Foreman had no idea what House's silence meant. He glanced at Foreman quickly, and just as quickly let his gaze drop to the table. Foreman was growing even more uncomfortable, with the two of them sitting across from each other and not quite looking at each other, while Marty sat between them already enjoying his meal. Christ, what a bastard. Foreman wanted to say something more, but there was no fucking way to say it, all the more because he couldn't trust Marty enough to speak in front of him. It irritated him that House, the master of deflection, couldn't see you matter in a gesture. What the hell did he want Foreman to do? Grab him and kiss him in front of fifty witnesses? Say something that Marty would twist around and laugh at? Yeah, Foreman was regretting going out with Marty, but none of this would have happened if House hadn't followed him. Marty wouldn't have been interested enough to press beyond it's complicated, and they could have stayed with safer topics. House just had to pry, had to know everything, and his goddamn curiosity had spoiled not only Foreman's evening, but his estimation of Marty.
Foreman didn't know what he expected next. House might have dug into his meal or decapitated Marty with his steak knife, and either one wouldn't have surprised Foreman. What he did do, though, tipping Marty's wine into his lap and walking away, left Foreman staring after him in shock.
"Jesus Christ!" Marty exclaimed, half-standing up as the stain spread, grabbing his napkin to blot at his shirt. "You've got yourself a real catch, Eric."
Foreman glowered at him, not making a move to help. He hadn't taken a bite, and he didn't think he could swallow one if he did. He stood up and threw his napkin down on his plate. Marty hadn't taken one second to think about how Foreman felt. Had expected him to mock House right along with him. And House had been right; Marty's work was the same way. If Marty's words on the surface could pass as polite, then he didn't think it mattered what he was really saying. "You really are an asshole," he said, and left Marty behind, with the mess, the insults, and the bill.
He barely looked over his shoulder as he left the restaurant. He had no idea what to say to House when he caught up with him, but he wasn't going to let him just drive away. When he got outside, he saw House heading across the street. Foreman glanced at his own car, thinking how fucking easy this would be if he could trust that it wouldn't matter tomorrow, that House would be back to his usual offensive self. The way he dished out the mockery, Foreman thought, it would make more sense if he could take it, but House's last insult had been quiet and to the point, without any of the usual glee he took in creatively cutting someone down to size. As if it mattered. As if he'd given up. Foreman hated seeing that, and knowing that House could get hurt. Even worse was knowing that he'd been part of it. "House!" he called, jogging across the street after him, and hoping like hell House would stop for him.
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Foreman didn't know what he expected next. House might have dug into his meal or decapitated Marty with his steak knife, and either one wouldn't have surprised Foreman. What he did do, though, tipping Marty's wine into his lap and walking away, left Foreman staring after him in shock.
"Jesus Christ!" Marty exclaimed, half-standing up as the stain spread, grabbing his napkin to blot at his shirt. "You've got yourself a real catch, Eric."
Foreman glowered at him, not making a move to help. He hadn't taken a bite, and he didn't think he could swallow one if he did. He stood up and threw his napkin down on his plate. Marty hadn't taken one second to think about how Foreman felt. Had expected him to mock House right along with him. And House had been right; Marty's work was the same way. If Marty's words on the surface could pass as polite, then he didn't think it mattered what he was really saying. "You really are an asshole," he said, and left Marty behind, with the mess, the insults, and the bill.
He barely looked over his shoulder as he left the restaurant. He had no idea what to say to House when he caught up with him, but he wasn't going to let him just drive away. When he got outside, he saw House heading across the street. Foreman glanced at his own car, thinking how fucking easy this would be if he could trust that it wouldn't matter tomorrow, that House would be back to his usual offensive self. The way he dished out the mockery, Foreman thought, it would make more sense if he could take it, but House's last insult had been quiet and to the point, without any of the usual glee he took in creatively cutting someone down to size. As if it mattered. As if he'd given up. Foreman hated seeing that, and knowing that House could get hurt. Even worse was knowing that he'd been part of it. "House!" he called, jogging across the street after him, and hoping like hell House would stop for him.