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: Thanks for all your comments and keep letting me know what you think please!! :)
Author's note: One instance of strong language here folks, ya have been warned!!
"Without music, life would be a mistake." Nietzsche.
Music. Once again, it was tickling her eardrums, clicking over in her brain, pulsing her senses alive. Abby contemplated what everybody else living in the building must've thought about what seemed to be the constant noise. She knew that if she lived there, it would have toyed with her, perhaps even peppered her with agitation, as she was always grateful for a little peace when she got home after the end of a long shift. She stopped on the landing, questioning her reflection in the cool glass of the window. It was getting near to ninety degrees outside and there was very little breeze to take the edge off the stifling heat. Her eyes had begun to sting, so she paused to carefully wipe away the acidic saltiness gathering against her irises. Having sat on her last pair of sunglasses, she would have to deal with it for now. Pushing her fingers all the way through the length of her hair, she concluded that at least the sun had eradicated the need for blow-drying, even if her scalp was getting dangerously warmer by the second.
Her vivid indigo shorts moulded to her warm skin, she shifted uncomfortably for a moment. Purposefully, she shook her head gently, rapidly displacing a few errant strands of her long hair from her face; shaking away the questions buzzing in her head. You're here to enjoy yourself, not to analyse. I should've been a psychiatrist, she thought, with a smile, feeling the deep pang of irony. No, I wasn't meant to have too many letters after my name. Suddenly feeling trapped in the small space, she went upstairs. There was no agonising wait for someone to open the door this time. The door to Luka's apartment was wide open, beckoning like the mouth of a tunnel, held open by a heavy black object that looked much like an amplifier. It seemed to her like some sort of statement: the door is always open. Abby's attention was then distracted by an odd sight. The floor was decorated with a row of empty Coke bottles, their contour shape making shadowy patterns on floor, their green tint glowing in the sunshine, they were arranged like an absurd row of skittles.
Luka and Mo were at the table, seemingly unflustered by the weather, engaged in a friendly game of Operation. Getting closer, she realised that this was not the case, the heat had affected them too. Mo's skin gleamed with a scant trace of sweat, both of them had unfastened a multitude of shirt buttons, leaving her with tempting glances of bare chest. The sun's getting to you, she thought, with a secret, almost lascivious smile. Mo had changed his haircut too, the braids newly twisted on top of his head like a contortionist. To follow a path along one of the thick strands would have been like following an unfinished map, your final destination never quite where you would've expected it to be.
"What's next? Twister?" A simple hello did not seem fitting to the situation.
Mo shook his head. "Let me tell ya, I ain't gettin' no stitches from this guy! You've joined us at the critical stage. It's two hundred dollars for the wishbone."
"The scandal of modern medicine," she said, breezily, joining them at the table.
Mo had propped both his elbows against the very edge of the table, with the entirely criminal intention of attempting to jar the table and set off the buzzer. As Luka, infused with concentration, carefully tried to remove the wishbone, Mo desperately mis-timed and overshot his attempt, slamming his right elbow hard against the uncompromising wood.
"Shit!! Motherfuckin'..." He was a man as animated in his pain as he was in his pleasure, jumping to his feet and grabbing his elbow.
"Serves you right for being a cheat." Luka said, amused at his friend's plight.
"You ain't got no compassion!" Mo replied, trying in vain to stifle the flow of laughter ready to trickle from his mouth, rubbing his hand speedily against his injured elbow.
"Here, have a cherry," Luka said, aspiring to placate Mo's pain by distracting his attention, by offering him a huge bowl of shiny, dark crimson cherries.
Mo picked a solitary fruit and smiled his gratitude mockingly. His theory was that he treated his own life much like a cherry: enjoying the succour of rich, diverse, sweet flesh and discarding the wasteful stone yet preserving it for its productivity, its rebirth. After he had finished eating, he conserved the stone deep in the soft denim lining of his huge shorts, forgotten and unimportant, but lingering for the future.
"I'm gonna get some ice. And I left a few things upstairs. So I'll be back in a coupla minutes." He scuttled off, in his own world, still feeling a distant throb in his arm from the jarring of his elbow. Pointing the remote control purposefully at the stereo, he switched off the blaring music, not wanting to miss a single beat as he finally paced out through the open door in search of some respite. Abby swiftly took his place, sitting opposite Luka, distinctly avoiding his gaze for a while, finding it almost painful to be in his eyeline. Sometimes, he really did leave her lost for words, struggling to find anything to say. Silence was somehow golden as he concentrated on his futile task, tenderly endeavouring to pick the cold piece of plastic out without disturbing the peace.
After finally pulling the wishbone clear without a hint of any noise, Luka smiled triumphantly, half-happy, half-bemused that he was participating in such a game. He looked across the table, glancing at Abby with a little more intent. In a reminiscent flash of images, he suddenly realised that she had been an almost permanent fixture in his rather erratic life for the last few weeks. She had been, as he had put it all that time ago, "Chasing his shadow." He knew that his mood, of late, had been as changeable as the seasons, with the lucidity and warmth of summer being the presiding emotions that buzzed in his veins. He let his curiosity pass, deciding that he was glad to have her company without speculating about what exactly had motivated her to be in his presence. He watched with a deep shade of intrigue as she slowly leant back against the chair, her eyes wide open, her body relaxed, a slight expression of torture etched across her warm face.
"So. Tell me, what should I expect to happen tonight?" Aware that his gaze was becoming an assessing one, she looked right into his eyes, digging deep into his soul for a truthful answer. Momentarily transfixed by her expression, he broke into a smile, then answered.
"You'll just have to wait and see."
She rolled her eyes with a half-grin. Typical. Enigma, mystery and wonder.
Truthfully, she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Mo returned in a blaze of colour, football shirts hanging over his shoulders, a huge black and silver case in one hand, the box of Twister uncouthly shoved underneath his other arm. Grimacing from his exertion, he put the case down, precariously balancing Twister on top of it.
"Later," he said enigmatically, winking suggestively as he gazed up from the brightly coloured box of the game.
"Some decisions before we go. What's it to be? Italy or Brazil?" He asked while waving the shirts around in the warmth, sending a mêlée of blue, white, yellow and green whirling in the heat, creating a positive rush of screaming air. "You decide," Luka said, deciding to leave his fate in someone else's hands.
"Are we going to a soccer match?" Abby questioned, feeling more than a little confused.
"Mo's cousin likes to challenge him to sports matches." Quickly, Luka reflected on the last time, then added, "I hope we're playing with proper equipment this time."
Mo smiled, then taking Abby's continuing confusion on board, explained. "Last time, we played baseball with an empty Coke bottle and burger buns. Man, you shoulda seen those babies fly! Luka hit his one so hard I think some poor guy in LA got covered in breadcrumbs."
He laughed at the memory and replied simply, "I had a few things on my mind." "So, what do you have to do if we lose?" He knew that there was always some sort of challenge or forfeit involved for the loser.
"Uh, I have to go down to Union Station, stand on the platform and sing Karma Chameleon dressed as Boy George. But if we win, then my wonderful cousin Troy has to do it." "So, Italy or Brazil?"
"Traitors," Abby whispered, feeling invigorated by the atmosphere, troubled by the ridiculous images which were slowly forming in her head. Here's me thinking my mother is crazy! She thought, torn between desperation and humour. Luka declined to comment, knowing it was not an inflammatory comment, but Mo was quick to rise to the bait, to surmise a defence. "Italy is a country rich in culture and Brazil are the World Cup holders. So we're entitled to pay them a little respect." Somewhere deep underneath his outward carefree attitude was a deeply serious side. Rapidly, he flung the blue shirt of Italy at Luka, making a double attempt to concrete his claim to a little acculturation.
She got to her feet and shrugged nonchalantly, too radiated with a glow of pleasured indifference to argue, then was brushed with a tingle of amusement as she observed the pained look on Luka's face as he stretched the shirt out in front of him, testing the tension in whatever it was made of. "Are you sure this will fit me?" He didn't want to have it surgically removed at the end of the evening.
"That shirt belongs to my friend Johnny, he's built like a freakin' tank, you'll have loadsa room. Besides, it's meant to be tight, it's all part of the design."
Pausing to take a much-needed breath, he added, folding his arms while grinning inanely, "And, you know, when you score a goal you have to take it off and whirl it around your head."
"Would you like to demonstrate for us now?" Luka asked teasingly, knowing that Mo relished a larger audience for his triumphs.
"It's time to go," he replied, his restlessness now evident as he continually seemed to shake from side to side, attempting to follow his own, personal rhythm. He swiftly picked up the bright yellow Brazil shirt and the case, collecting his belongings much like an unwanted busker ejected from a station. Enigmatically, he disappeared out of the wide-open door without a word, blending into the temperate atmosphere. Luka watched, a little concerned that a man of so many words had vacated a room without a "Hurry up" or a "I'll see you downstairs." Nothing. In an effort to distract his attention he searched for his door keys, preparing himself for their imminent departure. He threw the shirt over one shoulder, then prepared to lock up, wondering if he could find the strength to move that damn amplifier, let alone to get involved in another one of Mo's contests.
"You're not really going to wear that, are you?" Abby looked at him questioningly as if she were pleading with him not to participate.
"It's all a game. You just have to play along," he replied, with another ton of enigma wrapped silently in his words. God help me get through tonight, she thought, nodding slowly as she followed him out of the door.
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: Thanks for all your comments and keep letting me know what you think please!! :)
Author's note: One instance of strong language here folks, ya have been warned!!
"Without music, life would be a mistake." Nietzsche.
Music. Once again, it was tickling her eardrums, clicking over in her brain, pulsing her senses alive. Abby contemplated what everybody else living in the building must've thought about what seemed to be the constant noise. She knew that if she lived there, it would have toyed with her, perhaps even peppered her with agitation, as she was always grateful for a little peace when she got home after the end of a long shift. She stopped on the landing, questioning her reflection in the cool glass of the window. It was getting near to ninety degrees outside and there was very little breeze to take the edge off the stifling heat. Her eyes had begun to sting, so she paused to carefully wipe away the acidic saltiness gathering against her irises. Having sat on her last pair of sunglasses, she would have to deal with it for now. Pushing her fingers all the way through the length of her hair, she concluded that at least the sun had eradicated the need for blow-drying, even if her scalp was getting dangerously warmer by the second.
Her vivid indigo shorts moulded to her warm skin, she shifted uncomfortably for a moment. Purposefully, she shook her head gently, rapidly displacing a few errant strands of her long hair from her face; shaking away the questions buzzing in her head. You're here to enjoy yourself, not to analyse. I should've been a psychiatrist, she thought, with a smile, feeling the deep pang of irony. No, I wasn't meant to have too many letters after my name. Suddenly feeling trapped in the small space, she went upstairs. There was no agonising wait for someone to open the door this time. The door to Luka's apartment was wide open, beckoning like the mouth of a tunnel, held open by a heavy black object that looked much like an amplifier. It seemed to her like some sort of statement: the door is always open. Abby's attention was then distracted by an odd sight. The floor was decorated with a row of empty Coke bottles, their contour shape making shadowy patterns on floor, their green tint glowing in the sunshine, they were arranged like an absurd row of skittles.
Luka and Mo were at the table, seemingly unflustered by the weather, engaged in a friendly game of Operation. Getting closer, she realised that this was not the case, the heat had affected them too. Mo's skin gleamed with a scant trace of sweat, both of them had unfastened a multitude of shirt buttons, leaving her with tempting glances of bare chest. The sun's getting to you, she thought, with a secret, almost lascivious smile. Mo had changed his haircut too, the braids newly twisted on top of his head like a contortionist. To follow a path along one of the thick strands would have been like following an unfinished map, your final destination never quite where you would've expected it to be.
"What's next? Twister?" A simple hello did not seem fitting to the situation.
Mo shook his head. "Let me tell ya, I ain't gettin' no stitches from this guy! You've joined us at the critical stage. It's two hundred dollars for the wishbone."
"The scandal of modern medicine," she said, breezily, joining them at the table.
Mo had propped both his elbows against the very edge of the table, with the entirely criminal intention of attempting to jar the table and set off the buzzer. As Luka, infused with concentration, carefully tried to remove the wishbone, Mo desperately mis-timed and overshot his attempt, slamming his right elbow hard against the uncompromising wood.
"Shit!! Motherfuckin'..." He was a man as animated in his pain as he was in his pleasure, jumping to his feet and grabbing his elbow.
"Serves you right for being a cheat." Luka said, amused at his friend's plight.
"You ain't got no compassion!" Mo replied, trying in vain to stifle the flow of laughter ready to trickle from his mouth, rubbing his hand speedily against his injured elbow.
"Here, have a cherry," Luka said, aspiring to placate Mo's pain by distracting his attention, by offering him a huge bowl of shiny, dark crimson cherries.
Mo picked a solitary fruit and smiled his gratitude mockingly. His theory was that he treated his own life much like a cherry: enjoying the succour of rich, diverse, sweet flesh and discarding the wasteful stone yet preserving it for its productivity, its rebirth. After he had finished eating, he conserved the stone deep in the soft denim lining of his huge shorts, forgotten and unimportant, but lingering for the future.
"I'm gonna get some ice. And I left a few things upstairs. So I'll be back in a coupla minutes." He scuttled off, in his own world, still feeling a distant throb in his arm from the jarring of his elbow. Pointing the remote control purposefully at the stereo, he switched off the blaring music, not wanting to miss a single beat as he finally paced out through the open door in search of some respite. Abby swiftly took his place, sitting opposite Luka, distinctly avoiding his gaze for a while, finding it almost painful to be in his eyeline. Sometimes, he really did leave her lost for words, struggling to find anything to say. Silence was somehow golden as he concentrated on his futile task, tenderly endeavouring to pick the cold piece of plastic out without disturbing the peace.
After finally pulling the wishbone clear without a hint of any noise, Luka smiled triumphantly, half-happy, half-bemused that he was participating in such a game. He looked across the table, glancing at Abby with a little more intent. In a reminiscent flash of images, he suddenly realised that she had been an almost permanent fixture in his rather erratic life for the last few weeks. She had been, as he had put it all that time ago, "Chasing his shadow." He knew that his mood, of late, had been as changeable as the seasons, with the lucidity and warmth of summer being the presiding emotions that buzzed in his veins. He let his curiosity pass, deciding that he was glad to have her company without speculating about what exactly had motivated her to be in his presence. He watched with a deep shade of intrigue as she slowly leant back against the chair, her eyes wide open, her body relaxed, a slight expression of torture etched across her warm face.
"So. Tell me, what should I expect to happen tonight?" Aware that his gaze was becoming an assessing one, she looked right into his eyes, digging deep into his soul for a truthful answer. Momentarily transfixed by her expression, he broke into a smile, then answered.
"You'll just have to wait and see."
She rolled her eyes with a half-grin. Typical. Enigma, mystery and wonder.
Truthfully, she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Mo returned in a blaze of colour, football shirts hanging over his shoulders, a huge black and silver case in one hand, the box of Twister uncouthly shoved underneath his other arm. Grimacing from his exertion, he put the case down, precariously balancing Twister on top of it.
"Later," he said enigmatically, winking suggestively as he gazed up from the brightly coloured box of the game.
"Some decisions before we go. What's it to be? Italy or Brazil?" He asked while waving the shirts around in the warmth, sending a mêlée of blue, white, yellow and green whirling in the heat, creating a positive rush of screaming air. "You decide," Luka said, deciding to leave his fate in someone else's hands.
"Are we going to a soccer match?" Abby questioned, feeling more than a little confused.
"Mo's cousin likes to challenge him to sports matches." Quickly, Luka reflected on the last time, then added, "I hope we're playing with proper equipment this time."
Mo smiled, then taking Abby's continuing confusion on board, explained. "Last time, we played baseball with an empty Coke bottle and burger buns. Man, you shoulda seen those babies fly! Luka hit his one so hard I think some poor guy in LA got covered in breadcrumbs."
He laughed at the memory and replied simply, "I had a few things on my mind." "So, what do you have to do if we lose?" He knew that there was always some sort of challenge or forfeit involved for the loser.
"Uh, I have to go down to Union Station, stand on the platform and sing Karma Chameleon dressed as Boy George. But if we win, then my wonderful cousin Troy has to do it." "So, Italy or Brazil?"
"Traitors," Abby whispered, feeling invigorated by the atmosphere, troubled by the ridiculous images which were slowly forming in her head. Here's me thinking my mother is crazy! She thought, torn between desperation and humour. Luka declined to comment, knowing it was not an inflammatory comment, but Mo was quick to rise to the bait, to surmise a defence. "Italy is a country rich in culture and Brazil are the World Cup holders. So we're entitled to pay them a little respect." Somewhere deep underneath his outward carefree attitude was a deeply serious side. Rapidly, he flung the blue shirt of Italy at Luka, making a double attempt to concrete his claim to a little acculturation.
She got to her feet and shrugged nonchalantly, too radiated with a glow of pleasured indifference to argue, then was brushed with a tingle of amusement as she observed the pained look on Luka's face as he stretched the shirt out in front of him, testing the tension in whatever it was made of. "Are you sure this will fit me?" He didn't want to have it surgically removed at the end of the evening.
"That shirt belongs to my friend Johnny, he's built like a freakin' tank, you'll have loadsa room. Besides, it's meant to be tight, it's all part of the design."
Pausing to take a much-needed breath, he added, folding his arms while grinning inanely, "And, you know, when you score a goal you have to take it off and whirl it around your head."
"Would you like to demonstrate for us now?" Luka asked teasingly, knowing that Mo relished a larger audience for his triumphs.
"It's time to go," he replied, his restlessness now evident as he continually seemed to shake from side to side, attempting to follow his own, personal rhythm. He swiftly picked up the bright yellow Brazil shirt and the case, collecting his belongings much like an unwanted busker ejected from a station. Enigmatically, he disappeared out of the wide-open door without a word, blending into the temperate atmosphere. Luka watched, a little concerned that a man of so many words had vacated a room without a "Hurry up" or a "I'll see you downstairs." Nothing. In an effort to distract his attention he searched for his door keys, preparing himself for their imminent departure. He threw the shirt over one shoulder, then prepared to lock up, wondering if he could find the strength to move that damn amplifier, let alone to get involved in another one of Mo's contests.
"You're not really going to wear that, are you?" Abby looked at him questioningly as if she were pleading with him not to participate.
"It's all a game. You just have to play along," he replied, with another ton of enigma wrapped silently in his words. God help me get through tonight, she thought, nodding slowly as she followed him out of the door.