Foreman's only hint that House was going to avoid him and the whole damn situation was when he slammed the door to the ensuite shut and locked it. The shower started a minute later, and Foreman clenched his jaw. He should leave. How House got to the hospital wasn't his responsibility. He should pull on his clothes, no matter how rumpled, and head back to his place, where he could shower and eat in peace, not to mention finding something to wear that would actually fit and wouldn't raise any red flags at work.
Well, there was nothing to stop Foreman from taking House's clothes now. It wasn't about seeing House's reaction--although Foreman was sure he'd get one, and probably not a positive one. From the second he'd seen House wearing his clothes, Foreman had known that this was an instance in which House would take every liberty and then turn around and get pissed off when Foreman did the exact same thing. After a short search through House's dresser, Foreman found clean boxers and a pair of sweats that would fit him. He stripped off his pants and underwear and pulled on House's clothes. It felt strange. Uncomfortable. The situation with Wilson wouldn't leave his head, and while Foreman might have enjoyed screwing with House earlier this morning, now borrowing his clothes felt like more evidence that they were together. That you're mine, House had said, and Foreman wished House had never used those fucking words because he'd like very much to just forget them.
House's t-shirts would be tight on him, so Foreman glanced in the closet--forcing himself to ignore the fact that a few minutes ago he'd hidden in there like a fucking coward. House's button-downs wouldn't fit much better, but when he happened to glance down, Foreman did see a single running shoe with an electrical plug hanging out of it. Frowning, he bent down and picked it up. The cord belonged to an alarm clock--an alarm clock Foreman had no doubt had been sitting on House's bedside table yesterday. House had done this on purpose. The fucking bastard. The whole morning--sleeping in, the sex, Wilson almost catching them, it was all House's fault. Right now Foreman didn't give a rat's ass that he'd come spectacularly hard, or that he'd had House giving it up completely to him. All he could see was that he'd been an idiot, put his reputation in second place, and he'd nearly been outed as a result.
There was no way he was leaving now, without confronting House. Foreman grabbed a shirt from the back of the closet, an older one by the ratty look of it--the number emblazoned across the back was half-erased by too many washings. It was a bit more stretched out than most of House's t-shirts, so at least it fit. Foreman wasn't about to respect any of House's privacy now, not after House had fucking tricked him. He piled together all his clothes and grabbed his briefcase. He wanted to make sure there was no evidence at all that he'd been here. He stuffed his clothes into his sports bag and brought it to the living room, then started rooting around in House's cupboards for something to eat. It was nearly lunchtime, after all, and Foreman had gotten more than enough exercise this morning.
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Well, there was nothing to stop Foreman from taking House's clothes now. It wasn't about seeing House's reaction--although Foreman was sure he'd get one, and probably not a positive one. From the second he'd seen House wearing his clothes, Foreman had known that this was an instance in which House would take every liberty and then turn around and get pissed off when Foreman did the exact same thing. After a short search through House's dresser, Foreman found clean boxers and a pair of sweats that would fit him. He stripped off his pants and underwear and pulled on House's clothes. It felt strange. Uncomfortable. The situation with Wilson wouldn't leave his head, and while Foreman might have enjoyed screwing with House earlier this morning, now borrowing his clothes felt like more evidence that they were together. That you're mine, House had said, and Foreman wished House had never used those fucking words because he'd like very much to just forget them.
House's t-shirts would be tight on him, so Foreman glanced in the closet--forcing himself to ignore the fact that a few minutes ago he'd hidden in there like a fucking coward. House's button-downs wouldn't fit much better, but when he happened to glance down, Foreman did see a single running shoe with an electrical plug hanging out of it. Frowning, he bent down and picked it up. The cord belonged to an alarm clock--an alarm clock Foreman had no doubt had been sitting on House's bedside table yesterday. House had done this on purpose. The fucking bastard. The whole morning--sleeping in, the sex, Wilson almost catching them, it was all House's fault. Right now Foreman didn't give a rat's ass that he'd come spectacularly hard, or that he'd had House giving it up completely to him. All he could see was that he'd been an idiot, put his reputation in second place, and he'd nearly been outed as a result.
There was no way he was leaving now, without confronting House. Foreman grabbed a shirt from the back of the closet, an older one by the ratty look of it--the number emblazoned across the back was half-erased by too many washings. It was a bit more stretched out than most of House's t-shirts, so at least it fit. Foreman wasn't about to respect any of House's privacy now, not after House had fucking tricked him. He piled together all his clothes and grabbed his briefcase. He wanted to make sure there was no evidence at all that he'd been here. He stuffed his clothes into his sports bag and brought it to the living room, then started rooting around in House's cupboards for something to eat. It was nearly lunchtime, after all, and Foreman had gotten more than enough exercise this morning.