House was breathing hard and heavily when when Foreman pulled back and kissed him softer, slower. He didn't kiss back, struggling between holding himself up and reeling with the anger and insecurities that had risen fast in the restaurant. House refused to lean on Foreman, trying to press back against the car. He wanted to push Foreman away, too angry to want to let Foreman touch him like this, hands on his hips like he actually wanted him. Foreman's words only made it worse; it was too hard to believe him, and House turned his head sharply, out of the kiss. Fuck Foreman for pretending he'd wanted him. Fuck him for going out with Marty for dinner. Fuck him for doing it just to spite him--Foreman had practically admitted that with a shaky, thin lie. Fuck him. He didn't fucking need this.
"No, but Nathan whoever-the-fuck-he-is might," House said, shoving at Foreman's chest. He made sure he had his left foot securely under him, weight shifted before pushing Foreman away entirely. Leaning back against the car, he gestured toward the restaurant. "That card still on the table? Or did you slip it into your pocket after I left? Or are you just going to look him up when you get home?" Christ, he sounded like a moron. He tried to convince himself he was just shooting his mouth off, that none of it was anything that really mattered. He just wanted to make Foreman as angry as he felt. He tried to suffocate the thought that Foreman really was going to go home and call Nathan. He'd be willing to bet that Foreman would wait until House could hear him, just to make his revenge that much more direct.
He wondered if Marty was seeing this--and loving it, the bastard--but he couldn't give much thought to it. A series of beeps caught his attention, and House steered his gaze away from Foreman to face the sound--Wilson's car horn. Wilson's car was parked several cars down, Wilson's head sticking out of the window as the beeps died and Wilson shouted, "House! You're dragging your own ass in here, let's go!"
House pulled his cane off the hood of the car and, sneaking one last look at Foreman out of the corners of his eyes, lumbered toward Wilson's car.
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"No, but Nathan whoever-the-fuck-he-is might," House said, shoving at Foreman's chest. He made sure he had his left foot securely under him, weight shifted before pushing Foreman away entirely. Leaning back against the car, he gestured toward the restaurant. "That card still on the table? Or did you slip it into your pocket after I left? Or are you just going to look him up when you get home?" Christ, he sounded like a moron. He tried to convince himself he was just shooting his mouth off, that none of it was anything that really mattered. He just wanted to make Foreman as angry as he felt. He tried to suffocate the thought that Foreman really was going to go home and call Nathan. He'd be willing to bet that Foreman would wait until House could hear him, just to make his revenge that much more direct.
He wondered if Marty was seeing this--and loving it, the bastard--but he couldn't give much thought to it. A series of beeps caught his attention, and House steered his gaze away from Foreman to face the sound--Wilson's car horn. Wilson's car was parked several cars down, Wilson's head sticking out of the window as the beeps died and Wilson shouted, "House! You're dragging your own ass in here, let's go!"
House pulled his cane off the hood of the car and, sneaking one last look at Foreman out of the corners of his eyes, lumbered toward Wilson's car.