Amber Volakis had never been a fan of holidays. They made a nice break from school or work, but her family was too spread out to make regular reunions practical, and any lingering religious inclinations came from habit, not conviction. For the most part, she was indifferent to marked days on the calendar, with one exception.

She didn't know the details of how the eponymous Valentine was martyred, but she hoped it was painful and protracted. It wasn't that she was opposed in principle to romance, but she'd found precious little of it in reality. The last time she'd been in a relationship on Valentine's Day, her boyfriend had assumed that a cheap box of chocolates entitled him to her undying gratitude and a blow job. Amber had nothing against oral sex -- especially when she was on the receiving end -- but she refused to be beholden to anyone, and she wasn't going to be manipulated by a commercially contrived holiday. It was even worse being single. The whole day was just another reminder that happily-ever-after and fairy tales were just another lie.

But that was before she met James Wilson. He didn't ride in and sweep her off her feet, but he had picked her up after she'd fallen flat on her face, and starting a relationship on solid ground was a better way to go.

He didn't need flowers, or chocolates, or bad poetry to woo her. When she was with him every look, every word, every touch made her feel cherished. Even when he was being a spineless wuss, she never doubted that he loved her. And it didn't hurt that the sex was fantastic. For the first time since elementary school, she was actually looking forward to Valentine's Day.

When she woke up on the morning of February 14th, there was a single red rose on the bedside table and a note. Got called in early and didn't want to wake you, she read. I'll pick you up for lunch at noon. Love, James XO. She imagined him stilling his pager and sliding out of bed quietly, trying not to wake her. She wished he had. She loved James most in the mornings, when he was bleary eyed and rumpled, before he carefully applied his professional persona. She would just have to rumple him later.

Amber wondered idly where he'd found a fresh-cut rose at five in the morning, but she knew James was always prepared for any eventuality. She hadn't seen him caught unawares since she'd answered the door in just a negligee on their second date. She'd never been very good at waiting for what she wanted.

The alarm wasn't set to go off for another fifteen minutes, so she stretched and rolled over to James's side of the bed. It was cold, but she could still curl into the indentation left by his body. It wasn't her favourite way to wake up, but it would do. When she closed her eyes, she could still smell his shampoo on the pillow. She made a note to buy a new brand the next time she went shopping.

There was another rose on the kitchen counter, next to half a grapefruit, sectioned and lightly sugared, and a blueberry muffin. Roses on Valentine's Day were a cliché, but she'd let it go. She'd learned that romantic gestures from James were given freely, without expectation; but even if he had any ulterior motives, she was more than happy to indulge them.

She half-expected to find another rose or a box of chocolates on her desk when she arrived at work, but either the early morning call had disrupted his plans, or he had something else in mind. She hoped it was the latter -- she liked a little unpredictability, especially in James. She knew he liked it in her. And she was pretty sure he'd like the first part of her present. An email later, she leaned back in her chair and waited.

Less than five minutes later, a call came in from his cell phone. She smiled. Sometimes predictability was good. "You like what you saw?" she asked, dropping her voice low and sultry.

"I think I've been scarred for life. And do you have a cold or has Wilson developed a thing for butch?"

Amber should have known he'd find a way to screw her over on Valentine's Day. "What are you doing with Wilson's phone, House?" she demanded.

"I just happened to find it lying about."

"You mean in his lab coat? While he was wearing it?" She didn't like the thought of House's hand in her boyfriend's pocket, but she was hardly surprised. "I'm not talking to you anymore. I will be talking to Wilson, however, so you might want to consider putting that back before he realizes it's gone."

"Don't you want to know how many other women have wished Wilson a Happy Valentine's Day?" he asked, before she could hang up.

It didn't take a genius to make an educated guess. "His mother, two ex-wives -- it's too early for Bonnie to be up -- and that crazy accountant who's been stalking him for months." There would be cards, too: hearts cut from construction paper from his pediatric patients; neutral messages from colleagues and business contacts currying favour and whatever else they could get.

Amber remembered the packages of Valentine's Day cards her parents would buy for her to give to her classmates in elementary school, and how at the end of the day she would open up the decorated box on her desk and count the number of cards she'd received -- never as many as the stupider, more popular girls. James would have made sure everybody had a personal note, no matter how popular they were. House wouldn't have given any out or expected any in return. Amber wasn't sure which method she preferred.

"You don't have a problem with his ex-wives calling?" Of course, House didn't mention the stalker. He'd probably been swapping trade secrets.

"I'd have a problem with him sleeping with his ex-wives. Conversation is fine." Especially if it reminded James why they got divorced in the first place. "Now you're going to mark that email as unread, slip the phone back in his pocket, and never ever let him know that you saw it." It was bad enough that she knew; if James found out, he'd never agree to the video.

"Now why would I do that?" House protested.

"Because the next time you steal his phone or hack into his computer, there might be something new to find. I have many channels of communication. Cutting a couple off is not a problem." It was, she knew, too much to hope that House wouldn't snoop and spy; all she could try to do was control the flow of information. "Goodbye, House. Don't call me again."

The damage was done, however. When James called half an hour later, flustered and pleased, it was anticlimactic. The second time around was never as fun.

There were more roses at lunch, and then a full bouquet at dinner, and Amber was beginning to understand why the ex-wives still called. She refused to be that blatantly manipulated, but she couldn't ignore a flutter of pleasure and appreciation. "You do know you don't need to bribe me to put out," she said, just in case he thought he could get away with trying to treat her like his other women.

"Who says that's why I'm trying to bribe you? Consider it a down payment for all the times I'm going to piss you off. Because that's when I'll really want you to put out."

"That's not going to be a problem," she said, leaning across the table. "I love angry sex."

The waiter who had arrived to take their order tried not to roll his eyes. "We'll have the tasting menu," she told him before James could even look at the menu and waste time dithering over à la carte selections. She had plans for after dinner. "With the wine pairings."

"I love it when you take charge," James murmured and leaned in for a kiss. "You're so unbelievably sexy."

Amber was beginning to regret not ordering takeout. She definitely regretted it when James's phone rang in the middle of the third course.

"Remember what you said about angry sex?" he asked, glancing at the display.

"House?" Of course it was House. She should have told him not to call James either.

James nodded, and shrugged ruefully. "Somebody had better be dying," he said into the phone.

It was more than likely if House was calling about a patient. If he wasn't, then he would be the one dying. But James had already put on his professional mask. Dinner, Amber could tell, was about to come to an end.

"Go," she said, before he could stammer out an explanation. "But he doesn't get to keep you once you've ruled out cancer."

"It's not going to be cancer," James replied. "I told him that before dinner, but he wants me to look at the new scans. I wouldn't go, but the patient's in respiratory failure and he's grasping at straws."

"It's okay. I understand." And she did. If their positions had been reversed, she would have left without a second thought.

James flagged down the waiter and handed him some bills. "I'll be back before you've finished dessert."

But of course he wasn't. Amber wondered how many times he'd made that promise to one of his wives, and how many hours they'd wasted waiting for him to return while he slept in his office, or worse, on House's couch. She wasn't prepared to wait, and she certainly wasn't prepared to let House stake more of a claim than he already had. This was the day she would start clawing back some territory.

The Volvo was in the staff parking lot and his office light was on, but her first stop was Diagnostics. If James was already sleeping in his office, she had more to worry about than House. It was too soon and the sex was too fantastic for him to be avoiding her. Even Bonnie had kept his attention for nearly a year.

She could see House sitting at his desk, absently tossing his oversized ball from hand to hand. She didn't spot James at first, but then she saw a figure slumped in the corduroy lounge chair, curled awkwardly into the curve of the seat. She shook her head and opened the door quietly. James didn't stir, but House looked up.

"Did you drug him so he wouldn't leave?" she whispered, crossing over to House's desk. She expected a triumphant smirk, but he only glanced at Wilson and shook his head. Some of her anger faded. She'd only seen House this subdued when a patient was beyond even a last-minute diagnosis.

"He fell asleep while we were waiting for the labs," House said. "Turns out I didn't need him after all. I should have woken him up, but..."

"But you wanted him here." Waiting for a patient to die was never easy, but she knew House took it as a personal, as well as professional, defeat. If having James there -- even asleep -- helped, she didn't begrudge him that. Amber knew that House expected her to be upset, but House would also have to learn that she wasn't like James's other women. "I take it that it wasn't cancer," she said.

"ARDS from an undiagnosed case of lymphangioleiomyomatosis. Her idiot GP diagnosed it as asthma, even after the first pneumothorax. It should have been caught long before the ARDS." He glanced at his watch. "But hey, if she holds on another hour, at least her kid won't have to find out that Mommy died on Valentine's Day."

Amber closed her eyes. "I'm sorry."

House snorted. "Not your fault, unless you're the moron who misread her chest x-ray."

That wasn't what she'd meant, and LAM was difficult to diagnose from a chest x-ray, but House knew that already. She walked over to James, fully intending to take him home to bed, if not sleep, but she hesitated before shaking him awake. He didn't look particularly comfortable, and she suspected his back would be twisted in knots when he woke up, but he did look peaceful. And rumpled. She couldn't refuse him anything when he was rumpled, even things he would never ask.

Amber remembered every Valentine's Day she'd spent alone, and how her heart had ached just a little each time she saw a happy couple walk by, knowing that they had something that she didn't. Now she had it, and she could afford to be generous. She straightened up and walked towards the door. Another hour or two was nothing, and an eternity.

"What are you doing?" House demanded, though he kept his voice low.

"Wilson missed dessert and you probably haven't eaten at all. I thought I'd get something from the diner and bring it back." God knows House had demanded delivery service often enough while she was working for him, but he would understand the unspoken offer as well. "Let him sleep until I return. It's been a long day."

It was a dangerous precedent to set, but she was smart enough to know how to pick and choose her battles. It wasn't time yet for a last-ditch winter assault in the Ardennes, and when it was, she'd be Henry Fonda, not Robert Shaw.

Maybe there was only an hour left in Valentine's Day, but she'd never paid much attention to marked days on the calendar, even that one.