Stark may have been having a hell of a time, but for April, the week flew by.

Pediatric surgery had definitely been the right choice. April knew it not just when she was with the patients and their parents, where it was the only choice that made any sense at all, but in the operating room as well. For the first time since she'd gotten fired for the simple mistake of missing smoke inhalation, she felt like she was actually good at her job.

She'd noticed that the smaller the patient, the more other surgeons struggled. But she didn't. She was a small person herself, she supposed, with smaller fingers, but somehow it felt like more than that, maybe even something someone might call a talent. She wasn't sure if she'd had a talent before this. Aside from studying. And annoying people. But as if to confirm it, Dr. Robbins, seeing her assist on a repair of an inguinal hernia in a 2 week old, remarked on her uncanny precision and ease in so small a space.

Even Dr. Stark seemed quietly pleased that she was so adept. Despite what she'd told Dr. Shepherd, she'd been nervous about their working relationship being strained, but everything had been fine. Better than fine - she was learning a lot.

Dr. Stark had just recently acquired two incredibly interesting patients, a six year old with stage 3A lung cancer, and an 11 year old with both cystic fibrosis and systemic lupus. Both cases were rare - kids hardly ever got lung cancer, and CF and lupus were rare enough in the general population on their own, doctors rarely saw both in one patient.

She'd been doing a ton of research on the side, actually. And she'd even been managing to impress Dr. Stark with her knowledge during their discussions about and visits to the patients. That had been the icing on the cake, the taking names corollary to her kicking ass in the OR with Dr. Robbins the other day.

Until Sherri, who was the single mother to Ben, the six year old with lung cancer, called her by her first name. Stark merely raised an eyebrow while they were in the patient's room, but April knew it wasn't over. And sure enough, as soon as they walked out in the hallway, he beckoned for her to follow him into an out of the way corner.

"April?" he repeated, as he finally turned to face her. "Did you decide that she needed a friend, Dr. Kepner?"

"I - no," she flushed, having known that allowing that familiarity would burn her eventually.

"Well, what then? That crosses a professional boundary, a boundary that is there for a reason." He leveled a stern gaze at her.

"I know," April stammered, "I'm sorry, but she saw my full name on the chart, and asked if she could call me April, and, and, what was I supposed to say?" He was silent, looking frustrated.

"How about," he finally ground out, "No, thank you, I prefer Dr. Kepner."

April felt her face grow even hotter. "I - she said - she was having a hard time understanding the treatment options for the diagnosis," she said in a rush, "and so I spent an extra few minutes talking with her, explaining, and I think she was just looking for someone to lean on."

Stark looked unimpressed, and she ventured further, "she said that it made her feel better to know that a doctor on Ben's case was named after a month in spring." Now he looked completely nonplussed, and she mumbled, looking down at the square tiles, "because spring is a time of blossoming...and...renewal..."

He scowled. "April in Seattle is chilly, rainy, and overcast, just like the other eight months of winter. If only your name was June." She tried not to flinch at his sarcasm.

"Look, just don't get too involved in this case," Stark said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stage 3A lung cancer is the most controversial to treat even in adults, and I don't need my resident getting emotionally -"

"I know," April said, firmly, determined to get back on his good side. "Because within the 3A non-small cell diagnosis, patient demographics and outcomes are so varied that it's hard to know what treatment an individual patient will respond best to."

His face didn't relax, really, but it changed from irritation to grudging respect. "Yes, exactly. That, and -"

"And though outcomes vary greatly," April interrupted again, "the 5 year survival rate is still only 23%, and the median life expectancy is 15 months.

Stark sighed. He typically didn't quote cold statistics to parents unless they asked outright. Sherri hadn't, and reading the numbers in the medical literature was different than hearing them said out loud. "15 months, then 23%, yes." God, this case sucks, he couldn't help thinking. That kid is six. He should have a better than 23% chance of making it to eleven.

"Right," April said, sounding more confident. "Those two facts combined mean that you're more likely to get sued on this case than most others." Stark stared, mouth slightly open at her blunt deilvery, but she didn't seem to notice.

"In fact," April said, her eyes going even wider in appeal, "did you know that because of the terrible survival rate, the National Cancer Institute states that everyone with the diagnosis should be considered a candidate for clinical trials?"

"I did," Stark said wearily. "But Ben is much younger than the patients that most clinical trials are looking for." What he didn't say, but he could see she understood, is that the only money in lung cancer treatment research was for disease likely to be caused by cigarette smoking, which is where the bulk of the cases (and therefore insurance money, and national health grants from the government courtesy of the Big Tobacco lobby) came from.

"I know," said April calmly. "But I think I found one he might be qualified for."

Stark studied her closely, wondering if that was her actual judgement or just wishful thinking. "And you haven't told 'Sherri'?" he asked, an edge to his voice.

April felt her face flush again despite herself, but she held firm. "No, of course not," she huffed. "First, it would be cruel to get her hopes up if Ben doesn't end up qualifying, and second, I know the protocol, you're the attending on this case and I can only inform you of my findings, it's at your discretion what to do with them."

Stark held her gaze for a few seconds, and she tried not to squirm. "Right reasons, Dr. Kepner. But wrong order." Damn it, she thought, she'd almost recovered. With a last warning look, he walked off down the hall, and April's heart sank as she realized he hadn't seemed to care about the study.

But halfway down the hall, he looked back over his shoulder and said, "have a summary and references on my desk in 72 hours, and I'll review it."

"Yes," she said, a little too forcefully in her desire to project confidence. "I will," she said, then paused to get ahold on her voice before realizing he was already out of earshot. She cringed a bit, rueful at how bumbling she'd just acted. But Ben might have a shot at the study, so despite feeling like an idiot, she couldn't help that the cringe turned into a small smile.

Back in his office several minutes later, Robert tried to go over the pre-op charts for tomorrow's surgeries. Not able to concentrate, he finally rested his head in his hands, cradling his forehead with his palms. This was getting ridiculous.

It had been four days, and he still couldn't figure out what to do with her. Oh, as a teacher, he knew exactly what she needed. She was the same student she'd always been, smart and willing, but a little too blind to her own tendency to get too invested. Experience would eventually temper her naiveté naturally, but until then, it was his job to remind her of her priorities.

He still remembered when he'd learned just how disastrous it could be to get too close. No one had warned him the way he was warning April now. In the months afterward, he'd wished his attending, someone, anyone, had reprimanded him before it had gone that far.

He wished he had some mentor-figure to give him advice now, too. Being the boss was good, it was definitely better than being under someone else's thumb. But once in awhile he got tired of making all the calls, and just wanted someone else to tell him what to do.

There was a knock at his door.

"Come in," he called, half hoping it was April even though he knew she wouldn't need to see him for hours.

The knob clicked and Arizona walked in, her hair still in perfectly perky curls, but her face serious and drawn. Stark sighed, and relaxed a little. At least she wasn't beaming.

"Hey," he said, "what's up?"

"I heard you admitted Jamie Sullivan," Arizona said without preamble. "She was my patient three years ago."

Stark straightened a bit in his chair. It had been awhile since Arizona had had a problem with the way he managed, and he hadn't minded the lack of issue over his authority. He regarded her suspiciously over his glasses. "Yeah, the kid with both CF and lupus. I know. Her parents didn't ask after you, though, and the computer history said it was just an ER visit and 48 hour observation."

Arizona sat back a bit. "Oh, it's fine, I don't want the case. I just, you know, it's always nice to know how your kids are doing, even if they weren't your kid for long."

"Why not just read the chart, then, to satisfy your curiosity?" Stark asked, skeptical.

Arizona rolled her eyes and gave a tired sigh. "Because, it's been a long day and I don't want to stand in front of the nurses' station any more than I have to. That, and, I figured I would just ask my friend. We're friends, you know?"

A thought niggled at the back of his mind. "I do now," was all he said dryly, smirking a bit to show her he was only teasing. He gave in. "She's stable for now, but her chest pains have gotten a lot worse in the last couple of months, and her parents say she started coughing up blood only this weekend. It could just be a bad few days, but it's a fair amount of blood, so I'm concerned. I'm still waiting on full lab results and blood work."

Arizona nodded, and her face relaxed a bit. She hesitated, then said, "Well, will you keep me posted on her? I don't know what it was about her case, but having her as a patient really affected me in a good way. She made my job seem easier for awhile."

Stark nodded, knowing what she was talking about. Some kids were like that.

"It's good just knowing that you're on her case," Arizona said thoughtfully. Stark raised an eyebrow, wondering when she had decided he was someone she didn't have to worry about, but Arizona didn't notice, sighing as she stood up. "Okay," she said. "I should get back to Callie and the baby, good night."

"'Night," Stark replied mildly, and watched her walk out, wondering why he felt a little bit of deja vu. He shrugged, and went back to his reading and paperwork.

An hour later, as he was checking some paperwork done by April before he signed off on it, he finally grasped that little wiggling thought. Arizona had said, "We're friends, you know?"

Not unlike April had said, "Friends, you know, we're friends."

Suddenly, he knew. That was his answer. He should just take April at her word, and be her friend. Really, he should have come to this conclusion long before now. He'd been kind of an idiot, pushing her away like that, and even more of an idiot, obsessing about his next move.

He'd figured being her friend would be too annoying, but he'd assumed that about Arizona as well (albeit for different reasons) and now he had to admit that he was honestly happy to have Arizona as a confidant, a sounding board. Just someone to talk to that wasn't a patient, a nurse, or a student. It made his days just a little more enjoyable, and it certainly made the department run more smoothly.

Friends, Robert thought. It sounded good, but how should he go about making that happen?

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