Title: The Analysis of Variance
Author: saarazaara
Disclaimers: Don't own 'em (please, Mr. Shore, gimme!)
Rating: PG (mention of nasty gun-like devices)
Spoilers: Tangential refs to Euphoria & No Reason
Pairing: None - Just Dr. Foreman & his Mom & Dad
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The Analysis of Variance

Random Event

The last time he'd handled a gun he'd been nearly seventeen. His elder brother had shown up after school one day in a laid back mood. "Brother's gotta have a piece, know how to use it. Don't tell Pops, hide it safe - be back to school you later."

The gun was heavy; it had felt cool and smooth in his hands. He'd been thrilled, his brother had trusted him with this, the brother who tended to ignore him in preference for flashy clothes and cars and the even flashier women he hung out with. Cars he'd helped his brother steal, clothes and women paid for with cash from their sprees of petty thievery and robbery of their neighbors.

Problem was the gun had been used in a shooting. The cops had come looking for his brother and found the gun instead. They'd hauled him and his father down to the station and waived his own juvie record in front of him. He'd been furious that the cops might think he'd go so far as to hurt someone and then for the first time terrified that he'd never convince them otherwise. Prison for something he hadn't done terrified him even more. Thankfully the tape from the convenience store had shown he'd not been there, someone else had been the shooter despite his prints being on the gun. Eventually the cops had had to let him leave. To go home with a father who couldn't speak to him for far too many days, could only sadly look at him.

Dependent Variable

He'd turned to his mother. He'd walked with her after church that Sunday, down MLK through Washington Park, home to Kenwood. He remembered she had been wearing her favorite hat, the one with the purple flowers, the wide brim shading her eyes as they made their way home to the brunch she always prepared on Sundays.

Earlier he'd prayed to God for forgiveness as hard as he possibly thought he could. He wanted his father to talk to him again and that meant forgiveness for everything he had done to cause this. He wanted forgiveness for being foolish enough to listen to his brother again. He wasn't certain what he could have done to convince his brother not to leave the gun, even supposing he'd thought of it at the time, so he'd added strength to the list of things to ask God for. He didn't want forgiveness for being rude to the cops because he wasn't particularly sorry for that. But with everything else going on in the world, he hadn't been certain God would pay attention to his small concerns and so he'd asked his beloved mother for advice.

"Eric, child, it's not you he can't forgive." She'd paused, smiled seeing the puzzlement on his face.

"He can't forgive himself – thinks he's failed again, the way he did with your brother. He's afraid his faith isn't strong enough to help you. Or worse, it's part of God's plan and there's nothing he can ever do to stop you running down the same path."

He remembered how she had hugged his arm tighter as they walked. "And that then you'll break my heart."

Explanatory Variables

He'd been too young to clearly understand what she meant. It had taken time and distance to appreciate even some part of her words. But because he loved her and because he was terrified at the thought of hurting her that much, Eric had done the only thing he though he could. He'd thrown himself into schoolwork and made sure he graduated from high school. From there the next step was college and finally medical school.

And every step of the way he'd fought to prove to his father and to himself that he was there because he deserved it and that his success was because of his own efforts. That success wasn't some handout and certainly not some quirk of God's love. Every step designed to make sure he wasn't dragged back into his brother's life again, a life of idleness and exclusion, a life of guns and theft and drugs too, the same hell so many of his schoolmates on Chicago's Southside had ended up in. Every step to prove himself the son his father would never fear for or mistrust.

All the while thankful for the reassurance and pride in his mother's eyes, each time she'd straightened his tie or brushed way some invisible wisp of lint from his shoulder, every time they came to visit or attended a graduation.

"We're proud of you," she'd say.

Predicted Outcomes

He'd dutifully done his clerkship at Hopkins in Emergency Medicine and seen up close the damage bullets inflicted. Then in L.A. too many of the consults he was called to were to assess the same kind of devastation - case after case of traumatic brain or spinal injury the result of shootings.

And L.A. had brought back more memories of Chicago than he'd wanted. It started with the way cops looked at him as if he had strayed into the wrong part of town, rapidly followed by the assumption that as a black man he might be carrying a gun. So he'd gone out of his way to fit in, carefully selecting the smart, polished clothes he wore and tempering his speech patterns until it all became second nature. Yet another set of carefully calculated steps to reassure everyone around him that he was safe, trustworthy, and a worthy part of the culture of success.

Outlier

"Improve hand-eye co-ordination, as I'm sure you know, Dr. Foreman. Would be a good thing to help with your rehab. And I'd have thought you'd know how to fire a gun."

He'd last fired a gun when he was sixteen, target practice on a devastated block of Chicago's Westside. He'd nearly thrown up when he saw what a stray bullet fired by one of his brother's buddies had done to a stray dog. And since then he'd seen too many people he knew destroyed by guns, starting with his brother and very nearly including himself. He'd learned too much of the damage they could inflict, every detail of every bullet and exactly how each one could rip or tear through both the body and psyche of a man. He'd seen too many lives and limbs shattered and House himself was just the latest in a long line of victims, black and white. He'd seen too many and he'd no desire to ever see another one again.

So he'd instinctively stiffened, raising an eyebrow at the therapist. And thought himself justified for the cynical smile that crossed his face at the therapist's surprise when he replied with the little white lie.

"No...I don't."