May I Have This Dance?

The steady thrum of the bassline mimicked Thirteen's heartbeat as she writhed around her partner on the dance floor. Her hair was slipping from the clip that held it back, and it was starting to stick to the back of her neck. The music shifted to a slightly different beat with no pause in between to indicate the change in song. Slightly out of breath, she looked at the woman she'd been dancing with. "I'm gonna go get a drink, okay?" She smiled breathlessly, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

"Sure!" the pretty, petite young woman answered, flashing a brilliantly white smile. Thirteen walked a few feet away, then turned to glance at the woman, who's name she hadn't gotten, to see her dancing with another woman on the dance floor. That was fine; Thirteen wasn't exactly looking for a friend at the moment – just a momentary escape.

She leaned against the glass bar, bars of neon lights underneath the opaque glass causing interesting shifts in color. She was just about to signal the bartender for an order, when the tuxedo wearing bartender came her way, carrying a martini glass. "From the gentleman," she said, wrinkling her nose; lesbians mostly patroned this bar, and Thirteen was well known to the crowd.

Thirteen craned her neck around the bartender, then inhaled sharply. She bit her lip, finally snorting as she pushed off from the bar, taking her drink with her. She walked over to where Foreman was standing, leaning against the bar in his beige trench coat, impeccably well dressed, as usual. "What do you want?" she asked a little sharply, giving him a hard look.

His cool, dark eyes carefully took her in. "I was wondering if we could talk?" he finally asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"We don't have anything to talk about," she sat down on the bar stool next to him, and she quaffed her drink down, pulling out the toothpick impaled olive from the empty glass, nibbling on it."

"You disappear for eight months, come back like nothing had happened, and you don't think we have anything to talk about?" Irritation and hurt came out in his voice, more than he wanted to. He closed his eyes, toying with his own glass of amber liquid.

"It didn't have anything to do with you, or anyone else at the hospital -" she prepared to defend herself.

"You lied to us," Foreman bit out, angrily, causing the persons nearest to them to turn their heads. He took a few deep breaths. "You lied to us," he said, much softer, and sounding even more hurt than before.

"It wasn't any of your business," she said, curtly.

He snorted. "Right.

She glared at him, "like you care, anyway. You cloak yourself in self righteousness and this stoic coldness, then you pretend you care about me? You didn't care while we were dating, and you don't care now. You just want to make yourself feel better." She downed the rest of her martini, the cold bitterness chilling her esophagus down to her stomach. "You just want to let yourself know that you're not like House." She settled her enigmatic gaze on him, her green eyes glowing in the neon lights. "Well, too bad. You are like him."

His head jerked like he'd been slapped, and he inhaled sharply. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said, softly. Then he lifted chin a little, pride stiffening his spine. "But I am not like House." He snorted, his gaze becoming a little harder. "That much I've learned over the years."

"Then why do you try and act like him, so smug and self satisfied," she gave him a little glance before signaling for a refill. "When all you are is miserable."

He frowned, his eyebrows knitting together so close they were practically touching. "I don't want to be miserable. I hate being miserable."

"So you numb yourself so much you can't feel pain," she picked up the new martini the bartender sat in front of her, and she took a sip, then she gave him a knowing glance. "You just don't have a vicodin habit to do it. Yet."

He let his chin drift down to his chest. "I'm...I'm sorry," he shook his head. "I didn't come here to argue."

"Yeah, you kinda did," she rolled her eyes.

He huffed a little, then shook his head. "I just wanted to see you – to see if you were okay. You are. See you at work tomorrow." He pulled out his wallet and tossed a few twenties on the counter. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he turned to leave the bar.

She sighed. "Foreman," he hesitated, turning around to look at her. "I'm sorry." She stood up, and she walked towards him. "I...I know that you were worried about me, but trust me, I'm fine." They stood there for a few moments, letting the ambiance of the club wash over them. The thrumming music echoed their own heartbeats, and the pulsating lights cast odd shadows all over the club.

Foreman swallowed. "Look, I know it may seem out of place here," he said, softly. "But, do you think," he hesitated, momentarily clenching his teeth together. "Do you think we can share just one more dance?" he asked, hesitantly.

She gave him an odd look, then took his large hand in hers, tracing the lines on his palm. "That's a bad idea," she said, softly. "Let's not."

He looked at her, then nodded, slipping his hand out of her grip. "Glad you're doing well," he said, finally. He walked out of the club, leaving her alone.

[H] [H] [H]

The television was on in his apartment, and Taub was asleep on the couch, sitting up. His head was thrown back on the upper cushions, and his mouth was open; he was snoring loudly. He frowned at his roommate; his coat and suit jacket had been casually discarded on the comfortable chair, and his shoes had been taken off haphazardly by the door. Foreman stared at the scene for a moment, then sighed, rubbing his forehead. Deciding that he needed a drink before bed, he headed to his kitchen, pouring himself a generous portion of scotch. He stood beside the bar that served as the barrier between his kitchen and dining room, nursing his scotch, kicking himself for even going out and seeing her. He shook his head – it had been a bad idea.

When he heard the knock on the door, he had nearly finished his glass. Frowning, he checked the clock; it was an absurd hour of the night for anyone besides House to be knocking, and his boss usually called first. He crossed into the dining room, and through the living room. Taub snorted on the couch, but otherwise showed no signs of stirring. Foreman peered through the peephole, and he was surprised at who was standing there. Opening the door, he greeted Thirteen. "What are you doing here?"

She gave him a a small smile. "Can I come in?" she asked, and he stood aside to let her in.

He ran his hand over his head. "What are you doing here?" he repeated.

"I-" she paused. "I came to take you up on that offer." She glanced at Taub on the couch. "Never picked you two as roommates," she commented dryly.

He shrugged. "Things happen," he said, staring at her. So, you wanna dance?"

"Yeah, but-?" she glanced at Taub again. "I think this is a bad time."

"Yeah," he said, forcing to keep his face impassive. "Some other time?"

"Hmmm," she tapped her finger to her lips in thought. "I think I'd like that," she smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she walked out the front door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He gave her a small smile. "See you," he said, closing the door behind her. He pressed his forehead to the cool wood for a moment, until he heard a snort come from the couch.

"You're still not over her," Taub commented, his eyes still closed.

Foreman bit his lip, thinking of a retort, then he walked over to the couch, pushing Taub over, hard. "You should talk," he snorted, then went to his bedroom, knowing that Taub was right.

[End]