[A/N: Decided to do Part Two of This Starts Here as a separate story entirely to help show the change in feeling.]

It's a classic New York diner that Jen finds herself in at almost four in the morning on Thursday. She has no idea how she found this place; she popped out of the subway in one place thinking she was in another. She had walked in the direction she thought she needed to go only to find out she wasn't anywhere near where she needed to be. The only saving grace was the small diner and the blinking COFFEE sign in the window. She's in too much pain to walk back the direction she came from. The avenues are so damn long between streets and she's too broke to take a cab all over the city. But that's the problem with the subway-$2.25 will get you all the way from the Bronx to the Financial District and turn your equilibrium around 360 degrees in the process.

All Jen wants to do right now is hide in the corner of one of the vinyl booths and take some of the Vicodin she has tucked in her pocket for when she can't take the pain anymore. She's so, so careful with it, probably to the point where she's not taking it enough. She has a strange relationship with pills. She dutifully takes the ones that likely aren't doing much, but she's afraid of the ones that can help.

As she tugs the pills from her pocket, she realizes her medications resemble her life as it is right now. Briefly, she wonders if she should even be taking the Vicodin now, while she still has yet to navigate her way back to the hotel. But eventually, she decides she'll just take a cab this time. That will at least make sure she doesn't end up in Harlem stoned, alone, and unarmed. She could have handled that before, but not at a fraction of herself now. Knowing her luck lately, she'll probably end up with that one psychopathic cab driver from all the movies.

A woman-older than Jen-comes over, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. She doesn't say anything, just looks at the redhead expectantly. She's used to New Yorkers just telling her what they want without prompting or without greeting. Jen's too tired to even fake a smile. "Coffee, please," she says and with a quick glance at the woman's name tag, adds, "Doreen, with cream and sugar." And Doreen doesn't even bat an eye. She's had all kinds come through her door. This one was one of the most normal to wander in around this time of night. But she looks like hell.

Jen watches Doreen leave and picks up the water glass that materialized in front of her at some point. She tosses back the Vicodin with a big swig and sets the glass back down. Doreen comes back a moment later with a mug and a carafe in one hand and a bowl of non-dairy creamer containers in the other. Maybe if she had been thinking clearly, Jen would have avoided this diner. It reminds her too much of the diner in the desert.

Doreen fills the white porcelain mug with a touch of flair and a surprisingly Southern accent, "What's his name, hon?"

Jen blinks, taking a moment to realize, first, Doreen is talking to her, and second, that she was just called 'hon'. "Excuse me?"

"That look, I've seen it before," she answers, setting the mug on the table, "Usually it's the men who're wanderin' in at this time of night."

She sighs. She'll never see this woman again, there's no harm in answering her mostly honestly. Even though Jen doesn't like not having the upper hand in conversations. And this particular conversation completely blindsided her. "Jethro. His name is Jethro."

"Hm," she remembers the bowl of creamer and sets it on the table, "I'm sure you know he's probably hurtin' as much as you are. And don't say you're not, hon, because it's as plain as the nose on your face."

Jen snorts softly. Doreen doesn't even know the half of it. Of course the pain is obvious; that's what the Vicodin is for. But as much as Jen hates to admit it, Doreen is right. She knows he probably tore through his house like a hurricane and she knows he slept as well as she did last night. Clearly, she's not sleeping at all tonight. Just before she'd left, her body had finally started to find a natural circadian rhythm. And now that he wasn't there beside her, she couldn't sleep at all. She can't decide where the pain in her chest is coming from, but she knows it isn't all because of her surgery.

She looks down at the mug before looking back up at Doreen, but doesn't say anything. There's no point in denying it. Doreen continues, "There's always time to fix things until suddenly, there isn't. When I was younger, I made mistakes with the man I loved. I pushed him away more than once. One day, I realized all the mistakes I'd made. But by then, it was too late to fix anything; he'd passed on."

Except Jen isn't in the mood for a lecture, least of all from someone who doesn't know anything about her. Or from someone who thinks she knows everything. "While I appreciate the advice, Doreen, but not every story has a happy ending." Her story doesn't. She's made sure of that. It just ends.

Doreen shrugs off the comment, "Sweetheart, you look like you could use a happy ending and a good night's sleep," and walks away.

She doesn't want to admit how right Doreen is or how much this hurts. She had fooled herself into thinking it wouldn't hurt quite like it does. A little, yes, but not like she pulled her heart out and put it on the table. She misses him so much. But she has to keep going on this road. She knows he still loves her; isn't that enough?

Jen wraps her fingers around the mug and closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath, letting it out slow. If she blocks out the sounds in the diner, she can almost feel his arms wrapped around her, making her feel warm and comfortable. Opening her eyes again, she's faced with the sterile light, the empty diner, and the cold fact that it's just the Vicodin starting to work.

No more tears. Jenny Shepard doesn't cry.