"Right" - ER
Goodbye, Susan. Takes place next season. Also posted at erfanfiction and erslash.
Title: Right
Author: Nia
Rating: PG-13
Show: ER
Pairing: Neela/Susan
Summary: "The odd thing about medicine is your boss is your teacher is your friend, and in four hours you will lose all three."
Right
People are capable of anything, when put under the right stressors.
*
The gloves are the worst part of the job.
You often try to scrub the smell off, yourself. You've always found it unpleasant on your own skin, not quite a dry smell, and not sour, exactly--but unpleasant. Stale, you might call it. And there is a trace of powder that makes your skin feel sticky-wet even when it isn't.
When people touch each other in the ER, the gloves are between them.
When you were behind the counter at Jumbo Mart, you didn't think about the gloves. Dr. Lewis offered you a job, and all you could think about was following her back to County.
*
Now you are here, and she is leaving.
Over a bloody floor in trauma one, you both peel off the gloves.
"Do you think we caught it in time?" you ask.
"Plenty of time," she says with a smile.
It's strange to think that all those days jumbled together in your head, all that complaining about her, all the talks about your career, all the questions she answered about diagnoses and the procedures she walked you through, all the paychecks and the tenure rumors and the times you found her half asleep in the drug lockup--all those days were just like this one, but this is the one you will remember.
Now she is behind your back and untying your yellow paper gown. The odd thing about medicine is your boss is your teacher is your friend, and in four hours you will lose all three.
This is her last day at County.
*
You catch her in the hallway with three hours till she's gone.
"I just wanted to say," you begin, "that I've really enjoyed working with you."
Before she can answer, Abby is there, wanting to know about the pneumonia in curtain two, and making plans for a goodbye dinner.
*
Truth be told, you thought you'd fall for Abby.
You like her well enough: cute, smart, and that thing, that indefinable thing. But she's a bit untouchable. The first time you ever thought about her, you thought, God, that was dignified. You and Morris had just given Coop an overdose of epi, and after dropping everything to shock him at fifty and ask if he wanted a Valium, Abby congratulated you. She handed you the paddles. She picked up her charts and walked away. God, that was dignified.
Since then, Abby has winked at you across tables and brushed hair from your face in the morning and called you a slut for authority, and other things far less dignified, but still, you can't quite touch her. You can't quite get over her walking away, dignified, and how jealous you were.
*
Two hours left, and Chuny pulls everyone into the lounge for a goodbye party. There is cake and champagne, and ginger ale for Abby, who gives the toast. Dr. Lewis sits on the table, and you pull up a chair.
Everyone crowds in for a picture, and you can barely catch your breath. It is like when you were trapped in the hyperbaric chamber: your heart and your stomach both tried to rearrange themselves into your mouth, and then Dr. Lewis looked in at you. Except this time you are claustrophobic in the crush of people, and Dr. Lewis pulls you into the picture instead of standing at the door, and you are not sure which is making you dizzy.
*
Thinking back, you think you know when it started. The day the helicopter crashed and Abby tubed the flight nurse, and even in your rush to find a doctor, you saw Dr. Lewis and thought, no, not her. And when you finally had to tell her, she was afraid.
After, whenever you complained behind her back, or she walked you through a procedure, or you found her half asleep in the drug lockup, you remembered: she was afraid. Not different from you at all.
*
These are your stressors: fear and Abby and gloves, and only one hour to go.
You catch her in the hallway again. You ask if you can talk. You slip into the lounge.
There is still cake on the table and champagne in plastic cups, and when you kiss her you think you taste frosting and alcohol. She isn't pushing you away, so you slide your hands up under her lab coat, and her shirt is tucked in. You realize you love it when she wears her shirt tucked in--does anyone else do that? Do you? Does Abby? You tangle your fingers in the fabric at her waistband and pull. It brings her closer to you, and that is when you realize she's got a leg between yours, and you are so beyond thinking about shirts.
She pulls away. "You've really enjoyed working with me," she says, hazy.
You untuck her shirt, begin unbuttoning it from the bottom up, and now you know that her stomach is soft.
Morris walks into the lounge, and you pull away quickly. She drops onto the couch, and holds her lab coat closed.
"Cake," he says, reaching for a plate.
You cover your face. She tells him you are having a meeting, and then he is gone, and you sit on the couch next to her and rest your hand against the inside of her thigh. She is buttoning her shirt, but she squeezes her legs together so you cannot stop touching her. It is intimate and sad, like you have been together for years, and are just now breaking up.
In a way, it's true.
She stands to tuck her shirt back in. "Leave it out," you say. You want proof, after you leave this room, that you have touched her.
She bites the side of her lip--an inscrutable expression, she does it when she is annoyed or amused.
When she leaves the lounge, her shirt is out, and you are squeezing your hand between your own thighs.
*
Less than an hour. You see her at the desk looking undone, and you have to hide with your charts in exam four.
She finds you there, and pulls the curtain closed behind you. "Neela," she says evenly. It is the way she said your name when she taught you the nasal intubation, and the way she said your name when she thought you should go into research. She is concerned.
You don't answer, so she sits up on the gurney to wait. You continue charting next to her, stacking the finished paperwork beside her hip, careful not to touch. "What is up with you?" she asks.
"I had a crush on Dr. Kovac, too," you say.
"Everyone does."
"Yeah, well." You sign your last chart and look at her, finally.
She bites the side of her lip again. "Did you kiss him?"
"I couldn't," you say with a laugh.
"But you could kiss me."
"You're leaving."
She looks down at her thighs, which you are not touching.
You have to explain. "Most people only see their lovers asleep, or their children, or their parents," you say. "I see you asleep almost every day. Today in the trauma room, you helped me with my gown. I think you've seen me cry."
"Maybe. I don't remember."
You push the charts away, and you touch her. The inside of her thigh, the edge of her shirt, her soft stomach, the places that are familiar to you now. "Everything here is so intimate," you say. "We see people undressed, and afraid." You unbutton new buttons. You get to discover the shadow beneath her breasts. There is nothing between you now, no gloves and no Abby and no claustrophobic dizziness.
She closes her eyes and smiles at you.
You lean forward to kiss her throat, and you push her legs apart.
"What do you want, Neela?" she asks, softly.
You do not know how to say you need a name for this relationship, a label for what the past two years have built, a way to know exactly what will be missing when she's gone.
"What do you want?"
You have seen her afraid, but not undressed. You have less than an hour.
"This is going to sound very strange," you begin.
Her lab coat is folded behind her, and without it she looks naked already. She opens her eyes.
*
You have never seen someone so unlike yourself. She is pale in the places you are dark, round in places you are sharp. But when you slide a hand down her stomach and between her legs, she is just you in reverse.
You have never seen anyone come so quietly, so contained, and you have never come with anyone's hand over your mouth, palms soft and fingertips smelling of latex, and you have never thought you would love that smell, but you do. Your own fingers are sticky-wet against her back, it is not just the powder playing pretend, and she is laughing so hard as she tells you to be quiet. You have never told her you love her, and you do it now, because the gloves and the champagne, and the goodbye dinner is in five minutes, hurry, and fear, and this is the day you will remember, and yes, please, yes, yes, you love her.
People are capable of anything, when put under the right stressors. Dr. Lewis told you that.
Title: Right
Author: Nia
Rating: PG-13
Show: ER
Pairing: Neela/Susan
Summary: "The odd thing about medicine is your boss is your teacher is your friend, and in four hours you will lose all three."
Right
People are capable of anything, when put under the right stressors.
*
The gloves are the worst part of the job.
You often try to scrub the smell off, yourself. You've always found it unpleasant on your own skin, not quite a dry smell, and not sour, exactly--but unpleasant. Stale, you might call it. And there is a trace of powder that makes your skin feel sticky-wet even when it isn't.
When people touch each other in the ER, the gloves are between them.
When you were behind the counter at Jumbo Mart, you didn't think about the gloves. Dr. Lewis offered you a job, and all you could think about was following her back to County.
*
Now you are here, and she is leaving.
Over a bloody floor in trauma one, you both peel off the gloves.
"Do you think we caught it in time?" you ask.
"Plenty of time," she says with a smile.
It's strange to think that all those days jumbled together in your head, all that complaining about her, all the talks about your career, all the questions she answered about diagnoses and the procedures she walked you through, all the paychecks and the tenure rumors and the times you found her half asleep in the drug lockup--all those days were just like this one, but this is the one you will remember.
Now she is behind your back and untying your yellow paper gown. The odd thing about medicine is your boss is your teacher is your friend, and in four hours you will lose all three.
This is her last day at County.
*
You catch her in the hallway with three hours till she's gone.
"I just wanted to say," you begin, "that I've really enjoyed working with you."
Before she can answer, Abby is there, wanting to know about the pneumonia in curtain two, and making plans for a goodbye dinner.
*
Truth be told, you thought you'd fall for Abby.
You like her well enough: cute, smart, and that thing, that indefinable thing. But she's a bit untouchable. The first time you ever thought about her, you thought, God, that was dignified. You and Morris had just given Coop an overdose of epi, and after dropping everything to shock him at fifty and ask if he wanted a Valium, Abby congratulated you. She handed you the paddles. She picked up her charts and walked away. God, that was dignified.
Since then, Abby has winked at you across tables and brushed hair from your face in the morning and called you a slut for authority, and other things far less dignified, but still, you can't quite touch her. You can't quite get over her walking away, dignified, and how jealous you were.
*
Two hours left, and Chuny pulls everyone into the lounge for a goodbye party. There is cake and champagne, and ginger ale for Abby, who gives the toast. Dr. Lewis sits on the table, and you pull up a chair.
Everyone crowds in for a picture, and you can barely catch your breath. It is like when you were trapped in the hyperbaric chamber: your heart and your stomach both tried to rearrange themselves into your mouth, and then Dr. Lewis looked in at you. Except this time you are claustrophobic in the crush of people, and Dr. Lewis pulls you into the picture instead of standing at the door, and you are not sure which is making you dizzy.
*
Thinking back, you think you know when it started. The day the helicopter crashed and Abby tubed the flight nurse, and even in your rush to find a doctor, you saw Dr. Lewis and thought, no, not her. And when you finally had to tell her, she was afraid.
After, whenever you complained behind her back, or she walked you through a procedure, or you found her half asleep in the drug lockup, you remembered: she was afraid. Not different from you at all.
*
These are your stressors: fear and Abby and gloves, and only one hour to go.
You catch her in the hallway again. You ask if you can talk. You slip into the lounge.
There is still cake on the table and champagne in plastic cups, and when you kiss her you think you taste frosting and alcohol. She isn't pushing you away, so you slide your hands up under her lab coat, and her shirt is tucked in. You realize you love it when she wears her shirt tucked in--does anyone else do that? Do you? Does Abby? You tangle your fingers in the fabric at her waistband and pull. It brings her closer to you, and that is when you realize she's got a leg between yours, and you are so beyond thinking about shirts.
She pulls away. "You've really enjoyed working with me," she says, hazy.
You untuck her shirt, begin unbuttoning it from the bottom up, and now you know that her stomach is soft.
Morris walks into the lounge, and you pull away quickly. She drops onto the couch, and holds her lab coat closed.
"Cake," he says, reaching for a plate.
You cover your face. She tells him you are having a meeting, and then he is gone, and you sit on the couch next to her and rest your hand against the inside of her thigh. She is buttoning her shirt, but she squeezes her legs together so you cannot stop touching her. It is intimate and sad, like you have been together for years, and are just now breaking up.
In a way, it's true.
She stands to tuck her shirt back in. "Leave it out," you say. You want proof, after you leave this room, that you have touched her.
She bites the side of her lip--an inscrutable expression, she does it when she is annoyed or amused.
When she leaves the lounge, her shirt is out, and you are squeezing your hand between your own thighs.
*
Less than an hour. You see her at the desk looking undone, and you have to hide with your charts in exam four.
She finds you there, and pulls the curtain closed behind you. "Neela," she says evenly. It is the way she said your name when she taught you the nasal intubation, and the way she said your name when she thought you should go into research. She is concerned.
You don't answer, so she sits up on the gurney to wait. You continue charting next to her, stacking the finished paperwork beside her hip, careful not to touch. "What is up with you?" she asks.
"I had a crush on Dr. Kovac, too," you say.
"Everyone does."
"Yeah, well." You sign your last chart and look at her, finally.
She bites the side of her lip again. "Did you kiss him?"
"I couldn't," you say with a laugh.
"But you could kiss me."
"You're leaving."
She looks down at her thighs, which you are not touching.
You have to explain. "Most people only see their lovers asleep, or their children, or their parents," you say. "I see you asleep almost every day. Today in the trauma room, you helped me with my gown. I think you've seen me cry."
"Maybe. I don't remember."
You push the charts away, and you touch her. The inside of her thigh, the edge of her shirt, her soft stomach, the places that are familiar to you now. "Everything here is so intimate," you say. "We see people undressed, and afraid." You unbutton new buttons. You get to discover the shadow beneath her breasts. There is nothing between you now, no gloves and no Abby and no claustrophobic dizziness.
She closes her eyes and smiles at you.
You lean forward to kiss her throat, and you push her legs apart.
"What do you want, Neela?" she asks, softly.
You do not know how to say you need a name for this relationship, a label for what the past two years have built, a way to know exactly what will be missing when she's gone.
"What do you want?"
You have seen her afraid, but not undressed. You have less than an hour.
"This is going to sound very strange," you begin.
Her lab coat is folded behind her, and without it she looks naked already. She opens her eyes.
*
You have never seen someone so unlike yourself. She is pale in the places you are dark, round in places you are sharp. But when you slide a hand down her stomach and between her legs, she is just you in reverse.
You have never seen anyone come so quietly, so contained, and you have never come with anyone's hand over your mouth, palms soft and fingertips smelling of latex, and you have never thought you would love that smell, but you do. Your own fingers are sticky-wet against her back, it is not just the powder playing pretend, and she is laughing so hard as she tells you to be quiet. You have never told her you love her, and you do it now, because the gloves and the champagne, and the goodbye dinner is in five minutes, hurry, and fear, and this is the day you will remember, and yes, please, yes, yes, you love her.
People are capable of anything, when put under the right stressors. Dr. Lewis told you that.