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“What’s wrong with you?”
“I got fired.”
“So what are you doing here?”
Amber swallows hard, resolutely staring out the window and not back at the patient. God, she doesn’t even remember his name. But he probably doesn’t care. He didn’t even really care about his Measles diagnosis once Amber told him.
How does he do that?
“Trying not to care,” she says, her voice shakier than she meant it to be.
“Yeah,” the patient says slowly. “Well, that’s not easy.”
It’s night, so the window doesn’t show her the Princeton-Plainsboro campus she’s pretending to be so interested in; instead, it’s her reflection, illuminated in the fluorescent overheads and staring back at her.
And it’s fine. It’s okay. Sure, she got fired. So what? Sure, she did everything she humanly could and more, bitching and fighting and clawing her way to the top—and it still wasn’t enough.
She wasn’t enough.
“Amber?”
She hates that she jumps a bit. Before turning around, she hastily wipes at her eyes and turns to the doorway, leveling her best Really, you? look at Thirteen.
“Yeah?”
Amber’s detail-oriented eye catches the faint redness around Thirteen’s eyes. She’s got her leather jacket on, a messenger bag slung over her shoulders.
When Thirteen doesn’t say anything, Amber spits, “What are you doing here? Pretty sure losers exit stage left.”
And Amber knows she’s included in that losers group, but she refuses to acknowledge it out loud.
“Yeah… I was just heading out,” says Thirteen. She seems to battle internally over her next words, but then takes a breath and says, “I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink with me. Stage left, and all.”
Amber narrows her eyes, trying to make sense of the invitation. It has to be a setup—a trick, some ploy to get her talking, let something slip, give Thirteen the upper hand, get closer to House, to power, to something. And then Amber would be one step behind—again.
She has to stop herself. The games are over. She lost.
She studies Thirteen again—eyes cast down, a few lazy strands of hair falling into her face like she didn’t even try. Amber’s seen that look too many mornings: the effortless mess, the artful dishevelment. God. There was nothing more infuriating than waking up at six a.m. to flat iron every piece of her hair into submission just to show up and look qualified—only to walk in and see Thirteen already at her desk, hair in a half-ass ponytail, sipping coffee like she was in a damn perfume ad, while House practically drooled into his mug.
And of course, that brings her back to his parting words—to the way he looked at Thirteen, not like a candidate, but like an inside joke. “If I had three spots, I’d keep you.” Like it was a tragedy, like she was some noble casualty of fate, not just another name on the cut list. Thirteen had clearly thought she was safe—and why wouldn’t she? House liked her, played favorites with her. Oh, they were chummy. Those red-rimmed eyes? That’s shock. The disappointment will hit later. Amber got no such ceremony, no soft landings. Just a clean, clinical dismissal: “You were right, but it wasn’t enough to save you.”
A hot, sour knot tightens in her chest.
“Don’t do that,” Amber snaps.
Thirteen blinks. “Do what?”
“That thing where you act like you’re better than this.”
“Better than getting fired?” Thirteen cocks her head to one side, all neutral curiosity. “Yeah, I’d like to think I am. Doesn’t change the fact that it sucks.”
That forces Amber to take a stabilizing breath, then glance over at the patient, now asleep. Almost dying will do that. Amber crosses the room to check his medications one final time—nothing’s changed in the past five minutes, she just needs something to do—before shouldering her purse and pushing past Thirteen in the doorway on her way out.
“So?” Thirteen asks as Amber strides down the hall.
“Well.” Amber hardly looks over her shoulder to check if Thirteen's following her. “Since I’ve got nothing better to do.”
~
The place is dim and half-empty, a local dive with sticky tabletops and muted music. Amber secretly approved of Thirteen’s choice for a quieter spot; bars on Friday nights in the Princeton area are usually chock-full of pretentious undergraduates, and she really doesn’t need that right now.
She’s sitting at the bar with her fall coat still on, feeling the sweat start to pool beneath her clothes, but unwilling to take it off yet. She feels jittery, like at any moment she could jump up from her barstool and bolt. Calming those nerves is the only reason she takes the rum and coke Thirteen buys her.
She sips it slowly, cautiously. She doesn’t even like drinking, but she can’t let these nerves win.
“You seemed like a rum and coke girl,” Thirteen comments, sipping at her glass.
“I’m not.”
Thirteen raises her glass. “You’re welcome anyway.”
Amber slams her glass down on the table. “What is this?” she demands. “You ask me out for a drink to, what? Bond over our mutual failure? Trauma dump until we feel better? Pretend we were ever friends?”
Thirteen focuses on finishing her drink. Then she licks her lips, and Amber’s traitorous gaze tracks the movement. “I didn’t ask you out to pretend anything,” she says, voice even.
“So what’s stopping me from leaving right now?”
“I don’t know. What’s stopping you?”
Amber finds herself momentarily speechless. Her shoulders sag a bit, and she finally pulls off her coat, placing it on the stool beside her.
“I deserved that job,” Amber says, her voice quiet.
Thirteen chuckles lightly, and when Amber glances back at her, she’s surprised at how genuine her expression is—a real smile graces her lips for once.
“Yeah,” Thirteen agrees. She waves to the bartender for another drink.
But Amber repeats, “Yeah?”
Thirteen glances back at her. “Yeah,” she says again, as if it’s obvious. “You did.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything? Back when we were all clawing each other’s eyes out.”
Thirteen doesn’t blink. “Would it have changed anything?”
“No,” Amber mutters. “But it would’ve been... something.”
Thirteen tilts her head slightly. “What? You wanted me to say you deserved it?”
Amber doesn’t answer right away. The silence speaks for her, and it’s humiliating. God, she’s pathetic.
“I deserved it, too. But we were competing.”
Amber looks up at Thirteen again. Something pulses between them, and she has to break the moment with a small scoff. “Yeah,” she agrees. “And we both didn’t get it. Fucking sexism. Maybe we can sue for discrimination.”
Thirteen does her classic little half-smirk, grabbing her second glass. “It’s House. I’m sure the courts are backlogged at this point.”
Amber rolls her eyes. “Cuddy probably has a whole legal department just for his offensive comments.”
“On top of the malpractice one.”
Amber snorts, and immediately regrets it. She frowns at her drink, swirls the glass, and downs the rest of it with a grimace. “God, this is bleak.”
“You wanted honesty.”
“No, I wanted a job. And maybe a little basic respect. Silly me.”
Thirteen takes a sip, then sets her glass down carefully. “You’re not used to losing, are you? That’s what House said.”
Amber’s jaw tightens. “Are you?”
Thirteen shrugs. “I plan for it.”
Amber scoffs. “Of course you do. You had one foot out the door the whole time. I don’t even know your first name.”
Thirteen raises a single, well-defined brow in challenge. “Why, you want to know?”
Amber waves the comment away, like that’s not her point, though it kind of is. She leans forward on her elbows, her voice low and sharp. “You’re the type who acts like you don’t want anything just in case you don’t get it. Then if you win, surprise—you’re brilliant. If you lose, well, you never cared anyway. It’s strategic indifference. And it’s exhausting.”
Thirteen looks at her, unbothered. “And you’re the type who sets herself on fire trying to outshine everyone in the room, even when they’re not watching.”
Amber leans back slowly, blinking once. “Wow,” she says. “You’re a real treat after two drinks.”
“You asked.”
Amber’s mouth twitches. “What’s your real name?”
Thirteen finishes her second glass, then looks at Amber from the corner of her eye. “Don’t pretend you don’t already know.”
Amber huffs a small breath, a smile ghosting her lips, and they sit in silence for a long moment.
“I didn’t hate you,” Thirteen says eventually.
Amber glances at her. “I did hate you.”
“I know.”
Amber looks down at her empty glass. “I don’t know if I still do.”
Thirteen shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter anymore.”
“Then why’d you invite me for a drink?”
“God, you’re still on that?” But Thirteen’s smiling again, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement.
Amber only realizes she’s staring at Thirteen when the smile turns cocky, like she sees right through her.
Amber blinks, then immediately rolls her eyes and looks away, reaching for her coat. She’s still not sure what counts as instinct and what counts as strategy when it comes to this woman, and it’s dangerous, uncertain. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?”
Thirteen slips her credit card over to the bartender. “That’s new. Usually I get ‘mysterious’ or ‘emotionally withholding.’”
Amber stands, tugging her coat on with a little too much force. “You’re not mysterious. You’re just smug and attractive and fully aware of both.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Was it a lie, then?”
“No.” Amber shoves her hands into her coat pockets, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn’t know what makes her say it—maybe the loss, maybe the fact that she has nothing to lose now. “It’s true. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”
Thirteen hums thoughtfully as she pockets the receipt, and then she’s stepping close to Amber, a hand resting delicately on her arm.
“I wonder,” she says, voice low and even, “if you can put all that energy you spend hating me into something a little more productive.”
Amber freezes. She looks down at the hand on her arm, then back up—and Thirteen’s still watching her, unreadable as always except for the smallest tug of a smirk at the corner of her mouth.
Amber lifts her chin. “You’re seriously hitting on me right now.”
“Is it working?”
It makes sense now: the suspenders, the short nails, the eyeliner.
(Sure, some part of Amber had always wondered—envy and hatred mixing with admiration, and maybe something else, on those mornings when Thirteen’s messy bun framed her face as she chewed thoughtfully on a pencil...)
But Amber doesn’t answer right away. Her breath comes a little sharper, and she hates that her pulse has picked up, that her skin is buzzing just from a single touch.
She pulls her arm away, but stays rooted to the same spot, her breath mingling with Thirteen’s.
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to slap you.”
Thirteen smiles, slow and steady. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”
Amber sighs, already stepping toward the door. “If I come with you, it’s because I’m bored. Not because I like you.”
“Of course,” Thirteen says, falling into step beside her. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation, Cutthroat Bitch.”
“Please. And you should’ve known you’d be fired when you got stuck with lucky thirteen,” Amber drawls as they emerge into the cool December air.
“Remy.”
“Already knew that,” Amber replies immediately. But when Thirteen nudges her shoulder into Amber’s playfully, Amber doesn’t shove her back too hard to really hurt. They’re both smiling.
~
They don’t speak much on the way.
By the time Thirteen’s key clicks in the lock, Amber’s gloves are already off, stuffed into her coat pocket. The apartment is quiet, half-lit, more decorated than Amber expected, with a few band posters and hanging plants lining the walls.
Thirteen closes the door behind them and turns just in time for Amber to drop her purse and kiss her, harsh and hungry, hands coming to cup her face, keeping her in place. Thirteen lets her messenger bag fall with a thud from one shoulder to the floor and kisses Amber back, her fingers threading through Amber’s hair.
Coats and blouses hit the floor as they stumble to the bedroom and fall onto the bed.
When Thirteen pulls away to bite her neck and Amber hisses, she smiles against the wound, licking the bruising skin. “Been wanting to do that since you first opened your mouth,” she murmurs.
Amber exhales a shaky laugh, fingers tightening dangerously in Thirteen’s hair.
“God,” she mutters, dragging her nails down Thirteen’s back just hard enough to make her flinch. “You should hear the things I wanted to do to shut you up.”
Thirteen nips at her ear. “Mm, I don’t wanna hear them, Amber.”
Amber grins, wicked and breathless, just before she pulls her in again.
~
She wakes up with Remy using her arm as a pillow, brown hair splayed over the sheets. The gray sunlight gives her usually sharp features a softness that Amber studies carefully, letting her eyes linger on all the places she kissed last night—and the ones she missed, the ones she’ll have to get around to later.
For so long, she’s fought for a place at the table: for the job with House, for the top residency program, the top med school, the top period. It’s… nice, she thinks, to feel like Thirteen would welcome her back to this place, this bed, after last night without her having to prove that she’s earned it—though, based on her performance, she definitely has.
She almost laughs at the thought when she hears Thirteen’s loud answering machine beep from over in the living area. She can faintly make out a familiar voice through the open bedroom door, the words hardly registering:
“Thirteen. Good news. I won, Cuddy caved—said I can bring one more on. So congrats. You’re in. See you Monday.”
Beep.
Amber remains perfectly still.
She feels it first in her chest—sharp, cold. Not anger, not really. Just clarity, harsh and unforgiving.
Slowly, she pulls her arm out from under Remy—Thirteen—who doesn’t even stir. She lies there, serene, completely unaware that Amber’s stomach has just dropped through the floor.
Of course. Of course House would call her. Of course she’s the one who gets the callback. The one who gets to win without trying.
Amber dresses quickly, silently, her movements clipped. She finds her coat in a pile on the floor; her scarf, draped over the arm of the couch. She avoids looking at the answering machine as she passes it, but the words still echo in her head like they were said just for her.
She pauses at the door—just for a second—and glances back toward the bedroom.
Remy’s still asleep, curled toward the empty space Amber’s body left behind.
Amber swallows hard, sets her jaw, and opens the door. She leaves, just barely restraining herself from slamming it on her way out.