Barbed Wire
When Amber was seven, she used to play hide-and-seek with the other kids from school in the basement of Tommy's apartment building. He lived in a standard post-war middle-class high-rise with a large basement. On one end there was the big room that they ran around in, right by the elevators and the washing machines. On the other end were the storage units, riddled with roach motels and mousetraps smeared with peanut butter, which according to Tommy's dad was more effective than cheese and didn't go bad like cheese did.
Crouched in the darkness of the women's bathroom, by the gym they weren't allowed into, she would hide from whoever was seeking at the time, eyes shut and head leaning against the wall, willing her heart to stop pounding in her chest. The others liked to joke that her heartbeat was so loud that you could hear it some distance away, making it easier to find her. That was a bit of an exaggeration, but at the time her body was small and thin enough for her heartbeat to feel like a pounding baseline when it was beating quickly.
She wasn't always the first one found, but it happened often enough for her to not particularly like playing hide-and-seek.
But honestly, what else was there to do? They often found themselves with a lack of things to do when it was raining—if you had asked any one of them, they would have told you that they much preferred going to the park. But Tommy, unlike Josh, didn't have a video game system, which was fun even though they had to take turns.
When Eva would walk her home later, Amber would watch 9th Avenue as it turned into Columbus Avenue at 59th street. One building in particular was surrounding by a high brick wall, which was adorned with coils of barbed wire.
"That's to keep people out," Eva explained to her. "The pointy bits cut you if you try to climb over it."
"It's kind of scary," Amber admitted, hoping that her heart wasn't pounding too loud like it always did when she played hide-and-seek.
"Hmm." Eva shook her head. "Then it's doing its job."
"So you're from New York?" Wilson asked as he grabbed a bag of chips on the lunch line and put it on his tray. "Where did you live?"
"West side," Amber answered. Her own tray was empty. "Right by Columbus Circle."
"No way." Wilson smiled. "My ex and I lived on 83rd and Amsterdam before we moved to Princeton."
For some reason, transient and non-New Yorkers liked to assume that if you lived on the same side of Central Park as someone, you automatically were neighbors. However, 62nd street wasn't particularly close to 83rd. Not far at all, but honestly, it's not like they crossed paths every day or something. "Wow, really?" she answered politely, casually putting her unfilled tray down as Wilson moved to pay for his own food. "I'm guessing you went to school in New York, then."
"Columbia, med school. You aren't getting anything to eat?" Wilson asked, gesturing at Amber's empty hands after tucking his wallet into his pocket.
"I had a big breakfast." She smiled sweetly and followed Wilson over to his table. "So Dr. House is too busy to eat lunch with you today?"
"Shouldn't you be?" Wilson put his tray down at an inconspicuous corner table and sat. "And you are aware that talking to me won't get you the job, right?"
Amber rolled her eyes, joining him at the table. "Trust me, I've heard it from about ten other people already. I'm just trying to understand the man who has somehow been able to put up with House for x-number of years."
"'Put up with' is an accurate way of describing it," Wilson answered, looking down at the sandwich with disdain, as if he could have made it better. They tended to use too much mayo at times, she had decided, so he was probably right. "I can't even remember how long I've known him. Must have been right about when I started here."
"Oh, come on, I'd think that you'd be keeping track down to the day. I'm sure there's something in the Guinness Book of Records about the longest time spent with Dr. Gregory House. You could have beat the record by now."
Wilson shook his head, a soft smile on his face. "No, I think his mother still holds that record, despite House's greatest efforts." He glanced at her through a suspicious squint before turning his attention back down to his presumably mayo-drenched sandwich. "So what, are you trying to get trade secrets on House or something? I don't think I'll have the book published in time for when he makes his final decision."
Amber smirked. "No, but I'm sure a lot of people are waiting to read it. You might want to hurry."
"I can't help the fact that I keep pushing back the deadline," Wilson joked dryly. He made a lot of dry jokes, which she decided was definitely part of his charm if you liked that sort of thing. "Ever week merits a new chapter. Like ... attempted-near-suicide, apparently."
Amber frowned. The curious incident of the knife in the electrical outlet had occurred over a month ago. Everyone else seemed to have gotten over it, but there Wilson was, frowning over a mayo sandwich with turkey, lettuce, and Swiss cheese, the memories replaying in his mind as if they were fresh. She wanted to say something comforting, at least for the sake of making his subtle version of the thousand-yard stare fade back into something slightly-less-but-still-a-bit world-weary, but couldn't bring herself to do so.
Fortunately, Wilson looked back up, recovering for both of them. "Things happen quickly here," he said wisely, finishing the sentence with a sizeable bite of his sandwich. "What happens one day is usually forgotten three days later." He smirked. "Not even infamy lasts as long as it used to. The only reason why anyone ever pays attention to House is that he's practically a part of the orientation tour now."
Amber snorted softly. "Seriously?"
"'That's House. He's crazy. Ignore him, and if you're lucky he'll ignore you.' Even I say it sometimes."
"Best friends indeed."
"It's just survival technique." Wilson shook his head. "Listen to me, I'm making this place sound crazier than it really is." He stood, picking up his tray without breaking eye contact with Amber. "I wish I could give you advice, but I sometimes wonder if I'm holding up myself. It's not easy, and I can't tell you it's worth it because that's your decision in the end. But you clearly know what you're doing, and I think you can do very well given the right opportunities."
Amber smiled, because for some reason the sentence was a little more heart-warming than it should have been. Maybe it was because she knew that nobody else really liked her on a person-to-person basis, and Dr. Wilson was the first person who was giving her the time of day and enjoying it. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," Wilson answered, smiling back at her. "I'm gonna head back up to my office—turns out I wasn't too hungry either." He started to walk away, and as she stood to follow him, he quickly turned back and added: "Actually, I think I might have a bit of advice for you. In case you haven't noticed, House likes feeling as though he's superior in more ways than just 'I'm right and you're wrong.' Sometimes it pays to show a bit of weakness, because sometimes that's exactly what he's looking for."
She snorted ungracefully. "Seriously? That's counterintuitive."
Wilson shook his head. "Strength doesn't appeal to all of us, Dr. Volakis."
"So how did your date with Dr. Wilson go?" Taub asked, suddenly appearing at Amber's side as she walked down the hall.
"Jesus," she gasped, putting her hand on her chest and exhaling loudly.
"That good?" he continued, deadpan.
"You scared the hell out of me," Amber growled. "And it wasn't a date. I just bumped into him and we started talking."
Taub shook his head in disbelief. "So it's a coincidence that you happened to bump into your potential boss' best friend?"
"Yes. Were you following me?"
"You know that sucking up to or sucking off Wilson won't get you the job, right?"
"I wasn't—!"
"Sure." Taub changed the subject with an eye roll. Amber was glad he did, partially because she didn't like that people kept on accusing her of trying to sleep to the top. She had stronger morals than that. She was Cutthroat Bitch, not Cutthroat Whore. She had hoped that Taub, out of all of them, would have thought better of her after all those weeks working together. That was of course assuming she had tried to redeem herself in his eyes. "Did you get 'Cuddy's underwear?'"
"Here you go," Amber said, furtively slipping a black thong into his suit pocket. "Think he'll fall for it?"
"With House? You can never be sure." He glanced at her and shrugged, his hand lingering slightly over his suit pocket, and the conversation lulled.
"What?" she asked accusingly, instinctively.
"What?" he asked, looking back at her. He was genuinely confused, and if there was something else under the surface she wasn't about to dig for it.
"Nothing, I guess." Amber looked up, a thin expression on her face.
When Amber was seventeen, she and Tom got piss drunk and walked up and down Columbus avenue, killing time until they were sober again. It was 12:45, and fortunately they hadn't bumped into any cops because their fake IDs were sitting uselessly on the kitchen table next to the half-empty bottle of Classic Smirnoff Red Label. "Half-full," Tom had pointed out before stumbling through the front door. Amber quickly followed him out, IDs carelessly forgotten.
Now, as they meandered around town, Amber brushed back her bangs and whined: "I'm bored."
"Cheer up, Amb," Tom said, appearing behind her. He wrapped his arms protectively around her waist, nudged aside her long blonde hair with his nose, and brought his lips to her neck. He was a few inches shorter than her, which made it a little awkward on top of the alcohol. "We could always ... have sex," he offered, his voice attempting a whisper but still managing to slide up to normal volume.
"Tempting," Amber considered, but drunken sex was sloppy and she hadn't enjoyed it last time they did it. Tom had passed out on top of her in the middle of it and she had to wait at least five minutes before she could get him off. That, and they weren't dating or anything, so while the occasional casual lay was appreciated she didn't want it to become anything consistent or serious.
They were at about 61st street when Amber noticed the high brick wall with barbed wire along the top, and impulsively turned to Tom. "Help me up," she quickly said, giving him a wide-eyed mischievous look.
"Wh-what?" Tom asked, drunkenly confused.
"I'm gonna climb the wall."
"That's stupid."
"I've always wanted to!"
"That's stupider."
"Oh, shut up and help me," Amber said, slurring despite the sharpness of her tone. She turned onto 61st street where they were hidden in shadows and put her palms against the wall.
Behind her, Tom shrugged, planting a quick kiss on the back of her head before grabbing her by the legs and pushing her up. Amber flailed slightly, disoriented, but recognized the top of the wall when it blurred into sight.
"You got it?" Tom asked, grunting slightly from the effort.
"Yup!" Amber proclaimed, propping her arms against the top of the brick. Up close the barbed wire seemed more menacing but also more spaced out. She grabbed a smooth part of the wire with her right hand and took a deep breath. "Let go of my legs!"
After a pause Tom obliged, and Amber remembered gravity's presence as it yanked down on her. Still, she didn't let go, instead propping her left foot on the edge of a slightly out-of-place brick, her right leg dangling freely. She lifted her torso a little more, getting more of her on the brick part of the wall, inches away from the sharp wire. "Tom!" Amber called down. "Push my right leg up so I can get it on the wall!"
"I have a really bad feeling about this," Tom warned, but she still felt his hands push her leg up towards the top of the wall. Her foot found the wall and she realized how awkward of a stretch it was, and how ridiculous it would have looked if anyone other than Tom had been around to see it.
"I don't think I'm going to get over," Amber admitted, sighing and enjoying the feeling of her head lolling about sullenly.
"Told you," Tom said proudly.
"I'm gonna drop myself down, so catch me. Count of three. One—" She adjusted her right hand's grip on the wire. "Two—" She pulled herself up to the wire so she could push herself off of the wall. Her heart was pounding, for some reason. "Three!"
And then she was in Tom's arms, and he was stumbling under her weight. She didn't even remember the part where she was falling, which is too bad because it probably would have been fun. "Fuck!" he hissed as he lowered her to the floor. "You're too big for this."
"I am not fat."
"Never said that." He looked down at her leg. "Whoa, you okay?"
Amber followed his gaze and noticed a tear in her jeans and a splotch of red spreading around it. "Shit," she muttered. "Didn't even realize I cut it." Things were less fuzzy than they were before, seeing as injury was a pretty effective buzz-kill. A quick look up at Tom showed her that he echoed her sentiments. "Musta gotten my leg caught when I was pushing myself back down."
"Should we go to the hospital?" Tom asked.
"No, doesn't look deep."
"It's bleeding a lot."
"Who's the doctor here?"
"Not yet," Tom retorted, rolling his eyes. "You haven't even gotten into college yet."
"But I will." Amber pushed herself into a standing position. "Let's just get back to your place. I can take care of it there."
Tom grudgingly helped her back, mercifully avoiding the doorman. Amber's hunch was right: once the wound was cleaner they could see that it was short and shallow.
"What about your jeans?" Tom asked as Amber put a band-aid on the cut.
"I can fix the tear," Amber answered proudly.
"I meant that your mom's gonna notice."
"I'll tell her." Amber looked back up at him. "I'm not afraid of her. Not too keen on Dad finding out, but that's just 'cause he doesn't understand girl problems."
"Climbing a wall when drunk and cutting yourself on barbed wire is a girl problem?" Tom raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"Well, you know," Amber answered before leaning in to kiss him.
Amber's mother was about as relieved that the cut wouldn't need stitches as she was angry with Amber for being irresponsible. Naturally, the topic of alcohol hadn't come up, and neither had the topic of sex, despite the fact that they had both seen the torn condom wrapper in Amber's purse.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry you didn't get the job," Wilson said kindly, passing the breadbasket to Amber. "Bread?"
"No thanks." Amber shook her head, soaking in the scenery of the small Italian restaurant. "But thanks for the thought. And the dinner invitation."
"No problem." Wilson smiled and looked at one of the rustic yellow walls. Amber followed his gaze to a painting of a Mediterranean beach in a wooden frame. "It's one of my favorite restaurants in Princeton. Southern food. It's heavy on the red sauce, but it's still good."
"Yeah, I remember." Amber rested her forearms on the table. "It's a nice place. Charming."
"I'm glad you like it." The conversation lulled a bit, and Wilson cleared his throat awkwardly. "I hate to bring it up again, especially considering that it's a fresh wound—"
"No, it's fine now. The first two days were the hardest. It's the end of day three and I'm feeling great," Amber insisted, and she was pretty sure that she wasn't lying.
"I'm glad. But I was wondering: do you still have that old job you can go back to? Because if you don't, I can put in a good word for you somewhere."
"I did have a job back at a Clinic in Manhattan, but I had to quit after a few weeks with House. I couldn't do it, you know? I don't know if they'll take me back," Amber admitted. "They replaced me immediately after I left, so I doubt there's anything open for me."
"I'm sorry. I put in a good word at any hospital if you want."
"But would any doctor listen to your good words even though I didn't work with you?" Amber asked.
"Only because we have a friend in common. Well, friend is an exaggeration, but you know what I mean." Wilson smiled and dipped some of his bread in olive oil. "House is pretty infamous."
Amber laughed lightly. "Speaking of the devil, how are House and his three boy toys doing?"
"Oh, you didn't hear?" Wilson asked, surprised. "House hired Thirteen back."
"What?" Amber's jaw dropped in disbelief, and she did nothing to hide it.
"Yeah," Wilson said slowly, frowning. It looked like he was trying really hard not to offend her. "Cuddy complained that he had only hired men and it would look bad, so he would have to hire a woman as well. So he hired Thirteen back."
"Ugh, bitch." Amber paused and looked up at Wilson remorsefully. "Sorry, that was inappropriate."
Wilson laughed. "No, it's fine. You're entitled to a bit of bitterness, at least."
"I know. I just don't really want you to keep viewing me as 'Cutthroat Bitch,' you know? I never minded it at work, but now? Not so much."
"Are you sure it never bothered you?" Wilson asked tentatively.
Amber shrugged. "Maybe? I don't know. As long as I got the job I didn't care. Fat load of good it did me."
"You know, somewhere under that bravado there's vulnerability."
"Sure. It's because my dad used to beat my cat just to spite me." Amber rolled her eyes. "Don't psychoanalyze me. I'm not House. Thankfully."
"A fate worse than death." Wilson smiled up at the waiter as their appetizers arrived. "But that's why House got rid of you, isn't it? Because you didn't like losing. It's the same thing."
"It's the same thing as what?" Amber asked sharply. "As being House?"
"As not showing vulnerability."
"Wilson—"
"I'm James when we're eating dinner," Wilson said lightly.
"Right." Amber frowned down at her salad, flicking a walnut away.
Wilson put his fork down and stared at Amber. It would have been intimidating if he hadn't had the best intentions. Instead, she felt something stir in her solar plexus. "I'm sorry." He chuckled awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. "It's not my place to—"
"You were the first person who reached out to me," Amber blurted out. "People are always really intimidated by me. I push forward by pushing out of the way. I haven't felt close to a person in a really long time." She felt the blood rush to her face as her heart sped up. She hoped he couldn't hear it, but wouldn't be surprised if he did. "I'm ... I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from."
Wilson smiled and reached across the table, comfortingly taking her hand in his. "I'm glad you said it."
"I'm not usually like this."
"Most people aren't." Wilson shrugged. "If there's any way I can help you out right now—talk to doctors, write a recommendation, make House sign a recommendation ... I'm willing to do it."
"I'd like someone to talk to," Amber admitted.
"Of course," Wilson insisted.
"I won't ever change," Amber warned, sounding less certain than she really felt, "but I can try."
"Like I said, underneath the bravado there's vulnerability. We all have it." He ran his large fingers through her thin ones, glancing down at their hands for a moment before locking their gazes once more. She felt light-headed. "Let me help."
"Hello?"
"Hey, Amber? It's Kutner."
"Kutner?" Amber sat up and clutched her phone tightly, her body tensing despite his jovial tone.
"Yeah, remember? Guy you worked with for two months or something?" Kutner joked good-naturedly.
"No, of course I remember," Amber answered neutrally. She looked at the clock. Already 10:30. Shit. Overslept. At least it was Saturday.
"Yeah." He paused and sounded like he was shifting around uncomfortably wherever he was calling from. "I was just wondering, do you want to go out and grab drinks or something tonight after work? It's been a while."
"It's been four days."
"Like I said, a while." She heard him smile on his end of the line. "So, what do you say?"
"Is this a date? Because ... I'm kind of spoken for," Amber said, her voice only slightly apologetic.
"Really? I didn't know you—"
"It's kind of new." Amber's lips tightened and she smoothed the sheets that were covering her. "Is that—"
"No reason we can't just get drinks together tonight, right? As friends?" His tone was completely hopeful. Too bad, Kutner was kind of cute, in the same way that a puppy was cute.
"I have plans tonight." It wasn't entirely a lie. Hopefully she would have plans. It all depended on if Wilson called her. He would, if the previous night had meant anything.
"Oh." If Kutner was dejected, he was doing a mediocre job of hiding it. "With—yeah. Okay. I'll see you around, then?"
"Sure, why not." Amber allowed herself to smile, maybe to make up for the previous two months. "Bye, Kutner."
"I can't believe Amber's dating Wilson," Taub said, looking up from the newspaper he was reading.
"And I can't believe you're still thinking about it," Thirteen shot back, not looking up from hers. "It's been almost a week."
"Yeah, don't talk about it. I'd rather not see House get pissy again," Kutner warned, leaning back in his chair.
"Why, are you jealous?" Thirteen prodded, glancing at Taub with a smug look on her face.
"What did I just say about talking about it?" Kutner frowned. "Foreman, back me up here."
"I'm not jealous," Taub shot back, blatantly ignoring Kutner. "I just didn't think she would date someone like Wilson."
"What's wrong with Wilson?" Thirteen asked, putting down her newspaper.
"Would you date him?"
"I don't know. Maybe?" Thirteen shook her head. "You're jealous of Wilson, aren't you?"
"Why would I be jealous?" Taub scoffed.
"Seriously, guys—"
"Shut up, Kutner," Thirteen snapped, causing Kutner to shrink in his seat. She leaned forward in her seat, looking directly at Taub. She had the kind of gaze that could strip you bare if she looked at you for too long. Kind of like House. Taub was glad that he didn't unravel so easily. "Amber's attractive. Wilson's tapping that. Anyone would be jealous." She smirked. "It's just a matter of people who are more jealous than others."
"Why should I be jealous? I'm happily married," Taub answered.
"Isn't that the problem, though?" Thirteen noted cryptically.
"Kutner's right," Foreman finally said, looking at Taub and Thirteen with an annoyed stare usually reserved for House. "It's none of our business, and if House gets annoyed he's going to take it out on me."
"He takes it out on all of us," Kutner protested, albeit half-heartedly due to Foreman's previous praise.
"Very true," House said, appearing at the door. The three new fellows jumped slightly at House's sudden appearance and hard stare. Foreman merely shook his head and looked back down at his book. "Nobody can ever tell me that I'm not an equal opportunity employer."
They sat and listened as House told them about their new patient, freshly delivered by one Dr. Lisa Cuddy. After a quick round of initial diagnoses, House sent them off to do various tests.
"Wait, Taub," House said as they all left for their respective tests. "I'll walk with you."
"You'll slow me down," Taub said. "I thought you said we had to hurry."
"I won't slow you down that much," House responded lightly. "You're short; you can't walk fast to begin with."
"Faster than you," Taub muttered under his breath, but let House follow him anyway.
"So," House said after a moment, once a shared pace had been silently determined, "did you hear that Wilson moved in with the Bitch?"
Taub flinched inwardly, but kept a steady profile. "Why would this concern me?"
"I don't know." House shrugged, glancing up at the ceiling carelessly. "Concern for former coworkers? Gossip? General curiosity?"
"Well, I'm glad for her," Taub said neutrally.
To Taub's right, House smiled. "You're jealous." When Taub didn't answer, he continued: "But don't worry. I won't tell."
"There's nothing to tell," Taub insisted, and sped up.
"That's the last of your stuff," Amber said, wiping her hands with accomplishment against her thighs as she glanced around the newly unpacked living room. It looked almost the same, except with a couple of extra touches of James E. Wilson. But that's kind of how Wilson worked, she had decided. He left little impressions of himself on the people he was close to, a subtle way of showing that he had been there. If you looked closely, maybe you could see it on House too. "You're nowofficially moved in with me."
"Great," Wilson responded, but his tone was somewhat half-hearted. Despite the fact that he was facing away from her, she could see his reflection in the hall mirror. The look on his face was distant, and he was staring at something that wasn't even in the room. It was eerie.
"What's wrong?" Amber asked, standing behind Wilson and draping her arms over his shoulders. She stared at their reflection in the mirror, which could have been a portrait of their new life together if Wilson hadn't looked so distant. Maybe the look on his face would change if they moved two inches to the right, leaving room for a tall, gaunt man to take his place beside them.
If all they posed for a portrait, would House put his hand on Wilson's shoulder territorially, or just stand there because he knew that he could never be erased? Amber shook the image from her mind, partially because she would never pose for a portrait with Gregory House.
"Nothing really." Wilson turned to face Amber. "I'm happy."
"I know you are," Amber lied. Well, he was happy, but sometimes she wondered. "But something's still bothering you. That's okay. Just tell me what it is."
Wilson smiled, this time more sincerely. "I'm just thinking about what House said last week. It's bothering me."
Amber rolled her eyes. "I think I know how your exes feel," she said dryly, and at Wilson's hurt expression she added: "You earned that one. I'm not angry, just ... don't think about it. You don't have to. It's not a clause written in the eternal friendship agreement you signed with House."
"Actually, it might be written somewhere in there," Wilson joked.
"Don't scare me like that."
"Sorry." Wilson shook his head. "I'm just surprised by him, that's all. It's not him to suddenly ... give me up, I guess."
"Are you ... disappointed or something?" Amber asked, for some reason afraid of broaching the subject. "I mean, maybe he'll move on to other things as well. Maybe he'll hook up with Cuddy or something."
Wilson winced.
"So it's one thing when you find someone away from him, and it's another when he finds someone away from you?" Amber frowned and crossed her arms. "That's—"
"Hypocritical, I know. Thanks for pointing that out."
"I wasn't trying to be a bitch," Amber said with slight annoyance. "I mean, I know it comes naturally to me—"
"Amber, don't," Wilson breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"This is why you kept it from him," Amber continued, hands on her hips. "Because you knew he would butt in and get in the way of us and eventually tear us apart. Just like all of your other relationships. Well, fight it. Foronce."
"It wasn't always his fault," Wilson protested. "It was mine too."
"James," Amber insisted, grabbing his shoulders.
Wilson didn't respond, his shoulders tense. He was looking right at her, but it looked like he was looking beyond her, at something else. "You're not second," he said after a moment.
"What?" Amber asked, her tone soft. She frowned delicately and ran her hands down his arms. "What do you—do you think I really care about that?"
"You do," Wilson answered, tilting his head to look down. When he looked back at her, his eyes were so honest that she wanted to look away. "That part of you hasn't changed."
When Amber was twenty-seven, she and Tom met up for the first time since before college. Unsurprisingly they decided to go to their favorite little Mexican place on 9th Avenue for dinner and catching up.
"You cut your hair," Tom said, not running his hands through it as he once would. Amber would have been offended if it hadn't been so long since he had last done that. "And when did you start dressing so conservatively?"
"I could say the same to you," Amber offered.
"I'm a suit now. You just ... I don't know, you changed."
"I don't see how," Amber protested. "I'm just the same as before. I don't have bangs anymore, but I'm just as ambitious and stubborn as I was before." She smiled, hoping that he would smile back. He didn't. "Besides," she continued, "there's nothing wrong with change."
"I guess not," Tom answered, slowing to a stop as they passed the tall brick wall. It looked exactly the same as before.
Amber would have brought up that one drunken evening, but she wasn't sure whose argument about change that would support so opted not to. "You'd think they would have taken down the barbed wire by now," she instead said. To her right, Tom shrugged. "What, you don't think so?"
"The neighborhood is better than it was before, but it's still New York. They have things like this up in Carnegie Hill too," Tom answered.
"Wait, you live up there?" Amber asked excitedly, remembering things as they were, before they had grown up and apart. "When did you move?"
"Two years after college," Tom answered uncomfortably, "when things got serious with Jane."
"Who's Jane?" Amber looked at him oddly. "You're seeing someone?"
"I thought I told you about Jane. She works at Goldman-Sachs with me." He frowned. "You don't mind, do you?"
Amber couldn't help but sneer. "What was that for?"
"Amb—"
"I was more offended that you hadn't told your one of your oldest childhood friends. It hadnothing to do with the fact that we were each other's firsts."
Tom snorted derisively and turned away. "You can't even say that we dated?"
"We never did," she spat back. "It was just sex."
Less that a minute of uncomfortable silence later, Amber realized that "just sex" was interchangeable, in context, with "just sex." After an additional minute of silence and a slightly awkward topic change, they continued down to 54th street to get dinner. Unsurprisingly, the conversation was a little more strained after that.
"Usually it takes longer before you come running back to me," House noted, hogging the bag of barbecue chips in his lap. "And yet here you are. I thought you had dinner with the Bitch tonight."
"Shut up," Wilson said, snatching the chips back from House. "I didn't. I told her that I kind of wanted to hang out with you tonight. She understood, which is surprising because I don't even understand why."
"It's because you hate commitment and will eventually cheat on her." House smirked. "Well, it's almost been two months, anyway. If you break up before next week, you owe me money."
"I'm not betting on my relationship with Amber," Wilson said tersely.
"Only when you were lying about it. Then it was okay."
"Like Isaid, I—"
"Or maybe you don't want to bet on it because you aren't sure how much longer it's going to last?" House proposed.
Wilson stared back at him with a cold expression.
"That hit a nerve." House chewed on his lip and looked back at the television. "Yup," he continued with self-confidence. "It's almost over."
"You always joked about this," Wilson eventually said, shoving chips into his mouth with little elegance. "Always gave expiration dates on my relationships. You were always wrong."
"If I remember correctly, I was always right," House corrected.
"You always said 'soon,' only you'd say it for months and months, so yeah, eventually you were right. But you always doomed them sooner than they died."
"Well, I think I might be right in this case," House stated pleasantly, grabbing the chips from Wilson. "Careful, if you keep eating like that you'll gain weight."
"Ohshut up."
"So what is she doing tonight anyway?" House asked, changing the subject enough to distract Wilson without dropping it entirely. "I don't think she's crying in her room because her man ditched her for the evening. Woman has a heart of ice."
"She made dinner plans. Last minute," Wilson answered neutrally. "Taub, I think."
House raised an eyebrow, remembering his conversation with Taub a few weeks earlier. "Really?"
"Yeah, really." Wilson frowned. "Why? What's with that look?"
"No, nothing. I'm just surprised. I thought she hated him." House sniffed and looked back at the television.
Wilson shrugged. "And I thought she hated everyone on your team. I guess we were both wrong."
"There's something you don't know about your girlfriend, then," House pointed out, strangely pleased by this fact. He counted up another little silent victory for Team House. He hadn't kept track of the score, but figured he was leading Team Bitch by several points at least.
"I've known you for ages and there are still things I don't know about you," Wilson countered.
House would have said: "That's arguable," but realized that it didn't help his argument and opted not to say it. "So you have secrets. Who knows what she's capable of?" House instead asked. "She could be at a sleazy nightclub with Taub right now, dancing seductively, six shots of tequila in her—"
Wilson looked horrified. "Amber's not like that," he quickly protested.
"—before going into the back room where they meet Kutner and Thirteen. Before you know it, they're all naked—"
"House—"
"—sticking things in random orifices—"
"House—"
"—Amber doing lines of cocaine off of Thirteen's ass—actually, that sounds really hot—"
"House!"
House looked back at Wilson, who now had the most ridiculous offended-but-almost-amused look on his face. "What, you don't think Amber doing lines off of Thirteen's ass sounds ridiculously hot? Maybe we should get them to—"
"House." Wilson's face was now so severe that House wasn't sure it would ever go back to normal. He wasn't angry, per se, but looked like he was getting there.
"You are such a buzzkill tonight," House joked, nonetheless shooting Wilson a dirty look. "When we celebrate your eventual breakup with Amber, remind me that I'll need extra alcohol to make you lighten up. I'll even get my hands on some cocaine, if that'll help. Maybe if you're lucky I'll let you do it off of my ass."
Wilson didn't answer, only widened his eyes and tilted his head in disbelief.
"I thought you'd say that. It's a good thing neither of us do cocaine," House responded, hoping the joke would relieve the awkward tension that had settled in the room.
It didn't.
"It was nice, catching up," Amber admitted, putting her fork down. She smiled across the table and was surprised to find that it was genuine.
"Yeah," Taub shrugged. "Feels like it's been a while."
"I didn't really see you the few times I've visited the hospital."
"You were visiting Wilson," Taub corrected somewhat firmly. "And much as Wilson likes to visit House, he never really brought you along. Or ... visit when you were around."
Amber sensed something underneath the words, but chose not to comment, or even to think about it. "Well, I'm here now, I guess."
"The first few weeks were weird," Taub confessed, laughing uncomfortably and looking down. "It was so weird to think that it wasn't a test, that we actually had these jobs, that I was working with just Foreman and Kutner and Thirteen."
"Ever figure out what her name was?"
"Yeah. Hadley."
"Huh." Amber bit her lip. "Really?"
"We still call her Thirteen though." Taub smiled up at her before looking back down at the plate. "What was weirder was knowing that you and Cole weren't coming back. I mean, with Brennan, Dobson and those three other women, I never really had time to get to know them or get used to them."
"Except maybe Brennan, but boy did he turn out crazy," Amber joked. After a pause, she added: "If you want to tell me that you miss me, you should just tell me."
"You just wouldn't be Amber Volakis if you weren't so annoyingly blunt," Taub commented wryly.
"Says the guy who handled my underwear. If you don't know a guy after that, then when do you know him?" She could think of a few things, and she hoped that he wouldn't bring them up. Even though part of her did. "I've always wanted to ask you something, but I never had the guts to do it, for some reason."
"What?" Taub answered, his face not giving anything away.
"Obviously you worked in Manhattan ... did you grow up there?"
The look on Taub's face softened. "Yeah, did you?"
Amber nodded. "What school did you go to?"
"Dalton."
"Wow. All the way through?"
"Sure did. How about you?"
Amber leaned back. "Saint Ann's until 8th grade, then I went to Sacred Heart for high school." She rolled her eyes. "Mom complained about the fact that Saint Ann's didn't give actual grades and said that colleges wouldn't take that as seriously as a 4.0. Which isn't necessarily true, especially considering how many students there go to good universities after they graduate."
"I always thought that was kind of weird," Taub commented. "So you went to Sacred Heart instead?" When Amber nodded, he shifted in his seat. "So ... Catholic schoolgirl?"
"Why, Dr. Taub, I hope that isn't a turn-on," she joked. She might have been serious.
"Hah." He was smiling, but he looked uncomfortable. "What did I tell you before about shiksas?"
"Doesn't mean it isn't a turn-on."
The conversation was straying into dangerous territory, and Amber felt herself straightening in her chair. Across the table, Taub was doing the same. If she had been sappy person, she probably would have described the sensation as a thread connecting their hearts, pulling them closer. But that was idiotic. She forced the image from her mind and instead stared straight at Taub's eyes. They were brown.
"What about Wilson?" he asked. It would have been jumping the gun if he hadn't been reading her mind.
"He's distracted," she answered confidently. "The man distances himself as soon as you get him close. He's uncommitted, but he won't cheat anymore. Too proud for that." She looked down, uncomfortable that she had just divulged so much about Wilson to Taub. What was Wilson's business was his own business ... and hers. Not Taub's, regardless of what they were possibly-maybe about to do. Which was possibly-maybe a good mistake. "He won't mind."
"How can you be sure?" Taub seemed especially apprehensive, probably given his own parallel circumstances.
"It's a way out, isn't it?" Amber sighed and shifted in her seat. "I'm more concerned about your wife."
Taub sat silently. His gravity wasn't a surprise.
"I'm..." Amber started, looking down. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"
"She's still living in New York, at least until she can find a good job out here," he interrupted. "Didn't want to move when there was a chance that I wouldn't be keeping this job." He locked eyes at her, silently pleading something that she wasn't entirely sure she could read. "She comes on Friday night, leaves on Sunday afternoon."
A pause. It was Wednesday. "Yes," Amber answered, calling over the waiter with an elegantly brusque hand signal. At least, she had answered what she assumed was the silent question. Taub's expression didn't change, either way.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" the waiter said, taking their plates.
"Just the check, please," Taub said, still looking directly at Amber. She couldn't look away. He couldn't either.
"You really want Amber and I to break up, don't you," Wilson finally said. He still hadn't looked at House, instead facing forward, his jaw set at an offended angle, and staring blankly at the movie that was on television. House hadn't paid attention. It might have beenPolice Academy, but neither of them was laughing.
"Oh come on, Wilson," House complained, looking over at the younger man. "I gave you my ble—"
"Exactly! But you didn't really mean it, did you?" Wilson shouted. He turned to look at House with seething eyes. House would have been more intimidated if he weren't used to it by this point. "You accepted it so long as you could watch it deteriorate from the sidelines. You were fine because you were waiting for the pattern to repeat itself, and for me to crash on your sofa for a few weeks until I can get a new place or ... or move back into the hotel or something."
"You'renot moving back into that hotel," House said firmly. "It's pathetic. And it makes me look bad as your friend."
"Youwant Amber and I to break up, and you told me otherwise so that I couldn't notice it or just ignore it or something," Wilson pressed. "You're jealous of what we have because it doesn't include you."
"Yeah, funny you should say that. Because you just admitted that your relationship with Amber isn't going so well."
"Of course it isn't!" Wilson yelled, failing miserably to restrain himself. "But I wasn't going to talk about it because I don'twant it to!"
They fell into a tense silence, both staring at the other. House wondered if his eyes were flashing like Wilson had described a few weeks earlier, and forced the thought from his mind.
Loath as House was willing to admit it, Wilson really was happy with Amber the Cutthroat Bitch. Even though she was just a pale imitation of his best friend.
"You're ... really serious about her, aren't you?" House slowly asked.
"I am," Wilson answered, his voice still shaking from his previous anger.
House looked back at the television. It was Kill Bill. "Well," he said. "Good to know."
Amber hated cars. She knew that it was her New York City bias, but still hadn't done much to change her opinion of cars since moving to Princeton, despite the fact that she had been driving to and from work since she first started her fellowship with House.
Even as a passenger, she was never sure if she was allowed to talk to the driver. When her father drove, he would interrupt the conversation to focus on a lane change or make a turn or just, in general, drive. It had marked her perception of what to do when she was the only passenger in the car, so that even when Wilson was driving her to the restaurant she bit her tongue and chose not to speak. It was pretty submissive habit, particularly for her, but she did it anyway.
This evening, Taub was driving. She didn't speak out of force of habit, but she wanted to in order to break the tension in the car. Instead, she sat rigidly, her hands clenched around her purse, staring at the streets they were driving through. Taub lived in a nice neighborhood, she decided, but it didn't distract from the fact that they had reached the point of no return, and what was about to happen was going to happen.
The car pulled over to the curb on a pleasant-looking street. As the engine cut, Amber managed to crane her neck to glance at Taub, who was facing stiffly forward, both hands clasped to the wheel despite the fact that the car had stopped. Her left hand unclenched itself from her purse and reached for his right. She wasn't surprised when she felt his skin bristle at the contact, but neither of their hands moved until a minute later, when Taub let go of the wheel and got out of the car.
He didn't open the car door for her, probably out of shame. When she noticed that he was moving up the steps to the front door of his building, she got out of the car with little pretense and joined him at the top of the steps. He held the front door open for her with one hand and used the other to remotely lock his car door before following her into the building.
Taub's apartment was on the second floor and there wasn't an elevator. His hands fumbled at the front door, but Amber didn't point it out. She simply walked into the apartment when he held the door open for her again, making her way into a clearer space in his living room. It was a simple, modern looking living room, which looked like it had been lifted from a Manhattan apartment and put in Princeton. She wondered if the rest of the apartment was decorated the same way, like the living room's white walls and chocolate sofas with bright blue accents. Maybe his wife had decorated it for him.
He closed the front door behind her, furtively bolting it behind him. She turned to face him, only to find that he was staring right at her, a somber but oddly pleased look on his face. It was the first time she had ever seen an expression like that, but was always open to something new.
Moments later, the space between them closed. Lips met, hesitant, fearful, with faint movement and silently whispered apologies to people that weren't there to hear them. Amber leaned down slightly, which was a little bit unfamiliar because she hadn't had to since she last kissed Tom. Her hand ran up Taub's back, up his neck until it wove into his thinning hair, as she felt the resolve to push a little deeper.
Taub flinched at first, but smiled into the kiss and began leading her back. As they pushed off their clothing they stumbled onto the couch, him landing on top of her, all tangled limbs and urgent kisses and silent groans. As he pushed off her pants, his fingers brushed against her bare inner thigh where it paused and lingered over an aberration in the flesh.
"What's that?" he asked, leaning back just enough to give them room to speak. His fingers traced over a jagged scar, about an inch long, about halfway up her thigh.
Amber wanted to joke about him getting ahead of himself, but it felt inappropriate since it wasn'tthat far ahead. "When I was younger I cut myself on barbed wire."
"Hm," he answered. "How young?"
"Seventeen." There was a brief pause, and she felt obligated to add: "I was drunk."
He sat quietly, giving the scar one more slow brush with his thumb. "I can hear your heartbeat from here," he said, looking down towards the source of the noise. His hands led the way, undoing one more button on her already half-unbuttoned blouse, which revealed her modestly lacy black bra. His forehead was pressed against hers in gesture that was, oddly, more intimate than anything else they were doing.
"I'm not scared," Amber said accusingly, instinctively.
"Never said it was a bad thing," Taub told her as he leaned back in.
"I was afraid that if it doesn't work with Amber, that our friendship might fail too," Wilson suddenly said, looking away from the end of the movie. House met his gaze neutrally. "Because if I couldn't make something last with someone who was almost like you, then how could we still be friends?"
"She's not really me," House offered, his tone maybe more gentle than it usually was. "Besides, we've known each other so long that I don't think that even she can screw it up."
"But things are different," Wilson insisted.
"Different?" House asked.
"Different than before." Wilson looked away nervously.
House paused and swallowed. "Yeah. Different."
"It was ... your reaction that got me thinking," Wilson continued. "I was fine as long as I was hiding it from you. But once everything came out into the open, I felt really guilty. And when I'd spend time with Amber, I'd draw connections between your behavior and hers, and..." He stopped, unable to continue.
House looked down. He was pretty sure he knew what was about to happen.
"It was weirdest when she said something during sex," Wilson added. "It wasn't even what she said—I don't even remember what it was that she said. It just sounded like you." He looked down awkwardly, probably because he knew how weird what that just sounded. Yet again, House decided, Wilson had probably felt pretty weird imagining his best friend during sex in the first place.
It wasn't sexual, House had decided a few days ago. It was different. He acknowledged that Wilson was attractive, albeit in a way that he wasn't used to, but that had nothing to do with it. Maybe jealousy had pushed something that had been previously teetering on a hidden ledge on an unknown part of his mind, and now the something was holding on to the edge of the cliff, trying for its dear life to hold on, but was very close to giving up. It seemed inevitable. And even if the nature of their friendship never changed, something would, because their shared glances would mean something else, and time spent alone together would imply something different.
Maybe something was lurking beneath all of that, but damn it if House hadn't noticed until three weeks ago.
"All these years," Wilson continued, "it's just been ... emotional affair after emotional affair, me slowly drifting away from my wives because I knew that I always felt comfortable with you, despite your best efforts to push me away. And ... here I am." Wilson laughed self-consciously. "Here I am, hanging out with you, when I should be at dinner with my girlfriend, and all I can think is that maybe..." He trailed off, mouth open, air passing through without making a sound.
A part of House wanted to skip through the awkward conversation and opening up, but the rest of him was grateful for it. In his imagination, House had come up with a number of different ways to clear up the situation, but in practice? Now that Wilson was sitting in front of him, dark eyes cast downward, lips tense, and hands wrung, it was all too real to even wrap his mind around it. He couldn't move or speak. Only listen and wait for Wilson to say something that could trigger him to move and get everything over with.
"...maybe I shouldn't go home tonight. I don't think I can face Amber." Wilson looked up at House while still averting his gaze. "Think I can crash here tonight?"
Somewhere in House's mind, glass broke. "What?" he sputtered out.
"Oh,God," Wilson started, eyes widening. For the first time since the conversation started, he and House met eyes. "I meant your couch—not anything—shit, that's—"
"I—okay, wow. Wilson, shut up."
"No, that was really—I—I'm sorry," Wilson decided, beginning to stand, "maybe I should just go home. I'll—"
"Wilson." House reached out and grabbed Wilson's closest hand, yanking him back down to the sofa. Wilson landed with a soft noise, decidedly closer to House than he had been before. They locked eyes, and House almost forgot what he wanted to say. With an inward smile, he realized that he had been right about their shared glances. "You can stay here tonight." After a pause, he added: "Here, as in on the couch."
"Right," Wilson responded, smiling lightly. He looked down to where House's hand was still gripping his like a lifeline, tense and unmoving. With hesitation, he moved his thumb, running the tip of it along the side of House's own hand. House tried really hard not to shut his eyes and enjoy the contact, instead releasing Wilson's hand with an awkward smile before turning back to the television.
"Dr. No is on next," House said. "You want to watch it?"
Rather than answer, Wilson shrugged, adjusting himself on the sofa so he could sit back and enjoy the movie. If their bodies were pressed closer together, neither did anything to correct it. In fact, as time went on, House felt himself leaning into Wilson as he fought off sleep. His only regret would be the cramp in his leg the next morning.
"James, is that you?" Amber asked tentatively as she stood in front of the mirror doing her makeup. She had been hoping to delay the conversation about why she had been out all night until that evening, but if he was here in the morning...
"Amber?" Wilson popped his head into the bathroom with a slightly haggard expression. "I am ... so, so sorry I forgot to call you. I just fell asleep, that's all."
"At ... House's?" Amber asked, frowning slightly.
"Yeah. I still should have called to tell you. I'm sorry, I won't let it happen again," Wilson promised, unbuttoning his coat.
"Yeah," Amber said, a little stunned. "I figured that's where you were."
"Okay, good then." Wilson smiled and went into the bedroom.
Amber stood still for a moment, staring down at the sink before capping her mascara and joining Wilson in the bedroom. Without precedence, she said: "I slept with Taub. I wasn't home until this morning. I ... couldn't lie about it."
Wilson stopped unbuttoning his shirt and stiffened. "I ... wow."
"I'mso sorry." Amber stepped further into the bedroom, walking closer and closer to Wilson until she was right in front of him. "It was... I don't even know what it was, except for the fact that it happened and—"
"And that you would do it again if you were given the chance," Wilson interrupted. He didn't look angry at all. If anything, he almost looked happy.
"That's not usually how someone reacts when they've been cheated on," Amber noted, staring at him in disbelief.
"It's not the first time it's been done to me and not the first time I've done it, either," Wilson responded, looking a little bit uncomfortable. "There ... there's no way of me saying this without it being incredibly awkward—"
"You slept with House," Amber cut off, her eyes going even wider, if that was even possible.
"God no!" Wilson exclaimed, looking only slightly horrified. Amber decided that this wasn't the first time that thought has ever occurred to him. "Not in that sense, no ... oh, no, no." He calmed slightly bringing his hand to his neck and massaged out a knot in his neck. "There's no way to actually explain this without it sounding really bizarre. I kind of cheated, but without ... doing anything. It was just ... intellectual, I guess."
Amber nodded. "I understand." She shifted where she stood. "So ... what happens from here? I mean, we can't go on pretending like nothing ever happened, that I didn't just sleep with Taub and that you're not ga—"
"Okay, I don't know about that word just yet," Wilson interrupted, wincing. "But you're right. If you don't mind my asking, though ... Taub?"
Amber laughed lightly. "Weird, isn't it?"
"How long have you been interested?"
"I don't even know," Amber answered, sighing. "It's weird. I didn't really think much of him other than as a coworker. And maybe I talked to him more than I talked to the others, but it was because despite claiming that he didn't like me, he seemed to want to put up with me. Maybe he was always attracted to me, I don't know. So I flirted a bit, innocently. Nothing bad, and it was all before we started dating. And yesterday, when you said that you wanted to hang out with House instead of going to dinner, I thought I could go with Taub, because Kutner would be too enthusiastic and I don't like Thirteen, and who else was left, other than Foreman or Cole or someone? Taub was the only one who I could go to dinner with and not feel guilty about just being myself, because he would actually enjoy it, in his own way. I didn't know anything would happen. But suddenly, at dinner, I wanted to..." She trailed off uncomfortably.
"He's married, Amber," Wilson warned. "He's not going to—"
"Leave his wife? Of course not. He didn't leave her before and he won't leave her now." Amber shrugged in annoyance. "We kind of talked this morning. Vaguely. Neither of us said it directly, but it ...this ... can continue, if we want it to. As long as it stays where it is and doesn't screw up his marriage."
"That's a hard thing to do," Wilson admitted from experience. "It always messes up the marriage."
"RiskI'm willing to take." Amber bit her lip and nodded. "I can do this."
"You can be the other woman?" Wilson reached out and held her shoulders comfortingly. "I only ask because I care. I don't want to see you get hurt."
"I'll be happier with him than with you. No offense," Amber added hastily. Wilson half-shrugged, half-smiled. "I'm holding you back. I'm ... freeing Taub, in a sense. Giving him options. I'm not the one restraining him." She smiled. "I know that sounds like the mistress' logic—"
"Because it is," Wilson interrupted in sheer honesty. "But if it makes you happy, then ... go for it?"
"It's over, then?" Amber asked. Despite the fact that she knew she was making the right decision, a part of her felt nervous at the idea of leaving Wilson. It was secure. What she was about to do wasn't.
"I ... guess." He dropped his arms back to his sides, distancing himself a bit from her.
"Well," Amber started, holding her hand for a handshake. "It was fun. I don't regret anything."
"Me neither. Wilson smiled. "Can ... you do me a favor, though?"
Amber smiled. "Sure, anything."
"Can we not break up for another week? I don't want House to think he's won," Wilson admitted
"But he did," Amber responded, smirking.
Wilson matched her smirk. "Well. You know."
When Amber was thirty-two, she visited Manhattan for the first time in a while. Thanksgiving and Christmas were spent in upstate New York with her father's family, and what with the fellowship-that-wasn't in Princeton, starting to date Wilson, and taking a job in Trenton, she simply hadn't been home since the summer.
On Sunday afternoon, after parting ways with her parents, she erred around her old neighborhood until she found herself stopped in front of a familiar wall. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, it hadn't changed at all.
"Excuse me, are you lost?" Amber heard a voice to her left ask. When she looked over, she saw a woman holding a heavy-looking shopping bag from D'Agostino's staring at her inquisitively.
"Oh, no," Amber said, laughing slightly. "Just looking at this wall. It's been here forever."
"Long as I can remember," the woman commented, nodding. "I always thought it looked a little weird, though. It fit in with the architecture of the area when it was designed, I guess, but it always felt odd to me. And now to see that it lasted so long makes it even weirder."
"I've been telling myself that too," Amber admitted. "And I've always wanted to know why they put barbed wire along the top."
"Well," the woman started, lifting her shoulders awkwardly and angling herself towards Amber, "it's actually razor wire, not barbed wire. I made that mistake for years too, before someone corrected me."
After an amicable pause, Amber asked: "Do you know anything about that building?"
"I live there," the woman answered, brushing hair out of her face. "There's a patio on the other side. People in the building use it for barbecues or just to sit around outside when the weather allows. Kids play there too, sometimes."
"Oh." Amber looked down at the pavement, brushing her foot over a dark smudge on the concrete that probably used to be discarded chewing gum. "This is a safer neighborhood than it used to be, but it makes sense to keep the barb—razor wire up. Still..." She looked back at the wire along the wall, remembering her own attempt at climbing it fifteen years earlier. "Why would anyone want to spend time on a patio surrounded by sharp wire?"
"It keeps the patio safe," the woman offered.
"That's not always such a good thing." Amber looked down at the hair and blinked. "I'm ... sorry. That was more metaphorical."
"No, I know what you mean." She hugged herself and motioned to Amber's purse with her head. "Phone's ringing."
"Oh. Shit. Thanks." Amber dug into her purse to search for her phone as the woman walked away quietly. When she managed to find it, the name on the screen read: "Chris Taub," and she smiled lightly. "Hey," she said into the mouthpiece.
"I just dropped off my wife," Taub said without precedent. "I'm on 90th and Park. Where are you?"
"61st and Columbus," Amber answered, looking up at the sky. Partly cloudy, chance of rain. "You know, my parents are still home, and I know they'd like to meet you."
Taub paused on the other end. "Do they know about me?"
"I just said that I was kind of informally seeing another doctor. They don't know anything else about it." Amber shrugged softly. "I told them that a friend had driven me into the City for the weekend and was going to drive me back this afternoon. I can introduce you as a friend. They don't need to know anything else."
"I..." His voice trailed off, uncertainly. "I don't know, Amber, I just—"
"I know." It was like she had told Wilson: it was different with Taub because she was giving him secret options. She could deal with being number two for now. Besides, what was a mistress but a secret number one? If House could see her now. "They won't suspect a thing," she continued, "especially if you keep your ring on. I just kind of want you to meet my parents. As a friend." And maybe, some day, she could meet his.
"I..." Taub started, trailing off. "Sure. Okay. Where should I meet you?"
He told House that his relationship with Amber had lasted two months and three days. It had really been one month, three weeks, and four days.
"So she traded one cheating Jew for another," House had told Wilson. "Except she chose the shorter one."
Wilson had been annoyed when House said that, but put up with it anyway, dragging his suitcases into House's living room. It was a pattern: Wilson would show at House's door with all of his things. House would make fun of him, which was essentially his way of comforting Wilson while still saying: "I told you so." Wilson would roll his eyes and stay up drinking beer and laughing with House before falling asleep on the leather sofa. He would wake up the next morning with a sore back.
His back would get used to it eventually. It was a pattern.
He slept on the sofa for a while, an idea that annoyed and comforted him at the same time. While he still wasn't sure if he was ready for anything, he had left Amber for House and was still left sleeping on the couch. Unheard of. He had half a mind to check into a hotel until House got his head out of his ass and did something. He didn't know what. Likely House didn't know either.
Amber called him sometimes to check on him. See how he was. How were things with House? Still sleeping on the couch? She was sorry. Things were good with Taub, on her end. It didn't look like anything was going to change, which she saw as a good sign, since it meant that he wasn't going to drop her out of guilt anytime soon either. Who knew, maybe he would eventually decide that he wanted to be with Amber instead of his wife, and they could work things out from there.
"Would you want things to get serious with Taub, though?" Wilson asked one afternoon.
Amber shrugged on her side of the phone line. "I haven't just been sleeping him for the past month. We do other things too. I think I know what I'm getting myself into."
"Are the weekends rough?" Wilson asked, leaning back in his office chair. Taub spent weekends with his wife.
"Let's just say that Sunday nights are the best," Amber answered provocatively, and they both laughed.
"You still talk to Cutthroat Bitch?" House asked him later that evening after dinner. Wilson had made penne a la vodka, which House had complained about for show before asking for seconds. "I can't imagine why you would want to do that."
"Can you please call her by her real name?" Wilson responded angrily. "Her name is—"
"I don't care," House interrupted, and kissed him. It was quick and light, more for shock value than anything else, or maybe just to prove a point, but a kiss nonetheless. Wilson could just barely taste the vodka sauce on his lips. "I called her Cutthroat Bitch before, and I'll continue calling her Cutthroat Bitch now."
Wilson stood in silence for a moment before breaking out into laughter.
House frowned, obviously offended. "What's so funny?"
"House, you can call her whatever you damn well want," Wilson answered, leaning in closer to House and smiling against the other man's lips, "but only if you do that again."