Now, I'm trying as hard as I can to keep them in character. I hate it when I'm reading a story with these same characters' names but they are acting so completely unlike themselves. So picture Luke as himself and Reid as himself, no as some misplaced names performing odd sexual acts and randomly proposing to one another as I've seen in some. Please stick with me, good stuff will be coming up. I just can't do it without some semblance of a back story. The story takes place somewhere between when Dr. Oliver decides to take on Noah's case and before Texas. Hope ya like it. Reid = bold and Luke = regular.
The brisk air licked at the bangs that had fallen in my face as I burst out the back doors of Memorial Hospital. A cloudy and dismal day glowed miserably over me as I walked to I don't know where. It felt like I was always dealing with something, if it wasn't Noah it was my family, and this time it was both. I had an entire shipping company to my name without Damian to guide me any longer, I had a boyfriend who despised my being near him, two warring parents, and a doctor who couldn't stand me and was my last chance for Noah. I raked my hand through my mussed up hair and scuffed my shoes against the curb I walked parallel to. "Dammit."
Breaks weren't really my forte. I don't take breaks. What for? To sit around and socialize with the insufferable neophytes of a sub-par hospital? Forgive me for not jumping on that opportunity. And being in the already ripe mood I was after having to deal with the angry blind guy, yeah, Noah—I really wasn't getting into this break. I'd watched this couple for weeks now and almost felt bad for the Luke character. Today, for instance: before walking in to perform the routine check up, I saw between the blinds an irritated Noah loudly reprimanding a retreating Luke. Something about trying to button his shirt for him? I don't know, the guy's blind…hardly seems like a capital offense to help him put his clothes on properly. The door swung open to reveal Luke, "Hope it goes well, then," he says lowly staring back at Noah, who remained silent. He swung his head around and met with my stare, "Oh," his stance is battered. How many times has this happened that he stands in acceptance? It's almost as if he's taking punishment for some crime.
"Umm, he's all set for yo—"
"Whatever, Mr. Snyder, move." Damn, did not mean to say that, "I don't recall, did I not tell you to shrink out of my sight and remove yourself from these halls before?" Double damn.
He stared at me for some odd number of uncomfortable seconds, then swiveled on his heel to head out without another word. His figure slowly grew smaller as he strode down the hall, stuffing his hands into his pant pockets.
Not three hours later, here I am attempting to take a break. The sticky smell of a hospital had become more my oxygen than that which flowed outside, but I felt a change of venue coming on. Being outside seemed appealing, no one around to force conversation with, no one to badger me with misguided questions, no Snyder to brood on… yes, outside seemed a fine thing.
I ended up out the back door; the front has always had an anxious feel. Every person walking in was awaiting something, from the fear stricken parents awaiting the fate of their son who'd been a victim of a car crash, to the grief stricken families trudging out after a loved one deceased—any story was hard to watch. The back offered more solitude, but who do I see when I tug open the doors but Luke Snyder.
He hasn't seen me, even though I stepped through the door and let it slide closed with a click. He's stopped with his back to me and is staring down the street before him. The way he stands is tight, like every muscle is tensed and he can't decide whether to bolt or collapse. Why does he look like that? I watch with my throat closed, this kid looks torn up by himself.
I want to fly. I want to jump up and soar into nothing. I want to run. I want to run until the sidewalk ends and I fall into a mass of nothing. I want to do something just to bring on the nothing I so desperately need.
Suddenly I'm tired, like I've just finished a marathon and need something to lean on. The wall beckons my back to it and I oblige. The coarse bricks hiss against my suit jacket, as I tilt my head back with my eyes tightly shut.
My world's spinning out of the slight grip I had on it before, I need to forget about things…if only for a small time.
He's been leaning against that wall for a solid 5 minutes doing nothing, but I keep watching. He's still wound up, I can see it in the way he holds his hands. They're each bent into hooks and are strapped solidly to his sides, only just touching the wall he's melded himself to.
His left arm reaches up and curls around the navy tie around his neck, for a second I think he'll tighten it just to suffocate the strain within him. But he tugs it down to a dropping form of itself and rips out three buttons like he wants to tear off the whole shirt.
I watch the boy slide slowly to the ground and realize I've had my fists clenched so tight, my palms burn.
My heels skidded down as my butt hit the chilling side walk, the clatter of aluminum shakes my eyes open. 'Heineken' reads the battered can, not the best brew in the world but I have the deepest want that it be full. I want that liquid acceptance down my throat. Now. Unconsciously my hand reaches behind me and gropes at the bump of a scar where my kidney transplant lies. I rub it hard, like I can erase the only barrier to my release.
He's grabbing at his back like he wants to take a chunk out of himself, his shirt lifts halfway out of his beltless trousers and smooth skin peaks shyly. My eyebrows drew together.
No lies, I've never denied it, I've always found this kid sexy—even in his broken state he exudes pheromones, but he looks intolerant of himself. He's gonna get hurt, and it's going to be by his own doing. I've stood here quietly diagnosing, in a way, and he just looks desperate. Someone needs to hold him together.
I take a step towards him, when his hoists himself up and grinds his fist into the wall. He pivots to walk down the road he had stared so forlornly down minutes before. I can tell from the speed and style he walks with a purpose in mind. I follow.
I slapped my hands on the counter of the bar, as if to solidify that I was here. My skin pickled in anticipation, this would all be flushed away as soon as that foam touched my lips. The bartender notices me high and dry, he tugged over and asked, "What can I do for ya?"
I couldn't spit it out fast enough, "Whatever's on tap, I'll take." I'll take and take until my veins run brazen beer instead of blood red, then maybe my heart won't ache as painfully.
"I.D. kiddo."
Hah, Yo's knew my right of passage, I guess these idiots would know now too. I fished out a hundred and plopped it in his hand. He looked from Ben Franklin to me, then back to Ben. Like he was actually trying to identify me within the old Philadelphian's picture.
"I got contacts." He pocketed it. Well, well, not so different here are we now?
The thick, signature beer mug thumped in front of me, frosted with foam while little bubbles raced their way up from the bottom. I avoided the handle and gripped the whole thing and threw half of it down so quick you'd have thought I'd drank everyday—like I've wanted to. It cascaded down my throat in a symphony of ice cold perfection.
I forcefully nudged some bandana wearing bear of a man out of my way as I waded into the steadily darkening bar. Damn crowded, well it is a Friday. I had a hell of a time chasing after the determined vestige making his way to god knows where. His arrow straight path abruptly curved straight into this bar. He wove through the toppling men like obstacles before his prize. His rumpled self claimed the last open bar stool with a slap. I stood back, shoulder to shoulder with other beer wielding bar flies, watching.
I didn't know Richie drank; he seemed as mainstream as they got. What, all that money burning a hole in his pocket? He was probably just here for a quick sip then to book it back out. But then again, maybe they won't have his preferred brand of champagne.
The bartender caught wind of the blonde and stepped over, the music pounded and rang so loudly I could feel the buzz of the speakers, no way was I going to make out what was going down. He held out his hand to Luke, it was quickly filled by a bill. My lips pressed together, underage. I propelled myself toward him using the mass of bodies around him, with full intention of knocking the glass he just gripped out of his 20 year old hand—when it struck me, why do I care?
The boy has nothing to do with me besides being the dumb ass who blackmails to get what he feels he deserves. I swung around n the same note and dug my way to the door.
The third glass trickled down in smooth succession. I wasn't my own man anymore. Who am I? I dunno, but hey, here comes lucky number four.
The soles of my shoes melted into the pavement not 3 feet from the bar, I stood stuck for minutes contemplating. Luke Snyder is in there. Luke Snyder may have more destructive intentions than anticipated. Well then, I guess I'm going to deal with Luke Snyder.
So I found myself in the same place as before, patrolling. His posture had slouched to the left, he rested heavily on his elbow. His right hand loosely holds the glass, in one languid motion he throws back his head and downs the drink in seconds flat.
I can't help my jaw slacken, watching Luke drain alcohol like a pro. He palms the now empty cup loudly to grab the attention of the bartender.
He's an oily sort of guy, slick with hair grease and apron tinged with polish he grabs the useless glass before Luke and says something. He cocked an eyebrow and drapes a hand on the counter, I can make out, "…maybe you…" and "…slow down…" Luke straightens in reaction and snaps back, his fingers crumple two bills this time. The bartender just rolls his dark Italian eyes and these two bills follow suit of the first, he strides away to fill up.
The music that had battered my ears before washes through me like a heartbeat, the staleness of the air disintegrates, and the tug nettling in my skull has ceased. I don't know what number I'm on, six? Who the hell cares? But that friendly cup keeps visiting my lips. I can breathe again.
I've seen him knock back three mugs now, with no promise of stopping.
"You," I call out as I draw to the counter. He thumbs to his chest, I nod.
"Can I help ya?" he asks after coming close enough to be heard.
I jerk my head towards Luke, "How much has that brat had?"
He turns, "Ahh, blondie?"
"Yea, who else did it look like I was pointing to?" I say impatiently.
"Whooh," he exhales, eyebrows climbing up his forehead, "the kid can drink, just topped off his eighth."
"Eighth." I state incredulously. "Cut him off, now."
He walks away in response. I head towards Luke. He's drawn one leg up to his chest and is balancing an arm atop it. He slowly tips the rims of his half full house beer to his mouth, eyes lightly shut, he takes one nice long draught and replaces the empty cup where it stood before.
His lips shine with wetness, a drip makes its way down his chin before he clumsily wipes it away. Misty eyes peel open and meet my face. A half-mouthed grin dawns on his face with recognition, "Oh ho, Dr. Bigshot. How'd you fit your head through the door?"
"Same way you fit your wallet, Mr. Snyder." He doesn't slur like a drunk, but his words come slower like they've had to be filtered through his inebriated brain. He sniggered with a sideways glance at me, "Touché," he rocked to and fro on the stool and nodded down a bit too much. His body clearly had enough.
"Welly well…" he glanced down at his empty tankard and raised a hand for the next.
"No." I solidly interjected, grabbing his arm and bringing it back down "I think you've had enough."
He bore into me with some of the purest anger I've felt, lowering his voice he said, "I don't really give a hell what you think," and swung his arm out and up, eyes still strung with mine.
"Alright. Get down Snyder, "I gripped him hard and dragged him off the stool. Surprise dribbled across his face as he stumbled and fell into uneven step behind me. He held my forearm to keep from plowing into the ground while I threaded us back outside. Dead weight dragged me to a stop and I looked back at the cause, he's crumbled to his knees on the sidewalk and clung to that same spot on his back.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing," he staggered up, "lemme alone."
"I can't do that Mr. Snyder," I seize his jacket and start walking back.
He mumbled, "Everyone else does, shouldn't be such a challenge for you."
I'm not sure what to say, so I keep walking. "'S fine," he says heartily, "leave the screw up. Mebbe a car'll come by and cripple me too. Then we'll be even."
I turn around, "And just how would that make us even?"
"Not you, sorry to disappoint. Though I'm sure my imminent pain would make your rotten day—I'm talkin 'bout Noah."
"You're an idiot."
"You're an ass."
By some divine stroke of luck we made it back to his car, I noted the dent still marring the front bumper. Luke swayed and braced himself heavily against the side of the car, the way he moved constantly threatened to result in him landing flat on his back.
"Keys, Mr. Snyder," I sighed with a hand extended.
"Tch, yeah right. Look what happened last time you handled this baby." He lolled his head to indicate the damage of escape plans past. "My car, I drive," his brow furrowed, "actually, why are you still here? Leave."
My patience was wearing thin as paper, I stepped towards him to take the keys by force. I could see the lump in his pants pocket where they hid. He lurched at me and slammed a hand on my chest, "H-hey, you back off."
"That's enough," I growled.
He smiled dryly, "What? You gunna grow a pair and punch me?" he reached up and slapped my cheek twice.
I glared at him, he stared back with all the steadiness he could manage. "They'll be hard to locate," he cooed, "your balls that is. They're right next to your heart."
He leaned in close enough to smell the crisp beer dripping off his tongue, "Ooop," his mouth formed an 'O', "now you'll never find 'em." He fell backward onto the car door, still babbling. "Not that you could see, what with your head so far up yer ass."
I snapped and thrust him against the car, pinning him tight. Even in this situation I was hyper-aware of his warm body so close to mine, his thighs clamped tight on either side of the leg I wedged between them, the alluring way his cupid bow lips parted….
I ran a hand down his side, Luke's breath hitched as his coffee colored eyes raked over my face. My hand slipped into his pocket and the key tinked when my digits closed around them. Our chests were pressed together so unyieldingly I felt his breathing and his rapid heart ticking against my own speeding pulse. My face leaned close to ghost his lips against mine.
"Not so hard, see?" I breathed, retreating my hand from the recesses of his pocket.
I'd stopped myself this time.