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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 . . .
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. . 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.
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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 . . .
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n