House hadn't yet rinsed the shampoo from his hair as he heard the sound of the doorknob--a brief try to open the door, but nothing more than that. A closed-mouthed smile pulled across his face as he stepped under the spray to rinse his hair. Foreman had tried to come inside to, House assumed, join him. He didn't want to think too much about that. It mattered enough--although, it shouldn't, damn it--that Foreman had wanted him at all, still seemed to want him, and House didn't want to think too much about the extent of that want. He had to admit that he was curious about why, but he'd rather piece together information for himself at this point. He let himself think about the sex--the really fucking good sex--and the hunger nagging at his stomach at the moment, the latter winning his full attention by the time he got out of the shower.
His search through Foreman's bedroom would wait in favor of food; he had the feeling this would happen again, that he'd be here again, but, again, tried not to think about it too much, at least not on his part. As he stepped out of the bathroom, toweled off, Foreman's deodorant borrowed and applied, he wasn't surprised to find Foreman gone. He was surprised, however, to find his cane hooked over the doorknob, and he took it with a scowl, wondering if Foreman had put it there as a condescending move. A reminder to get back at him for locking him out of his own bathroom. House wouldn't put it past him. He glanced around the floor, looking for his clothes, as he moved farther into the room. He only found his pants, underwear, and socks, and considered going out into the living room, shirtless, to fetch at least one of his shirts, but decided against it. As long as he was pushing boundaries, he decided to ignore his own clothes and moved to Foreman's dresser. He found a pair of pajama pants--he guessed that Foreman never actually wore them to bed--and, not bothering with underwear, slipped them on. They fit well enough, just an inch or two shorter than his own lounge pants at home. He rifled for a t-shirt, finding a collection that he figured Foreman wore to the gym--solid colored t-shirts, nothing personal--and pulled a light gray one over his head. It fucking smelled like Foreman. Foreman and laundry detergent, and House nearly took it off again--it was bad enough smelling like Foreman without the shirt, thanks to his deodorant--but he told himself Foreman's reaction would be worth it. Any reaction--or no reaction, since that was just as valuable--would be worth it.
Taking his cane, he walked through the hall, his bare feet padding across the hardwood, and into the kitchen, where he found Foreman working at the counter. The scent coming from the kitchen made him even more hungry. He stayed silent, parking himself in the archway and waiting for Foreman to notice he was standing there, carefully watching Foreman's face.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-24 08:31 am (UTC)His search through Foreman's bedroom would wait in favor of food; he had the feeling this would happen again, that he'd be here again, but, again, tried not to think about it too much, at least not on his part. As he stepped out of the bathroom, toweled off, Foreman's deodorant borrowed and applied, he wasn't surprised to find Foreman gone. He was surprised, however, to find his cane hooked over the doorknob, and he took it with a scowl, wondering if Foreman had put it there as a condescending move. A reminder to get back at him for locking him out of his own bathroom. House wouldn't put it past him. He glanced around the floor, looking for his clothes, as he moved farther into the room. He only found his pants, underwear, and socks, and considered going out into the living room, shirtless, to fetch at least one of his shirts, but decided against it. As long as he was pushing boundaries, he decided to ignore his own clothes and moved to Foreman's dresser. He found a pair of pajama pants--he guessed that Foreman never actually wore them to bed--and, not bothering with underwear, slipped them on. They fit well enough, just an inch or two shorter than his own lounge pants at home. He rifled for a t-shirt, finding a collection that he figured Foreman wore to the gym--solid colored t-shirts, nothing personal--and pulled a light gray one over his head. It fucking smelled like Foreman. Foreman and laundry detergent, and House nearly took it off again--it was bad enough smelling like Foreman without the shirt, thanks to his deodorant--but he told himself Foreman's reaction would be worth it. Any reaction--or no reaction, since that was just as valuable--would be worth it.
Taking his cane, he walked through the hall, his bare feet padding across the hardwood, and into the kitchen, where he found Foreman working at the counter. The scent coming from the kitchen made him even more hungry. He stayed silent, parking himself in the archway and waiting for Foreman to notice he was standing there, carefully watching Foreman's face.