Foreman had the lasagna reheating in the oven, and a green salad tossed together from the vegetables that seemed most likely to go off if he left them a few more days. He'd heard the shower stop running, so it seemed like House wasn't going to drain the building's hot water tank just to prove a point. Foreman was surprised again that House wasn't being more obnoxious. He didn't know if it was the sex or the uncertainty that did it. Either way, it seemed like Foreman was the one who'd had that effect, the power to make House less of a bastard. Chuckling quietly, Foreman turned around to put the rest of the ingredients away, and saw House standing in the kitchen doorway.
Wearing his clothes. His gym t-shirt, his pajama pants. Foreman stopped short. House's hair was sticking up in damp, messy spikes--messier than usual--and his stubble was darker with water. All Foreman's thoughts of cornering him in the shower, of dragging his lips along the path of droplets running down House's throat, slammed back to his attention. Somehow the fact that House was wearing his clothes made it worse--or better, hell, he didn't know. He felt furious, wildly and pointlessly, because House had gone through his drawers and who knew what else, but Foreman had left him alone in his room so what the fuck did he expect? He'd been worried not five minutes ago that House wasn't making any advances, but this felt like a bigger leap than Foreman ever could have expected, going way further than he was comfortable with. The casual air House had about appropriating his stuff, the way the shirt was a bit loose at the neck so that House's collarbone showed; the fact that he was barefoot, even, added to the bewildering, frustrating mix of hot and way too invasive. Foreman found himself wondering if House had stolen his underwear along with the rest and suspecting that he probably hadn't. The fact that he wanted to check couldn't possibly be a good sign.
Foreman threw the last of the vegetables into the fridge and slammed the door shut. "Comfortable?" he asked, with a scowl he didn't even try to suppress. He wanted to strip the clothes off House. Proof of ownership. They were his and House shouldn't be wearing them. But Foreman suspected if he even started to make a move like that he'd end up doing other things instead. Tasting his soap on House's skin. Putting off dinner again. Letting House see that he wasn't, actually, angry. He turned away instead and grabbed plates and cutlery. "I thought private property was important, but maybe that's only when it's yours."
no subject
Wearing his clothes. His gym t-shirt, his pajama pants. Foreman stopped short. House's hair was sticking up in damp, messy spikes--messier than usual--and his stubble was darker with water. All Foreman's thoughts of cornering him in the shower, of dragging his lips along the path of droplets running down House's throat, slammed back to his attention. Somehow the fact that House was wearing his clothes made it worse--or better, hell, he didn't know. He felt furious, wildly and pointlessly, because House had gone through his drawers and who knew what else, but Foreman had left him alone in his room so what the fuck did he expect? He'd been worried not five minutes ago that House wasn't making any advances, but this felt like a bigger leap than Foreman ever could have expected, going way further than he was comfortable with. The casual air House had about appropriating his stuff, the way the shirt was a bit loose at the neck so that House's collarbone showed; the fact that he was barefoot, even, added to the bewildering, frustrating mix of hot and way too invasive. Foreman found himself wondering if House had stolen his underwear along with the rest and suspecting that he probably hadn't. The fact that he wanted to check couldn't possibly be a good sign.
Foreman threw the last of the vegetables into the fridge and slammed the door shut. "Comfortable?" he asked, with a scowl he didn't even try to suppress. He wanted to strip the clothes off House. Proof of ownership. They were his and House shouldn't be wearing them. But Foreman suspected if he even started to make a move like that he'd end up doing other things instead. Tasting his soap on House's skin. Putting off dinner again. Letting House see that he wasn't, actually, angry. He turned away instead and grabbed plates and cutlery. "I thought private property was important, but maybe that's only when it's yours."