Fic: ER, "The Detour Gets You Home" (1/2)
Title: "The Detour Gets You Home"
Fandom: ER
Pairing: Ray/Neela
Rated: M (16+)
Word Count: ~15,000
Completed: 10/31/08
Summary: Season 12 AU. What if Neela hadn't married Gallant in "I Do"? What if she and Ray made out and stuff? What if the show had written them as the adorable romcom that I yearned for them to be all along instead of a whacked out angst-o-rama? Well then I wouldn't have had to write this.
"Everybody hates me."
He guided her up the stairs to their apartment with an arm around her waist to keep her from stumbling. Not so much because she was totally wasted, but because she was just wasted enough to keep forgetting to adjust her stride to the limited range of movement allowed by the sari.
"Nobody hates you." Between the bar, the ride home, and the short walk here, it was at least the fifth time he'd said it. "They're just...a little annoyed. They'll get over it."
"Michael hates me." She fell against the door with a little thump while he fished out his keys.
"Well...yeah, okay, I'll give you that one. And I think Pratt wants to kick you in the shins." She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, and he saw her beginning to sink into what would probably be a three week pout. "You're going to have to move if you want to go inside." She was slow to react, so he put his hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her aside so he could let them in.
"He didn't have to break up with me." She kicked off her shoes and shuffled gracelessly to the couch, where she collapsed in a sullen heap.
He laughed, but immediately felt bad for it. He knew she was hurting, and it wasn't that he was unsympathetic, but for some reason all evening long he'd been fighting off an inappropriately good mood. He couldn't explain it, really. There she was, his good friend--probably his best friend--as upset as he'd ever seen her. Yet he felt strangely cheerful. He hoped it didn't show.
"I don't know, I think that's a rule, actually. Somebody leaves you at the altar, you pretty much have to break up with them." He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch before settling in next to her, leaving a cushion's worth of space to accommodate her glare.
"I didn't leave him at the altar," she protested. "There wasn't even an altar. And it was at least twenty minutes beforehand! It's not like I walked out in the middle of the vows! I just...I admitted I was having second thoughts and then it all just..." She stared into the dimness of the room as if she'd find the right word floating there. "Unravelled," she said at last. "If anyone's saying I left him at the altar, that's...that's just inaccurate. Anyway, I'm the one who was dumped."
"Maybe you can clear all that up in your press release."
"Oh, you're funny. You should have been a comedian instead of a rock star."
"Yeah, I'm multitalented," he agreed with a nod. He caught her smiling, just a little flash of amusement before glumness overtook her again. "Hey," he said. "You'll be okay."
She sighed and shook her head. "We were so good together. You know? It was so...it was like a storybook. I thought we loved each other enough to make it work. I really thought...I mean I really wanted..." She blinked back tears. "He was supposed to be the one. How could it all just...fall apart?"
He looked down, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, and much less cheerful. He regretted what he said next as soon as it was out of his mouth. "Yeah, how could two perfect people not be perfect together?"
She looked more sad than hurt. "I'm not perfect," she said, as if she were admitting a failure.
"Oh, I know," he assured her.
She studied him, as best she could while still fuzzy from alcohol, and said, "You do, don't you?" He wasn't sure how to respond to that, but she saved him by continuing, "Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Michael and I didn't really know each other as well as I thought we did."
"Maybe," he offered noncommittally.
"Why does romance always have to be so difficult?" she asked. "Why can't it be easy?" She waved a hand in the space between them. "Like this?"
He stood abruptly and headed for the fridge. "Yeah, I don't know. Do you want a beer?"
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked, and chuckled at her own joke.
He pulled out a mostly full six pack of Heineken and muttered, "I think I'm trying to get me drunk." While he dug around in the kitchen drawer for the bottle opener, she started musing again.
"I don't know, maybe I was trying too hard." She grabbed for a beer as soon as he thunked them down on the coffee table. "I was always putting my best foot forward with him, afraid to mess up, or be less than..." She trailed off, frowning and scrunching up her face as she strained to unscrew the pry-off cap. He sat next to her, closer this time, and leaned in to assist. His left hand steadied hers around the bottle while he popped off the top. "Thanks," she said. "I mean with you I don't care."
"Thanks," he returned.
"I thought I could be what he needed. Maybe I was just fooling myself," she concluded morosely. "I'm good at that."
"Neela. Look." She reluctantly turned to do so. "You keep saying maybe this, maybe that. But you made the right call."
"D'you think?"
"If you weren't sure, you weren't sure. What were you supposed to do, marry him anyway? It's better to figure it out now than six months or a year from now, right?"
"I suppose."
"There, see? In the long run, you did him a favor."
"Maybe," she said, without conviction. "Or maybe I just broke a good man's heart." She tipped back her beer and took a long, sulky swig.
He fidgeted a little, holding back an irritated sigh. "Tell you what, let's talk about something else for a while, get your mind off what a horrible person you are."
"That's not going to work."
"Sure it will." He paused to drink while he fumbled for a change of subject. "Pick a topic. Did you ever have any pets? What's your favorite Air Supply song? Why'd you go into medicine?"
"No pets. 'All Out of Love.' And...I suppose because everyone expected it." She drifted into a quieter sort of melancholy, which had not been his goal. "And I went along. I always...go along."
"Well. Not always. Today being kind of a spectacular example."
Her lips twitched with another brief hint of a smile. "What about you?"
"'Making Love Out of Nothing at All.' Hands down." He felt a minor rush of triumph when she actually laughed.
"No, I mean, why did you want to be a doctor?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I guess..." He wanted to give her a good answer, a true answer, but he didn't want to have a discussion about it. Finally, he settled on, "Maybe because no one expected it."
After a moment, she said simply, "Oh."
"Plus," he added, with a practiced insouciant grin, "after college I didn't want to get a real job."
"Ah ha, of course." She raised an index finger as if about to make a point, and then lowered it again. They sat in easy silence for a minute, and then she turned to him, her face soft and thoughtful. "I'll bet at school you were one of those secret smart kids. Afraid people wouldn't think you were cool."
He raised his eyebrows, happily surprised. "Did you just say I was smart?"
She seemed a little stung. "I know you're smart."
"Sometimes you look at me like you can't believe I can tie my own shoes."
"Well," she acknowledged. "You're also an idiot."
He couldn't argue. "So what were you like in school?"
"I was always good at science."
"Yeah, but you were probably good at everything," he speculated. "Aced every test, student council, played three sports, prettiest girl in class..."
"No, just football and swimming," she corrected. "And I was rubbish at swimming."
"Did you know sometimes you get Britisher when you're drunk?"
"Piss off." She blinked, slowly, and tilted her head. "You think I'm pretty?"
"Uh, I..." The question angled her brows just so over her wide, liquid brown eyes. Her make-up was smudged, and her hair was a mess, loops of it coming loose from her bun and falling around her face. Her complexion was flushed from alcohol. She was a slight, warm certainty wrapped in a column of cool, crumpled silk, nestled into the corner of his couch. Altogether, in the low light of the apartment, she seemed to...she sort of glowed.
Finally he was able to put a name to the thing he'd been feeling all night: it was relief. Guilty, giddy relief.
"I think you're pretty drunk," he heard himself say, and practically jumped up from his seat.
"I'm mildly inebriated."
"Should we do a blood draw?"
"I'm not operating a motor vehicle, I'm asking you a question."
He faced the shelves and flipped through CDs, ignoring the dull clink of her beer bottle coming to rest on the coffee table and the rustle of her dress as she came up behind him. "It's way too quiet in here. Want some music? I think we need some music."
"Ray."
"Yeah?" A poke between the shoulder blades got him to turn around. "Yes, jeez, what?"
"You do!" She jabbed at him again, in the chest this time. "You think I'm pretty! Admit it."
He crossed his arms and stared over her shoulder at the kitchen. "Well, yeah..." Her reaction was confusing. Sure, she was teasing him, that he got. But why would she be surprised? "I'm not blind."
"But..." She looked like a little kid trying to do a really hard math problem. "It doesn't make any sense."
"You're telling me. What are we talking about, here?"
"But you never--. If I'm the prettiest then why didn't you--? You never even tried, so I just assumed you didn't--. You'll flirt with anything with breasts!" She flung her arms out dramatically. "I have breasts. What's wrong with my breasts?"
His mouth hung open for a few seconds before he could make words come out. "Nothing! I mean. I never flirted with you? 'Cause that doesn't seem right."
"That's what I'm saying."
"Wait, did you want me to flirt with you?"
"No! Of course not. I don't know. Maybe. Once. A long time ago. That's not the point."
"Please, tell me what the point is here, 'cause I'm lost."
"The point is...the point...well I'm just curious, really, because it's not like you're discriminating, so...why not me?"
Right then, at that moment, damned if he knew. So he improvised. "Look, you know, you can just tell when someone's not interested, right? When you're not their type."
"I'm certainly not your 'type.'"
"Yeah, I know, but I actually meant that I'm not your type."
"Obviously."
"Right." He rolled his eyes. "So...there you go. And now we're buddies, so...it all worked out."
"Right," she echoed. "Yes, friends. All for the best, then."
"Sure. Pals."
"Best mates."
"Absolutely."
"Ray?"
"Yeah?"
"I just...I want to thank you. For sticking around tonight, and taking me home, and...everything."
"No problem." She was studying him again, and standing very close, as if she were expecting something. She smelled like tequila and limes, and the bathroom after she showered in the morning, layered with the fading notes of some rich, balmy perfume she'd never worn before. "It's, um. That's what I'm here for."
"Because we're best mates."
He could only nod.
"Ray."
"Yeah," he rasped. The radiator ticked. The refrigerator hummed.
"I think you're pretty, too."
The declaration hovered between them. If she had stopped there, the next day it would have been a jokey sort of compliment about which she felt silly and he felt smug. If she were a little less tipsy, she would have stopped there. But she kept spilling words into the silence.
"You could kiss me now. If you wanted."
"Like..." Her eyes were drawn to the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "Hypothetically?"
"What? No, like--oh, god." She hid her face in her hands. "Sorry. Forget it, sorry. I thought--. I thought that was a moment, or something. God, I can't believe this day just got more humiliating."
She turned to retreat, but he grasped her wrist to keep her near. "Neela." He slid his hand up her forearm, tracing the path of the median nerve with his thumb, and stopped to stroke the delicate skin inside her elbow. "Yeah, I want to kiss you."
"Oh," she breathed. "That's..." Confusing. Inappropriate. A very bad idea. "That's lovely..."
Suddenly unsteady, she rocked forward on the balls of her feet just as he leaned in, and so when their lips met it was more an awkward bumping-into-each-other than any kind of grand, cinematic moment of passion. But the connection was immediate and real, and with a soft giggle, a slight turn of the head, a brief rubbing of noses, the awkwardness dissolved into a kiss that was tentative but surprisingly sweet. It was...well, it was lovely. When they parted, arms at their sides, he curled his fingertips around hers as if unwilling to break contact. And though she knew she looked a mess--was a mess--she felt lovely. Maybe this was just her latest terrible idea in a recent series of same, but after such a strange disaster of a day, she welcomed the feeling. If she was going to follow her impulses, why stop at the one that was telling her, quite insistently, to press up onto her toes and kiss him again?
So she did, mouth open in readily accepted invitation. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she settled her weight against him. His hands circled her waist and found the bare skin of her midriff under her sari. She'd started the day in bed with one man, and now here she was pinning an entirely different man--entirely different--against a bookcase. If she were less intoxicated, she might feel more ashamed of that, but then again, it was just Ray, after all. Just good old, familiar Ray, cradling the back of her head and tangling his fingers in her hair, gingerly pulling out the last of the pins. She and Ray, they did things together. They went shopping; bickered; watched television; shared food. Now, apparently, they shared saliva. And what was a little--or a lot--of French kissing? A little casual comfort between friends?
But the way she dragged her teeth over his bottom lip didn't exactly feel casual, and when she drew back and saw his expression, it certainly didn't look casual. He looked...concussed.
It was dear, and almost comical. She touched his face, and the way he closed his eyes opened a deep well of terrifying fondness inside her, and she began to feel a little lightheaded herself. She tucked her head under his chin and found she fit there very nicely. Somehow the gentle skimming of his knuckles over her cheek and jaw was more intimate, and more sobering, than if his hand were groping her ass.
Which the other one was.
When she related the episode to Abby later, she'd say, "And then somehow we ended up in my room..." as if it were some kind of In Search of... Bermuda Triangle mystery instead of the clearly logical chain of events that began as she worked at the buttons of his shirt. His dress shirt, which she'd never seen before--he must have excavated his closet to find an acceptable outfit at short notice. When she slipped her hands under the plackets she said, "I always imagined this would be one of your stupid tee shirts."
His hands froze on her hips and gripped. "What?"
"I said I--. Nothing. Never mind."
And then he smiled, and truthfully, everything between then and when the backs of her knees knocked against the bed frame was a little fuzzy.
His shirt was hanging from one arm; she pulled it off and tossed it behind her onto the bed. Unwrapping her was a little more complicated.
It was easy enough to pull the long trail of silk over her shoulder. They laughed as she spun around once and the fabric unwound around her torso, leaving her top still covered modestly by the form-fitting choli, skirt tucked securely into her petticoat.
"You're standing on my pallu."
"Your what?"
"The drapey bit."
"Oh. Sorry." He tugged ineffectually at the pleats at her waist. "How do you get this thing off?"
"I'm not even sure how I got it on. The woman at the shop did it. I haven't worn one in years." Her smaller, more dextrous fingers displaced his. "I think there's a pin." He brushed her hair aside and bent to kiss her neck while she searched for the fastener. Something about the smell of him and the warmth of his skin made her fingers fumble, and she started babbling. "It's--oh--it's not even the right color, you know. And I don't even have mendhi. My grandmother would kill me."
"Can we not talk about your relatives right now?" A reasonable request, given the circumstances, but it was more his breath against her ear as he whispered it that rendered her mute. He covered her hands with his and together they managed to loosen the pleats, unfolding yards of silk until it had all fallen in an ivory pool at their feet.
Her palms glided over his chest and arms and then they were kissing again. It was hard to believe there was ever anything tentative about it. Her right hand drifted up and down his back, nails scraping lightly. He pulled her close against him and she inhaled sharply, eyes wide. Her nails pressed hard into his skin, just below his tattoo. Frantically, she hitched her ankle-length petticoat up over her knees and threw her left leg around him. He adjusted it slightly, sliding his hand under her knee, up the underside of her thigh, and under the white satin, now bunched around her hips. His fingertips just reached the bottom of her knickers, and flicked lightly at the elastic. She pointed her toes and curled her leg around tighter.
His hand flew up her spine and under the hem of the half-shirt to unfasten her bra. She raised her arms and let him pull both over her head. The petticoat fell down to her knees as he took a step back to maneuver and she lowered her foot to the floor. Bare to the waist, she half-sat, half-fell on the bed and onto her back.
For a moment they stilled, breath coming fast and heavy in their chests. She stared at him staring at her until she couldn't any longer, and reached out her hand.
He leaned over her and she pulled him down by the shoulders until they were skin to skin. As they kissed she raked her fingers through his hair, tracing lazy little circles over his scalp. He shifted to support himself on one arm, and she lifted her chin to give his mouth access to her throat, and the pulse racing through her carotid. Then across her clavicle and down her sternum, until finally her head and shoulders jerked back deep into the mattress, and he demonstrated quite convincingly that there was, in fact, nothing at all wrong with her breasts.
The arch of her back relaxed a bit as he progressed lower, but her abdominal muscles tensed, and when his bristly chin tickled her stomach, she laughed. He crouched in front of her, looked up, and smiled. Her dangling feet flexed and lifted away from the floor. She nearly kicked him accidentally, so she trailed her foot up his inner thigh by way of apology. He grasped her ankles and slid his palms over her calves as he leaned forward between her knees.
Slowly, he began to roll the waistbands of her underclothes downward over her hips, and pressed his thumbs into the soft hollows below her pelvic bone. She made a sound, a low, humming sigh, and laced her fingers over the back of his neck.
She felt wonderfully hazy, weightless, and warm. His lips brushed over her navel, then lower, and lower, and then with the slightest scrape of his teeth she exhaled loudly and closed her eyes, rolling her neck and letting her body twist whichever way it wanted. I've completely lost my senses, she thought. And without quite realizing she'd spoken aloud, she said, "I can't believe I almost got married today."
He stopped. Her eyes blinked open. Seconds passed, and she felt a sudden sinking as he pulled away and slipped through her hands.
She propped herself up on her elbows and repeated, "I almost got married today."
He nodded at the floor, cleared his throat before replying huskily, "Yeah."
She sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at the discarded heap of material on which he knelt. "This was my wedding dress."
He backed away uncomfortably. He didn't have anything to say to that.
"Ray..."
"Guess we got a little carried away, huh?" He flashed her a tight, joyless smile.
"I'm sorry...?" She reached for something to cover herself, and realized she was holding his shirt against her chest.
He shook his head and gave an awkward, jerky shrug. "Nah. Yeah, no, that's... Me too. This, uh. I know. This isn't you." He laid a hand lightly over her knee, and then gently pulled the hem of her petticoat down to her feet. "If we went any further you'd hate at least one of us in the morning, right?"
He stood--carefully--and she turned her face away, embarrassed for both of them, digusted with herself. There on the nightstand, where it had always been, and where it had been forgotten tonight until now, she saw the framed photograph of Michael in his uniform. How many colossal misjudgements could one woman make in one day?
"I didn't mean to... I just felt so..."
"No, I know, I shouldn't have... Don't worry about it," he said as he backed toward the door. "It's nothing."
She looked up at him, framed in her doorway, half-naked and aroused, hair going every which way. "It's nothing," she repeated softly, and held the shirt closer, suddenly very cold. For one brief moment they made eye contact, and she almost said something else, but then his posture changed. She remembered his expression from earlier, after they'd first kissed. There'd been nothing careless or too-confident about it; there was nothing left of it on his face now.
"Besides, if I'm going to get somebody out of her wedding dress I guess it oughta be...you know..."
"A supermodel after a runway show?" The joke felt clumsy and a little mean, but it did its job.
He nodded and let out a breath that passed for a laugh. "Exactly. You know me so well."
"I do." She cringed at her choice of words, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Yeah, so I'm just gonna go..." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder and she nodded silently, sure she was blushing.
"Right. Okay. Goodnight."
"'Night."
He turned to go. While his hand still lingered on the doorjamb she said, "Ray." He paused, but didn't reply. "Don't... don't be insulted if I don't...remember this tomorrow. Okay?"
"...Sure." His head dropped, and he walked out, closing the door behind him.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. She stripped off the damned petticoat at last and kicked it to the floor. When she heard the shower go on she winced, but a few minutes later she gave in and reached down to resolve her situation. It left her achy and unsatisfied.
Afterward, she turned on her side to wait for sleep, alone, his shirt pillowed under her head.
As it happened, faking a blackout over coffee and Cheerios wasn't necessary. They didn't even see each other the next day. He worked a double. She slept in, and since the time off had already been approved, spent the first day of her 'honeymoon' moping about in her pyjamas, indulging in junk food and Lifetime television. Nothing patched a broken heart, she hoped, like an old-fashioned post-break-up wallow. Focusing all her doom and gloom on her failed relationship was also a useful distraction from her new problem, the one that probably wouldn't be fixed by a good cry, a bad movie, and a pint of Cherry Garcia.
Abby called around sundown. "How are you doing?"
"I don't know. How long did it take you to get over Carter when he broke off your engagement?"
"Holy shit, I was engaged to Carter? What, like a million years ago?"
"Give or take. So you're saying..."
"It takes as long as it takes. That's all the wisdom I've got. Unless you want me to start throwing recovery slogans at you. One day at a time. Fake it 'til you make it. Let go and let--"
"All right, all right."
As she went back to tearily packing up bundles of letters and photos--it hurt, but there was no point in leaving obvious reminders around--she wondered what it meant that she'd almost married someone whose entire relationship with her could fit into a shoebox. Ankle boots, yes, but still a shoebox. She wasn't quite ready to put the box up on the high closet shelf, but she might be able to slide it under the bed in a few days. She also wondered what it meant that she'd moved so quickly from denial (nine a.m.--I should call him) to acceptance (eleven p.m.--It's probably for the best). She'd fallen in love with him because he loved her, and because he was wonderful, and those things were still true, but something about the look of disappointment on his face yesterday--not anger, not betrayal, just an awful disappointment...
Well. It was probably for the best.
The strange part was that for all her heartache, the only practical thing she'd lost was the idea of them, the notion that someday they'd be a real couple, in a real relationship, the kind where they did things together, and saw each other every day. Then again, maybe that's what had scared her off. Maybe she was more comfortable with the concept than the reality.
Maybe I just suck at love, she thought. And I'll die an old maid. With a small dog. Or a budgie. It was after midnight, and she was holed up in her room with her laptop, playing four suit Spider Solitaire and ignoring backissues of The Lancet, when she finally heard Ray come in. She tensed, waiting for him to call out a greeting, hoping he wouldn't, yet oddly dispirited when none came.
She heard the tv go on, heard him moving things around in the kitchen. Once she thought she saw his shadow pass by her slightly open door. She considered venturing out under some pretense, to retrieve a book or a glass of water, just to test the atmosphere, but she wasn't that brave. It wasn't that she was afraid she couldn't control herself, but that she couldn't control her thoughts. What if she said 'hello' or 'how was your day?' but all she could think was that twenty-four hours ago she'd been quite eager to let him put his tongue in her mouth? And...other places. What if he said 'fine' or 'did you get the mail today?', but her brain got stuck on how she'd been exhilarated--from a purely aesthetic standpoint, of course--by the visual contrast of his pale fingers stroking her--
She snapped the laptop shut. She stared at the shoebox sitting at the foot of her bed. She recited mnemonics for all the unsexiest parts of the anatomy.
She had to use the bathroom, but that could wait until he went to bed. To sleep. That could wait until he went to sleep.
The next few days passed in much the same way. During the day she occupied herself with movies and museums. At night he went out, doing whatever it was that he did. Or whoever, she thought sourly once, before reminding herself that she wasn't supposed to care. When she went back to work on Monday she found that he'd gone out of his way to trade shifts with people, rearranging his schedule to avoid her. It was a relief, but it also stung a little. And it was another reminder, as if she needed one amongst all the whispers and sidelong looks, that nearly everyone else she worked with had known and liked Michael before they'd ever met her. Ray should've been an ally. Instead, when they did work together they were almost like strangers. Their interaction was professional, and courteous, and weird, and she hated it.
Even Abby wasn't too wrapped up in her own personal drama to notice something was off.
"What's up with you and Ray?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're being all polite to each other. It's creeping me out. Did you guys have a fight or something?"
"...Something."
"What, did you sleep together?" Abby joked.
Neela squinted at her patient's chest film. "Does this look like an effusion to you? I think I need an MRI."
"Oh my God, did you sleep together?!"
"Shhh! No! Of course not."
"But you did 'something.'"
"The air quotes really aren't necessary."
"When did this happen?"
"After the wedding. The non-wedding."
"Is that why--?"
"No. Can we discuss this later?"
"You bet your ass we will. Dinner break?"
Several hours later, over a plate of cheese fries at Ike's, she found herself saying, "...and then somehow we ended up in my room. And things...escalated."
"Escalated. But you didn't have sex?"
"No."
"Didn't have sex like Bill and Monica didn't have sex, or actually didn't have sex?"
"Nice reference. Very topical. And everyone's pants stayed on at all times, if that's what you're asking."
"That was it, yeah."
Neela slumped in her seat. "God, what a disaster."
"Was it that bad?"
"Bad? No, it was..." She looked to the side, pretending to try and spot their waitress. "No."
"Huh."
Neela turned back to see Abby scrutinzing her. "What? What does 'huh' mean?"
"Nothing. I just didn't think he was your type, that's all."
"Yes, that's been established, thanks."
"No need to get cranky, it was just an observation."
"I wish this had never happened. I don't know what to do. Everything's weird now."
Abby nodded knowingly. "Oh, because he likes you."
She dropped a cheese fry onto her plate. "He what?"
"Do they not have that expression in England?"
"You're crazy. That's crazy."
"It was just a hunch." She shrugged. "I could be wrong."
"What would make you say that?"
"Just little things. The way he was hanging around that night."
"You're wrong."
"I'm probably wrong."
"Except..."
"Except?"
"I don't know. There was a moment--moments, I guess--when it seemed like maybe..." She trailed off, frowning, and plucked listlessly at her fries.
"Huh."
"Stop saying 'huh.'"
"Sorry. So what are you going to do now?"
"I don't know. I don't want to move." Her whinging tone was annoying even to her own ears, but she couldn't help herself. It was so good to finally talk about it.
"Moving is a pain in the ass."
"It's not just that. I like it there, and...well, I suppose things could go back to normal eventually. That's possible, right? If I just gave it some time?"
"Anything's possible."
"It's so awful right now, though. We try to ignore each other, and when we can't it's so tense. And I--this is so embarrassing--I can't stop staring at his hands. He has these calluses?" She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers to illustrate. "You know, from fingering?"
Abby sputtered, and Neela wished she could crawl under the table as she watched her friend bent over, turning red from laughter. "The guitar! From playing the guitar!"
"Uh huh," said Abby, wiping her eye with a napkin.
"Oh, god. You're never going to stop mocking me for this, are you?" She decided to skip telling her about the dream she had where she was standing at the kitchen sink--in her scrubs, for some reason--and he came up behind her and-- "What do I do?" she asked plaintively.
"Okay, number one, are you asking me for advice on your love life? Because the coat says 'Lockhart', not 'Dear Abby.' Number two, you're asking me for advice on your love life? Seriously?"
"I'm desperate. And it's not my 'love life,'" she corrected. "It's Ray."
"Well," Abby said, "the way I see it, there's only one way to resolve this."
"What's that? Move? Get a new job? Fake my death and leave the country?" She stirred her drink with the straw a little before raising it to her lips.
"I think maybe you have to sleep with him."
And then Neela aspirated Diet Coke with lemon. "You're right," she said, coughing through her napkin. "You give terrible advice."
Over the last couple weeks he'd spent a lot of the time he wasn't working staring at her bedroom door. Staring and thinking. Wondering what she was thinking, whether it was anything close to what he was thinking, and deciding probably not, or one of them would be on the other side of that door. But if he thought about that too long...
Well, he'd also spent a lot of time watching sports, practicing bar chords, and ranking and re-ranking the top ten Jimmy Page solos.
She didn't seem mad at him, which was good. But she was closed off, and whenever they accidentally made eye contact, clearly embarrassed. Sometimes, he got a vibe like under the embarrassment there was...something. Tension. And not her normal high strung-ness, but, like... He was probably projecting.
He knew that eventually they'd have to have the talk, but he was willing to let that happen on her timetable. Maybe that made him kind of a chickenshit, but he found that didn't bother him much. The longer he avoided her, the more breathing room he gave himself. Another week or so, and he'd definitely be able to look at her without seeing her on her back, all tousled and beckoning. Hell, a week? Probably right now, if he had to, he could even stand right next to her without remembering how soft and warm she was as she moved underneath him, or tripping over fantasies about dragging her into a supply closet and making her make that noise again, the one she made when he--
Five, "Whole Lotta Love." Four, "Dazed and Confused."
He was standing in the ambulance bay, waiting for an incoming MVC, and that's where she found him, shaking his head at himself and thinking, Jesus, dude, get a grip. Beckoning?
"Hey."
"Oh, hey," he said. His back itched in the spot where she'd dug in her fingernails.
"Slow day," she noted.
"Yeah." He stared ahead, hands in his coat pockets.
A pause, and then, "Anything interesting on the way?"
He shrugged. "Not really. Drunk driver flipped his Lexus. You?"
"Nursing home knife fight."
Well, there was an icebreaker. "You're kidding."
"That's what dispatch said."
"Probably gang-related," he declared, and risked a direct glance to catch her smile. One of the downsides of avoiding her: he hadn't seen that in way too long.
"Hm. Or someone changed the channel during Judge Judy."
"Man, old people today are out of control. It's all sex and drugs and Lawrence Welk..."
"Lawrence Welk would make anyone violent."
And just like that they were standing around, laughing at each other's dumb jokes again. It couldn't really be that easy, could it?
"Ray..."
Guess not. "What?"
"You don't have to bark at me."
"I didn't--" He scratched the back of his head, and asked again more politely, "What is it?"
"Don't you think that...? Well we can't go on forever pretending it never happened."
"Is that what we've been doing?"
She looked at her shoes. "Not very successfully, I suppose. I don't know, maybe I'm making too much of it, maybe it shouldn't be a big deal. These things happen, right?"
"All the time," he agreed. A gust of wind blew her hair across her face, and she brushed away a few strands that had gotten stuck to her Chapstick. He couldn't keep himself from asking, "So...it was a big deal to you?"
She froze for a second or two, and then stammered, "It was-- I-- Well, it's the sort of thing that can really change things between two people. If...if they let it. You know?"
"Yeah. Look, I--"
"And I've been thinking about that, that aspect of it. Where we go from here."
Now, as best as he could tell, she was looking at his shoes.
"You have?" His voice came out quieter than he'd expected.
She nodded, and folded her arms, hands tucked under opposite elbows. "Quite a lot, actually."
"Have you...come to any conclusions?" They accidentally made eye contact, and he felt his heart rate begin to climb, as if he were exerting himself simply by having this conversation. Her shirt was open slightly at the collar, so he focused on the hollow of her throat. That didn't help much.
"I was thinking that maybe we could.... I mean there's no reason not to.... Once some time has gone by...."
He wanted to step closer, but his feet wouldn't move. "What, Neela?" he asked softly. He remembered how she'd looked at him that night, like he was something special. It wasn't the first time a woman had looked at him like that, but it was the first time he saw it and didn't want to run away.
The answer came in a rapid stream of words directed at the pavement. "It's probably best that we acknowledge it and move on and get right back to normal as soon as possible.
...Oh.
And then, like three little jabs to the gut, "Don't you think?"
He straightened his shoulders, clenched his fists inside his pockets. "Yeah, sure."
"Really?"
He looked out into the street. Where the fuck was the rig? What, did they hit traffic? "Yeah, whatever."
"So...we're on the same page, then?"
He shrugged, but it felt like an effort, unnatural. "Back to normal, absolutely." Whether it was out of pride or self-defense, he turned to her with a careless, easygoing grin. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"Oh. Were you? Well that's...great. Really great." Stop saying 'great,' she thought. "I was really hoping this wouldn't have to spoil things between us, so...great."
"Nah, we're cool." He glanced at his watch. "Did you hear anything about traffic?"
"What? No." She looked back toward the entrance doors for any nurses or orderlies coming through. There was no one. She wanted to go back inside, pretend they'd never had this conversation, go back to pretending the whole thing had never happened. Instead, she heard herself saying, "I was confused that night. You know? I guess you do. And I'd been drinking--not that that's an excuse, of course. But I wanted you to know that I didn't mean to...I wasn't trying to..."
"What?" He cocked his head, all good-natured sarcasm and reassurance. "Take advantage of me? Look, I knew you weren't yourself. I shouldn't have let it go that far. Not much of a gentleman, right?" Well, but I wasn't not myself, exactly, she was almost about to say, when he continued with, "Don't worry. I'm not in love with you now or anything."Don't worry. I'm not in love with you now or anything."
Somehow, her body knew that the appropriate response to that was laughter. "That's a relief," she said, her tone overly comic, too loud and too bright. "After all, I'd hate for things to get awkward."
"I know, right?" He paused for a moment, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, "I'm glad you didn't get married, though."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Why, because you got to second base?"
"I think I got tagged out sliding into third, actually."
She ducked her head, and tugged her labcoat closed.
"And no. 'Cause I would've missed having you around." She raised her head at that, but he was looking off into the street. "Anyway, it's fine. You were trying to forget someone. That's cool, I get that."
That's cool, she repeated in her head. That's cool? "So what was your deep, psychological motivation?"
"I'm a guy," he said. "I don't need one."
"Right," she nodded. Her smile stretched her face in uncomfortable ways. "I guess we're cool, then. Great. Moving past it, back to normal. I'm putting it out of my mind."
The last was nearly drowned out by the sound of paramedic vehicles approaching, and they were suddenly surrounded by nurses, residents, and EMTs. As they stepped off the curb she heard him say, "So it's still on your mind?"
She'd never been so glad to see a perforated bowel.
Later, Abby cornered her in the lounge.
"So how did your test balloon go over?"
"Sucked into a jet engine," she said, and slammed her locker shut. "I told you he wasn't interested."
"Oh well," said Abby. "His loss."
Part Two
Fandom: ER
Pairing: Ray/Neela
Rated: M (16+)
Word Count: ~15,000
Completed: 10/31/08
Summary: Season 12 AU. What if Neela hadn't married Gallant in "I Do"? What if she and Ray made out and stuff? What if the show had written them as the adorable romcom that I yearned for them to be all along instead of a whacked out angst-o-rama? Well then I wouldn't have had to write this.
"Everybody hates me."
He guided her up the stairs to their apartment with an arm around her waist to keep her from stumbling. Not so much because she was totally wasted, but because she was just wasted enough to keep forgetting to adjust her stride to the limited range of movement allowed by the sari.
"Nobody hates you." Between the bar, the ride home, and the short walk here, it was at least the fifth time he'd said it. "They're just...a little annoyed. They'll get over it."
"Michael hates me." She fell against the door with a little thump while he fished out his keys.
"Well...yeah, okay, I'll give you that one. And I think Pratt wants to kick you in the shins." She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, and he saw her beginning to sink into what would probably be a three week pout. "You're going to have to move if you want to go inside." She was slow to react, so he put his hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her aside so he could let them in.
"He didn't have to break up with me." She kicked off her shoes and shuffled gracelessly to the couch, where she collapsed in a sullen heap.
He laughed, but immediately felt bad for it. He knew she was hurting, and it wasn't that he was unsympathetic, but for some reason all evening long he'd been fighting off an inappropriately good mood. He couldn't explain it, really. There she was, his good friend--probably his best friend--as upset as he'd ever seen her. Yet he felt strangely cheerful. He hoped it didn't show.
"I don't know, I think that's a rule, actually. Somebody leaves you at the altar, you pretty much have to break up with them." He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch before settling in next to her, leaving a cushion's worth of space to accommodate her glare.
"I didn't leave him at the altar," she protested. "There wasn't even an altar. And it was at least twenty minutes beforehand! It's not like I walked out in the middle of the vows! I just...I admitted I was having second thoughts and then it all just..." She stared into the dimness of the room as if she'd find the right word floating there. "Unravelled," she said at last. "If anyone's saying I left him at the altar, that's...that's just inaccurate. Anyway, I'm the one who was dumped."
"Maybe you can clear all that up in your press release."
"Oh, you're funny. You should have been a comedian instead of a rock star."
"Yeah, I'm multitalented," he agreed with a nod. He caught her smiling, just a little flash of amusement before glumness overtook her again. "Hey," he said. "You'll be okay."
She sighed and shook her head. "We were so good together. You know? It was so...it was like a storybook. I thought we loved each other enough to make it work. I really thought...I mean I really wanted..." She blinked back tears. "He was supposed to be the one. How could it all just...fall apart?"
He looked down, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, and much less cheerful. He regretted what he said next as soon as it was out of his mouth. "Yeah, how could two perfect people not be perfect together?"
She looked more sad than hurt. "I'm not perfect," she said, as if she were admitting a failure.
"Oh, I know," he assured her.
She studied him, as best she could while still fuzzy from alcohol, and said, "You do, don't you?" He wasn't sure how to respond to that, but she saved him by continuing, "Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Michael and I didn't really know each other as well as I thought we did."
"Maybe," he offered noncommittally.
"Why does romance always have to be so difficult?" she asked. "Why can't it be easy?" She waved a hand in the space between them. "Like this?"
He stood abruptly and headed for the fridge. "Yeah, I don't know. Do you want a beer?"
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked, and chuckled at her own joke.
He pulled out a mostly full six pack of Heineken and muttered, "I think I'm trying to get me drunk." While he dug around in the kitchen drawer for the bottle opener, she started musing again.
"I don't know, maybe I was trying too hard." She grabbed for a beer as soon as he thunked them down on the coffee table. "I was always putting my best foot forward with him, afraid to mess up, or be less than..." She trailed off, frowning and scrunching up her face as she strained to unscrew the pry-off cap. He sat next to her, closer this time, and leaned in to assist. His left hand steadied hers around the bottle while he popped off the top. "Thanks," she said. "I mean with you I don't care."
"Thanks," he returned.
"I thought I could be what he needed. Maybe I was just fooling myself," she concluded morosely. "I'm good at that."
"Neela. Look." She reluctantly turned to do so. "You keep saying maybe this, maybe that. But you made the right call."
"D'you think?"
"If you weren't sure, you weren't sure. What were you supposed to do, marry him anyway? It's better to figure it out now than six months or a year from now, right?"
"I suppose."
"There, see? In the long run, you did him a favor."
"Maybe," she said, without conviction. "Or maybe I just broke a good man's heart." She tipped back her beer and took a long, sulky swig.
He fidgeted a little, holding back an irritated sigh. "Tell you what, let's talk about something else for a while, get your mind off what a horrible person you are."
"That's not going to work."
"Sure it will." He paused to drink while he fumbled for a change of subject. "Pick a topic. Did you ever have any pets? What's your favorite Air Supply song? Why'd you go into medicine?"
"No pets. 'All Out of Love.' And...I suppose because everyone expected it." She drifted into a quieter sort of melancholy, which had not been his goal. "And I went along. I always...go along."
"Well. Not always. Today being kind of a spectacular example."
Her lips twitched with another brief hint of a smile. "What about you?"
"'Making Love Out of Nothing at All.' Hands down." He felt a minor rush of triumph when she actually laughed.
"No, I mean, why did you want to be a doctor?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I guess..." He wanted to give her a good answer, a true answer, but he didn't want to have a discussion about it. Finally, he settled on, "Maybe because no one expected it."
After a moment, she said simply, "Oh."
"Plus," he added, with a practiced insouciant grin, "after college I didn't want to get a real job."
"Ah ha, of course." She raised an index finger as if about to make a point, and then lowered it again. They sat in easy silence for a minute, and then she turned to him, her face soft and thoughtful. "I'll bet at school you were one of those secret smart kids. Afraid people wouldn't think you were cool."
He raised his eyebrows, happily surprised. "Did you just say I was smart?"
She seemed a little stung. "I know you're smart."
"Sometimes you look at me like you can't believe I can tie my own shoes."
"Well," she acknowledged. "You're also an idiot."
He couldn't argue. "So what were you like in school?"
"I was always good at science."
"Yeah, but you were probably good at everything," he speculated. "Aced every test, student council, played three sports, prettiest girl in class..."
"No, just football and swimming," she corrected. "And I was rubbish at swimming."
"Did you know sometimes you get Britisher when you're drunk?"
"Piss off." She blinked, slowly, and tilted her head. "You think I'm pretty?"
"Uh, I..." The question angled her brows just so over her wide, liquid brown eyes. Her make-up was smudged, and her hair was a mess, loops of it coming loose from her bun and falling around her face. Her complexion was flushed from alcohol. She was a slight, warm certainty wrapped in a column of cool, crumpled silk, nestled into the corner of his couch. Altogether, in the low light of the apartment, she seemed to...she sort of glowed.
Finally he was able to put a name to the thing he'd been feeling all night: it was relief. Guilty, giddy relief.
"I think you're pretty drunk," he heard himself say, and practically jumped up from his seat.
"I'm mildly inebriated."
"Should we do a blood draw?"
"I'm not operating a motor vehicle, I'm asking you a question."
He faced the shelves and flipped through CDs, ignoring the dull clink of her beer bottle coming to rest on the coffee table and the rustle of her dress as she came up behind him. "It's way too quiet in here. Want some music? I think we need some music."
"Ray."
"Yeah?" A poke between the shoulder blades got him to turn around. "Yes, jeez, what?"
"You do!" She jabbed at him again, in the chest this time. "You think I'm pretty! Admit it."
He crossed his arms and stared over her shoulder at the kitchen. "Well, yeah..." Her reaction was confusing. Sure, she was teasing him, that he got. But why would she be surprised? "I'm not blind."
"But..." She looked like a little kid trying to do a really hard math problem. "It doesn't make any sense."
"You're telling me. What are we talking about, here?"
"But you never--. If I'm the prettiest then why didn't you--? You never even tried, so I just assumed you didn't--. You'll flirt with anything with breasts!" She flung her arms out dramatically. "I have breasts. What's wrong with my breasts?"
His mouth hung open for a few seconds before he could make words come out. "Nothing! I mean. I never flirted with you? 'Cause that doesn't seem right."
"That's what I'm saying."
"Wait, did you want me to flirt with you?"
"No! Of course not. I don't know. Maybe. Once. A long time ago. That's not the point."
"Please, tell me what the point is here, 'cause I'm lost."
"The point is...the point...well I'm just curious, really, because it's not like you're discriminating, so...why not me?"
Right then, at that moment, damned if he knew. So he improvised. "Look, you know, you can just tell when someone's not interested, right? When you're not their type."
"I'm certainly not your 'type.'"
"Yeah, I know, but I actually meant that I'm not your type."
"Obviously."
"Right." He rolled his eyes. "So...there you go. And now we're buddies, so...it all worked out."
"Right," she echoed. "Yes, friends. All for the best, then."
"Sure. Pals."
"Best mates."
"Absolutely."
"Ray?"
"Yeah?"
"I just...I want to thank you. For sticking around tonight, and taking me home, and...everything."
"No problem." She was studying him again, and standing very close, as if she were expecting something. She smelled like tequila and limes, and the bathroom after she showered in the morning, layered with the fading notes of some rich, balmy perfume she'd never worn before. "It's, um. That's what I'm here for."
"Because we're best mates."
He could only nod.
"Ray."
"Yeah," he rasped. The radiator ticked. The refrigerator hummed.
"I think you're pretty, too."
The declaration hovered between them. If she had stopped there, the next day it would have been a jokey sort of compliment about which she felt silly and he felt smug. If she were a little less tipsy, she would have stopped there. But she kept spilling words into the silence.
"You could kiss me now. If you wanted."
"Like..." Her eyes were drawn to the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "Hypothetically?"
"What? No, like--oh, god." She hid her face in her hands. "Sorry. Forget it, sorry. I thought--. I thought that was a moment, or something. God, I can't believe this day just got more humiliating."
She turned to retreat, but he grasped her wrist to keep her near. "Neela." He slid his hand up her forearm, tracing the path of the median nerve with his thumb, and stopped to stroke the delicate skin inside her elbow. "Yeah, I want to kiss you."
"Oh," she breathed. "That's..." Confusing. Inappropriate. A very bad idea. "That's lovely..."
Suddenly unsteady, she rocked forward on the balls of her feet just as he leaned in, and so when their lips met it was more an awkward bumping-into-each-other than any kind of grand, cinematic moment of passion. But the connection was immediate and real, and with a soft giggle, a slight turn of the head, a brief rubbing of noses, the awkwardness dissolved into a kiss that was tentative but surprisingly sweet. It was...well, it was lovely. When they parted, arms at their sides, he curled his fingertips around hers as if unwilling to break contact. And though she knew she looked a mess--was a mess--she felt lovely. Maybe this was just her latest terrible idea in a recent series of same, but after such a strange disaster of a day, she welcomed the feeling. If she was going to follow her impulses, why stop at the one that was telling her, quite insistently, to press up onto her toes and kiss him again?
So she did, mouth open in readily accepted invitation. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she settled her weight against him. His hands circled her waist and found the bare skin of her midriff under her sari. She'd started the day in bed with one man, and now here she was pinning an entirely different man--entirely different--against a bookcase. If she were less intoxicated, she might feel more ashamed of that, but then again, it was just Ray, after all. Just good old, familiar Ray, cradling the back of her head and tangling his fingers in her hair, gingerly pulling out the last of the pins. She and Ray, they did things together. They went shopping; bickered; watched television; shared food. Now, apparently, they shared saliva. And what was a little--or a lot--of French kissing? A little casual comfort between friends?
But the way she dragged her teeth over his bottom lip didn't exactly feel casual, and when she drew back and saw his expression, it certainly didn't look casual. He looked...concussed.
It was dear, and almost comical. She touched his face, and the way he closed his eyes opened a deep well of terrifying fondness inside her, and she began to feel a little lightheaded herself. She tucked her head under his chin and found she fit there very nicely. Somehow the gentle skimming of his knuckles over her cheek and jaw was more intimate, and more sobering, than if his hand were groping her ass.
Which the other one was.
When she related the episode to Abby later, she'd say, "And then somehow we ended up in my room..." as if it were some kind of In Search of... Bermuda Triangle mystery instead of the clearly logical chain of events that began as she worked at the buttons of his shirt. His dress shirt, which she'd never seen before--he must have excavated his closet to find an acceptable outfit at short notice. When she slipped her hands under the plackets she said, "I always imagined this would be one of your stupid tee shirts."
His hands froze on her hips and gripped. "What?"
"I said I--. Nothing. Never mind."
And then he smiled, and truthfully, everything between then and when the backs of her knees knocked against the bed frame was a little fuzzy.
His shirt was hanging from one arm; she pulled it off and tossed it behind her onto the bed. Unwrapping her was a little more complicated.
It was easy enough to pull the long trail of silk over her shoulder. They laughed as she spun around once and the fabric unwound around her torso, leaving her top still covered modestly by the form-fitting choli, skirt tucked securely into her petticoat.
"You're standing on my pallu."
"Your what?"
"The drapey bit."
"Oh. Sorry." He tugged ineffectually at the pleats at her waist. "How do you get this thing off?"
"I'm not even sure how I got it on. The woman at the shop did it. I haven't worn one in years." Her smaller, more dextrous fingers displaced his. "I think there's a pin." He brushed her hair aside and bent to kiss her neck while she searched for the fastener. Something about the smell of him and the warmth of his skin made her fingers fumble, and she started babbling. "It's--oh--it's not even the right color, you know. And I don't even have mendhi. My grandmother would kill me."
"Can we not talk about your relatives right now?" A reasonable request, given the circumstances, but it was more his breath against her ear as he whispered it that rendered her mute. He covered her hands with his and together they managed to loosen the pleats, unfolding yards of silk until it had all fallen in an ivory pool at their feet.
Her palms glided over his chest and arms and then they were kissing again. It was hard to believe there was ever anything tentative about it. Her right hand drifted up and down his back, nails scraping lightly. He pulled her close against him and she inhaled sharply, eyes wide. Her nails pressed hard into his skin, just below his tattoo. Frantically, she hitched her ankle-length petticoat up over her knees and threw her left leg around him. He adjusted it slightly, sliding his hand under her knee, up the underside of her thigh, and under the white satin, now bunched around her hips. His fingertips just reached the bottom of her knickers, and flicked lightly at the elastic. She pointed her toes and curled her leg around tighter.
His hand flew up her spine and under the hem of the half-shirt to unfasten her bra. She raised her arms and let him pull both over her head. The petticoat fell down to her knees as he took a step back to maneuver and she lowered her foot to the floor. Bare to the waist, she half-sat, half-fell on the bed and onto her back.
For a moment they stilled, breath coming fast and heavy in their chests. She stared at him staring at her until she couldn't any longer, and reached out her hand.
He leaned over her and she pulled him down by the shoulders until they were skin to skin. As they kissed she raked her fingers through his hair, tracing lazy little circles over his scalp. He shifted to support himself on one arm, and she lifted her chin to give his mouth access to her throat, and the pulse racing through her carotid. Then across her clavicle and down her sternum, until finally her head and shoulders jerked back deep into the mattress, and he demonstrated quite convincingly that there was, in fact, nothing at all wrong with her breasts.
The arch of her back relaxed a bit as he progressed lower, but her abdominal muscles tensed, and when his bristly chin tickled her stomach, she laughed. He crouched in front of her, looked up, and smiled. Her dangling feet flexed and lifted away from the floor. She nearly kicked him accidentally, so she trailed her foot up his inner thigh by way of apology. He grasped her ankles and slid his palms over her calves as he leaned forward between her knees.
Slowly, he began to roll the waistbands of her underclothes downward over her hips, and pressed his thumbs into the soft hollows below her pelvic bone. She made a sound, a low, humming sigh, and laced her fingers over the back of his neck.
She felt wonderfully hazy, weightless, and warm. His lips brushed over her navel, then lower, and lower, and then with the slightest scrape of his teeth she exhaled loudly and closed her eyes, rolling her neck and letting her body twist whichever way it wanted. I've completely lost my senses, she thought. And without quite realizing she'd spoken aloud, she said, "I can't believe I almost got married today."
He stopped. Her eyes blinked open. Seconds passed, and she felt a sudden sinking as he pulled away and slipped through her hands.
She propped herself up on her elbows and repeated, "I almost got married today."
He nodded at the floor, cleared his throat before replying huskily, "Yeah."
She sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at the discarded heap of material on which he knelt. "This was my wedding dress."
He backed away uncomfortably. He didn't have anything to say to that.
"Ray..."
"Guess we got a little carried away, huh?" He flashed her a tight, joyless smile.
"I'm sorry...?" She reached for something to cover herself, and realized she was holding his shirt against her chest.
He shook his head and gave an awkward, jerky shrug. "Nah. Yeah, no, that's... Me too. This, uh. I know. This isn't you." He laid a hand lightly over her knee, and then gently pulled the hem of her petticoat down to her feet. "If we went any further you'd hate at least one of us in the morning, right?"
He stood--carefully--and she turned her face away, embarrassed for both of them, digusted with herself. There on the nightstand, where it had always been, and where it had been forgotten tonight until now, she saw the framed photograph of Michael in his uniform. How many colossal misjudgements could one woman make in one day?
"I didn't mean to... I just felt so..."
"No, I know, I shouldn't have... Don't worry about it," he said as he backed toward the door. "It's nothing."
She looked up at him, framed in her doorway, half-naked and aroused, hair going every which way. "It's nothing," she repeated softly, and held the shirt closer, suddenly very cold. For one brief moment they made eye contact, and she almost said something else, but then his posture changed. She remembered his expression from earlier, after they'd first kissed. There'd been nothing careless or too-confident about it; there was nothing left of it on his face now.
"Besides, if I'm going to get somebody out of her wedding dress I guess it oughta be...you know..."
"A supermodel after a runway show?" The joke felt clumsy and a little mean, but it did its job.
He nodded and let out a breath that passed for a laugh. "Exactly. You know me so well."
"I do." She cringed at her choice of words, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Yeah, so I'm just gonna go..." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder and she nodded silently, sure she was blushing.
"Right. Okay. Goodnight."
"'Night."
He turned to go. While his hand still lingered on the doorjamb she said, "Ray." He paused, but didn't reply. "Don't... don't be insulted if I don't...remember this tomorrow. Okay?"
"...Sure." His head dropped, and he walked out, closing the door behind him.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. She stripped off the damned petticoat at last and kicked it to the floor. When she heard the shower go on she winced, but a few minutes later she gave in and reached down to resolve her situation. It left her achy and unsatisfied.
Afterward, she turned on her side to wait for sleep, alone, his shirt pillowed under her head.
As it happened, faking a blackout over coffee and Cheerios wasn't necessary. They didn't even see each other the next day. He worked a double. She slept in, and since the time off had already been approved, spent the first day of her 'honeymoon' moping about in her pyjamas, indulging in junk food and Lifetime television. Nothing patched a broken heart, she hoped, like an old-fashioned post-break-up wallow. Focusing all her doom and gloom on her failed relationship was also a useful distraction from her new problem, the one that probably wouldn't be fixed by a good cry, a bad movie, and a pint of Cherry Garcia.
Abby called around sundown. "How are you doing?"
"I don't know. How long did it take you to get over Carter when he broke off your engagement?"
"Holy shit, I was engaged to Carter? What, like a million years ago?"
"Give or take. So you're saying..."
"It takes as long as it takes. That's all the wisdom I've got. Unless you want me to start throwing recovery slogans at you. One day at a time. Fake it 'til you make it. Let go and let--"
"All right, all right."
As she went back to tearily packing up bundles of letters and photos--it hurt, but there was no point in leaving obvious reminders around--she wondered what it meant that she'd almost married someone whose entire relationship with her could fit into a shoebox. Ankle boots, yes, but still a shoebox. She wasn't quite ready to put the box up on the high closet shelf, but she might be able to slide it under the bed in a few days. She also wondered what it meant that she'd moved so quickly from denial (nine a.m.--I should call him) to acceptance (eleven p.m.--It's probably for the best). She'd fallen in love with him because he loved her, and because he was wonderful, and those things were still true, but something about the look of disappointment on his face yesterday--not anger, not betrayal, just an awful disappointment...
Well. It was probably for the best.
The strange part was that for all her heartache, the only practical thing she'd lost was the idea of them, the notion that someday they'd be a real couple, in a real relationship, the kind where they did things together, and saw each other every day. Then again, maybe that's what had scared her off. Maybe she was more comfortable with the concept than the reality.
Maybe I just suck at love, she thought. And I'll die an old maid. With a small dog. Or a budgie. It was after midnight, and she was holed up in her room with her laptop, playing four suit Spider Solitaire and ignoring backissues of The Lancet, when she finally heard Ray come in. She tensed, waiting for him to call out a greeting, hoping he wouldn't, yet oddly dispirited when none came.
She heard the tv go on, heard him moving things around in the kitchen. Once she thought she saw his shadow pass by her slightly open door. She considered venturing out under some pretense, to retrieve a book or a glass of water, just to test the atmosphere, but she wasn't that brave. It wasn't that she was afraid she couldn't control herself, but that she couldn't control her thoughts. What if she said 'hello' or 'how was your day?' but all she could think was that twenty-four hours ago she'd been quite eager to let him put his tongue in her mouth? And...other places. What if he said 'fine' or 'did you get the mail today?', but her brain got stuck on how she'd been exhilarated--from a purely aesthetic standpoint, of course--by the visual contrast of his pale fingers stroking her--
She snapped the laptop shut. She stared at the shoebox sitting at the foot of her bed. She recited mnemonics for all the unsexiest parts of the anatomy.
She had to use the bathroom, but that could wait until he went to bed. To sleep. That could wait until he went to sleep.
The next few days passed in much the same way. During the day she occupied herself with movies and museums. At night he went out, doing whatever it was that he did. Or whoever, she thought sourly once, before reminding herself that she wasn't supposed to care. When she went back to work on Monday she found that he'd gone out of his way to trade shifts with people, rearranging his schedule to avoid her. It was a relief, but it also stung a little. And it was another reminder, as if she needed one amongst all the whispers and sidelong looks, that nearly everyone else she worked with had known and liked Michael before they'd ever met her. Ray should've been an ally. Instead, when they did work together they were almost like strangers. Their interaction was professional, and courteous, and weird, and she hated it.
Even Abby wasn't too wrapped up in her own personal drama to notice something was off.
"What's up with you and Ray?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're being all polite to each other. It's creeping me out. Did you guys have a fight or something?"
"...Something."
"What, did you sleep together?" Abby joked.
Neela squinted at her patient's chest film. "Does this look like an effusion to you? I think I need an MRI."
"Oh my God, did you sleep together?!"
"Shhh! No! Of course not."
"But you did 'something.'"
"The air quotes really aren't necessary."
"When did this happen?"
"After the wedding. The non-wedding."
"Is that why--?"
"No. Can we discuss this later?"
"You bet your ass we will. Dinner break?"
Several hours later, over a plate of cheese fries at Ike's, she found herself saying, "...and then somehow we ended up in my room. And things...escalated."
"Escalated. But you didn't have sex?"
"No."
"Didn't have sex like Bill and Monica didn't have sex, or actually didn't have sex?"
"Nice reference. Very topical. And everyone's pants stayed on at all times, if that's what you're asking."
"That was it, yeah."
Neela slumped in her seat. "God, what a disaster."
"Was it that bad?"
"Bad? No, it was..." She looked to the side, pretending to try and spot their waitress. "No."
"Huh."
Neela turned back to see Abby scrutinzing her. "What? What does 'huh' mean?"
"Nothing. I just didn't think he was your type, that's all."
"Yes, that's been established, thanks."
"No need to get cranky, it was just an observation."
"I wish this had never happened. I don't know what to do. Everything's weird now."
Abby nodded knowingly. "Oh, because he likes you."
She dropped a cheese fry onto her plate. "He what?"
"Do they not have that expression in England?"
"You're crazy. That's crazy."
"It was just a hunch." She shrugged. "I could be wrong."
"What would make you say that?"
"Just little things. The way he was hanging around that night."
"You're wrong."
"I'm probably wrong."
"Except..."
"Except?"
"I don't know. There was a moment--moments, I guess--when it seemed like maybe..." She trailed off, frowning, and plucked listlessly at her fries.
"Huh."
"Stop saying 'huh.'"
"Sorry. So what are you going to do now?"
"I don't know. I don't want to move." Her whinging tone was annoying even to her own ears, but she couldn't help herself. It was so good to finally talk about it.
"Moving is a pain in the ass."
"It's not just that. I like it there, and...well, I suppose things could go back to normal eventually. That's possible, right? If I just gave it some time?"
"Anything's possible."
"It's so awful right now, though. We try to ignore each other, and when we can't it's so tense. And I--this is so embarrassing--I can't stop staring at his hands. He has these calluses?" She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers to illustrate. "You know, from fingering?"
Abby sputtered, and Neela wished she could crawl under the table as she watched her friend bent over, turning red from laughter. "The guitar! From playing the guitar!"
"Uh huh," said Abby, wiping her eye with a napkin.
"Oh, god. You're never going to stop mocking me for this, are you?" She decided to skip telling her about the dream she had where she was standing at the kitchen sink--in her scrubs, for some reason--and he came up behind her and-- "What do I do?" she asked plaintively.
"Okay, number one, are you asking me for advice on your love life? Because the coat says 'Lockhart', not 'Dear Abby.' Number two, you're asking me for advice on your love life? Seriously?"
"I'm desperate. And it's not my 'love life,'" she corrected. "It's Ray."
"Well," Abby said, "the way I see it, there's only one way to resolve this."
"What's that? Move? Get a new job? Fake my death and leave the country?" She stirred her drink with the straw a little before raising it to her lips.
"I think maybe you have to sleep with him."
And then Neela aspirated Diet Coke with lemon. "You're right," she said, coughing through her napkin. "You give terrible advice."
Over the last couple weeks he'd spent a lot of the time he wasn't working staring at her bedroom door. Staring and thinking. Wondering what she was thinking, whether it was anything close to what he was thinking, and deciding probably not, or one of them would be on the other side of that door. But if he thought about that too long...
Well, he'd also spent a lot of time watching sports, practicing bar chords, and ranking and re-ranking the top ten Jimmy Page solos.
She didn't seem mad at him, which was good. But she was closed off, and whenever they accidentally made eye contact, clearly embarrassed. Sometimes, he got a vibe like under the embarrassment there was...something. Tension. And not her normal high strung-ness, but, like... He was probably projecting.
He knew that eventually they'd have to have the talk, but he was willing to let that happen on her timetable. Maybe that made him kind of a chickenshit, but he found that didn't bother him much. The longer he avoided her, the more breathing room he gave himself. Another week or so, and he'd definitely be able to look at her without seeing her on her back, all tousled and beckoning. Hell, a week? Probably right now, if he had to, he could even stand right next to her without remembering how soft and warm she was as she moved underneath him, or tripping over fantasies about dragging her into a supply closet and making her make that noise again, the one she made when he--
Five, "Whole Lotta Love." Four, "Dazed and Confused."
He was standing in the ambulance bay, waiting for an incoming MVC, and that's where she found him, shaking his head at himself and thinking, Jesus, dude, get a grip. Beckoning?
"Hey."
"Oh, hey," he said. His back itched in the spot where she'd dug in her fingernails.
"Slow day," she noted.
"Yeah." He stared ahead, hands in his coat pockets.
A pause, and then, "Anything interesting on the way?"
He shrugged. "Not really. Drunk driver flipped his Lexus. You?"
"Nursing home knife fight."
Well, there was an icebreaker. "You're kidding."
"That's what dispatch said."
"Probably gang-related," he declared, and risked a direct glance to catch her smile. One of the downsides of avoiding her: he hadn't seen that in way too long.
"Hm. Or someone changed the channel during Judge Judy."
"Man, old people today are out of control. It's all sex and drugs and Lawrence Welk..."
"Lawrence Welk would make anyone violent."
And just like that they were standing around, laughing at each other's dumb jokes again. It couldn't really be that easy, could it?
"Ray..."
Guess not. "What?"
"You don't have to bark at me."
"I didn't--" He scratched the back of his head, and asked again more politely, "What is it?"
"Don't you think that...? Well we can't go on forever pretending it never happened."
"Is that what we've been doing?"
She looked at her shoes. "Not very successfully, I suppose. I don't know, maybe I'm making too much of it, maybe it shouldn't be a big deal. These things happen, right?"
"All the time," he agreed. A gust of wind blew her hair across her face, and she brushed away a few strands that had gotten stuck to her Chapstick. He couldn't keep himself from asking, "So...it was a big deal to you?"
She froze for a second or two, and then stammered, "It was-- I-- Well, it's the sort of thing that can really change things between two people. If...if they let it. You know?"
"Yeah. Look, I--"
"And I've been thinking about that, that aspect of it. Where we go from here."
Now, as best as he could tell, she was looking at his shoes.
"You have?" His voice came out quieter than he'd expected.
She nodded, and folded her arms, hands tucked under opposite elbows. "Quite a lot, actually."
"Have you...come to any conclusions?" They accidentally made eye contact, and he felt his heart rate begin to climb, as if he were exerting himself simply by having this conversation. Her shirt was open slightly at the collar, so he focused on the hollow of her throat. That didn't help much.
"I was thinking that maybe we could.... I mean there's no reason not to.... Once some time has gone by...."
He wanted to step closer, but his feet wouldn't move. "What, Neela?" he asked softly. He remembered how she'd looked at him that night, like he was something special. It wasn't the first time a woman had looked at him like that, but it was the first time he saw it and didn't want to run away.
The answer came in a rapid stream of words directed at the pavement. "It's probably best that we acknowledge it and move on and get right back to normal as soon as possible.
...Oh.
And then, like three little jabs to the gut, "Don't you think?"
He straightened his shoulders, clenched his fists inside his pockets. "Yeah, sure."
"Really?"
He looked out into the street. Where the fuck was the rig? What, did they hit traffic? "Yeah, whatever."
"So...we're on the same page, then?"
He shrugged, but it felt like an effort, unnatural. "Back to normal, absolutely." Whether it was out of pride or self-defense, he turned to her with a careless, easygoing grin. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"Oh. Were you? Well that's...great. Really great." Stop saying 'great,' she thought. "I was really hoping this wouldn't have to spoil things between us, so...great."
"Nah, we're cool." He glanced at his watch. "Did you hear anything about traffic?"
"What? No." She looked back toward the entrance doors for any nurses or orderlies coming through. There was no one. She wanted to go back inside, pretend they'd never had this conversation, go back to pretending the whole thing had never happened. Instead, she heard herself saying, "I was confused that night. You know? I guess you do. And I'd been drinking--not that that's an excuse, of course. But I wanted you to know that I didn't mean to...I wasn't trying to..."
"What?" He cocked his head, all good-natured sarcasm and reassurance. "Take advantage of me? Look, I knew you weren't yourself. I shouldn't have let it go that far. Not much of a gentleman, right?" Well, but I wasn't not myself, exactly, she was almost about to say, when he continued with, "Don't worry. I'm not in love with you now or anything."Don't worry. I'm not in love with you now or anything."
Somehow, her body knew that the appropriate response to that was laughter. "That's a relief," she said, her tone overly comic, too loud and too bright. "After all, I'd hate for things to get awkward."
"I know, right?" He paused for a moment, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, "I'm glad you didn't get married, though."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Why, because you got to second base?"
"I think I got tagged out sliding into third, actually."
She ducked her head, and tugged her labcoat closed.
"And no. 'Cause I would've missed having you around." She raised her head at that, but he was looking off into the street. "Anyway, it's fine. You were trying to forget someone. That's cool, I get that."
That's cool, she repeated in her head. That's cool? "So what was your deep, psychological motivation?"
"I'm a guy," he said. "I don't need one."
"Right," she nodded. Her smile stretched her face in uncomfortable ways. "I guess we're cool, then. Great. Moving past it, back to normal. I'm putting it out of my mind."
The last was nearly drowned out by the sound of paramedic vehicles approaching, and they were suddenly surrounded by nurses, residents, and EMTs. As they stepped off the curb she heard him say, "So it's still on your mind?"
She'd never been so glad to see a perforated bowel.
Later, Abby cornered her in the lounge.
"So how did your test balloon go over?"
"Sucked into a jet engine," she said, and slammed her locker shut. "I told you he wasn't interested."
"Oh well," said Abby. "His loss."
Part Two