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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"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."

House hadn't come looking for him, he'd come looking because something he was sure of was a little different than he'd thought. He couldn't stand the fact that Foreman might not stay put. House seemed to think that caring meant knowing where Foreman was every second of the day. Foreman didn't want that kind of control, that kind of closeness. But he couldn't shove free, or escape. House was shouting in his face, pushing into his space because Foreman refused to back up. He wasn't going to give an inch, not even if everything House was saying terrified him. This was real. He knew that, but now House was telling him, and it set his heart racing, anger and anxiety clenching in his stomach. He wanted House to stop talking. So House only said the words when it was important. Foreman wasn't ready for it to be this important, this fast. He needed a way out.

He grabbed the front of House's coat, squeezing the material in his fist, giving one short jerk. "I know what's real," he said, and then gave a sharp shake of his head, pulling House even closer so that he was speaking, low and intense, next to House's ear. "Maybe I should get you hard, blow you until you're aching to come, and then walk away. Maybe that'd be real enough for you." Foreman backed off enough to meet House's eyes, to see if he got it yet, keeping his grip on House's coat. Fantasize all you want. Touch yourself, tell me everything, whatever you want. Just don't disappear after you start something. House thought Foreman going out to dinner was some kind of revenge, but it was nothing even close. Revenge would be hotter, and worse for House. Foreman would spread him out on his bed, on his back, kneel between his legs and suck his dick until House was babbling, mixing words and groans as he lifted his hips and tried to get more. And then Foreman would back off, leave the room. Even better if House couldn't do anything about it himself, hands trapped, left hanging. Foreman focused on that image, already feeling warmer. It was the safest thing to think about, not about whether what he and House had was something real.

Still reeling with anger, hardly able to think clearly, House grunted, slammed his hand against Foreman's chest for balance as Foreman pulled him forward. If Foreman was going to get this physical, pull and shove him this much and with this kind of strength, House didn't stand much of a chance at breaking away. He closed his eyes, pressing into Foreman as hard as he could--he'd play as rough as he could in return, despite the disadvantage--and shuddered at the hot pass of Foreman's breath over his ear. His eyes shot open at Foreman's words and, even though he knew he couldn't win, he pushed back, tried to get away. So Foreman was still pissed off over what had happened in the car. Foreman had practically dared him to do that, and, sure, his own imagination had run away with him, but returning the favor had never been a part of that deal, or bluff, or whatever the fuck it ended up turning into. How the hell Foreman had even expected him to do anything was beyond him--he wasn't going to dislocate his arm reaching between the seats and around Foreman's body to jerk him off. And Foreman had been so fucking arrogant that he'd deserved it.

But if Foreman was going to keep pulling this shit--planning dinners with old friends and investigating job opportunities to piss him off--then maybe letting Foreman do whatever the fuck he wanted would cut straight through the bullshit and leave it behind already, because he was getting tired of it. He didn't think Foreman subscribed to that 'eye for an eye' justice. It was one thing to mess around and play games and call bluffs, but House didn't pull shit that was meant to hurt. Like scheduling dinners with people who could humiliate Foreman, or set House up with a new boyfriend or girlfriend--not that he was really fucking interested. But fine. House could let Foreman work him up, and he'd get himself off, if it would make Foreman get it through his fucking head that shit like that didn't matter in comparison to things like what happened tonight.

House was still close and didn't have much room, but he glared at Foreman, breathing hard, before he tossed his cane into the corner and used the counter on either side of Foreman to brace himself as he toed off his sneakers. His coat ended up on the floor in the dining room, once House got out of it and tossed it through the open archway. He didn't have time to catch the look on Foreman's face; if he stopped for too long, he wouldn't go through with it. His hands fumbled over his belt, worked it open, then his jeans, and shoved them with his underwear down his legs. It was fucking harder than he remembered, especially with his head still cloudy with alcohol, to step out of the crumpled heap of fabric. He had to take most of his weight on his arms and lean into Foreman for a second--he didn't want to, but there wasn't much of a way around it--but he finally managed to get free and stand up. Leaning his weight to his left, he stretched out his arms, stared Foreman in the face, and said, "Fine! Go ahead! Maybe you should." He sounded as fierce as he could, refusing to look down at himself, past his t-shirt to see the rest of him under the harsh florescent light of the kitchen.

Foreman grunted and let go of House's coat when House planted a hand on his sternum and shoved, rocking Foreman back on his heels. House was just as unsteady and Foreman nearly reached for House's elbows to keep him on his feet. His first instinct was still to help, whether House would let him or not. Before he could, House was pushing off him, throwing his cane away. Foreman followed it with his eyes, having no clue what House was trying to accomplish. "What the hell are you--" he started, but when he looked back, House was leaning against him, arms on either side of him. Foreman's breath caught, his blood pounding in his ears, feeling frozen. As much as he liked the image he'd conjured for himself, he didn't want to fuck House for revenge. They both enjoyed pushing each other in bed. Struggling to see who could hold out and who would beg. That wasn't the same as what House was doing, throwing sex on the table like Foreman had demanded it in exchange for something. House was already out of his coat and working open his belt, and Foreman couldn't push him away without knocking him off his feet. The heat of House's breath against his neck when he leaned in made Foreman's heart race. His groin tightened, a quick, instinctive reaction, and Foreman drew in a sharp breath.

"What's this going to solve?" Foreman demanded. He had no idea what to do. It wasn't like he wanted to turn House down. The fury in House's offer turned him on, reminded him of the way he could make House shut up and turn needy and pliant by touching him just right. House was standing in front of him, half-naked, and Foreman couldn't imagine that he'd ever get the chance again, if House thought he was saying no now. "I'm not going to fuck you to get back at you," he said, frowning, reaching out as if he could keep House from running, slipping his hands under House's t-shirt and finally spreading his fingers to grip House's hips.

Confusion seemed to break its way through the anger on Foreman's face, but House wasn't about to let go of his. Standing half-naked with his chest heaving and his heart racing wasn't the time to back down. And how the fuck would that look? Like a dog shrinking back with its tail between its legs. He'd collect his clothes, dress as furiously as he could to preserve his dignity, leave, and then Foreman could see what it was like to be ignored and avoided. Fuck. No, he wasn't going to let Foreman off the hook. "You're the one criticizing my logic, and you're the one who suggested it, so maybe you could tell me what it's supposed to solve," House said, the volume of his voice under control. His tone was vicious, and he fixed his eyes on Foreman's face, trying to stand as straight as he could.

House's anger slipped for a split-second as Foreman gently curved both hands around his hips, but House regained it, ignoring Foreman's touch, refusing to acknowledge it. Maybe it wasn't clear. Maybe Foreman needed another damn clue, and House almost lost his balance as he stripped off his shirt, stumbling when he threw it onto the floor. He had to reach out and steady himself with a hand on Foreman's shoulder but he let go as soon as he could, dropping his arms to his sides. This was fucking insane. He could hardly remember what he was trying to prove anymore, except that what he'd done to Foreman in the car wasn't anything he couldn't handle, wasn't really important in the long run. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, letting his head fall as he breathed hard and fast. His skin was hot. He felt flushed, and he fought the urge to cover himself, suddenly struck with the realization of how vulnerable he'd just made himself. Naked. Without his cane. Standing in front of Foreman in his damn kitchen. No way Foreman had felt this vulnerable back in the car, left to jerk off himself. Fuck. But his pride demanded that he not back down. He couldn't, after going this far.

His voice was even, but low, when he said, "Come on, Foreman. Teach me a lesson. Do whatever you want." Even as he said it, he wasn't sure he had that kind of trust, but Foreman probably wouldn't do any worse than what he'd proposed. And then maybe Foreman would fucking get it.

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

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

House felt like his heart was trying to beat up his throat and cut off his air supply--he was breathing so fucking fast--and the wait for Foreman's answer seemed to make it worse. The longer he stood there like that, the more idiotic--almost panicky--he felt. Naked, standing there ridiculously exposed, and Foreman's hands touching him like he could ignore all the shit that had happened tonight. Like a damn touch would make it better. House didn't know what the hell he was doing. Didn't know why he'd thought coming back here was a good idea, and he nearly pulled away before Foreman's hands slid around to his back.

House felt himself tense, and he raised his hands to Foreman's arms, not wanting to touch back but to try to keep his distance. He forced himself to stop, not resist, because--fine--if this was what Foreman wanted, he could fucking have it. If Foreman was going to work him up slowly, with lighter touches that got to be too much. If Foreman was going to make him take this standing, then, fine. Didn't fucking matter.

But Foreman's words. Jesus, his words stopped House's thoughts cold, and House only half-realized that his breathing had gone from as fast as a fucking racehorse's to nothing in a second. He blinked, then stared, not believing what he'd heard. "What?" he asked, stalling. Maybe Foreman would even repeat himself. Foreman...No, he couldn't have said that. No way Foreman would let him do that. Every time they'd fucked, it was almost taken for granted that Foreman would fuck House. They'd never talked about it. There had never been a need. But Foreman was trying to tell him now that that's what he wanted--that he wanted House to fuck him. Foreman had just told him that he'd wanted to work House up, and leave him hanging, that he wanted to blow him--hell, maybe even fuck him--get off, and get out. House couldn't connect the dots from that to this. Maybe his logic was taking a hit. Jesus.

House loosened his hold on Foreman's arms, all his anger giving way to confusion as he tried to figure it out, make sure he'd heard Foreman right. He met Foreman's eyes. Foreman looked serious. Fuck. House shook his head, still not believing that that's what Foreman really wanted. "No you don't."

Jesus, he had no idea what he was saying. It was a fucking stupid move. As if sex of any kind could solve a problem. Foreman forced himself to wait, to watch House blink at him and stare as if he'd been possessed or knocked on the head. Once House caught up, maybe he'd get that it wasn't really about the sex. It was something that Foreman didn't do with every guy. He trusted himself, not any one-night stands, not anyone who wasn't important. Foreman wanted to take it back the second House gave him the opening. Tell him he'd misheard. Anything to get out of admitting how important this was. Maybe it didn't matter after all, because House kept on staring, finally blurting out a denial.

"Yeah, I do," Foreman said. It wasn't like he'd never been fucked before. It wasn't new, and it wasn't like he was inexperienced either. It wasn't always what he wanted, or what he preferred, but it was good. It would be good. And if it would show House that he was serious, then yeah, he wanted it. Foreman let go of House's hips long enough to pull his hoodie over his head, dropping it next to House's clothes. Christ, if House could push, and try to prove something, then Foreman could too. He took the last step forward, so that he could feel the heat of House's skin against his. Raising his chin so that they were almost touching, close enough to kiss. His whole body felt like it was vibrating, nerves urging him to run, or shut up, and not tell House one more word. If House was going to challenge him, though, then Foreman wasn't going to back down either. "I want you to finger me," he said. Voice low and hoarse. Heart slamming in his throat. "Work me open. Fuck me."

House snapped his mouth closed, still trying to process this, when Foreman spoke. Yeah, I do. Finger me. Work me open. Fuck me. House blinked again, looking away as he swallowed around the nervous knot in his throat. It wasn't that the idea wasn't appealing--House already felt the stirrings of arousal just imagining it. But this had switched in a second from one direction to the other, and House had been preparing himself to deal with Foreman's 'revenge' in whichever form Foreman decided to dish it out. House hadn't expected this. For the first time, Foreman had done something entirely unpredictable, and House was still trying to catch up.

House squeezed Foreman's biceps before he looked back at Foreman's face. He didn't really have to ask now what Foreman thought this would solve. Prove that it mattered, that Foreman could trust him like this; House could see that. That's not what he thought Foreman wanted, but after all this, maybe it was. Maybe a message had gotten through, and this was Foreman's way of saying he heard it. House watched as he trailed one hand, fingers spread wide, from Foreman's shoulder, down his chest, and to the waist of his pants. He wasn't sure how often Foreman offered this to other guys he'd been with, and for a second, the imagined image of Nathan jumped into his head, and he wondered if Foreman had done that with him. Probably--House wasn't going to ask. It didn't matter. This mattered.

House stepped away from Foreman, but nodded as he did it, taking a few awkward steps to retrieve his cane and start for the bedroom.

It felt like House was never going to answer. Maybe he'd leave Foreman hanging like Foreman had threatened to do to him. He wasn't backing away, either, or shouting in Foreman's face. House's breathing was slower, and he'd glanced down, and Foreman wondered if he'd short-circuited House's anger completely. He'd managed to give House something to think about, anyway, and that terrified him more than being fucked possibly could. House got it. Understood what it meant. Foreman inhaled as House drew his hand down his chest and across his stomach. House's expression was serious. His touch was warm but also careful, evaluating. It still wasn't an answer.

House's nod, though, and his move for his cane, set everything in motion again. Foreman was aware all over again of how hard his heart was beating, and he tried to keep his breathing even. He followed House to his bedroom, glanced at the bed as he opened his fly and pushed his pants and underwear off, kicking them away. Now that he knew where this was going, he had no idea of how to start. He wanted to kiss House, but it felt like they'd made this too deliberate to just grab and push until he had House where he wanted him. Foreman circled the bed, opened the drawer where he kept the lube, and set the bottle and a condom out on the night table. He climbed onto the bed, pushing the bedspread down, and lay down, watching House and hoping like hell he'd follow Foreman's lead without needing a push.

House tried to bat his sudden attack of nerves away as he walked through the hallway and into Foreman's bedroom. He stood there, not knowing what to do, if he should do anything, or just wait as Foreman stripped down. All of a sudden, this seemed deliberate--too deliberate. Almost like an encounter with a prostitute. Quiet, slightly awkward, a haze of uncertainty in his brain. All deliberate, wordless actions. Almost mechanical. He wouldn't tell Foreman any of that, even though he almost desperately wanted to make a joke about putting money on the table along with the lube and condom when Foreman took them out of the drawer. He still was only slightly aroused, but he set his cane aside and followed Foreman onto the bed. He took the condom and lube with him, but let them fall beside Foreman's body, avoiding them for now.

It looked like Foreman could use a little help, too, and even though House still felt awkward, he couldn't think of any other way to get rid of the feeling besides swallowing his uncertainty and starting. Jesus, this was weird. He was already used to Foreman being aggressive, at least pushing and shoving a little, demanding or guiding, or something, not just lying there and waiting. A part of him wanted to dive right in, start blowing Foreman even though he wasn't fully hard yet, get both of them worked up to a fever pitch before giving Foreman what he said he wanted. But he couldn't. It was like trying to prepare himself to dive straight into a cold pool; this was already unexpected enough, and a move like that would shock him into incapacitation. So, still feeling slightly unsure of Foreman wanted to do this, he laid down on his left side, pushing himself farther up Foreman's body. House didn't look at him as he reached out and slowly, lightly, started trailing his fingertips over Foreman's hip. He traced Foreman's hipbone, the lines of muscle in his stomach and up to his chest. His arousal grew a little stronger, his dick starting to firm up slowly, so House kept touching. He leaned down, his hand pressing harder on one side of Foreman's chest, and circled his tongue around Foreman's nipple, still feeling unsure if this was what Foreman wanted but unable to go from a complete stop to full-on in five seconds.

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