Foreman hesitated when Amber told him he could leave his things. Somehow he hadn't even thought of it. It was easier for him to live on the go--he showered at the gym when he went in for an early workout. The place where he had a membership wasn't far from the hospital, and sometimes it was easier to go there when he was on the hook for a forty-eight hour shift because of their patient. He was used to living out of his sports bag, and he was used to always having it in his car, available on a moment's notice. But the way Amber phrased it--the hesitation, and her exasperated stomp back into the kitchen--she didn't seem entirely comfortable in even offering. If he told her no, even if he had a perfectly reasonable explanation, Foreman had a feeling Amber would take it badly. Like he didn't want to leave his stuff here, like he hadn't been thinking about that tiny, incremental step towards permanency.
It would be awkward not to have his stuff for a day or two before they came back to hers. It would be worse to come across like he wasn't interested. Foreman dropped his bag near the closet (shit, his rumpled suit was going to marinate in gym sweat until he could rescue it and get it to his dry cleaner), and when Amber reappeared, he'd already made sure he had his phone, pager, and wallet in his coat pockets. He'd remote-started the car while she was in the kitchen, so the heaters shouldn't be blasting freezing air by the time they got out there. He followed her out and then unlocked the car.
Amber's request, though, reminded him of what it meant--that they were starting to let bits of their lives accumulate in each others' apartments. It had to be too soon to start hinting about exchanging keys, but Foreman was thinking about his own vague idea of both of them getting tested, and ditching the damn condoms. He had no idea how to bring it up. The last thing he wanted was to imply that either of them wasn't clean--he trusted Amber--but having the test results on a piece of paper in front of both of them might help with the decision. It meant something, it was a promise; that they weren't going to fuck around, obviously, but also that they expected to be together for months. Or longer, his mind suggested, as if that kind of assumption wouldn't get him in trouble too. Amber wouldn't be able to start the pill until after her next period, and the prescription would change her hormone levels; it wasn't something to take on a whim.
Fuck. Foreman wasn't awake enough to attempt that conversation. "I guess we should work on mornings," he said, once they were in the car and he'd pulled out. He felt a bit sheepish that they'd had to duck out on the run two days in a row, and also because he was mentally rolling his eyes at himself for thinking he and Amber--both doctors--wouldn't be able to talk seriously about medicine. He felt like an idiot, but if he trusted them, then he trusted that there'd be a good time to bring it up. Just not the same morning he'd nearly made Amber late again.
no subject
It would be awkward not to have his stuff for a day or two before they came back to hers. It would be worse to come across like he wasn't interested. Foreman dropped his bag near the closet (shit, his rumpled suit was going to marinate in gym sweat until he could rescue it and get it to his dry cleaner), and when Amber reappeared, he'd already made sure he had his phone, pager, and wallet in his coat pockets. He'd remote-started the car while she was in the kitchen, so the heaters shouldn't be blasting freezing air by the time they got out there. He followed her out and then unlocked the car.
Amber's request, though, reminded him of what it meant--that they were starting to let bits of their lives accumulate in each others' apartments. It had to be too soon to start hinting about exchanging keys, but Foreman was thinking about his own vague idea of both of them getting tested, and ditching the damn condoms. He had no idea how to bring it up. The last thing he wanted was to imply that either of them wasn't clean--he trusted Amber--but having the test results on a piece of paper in front of both of them might help with the decision. It meant something, it was a promise; that they weren't going to fuck around, obviously, but also that they expected to be together for months. Or longer, his mind suggested, as if that kind of assumption wouldn't get him in trouble too. Amber wouldn't be able to start the pill until after her next period, and the prescription would change her hormone levels; it wasn't something to take on a whim.
Fuck. Foreman wasn't awake enough to attempt that conversation. "I guess we should work on mornings," he said, once they were in the car and he'd pulled out. He felt a bit sheepish that they'd had to duck out on the run two days in a row, and also because he was mentally rolling his eyes at himself for thinking he and Amber--both doctors--wouldn't be able to talk seriously about medicine. He felt like an idiot, but if he trusted them, then he trusted that there'd be a good time to bring it up. Just not the same morning he'd nearly made Amber late again.