CHAPTER SEVEN: And Then There's the Truth

Foreman sits at the kitchen table, laptop open, medical journals scattered around him. He's so intent on the abstract he's studying on the screen that the first time the doorbell rings it doesn't register. It is, after all, past 3:00am—not the usual time to expect a visitor.

Wilson sees the light on in the kitchen, and can make out Foreman's silhouette at the table, so this time he leans on the bell. He's not certain that this visit is a good idea, but every time he remembers Foreman's joke and House's hurt, he becomes angry all over again. So he isn't leaving. Finally, the silhouette stands and comes to the door.

"Dr. Wilson?" Foreman says quizzically as he opens the door. "Is House all right?" The question surprises Wilson; when did Foreman give a damn about House?

"House is… fine." He remembers the cover story and says, "I stopped by his office just now when I left my patient, and I think we're up to, oh, seven brand new cuss words. Let's just say that those charts are posing a serious threat to his 'happy little camper' status."

Foreman directs Wilson to a seat at the table and, at his nod, pours him a cup of sludgy coffee. "So why are you here?" A damned reasonable question, Foreman thinks.

"Were you aware that he heard you today… yesterday… I'm sorry, I'm tired. And I'm angry. Lemme try this again. House heard your observation about the state of his soul. Or lack thereof." Wilson raises his eyes from his cup and looks at Foreman.

"Good. I intended him to." Wilson is amazed, and even angrier, at the easy admission, but before he can say anything Foreman continues. "It's like this. House has Cuddy for his… umm… let's just call 'em control issues. She keeps him in line. He's like an eight year old boy, taking on the world and knowing it's safe because mama's gonna swoop right in and save him from himself. He's got Cameron 'cuz everyone, even the world's biggest bastard, needs to have someone in their lives who thinks they're perfect. If all his problems were healed tomorrow, she wouldn't find him perfect anymore, but that's not gonna happen, so he's safe. Chase is his dog to kick. House's mind just never shuts down, and sometimes he's gotta blow off all that accumulated steam. Chase is the perfect target because he's smart enough not to get wounded and intimidated enough to sit there and take it."

Both men laugh, and Foreman continues. "And then there's you. You were the toughest to figure out. You incorporate all of that, sure, but you give him something he can't get from anyone else. He can't scare you away, because deep down you're what all of us will never be—you're his family. The only source of unconditional love he has. So he can be himself with you, whoever that self happens to be at any given moment. Hell, man, you're the one who goes marching bravely out into the storm and looks him in the eye and holds a hand out to pull him back every time, even when the rest of us—including Cuddy-- are hunkered down praying for Hurricane House to blow over."

Wilson is listening, fascinated, as Foreman goes on, "And he knows that you'll forgive him, and respect him, and you'll be there even when you're pissed at him. He's tested it a million times, and I think even he's beginning to realize he can't push you away. Because family never loses faith when the rest of the world does."

Wilson feels uncomfortable. All this praise after what his lack of faith has put House through these last months. "Oh, I dunno," he says wearily, "sometimes even family has to be clunked over the head with the facts before they'll start believing."

Foreman laughs. "Sometimes especially family has to be clunked over the head. But once you finally get 'em on board with you, they're there for you all the way. If House didn't have you in his life, the rest of us would suffer big time," he smiles and rolls his eyes, "But House, he'd be lost. You're his anchor, ya know?"

'Gotta have an anchor,' House had said.

Wilson remembers House's one-sided fight with him earlier, and looks at Foreman, awed. This brilliant young man he barely knows has managed to put into words something that Wilson's been trying to understand for years. "Where do you fit in?" he asks Foreman curiously, sincerely interested in these unexpected insights.

"Right here," Foreman says, swiveling the laptop so Wilson can see the screen. The abstract covers a new study on chronic pain and the role of neurotransmitters. "I keep up with all this stuff, and when I see something that could help House, I research it until I find the flaw. So far, they all have flaws…." He sighs.

"But nothing is gonna help him if he's not here," Foreman continues. "So I try to keep him angry, fighting. As long as he feels he has to keep proving that the pain is real, it gives his pain a purpose. And everything with House has to have a purpose. If there's conflict involved, so much the better for the old bastard. So I challenge him on the pain at every opportunity. When he's starting to wallow in it, I create the opportunity so he can give the friggin' pain back its purpose. Otherwise he'd drown in it. He'd let it pull him under." Foreman meets and holds Wilson's eyes. "He'd kill himself," he states.

Wilson exhales. He's never allowed himself to voice that thought, but instinctively he knows it's true. He's always known it's true, he realizes, and a part of him has always expected it to happen. He shakes his head, clearing away the thought—but not the feeling.

Foreman continues, "Do you remember that repeat MRI he had you do on his leg a few months back?" Wilson nods. "He wanted so badly for you to be right, that the nerves were regenerating. But he wanted even more for you to believe in the existence of his pain. He was a real bastard for a week after that MRI."

Wilson smiles. "I remember. He just stalked past me every time we'd run into each other. He wouldn't even speak. It was so peaceful…."

Foreman laughs. "And now, if it's ok with you, I've got one more study I've gotta go over. And you look like you could use some sleep. I take it you wanna keep this little meeting private." At Wilson's grateful nod, he says, "Not a problem. Better for both of us. Wouldn't want House thinking I give a damn."

Wilson stands up and offers Foreman his hand. "Thanks, Foreman," he says as he heads to the door. "It's been an illuminating conversation."