Can't. What did that mean? Foreman grimaced at his phone and tucked it back into his pocket. Amber was capable, and probably hungry, so she might just as well have been honest and texted won't. And most likely it was won't because he'd overruled her. Foreman kept his head down as he headed for the cafeteria, not paying any attention to the people around him, determined to get in, eat, and get out, with the minimum of fuss and wasted time. If Amber couldn't accept it when he made a decision, then she was just as bad as Brennan. Brennan might be sneaky and underhanded, and way too fond of shouting his doubts right at Foreman's face, but at least Foreman knew where he stood. He didn't like Brennan one bit but he knew what to expect from him. From Amber, he'd expected support. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe he was an idiot to think that their weekend--and he couldn't help a slight relaxing of his own tension when he thought of it--meant anything during the work week.
All right. So there was no reason to think that just because they liked each other outside of the hospital that there was any love lost between them over patient welfare. But Foreman didn't know if he could live with that kind of whiplash. Would Amber turn to him after Casey was cured with the same gentle smile she'd had when she'd kissed him on Sunday, before they'd finally dragged themselves out of bed after their slow, tender morning? How could he accept it if she did? And worse--Amber might drag her resentment home. Take it out on him personally because he hadn't given in professionally. They wouldn't last long that way. Simple law of averages--Foreman was only likely to agree with Amber one in four times; the other candidates would come up with something just as good the other three-quarters of the time.
He grabbed a packaged sandwich and a bottled drink in the cafeteria, not even bothering to wait for something cooked, and paid for it quickly. It was later than the lunch rush; this morning had dragged on. Foreman found a table and hunched over his food, eating it without tasting it. He wasn't going to favour Amber when he didn't agree with her. She'd been so quick this morning to keep things professional. He wasn't going to do any less. It wasn't fair of her to expect that.
Fuming bitterly, Foreman crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the garbage. A quick check of his watch showed it had been barely forty minutes since he'd started the interferon. Not enough time for Casey to have shown any change. In another hour or so, he'd go to Casey's room and run the physical exam himself, so that he'd know exactly what kind of difference there was. In the meantime, he didn't feel like moving, or working. He might as well stay where he was.
no subject
All right. So there was no reason to think that just because they liked each other outside of the hospital that there was any love lost between them over patient welfare. But Foreman didn't know if he could live with that kind of whiplash. Would Amber turn to him after Casey was cured with the same gentle smile she'd had when she'd kissed him on Sunday, before they'd finally dragged themselves out of bed after their slow, tender morning? How could he accept it if she did? And worse--Amber might drag her resentment home. Take it out on him personally because he hadn't given in professionally. They wouldn't last long that way. Simple law of averages--Foreman was only likely to agree with Amber one in four times; the other candidates would come up with something just as good the other three-quarters of the time.
He grabbed a packaged sandwich and a bottled drink in the cafeteria, not even bothering to wait for something cooked, and paid for it quickly. It was later than the lunch rush; this morning had dragged on. Foreman found a table and hunched over his food, eating it without tasting it. He wasn't going to favour Amber when he didn't agree with her. She'd been so quick this morning to keep things professional. He wasn't going to do any less. It wasn't fair of her to expect that.
Fuming bitterly, Foreman crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the garbage. A quick check of his watch showed it had been barely forty minutes since he'd started the interferon. Not enough time for Casey to have shown any change. In another hour or so, he'd go to Casey's room and run the physical exam himself, so that he'd know exactly what kind of difference there was. In the meantime, he didn't feel like moving, or working. He might as well stay where he was.