g_house (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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alwaysright2010-06-30 12:50 am
g_house) wrote in alwaysright2010-06-30 12:50 am
Monday, November 12
House was disgruntled.
He didn't like being disgruntled. He'd rather be pissed off, or disgusted with somebody's stupidity, or even casually bored. Or, unsettling everyone's expectations about his stunted emotional life, happy as a clam in mud. Disgruntled was a stupid emotion, most of all because he couldn't do much about it.
All week, all weekend he'd waited for a sign that Samira Terzi had any intention of following through on his--admittedly rusty--flirtations. Okay, outright propositions. Well, she hadn't slapped him or kneed him in the balls. She'd smiled, even joked back. He'd almost thought he'd find her waiting outside the hospital ready to give his position a try. One or both. Really, either way he could hardly lose. Giving her a spot on the team would certainly lift the scenery quotient. And there'd be plenty of opportunities to close the deal if she was hanging on his every word and learning from the master.
But she didn't show. And House couldn't stop looking for her. He wasn't a moron; he didn't expect her. But he kept turning around to check over his shoulder anyway, and it was...
Disgruntling.
Monday rolled around with nothing interesting on the radar. (Wilson getting drunk and bowling a 300 game he couldn't remember the next day was becoming disgustingly familiar. House had stolen the trophy for his own collection of things Wilson had won that House obviously deserved more.) The case last week with the kid getting his surgery was old news. If House didn't keep Cuddy hopping with some kind of crisis his team was involved in, he'd probably have to work, which was a sad prospect for any Monday, but even worse today.
He was limping towards the clinic entrance, his shoulder already burning from his quick, rolling pace as he kept his weight off his leg, when he twisted into a double-take and nearly faceplanted on the wet sidewalk. Foreman. And the Bitch.
Canoodling, of course. Looking like quite the pair of lovebirds. They were standing near Foreman's car, foreheads pressed together, the hint of a man-eating smile just visible on the Bitch's face as they pulled out of a kiss. She looked like she'd forgotten everything else in the world. Like she'd forgotten being the best. Forgotten the game.
Forgotten House.
It was about time to show that he hadn't forgotten them. Oh, he'd left them alone last week, put up with the drip, drip, drip of sappiness in his differentials, ignored the little not-actually-invisible-to-the-rest-of-the-world smiles they'd had plastered on their faces, but that had been because he'd been biding his time. And it looked like Monday morning should come with with a rude awakening for somebody else besides him.
House altered his path slightly and headed for the doctors' lounge. An ambush in the locker room was just what the doctor ordered.
He didn't like being disgruntled. He'd rather be pissed off, or disgusted with somebody's stupidity, or even casually bored. Or, unsettling everyone's expectations about his stunted emotional life, happy as a clam in mud. Disgruntled was a stupid emotion, most of all because he couldn't do much about it.
All week, all weekend he'd waited for a sign that Samira Terzi had any intention of following through on his--admittedly rusty--flirtations. Okay, outright propositions. Well, she hadn't slapped him or kneed him in the balls. She'd smiled, even joked back. He'd almost thought he'd find her waiting outside the hospital ready to give his position a try. One or both. Really, either way he could hardly lose. Giving her a spot on the team would certainly lift the scenery quotient. And there'd be plenty of opportunities to close the deal if she was hanging on his every word and learning from the master.
But she didn't show. And House couldn't stop looking for her. He wasn't a moron; he didn't expect her. But he kept turning around to check over his shoulder anyway, and it was...
Disgruntling.
Monday rolled around with nothing interesting on the radar. (Wilson getting drunk and bowling a 300 game he couldn't remember the next day was becoming disgustingly familiar. House had stolen the trophy for his own collection of things Wilson had won that House obviously deserved more.) The case last week with the kid getting his surgery was old news. If House didn't keep Cuddy hopping with some kind of crisis his team was involved in, he'd probably have to work, which was a sad prospect for any Monday, but even worse today.
He was limping towards the clinic entrance, his shoulder already burning from his quick, rolling pace as he kept his weight off his leg, when he twisted into a double-take and nearly faceplanted on the wet sidewalk. Foreman. And the Bitch.
Canoodling, of course. Looking like quite the pair of lovebirds. They were standing near Foreman's car, foreheads pressed together, the hint of a man-eating smile just visible on the Bitch's face as they pulled out of a kiss. She looked like she'd forgotten everything else in the world. Like she'd forgotten being the best. Forgotten the game.
Forgotten House.
It was about time to show that he hadn't forgotten them. Oh, he'd left them alone last week, put up with the drip, drip, drip of sappiness in his differentials, ignored the little not-actually-invisible-to-the-rest-of-the-world smiles they'd had plastered on their faces, but that had been because he'd been biding his time. And it looked like Monday morning should come with with a rude awakening for somebody else besides him.
House altered his path slightly and headed for the doctors' lounge. An ambush in the locker room was just what the doctor ordered.