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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"Why? Because you say so?" Amber challenged, raising her eyebrows. He'd asked for her support, but siding with him just because he made her horny was not going to happen. She disagreed and she wouldn't let him do as he pleased just because it made his ego feel better, especially since it’d be worse to be proven wrong after fucking with Casey.

"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.

Foreman couldn't remember the last time he'd been this frustrated. He practically wanted to throw his hands up in the air and leave the department in chaos. Wouldn't Cuddy appreciate that, if he showed her what this game would be like without him running things when House decided to disappear. They'd be treating the patient for five different contradictory things and none of them would give a shit if it cured her or not, as long as they could point to any results at all once House came back. "I get that you want to be right," he started, not speaking directly to Amber even though he was barely holding back Yes, because I fucking said so.

"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.

Yeah, Amber and everyone else in the room wanted to be right-- they also wanted proof. No good would come from a struggle to get their way through administrative control, loud voices, or manipulative scheming; what they needed were tests, and if Eric wanted to stand by his words, he'd have to let them run them.

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.

The problem was, what if they were right? All of them? What if he'd made the wrong call again? Foreman wouldn't blame them for not respecting him them. He'd be hard pressed to respect himself, if he was wrong for the third time in a row. Maybe he didn't deserve this job. Maybe he hadn't deserved the job at Mercy, either. Maybe they knew--he didn't even stop to think about who "they" might be--but they knew he'd been riding on House's coattails, and he'd blown the one chance he'd have to distinguish himself.

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.

Because of the time limit, Amber and Taub agreed to perform only a handful of examinations and tests that’d confirm lupus. Of course, everyone wanted a piece of Casey, for a biopsy or lumbar puncture or drawn blood. With only one Casey and three hours, everyone might not get the time they needed. “I’m going first,” Amber declared, “Because I only need five minutes and you’re going to take for ever.”

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.

There wasn't long to wait before everyone had gathered back in the conference room. Foreman could see the triumph written on Amber's face, in her animation and smugness, but he wasn't ready to acknowledge it. Christ, what was he doing? He didn't want her to be wrong, but he wasn't ready to give in, either. She had more chances to prove a point. Just last week she'd caught the diagnosis. Foreman might have a job, but his footing wasn't any more secure. Less, in fact. House didn't care if the candidates were right. All he wanted was for them to show what they were willing to do.

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."

Eric greeted her as if she stank of rotten milk, features curling up disdainfully. Great. And any reason he'd be angry at her now was stupid: if it was because of his earlier complaint about her not being supportive, she'd already told him off; if it was because he wanted to be right, that was just sad. Amber understood better than anyone the desire to win, but he shouldn't make it personal. He had a guaranteed job slot, at least.

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.”

Foreman wasn't going to dismiss Amber out of hand. He held out his hand for her test results. "Weakly positive," he said, glancing up at her as he spoke, his face open and his voice matter-of-fact. It wasn't a mistake or even unlikely. Amber wasn't wrong. She simply hadn't been here long enough to know how often House's patients had systematic diseases that could so easily look like lupus, because autoimmune diseases could manifest in so many different ways. In Foreman's experience, what looked like lupus--or vasculitis, or any of a half-dozen other common diseases that would affect more than one system--usually wasn't. Just because the body and the brain were both affected didn't mean that there wasn't a logical progression that they hadn't caught yet. Foreman couldn't trust an ANA test when it was so common to get false positives. Especially weak ones.

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."

Surprise, surprise. Eric saw the numbers, knew what they meant-- and didn't care. Pig. Self-centered, self-serving, steamrolling pig. Some diagnostician. Eric could rage against House's ethics all he liked, but House at least bowed down to the facts. Amber had no use for someone, as a man or doctor, who hid themselves from reality to protect their sweet, fragile egos.

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?"

Despite his anger, Foreman knew the only thing he could do to hang on to his very fragile control of the situation was to keep his cool. He might feel like his chest was being squeezed in a vise, but he wasn't going to show it. Who the hell was he angry at? Amber, just for arguing her case? In her position, he would have done the same thing. It was the others, with their badly-hidden mockery, who deserved to be told off. He let them all have a chance to argue one side or the other, while he swallowed down his fury. "Exactly," he said, answering Thirteen. "And steroids would compromise her immune system. If it's MS, the treatment for lupus will make her worse."

"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.

Off Eric was, to follow his dick-headed opinions.

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.

It would be another several hours before Casey's condition changed enough to show whether he'd been wrong again. Foreman realized for the first time that he was worn out. A headache pulsed in his temples, and his stomach was rumbling. He smiled as best he could at Mr. Alfonso and told him he'd be back soon. When he was finally free of the room, he leaned back against the wall, out of sight of Casey's bed.

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.

Expecting a long wait before she could take action, Amber stepped out into the balcony for a break. The chill stung her lungs with every breath she took, but it felt good, to get away from the others and their toxicity. She leaned over the brick mural, focusing on the wind and the distant sounds of traffic. For now, she just had to wait. Her moment would come.

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.

Can't. What did that mean? Foreman grimaced at his phone and tucked it back into his pocket. Amber was capable, and probably hungry, so she might just as well have been honest and texted won't. And most likely it was won't because he'd overruled her. Foreman kept his head down as he headed for the cafeteria, not paying any attention to the people around him, determined to get in, eat, and get out, with the minimum of fuss and wasted time. If Amber couldn't accept it when he made a decision, then she was just as bad as Brennan. Brennan might be sneaky and underhanded, and way too fond of shouting his doubts right at Foreman's face, but at least Foreman knew where he stood. He didn't like Brennan one bit but he knew what to expect from him. From Amber, he'd expected support. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe he was an idiot to think that their weekend--and he couldn't help a slight relaxing of his own tension when he thought of it--meant anything during the work week.

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.

It wasn't at all hard to convince Casey she needed the steroids. She was back to herself by the time Amber got to her, and despite her near-violent anger at Thirteen and Kutner and her later grumblings at Eric, Casey was now quite easy to convince, malleable thanks to fear and exhaustion. "But Dr. Foreman just--" she protested at first.

"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.

Foreman didn't wait the full hour before he finally pushed himself to his feet. Even if he couldn't be a hundred percent certain, any change in Casey's condition would be important to know, and he wanted to see it for himself before any of the candidates snuck in and saw something that they'd smugly keep to themselves until they thought they'd get a prize for dropping the bombshell.

Casey was sitting up in bed when Foreman reached her room. She smiled wanly at him, and Foreman smiled back, checking her chart first to see the nurses' notations. "Your fever's down," he said. A hundred degrees still needed monitoring, but it wasn't worrisome. Casey was alert and oriented, though tired, which meant the delirium had faded too. "That's good. Means the treatment's working."

"Which one?" she asked.

Foreman frowned slightly. Was she tracking what he was saying? She looked honestly curious, so he said, "Excuse me?"

"The treatment. Do you know which one it is? The other doctor said it might be lupus."

For what seemed like far too long, Foreman's lungs felt too tight to even pull in a breath. No. She didn't. She fucking wouldn't have. "Dr. Volakis?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm and his face from showing any expression.

"Yeah."

Foreman swallowed hard against the boiling fury that struck him full force. "We'll be discussing that," he said, clipped and short. "Let one of us or the nurses know if anything changes." Before he could lash out while Casey was watching, he got the hell out of her room. Shoulders rock-hard, anger burning through him, he wanted to slam his fist into a wall. Fuck. Fuck. Amber had gone behind his back. He'd asked for her help and she'd turned around and skewered him. For what? For a diagnosis that they couldn't prove now because they didn't know which treatment was working? For fuck's sake, what could she possibly gain from that? It wasn't for the patient. It wasn't for House's game--did she think House would pat her on the head for muddying the waters in the middle of a fucking diagnosis when someone's life was at stake? It had been for him. A sign, a protest, hell, he didn't know. To hurt him. What other possible reason could she have had? She hadn't shown she was right, she hadn't even shown he was wrong. She'd just fucked him over because he'd told her no. She'd protested that she wanted to keep things professional and then she'd betrayed him.

Christ. He was so angry he couldn't even decide what to do about it. Stop one of the treatments--which one? Talk to Amber--how? Jesus, how could he talk to her, even reprimand her, without asking what the hell did I ever do to hurt you? He couldn't. There was no way. Foreman squeezed his fists, grinding his teeth, and stopped outside Casey's room, too furious to even go another step further. She'd be coming soon enough. She'd have to, to check Casey's condition. Foreman needed to see her face, to know. That's all he wanted. To know if she'd done this purely to spite him.

Turning the corner, Amber saw Eric at once, stooped and glowering and tight like he was about to about to explode. Her anger hardened. So he'd found out. But she'd done nothing wrong. The worst she'd done was stick to her medical beliefs and she wouldn't ever feel guilty about that. Her pride came from doing whatever she had to-- and not from browbeating everyone else into obedience, as it apparently did for Eric.

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.

Glaring up the corridor, Foreman caught sight of Amber walking toward him. Cool and reserved and pale, she looked like she owned every step she took. Foreman didn't need to guess. What she was done was as obvious on her face as his anger must be on his. He'd always loved her confidence. Right from the first day, when she'd flirted with him because she'd known how to get what she wanted. But this was completely misdirected. No matter how frosty she wanted to play it, something actually mattered here, more than Amber Volakis being right.

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!"

"Fine how?" she asked. Casey couldn't be 100% better from either disease; the treatments wouldn't be that efficient.

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?"

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

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

Casey was oriented before Amber gave her the steroids, but her fever hadn’t gone down—so it wasn’t clear just from the order of events which treatment had cured her. Important information, but Eric was too busy being sarcastic and ranting to listen to actual facts. Oh, geez, what else was new. Facts only mattered when they made him look good.

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?”

Foreman set his lips, getting more infuriated by the minute. Amber's argument didn't even make sense. If she really thought that the steroids would enhance the effect of the interferon, then how could she keep arguing that what Casey had was lupus? "Don't kid yourself that this was about what she needed," he said, his anger eclipsed suddenly by a sharp, hurtful stab of disappointment. He'd thought he could accept how Amber operated. That was before he'd known she'd deliberately pull a stunt like this. "This was about you proving a point." He let out a sharp, disgusted breath and took a few steps away, back towards Casey's room. He couldn't keep up this conversation if Amber didn't even understand how she'd screwed up. Casey was better; that was good. Their next step, though, depending on nothing more informed than a coin flip, might make them all look like idiots again, running around with their heads cut off.

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?

Eric could not have stung her more with a physical slap. "It was not, I wouldn't put my career on the line just to show you up--" It wasn't about him, though of course he'd twist it that way. How egotistical could he get? He reached new highs with every action.

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.

Foreman left Amber twisting in the wind as she scrambled to explain how exactly they'd let this happen. No matter how petty he was for letting himself feel it, it gave him a vicious sense of justification. He couldn't offer Casey any better explanation, and at least he was confident about the treatment he'd given her. Whether Amber admitted that she'd done this to get back at him or not, Foreman couldn't see any other reason for her to do it. False starts. That's what she wanted to call it. Not that there was any better label. He nodded enough to acknowledge that Amber was paging the others, but he didn't hang around to walk with her. He didn't take the stairs, either. He wanted the slow deliberateness of waiting for the elevator, while he tried to figure out how he was going to explain this. Not just to the fellows, who'd probably think it served him right for being high-handed with them, but to House, and probably to Cuddy, when word of what had happened got out.

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."

Amber glanced up from all the texting just in time to see Eric stride in the opposite direction, towards the elevators. She didn't even know how to feel, beyond drained. Just a few hours ago he'd waited to go back upstairs with her. Now he couldn't get away fast enough. Angry, that's what she should be feeling. And she was. Little bits of flickering resentment, clear and hot like lighted candles-- but she mostly felt heavy. How badly had she fucked up?

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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