Marty's blase greeting, the casual way he used his name--he always fucking hated that, the fucking bastard--made House bristle. He shrugged out of his coat, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere, and narrowed his eyes at Marty even more when he launched into a calm explanation of this dinner. House wished he could get a fucking hold of himself. But everything was just too damn convenient. Foreman had tried to tell him before that nothing had been going on, professionally or personally, but this looked a hell of a lot different in person, under the cozy lamp-light of a classy restaurant, where Foreman was dressed sharply. Hot. Looked fucking hot. For Marty. Wouldn't be surprised if Foreman had hoped for this, wanted to shove this in his face. After the past week, he wouldn't be surprised.

House tried to hide the way he wanted to burn holes straight through Marty's God damn prick-face, but he turned his anger on Foreman as soon as he spoke. "I was hungry," House said, smiling tightly, as if hunger was the most obvious and only possible reason he could have for being here, at the table--not their, Marty and Foreman's, table. He reached across Marty and scooped up Foreman's wine glass. "And thirsty." House held Foreman's gaze, refusing to look away as he leaned over Marty and threw back a mouthful of Foreman's wine.

"Why else would I be here?" he asked, setting down the glass, but keeping his fingers hooked around the stem. Maybe if he got buzzed, he wouldn't feel all this jealousy creeping up on him. He might also fail to realize if he was revealing too much. On the upside, the latter might make Marty uncomfortable enough to get the hell out of here. House just wasn't sure yet if he wanted to stay clear-headed for this or not. He raised the glass for another sip, decided to test the waters.