Foreman raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of House's comment. Apparently he could be straightforward and say what he wanted. Foreman hadn't caught him off-guard, but House seemed faintly suspicious that Foreman wasn't arguing further. Maybe he'd get that Foreman didn't argue for the argument's sake. He argued when he thought he was right, which more often than not he was. If House told him what he needed, what he expected, and it was reasonable, then Foreman wasn't going to try and coddle him. That would be the definition of insanity, to even attempt that.
"Yeah, very goal-oriented of you." Foreman backed off slowly, gripping House's arms in return, to make sure that House wasn't leaning too heavily on him when he let go. Most of the time, Foreman didn't even think about House's leg, and what he would or wouldn't be able to do. It was usually pretty obvious, and Foreman made the equally obvious accommodations without saying a word. But right now it would have been nice if House could take care of his own balance, so that Foreman could keep him pressed up against the wall and kiss him, suck away the drops rolling down House's throat and jaw. The steam and the water plastered House's hair against his forehead, and it darkened his stubble and the hair on his chest and trailing down his stomach. He looked stupidly appealing--just something about having him naked and wet and in Foreman's shower--and Foreman blinked and looked away, hiding a laugh at himself all over again for getting in to this. He grabbed the soap and started lathering up, scrubbing his chest and arms and then reaching out to hand-paint a line of soap bubbles from House's collarbone down to his stomach. Slippery and warm. God, he was an idiot. Making excuses to touch House when he already knew he was allowed. Just not necessarily like this, when sex wasn't immediately on the table. Foreman smirked and handed House the bar of soap, and then turned to face the spray to rinse off.
no subject
"Yeah, very goal-oriented of you." Foreman backed off slowly, gripping House's arms in return, to make sure that House wasn't leaning too heavily on him when he let go. Most of the time, Foreman didn't even think about House's leg, and what he would or wouldn't be able to do. It was usually pretty obvious, and Foreman made the equally obvious accommodations without saying a word. But right now it would have been nice if House could take care of his own balance, so that Foreman could keep him pressed up against the wall and kiss him, suck away the drops rolling down House's throat and jaw. The steam and the water plastered House's hair against his forehead, and it darkened his stubble and the hair on his chest and trailing down his stomach. He looked stupidly appealing--just something about having him naked and wet and in Foreman's shower--and Foreman blinked and looked away, hiding a laugh at himself all over again for getting in to this. He grabbed the soap and started lathering up, scrubbing his chest and arms and then reaching out to hand-paint a line of soap bubbles from House's collarbone down to his stomach. Slippery and warm. God, he was an idiot. Making excuses to touch House when he already knew he was allowed. Just not necessarily like this, when sex wasn't immediately on the table. Foreman smirked and handed House the bar of soap, and then turned to face the spray to rinse off.