Doctor Kurt Hummel closed his locker with a sigh. Next to him, his best friend was talking his ear off about her upcoming date.

"Should I go with a dressy casual or casual dressy?" To any eavesdroppers, this inquiry would be ridiculous and confusing. This? This is how Kurt Hummel and Mercedes Jones communicated.

"Mercedes? Do you even know when the date is?"

"Shoot! Damn, boy, I was so excited I forgot to call him back. White boy called while I was stitching up that handsy gangbanger." Kurt grinned, recalling the backhand Mercedes bestowed on the young delinquent when he touched her, um, derriere. It is not a proper day if Mercedes doesn't verbally or physically smack down someone and Kurt loved her for it. That is why they were friends.

"Well, find out if you even have date first and we can talk about your outfit." He sent her a devilish grin only to wince when she (gently) body checked him into a row of lockers.

"Boy, don't be hatin'. Of course I have a date. Have you seen this?" She swept a hand down her (immaculately dressed) figure, "Everyone wants to get with this. Except you, of course, Mister Mayor of Gaytown."

"That's Doctor Mayor of Gaytown."

Mercedes reached into her messenger bag and pulled out her cell phone. Holding it up, she asked, "There's still time to make this a double date."

Kurt glared, "Mercedes, I doubt he's gay and I'm done dealing with straight men and their insecurities."

Mercedes gave as good as she got, "Gay, straight, asexual, whatever! That boy might have never looked at a dick before, but he definitely wants to get up on this!" She smacked his ass and a somber smile inched up on his face.

"Mercedes, I can't go through that again. It hurt too much last time." Kurt shut his eyes and willed the pain away. It's been a year, but it was ridiculous how easily the memory of heartache rushed back. He was pulled from his head by a squeeze of his forearm.

Opening his eyes, he saw Mercedes' half-non-smile. Kurt hated that smile. It was a parody of her stunning (and often mischievous) grin. This is her conceit. Her forfeit. Her acknowledgement that she does not and will not ever understand this particular pain. And this alienation is what hurts the most. Mercedes Jones is his soul mate, his inner bitch and his outer conscious. How alone is he if the other half of his being can't understand?

"Baby, remember our golden rule."

Kurt gave her a wan smile, "Never mix textures?"

She took the offered tension breaker, "This too shall pass. We've been through worse. Heck, we passed our boards! Our love lives will be cakewalk. You and I will find fabulous men that can only hope to keep up with us. We will start families and we will be so stupidly happy, Schue will think we're dipping into the morphine stocks."

"She says as the unspoken 'Again' hangs between them."

"Hey, you're the one that thought we could channel House by getting high on pain meds."

"We channeled something." The doctors shared a long look before cracking up. Kurt threw his hands around her shoulders and buried his face into her neck, "Love you, 'Cedes."

She squeezed back, "Love you too, Kurt."

The two parted ways, Mercedes on the phone with her suitor and Kurt heading to finish off his rounds. It was merely a coincidence that his last patient on the rotation was Detective Puckerman. Or at least that what he was trying to convince himself as he walked down the white washed hallways.

Kurt walked into his patient's room and onto the most peculiar sight. In Detective Puckerman's room was Rachel's girlfriend (Quinn?) and what looked like a…street professional (read: hooker).

"Didn't have time to change, San?"

The woman rolled her eyes, "I thought you'd enjoy the view, Puckerman."

"Oh, I'm enjoying. OW! What was that for?"

"You said your heart rate needed to be kept down. Erections aren't exactly construed that way." Kurt tried to repress the grin that was making its way across his face as he watched the friends interact. It still didn't explain, however, why the two were seemingly all right with compromising their reputations as crime fighters by associating with criminals.

He coughed lightly to announce his presence and immediately regretted it as three pairs of inquisitive eyes turned to him. The unidentified woman walked up to him (reaching his height in those six inch heels) and stuck out her hand to shake.

"I'm Santana Lopez and I'm not a hooker." Well, she was sure dressed like one.

Detective Puckerman snorted, "No matter how hard it is to believe, she's not lying. Santana is the pride and joy of the 1-3, Manhattan Vice." Kurt's relief and resolved confusion must have been palpable, because the other three occupants of the room started laughing.

"Don't worry about it, Doc." Kurt turned to the detective, face slightly red. "Today's outfit is particularly slutty." Yes, yes it was. Leather mini-skirt that just barely covered her ass, thigh high boots, and a scrap of fabric that he wasn't so sure qualified as a shirt.

"Yeah, keep staring Puckerman. This outfit and my hot body roped in four enforcers of the Mascuci crime family!"

Apparently this was a good thing, Kurt gathered as he watched Detective Puckerman's face light up. He sat up in shock, "No way! You got Mascuci leg-breakers on soliciting a pro? That's fucking awesome, San!"

They exchanged high-fives, "Yeah, that's why I couldn't come visit sooner. I was in deep for the last three days."

"No problem, San. What's your excuse, Blondie?"

"I was having sex."

Kurt grinned. Snarky friendships are something he could understand.

"Sorry, Doc. I keep telling these two that the should act more like ladies, but they insist on acting like 'hos."

The two women immediately started on him, "Are you for real? Is there a woman in all of New York that you haven't stuck your dick into?"

"You can recite the alphabet with the names of all the STDs you have!"

"The girls I work with on the street tell me that they know what you're like in bed! They're pros!"

"Hey, hey, hey, I've never had to pay for sex. I'm a stud."

Kurt covered his laugh with another cough as Santana reached under the blankets covering his patient's feet and twisted the big toe harshly, "Ow! Bitch!"

"Not much of a stud now, are you Puckerman?"

"Doc, help me out here!"

Kurt faked-sighed, "As a part of the oath I took, I cannot let you physically harass my patient. The 'do no harm' bit gets in the way of most torture techniques."

"Awww," chorused the two girls. They shared a look and then Kurt was lost. The girls went through a series of non-verbal gestures that construed a conversation Kurt had no hope of understanding.

"Don't even bother, Doc. These chicks have been pulling this shit since the second grade."

"You've all known each other for that long?"

Detective Puckerman laughed, "Hell no. I would have dumped these bitches a long time—"

Santana took a break from her non-verbal conversation to punch the detective in the leg. Hard, if the look on his face was any indication.

Quinn glared, "Santana and I have been friends forever. This jackass hit on me at a party and wormed his way into my life."

"After being kicked in the crotch."

"After being kicked in the crotch," Quinn agreed.

Kurt winced in sympathy. Well, partly in sympathy. Another part was definitely due to evidence of the detective's heterosexuality shoved in his face. Keep it together, Hummel.

"Who got kicked in the crotch?"

Kurt turned to the door, where Detective Hudson was entering the room.

"Finn!"

"Hey, San! Jesus, didn't have time to change?" he said as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"Nope. I've been under deep—" "That's what she said!" (Quinn, surprisingly) "—and once I heard about this moron getting shot from Abrams, I booked it over here."

"Yeah, I heard you made Artie really happy with that Mascucci bust, congrats!"

"Making an ADA's life easy is what I live for."

Quinn was skeptical, "Really?"

"No," Santana snorts, "Those bastards aren't running around in two-inch skirts. They better be busting their asses in court."

"But Artie is awesome!" Santana begrudgingly agreed.

Kurt was lost and looking for an opening to leave the room. Too late, as Finn had spotted him.

"Doctor Hummel!" All of the air escaped Kurt's lungs as the tall detective embraced him in a large bear hug.

"Hudson, he turning blue!" Kurt could have kissed Detective Puckerman (dangerous territory Hummel) as Finn released him.

"Sorry, Doc," he turned to Santana, "San, this is the guy that saved Puck's life!"

"I almost wish you hadn't."

"Ouch! That hurt, San."

"I'm just kidding. Where would I be without my favorite lesbro?" She made her way over to Kurt and hugged him, "Thanks for saving him, as annoying as he is."

Kurt turned red, "No problem." He seriously needed to get out of there. Seeing their friendship made it so easy to see how well he would fit into their circle. That would make fighting the attraction for Detective Puckerman all the much harder. Kurt had done this enough times to know that distance was key.

"I have to be getting to my other patients, but it was very nice meeting you and seeing the rest of you again. Take care, Detectives."

"Hey, Doc!" his patient called out from his bed, forcing Kurt to turn to him, "None of that, Detective stuff anymore. Hell, you've survived God-knows how many years with Rachel Berry. Puck, man. Puck."

"Finn."

"Santana or San."

"Or Satan! And I'm Quinn."

"Kurt, please." So much for distance.