Foreman could tell the minute House spotted Thirteen. He moved even closer, leaning over the gearshift, one hand on the seat right next to Foreman's thigh. Foreman huffed out a breath and deliberately loosened his hands on the steering wheel. Even though he could feel House's breath against his neck, and the press of his shoulder against his, he figured he was safe. House would start fantasizing about Thirteen with her date--how often had House gone off about his lesbian porn?--and he wouldn't be thinking of Foreman at all. Which was the point. Of course.
A second later, House had proved him wrong. Again. As soon as House talked about him covering his ass, Foreman knew where he was going. His shoulders tensed and he clenched his jaw, anger working its way up--fuck House, anyway, for thinking that figuring something out immediately meant prodding at it, looking for a weak spot. And at this point it was a lost cause, he'd given himself away. Mentally cursing his moment of thinking he could get through House's comments unscathed, he finally burst when House said how he'd like to see him. "Yeah, I'll bet you would," he said, low and vicious.
What the hell was the point of this? He knew House was an emotional coward, that he'd never let anything happen that he couldn't control, but here he was, still fucking pushing, as if he was hoping for a reaction. House leaned in, and now Foreman could definitely feel the weight of his body, even though they were only touching at the shoulders. House was too close, too interested, bright eyes peering directly at him with a smug smirk plastered on his face. Foreman felt cornered. He was breathing hard, reacting to House's presence based on adrenaline alone. He wanted to shove him back, do anything to shut him up, but he wasn't going to hit him; he was better than that, better than this fucking interrogation.
"You don't care about Thirteen?" he asked, flinging one hand out, a last chance to get House off his case, because he knew that in a second he was going to do something stupid, take that risk House was so confident he'd never have the balls for. "Look, there she is, with a woman. But you're way more interested in me, aren't you? Not very straight, House, if you keep asking me to prove something to you."
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A second later, House had proved him wrong. Again. As soon as House talked about him covering his ass, Foreman knew where he was going. His shoulders tensed and he clenched his jaw, anger working its way up--fuck House, anyway, for thinking that figuring something out immediately meant prodding at it, looking for a weak spot. And at this point it was a lost cause, he'd given himself away. Mentally cursing his moment of thinking he could get through House's comments unscathed, he finally burst when House said how he'd like to see him. "Yeah, I'll bet you would," he said, low and vicious.
What the hell was the point of this? He knew House was an emotional coward, that he'd never let anything happen that he couldn't control, but here he was, still fucking pushing, as if he was hoping for a reaction. House leaned in, and now Foreman could definitely feel the weight of his body, even though they were only touching at the shoulders. House was too close, too interested, bright eyes peering directly at him with a smug smirk plastered on his face. Foreman felt cornered. He was breathing hard, reacting to House's presence based on adrenaline alone. He wanted to shove him back, do anything to shut him up, but he wasn't going to hit him; he was better than that, better than this fucking interrogation.
"You don't care about Thirteen?" he asked, flinging one hand out, a last chance to get House off his case, because he knew that in a second he was going to do something stupid, take that risk House was so confident he'd never have the balls for. "Look, there she is, with a woman. But you're way more interested in me, aren't you? Not very straight, House, if you keep asking me to prove something to you."