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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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.

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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.

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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'."

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"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."

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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.

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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."

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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.

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"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."

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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."

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"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.

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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."

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"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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When Foreman made a grab for his keys, House tried to keep them away, just for a second, for fun, but Foreman got hold of them too fast. House frowned, pouting slightly, and watched Foreman unlock the door. The frown deepened, and he added a defiant squint, when Foreman tried to tell him that he kicked ass at his make-believe interview. Lately it didn't seem like Foreman was kicking ass at any interview, including the one he'd had--if it had even been an interview, maybe more like a negotiation--with Cuddy.

"Oh, no," House said, following Foreman inside and toward the elevator. He jabbed at the call button with his cane before leaning against the wall. "If you're going to make this story believable, you have to make it clear that yet another employer hated you because you worked for me. Worked like me. You got your ass kicked out the door as soon as I clued them in on your more shining moments."

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Foreman grimaced as the elevator doors opened and he got on, pressing the button for his floor. House's version of events would probably sound more likely, since Foreman was supposedly walking away empty-handed. That didn't mean it was how all his interviews had gone. Yeah, most of them had revolved around House, and Foreman had gotten very practiced at kissing the right amount of ass, showing admiration for House's talent while carefully disparaging his methods. But that was only because his own merits hadn't been in question. Foreman wanted to make a comment about how House had lucked out getting hired by Cuddy, but since the same thing applied to him, he kept his remark behind his teeth.

"Sounds like wishful thinking," he said instead. "Hoping that no other employer ever shows an interest in me." He knew he shouldn't be poking at House's jealousy, or insecurity, or whatever the hell it was. It would only end with House getting pissed off and annoying Foreman, but it was fascinating just to know it was there. Foreman had to keep prodding to make sure it hadn't disappeared. House wanted him so much that even an imaginary interview set him off. House wanted him. Not just for sex--wanted him around. Or maybe House didn't want to break in another fellow-wrangler. Foreman didn't exactly know which it was, despite this morning's evidence, despite the half-voiced promises they'd made. He wasn't going to be reassuring as long as there was a chance that House only considered him the path of least resistance, both at work and personally.

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"That's the best you've got? Wishful thinking? Too bad it's true. Or at least it has been lately," he said, refusing to think about Marty and L.A. and whatever the hell was waiting for Foreman there, if he chose to take it. "Well, not too bad for me--" House stopped himself, about to let on that Foreman was actually better to have around than he even originally thought. He'd admitted to Foreman, right before he'd left, that he'd wanted him to stay, only to have it shoved back in his face. The old team was disbanded now, sure, but Foreman was still as helpful in differentials as he'd always been. He was helpful, challenging, helped him think. But he didn't need to actually tell Foreman that and stroke his ego. "And not too bad for you either, since I'm betting that you've gotten laid more in the past couple weeks than you have, well, since you've been here anyway. Unless Chase wasn't the only one Cameron was banging in the closet."

The elevator stopped and opened, depositing them at Foreman's floor, and House stepped into the hallway. His own remark made him grin, and he let his musings tumble out of his mouth. "What is it with you three and closets? Though, I have to admit, your case was way funnier. Irony like that wins every time." Now that the incident was past them, House let himself feel smug about it, that he'd actually gotten Foreman to hide in his damn closet in the first place. That Foreman had stayed in it at all. Even easier to be smug when he and Foreman had already planned an excuse to cover it all.

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Foreman raised his eyebrows when House admitted it wasn't too bad for him that Foreman would be stuck in Princeton for the foreseeable future. He'd never believed that House actually appreciated him. All his misguided attempts to stop Foreman from leaving only told him that House couldn't stand it if he didn't control the lives of everyone around him, as far as possible. But when House interrupted himself and then tried to focus on Foreman again, it only confirmed that he thought he'd nearly said too much. "You want to take credit for my sex life?" Foreman asked. "Sorry, but you haven't broken any records." He'd had a few girlfriends since moving here, though they'd usually been short-term. Longer than two weeks, though. Wendy was just the one House knew about.

He paused in opening his front door when House started laughing at him for hiding in the closet. Anger shot through him. That had been fucking humiliating. He should have known better than to think House would drop it. "That wasn't my idea," he snapped. "And you might as well have been in there with me. If I hadn't kissed you, then you wouldn't be getting laid more than you have since I got here." The kiss had been a stupid move, even if the results had turned out better than he had any right to expect. Foreman had had no idea that House liked men. But if the last two weeks hadn't proved anything else, at least Foreman knew that House had no room to talk about him being closeted. Foreman pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment, pulling off his jacket and hanging it up, before slamming the door shut.

Like House, Foreman didn't want his business spread all over the hospital, which was why he was discreet. There were plenty of ways in which life was just easier as long as he slept with women, brought the occasional girlfriend home to his family. That didn't mean he didn't acknowledge who he was. He'd had relationships with men. He still had no idea what House's past was like. He doubted House was going to enlighten him, and beyond how that affected him, he didn't care.

Foreman pulled House's ragged t-shirt over his head, squeezing it into a ball before he shoved it into House's chest. "I don't care if we're hiding it," he said. "But I don't need your hypocrisy when your friend walks in on us."

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House sneered at Foreman's remark. Yeah, he figured that he hadn't 'broken any records', since Foreman was good looking and sharp enough to get a relationship if he wanted one, but, as far as House knew, he hadn't wanted one. Not seriously enough to pursue one that lasted more than a couple weeks. Foreman would probably be able to keep it a secret if he had--it seemed theirs was a case in point--but Foreman hadn't been good at keeping secrets from him, and if House had a reason to think something was up in Foreman's personal life--which it rarely was--he would have found out. He might not have broken records, but he might if things kept going the way they were. But it wasn't something he really wanted to mull over. All he knew was that, whether Foreman wanted to admit it or not, they were both having some great sex, and getting into arguments like this was old hat. Which, in a way, it was.

House tilted his head, refused to be ruffled by Foreman's burst of anger, and chose to use it for his own amusement instead. "It seemed like the most appropriate place to put you," House said, smirking, half-preparing for a stronger outburst, or an eye-roll. Either would be typical. Instead, he got Foreman, shirtless, shoving his shirt against his chest. His eyes dropped down to Foreman's chest before he could stop himself, then rose back to Foreman's face. Despite what Foreman actually said, it seemed like there was something else bothering him despite the fact that he'd been shoved into a closet. House watched him for a second, trying to read Foreman's tone better. "Do you not want to hide it?"

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Foreman stopped short at House's question. It wasn't one he wanted to answer, or face up to. One of the advantages of being with House was that no one would believe it, which meant that Foreman, in a sense, didn't have to believe it either. He could let it happen without examining it. And despite House's propensity for analysing everything to death, so far he hadn't gotten on Foreman's nerves by trying to explain him to himself. Much. Anyway, it was a stupid question. Whether or not Foreman wanted to hide it, there was going to come a point when it became common knowledge. It could have been this morning, and he was damn glad it hadn't been. But House would let something slip to Wilson, or one of the new fellows would read too much into a word or a glance. Workplace relationships were never as inconspicuous as the people involved in them thought they were. Look at Cameron and Chase.

"I don't want people to find out because we're fucking in the sleep lab," Foreman said briefly. He turned away, frowning. All he wanted was to shower, dress, and not start wondering why House was asking. If House was asking, that meant he was interested in Foreman's reasons, or reactions. He might start dropping hints during differentials just to see whether he could make Foreman jump. It wasn't a fucking joke. The other possibility--that House was asking because he didn't want to hide it--was even more uncomfortable, and luckily even more unlikely.

Ignoring House, and the trouble he'd probably manage to cause on his own, Foreman headed for his bedroom. He stepped out of his shoes and pushed off House's sweats and boxers before heading into the bathroom to start the shower.

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"We're fucking in the sleep lab?" House asked, calling after Foreman as he started heading for his bedroom. "Snippy," he mumbled to himself once Foreman was out of earshot, still standing in Foreman's living room. Foreman hadn't really answered his question. All he could tell was that Foreman had a problem with getting caught with his pants down. He couldn't know from Foreman's answer whether or not he actually had a problem with hiding all of this. House sure as hell wasn't prepared to spread it around. He wouldn't want to spread any relationship around, but he couldn't help but wonder if Foreman cared as much as he seemed to let on. He hadn't been all that frazzled by the fact that he'd outed him in front of a roomful of fellows. There was only one factor that Foreman would actually be ashamed of, one thing about this that he'd want to keep hidden.

Gripping his shirt in one hand, House made his way into the bathroom, finding Foreman already in the shower, and leaned against the door once he'd closed it. "It's because it's me, isn't it?" he asked, speaking loud enough that Foreman would hear him over the sound of the shower. "It's bad enough that your reputation's been damaged because you worked for me. If people found out that you're sleeping with me, well, you could just kiss the rest of your career goodbye."

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Foreman got into the shower and reached for the soap, lathering the morning's sweat and semen off his skin. He rubbed water out of his eyes and looked over his shoulder when he heard House follow him into the bathroom. Of course House wanted to have this conversation when Foreman was naked and cornered. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and turned his face up into the spray, rinsing off quickly.

The hot water couldn't relax him, and Foreman turned the taps off. "Yeah, it's because it's you," he said, the words sounding too loud after the water stopped. House was right. Of course no one should hold it against Foreman who he slept with, but in his field, everybody knew everybody. Gossip was practically a way of life. Foreman had worked hard to be above that kind of thing, and the result was that he was seen as arrogant, even by doctors who practically defined the word. Not enough of a team player. That hadn't helped him when he was looking for a job, either. If he wanted to fight it, he could sue, or threaten to, if it seemed like he was been treated differently because of his relationships. Foreman was fucking tired of fighting that particular fight. He wanted to be known for being a good doctor, not for being the affirmative action hire or that guy who sleeps with House.

Foreman stepped out of the shower and met House's eyes, wondering if he even cared that Foreman hadn't tried to put him off with a lie. He grabbed a towel and started drying off. "Did you want people to know? Because we could throw a party," he said. House had a say in it, no matter what Foreman would prefer. His career was a mess anyway, and he already knew that people were going to find out. All he could really do was as much damage control as possible, before and after the fact.

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Cornering Foreman while he was in the shower was convenient, even if Foreman could--and would, if he felt like it--brush him off. Foreman seemed angry enough to spout the truth, though, and even though House always preferred it--reality over a soothing lie--Foreman's reply still jolted him enough to make him stare hard at Foreman through the frosted shower doors. He felt the furrow of his brow as he thought about that response. Foreman wanted hide this solely because House was involved, and House was certain that it had everything to do with his professional reputation. Foreman barely had any friends to worry about, if he had any at all, and his family never seemed high on his list of priorities. A guy who doesn't return home for that long wouldn't care about curbing his behavior to parental expectations. His career was all that was left. Respect. Foreman wouldn't get respect if people heard about this particular personal relationship, no matter how good of a doctor he was, and House, personally, didn't give a damn.

He did, however, care about the fact that Foreman knew all of this, but was taking the risk. It was more flattering than House would admit to Foreman, and it was a risk he probably didn't deserve. Foreman wouldn't risk his career for somebody he thought was a worthless asshole and a decent lay. He met Foreman's eyes when Foreman got out of the shower, reaching for a towel. He still leaned against the door, making no move to hand Foreman his towel or get out of the way. Foreman's question was stupid; House was sure he already knew the answer, or maybe he already forgot about being shoved inside his closet.

House rolled his eyes. "I was thinking a Mexican fiesta in the lobby. Think Cuddy would foot the bill for a mariachi band?" House knew that, at some point, people would find out. Hound him. Both of them. Not leave it alone. He could wait for that day; he wasn't about to help it arrive any faster. He was still trying to work through this himself. The entire situation, what he wanted, what Foreman wanted. It was still intriguing that Foreman seemed to want him enough to risk his reputation, and House couldn't quite get that implied confession out of his head. He studied Foreman, waiting until he was mostly dried off, just before he'd probably want to leave the room, and said, "You know I'm a danger to your reputation, but you're with me anyway."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman finished drying off and wrapped the towel around his waist. From the way House was leaning against the door, he intended to trap them both here until he got the answers he wanted. Foreman scoffed at House's party suggestion, but at least it confirmed that neither of them wanted their relationship to become public. "And I was looking forward to seeing Cameron's face," he said. It was reassuring, anyway, that House wouldn't be making any announcements just to see his fellows' jaws drop.

Since House wasn't letting him out of the bathroom, Foreman reached for his anti-perspirant and rolled it on, then got out his shaving gel. He glanced at the mirror, catching House's eyes. "Did you really want me to start analysing this?" he asked, feeling uneasy at the thought. He didn't really have a reason. The sex could be amazing, but Foreman wasn't usually led around by his dick. So far, House hadn't been more of a jackass than usual, but even the regular amounts should have been more than enough to make most people dump him. Foreman finished spreading the gel on his cheeks and picked up his razor, turning his face to start shaving. If he was being rational, he should listen to House. Do what was best for his career. He could wait out the hospital administrators who only saw one risky decision, and find one who wanted him for the fact that he'd been right. Everything he was doing with House would endanger that. House was pretty much telling him he was being stupid. But when Foreman thought about just stopping, going back to the way things were, his stomach clenched unpleasantly. Foreman frowned as he rinsed the razor under the tap and asked, "Is this supposed to be a 'dumping you for your own good' speech?"

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House stayed silent, dropping his gaze to the floor when Foreman asked if he should start analyzing this. The fact that Foreman wasn't was interesting. Foreman, who always covered his ass and looked before he leaped. House either was, in fact, that charming or sex made Foreman a moron. It made House wonder, but not ask--never ask--what Foreman's brain would tell him once it kicked in, after the sex stopped being new. When Foreman spoke again, House snapped his eyes back up to Foreman's face. The thought of Foreman ending this made his stomach twist, and, God, he hated that. Hated that he even gave a damn about it. "Nope," House said, shaking his head once.

He wouldn't ask Foreman what had changed, what had made Foreman decide that House was suddenly a worthwhile risk to his reputation; it was a pathetic, needy question. It was bad enough that the question was nagging at him, and it would be even worse if he actually spoke it. There were times when pushing Foreman would get him what he was after, but House had a feeling that this time, if he pushed, it would encourage Foreman to dump him for his own good, pursue more job interviews, end up in L.A., and leave House in the Princeton dust. Again. No, he'd dig for answers another way, keep it in the back of his mind for later. He was interested, but he could wait.

Without any explanation, House turned and left the room, returning to Foreman's living room to stretch across the couch. He turned on the TV to make his brain shut up while he absently reached for his Vicodin in his pocket and threw one back.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman focused on shaving, making each movement count, so that he wouldn't have to think too hard about what House wanted after House walked away from the conversation. Maybe House wasn't dumping him, or trying to make Foreman do the honours, but what did he think would happen if he brought Foreman's attention to everything he was giving up because he'd chosen to pursue what had to be a dead-end relationship? Foreman was enjoying it, but he couldn't think in terms of forever, or even beyond a few months. They'd drive each other insane eventually. Foreman didn't want to end it; his shoulders tensed further when he thought about it. Little things, like tickling House just because he could, or the look on House's face when Foreman had walked in on him in the showers at work. He'd never get to see that again, or take those liberties.

He liked knowing where he stood. He liked knowing the odds of any decision before he made it. But with relationships, it was easier to put the burden of feelings and meaning on someone else. Foreman could easily go along, make the gestures he needed to make, say the right things, without taking responsibility for the outcome. He knew he wasn't perfect--most often, he let his girlfriends do the dumping, and it was easy enough to accept because he wasn't over-involved. That was safe. His career didn't come into it.

With House, he'd finally found a situation where his two strategies conflicted--putting his career first, and letting a relationship alone and unexamined as long as he could. Foreman finished shaving, wiped the last of the gel from his face, and went into the bedroom to find some clothes. He dressed without thinking very hard about what he looked like, choosing the checked suit and a blue shirt and tie. Wandering out to the living room, he glanced at the television from where he stood behind the couch, then down at House's sprawl. Foreman didn't really mind having him there. It would be nice if the world saw fit to stay out of his damn business, but he knew better than to expect that. "Ready to go?" he asked, deciding to let the conversation drop. If their relationship became a problem, or it wasn't worth it anymore, they could deal with it then. House was the one who had a problem being happy, not him.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House waited, letting the television distract him from thinking too much about Foreman and his motivations, about his own damn insecurities. He heard when Foreman left the bathroom, half-waiting for him to restart the conversation and tell him, for once, that he was right, that his reputation was more important than anything else. So, goodbye, House, get the hell out. He'll see him at work, until he got a better job and a boyfriend who won't damage his precious rep. House would admit that he didn't want this to become common knowledge, but the reasons were different. Privacy protection. He didn't need lectures and advice. Everyone judged him already, and he didn't care about what people would think about his life, and his preferences, and his choices, as long as they wouldn't interfere. And House knew they would. He wouldn't get fired over something like this--his job was safe; Cuddy wouldn't fire him if he burned the damn building down--but he didn't need noses sticking into his life.

Nothing came from Foreman, however, and he arrived in the living room dressed with the usual, asking casually if he was ready to go. Foreman was dropping the conversation, and it was probably better. Almost a relief, since it meant that Foreman was still running with this, despite the potential for irreversible career damage. He was still worth something. "Been ready," he said, swinging his legs down from the couch and standing up. He headed toward the door. "It's you who've been primping yourself for the last fifteen minutes."