alwaysright | October 30, 2007

October 30, 2007 - Evening

For the rest of the afternoon, Foreman found himself chuckling at odd moments. He'd be in the middle of the monstrous pile of paperwork, his back cramping from leaning over, his eyes aching, and all of a sudden he'd realize he was grinning like an idiot. He'd glance up, glad that there wasn't anyone to catch him at it, and think of Amber suffering horribly down in the clinic, and shake his head before going back to work. She'd be tired after a long day, and if her reaction to the usual run of mild complaints was anything like his, she'd be too tired to do much tonight other than go home and collapse. Foreman could spare some compassion then: he'd offer to cook, or at least, to order something in. Hell, even massage her feet if she wanted. The fact that he was going with her--that she'd invited him again, and that he already had all the things he'd need waiting in his car--buoyed him up, even when the stack of consult requests only seemed to get stupider the deeper he delved into them.

By twenty to five, Foreman had sent form letter replies to as many idiot doctors as he could without losing his faith in humanity. He'd go down and let the candidates off early, be magnanimous for as long as he could afford to be. He needed to ingratiate himself with them somehow, even if was only by knocking fifteen minutes off their drudgery. Cuddy could hardly complain: she'd been underusing six of the most talented doctors in the hospital for most of the day, and, Foreman knew--since they had to be sharing Cameron and Chase's old salaries among them--for a pittance. House was a bastard, but days like this were ones Cuddy probably counted as a win in their perpetual battle.

Foreman turned of the computer, turned off the lights, and grabbed his coat. He wouldn't bother with his briefcase tonight; he wasn't planning on sucking up to Cuddy any more than he'd be compromising with House. If he'd gotten his own office and his own staff like he'd asked for, then she could think about making him stay late trudging through House's paperwork.

He arrived in the clinic five minutes later. The first person he saw was Brennan, who only gave him a mildly disgruntled stare when Foreman gave him permission to go. He snorted, but he seemed glad enough to go and tell the others that they were off the hook.

Foreman checked the board to see which exam room Amber was in with her last patient, and, leaving his coat at the nurses' station, he went and knocked on the door. He was already sure that everyone in the whole hospital was well aware of what was going on between him and Amber. That didn't mean that he had to confirm all their suspicions--but he could also take a few liberties that he might not have if they were still being 'discreet'. Feeling pleased with himself, he opened it just enough to stick his head in and said, with as much seriousness as he could muster, "Dr. Volakis, could I have a word with you?"

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Eager to get back to Amber's place, Foreman had the car in gear as soon as Amber had gotten in and closed the door. He'd already dismissed the pamphlet. Shrugging, he said, "It's for kids. An ad for a haunted house." He didn't really care; if it weren't for the orange and black paper decorating the clinic, alternating pumpkins and witches on brooms, he would have forgotten it was Hallowe'en at all. His building was mostly for young professionals and couples without kids, so he didn't have to worry about having his night tomorrow disrupted by the constant ringing of his buzzer. By then, he'd probably be stuck in the hospital with someone dying in a new and inventive manner at every turn. And possibly House would try to give them orders through a set of false plastic vampire teeth--he'd done it before. Foreman was fine with giving the kids in the long-term wards some candy and maybe a scary movie, but beyond that, it was just another day.

"Probably," he agreed. He pulled out of his parking space and headed for the parking lot entrance He laughed as Amber shook the paper at him. "Sure," he said, not meaning it at all, since she couldn't possibly want to actually go. He could tell it was crap without getting within twenty miles of it. There would be bad carnival food and maybe some clunky rides, a haunted house that was haunted by teenagers wearing sheets over their head, and it would be freezing. And there would be more of the cutesy, braindead wordplay. Foreman had better plans than to shiver through that. "I have a better plan. Why don't we order in and make it an early night?" Blatantly, he checked Amber out, his grin making clear his very thorough intentions concerning her for the rest of the night.

"What? No! They'll have hotdogs and candy corn, how can we pass that up?" Amber strived to maintain a healthy diet, since keeping in shape was just one of the many keys to success. How would she keep up with all her projects and plans if she didn't have the form to survive it all? But the occasional treat was okay, and Halloween only came once a year. She could scarf down some junk food without much harm. Unless the fair had food poisoning, in which case she wouldn't want to be healthy enough to come into work the following day, treating all the other poisoned patients. “I bet they have papier-mâché witches and other things so tacky we won’t believe it until we see with our very own eyes. They might even play tapes of evil cackling and boiling caldrons!”

It'd been years since she'd gone to one of these. As a kid she went with her brothers, and later, there was always someone willing to tag along to check out how much worse the Halloween festival could be compared with years past. Since med school she’d been too busy to think of, much less go, to a cheesy seasonal festivity. This haunted house could’ve come and gone without her ever caring, but now that she knew about it, Amber wouldn’t let the chance pass by—not when she could go through it with Eric. If nothing else, they could joke and reminiscence afterward just how cringingly bad it’d been. “C’mon, Halloween is only once a year. I promise that if I get scared I’ll scream and jump into your arms.” Amber grinned, certain that he’d like the notion of being her knight in shining armor. To strengthen her argument, she ran her hand up and down his thigh.

Foreman's skepticism was quickly being overwhelmed by a strange mix of frustration and rueful amusement. He really didn't see how this was going to be fun. Amber had just spent a day in the clinic, and yet she seemed eager to be surrounded for another few hours by shrieking, sticky kids and frazzled parents. Not to mention, carnies out to make a buck off anyone who passed by. He had a feeling, from Amber's enthusiasm, that she'd be easy to suck into any competition where the price went up with every failure. Hot dogs, candy corn, and papier-mâché weren't arguments in favour of this thing, as far as he was concerned.

Amber's smile, though, and the way her eyes were shining like she was already surrounded by a swirl of midway lights, were affecting him. Foreman couldn't believe that he was going to give up a quiet evening just because Amber had a sudden, pointless desire to embrace the kitsch of a dinky little Hallowe'en festival. "That," he said, dropping his hand to cover hers on his thigh, though not pushing it away, "isn't a fair debate tactic."

He shook his head, letting out a short laugh at the image she painted. Yeah, like she was going to be terrified by a tape yelling boo and maybe a scary mask popping out of the wall at them. And it was even less likely that she'd want him to save her if she was. It was a little patronizing, but, he supposed, only because he wasn't getting into the spirit of the thing. And they could stay in other nights. Most nights. Maybe he shouldn't be so quick to dismiss it; it was the sort of thing he would have loved to mock when he was a teenager, and he would have loved the idea of his girlfriend leaping into his arms because she needed him to protect her from the big bad scary world. He might as well go with it, for Amber's sake.

"I feel like I'm in high school." Foreman rolled his eyes, though not seriously--he was laughing at himself more than anything. He took a right turn at the next lights, heading away from Amber's apartment and toward the little travesty of a carnival. He shot her a significant look. "If I was in high school, I'd have to win my girl a huge stuffed animal." Amber didn't like him opening doors, so he wondered how she'd feel about him acting like she couldn't throw a ball hard enough to knock over some milk bottles. He was sure she could; hell, she'd been beating him at minigolf before they'd stopped. As competitive as she was, she'd probably narrow her eyes and play until she had the biggest prize at the fair. But if they were going to go to the effort of going on a traditional kind of date, then she'd really convince him only if she went full out to play the part.

"I don’t care about fair, as long as it works." She knew from his tone, and how smoothly he slid his hand over hers, that his comment was a tease, not a rebuke. Amber smiled lightly, glad that Eric recognized her below-the-belt tactics for what they were, and showed only attraction in return. He understood.

Amber titled her head at Eric. "Who says you don't have to win your girl a huge stuffed animal now?" It was only once the words had rolled off her tongue that she realized her slip; she'd pretty much called herself Eric's girl. Out loud. To his face. Her hand tightened beneath his. It was nothing she hadn't been thinking, more or less, and he'd started it, setting up the comparison, but still. It wasn't as if they'd discussed what they were, beyond agreeing that, at this moment, they wanted to be together. Well. She couldn't take it back now.

Turning to face her window, Amber went on as if she hadn't said anything out of place. Outside, the lamp posts and buildings zoomed by as they took the familiar route downtown. "Let's take those carnival people down, winning as many animals as we can. We can give our spoils to the pediatrics ward-- Cuddy will adore us if we do." This way they could kill two birds with one stone, beating a game and becoming more popular at work. (Better yet, she could win the prizes and not have deal with them afterwards. She'd love it if Eric proved his mettle through childish carnival games, but what would she do with an oversized teddy bear?) Though, given the context, perhaps it'd be more accurate to say shoot down more than one target with purposefully unbalanced toy guns.

“This’ll be fun,” Amber promised. And it would be. Games to beat (cheat at), crap food to eat, kids running around in costumes (both store-bought and more creatively, if incomprehensive, self-made), mockable exhibits…. and Eric as company. They could walk hand-in-hand, or something cheesy like that, somewhere everyone could see. And if they had one of those photo booths, Amber would drag Eric into it, no matter how much he might protest. They looked too good together not to preserve that on film.

Foreman's smile widened, and he squeezed Amber's hand where it had tensed on his thigh. That was the best argument she could have made for this stupid festival. Not deep-fried foods or tasteless decorations. It was enough, more than enough, to know Amber thought of herself as his, even in such an innocent context. "I could buy twice as many teddy bears for the peds ward for half the money, and I wouldn't have to freeze for a few hours to do it," he pointed out. It wasn't a serious objection, but he was hardly going to just drop the argument.

Still doubtful, Foreman nodded, taking the last few turns until they'd reached a gravel parking lot, with cars already half-filling it. It was only about five-thirty, but the carnival's major audience probably had bedtimes no later than seven. Foreman parked near the edge of the lot, where he'd be less likely to come back to a dent in his door. The lights of the midway--which looked like it consisted of a carousel, an undersized Ferris wheel, and not much else--reflected out over the rows of cars. When Foreman switched off the ignition and stepped out, he could hear the shrieks already, and the rumble of machinery that probably hadn't been oiled in months, let alone checked by a qualified mechanic. The air smelled like burned grease and refined sugar, which started his stomach rumbling despite himself--he hadn't had much lunch. "All right," Foreman said, turning to Amber, taunting her with the challenge. "Prove it."

"Ah, but then you wouldn't have earned those teddy bears. Paying is cheating, and you can't boast later about how bravely you faced the bottles with nothing but a badly-calibrated toy gun. In the cold. With a long line of whining kids waiting their turn." And she wouldn't be able to tease him afterward, reminding how he'd cursed with every misfire, blaming it on frozen fingers.

This late in the year, night had all but fallen, vestiges of deep navy blue the only remnants of day. As they approached, the festival's neon lights dulled the sky into a uniform grey, wiping away any stars that might've been visible even within the city. The moon, though, was sharply crescent and huge and yellow, was just perfect for Halloween. Amber grinned up at it. She wasn't quite as pleased about navigating the gravel in her heels, ankles threatening to wobble with every step, but scent of buttered popcorn and Eric waiting for her on the car's other side kept her spirits up. And there was a Ferris wheel, she hadn't been on one in years. Already she could spot some costumes; from this small sampling, it seemed this year vampires and werewolves were in style. Gravel scrunching beneath her soles as she walked firmly, Amber approached Eric and wrapped her arm around his. For all his dragging of feet, Amber was pretty sure the complaining was for show. He looked more alive, alert, here than at the hospital, though perhaps that was from his wincing at the yelling and buzzing of carnival games. Some small part of him must be able to enjoy this, even if the rest of him couldn't admit it. "That won't be hard.” She winked. "But I can make it interesting-- bet I can win more prizes than you."

Foreman eyed Amber, suspicion vying with one very good reason to take her bet. "You bet? What kind of stakes are you going to back that up with?" he asked. If there wasn't a forfeit for whoever lost, it wasn't a real competition. Foreman supposed it could be something innocent: bragging rights, being the one to haul in all their prizes to the peds ward and get a pat on the head from Cuddy. But he'd be more invested if it was something spicier. He steadied Amber until they made it past the gravel and onto the clearer asphalt paths leading to the carnival entrance. Not that he'd let go just because Amber wasn't likely to topple over. "What do I get if I win?"

There was a small booth with a bored-looking guy handing out tickets. Foreman got out his wallet and paid for their entrance and, against his better judgement, enough tickets for the two of them to go on a few rides. Hopefully nothing more adventurous, or more publicly embarrassing, than the Ferris wheel. Foreman wasn't going to put himself in the position of being vomited on by a bunch of kids. He got that enough at work. "You owe me a corndog," he said, to stop Amber from insisting on paying her own way.

Once they were past the gates, there was a line of game booths stretching out in front of them, leading to the food kiosks and then the rides after that. Most of the signs urged them to defy death in the haunted house or lose themselves in the hall of mirrors, and everywhere there were kids running around, clutching balloon strings, chasing each other, and screaming--either in terror or sheer joy, Foreman didn't know which. There were a few teenaged couples, but it seemed like everyone else their age was attached to at least one kid, if not a whole group of them. Foreman and Amber were still dressed for work, and they stuck out like sore thumbs. Foreman shook his head and concentrated on the bet. If there was a payoff, then he could ignore the stares directed at them; he'd just spend the night watching Amber instead.

Of course. Any bet worth its salt needed a price; winners had to win something. Otherwise, why bother? They might as well pass out bright certificates declaring its holder absolutely swell, if there were no penalty. As they got off the gravel and onto the asphalt, Amber stared at the ground, thinking.

In any other situation, she could use a bet to pry out of someone else what they wouldn’t give unless forced—money, information, objects. But with Eric, she didn’t want anything he wouldn’t part with willingly. There was nothing she wanted to make him do that he didn’t feel comfortable with. And anything that she’d be okay with offering as a sacrifice, he could ask of her at any moment and she’d deliver. She couldn’t even ask for anything work-related, since there going to be cries of favoritism as it was, and no need to make the complicated subject even more nuanced. Though, for a single exciting heartbeat, Amber imagined gathering up all her competition and House and anyone else who might ever have an opinion about their relationship and, in front of them all, have Eric kiss her. That’d show them.

And what could she give him? The last time she’d bestowed an award, she’d guessed what would please him and fucked up completely. He’d ended up liking the rim job anyway, but if she suggested it tonight, he’d probably turn her down and mope over his tarnished image of his manliness.

Amber had reached for her wallet to pay for her own set of tickets, wondering if Eric either expected her to go on a ridiculous number of rides or if he actually wanted to hit that many, but then he offered a ‘fair trade.’ Snorting, Amber let her hand drop. “And soda.” Just to be sure he didn’t end up paying for more than half of the rides.

She tugged him towards the row of booths where some of the food stands were together with the games. The setup wouldn’t clear the Ritz standards of quality, with the tables covered in orange-and-black cloth and the vendors protected from the blowing cold by sheets of plastic. “This’ll probably be gone with the wind before long,” Amber teased as she stepped into the line for one of the shooting games. She still didn’t know what to suggest as the stakes in their bet, but she would like to know what Eric would consider an appropriate reward. “Whoever wins decides what we do when we go home.” Amber raised her eyebrows to make the subtext of her meaning perfectly clear.

Foreman let Amber guide their progress through the swarms of kids. He was still waiting to hear what she considered a good prize for winning this bet, and he was starting to wonder if he should have named the stakes himself, to avoid something completely ridiculous. For all he knew, they'd regress all the way back to high school and end up in a game of Truth or Dare, with the dares getting more ridiculous the longer the game went on.

Amber seemed determined, though, and lined them up in front of a booth with a row of toy guns. The goal was to knock over as many duck-shaped metal cut-outs with targets painted on them in a row. Two for a small prize, five for one of the monster stuffed animals that they'd have to cart around the rest of the fair with them. Foreman had been hoping for something that catered more to his strengths. Knocking over lead-weighted milk bottles with a baseball, he thought he could do. Or the strong-man game, pounding a target with a mallet to make a bell ring, he was pretty sure he could outperform Amber at that. Shooting, though, evened the playing field; probably the sights on every toy rifle was off the same amount.

The last bunch of kids ahead of them were just starting when Amber finally looked up, her eyes bright. Foreman laughed when she laid out the terms of the bet. That was the kind of forfeit he'd been thinking of, or at least along those lines. It was still dangerously open-ended. At least she'd specified 'when they got home', which ruled out being surprised by a nine-year-old in the middle of something decidedly inappropriate. Foreman still wasn't sure, though. The last time he'd tried to decide what they did--when he'd wanted, insisted--Amber had asked him to stop. The last thing he wanted was to put himself in that position again. So either he could throw the bet, or else he'd have to tailor what he decided to what Amber might like, too. Or he could try being honest, now. Foreman glanced at the kids still shouting and pulling their shots, missing every single duck in the game. They were distracted, and he and Amber had a moment before it was their turn. He tugged Amber closer so that they were facing each other, tilting his chin to meet her eyes. "Decides?" he said, letting his interest and his anticipation colour his voice. He was teasing gently, affection shaping his smile, but trying to get to the real issue. "Any limits to that? I'd like to know before I kick your butt at this."

It was a fair question. No matter how humorous a tilt he put in his words, his eyes were serious, searching her own for an equal response. Amber knew why he’d be especially concerned about limits, what with her calling an unexpected stop last night. Amber ran her hands down his sides, stopping them at his hips; breathed in deep to fill up her lungs with air, then slowly let it out. She’d have never expected to tie up like that, in the heat of the moment; would’ve never thought to warn him that she might pull the breaks. And it hadn’t been just some sullen whim, stopping because she felt like it; she didn’t know what would’ve happened if he’d continued, but it wouldn’t have been pretty. Just the thought of it speeded up her heartbeat.

But if she knew that the situation was out of her hands, wouldn’t she be okay? She’d know to expect the unexpected. Here, in the thick of yelling kids and cotton candy odors and layers of clothes, it felt like nothing could hurt her. And, leaving aside the element of surprise, Amber didn’t think Eric would want anything past the line she’d drawn. But, just to be sure, she said: “Nothing bathroom related, unless it’s showering.” As an after-thought, “And it can only be the two of us.” It was the closest she could get to admitting that she wouldn’t tolerate a three or moresome with him, no matter what she’d done in the past. “Other than that, anything goes. I trust you.” She smiled warmly, to show him how much she meant that. How strange—if they really did trust each other, why did they need constant reminders? But she wanted to leave him no room for doubt.

In front of them, the kids were demanding another round, insisting that this time they knew how to work the guns. Amber would’ve told them to get back in line, but she needed to finish this conversation before they got to the actual playing. “But anyway, I’m not going to lose; I’ll clean the floor with you.” Amber boasted, though facetiously. The guns altered against the player, how well you did could be up to your luck. Without none of the jovial boasting, Amber leaned her forehead against Eric’s and asked, carefully, “How about you? Any limits?” The rest of the festival seemed to fade away until all she could hear and see was him.

Foreman's pulse picked up as Amber took a deep, controlled breath. He hoped he hadn't soured their evening with one stupid question. He'd had enough of entire nights turned from enjoyment and attraction into an argument or worse just because one of them couldn't shut up and stop pushing. Maybe he should have left it, at least until they were leaving. He matched Amber's hands, resting his on her hips. Fine, silken strands of her hair had blown away from her face in the breeze, and her cheeks were pink from the cold. The solemn look in her eyes made her seem open, guileless and trusting, and Foreman responded to that at once. Amber had joked that he could play at saving her tonight, but he did feel protective toward her, and making sure he knew the lines she was drawing was part of that.

He was surprised at what she ruled out, though. None of that was even remotely what he'd been thinking about. Okay, yes, he'd had a brief fantasy of Amber inviting Thirteen into their bed, but that was only a passing thought, one he wasn't going to admit to, let alone advocate for. As for the rest--he wasn't innocent, he was a doctor and he'd heard his share of stories from embarrassed clinic patients, but that hadn't even been on his radar. He nodded, though, and limited himself to a quiet, "Okay."

It was even more difficult to answer her question in return. In the same way that he hadn't thought about what Amber's boundaries might be specifically, he hadn't thought about his own. He knew what he liked, and he'd never gone much further than that. Before the fact, he had no idea what he wouldn't like. A few days ago he would have vetoed anyone going anywhere near his ass, but Amber had proved that she could be damn convincing. He'd gone off like a rocket, for something he'd been frightened of, as if she might have hurt him. That was fucking embarrassing. Foreman didn't want to ask for that again, but he didn't want to rule it out, either.

They were running out of time for him to hesitate. Foreman shook his head slowly. Amber trusted him. Couldn't he give her the same back? That night, she'd gone slowly, she'd listened to him. And if it turned out tonight that Foreman wanted something that Amber didn't, even if it hadn't been on her list, he'd still stop, no matter how frustrating it was. Sex wasn't the be all and end all of their relationship. So why let himself get hung up on it? "I don't know," he said. He could feel himself tensing up over those words; he'd always hated saying them. Even in the cold, his face was burning. Either be wrong or be right, but fucking say something. Foreman cleared his throat, and tried to shrug it off, as if he hadn't just admitted to having no damn experience. Christ, it was a humiliating position to be in. "I can find out with you," he finished. It implied the same trust she had in him, and it answered her question, but that was all Foreman could manage.

He broke eye contact with her and stepped up to the shooting booth. At least the kids were gone now. He reached for a dollar bill, shoving it in the carny's hand, and picked up a gun. "Come on," he said to Amber, determined to have fun, and not to think. And trying to calm himself down so that he'd at least have a chance at this stupid game. "Let's see what you've got."

He was hesitating; if that long pause between her question and his response hadn't been sign enough, Amber felt it through her fingers. His stomach drew back, as if all of him were clenching up. But she wasn't worried. This was hard to discuss, especially out of the blue and in the open. He met her gaze straight on when he finally replied, forehead slightly furrowed. "Alright." She liked the openness; was glad with what it meant about willing to explore with her.

Right after he quickly broke away, wrenching himself from her hold. Well. Eric was probably embarrassed that they even had to talk about that, or with his own answer. They'd dealt with the important stuff, Amber wouldn't quibble the details (until they mattered). Anyway, she rolled up her sleeves; the fun part had come.

Amber paid the booth-keeper with a dollar and a smile-- they'd need him once they were done winning the prizes. He brightened considerably; it was probably the first kind look he'd received in the past hour, if not longer. "Thanks," she added, honey in her voice, as he lifted one of the guns for her. Perhaps it was the best of the batch?

She shook it slowly, testing the gun's weight. It was a light deal, made of red plastic that'd break if you banged it against a surface-- or, for that matter, if you looked at it too hard. Between the gun's redness and the duck-targets, something was off with the setup. Leaning towards Eric so that the carnie wouldn't hear, she whispered: "This fair totally fails at Halloween."

Still grinning, Amber tested the gun's sight. The targets were, literally, sitting ducks, which meant the difficulty must be in just how off the guns were calibrated to be. And she wouldn't know how much that was until the first fire. So she homed in on a little yellow duck's chest, calling back on all her years as a radiologist; she knew a thing or two about seeing. With a bang, her shot missed wildly, indenting the booth's plastic sheet upon impact. She took a deep breath. It was okay, of course she'd missed the first one. She just had to remember that the gun favored to the right. Another deep breath, another shot; again she shot to the right, not having compensated enough for the difference. "Fuck," Amber muttered.

Foreman watched Amber butter up the booth attendant with a smile, and glared at him for a moment before he raised the gun to check the sights. If the guy hadn't seen them talking together, then he was either blind or an idiot, but either way, Foreman didn't mind driving the point home. He didn't care if Amber flirted to get the best gun or so that the guy would guide her to stand in the best place--he knew that she wasn't going to ditch him for a guy whose most elaborate conversational skills were probably "Step right up, folks!" But he wasn't going to sit around doing nothing while the guy made eyes back.

Amber got started before he'd gotten comfortable with the tiny gun. Foreman couldn't help a chuckle when her first shot went wild. Parts of this were fun enough. His best bet was to aim for the middle duck and see which way the gun pulled. There wouldn't be much recoil to speak of, but any hit on the first shot would have to be pure luck. He squeezed the trigger, keeping both eyes open, and wasn't shocked at all to see a hole appear in the back wall about a foot to the right of his intended duck, and a few inches high as well. "You're lucky they're plastic," he said, when Amber swore under her breath. "They don't fly away when you miss the first time."

Foreman didn't bother with the sights the second time. These things were for kids, who probably didn't even know what the sights were for. They liked the bang and random ducks falling over. Foreman shook his head and pulled the trigger again. The gunpowder smell of the gun and the small crack were satisfying, even if the results weren't. He'd gotten closer, but, like Amber, he'd missed on the second shot. Since they were tied, he let himself grin. This was more fun than he'd thought. Frustrating, but who the hell said he was supposed to have any skill with toy guns? "That's it?" he scoffed at Amber, completely ignoring the fact that he was doing no better than she was. "I think the ducks are laughing at you."

The lad shrank away, hiding as best he could around the corner without fleeing the booth. Amber couldn't blame him; not everyone was up to facing Eric's sullen jealousy. Eric's show of space, together with her own flirting, might help seal the deal later, when the time came.

Amber ran a hand over her head, yanking her hair back. "Come mock me once you've made a hit," she snapped. Luck-based game or not, she wanted to win. She fired off again, just to wipe that smug grin off his face, and to her amazement, it worked. The duck fell over with a thud that was as satisfying as any compliment House doled out. Amber whirled back to Eric, smirking. "Who's laughing now?"

With one hand around Eric's and the other in her pocket, her fingers had been warm. But as the game progressed, they became more and more frozen, and now she could barely feel them as she pulled the trigger. Maybe that was why her bullet just skimmed the target, going to the left. Or maybe it was because she sucked.

But she still had the chance to win at least a small animal; she wouldn’t walk away completely empty-handed and shamed. Laying down the gun down for a second; rubbed her hands for heat. All it did was introduce an uncomfortable tingling in her fingers. It’d have to do. With pin-pricking digits, Amber took up the gun again.

And missed. “Fuck!” This stupid fair wasn’t fun at all. She dumped the gun onto the counter, who cared if it broke or not. If it did, it’d be a lesson to these cheating jerks.

The more Amber missed, the harder it was for Foreman to hold in his mirth. He'd paused to watch her, resting the butt of the rifle on the counter, a new snort of laughter working its way up his throat each time Amber faced the ducks like they were her mortal enemies and had insulted her mother besides. He took her jab in good spirits, even clapped when she dinged one duck and managed to knock it over. He'd realized the trick to this game. Don't care at all. What did it matter if he got to go home with a...Jesus, half these 'prizes' he couldn't even recognize. A neon orange fake-fur tube with stickers for eyes and a felt tongue: a snake? He didn't want it or need it. He'd thought he'd be humiliated if Amber came out ahead of him, but the longer he watched her, the more he realized just how random it was. And even their own private bet: either he'd be doing what Amber wanted--which he would anyway, because it was such a damn turn on to watch her overcome with pleasure because of him--or she'd be doing what he wanted, which made him feel smug, and warm right through, whether he was physically freezing his ass off or not.

When Amber finally slammed her gun down on the counter, Foreman raised his and took aim. Well, 'took aim'. He shot from the hip, like some movie Western gunslinger. If he won, he won. If he didn't, then...Amber wouldn't have much room to mock him, since he'd stopped even trying. Three cracks in quick succession, and with a bang, one of the ducks fell over on his second shot. And that was it.

Half to hide his wide smile, and half to genuinely warm his hands, Foreman brought them up his mouth and blew through them, rubbing them together and hunching his shoulders a bit against the cold. He still felt like laughing. Not quite at Amber, who looked mad enough to spit. More like...Amber-adjacent. She'd tried to convince him to come here so they could mock the place, not take it seriously at all. He'd been the one certain that he'd hate it. And now he couldn't stop grinning, no matter how much he tried to press his lips together into seriousness. "We never agreed what we'd do if we tied," he said, hoping that Amber would start to see the ridiculous side over the one where neither of them had been able to do better than a ten-year-old at a carnival game.

And Eric had the indecency of laughing throughout, as if this were some blooper of an older couple falling over while dancing, or a dog running smack into a wall. Amber gritted her teeth; grit them harder when his second duck fell over. Fuck she wasn't just going to not win, she'd lose to him, too!

Thankfully none were vanquished with that final shot. A small mercy.

Amber's hands, clenched tight in her pockets, hurt from the combination of cold and muscle strain. Her face was also starting to freeze, her nose turning into an ice center. "There's only one thing we can do," Amber told him, already pulling out a crisp new dollar bill. "Rematch."

She then turned to the booth keeper, who, pale, looked even more inclined to bolt from the fair. Amber tried for a grim smile. "Great game, really addictive." If she didn't win this time-- he'd rue not having acted on his instinct to run. There was nobody behind them, so he had no reason to not nod her permission to continue.

The problem wasn't the bet. Letting Eric be in charge of what they did, Amber was okay with that. She wouldn't have proposed those terms if she weren't willing to follow them through; she could've just as easily determined wearing silly hats to work tomorrow. It wouldn't have even been that bad a penance; they'd have been taken in the Halloween spirit. And, sure, it was kind of scary, the thought that she'd have to relinquish control-- then again, it'd have been her choice to do so. She'd still be in control because they were, ultimately, doing what she'd decided they would. She trusted Eric to lead them to something that'd bring pleasure to them both.

No, she just really wanted to fucking win.

Amber grabbed another gun; firing off in anger had worked for her, so she did so, fast and thoughtlessly. Just shoot, shoot, keep on shooting. The scent gunpowder infiltrated her frozen nose and she barely registered what fell when. She just moved on when one more miserable yellow duck met its fate. When her shots ran out, Amber lowered her gun, realizing only then that she was panting. Whatever: she'd hit some, she knew. Counting, she saw she'd scored three hits. A smile burst over her face. Yes. She’d won a smaller prize. "Your turn," she said to Eric cheerfully.

Foreman raised his eyebrows and kept his mouth shut when Amber proposed a rematch. She could actually look pretty scary when she was that determined. It was still funny, just not worth getting his head bitten off if he happened to say so. He swallowed down his laughter as Amber not only terrified the carny into giving her another turn, but took after the ducks as if she was Rambo with a machine gun instead of a flimsy plastic toy.

It was a damn good thing she actually won something. Foreman's eyes had widened during the demonstration, and by this point he knew that if she hadn't won, Amber would have kept them here until she did, or die with her hands frozen to the rifle barrel. Foreman shrugged and handed over another dollar to the attendant, and picked up a gun. Another bunch of kids had started gathering behind them, so this would be their last turn for a while, at least long enough to get some hot chocolate or coffee to unfreeze his fingers. Foreman eyed the ducks. Following Amber's example seemed like the way to go. It had to be how all the kids won their prizes, by acting like they had no idea what they were doing. He shot quickly, not letting himself sight, knowing it would throw off his aim.

If it had been up to him, he wouldn't have won on purpose. If Amber could get so worked up about the odds in a game she knew was crooked, he could only imagine what he'd be in for if he bested her. But not trying wasn't an option, either, for the same reason. It had to be a level playing ground, as much as possible. But in the end, it didn't matter--he hadn't tried to lose, but when the smoke cleared, he'd only knocked over two ducks to Amber's three. He'd still won something. The attendant held out a bucket of plastic toys, giving Foreman a look that suggested he couldn't believe he was going to claim one of the little things. Resigned to playing the game out to its conclusion, Foreman picked out a plastic spider that turned out to be a ring, probably sized too small for him to ever wear. Not that he would. Amber would get the plush...snake, or one of the other small ones. They'd both missed out on the big prizes, but as far as walking around the festival went, that at least saved them the trouble of carrying them.

Foreman waited for Amber to claim her prize. She was probably going to gloat, too, that she'd won the chance to make him do whatever she liked. Foreman's smile widened at that thought, but he wasn't about to make it easy for her to lord it over him. He took her hand, which was as cold as his, and studiously put the spider ring on her pinkie, the only finger it was big enough to fit. Foreman met Amber's eyes, humour still rising up, making all of this easy to do, to say. "Told you I'd win my girl a prize," he said, his voice warm and quiet.

Hands to her mouth and breath bated, Amber watched Eric go through his second round of shots. One fell, two; it was hard to wait for the following shots, worried a third would follow, but in the end, the rest stood upright, perhaps mourning their fallen comrades.

Lowering her fists to below her chin, Amber allowed herself a little victory shake. She'd won a prize, she'd won over Eric, and, now it seemed, as he turned to her with the black thing he'd picked from out of the bucket, she'd won his plunder. "God, it's so tacky; your high school girl must've been easy." Assuming, of course, that there had been only one. Maybe he'd had a collection of fast girls; easy come, easy go. Amber wouldn't be surprised, if he had.

Amber squinted at the spider adorning her pinkie. It made her think of spinning webs, which-- was actually pretty appropriate for her. Manipulative little thing, entangling everyone its schemes. A smile stole over Amber's face without her even noticing as she poked at it, its near-rigid legs wobbling. The first thing Eric had ever given her was that rose, but as beautiful as it'd been, she preferred this scratchy bit of plastic. Inorganic and tasteless and something she could've tossed into the garbage without a second thought, it felt far more real. Something to keep. (The rose itself had been dumped immediately upon returning home. If she hadn't burned it, it was only because Eric's assholeness hadn't been worth the hassle of setting off the fire alarm. But it'd been a close call.)

And he'd called her 'his girl.' He must've picked up on her earlier slip, and was now echoing it because, because-- well, from his affection, it meant he'd liked it.

That and another realization made her smile grow wider: she'd won. Tonight would be up in her hands. They'd do exactly as she pleased. A rush of excitement ran through her, thawing out some the cold settling into her body. Amber looked up, beaming back at him. "Guess this means I'll be calling the shots."

Turning back to the booth, Amber sighed at the dismal choice selection. It was either that weird orange worm thing or a striped monkey whose limbs looked like they'd been stuck on by a stapler. All that flirting with the carnie had been for nothing; she'd thought to charm him into storing their big prizes while they frequented the rest of the fair, but even her larger prize was small enough to fit in her coat pocket. God damn him and his scam game. She took the worm and, as she put it away, told the carnie coldly: "I was going to donate our prizes to sick children, but they won't want these."

The kids stuck long-term in the hospital needed more serious things than toys, like medicine and therapy, but words like 'sick children' had an impact. The booth keeper visibly gulped, eyeing the stash of questionable prizes. "Are they very sick?"

"They are," she said, voice still steeled. "They have leukimia; you should see them, they're heartbreaking."

Okay, perhaps she was laying it on a bit thick. No one cared about generic dying kids that much, so probably it was probably more fear than sympathy that motivated him to wave where the largest toys dangled from their rack. "I guess if it's for a good cause--"

"It is," she assured him, tone instantaneously friendly, as if she hadn't just creeped the hell out of him. She plucked out a huge, mutant purple giraffe and pushed it at Eric, grinning wickedly. "As my official knight of the evening, you can carry that for me." She then took hold of his free arm, saying, "C'mon, let's go eat, I'm starving."

Foreman's smile turned wry at the mention of his high school girlfriend. God, he hadn't thought of Judy in years. She'd been anything but easy. She'd been a challenge. Not unlike Amber. Maybe there was something to that--something he liked. Amber's smile as she nearly petted the little spider made his chest feel tight. Whatever else he'd done wrong, he'd gotten this exactly right, and it felt more than good. Tenderness swept through him at the sight, and he wasn't even willing to put up much of a fight when she boasted about winning the bet. "Lucky," he said, mocking the idea that she'd used any skill to win. A tiny hint of uncertainty ran under his skin, not quite a shiver. Whatever it was, it'd probably be creative, something new. But Foreman felt easy enough with that idea. After all the arguments they'd had, he had no problem telling her, now, if it wasn't working for him. More than anything, he could feel anticipation building up, making him more aware of Amber, of the time ticking away before they actually reached that part of the evening. Whatever rides and games they did later, it would all be foreplay of a sort, just because he'd be thinking about what she might demand of him, and just how good it would be.

Amber stepped away from him, back to the booth for long enough to start terrorizing the attendant. Now that there was no hint of flirtation in her voice, or in the guy's response, Foreman felt easier watching. It wasn't like how Amber got in restaurants, making a fuss for no better reason than things weren't up to her standard. This time, they'd been cheated and they both knew it. If Amber wanted to terrorize the guy into giving them better prizes, Foreman wasn't going to interfere, even if he couldn't see the reason behind it. Like he'd said earlier, they could get better stuffed animals for the "sick kids" Amber was going on about with fifty bucks at a toy store. He didn't see the reason to intimidate any out of some carnival worker. Still, he accepted the mauve thing Amber thrust into his arm with little more than a disdainful snort for the idea that it might resemble any animal on Earth. "Ladies gave knights kerchiefs as a mark of their favour," he said. "Not..." He tried to find the words to describe the thing she'd handed him. "Mutant giraffes."

He was happy enough to get them some food, though. When Amber took his arm, he wrapped his fingers around hers, to help them both warm up. "Coffee," he said. "And corndogs." It had been years since he'd intentionally chosen deep-fried anything as his main meal. But with the scent of donuts and fried batter lingering in the air, the craving was stronger than he'd expected. He steered Amber toward the nearest food booth. Leaning in, to test his idea that her mind was probably working along the same lines as his, he whispered near her ear, "I'll save room for dessert in case you want me to eat it off you."

"It was more than luck," she chided with the breeziness of one who had a heap of trophies lying at her feet. "I had determination." She did, in more ways than one; she was absolutely determined tonight be pitch-perfect. Amber had caught something flash through his face: not quite queasiness or hesitation, but whatever it was, it wasn't as positive as the other emotions he’d displayed since she’d won. If he had any doubts about the setup, she'd prove them wrong, or her name wasn't Amber Volakis.

Eric greeted her prize with good-humored mockery. "Times have changed," she informed him authoritatively as if she were a scientist announcing the incredible advances her field had conquered.

Her spider ring was on her hand, so she squeezed his back without worrying that the plastic splinters would dig into his skin. His was just as cold and stiff as hers, but fingers twined like this, they'd heat up before long. "You are so brushing your teeth before your mouth comes anywhere near mine," she teased. Not that it was true; she wouldn't resist his kisses, ketchup flavored or not. At his other comment, Amber raised an eyebrow. "Is that a suggestion?" She hadn't yet thought of what they'd do, exactly; she figured she'd do whatever felt right when the time came. But it wasn't a bad idea.

The scent of fried batter and sugar grew stronger as they approached the food stalls, and, low-quality as they were, Amber's stomach rumbled. She'd worked up an appetite over the day and the shooting match. There was a bigger crowd here, the noise of young voices surrounding them, and Amber had to dodge into Eric to avoid being trampled over by a Batman and Superman. "Weren't they supposed to stop crime, not start it?" But this was the kids' turf, and Amber recognized that; she wouldn't chase them down to teach them a lesson. Instead, she paid for the coffee and corndog she owed Eric, and got a hotdog and a strawberry milkshake for herself. They might not get tipsy on finer wines tonight, but high off cheap caffeine and sugar, maybe. "Now tell me this isn’t the best food you’ve ever had," she said, biting into her steaming hot dog.

"It's Hallowe'en. Probably Superman's dressed up as Clark Kent for the night." Foreman took his corndog from the vendor and stepped over to the mustard dispenser. There were not enough napkins in the world to deal with this mess if he got it on his camelhair coat, but he was hungry enough that the inevitable dry-cleaning seemed worth it. He made a mental note to kiss the hell out of Amber the second he wasn't in danger of smearing condiments all over himself. Simple revenge for her winning, of course, but also because he could tell from her voice that she wasn't serious. Onions and garlic weren't going to deter him. "The bet was that we'd do what you wanted. Not that I couldn't make suggestions of what you might want," he said with perfect assurance. He gave her an evaluating look before nodding to himself. "I bet you have chocolate sauce at home." And ice cream in the freezer, he was sure. Anyone who ordered a milkshake when it was this cold out was never going to be without ice cream.

Biting into the corndog, Foreman couldn't help letting out an appreciative sound. As a doctor he knew that the human taste bud was conditioned to appreciate anything fatty as a survival mechanism, but it was something else to taste evolution in action. His mouth was watering before he went in for the next bite, even though he'd nearly burned his tongue on the hot dog inside the breading. "Delicious," he said, around his bite. Mustard was already creeping down the stick to land on his fingers, and he tilted the dog away from himself. "Terrible. Worth it." He grinned. "How'd you con me into this, again?"

Amber walked them towards a curved, wood bench, the kind old movies featured in park scenes. She sat down on it, setting her milkshake to the side so that her fingers wouldn't freeze off holding it; perhaps it had not been the wisest choice of drink for the evening. But she never ate frozen sweets anymore, and its bubblegum pink allure was too strong to resist. "I will file your suggestions for future reference." Very future, perhaps-- she might not have the stomach for any more sugar-based foods, whether they were covering Eric or not.

She took a break from her hotdog to watch him; she'd never seen him dig into food with such relish. Admittedly, she'd only ever seen him eat a bagel and kabob he'd ordered more or less by accident, but not even the high-quality wines or the beer had made him this excited. He sped through the bites as if he couldn't wait for the next one, barely chewing. "With my feminine wiles, of course."

Amber ate more of her hotdog, the reddish-pink sausage peeking through the chewy white bun no better than the cheapest available in the supermarket. And she didn't even want to think of what disgusting innards had gone into the sausage itself, assuming that all of it was remotely organic. So delicious, though, bringing with it a flavor of nostalgia. Hotdogs had been her mom’s foolproof method of shutting up her and brother’s complaints of hunger without dealing with individual finicky preferences. Amber got through the hotdog almost as quickly as Eric, in part to take in that heat. The thin, slippery napkins around it assured that none would spill out and down; as for her mouth, she wiped at it frequently to make sure any traces of sauce that made its way on to her face were eliminated at once.

A group of girls, perhaps sisters, passed in front of them, sharing a large box of popcorn. Just as much fell onto the ground as went into their mouths. They had an animal theme going on: a black cat, her tail bent at an unnatural angle, a leopard, and what might have been an owl. It made her think of what costumes she herself had worn. "One Halloween I went as Queen of the Universe," she told Eric, certain he'd get a kick out of that. "How about you?"

Foreman followed Amber to the bench, sitting down next to her. His fingers, wrapped around the small paper cup of coffee, were burning on one side, still frozen on the other. He finished his corndog in a few monster bites, just to avoid making any more of a mess. Wiping the mustard off on the napkins was only partially effective, so he looked around before sucking the rest of it off his fingers. The mustard was the perfect sharp contrast to the sweetness of the corn breading, and the whole thing left him more content than if he'd sat down to a three-course meal at a restaurant. Foreman was willing to attribute that to the company, though. "Some kind of wiles." He shifted over, closer to Amber, and draped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Warding off hypothermia," he said, comfortably rationalizing.

"I can see you taking that role to heart," he teased. "How did your brothers feel about being your minions?" Taking a sip of his coffee, and immediately burning his tongue--it was like the watery, boiling-hot chocolate he'd always gotten as a kid at the skating rink--Foreman considered the costumes he'd worn over the years. "I was a doctor once," he said, with a snort at his little-kid self. So damn serious. But, other years-- "Black Lightning," he said. "I loved that comic." He'd tackled Marcus a few times, using the impeccable excuse that it was just his electric forcefield doing it. For some reason, his mom hadn't taken that logic at face value. She'd said that any forcefield that could knock over a younger brother would also prevent any candy from getting anywhere near his mouth. Foreman shook his head, his breath slipping out in a sigh. The memory was a good one, but it only reminded him of what he didn't have anymore with his family. Marcus wouldn't think of it fondly, and Mom wouldn't remember at all--or if she did, she'd get stuck in that moment, and she wouldn't remember who he was now. Foreman tightened his hold around Amber's shoulders and fell silent, watching the stream of screaming kids flow past but not really seeing them.

"That sounds like a terrible disease, I wouldn't want to you to catch it," Amber returned, cozying up to him. Up against him, she pulled her sleeves to cover what they would of her hands and with that slight protection, picked up her milkshake. Sipping made her teeth chatter and body shiver, but it was sweet and faintly reminiscent of strawberries. Exactly what she'd wanted. She tipped the thin paper cup at Eric, offering him the chance to raise his (remote) risk of hypothermia.

"I did," she informed him. "I was a benevolent ruler, though my brothers didn't see the wisdom of my ways. Geoffrey tried to steal my tiara, but he stopped after I punched him." It'd been, come to think of it, like any other day; she tried bossing them around, they resisted, and eventually they moved on to other games. "I was a doctor, too!" Complete with a first-aid she'd stolen from the bathroom. Actually, it'd came in handy when they went trick-or-treating and Brian fell on his knee, skidding it. She'd patched him up okay. "And Super Girl."

Amber's stopped in her trail of memories, noticing that Eric had fallen quiet. His gaze was distant, perhaps back to his childhood, in a darker spot than she'd meant to take him. She doubted he'd retracted because something tragic had happened to the Black Lightning comic, so-- some incident? Another painful family memory? Maybe he'd remembered his brother, the one he'd fallen out of touch with.

Amber put her milkshake down-- it was too cold to drink anymore, anyway-- and rested her hand against his chest. "Hey," she said gently. "Where'd you go?" For all that they'd fallen into synch so smoothly, as if they'd been together their whole lives, they still knew so little about one another. Would she ever find out what had happened between him and his brother?

Foreman barely noticed Amber tilting her milkshake towards his mouth, offering it to him. He let it pass, until she'd put it down. Only when she pressed her hand against his chest and made an effort to meet his eyes did he wrench himself back to the present. "Hm? Nowhere." He blinked, refocusing. He hadn't really thought so much about his family in months, maybe years. Something about the questions that Amber asked brought them to mind more and more. It was easy to fall into reminiscing because he wanted to tell her about them. But he couldn't. He'd get to the part where his brother was a dealer and that would bring on...he wasn't sure what. Not pity--he didn't expect that from Amber, and he didn't want it, either. But she hadn't really understood about his own juvenile record, how serious it had been, how nearly it had stopped him from living the life he had now. She didn't know how much it mattered. She'd brushed it off with stories about pranks she'd pulled, as if they were equivalent.

And his mom. It would be no use introducing Amber to her; she'd only forget. It was embarrassing, awkward, painful. Why go through that? Foreman hadn't been home for longer than a quick visit in years. Never long enough to let Mom's condition truly affect him. It was easier that way, and it would be easier if Amber didn't know, too.

He wanted to trust her, though. He wanted her to know everything, all the important things. Telling her would mean getting into stuff he didn't like about himself, too. Lead to another fucking argument, because Foreman knew it wouldn't be an easy conversation. Better to get away from it, change the subject. He covered Amber's hand with his, hoping she would let it pass. "I still have the ride tickets. We could see how sick we can make ourselves now that we've risked botulism."

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