Jesus, Foreman couldn't believe her fucking gall. Amber's expression didn't so much as flicker with guilt. Because of Amber's interference, Casey's improvement couldn't be attributed to anything either of them had done, and yet she airily turned his question back around on him and started interrogating him. Worse, the slant of her eyes at the nurses and then back at him reproached him for daring to be fucking upset that she'd sold him out on his own goddamn case. Foreman wanted to grab her by the arm and drag her somewhere--anywhere--more private than this and ask her if it wasn't enough that the whole team knew she kept him on a leash, but that she had to screw him over when all he was trying to do was his fucking job. He was almost glad he couldn't. He had no room, here, to say anything he'd regret.

"Fever's down. She's oriented. And she's wondering whose name to write on the big thank you cake at her discharge party!" Foreman couldn't believe that Amber didn't see the problem here. Beyond them, this was just bad medicine. He'd fucking respected her, respected how she worked, thought she was worth the job slot. If he hadn't compromised his own opinion in everyone else's eyes by going out with her, he would have told House to quit messing around and hire her. Now--Christ, how could he honestly say that he thought she deserved it? If winning was more important to her than following a treatment plan that made sense? They worked through trial and error a lot of times, but that only worked if the error came before the next trial. Foreman kept his voice low for the nurses' sakes but that didn't stop him from laying out exactly the mess that Amber had plunged them into. "How are we supposed to trust any test results we get now? Did you even stop to think about what the contraindications might be?"