Fuck, Foreman didn't seem to be giving up as fast as House had thought. In fact, Foreman didn't seem to be giving up at all, and House wasn't quite sure how to react to such new behavior. Hearing Foreman admit he'd done something stupid--even 'maybe' had done something stupid--in this context made House blink, and he stared at Foreman as if he didn't hear him correctly.
He shook his head slightly and responded with the first thing that came to mind--an honest reply, even though he was sure it was the wrong one to say. "Nothing," House murmured, his voice quieter, but still a little tight with residual anger. Foreman couldn't say anything to convince him that he wouldn't bolt, that one day Foreman wouldn't realize (again) that spending time--professionally or personally--with him yielded no positive, worthwhile results. That Foreman wouldn't remember that he hated being around him, hated him. Foreman could only prove those intentions by actually following through, by actually not leaving. House wasn't sure he was prepared to give Foreman that chance to prove himself. No, he was sure. Sure that he wasn't prepared, but hearing Foreman be that direct about this, feeling the way Foreman pushed made him lose his grip on his determination not to give in to what he wanted. He wanted Foreman to want him, wanted him to push, and kiss him, and fuck him, and not fucking hate him.
House studied Foreman's face, trying to root out a lie behind any of his words, fighting back the urge to lean into him and trap him with his weight to kiss the hell out of him, relive the aggressiveness of the first time. Foreman stared back at him and House held that stare until the sound of the doors opening distracted him, displaced the tension with an excuse to step away from him. Foreman's voice brought his attention back to him, and, as soon as he turned his head, he felt Foreman's lips press against his. House kept his eyes open, suddenly feeling anxious about kissing in an open elevator, breaking away after a couple seconds.
He'd wanted to keep going. Wanted to push Foreman against the wall and do more than kiss, his desire and need starting to push through most of his control. Fuck it, he thought, stepping back and walking as quickly as he could out of the elevator. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Foreman a pointed look before striding down the hall and into his office.
no subject
He shook his head slightly and responded with the first thing that came to mind--an honest reply, even though he was sure it was the wrong one to say. "Nothing," House murmured, his voice quieter, but still a little tight with residual anger. Foreman couldn't say anything to convince him that he wouldn't bolt, that one day Foreman wouldn't realize (again) that spending time--professionally or personally--with him yielded no positive, worthwhile results. That Foreman wouldn't remember that he hated being around him, hated him. Foreman could only prove those intentions by actually following through, by actually not leaving. House wasn't sure he was prepared to give Foreman that chance to prove himself. No, he was sure. Sure that he wasn't prepared, but hearing Foreman be that direct about this, feeling the way Foreman pushed made him lose his grip on his determination not to give in to what he wanted. He wanted Foreman to want him, wanted him to push, and kiss him, and fuck him, and not fucking hate him.
House studied Foreman's face, trying to root out a lie behind any of his words, fighting back the urge to lean into him and trap him with his weight to kiss the hell out of him, relive the aggressiveness of the first time. Foreman stared back at him and House held that stare until the sound of the doors opening distracted him, displaced the tension with an excuse to step away from him. Foreman's voice brought his attention back to him, and, as soon as he turned his head, he felt Foreman's lips press against his. House kept his eyes open, suddenly feeling anxious about kissing in an open elevator, breaking away after a couple seconds.
He'd wanted to keep going. Wanted to push Foreman against the wall and do more than kiss, his desire and need starting to push through most of his control. Fuck it, he thought, stepping back and walking as quickly as he could out of the elevator. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Foreman a pointed look before striding down the hall and into his office.