TITLE: HOTEL, part VIII
AUTHOR: Scott J. Welles
ARCHIVE: Yes, but please write and tell me where.
CATEGORY: f/f Slash
SPOILERS: For early season 8, up through "Never Say Never".
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: Borrowing a page from one of Aeris' stories (luvya, babe!) and
seeing what happens...
DISCLAIMER: All "ER" characters and institutions are the property of Warner
Bros., ConstantC Productions and Amblin Television.  This is written
strictly for entertainment value, no infringement of copyright or ownership
is intended, and nobody is making a profit on this piece.  As always, any
errors in continuity, characterization, or common sense are entirely my own
fault.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: As usual, DON'T READ if you're offended by f/f slash, but I
hope you'll enjoy this anyway!
SEND ALL COMMENTS (positive or negative) to scottjwelles@yahoo.com



Hotel, by Scott J. Welles


Part Eight...

(Thursday evening...)

The elevator seemed to take forever to open, and Randi stomped into it,
punching the button for the fifth floor.  "Five-oh-two, right?"

"Right," Sam said, entering behind her.  He put his big hands on her
shoulders, strong fingers kneading soothingly at her tense muscles.  "Hey,
c'mon, you've got to let go of this Kerry thing."

"Yeah, I know..."

"It's just you and me now, honey."  The hands slid around her shoulders, his
arms pulling her warmly back against him, and she felt his breath on her
neck.  "Alone at last."

Randi heaved a sigh, trying to let go of her anger and disappointment
towards Kerry Weaver and her latest, inexplicable flip-flop.  How could she
balk at spending the night with a woman like Odona, who obviously wanted
her?  It made no sense to Randi... Shit.

She turned into Sam's embrace, seeking some sort of comfort in his presence.
Hoping to bury the confusion she felt under the blanket of uncomplicated
animal sex.

Sam's mouth found hers, claiming it urgently, insistently.  She dug her
fingers into his back, clutching at him as his body pressed hers against the
back wall of the elevator.  His hands ran down her hips, cupping her ass...

Pulling her lips free with a gasp, Randi eased him back.  On one level, she
yearned to unbuckle his pants, lift the hem of her dress, and let him take
her right there in the elevator, her legs around his waist.  But she didn't
want this to be just frantic, angry sex; she could have that in Chicago, any
time.  "Wait," she rasped, her voice unsteady.  "We're almost there..."

Sam released her, reigning himself in with obvious impatience.  "Yeah, tell
me about it," he muttered.

They reached the fifth floor before she could respond.

Taking her hand possessively, Sam led Randi to his room and unlocked the
door.  "You want a drink?" he asked.

"No, thanks," she replied.  One forearm itched; she still felt the plastic
rectangle of her own key card up her left sleeve; the other one was missing,
given to Kerry at her request.  Why did she run off like that...?

"Hey, what's gotten into you?" Sam asked as he poured himself one, his voice
as much irritated as concerned.  "You look like you'd rather be anywhere but
here."

She sighed.  "Sorry, Sam, I'm still thinking about Dr. Weaver.  I don't know
why she--"

"Better question, why do you care?  Come on, already, let it go."  He
knocked back his glass, then refilled it.  "Look, are we going to do this,
or not?"

Randi was feeling less in the mood with each passing moment, which really
pissed her off.  This was exactly what she'd come to Seattle for in the
first place, to spend the night with a man who turned her on something
fierce, and now that the moment had come, her instincts just weren't doing
their job.  Dammit, this was what she got for trying to babysit someone too
fucked-up to know a good thing when it stared her in the face.  Well, Weaver
wasn't going to ruin this for her!

She strode over to Sam, took the drink out of his hand, put it back on the
mini-bar, and pulled his face to hers.  He responded to the kiss, cupping
his hands under her buttocks again, lifting her off the floor.  Carrying her
to the bed, he all but dropped her on top of it, his powerful body covering
hers.  It was exactly what she liked in a man, everything she had hoped for,
all her West Coast fantasies come to reality, and yet...

"Sam...God, Sam...wait, hang on..."  Randi got a hand free and shoved at
him, prying his body off of hers and squirming free.  "Just give me a
minute, okay?"

He sighed with disappointment, dropping his head against the pillow.
"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she told him.  "It's not you, it's..."  She ran a hand through
her hair, thoroughly confused by now.  This had never happened to her
before.  "Shit, I dunno what it is."

Sam sat up again, retrieving his drink and finishing it.  "Is this still
about Weaver and St. James?"

Randi nodded reluctantly.  "I really thought they were having a good time
together," she moaned, "and then Weaver suddenly runs away...I just don't
understand why--"

"For Christ's sake, Daphne, you already got Velma a date," Sam growled in
frustration.  "It's not your fault if she didn't want it!"

Her head snapped around to glare at him.  "What'd you say...?"

He raised a hand to ward off her temper.  "I'm sorry," he said, "but you're
pushing too hard to arrange something that's not really your business to
start with, is it?"

She tried to calm herself, resisting the anger she felt.  "Maybe not..."

"Anyway, it's not your fault if Kerry lost her nerve.  It's probably because
someone dressed her up like a fairy tale princess and made her face the fact
that she's female.  That's something she doesn't know how to deal with."

Randi narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.  "What the hell's that supposed
to mean...?"

"Trust me, Randi, I've known Kerry longer than you have.  And if there's one
thing about her I've always known, it's that Kerry hates herself for being
born a woman."  He refilled his glass.  "You work with her, right?   Tell me
she doesn't try to be tougher than all the guys around her.  Plus, she's had
that crutch in her hand so much of the time, it wouldn't surprise me if she
thinks she's got a dick."

Getting slowly to her feet, Randi stared at Sam in amazement.

"I guess it's not surprising," Sam added, not noticing Randi's expression.
"Running a hospital's a big job; she feels like she's gotta compete with the
big boys.  Understandable enough, but I mean, in Kerry's case, she's taken
it pretty far.  She's almost as tough as some of those dykes who try to pass
themselves off as men, the way they dress and act..."  He gulped his drink.
"I mean, I got nothing against gays; I don't care who anyone sleeps with.
One of my golf buddies likes men, but he's still a guy, y'know?  He's not
one of these faggots who wear dresses and makeup, like some kinda queen...
The way I figure, you fuck whoever you want, but you're still either a man
or a woman, so for God's sake, act like it, and don't try to pretend you're
something you're not."

Randi hugged herself, trying to still the bitter vibration running through
her.

Sam put his empty glass down.  "Point is," he added, "Kerry's spent so long
trying not to be a woman, it's no wonder she freaked out when you put her in
a dress and take away her crutch.  I don't think she needs that thing as
much as she lets on, she's just not happy without her artificial penis in
her hand."  Turning back to Randi, he said, "Look, forget about Kerry, okay?
Let's you and me just--"

The hand he laid on her shoulder was thrown off violently as her entire body
shook with white-hot rage.

"Randi, what's--?"

She spun on him, murderous fury in her eyes burning into his.  "I want to
hit you so bad, right now," she grated through teeth that ground together.
"My whole fucking body hurts because I haven't done it, yet."

Sam backed off a step, his eyes wide with confusion, tinged with fear.

Randi followed him step for step, each word fired off like a bullet.  "The
only reason I haven't hit you," she snarled, "the ONLY reason...is that if
Kerry Weaver was here, she'd tell me you've got a right to your opinion, no
matter how sick and twisted it is, and I don't have a right to hit you just
because you're a total fucking bastard!"

"Randi, wait, I didn't--"

"Or if Dr. St. James was here, maybe she could find a way to explain to you
just how incredibly fucking ugly all that bullshit you just spouted is," she
overrode him.  "And maybe, if you weren't drunk, you'd listen and
understand...and maybe, just maybe, you'd even have the decency to feel
ashamed of yourself."

She stopped advancing, a step before Sam's back would have reached the wall.

Sam took a deep breath and let it out again, some measure of sobriety coming
over his face.  "You're right," he said.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have
sai-- GGOUHHH!!"

Randi felt the surging throb of muscles and tendons singing all down her
arm, as her fist sank into his stomach with all her might behind it.

"Too bad they're not here..." she hissed into his ear as he doubled over,
"...and I am."

Sam stared at her, goggle-eyed and uncomprehending, as he fought to
straighten up, to speak, to draw breath.  For a moment, she thought she
might have inflicted some serious, life-threatening injury, and she felt
concern.

Then Sam turned away from her with a jerk, fell to his knees, and grabbed
for the plastic wastebasket in the corner, finding it in time to vomit into
it.  That would save the maid service some carpet-cleaning, anyway, Randi
thought.

Watching his spine arch as he heaved, Randi stood above him, feeling a mild
urge to drive one of her spike heels down on his head.  But that was
something a much younger, less mature and responsible Randi Fronczak might
have done.  And there was some truth in what she'd said to Sam: Kerry
wouldn't have approved.  Besides, she realized, he wasn't worthy of her
hatred.  He looked rather pathetic, if anything.

Walking to the sink, Randi wet a washcloth and dropped it next to him.
"Here," she said, feeling disgusted.  "Clean yourself up."

Sam groaned and spit into the wastebasket.

Feeling empty, rather than righteous or triumphant, Randi turned away to
stomp out the door.  But then, in the open doorway, she paused and turned
back.  "You want to know why Kerry needs to use that goddamn crutch?" she
said.

Sam raised his head and looked at her, his face tinged a pale green.

"Because she's carrying the weight of the fucking world on her shoulders,"
Randi informed him.  "And it's crushing her."

Sitting back on the carpet, Sam's only response was a sickly belch.

Randi took one final look at him, and said, "Goodbye, Sam."  She closed the
door behind her.


*  *  *


Returning to the elevator, she hit the lobby button and rode down
impatiently.  She wanted to kick the wall in fury, but she was wearing
open-toed shoes.

Dammit, she'd really thought he was a good guy.  To find out how wrong she
was...  It was one thing, dealing with someone like Robert Romano, who made
no bones about what a troglodyte he was.  There was a kind of honesty to his
ugliness that made him easier to accept; his consistency was oddly
comforting.  But to find such foulness in someone like Sam - who, Randi
believed, was basically a well-intentioned person when sober, if a little
full of himself, but who was stuck with some wrong ideas about things he
didn't understand - that hurt.  What made it worse was that Randi knew she
hadn't changed his mind, and she didn't know how she could.

The semiformal was still in progress when she got back to the ballroom,
though it had dissipated a bit as some of the attendees had drifted off.
She scanned the room for some sign of Odona St. James, but couldn't see her
anywhere.

Fuck it all, everything was going wrong.  Everything she'd planned,
expected, or hoped for, it was all coming apart.  This was supposed to be a
total no-brainer: she comes out west and ends up with a sexual experience to
remember forever.  What had screwed that up?  Some misguided protective
impulse toward Weaver, who obviously didn't want or appreciate her help.
And now, torn between loyalty and lust, she'd ended up with nothing.

Frustrated and despairing, almost at the brink of tears, she turned to run
for the exit...

"Whoa, look out!"  Doug caught her before they collided.  "Randi, what's the
matter?"

Randi pulled away from him.  "Nothing.  Forget it, Doug."

"Hey, slow down, will you?"  There was genuine concern in his brown eyes.
"I was on my way home, but if you want to talk about anything...?"

Letting out an impatient sigh, she gave him a glare.  "Sure, NOW you want to
talk," she sneered.  "Where the hell were you last night?"

He blinked, taken aback.  "I was called in to work," he explained.   "One of
my patients had an allergic reaction, and they called me in to find out what
happened.  Turned out his labs came back wrong, so he went home with the
wrong prescription."

"Oh..."  Randi could tell from his voice that he wasn't making it up.   So
he'd had good cause not to be home.  "Everything work out?"

"Yeah, we caught it in time," Doug assured her.  "But if I'd had the right
information to start with, I wouldn't have given him the wrong stuff..."  He
ducked his head, the way she remembered.

Randi patted his arm.  "You couldn't help it, if the labs were wrong, could
you?" she said.

"I guess not."  He chuckled.  "But it reminded me of the old days.  It was
just the kind of screwup that Kerry and I used to get into it over."

Mention of the Chief's name brought Randi's mind back to the current
situation.  "Doug, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You really never liked Kerry, did you?"

He chuckled again.  "You really need to ask me that?"

"Why?" she asked.  "What happened between you two?"

"Well...nothing really 'happened', in the definitive sense," Doug told her.
"Kerry and I have always had our share of philosophical differences, that's
all.  Her style and mine just clashed, and eventually we just couldn't work
together."  He smirked.  "With great amounts of soul-searching and
hindsight, I'm forced to reluctantly admit that it wasn't entirely her
fault.  I didn't handle things as well as I probably should have."

Randi nodded.  He wasn't the only one who'd had his conflicts with Weaver.

"Of course, putting most of a continent between us does a lot for our
relationship."  He grinned.

She couldn't return his smile; her next question was difficult to ask, but
she had to know.  "Did you ever think of her as a 'nazi dyke'?"

Doug's smile vanished.  "That's a hell of a question to ask," he muttered,
scowling.

"Yeah, it is," she said.  "Did you?"

He crossed his arms, and for a moment, Randi thought he was going to
sullenly refuse to answer.  "I guess there might have been some moments in
my younger days," he admitted, "when I harbored a few thoughts about Kerry
that were, um, less than generous."

Randi looked away.

"I tried not to voice them," he added, "and if I did, then I was out of
line.  It's not fair to blame Kerry for something that's half my own
problem."  He looked at her curiously.  "Even so, that was a pretty harsh
choice of words, Randi."

"Tell me about it," she muttered.

"So why do you ask?"

She let out a sigh.  "Someone called her that, not long ago."

"Someone at County?"

"Uh-huh."

Doug frowned, brooding over that.  "That's not right," he said.

Randi looked at him carefully.  "You really think so?"

"Uh-huh."

She kept looking, wondering if he really meant it.

"God knows I'm not Kerry Weaver's biggest fan," he admitted, "but she
doesn't deserve to be called a fascist.  She's strict, but she's not greedy
or cruel.  I mean, she and I both want the same things for our patients,
even if we have different ideas on how to get there."  He cleared his
throat.  "As for the other part of it...well, I don't know anything about
her private life, and I'm happy to keep it that way.  But there's no call to
be bringing it up on the job.  Certainly not in language like that."

Randi felt embers of warmth in the pit of her stomach.

"I don't know who called her that," Doug added, looking away, "or what the
circumstances were, but it sounds to me like whoever said it was sucking
around for a punch in the mouth."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence.

"You're, ah, kind of protective of her, aren't you?" Doug ventured.

Randi nodded.  "She's put a lot of faith in me over the years.  You know,
without saying anything, but like she just trusts me to handle things when
they need to be handled."

"She expects that of everyone," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'm an ex-con," Randi reminded him.  "Not that many people would
just shrug that off the way she did."

He nodded.  "You really care about her, don't you?"

She didn't answer.

"Does this 'nazi' crack have anything to do with why she looks so..."  He
shrugged.  "Like she's not as confident in herself as she used to be?"

Randi thought back over the last couple of years, since Kerry had been
appointed ER Chief: the loss of friends, the need to address Carter's
addiction, the death of Lucy Knight...and, of course, the sudden
reevaluation of her life catalyzed by Kim Legaspi.  "It's part of it," she
admitted.  "I'm really worried about her, Doug."

"Okay."  He scratched his head.  "Where is she now?"

"I think she went up to our room..."  She hugged herself, hesitating.

"So what are you down here talking to me for?"

She looked at him, smiling at her.  He couldn't possibly know the specifics
about Kerry and Odona, or about how Randi had been feeling about her lately.
He had just matured to the point where he could express concern and sympathy
for a former colleague, even one he'd hated in the past.

Stepping closer to him and taking him by the ears, Randi drew his face
closer and kissed both cheeks and his mouth.  "Go home, Doug," she said.
"Go home and give those to Tess, Kate, and Carol, in that order."

He hugged her close, like a brother, and then released her and left her with
a farewell smile.


*  *  *


Randi knew where she should go next, but she found herself dawdling.  As
much as she wanted to face the source of her concerns, she was strangely
afraid.  As if, in facing Kerry, she would also face something in herself
that scared her.  She hid her own feelings as carefully as Kerry hid hers,
and as consistently.

But she knew that she couldn't put this off forever.

She strolled slowly, almost reluctantly, to the elevator.

Pushed the button.

Waited.

Stepped inside.

Pushed the other button.

Rose silently.

Walked to the door to their room.

Okay, she thought.  This is it.

Slipping the second key out of her sleeve, she hesitated, then clicked it
into the lock.  It opened, and she slipped into the darkened hotel room.

Thursday night, she thought.  Why are Thursday nights always so intense?