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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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.

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November 17, 2007 - Morning

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