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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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."

Foreman refused to let his gaze drop, even as House struggled to answer him. He knew he'd pretty much just damned Nathan and his firm to some harassing phone calls at the very least. They could count themselves lucky that House was still on this side of the country. House apparently thought so too, although obviously the idea of dropping everything and flying to L.A. crossed his mind. God, he was an obsessive bastard. Foreman didn't know whether to be flattered or worried that he'd made House's list of people to be obsessive about. He raised an eyebrow at House's quick reference to Stacy. If anyone had a right to be jealous about long-over relationships, it was Foreman, since he'd seen that drama play out practically right in front of him. He was pretty sure House had slept with her before she'd left, too. And he'd been there after, seeing House's 'distractions' first hand. But he wasn't jealous--not the stupid, adolescent way he'd been about Terzi, or the anger he still felt about House's old boyfriend. Maybe because he'd seen it end. Because she'd left, and was still married, and either way not coming back. And because House knew it was over, otherwise he wouldn't have taken whatever had given him those migraines. Foreman realized, with a sinking feeling, that he didn't want to do that to House. He didn't want to hurt him.

"Hey," he said, reaching out to stop House from walking away. Not hard or grabbing. He put his hand on House's elbow and stepped in front of him, tipping his head to try and meet House's eyes. House seemed to have let go of some of his anger, and it helped Foreman to relax as well. If House really wanted to leave, Foreman would let him, but not before he had a chance to know what the hell House meant by saying Foreman hadn't said he was interested. "Since when does saying it mean anything to you?" he asked. Foreman couldn't believe House wanted to hear the words. He'd told House yes when House asked if he knew what he was getting into, if they should make this more than just sex. It turned out, if tonight was any evidence, that he didn't know what he was getting into, but he'd never stopped acting like he meant what he said. Even when House brought up how much Foreman's reputation would suffer by being with him, Foreman hadn't left or changed his mind. It was still a problem, it still bothered him, but he hadn't taken it out on House.

And it wasn't as though House had said it either, and his actions were a lot harder to forget and forgive. Foreman swallowed, wondering why the hell he kept doing this. "I'm interested," he said. "I'm not interested in being ignored."

House stopped, let Foreman touch him and block his path. It took a moment for House to look at Foreman, and he couldn't hold his gaze once Foreman spoke. He was right. Words rarely meant anything. He rarely used words like 'thank you' and 'you matter' and 'I love you'. But he used them, and he used them when he meant them, never as empty, meaningless phrases that other people had come to adopt so readily. House stood still, but raised his eyes back to Foreman's as he said, "When they're important."

It didn't take long for Foreman to prod, and House felt his hackles rising at what Foreman said next. "You--" House tried to stop himself from lashing out. He took a breath, let it out. "You ignored me. I went and found you. I get that you're interested now, but the only one who seemed interested then was me." Foreman seemed to have it all backwards, and House believe he kept missing this point. If he was ignoring Foreman, he wouldn't have cared to look. He never would have shown up. He never would stormed out, and kissed Foreman, and tried to get away. He couldn't ignore him, even if he wanted to.

Foreman's heart thudded once, almost painfully hard, when House met his eyes and told him it was important. That he was important. It was practically panic, a rush of adrenaline, and Foreman barely managed to stand his ground, or take a breath. He didn't know what he'd gotten himself into. He really didn't. And if it mattered to House, and he already knew it mattered to him--he wouldn't be acting like this, making declarations, if it didn't--then they were both monumentally screwed.

He couldn't believe that House wanted to pin the blame for tonight on him, though. As though if he'd just stayed home, and acted as boring as House liked to accuse him of being, then House wouldn't have been forced to break in, and hunt him down, and storm through the restaurant like a tornado. House's goddamn curiosity was his own fault.

"You haven't talked to me in a week!" Foreman tried to yank back his control, but he'd already looked away before turning back to House, as if there might be someone else in the room he could turn to who'd back him up. "I had to follow Taub to find out where you were doing the differentials." That wasn't what bothered him the most, although it still stung that he'd given House his medical opinion and House had told him to his face that since they didn't agree, House didn't need him around. But that wasn't the worst. House played games at work and Foreman knew that. It was House jerking off in his car. Not the jerking off--which had turned him on, every word out of House's mouth only making him hornier--but the fact that House had walked away from him afterwards. Left him to get himself off, left him like he wasn't worth the time of day, like it wasn't House's fault that he was hard in the first place. Foreman wasn't going to say that. He'd been pathetic, masturbating alone in his car, for all he knew being laughed at by whoever sat at the other side of the security cameras. Losing control for House and House hadn't cared. "How was I supposed to know that you'd give up the silent treatment tonight?" he asked instead, repressing an eye-roll. "I'm not going to wait around for your convenience."

It didn't surprise House when Foreman tried to turn this around and blame him, as if he'd made Foreman spitefully schedule dinner with an asshole that Foreman knew that House hated. As if he'd made Foreman hang back and never approach him, either. Foreman knew he always messed around at work, and he knew that wouldn't change; he wasn't sure why Foreman was even counting that. House didn't step back, stayed close, and narrowed his eyes. "Since when did any treatment ever stop you from doing what you needed to do?" House asked. "It was your choice to hang back."

Foreman's last words, however, sparked a realization, and House stopped talking, drawing up and looking away from Foreman for a second. When he glanced back, he breathed a laugh. Now who was being insecure? "This isn't even about tonight, is it? This isn't even about the whole week. This is about the car. This is about Jake."

Foreman scoffed. So House was telling him don't ask again. He was probably waiting for Foreman to get pissed off and corner him like he had in the locker rooms. Well, Foreman wasn't always going to be the pursuer. There had to be some appeal on House's side, some sense that what Foreman wanted was reciprocated. Foreman liked throwing his weight around, but he didn't want to be forever making the first move. "You act dismissive and then you're surprised that I don't lap it up and ask for more," he said. "First-class logic there, House."

His sarcasm shattered when House brought Jake's name into it. Foreman kept up his stare, not able to deny it, but hoping that all he showed was So what? "I don't care about your boyfriend," he said. He pressed his lips together, his face heating, his anger coming back in waves. He cared about House making him look like an idiot with one hand down his shorts. If he was going to make an idiot of himself, the least House could do was be affected. "You were interested tonight," he said, sneering, throwing House's words back at him, and then he bit down on anything else that might slip out. About whether he was good enough to keep House's interest. Which he certainly didn't seem to be. He stepped out of House's way, leaving the path free to the door, raising an eyebrow as if to say, You're so good at walking away, so go right ahead.

For a second, House felt a sense of victory. He was right. This was about Jake. This was about Foreman's damn insecurities over a fantasy. At least House had been concerned about something concrete, a person still in Foreman's circle, or could easily be reinstated. It didn't take long for that victory to go away. House's posture stiffened, his hand gripping onto his cane tightly, knuckles aching, when Foreman reacted. House could feel his anger rising, his defenses rising with it. His body stayed still, only following Foreman with his eyes when Foreman moved. He swallowed, processing the words, and trying to work up a cool, collected response, something that would leave Foreman with his mouth hanging open as House made for the door. But cool and collected really wasn't happening, and House felt his thoughts ricocheting inside his brain, bouncing down, into his mouth, ready to burst. And House couldn't hold back, not after the way the night--the whole damn week--had gone.

"I am interested!" House blurted out, starting to breathe fast, feel himself getting even more worked up but couldn't stop it. He took another step forward, not to take advantage of the space Foreman left, but to put himself in Foreman's way, trap him against the counter and make him admit what he wanted to say, what House knew he was holding back. "I haven't seen Jake in over a decade, but I came looking for you. Twice." House was so close to Foreman he could lean an inch forward and kiss him; he could barely focus on Foreman's face, glaring at one eye at a time. "I know you care about my boyfriend, because you're it, and if there's one person you care about it's yourself. Or I thought you were. Maybe I'm employing that 'first-class logic' again." House couldn't resist the opportunity to mock, throw those words back in Foreman's face, his anger and frustration, and things he'd wanted to say leaping out between hard breaths. He didn't care if he was breathing fast. Hot air all over Foreman's face. He could fucking move if he wanted to, shove House out of the way. "But I don't know, Foreman. You tell me. Give me a lesson about logic from the guy who can't tell the difference between a fantasy and something real."

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