Foreman woke up slowly, with a dry, sour mouth and a full bladder. Squinting his eyes open, the first thing he saw was the pile of suitcases, which brought back to mind where he was. He let out a quiet grunt, slightly put out as soon as he remembered he was going to have to spend another day--another two days, possibly--tiptoeing around and carefully not taking offense at anything that was said to him. And that included from Amber. Loving her wasn't much of a defense against her abrupt, thoughtless comments, that could hurt even when she didn't have her claws out. In fact, that's when it was worse; when Foreman knew she was angry, he battened down the hatches and rode out the gale. Other times, she could catch him completely off-guard.

Better to be prepared. Foreman had been joking about the tour last night, but now he realized he wasn't sure where the bathroom was, or how the Volakises would feel about him wandering the house in his t-shirt and shorts. Taking the cautious route, he got out his toiletry bag, pulled on fresh underwear, jeans, a t-shirt, and a Lions sweater. He found the bathroom on the second try, but fortunately for him, the first door had been a linen closet. Sounds from downstairs suggested the household was already awake or would be soon, so he took a lightning-quick shower, scrubbing down and shaving a lot less carefully than he ordinarily liked. He could take off the five o'clock shadow with his usual painstakingness before dinner. Once he'd taken a long piss, washed his hands and face and slapped on some aftershave, and brushed his teeth, he felt human enough to play his good guest role.

With relief, he found that breakfast was much less of a production than Thanksgiving dinner promised to be. The turkey was already in the oven, which left him feeling obscurely guilty; Kate had clearly woken up just to prep the bird and get it started. Chris was in the kitchen. He nodded hello to Foreman and pointed at the coffee maker. "As long as you get fed, I can promise Kate she doesn't need to cook breakfast," he said.

Foreman grinned, part of him relaxing to hear it. "Just some toast would be good," he said.

Chris told him where things were, and Foreman sat down across from him. "Everything all right last night?" Chris asked.

Foreman nearly choked on his bite of toast. Chris's dry humour was in full evidence, and Foreman had to force himself to answer courteously, as if it wasn't obvious that the whole family had heard them. Christ, he was never going to live that down. The first night he'd met the family. If he didn't know that he was just as much at fault, he'd be pinning the blame squarely on Amber for coming on to him in her parents' house. "Fine," he managed. "Just great. Good sleep."

Chris nodded. "Lions fan?" he asked.

Crap. That sounded like an even more loaded question than Did you sleep with my daughter under my roof last night? "Yeah," Foreman said, and hazarded a guess, "Packers fan?"

"Whole family is," Chris asserted.

Foreman had never heard Amber have an opinion on football before, but he suspected that family loyalty won against boyfriend loyalty in a case like this. "Gonna watch the game later?"

Chris gave him a smile that somehow reminded Foreman of Amber at her most shark-like. "Of course."

There was no more chance to discuss the teams, because Leila came in with a sleepy Madeleine, rubbing her eyes and asking for her stuffed ducky, which had apparently been left behind and only discovered at this moment when only a stuffed ducky would do. Leila tried her best to distract Madeleine with fruit and cereal, but she was still sniffling when Geoffrey came downstairs. "No breakfast?" he asked. "Let me whip up some pancakes."

"Your mother doesn't want the kitchen touched," Chris said phlegmatically, but Geoffrey waved him off.

"It's no trouble. Maddy loves pancakes."

Pancakes could have been the watchword for chaos. Geoffrey started opening cupboards and pulling out ingredients; apparently, it had to be pancakes from scratch, and a mix wouldn't do. Jude arrived halfway into the production and offered to make her patented scrambled eggs, as long as they were cooking. When Kate appeared, probably hearing the noise, she took one look around her kitchen, and Foreman felt like death rays would have been a kinder fate to all the breakfasters. He wished he'd gotten out sooner, so that he couldn't possibly have been included in 'people who touched an appliance without permission,' even if he'd only presumed so far as to use the toaster and not the waffle iron Geoffrey had found in the back of a bottom cupboard and was now dusting off. They were all herded into the living room, while Kate took over the pancakes and scrambled eggs both, all the while insisting that she'd planned a big breakfast in the first place, if they'd just give her room to work.

Just as they were sitting down to piping hot eggs and syrup-drenched pancakes, a knock came at the door. "That'll be Brian," Geoffrey said. "His timing has always been terrible."

"If I'd known he was getting a taxi, I could have cooked more pancakes," Kate fretted.

"You weren't planning to cook breakfast anyway," was Chris's daring contribution, which earned him a glare as Kate pushed her chair back to greet Brian at the door.

They were back a moment later, Brian grinning around the dining room, Kate with her arms crossed behind him. "Don't mind me, keep eating," he said, stealing a bite off Madeleine's plate with her fork. "Oh, no bacon?"

"Brian, your father was going to pick you up at the airport," Kate said.

"It was easier to just get a cab." Brian pulled in a chair from the other room and pushed in at the table. "Don't worry about me, Mom, I'll just help Maddy out a bit." He grinned at her, and Madeleine looked alternately like she'd burst out in a tantrum that he was going to eat all her food, and delighted giggles that someone had noticed her.

"You'll get your own plate!" Kate said. "You might as well have mine at this rate."

"I'll do the dishes," Brian promised. "You can take it out of my hide."

Foreman wanted nothing so much as to escape, but they were crammed in around the table since the leaves had been taken out after last night's dinner. Brian reached across the table and a pile of pancakes to shake his hand. "Eric? Brian. Good to meet you. Just like Amber to bring home--" The pause was infinitesimal, but unmistakable, and Brian's smirk said he knew it-- "a Lions fan." He took another bite off Madeleine's plate, grinning at her and mussing her hair. "God, after hours on a plane, I want to do anything but sit this afternoon. Dad, do we still have that old football?"

Chris nodded. "In the garage."

"Great. Four middle-aged guys trying to relive their glory days. Right, Eric?"

Foreman didn't know whether he wanted to strangle Brian or laugh, and from some of the looks around the table, it seemed like he wasn't alone. Somehow, Brian chivvied them all through breakfast, until mid-afternoon Geoffrey finally relented and said he'd go out and play touch, not tackle, two-on-two, if it would only shut Brian up.

Brian laughed and went out to find the football and get it firmed up with a bike pump. Foreman changed into sweats, keeping his Lions sweater as a point of pride. On the one hand, he couldn't believe he was going out to play football with Amber's brothers and father, and on the other, at least it would get him out of the house and doing something he was far more comfortable with than taking sides in the Volakises' long-established pecking order.

The back yard was fenced, but big enough for their purposes. Brian tried to cajole Geoffrey into letting Maddy play center, but Geoffrey said, "Certainly not," and already looked so out of place in the oversized sweater Chris had leant him that Brian didn't insist.

"All right, me and Dad, Geoffrey and Eric," Brian announced, holding up the football. "Averaging ages is only fair."

Foreman had no idea what was fair, but he let Geoffrey tug him across to their half of the lawn. "He is always like this," Geoffrey said, his face beginning to flush in the cold air, or maybe from competitive fury. "He thinks that some year I am going to let him win."

Foreman glanced over his shoulder. Brian and Geoffrey were both tall, but Brian was rangy where Geoffrey was solid and running to fat around his middle. "Is he any good?" he asked.

"You'll be receiver," Geoffrey said. "Man defense. I hope you can run."

Oh, God. What the hell had he gotten himself into? Geoffrey's florid face looked fiercely determined, and it was only a game of back yard touch. Brian had the manic grin of someone who had provoked a duel to the death just because he found the adrenaline of pistols at dawn refreshing. As for Chris, he had the air of an overlooked criminal mastermind who knew exactly what he'd unleashed on the world, and he was proud of it. Foreman lined up with the tree they'd chosen as the fifty-yard line, and looked around for someone to save him.

Nobody did. They took defense first, Brian lining up at center and Foreman starting as defensive lineman opposite him. Foreman expected the first snap to be light and easy, but he was disabused of that notion pretty much instantly. Brian shoved past him, and was on a breakaway to catch Chris's touchdown pass before Foreman had gotten his feet back under him.

Geoffrey yanked him back into their huddle after Brian had finished dancing in triumph. "Is that all you've got?" he asked. "I didn't want to mention Amber's standards, but..."

"Hey--" Foreman didn't know what to be pissed off at first, that Geoffrey's true judgement was based on how well Foreman could help him beat his brother in a game of football, that he was judging Amber based on Foreman's abilities, or that all of this was coming out in the place of his usual affable pompousness. Foreman clenched his jaw. If they thought they were the only competitive people in this yard, he'd show them.

After that, the game was a blur. Foreman shoved when he needed to shove and danced out of the way when he had the room. Brian was fast, but he committed to a route where Foreman was maneuverable. Which worked out, because Geoffrey's arm was shit. He couldn't get a pass within three yards of Foreman, and Foreman was forced to take dives, or leaps, and once he accidentally slammed into Chris, who he'd personally decided to keep his hands off for the entire game, since the last thing he wanted was to cause Amber's father to have a heart attack. But Chris just called the tackle, and took back possession as gloatingly as either of his sons.

Somewhere in the middle of it, after about their third TD, Foreman realized he was grinning with just as much fervour as Brian and Geoffrey, and celebrating just as loudly with each successful play. Geoffrey wasn't that bad, and they were up two majors, and Foreman might be sweaty, grass stained, and gasping for another breath of daggered, icy air, and he realized they were actually bonding. When he realized it, Foreman started laughing so hard that Brian slipped around his tackle (the two of them had given up the 'touch' rule pretty early on) and ran in for the score.

They were lining up for the next play, serious as the Superbowl, when Leila came out the back door. "Geoffrey, time's up. You know you're all going to need showers, and Kate wants us to sit down at seven."

"Of course," Geoffrey said instantly, standing up out of his crouch and walking off the field with as much dignity as he could muster, considering how badly he was hiding a limp. Foreman had an instant's dismay--he probably would have kept going until he'd collapsed--but a second later, he got it. They were ahead. Brian was already starting to protest, but by listening to Leila's summons as soon as they were given, Geoffrey was being mature and responsible, and in no way rubbing it in that he'd beat his little brother at football.

Yet.

Foreman shook his head sympathetically, and reached out to shake Brian's hand, with a much bigger grin than he'd managed at breakfast. "Hey, good game," he said, and shook Chris's hand too, for good measure.

"It's the first year in a long time we've managed a real one," Brian said, the stormy look on his face slowly fading as he walked ruefully to the door. "But hey, as long as Geoff's feeling it to the bone for the next week, right?"

Foreman laughed. "I'm going to be feeling it for a week."

"You deserve it too," Brian said. "So will I, but I won't show it. That's almost as good as a win."

They headed into the house, Brian delivering one last slap to Foreman's shoulder, right where a bruise was coming up (he'd run into a tree during a victory lap; God, he hoped no one had seen that). Foreman headed up the stairs, already feeling the ache in his legs. The house smelled absolutely delicious, and he realized how starved he was. By mutual agreement, they'd decided that Chris got the first shower, and Foreman sneaked in next by dint of being a guest. For the next few minutes, though, all he wanted to do was collapse on the squeaky bed and feel every one of his complaining muscles.

Foreman grunted and shifted when Amber prodded him awake and led him to bed. He woke up enough to strip down to his boxers and slide between the fresh sheets with her, but hardly conscious enough to get smug that she'd invited him back into her bed. Definitely not awake enough to think through the implications--such as the fact that he didn't have any clean clothes at Amber's apartment, they still had to show up at work the next day even without a case, and Amber had a habit of waking up earlier than him, not only because she took more time in the mornings, but because she lived further from the hospital.

Falling asleep, once again with his arm tucked close around Amber's waist and her hips cradled in front of his, Foreman didn't spend any energy on a plan for the next day. When Amber's alarm clock went off, it felt far too soon, and Foreman groaned a low protest. Amber was warm, and though they must have shifted in the night, Foreman was still able to wriggle a fraction of an inch closer and press against her back again. He didn't want to wake up. Easier to ignore the alarm clock and nuzzle closer to the scent of Amber's nape, his mouth brushing against the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

He'd been dreaming. Something confused, fading already, although the effects of it were still apparent. A low thread of pleasure twined through his body, tingling, and keeping him very happily where he was. Foreman shifted again, all but unconscious, rocking his hips forward against Amber's ass in one slow, light press. God, she felt good. Foreman stretched, long and luxurious, rolling his shoulders and pointing his toes. Soon she'd disappear. Leap up at the bleep of the clock. Tell him to lay off and go slow. But until she pushed him away, he was going to see just where the boundary line lay. He couldn't possibly be held responsible for how she turned him on in his sleep.

The lights were off in the doctor's lounge. Foreman sat on the couch, a frown etched on his face, his hands clenched together. Light was starting to come in the window. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting here. It hadn't been worth the bother of flicking a light switch, or even moving. If he moved, he'd want to lash out. Punch a wall. As if he could solve anything with a melodramatic gesture.

His stomach churned with hunger cramps. His eyelids gritted every time he blinked. The headache he'd gotten yesterday hadn't disappeared, even though he'd swallowed four aspirin. Pain radiated in sharp pangs up both sides of his neck and throbbed around his eye orbits.

Casey had polio.

He still couldn't believe it. His thoughts kept circling back, and every single time he'd run up against a brick wall. Polio. It was fucking impossible, but the test results were there. Brennan had run them, and that alone should be enough of a tip-off that something was wrong...Foreman snorted. Like him. He'd been wrong. No matter how much he didn't want it to be true, it was there in black and white. Brennan might lie but the test didn't. And treating the girl with vitamin C, for fuck's sake. When she'd looked up, astonished, to tell them that her legs hurt--

He'd never felt smaller in his life. Useless. Moron. The insults followed on the heels of every thought. Thought he was so fucking amazing, only to have his face rubbed in the truth. Cuddy should fire him. The new fellows had figured out what he couldn't. Despite him.

He'd apologized. The words had stuck, heavy and hurtful, in his throat, but he'd done it. He'd said to Amber yesterday--yelled, maybe--that he was willing to admit it when he was wrong. And he had; he had that much pride, to acknowledge when he'd screwed up. But they didn't care about that, and why should they? Why should any of them listen to him, when he'd been holding back the diagnosis by cutting Brennan off the case?

Everything he'd prided himself on had been punctured. He'd swallowed down his denials and let them get on with whatever the hell they needed to do. If House came back, he'd reward them. He might not be able to get rid of Foreman, but he'd managed what he wanted to do last week--humiliate him into leaving. Foreman hadn't been miserable because he'd had Amber, but now, he knew, he wouldn't have her either. She'd doubted him, and she'd been right to doubt him. Why the hell should she apologize for going behind his back, when clearly they'd needed to do that just to solve the fucking case?

The thought of telling her that--of admitting it--he couldn't manage that. Not yet. He'd crawl home and lick his wounds in private. All of last week's happiness, and the frustration too, it was over. If he'd lost Amber's respect, if he'd lost her, it was his own damn fault. There was nothing he could do.

He didn't look up when the lounge door opened. What was the fucking point? He wasn't needed. Whoever it was could ignore him and leave him the fuck alone.

"Hey."

Chase. Foreman glanced over his shoulder at him and didn't say anything.

"Whoa. Problems?" Chase grinned. If he said one word about Amber, Foreman was going to show him just how much harder than House he could punch. "I heard about your patient. Polio!" He whistled for emphasis.

Foreman shrugged, locking out any reaction. "I got everything wrong," he said. And, even though five seconds ago he would have loved to smash Chase's face in for mentioning Amber, he said it anyway. "Amber went behind my back to treat her."

Chase shrugged, like he didn't see the problem either. Christ, why did Foreman tell him anything? "While you were screwing up? She did what she thought was right," Chase said. "Would you really rather she follow everything you say? You don't want a robot for a girlfriend."

No fucking help at all. Foreman retreated back into stony silence, turning away from Chase.

"Anyway, you can't have gotten everything wrong," Chase said, shrugging. "You're not that bad." He clapped Foreman on the shoulder and disappeared into the locker room.

Foreman snorted to himself. It had looked like heat stroke. Even House had thought it was a boring case--he wouldn't have left if he'd had the least interest in it. Anger tightened Foreman's shoulders, until his fists were clenched again. Everything in him said polio was impossible. There was no logical reason why vitamin C should cure it. And if Casey's blood samples from when she was admitted were still available--shit. Shit. Foreman pushed to his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his body from sitting so long. He might still be wrong. But he had to know. He had to check.

He headed for the lab with Chase's words still echoing in his head. She did what she thought was right. Amber had said the same. But what neither of them understood was that being right wasn't enough. If you were right, you had to prove it. You had to have a chance to prove it, instead of having everything you were trying to do screwed up by one false step. What was best for the patient--what was best for her was the truth, now. And what was best for her then was not for her doctors to be playing games with her treatment. He still couldn't forgive Amber for what she'd done, but if she was wrong now--fuck. Fuck. He didn't know why he was still thinking about her when they'd already had this argument. More than once. It was impossible, it couldn't be solved.

But he still cared about her. And he wanted her to get what she wanted. It couldn't be at his expense; he'd already fucked up everything for himself. There was nothing Amber could do to hurt him anymore. But he could still help her. Maybe--or maybe this would just give her one more chance to laugh in his face, to tell him he was playing the martyr.

Foreman turned into the lab and went straight to the fridge, checking first that they had a vial of Casey's blood from her initial blood tests. It was there. It was one test. Once he knew he could say anything he damn well wanted. He pulled on a pair of gloves and started working.

When he sat back, the assay results in front of him on the computer screen, he felt numb. He tapped the print button and stripped off his gloves, still unable to take his eyes away from the screen.

He was an idiot. He knew it. But he took out his phone and texted Amber anyway--Path lab. Something to show you.

Foreman had been right about one thing: when he finally woke up, his whole body felt like he'd run a fucking triathlon the night before. He opened his eyes slowly, a smile already curving his lips. Saturday. No work, no obligations. Last weekend he'd thought that he'd fucked up completely with Amber. This morning, here he was, grinning half into his pillow at the sight of her hair, tangled and fanned out across the sheets. So he hurt; that was no different than the morning after a lot of workouts. Some stretching and he'd be fine. If that was the only price he'd pay for last night, he'd always choose to do it again.

They'd finally made it out of the bath when the water was cooling. Fingers and toes pruned, shivering because they'd both fallen asleep, towelling off vigourously to warm up again. Foreman hadn't bothered waking up beyond the most basic functions. He'd gotten his teeth brushed, pissed, hauled his boxers on, and fallen into Amber's bed all without engaging any higher mental faculties. He didn't even remember falling asleep.

Looked like he was the first one to wake up this morning. Usually his body woke him up after eight hours whether he needed more or not. Affection poured through him at the sight of Amber, still sleeping. This way he could admire her before she realized that her hair wasn't in place, and it made the feeling sweeter, somehow, that she didn't know. To let her sleep herself out, Foreman tried to keep himself quiet as he climbed out of bed. He eased out of the bedroom after he'd hauled his trousers and hoodie on. Amber's keys were next to her purse, near the door, and Foreman ducked out for a quick, shivering trip to his car. He came back in with the bag he'd packed yesterday without running into Murphy or any of the other tenants, thank Christ. It didn't take him long to sort out things that he could leave here--deodorant, shaving stuff, cologne, toothbrush--along with a few clothes, more comfortable stuff so that he wouldn't be limited to suits on the weekend.

He showered about as quickly as he would on a weekday, not lingering once he'd gotten clean. He dressed in a pair of battered jeans and a clean sweater, before heading for the kitchen.

He wasn't a great cook, which Amber knew by now. When he was a kid, Mom had let him and Marcus into the kitchen for baking only--to lick icing off the spoons, or to dump too much flour in the bowl, making a mess with the ingredients and then burning his tongue crunching through the resulting--usually rock hard--cookies or cakes. But she'd also considered the kitchen more or less her domain, and she'd swatted their rumps with a dishtowel if they'd gotten in her way when she was cooking the big meals. Not that it was her fault he'd never learned. If he'd ever shown a real interest, rather than sprinting through and grabbing at whatever was sitting out to stuff into his face while Mom was in the middle of preparations, she probably would have taught him. He'd been an ungrateful teenager, he'd expected his meals to be ready for him, and he hadn't paid much attention except when they weren't. What he did know, he knew from disastrous experiments when he was in college, and certainly Claire had never stooped to cooking for him when they both had the same punishing hours at the hospital.

But there was one dish that he was terrific at. It was Claire who'd taught it to him, actually, after he'd complimented her effusively one too many times and given her his best wide-eyed, hopeful look when it seemed like she might be about to make breakfast. Denver omelette, egg whites only since he was trying to keep himself in weight training trim. He'd seen all the ingredients he needed in Amber's fridge last night. Peppers, onions, even some bacon. Cheese, maybe. He'd have to check. He could even set the table this morning since he'd reuse the clean dishes from dinner last night. It wasn't that he always expected to cook, but in this one case, he knew what he was doing, and damn, he already knew Amber could be astonishingly grateful for a simple meal. The omelette, maybe some toast, and fresh coffee--God, who knew how she'd want to thank him next? Grinning, Foreman set to work, far more confident than he'd been about the stir fry.

Foreman hadn't seen Amber again on Wednesday. And instead of missing her, getting dopey and distracted by thinking about her, he got the questionable pleasure of stewing over every word House had said. How Foreman was only good when he was miserable. How demeaning they both knew the job was--where Foreman was nothing but a figurehead, where he only had a job at all because of Cuddy's sufferance.

Work was better than thinking about any of it, so work was what Foreman did. He plowed through House's mail, most of it consult requests, most of it solved with five-minute phone conversations. He checked the charting on House's patients, all of them scratched with a dozen or more doctor's signatures, all of them written too illegibly to make out. It was mostly guesswork, but at least the cases were interesting. Foreman found himself gauging himself against these so-called candidates of House's, and for the most part, his guesses were better, or at least as good as, theirs.

That, he didn't get done by five o'clock, but he wasn't about to make a late night of it. Why the hell should he push himself when everybody knew he was only there to stand accountable for the administrivia?

Foreman first went home, found a second sports bag, and filled it with his usual things. A change of clothes, workout gear, hygiene stuff--and then drove most of the way back to the hospital to go to the gym. It was out of his way after going home, but he needed the chance to move. Run until he was gasping and lightheaded, work his core until his muscles burned, add another ten pounds to the bench press, keep pushing until he was aching and exhausted and he'd exorcised House right out of his head. It left him sweaty and sore, but with his anger worked out, he felt like he could breathe again, and still be happy, no matter what fucking garbage House spewed at him.

Amber had been right--he needed this night alone just to deal with the fact that they'd probably be spending more time together in the future. Foreman grinned when he got home and saw Amber's shampoo and conditioner in his shower. She'd be back, and he'd leave some things at her place. After that...

Foreman went to bed with thoughts of 'after that' running through his mind. Already the bed felt emptier without Amber beside him, and it had only been a few nights they'd really spent together. Picturing her beside him left a warm thread of tugging at his breastbone, as if he could physically feel the fact that she was too far away tonight. Stupid, but. He'd promised he'd be thinking of her, and he was. Hand low on his belly, thumb rubbing idly against his stomach. Thinking of her was the easiest thing he'd done all day. Finally he had a chance when no thoughts of work or House could interrupt. Foreman was already nearly half-asleep, but he let the images flood his mind. Amber crying out when she came. The shiver she didn't even try to repress when he kissed his way down her body. Her hands, cradling him to her breast as he sucked and licked at her nipple.

It wasn't long before Foreman slipped his hand under the waistband of his boxers. Rubbing himself lazily, he shifted, spread his legs, let more and more memories slide through his mind like physical things, like they had texture and weight and warmth. God. Yeah. Amber. So easy, thinking about her. Nothing to hold back, he could go the pace he wanted, but Foreman wanted it slow, so that he could focus on the conjured sight of Amber above him, her hair drifting over her shoulders, her hands palming his pecs as she rode him. Felt good, even if she wasn't here. None of that electric immediacy, but even in his mind she could make him so horny. Foreman panted lightly, pleasure building heavy and delicious in his balls, echoed in the long, squeezing strokes of his hand along his cock. Amber might ask him if he'd done this. If he'd really thought of her. Foreman could picture the exact shade of blue her eyes would darken to when he whispered that, yeah, he'd thought of her, jerked off for her, that he was--fuck--coming for her. His orgasm came on strong and shuddering, semen smearing between his knuckles and over his boxers. With a deep, humming sigh, Foreman groped for the tissues on the night stand and cleaned himself up. He could shower in the morning.

As easily as he'd drifted to sleep, Foreman woke up to his alarm. On time, for the first morning in too long. He even managed breakfast, though it wasn't more than toast and coffee--it was sitting down at his own dining table. It wasn't long before he was on his way to the hospital. As he was passing a convenience store, Foreman remembered what day it was and grinned. There wasn't much he could get for Amber--not much in the way he would get her, without making some big deal out of something that wasn't. But, yeah, he could do something.

Foreman headed for the lecture theatre when he got to the hospital. Cuddy had made it clear that he was to get involved in any case from the beginning. Foreman wouldn't be able to sit with Amber and talk with her, not with the other five watching, but it would still give him an opportunity to offer his gift. He headed in the doors at the bottom of the room. Everyone had more or less taken up their usual seats, and Foreman kept his face neutral to let them know that he wasn't going to be giving any orders this morning. As he passed Amber's seat, Foreman took the bag of sunflower seeds from his coat pocket and left them on her desk. With no more than a smile, he kept going, to the back of the theatre, where he settled himself with his newspaper, ready to wait for House.