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It’s always scared Remy. Getting sick. Because getting sick means doctor’s appointments and questions about her medical history and possible connections to her family. Getting sick means facing possibilities she keeps trying to put off acknowledging.
Remy doesn’t know if her hands are shaking because she’s afraid, or if it’s a symptom. About fifteen seconds ago, she sneezed, jerking and dropping her book. It’s filled with poetry about love, something she’s afraid she’ll never get to experience. Not in a romantic way, at least.
Of course this has to happen on a work day. She woke up early for once, to read her book and enjoy the peace and quiet of her apartment, before the inevitable stress of working with Gregory House comes into play.
Unlike the other people she’s competing with for a spot on his team, Remy actually likes and respects House. She understands his methods and philosophies, even if he takes things a little far. Still, walking into Princeton-Plainsboro is always a little terrifying.
She sighs, tiredness pulling at her eyes. Her arm is still shaking, but she forces her trembling self to pick up the book. She coughs again, tightening her grip on the cover.
Fuck, she really is sick, isn’t she? But she can’t afford to take a day off, not when the most incredible opportunity she’ll ever have is at stake.
So she doesn’t do anything. She just sits there and reads the book—a collection of love poems by queer writers, which is beautiful, but makes her feel incredibly single—and hopes this will just go away. Logically, she knows that won’t happen. She’s a doctor, for God’s sake. But it’s all she can handle right now, even as her throat grows tighter by the minute.
O but my delicate lover
Is she not fair as the moonlight?
Remy coughs again, harder this time, and the action leaves a burning sensation in her chest. It’s not a symptom of Huntington’s, she’s coming down with something else, but once again, logic takes a backseat in her already on-edge mind. It could still be a symptom of something else, something more serious, and if it is, that mystery condition could be worsened by her possible Huntington’s, and everything would escalate faster, and she’d be dead before she even got a chance to succeed.
Her chest and throat grow tighter, her heart beating faster. And she can’t breathe anymore. Why can’t she breathe? Air escapes her lips in short bursts, but it doesn’t feel like she’s taking in oxygen. It’s like her lungs are fighting—and failing—to expand. Is she dying? Is it somehow happening now? It certainly feels like her organs are curling up and rotting inside her.
The stupid book falls from her grip again.
Remy needs to get help. That’s what she needs to do. She reaches for her phone, her whole body shaking.
She punches in a number—she doesn’t even know who she’s calling, but as the person picks up, she finds that it doesn’t matter. As long as there’s someone on the other end that can save her.
The voice on the other end speaks. “Hey, Thirteen.”
Shit. It’s Amber Volakis, and she says the nickname like it’s an insult. Remy doesn’t think she’ll be much help, but she can’t afford to be picky right now.
“That’s what he calls you, right? Depressing. Why exactly are you calling me? Is it to admit that I’m the better doctor, and that you’re going to respectfully exit the competition? Because—”
Suddenly, Amber pauses. Maybe it’s because she hears Remy’s quick, increasingly frantic gasps for breath, maybe it’s something else. Either way, Remy takes the opportunity to try to speak.
“I’m—I don’t know what’s happening,” she manages. “Something’s wrong.”
She’s crying now, tears running down her face as pangs of pain rush through her chest. Amber’s voice changes, suddenly more businesslike.
“Okay, Thirteen, listen to me. I think you’re having a panic attack. Just—try to listen to the sound of my voice, okay? You’re going to be fine.”
She sounds calm, almost gentle. The sudden shift in tone anchors Remy, and it allows her to feel a little more grounded.
“Are—are you sure?” Remy says, choking on her own voice. She hates how pathetic she sounds right now.
“Yes. I’m sure. Do you think you can tell me your address? I can come over, make sure everything’s alright.”
“That sounds good,” Remy says.
She sits there on the couch, fingernails tapping anxiously on the table as she tries to get her breathing under control, for what feels like forever.
Finally, there’s a knock at the door. Still trembling, but not as severely as before, Remy gets up to answer it. She’s met with the face of Amber Volakis, whose features are surprisingly soft, eyes tinged with concern. She’s never seen that in Amber before.
As fair as the moonlight, she thinks, inexplicably.
“Hey,” Amber says, voice careful, gentle. Eyes scanning Remy’s flushed face and shaking hands, she wordlessly entwines her fingers, delicate but firm, around Remy’s, leading her back to the sofa.
“What’s going on?” she says, stroking Remy’s hand.
Remy feels kind of stupid, now, seeing as the wave of panic has mostly passed. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You didn’t have to come over. I just—I could feel myself getting sick, and I guess I freaked out a little.”
Amber raises an eyebrow—it’s clear that she can tell Remy isn’t telling the whole truth.
“Are you sure that’s it?” she says cautiously.
Remy takes a deep breath. She’s really about to do this, isn’t she?
“I have Huntington’s,” she says, and at the way Amber’s expression turns to one of horror, she quickly adds, “Probably, that is. My mom died from it, my brother died from it, and every time I get sick, my mind always goes…there.”
Amber nods, her big, unfairly beautiful blue eyes filled with understanding. She doesn’t scramble to say an awkward I’m sorry like most people would. She just releases her grip on Remy’s hand, comfortingly presses herself into her side, and says, matter-of-factly, “You should take the day off.”
Remy scoffs. “You know I can’t do that.”
“What if we both call in sick?” Amber says, and Remy’s eyes widen in surprise. “House needs a female doctor on the team. He can’t fire both of us. It’ll be perfect. I’ll go and get you some medicine, and then I’ll stay here, make sure you’re okay. No one needs to know I’m not sick.”
It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to Remy, which is why she giggles when a cunning glint appears in Amber’s eye. That’s more like the Amber she knows, but the fact that it’s accompanied by that unbelievably kind gesture makes her laugh in delight.
Her hand, no longer shaking, travels up Amber’s arm and onto her cheek. She pulls Amber in, and softly presses her lips to hers.
“Thank you,” Remy says.