Check Yes or No; Ho/Fo for sesquisquirrel
Title: Check Yes or No
Pairing: House/Foreman
Rating: G
Word Count: 875 words
Summary: House likes Foreman. Foreman kinda likes House. They should just pass notes or something.
A/N: Written for sesquisquirrel who correctly identified my santahouse_md fic, winning the offered drabble reward. She requested more House/Foreman. I owed her five, so I kinda strung 'em together into something fic-shaped. Hope you like, luv!
2: Title comes from one of the few country songs I'll admit to liking. Damn you, George Strait.
"It won't work," he announces to the empty conference room. "I know you're up to something."
House is trying to yank his chain again, Foreman is sure of it. He just can't quite figure out why the hateful bastard is focusing on him.
As expected, House appears in the doorway, shit-eating grin firmly in place. "How do you know I'm up to something?" His tone could not be more guilty.
"You're breathing," Foreman retorts, "And you left me food." To emphasize the point, he stabs an accusing finger at the offending object, a small cafeteria saucer upon which rests a very decadent piece of cherry pie. Not standard cafeteria fare, either, it appears to be made of actual food.
"How do you know it's for you?" House queries, attempting to convey innocence. Instead, he manages only to look vaguely ill. Maybe constipated, Foreman can't really tell. He's never seen House try to look innocent before.
As House leans in dangerously, Foreman edges back, replying swiftly, "The card that says 'For Foreman' is a good indication."
He doesn't add the sickeningly sweet nickname that House has tacked onto the end of his name, surrounded by doodled hearts and flowers. He can't even think that name in connection with himself, much less as coming from House.
Darting away from House's sudden lunge, he makes an escape, but only just barely.
........................
"This needs to stop," Foreman says wearily, poking his head into House's office. Irritation is scrawled across his handsome features, and his patented combination glare/scowl is threatening to laser through House into the next office.
In his fist, he clutches a bouquet of flowers, limp and falling apart from being shaken. "This has long since stopped being funny."
"Who's being funny?" House asks blithely, flipping the page of his Sports Illustrated.
"Pie. Flowers. The sickening pet name that I can't even say without choking on?" Foreman pauses, then lights into House, "Okay, we get it, you want to screw me. Very funny, joke's on me, lesson learned. Next time, I won't question your insane diagnosis again, I'll just let the patient die."
House reads on, unfazed, "Maybe that's why I like you."
Foreman throws the flowers on House's desk with no little force, and makes another hasty escape.
He isn't seen until the next morning.
........................
Something is wrong, Foreman decides as he slides into the driver's seat of his car. "Something isn't right," he mutters, trying to pinpoint exactly what it is.
Finally, after turning on the heat and adjusting his seat, he realizes that someone has been rambling around in his car.
The changes are so infuriatingly infinitesimal, but just annoying enough to warrant changing back. He is forced to pull over, adjusting the side mirrors (ever-so-slightly skewed), his sunglasses clip (on the wrong side), his radio station (tuned to the most blatantly stereotypical radio station available, which might as well be House's calling card).
He grabs his cell phone, dialing one-handed as he merges back into traffic. "I said to cut it out," he growls as soon as House picks up.
In his ear, House whispers infuriatingly, "But I just wanted to be close to you."
He is still snickering when Foreman hangs up on him.
........................
Limiting his exposure to House has been a priority since the third or fourth week of his fellowship. He decided early on that he could learn more from House if he didn't have to actually deal with his bullshit.
This had worked well for a time, because House has no wish to be bothered with those who question his genius.
Somewhere along the line, House had changed, grown (not enough that anyone could really tell, just enough to somehow make him more of an ass), and Foreman now found himself in the precarious position of being pursued by an interested House.
If he felt at times like a particularly complex and absorbing puzzle which had somehow grabbed House's attention, that was only because he actually was.
........................
Foreman has reserved judgement on House's current mental instability until he can consult with Wilson.
Wilson only laughs and claps Foreman on the back with much more glee than is perhaps necessary. "If he's taken to treating you like a third grade girl, then you're in big, big trouble. He's not much more mature than that, really. You should realize that he'll just pester you until you give in."
Wilson would know. Foreman has heard rumors, but Wilson's genial acceptance of the matter indicates that he's not too concerned about it. Whatever they may have gotten up to in the past, it appears it has no bearing on Foreman's future.
House likes him. Great. The ink in his pigtails (metaphorically, of course) is proof enough of that.
He debates throughout the rest of the day, saving and nearly-losing and saving a patient again; when they're finally able to go home, Foreman has worked the problem out close enough in his mind that he feels comfortable with the solution.
The fact that he is actually contemplating future plans (beer, hamburgers and a movie, possible mutual hand-jobs, at this point) with House is nothing short of absolutely mind-blowing.
Pairing: House/Foreman
Rating: G
Word Count: 875 words
Summary: House likes Foreman. Foreman kinda likes House. They should just pass notes or something.
A/N: Written for sesquisquirrel who correctly identified my santahouse_md fic, winning the offered drabble reward. She requested more House/Foreman. I owed her five, so I kinda strung 'em together into something fic-shaped. Hope you like, luv!
2: Title comes from one of the few country songs I'll admit to liking. Damn you, George Strait.
"It won't work," he announces to the empty conference room. "I know you're up to something."
House is trying to yank his chain again, Foreman is sure of it. He just can't quite figure out why the hateful bastard is focusing on him.
As expected, House appears in the doorway, shit-eating grin firmly in place. "How do you know I'm up to something?" His tone could not be more guilty.
"You're breathing," Foreman retorts, "And you left me food." To emphasize the point, he stabs an accusing finger at the offending object, a small cafeteria saucer upon which rests a very decadent piece of cherry pie. Not standard cafeteria fare, either, it appears to be made of actual food.
"How do you know it's for you?" House queries, attempting to convey innocence. Instead, he manages only to look vaguely ill. Maybe constipated, Foreman can't really tell. He's never seen House try to look innocent before.
As House leans in dangerously, Foreman edges back, replying swiftly, "The card that says 'For Foreman' is a good indication."
He doesn't add the sickeningly sweet nickname that House has tacked onto the end of his name, surrounded by doodled hearts and flowers. He can't even think that name in connection with himself, much less as coming from House.
Darting away from House's sudden lunge, he makes an escape, but only just barely.
........................
"This needs to stop," Foreman says wearily, poking his head into House's office. Irritation is scrawled across his handsome features, and his patented combination glare/scowl is threatening to laser through House into the next office.
In his fist, he clutches a bouquet of flowers, limp and falling apart from being shaken. "This has long since stopped being funny."
"Who's being funny?" House asks blithely, flipping the page of his Sports Illustrated.
"Pie. Flowers. The sickening pet name that I can't even say without choking on?" Foreman pauses, then lights into House, "Okay, we get it, you want to screw me. Very funny, joke's on me, lesson learned. Next time, I won't question your insane diagnosis again, I'll just let the patient die."
House reads on, unfazed, "Maybe that's why I like you."
Foreman throws the flowers on House's desk with no little force, and makes another hasty escape.
He isn't seen until the next morning.
........................
Something is wrong, Foreman decides as he slides into the driver's seat of his car. "Something isn't right," he mutters, trying to pinpoint exactly what it is.
Finally, after turning on the heat and adjusting his seat, he realizes that someone has been rambling around in his car.
The changes are so infuriatingly infinitesimal, but just annoying enough to warrant changing back. He is forced to pull over, adjusting the side mirrors (ever-so-slightly skewed), his sunglasses clip (on the wrong side), his radio station (tuned to the most blatantly stereotypical radio station available, which might as well be House's calling card).
He grabs his cell phone, dialing one-handed as he merges back into traffic. "I said to cut it out," he growls as soon as House picks up.
In his ear, House whispers infuriatingly, "But I just wanted to be close to you."
He is still snickering when Foreman hangs up on him.
........................
Limiting his exposure to House has been a priority since the third or fourth week of his fellowship. He decided early on that he could learn more from House if he didn't have to actually deal with his bullshit.
This had worked well for a time, because House has no wish to be bothered with those who question his genius.
Somewhere along the line, House had changed, grown (not enough that anyone could really tell, just enough to somehow make him more of an ass), and Foreman now found himself in the precarious position of being pursued by an interested House.
If he felt at times like a particularly complex and absorbing puzzle which had somehow grabbed House's attention, that was only because he actually was.
........................
Foreman has reserved judgement on House's current mental instability until he can consult with Wilson.
Wilson only laughs and claps Foreman on the back with much more glee than is perhaps necessary. "If he's taken to treating you like a third grade girl, then you're in big, big trouble. He's not much more mature than that, really. You should realize that he'll just pester you until you give in."
Wilson would know. Foreman has heard rumors, but Wilson's genial acceptance of the matter indicates that he's not too concerned about it. Whatever they may have gotten up to in the past, it appears it has no bearing on Foreman's future.
House likes him. Great. The ink in his pigtails (metaphorically, of course) is proof enough of that.
He debates throughout the rest of the day, saving and nearly-losing and saving a patient again; when they're finally able to go home, Foreman has worked the problem out close enough in his mind that he feels comfortable with the solution.
The fact that he is actually contemplating future plans (beer, hamburgers and a movie, possible mutual hand-jobs, at this point) with House is nothing short of absolutely mind-blowing.