Time Marches On, Chapter Four: Foreman
Apr. 7th, 2008 11:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Time Marches On Chapter Four: Foreman
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, PG
Length: About 23,500 words
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ever Change," fourth season.
Author's Note: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pwcorgigirl, silja_b and topaz_eyes for beta and feedback duties.
Previous chapters here: Chapter One: Cameron, Chapter Two: Taub, Chapter Three: Thirteen
Foreman
“You shouldn’t put up with his crap.” Foreman glanced over at Kutner, then back at the monitor as he lined up the needle at the best spot to go in and drain the excess fluid.
“I don’t mind,” Kutner said.
The patient hadn’t said much when they’d rolled him in to the procedure room, just looked at the equipment, and quietly answered Kutner’s questions.
“I guess I’m a little nervous,” he’d said, just before Kutner injected the Versed that would allow him to drop off into something like sleep.
“Everyone is,” Foreman had told him. “I’d tell you not to worry, but it’s normal to be a little worried.”
The patient had looked at him for just a few seconds, then looked away, firsts at the leads on his chest, then at the monitoring equipment. His fingers fiddled with the rough texture of the thin blanket that covered him. “But this’ll fix everything, right?” he asked.
He’d looked over at Kutner when he asked, and Foreman decided to let Kutner handle him. The guy seemed to be more comfortable with him, anyway. Probably because every time Foreman walked into his sight, he was carrying needles in his hands, and had no handy answers to any of his questions.
“It’s the same procedure they did before, to remove the pressure from your heart,” Kutner had explained, “but we still need to find out what’s causing the fluid to build up there in the first place. If we don’t, it could keep happening.”
The patient hadn’t asked anything else, just nodded when Kutner asked if he was ready. He’d seemed to welcome the drug when it hit his veins, had taken a deep breath, let his eyes close.
Foreman didn’t blame him. The guy was tired, overwhelmed, Foreman thought. Being a patient wasn’t easy, even when you knew what was happening and why. He’d hated not knowing what was happening back when he was the one stuck in a bed. It wasn’t normal being the one with no power, the one left to rely on everyone else, the one in pain, the one with nowhere else to turn.
He tried to shake the memories of those days out of his head. It wasn’t always easy, though he’d never admitted that to anyone -- not his Dad, not Cameron when she asked, not even Wendy. Maybe that had been the first sign that things wouldn’t last with Wendy, when he found excuses to hold back on telling her anything important.
Being a patient sucked. It changed everything, but from the moment he’d stepped back into House’s office, he’d known that he changed nothing at all.
He looked again at the screen, at the black and white outlines of the heart muscle and pericardial sac. He picked up a scalpel, made a small incision in the skin, then switched to the large bore needle, put it into place at the incision and pushed -- the point moving past the ribs and toward the shadow on the screen that told him where the fluid was.
Concentrate on the patient, Foreman told himself. That was the best way to ignore feelings best left buried -- the best way to think about anyone other than himself.
He glanced over at Kutner again. “Maybe you don’t mind if House treats you like crap, but you should,” he said. “House likes to take advantage of people.”
“I moved some books,” Kutner said. “It wasn’t a big deal.” He adjusted the ultrasound probe to give Foreman a better view of the heart.
“Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal this time, but what’ll he want tomorrow? Or next week? Or next month?” Foreman wondered if House had changed sometime in the months he’d been gone, had gotten even worse than Foreman had remembered. He’d always treated other people like crap, but his stupid hiring game had only seemed to bring out the worst in him, and in them.
Foreman wanted to believe that he’d never been as gullible as Kutner, never as devious as Taub or played the coy games that Thirteen had done so well. House hadn’t been able to push him around, he told himself, but knew that wasn’t true. Not completely.
He’d broken into his first house on the first case House had ever given him, and it had felt almost natural. He didn’t question it, even after he’d been exposed during a search, and nearly died. House had sent him out again, and he’d done it again.
Maybe, Foreman thought, he had just learned to recognize the extent of House’s games now, after he’d had time away them. He could see the others falling into the same patterns and the same mistakes that he’d made. Someone should warn them.
“I’m not you,” Kutner said, and Foreman wondered if he’d said something out loud. “I don’t feel like I have to fight House every day.”
“I don’t fight him just for fun,” Foreman said.
“That’s not what it looks like.”
Foreman looked over at Kutner again. He always looked happy, anxious to try some new stunt, even if it meant blowing something up -- hell, especially if it meant blowing something up. Everybody liked Kutner. Foreman didn’t. Not really. He wasn’t tough enough for this job. House would just use him up, and toss him out. Hell, House had only hired him to force Cuddy into adding another spot. Another game. He didn’t have the skills to keep up, and he’d only fall behind and drag someone else down with him. Maybe it’d be someone else on the team, and maybe it’d be a patient.
Foreman paused with the needle just outside the pericardium. He looked at Kutner. “House doesn’t need someone giving him everything he wants,” he said. “You’re not helping him, or the patients.”
“Maybe House doesn’t need someone questioning every move he makes,” Kutner said. “Maybe I give him some credit for knowing what he’s doing, most of the time. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Foreman shook his head and looked back at the monitor. Kutner still didn’t understand, and he was beginning to think he never would.
He pushed the needle through the wall of the pericardium, pulled back on the plunger and began drawing out the fluid. It was milky white, rather than clear. He watched the screen, judging when he’d removed enough fluid to ease the pressure on the patient’s heart.
Nearly 80 milliliters had been drained by the time he eased the needle out.
Kutner kept the probe over the heart for a few moments longer, watching the heart beat out its normal rhythm.
“You’re right,” Foreman said, “House usually does know what he’s doing. The problem is, sometimes he’s taking a chance -- a big chance -- with a patient’s life. You’ve got to know when it’s the right one.” He glanced over at Kutner again. “If you want him to respect you, you better learn how to tell him ‘no.’”
“I know what I’m doing too,” Kutner said.
Foreman siphoned off some of the fluid for more tests, then began cleaning up. “I’m sure you do,” he said.
---
This was House’s fault -- he was the one who’d set up a game, forced Foreman into a competition he had no intention of playing. It’s was Cuddy’s fault. She was the one who made it clear that he was her eyes and ears, turning him into a high class snitch, an informer. It was Mercy’s fault, for firing him for the sin of saving a life.
“You asked for this, you know,” Chase said.
“Yeah, right, I keep forgetting that page in my contract that confirmed my status as a scapegoat,” Foreman said.
“More of a social pariah, don’t you think?” Chase leaned forward to take a bite from his sandwich. His hair fell forward across his forehead.
Foreman had been sitting by himself in the cafeteria, stopping on his way to the lab. Taub and Thirteen were sitting at another table in the middle of the room. They’d seen him come in, but ignored him, and he’d done the same.
He looked over at House and Wilson, sitting on the other side of the room. Wilson had dinner on his tray, House had just had a cup of coffee in front of him, but he’d picked up a spoon and was finishing off Wilson’s potatoes before Wilson got to them. If Foreman had to guess, he’d say that meant Wilson expected to be in his office for another few hours. House didn’t.
Kutner had volunteered to take Osbourne to radiology for a follow-up x-ray, then he’d transfer him back to the ICU and monitor him to make sure he was stable. Foreman knew he probably had only a few minutes before House would come looking for him. He’d planned to fill his plate at the salad bar, but heard the wind whip past the windows and filled a soup bowl instead. Vegetable noodle with a thick beef broth. He was sitting there, sipping the thick broth and dunking crackers into the bowl when Chase pulled out a chair and sat next to him. He hadn’t even asked if he wanted company.
“I hear House has half the maintenance staff rearranging his office,” Chase said now.
“One shelf,” Foreman said, “and the last I knew he had Taub doing it.”
Chase nodded across the room. “He’s not doing it now,” he pointed out, “and when’s the last time House stopped at just one of anything?”
Foreman looked over at Chase, who grinned and raised his eyebrows twice.
“Crap.” Foreman pushed his chair back from the table.
Chase held out a hand, not quite touching Foreman’s arm, willing him to sit, Foreman thought, rather than holding him back. “Stay,” he said. “Let Cuddy deal with it.” Foreman stared at his hand, hovering there -- a request, rather than a demand.
“Cuddy shouldn’t have to deal with it,” he said, but sat down again.
“But that’s her job, not yours.”
Foreman shook his head.
“You can’t make House do anything he doesn’t want to,” Chase pointed out. “Why put yourself through hell?”
“Because I’m ...”
“You’re one of his fellows, just like them.”
“I’m not like them,” Foreman said. “At least I wasn’t.” He knew he didn’t have any special privileges at PPTH. He’d lost that job already, back when he’d turned Cuddy down the first time. It was gone. So was everything else, except this.
“You came back here for a reason,” Chase reminded him.
“I came back, because everyplace else blackballed me,” Foreman said.
“And because,” Chase said, “there’s no place else where you could do the kind of medicine you can with House.”
And no place else, Foreman thought, that would allow a diagnostics trained intensivist to take the fast track into surgery.
“So what, because Cuddy is the warden of this insane asylum, I should just let her handle House?”
“Why not? You keep saying that you don’t want to be House. Maybe you should stop trying to be Cuddy too.”
Foreman shook his head. Chase didn’t understand. He never did. He’d always had it easy, floating along in House’s wake, and now he was just following another stream with surgery. Life wasn’t that easy. Medicine wasn’t that easy. And House sure as hell was never that easy.
“There’s a storm out there, don’t you have some emergency surgery to get to?” Foreman finally asked.
“Already did some,” Chase said. “Thought I’d eat before the next case came in.”
Chase took another bite of his sandwich and Foreman went back to eating his soup and did his best to ignore Chase along with Taub and Thirteen.
He looked over to where House had been, but Wilson was alone now. He hadn’t noticed when House had left. For a man with a cane, he had an ability to sidle in and out of places unseen -- when he wanted.
He knew Chase was right, that there were things he could do at Princeton-Plainsboro that he couldn’t do anywhere else. But that didn’t mean he should stop trying to be something more -- more than House expected and more than Cuddy asked for.
And he knew that Chase was right that he might be happier if he wasn’t trying to do his job and Cuddy’s at the same time. But habits die hard, and sometimes it was just too hard to censor that part of his brain that still expected him to be running a department by now. The part that he’d tried to shut down.
Chase’s beeper went off, with the same combination of tones that he’d always used. Foreman guessed he’d never bothered to change it once he started in the new department. He looked at the number, then stood, picking up his tray. “Gotta go,” he said, and walked away, still eating the last half of his sandwich.
Foreman spooned up the last of his soup, then lingered over his coffee. Maybe he should take it over to Taub and Thirteen’s table, tell them that they’d gotten off to a bad start. Now that they were all a team, they should learn to work together. He’d managed to work well enough to Taub on occasion, there was no reason why he couldn’t do it with everyone. He could mentor them, let them know more about working with House. Or maybe that offer would fall just as flat with them as it had with Kutner.
He jerked slightly as his beeper went off. He looked at the extension. House. He looked over at the other table. Neither Taub nor Thirteen had moved, which meant that House just wanted to yank his chain, rather than the entire team’s. Or maybe he just hadn’t gotten to them yet.
Foreman leaned back in his chair, put his hands over his eyes, took a deep breath. Then a second one. And a third. He put his hands down, then leaned forward, pushed back his chair and picked up his tray. Might as well get it over with.
He heard shouts coming from the conference room as soon as he stepped off the elevator, and picked up the pace. He was at a jog when he came around the corner, then broke into a sprint when he couldn’t see anything through the glass.
Foreman opened the door. There were three guys in maintenance coveralls on the far side of the room, manhandling one of the bookshelves out of place. A second shelf was against the glass wall that faced the hallway, the blinds closed. The small one that should have been near the coffee maker had been shoved back toward the hallway.
“Wait,” Foreman said. He looked through the glass into House’s office. It was dark.
“You Foreman?” one of the custodians asked.
“Yeah.”
“Dr. House said to give you this.” He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, handed it to Foreman. Foreman unfolded it, and stepped into House’s office. He wouldn’t have been surprised if House was sitting there in the dark, watching him. He flicked on the light. The room was empty.
He looked at the paper.
“Gone home,” it read. “Monitor the sick guy. Call if he gets worse. And make sure the janitor guys move the stuff into the right place.”
There was a diagram at the bottom of the page, the conference room in reverse, with the bookshelves closest to the hallway, the conference table near the windows. Foreman crumpled up the paper. The janitors were looking at him.
“Look,” he said, but the door opened before he could say anything else, and Kutner walked in.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I don’t ...”
The door opened again, Taub this time, followed by Thirteen.
“What did you need?” Thirteen asked.
Foreman stared at them.
“I got a page,” Kutner said.
Thirteen and Taub both nodded. “Me too,” Thirteen said.
“From House?” Foreman knew the answer even as he asked it.
“From you.” Taub held his pager display toward Foreman. It was Foreman’s extension.
Kutner reached for his too, but Foreman held out a hand. “I believe you,” he said.
“If you’re busy, we can take a break,” one of the maintenance guys said.
Foreman put his hands on his hips, looked down at the carpet. He wondered if House was around a corner somewhere, watching him and laughing. Maybe he’d set up a camera somewhere.
He couldn’t guess what it was that House thought he’d get out of it. It wasn’t even worth the effort to try and figure it out. It was probably just some kind of a warped test by House to see how he’d respond.
He looked at the janitors, then at the rest of the team. He knew how to cope when things went crazy with a patient. One step at a time. Handle what you can, one thing at a time. He might as well try the same tactic now.
He turned to the maintenance crew. “He tell you what he wanted?”
“Kind of,” one of the guys said. He seemed to be in charge so Foreman concentrated on him. Let him handle the others. “Here,” he said. He flattened the paper against the door frame, tore the diagram off the bottom and handed it to him. “Does that make sense?”
The guy studied it, turned it sideways and it out to compare the rough lines to the actual room and its contents. He nodded.
“Great,” Foreman said. “I’ll let you get to it then.”
He motioned the others into House’s office and they followed him. He stopped in the middle of the room and held the top half of the paper between his fingers. “House went home. How about we take shifts watching the guy so we can all get some sleep.”
“I’m still waiting for the final ANA analysis,” Thirteen said.
“I’m running the blood and urine for cancer markers,” Taub said.
“I’m ...” Kutner looked at the others, then shrugged. “I’m free, I guess.”
"Great," Foreman said. "I guess it's you and me then." He caught Taub and Thirteen sharing a look. He couldn't quite convince himself that they weren't enjoying seeing him in this position. Hell, he probably would have loved to stick Chase with the overnight shift. He flinched slightly. He already had, more than once.
"We might as well break this up," Foreman told Kutner. "You want to take the first shift?"
Kutner didn’t bother hiding his disappointment, but nodded his head anyway.
Something crashed in the other room, and Foreman closed his eyes, tried to ignore whatever it was that was happening there. Maybe Chase was right, and he should just let it slide, let Cuddy handle it. He heard another thump through the glass and opened his eyes. "Let me take care of this," he said, and pushed open the door to the conference room, and looked back at Kutner. “I'll see you in a few hours."
Foreman managed to get a few hours sleep in his own bed before he crawled out from between the sheets just before 2 a.m. It would have made more sense to stay at the hospital, to crash in one of the on-call rooms, or even scope out a couch in an empty lounge. But going home always made him feel like he was getting a fresh start, like he could start over again -- even if nothing else changed.
Kutner was at the nurse’s station when he walked into the ICU, told him that the patient was stable, and still resting, then said he was going to find an empty bed in an on-call room for a few hours sleep.
"You could go home, get some real rest," Foreman pointed out.
Kutner just smiled. "I've slept in a lot worse places," he said, then left.
It was just after four o'clock when Foreman slipped into the patient's room, pushing the ultrasound cart in front of him. Osbourne stirred slightly as the cart bumped up against the bed. Foreman checked the monitors. Osbourne’s heart rate was slower than it had been thirty minutes earlier. He looked like he’d been sleeping soundly. Too bad Foreman had to wake him up.
"Mr. Osbourne?" he asked. The man stirred again, took a deep breath, then coughed, came awake. "Mr. Osbourne?"
"Ozzy," he answered, opening his eyes.
Foreman smiled. "Right. Ozzy."
Osbourne shifted on the bed, looked at the equipment, then at Foreman.
"Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to take a look at your heart, see how it's doing," Foreman said.
He nodded, didn't complain. Some patients never did, even when they should, Foreman thought.
"This will only take a couple of minutes, then you can get some more rest," Foreman said.
"I'd get more rest at home," Osbourne said.
"I know." Foreman smiled. "Hospitals can be crazy places sometimes." He spread open Osbourne's gown, spread warmed gel on the paddle.
He'd just placed the probe on Osbourne's chest, and was looking at the first images when he heard the door slide open, and Kutner stepped in.
"Hey," Kutner said. He nodded at Osbourne.
"I thought you were getting some sleep," Foreman said.
"I was, but I had an idea." Kutner stared at the monitor, then glanced at Foreman. He'd seen the same thing Foreman did, the first signs of swelling inside the pericardium again, fluid filling the sac once more.
It was still early, Foreman thought. They might be able to control it with meds.
"We should start him on an NSAID," Kutner said, echoing Foreman's thoughts. “Indomethacine?”
Foreman nodded. “That’s what I’d do,” he said. He froze the picture on the screen, printed it. He knew House would want to see it.
Kutner reached out, touched Foreman's hand before Foreman could turn off the machine. "I want to check something," he said.
Foreman held out the paddle, but Kutner didn't take it yet. Instead he lowered the blanket and opened the gown wider, exposing more of Osbourne's torso. "Just another minute, Ozzy," he said.
Osbourne seemed to be half asleep again, and he just mumbled in response.
Kutner placed the paddle onto Osbourne's abdomen, began moving it slowly from the upper left quadrant down, then to the right.
"You're thinking ..." Foreman said, his voice softer.
"What if Taub's right?" Kutner said. He didn't say the word "cancer." He didn't have to. "He came in with abdominal pain."
Foreman nearly pointed out that the pain was linked to Osbourne’s nausea, but didn’t. Once they’d ruled out appendicitis and there were no other signs of pain, they’d barely mentioned it. Taub should have thought of doing this, Foreman thought. Hell, so was he. Maybe if House hadn’t been so busy playing games with his mind -- if Foreman himself wasn’t so busy playing politics with the fellows and Cuddy alike, maybe he would have.
"Spleen’s enlarged,” Kutner pointed out.
Foreman nodded. “We knew that from the ER report,” he said, “but it’s clean,” he noted. It could mean anything, or nothing. He froze the picture on the monitor and printed it anyway.
Kutner moved on, across the torso, down. He slowed the probe, backed up and froze the picture. He looked up at Foreman, who nodded, then printed the screen.
“It's time to call House," he said.
"This better be good," House said. Foreman heard his voice before House came into sight, making his way past the bookshelves and finally into the middle of the conference room.
There was snow on his coat, and the cuffs of his jeans were damp. Foreman wondered how much more snow had fallen, then guessed that the maintenance crews hadn’t plowed the parking lots yet. Probably because half of the overnight crew had spent three hours rearranging this room.
“We re-did the echo...” Foreman started, but House ignored him. He took a half-step toward the bookshelves in the new spot, then stopped. As he turned, House’s coat shifted, and Foreman saw a damp spot on the seat on House’s jeans, extending around to his right hip.
“I like it,” House said, looking at the shelves. “Very Fortress of Solitude.”
“The Fortress of Solitude was made of ice, not steel,” Kutner said.
House stared at him, shook his head slightly. He stepped over to the table, leaning heavily on his cane, grabbed the closest chair and pushed the books still piled onto it in a heap onto the floor. “I hope you called me for something other than a repeat echo showing that the inflammation is back,” he said.
“How did you know ...” Kutner said, but House interrupted him.
“Because we still haven’t fixed the underlying problem, and while you may be enough of an idiot to call me for a simple test result, Foreman isn’t.”
Kutner didn’t even wince, just accepted the insult and House’s explanation. He was an idiot, Foreman thought, and handed House the printout so he could see for himself.
Three small but solid masses on the liver, grouped together in a neat cluster.
“You find this?” House asked.
“It was Kutner’s idea,” Foreman said.
“Why not yours?” House turned to Taub.
“I was in the lab, checking for cancer markers.”
House turned the paper toward him. “Something like this is a lot easier to spot,” he said.
Taub drew himself up. “Yeah,” he agreed.
“So,” House put the paper on the table, “let’s cut him open and see what’s behind door number three.”
Chapter Five: Chase
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, PG
Length: About 23,500 words
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ever Change," fourth season.
Author's Note: Thanks to
pwcorgigirl, silja_b and topaz_eyes for beta and feedback duties.Previous chapters here: Chapter One: Cameron, Chapter Two: Taub, Chapter Three: Thirteen
Foreman
“You shouldn’t put up with his crap.” Foreman glanced over at Kutner, then back at the monitor as he lined up the needle at the best spot to go in and drain the excess fluid.
“I don’t mind,” Kutner said.
The patient hadn’t said much when they’d rolled him in to the procedure room, just looked at the equipment, and quietly answered Kutner’s questions.
“I guess I’m a little nervous,” he’d said, just before Kutner injected the Versed that would allow him to drop off into something like sleep.
“Everyone is,” Foreman had told him. “I’d tell you not to worry, but it’s normal to be a little worried.”
The patient had looked at him for just a few seconds, then looked away, firsts at the leads on his chest, then at the monitoring equipment. His fingers fiddled with the rough texture of the thin blanket that covered him. “But this’ll fix everything, right?” he asked.
He’d looked over at Kutner when he asked, and Foreman decided to let Kutner handle him. The guy seemed to be more comfortable with him, anyway. Probably because every time Foreman walked into his sight, he was carrying needles in his hands, and had no handy answers to any of his questions.
“It’s the same procedure they did before, to remove the pressure from your heart,” Kutner had explained, “but we still need to find out what’s causing the fluid to build up there in the first place. If we don’t, it could keep happening.”
The patient hadn’t asked anything else, just nodded when Kutner asked if he was ready. He’d seemed to welcome the drug when it hit his veins, had taken a deep breath, let his eyes close.
Foreman didn’t blame him. The guy was tired, overwhelmed, Foreman thought. Being a patient wasn’t easy, even when you knew what was happening and why. He’d hated not knowing what was happening back when he was the one stuck in a bed. It wasn’t normal being the one with no power, the one left to rely on everyone else, the one in pain, the one with nowhere else to turn.
He tried to shake the memories of those days out of his head. It wasn’t always easy, though he’d never admitted that to anyone -- not his Dad, not Cameron when she asked, not even Wendy. Maybe that had been the first sign that things wouldn’t last with Wendy, when he found excuses to hold back on telling her anything important.
Being a patient sucked. It changed everything, but from the moment he’d stepped back into House’s office, he’d known that he changed nothing at all.
He looked again at the screen, at the black and white outlines of the heart muscle and pericardial sac. He picked up a scalpel, made a small incision in the skin, then switched to the large bore needle, put it into place at the incision and pushed -- the point moving past the ribs and toward the shadow on the screen that told him where the fluid was.
Concentrate on the patient, Foreman told himself. That was the best way to ignore feelings best left buried -- the best way to think about anyone other than himself.
He glanced over at Kutner again. “Maybe you don’t mind if House treats you like crap, but you should,” he said. “House likes to take advantage of people.”
“I moved some books,” Kutner said. “It wasn’t a big deal.” He adjusted the ultrasound probe to give Foreman a better view of the heart.
“Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal this time, but what’ll he want tomorrow? Or next week? Or next month?” Foreman wondered if House had changed sometime in the months he’d been gone, had gotten even worse than Foreman had remembered. He’d always treated other people like crap, but his stupid hiring game had only seemed to bring out the worst in him, and in them.
Foreman wanted to believe that he’d never been as gullible as Kutner, never as devious as Taub or played the coy games that Thirteen had done so well. House hadn’t been able to push him around, he told himself, but knew that wasn’t true. Not completely.
He’d broken into his first house on the first case House had ever given him, and it had felt almost natural. He didn’t question it, even after he’d been exposed during a search, and nearly died. House had sent him out again, and he’d done it again.
Maybe, Foreman thought, he had just learned to recognize the extent of House’s games now, after he’d had time away them. He could see the others falling into the same patterns and the same mistakes that he’d made. Someone should warn them.
“I’m not you,” Kutner said, and Foreman wondered if he’d said something out loud. “I don’t feel like I have to fight House every day.”
“I don’t fight him just for fun,” Foreman said.
“That’s not what it looks like.”
Foreman looked over at Kutner again. He always looked happy, anxious to try some new stunt, even if it meant blowing something up -- hell, especially if it meant blowing something up. Everybody liked Kutner. Foreman didn’t. Not really. He wasn’t tough enough for this job. House would just use him up, and toss him out. Hell, House had only hired him to force Cuddy into adding another spot. Another game. He didn’t have the skills to keep up, and he’d only fall behind and drag someone else down with him. Maybe it’d be someone else on the team, and maybe it’d be a patient.
Foreman paused with the needle just outside the pericardium. He looked at Kutner. “House doesn’t need someone giving him everything he wants,” he said. “You’re not helping him, or the patients.”
“Maybe House doesn’t need someone questioning every move he makes,” Kutner said. “Maybe I give him some credit for knowing what he’s doing, most of the time. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Foreman shook his head and looked back at the monitor. Kutner still didn’t understand, and he was beginning to think he never would.
He pushed the needle through the wall of the pericardium, pulled back on the plunger and began drawing out the fluid. It was milky white, rather than clear. He watched the screen, judging when he’d removed enough fluid to ease the pressure on the patient’s heart.
Nearly 80 milliliters had been drained by the time he eased the needle out.
Kutner kept the probe over the heart for a few moments longer, watching the heart beat out its normal rhythm.
“You’re right,” Foreman said, “House usually does know what he’s doing. The problem is, sometimes he’s taking a chance -- a big chance -- with a patient’s life. You’ve got to know when it’s the right one.” He glanced over at Kutner again. “If you want him to respect you, you better learn how to tell him ‘no.’”
“I know what I’m doing too,” Kutner said.
Foreman siphoned off some of the fluid for more tests, then began cleaning up. “I’m sure you do,” he said.
---
This was House’s fault -- he was the one who’d set up a game, forced Foreman into a competition he had no intention of playing. It’s was Cuddy’s fault. She was the one who made it clear that he was her eyes and ears, turning him into a high class snitch, an informer. It was Mercy’s fault, for firing him for the sin of saving a life.
“You asked for this, you know,” Chase said.
“Yeah, right, I keep forgetting that page in my contract that confirmed my status as a scapegoat,” Foreman said.
“More of a social pariah, don’t you think?” Chase leaned forward to take a bite from his sandwich. His hair fell forward across his forehead.
Foreman had been sitting by himself in the cafeteria, stopping on his way to the lab. Taub and Thirteen were sitting at another table in the middle of the room. They’d seen him come in, but ignored him, and he’d done the same.
He looked over at House and Wilson, sitting on the other side of the room. Wilson had dinner on his tray, House had just had a cup of coffee in front of him, but he’d picked up a spoon and was finishing off Wilson’s potatoes before Wilson got to them. If Foreman had to guess, he’d say that meant Wilson expected to be in his office for another few hours. House didn’t.
Kutner had volunteered to take Osbourne to radiology for a follow-up x-ray, then he’d transfer him back to the ICU and monitor him to make sure he was stable. Foreman knew he probably had only a few minutes before House would come looking for him. He’d planned to fill his plate at the salad bar, but heard the wind whip past the windows and filled a soup bowl instead. Vegetable noodle with a thick beef broth. He was sitting there, sipping the thick broth and dunking crackers into the bowl when Chase pulled out a chair and sat next to him. He hadn’t even asked if he wanted company.
“I hear House has half the maintenance staff rearranging his office,” Chase said now.
“One shelf,” Foreman said, “and the last I knew he had Taub doing it.”
Chase nodded across the room. “He’s not doing it now,” he pointed out, “and when’s the last time House stopped at just one of anything?”
Foreman looked over at Chase, who grinned and raised his eyebrows twice.
“Crap.” Foreman pushed his chair back from the table.
Chase held out a hand, not quite touching Foreman’s arm, willing him to sit, Foreman thought, rather than holding him back. “Stay,” he said. “Let Cuddy deal with it.” Foreman stared at his hand, hovering there -- a request, rather than a demand.
“Cuddy shouldn’t have to deal with it,” he said, but sat down again.
“But that’s her job, not yours.”
Foreman shook his head.
“You can’t make House do anything he doesn’t want to,” Chase pointed out. “Why put yourself through hell?”
“Because I’m ...”
“You’re one of his fellows, just like them.”
“I’m not like them,” Foreman said. “At least I wasn’t.” He knew he didn’t have any special privileges at PPTH. He’d lost that job already, back when he’d turned Cuddy down the first time. It was gone. So was everything else, except this.
“You came back here for a reason,” Chase reminded him.
“I came back, because everyplace else blackballed me,” Foreman said.
“And because,” Chase said, “there’s no place else where you could do the kind of medicine you can with House.”
And no place else, Foreman thought, that would allow a diagnostics trained intensivist to take the fast track into surgery.
“So what, because Cuddy is the warden of this insane asylum, I should just let her handle House?”
“Why not? You keep saying that you don’t want to be House. Maybe you should stop trying to be Cuddy too.”
Foreman shook his head. Chase didn’t understand. He never did. He’d always had it easy, floating along in House’s wake, and now he was just following another stream with surgery. Life wasn’t that easy. Medicine wasn’t that easy. And House sure as hell was never that easy.
“There’s a storm out there, don’t you have some emergency surgery to get to?” Foreman finally asked.
“Already did some,” Chase said. “Thought I’d eat before the next case came in.”
Chase took another bite of his sandwich and Foreman went back to eating his soup and did his best to ignore Chase along with Taub and Thirteen.
He looked over to where House had been, but Wilson was alone now. He hadn’t noticed when House had left. For a man with a cane, he had an ability to sidle in and out of places unseen -- when he wanted.
He knew Chase was right, that there were things he could do at Princeton-Plainsboro that he couldn’t do anywhere else. But that didn’t mean he should stop trying to be something more -- more than House expected and more than Cuddy asked for.
And he knew that Chase was right that he might be happier if he wasn’t trying to do his job and Cuddy’s at the same time. But habits die hard, and sometimes it was just too hard to censor that part of his brain that still expected him to be running a department by now. The part that he’d tried to shut down.
Chase’s beeper went off, with the same combination of tones that he’d always used. Foreman guessed he’d never bothered to change it once he started in the new department. He looked at the number, then stood, picking up his tray. “Gotta go,” he said, and walked away, still eating the last half of his sandwich.
Foreman spooned up the last of his soup, then lingered over his coffee. Maybe he should take it over to Taub and Thirteen’s table, tell them that they’d gotten off to a bad start. Now that they were all a team, they should learn to work together. He’d managed to work well enough to Taub on occasion, there was no reason why he couldn’t do it with everyone. He could mentor them, let them know more about working with House. Or maybe that offer would fall just as flat with them as it had with Kutner.
He jerked slightly as his beeper went off. He looked at the extension. House. He looked over at the other table. Neither Taub nor Thirteen had moved, which meant that House just wanted to yank his chain, rather than the entire team’s. Or maybe he just hadn’t gotten to them yet.
Foreman leaned back in his chair, put his hands over his eyes, took a deep breath. Then a second one. And a third. He put his hands down, then leaned forward, pushed back his chair and picked up his tray. Might as well get it over with.
He heard shouts coming from the conference room as soon as he stepped off the elevator, and picked up the pace. He was at a jog when he came around the corner, then broke into a sprint when he couldn’t see anything through the glass.
Foreman opened the door. There were three guys in maintenance coveralls on the far side of the room, manhandling one of the bookshelves out of place. A second shelf was against the glass wall that faced the hallway, the blinds closed. The small one that should have been near the coffee maker had been shoved back toward the hallway.
“Wait,” Foreman said. He looked through the glass into House’s office. It was dark.
“You Foreman?” one of the custodians asked.
“Yeah.”
“Dr. House said to give you this.” He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, handed it to Foreman. Foreman unfolded it, and stepped into House’s office. He wouldn’t have been surprised if House was sitting there in the dark, watching him. He flicked on the light. The room was empty.
He looked at the paper.
“Gone home,” it read. “Monitor the sick guy. Call if he gets worse. And make sure the janitor guys move the stuff into the right place.”
There was a diagram at the bottom of the page, the conference room in reverse, with the bookshelves closest to the hallway, the conference table near the windows. Foreman crumpled up the paper. The janitors were looking at him.
“Look,” he said, but the door opened before he could say anything else, and Kutner walked in.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I don’t ...”
The door opened again, Taub this time, followed by Thirteen.
“What did you need?” Thirteen asked.
Foreman stared at them.
“I got a page,” Kutner said.
Thirteen and Taub both nodded. “Me too,” Thirteen said.
“From House?” Foreman knew the answer even as he asked it.
“From you.” Taub held his pager display toward Foreman. It was Foreman’s extension.
Kutner reached for his too, but Foreman held out a hand. “I believe you,” he said.
“If you’re busy, we can take a break,” one of the maintenance guys said.
Foreman put his hands on his hips, looked down at the carpet. He wondered if House was around a corner somewhere, watching him and laughing. Maybe he’d set up a camera somewhere.
He couldn’t guess what it was that House thought he’d get out of it. It wasn’t even worth the effort to try and figure it out. It was probably just some kind of a warped test by House to see how he’d respond.
He looked at the janitors, then at the rest of the team. He knew how to cope when things went crazy with a patient. One step at a time. Handle what you can, one thing at a time. He might as well try the same tactic now.
He turned to the maintenance crew. “He tell you what he wanted?”
“Kind of,” one of the guys said. He seemed to be in charge so Foreman concentrated on him. Let him handle the others. “Here,” he said. He flattened the paper against the door frame, tore the diagram off the bottom and handed it to him. “Does that make sense?”
The guy studied it, turned it sideways and it out to compare the rough lines to the actual room and its contents. He nodded.
“Great,” Foreman said. “I’ll let you get to it then.”
He motioned the others into House’s office and they followed him. He stopped in the middle of the room and held the top half of the paper between his fingers. “House went home. How about we take shifts watching the guy so we can all get some sleep.”
“I’m still waiting for the final ANA analysis,” Thirteen said.
“I’m running the blood and urine for cancer markers,” Taub said.
“I’m ...” Kutner looked at the others, then shrugged. “I’m free, I guess.”
"Great," Foreman said. "I guess it's you and me then." He caught Taub and Thirteen sharing a look. He couldn't quite convince himself that they weren't enjoying seeing him in this position. Hell, he probably would have loved to stick Chase with the overnight shift. He flinched slightly. He already had, more than once.
"We might as well break this up," Foreman told Kutner. "You want to take the first shift?"
Kutner didn’t bother hiding his disappointment, but nodded his head anyway.
Something crashed in the other room, and Foreman closed his eyes, tried to ignore whatever it was that was happening there. Maybe Chase was right, and he should just let it slide, let Cuddy handle it. He heard another thump through the glass and opened his eyes. "Let me take care of this," he said, and pushed open the door to the conference room, and looked back at Kutner. “I'll see you in a few hours."
Foreman managed to get a few hours sleep in his own bed before he crawled out from between the sheets just before 2 a.m. It would have made more sense to stay at the hospital, to crash in one of the on-call rooms, or even scope out a couch in an empty lounge. But going home always made him feel like he was getting a fresh start, like he could start over again -- even if nothing else changed.
Kutner was at the nurse’s station when he walked into the ICU, told him that the patient was stable, and still resting, then said he was going to find an empty bed in an on-call room for a few hours sleep.
"You could go home, get some real rest," Foreman pointed out.
Kutner just smiled. "I've slept in a lot worse places," he said, then left.
It was just after four o'clock when Foreman slipped into the patient's room, pushing the ultrasound cart in front of him. Osbourne stirred slightly as the cart bumped up against the bed. Foreman checked the monitors. Osbourne’s heart rate was slower than it had been thirty minutes earlier. He looked like he’d been sleeping soundly. Too bad Foreman had to wake him up.
"Mr. Osbourne?" he asked. The man stirred again, took a deep breath, then coughed, came awake. "Mr. Osbourne?"
"Ozzy," he answered, opening his eyes.
Foreman smiled. "Right. Ozzy."
Osbourne shifted on the bed, looked at the equipment, then at Foreman.
"Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to take a look at your heart, see how it's doing," Foreman said.
He nodded, didn't complain. Some patients never did, even when they should, Foreman thought.
"This will only take a couple of minutes, then you can get some more rest," Foreman said.
"I'd get more rest at home," Osbourne said.
"I know." Foreman smiled. "Hospitals can be crazy places sometimes." He spread open Osbourne's gown, spread warmed gel on the paddle.
He'd just placed the probe on Osbourne's chest, and was looking at the first images when he heard the door slide open, and Kutner stepped in.
"Hey," Kutner said. He nodded at Osbourne.
"I thought you were getting some sleep," Foreman said.
"I was, but I had an idea." Kutner stared at the monitor, then glanced at Foreman. He'd seen the same thing Foreman did, the first signs of swelling inside the pericardium again, fluid filling the sac once more.
It was still early, Foreman thought. They might be able to control it with meds.
"We should start him on an NSAID," Kutner said, echoing Foreman's thoughts. “Indomethacine?”
Foreman nodded. “That’s what I’d do,” he said. He froze the picture on the screen, printed it. He knew House would want to see it.
Kutner reached out, touched Foreman's hand before Foreman could turn off the machine. "I want to check something," he said.
Foreman held out the paddle, but Kutner didn't take it yet. Instead he lowered the blanket and opened the gown wider, exposing more of Osbourne's torso. "Just another minute, Ozzy," he said.
Osbourne seemed to be half asleep again, and he just mumbled in response.
Kutner placed the paddle onto Osbourne's abdomen, began moving it slowly from the upper left quadrant down, then to the right.
"You're thinking ..." Foreman said, his voice softer.
"What if Taub's right?" Kutner said. He didn't say the word "cancer." He didn't have to. "He came in with abdominal pain."
Foreman nearly pointed out that the pain was linked to Osbourne’s nausea, but didn’t. Once they’d ruled out appendicitis and there were no other signs of pain, they’d barely mentioned it. Taub should have thought of doing this, Foreman thought. Hell, so was he. Maybe if House hadn’t been so busy playing games with his mind -- if Foreman himself wasn’t so busy playing politics with the fellows and Cuddy alike, maybe he would have.
"Spleen’s enlarged,” Kutner pointed out.
Foreman nodded. “We knew that from the ER report,” he said, “but it’s clean,” he noted. It could mean anything, or nothing. He froze the picture on the monitor and printed it anyway.
Kutner moved on, across the torso, down. He slowed the probe, backed up and froze the picture. He looked up at Foreman, who nodded, then printed the screen.
“It's time to call House," he said.
"This better be good," House said. Foreman heard his voice before House came into sight, making his way past the bookshelves and finally into the middle of the conference room.
There was snow on his coat, and the cuffs of his jeans were damp. Foreman wondered how much more snow had fallen, then guessed that the maintenance crews hadn’t plowed the parking lots yet. Probably because half of the overnight crew had spent three hours rearranging this room.
“We re-did the echo...” Foreman started, but House ignored him. He took a half-step toward the bookshelves in the new spot, then stopped. As he turned, House’s coat shifted, and Foreman saw a damp spot on the seat on House’s jeans, extending around to his right hip.
“I like it,” House said, looking at the shelves. “Very Fortress of Solitude.”
“The Fortress of Solitude was made of ice, not steel,” Kutner said.
House stared at him, shook his head slightly. He stepped over to the table, leaning heavily on his cane, grabbed the closest chair and pushed the books still piled onto it in a heap onto the floor. “I hope you called me for something other than a repeat echo showing that the inflammation is back,” he said.
“How did you know ...” Kutner said, but House interrupted him.
“Because we still haven’t fixed the underlying problem, and while you may be enough of an idiot to call me for a simple test result, Foreman isn’t.”
Kutner didn’t even wince, just accepted the insult and House’s explanation. He was an idiot, Foreman thought, and handed House the printout so he could see for himself.
Three small but solid masses on the liver, grouped together in a neat cluster.
“You find this?” House asked.
“It was Kutner’s idea,” Foreman said.
“Why not yours?” House turned to Taub.
“I was in the lab, checking for cancer markers.”
House turned the paper toward him. “Something like this is a lot easier to spot,” he said.
Taub drew himself up. “Yeah,” he agreed.
“So,” House put the paper on the table, “let’s cut him open and see what’s behind door number three.”
Chapter Five: Chase
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-15 03:46 am (UTC)I'm enjoying House's thing with the moving of the furniture, though, and the fact that no one else is at all bothered by it. Hee.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-17 11:12 pm (UTC)