"Coming in from the Cold": Ho/Fo one-shot; santahouse_md reveal

[simple__man]

Title: Coming in from the Cold
Pairing: House/Foreman
Rating: PG (m/m kissing)
Word Count: 5000 words (give or take a few)

Summary: House brings beer and mistletoe...and a little Christmas spirit, along the way.
Requester: Starr. She asked for eggnog, mistletoe, and a disastrous holiday dinner. She didn't want to see schmoopiness, Stacy, weak Chase.

A/N: Foreman doesn't get enough love in fandom. I've never written this pairing before, so I hope I did it justice. I hope it's not too schmoopy, luv, and that you enjoy it. Best wishes to all for the season and in the New Year! Written for cerieblue819 for 2006' santahouse_md.


When Foreman was still just Eric, holidays were the best time of the year.

Mama would start cooking two days before Thanksgiving, and wouldn't stop until New Year's. Back then, everyone came over to their house to eat. Grandparents on both sides, aunts and uncles, cousins, the neighbors from down the street, old folks from church who didn't have family of their own. The joke was that Dad went out to shop for presents, and ended up bringing home souls.

Eric was Mama's helper in the kitchen, standing on a stool when he was still too short to reach the counter top, and later, standing tall and proud as Mama pointed out to everyone who came by the dishes that Eric had made all by himself.

R.J. was older by three years, always heading out with his friends as soon as he got off the bus. He'd drop in just long enough to throw his book bag down in the hallway, grab a cookie or two from the kitchen, and change out of his school clothes. Eric never played with the neighborhood kids, and R.J. only stayed inside if he was grounded.

The cousins, though, had always come over to stay for Christmas holidays, and they were a loud, raucous, fun bunch. Their fun was everyone else's delinquency, but Mama had a way of cutting her eyes that made sons and cousins alike want to sit themselves down and shut themselves up.

Time moves on, of course, and the cousins were now grown folks themselves, with houses and kids and jobs and bills. R.J. was doing time, and Dad had long since gave up on saving any soul but his own. Mama just sat and stared, moving when told, sitting when told, sleeping when told. Gone were the days when she ruled her kitchen with an iron fist, and dared her husband to say a word out of line.

Eric wasn't Eric anymore, either. Hadn't been in years. He was Foreman, now, and he rarely gave his first name without prompting. He barely remembered to answer when Aunt Dee called his name over the dinner table.

She was asking about the possibility of a family, wife and kids and all the things he'd given up on years ago. He wasn't sure how to answer. If he should answer. He winced inwardly when Charlie (middle son, Aunt Dee's favorite, Mama always called him 'Jughead') said, "You know Eric's on the down low, Mama." On the outside, he was calm and cool, his bedside demeanor standing him in good stead, even here.

"What do you know about being down low, Charlie boy?" he asked pointedly, every ounce of sarcasm in his body trained with deadly accuracy. Charlie's mouth was pouted childishly, but his shrewd eyes were cold, calculating. Jealousy his motive, because his mama hadn't worked her fingers to the bone to save money for his college, and he'd never forgiven Foreman the fact. Never mind that Mama's savings hadn't barely put a dent in his school loans. That was beside the point.

"Not half as much as you," Charlie hazarded, but Dee smacked his arm, effectively silencing the exchange.

"Hush up, you boys. Children present." They nodded their heads, replying 'yes ma'am' as if they weren't the both of them grown men. Foreman forced himself to sit still, no fidgeting, eating the dry turkey and drier dressing as if he'd never had better. Damned if he'd let them see how irritated he was by the entire notion of Christmas, much less Charlie's (frustratingly accurate) accusations. If House couldn't sweat him, they sure as hell couldn't.

Speak of the devil, as they say, and in he walks. Or pages, as the case may be.

"It's Christmas, Eric! They can't make you work today," Aunt Dee says.

"Unfortunately, they can. I've got the beeper." He didn't add that Chase was actually on call, as he had been for every holiday since becoming House's fellow. Nor did he add that there weren't in any cases in the Diagnostics Department yesterday when he left, and that Cuddy was unlikely to pass one to them on Christmas Day. Hopefully, this was some bizarre case so tangled that it needed their attention immediately...or at least a neurologist's attention.

Ignoring his cell phone for the privacy of the bedrooms, Foreman ducked into the hallway, shoving open the door to his and R.J.'s old room. R.J's clothes and CDs were still littering the floor, as if he'd never left. One of the kids was sacked out on the bed, covered with a blanket, thumb poked in his mouth. He didn't want to wake the boy, so he sidled into his parents' room, knocking softly before entering.

Mama was lying down, her eyes half-lidded, talking softly to herself. Foreman's entrance didn't disturb her, she didn't even recognize the intrusion. Her voice would rise and fall, as if in conversation, although he couldn't tell to whom she thought she was talking.

"Sorry, Mama," he whispered, and she smiled, more at his tone than anything else. He longed to hug her, to reassure her, but any embrace seemed to agitate her.

Grasping the phone, Foreman struggled with the emotions that threatened his composure. There was nothing he could do for her, no test that hadn't been given, no treatment that hadn't been attempted. Sometimes, these things just happened.

The number was, surprisingly enough, House's cell phone. So rarely seen was the number that it took Foreman a couple of seconds to place it. House always called from the hospital phone or his home phone. If he had to use a cell phone, he almost always snagged Wilson's.

Dialing the unfamiliar number, Foreman braced himself for House's inevitable insults. Usually, they didn't bother him at all, but in this house, today, he was as far away from Dr. Foreman as he was from little Eric.

Baby, it's cold outside, came from the earpiece, and Foreman almost dropped the phone. That rumbling baritone was always saying shocking things, but nothing was more shocking than when it was used musically.

"Pretty," Foreman commented, without a hint of sarcasm. "Please tell me you have a case."

"Even better," was House's reply, "I've got a car."

Foreman frowned. This was going to be one of House's stupid riddles, or something equally frustrating. "What kind of car?" he asked, hoping for some holiday leniency.

"What is this, twenty questions? Get out here, and see for yourself." A click, and the line was dead.

"What the hell?" Foreman said, then added quickly, "Sorry, Mama." He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead, and she giggled, though she immediately returned to her invisible interview.

He closed the door softly behind him, just as Aunt Dee called his name. "Eric, it's some man in the front yard," she began, Foreman's nod cutting off the rest.

"That's my boss," he explained, "He needs me at the hospital. I'm just grabbing my coat, and telling everyone goodbye."

Dee peered out of the curtains suspiciously, her curiosity piqued. "Your boss drives that car?" She sounded both envious and disbelieving.

"Double specialty," he answered, putting his arms through his coat sleeves and pulling on his gloves. He carried his hat under one arm, knowing his Dad would have a fit if he saw Eric wearing it inside. "And a Department Head. That's where all the money is." God, he wondered, exactly who the hell did House steal a car from on Christmas Day?

"Oh, Eric, that's what you need to do," she said, her tone admonishing. "All that school, and your car's every bit of three years old."

"Yes ma'am," he said, which was not an answer, but gave him enough time to give her a kiss and hug. He escaped everyone else by waving, explaining hurriedly, "Sorry to eat and run, but I've got work." A slight polite murmur of dissent, but he doubted anyone would really miss him. They barely even knew him anymore.

He found his father outside, poking around in the grass, looking for a piece to some toy that one of the kids had dropped. "Don't step out here!" he warned, and Foreman immediately hopped back onto the tiny slab of concrete.

"Dammit," he yelped, eyeing the bottom of his shoe. "Sorry, Dad, didn't mean to curse. I think I found it." A wail arose from the farthest corner of the backyard, as Foreman handed over the broken piece of plastic.

Rodney smiled, calling out to the little one, "That's enough now. I'll get it fixed up for you." The wailing quieted somewhat, although sniffles could still be heard as the child approached.

"Just came to tell you I'm leaving," Foreman said, "House is out front." He didn't bother with the lie, he knew that his father would instantly see through it. He didn't think his Dad would care all that much, anyway.

Rodney pulled him into a hug, whispering, "Well, it was good to see you." He let go, immediately turning to the still-sniffling little girl. She was R.J.'s baby daughter, he realized, wondering how he'd missed her.

"Alicia, did your Mama just bring you over?" he asked, using his best kid voice. Alicia frowned up at him, wiping her nose sullenly on her sleeve.

"Yessir," she replied, her feelings obviously still hurt. "You broke my toy, Uncle Eric."

"Alright then, baby girl, I'm sorry," Foreman said, pulling out his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

Rodney grimaced, but Alicia's hand was already closing over a twenty. Her three companions, Charles' little girl and boys, also got a twenty each for their trouble. After a hug from each kid and another hug for his Dad, Foreman escaped out through the gate.

House was leaning negligently against the hood of the most luscious piece of car that Foreman had laid eyes on in years. "Hurry up, you're wasting daylight," he growled, throwing the toothpick that he'd been chewing to the ground. Foreman could almost swear that he heard Aunt Dee's horrified gasp from the window.

"That's an M5," Foreman pointed out, "Who the hell let you drive their BMW?" His fingers ached to run themselves lovingly over every inch of stunning blue perfection.

"Don't even think about touching her," House barked, adding, "She's a rental. Unless we decide to run away to Tijuana, then she's all ours." He braced himself against the open car door, throwing his cane into the back seat. "Get in, won't you. I'm starting to feel exposed out here."

Foreman laughed, knowing how every neighbor on the street was probably staring out of their window blinds, just like Aunt Dee. "You'll be fine. I won't let them get you."

House smirked, levering himself behind the steering wheel, and Foreman obediently slid into the passenger's seat. "You didn't answer my question. Who the hell let you rent and drive their BMW?" He made a grab for his seat belt, not trusting House's driving abilities anywhere near as much as he trusted his medical abilities, but House's scoffing laughter made him put the seat belt back in its place.

"Don't worry, I'm a doctor. If anything happens to you, I'll be sure to give you mouth to mouth," House said with a leer, starting the car with a flourish, gunning the engine.

"V10?" Foreman said, with something akin to religious fervor.

"V10, my son. Hallelujah!" House's move from clutch to accelerator was seamless, his shifting flawless. "And they didn't let me rent this car." He weaved expertly through the residential street, avoiding parked cars and playing children with less annoyance than Foreman would have imagined.

"So this is my Christmas present? A high-speed chase from the cops?"

"I said they didn't let me rent this car. This car is rented, however. Thank Jimmy for this little jaunt, next time you see him."

Foreman smiled, relaxing against the cool softness of the seats. "Your Christmas present, then." He tried to keep the interrogatory tone out of his voice, the one that pissed House off so much with Cameron. If House wanted a person to know something about him, he told them. Direct questioning only irritated him.

"If you consider stealing Jimmy's credit card and forging his signature the proper way to go about getting Christmas presents." Free of the subdivision, House quickly found a main road, accelerating well past the speed limit. Foreman was just glad he hadn't been drinking. He couldn't say as much for House.

"Have you been dipping in the eggnog?" he asked, and was not surprised when House's vague gesture toward the back seat revealed a stash of not only eggnog, but also something far more intriguing.

"Mistletoe? Subtle."

"I was going for a theme."

Foreman smiled despite himself, ignoring the eggnog, choosing instead to grab a beer. "Still cold," he said appreciatively. Shrugging, he pulled out another, pressing it into House's waiting palm. "If we get pulled over, I don't know you."

"Tell them I kidnapped you. It has the virtue of being true." House's gaze never left the road, but he might as well have trained those familiar piercing eyes directly at Foreman, daring him to comment.

Instead, he swigged his beer, forcing himself to relax, eyes shuttering closed. The growl of the engine was comforting, lulling, but he was no longer tired. The numbing weariness that had gnawed at him since arriving at his parents was gone, replaced by something that remotely resembled contentment.

"Best kidnapping I've ever been involved in," he murmured. He wondered what else he would find in the back seat. House never did anything without purpose, and Foreman found it hard to believe that House would seek out his company for no reason at all.

Eyes still closed, he couldn't counter House's move for his beer, although he immediately missed the smooth coolness of the longneck between his thighs. "Yours tastes better," House explained, before Foreman had a chance to protest. Chuckling, he allowed the theft, and also the slow, lingering return.

"Why me?" he asked, although he didn't feel the burn of curiosity that he had in the early days of the fellowship. Foreman had learned with time that just because House had a reason for everything he did, that didn't mean he understood those reasons himself. Nor did he expect honesty from House, either, as the man was more likely to lie to himself than to anyone else.

House drove on, shrouded in silence, but though he didn't seem angry, he didn't answer either. He didn't seem to have a particular destination in mind, either, but Foreman really didn't mind. They were passing through the busiest parts of town, and House was preoccupied with downshifting and avoiding the Sunday drivers.

"Who the hell is out driving on Christmas day?" he grumbled, and Foreman grinned at his cloudy expression.

"People like us." The misfits, he didn't add, the assholes, the black sheep. He didn't have to.

House gunned the engine coming out of the intersection, tires squealing, earning a few choice curse words, some rude gestures, and a honking horn. His smirk was tinged with pride, a look that Foreman recognized from the hospital.

"So what's the plan? You just keep driving until we run out of gas? Or until I ask you sweetly?" Foreman asked bluntly.

"You'd never ask me sweetly. That's part of your charm."

And that, Foreman realized, was as close to an answer as he could ever hope to receive. Reaching behind the driver's seat, he snagged the mistletoe, pitching it into House's lap.

House's laugh was unforced; his reckless turn into an empty parking lot, spraying gravel, made Foreman laugh as well. The laugh died in his throat as House turned off the car, lunging at him, attacking his mouth with tongue and teeth, a kiss that was more like a pitched battle than anything soft or romantic.

"Foreman," House growled, biting recklessly, and he would have drawn blood if Foreman hadn't taken over, slowing the pace, sucking softly at House's lower lip until it was swollen, sore.

"Eric," he corrected, loving the feel of that caustic mouth on his, the bitter tinge of nutmeg and cinnamon (he had been in the eggnog, after all), made Christmas more real for him than it had been in years. Not that he actually expected House to ever call him by his first name.

"Foreman," House said again, rumbling dangerously, his hands drifting intimately over Foreman's shoulders, his back, insinuating themselves somehow under the hem of his shirt. Foreman quickly gained freedom from his coat, launching it in the general direction of the backseat.

"Fine," he said, nipping gently at House's jawline, "Have it your way."

"Don't I always?" Those sneaky fingers were moving for his belt, but Foreman caught them just in time.

Why not Wilson? Just tell me that." He couldn't explain why it mattered, but it bothered him, not knowing. He didn't want to be some consolation prize. He had enough of that already.

House dropped his eyes, and Foreman realized that whatever he said, it would be the truth. At least, the truth as House knew it. "He cares too much. I don't think you care at all."

Foreman winced, pushing House's hands away. That was a bit more truth than he had been prepared to deal with, not that he hadn't asked for it.

"You asked," House murmured, but he was already turning away, buttoning a few buttons that had somehow come undone.

Foreman ran an unsteady hand over his head, regretting the question, but still a bit glad for the answer. He still wanted House, still wanted those hands and that mouth and everything else that went along with it. What did it matter what House thought of him? House was an uncaring, unfeeling bastard himself.

Somehow, he found himself speaking, although he'd made no conscious effort to do so. "It's not that I don't care. I used to care, I used to be able to care. When I was a kid..." His voice trailed off, as he set to righting his own clothes.

House had turned towards him and was regarding him closely, intently, but he said nothing, throwing the car into gear angrily. Lowering the window, he flung the mistletoe onto the gravel, peeling out onto the street.

Foreman opened his mouth, hesitated, then went for it, "Y'know what? Fuck it. You're right, I don't care." He leaned over the center console, feeling like a fool, his hand grasping House's nape possessively. His teeth grazed the soft, sweet earlobe, and House gasped. The gasp became a moan as Foreman's tongue licked along the shell of House's ear.

"Good. Glad you don't," House began, but he seemed incapable of driving, talking, and having his ear sucked on at the same time. Useful information, that.

"Take me to a motel. I'll show you just how much I don't care." Foreman slithered out of his shirt, pitching it out of the window, although he did make sure to save the cuff-links first. Those were a Christmas present.

He was cold, shivering in his undershirt, but he felt warm, flushed, a little drunk, no matter that he'd only had one beer. How had he gotten here, how had he reached this point? Was sex with House, his boss, worth the trouble it would cause? Would he be satisfied with just sex, of being House's getaway vehicle?

"On second thought," he said, snagging his jacket from the backseat, "Take me home."

"You're worse than the homecoming queen on prom night," House griped, but Foreman noticed that his hands were white-knuckling the steering wheel.

"Maybe I want more from you," Foreman said, adding when he saw House's horrified look, "And maybe I don't, but you're going to have to work for whatever you want from me."

"This hasn't been work? Seems like you're working me over pretty good."

"You're the one who sprung this shit on me. Don't expect me to feel flattered because Wilson wasn't available, and Chase is on call."

"Is that what you think?" House actually sounded confused.

"I don't know what to think. Of course, if you actually were interested in more than just throwing me over any available surface..."

"Here it comes." Now he sounded like a henpecked husband. House did "put-upon" better than any man alive.

"You'd come suffer through the rest of Christmas with me. Drink Dad's non-alcoholic eggnog, attempt to dodge Aunt Dee's pointed questions, have Charlie-boy cast aspersions on your character."

"Beer and mistletoe should be enough, I don't see why..."

"I'm not finished. Eat leftover turkey sandwiches, take a stab at guessing what Cousin 'Drea put in the potato salad, let the kids crawl in your lap and show you their Christmas gifts. Let the baby slobber on your neck."

"If you want to see me humiliated, there are easier ways to go about it."

Foreman shook his head, reaching for another beer behind the seat. He didn't give House one this time, choosing instead to pass his over after taking the first sip. "Not humiliated. I want to see you be human. If I have to fake it, you can too."

"Why? Why is that necessary? I thought you wanted to get away from it."

"I do. I hate Christmas. I didn't always, though."

House drank thoughtfully, giving up the bottle quietly when Foreman snagged it from him. "Just say I do this. What's in it for me?"

Foreman pulled at the beer, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, "Whatever. I figure, if you actually sit through all that, then you must be serious. Otherwise, there are easier ways to get a quick fuck on Christmas. Hookers, for one."

"Chase, for another."

"I was joking about that."

"I'm not."

Foreman laughed, stowing the empty beer bottle under the seat. A travesty in this car, of course, but if he was ruining one good thing, he felt like ruining them all. "And we take the kids to see Christmas lights."

"What a waste of a perfectly good back seat. We could have sex on that back seat."

"Yeah, 'cause that'll work so well with your leg."

"Bastard." House didn't seem angry, though, he actually sounded resigned. Maybe a little bit proud. Foreman wondered if this had all been one of House's insane experiments.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence. It wasn't exactly companionable, but it wasn't angry or strained. It was simply quiet, neither of them knowing exactly what to say.

The rest of the afternoon passed exactly as Foreman had said it would. Rodney was welcoming, and it struck Foreman as odd that he was the one bringing home souls now, if House actually had a soul. The other members of the family was standoffish at first, not knowing exactly what to say, but football and food are universal.

"Fuck!" House cried at a particularly moronic play, immediately excusing himself for cursing in front of the children. The mothers smiled, mostly because their husbands had been doing the same thing all day. Foreman chuckled, throwing a can of Pepsi at House, who eyed it and him with a look that spoke volumes.

The baby did drool on his shoulder, and spit up on him for good measure. The kids demanded that the stranger look at each and every one of their gifts, a burden which House shared with Foreman. Dee did ask questions, but House's typical blunt answers quickly put an end to that. She didn't much care for the questions she got in return.

House received appreciative nods from the family for figuring out Cousin 'Drea's addition to the potato salad, "Horseradish and coriander, though the why of it escapes me." Aspersions were cast, but by this time, Dee's oldest son (Lawrence Jr.) had taken a shine to House, and Charlie was emphatically told where he could find the door.

The little ones were rounded up, permission gained from exhausted mothers, and the Viper was filled with five loud, raucous, sugar-hyped children. Alicia had appropriated Foreman's lap for her own, leaving the four in the back to fight for position. The thumb sucker (Julius) and the crybaby (Anika) had to be separated, but once House began his scathing commentary on Christmas lights, all the children listened quietly, in rapt fascination.

Rolling down the window at one particularly horrible offender, House yelled his thoughts about the house's decorations, which sent Foreman and the kids into peals of laughter. The owner of the house stepped outside, and the speedy getaway only made it that much funnier.

Votes were cast for best, worst, most lights, least lights, and so on. When the kids started fussing, House turned into a McDonald's, ordering everyone out of the car.

"I'm not having fun," House announced as he passed Foreman a tray. The brightness of his eyes begged to differ.

"Sure you aren't," Foreman said, opening ketchup packets with his teeth.

"I'm not," House said, snaking out a long arm to retrieve the youngest of the kids as he raced by. "Eat or be eaten," he ordered, swinging Marcus around to sit beside him.

"Okay," was all Foreman said, fighting a laugh. The rest of the meal was spent quietly pointing out various customers, and giving them silly names according to their appearance, and playing with the Happy Meal toys in ways they were never meant to be played with. "I hope one of you puts out an eye," Foreman scolded, which lead to a hilarious pantomime led by House, that lasted all of the way to the car.

Back home, the kids were deposited with their respective (and now gratefully refreshed) mothers, and Foreman ducked away to grab his things. In the dining room, Rodney began to regale House with tales of Foreman as a little boy, and the rest of the family quickly joined in.

Before they could get to the really embarrassing parts, they were interrupted by the entrance of Foreman's mother. She was peeking childishly around the door to the hallway, shying away when her sister came to take her back to bed.

Foreman appeared behind them, overnight bag in hand, and was shocked when his mother turned and threw her arms around his neck. "Eric," she said, her voice husky, tired. He dropped the bag, putting both arms around her. She didn't say another word, and after a moment, she pulled away, although she didn't return to her bedroom.

"You want to come this way, Mama?" Foreman asked, walking into the living room. She ignored him, crossing instead into the dining room, standing beside House's chair. He made as if to stand, but she put her hand on his shoulder. She was whispering to herself, words only she could hear, and after a moment, she moved away, wandering back to her room.

House's eyes met Foreman's questioningly, but there was nothing to say. He wished that he could say it was some kind of sign, approval of some sort, but more than likely she had only wanted to see who the stranger with the deep (and loud) voice was in her home.

It had been nice, though, nicer than he could have hoped. All of it, and he honestly couldn't remember having enjoyed Christmas this much since he was a child. Who would have thought it would be House that would give that feeling back to him?

"You did good," he said, walking House outside to his car.

"I can pretend," House murmured, "If that's what you want."

"No. I don't want that." He meant it, too. He much preferred House in his natural, jackass form. He said as much, as House maneuvered himself into the car. He looked exhausted.

"If you find out what you do want, can you let me know?"

Foreman reached out, his palm skating over House's cheek. Despite himself, House leaned into the gesture, eyes closing. "You're so tired," Foreman said, leaning in and kissing him chastely on the mouth. "I don't think you can drive."

House tilted his head thoughtfully, and Foreman moved in again, House's lips opening underneath his, allowing his tongue to slip through. "Your entire family is probably watching, you realize," he warned, between tongue strokes.

"Just the one that counts," Foreman said. "Let me drive you somewhere." He stood up, waving smartly at Aunt Dee, the blinds snapping back into place as soon as he did.

"What about your car?"

"I'll come get it tomorrow morning. Do you want me to come with you or not?"

He didn't have to say anything, relinquishing the keys was answer enough. Foreman took his place with a smile, wondering at his own daring, knowing that the neighbors would be gossipping about this for at least a week. Probably more.

"I'm not calling you Eric," House groused as he settled into the passenger's seat.

"Good. I'm not calling you Greg." Foreman turned the key, reveling in the power shuddering beneath his palms. He imagined that having House shuddering beneath him would be even more powerful, invigorating, wondrous.

"I threw out the mistletoe." He almost sounded apologetic.

"We won't need it."

He was right. They didn't.