November 17, 2007 - Morning

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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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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.

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"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.

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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.

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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.