Author's Note: Ok, I have a feeling the next few episodes are going to be Abby centric, so there won't be any of these for a while I don't think, but I'm sure you'll all live without them. If you're desperate for a post ep to something, you can mail me, and I'll try, but like I said, I think you'll all live. So, until I'm feeling Carter inspired again….

Spoilers: For No Good Deed Goes Unpunished. (Episode 13)

Disclaimer: Totally not mine.

Thanks to: Everyone who has reviewed thus far, and Charli, for being a (very anal) beta, and IAS, for being…well, less anal. ;o)

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To trust people is a luxury in which only the rich can indulge; the poor cannot afford it.

E.M. Forster ~ "Howards End."
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Insulin tucked firmly into my coat pocket, I locate the keys to my Jeep and head for the parking lot. For a doctor, McNulty's not as careful as he could be. I'm not sure whether it's because he doesn't care, or whether he feels he doesn't have time to, but the woman who came to me this morning, his assistant, obviously seems to share my worry that'll he'll make himself ill.

He seems more susceptible to help now though, he gratefully accepted my cheque and, I hope, the help I'm going to offer him tonight – I want to lend a hand with the clinic, maybe put in a few shifts. I think he'll say yes, but I don't want him to agree just because of the money.

That's the one slight thing plaguing me right now. I shake it out of my head. It felt good giving it, especially after he ripped the last one up; wonderful seeing the slight smile cross his harsh features as he looked at it. And to think it's mainly because of Abby calling me on my weaknesses that led me to write it out. Didn't see that one coming, although I'm not sure why not.

I smile. She's infiltrating my world in these little ways, and I'm not sure whether she even knows it. But she is. Gently pushing me, opening my eyes to little possibilities I've been blind to. I guess love does change a man, as sickly as that sounds. But, then again, I was never good at being cool and aloof.

"The Barbie and Ken of the medical world." I like that title.

My mind wanders briefly in an uncoordinated pattern to Pratt and Leon. I wonder if he got to the station safely. How Pratt feels. I know it can't be easy letting someone you care about so much go. What is it about brothers and this city?

I never thought I'd be this concerned about him, never really thought that I'd think of him as anything but an arrogant 'bro from the hood', with definite attitude issues. But people surprise you sometimes, and tonight seems to be a night for second chances.

Glaring red traffic lights force me to stop, although the streets are so quiet I hardly see the point; I could easily turn without coming anywhere near contact with another car. But, like the unspoken law enforcers that they are, they make me wait, strangely impatient to get to the clinic; partially out of a nagging worry McNulty might be ill, but more so for nervous reasons, like I'll get there and he'll not want my money anymore, he'll give it back – it was almost too good to be true when he took it.

Red blinks to amber, and then green, and my foot connects with the gas again, sending me further into the night, my unease settling, although as I pull up to the building, I find it shouldn't do. It's dark, frighteningly so, not a trace of glimmer or a sound emitting from the walls or windows, and I wonder what state I'll find him in. I check my watch. He could be in serious shock by now.

"Dr McNulty?" my shout seems to be to no avail, yet I accompany it with a loud knock. Behind me I hear a vague whirring of an engine, but think nothing of it, until a bright and blinding light shines into my face, causing me to blink furiously. He asks me if everything's all right, in a suitably policeman-like tone, and I over-explain the situation, slightly embarrassed that he thought I might be committing an offence.

Seemingly pacified with this clarification, he helps me to enter. In a record time of 1.3 seconds, upon opening the door, my heart drops, more out of shock than fear or distress. It's…empty. The corner where two old but defiant beds stood, now vacant, a few littered cups the only remnants of the table McNulty had set up to write and work from. No chairs, no medicine…nothing. What happened?

I realise that the thought of aliens descending and randomly taking a whole clinic, an old man and his assistant is a little too fantastical, and uncertainty begins to creep in, wrapping strong palms around my stomach and wrenching.

Uncertainty gives way to denial, at my own request. "This is his clinic. This was his clinic for twenty years." It's true. There has to be an explanation for it, twenty-year old clinics don't just disappear like this. Maybe he moved. Found a new place, and was going to tell me, but…he was at the hospital today, the perfect opportunity for a relaying of such news would have been then, and it becomes painfully apparent that my rationalising will get me nowhere.

Has it been here for twenty years? I've lived in Chicago for 31, and I'd never heard of nor seen it until a week or so ago. No one else at the hospital seems to have known about it either. Has it stood here, unnoticed, for all that time? My question is answered by the policeman, who deposits that it was a Christian bookstore, and before that a tanning parlour. Shit. I would laugh if I thought I could.

The wrenching at my stomach ceases, and is replaced by what feels like a short sharp punch. The policeman continues, but I don't entirely hear him, I just keep staring in disbelief, imagining the way things looked three short days ago with each flicker of my eyes.

"Was that guy even a real doctor?" I don't know. I do not know. I gave a substantial amount of money to someone I knew nothing about. How could I be so stupid? Left alone, I laugh mirthlessly, sound echoing from the walls, intent on mocking me, like a whole audience queued up to point and stare at the silly little rich boy who thought he could change the world.

Unable to accumulate anything more than numbness, I kick a cup against the wall, but without any real passion. Then I just stand there, like an unsteady statue, unsure of what the hell to do.

The walk back outside to the Jeep, mingled with the icy wind intent on getting my attention, wakes me up a little, and I begin to rush through the thoughts building in my head. I can cancel the cheque. First thing tomorrow, he won't have had time to cash it.

I should feel relief at this, but I don't. I don't, because it's not really about the money. It's not about the cheque at all; it's about the fact that I was completely stung, that I started to care about something, get excited about something, that didn't exist. That someone could do something like this, so easily, so well. It's about the fact that gullible now seems to be a word made to describe me.

"Ken and Barbie"? Suddenly that phrase has a whole new meaning. I seem to suit the title, my head filled with plastic instead of the compulsory brain matter. How come I didn't see this?

My day replays in my head, but with a twisted spin – the grateful smile at the sight of the money he was about to receive becomes a calculated, cunning grin at the fact that this time he had a cheque with enough zeros etched on it, the emotional plea from his assistant becomes a planned and stealthy attack, planting the final figure in my head, without my knowing. I sit in the Jeep, but I can't bring myself to move quite yet.

So much for being worried he'd tear my money up again.

He wasn't loathed to accept charity. He tore up that first cheque to get a bigger one, and he singled me out from the start because he knew he could manipulate me. How? Do I emit vibes that lure all bad situations to me? Again, I'm a doormat, something for people to walk across and use, but never particularly care about.

I just feel empty.

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"I'm in the bathroom!" she shouts out to me upon hearing my key turn in the lock. Too late to go back, then. I don't even know why I'm here, I just know that the bitter loneliness of my own apartment isn't appealing to me, and the thought of picking up an extra shift at the hospital tonight is much too tiring.  I just want to find her, and hold her, and feel something real.

I aim my coat for the coat rack, but it misses, and puddles on the floor pathetically. I leave it; I'll pick it up later. "You're earlier than I thought," she calls again from the depths of the bathroom, sounding unusually happy, almost gleefully. I mark it down to Eric's return, and find it somewhat amusing that we seem incapable of both being happy at the same time. Or ironic?

"Yeah," I answer back, for want of something better to say. I don't know if I want to go through this, and longingly wish for a break, just to stride out of the door and go nowhere until this blows over.

She appears at the other end of the room, my back is to her, but I hear small padding footsteps. When I turn, she's glowing, dressed in her robe, and a particularly endearing smile, and before I know it, she's wrapped small arms around me in a bear hug, snuggling into my chest. Hesitantly, I raise and descend an arm to return the gesture, but my heart isn't in it. "Eric's really good," she muffles into my chest.

"Yeah?"

 "Yeah. He looks so well, you know, on his meds, sane. He's got the plane, and I think he's gonna be a bush pilot-"

She moves backwards and trails off, surveying me with interest, turning to dread when she notes my expression. Her arms fall loosely from my waist, and her eyes dim, like they always do when she automatically decides that my problem is her. I think the technical word for it is 'shutting down'. "What's wrong?" she whispers.

Now I feel like shutting down. I don't know, she always made it look quite fun. Inwardly I fight the bitter sarcastic thoughts eating at me, because it isn't her fault they are there. But they want to lash out, and she's the only person within hearing distance. "Nothing," I shrug semi-convincingly, and wind an arm round her waist, pulling her to me.

She follows, and nestles herself in the usual position between my shoulder and neck, and I absentmindedly run fingers through her hair, all part of our 'routine'. I don't want to really discuss the McNulty situation; if anything, I want to lose this numb feeling eating its way through me, and for a moment I wonder if I can just never mention it, cancel the cheque, say he left town. Then she wouldn't know what a mess I made. It's not really plausible though; she'd want to know the details.

Instead, I kiss her, gently at first, comfort filling me, and then with an increased passion, actively searching out her lips. She sighs sweetly, sinking into the embrace, and loosely draping arms around my neck, gently stroking the nape, but the pace becomes too slow for me, and I alter it, arms clutching more tightly, tugging gently at her robe, and fingers wandering down her spine.

She pulls back a little, but I move forward, and then she mumbles my name through kisses. "John," she repeats, more sternly, pausing my actions, and shaking me out of the trance-like state I was in. Her face reveals some slight anger, but more concern, and she cocks her head, running soft fingers down my cheek. "What's wrong?"

What, she can use sex to block things out and I can't? Seems somewhere along the line I got the game wrong, she gets to use whatever she wants as a weapon, a distraction, yet I have to be open and honest at all times. My arms drop abruptly, and my body shifts, feet carrying me to the kitchen and pausing to flick the kettle on.

"Hey!"

"I'm fine," I insist through gritted teeth, back turned, but I'm not good at this, I feel angrier at myself for being a shit than I am at her, or McNulty, or any other nameless faces that have maddened me lately.

"You're not," she repeats more adamantly, and a hand pulls me back round to her eye line. What she sees must be a pitiful sight, because her face visibly softens. She nods towards the couch, and I shake my head, but she motions again insistently, and I drop down onto it, her following and lying on my chest, waiting for me to open up.

 "How's Eric then?" I ask, changing the conversation and begging for some good news.

She looks at me disbelievingly, like she doesn't know me, and I realise that she's already exposited this information anyway. "Umm, like I said, he's going to be a bush pilot, he's good. What's up?" her voice takes on a light tone, but she fixes me with worried eyes, concern that I probably don't deserve, and I decide to take a deep breath and just tell her.

"McNulty's gone. Left." She's silent, not saying anything, just continuing to look confused until I elaborate for her. "He was scammin-" I correct myself. "He did scam me. Took the money and…cleared up. He was only ever there a few weeks."

"You sure?" she asks, but there's no doubt in her eyes.

I just nod sadly, and shrug, relaying the story in the minimum amount of detail, while she listens. "I can stop the cheque," I offer in a falsely positive tone coupled with a short smile, and return to stroking her hair quietly, watching the shadows that flicker across the ceiling.

"But it's not about that," she replies rhetorically, obviously having learned a little more about reading my mind. She looks up at me, angling my jaw so I'm facing her. "Is it?"

"No," I concede quietly, with a shake of my head. I feel little arms reaching around me just a little tighter than they were before, and a tiny kiss dropletting on my cheek, but she still doesn't say anything, just fills the pauses with little breaths, and before I know it, I'm asleep.

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My eyes blink open to find us still lying there, the flashing red lights on the clock telling me it's 2:30AM, I don't want to believe it, I want to fall back to sleep, but fate doesn't seem to wish it that way. I want to move, but I can't; her sleeping form is precariously rested on my chest, and one wrong movement could wake her up, which I'm loathed to do. Instead I have to gaze longingly at the glass resting by the sink, my mouth becoming increasingly restless in its need for water, and try to alleviate sore muscles without disrupting her.

It doesn't work. She stirs next to me, forehead rubbing into my chest, and lifts herself up on her elbows, blinking and glancing around. "Time is it?" she yawns, rubbing one eye with her palm.

"Almost three."

She rises, and offers me her hand; I follow her up slowly. "Coming to bed?" she asks softly, smiling through tired eyes and running a finger up and down the centre of my palm.

I nod, looking down at her. She's beautiful. "In a minute."

"'K." Balancing a finger under my chin, she rises up to touch a soft kiss to my lips, and lets it linger there a moment, not moving. "Don't stay up too long," she adds on her way to the bedroom, pausing at the doorframe to watch me, a helpless sort of worry rested on her brow, and then she's gone, and the apartment is still, but for a muffled crumpling of bed sheets and a soft whirring from the VCR clock as the time changes.

I collect the glass of water I was longing for, but find I don't particularly want it after all, and instead stand in the middle of the room, feeling a little lost. What now?

Charity work is out of the running.

I can't explain this feeling, this emptiness; I don't know whether I want to. I just know that I knew him a few short days, a week or two, yet somehow it feels like my sense of purpose has gone.

I rest my palms on the table behind me, and lean back on them, staring from the clock to the window, observing the still Chicago night, dark and empty, streets long abandoned for the warmth and security of silent houses, and then back to the clock again.

3:01 AM. This is going to be a long night.

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A/N: Reviews, particularly constructive ones, are loved.