Note: This is the second possible post-scene immediately following
"Brothers and Sisters."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -
We're taught to lead the life you choose
(All I wanted)
You know your love's run out on you
(All I wanted)
And you can't see when all your dreams aren't coming true
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
The sound of a violent clatter caused Abby to sit up in bed abruptly. For a long, tense moment she listened, scanning the silence for another noise, any indication that he was back. Yet there was nothing more, and exasperated, Abby sank back onto the bed. This was what, the third time her heart had stopped at the sound of a rustle outside her apartment? True, each time she never really woke up – it's impossible to wake up if you never really went to sleep in the first place.
No. Screw this. She wasn't getting any sleep anyway, not as long as her hallway had become noisy enough to be a train station. Angrily she tore back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pulling on her old white sweater, she found that she was too annoyed at this point to consider what exactly pissed her off more – the fact that she was being kept awake, or the fact that she simply couldn't get to sleep. True, they sounded one in the same, but to Abby they were so different . . .
Slowly, methodically, she tightened each of the locks on her door, her fingers gently grazing the newly replaced chain. Half-heartedly she checked the eyehole for what seemed like the tenth time that night . . . still nothing. The grip of fear was waning, but as in the past, it usually took some assistance for Abby to truly relax.
She flopped onto the sofa and found herself staring at a sight that had only grown more familiar in the moonlight of the last few months. Admittedly, it had been quite a while since she'd seen the bottle half empty – waste not, want not, was the joyous credo that always flashed into her mind as she tipped her head to finish the last drop. But now, when the mere thought of the bittersweet taste was enough to make her crave the smooth glass on her lips, she tucked her chin into the crook of her arm and gently pushed the bottle away.
She couldn't deal with that shit now. Not now.
Carter could throw out all the accusations he wanted, and that was just fine – everyone's entitled to an opinion. He was being a zealot, an overactive protector, and Abby couldn't help but think that some of his vehemence in her treatment had been because he despised Luka so greatly. Why, she'd never know. It amused Abby to see Carter throw his support into the program all of a sudden, when he'd only really gone to the meetings because he was forced to – he'd lose his job otherwise – and even then, he hadn't been too thrilled about being there. And now he expected Abby to roll over and go back to a place she knew she didn't belong? She'd *been* that person before, with the one beer and the two beers and the six beers – she knew who that person was, and she knew how it felt to be that person. And she wasn't that person.
No matter how much Carter's words nagged at her.
But that didn't matter. Carter didn't matter, Brian didn't matter, and whoever was making those noises outside didn't matter. All that mattered was that her locks worked – she'd tested out that chain enough times, pulling the door open, shut, getting her neighbor to kick the door when the chain was on. God, she was obsessing now. All she needed was to relax, settle her nerves . . . things couldn't possibly be as upsetting as they seemed.
Her eyes swept the table once more and settled on the bottle of beer. It would relax her, without a doubt, without fail, without a second thought . . .
But instead she picked up the phone and impulsively called the number of her other source of relaxation – the one person who counted as a presence, an entity, and not a judgmental know-it-all. True, that's because he *didn't* know it all . . . but Abby was content with that. Why drag Luka into this by telling him everything?
The machine picked up and Abby was relieved. What would she say, anyway? It's two am, keep me company, amuse me and let me pretend like I'm not alone in all this?
"Luka, it's me," Abby informed the machine. "You're probably asleep, or at work, or something . . . just wanted to say . . . thanks, for the chain. Yeah. Anyway . . . I'll see you at work, I guess. Bye."
Hmm. Even her one-sided arguments were awkward. That was never a good sign. Before she could control herself she reached over and took a long sip of the beer, then set it back down. See? No craving. It just *helped,* she didn't need it. Showed you, Carter.
And just to show him further, she downed the beer and two others before falling asleep on the couch.
-------------------------------------------------
Oh, yeah
It's easy to forget, yeah
When you choke on the regrets, yeah
Who the hell did I think I was?
-------------------------------------------------
The clock on the VCR informed her that it was almost four am the knock at the door woke her up. First, ceremoniously, she peeked through the eyehole and frowned slightly at the sight on the other side. Abby unhooked the chain, unlocked the locks, opened the door . . . "You didn't have to come over," she told him simply.
"You called me up in the middle of the night and I'm not going to come over to check on you?" Luka asked doubtfully. "I thought maybe . . . you were having trouble, or something."
Abby shook her head and casually leaned against the door. "Nope. Unless insomnia counts as trouble."
He nodded in agreement – their eyes met and each turned away quickly. "So you're all right then?"
She looked up at him and flashed a characteristic tight smile, the blanket that draped whatever needed to be draped. "I'm fine. I'm good. Thanks."
He was staring at the floor for several seconds, and before Abby could end the awkward conversation with a pleasant goodbye, he spoke. "Because Carter seemed worried about you."
Abby's smile slowly faded. He'd been talking to Carter. Great. "Carter overreacts," she told him simply. "He jumps to conclusions."
But he wasn't buying it. "He thinks you . . . have a problem."
It was all Abby could do to not collapse into tears right there. A problem? A *problem?* Was the concept so volatile that Luka couldn't even bring himself to say it? Like abortion – or bipolar – or death, for God's sake? Abby found herself narrowing her eyes at Luka's vague words, and she began to close the door. "Carter doesn't know what he's talking about," Abby muttered, not bothering to attempt a polite conclusion to the conversation.
Luka held out a hand and stopped the door easily. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"
She stared at him in horror. "What the hell kind of question is that?" she demanded. "Did you come here to check up on me, or something? Carter tells you something's wrong and now you've decided he's right? And since when do you and Carter have the right to discuss my life?"
"It was a simple question, Abby." She wasn't comfortable with the depressed sorrow in his eyes, and she looked away. "Have you been drinking tonight?"
"If I was drunk, which I'm not and don't plan on being, I . . ." She trailed off, completely forgetting where she was going with this and remembering that she didn't know in the first place. "You know what, I'm actually really tired, I appreciate your concern, but –"
"Abby, please." His voice was low, but not as pleading as Abby would have thought. "I want to help you."
"I don't need help," she informed him briskly, flashing him the tight smile before she closed and locked the door between them.
"I think you do," came his voice from the other side of the door.
Abby closed her eyes wearily and leaned against the door. "I don't have a drinking problem, Luka," she muttered.
There was silence, and Abby peered out the eyehole to see him staring right back at her. Against every emotion she held dear, Abby slowly unlocked the door and found herself face to face with Luka.
"I think you do," he repeated simply.
----------------------------------------------------
And stranger than your sympathy
And all these thoughts you stole from me
And I'm not sure where I belong
And no where's home and no more wrong
-----------------------------------------------------------
"I have, like, nothing to drink," she called as she inspected the refrigerator. This wasn't entirely true – her eye caught the unopened 12 pack of beer settled on the counter – but something told her that Luka wouldn't be keen on her nursing a beer at this point. Her mind was working quickly with what Carter could have told him . . . how much he could know . . .
"I'm all right." Abby looked over at him on the couch, where he was eyeing the empty glass bottles she'd been too lazy to pick up. At that moment she wasn't sure she dreaded anything more than joining him in the living room.
But she was running out of things to do in the kitchen, and as Luka turned around to face her, she clasped her hands together and stepped over to the sofa. "Sorry about the mess," she apologized meekly, sinking onto the opposite side of the sofa. She felt enveloped in the large sweater, and it was comforting.
Luka watched her for a moment; leaning forward, he took a deep breath. "Carter asked me today if I was stupid, or if I just didn't care about you," he finally murmured. He glanced up at her with a humiliated smile. "I guess I'm stupid."
"No, you're not," Abby sighed, unable to look in his direction. "Carter's being melodramatic."
"I mean, I . . . I noticed you were drinking a little more than usual, but I never thought . . ." Luka shook his head and turned away from her. "I guess it never entered my mind."
In spite of what she knew she shouldn't say, Abby found herself affected by his words. A little more than usual. Seeing as how "usual" while they had been dating was zero alcohol, it would be fairly accurate to say that "a little more" was, well, a beer. "I didn't expect it to," she told him honestly. "I don't go around flaunting my past to just anyone."
Luka glanced at her. "I was under the impression that I was more than just anyone."
"Well . . . yeah . . ." Abby frowned and more than anything, she wished she could be alone.
"How long have . . . had . . . you been sober?" he questioned.
"A few years," Abby murmured.
"How many? Two, three?"
Abby slouched into the couch and became fascinated with her fingernails. "Six."
The miserable sigh from Luka's side of the couch made Abby cringe. "I let you throw away six years," he groaned. "God, I'm so sorry . . ."
"You didn't *let* me do anything," Abby informed him irritably. "You didn't know. And it's not like I'm falling down drunk every night – I had one beer every once in a while. You're not expected to monitor my every behavior."
Luka shook his head and held up the two empty bottles indicatively. "This is more than a beer once in a while."
She rolled her eyes, more than a little annoyed with the direction the conversation was taking. "You're not seriously lecturing me on this."
"I'm not lecturing you," he told her, replacing the bottles on the coffee table. "I'm just . . . overwhelmed."
Abby tilted her head curiously. "*You're* overwhelmed?" she asked incredulously.
"Well, yeah, Abby – this is kind of new to me. We've known each other for so long now, we were together for a year . . . it's like you're a different person. I need some time to get used to it."
Abby nearly choked on her own tongue. "I'm sorry to disappoint you with the truth," she remarked, completely taken aback. "I was perfectly content with the way things were – you're the one who barged over here at 4 in the fucking morning."
"You're the one who called me two hours before that, sounding like you had a gun to your head."
She shook her head discontentedly. "I didn't ask you for anything," she grumbled. "Not your help, not your sympathy, and not your goddamn judgement."
"Abby, I'm not judging you," he argued. "I just . . . don't understand why you felt like you had to hide it from me. It's nothing to be ashamed of –"
"I never said it was," Abby countered evenly.
He glanced up at her and sighed; Abby turned away in disgust. "How does Carter know, then?"
She chuckled wryly and stared up at the ceiling. "I was his sponsor for AA," she told him mildly. "We went to meetings together."
"Riiight." Luka nodded slowly, and Abby crossed her arms over her chest irritably. "So now he's badgering you into, what, giving it up again?"
"It's not as easy as that, Luka," Abby retorted. "You're a doctor for God's sake, you should know that."
"Well, I'm sorry if I'm not as well-versed in all of this as you and Carter," Luka snapped. "I've never dated an alcoholic before, I'm new at this."
Abby was truly rendered speechless. She didn't know which to react to first – the accusation about Carter, the labeling of "alcoholic" . . . "You and I aren't *dating.*"
"Right. I know." Luka muttered. "But you were an alcoholic when we *were* dating. Give me a second to rewrite history here."
"God, what is your problem?" Abby snapped angrily. "You force me to confide in you and now you're completely bitter about it! So I drank a lot when I was married – so what? I have a drink every once in a while, even you can't begrudge me of that."
"I'm not trying to begrudge you of anything. I'm upset because you consciously hid this from me," Luka snapped. "You and Carter had this whole other world that didn't include me in the slightest."
"Oh, please, you're not getting jealous *now,*" Abby scoffed.
"Jealous, no. But I think I have the right to be upset. I opened up to you, I told you everything about myself, and you couldn't be bothered with telling me the truth about yourself."
"Right, you were a regular open book," Abby commented bitterly. "Did it ever occur to you that I wanted to avoid this exact conversation?!"
"You were content with keeping me at an arm's length, and with telling Carter every tiny secret of your life," Luka snapped. "It had nothing to do with your feelings towards me or my reaction."
"Luka, you keep saying 'alcoholic' like you'd say 'leper' or 'mass murderer.'" Abby shook her head and glared at him intensely. "How could I possibly think you'd understand?"
"You never gave me a chance to understand."
Abby really had nothing more to say. Her cheeks were flushed and all her thoughts had collected on the 12 pack of beers on her kitchen counter. She watched as Luka stared intently at his hands, and from where Abby was sitting, it looked like he was clenching his jaw tightly. "I think you should go now," she muttered.
"So you can drink yourself into a coma?" he questioned bitterly. "No."
Abby rolled her eyes and stood up; padding across the apartment, she slowly unlatched the locks and opened the door. "What I do isn't your business anymore," she responded, not looking at him. "Please. Go."
Out of the corner of her eye she could see him slowly stand up, and as he crossed the apartment, he seemed like he was searching for something to say to her. "I just want to help," he murmured, glancing down at her once before reluctantly stepping through the doorway.
"You can't," Abby informed him wryly. "This is all mine. I have to do it."
He was silent, and Abby scowled and shut the door behind him – she locked the locks, latched the chain, and her fingers trailed over the grain of the wooden door. Impulsively she looked out the peephole, just in case Luka was still looking back at her . . .
No. He was gone.
With weary frustration Abby leaned against the door and buried her face in her hands. She didn't need this, she didn't need these thoughts coursing though her brain or these voices screaming in her head. Right or wrong, right or wrong, right or wrong – God, she didn't need this particular internal battle to be fighting. Not now, not ever.
Her gaze shifted to the beers on her counter and for one moment, she could almost feel them pulling her towards them. Her chest tightened and her palms began to sweat, and as she took the first step towards the counter, she heard the way Luka's voice . . . "We've known each other for so long now, we were together for a year . . . it's like you're a different person." Such disgust, such disapproval that he probably didn't know he'd used . . .
"It's not about the beer you had yesterday, or the two you're going to want today, or the six you're going to want tomorrow . . ."
"Goddammit, Abby, you drink every night and hungover every day – this marriage is never going to last if you become a drunk."
"Six years . . . you were sober for six years . . ."
"I let you throw away six years . . ."
"I want a divorce."
"I was under the impression that I was more than just anyone."
"What us, is there an us?"
"You need help, Abby . . ."
"I just want to help . . ."
"Let me help . . ."
"You can't. This is all mine. I have to do it."
The last voice was her own, and Abby stared across the kitchen in absolute bewilderment. There was no way around it . . . goddamn it . . .
Abby sank against the wall, willing the tears away but unable to stop them as they came fast and vengefully. She had a drinking problem. And it was all hers.
And she had to do it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------
And I was in love with things I tried to make you believe I was
And I wouldn't be the one to kneel before the dreams I wanted
And all the dark and all the lies were all the empty things disguised as me
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------
"There's complimentary coffee and doughnuts in the hall," the man at the front of the room called out above the murmur of the crowd. "Help yourselves, and I hope to see you all here next week!"
Abby slouched in her seat, waiting for the group of people to clear. She wasn't in the mood to push and shove, and she wasn't in the mood for coffee and doughnuts. She'd had enough post-meeting complimentary refreshments to last her a lifetime.
"I thought you might come."
The familiar voice above her should have made her cringe, but instead she looked up to acknowledge his presence. "That's funny, I didn't."
The look in his eyes was completely readable, like always, yet indescribable. Pride? Happiness? It didn't matter – all that mattered was that the glow of self-righteousness she'd feared was nowhere to be seen, and shyly she looked away from his gaze. "So, you up for stale doughnuts and weak coffee?" he asked.
"Not particularly," Abby sighed, standing up and slinging her purse over her shoulder. "I want a sundae."
"What, you want me to give you a reward?" Carter teased. "I think that's against policy."
"I didn't say you had to buy it, or even come," Abby chuckled. "I just said I wanted one."
"Ahh, well that changes everything." He followed her out of the room, and together they walked down the hall. "Would you mind if I came?"
Abby paused, and looked at him contemplatively. "If you do, you're buying," she decided, and continued down the hall.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, but it wasn't a sensual touch, or even a flirtatious gesture. It was amicable, supportive, and in a way, exactly what she needed.
His smile told her that he knew it was what she needed right then. In spite of herself, she smiled back.
------------------------------------------
Stranger than your sympathy
Stranger than your sympathy
------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -
We're taught to lead the life you choose
(All I wanted)
You know your love's run out on you
(All I wanted)
And you can't see when all your dreams aren't coming true
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
The sound of a violent clatter caused Abby to sit up in bed abruptly. For a long, tense moment she listened, scanning the silence for another noise, any indication that he was back. Yet there was nothing more, and exasperated, Abby sank back onto the bed. This was what, the third time her heart had stopped at the sound of a rustle outside her apartment? True, each time she never really woke up – it's impossible to wake up if you never really went to sleep in the first place.
No. Screw this. She wasn't getting any sleep anyway, not as long as her hallway had become noisy enough to be a train station. Angrily she tore back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pulling on her old white sweater, she found that she was too annoyed at this point to consider what exactly pissed her off more – the fact that she was being kept awake, or the fact that she simply couldn't get to sleep. True, they sounded one in the same, but to Abby they were so different . . .
Slowly, methodically, she tightened each of the locks on her door, her fingers gently grazing the newly replaced chain. Half-heartedly she checked the eyehole for what seemed like the tenth time that night . . . still nothing. The grip of fear was waning, but as in the past, it usually took some assistance for Abby to truly relax.
She flopped onto the sofa and found herself staring at a sight that had only grown more familiar in the moonlight of the last few months. Admittedly, it had been quite a while since she'd seen the bottle half empty – waste not, want not, was the joyous credo that always flashed into her mind as she tipped her head to finish the last drop. But now, when the mere thought of the bittersweet taste was enough to make her crave the smooth glass on her lips, she tucked her chin into the crook of her arm and gently pushed the bottle away.
She couldn't deal with that shit now. Not now.
Carter could throw out all the accusations he wanted, and that was just fine – everyone's entitled to an opinion. He was being a zealot, an overactive protector, and Abby couldn't help but think that some of his vehemence in her treatment had been because he despised Luka so greatly. Why, she'd never know. It amused Abby to see Carter throw his support into the program all of a sudden, when he'd only really gone to the meetings because he was forced to – he'd lose his job otherwise – and even then, he hadn't been too thrilled about being there. And now he expected Abby to roll over and go back to a place she knew she didn't belong? She'd *been* that person before, with the one beer and the two beers and the six beers – she knew who that person was, and she knew how it felt to be that person. And she wasn't that person.
No matter how much Carter's words nagged at her.
But that didn't matter. Carter didn't matter, Brian didn't matter, and whoever was making those noises outside didn't matter. All that mattered was that her locks worked – she'd tested out that chain enough times, pulling the door open, shut, getting her neighbor to kick the door when the chain was on. God, she was obsessing now. All she needed was to relax, settle her nerves . . . things couldn't possibly be as upsetting as they seemed.
Her eyes swept the table once more and settled on the bottle of beer. It would relax her, without a doubt, without fail, without a second thought . . .
But instead she picked up the phone and impulsively called the number of her other source of relaxation – the one person who counted as a presence, an entity, and not a judgmental know-it-all. True, that's because he *didn't* know it all . . . but Abby was content with that. Why drag Luka into this by telling him everything?
The machine picked up and Abby was relieved. What would she say, anyway? It's two am, keep me company, amuse me and let me pretend like I'm not alone in all this?
"Luka, it's me," Abby informed the machine. "You're probably asleep, or at work, or something . . . just wanted to say . . . thanks, for the chain. Yeah. Anyway . . . I'll see you at work, I guess. Bye."
Hmm. Even her one-sided arguments were awkward. That was never a good sign. Before she could control herself she reached over and took a long sip of the beer, then set it back down. See? No craving. It just *helped,* she didn't need it. Showed you, Carter.
And just to show him further, she downed the beer and two others before falling asleep on the couch.
-------------------------------------------------
Oh, yeah
It's easy to forget, yeah
When you choke on the regrets, yeah
Who the hell did I think I was?
-------------------------------------------------
The clock on the VCR informed her that it was almost four am the knock at the door woke her up. First, ceremoniously, she peeked through the eyehole and frowned slightly at the sight on the other side. Abby unhooked the chain, unlocked the locks, opened the door . . . "You didn't have to come over," she told him simply.
"You called me up in the middle of the night and I'm not going to come over to check on you?" Luka asked doubtfully. "I thought maybe . . . you were having trouble, or something."
Abby shook her head and casually leaned against the door. "Nope. Unless insomnia counts as trouble."
He nodded in agreement – their eyes met and each turned away quickly. "So you're all right then?"
She looked up at him and flashed a characteristic tight smile, the blanket that draped whatever needed to be draped. "I'm fine. I'm good. Thanks."
He was staring at the floor for several seconds, and before Abby could end the awkward conversation with a pleasant goodbye, he spoke. "Because Carter seemed worried about you."
Abby's smile slowly faded. He'd been talking to Carter. Great. "Carter overreacts," she told him simply. "He jumps to conclusions."
But he wasn't buying it. "He thinks you . . . have a problem."
It was all Abby could do to not collapse into tears right there. A problem? A *problem?* Was the concept so volatile that Luka couldn't even bring himself to say it? Like abortion – or bipolar – or death, for God's sake? Abby found herself narrowing her eyes at Luka's vague words, and she began to close the door. "Carter doesn't know what he's talking about," Abby muttered, not bothering to attempt a polite conclusion to the conversation.
Luka held out a hand and stopped the door easily. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"
She stared at him in horror. "What the hell kind of question is that?" she demanded. "Did you come here to check up on me, or something? Carter tells you something's wrong and now you've decided he's right? And since when do you and Carter have the right to discuss my life?"
"It was a simple question, Abby." She wasn't comfortable with the depressed sorrow in his eyes, and she looked away. "Have you been drinking tonight?"
"If I was drunk, which I'm not and don't plan on being, I . . ." She trailed off, completely forgetting where she was going with this and remembering that she didn't know in the first place. "You know what, I'm actually really tired, I appreciate your concern, but –"
"Abby, please." His voice was low, but not as pleading as Abby would have thought. "I want to help you."
"I don't need help," she informed him briskly, flashing him the tight smile before she closed and locked the door between them.
"I think you do," came his voice from the other side of the door.
Abby closed her eyes wearily and leaned against the door. "I don't have a drinking problem, Luka," she muttered.
There was silence, and Abby peered out the eyehole to see him staring right back at her. Against every emotion she held dear, Abby slowly unlocked the door and found herself face to face with Luka.
"I think you do," he repeated simply.
----------------------------------------------------
And stranger than your sympathy
And all these thoughts you stole from me
And I'm not sure where I belong
And no where's home and no more wrong
-----------------------------------------------------------
"I have, like, nothing to drink," she called as she inspected the refrigerator. This wasn't entirely true – her eye caught the unopened 12 pack of beer settled on the counter – but something told her that Luka wouldn't be keen on her nursing a beer at this point. Her mind was working quickly with what Carter could have told him . . . how much he could know . . .
"I'm all right." Abby looked over at him on the couch, where he was eyeing the empty glass bottles she'd been too lazy to pick up. At that moment she wasn't sure she dreaded anything more than joining him in the living room.
But she was running out of things to do in the kitchen, and as Luka turned around to face her, she clasped her hands together and stepped over to the sofa. "Sorry about the mess," she apologized meekly, sinking onto the opposite side of the sofa. She felt enveloped in the large sweater, and it was comforting.
Luka watched her for a moment; leaning forward, he took a deep breath. "Carter asked me today if I was stupid, or if I just didn't care about you," he finally murmured. He glanced up at her with a humiliated smile. "I guess I'm stupid."
"No, you're not," Abby sighed, unable to look in his direction. "Carter's being melodramatic."
"I mean, I . . . I noticed you were drinking a little more than usual, but I never thought . . ." Luka shook his head and turned away from her. "I guess it never entered my mind."
In spite of what she knew she shouldn't say, Abby found herself affected by his words. A little more than usual. Seeing as how "usual" while they had been dating was zero alcohol, it would be fairly accurate to say that "a little more" was, well, a beer. "I didn't expect it to," she told him honestly. "I don't go around flaunting my past to just anyone."
Luka glanced at her. "I was under the impression that I was more than just anyone."
"Well . . . yeah . . ." Abby frowned and more than anything, she wished she could be alone.
"How long have . . . had . . . you been sober?" he questioned.
"A few years," Abby murmured.
"How many? Two, three?"
Abby slouched into the couch and became fascinated with her fingernails. "Six."
The miserable sigh from Luka's side of the couch made Abby cringe. "I let you throw away six years," he groaned. "God, I'm so sorry . . ."
"You didn't *let* me do anything," Abby informed him irritably. "You didn't know. And it's not like I'm falling down drunk every night – I had one beer every once in a while. You're not expected to monitor my every behavior."
Luka shook his head and held up the two empty bottles indicatively. "This is more than a beer once in a while."
She rolled her eyes, more than a little annoyed with the direction the conversation was taking. "You're not seriously lecturing me on this."
"I'm not lecturing you," he told her, replacing the bottles on the coffee table. "I'm just . . . overwhelmed."
Abby tilted her head curiously. "*You're* overwhelmed?" she asked incredulously.
"Well, yeah, Abby – this is kind of new to me. We've known each other for so long now, we were together for a year . . . it's like you're a different person. I need some time to get used to it."
Abby nearly choked on her own tongue. "I'm sorry to disappoint you with the truth," she remarked, completely taken aback. "I was perfectly content with the way things were – you're the one who barged over here at 4 in the fucking morning."
"You're the one who called me two hours before that, sounding like you had a gun to your head."
She shook her head discontentedly. "I didn't ask you for anything," she grumbled. "Not your help, not your sympathy, and not your goddamn judgement."
"Abby, I'm not judging you," he argued. "I just . . . don't understand why you felt like you had to hide it from me. It's nothing to be ashamed of –"
"I never said it was," Abby countered evenly.
He glanced up at her and sighed; Abby turned away in disgust. "How does Carter know, then?"
She chuckled wryly and stared up at the ceiling. "I was his sponsor for AA," she told him mildly. "We went to meetings together."
"Riiight." Luka nodded slowly, and Abby crossed her arms over her chest irritably. "So now he's badgering you into, what, giving it up again?"
"It's not as easy as that, Luka," Abby retorted. "You're a doctor for God's sake, you should know that."
"Well, I'm sorry if I'm not as well-versed in all of this as you and Carter," Luka snapped. "I've never dated an alcoholic before, I'm new at this."
Abby was truly rendered speechless. She didn't know which to react to first – the accusation about Carter, the labeling of "alcoholic" . . . "You and I aren't *dating.*"
"Right. I know." Luka muttered. "But you were an alcoholic when we *were* dating. Give me a second to rewrite history here."
"God, what is your problem?" Abby snapped angrily. "You force me to confide in you and now you're completely bitter about it! So I drank a lot when I was married – so what? I have a drink every once in a while, even you can't begrudge me of that."
"I'm not trying to begrudge you of anything. I'm upset because you consciously hid this from me," Luka snapped. "You and Carter had this whole other world that didn't include me in the slightest."
"Oh, please, you're not getting jealous *now,*" Abby scoffed.
"Jealous, no. But I think I have the right to be upset. I opened up to you, I told you everything about myself, and you couldn't be bothered with telling me the truth about yourself."
"Right, you were a regular open book," Abby commented bitterly. "Did it ever occur to you that I wanted to avoid this exact conversation?!"
"You were content with keeping me at an arm's length, and with telling Carter every tiny secret of your life," Luka snapped. "It had nothing to do with your feelings towards me or my reaction."
"Luka, you keep saying 'alcoholic' like you'd say 'leper' or 'mass murderer.'" Abby shook her head and glared at him intensely. "How could I possibly think you'd understand?"
"You never gave me a chance to understand."
Abby really had nothing more to say. Her cheeks were flushed and all her thoughts had collected on the 12 pack of beers on her kitchen counter. She watched as Luka stared intently at his hands, and from where Abby was sitting, it looked like he was clenching his jaw tightly. "I think you should go now," she muttered.
"So you can drink yourself into a coma?" he questioned bitterly. "No."
Abby rolled her eyes and stood up; padding across the apartment, she slowly unlatched the locks and opened the door. "What I do isn't your business anymore," she responded, not looking at him. "Please. Go."
Out of the corner of her eye she could see him slowly stand up, and as he crossed the apartment, he seemed like he was searching for something to say to her. "I just want to help," he murmured, glancing down at her once before reluctantly stepping through the doorway.
"You can't," Abby informed him wryly. "This is all mine. I have to do it."
He was silent, and Abby scowled and shut the door behind him – she locked the locks, latched the chain, and her fingers trailed over the grain of the wooden door. Impulsively she looked out the peephole, just in case Luka was still looking back at her . . .
No. He was gone.
With weary frustration Abby leaned against the door and buried her face in her hands. She didn't need this, she didn't need these thoughts coursing though her brain or these voices screaming in her head. Right or wrong, right or wrong, right or wrong – God, she didn't need this particular internal battle to be fighting. Not now, not ever.
Her gaze shifted to the beers on her counter and for one moment, she could almost feel them pulling her towards them. Her chest tightened and her palms began to sweat, and as she took the first step towards the counter, she heard the way Luka's voice . . . "We've known each other for so long now, we were together for a year . . . it's like you're a different person." Such disgust, such disapproval that he probably didn't know he'd used . . .
"It's not about the beer you had yesterday, or the two you're going to want today, or the six you're going to want tomorrow . . ."
"Goddammit, Abby, you drink every night and hungover every day – this marriage is never going to last if you become a drunk."
"Six years . . . you were sober for six years . . ."
"I let you throw away six years . . ."
"I want a divorce."
"I was under the impression that I was more than just anyone."
"What us, is there an us?"
"You need help, Abby . . ."
"I just want to help . . ."
"Let me help . . ."
"You can't. This is all mine. I have to do it."
The last voice was her own, and Abby stared across the kitchen in absolute bewilderment. There was no way around it . . . goddamn it . . .
Abby sank against the wall, willing the tears away but unable to stop them as they came fast and vengefully. She had a drinking problem. And it was all hers.
And she had to do it.
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And I was in love with things I tried to make you believe I was
And I wouldn't be the one to kneel before the dreams I wanted
And all the dark and all the lies were all the empty things disguised as me
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"There's complimentary coffee and doughnuts in the hall," the man at the front of the room called out above the murmur of the crowd. "Help yourselves, and I hope to see you all here next week!"
Abby slouched in her seat, waiting for the group of people to clear. She wasn't in the mood to push and shove, and she wasn't in the mood for coffee and doughnuts. She'd had enough post-meeting complimentary refreshments to last her a lifetime.
"I thought you might come."
The familiar voice above her should have made her cringe, but instead she looked up to acknowledge his presence. "That's funny, I didn't."
The look in his eyes was completely readable, like always, yet indescribable. Pride? Happiness? It didn't matter – all that mattered was that the glow of self-righteousness she'd feared was nowhere to be seen, and shyly she looked away from his gaze. "So, you up for stale doughnuts and weak coffee?" he asked.
"Not particularly," Abby sighed, standing up and slinging her purse over her shoulder. "I want a sundae."
"What, you want me to give you a reward?" Carter teased. "I think that's against policy."
"I didn't say you had to buy it, or even come," Abby chuckled. "I just said I wanted one."
"Ahh, well that changes everything." He followed her out of the room, and together they walked down the hall. "Would you mind if I came?"
Abby paused, and looked at him contemplatively. "If you do, you're buying," she decided, and continued down the hall.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, but it wasn't a sensual touch, or even a flirtatious gesture. It was amicable, supportive, and in a way, exactly what she needed.
His smile told her that he knew it was what she needed right then. In spite of herself, she smiled back.
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Stranger than your sympathy
Stranger than your sympathy
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