Foreman laughed out loud at House's frustration, even as House shoved him back against the counter. So it wasn't a question--he could have guessed that. House wasn't the type to ask. He seemed to think that Foreman was, which wasn't always true, although Foreman did actually possess a sense of tact, which made him more likely to ask than to just assume that everyone would agree with him as long as he turned out to be right in the end. House might have that luxury--although Foreman wasn't convinced--but none of the rest of the world had jobs that suited to them or bosses that permissive.
His anger, though, had faded. The kiss had made him feel good, and so did watching House's frustration. House tried to stomp forward to get his cane and ended up walking in awkward, jerky half-steps instead; it made his petulance that much more ridiculous. So Foreman wasn't cooperating with whatever House wanted. It made him curious about what House actually did want, and then, finally, for God's sake, House actually told him. Don't ask.
He knew it was true as soon as House said it. If Foreman hadn't insisted, hadn't pushed tonight, then he wouldn't have gotten House to give in to him. It had been true at work, too: saving his patient's life had been worth it, and so had stealing Cameron's article, pushing his publication through and getting all the acclaim. So sometimes it made him feel like a jerk, on the occasions when he bothered to feel guilty, but most of the time he knew what House was telling him, that he wouldn't get anywhere if he just waited for permission. Foreman was still smiling when House leaned in again and talked about getting what he wanted. He thought he pretty much had, even if he'd asked in order to get it; he'd pushed House in exactly the right way to get a straight answer out of him.
"Maybe you won't," he said. Foreman suspected House had no idea what to ask for, or if he did, then it was the sort of thing that asking for would ruin. His kiss, the heat and force of it, was a clue as to what he wanted, and so was his obvious annoyance and impatience when Foreman wouldn't continue the argument. And figuring out what House was angling for made Foreman feel just that much more smug. He couldn't always stop himself from falling for House's insults, but now at least he thought he knew what was behind them. "Do you always have to be so fucking contrary?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. He stepped forward--House was already close--and grabbed his wrists, easily reversing their positions and pushing House back against the counter. If he knocked House off-balance or made him drop his cane, then so much the better. Foreman could feel his heart beating against his chest, his excitement rising. He kissed House again, hard and crushing, as if he meant to compel every reaction he suspected House was already eager to give. Foreman shoved his hips forward, so that he'd have House pinned at three points, both wrists as well as his body--pay him back for the bruise Foreman suspected he'd have on his hip--and went on the offensive, forcing his way into House's mouth as if Foreman could find his surrender there.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 10:32 am (UTC)His anger, though, had faded. The kiss had made him feel good, and so did watching House's frustration. House tried to stomp forward to get his cane and ended up walking in awkward, jerky half-steps instead; it made his petulance that much more ridiculous. So Foreman wasn't cooperating with whatever House wanted. It made him curious about what House actually did want, and then, finally, for God's sake, House actually told him. Don't ask.
He knew it was true as soon as House said it. If Foreman hadn't insisted, hadn't pushed tonight, then he wouldn't have gotten House to give in to him. It had been true at work, too: saving his patient's life had been worth it, and so had stealing Cameron's article, pushing his publication through and getting all the acclaim. So sometimes it made him feel like a jerk, on the occasions when he bothered to feel guilty, but most of the time he knew what House was telling him, that he wouldn't get anywhere if he just waited for permission. Foreman was still smiling when House leaned in again and talked about getting what he wanted. He thought he pretty much had, even if he'd asked in order to get it; he'd pushed House in exactly the right way to get a straight answer out of him.
"Maybe you won't," he said. Foreman suspected House had no idea what to ask for, or if he did, then it was the sort of thing that asking for would ruin. His kiss, the heat and force of it, was a clue as to what he wanted, and so was his obvious annoyance and impatience when Foreman wouldn't continue the argument. And figuring out what House was angling for made Foreman feel just that much more smug. He couldn't always stop himself from falling for House's insults, but now at least he thought he knew what was behind them. "Do you always have to be so fucking contrary?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. He stepped forward--House was already close--and grabbed his wrists, easily reversing their positions and pushing House back against the counter. If he knocked House off-balance or made him drop his cane, then so much the better. Foreman could feel his heart beating against his chest, his excitement rising. He kissed House again, hard and crushing, as if he meant to compel every reaction he suspected House was already eager to give. Foreman shoved his hips forward, so that he'd have House pinned at three points, both wrists as well as his body--pay him back for the bruise Foreman suspected he'd have on his hip--and went on the offensive, forcing his way into House's mouth as if Foreman could find his surrender there.