"Just making a point," House said, staring up at the floor numbers over the doors. He wasn't sure how Foreman arrived at the conclusion that he was trying to talk him out of anything. He was bringing Foreman's own flimsy steadfastness to his attention; maybe if he insulted it, brought up Foreman's lack of patience, Foreman would turn into the most patient person on the planet just to prove him wrong. Maybe not that patient, but House didn't doubt that Foreman would be more aware of it, and Foreman take advantage of anything he could to try to shove something back in his face. House could take that, being proven wrong if it meant that he got his way, if he had engineered it to happen in the first place.

House couldn't say he was surprised when the elevator opened and Foreman took off without looking back, striding at full speed. He'd been waiting for it, waiting for Foreman's facade to rise, for him to lift his professional, put-together image into place. He watched Foreman round the corner, following him--he had nowhere else to go, and had to get his clean clothes in his desk anyway--but not trying to catch up with him. He didn't bother following Foreman into the conference room, heading for his own office. At his desk, he dumped his backpack onto the floor, nudging it to the side, by the back bookshelf. He took a seat to fish his clothes out of his drawer, then stood up again, clothes bundled in the crook of his arm, and peeked into the conference room to find Foreman still there, looking busy, all detached professionalism with a neat, unwrinkled exterior. House grinned, opening the door.

"A half-hour," he said. "I have to admit, it took longer than I thought."