Foreman didn't wait the full hour before he finally pushed himself to his feet. Even if he couldn't be a hundred percent certain, any change in Casey's condition would be important to know, and he wanted to see it for himself before any of the candidates snuck in and saw something that they'd smugly keep to themselves until they thought they'd get a prize for dropping the bombshell.
Casey was sitting up in bed when Foreman reached her room. She smiled wanly at him, and Foreman smiled back, checking her chart first to see the nurses' notations. "Your fever's down," he said. A hundred degrees still needed monitoring, but it wasn't worrisome. Casey was alert and oriented, though tired, which meant the delirium had faded too. "That's good. Means the treatment's working."
"Which one?" she asked.
Foreman frowned slightly. Was she tracking what he was saying? She looked honestly curious, so he said, "Excuse me?"
"The treatment. Do you know which one it is? The other doctor said it might be lupus."
For what seemed like far too long, Foreman's lungs felt too tight to even pull in a breath. No. She didn't. She fucking wouldn't have. "Dr. Volakis?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm and his face from showing any expression.
"Yeah."
Foreman swallowed hard against the boiling fury that struck him full force. "We'll be discussing that," he said, clipped and short. "Let one of us or the nurses know if anything changes." Before he could lash out while Casey was watching, he got the hell out of her room. Shoulders rock-hard, anger burning through him, he wanted to slam his fist into a wall. Fuck. Fuck. Amber had gone behind his back. He'd asked for her help and she'd turned around and skewered him. For what? For a diagnosis that they couldn't prove now because they didn't know which treatment was working? For fuck's sake, what could she possibly gain from that? It wasn't for the patient. It wasn't for House's game--did she think House would pat her on the head for muddying the waters in the middle of a fucking diagnosis when someone's life was at stake? It had been for him. A sign, a protest, hell, he didn't know. To hurt him. What other possible reason could she have had? She hadn't shown she was right, she hadn't even shown he was wrong. She'd just fucked him over because he'd told her no. She'd protested that she wanted to keep things professional and then she'd betrayed him.
Christ. He was so angry he couldn't even decide what to do about it. Stop one of the treatments--which one? Talk to Amber--how? Jesus, how could he talk to her, even reprimand her, without asking what the hell did I ever do to hurt you? He couldn't. There was no way. Foreman squeezed his fists, grinding his teeth, and stopped outside Casey's room, too furious to even go another step further. She'd be coming soon enough. She'd have to, to check Casey's condition. Foreman needed to see her face, to know. That's all he wanted. To know if she'd done this purely to spite him.
no subject
Casey was sitting up in bed when Foreman reached her room. She smiled wanly at him, and Foreman smiled back, checking her chart first to see the nurses' notations. "Your fever's down," he said. A hundred degrees still needed monitoring, but it wasn't worrisome. Casey was alert and oriented, though tired, which meant the delirium had faded too. "That's good. Means the treatment's working."
"Which one?" she asked.
Foreman frowned slightly. Was she tracking what he was saying? She looked honestly curious, so he said, "Excuse me?"
"The treatment. Do you know which one it is? The other doctor said it might be lupus."
For what seemed like far too long, Foreman's lungs felt too tight to even pull in a breath. No. She didn't. She fucking wouldn't have. "Dr. Volakis?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm and his face from showing any expression.
"Yeah."
Foreman swallowed hard against the boiling fury that struck him full force. "We'll be discussing that," he said, clipped and short. "Let one of us or the nurses know if anything changes." Before he could lash out while Casey was watching, he got the hell out of her room. Shoulders rock-hard, anger burning through him, he wanted to slam his fist into a wall. Fuck. Fuck. Amber had gone behind his back. He'd asked for her help and she'd turned around and skewered him. For what? For a diagnosis that they couldn't prove now because they didn't know which treatment was working? For fuck's sake, what could she possibly gain from that? It wasn't for the patient. It wasn't for House's game--did she think House would pat her on the head for muddying the waters in the middle of a fucking diagnosis when someone's life was at stake? It had been for him. A sign, a protest, hell, he didn't know. To hurt him. What other possible reason could she have had? She hadn't shown she was right, she hadn't even shown he was wrong. She'd just fucked him over because he'd told her no. She'd protested that she wanted to keep things professional and then she'd betrayed him.
Christ. He was so angry he couldn't even decide what to do about it. Stop one of the treatments--which one? Talk to Amber--how? Jesus, how could he talk to her, even reprimand her, without asking what the hell did I ever do to hurt you? He couldn't. There was no way. Foreman squeezed his fists, grinding his teeth, and stopped outside Casey's room, too furious to even go another step further. She'd be coming soon enough. She'd have to, to check Casey's condition. Foreman needed to see her face, to know. That's all he wanted. To know if she'd done this purely to spite him.