She was tired of living within the bounds of probability. She had been fucked by the nirvana of possibility... And it called her in a way that nothing else ever had.

The strength in her arms was deceptively hidden within the slender confines of her arms and legs. The swaggering breadth of her shoulders, the narrow cant of her hips not so easy to disguise. Answering the door nude...

"Good thing you knew it was me."

"Who said I did?"

"You expecting someone else?"

Not caring that the door was still open as Kim's mouth found her, sought out the last vestiges of reluctance, swept her into the rising tide of their communion.

The lemon scent of freshly polished hardwood mingling with that of Kim's spice and arousal-- what had she been doing?—as Abby lost herself in the embryonic ritual of their birthing desire.

Flex.

Bend.

Arc.

Groan.

A hand burning random pathways to her arousal which she had never before considered. Her fingers, small against Kim's. "You should have been a surgeon."

A bemused chuckle. The panther-like stretch of muscles against her body. A careless nip and tuck of teeth against her throat, a bit too hard to be entirely teasing.

"I'm not the first person to have said that." Observation easy with the evidence of Kim's body so wantonly on display.

"My father was the first," came the faint reply as lips and mouth worked their way down her carotid artery. "You're the most recent."

"Were they all..."

"Where you are now?" Kim supplied for her.

"I'm sure the list is distinguished and long."

"Not so much as you might think."

"I don't care about them." More true than perhaps Kim realized, though there was one whose opinion did desperately matter to both of them. And for that reason, her name went unmentioned.

She really didn't want to know what Kerry Weaver thought of Kim's hands.

And now that it seemed the Kim-N-Kerry-Reunion-World-Tour had hit more than a few snags-- if the number of covert glances the rest of the staff kept throwing her was any indication of their progress-- it was getting harder and harder to ignore the warmth of those pale eyes, the sinewy length of arm bared by the hot August days and the fortuitous cessation of County Gen's central air conditioning.

"I think it's actually cooler up here," Kim muttered without bothering to turn around. As if she knew the bar creak and groaning protestation of the roof exit could deliver no one else but Abby.

"They say heat rises."

"Certainly the case now that you're here."

Oh no... not going well at all. No wonder Malik had offered to change the IVs on her dehydrated anorexic.

Khaki trousers and a white tank top clung desperately to bronzed skin. Surely, Kim had been wearing more than that at the day's start? But her ex-lover had that casually-elegant, yet still-thrown together look that meant she wasn't trying for any particular effect at all. In their short weeks together, she had quickly learned when Kim was going for something—because god knew the results were always spectacular.

She began to sweat.

Sun meant heat. Heat meant sex. At least for them. Abby hadn't made love to Kim in the dim coolness of hard night since their first time together, because everything had been shot to hell the next morning and she had been sentenced to Purgatory—which everybody knew only operated from midnight to noon.

Blue eyes. Carelessly gathered hair. Hot skin.

Inches from her now, but they were on a roof and what the hell could she do about it now anyway?

I have to try....

Kim's words, not hers, and spoken about someone definitely not her.

So why the fuck was she up here on a roof in the swelter of a midsummer's day, absorbing the cock of Kim's brows, the jut of her hip-- and not missing the involuntary flex of the psychiatrist's fingers? No, nothing pathological about her behaviour at all. Not her.

"Think they'll get the air fixed?"

Deliberate banality to conceal the question so screamingly obvious to the both of them. Solitude was a bitch, but she didn't need Billie Holliday lyrics careening through her head to point it out. As if she didn't already know how Kim felt about the blues.

Calling her home.

White girl blue-eyed soul. Come for me you devil... And where were the crossroads and why had Kim gotten to choose and not her? Kovac and Carter nothing compared to the defiant thrust of Kim's hand deep within her. Deliverance in this circumstance not a Ry Cooder kind of melody.

Her hand now wrapped around Kim's.

How had that happened?

They stared as if possessed, but Kim was the psychiatrist in this instance; and American Exorcisms notwithstanding, neither one of them believed in gods or devils that would make them do anything they didn't already want to.

Admit it... lover...

Scream. Cry. Call someone's name... anyone's but not hers... but that wasn't really the case, was it?

How did you let something go that had never been yours in the first place? Would the Catholics call that possession? Legaspi and Wyczenski good Eastern European names, but they were daughters of the New World and they charted their own course, manifested their own destiny.

But that didn't explain why her palm was flat against the breadth of Kim's collarbone and...

"What are we doing?"