It took a little longer, a little more effort to trudge to the passenger door of Wilson's car. The curb proved to be an obstacle, and House stumbled over it as he tried to hurry, hearing Foreman's steps behind him and believing that Foreman might be trying to catch him. As he stood at the car, he heard a sound--keys. Fuck, he'd never picked up his keys. He looked through the window to see Foreman shoving them into Wilson's hand. He stood straight again and knocked on the window, trying to block out the sounds of their voices, telling himself he didn't care what the hell they were talking about--him, he was willing to bet. He met Foreman's eyes when Foreman stood up and looked over the roof of the car, but clamped his lips shut when he heard what Foreman said, narrowing his eyes at him, waiting for Wilson to open the damn door.
He didn't want to need Foreman. He tried to convince himself he didn't need him. Didn't need him and his ex-boyfriend and Marty and Foreman's damn plans for revenge. It had been in the back of his mind that Foreman wouldn't stick around long. Couldn't possibly, once the novelty wore off. Once he saw there wasn't much to fucking stick around for. He was just a moron for not closing himself off sooner, for not pushing Foreman away before he'd gotten to a point where any of it mattered. A part of him felt the pull to stop Foreman, walk back around the car--it wouldn't matter if it was in front of Wilson; he'd already seen more than enough to catch on--and pull answers out of Foreman. Does this matter to you? Doesn't it fucking matter that I've told you things, and shown you things, and kept this secret to protect your God damn reputation because it's so fucking shameful to be with me, and let you fuck me, and touch me, and done so much shit to show you that it matters? You're the one who doesn't need me, you fucking bastard. You said it! You fucking told me to my face, calm as a fucking prick-shaped cucumber. It didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now, does it? He wanted to get back in Foreman's face, but it wouldn't matter. It was easier and safer to let Foreman walk and shut himself off. It would be harder to feel how much it hurt when Foreman came back into work, the phone to his ear, cooing a greeting to Nathan.
He looked down at the handle of the door, not interested in watching Foreman any more. He didn't want to see his face in case he looked back, though he doubted he would. And he didn't want to see him drive off. Bad enough he'd probably hear the damn peel-out, Foreman speeding away like he couldn't get far enough from him fast enough. Fuck it. Let him go. It never meant anything anyway.
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He didn't want to need Foreman. He tried to convince himself he didn't need him. Didn't need him and his ex-boyfriend and Marty and Foreman's damn plans for revenge. It had been in the back of his mind that Foreman wouldn't stick around long. Couldn't possibly, once the novelty wore off. Once he saw there wasn't much to fucking stick around for. He was just a moron for not closing himself off sooner, for not pushing Foreman away before he'd gotten to a point where any of it mattered. A part of him felt the pull to stop Foreman, walk back around the car--it wouldn't matter if it was in front of Wilson; he'd already seen more than enough to catch on--and pull answers out of Foreman. Does this matter to you? Doesn't it fucking matter that I've told you things, and shown you things, and kept this secret to protect your God damn reputation because it's so fucking shameful to be with me, and let you fuck me, and touch me, and done so much shit to show you that it matters? You're the one who doesn't need me, you fucking bastard. You said it! You fucking told me to my face, calm as a fucking prick-shaped cucumber. It didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now, does it? He wanted to get back in Foreman's face, but it wouldn't matter. It was easier and safer to let Foreman walk and shut himself off. It would be harder to feel how much it hurt when Foreman came back into work, the phone to his ear, cooing a greeting to Nathan.
He looked down at the handle of the door, not interested in watching Foreman any more. He didn't want to see his face in case he looked back, though he doubted he would. And he didn't want to see him drive off. Bad enough he'd probably hear the damn peel-out, Foreman speeding away like he couldn't get far enough from him fast enough. Fuck it. Let him go. It never meant anything anyway.