Title: Blood Count: From Dusk Till Dawn In E.R
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: Seth Gecko is attacked & ends up in the E.R. Set in the heyday of the series when Dr Ross was still at County General.
Rating: NC-17 for language and violence.
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to who ever owns them! I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. The unnamed vamp lady is mine.
Genre: Action/adventure. For more dark fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm
Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: Loved it? Loathed it? Tell me please... Text in Italics indicates thought.
*
Out of the way! Clear Trauma Two!! Somebody get a line into this guy! I need two bags of plasma up here stat!!!"
The emergency room erupted into a frenzy of professional activity as the patient was quickly, but gently, hoisted from the stretcher and onto the medical bed. Deft latex-gloved hands darted here and there, armed with medieval looking clamps, sharp syringes, gauzy swabs and those strange kidney shaped metal dishes they always have in hospitals.
"How the hell did this guy lose so much blood?" Mark Greene demanded, peering over the top of his spectacles, squinting as a jet of hot red splattered against his immaculate surgical green scrubs. "He's cut up, but not that bad!...Pupils equal and unresponsive!"
"Beats me," Doug Ross shrugged laconically, dark head bent as he worked. "I need blood gas workup! What's his B.P?"
By this time, the bed looked like a demonic decorator had been on a rampage with Arterial Red. The patient lay dangerously still, the twitching, moaning and clawing at his wounds he had done in the ambulance giving way to a good impersonation of a gutted fish.
"B.P, eighty over forty five!...God, what's with the tattoo?" Nurse Hathaway muttered to no-one in particular, handing a syringe full of life-saving chemicals to Greene.
Nobody answered. Stark against his etiolated flesh, a bold tribal style tattoo wended its black spiked way from his throat, down to the wrist of his left arm. Looking from Dr. Ross's face to the patient, Hathaway noted how similar the two men were in appearance. Despite the fact that one face was drawn into a puckered white block by blood loss and shock, they were two sculptures of the same person crafted by different artists. Ross, all twinkling bedroom eyes and well-fed cheekbones described in swirls and curves, the patient all severe lines, strong symmetrical jaw, faintly cruel brown eyes and arrogant bracketed mouth. Those eyes were wide open, unblinking, unresponsive. A high-pitched electronic whine suddenly filled the air.
"He's crashing!" Greene yelled unnecessarily, fluorescent light winking from his lenses. "Somebody get the crash cart!!"
Rumbling on caster wheels, the crash cart was hurriedly yanked across the room. Snatching the paddles with one hand, springy coiled leads dangling, Greene slathered on a liberal quantity of electro-conductive gel. The crash cart gave vent to an elongated beep, like a tortured pinball machine.
"Clear!"
Everyone stepped back a pace, the charged paddles plunging down onto the bare, tanned chest. Convulsing violently as the electric charge hammered at his heart, the patient writhed, chin tipping back, spine arching to an almost impossible degree. Greene glanced at the cardio monitor; not enough, the trace was barely there, a lethargic blip along the glowing green strand.
"Charging....Clear!"
Unconsciously, everyone in the room held their breath. The air heaved with the ruddy iron scent of spilt blood, razor tang of antiseptic and warm sweat of surgical latex. The patient thrashed again, muscles straining along his torso, tendons cording at his throat.
"We've got him!" Ross declared with evident satisfaction, gaze nailed upon the monitor. "Vitals stable...good work, people."
Just as unconsciously, half a dozen sets of lungs let out a huge relieved breath. The drama over for the while, Hathaway busied herself setting up a saline bag next to the bulging strawberry pouch already replacing lost vital fluids. Within minutes, the patient was wheeled away to intensive care, wounds expertly stitched, life no longer on the line.
"I still wanna know how he lost so much blood," Greene groused, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into the waste bin.
"Know watcha mean," Ross frowned. "He had multiple lacerations and contusions...but they were mostly superficial, not bad enough to nearly kill him...Dammit, Mark, he nearly died.....I dunno...Any I.D on this guy?"
Hathaway peeled off her plastic coverall, crumpled it into a small yellow, blood-stained ball and dumped it in the bin, smoothing her uniform. Raking a hand through her bouncy black curls, she turned to the two doctors.
"I.D? Yeah, he had a wallet in his jacket, the paramedic team gave it to me...huh, this guy's got all sorts of different cards... Richard Montague...Mark Roberts....God, there's about two thousand dollars cash in here...Here's one with a picture on...Seth Gecko." She held out the card to the two men with a raised eyebrow.
Doug took the card, examined it, turned it over, then shrugged and handed it to his colleague. Greene looked at it, nothing unusual, a run-of-the-mill credit card. He gave it back to Hathaway, who tucked it away in the expensive black leather wallet.
"Well, I think we can safely say that those others are fakes or stolen," he concluded. "So seen as this one has his picture on it, that's what we'll call him. Seth Gecko, eh? Hell of a name...Come to think of it, Doug, he looks a lot like you. You sure your old man hasn't any more sons lying around?"
Ross grinned and waved a dismissive hand, slipping an arm around Hathaway's slender waist as they walked out of the trauma room.
"Nah, there couldn't be another me, Mark...Carol would be spoilt for choice!"
Hathaway smiled and playfully smacked him around the head. He responded by squeezing her until she gasped and shook her head reproachfully. Heading for the reception, Greene stopped in his tracks and turned back.
"Hey, Doug! Wanna catch the ball game tonight?"
Ross nodded, "Yeah, catch ya later."
With that, the E.R returned to its pre-catastrophe state of readiness, the janitor trundling in to scrub the blood stains from Trauma 2's floor. Presently, all was quiet, light glinting from clean scalpel blades, unused hypodermics lying obediently in crinkled plastic wrappers. Silent as the tomb.
"Mr Gecko? I'm Nurse Latham, I'm just going to give you a quick sponge bath, get some of the ick off you, O.K?"
Oh, the indignity of it all. A middle-aged nurse with a warm damp sponge dabbing at his flesh with practised efficiency. Molten fury seethed within, but he was too weak to curse or even raise an arm to fend the stupid bitch off. When she had finished, however, he grudgingly admitted to himself that he felt a little better. He had seen more than enough blood in his time. Granted, he had spilt most of it himself, but what the hell, life was too short for sentimentality. The world faded in and out like a badly tuned t.v, sometimes in crisp colour, sometimes in fuzzy black and white.
His head felt like it was full of cotton wool, or he had woken up the morning after a bottle or three of rot-gut whiskey. He recognised the symptoms well enough to know the dumb-ass doctors wouldn't be able to figure out what was wrong with him. He didn't bother trying to get up, knowing he couldn't, and even if he did manage to, he'd be about as much use as a dead whore.
"Just changing your drip, Mr Gecko," the Nurse soothed.
"Leave it. I'll do it."
Horror suddenly surged from nowhere, that voice! That goddamned bewitching voice of honey and razors! It was her, had to be. Was it night? He couldn't tell, didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. He struggled to make his limbs cooperate, to fling the blanket aside and search for some kind of a weapon, a chair, a drip stand, anything. He didn't delude himself that his gun was anywhere nearby, she had taken that with a contemptuous laugh long before he'd wound up in the hospital. The Nurse didn't protest, she merely left without a word. He fought to open his eyes, but even that small movement was beyond him in his depleted state.
His heart screamed like the audience on Oprah, the increased beat echoed by the rapid succession of bleeps from the monitor he was hooked up to. There was a slight scrape of metal on vinyl as she pulled up a chair.
"Dear me," the voice purred like a velvet panther. "I do seem to have that effect on a lot of people...Really, Seth, running out on me like that, when we were having such fun."
You were having all the fuckin' fun, bitch, he thought heatedly, fighting the onslaught of fear and lust.
"Language, mon cher," she whispered darkly, tracing a sharp-tipped finger from his throat to naval.
Inside himself, he bellowed with helpless fury, wishing that someone, anyone, would turn off the goddamned heart monitor, stop the incessant beeping. Suddenly, and to his immense surprise, he found he could open his eyes. The surprise turned to ashes as his gaze focused, presenting him with her pearly, hungry grin. She hadn't even bothered to disguise herself as one of the medical staff, so confident was she of her own abilities. Sat at his bedside in black leather and velvet, her presence dominated the room, a sliver of night suffused with the power of a fallen angel.
"Ah, so nice to see you in the land of the living," she smiled diabolically, leaning down, pressing her soft, hot mouth against his own in greeting.
At the touch of her lips, lust got the better of terror, sending a spreading heat to his groin. He stared with vitriolic hatred until he thought his eyes would burst like overripe grapes, fervently wishing he could reach up to wipe the maddening pout from her perfect white face.
"Oh," she observed with a raised eyebrow, gaze travelling down the bed. "I seem to have that effect on a lot of people, too."
The flippancy faded from her tone, pouring liquid nitrogen into her mesmerising indigo-blue eyes. She tossed the burnished mahogany magnificence of her hair over her shoulder, a dark indent of fury marring her pale forehead. He thought his heart would stop, but the steady beep of the monitor told him otherwise. It seemed that he wasn't about to die of fear just yet.
"Quite silly of you to shoot me like that," she hissed, baring a pair of ivory razors. "And even sillier to throw holy water over me, what did you expect? That I'd dissolve into a puddle of mucous? Burst into flames, perhaps? I told you, I'm not like those Aztec throwbacks you ran into in Mexico. Petty religious trinkets only make me angry. And as you've discovered, I'm not so nice when I'm angry."
She leaned closer, the faint glimmer of electric light from the corridor transforming her hair into a riot of shimmering flames. As she did so, the crushed velvet of her collar fell aside, revealing a slender white throat graced by a fine silver chain. From that chain hung a delicate silver ankh. He swallowed, captivated by the line of her jaw, the smooth, translucent flesh of her neck. The threat of impending life-threatening violence drained from her features, her expression softening until she looked as innocuous as a virginal schoolgirl.
"Despite the mean motor-scooter act, Seth, I like you...you're a complete bastard, but you're quite interesting all the same. I don't think I'll kill you just yet." Her glossy crimson mouth quirked, pearly incisors dimpling the lower lip. "I'd rather have a thirty day home trial before I decide whether or not to keep you."
Seth felt an overwhelming sense of relief, which he instantly quelled. He hated her for making him so afraid, for making him want her so much it hurt. Both reactions to her were instinctive, he had no control over them, and he loathed being out of control. But she was right, she was nothing like the malformed monstrosities who inhabited the Titty Twister. For one thing, he hadn't suddenly gone el zombie after she'd attacked him and he ended up in E.R, he just felt like hard boiled shit. No, she was a different breed altogether, something vastly more powerful, far more potentially dangerous. And, boy, was she smart; he'd developed a sixth sense for recognising the supernatural since Mexico, but she'd fooled him altogether.
Yeah? I think you'll find I don't come with a goddamn satisfaction guarantee. Best go back to the store and get a more obedient model, princess.
She chuckled softly, amused by his defiance. When she bent her mahogany head and her incisors slid into his throat, the world vanished beneath a throbbing crimson tide of ecstasy and pain. He was hers, body and soul, and all the hatred he could muster wouldn't change that. Finally, he surrendered, telling himself he would get the bitch, no matter what.
"Hey, Dr. Ross, whatcha doing in this neck o' the woods?" The young, pretty Nurse fluttered heavy eyelashes, biro pen poised provocatively before her rosebud mouth as he passed by the Intensive Care desk.
"Checking on a patient," Ross flashed a killer smile, picking up a med chart. "The guy brought in last night with multiple lacerations and severe blood loss."
"Oh!" The Nurse pulled a face. "Mr Gecko, the guy with the tattoo. Yeah, room three..I think he's still asleep. Y'know, Dr. Ross, he looks a lot like you...I thought he was you when he first came up here. Silly, ain't it?"
Ross smiled and nodded, striding down the corridor, surgical greens hushing softly as he walked. Unconsciously, he frowned a little.
Everybody seems to be saying that, Carol, Mark, now Nurse Rogers...what is it with this Gecko guy?
Whistling as he sauntered along, Ross politely knocked, waited a few moments, then opened the door. The interior was dark, silent except for the steady blip of the cardio monitor and light breathing of the patient. Stepping over the threshold, he approached the bed, eyebrows escalating in surprise. He was looking at a replica of himself, a leaner, rougher, vaguely psychopathic version of Doug Ross.
"Holy shit," he swore softly.
"Really, I expected better language from a doctor," a reproving female voice said close by his ear.
Ross almost yelped, spinning around, stethoscope slipping from his neck to clatter to the floor. A tall, slender woman all in black regarded him with tolerant amusement from the door frame, luminous features framed by wings of lustrous, dead straight mahogany hair. Retrieving his dropped stethoscope, Ross tried to calm his jumpy heart, unsure as to why her voice had sounded as if she was leaning over his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he said, giving his best 'come hither' grin. "I didn't hear you come in...Visiting hours are over, Miss...?"
She ignored the question, crossing the room with an amazing fluid elegance. Arranging herself in the bedside chair, she absently smoothed the patient's hair. Trailing a long white hand across his bare chest, she looked up with narrowed azure eyes that seemed to glow in the semi-darkness.
"Poor Seth," she cooed, toying with the wires that connected him to the cardio monitor. "I'm afraid he's been quite naughty...Children shouldn't play in alley ways at night, they'll only fall down and hurt themselves."
Ross frowned, the Nurse hadn't mentioned any visitors, and he didn't like the way the patient was breathing, short and shallow. There was something distinctly unnerving about the blue-eyed, snow-faced visitor, did she know something about how Gecko had wound up in E.R? Doug Ross had never come across a woman he couldn't charm or vilify, and the fact he couldn't do either to this woman made him nervous. She looked at him with cool appraisal, like she was estimating his worth or stamina for something.
"Excuse me," he said, popping on his stethoscope, determined to hide his unease beneath a veneer of professionalism. "I just need to check the patient."
Before he had taken a single step, she had slithered across the room, blocking the way to the bed. Taken aback by the speed with which she had moved, Ross stepped back a pace.
"No need, Dr. Ross," she murmured. "He's quite alright...for now."
To his shock, Doug found he was unable to protest. For once in his life, he couldn't think of anything suitably charming or cutting to say. Something in her voice, an undefinable, mesmerising quality, forced him to obey. Cool white hands slipped over his shoulders, plucking the stethoscope from his ears, stroking a slender finger over his lips.
"You look tired, Dr. Ross, you must be working too hard." A terrible smile appeared on her red mouth. "And you're almost as delicious as Mr Gecko."
All thoughts of Carol Hathaway, concern for his doppelgänger and reality went swirling down the cosmic plug hole as she pushed him to the floor. On the bed, Seth drifted into consciousness, too weak to do anything but watch with impotent fury and jealousy.
When I get outta here, I'm gonna introduce you to a buddy of mine called Mr 44., Doctor...and then I'm gonna find a way to kill you, bitch, even if I have to break into the Pentagon to do it...
"Hi, Mr Gecko, I'm Carol Hathaway...I believe you've been upsetting the nursing staff. Now, what seems to be the problem here?"
Seth looked up to see a clover pink uniformed E.R nurse standing in the doorway with a benevolent smile on her lips. He glanced out of the window; the sky was a dusky metallic grey, strewn with rain-heavy clouds. Not long until nightfall. With a grimace, he pulled the drip shunt from his arm, and was obliged to sit down before his legs buckled.
"Mr Gecko? I'm afraid you're not well enough to leave."
Seth paused, looking at the nurse for the first time. She looked back, all glossy black curls and porcelain skin. The nasal voice of his late brother, Richie, suddenly seemed to whisper in his head, telling him he should do the broad and get the hell out of there. She was very pretty, in a strong, Hispanic sort of way, and this mess was hardly her fault.
No! he thought. I'm a professional fuckin' thief, I don't kill people I don't have to, and I do not rape women. That's not how it's done. Richie, you're dead, so stay dead, bro. Now get outta my head!
"Well, I don't have much of a fuckin' choice," he said levelly. "My clothes and wallet, now."
It was not a request, it was a demand. Hathaway was fazed, struck by how much he looked and sounded exactly like Doug, despite the tattoo, the curt tone and the severe short haircut.
"There's still your medical bill," Carol pointed out, recovering her composure. "D'you have insurance?"
Gecko's torrid brown eyes narrowed, tattoo writhing as the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensed. He was far too jumpy, positively hopping with barely contained aggression and anxiety. Even in hospital issue pyjamas pants, he looked too menacing to risk antagonising by refusing to give him his belongings.
"Mr Gecko, are you in some kind of trouble? If you are, there's people who can help...-"
"Everything's just peachy," he snapped, chin jerking up, making him look more and more like a caged wild animal. "Get me my things, and I'll sort your goddamned bill."
He looked at her pointedly, lips twitching in a humourless smile.
"This conversation is over."
Hathaway shrugged, if he wanted to leave, then she couldn't stop him. If he collapsed and ended up back in E.R, that was his lookout, not hers.
"O.K, I'll go to property and get your things."
She paused at the door, to see if he would change his mind, but he was staring out of the window at the rapidly darkening sky.
Groaning inwardly, Doug Ross clutched his aching head and poured himself another cup of strong black coffee. Flopping heavily into a chair, he took a large swallow of the scalding drink, hoping the caffeine would drive away the clinging lethargy.
"Whoa...you don't look so good," Carter observed as he breezed into the staff lounge. "Heavy night?"
Doug squinted at the young, floppy-haired intern, wishing his lab coat wasn't such a bright, starched white. Carter plopped down next to him, cheerfully stuffing his face with chocolate chip cookies.
"Er...yeah, something like that."
Carter nodded understandingly, brushing crumbs from his lap. In fact, Doug couldn't remember what the hell had happened to him. Try as he might, the only thing he could recall about the previous night was checking on the guy with the tattoo, then coming to lying on the floor with the vague recollection something strange had happened.
"Oh, I nearly forgot!" Carter exclaimed, scattering chocolate chips. "That guy with the tattoo, Seth something or other, he's awake and making a hell of a racket. He wants out, but he's not fit to be discharged...and he can hardly go anywhere without his clothes...Carol's gone up to try and calm him down, Nurse Rogers rang through down here nearly hysterical, seems your guy's got a temper."
Ross sighed, "I'll go up and see what I can do, thanks, Carter."
"Anytime," the intern grinned, expression sobering as his beeper went off. "Later."
Strolling up the corridor in no particular hurry, he wondered why the shades were drawn if the patient was up and about. Just as he got to the door, he heard a low female voice, not Carol's, laugh and say:
"Do it, Seth. I've given you your precious gun back, so shoot me. That's what you wanted isn't it? Or haven't you the nerve, would that be too much like Richie for comfort?"
Ross opened the door, knowing he shouldn't, knowing that the patient was probably armed, but overcome by that beguiling voice and a strong need to see if Carol was in there. Hathaway lay slumped in a corner, holding her bleeding throat with one hand, eyes wide and frightened. A spattering of poppy red marred the front of her uniform. Gecko stood by the bed, dressed in his bloodstained black suit, aiming a large calibre hand gun at an impossibly pale mahogany haired woman.
You! Ross thought, with an inner jolt, not sure how or why he recognised her. Why, for Chrissake, have you given that tattooed wacko a gun?
"Ah, Dr. Ross," she greeted, without turning her head. "So glad you could join our petite soirée. Oh, don't worry, your lovely friend is quite well, only a flesh wound."
Gecko's gaze slid towards the doctor, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a grim, determined line. His arm tremored almost imperceptibly with the effort of holding the gun straight, exhaustion shading his cheeks a charcoal grey. He looked thoroughly dangerous, a man at the very end of his tether.
Dr. Ross, the man of the moment, Seth thought, feeling his control slipping away with every passing second. So fuckin' compassionate he makes me wanna barf. But can you help me? No, you can't. You're under her spell just as much as I am.
A slight, infuriatingly seductive smile appeared on the woman's mouth, her lips a startling dark red against the alabaster of her skin. She looked completely unconcerned, posture one of relaxed contemplation as she examined her sharp nails.
"Come now, you'll have to make a decision soon, Seth, my sweet. Because I've a feeling you can't hold that gun up for much longer."
Ross suddenly had the feeling that it wasn't the guy with the gun who was the most dangerous. His gaze darted to Carol, who mouthed "I'm O.K.". She remained huddled in the corner, eyes skipping back and forth between Gecko and the comet-eyed female creature who had bitten her and drank her blood. Ross swallowed the knot of fear in his throat and stepped from behind the captivating, terrifying woman with indigo-blue eyes.
"Hey, guys, c'mon, can't we work this out?" he pleaded, holding up his hands pacifyingly.
Gecko didn't look at him, gaze nailed onto his intended target. There was a cold, vicious quality to his eyes, but also a complete desperation, an internal battle which he was losing fast. Hathaway held her breath, not daring to blink, move or scream at Doug for placing his life in danger.
"No," Gecko grated. "We can't work this out."
His aim shifted a few feet to the left, finger contracting against the trigger. The gun roared. Hathaway screeched in denial as Ross hit the floor, surgical greens spectacularly dyed scarlet, a ragged oozing hole in his chest.
"Dr. Ross...meet Mr 44.," Gecko said emptily, arm dangling flaccidly at his side.
As they had been threatening to do for the last ten minutes, Seth's legs finally decided they no longer wished to be employed in keeping him upright. He collapsed, wishing he would just hit the floor and black out, but knowing he would be caught by preternaturally strong female arms.
"Seth, dearest," she whispered, easing the gun from his hands, stroking his cropped hair. "I knew you wouldn't let me down. Ruining two of my jackets would be just too awful, don't you think?"
Realising he had lost, Seth didn't struggle against the ministrations of her white hands buttoning up his shirt, fastening his jacket. He was hers until she tired of him and either killed him, or maybe, just maybe, allowed him to get on with his life. Hathaway could only watch as the pair stepped over Ross's convulsing form without a backward glance. Two sets of footsteps, one light, the other heavy and faltering faded into the distance. They were gone. Heaving herself from the floor, Carol staggered outside, hauling herself along the corridor by sheer willpower alone.
"Nurse! Call Trauma!! It's Doug Ross, I need a med team in here A.S.A.P.!! Gunshot wound to the chest!!!"
*