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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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.

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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.

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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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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."

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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?"

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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.

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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.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.