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 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.

As Foreman drove, House continued staring out of the window, occasionally turning his head to sneak glances at Foreman, curious as to what was keeping him just as quiet. House tried not to tell himself that Foreman was second-guessing himself. Foreman was just...focused, he told himself. He tried not to second-guess his own action, the decision to leave with Foreman, wondering what in the hell he thought he would discover by going through with a risk like this, besides that, maybe for a while, Foreman didn't hate him. The sex better be worth it. It would be. God, he could already imagine it. He closed his eyes for the rest of the ride, opening them when he felt the car stop. He glanced at Foreman in time to see him open the door, speaking to him as he climbed out of the car first.

House sat in the car for a few seconds in thoughtful silence. Huh. Even though he'd been toying with the idea himself, House was puzzled over Foreman's declaration. Despite the mention of 'actual food', House didn't think Foreman would make eating his first priority at the moment. Climbing out of the car, he peered over the roof, squinting skeptically at Foreman. "You--" House started, pausing for a half-second, still working through Foreman's potential plan for the night in his head. The air felt colder than it should have, since he'd been warmed up in Foreman's car, and he shivered. "--just attacked me, and now you're hungry? I think you're confusing 'hungry' and 'horny'." He shuffled sideways, opened the back door, and retrieved his backpack, shouldering it as he closed the door. Rounding the car, he approached Foreman on the other side, his hands buried inside his coat pockets. "I know they're kind of close. I could see how you might get confused."

As much as House was sure he would raid Foreman's fridge later, he wasn't interested in a sit-down meal at Foreman's dining table--he doubted Foreman ate his dinners on his couch--squirming with the anticipation of what would come next. Foreman would probably expect conversation--about what, House hadn't the faintest idea, not exactly sure what topics Foreman chatted about, and not particularly caring. House didn't chat. Didn't talk just to fill dead space. If Foreman wanted to talk about anything interesting or consequential--or fill his stomach, for that matter--he would have to wait, because House did not plan to sit through a dinner with Foreman while anticipatory arousal churned in him. He'd rather relax with dinner, appease his appetite for food after the one for satisfying, hot sex. Foreman could wolf down whatever he wanted in the kitchen, as long as he didn't mind if House got a head start in the bedroom. House had felt worked up in varying degrees since Foreman had kissed him in the elevator and, despite his nagging doubts and lingering fears, he couldn't rid himself of the desire to lead Foreman into his own bedroom now that he was here.

Foreman glanced over his shoulder as House grabbed his backpack. He dismissed a brief flash of strangeness at seeing House approaching him as if this was an everyday occurrence. Last time he'd been drunk enough that he hadn't even stopped to think at this point. Alcohol left him warm and high on life, and he hadn't even hesitated to kiss House in the doorway. God, they'd been all over each other, here and in the lobby. Foreman had practically had his hand on House's dick, rubbing him through his jeans. That had been stupidly, ridiculously, embarrassingly hot, and Foreman swallowed hard. Fuck, he was going to get a hard-on right here as long as those images were playing through his mind. House's words diverted his attention, thankfully, though not by much. Yeah, he was horny, and not the least interested in food at the moment.

"Horny, right," he said, a dutiful student accepting a correction. Foreman unlocked the front door and pulled it open. He narrowed his eyes as if he was deep in thought, and rephrased. "I think what I meant was, I know what I want to eat." He pressed his lips together to hide his smirk. Sometimes, House could just be so easy to discomfit, and Foreman wanted to know exactly how much he could say to get House following his train of thought. That line, between urging House forward and going so far that his words raised all of House's bullshit barriers, was a fine one, and Foreman was definitely interested in finding out where it was drawn.

Foreman sauntered across the lobby and pressed the call button. Another elevator ride. That made...four?...tonight, and Foreman's imagination, his memories of Saturday night, had him hoping that nobody else got on between the lobby and his floor, because he wanted to shove House into a hard surface again and show him the part of tonight that he definitely wasn't going to regret. The rest--yeah, Foreman wouldn't mind feeding House, and depending on how things went, having him around after could either work out or be a disaster. He couldn't be bothered to worry; when the elevator arrived, Foreman raised his eyebrow at House and got on, leaning against the back wall and sliding his hands out along the railing, taking up as much space as he possibly could, and pretty much issuing a gold-leaf invitation with his body.

"Subtle." House rolled his eyes, following Foreman into the building. "Nice." He purposefully kept his eyes cast to the ground, ignoring the places that they'd kissed on Saturday night--against the wall and inside, against the line of mailboxes. He didn't need to give Foreman the satisfaction of getting a hard-on before they even got in the elevator.

He definitely wouldn't admit that he had just gone from interested to unmistakably aroused, secretly pleased that Foreman wasn't planning on wasting time with actual food. Foreman, on the other hand, never bothered to hide his smugness, practically skipping onto the elevator and sprawling out across one of its walls. That confidence was simultaneously attractive and frustrating. House wanted to challenge it, take it down a notch, but it conflicted with the desire to take advantage of Foreman's open posture, slide his hands all over him, get him hard, and take care of the foreplay in the elevator. But that would just heighten Foreman's smug satisfaction, and House would rather make him work a little harder than that.

"Even more subtle," House said, stepping into the elevator. Just to mock Foreman, House copied his pose as best as he could, shifting his weight to his left as he spread his arms out over the railing. He raised his eyebrows--Yeah, I can do it, too, and look just as suave.--and smirked, wondering how much it would take to make Foreman admit that he wanted him. Wanted House to touch him. He wondered how long Foreman would wait. As much as House wanted to give in to his own desire to touch him, his curiosity made him keep his hands to himself.

"That's harsh, coming from you," Foreman said. House wouldn't know subtle if it swung a two-by-four at his head. "Don't worry, I can be subtle." He saw a clear separation between his job and his personal life. The fact that he was with House tended to blur his lines, but Foreman still felt that what happened during work hours and what happened after shouldn't be brought together. At work he was subtle; professional, and yeah, as he'd heard from Chase more than once, a little uptight. When he was with someone, though, he could afford to be more playful. He had no idea what House would think of that, or whether how he was acting now would bleed over into his work life if he became too lazy or complacent about his barriers. But he wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't horny, that he wasn't having a good time right now poking holes in House's control.

He only tilted his head at House when he imitated his stance, even though his body raged at him that this was the perfect opportunity to corner him, crowd him, shove his body against House's until he could feel whether House was getting as aroused as he was. Foreman sucked back a quick and, he hoped, quiet breath. His heart was beating too fast, and he wondered if House's pulse was thundering just as hard. Their hands were nearly touching on the railing. Foreman lifted his hand just enough to skim his fingertips across House's wrist, brushing up the inside of his forearm under his coat sleeve. That tiny, ghosting touch seemed to fire his nerves even more than a wrestling bout against the wall of the elevator would have. He finally settled his fingers against House's radial pulse, finding it fast and strong. "I can do subtle," he repeated quietly. The idea that they were so close to his apartment, to having a solid, lockable door between them and the world, seemed to fill the air around them, making it hard to get a full breath. Fuck, he was getting hard, and he hadn't even been touched, or kissed House since the office. Foreman had no idea where this came from, unless it was knowing that he could probably make House come in under ten minutes, and then spend as much time as he wanted enjoying House's post-orgasm mellow while getting off himself. Foreman grinned, although he didn't bother directing his smile at House; he was watching the elevator doors. The moment they opened he pushed off the wall and strode for his apartment door. "And," he said over his shoulder, "I do know the difference." Once they were inside, "subtle" was going to be told very firmly to shut the fuck up and learn something.

House skeptically raised an eyebrow at Foreman's remark that he could 'do subtle', almost as a taunt, but his body tensed when he saw Foreman reaching for him. He managed to keep his respiration calm and steady, but, when Foreman's fingertips slid under his sleeve and settled over his pulse, he knew his own body would give him away. Damn it. Of course his body would side against him, and of course Foreman would know where to look for its traitorous signs. He wished the elevator would open, deposit them on Foreman's floor to put some space between them, but the longer Foreman's fingers stayed against his wrist, the more his mind rebelled with his body. His hand tightened around the rail, his mind silently repeating, Fuck space. Foreman's quiet reactions didn't help; they did more to him, pulse racing even faster, breaths leaving him in quiet shudders.

Foreman could do subtle, and it was much more effective than the obvious, flirty seduction ploy he'd attempted a moment ago. This made House's dick twitch, made his skin suddenly feel too warm under all his clothes, any lingering chill from the outside air gone with the build of his arousal. Glancing at Foreman's profile, House took in the smile there and wondered if Foreman could feel the same heat he felt rolling over his body. Probably, the bastard. Foreman would get off on this, making him react, and the knowledge frustrated him, but it turned him the fuck on, knowing his reactions could have that kind of sway over Foreman's. He wasn't sure if he wanted to deny him the reactions he wanted, force him to push harder, or openly show them, make Foreman react just as strongly. Both options had an appeal, but, as Foreman pushed away, the warmth of his touch going with him, House knew that he wanted this to last, wanted to absorb all of it while he was sober, and he wanted more of Foreman's subtle, almost teasing moves, that kind of touch that made him fucking ache with anticipation.

House crossed the hallway to stand behind Foreman, adjusting his growing erection while Foreman focused on locating his house key. He was tempted to reach underneath Foreman's coat, pull up his shirt, and slide his hands up his back, but he stopped himself, still curious as to how long Foreman would wait to be actively touched, if Foreman would touch him like he had been even if he wasn't touching, too. House guessed he would, if his reactions did so much for Foreman, and he tried to goad him into touching him again as he stood in front of his door. "Too bad I'm not convinced. You must be out practice. You weren't exactly subtle the other night."

Foreman tried to roll his eyes when House spoke, but he was too impatient to make much of the gesture. He should have found his apartment key without looking, but House was standing so close behind him that Foreman was left silently urging him to take one last step forward and press his cock against Foreman's ass. House thought he hadn't been subtle last time? Foreman thought about telling him exactly what he'd been thinking, in as much detail as he could muster, possibly with breathless, frantic pauses for demonstrations. Except that would make House's point for him. House was taunting him--and Foreman didn't know with what. Was he saying that Foreman should convince him he could be subtle? Or that House preferred him aggressive?

"See, House, that's what I mean," he said, finally unlocking the door. He opened it, already shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. "I can do subtle. You--" He paused, dropping his jacket somewhere near the closet, and decided to bluff his way through. Whatever House wanted, it would become pretty damn obvious quickly enough. "--can make sarcastic comments that tell me exactly what you want." Foreman turned back, reaching around House's shoulder and putting one palm flat against the door. He pushed it shut, which put him, once again, in the position of having House trapped up against a wall. And, fuck, Foreman could feel the heat of him, as if their clothes weren't there at all. Which was a good idea. A fucking wonderful idea. Foreman was still debating between subtle and not, and finally decided to go with "both" before simply staring at House and waiting drove him crazy.

He grabbed House's wrist again, not a soft touch searching out his pulse, but a hard, uncompromising grasp, knocking House's hand back against the door with every intention of holding him there as long as Foreman wanted. When he kissed House, though, he barely made contact. He brushed his mouth against the prickle of House's stubble, darted his tongue out just far enough to taste the comparative softness of House's lower lip. It was fucking electric, that nothing of a touch feeling like a thousand pinpricks of pleasure. Foreman was already breathing harshly, and his cock was more than interested. God, he ached, wanted to rub up against House's hip, lean the rest of the way into him, and his grip on House's wrist tightened almost involuntarily. He needed to know first, though, whether House would deepen the kiss or try to tease Foreman back. Whether the point of this was subtlety or not. He kept his hips canted back, and waited to see if House would drag him closer or draw out the tender, barely-there kiss.

House noticed Foreman's struggle with his key ring. He would have been much more amused if he wasn't so turned on, so anxious to get into Foreman's apartment. In private. Once they were inside, he ignored Foreman's words, not paying much attention. His action, however, that sudden, hard grip on his wrist caught his attention fully, and House darted his eyes to Foreman's as he was backed against the door, trapped there. His lips were parted, taking in air through his mouth, faster than before. He tried to predict what Foreman would do--lean into him, push him against the door, and kiss him hard.

When Foreman angled his head and kissed him, House discovered that he was so, so wrong, and he let his eyes drift closed and inhaled a quiet breath, holding it as Foreman's tongue slid across his lip. It was barely a kiss, more like an exploratory touch--as test--as they breathed the same charged, hot air. House held his whole body still, allowing Foreman to keep him against the door, keep him steady and balanced, more than what he seemed capable of doing for himself at the moment. His tongue crept past his lips, slow and almost cautious, and, when it touched the tip of Foreman's, the sensation nearly jolted him, forced a tiny moan into the air between them. God, he hadn't been kissed like this in--fuck, a long time. This slowly, softly, and he had never imagined that Foreman would have been the person to kiss him like this; the idea was ridiculous. The reality, on the other hand, was fucking mind-blowing. It made him want to push away from the door and into Foreman, feel proof that this was as arousing for Foreman as it was for him. His left hand flexed against the door, the other around his cane, but, despite the urge to put his hands all over Foreman, he let Foreman lead, content enough to let the kiss drag on as long as Foreman let it.

Oh, God. Foreman had meant the kiss to be nothing more than a test, thinking that House would blow right past the tantalizing, inquisitive press of lips and demand that Foreman kiss him harder, thorough and demanding the way he had in House's office. Thoughts of whether or not it would mean too much, be too soon, screw him over to kiss like this, all of them disappeared. The kiss caught him and left him dizzy, until he was lost in it. Every shift of lips, every insignificant movement, became the only thing he could think about. He kissed House's lower lip, sucking on it lightly, before sliding his tongue against House's, the sensation flooding his body. Foreman had no idea how much time was passing. It felt like it was rushing by while they were barely moving. He felt no sense of needing to hurry. He wanted this to last, suddenly, his impatience draining away even though he was more aroused than ever. Foreman wanted to memorize the exact level of pressure and tentative exploration that made House moan; he didn't want to move any more than that.

It seemed a hell of a lot less important to pin House back. Foreman couldn't even remember why he'd tried. He let go of House's wrist and moved his hand up his arm, over the coat, gripping his shoulder for a moment before dipping his fingers inside House's collar. He traced his fingertips up House's neck, brushing just behind his ear, then back down under his shirt to dig his fingers into House's trapezius muscle, massaging lightly. Shifting half a step to the right, Foreman finally leaned in the rest of the way, letting House's left leg press between his, nudging his erection against House's thigh. God, it felt so good. "Oh, fuck," he whispered, breaking the kiss at last, gasping for air before he quickly met House's lips again. A deep, tight groan vibrated in his chest as he swayed forward again, pushing his hips forward as lightly as he'd been kissing House.

As the kiss went on, House wanted to reach for Foreman's hips, stroke his thumbs over the points of Foreman's hipbone before slowly pulling Foreman's dress shirt out of his pants. Wanted to slide his hands under the fabric and curve his fingers around Foreman's sides, feel warm skin and firm muscle quivering with the unsteady rhythm of his breaths. God. The thought made his hands twitch, but House kept them still; he still wanted to make Foreman wait, was curious to see how much Foreman would show that he wanted him. How much Foreman would let him see. House wasn't sure that he'd like what Foreman revealed, if he revealed anything more, and he wasn't sure that it wouldn't secretly terrify him, but, now more than ever, he was curious about it. It was already bizarre to see Foreman treating him this way. It might have started as a challenge, but House felt when the challenge fell away, when Foreman released his wrist and slid his hand over his arm, up to his neck.

Fuck, he couldn't decide what he wanted Foreman to do. A part of his brain whispered against allowing Foreman to touch him like this, and kiss him like this--an effort to save himself from revealing to Foreman how damn pathetic he was, how much he needed Foreman to do this. But, God, it felt good, Foreman's hands on his shoulder, that light rub over his muscle, the sound of Foreman's voice, thick and aroused. God. When House felt Foreman's hips push forward, the unmistakable shape of Foreman's erection pressing against his leg, his capacity to think disappeared, and he jerked out of the kiss, tipping his head back against the door to draw loud, hitching breaths. Oh, God. Fuck.

House wanted to reach down and trace the shape of Foreman's cock through his pants, push him to want him even more--admit it--and it was getting more and more difficult for him to resist. Hell, it was getting difficult to ignore his own erection and arousal, and House diverted his own attention to try to refocus, leaning his cane against the door frame before taking off his coat. He tossed it at Foreman's couch, not caring that it fell short and landed in a heap on the floor at the back of the couch, and leaned down to meet Foreman's mouth again, no harder than before, but more adventurous, sweeping his tongue inside Foreman's mouth. He told himself it didn't count as giving Foreman what he wanted, that he was only resuming what they'd already done, even as he leaned into Foreman, his hands pushing himself away from the door--barely a nudge, but the pressure was there. He couldn't fucking get enough and, despite the nagging doubts in the back of his mind, he didn't want Foreman to stop. God, he really didn't, and House wasn't above trying to make sure he didn't.

Foreman opened his mouth, let House explore as much as he wanted. The kiss was still soft, slow, but deeper. It was so different from the pushy, angry urgency of Saturday night. Then, House had barely let Foreman touch him without a fight, all his obnoxious defiance at the forefront. Foreman had felt driven, as if his chance would have been snatched away from him if he hadn't met House's challenge. House hadn't given up, not until Foreman restrained him on the bed and fucked him. House had kissed him, then, like he was now, more open and softer even as Foreman thrust into him. He'd let himself open up--or Foreman had forced him to. It seemed as though House had reached that point far sooner this time, and it was exhilarating to feel it. House had actually let his cane behind, stepping forward from the door so that Foreman would be his only prop if he needed one. It felt like House was waiting for something, for some signal, to start touching Foreman back, but he'd gotten rid of his coat, and that was enough for now. Slow was good, as long as House was letting him lead the way, letting Foreman taste his mouth while the heated sensation moved through his body. Slow was better than he ever could have imagined.

Foreman spread his palms against House's stomach, over his hips, and then moved up to his chest. He wanted to get House's shirt off, forgetting for now about his own. There would be plenty of times for House to be contrary, to turn the sex into an argument, for Foreman to wrestle him down. Tonight Foreman was happy just to keep kissing. House's body was warm under his hands and when Foreman shifted his weight in tiny increments, he could feel House's erection low against his stomach. The light, brushing touches, almost accidental every time they happened, felt astonishingly powerful, so fucking good. God, they had to get to the bed, and soon. Foreman wanted House horizontal, wanted to press into him while they just kept on kissing, wanted to get all these goddamn clothes out of the way.

Foreman worked a bit harder at House's buttons, finally breaking the kiss so that he could see what he was doing. He paused, though, when he realized what he'd been thinking. Plenty of times. As if they'd agreed on the future just because Foreman had managed to drag House here tonight. He hadn't forgotten their argument, but it had taken a backseat to his horniness. Which was stupid. Too late now to do anything about it, and he wasn't going to stop. House's shirt was hanging open, and Foreman leaned in to kiss him again, still delicately, because he needed to confirm to himself that House really was being this unguarded. The kiss was almost a question, meeting House's tongue and searching out all the places that had evoked a reaction before. Sweeping his hands up House's body, Foreman pushed his shirt off, the suit jacket going with it, leaving just the t-shirt. "You have to stop wearing layers," he muttered, almost before he realized what he was saying. Pretty much admitting that he wanted this again, that he wanted easier access. He swallowed, but tried not to let it show, tugging at the hem of House's t-shirt impatiently. If House really was waiting for Foreman to do something before reciprocating, then maybe it was time to step up the challenge. "I want this off."

House was vaguely aware that he was getting lost in the kiss, leaning into Foreman's touches, but Foreman's voice, and the implication of his words, stunned House into full awareness. He raised his head to stare at Foreman's face, catching the sight of Foreman's throat working around a swallow. The tiny action confirmed any suspicions that House had about the meaning behind Foreman's blurted statement, and House felt his anticipation skyrocket, his head fogging with desire as he let Foreman push his jacket and button-down onto the floor. In his brain, Foreman's words began to morph. You have to stop wearing layers. You have to stop wearing layers so it's easier for me to get all your clothes off. I want this off. I want this off because I want you. Next time I'll take it off you faster if you don't wear so many damn layers. He hated that his mind went there, filled in those blanks. He tried not to think too much about what Foreman meant but, as he raised his arms to let Foreman lift his shirt over his head, he couldn't help the flooding desire to hear what else Foreman wanted. Jesus, was he really that needy?

He closed his eyes, consciously trying to counteract his own reactions to Foreman, the pathetic neediness that seemed so obvious to himself, and said, "Kind of early to start making assumptions about repeat performances." He hoped he sounded less desperate than he felt, already wanting a repeat performance himself.

Foreman's implied admission urged him on, and he brought his mouth down to Foreman's again, his hands moving to Foreman's hips to hold himself steady. The fact that Foreman had accidentally let slip that he had no real intention of walking away from him, or pushing him away, that he wanted House around in the future, encouraged House enough to reciprocate, gathering handfuls of Foreman's shirt and pulling it up, out of Foreman's pants. He pushed his hands underneath, like he'd wanted before, and lightly spread his fingers over Foreman's sides. He could feel the warmth of Foreman's skin, could feel Foreman's ribcage expand with his breaths as he kissed him; it made his own breaths come faster, made him kiss a little harder, made him tighten his hands on Foreman's body without fully realizing it, negating all his previous efforts to keep his reactions under control and restrained. Little things were beginning to give him away, and House knew it was only a matter of time before big things gave him away, so he pulled back, out of the kiss, and tried to raise his guard back up. He furiously worked at the buttons of Foreman's shirt, hoping Foreman wouldn't catch on to the shift in his mood and try to tear his guard back down again.

Foreman's face heated. House had caught the implication and thrown it back at him without missing a beat. It was incredibly annoying that he could do that, especially since Foreman had been working since they'd come in to make sure that House couldn't think at all. He wanted to offer some scathing retort, deny that he'd meant that, but before he could, House was kissing him again. Foreman let a muffled groan escape into House's mouth. His challenge had worked, and House's hands were suddenly all over him, climbing under his shirt, his palms broad and hot against Foreman's back. The contact was too brief, too light, but the kiss more than made up for it, hot and intense. Foreman could feel the echo of every line House drew on his skin, nerves firing in response. He mirrored House's touch, glad to have his shirt gone so that he could feel the muscles working in House's back, rub the knots of tension that lined House's spine and travelled under his shoulderblades.

When House pulled back to tug at his buttons, frowning in concentration, Foreman resisted the urge to drop a kiss on the back of House's forearm, the only place he could reach. Too much. Too soon. He didn't want to get tied down to a relationship, and certainly not with House, but he couldn't stop himself from saying these things. He wasn't lying, but at the same time, Foreman had no idea what he did want, beyond having House's hands on him and kissing him for all he was worth. Foreman brought his hands down to House's hips, slipping his fingers under House's waistband, kneading the top of his ass. As soon as House's fingers fumbled open the last button, Foreman shrugged his shirt off his shoulders. He pulled House in to kiss him again, hauling him as close as he could without pulling him off-balance. Warm. God. So hot.

"No assumptions," Foreman said, finally. He had to keep reminding himself of that, he had to be far more careful than he'd been so far. He'd never been the crazy one in a relationship, never been the one that needed to pursue someone, and it bothered him, scared him. He wanted to forget what he'd said, but he couldn't contradict himself. He slid his hand across House's stomach, and finally--fuck, it felt like he'd been waiting so long--touched him, light and slow, over his pants, leaning up to kiss House at the same time. After a moment, he pulled back to speak. His words might be confrontational, but he kept his touch the same as they'd had so far, gentle and tentative. "You seem pretty persuaded, though."

If Foreman noticed the change, he failed to acknowledge it. It made House believe that Foreman actually hadn't noticed, probably too distracted by the prospect of getting rid of his shirt. Foreman wouldn't have hesitated to let him know, to shove his face in his own cowardice, and House covered his surprise when the taunt never came, focusing on opening Foreman's shirt to get it off of him. He felt Foreman's hands creeping under the waistband of his jeans, his underwear, and his concentration slipped. He had to fumble to get the rest of the buttons unfastened, and let Foreman actually take the shirt off as House's hands returned to Foreman's hips, gripping harder, urgency bleeding into the touch.

He scoffed at Foreman's words, looking down at him, but a dozen retorts danced straight out of House's head at Foreman's touch, Foreman's hand brushing over his erection through his jeans. His eyes blinked closed as a gusty breath left him in a hurry, cut off by Foreman's kiss. He barely had time to return it before Foreman pulled away. House felt his body sag forward as Foreman's hand moved over him, too lightly, one hand rising to grip Foreman's shoulder, his head drooping to the side of Foreman's. Fuck, it was torturous, that slow touch, the sensation dulled by the denim. His focus narrowed to it, taking in as much as he could. He hardly comprehended Foreman's words, the sound of Foreman's voice muffled in his ears by his own breathing.

"Yeah." The word slipped with a shaky whisper as House pushed into Foreman's hand, and House squeezed his eyes shut, hearing his own voice, hating himself for breaking first. He'd had a plan, damn it. Hold off from touching Foreman where House knew he wanted it until Foreman admitted it, asked for it, and it could still work. Almost. Turning the tables on Foreman would be gratifying, too, but damn it, he couldn't seem to tear himself away from Foreman's touch long enough to execute his own moves. His hips kept pushing forward, wanting more pressure, a fuller touch, and he helplessly held on to Foreman, ducking his head to the curve of Foreman's neck, caught between gathering himself and getting lost in Foreman's touch, the warmth of him. God, it would be so easy. Fighting was harder, and his body wasn't making it any easier.

House's agreement almost shocked Foreman into stillness, before he let out a short, incredulous breath. Yeah, he was persuaded? That they should do this again? But House didn't seem to even know what he'd said, focusing more on pushing his cock into Foreman's hand. That was even more convincing than if he'd agreed without a fight. Foreman's breath exploded out of him in shaky gasps as he realized just how lost House was in that subtle, uncomplicated touch. He moved his hand a bit faster, tracing House's inseam with one fingertip, then cupping his erection and pressing rhythmically with the heel of his hand. He'd stripped away everything House was hiding behind along with his clothes, and knowing that made him feel fucking powerful.

Foreman could feel House's breath gusting against his shoulder and the side of his neck, each puff of air making his skin stand up in goosebumps. Foreman shivered and turned to the side just enough that he could kiss the side of House's neck, laying open-mouthed, soft-lipped kisses behind his ear. If this was how House acted when he was sober, then Foreman was more glad than ever that he'd insisted, demanded that they do this again. He'd been right, it was better, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to just keep standing here--not three feet from his front door--touching House, maybe opening his jeans and getting his hand inside, or if he wanted House to start touching him back. His cock throbbed, heavy and full, and fuck, he wanted House's hand there, not on his back or his shoulder.

As good as it felt to have House practically melting on him, Foreman still wanted more. His mind was full of images of House arching up towards him, so that Foreman could see that hazy, desperate look that House was probably hiding from him right now. "God, I want to suck you," he said, whispering the words into the side of House's neck, having no idea if House would hear him. It wouldn't do anything for his own arousal, but the idea of having House completely at his mercy, underneath him, while Foreman made him react, made him raw and frantic with pleasure, was stronger than his own need to be touched. "I think--" He cleared his throat, trying to find his normal register. He hated sounding so desperate himself. "This won't work standing up."

Foreman licked his lips and pulled away reluctantly. He wanted to drag House to his bedroom, but he didn't want to force him; House was too prickly about walking. Foreman only glanced at House's cane, behind him, and figured he'd get the message. As incentive, Foreman sat on the arm of the couch and pulled off his shoes and socks, tossing them into the heap where his jacket and shirt had ended up, before starting to open his belt.

Thank-fucking-God Foreman couldn't see his face, House realized, and tucked it against to Foreman's neck, further out of sight. He parted his lips against Foreman's neck, pressed his tongue to his skin, and sucked gently, shifting closer. House's hand spread over Foreman's chest before it slid down his body, stopping at Foreman's hip to pull him harder against him. His need was fucking embarassing, but he couldn't help the way his body moved closer, wanting more. Wanting Foreman to want more from him.

And, Foreman did want more, and told him exactly what 'more' he had in mind. I want to suck you. Oh, God. Fucking God, the words were dirty and hot coming out of Foreman's mouth, and House groaned into Foreman's neck, the sound muffled and strained. Fuck. House leaned his forehead against Foreman's shoulder, leaning on him so heavily that House wondered if his weight would cause Foreman to stumble back, fall over. House wanted to believe it was more than physical strain in Foreman's voice when he spoke, reminding him of the obvious point that this wouldn't work while they were still standing.

Yeah, no kidding, House nearly said, doubting that he would be able to stand for much longer. It was already humiliating enough that he was depending on Foreman to keep himself standing; verbalizing it would make it worse. House steeled himself, willing his feet to remain planted on the floor, only wavering slightly as Foreman pulled away. He caught a glimpse of Foreman's glance at his cane, and House nodded silently, reaching for it before he walked as gracefully and steadily as he could to Foreman's bedroom. Fuck, he had to lie down, or sit down, and get out of the rest of his God damned clothes. Foreman would catch up; he knew the way to his own bedroom.

House couldn't shake Foreman's words, and the images made him pulse, his erection thick and heavy, straining painfully against his jeans. He craved more contact, real contact, but it occurred to him that Foreman could probably make him come just by talking to him, telling him what he wanted. House knew he would get absorbed in it--Foreman's words, his tone, the closeness of his mouth when he spoke. His imagination would kick into overdrive, wild, dirty images filling his brain. A part of him felt safe to let go around Foreman. He knew that Foreman was aware that, if he did, House would tense up and refuse to let go again, and it was better for Foreman not to rub his behavior in his face. Another part, however, reminded him of the arsenal of personal information Foreman could use later, but the echos of Foreman's voice in his head, the tense, burning ache in his groin made him disregard any concern about 'later'. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, House set his cane on Foreman's dresser just inside the door and moved to Foreman's bed. With his back to the door, he worked open his jeans, sighing quietly at the release of pressure against his erection, then pushed his jeans with his boxer briefs down to ankles before he leaned down to step out of them, bracing himself on Foreman's bed with his hand as Foreman took his time in joining him.

Foreman took a moment to watch House making his uneven-gaited way down the hall. He shook his head and laughed to himself while he slipped his belt free of its loops. God, what was he doing? Leading House on? Leading himself on? Maybe House had been right to worry that he'd leave--it made a lot more sense than hooking up the man who was in all practical ways his boss, not to mention a dozen years older, and a guy. None of those would be problems, except they weren't paired with discretion. Everything he'd said tonight, he was certain House would use against him at some point--maybe not soon, maybe it would be good for a week, a few months--but eventually, House would throw his words in his face. In front of as many witnesses as he could find. Foreman had lost track, had stopped being subtle several whispered assertions ago. He was setting himself up, with every move, every word.

Foreman bowed his head, pressing his hand against his erection, willing himself to calm down, to restrain himself. He still couldn't make himself care, couldn't shut up. He stood up and made his way to the bedroom, opening his fly as he went. By the time he stepped into the room, he'd pushed his pants and boxers off his hips, letting them fall to the floor. House was naked, too, and Foreman took in his back, his ass, his long legs. Except for his uneven stance, he looked perfectly whole. His head was bent slightly, and Foreman hadn't had this chance last time, just to look. Jesus Christ, Foreman didn't care about how he came off, how he sounded, and that almost made him want to stop. House would know--probably already knew--how badly Foreman wanted him, how turned on he was. It should feel a lot more dangerous than it did.

He stepped forward, lifting his hands to House's shoulders and then sweeping them down his arms. A quick grasp at his wrists, a squeeze as a reminder that he could pin House down if he wanted to--and fuck, he wanted to--and then Foreman moved his hands to House's torso, around to his stomach and down to his erection and started stroking him again. Slowly. Firmly. Purposefully. Running his hand over House's entire length, from balls to tip, his thumb rubbing over the head. Foreman kissed the back of House's shoulders, tasting his sweat, brushing his lips higher up House's neck, as far as he could comfortably reach. He was breathing hard, and he thrust his hips forward, rubbing his cock against House's ass. Pleasure surged through him, twisting through his stomach, gathering just behind his balls. So close, and he thought again of Saturday night, of coming while he was thrusting into House without a thought for how he'd looked. He wanted to ask, Is this what you want? because it felt like he'd already said too much himself, revealed too much of what he wanted. Any question he asked would only give House an opportunity to shoot him down, anything he said would be too much. And they were still standing, but Foreman had lost track of his goals the minute he'd stepped foot in the room.

When House heard Foreman's footstep behind him, he stood straighter, his weight shifted to his left, but kept his back to Foreman. As much as he hoped to see a hazy expression of desire on Foreman's face, standing apart from Foreman like this, alone near Foreman's bed, made him feel a twinge of doubt. He couldn't possibly be attractive, and he was certain that Foreman could pick up any muscle-t-shirt-wearing gym-member guy that Foreman wanted--more Foreman's type, House guessed--or any sleek-haired, high-heeled woman that caught his eye. Someone less problematic, and someone Foreman hadn't disliked so much that he'd had to leave. Someone whole. House had lost some of the more developed lean muscle he'd once had--literally--and moments like this, set apart and on display, reminded him that he still was a fucking cripple. The reason that Foreman seemed to want him was beyond him, and, still standing alone and waiting, House felt his doubts swirl through his head. It distracted him from his own arousal, and House couldn't decide if he should bolt now, before Foreman realized what the hell he was doing, or if he should stay to see how much--and why--Foreman wanted him. House touched his hip with his right hand, sliding it down, but not far enough to feel the physical reminder of his handicap--he could feel that without touching it--and felt his curiosity, his pathetic need to keep Foreman wanting him, push his doubts to the background of his thoughts. Staying.

Behind him, he heard no reaction from Foreman, only the rustling sound of clothes falling to the floor, and closed his eyes. He could feel Foreman's gaze on him, knew it was there, and his ears suddenly burned with self-consciousness. He had to beat it down, push through it and not let Foreman see it, and he squared his shoulders, raising his head, refusing to glance over his shoulder. When House heard the sound of Foreman's footsteps, he let his arms fall to his sides, drawing a breath and waiting. He was still aroused, still aching, and the first touch of Foreman's hand on his shoulders--smooth, and warm, and fuck--almost made him sink down to the floor. His breath caught at the squeeze of Foreman's hands on his wrists, and House braced himself to be thrown down to the bed, pinned down and covered. It took a moment for him to realize that Foreman hadn't done it--was he fucking messing with him?--and the rest of his thoughts, doubts included, vanished when Foreman's hand wrapped around his dick. Oh, God.

House did feel his muscles weaken this time, his body leaning backwards to rest against Foreman's as a soft, quiet moan slipped out of his mouth at the first long stroke of Foreman's hand. God, he really was fucking pathetic, taking anything Foreman would give him. He angled his head, inviting the heat of Foreman's mouth on his neck as he kissed him. He pushed back against the dry rub of Foreman's cock, pleasure and anticipation streaming through him, wishing Foreman would fucking talk again. He hated himself for wanting it, as if it meant something. As if Foreman couldn't take it back, throw it all in his face.

Reaching behind him, House found Foreman's hips, his ass, and spread his hands wide, forcing himself not to urge Foreman closer--it would make him look even more needy--but House kept his touch light, just to keep Foreman where he was, warm, and wanting him, and touching him. He didn't want any of it to stop. He was sure he wouldn't be able to keep standing for long without Foreman physically holding him up, but he didn't break away yet. It felt too good to stop--it made him forget to think, and, God, House didn't want to think right now--and House let himself lean on Foreman as much as he'd allow, pressing his back to Foreman's front, letting himself concentrate on Foreman's touch, on the pleasure rolling through him, instead of keeping himself standing.

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