Summary: Post-14.19, The Chicago Way. Luka and Abby in the aftermath of Pratt's death. Grief, simplicity and an anniversary gift.
Rating: T, a small amount of strong language.
Disclaimer: The ER characters are not my property.
3/5/08
An eventful day slowly began to fade into the calmest night, the last faithful arrows of light pooling into graphite shadows, a drizzle of rain falling along the window. Slight traces of golden sunlight lined the ever-heavier clouds, battling aimlessly against the oncoming darkness. Sitting perfectly still on the edge of the bed, Abby absent-mindedly toyed with her son's thick, dark hair, lost in thought and somewhat hypnotised by the cadence of the falling rain. She couldn't remember how long she'd been sitting there trying to ignore the dull throb in her wrist and the white noise looped in her eardrums. How long she'd cautiously been holding his small frame, her eyes closed tight to shut away the world. Somehow the simplicity of the moment was a comfort, the cool softness of the cotton sheets against her skin; the slow, sweet timbre of Joe's breath as he neared the bliss of peaceful sleep.
"We should put him to bed," Luka said softly, breaking her fragile reverie. She barely moved until he was standing right in front of her, gaze fixed with certainty and empathy. Abby nodded solemnly, still pressing her son close to her, holding him in with her good hand. She made no move to offer him to his father's arms. Luka knew she probably wanted to sit there with him all night, comforted by his very presence and the knowledge that he was safe. Finally, she submitted to a slight smile, wondering when they had last put him to bed together, once again thankful for the uncomplicated nature of things.
From the window in Joe's room, the thin lines of gold in the sky were even more evident, endless metallic ribbons tied into the clouds. After setting him down with meticulous care, she lingered at the edge of his cot for much longer than usual. Remembering the early months of his home life, she studied the slow rise and fall of his chest, the exemplary peace on his features, absorbing every detail through some kind of maternal osmosis. Delicately tracing a finger along her son's bare arm, Abby wondered if life was just made of some cruel give and take. That exhausting day that she became a mother she ended up less of a woman; unable to ever bear another child. Today, Greg had been pulled from the world, so harshly aware of his own fate as that painfully hot tear fell from his eye. Yet after a month of uncertainty, silence, pain and confusion, her husband had returned home. Just as, barely hours earlier, Greg had been so certain he would. Reaching to caress Joe's warm, rosy cheek, committing the very lines of his being to memory, she realised that her friend's passing, however, was far from simple. His children would never be born, he would never be married, so much potential unfulfilled. Using a knuckle to force away a tear, Abby exhaled deeply, trying to fight off the painful daggers of grief that pierced her with slow, calculated precision.
Instinctively, Luka slipped an arm around her waist from behind, pressing a soft kiss into her hair. Colours played behind his closed eyes as he revelled in the ease of the smallest intimacy, the spiralling patterns both certain and confusing. Some things could be regained in an instant, whilst others would take time to rebuild.
"He's fine," he affirmed, his voice low as he traced his fingertips lightly across her bare arm, stroking her skin tenderly.
"I know, " she replied quietly, sinking back into him slightly, refusing to move her eyes away until she was certain all was well.
Pale-opal light spilled from the bedside lamp, spreading comfort into every corner of the room. The dark folds of night were now shut behind the blinds, pushed away in earnest. It was almost painfully quiet now, barely a whisper had passed between them since putting their son to bed. It seemed like they had been laying side by side on the bed for hours, both lost in thought, caught up in similar webs of emotion.
"Did you come home for Joe?" Abby broke the silence with a question loaded with fear and purpose. A halo of insecurity had been tightening around her all evening, closing in, pushing anxiety deep into her aching body. Luka turned to see his wife's eyes. Even in the soothing vanilla of the half-light, they were almost black with terror, deeply saturated with darkness. He felt strangely torn, knowing that behind the sheer wall of dread there was also a great deal of courage. She wanted to be sure that they still had a marriage, didn't want to have half of him, didn't want him to just feel compelled to stay with her for the sake of their son.
"We're a family. It's not something you give up on easily," he replied slowly, "Just like your marriage." "Especially not on your anniversary," he added, quickly taking hold of her hand, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze, almost pushing the certainty into her skin.
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"I have something for you," Luka said softly, getting up quickly and leaving the room. He returned holding a mid-sized, flat red box, with a shiny ribbon tied on top.
"Your anniversary gift..." "I didn't forget, I just didn't know how to give it to you...find the right moment." His voice was soft, brimming with emotion.
The scarlet ribbon slid effortlessly through between Abby's fingers, another twinge of pain tugging at her left wrist. She opened the shallow lid carefully, feeling slightly nervous about the contents of the box. Nestled neatly inside were a variety of pieces of paper. Flicking gingerly through them, she soon realised that they were letters, all of them handwritten, some untidy, others neater and more considered. While some were still crisp and clean on white notepaper, others were torn, battered and creased, clearly worn by age.
"You wrote letters?" Her voice was laced with emotion and surprise, the flimsy papers strangely solid in her hands. A catalogue of his emotions rested there, different moments, different languages, love somehow never manifesting itself in the same way, but there nevertheless.
"I had so many times when I wanted to tell you things, I didn't know what to say, so I wrote to you," he explained, rather plainly. Although he made it sound simple, he knew that it was not. He had poured those words into ink on different continents. Those pages carried with them grit, sand and blood from Africa; heart, soul and morphine from Europe; confusion, longing and certainty from America. After a moment's contemplation, Luka soon realised that even in the dim light, she had begun to study the first piece of paper. Reacting, he gently linked his fingers around her wrist and spoke lightly.
"Don't read them now, I'll be embarrassed."
The slightly shy, gentle smile that crept across his face only served to cut her deeper with an emotional whirlwind, gratitude and love infusing her to the core. She carefully smoothed the creases out of the top piece of paper before sliding it back into the box and replacing the lid.
Closing the remaining distance between them quickly, she moved to kneel on the bed so they were face to face, slowly and tenderly tracing her thumb against the light, abrasive stubble on his face, sparks between their skin.
"Promise me something," she said firmly, gazing at him intently. He nodded in agreement, the simplest gesture of affirmation.
"In future, just tell me." She brushed her lips against his, a delicate kiss that betrayed the steel beneath it, before they both settled back into the welcoming coolness of the sheets.
A moment later, Luka wound the discarded ribbon around his fingertips, tightening it and loosening it again, watching it turn into scarlet circles.
"I don't really feel like celebrating," Abby admitted, watching those red coils fall and thinking only of all the blood spilt earlier in the day.
"We can celebrate next year," he replied, with just the hint of a smile playing across his face, hope at the forefront of his words.
"What will you give me that's made from cotton?" She asked in an enigmatic tone, aware that the material was the traditional second-anniversary gift.
Luka shrugged, then rather casually announced the first thing that came into his head. "Panties?"
They both laughed softly, unable to remember the last time they had shared a joke, relishing in the promise of revival and repair and the ease in which they had found a light-hearted moment.
The luminous glow of the hands on his watch was now the only light in the room, a thin green mark. Abby read the time as a quarter to twelve, and once again broke the contemplative silence, as her mind had wandered into their time apart.
"What did you do with your evenings? When you were living alone?" Her mouth was dry in asking the question, she almost felt the need to chastise herself for wanting to know. She didn't really want to imagine if it had been easy for him to idle away his free time, if he had been comfortable in maintaining that ache-inducing distance between them, even in the simplest of fashions.
"Nothing, really. TV. A few movies. The gym."
"The gym?" Her tone was slightly incredulous, she was almost amused by the thought.
"It was fairly depressing," Luka admitted, with a slight chuckle. He was not about to admit that he had probably run many, many miles in the last month. Always running, trying to escape those thoughts, those torturous images of that man's hands all over her. Maybe Niko was right about me always running away, he thought sadly, putting a hand over his face as if to brush away that troubling cobweb of a thought.
"It was a good distraction...from everything." He winced into the darkness, soon regretting what he had said. "It was selfish, I know. I should have tried to stay, should have been here for you." Anger and regret intermingled in his voice as he felt he should have been stronger, should have fought harder.
Abby shook her head lightly, feeling the need to dismiss his words in an instant.
"With rehab, I had to get better by myself, I needed that space. Maybe you just needed to do the same." Part of her knew it had almost been absurd, asking him to help her help herself. But she understood that it had been such a crucial part of her recovery and that perhaps, subconsciously, she had allowed him the same fate. When he announced he was moving out, despite the desperate ache she felt deep in her bones, she had not pleaded with him to stay. She wore a mask of silent acceptance and forced away the tears until he was gone.
"I should have stayed to help you with everything," Luka insisted. "It was such a waste of time." Today only highlighted the cruelty of time, the fragility of life.
"I should have been there with you when you buried your father." Their regret seemed to linger and mesh in the cool air, before Luka found a memory to lighten the mood.
"I told him all about your track record with funerals, I think he might have insisted that you stayed away."
"You told him what happened with Eric all those years ago? Abby asked, her voice incredulous. She moved onto her side, resting her cheek against her palm, intrigued by his admission.
'He loved that story. He laughed so hard it was like he was in the next room, not on the other side of the world." His voice was tinged with reverie and melancholic memories. It was strange that humour had been a glue that poured its joyous adhesive into the cavern between them.
"It wasn't funny at the time," she said quietly, feeling just a little bit guilty, but at the same time, amused and grateful that Luka's memory was an untroubled one. "I spoke to him once, on the phone, I think you were out," she continued softly. "I was really surprised that he spoke such good English. He told me that someone needed to know how to tell the tourists to fuck off." Abby laughed a little harder this time, allowing all the memories to catch up with her.
"That sounds like him," Luka affirmed, suddenly caught between the pain of his loss and the balm of remembrance. "He liked mischief." He moved in a little closer and traced a fingertip lightly along her arm. "We talked about you a lot."
"I bet you didn't tell him any of the bad things," she said reflectively, sadness wrapping its way around her tone. Abby resisted the urge to pull away from the comfort of his touch, knowing that she would prefer to push away the self-doubt instead.
"There are more good things to talk about than bad, Abby."
She didn't reply, closing her eyes, needing another moment of contemplation. She knew this was the difference, one of the reasons why he had felt her betrayal so heavily. He had believed in her so deeply he hadn't seen it coming. He hadn't expected her to fuck everything up like everybody else had. Surprising herself, she took a fistful of his shirt and tugged him towards her purposefully, searching out his eyes in the darkness. Just to feel the smooth cotton in her hands was a relief, a tangible confirmation that he was there.
"Greg told me you would come home." Her voice was wrought with emotion, the day's events overwhelming her again, fresh tears soon becoming apparent.
"As sure of himself as ever," he whispered lightly, hearing her sniff and chuckle at the same time. Delicately, he pushed a few errant strands of her hair from her face and gently took hold of her injured wrist, placing the weight of the cast onto his shoulder.
"It's late, you should rest." Abby nodded in agreement, suddenly aware of the fragility of their embrace, her broken bone balanced against the heat of his skin. Those thin hands on his watch were a marker again, as she realised it was past midnight. They were beginning the second year of their marriage in this uncertain state, bonded and torn by grief, hopeful yet haunted.
The future was anything but simple.