alwaysright | November 7, 2007

November 7, 2007

The paperwork took a while. Between the four of them-- Kutner didn't do much-- they got through it faster, but there was so much to do that it still took hours. The conflicting treatments of interferon and steroids was tricky enough to justify-- though justify it Amber did, since she hadn't been wrong-- but there was Brennan's interference which couldn't be explained. Casey could sue the hospital, easy. Probably would, too; they'd risked her life when she'd only been dehydrated.

When going over the more mind-numbing parts of the papers, Amber worked through the past few days in her mind. She was crazy about Eric. That much she couldn't doubt. Seeing him again and again, even when it went against her better judgment; liking waking up next to him; bothering to stick around after their fights...

He'd stuck by her. Goodness knew why, but he kept coming back. The first night of this case, he'd come by with coffee. He'd then turned her down for sex, but he did say he had to work. A workaholic, that's who she was dating. She'd choose work over him any day, too. And this morning, chasing her after she'd run out of the department-- what an idiot. Amber smiled at the list of blood tests she was writing up.

By the time the to-do pile was reduced to nothing, lunch hour had long since passed. Amber collected the papers. "I'll pass these on to Eric," she said. Why not? Pretending to call him Foreman would only make them tease her harder. She didn't have anything to hide, by now.

"Have fun," Kutner half-jeered, half-saluted. Thirteen snorted, Cole raised an eyebrow, and... that was it. At least, in reactions to her. As she organized the papers into folders, Cole mentioned having to pick up his son, and Kutner offered to go with him. Thirteen, sneaky as ever, didn't volunteer any information, just saying by and leaving.

Amber walked the few steps over to the office. She raised the folders. "Look at what I've got for you," she said teasingly. "Bet you've been dying for these."

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Foreman took the steps two at a time, a modicum of energy coming back to him after he'd had a chance to digest some of his meal. After a soft tap on Amber's door with his knuckles, Foreman figured he wouldn't have to wait long to be let in.

"Hi," he said, smiling despite himself. He had a feeling that Amber was a bit of a maniac behind the wheel. She never seemed to have any difficulty beating him to their destination, often with enough time to spare that she could present the illusion that she'd been here all along, and was just waiting for him to show up. Foreman shrugged off his coat and suit jacket, hanging them up on the coat tree by the door. His tie was already loose, from when he'd tugged the knot open at the restaurant. He pulled it over his head and tucked it into his coat pocket as he looked around.

Amber's apartment, under the golden glow of the lamps, was wonderfully inviting and cozy. Foreman just wished he wasn't still dressed in the same suit he'd been wearing for two days. Good thing he'd had a spare shirt in his locker, and there'd been time for a shower this afternoon. But he'd be more comfortable if he could get out of his work clothes, and he knew he'd left a few things behind here on the weekend. "Mind if I get changed?" he said. "After that, I'm all yours."

"Hey," Amber said, opening the door for him. It was good to see his easy smile, though it was strange to see him come in and place his clothes over her furniture with that same ease, as if he took it for granted that this was his space. And it was true, he was welcome here. It was just that these past couple of days she'd assumed he wouldn't ever be back. Seeing his coat on her coat tree felt unreal, like watching a rerun on TV she vaguely remembered.

"Right," she said. Changing and getting more comfortable sounded great. Amber had a whole closet full of what to wear, but Eric hadn't carried in with him his own change of clothes, which meant he was assuming he could wear what he'd left here. All of which was currently in the laundry hamper. In a fit of righteous irritation at her supposed ex, Amber had tossed everything into the laundry hamper, meaning to wash it all and then with great dignity shove the pile at him at work. The only reason she hadn't thrown it out altogether was that she wanted to look better than him by being more generous. In retrospect, the whole idea sounded pretty silly.

Trying to hide her blush, Amber strode towards the bathroom hoping that Eric would notice neither her embarrassment nor the fact that she'd come up with some fairly elaborate fantasies based on hastily-formed conclusions. "I didn't get the chance to wash what you left here, I hope that's not a problem." His stuff was beneath a layer of her own shirts, which she'd purposefully thrown on top to avoid looking at his. "I could do a quick load now, of course, but that'd still take a while," she said, trying to solve the problem as fast as possible.

Despite the warm atmosphere in Amber's place, and Foreman's own assumption that he could walk right in and make himself at home, he didn't move beyond the entryway until he'd gauged Amber's mood a bit better. Did 'slow' include keeping him at arm's length to that extent? He wasn't about to assume, although he'd rather ask and get turned down than let Amber think that he didn't want or need any accommodations at all.

Amber's immediate flush and agitation broke the ice for him, and Foreman grinned. He recognized that embarrassment--had felt it himself, a time or two, but it seemed to be stronger with women. His mom would be mortified if she couldn't hand him freshly laundered towels when he came home from college at holidays, even when six months before she would've smacked him if he'd asked her to do his laundry or tidy up after him. He'd never figured Amber would care about that kind of appearance, considering that she expected him to pull his weight in this relationship. But then, maybe they hadn't reached that point yet. He was still a guest, even if she'd let him leave a few things here. "Hey, I didn't mean to dump that on you," he said, following her at a decent distance so that she could brush any mess she wanted under the figurative or the literal rug. "Just my sweater's fine, you don't need to wash anything."

He paused in the doorway to the bathroom, watching Amber fuss with the laundry hamper, an amused smile on his face. It wasn't that he meant to laugh at her, he was just damn happy to be here, to be having this ordinary, everyday conversation, instead of blasting accusations back and forth. He waited for her to either fling his sweater at him or yell at him for being an awkward guest--either seemed possible--and meanwhile, enjoyed being with her.

His phrases of reassurance about how she shouldn't worry or make a big deal out of the undone laundry only sharpened Amber's embarrassment; he'd noticed and seen and had to comfort her for being a slob. All his clothes were wrinkled and dank from wear and being thrown in with other dirty items, but even so, Amber made a point of folding the jeans, shirt, and hoodie. "Here--" she started, and then caught sight of his wide grin. He thought this was funny? Was he laughing with or at her?

Whatever. If he was going to think her self-consciousness a joke, then she wouldn't bother! She tossed the tidy pile at him, which did no more than get slightly out of order in the couple of feet it flew. "Make yourself at home," she said, aiming for casual, though her voice was still tinged with her wounded pride. "I'm gonna change too." Another awkward moment: would he want to change here in the bathroom or with her in her bedroom? They'd unstripped each other nearly a dozen times by now, but they were maybe going slow and this was just confusing. Amber maneuvered round him, leaving the bathroom and the decision up to him. She wasn't feeling particularly sexy at the moment, so even if Eric tore his clothes off right now, Amber doubted she'd be aroused.

In her bedroom she took out from her drawers a grey sweatshirt and elastic pants. Nothing Eric hadn't seen her in before. Her back to the doorway, Amber pulled her blouse over her head.

Foreman did his best to muffle a chuckle when Amber's mouth clamped shut and she--as predicted--flung his clothes in his face. He had to reach out with one hand to grab his sweater, but the jeans and his hoodie slapped him square in the chest. One thing he could say for Amber: she had a good arm. If only they'd stayed at that crappy little Hallowe'en fair longer, Foreman would bet she'd have whipped his ass at knocking over lead-weighted milk bottles with a softball. He got out of her way when she brushed past him.

With a quick exhale, Foreman watched her head to her bedroom. One thing that would make things so much between them would be if she didn't tense up every time he tried to help her relax. From his hug earlier tonight to her nearly biting his head off because he'd asked for some clothes he'd never expected her to wash in the first place. It wasn't a big deal. Okay, there were a hell of a lot of things in Foreman's life that he took seriously. Anything to do with his work--he'd be pissed off if Amber ever laughed at his medical decisions, or one of his articles--and he'd been disappointed when Amber had barely reacted when he'd cooked that omelette for her. Those moments that cut down his dignity. But he was better at being laid back over the smaller stuff than perhaps Amber realized or was ready to deal with.

Since she'd thrown his jeans at him as well, Foreman decided to change all the way; it'd be better than getting his pants wrinkled. He pulled on the jeans quickly, and then followed Amber to the bedroom, unbuttoning his dress shirt as he went. "Do you have a hanger I can use?" he asked, looking up from the last button when he reached her. He could get away with simply washing and ironing his shirt instead of dry-cleaning it as long as it didn't get too disastrously crumpled.

He couldn't really help the fact that his eyes wandered down the slim line of her bare back to the firm curve of her ass under her skirt. He wasn't going to make a big deal of it; but damn, when there was an opportunity, he wasn't going to let it pass by entirely. He was attracted to her, and she knew it. Anyway, with her back mostly turned to him, maybe she wouldn't notice. Foreman moved past her and laid his work clothes flat on the bed, and then pulled his sweater over his head. Yeah, it needed washing, he could smell that, but he hadn't sweated it through, so it'd be fine for a relaxed evening in. He could even take it with him when he left, to make sure that Amber didn't think he expected her to become his laundress.

The problem wasn't that she hadn't done the laundry, or the fact that he'd caught her in the act of laziness; Amber was embarrassed by her embarrassment. You can get away with anything as long as you've got the confidence to pull it off, but she’d failed at something so minor. There was also the spite she'd invested in those items of clothing, but Eric, amused as he was, probably hadn't noticed.

Amber was peeling off her nylons when she heard Eric come in. "Sure," she said, nodding her head towards her closet without turning around. "Go ahead and grab one." She always had a few extra hangers in there.

The big question was, bra or no bra? It'd feel good to unhook the wired lace from around her, but Amber wanted that extra bit of support at the moment, so on it stayed. She changed quickly, getting on a cotton shirt and sweater, then unzipping her skirt and pulling up a pair of pants. Even with the bra, Amber felt a million times freer, like she couldn't have begun to understand the concept of relaxing until now.

She picked up her clothes and turned and walked towards Eric. Rumpled outfit or not, he was looking damn good: like the Eric she'd grown close to and trusted over their days together. Not like her boss Foreman at work, who represented an enemy as much as he did an ally . Another layer of stress lifted itself from Amber, loosening her joints. "Heya, handsome," Amber said, her wide smile tingeing her voice. With an armful of blouse and skirt and nylons, she couldn't hug him, but she got close enough. "Glad you're here."

It didn't take long to hook his dress shirt and pants over a hanger. For lack of anywhere better to put them, Foreman hung them up in Amber's closet, making a mental note to remember he'd left them there. He didn't want to think about it, but there was a possibility that another argument like yesterday's could break them up entirely. While he'd be willing to lose an old pair of jeans, he wasn't going to risk a suit he liked. Leaving his stuff here, beyond the easily-replaceable shaving gel and toothbrush, was an act of faith, one he hadn't doubted in the least on the weekend, but now felt more tenuous.

Not worth him getting knotted up over right now. Foreman took a deep breath, glad of the easier fit of his clothing, and the easy relaxation filling him because of it. Turning back to Amber, he smiled, a bit smugly--but hell, why not, since she'd complimented him?--and advanced toward her. She was wearing a loose sweater, too, but somehow that was more enticing even than the carefully-chosen blouses that showed off her figure. Maybe it was the fact that he knew what was underneath. Maybe it was teasing himself with knowing how easy it would be to slide his hands up under the loose hem of the sweater, palms running up her stomach to her breasts.

He wasn't going to act on that, but the idea that he could was good enough. "Hey," he answered quietly. "Me too." Stepping closer, he rested his hands on her hips, so that they were close as they'd been to dance. That moment that had started it all. Watching Amber--her eyes, her lips--Foreman couldn't help the warm surge of feeling for her, how deeply he cared, how glad he was that he was here. He knew he could probably kiss her and she wouldn't object, since she hadn't in the diner, but it was almost better not to. His chest tightened, and he couldn't stop studying each of her features. "You said something about TV?" he said, without making any move in that direction.

As she stepped into his space, Eric's arms rose to hold her, like he couldn't resist. The warm, tender feeling in Amber's chest became stronger, brighter. She loved the weight of his hold over her hips, drawing her closer; loved it almost as much as the glow in his eyes. She barely even thought before leaning in and kissing him, lightly working his lower lip between hers.

Her heart fluttered. In the diner it'd felt good and right, kissing him, but here it felt more... meaningful. Not because there was her bed right next to them, conveniently available for fucking if they so chose-- but because being in his arms was so much more intimate with the backdrop of her closet, his up-close face so precious by the light of her lamps. It was like here he was painted in the colors of her. She hugged her newest batch of laundry tighter, arms instinctively curling round what it held. The silk and cotton weren’t quite as satisfying as Eric, though.

Slightly breathless as she pulled away, strangely overcome with that simple act, Amber said softly, "Yeah-- and wine too." She had a couple of bottles and she couldn't imagine anything better than enjoying them with him.

A light, muffled sound made its way from Foreman's throat, matching the softness of Amber's kiss. His satisfaction increased about tenfold in that first second, and then he was concentrating on the kiss itself. Amber's teeth caught his lip, though gently, and the slight suction left him nearly lightheaded with sweetness. Forgetting about Amber's rules, or who was following what pace, Foreman's grip on Amber's hips firmed, and he tilted his head to kiss her back. He didn't have to work to forget the past two days, then; they slipped even from the back of his mind as he focused on the careful intensity of the kiss. Amber's arms were crossed between them, another barrier, but Foreman wasn't trying to break down any walls. It was enough to taste Amber's mouth, exploring cautiously, remembering the tingling rush that accompanied the brush of his tongue against hers.

He licked his lips when Amber drew away. Breathing lightly, he took a moment to take in Amber's words. Wine--TV--right. Foreman nodded, doing nothing from stopping what had to be the most ridiculous pleased smile from taking over his face. Since Amber still had an armful of her clothes, he backed off to let her deal with them. "I can get the glasses?" he suggested. Probably Amber would want to open the bottle and pour for them--he would, if they were at his place--but he'd started to get a sense of her kitchen, and he could contribute that much.

She almost laughed from joy, feeding off the exuberance shining from Eric. It was hard to believe they'd almost shredded each other to bits several times over. How could they make it so that it was always like this, this easy? "Yeah, if you want," Amber said, not understanding his offer, but not really caring. If he wanted to help out in such a tiny way, Amber had no qualms. And even if it didn't make sense-- it was just grabbing a couple of glasses from the cupboard-- it was kind of... sweet. "Lemme dump this first."

Getting rid of her armful was a simple matter of walking into the bathroom and dropping it into the hamper. There was a lot to wash and she could do a load tonight, but it wasn't as if she were in danger of running out of outfits; tomorrow would do just as well.

In her slippers Amber shuffled back to the kitchen. She always had a couple of bottles of wine at hand, since the urge to sit around and drink or to bring home a one-night stand could strike at any moment. Ideally she'd have left the bottle cooling a while in the fridge before serving it, but if Eric was fine with wearing dirty clothes with no more than a bit of laughing at her expense, then he could deal with room-temperature wine. She pulled out a Merlot from a cabinet and opened a drawer, looking for the corkscrew. "What do you usually watch?" Amber asked, partially out of curiosity, but mostly to hear Eric's voice.

Foreman left the bedroom, not without a look back at Amber, and stepped jauntily into the kitchen. He felt good, and not just about the kiss. Comfortable. He already knew where Amber kept the wine glasses, and he snagged two between his fingers. He headed into the living room and set the glasses on the coffee table. A quick glance around the room didn't show any coasters, but Amber would bring them out if she wanted them. "News, mostly," he said. He'd barely even had a chance to pick up a newspaper and keep an eye on his stocks. It was too early for the 11 o'clock broadcast, and they'd missed the 6 o'clock, so that wouldn't be on tonight's agenda. From the sound of it, Amber wanted to know more broadly than that, anyway. "Documentaries--I like history. And movies, if there's something interesting."

When he was a kid, he'd mostly liked shoot-'em-ups with plenty of explosions. In college, he'd cultivated better tastes, watching whatever promised some sort of interesting plot and character development. He wasn't interested in romantic comedies, but Amber didn't seem the type for them either, so he should be safe on that account. He still loved the Die Hards, and movies about boxing. He wasn't going to admit to loving pretty much any underdog sports movie ever made, especially if it was about football. He did not cry when he watched Rudy, and there was no one who could prove otherwise who was a free man today.

Foreman eyed the couch, and then looked back toward the kitchen--he could just see Amber's back, where she'd gone to get the wine after dealing with the laundry. With a cocky grin, he sat down lengthwise, his socked feet reaching the farthest cushion, and his back propped up against the arm. The invitation, for Amber to settle between his legs like she had when they'd shared a bath, would be obvious, but if she slapped his feet and told him to move over, Foreman would concede. Hell, she might want to go slow, but he'd still offer a few suggestions along the way.

They'd never talked about this basic kind of stuff, had they. They'd been sort-of together for two weeks now and she still didn't know that he preferred the news and documentaries. Though, honestly, the way Eric put it, all bland and perfectly respectable choices, made it sound like he was at a job interview and not with his girlfriend. Amber pierced the cork, digging in deep with a couple of decisive, firm twists. "What, no trash TV?" Amber asked, raising her voice slightly so that he could hear her from the kitchen. "No secret and guilty pleasures?"

She brought the corkscrew's arms down and, with the apparatus as far down as it'd go, Amber pulled the screw from the bottle: pop! The cork burst satisfyingly, her hand jolting up. She loved this part; it might even be what she loved most about wine, more than the tipsiness or the taste.

Amber strode into the living room, holding the bottle by its neck and supporting the bottom with her other hand. "I like action movies--" she started, then stopped when she saw Eric sprawled all over her couch like Burt Reynolds. She snorted. So confident and so Eric. "So much for taking it slow," she said, exasperated-- not that she'd been helping much in that regard, but she'd still stayed within better boundaries than that! He hadn't even turned on the TV!

Amber staked out her territory by sitting on the edge where his feet were; she had no idea what would happen later, but it was too early to propose being horizontal on the couch. She reached out first for the remote control and flicked on the TV; it was too early for the prime-time shows, but there was always CNN. She then poured them their drinks, passing Eric his glass. "Think you can drink that lying down?" she teased, a single eyebrow raised. She understood why he’d gotten so settled; even she didn’t really know how far was too far, and they were both feeling it out. At most she was amused by his blatant attempt to take things a bit further. It was honest of him, and she appreciated that. And who knew, they might end up in that same position once they’d downed more of the wine.

"Not on TV," Foreman answered, shifting his weight against the cushions to get comfortable. He liked getting his news in soundbites, and beyond that, he usually turned the television off or popped in a DVD if he wanted to spend a particularly mindless evening. He grinned when he heard the pop of the cork from the kitchen, and looked over his shoulder as Amber came into the living room.

Her amused exasperation was obvious as soon as she saw him, breaking off her sentence. Foreman gave her his most engaging, wheedling, eager smile, showing off that he had nothing to hide and that she had nothing to lose. Cuddling on the couch wasn't exactly the precursor to a sex marathon. She'd been at least that close in the booth at Mickey's, her whole body pressed against him and easing closer with every fresh detail that spilled out about that girl she'd met. The one whose room Amber had gone back to...

But he'd interrupted that story, and it looked like this was his punishment. Amber scrunched all the way at the far end of the couch, not even fighting for her own share of the real estate. Made Foreman feel like kind of a heel, to be taking up most of the space. After all the stories Amber had told about life with two brothers, bickering for supremacy, he'd thought that she'd shove him into place and then settle on the couch like a queen on her throne. It left him second-guessing himself, wondering if he'd made her uncomfortable, again. He accepted the glass of wine, sitting up as he did so, returning her sceptical eyebrow raise with his own. She was right, it would be awkward, and he'd rather not stain his sweater if he could help it.

His eyes flicked to the television, but there was nothing immediately attention-grabbing. Amber had picked CNN--to placate him?--but since Foreman couldn't devote his full attention to it, and didn't want to, he wasn't actually getting anything out of it. He took a sip of his wine. It was very nice, and he nodded to himself at the quality. "Action movies?" he asked, picking up on what Amber had been saying as she came into the room. "Like what?"

Once Eric was upright and settled, Amber scooted closer, tucking her folded legs onto the cushions close enough for her thighs to realign with his once more. That sweatshirt really did need to be washed, but she couldn't really complain; she'd pick his scent over the wine's any day. Not that she'd tell him that! Rather, Amber smirked into her goblet, sipping. She got both, lucky her.

CNN was showing some god-awful report about golfing."Boring!" Amber declared. She leaned forward again to grab the remote control and flipped through the channels. She leaned into Eric, her shoulder over his so that she could feel his chest rise and fall, slow and reassuring. Maybe this didn't really count as "slow" either, but it wasn't any worse than how they'd been at Micky's and it wasn't going as far as lying down together. Amber just wanted to feel close to Eric. And she did.

"Mmm, stuff with guns," Amber said, tilting her head towards his. The wine was doing its thing, expanding warm and cozy in her chest. His breath tickled her ear; made strands of her hair flutter slightly. "Like the Terminator! Sci-fi is stupid, but there's some great scenes there. And Kill Bill, that was awesome." Uma Thurman's work with a sword was a beauty to behold. "And, oh, I love a good chase scene too.”

There wasn't much on TV, but Amber eventually found a hockey game, so she left it there. It wasn't her favorite sport, but it far beat The Adams Family reruns on TMC. Dropping the remote on her side, Amber then let her hand fall into her lap.

The second he sat up, Amber was all over him. What the hell? Foreman took another sip of his wine and tried to concentrate on Amber's answer to his question, smiling a bit tightly, although with her head on his shoulder she probably wouldn't see. It just made no damn sense. The only possible reason he could come up with was that Amber was playing power games. Foreman couldn't deny liking that kind of thing, or playing around in bed with his girlfriends where he, or they, pretended to draw back. Occasionally. But he and Amber weren't in bed. As far as Foreman knew--and that didn't mean much; apparently he knew fuck-all about the rules, since they kept changing on him--they weren't planning on going to bed any time soon. So why did Amber need to keep jerking him around?

Ordinarily he'd be crowing that she liked action movies. He could sit back and let her pick them, give in to her choices--earning points that way--and suggest the highbrow stuff when it was his turn, getting the best of both worlds. Instead he found himself frowning at the Rangers spanking the Flyers, swallowing another mouthful of wine, and not keeping up his end of the conversation. He just bet he knew how the script was supposed to go after this. He'd offer to put his arm around Amber--more comfortable that way, and it gave him some leeway to return any caresses she offered--and as soon as he made the move, Amber would back away, accuse him of not respecting her boundaries, or else just jump up from the couch with some excuse like getting them more wine.

Lose-lose situation. Seemed like he'd been in a lot of them lately. Well, Foreman didn't feel like bringing it up. He'd had enough of arguments. Maybe he should lean forward, set his empty wineglass down, and then put back the space between them that had been there in the first place. See how Amber liked that, when she was the one getting the game changed on her halfway through. It was a stupid idea, sulky and unworthy. He'd just sit here, watch the hockey game, which was already in the third period, and when it was over he'd go home. He was too damn tired to navigate all the mixed signals. They could try again after he'd gotten some sleep.

Amber waited for Eric to cozy up to her-- maybe an arm around her shoulder or her waist, maybe slouching a bit further down the couch and into her. He'd been happy enough to hug and kiss at Micky's, and here was so much better. More intimate.

But if anything he grew more rigid the further she sunk into him, tensing like he was being lambasted by a peer review. His breaths became shorter and sharper and his arm was still and awkward between them. He didn't even reply to her comments about movies! Sure watching hockey players crash into each other was riveting, but Amber knew he wasn't ignoring her because of the game. The resentment practically radiated from him in waves.

Amber sighed. She had an idea of what this was about. She twisted around, legs staying in place and her arm resting over the top of the couch. Eric looked every bit as sullen as he'd felt. "Sorry," she said. This wasn't like their fight over Casey's treatment, where she was sure she was right and he was an arrogant prick. Amber knew just how confusing she was being this evening since she herself had no idea what to expect. "I don't mean to be giving mixed signs, I'm just--" she paused. What was she doing? "I wanted to go back to how were at Micky's," she concluded, since that much was true. Her wine, mostly undrunk, sloshed in her goblet as she waved her hand slightly. “I’m figuring this out as we go along, I swear.” It’d been too much of a surprise, walking into a scenario with Eric lying down; if they had eased into it, she’d probably have been more than happy.

But how could she tell him what she wanted and was feeling if she didn’t really know herself? “I’m not used to taking it slow,” she admitted unhappily. That had been one of the good things about Eric, how he was okay with waiting out her confusion. He’d let her stay that night she was thrown out of the mood, and he’d stuck out her crying fit after calling her baby. He’d better not have run out of patience, because where would that leave them?

Foreman turned to face Amber when she shifted her position. Her apology, immediate and sincere, though hesitant in the way she worded it, was at once welcome and confusing. Foreman had been worried that not only wouldn't she apologize for her actions, she wouldn't even consider them worthy of an apology in the first place. Amber Volakis was never wrong, not without a lot of wrangling and some pretty pathetic begging on his part. Which was why he hadn't wanted to get into it.

Apparently he'd been wrong. Foreman took a breath, relieved at that much. If she was willing to talk about it, then so was he. None of those barriers where they couldn't even agree on what the problem was, let alone how to resolve it. "At Mickey's, you nearly crawled into my lap while you were telling me about a girl you'd slept with," he said, unable to hold it back any longer. She hadn't been pleased when he'd stopped her, either, although she'd taken the hint after a moment. "That's not exactly taking it slow."

Letting his head fall back against her arm behind him, Foreman watched her doubtfully. "Honey, I don't mind waiting," he said. "I'm not gonna do anything you don't want. But you're coming on to me one minute and then pushing me away the next. I lie down and it's too fast, I sit up and it's too slow. I know we're not going to bed tonight. I don't need that to like being with you. But you're making me feel like I'm wrong no matter what I do."

The corner of Amber's mouth twitched. "True," she conceded. "I got caught up in the moment." And what a good moment it'd been, driving Eric crazy with just a simple tale. They'd have to finish up the rest of that scene at a more appropriate moment. When ‘slow’ was no longer in effect.

Thankfully Eric didn't insist on sulking, speaking his mind instead. Strange that what was essentially complaining about her felt better to hear than not; Amber preferred this over his silent recriminations at the hospital. This at least she could counter. And it wasn't anything she hadn't suspected him of thinking.

Amber was sipping more wine when the word 'honey' came out of his mouth; she nearly choked. For special occasions, he'd explained that night he'd first started calling her endearments. 'Special' seemed to mean 'fucking,' since that was pretty much the only time he pulled out those 'babies' and 'honeys.' She still didn't like them much-- their potential sweetness was canceled out by just how damn patronizing Eric sounded-- and the word jolted her out of the conversation. Amber barely picked up on what followed.

She wiped excess wine from her lips with her thumb. They could tackle his thing with endearments later. "It's not about you being wrong," Amber protested. That was reframing the question so that it was her blaming him, which wasn't the case at all. "I'm just letting you know what I feel comfortable with, what else am I supposed to do?" If he didn't like it he could go home, she wanted to say, but they'd fought enough for her to know better than to jump to that conclusion. It wasn't an option between perfect harmony or absolute break up, Amber knew. The point was to reach some kind of agreement so that they could go back to the fun part. "What do you want to happen?" she asked, sincere but also wary. She'd really much rather go back to just leaning against him and maybe watch some TV like they'd planned, and sneaking in some kisses between sips of wine, but if she got to tell him what she was comfortable with, then he did too.

Letting out a heavy breath, Foreman leaned forward to set his wineglass down. He hadn't expected to get into another draining conversation so soon, and more wine would probably blur together with his tiredness and make him screw this up. He was so goddamn tired of Amber telling him--with words, or with her body--that he was in the wrong. Tonight was supposed to be about the two of them just being with each other, feeling their way past all the crap of the past few days. Why did it seem like they were talking about the same damn problem, just with different words? He didn't miss Amber's flinch at what he said. She was defensive immediately, protesting, but that didn't stop Foreman from getting the message all over again. He couldn't help a chuckle, shaking his head. "You're doing it again," he said. "I told you I felt like I was wrong, and you're telling me how wrong that was." Nevertheless, Foreman sat back again, opening himself up to her. They were physically close, and talking quietly. It was already an improvement on a shouting match. "You can tell me," he said. It shouldn't be a game of trial and mostly error. "I'm not gonna pretend you meant only this and a little more."

It'd be a mistake to touch her now, he was sure. He wasn't about to disprove his own words. Chest rising and falling slowly, muscles loose, Foreman wasn't angry, just exhausted with how powerless Amber could make him feel. "I wanna hold you. I wanna relax with you. I don't think that's any different than what you want. But I keep getting the message if we both have the same idea, it's only okay if you thought it up first." He shrugged helplessly. Right from the first, she'd been in control, and he knew it. It wasn't something he wanted to accept as absolute. He didn't need to get stupidly macho on her--he was more enlightened than that--but he did need to know that he wasn't walking on eggshells with every move he made around her. "Amber, I want you to trust me."

Amber didn't appreciate being told that she was wrong to keep sending the message that he was wrong in all these ways she didn't really think she was, but telling him his impressions were wrong would only prove his point, so she bit back the defensiveness. Pushed it out and away. They were talking, that was all. It wasn't a fight and therefore no one had to win. She'd been letting him know what she wanted; now it was his turn. Putting it that way, it wasn't so hard to prevent herself from tensing up-- though another sip of wine helped with that too.

And so Amber listened, bending her arm to support her head against the palm of her hand. Her hair, loose, felt a bit brighter, caught in the reflection of the television's glow. For all that Eric was talking about how frustrated he was, he seemed so... good-natured about it. Like this was some amusing anecdote, funny and in the past tense. That made it easier to nod along. She didn't really agree with the part about who thought up what first, since it a question of feelings and not of originality, but they were just exchanging ideas. And he was right about her also wanting to relax with him.

Trust. It always came back to that. "Eric." Beneath that good humor of his was tiredness too. They'd meant to take a break, hadn't they? One hand holding her head, the other her wine glass, she couldn't touch him. She wanted to; having her thigh press against his wasn't enough. "When we left the hospital today, you said you were having a hard time trusting me. I want you to, and I want to trust you too." The wine glass was starting to get annoying and it was mostly empty anyway; Amber leaned over a moment to slide it onto the table. Looked back deep into his eyes. "I do trust you, I think." She took in a deep breath. "But I don't want to be pushed blind over a cliff either; let me feel this out, okay?" Amber did trust Eric to respect her wishes as far as sex went; he'd been reliable on that much. The problem was how close she was willing to let him get at any given moment, which changed depending on more factors than Amber could helpfully illustrate through flowcharts.

"I want to hold you too," she said and, lifting a suggestive eyebrow, "Speaking of which, we could be doing that now." If he wanted her to tell him explicitly what she wanted, there it was.

Amber's expression flickered. For a second, Foreman was certain he saw the tightness around her lips, the crease of her forehead, that meant she was going to snap at him again, but it passed. Raising his eyebrows, Foreman waited for her to think through what he'd said. He couldn't deny that he still felt comfortable with her in a way he hadn't with a lot of women. Something about the fact that, as she'd said last week, she was new to this. Lots of Foreman's girlfriends had accused him of being distant, and he could usually acknowledge to himself when he was, even if he protested to them. With Amber, he didn't get the feeling that she was protesting for form's sake, but because she genuinely hadn't considered his points before. It made him more patient than he would've been otherwise, and more willing to lay himself on the line. There was a limit to what he could offer, but they hadn't reached it yet.

He inhaled deeply when Amber mentioned how he'd already told her tonight he couldn't trust her. She was right; he was asking for more than he'd been willing to give, then. It felt different. He couldn't trust her not to hurt him, and here, he knew that he'd never do that to her. Foreman's lips tightened. That was his defensiveness speaking. Maybe she really didn't know that he wouldn't go too far. That thought cut through him and squeezed his heart; not for him, but for her. She did trust him--just not that far. She trusted him, but not enough to let him take the initiative, and maybe they'd never get that far.

Wasn't this good enough? Foreman snorted softly. If it wasn't, he'd sure as hell staked a lot on how happy he could be even if it wasn't. He didn't doubt Amber's sincerity, but it made him uncomfortable and tense to know that he was getting closer to her than she was allowing herself to get to him. He wanted to pull back, step back, and get them on even footing. Stop risking anything. Hell, Amber was worried about the cliff, when he was already freefalling into the chasm.

She was waiting for an answer. Foreman held out his hand to her, and leaned back slightly, telegraphing his plan to her. If she took him up on his offer, he'd go back to where he had been. The couch was wide enough for them both to lie on their sides, facing the television, with Foreman's arm hooked over Amber's waist and her hair tickling his nose. No closer than how they'd slept together. Less, even, since they were both fully dressed. It'd be warm, comfortable, close. If only Amber would let them be. "It's not a cliff," he said. "It's just a hug."

Of course Eric's expression trembled at her calling out the fact that they both had issues trusting each other. From the wince of his eyes to the way his buccinator muscle clenched, Amber couldn't tell if didn't believe that she did trust him or if his pride was hurt to have the accusation reflected back at him. Not that it was meant to be an accusation, just a statement of facts. Why pretend something if it’d bring them no greater good? "We just need time, to get to know each other better." They were doing better already, weren't they? Just this morning they'd have torn each other's throats out, and now they were quibbling over how much bodily contact was too much or not enough. "I'm not saying I won't ever trust you." They could learn.

Starting now, it seemed. Amber half-snorted, half laughed when Eric fell towards the couch once she offered to go back to hugging, looking not unlike a puppy with a ball, a wagging tail, and a hopeful expression. He was determined, she had to give him that much. This time she was more than fine with following his lead, unfolding her legs and settling down next to him. "See?" she said. "Slow doesn't mean 'never.'" It was pretty cozy, Amber had to admit. Her back to him, it was like they were about to fall asleep, feeling and hearing every breath he took. Though being the same height implied certain logistical difficulties. "Can you see the TV?" And there’d be no more wine like this.

Foreman nodded slightly. It would take time. They'd only really known each other for a few weeks. He didn't expect that to mean that they couldn't trust each other as far as lying together on the couch went, but apparently that's what it meant to Amber. So, he was learning about her, and what she wanted. And at least now he was able to bring it up with her when he found her being high-handed with him.

Better than explanations that she might trust him better, someday, was the fact that she let him guide him to lie in front of him. Foreman tucked his knees in behind hers, their bodies lined up nearly perfectly, and his arm, as he'd suspecting, fitting just over the curve of her waist. "It's fine," he said. He didn't really care if he could see the television. The hockey game was gradually coming to a finish, and Foreman was more interested in feeling Amber relax against him. Her hair tickled his nose a bit, but he could tip his head up and avoid the wisps easily. He could smell her conditioner, or her perfume--it was familiar, and elusive enough that he had to breathe in deeply to catch the fullness of it.

Letting his eyes close, Foreman curled up as close behind Amber as he could, with the back of the couch supporting him. Breathing slowly and steadily, he let the tension seep out of his muscles. Amber better not mind if he fell asleep, because that was all he could think about now, his mind fuzzing out. The wine had only reminded him of just how tired he was. Before long, Foreman was dozing.

Amber wriggled a moment, finding the perfect fit against Eric; slid her hand down so that her arm was over his. She liked the way he held her at her waist, sweet like he wanted to draw her nearer. On the screen you could tell that the Flyers had given up, woefully behind in points and with no time to make it up. Losers.

Speaking of no time, it took none at all for Eric to start snoring lightly behind her. Amber could barely believe it; all this fuss so that he could fall asleep within minutes! Apparently more than her he'd wanted a flat surface. He had to be kidding! Amber almost laughed, but held it back, since it might wake him up. It was nice like this. Intimate. Kind of what she'd been hoping for, this evening. When he woke up, she'd offer to switch over to the bed, since they were both too old to spend the night on the couch. For now, Amber watched the end of the game, her boyfriend tucked into her. She felt warm and sated in a way she’d never known before.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

November 7, 2007

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