Archive of Our Own

When Amber wakes, it's with the jumbled confusion of a dream or a faint. At first, above the worried murmurs, she can only hear the muted shrillness of medical equipment and alarms. Then, a voice: "Amber. I'm here. I'm here with you."

James.

She struggles towards him through a thick syrup of paralysis. She wants to feel the strong warmth of his hand squeezing hers, open her eyes to his red, damp, desperate stare. That first incredulous smile that will break across his face when he realizes she's awake--she wants that, it will be her victory, her proof of life.

But when she finally manages to blink, her throat struggling to form his name, there's no one there. Pain tugs at her like a treacherous current, threatening to pull her under. Sharp and immediate, her right thigh: hot, swollen, throbbing. Then, deeper, bruises and aches: her knees, her head. A wrenched shoulder, her neck in spasm, held in place by a cervical collar. Over it all, the sharp and grating surface: split lip, skin grazes, a long scrape of road rash along one side.

She is in a room so white it hurts, alone except for the wavy graph of EEG and heart monitor. Some distant part of herself manages to catalogue her sats and blood pressure. She's tachycardic, and she matches the fluttery, heavy feeling in her chest to her O2 in the low 90s. Each plunging push of her heart is weak, reluctant, as though her blood has turned viscous in her veins. She wants to gasp, draw in more air, but she can't. Even the cool flow from the nasal cannula only just allows her to breathe.

Her mouth is so dry. She struggles to move, to lick her lips, to call for help, but her groping hand--if it's actually moving as she imagines--can't find the call button. Even that small effort exhausts her.

But James was here. She can't have been dreaming that. She thought she woke, and he was lying in this bed with her, shedding all those wonderful, ridiculous inhibitions of his...he was there only for her...his laughter and tears mingling, mixing with hers. His rough, lovely voice, saying I love you over and over again. It's going to be all right. We found what was wrong, we restarted your heart, you're warming up, you're going to be fine...

But even in that dream, there was a catch. A strange, frantic tension in him. As though, as much as he was twined around her, holding her close, there was somewhere else he'd rather be.

Amber wants to frown. There was some hint, some clue. She saw it, but she can't remember now. Something James said? We found what was wrong...

We?

But she's too tired to think, and a sudden, irrepressible itch in her nose makes her cough and wriggle. Then, with a sudden wrench, she sneezes. Absurdly, that's the sound that alerts the nurses that she's awake. They scramble around her, checking readings, flashing penlights in her eyes, pricking her fingers and toes to assess sensation, asking orienting questions to assess mental status.

Amber lays back and lets them fuss. She remembers now. Recognizes the heaviness in her chest, the plugged feeling in her sinuses. It's almost the last insult: she still has the flu.

Any moment now, James is going to appear, shaken and joyful, or haggard and apologetic.

Any moment now--she's been telling herself that for far too long. Why wasn't he in the room when she woke? She can forgive his need for sleep, hygiene, food. But there was no sign of him, not even a chair pulled close to the metal cage of the bed frame.

The first person who comes in that she recognizes is Foreman. He wants to run her through his stupid gamut of a mental status evaluation. If she was feeling better, she'd already be stripping the leads from her skin and escaping. Since she can't, she asks, "Where's Wilson?"

That sets Foreman back on his heels. Did he think she'd turned into a vegetable, or that she'd let the important details slide just so that he could play it safe with a neurological exam intended for a five-year-old? Her voice may be harsh and thin, but after the nurses allowed her ice chips, and then a full glass of perfect, heavenly water, she can speak. If she can speak, she can demand answers. "Foreman. I'm oriented. Where is he?"

Foreman stares at her coolly, moving his assessment to a new level. "Taking care of House," he says finally, watching her closely.

Amber glares. She remembers, in flashes, that she went to pick up House at some dive bar. Sharrie's. They were in a crash--the nurses told her that much. So House is injured, too. She refuses to play the jealous girlfriend from her ICU bed, so she will accept that James is spread thin between them. Loving him means accepting House. She can forgive him missing their tearful reunion the exact second her eyes fluttered open. But that doesn't explain why James hasn't come to her even once, when she's been awake for hours. "Is he dying?" she asks, and she knows she sounds waspish. Cutthroat Bitch.

Foreman's face is a study in blandness, but his eyes are dark with something like anger, or maybe even sadness. Amber hates that she let her envy show, even after promising herself that House wouldn't get the better of her in their little tug-of-war. Is Foreman angry at her, for not being sad enough? Why should Foreman mourn House? He'll probably inherit his job. Foreman doesn't care about much else. "Come on," she insists. "Doctor-patient confidentiality got your tongue?"

Foreman gives a huffy sigh and a pointed shrug that means she should know better than to question him. "He had a complex partial seizure, on top of a longitudinal fracture of the temporal bone. And a heart attack."

Amber's eyes widen despite herself. "How are those connected?" she asks. A skull fracture in a crash--fine. The resulting subdural haematoma might have led to a seizure, if left untreated, or if House had aggravated it. But Cuddy should have known better. She should have strapped him to his bed. Put him under with drugs. And House's heart has always been, ironically, healthy. Unless there had been a chest injury too? But that's not what Foreman said.

"Still playing diagnostician?" Foreman asks. He has a stubborn, closed look on his face. So he regrets opening this can of worms. He's not about to put her off, not now.

"So there's something to diagnose," she says, in the playful, thoughtful tone she knows Foreman hates. He came back from Mercy and stole the job that should have been hers. So, she got fired. Life's not fair. But they are not friends, and she's not going to take it easy on him. "Something that you seem to want to blame me for, when I've been unconscious for a week." James's voice: We found what was wrong...

"He did something to aggravate the head injury," she says. As long as Foreman keeps standing in her room looking peeved and restless, she knows she's on the right tack. "Something related to diagnosing me. Why? What did I have?"

Foreman clips her chart sharply to end of her bed. "He had retrograde amnesia, but he insisted he saw a symptom in you," he says shortly. "He used DBS to remember it."

Amber refuses whatever guilt he's trying to offload. She's not responsible for House's hare-brained decisions. It sounds like he's lucky to be alive--but then, who knows better than she does that House will play at suicide for curiosity's sake, then let those around him clean up the mess? "He thought it was important. Was it?"

Foreman raises his chin and gives her an even stare. "He saved your life." And clearly Foreman doesn't know if it was worth it. He doesn't hate her enough to let her die, so it's something else. The course of treatment. Or Foreman's own feelings of self-importance. This time the risk didn't pay off, and House went too far.

Foreman leaves it at that and stomps from her room. Once he's gone she realizes he never answered her question. Is he dying?

James's absence might be answer enough.

The malpractice suit goes to trial within the year. Amber sits near the front of the gallery, behind the plaintiff's table, and two rows behind Blythe House. The courtroom is indecently cheerful. Sunlight streams from the skylights to gleam on polished white oak hardwood. Tricia Hartman has chosen the jury well. They look hushed, careful, interested. The kind of people who can follow facts and untangle jargon.

Cuddy sits opposite her, behind the defendant's table, which is well-stocked with hospital lawyers. She must know that Amber's there. She doesn't try to catch her eye, either with anger, recriminations, or with some last weak plea for mercy. She's pale, thin. Her hair is pulled back severely into a bun that some consultant probably told her to wear, so that she'd look the part of the serious, professional Dean of Medicine. Instead she looks haggard, the tendons in her neck standing out, her collarbones too sharp. A woman used to exhaustion can recognize the concealer beneath her eyes, the rouge that can't disguise her sallow cheeks. Even her suit: dark, conservative, no cleavage, no legs. The Board of Directors hasn't fired her yet, so that they can pretend to look confident in her decisions. No coverup here, your Honour, and of course we have complete faith in Dr. Cuddy's decisions... The last thing they want is for her to look like a whistleblower. Instead she's their patsy. Cuddy's on her way out.

Amber can admire a lot of what Lisa Cuddy accomplished. She can even admit that without Cuddy, there never would have been a Diagnostics Department. Amber's chance at a fellowship was cut short, but for those few months she didn't have to be simply good, she had to be great. She had to use everything she was, not just medicine, in order to win. Cuddy made that possible.

But it's not Cuddy she's here to save. Amber pays her debts, and Amber wins. If scorched earth is what it takes, then she's ready to take that on. Blythe House might not have been strong enough for this after John's death, if Amber hadn't called her, prodded her, asked her what justice silence served. Blythe is quiet now, pale almost to translucence, an inoffensive shadow. Yet she has her share of her son's stubbornness, and his contempt for excuses.

When Cuddy's called to the stand, her shoulders curve inward. Her eyes are a clear, watery blue. Another consultant has told her about the importance of eye contact, of open body language, of creating a connection with the jurors. Cuddy goes through the motions and looks like a broken puppet doing it.

Amber clenches her hands in her lap and thinks, Good.

Dr. Cuddy, you admitted Dr. House on the night of the crash, did you not?

Yes.

Can you tell us what his condition was at that time?

There was edema in the temporal lobe and evidence of short term memory loss. He was not always oriented as to time and person...

In fact, his temporal bone was fractured, was it not? I believe I have the scans here...

Yes, there was a fracture.

After his treatment at Princeton-Plainsboro, you told him to go home?

I did.

In fact, you arranged to provide both in-home nursing and security?

To ensure that he wouldn't further injure himself--

To ensure he didn't return to the hospital, wouldn't you say?

I--yes. I wanted him to rest.

And yet later that same night, Dr. House returned and you allowed him to continue practising medicine.

It seemed like the only--

And furthermore, Dr. House barricaded himself in a room with the patient and proceeded to stab him in the heart!

It was a medical procedure. A successful one. Dr. House aspirated an air bubble from the patient's--

Against your orders, Dr. Cuddy! While you watched and demanded that he stop! Are you saying you were wrong?

He saved the patient's life.

That wasn't the question, Dr. Cuddy. Were you, or were you not, correct to put Dr. House on bed rest?

Yes, he should have been resting, but--

And if that was the correct decision, then how can you justify allowing Dr. House not only to stay in the hospital, but to take on Amber Volakis's care as well?

James does come, eventually. Amber has the bed tilted up by then, supporting her leg. There's extensive muscular damage, beyond the torn femoral artery. She feels dull and distant with painkillers. Morphine drip in her arm. Fluids. Lucky she didn't fracture her femur... Already the hospital physiotherapist has been by. She outlined a litany of appointments and exercises to get Amber back on her feet. Dialysis five times a week and constant kidney function tests. Her kidneys may recover or they may not...a nephrologist will discuss transplant options with her, once they know more...

It all floats away, just a little beyond reach, like trying to drive after a forty-eight hour shift. And somehow the worst of it is that no one's thought to wash her hair in the week or more that she's been here. Or no one can. There are wires and tubes everywhere. A catheter, a pulse ox monitor, a blood pressure cuff. Even a sponge bath is a little beyond the orderlies, when Amber can't even roll over. But her head itches. Her hair feels dry, the ends split, and yet at the same time it coils, oily, on the back of her neck. Strands fall into her eyes and won't stay tucked behind her ears. She's never wanted a shower so badly in her life, and she can't even stand up.

That's when James slides the door open. They've moved her from the ICU. She has a private room (she doesn't want to think about who's paying for that), and for entertainment she has the choice of squeaking soles in the hallway, the view out the window into a parking lot, or the inane, insistent, creatively bankrupt soap that she knows all too well, thanks to House.

She can't keep focused, anyway. She keeps coming to herself and realizing that she's been staring into the distance, losing seconds and minutes at a time. When she turns her head at the sound of the door and James is there, she wants to cry. She hasn't, not yet, and his presence is like permission. Her eyes are hot, her throat closes.

And James comes to her. Wires or not, Amber wraps her arms around him. His breath shudders in her ear. He whispers, "I almost lost you, I almost--" He's crushing her, sobs catching in his chest, his nose pressed against her neck, his head twitching in tiny shakes of negation. What could have been.

God, she never wanted to be that woman, the one who cries at insurance commercials and orphaned kittens, but surely she can be forgiven the hot tears that leak into his hair--just as oily as hers, and that, too, is a comfort. He's kissing her, not passionately but desperately, as if he needs just one more avenue to touching her and proving that she's alive. Her lips are dry and chapped, his are just a hint too moist and there's a scent on his breath, a scent that brings back the memory of Sharrie's--House, his stale sweat, his loose grin, his caneless walk.

James would love to bury his face in her and forget. And that brings back the memory of another woman Amber never wanted to be--one of James's women, those helpless, shattered women that he likes to put back together just so. His version of the ship in a bottle. He remakes them and then they're untouchable, and he puts them aside, on some high shelf, healed and sealed in glass.

She refuses to be that woman, and so she won't let him cry over her too long. She draws him back, touches his mouth with the pad of her thumb, smiles at him--what does it matter if they're both trembling? "How's House?" she asks. The one route to a sure spot in James's heart--don't deny him House.

James shakes his head. "Let's not talk about that. You need to rest, to get better."

He starts to ease her back to the bed. Amber shakes her head and holds him close. She waits until he meets her eyes. She is not a child, not a china figurine. She is a doctor. "Is he dead?"

"He's--he's unconscious. He'll probably be fine."

He tries to sound authoritative and assured, but it falls flat. Amber never thought she'd see the day when James loses his cool giving bad news. He's always been so sweet, so earnest, so careful. But she can't stand not knowing if the caring is because he cares about her, or because he cares about caring. So when James says, He's going to be fine, it sounds a lot like flatline. And it's terrifying. James assures himself by assuring others. If he can't manage that, he may not be able to take care of himself. What the hell did House do to put James in this condition? She's suddenly furious with him. How dare he pull one of his stupid stunts? How dare he pretend to be invincible? The risk wasn't worth it, not if James is this shaky, a week later.

"What happened?" she asks, still gently, but with steel she expects James to respect.

James smiles, shakes his head. "I'm just glad you're all right." He tucks her hair back. It immediately slips forward again. "You sound so good. Stronger."

He doesn't want to talk about House. He certainly doesn't want to discuss why he hasn't visited until now. Amber narrows her eyes, then makes the call. She won't push him, yet. When he leaves, she'll get her hands on her chart. That will tell her most of what she needs to know.

It's another week before Foreman agrees to discharge her. Amber knows enough about Princeton-Plainsboro to know it's as much a turf war as a medical decision. Diagnostics, Nephrology, and Intensive Care are all edgy about having her on their service. She's a risk: malpractice suit walking. Foreman signs off on the discharge after making her sign a laundry list of I'm alive, I'm cogent, and I promise not to sue paperwork.

In the past week, the nurses' gossip has given her a handle on the edges of the situation. She was House's patient until he had the DBS-induced seizure. The last coherent thing he said was physostigmine. It's used to treat anticholingeric overdoses. For the first time, someone thought to check her prescriptions and realized she'd been taking rimantidine as a flu prophylactic. If it'd been any other medication in the amantadane class, and with her kidney damage, she'd have been a goner. As it was, there was a slim chance--rimantidine is tolerated at higher doses, for longer. They pumped her stomach, flooded her with cholinesterase inhibitors, and put her back on dialysis--and she pulled through, barely, while House went into emergency surgery for a severe brain bleed. He coded on the table. Chase dragged him back. Foreman got the bleed under control. Two weeks later he's still under. And no one will even breathe to Amber why House was such a suicidal dolt in the first place.

James has been by often, sneaking her in bits of her favourite foods, bringing flowers and, when she scoffed, showing her the medical journals and a trashy thriller novel that were her true present. For that he earned a real kiss. Amber licked her lips afterwards and didn't mention the taste of bourbon.

She had to call her parents, of course, and Rose is the one who comes to pick her up. It takes two orderlies to get her settled in her wheelchair. The nurse comes by with more paperwork and an explanation of her many, many medications. But it's the bottle of Vicodin that stands out, for post-operative and breakthrough pain.

"Why not a non-opiate?" Amber asks sharply.

The nurse blinks at her, and Rose intervenes with apologies. "It's not addictive if taken as prescribed," the nurse says, her voice rich with implied reprimand. Be a good girl, not a cautionary tale of non-compliance.

But it's habituating. Amber doesn't feel like explaining what this looks like: wound right thigh, the wheelchair that will upgrade to walker and eventually a cane, and the rattling pill bottle she'll keep in her purse. Instead she turns her face away, and lets Rose make assurances about how they'll follow up with Amber's primary care physician if they're concerned about the medication regimen.

"If they'd followed up with my GP in the first place, they'd have known about the flu pills," she mutters, while Rose pushes her towards the elevator. But she doesn't expect Rose to understand the niceties. Orders, on the other hand, from her poor crash-addled sister...well, she might be able to get away with one or two. "Fifth floor," she says sweetly to the suited man who holds the elevator door for them.

He pushes the button before Rose can object. "I just need to see my friend," she says, with wheedling charm.

Not that Rose believes it. "You mean the man you call your evil ex-boss?"

"He saved my life," Amber says, trying to project a martyred air. She wants to know just how indebted she ought to feel.

The ward where they're keeping House is hushed, with the kind of quiet that is built half from "ignore the vegetables" and half a mournful hope so old it's grown dusty with disuse. Rose reluctantly asks at the nurses' station for House's room number. Amber wants to wheel ahead, but she doesn't have the strength. She has to settle for clasping her hands on her lap and not snapping at Rose to get on with it. The door opens with a sweep and then they're in and--

House is awake. Sitting up in bed. Amber's mouth falls open, before she snaps it shut, knowing he'll take her surprise as an excuse to mock her.

But his expression doesn't change. He seems to have seen them--his eyes focus--but he looks at Amber with the same blank expectancy that he gives to Rose. Ordinarily Amber wouldn't mix House and family, but without Rose's help she wouldn't have made it here. And James is still refusing to act like she can handle any information beyond "you're going to be all right." He never told her House was awake!

"House," she snaps.

House's eyes had wandered. At the sound of his name he focuses again, this time on her face, but he doesn't say anything. Amber has no idea what to follow up with. She can't go back to the nurses' station and demand his chart, much as she would like to.

Which is when James walks into the room. His tie is loose at his throat and there's a pale spot of grease on his collar. His hair is dishevelled, and not in his adorable, post-sex way. He sees Amber and stops short. She can almost see him counting, and when he realizes he missed her discharge his eyes widen.

Amber isn't interested in apologies. "What's his prognosis?" she asks, in no mood for James's evasions.

"Minor impairment," he says. He even sounds like James again, his voice even and easy. With a smile, he acknowledges Rose, the awkwardness of the situation, and like usual it works. Amber can feel Rose relaxing into James's doctorly manner. "It's minor. Short term memory problems. Probably just the swelling. We're thinking of putting in a shunt until his CSF levels even out. It'll clear up."

It's the first time he's spoken to her like she's a doctor since she woke up. Amber wants to breathe a sigh of relief and accept it. But minor impairment? House hasn't even spoken! He looks like an empty puppet. He's not even following the conversation, as James introduces himself to Rose, says how much he's been wanting to meet Amber's family, how he's sorry he missed the chance to run interference with the nurses for them. House is staring at Amber. His eyes haven't left her face since she called his name. He stares solemnly, looking like a slightly dull two-year-old in a fifty-year-old's broken body. His mouth moves, opens. He manages a swallow, and then he says, "Amber."

James breaks off his small talk in an instant. Amber can't blame him. She feels frozen, like House's one word has iced her into place.

"House?" James leaps to House's side. He swipes a penlight across his eyes and peers into House's face. "House, it's me."

House blinks and shifts slightly to avoid James. He meets Amber's eyes again. "Amber," he says. It's quite clear, quite distinct. "Amber. Wilson's going to hate me."

She can't help it. It's the only remotely helpful thing she can think to do. She snaps back: "You kind of deserve it."

"Amber!" James spins to face her, one hand clutching at House's. He looks torn, scandalized. Shattered.

House says, "He's my best friend."

Amber's heart hammers in her chest. Adrenaline swamps her. But she forces herself to soften, to meet House's empty-blue eyes. "I know."

"Am I dead?"

"Not yet," she says, because House, even semi-conscious brain-damaged House, doesn't want to hear platitudes.

He gives the ghost of a nod, and it's like she can see him fading, retreating. "Should be," he says, and the shutter falls. He's a sleepwalker again, a haunting.

James is already yelling for the nurses. He turns back to House and for all the world it looks like he wants to slap him, to demand that House see him, acknowledge him. He holds himself together enough to beg instead, to say, "I'm here." He goes to the EEG monitor and scrapes the last minute of the feed through his hands, tracing the alpha waves for buried clues. A nurse rushes in and James orders a stimulant, which he feeds into House's line like an addict shooting up.

Amber sits in her wheelchair, forgotten. Her leg throbs. "Rose," she says. "Let's go."

"But James--"

"Leave him," Amber says. She's beginning to think this is one war of attrition she isn't ever going to win.

When Hartman calls Wilson to the stand, he looks painstakingly perfect. His suit is freshly pressed and well-tailored. His hair is sleek and combed, if a little longer than orthodox (and how Amber misses the short style that once showed off his cheekbones, his jaw). He is clean-shaven, a barber's close shave that belies the slight tremble in his hands. Amber wonders if she's the only one who can tell that his eyes are a little too red, that he walks a little too carefully. He winces at the bang of the judge's gavel.

Hartman has no trouble building his resume, his accomplishments. Wilson is affable, personable, a touch self-deprecating. Unlike Cuddy, he has no problem connecting with the jury, and more than one of them nod in sympathy when his voice breaks, describing Amber's injuries in the crash.

Amber sits cool as marble and watches. Wilson doesn't try to meet her eyes, but he does send a pleading glance towards Blythe. She had to be coaxed to confront him and demand he sign over House's power of attorney. Blythe believed the best of Wilson, his knowledge and his friendship. Of course Wilson is House's friend, Amber pointed out, but an oncologist is not a neurologist, and specialised, long-term care requires more than good intentions. It was for Wilson's sake that she wanted Blythe to demand better.

Wilson was far from ready to admit Blythe's claim. His lawyer pressed the estrangement, the distance, Blythe's lack of medical expertise, but Blythe frostily countered every move. In the end, parental privilege won out.

Hartman gives Wilson time to recover, offers him water. Her next line of questions won't be so soft-hearted.

And that is when Dr. House recommended transporting Ms Volakis from Princeton General to Princeton-Plainsboro?

Yes. Their facilities were overwhelmed--

Of course, you wanted the best care. But when Dr. House suggested you were Ms Volakis's next of kin, you didn't think to correct him? To call her sister, Rose Gorski?

I wanted to. But finding their contact information, the time it would take...

Would have been prohibitive.

Yes.

And yet, despite your concern for Ms Volakis's delicate situation, isn't it true that there were no trained and accredited paramedics with her in the ambulance?

The driver--

Was not the one holding the ventilation bag. Nor was he involved in Dr. House's decision--

My decision.

Excuse me, your decision, to put Ms Volakis on bypass.

We needed time to figure out what was wrong with her.

And what was wrong with her, Dr. Wilson?

Rimantidine poisoning, due to kidney failure.

And what was the treatment?

Stomach pumping. Immediate dialysis. And an antidote to the drug.

Which she received at Princeton-Plainsboro, and we are all very grateful that she recovered. However, Dr. Wilson. I know this is a difficult fact to face. But wasn't Ms Volakis receiving dialysis before your dangerous decision to move her?

Objection, your Honour--the danger is not established--

Excuse me, your Honour. Dr. Wilson. Before your decision to transport Ms Volakis, was she or was she not receiving the proper treatment?

Yes, but at the time, no one knew the underlying cause of her system failures. It might not have been--

Nevertheless, isn't it true that the problem would have been resolved by her original treatment?

But no one knew that!

Dr. Wilson...

Yes. Yes, dialysis would have solved the problem.

Thank you. Now, Dr. Wilson, I want to establish how you and Dr. House discovered that Ms Volakis had rimantidine poisoning. As her partner, were you aware that she was on a prophylactic protocol due to a severe flu at her workplace?

No, I didn't know.

She didn't tell you about the flu that was going around?

Yes--probably--I-- I didn't ask what she was taking for it.

Well, we don't always. But surely you had access to Ms Volakis's medical information--the name of her doctor, who prescribed the medication?

No. We didn't--I didn't know her doctor's name.

Ms Volakis had a calendar where that information was available. Her computer was recovered by Dr. House's associates.

I didn't--

Did Dr. House keep that information from you?

No, I didn't...ask.

Indeed.

But look, this isn't about Amber. She recovered. This is about House--Dr. House--

Yes, it is. So how was the information uncovered? The information that led to saving Ms Volakis's life?

House thought he remembered a symptom. He volunteered to undergo deep brain stimulation in order to recover that information. To remember what he'd seen.

A very dangerous procedure.

Yes.

When he was already injured, quite severely. When he'd suffered a heart attack that morning...

He volunteered.

And you approved? You had his medical proxy, and you, in good conscience, believed that he was competent to make that decision?

I--

In fact, Dr. Wilson, didn't Dr. House object to the danger? Didn't you have to specifically request that he undergo--

Objection!

--the procedure that caused his seizure, and his further brain damage, the procedure from which he has yet to recover--

Objection, your Honour, prejudicial!

Sustained. Ms Hartman.

Yes, your Honour. Only one further question. Dr. Wilson. How much do you drink?

I--I don't--how is that relevant?

Your Honour!

Withdrawn, your Honour. No further questions.

The days at Rose's house blur together. Amber is a prisoner in the guest bedroom, while Rose's kids scream in and out of the room, or wail from distant parts of the house. Rose's husband Otto sticks his head in once a day to see if there's anything she needs, but they've never been close, and it's more comfortable for both of them if he shuffles off to do whatever CPAs do in months other than April. For the rest of the time, Amber is bored. Thoroughly, painfully bored. She sets her mind to push through physiotherapy faster than any other patient, until Dionne, her therapist, takes one look at the angry swelling of her leg and tells her to lay off the exercises except as often, and as fast, as Dionne allows.

No wonder House started popping pills, if this is what his recovery was like. At least if she was high on Vicodin, she wouldn't be stuck wondering all the same stupid questions as when she and James first started going out, except magnified a thousand-fold. Where is James? Is he with House? Is he drunk?

Oh, he visits. Very prim and proper. He brings Rose her favourite Starbucks drink. He brings the boys candy. He shakes Otto's hand. He sits with Amber, tells her about all his patients one by one, going over their protocols and chemotherapy regimens. He even asks her advice, very sincerely. He appreciates her input, which would be great, if she felt like repeating her second-year med school oncology coursework.

Once, Rose asks James to stay for dinner. He tells nervous anecdotes and refills his wine glass three times before Amber pinches his thigh under the table. Otto serves the coffee strong and black. Wilson accepts a mug, but after that night, he eels out of any further invitations. Not that Rose is inclined to offer them. Amber protests, "He's stressed," feeling like a traitor to the cool, steady girlfriend she always thought she'd be. Not the enabler. Rose shrugs, her I didn't say anything, I didn't ask shrug, and Amber seethes.

She wants to ask about House. Not for House's sake--sorry, Greg, not everything is about you--but for James's. It's like their sex life, their furniture life, all over again. He wants something, needs something. She knows he does. But she can't make the decision for him. Whatever will help him, she wants to give him. But she is not going to do the work for him. She is not going to make up his mind for him. If he needs to talk about House, he'll bring him up himself.

Every day he comes she bites her tongue harder than the time before. Until one day he stands up, reaches for his coat, and Amber realizes: He believes that this is how we are now. This isn't just a phase that he'll get over, a stage of grief he'll work through on his own. This is James's complete inability to deal with conflict. House used to shove him face-first at reality. But it's her job now.

Before James can ease himself from the room, she says, "What exactly is the plan for House?"

"What do you mean?" James asks warily.

"He's recovered, hasn't he? The skull fracture? The swelling?"

James nods cautiously. "He's still not quite..."

"Verbal?" Amber asks. "Continent?"

"Himself." James scrubs his face, squeezes the bridge of his nose. "Amber, can we--"

"I'm not sure himself is something we should be aiming for," Amber says. "Performing basic hygiene might be a more realistic goal. Or maybe I'm wrong--but how would I know, if you don't tell me?"

She knows she's gone too far by the way James's lips crimp shut. She meant it as a plea--James, tell me what's going on--and he takes it as interference. One more meddling girlfriend or wife who complains about his asshole friend and his upside down priorities. She knows how James resents any trespass on his relationship with House, but she will not take the blame for his silence. She snaps her mouth shut and lets him make excuses, his escape. The hospital needs him. Sure.

James doesn't stop coming after that, but he grows more distant. He smiles more, talks less. But she loves him. He's still coming.

A month after the crash she can get to the washroom with her walker. She can take a shower perched on a stool. She can sit on the side of her bed and do five knee extensions before she's bathed in sweat and reaching for her decidedly non-Vicodin NSAIDs.

Her kidney function is rocky, but acceptable, and the dialysis appointments taper off. "Did you know you can live on half a kidney?" her nephrologist asks her cheerfully. "And you're lucky--you have two halves." Amber smiles thinly and wishes she were in a better position to stalk out of the idiot's office.

One day when Rose takes both her screaming menaces out of the house, Amber makes her way to the phone and grits her teeth as she dials.

"Hello?"

"Look," Amber says, to forestall Thirteen's mockery. "I know that we aren't friends. But if you don't get over here today, I am going to start caring about Prescription Passion."

"Ah," Thirteen says. She is laughing at Amber. What else is new. "We couldn't have that."

Amber gives her the address and slams the phone down, and makes her victorious way back to the couch, which has replaced the guest bed as her penitentiary of choice.

Thirteen knocks, and comes in on her own when Amber throws the remote at the front door. She walks around with her hands stuffed in her pockets, crossing various landmines of toys and forgotten cereal bowls. "So this is where you're living?"

"Until I can walk up my own stairs," Amber says. She is determined not to think about paying rent on her ridiculous medical leave 'salary'. Or about her health insurance deductible. As for getting back to work-- "Please tell me that Foreman isn't head of Diagnostics."

"Interim head," Thirteen admits, with a wicked smirk that makes Amber offer a small smile in return. Foreman must despise the 'interim' part...so Kutner, Taub, and Thirteen are probably repeating it at every opportunity. She sighs and sits back. Finally, she exists in the real world again. She should have called Thirteen sooner.

Thirteen takes another tour of the living room, frowning. Amber waits for her to bring up House. After weeks with James, she has the patience of a saint. Thirteen does not.

"House is--" She stops. "I mean--has Wilson told you?"

Amber affects the sweetest persona she can reasonably get away with. "Told me what?"

"He has anterograde amnesia." Thirteen laughs uncomfortably. "He's still asking about you."

"He's not getting better," Amber says, more a suggestion than a question. If the damage prevents House from forming new memories, then he'll never move past that moment on the bus. Every time he sees her he'll be triggered to repeat the loop, trying to save her, unaware that months have passed.

Thirteen shakes her head. "Sometimes he looks right past us all, as if you're the only one he can see. He calls your name--" She looks down at her hands, as if there might be answers written there. It's a ritual gesture, as if she's searching for a symptom she doesn't want to believe exists. "I don't think any of us are getting better from this."

"I am," Amber says with serene confidence. But it's a lie. If House calls her name then it's more than an anterograde loop. Hallucinations? He doesn't respond to anyone else, and James hasn't said a word.

Thirteen raises her eyebrow. "You know, I believe you," she says, with elfin irony. There is an infinite number of unspoken questions about James there. How obvious is he at work? How much does Thirteen know?

Amber leaves the bait well alone. "How did it happen?" she asks instead.

"House fucked up," Thirteen says. Everyone loves an audience, a confessional.

Amber settles in to learn the truth.

By dint of working her ass off every day--well, really, working her glutes, her quads, her adductors, and her hamstrings--Amber is upgraded to a cane after two months. By dint of hounding every medical professional she encounters with smiling, soft-spoken compliance and pointed inquisitions into their methods and prescriptions, she gets the go-ahead to return to what they so euphemistically call independent living. Meaning, back on the job in two weeks (legs aren't needed for reading radiology images) and back to her own, blessedly nephew-free, apartment.

James is at the hospital, so Rose drives her. Amber waves her off when Rose threatens to carry her suitcase up the stairs to her door. "If I can't do it myself, I have no business moving home."

Rose clearly thinks she has no business moving home, but knows better than to fight. She and Otto have been sniping at each other more. The boys recently took Amber's side when deciding on the DVD for Family Movie Night, and it turns out families don't bond over horror. James, as a guest, does get anxious enough to be cloying after too long. It's time.

Amber works her way stepwise up to her door, one hand on the railing and the other dragging her case. When she opens the door, it's everything she didn't want Rose to see.

James has been living here, of course. At least someone could take advantage of her lease. Amber wasn't about to kick him out, and she couldn't exactly lay down rules like a parent laying down the law before leaving their teenager home alone for the weekend.

If she thought there was a chance...well. She knows better now. Paperwork, bills, and journals tower on the kitchen table. There are old-fashioned glasses, empty, beside every chair. Dishes soaking in the scummy sink. The fridge is empty; the freezer is full of microwaveable meals. The recycling bin is full to overflowing. She can't empty it herself, but she gives it a sharp whack with her cane. Glass rattles.

Amber makes her way to the bedroom. The sheets are stale, thrown back. The only clean clothes in evidence are the garment bags of service-delivered dry cleaning. The rest are random piles of laundry, boxers and undershirts mostly. A few forlorn, wrinkled ties. One loafer pokes out of the open closet, where the hangers jangle, empty.

Randomly, she returns to the kitchen, one hand sifting through torn-open mail. There are letters upon letters, all on legal paper, from James's bank. Amber stares at them for a long time before the dots connect. He's emptied his accounts. Liquidated investments. His retirement account balance is $127.52.

She has health insurance. She supposes House does too. But there's insurance, and then there's the kind of full-time care that a disabled brain-damaged addict needs. How long has he been in a private room at Princeton-Plainsboro? Where is he going to go after that?

There is support, and then there is the slow, stubborn suicide of someone who does not know how to give up caring. Amber calls a cleaning service and watches the every move of the poor woman who shows up with a vacuum. After that, the apartment is clean--and empty.

James doesn't come home until after eleven. Amber sits in her easy chair and listens to him fumble with his keys. He drops them twice.

When he stumbles in, he sees her with a guilty start. Distantly, Amber remembers promising herself that she would never allow herself to make James feel that way--ashamed of coming home. Now, though, she doesn't care. "Private care?" she asks, carefully calm. "On your salary?"

To his credit--what's left of it--James recovers quickly. "No. I--Amber." He hasn't said hello yet, but then neither has she. Don't relationships work past that stage eventually, though? Either way, Amber's not in the mood for a romantic greeting. "I want to bring him home."

For a moment, it doesn't register. The sheer effort of having House return to his apartment, and the expense of having twenty-four/seven private nursing for him there, overwhelms her before she realizes. "Home? As in, my home?"

"He doesn't have anywhere else to go. His parents are elderly..."

"His parents probably said no!"

James stutters, which means Amber scored a point, but he reorients quickly. "He has tremors, and with his leg, he's had falls. The short-term memory loss...he doesn't know when he's taken his Vicodin and he nearly overdosed."

"How is that different from usual?" Amber asks bitingly.

James's shoulders slump. He moves carefully through the pindrop-tidy living room, and settles on the couch across from her. "He needs the care," he says. "Amber, I wouldn't ask, if he had anywhere else to go."

Amber forces herself to take a calming breath. She will not fall prey to James's little-boy-lost act. But neither will she shoot him down when this is the first time he's spoken to her honestly since the crash. "I know you want to make sure he's all right. But the expense is already..." She doesn't know whether to admit she read his bills, his bank statements. James doesn't seem to notice.

"I can take a leave," he says earnestly. "Between the two of us--"

No. No. Not for all the tea in China and a gold-plated diagnostics fellowship. The two of them taking care of House full time? Hold him back from taking too many pain pills, like that was easy when he had what passes for reason? She can't think of a worse way to destroy their relationship. She is not a caretaker. She is a highly trained, respected radiologist. James has a department headship. He's not thinking clearly. He's not considering that her apartment is not remotely handicap accessible, nor can they make it so by wishing. She has a lease that says no renovations. The stairs out front aren't going to be replaced by a sparkly unicorn escalator any time soon. But now, nearing midnight, it feels like James is long past rational arguments. Maybe the only way to make him hear is to demand something on her own account.

"I am not going to quit my job to play candy striper," she says. She has every intention of being gentle, but shouldn't he know this about her? Shouldn't he, with all his sensitivity, respect her choice instead of foisting his asshole friend on her?

"I wouldn't ask you to," he says. "I promise, Amber. I'm not trying to lay this on you."

Amber closes her eyes. What he doesn't realize is that it would come to that. He may have all the best intentions in the world, but that is not how the world works. If Amber keeps her job and James goes on leave, everyone will ask why. If James were facing facts he'd understand. He wants them to take in an infant. That is what House's condition amounts to. And everyone will call James noble, and call Amber a bitch. That would be fine--she's lived through worse--but James will start to resent her.

"I want to believe you," she says, her eyes still closed, fighting back tears. "But James, whether you do this for House or for me, you're taking on too much. You can't save everyone."

When she opens her eyes, James is kneeling at her feet. He looks so open. They haven't touched in months but the dark, pleading look in his eyes catches at her heart and she cups his face, draws him up for a kiss. He kisses her back, soft-mouthed, present in a way she hasn't felt in too long. She squeezes her eyes closed against a second prickling of tears. "James," she says, fighting to keep her voice even. "Why? Why you? Why do you always have to be the one who--who cares?" Who gets walked on, like a damn doormat? Cuddy could arrange disability compensation. There are institutions. But if she suggests them, then she's a monster.

James shakes his head. His shoulders tremble under her hands. Amber strokes her fingers through his hair. "What is it?" she whispers. This is more than just his usual self-sacrifice. There has to be something he hasn't said. Something that explains the bachelor's party worth of empty liquor bottles in her recycling.

"I--" James's voice breaks and Amber wants to draw him closer, but he won't leave his spot on the floor, kneeling before her like she can absolve him. "I asked him. To do the DBS. To save you."

Amber's breath catches. In the quiet between them it sounds very loud. "I thought he offered."

"It was his idea." James seems to struggle, to push the words out. "But I asked him. Even if it meant risking his life for yours."

James's eyes are damp. He stares at her, begging her to understand. "It's my fault," he says. "The brain damage, any impairment he's left with. If he even gets better..."

Which is looking less likely by the day. Amber wants to be furious, with James, with House, with her own self for trying to play the good Samaritan on James's behalf. If he'd been alone on that bus, he'd have a skull fracture, nothing more.

James knows that. He sinks in guilt like it's quicksand. Amber can forgive him, but it won't take. He'll mull it over and find a thousand other ways he was culpable. It comes down to this: Amber answered the phone when James was at work, and she, not he, went to scoop up House's drunk and disorderly ass. For that, James will lock himself up and throw away the key. The alcohol is only a means to an end.

She pets James's hair, and lets him move away and rub the bridge of his nose, erasing the evidence of tears. But she will not allow House into this apartment. He didn't save her life in order for James to throw it away. They go to bed, James silent and hunched for so long that she knows he's waiting for her to fall asleep first, so that he can find his own way unconscious.

And she thinks: A skull fracture that was serious, but not life-threatening. A skull fracture that was improving with proper care, before James--and Cuddy by extension--gave House access to hospital resources, hospital equipment. Before they blasted his brain with electricity.

House saved her life, true. But if this is how it left them, Amber can't be sure it was worth it.

Thirteen strides to the stand when she's called. She's wearing a vest and pantsuit, her almond eyes dark with makeup, her lips touched with a hint of clear gloss. She looks neither left nor right, but when she sits in the witness box, she is the first one to seek out Amber's eyes, and nod.

Wilson and Cuddy were always going to be defensive on the stand. Thirteen is brash and defiant. She doesn't care if the jurors like her, but she's always had a talent for a salacious story. She tells it straight, but with a "can you believe this?" quirk of mouth and eyebrows that sells it more than wallowing in the details ever could. This much wrongdoing by this many people has its own fascination. Thirteen sets her jaw and squeezes her fists--the instinctive habit of someone using isometric exercises to strengthen her muscles, or to hide an incipient tremor.

Amber nods back. She doesn't think much of Thirteen's nihilism, but she can understand it. And of course, when it comes to the case, she has no problem using it. Tears seep down Blythe's cheeks as Thirteen describes House refusing, again and again, against advice, against sense, to rest. The jury must notice. One more count in their favour.

Dr. Hadley, you expressed reservations about treating Ms Volakis, didn't you? Directly to Dr. House, as well as to Dr. Foreman?

Yes.

There was a clear conflict of interest?

House changed how he approached the case. He treated Wilson like a family member, not a doctor.

And Dr. Wilson? Did his approach differ?

He was a wreck. We all were. But he was frantic about Amber. He would have done anything to keep her alive, even if it didn't make sense medically.

So the deep brain stimulation was--

There was no evidence that it would work. House was hallucinating. Fainting. He took four Vicodin in one dose--that I saw. He took drugs intended for Alzheimer's patients, to force himself to remember. I don't think they were even prescribed. He was running around the hospital--

And Dr. Cuddy allowed this?

She gave him CPR when he had the heart attack. She ordered him to stop treating patients. But when he underwent the DBS, she wasn't even there.

Now, Dr. Hadley, you've already walked us through a timeline in which you searched Ms Volakis's home, you discovered diet pills in her vitamins. But no one thought to contact her primary care doctor to get this allegedly impossible information about her prescriptions?

No. I--

And why are you here today, Dr. Hadley? You've implicated yourself in this case, and yet you've come forward with a clear account of the highly irregular procedures at Princeton-Plainsboro.

I've already lost my job. I--discovered I have Huntington's.

I'm very sorry, Dr. Hadley.

Yeah. Everybody dies. I'll be just like House, in a few years. At least one of us should get the care we need.

Perhaps James thought that one late night plea session, and a lot of soulful looks, would be enough to ease House into their lives. That Amber would wake up one morning, realize she owes her life to the risk House took, and feel honour-bound to give him sponge-baths for the rest of his life.

If so, James thought wrong. Amber is more than prepared to be honourable--but on her own terms.

She returns to work. It's never been as exciting as those few months chasing after House. But it's steady, and quiet, and gives her time to indulge in her new hobby of internet diagnostics. People share the weirdest things on message boards. Amber builds patient histories out of badly-punctuated pleas for help. Sometimes she gives them the language they need to take to their doctors. Sometimes she outs them as fakers. It's something to do, while she waits for the proper time to act.

The deadline she's set for herself is the day when Dionne gives her permission to ditch the cane. One by one she's tapered off her meds, built strength and flexibility. She imagines herself as she once was: pencil skirt, silk blouse, and, wonder of near-forgotten wonders, high heels. She doesn't like the few pounds she's put on. She's rounder in hips and thighs, but not in the breasts, where she could arguably use the padding. Her face is rounder too, softer in the jaw. She stares at herself in the mirror and hates the shape she sees, that saggy flesh, the age-lines that come from months of pain.

She wrenches open the medicine cabinet and takes out the rattling bottle of Serutan's Multi-Complete Tablets For Women. Uppers and appetite depressants--they weren't about her weight when she started taking them, just about staying awake and alert through every second of one of House's insane cases, where a new symptom could pop up at any time, and a new symptom meant a new chance to win. She rather liked the sharper Amber that emerged, all angles. But never again is she going to give James the chance to wonder. Or to say I told you so.

Amber takes the bottle and marches out to the living room where James is nodding over the newspaper. She doubts he's read a word.

"I'm throwing these out," she says, tossing the bottle at his chest.

He takes a moment to focus, and then he smiles. "Good for you," he says, with genuine warmth.

"I'm not touching them again. It was no way to cope," she says. Yes, there's an implicit quid pro quo, and yes, she wants him to read her mind. It's his chance to climb to his feet in realization, and pour the booze down the sink. But James only gets up to hug her, and murmurs "Thank you," into her hair.

This isn't supposed to be her intervention. She shrugs away from him. Why does she always fall into the same trap? If she wants something, she needs to say so. It's not fair to him otherwise. "So maybe you can do the same," she says, tilting her head at the glass on the coffee table.

"This?" he asks with a blink. "It's just a drink. It's hardly the same--"

Amber raises an eyebrow, and waits, as if he's going to realize.

"It's Sunday," he explains.

It's ten AM. But this has never been about the details.

James sees the seriousness on her face and says, "I think I'd know if I was overdoing it. I've been friends with House for ten years."

And yet he just loves to repeat every excuse in the book. "And right now he's hurt, and you're hurting," Amber says, reaching out for him.

James shakes his head, and turns away. "I can't believe you'd--you'd accuse me. I told you about..." His voice trails off, and the corners of his mouth turn down. She knows he's talking about his brother. Danny would use alcohol to suppress the voices. It never worked. But Danny would get frantic, violent. James just gets sloppier, sleepier. Forgetful. Peaceful.

"What if I asked you to cut back?" she asks. For me? God, every time this happens, every time she confronts him, it happens all over again. She's playing the ghost of Julies and Bonnies past. She doesn't need to wait for him to resent her. She resents herself enough already.

"You're being ridiculous," he says, with an incredulous laugh. "I don't want to talk about this." He hands her the glass, gives her a tiny bow, as if he's her smart-alecky servant. "There, all right? I'm--I'm going out."

He grabs his coat and keys and walks out. She doesn't follow him. She can guess where he's going. To the hospital. To a bar. It doesn't matter. Either way he'll get more. At least Amber never, ever has to worry about James taking anything but a cab.

If she thought anyone would be hurt, she'd report him. But when she visits him at work, none of it shows. He's a little mussed, a little bemused, but he is still, fundamentally, James. Or maybe, he's the man she met first, before she learned about James; he's Dr. Wilson. His charting is near illegible, he hesitates longer, stammers from time to time. But he's there. He listens. When Amber shows up one day to offer the gift of a free lunch hour, he smiles at her like she more than exists, like he loves her. He takes her by the elbow and ushers her out of his office, and gives her the tour of the wards.

He knows every patient's name. He excuses himself from Amber to sit on the edge of an older woman's bed--her chest swathed in bandages from a mastectomy--and hold her hand while they go over the side effects of her anti-emetics. A few moments later, a nurse approaches him, uncertain about interrupting, but Wilson steps aside for a low-voiced consultation. When the nurse leaves, she's smiling again, confident.

They have lunch on the roof, in the sun, and Wilson even laughs once or twice, his smile curling just so, his eyes lighting up, and Amber wants to think that this is who he is.

But she can't forget that when Wilson edged her out of his office, there was a red mug on his desk, and Wilson looked up guiltily from the desk drawer he was closing. The mug is House's old favourite, claimed from the drainboard in Diagnostics. After Wilson is paged back to work, Amber returns to his quiet, tidy office and sits in his office chair. A scatter of dust motes float in the sun. The window blinds are closed--she can't see Foreman or any of the others through the balcony door. She swirls the last swallow that's left in the red mug, then sets it back precisely in its wet ring-stain on the desk.

Wilson didn't have time to lock his desk drawers. She opens the lower-most left, and moves a few empty files aside. The whiskey, too, could be a keepsake from House: it's House's brand. But not House's bottle any more.

The day that House comes home, Amber is working late.

Wilson knows this, because of course there is no other time when he can safely assume her permission. They haven't talked much after their one late-night standoff. "I'd like to sit down and discuss this," Wilson says, with perfect earnestness, but somehow it's never the right time. Wilson is working, and she would rather have him working than passing out on her couch, and so she says nothing, until it's too late to admit she was wrong to let the nothing grow so big.

Amber has been pointedly, thoroughly dis-involved. She will not be House's naughty nurse. She's made that clear. And Wilson nodded without ever mentioning House's discharge date.

When she gets home, Wilson is speaking to the nurse he's hired, a middle-aged woman who despite her solid profile seems like she'll wrench her back trying to move House safely. Wilson listens intently, nodding, arms crossed thoughtfully. And Amber thinks, When was the last time he listened like that to me?

The nurse, bless her pragmatic soul, is pointing out that a clawfoot tub with no non-slip mats, let alone grab bars, is not exactly conducive to keeping House free of bedsores and BO. Wilson assures her that they'll see to it, yes, and to the unlocked medicine cabinet, and to the uncovered outlets--House has apparently retained his fascination with all things electrical.

House is sitting on the couch, staring above and to the left of a DVRed episode of Prescription Passion. He's dressed in a loose t-shirt and droopy sweatpants. His shoes are slip-ons of a particularly sad and spiritless grey. The cane is hospital-issue. Amber sits down in the arm chair. Gradually, his gaze shifts, his head turns, and then he's watching her back. Not curiously. Not sarcastically. Just dead, blank, blue.

Wilson touches House's shoulder and he flinches. Wilson smiles carefully, and speaks in Amber's general direction: "It's temporary."

"My lease is up this month," she points out.

"The hospital needed the bed," Wilson says, still not quite to her face. It's almost as unnerving as House's direct, empty stare. "I'll get online. Find us a place, where we all fit."

"With a room for the nurse," Amber says distantly. "I assume you've hired another one for the night shift."

Wilson nods, a nod that isn't a promise, a nod that is in fact a no. "He's fine overnight. He has a prescription for Ambien."

Amber stands up and walks out of the room. There's a microwave meal for one with her name on it. Wilson follows her. "His temporal bone is fused again, there's no sign of edema on the MRI. His liver's doing great, now that he's off the Vicodin. Just methadone. The nurse will give it."

"Hmm," Amber says, watching the cardboard meal rotate in the microwave.

"I'm sorry, Amber," Wilson says. "It was this, or--"

As if he ever once thought about or.

"I understand," she answers. The microwave dings. She takes out the meal and kisses Wilson as she passes him in the kitchen doorway. She takes a fork, and goes to the bedroom. She stabs her Hungry Man and lets the steam out. Eats. Reads. Waits.

At eight PM, the nurse goes off shift. Wilson thanks her, walks her to the door--how long will that little ritual stand up? Then she hears Wilson, trying to urge House to the toilet, to swallow his sleeping pill, to--Goddammit, House--

She gets up and closes the door.

She wakes in the cool blue of three AM. She fell asleep on top of the blankets and she's chilled. She throws on Wilson's McGill sweatshirt; beneath it, nothing. The television's ghost-junk murmur leads her to the living room. House hasn't moved. He sees her. His eyes follow her as she comes around the couch.

She sits beside him and lifts one hand to his cheek. He shivers, but doesn't flinch. His stubble rasps against her palm, and he watches her, almost there, almost alive. "I'm in there, aren't I?" she murmurs. "I'm in your head..."

House swallows, and says, "Amber."

"I'm just a mirage to you." Amber shakes her head. What must it be like, to remember nothing but her? Her illness, her death. The patient he doesn't know he cured. "You saved me, and this is the thanks you get."

"I saved you," he echoes. Or maybe, for once, this once, it's not an echo.

She reaches out and grasps his hand. His fingers are slack in her grip. God, when's the last time anyone has touched her? Wilson falls asleep on the couch, in the easy chair, the guest bed--he doesn't touch, anymore. More than once she's thought about airhorns, icebaths, espresso. Not about touching.

House accepts her hand on his with a patient, childish pout. No lechery. No mockery. He doesn't flinch back from her. The opposite, in fact. He stares at her with a trembling, ugly, un-Houselike need. He wants to get closer and know that she's real.

Amber could wrap herself around him. She's already inside his head, so why not this? Why not press against him? She's his memory and his malfunction. She almost likes the power. Let House live his nightmare. This is his fault. He took the man she loved and made this.

"What now?" she asks him, a whisper in the dark.

House frowns slightly. He ducks his chin, and then he's squeezing her hand. His grip is strong, warm. "Get off the bus," he says, with dull panic. "Amber. Get off the bus. Get off--"

Amber wrenches away from him and stumbles back. House slumps slightly but he's still watching her. He'll always watch her, while she's here.

The note she leaves says, I have to walk away clean.