When Foreman finally glanced at the bottles in House's hand, Foreman looked as though he was certain that House was offering him a bottle of poison. House had been seconds away from withdrawing his hand and keeping both beers for himself, but Foreman reached for one, taking it, and thanking him for it. Giving him a quick nod, House set his beer on the coffee table, took up his plate, and sat down, diving back into his dinner.
"Not much left to dig through," House responded to Foreman's comment, his mouth half-full of a large bite of lasagna, eyes directed down to his plate as he gathered another forkful. Foreman could believe what he wanted about that statement; House was sure that Foreman would leap to the worst possible assumptions--that Foreman would find his bathroom and bedroom torn apart, evidence that House had upended both rooms in search of interesting findings. House had been telling the truth. He only had Foreman's bedroom to search properly, and, as far as he knew, it was the last stop, unless Foreman had secrets hidden beneath floorboards. Foreman simply had few places to search and, aside from the files House had found on his computer, nothing interesting in any of those places. It was a shame, because now House would have to drag Foreman's guarded little secrets into the open with words. Foreman had to have some; nobody went through life without them. It seemed, however, that, for Foreman, they weren't exactly material or hidden, packed away in a neatly taped box. He hardly expected anything else from Foreman.
His mind wandered as he chewed his next big mouthful, wondering if Foreman actually would shower, if he'd prompted a bout of paranoia powerful enough to keep Foreman in his seat. He wondered if Foreman would lock the door if he went to shower, imagining him under the spray, water running down his neck, his chest. He wondered if Foreman jerked off in the shower, if he would jerk off and think of him next time. Shoveling another forkful into his mouth, House tried to derail that whole line of thought, keeping his eyes away from Foreman as he ate.
"Your computer's probably got a Kremlin Wall of passwords now," House remarked, swallowing at last. "I'm not expecting to find much anywhere else. Haven't so far." He wondered how much it would aggravate Foreman that House was telling him all of this directly, and he shrugged, partially as an answer to his own silent question, and continued eating.
no subject
"Not much left to dig through," House responded to Foreman's comment, his mouth half-full of a large bite of lasagna, eyes directed down to his plate as he gathered another forkful. Foreman could believe what he wanted about that statement; House was sure that Foreman would leap to the worst possible assumptions--that Foreman would find his bathroom and bedroom torn apart, evidence that House had upended both rooms in search of interesting findings. House had been telling the truth. He only had Foreman's bedroom to search properly, and, as far as he knew, it was the last stop, unless Foreman had secrets hidden beneath floorboards. Foreman simply had few places to search and, aside from the files House had found on his computer, nothing interesting in any of those places. It was a shame, because now House would have to drag Foreman's guarded little secrets into the open with words. Foreman had to have some; nobody went through life without them. It seemed, however, that, for Foreman, they weren't exactly material or hidden, packed away in a neatly taped box. He hardly expected anything else from Foreman.
His mind wandered as he chewed his next big mouthful, wondering if Foreman actually would shower, if he'd prompted a bout of paranoia powerful enough to keep Foreman in his seat. He wondered if Foreman would lock the door if he went to shower, imagining him under the spray, water running down his neck, his chest. He wondered if Foreman jerked off in the shower, if he would jerk off and think of him next time. Shoveling another forkful into his mouth, House tried to derail that whole line of thought, keeping his eyes away from Foreman as he ate.
"Your computer's probably got a Kremlin Wall of passwords now," House remarked, swallowing at last. "I'm not expecting to find much anywhere else. Haven't so far." He wondered how much it would aggravate Foreman that House was telling him all of this directly, and he shrugged, partially as an answer to his own silent question, and continued eating.