House kept his eyes trained on Foreman intently as Foreman rounded the car, nearly tearing off the driver's door as he opened it, and House held his ground, kept his gaze steady. Foreman's outburst threw him off, and House narrowed his eyes, grasping for Foreman's meaning. Damage? His gaze wandered, finally settling on the stain on Foreman's backseat. Is that what Foreman meant? He was still pissed off about a damn stain? He'd probably found the scratches on his countertop, too, but, it was a God damned scratch. The way Foreman spoke about it, it was as though House had caused him significant emotional distress. Carved pictures into his damn countertops, fingerpainted all over the backseat of his car. A dab of ketchup and a couple scratches didn't ruin anything. Unless. Unless Foreman hated the reminder that he had put them there, if he really did just want a few casual fucks and an easy way out, no reminders. The idea didn't sit well with House, made him feel used and no more wanted than when Foreman had walked out months ago. House raised his eyes to Foreman, feeling anger burn in his throat as he watched Foreman slam his hands against the roof, his words reaching his ears but not quite registering. Fuck, maybe this plan would backfire. Maybe Foreman's reaction to Terzi, and his attention to her, would just drive him away, and House felt equally uneasy to realize that he didn't want that. Not again. Not after being fucking seduced back to Foreman's apartment, fucked twice in the same damn day, Foreman's hands and body and attention focused on him like he'd actually mattered. That's what he wanted. No way he could say that, admit it to Foreman. He could barely admit to himself without feeling a wave of self-hatred. Foreman would laugh in his face, never believe him, even if he could manage to physically get the words out. No, he should stick to the Terzi plan, keep a close eye on--
Foreman cut into his thoughts, nearly shouting at him. Don't? Don't what? That thought didn't matter when Foreman said that he'd already told him what he wanted. House replayed the last day in his brain, trying to recall words, actions, anything he could use. Foreman wouldn't let him fucking think, demanding that he get into the car, and House rolled his eyes before climbing in, looking hard at Foreman when he settled in his seat. His anger was spreading into his chest, clouding his mind, and he leaned toward Foreman, twisting his body and getting as close to his face as possible. "You're a liar. You're the one who's trying to turn this into something meaningless, not me. You say you want blowjobs and casual sex, but you fucking kiss me like I'm your boyfriend. You don't know what you want." House breathed a derisive laugh, shaking his head. "Just fuck a damn whore next time, Foreman. Avoid all the emotional confusion. They don't care what you do."
House blinked, swallowed thickly, breathing a little heavier. He'd said too fucking much, and he wouldn't be surprised if Foreman clocked him in the face, or kicked him out of the car, but House knew that he was right. He watched Foreman act that way, even in his own department. Foreman kept a safe distance, stripped the meaning away from his relationships unless it suited him, unless it was convenient. House snorted a quiet laugh to himself, turning away from Foreman to face the window, peering out. What a fucking ironic role reversal. Yesterday--God, was it just yesterday?--Foreman had reacted with anger when he'd stepped back, panicked, couldn't make himself join Foreman on the bed and touch him. He'd kissed him like he mattered, like he was more than a tool to help Foreman get off, and House hated that it's what he wanted, to be more than that. He should take the casual fucks. It was easier. Less risky. But, damn it, he didn't want Foreman to reject him, walk away again. Fucking pathetic. He was fucking pathetic. He should shut up. This was a conversation better avoided--the whole situation was fucking terrifying--and he silently told himself to shut the hell up before he said anything more. Anything worse.
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Foreman cut into his thoughts, nearly shouting at him. Don't? Don't what? That thought didn't matter when Foreman said that he'd already told him what he wanted. House replayed the last day in his brain, trying to recall words, actions, anything he could use. Foreman wouldn't let him fucking think, demanding that he get into the car, and House rolled his eyes before climbing in, looking hard at Foreman when he settled in his seat. His anger was spreading into his chest, clouding his mind, and he leaned toward Foreman, twisting his body and getting as close to his face as possible. "You're a liar. You're the one who's trying to turn this into something meaningless, not me. You say you want blowjobs and casual sex, but you fucking kiss me like I'm your boyfriend. You don't know what you want." House breathed a derisive laugh, shaking his head. "Just fuck a damn whore next time, Foreman. Avoid all the emotional confusion. They don't care what you do."
House blinked, swallowed thickly, breathing a little heavier. He'd said too fucking much, and he wouldn't be surprised if Foreman clocked him in the face, or kicked him out of the car, but House knew that he was right. He watched Foreman act that way, even in his own department. Foreman kept a safe distance, stripped the meaning away from his relationships unless it suited him, unless it was convenient. House snorted a quiet laugh to himself, turning away from Foreman to face the window, peering out. What a fucking ironic role reversal. Yesterday--God, was it just yesterday?--Foreman had reacted with anger when he'd stepped back, panicked, couldn't make himself join Foreman on the bed and touch him. He'd kissed him like he mattered, like he was more than a tool to help Foreman get off, and House hated that it's what he wanted, to be more than that. He should take the casual fucks. It was easier. Less risky. But, damn it, he didn't want Foreman to reject him, walk away again. Fucking pathetic. He was fucking pathetic. He should shut up. This was a conversation better avoided--the whole situation was fucking terrifying--and he silently told himself to shut the hell up before he said anything more. Anything worse.