-disclaimer: in part one
-a/n: bellsie805 and xantichoicex: i'm not sure if this will help, but i've added a designation for whomever's speaking at the top of each section. hopefully that will clear up the switches a little bit.

i pray you know me when we meet again

chapter two/three:
frailty thy name is woman

the administrator

He asks you out to lunch one day and you wonder if you need to draw him a diagram on what happens when friendships die.

'You go this way (arrow), I go that way (arrow) occasionally we say hello (smiley face) and discuss trivial things (tennis racket, dog, book) and then we go our separate ways again (arrows).'

You make up excuses for a month before caving and you're rewarded with a huge smile and a scheduled lunch date.

Later you see Jimmy talk to Greg and after that Greg glares at you with more disgust than usual, so you flash him a treacly smile just to mess him up. It appears to work because his scowl drops but then he's studying you (in a not so subtle way) and you make an excuse to leave and try not to run for your office.

If you'd have looked back you'd have seen Greg smiling because he just won round one.

Lunch with Jimmy isn't as bad as your mind depicted, and you still have some of the same old things in common. You avoid talking about work because it seems so pitiful a thing to fall back on when you used to talk about everything.

Throughout the meal you're watching his eyes, waiting for his response to your one-worder. You know it's coming because you know James, and try to make the bracing of yourself a purely mental thing while keeping your body in an unassuming stance.

You dare to hope you're in the clear as you dump your trash and walk back toward the hospital, but (like you should have seen coming) he stops just across the street and turns to face you with that solemn stare that always makes you sigh.

'I know you don't want to hear this, but I can't help it. Greg and I are two, unbelievable schmucks who don't deserve you, but unlike Greg who's an egotistical, misanthropic schmuck, I'm a selfish schmuck and I don't care. I want you back.'

You rub the bridge of your nose and try to relieve the impending headache. 'We've always been on civil terms, Wilson. Why can't you just leave it alone?'

With mild curiosity you watch as he reaches into the bag he's been carrying all afternoon (that you politely refrain from telling him looks like one you have in your closet) and pulls out a stained, slightly torn Christmas/Hanukkah card. He hands it to you with a gesture to open it, and your eyes fall upon your own familiar scrawl.

'I found that about a month ago, cleaning out the drawers in my office.'

It's like a lot of cards you'd given to him before five years ago. With a mildly amusing pun in jolly letters on the inside it's far from professional, and details half a page's praises for a good year and hopes for more to come. At the bottom: love always, Lisa.

'So?'

'So I haven't gotten anything that personal from you in four years. I have a stack of cards at home from random holidays throughout the year and they're all stiff and full of the 'season's greetings' bullshit you pass out to everyone including the interns.'

You sigh heavily, thrust the card back at him and run a hand through your hair, tossing a longing look to the hospital across the street.

'What do you want me to say, James? It's not like I forgive you because there isn't anything to forgive. You did what you had to; Greg needed – still needs you – a hell of a lot more than I do. You made a choice. I'm not looking for you to regret it.'

He nods, out of words. The walk across the street and up the steps is painfully slow. You don't thank him for the lunch because it requires speech, and opening your mouth runs the risk of not knowing what will come out. So you nod your head and smile politely (in that damned, detached and purely professional way) and slink into your office to hide behind paperwork and phone calls and finances.

Falling into your chair, you reach for the first file and open it tiredly with one hand while the other opens a drawer and rummages around for Tylenol. When your eyes finally connect with the page you stop, pills sliding slowly down your throat, and give a soft sigh. The sticky note in the centre of the first page stares back with James' stereotypical doctorly letters and you can't help but chuckle just a bit at his forward thinking.

Little do you know he's watching you discretely through the blinds, and the small shake of your head and light smile let him know for sure that his Saturday night has just been filled with dinner for two.

the cripple

Months tick by in ten-hour days and he doesn't even realize his plan is working. His consciousness of the issue is slow like a breath on the neck and the first ticklish sensation hit him over curry chicken at a Vietnamese place down the block on a Saturday afternoon, or so he tells you later on the phone (not in exact words).

You know he's spent the whole weekend elated, and you know standing at the door to the clinic at 7:32 Monday morning that you're gong to be the wrench in his Wheel-O-Love.

Your body weight's fully on one leg and the cane juts out to the side. Your head is inclined in the same direction and you're scrutinizing him just to see if he'll squirm on cue. Never fails.

You hate bats and you hate bushes so the thing out of your mouth before hello is,

'Are you screwing Cuddy?'

He's too stunned by your directness and the seriousness you added just for effect to think of a witty retort and you almost have to laugh at the way he slips on and spits out his words. 'What?- N-no! Of course not!'

'But you want to be screwing Cuddy?'

It's more of a statement than a question because you don't need an answer, merely give him time to think of one as a courteous gesture; the hesitation and flush that climbs his face are confirmation anyway.

You pause, knowing you'd have to Have The Talk sooner or later, and you miraculously manage to swallow your pride for the 2.2 seconds it takes you to grit out, 'Be careful, James.'

To save your ego, you quickly pirouette (quite nicely, you might add) and stalk away.

He's at your side in less than a second and you force a groan back into the pit of your stomach where it came from. Maybe if you're evasive, he'll go away.

'What are you talking about?'

'Careful, it's an adjective; archaic, I think, something about acting with caution. Sounding familiar?'

'I don't need a lesson in etymology, Greg,' he starts.

'Then why'd you ask?'

'For shits and giggles.' You have to give him that one. 'Because I don't understand. Cuddy and I are fine. We're slowly starting to get the friendship back that we had before, even more so. It's great.'

'It's the 'more so' part that worries me,' you grumble and limp onto the elevator.

'Why?' He follows and the instant the doors close rounds on you. 'You aren't jealous, are you?'

It's kind of cute, the way he asks. In the way that begs you not to be, but also craves an honest answer. He doesn't want you to be jealous. He doesn't want you to want her like he does. If you do, he'll draw back, even when he doesn't want to.

You cough violently on the recently popped Vicodin, more for dramatics than actual choking and plant a disgusted grimace on your face that begs him just as equally not to even ask.

'Remember that not actually thin line between love and hate? It's applicable everywhere,' you grouse and give him a warning look.

The sigh of relief he heaves forces you to hide your smile.

'Then what does it matter?'

'Hospital politics, my dear Wilson,' you state, stepping off the elevator. 'Happy Cuddy makes for Happy working conditions, i.e, a manageable amount of clinic duty. Unhappy Cuddy makes for Unhappy working conditions, i.e., the clinic shift from hell. And misery loves company so who do you think she'll stick that on?'

You give him a pointed look as you reach your office, hoping he'll read into the subtext and you won't have to explain.

'You're afraid I'll hurt her.'

You should have known better. With a grunt you drop into your chair and put the cane on the desk. Wilson stands in front of it with his arms crossed.

'No, I'm afraid it will end badly and I'll get stuck with more clinic duty.'

'I'm not going to hurt her.'

'Good, then we can stop before this turns into a conversation from General Hospital.'

'You love that show.'

'Yeah, and it's on in five, so shoo.'

Wilson shakes his head and smiles broadly. 'You're really worried about her, aren't you?'

'Come off it, Wilson, I'm just worried about my clinic duty. Speaking of which, you're not gonna start ratting me out to Cuddy now that you're in this… whatever the hell it is you're in, are you? Because I might seriously reconsider our standing if you did.'

the administrator

You don't know why you agreed to this. It would have been just as easy to rent a car, and far less nerve wracking. Your father was in town for a week before taking off with your new Lexus (new as in exactly the same as you had before). You don't remember giving him your permission (or your keys) but you woke up this morning to a note on the table explaining his four-day detour to South Jersey to visit his sister and that he hoped it wasn't too much of an inconvenience.

He figures you have friends. Silly man.

James offered to drive you.

Four days. Eight car trips, fifteen minutes each. One hundred and twenty minutes total. Confined quarters.

God, why didn't you just rent?

You ask yourself this as he smiles, kills himself trying to make small talk, runs yellow lights and nearly flattens an incautious tabby that darts across the street in front of the car. You figure it either has a death wish or gets off on adrenaline and that James is probably the nicest human being you've ever met when he clambers out into the fierce rain to make sure it's okay.

He's out there for too long and you groan, presuming the worst and hurry to where he stands, drenched and confused.

He can't find it.

By the time you reach your house you're both so wet and cold and trembling you know your heart would have to be made of stone not to invite him in for a towel and something warm to drink.

He doesn't have to be asked twice and the boyish grin he gives you when you throw him a towel and take off your jacket (not remembering how sheer your blouse is) makes you feel like a teenager for a brief second and you shake your head and mutter something about men before ducking into your bedroom to quickly change.

You return in jeans and a dry shirt and are about to offer him coffee when you see him standing in your kitchen holding the beige towel and fidgeting with the hem. The smile spreads to your lips before you can bite it back and as if drawn to it he looks up and smiles back with a light, helpless shrug.

You hold up your hands and he tosses the towel; you step back and chuck it on the bathroom floor.

Three minutes later you're sitting at your kitchen table with hot coffee and he can't stop grinning into his cup.

'What?'

'Nothing,' he mumbles behind the grin, and you give him a Look to say Yeah Right. 'I'm just…' he pauses, as if searching for the right word. 'happy.'

You sigh with a smile of your own and try to deny the fact that at the moment you're pretty happy too. Without thinking extensively you lean over the edge of the table and place a chaste kiss on the side of his mouth.

You aren't there long enough for him to respond, and you don't know what his reaction is because you've decided the milk swirls in your coffee are fascinating.

the friend

You're standing in her kitchen holding a spatula and a colander, squinting at a recipe on the counter and only an apron would make it more complete. She's smirking at you and you feel like glowering but her laugh is contagious and there's no point in denying how ridiculous you look.

You've had a few of these dinners at one house or another but she's never allowed you to cook before. You've both had enough wine to keep things light and running smoothly (other than your cooking) and what Cuddy informed you is a Cure album plays mutely from the other room.

You're amazed and giddy over the fact that months have gone by and you haven't run out of things to talk about. The hospital is a subject barely broached, and other than the occasional comment pertaining to your other significant other, work remains there.

'I invited Greg,' you say and she snorts rather indelicately.

'Let me guess, he ran for the hills.'

'No, actually he said he'd be delighted...' Her face displays skeptical surprise and her wide eyes and slightly rounded mouth make your laughter uncontrollable. '..then he said he knew you'd make that face.'

Cuddy snaps her mouth closed. 'Ass,' she mutters, but you can tell it's affectionate.

'You hired him.'

'You're friends with him.'

You nod your head. 'Touché.'

She smiles and shakes her head but is instantly distracted by the cleaver you've replaced the colander and spatula with.

'Oh, for the love… let me get this,' she huffs and reaches across you and removes the sharp object from your possession. Her hair is right under your nose and you can't define the fragrance other than Her. No tangerine or honey blossom, no jasmine or lavender. She smells like you remember and no different.

As if she's sensed the humour has faded from your eyes she turns to face you, weapon safely out of reach and your mind never even registers that this might be a bad idea.

For the better part of your life (time wise), in any given situation, if it looks like love and it feels like love, you're about to get kicked in the 'nads with a nasty alimony payment. But you're not married and Cuddy's no housewife, nor is she one of your Blonde Thingies, so maybe…

You've got her pinned between your chest and the counter and the hand you've unknowingly placed on her hip. You're searching her eyes for something that says Yes and upon finding nothing that says No, discover that her lips are slightly chapped and cold but no less inviting.

You know that shock isn't the trigger for her unresponsive state, and you pull away. You can't see her eyes through the pale lids that hide them, and despite the fragility of your situation all you really want to do is kiss them both and make her smile.

Her head is turned away and the would-be silence is filled by the ticking of the face-clock above the stove and the music from the other room has become much louder. You count seven ticks before dropping your hand and stepping away.

'I'm sorry, Lisa, I shouldn't have…'

Her name makes her look up sharply and only three more ticks go by before she's got one hand curled around the back of your neck and her mouth demands a response which you are more than happy to give. Your arms are tugging her closer and her tongue is prying your lips apart; her other hand has tangled itself in your hair and you don't even care that you're hunched over and she's nearly on tip-toe.

You're not sure what it is you have, or what it is you're looking for, but when she brushes her lips against both corners of your lips and your eyelids flutter, you're pretty sure that this will do.