November 8, 2007

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

If it hadn't been for his previous case, freshly solved and still swimming inside his brain, House would have spent his Saturday like he normally did--half-conscious for most of it, in front of the TV, or in bed, going back and forth between reading recent articles and surfing the Internet. But his curiosity had been nagging at him since the case wrapped up.

House had said the patient was "nuts" and, therefore, unreliable, but it'd been entertaining and--yes, he'd admit it, if only to himself--interesting to learn a few tidbits about his team. He'd struck out with Thirteen, though, despite his best efforts to dig for some of her 'secrets' via the Mirror Man. Her resume only told him so much, and Internet searches yielded close to nothing--nothing more than her resume, college transcripts, and recommendation letters didn't tell him. He'd gotten a hold of her medical records and noticed that, strangely, her family history was missing. Nobody avoided personal questions so vehemently unless they had something to hide, and House wanted to know what exactly was so important for her to keep a secret. He had to root it out, and he needed a sidekick. A dog to help him sniff it out.

Wilson wasn't answering his phone, and House would rather save himself a trip across town if it meant he could whistle for another dog. House shrugged on his jacket as he headed out the door, his pager in hand, and sent a message to Foreman: 911. My office. He'd show; he knew he would.

When he reached his office, he made himself busy as he waited for Foreman to arrive. He looked up Thirteen's address, snagged it from her employee records, and printed directions from the hospital. He was ready to go a-sniffing, just as soon as Foreman showed up.

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[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

The few streets to the hospital passed in a blur.

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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

As House rode out the trip back to the hospital, he couldn't seem to keep his thoughts in order. He found himself running his tongue over his lips, replaying images in his head and trying to push them away. He tried to clear his mind, push everything away and forget about the last ten minutes. When the hospital came into view, he never felt so glad to see it, because the hospital meant his bike, and his bike meant his way home. Home meant a safe fortress of oblivion.

Once Foreman parked the car, House reached for the handle, not planning on any parting words; he just wanted to leave as quickly as possible, go home, drink a few glassfuls of bourbon, and try not to fantasize about anything. Make it an early night. But when Foreman spoke, actually apologizing, House stopped.

"It was," House said, finally turning his head to stare across the car at Foreman. Normally he'd avoid something like this, discussing something like this, and never mention it again under pain of death, but he recognized the chance to make Foreman uncomfortable about this, keep the attention away from himself. Since he was safely out of kissing distance, the extra push wouldn't pose a risk, he figured.

As he opened the door and swung his legs out, moving as calmly as possible, he twisted in his seat and looked over his shoulder. "But you're not sorry." He actually believed it, too, and he really wasn't sure what to think about that. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Without waiting for Foreman's response, he levered himself to his feet and slammed the car door, turning toward his bike without looking back.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

House's stare was completely humiliating. Foreman wasn't expecting House to accept his apology, but he wasn't expecting him to acknowledge it, either. The fact that he did was even worse. When House agreed that he'd been unprofessional, whether it was just a stab at revenge or not, Foreman knew that he'd gone too far.

House's last words rang in his ears longer than the slam of the car door. You're not sorry. Foreman let out a disgusted breath. Yeah, the kiss had been...good. He'd liked it. He'd liked making House react, but he knew it wasn't just that. He'd enjoyed it.

Foreman watched House heading for his motorcycle and speeding away, hating him for the way he just never stopped trying to tell people their own problems.

The real problem was, Foreman knew, that House was right.