Marty's jaw dropped at House's casual remark about breaking in, his gaze darting to Foreman again. Foreman pressed his lips together. He knew House made racist remarks mainly to get a rise out of him. And it always worked. Foreman got tenser, angrier, less able to control himself, which was exactly what House wanted--which was why Foreman couldn't demand an apology or even show that he cared. For that matter, House breaking in was a sign, maybe not that the cared, but that he was invested. Jesus, this might have gone differently if Foreman had been home. House had made the first move. Probably not to apologize--Foreman doubted House knew why he was really pissed off, and even if he did, the last thing he'd do was say he was sorry. But Foreman could've given him hell, laughed in his face if it seemed like House was angling for sex. The fantasy wasn't enough. House wanted Foreman, and Foreman could have sneered at him and told him his hand had been more than enough for him before. Maybe tease him through his pants, get him hard, and then shove him back out into the hall. Turn the tables. Make House desperate and then walk away.
Before Foreman could wave away Marty's protective urge, House shot his wine glass across the table, trying to shatter it and make a bigger commotion than he'd already started. Foreman reached for the glass, practically having to lunge out of the booth to catch it in both hands. He set it back down on the table with a loud clink, but by then, House had already cornered Marty. Foreman snorted at poaching on his territory. House considered Foreman his, which in any other circumstances would have been absurdly romantic. As it was, House only wanted him because he thought Foreman was wandering farther than House's fucking leash would allow. He considered Foreman his like he considered all his fellows as his. A plaything. A toy. Something he could play with when he wanted and dump right back on the shelf when he was tired of it.
Marty was backing away from House as best he could, his shoulder nearly pressing against Foreman's. The longer House interrogated him, though, Marty's expression changed. He started to get pissed off when House implied that he cheated, or wanted to cheat, but then, when House glanced at Foreman and called him a piece of ass, it was like the light switch had been flipped. Marty's mouth opened, he let out a disbelieving scoff, and then his amused, relaxed smile came back. House didn't notice, his attention distracted by the waiter.
"Don't," Foreman warned him. God, this couldn't possibly get worse.
"I'll have the salmon," Marty told the waiter smoothly. "Eric?"
Foreman met House's glare. Apparently it could get worse. Marty had figured them out and now he wanted to get his rocks off by poking at House. Fuck. Foreman couldn't walk out; he didn't want to leave either of them with the other. "Prime rib," he said shortly. "Rare."
The waiter picked up their menus and left quickly. Marty stayed on Foreman's side of the booth, his composure completely back in place. "Eric and I just wanted to catch up," he said. "Talk about old times." There was nothing in his voice to suggest anything untoward, but Foreman knew from the look in his eyes that Marty was laughing at both their expenses. House for being jealous, and Foreman for being insane enough to be with him.
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Before Foreman could wave away Marty's protective urge, House shot his wine glass across the table, trying to shatter it and make a bigger commotion than he'd already started. Foreman reached for the glass, practically having to lunge out of the booth to catch it in both hands. He set it back down on the table with a loud clink, but by then, House had already cornered Marty. Foreman snorted at poaching on his territory. House considered Foreman his, which in any other circumstances would have been absurdly romantic. As it was, House only wanted him because he thought Foreman was wandering farther than House's fucking leash would allow. He considered Foreman his like he considered all his fellows as his. A plaything. A toy. Something he could play with when he wanted and dump right back on the shelf when he was tired of it.
Marty was backing away from House as best he could, his shoulder nearly pressing against Foreman's. The longer House interrogated him, though, Marty's expression changed. He started to get pissed off when House implied that he cheated, or wanted to cheat, but then, when House glanced at Foreman and called him a piece of ass, it was like the light switch had been flipped. Marty's mouth opened, he let out a disbelieving scoff, and then his amused, relaxed smile came back. House didn't notice, his attention distracted by the waiter.
"It's complicated?" Marty asked Foreman sardonically.
"Don't," Foreman warned him. God, this couldn't possibly get worse.
"I'll have the salmon," Marty told the waiter smoothly. "Eric?"
Foreman met House's glare. Apparently it could get worse. Marty had figured them out and now he wanted to get his rocks off by poking at House. Fuck. Foreman couldn't walk out; he didn't want to leave either of them with the other. "Prime rib," he said shortly. "Rare."
The waiter picked up their menus and left quickly. Marty stayed on Foreman's side of the booth, his composure completely back in place. "Eric and I just wanted to catch up," he said. "Talk about old times." There was nothing in his voice to suggest anything untoward, but Foreman knew from the look in his eyes that Marty was laughing at both their expenses. House for being jealous, and Foreman for being insane enough to be with him.