Against the Wall
by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been.

Rating: NC-17 for some down and dirty you-know-what and some bad
language.  Run away now if you're underage or if this kind of thing
bothers you.

Timeline: To be safe, let's say early to mid-third season.  To put it in
perspective: Doug and Carol are not a couple at this point.  Just want
to make that clear from the outset.

Spoilers: 100% spoiler free.

Summary: Kerry and Doug go head to head with unexpected results.

Note: I had this idea at 3:30am one night last week.  This should teach
me not to write when I'm sleep-deprived.  And, I'm flying without a net
on this one.  No editor to catch me (I have a feeling she'd rather
delete this <g>). 


***

How many times?  How many times have I felt this way?  Hundreds, I'm
sure.

I've been so angry at Doug Ross for so long that sometimes just the
sound of his voice makes me want to stalk off in the opposite direction.

I've tried in every way I can to be understanding and accomodating.  In
my own way, I've tried.  I can accept that my way isn't always the best
way.  And I can accept that my way never agrees with his way.

I don't think I've ever been this angry with him.

****

I park my car in front of the address on the piece of paper.  I get out
of the car and take a deep breath.  Just stay calm, I tell myself.
You're here to talk.  You're here to try to smooth things over.

I never thought I would go see Doug at home.  But I'm so angry, and it's
gotten in the way of work.  And it has to stop.  It's so bad that we
can't even be in the same room together.  We can't even take care of a
patient together, because he'll invariably make a decision I think is
wrong, or vice versa.  For a while it was just cold stares over the
patient's prone body, and then it escalated to snapping at each other.
Finally one day, we were yelling and Mark actually burst into the trauma
room and told us both to step out.

We did, glaring at each other, our eyes like two sets of daggers.  In
the hall, we went our separate ways.  I went into the bathroom and
stared into the mirror.  My face was flushed.  My eyes were flashing.
My body was trembling.  That's how angry I was.

I make my way up the walkway and ring the doorbell.  It's completely
dark -- not even a porch light.

Tonight, we're going to work this thing out.  Come to some kind of an
agreement, an understanding.

****

To say that he's surprised to see me is an understatment.

"Kerry," he says, standing there in the doorway.  Light seeps onto the
porch from inside the house.  He doesn't invite me in.

"I was hoping we could talk, Doug.  Away from the hospital."

He doesn't say anything.  Just cocks his head slightly.

"Doug, we need to accept the fact that we are always going to disagree
when it comes to treating patients.  We need to deal with that, and move
on from it.  I don't want any more wars in the ER because of our
behavior."  I'm careful in my choice of words.  I can admit my own role;
it's not all his fault as I would like to believe most of the time.  I
know my own temper; it flares easily, and even more so around him.

He nods, slightly.

Snow is falling lightly, landing on my shoulders.  "Come in," he finally
says.

****

I leave my coat on; I'm not planning on staying long.  I enter the
living room and take in the surroundings.  Dimly lit, nicely furnished.
About what I expected.  There's a bottle of something -- scotch, or
maybe bourbon -- on the table, and an empty glass.  He sees me eyeing
it.

"Something to drink?"

I nod my head.  It's cold out, and I'm chilled to the bone.  He pours me
a glass and hands it to me.  I stand in front of the couch and drain the
glass in a few swallows.

I hand the glass back to him.  He refills it, handing it back to me.  I
work on this one a little more slowly, warming up quickly.  He pours a
healthy amount into his own glass.  I idly wonder how much he's already
had to drink tonight.

We stand there, facing each other, our empty glasses in hand.  I finally
set my glass down on the end table.

"I don't think this is something we can work out over a few drinks,
Kerry," he tells me.

I shake my head.  "To be honest, Doug, I have my doubts that we can work
this out at all.  But I'm here.  I'm trying."  I'm attempting to show
him that I'm willing to make the effort, as much as it kills me.  It
wouldn't hurt him to do the same.

"Well, you're trying today, anyhow," he says, low.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he says, "that you're willing to admit your shortcomings
now, tonight.  Away from the hospital.  But what about tomorrow, when we
get back to work?  What about next week?  I'm not going to change,
Kerry, and neither are you."

"Wait a second," I say, pulling my gloves off and jamming them into my
coat pockets.  "I'm not admitting any shortcomings.  That's not what
this is about.  That's not why I came here."

"Don't think you have any shortcomings?" he asks, bitingly.  "I can make
a list, if you want."

I struggle to remain calm.  "This isn't about -- "

"Of course not," he says, cutting me off.  "It's not about you, right,
Kerry?  Just about me, and how you can't tolerate my behavior, my
decisions."

"This is about us finding a way to work together in the ER," I snap.
"That's all."

"But you can't tolerate the choices I make as a doctor.  And that's why
we keep ending up against a wall."

"Doug, you make decisions that are impulsive -- "

"I do what's best for the patient.  I do what I think is right," he
says, his voice rising a few notches.

"You break the rules," I tell him, matching his tone in volume.  "You
never hesitate to break the rules, consequences be damned."

"If it's best for my patients, yes, I will break the rules.  Patient
care comes first, Kerry.  End of story.  That's something you obviously
don't understand."

"I understand that completely," I tell him icily.

"Bullshit.  You're more concerned with making yourself look good -- "

"You bastard," I snap.

He shrugs it off.  "The truth hurts, doesn't it, Kerry?  You care more
about administration and research studies than you do about being a
doctor."

The words cut me razor sharp, and for a moment I can't find my voice.
"That's not true," I say, my voice trembling in anger.

He nods and murmurs something I don't hear, but I don't care.

"God damn you, Doug.  You don't know the first thing about me."

"I know enough, Kerry.  I know more than enough."

Something snaps inside me.  My anger has bubbled up and turned into
rage.  I take two sudden steps forward and haul off and slap him, hard.

I stumble back a few steps, shocked at my own action.  Before I can
react further, he reaches for me, grabbing me by the shoulders roughly.
"Let go of me."  I spit the words out, trying to pull free from his
grip, but he's stronger than I am.  He forces me up against the wall and
lets go of my shoulders.  He puts his arms up, palms flat against the
wall, one on each side of my body, blocking me from moving.

"You know," he says, "it's a  good thing for you I don't hit women, or
I'd have hit back."

"This conversation is over.  Get out of my way."

"I don't think so," he says.  "I'm going to tell you something and
you're going to listen to me."

"I don't care what you feel you need to say.  I don't want to hear it."

"You might want to hear this, Kerry.  You just might learn something."

I lean forward and put both hands up, pushing at his chest.  I can smell
the alcohol on him.  I shouldn't have had those drinks, especially not
on an empty stomach.  I'm already tipsy and he's way past that.  "You're
drunk, Doug.  Get the hell out of my way."  His reflexes should have
been slowed by the alcohol, but they're still sharp.  He reacts --
pushing me back up against the wall, hard this time.  He leans in
close.  "God damn it," I say, furious.  We're struggling now, me trying
to get away, him trying to anchor me in one place.

"Just -- hold still," he mutters.  "Hold still."

And at that moment, I feel his body pressing into mine, and I can feel
his erection pushed up against my belly, and I do hold still.  I hold
very still.

I look up at him in the dimly-lit room, my thoughts clouded by alcohol
and anger. His eyes are glittering, holding my stare, and his features
are distorted from rage and frustration.

I can see something else there, too, but I'm not sure what it is.

I'm dimly aware that I'm suddenly, terribly aroused.  The thought should
make me ashamed, angry, even slightly appalled.  But I don't feel any of
those things.  As if a light switch has been flipped, the anger has
turned into something else, something equally out of control.

I don't know who initiates it, but in the next moment, we're kissing.
It's hot and brutal.  There's no delicacy, no sensitivity.  We're both
hungry and it shows.

My mind has gone blank.  His hands are fumbling with the buttons on my
coat, tearing it open.  He lets me away from the wall for a moment, only
long enough to shrug out of the thick material, letting it fall to the
floor.  I let my crutch fall as well; it's only going to get in the way
right now.

My hands reach for the waist of the dark jeans he's wearing; I pull the
button open and slide the zipper down.  The noise is unbearably loud in
the room, which is silent except for our heavy breathing.  He touches my
breasts, his hands pawing them, and for a moment I lean my head back,
closing my eyes, feeling a wave of sensation course through my body.

There's a lot of frantic movements as we remove only the clothes that
are in the way, only the ones that need to come off.  And then his
fingers are testing me, and finds me more than ready.

He puts two strong hands around my waist and lifts me up a few inches,
my back scraping against the plaster wall.

When he lowers me down, he slides into me in one smooth, hard thrust and
I moan.  It's the first sound either one of us has made.  He pumps into
me furiously, and my head bumps against the wall, over and over.  I
clutch at his back, to keep him close, to keep him from stopping.

At one point I raise my head.  I feel bruised, physically and
emotionally, and it feels good; it makes me feel alive.  Something tells
me that I'm going to feel unbelievably bad about that feeling later, but
I can't psychoanalyze myself at the moment.

Doug catches my eye and we both look away.

This is all going to be over quickly, and although I am desperate for
this, I know that drawing it out would be a mistake.  I'm thinking
clearly enough to know that much -- but not much else.

I rake my fingernails down his back, through his shirt, and he arches.
He becomes erratic, and something about the speed and force of his
movements causes an overflow of sensation.  My body jerks and I come,
unexpectedly, sharply.  He doesn't even slow down; he continues to
thrust in and out of me until moments later, he groans and comes as
well.

His head droops and falls on my neck; my own head lolls off to one side.

As he softens inside my body, it hits me.

Oh my God, I think to myself.  What have I done?

He slips out of my body and backs away from me, his head down.  He
gathers his jeans and walks out of the room, leaving me alone.

My shirt is rumpled and half-undone; one of the buttons is gone.  I find
it on the floor.  I pull my pants back on, slipping the button into my
pocket.  I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should go into the
other room and talk to him.  But I can't.  I can't face him, I can't
face what we've done.

And there's nothing to say.

I pick up my crutch and put my coat on, doing up the buttons with shaky
fingers.  I let myself out of the house and step back into the cold
night air.  By the time I'm at my car, I'm shaking violently.

I turn the car on and sit there for long minutes, hunched over the
steering wheel, the heat on full blast.

An insistent tapping on the window startles me and I look up.  Doug's
face peers in through the glass.  I hesitate a moment, then roll the
window down.

"Look, Kerry," he starts, awkwardly.  He runs a hand through his hair.

I close my eyes for a brief moment, then open them again.

"A mistake," I tell him.  "It was a mistake."

"Yes."  He can barely look me in the eye.  "A mistake," he repeats.

I don't know what else to say. I roll the window back up and put the car
into gear and drive away.

****

I get home in one piece.

Barely.

Once inside, I take off my coat and hurry into the bathroom, stripping
off my clothes as fast as I can.  I run the shower and step in, letting
the hot water scald my skin.

A mistake.  A mistake.  Pretend it never happened.

I wash myself.  I use the soap to wash away the physical reminders.  I
scrub until my skin is raw from the loofah sponge, from the searing hot
water.  I stand there for a long time, letting the water slide down my
body.  I look down and see the water swirling down the drain.

The water finally runs cold, and I am forced to turn the faucets off,
and get out of the shower.

****

I lie in bed that night, buried under a pile of blankets.  No matter how
many I have piled onto the bed, I still can't get warm.  And I can't
fall asleep.

The memory of what Doug Ross and I did hovers in my mind.  I can't stop
myself from going over it in my head, again and again.

A mistake.  A mistake.

What an understatement.

I press my face into the pillow.

****

The next morning at work I stride into the ER, calm and resolute.  I've
had very little sleep but the few hours I did get have allowed me to put
some persepctive on what happened.

Mark and Doug come into the lounge together, chuckling about something,
their faces pink from the cold outside.  Doug sees me and stops laughing
abruptly.  Mark keeps talking to him, oblivious to the look Doug and I
share.

"Hey, good morning, Kerry," Mark says cheerfully, unwinding the scarf
from his neck.

"Morning, Mark.  Doug."  I force pleasantries into my voice.

"Hey, Kerry," Doug finally says.

"So what were you doing last night?" Mark asks Doug.  "I tried calling a
few times but the line was busy."

"I, uh, had the phone off the hook," Doug answers.

I fumble in my locker for my stethoscope, keeping my face out of view.
I can feel Doug's stare on my back.

"Dr. Greene, MVA's pulling up at the back door," Haleh pokes her head
into the lounge.

"All right, I'll be right there," he answers, shoving his coat into his
locker and draping his stethoscope around his neck.  "Did you have
someone over?  Anyone I know?" Mark asks Doug.

I turn around finally, slamming my locker shut, a little harder than
necessary.

"Nope," Doug answers, noncommittal.

"I'll help you with that MVA," I tell Mark, desperate to change the
subject.

"Great," Mark says, and leaves the lounge.  I'm right behind him but
Doug catches my arm and holds me back.

"Hold on a minute," he says, low.  I stiffen under his touch as the
physicality of the previous evening comes rushing back.

"Doug, we agreed -- it was a mistake.  And we should just let it go.
Like it never happened."

"Yes," he answers.  "Good."

"Are we done?" I ask.

"We're done," he nods, and releases my arm.

I head out of the lounge, repeating the mantra over and over in my
head.  It was a mistake.  It never happened.

I have to believe that.  I have to make myself believe that.

END / Against the Wall