Shattered

By

sHaYcH

 

Disclaimer:  Hmm, ER, ER characters and back story don’t belong to me.  I’m just engaging in a creative “what if” here, nothing more.

 

Notes:  A sequel, of sorts, to Only the Rain. 

 

Comments and constructive criticism are welcome at: shaych3@yahoo.com

 


 

She kissed me. 

 

And you liked it, a terrible, truthful voice shouts loudly in my head.

 

It hurt when her lips grazed mine.  

 

Hurt like tearing off a bandage, the kind that reveals a healed wound.  That’s not pain, it’s relief.  The same voice sarcastically says.

 

My world shattered in one, terrible strike. 

 

Melodramatic, aren’t we, Dr. Weaver? 

 

The ruins of a life lived lie around me.  I stare at them, helplessly searching for some shred of comfort, some piece of evidence that all is not gone.  I look for a clue that I am still Dr. Kerry Weaver, ER Attending at Chicago County Memorial Hospital.  Not some nameless teenager stuck in a torrid dime-store romance. 

 

Unbidden, my fingers rise to survey the damage, to check for outward signs of the flames that I swear ravaged my skin, but they only find lips.  My lips.  They still tingle-hurt-burn and my heart is fluttering, fluttering and my breath comes slowly, slower and my hiccups are … gone. 

 

That’s pretty miraculous, considering you’ve been fighting them all shift, eh, Doc?  The voice is back and still telling uncomfortable truths.

 

My head sinks back and I stare at the speckled, white ceiling.  The room falls around me, and noise rushes back into the hollow echo that always is the ER, and I realize that Kim is gone.  I wanted to see her face when she opened the gift.  I needed to see the joy in her eyes, to see that she knew that I cared… I cared enough to look for just the right perfect gift.  Why did I do that?  I have to ask myself that now, because she kissed me. 

 

Yes, yes, she kissed you.  Get over it.  She didn’t give you cooties, Doc, just peeled the blinders away from your eyes.

 

Before, we were friends.  She made me feel… I felt so…  I cover my face with my hands and sigh dramatically.  Feelings, that’s what got me here, staring at the ceiling like a lovesick teenager.  Like a lovesick teenager, that’s the problem.  The lovesick part, that is.  Dr. Kerry Weaver doesn’t do lovesick.  Dr. Kerry Weaver meets nice men in nice places and has nice, short, clinical and proper relationships.

 

She kissed me and my life changed. 

 

And that’s a bad thing? The voice asks sarcastically.  You’re not a nun, Doc.  It’s okay to live a little.

 

I feel it before it hits.  A brief, sharp flash of pain, then, “Hic!”

 

“Damnit,” I growl, thrusting myself away from my chair, pushing aside the nonsense in my head.  I grab my crutch and stride from the break room and into the main ER.  The phones are ringing, children are yelling and the smell of vomit, blood and cleanser fill the air.  Normalcy.  This is what I need, a nice, even keel of normalcy.

 

Malucci leans against a doorway, his eyes drooping down on his over-tired face and I almost feel sorry for him.  I can’t, because Carter needed a break today more than he did.  I pride myself on knowing how far I can push my interns, and today, Carter had reached his limits.  So Malucci will pick up the slack, and some other day, I’ll see that Carter does the same for Dave. 

 

The clock on the wall ticks over to the half hour.  I glance into chairs and see that we’re nearly empty.  This is a good thing, because we’re full in beds.  Murphy has given us some time.  I need to talk to Kim, but I can’t right now.  Right now, I have to be Dr. Kerry Weaver, for myself and for the ER. 

 

My shift is almost over.  Only one hour to go.  I dive in with a vengeance, hoping that I won’t have to pick up the phone to psych, I won’t need that consult, and I almost make it, almost, but not quite.  In life, as in medicine, there are no almosts.  Time to see if Dr. Kerry Weaver can keep control of the teenager who seems to have taken up residence.

 

“Psych, this is Dr. Legaspi, how can I help you?” she asks, and I lose my voice.  I cannot answer her.  I cannot say the words.  My mouth hangs open, ready to shape the sounds, but they’re not there.

 

“Hello?  Hello?  Look, I know this is the ER, so, please, tell me what you need?” she asks softly, gently, almost as if she knows it’s me.  “Kerry?” she adds, her voice even softer and I think, filled with the slightest taste of hope.

 

“K-Kim, Dr. Legaspi?” I wheeze out, glancing around quickly to see that no one else heard my slip-up.

 

“Yes, Kerry, I’m here.  What do you need?” she asks again, quietly.

 

“I’ve got a nursing home patient… she’s confused and,” I stumble over the words, wanting to say more, yet not daring to.

 

“I’ll be right there,” she assures.

 

“Kim… I mean, Dr. Legaspi, you left …” I start to say, but she interrupts.

 

“I know.”  I can feel the pain in her words.

 

“Please take it,” I say, my voice disappearing.

 

“Give it back to me over dinner, at your place,” she counters, challengingly.  Her voice is hard, edged with steel and something else – desire.

 

“Yes,” I agree, knowing, knowing that whatever we eat will never matter, because we will never taste it.  My stomach suddenly becomes a habitat for butterflies.  Oh my God, what am I getting myself into?

 

An hour in eternity’s hell passes.  I race home.  I clean like a madwoman bent on scrubbing out every fault and foible, cleaning away my straight, arrogant, closeted, secretive past so that the flood of this woman can burst in and sweep me away.

 

It takes me fifteen minutes to decide not to decide what we will eat.  Four different all-night carry out places are assurance enough that there will be something besides the leftover spaghetti in the fridge.  Ten minutes in the shower.  I scrub myself clean, and allow the water to strip away the grime of the day, the week and the year.   I stand under the needle-like spray until it goes cold, praying that I’m not crazy.  An entire lifetime drains away, soon to be replaced by a new one.

 

Thirty minutes to decide upon an old turtleneck, red, like my hair, and a gray, nubbly sweater, loose and cozy.  Beige slacks, white socks; I want to be casual, relaxed, at ease.  This is nothing, everyday, usual.  I often invite beautiful women into my home with the express purpose of falling in love.

 

Makeup.  God, what a disaster.  Nervous hands dapple color, rouge and lipstick, and I still look trampish to my eyes.  Yet zero makeup leaves me feeling more vulnerable than I already am, so carefully, slowly, I dust the thin armor on, giving myself painted calm.

 

The hour of doom is at hand.  A bottle of some nameless wine chills in a bucket on the counter, a fire crackles loudly in the hearth, the Christmas tree is lit, and what few presents I have not delivered lie around the bright red skirting, forlorn, yet festive. 

 

Her gift has a place of honor, framed by two brightly wrapped packages and tree branches. 

 

The book, its cover clean of marks, lays waiting.  I sit.  I stand.  I pace.  Will she come?  My mind flashes on the break room, her words, her hand upon my face, her lips, and her tongue as it ghosted over my lips.  I sink to the couch as my heart hammers a steady, driving beat.  I want.  God, I want, something… something I cannot name.

 

Beat. Tick.  Beat.  Tick.  The clock over the mantle keeps time with my heart as I wait.  Beat.  Knock.  I jump from my seat and race to the door, nearly tripping on the rug.  I think I have superhuman strength, tearing the oak nearly from its frame and am almost blown over by the wind and snow that explode into the foyer.

 

She is there, wet and glistening.  Snow dapples her cheeks and ages her hair.  She is beauty itself.

 

“Kim,” I say, disbelieving the tone of confidence in my voice.  “Come in.  Can I get you something to drink?”  The pleasantries roll easily from my tongue.  She comes in gratefully. 

 

This night is not fit for anyone.

 

“Thanks, some cocoa or coffee would be great,” she says, smiling tentatively. 

 

I hurry into the kitchen and turn on the pot I keep on the stove.  I decide that I will have some tea.  Cocoa…cocoa, I know Carter bought some and left it… I dig around in my cupboards, single-minded in my quest to please. 

 

“Can I help you with that?” she says from behind me, startling me into standing.  Bang!  My head hits the top of the cabinet.  I sit down rather unexpectedly as stars dance before my eyes. 

 

“Oh my God, Kerry!”  Kim is beside me, offering a steadying hand as I attempt to stand. 

 

I gravitate toward her warmth and her voice.  “This is not how I pictured it,” I mumble as she leads me to the table, examining the bump on my skull all the while.

 

“Really, Kerry, tea would have been just fine.  You didn’t need to go crawling around… imagine what?” she asks, her face coming into my field of vision. 

 

I pull my hand away from my head.  No blood.  The stars are dissipating.  It is not a fatal blow.  I will not, in my professional opinion, even have a mild concussion.  My eyes meet hers.  “I…” I stammer, not able to say anything.  “You’re so beautiful,” I echo myself belatedly. 

 

She laughs gently.   Her cheeks color.  “Kerry.”  Her voice shakes slightly and she pastes a nervous smile on her face.  “Your actions make lies of your words.”  Her hand slides across the table.  She has sat down and I never noticed because I was too busy staring in her eyes.  “Is friendship really all you want from me?”  The words are spoken softly, yet their timbre echoes loudly in my ears.

 

My hand grasps hers, twining our fingers together.  “Yes.  No.  I don’t,” I whisper harshly, then clear my throat.  “I-I’m just not, I’ve never considered this kind of thing seriously.”  I finish lamely.

 

Kim shakes her head.  “Kerry, I don’t know if I can …” she sighs and shakes her head sadly.  “I’ve been hurt before.”  She admits softly.  Tears rim her eyes.  “I can’t let myself fall into that trap again.”  She adds.

 

“You won’t,” I reply honestly.  “I couldn’t hurt you, even if I tried.”  I beg for her to believe me.  I can’t, and I know that for truth.  Even if it means ripping up the old Kerry and making myself over whole, I cannot hurt this beautiful woman who sits across from me, refusing to cry for a past love.

 

“You don’t need to mean to,” she says.  “You can hurt me just by sitting there.”

 

I know what she means.  I can feel the pull to her, magnetic and inexorable.  Sudden strength allows my legs to push me up.  Our hands are still linked, so I pull her up as well.  Two feet, a foot, an inch, a breath of space is all that is left between us.

 

“I will not hurt you, Kim Legaspi,” I say, tipping my head up just enough to look into her eyes. 

 

“Kerry.”  Her voice is so gentle, and her eyes so warm.  Her lips are warmer, almost searingly hot upon mine, but I do not care.  I fracture into her, then shatter and reform.  Scattered images are memories of how she kisses me, how we move through the house from the kitchen to the living room.  Of how I nearly stumble, but her arms support me while her lips speak in a language I am eager to learn.

 

The couch is soft and warm, cradling us as we kiss.  Kissing Kim is frightfully easy.  I pull away suddenly, embarrassed and uneasy.  My glasses are somewhere else.  My sweater is off, and my shirt is untucked.  Her blouse is unbuttoned.  We are in a real state of dishabille.  I glance over at her shyly and feel my face heat as I see the rapidly purpling mark on her throat, just above the sharp dip of her collarbone. 

 

I reach out and skim it with my fingertip.  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. 

 

She covers my hand with hers.  “Why?  I’m not.”  Her voice is deep, smoky and sexy.  A hard ache settles in the pit of my stomach. 

 

I want… but the thought falls away as I struggle for the words. 

 

“Kim,” I start to say, but she’s already covering my mouth with hers.  “Shh,” she says, slipping her hand up under my shirt to scratch over my bare back.  Gooseflesh rises. 

 

“God,” I whimper, diving into her once again. 

 

Sometime later, I come up for air and realize that we are topless, tangled and heated, lying on the floor in front of a dying fire.  Weak sunlight filters in through closed curtains.  The city snowplow rattles down the street.  Two children discuss the merits of snowman construction. 

 

“We never had dinner,” I say, wonderingly, stroking my fingers through her golden hair as she snuggles against me.

“Mm, I’m not very hungry.”  She sits up a bit to look down at me.  “But, if you are, we can always get breakfast.”

I’ll never be hungry again, I think, as I look at her lying painted in sunlight and gold.  “No,” I say, smiling and shaking my head. 

“Okay,” she replies, dipping her head down to kiss me tenderly.  “But we should get some sleep soon.  We both have shifts tonight.”

I start to sit up.  “You’re right.  I-I…would you…” I babble, not knowing how to invite a woman to stay.  It’s easy with men.  They tend to invite themselves, which isn’t always as bad as that sounds, but how do you signal that you would really like it if this beautiful, sexy, sensuous woman would share your bed.

 

“I’d love to,” she says, her smile growing.  “Sleep over, that is, if you’re offering.”  She adds in my ear, briefly nipping the lobe with her sharp teeth.

 

“Yes,” I say, to anything, everything she might ask. 

 

“Good.  I’d hate to drive home in that.”  She nods toward the window, where it has just begun to snow.  The flakes dust the window, shattering against the glass as I take Kim’s hand and lead her to my bed.

 

fin

06/03/01

Revised 09/25/02

 Scattered

Only the Rain

 












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The characters, backstory, and setting of ER are copyright to Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Television. I'm sure there's someone else in there, and none of them are me.