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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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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