Work Text:
Tympani
House bangs open the exam room door where Foreman's scheduled to be working his clinic hours. He's already evaded Cuddy three times this morning (men's room, Wilson's office, and a last minute duck into the morgue), and his own scheduled bout of purgatory is safely behind him. He doesn't have a patient, and watching Cameron and Chase's constant flirting has left him in serious danger of falling into a sugar coma. General Hospital's not on until three. Even Phoenix Wright's stentorian "Objection!" has lost its thrill.
Foreman, on the other hand, is always good for at least twenty minutes' amusement. He doesn't look up when House crashes the door open, so House pouts a bit and spends a few seconds running through his repertoire of dramatic entrances to see if this one's been overused. The girl Foreman's treating, though, looks startled enough, so it's probably just Foreman trying to pretend House isn't there. House grins. Things are already looking up.
He bangs the door closed harder than he needs to, watching Foreman's hands to see if he flinches. He's probably smiling reassuringly at the girl, who has a nasty gash on her forehead. House guesses five stitches, maybe six. Foreman's cleaning the blood away with careful dabs, but his back's been getting tighter since House walked in the room. There's an irked tilt to his head, a jerky impatience in his movements when he tosses out a bloodied bit of gauze. House doesn't even need to say anything, and Foreman's tensing up nicely. This is already way more fun than playing hit-and-run with Cuddy. For three months or more House has been carefully and gleefully cataloguing every possible way Foreman gets annoyed. That hasn't been enough time by half.
He sits on the doctor's stool behind Foreman and leans back against the wall, lifting his cane and resting it on his nose, pushing the handle into his lower lip a bit. The girl on the exam table watches him frankly, blinking a bit when Foreman gets too close to the cut on her forehead with the disinfectant. Her once-white soccer jersey's blotched and spattered with a nice arterial red, and her shin pads and cleats are a mess of grass stains and more brownish spots of drying blood.
"This is only going to pinch for a minute," Foreman tells her, finishing with the gauze he's been using to blot the blood from her face, and picking up a syringe of Novocaine. "I'm going to numb you so you don't feel the stitches."
The girl rolls her eyes. "It doesn't even hurt. Who're you?" she asks House.
"Head of the local stitch-and-bitch chapter," House answers, dropping his cane to the floor again. "We're putting together a petition to get Dr. Foreman kicked out for incompetence." Foreman's shoulders twitch, and House grins behind his back. "Who're you?"
"Christina Porter. I play midfield."
House edges his cane towards Foreman's feet, right where he'll probably trip over it if he takes a step backwards. "Do you also butcher pigs during halftime?"
"Nah. Me and this other girl both went to head the ball, but she was taller. We banged heads."
Foreman's doing his manful best to ignore the by-play. House tries to rate his effort, putting him well above Chase and rivalling Cuddy, although he's going to have to work a lot harder if he ever wants to challenge Wilson for the title. Foreman sets down the needle and touches his glove to the area around the still-gaping wound. "Feel that?"
"No," Christina duhs. "I think you should make him give me a mirror," she adds to House, kicking idly at Foreman's knee with her cleats. "Is it gruesome?"
"Totally," House enthuses. "Definitely scar material. Right in the middle of your forehead."
Christina grins. "The other girl had braces. She had to go to the orthodontist."
"Human bites are even better," House tells her, poking the back of Foreman's polished shoes with the tip of his cane. "The chances of infection are excellent. There might even be pus."
"Eww," Christina says, entranced. "Like flesh-eating disease?"
House nods. "Don't worry, Dr. Foreman would amputate before it got out of control."
"Amputate my head? That's stupid."
House jerks a nod at Foreman. "I keep trying to tell him, but it's all, Shut up, House, I know what I'm doing. The neighbours think we're building a shrine with all the skulls."
Christina sighs, bored by this. "I bet my mom's gonna wash all the blood out of my jersey," she says.
"Not if you set the washer to hot," House says.
"Yeah, but she'd be pissed."
House shrugs elaborately. Foreman hasn't stepped on the end of his cane or kicked it back, the way he usually does when House prods him with it. House wonders if there's an inversely proportional level of tolerance that depends on the age and gender of the person Foreman's treating at the time. House idly outlines a potential double-blind trial that involves interrupting Foreman's clinic hours on a random schedule for the next three weeks. He'll need project funding, for airhorns and whoopee cushions and plastic spiders, the good kind that look real. Maybe he can wheedle it out of Wilson.
Christina, meanwhile, glares at him. "I'm not a wuss," she insists. "I will."
"Whatever," House says. He stands up and leans over Foreman's shoulder as he's tying up the last suture. Very close. Enjoying, as he usually does, being tall enough to loom; and also enjoying, as he always does, the firm warmth of Foreman's back through whatever layers of professionalism he's wearing. "Six stitches, not bad. Doesn't beat my record, though."
Christina raises her eyebrows, which wrinkles the neat line of sutures. If she wants a scar, that's a good way to go about it. Foreman frowns as if he's considering telling her not to. He's actually doing a damn good job of acting like House hasn't draped himself over him like an overly-friendly blanket. House waits for him to start the lecture, about keeping the stitches dry and not touching them, but in the end he doesn't. Foreman's probably had too much experience with people who enjoy being contrary. House can't imagine where that came from.
"How many stitches did you get?" Christina asks.
House eases more of his weight off his leg and onto Foreman, thoughtfully. Interrupting hasn't worked, or insults, or poking him. Not much left to try. "Two hundred and thirteen," he says.
"Not even!"
"Show you," House offers.
"And we're done," Foreman says loudly, as if House had actually been intending to drop his jeans in front of a twelve year old patient, and rams House with a pretty hefty elbow. House backs out of his space, nursing his sternum. So that's where the line is. Not bad. He wonders how far he can push it before the day's over.
"Christina, I'm going to let your mom know when you can come back to get the stitches out," Foreman says, trying to glare at House and keep his bedside-manner smile on for Christina at the same time. It makes him look like an axe-happy serial killer. "I'll bring your chart to the nurse in a minute."
"Fine," Christina sighs, and jumps down from the exam bed. "I'm going to tell everyone that girl had rabies," she confides to House before she goes.
"Classic," House says, and holds out a fist for her to bump. Once she's gone, he turns his smirk on Foreman.
Foreman shakes his head and starts clearing away the suture kit. "I don't want to know," he says.
House does his best innocent look, even though Foreman's got his back to him. He likes to keep in practice. "What?"
"I don't care what," Foreman says, tossing out the paper wrapping and disposing of the sharps. "I didn't call you for a consult, you don't have a patient, I'm here doing my clinic hours. I'm not doing it."
House hooks his cane on the counter and leans back against the door. "That sounds a lot like projection. I didn't ask you to do it."
Foreman rolls his eyes--House can tell from the back of the head, something about the way he stops and looks up, as if for divine guidance. It's not even a four, on House's personal scale of ten, and he's starting to get an idea of today's entertainment that'll be even better than refining his Richter of Foreman-annoyance.
"Fine," Foreman says, tossing out the last bits of garbage and pulling a new sheet of paper to cover the exam bed, "then you can let me know why you're here."
"I'm sure I had a reason," House says, "but now I'm more interested in your inability to say the word sex. Does that make it difficult when your patients have boo-boos on their wee-wees?"
Again the peevish head-tilt, and the slope of Foreman's shoulders nearly screams why the hell do I even bother? Getting closer, House thinks. And definitely getting warmer.
"I meant I'm not doing whatever it is," Foreman says, snapping off his gloves and throwing them in the trash. "I'm busy, House."
"Because you were pretty happy making out on the balcony last week--"
That makes Foreman turn around, as House thought it would. He raises his eyebrows, and Foreman glares. "Yeah, when it was a little less likely that a patient or her mother would be walking in on us."
"So kissing is okay, but sex isn't," House muses. Foreman hasn't gone further than second base when they're at work. House never really cared before right now. "And you assumed I wanted sex." He narrows his eyes and settles more firmly against the door as a barricade to Foreman walking out. "Just horny today? Is it my manly intensity? More than the usual level of pheromones?"
This time he gets to see the eye-roll, in all its glory. "House, I have a patient to finish with."
"Because I'll want to put out a memo before the nurses try to have their wicked way with me on the admit desk."
"Yeah, by staking you out and leaving you to die. I'd watch that."
"Hmm," House says, feeling agreeably smug. "You like the image, huh."
There's a look Foreman gets, sometimes, when House is busy getting in his way, that seems to aim for fucking pissed off and misses by miles. So far House hasn't managed to classify it at all, and it throws his purely scientific study into chaos every time it appears. Foreman smiles, and it's not his I-will-always-know-better-than-you smile, although it's close. His glare softens and turns tolerant, and hidden behind the irritation there's a warmth in his eyes that's almost fond. It's ridiculously appealing, and it makes House crazy that he doesn't know exactly how he manages to provoke it. "Doesn't look like I'm the one projecting," Foreman says, and anyone who says House has cornered the market on self-satisfaction hasn't seen the way Foreman looks when he thinks he's irresistible.
He's completely off-target, of course, but right now House is having more fun rumpling him than proving him wrong (though that has its own appeal, and its own time and place). He reels Foreman in by his lab coat and kisses him, grinning, because he's delaying Foreman more with every second. Foreman ducks away at first, pulling back in short, baiting movements. House moves his hand to the back of Foreman's head and draws him in for something deeper and a little more serious. Foreman might be late, but at least House will ensure that he doesn't care.
House likes kissing Foreman. He likes the taste of Foreman's ego, the touch of Foreman's arrogance. A lot of it is justified. A lot more, House likes pointing out, with hands and mouth and tongue, is just the fact that House is really good at turning Foreman on.
Right now is no exception. And the idea has become a full-fledged plan.
"You're going to fuck me," he says, yanking Foreman closer with the fist wrapped in his lapel.
Foreman muffles a groan in House's mouth, and even that manages to sound annoyed. "We are not having sex in the clinic, House."
He's an excellent liar, mainly because he believes what he's saying. House kisses him again, a little sloppy, a lot dirty. Foreman certainly doesn't mind pushing his cock against House's leg, already half-hard--oh so professional. "Better than most places," House says, happily groping for Foreman's ass. "If you're worried about that pesky supply problem."
Foreman tips his head back and give him that look again, fond and exasperated. "I'm not having sex with you at work."
House grins and shrugs. "Says you." Now that he knows what he wants, today, he's not going to let anything as pointless as Foreman's objections get in his way.
"Go play with your damn video games," Foreman says. "Or for God's sake, take a case. Anything."
House drums his cane against the floor a bit and looks around the clinic room, wondering if this will end up being his personal hell once he kicks the bucket. Seems likely. Maybe he should lay off the Vicodin. Except then it'd be boredom that gets him in the end; so probably he'd better not. "Cameron is pining after Chase again," he says. "And Wilson's in a peer review meeting."
"That's not my problem," Foreman says, and pushes him away from the door. House pushes back, on principle, but he gets out of the way willingly enough. After all, it's no fun if the game's over on the first turn.
Besides, he already knows he's winning. Foreman's lucky to have his lab coat to hide behind when he leaves the room.
Neurologists of all sorts--brain surgeons, especially, but it extends right down to the plebe in Radiology who conducts the functional MRIs--enjoy cushy, expensive comfort that's comfortable and cushy because it's expensive. Foreman's just one of the breed, as far as that goes. Still, House has to admit, as he sits back in a well-stuffed chair in front of the flat-screen TV, he really should have staked out the Neurology lounge sooner. He's got someone's Lindt chocolates in one hand and a bottle of Evian from the fridge in the other.
He also has the charts of all of Foreman's patients. Boring, boring, interesting in that Foreman caught the ER's mis-diagnosis, boring. One or two that House might've looked at twice, but the answers jump out at him in under a minute. By the notations on the charts, those two patients made the rounds of the department before Foreman got them. And everywhere, on every chart, is more evidence that Foreman's a good, solid, careful doctor. It really makes House want to puke.
Better, it makes him want to punch someone. Possibly Lee, the head of Neurology, or Singh, his underling--they're both pushing Foreman to publish more, go to more conferences, and volunteer for committees. Mostly, though, House thinks he'd really like to punch Foreman, sometime when he's least expecting it, because that's exactly what Foreman wants. To be better than most of the doctors around him, of course, but mainly to be good enough.
House bites into another chocolate, thoughtfully swirling his tongue through nougat to scoop out the hazelnut, and starts scrawling hypotheticals and alternative symptoms in the margins of the chart of Foreman's most interesting patient, building up the kind of case he'd like to see come to Diagnostics. A few bad reactions to the treatments he's been given, a couple of surprising allergies, a wild-card genetic makeup thrown into the family history.
He's only halfway through creating something really fun when he remembers why he hasn't made the Neurology lounge one of his regular hangouts. Foreman comes in with Singh, who's talking about his latest golf score. Couldn't get any more cliched if he mentioned driving to the golf course in his brand new Lexus. They both glare when they see House in the armchair, with one leg propped over the side and his Nikes waving idly. Foreman, at least, isn't surprised at all, but he's playing the good flunky, all pressed and suited. Singh just looks constipated. House sneers right back at them and eats the last chocolate.
"Don't you have a conference room of your own, Dr. House?" Singh asks, reaching for the coffee pot.
"Got a case," House says, getting to his feet and waving the file he's been editing with a liberal hand. "Need a consult."
Singh glances over at Foreman, who sighs in a very put-upon way and reaches for the chart. House holds it back against his chest, frowning at Foreman. "Watch it, grabby," he says, and eyes Singh suspiciously.
Singh raises his mug and gives a nicely punchable smile to Foreman. "I'm sure I'll hear all about it," he says, and walks out smirking. House grimaces at his back and hopes the chocolates were his. Then he takes a good long look around the lounge, empty except for the two of them.
"Phew!" He wipes the sweat off his brow with a cuff and fans himself with the chart before ogling Foreman. "Alone at last. Now, where were we?"
"Just give me the case, House."
House tsks repressively. Foreman really needs someone to share his long-suffering glances with. When he tries it on his own, without Cameron or Chase, it just looks weird. And Foreman does play well with others, whenever he can be bothered. Doesn't seem like that's going to happen today. Too bad; Chase and Cameron need the exercise. Foreman's contributions always make such a nice mental running wheel for them. He doesn't bring up many new things at the differentials but he makes a good wall for Cameron and Chase to bash themselves into. They argue so hard against Foreman's facts that they manage to turbo charge their own creativity. House likes nothing better than to sit back and watch the resulting three-way. Very pretty, and so much easier for him.
He clears his throat lavishly and flips the chart open to a random page. The harrowing tale of the patient who doesn't actually have anything worse than an unusual presentation of epilepsy is, if he does say so himself, very moving. Foreman frowns in concentration, nodding a bit, interested. Hooked. House swallows his grin when he mentions the guy's colour-blind maternal uncle, which has nothing to do with the case he's building but makes a nice red herring. He's just getting to the really interesting results from the blood tests that no one has run when Foreman snatches the file out of his hands.
He turns it around, takes one look, and slaps it down on the counter. "What the hell is wrong with you today?"
House blinks innocently. "Today?"
"House. I'm working. With people with actual medical problems, not the patients you dream up because you want to fuck with me."
"Minus the with," House adds helpfully.
Foreman does his wide-eyed I plan to murder you in your sleep look, which isn't half as scary when House isn't feeling particularly sleepy. Also, he's re-hidden the spare key to his apartment again, just to give Foreman a challenge the next time he drops by.
"Oh, come on," House says. "Sex at work is not the end of the world."
"I don't care about your libido. I'm thinking about my career."
House rolls his eyes. "Cuddy won't fire you." She has, in fact, indicated that Foreman should probably get some sort of award, since House has been so much less of a bother for the past few months. He's thinking of taking that as a challenge. Foreman might take it as a heart attack. House is waiting for the perfect moment to let him know.
Not now, though, since Foreman is doing a good job of getting worked up on his own. It's a good look on him. If only it weren't over something so unbelievably tedious. "It's not about getting fired, House," he says. "It's about acting like a professional."
House steps forward, leering comfortably. He's not going to stop getting laid anytime soon, no matter how good a game Foreman talks. "What if I promise to leave some cash tucked under your stethoscope?" he asks, leaning closer.
Foreman watches him mildly, and doesn't bother trying to push him back, even though if anyone walked in now there'd be very little doubt at all that Foreman is House's favourite neurologist for a reason. "Even Cameron and Chase have the decency to use a broom closet," he says dismissively.
"Are you saying janitors deserve nasty surprises more than clinic patients?" House demands, personally wounded on behalf of all the janitors he's ever waged a prank war against. "For shame."
"Look, House, I get it. You want to get off at work. You don't have to prove to me you're less professional than Chase and Cameron--"
"But I could." House grins. If he takes just one deeper-than-normal breath then his unbuttoned shirt's going to brush against Foreman's suit jacket. An inch further and he'll be breathing Foreman's air.
Foreman shakes his head and steps around him. "Not. Interested," he bites out, grabbing House's effort at fictional chart-writing and heading for the door.
House just leans on the counter, tilts his head, and watches him go.
Chase and Cameron have gone home for the day--they're such slackers when House doesn't force them both to stay on call twenty-four seven. House flicks on his television and presses play on his favourite monster truck rally. That done, he sits back with his cell phone to catch up on some serious text messaging to Foreman's pager. Inspired by the poetry on the candy hearts he buys for Cuddy on Valentine's Day, he starts off with "NICE ASS" and "I ♥ COCK", and gradually (during the commercials) moves up to "HARD YET?" and "RIM THIS" and finally "FUCK ME".
When the credits are rolling, and Foreman hasn't appeared yet, House sneers at his sense of timing and starts packing up to go home. He already has his jacket on and he's stuffing his iPod into his backpack when Foreman comes in and locks the office door. "You're being juvenile," he says.
House glances at him before switching off the TV. Foreman's well past annoyed and fast approaching furious, getting jittery the way he does when he drinks too much coffee and then tries to hide it. After a moment's studious consideration, House adds his yo-yo to the things he's taking home.
Foreman crosses the room, grabs the bag out of his hand, and throws it back on House's desk chair.
House pauses, and wishes he'd had time to compose and send his magnum opus, "MADE U LOOK". He likes this part probably best of all, when Foreman gets pushy, starts throwing his weight around. Doesn't hurt that he's hot when he's angry. "If you think the broom closet's more professional, just think how much better the office is," he says.
"I said the broom closet would rival Cameron and Chase."
"So if I told you it was a competition, would that help?"
Foreman's shoulders bunch, and he clenches his jaw. "What the hell do you want, House?"
"To make you change your mind," House says, although he thought that much was obvious.
"I'm tired of the fucking games. I'm--"
"You're horny," House interrupts, taking credit where credit is due, leering because this is good: pushing the boundaries, waiting for the explosion.
Foreman stares at him, wide-eyed, nostrils flaring. He's breathing quickly, and House only has to look to see that he's hard already. He fucking loves that, that Foreman's probably been distracted all day, thinking about this, about House. He smirks, stepping closer, and takes Foreman's suit lapel between his finger and thumb, testing the weight of the material. "I'm gonna suck you off," he says. "Right here."
Foreman doesn't answer. He closes his eyes and frowns like he's in pain, and that's it, that's the moment House has won. Foreman shoves him around the desk, where he'll be out of sight from the door, then clamps his hand down on House's shoulder and starts pushing him down. House gets to one knee, first, before working to bend his leg. He grips Foreman's hips for support, letting his cane fall against his desk. Foreman's never given a rat's ass about House's leg, and the fact that he doesn't care, that he'll slam into House when he's fucking him, his breath hot against House's neck, saying you like that, don't you, and House does, takes it harder, never has to ask--fuck, yeah, that's what he wants. It's like that now, Foreman's grip on his shoulder tightening until it's enough to compete with the ache in his leg. House looks up, breathing in the sharp scent of Foreman's sweat, enjoying the look on his face. It's almost the way he frowns when he's concentrating, except his eyes are lazy-arrogant and very dark. House presses a hand against his fly. He pulls the material taut, rubbing firm and slow over Foreman's cock, before he leans closer and mouths him through his pants.
"I hate you," Foreman says, the words gritting between his teeth. House noses closer to the heat of his cock, grinning. He unzips Foreman's pants and yanks them downwards, just far enough that he has full access. Nothing anybody will see from the hall. He still needs one hand for balance, so he squeezes Foreman's hip and the muscles in his ass to keep him still, and starts jacking him with the other. His knee feels like it's on fire, and his leg is going to buckle if he takes too long. Doesn't matter. This is good, making Foreman gasp in his hands, trying not to thrust. House listens for the edge of his familiar moan. He licks his hand, and slides it faster once it's wet. He sucks slow and lingering, trying to drive Foreman completely crazy with his mouth, while he jerks him hot and rough at the same time.
Foreman talks when he loses control. Not babbling, just short staccato words, "Yeah, like that," and "Just, fuck, there." House listens for that, waits, goes slow until Foreman's thighs tense under his hand. House knows he's biting his lip to hold back a hoarse groan. He lets him come, then, bringing him off with mouth and hands, swallowing to save the mess, not stopping until Foreman's hand on his shoulder pushes him away.
He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and climbs awkwardly to his feet. He's glad to get his cane under him again, hoping his thigh won't cramp up and send him sprawling. Foreman grunts and leans forward. If he thinks House is going to support him, too, then he's going to get dumped on his ass. But Foreman's reaching for the crotch of House's jeans, stroking him a bit over the denim.
It's nice, but it doesn't take Foreman long to give up. He tips his head back and glares at the ceiling. "You didn't even get it up?"
House smirks. Foreman's seen his Vicodin use up close and personal, even more than Wilson, and he knows that House is lucky when he gets lucky at all. Add kneeling on the goddamn floor to the list and it's not going to happen, probably not tonight at all. But if he's managed to make Foreman forget that, then his technique must be mind-blowing. To coin a phrase.
Foreman raises an eyebrow at him, then shoves him back with a shoulder. "Christ, House, you're the one who wanted to do this at the hospital--"
House props himself on his cane, easing off his leg. He watches Foreman zip up and tuck his shirt back in. "Me?" he asks, wide-eyed. "No. This is where the patients are. With diseases. Don't you think that's...icky?"
Foreman finishes buckling his belt and glares at him. "Then why the hell did you chase me around all day?"
House blinks. "Because I wanted you to have sex in the hospital."
Sometimes, he thinks, it'd be nice if the people around him were capable of keeping up. Other times--like right now, when he gets to enjoy the blank yet murderous look on Foreman's face--he doesn't mind having to explain. He wonders how close he's come this time to Foreman snapping and going for his throat. The calculation takes a long moment, before Foreman's shoulders drop. "I really, really hate you," he says.
House nods and slings his backpack over his shoulder. "Coming over?" he asks.
"To do what?" Foreman asks, still clenching his fists. "Cuddle?"
House shrugs and looks away. There's an episode of The Deadliest Catch on his TiVo that he hasn't made Foreman watch yet. And Wilson is still pretending to be married. He starts out of the office, gimping a bit more than usual. Foreman yanks the door open for him. House glances sideways at him, and Foreman shakes his head, grimacing. He's got that fond-exasperated look again when he says, "I'll meet you there."
They go their separate ways, since Foreman still has an unhealthy attachment to using the stairs. House grins slightly as he pokes the elevator call button with his cane.
Tomorrow, he plans to make Foreman late for work.
end