Disclaimer: I don't own any of 'em. . .

Author's notes: I had promised myself I wouldn't beg for reviews. . . False promise. Please, review !!!!!!

* * * * * * * *

There was a flash, and everything went dark. He felt a wave of heat pass through his body. "The grenade has sprung," he thought. "It hit me. I shouldn't be thinking this. I am dead." The last thought made his heart miss a beat, and he felt an emptiness in his stomach as if he had been going down a ladder and had missed the last step.

* * * *

He opened his eyes. There was a dim light coming through the half drawn curtains. He was in a hospital room. It was County. Luka took a deep breath, and then he was suddenly conscious of the cool towel on his forehead. He turned his head and spotted Carter.

"Another nightmare?"

Luka nodded and swallowed hard, fighting back the revolt in his stomach and the tightness in his throat.

"I tried to wake you up," Carter shook his head. "But you're a heavy sleeper. When you finally fall asleep, that is."

"I know. . . " Luka muttered. "What are you doing here?"

Carter smiled sheepishly.

"Want some water?" He asked in turn.

Luka knew he was avoiding his question but he decided to let it be for the moment.

"Yeah."

Water wouldn't dispel the sickness, but Luka knew he had to drink something if he eventually wanted to get rid of the IV. The catheter had been removed the day he had come to Chicago because it had been the source of another infection, and he had succeeded in convincing Carter and the other doctors he didn't need a Foley. Now he had beaten the infection with the help of antibiotics, and wasn't feverish any more, but there was something in the combination of painkillers he was being given that made him lightheaded and sick to his stomach. Although they had been trying different painkillers, he still hadn't been able to keep anything solid down for more than half an hour, and was therefore still hooked to the IV. Given the weight loss he had suffered in the Congo, he had been told, he wouldn't be discharged until he had eaten regularly for about four or five days, so he was still facing at least another week in the hospital.

Luka rubbed his eyes. It was ironic, but he hated hospitals. The times he had been confined in them had always been a miserable time of his life, an emptiness tightly bound by grief, loneliness, guilt and self reproach. And this time wasn't any different. Except for the loneliness. Luka had still to decide whether being a patient in his work place, with all the fuss of his bosses and colleagues, was better or worse than being left alone with his pains among strangers. The attention he had got from people that barely knew him and felt compelled to express to him their sympathy out of some twisted sense of obligation galled him. But he didn't know how to avoid it. He wasn't like Romano. He couldn't chase everybody out of his room with a bickering tongue. Luka had been raised with manners, and he had never been quick with words. Not even in his mother tongue. So he had forced out some smiles and some monosyllables, faked he was tired and depressed, and silently prayed they wouldn't stay for long and wouldn't come back.

He pressed the lever to move the bed so he could sit up while Carter went to the bathroom to fill the water jug. He grimaced a little when the weight of his upper body rested on his pelvis. It was still sore from the fracture and the three weeks he had spent lying on his back. Carter came in and handed him a glass, and Luka had a few sips.

"What time is it?" he asked when he finished.

"Quarter past two."

Luka sighed. He had slept for a couple of hours and he knew he would not get any more sleep that night. He put the glass on the nightstand. He pressed the lever again and lowered the bed a little.

"Not sleepy?"

"No," Luka knew where Carter was heading to, so he tried to divert the conversation. "How about you?"

Carter yawned.

"I finished my shift an hour ago."

"So how come you're not home?"

"I start again in six hours. There was really no point in going home. It would make me loose at least an hour's sleep, so I decided to crash here," said Carter pointing at the recliner by the window.

His lengthy explanation was not convincing and he knew he wouldn't fool Luka, but he tried to keep up appearances, anyway.

"That was a bad move." Luka's voice was very quiet. "Those chairs are really uncomfortable."

"Not as much as the couch in the doctor's lounge."

"In the lounge you would at least sleep your six hours straight," Luka had just uttered the words when he bit his lip. He had steered the conversation back to the issue he had been trying to avoid.

"What? With Frank screaming around? Are you kidding me?"

Luka gave a weary smile as Carter sat down on the recliner, put his legs up and laid back as he covered himself with the blanket. Luka sighed. He was lucky. Carter seemed not to have noticed he had just mentioned his lack of sleep. But just then, as he was starting to relax, Carter's quiet voice reached him.

"You really have to talk to someone about it, Luka. You can't keep going on like this."

"Like what?" Luka's voice was sharp, but Carter refused to give up.

"How much sleep have you had in the last three days? Six? Eight hours?"

"That's none of your business."

"It is."

"Since when?"

"Since I fell head over heels with you."

Luka chuckled, and Carter felt how part of the tension between them lessen. There was a brief silence.

"It's called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Carter," Luka's voice was weary.

"I know. And it's treatable."

"With what?"

"Therapy."

"I'm not talking to a shrink."

Carter shifted on the recliner, so he could face Luka. He could clearly see his profile in the dim light.

"I know you think it won't help. I. . . I didn't want to talk to anybody after what happened. . . After my stabbing, and Lucy's death. I thought it was something I'd have to deal with by myself. But I couldn't. And when I finally got therapy it did help, though I often felt silly during the group sessions," he finished his speech somewhat awkwardly.

Luka turned his head to look at Carter. He distinguished his form lying on the chair, but he couldn't see his features. And he didn't know if he wanted to. He felt compelled to answer to Carter's earnestness in kind, and it was so much easier to speak in the dark, where he knew his features wouldn't betray him.

"I know. . . " he replied, softly. "I have gone through the motions, Carter. But it doesn't. . . It doesn't work for me."

He paused. He heard how Carter drew his breath, and he decided to continue before Carter had the chance to talk.

"I've lived with it for over ten years. It's chronic."

Now it was his turn to draw his breath. He looked at the ceiling, in search of the strength he would require to say what came next. After he had quit therapy, over eight years ago, he had rarely talked about it.

"Usually. . . usually it's not this bad. I take. . . one day at a time. There are weeks. . . sometimes months when I don't have nightmares. Then I catch up on my sleep."

Luka's voice had grown very quiet. Carter decided not push any further. It was good enough to see Luka was still opening up to him. Carter had seen Luka interact with his other colleagues when they had visited earlier in the week, and he had finally understood that the Luka he'd known at County had been a kind of mask the real one held up for everybody so he could numb all the pain, all the feelings. He was so different from the nonchalant but also vulnerable man that had suddenly woken up in Brussels.

Carter had understood what Abby had been complaining about when she had been together with Luka, that he wouldn't allow her past a definite barrier, and was surprised that Luka had let him and Gillian cross the line. He also feared that the cool, detached Luka had been slowly killing the other one over the years and that this sudden resurfacing of the older one would be just a temporary thing, that would last as long as Luka was weak and off guard. The last few days Luka had been backing away both from Gillian and from him, retreating into a realm where his eyes would go blank, devoid of emotion. Carter knew better than trying to force him to go to a therapy session. What he needed was a friend he could trust. What he needed was to realize he could trust somebody.

"What was it about?" he risked the question.

"What?"

"Your nightmare."

"Uh. . . "

There was a brief silence, and Carter feared he had overstepped the limits.

"A landmine."

Luka's answer came when Carter was no longer expecting it. He shuddered. It sounded much worse than Paul Sobriki's repeated appearances in his own dreams.

"I've been dreaming about that gun barrel," he offered in turn. "I can't see it, but I can feel it against my forehead."

Luka cleared his throat.

"I'd rather not talk about it, Carter."

"Yeah. I know. I had to give it a try, anyway. . . " Carter offered as an apology. "Are you still sick?"

"Why?"

Carter sat on the recliner, drew the blanket to one side and bent down to put on his sneakers.

"Because I'm getting myself something to drink. I was wondering if you'd like something from the machine."

He heard Luka chuckle as he stood up.

"You won't get too much sleep this way."

Carter scratched the top of his head and shrugged.

"What can I say? I'm suddenly not sleepy anymore," he asserted, but he couldn't stifle a yawn.

"You're no poker player, Carter"

Luka's voice held a mild undertone of reproach.

"Uh huh. . . Will you have something?"

"Ginger ale."

Luka watched the door close as Carter went out of the room. He knew Carter's story about loosing one hour's sleep if he went home was nothing but a weak excuse to keep him company. Luka wasn't sure he liked having woken up and finding Carter had just overstepped the limits of his privacy, but he was too exhausted to get annoyed with him. Carter meant well, and he was not being awkward or too pressing. Luka was thankful for that. He'd barely survived some of his visitors from downstairs.

Kerry, for example. She'd jumped all over Carter the minute they arrived at County. Luka, who had been wanting to drop dead under the blaze of humiliation when he learnt he would be wheeled through the ER, had closed his eyes, pretending to be unconscious or asleep. He didn't want to see the doctors and nurses staring at him with the mixture of pity and fascination he knew so well. Still, when the doors slammed open, he felt their looks piercing his body. The clamorous ER had suddenly gone dead still.

He was more than relieved when he was wheeled into the elevator and upstairs. But Kerry got into the elevator with them, and started hectoring Carter for not having called Luka's family in Croatia. As the elevator slowly climbed up to the sixth floor, Luka felt how a wave of indignation washed over him. What did SHE know about his family anyway? Why was she so damn sure he'd have to be flown to Croatia instead? That it was -how had she put it now- the place where he BELONGED?

The drop that had overflowed the cup had been Kerry's scorn when she had asked Carter whether he'd become Luka's legal guardian so he could sign him into County. Luka's eyes had flown open then, and he had extended his hand towards the chart Kerry was holding.

"Give it to me, Kerry," he'd said, his accent thicker with irritation. "I'll sign myself in. And yes, I DO belong here."

He glared at her while the doors of the elevator opened, and Carter pushed the gurney past an unresponsive Kerry. Gillian gracefully snapped the chart from her hands and put it between Luka's. He signed it and then Carter deposited it on the nurse's station, while he and Gillian doubled over with laughter.

But Luka hadn't been free from Kerry's ministrations. That night, when the doctors had been finally done with probing and poking his body and discussing him as if he wasn't there, when Carter and Gillian had finally succumbed to jet lag and had at last admitted he could do without them for a few hours, when he finally was left alone with his thoughts, the door of his room had opened and admitted the new chief of staff.

Luka had been partly lying on his side, facing the window, held up by some pillows, but he clearly recognized the squeaking of the crutch against the linoleum floor.

"I thought one was supposed to knock," Luka couldn't help the crankiness in his voice.

"I didn't want to wake you," answered Kerry. "How are you, Luka?"

She was still standing behind him. Luka heard how she picked the chart that hung from the side of the bed. Rage surged up inside him.

"If you're going to violate my privacy why bother to ask me?" He snapped.

Kerry quickly put the chart back. She hadn't meant to pry into Luka's medical history. She had picked it up only as a reflex. She regretted it. She had come to apologize for her behavior earlier that day and now she had started the wrong way, having affronted Luka once again.

"I'm sorry. . . " She offered, going round the bed to face him. "I didn't mean to pry. How are you?"

Luka only let out a sharp, contemptuous breath in response. The lines of his face had hardened with weight loss and fatigue, and his expression was closed.

"How do I look?" He retorted.

"Exhausted, emaciated, feverish."

Kerry's straightforwardness caught him off guard, but the patronizing undertone in her voice only fueled his irritation.

"Then why not leave me alone?"

Kerry sighed, and looked down. This was going to be hard. She didn't want to upset Luka anymore, but she had to say what she had come to tell him.

"It'll only take a few minutes, Luka. I've got news for you."

She waited for him to say something, but he just stared at her. She continued:

"Given your state of health at the time, and Carter's refusal to fly you to Croatia, I contacted your family a week ago. We've been doing everything to get your father to Chicago. The American Embassy in Zagreb has issued him a visa and he's. . . "

"WHAT?" Luka's cry cut her dead. "Kerry, what did you TELL my father?"

"I informed him of the gravity of your condition."

"You didn't have any right to do that! Do you have the faintest. . . " Luka couldn't finish his sentence. He started coughing.

Kerry leant a hand on his shoulder.

"It was my duty, Luka. I had to notify. . . "

Luka shrugged Kerry's hand off his shoulder with a brusque gesture. Suddenly, coughing turned into retching and before he could master it he had stained the pillow. Kerry hurried into the bathroom and came out with a basin and a wet towel. She retrieved the pillow from under his head and put the basin on the bed. She cleaned his face as he heaved. He tried to shun her touch. He made some vain attempts to push her away, his anger and frustration mounting with his helplessness. Finally, he found the call button and pressed it.

"Go away, Kerry," he gasped when he regained some breath.

Kerry had noticed him calling the nurse, and understood only too well how he must be feeling, but she wouldn't leave him alone until there was somebody there to aid him.

"Luka, you really. . . " she protested.

"OUT!" he cried.

The nurse arrived.

"Do you need anything, Dr. Weaver?"

Jesus. Didn't she notice he actually EXISTED?

"Dr. Kovac needs some assistance here," answered Kerry as if she had read his thoughts.

That only got him angrier. He stared fixedly at her in impotent wrath before he doubled over in another heaving bout. The nurse got another wet towel and applied it to his neck while she held his head over the basin. When the bout was finally over and he lay back on the mattress, Kerry was gone.

"They prescribed you some Compazine, Dr. Kovac. Will you have it?"

He nodded, too exhausted to talk.

"I'll be right back."

He stared out of the window, as he felt a hollowness open up in the pit of his stomach. Tata had to be sick with worry. Luka had to call him right away, to clear things up. . . But he couldn't make a long distance call from the room and only God knew where his cell phone was. . . When would Carter and Gillian come to the hospital? At about nine or ten? He couldn't wait that long to talk to Tata. Would there be someone from the ER to lend him a cell phone for a while? But whom? He hadn't been on very good terms with his colleagues before he traveled to the Congo, and he really didn't want to ask any favor from any of them. . . He took a deep breath and held it when he realized he was starting to feel sick again.

The nurse came back with another pillow which she stuffed underneath his head and a glass of water to rinse his mouth. Luka went through the motions docilely and watched as she injected the Compazine in the IV port. He wished it had been a sedative instead. He wouldn't be able to get any sleep that night.

Whom could he ask for a cell phone? Maybe Gallant or Susan. . . or Abby, if they were on shift. He'd call down to the ER to find out. What was the extension of the ER, now? He rolled his head to catch a look at the phone on the side table. It was just out of his reach. Then he heard the nurse clear her throat.

"Dr. Kovac. . . "

"Yes?"

"Dr. Weaver left this in the nurse's station for you. She said that if you wanted to make a call you could just. . . Well, you could just use it as long as you wanted."

She left the cell phone in Luka's hand. Luka stared at it. His first impulse was to throw it against the wall but he realized, humiliated, that he'd have to accept Kerry's offer. He let the phone on the mattress, beside him.

"Can I get you anything else? Another blanket?"

"No, thank you," he whispered, defeated.

He waited until she closed the door behind her. Then he picked up Kerry's cell phone and started dialing the long number he had long ago committed to memory.

When he heard the raspy sound of his father's voice on the other side of the line, he remembered what time it was in Croatia.

"Tata?"

His mother tongue came back to him as a blessing, but still the only thing he could blurt out was: "Did I wake you?"

* * * *

"Luka? Aren't you thirsty?"

Luka found himself holding a cold can between his hands, and facing Carter's worried eyes.

"Huh?"

"Do you want me to open it for you?"

"No. . . "

Luka lifted the tap carefully and heard the familiar fizz. He had a few sips, trying to ignore Carter's concerned stare.

"Where were you?"

"Huh?"

"When I came in. You were miles away."

Luka smiled. It was somehow refreshing Carter managed to keep a light mood even when voicing his worries.

"Thinking about my father."

Carter nodded.

"What time does his plane land?"

"Three p.m." Luka sighed, and stated what they both knew: "Gillian's picking him up."

"He's coming straight to the hospital, isn't he?"

"I'd hope he wasn't."

Carter's forehead creased in incomprehension.

"He's taller than me," Luka explained. "And he's not exactly young any more. He'll be drained when he gets here. . . "

Carter nodded. He would be finishing his shift by three. He considered whether he should stay at the hospital to act as a barrier between Kerry and Luka's father, or between Kerry and Luka, for that matter.

Kerry had taken to heart the task of bringing Luka's father to the States, and that had infuriated Luka beyond endurance. He didn't want his father to see him like that, he'd said. His father had gone through enough during the war. He didn't need any more pain, and he wouldn't be able to get enough time off work to see him fully recovered. At Kerry's suggestion that Luka should consider traveling to Croatia when he had got better, he'd only snorted his disdain.

Carter wasn't sure he understood. He had the intense feeling Luka missed his homeland, but he didn't have any clue so as to how often had he been back in Croatia after he had emigrated. Returning wasn't an easy task for Luka, not even for a short stay, Carter guessed, but he had abstained from asking. He had the strong feeling he would be walking on very thin ice if he ventured on the subject.

"Do you think it'll be a good idea for me to come to greet your father when he arrives?"

Carter's question was wary, almost bashful. It made Luka smile.

"I don't know. . . There'll be a lot of people up here at the time."

"What, Weaver's throwing a block party and you're hiding it from me?"

Luka huffed.

"It's more like. . . How do you call it? An execution squad?"

"A FIRING squad. But you can't believe she took all the pains to bring your father all the way to America to shoot him down the first day he sets his foot in County, do you?"

"The reception committee is Weaver, Romano and Anspaugh."

"Gee. . . I'll try to get a bulletproof vest for your dad."

Luka chuckled, but then the look on his eyes darkened.

"She's even hired a translator," he said bitterly.

"Ah. . . Don't tell me she doesn't trust you anymore. . . "

Luka looked away.

"Was that the reason for your argument earlier today?"

"You heard about it?"

"Luka, I HEARD IT. Your voice was so loud it was coming all the way down to the ER," Carter overstated. He wanted to keep the conversation on the light side. "Romano's scared to death. You're clouding his reputation."

He only got a weak smile as an answer.

"I'd rather not talk about it, Carter," Luka's voice was but a defeated whisper. His eyes trailed off.

He had a few sips from his can and then left it on the nightstand. Carter understood. He sat on the recliner.

"Well, if you want somebody to contribute to the mess. . . "

There was no answer for a while.

"You'll be as drained as my father," Luka sighed. "It'll be better if you head home."

Carter nodded, and lay down. He had a few sips from his Coke. They shared a companionable silence for a while, until Luka broke it again.

"But thank you. . . "

Carter smiled in the dark.