House's silence was the most unnerving part. Foreman couldn't stop himself from glancing over, trying to do it as subtly as possible, even though House was staring pointedly out the opposite window. House looked the way he did in the middle of a tough case, when all his attention was focused on making half a dozen wildly disparate symptoms fit the same disease. Foreman couldn't even take comfort in the fact that apparently he'd surprised the hell out of House--he'd surprised the hell out of himself.
Foreman pulled up in front of the entrance to the clinic. House's motorcycle was parked a few spots away. This was it--kick House out, get through the rest of the weekend, and then endure Monday as the torture it would inevitably be. Foreman probably deserved it. He'd never been such an asshole in his life; House brought out the worst in him, but that was no excuse.
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly, furious that he needed to apologize for his behaviour. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the steering wheel. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lip that House had bitten--Christ, he couldn't get the image, the feeling, out of his mind--and then tried to brush it dry again with the back of his thumb. "That was unprofessional." Understatement of the fucking century, and so far from the point Foreman could hardly even believe he was saying the words. If House would just get out of the goddamn car, they could both work on forgetting this had ever happened.
no subject
House's silence was the most unnerving part. Foreman couldn't stop himself from glancing over, trying to do it as subtly as possible, even though House was staring pointedly out the opposite window. House looked the way he did in the middle of a tough case, when all his attention was focused on making half a dozen wildly disparate symptoms fit the same disease. Foreman couldn't even take comfort in the fact that apparently he'd surprised the hell out of House--he'd surprised the hell out of himself.
Foreman pulled up in front of the entrance to the clinic. House's motorcycle was parked a few spots away. This was it--kick House out, get through the rest of the weekend, and then endure Monday as the torture it would inevitably be. Foreman probably deserved it. He'd never been such an asshole in his life; House brought out the worst in him, but that was no excuse.
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly, furious that he needed to apologize for his behaviour. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the steering wheel. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lip that House had bitten--Christ, he couldn't get the image, the feeling, out of his mind--and then tried to brush it dry again with the back of his thumb. "That was unprofessional." Understatement of the fucking century, and so far from the point Foreman could hardly even believe he was saying the words. If House would just get out of the goddamn car, they could both work on forgetting this had ever happened.