November 24, 2007 -- Late Afternoon

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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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When House was dressed, he leaned back in the chair, looking up to see Foreman approaching. House glanced up as Foreman bent over him and sniffed. Sniffed at his head. House waited, gritting his teeth, for Foreman to make some kind of remark. Laugh at him. Anything. Something he could use. But a moment later, Foreman shrugged and left the room. No words. Barely a laugh. House blinked at the open doorway. What a bastard. What a neat-freak, mango-shampoo-stashing bastard. It took a moment for House to start moving, grabbing hold of his cane. "That's it?" he shouted, starting for the kitchen, where Foreman was already creating enough noise to give his location away.

House glared at Foreman from the doorway for a second, trying to ignore how that damn mango smell had caught up to him and seemed to engulf him in a cloud of scent. Christ, why did no other shampoos seem to do this? He breathed through his mouth, catching as little of the scent as possible, and slowly stepped forward. He didn't stop until he was inches away from Foreman, peering over Foreman's left shoulder, and reached around to Foreman's front. House didn't have much in the way of words he could use against Foreman, since Foreman hadn't even spoken a word, so he went for old-fashioned physical schoolyard retaliation. "This," House said, flicking his hand and tapping Foreman's crotch, hard enough to know that it would make Foreman flinch and clench his teeth but not double over in pain, "is for making your bed with hospital corners. Who the hell does that?"

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Foreman raised his eyebrows when he heard House coming--well, more like smelled him coming. He kept on chopping vegetables, tossing them in a frying pan as he went. If he looked at House, he was going to burst out laughing. He let himself smile when House approached him, smirking down at the food as House peered over his shoulder. Foreman couldn't quite help shifting his weight, subtly, but enough to invite House into his space. He expected a barbed comment, maybe about the shampoo, maybe about the food. He wasn't expecting to get a shot to the crotch.

"Hey!" Foreman recoiled, more from a protective instinct than from the pain, half turning, and stumbled, catching himself before he stepped on House's foot. He twisted around the rest of the way and grabbed House's wrists, both of them, to make sure he was safe from any more attacks, and glared at him. He couldn't keep it up, though. House's hair was still sticking up, but it was drying, and Foreman couldn't help noticing that it was shinier than before, and looked softer. He leaned his ass back against the cupboards, feeling the smirk take over his face, no matter how hard he tried not to, until he was grinning widely. He yanked on House's wrists, tugging him forward. "I'd take that question seriously if it wasn't like I was talking to Carmen Miranda's hat," he said.

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Foreman's reaction afforded House at least some satisfaction; he wasn't even annoyed when Foreman stumbled enough to step on his foot. House was about to lean to the side and reach for one of the chopped vegetables on Foreman's cutting board when Foreman spun around to take hold of his wrists. Well, that was a way to kick up his annoyance level. That, and the fact that Foreman had a wide smile pulling across his face. The taunt just made it worse, and House felt his defenses kicking up. Christ, over some damn shampoo. Next time he came over here, or maybe even before he left, he was getting his own.

House shifted his weight to his right, tried to plant himself and wriggle his wrists out of Foreman's grip. He scowled at Foreman and his stupid-ass comment. "Maybe I'd take you seriously if it wasn't like I was talking to the damn Cheshire Cat. Let me go."

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Foreman could see definite advantages to keeping hold of House's wrists--he didn't exactly relish the idea of House being free to poke him again, for one, and for another, like this he could manhandle House however he liked. That idea made him feel warmer, his heart thudding just a hint faster. It felt like getting his control back, after House had been the one pushing him around in bed. The fact that he'd shut House up in the end, holding House down, wasn't quite the same. Foreman was pretty damn sure he'd shown more than he'd wanted to, in the end, and he didn't know what House really thought of that. Other than House had said next time, pay attention--so presumably he wanted to do it again, and he liked making Foreman react like that--make him focus on what House was doing. Foreman wasn't quite ready to deal with that idea, and if he could assert himself instead, then he'd take that option.

Better than holding on to House, though, was showing him that Foreman was letting him go. Foreman opened his hands ostentatiously, lifting his arms in a half-shrug. He turned back to his chopping as if he didn't think House standing right there was a danger to him or to the food. He kept his hips against the counter, though, as a safety precaution against House going for his crotch. "Like you ever take me seriously," he said, with a tinge of sarcasm. House's default position was that any word out of Foreman's mouth was moronic until proven otherwise, but that didn't bother him particularly, since House didn't even give most people the chance to show they weren't idiots. Foreman at least had the benefit of the doubt on that score most days. House liked arguing with him and proving--to himself, at least--that Foreman was wrong. And there were times when House took Foreman's suggestions in a differential, or Foreman maneuvered him into agreeing to something Cuddy wanted, and that was enough for him.

Foreman dumped the last of the vegetables off the cutting board into the frying pan, and opened the package of pork chops, starting to slice them thinly. "Rice cooker's in there," he said, pointing to the cupboard on the other side of the stove. It was more likely that House would scoff at him for stating the obvious than he'd take it as a suggestion to help. House wouldn't take orders and Foreman doubted he'd wander off to watch TV if he could annoy Foreman instead, so it was at least worth a shot.

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When Foreman released his wrists, raising his hands in that showy, smug way--only Foreman and, well, maybe himself, could make that look smug--House squinted at him. Then the bastard ignored him. For a second, long enough to make House step forward, standing right behind Foreman again, but spreading his arms out to grip the counter on either side of Foreman. He let Foreman's remark go unanswered. Foreman could think what he wanted; House wasn't about to fall into that trap. Deny it, give Foreman reassurance like he was some sort of woman asking if she looked fat in her dress. Nope, wouldn't buy into that passive-aggressive tactic. Foreman could pay attention next time a differential was going on, or maybe House could not take him seriously so Foreman could find out what that was like, if he doubted him so much.

House refused to let it bother him too much, distracted enough by Foreman's instruction. Almost-instruction. He leaned back to his left, shooting Foreman a look that said, Are you kidding me? With a glance at the cupboard, then back at Foreman, he said, "Do I look like your sous chef?" House stepped back, going for the fridge instead of the cupboard. He grabbed a beer for himself and leaned against the opposite counter after he uncapped it, taking a drink.

As much as he'd like to annoy the hell out of Foreman, sitting down and letting Foreman do the work sounded more appealing, and he started to head out of the kitchen. "Carry on, Jeeves," he said, grinning smugly and patting Foreman's shoulder as he passed, heading for the kitchen. "I'm taking a load off."

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Foreman turned slightly, enough to catch House's insulted expression that Foreman would ever dare to ask him to help. He refused to smile, this time, even though he'd been breathing in the fruity scent of the shampoo and enjoying House standing close enough to lean warmly against his back. More than could possibly be healthy. He really was an idiot. "You look like someone who wants to eat," he said, as House crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge. Foreman got out the rice cooker and was starting it when House smirked at him and left him to do the heavy lifting. Foreman snorted and let him go. He had enough of catering to House at work without acting like his valet at home, too. Anything he let happen once, House would take as standard for the rest of their relationship. Foreman didn't mind cooking, and he would have had to feed himself anyway, but when he was at House's place he didn't plan to lift a finger.

The stir fry didn't take long. After waiting this late to eat, and all the exercise they'd had earlier, it smelled delicious. The rice was finished at nearly the same time. Foreman grabbed plates and cutlery, and dished up some dinner for himself, opening the fridge to grab a beer. He left one of the plates on the counter--he wasn't going to serve House, especially not after that crack. If House wanted Foreman to ignore his leg, then Foreman would ignore that House probably didn't want to get up again. Besides, he only had two hands.

Foreman brought his plate into the living room, settling down on the couch with a satisfied sigh. Even though he usually ate in the dining room, that was more for convenience if he was working while he ate, either reading or working on articles or going over older cases. Tonight, he'd rather see what House would do about Foreman's pointed failure to get his food for him. Foreman's money was on House trying to steal Foreman's food instead of going to the kitchen for his own.

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Foreman didn't fight him or make him try to stay when he headed for the living room, and that alone made House a little suspicious. He figured Foreman would be as uncooperative as possible, but there was no way he was going to go back and grovel. House took a seat on the couch, finding the remote for the TV and began flipping through channels. He stopped on a channel that was showing an ATV flying through the air, its owner making a spectacular, bone-crushing landing a few feet away. Nice. Foreman came in a few minutes later, carrying a drink and plate for himself. As he suspected. Bastard.

House eyed Foreman as he sat down, trying to decide what to do. Foreman seemed comfortable. Too comfortable. Like he was ready for House's next move. Like he'd been planning this out and waiting for House to prove him right. He thought about what Foreman would anticipate. Probably a way for him to stay put and have all the food he wanted. Easiest way would be to steal it off Foreman's plate. That wasn't hard to figure out. There were other ways, but it would be harder, and riskier. But they might be worth it just for the surprise factor. He pretended to watch TV for a couple minutes, fussing with his cane, laying it across his lap and rolling it lightly over his legs, biding his time.

He had to give himself credit; the move was quick and aimed perfectly. With one jab to the edge of Foreman's plate, House tilted it just enough to make Foreman's stir fry spill out onto his clothes, part of the couch, some on the floor. Some of it was still all right, by Foreman's standards, but House doubted that Foreman would be throwing down food that had sat on the floor, and he'd have to get up to get more. And this time he'd have a free hand.

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Foreman raised an eyebrow at the TV show House had picked, even though he wasn't really surprised that House's first choice would be people apparently trying to kill themselves with sporting vehicles--House fit in that category himself. Foreman didn't really care; he concentrated on eating instead, shifting slightly to make himself comfortable and pushing House's jeans over to his side of the couch. The first few bites only made Foreman realize how hungry he was. He glanced at House once or twice. House wasn't making a dive for his food, but he wasn't making any moves to get his own, either. Well, it wasn't Foreman's problem.

No sooner had he thought that than House struck with his cane, dumping Foreman's meal in his lap. "Jesus, House--" That's the second dinner you've ruined for me tonight came to his lips, but he clamped them shut before he could say it. He didn't need House getting huffy again when House was the one flinging food around. Foreman scraped as much of the mess as he could from his lap and from the couch back onto his plate. His hoodie was probably going to stain from the sauce, and it was one he actually liked, that he'd had since undergrad. So he wasn't going to be left to eat in peace unless House was fed. Foreman threw his fork down on his plate with a clatter and banged the plate down in front of House on the coffee table. "Did you want some? Here. Let me know if you need help getting the fork in your mouth, too."

Foreman stood up and started for the kitchen, pulling his hoodie off as he went to check the stain. The sweatpants he didn't care about, and he could throw them in the wash later, but he took a second to get out a cloth and blot the sauce off the hoodie. He cleaned it as best he could, fuming in frustration over how obnoxious House was being--first the jab when Foreman was cooking, and now this. Foreman expected it at work, or when they were arguing, or even during sex, but he didn't see the point of it now. When the hoodie was as clean as he could get it, Foreman pulled it back on, still damp. He was still hungry, so he filled the second plate with food, leaving hardly any in the frying pan, and headed back to the living room. This time he stayed standing, and well out of House's reach, even with the cane. Giving House a mild glare, Foreman took a bite. Still not serving you, he thought, and waited for House's reaction instead of immediately heading for the dining room, where he'd probably be safe.

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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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.

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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.

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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.