Connor wakes in the dreary daylight that has fallen over the room. There's an almost unreal stillness as if the place was a spaceship crash landed on some remote, deserted planet.

He's got a splitting headache, and a temperature judging by the burning sensation at the back of his eyelids whenever he closes them, and not the slightest idea where Sarah has gone. She took the time to make her bed up there, and he finds himself smiling in amazement at her responsibleness, always cleaning up after herself, in life and in work, unlike almost every other intern and resident in this hospital.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he grabs for the half bottle of water and finishes it, taken by this wave of dejavú that he'd made the exact same move at some fixed point in his life, a point seemingly distant and close at the same time that it makes you lose grasp of time, for just the moment of those few heartbeats, yet something's missing and he can't quite take grasp of it.

He checks his phone, text from Sarah, somewhat a surprise on top of their clean message history. The line had been silent ever since the second night she followed him home and they swapped numbers, once made him wonder why they did it in the first place.

I'll be on my shift, in case you might be wondering.

He was, not knowing why his first instinct upon waking up was to look for her but frankly that was all he could think of for a while. He mulls over the words for a few seconds, and then taps on the screen:

Good to know.

He hopes that sounded playful enough. Since when has he become so unsure of himself?

As he walks out into the parking lot, squinting his eyes against the blazing sun, the sight of a red-coated figure leaning against his car leaves him astound on the spot.

"Connor," she calls out to him in a voice slightly aloof and disapproving, snapping him out of the delusion that he might as well be hallucinating. She steps forward, closing the awkward space between them, "When were you gonna tell me?"

"Claire, I'm sorry," flustering he hurries off an excuse. "It's just been really busy around here and—"

"It looks like I need to find out that you're probably dying through your girlfriend."

He did not brace himself for that.

"She's not—she's not my girlfriend," he snorts, pulling on something between a grin and a grimace.

"Then who is she, your mom? Cuz the way she was all over you like that? I would've bought it, had our mother not died twenty years ago."

He blinks, trying to ignore how much her words are hurting him, though in truth not as much as those unspoken: and then you left me too.

"I wasn't sure how you would react."

It's just like he remembers, that there's nothing he says that couldn't get his big sister to give way as long as it's the truth, because how could she resist, those puppy eyes, how could anyone resist?

Claire lowers her eyes, her arms unfold and her tone softens as with a tilt of her head she motions at his car behind her, "Look—let me just take you home."

He gives a silent half nod, reaching in his bag for the car key and hands it to his sister, who then rounds over to the driver's side and they both slide into the front, throwing the doors shut in one synchronized thump. The sound leaves them stunned for a moment just long enough to take a breath in and out and fasten the seatbelts, before Claire starts the car and they pull out onto the road.

The silence starts to grow more and more uneasy as they race across town wrapped in the low and hypnotic hum of the engine. Flouncing around in his seat, Connor decides to sit curled up on his right side with his cheek pressed to the cold glass, screwing his eyes shut against the splitting headache made worse by the sun burning red through his eyelids.

"Hey, you okay?" Claire manages to blurt out at one point, as if she could care less than just making sure he's alive, yet worry is ostensibly rising in her voice as he opens his eyes a slit and gives a stiff nod. "We can grab some lunch on the way if you'd like it."

"'m not hungry," a soft, almost inaudible grumble is all she gets, yet enough to melt her heart and break those years' worth of ice between them.

She follows him into his apartment, where she lingers a brief moment in the foyer to take in the furnishing—not as spacious and decorated as her place but with the same sleek arrogance of a Rhodes's—before making a beeline for the kitchen where Sarah told her to find the med kit.

By the time she finds him in his bedroom, Connor has already settled himself in bed and she catches him rolling his eyes on her as she enters carrying the kit and a steamy mug.

"I can do this myself," he looks up at her, jivey with a bemused look.

"I know," she reaches over to grab another pillow for him to sit propped up on it. "But if I'm getting it right, then even something as minor as the flu can be life-threatening for someone who's immunocompromised like you probably are. Open up."

She sits down on the edge of the bed and slides the thermometer into his mouth. The grumpy bear look on his face makes her chuckle inside and for a heartbeat it feels as if they were little again. In a gentle voice she says to him, "and don't take it out on Sarah. She is technically trying to save your life, because whatever it is going on between you two, she does care about you."

He has no idea what to make of that, thankfully though he's literally biting on the excuse not to say anything.

"Okay," she goes to take out the thermometer as it beeps, and brings him the cup. "Drink it up."

The flavor hits him, a gut-wrenchingly familiar sweetness he's associated with those distant, not-all-pleasant childhood memories—Mom's homemade recipe, warm lemon juice with honey—memories he'd resented and cherished and then tried to discard.

"Try to get some sleep," standing up, Claire puts away the thermometer and takes the empty mug from the nightstand before leaving the room.

Sarah would consider it excellent timing, to get the call right when she's got a window before her next surgery. She picks up the second Claire's name pops up on the screen.

"Hey Sarah?"

"How is he?" She almost immediately blurts out and regrets doing it just a tiny bit.

"He's asleep. He's temp was ninety-nine point six and I gave him plenty of fluids."

"Okay. Good," nervously she goes over the textbook one more time in her head.

"Is there anything else I should be worried about?"

"Not for now," she reassures her. "Call me if if you need me okay?"

Hanging up the phone, she sighs a weary sigh leaning back against the wall of the corridor with her head up staring at the ceiling. Her frustration is not nearly as much due to the crazy hours of work as it is because of her longing to be there for him, all while being torn between the guilt for having walked away when he needed her the most and the need to keep telling herself that it was the right thing to do, which she knows is a lie because deep down there's no denying her love for him, and the fact that despite everything between them, she still cares.

Her pager beeps, cutting off her stream of thoughts, and so she steels herself and heads back into the OR. This time she's shadowing her resident in assisting Dr. Downey with a standard aortic valve replacement, through which she's correctly answered all the questions those superior surgeons threw at her and without second thoughts. She walks out of surgery proud and content, thanking herself for having blown off lunch break to study.

"Reese, nice work in there."

She freezes on the spot, upon hearing a word of praise from the premiere cardiac surgeon in the country.

"Thank you."

"Dr. Rhodes spoke quite highly of you," Downey is saying, straightforward but not at all lacking sincerity. "Now I see that perhaps you aren't as overrated as I suspected."

That she doesn't know what to make of other than to pretend she didn't hear.

"Take that as a compliment," the older man reassures her with an amiable laugh. "It's just uh, a fellow paying attention to a med student, is not a thing you see every day. You two close?"

"Not anymore," she slurs hoping that he wouldn't actually hear what she's saying.

"Well," not indicating whether he did hear, or maybe not caring. "My hope is that both of you find a way to keep work as work and life as life."

She stands pinned to the spot, long after Downy is long gone, determined that if she wanted to see Connor, now she might as well not go.

Claire did not see the need to call Sarah again, as Connor had seemed a lot better when she woke him up for dinner at nightfall, so she simply briefed the med student by text and was then told not to worry.

And now she and Connor are sitting at the table silently munching on their meal. She has made them spaghetti for two reasons: one it wasn't like she could find anything else in the pantry and two, it was their mother's favorite choice of a meal; well the second one is really more of a consequence given how it brings back memories that neither of them was willing to dwell on.

By the time they've finished eating, Claire decides it has to be brought up at one point or another.

"Connor, listen, I've been meaning to talk to you," she starts and watches him feign an innocent look. "I'm glad that you came home, but—"

"Have you told Dad?" He lets whatever the first to come to mind roll off he's tongue just to stop her from saying what he knows she has to say.

"Do you want me to?" She sounds overly attentive and dead serious, and it's annoying, but it gets him thinking about it all the same.

"No," as much as he wanted to make the old man feel guilty, still he decides that he doesn't deserve to know, not until the nail's in the coffin.

"Then I won't," she says earnestly looking into his eyes, and he looks away. "Look, Connor, I know it's a lot that you're going through, and I want to help, but you're making it difficult by avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you."

"It's about Dad, isn't it," she practically ignores his futile attempt to lie. "You hate that I don't hate him."

She had him. It's true.

With a slight twist of her head she looks down at her plate, easing her tone a little, "I don't want to go there, okay? That is an entirely different conversation and this is about you." She looks up at him in the eye, "you could've answered my calls. You could've told me what happened. You could've at least talked to me."

"About what?" He had genuinely felt like there was nothing he could say to break the amount of ice that's built up between them from years of not talking.

"About the fact that you were afraid because anyone would be? That you didn't want to be alone, that you missed her more than ever?" He pulls away in angst but she's not letting him off easy. "I know you do because I do, all the time."

She takes in the anguished frown on his face, the pain visible in his eyes, holding his gaze despite the ache in her heart.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice thick with sorrow.

"I am too. I know that I'm as much to blame as you," she softens her voice, looking down at her hands folded on the table, then back at him. "What I'm saying, is that you have to let someone in, Connor, because you can't run from your feelings the way you ran from your problems, it's just not possible, not forever."

Silence falls, but it's not as endurable as he feared now that he's actually seriously considering what she said. By the time he has thought it through, and as if she knew he has, she points with her eyes at the top of the fireplace, on which stood his metal museum of spinning tops.

"That's a nice collection you got there," she remarks. "Mom would love it."

"Yeah she would," he says lightly, appreciating the small, shiny objects bathed in the warm hue of the city lights out there.

"Well," Claire has got her cheery voice back, collecting their plates as she rises to her feet, and makes for the dish washer. Connor follows her with his eyes until she turns and says to him over her shoulder something unexpected. "Do you want to watch something?"

And so they spend the next couple hours hugging themselves on the couch sharing a pack of Lays while aimlessly flicking through the channels, just like they did on those nights after their mom died when Dad wasn't home. That being the first time for Connor to feel somewhat reassuringly enlightened at how easily things can be picked up right where they'd been left and it's like they haven't changed at all, is for sure not to be the last.

By the time it gets to Jimmy Fallon, Claire starts upon realizing how late it is and begins nudging her little brother to bed, and Connor goes to pretend he's not enjoying the doting, nope, not at all. Even then, how could she miss the secretive smirk at the corner of his pouted lips, or the subtle flicker of happiness in his eyes? She watches blissfully as he tucks himself in under the comforter, leaving it purposefully lower at his belly. She leans in and pulls it up for him, uttering in his ear the most lulling one of a whisper from long ago,

"Goodnight, honey bear."

More Rheese coming along the way! Promise.