"You don't know," Foreman said flatly. He looked away for a moment, trying to work past the huge, incredulous anger knotting in his chest. When he looked back, House was glancing at the door, the floor, anywhere but at him. "You don't know," he repeated, scornfully. For once House didn't have a fucking answer. For once, right when Foreman didn't want to stop and think.
What the hell did House expect after saying that? For Foreman to kick him out? He'd be right. Foreman wasn't about to beg him to stay. He was stubborn, but he was also smart enough to know when he wasn't wanted. When it was pointless to even try. He could tell House what the hell his problem was. He didn't know a good thing when he had it. He'd do anything to fuck it up. Foreman glanced up at him. Maybe House really was just that self-sabotaging. All he was looking for was a fucking escape hatch. He looked like he was fighting with himself not to bolt, or else to get together the courage to make a run for it, and Foreman had no idea which. The thought that House seriously didn't know crossed his mind, and Foreman glared at him even harder. House wasn't leaving, hadn't dropped half a dozen insults on his way out the door, but he wasn't making a move, either. He didn't know. He--he was actually uncertain. Foreman scoffed again, at himself this time. Christ, if he was letting himself get pulled in to House's mindfuck again, he would never forgive himself. He hated that he was still willing to give House a chance, as if it wasn't fucking obvious what he'd meant, what he wanted and didn't want. But House's stance, his expression, everything about him screamed tension, maybe even panic. As if...as if it meant something, that he was here, that they were doing this. Foreman's eyes widened, and he swallowed. He hadn't wanted that. Except...he'd pursued House, forced him to acknowledge Foreman, made tonight happen. And House was either so good at toying with him that he couldn't tell, or House was being serious; he did want it, and he was freaking out.
"I know," Foreman said, standing up. He was still furious, and he was sure it showed; he had nothing to hide behind and no reason to hide it. He stalked forward, covering the space between them in two steps. He didn't really care that House was afraid. He wanted to know if he was the problem, or if it was House's cowardice. If it was him, then House could fuck off. If it was House's problem, then he could damn well get over it. Last chance, he promised himself, because after this it wouldn't be on him if House decided not to go any farther. Foreman kissed House again, the same spine-tingling, light touch from before. The harder, deeper kisses hadn't scared him. It was this tenderness that had unnerved him. Foreman pressed just close enough that he could feel the heat of House's body, skimming his hand down House's side to his hip only enough to hold him in place, letting the kiss grow into an invitation before pulling back. "And if you have a problem with that?" he said quietly, staring angrily into House's eyes, trying to decipher whatever the fuck he was thinking. "You can get the hell out."
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What the hell did House expect after saying that? For Foreman to kick him out? He'd be right. Foreman wasn't about to beg him to stay. He was stubborn, but he was also smart enough to know when he wasn't wanted. When it was pointless to even try. He could tell House what the hell his problem was. He didn't know a good thing when he had it. He'd do anything to fuck it up. Foreman glanced up at him. Maybe House really was just that self-sabotaging. All he was looking for was a fucking escape hatch. He looked like he was fighting with himself not to bolt, or else to get together the courage to make a run for it, and Foreman had no idea which. The thought that House seriously didn't know crossed his mind, and Foreman glared at him even harder. House wasn't leaving, hadn't dropped half a dozen insults on his way out the door, but he wasn't making a move, either. He didn't know. He--he was actually uncertain. Foreman scoffed again, at himself this time. Christ, if he was letting himself get pulled in to House's mindfuck again, he would never forgive himself. He hated that he was still willing to give House a chance, as if it wasn't fucking obvious what he'd meant, what he wanted and didn't want. But House's stance, his expression, everything about him screamed tension, maybe even panic. As if...as if it meant something, that he was here, that they were doing this. Foreman's eyes widened, and he swallowed. He hadn't wanted that. Except...he'd pursued House, forced him to acknowledge Foreman, made tonight happen. And House was either so good at toying with him that he couldn't tell, or House was being serious; he did want it, and he was freaking out.
"I know," Foreman said, standing up. He was still furious, and he was sure it showed; he had nothing to hide behind and no reason to hide it. He stalked forward, covering the space between them in two steps. He didn't really care that House was afraid. He wanted to know if he was the problem, or if it was House's cowardice. If it was him, then House could fuck off. If it was House's problem, then he could damn well get over it. Last chance, he promised himself, because after this it wouldn't be on him if House decided not to go any farther. Foreman kissed House again, the same spine-tingling, light touch from before. The harder, deeper kisses hadn't scared him. It was this tenderness that had unnerved him. Foreman pressed just close enough that he could feel the heat of House's body, skimming his hand down House's side to his hip only enough to hold him in place, letting the kiss grow into an invitation before pulling back. "And if you have a problem with that?" he said quietly, staring angrily into House's eyes, trying to decipher whatever the fuck he was thinking. "You can get the hell out."