Title: Hotter Than July
Rating: PG-13, but R later on...
Disclaimer: The ER characters do not belong to me, neither do any products, song lyrics or literary quotations mentioned.
Summary: Warm weather, flirtation and a few lessons to be learned. Luby. Sort of AU, sort of not.
Spoilers: Some season 9 and maybe early 10 I guess.
Reviews: Thankyou, and yes, keep 'em coming!!
Author's note: The book and play referenced in this section are The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and La Casa De Bernada Alba (The House Of Bernada Alba) by Federico García Lorca, but you need not read them, they are just tools to communicate ideas. I also have a strange feeling that I have unconsciously plagiarised a Romano quote from season 6. So sorry!!
"We possess art lest we perish of the truth." Nietzsche, The Will To Power
Irony is something of a double-edged sword. It can be something beautiful, something amusing, yet at the same time, something dark and achingly painful. Luka wondered which label was appropriate in this case as he observed Maria, bolt upright in what looked like a cold hospital bed, engrossed in The Alchemist. A book about dreams and finding your own destiny. An optimist's heaven, a pessimist's nightmare. Yet someone or something had so cruelly decided Maria's destiny for her. Irony in the basest, vilest sense. Yet, on the other hand, perhaps it was comforting to read such an uplifting and hopeful novel. Knowing her fairly well, as most of the staff in this hospital did, he was sure it was distracting her from any of the dark, self-pitying thoughts that could well have crossed her mind.
The sun was once again beaming in, splitting into dark shadows through the half-drawn blind. It was not hot or cold in the room and the only sound was in the distance. Maria reached a point, then slid a piece of paper that acted as her bookmark silently between the pages. Still holding the book, she spoke quietly, interrupting Luka who was meticulously examining her chart.
"What are you reading at the moment?" Her accent was broken slowly with Hispanic tones, her grandfather had left Madrid many, many years ago.
He glanced up, quickly fixing his gaze on her. "Lorca." He replied succinctly, suspecting Maria would need little explanation. He had been attempting to learn a little Spanish, as so many people in the city seemed to speak it. A good way to learn a new language was through literature and music. So it was Lorca and Enrique Iglesias all the way.
"Bernada Alba?" She asked, knowing this was one of the dramatist's best known works. He nodded. "In Spanish or English?" Maria pressed on, showing the resolve that had made her battle with illness seem so effortless.
"Spanish," he replied.
"Why not the translation? I assure you it's very good." Her tone was bright and encouraging.
"Something is always lost in translation," Luka replied with a little sadness. Then it struck him that he could have just reflected on his whole life in America. It sent a rush of despondency into his veins but his thoughts were gladly interrupted by Gallant peering around the door.
"I'm sorry to interrupt but Dr Romano is asking for you."
Luka nodded an apology Maria's way and then followed the young man out of the door.
"You shouldn't be his messenger." It was such a waste of the young student's time.
"Everybody is Dr Romano's messenger," Gallant replied, with a surprising optimism, "But thanks anyway."
As if his ears were burning, Romano appeared, looking as stoic and serious as ever. He took a long, piercing stare through the window, then said quickly,
"Well, Luka, I'm glad to see you're keeping the teenage fan base amused."
Romano expected no reply and was not going to get one.
"Anyway, I'll get straight to the point. The bunch of incompetent deadbeats down here that, frankly, wouldn't know what an MD was if it bit them on the ass are bailing one by one with flu. So lucky you gets to work til 2am."
It was 9:35 in the morning.
"I really hope you're joking," Luka replied, taking a long look at his watch.
"Am I wearing a red nose and baggy pants?" "Thank you." With that, the little surgeon walked slowly away, disappearing along the corridor with a patronising pace. It was going to be a very long day.
*****
"I am a barbarian in this place because I am not understood by anyone." Ovid
The night sky sprawled out like a thick, dark blanket and a little warmth hung in the still air which in contrast, always seemed to whistle past up on the rooftop. The colours above amalgamated above, the darkness merged with the milky orange of light pollution, leaving a scant dash of visible stars. There were faint noises in the background, traffic, voices, music yet all so indistinguishable. Luka took a little time to absorb his surroundings. Still, he was powerless to stop thoughts careering in his head like a through train. Despite the fact that it was now gone eleven and he knew that he was surviving on something more powerful than adrenaline yet bordering on sheer exhaustion, tiredness shot the questions into his aching mind like a trace of bullets. His earlier words to Maria lingered like a ghost. The volatile blend of his physical and mental states left him with so much to ponder.
Perhaps it was time to pack it in and get an office job, with the sweet paradise of whole weekends off and regular hours. He was interrupted as a fighter jet began to rush across the Chicago skyline. Its afterburners spread a threatening glow across the blackness, then it shot out over Lake Michigan like a deadly arrow. Suddenly Luka remembered his school history lessons and the teacher bringing in a huge map of the USA. As if they believed nobody knew where America was, as if it were mystical, an imaginary place of dreams and cowboys. He did not, at this moment, want to think about ideas of countries, or divided countries. Tell me about it, he thought, momentarily closing his eyes to shut out thoughts of home. Wherever that was. Vehemently flicking the "off" switch on those thoughts, he reverted back to his career musings.
What other options were possible? Go into private practice and become a rich man by prescribing Viagra to all the horny old men. Maybe not, he thought, with a genuine smile and a laugh to himself.
"Having impure thoughts about Romano? It happens to all of us."
Abby's voice violently shook him out of his reverie, he had heard no approaching steps. The mind was certainly a powerful thing, he had been transported deep into the spirals of his consciousness. He did not turn around to face her, but nonetheless replied. "Romano is the reason I'm not drifting peacefully in and out of sleep. So my thoughts about him are malicious, not salacious." "Not that they ever are salacious," he affirmed, with another laugh.
"Sometimes I think you should just pick him up and put him in your pocket." She joined him, placing her palms flat against the cold concrete before assessing the twilight with an acerbic glance.
"So he can annoy me all day? I don't think so." Luka spoke with little amusement this time, feeling his fatigue slowly turn to languor, knowing now that any attempt to sleep in the next few hours would be completely futile.
Abby's purpose became evident as she struck a match against the wall. The intense chemical reaction sent fizzles and crackles into the silent air along with a sharp glow of light and the tantalising aroma of sulphur. She lit the end of her cigarette with admirable caution then discarded the match over the side, its flame swiftly extinguished in an unnatural gust of wind.
"Did someone send you to chase my shadow?" In his peripheral vision, Luka caught a glimpse of the glowing tip of the cigarette and found himself reminded of the jet. Deadly, but in a different sort of way.
"Somebody's gotta do it." She said, lightly, almost voiding all meaning from her words, then continued. "You've picked the right time to be hiding up here. It's as dead as a freaking corpse down there."
The pun was ungracious yet he was pleasantly amused, feeling another smile dissipate his pensive mood. Dark humour was often the only humour associated with this place.
Abby took a longer drag and then felt the smoke weighing down on her lungs. It was not a sensation she experienced often but when she did it was a sharp reminder that she should attempt to quit. Feeling greatly relieved as she exhaled the bluey-grey stream of smoke she turned momentarily to look at him. Melancholy was deep-set in his gaze. Yet it was not unattractive, in fact, his sadness often had an endearing effect, she concluded. She rapidly reminded herself that the dejection was not always there as it had seemed to be before. In fact, she was certain that of late, a radiance had been etched onto his retinas which appeared almost out of place. It further added to the deep enigma that he continued to be. Abby considered that someone or something could have lit the blackened touchpaper of his soul, the fire within that she was sure had once been prevalent had been lit again. She would find out somehow. Even though in her mind she linked Luka, not unkindly, to a cryptic crossword. Frustrating, but in a good way. Desperate now to stop her fluctuating thoughts, she leant on the ledge and spoke.
"I take it you're having a bad day, then." Her tone held no mockery or sympathy. Sometimes, she surprised herself how sometimes her words were so distant from her feelings. But on other rare occasions, both word and sensation were as tightly connected as links in a chain.
"Just a very long day. With little escape from my thoughts. Not a very good combination." As usual, his words gave little room for manoeuvre, there was so much yet so little to speculate on. He did not wish to theorise on his feelings out loud because he was still battling with the internal struggle.
Exhaling a sigh which purged a little of the confusion from his veins, he found the only few words that possessed any sort of definitive clarity. An apology.
"I'm sorry. You don't need to hear this."
You'd be surprised, Abby thought, flicking the ash away with an almost eloquent gesture. Although she was barely half way through her smoke, she happily ground the ash violently into the concrete, watching the fire smoulder into nothing.
"Don't worry about it. You just need to get some sleep." This time, her words were brushed with a shimmer of concern and she had found some warmth in the unyielding depths of the night. The silence was then pierced by his pager. With a wry smile, Luka turned to face her and said, without any hint of seriousness or sadness, "It looks as if the corpses have awoken."
She flashed a sincere smile, then replied. "I wouldn't sound so concerned, you know, you're the living dead's favourite doctor."
Lost for words, he headed for the door feeling decidedly better, leaving Abby in the same predicament as he had found himself in moments before. But at least she was smiling.
Rating: PG-13, but R later on...
Disclaimer: The ER characters do not belong to me, neither do any products, song lyrics or literary quotations mentioned.
Summary: Warm weather, flirtation and a few lessons to be learned. Luby. Sort of AU, sort of not.
Spoilers: Some season 9 and maybe early 10 I guess.
Reviews: Thankyou, and yes, keep 'em coming!!
Author's note: The book and play referenced in this section are The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and La Casa De Bernada Alba (The House Of Bernada Alba) by Federico García Lorca, but you need not read them, they are just tools to communicate ideas. I also have a strange feeling that I have unconsciously plagiarised a Romano quote from season 6. So sorry!!
"We possess art lest we perish of the truth." Nietzsche, The Will To Power
Irony is something of a double-edged sword. It can be something beautiful, something amusing, yet at the same time, something dark and achingly painful. Luka wondered which label was appropriate in this case as he observed Maria, bolt upright in what looked like a cold hospital bed, engrossed in The Alchemist. A book about dreams and finding your own destiny. An optimist's heaven, a pessimist's nightmare. Yet someone or something had so cruelly decided Maria's destiny for her. Irony in the basest, vilest sense. Yet, on the other hand, perhaps it was comforting to read such an uplifting and hopeful novel. Knowing her fairly well, as most of the staff in this hospital did, he was sure it was distracting her from any of the dark, self-pitying thoughts that could well have crossed her mind.
The sun was once again beaming in, splitting into dark shadows through the half-drawn blind. It was not hot or cold in the room and the only sound was in the distance. Maria reached a point, then slid a piece of paper that acted as her bookmark silently between the pages. Still holding the book, she spoke quietly, interrupting Luka who was meticulously examining her chart.
"What are you reading at the moment?" Her accent was broken slowly with Hispanic tones, her grandfather had left Madrid many, many years ago.
He glanced up, quickly fixing his gaze on her. "Lorca." He replied succinctly, suspecting Maria would need little explanation. He had been attempting to learn a little Spanish, as so many people in the city seemed to speak it. A good way to learn a new language was through literature and music. So it was Lorca and Enrique Iglesias all the way.
"Bernada Alba?" She asked, knowing this was one of the dramatist's best known works. He nodded. "In Spanish or English?" Maria pressed on, showing the resolve that had made her battle with illness seem so effortless.
"Spanish," he replied.
"Why not the translation? I assure you it's very good." Her tone was bright and encouraging.
"Something is always lost in translation," Luka replied with a little sadness. Then it struck him that he could have just reflected on his whole life in America. It sent a rush of despondency into his veins but his thoughts were gladly interrupted by Gallant peering around the door.
"I'm sorry to interrupt but Dr Romano is asking for you."
Luka nodded an apology Maria's way and then followed the young man out of the door.
"You shouldn't be his messenger." It was such a waste of the young student's time.
"Everybody is Dr Romano's messenger," Gallant replied, with a surprising optimism, "But thanks anyway."
As if his ears were burning, Romano appeared, looking as stoic and serious as ever. He took a long, piercing stare through the window, then said quickly,
"Well, Luka, I'm glad to see you're keeping the teenage fan base amused."
Romano expected no reply and was not going to get one.
"Anyway, I'll get straight to the point. The bunch of incompetent deadbeats down here that, frankly, wouldn't know what an MD was if it bit them on the ass are bailing one by one with flu. So lucky you gets to work til 2am."
It was 9:35 in the morning.
"I really hope you're joking," Luka replied, taking a long look at his watch.
"Am I wearing a red nose and baggy pants?" "Thank you." With that, the little surgeon walked slowly away, disappearing along the corridor with a patronising pace. It was going to be a very long day.
*****
"I am a barbarian in this place because I am not understood by anyone." Ovid
The night sky sprawled out like a thick, dark blanket and a little warmth hung in the still air which in contrast, always seemed to whistle past up on the rooftop. The colours above amalgamated above, the darkness merged with the milky orange of light pollution, leaving a scant dash of visible stars. There were faint noises in the background, traffic, voices, music yet all so indistinguishable. Luka took a little time to absorb his surroundings. Still, he was powerless to stop thoughts careering in his head like a through train. Despite the fact that it was now gone eleven and he knew that he was surviving on something more powerful than adrenaline yet bordering on sheer exhaustion, tiredness shot the questions into his aching mind like a trace of bullets. His earlier words to Maria lingered like a ghost. The volatile blend of his physical and mental states left him with so much to ponder.
Perhaps it was time to pack it in and get an office job, with the sweet paradise of whole weekends off and regular hours. He was interrupted as a fighter jet began to rush across the Chicago skyline. Its afterburners spread a threatening glow across the blackness, then it shot out over Lake Michigan like a deadly arrow. Suddenly Luka remembered his school history lessons and the teacher bringing in a huge map of the USA. As if they believed nobody knew where America was, as if it were mystical, an imaginary place of dreams and cowboys. He did not, at this moment, want to think about ideas of countries, or divided countries. Tell me about it, he thought, momentarily closing his eyes to shut out thoughts of home. Wherever that was. Vehemently flicking the "off" switch on those thoughts, he reverted back to his career musings.
What other options were possible? Go into private practice and become a rich man by prescribing Viagra to all the horny old men. Maybe not, he thought, with a genuine smile and a laugh to himself.
"Having impure thoughts about Romano? It happens to all of us."
Abby's voice violently shook him out of his reverie, he had heard no approaching steps. The mind was certainly a powerful thing, he had been transported deep into the spirals of his consciousness. He did not turn around to face her, but nonetheless replied. "Romano is the reason I'm not drifting peacefully in and out of sleep. So my thoughts about him are malicious, not salacious." "Not that they ever are salacious," he affirmed, with another laugh.
"Sometimes I think you should just pick him up and put him in your pocket." She joined him, placing her palms flat against the cold concrete before assessing the twilight with an acerbic glance.
"So he can annoy me all day? I don't think so." Luka spoke with little amusement this time, feeling his fatigue slowly turn to languor, knowing now that any attempt to sleep in the next few hours would be completely futile.
Abby's purpose became evident as she struck a match against the wall. The intense chemical reaction sent fizzles and crackles into the silent air along with a sharp glow of light and the tantalising aroma of sulphur. She lit the end of her cigarette with admirable caution then discarded the match over the side, its flame swiftly extinguished in an unnatural gust of wind.
"Did someone send you to chase my shadow?" In his peripheral vision, Luka caught a glimpse of the glowing tip of the cigarette and found himself reminded of the jet. Deadly, but in a different sort of way.
"Somebody's gotta do it." She said, lightly, almost voiding all meaning from her words, then continued. "You've picked the right time to be hiding up here. It's as dead as a freaking corpse down there."
The pun was ungracious yet he was pleasantly amused, feeling another smile dissipate his pensive mood. Dark humour was often the only humour associated with this place.
Abby took a longer drag and then felt the smoke weighing down on her lungs. It was not a sensation she experienced often but when she did it was a sharp reminder that she should attempt to quit. Feeling greatly relieved as she exhaled the bluey-grey stream of smoke she turned momentarily to look at him. Melancholy was deep-set in his gaze. Yet it was not unattractive, in fact, his sadness often had an endearing effect, she concluded. She rapidly reminded herself that the dejection was not always there as it had seemed to be before. In fact, she was certain that of late, a radiance had been etched onto his retinas which appeared almost out of place. It further added to the deep enigma that he continued to be. Abby considered that someone or something could have lit the blackened touchpaper of his soul, the fire within that she was sure had once been prevalent had been lit again. She would find out somehow. Even though in her mind she linked Luka, not unkindly, to a cryptic crossword. Frustrating, but in a good way. Desperate now to stop her fluctuating thoughts, she leant on the ledge and spoke.
"I take it you're having a bad day, then." Her tone held no mockery or sympathy. Sometimes, she surprised herself how sometimes her words were so distant from her feelings. But on other rare occasions, both word and sensation were as tightly connected as links in a chain.
"Just a very long day. With little escape from my thoughts. Not a very good combination." As usual, his words gave little room for manoeuvre, there was so much yet so little to speculate on. He did not wish to theorise on his feelings out loud because he was still battling with the internal struggle.
Exhaling a sigh which purged a little of the confusion from his veins, he found the only few words that possessed any sort of definitive clarity. An apology.
"I'm sorry. You don't need to hear this."
You'd be surprised, Abby thought, flicking the ash away with an almost eloquent gesture. Although she was barely half way through her smoke, she happily ground the ash violently into the concrete, watching the fire smoulder into nothing.
"Don't worry about it. You just need to get some sleep." This time, her words were brushed with a shimmer of concern and she had found some warmth in the unyielding depths of the night. The silence was then pierced by his pager. With a wry smile, Luka turned to face her and said, without any hint of seriousness or sadness, "It looks as if the corpses have awoken."
She flashed a sincere smile, then replied. "I wouldn't sound so concerned, you know, you're the living dead's favourite doctor."
Lost for words, he headed for the door feeling decidedly better, leaving Abby in the same predicament as he had found himself in moments before. But at least she was smiling.