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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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.

Foreman watched House uneasily as he drove away from the curb. House conscientiously shoulder-checked before pulling out onto the street. He wasn't fooling Foreman for a second. He wouldn't just go from pouting and angry over Foreman's teasing straight to 'reasonable and considered driver'. Foreman had been the victim of too many pranks to think that House acting careful was anything other than buildup to House trying to give him a heart attack. Foreman tightened his grip on the handle above the window. None too soon. A second later House floored the accelerator, not bothering to shift gears. The engine whined as he sped down the street, cutting off another car, the horn blaring behind them. Foreman braced his feet against the floorboards. He'd expected something, but not for House to try to kill them both. "Jesus! What the hell are you doing?"

The car screeched to a stop and Foreman glared at House, adrenaline pumping through him. "Tickling isn't going to make you go off the road, you're doing that yourself!" Foreman dropped his head back against the headrest, pulling in a deep breath. He could smell the burnt rubber. Fuck, his tires were going to be bald if he let House drive another block. "Are you trying to punish me for Wilson barging in? Because that was your fault." Foreman was beginning to see the ridiculousness of the situation. He hated looking stupid, but in this case House was the one who was overreacting. Foreman had panicked, yeah, but he was more inclined to laugh at House for still being upset. Foreman deserved to be more upset--he was the one who'd hidden in the closet as if he was afraid of Wilson knowing that he and House had made their own decisions. Idiotic, initially drunken decisions, but they were both adults, and Wilson didn't have the right to judge them. Not that that would stop him, but Foreman had no problem just walking away from any lecture. Then again, Wilson wasn't his friend. Still, Foreman would have to put up with Chase laughing at him and Cameron's wounded, wide-eyed sighs, so it wasn't like he wouldn't have to suffer in his own way.

Foreman glanced behind them. No cars around. Mid-day on a residential street, they probably weren't going to block traffic even if House got stubborn. Foreman reached across the gearshift and turned the car off, then yanked the keys back to himself.

Foreman's outburst, his glare, was enough to make House grin--it helped that the grin would probably do more to piss Foreman off. Despite the highway-speeds and semi-reckless driving, House knew he'd been in control of the car and wouldn't run off the road on his own, like Foreman seemed to believe. Hilarious as hell to make Foreman believe it, though, and God, it always felt so good to let loose on a road--way better on a motorcycle--and feel that adrenaline. House threw the car into park and revved the engine, just for fun, to burn Foreman's fuel, and said, "Technically it's your fault for staying in the first place. If Wilson found me alone in bed, it wouldn't have been any different from any other morning I decided not to answer my damn phone."

House was about to throw the car back into drive--the light had just changed--and drive slightly less recklessly to Foreman's place. The long way. But Foreman reached over before he could stop him, turned off the car, and took his keys. Now it was his turn to glare. "Keep away? In a car? This would have been much more fun back at the apartment," he said, and lunged across the seat to try to reach for the keys. He wasn't budging. If Foreman thought he was going to give up the driver's seat just because he'd taken the keys, he was in for a surprise.

Foreman raised a skeptical eyebrow. House had fought every second to make Foreman leave him alone last night, but House had been clutching at him pretty damn tightly when the pain had gotten bad. And Foreman didn't think that was a matter of just anybody being around. This morning was the same way. House could have let him go when Foreman had tried to take his clothes. Instead he'd made a game of stealing them. Foreman had given in, but that was before he knew Wilson was so damn neurotic about checking up on House. "Right, I should have gone home instead of fucking you," he said, letting some of the smug feeling from before they'd been interrupted steal into his voice. "That's what you were screaming in my ear."

When House lunged after the keys, Foreman leaned back in the passenger seat, swallowing down his laughter. He really didn't want House to know that sometimes--very rarely--House's antics could be amusing. If they'd had a case, or anything remotely important to do today, then Foreman would have been more than aggravated enough to suit House's need for a reaction. As it was, Wilson would tell Cuddy that House was coming in late. That was all the excuse Foreman needed, too. He let House reach for the keys, holding his fist higher. It meant that House would practically have to drape himself over Foreman to get to them. "You're having plenty of fun," he said. He rolled his eyes, but it was mainly at himself. He knew he didn't want to sit around in an intersection waiting for House to give up. Christ, House was going to wreck his car, and shoot Foreman's blood pressure through the roof doing it. Being with him was a constant tug-of-war between complete frustration and amused tolerance. Foreman could only hope House found his tolerance more annoying than his anger ever could be.

House ignored Foreman's words--no burning ears this time, either--and refused to let Foreman deter him from reaching for the keys. He gritted his teeth when Foreman chuckled, aware that he must look like an idiot. "I'd have more fun with the car in 'drive'. Gimme." He stopped reaching, flexing his hand, not fully believing that Foreman would actually fork over the keys. This wasn't a case, a differential, a superior ordering a subordinate, and he had no doubt that Foreman would remind him of the equal ground they were walking here.

A few hand-flexes later, House threw himself back into his seat, glaring at Foreman for a moment before settling back, glancing from window to window. He tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel, switching tactics to drive Foreman's annoyance level through the roof, maybe get the keys back that way. "Fine, we'll sit." He started expanding his spontaneous drum-set to the dashboard, the door. "We can play 'name that tune'."

"I thought you didn't like it when I listened to you," Foreman said. It was surprisingly fun to screw with House. He'd slept in, had great sex, and eaten a sandwich this morning--interruption or not, it was hard to bring down his mood. Foreman screwed his face up in thought. "In fact, didn't you say once I'm not worth having around unless I'm arguing with you?" It had been a while, but he didn't think House would have forgotten his brief attempt at happiness, especially since when Foreman had quit in the spring, House had repeated nearly the exact same criticism.

Foreman shook his head and glanced out the passenger window. Not that he needed to be reminded of times House had ruined his day. If House wanted to be an annoying ass, nothing Foreman did was going to change his mind. A glance in the side mirror, though, gave him a better reason to let House drive. The light was red again, but another car was just pulling up behind them. If House noticed, he'd probably keep them sitting here until the driver behind them got fed up, but Foreman wasn't about to let House blame him for that. "Fine, you win," he said. He reached over and slotted the key back in the ignition. "Go ahead. Enjoy raising my insurance premiums."

When Foreman spoke, House paused his drumming and glanced back at Foreman. He couldn't remember saying that, but it sounded like him. It was true that Foreman was better when he argued. Well, not always, like now. House started drumming again, giving it some thought, but not intending to reply. Before he could get very far, Foreman suddenly reached across the shifter, stuck the key back in the ignition, and declared that House had won. Well, that was too easy.

House quirked an eyebrow at him, turning the key to turn on the car, and started looking around. The reason for Foreman's sudden change of heart was obvious when House glanced in the rear-view mirror. Another car had stopped behind them, and Foreman didn't want him to cause problems. Of course. This called for a change of plan. He'd been hoping to floor it again, squeal through the intersection, but now that seemed like he'd almost be giving Foreman what he wanted--a speedy drive to his place, then to work, no holding up traffic. The opposite, while it wouldn't give Foreman a heart attack, would still probably annoy him, and would be fun in other ways. So, shifting the car into 'drive', House responded with a wide closed-mouth grin, and started to crawl through the intersection when the light turned green. Foreman could probably get out and push the car faster.

There was no end to what House would do to try and get a reaction. At this rate, they'd be halfway through the intersection by the time the light changed, and the next car they'd see would be the one T-boning them at thirty miles an hour. "Would you just drive?" Foreman asked. "That's what you wanted." The driver behind them tapped his horn, and then pulled out around them and sped through the intersection, throwing a middle finger at House as he passed.

"Did you need some confirmation that you're annoying?" Foreman asked. He looked over at House again, trying to assess what the hell he wanted. They were already late. House had stopped pretending Foreman's car was a dragster. All that was left was getting a reaction out of him, and Foreman shook his head. He had no idea why that was important to House. House could see him annoyed any day of the week, over cases, over the way House treated his patients or his fellows at work. Foreman's irritation wasn't exactly a new thing for House. He slumped back in his seat, but his good mood was gradually seeping away as House imitated the travelling speed of a retreating glacier. "Did you need me to be annoyed? Because you're getting there."

It didn't take long for several things to happen. In the span of a minute, the car behind them swerved around him, flipped him off, and continued on its not-so-merry way, and Foreman, whose reaction House was much more interested in, started to show signs of frustration. Sure, House had wanted to drive, but only because he knew that's what Foreman didn't want, and when Foreman had given in too easily, House knew he wouldn't feel victorious unless he succeeded in his goal despite what Foreman did. If Foreman wanted to hurry up, he'd go slow. If Foreman wanted to play nice with other drivers, he'd be a pain in the ass. Way more satisfying when he succeeded that way.

House eventually brought the car up to a normal speed, but started taking obscure roads to reach Foreman's apartment. "Nope," he said, finally answering Foreman's question. "Just need you to do what you always do." Foreman was, and always had been, challenging, and that kind of person--the kind that could push, be direct, and stand their ground--worked well with him. Professionally, in a relationship. And it was something about Foreman that made House think this wasn't such a terrible idea. Not that he was thinking about it.

"In other words, you want me irritated with you." Foreman snorted, but he was less amused than he was figuring out House's logic in his head. Or what passed for logic in House's world. Constant irritation wasn't exactly what Foreman wanted in a relationship. With anyone else, House would probably drive them away, and sooner rather than later. Which would explain why he'd been alone for so long. Foreman, though, had proved that he'd come back despite the aggravation. Maybe that passed for devotion in House's mind. "You really can't deal with change." As much as Foreman hated being predictable--right down to the moments when House pricked his pride enough to make him do the unpredictable--it was...nice...that House didn't want him to change. Didn't care if Foreman didn't hide it when he was frustrated. He had no idea how to feel about the fact that he wouldn't have to tone down his anger for House's sake, the way he did around everyone else. House not only expected it, he encouraged it. He provoked it. Foreman shouldn't feel good about that, but it was strangely comfortable to know exactly where he stood.

Foreman turned to look out the window. They'd made it through the intersection, which was something, but now they seemed to be going in the opposite direction of his apartment, unless House had discovered a 'short cut'. "This is stupid," he said. He frowned, wondering if House even cared about what this would look like. In some ways, House could be intensely private, but in others--and Foreman had no idea where the line was drawn--he'd shove his life into his employees' faces. "Your fellows are bright enough to figure this out." Foreman tipped his head back. "We might as well not go in at all at this rate."

Foreman's words made it clear that he didn't quite understand what made House interested in him, but introspection wasn't really necessary. Foreman would be who he was, would fight him and argue with him, and not let him walk all over him--same as always--and House didn't need to specify that those qualities were what pulled him toward Foreman in the first place, even before this ridiculous, convoluted mess of a relationship. So Foreman was partly right, at least he was right when it came to this; he didn't want Foreman to change. He wasn't about to spill all that, though, especially not when Foreman seemed to get most of the picture. Silence would be confirmation enough, and he kept driving. He glanced at the dashboard clock; he wondered if there was much use going in at all. Foreman seemed to grab that thought out of his brain and say it out loud, and House turned his head quickly to look at him.

"You? Play hooky?" House flapped his lips with a fast exhale of disbelief, but he was already giving it some thought. The fellows probably would figure this out--especially Taub, the observant and dry little Jewish bastard--but they would definitely figure it out if they didn't show up at all. Wilson and Cuddy would, too. House had never missed a day of work, even when the pain was bad, and if he tried to use that as an excuse, he knew he'd sound off alarm bells in their heads. Wilson was already suspicious, and it wouldn't take him long to put together the strange briefcase with the fact that Foreman was also missing. They'd know something was up. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that. House turned the car onto a main street, heading for Foreman's apartment again as he shook his head, tsk-ing. "I can't believe you're making me be the responsible one."

"Rather than explain to Cuddy why I'm late?" Foreman asked. That was all the answer House needed. Foreman would probably need the weekend to come up with a good excuse for why he hadn't called in, or answered his phone or his pager. Frowning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Five messages. Three from Cuddy, one from Kutner, and one from Taub. Taub was probably covering his bases. Amber and Thirteen hadn't tried, which meant they'd either left it up to the other two, or they didn't consider him their boss. Foreman shook his head, closing his phone rather than finding out exactly how much he'd endangered his job this morning. "You're not being responsible, you just don't want them to find out." That didn't upset him; he didn't need anyone knowing about his personal life, either. Or asking him if he'd recently had a personality transplant and joined Cameron's cult.

They were finally in his neighbourhood, and Foreman started putting together a list of things he'd need to do to salvage at least a few hours of the day. Appeasing Cuddy was pretty close to the top, although he had no idea how he was going to accomplish that. Any story he came up with, House was likely to discredit, even if it hurt his privacy, too. Unless they agreed to the same lie ahead of time. "You'd follow me to a job interview if you knew about it," Foreman said, working it out in his head. "So I couldn't tell Cuddy ahead of time in case you found out." He didn't look at House, but shrugged a bit as he stared out the window. He didn't want to shove House's face in how upset he'd gotten over Marty's meaningless phone call, but it was a plausible story. House stalked everyone he knew. It would explain why they'd both been late. House would have to worry about Wilson, but other than that, it fit well enough.

House continued driving as Foreman reached for his phone; his was in his pocket--turned off--and he wasn't about to check. He already knew the possibilities, and, at this point, anything any of them had to say didn't matter. After Wilson had left, they'd all probably given up anyway. House reached for the radio, flipping through the stations, when Foreman spoke again. "Excuse me for not enjoying it when my personal life is spread all over the hospital," he said, settling on a radio station. As much as House liked to pry into everyone else's personal lives, he didn't make their lives the talk of the hospital. He did it to learn. Learn valuable things about his potential team members. The important things. He already knew they were decent enough doctors. The medical chops really weren't what he was interested in; if it was, he would have been able to choose three based on resumes. But he was interested in things that could only be found through prying. When other people pried into his life, the goal seemed to be embarrassment, some kind of nosy harassment. In Wilson and Cuddy's case, it seemed to go along the lines of "doing what was best for him", as if he couldn't decide for himself. He didn't owe any of these people anything, especially his fellows. He wasn't the one trying to impress anyone, or land a job. So, no, nobody needed to find out about this. It wasn't for them to know.

They were close to the apartment when Foreman began spouting a potential cover story. Would have been great if it wasn't a reminder of the incident surrounding Marty's phone call, which House still hadn't forgotten about, and was still wary about. As a story, it worked. Well, he'd have to twist it if Wilson asked, which he would, House was sure, but he could work out the details later. "Yeah, because you sure as hell wouldn't tell me if you actually did have a job interview." With Marty. For a job in L.A., he wanted to add, but he figured Foreman could fill in the blanks himself. Outside the apartment, House stopped the car and got out. He hated that he still felt pissed off about that, that there were lingering questions that were still unanswered. He hated even more that he found himself going along with the idea of participating in Foreman's excuse. Of course, there was no reason why he wouldn't be able to embellish on a few details, make Foreman's interview seem less than stellar on his part. He stopped beside the main door of the building, waiting for Foreman and said loud enough for him to hear, almost disappointed that he knew he was right. "She'd probably buy it, though."

"You found out about all my interviews when you weren't over at my place several nights a week," Foreman said. "I don't think you're going to lose your edge." He raised an eyebrow at House, wondering if he could tell he was kidding. From House's sniping tone, he was still upset about Marty. Since Foreman didn't know any way to convince him that he was being stupid and overreacting to a big lot of nothing, he settled for treating it completely dismissively--which wasn't unlike how he'd act if he really was planning to run away into the L.A. sunset, but House would just have to learn to trust him.

He got out of the car, watching to make sure House locked the doors before heading to the building. "It's almost like she knows you," Foreman agreed when House grudgingly admitted it was a good excuse, amused that House seemed willing to go along with it. It didn't really solve the problem of what Cuddy would think of him arranging job interviews on her hospital's time, but if she thought that he was fed up with working for House, then the story would serve double-duty to hide their relationship. He reached for House's hand, where his key ring was still dangling, and grabbed them back. "And let's be clear. I kicked ass at my fake interview until you ruined it." He unlocked the front door and led the way to the elevators.

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