A KW/LKo Series, Part 11
Blue Heart to Red
By Miesque
miesque48@hotmail.com

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Luka Kovac and Kerry Weaver are the sole property of NBC, Consant C, Amblin Entertainment and Warner Brothers.

SYNOPSIS: Kerry finds herself suspended, but with an ally she can depend on.

SONG: ‘Bad Case of Loving You (Doctor Doctor)’, by Robert Palmer

PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS: Birthday Surprise; A Friend In Need; Once More Unto the Breach; Running Interference; Laughing At Joe’s; Taking Note; Waiting On A Friend; The Last Goodbye; Anything You Want, Sir; Never Say Never

Kerry was glad to have some time off-Romano had suspended her for two weeks. She could do some work around her house, maybe start thinking about her garden. But instead, she sat in her living room, watching television, trying to make sense of what had happened to her life. But what lingered most in her mind was her evening with Luka-or, what could have been an evening with Luka. All these could haves and would haves were making her life a living hell lately. 

As if she could have had a relationship with Luka while she was ER chief. Now, she was his equal, more or less. Not that she had ever thought of herself as superior to him, as far as skill was concerned. He was a superb emergency physician, putting in stellar work with each patient, showing the best bed-side manner of any of the doctors in the ER, as far as she was concerned. He was more than her match in the professional arena. Not only that, he had been completely unafraid to stand up to her, to argue with her when necessary. Never loudly, never arrogantly, never with any degree of hostility. In fact, he had always retained such calm, steady dignity even when he was angry with her.  

For some reason, she wasn't feeling as bad as yesterday. When she had left Luka standing there in that bar, that confused expression his face, she had been relieved to get outside before breaking down. She had cried in the cab, the driver (a Pakistani gentleman) stealing concerned glances at her. Inside her house, she had collapsed on her couch, crying for hours, letting it all out. Then she got out all six tapes of "Pride and Prejudice" from A&E and sat up, watching the whole thing all night.  

At six in the morning, she fell asleep, exhausted. At noon, she woke, ate breakfast, and sat in her living room, trying to read. A magazine had a brief article on Croatia, and she read it almost hungrily, trying to find some new connection with Luka-to understand him. But the writer had nothing new to say-just more of the horrific tragedy of Vukovar-and she tossed it aside, disgusted, with that same sick feeling in her stomach that she always got when she read about the war in Yugoslavia. What more could really be said? Had Luka been at Vokuvar? Had he endured that tragedy? And if so...what had he been forced to do to survive? People do all kinds of terrible things when backed against the wall, when there's no other way to escape.  

How could she ever really understand him? How could anyone fully grasp what he had endured? It wasn't as though he talked about it, much less whined about it. She remembered that country and western song: "There's A Five-Dollar Fine For Whinin'". How true. Luka Kovac, whine and complain? Hardly. She had listened to other people whine. Most of their problems, she concluded, were so trite and unimportant that right now, if they had come in and started talking, she would have laughed in their faces-or charged them five bucks for every damned, sorry, miserable word.  

She found a bottle of whiskey and poured herself a drink. She drank one, two, three shots of the hard liquor, and started talking to everyone-Doug, Mark, Carol...Ellis-as if they were in the room. It rarely took long for Kerry Weaver to get thoroughly smashed. And in her drunken state, all her anger and pain, all those past hurts, came welling up and spilled out of her, like a catharsis. 

"Doug, you haf Carol and two beautiful baby girls. So shaddup an' get busy screwin' all those pretty nurses-we'd all hate to hear you've lost your libido...the Irish Shtallion...heh. That stud's a dud!" She cackled at her own joke, curling up, her leg hurting.  

"Ellis...you bastard...used me..." She whiped her eyes angrily, spitting out a litany of scalding curses at him. "Used me. Burned me...why? You can burn in hell for all I care, you...you bastard." 

"Mark, you would have had a great career in medicine if you posheshed a backbone...or a chin. Pishy, whiny, controlling, boring little...what did Shanja call you? Oh yeah...bloody naff git." She giggled again. 

Kerry took a swig straight from the bottle and continued, standing up again. "You have a daughter-a spoiled brat, though-and a pretty girlfriend. So shaddup. Carol, you have the world's most adorable moron at your side, and that ought to make you happy for a while. But when he leaves you for somebody else, I don't want to hear about it. I don't give a damn. You think your lives are hard? You think things are tough? Well, things are tough all over. It's called 'life'. It's a bitch, an' then ya die." She nodded emphatically, so hard that she lost her balance and had to sit down. Her tears flowed free again, and she lay down on her side, hugging a throw pillow to her chest, sobbing.  

She was sinking into a blackness that scared her. She didn't know how to cope with it, and so she drank some more. She felt so brittle that if she fell down she was sure she'd break into a thousand pieces, like Humpty Dumpty.  

The whiskey bottle-unopened until today-was almost empty now. She stared at it for a moment, blinking against the lights overhead. Methodically, she got up and turned off the lights in the living room, then staggered back to the couch and plopped down again, curling up in the fetal position, her tears having never stopped. She let them wash over her face until there none left. 

She could barely see straight any more. She didn't care. She kept talking, venting all her anger and pain at the wall. Her voice, slurred, was still tinny and fragile, at some points screaming in her rage, then almost squeaking.  

The wall was decorated with African art-wooden masks and various frightfully beautiful artifacts she had collected over the years. Each mask represented some past pain or regret. With every new blow, she bought a new mask, each one uglier than the last. She knew they were grotesque-that was the point. 

Those years in Africa-they had given her a backbone, that was for sure. You can't be a pale, red-headed girl amongst hundreds of ebony-skinned

orphans and not learn how to stand up for yourself. She had been different, that was for sure. And when the polio struck, she had been even more of an outsider. Children could be so cruel, no matter their race or religion. They had made fun of Kerry's limp, her pale skin, her red hair. It seemed like those children hadn't grown up, either-those same children still mocked her pain. So she had developed a means of coping-she'd be tough and thick-skinned, fighting her way to the top. But at the end of the day, Kerry Weaver still had a heart, and it still bled with every cut. "Like that old Russian royalty," she whispered to herself. 

"I had polio, you stupid bastard," she said, directing her anger at Doug-that is, a beautiful, heavy stoneware lion. It made her think of all the 'lions' at the hospital who more or less ignored her. She had never let them know it hurt-Kerry Weaver never whined about anything-not her leg, not her loneliness...she hadn't told anyone, except Carol (and then only unwillingly) about her fruitless search for her real mother. All that pain had been kept bottled up inside her, her pride and stubborness refusing to let it out. But now, finding herself defeated and humiliated, her strength was gone, and it was replaced by rage.  

She wished she had someone to hold her, to comfort her for a while. She had had lovers in the past, and in some ways they had helped, but every one of them had left her, or betrayed her in some way. She had come to believe, at last, that she would never find love. No one would ever love her-she wasn't normal anyway-what man in his right mind would want someone like her? She was prideful, mule-headed, arrogant, and on top of that, she was lame.  

So much for that five dollar bill, she thought. But there were no tears left to cry. So she lay there, hugging the pillow and watching the television screen flicker. She had no idea what she was watching, and didn't care. Suddenly, she sat up, re-energized by her pain and anger. She redirected her anger at the unseen Doug Ross, Ellis West, Robert Romano...at all the people who had hurt her.

"Polio. Nearly killed me. What's the worst thing that ever happened to you? Mommy didn't hug you enough? Daddy hit you? Aww....poor baby. I should have whacked you with my cane...then you'd know what's it's like to get hit...that's for sure." Her own parents had rejected her, for reasons she didn't fully understand; didn't want to understand. Not for one day had Kerry allowed her lousy childhood to make her into some whiny brat, going into therapy, learning to love her 'inner child'. People like that-she'd like to kick their inner child's whiny little ass. Todayhe stared at the ghoulish masks for a long time, feeling just as twisted and unnatural. She had to release all her anger, though, before she could be empty and quiet again. "And you...Robert "Rocket" Romano...little Napoleon...boy, that's redundant. I'd like to launch you off to...to..." She snorted. "Uranus!" She crumpled down on her couch, laughing and crying. "Maybe Luka's right...maybe you will try to invade Poland." 

Her inebriated mind latched on to Luka, and her anger evaporated for a while. She sighed softly, mentally bringing up his image again-it was so easy to do that on cold, lonely nights. Hell, every night was cold and lonely for Kerry, so the phantom of him could warm her, soothe her. She could make it then, if she could just think about him. "God...you're so beautiful," she whispered. "Why do you have to be that way? Why can't you just be ordinary or a stupid jerk? Then it'd be easier for me...it wouldn't matter if you looked that way, 'cause then I could just call you another damned pretty boy. But you're not, and ish not fair!" She looked up at a wood carving of a leopard-she had bought it at a flea market just days after hiring him on permanently. She had known why of course, but who would ever know? It would be her own secret-her own secret connection to him. "Ish not fair." 

The doorbell rang. She looked at the leopard again, then closed her eyes. The bell rang again, and she somehow managed to get to her feet.

Kerry staggered to the door and, after owlishly trying to figure out the latch, opened it.  

Luka was standing there, hands in his coat pockets. He stared at her, startled at her appearance.  

"Kerry, are you all right?" he asked, immediately concerned.  

"Nope. Drunk...drunk as a shkunk," she said, giggling slightly at the rhyme. "Or...oh, what did you say? Pished as a newt." She stared up at him, then, totally entranced. Her heart started pounding: he was clean-shaven, far less tired-looking. He must have finally gotten some sleep lately.  

He was staring at her, watching her with obvious concern in his beautiful eyes. Why? she thought. Why does he have to be that way? Why can't he be cruel and careless, so I could hate him? 

"Yeah..." He looked up and down the street, then back at her. "How often do you drink alone? At one in the afternoon?" 

"Oh, shaddup," she slurred. "All the time!" Her sadness enveloped her again, and she nearly sank to the floor. But he caught her, and stepped inside without asking, took her arm, and more or less hauled her back to her couch.  

"Sit down," he ordered sharply. "What if you had fallen down and hit your head? You could have had a concussion, bled to death..." 

"Shilly...I'm good with thish crutch. Can walk jush fine." 

He sighed, rolling his eyes, and stared down at her. "Well, this won't do anyway. You're very, very..." 

"Pished. I am pished. Been pishing all af'ernoon," she giggled. "Whiskey. Would you like some?" 

"No, I wouldn't," he said sharply. "I'm going to make you some coffee." 

"And then what? Shober me up? Put me in the shower? Tuck me in bed? Go away...I'll be fine."

He stood up and stared down at her, eyes narrowing. "Kerry, don't argue with me." His voice had that same hard edge as yesterday, when he'd given her that little pep-talk in the lounge before sending her out into the gantlet. But he was quickly distracted by the masks on the wall. His expression was something between appalled and intrigued. He looked down at her again, reworking his expression to something calmer. 

She flushed and looked down. "Shorry," she said. "You can do whatever you like, shir," she babbled, peering at him meekly, giving him a weak salute. "Turn off the lights...kish me all over..." 

Luka's expression didn't change. His mind was racing, though. He had never seen Kerry like this-out of control, depressed, and angry. Really, really angry. And that 'kiss me all over' statement-well, he hadn't heard anything like that since Julia's offer in Oklahoma City. But Julia hadn't been vulnerable like this. Kerry looked angry and defeated and tired and too drunk to see straight. 

Not for the first time, though, did he think she was her most beautiful when she was angry. Even though her eyes were red from tears, and her cheeks flushed, she looked amazing. It was an instinctive gesture-he touched her face for a moment, gently rubbing away a tearstain. Hell, he could give the idea of kissing her all over some very serious consideration right now.

She stared up at him, eyes wide. She swallowed, and turned even redder. 

"Come on," he said at last, finding the moment too much to cope with. He grabbed her arm and hauled her up, cradling her. "Let's go." 

"Where?" she gasped, finding herself in his arms, like a little child. She put her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heartbeat. So steady...so soothing...he was carrying her as if she were as light as a feather. Of course, he had quite a few pounds on her, and was as strong as a Budweiser Clydesdale... 

"The kitchen." He carried her there, plopping her down on to a chair at the table. He made a pot of coffee, weakening it as much as he could stand-Kerry needed to sleep, not sit up for the next six weeks, eyes bulging out-and poured her a cup. She drank it slowly, wincing. "Awful..." 

"Drink it," he commanded. "Or I swear I'll add egg shells to it." 

"Why'd you come here?" she demanded, staring up at him. She had taken her glasses off and hadn't been able to relocate them since this morning. She felt naked without them...weak and exposed with him standing there, watching her so intently.

"I was worried about you. You left so abruptly last night, and you seemed so upset," he answered, his expression guarded.

"I wuz upshet," she said, feeling dizzy again. "I wuz upshet 'bout ever'thing. Damn Romano...damn Mark...damn Doug..."

"Doug?" Luka asked. "What did he have to do with this?" 

"I'm a hypocrite. Always rode roughshod over him for being reckless, going 'gainsht polishy, and then I go and do the same thing...but the patient..."

"Some rules are made to be broken, Kerry." Luka said quietly. "But you have to pick your battles. Some aren't worth fighting." 

"I know!" she shouted, immediately feeling as though her head was exploding. He stared at her, only slightly surprised. "I always pick the wrong battles. I have to be the damned Alpha Bitch...I have to be the controlling one..."

Strange to see her in a guilty state, Luka thought. He glanced at her crutch again, wondering...he had wanted to ask her about it, but felt that territory was dangerous ground so far. He knew she trusted him, in some ways, but he also knew she was a very closed off, private person. Maybe one day, she would trust him enough to reveal it to him herself. 

His diplomatic nature kicked in. "Some people are meant to be in charge," he said.  

"What about you?" she asked, peering at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Don't you have any ambition?" 

"I used to have lots of ambition. I was going to be Chief of Staff at some big hospital somewhere, make lots of money. Then it would have been a stint as hospital CEO, or maybe something in consulting, three hundred thousand a year, with a nice house, a beautiful wife, swell kids...a whole career in emergency medicine shot to hell." He shrugged. "I was working toward that end when my family was killed. Hardly seems worth it now." 

"So you've got no more ambition?" She had watched his hand gestures as he spoke, entranced. She thought about Mediterranean types, and how emphatic they were, always gesturing and 'talking with their hands'. She blushed again, thinking about what she wished he'd do to her with those beautiful, elegant, masculine hands... 

"My only ambition is to stay alive. For as long as possible. I refuse to die. That's why I didn't stay in Sarajevo. You stay in Sarajevo to fight or die; you don't live in Sarajevo. I didn't have the energy to fight any more-not then. But I do now. If my heart stops, I want every doctor in Chicago jumping on my chest. They can shoot me, poison me, throw me off a building...but I'm gonna stay alive." He chuckled slightly. "Even if it kills me." 

Kerry looked down into her cup. "Me, too," she said softly. "It'll take more than polio to kill Kerry Weaver." 

He nodded, realizing she had, perhaps unconsciously, revealed that small part to the story to him. But he said nothing. He didn't want to see her in more pain. 

"Then cheers...Bok," he said, holding up his cup. They clinked their cups together in a mock toast. "To two ambitious people who intend to live forever." 

She laughed, but then sank back into her misery. 

"I worked so long to get where I was...now it's all gone." 

He winced slightly at that statement, but she didn't notice. He had worked hard to get where he was, back in Croatia. Then, in the blink of an eye, it had been taken from him. Croatia, Bosnia, Sarajevo, Vokuvar...all shadows of their former selves, just like him. He wasn't the same man-in fact, Luka Kovac of 1991 was as dead as could be. Not that it was bad, to change; to be a new person. He had been reborn, in many ways. Maybe it was a baptism of fire. He didn't know. But he knew he was getting better, and he was feeling a lot better sitting at her table, watching her drink two cups of horrible coffee, grimacing with each sip. 

He wanted to change the subject, and brought up a matter that had been on his mind since the first time she had been suspended. "Maybe not," Luka said quietly, his tone flat, uninflected. "Dr. Romano...he has quite a reputation, eh?" 

She looked at him sharply. His was a pokerface-no expression at all, nothing revealed. But she could see a plan was forming in his head. "What do you mean?" She chortled slightly. "Don't tell me he's already invaded Poland!" 

"I just mean that Dr. Romano might be on the verge of getting a 'coup' in the 'etat', if you know what I mean. He's been running the ER lately...with Mark...and things have not been going well at all. He belongs upstairs, giving out missives, sending memos, not running the ER. It's a wonder the place hasn't burned to the ground. In fact, I keep expecting him to show up dressed like one of those South American dictators. You know...the 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band' album-cover uniform, the hat with the macaroni all over the rim...he's Napoleon heading toward Waterloo...or at least the Russian invasion." 

Kerry mulled this over. Her mind was working again. She could very well use Maggie Doyle's accusation of sexual harassment as artillery against Romano-blackmail! It had been her job to investigate him after all, but without two witnesses...and Elizabeth had refused to testify... 

However...did she want the job back? And was she willing to go that route? She was surprised to realize that Luka was giving her that idea at all. Kerry hardly thought he had it in him. She was surprised to see a bit of shrewdness in this dark, mysterious man-that he could go into battle fully armed and ready to pull a few tricks of his own if necessary: that he could, if it came to it, fight dirty. 

A slight laugh escaped her lips, as she allowed herself to fantasize briefly. She could be the Queen, Luka the power behind the throne, keeping things running smoothly, advising her, listening for her, reporting to her...making love to her. The last part was what she wanted the most. Not the Queen part-that would just be icing. If he was just her lover, she would happy...

She glanced at him again, wondering...what would be in it for him? Was it some kind of ambition he didn't want to express, or was it simply a matter of loyalty to her? She was the only person he'd revealed his painful secret to...well, maybe Carol, she figured...and he had helped her when she was at the lowest point last night. He had been a friend to her then, but now...she wasn't sure she wanted just a friend. She needed someone to calm her down, to soothe away her anger and her fears. He had experienced as much pain and loneliness as her...of course, his was of the worst, most traumatic kind. But

that shared sense of loss had created a bond between them, and that bond wasn't fragile by any means. In fact, it was becoming more and more powerful every day.

She leaned back in her chair, her alcoholic fog clearing, blushing at that silly fantasy. If she got the position as ER chief back, she would be giving this up. A chance at something she didn't even dare think about, because it was so unreasonable. A chance to sit in her kitchen, drinking coffee, looking at him. Waking up in his arms...could she give up a dream for ambition? 

"You mean...remove Robert from his position as Chief of Staff?" she asked, keeping her voice very soft. 

"Yeah...and that'd mean getting your job back. I can't think of anyone else who's better qualified..." 

"What about you? You could make a run for ER chief." 

"I don't want it," he repeated, shaking his head. "I just want to be a doctor." 

Kerry really couldn't understand that. Luka had great leadership abilities. He was kind and understanding, but he was also an excellent commander. He made things move unlike anyone she'd ever seen. The staff genuinely liked him, but he didn't let anyone walk all over him, like Mark. He stood his ground, got the job done, and kept his mouth shut. Kerry suddenly realized that Luka was the quintessential Alpha Male. That made her think of Sanja's statement-Kovacs mate for life, like wolves and hawks. Suddenly, she had the idea that he could have the power, and she could be the lover. An erotic shiver went up her spine. She had to close her eyes a moment, to imagine and relish the fantasy.

He watched her, wondering what was going through her head. She had the strangest look on her face. He remembered, startlingly, that Monika always had that look when she wanted him. 

She opened her eyes again, and caught him searching her face. He looked away, obviously a little embarrased. What was that? she wondered. Is he...? No. No, surely not. Why would he want me? What could I give him? 

Looking down at the table, she saw her C.A.R.E. badge, and smiled.  

It was funny...after Luka had come back from the 'exile' she had imposed on him, that badge never was seen around his neck again. In fact, the more she thought about, the more she realized it was an insult to him and his dignity. She had asked him about it at Joe's Crabhouse. He had answered her in Croatian, ducking the question, then finally told her the truth. "I chucked it in the river." 

Creativity, accountability, responsibility, and excellence. Well, Luka was creative-she had seen him improvise several times with traumas, often with dramatic results-but he seemed to hold himself accountable for nearly everything that had gone wrong in his life. And the responsibility-he seemed to hammer himself over the head with that, too. And as far as excellence was concerned...he was that already, so why wear a stupid badge telling everybody he was? 

The lull in their conversation was surprisingly comfortable. They just sat for a while, saying nothing, watching each other. Luka noticed how small Kerry's hands were-her delicate bones, her long slim fingers. Her face was much the same-finely drawn, distinctive. Maybe not pretty by the world's standards, but arresting and intriguing. Besides, what the hell did the world know? Plenty of people had thought "Scream 3" was a good movie. 

"What?" she asked, her voice hushed, frightened, noting how he was watching her. She couldn't gauge his expression-she doubted she ever could. 

"You need to get a...hot shower and a good night's sleep," he said, breaking the spell. Or maybe casting a new one.  

He helped her to her feet, Kerry objecting wearily to his attention. He picked her up again, carrying her securely in his arms. She couldn't keep from touching his chest with her hand, secretly wishing she could touch his bare skin, just for a moment, just to feel that heat. He paused at the top of the stairs and set her down, avoiding her gaze. He handed her the crutch. 

"Go on and get in the shower," he said. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover." 

"Luka..." She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure I want to be ER chief any more. I'm not sure I want to give this up." 

He looked vaguely confused. "Give what up?" 

She blushed and looked down, shaking her head. He didn't understand. Why would he? She had not given him any signal that she wanted him...and she did want him. Not just sexually, either. It was far more than that. She felt more closely bonded to Luka that she had with any man. Yet she didn't dare touch him, even now, when he was so close to her. She was still afraid to reach out-still afraid to let that wall come down. What if he didn't feel the same? What if he was just as scared?  

He turned her around and pushed her gently down the hall, toward the bathroom. She went in, and he closed the door behind her, leaving her alone. She was glad for that-glad he didn't try to help her once she was in there. It would mean being touched by him, and maybe that touch would only be something from a friend, not a potential lover. She didn't want to get into a situation that would lead to her wanting him to touch her but knowing it would never happen again-finding out the painful truth: that he didn't want her. 

It took Kerry a while to shower-her mind was foggy again. When she was finished, she hobbled out, frightened at how she looked-God, she looked awful. One glance in the mirror told her that. Her hair was wet, she had no makeup on, and her eyes were red from crying-hell, her face still red from crying. In her still inebriated state, she forgot her houseshoes and stumbled, barefoot, downstairs and into the kitchen. Luka was still there-sitting at the table, fingering a salt shaker, obviously deep in thought. He looked up when she came in.

"I had better be going," he said, standing up. He sounded far away, but she was grateful for that. Her head was just starting to hurt.

She sighed and nodded, looking away. Disappointment crashed over her like a tidal wave. She was still losing him, just like always. He was still backing away from her, and why shouldn't he? What did she have to offer him? 

"I don't know what to do with you, Kerry," he said, shaking his head. "There's no rhyme or reason to you. You've worked all your life to get where you are...where you were, and now you don't want it back?" 

"I haven't fully decided that yet, Luka," she answered, rubbing her eyes. "I'm just not sure any more." 

"What do you want, then?" he asked her sharply. "You can't very well make a career change at this point in your life. What the hell are you gonna do, sell daffodils at the street corner?" 

That seemed harsh. She felt wounded again, and Luka noticed her hurt look. He shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry, Kerry. I'm just frustrated with you." 

"It's you," she said, suddenly, momentarily brave. "It's you." 

"What do you mean, it's 'me'? What about me?" 

"I don't want to...I mean, I can't...if I fight for the ER chief position again, it would mean...I...it would be inappropriate..." She was stammering, trembling with fear and nervousness and hope. Suddenly, she was angry again-angry at herself for being such a damned fool. Luka surely wasn't ready for someone to fall in love with him-he might never be ready. And why the hell would he want an aging spinster with a bum leg? 

She turned away from him and crutched away. She didn't want him to stay-she didn't want him to see her crying again. She collapsed on her couch again, fighting back the tears. But he hadn't left-he followed her back into the room, glancing briefly at the masks on the wall. God, they're ugly, he thought. He looked back at her, watching as she fought her tears.  

"Just go home, Luka. You've done all you can...thank you." 

"Why should I go home now?" he asked.  

"Because pretty soon I'm gonna start throwing things and I don't want to hit you."  

He chuckled, and she looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. He continued to watch her, the smile disappearing. "Kerry, I've been shot a few times...I've had all kinds of things hit me. I doubt you'd do a lot of damage. You're what, a hundred-ten pounds, tops? Fragile as bone china to boot." 

She stared up at him, wide-eyed. 

"Let's put on some music," she said suddenly, staggering to her feet. "I've got Grace Jones..." 

"I don't like Grace Jones," he said. "I'm a Stones fan, actually. Lynyrd Skynyrd, Robert Palmer...the Beatles..." 

"Oh..." 

He picked up the Laliq crystal horse and held it out to her.  

"Pitch it," he said, glancing at the fireplace. "It's great therapy. I know this for a fact. I broke every damned plate in my house after my wife was killed. Sanja thought I had lost my mind...which, I guess, was the point. You have to lose your mind for a while, before you can go back." He swallowed, realizing that he had not revealed that piece of his past to anyone before. He had gone mad for a while, lost in a haze of grief and guilt and anger. 

She stared up at him, wide-eyed again, frightened. 

"It's priceless," she whispered, her voice as weak and fragile as she felt.  

"So? You're a doctor. You can afford a new one, right?"

Kerry stared up at him in amazement, then took the horse from him. All the anger welled up in her, and she threw the horse, hard, and watched as it shattered against the stone flags of the fireplace.  

"Why not get rid of some of these God-awful masks?" he asked, glancing at the wall again.  

"No...I keep them as a memorial," she said, looking wary. He didn't ask her what that meant. Everybody has a few memorials, he thought. I sure wish I had more than just a photograph. 

She grabbed a plate and threw it, watching with satisfaction as it shattered into the fire.  

"Okay..." He shrugged. "Next time I'm here, I'll just put a towel over that one," he said, indicating the ugliest of the four. "How about this lion, then? Never liked lions." 

Kerry grabbed the lion-Doug's lion-and rethought it. It was very heavy, and she wasn't sure it'd break. "You throw it." 

"All right. Here's to Vukovar," he said. He threw it-hard-and it broke into several large pieces around the fire. He took the leopard down, but she snatched it away from him.  

"No. This one's a keeper." 

He shrugged, and went looking for a few plates. She held the leopard-her own symbol of Luka-to her chest for a moment before putting it back. 

She threw plates and cups for a while, venting her anger once again, getting it out piece by piece. He watched her with interest, finally taking a seat. He had sat in cellars in Vokuvar, listening to bombs blasting overhead. This was nothing compared to that. In fact, he found this rather relaxing. 

She was a pretty strong woman, despite her handicap, and he enjoyed watching her as she moved. She wasn't really graceful, of course, but he rather liked her figure. She was very slim and surprisingly firm for her age. He figured she was about thirty-eight or so. Not much older than himself. She had a volatile temper, that was sure. Luka had once been that explosive, but all his anger and aggression had been beaten down and buried under a mountain of ash, only smoldering occassionally. To see real, honest, burning rage in someone else, especially Kerry...he found it intriguing and...he thought about it a moment, being totally honest with himself. Arousing? Provacative? 

Kerry had just thrown a champagne glass into the fireplace, and turned around to grab another plate, eyes still burning with anger and tears. She had almost forgotten he was there, but when she saw him she froze.  

He stood up and moved toward her, giving her time to catch her breath. "You know, you're really beautiful when you're angry," he said, smiling slightly. He took her hand in his, noting a small scratch on her wrist. She had accidentally cut herself with her fingernail. He ran his finger over the red mark, and she blushed. 

"I'm not. I'm very ordinary-looking. I'm forty-one and a spinster," she said bitterly, still a little breathless. 

He shook his head and touched her face again. "You're beautiful, Kerry. You need to start believing that. I'm thirty-five and a widower. There's not much difference, you know." 

It was a dream. She was sure it was just a dream. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, at first gently then with hunger and desire, drawing her nearer. She resisted briefly, out of some kind of ridiculous pride, then surrendered, receiving him as if he were a drink of cool water in a vast desert. She closed her eyes and let herself just go, all her pain and anger evaporating in his warmth. He drew her in, tasting and teasing her until she was weak, breathless. She sighed softly, spreading her small hands over his chest and then up around his neck, drawing him down to her, touching his hair and sighing, kissing him even more deeply. 

It was a dream. It had to be.  

When they finally parted, unwillingly, she had to lean against him, cheek against his chest, trying to catch her breath and collect her thoughts again. Her knees were weak, and she could feel her heart pounding away-she was sure he could hear it. If this is just a dream, she thought, he'll stay. But if it's reality, and this really happened...I know he'll go home. The Luka of her dreams wasn't always such a gentleman. 

"Goodbye, Kerry," he said, smiling at her. He kissed her forehead, brushing her hair aside. An affectionate, warm gesture that sent rills of pleasure up and down her spine. It was twice as satisfying as being kissed by him-to know that he thought she was beautiful, even though she didn't think the same way.

He opened the front door, then turned back to her. "Forty-one, eh?" 

"Yeah. I'm...I'm forty-one...a bit long in the tooth." 

"I'd say you've aged like a fine wine." 

She blushed again. "Thank you...goodbye, Luka."  

It hadn't been a dream. He had really kissed her, making her anger evaporate into warmth and quiet. She felt so calm she could scarcely remember being so angry just minutes before.

He gave her that beautiful smile in return, then stepped outside into the early afternoon sunshine.  

Kerry put her hand to her chest, exhaling slowly. "Wow. Now that man can kiss." She limped back to her couch and plopped down. She was suddenly energized. She looked around the living room, at the shattered pieces of glass and pottery around her fireplace. Well, that can be cleaned up later. She got up and went into her kitchen. She got out her "Very Best of Robert Palmer" CD and, after a brief debate, selected "Bad Case of Loving You" and started making her lunch, singing along, playing the music full blast.  

A hot summer night,
fell like a net
I've gotta find my baby yet
I need you to soothe my head
Turn my blue heart to red  

Doctor, doctor give me the news
I've got a bad case of lovin' you
No pill's gonna cure my ill
I've got a bad case of lovin' you...  

He had wanted to stay...he felt almost ready for something like that. But almost doesn't count. It wasn't that he didn't want her-he did want her; she was the first woman he had wanted in a long, long time. It was just wrong. The timing was off. Besides, he prefered making love to completely sober women.

"You've aged like a fine wine," he said again, amused, as he walked to his car. "And I've been off the bottle for way too long."

To be continued...