At the sound of Foreman's voice--again, and louder now--House continued walking towards the doors. Fuck, his leg hurt. His hands hurt. He couldn't feel his ears much, and he attempted to focus on that as Foreman continued talking, now walking beside him. Jesus, House had to admit he was surprised that Foreman hadn't just let him go by now. Foreman seemed to have more determination than he thought, but, right now, House wished that Foreman would stop fighting his natural tendencies and walk away.
House snapped his jaw closed, pressing his teeth together until they started to hurt and refusing to respond. Foreman was looking for one, attempting to provoke him into action. Get him to acknowledge Foreman, what they had done over the weekend, what it meant. But Foreman could talk himself hoarse for all House cared. House would rather not listen to it all, but Foreman wasn't the only one of them with a stubborn streak. If it came down to it, House was confident that he was stubborn enough to let Foreman ramble until he shut up. Gave up. And he would eventually.
House was somewhat puzzled as to why Foreman had no interest in forgetting the weekend, what made him keep following him, what he really wanted. He sure as hell didn't want him. Foreman was the one who'd said it had all been a mistake, and House was beginning to think he'd been right, if this was what would result from it. Was Foreman following him, refusing to let him leave just on principle? To piss him off? To drive safely? Each option sounded equally ludicrous, and each one made him more and more frustrated.
As House stormed through the lobby, his eyes cast straight in front of him, he could feel the burn of the sudden rush of warm air on his face. He was sure that his cheeks, his ears, had turned a blotchy red to match his hands, appropriate for the red-hot anger blazing its way through his body.
Coming to a sudden stop before the elevators, House eyed Foreman sharply. "Are you going to follow me all the way up to my office?" House asked, punching the button with his knuckle to call the elevator.
no subject
House snapped his jaw closed, pressing his teeth together until they started to hurt and refusing to respond. Foreman was looking for one, attempting to provoke him into action. Get him to acknowledge Foreman, what they had done over the weekend, what it meant. But Foreman could talk himself hoarse for all House cared. House would rather not listen to it all, but Foreman wasn't the only one of them with a stubborn streak. If it came down to it, House was confident that he was stubborn enough to let Foreman ramble until he shut up. Gave up. And he would eventually.
House was somewhat puzzled as to why Foreman had no interest in forgetting the weekend, what made him keep following him, what he really wanted. He sure as hell didn't want him. Foreman was the one who'd said it had all been a mistake, and House was beginning to think he'd been right, if this was what would result from it. Was Foreman following him, refusing to let him leave just on principle? To piss him off? To drive safely? Each option sounded equally ludicrous, and each one made him more and more frustrated.
As House stormed through the lobby, his eyes cast straight in front of him, he could feel the burn of the sudden rush of warm air on his face. He was sure that his cheeks, his ears, had turned a blotchy red to match his hands, appropriate for the red-hot anger blazing its way through his body.
Coming to a sudden stop before the elevators, House eyed Foreman sharply. "Are you going to follow me all the way up to my office?" House asked, punching the button with his knuckle to call the elevator.