wooedforyears | November 12, 2007

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.

Threaded | Flat

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.

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