wooedforyears | November 8, 2007

November 8, 2007

If it hadn't been for his previous case, freshly solved and still swimming inside his brain, House would have spent his Saturday like he normally did--half-conscious for most of it, in front of the TV, or in bed, going back and forth between reading recent articles and surfing the Internet. But his curiosity had been nagging at him since the case wrapped up.

House had said the patient was "nuts" and, therefore, unreliable, but it'd been entertaining and--yes, he'd admit it, if only to himself--interesting to learn a few tidbits about his team. He'd struck out with Thirteen, though, despite his best efforts to dig for some of her 'secrets' via the Mirror Man. Her resume only told him so much, and Internet searches yielded close to nothing--nothing more than her resume, college transcripts, and recommendation letters didn't tell him. He'd gotten a hold of her medical records and noticed that, strangely, her family history was missing. Nobody avoided personal questions so vehemently unless they had something to hide, and House wanted to know what exactly was so important for her to keep a secret. He had to root it out, and he needed a sidekick. A dog to help him sniff it out.

Wilson wasn't answering his phone, and House would rather save himself a trip across town if it meant he could whistle for another dog. House shrugged on his jacket as he headed out the door, his pager in hand, and sent a message to Foreman: 911. My office. He'd show; he knew he would.

When he reached his office, he made himself busy as he waited for Foreman to arrive. He looked up Thirteen's address, snagged it from her employee records, and printed directions from the hospital. He was ready to go a-sniffing, just as soon as Foreman showed up.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

House couldn't clear the smirk off his face. This just kept getting better and better. He could tell he was already pushing Foreman, stressing him out easier than he'd hoped. Foreman was reacting strongly--breathing hard, staring at him with as intimidating a look as House had ever seen.

Foreman was right; he was very interested in Thirteen, and he'd been keeping his eye on her, but, so far, all he'd gotten were smiles. No touches. Nothing too incriminating. Of course, if he left the scene with nothing more than he already had, he could still put some pressure on Thirteen later, get her to admit the truth. Just as he was doing to Foreman, although Thirteen might actually be slightly more difficult to pressure than Foreman. Foreman was almost too easy, and he was very interested in what was going on in the car as much as in the restaurant.

He caught on to Foreman's tactic, and he'd expected it, but he refused to take the bait. He wouldn't let Foreman make this about him; this was about Foreman's personal life. "You're the one talking about fucking me, and you're telling me I'm 'not very straight'," House shot back. His mind was suddenly searching his memories, trying to recall something in his time with Foreman that he could use to goad him. He hit on a few interesting recollections, and got right in Foreman's face, making sure he could feel his breath when he spoke.

"So, tell me Foreman," House said, refusing to back down, or out of Foreman's space, putting as much pressure on as possible. "That drug rep, and what's-her-name, the white chick I found out you dated. A way to throw me off track? Not arouse any suspicion?" He stared him down, letting Foreman see just how much fun he planned to have with this new information. "Oh, this is good. Can't wait to spread this news."

"Who I date is none of your business," Foreman said, his voice rising over House's. "Who I spend my time with is my choice, and it's never anything to do with you."

He let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head, but there was nothing funny behind it. Bringing up Wendy only served to remind him just how much House had obsessed over Wilson, how much he'd hated every instant that he thought Wilson wasn't entirely his any more. "Yeah, and it's not suspicious at all when a straight guy pines over the only man who's ever tolerated him," he said.

From House's expression, Foreman knew he was never going to let it go. He'd just made it House's business. And now House was going to spread it around like water cooler gossip, invade Foreman's privacy and shout it out to the whole world. Foreman wasn't going to take that from him, wasn't going to shut up under House's stupid scare tactics. And there was only one way he'd ever get House to stay silent.

Without thinking, hardly without moving since House was already so close, Foreman surged forward, pinned House against his seat with one hand on his shoulder, and kissed him. He let out a sound, his neck and back twinging at the movement, and then he got his other hand on House's good knee, effectively cutting off any leverage he might have had. He'd caught House with his mouth still open--still talking--and he deepened the kiss before he realized what he was doing, angry and insistent.

House's smirk stayed firmly in place as Foreman responded, shouting at him. He knew he was right; no question now. A reaction this strong only meant he'd found a button to push. He'd never expected this when he'd started poking for information today, but Foreman had nobody to blame for this but himself. If he hadn't made that comment, hadn't kept a handful of condoms in the car, none of this probably would have happened. At least, not today. Probably eventually. But, for House, there was no better time, getting a gem like this right when Foreman had come back. This was like a 'welcome back' present.

Again, he ignored Foreman's bait, turned it around instead. "Not sure that applies anymore," House said smoothly, confidently. "You came back, and you like that you did. You're clearly able to tolerate me on--"

Before he really realized what the hell was happening, the rest of his sentence was muffled by Foreman's mouth covering his, kissing him in a ferocious, unexpected move. At first, House was too shocked to kiss back, a sharp noise squeaking out of his throat as Foreman pinned him, grabbing his shoulder and his knee, keeping him still. It took a second, the feel of Foreman's tongue pushing into his mouth, for House to kiss back, reacting to some never-admitted fantasies, the contact itself.

He wanted to one-up Foreman, even with this kiss, and fought to do it, having no leverage, unable to push with his body. He pressed one hand against Foreman's chest, digging his fingertips into firm muscle, and he kissed back roughly. He sucked on his bottom lip, biting down hard before wrenching his head back, pulling out of this kiss, breathing hard, his head fogged with shock, with a little bit of panic. He resisted the urge to propel himself out of the car, and sat back in his seat instead, forcing himself to stay where he was. An escape attempt would only prove he had something to run away from, and he'd already given himself away enough. Fuck. No chance of spreading any news now; Foreman had something to shoot right back. Damn.

It wasn't until House started kissing him back that Foreman felt the consequences of his action slam home. Underneath his fury, he enjoyed it, House's roughness and the fierce energy of the kiss. That wasn't supposed to happen. None of it was. But the fact that House returned the kiss, that Foreman could feel his palm pressed against his chest, filled him with righteous satisfaction, his whole body heating with his smugness. So he wasn't the only one trying to hide something.

He started to grin into House's mouth, only to have House clamp his teeth down on his lip and tug before pulling back. "Fuck," Foreman said, lifting his fingers to his mouth. There wasn't any blood, though it felt like House had bitten his lip in two. He touched his lip, still warm and moist from the kiss, and stared down at House, whose breath was heaving as he pushed himself deeper into his seat, looking wide-eyed, as if he was searching for an escape.

Oh, Christ. Fuck. He'd kissed House. The realization hit Foreman in the solar plexus, and he couldn't breathe. His lip throbbed where House had bitten him, and he could feel his heartbeat racing. Nerves jangling, he tried to find some cover, some way to pretend that he wasn't affected. He sat back abruptly and turned the key in the ignition, starting the car so hastily that he nearly stalled it before he was able to pull out into traffic. He headed for the hospital--he wanted House out of his car as fast as possible, but he was not going to drive him home. "This is over," he said flatly, trying to forestall anything House might say. He'd been an idiot, and as soon as House regained the power of speech Foreman was sure he would say so, but for now all Foreman wanted was to ignore what had just happened.

It took every iota of control House had to keep himself seated in the car. He wanted to tuck and roll out of the car; he'd get a cab back to the hospital, but he was too proud to give Foreman the satisfaction of a visible freak-out. He felt relief, though, when Foreman spoke and started the car, seeming as eager to get back to the hospital and out of his company as he was. He wasn't entirely sure what Foreman meant by "this" but he wasn't about to ask.

Once he'd gathered enough of his composure, he kept his mouth shut, refusing to address what had just happened. No need to talk about it. Nothing would come of it. It wouldn't happen again. House turned his head to stare out the window, already working on rationalizations. Maybe even some sort of threat to make sure Foreman kept this to himself. House didn't need anyone picking him apart at work; he did that to everyone else. He might be able to sidetrack people with this new information about Thirteen, but that could open the door for Foreman to let something "slip", just to spite him. He had to be careful.

The few streets to the hospital passed in a blur.

House's silence was the most unnerving part. Foreman couldn't stop himself from glancing over, trying to do it as subtly as possible, even though House was staring pointedly out the opposite window. House looked the way he did in the middle of a tough case, when all his attention was focused on making half a dozen wildly disparate symptoms fit the same disease. Foreman couldn't even take comfort in the fact that apparently he'd surprised the hell out of House--he'd surprised the hell out of himself.

Foreman pulled up in front of the entrance to the clinic. House's motorcycle was parked a few spots away. This was it--kick House out, get through the rest of the weekend, and then endure Monday as the torture it would inevitably be. Foreman probably deserved it. He'd never been such an asshole in his life; House brought out the worst in him, but that was no excuse.

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly, furious that he needed to apologize for his behaviour. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the steering wheel. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lip that House had bitten--Christ, he couldn't get the image, the feeling, out of his mind--and then tried to brush it dry again with the back of his thumb. "That was unprofessional." Understatement of the fucking century, and so far from the point Foreman could hardly even believe he was saying the words. If House would just get out of the goddamn car, they could both work on forgetting this had ever happened.

As House rode out the trip back to the hospital, he couldn't seem to keep his thoughts in order. He found himself running his tongue over his lips, replaying images in his head and trying to push them away. He tried to clear his mind, push everything away and forget about the last ten minutes. When the hospital came into view, he never felt so glad to see it, because the hospital meant his bike, and his bike meant his way home. Home meant a safe fortress of oblivion.

Once Foreman parked the car, House reached for the handle, not planning on any parting words; he just wanted to leave as quickly as possible, go home, drink a few glassfuls of bourbon, and try not to fantasize about anything. Make it an early night. But when Foreman spoke, actually apologizing, House stopped.

"It was," House said, finally turning his head to stare across the car at Foreman. Normally he'd avoid something like this, discussing something like this, and never mention it again under pain of death, but he recognized the chance to make Foreman uncomfortable about this, keep the attention away from himself. Since he was safely out of kissing distance, the extra push wouldn't pose a risk, he figured.

As he opened the door and swung his legs out, moving as calmly as possible, he twisted in his seat and looked over his shoulder. "But you're not sorry." He actually believed it, too, and he really wasn't sure what to think about that. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Without waiting for Foreman's response, he levered himself to his feet and slammed the car door, turning toward his bike without looking back.

House's stare was completely humiliating. Foreman wasn't expecting House to accept his apology, but he wasn't expecting him to acknowledge it, either. The fact that he did was even worse. When House agreed that he'd been unprofessional, whether it was just a stab at revenge or not, Foreman knew that he'd gone too far.

House's last words rang in his ears longer than the slam of the car door. You're not sorry. Foreman let out a disgusted breath. Yeah, the kiss had been...good. He'd liked it. He'd liked making House react, but he knew it wasn't just that. He'd enjoyed it.

Foreman watched House heading for his motorcycle and speeding away, hating him for the way he just never stopped trying to tell people their own problems.

The real problem was, Foreman knew, that House was right.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

November 8, 2007

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject