alwaysright | November 3, 2007

November 3, 2007 - Morning

Foreman had been right about one thing: when he finally woke up, his whole body felt like he'd run a fucking triathlon the night before. He opened his eyes slowly, a smile already curving his lips. Saturday. No work, no obligations. Last weekend he'd thought that he'd fucked up completely with Amber. This morning, here he was, grinning half into his pillow at the sight of her hair, tangled and fanned out across the sheets. So he hurt; that was no different than the morning after a lot of workouts. Some stretching and he'd be fine. If that was the only price he'd pay for last night, he'd always choose to do it again.

They'd finally made it out of the bath when the water was cooling. Fingers and toes pruned, shivering because they'd both fallen asleep, towelling off vigourously to warm up again. Foreman hadn't bothered waking up beyond the most basic functions. He'd gotten his teeth brushed, pissed, hauled his boxers on, and fallen into Amber's bed all without engaging any higher mental faculties. He didn't even remember falling asleep.

Looked like he was the first one to wake up this morning. Usually his body woke him up after eight hours whether he needed more or not. Affection poured through him at the sight of Amber, still sleeping. This way he could admire her before she realized that her hair wasn't in place, and it made the feeling sweeter, somehow, that she didn't know. To let her sleep herself out, Foreman tried to keep himself quiet as he climbed out of bed. He eased out of the bedroom after he'd hauled his trousers and hoodie on. Amber's keys were next to her purse, near the door, and Foreman ducked out for a quick, shivering trip to his car. He came back in with the bag he'd packed yesterday without running into Murphy or any of the other tenants, thank Christ. It didn't take him long to sort out things that he could leave here--deodorant, shaving stuff, cologne, toothbrush--along with a few clothes, more comfortable stuff so that he wouldn't be limited to suits on the weekend.

He showered about as quickly as he would on a weekday, not lingering once he'd gotten clean. He dressed in a pair of battered jeans and a clean sweater, before heading for the kitchen.

He wasn't a great cook, which Amber knew by now. When he was a kid, Mom had let him and Marcus into the kitchen for baking only--to lick icing off the spoons, or to dump too much flour in the bowl, making a mess with the ingredients and then burning his tongue crunching through the resulting--usually rock hard--cookies or cakes. But she'd also considered the kitchen more or less her domain, and she'd swatted their rumps with a dishtowel if they'd gotten in her way when she was cooking the big meals. Not that it was her fault he'd never learned. If he'd ever shown a real interest, rather than sprinting through and grabbing at whatever was sitting out to stuff into his face while Mom was in the middle of preparations, she probably would have taught him. He'd been an ungrateful teenager, he'd expected his meals to be ready for him, and he hadn't paid much attention except when they weren't. What he did know, he knew from disastrous experiments when he was in college, and certainly Claire had never stooped to cooking for him when they both had the same punishing hours at the hospital.

But there was one dish that he was terrific at. It was Claire who'd taught it to him, actually, after he'd complimented her effusively one too many times and given her his best wide-eyed, hopeful look when it seemed like she might be about to make breakfast. Denver omelette, egg whites only since he was trying to keep himself in weight training trim. He'd seen all the ingredients he needed in Amber's fridge last night. Peppers, onions, even some bacon. Cheese, maybe. He'd have to check. He could even set the table this morning since he'd reuse the clean dishes from dinner last night. It wasn't that he always expected to cook, but in this one case, he knew what he was doing, and damn, he already knew Amber could be astonishingly grateful for a simple meal. The omelette, maybe some toast, and fresh coffee--God, who knew how she'd want to thank him next? Grinning, Foreman set to work, far more confident than he'd been about the stir fry.

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Sensory information slowly filtered through Amber's consciousness: the soft morning light through the curtains, the excessive heat beneath the covers, the creak of her mattress. Amber half-reached, unaware, for Eric as he got up, just as she kicked some of her covers away. To do more than that, though, required too much energy, so she only rolled over, protecting her bubble of coziness for as long as possible. It was Saturday. She didn't really need much sleep-- learned how to run on minimal amounts during med school-- but when the opportunity presented itself, Amber slumbered.

The next thing to draw her attention was the smell of food. She awoke as she tried to identify the various scents: cheese, bacon, what else? It felt so close, as if it were coming from her kitchen. The smile that had been on her lips all morning widened. Eric's lamentable absence from her bed must be for a good cause.

Amber sprang out of bed, light and in good spirits. The world, she couldn’t help but feel, was a wonderful place. She opened the curtains with a flourish, letting in even more sun, looking benevolently down at the low, carefree Saturday morning activity. She almost laughed at herself for being so ridiculously happy. Last night, as strange as it’d been, had ended perfectly, with her and Eric giving a fuck-you to all their problems and falling asleep in the tub. It’d been a pain to drag herself out, get dry, and lumber back to bed—pausing only long enough to put her shirt back on—but well worth it. The relaxation it brought, after their fights and fucking, made her sleep soundly.

She stopped by the bathroom long enough to relieve herself and brush her hair: any more preparations would have to wait for after eating her hand-cooked breakfast. Her bed’s warmth had kept her going for a while, but the more she moved, the colder she became. This time of year, it was hard to last without a few layers, even in the morning. About to leave, Eric’s hoodie caught her eye. Amber paused, thinking for a second; picked it up and held it to her face, breathing in deep. Stale, definitely; if it’d been her own clothing she’d have carted it off to the wash at once. But it smelled of Eric. He wouldn’t mind. And it was his own fault, for leaving bed before she woke up, depriving her. She drew the jersey over her head and looked in the mirror. It was so large it hid her form, but—she liked the look. It made her feel—well. Like his. Like she had the right to show off being his, no matter the rest of his damn history. And it was comfortable, too, the cotton worn like a favorite outfit. With a new pair of jeans and slippers from her bedroom, she was warm enough to walk about the apartment.

Amber didn’t quite bound to the kitchen, but it was a close call. Eric’s back was to her as he juggled assorted tasks, brisk, self-assured. He must’ve really made himself at home here, if he felt okay about raiding her supplies and overtaking her kitchen without asking—and, to her shock, Amber was glad. He’d just better be careful, lest she get used to having her own personal chef. “Morning,” she said, sliding up to him, wanting a hug and kiss even before feasting. “I think I might be able to forgive you sacrificing morning sex,” she teased, “if this is the reward.”

The coffee was perking, the bread was in the toaster ready to start so it'd be hot when they ate, and the omelette was folded over and browning on the second side, when Amber came into the kitchen. Foreman dropped the spatula and turned around. He laughed when he saw her wearing his hoodie--it was big enough to droop past her hips, and if she hadn't tucked the sleeves back, they'd have fallen over her wrists. The hood rumpled at her neck, underneath her hair. Foreman's heart gave a silly flutter, which he was not going to think about, other than acknowledge that he wanted Amber to steal his clothes more often, if she was going to look that cute wearing them. "Perfect timing," he said, hauling her closer for a kiss--tender, but quick. He wasn't going to let his only culinary accomplishment burn before they'd had a chance to taste it. "That's why weekends have two mornings," he murmured, leaning in conspiratorily.

The hiss of the frying pan reminded him of what he was doing. This time he'd been more methodical, putting things away as he'd worked. There was a bowl of egg yolks that would need to be covered, but that could wait until after they ate. There were more dishes this time, but it was gonna be worth it.

"No rewards if you don't help." Foreman pushed the bar on the toaster and picked up the spatula again, testing it under the edge of the omelette. It lifted up easily--perfect. The cheese was starting to melt out at the edges, and the smell had him salivating. Over his shoulder, he said, "I can't find jam, or whatever you want on your toast. And--" He grinned, to make it clear it wasn't really a demand. "I take my coffee black, two sugars."

Well, if Eric was going to laugh upon seeing her, he couldn't be too upset by her nabbing his hoodie. Her hoodie, now. Finders, keepers. She might start wearing other shirts of his, too, once the scent had worn off this one. Amber hugged him when she realized he wouldn't burn either one of them by doing so, and accepted his quick kiss, happiness trilling inside her like a firework's sparkle.

"Does that mean we don't get breakfast tomorrow?" Amber asked as he whisked away to focus his attention on the omelet. She'd be jealous, but she was about to eat them. There were, of course, other implications to his suggestion and her joke: that they'd wake up in the same bed tomorrow too, and that, therefore, they'd spend the night together. And if they were together now, they'd likely stay that way for the rest of the day.

The thought disquieted Amber. She was glad to have something to do, gathering mugs and plates. A few brief conversations aside, they hadn't ever really talked, much less spent time together. The sex was crazy good, sure, and she knew they could get really wrapped up in a game, from their second 'date.' But would they actually enjoy whiling a day away with one another? It'd suck if it turned out they couldn't; all these feelings she had for him would be for nothing.

Amber pulled out the bread spreads from out of the fridge and carried them over to the dining table; if he'd gone through that much trouble of making a multi-course breakfast, she wanted to enjoy it fully, properly. She poured them their coffee, inserting sugar into his, milk into hers. How did Eric spend his Saturdays? She knew enough to blackmail him and to make him come, and she knew about his brother, but other than that-- House was probably was more knowledgeable. Great, one more person to be jealous of. "Did you have any plans for today?" she asked, hoping to sound casual and not at all as if she were fishing for information.

Preoccupied with his cooking, Foreman took Amber's cooperation for granted. He grabbed a plate and set it next to the stove. The omelette slid out of the frying pan perfectly, golden brown on the outside with just a few bits of onion and bacon showing through. Turning off the heat, he popped up the toast--Amber had liked it more like warm bread the last time she'd fed him breakfast--and then carried it all out to the table. "If you wear me out first, you'll have to scrounge for your own."

Sitting down, he divided the omelette with one knife stroke, and lifted Amber's portion over to her plate with a fork. He was eager for her to taste it, unlike last night's cobbled-together, barely palatable meal. It would be better if she praised it without him making a big deal of it, so he chose a jam jar pretty much at random and focused on slathering some on a piece of toast. The coffee smelled amazing; after a sip, Foreman already felt more alert. Damn, but he felt good.

He shrugged equably at Amber's question. Usually he worked through his weekends, with a few breaks for necessary errands. Sometimes in the evenings he'd go for drinks with Chase and Cameron, or a few other people he knew vaguely socially. Hospital colleagues. His pick-up basketball teammates. Maybe it'd sound boring, but he didn't want to change his routine too much to make himself look better in Amber's eyes. It'd only take a few weeks before he ran out of exotic destinations and she found out the truth. She already knew he focused mostly on his career. "I don't know. I've got an article I'm working on. I usually go to the gym." He glanced at her with a grin before forking up his first bite of omelette. "Think you could take me at a little half-court?"

Bacon, eggs and toast was too heavy a breakfast for her; most mornings, even on the weekend, she made do with light fare that kept her going until a heavier lunch. She'd loaded up on last night's dinner and was still satisfied by it; toast would've been enough for now. Not that she'd have any this morning, it seemed. "Is the toaster broken?" Amber asked, eyeing the pale, lukewarm slices.

The coffee was good, though, and the first sip was what she imagined religious experiences were like: soul-changing, light-bringing. Only then did she feel the pull of hunger and, since it was steaming hot right in front of her, Amber dug into the omelet. It was pretty good. She ate slowly, taking in the thick richness of flavor. "Not bad," she said, then teased: "I’ll keep you at least another week." Then again, he could've burned water and she wouldn't have let him go. The cooking thing was just an unexpected and very, very welcome bonus.

Spending most of her weekends alone or at work, Amber didn't quite know what most people did. She heard, saw hints-- going out during the day seemed popular, for shopping or movies. She'd seen a lot of patients come in with sports injuries and you-shouldn't-have-tried-that-at-home accidents. (The father of three who'd come in covered in day-glow paint and glitter had been a spectacular example. She still didn’t know how the glitter had ended up even there.) As for night life, Amber knew that part well: the dance clubs, the bars-- not that she'd take Eric out to pick up one-night stands. Amber smirked into another sip of coffee.

So she was pleasantly surprised to hear that Eric spent his free time in pretty much the same way. (House's accusation of 'boring' echoed in her mind, but he could shove it.) "You sure? Because I'll beat your ass," Amber shot back, her automatic reply to any challenge. Sports might not be her specialty, but she knew a thing or two about throwing a ball and even more about playing dirty.

Foreman tried not to show that he was watching Amber like a hawk as she took her first bite of the omelette. The toast hadn't impressed her, fine, but Foreman hadn't had anything to do with that beyond shoving some bread into the toaster and taking it out a minute later. She could hate the toast and he wouldn't care. But when her enthusiasm for the eggs amounted to "not bad", Foreman deflated. He thought it was delicious. He chewed another bite, and yeah, it was amazing. Filling, the taste sharp when he caught a bit of cheddar, the peppers chewy and sweet, the onion flavour softened by being caramelized. The bacon was salty enough and the tabasco he'd added was hot enough that it didn't even need salt and pepper. So maybe it was just him--she didn't like omelettes. Fine. But she'd reacted at about the same level to last night's disaster. Maybe she thought he'd be self-conscious about compliments, when really, if she'd praised him last night he would've been more embarrassed, because that had just been food. This was the one thing he could do in the kitchen.

Well, he couldn't make her like it. And it would mean less than nothing if he asked her what she thought and went fishing for compliments. Foreman cleared his mouth with a swallow of coffee and focused on his challenge. The idea of Amber playing basketball caught his imagination: he didn't know if she had skills or if she'd be carrying the ball all over the court. He could picture it either way, or even better, the third option: maybe she was a shark. She'd pretend to be helpless until he dropped his guard, and then swish in a three-pointer when his back was turned. The image restored his good humour, and he smiled. "We'll see," he said. "My gym does guest passes." He hadn't even checked the time, but it didn't matter, they had the whole afternoon. After that, well, if Amber wanted to keep him around for another day, let alone another week, then they had the evening too. Taunting, just for the fun of watching Amber respond to a challenge, he said, "You can show me your moves."

Amber had a few more bites before stopping, stomach filled, leaving maybe a fifth uneaten. The Denver omelet really was too intense for breakfast-- though if they were going to compete at basketball, it was a good thing she'd loaded up on a solid meal. Eric had a physical advantage: in tennis shoes they'd be the same height, but he was stronger. Fortunately, basketball was a game where speed counted, and Amber might have the upper hand there. Then again, he'd mentioned playing before, which probably meant he had more recent practice, and--

She'd have to use unconventional tricks, that was all. He'd been working for House all these years, he'd be used to it; hell, she'd have to watch out for him pulling any on her. Only Amber got to cheat.

"You won't need to see," Amber said sweetly. "I'm going to win, and that's all there is to it." The possibility of her losing didn't exist. Simple as that. She drained the last of her coffee and got up as if she meant to start clearing away the table-- only to throw her arm around Eric's neck, playfully cornering his Adam's apple in the crook of her elbow. "How's 'bout that?" she laughed. This headlock had been one of the favorites amongst the three of them, growing up, though it definitely wasn't the most vicious of their moves. Those she'd save for the court proper. "Still brave enough to take me on?"

Still eating, Foreman followed Amber with his eyes as she got up from the table. "Uh-huh," he said, skeptical and complacent. Until Amber was actually winning, Foreman wasn't going to believe it. He'd been playing since he was a kid, in leagues and school teams, and recreationally since college. Amber hadn't even mentioned basketball before. His experience would probably have him dribbling circles around her. Going for an easy layup was usually preferable to the beginner's usual mistake of trying for showy shots, and most of the game was about footwork, the kind of thing you only learned through repeated, drilled-in practice. Hell, maybe he'd take it easy on her, just to start, until he knew where they stood.

He nearly choked when Amber threw an arm around his neck. Fortunately he'd already swallowed, and he'd just put down his coffee mug. Her voice, mock-threatening in his ear, jostled a laugh from him. "You're in trouble now," he said. He wasn't going to get out of her headlock without doing some serious damage either to himself or to Amber's dining table. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that he could twist around, grab her, and haul her on to his lap, but that plan ended with eggs and coffee everywhere. Probably not the best outcome. But that wasn't the only way he could get to her. Reaching around behind his chair with one arm, Foreman was just able to run his hand teasingly up the back of Amber's leg, dip between her thighs, and squeeze her ass. "Now that I know I'm playing with a sneak."

"I'm not scared," Amber retorted, jostling her elbow for a second, rubbing his throat. When was the last time she'd roughhoused? She couldn't even remember. With her brothers, definitely, but they hadn't had a serious case of wrestling in a long, long while-- even if they apparently never would outgrow noogies and casual punches. It was about as much as mom could see before sighing as if she'd raised the world's three most failed children. (Little did she know about real failed children, Eric could’ve told her all about that, being related to one.) Amber grinned, wondering how Eric would try to get himself out of this. He must have his own 'moves.'

Never in her life would've Amber thought she'd be disappointed to get an ass-squeeze. Wasn't damn near physical enough. Would've liked Eric to flip her over, on the table, into his armpit, on to the floor. But she could take care of that. Rotating, arm relaxing from a grip to a hug, Amber slid into Eric's lap. Lifted a leg so that she straddled him, her ass right over his crotch. She smirked down at him, wondering how he’d react. Pin her down somehow? Get pissy that she wasn’t letting him finish his breakfast? Or would his lust win this round? By now she was fairly horny herself—it’d be impossible not to be, sitting on his thighs, arms around his wide shoulders—but it might be better not to follow through, for their upcoming game. "I think you like sneaky," she murmured.

Foreman leaned back in his chair and raised his chin, grinning warmly up at Amber when she climbed onto his lap. About as close as she could get, probably no room for daylight to show between them. He wrapped his arms around her in turn. The light of challenge in her eyes spurred him to act, but he held off for a moment. It wouldn't be any fun if she expected his reaction. He shifted slightly, trying to be sure of how much the chair could handle, and centering his balance, under the guise of having even better access to grope her ass. "I like you," he agreed quietly, one final distraction before he moved.

With a heave--not the best idea from a sitting position, and fuck, he'd really have to stretch out later--Foreman pushed to his feet, hands under Amber's ass boosting her up. He lifted her to his shoulder, hugging her around the knees, at the same moment that he stood up. The table, thank fuck, hadn't been too close; no crash of cutlery and broken plates. The chair teetered then fell to the floor with a crack. Foreman delivered a slap to Amber's ass that resounded with only a slightly less satisfying smack. "But sneaks get caught." He spun around--good thing she hadn't eaten much breakfast, and Foreman hoped he hadn't pushed this too far--and headed for the bedroom. It was the only place he could think of to dump Amber before she started fighting like a wildcat. He went in, glad there wasn't anything in the way of his feet, and then more or less tossed Amber on the bed.

No use giving up an advantage, either. Foreman leaped on top of her a second later and went with the only tactic that could possibly match Amber's headlock--he reached under her armpits with crooked fingers and tickled her for all he was worth.

Damn it. Amber couldn't hold back the blush, and daylight like this, up-close, he'd have to be either blind or way more distracted to not notice. It wasn't a secret anymore, or some kind of unfulfilled wish, that he liked her; it was just the surprise of hearing those words in what was meant to be rough-and-tumble. Not fair, using his feelings-- positive ones-- as an attack. And he called her sneaky. There was no where to hide--

Amber shrieked, suddenly upside down, face planted against his back. Her arms flew out at once, instinct, to cling around his waist, even before she really understood what had happened. "Cheater!" she exclaimed once her breath came back, kicking (only symbolically, if he let go, she'd slip, and, no, but did have to at least protest). She let out a gasp, muffled by his shirt, at the slap, and then she really did kick in earnest, adrenaline amplifying her reaction. Fuck, if she'd been red before, she'd be a real tomato by the time he finished dragging her wherever his evil mind bid him. "You're gonna pay!"

Glancing downward, Amber could trace Eric's direction: oh, good, the bedroom. She bounced against the mattress and she tried to get up, ready to pounce him, but he reached first, tackling her down, and tickled.

Amber wasn't exactly ticklish. Most attempts resulted in her staring stonily, devoid of all amusement, at whomever tried; the few sexual partners who'd dared quickly learned not to bother. Maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was Eric's confidence-- so certain she would crack-- or maybe it was simply how adorable he was, grinning and naughty and excited; whatever the reason, Amber did laugh. Tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and laughed straight from the belly, ribs shaking with mirth. Let herself enjoy the moment.

Let Eric be fooled into thinking she was helpless.

Slowly, as if it were part of the laughter, Amber raised her legs (getting harder to do, she was fast becoming light-headed); wrapped them around Eric's hips and turned, wrestling him to lie against the bed, pressing her knee against his stomach so that couldn't draw a breath without feeling it.

He didn't get to the bedroom unscathed. At least one of Amber's kicks had scored, her knee catching him almost perfectly in the pit of his stomach, right where his breakfast was protesting all this action. And a second thump took him in the ribs; yeah, he was paying for this, all right. All of it came out in his tickling, up and down Amber's sides to find the best spot. He laughed, getting stupid and silly, even though there didn't seem to be any one sweet spot that would make her yelp breathlessly and beg for him to stop. She was laughing, but not convulsively, and she wasn't squirming nearly enough. Not ticklish--Foreman added that as one more thing to remember about her. Other stealth attacks would have to do.

"Oomph!" Not that any stealth attacks would work if Amber got there first. Foreman found himself yanked down to the bed, hips caught in the vise of Amber's thighs. Any other time, he'd be more than happy to be there, but now his honour was involved. Foreman squirmed and struggled, grabbing for Amber's wrists. As long as her hands were free she'd still be dangerous.

Foreman's ribs ached, from laughing and from Amber's ungentle knee, and if this went on much longer he had a feeling that things like fair play would get dropped damn quick. But he was on top, stronger, and pretty soon his weight would start to tell on her. He hadn't held back from falling on her when she hauled him off-balance. He had to reach a stalemate before Amber decided to use some commando moves on him, and he got a knee in an even less pleasant place.

Once he had one of her arms, the rest was easy--relatively speaking. Panting, Foreman used all the torque at his disposal to twist Amber over to her front, and fell across her hip, breaking her leg-hold. They were both lying on their sides, Amber in front of him, and he had one arm. No quarter. Grunting, Foreman worked his second hand under her and groped for her second wrist, and pulled until he was hugging her hard, for all the world like a straightjacket. That done, he worked to get his breath back. Wasn't like this was the end--and she could still kick him right where he didn't want to be kicked. Time to offer terms. "You gonna say uncle?" he teased, grinning against Amber's ear.

"Fuck!" Amber spat out, but any viciousness the word would've brought was undone by the laughing undertone to her voice. She swore again as she tested the strength of Eric's bind: pretty damn strong. The bulk of his muscles wasn't nearly as attractive now. He had the physical upper hand; no use trying to overpower him. Kicking would be just as useless; with him behind, she couldn't gather the necessary force to hit him hard enough to smart. She couldn't even twist her wrists out of his hold, since he’d grabbed her arms so tight she could barely move them.

Slamming her head back would work, but it'd suck to spend the rest of their Saturday treating his broken nose.

"You know nothing about me," Amber declared, "if you think I'd ever say such a thing."

The thing about getting out of a physical imprisonment was to dislocate your opponent; in that flash of a second, you could turn the tables, making them beg for mercy. Amber threw her leg behind her, hooking her calf behind his, and rolled again; giggled, since all that accomplished was turning the both of them to look upward. Her arms were just as bound as before. She couldn't even sit up. A few digs into his ribs with her elbows, though, that much Amber could manage. And did.

Technically, she was losing. Terribly. He had her trapped and she saw no way of winning. But it was all in good fun and the novelty of wrestling with Eric pushed out any ideas of competition. Amber didn't need to chain him up, to keep him from touching her-- on the contrary, her abdomen was starting to ache from the laughter, and she felt as light as the lazy daylight streaming in from the window. It felt good, Eric challenging her body in new ways. “Any chance you’ll just get tired and let go of me?”

Foreman snickered, getting breathless all over again from laughing. No, he didn't think Amber would say any such thing. Maybe he hadn't known her long, but he wasn't an idiot. He tugged her a little closer. Covering his bases. Just because he was resting up didn't mean he was going to relax his grip. No Mata Hari trick was going to work on him. "Hmm, maybe," he said. He nudged his nose behind her ear to breathe in her scent. No shower yet; she smelled warm, sleepy, and a little bit like his own sweat, from the hoodie she'd appropriated. "I did get jumped before I finished my breakfast."

He let out a slower breath, ignoring his own residual hunger for the moment. His plan had been to let her go and to get back to his meal with all possible dignity, so that she couldn't accuse him of losing; only of ending their little wrestling match while he was on top. But now that he was here, lying with her, he felt almost as good as he did after sex. Relaxed, content right down to his bones, and happy to curl close around her for as many moment as she'd let him. His voice was a little slower, more lazy, when he asked, "Did you just let your brothers go, after you sat on them?" After all, tactical tricks from the master would probably help him out.

"Yeah, you don't want to keep your breakfast waiting," she said, encouraging Eric to release her. But Amber undercut her own words by nestling against him, exposing more of herself to his touch by tilting her neck. He pulled harder at her arms and she felt her muscles being elongated, a work-out by proxy. She'd have to stretch afterward to make sure she didn't wind up sore-- needed to be in prime form for their basketball game-- but for now she was content to lie on Eric, oddly snug and satisfied as if she'd just come. Shouldn't they be getting rowdy now? Why didn't she feel like getting the upper hand by rubbing against him to turn him on, why hadn’t he started to kiss her? They were attracted to each other, they hadn’t had sex yet today, and here they were, together in bed, with full physical contact, and just… holding each other, relaxing. As if this were enough. Crazy.

"Of course," Amber said earnestly. Actually, whenever she made her brothers eat dirt, face against the ground, only their screams and promises to behave convinced her to let them go. Good times. "Not that I ever sat on them. I was a very good sister, very kind." She rose and fell with his every breath. Amber shifted, growing uncomfortable. Eric's body was not the most ergonomic of surfaces. "I bet you were just as benevolent with your brother." Amber reflected Eric's question, remembering only belatedly that asking it of him was not playful. Great. She’d probably poisoned the moment. It was his fault, for having a stupid family.

Foreman didn't really want much more to eat. With Amber lying on top of him, compressing his stomach, he felt what he'd already eaten getting heavier. But he wasn't yet willing to give up having her as his own personal blanket. The apartment wasn't cold, but a little chilly, now that he wasn't moving around; having Amber on top of him helped. When she squirmed, though, he realized he must've been pulling a little too far. He rolled them back to their sides and loosened his grip, ostentatiously enough that she'd know he'd let go, not given up. He spooned up against her, chuckling softly at the idea of her kindness. Her brothers--what were their names? If he'd known, he'd forgotten--had probably cried for mercy more than once.

He was trying to picture Amber as a little girl with scabs on her knees, dirt on her face, and fury in her eyes, when she asked him about Marcus. "Nah, I always made him squeal." And then his mom had come to Marcus's rescue--where she always blamed Foreman, of course. Eric, you get off right now! Marc is littler than you. Don't you have any shame? What are people going to think, that I'm raising a bully or a nice young man? Strange how that had always managed to sting both their prides. His because he knew he should be above any provocation Marcus offered, and Marcus usually went whining after their mom, shrieking that he was so big enough, and she never let him win--of course, he'd always been about to. Foreman would keep his dignity and the peace for as long as he could, holding to his mom's words, while Marcus goaded him, until in the end--inevitably--he lost control again, and sat on him but good. "Not so nice, I guess."

It didn't really occur to him that they were edging close to things that ordinarily he'd knot up tightly and never let out. They were talking about when they were kids, not about Marcus as he was now, and that stopped his warning systems before they could get started. "Mom hated when we fought, but my dad would only stare at us like we were worms. Like he'd talk to us again when we'd smartened up." It had worked surprisingly well. Mostly. Foreman hooked his chin over Amber's shoulder. Finishing breakfast, going to the gym; they'd had plans, vaguely, but it didn't feel like they were on a timeline. No rush. "Did you get in trouble for, uh--" He grinned. "Being a good sister?"

Eric tipped over, landing her back onto the bed. He hadn't let go, and maybe if Amber made the effort to wrench away she'd free herself, taking him by surprise. Then again, he'd probably see that coming and pull on her arms even tighter—it’d be a true defeat. This, here, was a simple petering out; he’d tire out sooner or later and let her go. It’d be an unofficial win, and Amber preferred a half-victory over an absolute loss.

It was still cozy, sweet, lying together like this. The covers were bundled up at towards the end of the bed, from when Amber had kicked them off as she heated up in her half-asleep state. The sheets were rumpled and stained from last night-- she'd really have to wash them, now that she'd been forced to climb in with her slippers on-- but soft. With Eric's forearms gradually relaxing against her chest, and her legs brushing against his, Amber felt wonderfully lazy.

There was only one problem: Eric wasn't even a little bit aroused. She almost frowned. There'd been times—last night, to start with-- when just seeing her was enough to get him hard. Was he already getting bored? Couples often lost their sex drive, she knew that; didn't know it could be this fast. Her own drive hadn't gone anywhere; it was right here, ready to zoom off at the slightest indication. But she wouldn't initiate. No. Wouldn't provoke him with a kiss, or a hand to his crotch; turning on a guy with a blow job was cheating, anyone could do that. Amber wanted to see how long they could be close without it even occurring to Eric that they could fuck-- if it ever did.

And what did Amber have to offer but sex?

At least he hadn't been off-put by her question. Amber could hardly believe how casually he spoke, as if his brother weren't out there somewhere rotting in jail. The way he described it, they sounded like any other set of siblings. Amber would've never known better, if Eric hadn't told her. She listened to his memories with a heavy heart. Even his parents seemed so-- so normal. "Sounds like your dad knew how to handle you two."

Amber turned her face towards his. It was nice like this. Near, intimate, but not staring each other down. It was easy to think back, then to speak; no wonder he'd been able to recall his brother without becoming upset. "Nah, if I didn't stick up for myself, they'd have buried me alive. Geoffrey more than Brian, but only because Brian was the smallest." If Amber had been the youngest, Brian would've taken advantage of that; by the time he was old enough to be bigger and stronger, they were teenagers and past the age for physical fights. "Mom was always telling us to behave, and dad said the same things to make her happy, but they couldn't stop us when their backs were turned."

Yeah, no one could do 'withering' as well as his dad. Somehow his punishments were worse because of the humiliation involved, even if they seemed simple on the surface. Going on their own and apologizing in person the year they'd egged a neighbour's house still made Foreman squirm to recall. His mom's groundings, or confiscating a walkman for a week, had been comparatively easy to get through. "He did his best," he said, a little briefly, shrugging as best he could given his position. It hadn't always been enough, but that wasn't Dad's fault.

Foreman found Amber's hands and linked their fingers. The roughhousing was over, and this seemed more appropriate for the conversation than the wrestling hold he'd had on her at first. Hearing Amber talk about her family, Foreman continued to build an image of her as a kid. He felt a little ridiculous--next thing he'd be asking her to break out the photo albums--but, no. It was better to hear her talk about her brothers the same way she did about the other fellows out for her job. Laughing quietly, he pictured Amber getting Taub into an armlock and rubbing his face on the hospital floor. "Yeah, that sounds like you." He was beginning to think maybe he shouldn't have gotten this deep into a conversation about families, not if he wanted to keep Amber from questioning his too much. But she already knew the worst, and anyway, she didn't seem to mind talking about her brothers. Maybe he'd luck out and they'd stay on the safe topic. "How many years apart are you?"

Still nothing. It was as if he were mocking her: he didn't want, need, anything. She'd tested him, and he'd failed-- thus making her fail. Fuck, what now? Maybe he was still recovering from last night, the tying-up had been pretty intense, even for her. More so for him. Or maybe it really was her, no longer new and enticing. Amber tensed with the effort not to wriggle and give herself away; the last thing she needed was him asking her why she was upset, since there was no face-saving way of saying that he should be more turned on by her, damn it.

Eric playing with her fingers was paltry consolation. Amber returned the favor sulkily, letting her thumb explore his palm. She did love his hands, but it just made her sadder, that they were touching in the ways they usually saved for after an orgasm. So she just clutched his hands to her chest, comforting herself in the intimacy of their hug. Thank goodness he couldn't see her expression. "What does he do now?" To be Eric's dad-- he must be an imposing man. More rigid, perhaps, than Eric himself. Strict. A keen urge took hold of Amber; she wanted to meet his father, see who'd have made and raised the person who'd willingly spend his Saturday morning hugging her. She bed she’d like him.

The sunlight, inching, had reached them. Warmed Amber right up. "Geoffrey's three years older," she said, closing her eyes. "He's in Ohio right now, he works with property law.” Amber didn’t know much of what he did and she didn’t bother to find out; as long as it sounded prestigious, she didn’t care. “Brian’s two years younger than me, he’s in California. Everyone likes him, he’s the family clown.” ‘Goofy’ didn’t seem like Eric’s type, though. Amber let out a breath. It might be too soon, but if their sex life was already withering up, Eric owed her at least this much. And she might not get a better opportunity to ask. “Actually, you could meet them this Thanksgiving. They’ll be there, and my mom wanted to meet you.”

"Retired, mostly." Dad had always insisted that he was never going to retire, but in the same breath he wouldn't accept the charity of anyone else coming in to take care of mom. A home was out of the question, of course. Dad did what consulting he could from home, less and less now that he was away from the field, and lived on his pension. Foreman didn't visit much, but he sent what he could to make sure they were comfortable. He was glad enough that Dad considered that his duty, and not charity, otherwise they'd probably be in far worse shape. "He was an electrician." Being a trades apprentice had been a damn lucky place for him in the years right before Foreman was born. Kept him out of Vietnam. Mom had had various jobs when Eric was growing up, in sales mostly, but she'd also been a substitute teacher, and she'd taught Sunday school through most of his childhood. Didn't exactly help with the medical bills all these years later, though.

Thinking about that, he missed the change in Amber's breathing, as it got shorter, although he could feel her shoulder hunching under his chin. Maybe he'd really pulled too hard. She might not admit it if she still thought this was about 'winning'. Foreman adjusted his position, hoping it'd help her get more comfortable, but her thumb massaging his palm encouraged him to stay close. Later he could help her work the kinks out...he grinned. As it were. A massage, after their gym trip... His mind wandered a bit, although he was paying attention enough to catch Amber's brothers' names again, and at least where they were, even if he'd probably have to ask again exactly what they did.

"Uh--" He pulled up sharp a second later. This Thanksgiving. Meet you. He nearly froze on the spot, like a little bird hypnotized by a snake. Meet him? He'd barely met Amber. And she'd already told her mother about him? When had that conversation taken place? When all Amber knew about him was that he was her boss and she'd given him the cold shoulder for three days? In between the bouts of wild sex? And what the hell had she said? Thanksgiving wasn't just a meal, or even a meeting. It was a damn family event. Meet all of them? Get paraded around as 'the boyfriend'...fuck. He wasn't ready. Everything in him was screaming too soon! Too much. Panic slid through him so fast that he could barely breathe, let alone concentrate on an answer. He hadn't even thought about Amber meeting his family--Jesus, at all, if he could prevent it. It had been over a dozen years since they'd met a girlfriend of his. And now Amber oh-so-casually invited him over? God, it really was like high school; he'd have to be on best behaviour, play the guest, pretend he didn't notice if anybody's eyes slid over him carefully and pretended not to notice that he didn't exactly match their family. "That's, that's soon," he said, and cursed himself for the lamest response, his mouth working ahead of his brain. Not that his brain was working at all. "We might have a case," he said, grasping at straws. They might. They did most years. Not that Foreman had ever asked for the time off. Aside from a few football games, he hadn't marked Thanksgiving at all since he'd moved back from California.

A workaholic? Then it ran in the family. Well, at least in part of it, excluding his black sheep of a brother. But to go from electrician to doctor in one generation, that took effort, determination. Pride swelled in Amber: she'd had nothing to do with Eric's accomplishments, but she was here now. Might be with him for his next achievements. "What about your mom?" This she asked with more hesitation; the way Eric mentioned her cooking earlier, it sounded as if she'd passed away already. Amber didn't want to bring up difficult memories, but as long as they were going over their family histories...

Ah, fuck, it really had been too soon. If their sex life had been shelved, it was probably dead now. Eric turned into a woodblock, as rigid and sharp. Amber could practically hear his balls scrunching up and seeking refuge from his crazy woman who fucked him and now wanted to talk family. Snuggle time was officially over. Heavily, Amber sat up, expression wary. She gave it five minutes before this became a real fight, with yelling and more burst feelings. God forbid they had a serious conversation without a drama outbreak.

"You don't have to go if you don’t want to." she said. Could be as simple as that; wouldn't be, though. Eric had the jitteriness of a worm pierced by a hook. "I don't want to go." If she went with Eric, she'd be the center of attention, with questions like how long and where did you meet? (A month and by the hospital entrance-- he had an umbrella and I just had to get into his pants.) And, god, they'd know by now he was black-- mom would've told (warned, more like) everyone by then-- but they'd stare because only seeing made believers. And then they might not ask the other questions they would've otherwise, things like have you moved in together and-- fuck-- other ones that'd short-circuit Amber's mind if she let herself think of them. (She wouldn't let herself imagine Eric's petrified mortification if he overheard, you aren't thinking of having kids, are you?) If she went alone, there'd be the smirks that maybe she and her 'boyfriend' weren't so serious after all. They'd better not tell her, it's probably for the best; she wouldn't be able hold back an extreme reaction.

No, Thanksgiving would be terrible no matter what. It just might've been really fucking nice if Eric hadn't reacted to the invitation as if to a basket brimming over with toads. "I hope we have a case, it’s the only way I'll get out of it." Plus, the only way to avoid the embarrassment of going with or without him.

Foreman brushed right past Amber's question about his mom, far more focused on exactly what this family Thanksgiving insanity would entail. He had no idea where Amber's family lived. If they had to drive there, or fly, then they'd be stuck there at least a few days no matter how badly things went. There'd be no escape once he committed himself to the trip. And, God. Would they even let him stay with Amber? He assumed that she'd insist on the two of them sleeping in the same room, but maybe her family would frown on that and he'd end up bunking with the brothers. Jesus Christ. Could there be anything more awkward than that? Hi, I'm banging your sister? Or, fuck, maybe they had families, kids. Shrieking around, hyped up on the holiday, and probably asking all the questions that the adults would so-artfully keep behind their teeth. Putting Foreman on the spot even though they'd studiously avoided anything controversial.

He rolled onto his back, feeling stunned, when Amber sat up abruptly. 'I don't really want to'--yeah, Foreman had heard lines like that before. Lies like that. Oh I'm not disappointed, oh I understand. All it hid was Sorry, not good enough. Amber wanted this, she was serious, or she wouldn't have yanked away at the first sign that springing this on him might not have been the best idea. And contradicting her with it damn well looks like you want to go was only one more route to his own execution. "I didn't say that," he said, even though not wanting to go had leaped to the forefront of his mind the second Amber's invitation had hit the air. "It just seems like...a lot."

Could it be as simple as them getting a case? Would that get him off the hook? He'd scour the hospital to find something interesting if it would mean escaping the stiffest, most stilted meal he could imagine. But, no. Even if they had a case, Amber would crucify him for reacting wrong in this instant. That wasn't fucking fair, but Foreman didn't expect anything else. She might have been thinking about it for days, working up to dropping the idea casually into conversation, and the second he reacted like it was what it was--a fucking ambush--suddenly he was the bad guy. Foreman felt like he'd been punched in the pit of the stomach, had all his air crushed from his lungs. It wasn't that he was, well, against meeting Amber's family, eventually. Eventually was a big part of it, and so was gradually. He was serious, but he wasn't trying to cannonball into the deep end of this relationship. He cleared his throat. He needed time to think, time to get out of this. Not say no, but definitely, definitely not agree. "What would it be like?" he asked, not digging himself in deeper by agreeing fervently to Amber's disingenuous wish for a case. Whatever she described, he'd at least know how much he should be panicking, and he'd get an idea of how much Amber really wanted him there.

His family as a topic was now off-limits, if he wouldn't answer as simple a question as what about your mom. The scrutiny had turned to her collection of basket cases. And Eric tried to be oh so innocent about it, so free from the guilt of his gut-panic reaction. As if she were overreacting. Tightness set in Amber's jaw; she took in shallow breaths. All she'd done was offer the chance to meet her family, since he'd seem so damn eager to know about her brothers. She wanted to meet his. This wasn't even her idea; Amber had only invited him because her mom wanted him there.

But as condescending and frankly deceitful his backpedaling on having said 'no' was, the fact that he was still lying down calmed Amber. He wasn't going to take this to the next level, spiraling the fight into new levels of lowness. Embarrassed to have asked-- if she hadn't, he couldn’t have rejected her a second time in so brief a period-- she crossed her legs, bent her head. "There's Geoff and Brian, of course, and mom and dad. I'm guessing Brian'll bring his girlfriend, if they're still together, and Leila-- she's Geoff's wife-- will be there, too. And her kid." Amber had rarely seen the big-cheeked ‘princess’ outside of photos, so it was easy to forget her. "And some aunts and uncles and cousins, depending on who shows up. Mom likes to get as many people to come as possible." Those who dared invent other (non-work related) plans had better pray for their souls. "There's so many people it's easy to go ignored. It's what I usually do."

She looked away from her lap, stopped tapping her knees nervously. "None of that matters, though. I'm not forcing you to go, and since you don't want to, you won't. Case or no case." Amber would be okay with it; her mom wouldn't. If they did last as a couple, her mom would forever remember Eric as the boy who was too good for her carefully-prepared Thanksgiving feast; above her family's company. It'd add a layer of coolness, if the two of them ever talked, that'd only thaw out if Eric had enough charm to make her forget this slight-- Amber had seen it happen to Geoff's girlfriends enough times to know. But Eric was starting out at a disadvantage, even before refusing to come to dinner. But that was up to him, and she wouldn’t let them have more pointless fights over nothing. Amber was the one dating him, not her family. “Forget it.”

Each time Amber named another family member, Foreman felt more anxious. He was used to living up to every expectation set for him, but her entire extended family in one go? Yeah, getting ignored was not going to happen. It'd be a three-ring circus with both of them in the spotlight. Nothing Amber had said made it sound like her family was any less than WASPy whitebread, and he'd stick out no matter how hard he tried to be inconspicuous.

Foreman wanted to reach for Amber's nervous hands, catch her fingers in his the way they had been just moments ago. It'd be easy if he was calm to try and reassure Amber. But he wasn't. He was starting to get pissed off, jaw clenching, as Amber blithely glossed over the implications of everything she was saying. Did Amber believed he'd just blend in and make no ripples--was she so naïve that she believed that, or was she hiding the truth from him? Foreman would bet the latter, if it would make her family look better, and him like the outsider who wouldn't even show up. As if he didn't have every reason not to expect a fair trial once he did. "Do you really think I'd get ignored?" he said.

He shook his head and clasped his hands behind his neck, staring up at the ceiling. "I never said I wouldn't go," he insisted. "You're jumping this on me and then you say it doesn't matter, and I think you're not telling me what does." Why else would Amber be so stand-offish? She was nearly as tense as he was. Foreman wasn't going to simply forget that when so many times the conversations they dropped were the important ones. Things that made a damn difference. "My family doesn't do Thanksgiving much anymore," he said. Eight years, or ten, he was starting to lose count of how long it had been. The year his mom had nearly burned down the house making a simple dinner had put an end to any huge family gathering. Most of his dad's people were back in Chicago, and his grandparents on his mom's side were both dead. It didn't make for much festivity. Easier to work. Easier to ignore Marcus's empty place at the dinner table and his dad's utilitarian cooking. "My mom--"

To Foreman's complete horror, his voice broke. Christ, he didn't talk about her, and this was fucking why. He snapped his mouth shut, teeth grinding, furious with himself. He rolled to his feet, pacing away so that he could squeeze his eyes shut for a second without Amber seeing. It doesn't matter, he thought, insisting on Amber's words like a mantra. It doesn't fucking matter so shut up. If he could just get his damn control back, he could talk again, agree with her: forget it, forget it, it's not important.

Eric’s horror grew the more she talked. Yeah, an hour with her family would be like ripping skin off; a few days and he'd be torn bare. No fucking way she'd put him through that or make herself suffer watching him abhor every second of her relatives. A sulky Thanksgiving would be infinitely preferable. Past the first round of pointed where's that boy your mom talked so much about?, no one would bother her much, anyway. Geoff would pull some dazzling life-changing news from his sleeve and if he didn't, Brian would help joke Amber out of the center of attention (at the price of teasing her mercilessly in private, later).

Do you really think I'd get ignored? Amber blushed. Of course he wouldn't. He knew he wouldn't. And not just for being the first 'boyfriend' she ever brought back home. It half-surprised her he already knew; humiliated her that she couldn't deny the accusation. "You'd be more scandalous than the punk-rock musician Brian fell for," Amber admitted stiffly. She felt made of cardboard. "Look, I told you already, you're not going. I'm not going to make you miserable, I'm not. End of story. If you ever have to meet my family, we'll find a better way." One that wouldn’t leave him so disgusted with her that he’d break it off between them. Fuck. Her family really might drive him away; she should've never thought to invite him to Thanksgiving, no matter what her mom said.

Amber was so caught up in trying to undo her mistake that she didn't really hear what Eric said next; only snapped back to attention when the words 'my family' popped up. That she wanted to know about. What did they do? What was it like? Would they ever want her over? Probably not, if they didn't get together for it anymore. He put his hands behind him, radiating an aura of do-not-touch. He was still pissed.

Which was why she was stunned when his voice cracked. Amber's mouth opened; made herself replay the sound in her head. Had that really happened? But she couldn't question her hearing, not when Eric's jumped to his feet, jerky movements screaming cacophony. "...Eric?" she asked cautiously, getting up to her knees, unable to not at least move, wanting to make it better. Fuck, if he cried, she'd have no idea what to do; she never did well when patients let loose the waterworks, and if it happened to the healthy man she was fucking, she’d be really lost. Was this about his mom? She had to be dead, for a reaction like that. Shit, what should she do? Hug him and say she was sorry? But Amber hated it when people pulled that crap with her. She was useless; all she really could give was sex, and what good would that do now?

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