Hallways and Streetlights

By Rube

PG/PG-13, Cordano (Elizabeth/Romano). "ER" fandom. For Krissy, who really sucks because I didn't want to write this. She just made me start thinking about how much I really liked Romano.

When she answered her door and found him standing there, she was fresh out of the shower and half-covered in a comfortable terry-cloth robe. "Oh." Her words didn't do much in the way of interest except roll over each other. Mark used to tell her that it was charming, but most everyone else told her to repeat herself. "Robert, yes," she started, her right hand moving to the neck of her robe and holding it closed – not that it was in any real danger of slipping. "What a surprise."

"Lizzy." He lifted his gaze to hers and stared, disturbingly owl-like, for a minute. That was just another thing to add to the list of things that she found annoying about him – right underneath 'breathes way too loud' and 'doesn't acknowledge me properly.'

She forced a smile. "Mm."

"Can I come in?" He looked past her for a moment, trying to see inside the dark foyer.

"Uh." She glanced back over her shoulder and looked at absolutely nothing, since it was dark except for the moon and porch light. "I suppose." She stepped away and dropped the vice-grip on her robe, giving him room to pass by in a breeze of weak, sweet aftershave, before she closed the door behind him.

She flicked on the hall light and tried not to laugh when she heard him almost trip over something. Both of them blinked under the harshness, although the wattage of the bulb itself wasn't particularly high. Something about facing night and turning around to face white walls and carpeting made the eyes wince. Not that her place was garish. Elizabeth frowned inwardly.

"So." He tucked his hands into his pockets and dropped his eyes to the tops of his shoes. Italian leather, or as far as she could guess. He had taste. She felt more than a little underdressed, standing there barefoot, in a robe and about to go poofy-haired. Unconsciously, Elizabeth's hand touched the crown of her head and patted the rapidly drying curls.

"So," she repeated, her voice going a little windy in a really bad imitation of light-heartedness.

Robert glanced up at her quizzically, one corner of his mouth twitching, and she realized right then that he was drunk.

It hadn't been aftershave that she'd smelled. No one who worked the kind of shifts they did could make cologne, aftershave or even deodorant last that long. Her nose wrinkled at the idea; did Robert really think she was someone to run to when he got drunk and melancholy? Their rapport wasn't exactly jovial and didn't extend much further than work and the occasional staff party.

But she couldn't exactly throw him out. She'd never hear the end of it. Or, she considered, knowing Robert, her career would never hear the end of it. Such a bold move wouldn't go unpunished. People suffered for wounding Robert Romano's pride. Hell, people suffered for making his coffee the wrong way.

Cocking her head, she stared at him and realized that he hadn't said a thing. "Robert?" she tried, and even went so far as to touch his jacket-covered forearm. "Is everything all right?" Her fingers halfway clenched around the limb, and she could hear his breathing start to quicken.

"Oh, just fine," he answered, voice too loud to be sincere. He had that 'bring me my supplies, you imbecile,' demeanor and Elizabeth didn't appreciate it. She frowned again and dropped her hand.

"Really." Flatly. She wondered if her career was a big enough parting gift for playing drunken conversation with Robert Romano.

"Well, no. I lied." He took his hands out of his pockets and tried to find something else to do with them but couldn't.

"I see."

"Yeah. See, I just worked way too much for my own sanity, and some woman I used to date turned out to be a man."

An eyebrow raised in something like amusement. "You're kidding?"

"Yeah, I lied again. Well, not fully. I really did… what's the word? Overexert myself." He rolled his shoulders around in a loose motion than can only be achieved when you're highly inebriated.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Robert."

He laughed this time. "Sure you are, Lizzy. I'm sure you're especially sorry since I've come banging at your door and I'm keeping you from your own much-needed rest."

"When you put it that way…" she trailed off. It was easier than saying, 'yeah, I think you're right. See you in the morning, and don't let my front door smack your arse on the way out.'

"When you put it that way, I'm being a prick," he announced, head tilting and eyebrows lifting, as if challenging her to deny it.

She shrugged. "You normally don't seem so concerned with your behavior."

"Well, normally I'm not drunk," he snapped, rocking back on his heels. She wondered if it was bad for the leather.

"No, you're not," she agreed, and was about to say something else, but decided against it.

"I'm not a mean drunk," he said, so randomly that Elizabeth had to fight back laughter.

"No, you're not," she consented, finally breaking her rigid posture by leaning against the wall. She'd been standing all day, and her feet didn't really want to take another five minutes. At least, she hoped it was five minutes.

"In fact, I'm a nice drunk," he decided.

"Why are you a nice drunk?" she couldn't help asking.

"Because I'm nice enough to let you be the one to listen to me be a nice drunk," he explained.

She blinked and smiled. "That's some twisted logic."

"Yeah, well." Robert shrugged and looked at her like an owl again. It didn't bother her as much this time.

They stood in tinny silence for a prolonged moment, and Robert's eyes began to glaze over a little from staring at her so intently. "In the spirit of being a nice drunk who tells me everything, would you be so kind as to tell me why you're a drunk in the first place?"

He laughed, and she was sure it was for real. His eyes got all crinkly around the edges, and she saw two rows of perfectly straight, white teeth. "Now, now. I never said that I'd tell you everything. Just… that you'd be the one to listen to me."

"Listen to you being a nice drunk," Elizabeth added.

"Sure." His tone turned inward and became almost a whisper.

Elizabeth's back stiffened and, even through her robe, she could feel the cool wall pressing against it. Robert took a slow step forward, his expensive shoes making no sound, and by the time she looked up from them, Elizabeth found that he'd taken another. And another.

By the time he stood still, he was pressing her back even closer to the wall, and she could study any crinkle around his eyes and those white, perfect teeth. Not that his mouth was open. No fool started to kiss with their mouth open.

That came later.