Rating: FRM (Fan Rated suitable for Mature persons)
Content Warning: Character death, language, adult themes, sex
Spoilers: Entire Ames arc of S13, so from 13.5 - 13.14
Disclaimer: ER and its characters are the property of Michael Crichton, John Wells, Amblin Entertainment and Constant C Productions. No infringement intended, please don't sue, yadda yadda yadda.
Notes: Hiking the rating on this one. :D Dubenko's POV this time. For more specific notes, see Chapter 1.
Chapter 2
The service finally ends and he heads for the bar, orders a vodka neat, and wonders what the hell he's doing here.
He tells himself it would look bad for the Chief of Surgery to miss the wake service for the Chief of the ER; that he's only here to pay his respects.
And he would if he had any, but he doesn't.
It's why he's avoided joining the stream of mourners. He can't look her in the eyes and tell her he's sorry for her loss when he isn't, so he stays where he is and spends the evening watching her through the bottom of his vodka glass.
Several rounds later, he sees her slip outside and before he can even ask himself what the hell he's doing, he follows.
She's sucking in huge gulps of air when he catches up to her, looking like she's about to hyperventilate, and he realizes - allows himself to admit - that this is why he's here.
"Abigail?"
She turns at the sound of his voice - startled - and teeters in her high heels. He rushes forward the last couple feet to steady her before she falls, but he's not exactly steady himself; the vodka's starting to catch up to him and he nearly sends them both to the ground.
They clutch reflexively at each other, just barely managing to stay upright, and as his gaze drifts down to her face he finds himself unable to look away.
He doesn't know who the Abby Lockhart in front of him is, but he knows that she isn't the Abby Lockhart he lost to a man who never deserved her.
And maybe that's why he kisses her.
Or maybe he's just a masochistic freak, because he knows this can't end well - it'll only hurt worse than it already does - but he can't stop himself; he doesn't want to.
And judging from the way she's wrapping her arms around him and thrusting her tongue against his lips - hard and insistent and oh god, so hot - neither does she.
He knows they should stop. She's just buried her child's father and he's taking advantage. She doesn't need him complicating things and emotions that are probably already complicated enough. He opens his mouth to try to tell her, but he doesn't get the chance because her tongue's inside; sucking, exploring, dueling and dominating, and he knows he won't say a word.
He doesn't have to.
His body does the talking for him.
He doesn't even have time to be embarrassed. She breaks the kiss, but doesn't pull away, and there's no mistaking the look in her eyes as she slips her hands between them, teasing along the waistband of his pants and lower, rubbing against the growing bulge.
His breath catches in his chest and he thinks he might die right there on the sidewalk when she leans in and murmurs against his ear.
"That's quite a 'probe' you've got there." He gasps as her hand cups him through his pants, squeezing for effect. She gets it in the quickening of his breath and the tightening of his crotch beneath her fingers. "And I hear I'm supposed to leave the 'deep probing' to the surgeons, so whaddya say? You wanna 'probe' me?"
It's difficult to swallow and he has to check for a moment to see if his tongue is still there. "I - um - that is t-to say, I -"
Jesus Christ.
Between the vodka and her hand, alternating between cupping and stroking him, he can barely think straight. "Here?" he croaks. "Now?"
She glances around and seems to remember that they're still on the sidewalk, in full view of the bar's front window and the mourners gathered beyond. Fortunately, no one's looking; they're all too busy getting drunk on their late Chief's dime.
A fitting tribute, he thinks, for a man who had everything and pissed it all away.
"Not here," she finally replies, and walks backwards, tugging him down a side alley. "And yes, right now."
She's on him as soon as they're out of the glow of the street lamps, pushing at his suit jacket, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt - nipping and sucking at any exposed skin she can reach. It tingles and burns with the combination of the frigid night air and her hot tongue, and he gasps out something he hopes sounds like her name - which is apparently now 'Oh god, Abigail, I- yes' - as she works his erection free from his trousers and wraps her hand around it.
"Abby," she corrects him sternly, pumping her fist along his length for emphasis.
He groans and manages to moan it back to her in reply as she props one foot on an empty crate to her side, then catches one of his hands in her free one and positions it under the modest black skirt that covers the tops of her bare thighs. He looks down at her, watching him through hooded brown eyes, and doesn't even pretend not to know what she wants.
His fingers feel out the contours of her body, committing each one to memory as he slips his free hand under her shirt to cup a full breast. She moans and sucks in a sharp breath when he shifts the crotch of her panties aside to thrust two fingers inside her.
Her chest is heaving erratically under the hand that's still teasing her breast - a mirror of his own breathing - while the nimble fingers of the other tease her relentlessly, keeping pace with her fist as it moves along his length.
She's close, begging him in ragged breaths for release.
"Lu-"
He tenses, waiting for the inevitable, and promises himself he won't hate her when she calls a name he doesn't answer to.
"-cien, please. I can't -"
He's unprepared and bucks in her hand. And he can't deny her; he's toeing the line himself.
His fingers cease their movements as his hands find purchase on her hips - hiking her skirt up out of the way - and she's lighter than he imagined when he lifts her up and positions her above him, bracing her back against the wall.
Brown eyes lock with hazel as her mouth hovers over his, murmuring words that raise the hackles on the back of his neck in anticipation. "I'm ready for my 'internal exam'," she whispers against his lips, "and no anesthesia. I wanna feel everything."
Then she opens her mouth and body to him and he forgets everything but the way it feels and sounds and tastes to be the name on her lips as she comes apart around him.
Later, as he stands at the curb to hail a cab - after they've straightened their clothes and put themselves back together - he thinks about how ironic it is that he went into this hating Kovac and came out of it hating himself.
It might be funny if it weren't so pathetic.
Because he knows that given the chance to make tonight's choices again, he wouldn't change a thing. And given the chance to do it again...
He won't say no.