The lab was quiet except for the undertone hum of electricity. Foreman cupped his coffee in both hands. Drinking it might perk him up, but he couldn't even manage that yet; it was enough to feel the near-scalding heat through the thin paper. Amber looked at her cup like it might be a trick, but she did finally take a drink and let out a breath. If she wanted food, he could get her something from the cafeteria. If the cultures were running, they could even go out for a real meal, even if it had to be quick so that they wouldn't be away from the hospital long if something changed. Foreman tried to figure out how he felt about that--about making an effort to slip back into the easy comfort of just being with her. Every time he looked at her across the table he'd be thinking about how she'd treated him like an inconvenience to her own agenda. How cavalierly she'd treated Casey just because she needed to be right.
No, he didn't want to go that far. Not tonight. But he wasn't going to throw everything they had away just because he was angry tonight. It wouldn't happen again. House would come back and any tricks Amber pulled would be on him, not Foreman. After the two fellow slots were filled, either they'd be on the same team instead of competing, or she'd be looking for another job. Either way, Amber wouldn't have the opportunity to stab him in the back again.
But that didn't mean that she hadn't. That she wouldn't. House, of all people, had tried to warn him, and Foreman had been so arrogant as to say I don't think she will. Whether or not he'd pegged Casey's diagnosis, he'd been wrong about that. It hurt, somewhere down deep, like he'd been cut and no one had caught the internal bleeding. Foreman glanced up, studying her. Amber hadn't apologized. She didn't even seem to feel guilty about slowing down the diagnosis by obscuring Casey's condition. "I care about you," he said. He slipped of his stool and put the coffee on the lab bench. Suddenly, he didn't want it. Didn't even want to think about food. You hurt me--easy to feel, impossible to say. Maybe she didn't care. Maybe it didn't matter to her. He shrugged and turned back to the door. Another fishbowl. Anyone could walk in on them. He cleared his throat. "You need to eat. I'm going to the cafeteria if you want something."
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No, he didn't want to go that far. Not tonight. But he wasn't going to throw everything they had away just because he was angry tonight. It wouldn't happen again. House would come back and any tricks Amber pulled would be on him, not Foreman. After the two fellow slots were filled, either they'd be on the same team instead of competing, or she'd be looking for another job. Either way, Amber wouldn't have the opportunity to stab him in the back again.
But that didn't mean that she hadn't. That she wouldn't. House, of all people, had tried to warn him, and Foreman had been so arrogant as to say I don't think she will. Whether or not he'd pegged Casey's diagnosis, he'd been wrong about that. It hurt, somewhere down deep, like he'd been cut and no one had caught the internal bleeding. Foreman glanced up, studying her. Amber hadn't apologized. She didn't even seem to feel guilty about slowing down the diagnosis by obscuring Casey's condition. "I care about you," he said. He slipped of his stool and put the coffee on the lab bench. Suddenly, he didn't want it. Didn't even want to think about food. You hurt me--easy to feel, impossible to say. Maybe she didn't care. Maybe it didn't matter to her. He shrugged and turned back to the door. Another fishbowl. Anyone could walk in on them. He cleared his throat. "You need to eat. I'm going to the cafeteria if you want something."