This story takes place in the middle of the eighth season. You can probably figure it out yourself from there. Just an FYI, I'm starting preseason training for hockey tomorrow morning, and next week i start school, so updates for this story as well as my other, And Baby Makes Four, may be few and far between.

"Abby?" Her voice cuts through the consistent hum of nightlife in Cook County, Chicago. In doing that, it also cuts through my stream of thought.

I don't acknowledge her, or at least I don't show that I know she's there, and take another long drag of my cigarette. I wait for her to come to me. I wait to see if she does come to me, rather.

She does.

She leans up against the brick wall next to me and stares out into the same, dark space as I am. She doesn't say anything for a while, and I'm surprised she's yet to reprimand me for running out in the midst of a trauma. I wouldn't have minded if she did, I don't think. Maybe the burning flush I'd experience would elicit a sense of connectivity, a sense of feeling.

When she does speak, her tone isn't angry or upset or annoyed or Weaver-ish at all. Her voice is soft and calm and she sounds exactly the way she does when she treats a child. Normally that, being spoken to like a child, would piss me off. But strangely enough, it's calming. Calm is a feeling, right?

Just as I wasn't expecting her to be cool and collected, I didn't expect to hear the words that came out of her mouth, well, come out of her mouth. "Are you alright, Abby?"

I take another drag of my cigarette and exhale the smoke in the opposite direction of my company. I turn and face her light eyes. I study her face for a long while; the way the moonlight makes her pale skin even paler, how it brings out the blue undertones in her predominantly green eyes, the way the wind pushes and pulls at the few strands of red hair that frames her delicate face. I swallow. "I'm fine, Dr. Weaver."

She nods shortly, clasping her hands together in front of her. I can't tell if she's going to keep going, keep speaking, until she does. "Why did you walk out of that trauma?" Her tone's still even and calm. I sense no trace of anger.

I shrug, concealing the small amount of my own anger that's bubbling deep down inside of me. I don't know, Dr. Weaver, maybe it was the fact that I erupted on the patient, an abusive father who finally got what he deserved with a good, hardy ass-kicking who suddenly wanted to know where his son, who had eleven stitches across his face to match his darkening black eye, was.

I don't vocalize my answer.

"We can't let patients get the best of us, Abby." She's perceptive. Or maybe I'm not as obscure and opaque as I sometimes let myself think. Not that being opaque is a good thing…it's just convenient, from time to time. And I've heard some people find the whole 'dark and brooding' thing attractive. I'd like to meet that person sometime, because lately, all I've heard is that my emotional baggage is basically enough to fill an entire plane. In more words or less, of course.

I turn and face her again. I feel as if I should have some sort of witty, sardonic, smart ass remark. I don't and that makes me feel naked. Naked in front of Kerry Weaver. That's like weaponless in front of a slew of warmongers. At least that's how it would be if the woman would raise her voice, get angry. But she hasn't and it's not looking as if she will. So I guess I'm a little less naked. Scantily clad, maybe.

I take one more drag of my cigarette and her bright eyes are still set on me. I can't tell if she's concerned or curious or both or neither, but I meet her gaze until my lungs need release. I push out one more stream of smoke and look back into her eyes, ready to talk. "He was an asshole."

This elicits a barely audible chuckle. It's more like a strange intake of breath, than anything. But the smirk on her face makes it clear that it was, in fact, a form of laughter. My face must be screwed up into some scrutinizing form because she goes on to explain her reaction. "Aren't they all?"

It's a rhetorical question so I nod in understanding rather than agreement. Although I do agree. I agree very much so.

Half of me is still expecting a lecture or reprimand of some kind, but I'm beginning to shiver through my thin scrubs so I push up my sleeve to check my watch. Before I can get a clear look at the time, she speaks again. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago."

I look at her suspiciously then nod. It's better than having another five hours to go, I suppose. Though it's not as if I have something in particular to go home to; my abusive neighbor is gone, so that checks the whole getting knocked out thing off my list of things I could do on a Friday night. I could go out, of course…hit up a bar, play some pool…but the more rational side of me knows that drinking alone is just another reminder that hey, I'm a goddamn alcoholic. My face must be screwed up again because she clears her throat in an obvious manner and, when I refocus my attention to someone besides myself, I see that her head is cocked to the side. "Is everything alright, Abby?"

A light bulb goes off in my head. A crazy light bulb, one that might just enforce my madness, but it's a light bulb nonetheless. I speak before I really think it all through. "Do you want to get dinner or something?"

Green eyes narrow in my direction and she opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. She closes her jaw for a second I stand there, waiting, beginning to wish I hadn't mentioned anything because then she wouldn't have to turn me down. I'm about to answer for her, about to retract my answer, when she speaks. "I get off in twenty."

I guess that's a yes. I nod. "I'll wait."

The left corner of her mouth turns up in the smallest smile and she nods, pushing herself off the wall, and heads back to the doors of the ER. She stops halfway and looks over her shoulder. "You should put a jacket on."

I tilt my chin up slightly but ignore her suggestion.

She only smirks a little more and keeps going into the ER.