'Past Dances and Future Tears:'

'Past Dances and Future Tears:'

Secret Blues

Rating: PG-13 or R depending on your language sensitivity

Disclaimers: I own all the punctuation marks and funneely spelt words.

Author's Notes: Still not done with all the Abby melodrama. Hopefully you're not either:)

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"Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and
often time we call a man cold, when he is just sad."

-Longfellow

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You can smell it from here.

The formaldehyde.

It's like the sticky after taste of death. It stains the air and clings to your clothes. I think that I'm never going to be able to wash it out. That this smell is going to haunt my clothes as well as my soul for as long as I live. I'm stained with it. Death has stamped me with its sticky presence.

Our footsteps are hollow and echoless. The hallway has been fitted with a green carpet and I think that it's an ugly colour. That it's the ugliest colour that I've ever seen.

He keeps talking.

Feels that because he's wearing a badge and because he's holding the keys that he's somehow obligated to fill in all the silences. I want to tell him to shut up. I don't need my silences filled with empty basketball predictions and intuitive weather scores.

I tighten my grip on Carter's hand.

His hands are rough and aged from too much caring and too many hygiene regulations. They remind me of my father's hands. Large and warm and real. The heat from his hands seeps into mine, warming them.

I look back up at him.

His face is ashen. The same little crinkle of concern in his forehead. I would have assumed that he was used to all this. The smell of dead people. And I think that maybe it's my death grip on his hand that's causing him to turn gray. Maybe he's losing the feeling in his hand.

I loosen my grip and this prompts an immediate look from him.

I've broken the spell. The silent comfort the linkage provided is going to go now and the spell will be broken.

I remember stepping out of the car, and all of the oxygen suddenly draining from my lungs. I remember suddenly regretting that Pop Tart and most of the last decade. I had looked down to find his hand slipping into mine, and I remember how warm he was, how cold I was and how warm he was.

His eyes tell me that everything's OK. Abby doesn't have anything to worry about. We're OK.

And I can feel his hand squeeze my own.

He's stopped. Our Death Tour Guide has stopped moving and is now filling the silence with the sound of metal on metal keys. And I wonder why it is that the room is locked. Wonder what the statistics are of dead people breaking out.

I try to lick my lips but my mouth is just as dry. And my hands are cold and clammy, and my body is too cold from the sub-zero temperatures needed to keep the bodies from rotting and decomposing around us. I shiver involuntarily under my jacket.

He's giving us a look. Our self-appointed Tour Guide.

He's telling me that I can stay in there as long as I feel comfortable to. That he's going to be standing right outside if I should need any help. That I can touch it if I feel the need to. The toilets are two doors down if I need them. Water? Do I want water? I'm looking a little pale; maybe I want something to eat. He's got a pickle sandwich on his desk if I want it. Maybe I should sit down. Do I need to sit down?

I shake my head.

He looks at Carter for back up. I'm obviously going to break apart, being the little lady that I am, and he now feels that he's responsible for all my pieces. I want to tell him to shut up. I want to tell him that his carpet's really ugly and that his suit's really tacky and ask him if he would please shut the hell up.

I can feel Carter shake his head.

He raises an eyebrow, as though this is just another sign of the apocalypse, and then, with one bushy eyebrow still raised, stands by the door and looks at me expectantly. As though I'm about to walk in there and raise her from the dead.

I look back up at Carter whose busy watching me, his thumb gently rubbing at my hand. I feel as though I should say something. Offer something. Because. Because this scares me. Because I'm so scared. Because the smell of death is going to linger on his clothes and on his hair and on his soul forever.

He's been branded with Death too.

He shakes his head, at me, at the confusion and fear that my trembling hands belly, and silently, without me having time to question it, leans down and kisses my forehead.

He strokes the hair away from my eyes and smiles gently.

And his eyes tell me that no matter what lies beyond that door, he's here, and everything's OK.

I pull away from him, and turn to face the cheap door, and I concentrate on breathing.

In, out.

Inflate, deflate.

Like I tell all my scared-to-tears patients when I'm about to do something horribly painful to them. Like you tell the kid at the back of the class who hyperventilates because he's allergic to chalk dust.

Breathe Abby.

And, I avoid the shitty grin that the man with the badge and the keys offers me in an attempt to make my world easier, to make my silences more comfortable.

And then, I'm inside.

* * * *

Oh my god.

The record player in my mind is stuck and those are the only words that I can find to define how I feel.

Oh my god.

And then I'm running.

Because. Because my legs were rusty from being so scared and so cold.

And I'm giggling. To myself as I run. Giddy with the new surge of adrenaline and how Un-Abby like this running is. I think that I probably look crazy. Brunette skidding through the halls of a Police station, the part where they house all the question-marked dead people, giggling and running, my clothes all wrinkled and slept in and my face screwed up with adrenaline. I think I probably look scary.

An old gentlemen I pass tells me to slow down, ladies shouldn't run like that. And I think that he's right. If we all ran like this it wouldn't be quite so much fun running like this.

And then I break free into the outside world. The air smells fresh. It hasn't been tainted with death. The sky reminds me of a William Blake painting that I remember seeing in College. Sky with puffy white clouds set into a blue-blueness, a dragon lurking in the corner. Waiting. But you didn't see it. You were too busy sinking into the blues.

He's standing next to his car. I think I knew that he would be. He's so tall that you can see his head from here. I continue to run.

He's smoking a cigarette, playing with it in his hands as the toxins creep into the blues of the sky.

He looks up and the cigarette falls from his hand. Dead smoke fizzling upwards. He smiles at me as I approach. Smiles in that place just after knowing and before understanding.

My arms curl around his back and I pull him towards me. I'm still all smiles and candy laughter. He's so warm I think as he leans forward and lifts me up slightly, his arms enclosed around my back, and he's laughing too.

"She's OK Carter. It was an old lady. It wasn't her. Oh my god. She's OK."

He smells faintly of coffee beans and sleep and cheese pizza.

I lean back and grin again. His warm brown eyes grin back at me.

Oh my god.

I'm only aware afterwards.

Of how his lips feel against mine. Of how cool and ashy his lips tasted. Of the way I could feel him become tense and then surrender within half a second. Of how his mouth tasted after his lips just weren't enough. Aware of how easy it was.

Oh my god.

I should really get someone to see about that record player.

I grin and pull him back against me. Maybe he didn't notice. Maybe I imagined that. Maybe I'm still asleep some place where I didn't just do that.

I'm still smiling. Can still feel his lips and his smell and his warmth.

Oh...fuck?

I pull back slowly, hesitantly, avoiding his gaze and therefore relying on my peripheral vision to relay back his expression. He's smiling. Which could mean that We're OK. Or that he just passed gas.

"Um...so," I drag a hand through my lazy hair. "I think I'm gonna have to, um, go back home, change or something..."

He's still smiling. Looking at me and avoiding me at the same time. There's a slight pause. "Yeah... OK, um, we can take my car?"

I nod, and all my smiling is beginning to hurt my jaw.

I slowly slide into the seat next to him, the sounds of us pulling on the seat belts and getting comfortable in his seats filling his car.

I smile again as we ease out into the main road. Turning to glance at him. He's watching me. I smile again. "Thanks Carter...for um, for this. Thanks."

He smiles and shakes his head. Anytime Abby. "It was...nothing Abby."

I nod, and turn to watch the world fade into a blur outside the car. I can't believe that just happened. I can't believe I just made that happen. The self-imposed silence begins to unnerve me. "So...seen any good movies lately?"

"-You kissed me."

I glance at him quickly and then back at the road. He's pursing his lips and not looking at me. "You kissed me back."

A pause. I can feel a layer of sweat begin to form along my neck. "You kissed me first."

I smile. Great, now we're playing You Did It, No You Did.

"...You're right. I shouldn't have. I guess...I just got carried away with the moment. I mean. I did. I got carried away. Can we just forget about it?"

Sure, because that's exactly what I'm going to do. Just forget. What were we talking about anyway?

More silence. And I want to die. I want the world to open up and swallow me whole. I can see the police reports now:

POLICE: This ever happen before?

CARTER: No, not that I know.

POLICE: And the ground just opened up?

CARTER: Pretty much.

POLICE: No kissing or crazy mothers and reclusive lovers involved?

CARTER: Now that you mention it...

He's drumming lightly against the driving wheel. Eyes focused dead-on.

"It's OK." He says his voice low and easy. It's the same reply I get when I ask him if he needs any more IV stands or saline sachets, no, no, I'm OK, really.

I nod. The silence filling the nooks and crannies around us. Threatening me to say something or else it will.

I ignore it and let the silence settle awkwardly over us as until we reach my apartment. He pulls into a parking space with ease, and then turns to look at me.

I look back at him. Notice the way his hair hangs limply across his head when it hasn't been combed and styled into perfection. Noticing the sleepy bags of gray under each eye. He has those clichéd puppy dog eyes. Large and wide and lost. I wonder how many girls have lost themselves in their depths. How many survivors?

Sighing I release myself from his seat belt. My hand is on the door handle when I stop and turn to look at him. He's said something.

"Mhmm?"

"Talk to him."

My body hesitates.

"I will."

"Tell him."

"...'Going to."

"Everything."

"...You want that in blood Carter?"

He smirks lightly. "Do I need it in blood?"

I shake my head, swishing his door open and letting a stream of fresh air in. I step outside. "No. No you don't."

And then his car's just another blip on my blue horizon.

* * * *

"Abby?"

God. It's two small syllables and yet I can still feel my heart shudder and putter in me.

Luka's skin has taken on a ghostly glow. Lack of sunlight and love. He's wearing an old faded University of Michigan jumper that makes him look decidedly American. His face is mildly surprised at my presence.

"Yeah. It's me. So, you wanna let me in, or do you want come out here and join me?"

He smiles faintly and walks inside, I follow behind him. There's a pile of dishes in the sink, and a basketball game on the TV, the volume turned down low. A warm bottle of beer stands on his table. It's half empty. I can see the tip of another one poking out of the too-full trashcan.

He sits down on his bed. Looks up at me. I look back down at him.

I didn't have any shifts today. Carter's pulling a graveyard. Luka is theoretically supposed to be knee deep in the aches and pains of the masses. Carter's filling his shoes. I didn't even have to ask. He had dropped me off and I had intended to find my Mr Bubble and then maybe do some TV watching and coffee drinking. Intended anyway. Instead I was wandering the streets of Chicago aimlessly thinking, smoking cigarette after cigarette. I think I did this for four hours.

Then I was here. With more intentions.

I finally sigh, and sit down on a chair in the corner. We continue to stare at each other. Willing the other to speak first. No you, I insist, Uh-uh after you, I double dare you.

"How's everything going Luka?"

He shrugs lightly. "It's fine Abby."

Oh OK, see there I was thinking it wasn't, thanks for clearing that all up for me, must be going.

"You?"

I look up. His eyes are watching me. I search his. Is he looking for honesty? Is this how I'm going to do it. With a basketball game on in the background, in underwear that I haven't had the chance to change during the past few days. Smelling vaguely of western diners and high school staff rooms.

"Not so great...I..." I pause, "I'm worried about you Luka."

He pulls a self-deprecating face. "Yeah?"

"Mmhuh...Are you..."

I stop.

Breathe Abby.

"...happy?"

This catches both of us by surprise. His eyes fall downwards. His hands forming a little steeple. He almost looks as though he's praying.

"...no."

His voice is a small whisper. A big confession crammed into two letters. My eyes suddenly feel themselves burning.

I let the moment pass, before speaking. My eyes not looking at him.

"I used to think that maybe...maybe I could be enough. For the both of us. I hoped that I would be. I wanted to...so bad. I wanted to be there for you...for whatever it was that you needed." My eyes are wet. "I'm not." I try to smile. "I'm not enough for either of us. God I'm sorry."

He's shaking his head limply, his eyelashes stained with pain. He doesn't say anything.

"Abby..."

A confession crammed into two syllables.

I cover the distance between us quickly, soundlessly. I stand over him and pull his head into my chest, into my warmth. I can feel his body shudder, as he silently breaks apart in my arms. I pull my arms around his shoulders and let him cry into me, let all his pieces fall against me.

And we remain like this until a cool morning light creeps under the blinds.

Our footsteps hollow and empty as we leave together.

* * * *

finite

And (as always) to be continued...