House kept his face turned away from Foreman, drawing deeper, slower breaths now, as he felt the bed shift with Foreman's movements. Even though it felt strangely soothing, the lingering heat of Foreman's body reminded House that Foreman was there, that House was lying in Foreman's bed, drowsy with his post-orgasm glow. Still naked, legs still sprawled out, sweat cooling on his body, the air creeping over his skin forcing him to shiver. Foreman's bed. Foreman's apartment. House squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself that he hadn't wanted to end up there, hadn't wanted Foreman to want him, half-disgusted that he'd went with Foreman so damn willingly. It was pathetic. Pathetic. It shouldn't matter. Foreman shouldn't matter. Shouldn't matter if Foreman wanted him or not, if he left or stayed, took off for California, or the Amazon rainforest, or the fucking African safari--wherever on the globe Foreman felt he needed to go to in order to get away from him. It should matter even less if Foreman kicked him out or not; he had every right to boot him into the street, and House hated himself for hoping that Foreman wouldn't do that.
Foreman's grunt and movement distracted House, and he rolled his head to watch Foreman reach into the drawer of the table, his eyes following the trajectory of his Vicodin bottle as it left Foreman's hand and fell onto the bed. House left the bottle where it landed, despite the building ache in his leg--he'd been trying to ignore it, not wanting to make the trip off the bed to retrieve the bottle in his pants pocket. Looking up at Foreman, he narrowed his eyes, studying Foreman carefully. Foreman had never really made a point of withholding his meds, or lecturing him about them; he seemed to get that House functioned better when he wasn't in agony, which was more than House could say for others, but House wondered why Foreman had offered them now in the first place. House hadn't made a show of the pain. It hadn't interfered with--House tried to fight back the images of it--what they'd just done. More than anything, House was interested. Interested in how Foreman would react now, what he'd do, or say, and House watched him, closing his fist around his pill bottle, popping the lid and fishing out a pill without having to look away from Foreman's face.
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Foreman's grunt and movement distracted House, and he rolled his head to watch Foreman reach into the drawer of the table, his eyes following the trajectory of his Vicodin bottle as it left Foreman's hand and fell onto the bed. House left the bottle where it landed, despite the building ache in his leg--he'd been trying to ignore it, not wanting to make the trip off the bed to retrieve the bottle in his pants pocket. Looking up at Foreman, he narrowed his eyes, studying Foreman carefully. Foreman had never really made a point of withholding his meds, or lecturing him about them; he seemed to get that House functioned better when he wasn't in agony, which was more than House could say for others, but House wondered why Foreman had offered them now in the first place. House hadn't made a show of the pain. It hadn't interfered with--House tried to fight back the images of it--what they'd just done. More than anything, House was interested. Interested in how Foreman would react now, what he'd do, or say, and House watched him, closing his fist around his pill bottle, popping the lid and fishing out a pill without having to look away from Foreman's face.