wooedforyears | November 24, 2007 -- Late Afternoon

November 24, 2007 -- Late Afternoon

For the past week, all during their case, Foreman had been trying to rein House in, demand he pick fellows, try to tell him how to conduct the case, look for a diagnosis, as if he'd respect his Cuddy-given-powers and listen. House had brushed him off (well, until he'd actually been right and his advice actually made sense), thinking that if this was Foreman's idea of retaliation--boss him around in front of his team--then it was pathetic. House wasn't even going to acknowledge it. He intentionally avoided Foreman any other time. After the car ride, and the forced avoidance that followed once they got to work, House realized that it was a tactic he could use. He felt smug about it, imagining Foreman brooding, fuming with possessive jealousy because he'd jerked off to memories of an ex-boyfriend that he didn't even know anymore, hadn't seen since his residency had ended decades ago. But apparently it was enough to get to Foreman; he already felt that possessive over him to get pissed off over something like that, as if people didn't fantasize about ex-partners, or even strangers.

Secretly pleased with himself--it helped that he conned Cuddy into getting the fellows he wanted, too--he'd made Foreman sweat it out. He'd resisted the temptation to knock on Foreman's door and get him so turned on he wouldn't be able to turn him away. He'd masturbated instead, certain that Foreman had jerked off to images of what he'd done in the car. Foreman had gotten so hard then, so horny that he hadn't been able to control himself, and House doubted he'd exercised much control when he was alone. It was all too good.

He sat around for most of Saturday, passing most of the afternoon, considering dropping by Foreman's place just out of curiosity, just to see what the hell Foreman would do. Why not, he thought. He had nothing better to do for the next day and a half and he hadn't had a chance to rub this in Foreman's face at work. He still had a grin on his face when he arrived at Foreman's door, sneaking in with a building resident--the cripple card really came in handy sometimes--and knocked on the door, waiting for Foreman to swing it open.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Foreman's head jerked up the second he heard House's voice bellowing his name. His heart dropped into his stomach, and the first thing he felt was a wave of guilt for being out with Marty. House was barreling down on them, resentment written on his face even though it looked like he was trying to hide it. Before House had stuffed himself into the booth, pinning Marty between them, Foreman's guilt had vanished and anger had taken its place. He couldn't even have one damn meal with a friend that House didn't know about. House would pick tonight to finally break his smug silence, or whatever the hell a week of ignoring Foreman completely rated as. He got that House was jealous--from the way House was glaring at Marty, and his question about whether Marty was his boyfriend, that was more than obvious--but he'd already told House it was ridiculous. If Foreman didn't feel like clarifying that Marty wasn't his new boyfriend because his new boyfriend was currently making an ass of himself at their table, it was only because he didn't feel like using the word 'boyfriend' about House at all. Especially right now.

Marty glanced between the two of them, and if he noticed Foreman's anger, it only made his smile that much more strained. "Hi, Greg," he said, still trying to hold onto the shreds of his affability. He looked like he hoped Foreman was going to save him; Foreman was too infuriated to tell him that he couldn't even save himself. "This isn't about a job. I thought Eric would have told you--"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Foreman interrupted. He barely bit back the words I thought you were too damn busy to think of me, and instead, he shook his head in disgust. "As if I couldn't figure that out."

Marty's blase greeting, the casual way he used his name--he always fucking hated that, the fucking bastard--made House bristle. He shrugged out of his coat, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere, and narrowed his eyes at Marty even more when he launched into a calm explanation of this dinner. House wished he could get a fucking hold of himself. But everything was just too damn convenient. Foreman had tried to tell him before that nothing had been going on, professionally or personally, but this looked a hell of a lot different in person, under the cozy lamp-light of a classy restaurant, where Foreman was dressed sharply. Hot. Looked fucking hot. For Marty. Wouldn't be surprised if Foreman had hoped for this, wanted to shove this in his face. After the past week, he wouldn't be surprised.

House tried to hide the way he wanted to burn holes straight through Marty's God damn prick-face, but he turned his anger on Foreman as soon as he spoke. "I was hungry," House said, smiling tightly, as if hunger was the most obvious and only possible reason he could have for being here, at the table--not their, Marty and Foreman's, table. He reached across Marty and scooped up Foreman's wine glass. "And thirsty." House held Foreman's gaze, refusing to look away as he leaned over Marty and threw back a mouthful of Foreman's wine.

"Why else would I be here?" he asked, setting down the glass, but keeping his fingers hooked around the stem. Maybe if he got buzzed, he wouldn't feel all this jealousy creeping up on him. He might also fail to realize if he was revealing too much. On the upside, the latter might make Marty uncomfortable enough to get the hell out of here. House just wasn't sure yet if he wanted to stay clear-headed for this or not. He raised the glass for another sip, decided to test the waters.

Foreman ground his teeth when House stole his wineglass and took a proprietary gulp. House's stare was hostile, but Foreman was not going to admit he'd been wrong to come here. Wrong not to tell House. He didn't need to be fucking ambushed to be reminded that he and House were together; Wilson might shine that shit from House and call it friendship, but Foreman wouldn't.

Because you think you're the center of the fucking universe, he thought viciously, half-wishing House could read his thoughts. Foreman wasn't going to say it out loud--he wasn't going to let loose half of what he was thinking. They didn't need to make a scene, certainly not in front of Marty. "I'm sorry," Foreman told him tightly. And pointedly, for House's sake, "I didn't think I'd be needed tonight."

"If you two need to work something out--" Marty looked like he'd take any reason as an excuse to flee.

Foreman shook his head sharply. "It's not a problem." He glared at House. He wasn't going to abandon Marty now just because House showed up, probably expecting exactly that. "I'm sure House wasn't going to stay."

Foreman wanted to know how the fuck House had found him. He'd been more than careful this time. Nothing on his computer, which was password protected anyway. No messages saved on his cellphone--he'd even considered deleting Marty's contact information. He certainly hadn't written anything down, not the restaurant name, not the date, not the time, not the directions.

Foreman's gaze snapped to Marty. He'd called Foreman at home to leave new directions. Left a message. That was the only fucking way House could have found out--he'd been at Foreman's place. "You broke in to my apartment?" he demanded, forgetting to keep his voice low. Marty's eyes widened, but Foreman ignored him, keeping his glare trained on House.

House narrowed his eyes, squinting at Foreman when he replied. Didn't think I'd be needed tonight. So Foreman was still pissed off about what he'd done in the car, but House didn't have much time to think about that before Marty interjected. House was about to throw himself out of the booth and boot Marty's ass out the door himself, but Foreman responded first. Of course he'd want Marty to stay, and House to leave. For a moment, he stared at Foreman, saw gears turning in his head as if he were trying to figure something out, and another second later, it made sense.

House held Foreman's glare, not showing one hint that it had ruffled him. He gave Foreman another tight grin, thinking about his response--no way he was going to clue Foreman into the fact that he had a key now. "You should really think about added security. Anyone could have broken in. Someone, oh, I don't know, looking for a new plasma screen TV," House said, as if he'd just done Foreman a favor by proving how lax his locks were. "Hell, I did it, and I'm not even black."

House drained the rest of the wine, finishing it off with a loud lip-smack and satisfied, "Aah." He set the glass down and slid it across the table toward Foreman, a little to his right, leaving it up to him to catch it before it flew off the table and broke on the floor. Distraction launched like a torpedo, House turned to Marty, a false-friendly grin on his face. House wasn't sure he'd ever seen Marty so frazzled; the man was almost always composed to the point of driving House up a damn wall, but now he looked as though he were calculating a run for the door like it was a prison break. "So Marty," he said, "what brings you so far from L.A., if it's not to poach on other people's territory?"

Marty pressed himself a little harder against the seat, and House wondered how far he'd have to push before Marty ended up in Foreman's fucking lap, and if Foreman would even push him away. "My wife's in-laws invited us over for the holidays and--"

"In-laws, right," House said, not keeping the disbelief out of his voice. "Need time away? A reprieve from the same-old-same-old?" The question wasn't without its implications, and House didn't try to hide them. Marty's uncomfortable, nervous laugh made House move in even closer, force Marty into Foreman's space even more. "Torturous small talk with your in-laws isn't worth the same piece of ass"--House's eyes flickered to Foreman--"right? Why not go for something--"

"Excuse me, gentlemen. Are you ready to order?" A damn waiter cut House off, and House slid back into his part of the booth and straightened up.

House shot the waiter a glare, hoping the idiot would take the hint and make this as quick as possible. "New York strip," House said, blurting out the first common menu item that came to mind before Foreman could jump in and stop him. "Medium-rare. And some more of this wine." The waiter nodded, which House took to mean that he'd made a good stab, and offered Foreman a stare as if to say, You're not fucking getting rid of me, you spiteful, sneaky asshole.

Marty's jaw dropped at House's casual remark about breaking in, his gaze darting to Foreman again. Foreman pressed his lips together. He knew House made racist remarks mainly to get a rise out of him. And it always worked. Foreman got tenser, angrier, less able to control himself, which was exactly what House wanted--which was why Foreman couldn't demand an apology or even show that he cared. For that matter, House breaking in was a sign, maybe not that the cared, but that he was invested. Jesus, this might have gone differently if Foreman had been home. House had made the first move. Probably not to apologize--Foreman doubted House knew why he was really pissed off, and even if he did, the last thing he'd do was say he was sorry. But Foreman could've given him hell, laughed in his face if it seemed like House was angling for sex. The fantasy wasn't enough. House wanted Foreman, and Foreman could have sneered at him and told him his hand had been more than enough for him before. Maybe tease him through his pants, get him hard, and then shove him back out into the hall. Turn the tables. Make House desperate and then walk away.

Before Foreman could wave away Marty's protective urge, House shot his wine glass across the table, trying to shatter it and make a bigger commotion than he'd already started. Foreman reached for the glass, practically having to lunge out of the booth to catch it in both hands. He set it back down on the table with a loud clink, but by then, House had already cornered Marty. Foreman snorted at poaching on his territory. House considered Foreman his, which in any other circumstances would have been absurdly romantic. As it was, House only wanted him because he thought Foreman was wandering farther than House's fucking leash would allow. He considered Foreman his like he considered all his fellows as his. A plaything. A toy. Something he could play with when he wanted and dump right back on the shelf when he was tired of it.

Marty was backing away from House as best he could, his shoulder nearly pressing against Foreman's. The longer House interrogated him, though, Marty's expression changed. He started to get pissed off when House implied that he cheated, or wanted to cheat, but then, when House glanced at Foreman and called him a piece of ass, it was like the light switch had been flipped. Marty's mouth opened, he let out a disbelieving scoff, and then his amused, relaxed smile came back. House didn't notice, his attention distracted by the waiter.

"It's complicated?" Marty asked Foreman sardonically.

"Don't," Foreman warned him. God, this couldn't possibly get worse.

"I'll have the salmon," Marty told the waiter smoothly. "Eric?"

Foreman met House's glare. Apparently it could get worse. Marty had figured them out and now he wanted to get his rocks off by poking at House. Fuck. Foreman couldn't walk out; he didn't want to leave either of them with the other. "Prime rib," he said shortly. "Rare."

The waiter picked up their menus and left quickly. Marty stayed on Foreman's side of the booth, his composure completely back in place. "Eric and I just wanted to catch up," he said. "Talk about old times." There was nothing in his voice to suggest anything untoward, but Foreman knew from the look in his eyes that Marty was laughing at both their expenses. House for being jealous, and Foreman for being insane enough to be with him.

It took a moment for House to realize what exactly had transpired between Foreman and Marty while he'd been placing his order for dinner. It was hard to beat down the anger bubbling up from his stomach and into his throat, dissolving the words he'd wanted to say to Marty. Now Marty peered at him as if he were waiting for a dumb animal to perform in a zoo, eyebrows raised and an idiotic, smug smile on his face. Waiting for a damn show. He'd figured them out--House wasn't completely surprised; he hadn't been very discreet--but now he seemed to be looking forward to this, already taunting House, poking the insecurities that House hated were showing.

House glared at both of them, itching to know how much Foreman had discussed with Marty before he'd arrived. Enough for Marty to know that 'it's complicated'. House snapped his jaw shut, breathing a soft scoff through his nose at Marty's comment. Old times. More like new times. From the looks of it, Marty was interested in every juicy bit of the new times that he could get. Foreman didn't seem as interested in sharing, but he wondered if that was only because House was sitting there, and he wanted to keep House out of it. A part of him wanting to lash out at Marty, give him the show he wanted, but another part didn't want to give him any more material to taunt him with than he already had.

He glanced down at the table as the waiter returned with more wine and another glass, which he set in front of House. He downed the glass before the waiter refilled the other glasses, already feeling a sudden lightheaded rush, and leaned out of the booth to catch the waiter's apron. "Hey," he said, tapping his glass on the table. "Leave the bottle." The waiter raised his eyebrows but did as he was told before leaving them with the news that their entrees would be ready shortly. House poured himself another glass, keeping silent and glaring at Marty over the rim of his glass, then Foreman, who seemed pretty pissed off himself, but he wasn't sure if that was all directed at him anymore.

"What's the matter, Greg?" Marty asked, pretending to soothe him. The bastard laid a hand over his wrist, and House tried to freeze it with a frosty glare. Easier to saw it off with a fucking butter knife that way. He felt too proud, didn't want to give Marty the satisfaction of physically backing down, to shrug the touch away himself. "I don't think I've ever seen you speechless before."

When Marty turned his head to share a laugh with Foreman, House entertained the fantasy of driving that knife through Marty's smug little eyeball, but he used his free hand to tip his wine glass to his mouth. "Just giving you and Eric time to catch up, Marty," House answered, letting his hand fall beside him under the table when Marty leaned away, matching his falsely cheery grin. "Don't let me get in your way."

Foreman's edginess tightened another notch when Marty leaned forward to put his hand on House's sleeve. He wasn't threatened by Marty touching House in the least, but he knew Marty was aware of how much of a condescending prick he was being. He was taunting House for no good reason. The fact that he'd figured out that Foreman was with him must have made him curious, but instead of asking questions or even attempting to be happy for Foreman, whether he understood or not, he was sneering at House. Foreman didn't remember him being such an asshole the last time he was here, but Marty's snide suggestions that House didn't understand John Henry Giles' case might have laid the groundwork for this. House had humiliated Marty, and Marty was taking the opportunity to get his revenge. Foreman could actually feel sorry for House, who looked like he was making plans to murder Marty and bury the body. "Cut it out," Foreman told Marty. He was furious with House for tracking him down, but he wasn't interested in laughing at him, and by extension, at himself. "Leave it alone."

"No, no, this is interesting," Marty said. "How long have you two been together? Was this why you came back to Princeton-Plainsboro?"

"No," Foreman barked. He glared at House, as if he might believe that. Foreman had never wanted to come back to Princeton, certainly not for House's sake. Just because he'd rediscovered his enjoyment of diagnostics did not mean he'd been fucking pining for House. Their relationship had been as much a surprise to him as it apparently had been to House. Christ, he fucking hated having to defend it, even obliquely. Foreman rolled his eyes when House filled his glass for the third time, and grabbed the bottle, setting it on his side of the table.

Marty's grin widened at House's invitation for them to catch up. "Nathan was at the hospital benefit last month," he said to Foreman, his eyes twinkling. "He was asking about you." Marty raised his eyebrows, as if inviting Foreman to comment on his relationship, or hoping that House would pick up on it. Foreman retreated to stony silence, hating that House would pick up on it, no matter how much he'd been drinking. "Eric and Nathan were very close," Marty confided in House, the if you know what I mean practically dripping off his words.

House's eyes darted toward Foreman when he told Marty to stop. For a second, House felt a small tug of relief, but it occurred to him that Foreman was only trying to cover his own ass. Covering House's was a necessary by-product. Not that Marty actually listened, and House's shoulders bunched with tension when Marty, as if he'd only just uncovered a new strain of disease, enthusiastically dug in with more questions. House wasn't sure if they were directed at Foreman or himself, but Foreman cut in before House could snidely tell Marty to go mind his own business in hell.

House pressed his lips together, meeting Foreman's glare and wondering what the fuck Foreman was glaring at him for. He wasn't the one who agreed to meet this prick for dinner. This wasn't his fault. Christ. An instant later, House regretted his choice of words, tensed even more, nearly swallowed his wine down the wrong pipe when Marty practically burst with news about a guy called Nathan. It didn't take very long to figure out who this Nathan was, or had been, even without Marty's help. Very close. What a fucker.

"Not anymore." House let the words fly with as much confidence as he could, working to convince himself that he was right about this. Had to be. He knew he was speaking for Foreman, but in all the time that Foreman had been a fellow and within the last couple weeks, House had never run across the name 'Nathan'. House didn't doubt that this Nathan was real--Foreman looked angry, not confused, which served as confirmation enough--but the simple fact that Marty knew more about Foreman than he did gnawed at him, especially since he put so much effort into rooting through the pasts of practically everyone he knew. He wouldn't put it past Marty to drag an old name into the conversation--the old name of a 'very close' boyfriend--just to rile House up, so he could kick back and watch the explosion. Marty was probably contriving a story from nothing. No hospital benefit. No Nathan. Just a situation that would fan House's jealousy for Marty's amusement.

"Nathan gave me his business card," Marty said, turning back to Foreman and assuming a friendly smile, as if he was a sort of benevolent messenger. "He asked me to pass it along so you two could touch base. Reconnect."

House forced himself to keep his face still, non-reactive, as Marty reached into the inside pocket of his suit and withdrew a white card. So, fine, the bastard wasn't making it up, only capitalizing on the opportunity to make House squirm. Make him want to dive across the table and rip that business card, and Marty, to itty-bitty, indistinguishable shreds. House curled his hands into fists under the table instead, his gaze flitting from Foreman's face to the card as Marty slid it across the table to set it directly in front of Foreman.

Foreman opened his mouth to cut Marty short--he and Nathan were anything but close now--but House took the words out of his mouth. Foreman glanced at him, half of him wondering if House was saying that only because he'd happily prove Marty wrong in any way he could, or because he really believed it--was really making some assertion about their relationship. Either way, this was getting out of hand. Marty had been the one who'd shaken his head when Foreman told him that he and Nathan weren't together anymore. He'd offered his couch, for fuck's sake. Foreman hadn't taken him up on it; he and Nathan had managed to find other arrangements. The point was, Marty had commiserated. Had actually seemed to care. There'd never been a hint that if Foreman hooked up with someone Marty disliked, that he'd use Nathan against him, as if his sympathy before had been nothing but an act. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. Marty only shrugged and produced Nathan's card, setting it in front of Foreman without a care.

Foreman stared at the card without picking it up. If he picked it up, he'd be ending whatever the hell he was doing with House. House was insecure enough, jealous enough, that for Foreman to even look like he was willing to talk with Nathan, that would mean in House's eyes that Foreman was hoping to revive a relationship that had been dead for five years. Foreman could call Nathan, or email him, any time he wanted. It wasn't like he'd lost the ability to use a phonebook, and as far as he knew, Nathan hadn't left his firm; his email would be the same. Marty should know he didn't want to call Nathan. Their breakup had been icy and civilized. Both of them had agreed that they were moving on to different things. If, five years later, Nathan was interested in hearing from him, Foreman could only imagine that it was because they had enough distance that they knew they'd never be getting back together.

No, Marty had no interest in playing matchmaker, and Foreman wouldn't be surprised if he was holding back the fact that Nathan had gone and gotten married, or something just as momentous, and wanted to share the news. Marty wanted to sabotage his relationship with House. He might think it was amusing to watch House explode, but he didn't seem to notice, or care, that Foreman had made a choice, whether Marty approved or not, and Marty was doing his best to ruin it. Some fucking friend. On the other hand, Foreman didn't want House to think that Foreman wouldn't talk to people from his past, would cut them entirely out of his life, just because House couldn't handle it. He wanted House to fucking trust him. But since that was too much to ask at work, it seemed even less likely now.

Before Foreman had made the decision--still staring at the card like it would poison him if he touched it--their waiter arrived and started setting plates in front of them. House's steak was still sizzling; the waiter asked Marty if he wanted ground pepper on his salmon, and Marty nodded enthusiastically, so that the waiter leaned between Foreman and House to twist the peppermill over Marty's plate. Foreman let his head slump back against the booth, turning to face away from House's stare. When the waiter was finally gone, Foreman met House's eyes and picked up the card. "I don't need this," he said, and dropped it back in front of Marty.

Marty looked more amused than ever, smirking as he picked up his wine and took a sip. "You're a lucky man, Greg."

House couldn't tear his eyes away from Foreman, waiting to see if he'd take the card. He hated that it mattered, that he wanted to stop Foreman from taking it. He didn't want Foreman to be that interested. Sure, House had jerked off to a memory, but he hadn't called Jake up to have phone sex in the back of Foreman's car. House barely noticed when the waiter dropped their plates in front of them, his attention fixed on Foreman, on the card, even as the damn waiter put himself between them to grind pepper onto Marty's damn fish. When Foreman reached for the card and picked it up, House felt his heart hammer a little faster, his body tense up even more, but the tension released when the card fluttered back down, out of Foreman's hand to land in front of Marty.

House didn't look at Marty, lifting his eyes back up to meet Foreman's when Marty spoke again, sounding giddy. House dropped his gaze again and eyed the card, itching to take it. He wanted to know. Know about this Nathan. Who he was, and what he did, and where he worked, and if he really was interested in reconnecting with Foreman. House couldn't help himself from imagining a very literal reconnection; Foreman with a faceless, young, able-bodied guy who could take it standing up or any fucking way Foreman wanted it. Jesus, this was fucking ridiculous, he thought, downing another gulp of wine as he shook the thought away. His head was getting fuzzier, and all he wanted to do was take his steak and smash it into Marty's face, down what House would bet was a designer suit, and get the fuck back home. He didn't have much of an appetite, and words weren't coming very easily. He was floundering, scrambling for ground, and he was sure he already looked like a moron. The card still sat there on the table, mocking him like Marty. House let it sit there; he couldn't take it. It would give Marty even more ammunition to mock him, poke at him, and House could probably just find out more information for himself.

Too many questions were still rattling in his brain as he stared over at Marty. Marty, who was fucking smiling as he gleefully chewed a piece of his salmon. House took hold of his steak knife, just for something to grip, and couldn't help entertaining the thought of pulling Marty's tie, jerking the bastard's head forward, and driving the knife straight through the tie, maybe pin it to the baked potato on his plate. With any luck, Marty would choke on his food for a while, and House could wear the smile as he pulled Foreman to the door and listened for shouts of, 'Is anyone here a doctor?' He wished he could think of something good to say, something that would knock Marty on his ass, but the alcohol and all the unanswered questions was making him lose his edge. Even though most of his anger was directed at Marty, House still hadn't forgotten that Foreman had agreed to this. Foreman had probably done it to spite him. House wondered for a second if Wilson was busy; at least if Wilson found out about this, he wouldn't try to sabotage it. Wilson would nose around, and pry, and ask a ridiculously interminable number of questions or impart his relationship 'wisdom' to a point that would make House want to smother him with a pillow, but he wouldn't try to ruin it.

That really sounded like the better fucking option, and House dropped his knife back on the table, and glared hard at Foreman before turning to Marty. "You're a son of a bitch," he said, and pushed himself out of the booth. As he moved, he swept his arm across the table, sliding Marty's half-empty wine glass towards Marty and knocking it casually over the edge. When he stood up, he turned to find a beautiful maroon stain spreading over Marty's shirt. Shrugging on his coat and finding his cane, House shrugged, smiling as sweetly as he could. "Aw, you should be more careful, Marty," he said, and headed for the door.

Foreman had no idea what House's silence meant. He glanced at Foreman quickly, and just as quickly let his gaze drop to the table. Foreman was growing even more uncomfortable, with the two of them sitting across from each other and not quite looking at each other, while Marty sat between them already enjoying his meal. Christ, what a bastard. Foreman wanted to say something more, but there was no fucking way to say it, all the more because he couldn't trust Marty enough to speak in front of him. It irritated him that House, the master of deflection, couldn't see you matter in a gesture. What the hell did he want Foreman to do? Grab him and kiss him in front of fifty witnesses? Say something that Marty would twist around and laugh at? Yeah, Foreman was regretting going out with Marty, but none of this would have happened if House hadn't followed him. Marty wouldn't have been interested enough to press beyond it's complicated, and they could have stayed with safer topics. House just had to pry, had to know everything, and his goddamn curiosity had spoiled not only Foreman's evening, but his estimation of Marty.

Foreman didn't know what he expected next. House might have dug into his meal or decapitated Marty with his steak knife, and either one wouldn't have surprised Foreman. What he did do, though, tipping Marty's wine into his lap and walking away, left Foreman staring after him in shock.

"Jesus Christ!" Marty exclaimed, half-standing up as the stain spread, grabbing his napkin to blot at his shirt. "You've got yourself a real catch, Eric."

Foreman glowered at him, not making a move to help. He hadn't taken a bite, and he didn't think he could swallow one if he did. He stood up and threw his napkin down on his plate. Marty hadn't taken one second to think about how Foreman felt. Had expected him to mock House right along with him. And House had been right; Marty's work was the same way. If Marty's words on the surface could pass as polite, then he didn't think it mattered what he was really saying. "You really are an asshole," he said, and left Marty behind, with the mess, the insults, and the bill.

He barely looked over his shoulder as he left the restaurant. He had no idea what to say to House when he caught up with him, but he wasn't going to let him just drive away. When he got outside, he saw House heading across the street. Foreman glanced at his own car, thinking how fucking easy this would be if he could trust that it wouldn't matter tomorrow, that House would be back to his usual offensive self. The way he dished out the mockery, Foreman thought, it would make more sense if he could take it, but House's last insult had been quiet and to the point, without any of the usual glee he took in creatively cutting someone down to size. As if it mattered. As if he'd given up. Foreman hated seeing that, and knowing that House could get hurt. Even worse was knowing that he'd been part of it. "House!" he called, jogging across the street after him, and hoping like hell House would stop for him.

House hoofed it as fast and as smooth as he could toward the door. He almost wanted to glance over his shoulder to see if Foreman had decided to follow him, but he didn't expect that, and turning around would only slow him down. He wanted to get the fuck out, let Foreman deal with Marty. House wasn't sure that he wanted Foreman to follow him. He had shown up and wanted to know if he mattered more than Marty. Judging from Foreman's reactions, House thought it was at least safe to say that Foreman wasn't interested in Marty like House might have suspected, but House hadn't counted on having his insecurities shoved in his face. Hadn't counted on discovering that one of Foreman's old boyfriends wanted to get back in touch. Hadn't counted on Marty succeeding in turning the tables and pissing him off so much that all he had left to do was escape. Flee like a fucking kicked dog for the company of a friend who gave a shit, wouldn't sneak off to dinner behind his back--well, no, that wasn't true, but at least Wilson wouldn't do it with some ugly ulterior motive of revenge. Christ. Sure, it had turned out that dinner hadn't gone too well for Foreman either, and he hadn't taken that card, but that knowledge didn't seem like much of a comfort at that second. It didn't help the hot burn of humiliation in his face, the anger in his gut that Marty put there, had watched rise to the surface with a fucking smile on his face. Maybe he should just go home and crawl inside a bottle for a while. Not that he needed much more to make him pass out.

House made it out the door without anyone stopping him, made it to his car. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, having some trouble finding the key to open his car. Fuck, he probably shouldn't be driving home, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask Foreman to give him a ride. His fingers lost their grip on his keys, and he groaned to himself as they fall onto the ground at his feet. He braced himself against the car, trying to lean down, but a rush to his head made him stop and prop himself against the car. He just wanted to go the hell home. It wasn't often that he crumbled under the task of getting the best of someone, mocking and bringing fault after fault to the other person's attention. But he hadn't been able to deflect this or regain his footing. Marty had taken the one fucking decent thing that had happened to him for the last--God, too fucking long--and sliced at it, belittled it, and him, and wouldn't fucking stop. If House had any dirt on him--next time, he'd be sure to come more prepared--it might have been easier to turn it around, but he hadn't been able to do much beyond try to block the damn blows. Foreman was too busy covering his ass, like always. House wondered if Foreman had taken the card after he left anyway, if Foreman would look up his very close ex-boyfriend Nathan and catch up when he wasn't around. Who the fuck knew.

House fished in his pocket for his phone, flipping it open to find Wilson's name. He looked up when he heard Foreman's voice, the slap of his shoes on the street. Great. Just fucking great. God, Foreman was probably running after him to bitch about what he'd done to Marty. Or berate him for acting like a twelve-year-old, shove his concern into his face even more. He wasn't fucking interested in hearing it.

"Yeah, I did it on purpose," House said as Foreman closed in on him, sneering before looking down at his phone. "No, I'm not sorry, but if I say I'll pay for the God damn dry cleaning, would it make you go away?" House pressed 'call' when he managed to highlight Wilson's name and held the phone to his ear.

Foreman caught up to House at his car, glad at least that he didn't have to follow House home, or wherever he decided to drive off to. He didn't trust House to drive, either, if the wine he'd drunk was the grand total of what he'd eaten today, which wouldn't surprise him after seeing a few years of House's eating habits. "House--"

Before he could get more than that out, House snapped at him, and Foreman stared. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked. Of course House had done it on purpose. If Foreman hadn't seen him do it himself, he still would have assumed House had dumped the wine on Marty with every bit of deliberateness he could muster. Foreman shook his head, wanting to grab the phone out of House's hand, snap it shut, and force House to talk to him. The words I'm sorry were lurking at the back of his throat but Foreman swallowed them down. He wasn't sorry for making plans or going out, no matter how disastrously it had turned out. He was sorry that House had to hear that shit from Marty. One word like that, though, and he doubted House would listen to him for the rest of the night. "Christ, I hope the shirt is ruined," he said instead. He glared back at the restaurant, taking a step back from House. Probably House was calling Wilson. Who the hell else could he call? Foreman knew better than to think House would drive if he was feeling the alcohol, and he didn't know if he should offer. He stood there, feeling useless. If Wilson was going to play the rescuer, then there wasn't any reason for Foreman to hang around. He could imagine that House wasn't interested in hearing from him, but he couldn't force himself to walk away.

"You know what I'm talking about," House snapped, listening to the ringing coming through from the other end of the line. "Unless you missed that friendly conversation." Anger was still burning in his stomach, and it only seemed to get worse the longer Foreman stood there. He wanted to shove Foreman away, feeling the insistent pull to put even more distance between them. He couldn't help thinking that maybe this hadn't been a good idea. There was no way that Foreman was going to want him after tonight, or if he did, after even more people found out about this relationship and spouted even more criticism. Foreman cared too much about his reputation, what everybody else thought of him, and he wouldn't stick around if everyone pointed fingers at him and called him an idiot for being with him. He should just get out while he could, before Foreman knocked him on his ass and make him feel more humiliated and hurt than this whole damn dinner had. The ringing continued, long enough to make House lower the phone and redial before slapping it to his ear again.

Foreman's remark didn't do much to make his anger fade away. House turned towards his car instead, scoffing to himself, as Foreman stepped backwards. He wouldn't be surprised if Foreman bought Marty a new shirt just to keep them on good terms, save his precious reputation. The only person Foreman hadn't seemed to care about keeping in his good graces was House. No, Foreman planned dinners and went out just to spite him. Shut his mouth and let Marty lay into him. Not that he needed Foreman to jump in and save him, but it would have been nice if Foreman hadn't left him hanging. Maybe refusing the card really had been for show, maybe--

"What do you want, House?" Wilson's voice finally cut through the ringing on the other end.

House cleared his throat, trying to keep the anger out of his voice when he answered, "I'm drunk. Pick me up."

Wilson sighed. House forced himself not to turn and glance at Foreman as he leaned against the car. "Where are you?"

Now House had to turn, and he looked over the top of Foreman's head at the name of the restaurant. "Ma Cabane," he said and spun back around quickly. A little too quickly, stumbling into his car and grunting into the phone. "You know, that place that has the--"

"Yeah, I know it," Wilson said. House could hear a door closing in the background, then the soft sound of a car engine. "I'll be there soon. Just try not to...punch anyone before I get there."

"Can I punch anyone after you get here?"

House pulled the phone away from his ear as Wilson hung up, then closed it, and slipped it back into his pocket. He peeked over his shoulder and gestured back toward the restaurant. "Don't you have any more catching up to do? I doubt you came here just to talk about your old boyfriend. Or your new boyfriend. Or your new old boyfriend," he said to Foreman, considering getting into the car to wait for Wilson. He couldn't fucking stand here until he arrived, and he didn't want to have a damn argument in the middle of the street.

House was calling Wilson to drive him home, so he didn't need Foreman around. Just like he hadn't needed him all week, hadn't needed him in the car last Friday. Foreman shook his head. Looked like he was completely unnecessary. Again. There wasn't any reason to stay, if House wasn't going to kill himself on the road. Even so, Foreman lifted his head sharply when it seemed like House expected him to walk right back into the restaurant like he and Marty were still good pals. Where he'd gotten that impression, Foreman had no fucking clue.

"I didn't come here to talk about Nathan!" Foreman burst out. He couldn't even form the question of why House thought he wanted to spend more time with Marty. Yeah, he'd been there for that 'friendly conversation', and it was the last thing he wanted to go back to. "I didn't come here to talk about you, either. Marty asked if I was seeing anyone and I blew him off!" For fuck's sake, that's what they'd agreed last week, that they didn't want anyone to know. With a very strong hint of "not yet" attached to the sentiment, but it didn't matter. House didn't want people to know, neither did Foreman, so he hadn't fucking said anything. Not that Foreman would know if House had changed his mind on all the goddamn minutiae in his life since then, since they hadn't had a fucking conversation in a week. And apparently House had changed his mind, since he'd come storming in as if he had the right to drag Foreman away. "I have more than one friend, and they don't all work within fifty feet of my department, so yeah, I actually have more to talk about than who I'm seeing!" Not that Foreman considered Marty a friend. Not now. He'd always put up with Marty's occasional pomposity, his condescending attitude, because Foreman had shared that condescension. Marty's program had been the best in L.A. and Foreman had been the best in the program; why the fuck shouldn't he be proud? But he'd managed not to see how that arrogance had followed Marty--maybe both of them--into his personal life. Marty couldn't stand to be insulted once, and took it out on House the minute he was back in town. Maybe that's why he'd been so derisive when Foreman had said he was back at Princeton-Plainsboro.

Foreman scoffed to himself, still furious with Marty. "I guess I can scratch one off the list now," he muttered. He hated what Marty had done, but it was still a friendship he'd invested a lot of years in, a relationship that meant something to him. He set his jaw and stared at House, wondering if he'd end up like him, running friends off as easily as House did. Not that he cared, in this case. Good fucking riddance. Whatever Marty had done for him before didn't make up for him acting like a complete prick. "Asshole," he said, under his breath, glancing back at the restaurant's lights.

When he turned back, House was leaning against his car, and Foreman felt the half-reluctant urge to do something about it. As if he could. If House was in pain, he wasn't going to let Foreman know. Wilson, maybe. The urge to step forward, though, to press House against the car, either to give House some support or just to distract him, was hard to suppress. Foreman tried to calculate how long it would take Wilson to get here, if he'd left yet, whether House would want Foreman to make himself scarce before he did. If he offered to leave, House would probably snap at him, demanding why he hadn't yet. If he stayed, Wilson would find him here and have even more questions. Foreman stared at House, waiting for some sign, some fucking clue that House got that Foreman wasn't going to just leave him to go trade jokes with Marty.

Foreman didn't hesitate to defend himself, to tell him more details of this dinner that he didn't want to hear about. Of course Foreman had blown Marty off. It wasn't an important subject. Not even important enough to utter more than two words about: it's complicated. House didn't want it broadcast to the world, but maybe if Foreman had been a little more generous with his details, Marty would have taken his surprise out on Foreman, probably wouldn't have been a prick about it. But he didn't want to hear about Marty. He backtracked instead to Foreman's earlier comments, eyeing Foreman carefully. "So what did you come here for? Just to piss me off? Just to exact a little revenge for what I did in your car last week?" House wouldn't be surprised. He tried to stand up straight against the car, not quite managing it. His head was light and his feet felt like they kept getting in the way of each other, in the way of his cane. His leg hurt, starting grabbing for his attention shortly after he left the restaurant. He already felt pissed off, not sure if he was angrier at Foreman or Marty, but Foreman's dig at him and the scarcity of his friends made anger boil up to the surface all over again. Now Foreman was doing it, following Marty's example and ridiculing him.

"And at least my one friend doesn't try to break up my relationships. He wouldn't fucking humiliate you like it was a God damn sport. He'd be happy that I had--" House had to step forward to take hold of Foreman's tie to jerk him forward. The momentum of Foreman's body pushed House backward until he collided with his car with a grunt, and if Foreman hadn't ended up pinning him, pressed hard against him, House would have lost his balance and collapsed onto the pavement. He was able to keep hold of the tie, his other hand abandoning his cane on the hood of his car to pull Foreman's head down to kiss him. He didn't give a damn who was watching--he almost hoped that Marty was watching, but he couldn't tell. House kissed hard, sloppily. Biting on Foreman's lip. Sweeping his tongue along Foreman's. Breath coming out hard through his nose as he angled his head for one last wet swipe of his tongue. He pulled back, letting his hands drop as he finished, "Somebody to do that with."

Foreman had come to dinner for revenge--or at least, to show House that Foreman wasn't going to sit around waiting for House to want him, or need him. He wasn't going to admit that, though, and put himself in the wrong. House could learn to leave well enough alone, or else talk to him instead of stalking him after the fact. "I came because I was invited," he said tersely. "I didn't have a chance to find out if it would piss you off, since you haven't given me the time of day all week." Foreman had no problem lying, or with knowing House would see through the lie. He knew very well that going out with Marty wouldn't make House happy, that he'd be intentionally acting in a way that contradicted the promises he'd made. But he wasn't going to stop seeing people because of House. The best House could hope for was to ask, and Foreman would tell him.

Foreman rolled his eyes at House defending Wilson. He didn't have quite as much faith--he figured Wilson would laugh his head off when he finally found out about them. Probably he'd accept it eventually, but there was bound to be some humiliation involved, even if it was only Wilson gaping at Foreman--and, for all he knew, at House too--after finding out he liked men. Foreman wasn't going to point that out, though. He didn't know if House had said the word relationship out loud before, but even if he had, it hadn't been like this. The way House was talking about it made it real in a way it hadn't been. House was telling him how he'd felt back in the restaurant. Telling him it mattered. Foreman mattered to him. This time the I'm sorry nearly made it out of Foreman's mouth, but before he could say it, House stalked forward one jerky step and yanked Foreman forward by his tie. Foreman hadn't been expecting it, and House pulled him off-balance, crashing them both into House's car. Foreman grabbed for House's hips, only partly to make sure House stayed upright. The kiss, after the way House had grabbed him, wasn't a surprise, and Foreman leaned into it. He grunted at the pain when House bit his lip, but he didn't ease up, meeting House's tongue and trying to pour some of his own frustration into the kiss, breathing harder. This was more than someone to do that with. For the first time, Foreman knew that House thought it was more, too. He still didn't know why House had been jerking him around for the last week, but in all probability, he'd never understand House.

Neither of them had done up their coats after leaving the restaurant, and Foreman pushed his hands deeper inside House's, tightening his grip on House's hips. Pressing their bodies together, sharing enough heat so that the cold air didn't matter. Foreman pushed forward another half-step, so that House could take some weight off his leg if he wanted, and lean on him. House was pinned against the car, his body slumped enough that Foreman had the height advantage for once. "In case you didn't notice," Foreman said, keeping his tone impatient, knowing otherwise he wouldn't be able to say this at all, "Marty didn't break up your relationship." He tipped his head forward and brushed his mouth across House's. Almost too lightly to feel, except that House had bitten him, and Foreman could feel the light throb of his pulse in his lip each time he kissed House. He slowly let his arms circle from House's hips to his lower back, and just as slowly, ran his tongue along House's bottom lip, before slipping inside his mouth.

House was breathing hard and heavily when when Foreman pulled back and kissed him softer, slower. He didn't kiss back, struggling between holding himself up and reeling with the anger and insecurities that had risen fast in the restaurant. House refused to lean on Foreman, trying to press back against the car. He wanted to push Foreman away, too angry to want to let Foreman touch him like this, hands on his hips like he actually wanted him. Foreman's words only made it worse; it was too hard to believe him, and House turned his head sharply, out of the kiss. Fuck Foreman for pretending he'd wanted him. Fuck him for going out with Marty for dinner. Fuck him for doing it just to spite him--Foreman had practically admitted that with a shaky, thin lie. Fuck him. He didn't fucking need this.

"No, but Nathan whoever-the-fuck-he-is might," House said, shoving at Foreman's chest. He made sure he had his left foot securely under him, weight shifted before pushing Foreman away entirely. Leaning back against the car, he gestured toward the restaurant. "That card still on the table? Or did you slip it into your pocket after I left? Or are you just going to look him up when you get home?" Christ, he sounded like a moron. He tried to convince himself he was just shooting his mouth off, that none of it was anything that really mattered. He just wanted to make Foreman as angry as he felt. He tried to suffocate the thought that Foreman really was going to go home and call Nathan. He'd be willing to bet that Foreman would wait until House could hear him, just to make his revenge that much more direct.

He wondered if Marty was seeing this--and loving it, the bastard--but he couldn't give much thought to it. A series of beeps caught his attention, and House steered his gaze away from Foreman to face the sound--Wilson's car horn. Wilson's car was parked several cars down, Wilson's head sticking out of the window as the beeps died and Wilson shouted, "House! You're dragging your own ass in here, let's go!"

House pulled his cane off the hood of the car and, sneaking one last look at Foreman out of the corners of his eyes, lumbered toward Wilson's car.

"House--" Foreman pulled back when House turned away from his kiss, frowning at him, trying to see what was the matter this time. He'd all but said straight out that he was kicking Marty out of his life for House's sake. Well, for House and for himself--he didn't need friends like that. He'd thought it might actually make a difference. House was getting his way, after all. Instead he got House shoving at him, spewing off about Nathan this time. Foreman couldn't fucking win. Reassure House about one stupid assumption, and ten more piled on. Anger clenched in his stomach and he stepped back the next time House pushed, yanking his arms back and half hoping House would fall. "I told you I wasn't interested!" he snapped. "For fuck's sake, we broke up five years ago! I haven't seen him since I moved here, I haven't even talked to him--"

Foreman turned to look over his shoulder when a car started honking at them. Fuck, it would be nice if people learned to mind their own goddamn business. He didn't register at first that it was Wilson, calling for House. Looking right at them, with his headlights still on. There was no fucking way he'd missed seeing them, unless he was blind and considerably less curious than Foreman knew he was. Jesus, the man must drive like a NASCAR racer or live three blocks away. Or else he had some sixth sense when it came to interrupting them. At least this time Foreman wasn't naked, but there was no chance of hiding it this time, either. Foreman let House go, staring at the ground, humiliation and anger heating his body and welding him to the spot. House at least had a sympathetic ear. Wasn't it just so goddamn amazing that his friend was so fucking supportive. If Wilson was on House's side, though, he'd probably be telling House that he was right, that Foreman couldn't be trusted, that there was no point to being with him because Foreman wasn't worth the risk.

There was a glint on the ground, and Foreman saw House's keyring lying next to his car tire. Foreman snorted, but he bent down and grabbed the keys, then stomped over to Wilson's car. "Here," he said, shoving the keys through the rolled-down driver's side window. "I wouldn't suggest giving them back any time soon."

Leave it to House to call him now, while he was still enjoying the--to put it in terms House would understand--high of a decent date. A date that House hadn't known about, for once. Miraculously. When he'd seen House's cell phone ID appear on his phone's display, Wilson had thought for one teeth-gritting moment that House had uncovered the news of his date after all, but, at the time, he wasn't sure that was even possible. Wilson had just started seeing Amber, shortly after House fired her. They'd just had their second date. Second date in a week. Wilson had kept his lips sealed, hadn't said a word. Not a hint of what was going on; he'd wanted to do this for as long as possible without any House-interference. It turned out, though, that House only cared about a chauffeur service, unless he was waiting to spring something on him while he had him cornered in the car. But, no. No, House would have made a big a spectacle as possible. Stormed into the restaurant and demanded to join them. House wouldn't stew and sit on information to corner Wilson alone if he could make another person squirm and suffer, too. Still, Wilson thought, pulling a right onto the street House should have been waiting. It would have been nice to drop Amber off at her place, go back to his room, and enjoy, in quiet peace, how well the evening had gone. How--

Holy shit.

It took all the control Wilson had not to slam his foot down on the brake pedal, skid the car to a stop, and stare once he'd pulled onto the street. He could feel his eyes automatically widen, as if he needed to take in as much detail as possible to confirm it was all real. House and Foreman--House and Foreman?--were standing--well, House was pinned to his own car. Pressed there. Kissing--kissing--Foreman. Foreman. Kissing Foreman. Kissing Foreman. Jesus, it looked like House was attacking him. This couldn't--it didn't look like--a first kiss. He'd never really studied House kiss, but he'd seen it--happened to, by accident. Years ago, when House was with Stacy, and Wilson would catch them stealing kisses when they thought he wasn't looking. But this--he'd never seen something like this, was sure he'd never had the opportunity. This was...private. Involved. Foreman's hands were under House's coat. Touching. He could see House pushing from here, body pushing into Foreman's, definitely not surprised, or trying to get away. Somehow, Wilson managed to parallel park, creep into the space, without shifting his eyes away. If he looked away, he was almost certain that the sight would vanish, and House would be leaning against the car, pointing and laughing at Wilson for falling for such a wild, seemingly impossible but complicated practical joke.

But as he kept watching, the more unbelievable it got, right before his eyes. There was a pause. Wilson couldn't tell if it was done, if either of them were speaking; he could only see House's chest heaving. The pause ended with another kiss. Another kiss. Slower, and without the angry head-jerks from before. House's coat shifted, like Foreman was doing more than just touching now, and, holy hell, Wilson couldn't tear his eyes away. Couldn't believe this. Something was going on, and Wilson couldn't believe he'd missed it. Hadn't picked up on it. He tried to think, if there was something he'd missed. Some kind of sign that would give House away. If he'd seen Foreman--

Foreman. Or Foreman's briefcase. Wow. It had to have been Foreman's. It sure as hell hadn't been House's, or House's pathetic attempt at a gift for him. Wilson almost laughed out loud. Foreman had probably been there. No wonder House had been trying to kick him back out as quickly as possible. Jesus. He really hadn't expected this, of all the things that could have possibly happened. Of all the things he could have possibly seen. He'd had his suspicions for a while now that House was bisexual. Wilson had never said anything, but he'd wondered. Raised an eyebrow and filed away times when House would make a comment that seemed to reveal that House knew about...certain things, or when Wilson would catch House leering at a man's ass almost the same way he leered at Cuddy's. House had never said anything one way or the other, and Wilson never brought it up, but he hadn't really put it out of his mind. You couldn't put anything out of your mind, when it came to House, or you'd end up being blindsided and knocked on your ass. But as much as he'd suspected about House--and nothing against Foreman--he'd never really suspected this. Wilson leaned forward, holding on to the steering wheel, squinting to try to get a better look, nearly throwing himself back in an irrational attempt to hide when House abruptly shoved Foreman away.

Wilson couldn't help it when his hand reached out, his eyes still fixed on Foreman and House, and pressed the button to roll down his window. Maybe he could hear this, too. Get all the information he could, because he was certain House wouldn't be volunteering much information about it. Wilson could hear House nearly shouting. Nathan whoever-the-fuck-he-is might. Might? Might what? Who the hell was Nathan? Wilson shifted in his seat to bring his head closer to the open window, daring to peek his head out. Foreman seemed just as angry as House. We broke up five years ago! That answered the question of who Nathan was, but whether Nathan had made an appearance, or if House had just rooted into Foreman's past and found something he didn't like, Wilson couldn't tell. He could tell, almost immediately, despite the fact that he didn't quite understand the specifics, that this wasn't good. Not a good situation. House was shoving. Pushing. Of course. Of course he was pushing. Wilson knew the signs of sabotage, knew what it looked like by now when it was leaping off of House and straight at him, and he could see it and hear it in the way House was trying to bait Foreman. Piss him off. Wilson wasn't sure what was really going on between them, but Foreman must have gotten close enough to make House nervous and make that knee-jerk reaction to stifle any possibility of something good kick in. Wilson sighed, feeling the beginnings of anger stirring in his stomach, and punched the car horn to catch House's attention. He could probably stop House from sabotaging whatever this was if he got him in the car fast enough. He shouted to House, drawing his head back inside to wait for him.

When Foreman started charging toward Wilson's car, though, Wilson nearly shrank back, wondering if he was going to have to break up a fight. Foreman looked angry enough to clock House in the face, but somehow Wilson doubted Foreman would create that kind of a scene in public. He never thought he'd see Foreman kissing anyone--House, kissing House--either, but kissing wasn't exactly the same as assault. Wilson nodded when Foreman spoke, taking the keys, congratulating himself for not staring, for managing to wipe the surprise off his face by the time Foreman had gotten close. "You, uh," Wilson started, glancing away from Foreman briefly when House knocked on the passenger window to be let in--Wilson hadn't unlocked the doors yet. "You're sure you don't want to take him home yourself?"

Foreman hated the incredulous, gaping look he'd seen on Wilson's face, even though Wilson was trying as hard as possible now to pretend that he was accepting and unruffled. Foreman had known that people would think he was crazy, or deluded, or both, to be with House, and it wasn't any more than he'd expected, but it was still infuriating that Wilson would have a free pass to stick his nose into Foreman's life, to question his every move and motive.

He was a fucking idiot. Only a moron would think that House could sustain an adult relationship. He'd seen no evidence of that over the last four years. Foreman gritted his teeth when Wilson tried to help, if that was even what he thought he was doing. A minute ago, Foreman had thought that if House was kissing him, that meant they'd still be able to talk, or at least communicate. He'd drag House home and prove he meant what he said. He knew better now.

Foreman stared over the roof of Wilson's car, attempting to meet House's eyes. "He doesn't need me," he said flatly. House probably wouldn't answer, and it was even less likely that he cared about what Foreman had to say. Without another word, Foreman turned around and crossed the street, heading for his car.

He unlocked the door and threw himself into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut viciously, and leaned forward, crossing his arms over the steering wheel and glaring out the windshield at nothing at all. He had no idea where he'd go. It was still early, and there wouldn't be a single distraction at home that would stop him from running the whole conversation through his mind over and over again. Getting more furious at Marty with each insult, more pissed off with House each time he watched Foreman push away Nathan's card and still refused to believe him. Well, fuck him. Fuck him. Foreman turned the key in the ignition and pulled out, foot heavy on the accelerator, with no real destination in mind.

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.

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject