Foreman wasn't sure what to make of House's silence, but he took it for what it seemed like: a reprieve from all the night's arguments. He glanced over at House once or twice, at red lights, but House was staring out the window in his absent, calculating way, and Foreman didn't interrupt. Anxiety kept rearing up and he had to shove it down again. Foreman remembered the words he'd hurled at House when he'd walked out Sunday morning, that Foreman would never like House. Everything he'd done today made that a lie, and Foreman frowned at the road, trying to decide what had changed.
House was, weirdly, like a patient. Every time Foreman thought he had him figured out, House would show a new symptom, react in a way that defied the easy answers. Foreman had spent the first year of his fellowship believing that if he learned why House worked the way he did, then he could take everything he'd discovered and apply it as a doctor. Be better because of it. Be the best. Determination and a willingness to work outside the rules, Foreman could understand. It was House's obsessions and callousness were what had finally driven him away. When Foreman saw himself not only not caring, but actively hurting people because he needed too badly to make the diagnosis or confirm just how good he was, that's when he'd realized that he needed to leave. That he'd invested too much in imitating House's methods without, maybe, understanding him at all.
Since he'd come back--since Saturday--House had surprised him again, shown another piece of himself, even if he'd done it kicking and screaming all the way. House's rejections tugged at Foreman's pride, but it was the cautious, cynical way House occasionally let his enjoyment show that made Foreman want to see more. Put House in new conditions, under new strain, and watch what happened. Try to evoke those same reactions, those moments of astonishing, open honesty that House probably hated that he showed. Foreman felt that same sense that he'd first had when he joined House's team, that there was an answer, that there was a reason behind everything House did. If Foreman could ask the right question then he'd get an answer that made sense. And if asking the question meant pushing House until he got what he wanted, then that's what Foreman would do.
He parked the car outside his apartment building. He was sweating lightly under his jacket--he'd kept the heat up full blast the whole ride--but it was tension, too, the knot of anticipation low in his stomach, and the worry about letting House into his life again after the way he'd blasted through Foreman's privacy the last time. But Foreman had put several layers of passwords on his computer since then, and he was the one who'd initiated this, so he kicked himself for being stupid. "Come on," he said, climbing out of the car. "I'm hungry." He didn't specify for what, leaving that to House's imagination.
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House was, weirdly, like a patient. Every time Foreman thought he had him figured out, House would show a new symptom, react in a way that defied the easy answers. Foreman had spent the first year of his fellowship believing that if he learned why House worked the way he did, then he could take everything he'd discovered and apply it as a doctor. Be better because of it. Be the best. Determination and a willingness to work outside the rules, Foreman could understand. It was House's obsessions and callousness were what had finally driven him away. When Foreman saw himself not only not caring, but actively hurting people because he needed too badly to make the diagnosis or confirm just how good he was, that's when he'd realized that he needed to leave. That he'd invested too much in imitating House's methods without, maybe, understanding him at all.
Since he'd come back--since Saturday--House had surprised him again, shown another piece of himself, even if he'd done it kicking and screaming all the way. House's rejections tugged at Foreman's pride, but it was the cautious, cynical way House occasionally let his enjoyment show that made Foreman want to see more. Put House in new conditions, under new strain, and watch what happened. Try to evoke those same reactions, those moments of astonishing, open honesty that House probably hated that he showed. Foreman felt that same sense that he'd first had when he joined House's team, that there was an answer, that there was a reason behind everything House did. If Foreman could ask the right question then he'd get an answer that made sense. And if asking the question meant pushing House until he got what he wanted, then that's what Foreman would do.
He parked the car outside his apartment building. He was sweating lightly under his jacket--he'd kept the heat up full blast the whole ride--but it was tension, too, the knot of anticipation low in his stomach, and the worry about letting House into his life again after the way he'd blasted through Foreman's privacy the last time. But Foreman had put several layers of passwords on his computer since then, and he was the one who'd initiated this, so he kicked himself for being stupid. "Come on," he said, climbing out of the car. "I'm hungry." He didn't specify for what, leaving that to House's imagination.