Day 9. Carter is shaving in the bathroom with a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his shaving hand. The triumphant grin on his face can only mean one thing: Booty. “Think they know?” he muses. Abby, who looks like she’s washing some clothes in a sink, considers this. “Pratt’s clueless,” she says. “Chen knows.” Carter doubts it, razing a patch of stubble with zeal. “Oh, no, she knows,” grins Abby mischievously. Carter can’t believe Abby blabbed. “Where do you think I got the condoms?” Abby asks. Safe sex, kids: Don’t let a lockdown lock you down…with a baby. As Carter chuckles, Abby ribs him, “And, you know, you were a little…loud.” He blushes a little. Dear God: Please spare me explosive orgasm jokes. Love, Heathen. Flirting, in the form of light banter, continues as Abby lifts her sleeve to check out the rash developing on her back. Carter’s all, “Hey baby, niiiice pustule.” She complains that she’s going to get a big scar there, so Carter suggests a second tattoo. “True,” she says. “I could get ‘Carter...’” He’s all, “Mommy, she likes me!” Then Abby continues, “…Sucks.” He hits her with a towel in flirtatious glee and then runs off to iron his big-boy pants, which Abby ripped off with her teeth last night.
Elizabeth strolls with her father through London. We know it’s London because TPTB chose Tower Bridge (at least, I’m fairly certain it’s Tower – that’s the only one I know of that’s got pale blue and red and gold on it) as a backdrop so that the scene screams, “We Are In London.” They might as well have dressed one of the extras up as the Queen and had her strolling the street in ermine robes and a big-ass crown. Elizabeth laments that she spent all that time in Chicago missing London, and now that she’s back home, she’s homesick for Chicago. And it shows – her hair has wilted into the worst schoolmarm style. Too bad she didn’t have access to the County General Crisis Makeover Team: Sure, Your Husband Died, But Your Hair Shouldn’t. Pa Corday gently reveals he’s heard about her run-ins with various doctors. “Ooooh, someone graffed [sic] on me,” Elizabeth grins. “Small hospital,” he shrugs. “Small-minded, more like,” she says under her breath. Her father primly reminds her that she’s not in America – “No shit, Sherlock,” shouts Tower Bridge, bored – and that being a doctor in England requires an adjusted approach. Elizabeth sasses that her approach is to do what’s best for her patient with a minimum of ass-licking. By now, they’ve reached a small café, where Elizabeth’s mother waits. Her father stops in his tracks. “That’s my cue,” he says. Elizabeth chides him for not even saying hello, so he turns and gives a completely insincere flippy little wave, then kisses Elizabeth goodbye. “You’re late,” Lizzie’s mother says. “Sorry, I had a bowel resection,” Elizabeth says casually. “Yeah, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that…” Tower Bridge grunts. “Before lunch? Lovely,” sighs her mother. “I washed my hands,” she insists.