Foreman's mind seemed made up. Foreman already had all of his ideas set about him, and House wanted to set him straight. Wanted to tell him all the things he had no fucking clue about, but he couldn't. He doubted Foreman would even believe any of it, and he didn't want to make this about him. He focused on Foreman's next comment instead, turning his attention away from the scene flying past the window as Foreman drove, almost gunning it down the street.
"Right, because you're above that," House said, bitterness hard in his voice. Of course Foreman would refuse sex with a hooker. It was beneath him. He'd rather screw someone--or screw someone over--and make it personal. At least, with prostitutes, there was already distance--no need to put it there--but sex as a win-win business exchange was a concept that was beneath Foreman. If Foreman actually tried it, he would probably find it worked out well for him. Minimal emotional attachment, a good fuck without the consequences. Without this bullshit.
He shook his head, expelling a hard puff of air, wanting to beat his damn head against the window. Wanting to beat Foreman's damn head against the window. Or--House glanced at Foreman, seeing his own anger mirrored in Foreman's face--kiss him. Kiss him like Foreman had kissed him (more than once), slow and deep, and force him to admit that it wasn't meaningless, that Foreman didn't want to just fuck and walk away. It made his heart race, pound to the point that he could feel it, knowing that he wanted Foreman to acknowledge that this meant something. He wouldn't know what the hell he would do with that information if it actually ever left Foreman's mouth, but--fuck, it was pathetic--he didn't want Foreman dismissing him, throwing him out like he already had once, like he was fucking worthless.
Foreman's question made him straighten up in his seat, stare at Foreman's profile. What the hell kind of question was that? Of course he cared what Foreman did, especially when what Foreman was doing was him. He'd cared when Foreman quit, when he came back, when he kissed him, and fucked him, and wanted him, and--Damn it, it mattered, and he fucking hated it. It shouldn't fucking matter. Never should have. Nobody should, because it was inevitable that he would fuck it up. Somehow. And it wouldn't matter if he gave a damn. Personally. Professionally. None of would amount to much. Foreman, or anyone else, would do what they wanted no matter what he thought about it. "It wouldn't matter if I did!" He was nearly shouting, voice loud in the small space of the car. "You're going to do whatever you want. I'm sure as hell not going to be able to change your mind."
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"Right, because you're above that," House said, bitterness hard in his voice. Of course Foreman would refuse sex with a hooker. It was beneath him. He'd rather screw someone--or screw someone over--and make it personal. At least, with prostitutes, there was already distance--no need to put it there--but sex as a win-win business exchange was a concept that was beneath Foreman. If Foreman actually tried it, he would probably find it worked out well for him. Minimal emotional attachment, a good fuck without the consequences. Without this bullshit.
He shook his head, expelling a hard puff of air, wanting to beat his damn head against the window. Wanting to beat Foreman's damn head against the window. Or--House glanced at Foreman, seeing his own anger mirrored in Foreman's face--kiss him. Kiss him like Foreman had kissed him (more than once), slow and deep, and force him to admit that it wasn't meaningless, that Foreman didn't want to just fuck and walk away. It made his heart race, pound to the point that he could feel it, knowing that he wanted Foreman to acknowledge that this meant something. He wouldn't know what the hell he would do with that information if it actually ever left Foreman's mouth, but--fuck, it was pathetic--he didn't want Foreman dismissing him, throwing him out like he already had once, like he was fucking worthless.
Foreman's question made him straighten up in his seat, stare at Foreman's profile. What the hell kind of question was that? Of course he cared what Foreman did, especially when what Foreman was doing was him. He'd cared when Foreman quit, when he came back, when he kissed him, and fucked him, and wanted him, and--Damn it, it mattered, and he fucking hated it. It shouldn't fucking matter. Never should have. Nobody should, because it was inevitable that he would fuck it up. Somehow. And it wouldn't matter if he gave a damn. Personally. Professionally. None of would amount to much. Foreman, or anyone else, would do what they wanted no matter what he thought about it. "It wouldn't matter if I did!" He was nearly shouting, voice loud in the small space of the car. "You're going to do whatever you want. I'm sure as hell not going to be able to change your mind."