November 12, 2007 - Morning

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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.

Comments

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.