Oh, and I'm not sure if it's still around Valentine's Day or not. I'll figure it out soon, but it's not really too important iright now.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, past storylines, or Jeeps. Or the Egg Wave, for that matter. Don't sue me. Please. The moths fluttering out from my wallet ask the same.
And I should probably mention that there's a little bit of language in this part, and it's sort of dark too, and the beginning is strange. Actually, the whole thing is strange. You have been warned...
* * * * *
Few people know that the scent of your own blood is so intoxicating, so incredibly thick, and rich, and heavy, that it floats into your nose and commences to control you. It goes to work, clogging your lungs, thickening your tongue, clouding your mind with its presence, until you can't move, or think, or speak, or breathe; all you can do is feel.
You can feel the pain of your wound, the pain of the bleeding, the pain of the inability to do anything to help yourself. You can feel the pain of guilt and regret leaving their stigma on your flesh. The pain of arrogance.
And then you feel yourself slowly being sapped of your life, of your memories, of your energy. Every last trickle erases something else, until there's nothing left to get rid of. Nothing left to forget. And then you succumb to the darkness.
Few people knew that, but he did. And the world wouldn't let him forget.
He lay wide awake in bed, at almost eleven o'clock at night, sore and weary after a particularly eventful 36-hour shift. He could still smell the blood. And his pain had only faded, at least he thought it had. But it had come back.
He rolled over onto his back and watched a spider skittle across the ceiling. It was at times like these that he wished his ceiling was a little more interesting than just plain white.
When he was a kid, he used to have those glow-in-the-dark stars stuck above his bed. He liked them because they gave him something to look at and focus on while his parents were away, or when they were home and arguing loudly downstairs.
His parents liked them because they figured if he was interested in astrology, they could hire some expensive tutor and their little John Truman Carter III could get rich off some great discovery he made. Anything to heighten the righteous Carter name.
Thinking about his parents really wasn't helping his insomnia.
With a small groan, Carter sat up in bed and buried his face in his hands. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed before rising and grabbing his bathrobe. It was with a practiced ease that he was able to move silently from his room to the kitchen below without turning on any lights or creaking any steps on the staircase.
Light flooded the small room as he flipped the switch on the wall, and, after closing the door to avoid disturbing the cook or the maid, he sank down on a stool near the counter. Somewhere around twenty-three years of formal education did not provide him with the knowledge needed to be able to count how many hours had been spent in this kitchen, watching the little 13-inch TV and its 936 satellite channels at all sleepless hours of the night and day.
He flipped through the various programs twice before giving up and tossing away the remote to rest in its usual place. He was bored and the restlessness was driving him crazy. If anyone could see him now, rummaging through his grandmother's fridge in the middle of the night, searching for the answer to his life behind all the half-empty cartons of orange juice, they might have laughed out loud. He suspected he would have.
A quick inventory of the freezer determined that Gamma had indeed finally run out of chocolate ice cream, and this little tragedy took on far too much importance in Carter's sleep-deprived mind. He was about ready to rip the incessantly ticking clock off the wall and smash it against something to vent his sudden rage, but he instead found himself flopping back down at the counter in defeat. 'Breathe, Carter' he told himself. Breathe.
He couldn't stand it anymore. In a sudden flurry of motion, Carter exchanged the bathrobe for his coat and grabbed his keys. He needed fresh air. He needed to drive. Never before had he been so happy to see his Jeep.
* * * * *
There was something about the formality of a routine that she despised, and yet she found herself having so many of them. She had been through this before--all the sleepless nights, the strenuous days, the shabby apartments, the dull exhaustion that inevitably settled in.
That dance that she did so well with her mother.
She was used to it by now. It had been like this for as long as she could remember, and after years of half-assed attempts designed to turn things around, she had finally given up (some time ago) and decided it was easier to settle for less. She had never really had to face the world before, and whenever she did, there was always something to cushion the blow.
But the alcohol, cheap wine, and nameless bars were no longer acceptable options. Had they ever been?
So on this lonely night she found herself in only her company, burrowed in her little cubby hole of an apartment, sipping the tea that had become such an essential part of this routine. She supposed she depended on it, and all its warmth and safety, but she had long since decided that she had been addicted to far worse. There was no harm in the gentle brown liquid, at least that's what she told herself. It didn't really matter anyway. No one really cared.
She was jaded to this particular routine, the one that prevented her mind from aimlessly drifting throughout the uncharted depths of unconsciousness. It was at its worst during high school, the loss of sleep resulting in the revoking of her only privilege. Back then, sleep had been the only way to escape from the world. She cringed, having suddenly flashed back to all those days spent in bed, sleeping her life away.
Abby supposed that if she really was together and confident and strong like she pretended to be, she would be able to notice the time drifting away and being lost forever as she spent the hours sipping her tea and looking out the window, all wrapped up in blankets and always cold.
But she wasn't, and she didn't, and so when she wasn't at work she was at home, engaging in these pointless activities. Or over at his hotel, but that wasn't a subject she was particularly willing to dwell on. Let it pass for now, and deal with it later. She'd be cursing herself when later came, she always was, but procrastination was harder to drop than the booze.
Her thoughts just sort of wafted for a while until she found herself wondering about her mother. That brought on a whole new wave of bitterness. She didn't know why she kept putting up with it, why she hadn't just thrown her on that stupid bus, why she had even told her where she was living. Because Maggie was her mother? She doubted it. There had been too many failed attempts to prove herself as a mother.
No, she knew why she did this to herself every god damn time her mother showed up for a quick waltz. Buried under a million different layers of everything that made her up, there was that little glimmer of hope that if she could do this one more time, Maggie would change and everything would be as it should. Hope was a stupid, dangerous thing. And she was stupid and naive not to believe it sooner.
She had met someone once, a med student, who ended up being one of those 10-minute friends that sees you're not from around there and that you're all alone and sits down with you for coffee in a hospital cafeteria in Philadelphia, just to make small-talk with you while you wait for those annoying job-interview people to page you back downstairs to tell you that oh, they're so sorry but you're just not what they're looking for right now, better luck next time. It was always those 10-minute friends whose names you can't remember, but whose conversations stay with you.
It had been established that oh, yes, I'm Abby Wyczenski and I'm applying for that nursing job downstairs, and oh, yes, I'm so-and-so, someone whose name has escaped your memory after all these years, and I work here as a med student, blah blah blah, and then this sagacious friend gave Abby what is possibly the most important yet blatantly ignored advice that has ever been given.
"Good luck, but be careful Abby, optimism will screw you over every time."
Abby figured, relatively accurately, that if everyone followed that advice, the world would be considerably darker, but at least there'd be less heartache. Of course it had taken her an awfully long time to figure that out, and even now it was hard to stick to it.
The phone rang, jolting her from her reverie, and she found herself with a decision to make. The dead weight of obligation pressed heavily on her shoulders. Should she pick it up or let the machine get it? The phone continued to ring shrilly during the time taken for debate.
She pondered this for a moment before deciding to let the voicemail kick in. After all, the main job and purpose of an answering machine was to take messages, and who was she to disallow the useful machine to fulfill its purpose? Besides, if it was important she could just dash over and pick it up while whoever the heck it was was awkwardly stumbling through their message.
Click.
"Abby? It's Luka. Listen, something came up, and I'll be here at least another week or two. Ok? See you then."
Click.
It had been a little too curt for her personal tastes.
My my Luka, how nice of you to call. After all, you're only phoning from Croatia, after no one's heard from you in six-and-a-half days. It was nice talking to you, how caring of you to inform us all that you're not coming home for another fortnight or so.
She stared at the little plastic box for a few minutes in utter disbelief before throwing her hands up and erasing the message on the machine. So much for the meaningful conversation she had been hoping for.
It took too much energy to keep herself from screaming and throwing the phone across the room. Pent-up frustration and anger were bad for the soul.
Sleep. That was what she needed. Sleep. Crossing the room, she headed over to the couch and collapsed. She flipped through the TV channels before settling on a comfortable, if not cheesy, looking infomercial about the amazing new Egg Wave (a registered trademark, mind you), and closed her eyes. It was with great surprise that she felt her eyelids slowly growing heavier, and she found sweet slumber for almost two hours. Abby was half-awake again soon enough, but the tiny bit of rest had not been lost on her.
She'd take what she could get.
* * * * *
The lights in the lounge hadn't been turned on. That was the first thing she had realized while she had been cautiously approaching the door. She had been reaching for the doorknob with one hand while the other was busy resting on the glass of the window next to it, trying to figure out why the blinds were drawn shut, when she had turned around and come face-to-face with Malucci.
"Dave, what the-"
He firmly clapped his hand over her mouth. "Abby, shut up, d'you want us to get caught?"
She shoved his arm away. "How stupid do you think I am? Weaver's busy patrolling the halls. She's nowhere near here." She started to move past him, but he moved in front of her.
"Are you sure? 'Cause if you're not, I wouldn't go in there if I were you. The Chief's got it all sealed off. You're screwed if she catches you in there."
"Why?"
"He's in there. Out cold. You'd think they had to tranquilize him or something."
"Who?"
"Damn Abby, where have you been all day? Carter. He stumbled in here lookin' pretty bad last night, he hasn't left since. Chief's real worried about him. He wasn't supposed to come in again 'til Tuesday."
"Wha-" Their brief conversation was abruptly interrupted.
"Malucci!"
Dave swore under his breath.
"Mr. Stevens in six has been waiting twenty minutes for his discharge papers, would you be kind enough to grace him with your presence so he can finally go home?"
He had thrown a glance at the angry red-haired attending who was quickly progressing toward them before turning back to Abby.
Jerking his head towards the lounge, he gave her parting instructions.
"Go in now, but hurry up. I'll try to stall her for a minute or two."
Weaver was still screaming. "Exactly how much do you value your job, Dr. Malucci? Curtain area six. Now."
"I'm coming, Chief!"
And with that, Abby had been left alone again.
* * * * *
The whole scene must have taken place a good half hour or so ago. She had slipped into the lounge with every intention of grabbing her coat and running in the other direction. At that moment in time, she had imagined that her bathtub would feel like a nice place to be, but her intentions were forgotten as the lounge door closed behind her.
That had been half an hour ago. And she was still sitting in the lounge, watching him sleep. It was a terribly intrusive and rude thing to do, but there was something peaceful about it, so she sat in an old, beat-up lounge chair across from the sofa and watched him.
The day had been too long and too hard, and the less-than-easy-going attitude of Kerry Weaver had been emphasized far more than usual. They were short-staffed, overworked, underpaid, and the ten car pileup on the Eisenhower expressway had not positively contributed to the quality of the day. It was as the rush of her own thoughts was slowing down and her eyelids falling closed that the soft voice brought her back to reality.
"Geez Abby, you look like hell."
It took her a minute to figure out who was talking.
She whipped her head around to face Carter, who was now sitting up and watching her watch him.
"Gee, thanks Carter, I could say the same about you."
"Flatterer," he grinned and took in his surroundings. The detached yet familiar smell of stale coffee beans permeated the air. He dropped his head to his hands and rubbed his eyes, before refocusing on Abby and continuing their friendly dialogue.
"What time is it?"
"About a quarter after six. At night. On Friday."
"Wow," he rubbed his eyes again and tried to make sense of this new information. "Does Kerry know I'm in here?"
"Oh, yes she does. She practically had security guarding the door. If you look outside, you'll see that you are the proud new owner of your very own 'Do Not Disturb' sign."
"Is that right." He laughed and tossed a sideways glance at the door. "Is it bad out there?"
"In terms of patients, no, not anymore, but it was pretty chaotic before. It's been a good day for accidents. In terms of Weaver, yes. She's been on her last nerve for the last fourteen hours. She had to pull a triple attending's shift to cover for Mark and Luka, and if you're not cheerfully standing over a patient being as kind and conscientious as possible at any given moment in time, you're in for a long week of overtime and rectals."
"I'm sorry I missed it."
"Oh, don't worry, you'll get your share. We're both in trouble if she finds us in here. I'd better leave while I can."
Carter nodded knowingly, but not before his smile faded slightly and he began to fidget in his seat. It didn't go unnoticed.
"Hey Carter, I could really use a cup of horribly weak coffee and some good company. You wanna go across the street with me? It beats the lounge."
He shrugged. "Sure."
"Okay, lemme get my coat. You check for Weaver."
Carter complied and poked his head out the door.
"All clear. Let's run for it."
The door of the lounge was left swinging in the breeze as they sprinted, full speed ahead, to the emergency doors beckoning to them at the end of the long corridor.
They were closing in--ten yards, five, four, three...
"Abby! Carter!"
They skidded to a halt just short of their goal. Abby took this moment to curse under her breath. Kerry Weaver seemed to have that effect on people.
"Dr. Weaver, we're not on right now, we were just leaving-"
"Save it, Carter. There's a trauma pulling up, and the two of you are taking it."
"But-"
"No but's. Everyone else is either busy, at home, or, in Malucci's case, nowhere to be found. I want you to meet the ambulance in the bay. They're due any minute now." Weaver turned on her heel and hobbled away.
Carter sighed. "We should've seen that coming."
"I thought you said it was all clear!"
"Maybe she's got cameras in the lounge. She's like Big Brother. Always watching."
"If she does, it's a wonder Malucci's still on the payroll. I don't even want to think what he does when he thinks he's alone..."
Their good-natured laughing was quickly halted by the distant sound of sirens, and they headed for the bay with wary hopes of a DOA or other uninvolving patient.
"Maybe it'll just be a bum-sicle, or a hand laceration or a broken leg or something. After today, I don't see how there can possibly be any more seriously injured people left in the state, much less Cook County."
Their speculations couldn't be farther from the truth.
* * * * *
That's it for now, but I'd like to ask you all to do me a favor. I do have a vague idea of where this is going (for once), but I'm gonna need some help. Think of this as a way for all your voices to be heard. Or not. But anyway, if you wouldn't mind, rack your brain and sort through all that stored up ER knowledge and tell me what you want to see in this fic.
No matter what, it's obviously gonna have Carter and Abby, but any other characters, past or present, that you want to see, backgrounds you want delved into, storylines you want resolved, ideas you have, or anything like that, if you let me know, I'd appreciate it. It doesn't necessarily mean all your ideas will be used, but I need some help with this. If I use anything you say, I'll give you credit and all. Just thought I'd ask...