alwaysright | November 5, 2007

November 5, 2007 - Morning

Lonely: that was Amber's first drowsy feeling to waking up alone. It was still dark and her alarm hadn't gone off. She'd woken up this way countless times, perhaps most of her life, and yet it felt wrong not having someone in here with her. Someone to make muffled but satisfied sounds as she climbed onto them, kissing and being held back. She missed Eric and it hadn't even been more than half a day since they'd parted.

Despite how keenly she felt his absence, Amber couldn't help smiling into her pillow. She'd become conditioned to having him in her bed. The space seemed pointlessly immense without him hogging half of it. Well, there was an easy solution: get him in here soon. Luring him back shouldn't be a problem; Amber could think of half a dozen ways to convince him and that was without trying.

The only reason he wasn't there as she stretched, working out the lasting soreness from their basketball game, was because they both had lives to get back to; Amber had house chores, as probably did Eric, and her reading wouldn't get done through sheer wishing. If it weren't for that, Amber would've been happy to spend another weekend afternoon with him, even after all the ups-and-downs on Saturday.

Still, she'd see him today at work. That was reason enough to make her spring out of bed earlier, so as to pretty herself up all the more. Eric would notice and appreciate her effort; it'd make up for how disgustingly casual she'd been around him this weekend.

The fact that she'd worn his Colombia hoodie to bed... what he didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Her mom had called Sunday, pointedly asking if she should expect only Amber or plus one for Thanksgiving. "Just me, mom."

"Hmmm?" she'd intoned, judgment and curiosity rolled into a single package. Amber just hoped there wasn't a dash of hope mixed in there. "Broke up already?"

"No," Amber replied with more vehemence than necessary, thinking back on how instantly tense Eric had become at the mere mention of the visit. With his mother's disease, his brother's imprisonment, and his dad's who-knew-what, it might actually be because it was too hard for him to face anyone's family and not because he was scared to meet hers specifically. "It's barely been a week. We're still getting to know each other."

"A few days ago it sounded like you were about to marry him, has it cooled off already? Are you bored with the sex?"

It was the bit about marriage that made Amber sputter softly. Yeah, keeping Eric away was the wisest course of action. "Everything is fine, mom. We're still together and, no, not bored with the sex." There definitely was nothing wrong with their sex life-- in fact, the very opposite. For all that Amber fretted that they were drying up into a drought, Saturday night had been sweetly intimate, in an orgasm-filled way, and Sunday morning they'd tried out the lazy morning sex she'd been anticipating so much. Turned out it was every bit as delicious as she'd imagined.

Aside from that and having to hear her mom describe in minute detail her Thanksgiving plans (arranging rides to pick up her brothers at the airport, finding accommodation for non-immediate family members, shopping for the cheapest yet best food, and on and on and on), Amber's Sunday had been pretty quiet. Just her, her journals, and an endless supply of coffee.

Monday Amber took the time to blow-dry her hair and apply a more careful, if still absolutely professional, layer of makeup than she usually bothered to for work. It made her feel good all morning long, through breakfast and the drive. But as she stepped into the parking lot, the same way she'd started so many other days at PPTH, reluctance overcame her. Things were different here. It'd been so easy to forget once Friday rolled around and they'd fled the hospital, but she had bigger things to think about than "them." She had a career, a purpose. He had his. His partially consisted of keeping her under control; hers, stomping all over him as the occasion called.

It'd keep their sex lives interesting, Amber mused as she shut her car door.

It wasn't just how different their relationship had to be, though. There were other people to consider as well. House, who needed to keep his nose in his own business; her pathetic colleagues, who already looked at her askew for sleeping with the pseudo-boss; and who knew who else decided they had the right to an opinion about her personal life. Ignoring them all would have to do as a policy, Amber decided; that and hunt down anyone who dared try to make her miserable.

Despite the extra time she'd spent in the bathroom and her unhurried breakfast, Amber still arrived before anyone else. A nice change of pace, compared to the previous week. Content, Amber chose an aisle seat in one of the middle rows and settled down with a more recent edition of JNEN.

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Oh, so he could tell her what to do but she couldn't ask a question. Of course, what had she been thinking, daring to defy his authority. Amber didn't hide a frown, narrowing her eyes at him. If she didn't chew him out here and now, it was because she didn't want this fight to come with an audience. As it was, she had to mutter "What're you looking at" towards Thirteen, who'd smirked as if she understood exactly what was going on and had the right to show her amusement. No wonder coworker dating was discouraged, it made an absolute mess of things.

Because Eric spoke into the phone his words didn't travel crystal-clear, but Amber was pretty sure he'd said 'tell him.' Who was he talking to? Was there yet another person in the power structure? Amber wanted to be the one who told House things, it was direct access to the top of the pyramid. Middle-men garbled the message.

She couldn't believe he'd showed off Brennan's "coolest job" patient. Disgusted, Amber tilted back, tapping her fingers against the desk’s cool plastic. She'd seen that file at Admissions and tossed it aside; it had to be heatstroke. But okay, if the coolness factor was what won the day, next time she’d be sure to pick a stripper.

And then Eric hung up and went back to his reading without saying a word. What, were they supposed to just sit around silently and wait for whatever came next? That's what they'd been doing before Eric came in with his three-years-of-experience and I’m-better-than-you superiority. What had Cuddy been thinking hiring him back? He hadn't brought in any useful contributions. "Is he coming?" Amber asked pointedly, not caring if he'd already thought her brazen or demanding. Not like his opinion mattered to House. And if he was going to make a fuss over a couple of questions, he needed to learn how to be a better boss now.

Foreman could feel their eyes on him. Probably Amber's more than the rest of them. They were all judging him--his ability to get shit done, to make a difference in their daily routine now that he was here. He concentrated on the paper, projecting an air of unconcern. If he looked weak, or hesitant, they'd all pin him with not only a largely imaginary authority, they'd also expect him to be useless whenever he had to make a decision.

He looked up skeptically when Amber questioned him again. Christ, this was first-rate hypocrisy. She didn't want him to judge her methods at work, even when it involved torturing her colleagues as much as she could, but she wanted to undermine his methods in front of everybody? If she had a problem, she could bring it to him privately. In fact, she had more room and reason to do that than any of them. If she wanted to see a change, she could tell him, it wasn't like he wouldn't consider her suggestion if it was reasonable. This public attack just looked bad, for both of them, as if it was a quarrel they'd brought in from their personal life.

There was no easy answer. Foreman wasn't interested in getting caught up in a petty power struggle when he was clearly in charge. Fortunately, he didn't have to. In what felt like the first bit of perfect timing Foreman had ever gotten out of House's dramatics, the door at the bottom of the lecture theatre crashed open under the shove of House's cane-tip.

"Yeah," Foreman said, raising his eyebrows as if he'd orchestrated that entire event, "I'd say he is."

House walked in, glaring around at all of them as if he suspected them of covertly plotting his death (not far off in some cases, Foreman assumed). "Wilson said you might have something interesting," he said. "First person to be boring after he raised my hopes is fired. Go."

Amber was glad when House came in right after her question; she couldn't have asked for a better answer. Eric wasn't some mistake of a hiring decision, he really could pull in results. He'd just proven he knew how to manipulate House; she'd listen to more of his advice from now on.

But she didn't dare offer up her case, not after a threat like that. Who'd be dumb enough to risk House in a bad mood--

"I found this guy in the oncology ward," Kutner said eagerly. Of course. "His AFP--"

"Rule of thumb," House said, dumping a black container onto the desk. "If it's been through oncology, Wilson's already whined at me to do his job. If you're talking about the guy with the heightened AFP but the tip-top liver and testicles, seen that, said no. Next."

Next? Just like that? "Thirty-year-old accountant with chronic exhaustion--" Taub started.

"Probably has no life and working too much." He opened up the container of-- spaghetti?-- as if he'd just made a medically-sound diagnosis. "If he's still tired in April, he can come back and help me with my taxes."

This was so unfair. "Aren't you going to fire him?" Amber blurted, looking quickly back and forth between him and Kutner. "You said--"

House's glance was scathing, but she withstood it; all she'd done was call him on his promise. "It's too early to be literal. Though maybe I really do mean it when I say, if your case is boring, you're gone."

One of these days she'd learn to keep her mouth shut. "Twenty-month-old--"

"That can't be the race car driver," House complained. "Don't tell me you lured me here under false pretenses, Foreman."

Foreman settled back with a sigh once House took over the meeting. He liked being in charge, sure, but not when House was ready to squelch any original idea he had. Which he probably would, out of spite if nothing else. It took a good bit of resignation to stop caring about which case House would pick after Foreman had managed to gather the possibilities and present them on a silver platter. Besides, he assumed that if he looked liked he favoured Amber's patient, House wouldn't just say no, he'd taunt them and then say no.

He hardly expected House to follow through on his threat. The only thing that made sense would be for House to fire the ones who messed up in terms of the medicine--not medicine the way responsible doctors practiced it, but in House's terms. Not being gung-ho enough, or not sticking to an idea long enough to see it through. Unless, of course, that was the moment when House required flexibility. The requirements would change as quickly as House's moods. It would be the ones who learned to read him best who'd survive the cut.

When Amber spoke up, Foreman stared at her before cutting his eyes back at House, trying not to be obvious. Didn't she get that? Challenging House when there was no reason to was pointless. Did she really think he'd abide by something he'd probably said as a joke? Kutner had certainly acted like it hadn't been serious, and the others were jumping in with their cases too. Foreman didn't know if Amber would look over at him, but he shook his head minutely, encouraging her not to ask questions that would piss House off. Her patient was the best one--that should be all she needed. When House shot her down without even hearing a single symptom, Foreman glared at him.

"I lured you here to listen to your candidates present their cases. Something you haven't done. You can have the race car driver when you've listened to the others." Foreman sent Brennan a meaningful glance. House would already like his case the best. Foreman just wanted him to shut up until everybody had a chance to catch House's interest. Amber had had her chance; he couldn't jump in--yet--to try and save her. She probably wouldn't appreciate it if he did. It was a level playing field or nothing.

Like he'd figured, House pouted and flapped his mouth in a silent blah-blah-blah, but his only objection was to make a lewd gesture with the sausage he'd forked out of Wilson's stolen lunch.

Thirteen took the hint. "Sixty-eight year old male non-smoker--"

"Can't you let the man die in peace?" House said. "He's done with this world and you want to drag him back among the living."

"Female college student," Cole started.

"Did she ever get top billing on Girls Gone Wild?" House asked. Cole shook his head, eyes wide. "Then I don't care."

Now was Foreman's moment to try and salvage this mess. "You don't care because you haven't listened to a single symptom. You want to treat speed racer because she has a fast car, not because you're interested in her case. When we discharge her because she's not that sick, you're going to want one of the others again." That was the best reassurance he could manage, and in the end, it was for all of them, not just Amber.

"Not that sick?" House challenged, jabbing in Eric’s direction with his fork. "How would you know, we haven't examined her case yet. I refuse to let her walk out of here when she needs our help. Tell me about this poor, poor girl."

Amber hated that her case had been walked all over-- partially because Eric had advertised the dragster and blinded House to all other options-- but at this point, she was just glad to still have her job. She'd spoken out of turn enough this morning. No more.

Brennan shrugged like he really didn't care whose case got picked. Probably didn't. Slacker. "She had a seizure after a race and couldn't process visual and audio information. Before that, she had a perfect bill of health."

"Why, that sounds very serious," House said in an especially tragic tone as he chewed on a mouthful of whatever. "I'm so glad you brought her to us."

Patience, Amber told herself. He was the best diagnostician on this coast, and possibly the whole country. It was worth the occasional bouts of assholeness. The trick was to wait out these periods and reap the reward of the moments of brilliance.

The backdoor swung open and Amber twisted her neck to look back: it was a guy in a suit. Someone with a special request? God if one more person tried to get in her way, she'd scream.

"Dr. House, please come with me."

House raised his eyebrows. "I only fall for that line when it comes from young, provocatively dressed women. No offense."

His stride was assured and unhurried as if he knew the exact method and timing to gain what he wanted. Must be a powerful guy. "If you'll just step outside with me, I have some information I think you'll find interesting."

House eyed him before downing another bite of sausage and getting up. Damn of course he'd be distracted from the shiny car by something completely unrelated. "All of you, come up with theories for our racer; I want her filled with gratitude when I cure her."

Everyone watched silently as the door closed behind them. "Um, what just happened?" Taub asked.

"They wouldn't kidnap him, right?" Kutner asked.

While everyone was distracted, Amber looked at Eric, trying to read from his face if he knew what was going on.

"She's dehydrated," Foreman said. He didn't care if it sounded like he was dismissing Brennan's case. He was. "She overheated during the race. After she's been on fluids for a few hours, she'll be fine."

"Foreman, are you trying to convince me that a drag racer is boring? I should fire you."

Foreman rolled his eyes. "You can't. And if you want to run a dozen pointless tests on the girl who needs a few glasses of juice, you can. If you're interested in actual medicine--"

"Right! I pick the first one." House was about to needle him even further when the doors opened and a guy in a suit appeared, asking to speak with him privately.

Unimpressed, Foreman watched, eyebrows raised, as House got dragged out of the room by the guy in a suit. Frankly, Foreman didn't give a shit who he was or what he wanted with House. It suited him just fine to have House out of the way, even for a few minutes. "All right, if any of you have theories that are more interesting than dehydration, now's the time to come up with them," he said, ignoring their questions. He didn't have the answers, and they didn't matter. Speaking to House 'privately' meant private for the two minutes they'd be out of the room, and then House would come back in and shoot off his mouth just to prove he could. The candidates could have their curiosity satisfied then.

Ignoring their questions, he stood up and wrote the symptoms on the blackboard. Textbook heatstroke. "Come on, people, a few theories." Even if their ideas were completely untenable, it might help convince House to take on a real case.

"Hereditary brain disorder," Brennan suggested. At least he was involved in the damn case, and that would encourage the others to top him.

Foreman had dragged three (stupid) suggestions out of them by the time House came back in. House looked at the list Foreman had drawn on the board and sniffed. Foreman could feel the boredom radiating off him. Despite Foreman's best efforts, House knew it was heatstroke. He was about as intrigued as when Cuddy told him there were patients waiting for him in the clinic. "Right, I'll leave those tests to you guys then. Since I don't think even you could kill a patient with IV fluids." He started up the stairs. "See you after my secret invitation-only poker tournament. Foreman, you're in charge until I get back."

Foreman stared at House's back. It sounded like a backhanded compliment at best, but at least House was following the chain of command. Which, in this case, meant dumping him with a case that wasn't a case, while he ditched work again. With perfect confidence, he said, "I know," before House left the room, for the satisfaction of seeing House's annoyed look over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.

Eric must think that being a boss meant not communicating, because he ignored the questions-- Taub's and Kutner's explicit ones and the look she'd shot him-- as if he hadn't noticed them. Amber expected to be batted around by House, but Eric, she knew he knew better. A simple 'don't know, don't care,' would've been enough, or, 'House gets picked up by mysterious men all the time.' She didn't understand why he didn't say at least that.

He asked for alternative theories, but Amber sat back, watching the others throw out leaps of the imagination like fish desperately mouthing the water's surface for food up above. Even before Brennan came in with this wanna-be mystery Amber had written it off as heatstroke, but could she say so? No, because Eric already had. If she supported his diagnosis, she'd look like a thoughtless suck-up-- both to the other contestants and to Eric himself. Hands primly over her knees, Amber hid her impatience as she waited the farce of a diagnostics session to end.

A whole lot of good Eric's idea of finding patients had done. He'd complained of being bored and now they were demeaning themselves with first-year medicine.

When House returned, so did the silence; even Cole stopped tapping his foot to listen in. House's answer was about as unhelpful as Eric's lack of one, though; the only thing it proved was that he wasn't being taken by brute force.

Oh, well. It didn't matter. He was out of sight and Eric was wearing the crown, now. How much would her performance matter, under him? The results were pretty much a given, so no chance there of coming up with a brilliant idea and tell House later how smart she'd been. As for doing tests, no brownie points in that. In other words, there was nothing for her to do. This was worse than this morning; at least then she could read.

"Should we go run the tests?" Brennan asked. Yeah, he'd be the one excited to work this case.

Foreman immediately felt more settled, easier in his skin, once House was gone. If he was going to delegate his responsibilities, then Foreman could actually run this case, stupid as it was, with his own style. Give the candidates a taste of what a real department functioned like. He didn't doubt that they knew, but a refresher after a month of House's insanity could only be helpful. House's world might be a nice place to visit, but in the end, they all had to live with a few realities.

"I'll do the history with Brennan," he said. He wasn't about to have them run any tests if further investigation only showed that heatstroke was the right answer. An MRI to stay on the safe side would be a good plan, though. "The rest of you, follow up on the cases you brought. Even if we're not directly involved, we can offer a consult if necessary. We'll meet--" He glanced around the lecture theatre, which had always smelled vaguely like feet, and was way too much like a classroom for any truly professional work to get done. "In forty-five minutes, in the Diagnostics conference room." It wouldn't be the first time they'd worked there, but the change in atmosphere might help his authority, too. Foreman wasn't above trying any technique that had a chance of making him look good.

Amber nodded appreciatively at Eric’s instructions. In the past, when there were more doctors than tests to run, House had set them off to twirl their hair, waiting. It'd be good to do actual work and who knew, maybe once they'd proven it wasn't heatstroke, she'd have found out enough about Natalie-- the infant with a fever and rash-- to make a stronger argument in favor of her case.

She found Natalie's mother biting her nails down to the quick in the waiting room outside the ER. Her blonde hair was stringed together into clumps, which could've been because she was too busy taking care of her daughter to take care of herself, but given the hollow curve of her cheeks, Amber suspected it was more than just recent self-negligence. She was a young mother, barely twenty, and with a marriage on the rocks. Amber found a nurse and sent her to run exams to check for vitamin deficiency; if Natalie wasn't being fed right, that'd make her vulnerable to a whole host of problems.

With the promise that she'd be paged with the results of the exam, Amber felt light as she strode through the corridors, boosted by the confidence of having done something significant. Made her feel smart and good to think of something before anyone else had.

Her mood dampened, however, to come back to the Diagnostics department and find only Thirteen, reading yet another novel. Amber smiled cloyingly; faking niceness might still come in handy. "Hi."

Thirteen raised her eyebrows for a very long moment before replying with, "Hi-- but don't feel obligated to make small talk."

"No, not at all," Amber said, injecting sincerity into her voice. "I've felt very close to you since our last conversation. I hope you know that." Close in the way that she'd wanted to kick Thirteen for getting her to spill so much personal information; it was supposed to have been the other way round.

Thirteen snorted. "Sure."

Tough audience, as usual. Amber sat beside her, clasping her hands over the table. "No, really. It helped to talk to someone about-- you know." She wasn't going to humiliate herself again by going on about Eric-- even if her conversation with Thirteen had, in its own but infinitesimally way, helped. It’d made her less angry.

The edge of Thirteen's mouth quirked and it annoyed Amber. "I'm glad it's still working out between you two."

Of course she wasn't glad and it was none of her business. But Amber kept up the sugary sweetness. "Me too." Now was a good time to switch subjects; she'd have liked to start with 'are you gay, is that what you’re hiding?' or, 'tell me your weaknesses,' but that might be a little too abrupt, so Amber plugged on with the friendliness. "How's your case going?"

"He's old," Thirteen said with a tinge of irony.

“C’mon,” Amber scooted over, enough to just not get into Thirteen’s space. “I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours.” And so they discussed symptoms and the likelihood of Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease, Alzheimer’s, and Thyroid disorders. Not once did Thirteen try to check her out, which weakened the argument of her being gay—then again, talking about dementia wasn’t sexually appealing.

Amber managed to drag out the conversation long enough so that by the time it was her turn to talk about her patient, Kutner and Cole came back. Cole was quiet, but Kutner couldn’t stop talking, which meant she herself didn’t have to. Not that there was anything about Natalie that Amber couldn’t have shared with Thirteen; it was just the principle of the matter. She’d revealed enough about herself, for the level of confidence she’d received so far. If Thirteen wanted more, she’d have to start giving up herself.

The patient stared at him suspiciously when he arrived. Practically the first thing out of her mouth was, "Where's Dr. House?" After three years, though, Foreman was used to dealing with that, so he smiled tightly. "I'm Dr. Foreman, I work with Dr. House. He's not in today, but we'll be keeping in contact with him about your symptoms." From there, he ran through the standard history questions and watched Brennan carefully as he did the physical exam. Nothing was turning up, which was what he expected, but Foreman did know better than to leave things at what was expected. He'd already set up an appointment with the MRI, even if it did make him look cautious. Better to be cautious than to have another dead patient on his conscience.

The minute they left the room, Brennan was on him about the girl's deep tendon reflex. Foreman suppressed the desire to roll his eyes--a good supervisor doesn't show what he thinks of his subordinates' stupid suggestions--but he also shouldn't have to repeat himself that the reflex looked fine to him, and he was the one who counted. Brennan had a smarmy look on his face as if he knew better. He was going to run over Foreman's head the minute he could, Foreman could tell. They were all like that. They knew they didn't have to impress him, and so they didn't care about his opinion. Well, they'd just have to learn differently today. Foreman would treat them with as much respect as possible, but not when they were doing their best to get ahead at the expense of the medicine.

By the time they got back to Diagnostics, the others had already taken up their spots around the table. Foreman took the dry-erase marker from the tray under the whiteboard and stood at the head of the table. Brennan lurked in the background, doing his best impression of a pouty kid. "Our patient had a normal history and exam, and she's gone for a CT and MRI now. When we get the results back, I'll get in touch with House and let him know where we're at." They could trust him to follow the chain of command, but also, Foreman wanted them to know that there was no point in going behind his back; he was going to report in as soon as there was anything to report. He wasn't about to let himself get scooped. "In the meantime, is there anything we can do for the other patients?" If there was anything immediate they could offer, Foreman didn't mind farming out the complete excess of doctors he had around to those causes. As long as the departments the patients were in didn't mind the help, he had no problem providing it.

"Oncology is doing fine with my guy," Kutner said, apparently not perturbed by the fact that his case hadn't turned out as interestingly as he'd hoped. "They did another set of labs, and they think they have it under control."

Cole grimaced, but he was the next to come clean. "Tox screen came back on my patient," he said. "Looks like it was drug interactions. Ecstasy and alcohol."

"Great." Foreman turned to the others. He wanted them to feel like they could bring interesting cases to the table, but that it wasn't the end of the world if a patient could actually be cured.

"My guy probably has depression, so I sent him off for a psych consult," Taub said.

Amber tapped her thumb against the glass table. She'd been proud of what she'd done, but now it seemed everyone had more or less gone through the same steps-- listened to the patient history and herded them towards the appropriate department. Not at all impressive. The hospital didn't need a specialized wing for this.

She didn't seem to be the only bored one. Cole listened diligently as if it were a moral duty, and Kutner seemed genuinely intrigued, but Thirteen had long ago tuned out and started staring at the window. Taub seemed to stay awake only by the power of his hand supporting his chin and Brennan kept fidgeting like he was waiting for the chance to jump up-- either he was disappointed his case really did lack substance or he had to go to the bathroom.

Having them find their own mini-cases and follow up on them individually was efficient, Amber did grant that much. But it wasn't as... exciting as having a real challenge under House. It was like clinic duty with fewer patients and a more dignified title.

Still, if they were going through this, Amber would do her part and do it well. Having heard everyone's case so far, including Thirteen's, she straightened out her shoulders and raised her chin to speak with full clarity and certainty. "My patient is probably suffering from malnutrition, so I'm running the tests for that. I'm sure the results will help me narrow down what she has."

Looking straight at Eric as she delivered her report, a part of Amber wanted to smile-- it was so strange negotiating her personal feelings and professional stance.

A moment of silence followed with everyone glancing at Thirteen expectantly. "Oh, is it my turn?" She asked. "I--"

A phone call came in. "Dr. Foreman?" A voice Amber did not recognize asked. "Your patient just had a seizure, in the MRI."

"Still think the weakened reflex means nothing?" Brennan asked.

Foreman let out a breath as the candidates described their cases, keeping his face neutral even when part of him wanted to grin at Amber's proud head-tilt when she described the steps she'd taken. Like he'd thought, her patient was the most interesting of the bunch, even if that didn't mean much when they were all reasonably straight-forward. When the phone rang, Foreman flipped it on speakerphone, expecting House to call and either mock them, or--well, mocking them seemed like his most likely course of action. As soon as the MRI technician answered, though, and said the word seizure, Foreman picked up the receiver and demanded, "Any other changes?"

"Yes, she has a vertical nystagmus."

"Okay. When she's stable, get her back to her room. Thanks." Foreman hung up the phone, and stared Brennan down. "I think it was a good idea that I ordered the MRI to be certain. Now that we have something to go on, we can work with that." He wrote 'nystagmus' on the board under seizure, and for Brennan's sake, he added the areflexia, careful not to smear the writing with the heel of his hand as he did. These people thought in terms that the sicker the patient was, the better. They'd be better doctors if they waited for the facts instead of chasing down unnecessary diagnoses. Foreman turned around to ask for suggestions. He was still miffed with himself that he'd dismissed something that had turned out to be serious, but he hadn't discharged her before getting some test results; he was learning, too. He didn't have to tell them that, though.

Areflexia-- since when did the patient have a weakened reflex, why hadn't Eric mentioned that?-- and vertical nystagmus? The areflexia was strange, given that she'd just completed a race before the first seizure, but it could be the progression of a disease. This could get really serious—where was House? Before it hadn't mattered if he'd left, but now they might need him.

Amber was still trying to piece together what causes of areflexia would also bring seizures and nystagmus when Thirteen piped up, "How about Miller-Fisher?"

That was a good idea and it certainly explained the rapid progression of the patient’s (Amber wish she’d remembered her name) condition, even if it seemed too fast. Why hadn't Amber thought of it? What wasn't hers she had to tear down. "They said weakened reflex, not missing. And seizures aren’t one of the main symptoms." Thirteen shot her a sharp look, but this wasn’t holding-hands time; it was war.

She'd hoped that while speaking to think of a better explanation-- without that, Thirteen's suggestion would win out-- but nothing came to her. And then Kutner spoke up, "I'm with the Miller-Fisher school of thought. It fits with her loss of senses before the first seizure."

Thirteen was apparently capable of coming out of her daydream when the case had something interesting to recommend it. Her idea fit, but Foreman nodded at Amber--every theory needed to be tested against what they knew, not just assumed to be true. "Sounds likely," he said, when Kutner had spoken. "We'll need to start her on plasmapheresis." He pointed to Kutner and Thirteen. "You can go explain that to her and get it set up." To Taub, Cole, and Amber, he said, "Start testing her for it. If you want to look for any unusual levels while you're at it, go ahead. Brennan, since you already know her father, try to get more of a history, see if there's anything else we haven't heard about. I'm going to update House."

Delegating wasn't actually that hard. Congratulating himself, Foreman took one last look at the whiteboard before heading into House's office. He sat behind the desk and picked up the phone, trying House's cell. After a few rings, he was switched over to House's voicemail. Of course. Foreman rolled his eyes, but he gave a quick summary of what they'd found and what they were doing, and then let the receiver fall into the cradle.

Eric went with Thirteen's imperfect idea, but that was her fault, for failing to pitch a better one. It was also a lot of doctors to send off; testing meant a lumbar puncture and/or a nerve conduction study, both of which needed the patient to be in the room when it happened, as did the family history and the plasmapheresis. But it was also a good strategy: Amber was definitely included in the action without seeming to have been singled out by her maybe-boyfriend. And as long as Amber was present, she could bully the others into letting her do what she wanted and how she wanted it.

Everyone rose simultaneously and filed out towards the same direction like a pack of animals. "We'll need a lumbar puncture and a NCS," Amber said.

"Seriously?" Cole asked. "We should do only a NCS, it's not as invasive as a lumbar puncture."

"And it's not conclusive, so we'll need the CFS analysis to confirm," Amber argued.

But, as it turned out, neither would happen.

While Taub and Cole went off to book the NCS, Amber waited by the patient's room, ready to take her once Kutner and Thirteen had explained what was going to happen next. On the way over Amber picked up a copy of the case file; Casey Alfonso was her name but that and a few irrelevant history facts aside, there was no new information.

Amber looked up from her reading and saw through the glass wall that Casey was yelling, face very obviously red even from this distance. That couldn't be good. Amber crossed her arms, ready to judge and admonish Kutner and Thirteen as they walked out. "What did you do?"

"What did we do?" Kutner asked angrily. "You mean what did Foreman do. She kept saying he'd insisted it was heatstroke and now she won't believe anything we say."

Jaw fallen, Amber looked over to Thirteen; she nodded in confirmation. "She wants House," she said grimly.

"Well, we don't have House!" Amber said. This was so unprofessional, their top-billing doctor out of commission and the other one freaking their patient out. How were they supposed to get anything done if their supposed boss messed everything up? God, how embarrassing, she’d expected better of Eric.

"Yeah, we noticed," Kutner said.

"I'll talk to E-- Foreman," Amber decided; if he’d caused this wrong then he'd fix it. He could apologize or something. It wasn't until she'd spoken, though, and that the other two gave her meaningful looks that she realized how it sounded. "What, just because I'm sleeping with him I can't talk to him?"

Thirteen's smirk was infuriating. "I didn't say anything."

Between the annoyance that the patient wouldn't budge and being caught tangling her personal life with work, Amber stormed into the Diagnostics office. There Eric was, looking so calm and content like everything was running according to plan. Hah. "She's refusing treatment and tests," Amber snapped. "Because you told her it was definitely heatstroke and now she won't believe anything we say. She wants House.”

Foreman probably should have spent any time he gained by having the candidates do the busy work by catching up on House's paperwork and organizing the bureaucratic nightmare that Diagnostics had become. Instead, he turned on House's computer and started researching. As long as he was in charge, he'd have to prove that he deserved it. The fellows would never believe it, no matter that he'd been doing the job they were all hoping to get hired for since he'd gotten out of his residency. That meant any suggestion they came up with, he had to be on top of. Foreman tested himself, trying to come up with ideas that fit the symptoms along with ones that didn't, so that he could shoot wrong ideas down and praise the worthwhile ones, all while appearing to have the information at his fingertips. When he'd had his own team, he'd worked too hard on teaching. With this group, he didn't feel the need to do that. Putting them in their place was more important to start. Once they respected him, he could let them get the best of him occasionally without worrying that he'd lose any consideration from them through one doubtful move.

He turned when Amber stalked into the office like a vengeful spirit. "What's up? New symptom?" he asked, dropping some of his formality since Amber was alone.

It was worse than he'd thought. A new symptom, he'd been prepared for. Non-compliance--maybe he should have seen that coming, too. Foreman slumped back in House's chair. "I told her it was most likely heatstroke," he said. "Now we know it isn't. Thirteen and Kutner were supposed to explain that." He'd always had the job before of convincing patients that whatever treatment House ordered, even if it was the fifth wrong one in as many hours, was definitely the right one at that moment. If Thirteen and Kutner couldn't manage that, it was on them to learn. This wasn't his fault.

"They did explain-- and then she had a screaming fit." Amber had seen that much; she hadn't heard the conversation but she'd witnessed Kutner and Thirteen talk to patients enough to assume they hadn't been unreasonable. Then again, she couldn't be sure. Why hadn't she herself gone in to do the explaining? It wasn't as if she usually trusted the others. Oh, that's right, because Eric didn't delegate that task to her. She should've ignored his orders and marched straight into Casey's room.

Amber blew out a puff of air, half-sighing and crossing her arms. Wherever the blame laid-- and part of it was partially on Eric, for not having talked to the patient well in the first round or for delegating badly-- the damage had been done and needed to be fixed. They couldn't just let Casey lie there and ignore her problem, not when her symptoms had worsened so quickly. "Anyway, she's adamant about not wanting us near her. We won't be able to do any tests or start the plasmapheresis as long as she's like this."

She eyed the phone on the desk. "Have you talked to House yet? We could get him to come back or talk to her over the phone. While Amber didn't like running to the nearest parent figure crying for help, now that the case was serious they might really need him, more for his brain than his gentle bedside manner. Plus, now that this had become a real case, he ought to be around to evaluate their performances.

Foreman frowned, resting his elbows on the desk and staring down at his fists before he looked up at Amber. "He's not answering his phone. Which is typical. When he doesn't want to be reached, he doesn't make it easy." He shook his head and pushed to his feet. The others weren't in the conference room. Apparently Amber had decided to talk to him on her own, and he wondered if the others knew, and what they thought about that. Amber seemed frustrated, but not at him. That was a good sign.

"We still need to do it, whether she wants us near her or not." He twisted his lips, thinking through what he'd said to Casey before. House wasn't going to swoop in and rescue them. They were on their own, whether the candidates realized it yet or not. House didn't care. He never did. Their patient--she didn't know that. She wanted a doctor who was right, but maybe all she needed to hear was that she had a doctor who cared; the fact that they were probably right followed from that. "Come on," he said. "We've got to convince her."

"Seriously?" Amber pulled out her cell phone and speed dialed; soon there was the soft purr against her ear but no one picked up, not even after three, four, ten rings. She tucked her phone back into her lab coat pocket, worried. "Do you think he's at home? I could go and drag him back here." She smirked. "Or if there's a nearby bar that's open in the morning, I could check there." That option seemed far more likely. Though there was that guy to take into consideration-- who was he and where had he taken House? For all they knew, he was still on hospital grounds.

She was distracted from her thoughts of seeking House out when Eric proposed a far more efficient plan. Amber grinned, eager to do something. Who knew, maybe by the time they'd convinced Casey, got her on the drugs, and ran the tests, House would return to smooth sailing. She very much liked the idea of telling House that she had been vital in getting Casey to cooperate. "I'm with you," she said and led the way, pushing the hallway door open. Amber tried not to think about how this is what she should’ve done when Kutner and Thirteen came up to her in defeat, instead of taking the excuse to rant at Eric. Better late than never.

"There's no point if he doesn't want to be found." Foreman stared at Amber, exasperated, as she immediately took out her phone and dialed House. "If he doesn't want to hear from me, I doubt he wants to hear from any of us," he said. Whether or not House resented having him around, he'd left Foreman in charge. That meant, at the very least, that he'd resent being interrupted, whether he was at a high-stakes poker game, getting himself drunk, or flying a black ops mission with the Green Berets. He wasn't taking calls. Foreman resented the fact that Amber didn't believe that--didn't believe him. Anyway, wasn't he good enough? He'd determined a path of action and as far as they knew it was the right one. Did she think that if House came in he'd sweet-talk the patient into agreeing? He was more likely to call them all incompetent and send them back in to make her have the tests and get the treatments, by tricking her if necessary.

Foreman followed Amber out into the hall, thinking about that. Tricking her wouldn't work, when she knew that they wanted to test her and treat her; telling her it was for something different when all he'd prescribed for the heatstroke was fluids wouldn't work. "I'm not going to handle this like House," he said. The candidates would get to know that. But Foreman wanted Amber to know it. She seemed to worship the ground House walked on even when he wasn't there to walk on it. Foreman respected her work; so far, he hadn't seen much evidence that she even believed he knew what he was doing. Sure, she'd done what he asked, but she acted like it had been a terrible imposition. Apologizing for that later helped, but he still didn't feel like she was obeying him because he was in charge. She was doing it to pass the time until House miraculously turned up.

"No offense, Eric, but I don't think he likes you very much. He might be happier hearing from one of us." Not herself, Amber noted ruefully. Thirteen, maybe. But she wouldn't push her into House’s arms-- not until the patient reached critical status, anyway.

But since House was out of reach, working together to treat Casey was the next best thing. Eric had screwed up with her in the first round, raising her expectations high for the diagnosis they hadn't confirmed, and if he’d messed up once he could easily do it again. But because he had misled Casey, he might be the only one to get her to listen again.

His comment surprised her. "I didn't think you would." What would House do, anyway? Come up with a better diagnosis than Miller-Fisher, to start with. Then he'd insult the patient copiously, both to her face and not. Eric hadn't done the former and the latter was not his style, as far as Amber knew. When they’d worked with the Mirror Syndrome patient, Eric had made a point of being polite, even when he’d gone on his rants complaining about the quality of the medical attention, mimicking Amber. Huh. Now there was food for thought. When she made her own complaints and Eric listened patiently, was he humoring her in the same way? "And the patient-cruelty tactic works only with House."

The elevator was straight ahead, but Amber turned, going for the stairwell. It'd be faster. "You should apologize to her, tell her you were wrong."

Frustration was starting to build up. Amber dismissed what he was trying to tell her. Not only that Foreman had different methods, but that his might actually have some merit, no matter what she thought about how good House was. "Being cruel to the patient shouldn't work for anybody," he said, following her into the stairwell. House might make it work, but only because Cuddy was willing to fund his legal fees when he pissed somebody off. House didn't know about or care about half the malpractice suits filed against him. Most of them were settled before they got far, since House's methods proved to be "necessary" to save his patients' lives. But Foreman didn't believe that. It could be done without pissing people off, and he planned to show that.

"I know," he said shortly, irked by Amber's advice. He'd meant to apologize, and he would. He'd be sincere about it, too. But that didn't mean he enjoyed being in the wrong, or having to admit it. If Amber was in his position, she wouldn't be so blithe about tossing off an I'm wrong and I'm sorry.

When they came out on the ground floor, Foreman headed for Casey's room, finding Thirteen and Kutner huddled around the nurses' station with Taub, all of them apparently waiting for him to show up. It felt like they were all waiting for him to fix his mess. Not exactly a great feeling. Foreman wanted them to show initiative, although he knew he would've been pissed off if they'd tried to usurp his authority, too. Not their fault, he reminded himself. Humbling himself didn't come easily, but when it was true, and necessary, he'd do what he had to. "Where's Brennan?" he asked.

"In there," Kutner said. "She didn't seem to mind him."

Great. Foreman exhaled, getting control of himself. "Fine," he said. "I'll go and talk to her."

"It shouldn't," Amber conceded, "But it does for House." Should and shouldn't didn't matter as long as it came to results. Amber herself had never tried... much intentional cruelty towards patients, but that was because up until now she'd have been fired if she hadn't given them golden treatment. Were those standards also different under House? Might be interesting to try and find out. If it yielded good results, House would be pleased.

Quickly Amber went up the stairs, hand along the railing. Their footsteps and voices echoed. "Good," she replied. They were on the same page. Amber loved it when that happened, it meant they'd definitely follow her way. And if Eric was going to be the good guy, apologizing and admitting to faults, she could play the bad cop, if they needed her to.

Amber couldn't tell if her wanna-be colleagues looked at her more with contempt or relief. Whichever way didn't matter, of course. She didn't care what they thought. She loved her job and that's all she needed-- and now she had Eric, too.

Following him-- he had said "we"-- Amber tried to walk with confidence and poise. First impressions mattered. Sliding the glass door open, she saw that Casey was lying down in a small mound of pillows, covered in sweat and her hair wet at the roots. Face to Brennan, her expression was tired, a layer of wariness coming over her when she spotted Eric. Amber nodded at Casey and at her father. "Hello, I'm Dr. Volakis and this--"

"I remember him," Casey said coldly. “That’s Mr. Know It All.”

Foreman didn't think much of Brennan insinuating himself with the family, so that he could take credit for picking out a symptom. He'd get credit, of course, when House came back, but if Brennan worked to convince the family that he was the only doctor they could trust, then the team's efforts would have to run through him at every point. Great for him, playing the game. Not so great for Foreman, or for actually getting anything done for the patient. He couldn't say anything, though, until he could get Brennan out of the patient's room. And that wasn't why he was here now.

He bridled at Casey's description of him. He knew more than she did; he was the doctor. Tone it down, he thought. He hated that it was part of a script that he'd learned from Wilson, but it did work. He took the doctor's stool from the corner and sat down at Casey's bedside, facing her and her father equally, keeping his shoulders relaxed. Amber was standing behind him, and it felt like she was waiting with bated breath for him to humiliate himself too. Maybe he was wrong. But Christ, did she have to follow him in here and watch him when he was at his worst? He would have liked to keep up the facade that he knew what the hell he was doing, for her at least. That wasn't likely either, since they worked together, unless he thought he could be right all the time. Dammit, why couldn't it have been heatstroke?

"I understand why you don't want us treating you," he said. "And that's my fault. A doctor's not supposed to admit when he's wrong, but that's what I'm doing. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dismissed what you were telling me. But I need you to know, you're still in very serious condition. We think we know what's happening, and it could be very dangerous if you don't let us confirm it. We need to start plasmapheresis and do the tests to make sure it's Miller-Fisher."

Amber hung back, letting Eric do what he'd promised he would. The fear flashed through her that presence was extraneous and maybe even damaging: the person who'd made Casey lose her trust was here, trying to regain her confidence, and Brennan was an-already friendly face that could encourage her to accept their opinions. Amber clasped her hands behind her back, chin still up high. Right now she was useless, but it'd be worse to turn her back and in a moment might have what to do. So Amber watched quietly and closely.

It was a good apology. Eric lowered himself to be at the same level as Casey-- an important psychological trick-- and clearly admitted to fault. His words did risk facilitating a malpractice suit, especially with the father as a witness, but they'd handle that as it came. For now the important thing was to get Casey better, and for that they had to get her to cooperate.

Casey slowly turned her head right and left while Eric spoke; was she having difficulty concentrating? Her hands clenched and let go of the sheets repeatedly and, from the movements on the other side of the bed, she kept flexing her toes. Was she in pain? Amber hid a frown; once Casey consented to be treated once more, she’d be asking questions.

"What do you know, Mr. Know It All," Casey muttered, her eyelids drooping.

"Case? Hon, are you okay?" The father asked nervously. Okay, if he thought she was acting funny, then it was a pretty good sign that something was wrong.

"It's Mr. Know It All," Case said, voice so low it was hard to make out.

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