House couldn't tear his eyes away from Foreman, waiting to see if he'd take the card. He hated that it mattered, that he wanted to stop Foreman from taking it. He didn't want Foreman to be that interested. Sure, House had jerked off to a memory, but he hadn't called Jake up to have phone sex in the back of Foreman's car. House barely noticed when the waiter dropped their plates in front of them, his attention fixed on Foreman, on the card, even as the damn waiter put himself between them to grind pepper onto Marty's damn fish. When Foreman reached for the card and picked it up, House felt his heart hammer a little faster, his body tense up even more, but the tension released when the card fluttered back down, out of Foreman's hand to land in front of Marty.
House didn't look at Marty, lifting his eyes back up to meet Foreman's when Marty spoke again, sounding giddy. House dropped his gaze again and eyed the card, itching to take it. He wanted to know. Know about this Nathan. Who he was, and what he did, and where he worked, and if he really was interested in reconnecting with Foreman. House couldn't help himself from imagining a very literal reconnection; Foreman with a faceless, young, able-bodied guy who could take it standing up or any fucking way Foreman wanted it. Jesus, this was fucking ridiculous, he thought, downing another gulp of wine as he shook the thought away. His head was getting fuzzier, and all he wanted to do was take his steak and smash it into Marty's face, down what House would bet was a designer suit, and get the fuck back home. He didn't have much of an appetite, and words weren't coming very easily. He was floundering, scrambling for ground, and he was sure he already looked like a moron. The card still sat there on the table, mocking him like Marty. House let it sit there; he couldn't take it. It would give Marty even more ammunition to mock him, poke at him, and House could probably just find out more information for himself.
Too many questions were still rattling in his brain as he stared over at Marty. Marty, who was fucking smiling as he gleefully chewed a piece of his salmon. House took hold of his steak knife, just for something to grip, and couldn't help entertaining the thought of pulling Marty's tie, jerking the bastard's head forward, and driving the knife straight through the tie, maybe pin it to the baked potato on his plate. With any luck, Marty would choke on his food for a while, and House could wear the smile as he pulled Foreman to the door and listened for shouts of, 'Is anyone here a doctor?' He wished he could think of something good to say, something that would knock Marty on his ass, but the alcohol and all the unanswered questions was making him lose his edge. Even though most of his anger was directed at Marty, House still hadn't forgotten that Foreman had agreed to this. Foreman had probably done it to spite him. House wondered for a second if Wilson was busy; at least if Wilson found out about this, he wouldn't try to sabotage it. Wilson would nose around, and pry, and ask a ridiculously interminable number of questions or impart his relationship 'wisdom' to a point that would make House want to smother him with a pillow, but he wouldn't try to ruin it.
That really sounded like the better fucking option, and House dropped his knife back on the table, and glared hard at Foreman before turning to Marty. "You're a son of a bitch," he said, and pushed himself out of the booth. As he moved, he swept his arm across the table, sliding Marty's half-empty wine glass towards Marty and knocking it casually over the edge. When he stood up, he turned to find a beautiful maroon stain spreading over Marty's shirt. Shrugging on his coat and finding his cane, House shrugged, smiling as sweetly as he could. "Aw, you should be more careful, Marty," he said, and headed for the door.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-04-03 12:44 am (UTC)House didn't look at Marty, lifting his eyes back up to meet Foreman's when Marty spoke again, sounding giddy. House dropped his gaze again and eyed the card, itching to take it. He wanted to know. Know about this Nathan. Who he was, and what he did, and where he worked, and if he really was interested in reconnecting with Foreman. House couldn't help himself from imagining a very literal reconnection; Foreman with a faceless, young, able-bodied guy who could take it standing up or any fucking way Foreman wanted it. Jesus, this was fucking ridiculous, he thought, downing another gulp of wine as he shook the thought away. His head was getting fuzzier, and all he wanted to do was take his steak and smash it into Marty's face, down what House would bet was a designer suit, and get the fuck back home. He didn't have much of an appetite, and words weren't coming very easily. He was floundering, scrambling for ground, and he was sure he already looked like a moron. The card still sat there on the table, mocking him like Marty. House let it sit there; he couldn't take it. It would give Marty even more ammunition to mock him, poke at him, and House could probably just find out more information for himself.
Too many questions were still rattling in his brain as he stared over at Marty. Marty, who was fucking smiling as he gleefully chewed a piece of his salmon. House took hold of his steak knife, just for something to grip, and couldn't help entertaining the thought of pulling Marty's tie, jerking the bastard's head forward, and driving the knife straight through the tie, maybe pin it to the baked potato on his plate. With any luck, Marty would choke on his food for a while, and House could wear the smile as he pulled Foreman to the door and listened for shouts of, 'Is anyone here a doctor?' He wished he could think of something good to say, something that would knock Marty on his ass, but the alcohol and all the unanswered questions was making him lose his edge. Even though most of his anger was directed at Marty, House still hadn't forgotten that Foreman had agreed to this. Foreman had probably done it to spite him. House wondered for a second if Wilson was busy; at least if Wilson found out about this, he wouldn't try to sabotage it. Wilson would nose around, and pry, and ask a ridiculously interminable number of questions or impart his relationship 'wisdom' to a point that would make House want to smother him with a pillow, but he wouldn't try to ruin it.
That really sounded like the better fucking option, and House dropped his knife back on the table, and glared hard at Foreman before turning to Marty. "You're a son of a bitch," he said, and pushed himself out of the booth. As he moved, he swept his arm across the table, sliding Marty's half-empty wine glass towards Marty and knocking it casually over the edge. When he stood up, he turned to find a beautiful maroon stain spreading over Marty's shirt. Shrugging on his coat and finding his cane, House shrugged, smiling as sweetly as he could. "Aw, you should be more careful, Marty," he said, and headed for the door.