House pressed back against the wall, wanting to sink into it, when Foreman stepped close to him and covered his free hand. His other hand gripped his cane, and he wondered if he would be able to beat Foreman away with it and keep hold of it. He doubted it. Foreman had an advantage, and House needed to hang on to his cane for his escape. He tightened his hands on the railing and cane, raising his eyes to meet Foreman's, doing his best to keep his face unreadable. He had a distinct feeling he was failing. The hard swallow didn't help.
He knew that Foreman was trying to provoke him, and he was determined not to let him. He felt the urge to push Foreman away mixing with the urge to kiss the fuck out of him, and he knew he couldn't do either if he wanted to maintain any kind of semblance of control, if he had any chance to escape without drawing Foreman into a more involved conversation. Or a much less involved conversation. He did his best to hold Foreman's gaze, hearing his own breathing speed up at Foreman's words.
Want that? Want what? House blinked again at Foreman, struggling to figure out what he was talking about. A kiss? Sex? Forgetting to be miserable? Something else? Something more? If that was it, then, yes. Yes, it was bad to want that, because if he wanted that, he would set himself up for more pain than he cared to experience. It was a pattern for him: life screwed him over, and it wouldn't hesitate to fuck with any attempt he made at something else, so it was up to him to make sure no freak, random event could mess with his life. If he stayed this way, the same way, nothing would change and that was safe. Better.
House stood still for a moment, watching Foreman leave the elevator, his pulse racing, panic rising in his throat. He hated himself for it, for everything, but couldn't stop it. All he wanted to do was head straight in the other direction, away from Foreman. He thought of the contents of his backpack, if he'd really miss anything in it for the night. Considering his plans, no, he wouldn't need any of it, or miss any of it. He could do for a night without his iPod. He could bear the cold outside long enough to drive home--carefully but quickly, since he would be leaving his helmet behind, along with his coat. His keys and wallet were already in his pockets. That was all he needed, he thought, all the while telling himself that he wasn't avoiding Foreman. Foreman wasn't right. He just hadn't been home for two days and he missed it. He wanted to watch his own TV, raid his own fridge, lay down in his own bed. None of it had anything to do with Foreman. Nothing. He just had to get home.
When Foreman walked far enough away, already nearing the door of his office, House frantically pushed the button for the ground floor, wishing he could help push the doors closed faster. If Foreman decided to try to chase him down, he needed a head start.
no subject
He knew that Foreman was trying to provoke him, and he was determined not to let him. He felt the urge to push Foreman away mixing with the urge to kiss the fuck out of him, and he knew he couldn't do either if he wanted to maintain any kind of semblance of control, if he had any chance to escape without drawing Foreman into a more involved conversation. Or a much less involved conversation. He did his best to hold Foreman's gaze, hearing his own breathing speed up at Foreman's words.
Want that? Want what? House blinked again at Foreman, struggling to figure out what he was talking about. A kiss? Sex? Forgetting to be miserable? Something else? Something more? If that was it, then, yes. Yes, it was bad to want that, because if he wanted that, he would set himself up for more pain than he cared to experience. It was a pattern for him: life screwed him over, and it wouldn't hesitate to fuck with any attempt he made at something else, so it was up to him to make sure no freak, random event could mess with his life. If he stayed this way, the same way, nothing would change and that was safe. Better.
House stood still for a moment, watching Foreman leave the elevator, his pulse racing, panic rising in his throat. He hated himself for it, for everything, but couldn't stop it. All he wanted to do was head straight in the other direction, away from Foreman. He thought of the contents of his backpack, if he'd really miss anything in it for the night. Considering his plans, no, he wouldn't need any of it, or miss any of it. He could do for a night without his iPod. He could bear the cold outside long enough to drive home--carefully but quickly, since he would be leaving his helmet behind, along with his coat. His keys and wallet were already in his pockets. That was all he needed, he thought, all the while telling himself that he wasn't avoiding Foreman. Foreman wasn't right. He just hadn't been home for two days and he missed it. He wanted to watch his own TV, raid his own fridge, lay down in his own bed. None of it had anything to do with Foreman. Nothing. He just had to get home.
When Foreman walked far enough away, already nearing the door of his office, House frantically pushed the button for the ground floor, wishing he could help push the doors closed faster. If Foreman decided to try to chase him down, he needed a head start.