A/N: This one gets into an episode, and forgive me if some information is inaccurate- I didn't memorize it verbatim. Enjoy!~

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"Amber!" Jake greeted as she came walking through the door of the apartment they shared. "Hey, what were you out all day doing?"

She was starting to really hate that question. The blonde sighed and seated herself on the couch. "I had a job interview."

Jake looked at her with the same confused look she'd seen for a year and a half, since they met during her internship. "You're crazy. You need to just stay here, and I'll take care of you."

Amber bit her lip. Jake really was a nice guy, and she liked him (well, she thought), but he just annoyed the hell out of her.

"Who's going to stay home and watch the kids when we finally decide to have them?"

"I told you," she thrummed deep in her throat, with a serious expression; "I don't want to have kids."

"Not yet," he insisted, turning the television on. Jake put his arms around her, and she sighed, letting herself relax. He had good intentions, right? "But we will in the future."

Amber wasn't inclined to argue. She just didn't feel like it. Besides, he hadn't gotten it the other millions of times she told him she didn't want to have kids. Sure, she'd like to have one, but she couldn't handle it with such a taxing job. But the more she told him that, the more he tried to convince her not to work. What was she supposed to do, sit at home and watch soaps all day? That just didn't appeal.

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Then again, trying to come up with a differential for a dead man wasn't appealing, either. To waste knowledge on a diagnosis that wouldn't matter either way? But Amber kept her mouth shut. She wanted this job, and she'd done plenty of down-and-dirty things to get this far, it seemed pointless to suddenly change her attitudes now. Answers flew back and forth, almost as though these people were taking the diagnosis seriously. She tried to look like she cared, and maybe she had been contemplating other possible diagnosis; after all, maybe it would help keep her skills sharp. Her mind wandered, though- as much as she tried to keep it from happening. It wandered to her highschool and college days that had led here, it wandered to her recently deceased dog, it wandered to the boyfriend she was just going back and forth about…and then, House left the room.

"Row C, you're fired!"

Thank god she was in Row E.

"My apologies, Row C is not fired- Row D is fired!"

She sighed and sat, her fingers stroking her hair. Number "6" found some paper and started making paper airplanes. Yeah, it was just like being in middle school.

"I want seven alternative diagnosis' when I get back!"

Amber glanced around as the door shut. Well, some thing they cleaned the suit with could have caused a reaction, right? Or perhaps he had a prior infection, and some thing about the suit set it off. Okay, that didn't even make sense. But that some thing in the cleaner was toxic…oh, great, now she was taking it seriously.

"Guys, House is going to be in any minute," number 18 warned. Amber could see it with no problem whatsoever; number 6 was the "class clown", number 18 the "goody-goody," and a few of them seemed like the type to fall asleep mid-class. Some were chatting, including the girl behind her. Most of them switched out of their seats and went to go talk to people- almost like friends casually chatting about medicine.

"I'm warning you, guys, we're going to get into serious trouble."

"Please, we're adults here." mumbled a female in response, taking the words from Amber's mouth. She looked at the number; 13. "We're not sitting around waiting for the teacher to get back." Hey, she realized, number 13 looked familiar. Where did she…

"We have a case!" Amber jolted her attention towards House. Number 6 quickly disguised his paper-planes.

"I have a theory," one continued; "it could have-"

"Don't care! Okay, 37-year-old female presents with synesthesia. We have no information, any files on her have been burned, any scans shredded, any faxes were lost. We have no background history, no medical records…and, as far as you're concerned, the patient is Osama Bin Laden, and every one not inside this room is Delta Force."

"We're helping Osama Bin Laden?"

"It's a metaphor, get used to it."

Amber smirked in amusement and humor.

"Can we at least find out her name?"

"You think her name might be connected to what's wrong with her?" House opened the door, and what ever patient he'd been rambling about came in. "Heeeeeeere's Osama!"

"Okay, since I have you all numbered…we'll do this…alphabetically."

Well, the day was certainly turning up. A real, living patient who was hearing with her eyes was certainly more important than dead actors- to a doctor doing their job, any ways.

"Has any one around you been sick? Any friends or family?" Amber questioned. It was honest to God the most basic question she could think of, yet the other doctor hadn't bothered to ask it?

"No, not that I know of."

"How do we even know this is legit?"

"You think I would interrupt Buddy if it wasn't?"

Does she spend much time above 30,000 feet?

Why did that sounds familiar? Amber turned to look, along with several other people who had turned to look more out of their confusion than any other reason. Her voice sounded familiar, some how…and, now that she thought about it, she looked a little familiar. Her eyes…where was she from?!

"Well, that was an odd question. Why would you ask that?"

"Could have been clot that embolized to her brain through a PTF."

"And that was an odd choice of diagnosis."

"Well, like you said- you wouldn't have interrupted Buddy if it wasn't."

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The day was full of 'why'. Amber was happy to get home, if not for Jake. He had been messaging her all day;

"Hey, where are you?"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm worried, please message me back."

Finally, she'd just told him she was out to lunch with her friend, and told Cole she was still working elsewhere. They say lying is the most fun a girl can have with out taking her clothes off.

"Hey, where were you?"

She didn't want to hear the questions, or the ranting, or the pestering about getting married and having children any more. She didn't want to try to justify the wet spots on her pants, the frizz in her hair or the suds on the side of her shirt. She didn't want to yell and scream at him about how he had sat at home all day and let the laundry and the dishes pile up, and didn't get any thing done. She simply glared at him, told him to make dinner and- with out another word- got into the shower. She wanted to wash off every thing that had happened that day, and- thankfully- Jake didn't bother her.

He cooked pasta for dinner. He burned the meat. The noodles weren't cooked the whole way through. She didn't like the sauce. She swallowed it as a means to survive, and didn't speak. He didn't try to talk to her, either. Not until she stood, glared at him and- with out moving her plate- barked;

"Get this house cleaned up before you think of coming into bed."

Amber crawled into the bedroom they shared, changed into her pajamas and put the old clothes in a hamper to keep them up off the floor. Then, she situated herself on the bed. She didn't feel like hearing the sounds of the TV or radio, or like focusing on a book. She just laid there and relaxed, trying not to think of the job she had to go back to.

Jake came in about two hours later, positioned himself on top of her, and hugged her up to him.

"I'm sorry the house was such a wreck when you got here," he told her, sincerely.

"Sorry I bugged out on you." She lied.

Jake laid her down. "I should do more around here…I'm just used to the idea of you taking care of all that."

Even though she never did. But she didn't fight. She just laid there. And he stripped her, and she stripped him. It was a little better in high school, really- guys and girls. Jake always made sure she orgasmed, any ways. Even when she didn't feel like having an orgasm or even, didn't feel like having sex.

But it was kind of nice, any ways.

Doing that made her remember how in love with her she was.

Kind of.

Sort of.

Maybe…