House took his time in the shower, letting the stress--at least some of it--drain away. After several minutes, when House realized that, so far, Foreman had left him to his shower in peace without trying to barge in, he started to feel suspicious. Maybe Foreman was so pissed off that he'd actually left, not that House could blame him. House wasn't sure if he should be alarmed that the thought didn't really bother him; it wasn't like Foreman was leaving him if he stormed out now, and House could use the quiet to recover. In fact, he kind of hoped Foreman was gone.

When he walked into the bedroom for some clothes, his towel wrapped around his waist, he noticed that Foreman wasn't there. He also noticed that someone had been through his dresser, and since Wilson kept his hands to himself at least, he had a feeling he knew who that someone was. After pulling on a pair of underwear, jeans, and a t-shirt, House stalked into his living room, peering around for Foreman before a sound caught his attention. He turned sharply to look into the kitchen and found Foreman there dressed--fucker--in his clothes. In one of his old lacrosse shirts. Bastard.

House tried to push down the intense annoyance bubbling up his throat--he hated letting Foreman know when he got to him--but it was hard not to try to rip the shirt right off of him. He wondered if that's what Foreman wanted, or if he was just trying to piss him off. House stood in the doorway, glaring at Foreman, and said, "I know you want to be just like me, but you're missing a few key touches." He held up his cane, and thought about throwing it at Foreman, but would rather not give up his only means of defense. Just in case. "But you don't pull any others off, so don't bother. Go put it back."