When Foreman released his wrists, raising his hands in that showy, smug way--only Foreman and, well, maybe himself, could make that look smug--House squinted at him. Then the bastard ignored him. For a second, long enough to make House step forward, standing right behind Foreman again, but spreading his arms out to grip the counter on either side of Foreman. He let Foreman's remark go unanswered. Foreman could think what he wanted; House wasn't about to fall into that trap. Deny it, give Foreman reassurance like he was some sort of woman asking if she looked fat in her dress. Nope, wouldn't buy into that passive-aggressive tactic. Foreman could pay attention next time a differential was going on, or maybe House could not take him seriously so Foreman could find out what that was like, if he doubted him so much.

House refused to let it bother him too much, distracted enough by Foreman's instruction. Almost-instruction. He leaned back to his left, shooting Foreman a look that said, Are you kidding me? With a glance at the cupboard, then back at Foreman, he said, "Do I look like your sous chef?" House stepped back, going for the fridge instead of the cupboard. He grabbed a beer for himself and leaned against the opposite counter after he uncapped it, taking a drink.

As much as he'd like to annoy the hell out of Foreman, sitting down and letting Foreman do the work sounded more appealing, and he started to head out of the kitchen. "Carry on, Jeeves," he said, grinning smugly and patting Foreman's shoulder as he passed, heading for the kitchen. "I'm taking a load off."