He looked over the chart, reading the line of printed words and scribbled orders. Once. Twice. He narrowed his eyes at the darkened scrawls, as though it was a problem of clarity rather than processing. Thrice. And he was still reading the same line.

Carter looked up at the gentle calling, the image forming in front of him out of focus from all the squinting. The warmness of her smile, however, was unmistakable.

he returned, a faint smile now tickling his features.

Are you off yet?

With a soft sigh and weary shake of the head, he meekly answered, One last patient. He halfheartedly gestured at the chart, his arm feeling unusually heavy. Sensing her careful eyes on him, he forced himself to peruse the chart once more.

He was massaging the side of his head, yearning for the pulsing ache to go away when, suddenly, he felt the paper shift upwards as the chart slipped out from his grasp.

But already, all he could see was her petite silhouette briskly walking away. Waking from his torpor, he hustled after her.

Dr Weaver, he finally heard her say as she approached the fiery chief of staff, Carter isn't feeling well and he was wondering if he could sign off his last patient to you.

With a wince, Carter could only back up as fast as he had run after her, not wanting Weaver to see him for herself.

And he couldn't do that in person? he heard Weaver ask in suspicion.

He's really not feeling well.

There was a pause before a conceding, but distinctly annoyed,

The words of the remainder of the conversation fading behind him, he swiftly crossed the admit space and pushed the door to the lounge. Stopping in the silent darkness, he shook his head, as though in disapproval, though he couldn't deny the wave of relief warming his limbs. He went to his locker, mechanically spinning the dial on the lock. And it came: the slow, sullen smile.

Suddenly, a shockwave of sound came in as she had opened the door. The noise soon dwindled as the door shut in a smooth backswing.

You're welcome.

Carter opened his locker before turning to smile at her. She was looking at him, her eyes twinkling in the dark, an amused grin visibly discernable.

It was just one patient, he protested, almost reproachfully.

She was watching him, still amused. Remember last time I asked you to take in one last patient? she asked slyly.

He nodded, letting out a slow laugh. And he thought about that night—his longest shift in recent memory—and deemed that if she could find humor in it now, surely he could too. he countered with mock-wisdom, but there wasn't a disastrous rock concert tonight.

Her pleasant laugh was now reverberating softly through the empty lounge.

He continued gathering the last of his belongings before finally murmuring, You didn't have to do that. Really. Grabbing his coat and leather bag, he closed his locker and shut the lock in a quiet click. He was facing her now, silently smiling.

John, your eyes were glazing over that chart.

He was about to protest when he realized there was nothing to protest. And so he laughed.

Come on, she encouraged softly. Let's get out of here.

Carter followed her as she pushed the door open, sluggishly pulling his feet one in front of the other, each step requiring a mental effort. Drained and tired, a sole wish was inhabiting his thoughts: he wanted to get to the doors, wanted them to slide open so that he could feel the air outside and so that he could get away. On their way out, however, he caught Weaver's eyes at the admit desk. His own eyes dropping to the floor, he felt the maddening reddening of his features. Quickly forcing himself to choke up a cough, he guiltily turned his back on her.

Take care, Carter, he heard her yell out. And good luck.

He coughed again, acknowledging her best wishes with a slight gesture of the hand and wearily made his out the sliding doors of the ambulance bay.

She had, meanwhile, already slipped out and he saw her waiting, her raven hair swirling about in the funneling wind of the bay. A thin, laughing smile was dancing on her lips.

he asked, suddenly unable to battle the contagion of her smile.

she mocked, mimicking his innocent tone. Thankfully you're a doctor—not an actor, she quipped, nudging at the doors behind which he had feigned his fictitious sickness with disconcerting doubt.

Carter could feel his face coloring slightly but laughed nonetheless. I'm just too honest, he said airily, while fumbling with the collar of his coat in mock pompousness.

she retorted, shoving him playfully and chuckling heartily.

They were standing immobile in the ambulance bay, the daylight warming their skin. She had turned away from him now, her eyes gazing ahead. He followed her gaze to finally have his own eyes meet the burned down ruins of Doc Magoo's: darkened wood shafts strewn on the site like matches chaotically fallen from an open box. They stood silent for a while as he reached inside his coat pocket, a habit instilled in him by the continuous wear of their doctor's coat. His fingers unexpectedly met with the smooth, cold contours of a penny. Feeling the embossed relief on it, he frowned, wondering how it arrived there. Soon he remembered seeing it near the el tracks, just that morning. It had been matte, its once shiny glitter reduced to a poor coppered brown. Nobody else had seen it, evidently. But he had found it—the way his eyes had usually found the floor of late. But Carter was never the one to be superstitious, and usually would have kicked it away. And yet, something that morning had compelled him to pick it up and slip it inside his pocket.

Did you have anything to eat yet? she inquired, suddenly ushering him back to reality.

He turned to her, blinking as though to remind himself where he was. Between his last minute packing and the last half-shift he owed Weaver, he hadn't given much thought to his stomach. Truthfully, in his distracted reading and re-reading of charts, he hadn't realized just how hungry he had grown.

Actually, no, he answered.

If you're not too tired, maybe you want to grab a bite?

She had directed her head towards the other side of the street, a few buildings away from the ruins, where he noticed the panel of a small dinner that had caught her eye.

Carter nodded in acquiescence before walking up next to her, crossing the street at her side. His feet still felt heavy and he still felt as though he had to will each of his limbs to move, but he had found a slight, new lightness in his step. Unthinkingly, he felt his head turn back as he gave one last look at the ambulance bay behind, a strange tightness tapering his throat.

They soon arrived at the small restaurant, cramped in space and shabby in décor. The bells attached to the door tinkled at their entry as a waitress motioned them to an empty booth near the windows.

He quickly sat down, sliding down the peach-tinted vinyl bench and watched her as she put her bag at the end of her seat and gingerly slipped off her coat. She quickly folded it in half and placed it beside her. A smile grew on his face. Manically ordered, Carter thought with an interior laugh, his eyes never leaving her. Soon, she was facing him, looking at his intent gaze with a slightly bemused expression.

He cleared his throat, trying hard to sound detached. he inquired.

He saw her color slightly but soon, she furrowed her eyebrows. So what?

What's this about? he asked, smiling despite his seriousness.

She smiled back, but he could see how she grew uneasy. Nothing. Can't I take you out for a bite without dark, ulterior motives?

He watched her fingering with the napkin in front of her, her eyes meeting the table cloth instead of his own.

he started, doctor, not actor. Remember?

And she finally looked up, wincing playfully. So I'm that transparent?

he teased. I just like to think I read you well.

She laughed as the waitress came over, handing them plasticized menus. They both thanked her before he watched her sit back.

She sighed. I just wanted to save you from the claws of fatigue so I made you end early and I'm now having a bite with you.

Very eloquent, he quipped, mimicking an impressed look.

She grimaced, evidently seeing the lies wouldn't convince him today. He could see her awkwardness, and though he had a strong suspicion as to the true nature of her motivations, somehow he felt compelled to push her. He couldn't explain it: it was as though he needed to hear it. From somebody—anybody.

They had both returned to perusing the menus, reading the generic meal items but not registering the words.

she finally let out, with mock exasperation. He watched her let go of the menu as she timidly lifted her eyes to his. If I'm not going to see you for weeks, the least you owe me is half and hour and a burger.

He suddenly frowned, while holding her glance. He knew she had just wanted to give him a timely goodbye, but he hadn't anticipated the bluntness of her statement. A little taken aback, he silently dropped his head before mumbling a barely audible, You know, I wasn't just going to slip out on you.

she said slowly, with a mixture of sadness and joke, if I was lucky, maybe you'd think to call me on your cell on the way to the airport only to find that your batteries are dead from talking with Abby.

His eyebrows furrowed at the mention of her name as he swallowed hard. Carter thought of correcting her, maybe explaining it to her, when he realized the explanations eluded his very own comprehension. And so he caught himself, disinclined to open that painful route of conversation. Instead, he went along with her assumptions. I'd bring a back-up phone, he quipped slyly, masking his troubled thoughts.

Yeah, you better rich boy.

And this time, he couldn't hold off the laughter. You're the only one who could get away with that.

Hence my doing so. And she laughed too.

There was a moment of silence as they once more picked up the menus—more by habit than for actual purpose.

It's nice to see you smile again, she finally uttered, her concerned but warm eyes resting on him.

He lifted his eyes and sheepishly nodded. It did feel nice, he thought.

Don't thank me.

He was taken aback by her anticipation, anticipation that should have been expected by now. And yet, he was surprised every time.

I'm not crediting you for making me smile, you know, he taunted. I was just being gracious and wanted to thank you for the compliment.

In the space of a few minutes, he had smiled and laughed more than in all the weeks before.

The waitress soon came over, armed with a pen and notepad, dirt marks on her otherwise immaculate apron that was set off by the light cherry-colored uniform.

Are you ready to order yet?

They glanced at each other, simultaneously answering, Not yet before Carter asked her for some coffee to start.

The coffee promptly came and they silently watched the dark rivers of liquid being poured into the spotless white cups.

I didn't expect you to come in today, she said flatly.

Somehow, in her flatness of tone, she had summoned a new wave of guilt onto him. He felt his cheeks warming and found himself searching for the right words amongst the sea of letters dancing in his mind. I didn't tell you, he suddenly stammered, apologetically. I mean, I didn't know I was going to work—

He had mumbled the last bit, which mimicked the nature of the very thoughts in his head. Carter took a breath in an attempt to clear up what he wanted to say, first to himself and then to her. Finally, he put it as plain as he could: I told Weaver suddenly that I was leaving for two weeks; she had to rearrange all the schedules so the least I owed her was a half-shift before—

She nodded. Before you slipped out on me.

He winced. Truly, that's what he would have done.

He suddenly felt like he still owed her an explanation, but before he could utter another word, she quickly changed the subject.

Greg found a first aid kit, she said, nudging outside where they could see the burned carcass of Doc Magoo's. The last thing left standing.

Taken aback by the sudden turn in conversation, he could only manage a faint nod.

I wonder if Trina's going to be okay, she said thoughtfully, still staring at the site.

He looked at her, suddenly remembering what had happened, a new wave of guilt sweeping over him.

I'm sorry—I shouldn't have brought you here…

she said firmly, I suggested this place. Still wanting to interrupt her, Carter opened his mouth but she went on, Besides, you can't run away from places forever just because they hold memories.

She had said that last bit hurriedly, with marked premeditation. And he caught it. Never to be the didactic one, he finally saw her aim.

The Congo's a good opportunity for me, Deb… He quickly stopped, seeing the flaw in his opening statement. They need somebody, he quickly corrected himself. I can help. I'm not—

No, I know, she interrupted him. I'm just saying that when you come back, your problems are still going to be here—

Flushing madly and feeling oddly betrayed, he interrupted, Of course I—

But she had held up her hand, stopping him short. Let me finish. And she drew a breath before concluding, When you come back your problems are still going to be here, John. And she paused for emphasis. But so will be the people who care about you.

Her voice had grown faint as she had slightly dropped her head, looking down at the table.

Carter's own eyes dropped down to look at his cup, the now cold, dark liquid resting in its white cradle. The ebony-colored waters swirled about as he mindlessly inclined the cup from side to side. Of course he was aware of it, he mused. Only, hearing her say it made it different: as though it was worth believing.

In an almost inaudible whisper he murmured, I know.

Returning to their musing ways, they sat quietly, sipping their coffee.

Carter looked out the window to see the careless, coming and going of pedestrians and the busy flow of traffic rolling continuously up and down the avenue. He was fixing something in the distance now, his thoughts miles away.

I miss her, Deb, he heard himself say. He hadn't meant to say it, but it had slipped out.

And she looked up, her look warm with empathy. I know you do.

He put the cup down, unexpectedly feeling her hand reaching across the table to his trembling one.

And he smiled sadly, feeling the warmth of her hand.

You know she would have hated this. He was now looking at her with a sorrowed smile. She hated me being a doctor. She'd hate me being a doctor in the Congo. And he let out a sad laugh.

The squeeze on his hand grew stronger. He saw her: how she cast an intent look at him before murmuring, I think she would have been proud.

She had let go of his hand now, but for minutes more, Carter could still feel the warmth tingling in his fingers.

There were sounds of brisk footsteps that suddenly stopped beside them. The waitress had returned, pen and paper out. Can I take your order?

He cleared his throat, blinking away a suddenly-come blur and replied, Yes. Two burgers please, and he turned to Deb before continuing, and half an hour more.

The waitress turned back, slightly puzzled, but only managed a dismissing shrug, leaving an echo of playful laughter behind her.