Foreman's instant reaction, when Amber wrapped her arm around him, was to withdraw. He dealt with his shit on his own, and accepting comfort felt too much like accepting pity, which he'd never do. But it was too easy to fall into step with her, his own arm falling around her waist, so that they could walk slowly, leaning on each other. He felt exhausted suddenly, for no good reason. The coffee hadn't touched him. He realized vaguely as they walked that he'd left the monster giraffe on the seat of his bumper car, but he hardly cared to go back and get it. Neither one of them had won it anyway, and it'd probably get stuck up with the other prizes again, for some other sucker to try for. Didn't matter.
He breathed in deeply, glad of Amber's silence, of her warmth as she pressed into him, close and quiet. The scent of her shampoo and the hug she'd wrapped him in reminded him of waking up with her this morning, of the slow lazy moments they allowed themselves before getting ready for work. That was what he had to remember. Not Marcus. Whenever he got upset about Marcus, it took time to put things back into place, back into perspective. They'd all tried. Mom the most, at first, back when she still could. She'd nearly begged Marcus to follow Foreman's example; Marcus had sneered at the idea. He thought Foreman had given in, given up. That by going to college he'd somehow abandoned the family, or at least the neighbourhood, his roots. All through Marcus's twenties, Dad had kept at it, dragging his ass out of jail when he could, letting Marcus stay at home when he was on probation. It never lasted. Foreman had argued with him--with both of them--over and over again. First with Marcus, telling him he could still have something if he stopped fucking up; later with Dad, that it was too late, that there was no point in trying. Now he didn't see any of them, kept out of it. That was where he wanted to be--where it didn't touch him, where it wasn't his business. Most of the time, that worked just fine.
Amber leaned on him more heavily as they crossed the parking lot. Foreman dug in his coat pocket for his keys, enough to remote-unlock the doors. Stopping beside the car, he snorted bitterly at Amber's question. "This time? Five years." Marcus wasn't even that far away--the prison was up near Mayfield. Foreman hadn't bothered visiting, this time.
The choking, heavy anger was coming back, and Foreman didn't want it. He shifted his grip around Amber's waist, pulling her into a hug, leaning his forehead closer to rest against hers. It was freezing out, colder and dark out here on the edge of the parking lot, with only a few streetlights anemically casting a neon glow over them. "Amber..." Foreman swallowed, and met her lips with his, a soft, gentle kiss. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself not to insist too hard. He wanted to think about something else. Anything else. She could help him. He thought of the bet, the one he'd been so wary of having her win. If he was thinking about that, he'd forget all this shit, he could push it away. He kissed her again, still tender, but with more intent, sucking lightly on her lip before drawing back. "Tell me what you want."
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He breathed in deeply, glad of Amber's silence, of her warmth as she pressed into him, close and quiet. The scent of her shampoo and the hug she'd wrapped him in reminded him of waking up with her this morning, of the slow lazy moments they allowed themselves before getting ready for work. That was what he had to remember. Not Marcus. Whenever he got upset about Marcus, it took time to put things back into place, back into perspective. They'd all tried. Mom the most, at first, back when she still could. She'd nearly begged Marcus to follow Foreman's example; Marcus had sneered at the idea. He thought Foreman had given in, given up. That by going to college he'd somehow abandoned the family, or at least the neighbourhood, his roots. All through Marcus's twenties, Dad had kept at it, dragging his ass out of jail when he could, letting Marcus stay at home when he was on probation. It never lasted. Foreman had argued with him--with both of them--over and over again. First with Marcus, telling him he could still have something if he stopped fucking up; later with Dad, that it was too late, that there was no point in trying. Now he didn't see any of them, kept out of it. That was where he wanted to be--where it didn't touch him, where it wasn't his business. Most of the time, that worked just fine.
Amber leaned on him more heavily as they crossed the parking lot. Foreman dug in his coat pocket for his keys, enough to remote-unlock the doors. Stopping beside the car, he snorted bitterly at Amber's question. "This time? Five years." Marcus wasn't even that far away--the prison was up near Mayfield. Foreman hadn't bothered visiting, this time.
The choking, heavy anger was coming back, and Foreman didn't want it. He shifted his grip around Amber's waist, pulling her into a hug, leaning his forehead closer to rest against hers. It was freezing out, colder and dark out here on the edge of the parking lot, with only a few streetlights anemically casting a neon glow over them. "Amber..." Foreman swallowed, and met her lips with his, a soft, gentle kiss. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself not to insist too hard. He wanted to think about something else. Anything else. She could help him. He thought of the bet, the one he'd been so wary of having her win. If he was thinking about that, he'd forget all this shit, he could push it away. He kissed her again, still tender, but with more intent, sucking lightly on her lip before drawing back. "Tell me what you want."