It's been three quiet, uneventful, frustrating days since Allison reappeared in your life. She leaves for work long before you're done for the day at the hospital, taking that damned bag of hers with her. You've come to realize that she leaves absolutely no imprint on your apartment whatsoever and it is starting to annoy the hell out of you. She hasn't touched a single dish in the cabinets or even opened the refrigerator as far as you can tell, and you've begun to wonder if she's ceased eating altogether. You still haven't gotten the answers to your questions, because she seems determined to be as invisible as possible, coming in from her shift at the coffee shop and quietly crawling into bed. When you wake in the morning, she stays in bed until after you've gone to work and then she showers (her towel being the only evidence of her presence) and after that, you have no idea how she spends her time until her shift starts at three pm.
It occurs to you that if she disappeared off the planet completely, there might not be anyone out there to even notice or care, besides you. You don't really know for sure, but you assume that if she had anyone close to her she'd be staying with them. It seems unfair that this gorgeous, caring young woman has no one, and you, misanthropic bastard extraordinaire have Wilson and Cuddy and hell, even Foreman and Chase, though they are not your biggest fans. It seems wrong that you appear to be the only one she can rely on, especially when you've never been the reliable type. But then, life has never been fair and sometimes good people get crapped on. The question you can't answer for yourself is why it bothers you so much.
You order a pizza and wait for your beautiful stranger. When she knocks on your door, you roll your eyes and get up to let her in.
"You know you can just open the door and come in, right?"
"Oh... okay. Thank you," she says, ever polite, stepping in with her bag draped across her body as always.
"Sit. Have some pizza." You open the box and slide it toward her in invitation, watching as she eyes it with what looks like pepperoni-induced lust, but doesn't move.
"Allison, sit and eat. You do eat, right? If you don't have some, I'm going to shove the leftovers in the fridge and then I'll forget they exist until... well, until Wilson comes over and cleans out my fridge. You'd be doing him a big favor."
"Alright," she agrees, removing her bag and perching delicately on the edge of the chair as she reaches for a slice.
"I've got food in there," you point toward the kitchen, "most of the time. Feel free to eat it. You don't have to starve yourself."
"I'm not starving myself," she snaps. "I'm fine." Her eyes are narrowed at you and you imagine the little gold flecks in them are sparks ignited by her anger.
"Sure you are. I bet those free samples at the coffee shop are really filling."
"That's not all I eat," she replies, and you know she's lying because she can't look at you.
"Oh, really? What do you eat then?"
"Stuff," she answers, with a sudden focus on her faded sneakers.
"Right. Stuff. My favorite," you mock. "All I'm saying is, you're welcome to eat what's here. In fact, I'd prefer you did. You like to cook? Knock yourself out."
She doesn't respond and you shake your head at the stubborn independent streak that makes her reluctant to take anything she feels she hasn't earned.
"How about this? I hate shopping. I'll leave you money and you do my shopping for me. In return, you can buy yourself whatever you need."
Silence. You can tell she is mulling it over, and you think it almost laughable, and pathetic, that she has to put so much consideration into taking something that is freely offered.
"Forget it," you say, bringing out one of your best weapons: manipulation. "You'd rather eat the fruit and stale sandwiches your store is going to throw away at the end of the night, be my guest. I hear the emaciated look is all the rage these days."
"Why do you care?" She punctuates her words by slapping her pizza down on the box and looking at you so intently you think she can see right through you.
"I don't know," you all but shout. "It's like living with a ghost. I'd prefer you not actually become one by starving yourself."
"Fine," she says, with a resigned sigh, as if she is doing you a big favor, and you smile inside, knowing you've won the battle. Picking up her pizza again, she resumes eating, taking delicate bites and wiping the corners of her mouth with the tips of her fingers.
"You thirsty?"
"Yes."
"Good" you mutter, waving toward the kitchen again. "Get me a beer while you're up."
She pauses, a breathy little laugh escaping her lips, and then rises and goes to the kitchen, returning with a glass of tap water and your beer.
You like that little laugh of hers, and how easy she goes from anger to acceptance. So few people put up with your antics and still want to spend time with you voluntarily. Allison is an anomaly that way. You want to understand her, perform a mental exploratory surgery and see what makes her tick.
"So how's the barista business?" you ask, easing into your interrogation. "Hard to believe they hired you when you didn't have a home address."
"I... used your address," she confesses, a sheepish look on her face. "I didn't even realize it was yours at first. It was the first thing that popped into my head."
Interesting, you think. If you adhered to Freudian philosophy, you could make something of that.
"Guess that explains all that junk mail I keep getting in your name," you joke, smiling at her look of dismay. When she opens her mouth to apologize, you cut her off with, "That was a joke. Why the coffee shop? Can't imagine slinging coffee pays as well as... your previous career."
"You'd be surprised," she says, but doesn't elaborate.
You drop your own slice of pizza in the box, frustrated, and say, "Seriously? My tips alone added up to thousands of dollars. And that doesn't account for the money charged to my credit card for all those consulting fees."
"You were very generous," she replies, setting down her half-eaten slice and sighing. "Most clients don't tip. In fact, you're one of only a few that ever tipped me. And only a small percentage of the money charged to your credit card is given to the girls. The rest goes for... overhead."
"What overhead?" you ask, an inexplicable anger rising within you.
She shrugs and says, "Clothing, food and shelter, security. Tara provided everything for us."
Swigging down the rest of her water, she stands and takes her glass back to the kitchen. Passing you on the way back, she says, "Thanks for the pizza. I think I'll head to bed."
Rubbing your forehead, you watch her go, knowing you'll get no more answers at the moment. You've never met anyone so closely guarded with their personal life, except for maybe the guy you see in the mirror every morning. You have a sudden understanding of why Wilson gets so annoyed with your misdirections and outright lies. Not that it'll change the way you respond to him, you think, smirking as you finish your beer.