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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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!"

Foreman had expected Amber to follow on his heels, or even get to the conference room first if she'd taken the stairs again, but he didn't pause before launching into the differential just because she wasn't there. She'd apprised the others of the paralysis, which was all he needed to work with. A few minutes later, she did ease into the room. Foreman had to fight to keep his eyes from picking her out, and he didn't even know why. To see how she was doing? However briefly, she'd looked shocked at what had happened to Casey, maybe even genuinely worried. In her place, Foreman knew he'd be feeling sick. Hell, he'd been in her place before, when he'd rushed in to treat without confirmation and someone had ended up getting worse--dying--because of him. They still had a chance with Casey. It wasn't that bad yet. But it was exactly moments like what Amber must be going through right now that Foreman had wanted to avoid. For both their sakes.

"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."

Polio? Amber nabbed a copy of Casey's file off the table and flipped through, just to make sure. It wasn't absolutely impossible, if she'd been travelling-- but right in her history was a list of the vaccine's she'd taken, polio included.

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.

For a few seconds, everyone seemed to be holding their breaths as they waited to see if Brennan would do what he said. Foreman didn't let his glare soften, and finally Brennan marched out. Good riddance. At least now they could concentrate on plausible ideas. Foreman desperately wanted to rub at his forehead, push away the headache that had been nagging at him for most of the day. "Start running blood cultures for botulism," he said tiredly, resting his hands on the back of the chair in front of him, bowed down a bit. "I want someone with her at all times in case the paralysis advances. Start her on antibiotics and give her an enema." All standard treatments for botulism, and nothing that would conflict with anything she'd been given before, either the steroids or the interferon. "Look for confirmation, in the home, at the racetrack."

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.

For the first time, they listened to Eric for orders. Amber had no idea what had motivated the others into obedience-- Brennan's example?-- but for herself, she couldn't afford anymore mistakes. Not now. She didn't want risks; her heart plummeted at the thought.

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."

Foreman watched them file out of the room. Amber didn't go with them. God, he knew he wasn't ready to tell her just how much what she'd done had felt like a kick in the stomach. He was too tired to try ordering her out, either. He pulled out the chair he'd been leaning on and slumped down into it, resting his elbows on the table and hunching forward, his fingers interlocked. The piles of test results and casenotes on the table blurred in front of him. The overhead lights glared off the glass tabletop, and a glance showed that it was already dark out. Where had the day gone?

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.

She wanted to stay here. Talk to Eric, hear how he was feeling. Amber knew the day hadn't been easy for him either-- it didn't excuse his selfish decisions, but having been through so much herself over the past couple of hours, all she wanted was for them to put everything aside and just be. Like they were whenever out of work: Amber and Eric, not Volakis and Foreman. It was the end of the work day, why not? She longed to get up just enough to slump into his lap and hug him, melting into his touch, relaxing at his scent.

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.

He almost called her back. She hadn't said a word, not to argue, not to press her question. Foreman looked away from the reflections in the window when she stood up and watched as she gathered the file and headed for the door. His voice felt caught in his chest, beating against the inside of his ribs as if it could burst out even if he forced his mouth closed. All it would take was her name, her eyes meeting his, and then maybe she'd see how much it hurt to keep things to the bare bones instead of asking her what the hell she'd been thinking. But the door hushed closed, and he hadn't said a word.

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?"

Just a bit longer. In an hour or two Amber could drive home and rest. Maybe pick up a meal on the way over; draw a bath and unwind. Tomorrow she'd have to wake up early and face whatever tonight's test results announced, but relaxing and sleeping would go a long way. If she had to face the worst-- but she wouldn't. She hadn't been wrong. Cameron, an immunologist, supported her theory. Casey would be okay.

Speaking of sleep and Casey, it seemed like it was all she wanted. Amber watched from outside as Taub and Cole talked to her, each sitting on a stool. Casey yawned and rubbed her eyes and nodded along; she must be so tired by now she didn't care to hear their explanations. Once they'd passed on the antibiotics, Amber slipped in. "Hi," she said, but by now, her years of training or no, the greeting was plastic, not genuine.

Casey's father watched on anxiously as Amber took yet another blood sample from his daughter. Casey herself was compliant, only turning her head away. Probably wanted it to be over as soon as possible. Her skin was so white, so clammy; Amber did not let herself feel more than a pang. They'd fix this. This wasn't her fault.

Pulling Taub and Cole to the side and holding a murmured conversation, they divvied up the tasks once more. Cole would take care of the enema and bring the samples to Amber; Taub would do the lumbar puncture; and she'd run the tests. Eric had told her to do the lumbar puncture, but as long as the job got done, Amber doubted he'd mind who performed the procedure-- whereas she herself would mind very much spending more time with Casey and her guilt.

Before turning and leaving, Amber noticed Cole checking his watch. Worried about his kid, maybe? Tough. This job wasn't easy on any of them.

The good thing about starting up the blood tests, and later the cultures, was that it occupied her mind. Hardly complicated work, it still required focus. For a while Amber lost herself. She was just about finished when a voice startled her out of her reverie.

Glancing up, Amber blinked before her vision regained the capacity to see the world life-sized and not through a lens. Her heart strummed in instant recognition of Eric's voice, but she needed to see to be sure: it really was him, with coffee as a bonus. She looked at him, at the cup, and then at him again. God, he looked as tired as she, clothes rumpled, face so long, and shadows under his eyes; if she could she'd wrap her around him and just hold on, like they could anchor one another, letting their breaths match one another’s-- but she was part of the reason for his exhaustion.

Amber did the next best thing, picking up the coffee and sipping. It was slightly sweet; he must've remembered. Geez, he made it so complicated. She didn't know what to feel or, rather, she felt it all: anger and confusion and affection and why did she have to like him so damn much?

The coffee, at least, gave her a boost. "I thought you wouldn't want to see me again," Amber said, trying to keep her voice casual. "I mean, outside of work."

The lab was quiet except for the undertone hum of electricity. Foreman cupped his coffee in both hands. Drinking it might perk him up, but he couldn't even manage that yet; it was enough to feel the near-scalding heat through the thin paper. Amber looked at her cup like it might be a trick, but she did finally take a drink and let out a breath. If she wanted food, he could get her something from the cafeteria. If the cultures were running, they could even go out for a real meal, even if it had to be quick so that they wouldn't be away from the hospital long if something changed. Foreman tried to figure out how he felt about that--about making an effort to slip back into the easy comfort of just being with her. Every time he looked at her across the table he'd be thinking about how she'd treated him like an inconvenience to her own agenda. How cavalierly she'd treated Casey just because she needed to be right.

No, he didn't want to go that far. Not tonight. But he wasn't going to throw everything they had away just because he was angry tonight. It wouldn't happen again. House would come back and any tricks Amber pulled would be on him, not Foreman. After the two fellow slots were filled, either they'd be on the same team instead of competing, or she'd be looking for another job. Either way, Amber wouldn't have the opportunity to stab him in the back again.

But that didn't mean that she hadn't. That she wouldn't. House, of all people, had tried to warn him, and Foreman had been so arrogant as to say I don't think she will. Whether or not he'd pegged Casey's diagnosis, he'd been wrong about that. It hurt, somewhere down deep, like he'd been cut and no one had caught the internal bleeding. Foreman glanced up, studying her. Amber hadn't apologized. She didn't even seem to feel guilty about slowing down the diagnosis by obscuring Casey's condition. "I care about you," he said. He slipped of his stool and put the coffee on the lab bench. Suddenly, he didn't want it. Didn't even want to think about food. You hurt me--easy to feel, impossible to say. Maybe she didn't care. Maybe it didn't matter to her. He shrugged and turned back to the door. Another fishbowl. Anyone could walk in on them. He cleared his throat. "You need to eat. I'm going to the cafeteria if you want something."

The coffee's heat spread through her, from the drinking and the holding. As the warm liquid reached her empty stomach, the sweetened caffeine reminded Amber just how hungry she was; nonetheless, she felt more balanced. More open.

She wish he'd talk. It'd be nice to hear some confirmation that he did want to see her again, since he was here and all-- why else would he have come with coffee, offering food? But the silence felt right, too. Today's events couldn't be so cast aside with just a coffee and a smile, especially without knowing the end to this case; without Casey walking out here healthier than when she'd come in.

The lab stools were so uncomfortable, digging into her ass and giving no back support; she was done, anyway. Amber stood up and cleaned up, leaving the cultures to develop. They wouldn't produce any answers until tomorrow.

Eric was tired and aching; she may not have known him for long, but she knew him well, and his exhaustion was radiating from him in waves. He looked-- ragged, even. Unkempt. Her Eric, disheveled. That was just wrong.

"We could go home," Amber said, looking down at her hands as she washed her hands. The odor of disinfectant would wear off before long. "Order in, relax a bit--" She wanted nothing more, to be with him and forget their disagreements. They could put their fight aside for a few hours, right? If he still cared about her. He might want to return to the hospital quickly, but for the meanwhile there was nothing they could do. And back home, she could kiss him and it'd be them again, and he could press her up against the wall as she slid her hands down his pants, their anger erased by desire and pleasure-- she needed this release. Amber looked up and away from the sink to meet his gaze and raise a wry eyebrow. "I think we could both use some unwinding."

Blankly, Foreman watched Amber go through the motions of tidying the lab. She didn't really have to. The techs could do that sort of thing. During the more frantic cases, when they didn't have time to run all the cultures themselves, they'd left messes behind them. Hadn't really thought about who ended up putting everything away. How could Amber go to this effort on their behalf, easily and unconsciously, when she knew what a mess she'd made with Casey and she hadn't so much as acknowledged that she'd done it? Or had a hand in it, at least.

Foreman wasn't prepared for her offer. He stared at her, not taking it in for a second, before the tilt of her head and her arched eyebrow finally registered. God, sex was the last thing that was going to solve this. He'd done it again, walked in expecting a damn apology, given her another opening, and all she wanted was to ignore it or subsume it somehow. He didn't even have the energy to be angry. He'd thought she couldn't hurt him worse than by doubting his medical opinion and sneaking behind his back to sabotage his case, but this was the last straw.

"I can't," he said, drawing back in on himself. "Not tonight." He'd be staying here, sleeping in the on-call room if he could, showering in the change room. He couldn't remember if he had a spare shirt in his locker; he might end up wearing OR scrubs if he got vomited on. Par for the course. He didn't even know how to tell her what the hell she'd done to him. If anyone else had screwed up, he might be tired, he might still be chained here overnight, but he wouldn't be this exhausted. He felt like he'd been beaten up, bruised so deep that simply moving enough to keep awake and keep thinking hurt. Fine. Fine. She hadn't let him alone before, but he also hadn't told her off. When she'd chased him, he'd let her in. Too deep, he saw that now. Too fast. This time he'd keep her at a better distance, so that she couldn't do this to him. Put those walls back up that he'd trusted her enough to let down. He cleared his throat and picked up his untouched coffee again, heading for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I can't. It cut through her, the automatic rejection. Amber flinched. She'd only offered because she thought he wanted to be with her, needed comfort from her just as much she needed from him. What, he didn't? What was he doing here then, bringing her coffee and his long, pouting face? Had he been fucking guilt-tripping her?

She was too damn tired for this-- all she'd wanted was a bit of down time with him and now he'd come in here and deliberately thrown that in her face, making her feel like shit. Despite having soothed herself through the simple process of cleaning up, her fingers twitched, her temple pulsed. "If you're angry, just say so!" Amber shot at his retreating, cowardly back. How dare he not tell her, just bottling it up and punishing her by keeping her guessing. "It's not as if you were perfect today!" God, she was so angry at him; just thinking about it made her feel hot. His arrogance, his refusal to contemplate any idea that hadn't been borne from his own damn skull-- she wouldn't have had to treat Casey her way if he'd just listened.

"Whatever," she spat out. Now she was the one who didn't want to have anything to do with him. It’d been stupid to wave aside all the ways he'd infuriated her today just so she could make herself feel better by simpering in his arms and getting laid. For orgasms Amber could bring herself off, use a vibrator, or even find herself a more convenient partner-- there was that spineless boy, the doctor she'd used to get her coffee and breakfast last week, he'd jump at the chance-- if Eric was going to shut her out. Amber picked up the almost-full coffee he'd gotten her and chucked it into the trash bin on top of used gloves and empty plastic cups. "Go off, do what you want."

"I can't because I'm staying here," Foreman said. God, she should understand that. She might have the luxury of going home, but he was fucking responsible for this case, whatever happened. Something that had been straightforward had turned into a nightmare, and if he weren't here when shit went down, then he wouldn't be surprised to be fired again. She thought her job was precarious but House could be swayed by bold moves; Cuddy only saw what he could do for her hospital, how he could keep the lawsuits away. He was supposed to be in control when House was away. The buck stopped with him.

He stopped short, with his hand on the door, and turned back to her. Angry? He'd been fucking furious. On some level, he still was, but that had nothing to do with why he was staying at the hospital. He'd been going to work through it, on his own, away from her, until he could lock it away--whatever hurt and anger he felt--so that he wouldn't take it out on her. But if she wanted to hear it, then fine. Fucking fine. "You undermined me as a doctor," he said. "You had no respect for my decisions. You know this is the only job I could get after I was fired from Mercy, but you did your best to make me look like an idiot in front of the patient and the people I'm supposed to oversee." He shook his head, glaring at her. "I don't have the luxury to go off and I do what I want. I know no one else's career matters to you, but I thought I did."

"Why?" spilled from Amber's lips. House couldn't be bothered to stay overnight, not when there was no thinking to be done. Did Eric expect a pretty gold star by staying up and guarding Casey? The hospital had a night staff that'd take care of any emergencies and if there was more diagnosing to be done, that's what pagers were for. "You won't be any good tomorrow if you don't sleep properly." Amber didn't want him anywhere near her home anymore, but this was one more example of his stupid, stupid work decisions. He'd be shooting himself-- and Casey-- in the foot if he tried to live up to his huge pride. Amber couldn't let him do that, not without getting an earful from her. Idiot boss or not they still needed him at the top of his game.

He turned back to her, forehead creased and frown furious. And yet his voice was icy as if there’d never been any warmth between them. "Oh, wah," Amber snapped at his accusations. She stalked towards him, her hair brushing against her cheeks with her hard, firm steps. "You undermined yourself. You thought you knew better than any of us and instead of doing a bit more harmless testing, you had to have it your way." She jerked her chin at him. "What would've you done, if you thought House was being reckless? Stand back and wring your hands? No-- what have you done?" No way he'd never fought against House's decisions.

Everything out of his mouth sounded like a whining child who'd been refused a ridiculous and expensive toy, but his last sentence stung. "I care! I care too much!" Amber’s voice rose, angrier than ever. "When will you understand that this isn't about you?" They'd been over this, for fuck's sake. Her fists curled up uselessly; even if physical action were the answer, they'd already established, thoroughly humiliating her in the process, that he had the upper hand. If only there were something she could strike here that didn't cost thousands of dollars.

"I'm not going to leave them on their own!" Not only because he couldn't stand the thought of a patient of his dying when he was happily at home asleep--maybe he'd get over that some point, but not this soon after Lupe--but because, big surprise, he didn't trust the people he worked with. Who knew what Brennan might do, if he took it into his head? And Foreman knew he couldn't trust Amber. "I was treating diagnostically. If I'd been wrong, we could have changed strategies. But that wasn't good enough for you; you had to muddy the waters! I like being right but I've never treated directly against the team decision." House was insane but he was also in charge. That was a factor Amber didn't see, or didn't respect. She didn't respect him. And she didn't care that it hurt. "I find a better plan! I come up with a better idea! If it looks like House is going to kill someone just to get a damn answer, I tell Cuddy. That's my job! Not to second-guess!"

She cared. Foreman swallowed down just how much that cut through him. She hadn't shown it. So much of who he was was wrapped up in his career. He couldn't just separate them out. Being a doctor was who he was, and if she had any ounce of feeling for him, then she'd accept that. Foreman knew Amber felt the same way, that her abilities mattered to her. "I've never disregarded your opinion as a doctor," he said, more quietly. "I disagreed. I made a decision. I was willing to be proved wrong. You didn't give me that chance." He snorted softly. "You didn't give me a chance at all."

He pressed his lips together and looked away. His knuckles ached where he was gripping the door handle. Thank God it was late enough that no one had come by. "If you think that wasn't about me..." Then you have no idea who I am. He was tired of this conversation. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to be proved right. "If I'd dismissed you like that, behind your back..." He didn't even know how to say it. She would have been incensed, stricken just as much as he was now. Maybe it shouldn't matter, maybe he was making a big fucking deal out of it, but he'd never been in the position before where someone he cared about had cut him down like that. He shrugged, struggling to pull himself back. "Never mind," he said. It was pointless to try and explain. He pulled open the door and walked away.

"What good will playing the martyr do? Are you going to stay up all night holding her hand, is that it? Think that'll cure her paralysis?" The image of Eric curved over a stool, clasping those warm, soft hands of his she knew so well around one of Casey's pale ones pierced Amber through, spiking her with venomous jealousy. And why not? If they broke up it'd be because of her. God he was infuriating, pig-headed and irrational and an idolater of his own brilliant ideas.

"I wasn't trying to be right!" Amber exclaimed. Now the hurt spread with the after-shock of her sudden and sharp jealousy, merging into the urge to scream. Why couldn't he believe her? She wasn't lying. "I was doing what I thought was best for her, how is that so wrong?!"

Wrong because now Casey couldn't move her legs. Wrong because it could be her fault. But it wasn't. The problem couldn't be with her immune system. Amber wouldn't believe otherwise until there were results declaring so. She might not have handled the treatment as picture-perfect as Eric liked, but Amber hadn't fucked up to that extent.

They were face to face now and never did Amber feel further away from him. Eric’s nostrils flared slightly, as if he took in such sharp breaths they couldn't stay still. "You did," Amber returned, quieter than her near-yells but so very bitter. "You ignored the test pointing to lupus."

You didn't give me a chance at all. Amber looked away, staring down at the floor. That much was true. She hadn't trusted him to try out his own idea, which had been (and was) just as likely as lupus. But she returned his gaze before long, eyes narrowing. Boohoo. Was she supposed to coddle him when she didn't agree? Would he have rather she sit back when she believed he was harming a patient? With all the cool strength of her determination, Amber repeated: "I was doing what I thought was best for her." If-- and very unlikely so-- she'd hurt Casey, then he could scream at her and her methods all he liked. But for her intentions? Amber wouldn't hear of it.

God, he was harping again about her work being all about him. "The patient comes first," Amber said. "Always." How could he gloat about being such a great doctor if he couldn't get that most basic notion down? "Look, do whatever you want-- ignore me, laugh in my face, stick gum on the sole of my shoes-- if you think that's what'll help best." Results. That was all that mattered. Why didn't he see that?

Eric went back to the door, turning to leave. Disgusted, Amber just crossed her arms. Let him. If he couldn't understand, or believe in, her words, then there was nothing else she could do.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

November 5, 2007 - Morning

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