Author's note: Well, gentle reader, we are reaching the end here...this
chapter, maybe one more. You have been so kind to indulge me, and your
feedback has been treasured. Without it, we may never have come this far.
It's a romance, right? And the ones who really own him are torturing him (and us) enough lately, right? If it's Romano angst you want, I have to say, you won't find much here. Some...but not a lot. Could there be such a thing as a happy ending for this guy?
Oh, another reminder: what you are about to read is based on spoilers/speculations about upcoming episodes. I have no idea how reliable these spoilers are, but please, consider yourselves warned.
Read on...
March in Chicago was always so morose. Rain, rain, and oh - guess what? More rain. Seasonal allergens, barometric pressure, medical students - all things that swirled around him to make his head ache.
Yep. Med students. Twenty years behind the table, and here he was, playing babysitter to a bunch of fourth year Dicks and Janes, none of whom seemed know a twelve blade from a tire iron. Got to hand it to that Weaver...she finally mastered the art of the low blow.
Well, she did have a hell of a teacher.
It didn't really come as any big surprise, losing the Chief of Staff position to her. He always knew what she was capable of, and the cat and mouse was quite interesting from time to time. And at least he could take solace in the fact that she never would have won, had he not handed her his own ass on a platter.
He should never have stepped into the damn OR.
He knew the weakness was pervasive. It had been for days. Fluctuating, yes - some days stronger than others, some days almost back to normal. But there was no normal anymore. And he should have known that. But hey.what's a little variety in the world of rectal abscess.
Well, it's a lot actually.
A hell of a lot.
They didn't take his job away for that. He'd had patients die before. And there was no proof of negligence. Of incompetence. More importantly, no lawsuit. But his confidence was badly shaken, and it seemed the only person he'd been able to hide that from was himself.
So she Weavered her way in.and he'd let it happen.
No more Chief of Staff, no more Chief of Surgery. "Don't worry, Robert, you're an asset to this hospital and the faculty. We will always have a place for you here, even if we have to make one up as we go along."
Waxes of, "Per Diem means 'per my discretion'." Nice little karmic kick in the ass.
Elizabeth reassuring him that, "This isn't over, Robert, you've years of practicing medicine ahead of you."
No offense, Lizzie, but swallow it sideways. And choke on it.
He strode impatiently down the hall of the ER, his reluctant disciples in tow. He dropped the chart he was holding on the admit desk with a clatter, taking a sip of pleasure in the way it made Jerry jump. "There's the chart for the rule out MI in curtain two, here are those that are the bright and shining future of medicine, where the hell's my wife?"
"Uh, sorry, Dr. Romano. She's not here."
Robert looked at him dully. "Obviously not, Jerry. If she were, I wouldn't have to ask for her."
"What I mean is that Dr. Windsor, I mean - Dr. Romano, I mean."
"I know who she is Jerry! Will you get to the friggin' point?"
"Erin went home over an hour ago. Said she wasn't feeling well. Dr. Lewis found her yakking in the bathroom, so I guess she's got the flu, or something."
Robert heaved a heavy sigh. "Great. She's sick. Now I'm gonna get sick, and I've got to drive the friggin' Jag myself with..." He glared down at his left hand as headed upstairs to get ready to go home.
He hit the front door of the house with a scowl on his face. Dumped his briefcase and raincoat on the floor by the foyer. "Windsor?" He shouted out. There was no answer. He checked the kitchen and living room then headed upstairs. "Windsor!" He entered the bedroom and saw the bathroom door ajar. He strode across the room and pushed it fully open.
She was on her knees beside the toilet, looking decidedly green.
"Aw, shit, Erin." He ran a washcloth under the cold tap and handed it to her. She moved to accept it, then lurched over the bowl, vomiting helplessly. Robert dropped to the floor next to her, pressing the compress to her forehead. "Want Compazine?"
She shook her head.
"So, you're just going to keep this up until you pass out?"
She shot him the finger, and he laughed, genuinely softening. "Fever?" He asked.
"No." Her face was ashen, her eyes bruised and hollow. Scared, she looked scared.
"Well, come on, let's get you into bed," he moved to help her up but she pulled away.
"Leave me here," she said quietly.
"You know, I can get you a trashcan for the bedside."
"I don't need to go to bed!" Erin snapped.
"Well, if you hover on the floor by the toilet all night, you're only going to get sicker.." He reasoned in his most maddeningly sensible voice.
"I'm not sick!" Erin shouted.
Robert gestured to the toilet. "Auditioning for 'The Exorcist 2003'?" He was joking, but his stomach suddenly lurched when he realized Erin was more than irritable, more than scared. She was downright terrified. "Then what the hell's the matter with you?"
Time stood still for a long beat as she looked at him with those fearful eyes.
"Robert..I'm pregnant..."
She had gotten used to living with a headache.
It was like astigmatism...or like hearing loss. You wake up in the morning and reach for your glasses, or your hearing aid. She awoke and reached for the ibuprofen bottle that had taken up permanent residence on her nightstand.
It wasn't that much of a problem, really. Just a low droning pain that dug it's way to the base of her neck. Manageable. Of course, it could be enticed. Direct sunlight, for instance, would bring it zinging up behind her eyes, pricking at her corneas. Or the odd sound - the loud and unexpected crash of a Mayo stand during a busy trauma, the muted yelp if Robert bumped his arm the wrong way, Weaver saying just about anything..all could bring the searing agony to whisper in her ear like a long denied lover begging for attention. And then she would find herself racing for the bathroom, afraid the insolence of her brain would incite her stomach to revolt as well. She won the battle most of the time, and convinced John to write her a scrip for Imitrex.
It was just part of her life now. A new element to factor into the equation, a new edge to work around.
Because, God knew, there weren't enough of those lately.
The power struggle had been, all things considered, mercifully brief.
A scuffle with Elizabeth in the OR. Heated words exchanged with a surgical resident. A dead patient. A vengeful politician. And an opportunistic opponent.
The demise of a career, summed up in those brief statements. God, she couldn't think about it.
He'd left the hospital without a word to her. She found out about her husband's demotion from a very gently sympathetic Yosh. So much emotion at once - rage, sadness, resignation...relief? A horrible thing to admit. But at least now there was a catalyst to move life along. They had been drifting in a rut of "wait and see" for so long. At least now he'd be inspired to fight, or inspired to find some new focus. She hoped.
She had walked out on her shift, daring Weaver to fire her. She didn't, of course - rather seemed relieved to see her go. He'd taken the car. She caught the El. Made her way home, inside. He was staring into an empty fireplace, shirt untucked, tie askew, the dogs neglected protectively at his feet. She had wanted to talk, but his expression sucked all the air from her and left her speechless. She tended to the fire. Poured a glass of wine that would sit, untouched, by his side. Took her place on the opposite end of the couch. And waited.
The storm raged inside him for hours as he sat, unmoving and stoic. Erin expected to feel waves of rage, of anger, of something coming from his body, but there was nothing. She pressed her fingers to her temples as her new little demon yawned and stretched within her skull. She would be able to manage a few minutes more before having to track down something to take the edge off. And it would have to be something good, because she sensed his explosion, when it finally came, would be the wrath of God come to earth.
And then he reached for her.
She had thought the heat at the back of her neck was coming from the inside. And then she felt his weight shift the cushion next to her and realized it was his hand. She opened her eyes, only to close them again as his mouth claimed hers in a soft yet longing caress. His other hand at her waist, and she trailed her fingers up the sinewy line of muscle. She'd long since memorized the scar with her fingertips; she traced it gently once again beneath the fabric of his shirt. Gentle pressure from her hand at his elbow, and his hand slid around to the small of her back, and his shoulders made contact with hers. The kiss ended, his eyes burned into hers, emotions swirling in the deep brown, too many to identify.
"Robert.."
He shook his head, and she knew. This was all he could give. There would be no raging tirade, no discussion, no words at all. He would not, could not... and he was who he was, so it had to be so.
She wrapped her arms around him and brought her lips back to his.
Slow and sweet. Fingers fumbling with offending buttons, the whisper of linen passing shoulder and knee. Blood racing beneath warm layers of skin pressed close together. The fine dusting of hair tickling her fingertips as she traced his heart. Flesh rising in response to his delicate touch. Lips meshing, tongues entwining, bodies seeking...
Tender culmination that turned explosive as he moved above her, retreating into sensation.
And she found the only thing that made her headache disappear entirely. .
Too bad they couldn't bottle it.
But it was all right. She was learning to live with the headache.
Then again, she should have known something was going on the day she ended up in Gallant's arms.
They leaned over the gurney as he orated: "Mr. Distel is a sixty-two year old male who checked in complaining of lower right quadrant pain and fever. Temp 101.9, pulse is tachy at 140. Ruled out appendicitis, so I'm thinking kidney stone."
Erin checked the patient's abdomen, nodding. "Good work Gallant. Get a portable ultrasound and page surgery for a consult. I'm sure Mr. Distel doesn't want to pass this on his own unless he absolutely has to."
"No shit, doc...this is killing me." The man in the bed grumbled. Erin smiled and turned, Gallant on her heels. "If they don't take him up, make sure you admit.."
"Dr. Romano? Dr. Romano!" Gallant's voice, insistent.
Robert, answer the damn kid!
"Dr. Romano!" Strong hands shaking her shoulders. She opened her eyes, and his face melted into relief. "There you are."
"Gallant, do me a favor - stick with Dr. Windsor, okay?" Her brow furrowed in confusion. Why was she looking straight ahead at the ceiling? Better yet, what was she doing lying in his lap? She struggled to sit up. "What the hell -"
"You fainted," Gallant tried to get her to sit still, but she forced him to let her up. "Are you all right?"
I have no idea. Aloud: "Sure, I'm fine. I just skipped breakfast. And then I skipped lunch, so-" She took a tentative step, then another. Gallant rose and followed, trying to lead her to a gurney.
"We should get a BP, check your pulse..."
Erin rolled her eyes (oww!) and laughed a little. "Gallant, I had a head rush. Not a big deal. I'm fine."
His eyes were soft with doubt, but Erin knew she could count on his background and training to kick in and prevent him from arguing with her. It was a quality she had been trying hard to beat out of him, but if it could work in her favor this time, so be it. Finally, his shoulders dropped a bit. "Well, if you're sure, ma'am..."
"I'm fine, and we really need to work on that ma'am stuff. I am far too young to be addressed as such." She grinned. "And definitely drop the 'Dr. Romano' - one of them is more than enough."
"Okay, Dr. Windsor." He smiled before reluctantly moving off to find an ultrasound, casting furtive glances back over his shoulder. She waved him on, then walked towards the ladies room. She splashed cold water on her face, ran her fingers through her hair. "There. Get a little sugar rush going, you'll be fine..." She headed for the lounge, for her purse, for her meds..the headache was back.
Erin knew something was going on when the seventeenth came, but her period did not.
Shit.
Maybe you're just late. It's happened before. We've never once discussed it...I don't think he even wants to be a father. You're probably just late. Give it a day or two.. it'll be along..
She gave it a week. A long, agonized, torturous week. Passing the tests in the bins that lined the halls at work, watching the date change on the calendar. It didn't come along.
She had almost convinced herself that she was going to be one of those women who just missed a month, for no reason, without explanation. And then, one night in bed, he reached for her, touched her. And it hurt. She didn't let it show - the pain, or the panic it created. He made love to her, and she held him close, longing to tell him, terrified beyond reason.
Human denial knows no bounds.
By the next morning, she had once again convinced herself it was all stress, and her imagination working overtime. She went to the hospital and got a groove going, treating and streeting, and actually felt normal. When the vomiting hit, her fevered brain listed off every cold and flu patient she'd seen in the last three days. Susan found her, huddled in the bathroom, and told her to go home. Erin relented. No one saw her pass the supply shelf. No one would miss the white, unassuming box.
Who knew such a small symbol could make one feel so ill?
She made it to the toilet before throwing up. Not tough, since she didn't have far to go. She rested her forehead against the cool porcelain (Thank God for maid service), her mind racing faster than her stomach churning. What will he say? What will he do? He's going to kill me.. Do I have to tell him? Of course you have to tell him! What the hell am I going to do?
The door swung open. Robert, looking at her with bemused sympathy. Chiding her, teasing her. Thinking it was the flu.
The flu, sure, uh-huh. Let him think that, it'll buy you some time. His arms around her, trying to move her into the bedroom. His voice, that condescending, I'm-so-smart-now-just-sit-back-and-let-me-be-the-doctor tone. Another wave of nausea, and the words, pushed out against her will...
"Robert...I'm pregnant..."
It's a romance, right? And the ones who really own him are torturing him (and us) enough lately, right? If it's Romano angst you want, I have to say, you won't find much here. Some...but not a lot. Could there be such a thing as a happy ending for this guy?
Oh, another reminder: what you are about to read is based on spoilers/speculations about upcoming episodes. I have no idea how reliable these spoilers are, but please, consider yourselves warned.
Read on...
March in Chicago was always so morose. Rain, rain, and oh - guess what? More rain. Seasonal allergens, barometric pressure, medical students - all things that swirled around him to make his head ache.
Yep. Med students. Twenty years behind the table, and here he was, playing babysitter to a bunch of fourth year Dicks and Janes, none of whom seemed know a twelve blade from a tire iron. Got to hand it to that Weaver...she finally mastered the art of the low blow.
Well, she did have a hell of a teacher.
It didn't really come as any big surprise, losing the Chief of Staff position to her. He always knew what she was capable of, and the cat and mouse was quite interesting from time to time. And at least he could take solace in the fact that she never would have won, had he not handed her his own ass on a platter.
He should never have stepped into the damn OR.
He knew the weakness was pervasive. It had been for days. Fluctuating, yes - some days stronger than others, some days almost back to normal. But there was no normal anymore. And he should have known that. But hey.what's a little variety in the world of rectal abscess.
Well, it's a lot actually.
A hell of a lot.
They didn't take his job away for that. He'd had patients die before. And there was no proof of negligence. Of incompetence. More importantly, no lawsuit. But his confidence was badly shaken, and it seemed the only person he'd been able to hide that from was himself.
So she Weavered her way in.and he'd let it happen.
No more Chief of Staff, no more Chief of Surgery. "Don't worry, Robert, you're an asset to this hospital and the faculty. We will always have a place for you here, even if we have to make one up as we go along."
Waxes of, "Per Diem means 'per my discretion'." Nice little karmic kick in the ass.
Elizabeth reassuring him that, "This isn't over, Robert, you've years of practicing medicine ahead of you."
No offense, Lizzie, but swallow it sideways. And choke on it.
He strode impatiently down the hall of the ER, his reluctant disciples in tow. He dropped the chart he was holding on the admit desk with a clatter, taking a sip of pleasure in the way it made Jerry jump. "There's the chart for the rule out MI in curtain two, here are those that are the bright and shining future of medicine, where the hell's my wife?"
"Uh, sorry, Dr. Romano. She's not here."
Robert looked at him dully. "Obviously not, Jerry. If she were, I wouldn't have to ask for her."
"What I mean is that Dr. Windsor, I mean - Dr. Romano, I mean."
"I know who she is Jerry! Will you get to the friggin' point?"
"Erin went home over an hour ago. Said she wasn't feeling well. Dr. Lewis found her yakking in the bathroom, so I guess she's got the flu, or something."
Robert heaved a heavy sigh. "Great. She's sick. Now I'm gonna get sick, and I've got to drive the friggin' Jag myself with..." He glared down at his left hand as headed upstairs to get ready to go home.
He hit the front door of the house with a scowl on his face. Dumped his briefcase and raincoat on the floor by the foyer. "Windsor?" He shouted out. There was no answer. He checked the kitchen and living room then headed upstairs. "Windsor!" He entered the bedroom and saw the bathroom door ajar. He strode across the room and pushed it fully open.
She was on her knees beside the toilet, looking decidedly green.
"Aw, shit, Erin." He ran a washcloth under the cold tap and handed it to her. She moved to accept it, then lurched over the bowl, vomiting helplessly. Robert dropped to the floor next to her, pressing the compress to her forehead. "Want Compazine?"
She shook her head.
"So, you're just going to keep this up until you pass out?"
She shot him the finger, and he laughed, genuinely softening. "Fever?" He asked.
"No." Her face was ashen, her eyes bruised and hollow. Scared, she looked scared.
"Well, come on, let's get you into bed," he moved to help her up but she pulled away.
"Leave me here," she said quietly.
"You know, I can get you a trashcan for the bedside."
"I don't need to go to bed!" Erin snapped.
"Well, if you hover on the floor by the toilet all night, you're only going to get sicker.." He reasoned in his most maddeningly sensible voice.
"I'm not sick!" Erin shouted.
Robert gestured to the toilet. "Auditioning for 'The Exorcist 2003'?" He was joking, but his stomach suddenly lurched when he realized Erin was more than irritable, more than scared. She was downright terrified. "Then what the hell's the matter with you?"
Time stood still for a long beat as she looked at him with those fearful eyes.
"Robert..I'm pregnant..."
She had gotten used to living with a headache.
It was like astigmatism...or like hearing loss. You wake up in the morning and reach for your glasses, or your hearing aid. She awoke and reached for the ibuprofen bottle that had taken up permanent residence on her nightstand.
It wasn't that much of a problem, really. Just a low droning pain that dug it's way to the base of her neck. Manageable. Of course, it could be enticed. Direct sunlight, for instance, would bring it zinging up behind her eyes, pricking at her corneas. Or the odd sound - the loud and unexpected crash of a Mayo stand during a busy trauma, the muted yelp if Robert bumped his arm the wrong way, Weaver saying just about anything..all could bring the searing agony to whisper in her ear like a long denied lover begging for attention. And then she would find herself racing for the bathroom, afraid the insolence of her brain would incite her stomach to revolt as well. She won the battle most of the time, and convinced John to write her a scrip for Imitrex.
It was just part of her life now. A new element to factor into the equation, a new edge to work around.
Because, God knew, there weren't enough of those lately.
The power struggle had been, all things considered, mercifully brief.
A scuffle with Elizabeth in the OR. Heated words exchanged with a surgical resident. A dead patient. A vengeful politician. And an opportunistic opponent.
The demise of a career, summed up in those brief statements. God, she couldn't think about it.
He'd left the hospital without a word to her. She found out about her husband's demotion from a very gently sympathetic Yosh. So much emotion at once - rage, sadness, resignation...relief? A horrible thing to admit. But at least now there was a catalyst to move life along. They had been drifting in a rut of "wait and see" for so long. At least now he'd be inspired to fight, or inspired to find some new focus. She hoped.
She had walked out on her shift, daring Weaver to fire her. She didn't, of course - rather seemed relieved to see her go. He'd taken the car. She caught the El. Made her way home, inside. He was staring into an empty fireplace, shirt untucked, tie askew, the dogs neglected protectively at his feet. She had wanted to talk, but his expression sucked all the air from her and left her speechless. She tended to the fire. Poured a glass of wine that would sit, untouched, by his side. Took her place on the opposite end of the couch. And waited.
The storm raged inside him for hours as he sat, unmoving and stoic. Erin expected to feel waves of rage, of anger, of something coming from his body, but there was nothing. She pressed her fingers to her temples as her new little demon yawned and stretched within her skull. She would be able to manage a few minutes more before having to track down something to take the edge off. And it would have to be something good, because she sensed his explosion, when it finally came, would be the wrath of God come to earth.
And then he reached for her.
She had thought the heat at the back of her neck was coming from the inside. And then she felt his weight shift the cushion next to her and realized it was his hand. She opened her eyes, only to close them again as his mouth claimed hers in a soft yet longing caress. His other hand at her waist, and she trailed her fingers up the sinewy line of muscle. She'd long since memorized the scar with her fingertips; she traced it gently once again beneath the fabric of his shirt. Gentle pressure from her hand at his elbow, and his hand slid around to the small of her back, and his shoulders made contact with hers. The kiss ended, his eyes burned into hers, emotions swirling in the deep brown, too many to identify.
"Robert.."
He shook his head, and she knew. This was all he could give. There would be no raging tirade, no discussion, no words at all. He would not, could not... and he was who he was, so it had to be so.
She wrapped her arms around him and brought her lips back to his.
Slow and sweet. Fingers fumbling with offending buttons, the whisper of linen passing shoulder and knee. Blood racing beneath warm layers of skin pressed close together. The fine dusting of hair tickling her fingertips as she traced his heart. Flesh rising in response to his delicate touch. Lips meshing, tongues entwining, bodies seeking...
Tender culmination that turned explosive as he moved above her, retreating into sensation.
And she found the only thing that made her headache disappear entirely. .
Too bad they couldn't bottle it.
But it was all right. She was learning to live with the headache.
Then again, she should have known something was going on the day she ended up in Gallant's arms.
They leaned over the gurney as he orated: "Mr. Distel is a sixty-two year old male who checked in complaining of lower right quadrant pain and fever. Temp 101.9, pulse is tachy at 140. Ruled out appendicitis, so I'm thinking kidney stone."
Erin checked the patient's abdomen, nodding. "Good work Gallant. Get a portable ultrasound and page surgery for a consult. I'm sure Mr. Distel doesn't want to pass this on his own unless he absolutely has to."
"No shit, doc...this is killing me." The man in the bed grumbled. Erin smiled and turned, Gallant on her heels. "If they don't take him up, make sure you admit.."
"Dr. Romano? Dr. Romano!" Gallant's voice, insistent.
Robert, answer the damn kid!
"Dr. Romano!" Strong hands shaking her shoulders. She opened her eyes, and his face melted into relief. "There you are."
"Gallant, do me a favor - stick with Dr. Windsor, okay?" Her brow furrowed in confusion. Why was she looking straight ahead at the ceiling? Better yet, what was she doing lying in his lap? She struggled to sit up. "What the hell -"
"You fainted," Gallant tried to get her to sit still, but she forced him to let her up. "Are you all right?"
I have no idea. Aloud: "Sure, I'm fine. I just skipped breakfast. And then I skipped lunch, so-" She took a tentative step, then another. Gallant rose and followed, trying to lead her to a gurney.
"We should get a BP, check your pulse..."
Erin rolled her eyes (oww!) and laughed a little. "Gallant, I had a head rush. Not a big deal. I'm fine."
His eyes were soft with doubt, but Erin knew she could count on his background and training to kick in and prevent him from arguing with her. It was a quality she had been trying hard to beat out of him, but if it could work in her favor this time, so be it. Finally, his shoulders dropped a bit. "Well, if you're sure, ma'am..."
"I'm fine, and we really need to work on that ma'am stuff. I am far too young to be addressed as such." She grinned. "And definitely drop the 'Dr. Romano' - one of them is more than enough."
"Okay, Dr. Windsor." He smiled before reluctantly moving off to find an ultrasound, casting furtive glances back over his shoulder. She waved him on, then walked towards the ladies room. She splashed cold water on her face, ran her fingers through her hair. "There. Get a little sugar rush going, you'll be fine..." She headed for the lounge, for her purse, for her meds..the headache was back.
Erin knew something was going on when the seventeenth came, but her period did not.
Shit.
Maybe you're just late. It's happened before. We've never once discussed it...I don't think he even wants to be a father. You're probably just late. Give it a day or two.. it'll be along..
She gave it a week. A long, agonized, torturous week. Passing the tests in the bins that lined the halls at work, watching the date change on the calendar. It didn't come along.
She had almost convinced herself that she was going to be one of those women who just missed a month, for no reason, without explanation. And then, one night in bed, he reached for her, touched her. And it hurt. She didn't let it show - the pain, or the panic it created. He made love to her, and she held him close, longing to tell him, terrified beyond reason.
Human denial knows no bounds.
By the next morning, she had once again convinced herself it was all stress, and her imagination working overtime. She went to the hospital and got a groove going, treating and streeting, and actually felt normal. When the vomiting hit, her fevered brain listed off every cold and flu patient she'd seen in the last three days. Susan found her, huddled in the bathroom, and told her to go home. Erin relented. No one saw her pass the supply shelf. No one would miss the white, unassuming box.
Who knew such a small symbol could make one feel so ill?
She made it to the toilet before throwing up. Not tough, since she didn't have far to go. She rested her forehead against the cool porcelain (Thank God for maid service), her mind racing faster than her stomach churning. What will he say? What will he do? He's going to kill me.. Do I have to tell him? Of course you have to tell him! What the hell am I going to do?
The door swung open. Robert, looking at her with bemused sympathy. Chiding her, teasing her. Thinking it was the flu.
The flu, sure, uh-huh. Let him think that, it'll buy you some time. His arms around her, trying to move her into the bedroom. His voice, that condescending, I'm-so-smart-now-just-sit-back-and-let-me-be-the-doctor tone. Another wave of nausea, and the words, pushed out against her will...
"Robert...I'm pregnant..."