Foreman was taking everything in stride; all signs pointed to Yes I'm Still Having Great Sex With Her. House had thought as much, when he hadn't done more than metaphorically roll his eyes after the shock of the elastic band at his head, but then again, Foreman could maintain a five-second holier-than-thou attitude under all conditions. Provoked any longer than that, though, it crumbled, and how long that attitude took to fall apart depended on his mood. The longer Foreman kept it up, the more pleased with himself he'd been.
House had nothing against CTB. She did the job, and sometimes she did it better than the others. It was one of the reasons why he'd paged her to save his life, because if there was one person who wouldn't let him die before she'd gotten everything she wanted out of him, it was her. Great legs, too, and knew how to advertise them. Cuddy's breasts were better, though. Thirteen had the best face, but prettiness was more Wilson's (very girly) thing. But House appreciated CTB's desperation and rule-breaking. It came in handy.
Which was why her fucking Foreman again was intriguing. Her story on Monday had been that they'd hooked up before they knew they worked for him; plausible enough. She'd been embarrassed enough at the time to make up a million lies to cover her ass, but Foreman's own anger and puppy eyes at her confirmed her version of events. House hadn't doubted she'd dumped Foreman once she'd figured out the complications. What he didn't get was them getting back together. It'd been fairly early on in the day, from what Wilson said-- he said he'd been told by a reliable source that they'd been spotted in the locker room together. Was this a ploy? Did CTB think that sleeping with Foreman would impress him in some way? Was she a double spy?
Whatever CTB's motives were, Foreman was smug enough to keep up his face of stone at House. "Another thing you'll learn when you grow up is that the dark, romantic things are better with company," House taunted, even if he was the one doing it alone, at home. The point was to irritate Foreman.
Apparently he wasn't doing a good enough job, or the sex really had been that good, because Foreman got up and left. House flung another rubber band as the door closed, making it snap as hard as he could. House looked down at his legs, weighing his options. Getting them back down meant another ache, but it wasn't as if he could keep them up forever. Chasing after Foreman would ruin his own keep-it-cool air, but staying here meant letting him have the last word. The last word belonged to House. So he got up and grabbed his cane, which had been leaning by his desk. Stalked to the conference room, throwing his arm wide to open the door. "Who said anything about sorting mail being demeaning?" he asked, gleefully taking hold of the opening. "I never said anything about it being demeaning. Does that mean you think it's demeaning?"
Coffee would actually be good and worth hanging around for. House leaned on his cane, waiting for Foreman to do his thing; nodded at the coffee machine. "Make it how I like it, black." Let him read into that statement as much as he liked; racial insinuations always dug into him, and House knew it, no matter how much Foreman tried to hide his reaction. "Or is making coffee also too demeaning for you?"
"So," House started conversationally, but his tone became increasingly steeped in acidity. "I get that you didn't want to be me, but fucking a female equivalent is okay?" It made no sense. Foreman had run away, avoiding the terrible fate of becoming House the Second, and now he was running into CTB's bed. "Or are you okay with being a big, fat hypocrite?"
no subject
House had nothing against CTB. She did the job, and sometimes she did it better than the others. It was one of the reasons why he'd paged her to save his life, because if there was one person who wouldn't let him die before she'd gotten everything she wanted out of him, it was her. Great legs, too, and knew how to advertise them. Cuddy's breasts were better, though. Thirteen had the best face, but prettiness was more Wilson's (very girly) thing. But House appreciated CTB's desperation and rule-breaking. It came in handy.
Which was why her fucking Foreman again was intriguing. Her story on Monday had been that they'd hooked up before they knew they worked for him; plausible enough. She'd been embarrassed enough at the time to make up a million lies to cover her ass, but Foreman's own anger and puppy eyes at her confirmed her version of events. House hadn't doubted she'd dumped Foreman once she'd figured out the complications. What he didn't get was them getting back together. It'd been fairly early on in the day, from what Wilson said-- he said he'd been told by a reliable source that they'd been spotted in the locker room together. Was this a ploy? Did CTB think that sleeping with Foreman would impress him in some way? Was she a double spy?
Whatever CTB's motives were, Foreman was smug enough to keep up his face of stone at House. "Another thing you'll learn when you grow up is that the dark, romantic things are better with company," House taunted, even if he was the one doing it alone, at home. The point was to irritate Foreman.
Apparently he wasn't doing a good enough job, or the sex really had been that good, because Foreman got up and left. House flung another rubber band as the door closed, making it snap as hard as he could. House looked down at his legs, weighing his options. Getting them back down meant another ache, but it wasn't as if he could keep them up forever. Chasing after Foreman would ruin his own keep-it-cool air, but staying here meant letting him have the last word. The last word belonged to House. So he got up and grabbed his cane, which had been leaning by his desk. Stalked to the conference room, throwing his arm wide to open the door. "Who said anything about sorting mail being demeaning?" he asked, gleefully taking hold of the opening. "I never said anything about it being demeaning. Does that mean you think it's demeaning?"
Coffee would actually be good and worth hanging around for. House leaned on his cane, waiting for Foreman to do his thing; nodded at the coffee machine. "Make it how I like it, black." Let him read into that statement as much as he liked; racial insinuations always dug into him, and House knew it, no matter how much Foreman tried to hide his reaction. "Or is making coffee also too demeaning for you?"
"So," House started conversationally, but his tone became increasingly steeped in acidity. "I get that you didn't want to be me, but fucking a female equivalent is okay?" It made no sense. Foreman had run away, avoiding the terrible fate of becoming House the Second, and now he was running into CTB's bed. "Or are you okay with being a big, fat hypocrite?"