House hoofed it as fast and as smooth as he could toward the door. He almost wanted to glance over his shoulder to see if Foreman had decided to follow him, but he didn't expect that, and turning around would only slow him down. He wanted to get the fuck out, let Foreman deal with Marty. House wasn't sure that he wanted Foreman to follow him. He had shown up and wanted to know if he mattered more than Marty. Judging from Foreman's reactions, House thought it was at least safe to say that Foreman wasn't interested in Marty like House might have suspected, but House hadn't counted on having his insecurities shoved in his face. Hadn't counted on discovering that one of Foreman's old boyfriends wanted to get back in touch. Hadn't counted on Marty succeeding in turning the tables and pissing him off so much that all he had left to do was escape. Flee like a fucking kicked dog for the company of a friend who gave a shit, wouldn't sneak off to dinner behind his back--well, no, that wasn't true, but at least Wilson wouldn't do it with some ugly ulterior motive of revenge. Christ. Sure, it had turned out that dinner hadn't gone too well for Foreman either, and he hadn't taken that card, but that knowledge didn't seem like much of a comfort at that second. It didn't help the hot burn of humiliation in his face, the anger in his gut that Marty put there, had watched rise to the surface with a fucking smile on his face. Maybe he should just go home and crawl inside a bottle for a while. Not that he needed much more to make him pass out.
House made it out the door without anyone stopping him, made it to his car. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, having some trouble finding the key to open his car. Fuck, he probably shouldn't be driving home, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask Foreman to give him a ride. His fingers lost their grip on his keys, and he groaned to himself as they fall onto the ground at his feet. He braced himself against the car, trying to lean down, but a rush to his head made him stop and prop himself against the car. He just wanted to go the hell home. It wasn't often that he crumbled under the task of getting the best of someone, mocking and bringing fault after fault to the other person's attention. But he hadn't been able to deflect this or regain his footing. Marty had taken the one fucking decent thing that had happened to him for the last--God, too fucking long--and sliced at it, belittled it, and him, and wouldn't fucking stop. If House had any dirt on him--next time, he'd be sure to come more prepared--it might have been easier to turn it around, but he hadn't been able to do much beyond try to block the damn blows. Foreman was too busy covering his ass, like always. House wondered if Foreman had taken the card after he left anyway, if Foreman would look up his very close ex-boyfriend Nathan and catch up when he wasn't around. Who the fuck knew.
House fished in his pocket for his phone, flipping it open to find Wilson's name. He looked up when he heard Foreman's voice, the slap of his shoes on the street. Great. Just fucking great. God, Foreman was probably running after him to bitch about what he'd done to Marty. Or berate him for acting like a twelve-year-old, shove his concern into his face even more. He wasn't fucking interested in hearing it.
"Yeah, I did it on purpose," House said as Foreman closed in on him, sneering before looking down at his phone. "No, I'm not sorry, but if I say I'll pay for the God damn dry cleaning, would it make you go away?" House pressed 'call' when he managed to highlight Wilson's name and held the phone to his ear.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-04-03 02:45 am (UTC)House made it out the door without anyone stopping him, made it to his car. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, having some trouble finding the key to open his car. Fuck, he probably shouldn't be driving home, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask Foreman to give him a ride. His fingers lost their grip on his keys, and he groaned to himself as they fall onto the ground at his feet. He braced himself against the car, trying to lean down, but a rush to his head made him stop and prop himself against the car. He just wanted to go the hell home. It wasn't often that he crumbled under the task of getting the best of someone, mocking and bringing fault after fault to the other person's attention. But he hadn't been able to deflect this or regain his footing. Marty had taken the one fucking decent thing that had happened to him for the last--God, too fucking long--and sliced at it, belittled it, and him, and wouldn't fucking stop. If House had any dirt on him--next time, he'd be sure to come more prepared--it might have been easier to turn it around, but he hadn't been able to do much beyond try to block the damn blows. Foreman was too busy covering his ass, like always. House wondered if Foreman had taken the card after he left anyway, if Foreman would look up his very close ex-boyfriend Nathan and catch up when he wasn't around. Who the fuck knew.
House fished in his pocket for his phone, flipping it open to find Wilson's name. He looked up when he heard Foreman's voice, the slap of his shoes on the street. Great. Just fucking great. God, Foreman was probably running after him to bitch about what he'd done to Marty. Or berate him for acting like a twelve-year-old, shove his concern into his face even more. He wasn't fucking interested in hearing it.
"Yeah, I did it on purpose," House said as Foreman closed in on him, sneering before looking down at his phone. "No, I'm not sorry, but if I say I'll pay for the God damn dry cleaning, would it make you go away?" House pressed 'call' when he managed to highlight Wilson's name and held the phone to his ear.