Susan wandered back into the living room. It was all she could do to not pick up the phone, call 911. But if she went against Luka's wishes now, how could she expect him to trust her again? She knew, as much as she could know anything in the world right now, that Luka would need to be able to trust her; that he was facing something that she could never ask him to face alone. And she knew he didn't have anyone else. It had taken so long to get him to open up to her, even in the small ways he already had; to tentatively risk friendship after whatever horrors he had lived through.

She found a blanket and pillow in the linen cupboard, spread them on the sofa, but she knew she wouldn't sleep. She couldn't. She stood by Luka's bedroom door and listened to his breathing, his restless sleep, broken by frequent coughing fits that didn't seem to wake him. When she felt his forehead, he didn't seem to be any hotter, but PCP didn't necessarily cause really high fevers. The breathlessness; the dry cough that was so different from other types of pneumonia; those were what frightened her and, she knew, frightened him.

But how could she have missed it? Not just the cough, but the other symptoms that were so obvious in him now. True, she'd seen little of him the past few weeks. But still, she should have noticed something. He had lost weight. His face was visibly thinner, his shirt loose around the shoulders. And worse, the haunted expression that she remembered so clearly from those first weeks and months, that was back. The darkness, the fear behind the eyes.

"No ... no ... please ... stop ... oh God ..." then more in what she assumed was Croatian. Luka tossed restlessly on the bed, kicking off the covers. But it didn't look like delirium. What had Gillian had told her all those months ago? That Luka didn't like people watching him sleep? That he had nightmares?

Again, the urge to guard his trust; earn his trust. He was obviously breathing. She could safely leave the doorway, let him sleep for a while, dream his dreams in privacy.

She retreated to the couch, curled up in a ball under the afghan. Even from here she could hear his hoarse cries, though she couldn't make out the words. But that was good, as long as she could hear him, she would still know that he was breathing.

"Why are you doing this, Susan?" She asked, aloud. How many times are you going to get close to someone, only to lose them? 'Staying on the sofa of a dying friend,' Luka had said. She'd done it with Mark, and had lost him. She'd gotten so close to Susie, and had lost her, in every real sense. And all the patients she had chosen to connect with over the years.

She was good with people; her supervisors both here and in Arizona had noted that on her reviews time and again. She knew how to listen, how to connect with her patients, make them trust her. Some had said that she might do better in private practice, where she could establish long term relationships; where 'treat 'em and 'street 'em' wasn't the rule of the day. But, because she'd chosen the ER, and because, for whatever reason, true personal relationships seemed to have eluded her for so long, she chose, so often, to find her connection with patients in pain. And, perhaps that was what had drawn her to Luka on his return. He had been in pain. Physical pain and emotional pain. He needed someone. A friend, not a lover. He would not even consider being more than a friend. Had it been the fear of the HIV that had stopped him? His fear of infecting her, or the knowledge that he would have had to tell her?

But ... God ... could she do this again? Get close to someone, and then have to watch him die? Susan gave herself a shake. 'Don't get ahead of yourself,' she told herself firmly. 'We don't know anything yet. This could be something else. And if it is AIDS, people can live with AIDS for years ... decades.' ARV therapy had been a miracle in that regard. She just had to get him through the pneumonia.

And you can't be afraid ... afraid of getting hurt so you're afraid to love.

------

Susan woke suddenly. Where was she? A leather sofa? The room was very quiet.

Luka! Susan threw off the afghan and ran to the bedroom door, straining her ears as she ran ... to hear something. The covers were still on the floor where he had kicked them hours ago. He lay sprawled across the bed, face down, much too still, his clothes soaked with sweat. Susan couldn't see his face, but the color in his hands had gone from the dusky shade of the evening to a frank blue. "Sonovabitch...." Fear made the familiar cuss-word catch in her throat. No .... She sat down, and the movement of the bed seemed to trigger something, because Luka breathed, faint, hoarse ... but he was breathing. Had been all along, surely ... just too weakly for her to have heard until she got this close.

She turned him gently. His face was damp, the same bluish shade as his hands. Eyes half open, glassy. Pulse in his throat was rapid and thready. "Luka!" He seemed to be breathing a little better; lying on his back gave him a better airway. "Luka! Wake up!" She shook him, rubbed her fist into his chest. And his eyes flickered.