Author's Note: This is my second foray into the world of House fanfiction, so I do greatly appreciate your comments on how I'm doing!
Disclaimer: House, M.D. is the property of FOX.
"I didn't! I wanted the guys in Boston to think that I had cancer—I wanted the guys who would go and implant a cool drug right into the pleasure center of my brain to think that I had cancer!"
Disbelief. They stare at him as he speaks, uncomprehending, for what seems much longer than the actual time elapsing, as if the shock has somehow consumed them and now is spitting them back into a parody of the same scene, only in a different dimension. The relieved, overjoyed smiles have faded slowly, like a sheet of water slipping from the surface of some heavily-cratered rock. The change is sudden, and yet strangely tentative. This is a joke, surely. Surely… but it's not.
Infuriating as such a trick would be, Chase would at this moment love to believe that House is screwing with them again. It would bring things comfortably back to normal. It would leave him without that horrible feeling of sheer disappointment that he can see mirrored on Cameron's face in front of him.
Actually, House has been screwing with them the whole time. All that happened was that none of them were cynical enough to realize it, not even Foreman.
Now, Foreman is the only one of them who appears faintly angry instead of shocked; his expression is hard and stony, the way it always becomes when something arouses his severe disapproval. Of the team, he is the most like House and he, at least, might have had reason to suspect House's motives. Obviously, he hadn't. They had all been taken in—taken in completely, Chase corrects himself bitterly—by a façade that House had been obligated to throw together at the last minute because no one was supposed to find out in the first place.
Chase sets his jaw to keep from saying something he might regret later. He stares ahead at the red and black Chick Webb poster hanging on the wall behind House, trying to find something else to focus on. In the end, it is Cameron who manages to force out a few words; they are surprisingly civil considering the circumstances.
"You faked cancer to get high?"
House meets her gaze briefly, looking as though he would like to roll his eyes in response but for some reason resists the temptation. If there is any remorse in his expression, is it drowned out by the sheer irritation at being discovered.
"I'm going to bed," he mutters in almost a complete monotone. He is looking at the floor again. Chase finds himself wondering if Cameron's expression is actually hurtful, or if House is just trying to make them leave. Probably the second one. Bastard.
He realizes that none of them have any idea what to say now. They watch silently as House turns around and limps toward the small hallway leading to the back of the apartment.
Foreman shakes his head once. "You're right," he calls suddenly at House's back, "I don't like you." And he turns to leave.
"Sure, now that I'm not dying." House shoots it over his shoulder as he disappears into the other room.
So they aren't getting any more answers. It is a typical House tactic; Chase has come to suspect that much of his boss's mockery is meant to deflect the rest of the team from analyzing something else, something personal or emotional that House doesn't want them to find because he likes them all to think he's a jackass. What that something else is in this case, Chase can't be sure. In any case, House clearly doesn't want to have any sort of discussion about it. Letting out his breath slowly, Chase follows Foreman back out of the apartment. Cameron is the last to leave; typically, she lingers in the doorway for a few seconds longer, like she might try to follow House if she can convince herself it will be worth it. Finally, however, she returns to the outside entryway and closes the door softly behind her. The movements are automatic, as if the encounter has left her numb.
Foreman is waiting for them on the sidewalk outside the building, his hands in his coat pockets and his features slightly distorted by the angle of illumination from a nearby streetlamp. The three of them exchange pointed glances without saying anything before Cameron shakes her head.
"I can't believe he did that."
"I can," Foreman says. He looks at her with raised eyebrows.
Chase frowns skeptically. "Yeah, only now that you know he'd actually go this far for drugs. Half an hour ago you were just as gullible as the rest of us."
"Ok, so we were all idiots," Foreman concedes loudly. "The point is, we should have known better." He begins pacing in a small circle, confining his steps to one paved square of the sidewalk.
Cameron stares incredulously at him. "What were we supposed to do—just listen to his story and then say 'you're lying'? Everything any of us found out fit with him having brain cancer—there was no motive—"
"With House, you always have to question motive," Foreman interrupts shortly. "Everything that fit with his fiction was supposed to fit—and there were some things that didn't." He stops pacing and folds his arms. "Did it ever occur to either of you two to wonder why House didn't tell Wilson about this?"
Gesturing ambiguously, Cameron says, "Obviously he couldn't tell him because it wasn't true—"
"I mean, within the fiction."
"Theoretically, because he didn't want any cloying sympathy, and Wilson is—"
"His best friend—and an oncologist."
"He's got a point," Chase admits slowly. "House may be an egotistical bastard a lot of the time, but he's not an idiot. Wilson would do anything to help him. He knows that." In fact, that should have been the first sign to provoke suspicion; now he wants to hit himself for missing it. He sighs and spreads his hands helplessly. "Apparently we were all so concerned that he was dying that we never bothered to consider the possibility that he wasn't."
Foreman nods approvingly at him. "Exactly. We all know House is an ass—it's sort of his normal state. But somehow his having cancer cancelled that out. We all the delusion that, because he was dying, he would suddenly accept our overwhelming compassion and support." He looks between the two of them. "Anyone else getting the irony here?"
"Ok," Chase agrees, annoyed, "it sounds stupid when you put it like that. But we all wanted to believe it, right?"
"We did believe it," Cameron clarifies quietly. "We were just wrong."
A rather awkward silence falls. Chase sees Cameron glance over again at the windows of the apartment and decides it would probably be a good idea to leave. "Look," he says, "can we maybe walk and talk?" He jerks his head in the direction of Cameron's car, which is parked at the end of the street.
Foreman shrugs and nods without saying anything. The muscles in his face are rigid, as if he is trying to hold back a burst of frustration because he knows it won't accomplish anything. Chase himself is having a hard time reconciling this with his usual image of House. He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder and begins walking, leaving the other two to follow. It is very quiet, even though it's not that late; the few night drivers going by seem distinctly invasive.
"So," Chase remarks moments later, feeling suddenly that he needs to break the stillness, "was Tritter right after all?"
Behind him, he hears one of them stop, and Cameron's voice replying in surprise, "What are you talking about?"
"Didn't Tritter keep going on about how addicts never really change? How they do incredibly ridiculous things just to get their hands on drugs?"
She hurries to catch up with them. "Tritter was an ass—he didn't understand House—"
"Oh, yes he did," Foreman interrupts, with a tight ironic smile. "He had a pretty good knowledge of House's character. He just saw it differently than we usually do."
"I think the problem here is that we don't really see House as an addict." Chase frowns again as he considers it. "Sure, we know he is, but we don't think about it like he's high or impaired. It's just—how he is. He's House."
"That does not exempt him from the normal rules of society!" Cameron protests.
Foreman's expression takes on a condescending nature. "No, it just means we take his abnormalities for granted. Come on, Cameron, none of us should be shocked by this. We always let him get away with risky ideas."
"Medically—not something like this."
"Oh, so it's ok if he screws with other people's lives, just not his own."
"His medical screwing usually works," Chase points out.
"I'm pretty sure this clinical drug implant works, too."
"Not to treat cancer."
"No, to treat depression—to give him that high. That's all he was after."
They have stopped at the curb. Clearly upset, Cameron pulls her keys, jangling, from her jacket pocket, unlocks the car, and gets in without acknowledging either of the other two. With an absent sort of shrug, Foreman also gets into the front and closes the door.
Chase is left standing outside on the sidewalk. "Why do I get the back?" he asks, very much annoyed at this little fact without being able to say exactly why. Maybe he's still uptight.
As Cameron starts the ignition, Foreman rolls down his window. His face is not amused. "Because it's the only seat available," he explains, "unless you want to ride in the trunk. Just get in."
Chase rolls his eyes but obeys, muttering, "I got the back on the way here."
"Why do you care?" Cameron says, her tone distracted as she glances at him in her rearview mirror and simultaneously checks for approaching cars. "It's not like acting childish is going to make you feel better, and some people"—she begins backing onto the street—"would consider it aggravating."
Clearly, this is not an issue to be disputed. Chase settles himself more comfortably and decides not to answer. From where he is sitting, he can see Foreman's profile whenever it becomes silhouetted against a passing streetlight, and he occupies himself for a few minutes by waiting for a change in expression there. Even when Foreman finally says something, though, the stone statue imitation continues.
"We should let Wilson know what happened," he suggests, but it's only a suggestion insofar as a leader suggests to his subordinates. "Tell him that House isn't dying after all."
"And that his real patient doesn't have cancer," Chase adds. "Luke Laura, wasn't it?"
Cameron nods slowly. "I doubt that'll make up for House lying about of this, though." She lets out a long sigh. "Wilson's going to be pretty upset."
"Not as upset as he'll be if we don't tell him right now. Tonight."
He leans forward in his seat to ease conversation. Happening to glance up at the street, he suddenly sees the intersection ahead and realizes, with a stab of panic, that they should be slowing down—why isn't Cameron paying attention? "Er—Cameron," he begins quickly, unconsciously bracing himself, "that's the intersection—yellow light—"
Her head makes a sudden jerking movement, as if waking up from a daze, and she presses down hard on the brake in time to stop the car a second after the traffic light has blinked to red. As she runs a hand through her hair, Chase leans back and lets out the breath he has unconsciously been holding since he saw the intersection speeding too close. It takes a moment for the adrenaline rush to recede, and in the meantime, Foreman is looking over to Cameron with a worried frown.
"Are…you ok?" he asks slowly.
At first, she nods without saying anything, her eyes fixed very carefully on the lights now. "I'll be fine," she assures him, but her shaky tone contradicts the words. "I just…got a little distracted thinking about this whole thing. Sorry."
"Now isn't the best time to be getting distracted," Foreman reminds her.
"Do you want one of us to drive?" Chase offers, concerned.
"I said it's fine, Chase." Her voice is sharp, but Chase knows the anger isn't really directed at him. Cameron still doesn't want to believe that House faked cancer; at the very least, she wants him to have a legitimate reason for it.
Which he doesn't. And that was what created the hurt here.
Thanks very much for reading--I hope you enjoyed this! It will be continued. And it is in your power to make my day wonderful: leave your thoughts!