"What?" Wynter asked through a haze of unanticipated and inexplicable sensation.

"Hurt," Pearce mumbled, fighting down her arousal. "Anything hurt?"

"Oh, no," Wynter said quickly. Just the opposite. She wondered fleetingly if Pearce was always so warm. She could feel the heat radiate from her even through their clothes. Pearce's body was firm, but so unlike the angles and hardness she was used to. But then, it had been so long since she'd been this close to anyone that perhaps her memory was distorted. As carefully as she could, she rolled away until she was lying on her back next to Pearce, staring at the watermarked, yellowing paint of the ceiling. "What's the damage?"

Other than the fact that I'm going to be turned on for hours with no relief in sight? Pearce sat up and rested her elbows on her knees. She rubbed the back of her neck where a muscle had knotted when she'd tensed to keep her head from striking the stairs. Then, she carefully rotated her back from side to side. "Everything seems to be in working order. You?"

"I gave my patella a pretty good crack," Wynter admitted, realizing that Pearce had probably prevented her from sustaining a really serious injury. Gingerly, she extended and flexed her leg. "Thanks."

"Here, let me check it out." Pearce slid down several steps and turned. She bent forward and slipped both hands around Wynter's calf.

"Pull your scrubs up so I can see your knee."

"It's okay. Just bruis--"

"Let me decide. We might need to X-ray it."

"Look. We need to make rounds--"

"Jesus," Pearce said irritably, "are you going to argue with everything I say?"

"I'm just trying to save time. We've got patients to see."

"And we will. As soon as I check this out. Now pull up your pants."

Considering the fact that Pearce was standing over her and she had nowhere to go, even if she were able to gracefully extricate herself, Wynter complied. A four-inch abrasion extended over the upper portion of her tibia to her kneecap, which was swollen and discolored. When Pearce instructed her to straighten her leg, she did, watching Pearce's fingers press and probe her knee. Good hands, in every sense of the word. Certain, proficient, and gentle. The dance of flesh over flesh, no matter how innocent, was nevertheless an intimate exchange. She was always aware of the trust bestowed upon her when she examined a patient, and felt it now in Pearce's touch.

"Hurt here?" Pearce asked, palpating first the medial and then the lateral ligaments surrounding the joint.

"No, feels stable. I'm sure it's fine."

Pearce glanced up, her dark brows coming together as she frowned.

"You're a lousy patient."

"So I've been told. Can I get up now?"

"Slowly." Pearce straightened and extended her hand. "And don't full weight-bear right away. Put your other hand on my shoulder until you test the knee."

Wynter took Pearce's hand and allowed herself to be guided upward, but she resisted the instruction to lean on Pearce. She'd had quite enough bodily contact for the moment, and she needed to reassert her independence. She'd be damned if she'd let Pearce think she was anything less than capable in all regards. She gradually settled all of her weight onto the injured leg. "All systems go."

"Good." Pearce noticed Wynter's reluctance to touch her and chalked it up to the usual reluctance of straight women to get too close to her, even when they weren't bothered by her being gay. Somehow, they were still uncomfortable. Usually she didn't care, and the ripple of disappointment she felt at Wynter's avoidance was a surprise. She dropped Wynter's hand. "One more flight."

"No problem."

Pearce waited for Wynter to set the pace and followed this time, carefully assessing Wynter's gait. She was pleased to see there was no evidence of a limp. The stairwell led into a short corridor that ended at a plain brown metal door. She nodded when Wynter gave her a questioning look. Wynter hit the door bar and together they stepped into a brightly lit hallway opposite the surgeon's lounge.

Wynter looked around, frowning. "Damn. I could've sworn we'd be on the fourth floor."

Pearce leaned a shoulder against the wall, fiddling with the tie on her scrub pants, rhythmically drawing the string through her fingers.

She grinned, enjoying the role of tour guide. She didn't question why.

"We were--in the Malone building. Except that the fourth floor of that building connects to the fifth floor of this one. Don't ask me why."

"You're putting me on, right?"

Slowly, Pearce shook her head.

"Oh, I am in so much trouble."

"No, you're not. It's my job to see that you aren't." Pearce pushed away from the wall and walked a few feet to the elevator. She punched the up button. "Usually we walk, but I'll give you a break."

"Don't bother. I can handle the stairs."

"Maybe I can't."

Wynter snorted, but smiled. "I feel like I should be drawing a map or dropping breadcrumbs."

"Pay attention, and in a few days, you'll know all the secrets to this place."

"Really?" Wynter watched Pearce's face, searching for some hidden meaning. They'd been alone for close to an hour, but they hadn't really talked about the last time--the only time--that they'd been alone together. They should clear the air. She knew they should.

But she didn't want to bring it up. She didn't want to know that Pearce had been angry with her all these years. Or perhaps she didn't want to know that Pearce had never thought of her at all.

"It's not all that complicated." Pearce turned away from Wynter's probing gaze. She didn't know what might show in her face, but she didn't want Wynter to think that those few moments years before meant anything now. So many things had happened since then, it might have been another life. She was certainly a different person. The elevator bell rang and saved her from thinking about it any longer. "Let's start at the top."

"Sure."

Several minutes later, they stepped out into a dimly lit corridor, and Pearce pointed. "Two wings on each floor. The lower numbers are to the left, the higher to the right. Main surgical floors are twelve, ten, nine, and eight. Intensive care units are on six."

Wynter groaned. "The ICU is one floor up from the OR? I hate transporting postop patients in the elevator."

"Me too," Pearce agreed. "But there wasn't enough room for them to expand the number of OR suites and still keep the intensive care units on the same floor."

"How many OR rooms?"

"Twelve general surgery, four GYN, four ortho, and a few unassigned."

"Busy."

"Oh yeah." Pearce started down the hallway on their left and indicated the first room. "This is an APR patient--"

"Wait a minute," Wynter said, frowning down at her list. "APR?"

"We tend to identify patients by their attending's initials. This one is Rifkin's."

"The colon resection from yesterday, right?" Wynter asked, still scanning the patient names. "McInerney."

"That's the one. We finished at six last night, routine case. She still has a drain, an NG tube, and an IV."

"Is it weird, working with your father?"

"I wouldn't know," Pearce said flatly. "Rifkin is the chairman.

That's the only relationship we have in here."

Wynter was surprised by the absence of anger or much of any emotion at all in Pearce's voice. Nevertheless, she recognized the finality of her tone. She wondered if it was the subject matter or the fact that she was asking that bothered Pearce. Either way, she had clearly stepped out of bounds. What was it about Pearce Rifkin that made her forget the rules? "I'm sorry. That was none of my business."

"No problem. I get asked it a lot." Pearce pivoted and walked into the first patient's room.

It took a moment for Wynter to recognize that the discussion was closed. She hastened after Pearce, and for the next fifty minutes they moved from one patient to the next, reviewing chart notes, pulling drains, updating orders, and generally coordinating each patient's care.

They didn't speak except to discuss care and treatment plans until everyone on the list had been examined. They worked quickly and efficiently. Comfortably together. Wynter wasn't surprised. From the very first they'd had a natural rhythm, even when they were sparring.

"Ready for another cup of coffee?" Pearce asked as they sat together at the eighth-floor nurses' station finishing the last of their chart notes.

"Oh yeah," Wynter replied. She hadn't had much sleep the night before. The week had been a whirlwind of activity what with packing and moving, worrying about her new position, and trying to anticipate all the difficulties inherent in her new life. She was beat. A sudden thought occurred to her as she and Pearce started down the stairwell yet again. "Am I on call tonight?"

"New residents always take call the first night. You know that."

She did, but she still hadn't planned for it. Foolish.

Pearce put both hands on the push bar of a door that sported a large red sign proclaiming Fire Door--Do Not Open. "Let's get some air." She gave it a shove.

"Why not," Wynter said, glancing at the time. She needed to make a phone call.

"Something wrong?" Pearce asked, checking the sky. The rain in the forecast was nowhere in sight. It was thirty degrees outside, a clear, crisp January day. Neither of them wore coats. The street vendors, as usual, were undeterred by the weather. Their carts, pulled into position each day behind trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles, were lined up in front of the hospital and throughout the entire campus, dispensing every kind of food from hot dogs to hummus.