Disclaimers: The characters don't belong to me. There's a little colorful language, no explicit sex, but plenty of innuendo.
And, yes there may be a second part from Luka's POV.
Dream LoverI went to him. I didn't think I'd go. I didn't really mean to go. Or maybe I did. What kind of crap was that anyway? Didn't he care about the little girl? Didn't he care about me? Or was I still just the trophy in the pissing contest to be won or lost. . or given away – first as a woman, now as a resident. I half expected him to say, "Clemente can have you," as he left the trauma room. Well, damn him. Damn him, if I'll let him do that to me again.
I didn't go to him thinking we'd be lovers again. I went to show him who I am now, that he can't play games with me – not now, not again. Brandish his sword and walk away without a word, tell me he misses me at Susan's party, but can't remember the next day when he's sober . . Fuck that. Fuck him, well not literally.
I didn't know I wanted him to kiss me till his hands were on my face, and then I did. I didn't expect it to be like that full hard on my mouth and then so soft – like a question. But, when I looked into his eyes there was no question. I just knew. And, I knew he knew too. Of course the knowing was for the night – it always had been – it's hard to know in the daylight, especially with him.
It felt like we stood there for a long time, I'm sure it was just a few minutes, then he asked, "Abby?" I knew what he was asking, and I nodded and his mouth was on mine and his hands were .. . everywhere. He slipped my jacket off. The kiss went on and on until my knees gave out. He felt it too because he lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around him. He carried me. I don't know how because I don't think his mouth ever left mine. The next thing I knew I was under him and the kissing wasn't enough, and the clothes were a nuisance, for him too. He pulled away, started to unbutton his shirt. I tried to help but my fingers trembled too much. What am I, 15? He smiled, I blushed, and he finished the job himself. And then my own were gone. I'm not sure I've ever felt so naked. The way he looked at me. . . . ..
"Abby are you using . . . . .do I need to . . . ."
"No, I mean yes, I mean you should," he nodded. Thank God his brain hadn't shut down entirely as mine had done.
He made love to me then and yes, I was useless – a puddle of leftover emotions from the day and a torrent of new ones from the night. I don't think I've ever had another lover that .. . . . took such an .. . interest in my body. Not just the usual parts men take interest in – but all of it, loving to find the spot behind my ear that gave me shivers or the place behind my knee that tickled. That night it was like he was on a quest to find each one all over again and see if it elicited the same . . .reaction. It did. And, it brought tears to my eyes all over again to think that he remembered me that way – after all the years . . . he remembered.
After, as he held me, his fingers running through my hair, he finally spoke. "I'm sorry, Abby. Sorry about Sydney. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry . . . . "
It wasn't much, but he never was verbose. When I looked into his eyes, it was enough. I felt myself returning to my senses. I wanted him to know I remembered him too. So, I showed him. Words aren't always easy, and I didn't have any to give him. But I had other things to . . . . .offer. There's something about having a 6'4"man at your mercy . . . it's powerful. When he stopped me and pulled me onto him we were both trembling – at each other's mercy. Then we slept, a tangle of limbs.
I don't know what time it was when I woke feeling cold, he had rolled away from me in the night taking the blankets with him. Men. I used the bathroom and found one of his shirts to put on. I walked over to his side of the bed, his face lit in the light from the streetlamp. Damn he's gorgeous. For the first time in a long time, I wanted a smoke. I wanted to touch him, but I didn't feel I had the right. Is that crazy? We'd made love twice, and I couldn't touch him. I remembered the last time I felt that way, wanting to touch him, but not. He'd just come back from Africa. He wasn't mine, and I couldn't. I wanted him to show me that I could. You held me before you left, show me you want to hold me again. Show me. I won't be the first to let go this time. Show me. But he didn't, and so I didn't . . touch him. Show me now I thought, and I bent down picking up his clothes and moving them to the chair. The one part of him I could touch, crazy. I walked back for one more look, unsure. Show me. Maybe I said it out loud because right at that moment his hand reached out and grabbed my wrist. He said something in Croatian. I smiled because I remembered how when he's sleepy it comes out. "What?"
"Come to bed," he growled with a smile, and he pulled me at the same time. There I was in bed again and in the next second the shirt was gone.
That time it was like a dance, lovely, languid and sweet.
He looked into my eyes. "I missed you Abby."
"I missed you too." What color are those eyes? And then I slept again.
I was dreaming, and it was a dream about him, and he was kissing me, then he was inside me, and I caught my breath because this time it wasn't a dream. At least I don't think it was, but it was all so hazy and lovely and warm. But no, those were birds I heard and my name . . . . .. . .
The dreams began the night we broke up. They came and went for 4 years. I think it was worse to wake up after one next to . . .not him . . . . than by myself. Sometimes they were explainable – we'd worked together or something . . . sometimes they seemed to come out of nowhere. But I always woke up missing him and wanting to hit him and wanting to hold him . . . . .. They stopped for a while when I was drinking. Even when I was living with him, it wasn't the dreams that were the problem. It was the falling asleep when he happened to be there. I almost went to him one night. I made it to the bottom of the stairs before the image of him turning me out sent me back to the couch. If he was happy as friends, then I wasn't going to be the one to make the first move. When I stopped drinking, the dreams came back, even lying next to Carter they came back. The most real was the night of Susan's party. I woke up saying his name, and I was never so grateful that Carter had the night shift. Carter might have been better off if I'd kept drinking with the girls. It's a joke. "Is that what this is about?" No. It wasn't a lie there were a truckload of issues – but it didn't help.
The worst was when he was in Africa, even after I heard he'd been killed. Then I'd wake up and start to cry, miserable with it all especially with myself. Why didn't I tell him? Tell him what, Abby? I never knew. Or maybe I did. Med school killed the dreams for a time, not enough REM sleep. But, they came back. Maybe that's what made me so eager for Jake even when the writing was on the wall from the start – we wanted different things, or maybe it was just I wanted someone else. Funny, once I'd ended things with Jake, the dreams stopped again, not even returning when he told me Sam was moving out. Maybe, it was too scary to dream . . to hope.
But that, what happened that night . . . and morning. . . . was no dream, and he cradled me after in his arm and took my hand. And then, I slept, but I didn't dream.
When I woke, it crept in, the fear. It started like a trickle then filled my stomach. What have you done? What have you done? What have you done? We were friends it was easy; it was simple; it worked. What was this, pity sex? Rebound sex? Not with him, not with him. The memories washed over me of intimate nights and stilted, awkward mornings, and I couldn't take it. What if he's sorry, regrets it? Get out, get out, get out. I tried to but he woke up. He was warm, happy . . .sexy, none of the things I was afraid of happened that afternoon. . .. except one, the one I hadn't thought to be worried about.
This is the great irony of my life, my timing sucks. I go to him to set "healthy boundaries," and I walk out of there the mother of his child. Tell me how that is fair? It's three kinds of crazy. That's my life. Except now it isn't my life or just my life is it? But it can be. If I walk through that door, I get my life back such as it is or was. I can finish my residency without interruption. I can figure things out with him. . . . . or not, but it's my life again. Being someone's mother, it scares me. Is it worth the risk? He scares me. Is he worth the risk? I don't know.
Or maybe I do.
