A/N: I just felt like I wanted to write this, so here it is! I'm sorry if it's too depressing or if you find it offensive. Please review even if you didn't like it so that I can improve. =]
She knows that without his help, she would never have even made it this far.
In the two months since she and Jimmy have been off the island, he has been everything she could have hoped for. He is always there for her in the middle of the night when she needs someone to hold her as she cries, always ready to try to make her smile, and sometimes, on the very rare occasion, he even succeeds in making her genuinely happy.
If she is truly honest with herself, that's part of the problem.
Last week, when they were extremely bored with nothing to do in her small apartment, they decided to try to cook. Of course, they actually cooked nothing at all and only ended up making a huge mess. She started it when she accidentally knocked over the milk and it spilled all over the countertop, but he soon followed when he went to open the bag of sugar. While Abby was cutting the dough into the right shapes and sizes, Jimmy decided that instead of just cutting the bag open with a pair of scissors, he was going to try to pry the bag open. Bad idea. Because, while he did open the bag successfully, he also was showered with a huge cloud of powdered sugar. He looked absolutely ridiculous, standing there covered in so much sugar he could be a ghost, and they both burst out laughing.
But the thing that Jimmy didn't realize, that he didn't feel, was that the laughter made her feel guilty. After what she had caused back on that island, she didn't deserve to feel happy or to laugh, not when so many people never would again. She felt the tears begin to well up, and to stop them she did something that shocked even herself.
Before she realized what she had done, her finger was bleeding and Jimmy was all over her, making sure the cut wasn't too deep and that she was okay. She let him lead her into the bathroom and bandage her hand up and kiss her "kitchen battle wound" better.
He never knew, but she felt only relief about her finger, for when she sat on the edge of the tub as he knelt in front of her, she knew that she'd succeeded in getting herself to stop crying.
Aside from the guilt, another part of the problem is that she's ashamed of herself.
Jimmy has been so perfect, but she knows she hasn't been honest with him. He knows that there are good days and bad days, days when she laughs and days when she can barely get out of bed, but he doesn't know the true depth of it. He doesn't know that she sometimes spies on him when he doesn't know she's around. She follows him occasionally when he leaves the apartment, just so that she can see where he's going and whom he's going to see. He's never given her any reason to doubt him, but she can't help the nagging voice in her head that screams at her to make sure she's safe.
So when she's sitting in her car watching as Jimmy walks into the very place he had told her he would, she feels the shame wash over her. She doesn't want to admit that she doesn't completely trust the man that she loves more than anything in the world, the man that she once stood in front of two guns for without the slightest hesitation. She tries to force down her doubts, but she knows that in very little time she'll be seated in the exact same position, doing the exact same thing she swore to herself she would never do again.
She knows it's only a matter of time before he figures it all out and leaves her. She hides the fact that she thinks he should.
The tile of the bathroom floor is cool against her skin. She feels herself shiver a bit and the goose bumps rise on her legs as they sit too long on the porcelain.
Jimmy's watching television in the next room. From her estimation she's been in the bathroom for ten or so minutes, long enough for him to start to wonder why she's taking so long. She knows she needs to hurry, and prepares herself for what's about to happen.
The blade feels smooth in her hand. It's the nicest thing she's felt in a long time. It's a way out, a means to an end. It's a way to control something about her life when all of her control has been taken from her, and the power she holds over her life excites her.
It doesn't really hurt as it makes its way across her skin. It feels peaceful. Nice, even, like this is something she could enjoy if it weren't the last time.
But then the red liquid starts to flow, and it feels wrong.
"Jimmy?" she says calmly as she situates herself in the doorway.
"Mmm?" he says, as he glances up at her. She holds up her hand, allowing him to see what she'd been doing. "Oh my god! Abby, what did you do?!"
He's off the couch and at her side in less than two seconds, flying at her with an intensity she's never seen from anyone before. He's putting pressure on her wrist and ushering her out the door, keys in hand.
Jimmy practically drags her out of the building in his haste to get her to the hospital. He looks so frantic that she immediately feels guilty for what she's done. She also knows why it had suddenly felt wrong after feeling so right.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry," she cries, hoping he's still paying enough attention to her to hear.
"Come on," is his only reply as he leads her to the car.
"Jimmy?" her voice breaks on his name. "I'm so sorry," she says as she tries to grab at his arm.
"Get in the car!" he bellows at her, more fiercely than he's ever spoken to her before.
In a stunned silence, Abby climbs in the car, knowing that she's just ruined the only thing she has left in her life.
She's out of the hospital the next day. The cut hadn't been that deep. She'd hesitated, and not too much damage had been done.
"Abby? Why'd you do it?" Jimmy puts his arm around her as they sit on the couch. He looks at her patiently, letting her take her time.
"I don't know," she tells him, looking at her lap.
"Don't lie to me," he shoots back, and she knows he's still angry at her.
"I'm not!" she snaps. "I don't know why! Sometimes everything's fine, and it feels like before… but then other times it just feels like there's no farther down to go than this." She pauses and looks up at him. "How can anything feel so bad?" she asks him, and the tears fill her eyes.
He doesn't know what to say, and instead pulls her closer to him. He feels her tears soak his shirt, and he places his chin on top of her head.
"I'm sorry I didn't notice before," he finally tells her.
She feels a wet drop hit the top of her head, and she suddenly knows that this is harder for him than for her.
"I want to try therapy," she tells him a while later. "I didn't listen to you before and you were right." She's pressed up against him in the bed, and he's absently stroking her arm.
"Seriously?" he gasps at her, more shocked than he's ever been in his life.
"Yes, on one condition," she replies, leaning up to look into his eyes. "I want you to be there with me."
"Abby, you don't have to-"
"Yes, I do. You've been here for me and I haven't been for you. I'm so sorry," she tells him. "I don't want to hide anything from you. I did before and look where it got us." She holds up her bandaged wrist.
"I'll come," he says, immensely relieved that she's willing to do this. He kisses her on the lips and basks at her. "I'll make the appointment now." He jumps out of bed and rushes over to the phone.
Even though she doesn't want to go, she's glad that she can make him happy.
They only stay in therapy for three weeks. As it turns out, once the therapist got them started they found that they could communicate rather effectively on their own. Even though she's not sure she'll ever be the same person she was before, she knows she's miles away from where she was a couple of weeks ago.
"Your turn," she says, tapping her fingers on the wood dining table.
"My question?" he asks. She nods. "Why did you hesitate?" The question's been nagging at him ever since he had to take her to the hospital. When he sees her pause, he adds, "You have to be honest, that's the rules of the game. Even if I won't like the truth."
"You," she tells him. "I hesitated because of you."
"What?" he asks her, puzzled.
She stretches her arms out on the table, the bandage on her wrist gone. "I knew you'd miss me. Somewhere deep down I knew it wasn't fair to you. Subconsciously, I think I knew that."
He breathes deeply. "Abby, that's the best answer I could have hoped for." He moves around the table and kisses her forehead. He puts his arms around her, and she can feel him relax.
"Thank you," he whispers. To her shock, he starts to cry. "I don't know what I would have done without you."
"I'm sorry that I haven't been there for you," she cries back. "It's not fair."
"You're here now," he replies. "That's all that matters."
It's February 1st, five months after the day in the bathroom. She's spent hours making the apartment perfect and making dinner for him. When he gets home, she wants it to be special.
"Woah," he says when he walks in. "What's all this?"
"Happy birthday," she tells him, leaning up to give him a kiss. She leads him to the table, where they have a nice dinner and easy conversation.
"Thank you for this," he tells her when they've finished. "This is great."
She gets up from the table and takes him by the hand. "Come on."
He snaps his head to look at her when he enters the bedroom to see the bed covered in rose petals and candles lit all around the room. She puts her arms around him, waiting for him to say something.
"Are you sure?" he makes out. He doesn't want to pressure her into anything she isn't ready for.
"I'm positive," she tells him. "I'm ready for this," she adds as she pushes him back onto the bed.
For the first time ever, she gives herself completely to him, the room lit with the light of the scented candles and decorated by the roses strewn around the room.
"It's been a year today," he tells her, sitting across from her at breakfast one morning. "A year since we got off the island."
"Break out the party hats," she grins at him.
They spend the day watching videos and looking at pictures of the people who were lost on the island. It's emotional, but they feel like they owe it to the people who weren't as lucky as they were.
Jimmy looks up from the picture she's currently holding. "I need to ask you something."
"Anything," she replies.
"How are you doing? Honestly."
She looks up from the picture, thinking. "Better. A lot better. I mean, some days it still gets to me, but most of the time it's good. I don't think it'll ever go away, but at least it's only there sometimes now. What about you?" she asks him.
He pauses, trying to think of his answer. "About the same. I don't think it ever hit me as hard as you, because Henry and I weren't as close. I've let go of those who died. It's time to move on." She nods and takes his hand. "What do you think of Henry?" he ventures. He's always wondered how she felt towards him, but never had the courage to ask.
"Confused," she answers. "Sometimes I hate him for what he did, but then I remember all the times he was there for me. I still have trouble realizing that the person who helped kill my dad and the person who let me call him at three in the morning when I felt alone in Los Angeles were the same person. But I guess he wasn't the friend I thought he was," she sighs.
"I think he really was your friend," he replies.
"Huh?" she asks, a bit shocked.
"I think he just got led astray somewhere. But he really did want to help you at three in the morning, I think," he explains.
They pause for a few moments, both lost in thought. They have many such comfortable silences, and have grown to appreciate them.
"Have you forgiven me?" she asks next.
"For what?" he questions, picking up the next picture.
"For trying to kill myself. For not being there for you when you needed it too. For not trusting you and for following you when you'd leave the apartment," she replies.
He takes her hand and kisses the scar on her wrist. The words he gives her next are the ones she's needed to hear for so much time.
"I forgive you. It was never a question in my mind."
Things are a lot better for them now. There are many more good moments than bad, much more laughter than tears. They lie in bed every night together, and they whisper "I love you" to each other at every chance they get. Things couldn't be better, she thinks.
They currently lie together, just enjoying each other's company. He plays with her hair and she draws circles on his chest. The early morning light is soft and peaceful, and she's happy in a way she never thought she could be again.
She knows that she never would have made it this far without him, and she's taken to thinking of the scar on her wrist as proof.