John Carter stood outside the door of Luka Kovac’s apartment and raised his hand to knock for what was the fourth or fifth time. He lowered it again and walked away, turned and paced a few times going over in his head the reason why he was here. Kovac’s increasingly erratic behavior had not only become a cause of concern amongst the staff but also the source of gossip that was making his position at the hospital untenable. It was Susan that had approached him to talk to Kovac and he had, point-blank, refused. No way could he talk to him, he had explained, there was too much history between them. Abby was the obvious reason but his relationship with Kovac had always been strained.

"He doesn’t like me," he had protested, "and you expect me to go over there and get him to open up – it’s just not going to happen. You talk to him."

He thought that he had succeeded in avoiding the subject when Deb joined in the debate and argued that guys needed other guys to talk to. John threw his hands in the air and countered "Well, we’re . . . not . . . regular guys." This feeble excuse was met with the appropriate amount of derision and the debate became more heated and vocal, drawing the attention of Kerry Weaver. Susan explained that the ‘unacceptable disruption in the workplace’ was because they were trying to persuade Carter to talk to Kovac about his behavior. John hoped that Kerry would side with him and see how ridiculous it was (God, Kovac had made enough complaints about him in the past) but to his amazement Weaver not only approved of the action, she had enforced it which was why he was now standing outside Kovac’s apartment.

He walked back to the door, raised his hand, took a deep breath, knocked and waited for the confrontation . . .

****************************************************************

. . . and waited. There were certainly sounds coming from the apartment but no one was coming to the door. It crossed John’s mind that maybe Luka had company and wondered if the rumors were true that he had taken to picking up prostitutes. He smirked, shook his head and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "Well at least I tried," he thought and was about to turn and leave when the door was pulled open and Luka Kovac was standing in front of him.

Luka was dressed in a blue sweatshirt and black jeans that had that ‘slept in’ look which was mildly ironic as Luka looked like he hadn’t been sleeping at all. His face, tired and drawn, was fixed in an _expression of shock - John Carter was the last person he expected to see standing at his door. He took a gulp from the beer bottle in his hand, swallowed, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and said, "Well?"

"Shit," John thought. He had rehearsed a few well-meaning phrases to open his approach but now he couldn’t remember one word of them. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Luka took another gulp of beer and shook his head impatiently. "What do you want Carter?"

The words sounded slurred and John subconsciously glanced at the bottle in Luka’s hand and wondered how much he'd had to drink. He took a deep breath. "Dr Kovac," he opened, thinking that it was best if he started off formally, "can we talk?"

Luka stared at him coldly. "If its about Abby there is nothing left to say. She’s your problem now. Deal with it." He started to close the door but John’s hand flew up and slammed against it.

"This has nothing to do with Abby," he said, somewhat louder than he had intended, instantly annoyed by Kovac’s attitude. Luka, in turn, irritated by John’s action that prevented him from shutting the door, swatted his hand away angrily. John, realising that this was not a good start to what was supposed to be a ‘friendly’ conversation, raised both hands in a conciliatory act of surrender.

"Look," John tried again, "I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m here to . . . talk . . . about you . . . people are worried."

Luka took yet another gulp from the bottle. "Did Abby send you?" he asked, his voice impassive.

John bit his lower lip and wondered why everything always came back to Abby. "No," he replied, "Abby doesn’t even know I’m here. She’s visiting her family for the week."

Luka raised his eyebrows at this information and then smiled: John once again fought back the rising irritation. "Well, its obvious that you don’t need my help so I’ll leave you to . . .do . . . whatever it is you do," and with that he turned and walked away.

"Wait." John stopped and turned back to the door and Luka, after a slight pause, stepped to one side allowing him to enter his apartment. John, with a gnawing sense of unease in the pit of stomach, walked back slowly and entered.

****************************************************************

Once John had entered the apartment Luka closed the door by hooking his foot around it and kicking it shut: John, for some reason, found himself flinching at the noise.

"Do you want a drink?" Luka asked casually and then added "Oops. Sorry. You can’t can you?" He was grinning broadly making John think again that he was drunk. "I’m fine thanks," he replied coolly, making a mental note to give Susan hell for getting him into this.

Luka flopped into a chair and hooked one leg over the arm, a posture that was simultaneously open but somehow vaguely aggressive. He waved the beer bottle around in an expansive gesture and shook his head quizzically as though granting John permission to speak. John, however, was, once again, at a loss for words and the two men ended up staring at each other. John, feeling deeply uneasy, was the first to look away. "Susan," he thought, "you are so dead."

Luka sighed heavily, growing impatient. "Well. I’m waiting . . . What wondrous insight can you give to my situation?"

John refused to rise to the bait convinced now that Luka needed more help than he could actually give. "I think you need help . . . professional help . . . counseling." Luka snorted and took another drink from the bottle.

"I know that you’ve been through a lot . . ." he continued, "and losing Abby . . ."

Luka swiftly rose from his chair and walked towards him, his eyes dark and menacing. "Is that why you’re here . . . " he hissed "to gloat . . .

"No. It’s not like that . . ." John was completely taken aback by Luka’s demeanour and found himself retreating backwards, trying to increase the distance between them.

Luka, seeming to lose momentum, stopped and staggered backwards, slumping back down in the chair. Once again, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink, tilting his head back to pour the liquid down his throat. It was obvious to John that the alcohol was not helping the situation and, being John Carter, was not able to stop himself from saying so.

"Look I never claimed to have the solution to your problems but I know that it doesn’t lie at the bottom of a bottle."

Luka sneered. "Aaaaaah. The drink . . . you have a problem with alcohol . . . you don’t like people drinking?"

"That’s not true . . . alcohol’s fine . . . if you can handle it."

"I can handle it . . . it’s Abby that can’t . . . she’s weak . . . just like you." Luka was deliberately provoking him now and they both knew it.

"I’m gonna go . . . this is pointless." John started to head towards the door but Luka rose from the chair and blocked his path.

"What’s the hurry. Stay and bless me with more of your wisdom."

John couldn’t believe that Luka was doing this. He moved to one side to pass but Luka matched his move: he stepped back again and Luka did the same – it was like they were locked in some strange dance.

John stopped moving and they both squared up to each other, eyes black with anger. John raised his hands, placed them on Luka’s shoulders and tried to shove him out of the way. Luka, dropping the beer bottle so that he could match him move for move, shoved back only much more forcefully. John lost it completely.

"Fuck you," he shouted. He launched himself at Luka forcing him off balance. To prevent himself from falling Luka grabbed John around the waist and twisted him around propelling him back into the center of the room. Unfortunately for John, he stepped on the discarded beer bottle causing him to slip and before he knew it he was heading for the floor. Being John Carter, luck was not on his side – he struck his head on the corner of the coffee table and knocked himself cold.

Luka Kovac stared in disbelief at the unconscious figure of John Carter lying on his apartment floor, a trickle of blood running down his face. He ran both his hands through his hair.

"Oh fuck."



To be continued . . .

Luka Kovac didn’t do what any rational person would have done when confronted by the unconscious figure of John Truman Carter. Any rational person, whether they were a doctor or not, would have checked his status and then called for an ambulance. Of course, Luka, after recovering from the initial shock and, more-or-less, acting on auto-pilot, did check John’s vitals, assessing that the injury to his head was not severe, and he cleaned and dressed the wound: but calling for an ambulance did not feature in his actions. What he did instead was to drag him into the bedroom and haul him on to the bed. Then, moving swiftly, he opened the top drawer of the nightstand, pulled out a pair of police issue handcuffs, snapped one end on to the iron bed frame and the other on to John’s right wrist.

Thus, it can be safely assumed that Luka Kovac was not acting rationally. The fact that he had had quite a bit to drink was one reason – the other was that he simply panicked. He knew Carter hated him, despite the public displays of civility, and the feeling was mutual. The last thing he needed, considering his current reputation in the hospital, was trouble . . .

****************************************************************

John Carter slowly came to his senses. He blinked at the light that was invading his eyes and rolled his head slowly from side to side. His head throbbed with the motion. He blinked several more times forcing his eyes to focus, to push through the blurry haze. He attempted to lift his right hand, which, for some reason, was above his head, but it wouldn’t move. Instead, he used his left hand to feel his head and, after gentle probing, he found the Steri-Strips . . . . . . . and then he remembered. He tried to sit up but a sharp, cutting pain at his right wrist held him back. He looked, his eyes now fully focused . . . "What the f. . .?"

Luka, on hearing that his ‘guest’ was awake, cautiously entered the bedroom: he was more sober now and vaguely wondering if he had done the right thing. If proof was required that he hadn’t, he found it in the blazing eyes of John Carter. John stood up and moved towards him before being roughly pulled up by the handcuff.

"Well . . . " John was shaking his head in that way he had when he was agitated or nervous, "what are you waiting for . . . take these off . . . now."

Luka said nothing, did nothing, not moving from the door, conveniently out of John’s reach.

John shook his head again, his mouth gaping open. "Take these off," he ordered. Luka shifted on his feet and stared at the floor, wrapping his arms around himself. "Luka, if you don’t take these off I swear to God I’ll . . ."

"You’ll what," Luka snapped, looking up and staring hard into John’s eyes. He abruptly stepped out of the room and then stepped back in again, extremely agitated. He took deep breaths trying to calm down. He raised his hands, palms turned outwards, and softened his tone.

"Look. I did it because I didn’t want you to just rush out of here without talking. I need to know what you’re going to say."

Again John’s mouth gaped open in disbelief. "What I’ll say. What I’ll say." The pitch of John’s voice rose with the intensity of his emotion. "That you attacked me. Knocked me out. Is that what you mean?"

Luka shook his head, trying to bite back on his anger. "You see. That’s why I did it . . . and to get it straight . . . I didn’t attack you. I didn’t knock you out – you knocked yourself out. I knew that you would use it as an opportunity to get back at me."

"Get back at you. Get back at you. Did you think handcuffing me to the bed was going to make it any better?" All this time, John, normally so expressive with his hands, was unbalanced by the restricting handcuff. Luka was mesmerized by these half-gestures and, as if evidence for his disturbed state of mind was needed, grinned.

John was incensed. "You think this is funny? You’re mad – certifiable. When people hear about this . . . you are . . . you’re . . . I don’t know . . . finished . . . you’re finished."

Luka shook his head, seemingly dazed. He retreated from the room shutting the door behind him. John was equally astounded. "Luka, get back here and take these off . . . Luka," he shouted. The only response he received was the sound of the television.

****************************************************************

If John had taken the time to think about his situation he may have acted more wisely than he did but his dislike for the man (which was growing by the second) colored his judgement. He pulled at his wrist, getting more and more irate.

"He’s gone mad. Handcuffs, fucking handcuffs. Crazy bastard". He sat back down on the bed and examined the handcuffs. He looked about him trying to find something to pick at the lock with. He searched the drawers of the nightstand but found nothing that would assist him.

Frustrated he did the only he could think of. He shouted for help. He wasn’t sure if anyone could hear him, not knowing the habits of Luka’s neighbors, or even if he had any, but at least it was being proactive. "Help. Somebody help me."

Luka flew into the room like a tornado and it was only a matter of seconds before he was on top of John forcing him onto the bed, climbing on top of him, one hand placed on his mouth to stop him from calling out. John was taken aback by the intensity of the assault. He tried to fend him off with his one free hand but it was futile: he gave up and lay quiet and still. Luka, sensing his acquiescence, eased up.

Time seemed to stop . . .

Luka’s weight was pressing heavily on to him and John shifted uncomfortably and groaned. The sound broke Luka out of a trance. He removed his hand from John’s mouth. John dared to speak but he spoke softly not wanting to provoke Luka further.

"You’re hurting me."

Luka stared at him blankly and then, in a rush, he leapt off of the bed, went to the drawer of a dresser and pulled out a tie. He returned to the bed and grabbed hold of John’s free hand, wrenching it back. John cried out in pain. Luka knelt on his arm and knotted one end of the tie around his wrist. He then pulled it tight taking it to the other corner of the bed frame. He pulled it through and tied it. Then, without so much a backward glance, he left the room slamming the door behind him.

John was bewildered, confused. He shifted trying to find a position to ease his back, to get comfortable. He pulled at the tie but it was knotted tight. He tried bending his wrist to untie the knot but his fingers couldn’t reach. He tried reaching for the end tied to the bed but it too was out of reach, his arms stretched wide as they were. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he seethed between clenched teeth.

‘Way to go John,’ he thought, ‘how to make a bad situation much, much worse. Jesus.’ But he was thankful that Luka hadn’t gagged him . . . trying to reason with Luka was the only defense he had . . .

****************************************************************

The room grew dark as night approached which heightened John’s state of anxiety. He was relieved when the door opened and light from the other room illuminated a small triangle of floor. Luka was silhouetted in the doorframe and John could see a bottle raised to his lips. ‘Great,’ he thought but wisely said nothing. Luka reached out and turned on the light and John was alarmed to see that it wasn’t beer that he was drinking, it was scotch. "Luka. We’ve got to talk. This is crazy."

Luka grinned amiably and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked John up and down and John found himself inadvertently cringing under his gaze. Luka returned his look to John’s face. He realised that there were many things that pissed him off about John Carter – his arrogance, his superciliousness – he grinned as he mentally slurred over all the s letters . . . He took another drink . . .

. . . he also realised that what really pissed him off most of all, at this precise moment in time, were his eyes – those deep brown puppy dog eyes that John knew how to use so well. He’d seen him in action with those eyes, seen him come over all helpless and cute when he wanted to get something. Those eyes . . . He smiled as he reached his hand out to the lower drawer of the nightstand. Even in his addled state he was fully aware that John was watching him intently. He opened the drawer and pulled out a piece of cloth.

"What are you doing?" He noted the nervous inflection in John’s voice but it seemed distant, far away – he didn’t care to reply.

He folded the material deliberately and then moved his hands to John’s head. John tried to move away, to throw his head out of Luka’s grasp but he couldn’t actually do anything to prevent him from placing the material over his eyes.

Luka tied the material tightly and was pleased at the effect that it had. John was breathing rapidly, his body tense with apprehension. Luka felt a strange surge of power that was intoxicating. He reached out and lightly brushed the side of John’s face with his hand, the barest of touches, but the effect was devastating. John flinched and then thrashed wildly bucking against the restraints. He screamed, "Let go of me. Fucking untie me you bastard."

Luka moved his hand down John’s chest not caring that John’s violent movements sporadically broke the contact. He moved his hand to his groin and cupped his genitals through his pants.

"If you don’t stop moving I will hurt you." John either ignored this or didn’t hear because he continued to move. Luka clenched his hand as hard as he could. John screamed in pain. His back arched as he tried to get away from Luka’s grip. Luka finally let go and John collapsed onto the bed panting frantically, trying to get his breath.

****************************************************************

John Carter was now in a complete state of panic, myriad thoughts racing through his head, trying to make sense of an incomprehensible situation.

He heard footsteps approaching the bed. He tensed. "Luka we need to talk about this. You’re not thinking straight . . . I know you’ve been under stress . . . with the suspension and . . . everything . . . and I know you have reasons to hate me and if there is . . . anyway that I can make it up to you then I’ll do it." Luka said nothing. "Money. I have access to money. Anything you want."

Luka snorted with contempt. "You think that you can buy your way out of any situation don’t you." John hadn’t really thought that it would work but he was grasping at straws.

"Then tell me what you want. Please." Luka didn’t answer and John’s desperation was evident. "Jesus this is ridiculous. This is getting way out of hand."

Suddenly Luka was by his side, his mouth to John’s ear. He screamed, "Just shut up . . . for once in your pathetic, miserable life know when to shut up," and then he was gone.

John said nothing but his mind was racing. He could hear Luka pacing up and down, muttering in Croatian. He actually wondered if Luka was going to kill him, he wasn’t a murderer . . . Oh God. All this flew through his head before he noticed that the room was silent. He listened, his head raised off the bed.

"Luka." There was no reply. "Luka . . . stop . . . fucking with my head."

Luka, standing in the corner with his back to the wall, covered his ears and slowly slid to the floor.



To be continued . . .

John’s body had lapsed into a state he didn’t think possible. It was in complete contrast to his mind. His body lay still as though paralyzed . . . the only exception was his breathing which was shallow, controlled. His mind, however, raced, somersaulted. He hadn’t heard a sound from Luka, had no idea where he was. The cloth over his eyes was tight: he was aware that the light was on but he couldn’t make out any discernable shapes. His head ached, as did his balls, a continuous throbbing presence. He shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, which served only to remind him of the tension in his shoulders, in his arms. He wondered how long it was before his back, so susceptible to strain, would join in this melee of pain. He resisted the urge to groan, not wanting to draw attention to himself . . . if he couldn’t see Luka then Luka couldn’t see him . . . he wanted to laugh at the child-like logic . . . but he didn’t.

He wondered if anyone could see him through the window – the light was on but he didn’t know if the drapes were drawn (were there drapes? he asked himself), was Luka concerned if anyone could see him (were they overlooked?). He wanted to thrash around again to make it clear to anyone watching that he was here against his will . . . but he didn’t.

He wondered what time it was. What time did he get here? . . . about 6.30 after his shift . . . but what time was it now? . . . he had no idea. He didn’t know how long he was out for . . . he had seen night fall . . . before . . . when he could see . . . but how long ago was that? Would anyone miss him?

He tried to think clearly . . . Abby was gone . . . his grandmother didn’t expect him . . . The hospital . . . his next shift wasn’t until 5.00 p.m. tomorrow. They wouldn’t chase around looking for him . . . not to begin with. Weaver would just curse . . . Susan would be apologetic . . . saying something really important must have come up (strange how he could almost hear her voice in his head) . . . only Deb would worry . . . but she always worried . . . 18 – 24 hours perhaps . . .

Someone would then ring Luka . . . they knew he was coming here. What would Luka say? No, he didn’t call, why would he? Yes, he called, stayed for an hour and then left . . . or . . . ‘Sorry he can’t come to the phone right now he’s a bit tied up.’ He automatically suppressed the laugh that formed at the back of his throat, swallowed it. ‘Careful John,’ he thought ‘lets not get hysterical.’ But someone would call . . . eventually . . .

Brrp. Brrrrrp . . . . . . . . . . . . Brrp. Brrrrrp . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘What the . . . a phone . . . My cell phone!’ He hears Luka stir. ‘My phone was in my jacket . . . where’s my jacket.’ Luka must have taken it off of him. ‘Why didn’t I think about my phone. Damn.’ He hears Luka moving across the room, unsteady on his feet. He hears the rustle of material. ‘Shit.’ It’s the outside world . . . a chance of help. "Luka . . . let me answer it. It could be urgent." He sounded too desperate. The cell phone continued to ring . . . The shadow of Luka passes him . . . he hears the click of the light switch, what light there was vanishes, and then he hears the door softly closing . . .

He allowed himself a moment of panic, of dread. He pulled at his wrists, only to increase his pain. He thrashed his head to dislodge the cloth, only to rip the hairs on the nape of his neck. This isn’t happening . . . to feel this vulnerable, this scared, after so much had happened, after he had regained so much of his life . . . he wanted to call out, to shout . . . but he didn’t.

****************************************************************

Luka stared at the phone display - Abby. His face betrayed little emotion as he walked slowly across the room, the phone bleating in his hand. He looked at it one more time before dropping it into the fish tank.

Abby. He closes his eyes, tries to see her face. But it wasn’t her face . . . it’s always . . . He shut down the thought. Abby. Never knew what she wanted . . . wanted what she couldn’t have . . . so willing to play the victim . . . he had never known anyone so motivated by self-pity . . . except, of course, him, Carter. An _expression of contempt flashes across his face and then it is gone, replaced by the mask of weary indifference. ‘Carter can have you’ . . . his words. Well, they were well suited to one another. He thinks about them . . . together . . . their public displays of affection . . . that’s all they were . . . displays . . . an act . . . a deception.

****************************************************************

He is drained. Exhausted. Drunk. He turns off the TV, an automatic action. Turns off the light in the main room. He walks back to the bedroom, opens the door and enters. He doesn’t bother with the light. He removes his clothes, discards them on the floor. He moves to the bed, sees him there, illuminated dimly by the insipid streetlights. He doesn’t react, as though having John Carter tied to his bed was an everyday occurrence. With him lying there he can’t get between the covers . . . another annoyance . . . so he lies on top . . .

****************************************************************

The paralysis that pervaded John’s body now invaded his mind. He had heard Luka return to the bedroom . . . had heard him remove his clothes . . . had felt his attempts to lift the covers . . . and through it all he had been powerless to think, to speak. Feeling Luka’s weight on the bed he had tried to move out of his way but with his arms stretched wide he had no room to maneuver. He could feel Luka pressing against him . . . knowing that he was possibly naked . . .was he totally naked . . . Oh God . . .

Part of him, the intelligent, educated, trained, rational, part of him knew he should be talking, trying to negotiate his way out of this . . . what . . . what the fuck is this . . .?

"Luka. What are you doing? Luka. Get off. Get off of me." He struggles to find the words . . . the right words. He tried to invoke sympathy. "You’re hurting me."

"Shut up . . . Do you think I care about you. I don’t." His voice is apathetic, languid. His head droops, comes to rest on John’s chest. He hears John’s heart racing. He is mesmerized by the steady, rapid beat . . . it’s hypnotic . . . trance-like . . . like music. He places his hand over John’s heart, feels it beating through his shirt . . . how fragile it feels. He lowers his hand, tugs at John’s shirt, pulling it out of his pants. He slides his hand underneath, moves it up over his abdomen, up to his chest, and again, places it over his heart. Finally, it’s too much for John . . .

He bucks, writhes. "Get off. Get off. Get off." Luka, in brutal response, swings his full length over, on to John’s body . . . and John, once again, desists instantly, as though a switch has been flicked. Only his breathing is loud, rasping in the silence of the room.

Luka can see the confusion and panic in John’s face: he knows what he is feeling; his distress is palpable. It is his own emotions that confound him. ‘Why am I doing this? I know it is madness . . . but he is here . . . he has no right to be here. Why did he come? Of all people why him . . .? A beating heart . . . He is passive now . . . silent . . . still . . . yet I know I can make him react.’ He lowers his head closer to John’s . . .so close that he can feel his breath . . . John tries to move away but there is no where to go. Luka blows softly into his face . . . he squirms in disgust . . .

Luka is spellbound . . .he spreads out his weight . . . he has him pinned beneath him, his body pressing against him . . . he feels his panic. But he can do nothing. It makes him feel . . . powerful.

To be continued . . .

For John this was a torment that he had never known before. Never had he felt so powerless. The escalation of events astounded him, sent his mind reeling. Being restrained was bad . . . being blindfolded was bad . . . but having Luka on top of him . . . pressing in to him . . . this was intolerable. He wondered how much worse it was going to get before . . . before what? He could smell the alcohol on Luka’s breath and it made him feel nauseous . . . knowing his face was so close to his. He swallowed hard, tried to take a deep breath . . . and failed. Luka was so heavy on his chest, so constricting . . . he couldn’t breathe. John fought the panic, suppressed the fear that Luka was going to suffocate him . . . he heaved his chest and tried to get him to shift . . .

. . . and he did. Luka raised himself up, pulled up his legs into a kneeling position and allowed John to regain control of his breathing. The relief he felt was cut short as Luka was now straddled over his groin and the concentrated pressure on his already aching balls was painful. He groaned, feeling sick, hit by another wave of nausea. He swallowed hard, biting down on the feeling, not wanting to give in to it.

"What’s the matter . . . ummm? I hurt you." John didn’t answer not trusting the tone of Luka’s voice. Luka moved a hand to John’s balls, caressed them through the material of his pants. John took a deep breath and held it . . . waited for the pain that was surely going to follow . . .

. . it didn’t come. Luka slowly moved his hand up, slid it under John’s shirt, moved it on to his stomach. John flinched at the coldness, contracted the muscles in his abdomen. To Luka his skin felt warm . . . smooth . . . then he found the scars. The contrast was striking. He probed gently, his fingers tracing their outline, feeling the damage. "Does this hurt?" he asked.

John turned his head in Luka’s direction. He didn’t answer. He realized he was still holding his breath . . . let it out . . . slowly . . . breathed in . . . aware that his muscles were trembling as he tried to keep them taut. Luka pressed his hand firmly into his skin. "Talk to me."

Again he flinched. "No . . . it doesn’t hurt."

Luka continued to trail his fingers along the scars following their path. "I remember that day . . . you could have died. Why didn’t you die?"

"I was lucky I guess," he answered, trying to keep his voice flat, free of any irony.

"I helped to save you."

John wanted to say ‘you did your job, that’s what you were supposed to do’ but he didn’t. "I know."

"Are you grateful . . . that you are alive . . . do you thank God everyday for sparing you?"

John was surprised by the question and was stuck for something to say. He tried to think of something that would be helpful, non-confrontational, but found he couldn’t lie. "I don’t think about God much . . . I guess I’m not . . . very religious."

"But does God think about you . . . will he look favorably upon you . . . when you are judged?"

John tried to quell his frustration. He was glad that Luka was talking but he was wary, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. He didn’t know if he believed in God or not and didn’t want to discuss it now. He turned it back on Luka. "How will he judge you?"

The fingers stopped moving and John, by instinct, held his breath. "I’ve already been judged," Luka said softly.

Luka closed his eyes, shutting down his senses . . . shut out the sight, the sound . . . the feel of him. Then he too is hit by a wave of nausea . . . everything swirling in blackness . . . he’s going to throw up. He opened his eyes . . . tried to stop his head from spinning . . . concentrated hard to focus, to keep his senses in balance . . . and failed.

He leapt from the bed, rushed from the bedroom into the bathroom made it to the toilet. Sinking to his knees he vomited, gave up all that he had to give. Afterwards he collapsed backwards onto the floor and lay there staring at the ceiling . . . John Carter is a vague memory . . . a disturbance in his life . . . He closed his eyes.

****************************************************************

He suddenly felt unbearably cold. He rolled over onto his stomach, pulled himself up onto his knees, slowly stood trying to keep the pounding in his head to a minimum. He turned on the light and reeled as it penetrated his eyes. He grabbed the robe from the bathroom door and pulled it on, pulled it tight around him. He splashed water onto his face to clear his head, drank the water to cleanse his mouth.

He knows that there is something he must deal with . . . something he cannot ignore.

He walked slowly back to the bedroom . . .

He switched on the light and the sight of what he’s done instantly repulses him. So disturbing is the image that he has to grab hold of the doorframe to stop himself from falling. He closed his eyes, shut out the sight. When he opens them again there is no change. He took deep breaths to calm himself and cautiously moved towards the bed. He saw John tense . . . his breathing change . . . and he is . . . ashamed . . . that he could alter his breathing just by his presence . . .

. . and yet . . .

He knows that this is madness . . . that this is not who he is . . . sometimes he was filled with a rage that blinded him . . . that he hit out . . . but . . . this is not who he is . . .

. . and yet . . .

He moved closer to the bed and noted John tense again. He is filled by strange conflicting emotions . . . something elusive that he has not experienced before . . . but he is in control now . . . knows what he has to do . . .

He sat on the edge of the bed conscious of his heart pounding in his chest. He reached forward, moved his hands towards John’s head . . . was shocked as John flinched, moved his head away. He closed his eyes, licked his lips, aware that his mouth is dry. He opened his eyes forced his hands to John’s head, forced John’s head to one side and removed the blindfold.

To John the light, after so many hours of darkness, was blinding, painful. He screwed his eyes shut, opened them . . . tried to focus . . . it took him a while and then he focused on Luka. Luka stares back . . . but he cannot take it.

"Don’t look at me." His voice is shaky: however much he wants to show that he is in control his voice betrays him.

John looked at him uncertainly . . . did he mean it? Part of John wanted to brazen it out, confront him, reason with him in to releasing him . . . if he could only see that Luka was wavering, consumed by shame and guilt. He hesitated . . . deferred. He looked away.

A strange feeling crept over Luka, something invidious. Carter in the workplace was never this compliant . . . this yielding. Luka remembered the times when Carter had disobeyed him . . . him, his senior . . . remembered his condescension, his arrogance. He also remembered his accusations over Abby, that he liked her ‘vulnerable’. Then he remembered his feelings as he had John Carter pinned beneath him . . . feeling his fear . . . his panic. Coldness stirred in the pit of his stomach: who was vulnerable now? "Look at me."

John was once again bewildered: ‘look at me . . . don’t look at me . . . what the fuck is that about’. John looked at him . . .

. . and Luka is overwhelmed by thoughts too intangible to understand . .

But . . . this is not who he is . . . he wanted to hurt him, wanted to punish him for being who he was . . . but he couldn’t do it. He leaned over John, crushing his chest, and fumbled at the knotted tie on his wrist, freeing it. John, caught off guard by this sudden change of events, looked on numbly as Luka moved about the room pulling out drawers, spilling their contents onto the floor . . . rushing as though on a mission that he had no time to fulfill.

John held his breath . . . Luka was going to do it . . . he was going to let him go. ‘Oh God . . . what if he can’t find the key?’ . . . and then Luka was back . . . kneeling on the bed, inserting the key into the lock. John was frozen . . . he looked on as Luka fumbled and cursed . . . he lay there watching, not breathing . . . and then it was open . . .

Luka grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up and John struggled to keep up with him not being able to think or act for himself . . . and then he was propelled forward with Luka shouting at him "Get out. Get out. Getoutgetougetoutgetout." It was almost a scream, a continuous stream of words numbing his senses. Luka dragged him to the door, opened it and threw him out . . . threw him with such force that he hit the wall opposite and collapsed against it. The door was slammed shut, the noise reverberating in his ears.

****************************************************************

John picked himself up off of the floor. He was so filled with relief that his ordeal was over that he felt a form of elation, euphoria . . . like a new found high from some unknown drug. He fled down the stairs of Luka’s apartment building, virtually flying round each floor, until he hit street level. He fought with the outer door, rushed out and kept running, filling his lungs with air. He ran as fast and as far as he could without stopping not caring which way he went or where he was going.

Finally whatever it was that fuelled him was depleted, consumed. He slowed to a walk as his feeling of relief ebbed away to be replaced by a new, raw emotion . . . that of anger . . . rage. He remembered how he had felt . . . the helplessness . . . never had he felt like that . . . not as a child . . . not since . . . He suddenly felt sick . . . he stopped, doubled over . . . but refused to give into it.

"Bastard. Bastard," he called out, his anger climbing to higher and higher levels. Luka had made him feel weak . . . had terrified him . . . He would go to the police. Have him arrested . . . kidnap . . . assault that’s what it was.

He walked on getting more and more agitated no longer soothed by the mere fact of being free. He paced the streets like a lunatic . . . dressed only in shirt and pants oblivious to the cold . . . the fire from his anger enough to protect him. It was only the occasional passerby, some late night reveler that looked at him oddly this man with the haunted look in his eyes pacing relentlessly, muttering to himself.

****************************************************************

John Carter wasn’t alone in his torment. Luka Kovac was absorbed in his own relentless march as he paced up and down his apartment, the confined space making him seem like some caged wild animal. Every now and then he would break from his path and spiral into a chair where he would groan and wrap his arms around himself as though in search of comfort. Then, unable to settle, he would stand and continue his pacing.

He didn’t understand what had happened here. Had he meant to hurt him . . . would he have hurt him more than he had? Could he . . .? He felt sick at the thought, not taking any comfort from the fact that he hadn’t actually done it.

He froze, startled by the sound of a heavy hand thumping at his door. The police . . . it had to be . . . he had given Carter the power to destroy him . . . and he had taken it . . . why wouldn’t he? He slowly made his way to the door, touched it knowing that his fate was on the other side. Part of him didn’t want to answer it . . . willed them to go away . . . that he could hide in here . . .

He opened the door . . .

****************************************************************

John Carter was standing at his door . . . alone. Luka was stunned . . . this wasn’t what he was expecting. Nor did he expect the punch to his face that split his lip, spattering blood on to his robe. It was a punch that contained all of John’s anger and rage. Luka staggered backwards into his apartment barely managing to stay on his feet and John followed him in kicking the door shut behind him.

John hit him again this time splitting his cheek . . . and again . . . but this time in the stomach. Luka doubled over and fell to his knees. John grabbed hold of his robe and pushed him backwards and as he went down he went down with him so he was now straddling his chest.

For the second time that night John finally ran out of whatever it was that fuelled him and once he was past the blinding rush of adrenaline he realized that Luka was not defending himself. He just lay beneath him, eyes closed, not moving . . . still . . . so still it was disturbing. John stared at him, the sound of blood pounding in his ears. Luka opened his eyes, looked at him . . . "Feel better?"

John was incensed. He grabbed Luka by the hair, pulled his head up and then banged it down onto the rug. Luka winced as his head came down . . . and smiled.

John stared at him in disbelief. "You’re insane."

Luka could see how agitated and upset John was which, he had to concede, was understandable. But this was in complete contrast to his own emotions. Despite the pain, he felt elated . . . experiencing the same high that John had experienced . . . the one that comes with absolute relief. The fact that John had come back to exact his own revenge . . . that he hadn’t gone to the police. He knew that he could be in some police station somewhere answering awkward questions.

John, disconcerted by the fact that Luka wouldn’t defend himself and fearing that he would do something he would seriously regret, stood up and backed away from him . . . walked into the bedroom. He saw the handcuffs and the key. He unlocked the cuff from the bed frame and marched back to Luka who was now sitting up on the floor nursing his face. He knelt down behind him pulled one of Luka’s arms back and slapped one cuff onto his wrist. He pulled his other arm back and cuffed it. Luka didn’t try to stop him. He sighed and smiled as though humoring a small child. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of someone else knocking on his door. He looked up at John: perhaps he had gone to the police.

A woman’s voice called through the door. "Dr. Kovac? Dr. Kovac . . . is everything okay?"

John marched to the door and shouted through it. "Everything’s just fine."

The voice came back, uncertainly "Dr. Kovac . . .?

John looked back at Luka "He’s busy right now."

"Who are you?" The voice was persistent.

John had no time for this, "None of your business . . . now . . . fuck off."

Luka looked at him and frowned, shook his head. "There is no need to be so rude. She’s a very nice lady," he said softly.

"I’m sure she is." He walked back into the living room and stood in front of him, cocked his head to one side. "Perhaps I should have told her to call the police . . . have you arrested"

Luka stared back at him, met his eyes. "Probably a good thing that you didn’t . . . if the police come now what will they find? Me . . . bleeding . . . bruised," he started laughing, " . . . handcuffed."

"I’ll tell them what happened . . . don’t worry." He stared at Luka, saw the blood on his face, his swollen lip, the blood on his robe. He added, "It’s my word against yours . . . who are they likely to believe."

Luka could see how his words had affected him. "You no doubt."

John nodded his head vigorously. "That’s ri . . ."

Further knocking at the door interrupted him. A man’s voice. "Mr. Ko . . . what’s his name again?" A woman’s voice in the background answered, "It’s Kovac." The man’s voice continued. "Mr. Kovac . . . I’m the building supervisor . . . is everything okay?"

John’s eyes flew from Luka to the door and back again. Luka’s smile became that much broader. He struggled to his feet, awkward as it was with his hands handcuffed behind his back, and made his way over to John. Talking softly he asked, "What should I do? Call for help." He distorted his features into a semblance of suffering and whispered "Oh God . . . someone help me. Please, he’s going to kill me."

Luka circled around him and then, keeping his face to him, slowly walked backwards to the door. John could only watch frozen to the spot. He flinched visibly as the hammering on the door continued.

"Mr. . . . Kovac . . . are you there?" There was the sound of keys.

John was aware of his heart pounding in his chest, of the coldness creeping over him. This was ridiculous he wasn’t the one at fault here . . .

"I’m here." Luka shouted through the door. The woman’s voice in the background shouted out "That’s him."

"Is everything okay . . . only I’ve had a complaint . . . from the woman in the apartment below you . . ." Again the voice in the background spoke "I wasn’t complaining . . . I’m concerned."

Luka, still not taking his eyes off John, thought for a moment. "I’m sorry I disturbed her," he saw John exhale sharply. "I was moving some furniture about."

"At two in the morning?" the voice asked doubtfully.

"It won’t happen again." After a long pause he said, "Goodnight."

Luka walked back into the living room still eyeing John. When he reached him he turned round and held out his hands behind him. "Can you take these off? They really are quite uncomfortable."

John looked at the handcuffs blankly. "Fuck you," he said softly.

Luka sighed, turned round to face him. "Look . . . I’m . . ." he started to say.

John closed his eyes. He wanted to hit him . . . to wipe that smug, conceited grin from his face. He opened his eyes and reached forward grabbing Luka by the balls. Luka tried to pull away but the firm grip that John had told him it was best not to move. Luka held his breath.

Their eyes locked. John wanted to hurt him so much, as much as he had done . . . he looked down at his hand, he wanted to squeeze it tight, wanted to see his knuckles turn white as he crushed his manhood . . .

. . . he couldn’t do it. He just stood there inanely with his hand gripping Luka’s balls. Luka stared at him . . . understood . . . that he was incapable of doing it . . . he could see how bewildered he was . . . that the roller coaster of emotions that he had experienced had finally taken their toll. He didn’t even feel worried by the fact that John still had hold of his balls. He experienced a fleeting echo of the feelings he had felt before . . . that, even with his hands handcuffed behind his back, he was somehow in control. "Look at me," he whispered gently . . . and John did . . . he looked into Luka’s eyes . . . knew for certain how ineffectual he was.

John slowly loosened his grip . . . but he didn’t let go. He gently squeezed and where before his hand had felt threatening it now became tender, almost . . . loving. He gently caressed Luka’s balls rolling them around in his hand. John looked into Luka’s eyes saw the look of confusion. Luka was dumbfounded. This had never entered his mind . . . he looked into John’s face . . . saw how earnest he looked . . . how eager to please . . .

John slowly moved his hand up, took hold of Luka’s flaccid cock. He wrapped his hand around it, squeezed it, clenching and unclenching his fingers, gripping harder, more firmly, again and again. It grew hard in his hand. He relaxed his grip, moved his long fingers up and down its length, exploring it sensuously . . . he pulled back the foreskin exposing its delicate head . . . rubbed small circles into the sensitive glans with his thumb as his fingers continued to grip the shaft. Again he looked in to Luka’s face, saw him giving into the sensations as he caressed him, stroked him, manipulated him.

"I’ll get the key," John whispered huskily, as though barely able to find his voice. Luka looked at him uncertainly . . . he didn’t want him to leave, to break the contact . . . but he wanted his hands free. John broke away . . . went into the bedroom.

He emerged moments later holding the key to the handcuffs . . . and something else . . . his jacket. He locked eyes with Luka . . . walked casually to the fish tank and dropped the key in to it. With a smile on his face he walked past him to the front door, opened it and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.

Luka stood there open-mouthed, looked down at his rapidly wilting cock. He numbly walked to the couch and slumped down into it, crushing his hands behind him. The full nature of his predicament gradually dawned as he stared ruefully at the fish tank.

"Fuck."



To be continued . . .

John Carter stood motionless in his shower willing the hot water to wash his night away. To say he was stressed was an understatement; the whole terrible episode had taken its toll both physically and mentally. He arched and stretched his spine, grimaced at the stabbing pain that hit the nerves in his lower back, gritted his teeth as the tidal wave of pain rippled down his left leg. Great. On top of everything else his back was playing up. Damn Kovac!

He leant forward, bracing his hands against the tiles, and shifted his position so that jets of steaming hot water hit the damaged area and massaged it. He stood there for as long as he could until the area was numb from the friction and heat. Finally he straightened up, cautiously twisted his torso, testing it, accepting that this was going to be as good as it gets. He turned off the shower and got out, dried himself with a towel, scrubbing roughly at his skin. When he was finished he dropped the damp towel on top of his discarded clothes and moved to the washbasin where he wiped the condensation from the cabinet mirror with the palm of his hand. He scowled at his reflection, shocked by his appearance. Damn Kovac to hell!

He pulled on sweatpants and T-shirt, switched off the light in the bathroom and slowly made his way to the bedroom. He climbed in to bed, stretched himself out, flattened his head into the pillow, pulled the covers around him, reached out and turned off the light. He closed his eyes. He was exhausted but he knew that sleep wasn’t going to come that easily. He was too hyped up . . . his mind filled with too many images, too many thoughts. All he could think about was Kovac. His face was all he could see.

He sighed in frustration and tried to think about Abby . . .

. . . she would be horrified by what Kovac had done. Of course she had witnessed his violent behavior first hand that night when he had smashed that mugger’s head into the ground. She said it was like a fog had descended over him blocking out all sight, all sound.

He wouldn’t mention it to Abby. Hell, he wouldn’t mention it to anyone. If anyone asked . . . he didn’t go . . . it was as simple as that. Anyway they probably would’ve forgotten that he said he would go. He wouldn’t mention it ever again . . .

He remembered the last time they had crossed swords . . .literally . . . that ridiculous fencing bout at the sexual harassment seminar when Kovac had slashed at his face. He had thought then that he was a dangerous menace but what he had done tonight . . . well, that far exceeded that.

The whole bed . . . thing. What was that about? He squirmed under the covers, remembering how panicked he felt, how . . . scared. Crazy. What the hell had Kovac been thinking?

That was the trouble, he never really knew what Kovac was thinking. The only emotion he had ever really seen was anger or annoyance. The rest of the time he seemed either indifferent or contemptuous towards him. In fact, the only time he had seen him really smile was tonight when he, himself, was trying to beat the crap out of him. Kovac had not only smiled . . . he had laughed in his face. He felt the knuckles on his right hand. They were sore, bruised, from the punch to Kovac’s jaw . . .

. . and remembered the last time he had hit anyone. Peter Benton. Remembered his words "you’re out of control." He had denied it, believing that he could cope with anything, with everything. He twisted his head into the pillow, cringing at the memories. That was the lowest moment of his life.

Now his life was back on track. He was happy . . . wasn’t he? With Abby. He could see his future with her. Kovac couldn’t make her happy.

He suddenly, strangely, felt . . . guilty.

Now that he knew her better he could understand the problems that she and Kovac had had. The problem with Abby was that she never really trusted anyone. She had been hurt too much, had too much baggage dragging her down. The problem was that she kept too much hidden inside . . . like himself . . . like . . . Kovac.

"Jesus, what a bunch of freaks." He kicked at the covers.

But he was getting better at it . . . wasn’t he? At handling Abby. He could cope with her, reassuring her that he wasn’t going to leave, that he would stand by her, support her . . . but . . . sometimes.

He suddenly, strangely, felt . . . sad.

Sometimes there was so much pain around him it was oppressive. Was there something about him that attracted it or did he go looking for it, seeking it out? He had sought Kovac out but that hadn’t been his idea. Kovac . . . pain personified.

Kovac.

. . . felt guilty again.

Felt guilty for the fact that he had left him in handcuffs . . . after he had done what he had done to him. But hell, served him right. He deserved it. He tried to dismiss the thought of him, the feel of him. He just wanted to forget about tonight. Forget it had ever happened.

He rolled over in his bed, shifted around to get comfortable. Rolled back frustrated, kicked the covers off the bed. God, he could kill for a cigarette.

****************************************************************

Luka Kovac sat in his apartment alone, illuminated only by the florescent glow from his fish tank, the insipid luminescence making his features look strangely morbid. He thought about going out, to find company. A superficial something to get him through the rest of the night. He knew the right places to go but what would he find at this hour? Nothing but the lonely . . . the desperate . . .

Of course, he could always pay. He’d done it before . . . and recently . . . more frequently than he cared to remember. But, again, what would he find at this hour?

He toyed with the glass in his hands, rolled it between his palms, not wanting to drink. He had frightened himself with his loss of control . . . probably more so than at any other time. He was amazed at how reckless he had become, at how unrecognizable he was.

Madness.

He closed his eyes . . . saw Carter . . . on his bed. He shook his head as though not fully believing the memory of the image.

Utter madness.

Still he hadn’t asked Carter to come here. It wasn’t his fault . . . not really.

He realized that he had lost control twice tonight, the second time with the way that Carter had touched him. He smiled wryly at how easily he had fallen for it as though the only thing he truly understood was sex. Was he that desperate? Was sex the only emotion he was capable of feeling?

He closed his eyes again. Saw the way Carter had lost control. How he had punched him, remembered the look on his face . . . recognized it for what it was. Blind rage. Carter was so readable, every emotion so easy to see. He knew exactly what he was feeling, that desire to wound, to inflict pain. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of it for a long time. It felt . . . satisfying. Perhaps part of him wanted Carter to finish him. There would have been a certain ironic justice in that.

But he knew that Carter wasn’t capable of doing it. He knew his limit, knew when to pull back.

He had taken that for a sign of weakness and couldn’t help messing with him believing that he had control over him. But the way Carter had touched him . . . manipulated him . . . he wasn’t in control then. Carter knew exactly what he was doing. And he had fallen for it.

He tilted his glass in a mock toast, a symbol of grudging respect and took a drink . . . swore as it burned like acid into the cut on his lip. Betrayed he hurled the glass against the wall shattering it to pieces.

He was drained but he couldn’t go to bed, fearful of the images that came to him in his sleep. So he sat alone and in the dark, filtering his thoughts, waiting for the sun to rise.

****************************************************************

John Carter stood in front of his locker trying to suppress a yawn, the dark smudges under his eyes stark testimony to his fatigue. His sleep had been sporadic and he had wasted the day in that dreamy half-world between sleeping and waking with all kinds of images screwing with his head. The prospect of a long and difficult night shift loomed before him. He heard the door to the lounge open and noises from an already busy ER spilled into the room. He glanced round. Susan.

"Hi, Carter. Hey, have you been in touch with Abby she’s rung here a couple of times trying to get hold of you . . .

"No," he said steadily. "I’ve lost my phone . . .

She interrupted. "Perhaps you left it at Luka’s . . ."

It was a good job he wasn’t facing her because he blanched at the mention of his name. He opened his mouth to say his well-rehearsed spiel about how he hadn’t gone to Luka’s . . .

"He was in earlier . . . he’s back in tomorrow. It’s a good job you were there last night." She looked at him, stared at his back, turned back to her locker. "Those muggers did a good job on his face . . . at least you were there to patch him up . . . I think he was grateful."

She slammed her locker door shut, looked at her watch. "Aaaargh, I’m gonna be late. Goodnight."

"Night" he managed to squeeze out. What was Kovac playing at . . . telling her that? What if he had said that he hadn’t gone . . . didn’t he care? He stopped himself. Did Kovac somehow know that he wouldn’t have mentioned it first? And telling her that he’d been mugged . . . his face wasn’t that bad . . . was it? He looked at his hand, stared at the bruising on his knuckles. He buried his hand in his armpit . . . a reflex . . . not wanting to remind himself he was capable of such violence. He banged his head against his locker. "Ow!" He had to stop doing that.

Muggers . . . plural . . . couldn’t be just one could it he thought sarcastically.

Well at least he had got out of the handcuffs. He smiled at the thought, the memory. "Serves him right, asshole."

He opened his locker door . . . instantly slammed it shut. "Shit." His heart was pumping wildly in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears. With fingers trembling he fumbled at the door, opened it. There, sitting on the top shelf were a pair of handcuffs.

****************************************************************

He stared at them not knowing how to react. He brought his hands up, steepled them over his mouth. Anyone looking at him could have mistaken him for being at prayer.

How the hell did Kovac get into his locker? Probably the same way that he, himself, had got into Weaver’s. He tried to think whether or not Kovac had ever had his locker but he couldn’t be certain. Did he come into the ER just to put them there? What was he playing at? And what was he supposed to do now? He shook his head in a state of high agitation, rubbed his hands over his face. He was wide-awake now his heart pumping adrenaline throughout his body.

"Carter." A voice behind him startled him, made him jump. He turned round. Haleh.

"Chen wants you to take over a patient. She’s in Trauma One." He stared at her blankly for a moment and then nodded his head erratically, brown eyes blinking rapidly. He turned back to his locker, stared at the handcuffs, shook his head again, confounded. He had been prepared to forget about that night, chalk it up to a bad experience . . . but . . . now what?

He closed his eyes, knowing that he couldn’t think about this now. He placed his bag in his locker, took off his jacket, exchanged it for his lab coat. He reached over the handcuffs for his stethoscope, carefully, so as not to touch them. He gave them one last look, closed the door, slung his stethoscope around his neck and went to work.

****************************************************************

The night was long and heavy and the staff had to contend with 2 MVAs and a building fire. In between all the activity he did manage to speak to Abby, explaining about the ‘loss’ of his phone, but their conversation was brief due to the workload, just enough to confirm that they were both well, both coping with the deprivation of the other. He didn’t mind being busy: it meant that he had less time to think about Kovac. The downside was that he ended up staying longer than he should have and by the time he was able to leave he was truly exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open. He went into the lounge, opened his locker . . .

. . . felt the same shock as he felt before . . . how could he forget the handcuffs were there? He shook his head wearily, deposited his lab coat and stethoscope, took out his jacket and pulled it on, grabbed his bag and slammed his locker shut. He walked to the door . . . stopped, turned, chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip. He walked slowly back to his locker and opened it. He took out the handcuffs and slipped them into his pocket.

On his way out he encountered Luka on his way in. The contrast between them couldn’t have been more striking. Luka, freshly washed and shaved, hair bouncing freely in the wind, dressed in a dark gray suit, crisp blue shirt and gray tie, seemed to be the epitome of health and vitality. John, desperately in need of a shower and a shave, hair flattened to his scalp, eyes bloodshot and bleary, dressed in crumpled green scrubs, was . . . not.

Their eyes locked for a moment in the entrance of the ambulance bay. John wanted to say something, to confront him, but found he just didn’t have the energy. He broke eye contact and scowled, stuffed his hands into his pockets, flinched as he made contact with cold metal, and hurriedly walked away.

Luka, smiling softly, continued on his way in to the ER.

****************************************************************

John Carter slept badly . . . again . . . awoke to a persistent dull ache in his head. He wasted the day . . . again. He had things to do, things to sort out but he was too lethargic, too enervated. He talked to Abby, told her he missed her, how much he wanted her, needed her back. And it was true. He was lonely without her.

He didn’t know what to make of the handcuffs or what to do with them so he wrapped them in a T-shirt and secreted them in a drawer. And they remained there. Except when he took them out to look at them, examine them.

When he arrived at work the next night Luka, to his relief, had already gone. He walked into the lounge, went to his locker and . . . paused. He opened it cautiously, looked inside . . .

. . . nothing.

He frowned. Not that he wanted to find anything.

Then he saw it . . . a single piece of paper. He picked it up scanned it . . . not understanding it. Words written in a foreign language. He stared at it blankly. Then, annoyed, he screwed it up and threw it in the trashcan. Changed his mind. Picked it out, flattened it against his locker door. Stared at it. Wondered what it said. Screwed it up. It didn’t matter what it said did it? Threw it in the trashcan. Damn. He couldn’t leave it there despite the fact that it was doubtful that anyone but Kovac understood it. He took it out again, held it as though it was toxic, threw it in the back of his locker and slammed the door shut.

He ought to speak to someone about this. This was harassment. He opened the locker door again, deposited his bag and coat, took out his lab coat and stethoscope, slammed the door shut.

He worked his shift and for once finished on time. He could leave but didn’t. He wanted to see Luka before he went, to get this straightened out once and for all. So he took the opportunity to shower and to change into fresh scrubs. Afterwards he sat in the lounge and waited . . .

****************************************************************

. . and fell asleep. He awoke at the sound of a locker door being slammed shut. He sat up sharply, grimaced as his muscles protested at the sudden movement. He blinked several times, turned his head stiffly to see who it was. Luka.

His mouth was dry, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, but he managed to find his voice. "I want to talk to you." He tried to say it calmly, without any edge . . . and failed.

Luka, once again, refreshed and vigorous in stark contrast to John’s own disheveled state, stared in his direction whilst seeming to look straight through him. Then he turned casually and headed for the door. John felt his anger rising. Damn the man. He pulled himself up, followed him, reached out and touched his arm.

"I said I want to talk to you." Again Luka just stared at him, not saying anything, his face completely blank, devoid of any _expression except . . . except for a hint of mischief which played around his eyes, around the corners of his mouth. Ignoring John’s touch he continued on his way to the door and went out.

"Son of a bitch" John muttered under his breath. Again he felt he had no choice but to follow him like some damn puppy dog. He emerged from the lounge and caught sight of Luka as he headed in the direction of the men’s room. He watched as Luka placed his hand on the door ready to push it open but before entering he turned his head and caught John’s eye. He grinned broadly and then disappeared inside.

John scowled, furrowing his brow, but had to concede that it made sense: at least it was more private in there. He looked around him and then slowly made his way across the corridor. He placed his hand on the door to push it open . . . paused . . . realized his heart rate was elevated. He took a deep breath. ‘Get a grip’ he admonished himself. Resolution set he pushed at the door and entered.

****************************************************************

Luka was leaning against one of the washbasins, arms folded loosely across his chest, one leg crossed over the other. John scanned the room quickly checking that they were alone. He was fully aware that Luka was watching him but when he bought his eyes up to meet Luka’s he found himself slightly unnerved by how steady they were.

"Well, what do you want?" Luka’s voice was as steady as his eyes.

John threw his hands in the air in a gesture of disbelief. "This is . . . unbelievable. You want me to spell it out?" Luka didn’t move, didn’t reply. John shook his head and folded his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits, his face fixed in a permanent frown. Then nodding he said, "Okay . . . okay . . . Keep out of my locker."

Luka’s face instantly broke out into a brilliant smile and he lowered his head as though to look at the floor. When he looked up again he saw exactly what he knew he would see – John Carter, grinding his teeth, his face flushed with anger.

John took a few steps closer to him, subconsciously balling his hands into tight fists. He opened his mouth to say something when he was distracted by the sound of raised voices just outside the door . . . the sound of Pratt and Gallant arguing furiously. John turned his head in the direction of the door . . .

. . . and before he had time to react Luka moved towards him, grabbed him by his shoulders and forced him backwards into the cubicle farthest from the door. When they were both inside he turned and locked the door.

John was dumbfounded. This was the men’s room for God’s sake . . . they were allowed to be there. "Luka," he started to protest but Luka turned on him, pushed him against the wall, placed one hand over his mouth to silence him . . .

. . . the door to the men’s room opened and Pratt and Gallant entered continuing their argument.

". . . you need to stand up for yourself . . . Carter’s a pussycat . . . you just need to know how to handle him."

Luka’s obvious humor at the words, clearly indicated by the wide smile on his face, only served to add fuel to the fire of John’s anger. He raised his hands up to take Luka’s hand from his mouth but as he did so Luka slid his other hand into the pants of John’s scrubs and quickly found his balls. John tried to wriggle out of Luka’s grasp but received a firm tug on his balls, a clear warning, which Luka followed through with a shake of his head.

John, realizing that he couldn’t do anything without drawing unwelcome attention, slumped against the wall, arms hanging loosely by his side. He couldn’t believe that this was happening again. Being in Luka’s apartment alone with the man was one thing but being in the hospital surrounded by hundreds of people . . . And yet here he was . . . silent, passive . . . Luka with one hand over his mouth and the other firmly gripping his balls. He closed his eyes and willed the two men outside to go.

Luka felt John stop fighting him and slightly relaxed his grip, concentrated on the gentle rising and falling of John’s chest, the feel of his breath on the back of his hand, the flicker of movement behind his closed eyelids.

"Hey, don’t stand so close to me." Pratt’s voice.

"What’s the matter got something to hide." Gallant.

"No . . . but if you want a closer look just say so."

John flicked his eyes heavenwards. ‘Great . . . a pissing contest.’ Gallant and Pratt, completely oblivious to the scene being played out in the cubicle, continued to argue but thankfully headed for the door to take it outside.

The room fell silent.

"Mmett ffff" John mumbled. Luka removed his hand from John’s mouth but kept his other hand gripped firmly around his balls.

"Let go of me . . . Now." John tried to say it assertively but his attitude seemed to have little effect on Luka. He sighed heavily. "What is it . . . you getting a cheap thrill from this?"

"Perhaps I’m just finishing what you started"

"What?" John shook his head incredulously. "Are you talking about . . . what happened the other night?"

"You bought it up." Luka said.

John stared at him . . . something about the way he said ‘it up’ was he referring to . . . or was it just his accent?

"I didn’t start this . . . you did." He realized he was raising his voice so took a deep breath to calm himself before he continued in a strained whisper. "You’re the one that started this . . . you know . . . the bed . . . thing . . . not me. It was terrifying enough before . . .the idea of . . ." he struggled to find the word, ". . . sex . . . raised its ugly head."

"Its not so ugly." Luka said, straight-faced.

John glared at him, his eyes narrowed. "Will you stop that?"

"What?" Luka said, innocently.

"You know what. The . . . innuendo. And let go of me."

Luka smiled and squeezed his hand gently, manipulating John’s ball-sac, rolling it between his fingers.

John sighed heavily, shook his head wearily as though bored. "Fine. Go ahead . . . you want to play this . . . stupid game . . . then . . . fine."

If it was a dare then Luka took him at his word. Keeping one hand tightly on John’s balls he moved his other hand to John’s flaccid cock wrapping his fingers around it firmly. He squeezed gently, slowly clenching and unclenching his fingers, in the same way that John had done. John tried to be impassive, not wanting to give Luka any indication that he was getting anything from this. He felt himself harden . . . but that was understandable . . . wasn’t it? Luka had grown hard as he had manipulated him. It was unavoidable . . . a natural response to stimulation . . . it was designed that way. It didn’t mean anything . . . He glared at Luka, wanting to wipe that stupid grin off of his face.

Luka intensified his manipulation of John’s cock, starting up a steady round of stroking. John steeled himself again determined not to react. Luka, sensing this new resolve, moved his other hand around John’s balls coaxing new areas of his groin. Then he released his grip on John’s cock and pulled roughly at the strings of his pants. He wrestled them down slightly allowing John’s now erect cock to spring free from its confinement.

John did nothing to stop him, feigning disdain. But he was deeply shocked when Luka suddenly knelt down and took him into his mouth. Oh God. He wouldn’t . . . not here. John looked down not fully believing the image in front of him as Luka’s hot wet mouth enveloped him. Oh shit. He felt Luka’s tongue play with him, lap the length of his shaft, swirl around the head of his cock. He felt his legs begin to go and he had to shift position slightly to regain control. Luka started sucking strongly . . . violently. Oh no. John’s hands flew up and slapped against the wall as he braced himself whilst Luka kept up the onslaught of tantalizing sensations. This was . . . incredible. He threw his head back and screwed his eyes shut. Oh . . . yes.

. . . and then it stopped . . . suddenly . . . without warning. John opened his eyes . . . and Luka’s face was so close to his that he couldn’t focus on it. Then one of Luka’s hands was on the back of his head and the other on the back of his neck, gripping him, pinching his skin, holding him still and his mouth was on his, his tongue forcing his way into it, punching through his failed defenses. The intensity of the assault took his breath away . . . He murmured, moaned . . . the vibrations reverberating around Luka’s tongue, traveling deep into his mouth.

Luka withdrew slightly, sucking John’s lower lip between his teeth and then pulled his mouth away completely. He moved the hand from the back of John’s head to the front, lightly brushing the stubble of beard on his cheek. John, with downcast eyes, watched carefully as Luka’s hand moved under his chin and stroked his Adam’s apple. He then bent his head to John’s neck and first, sucked and then gently bit into his skin. John, thoughtlessly, tilted his head slightly, inadvertently exposing more of his skin to him.

The outer door opened and someone entered. Luka pulled himself back, disengaged his mouth but kept one hand tightly on the back of John’s neck and the other firmly at the front. They listened in silence as whoever it was went through the motions and Luka took the opportunity to examine him, drinking in the effect he’d had on him. He found himself intoxicated by his appearance. John’s face was flushed, his breathing ragged, his eyes deep and wide, arms hanging limply by his side. His cock stood wantonly erect poking above the top of his pants.

Whoever was outside finished what they were doing and exited. Luka leaned in closer again, parted his lips as though to kiss and John’s lips parted in response, mirroring his. Luka pulled his head back slightly, a subtle smile on his lips, his eyes soft and sparkling. The color in John’s cheeks flushed deeper and he closed his mouth, drew his lips into a tight line, hardened the look in his eyes. He raised his hands placed them on Luka’s chest and roughly pushed him away.

Luka steadied himself and then silently turned to the door of the cubicle and unlocked it. He walked out, leaving the door wide open behind him. John leaned back against the wall and tried to gather his thoughts. None of this made any sense. He looked down at his cock. THAT didn’t make any sense. He felt his face flush and hastily rearranged his clothes. He walked out of the cubicle and found Luka checking his reflection in the mirror.

"Luka . . . what the fuck is this about? His voice sounded despairing.

Luka looked at him in the mirror. "Read the note."

"What! It’s in Croatian . . . isn’t it?" He sounded doubtful, not really sure what language it was in.

"You’ll figure it out." Luka straightened his tie, ran his hands over his hair and turned to face him, smiling softly. Then he walked to the door, opened it and walked out leaving him standing in the middle of the room, stranded, like a lost child.

He walked over to the washbasins turned on a tap and splashed cold water onto his face, cooling his burning cheeks. He looked at his reflection. "God, what a mess." He had to get away from here. He needed to think. He quickly made his way back to the lounge, collected his belongings from his locker, shoved the crumpled piece of paper into his pocket and left.



To be continued . . .

John Carter lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought, trying, not for the first time, to make sense of an incomprehensible situation. He shifted slightly . . . and was drawn out of his contemplation by a crinkling sound coming from beneath him. He lifted his right arm, squeezed his hand under the small of his back and retrieved the much-crumpled piece of paper. Raising it up over his face he stared at it not fully understanding the meaning of it . . .

. . . That’s not to say he hadn’t translated it. He had . . . word for word, writing the English words underneath those in Croatian, using one of those translating sites on the web. So he knew exactly WHAT it said . . . but he just didn’t understand it.

He let his hand drop to his chest, closed his eyes. He knew it off by heart now so he didn’t need to look at it.

‘HOW FAR ARE YOU PREPARED TO GO? WINNER TAKES ALL. 7.30 PM. THURSDAY. ZIGGY’S

For the umpteenth time he started his program of thoughts, running them in a perpetual cycle, trying to get closer to that elusive feeling of comprehension.

‘How far are you prepared to go?’ What was the usual answer to that question? All the way?

"Fuck." He said, out loud. A Freudian slip? Possibly.

He sighed heavily and pulled himself up in to a sitting position, bracing his left hand behind him on the bed. "Winner takes all." Some kind of bizarre challenge which would lead to . . . what.

He looked at the paper again. Why the fuck did he write it in Croatian? Because the bastard knew that if he had written it in English, so that he could have read it straightaway, he would have dismissed it, tossed it away. This way Kovac knew that he would be sitting here trying to figure it out. "Devious."

"How far are you prepared to go?" If the answer was ‘All the way’ then ‘All the way’ . . . to where . . . to what? "Winner takes all." Takes what?

He collapsed his left arm allowing himself to fall back down on to the bed, no doubt in his mind that Kovac had completely lost it.

"Winner takes all." He sat up again instantly, an _expression of shock on his face. "Abby. It has something to do with Abby. No. It has everything to do with Abby . . . the winner . . . wins . . . Abby."

He threw himself back down on the bed. "He is totally insane . . . mad . . .

Abby! This was a fight for Abby. "Another fucking duel." Another Freudian slip. Possibly. A disturbing image pervaded his mind . . . he deleted it immediately. "Now that’s scary."

But . . . something didn’t feel right, apart from the obvious fact that none of this felt right. Abby wasn’t a prize to be won or lost . . . was she? She made up her own mind about things . . . albeit in a roundabout, fucked up sort of way.

No . . . not about Abby . . . or not just about Abby . . . because of the sexual . . . stuff?

He thought about the way Kovac had gone down on him . . . that was . . . bizarre. He had done it with no hesitation . . . no qualms . . . Strangely he could remember the feel, the heat, of his mouth, the movement of his tongue, the taste of his lips . . . unconsciously, carelessly John’s right hand strayed to his groin, rested there. Then, as though he had been struck by lightening, he jumped up from the bed. "Crazy."

"Sex . . . How far are you prepared to go? A fucking duel . . . emphasis on the fucking. Winner takes all." He paced up and down mindlessly.

But that made even less sense . . . Kovac wasn’t gay . . . unless his recent escapades were an elaborate smokescreen to disguise the fact.

. . . so his mind came back to Abby. "Fuck."

"7.30. Ziggy’s."

He walked into the lounge, picked up the telephone directory from a shelf, flicked through the pages. There it was . . . Ziggy’s. A bar . . . not far from the river. He had never been there and the thought crossed his mind that, perhaps, it was a gay bar. He smiled broadly at the thought of Kovac . . . hanging out in a gay bar.

He closed the directory and threw it back on the shelf . . . and yawned. He was drained . . . yet again. Kovac was sucking him dry. Another Freudian slip. Possibly . . . he really didn’t care anymore. He had spent enough time thinking about this. Kovac was deranged and he would notify all the appropriate authorities and have him certified . . . just as soon as he had some decent sleep.

He went back into the bedroom and closed the drapes against the harsh morning light. Stripping off his clothes he climbed into bed, settled down between the covers. He was just nodding off, finally shutting his mind down, when he was brought abruptly back to full consciousness by the sound of the telephone ringing in the lounge. He lifted his head up off the pillow . . . and decided not to answer it. He knew it would be Abby and he couldn’t talk to her now. Not now . . . not while he was going 10 rounds with her ex-boyfriend. He rolled over and peevishly pulled the pillow over his head.

****************************************************************

At 7.35 John Carter stood across the road from Ziggy’s Bar. He studied the exterior carefully. It didn’t look like a gay bar . . .and it certainly wasn’t in a gay part of the city. In fact, there was nothing unusual about it all. The usual electric signs advertising different types of alcohol, different types of food, different types of amusements.

He frowned, furrowing his brow, hands deep in his pockets, not knowing why he was there. It was a bar for God’s sake. He had no reason to go to bars anymore. But, of course, Kovac knew that. That’s why he had chosen it, because he knew that John would have a problem with it. He shook his head at the arrogance of the man and with mind made up he crossed the road and entered.

****************************************************************

John looked around trying to make a quick appraisal of the place. The décor was best described as eclectic being a strange mix of nautical objects, memorabilia and 50s kitsch: the most noticeable item was a large plastic shark hanging absurdly over the bar. He noted that the various patrons seemed to be just as diverse as the items hanging on the walls: bikers, men in sports coats, some laid-back hippie types, young women dressed in black . . . and one moody, fucked-up, European doctor seated at a table at the far end of the bar.

Of course, Luka had seen him first, appraised him as he made his appraisal and he nodded his head, acknowledging his arrival. John stared at him, trying to keep his face in neutral. He looked around him again as though deciding what to do and then made his way slowly across the room.

Luka had one foot casually propped up on a chair next to him and when John finally arrived at the table he lifted his foot and kicked the chair out for him to sit on. John stared at it and then, pointedly, pulled out another and sat down.

"Would you like a drink?" Luka inquired politely.

John shook his head in the negative, not saying anything. In fact, he was determined not to say anything, wanting Luka to say what he had to say. He looked around him again . . . at the posters on the wall . . . the detritus on the floor . . . the map of Lake Michigan hanging on the wall above Luka’s head.

Finally, patience worn thin, he snapped. "Well?"

Luka took a sip from the bottle in his hand, swallowed and licked his lips. "Well?"

John shook his head wearily. "You are seriously pissing me off . . . you know that?"

"I know." Luka said lightly . . . almost sympathetically.

John shook his head, again, tried a different line of approach. "You seeing anyone . . . you know a psychiatrist . . . therapist?"

Luka didn’t reply, took another sip of beer and continued to stare at him.

Exasperated, John, gesturing with this hands, stated boldly, "I think you need . . . therapy."

Luka smiled gently. "This is therapy."

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And what’s that supposed to mean?"

Luka looked at his watch and then leaned forward in his chair. "You read my note?"

"Well obviously I read it," he said, gesturing with his hands. "I didn’t understand it . . . but I read it."

Luka leaned back again, shrugged his shoulders. "Well?"

"Well what? I didn’t understand what the fuck it meant . . . so how can I respond."

Now it was Luka’s turn to look puzzled. "Then why are you here?"

John looked at him not knowing what to say, conscious of the heat rising in his cheeks.

Luka sighed. "How far are you prepared to go? Simple enough question."

John snorted derisively. "Simple enough question . . . in the right context. What context are you phrasing it?"

"A contest . . . the winner takes all."

John’s face darkened. "Abby."

Luka shook his head. "This has nothing to do with Abby."

"Nothing to do with Abby."

"No."

There was a long pause . . .

"Then what . . . I don’t understand."

Luka groaned, rolled his head, stared up at the ceiling. "Are you being dense . . . or just difficult? . . . . . . . . You and me . . . a contest . . . the winner . . . gets . . . whatever he wants." He said the last bit looking directly into John’s eyes.

John smiled and then laughed . . . loudly "Ha . . . What makes you think I want . . . that I want anything from you?"

"Then leave." Luka waved his hand in the direction of the door.

But John didn’t move. Strangely, now that Abby was out of the picture he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he relaxed back into his chair eyeing Luka curiously. He had never really noticed how intense his eyes could be. Finally he broke eye contact, concentrated on a speck of dirt on the table, stabbed at it with his finger. He smiled again and shook his head.

"What kind of contest?" he said evenly.

Luka smiled and nodded and then, to John’s surprise, stood up and walked over to the Foosball table.

John laughed. "You’re kidding . . . right?" He stood up, walked to the other side of the Table. He spun one of the rods in his hand shaking his head in disbelief.

"I thought that you would pick something a bit more . . . I don’t know . . . physical."

"Well I thought about it . . . but I didn’t want to wait."

"Wait . . . for what?"

"For you to gain a few pounds . . . for a more even contest."

John sneered indignantly, pointed at Luka’s waist. "How about waiting for you to lose a few . . ."

Luka smiled weakly glanced at his watch, then at the machine and then back up at John. "Have you played?"

John nodded "Yeah. I’ve played."

"Are you good."

"Good enough."

Luka put out his hand, offering it to him. John looked at it, shook his head uncertainly.

"This is . . .the dumbest thing . . ." he tailed off. He knew that this was dumb but more than that . . . it was . . . positively dangerous. He stared at Luka’s hand as it hovered there . . . irresistibly enticing. With a feeling that he scarcely understood he stuck out his own hand out and took hold of Luka’s gripping it firmly.

Done.

They held hands for a few seconds before Luka abruptly took his back and checked his watch again. John was about to ask why he was so preoccupied with the time when the answer came from behind him.

"Hey Luka . . . Carter."

John twisted round on the spot. Susan . . . But not only Susan . . . Deb, Pratt and then Gallant bringing up the rear. He turned back to Luka, unable to keep his jaw from dropping open. Luka grinned playfully, flicked his eyebrows.

Susan walked up to them. "Can I get anyone a drink . . . hey . . . are you about to have game?"

****************************************************************

John hadn’t counted on having an audience and he was inwardly fuming. But, for some unknown reason, he resisted the urge to just walk out. Instead, he waited in silence as the group got their drinks and settled around the table.

Pratt put his arm around Susan’s shoulder. "Hey . . . how about a side bet . . . just to make it interesting?"

John looked at Luka, saw how the words amused him.

"You’re on," Susan replied cheerfully. "I’ll take Luka . . . sorry Carter."

He smiled at her graciously. "No problem."

"Okay then I’ll take Carter." Pratt turned to Gallant and Deb. "How about you two?"

Deb put her arm through Pratt’s. "Oh . . . I’ll go with Carter."

"And I’ll go with Dr. Kovac."

The table played 7 balls. John hadn’t played in years, a fact that was obvious from the start as Luka picked up the ball from the centerline and passed it forward and scored in a matter of seconds. 1-0.

"Can I change my mind," asked Pratt.

The second ball rolled down the centerline and John managed to flick it forward into Luka’s defense. But the shot on goal was so feeble that Luka easily blocked it. He then wrist-flicked the ball down the other end of the table, tic-tac-ing the ball between the men, directing another ball into John’s gaping goal. 2-0.

Pratt waved his hands in disgust. "Come on man . . . your losing . . . badly . . . don’t spin . . . flick your wrist."

John tossed him a withering look but took the advice he was throwing and to his complete surprise he managed to score by catching a loose ball directly under the center man of his front three-man rod. 2-1. With grim determination he managed to equalize shooting at goal as Luka’s hands flailed at his goalie’s rod. 2-2

Luka managed to pull ahead again by trapping a stray ball under a toe of his two-man defense, pinning it to the table and then expertly passing it forward as John tried vainly to swat it away. 3-2.

Luka then tried a long shot from his two-man defense but John managed to intercept it slicing the ball at an angle and once again hitting an open goal. "Yes." He yelled. The game was now tied at 3-3.

Pratt continued to offer encouragement "That’s it . . . don’t worry about speed . . . it’s all about control." John looked up at Luka and their eyes met for a moment, hands clasped on their rods. They both knew that this was about control and each man’s face became fixed in a grimace of concentration, each one determined to be the victor

"Hit the ball straight . . . pass it . . . Watch your defense . . . hold the two-man rod . . . keep ‘em pointing down . . . you can’t protect your rear if your ass is up in the air . . . . . . . . . . Watch it . . . . . . . Aaaaargh . . . Shit."

. . . It was over . . . the last ball shot straight into an open goal.

****************************************************************

"You are such a bad loser . . . it’s only a game . . . there’s no need to be so pissy about it," Susan admonished.

John sat at the table scowling at everyone . . . everyone, that is, except Luka whose eyes he didn’t dare meet. He couldn’t believe that he had lost. More incredibly . . . he couldn’t believe what he had lost. If they only knew . . .

Deb joined in the derision. "You are so competitive . . . ." She turned to Pratt. ". . . You should have seen him as a med student . . . he was always chasing after procedures . . . always trying to outdo me."

Finally, not able to cope with the stream of comments, John stood up and stalked off in the direction of the men’s room, hoping for a little privacy in which to collect his thoughts. He didn’t notice Luka following behind him and he flinched visibly when he suddenly whispered in his ear.

"You should try being a bit more gracious in defeat . . . instead of acting as though you have . . . a cock up your anus."

John stopped dead in his tracks not fully believing what he was hearing and Luka passed him grinning victoriously. Not wanting to be alone with him, John turned round and went back to the table and slumped back down in his chair.

Susan tried to make small talk to dispel the mood that was threatening to darken her evening. "So . . . when does Abby get back?"

John looked at her glumly but managed to salvage some semblance of civility. "Tomorrow night."

Susan smiled "You miss her?" and off the nod of his head she added, ". . . probably explains why you’re in such a foul mood. Haleh said you’ve been really twitchy these last few nights."

He looked at her, opened his mouth to say something, when Luka rejoined them at the table. He scowled and then stood up announcing "I’m gonna go . . . get an early night."

"It’s only 9 . . . you’re not on tomorrow." Susan declared trying not to sound too desperate, not wanting the evening to end so soon.

"I know . . . but I’ve got things to do." Avoiding as much eye contact as possible he put on his coat and said his ‘good-byes’. He made his way to the door relieved to get out onto the street . . . except . . . it was raining . . . heavily . . . the final damper on his evening. "Thank you God," he moaned. Pulling up his collar, and hugging his coat tightly around him he trudged off into the night.

****************************************************************

John was soaking wet by the time he got home and he needed to shower just to get warm. As he stood there, willing the heat to penetrate his skin, he replayed the evening over in his head not quite believing that it had ended the way it had in such a short space of time. What in hell had possessed him . . .?

Of course, there was no way Kovac was going to follow up on this. It was a joke, right? God, he must really despise him to go to such lengths to fuck with his head.

Adequately warmed he got out of the shower, dried himself, pulled on T-shirt and sweatpants.

It was as he was on his way from the bathroom to the bedroom that the knock came to his door. He froze. No. It couldn’t be. Kovac didn’t know where he lived. He stealthily made his way to the door, looked through the door viewer. Yep. He sighed, resting his forehead against the door. Another knock but this time more forceful, more demanding. John lifted his head and stepped back from the door and opened it. Luka stood there, collar turned up against the cold, hair damp from the recent rain.

"Couldn’t wait, huh?" John sneered, crossing his arms defiantly and waiting for Luka to say something. But Luka didn’t say a word. Just stood there feet rooted to the spot like some large immovable object.

"How did you know my address?"

Luka grinned. "Susan. She likes to be helpful." Seeing the doubtful look on John’s face he patted his coat pocket and added "I told her I had your cell phone . . . that I forgot to give it to you."

"You brought it," he asked holding out his hand.

"No."

John dropped his hand, shook his head perplexed by how easily Luka deceived . . .

. . . a noise down the hallway caught his attention . . . the elevator . . . stopping on his floor. John stepped forward and, to Luka’s surprise, grabbed hold of his collar and pulled him into his apartment. He closed the door and looked through the viewer. He then turned to face Luka . . . but Luka was no longer there. John walked down the short hallway and into his lounge . . . in time to see Luka take off his coat and sling it over the back of a chair.

"Make yourself at home," he grumbled, folding his arms.

Luka smiled at him and they ended up staring at each other, eyes locked together . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Time seemed to stand still with neither man willing to be the first to look away . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . until the telephone rang . Two pairs of eyes flew to it . . . a draw.

John walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. "Hi . . ." He looked towards Luka, checking where he was.

Luka walked nearer to him, and John, sensing his presence, put out his hand placing it on his chest, keeping him at arm’s length. Luka allowed himself to be stopped but leaned forward into the hand . . . and John was obliged to keep it there to prevent him falling in to him.

Aware that John was talking to Abby, Luka tuned in to listen to the one-sided conversation.

". . . no . . . Sorry . . . I went out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Susan, Deb . . . the usual crowd . . . . . . . . . ." John flicked his eyes to Luka, aware that he was listening. ". . . Sorry . . . what did you say . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . oh right . . . . . . . . . . no . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Really? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . that bad huh? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . No . . . . . . . . . . . Sunday . . . why Sunday?" another flick of the eyes " . . . . . . . I know but what can you do? . . . . . . . but . . . . . . . so . . . . . . . . . . I’m not . . . mad . . . . . . I just don’t see the point of you staying . . . . . . . . . . . I’m sorry . . . . . . No . . . . I’m just . . . tired . . . you know . . . . . . . . . . Look . . . let me get something to eat . . . . . . . and I’ll call you later . . . when it’s more pr . . . um. . . . comfortable. Then we’ll talk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I’m not . . . . . . . . . . I do . . . . . . . . you know I do . . . . . . . . . . it’s just that I’ve . . . . just got in," John looked at Luka again, looked away ". . . Okay. Yeah . . . Okay . . . . . . . .I know . . . . . . and you."

He replaced the receiver and turned towards Luka who seemed to be deep in thought. Suddenly aware that he was touching him he dropped his hand . . . and Luka was suddenly aware of the creeping coldness left in its place.

"Okay, let’s get this over with," John stated, almost daringly.

Luka moved towards him and without ceremony pulled at his sweatpants roughly.

"Seduce me why don’t you." John’s voice was heavy with sarcasm and he shook his head. "Are you really going to do this?"

Luka stopped what he was doing, raised his hands up, grabbed the back of John’s head and pulled him close to him pushing his mouth onto his. As John was about to say something Luka’s tongue easily found its way into his open mouth and he kissed him deeply, passionately. Luka pulled him closer and John found himself leaning into him . . . leaning into him so far that when Luka finally let go he almost fell over.

Luka returned his hands to John’s waist, pushing the sweatpants down. The coldness about his legs alerted John to his senses and he was about to protest when Luka pushed him backwards and he plopped down on to the couch. Luka knelt down and pulled the sweatpants from his feet and flung them to one side.

John was completely taken aback by Luka’s single-minded determination and he ended up just sitting there watching him not saying anything, not doing anything.

Luka kneel-walked between his legs pushing his thighs apart . . . and this time John found his voice to protest. "Hands are cold," he muttered.

Luka smiled . . . not a full smile . . . that blink and you’ll miss it twitch of a smile. John missed it, laying his head back against the back of the couch, glaring silently up at the ceiling, hands lying limply by his side, trying not to think about what Kovac was doing.

Luka ran his hands up John’s inner thighs and around and under his ball-sac, pushing it up so that it cushioned his cock nestling softly in his pubic hair.

John curious at the gentle caressing risked a peek and cast his eyes downward so that he could see. And he was hit . . . powerfully . . . by the image of Luka Kovac kneeling between his legs, the soft material from his shirt brushing against his inner thighs.

The inevitable happened: his cock twitched . . . not a full twitch . . . that blink and you’ll miss it kind of a twitch. Luka didn’t miss it despite John’s too obvious attempts to distract him by coughing and sliding his butt around on the couch.

Luka stared at John’s cock . . . as though he could affect it with the power of his mind. But it was the power of John’s mind that was having the affect. His cock slowly unfurled as the blood flowed into it. He sighed heavily trying to illustrate the fact that he wasn’t enjoying this in any way . . . that this was in fact just business, payment . . . no not payment . . . made him sound like a whore . . . although if he was the whore . . . then why was Luka doing . . . what he was doing.

Luka lifted John’s hardening cock and gripped the base firmly with his right hand whilst continuing to manipulate his balls with his left. He then slid his fingers up the shaft and rubbed the naked, cut head with his thumb. He then let go and John’s cock bobbed under its own volition. Luka bent his head down, stuck his tongue out and licked gently at the head. It pulsed upward and he licked again . . . and again it pulsed. Obviously pleased he licked up the entire shaft to the head and popped his mouth over the top.

John closed his eyes . . . allowed the sensations to wash over him.

Luka started sucking gently moving his mouth up, down and around John’s cock, occasionally swirling his tongue around the head, lapping at it gently. So exquisite did it feel that John . . . moaned . . . out loud. He opened his eyes to look at Luka . . . to see if he’d noticed . . . and, obviously, he had. Luka knew exactly what he was doing, totally aware of the effect he was having . . . and it was this moment that Luka upped the intensity sucking harder, occasionally nipping the delicate silky skin with his teeth and pulling at his ball-sac with his fingers.

Feeling the heightened intensity John bit down on his lower lip, trying to prevent any further sounds emanating from his traitorous mouth. But in trying to control his mouth he failed to keep a check on his hands . . . which had somehow made their way to Luka’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. Luka, once again, upped the intensity, something that John hadn’t thought possible.

It was almost painful. John gasped, knotting Luka’s shirt in his hands, twisting the back of his head into the back of the couch, screwing his eyes shut. "Oh shit." If Luka kept this up he was going to cum pretty soon. In fact, any se . . .

. . . then suddenly it all changed. He felt one of Luka’s hands gripping his balls pulling at them sharply, felt his other hand gripping the base of his cock tightly. The . . . deliciously . . . hot wet mouth vanished and all the wondrous sensations ceased and he was left only with a wet cock assaulted by the cool frigid air. He opened his eyes to glare at Luka expecting to see his face mocking him. But Luka’s face was . . . unreadable . . . his eyes piercing into him.

John did something that he had very rarely done. His right hand slid from Luka’s shoulder to the back of his neck, slid up through his hair and . . . he pulled . . . pulled Luka’s head back down towards his cock . . . his painfully aching cock. He felt resistance and he groaned. "Bastard."

Seemingly satisfied Luka allowed his head to be pushed back down and he opened his mouth taking in the whole length. John groaned again . . . and abruptly sat upright bracing his left arm behind him on the back of the couch. His right hand he kept firmly on the back of Luka’s head, fingers knotted in his hair. Luka accommodated this change of position managing to take John’s length deeper into his throat. John looked down . . .

. . . ."Oh shit . . . oh . . . fuck . . . fuck." John threw his head back. The intensity of the moment was heightened by his apprehension . . . not knowing if Luka was going to stop again. He flexed his fingers in Luka’s hair . . . just in case. But Luka didn’t stop . . . he kept going and going . . . and John came . . . exploding deep into Luka’s mouth . . . and Luka took it . . . continuing to suck until he had taken all of it. "Ffffuckkk."

Spent . . . or, more accurately, drained he collapsed back down onto the couch, dislodging his cock from Luka’s mouth. He sat there trying to regain control of his breathing, not wanting to open his eyes, wanting to relish the moment.

He finally, reluctantly opened his eyes . . . and saw Luka staring at him with that same fucking enigmatic _expression on his face. John didn’t know what to say . . . not quite sure of the etiquette involved in such a situation. He slipped out his tongue, licked at his lips and opened his mouth to say something . . .

. . . but it was Luka who broke the moment. Placing his hands on John’s knees he pushed himself up. Then walking to the chair where he had placed his coat he picked it up and pulled it on. John, not for the first time, was dumbfounded.

"Is that it?"

Luka smiled softly, shook his head. "Change of plan. Consider that the consolation prize." He pulled his collar up around his neck, ran his fingers through his hair. "I have work tomorrow . . . be at my place at 6." He walked towards the door and then stopped, turned. "Oh . . . one more thing . . . the handcuffs . . . you still have them."

"Yeah . . . why?"

"I want them back . . . . . . . . . please."

John looked at him thoughtfully and then stood and walked towards the bedroom. He was half-way there before he realized that his butt was naked and he spun round, pulling his T-shirt down to cover his genitals. Then, much to Luka’s amusement, he backed his way butt first into the bedroom. He went to the dresser rifled through a drawer and found the handcuffs and turned . . . to find Luka standing in the doorway, staring. He threw the handcuffs at him and Luka caught them, jingled them in his hand before putting them into his pocket.

"Remember . . . 6 o’clock."

"What if I don’t . . . what are you going do . . . sue me?"

"I trust you to keep your word." Luka stepped back from the door and disappeared. John grabbed a fresh pair of sweatpants out of the drawer and shoved one leg in, hopping his way to the door. He managed to get his other leg in by the time he got through the door . . . just in time to hear the click of the latch.



To be continued . . .

What really pissed him off was the way he was being manipulated . . . that Kovac had got him to the bar . . . knowing what he was going to do . . . and he had walked right into it . . . without a second thought . . . because . . .


No . . . what really pissed him off was the way Kovac had just turned up at his door expecting . . . whatever . . . and he had gone along with it . . . because . . .

No . . . . . . . . . . . . what really pissed him off was the way he had left again demanding that he turn up at his place . . . expecting him to do whatever he wanted . . .

No . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . what really pissed him off . . .


****************************************************************

He looked at his watch. 6.05. He knew that Carter wouldn’t be on time . . . knew him enough to know that he would be purposely late . . . just as he had arrived late at the bar. Still . . . he didn’t mind . . . he knew he would turn up . . . eventually.

He smiled. The smile touched his eyes, warmed features, as he thought about the last few days, thought about what he had done, how far he had been prepared to go. He had been undeniably reckless virtually risking everything . . . and the whole experience had been an intensely pleasurable distraction . . .


But now . . .

. . . now he wasn’t even sure what he wanted. That, somehow, the thrill of the game he had been playing could not be equaled by the end result . . . that it was all going to be dreadfully disappointing . . . an anticlimax. The smile melted into a frown, hardening his appearance. He looked at the table . . . the glass . . . the bottle . . . Resisted the temptation.


He looked at his watch. He didn’t really understand why he had postponed . . . he should have ended it there and then. But he couldn’t resist the opportunity to take it that little bit further . . . to make it last that little bit longer . . . just because he could. Stupid.

Perhaps he would just send him away . . . tell him that he didn’t want him here . . . that he didn’t want what he had to offer . . .


****************************************************************

. . . what really pissed him off was the fact that the door was open. Not wide open . . . just an inch open . . . and he would bet money that Kovac had opened it at exactly 6.00 p.m. He scowled at the door so that it received all of his resentment and then pushed at it angrily with his hand smacking it open.

But he didn’t enter . . . and from the threshold of the door he could see Luka sitting on the couch . . .

Luka offered him what he assumed was a welcoming smile . . . but John didn't smile back, choosing instead to eye him cautiously. He also resolutely remained outside the apartment.


Sensing John's procrastination Luka stood up, took a step towards him. "Would you like some coffee . . . its fresh?"


John shook his head and looked around him, behind him, then stared at the floor directly in front of him as though he was looking at some imaginary line . . . a line that he was about to cross. Finally, with an exaggerated higher than necessary step, he crossed over the threshold.


Luka watched him carefully seeing what an effort it had been for him. "Can you close the door?"


John stared at him for a moment and then turned back to the door . . . pushed it shut. He turned, walked slowly into the apartment . . . and immediately noticed the aquarium . . . Funny . . . in his mind’s eye he had imagined it to be in pieces.


"So what are you . . . Houdini?" Luka looked at him blankly. John waved his hand at the tank. "The handcuffs . . . how did you get out of them?"

"Oh . . . they come with 2 keys."


"Really?" He wandered over to the tank to take a closer look . . . keeping one eye on Luka. "Still . . . couldn’t have been easy."


Luka grinned. "It took me a while but I managed."

Bending down slightly John peered into the tank and saw the key glinting amongst the gravel . . . then he saw something else . . .

"Hey . . . that’s my cell phone." He turned back to Luka, his mouth wide open in disbelief, eyes wide and accusing.

Luka tried to look suitably sheepish but the truth was he didn’t feel anything for the loss of the phone. He shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry," he said lamely. "Are you sure you won't have some coffee?" he asked again, sipping from a cup.


John turned back to the tank, shaking his head sourly. "Why did you leave it in there? You could have at least taken it out."

Luka moved up beside him, bent over and peered into the tank. "Why . . . do you think it will still work?"

John, still shaking his head, stood upright, moved away from the tank . . . from Luka.

Luka straightened up. "So . . . this is the fourth time you have been to my place."

"Third," John corrected tersely annoyed that Luka could treat his property with such disdain.


Luka, indicating with his hand, re-corrected. "The tank . . . when you were here . . . with Abby."


John looked at the tank . . . remembered the effort it had taken to get the damn thing up there. "That wasn’t my idea," he said defensively.

"No . . . so are you always so easy to manipulate?" he asked flatly.

John didn’t answer . . . didn’t need to answer . . . the color rising in his cheeks said it all.

Luka studied him thoughtfully . . . perhaps he wouldn’t send him away after all. He put down his cup, walked over to him . . . pushed him . . . gently . . . towards the bedroom.

****************************************************************

They stood in front of each other, dimly lit by the soft glow of fading daylight. Luka thought about closing the blinds but decided against it, liking the strange shadows that were being cast across the room. They both remained silent . . . Luka by choice . . . John because he didn’t know what to say. He stood there watching, waiting . . . to see if Luka was really going to go through with this.

Luka looked down at the floor, chewing on his bottom lip. Then, abruptly, he crossed his arms over his torso, took hold of the hem of his sweatshirt and pulled it up over his head. He tossed the sweatshirt to one side, moved his hands to his pants, unbuttoned, unzipped and pushed them down, kicked them off.

John cast his eyes over Luka’s body, acutely aware that he seemed to be totally comfortable being naked in front of him, pulling his cock away from his balls in a perfectly natural action.

Luka was looking at John as he was looking at him and John, suddenly conscious of his eyes upon him looked up. He met his stare . . . and refused to be intimidated by it. He held it as he took off his jacket, tossed it to one side, then bending over he undid the laces on his shoes, pulled them off, stripped off his socks. His sweatshirt and T-shirt followed. Then, finally he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, pushed them down with his boxers and kicked them to one side.

Luka studied him carefully. He was intimately acquainted with several parts of John’s anatomy already but he had only seen parts not the whole. His mind reeled . . . at the fact that John Carter was standing naked in front of him . . .

He moved closer towards him, noting John tense. He smiled softly. "You want it, want me to fuck you. It’s why you’re here."

He reached out quickly with his right hand and grabbed at John’s soft cock, squeezing it gently. Then, just as quickly, he let go, moved his hand up, sliding it over his stomach feeling the muscles contract . . . and Luka was surprised . . . that John seemed more comfortable with him touching his genitals than he was his scars.

Keeping his hand flat on his stomach he moved to John’s right side and placed his left hand in the small of his back. He kept perfectly still allowing him to become accustomed to the feel of him, watching him carefully . . .

. . . and John fought all of his natural instincts. He stood there . . . trying to concentrate on his breathing . . . in fact, just trying to remember to breathe.

Luka repositioned himself, moving further to the back of him, tilting his head to let his eyes roam over the nape of his neck, across his shoulders, down his spine . . . and was struck by the sight of the two scars on his lower back. Each just over an inch long they were more shocking than the surgical scars on his abdomen . . . more shocking because they were made with the intent to wound . . . to kill . . .

He raised his left hand and reached out, tentatively touched them, brushing them lightly with his fingers. John flinched . . . but Luka was expecting it and steadied him with his right hand, sliding it up so his arm caged his chest.

John was split in two by conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to move away . . . desperately so . . . but the other part of him was utterly transfixed. No one had ever touched them like that. In fact, no one had ever really touched them . . ..

Luka abruptly removed both of his hands and moved slightly away from him, stood behind him, not touching him. He closed his eyes, still not fully believing that he had him here . . . like this. John, conscious of Luka’s breath on the back of his neck, shuddered and his skin prickled in a sudden tidal wave that flooded over his body.

Luka opened his eyes and noticed the small shuddering movement . . . and watched as the movements intensified so that John was now positively shaking. Luka instantly felt alarmed, believing that all this was proving too much for him. He swiftly moved from behind him to face him . . .

. . . John’s face was split by a wide ludicrous grin. Luka stared at him, believing that he was in the throes of some kind of hysteria . . .

John was hysterical . . . with laughter. He put his hand to his mouth and tried to wipe the smile from his face. "I’m . . . sorry," he said breathlessly, before giving in again to whatever it was that was making him laugh.

Luka folded his arms impatiently, looked down at the floor, up at John, up at the ceiling, down at John. "Finished."

John tried nodding his head . . . but he lost it again . . . ended up shaking it from side to side. "I’m sorry . . .it’s just . . . you know . . . this . . . has got to be the . . . most bizarre . . . thing . . . I have ever experienced."

Luka decided to put his behavior down to nervousness . . . but it was beginning to piss him off.

John finally pulled himself together. "So . . . do you do this a lot?" he asked smiling broadly.

Luka didn’t answer. He unfolded his arms, walked to the nightstand and opened a drawer. He pulled something out and then threw whatever it was on to the bed. John looked at the bed and his eyes widened, the smile abruptly wiped from his face.

He looked over at Luka. "No way."

"Winner does whatever he wants . . . remember . . . you agreed."

John shook his head again, this time much more violently. "No . . . I never thought that . . . it would involve . . . " he trailed off.

"Not my fault you have no imagination."

"My imagination works fine . . . But there is no way that I am going to let you . . . handcuff me . . . not after . . . what happened . . . before."

"Then go," Luka snapped, " Get out . . . and I’ll know that you are a coward . . . a hypocrite. That if the positions were reversed . . . I would do whatever you asked."

"If the positions were reversed?" John walked towards him waving his hands in the air. "If the positions were reversed . . . we wouldn’t be in this position." He stopped walking, suddenly conscious of his nakedness.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to calm himself. "Look . . . we both know that this is all about control. Everything you’ve done . . . to manipulate me . . . because you knew . . . how I would react. And it ended in a ridiculous . . . I mean . . . really ridiculous . . . stupid . . . bet . . . which I really didn’t think about . . . And I’m here . . . I showed up . . . so why don’t you just . . . get it over with . . . and then we can just . . . forget about it."

Luka stared at him. "The nature of the bet doesn’t matter . . . it could have been decided on the flip of a coin. It doesn’t alter the fact that you agreed. You had as much chance of winning as I did."

John didn’t say anything. He was studying Luka closely searching his face trying to gauge something that he didn’t understand . . . perhaps wasn’t capable of understanding.

Luka walked to the bed, reached down, picked up the handcuffs. "You’re wasting my time. Decide."

John looked at the floor. He couldn’t believe this . . . and then it finally dawned on him what Luka had meant . . . by consolation prize. He closed his eyes . . . remembered what it felt like before . . . on the bed.

He couldn’t do it.

Without giving Luka another glance he stepped over to his clothes, picked up his tangled T-shirt and sweatshirt, pulled them apart.

Luka watched for a moment and then walked over to him, pulling the shirts from his hands. He then took John’s right hand and placed the handcuffs into it, curling his fingers around his.

John shook his head. "No . . . I won’t let you do that."

Luka nodded his head. "It’s what we agreed."

John shook his head again and Luka moved closer to him . . . so close that his genitals brushed against his hip . . . and John felt the warmth . . .the heat coming from his body. Luka took hold of the back of his neck with his left hand, massaged it gently. He slid his right hand across his stomach, down around his balls, slid between his thighs.

"You don’t trust me."

John snorted. "Yeah, something like that."

Again, he looked into Luka’s face, into his eyes, searching for something . . . anything. "Is this about me . . . or about you?"

The question was unexpected and Luka didn’t know how to reply . . . and his face betrayed him.

. . . and John saw it . . . saw that Luka had no clearer sense of what this was about than he did. He shook his head perplexed. Then his mind went blank, as though paralyzed by the weight of the decision . . .

Luka made the decision. He retrieved the handcuffs from John’s hand . . . and snapped one cuff on to his wrist. The sound brought John to his senses . . . but still he failed to act.

Luka watched him carefully . . . and realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled sharply, breathed in deeply . . . and felt dizzy from a sudden rush of adrenaline. "Lie down," he managed to say, pushing John gently towards the bed . . .

. . . and John allowed himself to be directed . . . controlled. He sat on the edge of the bed, slid into the middle, and lay down, placing his head on the pillow as Luka leant forward and took hold of the cuff hanging off his right wrist and pulled.

"You need to move down a bit." He said it so casually it was almost mundane . . .

. . . and John did as he was told, sliding down, as Luka pulled his arm up above his head, putting the handcuff through the bed frame. "Give me your other hand."

But this time John didn’t move. He looked up at Luka, swallowing hard, knowing that this was his last chance to back out. "Don’t I have to have a safe word or something?" he asked, trying to smile.

"You don’t need one."

"Why not?"

"You’re not in any danger."

John sought out his eyes, wanting to believe that he meant it . . . but there was no way of knowing. Luka’s face was once again, unreadable, a blank mask. He closed his eyes, not understanding why he was doing this. He lifted his left hand and shut down his mind as Luka snapped the cuff on to his wrist.

****************************************************************

Luka moved to the foot of the bed and turned to face him . . . and was instantly turned on by what he saw. And John saw it . . . saw how much it was turning him on. He tentatively pulled on the handcuffs flexing his wrists, his fingers . . . He stared at the ceiling, conscious of his heart pounding in his chest.

Luka knelt on the end of the bed and grabbed hold of John’s feet, one in each hand, gripping them firmly, massaging small circles into his soles with his thumbs. John eyed him warily trying not to react. Luka moved from his feet to his ankles, kneading the skin, made his way up his shins to his knees. He knee-walked further between John’s thighs gently pushing them apart with his hands. John automatically tensed the muscles, pushing his thighs back down.

Luka smiled and looked into John’s face . . . and was once again overwhelmed, by the fact that he had him here . . . like this. Every area of his body was open to him. He closed his eyes . . . relishing the moment . . .

He resumed his exploration running his hands lightly over John’s torso, lightly touching him, one hand on each side. He slid his hands up through his armpits, stroking gently with his fingertips. It felt ticklish and John flinched and flexed as Luka moved up his arms to his wrists hanging locked above his head. Luka retraced his path, sliding back down and moved his hands around John’s neck and slowly over his chest . . .

. . . and remembered . . . that night. The night he thought he was too drunk to remember . . . when he wanted to hurt him . . . but didn’t . . .

. . . he reached over John’s body to the drawer of the nightstand

"No blindfold . . . I want . . . need . . . to see."

Luka shook his head. "I want you to see."

John was reassured . . . but wondered if Luka hadn’t wanted him to see whether or not he would have used a blindfold.

Luka took something out of the drawer, palmed it in his hand, crawled back over him and placed whatever it was between his thighs. John raised his head up, straining his neck to try and see what it was. He couldn’t see . . . and he didn’t ask.

Luka placed his hands on John’s chest fanning his fingers along the curve of his ribs. He could feel John’s heart beating rapidly in his chest. "Relax," he whispered.

Easier said then done but John tried . . . tried to control his breathing, tried to relax his muscles.

Luka slid his hands down past John’s waist, over his hips and down the outside of his thighs. When he reached his knees he moved his hands to the inside of them, and slowly, teasingly, moved up towards his groin. Fingertips stroked his balls . . . and John finally gave in to the sensations that Luka was administering and he exhaled softly, unwittingly emitting a long sigh.

Such prolonged consideration on John’s anatomy had the desired effect and Luka turned his attention to the now hard shaft of John’s cock, sliding the fingers of his right hand up and down its length as his left hand firmly gripped the base. Then fingers delicately played around and over the head in tiny figures of eight. Again, John admitted his approval by emitting another long sigh.

Keeping his left hand firmly on the base of John’s cock Luka slid his right hand up over his chest, toying with his left nipple, rolling it between his fingers. He then, unexpectedly, pinched the nipple . . . hard . . .and was met by what he found to be a pleasing intake of breath as John gasped at the pain, writhing beneath the fingers until Luka decided to let go.

The next sensation caused John to pull against the handcuffs violently, as Luka retrieved what he had placed between his thighs, concealing it in his hand, and John felt the sharp teeth of a clamp bite into his nipple, the spring taking tight hold on his flesh. His toes curled and he bucked wildly held only in place by the weight of Luka now straddling his groin.

"Oh fuck," he cried out. The pain was intense, harsh . . . and temporary . . . dying back to a bearable level. He glared at Luka but tried not to show how much it hurt. Luka smiled at him, moving back between his legs, then raked his hands roughly over his neck, stomach and thighs, slid his hands back up to tug on the clamp causing John to groan loudly.

Luka leant forward over John’s chest and his mouth found his other nipple, biting and sucking it, scraping his stubble over it. Then he moved down to trace the tip of his tongue along the length of John's cock. He did it slowly, deliberately . . . and John’s breathing became ragged as the warm, wet tongue teased him.

Then it was gone as Luka lifted his head and, with his left hand, grabbed hold of John’s balls, gripping them tightly . . . and John knew what was coming as Luka pulled down . . . sharply. He recoiled at the pain.

"Fuck you." he spat.

Luka, ignoring the response, pushed his hand on to John’s stomach forcing him to lie flat on the bed. "Try not to arch your back . . . you might strain it."

"You’re . . . fucking . . . torturing me . . . . . . and you’re worried . . . . . . . . about my back"

Luka grinned at the obvious irony . . . then pushed John’s legs apart as far as they would go. Wetting two fingers in his mouth, coating them liberally, he tried to push into him. He felt resistance and grinned. "What’s the matter . . . it’s why you’re here."

"Fuck you." Irritated John pushed his legs back down again firmly tensing the muscles in his thighs. The thought crossed John’s his mind that Luka was right . . . that maybe he didn’t have an imagination. He’d given control of his body to another man . . . a man he didn’t know. He certainly didn’t know he was capable of . . . this. The pain he could take . . . he’d suffered far worse but what else had he got in mind.

Luka reached out his hand to John’s chest and removed the clamp . . . and John was hit by a rush of pain like nothing he’d felt before as the blood returned to his tortured skin. He writhed, crushing the back of his head into the pillow, grimacing at the pain.

"Oh shit. Oh fuck." He lifted his head up and glared at Luka, pulling on the handcuffs. "Take these off . . . now."

Luka smiled, bent down and took John’s cock into his mouth. He bit, chewed, and sucked in an unbelievable medley of pleasure and pain making John writhe in sudden unexpected ecstasy . . .

John’s moans gradually became more desperate and the bed frame rattled as he pulled at the cuffs. He was bathed in sweat, nipples fully hard, chest heaving, head thrown back with his eyes shut tight.

Luka sensing how close he was stopped suddenly and pulled himself up so his face was over his. "Look at me."

John opened his eyes and a look flashed across his face . . . anger, irritation . . . and something else. It lasted a fraction of a second but it was there and Luka saw it.

"Tell me what you want"

But John twisted his head to the side refusing to say anything.

Luka resumed his assault on John’s body but this time avoiding all contact with his genitals. He caressed his hips, digging his thumbs in to his skin, raked his hands over his chest, leaving fine pink trails on his pale skin, he bit down on his nipples . . . and John was now crying out incessantly.

"Oh God . . . Stop. Stop. Stop."

"Tell me what you want."

"I want . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . to cum."

Satisfied with the response Luka moved between John’s legs, placed his hands on his thighs, feeling the tensed hard muscle under the feverishly hot skin. He pushed them apart . . . and this time John’s legs remained where he put them. He took a pillow, raised John’s ass and pushed it underneath.

Luka looked down at John’s face . . . and smiled. His eyes were, once again, shut tight. He pushed John’s legs up higher, wet two fingers in his mouth and slid them oh so easily into John’s opening, feeling it stop fighting him. John let out a long, desperate moan.

"Shhh." Luka soothed. He worked his fingers inside him, opening him further, playing with him, stroking him, making him writhe . . .

. . . he removed his fingers, crawled his arms over Johns thighs placed his face over his. But John still didn’t open his eyes. Luka reached over to the nightstand drawer and retrieved a condom and some lotion. His own cock had oozed copiously and he smeared it around the head. He then rolled the condom over and down his shaft . . . conscious that John was now watching him intently. He squeezed the lotion into his hand and smeared it over the sheath, smeared the remainder around and in John’s asshole.

Luka grabbed John’s legs pulling them up and kneeling forward he placed the tip of his cock at his opening and pushed gently . . . and before John could react to any hint of pain he let go of one leg and grabbed John’s erection stroking it firmly.

"Oh God . . . fuck mmmm."

Luka stared at John’s tormented face. "Say it," he insisted. But John gritted his teeth, once again, refusing to say anything.

Settling his weight on his knees Luka pressed forward slowly, gently. He felt the resistance ease as the slicked end of his rock hard cock poked at John’s anus. He leaned in further and John’s body yielded as Luka’s cock head slid through and John automatically clenched around it.

They both groaned . . . Luka from the sheer pleasure as the hot opening absorbed him . . . John from feeling the pain of his penetration. Luka held still, resisting the urge to drive further in, watching as John’s nostrils flared with the effort he made to not show that it hurt.

John tried to relax his muscles and finally the pain receded and the grimace left his face. Sensing that he was ready Luka allowed his weight to press down and his throbbing cock slowly but firmly, slipped further inside and John opened himself taking possession of Luka’s manhood

The heat of the body wrapping around him, the unbelievable softness, the overwhelming tightness which gripped at his shaft, aroused Luka more than he knew possible. His whole body was infused with passion. He pushed onwards . . . and gasped with the pleasure and the realization that he was fully buried within the man beneath him. He stopped, willing himself to relax, knowing that he could cum at any moment, the pleasure was that intense.

Luka looked down and was stunned by the vision beneath him. "Look at yourself. I'm all the way inside of you."

Leaning forward Luka braced his hands on John’s shoulders and bent down to capture his mouth in a hard grinding, passionate kiss. Then, breaking free, he pulled himself up, once more taking hold of John’s legs, and started to move back and forth. He grunted softly as he pumped in and out, his body reeling with the sensations he was experiencing. Increasing the speed of his thrusts, he began to sweat and gasp as he focused on the power he felt between his legs.

For John every nerve in his body tingled, every part of his being screamed out as he gave in to the waves of exploding pleasure as he was rocked back and forth. He clenched at the invasion as it was pulled from him, and opened again to take more and more of it as Luka thrust deeper back into him.

Luka pounded harder and faster . . . wanting to be further inside of him needing to be joined completely with him. He forgot all else but the moment, the intense pleasure, the total sensation.

John opened his eyes and looked up. The sight of Luka took his breath away, coated in sweat, driven by pure animal instinct to bury himself into him, eyes glazed.

"Oh God . . . " Luka panted as he plowed into him.

John locked his legs around Luka’s hips and pulled him harder into himself, ramming his body against him.

The effect on Luka was devastating. With a strangled yell, he arched his back, pulling himself out until only the very tip of his cock remained. Then with the force and power of built up, suppressed desire and need he crashed down sinking himself, burying his shaft and crushing his balls against John’s ass. His aching balls heaved and emptied as fireworks exploded in his head, and his body exploded setting fire to his cock as he emptied his essence into John pounding his ass even as the last drops spilled out of him.

John simultaneously yelled out and Luka felt liquid heat on his chest. Forcing his eyes open he saw that John was shuddering below him. Time stood still as they trembled and shot together, simultaneous climaxes twitching and shuddering to a gradual halt.

Luka bent down and kissed him deeply, stroking his neck gently and John kept his eyes closed as his breathing finally calmed and Luka started to slowly soften inside of him.

****************************************************************

After . . . the contrast was unmistakable . . . with the previous intensity and pain . . . there was now complete gentleness. Luka unlocked the handcuffs from John’s wrists rubbing and soothing his skin. He stretched out his arms, massaged his shoulders, ran his hands down his body, down his legs easing the muscles. Then, gently pushing him to one side of the bed, he lay down beside him.

****************************************************************

****************************************************************

****************************************************************

I mirror him so we are lying face to face like . . . strange that the word ‘lovers’ comes to my mind . . . but we are not lovers. I run my hand down his side over his stomach to his chest to his throat chin lips nose eyes. His eyes . . . He closes them . . . a reflex . . . I press my thumb and fingers against them . . . feel that delicate, flickering movement . . . it feels so fragile . . . so vulnerable . . .

I stop myself . . . remember again his words, his accusation . . . that I ‘like them vulnerable’. Is that true?

There are so many things I hate about him . . . I can’t help it

. . . but the way he responds to me . . . it feels . . . satisfying . . . to control him like that . . . as though he is the only thing I can control.

He reaches out to touch me . . . but I stop his hand press it hard into the sheets between us . . .

****************************************************************

God . . . I came without him touching me . . .

. . . and now he touches me . . . and I’m not allowed to touch him . . .

. . . and looking at his face . . . is like . . . looking at a blank mask . . .

. . . who is he?

****************************************************************

I close my eyes not able to bear the sight of him. He is so easy to read, all his emotions he wears so readily on his face . . .

When I open them again he is looking at me . . . it startles me . . .

I tell him, "Go to sleep . . ." as though I have the right.

. . . but I don’t want to care for him.

He turns away from me, his back to me. A gap opens up between us, cold, like a river . . . The gulf is more than I can bear. I have to shift myself nearer, mould myself to him . . . press my groin to him . . .

. . . I just want to be next to somebody . . . anybody . . . to feel that warmth . . . to feel their heart beating . . . to feel their movement as they breathe.

He’ll do . . . I don’t want to feel for him . . .

****************************************************************

. . . as though I can sleep . . . after one of the most . . . incredibly . . . intense . . . experiences of my life . . . almost as intense as . . .

God . . . the juxtaposition of the mental imagery is frightening . . . as though I can equate being fucked by him to being stabbed in the back . . .

. . . the closeness is stifling . . . claustrophobic . . .

. . . I try to rise from his bed but his arm is locked around me . . . and he is sleeping so deeply that he doesn’t stir when I move and I have to wake him . . . calling his name.

****************************************************************

. . . I am so wrapped in my thoughts that I don’t notice . . . that he is trying to escape from under me . . . I’m leaning on him, my arm wrapped tightly around him . . . "Luka." he says softly . . . and I have to let him go . . .

. . . the coldness is unbearable . . . I pull the covers around me . . .

. . . but I can smell his scent on the sheets . . .

****************************************************************

It is strange to be here amongst his things . . . I can’t help looking . . . touching . . .

. . . but then I feel guilty . . . as though I’m intruding . . .

There is dryness in my throat . . . I find my way to his refrigerator . . . hoping that he doesn’t mind that I steal his juice . . . I know enough . . . I think I know enough to know that he won’t mind.

****************************************************************

. . . when he doesn’t come back I go looking for him . . .

. . . he is drinking juice from a carton. I watch silently as he gulps it down, his throat convulsing with every swallow. Such is his voracity juice escapes from his lips, slides down his chin, dribbles onto his chest. He brings his hand up and smears it with his thumb . . . unconsciously runs his hands up and down lightly stroking the contours of his stomach . . .

. . . and I am shocked . . . by the fact that I find him so arousing.

He finishes the carton, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns . . . and is instantly aware of me . . . instantly wary . . . His eyes bore into me . . . his eyes . . .

****************************************************************

I turn looking for the trashcan . . . and he is there . . . staring at me . . . and I feel guilty. Perhaps he does mind. Again I search his face trying to find a sign . . . of anything . . . in his eyes. There is something about his eyes . . . but it is impossible to tell what he is thinking . . .

. . . but then I look at his body . . . and I am shocked by the fact that he is hard . . .

****************************************************************

I take him to the shower guiding him gently . . .

. . . his hands are pressed between us . . . his fingers explore me carefully, probing, searching . . .

He is blind . . . the cloth tied tightly over his eyes. I am amazed that he allows me to do this . . . the sense overwhelms me . . . that him of all people should trust me so implicitly.

I lean in to kiss hiss him, place my mouth onto his, force my tongue into his mouth . . . ravage it . . . taste the deliciously sweet taste of . . . orange . . .

He smiles into my mouth . . . a deep, wide, beautifully, natural smile . . . and . . . I can’t help myself . . . I laugh . . . gently rubbing my nose against his . . .

****************************************************************

. . . when I feel the brush of cloth against my skin . . . it is strange . . . I know that he is dangerous . . . for me . . . that he does something to me that I can’t explain . . .

The feel of the water seems to make everything . . . I don’t know . . . sensual . . . he turns me to face him and my fingers explore him . . . and I am conscious of the fact that this is the first time that I have really touched him . . . have been allowed to touch him . . .

Then I feel his mouth on mine . . . its as though he is trying to . . . I don’t know . . . devour me. It feels . . . wonderfully . . . erotic.

Then he laughs suddenly . . . is he laughing at me? Part of me wants . . . needs to see his face . . . and part of me . . . doesn’t want to know.

He turns me round . . . and I know what he wants. I brace my hands against the wall and he enters me . . . the pain is slight . . . before it was almost brutal . . . no . . . not brutal . . . primitive . . . But now . . .

****************************************************************

I turn him round. Nothing is said. He rests his hands against the wall, leans forward . . .

I fuck him gently, slowly . . . whispering to him words he cannot hear . . . in a language he doesn’t understand. I take my time . . . there is no rush . . .

****************************************************************

. . . the feel of him astounds me . . . I reach down . . . but he stops me . . . his hand grips at my shaft . . . stroking rhythmically . . . stopping sporadically . . . so that I am trapped . . . not knowing which way to move . . .

****************************************************************

I stare at him while he sleeps . . . it is as though he has finally escaped from me . . . and I am alone.

He stirs and rolls away from me, shifting uneasily . . . and once again I notice the scars on his back . . . and I can see it . . . knife slicing through flesh through muscle . . . I can’t help it . . . I reach out and touch them . . .

He wakes instantly . . . grabs at my hand . . . catches my wrist in a vice like grip, fingers digging in to my flesh. I don’t move, hold my breath . . . and wait . . . His eyes flick around the room . . . his confusion evident as he tries to orient himself. He looks over his shoulder at me . . . looks away releasing his grip.

"I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to . . ." I almost say ‘scare’ but stop myself, "wake you."

He shifts his head on the pillow and says . . . "It’s okay."

****************************************************************

****************************************************************

****************************************************************

Luka awoke early stirred, not by the daylight creeping through the edges of the blinds, but by the fact that he was cold. He ran his hand over his face, rubbed at his eyes, looked over at the man lying beside him and discovered that, somehow, John had managed to lay claim to the covers. He shivered slightly, thought about reclaiming them but instead slipped carefully from the bed and crept silently from the room.

He returned to the bedroom carrying a large cup of freshly made coffee. He approached the bed, knelt down and whispered, "Carter."

He received no response . . . so he blew on the surface of the coffee into John’s face. "Carter."

Still no response . . . so he touched his cheek gently. "Carter." Nothing.

Frustrated at his lack of success he put the coffee down on the nightstand and sat back on his heels. "Carter" he yelled.

John sat up in a panic and stared around him wildly . . . came face to face with Luka grinning like a Cheshire cat. He groaned loudly and threw himself back down on the bed.

"Fuck off."

Luka, rising to his knees, leant forward and tried to lift the covers from the bed. John gripped the covers tightly and hissed at him. "Don’t . . ."

Luka sighed heavily and stood up. "Okay."

John relaxed his grip . . . and Luka ripped the covers from his hands leaving him very naked on the bed, his body rudely assaulted by the cold morning air. Ignoring John’s furious scowl, Luka walked round to the other side of the bed, leant forward and took hold of John’s left arm, dragging him to the middle of the bed.

"Stop . . . Stop," John protested, struggling against Luka’s grip, trying to shake him off.

"No." Luka was insistent, pulling on John’s arm again.

"Dammit Luka. Can I at least pee first?"

Luka stared at him for a moment, realized that the request was not that unreasonable, nodded and let go of his arm. John slid away from him, sat on the edge of the bed, then stretched, stood and stomped his way to the bathroom muttering under his breath.

Luka, grinning, sat down on the bed and waited for him to return. He rolled his head a few times, trying to ease the tension in his neck, shrugged his shoulders . . . grew impatient. He almost went to check on what was taking him so long when John reappeared at the door looking slightly more alert than when he left. He walked to the nightstand, picked up the coffee that Luka had left for him, and took a sip.

Luka watched him for a moment. "Open the drawer."

John opened the drawer, looked inside.

"The handcuffs," Luka said.

John put down his coffee, picked up the handcuffs. He looked at Luka who nodded his head to the middle of the bed.

John shook his head. "No. It’s your turn."

Luka smiled, wagged his finger and shook his head.

John cocked his head to one side. "What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?"

****************************************************************

Luka flexed his wrists above his head, tugged on the handcuffs . . .

. . . truth was he hated the feeling. Being at someone else’s mercy . . . helpless. He closed his eyes . . . and was unnerved by the images that flashed through his mind . . .

. . . he opened his eyes . . . scrutinized John’s face carefully.

John was sitting across Luka’s thighs enjoying the sensation of Luka being beneath him. He hadn’t thought that it would feel so . . . satisfying. Strange. He lightly stroked his fingers over his stomach. Trouble was, now that he had him here he wasn’t quite sure what to do

He ran his hands over Luka’s chest, brushed his fingers lightly over his nipples. He grinned mischievously and then leant over and picked the clamp out of the drawer of the nightstand. He examined it and then pinched it open with his fingers . . . it flew out of his hand, bounced on the edge of the bed and dropped onto the floor.

John scrambled over to retrieve it . . . and Luka was met with the sight of John’s perfect ass hanging over the edge of the bed. He automatically pulled at the handcuffs, suddenly resenting them.

John pulled himself up, blowing on the clamp, twisted round and resumed his position over Luka’s thighs. Then he leant forward and placed the clamp onto Luka’s left nipple, making sure the teeth took a firm hold.

"****" Luka swore . . . or John assumed he did. He had no idea what he said . . . but he was pretty certain that it was a swear word.

"Take it off," Luka managed to say between gritted teeth.

"Wait . . . the pain dies down in a sec."

Luka twisted his head from side to side. "No . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .take it off."

John reached forward and removed the clamp, rubbed the nipple between his fingers. Luka blinked his eyes rapidly. "God . . . that . . . was . . . bad."

John snorted. "If you thought that was bad . . . you should wait a few minutes and then take it off . . . now that’s bad."

"How could you stand it?" Luka craned his neck forward checking to see if there was any sign of blood.

John shrugged his shoulders, stared at the clamp, twirling it around in his fingers. "I don’t know . . . I don’t like pain . . . I mean . . . I hate pain . . . I lived with it . . . everyday . . . and I hated it . . . you know . . . it changes you . . . takes you over . . . but this," he flicked the clamp, "this was temporary . . . and I knew I could beat it . . . and that felt . . . "

. . . he looked up at Luka and found that he was watching him intently . . . and he suddenly felt embarrassed. He coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Anyway . . . you did it to me . . . and yet you’ve never tried it."

Now it was Luka’s turn to be embarrassed. "Sorry."

John shrugged. "I didn’t know that you were such a . . . wimp."

Luka frowned, flexed his wrists in the handcuffs. "I don’t think this is working . . ."

"Only because you hate not being in control?"

Luka shook his head. "Seriously . . . I have a better idea."

****************************************************************

"Don’t," he pleaded softly "please don’t".

"Shhhsh," he soothed.

"I don’t like . . . that."

"Stop . . . whining."

John clenched the muscles in his stomach in dreaded anticipation and winced . . . as the cold sticky chocolate sauce dropped on to his stomach and pooled into his navel. Luka grinned at his discomfort and diddled his fingers in the sticky mess, drawing whirly patterns over his skin.

John sighed wearily and stared pointedly up at the ceiling. Luka frowned and moved up, lifting his torso, so that his face was over John’s, forcing him to look at him.

John closed his eyes . . .

Luka grinned . . . and then lowered himself down onto John’s stomach squeezing the sticky goo between them.

John’s eyes flew open and he groaned. "That is so . . . gross."

Luka laughed at his obvious distaste. "What’s wrong?"

John gestured with his hands. "I hate . . . mess."

"Put your hands back behind your head . . . people vomit and urinate on you all the time."

"That’s work . . . an occupational hazard. This is meant to be . . . I don’t know what this is meant to be."

"Fun." Luka said simply.

John snorted . . . and Luka writhed around on his stomach, spreading the gooey mess even further. "Don’t . . . don’t."

"Didn’t you like to get dirty as a child."

"Not really . . . the consequences were pretty severe . . ."

Luka looked shocked. "You were beaten?"

"No . . . God . . . No. It just usually resulted in some . . . pretty rough treatment at the hands of an over zealous maid . . ."

Luka smiled . . . then stopped when he realized that John wasn’t. He pulled himself up, peeling their bodies apart. John lifted his head and peered at the collective mess. "It looks like one of those ink blot tests . . . you know . . . Rorschach tests."

Luka looked down. "What do you see?"

John tilted his head to one side . . . and then to the other. "Don’t know . . ." he pointed his finger at a particular area just above Luka’s navel ". . . that looks like a man . . . and a woman . . . lying . . ."

Luka looked up, wondering why he had stopped.

John’s face was frozen. "Oh my God."

"What?"

John put his hands on Luka’s shoulders and forcefully pushed him to one side. He then scrambled from the bed in absolute panic.

Luka slid to the edge of the bed and stood up. He didn’t ask what the matter was . . . he knew what the matter was. He stood there watching as John paced about the room. The fact that his stomach was smeared in chocolate sauce made it seem almost comical . . . but the obvious distress on his now ashen face was not.

"Oh my God . . . I cannot believe I’ve done this."

"Calm down."

John stopped in his tracks. "Calm down? I’ve just spent days . . . fooling around with you . . . and I didn’t even think about it . . . not for one minute . . . not for one second . . . did I think about what I was doing."

Luka stared awkwardly at the floor. "You’re not to blame . . . it’s my fault."

"Your fault? How can it be your fault?" John stared at him . . . a hard penetrating stare . . . It was Luka’s fault. He was the one who had instigated this . . . the one who had manipulated him into doing . . .

. . . he shook his head bewildered. However much he wanted to blame Luka, whatever he thought about him, whatever he thought his motives were . . . deep down he knew that he had to take responsibility for his own actions, accept his own part in it.

Once again he shook his head. "I’ve got to get out of here." He walked towards his clothes, which were piled on a chair.

Luka pointed to his stomach. "You need to clean up."

John looked down. "Oh God." He almost ran out of the bedroom. Luka followed helplessly as he made his way to the bathroom. He watched as John showered, wisely making no attempt to join him. They then exchanged places and Luka cleaned himself as John roughly dried himself with a towel. By the time Luka was clean and dry John was fully dressed and tying up his shoes.

Luka watched as John walked towards the door. "What are you going to do?"

John didn’t answer. He reached the door and opened it, was almost through it before he stopped and turned.

"I have no idea."


To be continued . . .

John Carter, once again, stood motionless under his shower allowing the water to wash over him. The water was as hot as he could stand, not to ease his back, which was sore, and it wasn’t just his back which was sore, but more to purge his soul, wanting the hot water to wash him clean. But the longer he stood there, the more he thought, and the more he thought the more unclean he felt.

Guilt.

It felt familiar . . . like an old adversary.

He wanted to bury the feeling. He was good at that. Good at not confronting the things that he knew that he should. Good at not even thinking about those things that were too difficult or too painful. But he knew . . . knew that he couldn’t avoid this.

What the fuck had possessed him? Well, obviously, Luka had possessed him . . . although, technically, he had taken possession of Luka, a significant part of Luka . . .

He moaned softly, shutting his eyes, wrapping his arms around his chest.

"Stupid." The word came out in a whisper, inaudible against the rush of the water.

Strange. How not being able to see heightened all his other senses. The feel of the water on his skin . . . the feel of his skin on . . .

. . . there was something wrong, apart from the obvious, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Luka’s hands had been all over him, touching him, feeling him, his body pressing into him, every inch of him, every hard inch of him, pressing in to him, his mouth pressing on to him, sucking him, licking him, chewing, biting and kissing . . .

. . . that was it. That’s what was wrong. Luka was taller. He had never been kissed by anyone taller than himself before . . . well, not like that. Instead of lowering his head he had raised it. That simple distinction seemed to accentuate the fact that he had been nothing more than a passive recipient of . . . of . . .

. . . every inch of him, every hard inch of him, pressing into him, that look on his face, that look in his eyes, that sound that he made . . .

He opened his eyes. "Oh God."

He reached out to turn off the water and quickly stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rail. He scrubbed at his chest roughly, vigorously, as though he was trying to remove a layer of his skin.

He wanted to blame Luka, needed to blame Luka . . . but . . .

But how could he explain this? Explain something he didn’t understand.

He stopped scrubbing and turned to the mirror over the washbasin, wiped it clear with the towel. He addressed his reflection, looked himself in the eye.

"Abby . . . me and Luka . . . Luka and I . . . we . . ." What! What was he supposed to say?

Perhaps he was making too much of this. Perhaps if he made light of it then perhaps it wouldn’t seem so serious. Perhaps.

"Hey Abby . . .Luka and I got . . . friendly while you were away. I mean . . . really . . . friendly."

He shook his head and buried his face in the towel. It muffled the sound that came from his mouth, the one that sounded like an animal in pain.

Try again.

Perhaps he could mention it casually, just casually slide it in to a conversation. He raised his head, looked in to the mirror and, again, addressed his reflection.

"Abby . . . while you were going out with Luka did he exhibit any behavior that would indicate to you that he was . . . in any way . . . gay. Why do I ask? No particular reason . . . although now that you mention it . . . we did happen to have sex. So . . . . . . . do you want to go out this evening? I know this nice romantic restaurant down by the river."

Ridiculous. Not only was it ridiculous but it also raised the question of whether or not Luka was gay . . . and if Luka was gay what did that make him? Sure he’d experimented with his sexuality but, hey, who hadn’t . . . but he had never been . . . Could Luka tell . . . tell that he had been . . . that he had never . . .

He shook his despondently. He was going to have to be up front about it, lay it out exactly as it happened so there was no chance of any misunderstanding.

"Abby. Luka and I . . . we had sex . . . but it didn’t start out as sex . . . it was a bizarre, twisted game that got out of hand . . . but it didn’t start out a as a game . . . it started out with Kovac handcuffing me to his bed . . . because the man was completely . . . deranged . . . drunk. And then he un-handcuffed me . . . and I left . . . but then I went back . . . because . . . well that doesn’t matter . . . and then he invited me to a bar . . . well it wasn’t exactly an invitation . . . did I mention the handcuffs? . . . and the note. It was a challenge . . . to a game of foosball . . . I know it sounds bizarre . . .and it was. I lost. But that wasn’t my fault. I swear to God that one of the rods was stiff . . . it didn’t turn right in my hand. And it was really close . . . and I could have won . . ."

He could have won . . .

. . . but then what? Could he have done to Luka what Luka had done to him?

Would she ask him?

"Too much information. Way too much information."

He exhaled sharply, straightened out the towel, flipped it around his neck and squared up to the mirror.

"I had sex with Kovac . . . Twice. Because . . . the first time . . . it was because I had no choice . . . I was made to do it . . . honest. It wasn’t my fault. The second time? Well, obviously I was . . . traumatized by the whole fucking experience . . . and just gave in to . . . The third time . . . there wasn’t a third time . . . there could have been a third time but there wasn’t . . . you would have been so proud of me."

He decided he wouldn’t mention the fact that there could have been a third time.

Traumatized?

Had he been? He had certainly felt terrified on his bed. Terrified? He tried to invoke the memory, to keep it at the forefront of his mind. Trouble was he found it hard to remember the feeling. It was a bit like being ill. When you’re ill you can’t really remember ever being well . . . and when you’re well it’s pretty hard to imagine what it’s like to be sick . . .

. . . and, if he had been that traumatized, then why did he go back to his apartment, why did he let him handcuff him to his bed.

No, he had been scared . . . he couldn’t forget that. The first time . . . on his bed . . . not the second time. With the blindfold . . . not being able to see had been frightening . . . not knowing what was going on, not knowing what was going to happen. But it had been so fucking intense . . . not the first time . . . the second time . . . when Luka had . . . and the blindfold . . . not being able to see . . . the second time . . . not the first time . . . had been . . . erotic.

Things were becoming confused in his head.

He should never have gone back to his apartment, after the first time, he should have just gone to the police, had him arrested. Well maybe not arrested. Perhaps they could have just given him a warning . . . or, perhaps, a stiff talking to . . .

Because if he hadn’t gone back to his apartment then he would never have touched him and if he hadn’t touched him then he would never have touched him back and then they would never have gone to the bar and he would never have gone to his apartment and then he would never have been f . . .

He retraced his steps searching for the point where he could have changed what happened . . . and failed to spot the obvious . . . the fact that he could have said ‘No’. That time in the bar . . . just before he shook Kovac’s hand . . . right after he put Abby out of his mind. Because, in his mind, ‘No’ had never been an option. Because ‘No’ would have meant backing down . . .

Luka Kovac. God, if it could have been anyone else but Luka Kovac . . . but if it hadn’t been Luka Kovac then it wouldn’t have been anyone else.

Luka had been all over him . . . like a rash.

A rash? Oh God. Was he marked in any way? Had Luka left any evidence that would reveal his betrayal? He slipped the towel from his neck and examined himself in the mirror, craning his neck, twisting his head from side to side. He looked down at his chest, at his groin, trying to remember where Luka had touched him . . . which wasn’t that difficult as it was pretty much everywhere. He looked in the mirror again, tried to look at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t see, couldn’t be sure.

"Abby . . . I have something to tell you . . . Luka and I had sex. I . . . didn’t mean to . . . and it didn’t mean anything. I swear to you it didn’t mean anything . . . it was just sex."

He groaned, twisting the towel in his hands. Calling it ‘just sex’ didn’t make it sound any better. What if he’d had ‘just sex’ with another woman . . . would that be acceptable . . . although . . .

"Abby I had sex with someone else . . . but . . . hey . . . it wasn’t a woman . . . yeah, like that works."

"Abby . . . it wasn’t just sex . . . No. No. No. No."

"Abby . . . it wasn’t about sex . . . it was a competition . . . to see . . . to see what . . . who had the biggest penis?"

Actually they were more-or-less the same size. Actually, the only major difference between them was that he was circumcised and Luka wasn’t. Actually, now he came to think about it, Luka’s cock looked kind of . . . cute, like it was wearing a roll-neck sweater . . . that was when he had seen it flaccid . . . which wasn’t that often . . . mostly he had seen it erect, hard, rock solid and . . .

He looked at himself in the mirror, a look of absolute disgust on his face, and kicked the stand to the washbasin.

"Ohhh fuck." He dropped the towel he was holding and clutched his foot with both hands, hopped around on one leg. "Shit, shit, shit." He gently placed his foot on the floor and flexed out his now tender toes. Thoroughly dejected he limped from the bathroom, made his way to the bedroom, still rehearsing what he was going to say, what he was trying to say, what he wished he could say . . .

"Abby . . . while you were away something very . . . strange happened . . . between me and Kovac. We . . ."

"Abby . . . Luka and I . . ." he flopped face down onto the bed, " . . we’re going to get married."

He desperately needed someone to talk to, which, for him, was a rarity having grown accustomed to sorting things out for himself however badly, but he couldn’t think of anyone.

"Dad . . . hey it’s John . . . your son . . . John . . . did you ever . . . get into a situation . . ."

"Mom . . . did Dad ever . . . was Dad ever unfaithful . . . if Dad had slept with . . ."

"Gamma . . . "

Well, that ruled out any member of his family. But who did that leave? A surreal thought flitted through his mind . . .

"Hi Maggie . . . John Carter . . . are you on or off your meds? Why? Because I have something to tell you that might really freak you out. You remember Luka don’t you . . . of course you do . . . everyone remembers Luka."

. . . which only served to illustrate how absurd the situation was.

The hospital then. Susan . . . after all it was Susan’s fault.

"Susan . . . you have a lot to answer for. Because of you I ended up having sex with Luka Kovac. So . . . what do you suggest we do about it?"

Strange, how he could always hear Susan’s voice in his head. "You’re kidding . . . right?"

"No, actually."

"Ewwwwwww!" He pulled a pillow over his head, wrapped it around his ears, to block out the sound that he knew she would make.

Not Susan.

"Deb . . ."

Definitely not. She was getting pretty cozy with Pratt . . . and if Pratt knew then everyone would know.

"Dr Weaver . . . Kerry . . . you’re gay . . . can I just run this scenario by you?"

Okay, not a woman, not even a gay woman. They wouldn’t understand would they? Despite what he believed about some woman finding guy on guy action to be . . . he decided not to go there.

"Mark . . . I know you’re dead and . . . all . . . but . . . if you had had sex with Luka Kovac . . . do you think that Elizabeth would have cared? Oh by the way . . . what was the most powerful orgasm you ever had?"

No brainer there. Between the two, definitely the first one . . . no . . . wait that was the second one. He had forgotten about the blowjob Luka had given him the preceding night . . .the appetizer, the trailer for forthcoming attractions. Luka did that deliberately, knowing that it would get him so worked up, so fucking curious . . .

He had been pretty good at it though . . . like he had at everything else. Did that come from experience . . . or was it a natural gift? Experience. No one was that good . . . not without some practice. He imagined what it would be like . . . to take Luka into his mouth . . . deep into his throat . . . or . . . maybe even to . . .

The thoughts froze in his mind. He leapt from the bed, a look of abject horror on his face, realizing that instead of feeling guilty about the things he had done with Luka he was now reflecting on the things he hadn’t done with Luka.

He groaned and headed for the bathroom to take yet another shower . . . this time a cold one. As he shivered under the near icy jets he thought about Luka . . . thought about what Luka thought about him. How he was probably laughing at him, right now, knowing how he had completely and utterly fucked him.

****************************************************************

If John Carter thought that Luka Kovac was having an easy time than he was sorely mistaken. Luka was embroiled in his own particular torment as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, running events over and over in his head.

He knew that he was harming people. He tried to stop that. Stopped sleeping with people at work. Nurses . . . that radiologist whose name he couldn’t even remember . . . He thought about the husband that came to see him . . . the one that pleaded with him to leave them alone. Even casual pick-ups, given their nature, occasionally ran the risk of unwelcome emotional entanglement from someone who demanded that little bit more. That’s why prostitutes, although hard on the bank balance, were a lot easier on the conscience.

But . . . Carter . . .

The bet was stupid . . . it was a joke. He liked jokes . . . or, at least, used to like, when he was younger, when life was full of joy, full of promise, when he had had so many dreams, so many passions, when he took pleasure in the simplest of thing, when even the smallest of things mattered. Instead of now . . . when nothing seemed to matter.

It was a joke . . . wasn’t it? A joke . . . was it? A twisted joke . . . because it had had malice in it . . . didn’t it? Carter . . . Abby. By his actions he had compromised their relationship . . .

He tried to feel guilty but for some reason he couldn’t. Not because he wanted them to fail but because he knew they were failing. Or perhaps, he was fooling himself . . . to ease his own conscience . . . although, at times, he wondered if he still had a conscience . . .

Carter.

He didn’t even like him . . . did he? He liked him like that. With that look on his face, just before he . . . fucked him.

He had fucked him.

He closed his eyes . . .

. . . and couldn’t help thinking about which image he found the most . . . enthralling.

Fucking him on the bed with his hands locked above his head, totally at his mercy, unable to protect himself, muscles taut, face contorted, heat rising from his skin, breath catching in the back of his throat, and then that look on his face . . . that mixture of anger, frustration, confusion. He didn’t know why he had been so aggressive. Was it just because he could, because he could do whatever he wanted and what he had wanted to do was to drive himself into him, bury himself completely . . .

Or . . .

Taking him in the shower as he leant forward, without one word being spoken, his hands spread wide on the wall, his legs spread wider, to accommodate him, the way he had pushed back onto to him. The paleness of his skin, skin that glistened under the water, water that felt slick under his fingers, fingers that played along the curve of his back, over his ass, over the top of his thighs. Hands on his hips, pulling him towards him, pushing him away, fingers spread over his cheeks, thumbs digging into to his flesh . . . He was, surprisingly, lithe, supple. The way he had arched his back as he leaned over him to bite into the nape of his neck. When he had fucked him slowly, teasingly, water cascading over them, when all he had wanted to do was drown in his heat, his hand around his cock, stroking him, driving him, controlling him . . .

The images were frighteningly vivid, etched into his memory. He wanted to shake his head, shake the images away, but he lay deathly still for fear of losing them. Finally, it was too much. He groaned and rolled over, pressing his erection hard into the bed . . . and could still smell his scent on the sheets.

Or was he just imagining it?

He couldn’t be sure. But just the thought that he could was intolerable. He pushed himself up, climbed off of the bed and strode out of the bedroom slamming the door behind him.

He should have ended it before, sooner, not had him here in his space, in his home . . .

. . . but he couldn’t resist it.

He should never have started it, should never have done what he had done, at the place where they work . . .

. . . but he couldn’t stop himself.

But it was Carter . . .

It was a mistake. One of an alarmingly high number that he seemed to be making recently, when everything he touched seemed to crumble into dust.

"We all make mistakes. We have to learn to forgive ourselves, accept it and move on." Words that he had heard many times in one form or another . . . Except he couldn’t move on could he. He was here. Stagnating. Paralyzed. Unable to move forward to create a new life, unable to move backward . . . because there was no backward. So he was here because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to be.

A foreigner in a foreign land. A stranger in a strange country. People here thought differently from the way he did, acted differently, had different values, different expectations. He was shocked sometimes by how insular some Americans were . . . at not knowing how easy they had it. They didn’t know about the real world . . . not this world . . . this artificial, superficial, ephemeral . . .

He laughed, suddenly, at his thoughts. Isn’t all life ephemeral, all worlds transitory? He should know that more than anyone. A self-imposed exile from a non-existent world.

That’s probably why he took such pleasure in sex. Because for that one brief, fleeting moment he could get lost in that feeling, to know how good it was to be alive, when all other thoughts vanished from his mind.

He leaned back against the bedroom door, closed his eyes . . . and he could see him, feel him, almost taste him. He wondered if he had ever done anything like this before . . . and something told him that he had . . .

Strange, that he had trouble connecting to people, and yet now, of all the people he knew, he felt, in a distorted way, more connection to him than anyone one else. The truth of that made him realize how truly bizarre his life had become. He abruptly turned round and opened the door, walked into his bedroom and stripped the sheets from his bed.

****************************************************************

John paced up and down the concourse, stopping to stare at the information displayed on the screen as his steps inevitably returned him to his original spot. He looked at the screen for, if he had known it, if he had been keeping count, the thirteenth time.

He felt sick. It was a nervous sickness, like the one he always got when he was waiting for the results of an exam or a test or waiting to impart bad news. He took a deep breath and tried to quell the feeling . . .

. . . felt someone pulling on his arm, dragging him forcefully, another hand in the small of his back, propelling him forward, towards the door of the men’s room. It was only when he was inside that he finally protested and twisted out of the grasp.

He shook his arm, straightened out the sleeve of his jacket. "What is it with you and men’s rooms?"

Luka didn’t answer.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I figured it out. It wasn’t hard . . . I knew she was coming back today."

John nodded. "And what. You wanted to come and watch."

"No . . . I want . . . I need . . . to know . . . what you are going to do."

"I’m going to tell her. What else can I do? Look, Luka. . . . I’ve never cheated before . . . never. I don’t care what you think of me . . . I already know . . . what you think of me . . . "

Luka interrupted. "You can’t tell her."

John’s mouth hung open, not quite believing what he was hearing. He shook his head. "I can’t . . . not . . . tell her."

"What will it achieve . . . telling her?"

John stared at him, narrowed his eyes suspiciously, clearly questioning his motive. "Are you worried what she’ll think of me . . . or what she’ll think of you?"

Luka stared back unflinchingly. "I’m worried about what it will do to her . . . look . . . you . . . we . . . can’t change what happened . . . but telling her will only make it worse . . . for all of us."

John brought his hands up to his face, rubbed at his eyes. In his mind not telling her had never really been an option. He didn’t know if that was because he believed that if he didn’t tell her then Luka would . . . and now Luka was here saying that he wouldn’t.

Luka took a step closer towards him, slightly disconcerted by the level of his distress. "You can’t tell her. Not now . . . not today . . . maybe . . ."

"Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow."

"What?"

"Sorry . . . inappropriate movie reference," he mumbled.

Luka shook his head, not understanding.

John dropped his hands to his sides and looked up at the ceiling. "I don’t know what to do."

Luka took another step towards him, opened his mouth to say something . . . and was interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening.

They instantly sprang apart, suddenly conscious of how close they were standing to one another, and moved swiftly to the urinals, taking care to leave a space between them. The man who entered, who had a sense about such thing, was fully aware that he had interrupted something. He grinned lecherously at their backs and then, rather ungraciously, positioned himself at the vacant urinal. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis fondling it briefly before pointing it at the porcelain. The lecherous grin never left his face as he turned his head towards John who was concentrating hard on his simulated urination.

The man looked him up and down appreciatively, letting his eyes roam casually up and down his body. He then slowly turned his attention towards Luka, looked at his groin, moved his eyes up . . . and came face to face with one of Luka’s fiercest glares. The look froze him to the core, wiping the smile from his face. He swallowed, but only just, because of the giant knot that had formed at the back of his throat. He snapped his head to the front, shook his penis a little too violently and hastily zipped his pants . . . a little too hastily, catching a tiny piece of skin. He winced and turned round, beating a rapid retreat to the door, walking awkwardly.

John, oblivious to what had occurred, turned his head to look at the man’s retreating back. "Unbelievable . . . the guy didn’t wash his hands."

Luka shook his head woefully, seeming to agree with John’s assessment of the man’s character.

John, even though he hadn’t actually peed, automatically walked to the washbasins and washed his hands, took a paper towel and dried them. When he had finished, he screwed the towel into a tight ball and tossed it at the trashcan. He missed. Sighing heavily, he turned and slumped down on to the edge of one of the basins.

"I don’t know what to do."

"It’s my fault. If I could change it I would . . . I never . . ."

John put his hand up, stopping him in mid sentence. "Actually I’ve analyzed this quite a bit . . . and I’ve come to the conclusion that its . . . totally . . . Susan’s fault . . . and, as a consequence, I think we should vow never to speak to her again."

Luka stared at him blankly.

John smiled weakly. "It was a joke."

Luka returned the smile, not because he understood it, but more because he was grateful that the tension seemed to have been broken.

"One hell of a week."

"A week . . . is that all its been. God. Feels like forever." John looked into Luka’s face, into his eyes. "Look . . . I need to know . . . was this . . . in any way . . . revenge . . . you know . . . on me . . . on Abby?"

Luka was unblinking as he held John’s stare. "No . . . I don’t know what it was . . . I just got carried away."

"You and me both."

John dropped his head to his chest, stared at the floor . . . a thought occurred to him and he stood up. "Can you do me a favor . . . can you . . ." he stopped, suddenly embarrassed.

"What?"

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Can you check . . . the back of my neck . . . you know . . . from the other night?"

Now it was Luka’s turn to be embarrassed. He blushed slightly and nodded his head. John turned round and faced the mirror over the washbasins, dropped his head so that Luka could see. Luka moved closer to him . . . close enough for John to feel his breath on the back of his neck.

Luka closed his eyes . . . saw him leaning over, hands spread wide against the wall . . . he opened his eyes quickly, stared at the back of his neck. His hair was in the way . . . but Luka was reluctant to touch him. "Can you lift your hair."

It was only when John went to move his hand that he realized that he was tightly gripping the edge of the basin. He brought his hand up slowly to the back of his neck, dragged his fingers through his hair pushing it out of the way.

There was a mark, incredibly feint, barely visible, but it was there. Luka had marked him . . .

"It’s okay. You can’t see anything."

"Thanks." John turned round and, feeling the need to sit, slumped down again on the edge of the basin. Luka stood silently by his side, then lifted his hand to touch him. John automatically jerked his head out of the way.

"I just wanted to check your head."

John relented, allowed Luka to run his fingers gently over the wound on his eyebrow. The touch was professional, impersonal, medical . . . but . . . He pulled his head back sharply.

"I should have got a head CT. Probably why I was acting . . . you know . . . so strange." He didn’t look at Luka, couldn’t meet his eyes.

Luka nodded his agreement. "It’s nearly healed . . . you can barely see it now . . . it’s as though it had never happened."

They heard the outer door open and they sprang apart, once again, conscious of how close they were standing to one another. This time, instead of moving to a urinal, John walked quickly into a cubicle, turned and locked the door. He rested his head against the cold metal surface, cooling his forehead, listening to the various sounds . . . of clothes rustling, of water running, the door opening. When it was totally quiet, he pushed himself away from the door and unlocked it, went out.

The room was empty.

****************************************************************

Luka watched from a distance as John greeted her at the gate, watched as he bent his head to kiss her, as she raised her head to meet his . . . but their timing was off and John ended up awkwardly kissing her brow.

As he watched them he felt familiar feelings rising up within him, emotions, that hadn’t, in fact, changed. But now, he was shocked to discover, that where once his animosity had been directed towards him it was now directed towards . . . her.

He shook his head in disbelief, pulled the collar of his jacket tight around his neck and, without a backward glance, walked briskly towards the exit.

To be continued . . .

**************************************************************

**************************************************************

He arrives . . . uses the key I gave him. He’s still wearing the tuxedo, white shirt, that ridiculous bow tie. He looks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . immaculate.

No words are spoken and I leave him standing there . . . because I don’t know what to do.

He grins, that self-conscious, half-embarrassed grin. He doesn’t get the reaction he wants . . . he doesn’t get any reaction at all.

I am being deliberately provocative.

He pouts, pulls faces . . . it makes me smile . . . but still I don’t move.

He grows impatient . . . bored . . . rolling his eyes . . . which annoys me.

I say, "I want to see you."

He flashes me a look . . . and I can read every thought in his head.

He removes his shoes, his socks. He’s being careful, slow. That annoys me.

I stand, walk towards him, stand in front of him, ruffle his hair. He pulls his head back disapproving.

I undo his tie . . . roughly, stripping it from him . . . throw it on the floor. He pulls another face . . . he is irritated . . . but lets it go.

I slip my hands inside his jacket, push it off his shoulders, off his arms onto the floor. Now he’s annoyed and bends to pick it up . . . but I grab the collar of his shirt, start to undo it, pinching it tight. His hands come up.

"Hey! Watch it."

I brush the suspenders from his shoulders, drop my hands to his pants, roughly unzipping them, forcing them down . . .

. . . and I get that look . . . the one that I wanted . . .

. . . I know what I want now . . .

I want to put him in a room . . . one he can’t get out of. I want to reduce him to nothing. I know I can do it. Make him into something he’s not. It doesn’t have to be pleasurable . . .

**************************************************************

**************************************************************

"Dr Kovac."

Lydia snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Dr Kovac. Are you in there?" He blinked, surprised at the closeness of the image, of the sound. He pulled his head back sharply, tried to focus, ended up cross-eyed.

He flexed his jaw. "What!" It came out harshly, as he intended. She thrust a chart painfully into his chest and strode off, immune, from experience, to any slight. He glanced down at the chart and scowled, looked up, looked back to where he was looking before . . . before he was interrupted.

**************************************************************

John was standing at the desk rapidly flicking through charts, adding his signature wherever necessary. He blanked anyone that dared to hinder his progress, anything that prevented him from finishing on time. He signed the last chart and slid it into the rack, turned to the board and erased his name.

"I am done," he announced to no one in particular. He turned around . . . and Abby was standing right in front of him, seeming to appear right out of nowhere. He studied her carefully, his eyes widening slightly as they roamed over her hair, her face, her figure. He nodded his head, sucked in a breath. "You look . . . beautiful."

She did a mock twirl, scrunching up her face, rolling her eyes. "Sure. You ready?"

He looked down at his attire, spread out his hands. "Don’t I look ready?" She frowned, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from his lapel, straightened out his bow tie.

"You’ll do."

"Gee, thanks."

She sidled up to him, hooked an arm round his. "Come on . . . the sooner we get there the sooner we can leave . . . then the sooner I can get out of this . . . thing." She pulled roughly at her evening dress, the one that he had chosen for her. He unhooked his arm from hers, slipped it around her waist.

"In or out . . . both is fine with me."

**************************************************************

He chewed on his thumb as he watched them make their way to the lounge. He was used to watching them. In fact, he found he watched them more than he ever did . . . watched him more than he ever did. He had become accustomed to the feeling of irritation that always arose when he was confronted by such public displays but he had developed certain ways of coping with it.

For one, he found himself re-evaluating his own relationship with her and discovered that, however much he blamed himself for their failure, there was something about her that was . . . to put it bluntly . . . damaged . . . maybe irreparably so. The thought saddened him but what saddened him more was that the two of them seemed incapable of seeing it. Still, that wasn’t his problem . . . he had enough of his own. And, in a strange way, he was grateful that life had resumed its normal course, after what had happened, and that he had managed to instill a certain amount of emotional detachment from the situation so that, in effect, he became nothing more than a voyeur . . .

**************************************************************

Whoa. Stop.

To say that ‘life had resumed its normal course’ was wholly inaccurate. To an independent observer what they were experiencing was the equivalent to what any individual goes through when coming to terms with any significant event, regardless of how life-changing or traumatic that event is. They had, in effect, entered a process that had set steps to complete, the initial stages of which were equivalent to the ‘Shock’ and ‘Denial’ that accompanies grief or sudden loss. This was evident from the first few days at work.

They had avoided each other: that is, when possible, within the confines of their professional relationship which meant that they had to work together. But, they seemed to develop a sixth sense as to the location of the other so that they could avoid those places, taking stairs rather than elevators, choosing the canteen rather than Doc Magoos . . .

Then, surprisingly, their relationship seemed to improve. It may have been because they were both eager to show that they could cope like mature adults with an embarrassing situation. For whatever reason, they managed to engage in a few polite conversations, one of which centered on the Alliances de Medicins Internationales, the medical relief program that Luka advocated. Of course, John was irritated when Luka mentioned it in the middle of a trauma, before he had the chance to talk to Abby about it, taking it for granted that he was going to go. And, to be honest, he wasn’t even sure that he wanted to go, wasn’t sure if it fitted into his plans . . . he was, after all, only being polite. But, he hated it when she tackled him on it first at work and then later at home.

"I just don’t understand why you need to go abroad."

"Because . . . it’s where you can be of value . . . you know . . . do something that can make a real difference in people’s lives."

"Yeah . . . but don’t people need help nearer to home."

He smiled, then, because her words sounded familiar. Familiar because he had used similar words to Abby. Abby Keaton. God, that was years ago now. At the thought of her a strange feeling swept over him, something like a warm glow . . . Of course, their relationship had been based purely on sex . . . nothing but sex. Illicit moments squeezed here and there, frantic couplings seized . . . The whole affair had been wild . . . exciting . . . . . . dangerous . . .

The memory slowly faded and the feeling ebbed away as he thought about how much he’d changed since then, how much had happened in his life.

"Well its nice to know that you can talk to Luka about things."

**************************************************************

It couldn’t last. Once one stage of the process had been completed then it was time to move on to another, the transition to which was usually prompted by some occurrence . . .

The Men’s Room was one place where they had managed to avoid being alone together . . . until now. On this occasion, they had both reached the door at the same time, without realizing it, until it was too late. Of course, when they did realize it, they both hesitated, hovering outside, uncertain as to whether or not they should turn around. Then, bizarrely, they both grinned and carried on through the door.

Maybe they were over-confident.

They stood side by side separated by one urinal, a not uncommon arrangement for the two of them, and they both chose not to look at each other, both concentrating on the task in hand. Except . . .

John couldn’t go. He tried to quell the mild feeling of alarm that instantly arose by staring hard at the wall directly in front of him, rocking on his heels a few times. But he still couldn’t go. He unconsciously shook his head, looked to his left, away from Luka, focusing on a brightly colored poster on the wall, one that advocated ‘safe sex’. He scowled, shaking his head, trying to think of a few procedures, distasteful procedures, something like a rect . . .

"Jeez!" he muttered under his breath.

Luka turned his head in his direction. "What?"

John flicked his head to the right, flicked it back again. "Nothing."

He stood there, eyes closed, biting his lip, wondering how he was going to extricate himself . . . when his pager went off. Unable to contain his relief he flashed a quick smile at Luka. "Gotta go."

He pushed his cock back inside his pants, a task more difficult than it should have been, and dashed to the basins. He washed his hands quickly, ripping a paper towel from the dispenser as he made his way to the door. He wiped his hands, balled the towel and tossed it over his shoulder, unintentionally hitting Luka on the back of the head.

Luka turned his head, stared at the door as it slowly closed. He then looked down at his cock, took a deep breath, stared up at the ceiling, trying to think of something that would make his erection wilt . . . some procedure . . .

**************************************************************

It was after this that things got slightly worse. The ‘Anger’ stage? Maybe. A natural reaction to their natural reactions. It started gradually: the occasional annoyed glance; the odd terse word; then the inevitable confrontation. It was stupid really. They contradicted each other over the treatment of a patient . . . John’s patient. Luka was passing as the patient coded and he had resuscitated and intubated before John had the chance to confirm that the patient was DNR.

Luka’s response should have been to just walk away, once he had argued his case but, for some reason, he didn’t. He stayed put, fixed to the spot, listening to John’s tirade. Or rather . . . not listening. Instead, as John went on and on, getting more and more animated, more and more flushed, Luka had this strange, overwhelming desire to . . . kiss him. In front of everyone. Just to see what his reaction would be. Just to see that look of absolute confusion on his face. Just to see him dissolve into . . . chaos.

Of course, he didn’t. It would have been ridiculous. Embarrassing. Inexplicable.

But the thought that he could have done it . . . God . . . it was empowering . . . and it was after this that the fantasies started. Part of the reason may have been because he didn’t quite understand how John could have carried on as though nothing had happened. So, it was his way of exerting control over the situation. So, he allowed himself the indulgence of a few fantasies. So much for emotional detachment.

****************************************************************************************************************************

I tie his hands behind him . . . thin rope . . . I pull it tight so it bites into his skin. He inhales sharply . . . sucking the breath between his teeth. I force him down onto his knees, ass on his heels. I tie his ankles, thread the rope through the rope on his hands so he cannot stand . . . so he is helpless . . .

****************************************************************************************************************************

Of course, Luka’s belief that John carried on as though nothing had happened was an assumption. John had certainly made the decision not to tell . . . and he wouldn’t . . . because it was in all their interests not to . . . and it wasn’t as though he had been unfaithful . . . he hadn’t . . . not really . . . not in the way that the majority of men are unfaithful. That didn’t stop him from feeling guilty about it. He did. But he had decided not to tell so all he could do now was forget about it. So, he put it out of his mind . . . Well, maybe not out of his mind . . . but in the deepest, darkest, recess of his mind. That place he didn’t go to very often . . . for self-preservation’s sake.

Shame really.

Because the place where he put it, along with all those other areas of his life that were too painful to confront, wasn’t sealed. It leaked, like a toxin that poisons the water. It seeped into the one place where he couldn’t protect himself . . . where he was open to attack . . . as open as though he was naked and tied to a bed. It seeped into his subconscious, into his dreams.

Now, that may not have been a problem. Dreams are just dreams. Fleeting . . . evasive . . . . . . intangible . . . . . . . . . . seductive. Sometimes you can’t even remember what it was you were dreaming about; those dreams that evaporate as soon as the eyes flutter open. Then there are others that remain for a few seconds longer . . . . . . . . . . then they vanish . . . however much you want to cling to them . . . savor them.

Of the two which was better, or, more accurately, healthier? The wayward imagination of a man willing and able to indulge in fantasy or the incoherent ramblings of a mind under pressure. It’s debatable. The only known fact is that fantasies are controllable and dreams not. The most alarming thing for John . . . if he had known it . . . which he didn’t . . . was that it happened straightaway, the very night of her return . . .

Shame really.

**************************************************************

He dreamt of the mouth around his cock . . . slipping in and out . . . coaxing . . . teasing . . . Then the sweet rush of release . . . and he awoke . . . coming. He lay there, disoriented, catching his breath, letting the spasms die away. He opened his eyes . . . focused.

"Good morning." It was said joyfully, playfully.

His eyes widened . . . trying to comprehend . . . this was a joke . . . right . . . a dream . . . right . . . His eyes showed his confusion.

"It’s the only way to start the day." It was said with a coy smile.

He was numb, not knowing how to react.

"Maggie called first thing this morning . . . she said to say thank you . . . for the money . . . for the tickets."

It took the edge off somehow. It seemed that sometimes sex wasn’t so much something that they shared but more like a service she performed . . .

He instantly felt guilty for the thought. After what he had done.

"It’s not a problem . . . you know that."

He reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. She took his hand, kissed his palm, placed his hand on the sheet between them.

"So . . . do you want breakfast?"

He nodded at her silently.

"You okay?"

He smiled but inwardly his mind was reeling. Here in front of him was the most important person in his life . . .

"Yeah . . . I’m glad you’re home." Home, he said, and meant it, as he gently squeezed her hand.

**************************************************************

He flinched when she touched his back, circled her arms around him. He turned in her embrace, hugged her, as the water cascaded over them. She tilted her head to his, kissed him on the neck . . . on the cheek . . . on the lips. He tried to relax . . . but . . . God . . . he couldn’t even close his eyes. He put his hands on her shoulders, gently pushed her away.

"Come on. We’re going to be late."

She frowned but nodded. "Okay. Can you do me a favor . . ."

**************************************************************

His reaction to her did improve with time, and he was able to return to the role of being an attentive and caring lover, providing the support he truly believed that she desperately needed and, yes, life ‘resumed its normal course’ . . .

Hey, all things are relative. ‘Normal’ within their accepted parameters . . . as defined by previous experiences.

**************************************************************

". . . and that’s easy for you to say . . . " Susan bantered

John interjected, spinning a chart in his hand. "Keep telling you . . . money isn’t everything."

"Well when you inherit the family fortune . . . you can donate some of it to me."

John shook his head woefully. "It doesn’t work like that . . . its all part of the Foundation . . . it has nothing to do with me . . . and . . . I’m happy as I am."

"Talking of money . . . I had an amazing dream last night . . . that I had bought the winning Lottery ticket but I didn’t know where I put it . . . and I went around searching everywhere for it . . . and I couldn’t find it."

"Well . . . you know what Freud said about dreams." It was Pratt, leaning over the desk, chin propped on his fist, failing to look inconspicuous whilst waiting for something juicy to come in.

"What?" Susan asked as she deposited a chart in the rack.

John sipped his coffee, flipped through a chart . . .

"About dreams being nothing but wish fulfillment."

. . . and John choked on his coffee, ended up snorting it out through his nose.

Pratt and Susan stepped back out of the line of fire. "You okay?" Susan asked laughing.

John nodded his head. "Yeah . . ." he tried to clear his throat ". . . just . . . went down the wrong way."

"Came out the wrong way too," Pratt observed wiping the front of his lab coat in disgust.

John coughed again, cleared his throat. "Sorry . . . anyway . . . Freud’s . . . interpretation of dreams has been . . . significantly undermined."

Pratt looked at him blankly. "I know that."

John nodded his head. "Good."

"But not totally." A voice came from behind him.

John turned round. "Really." He tried to say it politely but somehow it came out as a sneer.

"As Freud illustrated in his own example . . . if a person is thirsty during the night they may dream that they are drinking a long cool drink . . ." Luka looked directly into John’s eyes ". . . and that drink may taste as good as any real drink . . . and you will feel that your thirst has been quenched. The dream serves a function . . . from the sensation arises the wish to drink . . . the dream shows you the wish fulfilled."

John nodded his head coolly. "Interesting . . . but the example is too simplistic."

Luka smiled. "Certainly it is one of the simplest . . . the desire to satisfy a bodily need."

Pratt snorted. "That’s why to Freud dreams were all about sex . . . right."

John and Luka turned their heads towards him. Luka was smiling. John was not.

Luka answered. "Freud believed that the sexual instinct over rode all other human instincts . . . but he exaggerated the case." He picked a chart up from the desk, examined it.

Abby, having finished propelling a patient towards chairs, sauntered over to the desk. "Who exaggerated what?"

"Freud . . . interpretation of dreams." Pratt informed her.

Her eyes lit up. "Really . . . Carter had a good one . . . involving some handcuffs." She playfully punched him in the ribs and John’s eyes widened in alarm. Why would she say that?

"Ooooh," Susan giggled, playfully punching him in the arm. "Tell us more."

"Tell us more about what?" Jing-Mei, emerging from the lounge, joined them at the desk . . . and John suddenly started praying for all kinds of trauma.

"Carter had a hot dream . . . involving some handcuffs," provided Susan gleefully.

"Really," said Jing-Mei, playfully punching him in his other arm.

John rubbed at his arms and his ribs, wishing that people would stop doing that, knowing that he was starting to blush and that Luka was still standing there. "It wasn’t . . . a hot dream . . . it was just . . . a dream," he finished lamely.

"I always knew you had a thing about handcuffs." Susan added laughing.

"I do . . . NOT . . . have a thing about handcuffs." His voice rose as he spoke and he was conscious that all eyes were on him. "I don’t." He grabbed the first chart that came to hand and strode off down the hallway.

Luka watched him as he walked away. Before entering Exam Three John paused, turned to look back at the desk. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second . . . and then he was gone.

**************************************************************

It was much later when John sought refuge in the suture room, taking a lull in traffic to snatch a few moments of peace. The room was virtually in darkness, with ill-defined streaks of weak light breaking through the closed blinds. He didn’t switch on the light, but, instead, cautiously made his way to a gurney. He jumped up onto it, swung his legs round and lay down, wondering for how long he could get away with avoiding people . . .

"Tell me about your dream."

"Jesus." He was upright in an instant, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The voice came out of the dark, from a corner of the room. He looked from the corner to the door, looked at the short expanse of floor that lay between him and escape . . .

Escape? He didn’t have to answer him. He stared into the corner trying to penetrate the darkness. He could see him now . . . quite clearly, in fact. He lay back down, placed his hands behind his head.

Silence.

"You can’t tell me?"

He wasn’t going to answer but he had to at least set him straight on a few facts. "It wasn’t a dream. I mean I didn’t dream anything."

"What did I do . . . in your dream?"

John rubbed the back his head with his hands. "You’re making a lot of assumptions . . . It had nothing to do with you."

"It was about me."

"It wasn’t about anyone . . . in particular . . . it was very non-specific."

"Liar."

"It wasn’t about you . . . I don’t want to discuss it. I came in here to get . . ."

"Shall I tell you about my dream?"

John lifted his head, peered into the corner. He couldn’t see him that clearly. "I’m really not interested."

"It was about a rich man . . ."

John snorted his contempt from across the room. "Sure it was."

". . . a man who had everything. He lived in a castle . . .

"Sure that this was a dream and not a fairy tale?"

". . . surrounded by people who pandered to his every whim . . ."

"Right."

". . . and he indulged, without reservation, in whatever took his fancy . . . indulged until he could no longer find any satisfaction. He became bored with his life . . . despite his money, his power. So despondent did he become that he took to wandering alone at night, unable to sleep. One night he heard a groan coming from his dungeon . . ."

Another snort. "Dungeon?"

"He walked quietly towards the sound, peered through the grill in the door. There was a man . . . completely at the mercy of another. It was impossible to determine if the man was in pain or ecstasy. He seemed oblivious to everything. Sweat dripped from him . . . his body convulsed. The rich man watched, transfixed, as the man cried and begged . . ."

"For what?"

". . . lost in desire. Confused the rich man went to his bed where he had a dream."

"Thought you said he couldn’t sleep."

"He dreamt that he was the man at the mercy of the other. He was never sure what he felt, never sure whose emotions were driving him. But he woke up screaming, begging . . ."

"For mercy?"

". . . to be fucked."

Luka looked in John’s direction. Then he stood, walked towards him, stood at the foot of the gurney, stared into his face. "I should have made you beg."

John stared back at him, his face impassive. Then, very slowly, he smiled. "Well, I guess you missed the only opportunity you’ll ever have."

**************************************************************

Not surprisingly, Luka was the first to break. He had been barely functioning for months and there was no single event that caused his meltdown but more a combination of factors that eroded away at his already perilous mental state. His relationships, or lack of them, played a part, as did his unsatisfactory sex life. His behavior became increasingly erratic as the fabric of his life slowly unraveled and he found it hard to cope with the continuous stream of selfish, idiotic patients who engaged in mindless, self-destructive behavior, wasting his time, his limited resources . . .

He desperately needed time off to get his life sorted out, to get his thoughts straightened out, and he had, more-or-less, begged Kerry for the time. She refused him . . . so he took it anyway . . . and then nearly got fired for it.

In his brief, unauthorized absence, Luka missed another crisis in the on-going drama of Abby’s family. So, there were other benefits. He was lucky that he wasn’t subjected to it the way that many others were, those that had no choice but to watch, as though they were a captive audience, regardless of their concern or affection for the players concerned.

**************************************************************

* "And women don't know what the hell they want. Am I right? I'm right, right? They all want a commitment till you give it to ‘em, then they want their freedom. So naturally, you oblige. Then they accuse you of trying to be with somebody else. I'm telling you, you can’t win."

Pratt was standing at the admit desk. John was standing on the other side, filling in a chart, only half listening to his rant. Without looking up he said, "Women can be hard to figure out sometimes."


"Sometimes? Nah, you know who's got it all figured out, I think? Homosexuals."


John looked up . . . just as Luka arrived at the desk.

"No. I'm serious. Just listen to me. Look, there are two guys living together. Toilet seat’s always up. Channel’s always on ESPN. You can drink beers in the bed, leave your clothes on the floor. I'm telling you . . . gay cats got it good."


John shook his head. "Why are you telling me this?"


Pratt paused for a moment. "I have no idea." *

They were both surprised to see each other. Actually, Luka was more than surprised; he was a little shocked by John’s appearance instantly noticing how tired and pale he was, how much weight he had lost. "I thought you were on vacation."

John smiled thinly. "I thought you quit." Rumors were that he had quit and a significant part of him had hoped that he had quit . . . so he didn’t quite understand why he was pleased to see him.

Strangely, it was immediately after this that John went up to the roof and proposed to Abby. Well, sort of proposed. The proposal that he had shouted out at the top of his lungs. Was it coincidence? A cynical observer would assume that John had now entered the ‘Bargaining’ stage: that he was now strenuously asserting himself, trying to make an open proclamation for what he wanted in his life, reacting to what he didn’t want in his life . . .

John wasn’t cynical. He genuinely believed that this was he wanted, that this was what they both wanted. More than that . . . that this was what they both needed. He had cut short his vacation so that he could be there for her. It distressed him to discover that she had been drinking but he didn’t criticize her for it because he could see how much Eric’s disappearance was tearing her apart. Because what is worse than the loss of loved one? When you need someone to stand by you, to support you . . .

**************************************************************

He couldn’t go through with it. When it came down to doing it properly, in the restaurant, when he had everything planned down to the very last detail he couldn’t go through with it. Even after his speech to Maggie . . . Or was it because of his speech to Maggie? Was that the point when he finally realized that all he was doing was searching for reassurance?

He tried to talk to Abby about it, told her about that night, the night he failed to propose . . . telling her that it didn’t feel right . . . that it wasn’t working. She said that she ‘got it’ . . . which shocked him because he didn’t ‘get it’. He wanted it to work . . . was that so bad?

** "Stop! Stop! Stop with this whole routine, this whole fatalistic, black cloud, nothing good is ever gonna happen routine."


"Problem is, it’s not a routine."


"What do I have to say? What do I have to do to get through to you?" **

**************************************************************

Luka was fairing little better. On his return to work, Kerry had insisted that he receive counseling, something that he perceived to be a complete waste of his time. He seriously doubted that Meyers had the acumen to even comprehend his situation let alone be able to offer anything more than the usual platitudes. Actually, he found it easier, and more beneficial, to talk to the prostitutes whose services he was still using. Hey, at least he got a fuck out of it: he doubted Meyers offered that as an ‘extra’.

** "Time goes by faster at work. Treat and street a few lost souls . . . You’re with them when they’re most vulnerable, when they're naked, weak, hurt. You touch them, look at their bodies, see them more closely than their families, their lovers, but it’s mechanical and temporary. You fix them up or you watch them die. Either way, it ends and you move on. No next time, no strings, no real connection. Maybe that’s why I stay." **

‘Vulnerable’ . . . ‘naked’ . . . ‘weak’ . . . ‘hurt’ . . . ‘mechanical’ . . . ‘temporary’ . . . ‘no strings’ . . . ‘no real connection.’

Words that he could have used to describe his ‘relationship’ with John. Strange that he didn’t make that connection . . . well, not consciously anyway. This may have been because he believed that he was over his preoccupation with him . . . because he no longer fantasized about him . . . well, not as frequently as he once did.

He continued to watch though. Maybe because it was a hard habit too break. Or maybe because, in a way, it was like watching a bad accident when the normal reaction should have been to look away. Like the time in the elevator, when he tried to talk to them, his attempts to make conversation, his ‘little talk’ . . .

**************************************************************

Things change.

The month of May proved a turning point in both their lives. For Luka, seeing Gordana had been like a breath of fresh air. She had brought back so many memories . . . good memories . . . and, for the first time in years, he found that he could think about them without any real discomfort or pain. It was also the first time in months that he felt the true value of being a doctor. He had forgotten that he had a skill that he had worked hard for . . . trained hard for . . . made sacrifices for . . .

The boy . . . Ante. He had fought for him, battling against the hospital hierarchy, against mindless bureaucracy, using all of his natural instincts to charm and cajole, to bribe and blackmail people into providing the services that were required. It had felt so unbelievably satisfying . . . he hadn’t felt that good since . . .

But he was over that now. It had been a mistake. And now he could start to look at his life in a different light, make choices that would benefit people, people that deserved it . . .

**************************************************************

For John it was the opposite. All those moments in his life when he thought it couldn’t get any worse . . .

The loss of his grandmother was devastating, far more than he had ever imagined it could be. He wasn’t expecting it . . . even though he was expecting it . . . you never expect it . . . that moment when the person that means everything to you is gone. He was overwhelmed by his own reaction to it and it scared him. He was flooded with memories from his past, echoes of that moment in his childhood when his world had been torn apart, when all he could do was watch, wide-eyed and helpless, as his family disintegrated around him . . .

Except for his grandmother, the one constant in his life, the only person who gave him the stability that he needed, who gave him the comfort, the support, the love . . .

Thank God, he wasn’t alone . . .

Fuck.

He was alone.

Something else died that day.

Suddenly he felt that his life was changing, that he was being forced to change, that this change had a dynamic all of its own, one that he had no control over . . .

The money. All his life he had rejected it . . . making a point of how much he didn’t want it . . . didn’t need it . . . that he could live his life without it . . . and now the responsibility for it had been passed to him. He found that out on the day of the funeral . . .

The funeral . . . God. Eric. He couldn’t quite believe that she had brought him with her. What was she thinking? But that was it. She didn’t think. Did she take it for granted that he would always be there for her? That he had an infinite ability to absorb whatever chaos she created in his life. Later, at the hospital, after he had pursued her, seeking her out so that he could . . .

. . . could what? When he found her he couldn’t even explain to himself why he was there. Out of pure frustration he told her to leave him alone.

And she did.

What did he expect?



To be continued . . .

* Dialog: "A Boy Falling Out of the Sky."

**Dialog: "The Advocate"

Luka poked his head around the corner of the wall and looked down the length of hallway checking to see if anyone was in view. He didn’t want to be seen. He had already said his ‘goodbyes’ to people and he really didn’t want to go through the process all over again. The hallway was empty but he kept close to the wall as he crept along to the suture room and pushed open the door. He moved quickly to the cabinet next to the door and opened it, started lifting a few items out, placing them in the bag that was hanging over his shoulder.

"Stealing?"

Startled Luka dropped the surgical dressing he was holding. It bounced on the floor and rolled away under a gurney. He slowly turned around . . . and his eyes found John sitting on the floor in a corner of the room, his legs stretched out in front of him. Luka eyed him curiously finding the image strangely disturbing . . . probably because of the bottle of scotch that John had placed between his thighs.

He felt compelled to ask. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just . . . . . . . . . . . nothing. What are you doing? I mean . . . apart from stealing."

Luka turned away, walked over to the gurney and bent down to retrieve the wayward dressing. He held it up. "Do you know how much this costs?"

John frowned, then shook his head. "To be honest . . . I don’t really care . . . Take it. Take it all. Here . . . I’ll help you."

He pulled his knees up to his chest and struggled to his feet, using the bottle between his legs as leverage. He then walked, somewhat unsteadily, towards the cabinet, carelessly clunking the bottom of the bottle on the edge of a gurney.

"What else do you want? Dressings . . . syringes . . . . . . . . . . sutures . . ."

Luka held still as John reached into the cabinet and started pulling things out. He managed to take possession of a few of the items but a couple dropped onto the floor as John wasn’t taking much care as to where he was placing them.

"I only wanted a few things. I was making up a small kit . . . just for emergencies."

"Hey, you don’t need to justify yourself to me." John turned to look at him . . . and frowned, narrowing his eyes, trying to force him into focus. He turned back to the cabinet . . . and then turned away, the task instantly forgotten. He walked, unsteadily, back to the corner of the room, clunking the bottom of the bottle on the edge of a chair. He turned around, leaned back against the wall and allowed gravity to assist him to the floor.

Luka watched him for a moment and then turned his attention back to the cabinet, putting back the items that he didn’t need, taking out the ones that he did. When he had finished he zipped up the bag and closed the cabinet. He then moved to the door to make his exit . . .

. . . and hesitated . . . looked over his shoulder . . .

Sighing heavily, he turned around and walked across to the corner of the room dragging a chair with him as he went. He positioned the chair squarely in front of John and sat down. John looked up at him, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. He then looked down at the bottle in his hand. Lifting it up he offered it to Luka.

Luka shook his head.

John smiled. "You don’t want to drink with me . . . I’m okay to fuck with . . . but not to drink with."

Now Luka’s eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t say anything, but he automatically looked over his shoulder, checking the door.

John sneered. "What . . . you don’t want people to know. Let me guess . . . I’m not that pretty . . . not that special."

Luka felt his jaw tighten. He had replayed that night over in his head many times, replayed those words . . . but it jarred him to hear them again. He closed his eyes, recalling the anger and frustration he had felt . . . towards her . . . towards the man sitting in front of him . . .

He relaxed his jaw and took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, letting go of the memory. It didn’t matter. Not now. He opened his eyes and watched as John put the bottle to his lips. He leaned forward and stretched out his hand. John stared up at him, his _expression suddenly guarded, his eyes suddenly suspicious. Then he wavered, unable to maintain the defense. He looked away as he handed over the bottle.

Luka examined the label. It looked cheap. Very cheap. He sniffed the neck doubtfully and then took a mouthful. He winced. It was as bad as he knew it would be. He swallowed quickly, managing to suppress his natural instinct to cough. "This is not good whisky. Where did you get it?"

"Haleh consfic . . . confic . . . . . . . . . . . . she took it off a drunk."

Luka smiled as John amended his words. "And you felt that it was okay to drink it."

"Why not? Perfect end to a perfect day. You ever have perfect days?"

Luka thought for a second and then he shrugged, stretched out his arm, offered the bottle back. John stared at it. He didn’t really want it. But he didn’t want to show that he didn’t want it. He took it back, took another mouthful . . . and grimaced as the liquid burned its way down his throat. He closed his eyes . . . which was a mistake as his head began to swirl. He opened them quickly . . . and felt the need to fill the silence.

"I buried my grandmother today."

Luka leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, interlocking his fingers. "I know."

"Buried Eric too." He glanced up at Luka. "Not really . . . should have buried him though." He closed his eyes, screwing up his face, shaking his head. "I don’t mean that."

Luka leaned further forward and asked softly, "What happened?"

"You don’t want to know . . . really. So . . . you all packed and . . . everything?"

As he finished asking the question he looked up . . . and was suddenly conscious of Luka being a little too close to him, his head towering over him. He shifted, trying to slide himself up the wall . . . till he got to a point where he couldn’t go any further and he ended up sliding back down. "Oops."

Luka stood up and tried to help him, grabbing him by the elbow. John wrenched his arm back, a look of annoyance on his face. "Don’t touch me . . . Look . . . do me a favor? Leave me alone."

Luka frowned and took his hands away. He stared at him for a moment and then shook his head disdainfully . . . if he wanted to sit here wallowing in self-pity then that was up to him. He took a step backwards and turned around, pushing the chair out of his way. He crossed to the door and stepped through it . . . straight into Kerry Weaver.

She was just as surprised as he was. "Luka. I thought you’d gone?" As she was speaking, her eyes flitted between his face and the bag that was hanging off of his shoulder.

"I forgot something," he said holding her gaze.

She nodded her head and waited for more information. When it was obvious that no more was forthcoming she said, "Okay then . . . well have . . ." She stopped, deciding that the phrase ‘good trip’ was not exactly appropriate, especially as she knew where he was going. ". . . have a safe trip."

He nodded his head. "Thanks."

She turned on her crutch and started to walk away . . . then stopped, turned her head back. "Have you seen Carter?"

He shook his head. "No . . . Why? I mean . . . he’s not working is he?"

"No . . . but he was around earlier. His father called . . . looking for him."

He watched her walk away, then stared at the door to the suture room. He shook his head and took a step down the hallway . . . stopped. He closed his eyes, ran a hand over his face. Then, gritting his teeth, he took a step back, turned, pushed the door open and walked back into the room, marching right up to where John was sitting.

John looked up at him. "You still here?"

"Get up," Luka said sternly, his voice matching the look on his face.

John’s eyes widened slightly . . . then narrowed as he scowled.

"I said get up." Luka leaned forward and grabbed John under his right armpit, started pulling him upwards. John resisted, discarding the bottle, trying to wrestle his way out of Luka’s grasp.

"Get off," he snapped.

"Get up," Luka snapped back.

John allowed himself to be pulled to his feet but only because he believed that, once he was standing, he would be in a better position to fight Luka off. Except he discovered that once he was upright, he seemed to have no control over his limbs . . . which, although slightly amusing, was a little disconcerting.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of here."

Luka started pulling him towards the door and John now discovered that he didn’t have any momentum of his own . . . only that dictated by Luka. Everything went blurry as he was marched rapidly out of the door and along the hallway. But, bizarrely, he did manage to wave at Jerry as he was propelled past the admit desk and out through ambulance bay doors.

The cool evening air should have been pleasant but the effect on John was abrasive. Luckily, Luka had parked his car on the street so they didn’t have too far to go. When they got near to it Luka reached into his pocket and took out his keys, blipped the locks. He opened the passenger door and, placing his hand in the small of John’s back, gave him a shove. "Get in."

John started to bend his head . . . but then snapped it upright, the smell of leather instantly overpowering his senses. "I think I’m going to be sick."

Luka grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him away, turned him around, pushed him back against the side of the car. He then tried to force his head down towards his knees. "Just breathe."

"Ow."

Luka relaxed his grip and John lifted his head, eyeing him warily.

Luka softened the look on his face. "Okay?"

John, who by now was looking more than a little green, shook his head. "No. I need to sit down." He leaned back against the side of the car and, before Luka could stop him, neatly slid to the ground.

"Carter. Get up." Luka bent down and took hold of his shoulders, gripping them tightly, shaking him roughly. "Carter."

John opened his eyes and stared quizzically into Luka’s face. "My name is John. Why doesn’t anyone call me John? I mean . . . what’s wrong with John?" He screwed up his face, as though trying to make sense of something completely incomprehensible. He closed his eyes. ". . . and now there isn’t anyone to call me John."

It was the last thing he said before he descended into that dark oblivion of the hopelessly drunk.

**************************************************************

The buzzing woke him. More than the light that was painfully piercing his eyes. He tried to analyze the buzz not quite sure where it was coming from . . . until he realized it was deep inside his head. He shifted slightly . . . and triggered a sequence that had repercussions in other parts of his anatomy. The buzzing in his head intensified, hurting the back of his eyes, and a wave of nausea rippled through his intestines. He moaned, conscious enough of his condition to do it as softly as he could, and took a deep breath, lying perfectly still, trying to relocate his sense of equilibrium.

The feeling was familiar but it had been a while since he’d felt it. Over three years in fact. Well over. He probably would have been disappointed in himself . . . if he’d been capable of any deep and meaningful thought. He shifted again . . . v e r y . . . s l o w l y . . . and felt something else familiar . . .

"Fuck."

He snapped his head upright . . . and instantly regretted it as the throbbing in his head reached a crescendo. He grimaced, forcing his head back down, closed his eyes and held his breath. When the pain finally subsided, he opened his eyes and looked at his wrist.

He stared at the handcuff . . . getting angry . . . well . . . trying to get angry . . . . . . . wanting to get angry . . .

But . . .

The truth was he found he didn’t actually care. And it wasn’t because he was incapable of feeling anything other than the effects of his hangover. It had more to do with the fact that he felt as though all responsibility had been taken away from him, that he didn’t have to make any decisions or take any action. He could live with that . . . if he was going to live . . .

His eyes strayed from his wrist to the nightstand . . . to the glass of water . . . to the two painkillers lying next to the glass. Considerate of him. He rolled over . . . v e r y . . . s l o w l y . . . onto his right side and reached out for the pills. He popped them into his mouth and downed them with the water. As he did so a thought crossed his mind, one that he found mildly ironic: that the last time he had woken up handcuffed to Luka’s bed Luka had been drunk; now he was the one who had been drunk . . . yet he still ended up handcuffed to Luka’s bed. He pulled gently on his wrist, wondering if anyone would wonder where he was . . . if anyone cared . . .

With that discouraging thought he closed his eyes, pulled the covers over his head, and curled himself up into a very tight ball.

**************************************************************

Luka opened the door to his apartment as quietly as he could, closed it just as quietly. He made his way to the kitchen and deposited a brown paper bag on the counter. Taking off his jacket, he walked over to the coat stand, glancing towards the bedroom door as he did so. He hung up his jacket, returned to the counter, and started taking items out of the bag. After he had removed the third item, he glanced towards the bedroom door again . . .

This time it held his attention. He dropped a can of insect repellant back into the bag and slowly walked towards the door. He took hold of the doorknob but, before opening the door, he turned his head, placed his ear against it and listened . . .

Silence.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and cautiously opened the door, looked towards the bed. He could see John curled up under the covers but, apart from his right hand, no part of him was visible.

"Ca . . . " he started to say and then stopped. He turned around and walked away . . . stopped . . . turned around and walked back.

"Jo . . ." He turned around and walked away again. It felt strange saying it. He mouthed the word silently a few times. ‘John. John.’ He shook his head, looking doubtful . . . because it didn’t feel right. He turned around and walked straight into the bedroom, right up to the bed, paused for a moment, then reached down and peeled back the covers.

John opened his eyes and stared up at him. "You know I’m annoyed . . . right?" The delivery was flat, devoid of any emotion, matching the _expression on his face.

Luka nodded his head. "I know."

"Good."

Luka tried to smile a sympathetic smile but, for some reason, it ended up as a grimace. "I’ll get the key."

"Why . . . are you throwing me out?"

Luka shook his head. "No."

. . . and with that John took hold of the covers and pulled them back over his head.

**************************************************************

It was about an hour later, when Luka was sorting through his paperwork, that the summons came.

"I need to pee."

Sighing softly, he dropped the letter he was reading on top of a pile on the kitchen counter and opened a drawer in one of the units, took out a small key. He walked in to the bedroom, a look of amusement on his face.

"Don’t . . . don’t . . . laugh at me."

Luka frowned, wiping the _expression from his face. "I’m not laughing at you . . . it’s just . . . the situation."

He took hold of John’s wrist and inserted the key into the lock of the handcuff. Once it had been removed John pulled his hand away, and struggled upright, climbed out of the bed. He then walked out of the bedroom, apparently not caring that he was naked . . . apparently not caring how he came to be naked.

Luka followed him out . . . but made his way back to the kitchen where he picked up the letter that he had been reading . . .

He could hear the stream of piss hitting the pan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the sound of water running in the basin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The water ceased and John poked his head around the bathroom door. "Is it okay if I take a shower?"

Without looking up Luka said, "Of course."

He started reading the letter again . . . and failed to get past the first word. He scowled, shook his head, started reading the words softly under his breath . . .

. . . he could hear the sound of water running in the shower . . .

He dropped the letter and tossed an irritated glance towards the bathroom door. Then, still scowling, he walked over to the T.V, switched it on, picked up the remote control from the coffee table and adjusted the volume. Satisfied he returned to the kitchen, picked up the letter . . .

Now he couldn’t hear the water . . .

Was it still on?

He threw yet another irritated glance towards the door. This was ridiculous. He walked over to the bathroom door, placed his ear against it. He could hear the sound of water but no sound of movement . . . and the thought suddenly entered his head that he may have slipped . . . fallen . . .

He opened the door . . . and he could see John outlined through the frosted glass of the shower, leaning forward against the wall, his head resting on one arm, the other hanging loosely by his side. Luka stood there and watched . . . but he could go now . . . now that he knew that he was okay . . . he could turn around and walk away.

**************************************************************

If he’d thought about it, really thought about it, he probably would have walked away. But seeing him there . . . in the shower . . . seeing the water hitting the top of his head, dripping through the ends of his hair, over his neck, running in rivulets down his back, over his ass, between his thighs . . .

Except . . . he didn’t see it. He imagined it. He was good at that, at using his imagination . . .

He should have walked away.

He wanted to. Well, a part of him wanted to . . . a very large part. But another part, a smaller but more dominant part, wanted him to stay. So, he stayed . . . feeling invisible.

Except . . . he wasn’t.

John wasn’t that insensible to his surroundings that he didn’t know that he was there. He knew. Only too well. Was it another example of the sixth sense that had seemed to develop between them? Of course not. He had seen the door open and had swiftly turned away, burying his head in the crook of his arm, trying to imagine that he wasn’t there . . .

He just wasn’t very good at it. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a good imagination. He did. It just went off in the wrong direction . . . and that’s ‘wrong’ as in a direction that wasn’t intended . . .

Luka stepped closer to the shower, reached out and opened the door. John turned his head . . . One look that’s all it would have taken. The right look. One that said ‘No’. Luka looked for it, in his face, in his eyes. It’s not that he could have mistaken it, he convinced himself of that, because he wouldn’t . . .

John stared back at him . . .

Maybe he was allowing himself to be seduced by the sound of the water.

. . . feeling his eyes . . .

Seduced by the memory of what had gone before.

. . . eyes staring into his face . . .

Or maybe he was just allowing himself to be diverted from the events that had dominated his life for the past few weeks.

He didn’t succumb that easily. But his face didn’t give the response that it should have done and his body responded in a way that it shouldn’t have done.

John turned his face away and shifted his position, hiding his erection . . .

. . . and Luka watched him as he tried to hide it. He should have been elated by the fact that John was hard but he was too distracted by the effects of his own arousal.

John looked back at him. "Do you mind . . . I’m naked here?" He was trying to sound assertive but he faltered, ended up sounding embarrassed.

Luka studied him carefully, reading his face . . .

. . . John turned away again. Part of him wanted to disappear but there was nowhere to go. So he did the only thing he could. He turned around, leaned back against the wall of the shower, and stared brazenly into Luka’s eyes.

Despite being at an obvious disadvantage, John held this gaze unflinchingly. It was Luka who finally broke the contact . . . but only to allow his eyes to wander over John’s body. Under such intense scrutiny, John felt himself dissolving, and his hands automatically went to his cock, trying to conceal it.

Luka smiled and returned his gaze to John’s face. Then, very slowly, he kicked off his shoes . . .

John tried to keep his face impassive as Luka proceeded to strip off all of his clothes. Socks followed shoes . . . then sweatshirt . . . But he closed his eyes when Luka moved his hands to the waistband of his pants . . . When he finally opened them again Luka was standing naked in front of him . . .

**************************************************************

Luka stepped into the shower, water instantly splattering onto his chest, running down over his stomach, over his groin, down his legs . . .

John pressed his back firmly into wall of the shower, trying to retreat. Luka moved swiftly, not allowing him the time to think. He stepped closer to him, brushing his hands away from his groin, replacing them with his own, taking a firm hold of his cock, squeezing it tightly . . .

John groaned. He couldn’t help it. He tilted his head back against the wall of the shower and he groaned, thrusting forward, pushing his cock further into Luka’s hand . . .

"Oh fuck." The word was out before he could stop it.

Luka could see how tight his chest had become, how constricted his breathing. He squeezed harder, eliciting another groan, and then released, moving his hand to caress John’s balls, to stroke between his thighs . . .

"Fuck . . . . . . . . . . . . . fuck." The words were muttered softly, in between ragged breaths.

Luka moved closer, widening his legs, pushing his groin into his . . . skin touching skin. He slid his hands between their bodies, took both of their cocks into both of his hands, meshing them together . . .

. . . another groan . . . from both them, separate sounds merging into one . . .

John looked down . . . the sight, as much as the feel, blowing his mind . . . he reached out, brushed the tips of his fingers over the head of Luka’s cock . . .

. . . the touch was light, unbelievably gentle . . .

Luka closed his eyes, focussed his mind on that one area of his body, trying to intensify the sensation. He thrust his hips forwards and upwards, rubbing the head of his cock into the palm of John’s hand. John curled his hand around it, feeling the softness . . . the hardness . . .

. . . he took his hand away.

Luka opened his eyes, raised his right hand, pressed it hard into John’s stomach. He pulled upwards, pushing his fingers along his ribs towards his chest running his hand over his nipple, taking the nipple between his fingers, squeezing it . . .

John winced, parting his lips, pushed forward, thrusting his cock hard into Luka’s groin. "Oh God . . ."

Luka stared into his face . . .

That look . . . wonderfully hopelessly irretrievably . . .

. . . lost.

Luka was suddenly overwhelmed by the passion of John’s responses, knowing that he was on a knife-edge, precariously balanced between wanting and not wanting, so wrapped up in the moment that, if pushed, John would surrender, right there, right then . . .

It took every ounce of his self-control to step back, to remove all contact.

They stared at each other, time standing still . . .

. . . until, finally, Luka had to speak. "I . . ."

He stopped, realizing his voice sounded weak, ineffective against the rush of the water. He swallowed, started again, this time louder, more assertive. "I . . . want to."

John closed his eyes, opened them slowly . . . but said nothing, neither consenting nor dissenting.

Luka, neither encouraged nor discouraged, looked up and nodded his head towards the shower. "Do you need to . . . ?"

John flicked his eyes upwards, flicked them back. He nodded his head but it was almost imperceptible, only discernible because Luka was scrutinizing his face so carefully.

There was nothing more to say . . .

Luka stepped backwards out of the shower, turned around, and took a towel from the rail. He rubbed the towel over his chest and then wrapped it around his waist. John watched him as he made his exit. After he had gone he rested his head back against the wall of the shower and closed his eyes.

He should leave. Dry himself off, walk into the bedroom, pick up his clothes, get dressed and leave. He wouldn’t talk to him. He wouldn’t even look at him . . .

He opened his eyes and looked down at his cock. That’s what he didn’t understand. How he could be so fucking hard. He took hold of his cock gripping it angrily, twisting it painfully . . . making it harder. Because he hadn’t had sex in fucking ages, that’s why. He let go of his cock smacking his hand against the wall of the shower.

He should leave. Dry himself off, walk into the bedroom, pick up his clothes, get dressed and leave.

Just because he hadn’t had sex in ages . . . not since the failed proposal, when she had withdrawn from him, in more ways than one . . . and he didn’t blame her . . . okay, he did blame her . . . but that wasn’t an excuse for . . .

He should leave. Dry himself off, walk into the bedroom . . .

He screwed his face into an attitude of quiet desperation and took hold of his cock, his painfully erect cock, and squeezed it, stroked it. He didn’t need him for that. If he wanted to he could do it right here, right now, just to show him how much he didn’t need it, didn’t want it . . .

Oh fuck.

. . . he wanted it . . .

. . . badly . . .

. . . if for nothing else than to drown out the memory of the past few weeks of unrelenting misery when he felt that he was suffocating, the life being sucked out of him . . .

As always, he was hit by a tidal wave of guilt that threatened to smother him. Sometimes he believed that he needed it, the guilt . . . that, for some perverse reason, he wallowed in it. He wrapped his arms around his chest not wanting it to be true. Because what he really wanted, more than anything else, was to feel alive . . .

**************************************************************

He didn’t leave . . . but you knew that.

He was lying on the bed, eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing until the blackness got too much for him. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes settling on a brown stain . . . well, yellowish brown . . . more yellow than brown . . . ochre . . . definitely ochre. It was probably damp . . . caused by . . .

. . . a nudge to his ribs. He looked over. "What?"

"I asked . . . on what side would you be more comfortable . . . on your left or right?"

John stared at him blankly. Side? Sideways? Whenever he had sex side on it was always long and slow. He didn’t know if he wanted that . . . should he tell him . . . that all he wanted was a quick fuck . . . that he wanted him to do it the way that he did before . . . hard and fast . . . so that he didn’t have to think . . .

He looked away, stared up at the stain on the ceiling. "Right side."

Luka nodded and pushed his hip gently and John rolled over, twisting his waist. But when he went to move his shoulders Luka stopped him.

"No . . . I want to see your face."

"Why?"

Luka frowned and then smiled. "Why not?"

John stared at the stain and wondered if Luka had told his landlord about it. It could be serious, an indication that something was . . .

Luka tapped his thigh. "You need to move your leg up."

John took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and moved his leg whilst Luka grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed, folded it over and placed it under his knee. For some reason, the position made John feel vulnerable . . . which he found strange . . . because what was more vulnerable than being handcuffed? He moved his hands from his sides, placed them on his stomach, locking his fingers together . . . and then traced the outline of the stain with his eyes . . .

. . . he felt Luka’s hand on his hip, running along his thigh, around his knee, down his lower leg to his ankle . . . felt his hand gripping his ankle adjusting the position of his leg . . .

He hadn’t noticed before but the stain had a darker edge . . . like the iris of an eye . . .

. . . Luka rolled away from him, onto his back, reached behind him . . .

It was also mottled, dark spots scattered through it. Definitely some kind of water penetration . . .

. . . he heard the sound of something tearing . . . .

Some of the spots were a lot darker . . . and a lot larger . . . there could even be a pattern there . . . or perhaps, a shape . . .

. . . he heard the sound of something . . . wet . . .

A face. He could definitely make out the shape of a face . . .

. . . he felt wetness on his ass, between his cheeks . . .

He pulled away sharply. "I already did that."

"Why?"

John stared at him, slightly puzzled. "Why not?"

Luka shrugged and applied the lotion anyway, sliding the palm of his hand between John’s cheeks, caressing the skin gently. He then tried to push into him, rubbing the tips of two slick fingers against his tightly clamped entrance.

John flinched and flicked his eyes nervously in Luka’s direction . . . found Luka staring back at him. "Sorry."

"Relax."

He tried to, by taking a deep breath, blowing it out slowly consciously trying to relax the muscles as the air flowed out of him. Luka tried to push his fingers in again . . . and John automatically clenched around them . . .

"Sorry. Look . . . this isn’t working . . . it’s not . . . it’s just . . . . . . . . . . I don’t feel . . . comfortable."

Luka sighed and took his fingers away from John’s ass, moved his hand around to his balls, to his cock . . . his very limp cock. He took hold of it and squeezed it, let go of it, took hold of his balls, pulling on them, let go of them, took hold of his cock, squeezing on it . . .

John lifted his head and stared at him. "What are you doing?"

Luka’s hand stopped in mid-squeeze. "What do you think I’m doing?"

John frowned. "It’s a bit . . . you know . . . mechanical."

Luka removed his hand from between John’s legs, placed it on his thigh. "What do you want me to do?"

John dropped his head back down on to the pillow, not saying anything.

Luka tried again, stroking John’s thigh, running his hand gently over his skin, roughing the hairs backwards and forwards. He slid his hand down between his legs, stroking his inner thigh, gently nudging his ballsac. He did this several times, deliberately making the touch light . . . delicate . . .

John stared at the stain, concentrating on the face . . . the eyes . . . nose . . .

Luka could sense John relaxing under his hand, the tension in his muscles easing. He stroked his thigh one more time and then slid his hand over his balls, caressing them gently . . .

. . . and the once clearly defined face became nothing more than a blur as John allowed the sensations to wash over him . . .

Luka moved his hand to John’s cock, his semi-hard cock, wrapping his hand around it, squeezing it, stroking it, squeezing it, stroking it. He rubbed his thumb over the head several times, then slid his fingers down the length of his shaft, teasing his balls as he slowly moved over them. He slid gently along his perineum . . . until he found the excess lotion. He swirled his fingers around in it . . . then pushed one finger straight into his ass, fighting against the natural grip. He rotated his finger, pulled out, pushed in, pulled out . . . added another finger, pushed in, pulled out, pushed in . . .

Luka glanced at John’s face and saw that his eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. He retracted his fingers and eased himself into position behind his ass, placing the head of his cock at his entrance. Then he watched, waiting for the right moment in his breathing . . .

. . . and pushed the head of his cock into him . . .

. . . but no more than the head. He paused, giving John the time to think . . .

John concentrated hard on his breathing, trying not to think about the tip of Luka’s cock nestling in his ass . . .

. . . his cock . . . in his ass . . . his cock . . .

Luka watched fascinated by the micro-expressions that were playing across John’s face. Then he saw it, that sudden look of panic. By instinct . . . he couldn’t help it . . . his hand went to John’s balls grabbing them, holding them tight . . .

John’s eyes flew open, and he lifted his head off of the pillow, stared into Luka’s face. Surprisingly, for an action that was threatening, the _expression on Luka’s face was calm . . . benign . . .

John took deep steady, breaths, trying to slow his heart rate . . .

Luka relaxed his grip, squeezed gently on his balls. "Okay?"

John shook his head, eyeing him warily . . . then nodded. "Can I ask you a question . . . are you always this aggressive . . . or is it just me?"

Luka thought about it, thought about lying, decided against it. "Just you."

John raised his eyebrows, not exactly reassured. "Thanks for telling me."

"Do you mind?"

"At least you went for my balls . . . not my heart."

Luka frowned and for the first time experienced real doubt about what he was doing. That maybe this was a mistake. That maybe the weeks and months of thinking about him, thinking about fucking him, had clouded his judgement. That what he had envisioned was nothing more than a fantasy . . . one that was totally unrealizable . . .

He took his hand away from John’s balls, placed it on his thigh. "Can I ask you a question . . . are you always this self-pitying?"

A look of irritation flashed across John’s face . . .

. . . and Luka smiled. He much preferred this _expression. "Look . . . I promise I won’t go anywhere near your heart."

And with that Luka slid his hand between John’s thighs and took hold of his cock stroking it vigorously . . .

It was too much . . . for the both of them. John arched his back, placed his hands on the bed frame and forced himself down, impaling himself on Luka’s shaft as Luka thrust forward to meet him halfway.

**************************************************************

Was this the final stage of the process? Acceptance?

Yeah right.



To be continued . . .