Wilson fought the urge to bury his face in his hands in frustration. House had apparently been doing his usual excellent job of convincing Foreman that he didn't need anyone and that his life was better the emptier he made it. He dropped House's keys into his coat pocket and watched in the side mirror as Foreman walked away, his shoulders hunched, not looking back. Wilson didn't open the doors right away. Maybe by some miracle House would yell after Foreman.
It didn't happen, and Wilson sighed as he pressed the button to unlock the doors. Even if House had shouted an insult, or a challenge, it might have provoked Foreman to come back and deal with House. If he'd been dealing with House--like this, romantically, although Wilson's brain stuttered to a blinking, uncertain stop at the idea of either House or Foreman doing anything "romantic"--but if it had been going on for a while, then Foreman had to have some pretty extraordinary reserves of patience that he didn't usually show. And, based on the briefcase-shaped evidence in House's apartment, it had been going on for at least a week, and probably longer. House hadn't gotten to work last Friday until mid-afternoon. Wilson knew House had been lying to him about how he'd spent his morning--he'd given Cuddy a different story altogether--but he should have realized that House's smug, nearly mellow attitude didn't fit with his supposed bad pain morning, not even if he'd been--as House so euphemistically put it--self-medicating. That thought threatened to shut down Wilson's thought processes again. He winced, trying very hard not to picture House and Foreman together. From the state he'd found House in that morning, he'd nearly found himself in a situation that he wouldn't be able to stop picturing, and he counted himself lucky that he'd missed it.
He waited for House to climb in, automatically cataloguing how stiffly House had walked over to the car. He'd seen him stumble, too. Beyond however drunk House was, his leg was probably acting up. Wilson wondered if it was really the leg, or whatever was going on with Foreman that caused the flare-up. He wouldn't ask; he'd learned better than that. Instead, he carefully constructed his most neutral expression, raising his eyebrows in a mildly inquiring fashion, and treating House like a solar eclipse--dangerous to look at directly. "So are you going to tell me what the hell that was about? Or am I playing the part of a particularly clueless friend in this scene?"
no subject
It didn't happen, and Wilson sighed as he pressed the button to unlock the doors. Even if House had shouted an insult, or a challenge, it might have provoked Foreman to come back and deal with House. If he'd been dealing with House--like this, romantically, although Wilson's brain stuttered to a blinking, uncertain stop at the idea of either House or Foreman doing anything "romantic"--but if it had been going on for a while, then Foreman had to have some pretty extraordinary reserves of patience that he didn't usually show. And, based on the briefcase-shaped evidence in House's apartment, it had been going on for at least a week, and probably longer. House hadn't gotten to work last Friday until mid-afternoon. Wilson knew House had been lying to him about how he'd spent his morning--he'd given Cuddy a different story altogether--but he should have realized that House's smug, nearly mellow attitude didn't fit with his supposed bad pain morning, not even if he'd been--as House so euphemistically put it--self-medicating. That thought threatened to shut down Wilson's thought processes again. He winced, trying very hard not to picture House and Foreman together. From the state he'd found House in that morning, he'd nearly found himself in a situation that he wouldn't be able to stop picturing, and he counted himself lucky that he'd missed it.
He waited for House to climb in, automatically cataloguing how stiffly House had walked over to the car. He'd seen him stumble, too. Beyond however drunk House was, his leg was probably acting up. Wilson wondered if it was really the leg, or whatever was going on with Foreman that caused the flare-up. He wouldn't ask; he'd learned better than that. Instead, he carefully constructed his most neutral expression, raising his eyebrows in a mildly inquiring fashion, and treating House like a solar eclipse--dangerous to look at directly. "So are you going to tell me what the hell that was about? Or am I playing the part of a particularly clueless friend in this scene?"