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amber_v) wrote in
alwaysright2010-01-05 05:33 pm
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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.
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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"Yeah, it's not as if you haven't been wrong today," Brennan said. Amber transferred her do-not-mess-with-me gaze to him-- what was he so smug about? Disagreeing was the point of a differential, but he didn't need to gloat. Not over her Eric. Was this what Eric meant about Brennan not working with the team? Brennan shrank back like a scolded child.
But the cold bucket Amber threw over Brennan did not seem to affect the rest of the group. "I think what they're trying to say," Cole jumped in, "is that none of us can be a hundred percent sure. We should check before we put her through more treatments that don’t apply to her."
"Yeah, if we go with the wrong treatment, we could make the real problem worse," Kutner said. He mimed some thing with his hands that looked like flames, though who the hell knew what that was supposed to mean.
"And running some tests won't hurt her," Thirteen said.
Taub didn't say anything, but he was nodding along. Amber almost felt bad for Eric, it was all of them against him-- maybe this was why he'd asked for support. But this job wasn't about playing nice, it was about results. Eric could ask for respect, and of course Amber did-- wouldn't have gone anywhere near him if she didn't. But she wouldn't trust his opinion blindly, either.
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"Yeah, a little more concerned with that than you seem to be," Brennan sniped.
Foreman glared at him, and thank Christ Amber was too, otherwise he'd think that she was interested in leading this fucking mutiny. "This isn't about winning," he said. "This is about not killing a girl because you think you're good enough not to think about how she's holding up through whatever treatment you want to throw at her."
Dammit. His own words, meant for them, reminded him of exactly how precarious his own position was. He didn't want to treat without confirmation. He wasn't House. He wasn't going to jump in without more evidence than an inconclusive MRI and a few symptoms that pointed in the right direction. Casey's fever was under control with the anti-pyretics and unless something else happened, she was stable for now. The MS test would take three hours. He could stand to wait that long. "Fine," he said, annoyed but trying to hide it. "Run the tests. You've got three hours."
Maybe he should take a minute to apologize to Amber. But he'd already spent more of today apologizing than he'd ever wanted to, and he hadn't meant his words for her in the first place. Just because she assumed he'd insult her like that, right after he'd directly asked for her help and her input, was no reason he should assume the blame. He wasn't going to go running to her and beg for forgiveness every time she took a slight from something he said. Foreman let them all go off and chase down whatever harebrained ideas they wanted, and retreated back into House's office. At least he could sit in here and try to think things through without the candidates breathing down his neck.
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Fortunately, he realized that on his own. Amber nodded, acknowledging his order or permission or however he saw it; it was the least he could do, as a conscientious doctor. If he'd turned his shoulder on all of them and gone ahead with the MS treatment, Amber would've appealed to Cuddy. She was glad she didn't have to-- less hassle for both of them.
The room filled with the noise of chairs scraping against carpet and rustling folders. The others were forming groups, but Amber didn't care; she already knew her partner. "Ready, little guy?"
Taub followed, his hands in his pockets. "Flirting? And here I thought you were taken."
They were on their way out, passing through the glass doorway. Amber glanced back, suddenly and intensely reminded that she was taken. Eric look so despondent, too, like he’d found out the world was ending in five minutes and he could make one last phone call. Being so wrong was his own fault, but she smiled softly before remembering where she was. "Maybe when you’re the sub-chief of some department,” Amber said, by way of hiding her lapse in vulnerability. “For now, let’s keep it professional.”
Taub just snorted and they were on their way.
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What was left after that? In all the years since he'd gotten out and managed to scrape his way into college despite his terrible sophomore year of high school, Foreman had never once had the ambition to be mid-level management. He was a doctor. He'd put in his hours, he'd suffered working with House for three years. Was that all there was? The best he could hope for? While year in and year out House's new fellows distinguished themselves and went on to better things. Even Cameron was running a department now, although it was just the ER and all that took was a strong stomach and some organizational skills. That wasn't the real work, as far as Foreman was concerned. Any first responder could run a triage. But if he wasn't cut out for the work that mattered, then that's where he'd end up. Like Cameron or Chase. They weren't even working in their specialties. Foreman had never asked, but he wondered if they thought their jobs were just temporary, just paying the bills. That wasn't good enough for him.
Foreman thought he could be happy here, as long as he was doing diagnostics work. It didn't feel like that now. For now, the candidates were still listening to him, but only because he'd given them permission to do what they probably would have snuck behind his back to do if he hadn't. It was all a fucking illusion, and he hated that.
Well, at least they weren't likely to screw up a few simple tests. Foreman plowed through more administrivia to get through the three hours of waiting. This time he wouldn't be late and he wouldn't be distracted, and all he could hope was that the tests would validate him for once.
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And then she went ahead and did so. Amazing how simply going and doing what you wanted instead of waiting for permission worked. Any one of them could’ve done the same thing, or contested her going first, but they didn’t, so she won. “If I’d known being on your side was so convenient, I’d have done it before,” Taub said. Amber grinned. She knew how it worked—allies for as long as their goals were the same. She was okay with that.
Casey was still delirious and thrashing in violent protest at anyone who tried to go near; not even with her father there to cajole her did she stay still; Amber had no idea how Cole would get a lumbar puncture like this. Fortunately, that wasn’t her task.
As long as they had access to Casey, they quickly examined her body for other symptoms: a few rashes, which supported their lupus theory—and the heatstroke one, but that was no longer a possibility. That done, Amber had to bully her way into getting access to the labs to run the ANA test—which wasn’t that hard. Wielding House’s name as a weapon worked satisfyingly well.
Amber’s mind wandered as she prepared the slides. They could be running other tests right now. Urine exams, allergy tests, STD panels—Amber blushed, suddenly remembered something very important. Oh, geez, it hadn’t even really occurred to her, not once after she and Eric suffered an attack of stupid and had unprotected sex. She wasn’t worried about pregnancy; the levonorgestrel would do its work and she’d get her period on Tuesday (or a few days after that-- she wouldn't panic if it was a bit late, that was one of the med’s side-effects). But as for getting them tested, she... trusted Eric so much she'd forgotten? They still had to do that, though, just to be sure. She’d raise the subject with him after work.
At the end of three hours and as much blood analysis that could fit in that window, they returned to the conference room. Thirteen and Cole were there already, glum. Hah, didn’t need to ask them how wrong their theories were. Amber looked towards Eric, holding out the printed sheets, eager to show him—and the others—the results.
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Kutner came in practically on Amber and Taub's heels, and Brennan slunk in behind him. Foreman snatched the results from Kutner's hands the minute he stepped into the conference room waving them around triumphantly. They'd already disproven Thirteen's and Cole's diagnoses--not hard; amyloidosis and meningitis had been long shots to start with. Foreman nearly breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the protein and glucose levels. Together with Casey's MRI, they pointed straight to MS, which was all he needed to know. "Thanks," he told Kutner tightly, although the clench in his gut had relaxed. Now it didn't matter what Amber had found, because he had all the proof he needed. "Protein 65, glucose 70. It's MS. Start her on interferon."
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He wouldn't even take the exam results she held out. Amber's expression hardened, cold like an ice statue. She brought the papers back to her chest. Who did he think he was? Did he think that if he simply didn't hear her he could ignore the evidence she'd collected?
Apparently so; he heard only the facts he liked and then discarded the rest. But she wouldn’t let him get away with leaving her silent. "No," Amber enunciated, voice cool and sharp. "Sed rate's 95, ANA's weakly positive. That means lupus."
Would Eric dismiss the test just because it went against his precious theory? If he did... she'd lose respect for him. Wanting to be smart and perfect was one thing, but spitting on numbers was another. Amber could forgive passion but not willful blindness.
"We could treat for both," Taub piped up. "Unless you two are fighting about something besides the patient. In which case I’m sure your personal lives are far more important.”
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He might have explained that, if Taub hadn't spoken up. Kutner let out a strangled laugh, like he'd tried to swallow his mirth and choked on it. Thirteen was smiling, and Brennan had let his insubordinate smirk come out in full force. Foreman ground his teeth together, anger slamming through him and setting his shoulders straight and tense. He glowered at Taub for his damn sarcastic crack that wasn't helping. He'd always known working with Amber would come back to bite them in the ass. He hated that it had to be like this, the very first time they'd really worked a case together and had opposing ideas. "We're not treating the patient for both because they're two completely different diseases," he snapped. "We did the tests, the results fit MS. Start her on interferon."
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Taub's jab made a fool of her, but even so, the recriminating glance Amber shot him was mild. The emphasis of the joke fell on Eric, who was letting a personal grudge-- what had she even done, besides acknowledge that House was a genius and that they probably needed his help-- cloud his judgment. "Again," Amber said dryly, "why? The results for MS aren't any more conclusive than for lupus." None of her anger came through her voice, but that was because she wasn't feeling it yet; it was still too far away, as if it belonged to someone else. The important thing was to keep her calm and argue her case logically and rationally.
"They're different diseases, yeah," Kutner offered, smiling impishly. Maybe he wasn't such a terrible waste of space after all. "But the treatments wouldn't conflict with each other. No reason not to run them at the same time."
"It's just not practical, though," Thirteen argued, winning herself a spot at the bottom of Amber’s list-- right above Eric. But the only new thing about there was that Thirteen wasn't dead last anymore. "What are we going to tell her father? That we have no idea and so we're throwing everything and the kitchen sink into her? And if she got better, how would we know which treatment worked?"
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"And you think you're right," Brennan said. "Again. After you were wrong twice before."
Foreman slapped the test results down on the conference table. Brennan's weaselly face was the perfect target for his anger. He was getting closer and closer to kicking Brennan out of his differential sessions. "It doesn't matter," he said. "If I'm wrong and the interferon's not effective, lupus is slow enough that we'll have time to switch. Meanwhile, we can get better information, do more tests. Keep an eye on her kidney function. Now, if we're finished arguing, I'll go tell them myself." That would prevent them from doing an end-run around his treatment decision. At this rate, he wouldn't put it past them to hang a banana bag instead of interferon, just to spite him. Foreman stared around the room and then pulled the door open, heading for the elevators.
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Amber thought of how good and dear she felt whenever Eric held her; his deep, tender gaze just before kissing her—and none of it meant anything if when it mattered, when actual human beings were on the line, he went and stepped over her. Ignored her like she was bothersome droning just because she didn’t fall all over him going ‘yes, sir,’ ‘of course, sir.’ God. God. She was sleeping with an asshole. No, not just sleeping with—
Her fury finally burst through, raging through her veins, and she couldn’t even fucking do anything, not even close her eyes, because then everyone would see the extent of her weakness and no way. No way.
“What?” Amber asked testily. It looked like pity, that gentle expression on Cole’s face.
“I guess that puts to rest the idea you were with him to get your way,” Kutner said cheerfully and, after Amber tried to glare him to death, amended, “Not that I thought that.”
Did they have nothing better to do than fuss over her love life? She did. Shelving whatever thoughts she’d need to have about dating a guy whose ego came first, Amber turned to Taub. “You still think it’s lupus?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, sure, but—“
“Then I’ll talk to you in a couple of hours.” That ought to be time enough for Eric to talk with Casey’s father, and Casey herself if she was no longer delirious, and to start the interferon. What Amber was thinking wasn’t fair to Eric, and she knew it; it definitely went against his request to be more supportive. But she’d stoop to this level only because he’d been even more unfair. Casey mattered more than Eric’s pride and, on a less altruistic note, House’s opinion won out. He’d approve of her sticking to her guns.
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Appeasing Amber probably wouldn't work. Foreman tipped his head back against the wall, feeling so exhausted from fighting every inch of the way that it was the only thing holding him up. She'd thought she had the answer, and if his test results hadn't been just as strong as hers--and the treatment less likely to harm Casey in the long run--then he'd have to concede he'd been wrong again. He would have. He was strong enough to give in when he was wrong. Hadn't he shown that enough today? But Amber hated being wrong just as much as he did. And when he'd asked for her support...it had come out more like demanding, because of how pissed off he'd been. He sighed. If she could just understand what he was going through, she wouldn't blame him for making the tough choices.
Foreman picked out his phone and sent her a quick message--cafeteria? He was hungry, so she must be. It felt like they'd been at this all day already, and they might as well eat while they could. The cafeteria wasn't exactly private, but they could get a booth and try to talk to each other as well as get a meal. Foreman headed in that direction. Whether she agreed to join him or not, he wasn't going to forgo lunch, or whatever meal time it was by now, in case he had to skip eating later.
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A beep rang out, disturbing her peace. Amber grabbed her cell phone; maybe House had sent a message explaining where he was and when he'd be back? But a frown crossed her face when she saw the actual sender: Eric. Was he determined to get in her way in everything she did today? First this morning, when he kept interrupting her reading and dictating her actions, then in her approach to treating Casey, and now with her simple break.
She didn't want to see him. Not one bit—not on a professional level and much less on a personal one. Just thinking of him, blood rushed to Amber's face; oh, if he were here now, she'd tell him a thing or two about just how much of an irresponsible prick he was being. And she would tell him-- after she'd treated Casey for lupus. Any earlier and she might give herself away. And no way did she want to hear his point of view; didn't want to go anywhere near sympathizing. Amber couldn't forgive him.
So she texted him back, "can't," and went back inside, pulling Taub aside. "Want to impress House?" she asked.
"I'm listening."
"We stand up for what we believe in and treat Casey for lupus."
He looked around as if trying to find someone. "Didn't Foreman just put her on interferon?"
"Yeah, so what?"
Taub's eyebrows shot up. "So I'm not putting our patient on a conflicting treatment just to mess with him."
"Fine," Amber said hotly before she could stop herself. "Be a coward." She didn't need him-- Taub or Eric or anyone. She was enough. Always had been, would keep on being.
Eric must be getting lunch now; there wouldn't be a better moment, with him definitely gone from the area. Amber strode out of the conference room, headed straight for Casey.
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All right. So there was no reason to think that just because they liked each other outside of the hospital that there was any love lost between them over patient welfare. But Foreman didn't know if he could live with that kind of whiplash. Would Amber turn to him after Casey was cured with the same gentle smile she'd had when she'd kissed him on Sunday, before they'd finally dragged themselves out of bed after their slow, tender morning? How could he accept it if she did? And worse--Amber might drag her resentment home. Take it out on him personally because he hadn't given in professionally. They wouldn't last long that way. Simple law of averages--Foreman was only likely to agree with Amber one in four times; the other candidates would come up with something just as good the other three-quarters of the time.
He grabbed a packaged sandwich and a bottled drink in the cafeteria, not even bothering to wait for something cooked, and paid for it quickly. It was later than the lunch rush; this morning had dragged on. Foreman found a table and hunched over his food, eating it without tasting it. He wasn't going to favour Amber when he didn't agree with her. She'd been so quick this morning to keep things professional. He wasn't going to do any less. It wasn't fair of her to expect that.
Fuming bitterly, Foreman crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the garbage. A quick check of his watch showed it had been barely forty minutes since he'd started the interferon. Not enough time for Casey to have shown any change. In another hour or so, he'd go to Casey's room and run the physical exam himself, so that he'd know exactly what kind of difference there was. In the meantime, he didn't feel like moving, or working. He might as well stay where he was.
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"We think it may be something else," Amber explained gently. "And the fastest way to find out is to treat for both." Casey wasn't so tired that she didn't wrinkle her face skeptically, but when she heard how serious a disease lupus was and that the steroids would not put her at risk, she consented. As Amber prepared the steroids, smiling reassuringly at Casey, she reflected on just how far the truth could get you. Eric couldn't complain, not when she'd gotten Casey's permission. If he didn't like it, he could deal; it wasn't his health.
Still. Amber knew there'd be consequences. As long as she'd been busy talking to Casey, she'd managed to push those thoughts out of her mind, but now that she had a free moment, they crowded in. He wouldn't forgive her. How could he? She'd gone behind his back. What would impress House would be a blow to Eric's dignity. But it wasn't as if she was going to forgive him, either, for being a short-sighted and self-centered asshole. She'd been the slighted one. She'd done what she had to, in spite of his crappy attitude.
What that meant for their relationship—if they weren’t meant to be, then they weren’t meant to be. It sucked and it’d probably hurt when she wasn’t running on sheer angry, but Amber wouldn’t stay with a guy who expected her to be a pretty and curvaceous echo of his opinion.
To avoid Eric in the cafeteria, Amber went to the rec room and made do with a peanut butter sandwich as well as a generous serving of stale coffee. Stomach tight with the anticipation of waiting for Casey's reaction, Amber did not eat well or happily. With nowhere else to be, Amber then sat primly on the couch and flipped through the idiotic programs on tv, unable to stay on any one channel for more than five minutes; unable to focus on anything else.
How was Casey doing? Amber wondered. By then she may have reacted to the interferon and the steroids; Amber could check up on her. In fact, she would. Time to go back to Casey's room.
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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.
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Walking to him, one calm step at a time, Amber knew that her showing up would be the trigger to a bomb. Suddenly, she hoped she looked good. It'd been hours since she'd last checked-- arguing and testing and treating didn't leave much space for primping in the mirror. For a fight Amber did like to look her best-- but she could've torn Eric down even if she were a muddied mess.
Coolly, Amber crossed her arms. They were right in front of Casey's room; they couldn't bicker here. At least, not obviously. "How is she?" Amber's gaze flicked quickly to Casey herself-- maybe Eric was actually angry because her condition had taken a nosedive. But, no, Casey waved, smiling briefly. She seemed happier than earlier; she must've gotten good news. One of the treatments must've worked. Amber waved back before returning her attention to Eric. “She looks well.” God, and to think that just forty-eight hours ago, they’d been—it didn’t matter. Her professional life always came first. It had to. It was who she was and no amount of infatuation would make her change. Not even for Eric.
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He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back, his spine stiffening as Amber crossed her arms. "Fine," he bit out. All the words crowding his throat, every hurt, bewildered, angry question he wanted to throw at her, would start a torrent he couldn't dam up, and he wasn't going to do that here. "Tell me one thing. Do you have any idea why she's better? Because I don't!"
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Amber was almost impressed at all the things Eric didn't accuse or demand. It might be the first professional thing he'd done all day, managing to keep their personal lives out of his words-- he did not, however, succeed so well in his tone. Spying around their surroundings, Amber saw they'd caught the attention of a handful of nurses.
Turning her look back to Eric slowly to remind him of their public situation, she spoke as evenly as before. "No, I don't even know in what ways she's better. But we can figure it out. How did she improve?"
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"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?"
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So dramatic. "Do you think the tests are going to lie? We'll just take everything into accounts when we run them over again." How could he even be this upset? At her, okay, yeah, she'd known he would be. Didn't take a fortune-teller to see that coming. But how could he be high-and-mighty about patient care when Casey was improving? "Of course I did." Indignation heated her voice; did he think she was irresponsible, throwing drugs into a patient without weighing the risks? Did he know nothing about her? "And some studies have shown that steroids with interferon help slow down MS."
Amber did not notice the flush that was covering her face, the increasing tenseness of her muscles. She’d even forgotten the nurses around them, the same ones she’d so pointedly reminded him of. “What would have you done? Sit nicely while the patient didn’t get the treatment they needed?”
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Casey was sitting forward, rubbing at her legs. Foreman frowned, watching, and then he quickly opened the door and stepped inside. "Your legs hurt?" he asked.
"No." Wide-eyed, frantic, Casey looked up at him. "I can't feel them. I don't think I can move."
Dread settled in the pit of Foreman's stomach. God. This wasn't lupus or MS. A new symptom this late in Casey's stay? Any other day, he'd immediately start chasing down infections. Something viral. If he didn't think it had been them. Amber. Fuck, they might have fried her immune system, pumping her full of contradictory treatments. "Okay, I need you to stay calm, Casey." Foreman pressed his palms against the bottoms of her feet and started running through a standard exam. "Press against my hands with both feet." Nothing. "That's good. Now one at a time, left first..." Nothing again, and Foreman quickly tested both feet with a needle jab. Not even a flinch. Ascending paralysis. Christ, what had they done?
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Amber couldn't even defend herself properly, since Eric stomped off into the place she especially couldn't continue the argument. No fighting in front of their patient, Amber knew they agreed on that much.
She followed him. If he was going to do more of a physical exam, she wanted to make sure Eric didn't miss anything with his MS-only tunnel vision. And she'd show him, damn it, that she hadn't given Casey the steroids just to fucking prove a point.
But Casey didn't exactly present the status of "better," having lost mobility and feeling in her legs. Amber hid her alarm behind a cool facade as Eric confirmed the loss; this had to be new, he seemed just as surprised as she was.
"What's happening?" Casey asked, a slight squeak to her voice. Amber could not blame her. "Is this a side-effect of the medicine?"
"No," Amber said. Neither interferon nor steroids caused this. Or did lupus or MS, for that matter. A new symptom? Unless, Amber’s stomach squeezing into a heavy ball at the thought, the steroids and the interferon together destroyed Casey's immune system and she'd become infected. No. No. Amber's mouth went dry. She'd been so sure-- but this wasn't the time for her own reaction.
Eric hadn't volunteered any information so far, so Amber assumed he was just as clueless as she was. She spoke again. "But this means it's not lupus or MS-- we'll have to discuss this further. We'll tell you as soon as we've found a better diagnosis."
"Better diagnosis?" Casey's distress was louder than ever, her face white. She pushed her torso up as best she could, her legs disturbingly still. "You still don't know? Is this permanent, will I ever walk again--"
God, this was tricky. "We're doing our best," Amber said, so disgusted she wanted to kick herself. Their best. The best didn't matter if it failed. All Casey cared was walking out of this hospital with a clean bill of health and two functioning legs. But it wasn't as if Amber could promise a cure, either. Why wasn't House here, he might've figured it out by now. "It does often take a few false starts before we find the right answer," Amber said, the best reassurance she could give Casey.
The last thing Casey looked was reassured.
On her way out, Amber murmured to Eric, "I'll get the others." And she did, paging this time not only the call to come to the conference room, but all the new factors and symptoms as well. She could just imagine them, laughing at her for digging her own grave by maybe making Casey sicker-- but it might not be her fault. Might.
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He strode down the corridor to the conference room. No matter what Amber had done to him, the thought of returning the favour and recommending to Cuddy that they get rid of her because of her irresponsible practice left him cold. She'd fucked him over and he still didn't want to hurt her. He found himself making excuses--it was only once, there weren't any direct contraindications between the medicines, House pulled this shit all the time. But, as Foreman knew all to well, what people accepted in House, they'd never let anyone else get away with. That lesson fucking hurt, and Foreman didn't want to see Amber learn it over this. At the same time, it wasn't like he could cover it up, especially if this was what gave Casey a turn for the worse, or even killed her.
There hadn't been much for the other candidates to do, and they were all waiting in the conference room. Foreman walked in, arms crossed, and glowered at them. Anger was easier than defeat, and he wasn't going to let it show how much he didn't want to be here.
"So, uh, paralysis?" Kutner said, making a little walking motion with two fingers before letting his hand collapse to the tabletop.
"I think that's what counts as a new symptom," Taub added, tipping his head at the whiteboard.
"No, it doesn't," Foreman said. "Not when we don't know if it's part of the disease. It's possible we've fried her immune system. It might be an infection." That we tasted bitter on his tongue, but Foreman wasn't going to drag apportioning blame into the differential so that they could all have another go at judging his personal life. It wasn't like they didn't know what had happened, Foreman was confident of that. And if they didn't, knowing Amber's need to win, they could probably guess. "Botulism fits with ascending paralysis."
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She couldn't just walk into that festering pit of rabid beasts and probably-ex without some kind of defense. Or, if it really was her fault, Amber wanted to know, so that she could start apologizing and damage control.
The phone number was filed under "Immunologist." It didn't ring more than once before a half-sleepy voice answered, "Hello."
"Hi, Dr. Cameron?" Amber asked.
"Yeah?"
"This is Dr. Volakis, one of the new doctors working for House." It felt almost absurd, introducing herself to someone she'd spoken to just this morning, but Amber couldn't be sure just how much of her fame was labeled as "CTB."
"I know who you are." Cameron's tone was sharper, more alert. "How did you get my personal phone number?"
"House gave it to all of us." Cameron muttered something, but Amber couldn't make it out. "Listen, I'm very sorry to call, but--" She went on to summarize the situation. It was a risk: she knew Cameron was all about putting the patient first. Amber played up that angle, explaining how she'd been worried about Eric-- Foreman-- ignoring some of Casey's symptoms. It must've worked, since Cameron sighed in what sounded like a sympathetic way.
"So, what do you think? Could’ve the steroids and interferon destroyed her immune system?"
"You'd have to confirm, of course," Cameron said, "but that wouldn’t have been the likeliest outcome. I wouldn't rule out the paralysis as a new symptom."
Amber's load lightened slightly. "Thank you."
Just in case, she also called House again. Still no answer.
By the time she returned to the conference room, everyone was there. The candidates all turned to look up at her, but they must've already worked out their incredulity because they didn't question her actions. That and Eric was a magnet for serious business, frowning in what probably had been a focused differential. It wasn't the time to ask 'what the fuck were you thinking.'
Amber slipped into a seat quietly, figuring out what she'd missed as the conversation resumed. 'Paralysis' wasn't on the board yet; did Eric assume it wasn't a symptom?
"Can we be sure it's an infection?" Cole asked. "Shouldn't we check before we pump her with antitoxins?" Ah, testing first. That was the recommendation Amber would've made. She nodded in agreement.
At some point Brennan had risen, pacing and staring at the whiteboard. "It's not botulism," he suddenly declared. His expression was wondrous, as if he'd been infused light and now saw with startling clarity. "It's polio, I’m sure of it!"
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