House let his hand fall when Foreman snatched his keys away, out of his reach, and narrowed his eyes to glare furiously at Foreman in response to his seat-warmer taunt. House didn't give a damn about his fucking seat-warmers, and he could withstand the cold for another twenty minutes on the road if it meant refusing to succumb to Foreman's comfortable leather seats. House would rather have a windburned face and a cold-numb body to go with it than allow himself to let Foreman win. If he let him win, he'd start giving in to the undercurrent of desires flowing through him, and he couldn't do that. He refused to answer Foreman's ridiculous question, still glaring him down instead.
But Foreman's next move drew a sound out of him--a disbelieving scoff--and House watched his keys disappear into Foreman's back pocket. House tilted his head as his furious glare shifted to the incredulous squint that House reserved for certified basket cases. Was Foreman fucking serious? Foreman had the balls to think of him as juvenile, when he was playing hide-and-seek with his keys in the middle of the parking lot.
House breathed a short frustrated laugh over Foreman's next words, that challenging invitation to try to get his keys back. This really was unbelievable. House shifted his weight, leaning hard on his cane, trying not to think about how fucking cold he felt. Foreman was right: he was cold, and in pain, but he misinterpreted if he thought House wanted to stand around and play a stupid-ass game when he could have already been home by now. Fuck it. Fuck him. He wasn't playing.
"You're really that desperate for me to grab your ass that you have to try to trick me into doing it? Sad," House said, sneering from his own anger and the cold. "I'll sleep in my fucking office." He held Foreman's gaze as he stepped forward, heading back towards the hospital.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-05 10:01 am (UTC)But Foreman's next move drew a sound out of him--a disbelieving scoff--and House watched his keys disappear into Foreman's back pocket. House tilted his head as his furious glare shifted to the incredulous squint that House reserved for certified basket cases. Was Foreman fucking serious? Foreman had the balls to think of him as juvenile, when he was playing hide-and-seek with his keys in the middle of the parking lot.
House breathed a short frustrated laugh over Foreman's next words, that challenging invitation to try to get his keys back. This really was unbelievable. House shifted his weight, leaning hard on his cane, trying not to think about how fucking cold he felt. Foreman was right: he was cold, and in pain, but he misinterpreted if he thought House wanted to stand around and play a stupid-ass game when he could have already been home by now. Fuck it. Fuck him. He wasn't playing.
"You're really that desperate for me to grab your ass that you have to try to trick me into doing it? Sad," House said, sneering from his own anger and the cold. "I'll sleep in my fucking office." He held Foreman's gaze as he stepped forward, heading back towards the hospital.