Snap, crack. Just the elastic rub on his thumb as House stretched, stretched, then a light pinch before the band soared through the air, crashing against the window. Again: snap, crack. A small graveyard pile of elastic bands accumulated at the base of his balcony door, and an emptier office supplies box was by his elbow. These go fast. Snap, crack. The harder, the faster, the better. Snap, crack. The sound resounded louder in the darkened room.
Foreman wouldn't expect to find him here, in his very own office. It'd be a good surprise; House hoped to catch his expression of surprise, then of supreme annoyance. No one could pull off pissy like Foreman. He wouldn't be able to mess around with the precious department documents without crossing the dragon, or, for that matter, without a few digging remarks about his recent personal decisions. His own fault, for coming back.
House liked his new system. Liked discardable employees. No commitment, no promises, no obligations. Enjoy, use, throw out. It was fun. He didn't even have to feel guilty; precarious status was written into the law of the game. He could fire them all, if he liked, start from scratch; not as if he didn't solve the cases just as well with temps as he had with the long-term weights on his back. These guys didn't demand things of him, didn't get personal, didn't look betrayed when he failed to live up to their standards. Just lasting the day brightened their miserable little lives.
Foreman coming back fucked with that. He'd begged Foreman to stay; his return was like spitting up bile. Bitter, and it'd just have been that much nicer if he'd kept on his merry way and vanished. But, no, he was back. And with a girl on his arm, as if that would justify his return, make him any different. Snap, crack. Snap, crack.
House stopped at the new sound; listened, then watched as Foreman went about his morning routine, unaware. He'd grown soft in these months away. House knew what kind of a department he'd run at Mercy, all sweet and "you can do it!" and namby-pamby; the old Foreman wouldn't have been so stupid as to assume he was alone. House brought his feet down, from where he'd been resting them on the bookcase, and sat up; took an elastic band, waited for that inevitable moment when Foreman crossed over. When that door opened-- how could he be so careless, sleeping with cut throat bitch?-- House let the rubber fly, smacking the glass door precisely right next to Foreman's head. Bull's eye.
no subject
Foreman wouldn't expect to find him here, in his very own office. It'd be a good surprise; House hoped to catch his expression of surprise, then of supreme annoyance. No one could pull off pissy like Foreman. He wouldn't be able to mess around with the precious department documents without crossing the dragon, or, for that matter, without a few digging remarks about his recent personal decisions. His own fault, for coming back.
House liked his new system. Liked discardable employees. No commitment, no promises, no obligations. Enjoy, use, throw out. It was fun. He didn't even have to feel guilty; precarious status was written into the law of the game. He could fire them all, if he liked, start from scratch; not as if he didn't solve the cases just as well with temps as he had with the long-term weights on his back. These guys didn't demand things of him, didn't get personal, didn't look betrayed when he failed to live up to their standards. Just lasting the day brightened their miserable little lives.
Foreman coming back fucked with that. He'd begged Foreman to stay; his return was like spitting up bile. Bitter, and it'd just have been that much nicer if he'd kept on his merry way and vanished. But, no, he was back. And with a girl on his arm, as if that would justify his return, make him any different. Snap, crack. Snap, crack.
House stopped at the new sound; listened, then watched as Foreman went about his morning routine, unaware. He'd grown soft in these months away. House knew what kind of a department he'd run at Mercy, all sweet and "you can do it!" and namby-pamby; the old Foreman wouldn't have been so stupid as to assume he was alone. House brought his feet down, from where he'd been resting them on the bookcase, and sat up; took an elastic band, waited for that inevitable moment when Foreman crossed over. When that door opened-- how could he be so careless, sleeping with cut throat bitch?-- House let the rubber fly, smacking the glass door precisely right next to Foreman's head. Bull's eye.