November 3, 2007 - Morning

[eric_foreman]

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.

Comments

[amber_v]

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.”

[eric_foreman]

"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_v]

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.

[eric_foreman]

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?"

[amber_v]

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.”

[eric_foreman]

Foreman braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and shifted his weight, but he didn't let go of Amber's hand. She'd answered, without a whole bunch of angry bullshit. He'd hoped that maybe, somehow, she'd come this far without being the primary cause of a death, and that was why she could think that being affected when it happened meant you weren't cut out for your job. But the fact that she was telling him, talking to him, made it easier for him to push away the feeling that she was accusing him of being weak. House had made that joke the first day Foreman had shown up with Cuddy. Made a snide reference to Lupe. Foreman doubted House even remembered her name, but he wouldn't be House if he didn't remember the power that case had to hurt Foreman. House knew how much Foreman hated that moment, and he used it like that. Amber had done it too...maybe not directly, but playing on Thirteen's guilt amounted to the same thing.

It mattered to him that Amber couldn't hold his gaze. That her eyes brightened even as she tossed excuses and explanations at him why she shouldn't feel anything. Why no one should feel anything. All one big defense. She said she hadn't been haunted, but she remembered. She felt something. "Learning from it doesn't mean getting away from it," Foreman said. The woman he'd treated at Mercy, his only case there: saving her hadn't brought back Lupe. He could save every damn patient who came into the hospital and it wouldn't bring her back to life. And yeah, that haunted him, not in any spooky, childish way, but because it was real. It was on him.

He squeezed Amber's hand, though, and took another look around the café. It was getting more crowded, and probably the people lining up would appreciate another clear table. He wasn't angry now, not at Amber for what she'd done to Thirteen, and not because she'd implied, knowingly or not, that he was weak. The way he saw it, House had given Amber that flower as a message to Thirteen, not to let her feelings get in the way of her job. She could have them, she just wasn't allowed to let them show where House could see. Amber kept her job for the diagnosis, and Thirteen learned to pretend better. And that was the best Foreman could hope for. "Next time, play your joke on House. He'll like it if you can trick him." And House would see it as a completely logical forfeit if he got hurt. All part of the game. "You want to get out of here?"

[amber_v]

"Of course not," Amber fired off in reply, irritated. She was a porcupine with her needles up, ready for the defense. "If it didn't stay with you, you'd forget the lesson and make the same mistake all over again." She didn't need Eric moralizing at her, loading more weight to her guilt. Amber knew the price of her errors. If anyone here was determined she never fuck up again, it was herself. You'd think she was the one who screwed up delivering Thomas Stark's medicine, the way Eric chided her.

Damn mistakes. Amber couldn't stand them. She breathed out as a sigh, trying to purge the feeling that made her want to hunch over. Eric, near-lecturing her or not, became a comfort, squeezing her hand in that familiar way of his. He couldn't be judging her too harshly if he hadn't let go. Touching him seemed almost like a passage for her negative feelings, leading them to flow out and away. Yeah, she'd done wrong things. But her life wouldn't stop because of it.

"Has House ever liked a trick you played on him?" Amber asked dryly. She doubted House would enjoy being played the fool-- and that was if she succeeded. Her first day on the job, House had known she'd stolen his car keys; it'd be hard to pull a fast one on him. If she failed, he might find that reason to boot her out. "It's not a risk I can take."

The noise level in the café had started to rise: no fun. "Okay.” Amber got up and, without tucking in her chair, moved away from the table and towards the exit, offering Eric her hand once more.

[eric_foreman]

Foreman fixed Amber with a dry look when she erupted in more excuses. He got it, or he thought he did, that she simply didn't want to acknowledge the emotional cost of a mistake like that. She hated being wrong, but that meant she had some feeling about it too. Like guilt. Anyway, he hadn't been talking about her--what he'd said only meant something to him. He'd never gotten away from his own damn mistakes, and he already knew learning from them wasn't enough. "It's different for me," he said, stilted and repressive.

So often he felt like he was scrambling to get away from topics; Amber had him on the retreat again, trying to find something they could have a conversation about without dragging his damn emotions into it. Playing a joke on House had the benefit of shocking the hell out of him, but it wasn't easy to pull off. Amber was right, she was in no position to try something that might get her summarily fired. "Yeah, maybe not." The only person who really got away with tricking House was Wilson. House got interested when he was surprised, though. Like when Foreman had dared to be happy for all of five minutes. House couldn't stand it, and had hounded him until Foreman had been battered right back into the box he'd tried to climb out of. He'd hated it; no reason to push Amber into the same thing, because House's interest should be something he was saving her from, not encouraging her to seek out.

Before he took Amber's hand, Foreman pushed his chair in and set hers back in its place, and stacked their lunch trays so that the busser could grab them more easily. He picked up his coat from his chairback and put it on, and then took Amber's offer and linked fingers with her as they headed out.