Moments on a Rooftop
Word Count: 4,010
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Eva/Proctor
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: They met on the roof.
Spoilers: Up to 1x01. Oh, you think I'm kidding? No. This is one of those met-before-they-met things. :P
Author's Note: I wrote the first part of this months ago, for McHobbit, and then I was thinking that it would be an interesting series to continue, doing little hints of this all throughout season one, so I held onto it thinking that I would expand it. It took me months to add Proctor's counterpoint, so I decided to go ahead and call this part finished and maybe later I'll return to this idea and do more.

Moments on a Rooftop

point

Eva rolled her eyes at yet another lame joke and wished she was back in Miami instead of here, getting hit on by every single egotistical surgeon in the room. She wasn't sure which was worse, the ones who assumed that she was a doctor groupie here to score herself a rich one, or the ones who assumed that she was in some form of pink medicine just because she was a woman.

She excused herself for a moment, pretending that she needed the baño when in reality, she had no intention of coming back. Her ride, of course, wasn't going anywhere. Their group was happy here, inflating their egos, and she didn't have any cash on her for a cab. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten her purse. She should never have agreed to go to this thing. It didn't matter what anyone said. They weren't going to give her the award, and she'd known that before she was even nominated. She just... Her father and everyone else wouldn't accept that, and they wanted her to go. She did. She came, and it was stupid, and she wanted to leave.

She settled for fresh air, and instead of going to the courtyard where people might find her, she went up, to the roof. Maybe the stars would be out. She shrugged again and opened the door to the roof. She let the door close and took a deep breath of the fresh night air. Much better than that room downstairs, full big heads of with egos bigger than talent and skills they lied about just like all men did their scalpels.

"Careful," a voice warned, spooking her, and she nearly twisted her ankle as she tripped over a section of pipe that ran the length of the roof. "Sorry. A bit late for that. Meant to warn you before you took the tumble I did, but... I wasn't sure I should."

She frowned, accepting the hand offered to her as she got back up. "If you should?"

"If you were one of the associates who insisted that I attend this... mockery, then you most assuredly deserved to trip over that and fall on your pompous face," he went on, his accent making the statement more amusing.

She laughed. "In that case, maybe we should try and get a conga line going and let all of them fall over it."

"Not a fan of that sea of ego?"

"I'm a female trauma surgeon. I've dealt with freeway pileups, building collapses, even hurricanes that were easier than that group. And none of them tried to grab my ass."

He laughed. "Here. You need this more than I do. And I apologize, because I only pilfered the bottle and not any glasses."

She accepted the bottle and looked at the label in the faint light, recognizing the style even though she couldn't read it. "You took a hundred dollar bottle of champagne?"

"Well, they'll never know it was only consumed by one—now two persons—and I deserve some compensation for attending this... nightmare," he said, shrugging. She wished that she had more light and could see him better. She only had a silhouette and an accent to go by. "I should never have agreed. I have no interest in seeing some young moron with a scalpel get undeserved recognition."

"Me, either," she agreed, taking a drink from the bottle and passing it back to him. "They're going to give it to someone I know. Not smart, but he has what it takes."

"And that is?"

"Huevos."

"That is an unfortunately true statement, a sad one really," her companion agreed, giving her the back the bottle. She started to take a sip. He leaned over confidentially. "Personally, I think those get in the way a little."

She snorted, making a mess as champagne went everywhere. She set the bottle down and tried to catch her breath again. It was hard. She couldn't stop laughing. He patted her on the back, and she shivered, suddenly a good deal more sober. He withdrew his hand, taking the bottle. "Perhaps you have had too much."

"I haven't started, and I have a high tolerance," she said, reaching for the bottle again. "Soy cubaña."

"Yes, well, I'm sure that you know my nationality as well, and that requires that I be the gentleman who keeps the lady away from dangerous quantities of alcohol, particularly on a rooftop."

"I'm starting to think this lady could kick your gentlemanly ass, so hand over the alcohol," she said, and her hand closed over the neck of the bottle, next to his, and she looked up at him, again wishing that she could see his face. Don't be a gentleman, she caught herself thinking, and then he wasn't one because he leaned into her. Their lips met, and she reached her free hand over to his neck as he did the same to hers, and she couldn't get enough of him. This was completely loco. She didn't do this kind of thing. She didn't know his name, didn't even know what he looked like. It was insane.

The door to the roof banged open. "Hey, you two, off the roof. This area's dangerous. Come on, back down to the party."

"I think that's my cue," he said quietly, getting to his feet. "Thank you for making this a more pleasant evening."

"So that's it, then?" she asked, accepting his help. She stood, facing him, still unable to see his face. "We just go our separate ways?"

"Best to leave some mystery to the occasion, don't you think?" he answered, and then he pulled her close, kissing her so hard that she couldn't breathe. He let her go and walked away. She stood there for a moment, stunned, and by the time she'd recovered enough to go after him, the hallway was clear. She sighed. She wasn't opposed to the idea of mystery, but she hadn't wanted to let him go without... something. A name, a location, some way to find him again.

She went down to the ballroom again, doubting she'd ever find him in among everyone else. She was just about to try the parking lot when someone grabbed her arm. "Eva! Where were you? Get up there. You won."

"I... won?"

"If you're impressed by this, you should see me hem pants and darn socks," Eva overheard as she walked into the room, and she cursed herself for being weak to that accent. It was so familiar, like she was seeing the man for the first time in the light, but she knew there was a foolish part of her that wanted any man with that accent to be the one from that roof. She took off her glasses and watching the man work continuing to joke with nurse Carol as he did.

"Not to be a stickler or anything, but I'm going to assume for insurance purposes that—"

"That I'm a doctor?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Oh, yeah," he agreed with a smile. His patient laughed. She assumed he was on painkillers, because it wouldn't be that funny if this guy wasn't a doctor. He did look like he knew what he was doing. "Yeah, I'm a doctor. Hi. I'm Matt Proctor."

She stepped closer to where he was working, fighting a bit of a smile. "Hi."

"Just moved down from Maryland," he added, his lips twisting with amusement. "As you can tell from the accent."

She found herself laughing a little. She couldn't help her reaction to him. It wasn't just the words. It was the memory. One party, years ago, talking on a rooftop... She hadn't forgotten. She wondered sometimes what her 'mystery' man was doing. Some sort of doctor, maybe, or not one at all. It was hard to say. "Had a GI surgery practice there."

"Hemorrhoids and hernias?" she asked, wondering if she should take back what she'd thought about him knowing what he was doing.

"Yeah, but after two tours of trauma in Gulf One and three years at the military hospital at Landstuhl. I was supposed to start as a surgeon next week with Charlie team. I was upstairs filling out I-9s when I heard your chief dumped out—"

"He didn't dump out," she interrupted, pulling off her surgical scrubs angrily.

Proctor looked at her for a moment, saying nothing of her defense of Raynor. "Well, whatever he did, I thought I'd come down and lend a ha—" he broke off as he remembered what he was doing, the patient laughing again. "You know, in recognition of Mr. Cruz' condition, I'm going to choose not to complete that sentence."

Eva looked down again, trying not to laugh. Cruz started to speak. "There was a little girl, under the diner sign. I saw the sign falling... so I pushed her out of the way. Is she alive?"

She smiled at the story. The man was a hero. Proctor looked at Cruz. "Yeah, we'll see if we can find out what happened to her."

Cruz sat up and looked at what Proctor was doing. "Is that my hand? That's cool, man."

"Cool, the morphine says," Proctor observed. "Okay, people, given our patient's positive mental attitude, let's make sure he enjoys a life of ambidextrous masturbation, shall we?"

Eva couldn't believe her ears. But this one, Proctor, he sounded more like the man she'd spent an evening on a roof with than anyone else. It really could be him, not just because of the accent, but because of the way he spoke, the words he chose, and his sense of humor. "That's the hand I use."

"Is it?" Proctor asked, and Cruz nodded. She shook her head a little. She would almost swear it was him, but without asking him flat out if he had been on the roof that night, she didn't think she'd know. More importantly, she didn't want to ask. What if she remembered him because that night was different and special, but he didn't remember her at all or if he did, just as some woman he could have slept with at a boring awards ceremony?

"I've been meaning to ask," Proctor began, turning back to her. "Who's in charge?"

"I am," she answered, and he looked at her for a long moment before nodding. She smiled a little. "You know, sometimes they'll give stuff to any moron with a scalpel."

He inclined his head like he might know what she was talking about, but he didn't say so outright. Carol looked at both of them, frowning a little. Cruz just laughed again. "Sometimes. Would you prefer to take over Mr. Cruz' care, then?"

She shook her head. "No. You seem to know what you're doing."

He shrugged. "One would hope so, at least."

She smiled. "Better be more than hope."

Cruz started laughing again, and she almost envied him the painkillers. Raynor was gone, Chris was... he was Chris. He didn't even realize what he was doing was undermining her authority. With Proctor coming in, doing as he pleased, it was all going to hell around her, and despite Chris' insistence that she was the probable new chief of Alpha team, she didn't feel the same confidence. It was like that award. She might have been nominated, but she didn't think she'd win. Last time she had, but this time...

She looked at Proctor again. No way. It wasn't going to happen. He was going to get the position. She couldn't think about that now, and she definitely couldn't waste any more time trying to figure out if he was the man from the roof.

"Oh, Doctor," he called as she started to walk away. "I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't give it."

counterpoint

He was not, did not get paid enough for this. Not that he was in it for the money, but he failed to see why he was even here. So what if the award was prestigious? It wasn't like they needed to recruit anyone into their practice. He didn't even want to be a part of that anymore. What had he been thinking, taking that job?

Time to settle down, take a break from the pace he was used to in Kuwait and later at Landstuhl, he supposed. But a break was not a good idea, not to his mind, not anymore. He did not care for the practice or the people he worked with. It was too isolated from the patients, not that he cared for any of them, either.

He heard someone moving around the rooftop, and he wondered who it could be. He supposed that he should warn whoever it was about the pipes, but then if one of his colleagues had found him, he'd rather they fell on their face.

"Careful," he warned, spooking the figure, a woman, and she nearly twisted her ankle as she tripped over a section of pipe that ran the length of the roof. Proctor winced. "Sorry. A bit late for that. Meant to warn you before you took the tumble I did, but... I wasn't sure I should."

He offered her a hand as she got back up. "If you should?"

"If you were one of the associates who insisted that I attend this... mockery, then you most assuredly deserved to trip over that and fall on your pompous face," he explained, almost wishing it had been one of them so that he could have witnessed it.

She laughed. "In that case, maybe we should try and get a conga line going and let all of them fall over it."

He liked this woman; he truly did. "Not a fan of that sea of ego?"

"I'm a female trauma surgeon. I've dealt with freeway pileups, building collapses, even hurricanes that were easier than that group. And none of them tried to grab my ass."

He laughed, offering her the bottle. "Here. You need this more than I do. And I apologize, because I only pilfered the bottle and not any glasses."

She accepted the bottle from him. "You took a hundred dollar bottle of champagne?"

"Well, they'll never know it was only consumed by one—now two persons—and I deserve some compensation for attending this... nightmare," he said, shrugging. It would be nice to see her face. He could only see her silhouette, though it was a nice one. She had some excellent curves. "I should never have agreed. I have no interest in seeing some young moron with a scalpel get undeserved recognition."

"Me, either," she agreed, taking a drink from the bottle and passing it back to him. "They're going to give it to someone I know. Not smart, but he has what it takes."

"And that is?"

"Huevos."

"That is an unfortunately true statement, a sad one really," he lamented, giving her the back the bottle. She started to take a sip. He leaned over confidentially. "Personally, I think those get in the way a little."

She snorted, making a mess as champagne went everywhere. She set the bottle down and tried to catch her breath again. He watched her with amusement. She couldn't stop laughing. He patted her on the back, and she shivered a little. He withdrew his hand, taking the bottle. "Perhaps you have had too much."

"I haven't started, and I have a high tolerance," she insisted, reaching for the bottle again. "Soy cubaña."

"Yes, well, I'm sure that you know my nationality as well, and that requires that I be the gentleman who keeps the lady away from dangerous quantities of alcohol, particularly on a rooftop."

"I'm starting to think this lady could kick your gentlemanly ass, so hand over the alcohol," she said, and her hand closed over the neck of the bottle, next to his, and she looked up at him. He swore he could hear her saying don't be a gentleman, and it was a good thing because he didn't want to be one. He wasn't one; he leaned into her. Their lips met, and she reached her free hand over to his neck as he did the same to hers. He found himself wanting much more than this. He wanted to see her face, wanted to talk to her, to hold onto her and keep her here. That wasn't him. It never took, his ex had told him, and he was afraid that she was right. Feeling this way about a complete stranger... well, it was insane.

The door to the roof banged open. "Hey, you two, off the roof. This area's dangerous. Come on, back down to the party."

"I think that's my cue," he said quietly, getting to his feet. Something should be said or done on an occasion like this, shouldn't it? "Thank you for making this a more pleasant evening."

"So that's it, then?" she asked, accepting his help. She stood, facing him, and he was tempted to touch her hair. This was dangerous. "We just go our separate ways?"

"Best to leave some mystery to the occasion, don't you think?" he answered, against his instincts and better judgment. He couldn't leave it well enough alone, though, and he pulled her close, kissing her hard, wanting her to remember this. Reluctantly, he let her go and walked away.

They were announcing the winner of the award when he reached the ballroom again. He thought of leaving, but then he wanted to see the young man with the huevosthat took the award that should have been hers. "Here she is. This year's winner. Eva Zambrano."

Proctor was too far away to get a good look at the woman who'd won, but he smiled, pleased that it had not been a young man after all. Better, of course, if the woman from the roof had been the one to get the award, but that was not necessarily true. Still, he did not think he would ever forget that name.

"If you're impressed by this, you should see me hem pants and darn socks," Proctor joked as he worked on Hector Cruz' hand. He heard someone walk into the room. She didn't say anything at first—and it was only the slightest scent of some kind of perfume that let him know that the new arrival was a woman. She had a soft yet confident tread, and she stood there, watching him. Two could play at that came, he decided, and continued to work, more or less ignoring her.

"Not to be a stickler or anything, but I'm going to assume for insurance purposes that—"

"That I'm a doctor?" he finished for her, unable to help his amusement. He was not surprised that someone had asked.

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Oh, yeah," he agreed with a smile. His patient laughed. The joy of painkillers, Proctor supposed, because it truly would not be funny if he was nota doctor, or even if he did not know what he was doing. Fortunately, he did. "Yeah, I'm a doctor. Hi. I'm Matt Proctor."

She stepped closer to where he was working, and he thought she was trying not to smile. "Hi."

"Just moved down from Maryland," he added, his lips twisting again with amusement. "As you can tell from the accent."

She laughed a little. He thought it sounded familiar, like someone he should know. His mind wandered a bit to a party, years ago, talking on a rooftop that he hadn't managed to forget. He would have to be lying if he said he had. One look at the other names on the staff at Miami Trauma One had settled everything for him. Eva Zambrano. The woman who had won instead of the huevos. It was hard to forget. "Had a GI surgery practice there."

"Hemorrhoids and hernias?" she asked, clearly doubtful about his experience. He decided it would be best to clarify that point.

"Yeah, but after two tours of trauma in Gulf One and three years at the military hospital at Landstuhl. I was supposed to start as a surgeon next week with Charlie team. I was upstairs filling out I-9s when I heard your chief dumped out—"

"He didn't dump out," she interrupted, pulling off her surgical scrubs angrily.

Proctor looked at her for a moment. He admired her loyalty to her team leader. Truly. Perhaps this man had been a mentor as well. "Well, whatever he did, I thought I'd come down and lend a ha—" he broke off as he remembered what he was doing, and the patient laughed again. "You know, in recognition of Mr. Cruz' condition, I'm going to choose not to complete that sentence."

She looked down again, trying not to laugh. Cruz started to speak. "There was a little girl, under the diner sign. I saw the sign falling... so I pushed her out of the way. Is she alive?"

She smiled at the story. So this man was a hero. Proctor looked at Cruz. "Yeah, we'll see if we can find out what happened to her."

Cruz sat up and looked at what Proctor was doing. "Is that my hand? That's cool, man."

"Cool, the morphine says," Proctor observed. "Okay, people, given our patient's positive mental attitude, let's make sure he enjoys a life of ambidextrous masturbation, shall we?"

She looked at him. He wondered if it was the accent or his sense of humor giving her trouble. The patient distracted them both. "That's the hand I use."

"Is it?" Proctor asked, and Cruz nodded. She shook her head a little. He caught her profile in the light, and he would almost swear that she was the woman he'd met on the roof that night, but without asking her if he had that night, he might never know. That night could be a sore spot for her, unless she was Zambrano, the one that won the award. What if all she remembered was the award? If she thought that he didn't remember her at all, that she just as some woman he could have slept with at a boring awards ceremony?

No, there was no good reason to bring that night up, he decided.

"I've been meaning to ask," Proctor began, turning back to her. "Who's in charge?"

"I am," she answered, and he looked at her for a long moment before nodding. So she mostly likely was Zambrano. "You know, sometimes they'll give stuff to any moron with a scalpel."

He inclined his head, knowing those words were familiar. She seemed to be hinting at something with them as well. The nurse looked at both of them, frowning a little. Now did not seem an appropriate time to discuss a rooftop kiss. Cruz just laughed again. "Sometimes. Would you prefer to take over Mr. Cruz' care, then?"

She shook her head. "No. You seem to know what you're doing."

He shrugged. "One would hope so, at least."

"Better be more than hope." She smiled, but there was an edge to her words, a warning, and something in her face as she looked at Proctor again. Something was bothering her. He didn't know if it was the past or something from right here and now.

"Oh, Doctor," he called as she started to walk away. "I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't give it."