Title: “Chance Encounter”

Pairing: Jordan Cavanaugh/Ellie (crossover with _Crossing Jordan_)

Rating: PG

Spoilers: For _West Wing_: “Ellie” (only slightly) and “Mr. Willis of Ohio” (again, only slightly); for _Crossing Jordan_ “Four Fathers” and “Someone to Count On” (FF are only slight spoilers; SCO more significant spoilers)

Disclaimers: Sorkin owns Ellie (more’s the pity). Tom Kring is the putative owner of Jordan Cavanaugh, though I’m really not sure that anyone can own her.

Archive: wingswing; west wing slash archive, anyone else, please ask. Oh, and it’ll be on my site, once I figure out how I’m changing things there.

Summary: Of all the bars in all the world, she had to walk into Max’s.

Notes: I couldn’t pass up the Wingswing, and I’m really glad I didn’t. It’s been great fun. Both Gail and Nomi beta’d this sucker – going above and beyond the call by moving faster than one might have imagined possible because of my computer failings. This one is for Nomi who actually watched _Crossing Jordan_ so she could help me with this.

It turns out that I couldn’t tell my Dad the truth. I think he still thinks I’m specializing in Oncology or Podiatry or something. It really doesn’t surprise me – I don’t know how to make him happy, but I’m fairly certain that this isn’t the way.

Now it’s late winter/early spring – a couple of years later – and it’s the time when a young medical student’s heart turns to residency. Mom made it sound like finding a residency program was an easy thing, and maybe it was for her. It hasn’t been for me. I’ve logged more miles traveling for interviews than I did campaigning for Dad.

Granted, I don’t campaign well. I’m not sure, if he hadn’t been desperate, I would have been invited the second time around. But desperate he was, so like a good, dutiful child, I did my bit, and he got re-elected. It wasn’t the largest margin in the world, but it was a margin. And he won – and that’s what counts.

I’m losing track here – so I’m in a car, in Boston, being driven God knows where by my agents. I said I wanted to go to a bar and try to forget the hideous interview I just went through. Johns Hopkins is a good medical school. Maybe not good enough for Mass General, but good enough for most people, I would think.

“Ms. Bartlet – we’re here.”

I nod to let him know I heard, and I peer out the window to get a look at the place before I get out of the car. Looks fairly nice. Seems to have character. Max’s. Interesting.

When we get inside, I get it. “Guys. This looks like a cop bar.”

“That’s because it *is* a cop bar.” One of my agents smiles *that* smile. It means they think they’ve outsmarted me. I can’t get into trouble in a cop bar – not like Zoey did the time she went with Josh, Charlie, and the others to that bar in Georgetown.

“So, I’m going to sit over here and have a beer. You fellows do whatever it is that you do when you’re with your own kind.” It might sound harsh, but I don’t mean it that way. From their grins, I can tell they know I mean that in the nicest possible way.

I nurse that beer for I don’t know how long before *she* comes in. And yeah, I said she, not he. Let’s just add to the list of things I do that my father won’t be pleased about, shall we?

So anyway, she comes in, and she sits on a stool near mine. Then she orders the same kind of beer. I’m not good at the whole “be smooth while hitting on someone” thing. I don’t actually think I know how to hit on someone, but I do know how to start a conversation, so I do. Or, rather, I would have, but she started it first.

“Could you pass the pretzels?”

I slide the bowl of pretzels to her, and smile sympathetically. “Bad day?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“I’m not a bartender, but I’m a good listener.”

She frowns slightly at the bartender remark, looking over at our bartender. Older guy – reminds me of that guy from _1776_. You know, the one who played Thomas Jefferson. This guy could be his father. My Dad loves that movie – big surprise.

“You wouldn’t understand.” She looks at me appraisingly. “You don’t look like you belong here. No offense.”

“None taken. I came with friends.” I could see she was confused. I came with friends, but I’m sitting at the bar by myself. There’s something odd about that. No two ways about it.

“And your friends dumped you?”

“Something like that.” I wave in the direction of the back area. “I think they’re over there someplace. So what do you do?”

“I work with dead people.” She says it so that it sounded eerily like the kid from _The Sixth Sense_. I have to laugh.

“Cool. Coroner?”

“Medical examiner – same difference. So what do you do?”

“I’m in med school.”

“Harvard?”

“No, Hopkins.”

“You’re a long way from Baltimore. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Ellie.”

“I’m Jordan.” She takes a swig from her beer and then grins engagingly. “So . . . what brings you to our fair city?”

“I interviewed for a residency at Mass General.”

“What area? I know some people over there.”

“Um, neurology. I don’t think they liked me much.”

“You didn’t go to Harvard.” She says it like the natives do, without the R, and it cracks me up.

“Well no, but Hopkins *is* a good school.” I get this out between giggles.

“Never suggested it wasn’t, just saying.”

“Pointing out the obvious, you mean.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, you know people in the area?” I must look puzzled, because she adds, “You said you came with friends, and this place hasn’t been open that long.”

“Oh, no. The guys who came with me are . . .” **Don’t panic. How do you explain them – quick, Ellie, you can do it.**

“Are? Obsessed with cops or something?”

I shoot her a grateful smile. “Yeah, or something. So what was so bad about your day?”

“A really good man had to admit that he isn’t up to his job anymore. I don’t know if I could do that.”

“What happened?”

“He made some mistakes that he shouldn’t have made.”

“People make mistakes.” I admit, I’m thinking of my father when I say this. He shouldn’t have concealed the MS, but he did. He learned from it, and I don’t think he would do it again.

“They do, but there are situations where mistakes are a sign. This was one of those times. It’s time for him to retire. He knows it; my boss knows it; I know it, but it doesn’t suck any less.”

I reach out to pat her on the shoulder. Her eyes meet mine just as my hand connects with her. I can see a flare of something in her eyes. Could be desire; could be surprise; could be shock. This is why I’m not going into psychiatry – I’m not good at reading people. I’m much better at the physical workings of the brain, not the psychological workings of it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just that he was *so* good at what he did that he was able to be convincing even when he was making mistakes. And it’s not like he did it all deliberately, but he didn’t know how bad off he really was.” While she says this, I casually move my hand off her shoulder and lay it back down on the bar.

“It’s hard when you realize that people you admire are human.” Some of my own disillusionment must show through because the next thing I know Jordan grabs hold of my hand and squeezes gently.

“You’re really too young to have found that out.” She smiles at me sympathetically and takes a look at my now empty beer bottle. She catches the bartender’s eye and nods toward it. Almost before she finishes nodding, another bottle has materialized in front of me.

“I’m older than I look.”

Jordan laughs. “I’m sure you are – you’re what, twenty-one?”

I’m noticing that she hasn’t let go of my hand, though she’s moved so that our clasped hands aren’t visible on the bar. “I’m twenty-five, thanks.”

“Old enough to know what you’re doing, then.”

I had just grabbed the bottle and taken a large swallow of beer; I almost choke to death on it. The bartender comes over, and Jordan releases my hand quickly to pound me on the back. I can see my agents starting to move in my direction, but I manage to wave them off.

I see a look pass between the bartender and Jordan. I don’t understand it, but once I’m breathing successfully again, she leans in and says quietly, “Let’s move to a table.”

Once we’re settled at the table, Jordan looks at me and says, “Look, this is really awkward.”

“Okay.” I’m waiting because I don’t quite understand what she means, although I guess picking up another woman in a cop bar doesn’t quite fit the typical profile.

“It’s just that this is my *father’s* bar.”

“It’s *my* father’s country.” I say before I can stop myself.

“What?”

“Nothing. Must have been the beer talking.” I think about what she just said. “Is he here tonight?”

“He’s the bartender.”

“Ah. Well, that explains the looks.”

“He’s trying to figure out what I’m doing – that’s all.”

There are times when having a father who loves classic movies comes in handy. This is one of them. “So of all the bars in all the world, I had to walk into your father’s.”

Jordan smiles. “Exactly. In another place, there would have been a *very* different ending to this evening.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of my agents tapping his watch. Time to go, I guess. We have an early flight to California tomorrow. “I think my ride is leaving.”

Jordan smiles wider and this time it lights up her eyes. “I’ve had a great time talking to you.”

I smile back. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

She smiles back as she reaches in her jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “My cell number is on the back.”

I slip the card into my pocket without looking at it. I’ll look at it later when I want to remember the fun I had this evening. Then I’m back in the car, and we’re driving back to our hotel. I pull out the card to look at it – Jordan Cavanaugh, Medical Examiner.

If I’m lucky, Hopkins will be good enough for the likes of Mass General. I could really learn to love this city.