A Carby of Sorts.

Author's notes: I'm not sure where this came from, I was just bored today, and so I wrote. It might be a bit weird to follow, I'm sorry if it is; it's not really based on what's happened, it loosely follows events up to the end of season eight, but I've changed some things and skipped some – call it writer's prerogative!

It's Abby's POV, but you'll soon get that, she's somewhere between 70/80 years old.

24th July, 2040

You sit in your bed, where you've been sitting for the last two months, ten days and 12 hours, wondering, letting your mind and memory wander. There isn't much else to do when you can only go for one scheduled walk a day, and the people fussing about you just become a pain in the ass.

You can see outside through the large window near your bed, framed with white cotton curtains, a vase of flowers to one side of it. They're lilies. You know whoever sent them meant well, but they bring back memories; bad memories of the past. You also remember what your granny told you when you got some for your mother that time she was feeling unwell. 'Lilies are death flowers, Abigail. Go find something else.'

Death. Death. It never sounds nice when you say it, it never does, but you feel you've coped with enough not to be scared of death, not to worry and be afraid. It's just another step you take, on another day.

The temperature outside is rising, which is unusual – you remember it being bitter and cold here, but not today. The heat reminds you of something, and you drift of into a daydream.

The airport was sticky, and the heat was beginning to make a sweaty smell around the place, mingling with the smell of whatever was cooking in the café behind you. All you can concentrate is in front of you, the one thing that was consistent, that had been everything you needed. 'I'll be back in a few days.'

'I'd come, if you needed me to.' He looks pleadingly at you, but you resist.

'I need to do this myself. I'm bringing Maggie back on Thursday…'

'I'll be there.' He replies immediately, without question, and you thank him.

'I don't deserve you,' you offer gratefully. 'I'll miss you,' you add.

'Don't miss me. I'll be right here," he answers in a bad imitation of ET. It's bad, but it's also adorable. 'I love you,' he whispers, and your heart visibly leaps. You know he sees it, and you look straight at him, his eyes still as powerful in your sleep as they were in that room, penetrating, drowning you. And then he kisses you, and you still feel it now. And you wish he was here, wish he hadn't left you. If you could just touch him once more, to check it was real.

'I'll see you Thursday,' he repeats. Another kiss, and the dream fades, interrupted by a presence beside you.

"Gramma! Gramma!"

"Ssssh! Becky, Grandma's asleep! You can't just rush in when you feel like it-"

"It's ok," you say, in a quiet voice, motioning for the girl to come and sit next to you. She gets older every day, prettier, and her blonde locks curl around her face, covered in jam and fluff. You smile, and try to wipe off some of the jammy goo from her mouth, but it's no use, and you give up, laughing a little.

"I don't know why you insisted on coming back to Chicago mother! What's here that we haven't got in Georgia?"

"My life was here," you reply bitterly, remembering happier times. You remember everything, every little detail of your life here because you desperately want to cling to it. But you know you can't.

You think of the other doctor, the one you went to first. His adorable accent, his caring gentle touch. The way you knew he'd give the right one the world if he could, but you knew there were some things he just couldn't do. Not for you.

'You need a place to stay, let me help you.' You were scared then, worried Brian would come back and he understood that, he helped. He still cared. But he couldn't help you properly, and you never helped him. He wanted to try again; you wanted the safety of his apartment, not him. You tried to be friends. Turns out things weren't easier that way. Things got worse.

His face, the way he looked at you with those pained Croatian eyes, full of an emotion you couldn't read. 'You're having a baby?'

'Umm, yeah. I was going to-'

'It's his?'

'Who else's would it be?'

'Good luck.' The fake happy expression on his face, the curt nod as he left. And that was the last time you spoke to him, the last time you saw him. And he hated you.

The memory fades into another, and another, until you're mind is overwhelmed with memories, memories of them all. And you fall asleep, quietly.

Then you slip into the same dream. The one you don't know the meaning of, but it returns, like always. It haunts you. Like a dream used to, only this one is more pleasant. Equally confusing, but not frightening.

He's standing, with his back to you, looking out to the bluey green sea, and the waves are crashing madly at the defenceless sand, the wind is howling. You feel a chill run through your body, and wrap your coat tighter round you, trying to conserve the heat. One foot after another you move towards where he stands. He turns, but you still can't see his face, and a voice speaks. 'You're late.'

"Gramma Abby!" And you're awake and alert, still trying to feel the dream. Trying to touch it, but it's gone.

"Mom? Were you having the dream again Mom?"

"Yes," you admit, annoyed that you don't know what the dream is by now, annoyed that you were woken before you found out.

"Are you ok to talk with Becky?" your patient daughter asks, face full of concern.

"I'm ok, Susan." She's named after the colleague that delivered her, the colleague you haven't seen for nearly 40 years. 40 long years and about two letters a year to her, and you feel guilty. You should have written more, should have faced the pain instead of running away. But you didn't. You didn't do enough. It's all about choices, choices which shape us. And choices which something more powerful than you decides for you.

"Gramma," Becky is curled up by your side now, sounding curious and scared at the same time. You nod for her to continue. "Am I loved? And is Mom?"

"Of course you are!" you reply, shocked. "You both are. You're very special to me."

"Yanna Kovac said her Daddy told her Mom was a bastard, and that she was never wanted. She said she was a mistake that everyone regretted."

You sit in stunned silence, housing murderous intentions towards Mikeal Kovac, who really should know better than to tell a child that, and sadness because it's partly true. You glance towards Susan, who's eyes begin to water.

"Yanna's Grandfather lied to her Daddy," you whisper, to disapproving looks from Susan. "Your Mom was wanted from the day she was made."

"Then why isn't her real Daddy here now? Yanna Kovac's Grandfather is still here." She looks so innocent, and she doesn't understand that life isn't simple, isn't perfect.

"Your Grandfather died before Mom was born," you tell her, and she looks sad.

"Why?"

"I don't know why Becky, but everything happens for a reason." You wish you could believe your own words, philosophical as they are, but the truth is that sometimes there is no reason, sometimes life is just cruel. But how do you tell a seven year old child that?

"What reason? Was Grandad a bad man?"

"No, no honey." You stroke her hair, choking back a tear. "Your Grandfather was a wonderful man – the kindest man and the gentlest. You want to know about him, you ask me, not Yanna Kovac." She nods, and smiles, so at least she knows that Yanna isn't telling the truth.

"But Grandad Phillip looks after Mommy, doesn't he? He was like her Daddy."

"Yes, he was. He looked after Mommy and Gramma."

"How did he die?"

"Grandad Phillip? You know how he died – he had a poorly heart last year."

"No, how did Mommy's real Daddy die, silly!" She says it like it's a game, a story, and eagerly rises up, knee crossed and arms resting across them. You want to tell her. But it still cuts through you like a guilt covered knife every time someone asks you. Because it was your fault, because you left, because you never told him about the baby. Maybe if you had done, he would have driven more carefully that day. Or he would have at least died happy. He didn't even know you were there. You take a deep breath.

"His name was John Carter."

"Is that why Mommy's surname is different to yours Gramma? Mommy's called Susan Carter, not Lockhart," she stated cleverly, seemingly proud she noticed it. You allow yourself a smile.

"Yes." She comes to sit closer to you, cuddling into your chest.

"Was he a handsome Prince, with a castle?"

"No, he was very handsome, and very rich, but he wasn't a Prince."

"Oh."

She seems disappointed, but you continue with the story anyway. "He was a doctor, and he worked with me here, in Chicago. And we fell in love." But we wasted it, you think, briefly, before continuing. "I went away for a while, to see some people, and when I came back, he came to pick me up at the airport, but his car crashed and he never got there. He went into a deep sleep in the hospital," your voice wobbles with the memory, "and he didn't wake up."

"And that's it?" she interrupts, disappointed. "How did you fall in love?"

"That's another longer story Becky, and I'm tired now," you reply, although the truth is that you can't bring yourself to talk about it.

"Tomorrow?" she asks hopefully.

"Tomorrow."

"Couldn't you make him better Gramma?"

"Nobody could."

"And you weren't married?"

"No. I met Grandad Phillip in Georgia a few years later, and I married him."

"Didn't you love John anymore?"

This is harder than you could imagine. "I always loved John," you reply carefully, "but he wasn't coming back."

She looks up towards the ceiling, processing this new information, then looks back at you curiously "So I have two Grandads?" she asks, a little confused.

"Yes, who both wanted you and Mommy." Or who both would have wanted you. One didn't get the chance to want.

She looks up at you with her deep brown eyes, inherited from her mother, with innocence and beauty, something you lost along the way to becoming an adult. "And Grandad John is watching me and Mommy from heaven?"

"Yes," you nod with a smile, as you feel the tears congregating in your eyes. "He's watching out for you, and so is Grandad Phillip."

"Do you think they are friends?" You nod thoughtfully, and she seems glad at the thought. Becky perks up again. "So am I special then?"

You laugh. "Yes, but no more special than any other little girl is to her Gramma."

"Oh."

Susan's standing in the corner, smiling, where she's been for the past 5 minutes. She smiles at you, and understands you need your rest. "Becky, time for you to eat," she calls to the little girl, who dutifully stands off the bed, kissing you on the cheek, and hurries downstairs. Susan turns to you. "Dr Lewis and her husband are coming to see you tomorrow Mom," she says, walking over to the curtains and drawing them closed, shutting out the sunlight.

You shake your head at her. "Leave them open."

"You need your sleep Mom," she begins sternly, but gives in. "Call me if you need anything."

You wait for her to leave, and reach underneath the mattress, fumbling around to find them. The box is easy to locate, and you find there's one cigarette left, which you light, taking a deep breath and exhaling the smoke willingly with a sigh. You chuckle, imagining what Susan would do if she found you smoking.

Then you take another breath, savouring the feeling, and blow slowly out, feeling the smoke pass from your lips, floating across the room like a misty cloud.

****************
"Gramma!" The small voice wakes you, and, disappointed, you find yourself in the same bed, in the same room, the beach house from your dream long faded. You marvel at what it is that could be so important. "Gramma!"

"Mmm?" The sunlight blinds you and you flop back down onto your bed, squinting from the luminous rays.

"It's tomorrow," she states triumphantly and plops down on the bed, pigtails bobbing behind her. You look at her curiously, and she talks to you slowly, as if it were obvious. "You said that you'd tell me how you fell in love with Grandad John tomorrow, and it's tomorrow now."

Silently cursing yourself for being stupid enough to promise in the first place, you raise yourself into a sitting position so you are facing her. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything."

After telling her of the stabbing, carefully missing out all trace of the addictions you both kneeled to, and explaining to her you wanted to help John get better, you tell her about the endless conversations over coffee, and the way he once travelled across the country to help retrieve your 'sick' mother. You don't mention the Croatian man, because you know that she could repeat it to little Yanna Kovac, and you punctuate your story with smiles and laughs, glad that she made you talk about it. She seems pleased, and urges you to go on.
"Why did you take so long to fall in love?" she asks, out of the blue.

"I had a boyfriend," you reply, "and he had girlfriends."

"But didn't you tell him you loved him Gramma?"

"He knew I loved him." You wince, hoping it's true.

"But you never told him?"

"I tried to." You wonder how to explain your fear of love to a young girl who's head is only full of how beautiful things can be. How to make her understand that love meant giving someone the power to destroy you, and trusting them not to, and that had terrified you. Or you could tell her that you were scared that he loved a vision of you that wasn't real. You decide neither is an option, and tell her about the time that you told him you cared, by the river, and he rejected it, because he knew you still cared too much about someone else. She seems to find this more romantic, stopping to exclaim that he must have loved you then too. She's clever for a child, and her idealism starts to rub off on you, because you begin to believe it to. "And that," you finish off your story, "was when I realised that I loved him."

"How did you know?"

It's hard to simplify something so complicated into a sentence for a child to understand, but you finally come up with one, which you hopes makes sense. "Because I never felt hurt like that before." She seems to understand, you think.

"Becky!" Susan's shouts bring you back to reality, your happy memories fading into the background. "Come and get your breakfast!" She breezes into the room, opening the curtains and allowing you to look out onto the lake, which is sparkling in the sunlight. "Have you been bothering Gramma again Becky?" she scolds the child, who rolls her eyes at you in such a comical way that you can't help but laugh out loud. It reminds you of when you would do that, and you're glad that she's inherited something good from you. Laughing earns you to a stern look from your very serious daughter. "Dr. Lewis will be here at 11. I'll let you sleep 'til then," she states, not asks. She is as stubborn as you are. You watch her hustle Becky off, and she stops to look back at you. You smile. "I love you Mom," she chokes.

"I love you too." She's the only person you never struggled to say those words to, and that makes it all the more special to her, because she knows it.

"Mom! There's a spider in the sink!"

Sharing a smile for a moment, she then hurries off to save Becky from her certain death, and you begin again your quest for cigarettes, which she seems somehow to have known about, because they are moved from their resting place. Becky springs back in, and you try not to look guilty. From behind her she produces a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Mom hid them," she explains sagely. "You're not supposed to have them. But I'll give them to you if you tell me another story." Clever Child.

"Later." She nods gratefully, and puts the package down. "Aren't you supposed to be running from spiders?" you ask, amused.

She shook her head, grinning. "Nope. Spider was for getting rid of Mom," she explained, and skipped out of the room again, leaving you just enough time to gape at her, stunned.

The cigarette stubbornly refuses to light at first, but you persist, and it sparks into being. You want to smoke it before Susan, or even worse, Dr Lewis, gets here to tell you that these things will kill you. Then you chuckle at your little joke, and rest the cigarette on the table next to you. The remaining smoke pours out from your mouth in steady rings, each changing shape in the warm air before your eyes, lulling you into a gentle sleep.

And you are there again, by the sea, the cool air hitting you, freezing your lungs, reviving you. The sand feels soft on your bare feet, and hot, each step sinking downwards, until you make your way over to the tall figure standing by the waves. You smile, but he doesn't turn round, he simply waits, looking across the ocean into the red and yellow expanse of the sunset.

"Mom?" Susan's calling you, and she sounds panicked. "Mom? Wake up!"

You look behind where you are standing, and see Susan, running towards you. Then you turn towards the figure. The sun is setting further. It's time. You cast a glance at Susan and then smile, before turning and walking away from her. You hear her fading shouts, her pleas to come back, but you keep walking until the waves are crashing against your feet and you are standing next to him.

"Nice view," you mutter, looking straight ahead of you.

"You're late," he replies, turning towards you and casting you a cheeky grin, his brown eyes sparkling.

"Hmm?" you reply absentmindedly, losing yourself in the familiar pools of brown.

"You're late for your own wake?" he repeats incredulously.

"A girl's got to make an entrance."

He turns to you, and cups your face in his hands, then gently kisses you. And your knees feel just as weak as they always did, his lips are just as soft and gentle. Then he takes your smooth hand in his, the wrinkly flesh you had now disappeared, and you begin to walk along the sand.

"Well," he begins, "Now that you're here, maybe we should catch up, you know, starting with the daughter I never knew we had?"

"John," you sigh, hitting him gently on the shoulder. "You were kinda dead at the time…"

And you finally understand that it's your time. And you don't need the past or the pain that goes with it. It's behind you.

Now you have eternity.

*************
Author's notes 2: (forgot to write these before) This is a style I haven't written in before, and I don't really tend to do sentimental stuff anyway, I can't really write it, so any comments on style, content and anything else are very welcome, but please keep it constructive. Reviews are a writer's dream, and it only takes a second…