PATIENT - Chapter 7: Foreman
Title: Patient
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority’s Exigencies and zeppomarx’s A Gentle Knock at the Door.
Summary: House’s minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep’s intense and angsty The Contract, and Priority’s sequel Exigencies.
Thanks: To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to A Gentle Knock on the Door, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.
Warnings, etc.: Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.
This Chapter: Foreman looked through the conference room door, stunned to see Wilson and Cuddy staring at him in shock. Pivoting slightly to his right, out of the corner of his eye he saw House slide out of the desk chair and curl himself into a defensive ball on the floor next to his desk, his hands wrapped protectively around his head.
Chapter 6
Chapter 5
Chapter 4
Chapter 3
Chapter 2
Chapter 1
_____________________________________________
Chapter 7: Foreman
Foreman stood hunched over the microwave, warming up his two-dollar Starbucks venti Caffé Americano. Over the last few days, he’d been increasingly distracted, convincing himself that his real problem was House. Well, maybe House wasn’t actually the problem, but confronting his own mixed-up feelings about House was the problem. The more he thought about it, the more his mind refused to come to terms with things. He couldn’t accept that perhaps he might have spent years being wrong about House. But if he was wrong, then why was he so angry?
As he sipped the now-steaming coffee and stared out the window, he heard House wheel himself into the office next door and hoist himself into the desk chair.
“Foreman!”
Foreman sighed and headed toward the voice. How the man could yell and whisper at the same time was beyond him.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
“Update,” said House, holding an x-ray up to the light.
“It’s not macroglobulinemia and it’s not abdominal angina,” said Foreman, staring at Tritter’s chart. He’d found that it was much easier to deal with House if he avoided looking at him.
“Of course it isn’t,” said House abruptly. “What we need to know is what it is, not what it isn’t. Any new symptoms?”
“Nothing.”
“Any ideas? Thoughts?”
“No, nothing.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Something inside Foreman snapped. For some reason, perhaps because his own medical future had been so much on his mind, Foreman thought House was asking why he was still at PPTH, not why he wasn’t off running tests or coming up with new ideas. Tired of spending months tiptoeing around his damaged boss, and baffled by his own confused feelings, he suddenly lost control. Even years later, he would remember this moment and wonder with a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach just exactly what it was that made him do it.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Foreman growled, turning his head away from his boss, who immediately pulled away from him in alarm. “I’m still here because of you. It’s always been about you-you and your arrogance, you and your problems, you and your issues. Back in the day, you never gave me a chance. Now, I’m stuck here-no one will hire me because of you.”
Angrily, he strode away from the desk, pacing, his back to the desk and the man who had begun to quake.
“You’ve resented me from the beginning,” he stormed, unseeing, unfeeling, unhearing. “You’ve done everything you could to hold me back. I don’t care what you’ve been through or why-all I care about is how your problems have taken years out of my life. Here I am-still your lackey, still with no department of my own. I should be running this place, not you, you sorry son of a bitch. You’re in no shape to…”
“Foreman!”
“…be here at all, much less to be in charge. I want you out of here, House-God! Sometimes I wish you had just died in prison and saved us all this trouble.”
“Foreman!!”
Suddenly, Foreman stopped himself as he heard Wilson’s furious voice off in the distance.
“Get your ass out here, NOW!”
He looked through the conference room door, stunned to see Wilson and Cuddy staring at him in shock. Pivoting slightly to his right, out of the corner of his eye he saw House slide out of the desk chair and curl himself into a defensive ball on the floor next to his desk, his hands wrapped protectively around his head.
“Oh, God!” Foreman whispered huskily, as he finally realized what he’d just done. He couldn’t breathe, and he felt violently sick. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he felt pinpricks of tears behind his eyes. “Oh, hell. House, I-I’m so sorry…”
“Now, Foreman! Now!”
This time it was Cuddy.
Foreman stumbled blindly out of House’s office, brushing past Wilson, who was sprinting toward House.
“My office. Now!” said Cuddy furiously, as she turned and stomped off ahead of him.
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes later, when Chase arrived at House’s office following Wilson’s page, he was shaken to find House curled tightly in the fetal position on the floor under his desk, Wilson kneeling at his side.
“Wh-what happened?” he stuttered, standing frozen in the doorway.
“Help me with him,” said Wilson, ignoring the question. “Get me some Ativan, stat.”
Within a minute, Chase had returned with the Ativan. Moving swiftly toward House, whose back was to the door, he kneeled softly on the floor at House’s side. Gently pushing up House’s sleeve, trying to ignore the scarring and irregularities he found there, he injected the Ativan. After a few seconds, he felt House’s tense upper arm muscles begin to relax under his hand.
“What happened?” he asked again, his concern palpable.
That was when he noticed that Wilson was nearly as tense as House, his jaw clenched to the point that his cheek was pulsating. He opened his mouth to respond when he was interrupted by House’s soft voice muffled by the carpet under his mouth.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispered, and Chase thought he saw a tear roll down his cheek. “Doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” asked Wilson, his voice hissing through his clenched teeth. “You’re on the floor because that son of a…”
“Doesn’t matter,” House interrupted firmly. “Bound to happen.”
Chase sat confused.
“Sorry, mate, but something serious happened here-something caused this.”
“Not something… someone,” Wilson muttered.
“No,” sighed House. “I said no.” He exhaled a long breath and then his eyelids gently closed as the rest of his body went slack.
Once he was completely out, Chase looked over at Wilson on the other side of House. He tingled with curiosity. While he and Wilson rolled House into his back and struggled to lift his supine dead weight into the wheelchair, Chase’s diagnostician’s mind began to work the puzzle. After a moment, he was pretty sure he had it.
“Tritter?”
Wilson shook his head. Chase thought a moment, and then progressed to scenario number two.
“Where’s Foreman?” he asked, placing a slight emphasis on the name, as he lifted one eyebrow and cast an inquisitive look in Wilson’s direction.
Wilson looked at him sharply, then raised his left hand toward his face. As if afraid the now-unconscious House would hear him, he pinched the thumb and forefinger together in front of his mouth, twisted his wrist sharply and then flicked his hand away-locking his mouth and throwing away the key.
“Not a word,” he said, but his angry eyes met Chase’s, acknowledging with a curt bob of his head that Chase had nailed it.
Feeling almost paternal toward his boss, Chase felt anger swelling in his chest. It was a good thing Foreman wasn’t present, or he’d have found himself punched in the face.
After Chase and Wilson struggled to lift a nearly comatose House into the passenger seat of Chase’s car and shut the door, the two doctors spoke quietly for a moment before Chase walked around to the driver’s side.
“Not a word,” repeated Wilson at the end of the brief conversation.
Chase nodded in agreement. “Not a word.”
* * * * *
A few minutes later, Wilson opened the door to Cuddy’s office and trudged in wearily. When he saw Foreman sitting in one of the two wingback chairs across from Cuddy’s desk, his eyes flashed with anger.
Cuddy extended her palms outward in a gesture of appeasement.
Wilson, whose own nerves were frayed by months, weeks, years of painful anxiety, was in no mood to be placated. Two years of frustration, of concern, of rage, of desperation-moments when he couldn’t let his feelings out for fear of upsetting House-suddenly got unloaded on Eric Foreman.
“What the hell is he still doing here?” he asked heatedly, unconsciously echoing the very question that had precipitated the storm. And then, to Cuddy: “Why haven’t you fired his ass?”
“Come on, Wilson. Take a seat, and let’s talk about this. But first, tell me how House is.”
Wilson slumped into the other chair, and shook his head. “How do you think he is? We’ve spent two years-two years!-making his environment safe, and in one minute, you… you… you…”-he thrust his arm irately in Foreman’s direction-“…destroyed it. What were you thinking?!”
Foreman hung his head, shaking it slowly. He had no good answer. In fact, he had no answer at all.
“Calm down, James,” said Cuddy. “Tell me the details, and then we’ll deal with this. Fair?”
Wilson took a deep breath, then another.
“He’s not good. Not good at all. It-it took me… he was…” So distraught he couldn’t even construct a sentence, Wilson finally took another breath and continued. “After a shot of Ativan, he stopped shaking and…” He whispered the next word, as if saying it quietly would make it less appalling. “…sobbing…” At this, Wilson shot Foreman a resentful look. Foreman looked stunned, and Wilson was so angry, he was glad to see the look on Foreman’s face. “Chase just took him home. Linda’s expecting them, and Chase will stay with him till I get there.”
Foreman had spent the past forty-five minutes being yelled at-quite justifiably-by Cuddy. He couldn’t possibly feel any worse, so he simply stared at the pattern on the carpet. “Oh, man, I’m… I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what happened. One minute I was fine, and the next…”
“The next minute you were screaming death wishes at a man who has been through hell, whose nerves are so frayed he jumps when a truck passes by. There’s no excuse good enough,” said Wilson, not thinking of anyone but House. “How could you do that to him? How could you?”
“I-I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
The three sat in awkward silence for several minutes.
Finally, Wilson spoke up. He sounded calmer now, less agitated, but no less angry. When he spoke, he clenched his teeth and the words came out in short bursts.
“You really are a shit, you know that? If you’d ever once bothered to get past your misguided perception of House, you’d find a very different person from the one you think he is. House has kept you on when no one else would take you. On top of that, he saved your life… and still you resent him. What’s the matter with you, Foreman? You really are your own worst enemy, aren’t you?”
Although at that moment Foreman completely agreed that he was his own worst enemy, he said nothing.
“Would you like to know why you can’t get another job?”
Wilson’s question seemed to come out of nowhere.
Cuddy, sensing where this was about to go, waved her arms at Wilson, trying to head him off. She was unsuccessful. Wilson was too worked up to be deterred. “Well, you just demonstrated it in a nutshell. You’re arrogant, self-centered and hotheaded… and frankly, you’re not a good enough doctor to justify tolerating all your prima donna behavior. Why House has bothered making those calls for you is beyond me. Right this minute, I don’t think you’re worth it.”
He slammed his hands down hard on the arms of the chair and jerked his head away. As he said it, Wilson knew that some of what he spouted wasn’t really fair to Foreman, but he was just angry enough to say it and let it hang in the air with no apologies.
Eric Foreman stopped breathing as time stood still.
“Calls? What calls?” His voice was low and husky with emotion. He didn’t want to know. Especially now, after what he’d just done, he really didn’t want to know.
Wilson said nothing, his face contorted with anger and his fists clenched.
“What calls, Dr. Wilson? What are you talking about?”
With a noticeable huff, Wilson turned back toward Foreman, glaring at him accusingly.
“If you must know, he’s been calling all the hospitals and clinics in the area. He said…” It was nearly impossible for Wilson to keep his feelings under control. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “…He said you were too good to still be working for him. He’s been trying to find you a better position. But if this is how you behave, you don’t deserve it. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to be working for Gregory House.”
His last sentence was muttered furiously as he turned back away.
Foreman felt the heat of tears once again stinging his eyelids. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have misjudged things so badly? And worst of all, how could he have created this mess? While his mind was bursting, racing from one disturbing thought to another, he never responded to Wilson.
Finally, Cuddy broke the uncomfortable silence. Nearly as angry with Foreman as Wilson was, at least Cuddy could retreat behind administrative duties.
“Dr. Foreman, we’ve all had emotional difficulties as a result of what happened to Dr. House. It’s been especially complicated for those us he tried so hard to save. Your outburst just now makes it clear that your issues are not being dealt with appropriately.”
Foreman couldn’t agree with her more. He met her eye briefly, then looked back down.
“I hate to do this, Dr. Foreman, but you leave me no choice. You are hereby suspended without pay for the next four weeks, beginning immediately. I strongly recommend that you start intensive psychotherapy, if not here then somewhere nearby. In addition, I want you to get into an anger management program immediately. I’ll be writing you up and including this incident in your employment file. If you do not get some kind of help and show me that you are willing to make some major changes, I will have to report your actions to the board. If that happens, do not be surprised if your employment here is terminated. That’s all. You may go.”
She waved a dismissing hand. Foreman half-stood, looking in particular at Wilson, who refused to return his gaze.
“I-I’ve been seeing Dr. Yakimura here for a couple of weeks,” said Foreman hesitantly. “I’d like to continue, perhaps on an accelerated schedule. But…”
Before continuing, he took a long, slow breath and let it out, thinking about how to word the next part. As a rule, he tended to keep his emotional distance from things-from patients, from co-workers-and their feelings seldom figured into his actions. Today’s fiasco made it obvious that this strategy was no longer working for him.
Both Cuddy and Wilson looked at him expectantly, Wilson’s anger still quite apparent.
“I’m concerned about coming into the hospital. I-I-damn, this is hard-don’t want to risk running into Dr. House and upsetting him again. Really… I never meant to… Maybe I’ll see if Dr. Yakimura will see me outside the hospital… or on House’s days off.”
Cuddy nodded her approval.
Foreman stood all the way up, and stepped closer to Wilson, who looked up at him unwillingly. Wilson’s face was still red with fury, his brows knit together and his lips tight in a firm, unwavering line.
“Dr. Wilson, I-I…” Foreman breathed out in exasperation. “I j-just don’t know what to say. There’s really nothing I can say. No excuse. I lost it. I don’t know why. I can’t justify it. But I will take responsibility for it.”
Wilson’s expression softened just slightly as Foreman went on.
“Look, I’m not good with feelings, but I want you to know that I really do admire Dr. House for what he’s done and for his diagnostic ability.” He finally said aloud what he hadn’t been willing to admit, even to himself. “He’s a far better diagnostician than I can ever hope to be. I-I don’t know why I forgot that, forgot that having a fellowship with him was… well, a prize to be treasured… but I did. Apparently-obviously-I have resentments I never realized I had. It’s clear that I need help-I’ll take this time to try to work through it. Please… please tell him I’m sorry. I’m… I’m so so sorry.”
All of a sudden, Foreman’s shoulders began to shake, and Wilson saw tears forming in his eyes. Instinctively compassionate, Wilson jumped to his feet and put his arm around the other man.
Foreman looked up at the ceiling and willed himself to stop. Then he dropped his head again.
“Thanks, Dr. Wilson. And thanks, Dr. Cuddy. I expected-I deserved-to be fired. I appreciate the second chance.”
With that, he threw his shoulders back, standing as straight and tall as he could, turned and walked briskly out of the office, leaving Wilson and Cuddy behind.
“You okay?” asked Cuddy, searching Wilson’s face and demeanor as he slumped back into the chair.
Wilson thought a moment. “Mmm-hmm. I guess so,” he replied, almost unwillingly. He felt drained, but with drops of residual anger still holding on. And yet, in some odd way, the last hour had been cathartic, giving him a chance to release some of his own pent-up anger over House’s condition in a relatively healthy way, by channeling it onto Foreman. “I really wanted to flay him.”
“Well, you did a pretty good job of it,” smiled Cuddy understandingly, “…but I beat you to it.”
He looked up at Cuddy, and smiled ruefully. “Maybe this is just what he needed. We’ve all had problems because of what happened to House, but Foreman held his in more than the rest of us. Plus, he was already toting a pretty big load of garbage where House was concerned. Good thing you got to him first. I’d have decimated him.”
Cuddy’s laugh was slight, but it broke the remaining tension. Then she got serious.
“So, how is House, really? I saw that look on his face-I hope never to see it again.”
“I was being pretty honest before. This just… just destroyed him. Not only because it was unexpected and he… felt so threatened… but because it came from one of his own people. Trust has always been so difficult for him. He feels betrayed.”
“He’s come so far. What do you think? Is this going to set him back?”
“I honestly don’t know. Look how well he did after Pevey attacked him. We thought he’d never come out of it… and here he is back at work.”
Wilson paused a moment, and Cuddy could see him formulating an idea.
“He’s… well, clearly, he’s strong-willed-he couldn’t have survived all those years if he wasn’t. Maybe we see him as weak now because of his physical weakness… or because he feels safe enough with us to let go. But I think that interior strength is still there… somewhere inside him. So I guess my answer holds. I don’t know if this will set him back. Maybe he’ll be lucky and this will turn out to be a blip on the radar screen. Or not. I’ve called Jacey Liu and asked her to come over once she’s finished with her other patients.”
He headed toward the door.
“Hey, Wilson?”
He turned his head back toward her.
“Keep me posted, okay?”
Wilson smiled wearily.
“Sure thing.”
* * * * *
Half an hour later, Wilson opened the door to House’s duplex, expecting to find a tempest inside. Instead, he heard nothing. Coming through the foyer, he found an empty living room. He looked around, thinking at first that House might be sleeping on the sofa. But no. As he meandered through the living room, he heard soft voices coming from the direction of House’s bedroom at the back of the unit. When he arrived at the doorway, he found himself hesitating. What would he find when he saw House? Despite all the months of recovery, House still seemed so fragile-how would Foreman’s outburst affect him?
As he approached the door to House’s bedroom, Wilson paused a moment, just listening. He heard four voices talking quietly. He picked out the tenor of Robert Chase, the alto of Rainie Adler, the soprano of Linda McAllister and, occasionally, the soft, rough baritone of Greg House. If he was talking, Wilson reasoned, maybe things weren’t too bad.
Sure enough. When he neared the room enough to look in, he saw House sitting up, holding a cup of tea in a shaky right hand. Rainie sat beside him, leaning in toward the damaged doctor, holding his left hand in her right. Chase stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the bureau, while Linda McAllister edged past Wilson in the doorway.
“So then,” Chase was saying, “he said that his fairy godfather told him to put the marble up his nose.”
Linda and Rainie laughed, while a slight wisp of a smile graced House’s face.
“That reminds me…,” said Rainie, who started telling House about some oddity she’d stumbled across in her days as a journalist.
“How is he?” whispered Wilson as Linda passed him, headed toward the kitchen.
“Not bad, considering,” said Linda, turning to look back at her patient. “I expected worse.”
As Wilson eased into the room, he sidled up to Chase. Chase glanced at him, nodding his head back toward the hall.
Once out of the room, Chase said, quietly, “He’s gonna be okay, I think. Wouldn’t have thought so earlier, but damn if he isn’t resilient.”
Wilson breathed again.
* * * * *
After a three-hour session with Jacey Liu, House was exhausted physically and emotionally. He’d cried himself out, somehow managed to keep down a bowl of chicken noodle soup-even though his stomach had argued with him about it-and finally gotten past the severe shaking that had overtaken him as soon as Foreman had raised his voice. Now, all he wanted to do was rest.
Much to the relief of Linda McAllister and Wilson-both of whom were worn out with the drama of the day-House slept a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 8: Paranoid
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority’s Exigencies and zeppomarx’s A Gentle Knock at the Door.
Summary: House’s minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep’s intense and angsty The Contract, and Priority’s sequel Exigencies.
Thanks: To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to A Gentle Knock on the Door, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.
Warnings, etc.: Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.
This Chapter: Foreman looked through the conference room door, stunned to see Wilson and Cuddy staring at him in shock. Pivoting slightly to his right, out of the corner of his eye he saw House slide out of the desk chair and curl himself into a defensive ball on the floor next to his desk, his hands wrapped protectively around his head.
Chapter 6
Chapter 5
Chapter 4
Chapter 3
Chapter 2
Chapter 1
_____________________________________________
Chapter 7: Foreman
Foreman stood hunched over the microwave, warming up his two-dollar Starbucks venti Caffé Americano. Over the last few days, he’d been increasingly distracted, convincing himself that his real problem was House. Well, maybe House wasn’t actually the problem, but confronting his own mixed-up feelings about House was the problem. The more he thought about it, the more his mind refused to come to terms with things. He couldn’t accept that perhaps he might have spent years being wrong about House. But if he was wrong, then why was he so angry?
As he sipped the now-steaming coffee and stared out the window, he heard House wheel himself into the office next door and hoist himself into the desk chair.
“Foreman!”
Foreman sighed and headed toward the voice. How the man could yell and whisper at the same time was beyond him.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
“Update,” said House, holding an x-ray up to the light.
“It’s not macroglobulinemia and it’s not abdominal angina,” said Foreman, staring at Tritter’s chart. He’d found that it was much easier to deal with House if he avoided looking at him.
“Of course it isn’t,” said House abruptly. “What we need to know is what it is, not what it isn’t. Any new symptoms?”
“Nothing.”
“Any ideas? Thoughts?”
“No, nothing.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Something inside Foreman snapped. For some reason, perhaps because his own medical future had been so much on his mind, Foreman thought House was asking why he was still at PPTH, not why he wasn’t off running tests or coming up with new ideas. Tired of spending months tiptoeing around his damaged boss, and baffled by his own confused feelings, he suddenly lost control. Even years later, he would remember this moment and wonder with a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach just exactly what it was that made him do it.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Foreman growled, turning his head away from his boss, who immediately pulled away from him in alarm. “I’m still here because of you. It’s always been about you-you and your arrogance, you and your problems, you and your issues. Back in the day, you never gave me a chance. Now, I’m stuck here-no one will hire me because of you.”
Angrily, he strode away from the desk, pacing, his back to the desk and the man who had begun to quake.
“You’ve resented me from the beginning,” he stormed, unseeing, unfeeling, unhearing. “You’ve done everything you could to hold me back. I don’t care what you’ve been through or why-all I care about is how your problems have taken years out of my life. Here I am-still your lackey, still with no department of my own. I should be running this place, not you, you sorry son of a bitch. You’re in no shape to…”
“Foreman!”
“…be here at all, much less to be in charge. I want you out of here, House-God! Sometimes I wish you had just died in prison and saved us all this trouble.”
“Foreman!!”
Suddenly, Foreman stopped himself as he heard Wilson’s furious voice off in the distance.
“Get your ass out here, NOW!”
He looked through the conference room door, stunned to see Wilson and Cuddy staring at him in shock. Pivoting slightly to his right, out of the corner of his eye he saw House slide out of the desk chair and curl himself into a defensive ball on the floor next to his desk, his hands wrapped protectively around his head.
“Oh, God!” Foreman whispered huskily, as he finally realized what he’d just done. He couldn’t breathe, and he felt violently sick. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he felt pinpricks of tears behind his eyes. “Oh, hell. House, I-I’m so sorry…”
“Now, Foreman! Now!”
This time it was Cuddy.
Foreman stumbled blindly out of House’s office, brushing past Wilson, who was sprinting toward House.
“My office. Now!” said Cuddy furiously, as she turned and stomped off ahead of him.
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes later, when Chase arrived at House’s office following Wilson’s page, he was shaken to find House curled tightly in the fetal position on the floor under his desk, Wilson kneeling at his side.
“Wh-what happened?” he stuttered, standing frozen in the doorway.
“Help me with him,” said Wilson, ignoring the question. “Get me some Ativan, stat.”
Within a minute, Chase had returned with the Ativan. Moving swiftly toward House, whose back was to the door, he kneeled softly on the floor at House’s side. Gently pushing up House’s sleeve, trying to ignore the scarring and irregularities he found there, he injected the Ativan. After a few seconds, he felt House’s tense upper arm muscles begin to relax under his hand.
“What happened?” he asked again, his concern palpable.
That was when he noticed that Wilson was nearly as tense as House, his jaw clenched to the point that his cheek was pulsating. He opened his mouth to respond when he was interrupted by House’s soft voice muffled by the carpet under his mouth.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispered, and Chase thought he saw a tear roll down his cheek. “Doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” asked Wilson, his voice hissing through his clenched teeth. “You’re on the floor because that son of a…”
“Doesn’t matter,” House interrupted firmly. “Bound to happen.”
Chase sat confused.
“Sorry, mate, but something serious happened here-something caused this.”
“Not something… someone,” Wilson muttered.
“No,” sighed House. “I said no.” He exhaled a long breath and then his eyelids gently closed as the rest of his body went slack.
Once he was completely out, Chase looked over at Wilson on the other side of House. He tingled with curiosity. While he and Wilson rolled House into his back and struggled to lift his supine dead weight into the wheelchair, Chase’s diagnostician’s mind began to work the puzzle. After a moment, he was pretty sure he had it.
“Tritter?”
Wilson shook his head. Chase thought a moment, and then progressed to scenario number two.
“Where’s Foreman?” he asked, placing a slight emphasis on the name, as he lifted one eyebrow and cast an inquisitive look in Wilson’s direction.
Wilson looked at him sharply, then raised his left hand toward his face. As if afraid the now-unconscious House would hear him, he pinched the thumb and forefinger together in front of his mouth, twisted his wrist sharply and then flicked his hand away-locking his mouth and throwing away the key.
“Not a word,” he said, but his angry eyes met Chase’s, acknowledging with a curt bob of his head that Chase had nailed it.
Feeling almost paternal toward his boss, Chase felt anger swelling in his chest. It was a good thing Foreman wasn’t present, or he’d have found himself punched in the face.
After Chase and Wilson struggled to lift a nearly comatose House into the passenger seat of Chase’s car and shut the door, the two doctors spoke quietly for a moment before Chase walked around to the driver’s side.
“Not a word,” repeated Wilson at the end of the brief conversation.
Chase nodded in agreement. “Not a word.”
* * * * *
A few minutes later, Wilson opened the door to Cuddy’s office and trudged in wearily. When he saw Foreman sitting in one of the two wingback chairs across from Cuddy’s desk, his eyes flashed with anger.
Cuddy extended her palms outward in a gesture of appeasement.
Wilson, whose own nerves were frayed by months, weeks, years of painful anxiety, was in no mood to be placated. Two years of frustration, of concern, of rage, of desperation-moments when he couldn’t let his feelings out for fear of upsetting House-suddenly got unloaded on Eric Foreman.
“What the hell is he still doing here?” he asked heatedly, unconsciously echoing the very question that had precipitated the storm. And then, to Cuddy: “Why haven’t you fired his ass?”
“Come on, Wilson. Take a seat, and let’s talk about this. But first, tell me how House is.”
Wilson slumped into the other chair, and shook his head. “How do you think he is? We’ve spent two years-two years!-making his environment safe, and in one minute, you… you… you…”-he thrust his arm irately in Foreman’s direction-“…destroyed it. What were you thinking?!”
Foreman hung his head, shaking it slowly. He had no good answer. In fact, he had no answer at all.
“Calm down, James,” said Cuddy. “Tell me the details, and then we’ll deal with this. Fair?”
Wilson took a deep breath, then another.
“He’s not good. Not good at all. It-it took me… he was…” So distraught he couldn’t even construct a sentence, Wilson finally took another breath and continued. “After a shot of Ativan, he stopped shaking and…” He whispered the next word, as if saying it quietly would make it less appalling. “…sobbing…” At this, Wilson shot Foreman a resentful look. Foreman looked stunned, and Wilson was so angry, he was glad to see the look on Foreman’s face. “Chase just took him home. Linda’s expecting them, and Chase will stay with him till I get there.”
Foreman had spent the past forty-five minutes being yelled at-quite justifiably-by Cuddy. He couldn’t possibly feel any worse, so he simply stared at the pattern on the carpet. “Oh, man, I’m… I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what happened. One minute I was fine, and the next…”
“The next minute you were screaming death wishes at a man who has been through hell, whose nerves are so frayed he jumps when a truck passes by. There’s no excuse good enough,” said Wilson, not thinking of anyone but House. “How could you do that to him? How could you?”
“I-I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
The three sat in awkward silence for several minutes.
Finally, Wilson spoke up. He sounded calmer now, less agitated, but no less angry. When he spoke, he clenched his teeth and the words came out in short bursts.
“You really are a shit, you know that? If you’d ever once bothered to get past your misguided perception of House, you’d find a very different person from the one you think he is. House has kept you on when no one else would take you. On top of that, he saved your life… and still you resent him. What’s the matter with you, Foreman? You really are your own worst enemy, aren’t you?”
Although at that moment Foreman completely agreed that he was his own worst enemy, he said nothing.
“Would you like to know why you can’t get another job?”
Wilson’s question seemed to come out of nowhere.
Cuddy, sensing where this was about to go, waved her arms at Wilson, trying to head him off. She was unsuccessful. Wilson was too worked up to be deterred. “Well, you just demonstrated it in a nutshell. You’re arrogant, self-centered and hotheaded… and frankly, you’re not a good enough doctor to justify tolerating all your prima donna behavior. Why House has bothered making those calls for you is beyond me. Right this minute, I don’t think you’re worth it.”
He slammed his hands down hard on the arms of the chair and jerked his head away. As he said it, Wilson knew that some of what he spouted wasn’t really fair to Foreman, but he was just angry enough to say it and let it hang in the air with no apologies.
Eric Foreman stopped breathing as time stood still.
“Calls? What calls?” His voice was low and husky with emotion. He didn’t want to know. Especially now, after what he’d just done, he really didn’t want to know.
Wilson said nothing, his face contorted with anger and his fists clenched.
“What calls, Dr. Wilson? What are you talking about?”
With a noticeable huff, Wilson turned back toward Foreman, glaring at him accusingly.
“If you must know, he’s been calling all the hospitals and clinics in the area. He said…” It was nearly impossible for Wilson to keep his feelings under control. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “…He said you were too good to still be working for him. He’s been trying to find you a better position. But if this is how you behave, you don’t deserve it. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to be working for Gregory House.”
His last sentence was muttered furiously as he turned back away.
Foreman felt the heat of tears once again stinging his eyelids. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have misjudged things so badly? And worst of all, how could he have created this mess? While his mind was bursting, racing from one disturbing thought to another, he never responded to Wilson.
Finally, Cuddy broke the uncomfortable silence. Nearly as angry with Foreman as Wilson was, at least Cuddy could retreat behind administrative duties.
“Dr. Foreman, we’ve all had emotional difficulties as a result of what happened to Dr. House. It’s been especially complicated for those us he tried so hard to save. Your outburst just now makes it clear that your issues are not being dealt with appropriately.”
Foreman couldn’t agree with her more. He met her eye briefly, then looked back down.
“I hate to do this, Dr. Foreman, but you leave me no choice. You are hereby suspended without pay for the next four weeks, beginning immediately. I strongly recommend that you start intensive psychotherapy, if not here then somewhere nearby. In addition, I want you to get into an anger management program immediately. I’ll be writing you up and including this incident in your employment file. If you do not get some kind of help and show me that you are willing to make some major changes, I will have to report your actions to the board. If that happens, do not be surprised if your employment here is terminated. That’s all. You may go.”
She waved a dismissing hand. Foreman half-stood, looking in particular at Wilson, who refused to return his gaze.
“I-I’ve been seeing Dr. Yakimura here for a couple of weeks,” said Foreman hesitantly. “I’d like to continue, perhaps on an accelerated schedule. But…”
Before continuing, he took a long, slow breath and let it out, thinking about how to word the next part. As a rule, he tended to keep his emotional distance from things-from patients, from co-workers-and their feelings seldom figured into his actions. Today’s fiasco made it obvious that this strategy was no longer working for him.
Both Cuddy and Wilson looked at him expectantly, Wilson’s anger still quite apparent.
“I’m concerned about coming into the hospital. I-I-damn, this is hard-don’t want to risk running into Dr. House and upsetting him again. Really… I never meant to… Maybe I’ll see if Dr. Yakimura will see me outside the hospital… or on House’s days off.”
Cuddy nodded her approval.
Foreman stood all the way up, and stepped closer to Wilson, who looked up at him unwillingly. Wilson’s face was still red with fury, his brows knit together and his lips tight in a firm, unwavering line.
“Dr. Wilson, I-I…” Foreman breathed out in exasperation. “I j-just don’t know what to say. There’s really nothing I can say. No excuse. I lost it. I don’t know why. I can’t justify it. But I will take responsibility for it.”
Wilson’s expression softened just slightly as Foreman went on.
“Look, I’m not good with feelings, but I want you to know that I really do admire Dr. House for what he’s done and for his diagnostic ability.” He finally said aloud what he hadn’t been willing to admit, even to himself. “He’s a far better diagnostician than I can ever hope to be. I-I don’t know why I forgot that, forgot that having a fellowship with him was… well, a prize to be treasured… but I did. Apparently-obviously-I have resentments I never realized I had. It’s clear that I need help-I’ll take this time to try to work through it. Please… please tell him I’m sorry. I’m… I’m so so sorry.”
All of a sudden, Foreman’s shoulders began to shake, and Wilson saw tears forming in his eyes. Instinctively compassionate, Wilson jumped to his feet and put his arm around the other man.
Foreman looked up at the ceiling and willed himself to stop. Then he dropped his head again.
“Thanks, Dr. Wilson. And thanks, Dr. Cuddy. I expected-I deserved-to be fired. I appreciate the second chance.”
With that, he threw his shoulders back, standing as straight and tall as he could, turned and walked briskly out of the office, leaving Wilson and Cuddy behind.
“You okay?” asked Cuddy, searching Wilson’s face and demeanor as he slumped back into the chair.
Wilson thought a moment. “Mmm-hmm. I guess so,” he replied, almost unwillingly. He felt drained, but with drops of residual anger still holding on. And yet, in some odd way, the last hour had been cathartic, giving him a chance to release some of his own pent-up anger over House’s condition in a relatively healthy way, by channeling it onto Foreman. “I really wanted to flay him.”
“Well, you did a pretty good job of it,” smiled Cuddy understandingly, “…but I beat you to it.”
He looked up at Cuddy, and smiled ruefully. “Maybe this is just what he needed. We’ve all had problems because of what happened to House, but Foreman held his in more than the rest of us. Plus, he was already toting a pretty big load of garbage where House was concerned. Good thing you got to him first. I’d have decimated him.”
Cuddy’s laugh was slight, but it broke the remaining tension. Then she got serious.
“So, how is House, really? I saw that look on his face-I hope never to see it again.”
“I was being pretty honest before. This just… just destroyed him. Not only because it was unexpected and he… felt so threatened… but because it came from one of his own people. Trust has always been so difficult for him. He feels betrayed.”
“He’s come so far. What do you think? Is this going to set him back?”
“I honestly don’t know. Look how well he did after Pevey attacked him. We thought he’d never come out of it… and here he is back at work.”
Wilson paused a moment, and Cuddy could see him formulating an idea.
“He’s… well, clearly, he’s strong-willed-he couldn’t have survived all those years if he wasn’t. Maybe we see him as weak now because of his physical weakness… or because he feels safe enough with us to let go. But I think that interior strength is still there… somewhere inside him. So I guess my answer holds. I don’t know if this will set him back. Maybe he’ll be lucky and this will turn out to be a blip on the radar screen. Or not. I’ve called Jacey Liu and asked her to come over once she’s finished with her other patients.”
He headed toward the door.
“Hey, Wilson?”
He turned his head back toward her.
“Keep me posted, okay?”
Wilson smiled wearily.
“Sure thing.”
* * * * *
Half an hour later, Wilson opened the door to House’s duplex, expecting to find a tempest inside. Instead, he heard nothing. Coming through the foyer, he found an empty living room. He looked around, thinking at first that House might be sleeping on the sofa. But no. As he meandered through the living room, he heard soft voices coming from the direction of House’s bedroom at the back of the unit. When he arrived at the doorway, he found himself hesitating. What would he find when he saw House? Despite all the months of recovery, House still seemed so fragile-how would Foreman’s outburst affect him?
As he approached the door to House’s bedroom, Wilson paused a moment, just listening. He heard four voices talking quietly. He picked out the tenor of Robert Chase, the alto of Rainie Adler, the soprano of Linda McAllister and, occasionally, the soft, rough baritone of Greg House. If he was talking, Wilson reasoned, maybe things weren’t too bad.
Sure enough. When he neared the room enough to look in, he saw House sitting up, holding a cup of tea in a shaky right hand. Rainie sat beside him, leaning in toward the damaged doctor, holding his left hand in her right. Chase stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the bureau, while Linda McAllister edged past Wilson in the doorway.
“So then,” Chase was saying, “he said that his fairy godfather told him to put the marble up his nose.”
Linda and Rainie laughed, while a slight wisp of a smile graced House’s face.
“That reminds me…,” said Rainie, who started telling House about some oddity she’d stumbled across in her days as a journalist.
“How is he?” whispered Wilson as Linda passed him, headed toward the kitchen.
“Not bad, considering,” said Linda, turning to look back at her patient. “I expected worse.”
As Wilson eased into the room, he sidled up to Chase. Chase glanced at him, nodding his head back toward the hall.
Once out of the room, Chase said, quietly, “He’s gonna be okay, I think. Wouldn’t have thought so earlier, but damn if he isn’t resilient.”
Wilson breathed again.
* * * * *
After a three-hour session with Jacey Liu, House was exhausted physically and emotionally. He’d cried himself out, somehow managed to keep down a bowl of chicken noodle soup-even though his stomach had argued with him about it-and finally gotten past the severe shaking that had overtaken him as soon as Foreman had raised his voice. Now, all he wanted to do was rest.
Much to the relief of Linda McAllister and Wilson-both of whom were worn out with the drama of the day-House slept a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 8: Paranoid