House stayed close until Foreman moved abruptly, forced him back an unsteady half-step. He glanced behind him, searching for support, a steady surface, but found none, and wavered on his feet before he gained his balance. Shifting his weight safely again to his left, House managed to keep his expression steady, refusing to answer Foreman's question. Either of them; they were both equally pointless.
House sneered slightly instead, shaking his head as a quiet laugh burst out of him. After three years--plus his time at Mercy--Foreman still didn't get it. Sure, he could ask, and expect whatever he pleased, but Foreman hadn't learned that, just because he asked, it doesn't mean that he would get whatever he expected. It didn't work that way, and House couldn't believe that Foreman was unrealistic enough to believe that it did. He should know, for fuck's sake. If you asked, people could, and usually would, say no. House knew that Foreman didn't possess the kind of charm or skill that would turn that 'no' into a 'yes'; that was Wilson's talent. Foreman needed to learn that asking wasn't what it was cracked up to be, and, if something mattered, he was better off taking it, demanding it, instead of asking for it. But it wasn't safe--it was a risk--and Foreman liked to play it safe, cover his ass, and ask. One of the few times he'd taken a risk, made a decision and acted without permission or approval, Foreman had ended up fired, and what he might have learned--that he'd done something great because he hadn't asked and done what he thought was best, knew was best--hadn't stuck with him. House fucking hated that he cared; he shouldn't give a shit, but, even though Foreman was good at a lot of fucking things, Foreman could be better if he didn't ask politely for anything he wanted. He'd sure as hell coerce House into his bed more often if he acted that way, even if House twisted it into outwardly needy behavior later on. He did like it, damn it, and, even though he'd be damned if he admitted it, Foreman could use a fucking hint. Some sort of proof that House wasn't wrong about this.
House stared hard at Foreman, mirroring his head tilt as he stepped closer, right into Foreman's space again, coming to a stop only when Foreman's body forced him. House leaned into Foreman, pressed against him--hips to chest. Solid, steady, so fucking warm. House couldn't stop himself from reaching up to feel more. Part of the plan, he rationalized. It was all part of the plan. One hand curved around one side of Foreman's ribcage while the other cupped the back of his head, fingers squeezing and directing Foreman's mouth to his for an aggressive, rough kiss. House waited a half-second before pushing his tongue past Foreman's lips, into his mouth, kissing fast, but deep and thorough. Enough to make Foreman fucking breathless. Exactly how he, in that instant, wanted to kiss Foreman, partially because he really fucking loved kissing him--loved the second that Foreman kissed back--and partially because he had to prove a point.
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House sneered slightly instead, shaking his head as a quiet laugh burst out of him. After three years--plus his time at Mercy--Foreman still didn't get it. Sure, he could ask, and expect whatever he pleased, but Foreman hadn't learned that, just because he asked, it doesn't mean that he would get whatever he expected. It didn't work that way, and House couldn't believe that Foreman was unrealistic enough to believe that it did. He should know, for fuck's sake. If you asked, people could, and usually would, say no. House knew that Foreman didn't possess the kind of charm or skill that would turn that 'no' into a 'yes'; that was Wilson's talent. Foreman needed to learn that asking wasn't what it was cracked up to be, and, if something mattered, he was better off taking it, demanding it, instead of asking for it. But it wasn't safe--it was a risk--and Foreman liked to play it safe, cover his ass, and ask. One of the few times he'd taken a risk, made a decision and acted without permission or approval, Foreman had ended up fired, and what he might have learned--that he'd done something great because he hadn't asked and done what he thought was best, knew was best--hadn't stuck with him. House fucking hated that he cared; he shouldn't give a shit, but, even though Foreman was good at a lot of fucking things, Foreman could be better if he didn't ask politely for anything he wanted. He'd sure as hell coerce House into his bed more often if he acted that way, even if House twisted it into outwardly needy behavior later on. He did like it, damn it, and, even though he'd be damned if he admitted it, Foreman could use a fucking hint. Some sort of proof that House wasn't wrong about this.
House stared hard at Foreman, mirroring his head tilt as he stepped closer, right into Foreman's space again, coming to a stop only when Foreman's body forced him. House leaned into Foreman, pressed against him--hips to chest. Solid, steady, so fucking warm. House couldn't stop himself from reaching up to feel more. Part of the plan, he rationalized. It was all part of the plan. One hand curved around one side of Foreman's ribcage while the other cupped the back of his head, fingers squeezing and directing Foreman's mouth to his for an aggressive, rough kiss. House waited a half-second before pushing his tongue past Foreman's lips, into his mouth, kissing fast, but deep and thorough. Enough to make Foreman fucking breathless. Exactly how he, in that instant, wanted to kiss Foreman, partially because he really fucking loved kissing him--loved the second that Foreman kissed back--and partially because he had to prove a point.