House felt compelled to convince Foreman he had actually been telling the truth, acting on the dull sting of Foreman's disbelief. "I was," he insisted, not entirely sure why it seemed important to prove that he wasn't lying. What Foreman believed, how Foreman thought of him, shouldn't matter, and, at that second, House was working hard to convince himself that it didn't matter. Anger began to burn inside his chest, and, when Foreman turned his head to look at him, House stared at him, hoping to find some kind of evidence that Foreman was just being an asshole, that he knew he wasn't lying and was being contrary just to spite him. Foreman appeared as frustrated (and tired) as House felt. No signs that Foreman was fighting him for the sake of fighting him; he actually believed House had conveniently disappeared to avoid him.
The words that Foreman spoke next confirmed it, and House pushed himself away from the wall, standing straighter. The response rushing through his brain was a lie, and House knew it was a lie, but he blurted out, before Foreman could say anything else, "You're not important enough to avoid, Foreman. You don't mean that much."
And, before House had a chance to figure out what he'd said, why he'd said it, what he'd hoped it would achieve besides forcing Foreman to get out of his face, Foreman spoke again, and, this time, his words made him freeze. He leaned back against the wall again, subconsciously putting more distance between the two of them, and blinked at Foreman. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? House couldn't wrap his brain around it, mostly because all he could imagine was a vivid playback of Foreman's kisses--the rough anger of the first one, the slower but purposeful pace of the second, then the third, even slower, almost gentle and too soft. How Foreman's bottom lip seemed fuller in his mouth. How steady and commanding Foreman's tongue felt, pushing into his mouth and making his breath rush out of him like Foreman just stole it. God, he wished the elevator doors would open. Now. Give him room to propel himself from the corner he had willingly stepped into and escape out of the elevator. Out of the hospital. Away from Foreman. Away from his own damn thoughts and fantasies, and into the blank numbness of a bottle of bourbon.
He knew Foreman would interpret his silence as more avoidance, or some kind of confirmation, but he felt like he barely had the breath to talk, and he dropped his eyes from Foreman's. Let the bastard think what he wanted. He hadn't believed much of what he had said already today, so it wouldn't make much of a difference if he replied or not. And, this way, Foreman would never have the real proof that he wanted, proof that he was right. Silence was up for interpretation. House only hoped that Foreman kept waiting for a response, for that proof, until the doors opened.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-04 09:38 am (UTC)The words that Foreman spoke next confirmed it, and House pushed himself away from the wall, standing straighter. The response rushing through his brain was a lie, and House knew it was a lie, but he blurted out, before Foreman could say anything else, "You're not important enough to avoid, Foreman. You don't mean that much."
And, before House had a chance to figure out what he'd said, why he'd said it, what he'd hoped it would achieve besides forcing Foreman to get out of his face, Foreman spoke again, and, this time, his words made him freeze. He leaned back against the wall again, subconsciously putting more distance between the two of them, and blinked at Foreman. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? House couldn't wrap his brain around it, mostly because all he could imagine was a vivid playback of Foreman's kisses--the rough anger of the first one, the slower but purposeful pace of the second, then the third, even slower, almost gentle and too soft. How Foreman's bottom lip seemed fuller in his mouth. How steady and commanding Foreman's tongue felt, pushing into his mouth and making his breath rush out of him like Foreman just stole it. God, he wished the elevator doors would open. Now. Give him room to propel himself from the corner he had willingly stepped into and escape out of the elevator. Out of the hospital. Away from Foreman. Away from his own damn thoughts and fantasies, and into the blank numbness of a bottle of bourbon.
He knew Foreman would interpret his silence as more avoidance, or some kind of confirmation, but he felt like he barely had the breath to talk, and he dropped his eyes from Foreman's. Let the bastard think what he wanted. He hadn't believed much of what he had said already today, so it wouldn't make much of a difference if he replied or not. And, this way, Foreman would never have the real proof that he wanted, proof that he was right. Silence was up for interpretation. House only hoped that Foreman kept waiting for a response, for that proof, until the doors opened.