House was calling Wilson to drive him home, so he didn't need Foreman around. Just like he hadn't needed him all week, hadn't needed him in the car last Friday. Foreman shook his head. Looked like he was completely unnecessary. Again. There wasn't any reason to stay, if House wasn't going to kill himself on the road. Even so, Foreman lifted his head sharply when it seemed like House expected him to walk right back into the restaurant like he and Marty were still good pals. Where he'd gotten that impression, Foreman had no fucking clue.
"I didn't come here to talk about Nathan!" Foreman burst out. He couldn't even form the question of why House thought he wanted to spend more time with Marty. Yeah, he'd been there for that 'friendly conversation', and it was the last thing he wanted to go back to. "I didn't come here to talk about you, either. Marty asked if I was seeing anyone and I blew him off!" For fuck's sake, that's what they'd agreed last week, that they didn't want anyone to know. With a very strong hint of "not yet" attached to the sentiment, but it didn't matter. House didn't want people to know, neither did Foreman, so he hadn't fucking said anything. Not that Foreman would know if House had changed his mind on all the goddamn minutiae in his life since then, since they hadn't had a fucking conversation in a week. And apparently House had changed his mind, since he'd come storming in as if he had the right to drag Foreman away. "I have more than one friend, and they don't all work within fifty feet of my department, so yeah, I actually have more to talk about than who I'm seeing!" Not that Foreman considered Marty a friend. Not now. He'd always put up with Marty's occasional pomposity, his condescending attitude, because Foreman had shared that condescension. Marty's program had been the best in L.A. and Foreman had been the best in the program; why the fuck shouldn't he be proud? But he'd managed not to see how that arrogance had followed Marty--maybe both of them--into his personal life. Marty couldn't stand to be insulted once, and took it out on House the minute he was back in town. Maybe that's why he'd been so derisive when Foreman had said he was back at Princeton-Plainsboro.
Foreman scoffed to himself, still furious with Marty. "I guess I can scratch one off the list now," he muttered. He hated what Marty had done, but it was still a friendship he'd invested a lot of years in, a relationship that meant something to him. He set his jaw and stared at House, wondering if he'd end up like him, running friends off as easily as House did. Not that he cared, in this case. Good fucking riddance. Whatever Marty had done for him before didn't make up for him acting like a complete prick. "Asshole," he said, under his breath, glancing back at the restaurant's lights.
When he turned back, House was leaning against his car, and Foreman felt the half-reluctant urge to do something about it. As if he could. If House was in pain, he wasn't going to let Foreman know. Wilson, maybe. The urge to step forward, though, to press House against the car, either to give House some support or just to distract him, was hard to suppress. Foreman tried to calculate how long it would take Wilson to get here, if he'd left yet, whether House would want Foreman to make himself scarce before he did. If he offered to leave, House would probably snap at him, demanding why he hadn't yet. If he stayed, Wilson would find him here and have even more questions. Foreman stared at House, waiting for some sign, some fucking clue that House got that Foreman wasn't going to just leave him to go trade jokes with Marty.
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"I didn't come here to talk about Nathan!" Foreman burst out. He couldn't even form the question of why House thought he wanted to spend more time with Marty. Yeah, he'd been there for that 'friendly conversation', and it was the last thing he wanted to go back to. "I didn't come here to talk about you, either. Marty asked if I was seeing anyone and I blew him off!" For fuck's sake, that's what they'd agreed last week, that they didn't want anyone to know. With a very strong hint of "not yet" attached to the sentiment, but it didn't matter. House didn't want people to know, neither did Foreman, so he hadn't fucking said anything. Not that Foreman would know if House had changed his mind on all the goddamn minutiae in his life since then, since they hadn't had a fucking conversation in a week. And apparently House had changed his mind, since he'd come storming in as if he had the right to drag Foreman away. "I have more than one friend, and they don't all work within fifty feet of my department, so yeah, I actually have more to talk about than who I'm seeing!" Not that Foreman considered Marty a friend. Not now. He'd always put up with Marty's occasional pomposity, his condescending attitude, because Foreman had shared that condescension. Marty's program had been the best in L.A. and Foreman had been the best in the program; why the fuck shouldn't he be proud? But he'd managed not to see how that arrogance had followed Marty--maybe both of them--into his personal life. Marty couldn't stand to be insulted once, and took it out on House the minute he was back in town. Maybe that's why he'd been so derisive when Foreman had said he was back at Princeton-Plainsboro.
Foreman scoffed to himself, still furious with Marty. "I guess I can scratch one off the list now," he muttered. He hated what Marty had done, but it was still a friendship he'd invested a lot of years in, a relationship that meant something to him. He set his jaw and stared at House, wondering if he'd end up like him, running friends off as easily as House did. Not that he cared, in this case. Good fucking riddance. Whatever Marty had done for him before didn't make up for him acting like a complete prick. "Asshole," he said, under his breath, glancing back at the restaurant's lights.
When he turned back, House was leaning against his car, and Foreman felt the half-reluctant urge to do something about it. As if he could. If House was in pain, he wasn't going to let Foreman know. Wilson, maybe. The urge to step forward, though, to press House against the car, either to give House some support or just to distract him, was hard to suppress. Foreman tried to calculate how long it would take Wilson to get here, if he'd left yet, whether House would want Foreman to make himself scarce before he did. If he offered to leave, House would probably snap at him, demanding why he hadn't yet. If he stayed, Wilson would find him here and have even more questions. Foreman stared at House, waiting for some sign, some fucking clue that House got that Foreman wasn't going to just leave him to go trade jokes with Marty.