Foreman swore silently when the elevator doors open, hoping like hell there was no one standing out in the hallway. He could just imagine how well his grand plan to out-stubborn House would work if they were caught kissing on the elevator, if they had to suffer the astonished stares of Wilson or a nurse or even that weird night janitor. And if the fucking doors hadn't opened, then maybe something would have happened. Foreman sucked in a breath, closing his eyes despite himself. Fuck. For a moment, House had leaned into the touch, his lips firm against Foreman's, long enough that it was no accident. Foreman was still right, and his body thrummed with all the aggravating, stifled excitement that came from being certain, and fighting it, and not getting what he wanted.
He wasn't inventing the fact that House wanted him. It was there, just nothing House would act on in an open elevator. House's look over his shoulder seemed to say exactly that. Not here. That was all--not Leave me the fuck alone, not Back the hell off--simply, Don't be an idiot. Foreman had seen pretty much every variation of that look over the years, and he ran his thumb across his lip, raising his eyebrows as he followed House down the hall.
The door hissed shut behind him when he stepped into House's office. They weren't in the elevator now. Foreman glanced out at the hall, and then started pulling on the cord for the Venetian blinds, sliding them across the glass and twisting them shut. He took House's keys out of his pocket, holding them up long enough for House to see before he walked across the room and slapped them down on House's desk. The keys clanked loudly against the glass. Foreman didn't blame House for not trusting him. Hell, Foreman didn't trust most people. He didn't trust House. Foreman had had way too much tonight of interruptions, of arguments. If House wanted to argue this time Foreman would let him take his keys and run, since the only thing Foreman could do to prove himself was keep showing up for work every day. But that look House had given him, Jesus. Foreman wasn't sure what it meant--wasn't sure of much of anything--but fuck, he wasn't going to stop now.
"Nothing I can say means something I can do, right?" he asked, moving around the desk. When House had said that, he'd seemed honest, his voice rasping with anger but no sarcasm. Foreman was about to test that theory, hope that he'd finally worn House down. Grabbing House's hips, Foreman backed House up against the door to the balcony, and kissed him, more firmly than he had all night, letting his frustration show. This is what he'd wanted, this desire, and to fight House on terms he thought they both understood, to finally feel House's chest hard against his. To feel his own heart hammering against his sternum and his breathing pick up. Foreman's hands tightened by instinct as he gave House a quick nudge backwards, so that Foreman could pin harder against the glass. He kissed him again, harder, determined, and pouring every ounce of sincerity into it that he could.
no subject
He wasn't inventing the fact that House wanted him. It was there, just nothing House would act on in an open elevator. House's look over his shoulder seemed to say exactly that. Not here. That was all--not Leave me the fuck alone, not Back the hell off--simply, Don't be an idiot. Foreman had seen pretty much every variation of that look over the years, and he ran his thumb across his lip, raising his eyebrows as he followed House down the hall.
The door hissed shut behind him when he stepped into House's office. They weren't in the elevator now. Foreman glanced out at the hall, and then started pulling on the cord for the Venetian blinds, sliding them across the glass and twisting them shut. He took House's keys out of his pocket, holding them up long enough for House to see before he walked across the room and slapped them down on House's desk. The keys clanked loudly against the glass. Foreman didn't blame House for not trusting him. Hell, Foreman didn't trust most people. He didn't trust House. Foreman had had way too much tonight of interruptions, of arguments. If House wanted to argue this time Foreman would let him take his keys and run, since the only thing Foreman could do to prove himself was keep showing up for work every day. But that look House had given him, Jesus. Foreman wasn't sure what it meant--wasn't sure of much of anything--but fuck, he wasn't going to stop now.
"Nothing I can say means something I can do, right?" he asked, moving around the desk. When House had said that, he'd seemed honest, his voice rasping with anger but no sarcasm. Foreman was about to test that theory, hope that he'd finally worn House down. Grabbing House's hips, Foreman backed House up against the door to the balcony, and kissed him, more firmly than he had all night, letting his frustration show. This is what he'd wanted, this desire, and to fight House on terms he thought they both understood, to finally feel House's chest hard against his. To feel his own heart hammering against his sternum and his breathing pick up. Foreman's hands tightened by instinct as he gave House a quick nudge backwards, so that Foreman could pin harder against the glass. He kissed him again, harder, determined, and pouring every ounce of sincerity into it that he could.