Fic: Disambiguation

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Title: Disambiguation
Pairing: None. Gen.
Words: 1,758 words.
Rating: PG.
Prompt: 214. Foreman was in an induced coma for several hours during his illness in Euphoria. In a state between dreaming and hallucinating, Character X appeared to him, offering to guide him out of the coma. Set the story either inside his dream or afterwards, as he tried to figure out why it was specifically that person.

Foreman knows he’s dreaming with the same intuitive twist that tells him a green light will turn red before he gets through when he’s running late. On a normal day, the light thing irks him.

 

Today, it would piss him off, just like Chase’s smirk is. A lot.

 

“For God’s sake, Chase!”

 

Dream-Chase just grins and flicks his hair in that stupid girly manner that has always annoyed Foreman and swings his legs. Foreman digs his fingers into the worn and vaguely grimy fabric of the seat he’s sitting on and attempts to squash the urge to punch Dream-Chase. The other doctor (except he’s not, he’s a figment of Foreman’s imagination) grins some more, looking like the cat that got the canary.

 

“That’s not nice, Eric.”

 

Well, fuck.

 

They’re sitting on a porch somewhere arid and suburban. The whole atmosphere has something very dusty about it. There’s a wicker couch that’s old and tatty with lime green and candy pink striped cushions that Foreman has sunk into, apparently not minding the ground in dirt that seems to drape over everything, and a matching table. Dream-Chase perches on the rough wooden railing of the porch like a child, grinning and looking strangely vulnerable. Foreman glowers.

 

“I will wake up now.”

 

Chase’s smile turns a little sad, and the tree behind him rustles, brushing its yellow puff ball flowers against Chase’s oversized shirt.

 

“Sorry. Not quite yet.”

 

*

 

The whole mind reading thing sucks. As does the irregular flow of time in this dream- moments eddy and twirl, lengthening and skipping without any warning or pattern. The fabric under Foreman’s fingers has ceased to be grimy in his mind and has taken on a type of softness, brought on by endless use and exposure to the elements while sitting here on the porch.

 

“It’s a veranda, not a porch.”

 

Dream-Chase also sucks. All he does is balance on the railing (Foreman tries once to hope Chase gets many, many splinters from the unworked wood quietly but Chase turns a smile that’s all teeth and surreal presence on him and Foreman stops) and watch. He occasionally makes a semi-friendly correction on Foreman’s thoughts on the surroundings, but not much else.

 

“It’s my dream, so I’ll think of it as whatever I damn well please!”

 

The moment snags and stretches for an eternity before it snaps and the sunlight glints off the glass top of the table and Dream-Chase’s hair. Dream-Chase smiles indulgently and Foreman scowls. He doesn’t want patronizing tolerance coupled with more smiles. He wants answers, damn it, and he wants Chase’s expression to change-

 

“It’s a wattle tree, just so you know.”

 

*

 

“It’s not so bad here.”

 

Foreman eyes Dream-Chase and has the urge to punch him again.

 

Dream-Chase just raises an eyebrow.

 

*

 

Dream-Chase clanks his heels against the railing three times in quick succession.

 

Foreman sneezes.

 

*

 

 

Foreman pulls the cushion out from behind his back and shoves it onto the space next to him furiously, frustration and an abstract sense of urgency spurring on his jerky movements.

 

He’s dreaming. He’s dreaming and he’s dreaming of Chase, the overly blonde idiot with the mismatched ties and the careless apathy that makes Chase think it’s okay to shrug and laugh when a patient dies. He’s dreaming of Chase and Chase is doing nothing but stare and read his mind.

 

There’s something important on the tip of his tongue, the edge of his thought process. Something urgent and important and damn it, the last thing he should be doing right now is dreaming. Sleeping. He was sleeping instead of attending to the thing that had to be done as soon as possible that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There’s a thread of helplessness running alongside the idea of not being able to remember, and he grits his teeth.

 

Foreman picks up the cushion again and slams it down on the couch, reveling in the thwap of fabric against fabric. Again and again and again until his anger deflates, leaving him feeling hollow inside.

 

Dream-Chase doesn’t say a word.

 

*

 

“I want out.”

 

Foreman leans forward, trying to make his voice sound calm and rational.

 

“I know you can help me.”

 

Foreman knows that this tone works- on patients, on the families of patients, on reluctant friends and obstinate co-workers.

 

“There’s no reason for me to be here.”

 

Chase tilts his head and looks at him.

 

Foreman sits back, feeling the time speed up and dusk start galloping towards them.

 

Apparently, Dream-Chase is more resilient than the real Chase.

 

Not that it’s hard to be, or anything.

 

*

 

The grainy light makes the veranda look seeped in time, painted in greys and greens and yellows. The glass topped wicker table casts shadow patterns along the wooden planks underfoot, bleeding gently into night. Past the veranda, the sky is a dark electric blue. The puff ball tree brushes against Chase again.

 

“You want to wake up?”

 

Foreman’s gaze snaps from the slowly darkening sky to Dream-Chase and the intent look on his face. For some reason, panic claws at his chest. He forces out his answer anyway.

 

“Yes.”

 

Dream-Chase tilts his head and this time, his smile is very sad.

 

“Then go.”

 

For the first time, the idea of leaving the couch comes into Foreman’s head. He looks at Dream-Chase and fights an abstract and irrational feeling of guilt. Instead, he fights his way to his feet from the squishy embrace of the couch and feels the dream begin to tear in two with a sound like a needle and thread ripping through cloth.

 

Rip.

 

Tear.

 

The path away from the veranda is concrete infringed on by wild grass. On the curb across the street, there is a pile of computer monitors and a broken barbecue waiting for collection. Foreman sighs and walks away from his dream, isolation and confusion and peace and all.

 

*

 

“Up and at 'em.”

 

“How you feeling? Can you talk?”

 

Foreman’s throat is scratchy and his mouth is dry. The room resonates with the muffled turmoil of a room in the middle of a hospital, and Chase (the real Chase who has no mind reading powers whatsoever) is no where to be seen.

 

“I don't feel anything.”

 

He doesn’t feel anything.

 

*

 

It’s a cold rush of realization in the middle of the night, and Foreman wakes up gasping, reaching towards the wrong side of the bed for the lamp. House is right.

 

House is always right, about the lying patients and the diseases that shouldn’t be that are anyway and about people, always.

 

House is right. Was. Is.

 

House was, is and always will be right, and Foreman will never be able to put the same amount of faith in him as Cameron and Chase because he’s confident and self-assured and completely unable to admit that his damaged, cranky, crippled boss might be the most astute person he will ever meet.

 

That’s okay. Foreman won’t remember this when he wakes up in the morning.

 

*

 

There are slow crawling weeks of recovery that don’t move nearly fast enough.

 

For the first week, Cameron visits every night, bringing fresh fruit (unwashed and still in the plastic bags she buys them in from the nearby market) and tea. She flutters around the room, never stopping in one place, absent mindedly straightening and tidying. She’s so careful to be polite it borders on insulting, and by the end of the week Foreman has a range of teas, black and green and herbal lined up neatly on the table.

 

Foreman sometimes imagines her moving with the crowds at the markets, dressed professional-casual, testing and choosing pieces of fruit while the sellers hawk their wares as he does his dexterity exercises. He can see the contrast between Cameron and the rest of the world sharp and bright, outlined in his imagination. He usually pushes those thoughts away after a few minutes, feeling perversely guilty and not knowing why.

 

She stops coming shortly after the end of the first week, wrapped up in House and patients and the particular type of madness that only happens in the Diagnostics department.

 

Cuddy calls once a week on Friday afternoons, checking in on his condition, sounding clinical and almost cold. They talk about his memory and his dexterity and every week, Foreman manages to subtly spell out the message that yes, when he returns he will be just a good a doctor as he was when he was hired.  He senses guilt and fear of lawsuits guiding her phone calls, and dutifully picks up the phone every time it rings.

 

House visits twice. He’s rude and abrasive and Foreman kicks him out both times, but not before he leaves stacks of obscure medical journals on Foreman’s table (as it turns out, not one of them are related to neurology). Wilson comes with House the first time, and smiles sympathetically at Foreman as he shuts the door in House’s face.

 

Chase doesn’t call or visit.

 

*

 

Foreman’s days settle into a kind of routine.

 

It’s easy and after a while, it becomes familiar. It’s relaxing and peaceful and-

 

Foreman wants it to be all of those things, but it isn’t.

 

It’s boring and frustrating and Foreman has never been good at lying to himself.

 

*

 

Returning to work is like being thrown in the deep end.

 

Although Foreman has never been good at lying to himself, he’s always been a strong swimmer.

 

*

 

Chase does not read minds, and Cameron is nice.

 

Foreman smirks to himself as he turns over his last flashcard (ten correct in a row), and Chase comes blundering through the door of the Diagnostic department. He barely even looks at Foreman as he collects his jacket, and Foreman thinks, that arrogant, selfish little bastard, I nearly died and he can’t even say hello. Then Chase sighs and rubs his eyes, and Foreman remembers that today hadn’t just been rough on him.

 

Foreman’s father had a saying when Foreman was young- strange angels for strange places.

 

It fits, and Foreman puts down the flashcards.

 

“You want to grab a drink?”

 

Chase startles and looks at Foreman, awkward and surprised. He shakes his head, girly hair flying all over the place.

 

“Cameron would kill me. Apparently, alcohol isn’t good for your recovery.”

 

With that, he leaves, and Foreman is left sitting there, staring at his flashcards. Strange angels in strange places, and that’s okay. Chase is no angel.

 

The Diagnostic department is the place where angels fear to tread, after all.

 

-FIN-