Drenched
Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.
Disclaimer: I wished upon a star for House. You know the whole, "Anything your heart desires can come true" bit? All lies. -bitter- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.
Author's Note: Everything was against this chapter being written. First, I lost the first two thousand words when my computer crashed (and they were so good… -sad sigh-), then I graduated, then one my dear aunts got diagnosed with, out of all things, breast cancer (she'll be fine! -sigh of relief-) and now I have a job to help pay for the college experience, which has greatly detracted from writing time. My apologies for the very long delay, especially with the cliffy. It was not intended, I assure you!
This will be another two-parter chapter! Excitement!
This chapter hasn't been looked over by LastScorpion yet! Be forewarned! I'll be pleading with her to look over it when I get off of work tonight. Mayhap if I give her cookies she'll be willing to aid me… -bakes cookies-
Medical knowledge is still nonexistent. Any corrections or tips will be most appreciated.
This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."
Reviews/Reviewers are loved.
Thank you and enjoy!
EDIT: This section has now been LastScorpion approved! –cheer-
Some of my more idiotic mistakes this update include but are not limited to…
"A clean scrap of clean cloth" AKA, a really clean cloth!
"The remains of her tumor were too large, too persistent in growing and her regiment…" She has an armed guard, didn't you know?
"Clara shook her said solemnly." I am now left to wonder how one manages to shake a said. –ponders-
"Foreman commented dryly as he pushed open the room." That's right! Super-Foreman!
-cough-
Thanks a million to LastScorpion, without whom this story would simply spontaneously combust due to all of the ridiculous errors. Remember! Praising sessions on Wednesdays! Bring lots of cookies!
---
Chapter Eight: Drenched, Part One
I
want water up to our waists
And
I want to be drenched by the rain
Up
to our ankles with holes in our shoes.
I
want to think your thoughts
Because
they are mine.
I
want only what's urgent to you.
I
want to get in the way of the barriers.
-Nicole
Burdette
---
Clara's fingers gripped at her hands with an intensity that surprised Wilson, nails digging into skin and leaving deep grooves, reddening the flesh, almost tearing it.
That ferocity was the only sign that the woman in front of him wasn't as composed and calm as she appeared, sitting in the chair across from his desk with a straight back, steady gaze and fearless disposition. Even with her frightfully pale skin, her scarf-clad head, how frail she had become, no one could mistake Clara for a weak woman.
Two months ago James had been forced to admit that Clara's treatment wasn't working. The remains of her tumor were too large, too persistent in growing and her regimen required major overhauls if they expected her condition to improve. For the three months following her lumpectomy he had been scrambling to find the perfect combination of chemotherapy and medication, subjecting the woman to three different forms of chemo with seven varied doses and eight types of oral medication.
And Clara had smiled as her hair, which had already begun to thin, fell out in clumps, eagerly posing for photos with her husband, proudly displaying her newly bared head next to his. Instantly she declared that she was almost grateful for the chemo, as it gave Mark and her one more thing in common. She had even managed to convince Foreman to join them for a few photographs, the young doctor rolling his eyes and grinning as Clara slung an arm over his shoulder, resting her hand on his bald head while providing her husband with similar treatment on her other side.
When Wilson had to alter her regimen, increasing her chemo to daily sessions for a month, Clara had been too tired to pose. So, instead she took to wearing brightly colored scarves, happily telling Wilson the story behind each ("Sammy nearly strangled me after I picked this one out,") when he visited her every afternoon.
But the month passed and the cancer still hadn't receded. So, Wilson had ordered a mastectomy.
After hearing his request Clara had nodded at him, spent twenty minutes alone in Wilson's office and then agreed to the procedure. They performed the surgery the next day.
And after it was through Clara had shrugged at the concerned expressions of her family and doctor, commenting dryly, "I thought when I left high school that I wouldn't have to experience the lovely sensation of a stuffed bra ever again. Thanks cancer, for bringing that back to me." And everyone had laughed, and Wilson allowed himself to believe that the worst was over.
It wasn't.
Because the mastectomy had been too late.
He rubbed his neck, avoiding the gaze of the woman seated nervously in front of his desk, tearing at her skin.
Throughout the past months Clara Samson had become more than just another patient to Wilson. Granted, Wilson never viewed any of the people to pass through his department as 'just another patient,' but even in this regard Clara was different. She had earned his friendship and deepest respect, undergoing humiliating tests, painful treatments and degrading surgeries with as much dignity, grace and refinement as any patient he had ever treated.
And now, after all of that, James had to tell her that she was dying.
It was almost an art, the ability to deliver the worst news a person was ever likely to hear. After years of practice Wilson had mastered the ability to be earnest without being condescending. To adopt an expression that that conveyed a clinical compassion that comforted most patients. Concern without pity, sympathy without hidden mockery.
He hated it. Hated telling his patients that despite all they had endured, it was hopeless. That they had a year, six months, four weeks, to say goodbye to everything they knew and loved. What was worst was when they thanked him. Thanked him for failing them, for delivering their death sentence.
But instead of showing this reluctance, Wilson devoted all of his effort into giving the news as carefully, skillfully, as possible. It was the least he could do, for people who had trusted him and whom he had failed. After, he could go to some private corner and grieve for the loss of another good life.
But until that moment, he never froze, never had to search for words. He knew every medical term to say, knew every inflection of tone to use. He never broke down, never appeared to be anything other than a compassionate doctor giving his patient unhappy tidings. It was his job, his moral responsibility, to make the news as easy to hear as possible. He was allowed to fall apart later, when he was alone and no one was depending on him.
He couldn't make the exception now. Not with her.
He looked up at Clara, staring intently. "Docto-" And he noticed that for the first time since she had entered Princeton-Plainsboro, Clara looked frightened.
What was he doing? To this woman who had become his friend?
He stood up from behind his desk, sitting down in the chair next to Clara and scooting it closer to her. "Clara," he said, noting her small smile even as her fingers clenched more tightly at her hands.
She nodded in his direction, forcing her grin to widen. "Jim." She spared her surroundings a nervous glance. "I'm sorry for not appreciating your office properly, but in the past I've gotten nothing but bad news in this room." She eyed him critically. "And from the look on your face, I don't think that's a tendency that's about to change."
"Clara, the cancer's metastasized to your lungs."
She gave a small, bitter laugh. "See?"
"We couldn't stop it before because the symptoms are barely noticeable without a CT scan of the lung."
"That's why my treatment wasn't working? Because it was already too late?"
"No," he reassured her quickly. "If you had come in with that condition we would have known about it long before now."
"So the treatment just didn't work?"
Wilson shook his head. "The cancer was too aggressive."
Clara looked down at her hands. "Oh."
It was far more painful than it should have been, to watch a strong woman humbled in such a way.
"We can extend your life as long as possible, make you as comfortable as we can-"
She looked up at him helplessly. "There's nothing else you can do?"
I'm going to die? You couldn't cure me? Couldn't help me?
He wished that he could lie. "There are experimental treatments that you can volunteer to take, but they..." Won't work.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck while giving his head a light shake. "I'm sorry, Clara." He looked her in the eye. "You're dying."
She was silent a moment, staring at him blankly. "How long?"
"A few months. Maybe four, if we start you on the new meds immediately."
She nodded, letting out a sigh. "Thank you, Jim."
He winced before he could stop himself, grateful to note that Clara hadn't seen it.
Her eyes started to become overly bright and she sniffed slightly, shaking her head and smiling at him. "See, this is no fun when you know all of the steps." She gave a slight nod. "First there's supposed to be denial."
She looked to him. "But you wouldn't play with me, wouldn't give me false hope and wouldn't demoralize me unless you had no other choice." Clara gave a sigh. "And pretending that something's not real, not true, won't make it go away.
"Then anger, at you first, I assume." She smiled. "But that's just as difficult to maintain. I know how hard you've worked, Jim, and I know that you did everything you could. And I can't be mad that my time's through. I did get a few more years than my mother did." She paused, glancing at her hands. "There's that, at least."
She gave a small laugh. "Bargaining, well." She waved her hand dismissively. "I've never been one for compromise."
Her eyes overflowed as she turned to him. "So that leaves depression." Se sniffed. "Which I'm afraid I'm having a little difficulty with."
Her voice cracked slightly. "I'll never get to grow old with my husband, Jim."
Why hadn't he been able to help her?
Clara let out a small bark of laughter. "I'll never know if Will can get his act together." She smiled. "Baby brothers can be like that, you know."
Wilson nodded, giving a sad smile of his own. Yes, he did know.
Her expression saddened. "I'll never get to see Al finally be happy."
Cameron.
God, what was he going to say to Cameron?
"And Matt." The tears increased even as her face lit up in pride. "Oh, he's so smart, Jim, you've talked to him, you know. And sweet too. The ladies will love him when he gets older, I know it already."
Wilson smiled, marveling in the love of a parent for her child. He ignored the painful flare in his chest as he thought about Julie, about the baby.
Clara shook her head. "I just thought I would be there to see it when it happens."
Life, any life, was too precious to waste.
She looked at him helplessly. "I won't get to watch him grow up, Jim. Won't be there to straighten his tie for his prom, his graduation, his wedding..." She trailed off, wiping at her eyes before laughing slightly. "Mark's horrible with ties." She snorted. "My boy's going to look ridiculous on the most important days of his life because I'm not going to be there to fix his ties."
And with that Clara brought a hand to her face, covering her eyes as her shoulders began to shake, sobs wracking her body, tears flowing out from in between her fingers.
Wilson had more experience with death than any person should have to. He knew that it wasn't fair, that it was never pleasant. That people were always hurt. Knowing these things had made the process of revealing death easier for him in the past.
But not now. Not with her. Not with a woman who had so much left to offer the world, that so many people loved and depended on.
He scooted closer, taking her free hand in his and squeezing it lightly.
She squeezed back, with more strength than Wilson thought she had. "I'm not ready to die, Jim." She looked up at him, tears still flowing. "This is too soon." She flicked away a tear on her cheek. "Later, but not now." She stared at him hopelessly. "Not yet."
Wilson found himself saying, "I'm so sorry," even though he knew it wouldn't help.
---
Chase made his way through the front doors of Princeton-Plainsboro in a bit of a rush, resisting the urge to shoulder his way past the flood of people steadily entering the hospital. Due to an unexpected extended stay at Sammy's, he found himself waking up that morning without a scrap of clean in sight that wasn't meant for a decidedly curvier person. And as much as House would get a kick out of his intensivist cross-dressing, Chase was not willing to subject himself to the embarrassment, discomfort and mockery that the practice would entail. So, slightly frantic, he had sped over to his own apartment, grabbed the first clean pieces of fabric, that matched, he came in contact with and then raced to work.
And despite his impressive feat of traveling across town (generally a half an hour trip) and back in twenty minuets flat, he was still running late.
Chase hated being late.
It wasn't that he had anything to hide; not truly. But sharing the intimate, or even mundane, details of his life required far more trust in others than the intensivist felt that he could maintain. Those who knew more about him, his favorite color, what he did on his days off, the events of his childhood, did not necessarily like him more. Weren't more likely to be around when he needed them. Didn't guard his secrets more carefully. All that the extra knowledge accomplished was giving others a greater ability to use it to their own ends. Why give them more ammunition? Why take the risk?
Chase preferred to err on the side of caution. When people left his life, as they always did, they did so no better and no worse off than when they had entered it, and so did he.
But there were some who weren't content with this arrangement, and House was one of them. Not because he wanted to be closer to his employee (the thought was laughable), but because he was curious. Much safer than genuine interest and concern, but no more welcome.
Chase liked House (as much as anyone could like the company of the man), respected him. But that didn't mean that he was any more willing to share the details of his life with the diagnostician. In fact, given what had happened in the past, with his father, Chase was more inclined to keep any and all dealings of a personal nature away from the older doctor.
House was almost frightening in his desire to pry into Chase's life, in his ability to uncover that which Chase had done his best to keep carefully hidden. If his boss caught him showing up late, he wouldn't let it go. He would poke, push and prod until Chase slipped. Accidentally said more than he meant to, let an expression pass over his features that gave the perceptive man a clue to the intensivist's feelings. It was exhausting, attempting to keep his guard up with House pounding incessantly on its doors, doing his best to wear a hole in Chase's defenses. Generally, it was only a matter of time before House had unearthed the explanation that he wanted from the Aussie, despite Chase's attempts to keep his personal life to himself.
In a way, Chase was grateful for House's bluntness. Most people, when digging for information, were far more subtle, more conniving, in their efforts. Trying to convince Chase of their pure intentions, trick him into trusting them. And although he never did, sometimes the urge to do so was painfully tempting. Because they made it seem so easy, so smart, so safe, so unbelievably natural, to trust. And then, after Chase had every confidence in them, they would turn on him. Disappoint him. Hurt him.
At least House had the dignity, the decency, to stab his victims from the front.
And it was due to this warning, this knowledge, that Chase went out of his way never to be late. If he never gave his boss the excuse, maybe he would be able to keep the man's curiosity at bay.
Fortunately, his boss never showed up to work until it was at least an hour after he was expected, so Chase's five minute delay would, with any luck (which, admittedly, Chase had little of), pass by unnoticed.
"Doctor Chase!"
He winced, suspecting the worst, before hesitantly turning towards the voice.
"You're late."
Relief highlighted his features as Sammy smirked at him, making her way inside from the entrance. "And you, the respectable doctor. I hope you're ashamed."
She moved as if to hug him and Chase threw a panicked glance around the room, noting the people watching. Too many people, far too many.
She followed his gaze and smiled sadly, backing up a step.
He instantly felt ashamed for having caused her spirits to dampen.
He then promptly scolded himself for such thoughts.
Chase didn't love her. He liked her, yes. But he didn't love her. He was attached, but not to that point. Not yet. He could still leave if he needed to. Could still forget her, even though it would be hard. Even if it would hurt.
He didn't care if she was sad. If he had wronged her, if he wasn't the person that she actually wanted.
Her fault, not his. If she was disappointed by him, Chase would remain guiltless and unaffected.
But he still couldn't get that sinking sense of shame to leave his thoughts.
"Hello to you too," Chase said, forcing a smile. "And yes, I am late." He grinned at her. "All your fault, by the way."
Sammy smiled coyly. "You can't say that it wasn't worth it."
He recalled the night before, lips upturning. "Nope," he responded quickly, still smiling.
It really had been a great night.
Sammy rolled her eyes. "Men."
He shrugged. "Hey, you weren't complaining then."
She laughed and shook her head at him. "Oh so charming, Doctor Chase."
He nodded. "That's my job as a dashing doctor."
"Really?"
"Yep. It was on the application."
She smirked. "House doesn't fit the criteria."
"Yeah, they felt bad about the cripple thing and thought they'd let the charm slide."
Sammy shook her head sadly. "Poor fools."
Chase inclined his head. "About five minutes after he started working here they regretted the decision."
"Well let's hope that they, at the very least, learned a valuable lesson from it then." She was doing her best to suppress a smile, a task at which she was failing miserably.
Chase found himself smiling back, her cheerfulness infectious.
He shook himself briefly. "As happy as I am to see you," he said with a smile, a bit shocked to note that the statement was true, "what brings you here this morning?"
Sammy tucked a stray hair behind her ear, glancing down at the floor. "Clara called."
Chase furrowed his brow. "Are you supposed to pick her up today?"
"No." She shook her head and looked up to him. "And that's what makes it so strange."
Very strange. Although Chase had only known Clara a few months, the fact that the woman despised being a burden to others was far from a mystery to him. It was what she disliked the most about her condition, apologizing profusely when a family member or friend was inconvenient inconvenienced due to her illness, determined that it shouldn't affect those around her as profoundly as it was affecting her. She insisted that she maintain her independence in small ways, taking the bus whenever possible, buying the groceries, going to work when she wasn't too exhausted, seeing her patients when others would have gladly done so for her. She had no wish to prevent her loved ones from going about their daily lives as normal. And in order to attempt to prevent this from happening, she tried to go about hers as if nothing was out of the ordinary. As if she wasn't undergoing painful treatment, as if she had enough energy to perform her everyday tasks, as if she wasn't sick.
The act was more than a little convincing, the only undeniable indication that Clara was sick being her scarf-clad head. Everything else could be easily dismissed, overlooked or outright ignored.
It was an impressive deception, one that everyone gladly bought into for fear of acknowledging the harsh realities of Clara's illness. No one wanted to know the toll that the disease was taking on her. No one wished to see the strong woman that had won the affections of every individual she came in contact with brought to her knees by cancer. And so Clara didn't let them.
That she had called Sammy did not bode well. She had been forced to allow the performance to slip, and only something drastic could have prompted the very determined Clara to risk distressing her loved ones. Perhaps her sessions of chemo would be raised again, an already exhausting ordeal for the woman. Any more and Chase sincerely doubted that she could function even in a mildly productive manner.
Chase eyed Sammy critically, noting how she kept pushing locks of hair behind her ear, her teeth lightly pinching her lip.
She was worried. Scared, even.
And it annoyed Chase to admit that despite the worry and fear, she still looked beautiful.
He shook himself, adopting a only slightly manufactured expression of concern. "Do you think something's wrong?"
"I don't know." She frowned and returned her gaze to her feet. "I'm actually off to see her now." She looked up quickly, giving him a hesitant smile and slightly desperate look. "Would you come with me?"
Come with her? To the heart of the disaster that Chase could sense just beyond the horizon?
He only just restrained himself from snorting.
No. Chase had gone out of his way for nearly the past two decades to avoid just these types of situations. Emotional turmoil was not his specialty. He did not enjoy strife, high tension situations that he had no control over or voluntarily subjecting himself to anything that might remotely resemble complex sentiments. He had lived through them before and hadn't enjoyed an instant of it, learning his lesson very painfully, but very clearly.
And no pretty face was going to make him forget it.
He shook his head lightly and stared at her earnestly. "I don't think I should, Sammy."
A flicker of panic crossed her features and she reached towards him, grabbing the arm of his lab-coat. "Please?"
Chase looked around the room quickly, noting that no one was watching them, before turning back to the woman.
She was scared. Petrified. Her eyes wide, tone desperate, looking up at him as if he was her lifeline. As if she couldn't travel to room 213 without him, wouldn't be physically or mentally capable of it.
And as much as he told himself that he didn't care if she was afraid, or scared, and as bitterly as he internally laughed at her for thinking that she could depend on him, on anyone, he suddenly found that couldn't make himself hurt her.
He let out a sigh. "Okay."
She smiled in relief and gave his arm a light squeeze before letting go. "Thank you."
He nodded without comment, calling himself a thousand different types of fool as he gestured for her to lead the way to the elevator.
Chase was, most definitely, in over his head.
They entered the empty lift silently, Chase observing Sammy as she stared blankly ahead of her, unmoving as she blinked at her reflection in the sliding doors.
That unnatural stillness from a woman usually so full of energy and life caused the doctor to pause, edge closer to her. "You think that it's going to be bad news." It wasn't a question.
He had never seen Sammy this way before, so devoid of her usual spirit and enthusiasm. She must have suspected the worst, and the effect it had on her concerned him. Concerned him far more than it should have.
Her head jerked up and she brought her gaze to his. "I..." She let out a sigh and gave her head a small shake looking at him helplessly. "I don't know."
And, in the moment that followed, it made perfect sense for Chase to erase the distance remaining between them and kiss her forehead, instinctually grabbing her hand in his and squeezing it gently.
He purposefully blocked out the internal voice that demanded to know why it had felt so natural for him to comfort her.
And as she smiled slightly, resting her forehead against his, the voice was easily silenced.
They stayed like that until the elevator let out a high-pitched ding, signaling their arrival to the oncology floor.
Sammy let out a breath of air, straightened her posture and brought the back of Chase's hand to her lips, pecking the skin lightly before lessening her grip, striding out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open.
Chase followed mutely, smiling at her determined gait.
He was still grinning when she threw open the door to 213.
Clara raised a brow at the entrance, gesturing for Chase and Sammy to enter the room as she talked on her cell phone.
Sammy crossed her arms over her chest and stared pointedly at the woman as Chase edged his way into the space, resisting the urge to tuck himself away in a corner. Anything so he could, in whatever small way, remove himself from the situation.
"Emily, my darling sister-in-law has just arrived and I've got to go." A pause. "Shush, dear. We'll figure this out, don't worry." Clara frowned slightly. "No talking like that. The organization will be fine." A light upturning of the lips. "You'll be fantastic. Now I really have to go, Em." Another smile. "Yes, I'll speak with you later." She gave her head a light shake. "Goodbye, Em. I'll call back in a few hours."
She flicked her phone closed and huffed. "Sorry." She rolled her eyes. "Work."
Sammy tapped her foot in mock anger. "You disregarded my lovely entrance for a patient?"
"Afraid not," Clara said guiltily. "That was Doctor Scandlin, one of my colleagues." She gave a rueful smile. "If it was a patient that would have been almost selfless of me."
Sammy smirked and made her way to the bedside, sitting in the now well-used chair. She nodded and adopted a serious tone. "Which we all know you are anything but."
Clara shook her head solemnly. "Most definitely not."
The younger woman gave another eye roll, a small grin on her face before gesturing towards herself. "Well? You asked for my presence and here I am."
"With an added bonus." Clara had turned her attention to Chase, whose efforts to disappear had, apparently, failed miserably.
He gave a small wave, taking another step into the room with all of the reluctance of one walking to his own demise, as Chase had no doubt that he was. "Hello." He took a quick bite at his nail before continuing. "Do you mind that I'm here?"
Clara opened her mouth but Chase began again before she had a chance to respond. "Because if you'd like, I can leave."
She gave him a small, knowing, grin. "Please stay, Rob."
Sammy turned in her seat, sending him that hopeless look once more.
Chase couldn't abandon her when she looked at him like that.
So he let out a sigh, going to the other side of the hospital bed, careful to avoid the tubes connected to Clara's intravenous catheter, as he mentally braced himself for an emotional disaster that he had no obligation to be involved with.
But that he was because they had asked. Because they had placed a small piece of their happiness in Chase's hands and he didn't have the heart to disappoint them. Because he wanted to contribute whatever small amount he could to preserving their happiness.
Mentally, Chase marked the moment as the beginning of his downfall into complete idiocy.
Clara gave him another smile and took in a large breath of air, bringing her attention back to her relative.
"Sammy, I'm not going sugar-coat this for you." She gave the younger woman a severe look. "Perhaps you won't be happy with me for it, but sometimes it's best to hear the harsh and honest truth."
The artist nodded, fidgeting in her seat.
Clara took another breath and Chase prepared himself. More chemo, more radiation. More of her life taken away from her, more concern and time snatched away from the ones who cared for her.
"I'm dying."
Chase's mind went blank.
Sammy blinked. "What?"
Clara continued on as if nothing had been said, still looking at her sister-in-law intently. "The cancer's spread to my lungs."
She leaned forward in her seat, grasping Clara's hand, her eyes overly bright. "Jim, he can fix that though," she said with a note of desperation, pleading. She let out a nervous laugh. "You're not dying." She shook her head to emphasize the point. "You're just sick."
Clara brought her free hand to rest on top of Sammy's. "Sammy," she gave the woman a despair-ridden glance, "there's nothing that Jim can do."
"No!" She stood up abruptly, pulling her hand away, pacing angrily to the side of the bed. "You're not dying!" She stopped, turning towards Clara, tears running freely down her face. "You're sick, but you're going to get better."
"Sammy-"
"No!" She gave her head another violent shake. "I won't hear it. Stop talking like that." She sniffed, running a hand over her cheek to catch some of the tears, "You're going to be fine-"
"Angela," Clara interrupted, sending the woman a serious expression that Chase had never seen before on the psychologist's face.
And with that look and the use of her given name, Sammy deflated, slumping her shoulders and sending her sister a helpless glance. "But you're going to be fine."
"I'm sorry, dear," Clara stared at her directly in the eye, unflinching, "but I'm not."
She shook her head again, sobbing. "But you can't die."
Clara smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid I don't have much of a choice."
Sammy let out a small giggle, which then quickly morphed into more violent sobs.
Clara's brow furrowed in sympathy. "Oh, Sammy." She held her arms open. "Come here."
Huddling in on herself and crying, Sammy quickly did as she was ordered, almost running into the older woman, clinging to her desperately, the flood of tears only increasing.
And Chase watched it all from his side of the hospital bed, praying to the God he still foolishly believed in to let him feel nothing.
He must be certain to remember that he didn't care. Didn't care that this woman who had earned such a large amount of respect was going to die. If she mattered to him, if the thought of losing her meant something to him, it would remind Chase of how quickly, easily, the things he loved could be taken away from him.
He observed Sammy's quavering form, urging himself not to feel.
Apathy was the key. If you didn't care about anything, about anyone, then you could never be hurt, never be disappointed.
Then why did seeing Sammy, her sobs slowly petering away, being held by Clara, making soothing motions across the younger woman's back as the last of her tears were spent, hurt so much?
Chase looked down at his hands passively resting on Clara's bed.
He felt nothing.
If he kept repeating it to himself, he might be able to make it true.
"Sammy," Clara gently pushed the woman away from her after some moments of silence. "I need you to do some things for me, all right?"
Sammy nodded, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hands, "Anything."
Clara raised a finger to her chin. "Now I have to think about how I could best exploit that."
Sammy let out a snotty laugh, still running her fingers under her eyes, sending the older woman a severe look. "You're not funny." She sniffed, her lips still upturned. "You're not funny at all."
Clara grinned. "I'm hilarious and you know it."
The smile disappeared. "This situation isn't hilarious, Clara."
"I know, dear." She looked up at the younger woman, forcing a pained smile. "But when you have to choose between laughter and tears, you need to pick the option that will cause the least amount of pain, for everyone." She brought her gaze to her bed sheets, smoothing them briefly before giving her head a slight shake. "Anyway." She turned back to her sister-in-law. "I'm going to have to spend the night here in order to get some treatment." She smirked. "And given these new developments and Mark being Mark, he's probably going to want to stay with me."
She sent Chase a sardonic look, forcing the doctor out of his intense scrutiny of the folds of Clara's comforter. "The curse of the dutiful husband," she muttered before bringing her attention back to the other woman staring at her intently. "Could you go to our house," she waved a dismissive hand as Sammy opened her mouth, "use your key," Sammy's mouth closed, "and pack some bags for us?" She had adopted an earnest expression. "That way Mark can come here straight after work? And would you mind closing down shop while you're there? Giving the dogs food and turning off lights and the like?"
Sammy nodded eagerly, almost frantically.
"And by the time you get there Matt will be out of school." Clara's eyes followed Sammy as she stood up from her seat. "Would you mind picking him up for us?"
She shook her head. "Not at all." She began to head towards the door.
"And please," Clara snatched the younger woman's hand, forcing Sammy to stop, to look at her, "don't tell him about," she paused, "this."
Chase almost saw Sammy shiver.
"I need to do it."
Another frantic shake of her head. "I won't."
Clara released her sister's hand. "Thank you, Sammy." She gave her a grateful smile. "Truly."
The tall woman nodded, bending her head, a hand coming to her eyes, hiding them from view. Chase heard a small sniff before Sammy's head snapped back up suddenly, a smile on her lips. "Well. I'm off then." She quickly went back to Clara, kissing her on the cheek before going to Chase, giving him similar treatment. She didn't look at either of them as she pecked their skin, seeming to want to leave the room as quickly as possible and with as little fuss as she could manage, her eyes overly bright. "I'll be back in a few hours, the squirt in tow."
And with that she was out of the room, making her way speedily down the hallway.
Leaving Chase alone with a dying woman he cared nothing for.
Nothing at all.
The silence that followed was accusing. Trying to pull from Chase, pull emotion that he had long since abandoned as worthless.
It was sad, that Clara was going to die. But his life would not be greatly altered with her absence. Others would suffer far more than he. Mark and Matt, Sammy. Cameron.
Cameron. He did not envy his colleague the shock she was about to experience. The renewed and familiar pain.
Yes. It was very sad that Clara was going to die, that people whom he knew would be negatively affected by it.
But he would be fine, because he didn't care about Clara. About them.
Sad, but a detached sadness. A safe sadness.
Chase, however, found himself questioning just how safe he really was. Because detachment was supposed to make it hurt less, and this had the sharp and threatening sting of true, undiluted, pain.
And that pure hurt made Chase feel more unsafe than he had in years.
He needed to leave.
He looked up to Clara, muttering a quick, "I'm sorry," before backing away from her, making way for the door. Trying to escape.
"Rob."
He froze mid-stride, a mere foot from the door, almost flinching at her voice.
He reluctantly turned to her, noting her frail features, her scarf-covered head, her pale skin.
Why hadn't he seen that she was dying sooner?
Clara locked him in place with her stare, her intensity. "Keeping her busy will only work for so long."
Chase frowned.
"Sammy," she said, gesturing towards the door that the woman had left minutes before. "She'll fool herself into thinking she's fine so long as she has something to keep her occupied. To keep her from thinking." She gave a sad, fond, smile. "But eventually there won't be anything left to distract her with and she won't be able to avoid," she paused, "this, any more."
She looked at Chase directly in the eye. "Please, be there when she faces it."
It was a plea. Please, comfort her when I won't be able to. Be there for her when I die. Please stay.
And because she had asked, because he wanted to do whatever he could to ease her mind, to make her happy, to prevent Sammy from feeling more pain that she had to, he gave a quick and curt nod.
He then turned on his heel, heading for the door once more.
"Rob."
Frozen again, he halted his progress, glancing over his shoulder, hand on the cool metal of the sliding door.
She was giving him that stare again. "You can do this." She conveyed every sense of utter confidence in her gaze. "Don't run away."
Please stay.
Chase was in way over his head.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Clara smiled widely. "I didn't think you would be."
And Chase believed her when she said it, suddenly realizing that he would miss this unquestioning faith she had in him. "I really am sorry."
She let out a small sigh. "Me too."
---
Foreman flung open the office door, frowning when the form in the chair across the room didn't stir. "House."
His boss shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders while keeping his eyes firmly closed and his feet carefully perched on his desk.
"House."
The man yawned.
Foreman let out an irritated sigh and resisted the urge to scowl. "Greg."
House opened up a single eyelid and gave his employee a disapproving look with it. "That's 'Big G' to you."
"Right." Foreman rolled his eyes as he walked further into the office, making a conscious effort not to search for something to stab the diagnostician with. The satisfaction wouldn't be worth the shiv comments that were bound to follow as House slowly bled to death.
Pity.
The neurologist sighed and began to make his way to the Diagnostics office. "In case you're interested, Mrs. Larson has just been released."
House stretched in his seat. "Who?"
Foreman stopped his progress into the next room and blinked. "Our last patient."
"Oh, another one of those." House reached out to his desk, snagging his Gameboy before slouching back into his chair. "Joy to the world; another innocent saved." He spared Foreman a glance. "I would get more excited, but I've got space monkeys to kill. Consumes a lot of energy. Saving up." He furrowed his brow and leaned forward in his seat, looking into the next room. "Where's the rest of the Scooby Gang?"
"If they've got any sense, avoiding you."
"Those two? Never. They love me. Really. Taken to calling me 'Dear Daddy Greg'."
Foreman snorted at the statement, but was nonetheless rather concerned by the absence of the rest of the team. It was more than a little odd that his colleagues were both out. Chase didn't like drawing attention to himself by arriving late and Cameron didn't want to seem anything but dependable. The fact that they were both missing was slightly disturbing, now that it had been brought to Foreman's attention.
"You," House pressed a button repeatedly on his console, "you would skip work just to avoid your boss." He turned away from the game to send the neurologist an earnest look. "If you could muster up the courage to defy me, that is." He shrugged and went back to his game. "I understand your hesitation. I'm terribly intimidating."
"Yes. Very. I'm quaking in my boots."
"If by 'boots' you mean 'several hundred dollar shoes'."
"They're sneakers," Foreman muttered as he began to head for the office again.
"Halt, minion."
Foreman raised an eyebrow and turned back to the man, decidedly annoyed. "Do I act like your minion?" He was not House's tool. Wasn't some mindless drone he could push around as he pleased.
"You stop when I demand it. Now if only I can get you to play dead." House sent the younger doctor an obnoxious smile as he peeked his head over his desk, eyeing Foreman's shoes, glancing at his own and then sending the neurologist an offended look. "Copy-cat." He then brought his attention back to his game.
"You know," Foreman commented dryly as he pushed open the door to Diagnostics, choking back anger. "In between the killing of the space monkeys, you might want to keep an eye out for a new patient."
His boss stared blankly at him.
Foreman sighed. "Just try being productive for once. You might enjoy it."
House shook his head. "Nah. Space monkeys are way cooler than sick people."
The neurologist sighed. "So you're not even going to go looking for a case?"
"They usually find me anyway." House gave a dismissive shrug. "Like dogs running towards a soundless whistle, really. You don't understand why, but it's damn nifty when they come bounding towards you."
Foreman barely suppressed his look of disgust.
People were dying, people House could easily save if he chose to, but instead he was fiddling with his game, unconcerned. Foreman could be doing something helpful, could be saving lives, and instead he was going to sift through paperwork, searching for a case, a person, that House found worthy of his time. For all that the man was excellent at what he did, he had no appreciation or humility for the power he held. Most doctors went into medicine to help people. House went into medicine to gloat.
And Foreman was expected to watch and listen to it, eager and humbled to be in the presence of the arrogant ass in front of him.
In that moment Eric hated Matt, a bit, for unconsciously urging him to make the worst decision of his life.
He had told Rustle no. A month before the deadline, no less. Had turned down the best opportunity to come his way in years because some boy, (a smart boy, yes, but just a boy nonetheless) had shoved notions of medical integrity into his head. Doctors, in the end, despite their motives, helped people. That was their job, their career. The why should have been insignificant in comparison to the what.
But it wasn't.
The why, the intent, changed everything. The why was what separated great doctors from common ones. The why was the difference between an acclaimed physician of great skill from a respected doctor of impeccable skill, with the trust, support and confidence of physicians and patients alike. I didn't understand that sentence at all. Acclaim, while heady and intoxicating in its own way, wasn't the stuff of legends. Acclaim did not make a doctor an authority in his area of expertise. Did not send a physician from an unknown to an esteemed associate. Acclaim was fleeting and insubstantial.
Respect, however, was priceless and eternal.
It was why House hadn't been sent to jail yet. How he could get away with the things he did and still have a reputation to fall back on that was widely praised throughout the country. House was brilliant and, in an odd way, admirable in his determination to discover what was wrong with his patients. To treat them in the way he saw fit, despite protests to his methods of doing so. It didn't make him well-liked or popular, but it did give him the grudging respect of every one of his fellows. And that, reluctant respect for a man you despise but admire, was more powerful and invaluable than brief congratulations or praise.
Turning around the Neurology Department at Princeton-Plainsboro would have been impressive, no one would have been able to deny that. And for a day or two Foreman could picture his name on the lips of every influential doctor in the business. And then he would have gotten a collective pat on the head from his superiors and then gone back to being ignored.
Foreman would never be content with being overlooked.
And Matt, in all of his innocent questioning, his concern for his mother, his unbridled curiosity, had somehow made Foreman believe that House was one of the doctors who, despite all appearances, had earned and deserved the respect of the medical community. That if Foreman could swallow his contempt, he might be able to learn how House had gained the high opinions of others in their profession.
It had, momentarily, in the thrill of finding a new, clearer, path to what Foreman wanted, slipped his mind that House was a miserable bastard who didn't care about getting patients better. He cared about being right. About being able to shove his brilliance into the faces of all who doubted him. The reason why others respected him was because they had no choice but to, resentment just as powerful as the admiration they felt towards him.
If House's concern was truly the people that he treated, he wouldn't accept each new case with such an obvious reluctance. Wouldn't have to be blackmailed, coaxed and prodded into helping those who came to him. And although House did happily lie, cheat and steal for his patients, that was a far cry from true integrity. It wasn't a grand sacrifice or risk on his part. It was bragging. It was his display of what he could get away with simply by being him. And although these actions might have benefited others, that wasn't the sole motivation.
And the why, the intent, changed everything.
Foreman eyed his boss with growing animosity.
Getting the man to do his job, to practice what he had spent decades studying, was a chore. To treat the patients that House sold his soul for, he had to be bribed, pleaded with, intrigued by some overly bizarre symptom or interested due to some obscure factor entirely unrelated to the illness. And nothing less would do. Instead of being able to spend his time honing his skills, Foreman was forced to humor a grown child, too self-absorbed to recognize that he wasn't the only one left with nothing to do but play games when finding a case didn't suit his fancy. The entire department suffered when House didn't want to work. Or when House did want to work, but could find no case satisfactory to his high standards. And then, when a case was finally found, he sent his highly trained team out on wild goose-chases to find the extra lie, the foreign visit, the affair.
Prying into the personal lives of patients wasn't the job of doctors. There were other, more specialized, personnel to perform those tasks, which would then leave Foreman, Chase and Cameron to do what they had been trained to.
But House wouldn't have any of that. He used them as doctors, lab-rats and sounding-boards from which he could bounce his own ideas.
Foreman let out an exasperated sigh, House clicking merrily at his game system, unconcerned with Foreman's continued presence. "Why did you hire me, House?"
The man frowned, but didn't look away from his game. "I thought we had gone over this, Eric dear." A quick upward glance. "Because you know how to bust caps and jack cars. Very helpful in today's medical world." He nodded solemnly as he looked back to the system.
Foreman crossed his arms over his chest and eyed his boss searchingly, ignoring the comments. "We spend more of our days waiting for a case to show up that will interest you than actually working. And then when we do get a case, we spend almost as much time out of the hospital as in it. Why waste the money? Why waste the resources? Why waste your time putting up with three younger doctors when you could just as easily hire mindless goons to do the work?"
The older man smirked. "The fact that you don't think I see you as a mindless goon is adorably optimistic of you."
Foreman refused to be deterred by the insult. "Why did you hire us House?"
He shrugged carelessly. "I hired Cameron because of her dolled-up face and Chase because his daddy asked me really nicely. You're reason's no more shameful than theirs."
"Those are the easy reasons, not the real ones."
House looked away from his Gameboy and raised an eyebrow. "Are they, now?"
Was he... amused?
"You're a selfish nosy bastard, House."
The older man turned off his game, setting it on his desk and leaning back in his chair, obviously suppressing a grin. "Thank you."
"But you're not an idiot."
"Obviously."
"You wouldn't hire someone because of their looks, family or personal history. And you wouldn't take on three doctors without a logical reason for it. Maybe someone else would have hired Cameron just to stare at her, hired Chase because of his dad." He sent House a penetrating stare. "But not you. Those facts would intrigue you, but they wouldn't make you willing to spend years of your life humoring doctors you thought had no potential."
House's smirk widened. "You underestimate the power of my curiosity."
"No."
House's eyebrows shot up again.
"I'm reminding you of how much you value your own time." Foreman smiled sardonically. "You wouldn't bother yourself with a case if you thought that it couldn't be solved. You won't waste your time training doctors you didn't find medically worthy."
"Is that what you want me to tell you, little Eric?" He adopted a doe-eyed expression. "That you're medically worthy?"
Foreman nearly snorted. He didn't need anyone to tell him that he was a good doctor. "I want you to tell me the truth."
"I have," House said, staring at his employee without a hint sarcasm. "You just don't want to believe it."
Foreman shook his head, containing his fury. "So that's it?" He let a bitter laugh escape his lips. "You hired me because I'm a juvenile delinquent?"
"No no no... Hardly. You were a good applicant. The criminal record wasn't the sole reason I hired you." He paused and tilted his head. "Although, it was the largest."
Foreman let out an incredulous laugh.
"I can't believe I chose this over my own department," he muttered, giving the door another push, too infuriated to continue to associate with his boss.
"Oh, so you have chosen then?" House remarked dryly from his seat, pulling up his Gameboy once more. "And a month early too. How peculiar." He let out a wistful sigh. "Shame I couldn't see the look on Rustle's face when you turned him down."
Foreman turned back to the man, shocked. "You knew?"
"Of course I knew. I know everything." He tilted his head. "Except how Cuddy gets her funbags to stay so perky."
"How long?"
"Have I known everything? Since birth, really."
Foreman glowered.
"Oh, you meant about the job offer." He made a show of contemplating the question. "About a week after Rustle made it to you." He smiled. "Watching you agonize was great fun. You put on a good show. Not as good as Chase running away from Cameron every time they're within twenty feet of one another, but impressive nonetheless." He gave the neurologist a distracted thumbs-up as he continued to stare at his game. "Keep up the good work."
Foreman gaped at the man. "And you didn't say anything?"
"And ruin your attempts to be stealthy? Never."
"You didn't care at all whether I stayed or went? Didn't try to convince me to remain in your Department?"
"Nope. There are plenty of other doctors around who would join my team in a heartbeat."
Foreman's mouth dropped open.
"I know it's hard to believe, Eric, but your leaving would be no great loss." He brought a hand to his chest. "Although my emotional suffering." He whistled. "I would mourn for months."
The neurologist was reduced to furious head shaking, walking back into House's office. "I can't believe you!"
House didn't glance up from his Gameboy. "You should. It's true. I would cry."
Foreman walked over to his boss's desk, snatched the game away from him and scowled.
House's eyes flashed dangerously.
"If you don't actually want me here then I have no reason to stay." Foreman tossed the game back onto House's desk before throwing his hands up into the air. "I passed up the opportunity of a lifetime to be in your department under the false assumption that you wanted to teach me something."
"Whether or not I teach you something doesn't mean that you'll learn from it." He folded his hands and threw them behind his head, smirking. "And if I don't teach you anything, that doesn't mean that you won't glean some knowledge from me anyway."
Foreman scowled.
House noted his employee's distaste and gave an eye roll. "Stop whining. You made the choice." He smirked. "Twice, by the way. I haven't forgotten Mr. California." He shrugged. "Now live with it."
The neurologist scoffed as his nostrils flared. "I threw away the perfect opportunity to advance my career for an arrogant jerk who doesn't give a damn about the people he works with or treats." He brought a hand to his brow and House gave another dramatic eye roll. "Forgive me if it takes me a while to stop kicking myself for it."
"Oh would you stop already."
Foreman frowned. "Stop what? Regretting my decision? Calling myself an idiot? Despising you?" He snorted. "Going to take a bit more than a simple command to get me to stop with any of those!"
"No, that's all fine." A head tilt. "Probably good for you too." He nodded sagely. "Humility is a virtue."
"So is hating you."
He shrugged. "In many cultures." House smirked. "I don't care if you hate me, and I really don't care if you hate yourself. I'm just annoyed by the fact that you continue to lie to yourself."
The neurologist let out a snort. "Right. Staying in your department wasn't a mistake. It was the best move of my career, really." He crossed his arms in front of his chest again. "I just like dramatics so I thought I would storm around the office for a bit."
"No." House stared at Foreman as if he were an utter moron, adopting the tone of one trying to explain something to a toddler. "The decision you made was decidedly stupid." House swiveled in his chair, grabbing his tennis ball. "At least you're intelligent enough to recognize that."
Foreman said nothing, containing anger.
"What bothers me is that you paint yourself out to be some self-sacrificing saint when you're really anything but." House shrugged. "As fun as it is to play pretend, you take the game far too seriously for it to be amusing."
The younger doctor frowned. "I never said-"
"But you think it." House smirked.
"Right." A snort. "Doctor Gregory House. Doctor, mind reader, and friend to the animals."
House shrugged. "You know I'm right. As much as you complain about how cruel I am to patients, as cold and exploitative as I am to my coworkers, you're just as bad, if not worse."
Foreman chuckled bitterly. "Only in your mind, House, would giving a damn make me as caustic as you."
Foreman turned again to the door, tired of House's game, ready to down as much coffee as he could to prep him for an evening of brandy at home.
House had other plans. "That's just it though," he yelled after Foreman, standing up from behind his desk and following the man into the next room. "I don't care and I recognize it. I don't try to dress it up as concern and parade my 'caring' in front of others."
"So I'm faking, am I?" Foreman had turned on his heel, glaring at the man. "When I go out of my way to learn patients' names, to care about their mental health as well as their physical health. It's all an act." He laughed bitterly. "And let's not forget the way I treat Chase and Cameron. The decency is just so I can better insult them later, when they're least expecting it."
House rolled his eyes. "You're acting the way you know a doctor should, because you know that's what people want and expect from you." He flopped down into a chair, tossing the tennis ball as he chanted, "Doctors should be caring, considerate and have a personal connection with their patients. The more they show these attributes, the more people like them. And you need people to like you so that you can use them for your own means."
"Why do you assume that it's an act?" Foreman remained standing, scowling at his boss from the center of the room. "Why can't my concern be genuine?"
"Because if you did," he paused dramatically, "genuinely, care, you wouldn't throw a hissy fit every time I sent you out to look through buildings." He sent the neurologist a pointed stare. "You wouldn't mind looking for cases for me to take because it would mean that you were helping someone, defending the defenseless." Another toss of the tennis ball. "In essence, you would be Cameron." He caught it and looked at the younger man, a slightly amused grin on his face. "Instead, you get pissed off because I'm wasting your time. Which is a fine enough reason to be upset for any normal person. But you're a doctor, and you're not supposed to be mad for these, selfish, reasons. So you dress up your irritation, make everyone else and yourself believe that it's on the patient's behalf, and stew in your righteous anger."
House shrugged. "It's all fun and good to watch it all, but you've managed to convince yourself that you're on some moral high-horse. Deluding yourself into thinking that you're somehow better than me." House looked at Foreman seriously. "And you should know better than to try to make me think less of myself." Another toss of the ball. "You can lie to everyone else, Foreman, and let them believe that you really are that selfless. But I'm not going to let you get away with lying to yourself." A smirk. "Ruins the entertainment of your horror once you reach the realization."
Foreman said nothing, staring at his boss blankly.
He wasn't like that.
House gave a small chuckle. "It's funny, really." He focused his attention on his tennis ball. "I don't care, you pretend to care, Chase pretends not to care and Cameron cares enough for all of us." He sniffed dramatically, sending Foreman a heartfelt look. "We complete each other."
Foreman ignored him. "I'm not like that."
House raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He leaned forward in his seat. "Do you think about patients after they leave here? Worry about their lives, how their illness affects every aspect of it?"
He smirked when Foreman remained silent. "How much do you know about Mrs. Larson? How old are her kids? How long has she been married?"
The neurologist shook his head. "That information is completely irrelevant to her treatment-"
House held up a finger. "But not to her life, which you care about, remember?"
Foreman scowled.
His boss smiled smugly. "You care about people, patients, only as far as you can use them to further yourself." He shrugged. "Take Cameron and Chase. I see what you do. Try to 'protect' them from me. It's cute, really, but you're not doing it for them."
Foreman raised a brow silently.
"You're doing it so that you can reaffirm your delusion. You play the role of the big brother, telling Cameron to cut her hair, trying to distract me from tormenting her. You stand up for Chase when he won't stand up for himself, try to convince him how heartless I really am. Again, cute, but you do it because it makes you feel better about yourself." House smirked and looked Foreman dead in the eye. "Because you're atoning."
And in that instant Foreman knew that House was well aware of Michael. Of the gangs and the robberies, the criminal record and the Foreman family's shame. He probably even knew that on the night Eric was arrested Mike had been apprehended with him. Knowing House, he had most likely deduced the truth as well.
Foreman hadn't meant to steal anything, but Michael had. And when he had discovered how close Michael was to being locked away and not being let back out, at the age of fourteen, Eric had taken the blame.
Because family always came first.
He had failed his younger brother in too many ways to count. Hadn't kept him from the life that Michael was so much better than, hadn't been able to convince him that he had the potential to be more than what was expected of him. He had failed as a brother, as a protector. At keeping Michael safe from harm.
And yes, Cameron and Chase were younger than him. They did seem like they needed more guidance than they realized, and he might have tried to help them every now and then, to keep them from getting into trouble, to keep them from harm.
But that had nothing to do with Mike. Wasn't for Foreman. Wasn't to help him atone for his brother.
It wasn't.
"You're full of shit."
House gave a knowing smirk. "You only say that because you know I'm right."
They stared at one another, House with the same smug, knowing expression on his face, Foreman standing above him, determined denial laced across every feature.
He wasn't like House.
And this staring might have gone on for some time, if it weren't for the small body that hurled itself at Foreman. "You lied!"
Foreman let out a surprised grunt as Matt ran into him, the boy's fists pounding on his chest.
"You said," gasp, "that he would do everything he could!" More swats. "You swore!"
"Matt!" Eric gently grabbed the boy's wrists, pulling them away from himself, stopping him from landing more blows. "Matt, what did I swear? What happened?"
"She's going to die!" Matt deflated, angry yells reducing themselves to small, sobbing, whimpers. "You said that he was the best, but she's still going to die."
Oh no.
Foreman looked to House, still seated in one of the chairs around the table. At first glance he seemed miraculously unaffected, expression blank, posture relaxed. It was only the fact that he held the tennis ball limply in his hands, that he had his eyes glued to the small boy, that indicated any sort of shock.
Foreman turned back to the boy. "Matt, I'm sure that Wilson did everything he could-"
Anger re-infused itself into Matt's tone. "'Everything he could' wasn't enough, and you made me believe that it would be!" He dissolved into more tears.
"Stop."
The eleven year old quieted his sobs and looked up to the diagnostician, who was quickly standing up from his chair, hobbling to the two of them.
"You know it's not Wilson's fault." He stared at Matt seriously. "Otherwise you would be getting your snot all over him. And you're not dumb enough to honestly blame Foreman." He stopped in front of Clara's son, not an inch of him sympathetic or condescending. "You're not doing this because you think it's justified. You're doing it because it's an easy way to make yourself feel better."
He looked intently at the boy. "Grief can do many things to an intelligent person, but it should never make him stupid."
Matt did nothing for a moment, finally inclining his head mutely.
House gave a curt nod back, turning to his employee. "I'll leave this to you, Doctor Sentiment. I have an emotional crisis to interrupt."
And with that House limped the rest of the way out of the office, heading towards the elevator.
"I'm sorry."
Foreman looked down, Matt backing away from him slowly, Foreman releasing his hands.
"I shouldn't have-" He sighed and glanced up at the doctor.
"It just hurts." More tears started flowing. "It hurts a lot." He rubbed angrily at his eyes, even as he was reduced to full-fledged sobbing once more.
Foreman knew what a doctor should do in this situation. A doctor would maintain a professional distance while remaining sympathetic, reassure the boy that the time his mother had left would be made as comfortable as possible, that they were doing everything they could to make her end easier. Cold-comfort to a child losing his mother, but it was the best that a doctor would be able to offer.
That was what he should do.
What House would expect him to do.
Instead, he placed a hand on Matt's shoulder, squeezing it. "I know it does."
Matt nodded miserably, looking up at the doctor in front of him and abruptly flinging his arms around him, sobbing into Foreman's shirt.
And Eric found that he didn't care about his hundred dollar silk tie as he hesitantly patted the boy's back.