Author's notes: (1) I've switched to 'Lucien' to be consistent with cannon. Eventually, I'll change chapter 2 accordingly. (2) I really am not plagiarizing from Ginny3's "End of the Day/Forging the Bonds of Friendship" series. I've been tweaking a draft of this chapter for weeks. But as I read (and enjoyed) Ginny's stories, I noticed that this chapter and the next of my story overlap the events depicted in hers. I considered changing details to avoid this, but feared that might weaken the story. In any case, I hope that the tone of my story is different enough to be worth reading.

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Abby knocked on Dr. Dubenko's office door, not entirely convinced that it was wise for her to be here. She hadn't spoken with the surgeon since he'd tried to convince her to sleep with him before his prostatectomy. She only knew that the operation was scheduled for later today because of her contacts on the nursing staff.

She recalled her last conversation with Dubenko in that peculiar blurry way that one remembers a bizarre dream. One moment he was describing treatment options and their potential physical consequences in excruciating detail, the next, without pausing for breath, he was explaining, quite scientifically, why she ought to have sex with him. It should have been funny, but it wasn't.

Abby stood by her reply, and was pretty sure that Lucien had accepted, and maybe even expected, it. But she couldn't get the desperation in his eyes out of her mind. It wasn't just sexual desperation, either; he seemed desperate to make some kind of human connection, and wholly unable to do so in anything like an appropriate way. Thinking back to how he had immediately spilled the details about his test results when she stopped him in the hall, she would bet money that she was the first person he'd told who wasn't involved in his medical treatment.

Of course, Dubenko had undoubtedly discussed the matter with oncologists and urological surgeons. But even if they tried to help him process the emotional side of his situation, Abby suspected they would have hit a brick wall . . . a brick wall covered with numbers, figures, and perfectly logical arguments.

Not getting any response, Abby knocked again. She was about to give up when she heard Dubenko's voice say, "Yes?" as the door opened a few inches.

Abby noted that Dubenko was wearing blue scrubs, but over them he wore a sweater rather than his lab coat. Looking at her, the expression on his face flickered between wariness and shame.

"Hi," Abby began.

Dubenko responded stiffly, "Hi."

"Can I come in?"

He started to open the door further, then hesitated, mumbling, "I, uh, I don't know if . . ."

Not quite sure how to proceed in light of his reaction, Abby decided to go with humor and hope for the best. She smirked playfully, "I'm not here for a quickie."

Dubenko sniffed in surprise, almost laughing. Then he scanned Abby's features intently. Apparently satisfied that she was teasing, not mocking, he backed up and led her into the office. She found an empty chair to sit on. Dubenko remained standing, not exactly pacing, but hovering in a way that gave the impression of pacing in place. His eyes were averted, inaccessible. Abby waited for him to get himself together enough to deal with her.

After a minute or two, the surgeon leaned against the only uncluttered edge of his desk, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He put his glasses back on and said, "I guess, uh, I guess propositioning you was not exactly advancing my 'don't romantically pressure Abby' agenda . . ."

Abby pursed her lips, feigning seriousness, and replied, "Well, to be fair, it was probably the least romantic proposition I've ever received."

That earned her an endearingly self-conscious smile. "Why are you here?" he asked.

For most people, such a question would be posed as a challenge or a dismissal, but Abby surmised that, with Dubenko, it was probably just a question. She responded, "I'm not going to sleep with you, but I am concerned about you. This might not be the best time for you to be alone with your thoughts."

He shrugged, "Unfortunately, the alternative is for me to inflict those thoughts upon other people. That doesn't usually work out well."

Abby nodded, having endured some truly awkward moments when Dubenko decided to share some of his mental processes with her. He never seemed aware, at the time, of how uncomfortable those conversational train-wrecks were, but maybe they were painful for him in retrospect. Really, all she wanted to do right now was keep him company. If that meant enduring some weirdness, so be it. It couldn't be worse than their last encounter. "Why don't you just tell me what's up next?" she suggested.

Dubenko obligingly missed the accidental double entendre and launched into a blow-by-blow description of his impending surgery. His voice was clear and steady, though a bit rushed. As he spoke, he manipulated a butterfly clip between his fingers, balancing it so that the angles between the sides alternated from acute to obtuse. Most of what he described was familiar to Abby, though she learned that the procedure might be done laparoscopically, which would cut down on the amount of in-patient time. Among the advantages of the laparoscopic approach that Dubenko listed was the possibility of the patient remaining conscious, though paralyzed from the waist down and under local anesthetic.

"You want to be AWAKE for this?" Abby blurted out.

Dubenko got up and began walking. He traced his finger along the bookshelf, straightening the spines of the books, as he replied, "It would be an interesting qualitative experiment. After all, I've experienced thousands of surgical procedures, but none from that vantage point. The telemetry from the laparoscopic camera could be sent to a monitor that I would be able to see. And since urology isn't my specialty, it would be an opportunity to observe a new technique . . ."

Abby raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Dubenko moved back to his spot at the desk, hands drifting separately amidst the papers on either side of him. "It's a moot point," he explained, glancing at her briefly, "Gerald said he wouldn't operate on me if I was awake – said I would distract him. And he's got the best track-record for the nerve-sparing procedure, so I want him to do it. Plus, it's fairly likely that he'll end up converting to an open procedure, anyway."

Abby concluded that this Gerald must be a wise man. Dubenko's nervous fidgeting was making her a bit crazy right now, and she didn't have to try to perform surgery on him. She shook her head, bemused, and persisted, "But you'd do it if you could. You'd want to stay conscious to watch . . . that . . . happening to you . . .?"

Dubenko's eyes focused somewhere distant, as if really contemplating the hypothetical question for the first time. His hands stopped ruffling the papers and he folded his arms tightly across his chest. After almost a minute, he shook his head and murmured, "No. No, I don't want to see it."

He met Abby's eyes and admitted in a soft, haunted tone, "If I could be unconscious already, I would be."

Now that he was still, Abby saw the exhaustion etched into his face, making the sharp angles even sharper. His posture and movements typically conveyed boundless energy, but now they seemed strained, like he couldn't turn it off, couldn't stop burning fuel even though his reserves were depleted. Abby wondered when he had last slept. Tactfully, she suggested, "You know, Lucien, there's nothing wrong with taking something to help you calm down before getting operated on . . ."

"I took 10mg of Diazepam last night, and another ten," he looked at his watch, "70 minutes ago."

"Ah." So much for that idea. She smiled sympathetically, "This is about as calm as it gets, huh?"

"Afraid so." Arms still folded, Dubenko sank into the nearby desk chair. His gaze wandered restlessly around the room, though his body stayed put.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Abby asked, then added with a wry grin, "I mean, apart from the obvious . . ."

"Heh. Actually, I'm not, uh, supposed to do 'the obvious' for 8 hours prior to the surgery . . . even by myself."

Abby chuckled, "Well, that doesn't seem very fair."

"No, it's not . . ." he trailed off, gazing at nothing, this time without the expression of intense concentration that usually accompanied his lapses in eye contact. Abby shifted in her chair, which roused him.

"Sorry," he said, looking at her, then looking down, "I'm not very good company right now."

Abby wondered whether he was trying to get rid of her. She guessed that, if he was, he wasn't trying very hard. He was blunt enough to tell her he needed to be alone, if that was the case. It seemed more like he didn't want to impose on her, to bother her with his problems when he didn't have the mental focus to contribute something edifying as his part of the conversation.

'Ha – a few days ago he was plenty willing to impose,' Abby sniped to herself. But she knew she wasn't being charitable. The last time they'd interacted, he was in panic mode. Now he appeared more resigned. Abby hoped, fleetingly, that Shawna the "facilitator" had been able to help, though she suspected that his attitude change was more a result of time, fatigue, and sedatives.

Normally, conversations with Dubenko consisted of him lobbing strange comments or questions at her, and her volleying as best she could. Alternatively, he might go off on a topic at length, whether or not she was interested in said topic. Now he wasn't doing either of these things, which just seemed wrong. That meant she would have to take matters into her own hands.

"OK," Abby announced decisively, "Let's talk about something else."

When he looked up at her, she continued, "Something that doesn't have anything to do with surgery."

"Or sex," he added, smirking slightly.

"Or sex," she agreed. "Hmmm, well that rules out most of prime time television, and leaves, what, uh, Shakespeare?"

"No way, Lockhart. Shakespeare's full of sex."

"Oh, right. All that stuff about 'tools' and biting one's thumb, and such. You pick a topic."

Lucien smiled, clearly warming to the prospect of having a conversation with her about anything he wanted. "Well, there is that classic in epidemiology that you received for Christmas, or, wait, here's an idea: I went to a Bioethics conference recently, and someone gave a cogent proposal about the conditions under which it would be morally permissible for medical personnel to perform active euthanasia during a natural disaster . . ."

Abby interjected, grinning, "And the rat book it is!"

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