Jesus… Tears were pouring down her face, falling into the mug, getting her button-down shirt wet. Her whole body was shaking, her knees weak, her chest screaming in pain. For some crazy reason she wanted to fall to the floor and wail.
Wiping her cheeks off, she glanced around her kitchen. There was milk and cocoa mix and a spoon on the counter. The pan on the stove still had a little steam rising up from it. The cabinet to the left wasn't shut all the way. She couldn't remember taking the stuff out or making what was in her mug, but then, that was often the case with repetitive, habitual actions. You space-shotted them-
What the hell? Through the windows on the other side of the breakfast nook, she saw someone standing in front of her condo. A man. A huge man. He was just outside the glowing pool of a street lamp, so she couldn't see his face, but she knew he was staring at her.
For no evident reason her tears ran harder and faster. And the outpouring got worse as the stranger turned away and walked off down the street.
Jane all but threw the mug onto the counter and bolted out of her kitchen. She had to catch him. She had to stop him.
Just as she came to her front door, a vicious headache took her down to the floor sure as if she'd been tripped off her feet. She sprawled out on the foyer's cold white tile, then twisted onto her side, grinding her fingers into her temples and gasping.
She lay there for God only knew how long, just breathing and praying for the pain to back off. When it finally did she eased her upper body off the floor and leaned against her front door. She wondered if she'd had a stroke, but there had been no cognitive interruptions or visual disturbances. Just one hell of a quick-onset headache.
Must be remnants of the flu she'd had all weekend. That virus that had been around the hospital for weeks had taken her out like a dead rosebush. Which made sense. She hadn't been sick in a long time, so she'd been overdue.
Speaking of overdue… Shit, had she even called to reschedule her interview at Columbia? She had no clue… which meant she probably hadn't. Hell, she didn't even remember leaving the hospital on Thursday night.
She wasn't sure how long she made like a doorstop, but at some point the clock on the mantel started to chime. It was the one that had been in her father's study in Greenwich, an old-fashioned Hamilton made of solid brass that she'd always sworn rang the hours in with a British accent. She'd always hated the damn thing, but it kept good time.
Six o'clock in the morning. Time to go to work.
Good plan, but when she stood up, she knew without a doubt she wasn't going into the hospital. She was lightheaded, weak, exhausted. There was no way she could administer care in her condition; she was still sick as a dog.
Damn it… she had to call in. Where were her pager and her phone…?
She frowned. Her coat and the bag she'd packed to go down to Manhattan were sitting next to the front hall closet.
No cell, though. No pager.
She dragged her sorry ass upstairs and checked by her bed, but the pair weren't there. Back down on the first floor she went through the kitchen. Nothing. And her shoulder bag, the one she always took to work, was missing, too. Could she have left the thing in the car all weekend?
She opened the door into the garage and the automatic light came on.
Weird. Her car was parked headfirst. Usually she backed it in.
Which just proved how out-of-it she'd been.
Sure enough her bag was in the front seat, and she cursed herself as she went back into the condo while dialing. How could she have gone for so long without calling in? Even though she was covered by other attendings, she was never out of touch for more than five hours.
Her service had a number of messages, but luckily none of them were urgent. The important ones concerning patient care had been turfed to whoever was on call, so the rest of it was stuff she could handle later.
She was heading out of the kitchen, making a beeline for her bedroom, when she looked at the mug of chocolate. She didn't have to touch it to know it had gone cold, so she might as well ditch the thing. She went and picked it up, but paused over the sink. For some reason she couldn't bear to throw it out. She left it right where it was on the counter, though she did return the milk to the refrigerator.
Upstairs in her bedroom she ditched her clothes, letting them land where they did, pulled on a T-shirt, and got in bed.
She was settling between her sheets when she realized her body was stiff, especially her inner thighs and lower back. Under different circumstances she would have said she'd had a lot of terrific sex… either that or climbed a mountain. But instead it was just the flu.
Shit. Columbia. The interview.
She'd call Ken Falcheck later this morning, apologize for what she hoped was the second time, and reschedule. They were hungry for her to come onboard, but not showing for an interview with the chairman of the department was insulting as hell. Even if you were sick.
Rearranging herself against her pillows, she couldn't get comfortable. Her neck was tight, and she reached up to massage it, only to frown. There was a sore spot on the right side in front, a real… What the hell? She had a pattern there, some raised bumps.
Whatever. Rashes were not unheard-of with the flu. Or maybe a spider had done her in.
She closed her eyes and told herself to rest. Resting was good. Resting would get rid of this bug faster. Resting would bring her back to normal, a reboot for her body.
Just as she drifted off, an image came to mind, an image of a man with a goatee and diamond eyes. His mouth was moving as he looked at her, framing the words… I love you.
Jane struggled to hold on to what she saw, but she was sliding fast into sleep's dark arms. She fought to stay with the image and lost the battle. The last thing she was aware of were tears flowing onto her pillow as the blackness stole her away.
Well, wasn't this awkward.
John sat on the bench-press in the weight room and watched as Zsadist did bicep curls across the way. The huge loads of iron made a subtle clinking sound as they went up and down, and that was it for noise. There had been no talking so far; it was just like one of their walks, only without the woods. The convo was coming, though. John could sense it.
Z put the weights down on the mats and wiped his face. His bare chest gleamed, his nipple rings rising and falling as he breathed.
His yellow eyes shifted over.
Here we go, John thought.
"So about your transition."
Okaaaay… so they were going to ease into the lesser thing. What about it? he signed.
"How you feeling?"
Good. Wobbly. Different. He shrugged. You know when you, like, clip your nails, and your fingertips are weird for a day, all supersensitive? It's like that all over me.
Oh, what the hell was he going on about? Z had been through the change. He knew what it was doing afterward.
Zsadist dropped the towel and picked up the weights for his second set of reps. "You got any physical problems?"
Not that I know of.
Z's eyes locked on the mats as he alternated lifting his left forearm, then his right. Left. Right. Left. It seemed strange that such heavy weights could make that gentle sound.
"So, Layla reported in."
Oh… shit.
What did she say?
Please… not the shower…
"She said you two didn't have sex. Even though it appeared that you wanted to at one point."
As John's brain shut down, he mindlessly kept track of Z's reps. Right. Left. Right. Left. Who knows this?
"Wrath and me. That's it. And it's no one else's biz. But I'm bringing it up in case there's something physical going on that you need to get checked out."
John stood up and paced around in his gangly way, nothing but sloppy arms and legs and a drunk's sense of balance.