wooedforyears | November 11, 2008

November 11, 2008

When House had arrived in Langley, he had been looking for a distraction, but he had imagined that he would have been forced to look harder for it. It had fallen into his lap--not literally, and it was too bad--when he had been introduced to the attending physician, Dr. Terzi. Tall, quick with a retort, and hot. If House hadn't been as interested in the medicine as he had been, he probably would have spent even more time and effort convincing her to jump into bed with him and accept a fellowship opening--at the time, the order hadn't particularly mattered. Between the case and doctor, he'd had little spare thoughts for Foreman, or the previous few days, although it had pleased him to know that Foreman hadn't believed him when he'd told him the truth about where he'd been; it had almost been as though Foreman had wanted him back at the hospital. The reason had hardly mattered. If Foreman couldn't handle the medicine or the fellow-wrangling without him, House could inform Cuddy and push to have Foreman dismissed. He had doubted Foreman wanted him around, unless the fellows fell short when it came to heated personal arguments, but House had suspected Foreman had enough of those before he'd gone. There could be reasons he hadn't considered, but, while he'd been away, all House had enough brainpower to care about was the gorgeous woman strutting around and returning his euphemisms, and the fact that she had the potential to offer an incredibly nice distraction for the next few years of a fellowship. Plus, it had occurred to him, at one point where the thought of Foreman had crept into his brain, her presence might accomplish the goal of either driving Foreman completely away or provoking him to act. Either one would work well, and she could provide the aesthetically pleasing means to do it.

Terzi hadn't said 'no', but he'd left with the feeling that he probably wouldn't be hearing from her again, which had been disappointing. That disappointment had been replaced with genuine shock that his fellows--and Foreman--hadn't been able to wrap up Speed Racer's case in less than an afternoon. He'd not only come back to find it still up in the air, but that Brennan--more of a manipulate rat than House had ever given him credit for--had managed to fake and fake-cure polio. Every now and then, the shit that happened when he wasn't there amazed him, and House had to admit, he never would have called this one. Foreman had managed it, though, catching Brennan's fake-out, and House hadn't been able to hide his interest--the whole situation was even a little too crazy for his tastes, but it was fascinating--or his respect for Foreman for questioning it down to the end. He hadn't been surprised that his fellows had looked surprised when he'd reminded them that he'd put Foreman in charge for a reason. Sure, it had been with the hopes they'd all get on his back about the big reveal of the morning, but it had also been because Foreman really did get shit done.

As much as he wanted to forget about Foreman altogether, shove him out the door and onto a plane headed for California himself, he couldn't ignore the respect he felt for Foreman when he kept pushing like he had. Didn't mean he had to express it anymore than he already had, and he didn't hang around the lecture hall to take in Foreman's reaction beyond a brief glance. He headed up to his office, anxious to execute the plan he'd had two mornings ago: Go home, get drunk, and crash for the night. Too bad Terzi hadn't worked out. He'd still have something to fixate on other than Foreman and his incompetent bunch of new fellows. Fuck. He leaned against the back wall of the elevator, closing his eyes as he waited for it to stop on the fourth floor, hoping nobody--Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, nobody--would be waiting to chat him up about his impromptu visit out of state.

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Foreman had been certain that Monday was going to be one of the worst days of his life. He'd been right--it was just the reasons he'd gotten wrong. Instead of bearing up under House's ridicule and trying to keep his private life away from the hospital grapevine, he'd ended up getting conned by one of House's deranged candidates, all while House was off who-knows-where. Probably he'd been sitting at home and laughing at Foreman for having to deal with the mess House had created. Foreman had spent most of two days trying to convince the fellows that no matter how much they called House, if he didn't want to hear what they had to say, he wasn't going to answer. He didn't end up convincing anybody, least of all himself.

Things started looking up from the moment when Foreman ran the polio test again and realized that Brennan had manufactured the situation. Being vindicated in front of the fellows, even if Foreman didn't have the full answer--that should have been a great moment for him, a reinforcement of his authority. I left Foreman in charge for a reason. Much as Foreman hated to admit it, those words made up for a hell of a lot. House might actually have some respect for him and for his abilities. Instead, all Foreman could do was glare at House's ass-backwards praise and hold himself back from grabbing House to demand where exactly he'd been. He didn't think even House would go so far as to skip two days at work simply to avoid him--but what other answer was he supposed to come up with?

He'd been pissed off for most of the last twenty-four hours--at Brennan for undermining him; at Cameron for interfering; and at himself for being wrong. Underneath that, however, he was still seething over House running away. Foreman wanted to grab him and shake him and demand if this was the best he was ever going to get--House fucking with his head on a whim. After spending the night at the hospital grabbing what sleep he could, Foreman just wanted to get out of the hospital and go home. He discharged Casey Alfonso, scribbling his signature nearly illegibly on her chart and nearly stabbing through the paper with his pen. All that was left was for him to grab his things and escape.

Foreman sighed heavily, waiting for the elevators, and barely looked up when the doors opened, only to find that he'd be sharing the ride with House. And, of fucking course, before he could pretend he hadn't been waiting at all and head for the stairs instead, he'd already stepped on. Feeling justifiably pissed off at the universe, Foreman tried to bite his lip against saying anything--five more minutes with the man wouldn't kill him--but his anger rose up anyway. "So glad you thought I was the right one to be put in charge while you were mysteriously out of the picture," he said, keeping his eyes on the floor indicator. "Have a good bender the last two days, or was that just avoidance?"

With his eyes still closed, House groaned to himself as the elevator came to a premature stop. He just wanted to go home, get away from all of these morons and drown himself in numbness for a while. When he opened his eyes to see who was boarding the elevator, he nearly groaned again, watching Foreman step into the space beside him. Two mornings ago, House would have loved to confront Foreman about his avoidance issues, the casual front he'd displayed, but now House was more interested in giving it a rest, giving himself a rest. He could confront another time. If Foreman just kept his damn mouth shut, he would be able to carry out his master plan for the evening that much sooner, but, no. Of course Foreman wouldn't hold back, and of course Foreman would believe he'd skipped a couple days of work to make his life miserable. Well, it did sound like him, he had to admit, but that wasn't the point.

He could lie, fabricate an elaborate, ridiculous story, but the truth was easier. Besides, Foreman already thought the truth was a lie, and, now that House had begun to feel the drain of the last two days, he wasn't interested in pushing Foreman's hissy-fit into a boiling bout of anger that would keep him from leaving with an obviously false story.

"No mystery," House said, the tiredness creeping into his voice as he glanced down at the floor. "Consult for the CIA."

Yeah, it had been a convenient way to avoid Foreman, forget about everything that had occurred during the weekend, and House had taken advantage of it, but it wasn't as though he'd planned for it. He let the implications of Foreman's statement--his references to House's decision to put him in charge, the actual issue of avoidance--unanswered. He had plenty he could say about Foreman's obvious desire to avoid him, but it was getting to the point where he really did want to avoid Foreman as much as possible, including any discussions about where he'd been and why. If he pushed, Foreman would probably hold him up and keep him from meeting his very urgent appointment with the rest of his bourbon. He fell silent, itching to leave the tight space of the elevator and escape for the night, wanting the kind of freedom from Foreman that he'd felt while he'd been away. He realized that saying nothing could just encourage Foreman's anger, but he was willing to take the risk, and he leaned away from Foreman, sliding his back against the wall and into the corner of the elevator.

Foreman didn't even bother picking apart House's obvious lie, just let out a disgusted breath and shook his head. "Yeah, so you said." He leaned his head back against the wall. He'd meant to take out the last two days on House, blame him for being gone, even though he knew it was hypocritical. He'd said he could handle the fellows. Blaming House for their antics, when it was Foreman's fault for letting them get the better of him, was unfair. He knew that, but he couldn't push his frustration away. It should be House's fault. This whole situation would be a hell of a lot easier if it could just be House's fault.

Foreman rolled his head to the side, finally really looking at House rather than insisting to himself that he happened to be dealing with a colleague over a purely work-related annoyance. House's body was tense, and he was leaning away from Foreman. Foreman sighed again, feeling suddenly exhausted on top of his simmering frustration. He wasn't upset that House had left him in charge of the fellows and the medicine. He actually appreciated it. Despite House's little game of threatening to tell the fellows that they'd had sex, he hadn't actually gotten in the way of Foreman doing his job. House had followed the chain of command, supported Foreman in public in front of the fellows. This wasn't about work--they were actually managing that pretty well.

No, it wasn't about that. Foreman was still upset that House had walked out on him on Sunday. Denying it hadn't helped. If he could get over that, he would have by now. If he hadn't cared, then it wouldn't matter. If House hadn't kept on making insinuating comments, as if he was just as uncertain as Foreman was, then it would be easy to chalk it up to one stupid, drunken night and forget about it. Foreman wouldn't have to be fucking lying to himself. He felt defeated; he didn't want to avoid it any more. Maybe one more rejection would beat it through his skull, let him put it in the past.

"If it's not avoidance, then it makes perfect sense that you can't even stand next to me," he said, letting his tiredness show in his voice. It seemed like House was trying too hard to get away from him, trying so hard that it seemed like he was fighting himself more than Foreman. He remembered what Cameron had told him: you might not always be right, but you're not always going to be wrong. And Foreman didn't think he was wrong about this. "Is it because you're worried I'll kiss you, or because you're worried I won't?"

House felt compelled to convince Foreman he had actually been telling the truth, acting on the dull sting of Foreman's disbelief. "I was," he insisted, not entirely sure why it seemed important to prove that he wasn't lying. What Foreman believed, how Foreman thought of him, shouldn't matter, and, at that second, House was working hard to convince himself that it didn't matter. Anger began to burn inside his chest, and, when Foreman turned his head to look at him, House stared at him, hoping to find some kind of evidence that Foreman was just being an asshole, that he knew he wasn't lying and was being contrary just to spite him. Foreman appeared as frustrated (and tired) as House felt. No signs that Foreman was fighting him for the sake of fighting him; he actually believed House had conveniently disappeared to avoid him.

The words that Foreman spoke next confirmed it, and House pushed himself away from the wall, standing straighter. The response rushing through his brain was a lie, and House knew it was a lie, but he blurted out, before Foreman could say anything else, "You're not important enough to avoid, Foreman. You don't mean that much."

And, before House had a chance to figure out what he'd said, why he'd said it, what he'd hoped it would achieve besides forcing Foreman to get out of his face, Foreman spoke again, and, this time, his words made him freeze. He leaned back against the wall again, subconsciously putting more distance between the two of them, and blinked at Foreman. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? House couldn't wrap his brain around it, mostly because all he could imagine was a vivid playback of Foreman's kisses--the rough anger of the first one, the slower but purposeful pace of the second, then the third, even slower, almost gentle and too soft. How Foreman's bottom lip seemed fuller in his mouth. How steady and commanding Foreman's tongue felt, pushing into his mouth and making his breath rush out of him like Foreman just stole it. God, he wished the elevator doors would open. Now. Give him room to propel himself from the corner he had willingly stepped into and escape out of the elevator. Out of the hospital. Away from Foreman. Away from his own damn thoughts and fantasies, and into the blank numbness of a bottle of bourbon.

He knew Foreman would interpret his silence as more avoidance, or some kind of confirmation, but he felt like he barely had the breath to talk, and he dropped his eyes from Foreman's. Let the bastard think what he wanted. He hadn't believed much of what he had said already today, so it wouldn't make much of a difference if he replied or not. And, this way, Foreman would never have the real proof that he wanted, proof that he was right. Silence was up for interpretation. House only hoped that Foreman kept waiting for a response, for that proof, until the doors opened.

Foreman wanted to throw House's words back in his face--if he wasn't important enough to avoid, if he meant that little, then where had House been for the last two days? It was pointless, though, as long as House was sticking to his story. And he wasn't about to spout off about how he felt. House's dismissal didn't hurt. It was exactly what he'd expected. Foreman swallowed hard, trying to resuscitate his anger, sure that it would have worked for him if only he weren't so damn tired.

House couldn't meet his eyes when Foreman actually said the word kiss to him. He hunched even further away from Foreman, frowning ferociously. Foreman waited for the onslaught of insults, or even House saying, out loud for Christ's sake, that he didn't want Foreman to kiss him, that he'd never wanted that, that Foreman had forced it on him. Foreman almost believed that himself. The only thing that kept him from feeling like a complete asshole about Saturday night was that when House wasn't running his mouth off, he'd looked exactly the way he did now. Cornered, in more ways than one. Eyes darting away as he searched for an escape route. Lifting his chin and swallowing defiantly, even as he couldn't meet Foreman's gaze, even as he looked more turned on than pissed off.

Silence wasn't an answer. The only way to get at the truth was the same way Foreman had done it before, every single time he'd wanted it. He stepped deliberately closer, catching House's left hand against the back-wall railing, trusting that House would keep his right on his cane for balance. Foreman was close enough to breathe House's air, close enough that he could feel his own respirations speeding up, close enough to stare up at him and try to read his thoughts. Push me away, he thought. Say no. Say something.

"Just because you liked it," Foreman said. He wanted to kiss House, wanted the proof that he knew he'd find in House's mouth, either angry or tentative or simply slack and permissive against his. He licked his lips. "Just because you forgot to be a miserable bastard for a few hours." Foreman felt the elevator come to a stop, and he glanced over his shoulder at the floor indicator before stepping back. He put enough space between them that nobody waiting for the elevator would mistake his clinch with House for something it probably wasn't. The doors rolled open, but Foreman didn't turn away from House for another moment. "Is it really so bad to want that?" he asked quietly, answering his own question with the slightest shrug, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders as he headed for Diagnostics.

House pressed back against the wall, wanting to sink into it, when Foreman stepped close to him and covered his free hand. His other hand gripped his cane, and he wondered if he would be able to beat Foreman away with it and keep hold of it. He doubted it. Foreman had an advantage, and House needed to hang on to his cane for his escape. He tightened his hands on the railing and cane, raising his eyes to meet Foreman's, doing his best to keep his face unreadable. He had a distinct feeling he was failing. The hard swallow didn't help.

He knew that Foreman was trying to provoke him, and he was determined not to let him. He felt the urge to push Foreman away mixing with the urge to kiss the fuck out of him, and he knew he couldn't do either if he wanted to maintain any kind of semblance of control, if he had any chance to escape without drawing Foreman into a more involved conversation. Or a much less involved conversation. He did his best to hold Foreman's gaze, hearing his own breathing speed up at Foreman's words.

Want that? Want what? House blinked again at Foreman, struggling to figure out what he was talking about. A kiss? Sex? Forgetting to be miserable? Something else? Something more? If that was it, then, yes. Yes, it was bad to want that, because if he wanted that, he would set himself up for more pain than he cared to experience. It was a pattern for him: life screwed him over, and it wouldn't hesitate to fuck with any attempt he made at something else, so it was up to him to make sure no freak, random event could mess with his life. If he stayed this way, the same way, nothing would change and that was safe. Better.

House stood still for a moment, watching Foreman leave the elevator, his pulse racing, panic rising in his throat. He hated himself for it, for everything, but couldn't stop it. All he wanted to do was head straight in the other direction, away from Foreman. He thought of the contents of his backpack, if he'd really miss anything in it for the night. Considering his plans, no, he wouldn't need any of it, or miss any of it. He could do for a night without his iPod. He could bear the cold outside long enough to drive home--carefully but quickly, since he would be leaving his helmet behind, along with his coat. His keys and wallet were already in his pockets. That was all he needed, he thought, all the while telling himself that he wasn't avoiding Foreman. Foreman wasn't right. He just hadn't been home for two days and he missed it. He wanted to watch his own TV, raid his own fridge, lay down in his own bed. None of it had anything to do with Foreman. Nothing. He just had to get home.

When Foreman walked far enough away, already nearing the door of his office, House frantically pushed the button for the ground floor, wishing he could help push the doors closed faster. If Foreman decided to try to chase him down, he needed a head start.

Foreman expected House to follow him off the elevator, but the fact that he didn't wasn't surprising in the least. He--no, more accurately, his dick--wanted another chance to corner House in the elevator, wanted not to hold back this time and press right up against him. Kiss him, hard, make demands Foreman knew House would answer if he just pushed far enough. He was impatient as hell, a sudden, restless desire driving him. He glanced over his shoulder, but the elevator doors had closed again. Foreman had no idea if House would run from the hospital entirely, or sneak around some back way in order to get his stuff. House hadn't been dressed for the weather, and if he was riding his bike--stupid thing to do in November--then he didn't have his helmet, either.

Not that it was Foreman's business, no matter how hard he was apparently trying to make it his business. Foreman kept ramming himself headfirst into that brick wall. One lay, no matter how good, shouldn't have him twisted in knots like this, wanting more. Wendy leaving hadn't felt like this. It was just--Foreman knew there was something there, he knew House wasn't indifferent, and the fact that House insisted on acting against everything Foreman had learned about how goddamn stubborn he was, it just felt wrong that House would give up on something he hadn't even tried. Give up on Foreman.

Fuck. Nothing was making sense, nothing really had since Foreman had come back to Princeton. He pushed open the door to the conference room, slung on his suit jacket and his coat, and grabbed his briefcase. If House was gone, he was gone, and Foreman couldn't stop him. If Foreman used the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, it wasn't because he thought he could catch up. It wasn't like he'd grab House in the clinic lobby, have it out in front of the nurses and Cuddy. If he was hurrying, it was only because he wanted to get home.

It felt as though the elevator ride took forever. House gripped his cane, standing just inside the doors, ready to speed out of the elevator as soon as it opened. If Foreman had taken the stairs, raced him to the ground floor, and was waiting at the elevators, House was prepared to barrel over him. Try, at least.

He was relieved that the elevator went straight to the ground level--no stops--and he found no one blocking his path through the lobby. He walked quickly, but tried to look casual, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder to see if Foreman was following him. He was nearly to the exit when he heard Cuddy's voice behind him, asking him where he'd been. He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if it was too late to pretend he hadn't heard her and keep walking. Probably, he figured, and turned to face her, quickly deciding to formulate a response that would let him off the hook as fast as possible. Clinic hours were worth a clean escape and, besides, it meant more time he could spend away from Foreman, which, as much as he hated to admit it, a priority in his mind at the moment. He managed to keep his normal demeanor, hiding his urgent need to leave, and stopped himself from glancing throughout the lobby. A move like that might tip Cuddy off to something usual, and, even if she wasn't being particular perceptive today, he didn't want to risk it. He also didn't want to catch Foreman's eye, which would probably tip off anyone to something unusual, just in case Foreman was nearby.

Foreman had his head down when he pushed open the fire door at the bottom of the stairs and started out into the lobby. He didn't want eye contact. He didn't care if House was still down here. He was leaving.

He proved himself a liar by lifting his eyes and catching sight of House, cornered again--by Cuddy, this time, which he probably appreciated more than if Foreman had trapped him again. House looked edgy, his gaze twitching away from Cuddy's face and then returning again, as if he was struggling to pay attention to her. Not much different from usual, except House looked more like he was impatient to get away from Cuddy rather than eager to play games with her. Foreman raised his eyebrow at House when one of House's restless looks swung across him on the other side of the nurse's station. Foreman tilted his head, some part of him meanly satisfied that House wasn't going to get off lightly for missing two days of work. Foreman didn't know what House expected--for him to go over and join him with Cuddy, or even lie in wait for him, like he was hunting House down. Neither one was going to happen. Yeah, at least Foreman knew he could be taught. And that he wasn't being a complete idiot; he could leave House well enough alone when the man tried more than once to run away from him.

Foreman walked right past House and headed out of the clinic doors. He paused to button his coat, when a tall, beautiful woman approached him. Foreman blinked, impressed despite himself.

"Excuse me," she said, in a low voice. "I don't suppose you can direct me to the Department of Diagnostics?"

Foreman blinked again, this time much less pleased. "You're looking for Dr. House?" he asked.

"Yes. Do you know him?"

Foreman snorted. "More than I'd like to, most days."

The woman smiled warmly. "Yes, that's him. Is he still here?"

Glancing over his shoulder back to the clinic doors, Foreman tightened his jaw, biting back all he wanted to say. It was all coming together now. What House had been up to. Exactly how House chose his avoidance activities. "Yeah," he said tightly. "He's just on his way out."

It only took a minute or two to escape Cuddy, and, when he did, he started for the exit, slightly faster this time. He hadn't seen Foreman, and the sooner he was on his way home, the faster his blood pressure would fall to a relatively safe level. He began to breathe easier as he stepped outside, but as soon as he raised his head, glancing up from the keys in his hand, he came to a halt as if he'd run straight into an invisible, unyielding wall. So much for the blood pressure.

He had hoped to leave without encountering Foreman, but his presence wasn't the most disconcerting part of the situation. Dr. Terzi stood next to him, next to Foreman, and for a moment, House wondered if he was dreaming, hallucinating, anything that might explain the unlikelihood of this arrangement of people, all together, staring at one another at that second in time. House reminded himself to blink, to breathe. This was almost too fucking hard to believe. He never thought Terzi would have taken him up on his offer--either one, and he wasn't exactly sure which one she was here for--and he never thought Foreman would have met her before he even knew she was there. House shook his head, his jaw working without his voice, staring from Foreman to Terzi.

Terzi broke the still silence first, turning to face him, and said, "Hi." She seemed to have an expectant look on her face.

The sound of her voice seemed to throw House into action, and he nodded as he straightened up to stand taller. He wasn't sure what would result from this meeting, and, even though the air was cold, he felt his face burn with heat, nervousness replacing his shock. At the very least, he figured, this was a stellar opportunity to prove to Foreman that he had been telling the truth. Even though panic was still raging through to the ends of his veins, the idea of making Foreman squirm appealed to him. He saw a dim hope of actually one-upping Foreman, embarrassing him or, as he'd originally hoped, either driving him away or provoking him to act, to reveal something to him. Something that he could react to, that he could work with, not the half-steps, the dares that Foreman had been throwing at him.

"Hi," he replied to Terzi, his voice tight. He knew he sounded uncomfortable, and he tried to even out his tone as he continued, determined to make Foreman the more uncomfortable one. He deserved it for not believing a damn word he'd said. "Dr. Terzi, this is Dr. Foreman." He mustered a glare for Foreman. "Foreman, Dr. Terzi. The attending physician at the CIA."

One look at House's face when he stepped outside pretty much confirmed exactly what Foreman had been thinking. House looked like he'd just been punched in the gut, his eyes widening and his mouth opening as if he wanted to speak but couldn't force the words out. The woman--the gorgeous woman who apparently knew House and yet hadn't slapped him with a harassment suit or run away after meeting him--was smiling at House in what was obviously more than a friendly greeting. Foreman pressed his lips together, pushing his hands deeper into his coat pockets and glad that the fists he was making wouldn't show. He was exercising plenty of restraint--House deserved a punch to the jaw, but Foreman listened in stony silence to the introductions. Foreman still wasn't interested in House's 'consult for the CIA' story, he had no idea who this Dr. Terzi really was, but he smiled tightly at her and shook her hand when she offered. He'd suddenly lost all desire to go home and leave House to his misery.

"So...House did a consult for you," he said, his skepticism still clear in his voice.

"Dr. House was very helpful," Terzi said guilelessly. Foreman raised an eyebrow at her. He wouldn't put a lot past House, but he doubted House would so far to prove his story as to find some woman to lie to Foreman about it. God, if House had actually told the truth, if Foreman had to eat all his words about House avoiding him, then he'd just made a huge fool of himself in the elevator. Of course House would tell the truth if it meant he could use it against Foreman somehow. Foreman glowered at House right through the awkward pause that followed.

Terzi gave him one half-friendly glance and then dismissed him from her attention, turning to face House, again with that playful, meaningful smile. "I'm here about the position you offered," she said.

Since she wasn't looking in his direction, Foreman rolled his eyes heavily at the cutesy innuendo. Great. Just fucking great. He could imagine what sort of position House had offered; it probably involved some very improbable gymnastics. "Aren't you in the middle of firing three people?" he asked House pointedly, ignoring Terzi. An entirely professional question. Foreman was Cuddy's representative and he had a feeling she wasn't interested in stretching the hospital's budget to cover the salary of every pretty face House wanted to fill the place with.

Foreman's skepticism immediate filled House with satisfaction. House was somewhat disappointed that Terzi was more interested in his fellowship offer and not the other one, but, the more he thought about it, the more this situation worked out, at least in terms of Foreman. Terzi's presence had gotten to Foreman. This meeting alone was invoking a pretty strong reaction in Foreman, and House couldn't completely hide the personal satisfaction he took from that, letting himself grin when Foreman spoke up.

"Four, now," House said, looking at Foreman. It was the simplest route, and he didn't care if he pissed off the new fellows. He knew Cuddy wouldn't allow him to keep four new fellows, so that really only left him with the option of eliminating one extra from the existing pool. "Three spots just went down to two."

He turned back to Terzi, giving her a friendly grin. "Don't mind him," he said, jerking his head in Foreman's direction. "He's annoyed because he's just been proven wrong." That alone--forcing Foreman to see that he'd been wrong--made the unexpectedness and awkwardness of this meeting worth it. So worth it that House didn't feel nearly as desperate to escape anymore; Foreman's pissiness was too good to miss. "How soon can you start?"

Terzi gave him a relieved kind of smile, as if she hadn't been sure that he would actually follow through with his offer. "Tomorrow too soon?"

House shook his head, completely ignoring Foreman. "Nope."

"See you then."

Nodding, House watched her turn, giving a polite nod to Foreman, and walk away. He figured he would let Foreman stew over this, and he glanced at him with a closed-mouthed grin, letting all his smugness come through, and stepped forward to follow Terzi's path towards the parking lot.

Foreman's stomach burned as he watched House invite Terzi to join his team as if he didn't have five other employees who'd spent the last seven weeks working their asses off not to get fired simply for breathing wrong when House was feeling picky. Foreman kept his damn mouth shut when House needled him about being wrong. He didn't care that House really had taken on a patient for the CIA. He wasn't wrong about House steering clear of him. House was standing around outside in the freezing air, no coat or gloves, apparently about to run just a little faster once he made it to his motorcycle. Foreman tightened his lips and waited until Terzi turned and walked away--even her walk was flirtatious--before he followed House towards the parking lot.

"What the hell was that?" he asked. He felt fucking pathetic. It wasn't like he had some claim on House, like he could stop every woman from batting her eyelashes at him--or stop House from acting like a lovesick twelve-year-old with his first girlfriend. The only questions he could ask without sounding like a jealous idiot were professional ones, so Foreman stuck to the battles he figured he could win. "You're hiring her? After knowing her less than two days?" He rolled his eyes; he couldn't imagine that House had even brought up the matter of qualifications. "Do you even know what her specialty is?"

As he started toward the parking lot, House listened for Foreman's footsteps, his voice, confident that Foreman would be unable to let House leave without addressing what had just went down. He let himself grin when he heard both, even more satisfied by the fact that Foreman had barely let him take five steps away from him before piping up.

House was sure, just from the tone of Foreman's voice, that Foreman's concerns were far from professional. He really didn't feel like wasting the chance to prod at Foreman's buttons by allowing him to dance around the issue. Not to mention it would keep him in the cold for longer than he wanted; his ride home would already be close to unbearable, after all the time he'd already spent outside. He might have to take his bourbon into bed with him tonight or, at least, take a hot shower once he got home. His leg would need it; it had already started screeching, his body tightening and tensing from the temperature.

He absently reached into his pocket for his Vicodin, pausing to open it and palm two of the pills before closing the bottle and dropping it back into his pocket. "Apparently, her specialty is Pissing Foreman Off, based on that encounter. If you've got a problem with it, tell Cuddy." House glanced at Foreman, feeling that swell of satisfaction that came over him when he knew he was right. "But you're not going to do that, because this isn't about work. This is personal."

Foreman hated being so out of control. He fucking despised himself for being that guy, that possessive prick, or worse, the woman who expected her one night stand to call the next day, when nobody had made any promises. The opposite, in fact, since Foreman had been telling himself even as he'd taken House back to his place that he'd kick him out in the morning without a backwards glance. And here he was, buying in to every one of House's damn games. Letting House get to him. Following after him even though he fucking knew that House was laughing at him, getting a big goddamn kick out of Foreman's anger.

They were alone in the dark parking lot, the lights around the clinic doorway and a few streetlights providing most of the illumination, both their breaths steaming in the cold air. The only thing that was stopping House from shivering was his damn pride, Foreman was sure. House didn't answer a single one of Foreman's concerns, which pretty much proved that he had no clue about whether Terzi had any aptitude at all for diagnostics. He seemed more interested in using her to piss Foreman off, just to watch what he'd do.

"I don't have a problem with Dr. Terzi, just with your insane hiring procedures," Foreman said. "And since Cuddy has seen fit to let you do whatever the hell you want, I can't complain." Foreman let House keep talking, telling him it was personal--no kidding, he'd already gotten that memo--and looked away for a moment before turning to stare at House thoughtfully. House was using Terzi to get to him. Not focusing on how hot she was, or what she might offer him to get the job--no, House was more interested in Foreman's reaction. In what Foreman would do.

Another fucking mixed message. Foreman shook his head, even worked up a breath of laughter, although it sounded more angry than amused. "My problem with you is that you seem to be acting under the assumption that I'm just going to give up," he said. He stepped in, feeling like he was moving under House's guard. As close as they'd been in the elevator, and then closer, raising his hands--warm from being in his pockets--to cup House's jaw and haul him down into a kiss. House's lips were dry, chapped and cold, but Foreman didn't care; he'd thought this would happen a lot fucking sooner--in the elevator, in the office--if House hadn't tried to run away, and he felt all his impatience translating into wanting this contact, this touch. Foreman licked his way across House's lips, and insisted, deepening the kiss. House's cheeks were cold against his fingers, but Foreman felt more than warm enough for both of them, his face warming, heat pushing through his body despite the chilly air. He pulled back to breathe, dropping his hands but staying close enough that his coat brushed House's chest. "You're not telling me no, House, so I'm not seeing much reason to back off."

House scoffed at Foreman's words; the bastard was still putting this in professional terms. In general, Foreman might care about his hiring process, but House knew that, right now, it wasn't Foreman's concern. Foreman didn't care about his hiring game, or Cuddy, and House gestured to Foreman as he finally confessed one of his real issues. House quirked his eyebrows, as if to confirm Foreman's theory--House was assuming Foreman would give up, because, between his history of actually doing it and the way his plans for a new job seemed to indicate, that's what Foreman did.

But when Foreman stepped closer to him, the anger in his face mixing with a determined look of intent, House suddenly wasn't so sure and, before he realized what Foreman was doing, Foreman pulled his head lower and covered his mouth with a kiss.

As House's brain caught up with his body, he realized he was already returning the kiss, his lips parting and tongue sliding out of his mouth to meet Foreman's. Fuck. A part of him wished that Foreman would stop kissing him like this, catching him off guard, too fast for him to cover his reactions. He didn't want to give away too much, didn't want to give away anything at all, and he felt another burst of panic explode in his chest. He tried to tell himself that he was only slipping his arm inside Foreman's coat, curling it around his waist, because Foreman's warmth drew him there. He was only kissing Foreman like this, angling his head to seal their mouths together, allowing the kiss to deepen so far, because all of that heat made his own body warm. He wished he could believe himself.

He wanted to physically push Foreman away from him to protect himself against another surprise-kiss. Fuck, he shouldn't feel like this. He shouldn't want Foreman like this, just because Foreman had kissed him--kissed and fucked him, his brain reminded him. He shouldn't want Foreman to want him--want to kiss him, and fuck him, and touch him--but, damn it, he did. He hadn't forgotten how much it had stung to see Foreman so determined to leave him because Foreman hated him. Foreman had said that he didn't need him, didn't want to become like him, and, even though House had managed to maintain a normal attitude, it had fucking hurt. House rarely cared about what others thought of him. Strangers, patients, cashiers at coffee shops, cops, judges--those people never mattered. But people in his life, the people he spent every day with, working that closely with, knew that well, mattered. He hated that Foreman mattered at all; he should have been content to let him walk off, and he thought he had been, but he'd been reminded that he hadn't been ever since Foreman had come back. The weekend had made it worse. When Foreman had kissed him, had fucked him, it was amazing to be able to let go of everything else for once, but it also seemed like, for a little while, Foreman hadn't hated him. He'd wanted him, saw something that he'd liked, and House hated himself for wanting Foreman to see him that way. Hated it.

But he couldn't admit that. He couldn't. Anyone, but especially Foreman, would spit that back in his face, dismiss it, call it a lie, and that would make it worse. Minimal embarrassment and hurt. That was the plan, always. Admitting that would cause even more of it, and that thought forced him to step backwards once Foreman broke the kiss to speak. House made himself stare at Foreman with a controlled, deliberately even expression. But, when he opened his mouth, his voice betrayed him, its tone tense and higher-pitched than usual. "Okay. Fine. So back off," he said, his breathing still fast, even though he should have caught his breath minutes ago. "I'm telling you. That a good enough reason for you?"

The cold was really beginning to get to him, and he shivered as he slowly, stiffly began to turn and walk toward his bike, his escape plan suddenly in the forefront of his mind again.

Foreman shivered a bit when House angled a hand inside his coat, his fingers icy through Foreman's shirt as he spread his hand against the small of Foreman's back. He had no problem sharing his body heat, not while House was cooperating enough to lean down and slide his tongue against Foreman's, his mouth hot and wet and meeting Foreman just as strongly every time he pushed the kiss forward. It felt good, sending a shiver of arousal down Foreman's spine, making him want to move his hands down to House's hips and yank him closer. He didn't think that a kiss was going to convince House that he was right. House was too entrenched in whatever denial he had left, as if Foreman wasn't telling him he wanted this, saying it right the fuck out and showing that he wanted House. Each kiss, each time he cornered House, he wasn't bothering to hide it. But even though House was kissing back, his breath as ragged as Foreman's, his fingers curling in Foreman's shirt just above his ass, that didn't mean House wouldn't try to get away without having to face any consequences. As much as House got away with on a regular basis, at work, with that cop, treating his patients, it seemed like he wouldn't be so goddamn afraid to let a kiss become something more. But he was. He stepped back, his voice strained and tense when he told Foreman to back off.

Foreman tilted his head back and watched him. A kiss like that did a hell of a lot to restore his confidence, his control. If House didn't like declarations, Foreman just wanted to shower him in them. "You punched Chase in the face and all he did was tell you you were wrong," he said. "I'm telling you I want to get on my knees and blow you and you can't even push me away?" Besides, nobody kissed like that, and then ran like that, if they didn't feel something. Foreman smiled, even though House had turned his back on him and was heading for his motorcycle. "I am more stubborn than you," Foreman called after him. "And you know what? I kind of like you running scared."

He caught up with House in a few steps. House didn't want him? Fine. Foreman hadn't suffered through three years as House's fellow without learning something about patience. But Foreman wasn't about to let him escape that easily, either. He grabbed House's arm to stop him, and then reached for his front jeans pocket--House probably thought he was copping a feel, but Foreman just reached in and grabbed his keys, holding them up and dangling them in front of House's face. "Go get your damn helmet," he said. "I don't need you killing yourself over me."

House could feel Foreman's eyes on him, and the suspicion made House walk faster, struggling to add extra inches to his stride. He was such a fucking chicken, but that knowledge was better than telling Foreman 'yes'. When Foreman began to speak again, calling out behind him--House really hoped that nobody else was nearby, because he didn't need the hospital's grapevine spreading talk about this--House nearly faltered, his eyes closing tightly at his words. Get on my knees and blow you. Fuck. House pretended not to hear him, refused to acknowledge him, and kept walking. He could see his motorcycle; almost there.

As Foreman's hand wrapped around his arm and forced him to stop, House released a frustrated, hard breath of air, the visible cloud of it forming and dissolving in front of his face. He had barely settled his feet under him before he sharply inhaled a lungful of cold air, fast enough to make him cough, his body going still at the push of Foreman's hand inside his pocket. Another warm rush coursed down his body. Foreman's hand was so fucking close to his cock, and House hoped like hell that Foreman hadn't noticed that he was beginning to get hard. Jesus, he needed to get the fuck away from him, before he gave in to his desire for Foreman to keep pushing, for Foreman to want him and feed his stupid, pathetic need.

Anger bubbled up inside him beneath the arousal--he couldn't decide if it was caused by Foreman or himself--and House glared at Foreman as he jangled his keys in front of him, instructing him to get his helmet like he was some sort of insolent teenager. "Oh, yeah. I'm so emotionally distraught that I'm planning to wrap myself around a tree on the road home," House said, the cold air--and all the fucking arousal pumping with his blood straight down to his dick--forcing him to talk faster, not quite as sarcastic as he hoped, but he rolled his eyes to compensate.

"Give me my damn keys." House swiped for his keys, hoping to catch them. He could stab Foreman with one of them once he got them back, then make his get-away. Foreman was playing head games; he didn't want him. If he did, he wouldn't have a folder full of cover letters at his place. He wouldn't be planning to leave again. If Foreman still didn't want him, or need him, then House saw no reason to indulge Foreman's implied suggestions or his 'concern'. "Give them back."

Foreman snatched the key ring back, out of House's reach, careful not to let his smirk show. He wasn't laughing at House, although he was having a damn good time screwing with him. It wasn't about whether House was a good driver, but Foreman had seen plenty of road rash and worse during his surgical internship, and he wasn't as indifferent to House killing himself in a stupid, preventable accident as House probably thought. He'd seen House nearly die when he'd been shot, had had his hands covered in House's blood, and he didn't need a repeat. The streets weren't dry, and it was cold enough that they'd be icing over before morning. "My car has seat-warmers," he said, as though he was remembering it for the first time. "Do motorcycles come with those?"

House looked apoplectic, like he was getting close to coming up with a devious plan to murder Foreman and hide his corpse somewhere it would never be found, but Foreman couldn't help pushing even further. Whatever Foreman had thought would happen after he'd gotten House into his bed--and he hadn't ever actually thought about what would happen after, although it wasn't much of a stretch to guess that fucking infuriating would top the list--he'd never once suspected that parts of it might be fun. "You want 'em, you can have them." Foreman stuffed House's keys into his back pocket, not far from where House had nearly been groping him during the kiss. He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be reluctant that it had come to this. "You played games with me for three years," he said, shaking his head innocently. "I think I'm about due."

"You're freezing, you're probably hurting, and you think you're going to make it home in one piece." Foreman advanced again, spreading his fingers to show his hands were empty. That if House wanted his keys so badly, there was one sure way to get to them. Foreman itched to get his hands back on House, to push him, to force House to admit he was right. He hadn't been lying when he said he wanted to blow him, because he wanted House to let go, make all those sounds Foreman knew he could force out of him, make him say he wanted Foreman just as much. The thought alone had him breathing quickly, his body starting to react. "Go on," he said, letting the challenge come out low and intense. "Take them."

House let his hand fall when Foreman snatched his keys away, out of his reach, and narrowed his eyes to glare furiously at Foreman in response to his seat-warmer taunt. House didn't give a damn about his fucking seat-warmers, and he could withstand the cold for another twenty minutes on the road if it meant refusing to succumb to Foreman's comfortable leather seats. House would rather have a windburned face and a cold-numb body to go with it than allow himself to let Foreman win. If he let him win, he'd start giving in to the undercurrent of desires flowing through him, and he couldn't do that. He refused to answer Foreman's ridiculous question, still glaring him down instead.

But Foreman's next move drew a sound out of him--a disbelieving scoff--and House watched his keys disappear into Foreman's back pocket. House tilted his head as his furious glare shifted to the incredulous squint that House reserved for certified basket cases. Was Foreman fucking serious? Foreman had the balls to think of him as juvenile, when he was playing hide-and-seek with his keys in the middle of the parking lot.

House breathed a short frustrated laugh over Foreman's next words, that challenging invitation to try to get his keys back. This really was unbelievable. House shifted his weight, leaning hard on his cane, trying not to think about how fucking cold he felt. Foreman was right: he was cold, and in pain, but he misinterpreted if he thought House wanted to stand around and play a stupid-ass game when he could have already been home by now. Fuck it. Fuck him. He wasn't playing.

"You're really that desperate for me to grab your ass that you have to try to trick me into doing it? Sad," House said, sneering from his own anger and the cold. "I'll sleep in my fucking office." He held Foreman's gaze as he stepped forward, heading back towards the hospital.

Foreman threw up his arms when House spun around him and started limping back to the hospital doors. "And you're so desperate to pretend you don't want me that you're just giving up!" he said. "Again! Do you always work this damn hard at being miserable?" Stupid question, when he already knew the answer was a resounding yes. Foreman was fed up, ready to give up, throw House's keys at him and let him risk himself driving and however else he wanted to drown out everything Foreman had said tonight. But just that thought--that he'd be doing exactly what House expected--made him tense with resentment. He'd said not ten minutes ago that he was more stubborn than House, that he wasn't about to give up. Big words, but not worth the breath he'd spoken them with if he let House get away with convincing him. And it wasn't just about the sex, either. That's what House thought of him. That he was a quitter, that he couldn't follow through no matter what Foreman did to prove himself. Foreman hated House for thinking it, and hated himself every time he gave even an inch of ground that would make it seem true. This fight--it wasn't about the damn keys, it was about giving House every fucking opportunity to actually assert himself. If he wouldn't, then Foreman would, if only to prove that his words, his threats, his promises weren't empty. Whatever he wanted from House, he hadn't expected it to turn into a fucking pissing contest, but now that it was, he didn't intend to back off. Leave that for House.

"The only person you're fighting is yourself!" Foreman yelled after House. He remembered their first kiss, in his car, the sudden sharp pain when House had bitten him. He'd felt it--had remembered it--for the rest of the day, couldn't wipe away the look on House's face or the shot of adrenaline through him that set his heart racing. Foreman wanted revenge, for that, for all the other slights House had heaped on him since then. At the same time, though, he wasn't interested in forcing a kiss on House, on using his strength to get what he wanted. Just because he was faster, just because he could, didn't make it right. Much as he wanted to kiss House again, his teeth scraping over House's lower lip, manhandling him into compliance... No. Foreman didn't want that, he didn't want this to be all about him. So maybe he could get his way tonight doing that, pushing House into his car and getting another night's fuck out of it. What then? Was that going to be enough for him, would fucking House get this aggressive, insane desire out of his system? It hadn't yet.

Foreman stuffed his hands back into his pockets and followed House, keeping to his left side and matching his pace. "You're not getting rid of me," he said. "I already told you that. Get your helmet and I'll give you your keys. Stay in your office and we can explain to the newbies tomorrow why you're on time for once. But I'm not disappearing, and it's just going to be one day after the next, so I don't get it, House, why you think walking away from me is going to make the fact that we had sex go away."

At the sound of Foreman's voice--again, and louder now--House continued walking towards the doors. Fuck, his leg hurt. His hands hurt. He couldn't feel his ears much, and he attempted to focus on that as Foreman continued talking, now walking beside him. Jesus, House had to admit he was surprised that Foreman hadn't just let him go by now. Foreman seemed to have more determination than he thought, but, right now, House wished that Foreman would stop fighting his natural tendencies and walk away.

House snapped his jaw closed, pressing his teeth together until they started to hurt and refusing to respond. Foreman was looking for one, attempting to provoke him into action. Get him to acknowledge Foreman, what they had done over the weekend, what it meant. But Foreman could talk himself hoarse for all House cared. House would rather not listen to it all, but Foreman wasn't the only one of them with a stubborn streak. If it came down to it, House was confident that he was stubborn enough to let Foreman ramble until he shut up. Gave up. And he would eventually.

House was somewhat puzzled as to why Foreman had no interest in forgetting the weekend, what made him keep following him, what he really wanted. He sure as hell didn't want him. Foreman was the one who'd said it had all been a mistake, and House was beginning to think he'd been right, if this was what would result from it. Was Foreman following him, refusing to let him leave just on principle? To piss him off? To drive safely? Each option sounded equally ludicrous, and each one made him more and more frustrated.

As House stormed through the lobby, his eyes cast straight in front of him, he could feel the burn of the sudden rush of warm air on his face. He was sure that his cheeks, his ears, had turned a blotchy red to match his hands, appropriate for the red-hot anger blazing its way through his body.

Coming to a sudden stop before the elevators, House eyed Foreman sharply. "Are you going to follow me all the way up to my office?" House asked, punching the button with his knuckle to call the elevator.

Foreman stayed as close as he dared to House's hunch-shouldered walk, not bothering to say more since House had only scowled and ignored him. The warmth inside the hospital was welcome, burning in the tips of his ears. Foreman looked up when they got to the elevators, as if he just happened to be meeting House as they went up to Diagnostics. He didn't really have a plan. He didn't really know what to do. House was so certain that everybody lied that he couldn't accept what Foreman was telling him. And by now, his intentions had gotten wrapped up in his pride. Five more minutes or ten didn't matter. House would get his helmet, Foreman would hand over his keys, and that would be the end of it. For tonight. Tomorrow, Dr. Terzi would begin working for House, and Foreman would have to soothe ruffled egos and make sure she wasn't a disaster as a doctor, and probably watch her flirt with House. It bothered him all over again that it bothered him, but what the hell was he supposed to do about it?

"Thought I'd give you a chance to even the score," Foreman said when House asked if he was going to follow him. He was almost surprised House didn't try for a futile, painful effort on the stairs, the way he'd been acting. Foreman waited for House to get on the elevator before following him. He stood in the corner, resting his hands back on the railing, and watched the floor indicator as if he wasn't curious at all about whether House would take him up on one more challenge. He was relaxed, confident, certain that House would huddle in his own corner of the elevator with keep away radiating off his body language. Foreman wasn't going to attack him--definition of insanity, to expect a different result this time. But he was just as certain that House would never make a move, no matter how Foreman taunted him. He shrugged. "It's too damn bad you're letting me win."

When the elevator doors opened, House stepped into the car and immediately leaned against the wall near the button panel and pressed the button for the fourth floor. He had his head bowed toward the floor, his hand rubbing along his thigh to warm his hand and calm the tension in his leg. But he raised his head when Foreman spoke, meeting his eyes from the opposite corner of the car.

"That's not it," House said, peering at Foreman, studying him in an effort to puzzle through his actions. His anger hadn't disappeared--not even close, still simmering underneath his skin--and it only frustrated him more when Foreman offered no real answers. All Foreman had been doing was pushing him, and House had been focused on escaping. Now that his own escape had been cut off, House had no other options but to push on his own. He barely had the energy for it, and he wasn't thinking as clearly as he wanted to be for this--he hesitated to call it a 'fight', but it was more than a casual conversation.

It seemed as though Foreman had stopped making aggressive moves--given up, just like House thought he would--and was opting for mind-fucking, vague remarks instead. House felt confused, hardly sure of the point of this anymore. Foreman was wearing him the fuck out, and it was becoming hard to stay ahead of him; his casual remark, however, tipped House into fuzzy, foggy confusion, the anger still working its way to the surface. He threw his hand out in a wild gesture, and said, his voice already rising, "Letting you win what? The keep-away contest? If you haven't noticed, I don't exactly have the physical advantage. I wouldn't take too much satisfaction from it, unless you're the kind of guy who's proud of himself for beating up a ten-year-old."

"Your fucking keys have nothing to do with this!" Foreman exploded. "I'm trying to stop you from cracking your stubborn skull open, and playing keep-away is the only way you'd get that, because you don't understand the word no."

He couldn't believe House seemed to have no clue what he'd been saying all evening. He'd thought House was so adverse to a rational conversation that the only way to pound something through his skull was to try and force the message in through different channels. Games and physical contact, that's all House had wanted on Saturday, so Foreman had no idea what had changed overnight. And mixed up in everything else was Foreman's determination that House wouldn't be able to say that he was being predictable--at least Foreman seemed to be doing enough to avoid that, since House sounded more confused about what Foreman was doing than he was himself.

Foreman wasn't used to people walking out on him; he'd always been the one with the exit plan. That's what Wendy had accused him of, saying that he was walking away while he was still in the damn relationship. But wasn't that what House had been saying all along? That he walked out? That he was just as guilty of avoidance and running away as House was? It could be that this was the stupidest time in his life to try something different--with someone who'd try and push him away at every turn--but at the same time, Foreman couldn't think of anyone better to make him want to make something work out of pure orneriness.

Foreman crossed his arms defensively, glaring at House. "Look, I'm sorry if kissing you hasn't been clear enough, but I'm saying that I--" He exhaled sharply, then set his jaw. "That I enjoyed myself, and that it was pretty obvious you did too, so I'm interested in pursuing the possibility that it might be even better if we weren't both drunk! And maybe even better after that because you'd realize that the government doesn't hide its Top Secret files on my computer, so you might actually stick around long enough to annoy me in the morning instead of in the middle of the night."

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