Fucking House like this--doing anything to him like this--wouldn't solve anything. Whatever they were fighting about. Christ, Foreman didn't even know. House had said this was important, that he was interested, but the way he was trying to prove something, shoving it in Foreman's face, only showed that he didn't think Foreman was taking it as seriously as he did. Foreman tightened his hands on House's hips when he tugged his shirt off, and he couldn't help glancing down House's body. Seeing at his own hands against House's skin. How close they were standing. House's clothes were in a pile under their feet, and he wasn't aroused. He might be offering, but obviously he didn't want it this way, any more than Foreman did. Bringing it back to the level of just fucking, just some transaction, just bodies.

Foreman lifted his eyes to meet House's. Do whatever you want. But it wasn't really about what he wanted. He'd felt hurt. That's all it really came down to, and he'd spent a week stewing over it and making it worse. Foreman had repressed the guilt he'd felt from the moment House had found him and Marty at the restaurant. Hadn't wanted to admit he'd done it to hurt House back. He'd managed that, and more, and fucking House wasn't the way out of it, or bringing him close to the edge and then leaving him. House was giving him full access, whatever he wanted, apparently without expecting anything back. Foreman swallowed hard, slipping his hands around to House's back, pulling him forward, if he'd come. Adrenaline coursed through him, his heart probably pounding loud enough for House to hear. House wanted the words when it was important, but Foreman knew actions still meant more to him. "I want you to fuck me," he said, as steadily as he could, trying his damnedest to meet House's eyes without flinching.