Oh, this was just too precious. Amber was standing up for Foreman. Pretending he hadn't been a stuffed shirt to her. As if House didn't know that Foreman was a condescending jerk to everyone, and that was on a good day. Thirteen had admitted Amber and Foreman fought while he was gone. A desultory follow-up with the other candidates had confirmed it, although no one had been interested in spilling the juiciest of the details. The best he'd gotten was out of Kutner, who'd quite innocently mentioned that Foreman had thought for a while the patient had MS, when the chart clearly showed treatment for lupus in Amber's distinctive handwriting. That couldn't have been a pretty sight. House almost regretted not hanging around with a bucket of popcorn. Whether over race or medicine, Foreman's pride would be the problem, if Amber didn't suck him dry and lay her eggs in him first.

Letting Amber rant about just how happy she was--as if true happiness didn't need any defense at all--House considered the effect of a patronizing pat to her shoulder, but resisted with the knowledge that he'd probably pull back a bloody stump. He had enough mobility issues as it was. "You'll give me what I want, but not Foreman," he said, raising his eyebrows in innocent inquiry. Amber was ready to go, the locker door shoved closed, her dander up, anger sparking in her eyes. Not a bad sight; he could almost see what Foreman saw in her. "You'd dig up corpses for me, but you wouldn't treat a patient for a disease the tests pointed to if Foreman asked." He shook his head in not-quite-honest confusion. "Which one of us are you fucking, again?"