wooedforyears | November 9, 2008

November 9, 2008 - Overnight

A raid, House decided. This called for a raid.

House slowly crept out of Foreman's bedroom, pausing in the hall to lean against the wall and step into his shorts, and made his way into the living room. Turning on a sleek, trendy table lamp, rolling his eyes at it, House peered around the room, keeping himself quiet. Nothing seemed out of place. Bookshelves were organized. DVDs and CDs just as organized. No stray papers lying around the coffee table, or end tables. It seemed, much to House's disappointment, entirely uninteresting.

With a sigh, House twisted in place, glancing over his shoulder and towards the hall, his eyes falling on a closed door on the opposite side of the bathroom. He'd taken a peek inside that room earlier, on his self-guided tour, but hadn't spent any time nosing through it. Now, a small grin pulling across his face, House headed towards it, anticipation already welling inside him. If Foreman kept anything incriminating, or interesting, House felt confident he would discover it in this room. His confidence didn't waver when House opened the door, quietly stepping inside the room, and found it just as orderly as the living room. This time, however, the glow of Foreman's open laptop called out to him, guiding him to the large cherry-wood desk like a bright shining beacon.

House felt almost giddy as he took a seat at Foreman's desk, sliding his finger over the laptop's mousepad to disable the screensaver. A quiet, disbelieving laugh danced up his throat when he scanned the screen, reading the titles of open documents and programs in the bottom toolbar. Jackpot. He never even had to search. He'd been sure he would have had more trouble, had been planning on taking a crack at guessing Foreman's password, searching through hidden files or folders. While he was sure that Foreman was harboring private material on his laptop, House found himself more than occupied already.

He clicked on Foreman's email first, browsing the list of senders. He was mildly disappointed to see that the inbox contained no personal messages; they were all professional, but it only took one message for his disappointment to fall away. He'd expected, however, that it would be replaced with amusement, not--for reasons House couldn't fully explain to himself--surprise, and hurt, and confusion. The most recent message--Foreman hadn't even read it yet--was from Cuddy, a response to a recommendation request Foreman had made today. This afternoon. After, House realized, Foreman had kissed him in the car. Feeling genuinely curious, but much less excited, House maximized several opened documents and felt his eyebrows furrow, his head shake gently.

An updated resume expanded to the desktop. A cover letter, addressed to a hospital in Chicago. Another one, addressed to one in California, to a Dr. Hamilton. Hamilton. The name tripped House's memory, and he glanced at Foreman's resume, finding the name there, under Foreman's residency. Fuck. Confusion swam through his head. As far as House knew, Foreman was content enough, had few other job options, and planned on sticking around. Not that he should care. He didn't care. He didn't. But the timing of it all made him suspicious. House sat back in the chair, closing the laptop. Had this, everything that had happened today, meant something to Foreman? Scared Foreman to a point that would propel him to leave? Quit? Again.

That thought unnerved him more than anything, because he shouldn't care. Today shouldn't have changed anything, but House found himself battling against a dull feeling of hurt in his chest. It shouldn't matter. Foreman had already left once, but he'd just gotten back--had kissed him, fucked him--and now he was planning to escape again. Away from him. It only seemed like a logical conclusion. Might have been a reason, House thought, that Foreman hadn't had any reservations about what they did tonight. Would make sense, even though House wasn't exactly crazy about that answer.

Questions burning in his brain, House began rifling through Foreman's desk drawers, looking for other pieces of evidence: job offers, a calendar, anything that might point to an answer. He wasn't careful about the noise he caused, opening and closing drawers loudly, shuffling through papers and folders, frustrated that he couldn't find much of anything worthwhile. Returning to the laptop, he began searching through the folders, looking for anything else that would hint as to why Foreman was making these plans. There had to be a reason for it, and if he couldn't find it, he'd have to pull it out of Foreman himself.

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Foreman was hovering on the edge of sleep, almost but not quite deep enough to ignore the sounds drifting in to the bedroom. There was something missing. He wasn't quite warm enough. He rolled over, frowning, sweeping his arm across the sheets. No other body. House should've been there.

There was a loud thunk from the other room, and Foreman woke up fully, squinting at the clock. Four in the fucking morning, Jesus. He lifted his head enough to confirm that House wasn't there, and he wondered for a quick, confused moment if House had grabbed his clothes and snuck out after all. He swallowed down a stupid, pointless tinge of disappointment at the thought. But no, House's jeans were still on the floor. And another noise had Foreman getting to his feet.

Shit. House--awake in his apartment--while Foreman wasn't there to watch his every move. Shit. Foreman should have known better than to go to sleep when House was anywhere near his stuff. He grabbed his shorts off the floor and yanked them on, almost stumbling in his haste to stop House from whatever the hell he was doing.

He found House in the office--no surprise there, of course House would gravitate to where Foreman kept all his personal documents. House was sitting behind the desk, bare chested, the glow of Foreman's laptop washing over him and paling his skin. "What the hell are you doing?" Foreman demanded, his voice cracking louder than he'd meant. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his heart was pounding from the adrenaline of seeing House prying into his stuff, and he was pissed off about being woken up--about having House around at all. He had no fucking right to disrupt Foreman's home like this, to interfere in Foreman's life.

As Foreman's voice, sudden and loud, sounded through the room, House glanced up with narrowed eyes to see Foreman, squinting with sleep, dressed in his boxers, standing just inside the door. House had been sifting through file folders in the bottom drawer of the desk, searching phone bills and credit cards statements for clues as to Foreman's plans--dialed phone numbers, unfamiliar area codes, airline tickets, hotel receipts, anything that would give him more information.

At the sight of Foreman, the sound of his words, all of House's confusion and hurt transformed into anger, bubbling inside his stomach and rising up his throat despite House's attempts to swallow it back. He felt no guilt or remorse for nosing through Foreman's documents. He felt no need to justify himself. If Foreman had left him his space in bed, House wouldn't have wandered away from the bedroom, and if Foreman hadn't anticipated this after three years of working for House, breaking into patients' homes, House had no sympathy for him; Foreman should have known better.

"Going somewhere?" House asked as he stood from the chair, his voice much stronger and clearer than Foreman's, no longer thick with sleep. House turned the laptop towards Foreman, gesturing to it. "Last time you had the decency to notify your boss before you started asking for recommendations and lining up interviews."

Foreman's eyes widened at the sight of his CV on the laptop's screen. He'd forgotten to shut it down when he'd left for the bar. The last thing on his mind had been password security. At that point, he'd been thinking that if he never saw House again after practically assaulting him, it would be too soon. Escape had been a knee-jerk reaction. He'd only been thinking of finding a job that wouldn't involve coming out at work--because kissing House had meant, inevitably, that everyone would find out. Wilson first, then the fellow candidates, then Cuddy, Cameron, and Chase--and from there, the rest of Princeton-Plainsboro's well-developed gossip chain. The idea of taking a job where he'd be practicing medicine, rather than all his crash-course-acquired techniques of House-wrangling, had also been on his mind. But it was futile, he knew. Even the email he'd sent to Marty Hamilton had been mostly explorative; the very idea of going back to California, of admitting defeat, had nagged at him even as he was sending it.

Not that House deserved to know any of that. He was the reason Foreman had been thinking about running away, as if he wasn't adult enough, responsible enough, to face his own problems. "You're not my boss," Foreman said dismissively. Cuddy had hired him, and Foreman was damn glad of it. At least it removed one of the problems with sleeping with House, even if there were a million others that were worse. "And you were so helpful last time, of course you'd be the first to know."

Foreman shook his head, resisting the urge to rub the sleep out of his eyes. It didn't make sense that House was angry. It wasn't even a secret Foreman had been trying to keep--those emails were five hours old at most, and he and House had certainly had better things on their minds in the meanwhile. He thought House would've been happy to see the back of him, if it meant House could avoid the fact that they'd had sex. A flush of arousal moved through Foreman at the memory, as he realized that they were both wearing nothing but their boxers, that they were arguing while nearly naked. God, all he really wanted was to go back to bed, and he wasn't even against dragging House back there with him. "It's none of your business," he said, anger still bleeding through his tone. Exhaustion really was setting in, if he thought things like personal boundaries would stop House. "I'm not one of your minions, so you can keep your damn hands off my computer."

House raised his hand to let it fall with a slap against his thigh, scoffing at Foreman's remark, pretending the reference to Foreman's resignation didn't sting, ignoring it. Foreman was right; House wasn't Foreman's boss, but Foreman wasn't his equal, either. It was still his department, and he had a right to know who stayed and who left, involuntarily or not, especially when that 'who' had just attacked him with a kiss, then had very eager, enthusiastic--hot, his brain echoed--sex with him. He know he shouldn't care, because, if roles had been reversed, House never would have supplied a reason, but now House felt entitled to one, staring at Foreman as if it would intimidate a reason out of him. "Oh, right," House said, sneering, inching closer to Foreman, "you're Cuddy's lapdog."

When Foreman was less of a watchdog and more of a doctor, Foreman was an asset, helped House's thought process. Foreman hardly ever agreed with him, continually fought him and pushed his thoughts in new directions, down new avenues. The new bunch were so focused on keeping their jobs that none of them seemed to have the guts to make any kind of push, and, in the midst of it, Foreman was actually refreshing. But when Foreman started pussyfooting around him, House couldn't conjure up any respect for him, didn't want to work with him. Foreman was no good to him as a doormat.

Still, House wasn't sure why this had surprised him. Foreman had a history of running, running from his upbringing, his family, running from mistakes, from anything Foreman feared to become--him, apparently. When Foreman had resigned, he had been running from him, and that knowledge hadn't been flattering. He'd been convinced that whatever he had to say wouldn't affect Foreman's decision to leave, and he'd pretended to be unaffected by it when he'd been right. It hadn't mattered. Now, House was sure that it still wouldn't matter, and was just as convinced that Foreman's choice to explore his job options was because of him. Again. It still wasn't flattering; it seemed worse. He knew it shouldn't, but it did. Last time had felt personal, but this, the two of them face-to-face, more than half-naked, and Foreman ready to run again, felt more personal.

It was ridiculous that it felt anything at all. House knew he should be glad for the opportunity to dismiss it all, take his easy out, torment Foreman until he fled to another job. He would never be forced to address anything, because it hardly had a consequence. He didn't want a change, at least not one he couldn't control, but Foreman was being more dramatic than him, turning tail and fleeing to an entirely different state, based on the documents that glowed on Foreman's laptop. It didn't suit him.

House glared at Foreman, his lips tightening and eyes narrowing in the faintly lit room as Foreman said that none of this was his business, to keep out of it. "My department, my business," House hissed, lurching across the room with as much speed and force as he could, walking without his cane and always coming down hard on his left leg, bare foot slapping on bare wood. "What did you tell Cuddy? Having second thoughts? Kissed your boss"--House used the word just to piss Foreman off, stepping closer to Foreman, able to feel body heat, the fabric of their shorts almost touching, just to make him as uncomfortable, or alternatively, as turned-on as possible--"and can't deal? Or the truth, that you're a coward?"

Turning slowly, House started back towards the desk. He hadn't checked out Foreman's 'sent' folder and he was interested to rub Foreman's face in his own bullshit. "Let's see," House said without looking at Foreman, nearing the laptop.

"Stop trying to make this about work," Foreman snapped. Yeah, it was House's department, but that had absolutely nothing to do with this argument. House couldn't care less about how his department ran, as long as he had bodies around to run his tests and take his insults. He hadn't wanted Foreman back; Cuddy had forced the change on him, and Foreman knew he wasn't pleased. He didn't want Foreman almost as much as every other hospital didn't want him. Foreman was tainted goods, last week's news. If House could get around Cuddy and out from under Foreman's oversight, he'd take the opportunity in a second. "I didn't tell Cuddy anything. I can manage to keep things professional." He let out a disgusted sound. "Kissing you was a mistake," he said. "I told you that in the car. You're trying to tell me you didn't want to forget about that? That you wanted to 'deal' with that?"

Foreman stabbed a finger at House when he got close enough. House leaning into his space, getting up close, his anger warming the air between their bodies--it was suddenly completely familiar, and Foreman felt the urge to kiss him again. The first kiss had been a mistake. Everything since then was different. The fact that House had actually responded, had been eager and turned on by it, that he'd pushed Foreman back and abandoned himself in the heat of the moment--that had made things different. Kissing House now--grabbing and pushing and insisting--that would prove something that Foreman knew his words wouldn't. Foreman wasn't interested in leaving, in uprooting his life for the third time in as many months. He wasn't interested in leaving House. His lips thinned as he realized what that meant. He'd felt something. He'd let the sex matter. That, as much as anything, made him even angrier.

"You're calling me a coward?" he demanded. There was no way in hell that House was putting this on him. "You couldn't deal with me leaving. You think what you did to Cameron and Chase solved anything? I'm back, so you have to deal with me, and you don't want to. The fact that I'm looking for a better job than 'Cuddy's lapdog' is not your problem. You'd rather I hung around and took your shit, as long as you didn't have to worry about anything changing. Well, guess what, House? It has changed."

His fury grew when House turned his back on him and headed for the laptop again. Foreman grabbed House's arm and yanked him back, forcing him to face him, glaring as hard as he could as he met House's eyes. "If you're having regrets, then tell me that," he said. "Don't make up some bullshit about my career, because I know you don't give a shit about it."

House could feel Foreman's anger building, and it spurred his own, as if it was jumping the empty space between them and fusing together. He dismissed Foreman's claim that he couldn't handle that Foreman had left, shooting back instead, "Cameron quit on her own, but that's not the point." House knew it wasn't the point, but he said it just to correct Foreman, but it didn't seem to matter. Foreman carried on, rambling vaguely and making it difficult for House to follow him. Changed? What's changed? he wanted to blurt out. Foreman's job title? That was about it.

But that wasn't it. It--whatever it was--was different, and House was already having trouble looking at Foreman without wanting to fight him until he fucked him. As Foreman's hand wrapped around his arm, House felt his breath catch, heat burning into his skin, and he hated that any of it mattered all of a sudden. It shouldn't. None of it should matter. Feeling a new bout of anger--at Foreman, at himself--House returned Foreman's glare, listening to him as he spoke.

Regrets? Yeah, House had a few regrets. He regretted that Foreman had climbed onto his high-fucking-horse to begin with, had let himself believe that Foreman might actually learn something, push back and regroup instead of backing away with his God damned tail between his legs. He regretted that he'd agreed to take on fellows in the first place; every single one of them earned him nothing but problems and complications, and he was convinced he was better off working without them. A part of him regretted ever letting himself assign some sort of meaning to the entire night with Foreman, but Foreman never needed to know that. He didn't need to know any of it. This wasn't about him, and he wouldn't let Foreman make this about him.

"Neither do you!" House shouted, jerking his arm out of Foreman's grip. "This isn't about exploring job opportunities. You don't want to leave the job. You like the work. You want to get away from me. Again. Except, this time, you're not afraid you'll become me, but you're afraid you might actually like me. I know this isn't about your career." The intensity of Foreman's expression, the dark anger in Foreman's eyes, combined with the closeness of him made House want to push him against the door frame and kiss him, prove to Foreman that this had nothing to do with Foreman's career.

"Yeah, you really think it was a mistake," House said sarcastically, meeting Foreman's eyes directly, the tips of their noses nearly touching. "So much of a mistake that you did it twice, hauled me home, and--" House swallowed, licking his lips as he glanced at Foreman's mouth, forcing himself to restrain himself, images flashing through his head and pushing a wave of heat over his skin, his face. He drew himself up, trying to force his breathing back to normal, drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly before he gritted out, his voice embarrassingly hoarse, "And I'm still here. You don't think this was a mistake."

Foreman rolled his eyes and scoffed at House's pointless, miniscule correction. As if Cameron's decisions had anything to do with them. He clenched his jaw at the very idea that there was a "them", but the more House accused Foreman of he-didn't-know-what, the more it seemed like House thought there was. He agreed it wasn't about Foreman's career--and he was right, as far as that went; Foreman far preferred diagnostics to the more mundane medicine he'd been practicing until he landed House's fellowship. You want to get away from me. Foreman shook his head, not bothering to answer. House wasn't the problem; it was...the complications. All the things Foreman didn't want to deal with.

Foreman could finish House's sentence easily enough. Brought him home and fucked him--Foreman knew, as surely as he could, that House had nearly said it. He caught his breath, watching House wet his lips, catching the bob of his Adam's apple as House swallowed hard. Watching House struggle for control, for distance, Foreman felt his anger fuse with the heat of his pride. House was trying so damn hard not to reveal that he'd liked Foreman fucking him, how badly he'd wanted everything Foreman did to him, but it only showed even more obviously the more his eyes flicked away and finished his sentence in a gruff voice that had lost all of its certainty. It was inexplicably, unexpectedly arousing to see House lose some of his cocky, prickly attitude. Foreman wanted to lean forward, cup the back of House's head and pull him down, meet his lips and taste the hesitation on House's lips.

This was his last chance to be unforgivable. To tell House that the only reason he was still here was that Foreman felt sorry for him, was above kicking a cripple out of his apartment. To lie. He stopped long enough to realize that he was still holding House's arm, though his grip had slackened and he could have let go. He wanted the contact. To hold on to House and make him listen. "I don't have a problem with you being here," he said, much more evenly than his earlier outburst. "I have a problem with you invading my privacy and expecting to find what you want to hear."

He let go of House's arm, taking a deliberate step back and leaning against the doorframe of the office, letting his arms hang down. Tipping his head back enough that he could watch House's eyes. His stance was open, baring his throat, his stomach. "So convince me it's not a mistake," he said. "Show some respect, House." He waited to see what House would do, would say. He didn't mind the ball being in House's court, not now. He wanted to know whether House would choose to keep up his angry, blustering front, or to admit something honest. Foreman didn't expect much of him--which was why he couldn't expect much of any sort of "them". If House only wanted to get laid, would only let Foreman fuck him on the aggressive, pushing terms that they'd had so far...Christ, that was hot, it was something Foreman couldn't forget and couldn't regret, but it was no reason to risk doing it again, either.

House wasn't quite sure what to do with the knowledge that Foreman had no problems with him being there. He would have thought Foreman was just waiting for the opportunity to toss him, and had a feeling the minute was drawing closer. "Right, you know exactly what I want to hear," House drawled instead, rolling his eyes, but immediately felt a little stranded, cold, as Foreman backed away from him. He kept his feet grounded, refusing to follow.

House shook his head, and he was sure confusion showed on his face before he had the chance to turn it into his best 'are-you-a-moron' expression. Convince Foreman that this wasn't a mistake? What did Foreman expect? Groveling? An apology? House really didn't know what 'it' was, and he had no reason to apologize; no part of him felt sorry for nosing through Foreman's files. It hadn't been an invasion of privacy any more than Foreman's kiss in his car. House had trouble coming up with actual, feasible options. Noticing that his breaths were leaving him faster, his heart beating harder, House turned his attention to Foreman, focusing on him, half-confused and half-furious, as Foreman leaned against the doorframe. His gaze dragged down his body before House closed his eyes for a moment. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, and House felt stuck, not sure what to do, unexpectedly shoved into a corner. He had to get out, really had to get out, go home, and forget any of this happened.

Holding Foreman's gaze for a moment longer, House headed for the door. "I'm going home," he said, brushing past Foreman. With his head whirling with confusion, he headed into Foreman's bedroom, intending to find the rest of his clothes and dress before calling a cab. He needed to figure this out--he didn't really want to examine it all, wished his brain would just shut off sometimes, and wished he could avoid it, forget it--and he wouldn't be able to do that with Foreman around, especially when Foreman was around and almost-naked. He had to get the hell out.

"Yeah, because leaving means it didn't happen, right?" Foreman rolled his eyes and followed House to the bedroom, crossing his arms and leaning in the doorway. House had turned solemnly serious so quickly that Foreman didn't know what to do with the change, didn't know what to say. Goddamn him, if he thought that Foreman was just going to let this go.

Except Foreman didn't know what to say. He felt like too much was riding on one decision. He'd been drunk when he kissed House the second time. As much as he'd wanted it--and the desire that he'd felt hadn't faded, especially as he watched House head for the bedroom, eying the way his shoulders tapered down to his hips--he'd been laughing at himself, too. Alcohol had made it easier to accept that he was a fucking failure. In the past six months he'd quit the job he'd sworn he'd see through to the end, been fired, had lost his girlfriend, and yeah, he'd responded to it all by losing any sense of civility and sense and kissed House. Of course it was a mistake.

Foreman wasn't doing much good at convincing himself of that, though. The sudden shuttered look on House's face hit him hard, left him feeling an angry, helpless sort of guilt. The fact that House was leaving...Foreman couldn't even find it in himself to mock House for the walk of shame. Foreman had driven him to it, had obviously asked for too much, too quickly. He'd asked House to be honest, to give him some kind of answer. Was tonight worth it? He still wanted the answer; he wasn't going to be satisfied with House simply walking out.

"Were you just looking for an excuse to leave?" Foreman asked. "Because I'm not leaving, House. If you'd bothered to ask me." He shook his head, looking away from House for a moment and stared at the wall, hoping it would be easier to get his words out. "I didn't expect I'd be fucking you when I sent those emails. I didn't expect--" That it would be so good. That he'd want more. Foreman swallowed, breathed out once heavily through his nose, and forced himself to finish. "So, yeah, go home. Just don't turn this on me if you don't let anything else happen. Because I'm not the one stopping you."

As House stepped into the bedroom, his primary goal was to dress as quickly as possible, and leave as quickly as possible. He needed to breathe again; here, he suddenly felt as though there wasn't enough oxygen in the air, and he'd wandered into a foreign, toxic place. House could normally rear up and push back against that kind of emotional assault, but Foreman had begun prying spots that House would rather forget existed. Jesus, he never should have came here with Foreman. Should have left it alone, lived with his fantasies, and should have gotten drunk, passed out at home. Away from here. He wished his walk of shame would have turned out less shameful, but--fuck it. He just needed to leave, before he lashed out, admitted something he'd rather keep to himself.

House snorted at Foreman's question, refusing to answer as he bent down for his jeans. What a pointless question. If he had been looking for an excuse to leave, he would have been long gone by now. He'd had plenty of opportunities. After the sex was over. After Foreman had fallen asleep. When he'd gotten up to piss. When he'd found Foreman hogging the bed space. He shot Foreman a sneer deserving of an idiot, but his face fell with seriousness when Foreman told him that he wasn't leaving. At first, House assumed he meant 'leaving his own apartment', and he nearly shot him another, more condescending look. It took House a moment to realize that Foreman meant that he wasn't leaving his job, the hospital.

At least, that's the possibility he'd decided to go with when he replied, "So those were for what?" House took a seat on the bed, wrestled himself into his jeans, and pointed towards the doorway, meant to indicate the resumes and cover letters still on Foreman's laptop. "Practice?"

When Foreman continued, however, his own question seemed unimportant and House inhaled a fast breath, sat nearly straight up on the bed. Didn't expect I'd be fucking you. Even in semi-regular conversation, that word, like that, out of Foreman's mouth and all the implications and images evoked reactions in him. House bowed his head, turning his face away from Foreman as he felt heat rush over his face, his ears. If he was going to be honest at all, he'd have to admit that he hadn't expected it either. He wasn't going to admit that, though, and in another instant, he was less concerned with his own confessions and suddenly more interested in Foreman's as he heard Foreman cut himself off.

Standing beside Foreman's bed, he zipped his fly, fastening his pants and belt before he reached for the lamp on the nightstand. He wanted to see Foreman's face when he asked the question burning through his brain. He stepped several feet closer, looking at Foreman as he approached, and asked, his voice challenging but low, rough, "Didn't expect what?"

Foreman snorted at House's suggestion that he needed practice with his cover letters. The first year he'd worked for House, he'd written one nearly every week, and he'd ended up trashing all of them. He'd always decided before that working for House made up for the hassle and the petty insults. Writing the letters was a way to cope as much as anything, although he'd never gone so far before as to actually send any. Foreman didn't know what he'd do if anyone actually offered him a job, but at this point he couldn't imagine it happening anyway.

He kept his glare steady, even after faltering over exactly what he'd expected out of this encounter. House had it easy if he wanted to follow through on his threat to walk out. It wasn't his place; he had somewhere to go, something to do to occupy him, even if it was only dressing. Foreman watched House pull on his pants, and suddenly felt more naked than ever. House looked damn good. The jeans shaped to his legs and the trail of hair leading down his stomach to his fly only looked more appealing as it disappeared under the line of his belt. As House turned on the lamp, the light played over his biceps and the hint of hair on his forearms. The closer House got to leaving, the more Foreman wanted to stop him. It had been so easy to kiss House when he'd been driving into him. So easy to make him beg. Foreman wanted to see that again, but he had no intention of kissing House to make it happen. Mistake, he insisted to himself, as if repeating it enough would make it true.

Foreman wanted to back up when House stalked towards him, limping without his cane and yet somehow more in control now that he had a question of his own to ask. Foreman straightened his shoulders as House came even closer. House's eyes looked ocean grey in the dim light, but they were steadier than Foreman would have expected of him, and House was studying him closely. Fuck. He'd given House an opening, an opportunity, and he knew he wouldn't escape without satisfying House's curiosity, even if he did it by lying--House would take that as proof of something.

He hadn't wanted House to leave. And the only words Foreman could say would probably drive House out his door even faster. But he hated the way House was pushing, as if Foreman was the only one who had anything to admit, and fuck it, he still wanted to push back. It wasn't like he could salvage anything out of the argument, so he might as well make it as uncomfortable for House as it was for him. "I didn't expect you to give it up so easily," he said, staring directly into House's eyes. "I didn't expect you to beg." The movie-reel in his head was starting up again, replaying all the highlights, and Foreman felt his penis twitch at the memory, the hot, prickly-sweated feel of his body responding to his own words. "I didn't expect you'd come so hard from getting fucked." Behind every sentence was the echo: I didn't expect it to be so fucking hot. If House could hear that in his voice, the low, husky arousal, then Foreman wouldn't be able to stop him from leaping to conclusions. And he didn't care.

With the first sentence out of Foreman's mouth, House recognized Foreman's tactic. He and Foreman both knew that House hadn't given up anything without resistance--Foreman had physically forced him down onto the bed, pinned him down to the bed--and that House hadn't begged--he'd demanded, told Foreman what to do with his dick because Foreman apparently needed the coaching. Foreman had one part right: House had come hard, so fucking hard, and it had felt good. He would do it again, too, he realized, now that he had managed to regain his footing, feeling more in control than he'd felt since Foreman had caught him snooping. Matching Foreman's stare, House smiled--really smiled. He didn't even have to force it, his lips curving slowly as a deep sense of pleasure and satisfaction spread through his chest with the realization that Foreman was trying too hard for a reaction. Trying too hard to shock him, all of his efforts ruined by the wavering control, the undertone of renewed arousal in his words.

Fuck, this was too good. House let his smile spread as wide as it liked, anticipating how uncomfortable it would make Foreman. Now that he'd reestablished his control, slipped out from that corner Foreman had been pushing him towards, he no longer had an interest in leaving right away. The idea of messing with Foreman's head and forcing him into his own corner sounded much more appealing than making a run for it.

"No?" House asked, stepping to within inches of Foreman; if Foreman got a hard-on before House stepped away from him, Foreman's penis would span the distance between them. With his mouth still curved with an arrogant, satisfied smile, House brought his face close to Foreman's and spoke with an intentionally deep, husky tone. "I expected you to do exactly what you did. You're so fucking predictable." Before the last word left his mouth, House reached down and cupped his hand around Foreman's groin, gently squeezing and rubbing for a few seconds.

"Now what did you do with my shirt?" House asked, pulling away and stepping back, scanning the bedroom floor for his shirt. House didn't fully intend to leave, but if Foreman didn't care to keep him here, he'd go, leave Foreman questioning and doubting when he left with a smug smile on his face. He had to make the act believable, though, and he pretended to search for it. He remembered taking it off--well, Foreman taking it off of him--in the hallway, but it hadn't been there when he'd passed into the bedroom. On the floor, he saw his shoes and socks, Foreman's shoes, socks, pants, but both of their shirts seemed to be missing. Glancing at Foreman, he gestured towards the floor. "Wanted to keep it as a souvenir?"

God damn it. No one but House had ever made Foreman want to act like a rebellious, idiotic teenager. The break-and-enter House had staged at Thirteen's place--Foreman could hardly believe it had been just yesterday--there had been a time when Foreman would have refused to go along with a stunt like that, even if it cost him his job. And House had never threatened to fire him if he hadn't cooperated. The only goad House had dangled was the excitement of the raid itself. Foreman ground his teeth together so hard that his jaw ached. What the hell had happened to him over the years? Since when was he that person? There was nothing the fuck wrong with wanting a life that made sense. Predictable was safe. Predictable meant knowing exactly where he was going. And ever since he'd kissed House, Foreman had had no clue about his own trajectory. Right now he wanted to do anything to prove House wrong, but no matter what he did, House would claim that it was predictable; that his fucking theory covered every contingency Foreman might try.

And to top it off, Foreman knew he couldn't predict House's behaviour. That was the fucking worst of it, leaving him adrift. The last thing he thought House would do was try to get closer. Foreman thought everything he was saying would make House want to run. Beyond his obvious physical reaction, House hadn't said he'd enjoyed what had happened between them, that he had any intention of making it happen again. Yet he stepped in, so close that Foreman could feel the heat of his body, the brush of denim against his thighs, and then House's hand was moving between his legs, over his boxers. Foreman sucked in a fast breath. His body reacted faster than he was prepared for, pleasure surging not only at House's too-light palming of his penis, but at the memory of exactly what House could do, might do. Foreman wanted to grab House's wrist and hold him in place, but before he could recover, House was already gone, turning away and scanning the room.

Foreman ignored House's question about his shirt. Shaking his head, he took his turn moving into House's space. Christ, how was that simple movement so goddamn powerful every time he did it? His body was still thrumming from House's touch, goosebumps raised across his chest. Foreman didn't expect House to resist, any more than he had, so he took his time, sliding a hand up to the back of House's neck and pulling him down into a kiss. His fingers tightened slightly in House's hair, but other than that he kept the kiss soft. Foreman was already aroused; he didn't need the stimulation. As for House...Foreman sucked lightly at his top lip, before briefly swirling his tongue against House's, and then he stepped back with another quick breath. "You say that like there's something wrong with predictable," he said, smirking slightly.

With that, Foreman left the bedroom and strode into the kitchen, where he'd left his sweater and House's t-shirt when he'd poured himself a glass of water earlier. He'd left them on the table, and seeing them undisturbed in a messy pile only made him think that he could still be sleeping right now, either with House draped over him or without him. He picked up House's shirt and brought it to him, shoving it into his hands. "Souvenirs are overrated," he said. A postcard couldn't evoke the Grand Canyon, and a trinkety Eiffel tower keychain was no stand-in for actually travelling. Foreman would rather have the memory than some pathetic memento. "I'm going to bed," he said shortly. He wasn't going to invite House to join him. The kiss had already done enough of that.

House straightened up as Foreman invaded his space, glad to have a few inches on Foreman, and narrowed his eyes at him, holding on to his sense of control. It slipped, not disappearing, when Foreman's hand moved over his neck and into his hair, but House felt himself starting to scramble for it with the touch of Foreman's mouth on his. He kissed back--couldn't help it--and slid his tongue over Foreman's bottom lip. He felt a shot of arousal move through him, down to his cock, and he felt tempted to deepen the kiss, get more out of it, but he resisted, not wanting to give Foreman a reason to be smug. At least, not that smug. When Foreman pulled away, he was beginning to feel himself harden, and he glared at Foreman as he spoke.

"There is!" House shouted as Foreman walked out of the room and out of sight, reaching down to adjust himself in his jeans. Despite the taunt, House knew that Foreman wasn't entirely predictable. House had learned enough about Foreman to manipulate him to a point, to bait him, gauge his behavior and plan for reactions, but Foreman was capable of suddenly delivering a surprise. Out of nowhere. Yesterday's kiss. Foreman's actions at the bar. The second kiss. The ability to, despite everything he said, make him want to get fucked--definitely something he'd never quite expected from Foreman. He'd imagined it. Never expected it. With the exception of the last day, House found that Foreman rarely did anything interesting--illegal, irresponsible, stupid--but it was what Foreman refused to do--and why--that interested House. If Foreman was too predictable, too boring, House wouldn't even bother with him on any level. Foreman knew it, or he should, if he'd been paying attention at all for the last few years.

When Foreman returned, House nearly stumbled backward as he accepted his t-shirt, but kept his eyes focused on Foreman. His head tilted, and House couldn't believe that Foreman was through with this game when Foreman curtly informed him that he was going to bed.

"But not to sleep," House said, still holding his shirt in his hand, making no move to slip it over his head. He stepped between Foreman and the bed, blocking Foreman's path, and reached out to lay his hand flat against the center of Foreman's chest, effectively satisfying his own desire to touch him that had stirred up because of Foreman's kiss. "I'll give you five minutes after you lay down before your imagination isn't enough anymore," he said, wanting to work Foreman into a horny frenzy, to get Foreman to admit that this hadn't been--wasn't--a mistake. He was tired of being everyone's damn 'mistake', in some way or another.

House leaned closer to Foreman, bringing his mouth to Foreman's ear. "Five minutes before you start to touch yourself, wishing it was me." House let Foreman imagine what part of him, giving him enough time to form a clear enough picture if he wanted before House reached between them again and palmed Foreman's dick again, this time slipping his hand past the elastic of Foreman's boxers. No use wasting time. His other hand dropped his t-shirt and curled around the back of Foreman's neck, holding firm and pulling him closer to guide him into a kiss, saving himself an extra step. The hand down Foreman's shorts rubbed softly, gently--nothing too satisfying. House's mouth opened against Foreman's to push his tongue inside his mouth, giving him a short, dirty kiss before breaking away to suck on his earlobe. All of it was making him hard, but he ignored his own growing erection, far more interested in Foreman's. "Wishing it was me touching you, or sucking you. Wishing you were fucking me instead of your hand." House slid his hand down Foreman's front, over his shoulder, his chest, his stomach, pressing hard as his fingers curled, and he angled his head to watch the path of his hand, silently admiring how damn hot Foreman was, careful to keep a neutral expression.

He raised his eyes to meet Foreman's as he pulled his hand out of his shorts. "No matter how much you want to think it's a mistake, you'll want it, and you'll do it. And it'll be worth it."

Foreman looked down sharply when House stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his chest. He nearly expected House to lift his hand suddenly and flick at his face, a trick for making him look. But he couldn't help himself; House's hand was warm and broad, his fingers splayed just enough that Foreman could feel the strength behind the touch, and Foreman didn't trust House for a second, especially when House tried to turn his own tactic around on him, talking about what Foreman would be picturing. Damn him for being right, for proving all over how predictable Foreman was. He was already leaning into House's hand to get the pressure he wanted and hoping against all rationality that House would slide his fingers lower, the way he'd already done once. The blood was rushing to Foreman's dick, anticipation making him half-hard already. If House was taunting him, then Foreman was going to kill him before he let him out the door. "Yeah, five minutes until I'm imagining you're still here," he said, covering the admission in sarcasm. "Because you're leaving. Or at least, that's what I imagined I heard you say."

House's whisper in his ear made Foreman lose track of any other smart remark he wanted to make. Foreman hadn't been thinking of jerking off--he'd been pissed off, and annoyed, and he could have ignored his dick long enough to get back to sleep--but listening to House he knew that sleep was no longer an option. Wishing it was House--no, more like wishing it was anybody but House, wishing he had enough control over his own damn fantasies to pretend it wasn't House he was thinking of. House's t-shirt brushed against his shin as it fell, and then all Foreman was paying attention to was House's hand sneaking under the waistband of his boxers, the maddening squeeze and release of House's grip, the barely-there rub of his fingers.

Harder, come on. He didn't say the words--he was already astonished that House was initiating a second round. Foreman reached up to touch House's jaw when he kissed him, his fingers resting just under House's jaw to encourage him to tilt his head to a better angle, his palm rasping against House's stubble. Foreman could feel House's pulse, blurring against his own but obviously elevated, and he tongued his way deeper into House's mouth, glad at least that House was reacting, that this wasn't all some dismal, pitiable joke House was playing on him. But House was already touching him more, one hand roaming over his chest and stomach while the other kept up its slow teasing stroke. There was no way he'd go this far if he wasn't getting something out of it, something a lot better than humiliating Foreman. Remembering House on his knees, sucking him, squeezing his ass and pulling him in, Foreman found himself on the verge of a moan.

He was able to bite it back in time, though. He met House's eyes when he pulled back, trying to control the rate of his breathing, the slow look of desire he couldn't quite suppress. He blinked at House's words, frowning slightly. That was what House was still focused on? The fact that he'd called the kiss a mistake? Foreman snorted quietly. So there was House's damn confession. It had meant something to him, obviously, if he was getting this worked up about Foreman's dismissive comment. Foreman leaned in and brought his own hand up to cup House's crotch, feeling incredibly satisfied when he found him hard. "I think," he said smugly, "it'll only be a mistake if we both end up jerking off."

Despite his hard-on already straining against the fly of his jeans, House's brain blared with alarm bells. He'd wanted Foreman to admit that what they'd done hadn't been a mistake, that he hadn't been a mistake, but hearing Foreman's words sent a twinge of panic through him. Before, it had been exhilarating to know that Foreman wanted him, but then House was able to chalk it up to sex, a game and not something with actual meaning. Suddenly, House felt trapped, and he struggled to ignore the pressure of Foreman's hand on his erection, forced himself not to lean into it, and listened to warnings sounding in his head. All of them told him to back off, get out.

Besides, he'd accomplished what he'd wanted and had gotten Foreman to admit something, even if it was an implied admission. Foreman wouldn't believe that what they'd done had been a mistake if he was currently so willing to fall back into bed with him. Either that, or Foreman was an idiot. In both cases, House had enough reason to avoid getting more involved in this, in Foreman, and felt a strong pull to leave before he did anything stupid, said anything stupid, made Foreman believe this actually meant anything more than impulsive--good, hot--sex.

"I'll leave the jerking off to you, then," House said, stepping back to pick up his shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his head before scooping up his socks and shoes. "I'm still going home."

Leaning forward, still smiling smugly, Foreman increased the pressure on House's fly, rubbing slowly. Seemed like whatever House did to turn Foreman on had the exact same effect on him. Four-thirty in the morning or not, he felt like he was finally waking up, and he was more than ready to yank House's jeans right back off and prove something to him. And if that meant House getting his hand back on Foreman's dick sometime this century, then that would be even better. He could see from House's expression that he was struggling between closing his eyes and pushing into Foreman's hand, and saying something incredibly insulting. After last night, Foreman was pretty damn sure he knew which way the balance would tip, and House's erection agreed with him.

He let out an incredulous bark of laughter when House stepped back. Foreman stared, too baffled to even be angry immediately, as House stooped to grab his shirt and shoes. At first Foreman didn't believe that House was still intending to walk out. What the hell had he been doing with his hand down Foreman's shorts if he didn't intend to finish what he'd goddamn well started?

"So that's it?" he asked. "You ask me to tell you it's not a mistake, and when I do, you run away?" It was stating the very fucking obvious, but Foreman didn't give a rat's ass. He rolled his eyes and added, "Metaphorically."

God, if this wasn't just like House, to offer something and then yank it back, to take everything Foreman offered and call it crap, make it worthless. "What the hell do you want, House?" he demanded. He was fucking tired of being wrenched in twenty different directions at once. He didn't want the sex to mean a damn thing, he hadn't wanted to make this any more important than it had to be, and now he was left scrambling to keep up with House's so-called logic. "Because I think I deserve some kind of fucking clue."

House sunk down onto Foreman's bed, slipping on his socks and shoes as Foreman exploded with questions. He could detect the confusion and anger, but refused to feel bad about it.

He didn't ask Foreman to tell him anything. He knew, and he just wanted to hear Foreman admit it. House hadn't counted on how all the implications of that admission would sound in his head, the thoughts it would produce, and it put a damper on the satisfaction he'd felt at drawing that small confession out of Foreman. As House leaned over to tie his shoe, fingers fumbling with the knot, he paused to narrow his eyes at Foreman, but refused to address the comment on his fleeing ability. If it was bait to start another fight, just to keep him there longer, House was determined not to fall for it.

He finished tying his shoes, stood up, and reached for his cane. "I want to go home." He rounded Foreman and headed for the door as quickly as he could, fishing his cell phone out of his coat pocket to dial a cab service to pick him up. He kept his back to the hallway, just in case Foreman decided to follow him out of the bedroom, and repeated the address Foreman had given to the driver in the car. He slipped his phone back into his pocket when he ended the call before shrugging on his coat. He wasn't going to hang around any longer than he had to; he'd rather wait outside and suck up the cold than stay here and get into a pointless discussion about what he wanted with Foreman.

Foreman could feel his anger and confusion giving way to something darker. He felt like a fucking moron. What the hell had he expected? That fucking House would lead to sweetness and light? That House would grow the hell up overnight? Yeah, right. Foreman had let himself in for this. It was all his own fault for thinking that wanting something would making getting it worthwhile. Right now it sure as fuck didn't feel like it.

He followed House out into the hallway, just because he wanted to be sure that House actually found the right door and left as fast as possible. House kept his back to him, as if that meant that the argument was over. Foreman gave a disgusted sound, eyeing him and refusing to feel bad for House. Foreman was the one who'd been screwed over here; he was the one who'd actually said something, stood up for what he felt, even if it only resulted in House sucker-punching him.

"You're a coward," he said. "You think I didn't want to become you, and you're right. You think I didn't want to like you? You don't need to fucking worry."

Satisfied that House really was leaving, wasn't making some last-ditch ploy, Foreman shook his head one last time and headed back to the bedroom. He wasn't interested in watching House go.

House buttoned his coat, startled and frozen for a moment at the sound of Foreman's voice behind him. House ignored the sting of Foreman's words, refusing to face him. At least it was familiar, enough to convince him, as he slammed Foreman's door shut behind him, that life was already returning to normal.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

November 9, 2008 - Overnight

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