Disclaimer: All rights belong to Wolf Films.

Author's Note: This was originally a Livejournal exclusive, dedicating the loss of a kitten last summer. She followed me around like a duckling; nevertheless, she was in deteriorating health. As such, I dubbed her, "Ducky." With recent events of my life, I wish to carve a legacy for her, as it were.

Timeline: Post Season 9.

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A striking young woman was rolling her eyes at a cab driver's four-letter serenade. His ranting was focused on a nearby bicyclist.

"Jack, what's that stereotype about New Yorkers again?"

Her companion, a gangling, older gentleman, heavily sighed. "Don't start on me, Abbie."

"It makes me long for Dallas' G-rated road rage."

"Must I do a Northern-Southern joke to retaliate?"

"Only, if you want to get some Southern aggression."

The pair moseyed along a gridlocked New York street. "Either way, I'm still going to get it."

Abbie snorted. "Aren't you being cynical; is that another New Yorker trait?"Jack stopped at a soft pretzel booth, glowering. "I thought you were the queen of cynicism."

"Even it has an off button," she clutched at the collar of her dark trenchcoat. "And, please, spare me the obvious retort."

"One, please," he stated to the vendor.

She continued to gaze upon the boulevard. "There has to be something to get them out of their shells."

"So, you're comparing them to turtles, now? Come on." Both headed for a deserted alleyway, Jack nibbling at his purchase.

"I don't know how you can do it, Jack. Look, I'm sorry, but I've been living in New York for five years, now, and I still don't get these people."

"Time helps; I was born in Chicago."

She arched an eyebrow. "Then, you do see my problem?"

"I do, but I've since learned to 'go with the flow.'"

She flipped backward her extensive, black hair. "That's a copout, Jack. Just because I'm a cynic in my job doesn't necessarily mean I have to be one."

He fiddled with the fingers of his free hand. "You have changed. I remember how pessimistic you were only a few months ago."

She shrugged a shoulder. "People can change."

"That's the everlasting hope of a prosecutor."

"I thought optimism was too warm-blooded." She glared at Jack's unexpected shifting. "What?"

"Something is brushing up against me."

It was a scruffy black tabby, rubbing alongside his gray pant leg. "I bet you think this is real cute."

"Looks cute; it's probably a female."

"You into strays?"

A smiling Abbie bent down to the cat's level. "Looks malnourished. And I don't think feeding your rubber cement pretzel will help her."

"Then, go get a cat food tin and feed her, yourself." He stormed off, the pet in close pursuit. She snickered as both stopped a few feet away.

He doubled up his forearms. "This isn't funny."

"I think it is."

His tongue briefly jutted out. "Says you."

She sauntered over to them. "Well, you got two choices: you could walk out onto the street with the cat following you, or you go take care of her. What do you think will happen if you did the former?"

Jack's pupils contracted. "In total gridlock?"

"It could happen."

"And how could we transport her? Telekinetically?"

She tipped forward, arms akimbo. "Use your coat to wrap her up and take her with us."

He did a headshake. "No, Abbie, what if she has fleas?"

"That's why they have powders and exterminators. Now, c'mon," she poked at his shabby, green coat. "Don't wait until this is in tatters."

"Why not yours?"

The animal pawed at his trouser cuff. "Because she'd rather go with you? Plus, I just bought mine."

He scowled at both females, abruptly removing the jacket. "You're buying me a new one."

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