House scoffed at Foreman's words; the bastard was still putting this in professional terms. In general, Foreman might care about his hiring process, but House knew that, right now, it wasn't Foreman's concern. Foreman didn't care about his hiring game, or Cuddy, and House gestured to Foreman as he finally confessed one of his real issues. House quirked his eyebrows, as if to confirm Foreman's theory--House was assuming Foreman would give up, because, between his history of actually doing it and the way his plans for a new job seemed to indicate, that's what Foreman did.
But when Foreman stepped closer to him, the anger in his face mixing with a determined look of intent, House suddenly wasn't so sure and, before he realized what Foreman was doing, Foreman pulled his head lower and covered his mouth with a kiss.
As House's brain caught up with his body, he realized he was already returning the kiss, his lips parting and tongue sliding out of his mouth to meet Foreman's. Fuck. A part of him wished that Foreman would stop kissing him like this, catching him off guard, too fast for him to cover his reactions. He didn't want to give away too much, didn't want to give away anything at all, and he felt another burst of panic explode in his chest. He tried to tell himself that he was only slipping his arm inside Foreman's coat, curling it around his waist, because Foreman's warmth drew him there. He was only kissing Foreman like this, angling his head to seal their mouths together, allowing the kiss to deepen so far, because all of that heat made his own body warm. He wished he could believe himself.
He wanted to physically push Foreman away from him to protect himself against another surprise-kiss. Fuck, he shouldn't feel like this. He shouldn't want Foreman like this, just because Foreman had kissed him--kissed and fucked him, his brain reminded him. He shouldn't want Foreman to want him--want to kiss him, and fuck him, and touch him--but, damn it, he did. He hadn't forgotten how much it had stung to see Foreman so determined to leave him because Foreman hated him. Foreman had said that he didn't need him, didn't want to become like him, and, even though House had managed to maintain a normal attitude, it had fucking hurt. House rarely cared about what others thought of him. Strangers, patients, cashiers at coffee shops, cops, judges--those people never mattered. But people in his life, the people he spent every day with, working that closely with, knew that well, mattered. He hated that Foreman mattered at all; he should have been content to let him walk off, and he thought he had been, but he'd been reminded that he hadn't been ever since Foreman had come back. The weekend had made it worse. When Foreman had kissed him, had fucked him, it was amazing to be able to let go of everything else for once, but it also seemed like, for a little while, Foreman hadn't hated him. He'd wanted him, saw something that he'd liked, and House hated himself for wanting Foreman to see him that way. Hated it.
But he couldn't admit that. He couldn't. Anyone, but especially Foreman, would spit that back in his face, dismiss it, call it a lie, and that would make it worse. Minimal embarrassment and hurt. That was the plan, always. Admitting that would cause even more of it, and that thought forced him to step backwards once Foreman broke the kiss to speak. House made himself stare at Foreman with a controlled, deliberately even expression. But, when he opened his mouth, his voice betrayed him, its tone tense and higher-pitched than usual. "Okay. Fine. So back off," he said, his breathing still fast, even though he should have caught his breath minutes ago. "I'm telling you. That a good enough reason for you?"
The cold was really beginning to get to him, and he shivered as he slowly, stiffly began to turn and walk toward his bike, his escape plan suddenly in the forefront of his mind again.
no subject
But when Foreman stepped closer to him, the anger in his face mixing with a determined look of intent, House suddenly wasn't so sure and, before he realized what Foreman was doing, Foreman pulled his head lower and covered his mouth with a kiss.
As House's brain caught up with his body, he realized he was already returning the kiss, his lips parting and tongue sliding out of his mouth to meet Foreman's. Fuck. A part of him wished that Foreman would stop kissing him like this, catching him off guard, too fast for him to cover his reactions. He didn't want to give away too much, didn't want to give away anything at all, and he felt another burst of panic explode in his chest. He tried to tell himself that he was only slipping his arm inside Foreman's coat, curling it around his waist, because Foreman's warmth drew him there. He was only kissing Foreman like this, angling his head to seal their mouths together, allowing the kiss to deepen so far, because all of that heat made his own body warm. He wished he could believe himself.
He wanted to physically push Foreman away from him to protect himself against another surprise-kiss. Fuck, he shouldn't feel like this. He shouldn't want Foreman like this, just because Foreman had kissed him--kissed and fucked him, his brain reminded him. He shouldn't want Foreman to want him--want to kiss him, and fuck him, and touch him--but, damn it, he did. He hadn't forgotten how much it had stung to see Foreman so determined to leave him because Foreman hated him. Foreman had said that he didn't need him, didn't want to become like him, and, even though House had managed to maintain a normal attitude, it had fucking hurt. House rarely cared about what others thought of him. Strangers, patients, cashiers at coffee shops, cops, judges--those people never mattered. But people in his life, the people he spent every day with, working that closely with, knew that well, mattered. He hated that Foreman mattered at all; he should have been content to let him walk off, and he thought he had been, but he'd been reminded that he hadn't been ever since Foreman had come back. The weekend had made it worse. When Foreman had kissed him, had fucked him, it was amazing to be able to let go of everything else for once, but it also seemed like, for a little while, Foreman hadn't hated him. He'd wanted him, saw something that he'd liked, and House hated himself for wanting Foreman to see him that way. Hated it.
But he couldn't admit that. He couldn't. Anyone, but especially Foreman, would spit that back in his face, dismiss it, call it a lie, and that would make it worse. Minimal embarrassment and hurt. That was the plan, always. Admitting that would cause even more of it, and that thought forced him to step backwards once Foreman broke the kiss to speak. House made himself stare at Foreman with a controlled, deliberately even expression. But, when he opened his mouth, his voice betrayed him, its tone tense and higher-pitched than usual. "Okay. Fine. So back off," he said, his breathing still fast, even though he should have caught his breath minutes ago. "I'm telling you. That a good enough reason for you?"
The cold was really beginning to get to him, and he shivered as he slowly, stiffly began to turn and walk toward his bike, his escape plan suddenly in the forefront of his mind again.