Notice Anything?

Tangent Universe


Foreman glances at his watch and snorts. Still no House at 11:13, typical for the day after they cure their patient for good. He sighs, frustrated, and gets up to get himself another cup of coffee. He wonders briefly at the rumble he feels in the floor, looks out the window to see if it's thunderstorming. He doesn't see what happens next.

---

He comes awake slowly, a niggling ache pulling him from a warm, deep slumber. The lights around him are dim and soft, the place smells mostly familiar—like a hospital—but a little bit different. He opens his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Okay, different hospital.

Foreman closes his eyes and takes a mental inventory. As he breathes, there's a sickening grinding feeling in his chest; things are moving in there that aren't supposed to be moving. Spikes of pain from what seems like everywhere are starting to demand attention. He can't tell if it's real or phantom pain; he can't seem to feel his legs and arms beyond the hurt. His tongue feels thick in his dry mouth and his brain feels fuzzy—it's probably morphine in the drip. He opens his eyes again to see House sitting next to him and can't hide his surprise.

"Hey honey," House says with forced cheer. "Welcome back."

"What?" Foreman rasps. He's surprised again when it comes out in a whisper.

Suddenly a cell phone screen appears in front of his nose. "Plane crash. A Navy pilot couldn't have aimed it better." House is flipping through pictures of destruction; Foreman recognizes the hulk of the MRI, the old heavy-brick wing of PPTH still standing among smoking ruins. House pauses on a particularly artful picture of the melted glass of the clinic doors, speeds past a shot of a small high-heeled shoe with a foot still in it. "Like a fucking apocalypse."

It takes a surprising amount of effort to look up at House and raise his eyebrow. He notices House's eyebrows are gone, and that, more than anything, freaks Foreman right the hell out.

"I was just parking the bike, the plane hit right in front of me." House is suddenly quiet; he even closes the cell phone quietly and tucks it back in his pocket.

Foreman doesn't want to think about what it means that House is sitting here next to him.

"I'm dying, yeah?" he asks in the loudest half-whisper he can manage.

House is the only one who would give him the unvarnished truth, and for once Foreman is glad of it. "Yeah. Couple hours, a day tops. Wanna see your chart?"

He hurts too much to shake his head, so he just whispers, "No."

There's a press against his lips, cold, and an ice chip slips inside when he opens his mouth. He sucks gratefully for a moment, his eyes sliding closed. The chair squeaks when House shifts his weight, then a rhythmic sound starts up, as familiar to Foreman as the blip of the heart monitor.

House is bouncing his cane against the floor. For a moment Foreman wishes he'd died fast, like everyone else.

"You son of a bitch," he whispers. "You're going to outlive us all."

House's cane stops bouncing; Foreman feels the bed dip a little as House leans on it. "Kinda wish I wouldn't," House growls softly.

Foreman doesn't feel like he can move, so he settles for a slow blink. House doesn't meet his gaze. "Yeah," Foreman breathes, and he closes his eyes.




Manipulated Living