Storming home amid torrential rain, sodden and sore, he first ignores the call from someplace in his peripheral vision,
"Nice weather we're having,"
thinking only: Brit. Triumphantly.
But now, "House?"
Pulling his eyes from the sidewalk, exasperated, and turning back for an up-down glare, he applies a sour little smile which quickly dissolves. His colleague, dripping, blue-jeaned and tee-shirted, stands, with some dark stranger- House experiences discomfort- in a shop doorway. Chase's face is expectant, child-like; there's a clear inch of soft, white elastic above his belt.
House thinks: Kiddo. He's vindicated, condescending. Old.
He makes to double his pace.