A/N: Somebody over at livejournal was complaining that people have a tendency to write Housefic and leave Foreman out, and it's just not right. I really didn't have enough Foreman in this story, mostly because I didn't think that Lex would be able to figure out how to be sure of his discretion without making Clark upset. So I did this section. It would logically belong somewhere between chapters 4 and 8, I think, but I'm not sure exactly where, and I'm so totally open to suggestions. :-)

What was House thinking? Foreman set down his coffee cup, without slamming it, and wished again that it was something stronger. But reasonable people don't turn to hard liquor at eleven o'clock in the damn morning.

What the hell was House thinking? Foreman hated how much of his time was spent wondering that very thing. This really wasn't what he'd signed on for. Oh, he'd known House was difficult. Everybody on the Eastern Seaboard knew that -- maybe everybody in the damn country. But he'd thought he could deal with difficult; he'd been dealing with difficult ever since high school at least. Everybody judged him; nobody ever let him live down his stupid juvenile crap. There was a way in which it was good that House was at least up-front about it, and there was another way in which he wanted to beat House to death with a chair.

Foreman raised the coffee cup and took another measured sip. He set it down on the counter again without making a sound. He wondered if that job offer in California might still be good, even though he wouldn't be learning anything and it really wasn't what he wanted to do. Working on the other side of the continent from House was a damn appealing thought. He wondered what was playing at the multiplex.

"Hey."

"Dr. Cuddy," he greeted her politely. Sometimes he was just so damn tired of dealing with all this crap.

"Hot tea, Carlos," Cuddy asked the counterman. She sat down at the stool next to him in a flutter of jacket ruffles. Unlike House, Foreman did not comment on her unprofessional attire.

Hadn't the whole stupid thing with Vogler been enough of a tornado of self-defeating stupidity? What on God's green Earth could have possibly possessed House to play those games again?

"So, how are you?" Cuddy asked him.

What he should have done was look at her sideways, set the damn cup down quietly, smile and say "Fine." Then he should have turned attentively towards her and begun one of the three reasonable, professional-sounding conversations he had outlined in his head for use with senior hospital staff.

Instead he slammed the cup down hard enough that coffee slopped onto the counter and let out a huff of angry, angry air. Staring straight ahead, he choked out, "How do you think?"

Cuddy didn't look outraged, or even cold. His stupidity seemed to soften her right up, actually. She let her posture go a little, and blew a curl up off her forehead.

Her tea came while Foreman was still wondering whether he'd just committed political suicide for good and all. She picked it up. He picked up his coffee. The silence should have been a lot more uncomfortable than it was.

"Ten million. That's a lot of money," Cuddy finally said.

Eric swallowed as much resentment as he could with a long drink of coffee, to keep it out of his voice. "It is," he agreed.

Cuddy leaned a little closer to him, and lowered her voice. "They say Luthor's father put him in Belle Reve when he was young, but the records have all been wiped."

Foreman knew that Cuddy was trying to make him feel better, and he appreciated it. "They say he's a murderer, too," he added quietly. He saw her smiling out of the corner of his eye, happy that he was playing along in this little game of 'Isn't it Awful' that she'd started. Cuddy was okay.

"They say Criminal Mastermind. What's the line -- twenty-three arrests and no convictions?"

The thing of it was, that he really did feel better now. Luthor was crazy and dangerous and rich, and House wasn't quite stupid enough or reckless enough to cross him. That made sense, didn't it? Sure it did. His shoulders relaxed, and he was able to chuckle convincingly. He turned to Cuddy and smiled.

She looked kind of smug and proud of herself, but she hid her smirk behind her teacup.

"And at least I get four weeks' vacation out of it," Foreman said philosophically.

She put her eyebrows up and dropped her jaw, exaggerating an expression of surprise. "Four weeks?"

"Mmm hmm. House said."

"Oh, well. If House said."

They sat companionably at the counter for a while, with their hot beverages. Then Cuddy spoke again. "You know, I'm on vacation, too."

"Really? When?"

"Starting today, actually. I was only in this morning to get a few things out of the way. My flight goes at three."

Huh. Actual conversation, with Dr. Cuddy. Nice. Weird, but nice. "Where are you off to?"

"Vegas." She said it with a gleeful sort of satisfaction in her voice.

He looked at her with puzzlement written plainly on his face.

She looked back at him with nothing but mischief on hers. "Wanna come along?"

The last time he'd made such a quick, dumb decision, he'd ended up doing nine months in Juvie. "Sure. Why the hell not?"