1"Two Blocks Down"
ER timeline: early season 8, after Luka and Abby break up (8x02) and before Susan starts working at County (8x04)
Disclaimers: I own nothing, yada yada.
Susan Lewis stood in the middle of her half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by bubble wrap, cardboard boxes, and the stale scent of old paint. She'd spent the day cutting open tape, unpacking her old life piece by piece, letting the city seep back into her bones.
Chicago looked the same. Sounded the same. But she wasn't the same.
Five years in Scottsdale had smoothed her edges a bit—made her softer in ways she didn't always appreciate.
County was calling her back, and she had three days left before walking back through those sliding ER doors like a ghost returning to haunt its former life.
But by 9 p.m., she was done pretending she wanted a night in.
She wasn't ready to cook or think. What she needed was noise, a cold drink, and absolutely no responsibility.
The bar wasn't particularly nice, which made it perfect.
Dimly lit, slightly sticky, and quiet enough that no one would try to be charming. She took a booth by the wall, ordered a beer, and let her body relax for the first time all day.
Across the bar, Abby Lockhart nursed her second beer, the condensation from the bottle soaking her napkin. She peeled at the label like it was something she needed to unearth. Luka's words repeated in her mind like a damn metronome.
"You're not that pretty, not that special."
It hadn't even been a fight. Just a slow, exhausting unraveling.
And then Carter, who looked at her like she was a drowning woman and he was the lifeguard with a savior complex. The AA meetings. The subtle guilt. The pressure. She didn't want saving.
She noticed the blonde when she sat down. Confident posture, legs crossed, eyes that seemed to glow under the golden low lights. Curvy. Not flashy, just sharp. A quiet sharp. Abby didn't intend to start a conversation. But it happened anyway.
Susan was halfway through her beer when the vultures circled. Two men, too loud, too confident, practically oozing cheap cologne and worse intentions. She gave them polite deflections. Then firmer ones. They didn't listen.
Then came the voice—dry, smoky, slightly amused.
"She said no. Unless you're deaf and dumb, take the hint."
The guys turned. A brunette sat a few stools down, peeling the label off her beer like it had personally wronged her. Her eyes were unreadable, her expression lazy with disinterest. But her tone cut sharp enough to kill the mood.
The men backed off with half-muttered curses. Susan exhaled.
"Thanks for that," she said, lifting her beer in salute.
The woman didn't look over right away. "No problem. Assholes make me itchy."
Susan smiled. "You always swoop in for the rescue?"
"Only when I'm bored," the woman replied, finally turning to meet her eyes.
There was a pause. Assessing. Curious. Electric.
Susan offered a half-smile. "Well, I owe you one."
"I'll add it to my tab."
Another sip. Another flick of the beer label.
"You live around here?" Susan asked, just to keep her talking.
The woman shrugged. "Sort of. Enough to know this place is usually worse."
Susan laughed. "That's oddly reassuring."
They drank in companionable silence for a moment. Susan found herself watching the way the woman toyed with her bottle, the way she didn't quite smile but almost did. She had that kind of dark charm—mysterious, dry, just a little dangerous.
"You don't talk much," Susan said, amused.
"You do."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. I like listening."
Susan raised an eyebrow. "You always this intense?"
"Only when someone's interesting."
Susan leaned in just a little. Not too much. Just enough to let the spark burn.
"You flirt like you're trying not to flirt."
Their eyes locked.
Abby raised an eyebrow, half-amused. "If I were a guy, we probably would've left the bar already."
Susan didn't miss a beat. "If it's not a problem for you—I live two blocks down."
The words landed between them, bold and unpretentious.
Abby blinked, heart beating a little faster. She studied Susan, really looked at her—her confidence, her humor, the easy way she didn't push, didn't pretend.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was just the moment.
Why not?
She finished her beer coolly and stood up, tossing a few bills on the table. "Lead the way."
Susan smiled—slow and knowing—and slid out of the booth.
The night air was cold, crisp against flushed skin. They didn't speak
The apartment was still mostly boxes and echoes, but Susan had managed to unpack just enough for it to feel like hers. A lamp cast a soft amber glow over the room, cozy and imperfect. The moment she closed the door behind them, the noise of the city vanished. All that was left was tension.
Abby—to Susan's secret delight, that's what the woman had offered just before they left the bar—wandered in slowly, eyes flicking across the half-unpacked chaos with a grin.
"Just moved in?"
Susan nodded, tossing her keys onto a stack of medical journals. "A few days ago. Still negotiating peace with the boxes."
Abby smiled. "They seem to be winning."
Susan smirked and walked into the kitchen. "You want another beer? I've got actual glassware, too, if you're feeling fancy."
"Beer's fine," Abby said, kicking off her boots, making herself at home with the kind of casual confidence Susan had been watching all night. "Glassware would feel like lying."
Susan returned with two bottles, handing one to Abby. Their fingers brushed. A quick thing—but enough. Susan felt it like a spark.
They sat on the couch, still facing each other, but not touching. Not yet.
Abby took a sip, then glanced around again. "No roommate?"
"Nope."
"Partner?"
Susan looked her straight in the eye. "Nope."
Abby nodded once, then let the silence return. It was strangely comfortable. No forced small talk, no rush. Just the soft clink of bottles, the faint hum of the city through closed windows, and the undeniable electricity between them.
Susan studied Abby more openly now—the sharp cheekbones, the shadows under her eyes, the way she held her beer like a cigarette, always fidgeting with something. Restless. Edgy. Intriguing as hell.
"So," Susan said, voice smooth, "do you always hit on women in bars?"
Abby raised an eyebrow. "You hit on me, actually."
Susan smiled. "I'm not denying it."
Abby tilted her head. "Do you always invite strangers back to your place?"
"Only the ones I want."
Abby laughed—low, throaty, a sound that felt like velvet. "That direct, huh?"
Susan leaned back into the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "Life's short. If I want something, I say it."
Abby's smile faded just a fraction—less flirty now, more real. She watched Susan for a long second, then said softly, "And what do you want?"
Susan's reply came without pause. "Right now? You."
There it was—no performance, no hesitation. Just the plain and honest truth.
Abby's pulse kicked up. Her body was responding faster than her mind, pulled into the gravity of this woman who didn't play games, who didn't demand anything more than truth. "You're…" she exhaled, half turned on, half terrified, "fiery."
Susan stepped closer, her fingers brushing Abby's wrist. "Just when I have a hunch it'll be worth it."
And then she kissed her.
It wasn't hesitant or coy. It was a kiss that demanded nothing but offered everything. Raw, deliberate, consuming. Susan kissed like she meant it—like she knew exactly how to make Abby forget where she was. Abby responded instinctively, pressing closer, her hands moving to the hem of Susan's shirt.
The room was half-unpacked, a few boxes in the corner, but the bed was made, the sheets crisp and clean. Susan didn't turn on the overhead light—just a lamp, golden and soft.
She hovered over Abby, her hands moving with reverence, peeling away layers. She trailed kisses along Abby's jaw, down her neck, slow and steady, until her fingers found the buttons of Abby's shirt. One by one, she undid them, her mouth following the path, brushing against soft skin, lips grazing her chest.
She kissed her breasts with unhurried attention, teasing her nipples until Abby arched into her touch with a gasp. Susan watched her reactions, absorbed them, memorized them.
Then Susan's hand slipped past the waistband of Abby's panties—confident, unhurried.
Abby's eyes widened. She blinked, mouth parting as Susan's fingers slid lower, teasing.
"You're—left-handed?" Abby breathed, caught somewhere between amusement and arousal.
Susan just laughed, that same irreverent, dazzling grin from the bar flashing across her face.
And Abby—God, Abby noticed it. That smile. The ease. Like this wasn't a one-night mistake but something fated. Something she'd crave again.
That thought was interrupted—deliciously—by Susan's fingers pushing inside her. Slow. Deep. Sure.
Abby's hips arched toward her, a breathless moan escaping her lips.
Susan leaned down, lips brushing Abby's neck, murmuring low, velvet-draped nothings into her ear.
"So wet already," she whispered. "So perfect. You feel like a dream."
Abby's breathing turned ragged, her fingers digging into Susan's back. "Are you always this smug?"
Susan didn't miss a beat. Her reply was classic Susan Lewis—mischief and heat wrapped in silk.
"No," she purred, curling her fingers just right. "I'm usually worse."
Susan moved with intention—unrelenting but tender, strong but not forceful. She read Abby's silences like a language. As her fingers curled inside her and her mouth pressed hot kisses across her chest, Abby felt the coil inside her tighten, every part of her waking up to something she hadn't let herself feel in too long.
Abby moaned, a sound pulled straight from her gut, raw and unguarded. Her head tilted back, body trembling under Susan's expert rhythm. And in the haze of it all, one thought struck her with sharp clarity:
How can she know?
How can she know what I like… what I need… what no one else even saw?
Wanted. Seen. Understood.
But she did.
Susan held her through it, grinning against her skin. "Told you," she whispered. "I go after what I want."
Abby's only answer was a laugh, hoarse and wrecked.
They lay tangled in sheets and shadows, breath finally starting to settle. Abby's head rested against Susan's shoulder, their legs intertwined, a warm breeze drifting through the cracked window. Somewhere outside, Chicago hummed its late-night lullaby, but in that room, time felt suspended.
Susan's hand found Abby's back, fingers brushing lightly along her spine.
"You okay?" she asked softly, her voice a husky whisper—not cocky now, not smug. Just real.
Abby blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness in her tone. She nodded. "Yeah."
More than okay, actually. But she didn't say that. Susan was already smug enough, and Abby had no intention of inflating her ego further.
So she kept it casual. Or tried to.
Susan glanced at her, eyes warm. "Good."
Their silence settled again, comfortable and full. But under it, something simmered. Abby shifted slightly, her thigh brushing against Susan's. Her hand slid along Susan's stomach, and she felt the quick intake of breath. The slow climb of anticipation all over again.
"Careful," Susan said, teasing now. "You keep that up, I'm not gonna let you leave."
Abby smirked, rolling on top of her, straddling her hips. "Who said I was planning to?"
Susan laughed, low and wrecked and beautiful. Abby leaned down to kiss her, mouths clashing messily—teeth, tongues, soft moans melting into skin.
Susan's hands found Abby's hips as she ground down slowly, rhythm building between them like a second heartbeat. Abby felt it—Susan's chest rising under hers, her breath ragged, pulse racing beneath her skin.
She pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, brushing hair from Susan's face. Her fingers slipped lower, trailing down, and then dipped inside—slow, intentional, gentle.
Susan's whole body shivered.
"Is this okay?" Abby asked, voice quieter now. Not teasing. Just making sure.
Susan looked at her like she'd been waiting her whole life for her to ask that.
"Perfect, don't stop," she breathed, hips rising to meet her touch, eyes fluttering closed.
And just like that, Abby lost herself again—in the way Susan's body arched for her, in the heat of her skin, in the way she moaned her name like it meant something.
And maybe it did.
Neither of them was ready to admit it—but in that moment, the honesty was in every touch, every breath, every movement.
Morning crept in slowly, all pale light and city silence. The room was still warm, the sheets tangled like evidence. Susan stirred at the sound of movement—bare feet padding softly across the floor.
She blinked one eye open just in time to catch a glimpse of Abby pulling on her jeans, hair messy, tank top twisted from sleep. The clock said too early for humans, but the ache in Susan's body told her it had been worth every second.
"You always sneak out before dawn?" Susan rasped, her voice scratchy with sleep.
Abby glanced over her shoulder. "Didn't mean to wake you."
She yawned and propped herself up on one elbow. "So this is the part," she said, voice still gravel from sleep, "where we say we'll keep in touch and then never see each other again?"
Abby froze mid-button, then turned slowly. Her expression was unreadable for a moment—then she gave the faintest shrug, lips pursed in a way that made Susan's stomach flip.
"I don't usually do this," Abby said, quiet but honest. "So… yeah. Probably."
Susan tried to play it off, masking whatever flicker of disappointment danced behind her ribs. "Great. Love being a well-executed one-night stand," she said dryly. "Truly. Five stars."
That earned a huffed breath from Abby that might've been a laugh. Susan reached for the nightstand, found a pen wedged behind a book, and a torn receipt with only half a logo left on it.
She scribbled something quickly, then held it out to her.
"If you ever change your mind," Susan said, voice softer now but still carrying that signature smirk, "give me a call. Or text. Or send a pigeon, I don't know what you're into."
Her fingers brushed Susan's as she took the paper and looked down at the note.
Scrawled in quick, slanted handwriting, it read:
Susan — two blocks down and her number.
A pause.
Abby smiled, crooked and reluctant—curved the edge of her mouth. "You're ridiculous."
Susan grinned. "Yeah, but I'm memorable."
Abby slipped the paper into her back pocket.
For a beat, neither of them moved.
And then, just like that, she was at the door.
Susan didn't stop her. But she watched. Watched the way Abby paused, hand on the knob, like she almost had something else to say.
She didn't.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Susan sighed and fell back onto the bed, arm across her eyes.
"Well, that's not gonna haunt me at all," she muttered.