alwaysright | November 7

November 7 - Early

The lights were off in the doctor's lounge. Foreman sat on the couch, a frown etched on his face, his hands clenched together. Light was starting to come in the window. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting here. It hadn't been worth the bother of flicking a light switch, or even moving. If he moved, he'd want to lash out. Punch a wall. As if he could solve anything with a melodramatic gesture.

His stomach churned with hunger cramps. His eyelids gritted every time he blinked. The headache he'd gotten yesterday hadn't disappeared, even though he'd swallowed four aspirin. Pain radiated in sharp pangs up both sides of his neck and throbbed around his eye orbits.

Casey had polio.

He still couldn't believe it. His thoughts kept circling back, and every single time he'd run up against a brick wall. Polio. It was fucking impossible, but the test results were there. Brennan had run them, and that alone should be enough of a tip-off that something was wrong...Foreman snorted. Like him. He'd been wrong. No matter how much he didn't want it to be true, it was there in black and white. Brennan might lie but the test didn't. And treating the girl with vitamin C, for fuck's sake. When she'd looked up, astonished, to tell them that her legs hurt--

He'd never felt smaller in his life. Useless. Moron. The insults followed on the heels of every thought. Thought he was so fucking amazing, only to have his face rubbed in the truth. Cuddy should fire him. The new fellows had figured out what he couldn't. Despite him.

He'd apologized. The words had stuck, heavy and hurtful, in his throat, but he'd done it. He'd said to Amber yesterday--yelled, maybe--that he was willing to admit it when he was wrong. And he had; he had that much pride, to acknowledge when he'd screwed up. But they didn't care about that, and why should they? Why should any of them listen to him, when he'd been holding back the diagnosis by cutting Brennan off the case?

Everything he'd prided himself on had been punctured. He'd swallowed down his denials and let them get on with whatever the hell they needed to do. If House came back, he'd reward them. He might not be able to get rid of Foreman, but he'd managed what he wanted to do last week--humiliate him into leaving. Foreman hadn't been miserable because he'd had Amber, but now, he knew, he wouldn't have her either. She'd doubted him, and she'd been right to doubt him. Why the hell should she apologize for going behind his back, when clearly they'd needed to do that just to solve the fucking case?

The thought of telling her that--of admitting it--he couldn't manage that. Not yet. He'd crawl home and lick his wounds in private. All of last week's happiness, and the frustration too, it was over. If he'd lost Amber's respect, if he'd lost her, it was his own damn fault. There was nothing he could do.

He didn't look up when the lounge door opened. What was the fucking point? He wasn't needed. Whoever it was could ignore him and leave him the fuck alone.

"Hey."

Chase. Foreman glanced over his shoulder at him and didn't say anything.

"Whoa. Problems?" Chase grinned. If he said one word about Amber, Foreman was going to show him just how much harder than House he could punch. "I heard about your patient. Polio!" He whistled for emphasis.

Foreman shrugged, locking out any reaction. "I got everything wrong," he said. And, even though five seconds ago he would have loved to smash Chase's face in for mentioning Amber, he said it anyway. "Amber went behind my back to treat her."

Chase shrugged, like he didn't see the problem either. Christ, why did Foreman tell him anything? "While you were screwing up? She did what she thought was right," Chase said. "Would you really rather she follow everything you say? You don't want a robot for a girlfriend."

No fucking help at all. Foreman retreated back into stony silence, turning away from Chase.

"Anyway, you can't have gotten everything wrong," Chase said, shrugging. "You're not that bad." He clapped Foreman on the shoulder and disappeared into the locker room.

Foreman snorted to himself. It had looked like heat stroke. Even House had thought it was a boring case--he wouldn't have left if he'd had the least interest in it. Anger tightened Foreman's shoulders, until his fists were clenched again. Everything in him said polio was impossible. There was no logical reason why vitamin C should cure it. And if Casey's blood samples from when she was admitted were still available--shit. Shit. Foreman pushed to his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his body from sitting so long. He might still be wrong. But he had to know. He had to check.

He headed for the lab with Chase's words still echoing in his head. She did what she thought was right. Amber had said the same. But what neither of them understood was that being right wasn't enough. If you were right, you had to prove it. You had to have a chance to prove it, instead of having everything you were trying to do screwed up by one false step. What was best for the patient--what was best for her was the truth, now. And what was best for her then was not for her doctors to be playing games with her treatment. He still couldn't forgive Amber for what she'd done, but if she was wrong now--fuck. Fuck. He didn't know why he was still thinking about her when they'd already had this argument. More than once. It was impossible, it couldn't be solved.

But he still cared about her. And he wanted her to get what she wanted. It couldn't be at his expense; he'd already fucked up everything for himself. There was nothing Amber could do to hurt him anymore. But he could still help her. Maybe--or maybe this would just give her one more chance to laugh in his face, to tell him he was playing the martyr.

Foreman turned into the lab and went straight to the fridge, checking first that they had a vial of Casey's blood from her initial blood tests. It was there. It was one test. Once he knew he could say anything he damn well wanted. He pulled on a pair of gloves and started working.

When he sat back, the assay results in front of him on the computer screen, he felt numb. He tapped the print button and stripped off his gloves, still unable to take his eyes away from the screen.

He was an idiot. He knew it. But he took out his phone and texted Amber anyway--Path lab. Something to show you.

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Jesus, so he couldn't read basic body language like Get The Fuck Away. Eric squared himself in front of her like some football player ready to tackle-- though what he'd be tackling her for, she hadn't a clue. Why was he even here?

Amber glanced up long enough to shoot him a meaningful glare before looking away again, refusing to put up with him. Just then security answered. "Hello?" she said, but not even with a hand over her ear could she make out the reply. Great.

In her peripheral vision she saw Eric leaning out of the hall; he'd opened a door and was checking it out. What was he thinking? He'd better not be so pleased with his medical conquest that he wanted to do some winning with her! He couldn’t ditch her one night and expect a quickie a couple of mornings later—and where they worked.

On the other hand, it’d be a quiet spot.

She'd step in just long enough to finish the call and give him a piece of her mind. No harm in that; it was just efficient use of currently unoccupied hospital resources. Amber ducked in, striding to the wall opposite the bed, away from Eric. "This is Dr. Volakis," she said, lowering her hand to her hip, "and I'm reporting a former employee--"

She rattled off Brennan’s name and features, channeling her frustration into action. It felt good, spitting out commands. She even smirked as they confirmed that Brennan had been sighted storming off the premises and that they'd keep an eye out for him. Competency: always good to know there was more of it.

With satisfaction Amber cut off the connection, throwing her phone into her lab coat. It was with less pleasure that she addressed Eric, lurking in the relative darkness of the room. "What do you want?" she threw out in a clipped voice. The sooner they got out of here the better. “This has got to stop.” She wouldn’t tolerate him treating her like some rag doll to drag about as he wanted, throwing her over his shoulder when she was inconvenient and picking her up again when the mood struck, particularly when it affected her professional life. “You think they’re not laughing enough at me as it is?”

Amber took his hint and marched into the empty room. Foreman didn't know if that was a good sign or not. She was mad enough to boil him alive, but she hadn't stormed away. He drew the blinds across the glass walls while she spat Brennan's description into the phone.

He had no idea what to do with himself. Feeling slightly hangdog, he stayed near the door, letting her get whatever distance from him she needed. He'd followed her because he'd been concerned, but Amber let her drive and anger rise to the top, so that even though it'd been only a minute ago when House had cut her down, she already looked like she was ready to storm the next battlement. When she clapped her phone shut and turned to him, he felt at once uncertain and like his pride demanded that he get his back up and meet her on a level playing field, matching her blow for blow.

What did he want? Fucked if he knew. He opened his mouth, but before he could so much as fumble out a reply--probably the wrong one--Amber steamrolled past him. This has got to stop. Did she mean the two of them? Or only what had happened between them on this case? Foreman swallowed, watching her, needing to know which she meant before he could respond.

"Does that matter more?" he asked. He'd always thought so. Having his colleagues snickering behind his back would make him tense up more than if there'd been a target painted between his shoulderblades. If they didn't respect you, what did anything else matter? But he'd survived the past three days with everyone he worked with expecting him to fail. And he had, in all the ways that mattered, even if he'd pulled out the diagnosis in the end. He meant, does it matter more than us? If it did, maybe they should go their separate ways. If Amber couldn't stand being with him for fear that Thirteen or one of the others might tease or make jokes. If it was House who bothered her, well, Foreman couldn't respect that as an objection to the two of them. House would mock the hell out of her no matter who she was with, no matter what she cared about. He'd find a way to do it. Amber had to know that. If she'd dump him because of House--if she'd agreed to the diagnosis because of House--then there was nothing that could keep them together.

Eric didn't even answer as she fired off her questions; god she hated that about him, when he pulled into himself, all proud and cool and above her anger. If he wanted to be so fucking stoic, he could've done it without her; could've done it anywhere he damn well pleased, back in the department as he lorded over the others or with every arrogant step he took during the day. Impatience quickened her nerves, urging her to move; be ready to lash out. Why couldn't he just fight back.

He finally did, but, as he often was, he was so vague she'd need to read his mind to get his meaning. "More than what?" she snapped. "It matters more than them not laughing at me, that's for sure. You should know! You must love that they're laughing at you, running after your girlfriend."

Bitterness betrayed her words. They still hadn't settled the question of girlfriend and boyfriend; they never would now, she supposed. But now she could say it all she liked, it being in sarcasm-- but she didn't get much kick out of it.

Restless, Amber crossed her arms, fingers clenched tight over her forearms. She paced briskly, whirling in the opposite direction every couple of steps. "Answer my question: what d'you want?" That's all she wanted to know. It couldn't be for her. Maybe he wanted to tell her off. Hah, if it was that, she could strike back just as hard. Her chest rose with anticipation, ready.

Foreman breathed out, annoyed at her response. Obviously not being laughed at would be better than having that snickering following them. But it wasn't the point. "The case is over," he said. "I'm not here being your boss. Or theirs." House's mockery had done one thing right. He'd reinforced that Foreman was in charge when he was gone. As long as Foreman could point to that--and keep on top of the differentials, more than he had this time--then he could keep being right, and eventually he'd use that to make sure the candidates followed his instructions.

But like he'd said--that wasn't why he was here. Amber wanted to drag some confession out of him, but all Foreman felt was yanked from one emotional extreme to the other. He crossed his arms, wishing she'd stop pacing and face him. "I want to know what went wrong!" he said. He hated to be corrected after the fact. His shame at making any mistake made hearing ways to improve himself excruciating, but he'd learned during med school to take the hits as they came and steel himself to eliminate the mistakes next time. It was the only way to get as good as he needed to be. As far as he knew, everything they'd been fighting about went right back to the moment when Amber had decided not only to replace his treatment with hers, but to give them both at the same time, a damn piece of recklessness, not to mention it led them down two wrong paths at the same time. He'd tried to tell her everything that had bothered him about that, but they'd all got jumbled together. The scientific inaccuracy, the medical negligence, and the fact that she'd hurt him. Just-- "Why--" He snapped his mouth shut, wishing he could solder his lips shut rather than ask. He already knew Amber thought it was 'best for the patient'. He wasn't going to get more of an answer than that. "Is this the only chance I get?" he asked instead, and braced himself for her reply.

I'm not here being your boss. That one word, "boss," hit Amber like an arrow striking a target. Either he was purposefully aggravating her, reminding her of his control over her job, or he was painfully oblivious. And, really, with Eric, it could be either.

Amber's chin was already as high as she could hold it with dignity, but now her jaw locked down, tight like wires closing her mouth shut. Her one comfort was that Eric's stoicism was coming undone, a house burning from the inside and collapsing on itself.

"I told you what went wrong," Amber gritted out. Oblivious it was, then-- if obliviousness included willful blindness. He refused to see things any way but his own, didn't he. "Want me to tell you again? The answer’s the same: you wouldn't listen! You only care about your own opinions!"

Frustration gnawing at her, Amber glanced away, too pissed to look at him. The bed was empty, unmade. She didn't even know who was supposed to be in it, much less how long they'd be away. Fighting in the hospital was reckless; having a showdown in a returning patient's room was professional suicide. They had to wrap this up, and fast.

She was still eyeing the bed when Eric asked his question. Chance at what? He couldn't be so unaware as to think his job was at stake: House had just affirmed his trust in Eric's judgment. It'd been a dull compliment, but coming from House, it gleamed brighter than gold. The only other thing Eric would confront Amber about, after chasing her down, would be, well-- her.

She must've been red before, from the embarrassment and yelling; hopefully she wouldn't be much redder now. "You're the one who turned me down," Amber muttered. He hadn't wanted to go home with her that night she'd invited him. Still felt too raw to say that part out loud, though. It was his turn to do the mind-reading.

Ever since he'd been a kid, and he'd gotten into those stupid fuck-ups with Marcus, Foreman had been working on taking his anger and holding it in. He'd disappointed Mom. Put Marcus in danger--and not only that, given him the first taste of the thrills he was still chasing down. It was Foreman's fault. If he hadn't taken Marcus with them when they'd gone on a few reckless joyrides, or to sneak into a couple of houses to grab whatever they could find that was lying loose...if he hadn't given in to Marcus's begging, then Marcus wouldn't have...any of it. Gotten arrested. Gotten hooked. If Foreman had been a better brother, more in control, if he'd done things right, then Marcus wouldn't be in jail right now. And Foreman got to live his perfect life, but it didn't save Marcus. And being right about the medicine didn't save what he'd had with Amber. It still felt bitterly unfair, that she could accuse him of not listening, when all he'd done was trust his own instinct. They'd both been fooled... "You're right," he said, frowning. "I should've listened to Brennan. We've had weirder cases...bubonic plague. If I'd done the test when he'd asked, if I'd gotten you to do it instead of him, we would've known right away that it wasn't polio. I should've thought about why he was so sure."

That wouldn't help whatever was between Amber and him, and he knew it. Foreman supposed her reaction would show whether Amber thought the problem was "not listening", or "not listening to her." With all the facts they'd had in hand at the time, he'd still been right to make the MS verus lupus call. Amber didn't like his reasoning, but the fact was, it'd been a judgement call, and he'd been the one in charge to judge. Decisions weren't always going to go her way. But he'd still admitted something; he could change, get better. "I'll--next time, I won't shut the discussion down if there's an unusual possibility," he said. At this point, that was as much as he could promise.

Amber hadn't met his eyes. Her face was reddened, but she wasn't as incandescently angry as she had been even a moment before. Foreman's eyebrows drew together when she spoke. Turned her down? Was she really, finally, being that blatant about admitting that it was only her suggestions he should have listened to? No--she wouldn't be embarrassed, if she did come out and say that. And it wasn't something she'd admit, anyway. Foreman took a few steps into the room, and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her, letting his hands rest limply in his lap. This was about last night. Going home with her. "It wasn't you," he said. "I was angry. You--" His voice became harsher, and he pulled himself back again. "I was hurt." Admitting it cost him, made him tighten up in humiliation. Hurt, over what? A stupid, meaningless argument? A professional disagreement? How damn weak did he have to be to get hurt over something like that? Foreman forced a swallow, furious at himself, at having to explain. "I almost didn't make it, I almost never got here," he said. "I could be--like Marcus. But I got a chance. And I can't stop thinking that if I'm not right, if I'm not the best, all the damn time, then I'll--someone will notice. I'll get kicked out." He shrugged. God, he sounded like an idiot. It didn't make any sense, it was fucking stupid. He was being neurotic. "I didn't want to go with you when we were both upset, because we might've made it worse. I might've. And I didn't want to ruin it."

Amber was ready for pigheadedness. It was what Eric did, at work, digging his heels in and staying stuck for eternity. It didn't matter how many times she told him that he'd disregarded her opinion; he'd always be right, in his mind, and that was that. Amber tensed, prepared for Eric to declare once more that the sky was neon pink and that she should simply accept it.

Which was why when he acknowledged that she was right, Amber's head tilted so as to nearly touch her shoulder, jaw dropping almost comically. This was a trick, right? A classic tactic, giving up ground on one front to stake out new territory. It couldn't have been this easy, not after days of fighting and a tacit break-up. Why give in now? Amber straightened her head, flipping her hair back, wary for the inevitably upcoming catch.

Damn if Eric wasn't convincing, though. His near-apology and promise were choked, like it'd been a challenge to get them out. And even if she couldn’t have wished for more (aside from the promotion he couldn't give her), Amber still felt drawn in, closed off. There had to be more to all this. Hesitantly, and ready to take up again a fighting stance at the first sign of trouble, Amber said, "Okay. Good."

Eric sat down on the bed, a sight so incongruent with their argument that it confused Amber. Beds and relaxing was what they did at home, and it’d become all too clear that their professional and personal lives could not overlap. Still feeling the heat of her blush, Amber almost demanded he get back up. That one simple movement was too intimate for her.

How could he say it wasn't about her in one sentence when in the next he reproached her for how much she'd pissed him off? When he grew visibly angry, as if just by revisiting the memory he was losing his power of speech? She'd known it; the apology hadn’t been real after all. He still thought it was her fault. And Amber was too tired of the back-and-forth to bother becoming angry herself; it simply wasn't worth it. There was nothing left to discuss, not when talking only took them on further rounds of this emotionally unsatisfying merry-go-round of accusations and recriminations.

Amber would've walked out. She really would've. Was all ready to, when Eric spoke that name: Marcus. His brother. It froze Amber to her spot. As much as she’d been questioning how well she knew Eric Foreman, one thing was for sure-- he was too proud to bandy about the memory of his brother just to make a point. Mentioning Marcus meant something. Of what, Amber wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it had to be sincere. So she stayed, and listened, not just to the words, but to the feelings behind them.

The connection between their fight and Marcus' fuckup was tenuous, at best, but apparently any kind of mistake brought Eric back to his brother. Amber took in a sharp breath. It was a solid example, to Eric, of what would happen should he ever really mess up. Amber feared failure, but it didn't have a face. Not like this. She wasn't sure what to say, staring at Eric's fingers and how they overlapped. He suddenly seemed so fragile on the hospital bed, like a patient awaiting a doctor's verdict.

"It's already kind of ruined," Amber pointed out, not unkindly. She'd given up on their relationship when he'd refused to go home with her. If he didn't want it to work out between them, then she wouldn't humiliate herself by insisting. Even if she did want to stroke his cheek, stare deep into his eyes. "I mean, neither one of us wanted to stay together. I think that's pretty much the definition of 'over.'" Was this it? Wasn't there more? It felt like there should be. But with the distance of shock, for a second it really did seem that simple, confirming a breakup with just a few words, as if there were no more feelings, no considerations of how to deal with each other at work, and no House to taunt them afterward. Amber's hand curled over her collar bone, lightly touching herself since she couldn't touch him.

Amber's surprise might've been funny, if it weren't so obscurely insulting that she thought he couldn't change, couldn't improve. Foreman set his lips, even though she relaxed slightly and looked less likely to storm out of the room shouting that she never wanted to see him again. Not that that'd be a reasonable position anyway, considering they still had to work together. Whatever they worked out between themselves, even if their relationship really was over, it'd have to tide them over at least until House was done with his bullshit game, and possibly years more after that. Foreman sighed, glad that Amber hadn't pounced on his admission and pointed out that the real problem was that he refused to read into an ANA test the results she'd wanted it to show.

He was still tensed up over every word that he'd pushed out. This was stuff he'd never told anyone. No one who mattered, he thought ironically, thinking of Lupe. You could admit anything to a dying woman. The woman you'd killed. He wasn't ready to tell Amber just how closely his last mistake was still following on his heels. Fucking him up. He wasn't perfect. He just had to pretend as hard as he knew how.

Foreman blinked and dragged his gaze up to meet her eyes when she casually said it's ruined. Somehow, even after the disaster of this fight, he hadn't expected that. His heart constricted as he stared at her. He shook his head. "I never said I didn't want to be with you," he said, trying to find his footing when it seemed that the solid ground had turned to sand under him. They were fighting, but he'd never thought that that offer had truly been his last chance. That if he didn't want to be with her once, he'd somehow said it was over between them forever. "How was sex going to solve an argument?" he asked. "We couldn't even talk." They'd been good together at least partly because they could laugh, and be gentle, and take their time. Foreman couldn't have done that if all he'd been thinking about was Casey back at the hospital and everything that was still stuck between them. "I wanted to wait, until..." Until the case proved one of them right or wrong. Until they'd worked it out.

Well, they were doing that. They were here now, talking. They'd proved they could. Every time they'd fought, they'd been able to bring themselves back to that feeling, the need, that'd been there between them right from the start. Foreman wasn't willing to give up this easily. He wasn't going to make the same mistake again, and be mocked--by House, this time--for being unable to learn. Foreman got to his feet, moved across the room to Amber, one hand reaching out to her so that he could twine his fingers with hers. Maybe. "I want you," he said, pouring all his intensity into searching her eyes. "If you don't, if it's over, Amber, honey, you're gonna have to tell me."

He'd nod, probably, agreeing tersely with her that whatever they'd had, it'd be ruined. If nothing else, it'd be nice to get that settled. Have it said out loud and therefore over with. Amber wouldn't have to stay in this tortuous limbo, wondering with an occasional painful stab if perhaps Eric still hadn't given up.

The nod never came. You didn't have to say it, I could tell, Amber thought. Why did he keep dragging this out? A breakup should be fast and painless, like sticking a needle into a vein. Why even talk about the sex they hadn't had? They might as well talk about rainbow-colored unicorns for all the good it'd do.

At least-- at least he'd wanted it, too. At some point. Amber didn't know whether to feel irritated that he wouldn't reach his point or reassured that at least he'd still desired her. Confused, Amber's fingers curled over her chest, the other hand sneaking beneath her arm. Fuck, if she didn't know better, she'd think Eric wanted her closer. His soft tone, his honest and direct gaze-- the other times he'd been like that, he'd welcomed her touch. Amber swallowed, bitter about her sudden burst of tenderness. Eric muddled her thoughts like no other.

Amber's heart jolted when he got up like he'd read her mind or something and-- what, was confirming that he wanted to touch her? Her heartbeat grew louder in her ears as he approached.

I want you. Amber's blush returned and she glanced away for a second, embarrassed. What? She'd just-- she'd been that wrong, blindly assuming the worst? His words couldn't be any clearer and all the signs supported his words, but how could she've been so stupid as to misread him that deeply? "I never said that," she said hotly.

Instantaneous reassessment: Eric hadn't given up on her after all and she'd just made a total fool of herself by assuming so. It was okay, Amber could recover the moment, she just had to act fast. So this was a happy reunion moment, right? All she had to do was open her arms and he'd embrace her, surely. They could even cue in the Hollywood happy-ending music.

It'd be that easy. A simple movement would do the trick. They'd probably even kiss. Amber bit her lips. "I need a moment," burst out from her mouth before thinking. "I-- so, what, we just pick up where we left off?" Before this case, she'd just have slid into his hold like water pouring over a rock, natural and right. But not now, with this knot of emotions. Amber bowed her head. He'd just mocked the idea of sex curing their problems, but it always simplified their fights. Though if she couldn't bring herself to hug him, fucking was out of the question.

Being close to Amber was already working on him. She hadn't pushed him away, her face hadn't twisted in anger and disgust. Her body was closed off, arms crossed across her chest, shoulders drawn together slightly--if Amber would ever allow herself to be anything less than regal--and a look of confusion, nearly fear, on her face. Wanting to hold her was like a physical force, drawing Foreman closer. Maybe he could still see her when she was open, happy, demanding even. He couldn't see that anything was ruined after all. Amber was as near as she had been when they'd stepped out on the dance floor. That first night, before he'd really known how good it was to have his arms around her. Without a thought, Foreman eased forward another half-step, shifting his weight in her direction. His chin lifted; in her heels, she was just tall enough that he was looking up at her, his eyes half-closed as he watched her. It was like magnetism, and even if it was a risk, and this time Foreman didn't want to take no for an answer. If he'd confused her, then they'd both been saying things wrong again, that was all. He reached out and took her hand, interlinking their fingers and squeezing lightly. He could give her a moment, but he didn't want her to forget, or disregard, what he'd said. He was here.

"Not where we left off," he said. It'd be impossible. Neither of them was foolish enough to think that they past forty-eight hours could simply be erased. Foreman wet his lips, dipping his head slightly. He could see the curve of Amber's mouth, the warm pink of her cheekbones, but her eyelashes hid her expression from him. Hope beat against his chest, his heartbeat increasing and pounding in his ears. Foreman knew for himself that it'd never be the same. He knew that Amber could hurt him, and that she wouldn't hesitate to act against him, if 'against' was the right word. She was probably treating him just like she had every authority figure in her life. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was just how indomitable she was, never taking anything for granted, never giving up. "It's never gonna be like a first date again," he said, letting out an amused breath. "Or like the restaurant...?" He was coaxing her. Her memories had to be as strong as his. She'd been so warm, underneath him, yanking him closer, kissing him so hard, and then watching their bodies in the mirror, a wicked smile on her face. God, she was crazy. They'd both been so overtaken, they hadn't thought. So, now, thinking had to happen, but it was always like that eventually. You couldn't have nothing but fun forever, if you wanted to make something that lasted. Foreman breathed in deeply through his nose. The light spicy scent of Amber's perfume, over the everyday ordinariness of the hospital. That's what this was. More, but sustainable. "I want to figure it out," he said. "I might need some time to myself sometimes, but that doesn't mean I'm leaving you. I want to make it work."

Something... changed in Eric's demeanor. His eyelids lowered; his brow smoothed out, easing away the creases of worry and anger. And was it her imagination, or was he on the verge of a smile? Warily, Amber watched as he approached; she was in no mood for a hug and if he tried, she'd push him away. It'd be too fast, too soon. But all Eric did was reach out, gently lacing his fingers round hers. Even that much was almost too much and, heart in throat, Amber reluctantly let him hold her hand, tense with the anticipation of what might come next.

She nodded, glad that Eric at least knew they couldn't erase the past few days. And if he was holding her hand, insisting they weren't over yet, did he mean to conciliate their fight with their other feelings? Amber wasn't sure she herself could, but... she'd been willing to try, and if Eric was too.... Amber looked down at their fingers, at the pattern their skins created together, entwined. He always was so warm.

Their first date. Amber smiled despite herself. Everything had been so simple that night: she'd been in for a quick, fun fuck and her gorgeous partner did exactly what she wanted, and when she wanted it. Except that her partner became Eric. While he did often acquiesce to her, sometimes he didn't, and... that didn't mean Amber wanted to give up on him entirely.

Amber took a deep breath, understanding. They'd fought-- again-- and it still wasn't the end of the world. That simple conclusion relaxed her. Shoulders dropping and bowing her head, she let herself press her forehead against Eric's shoulder, their hands caught between them. "Okay." She was still figuring out what 'making it work' meant, but if it was what they'd been doing so far, Amber could keep on doing more of the same. "Me too." She looked up again into Eric's dark-brown eyes and once more her heart raced.

Foreman's breath left him slowly. Not a deflation; just the easing of the tension that had been accumulating, since last night, when he'd walked out on Amber in the lab. The headache he'd been fighting all morning hadn't disappeared, but as he relaxed, he could feel how the pain had radiated from his shoulders and neck, as if he'd been hunched up, muscles cramping up, for hours. Amber's hand was cool, soft, and at first she didn't squeeze back, so that he didn't know if she wanted him this close, or touching her at all. Her nod, though, lifted even more weight from his shoulders. Foreman mirrored it, lightly. Dancing blindfolded on a tightrope they might be, but it looked like this was one more gap they'd crossed successfully. "Okay," he said, the word nearly a sigh as Amber leaned her head against him. His heart thumped hard, and he rubbed his thumb across her hand. Leaning back towards her, he tried not to get into her space too much--they were at work, after all--but pressing back, so that she'd know he wanted to be close to her.

All his resolutions nearly vanished when Amber met his eyes. "I'm glad." Damn, he wanted to kiss her. The shortest, softest breath was all there was between them. Foreman licked his lips, and let his glance fall to Amber's mouth for a second, before catching her gaze again and finally allowing himself a smile. Not here. Not now. Even if, after the night he'd had, even a light brush of their lips would feel like a renewal. Better than sleep, better than caffeine.

The door behind him slid open with an officious whoosh, and Foreman stepped back, already clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders. An orderly pushed a wheelchair through the blinds Foreman had drawn across, and frowning at them, he said, "This is Mrs. Lowachee's room."

"Consult," Foreman said, the lie coming easily and confidently to his lips. "We're with Diagnostics." He unhooked the chart from the end of the bed and glanced through it. "You know House," he said, maintaining an aloof attitude--he might not have much luck with House's candidates, but he could still boss an orderly around.

"Oh," the guy said, and shrugged. You know House was pretty much a blanket excuse throughout the hospital, for everything from stealing tongue depressors right up to stealing patients. "She's had her bloodwork done," he said, as he helped Mrs. Lowachee into the bed. Foreman smiled professionally at her. "Everything looks fine," he said, which fortunately, from his quick glance at the chart, it did. He replaced it, and shot a grin at Amber, behind the orderly's back. Heading for the door, he hoped she'd follow him--they could still talk in the hallway, as long as they looked like they were on official business. He wanted to make plans. Another case solved, with nothing but paperwork left; as long as they avoided House, they could probably get out by five tonight, and Foreman damn well wanted to leave with her.

Amber caught the direction of Eric's gaze and smirked. She knew that look. It was tempting, she had to admit. Her lips parted slightly, an unaware response. Part of her wanted, so badly, to throw aside the past couple of days and just kiss Eric like a woman drowning. To forget where they where. But Amber drew back, breathing in sharply; was she ready to dive back in this quickly?

She was spared answering the question. Amber turned neatly, palms gliding over her hips. Nope, nothing suspicious going on here, just two doctors getting waaaay too involved in their personal lives. Eric seemed to have the slip-up under control, lies pouring from his mouth like water out of a faucet. Pretty impressive. Amber appreciated team members who could save their collective asses—but it was also disconcerting. Did he always lie like that, or only when it suited him? Then again, when wouldn't suit him?

It rankled that she knew literally nothing about the patient whose room they’d invaded and therefore couldn’t recite symptoms and likely diagnosis; the situation was entirely in Eric's hands. The best she could do was go along with the act, nodding at the orderly in her bright-white, starched uniform. Then, with all possible dignity, Amber busted out of the room behind Eric. Basic rule to not getting caught: don't hang out in the scene of the crime.

Sliding the door closed behind them, Amber strode down the hallway. There wasn't anywhere they could go: the Diagnostics department was out of the question and anywhere else they'd generate gossip just by talking, much less being googly-eyed at one another. Being out and about in the most public place possible, the hallways, was their best bet.

"I'm taking the rest of the day off," Amber said, letting herself focus on the busy, bustling corridor. It wasn't even an excuse to not look at him; she did need to pay attention to keep from bumping into supply carts and brisk nurses. "After I've taken care of the case's paperwork." Cole and Thirteen probably had made a decent dent in the pile, but she could still sweep in and take from them as much she could. The more she relieved House of his red tape, the better.

Amber wasn't sure, to be honest, if being alone-- in a truly private place-- with Eric was the best idea right now. If her previous reactions were anything to go by, within minutes she'd be making moves and... but what good would time apart do? They'd been separated long enough. "Come with me; we can get a coffee." If she invited him out, it was because she was all but sure he wouldn't turn her down, not the way he'd insisted he wanted to work things out between them.

Amber was out of the patient’s room like a shot, striding quickly until she’d overtaken Foreman. He had to lengthen his stride to keep up with the tap of her heels as she made her way around patients and porters’ carts. Foreman found himself grinning and then calling himself an idiot for it. The fight lay between them, all the battlelines drawn, and just because they’d called a ceasefire didn’t mean that he might not end up losing the war. Amber might demand that he forgive her. Not by asking him directly, but by assuming that he’d accepted what she’d done. So he’d spilled his guts and admitted he didn’t truly believe he belonged here; that didn’t mean she’d listened, or that she’d respect what he’d said. Did it even register with her that the way she’d broken his trust was, in his mind anyway, completely separate from the medical issue? What she did as House’s candidate, he didn’t care about: they’d resolved that one early on, when he’d realized he couldn’t rein her in when it came to her schemes. Okay, he’d accepted that. But going behind his back was still a problem for him. What if it wasn’t just about the medicine? What if it was expedient some day for her to stab him in the back on a personal level?

Still, he liked the idea of taking the rest of the day off, as unrealistic as it sounded. Foreman nodded, though, at the mention of paperwork. He’d have to report Brennan to Cuddy before she had an unexpected lawsuit on her hands, and how they were going to explain the situation to Casey and her father was probably something best left in her hands. At this point, they didn’t know--they thought there was some kind of polio miracle still at work--and Foreman grabbed on to Amber’s imperious invitation like a stranded swimmer grabbing a life raft. House had hired the guy; he could face Cuddy’s wrath if she needed to spread it around. “Sounds good,” he said, unable to completely repress a smile as he glanced sideways at her. She looked fierce, like the first person to get in her way would be mown down, but Foreman suspected some of that was her own uncertainty. She’d been hesitant when he’d explained himself. Wary. She’d even thought it was over, without more from him except the fact that he’d turned her down for sex. Foreman was beginning to see a lot of her strength as a cover. Not that she wasn’t really strong, because she was. But that there was more to it, to her reasons, than he’d suspected at first. “Here, or Mickey’s?” he asked. The cafeteria would have the benefit of being transparent: nothing going on, nothing to see, just coffee. But Mickey’s wasn’t far away, they both had their pagers, and Foreman wanted the chance to touch her--even if it was just to hold her hand across a linoleum-topped table.

They'd made a near-full circuit of the floor. While they could avoid the Diagnostics department by turning around and walking back the way they'd just come, circling infinitely, Amber was ready to face the screwballs and work. They'd be going out later anyway; they could do all the talking they'd like then. For now, she'd fill in those papers and let her mind wander, processing their latest conversation and what it all meant. She may not have resisted giving Eric another chance, but what did it mean? Amber felt whammed by a ton-heavy hammer, hit by all her frustrations and distrust and the nascent hope she couldn’t keep back despite all the warning signs.

Amber halted before the corridor turned again, giving them a pause to talk before reaching the department's glass walls. "Mickey's," she started—hardly glamorous, but they didn’t need the shine and glitter of Ma Cabane to discuss their nitty-gritty problems-- then stopped as she took in Eric's expression, pleased like he'd just won an academic award. "What?" she asked, voice peeved and curious but a half-grin tugging at her mouth anyway. What was it about Eric that he could make her make her smile simply by doing the same himself? “You’re ridiculous sometimes, you know that, right?” But it was nice. If he was this glad with the mere prospect of maybe being with her a bit longer—grin now a full-fledged smile, Amber shook her head like she was facing a hopeless, hopeless case. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt more often. For all the times that she’d lost faith in him, he’d come through for her. Could he really like her that much? No one else had bothered putting up with all her demands and conditions.

It really didn't seem like it'd be good for him for Foreman to admit what he'd been thinking about Amber's defence mechanisms--or how good she looked when she was hiding behind them. He chuckled lightly. "I'm looking forward to it." If they hadn't been five steps away from Diagnostics, he would've taken her hand again, taken comfort that he could. It wasn't over. Not if Amber was dissolving into a smile when she'd been angry so recently. And calling him ridiculous--he nearly laughed out loud. "Me?" he started, but he really would look ridiculous if he started that argument here. He shook his head, sending her a mock-threatening glance. He'd have another chance to prove who, exactly, was ridiculous, later on.

For now, they were stuck with paperwork. Thank Christ House had made himself scarce. Probably avoiding any fallout from the Brennan situation, or any new cases, or any clinic hours he'd racked up. Probably, Foreman thought, all of the above. But it meant that he could use House's office. The other candidates were in the conference room, Thirteen and Cole looking over Casey's file while it seemed like Kutner was reenacting Brennan's fall from glory and dismissal, with a lot more explosions and dropped jaws than there had been in the original story.

"I'll see you after," Foreman told Amber, and then went into House's office. She could follow behind him, or wait, whatever suited her purposes best. Foreman wasn't going to make a big deal out of it at this point. He called Cuddy and told her what had happened. "We're going to need to know what you want us to tell the Alfonsos before we discharge Casey," he said. He could all but hear her eyeroll over the phone, but since it was mostly directed at House for disappearing for two days and allowing this to happen, he wasn't too worried. He'd done what he needed to: caught Brennan's idiocy, and made sure he was fired. Cuddy's hospital was safe from lawsuits again, so he was doing his job.

She kept him on the phone longer, though, going over the whole of Casey's stay, making sure they hadn't missed anything. Foreman justified his decisions to her easily, although they looked stupid in hindsight. He tried to be discreet about glancing through the glass to see how Amber would handle the others, and hoping she'd be done soon so that he could get Cuddy off the phone and get out of here.

Seriously, how silly could you get? It was just coffee that'd probably be fifty kinds of awkward with a ninety percent chance of ending in a fight. Very, very silly. But Eric sure did have a beautiful smile. It shone through even his fake sternness. "Yes, you!" Amber raised her hand to whap his arm and maybe do something a bit more tender, but stopped halfway; she couldn't touch him on hospital grounds. She segued the aborted playful smack with running her fingers through her hair. "I'm always wise and right, you know that."

Though Amber's high spirits sank as she went through the doorway, her steps quickened and her posture became taller, more rigid. Damn if she'd show the others sign of weakness. It'd be like throwing a bloody carcass into a tank of starving sharks. As she swept in, she scanned the rooms for House: gone. She could look forward to his teasing later, then. Her abdomen clenched in anticipation, her pulse beat just a bit faster. "Yeah," Amber said to Eric, not glancing back at him as she went into the conference room.

"And he was like, Screw you! and I think he would’ve hit House--" Kutner stopped, his hands in the air. "Heeeeey, you're back. Make up with Eric?"

Of all the times to follow House's example. "None of your business," Amber replied, sitting down and scooting the chair closer to the table.

"It kind of is," Taub said. "Since his mood affects us all."

Thirteen looked up sharply, glaring. "God, what does it matter? It's not as if they won't make up or fight again in five minutes." Burning heat overtook Amber. If she didn't interrupt Thirteen, it was only because she didn't even know what she was feeling. "Can we just do this? The sooner it's over, the sooner we can get out of here."

"I'm with her," Amber muttered. At least that much she agreed with. She wouldn’t tackle the rest of what Thirteen had said; her private life was already way too public. Together with Taub and Cole, they worked to complete the forms.

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November 7 - Early

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