wooedforyears | 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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Foreman's cool aloofness shattered as soon as House tipped Foreman's plate, and Foreman became a put-upon, snappy spring of action, cleaning food off himself, fussing with his shirt, slamming his plate onto the coffee table. House glanced from the plate to Foreman and shot him a satisfied grin in response to his remark. He knew that Foreman, when he could, pressed his 'helpless cripple' button with no remorse, but even more freely when he was pissed off, and it didn't come as a surprise to House. It didn't bother him, either, and he watched Foreman storm off to the kitchen before turning back to face forward. His plan had worked well enough--not exactly the results he'd wanted--and House could pick a few pieces of lint off the food. Good enough for him. Still better than whatever shitty meal he could microwave for himself. He'd make more for himself than microwavable soup or scrambled eggs or sandwiches if he could. Well, he could, but standing up for that long, and ferrying ingredients all over the place was a bitch. He'd rather something mostly prepared. Or prepared, whether it was from the hospital cafeteria or take-out or now Foreman's kitchen, even if it meant waiting around for it like a vulture.

By the time Foreman came back, the other plate filled with food in his hand, House was already digging in, but managed to notice when Foreman's footsteps stopped short of the couch. He glanced over at Foreman, who looked like he was planning on holding this grudge for a while, and then, not returning Foreman's glare, turned back to face the TV. "Any chance I could cover you with milk and flour?" House asked, shoveling a little more food into his mouth. This really wasn't bad. He had to weasel dinner out of Foreman more often. "We could join forces to make a food pyramid." He could still smell the damn mango in his hair, but at least mango was better than stir-fry.

Foreman raised his eyebrow when he came back to see House actually eating the food Foreman had scraped off his lap. He'd figured House would be pissed all over again when Foreman didn't bring him another plate, but instead House only gave him a guileless look before turning back to the television. "If you wanted to cover me in food, I think there are better possibilities than flour," Foreman said, to see if he could make House choke. Save that idea--eating off each other--for when they were at House's place, and Foreman wouldn't give a shit about cleanup. He was still peeved that House had knocked over his plate, and House's refusal to acknowledge it or apologize was annoying, too. If House was willing to joke about smelling like fruit, however obliquely, that took some of the sting away.

What really mollified him, though, was the way House was eating. Foreman knew he wasn't the world's best cook. He did it enough to get by, and most nights he didn't care particularly what he ate, as long as it was healthy. He remembered House waxing practically ecstatic over Wilson's cooking. House wasn't--and probably would never be--complimenting Foreman like that. Foreman might never hear a positive word out of House about whatever food Foreman set in front of him, but the way House was forking the stir fry into his mouth was flattering on its own. Sure, if he'd eat food that had fallen off the plate, he obviously wasn't picky. House was probably just hungry. Foreman knew he was, enough that he could ignore that the vegetables were a bit overcooked and the rice was mushy. But it didn't hurt to see House enjoying it.

Foreman took another bite, still standing behind House, watching House more than the slo-mo replays of ATV crashes. He didn't know if they'd agreed to never mention Marty, or what had happened tonight, ever again, or if House was still brooding over it and just not showing it. Foreman didn't know if he was finally giving in to the Stockholm syndrome or if having House around really wasn't that bad, messes aside. He scooped up another bite, chewing before he said anything, in case a last minute of reflection would remind him that he'd wanted to get away from House when he'd left Princeton. "Bears are playing the Broncos tomorrow," he said, finally, in about the same tone he'd used to not-quite-ask House to bring him the rice cooker. Foreman had planned to spend his Sunday sprawled on the couch watching football, and probably it wouldn't be terrible if House was there too. If he wanted to be. Quite possibly, he didn't. Foreman glanced at his plate--pretty much cleared--and figured now was as good a time as any to go clean up the kitchen.

House wasn't sure what he'd expected--maybe a snort, or a silent eye-roll--but he hadn't quite expected Foreman to suggest alternate and improved-upon ideas for edible body coverings. His mouth twitched--almost a grin, but House didn't let it spread. He'd only been able to make that joke in the first place because Foreman had given him that damn shampoo, and he wasn't going to smile about that. ATVs were flying and exploding all over the place on the TV screen, and House tried to focus on that. And his food. After that, he wasn't sure what he would do. Hang around and annoy Foreman some more? Crash in Foreman's bed? He didn't know what the hell Foreman did for fun around here. His best guess was nothing, since Foreman seemed to have a pretty sad concept of 'fun'.

House set his plate down on the coffee table after he finished, almost forgetting that Foreman was still standing behind him until Foreman piped up. Foreman spoke with a casual tone, but House didn't miss the implied invitation. He kept looking at the TV, thinking over the offer. He might as well take Foreman up on it. It wasn't like he had anything waiting for him at home, besides his own normal scented shampoo, and Foreman had free food. Or he would. When House ordered it. With Foreman's credit card. Wings, the ultimate football food. Plus Foreman had a bigger TV. Way better for watching games. Good enough reason for him.

Before House could answer, he heard Foreman leave the room, go back into the kitchen. House didn't bother turning or shouting after him; Foreman would catch on to the fact that he was sticking around when he didn't try to leave. For now, he kept watching TV, flipping through the channels as he swung his legs onto the couch to stretch out, shoving one of the throw pillows under his right knee without much thought. It felt less and less weird, being at Foreman's place, when he knew that Foreman wasn't intent on kicking him out, and he let himself lean back and relax against the couch, sipping occasionally at his beer.

It didn't take long to clean the kitchen. Foreman had only used the minimum dishes, and after a quick rinse, he stacked them in the dishwasher and turned it on. His beer was still out in the living room, so Foreman headed back out. House hadn't answered him, but Foreman wasn't going to put himself out further by asking again.

House had turned sideways on the couch, his legs up, but there was just enough room for Foreman to sit on the end of the couch without having to deal much with House's feet; they rested just against his thigh, and if House didn't like that, he could move them. Foreman grabbed his beer and took a drink. House's restless channel-flipping didn't interest him, and he picked up the latest Forbes that had been sitting on the end table beside him. It was getting late, and he felt comfortable, and full. He'd read through far louder distractions than the television before, so it was no problem to ignore House completely. Soon enough he'd head for bed, leave House to go through every channel Foreman got all night if he wanted to. At some point, House would probably kick Foreman awake when he climbed into bed too. All that would mean was that Foreman would get his answer about tomorrow; he'd know that House wasn't leaving.

November 24, 2007 -- Late Afternoon

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