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'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."

At Foreman's outburst, House narrowed his eyes. No, this wasn't about his keys. This was about Foreman, about his need to reassert his control and prove that he was right, prove that he knew better than House, was better than him. It had nothing to do with Foreman's concern for House's safety.

Standing up straighter, his back still pressed against the wall, House said, "Oh, shut up. You're not concerned. You're pissed off because I embarrassed you and because you were wrong."

Strangely, House didn't feel all that much satisfaction about the fact that he'd been right, about any of it. About his consultation and Dr. Terzi. About Foreman's determination to prove him wrong. About the way Foreman gave up on everything. He shifted his weight as Foreman began to speak again, and he felt himself starting to breathe faster, thinking of his kisses with Foreman, the weekend, how fucking exhilarating it had been. How let down he'd felt, like some kind of idiot that gave sex too much meaning, when he found Foreman's laptop. The thought made him push himself away from the wall to stand directly in front of Foreman, feeling that renewed hurt and anger.

"Not Top Secret files, just escape plans, right?" he asked, staring him down.

Foreman stood taller, squaring his shoulders, when House crossed the elevator in two steps and got right in his face. He met House's eyes directly, much as he felt like he wouldn't stand up to House's scrutiny. His stomach twisted, a strange combination of nerves and frustration. House was so goddamn close, and Foreman felt like any move he made would be the wrong one.

"What am I supposed to say to convince you? I'm not leaving." He spaced out the last three words, as if that would make House hear him. "Yeah, I freaked out, and maybe I did something stupid. You haven't exactly been Mr. Rationality about this either, so don't tell me that's the end of it." Foreman let out a tired sigh, wishing that his body didn't think that House looming over him meant that House was going to close the last inches between them, offer some contact. House's eyes shifted as he studied Foreman's face, as if House could catch him out in a lie if he looked him over carefully enough. Foreman realized that his mouth was open slightly, as if he was inviting a kiss, and he pressed his lips together.

Foreman heard the ding of the elevator, the doors rolling open. He swallowed, giving a tiny shake of his head. House would back off again now that he had the chance. "If I wanted to escape, believe me, you'd know it," he said, keeping his voice as firm as possible. "For one thing, I'd stop doing this." Foreman lifted his chin and brushed his lips against House's, meaning the kiss to be as brief as House made it.

Fuck, Foreman didn't seem to be giving up as fast as House had thought. In fact, Foreman didn't seem to be giving up at all, and House wasn't quite sure how to react to such new behavior. Hearing Foreman admit he'd done something stupid--even 'maybe' had done something stupid--in this context made House blink, and he stared at Foreman as if he didn't hear him correctly.

He shook his head slightly and responded with the first thing that came to mind--an honest reply, even though he was sure it was the wrong one to say. "Nothing," House murmured, his voice quieter, but still a little tight with residual anger. Foreman couldn't say anything to convince him that he wouldn't bolt, that one day Foreman wouldn't realize (again) that spending time--professionally or personally--with him yielded no positive, worthwhile results. That Foreman wouldn't remember that he hated being around him, hated him. Foreman could only prove those intentions by actually following through, by actually not leaving. House wasn't sure he was prepared to give Foreman that chance to prove himself. No, he was sure. Sure that he wasn't prepared, but hearing Foreman be that direct about this, feeling the way Foreman pushed made him lose his grip on his determination not to give in to what he wanted. He wanted Foreman to want him, wanted him to push, and kiss him, and fuck him, and not fucking hate him.

House studied Foreman's face, trying to root out a lie behind any of his words, fighting back the urge to lean into him and trap him with his weight to kiss the hell out of him, relive the aggressiveness of the first time. Foreman stared back at him and House held that stare until the sound of the doors opening distracted him, displaced the tension with an excuse to step away from him. Foreman's voice brought his attention back to him, and, as soon as he turned his head, he felt Foreman's lips press against his. House kept his eyes open, suddenly feeling anxious about kissing in an open elevator, breaking away after a couple seconds.

He'd wanted to keep going. Wanted to push Foreman against the wall and do more than kiss, his desire and need starting to push through most of his control. Fuck it, he thought, stepping back and walking as quickly as he could out of the elevator. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Foreman a pointed look before striding down the hall and into his office.

Foreman swore silently when the elevator doors open, hoping like hell there was no one standing out in the hallway. He could just imagine how well his grand plan to out-stubborn House would work if they were caught kissing on the elevator, if they had to suffer the astonished stares of Wilson or a nurse or even that weird night janitor. And if the fucking doors hadn't opened, then maybe something would have happened. Foreman sucked in a breath, closing his eyes despite himself. Fuck. For a moment, House had leaned into the touch, his lips firm against Foreman's, long enough that it was no accident. Foreman was still right, and his body thrummed with all the aggravating, stifled excitement that came from being certain, and fighting it, and not getting what he wanted.

He wasn't inventing the fact that House wanted him. It was there, just nothing House would act on in an open elevator. House's look over his shoulder seemed to say exactly that. Not here. That was all--not Leave me the fuck alone, not Back the hell off--simply, Don't be an idiot. Foreman had seen pretty much every variation of that look over the years, and he ran his thumb across his lip, raising his eyebrows as he followed House down the hall.

The door hissed shut behind him when he stepped into House's office. They weren't in the elevator now. Foreman glanced out at the hall, and then started pulling on the cord for the Venetian blinds, sliding them across the glass and twisting them shut. He took House's keys out of his pocket, holding them up long enough for House to see before he walked across the room and slapped them down on House's desk. The keys clanked loudly against the glass. Foreman didn't blame House for not trusting him. Hell, Foreman didn't trust most people. He didn't trust House. Foreman had had way too much tonight of interruptions, of arguments. If House wanted to argue this time Foreman would let him take his keys and run, since the only thing Foreman could do to prove himself was keep showing up for work every day. But that look House had given him, Jesus. Foreman wasn't sure what it meant--wasn't sure of much of anything--but fuck, he wasn't going to stop now.

"Nothing I can say means something I can do, right?" he asked, moving around the desk. When House had said that, he'd seemed honest, his voice rasping with anger but no sarcasm. Foreman was about to test that theory, hope that he'd finally worn House down. Grabbing House's hips, Foreman backed House up against the door to the balcony, and kissed him, more firmly than he had all night, letting his frustration show. This is what he'd wanted, this desire, and to fight House on terms he thought they both understood, to finally feel House's chest hard against his. To feel his own heart hammering against his sternum and his breathing pick up. Foreman's hands tightened by instinct as he gave House a quick nudge backwards, so that Foreman could pin harder against the glass. He kissed him again, harder, determined, and pouring every ounce of sincerity into it that he could.

When Foreman followed him into his office, House glanced toward the door from where he stood beside his desk. He reached for his backpack, setting it onto the chair as Foreman shut the blinds, blocking the view of the corridor and the conference room. House felt his heart beat a fast, loud rhythm; he was vaguely surprised Foreman couldn't hear it. He watched Foreman set his keys on his desk, his eyes not leaving Foreman's as he kept approaching, crossing into his personal space until Foreman's hands curved around his hips. Already breathing faster, still keeping eyes fixed on Foreman's, he let Foreman guide him backwards until he ran into the balcony door. The glass was cool, and he could feel it through his jeans, drawing a breath of air into his lungs with a quiet hiss. He wished he could say something, but words couldn't make it to his brain before Foreman leaned into him, kissed him again, harder and with a purpose.

A kiss wouldn't prove that Foreman would ever stay, but it would prove that Foreman did want him. House wasn't entirely sure if Foreman wanted to fuck him or fight him. With his mouth occupied, Foreman seemed to be arguing with his body, keeping House pinned against the door, his fingertips pressing into the muscle around House's hips, and House pushed himself away from the door--not to resist, but to eliminate the little distance left between their bodies. His control was slipping away from him, and House suddenly wasn't sure that he wanted to regain it. It would be so easy to let it go, as Foreman's mouth slid over his, heat already rushing over his skin, his dick already beginning to harden. It would be so easy to slip his hands under Foreman's shirt and touch, to rock his hips forward and grind against Foreman's body. Work himself to a full erection before pressing on Foreman's shoulders to urge him to his knees. House was really tired of arguing, and he wanted to forget it. Just concentrate on this, because it felt so damn good. So good. He'd avoided it because he knew it would be, knew he'd want it again, but he hadn't been as sure about Foreman. Foreman's flight risk had helped House keep some distance between them, but now that Foreman wanted him--kept showing it--fuck, he couldn't hold on to the reasons he'd used to justify the distance. Raising his hands to Foreman's biceps, he gathered a handful of Foreman's sleeves in his fists, about to pull him down, let him know what he wanted, but he stopped himself before the first tug.

He couldn't do it. Not here. It would be bad enough glancing at the door of the balcony and imagining this--this kiss--now. He would become absolutely useless if he ever conducted another differential in his office and found himself combating images, memories, of a fucking blowjob. And, even though the blinds were closed, Foreman hadn't locked the door, and House couldn't risk a surprise visitor from a janitor. If Foreman wanted to do anything, he would have to make use of those seat-warmers and drive him somewhere private.

Releasing Foreman's sleeves, House broke the kiss. He turned his head to the side and breathed fast, shallow breaths, ignoring his burgeoning hard-on and pushed himself away from the door, past Foreman. He quietly shrugged on his jacket, the decision to hitch a ride with Foreman already in his head--it really was way too cold for the ride home on his motorcycle now. He'd figure out the particulars of morning transportation later, depending on how the night went and where he ended up.

A flutter of anxiety traveled through his chest, but he squashed it. Foreman wasn't messing with him. He couldn't understand why Foreman suddenly had an interest in him, when only several months ago he'd left him with the impression that he'd never wanted to be near him again, but he didn't detect a lie in Foreman's words when he said he was interested in him. It had to have been more than just enjoyment. Foreman knew how to separate a 'good time' from other parts of his life, and, if House had just been a 'good time', Foreman wouldn't have attacked him with kiss after kiss tonight. The important thing was that Foreman showed that he wanted him now, and House couldn't keep up the act anymore. At least not for now, not for tonight. It had felt too good to feel Foreman pressing him up against the door, kissing hard. He wanted that, but not here.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, House slipped his keys into his jacket pocket. "Let's go," House said, shouldering his backpack and walking towards the door of the office, leaving his helmet underneath his desk. "You could do your 'something' at home. I want to test your seat-warmers."

Foreman could feel the minute House let go, when the kiss became more than one-sided. The tension in Foreman's shoulders and back disappeared, although he couldn't help pushing House even harder into the door, feeling House push back and their bodies mould together. Satisfaction surged through him, rising with his arousal, and Foreman tilted his head to kiss House even more firmly, sucking on his tongue and breathing heavily through his nose. He hadn't forgotten his promise, and the urge to sink down to his knees and fulfill every second of it was uppermost in his mind, his legs barely supporting him. House's hands spasming shut on his arms made every second of the kiss feel even more real, like House was actually present for the first time tonight.

He grunted when House broke the kiss, missing the contact as soon as it was gone, but it was easy enough to step back. There was only so much House could fake, and Foreman didn't think that kind of interest meant that House was going to disappear on him again. Chuckling quietly at House's eagerness to get to his seat warmers--and with several incredibly improbable thoughts about fucking in the backseat, since House still owed him a detailing and they might as well make the mess worth it--Foreman followed him out of the office. He was damn glad that the elevator opened as soon as he pressed the call button.

"You sure you want to get into a small enclosed space with me?" he said with a smirk, not giving House too much time to think about it. He didn't attack House again, but he stood a lot closer than he otherwise would. "Maybe we shouldn't waste it."

If Foreman had been impatient before, he was burning now that House had finally agreed, and he couldn't quite get rid of the self-satisfied look on his face. This was crazy. He wouldn't call it a mistake--obviously, since Foreman didn't repeat mistakes--but he knew it was a hell of a long way from his usual behaviour. He'd thrown predictable out the window along with the life he should have had, the career he should have had. Maybe even the relationship he should have had. But he didn't care. Right now, Christ, all he cared about the moment they got in his door.

House refused to think too much about this, what he was about to do again, with Foreman, after he'd spent so much time and effort trying to avoid it. He let his feet carry him down the hall and, once the doors opened, into the elevator. Of course, Foreman spoke up and had to nearly make him second-guess himself. He was tempted to step out of the car and wait for the other one--that would wipe that damn smirk off his face--but he stayed put.

All of the arousal that had built up in his office grew when Foreman stood so close to him, but after the last close call in the elevator, House wasn't about to make out with Foreman now. It wasn't late enough for the hospital to be that empty that he'd be willing to risk being caught.

"Yeah, so this time we'll literally get caught with our pants down when the doors open," House said, looking over at Foreman, sarcasm coming easier now that he wasn't pissed off. "You're not a damn teenager. You could keep it in your pants for a half-hour."

"I could," Foreman said, holding back a grin, "but where's the fun in that?" He didn't insist, though, other than his arm brushing against House's. No one did get on the elevator, but he knew it wasn't unlikely. He'd prefer to get House out of the hospital without any further reasons for him to chicken out, and an interruption like that would probably stop them both cold.

They headed through the lobby shoulder to shoulder, as if it was just any other night and they happened to be leaving a little later. Foreman didn't say anything--he wasn't interested in delays--but he put himself a half-step ahead of House, where he could lead the way without seeming to. Fortunately, his parking space wasn't far from the doors--he'd finally insisted to Cuddy that he deserved at least that for reining House in for her--and he beeped open the doors from a distance, getting in and immediately starting the heat. Foreman glanced across at House and smirked for a moment. House could bitch all he wanted about some things, but Foreman was sure he wouldn't say a word against the comfort of Foreman's car, after he'd been so close to driving off on his bike without even wearing a jacket.

The only problem he had was deciding where they were headed. Either way, they'd have to drive to work together tomorrow. At House's place, Foreman wouldn't have a change of clothes, or a toothbrush. If he woke up early and went back to his place to get ready, House would probably accuse him of leaving, as if a trip to his apartment counted as vanishing out of House's life forever. At his place, there'd be the opposite problem, but at least Foreman could control to an extent what time they left in the morning--if they were going to walk in together, he'd prefer they weren't late when they did it, and tempt the fellows into making even more judgments and speculations. Foreman looked out the window for a moment after starting the car, wondering if he should ask or just assume. "My place has actual food," he said, letting the statement fall as half a question. He pulled out of the parking space and headed for the hospital entrance, presuming that that settled the matter.

With all of Foreman's unexpected moves so far, House felt justified in eying Foreman suspiciously, listening to his cheerful reply. He hadn't been kidding; he wasn't willing to put on a show for the next person to walk onto the elevator, no matter how much his body was craving more contact. Foreman failed to push any further, however, and House felt a wash of relief as they both left the hospital, drawing no one's attention as they walked.

It occurred to him that Foreman behaved much more cooperatively when he thought he was going to get laid, or it reflected the fact that Foreman undoubtedly wanted to give House little opportunity to complain or fire off sarcastic insults. Whatever the reason, House actually appreciated Foreman's forethought, that he didn't have to wait in the cold for longer than necessary for Foreman to unlock his car. After tossing his backpack into the backseat, House settled into the soft comfort of the leather passenger seat, aiming the heating vents on the dashboard at himself, and kept quiet. He wasn't about to thank Foreman; that House didn't complain should have been thanks enough.

As he leaned his head back against the headrest, he tried not to think about the last time he was in Foreman's car. His mind went there without his permission, but Foreman's words drew him out of his thoughts. He'd already assumed they would go to Foreman's, although the thought of actually having something to eat sounded appealing, and he felt slightly torn about what he would head for first--the bedroom or the kitchen. He nodded in response to Foreman's remark, then leaned his head back again, turning it to peer out the window as Foreman drove. He was quiet, following the route, clear headed this time, unlike the last time when he'd been in a cab and drunk. God, he hoped this wasn't a stupid idea. There was a big possibility for this to get complicated, to cause problems, and he wasn't sure yet if it would be worth it, but it seemed like whenever Foreman pushed him hard enough, all of that disappeared for a while.

Foreman wasn't sure what to make of House's silence, but he took it for what it seemed like: a reprieve from all the night's arguments. He glanced over at House once or twice, at red lights, but House was staring out the window in his absent, calculating way, and Foreman didn't interrupt. Anxiety kept rearing up and he had to shove it down again. Foreman remembered the words he'd hurled at House when he'd walked out Sunday morning, that Foreman would never like House. Everything he'd done today made that a lie, and Foreman frowned at the road, trying to decide what had changed.

House was, weirdly, like a patient. Every time Foreman thought he had him figured out, House would show a new symptom, react in a way that defied the easy answers. Foreman had spent the first year of his fellowship believing that if he learned why House worked the way he did, then he could take everything he'd discovered and apply it as a doctor. Be better because of it. Be the best. Determination and a willingness to work outside the rules, Foreman could understand. It was House's obsessions and callousness were what had finally driven him away. When Foreman saw himself not only not caring, but actively hurting people because he needed too badly to make the diagnosis or confirm just how good he was, that's when he'd realized that he needed to leave. That he'd invested too much in imitating House's methods without, maybe, understanding him at all.

Since he'd come back--since Saturday--House had surprised him again, shown another piece of himself, even if he'd done it kicking and screaming all the way. House's rejections tugged at Foreman's pride, but it was the cautious, cynical way House occasionally let his enjoyment show that made Foreman want to see more. Put House in new conditions, under new strain, and watch what happened. Try to evoke those same reactions, those moments of astonishing, open honesty that House probably hated that he showed. Foreman felt that same sense that he'd first had when he joined House's team, that there was an answer, that there was a reason behind everything House did. If Foreman could ask the right question then he'd get an answer that made sense. And if asking the question meant pushing House until he got what he wanted, then that's what Foreman would do.

He parked the car outside his apartment building. He was sweating lightly under his jacket--he'd kept the heat up full blast the whole ride--but it was tension, too, the knot of anticipation low in his stomach, and the worry about letting House into his life again after the way he'd blasted through Foreman's privacy the last time. But Foreman had put several layers of passwords on his computer since then, and he was the one who'd initiated this, so he kicked himself for being stupid. "Come on," he said, climbing out of the car. "I'm hungry." He didn't specify for what, leaving that to House's imagination.

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