Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Author's notes: This one's a little bit short and it took me long to set it up. . . BUT chapter 8 is already coming up at the end of this week!

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"Good morning, Dr. Kovac. Did you sleep well?"

Without waiting for an answer, the nurse crossed the room at a brisk pace and opened up the curtains with an energetic movement. Luka blinked in the sunlight as he considered whether her question was worth a reply. He decided against it, as he saw the artificial smile pasted to her face when she approached the bed and checked the levels of saline solution in his IV bag.

"It's a fine morning, isn't it?" She continued, as she picked up the chart to have a look at the instructions on it.

Jesus. She hadn't even stopped to have a real look at him, hadn't even asked if he wanted the curtains open or not. Luka just gave her the briefest nod, which was lost on her. She was now checking the water jug.

"Would you like me to fill this up?"

"Okay," he sighed, and off she trotted to the bathroom.

Luka closed his eyes for a second, wishing he could catch up with the dream he'd been into. He couldn't remember what it had been about, but he knew it hadn't been a nightmare. And good dreams were so rare these days. . .

"Would you like to have some water?"

The damned nurse seemed determined to pull him out of sleep. Hadn't she just read that he had been having trouble sleeping? Luka was about to retort in some brusque way, but still his good manners got the upper hand. He was about to nod his consent when she continued.

"You know, you have to have something to drink, otherwise."

Well, THAT was too much.

"I KNOW. I was also supposed to get some sleep. I'm sorry if it gets in the way of your rounds, but I think the question here is about what's in the best interest of the patient."

She blushed, but wasn't particularly affected by his retort.

"Well, Dr. Kovac, it is already eight-thirty."

"And what's the problem with me having some sleep at eight thirty in the morning? It's not like I'm having to get up to work, anyway."

"No, but you're supposed to get some REGULAR hours of sleep. You have to get back to some kind of normal schedule."

By the Virgin! Before he could hold them back, Luka gave out some very colourful four letter words. Fortunately, she couldn't understand them, though their nature was clear enough. She dismissed them as if they had been a mere trifle.

"I'll leave the glass here for you," she said, and before he had the time to reply she added, retreating from the room: "Your RN will be here shortly to clean your pin sites."

Luka took the glass and was about to throw it against the closed door when he thought better of it. He'd only get another visit from Dr. Meyers, and if there was anything that galled him even more than unwanted visits from downstairs, it was the prospect of having mandatory therapy again. And Kerry was not very far from ordering it, he knew. He hoped that the two visits he'd already got from psychotherapy hadn't been her idea.

Carter had been unfortunate enough to drop by immediately after Dr. Meyers's second visit, and had been forced to listen to a piece of Luka's mind about bosses, psychiatrists and private life. Carter had tried to reason with him, had reminded him of something Luka already knew: that given the traumatic nature of his injuries and his prolonged stay at the hospital, it was part of the routine to get a couple of psychiatric consults. He just had to take things easy. But Luka wasn't in the mood to listen to any kind of sensible advice. He'd told Carter exactly what he thought of his suggestions.

That had been the only time Luka had seen Carter close to losing his temper with him since they had come back to Chicago. But hell, he didn't care. What did the rich American want with him, anyway? Why did he put up with Romano, Kerry, with the insurance companies for his sake? Why did he keep coming up to his room? Had he seen him as some kind of exotic charity?

Tata had been coming down the corridor when Carter had stormed out of Luka's room.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing, Tata."

A brief silence followed. Tata came close to the window and looked over the Chicago skyline.

"You cannot afford to drive him away, Luka."

"WHAT?"

"You heard me."

Tata's voice was very quiet, very calm.

"I don't need his money. I don't want his money."

"Was I talking about money?"

"Then about what?"

Tata sighed, and Luka knew he was being utterly foolish, but he wasn't going to yield. The only thing he needed right now was Tata siding up with Carter's twisted sense of benevolence.

"Misla, Boric, Milan."

The small list of Tata's living friends touched Luka deeply.

"I was thinking about Gordana, and Tomo, and Stipe," Tata continued.

Luka shuddered at the sound of the names of his own friends from Medical School. He swallowed. It took him some time to get his voice back.

"He's not offering friendship. He's giving out alms."

"Are you so sure about that."

"What do YOU know?"

Tata shrugged.

"This is not about what I know. It's about what YOU think."

Tata turned around and Luka felt he hated himself when he saw the curiosity and concern in Tata's gaze. He must have become a stunted sod if he elicited such looks from his own father.

Then Tata handed him something he had in his hand. Luka recognized the dark green cover straightaway. The knot in his throat got tighter, and tears stung his eyes. He took the book, but didn't have the courage, or the strength, to open it.

"I can bring you another one if you don't want to reread it," said Tata, perhaps too hurriedly, when he noticed Luka's agitation.

Luka wiped his eyes with a hand.

"Another one?"

Tata smiled.

"I tried to remember which were your favourites. Milan also sent you some books. One is a novel by a Czech. I can't remember his name. And he also sent a couple of books of poetry. I told him you are no poetry reader, but he said Zhivago deserved at least to own some poetry in his own language."

Luka chuckled half-heartedly. That was typical of Milan, the bookworm, Tata's oldest friend. When Luka had been a teenager, one of Milan's favourite pastimes had been to drop by the house and ask Luka what he was currently reading. He would listen carefully to Luka's opinions. He never said what he thought about the books himself, but sometimes he would come by with one book or another and leave them on the couch or on the kitchen table, or wherever he had happened to stop. Neither Stjepan nor Tata touched them. Luka would find them one or two days later, and he didn't need to ask to whom they belonged. The smell of tobacco and the yellowish nicotine stains were Milan's characteristic trade marks. And the book had always something to do with whatever Luka had found interesting in some other book.

That evening, contrary to what Luka had expected, Carter had dropped by his room. Their conversation had been halting and strained, but Luka had managed to make his excuses. Carter had accepted them somewhat awkwardly. Then he had spotted the book on the nightstand. He picked it up, opened it, and frowned. He had a look at the front cover and his face lightened.

"Doctor Zhivago?" He asked.

Luka nodded.

"Gee, I read this a long time ago. In college."

"So did I. Well, in Medical School."

"Really?"

Luka nodded, and then he saw the chance to really apologise.

"There's this friend of my father that used to lend me books. He used to call me Zhivago and teased Danijela by telling her I'd find my Lara someday and then she'd get in deep trouble." Luka made a pause. "He gave us that book as a wedding present."

Carter regarded the book pensively. He didn't know what to say. He had been left speechless by Luka spontaneously sharing a memory from the past.

"I thought you had lost everything." He ventured and regretted it instantly when he saw Luka's expression.

"Not the books. We didn't have space for them in the apartment in Vukovar, and Jasna and Marko found them particularly attractive. You should see what a toddler armed with a pen can do to a book."

Luka's chuckle was not completely wholehearted, but it wasn't totally doleful, either. Carter nodded in understanding. He didn't know what else to do.

"So we left them in my father's house."

"But you didn't bring them with you," Carter wasn't sure he understood.

Luka just shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it. And yet he wanted to talk about it. It had been a piece of himself he'd lost after Vukovar. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad to try to recover it again. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad to recognize the resentment he had harboured against literature all these years.

"They survived. Danijela and the children didn't."

Luka's voice had become very quiet. His words contained a kind of truth which Carter suddenly found unbearable. He sat down on the recliner and silently weighed the book in his hand. The atmosphere became thick and oppressive. And then Carter opened the book and started reading aloud. He had only read a sentence and a half and Luka was already contorting with laughter. Carter looked up.

"Don't tell me you don't like my reading."

It took Luka a couple of minutes to regain his breath. Carter considered tossing the book at him and asking him to read out loud to hear how it should sound, but decided it wouldn't be a good idea. Instead, he continued in a light voice:

"It's supposed to be part of your healing process, you know, having somebody read to you."

He picked up another passage and started again, declaiming the words with energy. Soon, Luka was begging for mercy, and Carter agreed to stop butchering Croatian. When Luka had finally wiped the tears from his cheeks, Carter allowed himself to think out loud.

"So we ended up having some things in common, anyway."

"Sorry?"

"Fencing. Shakespeare. Dr. Zhivago."

"Abby?"

Carter's sharp look made Luka regret it. It had been a low joke. He knew things hadn't been precisely smooth for Carter and Abby, but he hoped it would by then be clear that he held only good feelings when it came to them as a couple. Well, Abby knew it already. Carter wasn't very sure about it, or so it seemed. He cursed himself for being so clumsy. And then Carter flashed a smile.

"Forget it. She's back into medical school. She's out of your league, Zhivago."

"Okay, okay," agreed Luka, relieved. He wasn't even bothered by Carter using the nickname on him, the one only Milan had been allowed to use, and just because Luka had never been able to make him stop. "Fencing, Shakespeare and Dr. Zhivago."

It suddenly struck him that Carter and he had so many cultural references in common, despite the differences in the places and the ways they had been brought up.

"Talking about fencing, you still owe me a match."

"Huh?"

"The sexual harassment seminar?" Carter reminded him. "Two out of three. We never got to the third."

Luka's face lit up in remembrance.

"But this time I'm going to get a helmet. I won't risk my eyes again."

"Hey, you touched me first."

"On the side."

"It hurt like hell."

Carter's recriminatory look made him give up.

"All right, all right, then. With helmets," Luka acquiesced. "How about tomorrow?"

Luka's tone of voice was so businesslike it made Carter look up to check if he was being serious. Now it was time for Luka to flash up a smile. He still marvelled at the kinds of things he could get Americans to take in earnest if he just attuned his voice to the right volume and speed.

"Ha! Weaver would immediately confine us if she found us fencing here," exclaimed Carter suddenly, and then feared he'd touched a tender spot.

But Luka just gave him a naughty smile.

"Don't you think she'd join in?"

"What?"

"Well, I've seen her use her crutch."

Carter frowned and raised an admonishing finger.

"That's not politically correct."

Luka rolled his eyes and said something out loud.

"That didn't sound politically correct either," remarked Carter.

Luka smiled in the morning light remembering Carter's words, and then he started to loose track of his thoughts as he drifted into sleep once again. He had dozed off for a short while when he heard a low noise. He spotted a shadow standing by the threshold. He strained to focus as he tried to work out whether he was still sleeping. He wished he was. Then he could welcome her without doubts, without fearing he'd hurt her if he let her close, without having to make an effort to be cool and distant.

"Gillian?" He muttered.

"No, Luka. It's Abby," said the shadow, coming closer.

Luka squinted and then he recognised her features. He cleared his throat and reached for the lever. He raised the bed and propped up to a sitting position, trying to hide his disappointment.

Abby was touched by the helplessness and longing in his voice. So much could be said in a single word. She forced out a smile as she came close to the bed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

He shook his head.

"Never mind. The nurse was going to do it anyway. It's better it was you," he tried to smile.

"I brought you some breakfast."

She put a paper bag on the side table and rolled it closer. He grinned as he recognised the name of his favourite pastry shop.

"Of course, it's a banana muffin. No, I'm kidding. It's a chocolate chip one."

Luka's grin widened. She still remembered. A long time ago he had told her about himself and banana muffins. When he had just arrived in America and still spoke very little English, he used to go to a pastry shop near his first working place. The first time, he had stood for a long time in front of the counter, practising the sentence one of his colleagues had taught him.

"Good morning, I'd like a muffin, please," he said with a smile when he realised the girl behind the counter had begun to stare at him.

"What kind?" She asked. That caught him by surprise.

"Plain? Cheese? Banana? Chocolate chip?" She listed.

Luka repeated the only word he had recognised in the list.

"Banana, please."

He got his muffin, paid for it, and walked out of the shop. The next few weeks he ended up having banana muffins for breakfast every day. A blend of shyness and distractedness prevented him from finding out the words for any other flavour. When he finally became sick of them it took him about half an hour to convince the girl in the shop that he actually WASN'T a big banana muffin fan.

Abby was pleased to see his smile, and was even more pleased when he reached out for the bag eagerly.

"Would you like something along with it?"

"An espresso," he stated while he broke a small piece of muffin and ate it.

"Decaf?"

Luka wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"You know, Luka."

"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted gruffly. "I know. No caffeine."

"I can get you some tea instead," she offered.

He shook his head.

"Decaf is fine."

"All right. I'll be right back."

She hurried out of the room and down the hall towards the coffee machine wondering at the speed in with which a light hearted conversation could turn into a quarrel with Luka. Well, she shouldn't be surprised, anyway. He was going through a tough ordeal, and it wasn't like he'd been doing very well before he travelled to the Congo. Back then, Abby had already got used to the fact that she would have to deal with brusque mood swings, rough jokes and even verbal innuendo when talking to him, and yet she hadn't given up on him, like all the others. Not completely, anyway. Why was it so hard to be there for him now, then?

When she came back he had almost finished the muffin. It was good to see he had regained his appetite. Just a couple of days earlier Carter had been really worried about Luka's prolonged inability to hold anything down. She handed him the Styrofoam cup and sat on the recliner. She took a sip of tea. She had thought about having some coffee herself but that would have been like eating in front of a famished child. She watched him eat the last bite of muffin and sip the decaf espresso. He winced.

"Ewwww."

"I'll bring a cup from Starbucks tomorrow," she hurried to promise.

He didn't answer straightaway. Instead, he looked into her eyes. She sustained his look and tried not to paste a smile on her face, for she knew he'd spot the artificiality in it and it would only enrage him. But it was hard not to blush under his stare while trying not to let him see the pity in her eyes.

"Thank you, Abby," he said, very softly.

Abby looked down into her cup, unable to sustain his unguarded look any longer. This was too much. She could cope with his brusqueness and invective, but not with this vulnerability. Then she recalled something.

"I can't bring you coffee. You won't be having any breakfast tomorrow."

"What?"

Luka stared at her, puzzled. Abby was shocked. Had he forgotten he was getting off the contrivance on his pelvis?

"The external fixator? Surgery? Tomorrow morning?"

"Ah. . . yeah. That's right."

She tried a bit of teasing to hide her consternation.

"Gee, Luka, I didn't know you had grown so attached to it."

He breathed out a sharp smile.

"I'm looking forward to getting rid of it. I'd love to get out of hospital gowns and into a pair of pants."

Abby was shocked again. The frame on his leg would still remain. The fractures on his hip and left leg had been so complicated and were healing so slowly that doctors were still pondering whether Luka should have another round of orthopaedic surgery. Was he so out of it that he had forgotten about that too?

Luka watched her as an appalled expression surfaced in her face. He felt a cold touch, like a phantom's hand, deep inside. Had he said something wrong? Was he losing hold on reality again?

"But you'll still have the frame on. . . you know. . . " She stuttered while she gestured along her own left leg.

Luka breathed in relief. She thought he'd forgotten about that.

"Come on, Abby. There's something called extra large clothing," he complained.

It took her a while to figure that one out. But then she smiled.

"Well, in your case the pants should be extra, extra, extra large. . . "