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.
Reviews: I know I keep on saying this, but thanks so much for all your reviews and keep em' coming, they keep my muse dancing :)
"For man is man and master of his fate." Tennyson
As the lunch time rush buzzed and hummed like an electricity generator, Susan and Abby escaped the general madness of the hospital's general proximity, and for that matter, the eager ears of their colleagues, five minutes away in the battered darkness of a side street café. Even the electric blue sky and humid air seemed to fade into pools of miserable contemplation within its four walls. Mario, the owner, famous in the area for his rejection of anything different to him, was cursing at something on the small television in the corner, flashing news bulletin pictures like strobe lighting. In contrast, Too Bad by Nickelback grated out of the small, ancient radio. Despite his bigotry, however, Mario was famed for making the best coffee in the whole of Illinois.
Abby paused to look at the three things in front of her on the table: cigarettes, lighter and steaming cup of coffee. Which drug to take on board first? She wondered, knowing that she would need artificial substances to get through any speculation on her feelings. After regarding that idea with a little sadness, she took out a Marlboro, then tapped its non-filter end slowly, purposefully against the box. She had only ever seen one person do this before: her father. God knows where he was. He could even be dead, for all you know, she thought, with a cold shudder which seemed to echo back against the dreary walls. She closed her eyes to shut off that train of thought, then put the cigarette in her mouth, groped for her lighter, then lit. I can even do it with my eyes shut, she thought, with an irrational triumph.
The first drag was always the best, the bolt of nicotine shooting right through the filter tip into her craving, warmed blood. She opened her eyes and exhaled, feeling calmer, but then was instantly reminded by the inquisitive look on her friend and colleague's face of exactly why she was there. How the hell do I put this into words?
"So, who was the mystery woman?" She asked directly, remembering Susan's pledge to find out the truth.
"His friend's girlfriend. I didn't ask what she wanted." "So, c'mon. Why were, or should I say, why are you so interested?"
"Find me a woman who doesn't watch him like that," Abby said, taking a longer drag, attempting to change the subject slightly, trying to send Susan off on a tangent.
"Weaver. But if any guy could turn her," Susan said with a smile, always enjoying poking fun at her boss.
Abby laughed. "Hey, that would be a great April Fool's joke."
"You think we could get Luka to play along?"
She rested her cigarette-free hand against her cheek thoughtfully, feeling the burning in her capillaries, sunlight trickling onto her face. "Maybe. Lately he seems to be the happiest guy in the world. It doesn't make any sense. I just wish I could figure it out." Her voice conveyed both the agitation and pleasure of her challenge. He was so intriguing, so utterly captivating and these emotions were not easy to express; not simple to turn from impulses, pictures and sensations into actual words. It was painstakingly difficult to articulate. She was sure that with most women, curiosity about Luka was sparked purely by looking at him. But for her it ran deeper. She wanted to understand his motivation, his reasons. It affected her profoundly, it was etched on her consciousness, flowing in her blood, imprinted on her memory like a photographic reel bathed in silver nitrate.
"Did you try the direct route, you asked him what was going on?"
Realising that her cigarette was burning away to nothing, ever closer to her fingertips, she nodded, took a long, luxurious drag, then tapped the mountainous ash into a sad, opaque ashtray.
"Ask a straight question, never get a straight answer. It's always the same." She knew however, that she was often guilty of this herself, never really wanting to give too much information away. If you kept your cards close to your chest, life was much less of a gamble.
"Maybe you're trying too hard. Some people would just sit back and let it happen." "Or not happen," Susan added objectively, covering all corners.
Abby let a wry smile twist across her face. "So you don't believe in coincidence but fate has got you cornered?"
"I'm just suggesting a different way of looking at things. Perhaps you don't have to put in so much work."
Susan read the sceptical look on Abby's face but was undeterred, convinced that she was helping, if only a little. Abby stubbed out and exhaled for the last time, taking a long sip of bitter, hot coffee.
"I think this is something I need to figure out for myself." "Even if it damn near kills me." She meant it, her voice insistent.
Susan smiled and replied. "You shouldn't say that, you know, because that really is tempting fate."
"Maybe fate owes me one." She said, with neither optimism nor pessimism. Yet she was not about to sit back and give in to the belief that fate could hand her anything on a plate. Things could never be so simple, so close to perfection. When a chemist mixed greying, decaying metallic sodium with garish green gaseous chlorine, he or she knew that after a few fizzes and bangs, pure white crystals of salt would prevail.
In contrast, with Luka, she never knew what the reaction would be. One moment they could be entwined in such a timeless, instantaneous state of rapture, as if stars and planets had aligned into creating a hurricane of pure affection. But on the other side came the dislocation, the miscommunication, the feeling as if they were scraping the gutter, devoid of emotion. It was a fine line, like treading the biting gauze of a tightrope wire. On reflection, she did not want or expect perfection, in fact, imperfection, like a report missing pages or an unfinished book, was something much more beautiful.
Soon enough, the half-hour had eclipsed, the midday sun purled, twisted and spun turbocharged, searing rays around in flickers of white light.
Inside, the stark lighting of the hospital was as painful as the bursts of UV light outside. Both Abby and Susan squinted painfully as their eyes adjusted to the change in atmosphere, as if for one moment, they understood exactly the same thing. Luka himself was going through much the same as the uncompromising computer screen glared into the tired hollows of his eyes. he was very glad to see them return as this meant that after twelve hours on the rollercoaster that was emergency medicine, he could finally go home. In reality, the end of a shift sent a confusing mixture of emotions flying around in his head. Sometimes, the events flashed through his memory like a tropical rainstorm, and he remembered every face, every death, who was still critical, the strangest thing that he had seen. In some ways it made him want to stay and keep going, but he knew that running on pure adrenaline was dangerous for everyone.
"How's Elvis?" Susan asked, concerned that if things had gone awry in her absence, the penalty would be severe.
"He's closer to dreamland than he is to Graceland." He was more than happy to entertain her for a short while.
"You may have an MD but you would've failed the comedy school entrance exam every time."
"At least I would've tried," he replied, believing that there was a lot to be said for simple endeavours.
"Next you'll be telling me you wrote RTS on his chart." She said, deciding that two could easily play the humour game.
He frowned. "RTS?"
"Return To Sender." Susan quipped, pleased with her effort.
"I think that means it's definitely time to go home. I'll see you tomorrow."
He rapidly discarded his lab coat by dumping it in his locker, then swiftly returned to his colleagues, remembering that he had left his mobile phone, rendered defunct within these four walls, somewhere in the ever-growing clutter. Weaver's absence was telling.
"Where are you rushing off to?" Abby asked, her curiosity as instantaneously ignited as petrol flowing across a spark plug. After eventually locating his phone, his pace changed somewhat as he reached to undo his tie, slowly teasing the knot open in some sort of agonising striptease, parting the material as if he were cracking open a wishbone. She watched, enthralled for all but a second as his fingers opened one shirt button, then another and a final third; such a subconscious moment yet something that had a painfully conscious effect on her. As ever, he was shifting, shaping, compounding her emotions without even realising. After what seemed like endless hours, but had actually only been a few seconds, he answered her question.
"Since I have been working for the last twelve hours, home." He paused for a lingering moment, which seemed to hang in the air. "To bed."
"I see. Who's the lucky girl?" Abby asked, feeling as if she could've played that game with him for a lifetime.
"Nobody," he replied, pulling the ream of silk over his shoulders. "Unless you'd like to volunteer." Sometimes he concluded that it was best to play her at her own game.
She smiled craftily, then said rapidly, "I'm all outta charity for this month. Give it a coupla weeks."
"I'll keep a close eye on the calendar, then." Charm oozed from him like a trickle of golden syrup sliding along a fine thread of silk, yet his body was aching for rest. Luka had intended that to be his parting shot until he felt a gentle tug on his arm, pulling him back against the current of his motion.
"Hey, you know I'm coming to this party tomorrow?" Abby was cautious not to say "we're going," aware that even the walls had ears. He nodded his acknowledgement, prompting her to continue.
"What should I wear? I mean, is there, like, a theme?" She felt a little stupid and slightly embarrassed to be asking him for fashion tips, but the whole concept of this party felt completely alien to her.
Luka smiled emphatically. "Last time, I ended up face down in the grass trying to get out from underneath a pile of bodies." Things always got a little crazy with Mo around.
"I didn't think it was that kind of party." He smiled down at her, relaxed by her jovial mood.
"It's not a formal affair. So don't worry about it." His words were more than a reassurance, almost an instruction. Abby nodded, folded her arms, then smiled. "OK. Thank you." In all honesty, she still felt none the wiser about what to wear, but decided that she would figure it out. Somehow, she always did.
With a flash of a smile, Luka was gone, safely on his way home. Walking, he let the city melt away around him. Like a soluble aspirin dropped into water; the grey sillouhetted buildings fizzed into a haze. The midday rush hour was mounting, road rage beginning to buzz in the bodies of drivers, the heat only adding fuel to the fire. But for him, these examples blurred like water-colours bleeding into each other on a canvas and the only portraits that made any sense were his thoughts. The last two weeks had been a rush of colour, a burst of heat, an amalgam of metallic certainties. Things seemed to click into place like a jigsaw, everything merged into everything else; yet truths were evident. He could not remember feeling this good about life for what seemed like an eternity. But then, when you woke at erratic hours, to a cerulean blue sky or a tempestuously sticky summer evening, the darkness of the urban city seemed as bright as paradise: distopia clouded into utopia. Then came tomorrow. The future, with all its uncertainties, did little to aggrieve him. Warm, uncompromising air kissed his skin like a redundant lover, his tiredness faded into a mild sense of belonging. This Chicago, this America all around him did not seem so rejecting, so unkind. It was not home, if in fact, he was able to define home, but it was becoming more familiar, more comfortable.
Once within the safety on his own four walls, sipping from an ice cold glass of water, Luka gazed speculatively out of the wide open window, the sky laced with traces of abandoned scarlet, the city unaware, winding itself deeper into the afternoon just as he was nearing sleep. He turned away and began to imagine what had made the difference. Which factors, combinations of letters, numbers, chemicals or signs had aligned to create such harmony? Knowing that he would go insane or make his head hurt from sifting through the possibilities, he laid down on the bed, still wearing all his clothes, then closed his eyes and was comforted. Not only were the sheets cool and welcoming, but he was safe in the knowledge that when he opened his eyes again, tomorrow would be there to embrace him.
*****
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.
Reviews: I know I keep on saying this, but thanks so much for all your reviews and keep em' coming, they keep my muse dancing :)
"For man is man and master of his fate." Tennyson
As the lunch time rush buzzed and hummed like an electricity generator, Susan and Abby escaped the general madness of the hospital's general proximity, and for that matter, the eager ears of their colleagues, five minutes away in the battered darkness of a side street café. Even the electric blue sky and humid air seemed to fade into pools of miserable contemplation within its four walls. Mario, the owner, famous in the area for his rejection of anything different to him, was cursing at something on the small television in the corner, flashing news bulletin pictures like strobe lighting. In contrast, Too Bad by Nickelback grated out of the small, ancient radio. Despite his bigotry, however, Mario was famed for making the best coffee in the whole of Illinois.
Abby paused to look at the three things in front of her on the table: cigarettes, lighter and steaming cup of coffee. Which drug to take on board first? She wondered, knowing that she would need artificial substances to get through any speculation on her feelings. After regarding that idea with a little sadness, she took out a Marlboro, then tapped its non-filter end slowly, purposefully against the box. She had only ever seen one person do this before: her father. God knows where he was. He could even be dead, for all you know, she thought, with a cold shudder which seemed to echo back against the dreary walls. She closed her eyes to shut off that train of thought, then put the cigarette in her mouth, groped for her lighter, then lit. I can even do it with my eyes shut, she thought, with an irrational triumph.
The first drag was always the best, the bolt of nicotine shooting right through the filter tip into her craving, warmed blood. She opened her eyes and exhaled, feeling calmer, but then was instantly reminded by the inquisitive look on her friend and colleague's face of exactly why she was there. How the hell do I put this into words?
"So, who was the mystery woman?" She asked directly, remembering Susan's pledge to find out the truth.
"His friend's girlfriend. I didn't ask what she wanted." "So, c'mon. Why were, or should I say, why are you so interested?"
"Find me a woman who doesn't watch him like that," Abby said, taking a longer drag, attempting to change the subject slightly, trying to send Susan off on a tangent.
"Weaver. But if any guy could turn her," Susan said with a smile, always enjoying poking fun at her boss.
Abby laughed. "Hey, that would be a great April Fool's joke."
"You think we could get Luka to play along?"
She rested her cigarette-free hand against her cheek thoughtfully, feeling the burning in her capillaries, sunlight trickling onto her face. "Maybe. Lately he seems to be the happiest guy in the world. It doesn't make any sense. I just wish I could figure it out." Her voice conveyed both the agitation and pleasure of her challenge. He was so intriguing, so utterly captivating and these emotions were not easy to express; not simple to turn from impulses, pictures and sensations into actual words. It was painstakingly difficult to articulate. She was sure that with most women, curiosity about Luka was sparked purely by looking at him. But for her it ran deeper. She wanted to understand his motivation, his reasons. It affected her profoundly, it was etched on her consciousness, flowing in her blood, imprinted on her memory like a photographic reel bathed in silver nitrate.
"Did you try the direct route, you asked him what was going on?"
Realising that her cigarette was burning away to nothing, ever closer to her fingertips, she nodded, took a long, luxurious drag, then tapped the mountainous ash into a sad, opaque ashtray.
"Ask a straight question, never get a straight answer. It's always the same." She knew however, that she was often guilty of this herself, never really wanting to give too much information away. If you kept your cards close to your chest, life was much less of a gamble.
"Maybe you're trying too hard. Some people would just sit back and let it happen." "Or not happen," Susan added objectively, covering all corners.
Abby let a wry smile twist across her face. "So you don't believe in coincidence but fate has got you cornered?"
"I'm just suggesting a different way of looking at things. Perhaps you don't have to put in so much work."
Susan read the sceptical look on Abby's face but was undeterred, convinced that she was helping, if only a little. Abby stubbed out and exhaled for the last time, taking a long sip of bitter, hot coffee.
"I think this is something I need to figure out for myself." "Even if it damn near kills me." She meant it, her voice insistent.
Susan smiled and replied. "You shouldn't say that, you know, because that really is tempting fate."
"Maybe fate owes me one." She said, with neither optimism nor pessimism. Yet she was not about to sit back and give in to the belief that fate could hand her anything on a plate. Things could never be so simple, so close to perfection. When a chemist mixed greying, decaying metallic sodium with garish green gaseous chlorine, he or she knew that after a few fizzes and bangs, pure white crystals of salt would prevail.
In contrast, with Luka, she never knew what the reaction would be. One moment they could be entwined in such a timeless, instantaneous state of rapture, as if stars and planets had aligned into creating a hurricane of pure affection. But on the other side came the dislocation, the miscommunication, the feeling as if they were scraping the gutter, devoid of emotion. It was a fine line, like treading the biting gauze of a tightrope wire. On reflection, she did not want or expect perfection, in fact, imperfection, like a report missing pages or an unfinished book, was something much more beautiful.
Soon enough, the half-hour had eclipsed, the midday sun purled, twisted and spun turbocharged, searing rays around in flickers of white light.
Inside, the stark lighting of the hospital was as painful as the bursts of UV light outside. Both Abby and Susan squinted painfully as their eyes adjusted to the change in atmosphere, as if for one moment, they understood exactly the same thing. Luka himself was going through much the same as the uncompromising computer screen glared into the tired hollows of his eyes. he was very glad to see them return as this meant that after twelve hours on the rollercoaster that was emergency medicine, he could finally go home. In reality, the end of a shift sent a confusing mixture of emotions flying around in his head. Sometimes, the events flashed through his memory like a tropical rainstorm, and he remembered every face, every death, who was still critical, the strangest thing that he had seen. In some ways it made him want to stay and keep going, but he knew that running on pure adrenaline was dangerous for everyone.
"How's Elvis?" Susan asked, concerned that if things had gone awry in her absence, the penalty would be severe.
"He's closer to dreamland than he is to Graceland." He was more than happy to entertain her for a short while.
"You may have an MD but you would've failed the comedy school entrance exam every time."
"At least I would've tried," he replied, believing that there was a lot to be said for simple endeavours.
"Next you'll be telling me you wrote RTS on his chart." She said, deciding that two could easily play the humour game.
He frowned. "RTS?"
"Return To Sender." Susan quipped, pleased with her effort.
"I think that means it's definitely time to go home. I'll see you tomorrow."
He rapidly discarded his lab coat by dumping it in his locker, then swiftly returned to his colleagues, remembering that he had left his mobile phone, rendered defunct within these four walls, somewhere in the ever-growing clutter. Weaver's absence was telling.
"Where are you rushing off to?" Abby asked, her curiosity as instantaneously ignited as petrol flowing across a spark plug. After eventually locating his phone, his pace changed somewhat as he reached to undo his tie, slowly teasing the knot open in some sort of agonising striptease, parting the material as if he were cracking open a wishbone. She watched, enthralled for all but a second as his fingers opened one shirt button, then another and a final third; such a subconscious moment yet something that had a painfully conscious effect on her. As ever, he was shifting, shaping, compounding her emotions without even realising. After what seemed like endless hours, but had actually only been a few seconds, he answered her question.
"Since I have been working for the last twelve hours, home." He paused for a lingering moment, which seemed to hang in the air. "To bed."
"I see. Who's the lucky girl?" Abby asked, feeling as if she could've played that game with him for a lifetime.
"Nobody," he replied, pulling the ream of silk over his shoulders. "Unless you'd like to volunteer." Sometimes he concluded that it was best to play her at her own game.
She smiled craftily, then said rapidly, "I'm all outta charity for this month. Give it a coupla weeks."
"I'll keep a close eye on the calendar, then." Charm oozed from him like a trickle of golden syrup sliding along a fine thread of silk, yet his body was aching for rest. Luka had intended that to be his parting shot until he felt a gentle tug on his arm, pulling him back against the current of his motion.
"Hey, you know I'm coming to this party tomorrow?" Abby was cautious not to say "we're going," aware that even the walls had ears. He nodded his acknowledgement, prompting her to continue.
"What should I wear? I mean, is there, like, a theme?" She felt a little stupid and slightly embarrassed to be asking him for fashion tips, but the whole concept of this party felt completely alien to her.
Luka smiled emphatically. "Last time, I ended up face down in the grass trying to get out from underneath a pile of bodies." Things always got a little crazy with Mo around.
"I didn't think it was that kind of party." He smiled down at her, relaxed by her jovial mood.
"It's not a formal affair. So don't worry about it." His words were more than a reassurance, almost an instruction. Abby nodded, folded her arms, then smiled. "OK. Thank you." In all honesty, she still felt none the wiser about what to wear, but decided that she would figure it out. Somehow, she always did.
With a flash of a smile, Luka was gone, safely on his way home. Walking, he let the city melt away around him. Like a soluble aspirin dropped into water; the grey sillouhetted buildings fizzed into a haze. The midday rush hour was mounting, road rage beginning to buzz in the bodies of drivers, the heat only adding fuel to the fire. But for him, these examples blurred like water-colours bleeding into each other on a canvas and the only portraits that made any sense were his thoughts. The last two weeks had been a rush of colour, a burst of heat, an amalgam of metallic certainties. Things seemed to click into place like a jigsaw, everything merged into everything else; yet truths were evident. He could not remember feeling this good about life for what seemed like an eternity. But then, when you woke at erratic hours, to a cerulean blue sky or a tempestuously sticky summer evening, the darkness of the urban city seemed as bright as paradise: distopia clouded into utopia. Then came tomorrow. The future, with all its uncertainties, did little to aggrieve him. Warm, uncompromising air kissed his skin like a redundant lover, his tiredness faded into a mild sense of belonging. This Chicago, this America all around him did not seem so rejecting, so unkind. It was not home, if in fact, he was able to define home, but it was becoming more familiar, more comfortable.
Once within the safety on his own four walls, sipping from an ice cold glass of water, Luka gazed speculatively out of the wide open window, the sky laced with traces of abandoned scarlet, the city unaware, winding itself deeper into the afternoon just as he was nearing sleep. He turned away and began to imagine what had made the difference. Which factors, combinations of letters, numbers, chemicals or signs had aligned to create such harmony? Knowing that he would go insane or make his head hurt from sifting through the possibilities, he laid down on the bed, still wearing all his clothes, then closed his eyes and was comforted. Not only were the sheets cool and welcoming, but he was safe in the knowledge that when he opened his eyes again, tomorrow would be there to embrace him.
*****