wooedforyears | November 17, 2007

November 17, 2007 - Morning

Foreman didn't wake up to the sound of an alarm clock. He roused slowly, his mind becoming aware of sensations before he opened his eyes. The heat of House's body pressed against him, the languid comfort of having slept himself out, the accommodating softness of the bed and pillows, and the slow, even rate of his own breathing. His body hummed with unhurried arousal, leftover from a dream he couldn't remember. Foreman rolled his shoulders, stretching lazily, not wanting to move more than he had to. When he extended his legs to work out a kink in his calf, his hips moved forward almost involuntarily, rubbing his dick against the material of his boxers and nudging House's leg. The undertone of pleasure coiled low in his stomach, warmer and slightly more insistent. Foreman wasn't hard--not more than halfway, anyhow--but it wouldn't take much, and it made him even less willing to open his eyes. He'd rather enjoy it for now, as long as he didn't have to wake up.

The only reason he could think that he hadn't been jerked out of sleep too early by the blare of the alarm was that it was Saturday. Had to be. He always set the alarm. The night before came back slowly. Taking House home. Being jolted awake when House's pain got bad. Arguing until he was exhausted, and finally forcing House to accept that he wasn't leaving when he didn't feel like walking out at two in the morning. But those memories brought back others, like finishing their lupus case the night before and learning about Thirteen's diagnosis, and Foreman finally opened his eyes when he remembered that yesterday had been Thursday, which meant it was Friday, which meant the last thing he should be doing was lying around in bed debating whether to do something about his hard-on now or in the shower, as if it was the weekend.

He was in House's bed. He'd known that, but he'd forgotten the corollary--House was always, always late to work. Foreman lifted his head, blinking. House was lying beside him, looking the worse for wear after the night he'd had, hair tangled with dried sweat, exhaustion darkening the bags under his eyes, his stubble looking even more unkempt than usual. Foreman firmly ignored the twinge of concern and tenderness at seeing House not in any immediate pain, and even more firmly told off his dick for still being interested. The light was strong enough in the room that it had to be well into the morning. Christ, it was probably ten or eleven, and they were both disastrously late, even by House's dismal standards.

Foreman scrubbed one hand across his face, stared at the nightstand, trying to figure out why the hell he hadn't set the alarm, even if it was House's. But he and House had been fighting most of the night, first over checking his biopsies and then over his pain, and Foreman hadn't thought of it. He hadn't even realized House had books and journals and pill bottles all over his bedside table, but no alarm clock. "You don't have a clock?" Foreman said, loud and incredulous, pushing away from House even though part of him definitely didn't want to go.

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Oh, fuck, it was working. All his efforts, starting with the quick pinch of Foreman's nipple, made Foreman react even more strongly. This was going to backfire if House couldn't get his own reactions under control, and he could feel himself tipping toward 'out of control' the more Foreman thrust into him, just as hard as before. Harder. Pushing House's breaths out as Foreman rocked him, pressed him down on each stroke. House could hear Foreman grunting, saying his name like he wasn't even realizing it. God, it was fucking incredible. Foreman really was losing it, which was making him lose it. Fuck, he had to hold on, had to watch this.

His body jerked, muscles tightening, clenching around Foreman as he felt Foreman's hand curl around his dick. He gasped, moaning and feeling himself cracking, even though Foreman's hand had no rhythm, hardly a consistent grip. Sweat and lube made them both slippery. Foreman's skin was so fucking warm, and House felt like his own was on fire, tingle-burns rolling waves over his skin, through him from the inside out, starting where Foreman's cock stroked over his prostate. Over and over, and fuck, he didn't want to hold on anymore. But he wanted to see Foreman break; he wouldn't be able to be nearly as smug about this if he couldn't see it. But, God, the way his body was already tensing, his brain shorting out to the point where he was having trouble thinking--no fucking chance words were even a possibility. Everything felt good. So damn good. Foreman's hand on him, sloppy and uncoordinated. The weight of Foreman's body, all the heat, almost so much of it that it was hard to draw a full breath. The hot throb of his dick, jolts of pleasure rocking up from inside him, connecting and moving through him, coming out of his mouth with strained, broken moans. Foreman's cock--hard, and huge, and fucking ramming him. Fuck.

And, God--oh, fucking God--Foreman's orgasm, finally breaking. House could feel it, heard when Foreman gasped and jerked, felt Foreman's hand pause on his dick. Heard when Foreman couldn't talk anymore, and House turned his head to look at Foreman's face, desperately trying to hold back his own orgasm just until he got a glimpse, and, fuck he wasn't disappointed. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, gasping for all the air he could get. Completely lost, and all because he'd pushed. Maybe Foreman would take a lesson, because, damn, watching this was such a big turn-on. Jesus. Foreman's body was still moving, bucking into him, not as strongly but still hitting his prostate. He wasn't sure if Foreman had started to ease down or not, but House stopped caring when he dropped his head back down and, with Foreman's hand still on him, his cock still in him, finally let go.

All he could think about, all he could feel was the crushing hot wave of his orgasm flooding every fucking part of his body, overloading his brain. So fucking intense. House was vaguely aware of his fingers digging into muscles, the low, gritty sound of his voice practically screaming. Fuck, this was worth holding out for. So good. So fucking good. Pushing Foreman, watching him, then letting go like this. So good.

The bright, shattering crash of Foreman's orgasm sizzled along his nerves, drove him forward in a stuttering rhythm. So fucking good. Amazing. So strong that he felt like he'd been hit by a brick wall and couldn't even be bothered to pick up the pieces. He gave himself over to it completely. Let it take over. Mind and body working purely by instinct, striving to wring every last second of pleasure out of the rub and slide of his cock in House's body.

Foreman felt it the instant House came. He clenched down around Foreman's cock and it drove another surge out of him, the pleasure redoubling for an almost agonizing second. Foreman barely noticed the sudden spurt of House's semen over his hand, over both their stomachs. Instead there was only the bruising, desperate clutch of House's hands and his voice, hoarse and wordless and practically deafening. He'd never thought House could be so loud, or would allow himself to be, but as much as Foreman felt like he'd come so hard he'd fallen apart, there was still some corner of himself that had room to feel smug over how far he'd driven House. He kept thrusting, taking more time to stroke House's cock as the exhilarating rush of pleasure eased. His hand was slick with House's semen, with sweat and lube, and Foreman rubbed it into the silky skin of House's dick, enjoying how hard he was, and the slight jerk in his muscles as Foreman eased him through his orgasm.

Finally, Foreman moved enough to wipe his hand against the bedsheets. House could worry about the stains for once. Foreman just wanted to collapse. Ignore the world. And it would be so easy to do. Close his eyes and drift on the warm tide of endorphins. Let it all go. He groaned one last time, feeling aftershocks shiver through him. There was no way in hell he was going to move. He'd practically melted. Skin and bones disappearing, leaving behind nothing but his mind, disconnected and floating in the aftermath of sensation. No strength left even to push off of House and roll to his side, not that he'd want to. House's body was warm and sweat-slick, and Foreman wanted to nuzzle closer.

God, that had been intense. Foreman moved his head, barely enough to nudge his nose against the side of House's neck. He felt oversensitive, like every touch was magnified. The rasp of House's stubble against his cheek. The slight, almost unconscious twitch of his hips in incremental thrusts, prolonging the moment for as long as possible before he had to pull out. Some distant part of his brain reminded him that he should be worried about work, worried about a hell of a lot of other things besides cuddling with House--or maybe, more simply, worried that all he wanted was to cuddle with House--but they were thoughts that were easy to dismiss, and Foreman let his eyes close, breathing deeply as his heartbeat slowly settled towards something resembling a normal rhythm.

House knew that his orgasm only lasted several seconds, but it felt so much longer. If Foreman wasn't probably half-distracted by his own post-orgasm aftershocks, House might have felt like he'd shown too much, really let himself get lost a little too much. If he had, though, Foreman probably would have said something--he probably wouldn't have been able to resist--and, so far, Foreman wasn't saying anything. He was still panting, body still quivering from the strength of his orgasm, but he noticed when Foreman let his hand fall away from him, wiped it on the sheets. House almost laughed. He wondered if Foreman thought that he actually cared about a little semen on his sheets. Wouldn't be the first time it ended up there. Tissues weren't always close, and hookers didn't always swallow. He'd change the sheets when he got around to it, or maybe he'd keep them on here until Foreman ended up here again, just to annoy him. Maybe Foreman would be so frustrated he'd change them himself.

House was surprised that Foreman was still lying on him. Was still in him. Foreman was sticking to him with a layer of semen and sweat. His leg was started to hurt--no big surprise, but, God, it was worth it this time. As much as he liked Foreman's weight and warmth, the way Foreman had his face tucked in against the side of his neck, and as much as he liked the way he was almost hugging him--what was up with that--he knew he wouldn't be able to stay like this. And if he started cuddling with Foreman after each time Foreman fucked his brains out, Foreman would start wanting flowers. Or something. House shimmied a little underneath Foreman, pushed against Foreman's hip. "Get off," he said. "Or I'll move first, break your--"

House would have been disappointed that he was robbed of the chance to deliver his rude and crude line for the morning if he hadn't choked on a lungful of air at the sound of the apartment door slamming closed. His mind instantly went to the phone call Foreman had ended, and he glanced at the phone, remembering Foreman had left the line open. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, damn it. Wilson's voice--of fucking course--sounded wary as it formed his name. The overprotective son of a bitch had come here to look for him. Check up on him. Jesus. House looked up at Foreman, not able to hide the panic that he could feel heating his whole damn face. Another few seconds and Wilson would catch him with Foreman's dick in his ass, and, no, Wilson couldn't find out like this. He started pushing at Foreman's shoulders; House wouldn't be able to go anywhere until Foreman moved and, if Foreman climbed off him in another second or two, House still had a chance of heading Wilson off before he even got to the bedroom, before Wilson could step inside the room and smell the sex, and Foreman. And the sex. "It's Wilson. Get off. Get off!"

So much for a fucking afterglow.

Foreman didn't move immediately when House shifted underneath him, other than to grin smugly at House's suggestion that he get off. He already had, and he was feeling pretty damn good about it. Although at least he'd managed to get enough of his control back that he didn't blurt out a stupid line like that. Foreman sighed heavily when House pushed, as if House was asking too much of him, but actually, he knew he'd have to get up soon. He couldn't ignore the world for very much longer. He was sweaty and sticky. A shower was first on his list of priorities, then getting dressed, then coming up with some lie that Cuddy might actually buy. Opening his eyes, Foreman saw that clothes were probably going to have to go higher on his list. Shit. He hadn't even thought about it, but House had grabbed his clothes, and they'd had sex right on top of them. Fucking hell. They weren't just wrinkled, but covered in sweat, and who knew what else. They'd smell like House, and sex, and there was no goddamn way Foreman could wear them anywhere. He hadn't been serious about wearing House's clothes, but now it looked like he'd have to. Shit.

He was trying to see if he could salvage anything of his own to wear when House started shoving at him in earnest. "What?" Foreman snapped, but his heart stopped when he realized what House was saying. Wilson was about to walk in on them. House's panic, under any other circumstances, would have been funny, but right now Foreman agreed with him. The last thing he wanted was to be seen like this. No fucking way. Foreman almost sat up on his knees before remembering he was still practically glued to House. "Shit," he hissed, reaching down to hold himself and pulling out too quickly to be comfortable. The condom slid off easily and Foreman dropped it over the far side of the bed, where Wilson wouldn't see it immediately if he snooped. Foreman leaped off the bed and grabbed his shorts off the floor. Before even trying to pull them on, he snatched House's cane from where it was hanging on the footboard and thrust it into his hands. Gritting his teeth and trying to keep his voice low, Foreman demanded, "Why the hell is he here!"

House was trying not to let his panic get the better of him, but it was a challenge when Foreman sounded just as frantic as he felt. God damn Wilson for having a fucking key. God damn Wilson's stupid need to come over and check that he wasn't passed out on the floor again. He was probably feet away from the bedroom door. Inches. Fuck. They didn't have time for this. House grimaced when Foreman pulled out, but adrenaline was keeping him from feeling too much discomfort, too much of anything besides the frenzied need to get Foreman out of sight. House managed to sit up by the time Foreman thrust his cane at him, heart pounding, blood roaring in his head. He grabbed it, hooked his boxers up with the cane and squirmed into them before standing up. "Shut up!" House hissed, trying to keep his voice down so Wilson wouldn't hear what was going on. Normally he'd argue, but he'd save it for later. He didn't exactly have the time right now. God, he probably looked ridiculous, wriggling and hurrying. He felt ridiculous. Jesus Christ, he was going to strangle Wilson for showing up, ruining a lazy morning and awesome sex, and probably making him stress his leg more than he needed to right now to cover it all.

But he knew that he had to play this cool, or he'd tip Wilson off immediately, and if he couldn't keep it together, he might as well let Wilson walk in and see them with their pants down. House wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he wasn't about to wait for Foreman to get dressed and amble into the bathroom, or wherever he picked for his hiding place. So House, lunging forward and grabbing Foreman by the arm, decided to pick for him. If Foreman fought him on this then he'd be caught here, hardly dressed, and he knew Foreman didn't want that to happen. House opened his closet and, glaring at Foreman as threateningly as possible, shoved him inside with as much strength as he could muster. Or, at least, tried to shove him inside, hoping Foreman would take the hint and cooperate.

Wilson's voice sounded from the hall. Oh, fucking Christ. House whipped his head around to glance at the door, then looked back at Foreman. "Just shut up," he said and swung the door in Foreman's face, moving back over toward the bed, frantically hiding Foreman's clothes under the covers. He had to get this under control. His brain whirled, trying to think of a cover. Pain. Bad pain. Bad pain morning. Couldn't make it in. Just got out of bed. Good enough. Breathing hard, House turned and plopped down onto the bed, leaning over to grab his leg, scrunching his face to try to exaggerate how bad the pain was at the moment, hoping like hell Foreman would keep quiet until Wilson left.

Foreman had barely stumbled into his shorts before House grabbed at him and started shoving him. Foreman had no idea where House wanted him to go. He didn't want to get caught, either, but it was ridiculous to try and hide. There was nowhere to hide.

House apparently had other ideas, and Foreman bashed his elbow on the doorjamb of House's closet before he figured out what those other ideas were. "House, I'm not going to--" Hide in the fucking closet. Before he could finish, House's glare stopped him, and a second later, the door slammed in his face. Foreman rolled his eyes, but at this point it would look even more ridiculous to pop out of House's closet when Wilson was in the room, like the stupidest surprise party ever. He'd probably give Wilson and House heart attacks, and there was no way Foreman would be able to look Wilson in the eye again if Wilson found him nearly naked in House's fucking closet. The irony wasn't lost on Foreman, and he planned to rub House's face in it the instant this was over. Eventually they'd have to tell Wilson, if not everyone at the hospital, because otherwise moments like this were going to be way too common. Wilson had no problem walking right in and Foreman didn't intend to let House take over his apartment entirely. Foreman knew this was the wrong moment--when he had some clothes on would be better, for starters--but that didn't mean he didn't resent being shoved in the dark with House's button downs and whatever other junk he didn't have space for in the rest of the apartment. For now, he'd shut up. There was nothing else to do. But he wasn't fucking happy about it.

It was past ten o'clock before Wilson started worrying in earnest about House. Cuddy had already called to see if House was in, but Wilson put her off. Some days House didn't get in until eleven. How he got away with it, only Cuddy knew. Still, House hadn't looked well yesterday when he was recovering from the transfusion fever, and it was possible that something had gone wrong.

It was the rhythmic thud against the wall of Wilson's office that made him relax. House must have made it in. Wilson checked his watch and calmed down. He could take a minute for a coffee break and reassure himself at the same time. He stood up and headed for Diagnostics.

Kutner was playing with House's tennis ball, launching it at the wall and then catching it again. "Uh, sorry," he said, offering a sheepish grin when Wilson came into the conference room and stared at him. "Is House going to be here any time soon? Or is this just a test, do you think?"

Wilson simply shook his head and reached for his cell phone. Ten rings later, he was nearly ready to sprint for his car, when House finally picked up. Before Wilson could even get out a sharp snap of his name, House had already hung up on him. Another call a minute later only got him a busy signal.

Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. House hated it when Wilson checked up on him, but House also didn't ignore his calls. Well--usually. Wilson forced himself to go through every scenario in which he was being a mother hen and House would be right to mock him for worrying, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't convince himself.

Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way to House's apartment. Wilson steeled himself for House to laugh at him for even bothering to check up on him, and used his key to get in. "House?"

House wasn't on the couch or in the kitchen, and Wilson called his name again, cautiously, working his way down the hall. He checked the bathroom first--most likely place for House to have fallen, his brain insisted on reminding him--but House wasn't there either. Wilson wasn't sure if he wanted to brave the bedroom, but it was his last option, and by now, he was seriously concerned. "House?" he called again. Getting no answer, Wilson tapped on the closed door as he opened it. House was on the bed, clutching at his leg. Wilson let out a breath. At least it wasn't anything worse. As soon as he knew House wasn't in any immediate danger, he relaxed. "Practicing your flex time schedule?" he asked lightly. "I don't think Cuddy got the memo."

House waited, trying to do every single thing he could not to give himself away. He hoped Wilson wouldn't look too hard, wouldn't find something that caught his eye. Jesus, how did he even look when he was in pain? He'd never studied himself in a damn mirror. He wasn't a fucking actor. Granted, there was pain, and he didn't have to act that. He just hoped it would be enough for Wilson to buy. Be snippy. His usual self. Nothing different. Nothing new. Like what was in his closet. His fucking closet.

He didn't even look up when he heard Wilson's footsteps, saw Wilson's feet come into view on the floor. When Wilson spoke, House flicked his eyes up to meet Wilson's gaze without raising his chin, trying to channel all his frustration into his expression. He rubbed at his leg as an extra show. Not that it didn't help the pain that was already there. He wondered if Wilson could smell Foreman, sniff him out like a bloodhound, if he could smell the latex or sex or semen. If he could--fuck, how could he have fucking forgotten about his own fucking semen on his own fucking stomach, Jesus Christ--see it on him. House stood up and turned his back on Wilson, walked to his dresser and pulled out a t-shirt--black, nothing that would give away a little wetness very easily. "Cuddy got the memo," House said, pulling the shirt over his head before turning back to face Wilson, "when she ordered a team of surgeons to cut out a chunk of my leg. Missing muscle. Lots of pain. I think she knows about it." Cripple comments usually made Wilson shut up, or leave. Usually. Sometimes. It was worth a shot. "So do you."

Wilson tilted his head, studying House closely. He'd had more than enough opportunities to see House when his leg was acting up, and something wasn't ringing true about his performance. House wasn't looking at him, which wasn't different from how he acted when he really was in pain. But he also wasn't moving with the tense deliberation that he used when he was trying to hide the fact that he was hurting. House didn't steady himself or sit down when he pulled on his t-shirt. House usually didn't try so hard to make his leg an excuse--in fact, usually only when he needed an excuse. Wilson narrowed his eyes when House turned to face him, tilting his head skeptically, and then looked at the bed.

The sheets were a mess, which could be the result of a very restless night, but combined with the distinct scent in the air, Wilson had a much better explanation for House's surly attitude and the lack of eye contact. He couldn't help it--he chuckled and shook his head. "I can't believe you," he said. House had made him rush over here when all he'd been doing was getting a little better acquainted with his right hand. "You couldn't have called if something, uh, came up?"

As soon as he turned around, House caught the expression on Wilson's face, and he worked to stifle the panic swelling up in his chest. Wilson didn't believe him. Crap. He hadn't even thought of a plan B. He needed a God damn plan B. It became even harder to think of one when Wilson started studying his bed. Jesus. He wished he could steer Wilson right back out of the room, but it would give him away. What if he'd left a piece of Foreman's clothes sticking out from under the covers? What if Wilson noticed the condom? What if Foreman got pissed off and came barreling out of the closet. House nearly laughed at his own thought, but immediately tried to remind himself that this was not fucking funny. He needed to get Wilson the hell out of here. It was his bedroom. Wilson didn't need to be in it.

House started walking toward Wilson, putting slightly more tension in his body as he did it, leaning a little heavier on his cane, doing everything he could not to look toward the closet and give things away, but Wilson's words stopped him fast. Oh, holy shit, had Wilson figured it out? Had House missed something? Forgot to hide something? He glanced over his shoulder at the bed, trying not to look too panicked, then looked back at Wilson, looking for signs that he might have figured it out.

But, no. No, he couldn't have. There was no way. For all Wilson knew, House was alone. Nobody else was here, or had been here. The worst Wilson would assume was a hooker. No reason to think Wilson had caught on to anything. House was tempted to keep his distance, but it might be better to get Wilson out of the room and risk Wilson picking up any...unusual signs. Like how he probably smelled like Foreman, since Foreman had nearly been melting into him less than ten minutes ago, probably rubbing his sweat and scent and leftover cologne all over him. Maybe the smell of his own semen covered it. Maybe Wilson wouldn't notice, especially if he did this fast enough. "Yeah," he said, looking at Wilson as if he was some kind of pea-brained moron, and started walking past him and out of the room, hoping he'd follow him. He lingered just outside the door to make sure Wilson didn't start snooping in places he shouldn't. "I'm going to call up Cuddy and explain that I'm taking a sick day because I'm planning to treat my leg pain with orgasm-induced endorphins." Although, that did sound like something he might do. "If that's what I was looking for, I'd get to work on time and ask her to administer that treatment for me."

Wilson cast a dubious eye over the bedroom one last time. Something was definitely different. House was edgy, and Wilson had the distinct feeling that he was trying to hide something from him. He'd never find out what if he let House know that he was suspicious, though. Given time enough, House would destroy all the evidence, or possibly Wilson, to stop him from finding out. Wilson raised his hands defensively and made a show of allowing House to herd him out of the bedroom.

He rolled his eyes at House's joke as he started back down the hall. "Yes, because you trust Cuddy implicitly with hands-on medicine," he said, trying to cover as he peered around House's living room, looking for some other sign of what House wasn't telling him. "I wouldn't ask her if you want to keep your treatment option intact."

House wouldn't be fooled, though, if Wilson didn't ask a few questions. "Seriously, House. Is it...something that's not just your leg?" Wilson cast his mind over the last couple of weeks, trying to remember if House had been acting differently. They hadn't done much recently, but it wasn't like they were connected at the hip. Still, Wilson had seen less of House in the last little while than he usually did. And of course there was House's stunt with the transfusion, but risking his life for a diagnosis--or just on a whim--couldn't exactly be called out of the ordinary. Diagnostics hadn't been any busier than normal. House's pain--despite this morning's treatment--hadn't been different. And yet...House seemed agitated. Wilson headed for the door, as if House had really chased him away. Glancing down, he raised his eyebrows at the leather briefcase sitting in the entryway. It was definitely not House's style--professional, almost ostentatious. "Don't tell me you're giving up the backpack," Wilson said, watching House's face and covering his interest with a mild look.

Jesus, he wished that Wilson would just let it go. He led Wilson out into the living room. He'd lead him out into the street and straight into his car if he thought he could, but--no, of course--Wilson wanted to linger. Stick his nose into his business. Like he always did. In fact, House seemed to notice it even more when House wanted a little damn privacy. He felt some of the tension ease out of his body when Wilson surprised him and headed for the door. It all came right back as soon as Wilson turned, though, and looked down. Right at Foreman's briefcase. It took about every fiber of self-control to keep his face from showing the panic that flew through him. The only way this could be worse was if Foreman had the pretentiousness to have his initials stamped into the leather. Christ. And House wouldn't even put it past him.

House glared at Wilson when he spoke, seeming only casually interested, but House knew that he was prying. Digging. "No, but I will tell you that now you don't get anything for the last night of Hanukkah," House said, bending over--he didn't care how much it contradicted his pain argument--to snatch up Foreman's briefcase. He carried it far enough down the hall to launch it into his bedroom, hearing its thud against the floor. Foreman was probably cringing in the closet. House didn't stick around to check, but walked back into the living room.

"I have no other would-be presents for you, here, so"--House stepped past Wilson and swung open the door of the apartment--"you can leave now." House knew that kind of behavior wasn't out of the ordinary if House didn't want Wilson around, so he didn't feel like he was giving anything away. He hoped Wilson wouldn't try to play some kind of good Samaritan and wait until he finished his shower to give him a lift to the hospital. He hoped Wilson wouldn't notice Foreman's car outside, or that he hadn't already and was just fucking with him. God, that would be even more embarrassing. House raised his eyebrows, staring at Wilson as he waited for him to leave, simultaneously working on getting his heart to settle the fuck down. He really didn't need to have a damn heart attack over this.

Wilson's eyebrows shot up even further when House tried to play off the briefcase as a present. That was so unbelievable that it only convinced him he was right. House's quick attempt to get the briefcase out of his sight was just more evidence. Whatever House was up to, it was bigger than he'd thought, and he'd certainly just stumbled over a clue. That House had stolen the briefcase crossed Wilson's mind, but he had no idea why House would want such a thing; it looked like an item directly from House's catalogue of things to make fun of. "Just like all our Hannukahs," Wilson said. "My heart's aglow with the holiday spirit already." He shook his head, acting as if he was dropping the subject. Which he wasn't, and which he was certain House would know he wasn't, but they could both pretend. Wilson fought down a slight urge to conduct a complete search of House's apartment whether House objected or not, but he settled for fixing House with an admonishing stare. "Try not to make it a lost weekend," he said, pointing at House to emphasize the point. "Your team's going stir crazy. Foreman's not doing anything to keep an eye on them, either."

Sighing, since it was likely House wouldn't listen to him and he'd end up making excuses on House's behalf to Cuddy (again), Wilson opened the door and stepped out. He'd wasted enough time chasing House down. Although he wasn't about to forget about this. And sooner or later Wilson would figure out exactly what House was hiding.

It couldn't have been more than a minute before House managed to get Wilson out of the bedroom, but it felt like a fucking eternity. Foreman could hear their voices fading, and he was not going to stand in the goddamn closet all fucking day. He already felt like a moron for agreeing to hide in the first place, although he couldn't think what else he might have done. When he tried to imagine the look on Wilson's face if he'd seen Foreman in bed with House, his brain automatically pushed away the image. He couldn't think of a single more humiliating situation. The closet just barely qualified as "better", but even so, Foreman wasn't going to keep hiding. He fumbled in the dark for the doorknob and turned it slowly, peering out to make sure that Wilson and House really had left. He could hear them in the living room, but at this point, House had to be pushing Wilson out of the apartment. Foreman flipped the covers back and found his pants, crumpled and sweaty. Disgusting, but he wanted to be wearing something, so he pulled them on.

He nearly panicked again when his briefcase came crashing in from the hallway. Shit, shit, shit. Wilson must have seen it, along with whatever other evidence of his presence Foreman had left in the rest of House's apartment. He couldn't remember anything, but he wasn't exactly thinking straight. Fuming, Foreman crossed his arms and waited for House to come back, after he'd shoved Wilson the hell out.

House wasn't sure if Wilson had bought anything he said; he should have. It wasn't as though House was acting any differently. Avoid conversation? Check. Get uninvited guests out of his apartment as fast as possible? Check. Act edgy because he was in pain? Check. If Wilson wasn't convinced, he didn't draw much attention to it, though House had to make sure he didn't react when Wilson dropped Foreman's name, not draw much attention to that. He restrained himself from pushing Wilson out into the hall and watched him go instead, slamming the door shut behind him. He locked it, just in case Wilson decided to stampede straight back inside if he happened to spot Foreman's car parked along the street. He kept it locked, even though he heard Wilson's car motor turn over a couple moments later, and started back to the bedroom.

He knew Foreman would be pissy, and he really didn't want to hear it. He wondered if Foreman had actually stayed in the closet--or if he'd found his alarm clock buried in his shoe--but he didn't care enough to find out at that very second. He needed some peace, and he didn't need Foreman in his face. Going into the bathroom instead or the bedroom, he closed both doors--the hall and bedroom access--and locked them. Sure, it was unsafe, and, sure, there was always a chance he'd fall in the shower, but it was no more of a risk now than when he lived her alone all the other times he showered. Foreman wouldn't be stupid enough to stay in that closet forever--he'd probably come out as soon as he heard the water start running, if he hadn't already--and House was too frazzled to feel guilty about it as he stripped down, turned on the shower, and stepped carefully into the tub.

Foreman's only hint that House was going to avoid him and the whole damn situation was when he slammed the door to the ensuite shut and locked it. The shower started a minute later, and Foreman clenched his jaw. He should leave. How House got to the hospital wasn't his responsibility. He should pull on his clothes, no matter how rumpled, and head back to his place, where he could shower and eat in peace, not to mention finding something to wear that would actually fit and wouldn't raise any red flags at work.

Well, there was nothing to stop Foreman from taking House's clothes now. It wasn't about seeing House's reaction--although Foreman was sure he'd get one, and probably not a positive one. From the second he'd seen House wearing his clothes, Foreman had known that this was an instance in which House would take every liberty and then turn around and get pissed off when Foreman did the exact same thing. After a short search through House's dresser, Foreman found clean boxers and a pair of sweats that would fit him. He stripped off his pants and underwear and pulled on House's clothes. It felt strange. Uncomfortable. The situation with Wilson wouldn't leave his head, and while Foreman might have enjoyed screwing with House earlier this morning, now borrowing his clothes felt like more evidence that they were together. That you're mine, House had said, and Foreman wished House had never used those fucking words because he'd like very much to just forget them.

House's t-shirts would be tight on him, so Foreman glanced in the closet--forcing himself to ignore the fact that a few minutes ago he'd hidden in there like a fucking coward. House's button-downs wouldn't fit much better, but when he happened to glance down, Foreman did see a single running shoe with an electrical plug hanging out of it. Frowning, he bent down and picked it up. The cord belonged to an alarm clock--an alarm clock Foreman had no doubt had been sitting on House's bedside table yesterday. House had done this on purpose. The fucking bastard. The whole morning--sleeping in, the sex, Wilson almost catching them, it was all House's fault. Right now Foreman didn't give a rat's ass that he'd come spectacularly hard, or that he'd had House giving it up completely to him. All he could see was that he'd been an idiot, put his reputation in second place, and he'd nearly been outed as a result.

There was no way he was leaving now, without confronting House. Foreman grabbed a shirt from the back of the closet, an older one by the ratty look of it--the number emblazoned across the back was half-erased by too many washings. It was a bit more stretched out than most of House's t-shirts, so at least it fit. Foreman wasn't about to respect any of House's privacy now, not after House had fucking tricked him. He piled together all his clothes and grabbed his briefcase. He wanted to make sure there was no evidence at all that he'd been here. He stuffed his clothes into his sports bag and brought it to the living room, then started rooting around in House's cupboards for something to eat. It was nearly lunchtime, after all, and Foreman had gotten more than enough exercise this morning.

House took his time in the shower, letting the stress--at least some of it--drain away. After several minutes, when House realized that, so far, Foreman had left him to his shower in peace without trying to barge in, he started to feel suspicious. Maybe Foreman was so pissed off that he'd actually left, not that House could blame him. House wasn't sure if he should be alarmed that the thought didn't really bother him; it wasn't like Foreman was leaving him if he stormed out now, and House could use the quiet to recover. In fact, he kind of hoped Foreman was gone.

When he walked into the bedroom for some clothes, his towel wrapped around his waist, he noticed that Foreman wasn't there. He also noticed that someone had been through his dresser, and since Wilson kept his hands to himself at least, he had a feeling he knew who that someone was. After pulling on a pair of underwear, jeans, and a t-shirt, House stalked into his living room, peering around for Foreman before a sound caught his attention. He turned sharply to look into the kitchen and found Foreman there dressed--fucker--in his clothes. In one of his old lacrosse shirts. Bastard.

House tried to push down the intense annoyance bubbling up his throat--he hated letting Foreman know when he got to him--but it was hard not to try to rip the shirt right off of him. He wondered if that's what Foreman wanted, or if he was just trying to piss him off. House stood in the doorway, glaring at Foreman, and said, "I know you want to be just like me, but you're missing a few key touches." He held up his cane, and thought about throwing it at Foreman, but would rather not give up his only means of defense. Just in case. "But you don't pull any others off, so don't bother. Go put it back."

There was bread in House's fridge, along with the cold meats Foreman had found last night. A sandwich would be good enough to tide him over until he could go somewhere that had actual food. Eventually, the shower turned off. Foreman thought about heading straight back for the bedroom and waving House's alarm clock in his face, but he shook his head and kept working on the sandwich he was making instead. House would be out soon enough, and Foreman could confront him when he was dressed and marginally less defensive.

He poured himself a glass of water, and when turned back from the sink, House was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking supremely pissed off. Foreman didn't know if he was still angry at Wilson, or if it was the fact that Foreman had appropriated his clothes, but it didn't take long to find out.

Foreman ignored House's insinuation that he wanted to dress like him. He didn't mind dressing like this on weekends when it wasn't likely that he'd be going anywhere or seeing anyone, but he wasn't about to start showing up at work looking as disheveled as House did. Foreman might worry about whether his bedside manner was anything like House's, or if he took his patients into account instead of dismissing them all as liars, but in this area he knew he'd never be like House, and that suited him fine. "Uh, no," he said. He'd love to take advantage of House's reaction, point out exactly how defensive he was being considering he'd stolen Foreman's clothes before. It wasn't like the t-shirt was a loved one that Foreman was holding hostage. "You'll get it back when I have clean clothes."

Pulling out the stool under the kitchen counter, Foreman sat down with his sandwich. He'd left out the bread; House could join him if he wanted. Foreman didn't really care. "Does Wilson show up every morning when you stuff your alarm clock in your closet?" he asked, glaring at House. "Or was that a surprise you arranged just for me?"

House's anger climbed higher with each passing quiet moment. It should have been hotter, Foreman in his shirt, but after Wilson's surprise visit, and House didn't want to take much in beyond the fact that more of his privacy had been invaded, and Foreman has chosen a shirt that actually had value to him. Not that he'd start gushing about it, and it was none of Foreman's business, but the sooner he had it back the better. Hell, the sooner he had some space the better.

"Great, so get out," House said, gritting the words through his teeth as he stepped forward and grabbed Foreman's arm to try to jerk him out of his seat. He stopped and stared down at Foreman when he brought up the alarm clock. Great, so he had found it, and wasn't going to bitch about it. Perfect.

"I'd really love to hear more of your whiny bitching, but I have to go to work." House tried to nudge Foreman out of the kitchen again and, hopefully toward the door. He wanted his damn shirt back, and Foreman had been in his space long enough. He was starting to feel like he couldn't get any peace in his own damn apartment. He didn't care about work. As far as he was concerned, there was none to be done, but he'd rather be there than have his space invaded for much longer. Plus, he'd be able to get his mind off of all this, hopefully avoid Wilson while he was at it. Maybe Cuddy would banish him to the clinic for the day. Jesus, he was really fucked if he was already wishing for clinic duty, but he couldn't deal with anyone else in his face right now. "My shirt better be in my desk, and not on you, before I go home later."

Foreman didn't let House shove him out of the room, planting his feet and bracing himself against the counter. "You're the one who made us late," he said. He wasn't willing to budge as long as he was eating. They were already too late for the day to be worth anything, and Foreman wasn't going to let himself be shoved around--literally--because House was having regrets over something that was his own damn fault. It was mildly interesting that House didn't seem to care that Foreman had grabbed a pair of his sweats, not to mention his boxers, along with the shirt. The shirt must mean something to him, but Foreman didn't want to hear the touching story of exactly how it had become a sentimental favourite. Especially not while House was bitching at him for whining. "You don't care about getting to work, House, so come off it. If I hadn't woken up you would've spent all day in bed." Foreman could actually picture that, now, House nuzzling closer into a pillow and lazing for a few hours. It wasn't that the sex hadn't been worth it, not when House had let go so hard when he'd come that he'd practically burst Foreman's eardrum. But Foreman didn't trust the feelings of tenderness that crept in, when he'd fallen asleep with House last night or this morning before Wilson had shown up and ruined it, and he tried to push the picture away.

Taking another bite of his sandwich, he shook his head, not answering until he'd swallowed. "You shoved me into your fucking closet to hide me, and you want me to bring your shirt to the office?" He rolled his eyes. That would pretty much guarantee that someone would notice something. Foreman didn't make a habit of meddling with House's desk, and the walls were made of fucking glass, which House knew better than anyone. "I'll bring it here." Or House could come to his place and get it, but Foreman didn't want to issue an invitation that would probably have House breaking into his apartment.

"And how exactly were you planning to get there?" With House in this mood, Foreman didn't really want to be around him any longer than necessary, but he'd driven House home last night, and he'd probably be stuck driving him back this morning.

House squinted at Foreman, as if each time Foreman bit into his sandwich, he was upping a challenge. He was hungry, but it could wait; this wasn't the time for a casual lunch. He was starting to feel the itch for some semblance of normalcy, and this was definitely not it. Not right now, and he hadn't suggested that Foreman break it by parading around his office with his shirt, either. "I didn't say to wave it around like a damn flag." It didn't make him feel any more at ease when Foreman said he would come back to return the shirt. House knew that, despite all this, he'd probably be okay with Foreman back here, but maybe not today, and--Fuck, he didn't really want to think about it.

He moved on to Foreman's question instead. "There are cabs in this town, unless you forgot about that." It was partly how this whole thing started or, at least, accelerated. Didn't want to think about that either. House's mind buzzed, trying to think of a reasonable way to accomplish what he wanted at one time and, with a glance into his living room, he realized he needed to stop waiting for Foreman to agree to something. He'd accomplish more if Foreman was the one on edge.

"But, you know what?" House asked, abandoning the effort to muscle Foreman out of his apartment. There was more than one way he could make Foreman leave, even if he had to leave himself. He walked toward the door and put on the nearest pair of sneakers before fishing around inside Foreman's jacket, which was draped neatly over his desk chair. When he found Foreman's keys, he straightened up and held them aloft, jangling them as he looked in Foreman's direction. "This way's better. I'll get my clothes back before we get to work."

With a smug grin, House turned and started for the door. If Foreman didn't want him to drive--and he'd make sure he gave Foreman a heart attack if he did--then he'd have to get the hell out of his apartment and beat him to the car.

Foreman finished the last of his sandwich and brushed the crumbs off of House's so-precious shirt. He remembered their last cab ride together in far too much detail, including how stupidly drunk he'd been, treating the world as if sleeping with House couldn't possibly have any consequences beyond the sex itself. There was no way he might have imagined arguing with House about how they'd get to work in the morning because they hadn't coordinated which of them had a car where. Or that probably they'd have other arguments, over other topics just as mundane, because they were dating. Or something.

"Hey!" he burst out, when House started rooting around in his jacket. Foreman stifled his first instinct, to go and grab his keys back, but he did start for the living room. If House wanted his shirt returned, then they'd have to go to Foreman's apartment, where he could shower and dress in his own clothes. That had actually been his plan, and if House thought he was manipulating Foreman into leaving, that would make everything easier.

Foreman pulled on his shoes and grabbed his jacket before following House out the door. "You're not driving, so hand the keys over," he said. He smirked, realizing that he had way more ammunition to use against House now. Since they were alone, he didn't mind using it. It would probably piss House off even more. Foreman knew he shouldn't say it. House would hate that Foreman was using it against him, but he felt too smug to keep his mouth shut. "Or I'll tickle you for them."

House booked it for the door, scooping up his backpack on the way, and couldn't hold back a grin when he heard Foreman scrambling to catch up. House made sure to set the lock on the door before he made his way out to the hallway, Foreman right on his heels. He didn't reply to Foreman's demand, keeping hold of the keys, feeling a small tinge of satisfaction that it had been this easy to drag Foreman out of his place. The smirk, though, made him uneasy, and House eyed him. He had a feeling he wouldn't like whatever was about to come out of Foreman's mouth, but he waited, not stopping on his way toward Foreman's car.

The second Foreman spoke, House made up his mind; now, there wasn't even a chance he'd give up these keys. No way. Not if Foreman was going to play like that. "Now I'm definitely driving," House said, closing his fist tightly around Foreman's keys--the metal started to dig into his hand, but he didn't want to risk losing them--as he rounded the car. He tried to cover the hot frustration making its way to his face, refusing to acknowledge the flush that crept up his neck and into his ears. A part of him hated that Foreman already knew things like that about him, but hated even more that he was using them against him. If Foreman didn't know where to start drawing the line, then House would feign ignorance, too. See how he liked it. Shove his damn smug straight back down his throat. House shielded the door as he unlocked it and practically threw himself inside the car.

With the door hanging open, House turned the key in the ignition and said, "Sure, go ahead. If you do that"--he was not about to say the words 'tickle me'--"it'll be your fault when we run off the road." He didn't wait for Foreman to reply before he slammed the door--if Foreman tried to reach in, he'd spare no fingers--and thought about locking Foreman out of his own damn car, giving him a scare by threatening to rip up some of the upholstery, but he left the passenger door unlocked. He tossed his backpack and cane into the backseat as he waited for Foreman to give up and get the hell in the car for what House was planning on making a nice, panic-inducing car ride.

Foreman barely had time to grab his briefcase and sports bag before letting the door slam shut behind him and following House out into the street. It didn't leave him with any hands free to attack House even if he wanted to, which--no. Foreman wasn't going to do anything ridiculous in the middle of the street. They'd gotten past that stage, thankfully without getting caught, and he was pretty sure House agreed with him that public displays were off-limits. "Just for that, you're driving? Sounds like you want me to," he said, grinning. Foreman didn't mind making a few comments when no one was around, but he wasn't going to do anything more than that. Besides, nothing more was needed. House turned away, scowling, but that didn't hide the redness in his ears. Foreman chuckled. The mention alone was enough to make House remember, and react. If the only retaliation House was going to make was insisting on driving his car, Foreman could handle it. It was hardly an equal trade-off, his car for House's clothes--House could do a lot more damage, for one--but it wasn't like he was a complete maniac behind the wheel, either.

Tugging open the passenger side door, Foreman dropped his things on the backseat, next to House's backpack. It was uncomfortable seeing House in the driver's seat. The same kind of discomfort he'd felt at first when House had annexed Foreman's side of his own bed. At the same time, it was becoming almost familiar, both the uneasiness and the gradual relaxation. He might have to adjust his seat and his mirrors back to their original positions. If that was the worst that happened, he could force himself not to give House the satisfaction of a reaction. He climbed in, closed the door, and pulled on his seatbelt. Foreman doubted House, given the opportunity, was going to take the direct route. This was probably going to be one more exercise in delay.

Foreman's chuckle was still echoing in House's head when House pulled the car away from the curb, easing onto the street slowly and letting Foreman believe he would behave behind the wheel. House had already played around with Foreman's mirrors and seat enough to earn him a split-second flash of uneasiness, and House was already starting to imagine the kind of reaction he'd get once he started showing Foreman exactly what his excuse for a car could do.

House didn't say a word as he drove down the street, and came to a full stop at the stop sign. Wouldn't even dream of warning Foreman for this. It would ruin the fun, diminish the shock, that 'about-to-piss-his-pants' look on Foreman's face. Too bad it would be hard to catch that look and drive at the same time, though it would hike up Foreman's stress level if he wasn't looking at the road. Oh, yeah. This was going to be good. He looked both ways, waiting until a car neared the intersection before peeling out onto the road, cutting off the other car, close enough to make the other driver lay on the horn. House gunned it, pressing the accelerator down to the floor. Watching, hearing, and feeling the RPMs jump higher, feeling his own little adrenaline rush at getting it up to 60 on a side street, probably at least 35 miles per hour over the limit. When he came to a screeching stop at a light, rubber smoking, the smell making it into the car, he rocked forward and backward with the abruptness of the stop, and turned to look at Foreman.

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