Foreman raised his eyebrow when he came back to see House actually eating the food Foreman had scraped off his lap. He'd figured House would be pissed all over again when Foreman didn't bring him another plate, but instead House only gave him a guileless look before turning back to the television. "If you wanted to cover me in food, I think there are better possibilities than flour," Foreman said, to see if he could make House choke. Save that idea--eating off each other--for when they were at House's place, and Foreman wouldn't give a shit about cleanup. He was still peeved that House had knocked over his plate, and House's refusal to acknowledge it or apologize was annoying, too. If House was willing to joke about smelling like fruit, however obliquely, that took some of the sting away.
What really mollified him, though, was the way House was eating. Foreman knew he wasn't the world's best cook. He did it enough to get by, and most nights he didn't care particularly what he ate, as long as it was healthy. He remembered House waxing practically ecstatic over Wilson's cooking. House wasn't--and probably would never be--complimenting Foreman like that. Foreman might never hear a positive word out of House about whatever food Foreman set in front of him, but the way House was forking the stir fry into his mouth was flattering on its own. Sure, if he'd eat food that had fallen off the plate, he obviously wasn't picky. House was probably just hungry. Foreman knew he was, enough that he could ignore that the vegetables were a bit overcooked and the rice was mushy. But it didn't hurt to see House enjoying it.
Foreman took another bite, still standing behind House, watching House more than the slo-mo replays of ATV crashes. He didn't know if they'd agreed to never mention Marty, or what had happened tonight, ever again, or if House was still brooding over it and just not showing it. Foreman didn't know if he was finally giving in to the Stockholm syndrome or if having House around really wasn't that bad, messes aside. He scooped up another bite, chewing before he said anything, in case a last minute of reflection would remind him that he'd wanted to get away from House when he'd left Princeton. "Bears are playing the Broncos tomorrow," he said, finally, in about the same tone he'd used to not-quite-ask House to bring him the rice cooker. Foreman had planned to spend his Sunday sprawled on the couch watching football, and probably it wouldn't be terrible if House was there too. If he wanted to be. Quite possibly, he didn't. Foreman glanced at his plate--pretty much cleared--and figured now was as good a time as any to go clean up the kitchen.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-05-16 05:19 am (UTC)What really mollified him, though, was the way House was eating. Foreman knew he wasn't the world's best cook. He did it enough to get by, and most nights he didn't care particularly what he ate, as long as it was healthy. He remembered House waxing practically ecstatic over Wilson's cooking. House wasn't--and probably would never be--complimenting Foreman like that. Foreman might never hear a positive word out of House about whatever food Foreman set in front of him, but the way House was forking the stir fry into his mouth was flattering on its own. Sure, if he'd eat food that had fallen off the plate, he obviously wasn't picky. House was probably just hungry. Foreman knew he was, enough that he could ignore that the vegetables were a bit overcooked and the rice was mushy. But it didn't hurt to see House enjoying it.
Foreman took another bite, still standing behind House, watching House more than the slo-mo replays of ATV crashes. He didn't know if they'd agreed to never mention Marty, or what had happened tonight, ever again, or if House was still brooding over it and just not showing it. Foreman didn't know if he was finally giving in to the Stockholm syndrome or if having House around really wasn't that bad, messes aside. He scooped up another bite, chewing before he said anything, in case a last minute of reflection would remind him that he'd wanted to get away from House when he'd left Princeton. "Bears are playing the Broncos tomorrow," he said, finally, in about the same tone he'd used to not-quite-ask House to bring him the rice cooker. Foreman had planned to spend his Sunday sprawled on the couch watching football, and probably it wouldn't be terrible if House was there too. If he wanted to be. Quite possibly, he didn't. Foreman glanced at his plate--pretty much cleared--and figured now was as good a time as any to go clean up the kitchen.