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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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.

Foreman laughed out loud at House's frustration, even as House shoved him back against the counter. So it wasn't a question--he could have guessed that. House wasn't the type to ask. He seemed to think that Foreman was, which wasn't always true, although Foreman did actually possess a sense of tact, which made him more likely to ask than to just assume that everyone would agree with him as long as he turned out to be right in the end. House might have that luxury--although Foreman wasn't convinced--but none of the rest of the world had jobs that suited to them or bosses that permissive.

His anger, though, had faded. The kiss had made him feel good, and so did watching House's frustration. House tried to stomp forward to get his cane and ended up walking in awkward, jerky half-steps instead; it made his petulance that much more ridiculous. So Foreman wasn't cooperating with whatever House wanted. It made him curious about what House actually did want, and then, finally, for God's sake, House actually told him. Don't ask.

He knew it was true as soon as House said it. If Foreman hadn't insisted, hadn't pushed tonight, then he wouldn't have gotten House to give in to him. It had been true at work, too: saving his patient's life had been worth it, and so had stealing Cameron's article, pushing his publication through and getting all the acclaim. So sometimes it made him feel like a jerk, on the occasions when he bothered to feel guilty, but most of the time he knew what House was telling him, that he wouldn't get anywhere if he just waited for permission. Foreman was still smiling when House leaned in again and talked about getting what he wanted. He thought he pretty much had, even if he'd asked in order to get it; he'd pushed House in exactly the right way to get a straight answer out of him.

"Maybe you won't," he said. Foreman suspected House had no idea what to ask for, or if he did, then it was the sort of thing that asking for would ruin. His kiss, the heat and force of it, was a clue as to what he wanted, and so was his obvious annoyance and impatience when Foreman wouldn't continue the argument. And figuring out what House was angling for made Foreman feel just that much more smug. He couldn't always stop himself from falling for House's insults, but now at least he thought he knew what was behind them. "Do you always have to be so fucking contrary?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. He stepped forward--House was already close--and grabbed his wrists, easily reversing their positions and pushing House back against the counter. If he knocked House off-balance or made him drop his cane, then so much the better. Foreman could feel his heart beating against his chest, his excitement rising. He kissed House again, hard and crushing, as if he meant to compel every reaction he suspected House was already eager to give. Foreman shoved his hips forward, so that he'd have House pinned at three points, both wrists as well as his body--pay him back for the bruise Foreman suspected he'd have on his hip--and went on the offensive, forcing his way into House's mouth as if Foreman could find his surrender there.

The abruptness of Foreman's action made him stumble backwards until he crashed against the counter, the impact making him set his jaw, inhale through clenched teeth. His hand loosened around his cane, and he glanced down to watch it fall away from him before returning his attention to Foreman, who hovered close, intent clear on his face. House waited, not bothering to answer Foreman's question--he had a feeling Foreman wasn't expecting an answer anyway. Maybe Foreman actually got it. Don't ask. Just do it. House stayed still as he waited, refusing to dish out any more hints.

His frustration began to dissipate when Foreman leaned forward, practically charging, and kissed him. Yes. He let Foreman take what he wanted, kiss him how he wanted. He met Foreman's tongue, even yielding a little, enough to make Foreman pleased with himself and continue, but not enough to stop him from pushing harder, trying for more the next time he kissed him like this. His hands gripped the counter on either side of him, tightening as a small moan slipped out of him, muffled by the kiss. He hated himself for how much he wanted to touch Foreman. Spread his hands over his stomach, run them along his ribs, his chest, his arms. He especially hated himself for the way his body was reacting on its own, fighting slightly against Foreman's grip, arching for more contact.

It was always nice to be right, but now House felt like he'd armed Foreman with a secret to dealing with him. He might have kept his mouth shut altogether if the end result wasn't this, if it didn't feel so damn good to feel the force of Foreman's body pressing into him, mouth moving on his, tongue pushing against his as if Foreman was searching for something. House was a little nervous as to what he might find, but he refused to view his own response as 'giving in'. It was still a part of the greater plan, he tried to tell himself. Prove that, if Foreman skipped the verbal permission slip, Foreman stood a better chance at inspiring cooperation. Remind Foreman that he didn't response to niceties. No, not 'giving in'. Just some carefully distributed positive reinforcement to set up a repeat performance, preferably when House could actually follow through, when his body wasn't recovering from a romp in the sheet, when he wasn't this damn hungry. He had a feeling that, past all the bullshit, Foreman might actually make it worth it.

Foreman fucking loved it when House gave in. They were off-set just enough that House's hipbone dug into his stomach, and when House pushed back, struggling under his weight, Foreman had no compunction about shoving him again, harder. Squeezing House's wrists as he held his hands down on the counter. Foreman was almost laughing, or at least, the warm, amused glow in his chest was the same. A lot like he was getting the better of House, that same satisfied heat, but with something gentle underneath that he definitely wasn't showing. House wanted him aggressive so Foreman kept kissing long past the moment when he needed more oxygen than he could get in a few snatched breaths, hoping to make House just as dizzy. House wanted him. In a way he hadn't before. He was giving up almost too much, resisting without really putting up a fight. As if House had finally let himself want Foreman. Given in to the idea of them continuing whatever it was that Foreman had started. He still didn't know if he wanted that, all of those implications, and Foreman could feel his own half-angry anxiety contributing to the strength of his grip, to the shove and press of his body.

Foreman had always liked women who were assertive, who could hold their own in bed, who enjoyed being playful, and maybe, now and then, who got off a little something out of the ordinary--but it had never been about power, not for Foreman. Maybe he was a chauvinist--and he'd been called that during more than one breakup--but he felt protective, softer around them, careful of his strength. With men he'd always been a bit more conservative, raising an eyebrow across a room and seeing if the invitation was accepted. His only longer relationship had been based on mutual benefit more than any sort of deeper feeling, and the sex had been good but hardly forceful. With House, though, Foreman had pushed because House was so fucking annoying when he didn't, only to find, now, that he was pushing because it felt so damn good. Hearing the edge of House's moan over the sound of his breathing was fucking hot, and it turned him on to make House react, to have him fighting and willing at the same time. To get the upper hand, even if House had offered it. He didn't know how House did this, made him completely forget about the consequences, but when they were kissing like this Foreman's biggest worry about the future was how he was going to pin House down in bed and still have a hand free to jerk them both off.

There was a shrill beep from the oven. The timer. Foreman barely remembered turning it on, although the scent of the lasagna had filled the room. It was the only reason Foreman pulled back, but he didn't give up his grip on House's wrists right away. "You're not," he said, before he had to pause to breathe, "wearing those clothes in my bed." He knew he was playing into House's provocation. Showing that it bothered him. But it was the closest Foreman was going to come at this moment to telling House what he'd been imagining, stripping House naked again and climbing on top of him. Licking his lips, which felt bruised from the kiss, Foreman finally let go of House's wrists long enough to worry about the state of his kitchen.

Grabbing for a cloth to protect his hand, Foreman pulled the pan out of the oven. He took a minute just to ignore House and served himself, gathering his control back and covering the shakiness of the kiss with an air of annoyed impatience. Usually he ate at the dining room table, but he winced at the idea of making small talk with House with the whole evening hanging between them. He headed for the couch instead, turning on the television for ambient noise once his plate was settled on his lap, and started eating.

Even though Foreman had House trapped--it was getting harder to shift, push against the press and shove of Foreman's body--against the counter, Foreman wasn't letting up, wasn't quitting. House would have felt more satisfied with that knowledge if his brain wasn't as distracted by the pain in his back--the edge of the counter sharply pressing, probably bruising--and the burn in his lungs. He was drawing as much air through his nose as he could, caught between the sensations of Foreman's mouth, his body, and the ones in his own body signaling that he should pull away, draw a real breath of air. He had, he realized, nowhere to go, and his fingers pressed against the counter, attempting to propel away from it, out of Foreman's grip to move to Foreman's body, push him away just long enough to gather a breath before pulling him back, but he couldn't gain any leverage. He couldn't decide if he was actually happy about that, simultaneously wanting to get away but reveling in the insistence of Foreman's pressing and pushing. The pressure and force of it, giving away exactly how much Foreman wanted him, how much he liked this.

House arched again, leaning his head forward enough to put his own force behind the kiss, his breath still leaving him hard and fast through his nose. God, it felt so fucking good, how Foreman pushed harder than anybody ever had--nobody else had ever had the guts to do it--and how he didn't treat him like he was something fragile, breakable. It felt so fucking good when Foreman didn't ask.

He couldn't believe his own fucking whine when a loud beep sounded in the room and Foreman pulled away. Foreman--somehow--managed to capture all of his attention as he looked at him and told him, definitely, authoritatively, that he wasn't wearing his clothes to bed. House couldn't fight back the half-grin that tugged at his mouth around his panting breaths, considering the implications of what Foreman said. He wanted him in his bed again. Possibly naked. Probably naked. Fuck, just imagining was hot, and House considered wearing his clothes more often if it would just get them stripped off him.

House watched Foreman get something out of the oven, suddenly putting his desire on the back burner in favor of satisfying his hunger. After watching him serve himself and go into the livingroom, House did the same and followed, grinning. As he settled on the couch, he casually commented, just to annoy Foreman, "Wow. Couples really do start to act the same."

Foreman stopped chewing abruptly. He swallowed, glaring at the television rather than meet House's eyes after he'd said the word couple. Jesus, he couldn't decide which part of that sentence disturbed him more, being a couple or being like House. "We are not a couple," he said, hoping to stop that train of thought cold. Just because they'd fucked a couple of times did not make this anything resembling a relationship. Couples woke up together, maybe left for work together, came home and had something to talk about with each other. They didn't eat in front of the television because they had, really, nothing in common. And he and House fucking didn't. What the hell was he supposed to talk with House about? Wasn't it funny how you sabotaged my interviews and nearly ruined my career? Isn't it great screwing around with your new underlings? If House wanted a conversation he had Wilson. Foreman didn't know what the hell they found to talk about and he didn't really care.

"And don't make a mess," he added, knowing that it was a futile request even as he was making it. House would probably take great pleasure in slapping his dinner down on the couch, just like he had with the damn ketchup that was still all over Foreman's backseat. Foreman stabbed his dinner with his fork and took another bite, eating doggedly and trying to pay attention to the news. He knew House had taken it badly when he'd called sleeping with him a mistake. Foreman had had enough trouble convincing House to come back after that. It wasn't that he didn't want him, obviously, or even want him here--which was fine as long as Foreman was keeping an eye on him. It was mostly that he didn't trust House, didn't trust him not to out Foreman at work, didn't trust him not to clam up and get edgy and defensive, and definitely didn't trust him with a word like couple. Because if Foreman hinted that he wanted that--which he didn't--then House would probably break landspeed records getting away from him.

"Look, House." Foreman stopped, forced out a breath, and then set his plate down on the coffee table. He faced House, even though it was the last thing he really wanted to do. He needed to set some rules, to make it clear where they both stood, otherwise he was going to crazy not knowing. Maybe House liked the chaos, but Foreman didn't want any part of it. "I'm not interested in the details of your damn day. I was there. I'm not your boyfriend, and don't try and pretend that you want me to be." He shook his head slightly, trying to define for himself exactly what he did want. "I want you--" Foreman shrugged and glanced away at the sound of his voice actually saying the words. "--here. Why mess with a good thing?"

House cut a piece of his lasagna (he'd left the salad, far more concerned about substantial food) and smirked to himself as he chewed, feeling a rush of gleeful pleasure at Foreman's reaction, that insistence that they weren't a couple, as if there was no room for negotiation, as if it was a completely ridiculous idea. Button pushed. Mission accomplished. He only answered with a sneer when Foreman told him not to make a mess with his dinner. The thought had never even crossed his mind; he was more concerned about eating his dinner than playing with it, even if it caused Foreman emotional distress to pretend the tomato sauce was fingerpaint.

He froze, however, had to force himself to swallow his mouthful of food when Foreman shifted in his seat and faced him, his expression serious. House couldn't help but stare, lowering his fork to his plate and setting the plate aside as Foreman spoke. Jesus, Foreman thought he was serious? That, or what he'd said must have gotten to him, right under his skin, and that was more than interesting. House wondered what set Foreman off, the fact that he'd said the word 'couple', or that he'd compared the two of them. Foreman was fiercely defensive when it came to separating himself from House, and everything he seemed to represent from Foreman's perspective, but it intrigued House that that issue wasn't the one that Foreman chose to address. He'd expected a reaction from Foreman, but nothing beyond a moody objection, which he'd gotten right away; he hadn't exactly expected some kind of serious man-to-man talk about intentions and investment, or lack of it. As to Foreman's question, House wasn't pushing hard enough--he didn't intent to, at least not now--to mess too much with what they were doing, whatever the fuck it was. House wasn't concerned with putting a label on it in his own mind, and he'd only said what he'd said to poke at Foreman's buttons. It had worked--maybe too much--and House wasn't about to actually address his question. If Foreman would insist they weren't a couple--they weren't--then there was no need to have these 'relationship talks'.

"It's what I do," House said as he levered himself off the couch, leaving his plate on the couch and heading for the kitchen.

He peered into the fridge, eyes resting on a cluster of beer bottles near the back, and reached in for one. Leaning on the open door, House studied it; it wasn't a brand he was familiar with--Big Rock--and he turned the bottle in his hand, searching for the company's location. He rolled his eyes when he found it. Calgary. Imported beer. Of course. Foreman probably figured it was better, unique, and worth a place in his refrigerator if it wasn't commonplace. He turned, snorting to himself, and popped the cap on the edge of Foreman's counter, leaving a white scratch in the dark surface--Foreman was sure to notice, and the thought made House grin to himself. It was a means to remind Foreman of him, that he was here, kissing him in his kitchen, eating his food, helping himself to his beer, all in his God damned pajamas. House's head bobbed in approval as he started out of the kitchen, but he stopped short, turning again, back towards the fridge.

He told himself that it was part of an experiment--see if he could make Foreman uncomfortable by doing the unexpected--as he reached inside the fridge again for another bottle. He wasn't sure if Foreman would accept it, or drink it--he couldn't even recall if Foreman had brought a beverage with him in the first place--but the action itself would probably get enough of a reaction for House to analyze, perhaps have some fun with later. Besides, it wouldn't fucking kill him, even if it got him no worthwhile reaction. He popped the cap, leaving a second scratch beside the first, and gathered both of them in one hand by the necks before returning to the living room. Managing to assume a serious expression--neutral and casual--House stopped beside Foreman, still standing, waiting for Foreman to look up at him, as he extended his hand in Foreman's direction. An invitation to take one of the bottles, as if this was a regular occurrence.

Foreman watched House leave the living room, feeling frustrated for no real reason. Despite House's smartass comment about messing with any good thing that came into his life, Foreman didn't see any sign that House disagreed with him. They weren't dating, they weren't going to make a big deal out of this, and the last thing in the world it could be called was romantic. After how they'd been kissing in the kitchen, Foreman thought House had gotten over himself enough that they might actually do this again without all the dramatics. Or, he thought, raising an eyebrow, maybe it would just be a matter of cornering House and pressuring him until he gave in. Foreman took a quick breath at that thought, enjoying the image. They could come back to Foreman's place, or maybe even end up at House's at some point, and fuck; because, Christ, the sex was hot, so why wouldn't they? As much as House might be self-destructive, even he wasn't obstinate enough to turn down what Foreman was offering him. No strings, no commitment. Just something simple, that could work for both of them.

Foreman picked up his plate again, stabbing at the lettuce. House had left his plate on his seat, and Foreman rolled his eyes. Well, it might work if he could get House to stop treating Foreman's space like it was his to do with as he pleased. He took a bite and let his head back against the couch, frowning lightly, realizing that he'd been watching the news and hadn't taken in any of it. If he and House agreed--and probably House walking out of the room without laughing in his face was the closest he was going to get to a serious answer--then there shouldn't be a problem. But the frustration lingered, like House was pulling an end run around him in a way he couldn't anticipate.

When House came back into the room, Foreman couldn't help looking him up and down again, a trace of arousal making him adjust his position. He parted his knees and slouched down against the couch, the leather sticking to his back. There was no way in hell House could have predicted how seeing him in Foreman's clothes would affect him. And Foreman's own promise, to strip House naked, probably crawl on top of him and hold him down in order to do it...he was so distracted by the thought that he didn't notice at first that House was standing there offering him a beer.

Foreman had forgotten to grab himself a drink, and he was thirsty, but 'bringing him a beer' was another item on his list of things he didn't trust House to do. Foreman gave him a searching look, his eyebrows lifting in a really? look, but he doubted House had had the time, or had bothered to invest the effort, in ruining his beer. "Thanks," he said, taking one of the bottles. He took a drink, and it tasted fine. Good. Foreman let out an amused breath. He really couldn't have imagined eating dinner with House, but it was actually working. "I'd take a shower now, if I didn't think you'd dig through the rest of my stuff while I was gone," he said, only mildly peeved. At this point he was assuming House would stay, and somehow it didn't bother him that he was organizing his life around House's curiosity.

When Foreman finally glanced at the bottles in House's hand, Foreman looked as though he was certain that House was offering him a bottle of poison. House had been seconds away from withdrawing his hand and keeping both beers for himself, but Foreman reached for one, taking it, and thanking him for it. Giving him a quick nod, House set his beer on the coffee table, took up his plate, and sat down, diving back into his dinner.

"Not much left to dig through," House responded to Foreman's comment, his mouth half-full of a large bite of lasagna, eyes directed down to his plate as he gathered another forkful. Foreman could believe what he wanted about that statement; House was sure that Foreman would leap to the worst possible assumptions--that Foreman would find his bathroom and bedroom torn apart, evidence that House had upended both rooms in search of interesting findings. House had been telling the truth. He only had Foreman's bedroom to search properly, and, as far as he knew, it was the last stop, unless Foreman had secrets hidden beneath floorboards. Foreman simply had few places to search and, aside from the files House had found on his computer, nothing interesting in any of those places. It was a shame, because now House would have to drag Foreman's guarded little secrets into the open with words. Foreman had to have some; nobody went through life without them. It seemed, however, that, for Foreman, they weren't exactly material or hidden, packed away in a neatly taped box. He hardly expected anything else from Foreman.

His mind wandered as he chewed his next big mouthful, wondering if Foreman actually would shower, if he'd prompted a bout of paranoia powerful enough to keep Foreman in his seat. He wondered if Foreman would lock the door if he went to shower, imagining him under the spray, water running down his neck, his chest. He wondered if Foreman jerked off in the shower, if he would jerk off and think of him next time. Shoveling another forkful into his mouth, House tried to derail that whole line of thought, keeping his eyes away from Foreman as he ate.

"Your computer's probably got a Kremlin Wall of passwords now," House remarked, swallowing at last. "I'm not expecting to find much anywhere else. Haven't so far." He wondered how much it would aggravate Foreman that House was telling him all of this directly, and he shrugged, partially as an answer to his own silent question, and continued eating.

"What the hell are you even looking for?" Foreman asked, too resigned to be as angry as he should be. House had known him for three years and he'd been picking for more information all that time. There had to be some final goal, some revelation that would satisfy him. "Trying to catch me in a lie about what kind of soap I buy?" He forked up another bite impatiently. House couldn't have searched that thoroughly, since he hadn't come into the kitchen earlier waving his finds. There were one or two things in his bedroom that Foreman hoped would never see the light of day without his permission. Maybe House was just waiting for him to bring them out to laugh and say that he'd known all along. It wasn't really House's style to delay gratification like that--his own, at least; he seemed to have no problem delaying Foreman's--so probably he was lying about the search, just to fuck with Foreman's head.

He glared at the ceiling when House brought up his computer passwords and took another long drink from his beer. Yeah, no kidding he'd password-protected his computer. Although now he realized that by doing that, he'd actually anticipated that House would be coming back to his place again. Even then, as furious as he'd been about House's invasion of his business, he'd been preparing for House to come back. "Great. Let me know when it's safe for me to live in my own apartment again." Foreman snorted, mostly to himself. Showering would be a test of a sort, if he was willing to risk whatever havoc House would cause if Foreman left him alone. He didn't trust House, but he did trust himself, and he knew better to keep his important documents in his home office. That was what safety deposit boxes were for. The fact that it was supposed to deter burglars, not House, was beside the point. Foreman looked down at his plate and toyed with the last bite. He had to peel himself off the couch to lean forward and put it down; definitely in need of a shower. "Enjoy your search," he said, leaving the eye-roll mostly implied. He walked past House, nudging his knees instead of going around the couch, pausing to look down at him, one eyebrow cocked. "There are probably better things you could be doing."

Smirking to himself once his back was to House, Foreman headed for the bedroom, stopped just long enough to push down his sweats and boxers, and stepped into the bathroom. There were signs House had looked around, things out of place and the medicine cabinet open, but Foreman couldn't imagine that his Tylenol held any interest. He turned the water in the shower to scalding, testing it with his hand. So far House hadn't shown much interest in taking him up on his teases--too damn cautious--but Foreman didn't think he'd be upset enough to leave. He closed the bathroom door, leaving it unlocked, and got in under the spray.

"I already know what kind of soap you buy," House said before he could stop himself, but he paused for another bite, figuring he might as well continue avoiding Foreman's questions in favor of making him squirm even more. "And what deodorant you buy, and cologne, and underwear."

It was all House bothered to say, only opting to watch Foreman as he rose from the couch and vaguely suggested that he could be doing 'better things'. Like what? Dishes? Calling a cab? Joining Foreman in the shower, even though he'd just had one of his own? House wasn't sure, and he stayed put, finishing off the last of his lasagna and draining his beer bottle as Foreman disappeared into the bedroom. House stubbornly sat there for a few moments, browsing the channels before caving to the desire to follow Foreman, not quite sure why he was even doing it, what he hoped to achieve.

Once he reached the bedroom, House felt the nearly unbearable pull of his curiosity, forcing him to gravitate toward the bathroom door, arm already outstretch as if the doorknob had an inescapable magnetic pull. As his mind recalled the sense of satisfaction he had experienced earlier, when Foreman had attempted to open the door, House brought himself to a stop, pressing his hand against the side of his thigh, refusing to go any further, to open the door and give Foreman the same satisfaction. He glanced around the room, hoping for a distraction, and took a seat on Foreman's bed, propping his cane against the footboard, his back to the bathroom door.

He had put off his search of Foreman's bedroom, and now, despite Foreman's taunts, was as good a time as ever, with Foreman occupied. He doubted he would find much, but he hoped he would find--even if he found nothing else--an interesting array of sex toys around the bed. Noting that the shower was still running, House scooted along the bed, toward the bedside table and quietly opened the drawer. One peek inside, and House already felt pleased enough to call off any further search. (For now.) Leaning forward, he reached inside to remove a box of condoms--the same kind he had found in Foreman's car. These were, House noted, nearly expired, although Foreman probably wouldn't have to worry about them reaching the date unused if he kept bringing him into his bed with the same regularity as he'd been lately.

House refused to think about the implications of that thought too much, and tossed the box back into the drawer, trading them for a pair of Playboys. Foreman had to keep up appearances even for himself, apparently, House thought, flipping through both of them quickly before replacing them. The edge of the magazines jostled another object against the back of the drawer, and House felt around for it with his hand, a grin spreading over his face as his hand wrapped around the unmistakable shape of a dildo (http://comeasyouare.com/images/Product/tantus-faerie-lg.jpg). Taking it out of the drawer, House inspected it, taking in the curved shape, perfect for reaching a prostate. Or a g-spot, House reminded himself, but he had reasons for believing this particular toy wasn't intended for that purpose.

Men didn't usually supply dildos for women, certain didn't keep one on hand for one-night-stands, and House could only come to the conclusion that Foreman had this for himself. Arousal stirred in him as images flashed through his mind: Foreman spread on his bed, one hand pushing the dildo inside himself to search out his own prostate. His other hand sliding across his hip, wrapping around his dick. One hand pushing, the other pumping, stroking. Making himself moan. Fuck. It made House want to sneak up on Foreman with this while he was still in the shower. Even as he entertained the thought, House had a feeling that, if this really was for Foreman's own use, Foreman would refuse to take it--a dildo or a real cock, now that House thought of it--up his ass from anyone but himself, but even that was hot, made House squirm where he sat, his face flushing with a burst of heat. So much for a distraction.

For the first few minutes, Foreman simply let the water rush over him. The shower was hot enough to ease some of the knots in his shoulders, making his skin burn. The bathroom filled with steam quickly, but he didn't make a move to start washing. He was wondering what House was doing--taking his comment as implicit permission to root through his stuff again? Debating whether or not to join him? Setting off some other disaster? He supposed he should hurry up and wash off and go out and supervise again, but he was starting to feel like whatever House found would be inevitable; if not this time, then next time. And he wasn't kidding himself now that there would be a next time. Foreman pushed out a sigh and reached for the soap, finding it on the edge of the tub instead of in the soapdish. More reminders that House would change things around, fiddle with the order of his life. But Foreman found himself focusing on the image of House in the shower, tipping his head back into the spray, instead, lingering on the look on House's face, imagining his expression when Foreman made him come. Fuck. He wasn't about to masturbate when House was right in the next room; it was pretty damn pointless when he had someone he could probably convince. Foreman grinned at the thought, scrubbing the dried sweat off his body quickly and clinically before snapping the water off.

He grabbed for a towel and found that House had beat him to it, taking the larger one and leaving him with little more than a hand towel to dry off with. Christ, it was all these little tiny annoyances--House did it at work, too, giving everyone around him a series of hoops to jump through, either because he didn't think of anyone besides himself or because he did and he liked the idea of them getting that much more ticked off. Grumbling and still wiping the water out of his eyes, Foreman opened the bathroom door, looking around for wherever House dropped the towel, which was when he looked up to see House sitting on his bed and holding his dildo.

Foreman's stomach dropped. Mortification stopped him cold, like a block of ice had replaced his sternum, before his whole body flushed hot. He'd known this was going to happen. He'd known and he'd let it happen, practically encouraged House to do it, but that didn't stop him from feeling embarrassed as hell to see House actually holding the toy. "I thought you said you were finished," was the first thing to burst out past his paralysis, and then his face burned even hotter. "Jesus, House!" Seeing the thing in House's hands was almost obscene, just knowing what he might do with it...what Foreman might do with it to House. He closed his eyes long enough to shake away the images, and then he strode forward to snatch it out of House's hands. He didn't want to be holding it either--it didn't help his imagination--and he shoved it back in the drawer, slamming it shut. He realized he was standing in front of House, completely naked, still dripping wet. He hated looking this way--getting caught out this way--and it was all House's fault. Foreman needed to get the upper hand back. He took a deep breath and said, low and tight, "If you want to get fucked, you don't need that."

When House heard the bathroom door open, he shifted to peek over his shoulder to catch Foreman's expression. Oh, fuck, and the expression was a good one, honest in its embarrassment. Foreman's whole body tensed. Foreman's naked body. Wet, naked body. Jesus. House, extremely aware of what he was holding, was caught between enjoying the smugness reeling through him and indulging in the flutters of arousal at the sight of Foreman. His hand curled a little tighter around the shaft of the toy as his eyes trailed down Foreman's body to his dick. Fuck. Foreman had a good body, a really good body, and House was absolutely positive that Foreman knew it.

Foreman's sudden movement and vocal outburst jolted House out of his thoughts, and couldn't move fast enough to prevent Foreman from tearing the toy out of his hand. He breathed a silent laugh, watching as Foreman threw the dildo into the drawer as if it were diseased before slamming the drawer shut. House leaned back on his hands and took another moment to look at Foreman, shamelessly checking him out, his head tilted to the side as his eyes roamed from Foreman's legs to his face. He couldn't spare a thought to how Foreman felt about him so openly taking him in, didn't care if it made him uncomfortable, or horny, or angry; he couldn't pass up the opportunity to just look. House watched water droplets roll along lines of defined muscles, down the center of Foreman's chest, his tongue peeking out of his mouth to wet his lips.

Foreman's voice broke through House's imagination, the image of his own mouth tracing the water's paths, and House raised his head to Foreman's face. He glanced briefly at the closed bedside table drawer and, letting a hint of a smirk creep over his face, said, "You're right. I don't. Seems that you do."

Humiliation twisted Foreman's stomach. He had really had no idea how House would react to the dildo, beyond laughing at him. Of course House would mock the hell out of him, as if House didn't go on about his lesbian porn collection at every inappropriate opportunity. Foreman didn't exactly have the time, what with his schedule in Diagnostics, to go out and just get laid every time he felt like it. Even if he did, he wasn't about to bend over for the first person he picked up. The toy was private. How House reacted would tell him a hell of a lot, so even though he wanted to grab the towel off the floor and at least have that much distance, a barrier even if it wasn't much of one, he didn't.

House's smirking approval was easy to see. His eyes lingered on Foreman's body, his chest and abs, and he wasn't intimidated in the least by Foreman's words. No reason he should be--he was dressed, and Foreman hadn't just pulled his sex toy out of a drawer. But the way House was staring, and the lazy arousal in his eyes, made Foreman think more about how House, sitting on the bed, was at nearly the perfect height to bend down and blow him. "No, I don't," Foreman said flatly, denying it. The lie had to be obvious but he didn't care. He didn't need the toy to fuck himself, not if he and House were going to keep going. He didn't need to get fucked at all.

Maybe he'd like it--maybe he'd even allow it, at some point. Not yet, but...God, he had to stop thinking like this. It was as if House thought he could just walk into Foreman's life and take over; not just his space, but his thoughts. The whole night was starting to catch up with him. Pinning House against the counter in the kitchen. Smelling his own soap on House's skin, seeing House offhandedly wearing his clothes. All the scenarios he'd been imagining, the wet slip of House's skin under his hands in the shower, House following him into the shower, holding House down and stripping him before he fucked him. Foreman could feel his body responding to House's stare, and he wasn't about to let House see him get hard when they hadn't so much as touched. "I have something else in mind," he said. He stepped forward, leaning his knees against the bed on either side of House's hips, and tangled his fingers in House's hair, tugging his face up to kiss him hard.

House scoffed at Foreman's lie--he knew it was a lie; Foreman had put no conviction behind it--and he was about to launch an entire series of taunts, attempting to work out a way to maneuver his way around Foreman and retrieve his toy. Flaunt it, what House thought Foreman did with it, how he used it, what Foreman imagined as he thrust it inside himself. The words were at the edge of his tongue, the smirk still playing at his mouth, but he never had the opportunity to unleash them before Foreman leaned down, gripped the back of his head, and pulled him into a kiss. A hard kiss, almost vicious, and it made House reach up to curl his hand around Foreman's forearm, squeezing. He fought to angle his head against the force of Foreman's grip, and he returned the kiss with an equal ferocity, refusing to let Foreman force him into compliance, just because he'd managed to embarrass him. It reminded House of their first kiss, the shove-and-pull of it, and despite his growing arousal, he refused to give in to it. He caught Foreman's bottom lip between his teeth, biting hard enough to remind Foreman of who he was kissing, that he wouldn't back down, bend over, and take whatever Foreman wanted just because he made him really fucking hot.

His position--and Foreman's, the way he loomed over him, somehow maintaining his balance--prevented any kind of escape; House didn't have the strength or agility for it. House opted for another method, reaching between them to roughly take hold of Foreman's dick, immediately stroking, touching without any kind of preamble, not planning to release him until he worked him to full hardness. It made his own cock stir, and he felt himself begin to get hard, but at least House felt as though he was taking a little control back, even if he had to prove he would fight Foreman to do it.

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