House ignored the shove that Foreman gave him, too curled up underneath the blankets to fight back--not really awake enough for it. He groaned, rolling his eyes at the frantic, panicked energy Foreman was using to propel himself across the room. Jesus, Foreman needed to learn to fucking relax for one damn second. "You're not going to get fired," House said, half into the pillow. If anything, Foreman was going to get outed, and so was he, for spending the night with him. As much as House wanted to spare himself the judgments and advice, strange looks, and who knew what else would come his way if their--fuck, he might as well call it what it was--relationship became common knowledge, he didn't give it much thought at that second, still half-asleep, warm, comfortable, basking in a low-pain level morning for a change.

He watched Foreman as he came back into his line of sight, taking a second to rub sleep out of his eyes, and focused on him. Foreman wasn't a bad sight in the morning, the angle of the light defining the muscles in Foreman's shoulders, his arms, and drawing attention to the line of his body down to his hips, to his--

House's eyes automatically widened as his gaze fell on the undeniable hard-on in Foreman's boxers. Huh. Apparently, Foreman had more of a reason to be frustrated with their delay. Foreman must have wanted to play, House thought gleefully, feeling the lazy stirring of arousal himself. That would play so well into his hopes of delaying them even more, and he wondered how convincing he'd really have to be in order to get Foreman to go along with it. Shoving the blankets down enough to free his arm, House reached out and grabbed the clothes in Foreman's hand, quickly turning back over, cradling them against his chest like a football as he shimmied back under the blankets. If Foreman wanted them, he'd have to come and get them.