Foreman hesitated. He wanted to believe her. He strained to keep from leaning towards her, from touching her. Amber didn't want it. She might care, but she couldn't stand touching him. Not fair. He knew he wasn't being fair--she'd only asked for space--but it still meant holding himself back, keeping up his stiff independence, and showing that he didn't need her either. Telling him she cared should mean closeness, a healing, but by now Foreman felt so worn out that it seemed like everything else she said: words, not actions. Nothing he could believe deep down. Even if her tone of voice, her quiet confidence, squeezed his heart, and made him want her so damn badly--just to wrap his arms around her, find warmth in her, and breathe in her skin.
It was ridiculous. Foreman took a breath, already feeling like an idiot for explaining, but Amber worked for House. She had to be used to stupid metaphors by now. "It's like...if I was allergic to bees," he said. "And one landed on me. If you slapped me and killed it, that would be the right thing for you to do, but you'd still have hurt me. Can't you be sorry for that?" His face burned with shame. The last thing he'd wanted was to ask for an apology. How could it mean a damn thing if Amber offered it only to placate him? And what did it even mean if she parroted the right words back at him? Part of an apology was working not to let the same thing happen again. Even if Amber decided to apologize for hurting him every time, but she kept on acting the same way, Foreman wouldn't be able to trust her any better. In fact, he'd know just how empty her words were. He snorted. "You could at least tell me 'there's a bee'," he said. "Give me some damn warning next time."
That was enough. He'd given her a chance, an out. If Amber walked away now, no one could say Foreman hadn't tried. He waited for Amber to get her back up and tell him coldly that she'd been right, and that meant she didn't need to be sorry for anything, no matter how much she cared about him--or didn't. He'd asked for too much instead of settling for what he could get, so he had no one to blame but himself when Amber left him.
Instead, he felt her fingers wrap around his own, cold and stiff. Startled, Foreman darted his gaze up to her eyes. His hand clutched spasmodically around hers, an instinctive press at first, and then a long second's hesitation. She'd reached out, so she wanted this. Cautiously, Foreman squeezed back. He closed his mouth over an incredulous You do? but his confused blink probably made him out to be an idiot despite himself. He nodded jerkily, and wet his lips. His hand was warming slowly in hers. Bracing himself so hard for Amber's rejection, he'd forgotten to make a plan for what to do if she stayed. He cleared his throat. "My car's there," he said, his voice scratchy. And he remembered: space. "I could drive you to yours."
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It was ridiculous. Foreman took a breath, already feeling like an idiot for explaining, but Amber worked for House. She had to be used to stupid metaphors by now. "It's like...if I was allergic to bees," he said. "And one landed on me. If you slapped me and killed it, that would be the right thing for you to do, but you'd still have hurt me. Can't you be sorry for that?" His face burned with shame. The last thing he'd wanted was to ask for an apology. How could it mean a damn thing if Amber offered it only to placate him? And what did it even mean if she parroted the right words back at him? Part of an apology was working not to let the same thing happen again. Even if Amber decided to apologize for hurting him every time, but she kept on acting the same way, Foreman wouldn't be able to trust her any better. In fact, he'd know just how empty her words were. He snorted. "You could at least tell me 'there's a bee'," he said. "Give me some damn warning next time."
That was enough. He'd given her a chance, an out. If Amber walked away now, no one could say Foreman hadn't tried. He waited for Amber to get her back up and tell him coldly that she'd been right, and that meant she didn't need to be sorry for anything, no matter how much she cared about him--or didn't. He'd asked for too much instead of settling for what he could get, so he had no one to blame but himself when Amber left him.
Instead, he felt her fingers wrap around his own, cold and stiff. Startled, Foreman darted his gaze up to her eyes. His hand clutched spasmodically around hers, an instinctive press at first, and then a long second's hesitation. She'd reached out, so she wanted this. Cautiously, Foreman squeezed back. He closed his mouth over an incredulous You do? but his confused blink probably made him out to be an idiot despite himself. He nodded jerkily, and wet his lips. His hand was warming slowly in hers. Bracing himself so hard for Amber's rejection, he'd forgotten to make a plan for what to do if she stayed. He cleared his throat. "My car's there," he said, his voice scratchy. And he remembered: space. "I could drive you to yours."