Past Dances and Future Tears:

Past Dances and Future Tears:

Admitting Defeat

Category: Abby Angst. And maybe a casual 'R' for language.

Disclaimers: The only thing I lay claim to is my over active imagination. Dueling Banjo's has been hummed, whistled and banjo'd by many a person. Too many a person for me to go over. It's not mine. I'm learning to deal with it.

Author's Notes: I'm supposed to be writing up a chemistry report. Shhhh, don't tell anyone I'm here.

All kinds of feedback appreciated with open arms:)

angelpixiedust@bolt.com

Oh, and I could really kill for some Pop Tarts.

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"Some people are afraid of what they might find if they try to analyze themselves too much. But, you have to crawl into the wounds to discover what your fears are. Once the bleeding starts, the cleansing can begin."

-Tori Amos

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I awaken to the sounds of someone humming 'Dueling Banjo's.'

I lazily open my eyes, shading them quickly with one hand from the glare of a badly positioned fish tank, and I slowly glance around at my surroundings.

It takes me a second to remember that I don't own any fish.

And then another second of glancing around in a sleepy daze to remember where I am.

"...Carter?"

Footsteps. Then he's leaning against his kitchen door, wearing the same clothes that he was wearing last night. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and I distractedly think that's it's going to take more than a month of ironing to remove all the creases. He smiles when he sees that I'm awake. Alive. "Morning Abby. Sleep OK?"

"Uh..."

His smile broadens. "Hungry?"

"Um..."

I drag a hand through my hair. My language skills are pretty limited in the mornings. Ask Luka. Ask all those poor patients I get lumped with after Weaver hauls my sorry ass out of an exam bed.

"I got pancakes, eggs, bacon, Frosties, Coco Pops, leftover cheese pizza, saline IV..."

I smile at him. It's hard to take him seriously when his hair's doing that. It stands spiky straight on his head. I'm tempted to tell him so that I can go back to concentrating on breakfast, but then I decide that I like it this way. Makes him look young and care free. Like he's never seen a bad day in his life.

"...morphine, coke, orange juice, bananas, some apples, pop tarts and..." he glances back into the kitchen, "...a couple of Ding Dongs."

"Uh..." Focus Abby. Food Abby. Hungry Abby. "Coffee...and lots of it."

He nods slowly, a boyish smile on his face. "Uh, black, no sugar, right?"

I nod, and sink back against the warmth of the blankets on his couch. I don't remember them being there last night. "Thanks Carter."

I hear his socked feet fading against the oak floor, and then he resumes his rendition of 'Dueling Banjo's.'

I smile. Cute Carter, but wrong state.

The remains of the pizza lie carelessly against a coffee table, next to too many cups of coffee and an open box of crackers. The TV is still providing a comfortable murmur of background noise. Several midget lesbians of colour are beating each other to the death with clunky heels and obligatory chairs as Jerry Springer mutters the occasional comment on relationships being difficult from a safe distance. We all should learn to listen to each other. Take the time out from our chair abuse and listen.

I remember that it had been on when I arrived last night. He feigned ignorance at knowing that he had been watching a Martha Stewart special and hastily found the remote whilst I smiled wryly at him from his couch. A discovery channel documentary on the mating habits of Japanese bullfrogs was next best choice. It's one of those doctor things.

I remember that he hadn't asked me why.

Behaved as though this was the most normal thing in the world for us to do together. Watch Japanese bullfrogs mate.

Maybe he's used to emotionally unstable brunettes turning up on his doorstep at ungodly hours with pizzas and smiles.

What would I have said even if he had?

-I don't like to be alone when my life is falling apart-

-Misery loves company and cheese pizzas-

I can hear him swearing over the sound of glass breaking. He's sure got some language. Competes with the beeping and imaginative uses of other people's mother's on TV.

A pause and then more 'Dueling Banjo's.'

I smile.

I don't know how exactly I had ended up as I did last night.

We had been discussing the merits of kidney transplants in systemic lupus erythematosis patients over slices of cheese pizza and decaffeinated coffee. It's another one of those doctor things. Strange exotic diseases suddenly become great dinner conversation topics.

And I remember that my mind had been on anything but pizza and kidneys.

He had asked me an innocent question. Something like, "You really think so?"

And I had replied, with.

"I hate my life."

His pizza slice had hovered near his mouth, and his eyebrows slanted upwards, and I remember that he focused on me. Entirely. Every cell in his body, just listening to me.

Way to kill a conversation Abby.

And I couldn't stop. Everything just seemed to come out. Escaping through my mouth without me having any control, any power to stop it, and I remember forgetting that he was there as I continued.

"I mean I hate it. I do.

I hate myself.

I hate that word.

I *hate* that word.

**A-l-c-o-h-o-l-i-c**

"My name's Abby and I'm an alcoholic."

"My name's Abby and without alcohol I'm not a whole person."

They say that admitting you have a problem is the hardest part.

That standing up in front of a roomful of dysfunctional people and admitting that that's what you are, that's all you are is the hardest part and then after that everything will become peachy keen.

"Gee whizz, I'm an alcoholic, guess I better just stop shoveling those martinis then."

And that's the story.

Full stop.

Happily ever after.

Full stop.

And then it's the first day of the rest of your life.

Full stop.

The End.

Except it's not.

You have to live every day for the rest of your life sober. Not just two days out of every month when you're busy being passed out in a deserted ally way next to some bar.

Every single fucking day.

And it starts slowly at first. You don't have enough money for the rent one month. You lose a patient. You slip up on a diagnosis. The coke machine won't give you a coke. Your ex-husband reminds you why you divorced him. You hate pink scrubs. You know what being murdered looks like. The people you care about don't care about you back. Your mother pays you a never-ending visit. You forget when you didn't wake up alone.

And it's so easy.

It could all be so easy.

And it's like the anti-orgasm, everything just keeps building up and up, and you need a release, god you need a release, you need it so bad that you don't care about all the where's and how's and why's, who you hurt, what you're supposed to be doing, and you wait for the release, and it doesn't come Carter, it *never* comes."

And my throat had been sore, and my eyes were swelling with tears and I was standing up, and he had stood up, and I remember the warmth of his arms as they came up around me, and him telling me that it was OK. And I had been so angry at myself, and so angry at everything that I had lashed out.

Pushed him away as I continued, "No, this isn't OK. Nothing is OK. This is hell. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm so close to the edge Carter, and this isn't fucking OK."

And then I hit him.

Not a graceful, well rehearsed coke machine punch but a fast and angry and hurt and alcoholic punch. And I continued to hit him, and he had raised his hands passively and let me. Just let me.

And I kept hitting him. Against his chest, his abdomen, his shoulders, over and over again, anywhere my hands could reach.

"What the hell is wrong with me, huh? I can see that he's burning up inside, I can see him completely breaking, I can, and he won't tell me, he won't tell me anything, and he never does and I don't know what to say any more. It's not OK. It's not. Oh god. Just what the hell is wrong with me?! What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Me."

I couldn't hear myself over the screamed-sore tears.

Then my rage faltered, and my hands faltered, and I stopped, weakened and spent and he slowly reached out his arms around me, to surround me, fully, completely. And then I was crying into his chest and he was whispering softly and kissing my hair.

'It's OK, just let it all out Abby, I know, I'm here Abby, just let it all out, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.'

I reached my arms around his neck and pulled him against me, as I sobbed. Heaving sobs that wracked my whole body. The tears were hot and I was cleansed by their fire.

And I was waiting for him to just push me away, and laugh at me, at this strange angry crying thing that I had become, I was waiting for him to quote me the handbook, and tell me that I was normal, that everything I was feeling was normal.

And he didn't.

I remember apologizing. Asking if he was OK.

And he had chuckled lightly, his arms around me, my head buried into the deep pool of Abby Pain on his chest.

"I'm OK. I never liked this shirt much anyway."

I had laughed into his chest. And I remember how strange it had sounded. How foreign.

And I must have been so exhausted from being angry and being hurt that I had just fallen asleep like that. My head against his chest, as he kissed my damp hair and whispered that he was there, and Abby should just let it all out, he was there, and he wasn't going anywhere.

He doesn't see it. His strength. If he did he'd probably be just as amazed by it as I am.

He should be bitter. He has an obligation to the world to be bitter. He earned the rights to bitterness.

But he's not.

I sigh, and pull myself into a standing position. My body misses the warmth of the couch instantly. I walk into the kitchen slowly, sluggishly, and silently sit back on one of his chairs.

He's still doing the 'Dueling Banjo's' thing. Apparently he's quite the morning person. He's sucking on a finger as he turns to see me. Smiling he hands me the coffee and I accept it with as big a smile as I can muster in my semi-conscious state.

He turns back to pick up a box, and then he offers me something from inside it. "Pop tart?"

I shake my head.

This earns me a Look. "You're not turning down something with absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever are you? Because if you were I'd really start worrying about you."

I smile and give in, picking one up. I take a bite from the corner to keep him happy. It tastes like flavored sawdust. A slight upgrade from the sawdust flavored culinary dishes provided by the hospital.

I feel bad about his shirt. Apart from the creases, and slept-in look it's also stained with my hurt. It's unwearable. Yet another casualty of my life.

He's still sucking on his finger.

"Can I see it?" I say, already up and walking towards him.

He smiles, confused, "See what?"

"Your finger," and I gently reach out and wait for him to offer it to me.

He shrugs and does as I ask. "It's nothing."

It's about a centimeter deep and bleeding aggressively. I look back up at him, nurse Abby mode kicking in. "Ouch, I think I can probably do sutures with my eyes closed. You mind?"

He shrugs again. "It's really nothing-"

"Then you won't mind." I get the directions to where his first AID kit is and then on finding it, I return, and pull up a chair next to him.

"This won't hurt a bit," I mutter as I insert the needle.

He pulls a face. "Says you."

I smile. "Says me."

We're both silent. Pull, inert, pull, insert, pull, insert. I realize that he's said something and I look up.

"You should tell him."

I quickly look back down at his wound. I sigh. "He's...he's not big on talking."

He's gnawing on his lower lip. Which means that he's going to say something brutally honest.

"Maybe...maybe he needs to talk to someone else."

He winces as I dig the needle in again. Oh, that didn't hurt you did it? Bad me.

Another sigh. "Maybe."

A silence settles over us. I can feel his eyes on me. I don't look up.

Insert, pull, insert, pull.

"Your hair's cute Carter."

I can feel his eyebrows raise several degrees. "Cute?"

His other hand instantly moves to de-cute his hair.

"Yeah, makes you look younger."

He's definitely smiling now. His voice is absolutely brimming with a smile. "Really?"

Pull, insert, pull, insert.

I look up to find his wide brown eyes looking at me with amusement and something else that I can't quite define. "Uh-huh."

He smiles again. Our eyes catch for several seconds and I become aware of how close we are. Too close.

And he's about to say something else when a phone begins to ring out. We both look away and then back. He gnaws on his lip, "I'm gonna go..."

I nod and let him take his hand away from me, and he pads out of the kitchen. The phone stops ringing and I can hear him speaking into it. I sigh and close the suture kit.

Carter's right. Luka needs to talk to someone. And, I sigh, I guess I'm just not that someone.

I sigh again, and concentrate on a pattern on the Med AID box. I think about Luka, about where we stand. Not that I haven't been asking myself these same questions during the past few weeks. I concentrate harder. As though if I concentrate hard enough I'll find the meaning to life inscribed somewhere in the letters A and I and D.

I remember walking into his dimly lit room last night, after my shift had ended. He was lying on his bed staring up at the water stained ceiling. He had looked round at me. Smiled weakly. I had returned it. "Um, I think I'm gonna go for a walk. You need anything at the k-mart? No? You sure? I think you're running out of cheese. No? Ok. Well, um, don't wait up for me OK? ...Night."

I had the best intentions of sharing my night with several bottles of tequila. The best intentions of never waking up alone again.

I don't think that I had cared anymore. About the consequences. About my liver.

Instead I found myself in a small Italian diner, asking about what different kinds of cheese they had, telling the happy overweight chef that I was spending the night in with my fiancé. Oh, sure, a movie, ice cream the works. He proposed to me this morning. Yeah, we're getting the ring tomorrow. Thanks, I'll remember to tell him.

The pizza was still warm when I found myself knocking on his door. I'd been to his apartment a few times before, to pick him up or drop him off from AA meetings. I remember it being cold and I remember both wanting him to be home and wanting him to be a million miles away.

I remember being scared.

Of...

"...Abby?" I look up. Carter's standing at the door with a strange look on his face. "Um, Abby, you're wanted on the phone."

I pause. "Huh?"

"Your mobile, it was ringing, and I answered. I'm sorry."

I shake my head and smile, dismissing his apology and pick up the outstretched phone. "Who is it?"

"County Police."

I can feel my mouth become dry. The blood drain from my face. I remember to breathe before I speak. "Um, hello. Yes, this is her...Oh...oh my god. Yes. I'll be down there in...in, um, I'll be down in half an hour. No. It's OK. Thanks. Thanks, bye."

Carter's still watching me intently.

I can't move. Every muscle in my body has forgotten how to work.

Oh god.

"Uh, they, they found a body Carter. They... they want me to ID a body." I shift into automatic. "Can I...can we take your car?"

He's nodding slowly and all the concern in his face forms a little crease on his forehead.

"Sure Abby."

I turn around, walk into the kitchen, past the wine of the TV, pick up my discarded jacket, and then stop.

I can feel Carter come up behind me.

Before he has the time to reach me, and say something comforting, and appropriate and reassuring, I open the door and step outside.

I remember how cold it is.

And how comforting that was.

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Continued...