Pictures at an Exhibition—chapter 8
"You are one evil cunning woman!" House's dramatic entrance into Cuddy's inner office startled the two women conferring at the table. "You ladies can gossip later," he added, dismissing the nurse from their presence. It had been worth a shot—to deflect the deed away from him and on to…whoever… Damn Chase for being so perceptive. Too perceptive these days.
House sat in his office, retrospectively processing the case in his mind as he mindlessly palmed the giant tennis ball. Memorizing all of the diagnostic steps; the nuances; the mistakes; filing them for future reference.
But this Foreman thing… Yeah, OK, fine. He had done it. Didn't regret it for a micro-second, though. House wasn't certain of his precise reason for having sabotaged Foreman's interview at Mercy Hospital, but he could, in retrospect, think of several excellent ones. He had just known it was the right thing to do. More or less.
Foreman simply wasn't ready, in House's estimation. Even after three years, he still had the blinders of conventional wisdom soundly secured to his instincts. And in diagnostics, you weren't going to catch many zebras that way. Not if you couldn't see them—and those damn zebra did seem to gather in the periphery of one's vision. Beyond the blinders. Foreman's years with Marty what's-his-name had not benefited him, the damage was still undone. Mercy was offering him his own diagnostics department. Idiots. The first time it wasn't vasculitis they'd know it, too. Suckers. Would serve them right, though…
Admittedly, Foreman provided House a nastiness to push back against. As knee-jerk as Foreman's reactions to his ideas were, they were occasionally valid challenges. They kept House focused on the game. Foreman was smart enough that every once-in-awhile his insights were correct; House could never quite dismiss Foreman enough to ignore him completely. House needed that. Sometimes, anyway.
What he didn't need was Foreman's judgementalism. Three years hadn't taught him that a patient is simply that. You can't value one over another (if they were really sick in the first place, and not just some idiot with a hang-nail): all lives are equal when it comes to medicine. Or they should be. There was plenty of time to hate the bastard after he was healed and walking out of the hospital under his own steam. Bias had no place in patient care. All three of his team much to learn on that score, he considered. And of course, there was Foreman's arrogance. And his ego. Those, more than anything, House thought, would be his eventual undoing.
House's thoughts drifted back to the patient. He smiled, appreciating that the kid faked him into resigning the game; laying down his king – prematurely. His Blitz Chess skills were undoubtedly rusty, but he should have figured…a jerk like that… House thought back to his own chess tournament days as a kid…wherever that took him: Europe, Egypt, "home" whatever po-dunk air-force town that meant. It never mattered, House almost always won.
But at least no one would beat the crap out of him for doing that. He knew kids like his patient—more than sarcastic: just fucking mean; they almost never played chess. But they excelled at beating the crap out of anyone they considered an outsider. And that almost always meant him. Only to return home to suffer under his father's own brand of punishment du jour. "You know, Gregory," he would say, that was a general's son you pissed off. His voice would always be dangerously calm. It was never any good to argue that he'd not done anything wrong except to get a perfect score on his math exam; or ace the French final; or sign up for the chess team. It would still be his fault, his father would certainly insist… No, that patient, what's-his-name. He wouldn't have suffered the effects of excess iron; he would simply be dead. End of discussion.
House peered out his office window and into the rain. Foreman was more like him than he would ever know. He could picture the young Foreman: too smart for his own good and toughened by sudden knowledge that you are simply different than everyone around you. And there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it but either fight or die. Neither option particularly good on any given day. Foreman became a gang-banger to survive, used his smarts to fit in. House hung on to his differentness like a lifeline, reveling in it as he became the best at everything: music, languages, science, medicine. Like it mattered. Like he could use it to prove his worthiness; his value—to anyone: the assholes who delighted in pummeling him when he was a kid—or his own father. Until it finally it ceased to matter. And he simply stopped caring. At least that's what he told himself: it just fucking doesn't matter. Period. Full stop.
House sighed, trying to shake off the melancholy mood. He'd fixed the kid; and he would have won that game. So what, if Foreman's leaving. The guy had been useless since his illness last spring anyway. When was the last time he'd made the winning diagnosis? House couldn't remember. So maybe Foreman was right to leave. He'd never be the diagnostician that Chase was becoming; or the tireless worker that Cameron always had been.
"House?" He swiveled his chair towards his door, slightly startled at the female voice penetrating his late night ruminations. He scrubbed his hands over his face, focusing. "He said 'no.'" House cocked his head, confused. "Foreman. He said no to running a parallel diagnostics group."
"Not surprised. I never thought he would."
"Then why did you OK it?"
"Would it have stopped you if I hadn't? How's the sunburn?" He didn't want to talk about Foreman.
"Better. Thanks. For the other day. For…Sunday. I had a….nice time."
"Liar. Polite though. Of course what else could you say? Anything else would be awkward; we see each other every day, after all…" He was going for disinterested amusement in tone, not quite managing it.
"House, look… I…" She approached his desk, perching finally on the corner of it, inches from him. "I want you to know. I…" Cuddy struggled with trying to convey her feelings. One of them, at least, had to be brave enough for honesty. "I want a 'do-over,'" she said finally. "My sunburn…what a great way to cap the day," she laughed, trying to keep it light.
"Yeah…lest we forget…my sunny mood…" he added darkly. "I'm sorry. I seem to be saying that a lot to you. Maybe that's telling us something. I'm useless at this…"
"Stacy didn't think so." It was dangerous to go there on any number of levels; and she knew it.
"Yeah, she did. It just didn't matter… And look where it got us, anyway…"
"Unforeseen circumstances. Shit happens. Not always your fault…" she smiled, making her eyes luminous in the dim light of House's office. "Have you eaten yet? I'm starving."
"I'm not really…"
"I'm paying. Thai Villa take out. Best Asian food in Princeton. Your beer; your apartment. I'll even challenge you to a game of chess. I hear you're not too bad a player." House had to smile, despite his mood. Pad Thai, Asian beer, chess and Cuddy: an irresistible combination, he thought as he rose from his chair. He grabbed his iPod from its dock and shoved it and some journals into his backpack. "I'll meet you back at your place."