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house-greg-md.livejournal.com) wrote in
wooedforyears2009-03-28 02:11 am
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November 24, 2007 -- Late Afternoon
For the past week, all during their case, Foreman had been trying to rein House in, demand he pick fellows, try to tell him how to conduct the case, look for a diagnosis, as if he'd respect his Cuddy-given-powers and listen. House had brushed him off (well, until he'd actually been right and his advice actually made sense), thinking that if this was Foreman's idea of retaliation--boss him around in front of his team--then it was pathetic. House wasn't even going to acknowledge it. He intentionally avoided Foreman any other time. After the car ride, and the forced avoidance that followed once they got to work, House realized that it was a tactic he could use. He felt smug about it, imagining Foreman brooding, fuming with possessive jealousy because he'd jerked off to memories of an ex-boyfriend that he didn't even know anymore, hadn't seen since his residency had ended decades ago. But apparently it was enough to get to Foreman; he already felt that possessive over him to get pissed off over something like that, as if people didn't fantasize about ex-partners, or even strangers.
Secretly pleased with himself--it helped that he conned Cuddy into getting the fellows he wanted, too--he'd made Foreman sweat it out. He'd resisted the temptation to knock on Foreman's door and get him so turned on he wouldn't be able to turn him away. He'd masturbated instead, certain that Foreman had jerked off to images of what he'd done in the car. Foreman had gotten so hard then, so horny that he hadn't been able to control himself, and House doubted he'd exercised much control when he was alone. It was all too good.
He sat around for most of Saturday, passing most of the afternoon, considering dropping by Foreman's place just out of curiosity, just to see what the hell Foreman would do. Why not, he thought. He had nothing better to do for the next day and a half and he hadn't had a chance to rub this in Foreman's face at work. He still had a grin on his face when he arrived at Foreman's door, sneaking in with a building resident--the cripple card really came in handy sometimes--and knocked on the door, waiting for Foreman to swing it open.
Secretly pleased with himself--it helped that he conned Cuddy into getting the fellows he wanted, too--he'd made Foreman sweat it out. He'd resisted the temptation to knock on Foreman's door and get him so turned on he wouldn't be able to turn him away. He'd masturbated instead, certain that Foreman had jerked off to images of what he'd done in the car. Foreman had gotten so hard then, so horny that he hadn't been able to control himself, and House doubted he'd exercised much control when he was alone. It was all too good.
He sat around for most of Saturday, passing most of the afternoon, considering dropping by Foreman's place just out of curiosity, just to see what the hell Foreman would do. Why not, he thought. He had nothing better to do for the next day and a half and he hadn't had a chance to rub this in Foreman's face at work. He still had a grin on his face when he arrived at Foreman's door, sneaking in with a building resident--the cripple card really came in handy sometimes--and knocked on the door, waiting for Foreman to swing it open.
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"And at least my one friend doesn't try to break up my relationships. He wouldn't fucking humiliate you like it was a God damn sport. He'd be happy that I had--" House had to step forward to take hold of Foreman's tie to jerk him forward. The momentum of Foreman's body pushed House backward until he collided with his car with a grunt, and if Foreman hadn't ended up pinning him, pressed hard against him, House would have lost his balance and collapsed onto the pavement. He was able to keep hold of the tie, his other hand abandoning his cane on the hood of his car to pull Foreman's head down to kiss him. He didn't give a damn who was watching--he almost hoped that Marty was watching, but he couldn't tell. House kissed hard, sloppily. Biting on Foreman's lip. Sweeping his tongue along Foreman's. Breath coming out hard through his nose as he angled his head for one last wet swipe of his tongue. He pulled back, letting his hands drop as he finished, "Somebody to do that with."
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Foreman rolled his eyes at House defending Wilson. He didn't have quite as much faith--he figured Wilson would laugh his head off when he finally found out about them. Probably he'd accept it eventually, but there was bound to be some humiliation involved, even if it was only Wilson gaping at Foreman--and, for all he knew, at House too--after finding out he liked men. Foreman wasn't going to point that out, though. He didn't know if House had said the word relationship out loud before, but even if he had, it hadn't been like this. The way House was talking about it made it real in a way it hadn't been. House was telling him how he'd felt back in the restaurant. Telling him it mattered. Foreman mattered to him. This time the I'm sorry nearly made it out of Foreman's mouth, but before he could say it, House stalked forward one jerky step and yanked Foreman forward by his tie. Foreman hadn't been expecting it, and House pulled him off-balance, crashing them both into House's car. Foreman grabbed for House's hips, only partly to make sure House stayed upright. The kiss, after the way House had grabbed him, wasn't a surprise, and Foreman leaned into it. He grunted at the pain when House bit his lip, but he didn't ease up, meeting House's tongue and trying to pour some of his own frustration into the kiss, breathing harder. This was more than someone to do that with. For the first time, Foreman knew that House thought it was more, too. He still didn't know why House had been jerking him around for the last week, but in all probability, he'd never understand House.
Neither of them had done up their coats after leaving the restaurant, and Foreman pushed his hands deeper inside House's, tightening his grip on House's hips. Pressing their bodies together, sharing enough heat so that the cold air didn't matter. Foreman pushed forward another half-step, so that House could take some weight off his leg if he wanted, and lean on him. House was pinned against the car, his body slumped enough that Foreman had the height advantage for once. "In case you didn't notice," Foreman said, keeping his tone impatient, knowing otherwise he wouldn't be able to say this at all, "Marty didn't break up your relationship." He tipped his head forward and brushed his mouth across House's. Almost too lightly to feel, except that House had bitten him, and Foreman could feel the light throb of his pulse in his lip each time he kissed House. He slowly let his arms circle from House's hips to his lower back, and just as slowly, ran his tongue along House's bottom lip, before slipping inside his mouth.
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"No, but Nathan whoever-the-fuck-he-is might," House said, shoving at Foreman's chest. He made sure he had his left foot securely under him, weight shifted before pushing Foreman away entirely. Leaning back against the car, he gestured toward the restaurant. "That card still on the table? Or did you slip it into your pocket after I left? Or are you just going to look him up when you get home?" Christ, he sounded like a moron. He tried to convince himself he was just shooting his mouth off, that none of it was anything that really mattered. He just wanted to make Foreman as angry as he felt. He tried to suffocate the thought that Foreman really was going to go home and call Nathan. He'd be willing to bet that Foreman would wait until House could hear him, just to make his revenge that much more direct.
He wondered if Marty was seeing this--and loving it, the bastard--but he couldn't give much thought to it. A series of beeps caught his attention, and House steered his gaze away from Foreman to face the sound--Wilson's car horn. Wilson's car was parked several cars down, Wilson's head sticking out of the window as the beeps died and Wilson shouted, "House! You're dragging your own ass in here, let's go!"
House pulled his cane off the hood of the car and, sneaking one last look at Foreman out of the corners of his eyes, lumbered toward Wilson's car.
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Foreman turned to look over his shoulder when a car started honking at them. Fuck, it would be nice if people learned to mind their own goddamn business. He didn't register at first that it was Wilson, calling for House. Looking right at them, with his headlights still on. There was no fucking way he'd missed seeing them, unless he was blind and considerably less curious than Foreman knew he was. Jesus, the man must drive like a NASCAR racer or live three blocks away. Or else he had some sixth sense when it came to interrupting them. At least this time Foreman wasn't naked, but there was no chance of hiding it this time, either. Foreman let House go, staring at the ground, humiliation and anger heating his body and welding him to the spot. House at least had a sympathetic ear. Wasn't it just so goddamn amazing that his friend was so fucking supportive. If Wilson was on House's side, though, he'd probably be telling House that he was right, that Foreman couldn't be trusted, that there was no point to being with him because Foreman wasn't worth the risk.
There was a glint on the ground, and Foreman saw House's keyring lying next to his car tire. Foreman snorted, but he bent down and grabbed the keys, then stomped over to Wilson's car. "Here," he said, shoving the keys through the rolled-down driver's side window. "I wouldn't suggest giving them back any time soon."
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Holy shit.
It took all the control Wilson had not to slam his foot down on the brake pedal, skid the car to a stop, and stare once he'd pulled onto the street. He could feel his eyes automatically widen, as if he needed to take in as much detail as possible to confirm it was all real. House and Foreman--House and Foreman?--were standing--well, House was pinned to his own car. Pressed there. Kissing--kissing--Foreman. Foreman. Kissing Foreman. Kissing Foreman. Jesus, it looked like House was attacking him. This couldn't--it didn't look like--a first kiss. He'd never really studied House kiss, but he'd seen it--happened to, by accident. Years ago, when House was with Stacy, and Wilson would catch them stealing kisses when they thought he wasn't looking. But this--he'd never seen something like this, was sure he'd never had the opportunity. This was...private. Involved. Foreman's hands were under House's coat. Touching. He could see House pushing from here, body pushing into Foreman's, definitely not surprised, or trying to get away. Somehow, Wilson managed to parallel park, creep into the space, without shifting his eyes away. If he looked away, he was almost certain that the sight would vanish, and House would be leaning against the car, pointing and laughing at Wilson for falling for such a wild, seemingly impossible but complicated practical joke.
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Foreman. Or Foreman's briefcase. Wow. It had to have been Foreman's. It sure as hell hadn't been House's, or House's pathetic attempt at a gift for him. Wilson almost laughed out loud. Foreman had probably been there. No wonder House had been trying to kick him back out as quickly as possible. Jesus. He really hadn't expected this, of all the things that could have possibly happened. Of all the things he could have possibly seen. He'd had his suspicions for a while now that House was bisexual. Wilson had never said anything, but he'd wondered. Raised an eyebrow and filed away times when House would make a comment that seemed to reveal that House knew about...certain things, or when Wilson would catch House leering at a man's ass almost the same way he leered at Cuddy's. House had never said anything one way or the other, and Wilson never brought it up, but he hadn't really put it out of his mind. You couldn't put anything out of your mind, when it came to House, or you'd end up being blindsided and knocked on your ass. But as much as he'd suspected about House--and nothing against Foreman--he'd never really suspected this. Wilson leaned forward, holding on to the steering wheel, squinting to try to get a better look, nearly throwing himself back in an irrational attempt to hide when House abruptly shoved Foreman away.
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When Foreman started charging toward Wilson's car, though, Wilson nearly shrank back, wondering if he was going to have to break up a fight. Foreman looked angry enough to clock House in the face, but somehow Wilson doubted Foreman would create that kind of a scene in public. He never thought he'd see Foreman kissing anyone--House, kissing House--either, but kissing wasn't exactly the same as assault. Wilson nodded when Foreman spoke, taking the keys, congratulating himself for not staring, for managing to wipe the surprise off his face by the time Foreman had gotten close. "You, uh," Wilson started, glancing away from Foreman briefly when House knocked on the passenger window to be let in--Wilson hadn't unlocked the doors yet. "You're sure you don't want to take him home yourself?"
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He was a fucking idiot. Only a moron would think that House could sustain an adult relationship. He'd seen no evidence of that over the last four years. Foreman gritted his teeth when Wilson tried to help, if that was even what he thought he was doing. A minute ago, Foreman had thought that if House was kissing him, that meant they'd still be able to talk, or at least communicate. He'd drag House home and prove he meant what he said. He knew better now.
Foreman stared over the roof of Wilson's car, attempting to meet House's eyes. "He doesn't need me," he said flatly. House probably wouldn't answer, and it was even less likely that he cared about what Foreman had to say. Without another word, Foreman turned around and crossed the street, heading for his car.
He unlocked the door and threw himself into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut viciously, and leaned forward, crossing his arms over the steering wheel and glaring out the windshield at nothing at all. He had no idea where he'd go. It was still early, and there wouldn't be a single distraction at home that would stop him from running the whole conversation through his mind over and over again. Getting more furious at Marty with each insult, more pissed off with House each time he watched Foreman push away Nathan's card and still refused to believe him. Well, fuck him. Fuck him. Foreman turned the key in the ignition and pulled out, foot heavy on the accelerator, with no real destination in mind.
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He didn't want to need Foreman. He tried to convince himself he didn't need him. Didn't need him and his ex-boyfriend and Marty and Foreman's damn plans for revenge. It had been in the back of his mind that Foreman wouldn't stick around long. Couldn't possibly, once the novelty wore off. Once he saw there wasn't much to fucking stick around for. He was just a moron for not closing himself off sooner, for not pushing Foreman away before he'd gotten to a point where any of it mattered. A part of him felt the pull to stop Foreman, walk back around the car--it wouldn't matter if it was in front of Wilson; he'd already seen more than enough to catch on--and pull answers out of Foreman. Does this matter to you? Doesn't it fucking matter that I've told you things, and shown you things, and kept this secret to protect your God damn reputation because it's so fucking shameful to be with me, and let you fuck me, and touch me, and done so much shit to show you that it matters? You're the one who doesn't need me, you fucking bastard. You said it! You fucking told me to my face, calm as a fucking prick-shaped cucumber. It didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now, does it? He wanted to get back in Foreman's face, but it wouldn't matter. It was easier and safer to let Foreman walk and shut himself off. It would be harder to feel how much it hurt when Foreman came back into work, the phone to his ear, cooing a greeting to Nathan.
He looked down at the handle of the door, not interested in watching Foreman any more. He didn't want to see his face in case he looked back, though he doubted he would. And he didn't want to see him drive off. Bad enough he'd probably hear the damn peel-out, Foreman speeding away like he couldn't get far enough from him fast enough. Fuck it. Let him go. It never meant anything anyway.
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It didn't happen, and Wilson sighed as he pressed the button to unlock the doors. Even if House had shouted an insult, or a challenge, it might have provoked Foreman to come back and deal with House. If he'd been dealing with House--like this, romantically, although Wilson's brain stuttered to a blinking, uncertain stop at the idea of either House or Foreman doing anything "romantic"--but if it had been going on for a while, then Foreman had to have some pretty extraordinary reserves of patience that he didn't usually show. And, based on the briefcase-shaped evidence in House's apartment, it had been going on for at least a week, and probably longer. House hadn't gotten to work last Friday until mid-afternoon. Wilson knew House had been lying to him about how he'd spent his morning--he'd given Cuddy a different story altogether--but he should have realized that House's smug, nearly mellow attitude didn't fit with his supposed bad pain morning, not even if he'd been--as House so euphemistically put it--self-medicating. That thought threatened to shut down Wilson's thought processes again. He winced, trying very hard not to picture House and Foreman together. From the state he'd found House in that morning, he'd nearly found himself in a situation that he wouldn't be able to stop picturing, and he counted himself lucky that he'd missed it.
He waited for House to climb in, automatically cataloguing how stiffly House had walked over to the car. He'd seen him stumble, too. Beyond however drunk House was, his leg was probably acting up. Wilson wondered if it was really the leg, or whatever was going on with Foreman that caused the flare-up. He wouldn't ask; he'd learned better than that. Instead, he carefully constructed his most neutral expression, raising his eyebrows in a mildly inquiring fashion, and treating House like a solar eclipse--dangerous to look at directly. "So are you going to tell me what the hell that was about? Or am I playing the part of a particularly clueless friend in this scene?"
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"Any chance you'll play the clueless friend?" House asked, hunkering down in the seat. He lowered his head, letting it fall into his left hand while his right idly slid back and forth over his thigh. He tried to block out the sound of Foreman's car engine, even though it was fading fast, his car speeding away. Yeah, speed away, you asshole. I hope you get pulled over and fined with a fat ticket and searched just for being black. Hope you end up on the God damn news and get another strike against your fucking reputation. Bastard. "Or better yet, my silent and obedient chauffeur. I can get in the backseat if it makes it easier."
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"You won't be able to get back there while we're moving," he said, as if he'd considered the matter, and that was the only reason he wouldn't be able to play the silent and obedient role. "Maybe instead you'd like to enlighten me about, oh, say, when you happened to trip into a relationship with one of your staff."
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"Where are we going?" House sat farther up, tried to catch the names of streets, started recognizing landmarks as Wilson drove. They weren't heading back to his apartment, or to Wilson's hotel. They were going in the wrong fucking direction. "Going to show me a good time to take my mind off it? I know you like to take advantage of neediness, but I should tell you I'm really not up for any rebound sex tonight."
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Wilson shrugged, and made no effort to take a turn that would have brought them back towards House's place. "I have a full tank of gas, House. We could keep driving all night." He was trying not to show how much House's words rocked him. House was practically confessing that he felt needy, and that he thought whatever the hell was going on with Foreman had just come to an abrupt end. Wilson couldn't claim to understand this...relationship...but if House had even tried, that was a step in a positive direction, and Wilson didn't want to see it end. "Since I haven't been plotting your seduction from the moment I saw you kissing Foreman..." Wilson trailed off, still trying to make sense of that image. He couldn't quite remember where his train of thought had been going in the first place. House with a man was different enough, and Wilson didn't know if he wanted to know what that was like, but he was curious. He hadn't thought about Foreman kissing anyone, and now he wondered about...the rest. "Is he...good?" he asked, his face flushing at the stupidity of the question.
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House thought there would be more to Wilson's sentence, and he waited for the rest. The rest, when it came, had taken a serious turn in the other direction, and House froze momentarily, blinking. Huh. Not the question he would have expected. "At kissing?" House turned his head to look at Wilson, finding embarrassment stamped all over his face. He could tell that Wilson was curious. He knew he'd never actually mentioned anything about his brief history with other men, but he'd wondered if Wilson hadn't figured it out. Nothing specific, but the general idea. Wilson wasn't making a big deal out of this, so he must have suspected something, but the curiosity was there, and House could see more questions eating at Wilson. House was more interested in the embarrassment, in forcing Wilson to shut up. Foreman wasn't a topic he really wanted to discuss right now.
"Or do you mean at..." House trailed off, pretending for a second that he was going to be discreet. Fuck, he probably wouldn't be able to push the words out if his head wasn't this cloudy from the wine. "You know, fucking me through the floor? Because if you're interested in that, you could borrow the video. Listen to me tell Foreman just how good I think he is. If you want a good lay, corner him now. He does it even better when he's pissed off."
House stared at Wilson for a second, raising his eyebrows as if to ask, Does that answer your question? He turned back to look out of the side window, hiding his swallow and doing his best not to think about how Foreman really could make him react like that. Fuck him, make him ask for it, pull curses and words out of him that he'd never fucking dreamed of saying out loud to Foreman. His anger at Foreman, at Marty, at this whole damn situation, rushed back, and House absently wondered how soon he could call that escort agency. Distract himself with another guy's dick, let another guy fuck thoughts of Foreman out of his head. He shook his head, trying to clear it, watching as more streets passed by. Where the hell were they going?
"Seriously, where are we going? I'll get my name on an AMBER Alert if you don't fess up. Kidnapping's a serious offense, you know."
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At House's answer, though, Wilson didn't even try to hide his wince. Or, to be honest, his full-body cringe. He lifted one hand off the steering wheel, as if holding it up could prevent House's words from even entering his ears. He hunched his shoulders and squinted. He'd practically invited House and Foreman into his mind's eye, naked. It brought back the memory of House's bedroom--the sheets torn loose on the bed, the smell of semen in the air, and House fidgeting, wearing only boxers. No. No, no, no, he wasn't going to think about that. About how it had happened. Foreman...fucked House? The logistics invaded his brain, the, the positions necessary--and he could only hope his very uneducated guesses were nothing like the reality. Not even pinching the bridge of his nose could squeeze the pictures away--the pictures he definitely didn't want to be seeing. "Why--" He stopped short. He'd asked for it, when House wasn't in a sharing mood, which was more than enough reason for House to be as crude as possible. "Why are you trying to foist him off on me?" he asked. "If he's--" Wilson waved one hand back and forth, a spastic sort of solitary jazz hand, before grabbing the wheel again to ground himself. "--good," he finished, with an uncomfortable shift, "then what's the problem?" He'd managed to overhear a few words of the argument, but that didn't tell him why this argument--and, knowing House, there had probably already been several--was the last straw.
Wilson's eyes widened, his heart slamming once against the inside of his chest before stopping altogether when House said Amber's name. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands carefully at ten and two on the steering wheel, and hoped House's usual telepathy was offline, because he was thinking about Foreman, or not thinking because he'd been drinking. Thinking over House's words, it didn't seem like it had been on purpose, as a jab at Wilson's dating life, but it was always best to assume House knew about fifty times more than seemed humanly possible. Wilson ignored the reference and answered the question. "The hospital," he said. They were as close to there as anywhere. "I need to pick something up."
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As far as House could tell, they were headed for the opposite end of town. Or downtown itself. A skip across the bridge and a few right turns, and they would be at the hospital. A cut across town and less than a mile west and they'd end up in Foreman's neighborhood. Not that House cared. Not that Wilson was actually headed that way. There were shorter ways to go, and he would have been en route by now. But he still couldn't figure out where Wilson was going. It was starting to bug him. When Wilson answered, it was entirely unbelievable, even though they were close to the hospital. Wilson brought work home with him, mostly because he had nothing else to do with his pathetic life, other than watch Spanish soap-operas, apparently. But if Wilson wanted to bring work home, he would have done it yesterday. "On a Saturday night? You just remembered now? After I called you to pick me up because I can't drive? You're lying." House sat up a little in his seat, fixing Wilson with a narrow-eyed glare. He tried to pick up a tell, hating that he couldn't always tell when Wilson was lying for sure, but looking anyway. "What is it? What do you need to get, right now, on a Saturday, that you happened to forget yesterday?"
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Taking another turn, this time with a destination in mind, Wilson tamped down his flustered response to House calling out his lie. He wanted to keep House in the car to answer his questions, and to find out exactly what had happened tonight. There might be some way he could help, and as far as he was concerned, the best method was to throw House back into Foreman's company. He wouldn't know how, though, without a little more information. And that meant lying, and the best lies were the truth. "The consent forms for my Phase Two clinical trial," he said. He slanted an exasperated look at House. "I didn't have them earlier and I was going to wait until Monday, but since I got dragged out tonight anyway..." The fact was that he'd been distracted by thoughts of his date with Amber, so he'd given up working this afternoon when, otherwise, he probably would have gone back to the hospital to get the forms. He didn't have much else to do with his weekends. This way he'd have them for tomorrow, and get a head start on the next week's work.
And, to complete the lie, Wilson plunged in to another distraction. "Does this mean that we have to adjust the nurses' standings?" he asked, frowning in concern. "Because if you've been holding out on me, then that Cardiology nurse with the--" Wilson gave half a nod, eyes widened, a gesture well-understood between the two of them, "--might not be the most doable in the hospital." Wilson sighed in disappointment. April Petersen had the most amazing breasts he had the privilege to see in low-cut scrubs on a near-daily basis. She'd always be number one on his list, but he supposed as a supportive friend he'd now have to add male nurses to the roster. It was...weird.
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"And Foreman was the one thinking with his dick," House snapped, even though he knew two things: one, Foreman wasn't here to defend himself, not that House cared at all; two, it was a lie, because, locker room incident aside, Foreman wouldn't allow himself to be led around by his dick. Sure, they might have been drawn into the sex, but there had been a certain--No. House stopped his train of thought short. The fact that he knew it went beyond good sex was part of the reason why he had to do this tonight--push until Foreman didn't have the chance to decide to cut this to an end House couldn't control, because he would. That much seemed clear. Sooner or later. "Unless fucking me through the floor needs a little more explanation. I'm not the one thinking with my dick when he's the one spreading me open"--Maybe if he was as crude as he could manage, then Wilson would stop asking questions--"and holding me down, and pushing his dick as far up my ass as he could. If anything, I'm thinking with my prostate." And my dick, House added silently, trying not to imagine how damn good it felt while Foreman was thrusting into him, rubbing just there, with his hand wrapped around his cock. Stroking him inside and out, and giving him a chance to have what he needed, but wouldn't admit.
House realized, with each passing block, that Wilson was wandering away from the hospital. Trying to be subtle about it. When House noticed the way Wilson was headed--west--he glared at him, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for his cane. "Pull over," he demanded. Wilson's interference was sometimes, almost comforting, but this--he didn't want this. Sometimes Wilson didn't know when to back off. So House would do it for him. "Pull over. I'll get a cab if you won't take me home."
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He shook his head at House's demand that he stop. House had figured out that he wasn't heading for the hospital. Playing clueless had gotten them close, but not quite close enough. Wilson only knew this neighbourhood because Amber had driven him through it on their first date a few days ago. She'd been showing him 'her Princeton', and she'd nodded at a modern brownstone, tossing off a casual, "And that's where Foreman lives. Boring apartments, and so trendy. Exactly his type."
Wilson had gaped at her. "How do you know where Foreman lives?"
Amber shook her head and turned to smile brilliantly at him. "You never know what will come in handy."
Wilson blinked, considered bringing up the subject of privacy, and settled back against the passenger seat instead, grinning to himself. Somehow he hadn't been surprised when, at the end of their night, Amber had not only driven confidently into the driveway of his hotel, but had given him a half-flirtatious, half-businesslike peck on the lips before sending him on his way.
Going out with her had definitely been the better part of this evening. Saving House from his own stupid, unnecessary stubbornness was less productive and less rewarding. Still, Wilson wasn't going to just give up when he'd already gotten this close.
He eased into Foreman's neighbourhood, trying to remember the exact street, but he didn't slow down. House wasn't going to leap from a moving vehicle; he might not want to see Foreman, but Wilson wasn't forcing that on him. He only wanted to give House the opportunity. "House, is there some reason you're trying to sabotage this?" he asked. He'd found the right street, and he pulled up in front of the building Amber had pointed out, putting the car in park and turning off the engine. "What the hell happened tonight?"
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Still, House couldn't help wondering how in the hell Wilson even knew where Foreman lived. It wasn't as though they'd spent any time together. Or maybe Wilson had pulled a stalking mission of his own. Maybe Wilson knew more than he was letting on. House eyed Wilson when he finally stopped the car outside Foreman's building, squinting at him and ignoring all of his questions. "How do you know where Foreman lives?"
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"I...don't understand this," he admitted. "Seriously, House, it's--" Foreman. "Surprising. I didn't see this coming. But you could..." Wilson lifted his hands helplessly and then let them drop back to the steering wheel. "You could break in. And piss him off." He shook his head. House loved pissing Foreman off, and he'd already said something about the sex being even better when Foreman was angry. Maybe this was romance, to them. "It could be a gesture."
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House didn't make a move to get out of the car yet, but still ignored Wilson's remarks. Yeah, surprising, he thought. It had come as a hell of a surprise to him, too. This hadn't been something he'd planned on, but Wilson didn't need to know that. He seemed to know enough already. Wilson's suggestion, even though House refused to answer it, made him consider the possibility of breaking in, just to see if Foreman really had followed through on contacting Nathan. House had a key. Confirming this would be easy enough, even if Foreman was home. He could probably get hold of Foreman's phone before Foreman kicked him out, so he could satisfy the part of himself that was curious. And he could shove it in Foreman's face that he was right. At least he would have that satisfaction. Plus he would get Wilson to shut up, and, for a little while, stop asking questions.
"Good," House said, unlocking his door and opening it. He might rouse Wilson's suspicions, seeming as though he was agreeing this easily. But at least House could still ditch Wilson if he got uncooperative again, now that they were stopped and he was half-hanging out the door anyway. "Good idea. Hand over my keys." House held his hand out. "I don't need to break in. And you could get out of here. I don't need your getaway car."
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Surprise made him sputter when House actually agreed to go in, and Wilson stared at House when he said he had his own keys, before Wilson relaxed back when he caught up. "He...doesn't know you have them, does he?" he asked. Or stated. Month-long relationship or not, sudden confrontation with House's bisexuality or not, Wilson would not believe that Foreman had happily handed House a key to his apartment. He fished House's keys out of his pocket and set them in his hand, suspicion narrowing his eyes. At least there was no chance here that House would drive off. Wilson wanted to ask why House had changed his mind, turning on a dime without a single argument, but he realized if he asked, he might derail House's sudden determination. Whatever House and Foreman were fighting about, Wilson had done his best to make sure they hadn't retreated to their separate corners to brood. Beyond that, he couldn't claim it was his business. Although it wouldn't stop him from following up the next time he saw House. As long as House wasn't feeling quite so free with the details.
"If you're sure," Wilson said, unwilling to abandon House completely. And, wincing at issuing an open-ended invitation, he added, "Call me if the heist calls for a wheel man."
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"Yeah," House replied. It was dismissive, spoken as he closed the door, turned, and started walking toward the building. He didn't need Wilson to wait around, not when he'd only have to look forward to more questions, more prying--too much when he wasn't prepared for it. He didn't wait for Wilson to start driving away before rifling through his keys and finding the pair that the gullible woman in the office had given him. He couldn't remember which was the building key and which was the apartment key, and he guessed wrong on the first try.
House told himself that he was only doing this, walking through the lobby, stepping into the elevator, stalking toward Foreman's apartment with his key in hand, because he wanted to prove himself right. And he wanted to shove it in Foreman's face that he was right. That Foreman had been bullshitting, hadn't meant a damn word he said. That he was a God damn liar, and probably even had a few job interviews lined up. Probably had fucking plane tickets, moving arrangements made. House really wouldn't put it past him. He just wanted to prove that Foreman was never interested in anything more than some casual fucks and a chance to mess with House's head. As he stepped inside the apartment, shoving his keys into his coat pocket, he closed the door loudly, not bothering with trying to be quiet. If Foreman was here, he'd find him soon enough and there was no use creeping around. If he wasn't, then it was even more pointless. "Honey, I'm home!" House shouted, even more obnoxiously than he would have if his head wasn't foggy with alcohol.
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