Amber's eyebrows shot up. There he was again, being all sentimental about having met her. Only his waxing positive had a weaker impact the second time around, after she'd humiliated herself following his sound suggestions.

He was so infuriatingly confusing, throwing direct and indirect flattery her way, but also getting in her face about her career choices and giving her flawed advice. It was like they were riding a roller coaster, hitting a few dubious highs at the sacrifice of much spinning around, and she wanted off the ride.

House, having neither perfected the art of mind-reading nor acquired the necessary background information, missed the alternative reading of Eric's-- Foreman's-- statement. "There aren't? And here I thought you'd left because becoming me was the worse thing possible. Did you change your mind? Do you want to be pure evil?" He slouched forward, his fingers lacing together.

Pure evil? What was that about? But Amber had to store that reference for later contemplation, what with E-- Foreman launching his own theory about their John Doe. He’d been imitating them? Yes, come to think of it, he had been. When he wasn’t slumped into a silent passivity, he’d taken on her own haughty, demanding attitude. But-- "No," Amber repudiated. She might not be able to get the right answer, but she could shoot down the wrong ones. And House did love it when they challenged one another. "With Munchausen's he’d be faking symptoms, not imitating our personalities. And he wasn't trying to get our attention-- in fact, he was passive when we weren't around. It can’t be Munchausen’s.”

She wouldn’t deny it. It felt good—no, fucking great-- to prove Foreman wrong.