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 chuckled breathlessly at House's complaint. The incredible feeling of House's throat working around his cock while he came had been worth it, even if House decided to get revenge on him in the next few minutes. He thought about saying then next time, don't stop, but that would be a disaster on so many levels. Probably get him into a war of who could annoy the other most during sex. Not to mention the stupid, baseless assumption that there would be a next time. Foreman felt too relaxed, boneless and satisfied, to want to get himself into that kind of trouble.

He turned his head on the pillow, smirking lightly at House's scowl, watching him pant. No matter how good Foreman felt physically--which, right now, was very, very good--it was better to see House struggle for control. "I suppose you want me to do something about that," he said, glancing down at House's erection. He let his smirk grow, visions of drawing out House's orgasm for as long as possible making their lazy way through his brain. See what confessions he could wring out of House--sounds, his name, anything. The fact that Foreman had said please, now that the moment was over, was fading from importance; what really mattered was showing House just what he'd be missing if he claimed he didn't want Foreman again.

Foreman shifted down the bed slowly, then rolled over until most of his weight was on House, chest to chest, his leg thrown over House's left. He kissed him, tasting the bitter remnants of his semen in House's mouth and not bothering much about it, since probably he'd be dealing with worse in a few minutes. Foreman wanted to keep the kiss slow, as warm and unhurried as he felt. Wanted to see if House was desperate enough to deepen it. He brushed his left hand down the center of House's chest and stomach before reaching for House's dick, squeezing him firmly but keeping the pace leisurely. House probably thought that Foreman was torturing him, but Foreman simply wanted to take his time exploring until he knew exactly what would make House come as hard as he had. He broke the kiss to see House's expression, and then dipped his head back, trailing his mouth along House's jaw to his throat, enjoying the slight burn of House's stubble on his lips.

"I could suck you," he murmured against House's ear, tightening his hand on House's dick at the same time. "Get out the lube, maybe fingerfuck you at the same time..." He smiled against House's shoulder, where he could hide it. "Know you like that." Before Foreman did any of that, though, he wanted to feel House's reaction to his words, whether in his voice or the tightness of his body.

House responded with a glare, scowling at Foreman even as he began to shift. His expression was difficult to maintain when Foreman climbed on top of him, impossible as Foreman caught his mouth in a kiss. He let himself get lost in the soft press of Foreman's mouth, the gentle slip of his tongue, all the while anticipating the moment that Foreman deepened the kiss, put more force and intent behind it. It never happened, and House wondered if this was Foreman's plan, drive him to a painfully heightened level of arousal because the bastard knew that he could, then draw it out. The thought was simultaneously torturous and really, really fucking hot, but House's body was too desperate for some sort of relief--the press of his erection against Foreman's body wasn't enough.

As Foreman's hand spread over his chest and trailed down his body, he tensed, drawing in a breath through his nose and holding it, waiting. He released the breath all at once, not caring if the air spread over Foreman's face, relief washing over him at the firm squeeze of Foreman's hand around his dick. Oh, yes. He let his head fall back when Foreman broke the kiss, waiting for Foreman to start stroking him, closing his eyes and exhaling a frustrated sigh when all Foreman gave him were several slow, relaxed pumps. He wanted a real touch, and it took every shred of control to keep from lifting his hips and fucking Foreman's hand.

When Foreman spoke, grasping him even harder, House could feel himself break, his control snapping, replaced with the intense, desperate need he hadn't wanted Foreman to see. He knew that Foreman was looking for a reaction. Knew he was fucking with his head, and House hated that his body reacted, that it gave Foreman a reaction to revel in, rub in his face if he wanted to do it. He was squirming under Foreman, his body shifting with tiny, split-second arches against Foreman's. The hot gust of Foreman's breath in his ear forced him to shiver, goosebumps rising on his arms. His hands rose up, reaching for Foreman, gravitating to his warmth, and slid over his sides, the muscles in his ass, his back. He was already panting hard and noisily, but he refused to speak, determined to keep the words flashing through his brain from slipping out of his mouth. Oh, God. Just do it. Suck me. Fuck me. Stop the fucking teasing and do it. Yeah, you're fucking right, I like that, so please, please do it. Anything. God, I need it. Jesus, he really fucking hated himself. For needing it so much. Wanting it so much. And he hated Foreman for teasing him. Making him wait like this. Hated himself for being so willing to wait.

His thoughts were making it all worse, his reactions growing stronger. His imagination filled with images of Foreman's mouth sealed around his cock, lips tights, tongue moving over the shaft, the head, sucking. The combined sounds of Foreman's mouth and the dirty squelch of his lubed fingers pushing inside him, finding his prostate, and stroking in time with the rhythm of his mouth. Oh, fuck. House couldn't imagine how Foreman would push him, force him to react when he put more of an effort into what he was doing, but House hoped that he'd be able to fucking breathe.

The more House imagined, the more Foreman teased and resisted, the more his mind and body were overwhelmed with the desire to get Foreman to do what he wanted. Push Foreman to match his urgency and eagerness and stop teasing without ever speaking the words that House knew Foreman wanted--an agreement, or verbal acknowledgment that Foreman was right. His body was already sending enough pathetic, needy messages; House refused to let his voice add to it, at least while he still had the presence of mind to prevent it. One hand squeezed Foreman's hip as the other rose up, curved around the back of Foreman's neck and wrenched his face closer. Without giving Foreman a chance to pull away, House arched up and covered Foreman's mouth with a rough kiss. His tongue pushed inside deeply, sliding against Foreman's, reminding Foreman of what he could do with his mouth--how damn good he was--and daring Foreman to prove that he was half as skillful.

Even though he'd already come, Foreman felt a twinge of excitement in the pit of his stomach as he watched House. It was exactly what he wanted to see, House moving helplessly under him, his face contorting as he struggled to lift his hips up, pushing his dick into Foreman's hand. Foreman was damn glad that he wasn't the desperate one now, because if he'd still been waiting, impatient, he doubted he could have held back exactly what he was thinking. How hot House looked, how much Foreman wanted to watch him. It didn't have anything to do with conventional attractiveness. It was how House changed when Foreman touched him, how expressive his face was, probably far more than House knew. He might not be begging out loud, but every twitch of his body and his unfocused, vulnerable expression both said more than enough. That Foreman was doing something for him no one else could--not in this moment, anyway; Foreman doubted House was thinking of anything except him, and his hand still palming House's dick slowly and firmly.

When House pulled him in to kiss him again, Foreman went eagerly, kissing House hard. House's hand clamped down on the back of his neck, warm and immediate. Foreman let House hold him however he liked, meeting House's tongue and pushing back just as hard, catching his lip and sucking on it. He was breathing quickly, sucking in House's air and then returning it to him. He finally reached up to pull House's hand away and broke the kiss.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said with a smirk, ramping up the smugness in his voice. House was obviously doing the best he could to stay silent, but Foreman didn't care. He still had plenty of time to hear what he wanted. He rolled away for a moment, long enough to fumble open the drawer of the bedside table and grab the lube. If they did keep this up, he was going to need to buy more. Foreman shook his head at himself--no stupid assumptions--and opened the bottle, spreading a handful over his fingers even as he shifted down the bed, where he could prop himself against House's left leg. He closed the lube, letting it fall between House's legs before looking up the length of his body and enjoying the view. "I should probably make you wait," he said, with a hint of sarcasm, even though he didn't intend to mess around as much as it had felt like House had with him. He held the base of House's erection in his lubed hand and lifted him to his mouth. He let his lips close around House's dick slowly, creating suction and tonguing the warm, firm head.

House hardly cared to fight against Foreman's smug tone of voice, but he managed a weak, breathless, "Didn't think--there was a"--he paused to draw a deeper, but harsh breath--"'yes or no' question in there." After he spoke, he wished he hadn't said anything at all, the quiet rasp of his voice, the stop-start rhythm of his words revealing more than House intended, and he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side, away from Foreman. He heard Foreman fumbling through the bedside table drawer, knowing exactly what he was looking for, and House tried to quiet the anticipation, the hot, tingling ache building low in his groin. He tried to force himself to stay still--stop fucking squirming and arching like he was begging for it.

He refused to spread his legs any further, as if he was that desperate, when Foreman moved down his body, but couldn't help the small, quiet noise that slipped out of his mouth at the sound of Foreman's words. He wasn't sure if Foreman was serious, if he really intended to make him wait even longer, but, God, he really didn't want to wait anymore. He touch himself soon if Foreman didn't, even though it really wasn't what he wanted. He raised his head to look down at Foreman, trying to determine if he was serious, and he stared, watching transfixed as Foreman didn't make him wait, but took his dick in his hand and brought it to his mouth. House's breaths exploded out of him in tiny, fast bursts as Foreman's lips closed around his shaft. Wet heat surrounded the head, and House tried to restrain himself from pushing his cock further into it, wanting more. He let his head fall back down to the mattress, a choked noise sneaking out of him between hard breaths. He didn't think Foreman would refuse such a good chance to tease him, draw out the torture as long as possible, but, now that he'd started, House hoped that Foreman wouldn't stop, or slow down, because, God, House wasn't sure that he could take it. He just wanted Foreman to keep going, suck him harder. He figured some verbal encouragement couldn't hurt if it meant that Foreman didn't stop, and he ground out a rough, whispered, "Yeah." One hand rose to Foreman's shoulder, and he wanted to make sure he kept him there, didn't let him back away.

With half his mind, Foreman paid attention to exactly what House was doing, now that he couldn't see him. He drank in every sound House was making, his shaky, half-formed sentences. House couldn't even hold on to his precious sarcasm, and Foreman fucking loved that he was the cause of that. House's hand clutched at his shoulder, his grip tightening each time Foreman raised up.

God, Foreman's jab must really have worried House, if he was that obviously holding Foreman down, if he was willing to let slip any encouragement at all to make sure Foreman wouldn't stop. Foreman didn't intend to. He had House frantic and craving his touch and he wasn't about to give that up. He swirled his tongue around the head of House's cock, sucking hard for a moment before he moved lower. He could feel House's pulse as he traced a vein along the underside of his erection, moving down as far as he could until his cheek rasped against the hair low on House's stomach.

Foreman knew that House expected him to keep taunting him, to hold back as long as possible. House thought he was predictable. Foreman had never had a problem staying with what worked--what would be good for himself, for his partner--but House's sneering jab at him earlier for being boring made Foreman want to be inventive, give in to all his impulses. Barely pausing in his blowjob, Foreman palmed House's balls, slicking them with lube as he slid his hand lower. In one firm movement he eased a finger inside, past his knuckle, stretching as far up and forward as he could. He pulled his finger back and thrust again, with the index and middle finger this time, slow enough to make sure House could take it, but confidently, relentlessly. He shifted slightly to get a better angle and reached again, the pads of his fingers rubbing against House's prostate. It took most of his concentration, coordinating his hand and his mouth, but he was able to start a rhythm, taking in House's dick as deeply as possible at the same moment that he thrust his fingers deep.

House was sure that Foreman would ease off, slow down, but he--surprisingly, unpredictably--kept going, pushing him. Constantly moving his lips, tongue. Sucking hard. Taking him in deeply, almost completely surrounded, base to tip, by the heat of Foreman's mouth. Never backing off or backing down for one half-second. House's mind fogged entirely. Couldn't fucking think. Could barely catch his God damned breath, his mouth open as he panted desperately. His hand fell from Foreman's shoulder and closed around a fistful of bedsheets, and he ground his head into the mattress as Foreman worked one finger inside him. Pushing even more.

House clenched around Foreman's finger as Foreman withdrew, a futile attempt to trap his finger inside him, force him to find his prostate and rub his damn orgasm right out of him. When Foreman thrust his fingers again, two this time, it was nearly more than House could take, and he strangled a groan low in his throat, the sound escaping as an aborted grunt instead. His hips rose off the bed, rocking up the moment Foreman's fingertip brushed over his prostate, and, forgetting his earlier determination, House spread his legs wider, opening himself up--more accessible, more, fuck, he wanted more. His orgasm was building fast, and House couldn't bear to hold himself back. Couldn't bring himself to care that Foreman was about to make him come in--he'd lost track of how long it had been, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes. Foreman would gloat, but the pleasure and the release would be fucking worth it.

Sensation overloaded House's brain, and his body couldn't decide in which direction to push--against the thrusts of Foreman's fingers or the heat of his mouth. His shoulders pressed down into the bed, his whole body bowing. Fingers and toes curled as House groaned, loud, and tight, and strained. "Oh, God," he said quietly, words between ragged breaths. "Fuck, yeah. Yeah. Oh." His orgasm was seconds away, barreling down on him, the pressure heavy, low in his groin, his balls, warming his entire body. He raised a hand to the back of Foreman's neck, squeezing, kneading muscles and tendons, needing something to grab, to hold on to as his brain clouded over with sensation and his body squirmed, writhed helplessly. It was fucking pathetic, but it was good. Foreman was good, and House couldn't stop himself from letting Foreman do whatever the hell he wanted, as fast and hard as he wanted, couldn't stop himself from letting go like this, no matter how much he would have to defend himself, no matter how much Foreman would rub his face in his own surrender later. It was just too fucking good.

The more House responded, the more Foreman wanted to make him respond. He hardly knew why it affected him so much. House's ragged, breathless words, the moans he couldn't--didn't--hold back, echoed in Foreman's ears. Yeah. Oh. Fuck. Each time he heard House's voice break Foreman felt the urge to suck even harder, to find that same spot and focus all his attention on it. Christ, Foreman should be able to take more control, to screw around and pretend he was only deigning to blow House, smirk as he let House's cock fall from his lips and make him wait. But he didn't want to; all he wanted was to make House come, to drag his orgasm out of him, to listen to those final, unstoppable sounds that he knew House wouldn't be able to repress. There was no way in hell House wasn't being honest right now. And maybe that was it. The fact that for once, Foreman knew that House's reactions were real. For him.

He sucked vigorously, getting turned on all over again by the sound of his slick, pumping fingers and the sloppy wet movement of his mouth. It was getting more difficult to keep up his rhythm, as House squirmed under him, his legs parting--Foreman moaned around House's erection, letting his throat vibrate. It was so fucking good feeling House submit to the sensations, to what Foreman was doing to him, and silently ask for more. His hips lifted each time Foreman found his prostate, and his stomach tensed under Foreman's cheek. He must be close; his hand squeezed the back of Foreman's neck, not to push him lower but as if he needed something to hold onto. Needed Foreman.

Foreman was breathing hard, barely able to get a full breath, his air bursting erratically through his nose. He wanted House to come, yeah, but not without a little struggle. On the next push of his fingers, instead of withdrawing, Foreman kept his fingertips against House's prostate. He stopped sucking, his mouth still closed around House's cock, letting the thick, hot weight of it rest against his tongue. The only stimulation House would get was by the movement of his body. Foreman closed his eyes long enough to take in House's desperate, jerky motion. For the length of a breath, maybe two, Foreman was completely still. Then, without warning, he started again, as fast and as hard as he could. The tiny break could only make the renewed sensation that much stronger, and Foreman was ready to force as much pleasure out of House as he could.

House pressed his head back against the mattress, his eyes squeezed shut, body tensing on the edge of his orgasm, waiting for it to break over him. God, come on. Come on. His hand slid down to Foreman's shoulder, squeezing once before falling down to the bed to fist the sheets, his hand opening and closing with the rhythm of Foreman's mouth. Just one more second. One more hard suck. One more thrust of those God damned fingers. One more brush against his prostate. One more--

It took a moment for Foreman's stillness to register, but, as it did, House raised his head to stare, too confused to cover it, anger creeping into his expression. He was panting hard. His body was shaking. He wanted to come, had been a second away. Needed to come. Fucking aching for it, and his body jerked with the desperate attempt to prompt Foreman into motion. The pressure on his prostate, the heat of Foreman's mouth still around him, felt good, but not enough. He needed more, one more action, another tiny push from Foreman. Oh, God, he needed it. "Foreman," House warned, completely serious despite the uneven, husky quality of his voice. Move. Do it. Make me come, you bastard.

Foreman started again, as abruptly as he'd stopped, and House let his head fall to the bed, a ragged sigh floating out of his mouth and toward the ceiling. In the second that Foreman began moving again--mouth working, fingers pushing inside, stroking inside--the whole fucking world seemed to condense to the heavy ache in his groin. To the throb and pulse of his dick. To the jolts of pleasure from his prostate. To Foreman. Fuck. A second later, all of House's focus narrowed even further, to the breath-stealing slam of his orgasm. The hot pleasure, the release of tension made his body jerk and quiver, his hands clutching at the sheets as he came. Came hard, too hard for his voice to work beyond a wordless, broken moan. The sound of it still echoed in his ears when he collapsed, relaxed against the mattress, his eyes closed, lips parted, chest and abdomen rising and falling with his shallow, fast breaths. A soft, sated groan slipped out of his mouth with an exhaled breath before he realized he'd done it, and he turned his head to the side, away from Foreman, but didn't bother to move yet, feeling too fucking boneless, and mindless, and content to give up the satisfaction of his lingering aftershocks.

Foreman closed his eyes when he heard House say his name. It wasn't what made him start sucking again--he wasn't about to let House wait, not when it would probably earn him a punch before it would make House beg--but it was exactly as good as he'd hoped. Short and sharp and quickly cut off. House sounded like he wanted to be angry but just couldn't focus long enough to put together a coherent objection. That's all Foreman really wanted; that proof that he was on House's mind. That House was knew Foreman was the one good enough to get him off.

He missed House's hand when it dropped down from his neck to curl in the sheets. He didn't get any warning when House came--nothing beyond the tremble of House's body and the broken moan he let out--but he hadn't been expecting one. Not just because House wouldn't give up a chance to get back at him, but, Foreman suspected, simply because House hadn't thought of it. Hadn't been thinking of anything. That idea was fucking satisfying and Foreman took a smug, lazy pride in knowing he'd made House, of all people, stop thinking. The jerk of House's dick and the warm spurt of his come wasn't exactly a surprise, not after he'd moaned like that. Foreman swallowed as quickly as he could, trying to clear his throat of the cloying texture. He kept sucking as he pulled his fingers out slowly, letting House ride the high of his orgasm for a little longer. Finally, Foreman pulled away completely, stretching a bit--God, he still felt the lingering endorphins himself, and the excitement of making House come had only added to the easy, comfortable feeling that filled him.

House was trying to recover his breath, and not looking at him. Foreman didn't bother interrupting him, just lay down next to him and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his body slowly cooling, perfectly relaxed but not yet sleepy. Couldn't be later than ten o'clock. Foreman was vaguely aware that he'd missed supper. And, he thought, wincing mildly, he might have promised to feed House. Yeah, he didn't care to force House into moving or speaking, not just yet. Easier to be quiet and enjoy whatever peace he'd get.

His doubts were already creeping back. As much as he'd wanted it--as good as it had been--Foreman had done more than persuade House to come back to his place. He'd pretty much thrown himself at House. He didn't know what to make of that. Knowing he'd been right felt good, winning was good, but if House felt coerced then who knew how he'd react when there wasn't the prospect of an orgasm in his immediate future? Was he going to stay the night? Did Foreman want him to?

Foreman grunted softly to himself, interrupting his own thoughts. No way to know except to deal with the consequences. That was something he'd learned the hard way, last time. Except he didn't know how to start the damn conversation. He opened his eyes, facing away from House, and saw the drawer of the nightstand sitting open, where he'd left it after grabbing the lube. Last time, House had left his Vicodin sitting there when he'd stormed out, and Foreman had shoved them into the drawer trying to forget about the entire night. He rolled onto his stomach and reached in, finding the prescription bottle easily. "Here," he said quietly, dropping the pills on the bed near House's hand. This was something Foreman thought he knew: House needed his pills; he was eventually going to get up and grab them; Foreman was just cutting out the middle step, as well as testing the waters of House's reactions.

House kept his face turned away from Foreman, drawing deeper, slower breaths now, as he felt the bed shift with Foreman's movements. Even though it felt strangely soothing, the lingering heat of Foreman's body reminded House that Foreman was there, that House was lying in Foreman's bed, drowsy with his post-orgasm glow. Still naked, legs still sprawled out, sweat cooling on his body, the air creeping over his skin forcing him to shiver. Foreman's bed. Foreman's apartment. House squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself that he hadn't wanted to end up there, hadn't wanted Foreman to want him, half-disgusted that he'd went with Foreman so damn willingly. It was pathetic. Pathetic. It shouldn't matter. Foreman shouldn't matter. Shouldn't matter if Foreman wanted him or not, if he left or stayed, took off for California, or the Amazon rainforest, or the fucking African safari--wherever on the globe Foreman felt he needed to go to in order to get away from him. It should matter even less if Foreman kicked him out or not; he had every right to boot him into the street, and House hated himself for hoping that Foreman wouldn't do that.

Foreman's grunt and movement distracted House, and he rolled his head to watch Foreman reach into the drawer of the table, his eyes following the trajectory of his Vicodin bottle as it left Foreman's hand and fell onto the bed. House left the bottle where it landed, despite the building ache in his leg--he'd been trying to ignore it, not wanting to make the trip off the bed to retrieve the bottle in his pants pocket. Looking up at Foreman, he narrowed his eyes, studying Foreman carefully. Foreman had never really made a point of withholding his meds, or lecturing him about them; he seemed to get that House functioned better when he wasn't in agony, which was more than House could say for others, but House wondered why Foreman had offered them now in the first place. House hadn't made a show of the pain. It hadn't interfered with--House tried to fight back the images of it--what they'd just done. More than anything, House was interested. Interested in how Foreman would react now, what he'd do, or say, and House watched him, closing his fist around his pill bottle, popping the lid and fishing out a pill without having to look away from Foreman's face.

It was strange to see House naked and relaxed, his chest moving evenly with his breathing. Like there was no connection at all between who House was here, in Foreman's bed, and who he was at work. House didn't try to cover up, which Foreman wondered at. The heat in Foreman's body was fading, but he didn't bother with the sheets either. He was taking in House's body, trying to keep his studying glances subtle. He hadn't had the chance, earlier.

It was easy to ignore House's scars during sex. Now they seemed so much more obvious. The bullet graze on House's neck had faded and nearly disappeared by now, and it was mostly hidden by his stubble. The seamed depression in House's thigh, the pucker of the bullet scar on his abdomen, made Foreman feel like House was...not fragile; House would never accept that. But not untouchable, either. Like there was something human under all the armor. Three years with the man was more than enough time for Foreman to learn to disregard House's leg completely, even as he was making allowances for House's range of movement and chronic pain. Giving him his pills was a simple step to avoid House getting bad-tempered when all the exercise caught up with him. Foreman carefully ignored the thought that it was a simple step to keep House from getting up, too. To keep him from leaving.

House didn't pick up his Vicodin right away. He watched Foreman in return, and Foreman didn't know what he was looking for. He tightened his lips and tried to look neutral as House studied his face. It wasn't really Foreman's business if House took the pills or not. Making them available was as far as he cared to go. The rest--all of House's reckless behaviour--was House's responsibility.

Foreman didn't like the feeling of being the slide under House's microscope. He reached for the bottle of lube, which he'd left between House's legs. There was an oily spot on the sheets where the lube had dripped, but not, Foreman hoped, worth fighting over. He turned away again to drop it in the drawer and slide it shut. When he settled on his back, their shoulders pressed together, and his calf brushed against House's. Warm. Foreman was strangely reluctant to move, even though the silence was growing uncomfortable, reminding him all over again of what an idiot he'd made of himself seducing House. Christ, seducing House. Foreman blinked at the ceiling, trying to find his footing again. "If you want to shower," he said, and shrugged awkwardly where he was lying instead of finishing that sentence. The image that popped into his mind--licking warm drops of water from House's throat--was not helpful at all.

As he studied Foreman, House got the feeling that he was making Foreman uncomfortable, which was interesting in and of itself. He tossed a pill into his mouth as Foreman laid down again, still watching him.

House felt his eyebrows dip with confusion, his brain interpreting Foreman's unfinished sentence as a casual suggestion that they shower together. The idea of it made House look away from Foreman, up at the ceiling, his mind already imaging just how that would go--not that far, since he couldn't manage a whole lot standing up in a slippery-wet shower for a long period of time, but groping and kissing could go a long way. House vaguely wondered what his chances were of getting laid twice in the same evening. Foreman's shoulder moved against his with the shrug, and House realized that there was no way that Foreman had been implying anything but the free use of his shower. That alone was surprising enough, though--practically an invitation to stay in Foreman's space. Stay naked in Foreman's space. And House felt simultaneously satisfied and nervously on-guard that Foreman wasn't kicking him out. On the one hand, he felt the need to establish some distance, but, on the other, he was curious as to how far he could invade Foreman's space before Foreman got fed up with him and kicked him out after all. He could always take up Foreman's offer of using his shower. The warm water would do his leg some good. It would give him some space, and he could use up all of Foreman's hot water before planting himself in Foreman's living room with the half the contents of his fridge spread out like a buffet.

Sounded like a plan. He looked back at Foreman, pushing himself to sit up, noticing that he wasn't the only one who'd been imagining things, from the looks of it. Foreman had a far-away expression on his face, and House couldn't resist interrupting his thoughts. He hadn't really rubbed Foreman's eagerness in his face yet, and figured now was a good opportunity. "I hope the rest of that sentence isn't something like 'then I'll meet you there in five minutes to enact my prison-rape fantasy'," he said as he swung his legs to the side of the bed. "'Cause I'm not really into that."

Foreman felt like he was walking on eggshells. There was a hesitant quality to House's silence, to this whole moment. Foreman was uncertain, which made him frustrated, almost angry, because he had no idea what was going to happen next. He'd learned to handle House pretty damn well at work, and obviously Foreman knew enough about him to get what he wanted, but the consequences were completely unforeseeable. He'd gotten ahead of himself, let his dick do the thinking, and now he was stuck with House, who was behaving almost civilly. Foreman didn't know what to make of that. He knew he didn't want to kick House out, and that only confused him more. Offering the shower was one way of, well, keeping House around, but not in his immediate space. Foreman wanted five minutes just to breathe, and think, and he couldn't do that with House's dissecting stare trained on him.

Foreman looked up quickly, meeting House's eyes when he hear the words I'll meet you there in five minutes, wondering if he was just that obvious about what he wanted, or if House was inviting him. Shower sex wasn't realistic in the slightest, but then, a week ago if someone had told him that he'd be lying naked next to House--for the second time--he would have laughed in their face. Who the hell knew what was possible now? When the rest of House's comment registered, Foreman rolled his eyes and snorted disdainfully, even though House had already sat up and turned his back. The joke didn't bother him. He supposed nobody lasted long in House's employment if they couldn't get over whatever sore spots House found to needle. Besides, the fact that House's comment was the equivalent of waving a bat around instead of striking with surgical precision--which he did a lot more when the topic was Foreman's career--made it barely worth reacting to.

The thing was, he could join House in a few minutes. Out of concern for the amount of hot water, if nothing else. He was itchy with sweat and he wanted to close his eyes and just feel the water running down his body for a few minutes. "Guess that's a risk you'll have to take," he said. The prison-rape scenario wasn't his fantasy; he'd call House on his obvious projection, except now that House had suggested it, Foreman couldn't stop thinking about it.

A sense of awkward self-awareness fell over House as he stood up, naked and unsupported, nothing to grasp onto or guide him through the room. Without moving his head too much--he'd rather Foreman not catch him searching out support--House glanced through the parts of the room that were in view, looking for his cane. Where the hell had he left it? He couldn't remember, and, deciding to forgo it, made his way across the room, slowly heading for the bathroom door. His hand flattened against the wall as soon as it was close enough, and he paused as Foreman spoke, not turning to look back at him and not responding. He didn't care to see the expression on Foreman's face now, not when he was doing the cripple-hop across the room. He wasn't sure if Foreman was intending to barge in on his shower, and he was curious, though he hoped that he could have a little time to himself. Foreman hadn't left him the fuck alone ever since he'd gotten back. Granted, a part of him was very satisfied by that, by the knowledge that Foreman couldn't leave him alone, couldn't keep his hands off him. He just needed to regroup, get his bearings. Get the drying lube off his ass, for fuck's sake.

He didn't look back before finally making it into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it. If Foreman wanted to come in, he'd have to work harder for it. He eyed Foreman's vanity, the neatly folded towels, the single toothbrush in the holder near the clean sink. After he turned on the shower, he quietly opened Foreman's medicine cabinet and found--Jesus, nothing interesting. Nothing but old standbys. He wondered if Foreman kept anything more interesting in another place, his mind moving back to what Foreman might keep in the bedroom--unique lube, sex toys--and made a mental note to see if that stash was any less boring. If there was a stash. Leaving the door of the cabinet slightly ajar, just to let Foreman know he'd looked through it, maybe prompt some paranoia about where else he'd look, he moved across to the shower and carefully stepped into it. He held tightly to the towel rail on the wall, just outside the shower, as he maneuvered himself inside and leaned his hand on the tiles once he was there, letting the water run over his back. He stood there for a moment, just enjoying the warmth before he started to wash himself, scrubbing shampoo into his hair and wondering if Foreman would actually try to join him.

Foreman folded his hands behind his head and watched House get up slowly and head for the bathroom. He thought lazily about rolling to his feet and catching the bathroom door before House closed it, insist on climbing into the shower with him. But that would be way too much. Too close. Too much pressure.

He waited until he heard the water running before he got up. Going to his dresser, he pulled out clean boxers and a pair of sweatpants he usually took to the gym, doing without a shirt, since he didn't want to sweat through another change of clothes before he showered. House's cane was lying on his dresser. Foreman glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Heat rushed through him, half unease and half satisfaction, at the physical reminder that House was still here and not leaving soon. He'd need the cane; he'd limped heavily crossing the room. Foreman tilted his head, questioning his own motives, whether he was looking for an excuse to interrupt House's shower. Well, House could just deal with it. Trying the doorknob, Foreman found it locked, and scoffed quietly to himself. That message was more than clear. He hung the cane on the doorknob and left the room, heading for the kitchen.

He didn't know if it was worthwhile to actually cook. The food in the fridge was enough for one guy who didn't eat at home much, but he could probably throw something together. Frowning, Foreman opened the door and stared in. Leftover lasagna. Vegetables, enough to make a salad. A bottle of white wine in the door, a few beers in the back. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and started taking things out, perfectly aware that he was doing it to postpone actually thinking.

The real question was, did he want this to happen again? More importantly, did he want it to happen again so badly that he'd keep on pursuing House? Because so far he'd been the one making all the advances. Foreman didn't believe for a second that House's outright refusals had any truth to them. House had kissed him back, had sucked him off, eagerly and attentively. Foreman might have given the whole thing up as a mistake, if it weren't for that.

House's indecision was more real. Probably he had all the same doubts Foreman did. But it was Foreman's pride on the line, not House's, every time Foreman tried to convince House to get over his damn reluctance. Anybody else--Wendy, or Sharon a few years ago--they didn't need to be convinced that Foreman was worth spending time with. Foreman knew he was successful, intelligent, and hardly the kind of guy who needed to go out with a bag over his face. House respected him, fine. Leaving him in charge proved that. And Foreman knew he turned House on. Christ, he could replay every minute of the evening in his mind and know that. But if it was going to be a fight every time Foreman wanted more, then maybe it wasn't worth it. Maybe he should stop, react as little as possible when House tried to jerk him around, and let the whole thing lie until House got the point that it was over, no discussion needed.

Foreman faltered. That was the easy way out. Exactly what House had accused him of. Fuck, he hated second-guessing himself, even more when he was second-guessing himself because of something House had said. Would it be avoidance, or just good sense, to stop now? Automatically, Foreman started chopping up vegetables, trying to push the question out of his mind.

House hadn't yet rinsed the shampoo from his hair as he heard the sound of the doorknob--a brief try to open the door, but nothing more than that. A closed-mouthed smile pulled across his face as he stepped under the spray to rinse his hair. Foreman had tried to come inside to, House assumed, join him. He didn't want to think too much about that. It mattered enough--although, it shouldn't, damn it--that Foreman had wanted him at all, still seemed to want him, and House didn't want to think too much about the extent of that want. He had to admit that he was curious about why, but he'd rather piece together information for himself at this point. He let himself think about the sex--the really fucking good sex--and the hunger nagging at his stomach at the moment, the latter winning his full attention by the time he got out of the shower.

His search through Foreman's bedroom would wait in favor of food; he had the feeling this would happen again, that he'd be here again, but, again, tried not to think about it too much, at least not on his part. As he stepped out of the bathroom, toweled off, Foreman's deodorant borrowed and applied, he wasn't surprised to find Foreman gone. He was surprised, however, to find his cane hooked over the doorknob, and he took it with a scowl, wondering if Foreman had put it there as a condescending move. A reminder to get back at him for locking him out of his own bathroom. House wouldn't put it past him. He glanced around the floor, looking for his clothes, as he moved farther into the room. He only found his pants, underwear, and socks, and considered going out into the living room, shirtless, to fetch at least one of his shirts, but decided against it. As long as he was pushing boundaries, he decided to ignore his own clothes and moved to Foreman's dresser. He found a pair of pajama pants--he guessed that Foreman never actually wore them to bed--and, not bothering with underwear, slipped them on. They fit well enough, just an inch or two shorter than his own lounge pants at home. He rifled for a t-shirt, finding a collection that he figured Foreman wore to the gym--solid colored t-shirts, nothing personal--and pulled a light gray one over his head. It fucking smelled like Foreman. Foreman and laundry detergent, and House nearly took it off again--it was bad enough smelling like Foreman without the shirt, thanks to his deodorant--but he told himself Foreman's reaction would be worth it. Any reaction--or no reaction, since that was just as valuable--would be worth it.

Taking his cane, he walked through the hall, his bare feet padding across the hardwood, and into the kitchen, where he found Foreman working at the counter. The scent coming from the kitchen made him even more hungry. He stayed silent, parking himself in the archway and waiting for Foreman to notice he was standing there, carefully watching Foreman's face.

Foreman had the lasagna reheating in the oven, and a green salad tossed together from the vegetables that seemed most likely to go off if he left them a few more days. He'd heard the shower stop running, so it seemed like House wasn't going to drain the building's hot water tank just to prove a point. Foreman was surprised again that House wasn't being more obnoxious. He didn't know if it was the sex or the uncertainty that did it. Either way, it seemed like Foreman was the one who'd had that effect, the power to make House less of a bastard. Chuckling quietly, Foreman turned around to put the rest of the ingredients away, and saw House standing in the kitchen doorway.

Wearing his clothes. His gym t-shirt, his pajama pants. Foreman stopped short. House's hair was sticking up in damp, messy spikes--messier than usual--and his stubble was darker with water. All Foreman's thoughts of cornering him in the shower, of dragging his lips along the path of droplets running down House's throat, slammed back to his attention. Somehow the fact that House was wearing his clothes made it worse--or better, hell, he didn't know. He felt furious, wildly and pointlessly, because House had gone through his drawers and who knew what else, but Foreman had left him alone in his room so what the fuck did he expect? He'd been worried not five minutes ago that House wasn't making any advances, but this felt like a bigger leap than Foreman ever could have expected, going way further than he was comfortable with. The casual air House had about appropriating his stuff, the way the shirt was a bit loose at the neck so that House's collarbone showed; the fact that he was barefoot, even, added to the bewildering, frustrating mix of hot and way too invasive. Foreman found himself wondering if House had stolen his underwear along with the rest and suspecting that he probably hadn't. The fact that he wanted to check couldn't possibly be a good sign.

Foreman threw the last of the vegetables into the fridge and slammed the door shut. "Comfortable?" he asked, with a scowl he didn't even try to suppress. He wanted to strip the clothes off House. Proof of ownership. They were his and House shouldn't be wearing them. But Foreman suspected if he even started to make a move like that he'd end up doing other things instead. Tasting his soap on House's skin. Putting off dinner again. Letting House see that he wasn't, actually, angry. He turned away instead and grabbed plates and cutlery. "I thought private property was important, but maybe that's only when it's yours."

House never could have imagined the swell of satisfaction and unparalleled glee that built inside him at the sight of Foreman's reaction. He couldn't even repress his grin, despite the fact that he was sure that he was showing off his ridiculous dimples, as Foreman froze, as motionless as a rabbit on-guard, only his eyes and chest moving, almost imperceptibly. House forced himself to stay still, leaning against the archway, watching Foreman take in his appearance, his gaze moving over his body. Foreman couldn't possibly be that angry if he was looking at him like that, his eyes lingering long enough for House to guess that his imagination had kicked in along with his libido.

House pushed himself away from the archway, leaning on his cane now, but not walking, and watched Foreman toss food into the fridge, almost as if he was trying to show him that he was angry. House raised an eyebrow, giving Foreman no other response to his question. He let his gaze follow Foreman as he turned back toward the counter, taking a second to watch the muscles in Foreman's back shift as he moved, admire the way the broadness of his shoulders tapered to a slim waist. God, he loved when all that refined muscle and smooth skin was pressing him down harder than--fuck, he had to stop, or Foreman would catch him watching and would have something else to throw in his face. He shook his head, just hearing Foreman's words, and raised his eyes to Foreman's face--his profile.

He knew there was a lot of truth to Foreman's words. If Foreman had ever pulled something like this, rifled through House's clothes, his things, House would have unapologetically shoved him onto the street, dressed or not. House, however, would never have been trusting--stupid, close enough--enough to leave Foreman unsupervised in his bedroom. Or his bathroom. House pretended that a decision like that would have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the closer Foreman was, the closer House could monitor his behavior, the more House would learn, the more Foreman would slip, the more House could push--as long as House thought it was convenient, of course. Regardless of the double-standards he seemed to enforce, House wasn't going to let Foreman believe he'd figured him out, or that he was one step ahead, even if he dished out a lie to accomplish it. Maybe if it was crude or evocative enough, Foreman wouldn't see through it.

House stepped across the kitchen, coming to a stop behind Foreman where he stood at the counter. The close proximity just helped prove his point; it had nothing to do with wanting to be there. He leaned his head over Foreman's right shoulder, "If I thought my private property was important," he said, angling his head to push his breath across Foreman's ear as he spoke, "then I never would've let you shove your dick up my ass. Good thing for you."

That fucking, smug, shit-eating grin. Foreman knew that it meant House figured he'd scored a point, or more likely won a whole game, off his reaction. House simply didn't smile like that unless he was laughing at someone. As if the fact that Foreman liked what he was seeing was some huge secret. The only secret that was really out in the open now was that House clearly liked his reaction, enjoyed winding Foreman up with his weirdly careless familiarity.

That was only confirmed when House stepped up behind him. The apartment was cool enough that Foreman immediately felt the difference in temperature, his skin warming when he felt the softness of cotton covering the firm heat of House's body behind him. He glared down at the plates on the counter, something so ordinary that they looked completely out of place with House looming over him. He was supposed to be angry. Had been angry. Now, though, Foreman wanted to push back from the counter, press his back against House's chest. He knew he could break free--it would be easy--but when he breathed in, his willpower crumbled. Foreman could smell himself on House. Soap and deodorant and his clothes, all over top of the clean, body-warm scent of House himself, and mingled with his own sweat and the lingering odour of sex. His dick twitched, as if he'd be already getting hard if he hadn't come less than half an hour ago, and there was no way he was going to turn around and show off that reaction to House.

His head jerked slightly, involuntarily, to the left when House leaned over him, arching his neck as if he was inviting House to do more than just hover. House's chin was close enough that Foreman could feel that his skin was warm and damp, exactly as he'd imagined, and he knew he'd fucking love the rough scrape of House's stubble against his neck; his skin already felt sensitive, anticipating it. His air left him in one short pant that there was no way House wouldn't hear. God damn it. Foreman had been better at controlling his reactions before. He should be better now, with all the practice he'd had, except now he knew he wasn't hiding some futile, half-acknowledged attraction. There was a chance that reacting, and showing it, would get him something. Yeah, House would still make fun of him, but Foreman was more than capable of making House squirm, too.

"Let me?" he asked. Foreman at least had enough control to keep his voice level. The way he sounded when House was playing some infantile practical joke and Foreman had to be the voice of reason. Except lower, and with far more intent. "More like asked me." He could remember it far too clearly, House's broken voice saying God, just--just fuck me, Foreman. The memory was enough to make Foreman feel like he wasn't giving anything up, not even with House pinning him against his own kitchen counter with nothing more than his voice. Foreman was the one who could make House practically come apart; he was the one in control. And right now Foreman wanted to make House admit that the only reason he was doing this--pushing--was because he wanted Foreman to react. To do it again. "I think that was a lot less to do with personal property and a lot more about you liking the way I fuck you."

Deflecting. Foreman should know better than to deflect the issue away from himself, believing House wouldn't actually catch on to what he was doing. House was well-practiced in deflection, and could read it, could read Foreman even as he spoke. The correction--'let' to 'asked'--was relative transparent; this was about control, self-control, a matter of personal pride, which was hardly a surprise to House. He wasn't about to mull over the factors involved when it came to himself; it was easier and more interesting to focus on Foreman, and he swung his remarks back to him, rather than let Foreman steer the topic away, refusing to take the bait, refusing to think of how much he really did like the way Foreman fucked him. He might let himself think of it later, when Foreman couldn't gauge his reactions, when it was safer.

"Must have hit a nerve," House said casually, setting his cane against the handle of a lower cupboard and moving closer, leaving only a sliver of space between their bodies. It took all of his self-control not to bow his head and press his open mouth to the curve of Foreman's neck, to keep his hands to himself just to force another hard breath come out of him. It was immensely satisfying to cause Foreman to react almost involuntarily, to make him lose control for just one second, then watch him scramble to regain it. Jesus, if House hadn't just come not long ago, he would be tempted to forget about dinner and initiate a second round. No reason why he couldn't put ideas into Foreman's head, though.

House braced himself against the counter with his right hand, simultaneously blocking Foreman on one side. He tilted his head and raised his mouth directly to Foreman's ear, letting his lips move against it as he said, quiet but gravelly, "I suspect it's because you don't want to think about how you were practically begging to get me here. Again. How you threw yourself at me in the elevator. Twice. How you reacted like a jealous boyfriend when you caught a woman"--no need to mention her name, since Foreman would be more than aware that House wasn't talking about Cuddy, or any other woman but Terzi--"flirting with me. How you told me you'd be more than willing to get on your knees and blow me. Not to mention everything else that happened after that."

House was getting himself hot all over again as he actually said the words, recalling in his mind the events as he spoke. How Foreman had kissed him in the elevator, and every time after that. The heat of Foreman's mouth, his assertiveness, when he kissed him and blew him. God. His hands drifted up to run along Foreman's back, contradicting the way he spoke, and he hated that his own fucking brain would do that to him. He let them fall fast, his body still close. He tried to regain a little of what he lost, adding, "I didn't have to ask." Part of him wondered if Foreman would ever try to make him, then chastised himself for the thought, jumping to the assumption that Foreman would ever want to do this again. With the way he was running his mouth off, he wondered if Foreman would be too pissed off to bother, but he figured Foreman would push back, just to get another dig in, before he kicked him out. Jesus, he fucking hoped that was true.

Foreman caught his breath when House moved closer. He was fucking fooling himself if he thought he had the upper hand, because House was right, damn him. Foreman had been so busy making House shut the hell up that he hadn't worried enough about afterward, when House would rub Foreman's actions in his face. Foreman didn't regret a lot tonight--certainly not kissing House, and not insisting on getting him back here--but the instant House said jealous boyfriend, Foreman's shoulders knotted with tension. He was gripping the counter and his knuckles ached at the force. It pissed him off that he'd been acting that way--that he'd felt that way at all. It wasn't Terzi's fault, she was probably just as deluded as the rest of House's candidates who thought that winning a job with House was some sort of honour. Foreman knew better but he'd done it too; treated Terzi as a threat, as if she'd ever last with House.

"Not to mention, because 'everything else' wouldn't exactly fit your theory," Foreman ground out, ignoring House's remark as best he could. "Since you weren't exactly complaining." Not once they'd really gotten started. But Foreman had been the one who'd broken--who'd begged. God, some day he wanted to bring House to the edge and then just leave him, until he'd asked, until he'd been polite. Until then Foreman would be at a disadvantage, and they both knew it.

Worse, Foreman was conflating work and personal issues, and he fucking hated that, the confusion of it, the lack of boundaries. He was standing here with House leaning over him, his--Foreman's--t-shirt brushing against his back and his nipples tightening with goosebumps as House's breath washed hot across his neck, getting turned on and hating himself for proving House's point, for being that easy. A pushover. He responded almost instantly when he felt House's hands on his back, the warm spread of his fingers, and he hated that, too, for how good it felt. House wanted him, wanted to touch him, but at the same time he thought he had some right to judge Foreman for making it happen? Ridicule him because he'd been stupid enough to feel something?

"That must be pretty damn convenient for you," Foreman said. No, House didn't have to ask, because Foreman had done all the work for him--big change there; House's talent was making everyone else do the heavy lifting. Foreman shrugged back, angrily, forcing House to give him enough space to turn around. "When did you ever ask for anything, House? And I don't mean food or pills." He tilted his head, evaluating House with his eyes. Waited for the answer that probably wasn't coming. "Why the hell are you questioning it now? At least I learned something in New York. It's not a crime for me to get what I want. It's not the end of the world to ask and expect to get something back."

House stayed close until Foreman moved abruptly, forced him back an unsteady half-step. He glanced behind him, searching for support, a steady surface, but found none, and wavered on his feet before he gained his balance. Shifting his weight safely again to his left, House managed to keep his expression steady, refusing to answer Foreman's question. Either of them; they were both equally pointless.

House sneered slightly instead, shaking his head as a quiet laugh burst out of him. After three years--plus his time at Mercy--Foreman still didn't get it. Sure, he could ask, and expect whatever he pleased, but Foreman hadn't learned that, just because he asked, it doesn't mean that he would get whatever he expected. It didn't work that way, and House couldn't believe that Foreman was unrealistic enough to believe that it did. He should know, for fuck's sake. If you asked, people could, and usually would, say no. House knew that Foreman didn't possess the kind of charm or skill that would turn that 'no' into a 'yes'; that was Wilson's talent. Foreman needed to learn that asking wasn't what it was cracked up to be, and, if something mattered, he was better off taking it, demanding it, instead of asking for it. But it wasn't safe--it was a risk--and Foreman liked to play it safe, cover his ass, and ask. One of the few times he'd taken a risk, made a decision and acted without permission or approval, Foreman had ended up fired, and what he might have learned--that he'd done something great because he hadn't asked and done what he thought was best, knew was best--hadn't stuck with him. House fucking hated that he cared; he shouldn't give a shit, but, even though Foreman was good at a lot of fucking things, Foreman could be better if he didn't ask politely for anything he wanted. He'd sure as hell coerce House into his bed more often if he acted that way, even if House twisted it into outwardly needy behavior later on. He did like it, damn it, and, even though he'd be damned if he admitted it, Foreman could use a fucking hint. Some sort of proof that House wasn't wrong about this.

House stared hard at Foreman, mirroring his head tilt as he stepped closer, right into Foreman's space again, coming to a stop only when Foreman's body forced him. House leaned into Foreman, pressed against him--hips to chest. Solid, steady, so fucking warm. House couldn't stop himself from reaching up to feel more. Part of the plan, he rationalized. It was all part of the plan. One hand curved around one side of Foreman's ribcage while the other cupped the back of his head, fingers squeezing and directing Foreman's mouth to his for an aggressive, rough kiss. House waited a half-second before pushing his tongue past Foreman's lips, into his mouth, kissing fast, but deep and thorough. Enough to make Foreman fucking breathless. Exactly how he, in that instant, wanted to kiss Foreman, partially because he really fucking loved kissing him--loved the second that Foreman kissed back--and partially because he had to prove a point.

Foreman's eyes widened when House didn't answer him--no quip, no defensive joke at Foreman's expense, despite House's scowl--but stepped forward instead. Foreman had no idea what he'd done to provoke this, unless this was House's way of asking. Maybe he'd actually listened for once in his damn life. But it couldn't be that. House's mouth on his was rough and insistent, and his hand sliding under Foreman's arm to his back was clutching tight enough that it felt like each finger was leaving its own imprint on his skin. He couldn't escape, not with House's hand on the back of his head; not that he particularly wanted to. Foreman opened his mouth to ask what the hell? and got his answer in the form of House's tongue, sliding hot and invasive against his. Foreman kissed back, responding to House's urgency and the assertive touch, wrestling a bit with him to tilt his head to a better angle, kissing House deeper. Before he knew what was happening, Foreman had a fistful of House's shirt in his hand, pushing it up his back, while the other hand gripped House's hip, his thumb slipping just under the elastic waistband of the pajama pants to discover that, no, House hadn't stolen his underwear after all. Jesus.

He might have no idea what was going on, but he wasn't about to give this up. The counter was digging into his ass, and House was pushing against him, leaning what felt like more than his fair share of weight onto Foreman and expecting to be held up. He'd lost his cane somewhere, Foreman realized vaguely, or else he'd set it aside. Leaning on Foreman. And wearing his clothes, and kissing him, without being asked, without being forced. It was far more like House was trying to force him, trying to make some point that could probably take a lot less time and effort if he'd just fucking say it...except Foreman liked this method a hell of a lot better. He could almost forgive House for raiding his dresser, if this was the result. And even though the kiss was firm and demanding, Foreman was calm enough, relaxed enough that he could afford to simply enjoy it. It bothered him that he didn't know what House wanted, and he was still irritated over House's fucking hypocrisy, to accuse him of being pathetic and then to kiss him like this, like a fucking invitation, but Foreman was beginning to recognize the way House kissed and this was new. Not really a fight. Just a very, very thorough, detailed argument, the kind you could only have with House, full of diversions and the occasional, playful sidetrack.

Foreman knew that the only way to win an argument with House was to disengage, to walk away. House absolutely hated that, when he couldn't force a reaction. And right now he was certainly getting one. Foreman thought about stopping, just to prove that he could, even though he felt warmer now with House pressed against him and his pulse was picking up, his body responding to the kiss. His hand was up under House's shirt now, his fingers rubbing small circles over House's spine, but with the other Foreman reached up and pulled House's arm down, freeing himself of his grip enough to pull back. "Yes," he said, looking into House's eyes deliberately, as if he'd been right all along and the kiss had been some sort of question. You see, he wanted to say. It's not that difficult.

When Foreman started kissing him back, touching him, House kissed harder, trying to force more reactions. He knew they wouldn't get very far, but knowing that he could make Foreman push back, make him take what he wanted--or at least try--would be enough to give him more than adequate masturbation material and would give him the satisfaction of proving Foreman wrong. He already knew Foreman was wrong, but seeing Foreman come over to his side of the argument--really see it, act on it, even if Foreman never verbally admitted it--was extremely gratifying. House felt a wave of confusion wash over him when Foreman suddenly pulled out of the kiss, forced his hand away from his head and told him 'yes'. Yes? What the fuck was he saying 'yes' to, or for, or--

What a fucking bastard. Foreman thought he'd been fucking asking. Asking for what, House wasn't sure. It didn't matter. It was enough that Foreman thought he was asking for anything at all. "It wasn't a question, you moron," House said, punctuating the last word with a shove to Foreman's hip, not caring if it jarred Foreman against the edge of the counter, half-hoping it actually did. The push wasn't forceful enough to knock himself off balance, and he stepped back far enough to force Foreman's hands away from him. If Foreman was that stupid, then he didn't deserve to touch him until he got that he was wrong through his thick fucking head. It pissed him off, because he wanted Foreman to push back, to realize that he wasn't going to get anywhere with House if he asked--for anything. He'd rather Foreman be invasive, even if it meant crossing a line that caused him to toss Foreman out of his place (if he ever got there), than have Foreman back down completely. He wanted Foreman to come back strong and confrontational and assertive, push him against the counter, or the fridge, or the wall and kiss the fuck out of him, but instead Foreman stopped under the pretext that House had just proven his point.

"I seriously doubt I would have gotten that reaction if I'd have asked first." House gestured at him, trying to squash the frustration showing in his voice, his expression, probably his body language, too. Fuck. This wasn't how this was supposed to go, House thought, his eyes focused on Foreman. Gaze hard, intense. He finally dropped his attention to his cane, still leaning where he'd placed it, and he staggered forward to retrieve it.

When he straightened up, he was closer to Foreman than he'd planned, but he held his ground, refusing to retreat, let Foreman believe he was still right. He was aware that he was growing hungry, especially as the aromas from the oven crept throughout the room, but this was more important. He fucking hated that it was, but he couldn't let it rest. Not yet. He was serious, laying out his meaning bluntly now and daring Foreman to prove him wrong as he said, "You'll never accomplish anything worthwhile if you ask." It sounded like a fucking platitude, but he knew that it was true. The times House did ask for something, it was a manipulation game, not a genuine polite question. That never helped him, personally or professionally, and he wondered how Foreman had gotten anywhere in his career if all he did was ask.

House leaned close to Foreman again, wetting his lips before he spoke. "You won't get what you want." House was guessing now, not sure--it bothered him that he wasn't sure--what Foreman actually wanted, but if he wanted him, he wasn't going to keep pulling him back if he was polite. Foreman would pull him back by doing exactly the kind of shit he'd done earlier. Fuck, he really didn't want to think about this; he should have been content with a couple good fucks. It shouldn't fucking matter.

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