[Authors note. This was actually the first ER fic I ever wrote. (Not the first fan fic I ever wrote. Those date from sometime back in the Jurassic era, chiseled on stone tablets with dinosaur teeth.) It is, in many ways, an earlier version of the story I have written differently, and in far more detail, in my current fic[s], "Darkness" and "Into the Light."
The most obvious difference is that this version follows "The Lost" as TPTB actually wrote and aired it. (With just a few minimal expansions on my part.) I got frustrated with what the writers were doing with Luka's character after he returned to Chicago, so I wrote what I thought they should be doing. He'd experienced something pretty traumatic, right? (Not as bad as what I did to him, but horrible nonetheless.) He didn't even seem to care.
The other obvious difference is that it's much shorter than my later fics. Just two chapters. I hadn't yet realized that I was capable of writing novels.]
[I still don't own ER. I still don't own the characters of Luka Kovac or Abby Lockhart. I do still own the words on your screen and you need my permission before you do anything but read them or print them out for your own enjoyment.]
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He sat straight up in bed. Shaking. Drenched in sweat. Mouth like sand. Voices rang and echoed in his ears; a confusion of screams, pleas for help and barked commands. Voices that mostly spoke French, but sometimes his own voice; hoarse and weak -- dying -- speaking Croatian.
Malaria again? No. If only it were so simple. Malaria was relatively easy to treat. There seemed to be no cure for this. Luka gave himself a conscious shake (like using the paddles to cardiovert v-tach, he thought), to stop his shivering, and shake off the nightmare. Another night, another nightmare. Or rather, the same nightmare, over and over again.
Luka wiped his damp face on the sheet, already clammy with his sweat, and lay back on the pillow. For a few minutes he tried to relax, staring into the darkness of his bedroom and listening to the sleety rain against the window. This was Chicago, not the Congo. They were only dreams now, only memories. Still, with so much good to remember from his time in Africa, why did only the horrors have to invade his dreams, take over his life? Why couldn't he dream about smiling, grateful patients? About working miracles with little more than his two hands and his wits? Even about Gillian? Why did he have to dream about this? Luka shuddered, then sighed and got out of bed. The clock said 2:10, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again.
The first few nights he had managed to fall back to sleep, only to return to the same horrific dreams. The next night he'd just lain awake, staring at nothing until the alarm had told him it was time to get up for work. The next three he'd given up trying to stay in bed and had spent the night in the kitchen, downing endless cups of coffee. And last night had found him in his car at 1:45 a.m., losing himself in the dark streets; trying, without success, to escape.
Luka turned on the shower and stood under the strong hot spray, letting it pound on the back of his neck and ease away some of the fatigue and tension. When the hot water was gone, he dressed and went out into the chilly night. A few minutes after 3 he stepped briskly through the doors into the bright and busy ER. Randi looked up in surprise.
"Dr. Kovac! I didn't think you were on until 7."
"I wasn't. But I'm here. And from the look of triage and the board, you can use me."
Luka found his escape, and a new pattern for his days and nights. Work, to the exclusion of all else. At the end of each shift (and he was always willing to stay late if needed, as long as he could keep his eyes open), he would stumble home, exhausted, and fall into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. Sometimes he managed as much as 4 or 5 hours, more often only 2 or 3 were all that were granted him before the nightmares returned. He'd conditioned himself to waken as soon as they began now, like a mother waking to her baby's cries -- so he no longer had to deal with the dreams themselves -- the pain, the screams, the faces, the helplessness. The hopelessness. In their place, of course, was the numbing exhaustion of trying live with caffeine, long hot showers and relentless work taking the place of sleep. But he could manage. He was managing. One day at a time. It would stop. It had to stop.
Luka knew that his co-workers were looking at him, whispering about him. And often, more and more often as the days and nights passed, came the friendly, concerned comments. "Are you o.k., Luka?" and "Pulling another double, Dr. Kovac?" To which, he always replied, with his practiced, easy smile, "I'm fine. Just a little tired." If only they knew how hard that easy smile was becoming.
He was in the drug lock-up, getting meds for a patient, when suddenly he really saw for the first time, the vast array of pills. God ... why hadn't he thought of it before? (He must be tired....) Just a few sleeping pills, surely they'd help him sleep soundly and well, without dreams. A few nights of good sleep were all he needed to get his feet back under him.
The next thought came to him out of nowhere, catching him by surprise.
Or maybe more than just a few sleeping pills -- to end the nightmares for good.
Luka almost laughed out loud at the absurdity, then closed his eyes, trembling, as he realized that the idea felt comfortable. Right. Sleep for a night. Sleep forever. What would be the difference?
For several minutes Luka stood leaning against the wall, trying to think. He knew that his thoughts should be frightening him, but they weren't. Nothing had ever felt so right. Finally he took a deep breath. "Ok, Luka," he told himself. "Let's not rush into anything here. But we can leave our options open, right? That's the smart thing to do." After taking a quick look around, he poured a handful of Seconols into his fist, and dropped them into his pocket. Another deep breath, and he returned to his task of getting meds for his patient.
A moment later a familiar, harsh voice startled him, making him jump.
"Luka!" Kerry was standing in the doorway. "116 hours?"
"What?"
"Accounting says you clocked 116 hours last week; 94 the week before. I'd agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to 72 hours, not 100 plus."
"I need the money, I have the time, you're still short on attendings, and we have plenty of patients who need care. What's the problem?"
"The problem is that you can't possibly keep this up. You're going to kill yourself!"
"I'm fine, Kerry. Really. Just a little tired."
"You don't look fine." Kerry's eyes narrowed as she gave him an appraising once-over. "You looked in the mirror lately, Kovac? You looked better the day you rolled in here on a gurney. In fact, if you want the honest truth..."
"Actually no, I don't particularly," interrupted Luka briskly. "Patients don't come in here for my looks. The come in because they're sick. Have I killed any patients?" (He bit off the word 'yet' before it slipped out.)
"No," Kerry admitted.
"The other doctors or nurses been complaining about my work?"
"No more than usual."
"Then there's no problem. Let me be the judge of how much work I can handle. If you can't afford to pay me for the whole 116 hours, I'll take the 72 and we'll call it fair."
"The money isn't the issue," Kerry said, then her voice softened. "Just do me a favor, Luka."
"What?"
"You haven't had a day off in weeks. Things are pretty slow today. Susan is on and I can come down if things get hairy. Finish your current patients or sign them off to Susan. Go home and get some sleep. You can come back tomorrow morning." Kerry smiled. "And that means 7, not 2 or 3!"
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Luka let himself into his apartment. How long had it been since he'd seen it by daylight? He'd barely answered Kerry, just nodded his agreement. Today, he could leave early. Then he'd hardly spoken to either Susan or Jerry before leaving. Talking would have meant thinking, and he didn't want to think yet. Not until he was safely out the door. Then, he'd spent several hours driving around town again, and out into the countryside -- just thinking.
Rummaging in the cupboard he found a bottle of wine. A Cabernet. Decent vintage even. Gillian had bought it, but they'd never gotten around to drinking it. He drained the first two glasses quickly, then sat down to slowly savor the third, enjoying the taste, the warmth of the alcohol seeping through him, the way it calmed him, replacing his constant aching fatigue with a more pleasant drowsiness.
Pouring a fourth glass, he carried it into the bedroom and set it on the bedside table. From his pocket came the handful of capsules, which he set carefully beside the glass. And, for a very long time, he just looked at them.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The most obvious difference is that this version follows "The Lost" as TPTB actually wrote and aired it. (With just a few minimal expansions on my part.) I got frustrated with what the writers were doing with Luka's character after he returned to Chicago, so I wrote what I thought they should be doing. He'd experienced something pretty traumatic, right? (Not as bad as what I did to him, but horrible nonetheless.) He didn't even seem to care.
The other obvious difference is that it's much shorter than my later fics. Just two chapters. I hadn't yet realized that I was capable of writing novels.]
[I still don't own ER. I still don't own the characters of Luka Kovac or Abby Lockhart. I do still own the words on your screen and you need my permission before you do anything but read them or print them out for your own enjoyment.]
--------------------
He sat straight up in bed. Shaking. Drenched in sweat. Mouth like sand. Voices rang and echoed in his ears; a confusion of screams, pleas for help and barked commands. Voices that mostly spoke French, but sometimes his own voice; hoarse and weak -- dying -- speaking Croatian.
Malaria again? No. If only it were so simple. Malaria was relatively easy to treat. There seemed to be no cure for this. Luka gave himself a conscious shake (like using the paddles to cardiovert v-tach, he thought), to stop his shivering, and shake off the nightmare. Another night, another nightmare. Or rather, the same nightmare, over and over again.
Luka wiped his damp face on the sheet, already clammy with his sweat, and lay back on the pillow. For a few minutes he tried to relax, staring into the darkness of his bedroom and listening to the sleety rain against the window. This was Chicago, not the Congo. They were only dreams now, only memories. Still, with so much good to remember from his time in Africa, why did only the horrors have to invade his dreams, take over his life? Why couldn't he dream about smiling, grateful patients? About working miracles with little more than his two hands and his wits? Even about Gillian? Why did he have to dream about this? Luka shuddered, then sighed and got out of bed. The clock said 2:10, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again.
The first few nights he had managed to fall back to sleep, only to return to the same horrific dreams. The next night he'd just lain awake, staring at nothing until the alarm had told him it was time to get up for work. The next three he'd given up trying to stay in bed and had spent the night in the kitchen, downing endless cups of coffee. And last night had found him in his car at 1:45 a.m., losing himself in the dark streets; trying, without success, to escape.
Luka turned on the shower and stood under the strong hot spray, letting it pound on the back of his neck and ease away some of the fatigue and tension. When the hot water was gone, he dressed and went out into the chilly night. A few minutes after 3 he stepped briskly through the doors into the bright and busy ER. Randi looked up in surprise.
"Dr. Kovac! I didn't think you were on until 7."
"I wasn't. But I'm here. And from the look of triage and the board, you can use me."
Luka found his escape, and a new pattern for his days and nights. Work, to the exclusion of all else. At the end of each shift (and he was always willing to stay late if needed, as long as he could keep his eyes open), he would stumble home, exhausted, and fall into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. Sometimes he managed as much as 4 or 5 hours, more often only 2 or 3 were all that were granted him before the nightmares returned. He'd conditioned himself to waken as soon as they began now, like a mother waking to her baby's cries -- so he no longer had to deal with the dreams themselves -- the pain, the screams, the faces, the helplessness. The hopelessness. In their place, of course, was the numbing exhaustion of trying live with caffeine, long hot showers and relentless work taking the place of sleep. But he could manage. He was managing. One day at a time. It would stop. It had to stop.
Luka knew that his co-workers were looking at him, whispering about him. And often, more and more often as the days and nights passed, came the friendly, concerned comments. "Are you o.k., Luka?" and "Pulling another double, Dr. Kovac?" To which, he always replied, with his practiced, easy smile, "I'm fine. Just a little tired." If only they knew how hard that easy smile was becoming.
He was in the drug lock-up, getting meds for a patient, when suddenly he really saw for the first time, the vast array of pills. God ... why hadn't he thought of it before? (He must be tired....) Just a few sleeping pills, surely they'd help him sleep soundly and well, without dreams. A few nights of good sleep were all he needed to get his feet back under him.
The next thought came to him out of nowhere, catching him by surprise.
Or maybe more than just a few sleeping pills -- to end the nightmares for good.
Luka almost laughed out loud at the absurdity, then closed his eyes, trembling, as he realized that the idea felt comfortable. Right. Sleep for a night. Sleep forever. What would be the difference?
For several minutes Luka stood leaning against the wall, trying to think. He knew that his thoughts should be frightening him, but they weren't. Nothing had ever felt so right. Finally he took a deep breath. "Ok, Luka," he told himself. "Let's not rush into anything here. But we can leave our options open, right? That's the smart thing to do." After taking a quick look around, he poured a handful of Seconols into his fist, and dropped them into his pocket. Another deep breath, and he returned to his task of getting meds for his patient.
A moment later a familiar, harsh voice startled him, making him jump.
"Luka!" Kerry was standing in the doorway. "116 hours?"
"What?"
"Accounting says you clocked 116 hours last week; 94 the week before. I'd agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to 72 hours, not 100 plus."
"I need the money, I have the time, you're still short on attendings, and we have plenty of patients who need care. What's the problem?"
"The problem is that you can't possibly keep this up. You're going to kill yourself!"
"I'm fine, Kerry. Really. Just a little tired."
"You don't look fine." Kerry's eyes narrowed as she gave him an appraising once-over. "You looked in the mirror lately, Kovac? You looked better the day you rolled in here on a gurney. In fact, if you want the honest truth..."
"Actually no, I don't particularly," interrupted Luka briskly. "Patients don't come in here for my looks. The come in because they're sick. Have I killed any patients?" (He bit off the word 'yet' before it slipped out.)
"No," Kerry admitted.
"The other doctors or nurses been complaining about my work?"
"No more than usual."
"Then there's no problem. Let me be the judge of how much work I can handle. If you can't afford to pay me for the whole 116 hours, I'll take the 72 and we'll call it fair."
"The money isn't the issue," Kerry said, then her voice softened. "Just do me a favor, Luka."
"What?"
"You haven't had a day off in weeks. Things are pretty slow today. Susan is on and I can come down if things get hairy. Finish your current patients or sign them off to Susan. Go home and get some sleep. You can come back tomorrow morning." Kerry smiled. "And that means 7, not 2 or 3!"
-------------
Luka let himself into his apartment. How long had it been since he'd seen it by daylight? He'd barely answered Kerry, just nodded his agreement. Today, he could leave early. Then he'd hardly spoken to either Susan or Jerry before leaving. Talking would have meant thinking, and he didn't want to think yet. Not until he was safely out the door. Then, he'd spent several hours driving around town again, and out into the countryside -- just thinking.
Rummaging in the cupboard he found a bottle of wine. A Cabernet. Decent vintage even. Gillian had bought it, but they'd never gotten around to drinking it. He drained the first two glasses quickly, then sat down to slowly savor the third, enjoying the taste, the warmth of the alcohol seeping through him, the way it calmed him, replacing his constant aching fatigue with a more pleasant drowsiness.
Pouring a fourth glass, he carried it into the bedroom and set it on the bedside table. From his pocket came the handful of capsules, which he set carefully beside the glass. And, for a very long time, he just looked at them.
TO BE CONTINUED...
