed. House had snipped them neatly along the side seams as Foreman slept. Snipped with what, Foreman couldn't say; probably the bastard had packed a pair of scissors in his overnight bag, planning this.
His suitcase was missing. So was House's. There was not a stitch of clothing anywhere in the room. The robe was gone from the bathroom hook. The big fluffy bath towels were soaking in the tub. If House needed a head start for wherever he was going, this was a clever way to get it, but it wasn't going to work as well as he'd thought. Foreman picked up the hotel phone.
And found it dead. There was no longer a cord connecting telephone to jack.
He fought back the urge to throw the useless phone at the wall, and faced up to the reality of his current situation.
Eric Foreman had never been to a toga party in his life.
It therefore took him considerable time to work out how to arrange the bedsheet in such a way that it wouldn't fall off the moment he moved. It was humiliating and ridiculous, but hopefully wouldn't get him arrested before he had a chance to find some helpful person (who spoke English, because the housekeeping staff did not) and explain what had happened. Most of what had happened.
And then he'd probably have to call the cops.
The journey down to the lobby took some care. Their room was on the fifth floor and Foreman, not wanting to suffer an elevator ride with a bunch of freaked out tourists, took the stairs. Barefoot, because House had swiped his shoes along with everything else. The metal edging on the steps was gritty and cold. Foreman was hungry, House had taken his wallet, and he couldn't even go to the free breakfast bar like this. People in Atlantic City regularly lost the shirts off their backs, but that didn't mean the hotel management would look the other way when a big black man in a white sheet came wandering in. Some things were too much, even for this town.
Absently he thought that it wouldn't be such a big deal, if only this were Vegas.
"I'm going to fucking kill you, House," he said, letting the hollow words echo up and down the stairwell.
He was so busy pondering House's demise that he was surprised when, the moment he walked into the lobby, he was blinded by the flash of a camera. The second surprise was that it wasn't House taking the pictures. The photographer turned out to be female and attractive, smiling brightly, her hair in a long golden ponytail that bounced as she moved away. She was gone before Foreman could ask whether or when House had put her up to it.
A different shutter-sound made him turn the other way. A lanky, pasty college kid in sweats and Birkenstocks was snapping away with a pro-grade Nikon and a ... what was the word for that? The machine gun of the camera world, the thing they use at sporting events. A motor drive.
He approached the kid slowly, acting the part of a man who knows he's just been the butt of a joke he can't escape. "Where," Foreman said, "is House?"
The kid grinned at him, and Foreman, in a feat of superhuman restraint, did not punch him in the mouth.
"Said to tell you he'd be halfway to Bora Bora by now."
"He's an idiot," Foreman said, but damn if he wasn't feeling like one himself. This was either a prank, or else somewhere, right this moment, the cops were converging upon an abandoned anklet in the men's room of some third-rate casino, and House was on a flight (or a cruise, or a bus) with his suitcase and Foreman's credit card. That was the thing about House: either scenario was plausible. "He took my phone, and I need to call him. Or the cops, maybe." Foreman stretched out his hand, waiting for the offer, but the kid just grinned again and backed away.
"Not what he paid me for, man. And if you go for my camera, I'll call the cops myself."
Over to his left, Foreman saw two figures in black and blue, moving toward him with intent. Not cops, not yet; hotel security.
It was at that moment that he realized he no longer had a key card to even get back into his room.
"I need your help," he said to the approaching men, straightening himself as if he were wearing his best suit and tie. "I'm in 528, and I've been ... pranked."
He didn't say robbed, even if he was, because chances were still fair that this was a joke and not an escape. That he could salvage both House's freedom and his own reputation, which would be much the worse for wear if House had in fact fled. "My friend is messing with me, he took my phone, and --"
Yet another camera was flashing and clicking at him. Foreman turned to glare at it.
"There you are, honey!" House crowed. He had shaved for the occasion, presumably because gay stereotypes don't generally include three-day stubble. "Come on back, sweetcakes; I know it didn't mean anything, with that guy. I mean, you were so drunk, and ... just come back to the room. I've ordered us breakfast."
Foreman looked from House to the security guys and back again. Defeat. House had him; there was no other option. He followed his should-be-fired employee back to the elevator, and tried to ignore the click-whir of that stupid kid and his stupid motor drive Nikon following along.
House's impromptu rendition of Livin' La Vida Loca ensured that they got the next elevator all to themselves. "You are so fired," Foreman said, as soon as the doors slid shut.
"For pranking you when we're not even at work? Wuss. You can't handle that, you should fire yourself. Anyway, you walked into a trap that was never meant for you. I'd been planning to do this to Wilson."
"Funny. I had the idea you'd be grateful to even be here." He stepped out of the elevator on their floor and had to snatch the trail of his toga before the doors closed on it. "I got you the ticket and the clearance. Not cool, House."
"I saw an opportunity to do something I wanted to do, and I took it. You should know about that, Mr. Log-in-Your-Own-Eye."
"You're blaming me for getting you here?"
"I'm blaming you because you could have sent me here with Wilson. Who went to you for help, and you screwed him over, and don't you think for a minute I don't know that."
"You told me you were pissed at him!" It felt just like he was House's underling all over again, lost in House's labyrinth, helpless. House, in control in that old familiar way, pulled out the key card and calmly opened the door to their room.
"You think I'm such a simpleton that I can't be mad at two people at once? Yes, he'd have gone without me, and I was pissed. I got back at him by taking you up on your nefarious offer. You, on the other hand, had no excuse whatsoever. Wilson's the kind of employee other bosses can only dream about. You have now generously made it up to him."
"I don't see how humiliating me does any --"
"You idiot." House sat down at the room's little table, which was loaded with covered dishes, a coffee carafe, and a pitcher of orange juice. House really had ordered breakfast. "I had your credit card and laptop for two hours before you woke up, so you've definitely sent him some appropriately contrite gifts. Those are just extras, though. Humiliating you, and providing photographic evidence of said humiliation -- now that's priceless."
"Wilson's too nice to want that. Where are my clothes?"
"In the closet, of course. Right where you left them." Right where House put them back, then, after Foreman had trudged downstairs in a damn bedsheet. House was loading eggs and bacon onto a plate. "Hurry up. It's getting cold."
"Seriously, House. If you don't give me the image files, I will prosecute you for, for stealing my credit card, and you will go back to prison."
"Sorry. It's out of my control now. You don't really think I'm having them sent to my email?"
"I don't -- if you paid someone to -- oh, hell no. You gave those people ..." Of course he did. Had it all sent to Wilson. The photos were probably already winging their way onward. Fuck. "I'd forgotten how much I hated you."
"By the time we get back to Princeton, he'll already have forgiven me for everything. Once he stops laughing." House poured two cups of coffee and pushed one of them toward the side of the table where Foreman was reluctantly sitting down, toga and all. "Fortunately for you, Wilson has the innate sense of mercy that I lack. Cream for that?"
Foreman grabbed the tiny pitcher and it splashed chilled cream across his hand. The morning just kept getting better, he thought. While there wasn't much he could do about it right then, once they got back to work? There'd be no more playing at being House's friend, and absolutely no more Dr. Nice-Boss.
And those pictures, if they really were on Wilson's hard drive? Foreman would never know for sure, because there was no way in hell he was ever going to ask.