alwaysright | 29 October 2007

29 October 2007 - Evening

Amber refused to spend the weekend moping. Friday night, when she got back home, frozen and light-headed from the cosmopolitan she'd practically inhaled, she just stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed. She'd been running low on sleep, from days of solving a case and then staying up all night fucking Eric, so she went out quickly.

Saturday morning came with a low-level headache. But she plowed on anyway; an idle moment could lead to reminiscing and regretting what hadn't ever come to be, and Amber wouldn't put up with self-pity. There was plenty to do: laundry she'd been meaning to get around to for embarrassingly long, grocery shopping to replenish her emptying shelves, and a more thorough cleaning of the areas of her apartment she'd normally ignore. Chores kept her thankfully busy all day.

She'd hoped House would page her with a case that couldn't wait until Monday. That'd keep her mind off melodramatic woes. However, no urgent message of a diagnostic emergency came in to save her from her thoughts.

Sunday was worse. With her apartment spotless and all errands she could imagine done, Amber was taskless. Normally she’d appreciate a free moment to read or watch TV, but… it seemed too lonely, whiling away her time in her apartment. She took with her a number of medical journals—leaving behind any related to neurology—and spent a few hours at a café. Though she was still alone, at least she was surrounded by chatter.

By the time Monday rolled around, Amber hadn’t let herself indulge in thinking about Eric, even though her brain hadn’t cooperated. Eric might’ve been surprised to discover he’d become a pink elephant: he was a banned subject, but she couldn’t help remembering him. Everything seemed to lead back to him, even the soap bars she’d picked up at the supermarket (he’d had the same scent, after they’d showered together).

Amber walked into the classroom with a heavy heart. Normally she loved her work, with its constant promise of new challenges to conquer, but-- he’d be there. And—she just had to act cool. That was all. She was sure he’d do the same. He’d have no reason to tell everyone what had happened—unless he wanted House to fire her. But he wouldn’t do that, would he? Or maybe he would. It wouldn’t be out of line, from what she knew of him. If he was willing to string her along for a weekend just for his own fun, why wouldn’t he drop a few words that’d get rid of the unpleasant presence of an “ex”?

She sat primly in the center of the front row, not talking to any of the others. They made no effort to talk with her, either. Fortunately, House came in almost on time; he seemed unusually focused, introducing their new case as soon as he came in.

Listening carefully to every word out of House’s mouth, Amber wondered when Eric would come in.

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Eric had the last word, leaving before Amber could reply. As she started up the computer programs, she fumed, plotting the perfect comeback. A tiny part of her knew this could lead to no good: Eric still represented her boss' boss. But most of her didn't care. This was a fight, and she wouldn't back down.

When the patient started fussing with the treadmill, asking why the hell he had to go through this and if they had any idea of what they were doing, Amber smiled to herself. Indirect vengeance had its fun, too.

But direct retribution was far better, and Amber set to it as soon as Eric returned to the control booth. "Of course House is playing, that's what he does. You think I don't know that? I've been more entertaining than cable TV." She wasn't, lamentably, as intriguing as Mystery Woman Supreme Thirteen. But whatever she was hiding, once House found it out, the puzzle would be solved and she'd lose her allure. On the other hand, Amber had been herself the whole time and wouldn't stop anytime soon. If it was mind games House loved, she'd keep him on his toes.

"I'll jump through hoops. And you know why? Because I don't give up just because something's hard. How about you? What are you doing here, if you hate House that much? Too scared to work for anyone else?" Amber taunted. If he liked the brutal truth so much, he could have it.

She turned on the microphone into the other room, told their patient they'd start the test, and turned on the treadmill.

Foreman took his seat next to Amber, hoping that she'd let the argument drop so that they could do the damn test. He wasn't surprised when she didn't, though. He clenched his jaw and shook his head. "That's what you think of your abilities as a doctor? You're good enough as long as you're entertaining?" She wasn't talking about patients' interests now. Foreman hated the fucking reality-TV competition that House had started, because this was exactly what it would lead to. All of this was made for television, not for any sort of responsible medical practice. House had never been responsible, but now he'd be imposing his values on his new fellows, until they'd go along with him and never think to call him on his goddamn lack of professional ethics.

Foreman had never wanted what happened to him at Mercy to become an object lesson for someone else. He'd wanted to keep it private, not have his shame spread around the whole damn hospital. Cuddy and House already knew--and since House knew, it was just as likely that he'd deliberately let the wrong word slip into the wrong ears. Foreman wouldn't be saving himself any embarrassment by telling Amber now, and maybe she'd actually hear what he was saying. So far it didn't seem like she believed him--that he wasn't trying to hurt her chances, that he was, in fact, giving her a push in the right direction. But it wouldn't be his fault if she didn't act on what he said. "There's a difference between giving up and choosing something different," Foreman said. "I was head of Diagnostics at Mercy General. Until I fucked it up by acting like House." He'd thought he'd been above hospital policy, that no rules applied to him because he'd been right. Resentment burned through him, even though he could understand Dr. Schaffer's position. But, for God's sake, he'd saved a patient's life. And got nothing to show for it. Worse than nothing. "If that's what you're hoping to learn, congratulations."

Irritated, Amber snapped back. "Of course being entertaining isn't my priority as a doctor. But if I'm not, then I'm out, and how can I put my other skills to use if I don't have the job?" There were other jobs, Amber knew, even within the diagnostics field. This wasn't her sole chance at starting up a career. But, damn it, she'd done her homework. All other diagnosticians paled to House. So while she technically could work with someone else, somebody a little more conventional, they wouldn't be the best. This was her shot to be with the best, and she was willing to dirty herself, wrestling to get her hands on the gun.

If Eric couldn't understand that-- actually, no, Amber believed he could. His picture-perfect clothes, his dignified and probably painstakingly practiced demeanor, his accomplished career-- all that screamed just how much he strove towards being the best. Amber didn't believe he hadn't paid some price for his triumphs. If he was looking down on her for doing whatever it took to reach her goals, it was only because one of his recent sacrifices hadn't been worth it.

Amber glanced at the patient, making sure he was alright, and looked back at the computer screen. Nothing unusual about the readings so far. Which she'd more or less predicted, once he'd started to show other symptoms. But it would’ve been nice if they could’ve gotten new information with the test.

Eric's tone was touchy, speaking like he had something to prove (which he did). Head of diagnostics at Mercy. Not bad. She'd considered applying there, but then House started taking in potential candidates. "Pity you didn't know how to hold on to your job at Mercy," Amber said. "And there's a difference between learning and applying, too. I'll soak up everything I can from House, but I know better than to imitate him wherever I go. Anyway, why did you act like him, if you're so against what he does?"

It was a good thing the patient wasn't actually susceptible to laryngospasms, because right now Foreman was having a hard time concentrating on the test. It didn't matter--the patient's tidal volume was holding, and Foreman increased the dose to sixteen milligrams per millilitre, since House would always ask if they'd pushed the test as far as it could go. And that was the problem. Amber was exactly the sort of person who'd push too far, vault over lines, if she thought she could win or be better. Every word she said only emphasized that. Foreman didn't think he'd ever forget the way Matty had screamed when Foreman had been tearing as much marrow out of the kid's bones as he needed to save his brother. He'd gone too far. He didn't expect Amber to understand that. Maybe she'd never been in a position like that, seeing something like that. He wanted to believe that she hadn't--if she had, and she still felt this way, then the argument was more than pointless. "You don't need to imitate him. You already think being right matters more," he said. "I learned it doesn't, probably too late." It wasn't about whether he could hold on to a job. It was about his own personal lines, what was more important to him.

He slumped back in his seat, feeling defeated. Amber's mention of imitating House reminded him of the patient's newest symptoms. Even with the increased methacholine dosage, their John Doe hadn't shown any changes. Maybe it was some form of Munchausen's syndrome; that might explain some of his faked personality, if not the imitation. "This is pointless," he said. After everything he'd heard from Amber, he wanted to move on. Get back to the differential. Away from the argument, away from having his failures thrown in his face as if they were weaknesses instead of bad luck, bad circumstances. He'd expected as much from House, but he'd never wanted to hear it from Amber.

"Being right only matters if it helps you reach your goal," Amber argued, "which it usually does." She really should just let this fight go; what could she hope to accomplish by digging in her teeth? Even if she could make Eric see eye-to-eye with her, there was no reason to, since his opinion on her approach to life didn’t matter one bit. And she had everything to lose by pissing him off. But she couldn't hold back. She had to make him understand she wasn't wrong or crazy. It rankled her, the thought of him walking away with the view of her as a cutthroat bitch, just like everyone else.

Oh, god, would he take to calling her CTB? Amber's gaze hardened, her grip on the mouse tightening. The nickname was annoying, coming from everyone else. She could bear it, with some pride, even, because she'd do what she had to, no matter what other people thought of her. She'd just-- she'd liked Eric. He'd brimmed with confidence, touched her just right, and smiled fit to make her head spin. She'd felt good with him. Vulnerable. She'd have preferred it if he didn't take to looking at her with the same contempt as everyone else. But if earning his distaste was inevitable... well, it was only one more hurdle to success. She'd deal.

If nothing else, he was right about one thing: this was pointless. "Yeah," she sighed. This test, this conversation, their past, none of it brought any good. She'd antagonized Eric and House would blame them for the patient's lack of reaction.

"How much more do you need to torture me?" Their patient cried out. "My foot's tingling and my stomach's killing me! Do I need to drop dead before you can diagnose me?"

Amber's eyebrows rose. It wasn't a normal reaction, but it was definitely a new set of symptoms. House would be pleased after all.

Foreman rushed out of the control booth and into the main room. Their patient had fallen off the treadmill and he was curled in the fetal position, clutching at his abdomen. When Foreman rolled him over to face him, the blank look on his face had returned. Foreman hauled him up bodily and sat him back down in the wheelchair. They'd have to get him back to his room as fast as possible and hook him back up to the monitors so that they'd have an idea of what kind of effect was happening, even if they didn't yet know the cause. The patient was grimacing and leaning forward, but the initial spasm of pain seemed to have passed--luckily for them, it looked like he wouldn't simply drop dead before they'd diagnosed him.

Foreman took the handles of the wheel chair and headed for the doors. If he and Amber really were working together professionally, then he trusted her to have saved the test results, even if they were inconclusive, so he didn't waste time by going back to double check her work. "He's stable," he told her. "We'll get him back upstairs and page House."

He headed for the elevator again, slightly faster this time--he wanted to be sure that they'd be within range of a crash cart if the patient suddenly developed more symptoms. Even so, he was still scoffing mentally at Amber's last words. Being right hadn't helped him reach his goals; in fact, it had gotten directly in his way. It had been his first big case at Mercy; if he'd developed a reputation, if he'd documented his ideas and recorded his objections to Dr. Schaeffer's hesitation, he could have been on record as being right--when the patient died. If he'd been as career-driven as Amber seemed to be, maybe he would have let her die. He still didn't know if he'd acted for himself or for her, and Foreman found himself wondering what Amber would do in the same situation. Whether getting fired would have been worth that woman's life to her. "If being right was all that mattered, I'd still be in New York," he said. "I guess neither of us have learned how to win by being wrong."

Amber shot up when the patient fell. Having new symptoms was great, but she didn't want him to get worse. Was he alright? Had he another respiratory attack, or had he fallen because of his abdominal pain? His eyes were fluttering, so at least he was conscious. She'd have gone at once to help him, but Eric was already halfway there, and someone needed to save the mostly-useless test results.

That done, she pulled out her cell phone as she walked to the doors, holding them open for Eric and their patient. "Already on it." Amber's gaze flicked down to their John Doe, analyzing him the best she could as they strode through the hallways. He was pale, sweaty, and breathing shallowly-- though that could've been from the jogging.

"How are you now?" Amber asked.

"Happier than a clam," he growled.

"Does your stomach still hurt? Are your feet numb?"

"Oh, god, yes," he moaned, leaning forward all the more. Amber eyed Eric, quickening her pace. She didn't ask anymore questions and their patient lapsed into silence, even his groans subsiding. The pain seemed to come in short, intense bursts. What would cause that, together with all the other symptoms? Amber wracked her brain; nothing, far as she knew. But "nothing" wasn't a good enough answer. She needed to have something, by the time she next saw House.

Caught up in her train of thought, Eric's words took her by surprise. It took her a moment to process what he said, the notion of winning by not being right was so alien to her. "Would you have won, if you'd been wrong?" she asked, mostly to be contrary, but also because she needed to know. She welcomed any and all strategies to success, including her one-night stand's cautionary tales.

Foreman didn't answer Amber at first. It was easy to set her question aside while they rode in the elevator--he was monitoring the patient, and the last thing he wanted was for John Doe to catch them by surprise with haematemesis or something worse.

He wasn't trying to avoid what she was asking. He'd lied once and lost out on more than he'd bargained for. Even if Amber wouldn't believe him again, Foreman wanted to be honest with her. It wasn't easy. He didn't really know himself how to answer her question. He hadn't considered if he'd call it winning, to solve his case and stay at Mercy. It would have made him proud, to make the right call and be recognized for it. He'd be a damn sight more content than he was now...or so he'd thought.

The fact of the matter was, Foreman didn't think much of being bitter. He'd rather move forward--well, he'd rather move up, and his move back to Princeton was neither, but there was no point in living in the past. If he hadn't come back, he never would have met Amber at all. As brief as it had been, it had been worthwhile. More than that. It had been good. And, hell, right now, what was he doing? Working one of House's cases, confronted directly with half a dozen symptoms he couldn't explain. He should be happy. Intrigued, interested, hooked by the case until he could piece the puzzle, or at least some of the pieces, together. He was right back at the hub of the action. Instead of having most of his cases diverted to Princeton-Plainsboro, leaving him with only minor mysteries he'd learned to solve in his sleep, he was at the forefront of the field. Teaching had felt uncomfortable to him, unnatural; he'd been resisting most of what he wanted to say, to point out to his students everything that was obvious, that was right in front of their faces. It astounded him what they couldn't see, and it was hard to praise them every time they took a baby step.

Once they were back on the main floor, Foreman rushed the patient back to his room, grabbing a couple of orderlies on his way to help them shift him onto the bed and hook up the monitors. John Doe hadn't complained again, and by the time they got him back to his room, he seemed both vacant and asymptomatic again. Foreman shook his head and picked up his chart to make a notation of what he'd observed when they were in the lab. It was only then that he turned back to Amber. They had a few minutes before the rest of the team would be assembling in the lecture theatre. He stopped to meet her eyes, to show he was serious. "No," he said. After all, he could have been fired just as easily for incompetence as he had been for overstepping his bounds. "If I'd been wrong, I wouldn't have met you."

There was enough work to be done between the two of them that Amber couldn't fault Eric for not answering her right away; even if he had, she might not have been able to spare him the attention. By the time they'd reached the classroom, she'd half-forgotten the question.

When he finally did reply, he might as well have pulled a rug from under her.

Amber's face flushed. She couldn't help it. She hadn't expected that at all. After their parting on Friday, she'd assumed he'd regretted having seen her face before Monday morning. And after their spats today, she'd have thought he’d be sorry to know her, in or out of work. That'd been her own feelings. Meeting, and having gone out with, Eric had only complicated her life. Once she'd realized she could lose her job for sleeping with him, she couldn't see what good could come from their fling.

Was he serious? He could be sweet-talking her, trying to fool her again. His expression and stance certainly were sincere. And, aside from messing with her, he had no reason to lie about this. He might really mean it. That having met her was a form of victory.

It was hard to stop the smile tugging at her lips, at that thought.

Not that she really believed him. It was simply too over the top, like holding the door open for her. And even if he did mean it—so what? She still couldn’t afford being close to him.

“You,” she said as nonchalantly as she could manage, running a hand through her hair, “have very strange notions of ‘winning.’”

"Then we're not that different," Foreman said. It felt good--satisfying--to see Amber's reaction. Her blush and the quick way her hand went to her hair, as if to smooth it into place. He supposed it had been a line, and a pretty cheesy one at that, but he'd surprised even himself at how much he meant it. Amber's flustered response was quick enough, and honest enough, that it felt like she had forgiven him, and wasn't going to hold a grudge.

That meant more to him than he'd expected. Foreman had been trying to convince himself since Friday that it was a hookup, a one night stand, and it shouldn't mean anything that it hadn't worked out. But he was smiling softly at her, despite himself, despite trying to hold it back--House or one of the other candidates could walk in on them at any moment. Foreman wanted to reach out to Amber, let his hands settle on her waist as if it was completely natural to hold her that way. To meet her eyes; feel her hands linking behind his neck as she smiled back; the way he had when they'd been dancing.

It was too much to hope for, he knew, and impossible in this setting. Foreman didn't want to let the moment pass and have them fall right back into the same argument again. "I know I lost on Friday," he said--directly, but without overemphasizing anything. He wanted Amber to believe him, in a way that she hadn't appeared to believe his apologies. The most likely outcome was that they still wouldn't be able to get back to where they had been, but one thing working at Mercy had taught Foreman was that he was tired of not trying. He'd gotten shot down professionally, and it had hurt--it still hurt--but he'd lived through it. It had been a long time since he'd taken that kind of risk with a relationship, and it was crazy to think that this one--that Amber--was worth putting himself out there for. But crazy or not, it was how he felt.

Amber had laughed in the face of men delivering lines less cheesier than Eric's. Yet she couldn't hold back the smile she'd been fighting, not when his eyes softened, a smile of his own brightening his face. Was it her imagination, or did his hand rise, just a bit, as if to touch her? Something about Eric made her a sap, and somehow she couldn't bring herself to mind.

And then the door handle door twisted.

Amber turned from Eric, already a step down from him as her would-be colleagues streamed into the room. Eric could make her foolish, but not so stupid as to forget everything else. She still couldn't let anyone see her "with" him.

She sat in the middle of the row, and stared ahead as the others, chattering, filled the seats around her. Now that the moment had been broken, she could look back on what Eric had said more objectively. It was not, after all, strange that he'd think meeting her was a positive outcome from getting fired. He'd admitted his career was in a slump. With his work in the dumps, of course he'd look for compensation elsewhere. Like in his love life.

Amber wasn't the same, though. She'd made her job her priority. She couldn't throw it away, no matter how weak in the head some guy made her. Not over something so unguaranteed and likely ephemeral.

Now, if there were some way that a relationship with Eric wouldn’t endanger her chances with House…

"Hey, Amber," Kutner, to her right, said. "How did the methacholine challenge go?"

She sighed. She'd rather not tell them, but it wasn't as if she could hide the information. House would have her hide for hiding from the team details that could lead to a diagnosis. So Amber relayed the results, both in and out of the test room. If she glanced at Eric a couple of times, it was perfectly normal for her to look at her "boss."

Foreman had to look away from Amber's smile almost immediately. She hadn't cut him down and made him feel like an idiot for daring to say anything, but he had a feeling he'd only make more of a fool of himself if he let himself take in her full response. A second later when the door opened, he wasn't surprised that she brushed past him to sit down without letting any sign show that they'd been speaking to each other. Their conversation might have been innocent and completely related to the case, but Amber wasn't willing to even take the chance of being seen with him. She might believe him, she might forgive him, but that was the extent of it. He'd been right. He couldn't expect more.

Foreman made his way to the front of the theatre, where he could write up the new symptoms on the board. Amber explained what had happened, and Foreman pushed the other candidates to come up with explanations. He tried to look past Amber's glances at him. If she couldn't even stand next to him, then he didn't feel like meeting her eyes. It wouldn't be that bad, pretending like this, if there actually was anything to hide. Foreman could be discreet--he'd proved that by winning the bet with House that Wilson wasn't in a relationship with Wendy. But when there was nothing to hide, it was pointless, and more depressing because of that.

And of course, with his luck, things had to get worse. House pushed open the theatre doors and headed straight for the seat next to Amber, taking a seat and slouching in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. The suggestions dried up immediately, and House blinked and looked around as though he was shocked that his entrance had anything to do with it.

"Lungs, stomach, numbness?" Foreman prompted them, determined not to actually roll his eyes at House's antics.

House looked over his shoulder at the rest of the candidates when no one spoke up. "Carry on, he's the boss," he said, and proceeded to stare at Foreman wide-eyed as if he really felt he was about to have a learning experience.

One step forward and a giant leap back: minutes after a goopy declaration Eric wouldn’t even look at her. Then again, she’d bolted from him at the first sight of company. No wonder he was bristling. But what did he expect? That she’d thrust a sword through her job because of a few sentimental sentences?

Amber didn't volunteer any suggestions since she still hadn't thought of anything to unite this constellation of symptoms. Her "boss" had told her she needed to risk being wrong, but even if that weren't the craziest idea this side of New Jersey, House wasn't here and she wouldn't perform for Eric. What point would there be?

She sat up straighter as House slid into the chair besides her, shoulders pressing against the plastic curve. House absolutely wouldn't fire over posture-- otherwise Kutner would've been kicked out for good that first day--and he himself was slumped in his seat, his fingers curling against his mouth. The sitting upright was mostly for her own psychological benefit.

House's bitter emphasis fell over "boss." Was he resisting authority? Or did House resent Eric just as much as vice-versa? If Eric had returned with so much anger, Amber couldn’t imagine he'd left with anything much better. What had happened between them? What had made Eric try to jump ship?

Whatever it was, the fact was that Eric had survived House for three years.

"Lupus," Amber blurted out. Her heart lurched. Yes, Lupus could include the symptoms so far, but it was like calling out Hep A just because of nausea. It was a short-sighted guess, and what was she doing, following the advice of a man who saw meeting a beautiful, assertive woman as the highlight of his career's dying gasps? (Though she was a pretty spectacular woman to meet, Amber granted.)

House shot her a withering glance. Amber didn't so much as cringe.

There was another prolonged silence even after House told the candidates to keep going. Of course, from his tone, they probably all assumed--correctly--that he didn't consider Foreman anything like his superior, in name or in fact. Foreman wasn't going to start a staring contest with House now, over something so childish, when there was an actual patient at risk. That was the reason they were here and Foreman was going to remember it, even if House refused to. Foreman had learned his lesson. There was no point in expecting House to learn anything--to act as if he gave a rat's ass about the patient when his own dignity, in the form of having Cuddy place Foreman over him, was at stake. But Foreman was determined not to repeat his mistakes. He tried to give House his best untouchable look. He wouldn't stare him down or refuse to meet his eyes: either one would fuel House's speculations. He simply let his eyes pass over House and return to the rest of the candidates, expectantly.

There was no way he'd counted on Amber being the first to speak up. For a long second, her suggestion hung in the air, completely untenable by the facts--it didn't include the patient's attempts at imitating others at all--and House glared at her for daring to speak. But then, a second later, Brennan called out, "Dissecting aortic aneurysm." Immediately, Taub tried to top him with a spinal cord lesion. House rolled his eyes, but he set to work shutting all of them down. "I'm pretty sure Dr. Foreman--" There was still a hint of a sneer on Foreman's name, but he ignored it. "--had three symptoms for you. I know you can count at least that high, because it's the number of job openings I have. Oh, wait. It isn't." He smirked at Amber. "Maybe that's what confused you."

"Can we stick to the medicine?" Foreman asked. He doubted Amber needed him jumping to her defense, and he quelled the part of him that wanted to snap at least she can manage that much. Amber might be ambitious, but she was better than House at sticking to the topic that mattered. He hoped.

It was a stupid suggestion. House and Eric thought so, Amber knew so, and the others drowning away the awkward silence with their own idiotic ideas didn't take away from her fuck-up. Amber refused to let her frustration show, but inside she burned. That's what she got for following Eric's brilliant advice. Ridicule and embarrassment.

She'd play the game her way, from now on.

Who else could she rely on but herself, after all?

House's jeer did sting, not just because it reminded her of a lost opportunity and who'd stolen it from her, but because it indicated the depth of her mistake. Her muscles tightened, her face rigid as if it'd been numbed. "Two to five odds aren't so bad," Amber informed him with stiff dignity.

“You’re right about the ‘odds,’” House retorted, his smirk making it clear the pun was more than intentional.

She had to improve her standing. Soon. Remind House she was indispensable.

No one turned around to Eric—Foreman, she had to get used to that-- when he spoke, more wary of the ticking bomb House represented. Amber held back a scowl, since with House next to her, they’d see her reaction. But she didn’t need anger. Anger was beneath her. She’d come up with a great solution and rub it in Eric’s-- Foreman’s-- face. And guarantee her job in the same stroke.

House, however, seemed to have his own ideas, and none of them were case-related. “Weird, though, that you’re asking about the medicine. Didn’t you quit?” Suddenly, proving herself right didn’t seem as important as watching House rip into Eric-- Foreman. Amber leaned back into her chair, crossing her arms and legs.

From the half-horrified, half-furious look on Amber's face, she didn't realize that she'd said exactly the right thing. Her suggestion was wrong, and she had to know it; she'd had more contact with the patient than any of the others, and she'd completely missed one of the symptoms. She was trying her best not to show any emotion, but Foreman could tell she felt humiliated. She'd drawn in on herself instead of holding her back straight and proud. She didn't know that House's mockery wasn't a bad thing--he was happy to have suggestions he could belittle, because it meant that there were suggestions. Amber had kick-started the other candidates' competitive streak again. Being wrong wasn't the end of the world. House was always wrong until he was right.

No one, including Cuddy, was willing to acknowledge that House was wrong right now. Wrong in how he was approaching hiring a new team. His taunts might be making Amber that much more determined, but he was never going to get any cooperation out of them. At least Foreman had managed that much with Cameron and Chase on occasion. Foreman set his jaw when House turned on him. He'd been wondering when House was going to start slapping him down in front of the others. Trying to humiliate him. Of course it suited House's ego to have five, or a dozen, or forty doctors all competing for the supposed honour of working for him. Foreman clung to the fact that he'd stood up to House. Left on his own terms--even if he'd come back on someone else's. He glanced at Amber, wondering what she thought of this. She looked happy enough to have him under the microscope now. Foreman tightened his lips and stared back at House. "Turns out there are worse things in the world than coming back to work for you," he said. Amber might get the double meaning. House would probably assume Foreman was referring to the impossibility of getting hired anywhere else after becoming too similar to him. "And Munchausen's could explain all the symptoms, including the lack of history and the fact that John Doe imitates whoever happens to be in front of him."

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.

Foreman didn't have a chance to answer House's question before Amber interrupted. If she'd lost her footing momentarily, she'd regained it with barely a pause. Her points were on-target, and this time, for the first time, Foreman found himself raising his eyebrows, impressed. So far she'd been pumping him for information about House's game, trying to copy his ideas, maneuvering more than doctoring. She'd been competent with the patient and the lab tests, but anyone who was truly useless never would have made it this far--House wasn't that clueless about his candidates. But the way she'd smacked down his idea showed poise, intelligence, and a very unsurprising desire to go straight for his throat.

It really shouldn't have been that hot.

House blinked at Amber, taking in her argument with more seriousness than he'd shown yet today, and then looked back at Foreman. A smirk started to tug at the corner of his mouth. Foreman's stomach sank. House had clearly figured something out that amused the hell out of him, and that could only mean bad news for the rest of them. "Which one of you was he imitating?" he asked.

"Me," Amber said without hardly a thought. Some of the things the patient said, the insistent way he'd made his demands and complaints, had sounded like they'd come straight from her mouth. But more interesting than the answer were the reasons for House's questions. Why would he want to know who the patient had been imitating? Why the glee? Was there any significance in who he mimicked--

Of course.

A slow, unstoppable grin spread across Amber's face. "Giovannini’s Mirror Syndrome," she said with all the elation of a kid who'd jumped the furthest in gym class. She even felt like jumping. But she stayed put in her seat, her gaze going straight to Foreman as her smile grew stronger. "He's a blank slate right now, so he's imitating whoever is around. Or, if there's more than one person, whoever has the dominant personality."

The weekend, Foreman's inconsistency, any future emotional entanglements: they'd all been worth it for this one moment of gloating. If nothing else, she had this definite proof that she had control over him. She could taken advantage of that. In fact, she should. Make him as miserable as he had her. Or do something that might bring her more satisfaction. What kind of power did she have over him, exactly?

“When did you let a girl get the best of you?” House asked, as amused as before, but nowhere near as much as Amber was. “You’ve gone soft on me. Not that you were hard before, big teddy bear that you are.” Amber laughed silently. “Is it her legs? Or,“ House’s tone dipped, his voice like it was whenever faced with a mystery to be dissected, “is there more?”

She stopped laughing abruptly, and why couldn’t she hide her feelings better?

House's glee was spreading. Amber showed it too, a second after she'd answered his question, its significance seeming to hit her a moment later. Foreman glared at House, still catching up. By the time Amber blurted out mirror syndrome, Foreman had figured it out, and he could feel a blush heating his face. Fuck. Like he needed that spread around--it was bad enough that he felt that way. Amber had been the one to talk to him first, to ask him out to her bar, to take him back to her place, to--to fuck him, for Christ's sake, and then, a day later, to dump him the second she'd found out he might be standing in her way at work. This morning he'd been following her around like a kicked puppy, with apologies and flattery, as if he was begging her to reconsider, or at least not hate him for what he'd done.

Foreman couldn't help clenching his hands the more House taunted him. Every word served to show him what a dupe he'd been, a pathetic idiot acting like he had a hope--like he was the hero in some kind of bodice ripper, and things might improve if he just tried hard enough. Hadn't his life told him that didn't happen? He'd been smacked down too often in the last few weeks, but he'd thought he understood why, professionally, he was untouchable. He'd never had that kind of trouble romantically. With women he wanted. And it wasn't just that he wanted Amber--he knew she'd been interested too, that she cared, otherwise she wouldn't have dumped him so spectacularly on Friday. It was fucking unfair, but he thought he'd had a chance, however dim, of making it right. Obviously he didn't--he'd been mooning like a lovesick teenager, that was all. Act professional? He couldn't even stop himself from complimenting her, reacting to her, when they were in the middle of a fucking differential.

Now Amber was laughing at him too, and Foreman could see a smirk on Taub's face, Thirteen lowering her head to hid her smile, and Kutner grinning at him unabashedly, as if he was watching his favourite soap opera. Foreman was so pissed off he almost missed the change of House's expression, the sudden hungry, assessing stare as he leaned forward. Foreman still had his stony glare, and he could shut House up when he really needed to, but when Amber's laughter cut off abruptly, Foreman's attention went to her automatically, his eyes widening slightly. It was too late to warn her. House's gaze flicked to her quickly, and then he started grinning in earnest.

"Oh my God," he said, looking back and forth between them, gaping like he'd just heard the most astonishing, hilarious thing in his life. "Seriously?"

The cat was out of the bag and meowing its existence to everyone. "This is absolutely shocking," House sounded like he’d just read on some stupid tabloid cover how a girl had slept with her twin sister's clone. "Was it the during the methacholine challenge? Our jogging amnesiac and all the lab instruments were just too hot for you to resist? Cuddy will be so disappointed her brand new set of eyes and ears were misbehaving on their very first day."

Amber flared up from the inside, like a sudden fire passing through her organs. How crazy; a few days ago she'd wanted the world to see her with her amazing catch of a date. Now she was blushing at the amusement they were all getting at her expense. How had she become the butt of the joke?

But she could turn a profit from this. If entertainment was what House wanted, then she'd delivered. And she could dish out even more.

With only a quick, almost apologetic, glance to Foreman, Amber flipped her hair. “We met on Thursday," she stated simply. "And slept together. It--" There were so many things she could say about their night. How they'd danced, how she'd melted in his arms, how she would've done him then and there. How he'd undone her with a few words: so fucking gorgeous. How alarmed he'd been when she tried to penetrate him, and how he'd let himself trust her. How good that'd been, for the both of them.

Amber looked at Eric again. He looked worse than when he'd realized where she'd meant to slip her fingers, angry and humiliated and scared. She couldn't do it. She couldn't kiss and tell, not even for this job. He'd trusted her, and she wouldn't ever make him regret that. Their night, anything they could've had together, was spoiled by the twist of fate that they both worked for House, but she wouldn't tarnish what they'd had. "It was a coincidence," Amber concluded. "We didn't know we were working in the same department."

She heard a snicker-- Kutner?-- and Thirteen was smirking in a way Amber had never seen. She could've made Eric the center of the laughter by throwing out embarrassing tidbits about him, but Amber felt this better this way. No one here might believe she had any kind of morals, but it was true. She did.

House mimed wiping his eyes, but if he had any tears to clear away, it’d be of mirth. "To a romantic like me," his voice dramatically welled with emotion, "there's no such thing as 'coincidence.' You were meant to meet!”

Foreman had never been good at dealing with humiliation. This was worse. Mortification. He was a private person, and he'd never let House or anyone else work their way this deeply into his personal life. More than anything, he regretted that he'd let Amber see so much. That he'd trusted her. He was certain that she was going to break that trust now.

He wanted to blame Amber. That would at least make it simple. She was the one who'd caught House's attention. Made him start guessing. Fuck, at least Foreman could hide what he felt--if not from Amber, then from House. That bastard considered them all his toys, and Foreman had always been determined to give him as little satisfaction as he could, to make sure that House learned the least about him. The only times he'd broken that resolution were the moments when showing House some part of his personal life worked out so that Foreman could get the better of him. Show him up. Prove that House didn't have all the answers, that his fucking deductions weren't always on target.

Amber was the one who'd put them on the target this time. She'd made House curious, and there was nothing more dangerous than that. He'd be hounding them for days now, weeks, putting Foreman on the spot and asking, in his stupid insinuating voice, whether he liked strong women, whether he'd really slept with Amber or if she'd slipped a little something in his drink and taken advantage. Right now that was exactly what it felt like, that she'd taken advantage, but even as he thought it Foreman knew it was a lie. They'd both enjoyed themselves. It had been good. House would try his damnedest to ruin it, the way he ruined everything--Foreman's career included--but Foreman wasn't willing to let him. He wasn't willing to turn this into some Prisonner's Dilemma; he had more integrity than to start telling lurid stories about Amber for anyone's amusement, least of all House's. The problem was, he didn't know if Amber felt the same way. He suspected she'd be more than happy to let all the details spill out, catch House's prurient interest. Foreman stared at her, the laughter of the other candidates fading as he concentrated on her. He shook his head, as slightly as possible, wanting to ask her--to beg her, and fuck, she really was the one in control; Foreman had no power to influence anything she decided she wanted to do--he wanted her not to speak, not, for God's sake, to tell everyone in the room what she'd done to him. That would be tantamount to telling the whole fucking hospital. Foreman was miserable enough here as it was. He didn't need the snickers behind his back, people whispering that he took it up the ass. That he'd liked it. That felt like the biggest betrayal of all, from his own goddamn body.

Amber started speaking, and Foreman clenched his jaw, glaring down, waiting for House's scorn, the laughter from the rest of the candidates--the people he was supposed to be in charge of, as if they'd ever accept his authority now--but it didn't come. Foreman met Amber's eyes after she hesitated, anger still burning in his chest, but at least she hadn't said more than necessary. At least that.

It was still bad enough. House started in on the jokes immediately. Fury stopped Foreman from answering him, and he wasn't going to run out of the room as if he couldn't handle this. He needed an escape.

It came in the form of half a dozen pagers going off at once. Foreman unclipped his from his belt automatically. "The patient's crashing," he said. He looked up at the candidates, all of them clearly still hanging on the more amusing drama in front of them. "Get going," he snapped, and without waiting to see if they'd jump at his order, he stalked out of the room.

Livid like a cornered snake, Eric seemed ready to strike back. She'd never seen him this furious, not even when they'd been arguing and she'd purposefully struck at weak points. Would keeping secret their intimate details be enough to stop him from being pissed at her? Not that his opinion mattered, it wasn't as if she meant to court his favor. And she hadn’t done anything wrong!

Still. What would he be like, angry and unleashed? And what was wrong with her, that she still longed to see him as he really was, genuine, without the social falsities he’d carefully constructed for himself?

Whatever chances Amber might've had of finding out more about Eric-- Foreman-- in this state was nullified by the chorus of pagers. She had to go. Not just because she had to prove her worth to House, but because the patient might need her. The others hadn't met him, they didn't know what he was like, and, in a pinch, they might not realize what he needed. If there was any chance only she could save him, then she had to go.

As she flocked out with everyone else, Amber cast a glance behind her. Eric had already left.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

29 October 2007 - Evening

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