Author's Note: I am foreseeing this being a series of oneshots, not necessarily about the same characters every time (though I do seem to focus on them), but following the same theme with each continuation. Much appreciation for those that read-- and all my love to those who review :)


It could be perfectly innocent. People have lunch together everyday without being romantically involved.

But they seemed different. Maybe it was the way he grinned at her, obviously softening some saucy remark he'd have to have made. Maybe it was the way she laughed along with him, noticeably charmed and receptive. Why shouldn't they get along? They were interns and they'd gone through a lot together. They were bonded forever simply because of their experiences: their heartbreaking tragedies, their foolish amusements, the lessons which they had roughly learned… together.

So what if they had that camaraderie? It didn't mean they were smitten with each other. Except for the fact that they previously had been. He'd once looked at her as if it was possible that she could save the world… him included. She'd watched him with a direct tenderness that saw right through his tough veneer and foresaw the compassion of which he was capable. But that didn't prove that those thoughts still existed; except that they probably did. At least in some small fragments deeply imbedded within, reinforced by the way they supported each other.

He'd followed her out of the hospital when she was desperately trying to keep from breaking down and to carry her head held high. He'd told the chief that he was a part of the team; part of her team. And though he'd lost her to himself and to Denny, he always would be. She'd seen something decent in him and that one little fact had meant the world to him. She'd helped him study for his boards when he hadn't deserved her encouragement. They were connected.

And to outsiders looking in, it was obvious. Merely eating lunch together in the hospital courtyard, they looked as if they were together. Maybe they were; Maybe they'd found their way back to one another in that way. Maybe not. Nevertheless, their bond was strong and insurmountable-- and would remain so.

But that didn't mean that others would stay away. His mischievous smirk and soft gaze and her wide grin and flushed cheeks were too fascinating, too appealing. Their common sensitivity and determination were a lure. Even their connection, that undefeatable bond, was an attraction, because it meant they were able to feel, and sustain, something real.

It gave those that watched them hope that maybe one day they'd share something just as powerful with them. That maybe one day she'd see through a different bitter man with such sympathetic eyes; that he'd have room in his heart for another strong, dejected woman.

Across the courtyard one of those wishful pairs commiserated their circumstances as outsiders looking in.

"We're pitiful," she moaned.

"We're desperate," he spat out disgusted at himself.

"They're vexing; They cause only trouble for normal, rational people. I swear, Mark, they must be cursed."

"No, Addie, we are."


The problem with being outsiders looking in is being denied the truth. It's not knowing whether another person feels for you what you do for them. It's a game of assumptions; a game where the outsiders are pawns and never know if they're being played. They never really win, they sustain only their existence, unless someone chooses to let them in. And that can prove to be the hardest move of all.