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It takes Foreman three whole hours back at Princeton-Plainsboro to realise Chase and Cameron are sleeping together again. In the cafeteria, Cameron is talking lightning-fast as she piles her plate high with chicken pasta salad; she is so hungry, she says, now that she’s on her feet in the ER all day. “Trust me,” she laughs, sidling up to the cashier to pay, “it’s not that the food here got any better.”
If Foreman squints, it could be three years ago: Cameron, touring him around PPTH, dipping her voice low to warn him off certain department heads or advise him of certain shortcuts (contrary to what you might think, he can almost hear her say, the stairs aren’t actually faster than taking the elevator). But it isn’t three years ago. Cameron’s got her own devoted cult of med students and residents who keep rushing over to ask her to double check one thing, sign off on another; her ever-fixed smile turns indulgent as she dips her blonde head over a proffered chart, a baby-faced intern, and she could almost be a stranger, Foreman thinks, if it weren’t all so grating in its benevolence. Any second now, he expects her to make some crack about how far she’s flown, and how low he’s fallen—but that’s never been Cameron’s style. She’s much happier to radiate smug joy over her soda cup than she is to gloat directly. A part of Foreman wishes she would. A part of Foreman is relieved that this much, at least, hasn’t changed in the months he’s been away.
“Anyway, where was I,” Cameron says now, when they finally break free of her cluster of adoring fans and tuck themselves away in a corner of the cafeteria. She’s talking to Foreman, ostensibly, but her eyes keep scanning the cafeteria like she’s distracted—looking for someone, Foreman thinks, but who? Not another stray groupie, surely. “It’s nice to have you back. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I last saw you.”
There’s a veiled accusation in those words—Foreman never took her up on any of her offers to get coffee, or go for lunch, or help him move apartments—but he lets it slide off him easily, because that isn’t what’s interesting. It’s what Cameron is doing: tying her newly-golden hair back up to eat, careless in a way that she never was about her appearance back in Diagnostics. Only, her neck is tilted at such an angle that the movement reveals a small, jewel-bright bruise that peeks just above the neckline of her scrubs, right along her trapezius. Hickey. How old is she, twelve? “Cameron,” Foreman coughs, trying not to sound too distasteful about it—he’s not about to let her turn it around on him and call him a prude—as he jerks his chin subtly at the offending spot, “you’ve got a little something.”
“Hm?” Cameron says absently, clearly still thinking of ways to trick him into apologising for not contacting her. Foreman jerks his chin again, more pointedly this time, and she releases her ponytail with a sharp snap—“Oh. Yeah, I know.”
There’s a long moment where they both just stare at each other—Foreman’s expecting to read defiance in Cameron’s features, and is discomfited to instead find amusement—that only gets interrupted by the clatter of a nearby tray, another chair being pulled up; it’s Chase, Foreman realises, unable to stop his lip curling on reflex, and he looks untidier than ever in stubble and scrubs of his own. It does, at least, explain who Cameron was looking for just a minute ago.
“Hey, you,” Chase greets, ignoring Foreman entirely, leaning down to kiss Cameron on one rapidly-pinking cheek. He steadies himself with a hand on Cameron’s shoulder, thumb absently finding the hickey like it’s an anchor point, and Foreman considers pushing his food away in disgust. Of course Chase found a way to stay working here despite getting fired. Of course he and Cameron are still sleeping together. Nice of Cuddy to bury the lede on that one.
“Hey,” Cameron says, looking pleased. She tugs Chase’s sleeve to get his attention again as he sits, and beams brightly at Foreman. “Look, Foreman’s back.”
“Hey, Foreman.” Foreman gets one cursory glance and what might be the world’s most heroically half-hearted nod for his troubles, and then Chase is right back to staring at Cameron again. “So, I spoke to Thomas. I’m off nights.”
“If you used your powers for good, we could have world peace by now,” Cameron deadpans, but she doesn’t look displeased at all. “But that’s great. I’ll make reservations for Friday.”
“You two are seriously sleeping together again?” Foreman interrupts, both because he’s not sure he can stomach much more of this and also because he can’t believe either of them are stupid enough to try this again. Well, Chase, maybe—but Foreman has always respected Cameron’s commitment to learning from her mistakes. This new version of her is unfamiliar enough already that he’d hate to have to correct yet another pre-existing impression of her. “After last time?”
Cameron draws up her shoulders, defensive; he has struck a nerve. Foreman is torn between not-quite believing that he’s the only person to point this out to her, and overwhelming superiority. “Actually,” she begins.
“That’s nothing,” Chase cuts her off; she flashes him an annoyed look, but he’s actually paying proper attention to Foreman now, a lazy smirk curling around the corner of his mouth. “We made House think we were engaged.”
“Wilson did,” Cameron corrects, slapping Chase’s hand away when he goes for a chunk of her chocolate-chip cookie, “and I’m not sure House actually—“
“We’re together,” Chase interrupts her again. Cameron doesn’t bother trying for irritation this time—this is where her strange, happy glow has come from, apparently, not her litany of unqualified acolytes. “Why d’ya think Cameron kept wanting to catch up with you so badly?”
Because as much as she likes to pretend otherwise, Cameron has a pathological need to be liked by everyone, Foreman doesn’t say. Thank God I never responded to any of those invitations, he doesn’t say, either. “Good for you,” he settles for, stiff and polite and hopefully, he thinks, conveying just how little he thinks their relationship is going to last.
Chase doesn’t look put out at all. His hair is long behind his ears again, and, backlit by the fluorescents as he is, it makes him look like a particularly malevolent cherub. His smile, when it comes, is outright evil. “Isn’t it?” he says, silky-soft. “Nice to have you back, Foreman.”
Nice, Foreman thinks, is one hell of a word for it.