TITLE:  Shall We Dance?, part 2/2
AUTHOR: Ellen Hursh
RATING:  PG-13
KEYWORDS: KW/LKo romance; angst; miscellaneous dot-connecting...
LAST EPISODE SEEN:  "Rampage"
TIMELINE:  "The Dance We Do"
CROATIAN:  "Probudi" = "wake up"
SONG:  "Shall We Dance?" written by Richard Rodgers & Oscar Hammerstein,
2nd (from "The King and I")
ARCHIVE: If you must.
DISCLAIMER: ER and all its characters belong to Warner Bros.  No
infringement of their copyright is intended.  This story was written for
the enjoyment of "ER" fans everywhere, and may be downloaded for your
own pleasure.
SYNOPSIS/SPOILERS:  The trout dance, the polka dance, and the dance
between the sheets; a latex-allergic voice from the past pipes up. A few
spoilers for "The Dance We Do", but not very many.
PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS:  Home and Dry; And Miles to Go Before I Sleep;
Through the Hourglass; Jupiter Aligns with Mars; Come As You Aren't; Out
and About; Up in the Air; Serpent's Tooth; Thanks a Lot!
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  The version of "The King and I" with Deborah Kerr and
Yul Brynner is the One True Version. Accept no substitutes.




Luka watched as the King of Siam danced with the young British
schoolteacher - around and around the floor, at a dizzying pace. Still,
it looked like fun... he wondered if he would be able to support Kerry's
weight enough for *them* to dance like that. He hummed along to the
song:

 Or perchance when the last little star has left the sky
 Shall we still be together with our arms around each other
 And shall you be my new romance?

He turned to glance in the direction of the kitchen. Yes, he and Kerry
had still been together, the morning after their first night together,
with their arms around each other, and she'd been his new romance. He
reckoned that she'd probably *still* be his new romance when they'd been
together for decades and were celebrating the birthdays of their
grandchildren, or even their *great*grandchildren. "Come on, beba!" he
called from the living room. "You're missing the movie!"

"I can hear it," she retorted, as she sliced some more celery into
sticks to munch on. "I practically know it by heart - this is the fourth
copy of 'The King And I' that I've owned."

"You've gone through *three* copies of this?"

"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No... no. It's just... you don't seem like the type of person who would
like this." He paused, and thought for a moment. "Then again, you also
never seemed like the sort of person who would wear leopard-print
underwear. So what do you think - should I shave my head like Yul
Brynner, and go around in loincloths?" Kerry giggled.

"The nurses would love you for it, I'm sure!" He got up and went to the
kitchen, then struck a Brynner-esque pose, and Kerry began laughing
hysterically, leaning heavily on the kitchen counter for support. "Don't
you dare shave your head - I *like* your hair the way it is!"

He wrinkled his nose, and ran his fingers through his hair. Even with
the shorter style he wore these days, it was still obviously very
thick... and the streaks of grey - combined with the weariness on his
face by the time he finished with an especially trying shift - sometimes
made him look older than his forty years.

"Don't worry. I didn't like the... uh... buzz I had to get for military
service. Danijela said I looked like a fuzzy lollipop." His lips
twitched in a brief smile at the thought - she'd been downright
*appalled* by the way he looked! Kerry looked up from her slicing,
almost apprehensively.

"How long did-- I mean, how did you meet her? Danijela, that is."

"At a dance. I went with some of my buddies, and I can still remember...
even more than twenty years later... looking across the room at one
point, through a break in the crowd, and spotting her. Her long, dark,
curly hair was pulled back into a braid that hung down her back, but the
night was humid enough that bits of it had begun to escape, and were
wisping around her head in a little cloud."

He stopped before his voice would have broken, and quickly stole a small
piece of celery and munched on it, trying to cover up the pain and the
guilt - this had been the first time in nine years that he hadn't
been... *alone* on the anniversary of that day. Even when he and Nadira
had carried on their brief affair, she hadn't argued with him when he'd
chosen not to be with her that entire week. This year, however... he'd
worked his shift, as usual, and had ended the day nestled on the couch
with Kerry in his arms, watching a video of an angioplasty. A strange
choice of viewing material, certainly, but he'd once casually mentioned
an interest in the subject... lo and behold, she'd tracked down the
tape. She'd even offered to see if she could get him in on assisting Dr
Kayson with an angioplasty, if he was really interested.

Kerry paused for a moment in her slicing, and looked up at him; she
hadn't missed the way he'd stopped talking abruptly. Also, she hadn't
missed the way he was starting to raid her pile of celery! "Luka...
about what we talked about earlier..."

"I know. Can we please talk about it later, and go watch the movie? I
think you have enough celery cut up, there, huh?" She gently swatted at
his hand, as he tried to snitch another piece.

"Not at the rate *you're* eating it!" But she scooped up the sticks and
put them onto a plate. "We *will* talk later, then? Soon?" He sighed.

"I promise."

* * *

They forgot about the movie (just as well, since the scene at the end
always made her cry), and became absorbed in their kiss as the plate of
celery sat abandoned on the coffee table; he'd *just* unbuttoned her
blouse and slipped his hand inside, when the phone rang. "Can you get
it, please?" Luka murmured. She'd been lying on top of him when they
were interrupted, so she knew why it wasn't convenient for him to stand
up *just* yet. He gave her a hand in getting back onto her feet, though,
and watched her move to the phone with surprising quickness. Well...
maybe not quite *that* surprising. She'd been getting around with at
least one crutch for nearly all her life, after all.

He slowly stood up, and crossed the room to where she was listening to
the person on the other end of the line; he wrapped his arms around her
from behind and nuzzled her, and she gently pushed him away. "John, slow
down. What happened?" Luka frowned when he heard that tone of voice, and
quit his playful attempts to distract her... though he did keep his arms
around her. "Okay... okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. Right. Bye."
She hung up, and began moving in the direction of the stairs, with a
confused Luka in hot pursuit.

"What's going on?"

"Mark had a seizure. I'm going to cover the rest of his shift." She
started to open the closet to pick out some clothes, but he nudged the
door closed again, to force her to listen to him.

"Wait a minute. *I* should do that - I still owe you for the one you
took last month, after all!" She shook her head.

"I have some other things I want to do while I'm there, Luka. If it'll
make you feel better, though, you can take my shift that I had scheduled
for tonight." He rumbled happily, and hugged her.

"You are all heart, Kerry." She patted his back.

"Play your cards right, and I could be wearing stockings when you come
home in the morning."

"Play--?" He was confused by the term, but quickly caught on to the
second part of what she'd said. "Uh... *stockings*, or pantyhose?"

"Stockings. Just stockings. And maybe my robe over it." He raised his
eyebrows and gave her a silly little grin.

"*Oh.*"

* * *

Carter strolled outside, and found Mark shooting hoops. It still seemed
weird, after nearly two years, to see him out there without Doug... and
even weirder, the times Carter had seen him shooting with Cleo: while he
could accept that Cleo was a physically active woman (hadn't he seen her
jogging to work often enough?), it was still sometimes hard to get past
his childhood programming, as to what ladies did and did not do.

"I, uh, got my naltrexone prescription refilled." Mark turned, and
tossed the ball to Carter. "I can take it right now, if you like?"

"Just be sure you take it," Mark advised him wearily, as Carter aimed
for the basket and shot.

"How are you doing?" It wasn't a very subtle bid for information, and
they both knew it. Mark sighed.

"Leave it, Carter."

"C'mon," Carter tried to cajole Mark. "I treated you, I'm your doctor."
Mark stopped dribbling the ball, and walked over to Carter, the
basketball tucked securely under his arm.

"Okay, *doctor*. I have a brain tumor. A glioblastoma multiforme." He
took some pleasure in Carter's speechless reaction, and was grimly
amused by the man's next words.

"So... what are you going to do?"

"Die, it looks like."

"Are you gonna be okay? Um... I mean..." Mark smirked.

"Dumb question, Carter. Just try to keep a lid on the rumors, all right?
I'm not gonna be able to work after what happened today, but I want to
be able to tell Elizabeth myself."

"Yeah. Of course. And I already called Kerry, to take over the rest of
your shift."

"You might see if she can get the guy who was filling in over the
summer... he seemed to work well with everybody." He saw Carter's blank
look, and smiled ruefully. "Sorry, I forgot. She'll know who I mean." He
tossed the ball to Carter. "See ya around, Carter," he said softly, and
began to walk away, in the direction of the El platform.

* * *

Carter went back inside, rolling the ball between his palms, then
hesitated... where was that number? He went into the lounge, and opened
his locker after tossing the ball into a corner of the room... how could
a locker get so cluttered, in only a few months? Easy, he
acknowledged... he hadn't sorted anything before he'd thrown the
contents of the box back in. But at last he uncovered the little address
book, which had become buried at the very bottom of the locker.

Now... he was *pretty* sure he'd copied the information into the book,
out of courtesy, the last time he'd spoken to-- yeah, there it was. He
went to the phone, and punched in the number. It rang several times,
before a familiar, distracted-sounding voice answered. "Uh, hello-- no,
the *other* one! Hello?" There was a noise on the other end that sounded
like a crash, followed by a dismayed groan.

"Henry? Is that you?" Carter grinned a little at the sound of the man's
voice - probably *the* worst student he had ever had, with absolutely no
interest in real, human patients, thank god.

"What? Uh, who is this, please?" Yep, as vague as Carter remembered him.

"George Henry? It's John Carter. Remember me? I was your--"

"John! Yes, of course. I'm sorry. We- we have some experiments going.
How are you?"

"I'm doing all right. Listen--"

"And Anna? How's she?" Carter winced at *that* little reminder.

"She's fine. She moved back to Philadelphia a couple of years ago. Got a
Christmas card from her, she's fine," he lied. He *hadn't* heard
anything from Anna, not since the day she'd signed out for the last
time. "Hey, you're still doing brain research, right?"

"Yep. Don't worry," Henry said with a nervous little laugh, "I'm still
not seeing patients." Carter laughed politely.

"Oh, I'm glad to hear *that*. I had a question about it, about your
research, actually." Henry hmmed a little.

"About brains? What did you want to know?"

"I know someone who's recently been diagnosed with a brain tumor. A, uh,
glioblastoma, uh..."

"Glioblastoma multiforme? Oh, John, I don't know what to--"

"It's not me! Do you know about any experimental treatments, studies,
surgeries, *anything*?"

"Um, not-- not offhand. But I know some people who have more information
on the subject - oncology really isn't my specialty - I'll ask them and
then get back with you, okay? You're still at County?"

"Yeah, Henry, I am. Thanks. I really appreciate you looking into this
for me." Henry laughed, a little more confidently - he was the first to
admit that he had little interest or ability when it came to dealing
with actual patients, but the brain was, after all, *his* field. It felt
pretty good, in fact, that his former instructor had asked *him* for
help.

"Not a problem, John. I hope I can find out something that'll help your
friend. Oh my... no! Not that one! I'm sorry, I have to go. New
assistants. Bye!" Carter hung up, and smiled; he hoped Henry would -
*could* - turn up something that could help Mark. It was the least
Carter could do, after having behaved so badly earlier. "Badly"? He'd
been a shithead to Mark... intellectually, he knew that Mark would have
had that seizure anyway, even if he hadn't been in the room, but he
couldn't help feeling like he'd caused it. He still thought his
complaints had merit, but they could wait for another time.

* * *

Abby got her coat and gathered up some books and papers she wanted to
take home to work on. It had been pretty busy up here, the last few
weeks, after Dr Legaspi's departure, and between *that* and her mother's
stay in Chicago, Abby had definitely got plenty out of her psych
rotation so far. Dr Mueller seemed to be impressed by the gentle, but
no-nonsense, way she had with patients, but she'd firmly nixed his
suggestion that she try for a psych match. "You met my mom," she'd told
him with a put-on air of nonchalance that he didn't miss. "I don't think
I want to be dealing with that kind of thing if I don't *have* to." He
didn't miss the apologetic smile when she said the last, either.

"Don't worry about it, Abby. Though you should probably start thinking
about what you want to put down for your matches." Abby wrinkled her
brow anxiously, and rubbed at her forehead.

"Oh, god. That's coming up, isn't it?" Dr Mueller patted her
comfortingly on the shoulder. Nice girl, he thought, if a little prone
to a "hang-dog" face when she was unhappy. Still, he *had* met Maggie
Wyczenski - he could understand how growing up with a mother like that
could mess a child up. Abby had, he thought, come a long way,
considering that her primary parent during her formative years had been
a bi-polar woman with a penchant for drinking and abusing her meds, and
revelling in the rampant behavior that brought on, and her father had
been absent for the most part. Strange that she didn't seem to have any
hard feelings for her father, who'd apparently never been around, but
Abby seemed to take special pains not to reveal anything about herself.

"Yep. No pressure, Abby, but give it serious thought!" She gave him a
brooding little smile.

"Right. Okay. Good night, Dr Mueller!"

"Good night, Abby."

* * *

She cut through the ER on her way out. "Her" guy was hard at work, and
she smiled at the sight; she wanted to go up to him and wrap her arms
around him, and tell him how much she'd enjoyed last night, but she
didn't want to get him into trouble.

As she walked through the ambulance bay, she heard someone behind her.
"Heading home, Abby?" She turned and smiled wistfully at Carter, who'd
hurried to follow her outside.

"Yeah. It's been a long day, and right now I just wanna go home, kick
back on the sofa and put on the most mind-numbingly *stupid* movie I can
find on TV." He smiled knowingly.

"How'd it go with your mom - did you get her admitted?" She shrugged,
her resignation plain to see.

"She's gone. She left. But that's what I was expecting. Just our little
*dance*, that we've been doing for years. Sooner or later - could be
months, could even be years - she'll pop up again, off her meds, and
we'll start this cycle all over again." She wondered, once more, what it
was like to have a *normal* family: one where both parents came home
every night, and didn't bring home random strangers, or freak out in
public, or chase the kids around every time things got bad. Must be
nice... her lips quirked in a sad little smile. "See you later, Carter."

"Yeah. See you, Abby." He patted her on the shoulder, and headed back
inside.

* * *

Kerry caught up with Jing-Mei as the younger woman finished with a
patient and dropped off the chart in the rack. "Jing-Mei? Do you have a
minute? I was going to head down to the cafeteria and get a salad and
some tea - I'll get you some soup or a muffin or something, if you'd
like?"

"Sure, Dr Weaver... although I'm not very hungry. What's up?"

"I...  haven't really had a chance to speak with you since September,
when you'd become so upset about that premature delivery that came in."

"Regina Morgan. I remember," Jing-Mei said, shuddering slightly. Kerry
nodded.

"Right. I wanted to check up on you, and make you're doing all right as
far as the baby and everything goes."

"Um, I'm fine. I've made arrangements for a private adoption - a couple
in Portland is interested, and the agency is checking them out." Kerry
nodded again.

"That's good. You're doing a good thing, you know. If you can't take
care of a baby, it's the best thing for her--"

"Him. Dr Coburn said the baby's a boy." Kerry smiled at Jing-Mei's
gentle correction, and acknowledged her mistake.

"It's the best thing for *him*, to give him to parents that want him,
and can take care of him properly." Jing-Mei smiled weakly.

"They - the adoptive couple - have offered to send me pictures and
updates every once in a while. But I don't know, Dr Weaver..."

"Don't make a final decision yet, Jing-Mei," Kerry urged her. "Don't
close doors that you don't *have* to close - you don't know that there
won't be a need for you and your son... or his father... to meet up
again in the future, or at least get in contact with each other."

* * *

Elizabeth watched Mark sleeping next to her. She'd come home to find him
making dinner again, which was sweet... but it was a surprise to find
him home so early. It had been even more of a surprise to find out *why*
he was home so early, though it had explained the strange way everybody
had been treating her for the last several hours: sad, sympathetic
gazes, people practically tiptoeing around her, until she was nearly
ready to scream. Even Romano had been... *nice*, and had refrained from
his usual jabs at Mark.

She knew the strange behavior couldn't have anything to do with that
patient upon whose back she'd operated several weeks ago. It had been a
close shave with him, when she'd accidentally pierced his dura in the
course of removing the herniated material of his disk. It was lucky that
she'd been just enough ahead of schedule that she'd been willing to take
Dr Babcock's advice, and take the time to check the leaking of fluid
that he'd spotted on the monitor - if she hadn't checked it out, and
discovered the fluid to be cerebrospinal fluid (instead of the
irrigation fluid she'd believed it to be), the man might have developed
a meningocele that would have cut off circulation to the rest of his
spinal cord. He could have been in a wheelchair for the rest of his life
and would never have surfed again, and it would have been all her fault.

A brain tumor... good lord. It was times like this, that she felt as
though she were in a badly written medical melodrama. Poor Mark had been
through so much, in the few years she'd known him, and this appeared to
be the universe's way of getting in one last slap at him. What must it
have cost him, she wondered, to keep this kind of terrible news to
himself when she'd been slobbering all over him about being *pregnant*?

She smiled bitterly to herself, recalling her angry words to her mother
not so long ago... that she wasn't even sure she'd elect to have a
family. And yet, here she was. Engaged to the man whose baby she was
carrying, and it wasn't even certain that he'd live to see the child's
birth. And there was no way she would - or could - even *think* about
aborting their baby! She gently stroked his cheek and got out of bed -
she just couldn't sleep, and it wouldn't do her any good to lie awake
staring at the ceiling - then went downstairs to the living room to
watch TV.

One of the movie channels was showing a classic musical - Elizabeth's
mother had never been much of a fan of Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals,
but David had been fond of classic showtunes, including the songs by
that writing team, and he'd passed that penchant on to his son:
Elizabeth sometimes caught Mark humming "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" in
the shower, and had once embarrassed the poor dear by applauding. "The
King And I" had already been on for quite a while, but Elizabeth settled
in on the couch to watch. Deborah Kerr was telling Yul Brynner about a
girl's first dance... Elizabeth had had her mother in stitches, when
she'd tried to imitate one of the singers in one of those musicals.

"My darling Elizabeth," Isabelle had choked out, trying her hardest not
to hurt Elizabeth's feelings more than she already had (the poor child
was like a cat that way, sometimes!), "those women you see aren't
*really* singing! They have... well... other people who do their singing
*for* them." Then she'd sent Elizabeth on her way, trying - with limited
success - to keep her snickers muffled in her handkerchief. Elizabeth
could look back now and giggle a little, too - she'd been simply
*horrendous* at that restaurant where she and Mark and their parents had
gone the evening of Valentine's Day. But at least she and Mark had been
horrendous together... as badly as the night had finally ended, it had
been a rather nice dinner and a rather nice *beginning* of an evening.

Deborah Kerr was now singing (or at least somebody was singing *for*
her, Elizabeth thought whimsically), and dancing as Yul Brynner watched
her. For a moment her eyes played a trick on her, and the image shifted
on the screen: for a moment, that was Elizabeth twirling around the
floor in a full length ballgown, as Mark - in his Siamese finery -
watched impassively. Then she blinked, and the picture was back to
normal.

        We've just been introduced, I do not know you well
        But when the music started something drew me to your side
        So many men and girls are in each other's arms
        It made me think we might be similarly occupied

        Shall we dance on a bright cloud of music?
        Shall we fly? Shall we dance?
        Shall we then say goodnight and mean goodbye?
        Or perchance when the last little star has left the sky
        Shall we still be together with our arms around each other
        And shall you be my new romance?
        On the clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen
        Shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance?

By the time Martin Benson burst in to interrupt the dance, Elizabeth was
stretched out on the couch, and deeply asleep.




POST-OPERATIVE NOTES:

"Miraculous Mutha" is the advice columnist for "Easy Rider" magazine.
Draw your own conclusions, as to whether Mark Greene would *really* have
been likely to read that particular periodical. :-)

Re the cephalic vein: Turn your hand palm-side up, and look at the pit
of your elbow. The cephalic vein is on the lateral (radial) side, and is
usually very visible and a very easy stick.

<PSA>
A few comments for non-medical folks, with regard to tonic-clonic (grand
mal) seizures:
DO NOT try to restrain the person. You won't enjoy it, and it'll do the
person more harm than good.
DO NOT try to force the person's mouth open. In fact...
DO NOT put *anything* in the person's mouth. Sie will not swallow hir
tongue - sie may bite it in the course of seizing, but the risk of this
injury is far less than the risk of breaking the person's teeth (or even
choking the person) on whatever gets shoved into the mouth.
DO NOT call an ambulance, unless the seizure lasts *longer* than five
minutes or the person goes right into another seizure (this indicates
status epilepticus, which is *extremely* serious, whereas a single grand
mal seizure is not necessarily serious).

DO move hard objects (e.g., chairs, pianos :-) away from the person
where possible.
DO turn the person on hir side - very carefully - in order to reduce the
risk of the person aspirating any vomit or saliva.
DO put something soft under the head (without restraining the person's
movement) if the person is on a hard surface.
DO reassure the person - carefully - once the seizure is over. Sie will
be disoriented, probably sleepy, and hir short-term memory will be
affected (that is, sie will not remember what happened). Incontinence is
a fairly common side effect, so offer assistance in freshening up, but
don't be pushy about it. Postictal confusion was the reason that Kerry
was out of it after her seizure in "Exodus", and may last anywhere from
an hour to a day after the end of the seizure.
</PSA>

--
Ellen K. Hursh
"You know, I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I
thought, wouldn't it be much worse if life were fair, and all the
terrible
things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them? So, now
I
take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the
universe."
--Ranger Marcus Cole
* * *
"Whoa, I'm eleven hundred years old. I had trouble adjusting to the idea

of Lutherans." --Anya, "I Was Made to Love You"