Disclaimer: I don't own ER. This contains MAJOR SPOILERS for the season finale. If you haven't read the spoilers DON'T read this.
I know I've already got one story going but this has been going over in my mind all day and I had to write it.
He watched as she briefly placed the palm of her hand on her stomach, and in that one moment he knew. All the other momentary touches, orange juice not champagne, all made sense. Who drinks orange juice at their best friend's wedding? He thought they were finally getting somewhere but here was she, with her hand on her stomach, and he knew that this was it, this was his answer.
There was not enough alcohol behind the bar to erase that vision from his eyes, it wouldn't fade, it was emblazoned there. A simple gesture that conveyed so much. It was over, not that it had ever really been. And his world caved in.
The light on the answer machine blinked rapidly 'You have one new message' it said as she pressed the button. 'Neela, its Katy, Ray's at Northwestern, he's been in an accident, I just thought you should know'.
An accident, the words repeated around the apartment, all she could hear.
Her hand instinctively fell to her stomach to touch the life inside.
She presses the button again, she must have got it wrong, there's no way she said accident.
'I fell in love with you, but you keep running back to Gates, so, I guess I have my answer'
'I'll come and visit' She kissed him on the cheek.
'Don't make promises you don't intend to keep'
He turned and watched her as the taxi drew away; this time he was the one who was leaving. And he again saw that small gesture, her hand gently caressing her stomach. And his tears began to fall.
She didn't notice the march until she was among it, the emotions she felt so loud, so consuming that nothing could break through.
She watched the brick fly out of the marcher's hand, unseeing; suddenly felt the tussle of the crowd, her feet catching on something, falling, her hands going to her stomach, to cradle, to protect, as she was dragged to the ground.
Curled up, knees, hands, arms protecting.
Her body being pulled apart.
The pain intensifying.
The blackness encroaching.
Unidentifiable, a Jane Doe, until that is they rummage through her bag, and pull out her pass, Dr Neela Rasgotra.
'Neela?'
Pushing her hair from her face, peering through the livid, purple, black bruises that cover it, yes, Neela. Their thoroughness increases; it's one of their own. An IV is placed, she's intubated, a scan is ordered. It finds a heartbeat, not hers.
'Pregnant?'
'Gates?'
'What? No, we've not been together since before Meg died'
Four months ago, but this is a six week foetus.
'Who?'
Fourteen hours in the OR, rotating surgeons and nurses, sweat pouring, exhaustion levels high but have to keep going, tears clouding the eyes of those who watch and those who participate, the battle to save her, not to lose her. The battle not to harm her child.
The release of breath, she made it through, but the hardest part's to come; the waiting.
Two months of waiting by her bedside, going home to a crying toddler, back to the ER, back to her bedside. Two months of watching her, waiting for a sign of some change, a sign that his top surgical intern would return. Two months of hope dying. The flowers wilting, being replaced, then fading, the loop repeating.
No change, the prayers for a miracle becoming more desperate, deals done with the devil, the angels, whoever to bring her back.
But the baby's developing, growing as it should, unperturbed by her mothers lack of recovery. They'd talked, the doctors, that perhaps the baby was using up all her ability to recover, perhaps if..., but no that wasn't their decision to make, so the waiting continued, but the hope died some more.
Her pressure changed, she rushed to her bedside, they all did; was the miracle they'd been praying for going to happen or was this the end, was this their final goodbye, they held their collective breath.
Slowly, hesitantly her hand moved tentatively to rest on her stomach.
Her chest rose with an intake of breath, and her eyes fluttered.
The relief flooded the room.
The miracle had been performed.
She was back.