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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Shanelle's laughter did not improve Amber's mood any, particularly not after she'd clearly disdained her title. Amber stiffened, jaw rising. She was taller; felt good to look down at Shanelle. Hooray for small, bitter victories. "Then I take that as a yes," Amber said. Eric had slept with her on their first night out, and as much the gentleman he played, neither he nor Shanelle seemed so refined as to keep their hands off each other. Why would they? They were both incredibly attractive; it'd make no sense not to take advantage of each other. Their smiles-- her playful one, that smug one Eric got whenever he was about to score-- they'd draw each other in, like Amber had in the parking lot, what was the point of if he was just going to let his cock follow every beautiful woman that crossed his pass--

Shanelle's dig at Eric only proved Amber's thoughts. Showing off. Hah, maybe that's why he worked out, it was easier to pick up dates in the gym than in rainy parking lots. "I know what you mean," Amber replied coldly. "He's very... confident." That'd drawn her to him, damn it, she'd thought it was hot, and now Shanelle was laughing over it and Amber felt so incredibly stupid for ever having been taken in by Eric's suaveness. That first night she'd thought him ridiculously cocky and hung up on himself, but since then-- Shanelle hadn't fallen for it, why had she?

Five weeks. They could get in a lot of fucking in that period. Interesting, too, that she remembered so precisely how long it'd been.

"No," Amber said, raising her hand as if to bring Shanelle closer. "You're not interrupting. You're staying in line, right?" There were still a couple of people ahead of them so they'd be here for at least a few more minutes. "I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on, I wouldn't want to get in the way." Not if it meant she could pick up on more details Eric would've have spit out of his own free will. Amber smiled again, aiming for friendly, though she wouldn't be surprised if she fell far off the mark.

Suicide was beginning to look like the only possible option. Amber's voice dropped to arctic, and referring to him in the third person couldn't possibly be good. What the fuck was wrong with being confident? With knowing he was attractive? Amber played on that herself often enough--Jesus, she'd been showing off for the guys on the basketball court not half an hour ago, and now she was judging him for daring to pick up women when he was single? She was in a damn relationship, with him, and she was still flirting with every guy that walked by.

Foreman nodded tightly, hoping it would confirm that he wasn't interested in hearing all the old news. When had he and Shanelle every really talked, anyway? She hadn't been interested and he hadn't been forthcoming. Wendy had tried to drag his thoughts and feelings out of him, and with Amber, Foreman was starting to realize that he wanted her to know. He and Shanelle had connected enough in bed, and they'd had some good conversations, but that didn't mean that twelve months later they needed to have a chat.

Of fucking course Amber invited her to keep talking. Frustration roiled in his stomach. "Not that much," he said tightly. Shanelle might take it as an insult, but what did he care? They hadn't spoken for a year, and they'd both been sure it was over. A chance meeting in a coffee shop wasn't going to change that.

Shanelle raised her eyebrows, but she evidently agreed. If she'd seen the stormy weather on Amber's face, maybe she'd realized exactly how far she'd pushed this. "You never did like sharing," she said, probably the first serious thing she'd said since she'd shown up. Her smile turned a little less goading and more sincerely friendly. "I'm the one who's in the way. Mind if I just--?" She slipped past them, on Amber's side, to where the people ahead of them in line had just taken their food. "Large coffee, cream and sugar, to go," she said to the barista, and smiled over her shoulder at them, the joke firmly back in place. "We'll have to do this again, Eric. Another year, okay?"

Bitch. Refused to give up any useful info and then went and cut the line. Amber had only been stiff and cold til then, but the injury of having her place stolen boiled her feelings straight into anger. Amber openly glared at Shanelle's back, every muscle strained so tight it felt like they could snap at any moment. Had no idea which was stronger, the urge to tell her off or to spin her out of the line. So Eric didn't like sharing, big fucking hoo. Well, neither did Amber.

Another year, okay.

It took all of Amber's willpower not to knock the coffee out of her hands.

Somehow though, she restrained herself as Shanelle sauntered out with her big stupid cup of coffee and work out bag to keep herself in such lovely shape and summon all the men to her. "How nice," Amber commented to Eric, trying to keep her voice impersonal though she could've spit from fury. "You already have a date for later."

Part of her knew no wrong had really been done; maybe that was what really kept Amber's reaction toned down when she could be doing so much more, pulling Shanelle back and demanding answers and throwing out the most hurtful words she could imagine. A flash from the past, that was all Shanelle represented. But-- to have her right in front of her, concrete and breathing and so goddamn perky, Amber didn't know what to do with herself, this goading frustration and ire. She'd wanted so badly to know how Eric's past girls had been and this glimpse wasn't enough-- why hadn't it worked out? Why her? Did she and Amber fall into some type that made Eric hard and that was all there was to it? But what did they even have in common? There was no physical resemblance.

"Ma'am?" the barista asked politely, and only then did Amber realize it was their turn.

Blushing-- fuck and now she was embarrassed-- Amber ordered quickly. "A large latte with low-fat milk and a chicken salad sandwich." She'd considered the soup earlier, since so many people had ordered it, but now she needed something to sink her teeth into. Proudly she dug through her bag for her wallet-- this meal she'd pay for herself. Eric could take his hypocritically polite treatment of women and stuff it.

Foreman didn't care that Shanelle ordered ahead of them, beyond the angry relief that at least this way she wouldn't be sticking around to make the moment any more excruciatingly awkward than it already was. "No, I don't," he snapped. He wasn't interested in having his motives questioned or in having something Shanelle said become a weapon in Amber's hands. It had been a damn joke. Shanelle had always liked to get through bad conversations by saying We should do this again when what she damn well meant was Let us never speak of this. No way Amber could know that, and no way Foreman could explain without showing that he remembered personal, inside-joke information about Shanelle that Amber probably expected him to have wiped from his memory the second they broke up.

Not that there was any time to hash it out, when they both had to order instead of making the line back up behind them. "Corn chowder, chicken salad on rye, large coffee with sugar," he muttered, taking out his wallet. Amber had already moved on, waiting for her lunch, completely breaking the contact they'd had. With it seemed to go all that sense of connection they'd had since the gym, the feeling that even silence was comfortable, because they were on the same wavelength.

He finished paying and went to stand beside her, fuming and pissed off and having no idea what to say. He couldn't fucking defend himself. Any look Shanelle had given him, every word she'd spoken, Amber would analyze as if they were now going to try and get back together behind her back. As if a month--five weeks, whatever--of casual dating and casual sex meant something, when Foreman had already told Amber that she...that this was more. Christ, he didn't know why. It was a lot fucking harder, and why that should be better made no sense that he could figure out. Amber challenged him, and then broke down, and when he tried to comfort her she went off like he was the most patronizing bastard on the planet, and somehow he liked even that. He was...he was proud of her, for not needing him, or at least claiming not to need him, and that made the moment when he could comfort her or make things better feel so sharply sweet. Amber was fiercer, haughty, demanding. And seeing that was like standing up to a force of nature. Breathtaking. Except when it left her pissed off at him for no good reason.

"I never left my stuff at her place," Foreman said, low-voiced, speaking mainly to the counter in front of them and pressing his lips closed afterward, determined not to even try to defend himself any further. It was true, and maybe it'd matter. Or maybe he'd just stepped on a fucking landmine. He set himself to endure the fallout, tense and miserably furious.

Amber didn't want to be here. Too pissy, too ready to lash out. Anything might set her off or, worse, nothing at all; she was twitchy and feeling like crap, unpredictable. She hated this. Hated not knowing if a look would make her snap at Eric or if she'd be able to calm the fuck down-- and it wasn't just the jealousy feeding her bad mood, but the embarrassment and excruciating frustration of skidding out of control. Eric hadn't done anything beyond have a life before meeting her and look at how she handled it. Amber seethed. This was exactly what she'd meant when she'd said she hated what she became around him.

She needed a moment to herself. Skulked down the counter to wait for her order, staring down at the light-grey marble. Someone had spilled salt and there were scuff marks, probably from sliding trays. This level of upkeep, Amber just hoped she didn't find a dead roach beneath her table. No, actually, she hoped she did, or a big fat rat; she'd love an excuse to rag at the manager.

She got about a minute to herself before Eric slid down to where she was; just from peripheral vision she could tell he'd brought with him an ample serving of sullen resentment. Poor boy with such an unreasonable girlfriend, angry because his ex threw herself at him for more of those orgasms he so generously spread around. Amber looked the other way, not trusting herself to speak. She just needed some time, was that too much to ask for?

Apparently. "Congratulations." Her fingers itched to tap the counter. What the fuck was she supposed to do with that information? So what if he'd never left stuff at her place? He'd probably put more personal 'things' inside her. "Sounds like a beautiful relationship."

Amber didn't get it. Or, if she did, she wasn't making it easy on him. Foreman wanted to roll his eyes and snap that he'd already made more of a commitment to Amber than he had to Shanelle, in a fifth of the time, and that should fucking mean something. But he wasn't about to explain it. He waited for their trays to be deposited in front of them, at more or less the same time. Despite the line, the place wasn't full. Most people were grabbing sandwiches and coffees to go. Probably a good idea. If they ended up in a screaming match here, Foreman knew he wouldn't feel comfortable coming back for as long as anyone might remember it, and he liked this place. "It wasn't." That was the point. It had been fun, a distraction, better than dealing with House going off the wagon in a seriously stupid way and ending up with all of them questioned by the fucking cops. It hadn't been a relationship.

Not saying another word, he took his lunch and found a table. It wasn't near the counter or the door or the washrooms, and there was a large potted plant that hid it from most of the rest of the room. As much privacy as he could find. Amber could follow him--or not, he supposed. That might be safer, if she just ditched him here instead of making a scene. He stared down at his food, shoulders hunched. Why would she want to have lunch with him, when they were both in such shit moods? Dammit, it wasn't his fault Shanelle had walked in right then. That he'd known her at all.

Didn't seem likely he could retrieve the situation. Maybe Amber would kick him out later, after he'd taken her home, and they could cool off, apart from each other. Until then, they were stuck. Foreman picked up his sandwich and bit in, nearly surprised that it tasted just as good as usual and that he was still hungry.

It wasn't, Eric snapped. Amber wish she could be reassured; he'd been on the defense since the moment Shanelle came in and for all she knew, he was exaggerating how little they'd cared about each other. Shanelle had commented that he'd never liked sharing... that was pretty true. Amber had forced out of him the information about his brother and he'd clammed up about his mom. Miserably Amber accepted her tray; she was more or less at the same level as Shanelle, only with more of Eric's stuff in her apartment. What did she care about his possessions? They were only things, not even that personal. If they never saw each other again, he wouldn't cry to loose his precious deodorant and razor blades. At least, Amber hoped not.

Eric had stalked off to a table, not looking back or giving any other indication of inviting her. For a moment Amber hesitated, trying to interpret his wordless messages. Were they fighting badly enough not to eat together? The meal wouldn't be any good with this stony, sullen silence. But she hadn't ordered to eat alone. She’d have gone home for that.

Regardless of what he'd wanted, Amber followed and dumped her tray on the table. The way Eric stared down at his meal, Amber wasn't sure if he wanted her there. Great. She'd gotten jealous for no reason other than being faced with the Ghost of Girlfriend Past, and now he was justifiable pissed. And they'd finally gotten past his bad mood.

They shouldn't talk. Ever. Just fuck.

It was Amber's turn to stare at her food. Even as tired and cranky as she was, she didn't feel like eating, not with this stupid thing between them. God, she'd played such the loser today. Not one thing had turned out right. She'd lost the wrestling match, he hadn't gotten hard even though they were all over each other, then they'd fought about their families, and she'd been an abject failure at basketball, needing to invent points to save face--

This day sucked. A lot. They could fuck away this round of bitterness too, but what good would that do? They'd just fight. Again. Amber lowered her face, embarrassed and awkward and wishing she were anywhere else. Her hands curled in her lap. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I just--" There was no excuse. "I was being stupid." Couldn't help myself, she didn't add. She could save herself some pride.

It was more of a relief than it probably should have been that Amber decided to join him. Foreman didn't know whether to be relieved or to brace himself for the questions she'd fling at him. If she acted like she'd caught him cheating on her, it'd be about the only thing that could make this lunch even worse. The clatter of her tray showed Amber was still angry. Foreman glanced up, chewing on his bite, trying to get a sense of just how badly this was going to go.

But instead of anger, Amber's face was flushed, and she was staring down at her lap like someone had just died. Without being correctly diagnosed. Because of her. Foreman swallowed, bread scraping the sides of his throat as he did. Knowing how competitive Amber was, and how tense she'd gotten when Shanelle had greeted him, he'd expected the worst. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Amber might apologize. He sat up a bit, shoulders easing, and he set the sandwich back on his plate. He'd bet he wasn't quite concealing his surprise. "I felt like an idiot," he said, the admission slipping out, acknowledging what she'd said but trying not to dwell on it or make her feel worse. "Seeing her." The timing couldn't have been worse. Maybe he shouldn't have brought Amber here. But it had to happen sooner or later, with her exes if not his.

Hesitating, he considered the rest of his lunch again. He wanted to reach out to her, but the farthest he got was putting his hand out on the table, offering to hold hers if she'd mirror the gesture. "I'm sorry it happened. I didn't want to ruin lunch."

"Why should you feel like an idiot?" Amber asked sharply. "You dated her for a while and she happened to run into us. What were you supposed to do, go back in time and stop yourself from sleeping with her?" There was nothing he could've done, no magic solve-all solution; his past existed whether or not they ran into the people who'd been a part of it. What she needed was to fucking deal.

Amber looked to the side, staring at the not-quite beige wall. Still not hungry. Not even the scent of coffee roused her appetite; too angry at herself. Eric could make her the happiest person in the history of all time, but so what if she kept fucking up? She'd drive him away; she'd make herself give up to spare herself the shame, before he got sick of her. Amber trailed her right hand down her hair, then rested her wrist against the nape of her neck.

She didn't want to say anything. God, everything in her head was so incredibly stupid, this pointless jealousy. Bad enough she had to think and feel these things, why subject Eric to it? He only wanted to eat his sandwich in peace, he'd just said so. He'd complained today that he never knew what she was thinking, but this couldn't possibly count. Telling him she was sorry and that she'd been stupid should be enough, no need to beat the dead horse. Accept the past and move on, that'd do. And so Amber lifted her sandwich and chewed her way through a small first bite, hunger sharpening the taste of mayonnaise.

Okay. It wasn't over. Foreman pulled his hand back. Amber's apology should have been enough. It wasn't like he'd thought through what he'd just said; it had come out, just like his admission about his mom earlier today. He told Amber this shit and then there was no way to call it back. She was right. It hadn't been his fault and there was nothing he could have done, so it was stupid to have felt bad about it. Foreman sat back a bit, drawing into himself. Amber didn't look any closer to feeling better, but she also looked like she'd bite his head off if he even said something else.

He stirred his soup and started eating it. It was delicious, exactly what he needed, rich and hot. If only his mind would stop circling around for something safe to say, some topic that wouldn't set either of them off, then he would have been perfectly content. As it was, physically at least he was completely content. That went a long way toward keeping him from arguing with Amber when she clearly didn't want to be argued with. Before Shanelle had walked in, he'd noticed Amber looking around, studying what everyone else was having. The corn chowder had been pretty popular. She would have ordered it if she'd wanted some, but it didn't hurt to make a peace offering, anything to clear the air.

"This is good. Want to try it?" Foreman lifted his spoon, half offering it to Amber, being sure to keep his voice neutral. If she didn't, no skin off his nose, he was enjoying it and didn't need to share. If she did, it didn't have to mean anything other than she liked soup.

The bread was thick and crunchy, not yet moist from the sandwich's contents. The chicken slices were a good size, enough to chew on but not to stuff up her mouth; the thin celery bits were crisp and fresh. Amber supposed the food might taste good but it all came out as bland in her mouth, unappealing and instantly forgettable. Even the coffee left no impression on her.

She kept on eating, though; the first swallow was ravenously received by her stomach, clamoring for more. Once she started, she couldn't have stopped herself. Everything might taste of sawdust, but her head felt more balanced, less fragile.

But even as her hunger lessened, Amber could not get her mind off Shanelle and her knowing smirk, as if she were imagining Eric naked and knew precisely how to fill in the details. She was shorter, but maybe he liked that, made him feel manly to bend his face down to capture her lips; lift her off the ground to squeeze her against his body—of course Shanelle looked fantastic, in this and all the other images running through Amber’s mind.

For the most part, Amber kept to herself. She heard Eric chewing and then sipping at an unhurried pace. Hopefully he'd get more out of his meal than her, with or without her glowering. What wonderful company she provided.

The abruptness of his words startled her, making her look up quickly. Amber almost laughed: soup as a token of peace. She didn't know which was sadder, the fact that he'd offered it, his casualness in no way hiding how anxious he was for the bait to work, or that he'd needed to in the first place. The latter won, Amber decided; he'd only had to stoop so low because of her. "Soup won't make everything better," she chided-- and accepted the spoon anyway, fingertips brushing against his as she took hold of the metal. Her other hand cupped beneath the traveling spoonful, Amber brought the corn chowder to her mouth; it had more flavor than anything else she'd tried this meal.

"Thanks," she said after swallowing, returning the spoon. Then, "I know we're both on edge and I don't know what to do." Because it was the truth and maybe by admitting it, he could suggest something-- Amber just hoped he wouldn't be patronizing. But Eric did have more experience in this field, maybe he knew how to smooth down rough spots like these. Or was that food-sharing bit the most effective tool he had at hand? It'd probably have worked on Shanelle, who'd have just laughed all this off; wouldn't have bothered with jealousy.

"I just keep thinking about her," Amber blurted out, "and other women you've been with, and I keep comparing--" Stopped there, pressing her lips together and freezing her expression cold.

Foreman darted his gaze across Amber's face. There was a quick instant when she very nearly smiled. He could still sense the humour in her eyes when she took the spoon from him, but it faded quickly. He shrugged a bit. Soup as a peace offering was stupid, yeah. He could offer her more than that, if only he could get up the nerve to stop acting like a child about the entire topic. He watched Amber's lips close over the spoonful of soup. The corners of her mouth turned up in enjoyment. Foreman let his fingers brush hers again when she returned the spoon, trying to find that sense of connection.

He didn't know what to do either. Words didn't mean anything, not compared to what Amber felt. He'd been jealous over her, too, the bitter clench in his gut and the directionless anger leaving him frustrated, with no way to lash out that wouldn't break the bounds of his self-control. So far, he'd kept it to himself, beyond a few glares that probably left Amber with a fuller picture than he'd intended. But that had been over random guys, not over the specific embodiment of one of her fuckbuddies. And he could reassure himself--she'd already said there'd been no one serious. He believed her. He had to. Maybe she didn't even remember his moment of complete idiocy when he'd imagined an abusive boyfriend for her and had immediately wanted to go out and kick his ass. But she wasn't the only one who'd behaved like exes were the end of the world. Foreman didn't feel like bringing up his own stupidity, not even to reassure Amber. Showing himself in a bad light wasn't on his agenda, and besides, he had a feeling that his failings were a separate thing altogether from Amber's. She'd blame herself far more than she'd blame him for the same thing.

There was nothing to say. But if he could show her...Foreman's heart thudded, anxiety making his feel cold despite having his hands wrapped around his coffee mug for most of the meal. Telling the damn truth, why was that so fucking hard? He could do that, at least, for Amber. "My mom's soup did," he said. "Make everything better. She made hers from scratch. I don't think there was anything it didn't solve." Except her own sickness. But when he was a kid, it had been as close to magic as he could remember. Foreman searched out Amber's eyes, trying to get a sense that she knew what he was doing. Sharing. Because apparently even Shanelle had noticed that he didn't. Well, it wasn't going to be like that with Amber. If she wanted to compare, she could see that he'd give her more than he had to anyone since...in a long time.

Talking about his mom only made it more real, how much he missed her. He felt more in control right now, not about to break down bawling, but that didn't make it any easier to let this all out. To give Amber permission to know him, and ask about his family, and pretty much obligating himself to answer. "She never had to write her recipes down, she could just--take anything out and make something with it. She--" He swallowed, a frown creasing his forehead, but dammit, he was going to get through this. "She can't remember now. Multi-infarct dementia."

It was no accident this time, their fingers running against one another as she returned the spoon. Such a small, insignificant touch, and yet it left Amber with a smile. She liked that they both wanted to make up for what had been a blatantly stupid and unnecessary burst. Preferably they'd have known what to do, but the fact that they both wanted to get past it counted for a lot. Reassuring, too, that Eric wasn't going to hold her jealousy against her. At least, not now.

But then seconds passed into minutes without a reply to her exclamations. Amber found herself bending her head again, back hunching. Didn't he know what to say? She wasn't asking for magic words. Just a response. If he couldn't do even that, maybe it meant there was nothing that could be done about her insecurities; dealing with it on her own would have to be enough. Don't mention it to Eric because he'll just shrug it off. Fume in silence. Girls out of sight should be out of mind.

Awaiting explanations about exes or jealousy or learning how to take it easy, the mention of his mother's soup came as a non-sequitur. Okay, they'd been more or less talking about soup, but what did that have to do with anything? Again Amber jolted to look up at him. His eyes stared into hers intensely like this was meaningful and she had to understand. She didn't, not really. And yet her heart suddenly thudded; this was important, if for no reason other than because Eric felt so.

Amber didn't speak; the twitches in his face suggested he had more to get out and she didn't want to be the one to dam him up. She'd seen him this miserable before, generally when speaking about his family. Edges of his mouth downturned, frowning-- and, oh. "Oh," she said. Her brain coldly rattled off some of the symptoms: dementia, cognitive dysfunction, decreased motor control. "Eric, that's--"

If her heart had been beating faster, now it crumbled in her chest, faltering. There were no words for this. They couldn't describe how awful it was to loose someone bit by bit, watching an old personality chip away. Christ, she didn't know if this was better or worse than that brother in prison. And what could she say in sympathy? Nothing.

But she wanted to be with him. That much she could do. Amber stood up, lifted her chair, and moved it until it was right next to his; sat down again, drawing an arm over his shoulders. Leaned her head against his, resting their cheeks against each other. It wouldn't heal his mom, but-- being together was a good thing. "I'm sorry," she said, seeking out his hand. Amber remembered his fury this morning, yelling that nothing would make his mom better. She must’ve been sick for a long time. "You must miss her so much."

Foreman sucked in a breath. It shuddered in his throat more than it should, but he caught his breath and held it, forcing it out slow and smooth. He was in control. He wasn't going to lose it in the middle of a fucking restaurant. No point in getting emotional about it. The diagnosis was a medical fact; the symptoms were completely transparent. He was a neurologist, he knew exactly what the progression could look like, what his mom had already lost and what she was likely to lose. She'd been on warfarin since they'd found out about the TIAs, and his dad made sure she exercised at least a little every day, to keep her cardiovascular health as high as possible. There were therapies that were meant to slow any signs of degeneration, enrichment strategies, but they didn't make it so that his mom knew who he was when he saw her.

He stared sharply at Amber when she cut herself off. He hadn't told her for the sympathy. What the hell was he becoming in her eyes? Not himself. Not even a doctor with a bad track record of employment. Every tidbit he shared diluted how she saw him, it had to. He was the guy with the sick mom and the fucked up brother. God, he wouldn't be surprised if Amber saw them when she looked at him, instead of the man he tried to be. Too late. Too fucking late to take it back, like always. There must have been something different he could have said, but no, he'd been stung by Shanelle's wry, pointed observation that he didn't share and he'd wanted to prove that he could. And all he'd proved was how much it hurt when he did.

Unmoving, he let Amber slide closer to him, biting the inside of his cheek and scowling into his soup. Her arm around him and her cheek against his were warm, and he was used to relaxing against her. This time he didn't know if he could. Of course he missed her. And every other obvious cliché about having a dying family member. He held himself back from snapping out something like that. Not Amber's fault that he'd sprung this on her. He had only himself to blame for that. All he could do now was not answer. Amber had already said she knew he missed her. What else was there to say?

"I never told anyone," he muttered. Girlfriends, he meant, although the same was true of anyone else. House had his own ways of figuring it out, and Foreman suspected of using his name to get access to medical records after Foreman had been sick. Clare had left for her own life in San Francisco before his mom had started showing symptoms; even she hadn't known. Amber really was the first. Foreman snorted lightly as he realized it, and finally he sighed and let some of the tension go. His head felt heavy as he let it rest against hers. "I wanted you to know."

It wasn't so much that Eric resisted as he stiffened up the more she reached out, as if her touch had the power to kill his nerves dead. It didn't boost Amber's confidence, to be received so tautly. Too late, though. She was already sidled up against him, aligning her body against his. And maybe this wasn't about her. Talking about family always put him on edge, and no wonder; what a depressing bunch. Might be hard to talk about to anyone, her or-- Amber swallowed-- Shanelle. The difficulty was in the subject, not the listener. Maybe.

I never told anyone. Amber drew in a long, deep breath. She couldn't see his expression, but his face was hot, and probably not because of the soup. Was this what this was about? Pulling out painful information and displaying it before her just to prove a point? Jesus, she’d wanted to know, she really had, but not like this. Not because some woman he'd slept with had riled her up.

Amber's own face heated up. It'd been blackmail, basically. And normally she'd have no scruples against it, but geez, when she cheated, she preferred not to do it by accident. She'd never meant to guilt-trip Eric into almost crying in public. Now that she knew why he'd zipped his lips about his mom, she wished he'd told her out of affection; because he’d felt comfortable with her. Not to sooth her temper-tantrum jealousy.

But he said he'd wanted her to know; relaxed into her, actions affirming words. Maybe it wasn't the ideal way or reason to let it out, but fact was, he had. She knew and... what now? Covering his hand on the table, Amber squeezed, turning to kiss his temple. Knowing didn't really change anything. Eric was still who he was; she just understood a bit better why. And she wouldn't annoy him with questions about his mom, or accidentally hurt him with some oblivious remark. Knowing, she felt like she could treat him better. "Thanks. I mean-- I'm glad you told me." She smiled at him, half-surprised at the warm affection unfurling in her chest.

Her right hand free, she reached out to pull her plate and mug closer. She was a lot hungrier now, and her coffee wouldn’t be cold yet.

Breathing slowly, Foreman slumped a little further, his shoulder meeting Amber's. The arm of the chair dug into his ribs a bit, but it wasn't annoying enough that he'd want to move. Amber took his hand, and Foreman turned his over so that their palms met. He wasn't willing yet to look her in the eye, and probably invite more questions, but sitting quietly near her he could do. Maybe this was why, even though he got tied up in knots afterward, these details about his life kept making their way free. He closed his eyes as she kissed him, nodding slightly and squeezing her hand. They could forget about the subject, leave it at that, for now.

He didn't start eating again right away, even as Amber pulled her lunch across the table. He'd more or less relaxed, and the longer Amber went without pressing the advantage he'd given her, the easier he felt. But he'd more or less calmed his hunger, and he'd rather stay next to her than lean forward over his soup again. Under the table, his knee nudged hers. A wordless gratitude filled him, warm and clear. He'd been right to tell her.

Her meal in front of her once more, Amber lifted her mug to her mouth, closing her eyes as she sipped. The coffee was a bit cooler than she'd like it to be, but it was still warm and filling. The milk and coffee revived her, transforming her exhaustion into an eager disposition. For the first time since they'd left the showers, Amber didn't feel in danger of slumping over.

She needed her other hand to eat the second half of her sandwich; squeezed his again before removing hers. Bumped her knee back against his, returning his nudge; smiled at him, too. That simple touch felt so incredibly intimate, more so than when she'd pressed her lips against his temple. Perhaps this was because it was such a light, unexpected gesture. Innocent yet powerful.

How could she go from miserable to content so quickly? One more symptom of her relationship with Eric: she swung from one mood to the next like a monkey moving through the branches. They'd have to figure out a way to stop going through these extremes; they made her head spin. It could be something they'd work on, just like waking up on time and not being late to their jobs.

What a strange, random day. Every time they'd talked, their conversation subject melded into another, and yet, they kept running to the same ones over and over, as if everything were connected in some mysterious way, tangled like a cat's cradle. "Today's been weird," Amber concluded out loud; Eric's silence was overextending itself, so she might as well throw out what was in her head. She bit into her sandwich hungrily, the bread soggier than before but somehow more delicious.

Foreman laughed quietly, half-surprised, but mostly agreeing. "Yeah." He smiled at her quickly. It had been, but everything kept turning out well. Not like earlier, when they'd fight and keep fighting, until he didn't know if it would end up with her kicking him out on his ass. Finding away to get around the fights, that left him feeling good, confident. Probably he could find room for the last of his sandwich after all. Picking it up, he said, "I had fun this morning. I wasn't sure I should tell you, in case you kicked my ass." His grin widened, teasing her a bit, hoping she'd take it well. Maybe she hadn't won at wrestling or at basketball, but damn if she hadn't won a whole lot more than that. Amber might not see it that way, though. If she was serious about him teaching her a few more moves on the court, she'd have to get used to losing for a while yet. And if he got laid like he had in the change room every time he won, she'd be losing for a lot longer than that.

Taking a bite of his sandwich, Foreman chewed for a bit before clearing his mouth to speak again. "Tell me something good. Why'd you decide to apply for this fellowship with House? And I don't mean--" He caught her eye, raising an eyebrow, and pointing his sandwich at her meaningfully, "--because he's the best and you wanted the best." That much he understood, not just because he knew her, but because he knew the feeling. He'd applied with House for the same reason, thinking he'd be the one to buck House's reputation and come out on top. "I mean, why diagnostics? Did you make a good call?" Maybe there'd been a case when she'd caught something no one else had. Those stories, that Amber told while flushed with triumph, he wanted to hear.

Amber scrunched up her face at him, nose and cheeks wrinkling. "I am gonna kick your ass," she told him full authority. "I'll master basketball and make you regret the day you met me." She really would: once Amber set her mind on a goal, she did not rest til she reached it. "Watch out," she warned, eyes glinting, "because until then--" Amber snatched his bowl, holding it just below her chin as she stole a spoonful of soup. It tasted better than before, the consistency thickening as it cooled. She wiped her lips, wet from her hasty eating. "I'll find other ways to kick your ass." Pulled the bowl further back, grinning, challenging Eric to defy her soup-thievery.

As for why she'd switched tracks mid-career, "I got bored. Most of what I did was stare at images, and at first it was fun, learning to read the different types, but then I figured out how to spot the most common problems and if I had to stare at one more CT scan to find a tumor, I'd scream." It wasn't much of an exaggeration: she'd been tense and quick to snap at her old job. Her mom criticized her 'whim' to work for House with a lower salary and little long-term prospects, but actually, she was close to being fired at her old job. And she’d been unhappy enough that the only reason she’d have regretted getting kicked out was that it'd look terrible on her resume; being fired from an average radiology department was different than getting the boot from House. Some people might even take it as a sign of character, being unable to work for House for long. "Even the interventional procedures were getting old, and everyone else got the credit. I wanted to think. Try out new fields. Run into some zebras.” Plus, working for House sounded like a chance to let herself be more vicious and demanding, since he liked that in his employees. “Diagnostics sounded like a way to do anything and everything, so I gave it a try." She smirked, gloating. "Turns out I'm pretty good at it."

"Hey!" Foreman didn't know whether to laugh or snatch at his soup bowl when Amber made off with it. Wrestling here wasn't as carefree as it had been in Amber's kitchen. The danger that they'd both end up with food all over them was a lot more embarrassing than if he'd dumped his omelette and Amber's dishes on the floor. Seeing Amber's tongue sweep out to catch a drip of soup, Foreman leaned over impulsively and kissed her, not meaning it to go anywhere, but making it deep enough that he caught a hint of the flavour from Amber's mouth. "Better like that anyway," he said, letting her keep the bowl and pulling on his dignity, as if it was beneath his notice to play tug of war. And, more quietly, before he sat back in his chair, he said, "And no regrets."

He found himself nodding along with her story as he finished his sandwich, and he returned her smirk when she boasted. "I finished up my residency program in L.A. and they weren't hiring for anything above mid-level positions," he said. "It was a good hospital, and I liked working for Marty Hamilton, but it would've gotten old pretty fast, doing Glasgow scales all day. Barely any surgeries, mostly palliative stuff once we had a diagnosis." He raised his eyebrows, trying to figure out his own feelings about his three years with House. Even if he didn't consider the fact that if he hadn't been here, he never would have met Amber, the positives outweighed the negatives. Getting fired sucked, but at his age, he wouldn't even be in the running for a department head position in neurology. Not everybody could be as lucky as Wilson. Even being the best, most doctors didn't get considered until they were approaching fifty. There was still a lot of time left for him to make his mark young. "Best case so far?"

She saw him lean, his features zooming into her focus, before feeling his lips against hers, soft and pressing. Amber yielded without question, closing her eyes, chest fluttering with a bright, happy feeling. Kissed him back, inclining towards him, mouth instinctively seeking out his warmth. When he parted but a few seconds later, Amber trailed after him, wanting more. Jeez, Eric made her feel so much with almost nothing. Even knowing how the nervous system worked and the symptoms of infatuation, it was so strange to feel it for herself.

His words, too-- yeah, he was right. No regrets. More content than perhaps since waking up this morning, at peace with her (temporary) losses, Amber settled back into her chair, scraping the bottom of the bowl for more of the chowder. She should've ordered one for herself. Eric too seemed at ease, eating up the last of his sandwich with pleasure.

Work was a safe topic as long as they didn't delve into their current jobs. And here, finishing a good meal after a hell of a work out, their jobs with House seemed like a distant memory, like something from an old story. Nothing that could cause problems between them. "Right, boring," Amber said after hearing about the end of his residency in L.A. "And you wanted bigger and better. Did you go straight to House after that?"

"You've already read all about my best case," Amber said, pride strong in her voice. She wasn't going to stop glowing over that anytime soon. She solved the mystery, before House. All the case descriptions she'd read indicated that was an almost-never occurring phenomenon. "Nailing one out of four is a pretty good record, far as I can tell. And I've had some good moments helping reach the final diagnosis." Amber smirked at him; if he could rub in her defeats, so could she. "Like when I shot down your Münchausen's theory." She put the bowl down and picked up the small remaining portion of her sandwich. “Messing with Thirteen was fun,” she admitted. “House said it was why I got the flower.”

"Mmhm." It seemed almost quaint, and Foreman shook his head, amused at himself or her, he couldn't tell which. "Actually got interviewed, too. Mostly by Wilson. Didn't look like House was paying much attention." He'd already told her the reason he'd been hired, which didn't seem like anything to be proud of, in retrospect. This time through, House might be playing games, but he was also hand-picking his team. Foreman hadn't thought of it that way before, and for a moment, it marred his happiness. Well, House had picked him too, just not for the reasons he'd have liked. Anyway, he'd more than proved himself, so the reason he'd gotten the job didn't have to matter.

With a smile, Foreman watched Amber bask in her own accomplishment. Even though he hadn't known her then, he figured it was his prerogative to feel just as proud, even at one remove. He snorted at her dig about the diagnosis. "Yeah, you got me. But House hinted first." A warm flush of embarrassment crept up his throat to his cheeks, but Amber's remark was offhand. It wasn't like she was rubbing his face in the fact that he liked stuff with her that he'd never even thought about before. Again, he wondered if Amber really knew just how different she was. What she'd done the first night they'd met, and now, what she had him asking for, was that all just because of what that damn patient had said? Implied? Foreman was used to making his own destiny, not getting tied to others' expectations. The fact that he'd given in to this one, or to Amber, didn't sit right with him, but how could he complain when he'd benefited so much from trying something new?

God, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear about what she'd done to Thirteen, though. They'd agreed--her methods were her own. Although anything that got her House's approval couldn't possibly be something he needed all the details on. Hesitant to ask, but wondering what the worse could possibly be, Foreman asked, "What did you do?"

Amber took a paper napkin and rubbed away the crumbs and slight slickness from her fingers. Only an almost-cold coffee was left and she sipped at it more for the caffeine than the taste. Eric was telling her about how he started off with House, sounding exasperated and... amused? Strange, she wouldn't have thought Eric could see the humor in House's unusual hiring techniques, particularly when the one having to jump through hoops was himself. Maybe he liked House’s way of doing things more than he’d like to admit.

"He hinted," Amber said with dignity, refusing to let go of her victory, however small it may be. Credit lost was no better than credit never gained in the first place. "And I ran with that hint."

Having drained the rest of the coffee, Amber set her mug back on the table. Maybe she should order another. They'd had a long day so far and if she had anything to say about it, they'd have much more ahead of them. But in a bit. For now, Amber reached out for his right hand again, pulling it to rest between them; stroked his knuckles with her palm. How should she answer his question? No matter how she phrased it, he probably wouldn't appreciate her cleverness, not if the worst he'd done at work was demand his lazy boss sign a paper. But Amber had long decided she wouldn't hide who she was and what she did.

"Thirteen killed our previous patient by not checking to see if he'd taken his medicine or not," Amber said impassively. "I left around a few things and said some words to make her think she was being haunted by him and his dog. If she were stronger, she wouldn't have fallen for it." At worst, Amber had been helping House weed out the weak-- if he hadn't followed her lead, it was because he was thinking with his dick instead of his head.

Foreman dropped the last bit of sandwich crust on his plate. Full and warm and nicely tired out, with no more emotional whiplash about Shanelle or his family tightening him up. Whatever Amber had done to Thirteen, maybe gotten on her case about a mistake, or showed her up, or even found a way to make a dig at her weaknesses, that wasn't going to budge him from his lazy feeling of contentment. His mouth quirked up as Amber took his hand, and he ran his thumb over her wrist in return, focusing more on the touch than on her story.

Practical joke. Foreman nodded, not really taking in the details, although something nagged at him about what Amber had said. Gradually, it got through to him, and he glanced sideways at her. If she were stronger... Like grieving over killing a patient made her weak. Foreman swallowed, his jaw tensing despite himself. He didn't want to bring it up. Hadn't they had enough stupid fights today? Too many about him, and what got him upset--or maybe that was just another word for 'weak', in Amber's eyes. But he doubted very much that Thirteen had fallen for anything because she wasn't strong enough or smart enough to be rational about someone playing a fucking joke. When you killed someone, that stayed with you. A week later? Try a month, a year. Jesus, even House had enough human feeling for that, he'd hung on to one of his dead patients for over a decade. Maybe because it was a puzzle, but maybe because he actually felt something about being wrong enough to kill someone.

Fuck. There was no need to say anything. Except if he didn't, Amber was going to think it was because he disapproved of her, of the way she fought her battles. Well, in this case he did. Not because she'd played a joke on Thirteen. If it had been over anything else, he probably would have laughed. No, it was her damn assumption that killing a patient could just be brushed away, like it was nothing. That could only mean that she'd never fucked up enough to kill someone. Of course. Amber wouldn't let herself be anything less than perfect like that. Foreman had thought the same, once. Been so arrogant as to think that if he'd thought it, it was right, and there couldn't possibly be any consequences.

He cleared his throat. Knowing suddenly seemed more important than whether they'd fought or whether they were happy. "Maybe there was a reason her head wasn't in the game. Have you ever killed a patient?"

At first, Eric didn't seem to think anything of what she’d done to Thirteen, relaxed in his chair and stroking her hand. Amber eased into her seat, letting go of tension she hadn't realized she'd built up. So she was still worried about how much he'd accept her manipulations. No matter how many times he repeated that he liked her, it was hard to believe—he couldn’t really know what she was like until he'd seen her in action. Staying with him, letting him find out about her bit by bit, was a huge risk: Amber was growing all the more attached to him. What if Eric decided she was more ruthless than he could accept? If the thought of breaking up had torn her apart a few days ago, what would it do to her now? Amber mirrored his light touches, brushing her fingertips against the base of his hand. Fortunately the story hadn’t put him off.

But as if the sting were in the aftertaste, Eric's strokes slowed down; Amber looked up from their hands, gazing into his face. He seemed troubled. Great. Now that the implications of her actions had sunk in, they didn't sit well with him. Amber bit her lips, ready for the defense. She'd told him she was called CTB for a reason.

Amber steeled herself for accusations of heartlessness, of taking it too far, of following House's poor lead. So she was startled by the question of an entirely different chapter of her history. "Yeah," flew out of her mouth, her surprise delivering an honest answer.

Yeah, people had died because of her. Martin Greaves sprang to mind, that man with the overdue haircut and the worst halitosis she’d had the misfortune to smell. He was first alcoholic she'd treated as a resident. Amber had a low tolerance for substance-abusers; they were a waste of space and time. Why put up with them? So when he'd come in with impending kidney failure, Amber did the minimum to get him up and running again and then promptly discharged him. He died a week later. Sure she felt guilty, but what could she do? He'd been the one to drink himself to death, she hadn’t poured all that booze down his throat. By discharging him quickly she'd saved the hospital precious resources for people who could be saved. Not all patients are made equal.

Because Eric hadn't let go, Amber didn't either. "Yeah," she repeated. "I didn't kill them, it wasn't on purpose-- I just wasn't good enough." Why was her throat tight? She knew it hadn't been her fault. "I've misread scans. There was one woman," Alice Keynes, "I didn't catch her tumor, and by the time she came back, it was too late." Amber tried to maintain eye contact, to show that she wasn't upset, but she had to look away for a second. Take a breath. "Things like that. Or I prescribed too high a dosage, or I should've tried a different treatment method-- but what am I supposed to do?" She asked bitterly. "Should I get hung up over my mistakes and turn in my license? I learned from what I did wrong." Even the alcoholics she'd treated differently, being more lenient towards them (since she’d nearly been fired over discharging Greaves too hastily). “And I never thought I was being haunted.”

November 3, 2007 - Morning

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