wooedforyears | November 12, 2007

November 12, 2007 - Morning

If the alarm hadn't been set to go off automatically at the proper time, Foreman doubted he would have woken up. He rolled over to slap the off button, his muscles protesting, and ran into another body--House. Oh, God. Foreman sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with one hand, and then reached across House to turn the alarm off. He thought about saying something, but he really didn't want to have that conversation--any conversation--before coffee. He got out of bed instead, on the wrong side, feeling subtly disoriented just from that.

After he'd showered, and pulled some clothes out of his closet, Foreman felt better. House was still a lump in the middle of his mattress, but Foreman supposed he couldn't really be asleep. Foreman hadn't felt like moderating his noise, although he'd made the concession of not turning on the morning news on the radio. He left House, sleeping or faking, and went to deal with the rest of the place.

Foreman didn't mind getting his apartment messy in a good cause, which, he thought with a satisfied twist of his lips, last night had been. He could keep on being smug all through the cleanup, remembering why it had to be done.

After starting the coffee, Foreman went to the front hall and collected House's shirts and suit jacket. Good thing House wouldn't look any different wearing them after they'd spent the night in a crumpled heap on the floor. Foreman suspected that was about what House did with them in his own apartment anyway. He took them back to the bedroom and threw them in the general direction of House's other clothes. It would be far too obvious if House tried to steal some of his clothes for work, but Foreman flushed anyway, remembering how easily House had helped himself to his pajamas. Those were on the floor too, although House had ended up wearing them for all of an hour, if that. Foreman smirked at the memory of stripping them off him. He picked them up and threw them in his hamper, knowing he'd be reminded of everything they'd done while he was doing his laundry, and again when he was folding them before putting them away.

Coming back to the living room, Foreman gathered up their dishes, a bit crusted with tomato sauce, and their empty beer bottles. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad sitting down with House to an actual meal at some point. Foreman had eaten with him often enough at the hospital, although only when they had a patient to discuss. He frowned as he brought the dishes into the kitchen and ran some water over them, planning to leave them to soak for the day. It was hard to work out exactly where the sex ended and everything else started. Was it just convenience, or some kind of prelude, to invite House over for a meal before they fucked? Or did eating together matter? Maybe as long as they kept it in front of the television, not a real meal, Foreman wouldn't have to decide. He tossed the bottles into his recycling with a clatter, and pushed the remains of the lasagna and salad into the sink, running the garbage disposal. He hoped the racket he was making would force House to get up without Foreman having to prod him. Experience told him House was not a morning person, and he'd like to be out of range whenever House decided to crawl out of his bed.

For a long moment, Foreman stood at the counter--the same place he'd stood last night, gripping the counter, as if he expected House to sneak up behind him again. Touch him. He scowled down at the tile, feeling caught between wanting that and knowing just how stupid he'd be if he kept wanting things House wasn't capable of giving. He frowned even more when he saw two little indentations in the edge of the counter. He ran his finger over the marks, but they were definitely scratches, and they weren't coming off. A beer cap sitting on the counter, and another one on the floor, were all the explanation he needed. Foreman swallowed a disgusted sigh. He'd been considering leaving a cup of coffee for House, but since House apparently didn't give a shit about his things, he didn't really feel inclined. He poured all of it into an over-sized travel mug and took it with him when he opened his door and picked up the paper. Time to light a fire under House's ass, since he'd shown no sign of stirring. Foreman had no intention of leaving House in his apartment alone--he'd had enough lapses of judgment like that--so he'd be hauling him out, ready or not, when it was time to leave.

"Your ride to work leaves in ten minutes," he called down the hall to the bedroom, and settled down at the dining room table with his coffee and the paper.

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Apparently, it was impossible for Foreman to be quiet. It was bad enough that Foreman's screeching alarm clock had been next to him, but Foreman didn't even have the damn decency to let him catch some more sleep, now that he'd finally been able to get it. It had taken longer than he'd hoped to fall asleep, and he woke up enough times to irritate him throughout the night. And now Foreman was making a God damned racket. Everywhere. The bathroom. The kitchen. House tried to bury himself further down beneath the covers, tried covering his head with a pillow for a while, but all the damn noise still burrowed through to his ears, keeping him awake. Of fucking course.

At the sound of Foreman's voice, House groaned into his pillow--Foreman's pillow--and lifted his head to squint at the alarm clock. Jesus, he wouldn't be awake for another two hours if he were in his own bed, in his own apartment, Foreman's voice not bellowing through the hallway at him. Next time, he was going to drag Foreman to his place, purposefully ignore the alarm clock--hide it, he'd fucking hide it, just so Foreman couldn't set it himself--and sleep until he woke up. On a decent night's sleep, he could listen to Foreman bitch about being late to work all morning, if he had to, but not when he spent half the night awake in an--to his subconscious--unfamiliar place. Now, he didn't have much of a choice, unless he wanted to call a cab to drive him to work, which, now that he thought of it, wasn't out of the question. He contemplated it, realizing that, if he didn't drag himself out of bed soon, Foreman would probably bitch at him anyway. He had a feeling Foreman wouldn't really leave without him, if only to keep him from being alone in the apartment.

Too bad that wouldn't even work to his advantage; Foreman wouldn't be quiet enough to let him get back to sleep. Neither would his leg, at this point, and there wasn't much use in staying in bed. He reached for his pills, tossed one back before sitting up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, looking around the room, noticing that Foreman had brought in his clothes at some point. Fuck, he hadn't thought about this. He wondered if anyone at the hospital would actually notice if he arrived without a shower, dressed in the same clothes as he'd worn the day before. Maybe. He wasn't sure. Wasn't sure that he wanted to risk it, either. A shower, at this point, was out of the question--he couldn't speed through a shower just after he'd woken up, still half-asleep--but he could borrow one of Foreman's shirts. No. No, he didn't want to do that either. Someone would definitely notice that. That wasn't what he wanted. He didn't even want to think about it--everything that had gone on, what they'd done--and definitely didn't want to talk about it with anyone who might put the clues together.

Standing up, he reached for his cane at the foot of the bed, and started to dress in yesterday's clothes. He left off the button-down, just wearing the t-shirt under his jacket, and, after using the bathroom, brought it with him into Foreman's dining room, where Foreman sat with his nose in a newspaper. The smell of coffee drew him forward, and, without asking, making sure Foreman was engrossed in his damn paper, reached for Foreman's mug, taking a mouthful for himself.

"Not if the passenger hid the keys," House said, just to try to mess with Foreman, strike a little paranoia into his fucking early-rising heart.

Foreman glanced over the top of his newspaper, eyeing House skeptically. House was a mess, hair standing up in even more directions than usual, clothes wrinkled, bags under his eyes. Foreman ignored House stealing his coffee, because if he fought it he'd end up with coffee all over the floor and probably himself as well. Besides, he'd already drunk more than half, and without the milk and sugar, House wouldn't like it much. Foreman twitched the paper back up, generously deciding to give House enough time with his coffee to be able to prop his eyes open.

He tensed at House's comment about his keys. House was such a restless sleeper, kicking and turning, that Foreman hadn't gotten as much rest as he'd wanted, and House could have gotten up half a dozen times and Foreman would have put every effort into ignoring him and staying unconscious. House was probably screwing with him. Foreman glanced toward the front hall, where he'd tossed his jacket, complete with wallet and keys. Probably.

Foreman glared at House as he stood up, folding the paper and tossing it on the table, trying to see if House was serious. He could see through House's bullshit a fair percentage of the time, and right now he didn't think it was likely. He'd know in a minute, though, when he picked up his jacket, so it wasn't worth engaging, yet. "You have a hickey," he said instead. It was almost true--Foreman knew what those slight red marks were on the side of House's neck, but it was unlikely that anybody else would know them for what they were. He hoped no one would notice, or care. Of course House had to be in the middle of hiring seven people trained to be observant and nosy, but that couldn't be helped. Foreman could only hope that House would lie if anyone asked. With that cheerful little bomb dropped, he headed for the door.

Judging by Foreman's questioning look, House wasn't sure if Foreman would buy it, but, as soon as Foreman stood up, still eyeing him, House couldn't beat down his amusement. It was satisfying enough that Foreman actually had to check, that he couldn't see through the lie. Foreman probably wasn't fully awake, if he couldn't tell, if he hadn't caught on to something so blatantly designed to mess with him, but it still made him smug, even though he was still fighting off the remnants of sleep himself. He took another sip of Foreman's coffee, even though it tasted like shit, canceling out the minty-freshness he'd acquired when he'd brushed his teeth, the taste on his tongue bitter and heavy. It would probably help wake him up, and would serve to further annoy Foreman, which were the only two reasons he kept raising the mug to his mouth.

He froze for a half-second at Foreman's words before forcing himself back into action, taking another sip of coffee--nearly gone now. His brain swam, trying to remember if Foreman had, at some point last night, sucked hard enough at his neck to give him a hickey. He couldn't have. He'd remember, and he didn't remember. Foreman was screwing with him. Had to be. He probably suspected that House was screwing with him and was launching a retaliation, an attempt to make him react the same way. House squinted at Foreman, refusing to let his suspicions show on his face, never even making a move to take a look at his neck for signs of a hickey that he knew wasn't there. Had a few red marks, maybe, scrapes from Foreman's facial hair or the rougher kisses, but not a hickey.

"Yeah," House said, scoffing, and swallowed the last of Foreman's coffee. "Maybe, if you could suck hard enough to give me a hickey." He set the mug back on the table, leaning against the edge nonchalantly and added smugly, "You're out of coffee."

The look on House's face was pretty close to priceless. He was trying not to show it, but Foreman could see the lightning-fast calculation going on, whether he'd believe Foreman and panic, or brush it off. "You don't need to take my word for it," Foreman said. "I'm sure your minions will be interested." He wasn't going to show off his own uneasy thoughts on that score. If they weren't careful--and they really hadn't been, leaving the hospital together last night, coming in together again this morning--then they'd be found out far quicker than Foreman would like. Since what he'd like was never, that was inevitable, but he'd like to postpone the moment for as long as possible.

He rolled his eyes at House's next remark as he pulled on his jacket, double-checking for his keys, wallet, and cell phone. He'd be an idiot to leave his things lying around as long as House was around. Maybe there was a way to password-protect his phone. And he'd definitely be putting a limit on his credit cards. "Yeah, that tends to happen when you're around," he said. He hadn't actually missed the fact that House was poaching his coffee, he'd just resigned himself to it. He picked up House's coat from behind the couch and threw it at him.

"What do you do with them when you don't have a patient?" Foreman asked. He expected House to try and prevent them from getting out the door--for whatever childish reason--but maybe getting House interested in torturing his candidates would get him moving. Foreman frowned quickly, though, when he realized that Dr. Terzi would be starting work today. Bright and early. She'd been blatantly flirting with House last night, and House hadn't done anything to discourage her. Foreman set his jaw. He wasn't looking forward to that any more than he had yesterday. He'd just have to ignore it, otherwise it wouldn't be House's hickeys that gave them away.

"Can't be interested in a hickey that's not there," House said, battling with a sense of paranoia creeping through the back of his mind. He knew there was nothing to be paranoid about--there was no damn hickey--and he hated that Foreman, just with a smug, casual comment, could override the certainty of that fact and make him doubt himself. He almost couldn't enjoy the way Foreman searched his coat for his things--not just a check for his keys, House noticed--but was sporting a satisfied grin as Foreman threw his coat at him. House caught hold of it, had to set his cane down to turn it the right way before shrugging it on.

He considered Foreman's question as he buttoned the coat, wondering what he was going to do with the fellows without a case. Give them pointless tasks. Send them to fetch his lunch. "Research," he answered, reaching for his cane again. He wasn't exactly thrilled to be up, still relatively drowsy, and leaving for work, all before nine o'clock, but there wasn't much use staying here, since Foreman probably wouldn't let him very far out of his sight. Not to mention that he could use a shower and fresh clothes. He kept a spare set in the bottom drawer of his desk for emergencies. This was close enough to an emergency.

As he walked slowly toward the door, trying to think of pointless tasks to assign to the fellows, he remembered that Terzi was starting today. Suddenly the day already seemed more interesting, and House turned to Foreman as he reached the door. "Or we could all play an icebreaker game and get to know the newest member of the team," House said, curious to see if the subject still pushed Foreman's buttons, got the same reaction as last night.

"I'll leave you to your research," Foreman said, with a dismissive laugh. It wouldn't hurt to remind House that he'd already put in his share of busywork over the years. He wasn't going to be participating in whatever frivolous tasks House assigned. His job was reining House in while he had a patient, not asking 'how high?' when House told him to jump. Besides, he had more important things to do--like finding out what Terzi's qualifications were, and if she really had worked for the CIA.

Foreman paused when House came up to him, obviously studying him for some kind of reaction to his mention of Terzi. "You'll probably need to, since you're changing the rules on them halfway through," he said. "I'm sure they'll all really get a sense of togetherness." It wasn't fair to the candidates or to Terzi, who had to be expecting a firm job offer and not a farce of a competition. Well, that was her fault; she should have done some research of her own. Quitting a job to beg House for a position was a stupid move. Not much worse than getting fired and going crawling back to him, Foreman thought, disgusted with himself. Even though he liked the job, he didn't have to like the way he'd gotten it.

"Are you going to break the ice by asking how everyone's evening was?" Foreman asked scornfully. That had been House's game the last time he'd toyed with Foreman in front of the fellows. If House was going to flirt, Foreman wanted him to remember exactly who'd fucked him senseless last night. Foreman leaned forward, since House was blocking the door, and reached around him to open it, holding House's gaze the entire time. He held the door open pointedly, raising his eyebrows as if it had been a completely innocent move--not one that put him right in House's personal space--and he waited for House to leave first before locking up.

House tilted his head, keeping his eyes fixed on Foreman as he spoke. Foreman seemed to think that he hired Terzi to include her in the competition but, while House planned to use his own methods for learning more about her, House had made her a firm offer. As far as he was concerned, the rest of the fellows were competing for one less position. Foreman seemed to have other ideas.

Yeah, definitely other ideas, and, House reflected, not entirely professional, based on the way Foreman leaned close to him. Foreman had barely been around Terzi and he was already bothered by her. He wondered how bothered he could actually make Foreman. Ignoring Foreman's question, and his blatant hint telling him to step out of the apartment, he said, "I gave her a job. Competition rules are still the same. She's just not a part of it."

House gave Foreman a smug look as he shuffled into the hallway. If Foreman was annoyed with all of his games--and House knew that he was--then this should be a welcome change. Not that 'change' or 'consideration' had anything to do with it. Terzi was qualified enough, in his mind; she'd helped his thought process enough while he was in Langley, recognized his ideas, operated as a soundboard, and she'd probably be even better without all the classified bullshit that had gotten in both of their ways. Plus, she was hot, and she'd be a convenient distraction from whatever was going on with Foreman--or might provoke Foreman to act. Either way, House didn't see how he could lose. The only way things might become problematic was if Foreman got his panties bunched enough to run to Cuddy and question his choice, or if the fellows mutinied enough to piss him off. Although, without the fellows, it would leave him where he'd originally wanted to be in the first place: Operating his own department without a handful of annoying fellows. He'd just rather not lose the eye candy.

Foreman stifled a short, disbelieving sigh as he locked the door. House had hired Cameron the same way, probably without a single thought in his head beyond the fact that she was hot. Foreman smirked as he headed for the elevator, walking ahead of House so that it didn't show. Cameron had been pissed to find that out; he could remember about a week's worth of muttered, "He called me lobby art," at the same time that she pretended everything was fine. Terzi would probably find House's appreciation about as flattering. And, he had to remind himself, Cameron was good. Annoying, but good. So it was possible that Terzi would turn out better than he'd hoped; he was open-minded enough to give her a chance. He let his smile widen and punched the elevator button. The best outcome for him would be if Terzi turned out to have some habit that was completely off-putting to House, like ethics, or a respect for the chain of command.

"So," Foreman said, turning around and resting his shoulders against the wall beside the elevator and affecting a thoughtful frown, "you decide to keep people around after two days without thinking it through." He gave House a meaningful look. "That's good to know."

House followed Foreman to the elevator, slightly dissatisfied that Foreman wasn't responding. Apparently, he hadn't goaded him enough. It would probably be easier, he considered, when Terzi was actually around, returning flirtatious grins and snappy come-backs, giving House a little more material to work with. Hopefully, she'd even show up Foreman. Hopefully, the opportunity to let them go head-to-head in a differential would arise. House wondered if he should steal some popcorn from the lounge, just to better enjoy the show. God, this was going to be good.

When Foreman stopped, pressed the elevator call button, House leaned on his cane, looking at Foreman with a hint of a grin, not holding back his amusement, how much he was looking forward to this. "People expect me to base a decision by a glance at a resume and a fifteen minute interview. I got more than enough thinking done in two days, believe me," House said, not bothering to cover the tone of his voice that told Foreman just what kind of thinking he'd accomplished. "Not to mention plenty of personal observation."

The elevator door chimed and opened, and House stepped into it first, leaning against the wall. "Besides, I knew I was going to hire you before you even interviewed. A stint in juvie was all the qualification you needed." House knew it was an old taunt, but, since they were on the subject of qualifications, he figured it wouldn't hurt, might get Foreman riled up enough to react with some honesty. Possibly not, but the day was just getting started.

Foreman rolled his eyes as the elevator doors opened and he got on. He could happily do without House leering over the woman. Yeah, she was attractive. Foreman knew that; he had eyes. She also--from what he had seen--had a cool, almost haughty confidence. She looked like she could snap House in half. Somehow, Foreman wouldn't be surprised if that's what House liked about her. Stacy Warner had been warm and friendly to him, Chase, and Cameron, but the flash of steel had been clear every time she'd battled with House.

"Too bad you just didn't go past lockdown and bail someone out, if you didn't actually need a doctor," Foreman said. House's taunts still bothered him, but it was old anger and was easy to swallow. "And thanks. I know I'm going to forget all about that the day you stop bringing it up." That was one way Foreman had of judging whether he was getting to House--the older and more stale the insult, the more rattled House was. House was comparing him with Terzi, implicitly putting Foreman on the same level as a woman he found attractive and enjoyed flirting with. Obviously he and House had gone a lot farther than flirting, but this morning neither of them had acted like it was something to ignore or dismiss. There hadn't even been a suggestion that they stop. Maybe House considered it a given, that Foreman would keep hitting on him even if House tried to pick up someone else.

He could disabuse House of that idea pretty quickly. "You're right, House," he said, after just enough of a pause to show he'd been thinking about it. "She's gorgeous. Maybe after you insult her one time to many, I'll have to make sure she's still happy. It's my job to keep the team working smoothly. How does Wilson do it? With a bottle of wine and some good intentions?"

House wasn't exactly surprised when Foreman didn't respond with anything that he could actually use, or analyze. He felt a pulse of satisfaction at the simple of act of reminding Foreman's of his shortcomings, but the feeling withered as soon as Foreman spoke again. House shifted against the wall, not sure what to make of Foreman's declaration. He was right? He couldn't remember the last time Foreman had actually admitted that he was right, about anything, and House stayed silent, waiting for another comment, something more, because that couldn't possibly be the end of Foreman's thought.

When Foreman clarified the statement, as House suspected he would, House almost wished Foreman had never said anything at all, and he fought down his immediately impulse to respond defensively. That kind of response would give him away, would prove to Foreman that what they'd done, what they would probably keep doing at one point or another, had meant something--something he'd rather not examine or explain at the moment--and it was easier to call Foreman's bluff. Safer. "You should ask him yourself. He'd got a step-by-step plan. Probably willing to share. Offer some pointers," House said, keeping his defenses out of his voice, his tone deliberately casual.

Foreman glanced across the elevator at House, wondering what he'd make of Foreman's intention. House wasn't the only one who could flirt, although from the way Terzi had dismissed Foreman completely last night, he didn't think he was much of a threat to House. He frowned when House suggested he ask Wilson's advice, wondering if Wilson's seduction strategy was as precisely calculated as his method of telling patients they were dying. Wilson had been right about Lupe in the end, but Foreman didn't believe for a second that there was a perfect solution to how anybody felt. Attraction was messy and unpredictable and usually best when avoided completely.

"Is that what you do?" he asked. "Ask Wilson for advice?" Foreman tensed slightly, because the question had come out a little too honestly--but he wanted to know. Would House and Wilson dissect his every movement, searching out what everything he'd done or said had meant? Foreman frowned and pushed his hands into his pockets as the elevator stopped, and tried to recover. "Because you," he paused, and forced a grin as he looked over his shoulder at House, "don't really have a chance with her, otherwise." Foreman wasn't going to compete with House for Terzi's attention--he'd actually graduated from middle school, thank you--but he figured, with that kind of challenge, House would immediately come on too strongly, and probably drive her away, while Foreman sat back and watched it like a very awkward spectator sport.

House didn't miss Foreman's frown or the quickness of his response. House wasn't exactly sure of Foreman's real concern, but he was sure that none of this had anything to do with Terzi. "This isn't about her," House said, much more confidently now that Foreman had slipped, let his guard down enough to give a slice of the truth away. If House had to make a wild guess, he would think that Foreman was concerned about himself, which, now that he thought of it, wasn't all that unusual. But, more than that, Foreman seemed worried about himself. House must have gotten to him the other day, outing him in front of the entire class, if he was worried that House would ask for Wilson's advice about him. House would let that paranoia fester. Wouldn't tell Foreman that, despite the fact that he went to Wilson for advice plenty of times, he planned to keep this under wraps for as long as possible. The fellows didn't need to know. Cuddy didn't need to know. Wilson definitely didn't need to know. But he'd be pleased as pie to let Foreman believe that he regularly shared locker room talk with Wilson about his sex life. His recent sex life with Foreman, specifically.

"This is about you," House said, giving voice to his guess as he followed Foreman out of the elevator. He wished he had the leverage to grab hold of Foreman and shove him against the wall before he made it out of the building, get in his face and get a real answer. His words would have to make up for the lack of physical power, and he drew a deep breath to lend his words more force. "This is about what we did. About how you want to do it again. And if someone else gets in the way, well, that's just inconvenient."

Foreman pressed his lips together, tension settling in his shoulders as he pulled open the front door. Inconvenient, as though sex was just something that had to be scheduled in a day planner, an appointment like any other. He wasn't angry. No. Foreman was relieved, of course, because that's what he wanted. Convenient, if incredibly satisfying, sex. No-strings sex.

"I don't see her getting in the way," Foreman said, deliberately setting his frustration aside. He wouldn't win any points by trying to turn House's accusation around on him. They'd had sex. Of course Foreman wanted to do it again, and House would too. Not just because Foreman could get him off and make him come apart doing it, although that was part of it. No, there was an easier, and simpler, reason. "You're lazy," he said. "Are you really going to go to the effort of taking her out for dinner and talking about your feelings?"

Terzi would take finesse. She'd probably expect dates, conversations, and quite probably for House to act civilized for hours at a time. If she put out--and Foreman had known his share of women like her, and he didn't think it was likely for at least three or four dates, and several weeks--then House would still have to hold back. He'd never let go like he had for Foreman. Foreman's chest tightened a bit. And House had. He'd barely been aware of anything besides Foreman when he was fucking him; he'd been begging him to go harder. Terzi probably wasn't the type to drive him to that. There was no tangible advantage to House to even try.

"Unless," Foreman said, smirking, planning to shove House's face in the obvious--unless he was only using Terzi to get to Foreman; unless it was just a game to get him to react. Unless it meant something. He stopped short and set his jaw, then shrugged as if it didn't matter. "We're late," he said instead, pulling out his keys and unlocking his car with the remote.

House stopped mid-step when Foreman responded, wishing he hadn't, but unable to force his feet to cooperate. He leaned hard on his cane, standing outside the door, trying not to blatantly stare at Foreman, picking apart the implications of his answer. I don't see her getting in the way. That meant that Foreman thought of 'the way' as unblocked. The way to him, like he wanted to get there. House wasn't sure how much it would take for him to believe that Foreman actually wanted him, but that response was damn close to a confirmation. Foreman did want him, wanted to fuck him again, and seemed confident that it would happen again. Fuck, Foreman's whole attitude, the self-confidence, made him want to push harder just to make Foreman follow through, prove that he knew for sure there was nothing 'in the way', because, God, it was a turn-on and, even though he wouldn't admit it, it was a quality of Foreman's that he'd always liked, always appreciated. After a moment or two of unfocused blinking at Foreman, House managed to propel himself forward, trailing Foreman again, cursing himself for his own damn obvious reactions.

He nearly stopped again when Foreman told him that he was lazy, would never want to go through the process of asking Terzi out, and House refused to acknowledge that Foreman was probably right. He would be able to manage dinner and a movie, but he wouldn't be able to bury his personality, and he wasn't sure what Terzi would expect, even if he got to that point. Although, she hadn't reacted all that negatively to his approach in Langley. She'd volleyed with him, hadn't taken the crass remarks seriously, and he'd already gotten her to follow him all the way to Princeton for a job. It wasn't a huge stretch to believe she'd go along with whatever he was willing to offer. If he wanted to offer much of anything. He wasn't sure. Didn't want to think about it. He felt his defenses rising, and he tried to beat them away, trying to force himself to ignore Foreman's question.

But he couldn't let it go. He turned it back onto Foreman, pointing at him as he followed to Foreman's car, his response almost exploding out of him. "So are you," he said, raising his voice. "Lazy and noncommittal. Which is the only reason why you're willing to fuck me, because you think it'll never involve an actual commitment."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, House pressed his lips together, hoping to stop anything else for sneaking out. He'd said enough, implied enough. What the hell had he meant? That he thought fucking Foreman would involve a real commitment? That it was more than casual sex? That he wanted it to be? That, maybe, it already was? Fuck, he didn't want to think about it, and he walked as quickly as he could to the passenger door of Foreman's car, thankful when Foreman spoke again, gave him something else to focus on, his curiosity pulling at him. "Unless what?" he asked, opening the door when Foreman unlocked it and holding it open, setting his cane and backpack inside. "We're late, so that means you can't talk? Unless what?"

Foreman knew what real commitment was and what he'd done with House was about the farthest thing from it. Commitment had nothing to do with sex--that was the point. It was about what happened between bouts of throwing the other person up against a wall to see how long you pin them there just by kissing them. Of course he didn't want to commit to House; he'd commit himself to a psych ward first. And if House thought he was lazy, he hadn't seen just how much effort Foreman had put into chasing him down last night. Foreman grit his teeth, realizing that those were two contradictory thoughts--either he was intent on pursuing House or he didn't want anything more than a casual fuck. He didn't know which it was and he didn't want to think about it. He yanked open the driver's door and then stared at House across the roof, squeezing his keys until they bit into his palms. "Apparently it involves a commitment to paying for whatever damage you cause," he said, his voice getting loud and incredulous. House had already invaded his privacy, ruined his upholstery and his countertops, worn his clothes--he kept bursting into Foreman's life like he wanted to be there. Fuck, was that what House was saying? That he wanted some assurances? Then why the hell was he so intent on flirting with Terzi?

"Unless you actually want commitment!" Foreman threw his hands up and then slapped them down on the car roof, wishing they could just get off the damn subject already. "Which I know you don't! That isn't my problem, House, I already told you what I want." At least he'd managed to keep those confessions entirely physical, and whatever stupid comments he made during sex couldn't be held against him. Foreman couldn't imagine a worse match for either of them, if it meant getting serious. House could have Terzi if she didn't knee him in the balls first, because that actually made sense, comparatively. Foreman rolled his eyes and got in, taking out some of his anger by slamming his door shut. He jammed the key in the ignition and turned the car on, then gripped the steering wheel hard enough to hurt. "Would you either get in or close the door and call a cab? Whichever helps the sex mean less to you."

House kept his eyes trained on Foreman intently as Foreman rounded the car, nearly tearing off the driver's door as he opened it, and House held his ground, kept his gaze steady. Foreman's outburst threw him off, and House narrowed his eyes, grasping for Foreman's meaning. Damage? His gaze wandered, finally settling on the stain on Foreman's backseat. Is that what Foreman meant? He was still pissed off about a damn stain? He'd probably found the scratches on his countertop, too, but, it was a God damned scratch. The way Foreman spoke about it, it was as though House had caused him significant emotional distress. Carved pictures into his damn countertops, fingerpainted all over the backseat of his car. A dab of ketchup and a couple scratches didn't ruin anything. Unless. Unless Foreman hated the reminder that he had put them there, if he really did just want a few casual fucks and an easy way out, no reminders. The idea didn't sit well with House, made him feel used and no more wanted than when Foreman had walked out months ago. House raised his eyes to Foreman, feeling anger burn in his throat as he watched Foreman slam his hands against the roof, his words reaching his ears but not quite registering. Fuck, maybe this plan would backfire. Maybe Foreman's reaction to Terzi, and his attention to her, would just drive him away, and House felt equally uneasy to realize that he didn't want that. Not again. Not after being fucking seduced back to Foreman's apartment, fucked twice in the same damn day, Foreman's hands and body and attention focused on him like he'd actually mattered. That's what he wanted. No way he could say that, admit it to Foreman. He could barely admit to himself without feeling a wave of self-hatred. Foreman would laugh in his face, never believe him, even if he could manage to physically get the words out. No, he should stick to the Terzi plan, keep a close eye on--

Foreman cut into his thoughts, nearly shouting at him. Don't? Don't what? That thought didn't matter when Foreman said that he'd already told him what he wanted. House replayed the last day in his brain, trying to recall words, actions, anything he could use. Foreman wouldn't let him fucking think, demanding that he get into the car, and House rolled his eyes before climbing in, looking hard at Foreman when he settled in his seat. His anger was spreading into his chest, clouding his mind, and he leaned toward Foreman, twisting his body and getting as close to his face as possible. "You're a liar. You're the one who's trying to turn this into something meaningless, not me. You say you want blowjobs and casual sex, but you fucking kiss me like I'm your boyfriend. You don't know what you want." House breathed a derisive laugh, shaking his head. "Just fuck a damn whore next time, Foreman. Avoid all the emotional confusion. They don't care what you do."

House blinked, swallowed thickly, breathing a little heavier. He'd said too fucking much, and he wouldn't be surprised if Foreman clocked him in the face, or kicked him out of the car, but House knew that he was right. He watched Foreman act that way, even in his own department. Foreman kept a safe distance, stripped the meaning away from his relationships unless it suited him, unless it was convenient. House snorted a quiet laugh to himself, turning away from Foreman to face the window, peering out. What a fucking ironic role reversal. Yesterday--God, was it just yesterday?--Foreman had reacted with anger when he'd stepped back, panicked, couldn't make himself join Foreman on the bed and touch him. He'd kissed him like he mattered, like he was more than a tool to help Foreman get off, and House hated that it's what he wanted, to be more than that. He should take the casual fucks. It was easier. Less risky. But, damn it, he didn't want Foreman to reject him, walk away again. Fucking pathetic. He was fucking pathetic. He should shut up. This was a conversation better avoided--the whole situation was fucking terrifying--and he silently told himself to shut the hell up before he said anything more. Anything worse.

Foreman fucking hated it when House was right, when House was right about him. "I'm not lying. What the hell am I supposed to do? Pretend that you're actually going to feel something? It's not distance, it's just not delusion." His body wanted one thing but he knew exactly how bad that would be for him, just how much it would fuck up his life to go after it. It wasn't that he wanted it to be meaningless, it was that everything was stacked against him and it wasn't even a risk that it would all go to hell, it was a goddamn certainty. The chances that House could behave like an emotional adult were non-existent and as for the rest of it, even if Foreman did put himself out on the creakiest limb he'd ever felt in his life, then the whole rest of the world would stare at him like he'd gone completely nuts. And they'd be right. Everyone at work--they knew he hated House, they knew he hated being stuck in Princeton all over again. Was he supposed to convince them otherwise? Have them all stare at him incredulously and whisper behind his back? That's what the risk meant; that, and knowing they'd all be laughing at him as soon as whatever he had with House flamed out spectacularly. Which it would.

"And I don't want a prostitute." Foreman, for one, could actually get laid without stopping by an ATM. But he wanted more than that, more than sex. "It's not just getting off, it's about how--" He cut himself off. It wasn't only how, it was who he was with. He did want to make an emotional connection, he just knew that House was the last person on earth who'd offer it. What he wanted was to grab House and shake some sense into him. Or grab him and kiss him, since that actually seemed to work better--bypass House's brain entirely--show him what Foreman wanted. House had been close enough, pushing into his space, before he sat back to look out the window. Kiss me like I'm your boyfriend--the word 'boyfriend' set off every alarm in his skull, but he knew what House meant, that tender, exhilarating touch. He'd given up pinning House down for that kiss, because it had overwhelmed him and made him want...he didn't know what he wanted. Foreman bit back anything he might say and pulled out of his parking spot, getting them moving. The faster they got to the hospital, the less they'd be stuck in this car together.

Avoiding all the emotional confusion--yeah, Foreman thought with vicious sarcasm as he concentrated on the road, that would be nice. Prostitutes didn't care what you did--great for House if that's what worked for him. For the rest of the human race, there wasn't much help for how you felt, and so it just paid off to be careful. Foreman frowned, driving on autopilot. Prostitutes didn't care what you did. He kept thinking House's words over, feeling like he was missing something. When it finally hit him, it burst out of him along with his confusion, before he could even think to censor himself. "And you do care what I do?"

Foreman's mind seemed made up. Foreman already had all of his ideas set about him, and House wanted to set him straight. Wanted to tell him all the things he had no fucking clue about, but he couldn't. He doubted Foreman would even believe any of it, and he didn't want to make this about him. He focused on Foreman's next comment instead, turning his attention away from the scene flying past the window as Foreman drove, almost gunning it down the street.

"Right, because you're above that," House said, bitterness hard in his voice. Of course Foreman would refuse sex with a hooker. It was beneath him. He'd rather screw someone--or screw someone over--and make it personal. At least, with prostitutes, there was already distance--no need to put it there--but sex as a win-win business exchange was a concept that was beneath Foreman. If Foreman actually tried it, he would probably find it worked out well for him. Minimal emotional attachment, a good fuck without the consequences. Without this bullshit.

He shook his head, expelling a hard puff of air, wanting to beat his damn head against the window. Wanting to beat Foreman's damn head against the window. Or--House glanced at Foreman, seeing his own anger mirrored in Foreman's face--kiss him. Kiss him like Foreman had kissed him (more than once), slow and deep, and force him to admit that it wasn't meaningless, that Foreman didn't want to just fuck and walk away. It made his heart race, pound to the point that he could feel it, knowing that he wanted Foreman to acknowledge that this meant something. He wouldn't know what the hell he would do with that information if it actually ever left Foreman's mouth, but--fuck, it was pathetic--he didn't want Foreman dismissing him, throwing him out like he already had once, like he was fucking worthless.

Foreman's question made him straighten up in his seat, stare at Foreman's profile. What the hell kind of question was that? Of course he cared what Foreman did, especially when what Foreman was doing was him. He'd cared when Foreman quit, when he came back, when he kissed him, and fucked him, and wanted him, and--Damn it, it mattered, and he fucking hated it. It shouldn't fucking matter. Never should have. Nobody should, because it was inevitable that he would fuck it up. Somehow. And it wouldn't matter if he gave a damn. Personally. Professionally. None of would amount to much. Foreman, or anyone else, would do what they wanted no matter what he thought about it. "It wouldn't matter if I did!" He was nearly shouting, voice loud in the small space of the car. "You're going to do whatever you want. I'm sure as hell not going to be able to change your mind."

Foreman clamped his lips together as soon as the words left his mouth. Fuck, he must have sounded like an idiot. Of course House cared about what he did--cared enough to interfere with his business, to screw with him, or try to poke holes in everything Foreman did and prove how worthless his entire life and anything he wanted to accomplish was. That wasn't what he'd meant but he was sure that House would take it that way, as if he'd just said something blindingly obvious. He glanced over and, just like he'd expected, House was staring at him like he was a moron. Christ. He'd let a crack show by asking if House cared, and House would probably aim for it with all guns blazing.

"I don't do whatever I want--that's you," he spat. "You don't care what anybody thinks, so it doesn't matter what you do." Except it mattered to him. House was acting like Foreman was an inconvenience, like he was getting in the way of House flirting with other people. Meaningless meant not getting complicated, not letting feelings get in the way; it didn't mean that he didn't care that he was being treated as second-best. "You're sure doing a hell of a good job of changing my mind, since you think I'd rather hire a hooker than be with you."

Shit. Shit. Foreman just couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut. His heart was racing--because he was pissed off, not because he was afraid of what he'd just said. He fucking hated how House could get him angry enough to blurt out a stream of words that had nothing to do with what he really meant.

They were approaching the hospital. Foreman was probably lucky that he hadn't been pulled over for speeding. God, even parking was going to be a nightmare--his space wasn't far from the doors and last night he hadn't cared in the least that they'd left together because the lot had been nearly empty. Foreman had been more intent on House than on what anyone might see. He'd even kissed him, right out in the open, without even thinking about it. If House wanted to analyze his actions then that one was way too telling to be comfortable. Foreman wasn't going to be a jackass about it. If he was, he'd probably make House get out and walk, and the only other option--getting out and walking himself--was even worse, for different reasons. Mainly, House's delight at rooting around in Foreman's glove box and finding his condoms. Foreman's face heated when he thought about exactly how he'd used that condom. Hell, how he'd pushed House back in his seat and kissed him. How did he still want that?

It didn't matter now, anyway. Foreman parked the car and switched it off, but he didn't make a move to get out. He slumped back against the headrest, hoping House would just take a damn hint already and go without him, give him a minute to collect his thoughts.

Christ, Foreman really was a moron. House stared, blinking at Foreman as if he had lost his God damn mind, way back when he'd gunned it out of his parking space. He was convinced that Foreman had no idea what the hell he'd been trying to say, that, or he'd begun speaking in some sort of alien opposite-language. Yeah, he'd implied that Foreman would probably be better off fucking a hooker, but that's not what he wanted. He'd never said that's what he wanted--had he? Fuck, now he couldn't remember. Foreman was mixing up his thoughts, twisting his words, and House could barely straighten any of it out. If he was changing Foreman's mind, then good, because that's what he wanted, but he and Foreman were talking about two different things. He didn't want Foreman to think of him like yesterday's stale leftovers, didn't want to throw him out and strip all the meaning out of what had happened over the past--fuck, he couldn't remember how long it was since Foreman attacked him with that damn kiss in the car. House shouldn't have cared. Really shouldn't care. This was the perfect situation: no strings, no meaning, no complications. It was stupid and pathetic that he wanted it to mean something, that he wasn't just a worthless lay. It almost wasn't worth the effort to clarify it for Foreman. If Foreman couldn't follow what he'd been saying this whole damn time, then it wasn't fucking worth it, but House couldn't keep his mouth shut. He sputtered like Foreman had just tossed him underwater, words stopping and starting, and he shouldn't have such a damn problem getting the words out. His anger was grabbing hold of his thoughts, and it barely registered until he tried to transform them into complete, coherent sentences that Foreman had said--at least implied--that he wanted to be with him.

No, that couldn't be what Foreman meant. He was making this about everything else except being with him, in any way except fucking in bed. House slouched in his seat for a moment, watching Foreman turn off the car, but sat up again, taking a long, deeper breath, trying to force himself to get a fucking grip. Calm down. Being this pissed off wouldn't get him any answers. He wanted to ask Foreman what the hell he did want, but he doubted it would earn him an honest answer--and Foreman wondered why he resorted to playing games, lighting fires under people's asses, putting on pressure to get the truth out of them; it worked. It was the only thing that would work here, too, House was sure, and he wanted a God damn answer. Taking hold of a fistful of Foreman's coat, he wrenched him closer, across the shifter and kissed him, as soft as possible, contradicting the roughness of his hold, refusing let go until he got an answer out of him. His tongue pushed into Foreman's mouth, sliding slowly, moving deeply, asking, This? Do you want this? He sucked on Foreman's top lip, drawing it into his mouth. No teeth this time. Just soft, tender movements as he slid his other hand along Foreman's thigh. Does this fucking matter to you? Do you want this?

Just great. House wasn't getting out of the car, acting impervious to hints as usual. Foreman turned his head to glare at him, as if his scowl could push House out of the car, taking a deep breath before telling him that the point here was that they wouldn't be walking in together, which he doubted House wanted Terzi to see. He watched House sit up--maybe he was about to get out after all--when House made a lunge for him and grabbed his coat. Foreman's eyes widened. "What--" he started, but before he could push out the rest of the hell are you doing? House was kissing him. The rest of Foreman's breath rushed out as a soft ohhh, most of the sound muffled by House's mouth.

Foreman couldn't figure out what was happening. Even as he kissed House back, his eyes closing completely without his volition, he had no fucking clue. It wasn't rough at all, even though they'd spent the entire ride shouting at each other. Even though House's knuckles were digging into his chest where he had a handful of Foreman's coat, the kiss was different. Soft, and gentle, and it felt like House was stealing his breath with every movement. Felt like all his nerves had been diverted to the places House was touching him, a tingling, thrilling rush spreading outwards and flooding his body. House's hand moved up his thigh, and Foreman breathed sharply, wondering if House would push for more, but he didn't. His hand was warm through Foreman's pants, but that was all. Foreman let a sound rise and stop in his throat. Stupid thought, that was all, as if it was negligible, or dismissible. It wasn't. Half his mind was on House's hand, wondering if he'd go further, touch him more. The other half was on the kiss, the slow give-and-take of it. God, he couldn't stop himself from lifting his head a bit to follow House's tongue, to deepen the kiss--not rush it, not push it, but just to keep it going, keep feeling it. It was impossible to keep being angry. Foreman's body was insisting that this was right, and good, and not to ruin it.

He'd kissed House like this last night. It had been a test, or at least, it had started that way. Foreman had wanted to know if House could kiss like this, or if Foreman could break House's control if he pushed him like this, or some damn thing that had stopped mattering almost as soon as it had started. Just like this time, because if House had meant to test how much Foreman wanted him then Foreman was learning just as much as House was. Where the hell was this coming from? Why was House talking about Terzi, and hookers, and wanting to change Foreman's mind, if this was what he wanted? Was this what House had been arguing all along? That he did want something more? If anything, House was the one kissing Foreman as if he was his boyfriend, and maybe that was the point. Foreman was pretty much trapped by his seatbelt but he managed to get one hand on House's elbow, moving it up to the back of his neck. Not to pull, but just to touch, palm against House's neck, thumb rubbing lightly through his hair behind his ear.

Such a stupid thing to be doing, in the middle of the morning bustle around the hospital entrance. If anyone saw--fuck. Foreman slumped back, keeping his hand on House's neck. Just because he was stopping didn't mean he wanted to stop. He licked his lips and tilted his head back a little, to meet House's eyes, feeling very smug that House had kissed him. He smirked a little to soften his words, but it had to be said. "You realize anyone could look over here and see us making out in the car?" Some idiotic part of him hoped House wouldn't care, and kiss him again, and Foreman raised his eyebrows, half-inviting House to do just that.

House breathed a satisfied sigh through his nose, still kissing just as softly, as Foreman responded immediately. An answer. A real answer, even if Foreman didn't really know the question, it was a real answer. The answer got even more detailed as the kiss wore on; House felt and heard the quiet sound that crept out of Foreman's mouth, into his, and the anger and tension in Foreman's body started to disappear. The muscles in his thigh, under House's hand, relaxed, and House fought to keep his hand still, telling himself that this was all he'd offer. This wasn't meant to turn Foreman on. It was more important than that, and he wasn't going to back down. Not now, not when he'd already thrown himself into this.

House's thoughts, his motivations started to crumble when Foreman lifted a hand to the back of his neck, thumb stroking his hair. As good as an answer: Yes, I want this. House leaned forward, into that touch. Couldn't help it. He hadn't felt a touch like that--soft, soothing, simple--in, God, a long time, and he hated that it roused feelings in him that should have been dormant, should never see the light of day again, should never be connected to Foreman in any way. This shouldn't be about him, and House tried to ignore the touch beyond the fact that it was only more evidence to support the fact that Foreman wanted him, that he actually meant something to him.

Fuck, he actually meant something to him. The urge to backtrack, change his mind all over again, came on suddenly, but House fought it down, half-relieved, half-disappointed when Foreman broke the kiss. Foreman's hand was still on his neck. His was still on Foreman's leg. House looked down at it, then back at Foreman's face. God, what the hell was he doing? He'd gotten his answer. Now he could back off, decide later what to do with that knowledge, but he wasn't. He was staring at Foreman, drawing deep breaths, watching Foreman's lips move as he spoke, the words sinking in. He was surprised not to feel much alarm over the possibility that someone might notice them. Few people would give a shit, at least about him. They might look at Foreman like he was some kind of pod-person, but House doubted anyone would care, beyond Wilson. Maybe Cuddy. If the fellows caught a glimpse, they'd care enough to gossip amongst themselves until he threatened to fire anyone who spoke another peep about it. Even if Terzi saw, it hardly mattered, he realized. Foreman's answer seemed plain enough, the inviting, subtle eyebrow raise to get him to continue even more obvious. If he'd wanted to use Terzi as a means to get Foreman to act honestly, be direct about what he wanted with him, then there was hardly any point now. No harm in keeping her around for her looks, and, who knows, maybe some professional usefulness. He'd think about it all later, maybe, or maybe not. God, it was easier not to, easier to take advantage of the fact that Foreman wasn't shoving him out of the car, and he leaned in again, hating that he wanted that touch.

"So stop me," he said, tugging Foreman forward again for a second kiss, only a touch harder, still slow. God, he hadn't kissed like this in ages, and he never thought he'd be kissing Foreman this way, but he forgot how good it felt. He knew they'd have to stop, go inside, and go to work, but it could wait for one minute. He knew he'd still probably push Foreman, like usual--this didn't magically change anything, besides the fact that he might have actually admitted that he wanted Foreman to want him, that he wasn't going to accept the role of 'casual random fuck'. He might have given a little away, but at least he proved something, and proved Foreman wrong. Either Foreman hadn't really noticed that part, or he didn't mind--both were odd--but he'd gotten the message.

Foreman's smile widened a bit when House didn't seem to even understand what he was saying at first. Foreman hadn't really meant to provoke this; he hadn't been pushing for any answers. He'd been genuinely pissed off about Terzi, and mocking House about his chances with her, not to mention implying that he might be interested in her himself, they'd all just been ways of showing House how ridiculous he sounded. But if he'd actually made an impression, forced some kind of confession out of House without even trying--God, that made him feel ten feet tall. He wondered how many other people in the world could get House to tell them something honestly. Even if it wasn't with words, even if it was by kissing him, it meant the same thing. Foreman angled his head to meet House's lips a second time, letting a pleased hum grow in the back of his throat when House kissed him a bit harder.

He realized they hadn't really kissed last night, not after they'd finished, anyway. Foreman had pretty much come and then passed out, not that House had done anything better. And this morning, too, Foreman had been more worried about getting House out of his apartment than in establishing exactly where they stood. Foreman shied away from the word 'boyfriends' as something embarrassingly juvenile; it wasn't like he was going to be doodling House's name with his in a heart with an arrow through it all over his files. And the idea that this kiss--no matter how good--was some kind of promise seriously made him want to run in the opposite direction. But House's mouth was warm, and Foreman caught House's tongue and sucked on it, lightly, before going back to exploring his mouth, sliding deeper into the kiss so easily that he knew he was walking right past all the danger signs with his eyes shut.

He'd have to stop House, push him away. In a minute, he would. For now he was enjoying slumping back in his seat to see if House would lean over further to continue the kiss. Foreman massaged the back of House's neck a bit more, opened his mouth and let the kiss become a little more tangled, breathing just a little more quickly. The voice in the back of his head chanting you are being stupid would not shut up, though, and Foreman imagined Cuddy standing outside the car, her eyes wide in shock as she stared at him--and, yeah, that did it, they really had to stop. Foreman ran his hand back down House's arm, as if he might mirror House's move and touch his thigh, but instead he went for his seatbelt, clicking it open. He fumbled for the door handle and then pulled away, getting out as fast and as gracefully as he could before House could distract him again.

Foreman draped his arms over the door and the roof and leaned in, enjoying the sight of House still sprawled half across the gearshift. "Cuddy's going to love me if I can get you to work on time like this more often," he said. And he would, if House stayed the night.

House felt even more satisfied that Foreman didn't stop him. Foreman knew as well as he did that someone could see them, if they were attentive enough as they walked by the car, that they were both late as it was. House normally wouldn't care much about either of those things, especially the lateness--when had he ever given a shit about that?--but Foreman didn't like being a couple minutes late. The last time House could remember Foreman being late--or at least, arriving after he had--Foreman had been seeing someone, a drug rep.; it had been personal. Just like this. This was personal, and Foreman could deny it all he wanted, but there wasn't a way around it. It simultaneously scared House--acknowledging it was something personal, something more than satisfying a base, instinctual need--and warmed him. Being kissed, feeling wanted instead of rejected or dismissed felt good, as long as he didn't think too much about it. God, how fucking pathetic. But no, he'd focus on Foreman, on how he was kissing back. Again. He leaned in, following Foreman when he started to pull away, beginning to want to go further, fingers squeezing the muscle of Foreman's thigh. Pathetic, pathetic.

He drew a gasp, taken a little by surprise, when Foreman wrenched himself away and, before he realized what had happened, was out of the car and peering in at him. Straightening up in his seat, he wiped at his mouth, scowling at Foreman before breaking his gaze to unbuckle his seatbelt and haul himself out of the car. "We're not on time," House insisted. He ignored the fact that he was on time, since 'on time' for him fell somewhere around ten o'clock. He gathered his backpack and cane, slammed the door shut, and started for the building. "But I'd love to hear what you have to say when she asks what your secret is. If I were you, I'd go for the detailed X-rated version."

Foreman closed his door, locked the car, and followed House easily. Even if they did walk in together, it would be taken as a coincidence long before anyone would have even the wildest suspicion about the real reason. It was hard to worry about hypotheticals after House had kissed him like that, too.

"I don't think I want Cuddy to know that you can be fucked into submission," he said, just before he pulled open the door. Foreman wasn't a jealous guy, most of the time, but that line hadn't been worth passing up. Besides, House and Cuddy had been arguing--or flirting--for years, and nothing had come of it. House liked the game more than the follow-through. If Foreman had been the one to push him past that, then he was going to enjoy it, especially if he got a chance to see whether he could render House speechless by reminding him who exactly had been in control last night.

He knew he was inviting retaliation. House would probably bring sex up in front of the newbies at every opportunity. But Foreman felt good, for the moment, and he was anticipating throwing House off his stride whenever he could with a straight-faced remark. "I'll tell her the secret is persistence," he added, feeling satisfied. That, at least, had the benefit of being true. Plus, he could threaten House with an increase in Cuddy's nagging if House went too far, although since that was really the only weapon he had, he didn't intend to use it up without a good reason.

House faltered just slightly, falling out of step with his normal rhythm, when Foreman spoke. He gritted his teeth, not responding right away, too busy fighting off memories of the previous night. He'd willingly given away almost all of the control, letting Foreman blow him and fuck him the way he wanted. He'd let go, hadn't submitted to anything--to Foreman's requests, demands, nothing. It had been his own choice.

What the fuck was he thinking? It was his own choice. Damn it, he didn't know if that made it worse. It seemed worse, and there was no way he was going to retaliate with that. Best to deny it. It was easier that way.

"You could fabricate any story you want if it'll get her into some black leather and me into a pair of fuzzy handcuffs," House replied, failing to lower the volume of his voice as he walked to the reception desk in the lobby, leering at Foreman and waggling his eyebrows. He was lying about the handcuffs, but he wouldn't turn down a Cuddy dressed in black leather, climbing on top of him--he'd be insane if he did. He'd let Foreman believe what he wanted, imagine what he wanted, and glanced at him as he shared his 'secret'.

House scoffed. "Then you'll be wrong." Persistence wasn't what had made House leave with Foreman. If House hadn't wanted something of his own, he would have gone home, regardless of how persistent Foreman acted. It was the reason behind the persistence that mattered, but Foreman could figure that out on his own. Not bothering to elaborate, House looked down, swiped several pink slips of paper left for him off the desk, and leafed through them. One notified him of a new case waiting in Cuddy's office, but he slipped it among the others as he started for the elevators. A shower was more important at the moment than his case--it would be there when he was done--and the team could wait.

Foreman suppressed a gratified smile when House lost step. It was difficult to tell because of his limp, but Foreman had been following him down one hallway or another for three years, and he could tell. He ignored House's comment about Cuddy--predictable--and took his own messages. "Don't knock persistence," he said, shrugging slightly. "I'm sure I'm going to need a lot of it."

That was definitely playing with fire. One kiss didn't mean anything permanent. If House's actions in the car had been his declaration, though, then Foreman figured he should return the favour and at least hint at the fact that he didn't plan to be driven off any time soon.

Foreman wasn't sure he was ready to see House's reaction to that, though, so he avoided House's eyes. He read his messages as they approached the elevator, most of them forgettable. One, though, was from Dr. Hamilton, and Foreman remembered with a frown that he'd never answered his email after Saturday. Most of his inquiries had been returned and had been easy to deal with--no, he wasn't interested in leaving Princeton-Plainsboro, he was simply gathering information. Marty was a different matter, since the man had mentored him through his entire neurology residency. Foreman wasn't about to just dismiss anything he had to say. He stuffed all the messages into his pocket, knowing that if he treated one any differently, House would guess it was important.

House rolled his eyes at Foreman's advice, crumpling up his messages and putting them in his coat pocket to throw away later, but looked sharply at Foreman a moment later, studying him, trying to determine if he was actually serious. A part of him wanted Foreman to be serious, but another part--the part that was winning--didn't even want to think about it, but his mind rebelled, mulling over the words.

He chose to argue semantics, focusing on something far less significant than Foreman's actual meaning, whether he was serious or not. "You're confusing persistence with patience, and you might be persistent, but you're not patient," House said, certain that he was right, using his cane to tap the elevator call button. Foreman had about as much patience as he did, with patients, doctors, people in general. Sure, Foreman had more tact, but tact wouldn't get him any farther with House than persistence would.

As they stood by the elevator, House tried to peek at Foreman's messages, but Foreman slipped them into his pocket before he could catch a glimpse. Who would be giving Foreman messages? Cuddy, probably, assigning Foreman secret missions--'make House take this case', or 'make sure Kutner doesn't set anyone on fire', or 'don't let House risk the patient's life, even if he's probably right'--as if she was some sort of M to Foreman's James Bond. The image made House grin to himself for a moment--Foreman sitting at a bar in a suit, sipping martinis--and he wondered what it would take to get Foreman drunk enough to start introducing himself as 'Foreman, Eric Foreman'. On second thought, Foreman would make the most uptight Bond-wannabe ever, and House would rather leave it to the pros. The elevator opened, and, letting his grin fade, House stepped inside, pressing the button for the fourth floor before Foreman even stepped on with him, assuming he would. Assuming one of his messages didn't send him somewhere more important.

"You're trying to talk me out of it?" Foreman asked with mild disbelief. He wasn't about to start believing House's words over his actions, and he dismissed House's argument pretty much as soon as he'd made it. Foreman was more patient than House, even if that wasn't saying much, and in this game, that's all that really counted.

Foreman looked House up and down after following him onto the elevator, trying to keep it subtle, out of the corner of his eyes. It seemed like being tight space with him had, over the course of one night, conditioned Foreman to think that House was approachable. House was looking the worse for wear, and the kissing in the car hadn't exactly smoothed down the wrinkles in his clothes, but that only made Foreman more conscious of the fact that he'd pushed those clothes off him last night and told him to stop wearing so much. Advice which House had followed, since he'd shoved his button-down into his backpack this morning. Foreman tugged on his suit jacket self-consciously, hoping that none of it would show when they got to the office. As much fun as it was to get on House's case about Cuddy catching them--literally throwing him off his stride--it was nearly time to drop it and start acting like a professional.

When the elevator opened, Foreman stepped out ahead of House, and this time he didn't moderate his pace, but headed straight for the conference room door. He planned to be at least thirty seconds ahead of House by the time they got there, and to ignore him for another minute or two more after that, to at least try and put up the illusion that they hadn't come in together.

"Just making a point," House said, staring up at the floor numbers over the doors. He wasn't sure how Foreman arrived at the conclusion that he was trying to talk him out of anything. He was bringing Foreman's own flimsy steadfastness to his attention; maybe if he insulted it, brought up Foreman's lack of patience, Foreman would turn into the most patient person on the planet just to prove him wrong. Maybe not that patient, but House didn't doubt that Foreman would be more aware of it, and Foreman take advantage of anything he could to try to shove something back in his face. House could take that, being proven wrong if it meant that he got his way, if he had engineered it to happen in the first place.

House couldn't say he was surprised when the elevator opened and Foreman took off without looking back, striding at full speed. He'd been waiting for it, waiting for Foreman's facade to rise, for him to lift his professional, put-together image into place. He watched Foreman round the corner, following him--he had nowhere else to go, and had to get his clean clothes in his desk anyway--but not trying to catch up with him. He didn't bother following Foreman into the conference room, heading for his own office. At his desk, he dumped his backpack onto the floor, nudging it to the side, by the back bookshelf. He took a seat to fish his clothes out of his drawer, then stood up again, clothes bundled in the crook of his arm, and peeked into the conference room to find Foreman still there, looking busy, all detached professionalism with a neat, unwrinkled exterior. House grinned, opening the door.

"A half-hour," he said. "I have to admit, it took longer than I thought."

Foreman took a deep breath when he reached the conference room. He supposed eventually the candidates that House hired would be in here every morning, probably messing with whatever order he managed to create, but for now they were still banished to the lecture theatre, or the clinic when Cuddy could catch them. Foreman hung his jacket on the coat tree and headed for the coffee machine to start a pot, since House had stolen half of his this morning. He glanced up when House entered his office, hoping that House would wordlessly agree to keep things discreet. Since House sat down at his desk, Foreman assumed he was in the clear. He started going through the mail, grimacing at some pretty desperate consult requests, both from patients and doctors. Answering those were what really made him miss Cameron. They'd piled up in the months since she'd left.

He turned sharply at the sound of House's voice. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. He didn't like the idea that House was timing him, or studying him, or coming to conclusions about him. Still, he'd known House wouldn't really respect the rules Foreman tried to put in place, especially if they were unspoken.

Probably better to keep the subject away from himself. "Going to keep your minions waiting?" Foreman asked, nodding at the pile of clothes under House's arm. Even though nobody was here but the two of them, Foreman fought to keep his smirk to himself. If he couldn't hide how he felt now, then he wouldn't be any better in front of an audience. Probably his smugness showed despite himself, though. House meant to take the shower that Foreman had rushed him past this morning. House had chosen to ignore the alarm clock, so he'd missed out his chance. He probably smelled of sweat and sex, and Foreman regretted not taking the time in the car to kiss House a little longer, at least enough to push his nose against the juncture of House's neck and shoulder and let the scent wash over him. That was exactly the kind of thought he should be avoiding at work. Foreman looked back at the mail and threw the last ones in the appropriate piles as a quick way to get his guard back up.

House stayed silent for a moment, smirking as if he knew information that Foreman didn't, just to add to Foreman's discomfort. He didn't even care to try to hide it; he never did. Killing some more time and ignoring Foreman's question, House juggled his bundle of clothes and his cane, wriggled out of his coat, and hung it on the coat tree next to Foreman's. "It took you a half-hour to stop flirting with me," he said, closing the gap between himself and Foreman. "I thought you'd revert back to your default settings way earlier than this." House got in Foreman's face, sure he was standing far too close for his comfort, wondering if it would make Foreman raise his guard even further or if House would see him slip, even for a second. He thought he saw a flicker of something a few moments ago, but Foreman had turned away before he could get a good look. He wondered what it would take for Foreman to slip at work, and House put it in the back of his mind to try to find out sometime.

He stood there for a solid half-minute, studying Foreman's face, his own serious and still. Finally moving, stepping away from Foreman, he said, "I'm going to take a shower." He hoped just the information would get Foreman's imagination going, even if it was a little strange to think that he'd be thinking about him, but the satisfaction of that knowledge outweighed everything else. Without looking back, he left, feeling smug even without seeing any expression on Foreman's face; he doubted Foreman would reveal much anyway, but he was confidence that his thoughts--memories--were already rolling in his brain without his permission.

The feeling lasted all the way to the lounge and into the showers. Despite himself, he wondered if Foreman would follow, and he hated that a part of him was hoping for it. He couldn't really lock the door this time, but he doubted Foreman would move very far from the conference room. After throwing back a Vicodin--if he was going to have a shower here, he'd try to actually enjoy it--he set his clean clothes on the bench in one pile, stripped out of the ones he wore and set those in another pile. He hung his cane on one of the hooks in the wall, above his things, and stepped into the shower stall. He made his towel was slung over the door before he started running the water, then settled under the spray. God, it was relaxing, and he took a deep breath. Now that he'd stopped moving and things had slowed down, he realized how tired he still felt. He'd gotten a little rest overnight, but the early rising hadn't been a great start to the day. He drew another breath, perching himself on the shower seat under the water, and let his eyes close, trying to let the world fall away.

Of course, his brain seemed to think that it was a perfect moment to think about Foreman. Foreman on his damn knees. Between his legs. Foreman stroking him hard before wrapping his lips around his cock. Taking him in. Yeah. Licking slow, sucking light enough to make him want to push into Foreman's mouth. His body warm, the air humid from the water. Droplets running over Foreman's shoulders, his back, as he sucked at him. Harder.

"Fuck, yeah."

As soon as he heard his own voice, his eyes flew open, his head shooting up, away from the wall, his heart already racing. He tried to listen--tried not to breathe--trying to determine if anyone had come in since he'd started, but he didn't hear anyone. He couldn't bring himself to look and verify it, and he stayed still under the flow of water, ignoring the fact that he'd started to get hard. He couldn't fucking do this. Not here. God, it was ridiculous. He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly, and reached for the bottle of shampoo that was always left there, trying to push away his thoughts as he scrubbed at his hair.

Foreman refused to take a step backwards when House studied him up close. He tensed slightly, hoping it wouldn't show, trying to anticipate what House would do. House would take their shouting match for flirtation, and the kissing certainly had been, and Foreman didn't know if House would get angry that Foreman acted differently at work, or go the opposite route and try to kiss him again to prove that Foreman wasn't immune just because they were in the office. Neither happened, though, and Foreman met House's level stare with his own. He wasn't going to give anything away just because House happened to be standing right in front of him. "I'm not being predictable, then," he said, as if that was the end of the conversation.

Apparently it was, since House backed off and headed for the lounge a minute later. Foreman sat down in front of the computer, glad of a few minutes' peace to answer the consult requests. House had sounded much to smug when he'd said he was going to take a shower. Foreman had already guessed that, and it didn't need to be reiterated, unless House was trying to say something else. Something along the lines of You know where I'll be. You know what I'll be doing. Naked, and wet, and almost certainly alone since it was past the shift change and any of the night staff who used the showers would have already left. Foreman could very easily go down there and find him, kiss him again and taste the heat of the water on his lips; strip down and get in with him, push House against the tile, see just how far they could get, groping and kissing and skin pressed to skin, while still standing up.

Foreman blew out a frustrated breath. No. He wasn't going to do that, no matter how tempting the thought. Last spring, when Cameron and Chase were hooking up all over the hospital, Foreman had known long before either of them that it was going to end badly. Cameron would get her heart broken and start moping, or Chase would get his heart trampled on--which was more or less what had ended up happening, as far as Foreman knew. The point was, they'd both been blind enough, or selfish enough, to involve everyone else in the department in their personal issues. Foreman didn't want to get dragged into their drama, or into taking sides. He also didn't want to be watch them flirting, or making puppy eyes at each other, or being stuck between them when the frosty silences started. He knew it would be the same with him and House. As much fun as they might be having on their own time, the hospital just wasn't the place for it, and Foreman was not going to follow House downstairs just because he couldn't control his own fantasies. He shook his head, trying to focus, and went back to answering the mail.

The phone rang, and Foreman picked it up absently. "Department of Diagnostics."

"Is House in yet?" Cuddy asked.

Foreman sat back, raising his eyebrows at the still-empty room. He could certainly sound innocent to Cuddy over the phone. "I think he's around," he said, fighting down the immediate image of House in the shower, water dripping off his top lip and running down his chest.

"Then he's ignoring my messages. Tell him I have a case for him, or better yet, hunt him down so that I don't have to, and send him to my office."

"I can--" Foreman started, but she'd already hung up. He gave a disgusted sigh. The last case, he'd managed the team just fine on his own. It would be nice if Cuddy knew that.

And wasn't this perfect. Foreman had avoided thinking about House for all of two minutes, and now he had to go and get him out of the shower. His heart beat faster in anticipation, and Foreman rolled his eyes at himself. He was just delivering a message. It was work.

The shower room, when Foreman stepped in from the lounge, was hot and moist. House's clothes were piled on the bench, his cane hanging above them. Foreman was going to have to apologize to Chase for calling him an idiot several times over, if this was the kind of situation Cameron had put him in.

He looked around quickly, but the room was deserted otherwise. Probably that was a bad thing, considering how Foreman's libido took that fact for some sort of permission to start throwing even more entirely-too-plausible scenarios in front of his mind's eye. Jerking the door open without warning, catching House completely off-guard, the surprised look on his face when Foreman stepped in to kiss him, closing the door again behind him... Foreman wondered how quiet House could be if he was sucking him off, wondered if he could make House be quiet somehow. If it was even possible to have sex in the hospital without the entire place knowing about it five minutes later.

Jesus. This had to stop. Foreman wasn't going to get led around by his dick--not even if he could feel it stirring with arousal--so none of those stupidly hot images was ever going to happen. He approached the shower, listened for a moment, but he didn't hear anything over the sound of the water. He cleared his throat. "House?" he said, and tapped on the door, trying to see House's outline through the frosted glass.

It was impossible--fucking impossible--to get Foreman, memories of their last few encounters, out of his damn head. He tried thinking of other people, but those memories were so fresh, almost tangible, that they overwhelmed his other thoughts. He tried thinking of nothing at all, rinsing the shampoo out of his hair and slouching against the wall, his frustration growing with every second.

Fuck it. Fuck it. He was already hard. Jerking off wouldn't take long, and then maybe he could relieve the tension, quell the damn fantasies and get through his day. He'd gotten a hand wrapped around himself and stroked himself once before--fuck--the damn door opened. Only one pair of footsteps sounded above the noise of the shower. House flattened his hands over his thighs, listening, trying not to breathe too loudly, and refused to move. He nearly groaned, biting it back and pressing his lips firmly together, when he heard Foreman's voice, then the tap on the door. God, it fucking figured.

His brain immediately buzzed with reasons why Foreman was even looking for him in the first place. If Foreman had planned to do anything worth his while, like fulfill some of the fantasies still filling his head, he wouldn't have knocked, and he would have already barged into the shower. The alternatives just served to annoy him. He was either here to bug him to do some work, or he was sent here by someone else to bug him to do some work, but, either way, he wasn't interested at the moment. He wasn't about to drop Foreman hints, try to lure him into the shower--he had some damn pride, and he'd already told Foreman enough to allow him to make a choice. And he didn't want to give himself away, that he'd been seconds away from masturbating to thoughts of what he and Foreman had already done, what they still might do. It would be easier to be sarcastic, cover the gruffness of his voice with annoyance. Plus, a sincere answer would make Foreman suspicious, and he'd risk being caught with no promise of anything but ridicule, but a sarcastic, typical answer, House reasoned, would make Foreman brush it off and get to the point. And right now, with his dick gently starting to throb, getting to the point was kind of the idea.

"Unless you're here to blow me," he called out, loud enough to be heard above the water, "it can wait ten minutes." Maybe fifteen, House thought, trying to calculate the time it would take to jerk off and finish his shower. It would take longer if Foreman didn't say what he had to say and get the hell out.

"Cuddy has a case for us." Foreman peered through the glass, wishing he could see more than a vague sense of House's shadow. Even though Foreman had imagined that House's voice had held some kind of invitation when he'd said he was coming down here, he didn't really believe that House had expected him to follow him. Now House sounded annoyed, more annoyed than Foreman interrupting him called for.

Unless Foreman was really interrupting him. He drew in a breath of humid air, trying to calm himself down. Not likely. House didn't like being watched, or being caught, doing anything personal, let alone jerking off in the showers at work. If he was, though, then Foreman was standing about three feet away from while he was touching himself. The sounds would be mostly covered by the rush of water, but Foreman strained to listen for the sound of House's breathing, to hear if it was louder or more harsh than usual. Had the kiss in the car really turned him on that much? Or maybe House was thinking about last night. About Foreman. Foreman closed his eyes. Or maybe he was a fucking idiot, and House was just showering.

It didn't matter that logically House was probably just taking his own sweet time getting clean, to annoy his fellows, or Cuddy, or just because. It didn't matter, because Foreman was getting hard thinking about what House would look like, stroking himself, wet and hard and trying desperately to be quiet. He crossed his arms and turned his back on the shower, leaning against the tile. "If I am here to blow you," he asked, glancing around the shower room to make sure it stayed empty, "will it take less?"

"Not if you're going to have a discussion about it first," House snapped, reaching for the soap. If Foreman was going to stand there and chit-chat, which wasn't helping his whole situation, he might as well distract himself as much as possible. Maybe if he concentrated on something else, something other than the fact that Foreman was a few feet away talking about some hypothetical blowjob, he'd get a God damn grip. His erection would flag enough to help him forget what Foreman interrupted. Yeah, that had worked so well a few minutes ago, when Foreman hadn't been standing outside the door. God, doing actual work was starting to sound like a good idea the longer Foreman stood there. The case might be interesting enough to make him immerse himself in it for a couple days. He'd take a couple hours.

As he washed himself, he realized he overlooked the fact that he'd have to touch himself to get clean. At least, make sure all of him got clean, and he struggled with the decision to actually touch his penis, half-hard now, worried that any touch would flare up all his fantasies, his arousal, all over again. Biting his lip, trying to be as quiet as possible and fighting to think of something besides how badly he wanted to stroke himself back to full hardness, jerk off, and come without Foreman even knowing, House moved a soapy hand over himself. He washed and rinsed as fast and as well as he could, glaring at the door, wondering when Foreman was going to leave. He sure as hell wasn't going to strut out of the shower like this, tenting his towel and giving Foreman an excuse to mock him. God, he could already see the smugness that would cover Foreman's face, and unless that face was hovering over his crotch, he wasn't interested in seeing it.

He didn't want to invite conversation, but since Foreman didn't seem to be leaving on his own, he figured an order wouldn't hurt--even if he hadn't hired Foreman, he still worked in his department. "Be a good little lapdog and fetch the case," he said, rolling his eyes at himself when it came out rushed, his sarcasm a little too forced. There was a chance Foreman might actually listen, and House waited, letting the water run over him, breathing quickly but quietly, his eyes fixed on Foreman's blurry shape on the other side of the door.

Foreman grit his teeth when House spoke. He was right, the discussion was a terrible idea, although maybe not for the reason House thought. Foreman was going to have a noticeable bulge in his pants if House got out of the shower now, and the only way he could think to avoid House commenting on it for the rest of the day--or, given House's track record with insults, the rest of Foreman's life--was to get in the damn shower and do something about it. Fuck. Being unpredictable was one thing, but this was fucking insane. The fact was, though, that if Foreman didn't do anything, he was going to be fighting off an erection all day, and if House was going to get out of the shower he'd have done it by now. He was delaying for a reason. House's hurried, half-assed order only made Foreman more certain he knew what that reason was. "Already tried that," he muttered, maybe not loud enough to be heard. Cuddy wanted to give the case directly to House, and House had to know that since the lapdog had been sent down to fetch him, she wasn't accepting substitutes.

Delaying a case wasn't the worst thing Foreman had done as a doctor--killing a patient managed to top that list--but it would make every comment he made about professionalism from now on nothing but a bunch of hypocritical bullshit. Still, he was already plotting what lie might tide Cuddy over--House was hiding in the third-floor janitor's closet with his Gameboy would probably cover it. And the fact that Foreman was already rationalizing meant that he already knew how this would end. He wanted to give in. He wanted to do this. He was a moron.

Foreman tugged his tie off, not bothering to undo the knot. He toed off his shoes and then went for the rest of his suit, folding everything as neatly as he could given the fact that he was already nervous about how long this was going to take. He shivered a bit once he was naked, despite the heat in the air and in his body. He took one last look around, assuring himself once more that this was the least busy time of day. He turned on the water in the next shower stall to full-blast and closed the door, throwing a towel over the top. If anybody came in and didn't look too closely, all they'd see were two occupied showers. Foreman felt entirely willing to invent some dire emergency ending in vomit or blood that meant he and House had had to shower at the same time.

That done, he tugged open the door to House's stall. Christ, Foreman hoped this would shock the hell out of him; his heart was already pounding at just how risky this was. He looked down at House, taking in at a glance that he'd been right. House was half-hard, probably had been too embarrassed to get out of the shower, and Foreman's smugness over that fact was enough to let him say, "Discussion's over," and slide carefully down to his knees.

"Couldn't have tried hard enough," House said, wondering if Foreman had really tried at all. He let himself close his eyes for a moment, trying silently to will Foreman to go away and let him jerk off in peace, and, when he opened his eyes, finding Foreman no longer outside the door, he thought for a second it might have actually worked. He froze, however, when he heard another shower start, and was still sitting, perfectly still save for the rise and fall of his chest, as the door swung open and Foreman stepped inside. Naked. Looking at him intensely. At his face. Then down, at his erection. Caught.

House let his gaze fall away from Foreman, feeling like a fucking moron for letting himself get carried away with his thoughts, for being unable to stop thinking about them and get rid of his damn hard-on. He was embarrassed that Foreman had gone this far--he hadn't expected it, and he was sure the surprise showed on his face--and caught him like this. He glanced up for a second, seeing the smug satisfaction on Foreman's face, then dropped his head, closing his eyes as Foreman's voice curled in his ear. The tone of Foreman's voice made his heart rate speed up; it nearly beat straight through his damn chest when Foreman knelt down in front of him.

Christ, Foreman wasn't messing around if he was willing to risk doing this at work. Or he was desperate. But, a guy who'd gotten laid twice the previous day couldn't possibly be that desperate. Or this could be a part of a vivid, elaborate fantasy. His imagination on overdrive. House reached out and laid his hand on Foreman's shoulder, squeezing to test its solidity. No, God, this was real. So it had to be that Foreman wanted to do this, but House couldn't help the pathetically frantic question that tumbled out of his mouth: "What are you doing?" The answer was obvious, but that wasn't what he'd meant. Why are you doing this? was the question he really wanted to ask, and he tried, never getting past the first word, his breath catching, but he figured it would be enough. He was ready to shove Foreman away if Foreman replied with some unwanted answer, although, with Foreman on his knees in front of him, he couldn't imagine what he could say to make him want to put a stop to this. No matter what Foreman said, he'd still gotten into this shower with him, completely voluntarily, and he's still sunk down to his knees--his choice--with the intent, House assumed, to blow him there in the shower. Nothing Foreman had to say would be able to take that away.

House stared down at Foreman, feeling himself getting harder, all his memories and earlier fantasies flooding back to the forefront of his brain. He wanted to grab the back of Foreman's head, shove him down, but not more than he wanted Foreman to take the initiative himself, make that first move and take him in his mouth without ever being asked. He didn't want to fucking blink, just in case he missed that first movement, and focused intently on Foreman's face, his eyes, his mouth, willing himself to keep from spreading his legs and inviting Foreman to come closer.

He wondered if Foreman was expecting him to return the favor. He didn't doubt it, although he wasn't sure how he'd manage it without hurting himself. And, if Foreman was concerned about time--he had been a moment ago--then this definitely wasn't the way to go. Not that House was trying to change his mind, but he was interested to know how badly Foreman wanted this, where it fell in his list of priorities. "If you expect me to reciprocate, this is going to take longer," House said, already breathing a little faster.

Foreman stopped shivering as soon as the heat of the water hit him, running down his back, but he could feel his muscles tightening, on the edge of trembling at the chance he was taking. He was hyper-aware of the sound of the showers, the echo from the tiles. Any sound they made could be heard, if they made any sound. If anyone walked in to hear them. His heart had to be beating loud enough to give them away. Foreman hadn't done anything this stupid since he was a deluded kid, breaking into people's houses for the fucking thrill of it. That same rush of adrenaline and endorphins was taking him over now.

It didn't matter how stupid it was. He was committed now. Foreman couldn't back down, not in front of House, not when he was the one pushing. Not when the rest of his attention was on House's expression, watching the frantic, honest surprise written across his face. Foreman didn't remember that he'd ever blindsided House like this, astonished him completely, and he liked it. The grout between the tiles scraped his knees and the tiles were too hard to be comfortable, but hopefully he wouldn't be kneeling for long. House's obvious reaction to him seemed to confirm that. House nearly surprised a laugh out of him with his question, since it had to be obvious. A question like that during a diagnosis and House would skewer the questioner with mockery for a week. House would know the reasons if his brain was working--the fact that he'd already grabbed Foreman's shoulder, probably about to pull him down to suck him, proved his mental faculties weren't at their best right now. Because it's not boring, not predictable. Because I don't have default settings. Because I want to.

Foreman wasn't about to say that. "Seeing if you can shut up when I tell you to," he said, placing his hands on House's knees. He gripped House's left thigh, feeling the heat of his skin from the shower, the tension in his muscles. House was still resisting, even though his erection had firmed up just since Foreman had kneeled down in front of him. God, that was a turn-on, that House couldn't hide his reaction.

"When Cuddy asks why you're late, you can give her the detailed X-rated version." Foreman ran his left hand up to House's dick, squeezing him lightly, stroking experimentally. "Now," he said, meeting House's eyes. "Shut up." With that, he leaned down--it would be easier if House shifted his legs a bit, but he managed--guided House's cock into his mouth. House tasted of soap and clean warm skin. Foreman started sucking right away, concentrating on the head while he stroked the base with his hand. He wanted to find the line between speed and going so hard that House wouldn't be able to keep his damn mouth shut. As soon as Foreman knew how fast he could go while House stayed silent, he planned to make House come faster than he ever had before.

House was about to argue--that couldn't be the reason Foreman was shirking all his professional duties--but, fuck it. He'd argue later. It had nothing to do with following Foreman's implied instructions, everything to do with wanting Foreman to get started. It was the only sign he gave that would let Foreman know he wanted this, didn't give a damn about the fact they were doing this at the hospital. He couldn't, not when Foreman was leaning so damn close, hand gripping his leg, the other on his knee. Do it. Come on.

"If she comes looking for me, she might--" House skipped over his words when Foreman started stroking him, getting him fully hard. He blinked slowly, drawing a faster breath, releasing it with a soft sigh. "--get to see it for herself." He doubted that would happen; Cuddy rarely checked the lounge. The thought of being found like this--Cuddy's eyes open wide with shock--made his heart race. Foreman's order made it beat that much harder, and he couldn't bring himself to listen when Foreman's lips closed around him and Foreman started sucking, letting a small, breathy groan rise up to the ceiling with the steam of the water. "Oh, yeah," he whispered, closing his eyes, feeling smug over opening defying Foreman, knowing Foreman would probably just try harder to make him shut up, wouldn't stop. Suddenly the temperature of the water felt way too hot, his skin flushing with so much heat as Foreman's tongue smoothed over his dick, his hand working most of the shaft, and House opened his eyes to look down at Foreman. This time he hardly realized he moaned until the sound echoed off the wet tiles.

Another sound, definitely not his voice, followed his own a few seconds later. A soft click, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the shower, of the drum of his heartbeat, his own breaths. The door. Oh, God, the door. Footsteps. Fuck. Fuck. No. Damn it. House turned his head sharply toward the door of the stall, using both hands to grab hold of Foreman's shoulders, pushing him back. God, he had to stop. Had to, or he'd give them both away, and, fuck, maybe he did care about being discovered. He didn't want to be the talk of the hospital grapevine unless it was under his control. If Cuddy knew, or maybe Wilson, or the fellows, fine. House could torture Foreman with it, take the attention off of him and focus on Foreman, but a random gossip-monger would twist facts, would earn him stares he didn't fucking want, wasn't ready for. God, Foreman really had to stop. He swallowed nervously, pressing his lips together to keep himself quiet, and watched for signs of whoever it was that had chosen the worst fucking time to visit the showers. Sounded like flatter shoes, not heels. He heard a locker open above the sound of the shower, and House hoped like hell that it was a matter of retrieving something, then leaving. God, he was such a moron for letting Foreman do this. He'd wanted it--still did--but it was stupid. He tried to nudge Foreman away again, looking down at him and mouthing, Stop, shaking his head.

The steam of the shower made everything wet and slippery, making it easy to stroke House's cock fast and tight. Foreman frowned when he heard House's whisper, followed by his moan, loud enough that House couldn't possibly be trying to be careful at all. He gripped House's thigh harder, but that was as much warning as he gave. He wasn't going to prolong this just because House couldn't follow instructions. He started moving his hand even faster, wanting to finish and wanting to get his before too much time had passed. He was already half-hard from anticipation and if he could stroke himself while he sucked House off, he'd be on the edge right on time for House to return the favour. Foreman leaned down, taking House in deeper, only to feel House's hands on his shoulders, shoving him away. Why the hell was House pushing him back? He pulled away to ask, angry for a split second before he heard the footsteps. Foreman froze completely. Somebody had walked in. Oh fuck. He was a fucking idiot, he'd known he was and he'd done this anyway. Shit, shit, shit.

A moment like this was so fucking ridiculous. Just his goddamn luck. Foreman should be furious--he was--but at the same time, it wasn't like he could shout or blame House for this entire fiasco. He had to keep quiet; his entire professional reputation hinged on staying silent, unnoticed. His knees ached, he still had a hand wrapped around House's erection, he was naked and giving a blowjob in the showers at work, where he expected his colleagues to take him seriously on a regular basis, about to be caught by--if the universe had any sympathy for him--some random person, not somebody he knew, not somebody he'd have to look in the eye after this.

It was his own goddamn fault. That was the worst part of it, that Foreman had completely abandoned any moral high ground he might once have had. So Cameron and Chase had done it in the sleep lab while monitoring a patient; at least Foreman hadn't walked in on them with Chase's dick in Cameron's mouth. At least that image had the effect of damping his arousal somewhat. He could just picture the look of wide-eyed, gobsmacked astonishment on Chase's face, and Cameron's red-faced excuses. If any of them could've gotten past the embarrassment, it would have been pretty hilarious. Foreman probably looked no better right now--terrified but still turned on at the worst possible moment; and as for House--

Foreman made the mistake of looking up into House's face right then, when House shoved him a second time and silently ordered him to stop. House looked as panicked as Foreman felt, a deer caught in the headlights. Or like a guy who claimed he didn't care what anyone thought finding out that he did care after all. Foreman's lips twitched, and he felt a bubble of laughter rising in his chest. He clamped his mouth shut. He bent his head again, not to continue the blowjob but just because if he kept looking at House, he was going to burst out laughing and give them away. His shoulders shook, and he leaned down on House's left thigh, blocking his mouth with his forearm. He hadn't felt this close to laughing uncontrollably since he'd been infected with naegleria, but this time he wasn't laughing at anybody but himself.

There was a sound of the locker slamming shut, footsteps again, and then the swing of the door to the lounge. Foreman gasped, still swallowing down his laughter. They hadn't been caught. They still might be. He couldn't imagine a narrower margin. They could still get out of this with their dignity intact, if they stopped right the hell now. "Isn't it your job to shoot down the really stupid ideas?" Foreman asked, his voice still shaky with how close he was to laughing. That was as close as he wanted to get to taking the blame for this little disaster. He sat back, about to stand up; he'd had his fill of boneheaded stunts for one day.

When Foreman looked up, his cock falling from his mouth, Foreman looked as though he found all of this funny. House felt a wave of fury rising up his throat, his arousal fading fast. He shoved at Foreman, trying to push him away as quietly as possible and make him stop shaking with silent laughter. He'd fucking hurt him to make him stop, and, as the footsteps started again, the door opening and closing again, House glared at him, not even bothering to restrain the anger. With any luck, he'd knock Foreman on his ass with it.

"Shut up," House snapped, jumping in before Foreman even finished his question. He heard it, hardly caring that Foreman was actually admitting that this idea had been stupid. It was Foreman's idea--not his. This was Foreman's fault. It was probably his fucking plan. Either get them caught and take some revenge for the way House had outed him to the fellows, or get him worked up enough to keep his balls blue for the rest of the damn day, just to frustrate him. Both options just made House seethe even more, and he glared at Foreman, breathing harder than normal, torn between grabbing Foreman, shoving his face down onto his cock until he finished the damn job, and kicking his ass out of the stall.

He sat forward, gripping the edge of the seat with both hands, his arms straight and tense. He had some damn pride. He wasn't that desperate that he needed Foreman to suck him off in the shower, right now. He shouldn't fucking care, but he didn't need the bullshit that would be dumped onto him if the hospital made this the talk to the water cooler. And if this had only been a plan to get some revenge, possibly to put more thoughts of Foreman, some reminders, in his head on Terzi's first day, then House didn't want to have anything to do with it. He ignored the stab of hurt, convinced now that Foreman had some kind of ulterior motive, pretending that it didn't matter, and jerked his head toward the door. "Get the hell out of here."

Foreman could still get angry, but there wasn't much point, since he only had himself to blame. He wasn't about to apologize, either--House had wanted it as badly as he had, and hadn't stopped him. Foreman knew he shouldn't be laughing like this. No wonder House was getting pissed off. He probably thought Foreman was laughing at him, which was, in a sense, true. House kept surprising him. Foreman would have been less shocked--furious, but less shocked--if House had started moaning in earnest when whoever it was had walked in, giving them their own X-rated show. Foreman appreciated House's fear of getting caught more, though. It was appealing, the fact that House had boundaries. Apparently Foreman had gotten close enough to House, been allowed to see enough, that House didn't want anyone to know about him. He did have a measure of privacy, of discretion, and Foreman was now a part of that. He found that he liked that. He wanted to be included in House's definition of privacy. God, he really was more involved than could possibly be sane, but instead of being terrified, right now Foreman only felt the leftover warmth of his laughter. He carefully didn't smile at House, because that would probably just piss him off more, and got to his feet. He checked to make sure that the coast was clear and stepped out of the stall instead.

Foreman grabbed his towel from the second shower and reached in to shut it off. "I'll make it up to you," he said, barely noticing that he was making a promise, that he was assuming something about the future. He chuckled a little bit from pure relief as he started drying himself off, reaching for his clothes. As soon as he had his pants on, he wouldn't care if the whole world marched into the shower room. He'd avoided the consequences of getting caught, so the whole thing wasn't a mistake, just a miscalculation. "After you see Cuddy about the case."

House stared down at his feet, refusing to look at Foreman, watching water fall down from his body and onto the floor as he waited for Foreman to leave. He nearly barked at Foreman again, tempted to physically shove him out of the stall along with his harsh words, but Foreman stepped out himself. Finally. House closed his eyes, breathing a sigh, a mantra of you idiot, you fucking moron rolling through his head. He fought down his arousal--what was left of it--and kept his hands at his sides, gripping the seat. He heard the other shower shut off, but he wasn't about to leave his own stall before Foreman left the damn room, and he tried to think about anything but Foreman, and what they almost did, as he waited.

Foreman's words didn't help--not one fucking bit--and House scoffed. House did not expect a follow-through. He couldn't remember Foreman ever doing him a favor, and he doubted Foreman felt one shred of guilt over leaving him horny and frustrated in the shower. Not when he was laughing about it. When Foreman spoke again, the truth came out. A bribe. It had been nothing more than a bribe, and House shook his head. "Yeah," he said, "I won't hold my breath." House stood up carefully, his erection gone but his frustration still simmering, and leaned against the wall, waiting to turn off the shower once Foreman left. "Meet me in the lecture hall. Make sure the kids are all still there."

Foreman looked up from tugging his shirt on. What the hell was House's problem? He couldn't possibly still be horny, not after they'd almost been caught. Foreman had already admitted that it was a stupid idea. He was starting to feel his amusement drain away as he realized just how close a call that had been. Was House pissed off that he'd stopped? Did he really expect Foreman to keep going, when they'd nearly been discovered once already? Foreman was uncomfortably aware of just how far he'd flung himself into a crazy, stupid stunt. And why? Because he'd been thinking about House. Because he'd wanted him. That was exactly the kind of idiocy that he tried so hard to push down. That was what was so dangerous about a workplace relationship--any relationship, but at work there was always the potential to get carried away and act like a fucking teenager, and that wasn't who Foreman was, the last few minutes notwithstanding.

Foreman finished with his buttons, scowling as he tucked his shirt into his pants. Relationship. Fuck. He'd actually thought the word, in connection with House. He rolled his eyes at himself. "So now it's your turn to stop flirting with me?" he asked, when House ordered him off like a flunky. "Just because I won't blow you in the showers?"

He stopped dressing, too impatient to deal with his tie, and glared at the shower stall where House was still hiding out. Apparently he'd lost his fucking mind this morning, but he'd learned his lesson. "I'm not going to do it again, so don't bother getting pissed off."

No, House thought, rolling his eyes at Foreman's words, just because Foreman thought that blowing him--or not blowing him--in the shower was some kind of private joke. That it seemed like Foreman had other reasons for starting in the first place besides the fact that he might have actually wanted him.

Christ, it didn't matter. He didn't want to stand there and argue with Foreman. He just wanted him to fucking leave, so he could get out of the shower, get dressed, and do his damn job. He'd be able to distract himself if he threw himself into a case. Ridiculous that he was so caught up in what he and Foreman had been doing that he was actually looking for work. If Foreman didn't want to be a part of that, then fine, it would probably make it easier for him.

"Look, I don't care if you want to be involved in the case or not, but, if you do, then I'll be in"--House slowed down his sentence, speaking each word clearly as if Foreman's IQ had dropped to undetectable levels--"the lec-ture hall."

Foreman shook his head, even as he was pulling on his suit jacket. What a fucking mess. Whatever excitement he'd felt coming into the lounge was completely erased. Foreman almost wished he knew who had nearly walked in on them. He needed someone to be furious with, other than himself.

"You know what, House? I'm not your damn messenger." He was, humiliatingly enough, Cuddy's messenger, and he'd already failed enough at that job. House could go get the case, and handle his squad of newbies, on his own--he'd left Foreman to do all the work last time. Foreman wasn't in the mood to watch House flirt with Terzi, which, after this disaster, House undoubtedly would. He didn't want to be in the same goddamn room with him. Not if House was going to treat him like an infant simply because Foreman had regained his good sense before both of them ended up on Cuddy's shit list for having sex in her hospital. "Enjoy the case."

Foreman shoved the door open and strode out, his tie askew and his suit wrinkled, frustration jarring him with every step. At this rate, he'd probably be better off finding out what Marty Hamilton had to say than in listening to one more word House had to say.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

November 12, 2007 - Morning

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