DISCLAIMER: While I would love to take credit for the brilliant and
volatile creation that is Robert Romano, sadly I cannot. Nor can I for
that lovely bird Elizabeth Corday. They are merely puppets in someone
else's play, and I've sneaked in to pull the strings a bit. Care to watch
them dance?
They put 'em both on, but not in the same scene. Damn. Well, maybe when he said he came down to say good night and Godspeed he was on his way to warm the bed for his lovely muse still stuck in surgery. No? **sigh** On his way to warm MY bed? No? DAMN!
Remember, folks, Alternate Universe.
Think PG. Then again, you might get lucky.
She was in utter shock.
Just who in the bloody hell did he think he was?
She stood, staring, outside the men's room door, so tempted to just barge her way in and slice him verbally from crotch to carotid. However, he had her so rattled she was afraid all she'd be able to manage would be, "You know what, Robert? I lied, I do view you as a loathsome toad."
Hardly a retort worthy of the risk of catching him at the urinal.
So she stalked away, skirt swishing, stethoscope beating time against her chest. Associate Chief of Surgery? What did he think he was playing at? A childish game of war, casting himself as the general and her as his faithful lieutenant? Arrogant, pompous, presumptuous ass. But it may make for some interesting dreams..
NOT if I can help it.
Mark. I need Mark.
She fairly flew to the elevator.
Word traveled fast in a gossip mill like County. They were already greeting her with her new title before she even stepped off the elevator. Congratulations, Dr. Corday..What a surprise, Dr. Corday.. That's what they said. But she knew what they meant..many sympathies, Dr. Corday. All she wanted to do was find Mark. He would calm her nerves, reassure her, be the friend, the stabilizing force she needed. She swept into the trauma room, her pulse slowing the moment she lay eyes on him. He was pulling off a drape and snapping off gloves. His eyes rose to meet hers and she sighed. Warm comfort, relief to see her, gentle happiness all reflected from behind his glasses. There would be no undertow of emotion in those eyes to drag her down, to suffocate her senses.
And, yes, Elizabeth..that's a good thing.
They were speaking. She hadn't been aware. Evidently she was getting good at weaving her way through conversations on auto-pilot; no one seemed to notice she wasn't paying attention half the time.
"So I heard a rumor..."
She stumbled out of the elevator, back on to the surgical floor, nearly blinded by her anger.
How dare he?
She had been counting on him to calm her down, to support and encourage her. She needed him to tell her to go ahead, to take the job, that she deserved it. To congratulate her on finally jumping through that final hoop into something stable, secure, and well earned. To let her feel validated. To tell her he was glad she'd be staying at County. Instead...
"Why'd he pick you?"
What a slap in the face!
She'd tossed her surgical ability out as a reason, and he nodded grudgingly, but she saw the look in his eye. The look that said he secretly believed Romano thought she would show him her gratitude for the promotion lying flat on her back. Her mind wandered back to the evening he'd informed her the trauma fellowship would go to Benton. His words - "I wanted you, but I'm not that objective." Hypocrite! She had been so tempted to throw in his smug, wan face that she knew, deep down, he was hoping for the same kind of gesture of thanks. Instead she bit back her anger and explained, like to a child, what a fool she would be to pass up such an opportunity.
He wasn't buying it. He just held her gaze, his filled with that sanctimonious regard she was becoming all too familiar with these days. Moral superiority. Bollocks!
She needed quiet, privacy, a place to calm the blinding anger in her head. She wasn't even aware of where she was headed until she found herself at the door. "Brenda, is he in?"
The young woman shook her head.
"Well, if he returns, tell him his Associate Chief needed some privacy." She yanked the door open, swept inside, and slammed it shut with her back. Too much too handle all at once. Everything she thought she could count on was faltering. Everything she believed unreliable now seemed the only source of progress. Damn. She leaned her head back against the glass and closed her eyes.
Which brought her other senses into acute focus, reminding her where she was.
The office smelled like him. Soap, aftershave, crisp linen, a hint of latex. She breathed in deeply despite herself. A radio played from some dim corner...the drone of a saxophone, the tinkling of piano, the comforting thud of bass...Robert - a jazz fan? Mozart, Chopin, Strauss, sure. But jazz? Not nearly pretentious enough for the Great Rocket Romano.
An image burst forth in her mind, unbidden, uninvited....
A dark, smoky dance floor. Broad shoulders beneath her arm, wiry muscle rigid under her hand. Her chin resting in that hollow between neck and shoulder, stubble-peppered jaw scraping her cheek. Her fingers entwined with his, strong and warm and comforting. A hand pressed flat at the small of her back, the jut of a hip grazing hers as they glided together as one. The boom of the bass felt more in their chests then heard in their ears, the plea of a trumpet dancing across their skin. She would move against him, letting him feel the firm softness hidden by her dress and his breath would catch in his throat. He would slide his palm up between her shoulder blades, his fingers would find purchase in her hair, and his mouth...warm and sweet and moist and dark..her hands would clutch at his shoulders, nails raking at muscle beneath fabric, and lower, tracing shoulder blades and ribs an lumbar, and boldly lower still, pushing him close, making contact, body against body, and he would break the kiss and yank her head back and his lips at her throat, his tongue, his teeth and she would say his name, relishing its flavor on her tongue.
"Robert...Robert..."
Her eyes flew open as she pulled herself from her reverie with a jerk.
Should have known better than to step into the inner sanctum. Good Lord, Lizzie, pull yourself together.
She gasped a bit as even her inner voice betrayed her.
I meant Elizabeth...
She stumbled away from the door, meaning to sit down. Her hands fell on the back of his chair, finding his suit coat draped casually over the leather. Before she could stop herself she was curling her fingers into the linen, lifting it with a whisper, pressing it to her face. Oh, God, Robert..
Dropping it with a muted yelp, she raced for the door.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon coolly denying the incident took place. Two trauma calls in the ER, one trip to the OR, and she was back on a somewhat even keel. More congratulations on her new position, more awkward silences shared with Mark. He wanted to take her out. She declined. She told herself she was still angry.
But that's not really the truth, is it, Elizabeth? Isn't the truth that you only want to go home, wrap yourself in a warm bath...and turn on Ella Fitzgerald? See what lovely images might return for a visit, see what shape and color and texture they might take in the safety and privacy of your own room?
Rubbish.
A voice from behind her. The voice. His voice. "So, Lizzie, I heard you laid up in the OR today."
A grin began to curl her lips. She turned, eager to pick up whatever verbal gauntlet he threw down....
Oh, my God.
Those broad shoulders encased in black. That beautifully defined jaw hovering above the bow tie. Even his forehead had an irresistible polish to it. Tuxedo clad and grinning, he took her very breath away.
More hateful images battered her exhausted brain. Sweeping the admit desk bare, stumbling to a gurney, to chairs, bloody hell - to the floor....
Focus. Business. Talk.
"Listen, Robert, about Peter.." Droning litany commenced. He spoke animatedly, she nodded. The flash of white teeth as he spoke, the raise of an eyebrow, the curl of a lip. Pools of deep mocha brown swirling, inviting her in, bathing her in seductive warmth. And she was nodding, acquiescing, agreeing, surrendering..
She'd been speaking with half a brain again. Damn it, Liz - ELIZabeth, you've got to be more careful.
"So is that an official acceptance of my offer?"
Lewd responses twisting her tongue in response. She bit down hard. Tasted acrid blood. It brought her back to her senses.
"Yes, Robert, I suppose it is." The twinkle in his eye, the spring in his step, and he was gone. Haleh whistled through her teeth as she passed his breezy exit. She cocked a curious eye.
"Where's he off to all dressed up?"
Elizabeth shook her head wearily.
"I've no idea - but wherever it is, he's taking my soul along.."
They put 'em both on, but not in the same scene. Damn. Well, maybe when he said he came down to say good night and Godspeed he was on his way to warm the bed for his lovely muse still stuck in surgery. No? **sigh** On his way to warm MY bed? No? DAMN!
Remember, folks, Alternate Universe.
Think PG. Then again, you might get lucky.
She was in utter shock.
Just who in the bloody hell did he think he was?
She stood, staring, outside the men's room door, so tempted to just barge her way in and slice him verbally from crotch to carotid. However, he had her so rattled she was afraid all she'd be able to manage would be, "You know what, Robert? I lied, I do view you as a loathsome toad."
Hardly a retort worthy of the risk of catching him at the urinal.
So she stalked away, skirt swishing, stethoscope beating time against her chest. Associate Chief of Surgery? What did he think he was playing at? A childish game of war, casting himself as the general and her as his faithful lieutenant? Arrogant, pompous, presumptuous ass. But it may make for some interesting dreams..
NOT if I can help it.
Mark. I need Mark.
She fairly flew to the elevator.
Word traveled fast in a gossip mill like County. They were already greeting her with her new title before she even stepped off the elevator. Congratulations, Dr. Corday..What a surprise, Dr. Corday.. That's what they said. But she knew what they meant..many sympathies, Dr. Corday. All she wanted to do was find Mark. He would calm her nerves, reassure her, be the friend, the stabilizing force she needed. She swept into the trauma room, her pulse slowing the moment she lay eyes on him. He was pulling off a drape and snapping off gloves. His eyes rose to meet hers and she sighed. Warm comfort, relief to see her, gentle happiness all reflected from behind his glasses. There would be no undertow of emotion in those eyes to drag her down, to suffocate her senses.
And, yes, Elizabeth..that's a good thing.
They were speaking. She hadn't been aware. Evidently she was getting good at weaving her way through conversations on auto-pilot; no one seemed to notice she wasn't paying attention half the time.
"So I heard a rumor..."
She stumbled out of the elevator, back on to the surgical floor, nearly blinded by her anger.
How dare he?
She had been counting on him to calm her down, to support and encourage her. She needed him to tell her to go ahead, to take the job, that she deserved it. To congratulate her on finally jumping through that final hoop into something stable, secure, and well earned. To let her feel validated. To tell her he was glad she'd be staying at County. Instead...
"Why'd he pick you?"
What a slap in the face!
She'd tossed her surgical ability out as a reason, and he nodded grudgingly, but she saw the look in his eye. The look that said he secretly believed Romano thought she would show him her gratitude for the promotion lying flat on her back. Her mind wandered back to the evening he'd informed her the trauma fellowship would go to Benton. His words - "I wanted you, but I'm not that objective." Hypocrite! She had been so tempted to throw in his smug, wan face that she knew, deep down, he was hoping for the same kind of gesture of thanks. Instead she bit back her anger and explained, like to a child, what a fool she would be to pass up such an opportunity.
He wasn't buying it. He just held her gaze, his filled with that sanctimonious regard she was becoming all too familiar with these days. Moral superiority. Bollocks!
She needed quiet, privacy, a place to calm the blinding anger in her head. She wasn't even aware of where she was headed until she found herself at the door. "Brenda, is he in?"
The young woman shook her head.
"Well, if he returns, tell him his Associate Chief needed some privacy." She yanked the door open, swept inside, and slammed it shut with her back. Too much too handle all at once. Everything she thought she could count on was faltering. Everything she believed unreliable now seemed the only source of progress. Damn. She leaned her head back against the glass and closed her eyes.
Which brought her other senses into acute focus, reminding her where she was.
The office smelled like him. Soap, aftershave, crisp linen, a hint of latex. She breathed in deeply despite herself. A radio played from some dim corner...the drone of a saxophone, the tinkling of piano, the comforting thud of bass...Robert - a jazz fan? Mozart, Chopin, Strauss, sure. But jazz? Not nearly pretentious enough for the Great Rocket Romano.
An image burst forth in her mind, unbidden, uninvited....
A dark, smoky dance floor. Broad shoulders beneath her arm, wiry muscle rigid under her hand. Her chin resting in that hollow between neck and shoulder, stubble-peppered jaw scraping her cheek. Her fingers entwined with his, strong and warm and comforting. A hand pressed flat at the small of her back, the jut of a hip grazing hers as they glided together as one. The boom of the bass felt more in their chests then heard in their ears, the plea of a trumpet dancing across their skin. She would move against him, letting him feel the firm softness hidden by her dress and his breath would catch in his throat. He would slide his palm up between her shoulder blades, his fingers would find purchase in her hair, and his mouth...warm and sweet and moist and dark..her hands would clutch at his shoulders, nails raking at muscle beneath fabric, and lower, tracing shoulder blades and ribs an lumbar, and boldly lower still, pushing him close, making contact, body against body, and he would break the kiss and yank her head back and his lips at her throat, his tongue, his teeth and she would say his name, relishing its flavor on her tongue.
"Robert...Robert..."
Her eyes flew open as she pulled herself from her reverie with a jerk.
Should have known better than to step into the inner sanctum. Good Lord, Lizzie, pull yourself together.
She gasped a bit as even her inner voice betrayed her.
I meant Elizabeth...
She stumbled away from the door, meaning to sit down. Her hands fell on the back of his chair, finding his suit coat draped casually over the leather. Before she could stop herself she was curling her fingers into the linen, lifting it with a whisper, pressing it to her face. Oh, God, Robert..
Dropping it with a muted yelp, she raced for the door.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon coolly denying the incident took place. Two trauma calls in the ER, one trip to the OR, and she was back on a somewhat even keel. More congratulations on her new position, more awkward silences shared with Mark. He wanted to take her out. She declined. She told herself she was still angry.
But that's not really the truth, is it, Elizabeth? Isn't the truth that you only want to go home, wrap yourself in a warm bath...and turn on Ella Fitzgerald? See what lovely images might return for a visit, see what shape and color and texture they might take in the safety and privacy of your own room?
Rubbish.
A voice from behind her. The voice. His voice. "So, Lizzie, I heard you laid up in the OR today."
A grin began to curl her lips. She turned, eager to pick up whatever verbal gauntlet he threw down....
Oh, my God.
Those broad shoulders encased in black. That beautifully defined jaw hovering above the bow tie. Even his forehead had an irresistible polish to it. Tuxedo clad and grinning, he took her very breath away.
More hateful images battered her exhausted brain. Sweeping the admit desk bare, stumbling to a gurney, to chairs, bloody hell - to the floor....
Focus. Business. Talk.
"Listen, Robert, about Peter.." Droning litany commenced. He spoke animatedly, she nodded. The flash of white teeth as he spoke, the raise of an eyebrow, the curl of a lip. Pools of deep mocha brown swirling, inviting her in, bathing her in seductive warmth. And she was nodding, acquiescing, agreeing, surrendering..
She'd been speaking with half a brain again. Damn it, Liz - ELIZabeth, you've got to be more careful.
"So is that an official acceptance of my offer?"
Lewd responses twisting her tongue in response. She bit down hard. Tasted acrid blood. It brought her back to her senses.
"Yes, Robert, I suppose it is." The twinkle in his eye, the spring in his step, and he was gone. Haleh whistled through her teeth as she passed his breezy exit. She cocked a curious eye.
"Where's he off to all dressed up?"
Elizabeth shook her head wearily.
"I've no idea - but wherever it is, he's taking my soul along.."