alwaysright | October 29, 2007

October 29, 2007 - Evening

Nothing around here works the way it's supposed to work.

Of everything their John Doe--Robert Elliot--had said when Foreman had been with him, that was what rang the most true. It was stupid to think that talking with a patient with Giovianni's syndrome could change anything, least of all how he saw himself. The guy wasn't psychic; he was only picking up on the cues that Foreman had dropped inadvertently. Changing because of that was worse than stupid. It would imply that not only was Foreman ignorant about his own feelings and what he wanted, but also that he was spineless enough to act differently because of a stranger's neurological disorder. Foreman made his own choices. He wasn't looking for any advice, whether it was his own reflected back at him or not.

After the day's humiliation, Foreman had been more sure than ever that Princeton wasn't the right place for him. Less than an hour later, Chase had come up to him, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and laughingly asked if it was true.

Foreman fixed him with a furious stare. "I didn't know she worked here. And I didn't have to beg her every day for weeks."

Chase, far from being offended, just grinned wider. "Once a week. Anyway, I heard Amber was the one calling the shots."

Foreman didn't bother pointing out that Cameron walked all over Chase on a daily basis. "I have to run a biopsy," he said, turning to walk away, his shoulders hunched as he pushed his fists into his pockets.

"She seems like just your type!" Chase called after him. "Did you ever consider lightening up and enjoying yourselves?"

Fat chance of that. Not with the whole hospital in on the joke and watching. For what it was worth, Foreman didn't have to work with Amber directly for the rest of the day. Both of them were too busy running cultures and keeping the patient alive. Foreman let House do whatever crazy thing entered his mind. He didn't have any illusions about being able to stop him today, and Foreman was more interested in keeping his head down. In thinking about how to get away.

But when House sidled up to him with a job offer from Mount Zion, Foreman's first thought wasn't to jump at the opportunity. It wasn't even to suspect that House was having him on, dangling the possibility with every intention of yanking it away the second Foreman seemed likely to believe it was real.

His first thought had been, I can't go yet.

That had surprised him more than anything, made him stop and frown once he'd finally shaken House off. After having his affairs aired in the middle of a differential like a choice piece of gossip he couldn't believe that there was any reason not to take up the job hunt again. Farther afield, where the hospitals wouldn't have heard of him, or had their diagnostics cases redirected to Princeton-Plainsboro, so that they'd only know House by his reputation, not by personal experience. Maybe as far away as California; Foreman still had contacts there.

But he didn't want to go.

Partly it was the medicine. He'd felt in the thick of it again today. Working against the clock to solve a case. Challenged, following the clues from one to the next. He'd always loved that, even if he hadn't been happy working for House. But partly, Foreman knew, it was Amber, and he didn't know what do about that. He'd been shot down enough, rejected enough, that he should want to stay away from her just to avoid any more scenes like this morning's. Even so, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Wondering what she really felt and whether the attitude she'd shown in front of House was all there was.

Well, it didn't matter. He wasn't going to ask. Once the case was solved, all Foreman wanted to do was gather his things and escape. It was late, and dark, and he headed for the doors slowly, already knowing he wouldn't have the same luck he'd had on Thursday. Nothing worked out the way it should.

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"For now," Amber retorted, answering his teasing with flippant joviality. Figured that Eric's mood would brighten right up at the reminder of what status symbols he did have. Still. Watching him ease into an unfeigned smile as he opened up to her, it made Amber lighter, like a helium balloon weaving up into the air. Even his grasp changed, his accusatory grip relaxing into a gentle, yet firm, hold. How good it was, to think they could put their crap few days behind them. "Just you wait, one day, my ranking will be so high my parking space will be inside the hospital. Right next to my beautiful office with the prettiest view and a gold plaque with my name on it."

She'd picked up more than just the taunting in his statement, though. Amber laced her fingers through his, pressing up against him, their arms now aligned. She warmed up from more than just the extra contact. If she weren't so hungry-- and if they didn't have a plateful of issues to discuss before they threw themselves too much into a second try-- she'd be suggesting they leave dinner for later. "Until then, we can take your car. That is, if you don't mind driving me to work tomorrow morning." Fully aware of how cheesy her innuendo was, Amber smirked anyway.

With a chuckle, Foreman listened to Amber's grand plans. "I'm sure Cuddy will be thrilled with the redecorating."

His smile widened, a rush of anticipation running through him. "I think I can drop you off, since it's on my way," he said. When she said start over, apparently she meant throwing herself back into this with all the enthusiasm as the first time. Damn, he liked that about her. Foreman felt the same way, all the more because he knew how much fun they could have together. It might not happen in the same easy, expectation-free way, but Foreman had learned enough about Amber that he thought he could make it better for her, and he had no doubt that she could satisfy him. He wasn't sure what to make of the fact that she'd apparently dismissed House from her consideration. The two of them walking in together tomorrow would set House back on his heels. But if Amber didn't care, then Foreman was fine with not considering House's feelings at all. It was the fact that Amber had kicked him aside that had made him a good target for House's mockery. If he was with Amber, he wouldn't give a rat's ass about anything House said.

He took his keys from his pocket and remote-unlocked his car as they approached it, reluctantly letting go of Amber's hand so that they could get in. "You navigate," he said. Then, with a snort at his own expense, he admitted, "I take directions pretty well."

Déjà-vu washed over Amber as she entered the car, taking in the scent of leather mixed lightly with Eric's. The first and last time he'd driven her anywhere, she'd expected fun, flirting, fucking; instead, she'd ended up on a bus. That, in a way, had been her own doing. She'd been self-righteously furious, offended at Eric's manipulation. Disappointed that the guy she was into had screwed with her so much, Amber hadn't cared to consider his side of the story. And, sure, he'd done a terrible job coming clean to hear, messing up in his timing and method, but she'd understood and forgiven him, and that was that.

She'd just better not wind up on the curb again. If it happened a second time, she wouldn't be nearly as forgiving.

At the moment, though, Amber's mood was still headed upwards, floating, floating. Eric was laughing at himself, making jokes about taking orders, a subject that had him tied up in knots just minutes ago. Amber wanted to kiss him, him and that good humor. But then she'd want another kiss, and more besides, and while House might consider live porn more incentive to hire her, Amber did want that dinner.

So she settled for nestling in her seat, heating herself up. “Sometimes,” Amber conceded, thinking back to how he'd followed her lead on Thursday, in accepting her offer for drinks and obeying when she'd ordered him to make her come, against the wall. But he didn’t give in to all her whims; she’d been serious about finding a secluded spot in the bar, a bathroom or something, and having each other without the pesky wait. She was still sorry he’d refused. "When it suits you. Otherwise, you put up a fight.” Amber raised an eyebrow, playfully defying him to contradict her. “But since you’ve officially made me the captain, it’s on the main avenue downtown, Washington.”

Foreman smirked, keeping his eyes on the road with some difficulty. He kept wanting to slide his gaze over to Amber, take in her expression, the easy way she curled up in his car, as if she was queen of all she surveyed. Yeah, it suited him to do what Amber asked, because he'd rarely seen anyone react so much, and so gratifyingly, to having her way. The memory of her gasps and cries--the way she'd bitten him, Christ--made him lean back in his seat, his grin growing wider, feeling satisfied. For that, he could do a hell of a lot. "I think you like the fight," he said. Her eyes narrowed when she didn't get her way, and she paused just long enough to assess the situation before fighting back even harder. And if that was the way she wanted it, he could give her that too. It wasn't often anyone pushed him for something more. Something different. Maybe that was what had been missing with Wendy; they'd been too willing to settle, to let good enough be good enough. Amber wanted not only more, but different. Foreman wasn't sure he always liked that, but so far, the occasional twinge of discomfort made the whole experience stronger.

He followed her directions, heading downtown. "Dinner's on me," he said. "I won two hundred bucks off Chase today." He glanced over at her this time, wondering how she'd take the news, but since she'd rather he was honest with her than withhold anything about her job, he was going to make sure it was out in the open. It hadn't been that hard to figure out Chase and House's game after House convinced Brennan to stick with the job when he wanted to walk out. None of them were fired, and Foreman had doubled his money in the pool without breaking a sweat.

"But, Eric," Amber flashed her teeth at him, "I'm a peace-lover, not a fighter. I only want what's best for everyone." He was right, though. She thrived on challenges. So did he, she could see that same spirit in him; it was a quality she admired. Though, from his earlier moping, Eric seemed also to be a sore loser.

Right now, he was all winner, confident the way he'd been on Thursday. In fact, he had literally won. Amber sighed, leaning her elbow against the cool window, arching her hand against her forehead in support. "I can't believe no one was fired! I thought for sure Brennan or Kutner would get axed." The fact that everyone was still around, it felt like a failure on her part. At least she hadn't been able to pay those five hundred dollars, that'd spared a blow to her pride. "I'll let you pay, since it's partially thanks to me you got that money."

"Now that you've met the others, what do you think of them? Think they stand a chance against me?" Amber knew Eric held House's contest in contempt, but it was the center of her life right now, and she wouldn't act as if it were otherwise. She had her own opinions about each and every one of the candidates, but she was curious to hear Eric's. Even if his outlook on life was dubious, as proven by his faulty notions about being wrong to win, anything he'd have to say would still be additional data.

Foreman held back a snort. Yeah, 'what was best for everyone' was what was best for Amber, with little or no room for negotiation. Or so it seemed. He shouldn't be too quick to judge. She'd changed her mind, forgiven him, and that implied that not everything was cut and dried for her. There might be room for compromise or change. That would make most fights worthwhile, not that Foreman wanted to be caught in a spiral of arguing and making up. He just hoped he'd never feel as though Amber was fighting only for the fight's sake. It would be pointless, frustrating. She was determined to be right, but that was because she'd thought out what she wanted and what mattered to her, and thankfully not necessarily because she got stuck on the details.

He shook his head when Amber mentioned Brennan or Kutner getting fired. "Chase cut House in on the pot. He wouldn't fire anyone if he could trick half the hospital into lining his pockets. He convinced Brennan to stay. It doesn't matter what anyone expects--House just wants to have his joke." He took a turn and pulled along Washington, looking for a parking space. He didn't see any problem with telling Amber his opinion of the other candidates. He had no stake in the game, or in maintaining some imaginary 'integrity' in House's contest. The thing was rigged. To pretend otherwise was to agree with House's logic that this was the best way to make hiring decisions, which Foreman wasn't going to do. "Brennan's gone. This week was a fluke; House won't consider him." Unless the man pulled something completely out of his ass. House didn't like the fact that Brennan wanted a third-world medical practice, or maybe his fiancee, more than he wanted to work for House. That was the only choice Foreman was sure about. Any of the others could walk away with the two spots. He wondered what Amber would do if she wasn't one of them, but it didn't feel like the moment to ask.

Neon lights rolled over them as they drove along. It was the only illumination Amber had to see Eric by, but she thought the various crimsons, blues, and golds flattered him. Then again, handsome the way he was, it'd take work to make him look anything less than striking. Amber smiled to herself, feeling lucky all over again, to have run into him.

"Huh.” So it hadn't been her fault she hadn't sucked less than everyone else. "That was pretty smart of him, actually. I just wish I'd known, then I could've gotten part of the cut. At least I'm getting a dinner out of it. We should get the best wine in the house, to celebrate." She winked.

Being a Monday evening in early fall, not many people were lingering downtown: a few students with nothing better to do, businessmen hurried in their suits, and other stragglers. Amber pointed out a spot right next to the restaurant. "Yeah, I have Brennan pegged as a goner. He'll do himself in, if House doesn't fire him first. What about the others? Please tell me you don't like Thirteen." Of all the other candidates, she felt like the biggest threat, with her strangeness. She could have the training of a hot-dog vendor and House would keep her around, if only to keep on playing with the puzzle. As long as Amber got hired, she didn’t really care who filled the second slot—except that she hated Thirteen’s guts, and no way House was hiring two women. If Amber and fate hadn't intervened, all the women would've been eliminated in a single stroke, last week. “No, wait, maybe it’s better you like Thirteen, if House still wants to be contrary with you.”

Foreman nodded when Amber gestured towards a parking spot not far from the restaurant's doors. He pulled in and turned the car off, trying not to grin at Amber's back and forth about what would be best--for him to like Thirteen or not. The fact was, Foreman hadn't worked with any of the other three enough today to know much about them. He hadn't noticed them except as the mass of House's entourage. He climbed out of the car and leaned on the doorframe to look back in at Amber, who looked half-worried and half-conniving, as if she was plotting to take Thirteen down--which she probably was. He held back a laugh. "I don't know. She's certainly striking."

Giving Amber a few seconds to process his teasing, Foreman closed his door and circled the car. Thirteen was attractive--he'd have to be blind not to have seen that. Not that he cared particularly. Compared to Amber, he hadn't seen that she had much substance to back up her looks. Other than that, he didn't know what her skills as a doctor or her personality was like, and how well she'd mesh--or mess--with House. Foreman waited on the sidewalk for Amber to get out, carefully making no move to open her door.

From out of the car's heated comfort and into the wind Amber stepped, shutting the door firmly behind her. "Striking, right." Striking with sheer annoyingness, that was for sure. Amber didn't see what people saw in her; she supposed Thirteen could be considered pretty, if you were into auburn hair, smoldering gazes, strong jaws, and the air of an Audrey Hepburn on a really pissy day. Personally, Amber thought it just made Thirteen all the more irritating, the way no one bothered to look past her drop-dead gorgeous appearance and her very fucked-up personality.

"Notice anything else about her, or were her looks the extent of it?" She wasn't jealous. Not at all. There was no reason to be. Eric was here with her, and that was that. She just didn't like Thirteen, that was all.

To her surprise, Eric hadn't made a move to open her door, instead waiting on the curb. From his preoccupied air, like he was at the dinner table with a full plate and didn't know if he could start eating, it seemed he was debating whether or not he should've helped her out of the car. Amber grinned, glad that he'd remembered.

On her feet, Amber slipped her arm around Eric's, hooking their elbows together. Her hand found his, curling around it. She hadn't forgotten Thirteen. "I know House likes his eye candy-- none of the uglier girls lasted long, and I've seen Cameron. Which I guess at least means Taub’s days are numbered.”

Foreman's good humour only grew as Amber got out of the car and slammed the door--he nearly asked was his poor car had done to her. She looked like the only striking she wanted to do was her fist to Thirteen's face. House must have seen that. There was no way keeping both of them hadn't been deliberate. Foreman wouldn't be surprised if visions of foxy boxing regularly floated through House's mind when he put on his expression of being 'deeply studious'. There was definitely something hot about imagining the two of them confronting each other, not that Foreman was going to say a word about that. House was the chauvinist pig; Foreman knew better than to open his big mouth.

Amber took his arm, trying to guide him back to the conversation she wanted to have, but Foreman wasn't going to make it that easy on her. He turned towards her, wrapping his free hand around her waist, squeezing her hand a bit with the other. "If I didn't know it was professional concern, I'd worry that you were jealous," he said, smiling slowly, lazily meeting her eyes. He drew her closer, taking his first opportunity to really look at her since their abortive date on Friday. Other than a few slips today, he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of seeing her, because he hadn't needed to rub it in his own face how much he'd cheated himself out of. The lights from the restaurant behind him picked up highlights in Amber's hair, made the irritated spark in her eyes shine brighter. The sidewalk wasn't busy, and Foreman felt more than warm enough with his body pressed against Amber's that he didn't mind lingering. The contrast between his front and the cold air at his back made it all the better. "She's only lobby art to him unless she's got something to prove."

Eric, the bastard, grinned, as if he were in the middle of a cinema watching the year’s best summer flick. No, as if the news had thrown in a gratuitous blip of hot women mud-wrestling—everyone scantily-clad, of course. Amber wrinkled her face, annoyed that her frustration had been met with amusement and a flair of egotistical smugness.

"There's nothing to be jealous of," Amber insisted. Really. What did Thirteen have that she didn't? No, better yet, what did Amber have that Thirteen didn't? A whole lot, Amber was sure. Like this date who was possibly turned on by her rivalry with another woman and, okay, perhaps at this moment Amber didn't think she had much over Thirteen, romance-wise. "It just struck me that you started and stopped at her looks, when I asked for an opinion."

But Eric's gaze, intense and appreciative like a caress, went a long way in untying the knots of Amber's bad humor. Strength and confidence defined his half-embrace, and it was easy to follow his lead, pressing back against him. Better than agonizing over Thirteen's attractiveness and unfair spot-stealing was the way the streetlights sketched Eric's face, the silk softness of his suit's collar. Fingering the material, Amber thought of how beneath lay cotton, skin, heart; she could sense them all, if she liked. Probably would, at some point tonight.

Amber wouldn't let go that easily, though. "I wouldn't put it past him to hire lobby art. Well, at any rate, if I need you to put on a show of liking her, we seem to have that covered."

Foreman laughed quietly. "I told you, I don't know. I barely met her." He let out an easy exhale, settling closer to Amber as she fiddled with his suit jacket. "I promise to analyze our conversations for her weaknesses, if we ever have any." Thirteen wasn't who he was interested in discussing, after all. He was more intrigued by Amber's competitiveness, now that she'd admitted it was there and he'd seen it in action himself. Maybe House's game was the way that would get the best out of her, but Foreman wondered if she'd work well on a team once House was finished pitting them against each other. He also wanted to know if her drive to be the best, to fight everyone standing in front of her, ever got in the way of Amber's ability to live her life. It wouldn't be unusual; Foreman wasn't blind to the fact that he hadn't had much of a life because he'd been so busy focusing on his career.

Well, they were here now, even if they'd been talking about work. Foreman leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips, gently, but not so lightly that he didn't feel a quick shot of excitement. "You'll do great," he said. "House might be insane, but he's not stupid." Foreman pulled back slightly and met her eyes. There was nothing to back up his reassurance, except his own assessment that Amber was an excellent doctor, and that she worked well in the differentials. Whether House would see that, or whether that would be enough, was still up in the air, but Foreman was certain that Amber was at least the equal of all the others. It might come down not to how good she was, but to House's whim, and there was nothing any of them could do about that.

"Come on, let's eat." He settled his arm around her waist and headed for the restaurant, pushing the door open for both of them. He asked the maitre d' for a table for two, and they were immediately led across the room--not much business on a Monday.

"Good boy," Amber said, appeased by Eric's quick, if mildly flippant, promise. "Try to find something that'll really do her in, like being weak to sunlight or wood stakes." And that's when she realized: she wouldn't be alone in House's game anymore. She'd been fighting it out single-handedly, and that had been fine, that's how she'd always done it. Amber fought alone, and she fought viciously. She'd never needed anyone else's help. Everyone else had only gotten in the way.

If Eric was willing to stay by her side, then... she'd have no idea what that'd be like. Her mother and others had told her she'd get further by cooperating with people, but she'd found them more hindrance than help, so she'd skipped team playing. Would Eric be any good to her, in the competition?

Amber breathed in sharply with Eric's kiss, not surprised by it, but perhaps not ready for the intimacy, not when she was reevaluating what being together meant. It'd be a whole new way of living. God, what if he were the one to need a favor, support in defying one of House's daredevil stunts on a patient? That was how group work went, wasn't it, mutual aid?

And Eric smiled at her, looking at her as if she were cast in silver. "Of course I will," Amber replied, feeling the strength of metal within. "There was never any question of that."

If nothing else, it'd be good to have someone there who didn’t hate her every fiber.

Amber was thoughtful as they walked. She barely noticed the restaurant’s subdued blues, contrasted by a wall of cherry red in the back. Eric’s arm around her waist was an anchor, keeping her from drifting away on a sea of ruminations.

“Here,” she told the maitre d’, picking a table besides a wall. “What’s the best wine you have in the house?” When he’d told her, Amber snorted. “That’s your best? Well, bring it anyway, we don’t want to do any worse.”

Foreman settled in the seat across from Amber, still discomfited by her high-handedness towards waitstaff. The maitre d' had looked surprised when she'd diverted them to the table she'd chosen, but that expression disappeared almost before Foreman had seen it. He was better at hiding his emotions than their last waiter, anyway. He accepted Amber's dismissal of the wine with a tight smile, told them the specials and that their server would be right with them, and then headed back to the front of the house. Foreman settled his coat on the back of his chair to hide his frown. He usually made it a point to be as polite as possible to anyone serving him, and to tip generously even when the service was mediocre. He'd been ignored plenty of times, and he wanted to do what he could to make up for the stereotypes working against him. He'd never get away with Amber's attitude.

It wasn't worth the hassle of bringing it up, though. He doubted he'd change Amber's mind, and it wasn't as if he couldn't ignore it. He liked the sight of her sitting across from him, knowing she was there with him, that tonight they'd be leaving together; it was worth a few uncomfortable moments. Foreman had only seen her once when she was any less than in charge--Friday night, when she'd realized what it meant that he worked for House. "What will you do if you don't get the job?" he asked. He'd wanted to know, and maybe he shouldn't ask or put her on the spot, but Amber must have thought of the possibility. Made contingency plans. That was part of staying on top: always having a plan when the first one didn't work out, instead of floundering around and being taken by surprise.

“You just said I’d do great, and now you want to know what I’ll do when I fall flat on my face and fail?” Amber curled one hand beneath her chin, drew the other towards her chest. Between this question and her realization that being with Eric would entail more than she’d imagined, she didn’t much feel like getting close and cozy. Not even straightening out the maitre d’ had made her feel any better.

“First of all, I won’t,” she stated firmly. Entertaining the notion of anything but absolute victory was a rookie mistake, especially in this case. If she even thought of losing, House would smell the fear on her, or something, and provoke her until she snapped. The best defense was never letting on you have a weakness; let House go sniff the other candidates’ butts for their fears and chase after them. “And if I did—“

She had no idea. She hadn’t thought of it.

The white tablecloth rustled against her thighs as she crossed her legs. “If I did, then I’d deal. There are other jobs out there, and I can always find some corner in need of a radiologist.” Question was, would she want any of those jobs? She’d left her last position precisely because she was tired of the radiologist routine.

At this rate, she’d have a stomachache before the waiter arrived with the menus, assuming he ever did bother to drop by their table. “Look, I’m happy to talk about work, but contemplating my hypothetical failures wasn’t how I’d pictured our evening. Tell me something about yourself.” Thinking of a question, Amber was amazed at how many popped into her mind; she knew almost nothing about this guy she was twisting herself into shapes over. “How long have you been living in Princeton-Plainsboro?”

Foreman winced when Amber rephrased his question, turning it around as if he'd meant to attack her. It wasn't an easy question, but he wondered if his own discomfort had led him to ask her something pointed. "It's realistic--" he started to defend himself, about to point out that he'd been stuck in a worse spot after he'd been fired from Mercy, but Amber talked over him. Foreman sighed. She had the right idea, not wanting to admit failure ever, but it wouldn't help her if things turned out badly. And around House, they usually did. Amber groped for words, suddenly at a loss, and Foreman pressed his lips together, berating himself for bringing it up. She looked uncertain, and then angry at her uncertainty. "I'm sorry," he said. There was something like panic, and almost sadness, around Amber's eyes, as if taking her mind off her goal for even a second could make it disappear. Their table was small enough that their knees nearly touched underneath. Foreman pressed his leg against hers, as if the pressure could be reassuring. "I trust you. I don't trust House."

It surprised him that he did trust Amber--well, trusted her to do her best, trusted her to be herself. Even more, he realized, he did want to help her. He'd been so contemptuous of House's game, he was sure he'd never get sucked in to caring about who won or who lost. His plan was to do what Cuddy asked, but otherwise keep himself aloof, so that he could at least pretend to have some sort of objectivity about the whole thing. Now, seeing Amber's expression harden for a moment before she determinedly changed the subject, Foreman found himself thinking up ways that he could rig things in her favour. And whether him helping would actually be helpful--House might take his interference as disruption of his fun, and get back at him by firing Amber. Maybe it wasn't worth it.

He focused on Amber again, pushing away all the maybes. "I moved here about four years ago, for the fellowship," he said. "I was in LA for my residency before that." He shook his head, remembering his third day on the job--the first time House had bothered to show up. "My first case, House told me he didn't hire me because I was good, but because I'd been an idiot kid--got myself into trouble for breaking and entering. He had my juvenile record, all of it. I'd never been so pissed off." It wasn't a story Foreman liked to share, but he didn't doubt Amber would find out eventually, if only because House decided to share at story time, and he thought it might cheer her up, to know that deviousness was definitely on the list of qualities House liked.

Amber shrugged. There wasn't really anything to apologize for, and it was a fair question. She might've asked it of him, if their situations had been reversed. She would've wondered before, because a true winner always has a backup in case Plan A doesn't work out, but she hadn't wanted to psyche herself out by developing plans B and onward. "It's okay, I just don't want to think about it."

He slipped his leg along hers, rubbing softly, and Amber couldn't not react, her motion automatic. She pressed back against him, even as she realized that he was trying to calm her down, turn her away from the fact that he'd asked an awkward question. Well. He certainly was able to illicit physical reactions from her. But that he could get to her viscerally, that was why she'd flirted with him and asked him out, wasn't it? Her attraction to him was how they'd ended up here.

His anecdote worked to distract her where the touch hadn't, though. Amber leaned forward, her hands clasping over the table. "Wow, I'd almost not believe that, but it is House. Do Chase and Cameron have criminal records, too?" Amber briefly pondered stealing, so as to add "theft" on her resumé, but discarded the idea, since she couldn't practice medicine from jail. It’d be taking the lesson too literally, anyway. "And, wait, you committed a felony?" She thought of Eric's pristine image and grace, how hard he worked to maintain his composure. "That actually explains a lot."

The return press of Amber's leg against his made Foreman want to go farther. It wouldn't take much to rest his hand on her knee under the table, just over the edge of her skirt. He wouldn't, not yet anyway; it was too soon into their dinner, and he didn't want to seem like all he was there for was the physical side. They had more between them than that, even though he didn't want to keep his hands to himself. It was too easy to touch her. Too easy to get involved, to want more, and it made him question all over again why he'd asked--practically begged--for a second chance with her. Was it really that powerful, whatever they felt between them? The way he couldn't stop watching her, brushing his leg against hers, reacting to her, made him think so. How could he throw himself into this, knowing how much he felt, when there were still no guarantees about how it would turn out?

Foreman snorted, trying to imagine Cameron or Chase surviving any brush with the police more traumatic than getting a speeding ticket. "No, they don't," he said. Over three years, they'd all figured out about each other what made House hire them, and 'competence' was never first on the list. Foreman wasn't going to tell their secrets to Amber, though. She'd already heard the rumour that Cameron had slept with House--it wasn't true, but that sort of thing could circle the hospital grapevine for years. Probably--although Foreman hadn't heard it himself--his record was part of that gossip chain, too. "Yeah," he said. He shook his head. It was hard to reconcile the teenager he'd been with who he was now. It was even harder when he could never quite forget the adrenaline rush of doing something he knew he shouldn't, that he knew he could get caught for. He met Amber's eyes, wondering if she'd really understand. "My friends wanted stuff they could pawn. They showed me how to force a lock. I never did it for the money, it was just--" There'd always been enough money--not for top of the line stuff, but enough, and his parents saw to it he and Marcus never missed out on a few special treats now and then. It had been...something, anything, that was against the rules. He'd been following rules all his life, and he supposed, since then, he'd gone right back to the straight and narrow. He let out a short breath, raising his eyebrows. "It was fun. Until I got caught."

He pressed his lips together, not sure why he was telling Amber any of this. He didn't much like the fact that she thought it explained something about him, either. He was glad when their waiter arrived, bringing the wine and two glasses as well as menus for them, taking him off the hook for answering any more questions immediately.

As might be expected from someone detailing past crimes, Eric seemed discomforted, shaking his head, forehead frowning. Still his leg remained firm, almost hot, against hers, and he fastened on a strong gaze. It was like he was challenging her to criticize him while simultaneously admitting to what he'd done wrong. Pride and humility, all in one.

Amber's desire for him came roaring back.

A table was suddenly too much to have between them, the brushing of a couple of limbs not nearly enough. But the middle of a confession about poor decisions didn't seem the right time to climb into his lap, and even if it were, once they started, Amber wouldn't want to stop.

She listened carefully to Eric's tight voice. It sounded like typical teenager misdemeanors, the rebellion anyone went through. But he'd faced a bigger retribution than some did. "I've never stolen anything," Amber admitted. "Except from my brothers, and my parents. And there were the scavenger hunts in college, I stole for those, and I took House's keys to wash his car." Amber paused, then remembered. "I stole someone's notes, too, but she deserved it." She'd never thought about it before, but she really had done her share of thievery, always with the belief it was the right thing to do. "Okay, 'never' probably isn't the right word."

But she got it, the stealing hadn't been the point. "The fun always comes before getting caught." That was part of the appeal of working with House: they had a near blank check for rule-breaking. They got caught, sure, but they weren't punished.

Amber lifted her glass of wine. "To second chances," she said, thinking not just of Eric's past, but the fact that they were drinking together again, that they hadn't given up on each other. She had no idea where they'd end up, but she was glad to have the chance to find out.

Foreman wasn't sure what to make of Amber's list at first. She couldn't really compare those tiny thefts to his juvenile record. He'd barely scraped through without having to serve a sentence in the young offenders' centre. The fact that it was his first conviction and that his dad had been been nearly shaking with anger beside him when he'd agreed to community service and probation instead were the only things that had saved him. They hadn't saved Marcus, two years later. Amber might have shoplifted for a scavenger hunt--for a game--but that wasn't anywhere near as serious. He shouldn't have told her. She didn't really understand.

Or maybe she did. Partly, in any case--the thrill, the excitement, that she'd obviously felt before. Foreman's eyes widened at the low sound of Amber's voice. The way her teeth caught her lower lip on the word fun had him thinking along other lines completely. She'd wanted to fuck him right on the dance floor of the last place she'd taken him. At the time he'd thought she'd meant it as a tease, adding to the intensity of their flirtation, and he'd laughed it off. Amber wouldn't back down, though, he knew that now. Her eyes were dark, and the idea of doing something completely stupid when anyone might catch them fired up Foreman's imagination, his stomach tightening with a quick flutter of nerves and arousal.

He clinked her glass when she offered a toast, a slow smile spreading as his heart beat more strongly. "To having fun," he said, "without getting caught."

"Eric," Amber said with a lilt to her voice, "You'll give me ideas." In fact, he already was, with his wide grin and the glint in his eyes. His tone, low and animated, made her think of promises breathed out between kisses, of whispered dirty talk. She flushed, arousal surging within. There was no reason why they couldn't, a bathroom could do, or even-- she took in a sharp breath. "Or is that your intention?"

She brought the glass to her lips, carefully gauging his reaction. All she needed was the slightest encouragement, a sign that he wouldn't dig in his heels and protest that wasn't what he'd meant; repeating last time's rejection wouldn't do.

The wine was rich and its oak aroma only intensified her desire. How good it'd be to kiss him, tasting the wine on his lips, to take this heat building up inside her and share it with him, creating fire between them. Getting caught barely crossed her mind. It seemed too remote a chance, and that even if someone did find them and want to report the police, there were ways to wriggle oneself out of trouble. Money, cajoling, threats, flirting, these all could solve most problems. But they wouldn't get caught, and she'd love to have him here. The wine she'd sipped radiated within her, spreading warmth and confidence.

In encouragement, Amber slipped her hand beneath the table, massaging his knee lightly. It was as far as she could go with her hands, but she was creative: she knew other ways to reach further, and the tablecloth would hide anything she did. “Or have you become too good a boy to take a risk?”

Jesus. Foreman had no idea what he'd started. Amber's cheeks flushed to a deeper pink, and her eyes glittered with an intensity that took his vague imaginings and seemed to give them shape and form right in front of him. It shouldn't be this hot, just to think about it. But it wasn't just thinking. The way Amber watched him, evaluating, her lips full against the rim of her wineglass, her goading smile, all said that this was no fantasy. She'd taken his bait, and there was no way in hell Foreman was going to back down when he was the one who'd made the overture. Yeah, he'd been following the rules for half his life, and what had that gotten him? Busted back down to House's fellow. Back in New York he'd taken a risk and gotten caught--and paid for it. This time, he felt invincible as a teenager, completely immune to consequences. His breath caught in his throat when Amber's hand touched his knee, her fingers massaging just above it. Exactly where he'd wanted to touch her. The sheer possibility of that light caress went straight to his dick.

Foreman took a quick, shallow breath. He didn't want to get caught. Fuck. In public. He'd never be able to show his face in this restaurant again. Foreman cut his eyes around the room. There were practically no other diners. This late on a Monday? They'd be lucky to get their waiter back here, let alone anyone else. The bathrooms were down a short hallway...fuck. Well, what did he care if he could never eat here again? There were plenty of other restaurants in the city; no one had to know.

Reaching under the table, Foreman covered Amber's hand with his, first drawing her palm slightly higher on his thigh, then tracing his fingertips along the thin skin of her inner arm, a featherlight touch, wondering if he'd be able to measure her heartbeat. His skin already felt hotter, his suit too confining. "Not that good," he said, his voice hoarse. He'd never done this before. Drunken making out in the middle of a college party until things had nearly gotten out of hand, yeah. Out away from the city during a camping trip, once, in the shadows of the trees away from the fire. But like this? His pulse was hot and fast in his throat. He was too curious about what Amber would do, would suggest, to do more than raise his eyebrow, leaving it up to her where this would go.

Amber watched with triumph as Eric's gaze narrowed, determination shaping his features. Yes. This time, yes, it'd happen. She wasn't sure what had changed, why he'd be more willing to fuck her while across a table than when hard up against her, but at this moment, Amber didn't care. Questions and justifications later, actions now.

Her breath hitched as his hand curved over hers and made her palm more of him, the silk of his pants smooth and cool. It contrasted with the heat of his body, the pounding of her blood. She felt like she would burn up, faced with the nervous-excited strain of Eric's voice and the hunger of his look, and why couldn't she reach any further? A few more inches and she could cup his crotch, see him try to hide his reaction. The neighboring conversations seemed to become clearer and louder as she perceived their potential audience. Amber was already this wet and she'd been barely touched.

God, it'd be too long since she'd last done anything like this.

Amber's eyes flickered to the bathroom. It was their safest option. If it was a single room, as it often was in restaurants of a higher quality, then they could lock themselves in; the staff might never even find out. They could get as naked as they liked, go as far as they wanted, all while facing a huge mirror with carefully flattering lighting. She couldn't deny the appeal of that.

But Amber had to know: how far could she push him?

With considerable regret, Amber extracted her hand from his knee and leaned back in her chair, opening her menu. "I hear the beef kabobs here are to die for," she commented, training her voice and expression to be solemn. It was impossible to keep the sides of her mouth from curling up, though. As she leafed through the pages, she carefully extracted her right foot from her shoe and raised it, rubbing the inside of his lower leg.

At first the only answer he got was Amber pulling away from him, the warmth of her hand disappearing from his leg, her arm no longer within reach. Foreman hadn't missed the flicker of her glance towards the bathrooms, and he wondered if she'd made her own calculations and decided it was too risky after all. He sat back, the roil of anticipation and arousal suddenly grinding to a halt. But a second later, Amber's voice curved warmly around the ordinary, pointless topic of what was good on the menu, as if she was cool, careless, and completely uninterested. Foreman couldn't miss the impish smile at the corner of her lips, or the slide of her foot along his calf. He swallowed hard. She wanted to tease him, and it was so damn sexy. She had to know it. And, knowing Amber, she had to be doing this on purpose. She was testing him. Seeing what he'd do.

This time Foreman didn't hesitate. He let his hand rest on Amber's knee, but instead of the light, warm, promising touch he'd intended earlier, he immediately went further, sneaking his hand under the hem of her skirt. His reach was longer than hers, giving him more room to play. There wasn't anything between his hand and her leg except the silky smoothness of her nylons. Foreman loved the sensation of the sheer fabric under his fingers, warm as Amber's skin, and so goddamn tantalizing. He might be imagining the hint of moist warmth as he reached higher, but from the flash he'd seen in Amber's eyes before she decided to pretend indifference, he didn't think so. With a hint of pressure, he urged her to uncross her legs. If she didn't want them to duck into the bathroom...God, it was even more open here, exposed. The waiter could interrupt them at any time. But Foreman wanted to know what Amber would show--whether he could deepen the flush on her cheeks, make her breath come sharp and halting.

"I've never been here before," he said, letting his voice stay dark and warm. Anyone listening might imagine he was talking about the restaurant. "You'll have to tell me what's good."

Amber shivered at the sudden intimacy of Eric's touch, hot and firm and absolutely right in all ways. But she quickly reigned in her reaction. This was a game, and rule number two was to be as discreet as possible. (The first rule was: have outrageous fun.) Even as Eric's hand climbed, closer and closer to where she really wanted to feel him, Amber maintained a calm expression. Only her rapid heartbeat and growing wetness would've given her away-- and only Eric could pick up on those indications.

"It's hard to go wrong, here." Amber crossed her legs, extending an invitation by granting more access. She could hardly wait. "But if you ask me, the best dishes are the strong, spicy ones." She punctuated the adjectives with more force than necessary; nothing in this world was cheesier than food double entendres, but if they were going to make out in public, she might as well go all out.

At worst, Amber would end up horny and desperately needing a proper attention; at best, she could come. Either outcome was fine with her. Eric, on the other hand, had more to lose. Not only was he more self-conscious of his image, but his horniness or orgasm would have far more visible signs than her own. If this came down to a game of chicken, she was confident of her odds. Her grin stronger than ever, she extended her leg further and higher, rubbing his knees and the inner curve of his thigh. How different and exciting to sense him through her toes; it was like looking underwater, familiar sights distorted into new forms.

In her peripheral vision she saw the waiter approaching and almost laughed, wondering how Eric would react.

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