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alwaysright2010-01-05 05:33 pm
amber_v) wrote in alwaysright2010-01-05 05:33 pm
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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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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"We'll test," he said heavily. "But we can't put off treatment for a day while we run the cultures. Not when her airway might be compromised--" He stopped short when Brennan stalked to the whiteboard, staring at it like it had given him a religious experience. "What?"
Foreman's first thought was that Brennan was making fun of him. Or of all of them--what the hell did he think he was accomplishing, suggesting something so obviously ridiculous?
"Right," Taub said, drawing the word out. "And I think she probably also has small pox. And maybe some diptheria. Because you never can tell what people picked up in their last trip to 1879."
"I know what polio looks like," Brennan insisted.
"Then that's why you're seeing it," Foreman said. It was preposterous, and he wasn't the only one in the room rolling his eyes. "There hasn't been a case of wild polio here for thirty years! Stop wasting our time--"
Brennan turned on him, half-angry and half-smirking. "Oh, like you haven't wasted our time with your brilliant heatstroke idea? And did we really all need to hang around while you and your girlfriend played duelling diagnoses?"
Foreman snapped his mouth shut. Brennan was right in his face, trying to loom over him. For what? Foreman wasn't going to make a fool of himself by rising to the bait, but if he could have cut Brennan down with his stare alone, he would have. His anger surged up again--felt like he'd spent most of the day with his heart pounding and his fists clenched, looking for some direction he could lash out. "It's not polio. She's been vaccinated. There's no damn way." Face set, back rigid, Foreman kept up his glare. He was so fucking sick of Brennan's patronizing superiority over one symptom. Insinuating Foreman and Amber had acted unprofessionally at any point was going too far. Neither of them had done anything because of their relationship, and if Brennan was going to twist their actions around to that, then Foreman wasn't interested in putting up with him one second longer. "You think so, you can get the hell out of here. Seriously. I don't want you here."
"You can't fire me. If anything it's the two of you--it's her--"
"Stop embarrassing yourself," Foreman said. "Go on. Get out of here. You're off this case. You want to beg House to keep you? You can do that on his time, not mine."
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She only half-listened to Taub's jokes and Eric's disbelief: useless information. Brennan defended his opinion, as any of them would've. Amber thought he had too much polio on the brain, but she wasn't in a position to criticize for getting too attached to a pet idea. She just hoped it wasn't the steroids' fault, for Casey's and her own sake-- it had to be something else. Encephalitis, maybe? The symptoms fit. Then she wouldn't be wrong, Casey wouldn't have a ruined immune system, and Amber's job and malpractice insurance wouldn't be at risk.
Then it got personal. Amber looked up sharply at Brennan's accusation that she and Eric had been playing around-- though he wasn't wrong. They had gotten shamefully personal. (Part of her bristled. 'Girlfriend'? Leaving aside the question of whether or not they'd still be together by the end of the day, they hadn't yet made the girlfriend-boyfriend thing official. Amber didn't let herself think of them that way; it'd be getting ahead of herself.)
Brennan was making an idiot of himself, yeah. But Amber stilled with a second's shock when Eric ordered him out. There'd been other stupid ideas, in all the differentials so far, and if anyone had gone too far, it'd been herself, secretly mixing treatments. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. What are you thinking, Amber wanted to demand. You're making us both look worse. Expelling Brennan only accentuated his protest that Eric cared more about the professional than the personal.
She'd wait to ask. She couldn't agree with Eric's medical opinions just to make him feel good, but she could support him by giving him her critiques in a private setting.
The discharge did not sit well with Brennan. From excited he'd gone to quietly furious, expression stormy. He turned to Kutner and the other guys, probably for support, but they just shrugged and returned an awkward look. 'Sorry, man,' they seemed to be saying. His shoulders finally slumped in defeat and he walked out fast.
Subdued-- at least for the moment-- they all looked at Eric, silently asking what to do next.
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He glanced around the room. So far it seemed like they were listening to him, which was more proof that he'd been right to get rid of Brennan. "We'll rerun the other tests to double check. I don't want her dying from organ failure while we look for something else. If you have any brilliant ideas, let the rest of us know before you decide to treat." He knew that Amber wouldn't miss his censure in that last sentence, but he thought she might pick up on what he'd implied about organ failure, too. Aggressive lupus might kill Casey too fast for them to act; MS was slower and long-term. He'd acknowledged her idea might have had merit. He just hoped that would be enough until they could get through the case and find out what was really going on.
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Working in diagnostics, House-style, gave the opportunity for great glory; it also meant greater fuck-ups.
They'd been assigned three basic assignments. Kutner volunteered immediately to go out for confirmation (and though he tried to hide it, Amber caught the glint in his eye; probably ecstatic about hitting the racetrack) and Thirteen quickly said she'd go with.
"I'll run the blood cultures," Amber got in before anyone else could snap up that task. She wouldn't have to see Casey for more than a few minutes, as opposed to spending hours with her, waiting for her paralysis to progress.
"Sure, leave us with all the fun," Taub muttered, but his opinion didn't matter. He left with Cole, and Kutner and Thirteen had long since exited.
Only she and Eric remained. The room was startlingly quiet. Messy, too, coffee mugs strewn across the table together with open reference books and pages of annotations. The room felt like an incomplete thought. The whiteboard loomed over the table, casting a long shadow from the day's last light.
She had to work. She knew that. But it was just the two of them-- Amber drew in a long breath, rubbing her face. Getting up should be easy; she never hesitated when there was something to be done. But defeat wasn't usually this clear before her, more than just a theoretical possibility. The tests might confirm botulism. And then—but she'd deal when and if that happened.
"Why did you kick Brennan out?" Amber asked, voice reflecting just how drained was. "He didn't step out of line any more than I did."
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He lifted his head when Amber spoke. She sounded tired--well, why not? Foreman felt like he'd been pushing a boulder uphill all day, only to watch it roll back down. Her question twisted his gut, anxiety burning like acid through his stomach lining. Would she like it better if he kicked her out too? Brennan had been publicly defiant from the moment Foreman had taken charge. He'd exacerbated House's little cut-throat world, made everyone think they could go off in whatever direction they wanted. Gotten in their way with Casey and her father. As soon as Brennan had left the conference room, the others had fallen into line. But Amber had been just as insubordinate, and worse, sneaky. "I trusted you," Foreman said, which was no answer. His throat tried to close up on him, but Foreman pressed his lips together and stared out the windows, not meeting Amber's eyes, forcing down the helpless feeling that he was fucking up. Cuddy might keep House on no matter how many patients he killed. She'd already made it more than clear that she wouldn't do the same for him.
"Rerun the ANA and the sed rate, and get a lumbar puncture to run her CSF for MS markers," he said. "Get Taub to help if you want." Amber wanted them to keep it professional. Foreman damn well agreed. Even if they weren't in front of any patients or nurses, he wasn't going to get into an argument he couldn't solve here.
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Trusted. Amber's exhaustion grew heavier, threatening to bury her. Of course. It wasn't just his choice of tense, but the clipped, brisk tone, cutting off all conversation. He didn't want to talk to her, not after the way she'd gone off on her own. The weight settled over her throat; maybe it was a good thing he wasn't interested in conversation, because she wouldn't have been able to manage it. Amber had known the consequences. If she were to regret her actions, it'd be only if she'd truly hurt Casey—but as far as Eric went, she stood by her choice. If he couldn't see beyond himself, then Amber simply wasn't interested. But, oh god, she'd miss him; miss the hopes she'd been quietly nurturing.
To confirm just how much he wanted her out of the room, Eric told her to go run the tests. Silently Amber nodded. Professional. Fair enough. If that was how it was going to be from now on, at least he'd avoid dragging negative sentiments into it. And how appropriate, too, getting her to check what could be the definitive confirmation of either lupus or MS.
Rising and ignoring the ache radiating from her ankles, Amber wiped her hair away from her face-- when was the last time she'd had even a bathroom break?-- and walked out, taking a copy of Casey's file with her.
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Foreman pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he could physically push away the headache that was threatening to split his skull open alone the coronal suture. He should be good to go for as long as Casey wasn't in stable condition. He'd pulled twenty-four, even forty-eight hour shifts, but right now he knew if he didn't get some sleep, he wouldn't be able to think well enough to stay on top of the case. He reached out and grabbed the file. In a while. Food, coffee, maybe snatch a few hours' nap. He'd take care of that. First he wanted to go through every last second since Casey had been admitted. Try to put the pieces together.
There was nothing easy about it. It was like trying to force three different jigsaw puzzles into one picture. Sometimes when he worked this hard, the words started to mix on the page, and his heart started to pound, cold sweat breaking out in his armpits and down his back. What if he couldn't read? Couldn't do any damn procedures or even remember what the hell he was supposed to be doing? Foreman pushed the file away sharply. He was just tired. That was all it was. He knew what the hell he was doing, it was just this damn headache.
Standing up took more effort than it should. Foreman tugged his tie loose and pulled it over his head, then fumbled his suit jacket off and left it hanging over the back of the chair. He could still work the goddamn coffee machine. No spatial issues. No processing problems. He waited for the coffee to drip through and made up two cups, one the way Amber liked. He couldn't do anything else, but maybe this would be enough to tell Amber that once they were out of here--once the case was done--they could talk. He put lids on the cups and headed down to the lab where the diagnostics fellows usually worked.
Amber was there, bent over a microscope. Foreman pushed the door open and silently headed across to her bench, setting the coffee at her elbow before sitting down on a stool. "You need food?"
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