Green Eggs and Ham
Part I
Author: Robbie (curlygurly87@hotmail.com)
Spoilers: Not really, General up through what we've seen of Season 9
Archive: Ask and you shall receive.
Disclaimer: While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me. They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc …
Authors note: This piece originally started out as a standalone but ended up being almost 20 pages long. Therefore, I have decided to separate it into a mini series. The entire series takes place within the space of one day and each new part starts off virtually where the last part left off. The sections entirely in italics indicate Abby's thoughts. I'd love to hear your thoughts! Feedback would be great!
Props to Sara for beta-ing … thanks much, deary!
Summary: Carter and Abby's first Christmas as a couple through Abby's POV. Enjoy …
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"Asystole on the monitor."
"Come on . . . Son of a Bitch!"
His strong arms beat incessantly on the frail chest of the woman that lies, lifeless, on the gurney before us. A vein protrudes from his smooth forehead, pulsating in rhythm with his impassioned pounding. His breathing is ragged and heavy as a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face.
All the while, that interminable ring penetrates the silence. Its high pitched tone never bends, never changes, never stops. It's almost ironic that something so undying and so steady indicates the final chord of life; the finale of an opera, the cessation of beating in the heart that is death.
"It's flat line," a far away voice, that I can vaguely identify as Susan's, interrupts.
His eyes tear away from the unresponsive body, a shell of the exuberant person she once was.
"Charge the paddles, it's fine asystole, we can still get her back."
"She's gone, Carter." A momentary pause. "Call it."
He looks down for a split second, emotion spilling across his face. His rich brown eyes avert back up from the table, but they are out of focus. Apparently, he is staring into space, overcome by his feelings. But I know better; he is looking at something. Or rather, someone.
Defeat. He stares it directly in the eye, and it mirrors in his eyes, his face, his body stance. And with that, he turns and briskly leaves the tense trauma room.
Someone, I frankly don't care who, turns off the monitor, and for the first time since she came in, broken and bleeding, the room is utterly and completely silent.
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I've lost patients before. A hundred thousand times, I've looked death in the eye and lost. I've seen death creep upon innocent bystanders quickly and painlessly and I've seen death linger for hours, days, years; causing immeasurable pain and suffering. Working in such a fast-paced environment, you learn to deal with it. It never gets easier to see death, but you have to teach yourself to put it behind you and move on. He taught me that.
But every so often, kind of like death preys upon its own victims, there will be a patient, a special patient who touches you in some intimate way. And then, just like that, without fair warning, death snatches them away. You try to get past it quickly like the hundreds of other cases you've seen, but you just can't shake that feeling of failure, of loss, of defeat.
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"John?"
I push my body against the heavy door of the lounge, as if trying to seal it so we can be alone. If he heard my quiet plea for recognition, he hasn't reacted. His head hangs over the sink; body slumped against the counter.
I sigh.
And cross the room in a couple of easy strides. I reach out and gently press the palm of my hand into the small of his back. He flinches at my touch, turning around to look at me seconds later. No words pass between us, but like a convection oven gives heat to food, I feel his torment transfer just in time to ripple through me.
He pulls me to him, and I close my eyes, relishing the quiet moment between us. His arms snake around my waist, holding on for dear life as he rests his head gently upon mine. I love how even after roughly 6 months of being together; any physical contact with him can render me speechless. I'm struck by my love for him, for everything about him. I love him.
But now isn't the moment to tell him that. In his own way, I know he knows. Sometimes, you don't have to say it out loud. We both look up and quickly pull away as Malik walks into the lounge.
"What kinda trouble are you two up to in here?" He wonders aloud, a mirthless smirk decorating his face.
I roll my eyes and unwillingly smile at the male nurse, whom I've come to think of as a friend over the years we've worked here together.
"Malik, …" I begin.
"Aren't you going to kiss her?" Malik interrupts.
"What?" Carter replies, furrowing his brow.
"You're standing under the mistletoe, man. Kiss her." He winks.
And sure enough, we look up to see a bough of green tied to the ceiling right above our heads. Carter leans in to press a quick peck to my forehead and turns quickly back to Malik, who is leaving the lounge.
"That's lame, Carter …"
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Thoughts, comments, criticisms? You tell me … I'd love to get some feedback and provided this is received well, I have some more parts written. Thanks!