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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Foreman rolled his eyes at House's impatience. "I know for you shaving counts as primping," he said. "For the rest of the world, it's pretty simple." Foreman definitely wasn't going to tell House that he liked his stubble, liked how it felt against his skin when they kissed, and especially the scrape and rasp against his stomach when House blew him. The thought brought a smug smirk to his lips, and he shook his head as he watched House get up. He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV before following House to the door.

Still, Foreman felt edgy, as if dropping the subject wasn't quite a good enough resolution to the problem. As if House was going to be stewing over it for who knew how long, getting himself worked up just because Foreman wore a certain tie or looked at him a certain way. Foreman didn't need the eventual aggravation of House throwing stupid accusations at him because they hadn't finished this at the right time. He caught up to House at the door and grabbed his arm to pull him close. "You're going to have way too much fun lying to Cuddy," he said, letting some of the morning's satisfaction show in his voice, in the tilt of his head. He reached up to cup the back of House's neck and tugged him into a kiss, just long enough to forget about the conversation.

"Simple primping," House said. Preening yourself for public appearances. Another way Foreman revealed his obsession with his reputation, with being judged well. As if his appearance could earn him respect. He wanted to tell Foreman that all of that wasn't what mattered, but Foreman wouldn't change any more than he would, except Foreman was a delusional moron, in this case. Good thing for him House happened to like his more redeemable qualities. House reached for the door, but stopped when Foreman grabbed his arm.

He turned, had enough time to feel a grin start to pull at the corner of his mouth before Foreman pulled him into a kiss. This wouldn't make his thoughts go away--he'd put them to the side, never out of sight, to investigate later--but House let them fade to the background, tilting his head to push back, deepen the kiss. When the kiss tapered off, House leaned back, hand still on the door, and let his grin form fully. He quirked his eyebrows, trying to look devious, and pulled open the door. "I can never have too much fun lying to Cuddy. I can mock her, and you. Probably your hypothetical interviewer. What do you say, breakfast interview? Coffee came out of your nose when I joined you and your stuffy potential employer at your table? We need to cover details or she'll never buy it."

Foreman let the kiss linger, and grinned as House pulled away. As long as House was mocking him, he wasn't brooding over things they couldn't change. He already knew what direction House's jabs would take, and by now he was prepared for them.

"You can make up all the details you want," he said, locking the door as they headed for the elevators. "She's going to believe what I tell her." Which wouldn't be much. Many fake details and Cuddy would probably be able to figure out that the interview was a figment of his imagination. She knew all the hospital administrators within easy travelling distance, and she'd get suspicious if Foreman tried to pretend anyone farther away was actively recruiting him.

He pushed the call button and said, "I have to act pissed off. You can be as smug as you like." House would have it easier. Despite being shoved in House's closet, Foreman still felt damn good, and it would be hard not to laugh, especially if House started regaling Cuddy with his version of events. The best he could hope for was to not picture House pinned beneath him, yanking Foreman down on top of him and begging him to fuck him harder.

House frowned, slightly disappointed that Foreman refused to conspire with him about details, but Foreman was probably right--again, damn it. Cuddy, if she was on top of her game today, wouldn't listen to a word he said; she'd believe Foreman. At least his ridiculous details would make Foreman's story sound more believable. His mocking might actually serve a purpose other than his own enjoyment, and since that purpose was advantageous to him, he had no reason not to run with it.

House leaned against the wall, waiting for the elevator with Foreman, and grinned at Foreman's invitation to act as smug as he'd like. Not that he needed permission. It would be tempting to throw in sexual innuendos--nothing that would give them away--just to see Foreman squirm, but it would be counterproductive. If Foreman fucked up his story, they'd both be caught. He'd save those for later, maybe around the team, maybe another day, but it would be too hard to keep himself from holding back to catch Foreman's reactions. It would happen eventually, and Foreman knew it as well as he did. It was natural behavior for him. Anger, however, wasn't completely natural for Foreman, though House knew a lot of ways to piss him off.

"Why act pissed off when you can be pissed off?" House asked, stepping into the elevator when the doors opened. "I bet I can piss you off between now and the time we get to work. Can add to that ketchup stain with a semen sample. Another stain on your nice leather interior." House wondered if just the talk of it would irritate Foreman. Even if he didn't follow through, genuine anger would be hard to dismiss, and Foreman would have an easier time channeling that energy into a good excuse. House could deal with Foreman being pissed off for a good cause; it was nothing new. Plus the make-up sex would be good later--Foreman taking out all that energy into fucking him hard, fucking him dizzy. He was going to get hard again imagining it.

Foreman snorted at House's claim. No doubt he could do something amazingly irritating between here and the hospital, but Foreman would already know that he was only doing it for the effect. That idea was annoying on its own--that House would deliberately try to frustrate him for the sake of their cover story, and take complete satisfaction in doing it. But the actions themselves, whatever House decided to do, wouldn't be half as infuriating if Foreman not only knew that House was planning it, but also knew why.

"What are you going to do, jerk off while I'm driving?" he said. House wasn't thinking up ways to frustrate him, he was coming out with ways to make him horny. Jesus. If tickling was one way to make House drive off the road, then having House sitting next to him, his pants open and shoved low while he worked his hand over his dick was a surefire way to make Foreman crash. He'd have his eyes glued to the show. He didn't know if House was trying to turn him on or if that really was his idea of a plan, but Foreman wasn't going to let him get away with it without pushing back. Every time he'd told House what he wanted, what he liked, he got to see the slight widening of House's eyes. Apparently the man had an excellent imagination, and Foreman loved putting it to work. "You couldn't come on my seats if I was sucking you off."

House wasn't completely surprised that Foreman dismissed the threat. It wouldn't do much good to make threats now; he'd have to catch Foreman off guard, embarrass him if he wanted to piss him off. Jerking off in the car was probably out, only because it wouldn't accomplish what he'd hoped--beyond the literal goal--and he'd been more than satisfied this morning, despite the hiccup of Wilson's unannounced visit. "I could," House said lightly, wondering if Foreman's imagination was cranking out the images that his was. It would be amusing to watch Foreman torn between watching the road and watching him.

His imagination started producing different ideas when Foreman spoke again, and House knew it was just as much of an empty threat--well, empty suggestion--as his had been. He could imagine himself in the driver's seat, Foreman leaning over the shifter with his head in his lap, sucking him off as he drove. Making him come at a red light, or in his parking space. House was tempted to start jerking off, threaten to actually follow through on coming on Foreman's leather just to see if Foreman would prevent it that way. Jesus, he felt like a damn twenty year old, getting horny less than a couple hours after having great sex. "Are you offering to give me road head?" he asked, his options still open even if Foreman scoffed again. He'd find another way to piss Foreman off if he had to.

"I don't think you're serious," Foreman said, satisfied with House's intrigued look. "I wouldn't have to, since you won't actually do it." He'd definitely started House thinking along the same lines as he was. And apparently he'd broken through House's performance anxiety. A few days ago, House hadn't seen any advantage for himself if he let Foreman watch; now he'd practically offered to put himself on display. Foreman felt his skin grow warmer under his clothes at the thought. He wasn't in danger of getting a hard-on just imagining it, not after this morning, but he could enjoy the mild excitement of talking about it, taunting House, knowing that he was picturing it too.

The elevator paused on the next floor down. Foreman nodded at the woman who got on, and smiled a bit awkwardly. He vaguely knew her face from running into her at the mailboxes. As the doors closed again, he carefully avoided looking at House, doing his best to stay confident, even though he was certain that House would take the opportunity to continue the conversation as if they were alone.

House squinted at Foreman, cocking his head to the side. Foreman seemed so sure, so pleased with himself and the belief that he could call House's bluffs. House wondered what Foreman's reaction really would be if he decided not to bluff. Maybe Foreman wouldn't be so quick to shoot down what he said then, if he actually followed through this time. The idea was ridiculous, and it made House a little nervous, but he wanted to prove Foreman wrong. He could embarrass him after that, piss him off with extra ease because he'd be feeling extra-smug about making Foreman eat his words.

House was about to reply, but stopped when the doors opened, and a woman stepped onto the elevator. She had a strange, uncomfortable smile on her face. Foreman wasn't looking at him, as if he didn't want to be acquainted with him, or he was trying to tell him to shut the hell up just with his brainwaves. They were both about to get more uncomfortable. House leaned back against the elevator, letting his slight grin sneak into his voice. "You know I've taken the opportunity to rise to a challenge literally before," House said, not bothering to step closer to Foreman or lower his voice.

Foreman's back tensed even further when House looked from the woman to him. House would never miss an opportunity to embarrass him--in front of the fellows, in front of his neighbours. House thought he was being a rebel by outing Foreman, but it wasn't that; it was the crappy double entendres and even crappier attempts at winking broadly at him when it was blatantly obvious to everyone in the elevator what he was talking about. House was happy when he was in control; he probably wouldn't find it so amusing if Foreman grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt and kissed him soundly in front of someone else. "It wasn't a challenge," Foreman said briefly, still not looking at House. It was a solution to a problem. If he pushed House far enough, in some respects, House would actually back down, which was good to know. Foreman smiled even more apologetically at the woman, relieved when the elevator doors opened and she left the building ahead of them.

Foreman turned to House once the door had closed behind her, shaking his head. House made him do the most ridiculous things; he still couldn't get over the fact that he'd ambushed House in the showers. Just because it had been hot didn't make it an act he was trying to top. "You know, I'd out you to your neighbours, but I have a feeling you already managed that this morning."

House felt entirely pleased with himself to see Foreman tense, his grin growing wider. "Really?" he answered, stepping closer to Foreman. "Sounded like a challenge to me. Think I can't do it in your car?" He caught Foreman's apologetic smile, and the woman's slightly widened eyes before she left the elevator, and backed against the wall when Foreman immediately got in his face. He looked down at Foreman, meeting his eyes directly as if he were backing away from the challenge if he didn't maintain eye contact. This really was making him want to jerk off in Foreman's car, almost hoping that someone would catch some of the action as they drove by them, just to see Foreman squirm. It might be embarrassing for him--he was barely used to putting on a show for one person, nevermind some stranger passing by--but he had a feeling he'd be too focused to care once he got started. And Foreman's voice, all that smooth confidence in his voice, made him want to take him down a notch even more.

Foreman's words might have given him pause, but he had a feeling that at least one of his neighbors already knew anyway. Months ago, he'd used a male escort service. He'd wanted it rougher, harder than a woman could give it to him, wanted to get fucked and let go, and he'd opened the door to a tall, muscled guy who called himself Emilio and, coincidentally, his upstairs neighbor in 221C as she was turning away from the mailboxes with a raised eyebrow. He was willing to bet that information would wipe the smug clean out of Foreman, at least for now, not to mention make those eyebrows raise with intrigue that House was not planning on satisfying. Even more fun. House paused, pretending to be horrified, before he shrugged and said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I outed myself to my neighbor about six months ago. If I'd known you wanted to do the honors, I would have saved myself." He held Foreman's gaze for a moment, just to see the wheels spin, before the elevator door binged, and House stepped out first, heading for the door with a small smile on his face.

House's look of horror didn't convince Foreman in the least. His over-the-top hysteria only showed that Foreman's insinuation didn't even touch him. It wasn't what Foreman had expected, but House immediately provided the reason, looking far too satisfied with himself.

Foreman stared at House for a second before he forced himself to wrench his eyes away. Probably giving House exactly the reaction he'd wanted, and Foreman didn't even know if he was telling the truth. House might just be screwing with him, either to make him jealous or to make him picture it. And the bastard had managed both. Foreman wanted to know who the guy was, how it had happened. What it had looked like. Whether the guy had pushed House down like Foreman had, made House desperate for it like he had. Enough to make House beg.

Foreman wanted to think that House was lying, but there was really no reason for him to. Foreman wasn't so possessive or so naive as to think he was the first guy House had slept with. He'd obviously been fucked before, enough to know how much he liked it. And from the intensity of House's stare when he actually told Foreman about it, he'd liked taking it from whoever the guy had been. Six months ago. It was ridiculous to think the timing meant anything. It had nothing to do with the fact that Foreman had just quit, but Foreman couldn't help thinking it. He hadn't even been thinking about House six months ago, so it was stupid to think that House had been imagining him. He was a fucking idiot for even letting the idea enter his head.

Questions burned in his chest, but Foreman knew better than to ask them. House might be smug now, but asking anything would make him insufferable. Foreman had enough clues to work it out: House didn't look for relationships and, despite the first time they'd slept together, didn't pick people up in bars. He did use prostitutes. So probably it had meant nothing--just getting off. That eased the tension in Foreman's chest slightly. There was no fucking reason to be jealous. So House's neighbour had seen something, or heard something. Foreman didn't care.

He followed House out of the elevator, trying to shake loose the image of some faceless "escort" looming above House, fucking him, and the exact look on House's face when he gave in to his orgasm. "So you just want me to finish the job," Foreman said as they walked out of the building, managing to sound only slightly pissed off. House might be out to his neighbours, but that wasn't the same as it happening at work. Or in public, if House went through with his threat. Foreman almost wanted him to. House wouldn't be thinking about some guy he'd paid to fuck him while Foreman was going down on him. He'd be saying Foreman's name, coming because of Foreman.

As House walked, Foreman's stare, that shocked expression, burned into his brain. House almost laughed. Foreman had walked right into that one. House wasn't sure what Foreman thought his history was like--admittedly, it wasn't all that much--but apparently not like that. He wondered what Foreman was thinking, how much he'd put together, if he'd ask for more details because, God, this had to be killing him. House snickered to himself, hearing the irritation in Foreman's voice when he spoke. Foreman was showing off the buttons to push, and there was no way House could resist prodding and showing as much as glee as he liked while he did it.

"Nothing to finish." Unless, House thought, Foreman was planning on fucking him in Wilson's or Cuddy's or his own office to 'finish the job'. "The guy pulled screams out of me loud enough to let my whole block know I was getting fucked." House would have stepped closer to Foreman, made this just for him to hear, but a casual display would probably eat at Foreman more, and House leaned back against the passenger door of Foreman's car and spoke with a casual, musing tone. "Think there's still a dent in the wall behind the headboard. Had to hold on for that kind of ride." Now that House was remembering it, he had to admit that it actually had been good. A hard, brutal fuck to let go and get off. The guy's fingers gripping his hips hard, pulling him back and making him take all of that dick all the way inside. Squeezing his ass as he pounded into him, telling him how much he knew that House liked it and House's own voice helplessly grinding out that yes, God, yes I like it, just like that, fuck me like that. House snorted a laugh. "He didn't even have to jerk me off when he was fucking me to make me come."

He wondered if Foreman's visions--House was sure that Foreman's imagination was spinning almost against his will--were anything close to what had happened. Foreman might try to convince himself that House was lying, just screwing with him, but House bet that Foreman would be able to recognize that he wasn't. House met Foreman's eyes, waiting for him to unlock the door, hoping to see Foreman silently fighting with himself. He was tempted to drag Foreman back to his place after work, just to see if he'd check the wall, but he figured Foreman can torture himself for a day or two before House let him back in--way more fun. Now that he was thinking of it, this would probably make Foreman agitated enough at work to make his excuse seem that much more genuine, even if Foreman was really entertaining thoughts of how this mystery guy fucked the hell out of House.

Foreman stalked to the car, trying his damnedest to block out House's casual, amused voice telling him exactly what he didn't want to hear. So he'd had a fucking amazing time. Foreman didn't need details to spur his imagination on; he was already picturing it far too vividly. House on his stomach, rubbing his cock against the bed, moaning for it while the guy shoved in. Not asking, taking it for granted that House was desperate for it. Leaning down over him, whispering roughly in House's ear God, you're fucking hot for it, aren't you? I know how bad you want it. How much you like it. And House answering with his whole body, thrashing, pushing back in uneven, needy thrusts. Foreman hated the whole scenario, hated himself for not having the self-control to think of something else, anything else. It didn't matter.

But this wasn't the same thing as House exchanging a few juvenile comments with Terzi. Foreman didn't care what the hell House had done in the past. It was over, it hadn't meant anything, and House had asked him for reassurance, had wanted to make sure that Foreman wouldn't leave him. House had been--and still was--jealous over Marty, and that was the stupidest thing Foreman could imagine. The L.A. position was a job he didn't even want with a man who was a casual friend at best, but House had treated it like Foreman was conducting some cross-continental romance of the ages just because Marty had left a goddamn phone message.

He wasn't going to throw that in House's face. He was better than that, and besides, House didn't need any fucking confirmation that his little story had frustrated Foreman. Foreman might be acting like a jealous, possessive prick, but he had a reason to; it wasn't some little fantasy he'd conjured up in his own head. It was infuriating that he knew he was reacting the way House wanted. House was spilling details as if he was trying to prove just how good he'd had it with a man he'd paid. The guy couldn't have given a shit about House. He'd been doing a job, and no matter how hard House had come, the guy had only been doing what he had to in order to get his hands on some cash. Foreman wasn't using House--that was the last thing on his mind, and House knew it, since Foreman had told him he was with House despite a whole hell of a lot of issues. It wasn't just sex between them. Christ, he couldn't believe that it was House's random fuck with a sex worker that made Foreman realize that, but it was true. He didn't care about House's exploits; he cared about whether he measured up, and whether House was mocking him for any reason other than it amused him to piss Foreman off.

Foreman was sure his anger showed on his face, as much as he tried to bottle it up. He forced his features into his most neutral expression, but House knew him too fucking well, and he'd see Foreman's jaw clenching, his shoulders knotting, the impatient way he unlocked the car and pulled the door open, sliding into the driver's seat, glaring at the steering wheel as he turned on the car and waited for House to get in. No matter how sulky it made him look, he wasn't interested in answering House's taunts.

It didn't escape House's notice when Foreman's irritation escalated into anger, and House couldn't force his grin from stretching into a full smile. He could see Foreman's thoughts racing through his head. That glimpse of possessiveness, that Foreman was jealous of an escort that House had hired for a hard--but great--fuck, made House more pleased than he should feel. But it was good to know that Foreman could get jealous, wasn't that sure of himself, and wanted House enough for himself to feel like this. Feel it so much he couldn't help showing it.

This, House had to admit, made him wonder about Foreman's former encounters, relationships with men. He doubted Foreman ever hired an escort, not when he can pick up practically anybody he wanted. He still wasn't sure if he and Marty had had a--something. He wasn't about to ask, because this was about Foreman's frustration. And he'd be damned if he didn't try to push Foreman even further, see how jealous he could get, how angry this could actually make him. Foreman had seemed to move in to a stage of ignoring him; he didn't even seem interested in fighting back, but House knew it was getting to him, even if Foreman wasn't speaking.

House watched Foreman get into the car, heard the doors unlock, and reached for the handle. Before he opened the door, he weighed his options, wondering what he could do to poke at Foreman's patience. It wasn't just about pissing him off--that was a good side effect, considering their goals for pulling off a believable story to other people for this morning--but it was also about learning. It was more information that House could learn, take note of, see what mattered to him. It would be easier to poke Foreman's buttons if Foreman couldn't really stop him, and House opened the back door instead and climbed into the back seat to sit behind the front passenger seat.

House closed the door, setting his t-shirt and cane aside, and looked at Foreman's reflection in the rear-view mirror, then down at his own crotch. Between the taunts about a show in the car and his encounter with Emilio, House was already semi-hard. He absently rubbed himself over his jeans. If he actually went through with it, put on a show, right there, in the car, it would accomplish a few things. He'd get off--never a bad thing. He'd prove that Foreman couldn't always call his bluffs, and would probably kick Foreman's anger up another notch because he not only choose to do it in the backseat where Foreman would have trouble participating and watching but also because House could talk about his random encounter while he did it, and Foreman wouldn't be able to shut him up. House glanced quickly out the windows--nobody around yet, a good time to get started--and unfastened his jeans, shoved them with his boxer-briefs partly down his legs, and took himself in his hand. He let his head fall back against the seat as he stroked himself, wondering when Foreman would glance back at him and notice. Might as well give him a reason to shift his attention. "That guy wasn't as good as this guy I knew during my residency. Roommate," he said, partly nervous about even talking about this, but still wanting to give Foreman even more material to fume over. He didn't have much, but he could supply enough fodder to get Foreman's gears turning even more. "Had me sucking his cock before he bent me over a stack of boxes the day he moved in. Probably outed myself to those neighbors, too."

Foreman waited for House to climb into the car, even though he was damn sure he didn't want to see House's smug smirk in his peripheral vision as he drove. And Foreman knew House wouldn't drop the subject, not when he was provoking such an amusing reaction. Foreman gripped the steering wheel tighter, but House didn't open the passenger door, choosing the back seat instead. Foreman glanced in the rearview mirror for a second, but when House didn't say anything more, he shook his head and started driving. So he got to play chauffeur again, while House had a good chuckle at his expense.

He nearly stomped on the brakes when he heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper, followed by the shift of clothing. Heart slamming in his throat, Foreman glanced in the mirror again, only catching sight of House's head tilted back against the seat, his eyes absent, his Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed, a flush sneaking up his neck. Fuck. He was actually doing it. Bastard. Foreman wrenched his eyes back to the road. He'd just turned on to the main road, and he had no idea what anybody driving by might be able to see. House's shoulder moving as he stroked himself, maybe. The arch of his eyebrows and the droop of his lower lip when he couldn't hide how good it felt. All Foreman knew was that he couldn't see enough, not without pulling over--impossible at the moment--or endangering both their lives for his dick's sake. Foreman glowered straight ahead, knuckles clenched on the wheel, holding his head resolutely forward. Fucker. Of course he'd do it now. No wonder House had chosen the back seat. More room to slump down. Spread his legs out as wantonly as he could. Fuck.

Foreman jerked his head around fast enough to get whiplash when House started talking. At first, Foreman couldn't even focus, wondering if House was trying to piss him off even more, talking about yet another guy who was apparently even better. But when Foreman caught a glimpse of House's hand, working over his cock, already flushed and well on his way to fully hard, he let out a sharp breath and got it. He turned back to the road, straining to hear House's breath start to shift into a quicker rhythm, the soft sound of his hand stroking his dick. House might be talking about the other men he'd slept with, but the confident tone he'd had outside Foreman's apartment was wavering. He was talking for Foreman. Adding to the show. Not to mention telling Foreman his sexual history, actually volunteering details. Foreman didn't think House was lying; that uncertain hitch in his voice gave him away. And God, it was hot. Foreman dropped one hand from the steering wheel to his fly. Heat was already pooling in his groin, and he'd be following House's example before long if they didn't stop somewhere. Jesus, he couldn't do everything at once. Watch House, in the mirror or in quick glances over his shoulder. Rub himself through his pants. Drive the fucking car.

"The roommate was better?" he asked, staring straight ahead. He was already picturing it, House's jeans down around his ankles, binding his legs while the roommate--invention, reality, Foreman didn't really care--knelt behind House, fucking him, running a hand up his spine under his t-shirt while House arched back against his cock. Foreman swallowed hard before he could manage to keep going. "I doubt it. I don't think he could get you as hard as you are right now." Foreman didn't even care if it was true or not. If he couldn't touch, if he couldn't do anything but strain against his pants and drive, he at least wanted to hear every last detail House cared to share.

The only problem with the backseat was that House couldn't see Foreman's face as much as Foreman couldn't see his. Well, most of his body, anyway. Definitely not his cock, unless Foreman turned around to watch, which he wouldn't do without pulling over. He had no problem with the latter; it would probably only encourage Foreman's imagination to keep turning. He could tell that it was, despite the bad view, knew Foreman was reacting. House could see the way Foreman's hands tightened on the wheel, how one dropped down. Foreman was getting hard--had to be--though House could hardly believe it when Foreman started answering him. Then it made sense; Foreman was taking credit for how hard House was getting.

"Who do you think I'm imagining? You?" House snorted, stroking harder now that he was fully hard, warmer and heavier in his hand. "Technically speaking, he wasn't better. Emilio was a pro, but obviously, didn't know him. Knew Jake for more than a night. He had the balls to lock me in the lounge with him and fuck me on the couch." House's mind actually started remembering it. It had been years ago, but Jake was really the only regular boyfriend he'd had--he'd been with him for a year and a half; the end of Jake's residency saw the end of their relationship. But Jake was still the only one who usually sprang to mind, besides that hot escort, when he ever imagined a man.

Jake had him pressed up against the couch, over the arm. He'd braced his hands on the table and pushed back when Jake slid inside, thick and long, stretching him open. It had been damn exciting then, moaning into the cushion to muffle the noise while Jake fucked him hard, deep, knowing the angle to stroke over his prostate. House groaned out loud now, stroking himself faster, using his thumb to spread pre-come over the head of his cock. Someone had knocked on the door when they'd found it locked, and Jake had balanced himself on his knees as he kept thrusting, reached with one hand to cover House's mouth and cut off a loud moan. House had heard the shit-eating grin in Jake's voice when he'd pulled House's head back, whispered in his ear: God, if they only knew I was fucking you, that I'm going to make you come for me, right on this cushion, they'd never sit here again. House closed his eyes, rolled his head back against the seat of the car. "Fucked me when people were knocking on the other side of the--door. Oh, fuck."

House already felt his orgasm approaching, and he couldn't help imaging how Jake's hand had wrapped around his cock then. How he'd made him spread his legs even further, let his right hang off the couch, wanting it, his body begging for it as Jake drove into him. Jake stroked him fast, fist tight, making him buck and jerk, moan against his palm. "Was jerking me off as he did. Oh, yeah. Had me naked. He was still wearing everything--shirt, tie, coat--except his damn pants. Fuck." House was forgetting about pissing Foreman off, though he wondered if he was still managing to do it, openly jerking off to thoughts of an ex-boyfriend. He was talking more for himself, making himself even hotter, pushing his orgasm even closer. He almost wished he had lube, so he could slump in the seat, reach down and finger himself, nearly recreate the memory. Instead, House tightened his fist, smearing more pre-come, using the added friction.

House was starting to forget where the hell he was, his head fogging over with the fantasy, the pleasure leaping across nerves. Jake's dick finding his prostate and stroking, pounding. Jake's tie sweeping over his back, almost tickling him, but the feeling just added to the flood of sensation everywhere. Jake's hand moving with the same rhythm, making House writhe until he came like Jake said he would--onto the cushion, come soaking slowly into the fabric--whimpering, breathing hard through his nose over the back of Jake's hand. "Made me come on the fucking couch. Yeah. Yeah." House was breathing fast, his balls heavy, needing to come now, his orgasm so close. Frantically, he reached to the side and grabbed for his t-shirt--he already had to wash it--and laid it over his stomach and chest, not wanting to come all over himself or, despite what he'd said earlier, Foreman's car.

He couldn't resist anymore, sliding down in the seat, lifting his left foot onto the armrest between the two front seats. Leaning slightly to his right, House slicked up one finger in his mouth, reached under his left leg, and pressed his fingertip over his ass before pushing in. He worked himself open enough to take in his whole finger, and House started working his dick, thrusting his finger together, just like Jake's hand, his cock. God, he was seconds away, and he couldn't get it out of his head--that memory, that adrenaline rush of excitement, coming so hard and knowing that, despite the cover of Jake's hand, whoever had been on the other side of the door might hear them, and if they hadn't heard him, they might have heard Jake. House had still been trying to recover, push back against Jake's dick when Jake came, dropping his hands to House's hips--one slippery with House's come, the other hot from his breath--and thrusting all the way inside. House had felt the heat, the twitch of Jake's body when he'd come inside him, and both of them had groaned softly, vaguely aware that the knocking had stopped.

House pushed his finger as deep inside as he could reach at this angle, unable to reach his prostate this way, but he didn't fucking need it. It was enough just to fill himself with something as he jerked off. The last image played in his mind, and he couldn't stop himself from talking. "Could feel it when he came. No condom. Fucked me like that. God, yeah. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck--" House pushed his head back, arched his neck when his orgasm slammed into him. Pleasure shot out from his groin as he came over his hand, onto the t-shirt across his stomach, before he relaxed against the seat. He was breathing hard as he opened his eyes again, withdrawing his finger and balling up his t-shirt. He wiped his hands, taking a note to wash them when he got inside the hospital, and sat up, looking into the mirror to meet Foreman's eyes. As he started to pull his jeans and underwear back over his hips, feeling even more smug and satisfied, he managed, "Still doubt it?"

Foreman hadn't assumed that House was imagining him, but House's contemptuous dismissal of even the possibility pissed him off. "House--"

There was no use interrupting, though. House had already launched into a blow-by-blow description. Foreman barely caught a light change, speeding through a yellow turning red, and then had to wrench the wheel to change lanes when he almost rear-ended a pick-up truck. Thank fucking Christ the driver was on his cellphone, didn't even glance over when Foreman blew past him, well over the speed limit. House was going to kill them, far more surely than when he'd been at the wheel himself. Foreman was driving by instinct, taking the fastest route to the hospital without noticing the turns. He pressed the heel of his hand more firmly against his cock, fighting against letting out even the tiniest, strained sound. Not that House would notice. Not that he'd fucking care. He was stroking himself hard and fast, not giving a rat's ass about what effect he was having on Foreman.

It was fucking killing him. Every sound House made--little whimpers, the catch and release of his breath around his groans, the slipperier sounds of his hand fisting his dick--all of it seemed to connect right to Foreman's cock, right where he couldn't do anything about it. A few presses with his hand didn't ease his frustration in the least. It only made it worse. Foreman shifted in his seat, pulling his pants higher in an attempt to stop the material from constricting his cock. Every movement, even just working the gas and the brakes, was torture. He ached for a real touch. And House wouldn't shut up. Foreman had asked for it but he'd never expected House to actually tell him so much.

In the mirror, House's head was lolling back against the seat, his mouth slack, his eyes squeezed shut, but he kept talking. Describing the whole scene. Painting it so that Foreman couldn't help imagining every last instant right along with him. It didn't matter how frustrated he was, he was putting himself in the place of Jake, House's roommate. So it had actually been a relationship. Foreman couldn't think through the implications. He was too worked up, too caught up in House's story. It didn't sound hesistant now. House sounded like he was desperate for it, nearly babbling because of what his fantasy boyfriend was doing to him. Lifting his foot up on the arm rest, his sneaker nudging Foreman's elbow in time with his thrusts. God, Foreman could even hear House's mouth sucking on his finger, the change in the timbre of his voice when he started fingerfucking himself. Higher. Tighter. Foreman's lungs burned. He was sweating underneath his suit jacket, out of control, not even able to stop listening. Not wanting to stop listening, even as he clenched his teeth together at the idea that House wasn't over some decades-ago boyfriend.

House's voice rose, gritting in his throat, harsher and hoarse and finally cutting off in a loud, desperate groan when he came. Foreman could only watch the twist and release of House's expression in the mirror. A moment later he glanced over his shoulder long enough to see House wiping himself down with the t-shirt Foreman had stolen. His cock throbbed in his pants, so fucking hard that it hurt. He clenched his fists on the steering wheel when House's lazy, satisfied voice wafted from the back seat, asking him if he still doubted it. Not a chance in hell. Foreman didn't answer. They were on the hospital campus, and he headed for lot E, the farthest, most neglected corner of the parking garage. Threw the car into park the second he'd found a spot, and reached down to unzip his fly. He let out a short, sharp groan in sheer relief as he pulled his cock out, the tip already leaking. Closed his left hand around himself, tight, and started stroking. Christ. Fuck House. Fucking him-- He'd worry about House's taunts later. "Give me--your t-shirt," he said, forcing out the words. If he came on his suit, there was no way in hell he was walking into the hospital.

House made himself comfortable in the backseat, realizing Foreman must have sped through town to arrive so near the hospital so quickly (or that had just taken longer than he'd realized), and felt another wave of smugness when Foreman couldn't even answer. It was enough confirmation for him. House shifted, trying to catch more of Foreman's expression, leaning forward to hug the back of the seat in front of him. Foreman drove through the parking lot like a fucking madman, and House looked from Foreman's face to his crotch. He really must have worked Foreman up, and he couldn't really tell if Foreman was just turned on or angry. Or both. Angry that he was turned on, maybe. Either way, the show, and that little voiced memory had gotten to Foreman, enough to make him not care that he was whipping his dick out in a hospital parking lot, even if it was one of the less busy ones.

House watched, so damn pleased with himself, as Foreman unfastened his pants and didn't wait for a half-second before he started jerking off. Jesus. House wasn't sure he'd seen Foreman this urgent yet, this honed in on nothing but getting off. He started wondering if Foreman was thinking about what he was doing, though he must have been thinking a little, because Foreman managed to grit out a demand for House's t-shirt. House grinned, letting Foreman stroke himself a few more times. If Foreman thought he was pissed off before, or even now, he was going to see how far House could push. House wouldn't put it past Foreman to either tell him to fuck off, and break this whole arrangement off, stop everything, but House didn't think he would. Not yet. Not quite over this, when there were still plenty of things Foreman could do to retaliate--and he knew Foreman wasn't above it if he was angry enough.

House leaned back in the seat and grabbed his t-shirt and his cane, opening the door before climbing out of the car. Before he slammed it shut, House peered inside, not quite grinning, so Foreman would know he was serious. "You might want to rethink that," House said, nodding to Foreman. "There's a security camera pointed at this corner." House didn't actually know if that was true, even if there was a camera aimed in the general direction from the opposite wall. House shut the door and turned away, starting to walk to the exit of the garage. It was a longer walk than usual, but it was only cold--no snow on the ground yet--but he could manage, especially with all the images of that car ride still floating around in his head.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Foreman snapped when House got out of the car. Foreman didn't believe a word House said about the security cameras, either, not that he could stop if he did. He didn't need an audience, but for House to fucking abandon him without so much as a glance--and spitefully taking his shirt with him--it was like the story he'd told was entirely for himself, a fantasy he'd only happened to speak out loud, as if he didn't know or care that Foreman might be affected. As if he didn't care about Foreman at all. And what the hell was he taking his shirt for? Did he want to wave the damn thing around the clinic, show off the come stain to anyone who'd look?

At this point, it hardly mattered. Foreman unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to reach behind the driver's seat, where he'd dropped his sports bag. He'd stuffed his clothes from yesterday in there, and fortunately, he'd forgotten the bag in the car when they'd gotten to his place. He yanked the zipper open and grabbed the first piece of clothing he reached. There was no point in drawing it out, and besides, Foreman was too close to make that possible. He covered his lap with his shirt and jerked himself as hard and fast as he could. His orgasm was sharp, and short, and anything but satisfying. Foreman let his head fall back against the headrest. This was all House's fucking fault. He wiped himself clean with the shirt and tucked his softening cock back in his shorts, zipping up quickly. The shirt he tossed back into his sports bag. Three seconds later, he was out of the car and heading for the hospital.

His long, jarring stride caught him up with House as they neared the hospital. Foreman had been trying to burn holes in House's back with his eyes, but when he passed him, he didn't so much as glance in his direction. At this rate, House would be on his heels as they walked into reception. Foreman didn't bother with any pretenses. Cuddy was standing at the admit desk in the clinic, and Foreman pushed the doors open, walked straight up to her, fury radiating from his every muscle, and said, "House can't keep his mouth shut." With that, Foreman considered his part of their excuse finished, and he headed for the stairs--not interested in waiting for Cuddy's response, House's elaborations, or the elevator.

House almost made it to the hospital before Foreman caught up--faster than he anticipated; Foreman must have come almost as soon as he'd walked away. He didn't even look at him, at least not directly, catching enough of Foreman's body language as he passed to know that he was supremely pissed off. Would be great for this excuse, although it crossed his mind that Foreman might ruin it. But judging by the look on Cuddy's face--a shocked, confused look--Foreman had said something believable enough to garner a genuine reaction.

"Your lapdog's been trying to take treats from other masters. Had to sabotage his interview this morning," House said, eyes searching through the lobby to catch Foreman begin bolting up the staircase.

Cuddy adopted an expression that made it clear to House that he was testing her patience--her mouth straightening to a tight-lipped smile, head tilting. "While I appreciate your efforts to--"

"You're welcome," he said, cutting her off and reaching around her for his pink notes on the admit desk. "Just doing my part to help the hospital. Gotta keep those puppy dogs in line."

When he started to walk toward the elevators, anxious to see how pissed off Foreman actually was, Cuddy sidestepped him and blocked his path. "If what you say is actually true, which, based on Dr. Foreman's reaction alone, I don't doubt, then it might do both of you some good if you played in separate corners for a while."

House hung his head, tapping his cane on the floor. Cuddy was going to rob him of his chance to harass Foreman in front of his fellows, not that he wouldn't be able to track Foreman down after work.

"Since you have no case, you will spend the rest of the day in the Clinic, while Dr. Foreman can spend it catching up on paperwork."

"What about my team? You're going to let them wander around--"

"They're already in the Clinic," she said, grinning at him, and pushed on his arm to nudge him toward the Clinic doors. "Go, or you can do this all week without a case. Up to you."

House sighed, turning and making his way into the Clinic. This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but at least the excuse had worked. Foreman had been more than pissed off enough to make it believable, even though he didn't know what he'd said. The avoidance game would probably work just as well, get Foreman riled up, especially considering the last thing House shared with him, until he could let out his frustration on him the next time he saw him. This new plan might turn out better than he thought.

Foreman took the stairs two at a time, hoping to burn his anger out of his body before he got to the fourth floor. House would probably be following him, keep picking at him, keep mocking--laugh at Foreman for getting hard at House's story, or for thinking that Foreman was anywhere as memorable as Jake. Foreman threw himself down into the desk chair in the conference room, tensing preemptively against the moment the elevators opened and House stalked out.

After a few minutes, when it didn't happen, Foreman realized Cuddy must have stopped House and demanded an explanation. He'd have a few minutes of reprieve, anyway. Long enough to take out some work and look busy, even though he couldn't stop thinking about what the hell had happened in the car. House had proved him wrong, in more than one way. Shown that he would perform, in public, but not for Foreman. Shown that Foreman might matter now, but he wasn't worth much in the long run. Foreman had had similar thoughts, gauging House against other relationships he'd had in the past and not seeing much promise for the future, but at least he hadn't told House every last fucking detail of his sex life. Foreman wasn't ready to appreciate the fact that he might know more about House now than anyone at the hospital--Wilson included. All he could see was that House had fucked himself, right next to him, thinking of someone else.

Foreman shook his head and pushed the thoughts away. He was not going to let House affect his work. That much they'd agreed on, and Foreman wasn't going to be the one to fuck it up. If House wasn't coming upstairs, if Cuddy had kept him in the clinic, then Foreman wouldn't have to face him. Not now, and not any time soon.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

November 17, 2007 - Morning

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