Foreman turned slightly, enough to catch House's insulted expression that Foreman would ever dare to ask him to help. He refused to smile, this time, even though he'd been breathing in the fruity scent of the shampoo and enjoying House standing close enough to lean warmly against his back. More than could possibly be healthy. He really was an idiot. "You look like someone who wants to eat," he said, as House crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge. Foreman got out the rice cooker and was starting it when House smirked at him and left him to do the heavy lifting. Foreman snorted and let him go. He had enough of catering to House at work without acting like his valet at home, too. Anything he let happen once, House would take as standard for the rest of their relationship. Foreman didn't mind cooking, and he would have had to feed himself anyway, but when he was at House's place he didn't plan to lift a finger.

The stir fry didn't take long. After waiting this late to eat, and all the exercise they'd had earlier, it smelled delicious. The rice was finished at nearly the same time. Foreman grabbed plates and cutlery, and dished up some dinner for himself, opening the fridge to grab a beer. He left one of the plates on the counter--he wasn't going to serve House, especially not after that crack. If House wanted Foreman to ignore his leg, then Foreman would ignore that House probably didn't want to get up again. Besides, he only had two hands.

Foreman brought his plate into the living room, settling down on the couch with a satisfied sigh. Even though he usually ate in the dining room, that was more for convenience if he was working while he ate, either reading or working on articles or going over older cases. Tonight, he'd rather see what House would do about Foreman's pointed failure to get his food for him. Foreman's money was on House trying to steal Foreman's food instead of going to the kitchen for his own.