"Did you help her?" he asks, when they find a quiet moment.

Charlotte doesn't have to ask who he's talking about. She sets her pen down, drops her voice so the nurse standing a few feet away can't hear them and says, "I did my best. Told her she'd get through it. That it'd be hell, but she'd come out the other side of it. She got the message, I think." He nods, and the silence stretches between them for a minute before she adds, "I hope."

He laces his fingers with hers and tells her, "I bet she did." His lips curve into a smile she knows is meant to tease her when he adds, "You've always been pretty good at getting your point across."

Charlotte smirks at him, and shakes her head. Understatement, she thinks. And then she thinks that "always" is the wrong word to use there. She's had her share of difficulty in sharing how she feels the last few months. But she's learned, she's managed. Eventually.

"Have I told you lately that I'm really, incredibly proud of you?" he tells her, out of nowhere, voice full of sincerity and all that pride he speaks of. It catches her of guard and she frowns.

"What?"

"You are the strongest person I know. You've been through hell. I mean, we've both - but y'know, you more than me, obviously. And you picked yourself back up." Charlotte glances around anxiously, swallowing hard. This is turning into a very private moment, and she'd rather have it without an audience. And the way he's talkin', she's likely to get all misty and she can't have that in the middle of a hospital corridor. He must be able to tell, because he sucks in a breath and finishes with, "Not everybody manages to do that, but you did. So I'm proud of you."

She taps her pen against the chart in her hand and offers him a little smile. "Well," she says softly, "I had help."

His mouth curves into a smile, too, and hers widens to match his. Then, she tells him, "We oughta get back to work," and the moment is broken.

He takes a step back, the intimacy of the moment fading in the space between them, but he doesn't leave her. Instead he slings an arm over her shoulder and says, "Nah. Let's take a break. Maybe find a supply closet somewhere, and..."

He waggles his brows suggestively and she chuckles and gives him a little shove. "No time for that, mister. I've got too much on my plate tonight."

He puppy dog pouts at her, but drops a kiss on her forehead and tells her "fine" and "later," then leaves her be.

As she watches him walk away, she thinks of the last year, and how far they've come. How far she's come.

And she has to admit, she's a little bit proud of herself, too.

Author's Note: And finally, Coping is finished. Why it took me so long to figure out how to cap this one off, I really don't know.