wooedforyears | November 24, 2007 -- Late Afternoon

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.

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Wilson couldn't help it when his hand reached out, his eyes still fixed on Foreman and House, and pressed the button to roll down his window. Maybe he could hear this, too. Get all the information he could, because he was certain House wouldn't be volunteering much information about it. Wilson could hear House nearly shouting. Nathan whoever-the-fuck-he-is might. Might? Might what? Who the hell was Nathan? Wilson shifted in his seat to bring his head closer to the open window, daring to peek his head out. Foreman seemed just as angry as House. We broke up five years ago! That answered the question of who Nathan was, but whether Nathan had made an appearance, or if House had just rooted into Foreman's past and found something he didn't like, Wilson couldn't tell. He could tell, almost immediately, despite the fact that he didn't quite understand the specifics, that this wasn't good. Not a good situation. House was shoving. Pushing. Of course. Of course he was pushing. Wilson knew the signs of sabotage, knew what it looked like by now when it was leaping off of House and straight at him, and he could see it and hear it in the way House was trying to bait Foreman. Piss him off. Wilson wasn't sure what was really going on between them, but Foreman must have gotten close enough to make House nervous and make that knee-jerk reaction to stifle any possibility of something good kick in. Wilson sighed, feeling the beginnings of anger stirring in his stomach, and punched the car horn to catch House's attention. He could probably stop House from sabotaging whatever this was if he got him in the car fast enough. He shouted to House, drawing his head back inside to wait for him.

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?"

Foreman hated the incredulous, gaping look he'd seen on Wilson's face, even though Wilson was trying as hard as possible now to pretend that he was accepting and unruffled. Foreman had known that people would think he was crazy, or deluded, or both, to be with House, and it wasn't any more than he'd expected, but it was still infuriating that Wilson would have a free pass to stick his nose into Foreman's life, to question his every move and motive.

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.

It took a little longer, a little more effort to trudge to the passenger door of Wilson's car. The curb proved to be an obstacle, and House stumbled over it as he tried to hurry, hearing Foreman's steps behind him and believing that Foreman might be trying to catch him. As he stood at the car, he heard a sound--keys. Fuck, he'd never picked up his keys. He looked through the window to see Foreman shoving them into Wilson's hand. He stood straight again and knocked on the window, trying to block out the sounds of their voices, telling himself he didn't care what the hell they were talking about--him, he was willing to bet. He met Foreman's eyes when Foreman stood up and looked over the roof of the car, but clamped his lips shut when he heard what Foreman said, narrowing his eyes at him, waiting for Wilson to open the damn door.

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.

Wilson fought the urge to bury his face in his hands in frustration. House had apparently been doing his usual excellent job of convincing Foreman that he didn't need anyone and that his life was better the emptier he made it. He dropped House's keys into his coat pocket and watched in the side mirror as Foreman walked away, his shoulders hunched, not looking back. Wilson didn't open the doors right away. Maybe by some miracle House would yell after Foreman.

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?"

House didn't know what the hell Wilson was waiting for, but it took him long enough to open the door. He fell into the passenger seat, relieved to be out of the cold and sitting down--standing in the cold had begun to make his leg hurt, and it still hurt. Probably wasn't going to be a great night for this. He reached into his pocket and fished out a couple Vicodin, then tossed them back and swallowed them down. He did his best to ignore Wilson. He just wanted him to drive him the hell home. He was sure, though, that any second now Wilson would launch into a series of questions about what had just happened. Questions about Foreman. About tonight. Probably about last week, too, because there was no way Wilson would fail to put those pieces together. He just wanted to forget about Foreman.

"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."

Wilson glanced over at House, astonished, as House practically curled in on himself, rubbing his leg and hiding his face. This was really bothering him. House cared. Wilson couldn't remember the last time he could say that. House was so meticulous about not caring that he'd practically locked himself into a one-man cell to avoid any human relationships. If Foreman--Foreman--had gotten past that, he must have battered House's walls down with a sledgehammer. Wilson shook his head. There was no chance that he'd leave this alone and act clueless. "Yes, our friendship certainly has been based on mutual respect for privacy up until this point," he said. "It would be wrong of me to breach that trust." Wilson hesitated for a moment after that. He didn't want to leave any clues of his own for House to think about later. His dates with Amber had gone incredibly well, and the longer Wilson could put off House finding out about their relationship, the better. And, since the best defense was a good offense, he shook his head as he pulled away from the curb. Not heading for House's apartment. He wasn't going to give House a means of escape.

"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."

House didn't really think for a second that Wilson was going to play dumb; it was practically against his programming. He braced himself for the question he knew was coming, staring out the window and waiting as Wilson started driving. It only took about ten seconds for it to fly out of Wilson's mouth. House barely knew the answer to that question. Somehow an angry surprise-kiss had turned into drunken sex, and had turned into...whatever the fuck was going on now. A breakup. He guessed. Though, to have a breakup, you needed a relationship, and House wasn't sure there had been one of those to begin with. "Pfft, well, you spend all that time together, bickering and pulling pigtails, it's inevitable, right?" House said, as if he was musing about a great philosophical truth, not answering the question and not planning on it.

"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."

Wilson sighed at House's non-answer. He might be better off getting details from Foreman--well. No. That didn't seem likely. He'd probably be better off wringing blood from a stone. It did seem like House, though. His constant insults could hide a--Wilson fought down a smile, feeling it twitch at the corner of his lips--a tendresse. The mockery occasionally hid something deeper. Of course, most of the time it hid a deeper mockery, but for those who hung around long enough, they could become one and the same. Wilson certainly wasn't going to judge Foreman on that account. He wouldn't be surprised if Foreman hadn't done something like shoot down one of House's theories, or more simply shoot him with a paintball gun. Either could open House's eyes to a possibility. How it had happened wasn't too difficult to speculate about, and when wasn't really the question either. There were two possibilities: before Foreman had left in the spring or after he came back. If it had been before, then Foreman's leaving would have probably shut House down completely, and he never would have agreed to try again this fall. That left the last month or so since Foreman had come back. Wilson couldn't believe that he'd missed any signs for longer than that, so it had to be that recent.

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.

House scoffed, even though he didn't actually believe Wilson was about treat him to any kind of sex. Wilson might crave needy, but he had a distinct taste for bedding needy females. Not that House cared, or wanted it. "Sure, that's what you say now. I saw you taking notes before."

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."

Wilson knew he was in trouble from the moment he'd asked the question. Suspecting that House might be bisexual wasn't the same as having proof--proof put on display right in front of him. From what he'd seen, Foreman was more than adequate at kissing, if House's reaction was anything to go by. Good enough for House. Since Wilson couldn't imagine Foreman or House courteously inviting the other out on a date, he could only imagine that the relationship had grown from the--well, the physical aspect, and not from a mutual appreciation of shared interests. He'd asked because there didn't seem to be any other reason for House and Foreman to be...together.

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."

Wilson's reaction was the very one he'd be gunning for--shocked and appalled, throwing his limbs around almost as though he was seizing. Not quite, but House wondered if he could say enough to make Wilson vibrate straight out of the car. Although, House was mildly surprised that Wilson kept asking questions. "You know, Jimmy," House said, still looking out the window, studying the passing streets and landmarks, trying to figure out where Wilson was taking him. "Just because all you care about is sex, it doesn't mean we all think with our dicks."

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?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "If you weren't thinking with your dick..." he said, and trailed off intentionally, wondering if House even heard what he was saying. Yes, House was deflecting, but he was doing it by implying that he was with Foreman for some reason other than the apparently fantastic sex. House could be lying, but if the sex had been awful, why would he be upset that it was over? And if the sex was the only thing keeping them together, then why would House care about 'Nathan', enough to be yelling at Foreman in the streets about him? Every word House said only served to convince Wilson that he'd been right the first time, as unbelievable as it sounded. House...cared. For Foreman. And as soon as House had realized that, he'd tried to wriggle out of it in the best way he knew: by getting Foreman angry enough to leave him first.

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.

House listened to Wilson rattle off details. It had to be a lie. Wilson was good at formulating details and making them believable, but it was hard to buy this one. It was hard to determine what was off about it; he was having trouble thinking it through, with the memory of the last hour or so still raging through his brain. He rolled his eyes when Wilson started talking about rearranging the nurses' standings. "Relax," House said. "Cardiology babe's still got the top spot. Who wouldn't want to do that and stick your face in that cleavage?" House really wasn't interested in ranking nurses; it somehow made his thoughts circle back around to Foreman. He just wanted to fucking forget about it. About all this. Fuck, he wished he could. And he wished Wilson would shut up.

"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."

Wilson rolled his eyes when House started in with the details again. He felt sufficiently scarred by the idea of House having sex--with a man, with Foreman--and he didn't need even more mental images to fight off. "Would you stop?" he said. All he was really learning was that House had been having a better few weeks than he had. Two dates and a few kisses really couldn't compare to House's recitation. He squirmed again, focusing on April Petersen's breasts as if they might save him. "I'm sure your prostate thanks you, so it doesn't make any sense that you're trying to end this..." Whatever it was. "Relationship," Wilson finished, hoping it had actually gotten that far.

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?"

Short of planting his elbow in Wilson's face and taking control of the wheel, there was nothing House could do when Wilson shook his head, refusing to pull over, and continued to drive. Drive straight into Foreman's neighborhood. This was exactly the kind of prying that House considered 'too far'. The spying, the lecturing--all of that was almost evidence that Wilson still bothered to give a shit. But this was straying into territory that House kept to himself. Wilson was breaking through the 'DO NOT CROSS' tape, and House found himself backing into a corner. Wilson should know better than to do this. This wouldn't help. House didn't care what kind of intentions Wilson had. This wasn't helping him.

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?"

"You never know what will come in handy," Wilson blurted out, fortunately keeping his face as straight as possible. He didn't know if House would recognize Amber's life philosophy, but he'd had his own occasional need to track House down or keep tabs on his life. Knowing where House's employees lived wouldn't be too far out of the realm of possibility. He hoped. "I guess he didn't move." He glanced over at House, raising his eyebrows as if that statement might help him remember that Foreman had come back. Although he'd bet that House would focus more on the fact that Foreman had been forced back as much as anything. House simply could not see the positive side when he was determined to sulk, and Wilson sighed.

"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."

"I didn't ask why. I asked how," House said, unsatisfied with Wilson's answer. There had to be a reason why Wilson had found out Foreman's address. Wilson and Foreman barely had conversations to begin with, never mind ones that included the casual dropping of Foreman's address, so that couldn't have been it. Somebody might have told him, but House couldn't imagine who. Cuddy would know where Foreman lived, could easily look it up in the paperwork, and House could see how she'd have a reason to consult Foreman's employee file after the incident last week. "Did Cuddy tell you?"

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."

Wilson lifted a shoulder noncommittally, hoping House would assume that he'd conspired with Cuddy to get Foreman's address. That was another lie it was easy to stumble into, since it was often true. House fell silent, and didn't push it, which was a good sign--he wasn't hanging on to the extraneous details any more, so he might actually be considering what Wilson had said. And maybe pigs could fly.

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."

"Like you don't know I have a key card to your room?" House asked, curling his hand tightly around his keys when Wilson handed them over. He looked at Wilson with an exaggerated frown, as if he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake admitting that he had a key to the hotel room. "Oops." House crawled out of the car, lifting himself out slowly and steadying himself before taking his hand off the car to stand on his own. He doubted Wilson was going to stop harping on about this, and Wilson would want to know how this went, but it would be easier to deflect with a clearer head. He didn't do too bad a job, and didn't give away all that much information--except the kind he was sure Wilson didn't want to hear in such detail. Even managed to turn things back on Wilson for a moment or two. He'd be on top of his game next time. He might even be able to embarrass Foreman while he was at it.

"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.

Foreman had no place to go. He considered a bar, to catch House up and probably pass him, numbing away the evening with alcohol. He knew he'd end up having to take a taxi, stumble into his apartment, and still have nothing to show for it. Even more briefly, he considered tracking Chase down and dragging him out. Talk to him. But Chase had been even more annoying than usual this week, telling Foreman he took himself too seriously, that coming back to Princeton hadn't gotten him anywhere new and that he was the butt of House's games. Yeah, Foreman got that point loud and clear tonight. He didn't need Chase gleefully pointing it out. He definitely didn't need Chase's fish-faced gape or his laughter at Foreman's expense if he told Chase the whole story. In the end, after taking half a dozen random turns, Foreman scoffed at himself for caring, for reacting like this. It shouldn't even be a surprise. He turned towards his apartment, slowing down because there would be nothing more idiotic than getting pulled over because he was upset. When he got in, he took the stairs instead of the elevator, trying to physically work out some of the frustration that still surged through him.

It didn't help. Foreman dumped his wallet, keys, and phone on the kitchen counter, and went to the bedroom to strip out of his suit. He pulled on his Columbia hoodie and a pair of jeans, fuming the whole time. House would be getting the third degree from Wilson. Since Foreman doubted House would take that silently, he must be lying his head off about Foreman, about everything. Or just telling the fucking truth for once. He's a good lay but I could take or leave him. That it was over, because House had no clue how to leave something well enough alone. Or how to trust him.

Foreman turned the television on, got annoyed, and flicked it off again. Paced through the apartment. Finally threw himself into his office chair, his jaw tight, staring off at nothing much. Foreman wasn't House; he wasn't going to escape how he was feeling by getting drunk. He'd deal with it the same way he always had.

The sound of the apartment door slamming brought him up short. Foreman clenched his fists when he heard House call out. Joking, as if everything was just fucking fine. He pushed back his chair and went out to the living room, glaring at House. "What are you doing here?" he snapped. "Breaking in once wasn't good enough for you?"

House immediately started scanning the room, looking for Foreman's coat, where he'd probably left his phone. He couldn't see it, but he heard noises coming from the hall. Foreman must be here. House steeled himself, refusing to give Foreman any hint that he'd come here with the intent of begging for anything. He met Foreman's eyes for a second when Foreman appeared, approaching him and looking as angry as he felt. Well, Foreman would just have to fucking deal with it, after going out with Marty just to spite him. It was Foreman's turn to be pissed off. House headed toward the kitchen, not even taking off his coat.

"It's more of a challenge when you're actually here," House said, already at the kitchen counter, not looking at Foreman and glaring down at Foreman's phone instead. He flipped it open, starting to browse the menu for the call history, simultaneously dreading what he'd find and feeling the angry satisfaction of being right about Foreman, and Marty, and Nathan. This entire fucked-up agreement, 'relationship', that he'd fallen into, and needed to step out of as soon as he found what he was looking for.

Foreman rolled his eyes at House's dig that sometimes, astonishingly enough, he liked to go out. There wasn't much chance of having a life while working eighty-hour weeks and taking extra shifts as their patient's status and House's whims dictated, so Foreman was going to take the opportunity when it came up. He didn't give a shit if House didn't approve. He really didn't expect House to show up again, to barge in like nothing had happened. He still looked pissed off, but Foreman would have guessed that he'd run away rather than try to deal with anything.

And he was right. House went into the kitchen, ignoring him, and without a word, started looking through his phone. Foreman should be furious. He should be grabbing for House's wrist, yanking the phone out of his hand, slamming him up against the counter and asking him when he thought he'd gotten the damn right to know about Foreman's every move. Instead, he leaned back in the doorway, crossing his arms, and watched, compressing the pointless feeling of hurt that made his chest ache, until it felt the same as his anger. "You think I'm lying but you trust my phone?" he asked. The corollary of everybody lies was everybody knows how to use the delete function on a phone, but of course House would have more faith in a fucking cell phone than he did in Foreman.

House was surprised that Foreman let him keep looking through his phone. Maybe there really was nothing to be found, House thought, not quite believing it. If Foreman could meet with Marty as revenge, he could contact his old boyfriend to make it worse. But House stopped, closing the phone to stare at Foreman, hating to acknowledge his point, but he was right. Foreman could have deleted anything he wanted, but then...he wasn't sure why Foreman would tell him all of that if he'd actually deleted anything. To mess with his head? To make him look somewhere else and amuse himself with setting House on a goose-chase?

"You're right," House said, throwing Foreman's phone into the garbage can, hard enough to make it sink through some of the trash. "I can't trust you or your phone, since you do a stand-up job of making plans with potential employers-slash-matchmakers just to piss me off. Or maybe it wasn't to piss me off. Maybe it was because you were actually interested." House leaned on his cane and stared at Foreman, feeling the tug to leave, but he still didn't have a good enough answer. He knew he probably wouldn't get one--at least not until he can peek at Foreman's phone bill next month, but by then who the hell knew where Foreman would be?

Foreman wasn't interested in defending Marty, but he couldn't defend himself without telling House--again--that he'd gone out to dinner with a friend. It stuck in his throat to call Marty that now, and Foreman shook his head. "What the hell do you want?" he said. "I'd love to convince you, House, but you don't seem to get it. When I say I'm not interested, that's what I mean. When I say I am--" Foreman stopped and glared at him pointedly, stepping forward, not quite into House's space, not yet enough to stop him from leaving, or moving, or throwing Foreman's words in his face again, but close enough to threaten it. To make it clear that he could. "I mean that too."

Christ, he was an idiot. House kept blowing him off and he was so fucking slow that he wasn't picking up on the message. Foreman let out a disgusted sound. House had pushed him away when Foreman kissed him before, and there was no sign he wouldn't do the same again right now. If Foreman couldn't show him that he was serious, and if nothing he said meant anything to House, then he might as well give up. Foreman brushed past House and bent over the garbage can, scooping the trash aside and pulling his phone out. He dropped it on the counter again, staring down at it, pausing instead of walking away. He'd meant to go back to his office, let House do whatever the hell he wanted in Foreman's apartment since he'd only break in again if Foreman kicked him out. Instead, he rested his hands on the counter, wondering what the hell he was missing. House wanted reassurance. House wanted to know Foreman wasn't leaving. If House didn't want him, then where the hell was this coming from? Just his general, selfish possessiveness? Foreman wouldn't be surprised.

The bitch of it was, Foreman didn't want to get back together with Nathan. Not if the man himself showed up and got down on one knee--or both. They'd broken up for a reason. Actually, far more than one. Nathan lived in Los Angeles; that wasn't where Foreman's life was now. He lived here, he worked here. He was happy here, and he'd been starting to get used to the idea it wasn't in spite of House. The chances of House being able to do much even if he knew anything about Nathan were miniscule. Foreman shook his head, letting out a short, humourless laugh. "His name is Nathan Bell," he said. "He's a civil rights lawyer with the Bononi Group in L.A., or he was when I moved here." Foreman raised his head to level a stare at House. "Why don't you go break into his life and let me know when you're ready to trust me."

House stared at Foreman as he stepped forward, already nearly shouting about what he meant and didn't mean. House was trying to wrap his brain around it all; it had come out of nowhere. He steadied himself against the counter with one hand, trying to focus on Foreman enough to catch it all, hear it through the alcohol-haze. Was Foreman telling him that he mattered? That Foreman actually was interested? In him? When not long ago Foreman had said that he didn't need him? House couldn't form a real response before Foreman turned and braced himself against the counter. House didn't take his eyes off him, and he felt them widen with surprise when Foreman started talking again. Telling him about Nathan. Anything he'd need to know. Volunteering that information, even though Foreman knew House could and was fully capable of diving into it, using every bit of information to his advantage. House blinked, mouth hanging open a few moments after Foreman stopped talking.

"L.A.'s a long plane ride, and I've got a soft spot for lawyers," House finally said, not quite joking, veiling the meaning behind what he'd said, even sharing a little of his own information while he was at it. He owed Foreman that much. I don't give a damn about Nathan. House looked down at his feet, at the floor, and bounced his cane as he chewed on his lip, trying not to let the guilt get to him. He felt like an idiot. He was an idiot. Foreman hadn't taken the God damn card. Even if Foreman had planned to meet Marty behind House's bad, and had done it to piss him off, Foreman hadn't shown an interest in Marty--that much was clear. And Foreman hadn't taken Nathan's card. Hadn't called. Hadn't, as far as he knew, tried to get in contact since their blow-up in the street. He wasn't going to apologize, because this wouldn't have happened if Foreman had never planned that dinner with Marty; this was ultimately not his fault, but it was a little easier to release a little of his conviction that Foreman was going to take a renewed interest in Nathan. Foreman told him, given him all the information he needed, and wasn't hiding. He was trusting him with it.

House drew a deep breath to try to get rid of his anger about Marty, about the dinner. It was still there, but he could ignore it easier now. "For the record," House said, not making a move forward or backward--safer to stay where he was, "you never said you were interested." House paused for a second, glancing up quickly before looking down again, shrugging. "In me."

House realized how idiotic that sounded, and it was what finally caused him to move. He stepped forward, heading past Foreman and toward the door. "Forget it," he said, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter."

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