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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 . . .

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. . . 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.

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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 . . .
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