Author's Note: Pretend for a moment that season 8 never happened, aside
from the first two episodes. This story picks up where The Longer You Stay
leaves off, and no other season 8 episodes are relevant. This part is from
Luka's POV, and if I get motivated and you want more, another part will be
coming from Abby's POV. So let me know.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. The story is mine.
Spoilers: TLYS (8.2)
The Things We Leave Behind
By Kate
Part 1 – Luka
I want so badly to call after her, to make her turn around, to tell her I was wrong. But somehow the words don't come, and I know that even if I did speak, she wouldn't believe me. I'm not sure if I would believe myself. So instead, I watch her as she walks away. She walks stiffly, the self- conscious gait of someone who knows another person is watching. But her shoulders are hunched, telltale of the hurt I've placed on them.
I watch her until she's out of sight, around a corner. I don't realize I have been holding my breath until it whooshes out as if I have been punched in the solar plexus. And suddenly, I panic. What have I done? I raise my eyes to the heavens and speak to the God who has failed me in the past. "I didn't mean it. Bring her back…bring her back." The same prayer that had been left unanswered in the demolished apartment building worlds and years away. I watch a while longer to see if this prayer might be answered, but she does not come back around the corner. Time does not reverse so I can take it all back. I walk back to my apartment in a daze, my feet automatically taking the correct amount of steps, turning at the right times. I am surprised to find myself at my door, not really knowing how I got there.
I open the door and am immediately accosted by a bombardment of emotions and memories. There is a pair of Abby's shoes by the door. A magazine she was reading last night is still open to an article about the nicotine patch. Draped over one of the boxes scattered throughout the living room is a sweater she always left in my room because she said I kept it too cold. I shiver, silently agreeing with her. It does seem uncommonly cold.
I keep walking through the apartment, mentally cataloguing everything that is Abby's. Her toothbrush on the bathroom sink. A bottle of her shampoo in the shower. The beginnings of a grocery list scribbled in her handwriting on the margin of the newspaper – she needs bread and Diet Coke. She had only stayed here two nights, but her presence is everywhere.
I step into the bedroom and feel as if I'm suffocating. I haven't gotten a bed yet, but that hadn't stopped us from christening the bedroom. There is a pile of blankets on the floor, and two pillows. I remember vividly the first night we stayed here, just two nights ago. Abby wanted to stay at her place and sleep in a real bed. But I told her that I had never been camping, and we might as well try out the floor. She scoffed. "This isn't real camping. You need a tent, you have to be outside. You have to have a campfire." I was insistent, though, and knew I had won when I kissed her and suggested we could still make our own fire. She spent the night snuggled in my arms as I pretended to point out different constellations on the dark ceiling. I think we were happy that night. I know we were.
I close my eyes, trying to block out more memories of the nights we'd spent together. But I can't help torturing myself, and I kneel down on the floor and bury my head in her pillow. Her scent still lingers on the pillow, and I have a hard time believing it was just this morning that she was here. I breathe deeply, letting Abby permeate my senses as a lump forms in my throat. One of my favorite things about sleeping with Abby has always been resting my head close to her neck and breathing in her scent. I have never been able to pinpoint the exact source – it's a mixture of her shampoo, soap, perfume, detergent, and whatever else combines to form, for me, the most heady scent ever.
Sitting back on my heels, I pound my fist into her pillow and again ask myself "what have I done?" The lump in my throat is getting thicker and thicker and I have to cough to dislodge it. I know that I can't stay here tonight, not with so much to remind me what is missing.
And so I find myself back at the hotel I thought I had left for good, making some excuse to the manager about the utilities not being turned on yet in my new place. He gladly hands me the key to my old room and reminds me that I'm always welcome to stay.
Soon, I find that it was foolish to think that I would be away from memories here. There is almost an entire year of memories here, memories of nights with Abby's body curled up next to mine, memories of kissing her awake in the morning, laughing, hugging, making love…Here are the stairs we used to trudge up after a long day at work. Here is the door she knocked at the very first night we spent together. Here is the table where she always dumped her purse and coat. Here is the bed, with the same quilt on top and the same nightstand next to it. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face then look into the mirror. I don't look like a man who, just a few hours ago, hurt the woman he loved and told her to leave. No, I look as I always have. How hypocritical appearances are.
I have no choice but to sleep on the bed that holds so many memories. As I lie down on my back and stare up at the ceiling, I remember another time in this bed. Snow was falling outside the window and Abby was resting her head on my chest. She mentioned, a bit puzzled, that I watched her while we were making love. My response was simple. "You're beautiful." I couldn't imagine not wanting to watch her. I believed it then, and I still believe it now. And that is why, as I close my eyes now, I can still see the haunted look on Abby's face when I told her tonight, "You're not that pretty; you're not that special." I try to close my eyes tighter, but I cannot stop the vision of her stunned, hurt face and her response. "I'm pretty enough in the dark, though, aren't I?" My own words back to haunt me.
I stare up at the ceiling again, wishing I could go back to that winter morning with Abby in my arms. What went wrong? We were happy together, at least some times. I know we were. There was the weekend at Abby's apartment, one of those rare weekends that we both had off. It was cold and rainy outside and we made hot chocolate, wrapped ourselves in a wool blanket, and lay on her couch for hours, just listening to the rain and cuddling with each other. There was the time when Abby took me to the park and coached me for an entire afternoon on the finer points of softball, in preparation for the staff game. When I actually hit the ball in the game, when I finally made it around the bases, Abby met me at the dugout and kissed me in front of all our colleagues. There are countless other times, little moments, touches and looks in the hallway, stolen kisses in the supply room, that are running through my head right now. And I know we were happy. I know she was happy. Another thing I lied about tonight.
So what went wrong? Was it a case of too many personal demons we were dealing with? Surely it wasn't because we work together. It really wasn't Carter, was it? The doctor in me wants to find the cause and fix it right away. But the rest of me feels hopeless, and I go to sleep, memories haunting even my dreams.
END part 1
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. The story is mine.
Spoilers: TLYS (8.2)
The Things We Leave Behind
By Kate
Part 1 – Luka
I want so badly to call after her, to make her turn around, to tell her I was wrong. But somehow the words don't come, and I know that even if I did speak, she wouldn't believe me. I'm not sure if I would believe myself. So instead, I watch her as she walks away. She walks stiffly, the self- conscious gait of someone who knows another person is watching. But her shoulders are hunched, telltale of the hurt I've placed on them.
I watch her until she's out of sight, around a corner. I don't realize I have been holding my breath until it whooshes out as if I have been punched in the solar plexus. And suddenly, I panic. What have I done? I raise my eyes to the heavens and speak to the God who has failed me in the past. "I didn't mean it. Bring her back…bring her back." The same prayer that had been left unanswered in the demolished apartment building worlds and years away. I watch a while longer to see if this prayer might be answered, but she does not come back around the corner. Time does not reverse so I can take it all back. I walk back to my apartment in a daze, my feet automatically taking the correct amount of steps, turning at the right times. I am surprised to find myself at my door, not really knowing how I got there.
I open the door and am immediately accosted by a bombardment of emotions and memories. There is a pair of Abby's shoes by the door. A magazine she was reading last night is still open to an article about the nicotine patch. Draped over one of the boxes scattered throughout the living room is a sweater she always left in my room because she said I kept it too cold. I shiver, silently agreeing with her. It does seem uncommonly cold.
I keep walking through the apartment, mentally cataloguing everything that is Abby's. Her toothbrush on the bathroom sink. A bottle of her shampoo in the shower. The beginnings of a grocery list scribbled in her handwriting on the margin of the newspaper – she needs bread and Diet Coke. She had only stayed here two nights, but her presence is everywhere.
I step into the bedroom and feel as if I'm suffocating. I haven't gotten a bed yet, but that hadn't stopped us from christening the bedroom. There is a pile of blankets on the floor, and two pillows. I remember vividly the first night we stayed here, just two nights ago. Abby wanted to stay at her place and sleep in a real bed. But I told her that I had never been camping, and we might as well try out the floor. She scoffed. "This isn't real camping. You need a tent, you have to be outside. You have to have a campfire." I was insistent, though, and knew I had won when I kissed her and suggested we could still make our own fire. She spent the night snuggled in my arms as I pretended to point out different constellations on the dark ceiling. I think we were happy that night. I know we were.
I close my eyes, trying to block out more memories of the nights we'd spent together. But I can't help torturing myself, and I kneel down on the floor and bury my head in her pillow. Her scent still lingers on the pillow, and I have a hard time believing it was just this morning that she was here. I breathe deeply, letting Abby permeate my senses as a lump forms in my throat. One of my favorite things about sleeping with Abby has always been resting my head close to her neck and breathing in her scent. I have never been able to pinpoint the exact source – it's a mixture of her shampoo, soap, perfume, detergent, and whatever else combines to form, for me, the most heady scent ever.
Sitting back on my heels, I pound my fist into her pillow and again ask myself "what have I done?" The lump in my throat is getting thicker and thicker and I have to cough to dislodge it. I know that I can't stay here tonight, not with so much to remind me what is missing.
And so I find myself back at the hotel I thought I had left for good, making some excuse to the manager about the utilities not being turned on yet in my new place. He gladly hands me the key to my old room and reminds me that I'm always welcome to stay.
Soon, I find that it was foolish to think that I would be away from memories here. There is almost an entire year of memories here, memories of nights with Abby's body curled up next to mine, memories of kissing her awake in the morning, laughing, hugging, making love…Here are the stairs we used to trudge up after a long day at work. Here is the door she knocked at the very first night we spent together. Here is the table where she always dumped her purse and coat. Here is the bed, with the same quilt on top and the same nightstand next to it. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face then look into the mirror. I don't look like a man who, just a few hours ago, hurt the woman he loved and told her to leave. No, I look as I always have. How hypocritical appearances are.
I have no choice but to sleep on the bed that holds so many memories. As I lie down on my back and stare up at the ceiling, I remember another time in this bed. Snow was falling outside the window and Abby was resting her head on my chest. She mentioned, a bit puzzled, that I watched her while we were making love. My response was simple. "You're beautiful." I couldn't imagine not wanting to watch her. I believed it then, and I still believe it now. And that is why, as I close my eyes now, I can still see the haunted look on Abby's face when I told her tonight, "You're not that pretty; you're not that special." I try to close my eyes tighter, but I cannot stop the vision of her stunned, hurt face and her response. "I'm pretty enough in the dark, though, aren't I?" My own words back to haunt me.
I stare up at the ceiling again, wishing I could go back to that winter morning with Abby in my arms. What went wrong? We were happy together, at least some times. I know we were. There was the weekend at Abby's apartment, one of those rare weekends that we both had off. It was cold and rainy outside and we made hot chocolate, wrapped ourselves in a wool blanket, and lay on her couch for hours, just listening to the rain and cuddling with each other. There was the time when Abby took me to the park and coached me for an entire afternoon on the finer points of softball, in preparation for the staff game. When I actually hit the ball in the game, when I finally made it around the bases, Abby met me at the dugout and kissed me in front of all our colleagues. There are countless other times, little moments, touches and looks in the hallway, stolen kisses in the supply room, that are running through my head right now. And I know we were happy. I know she was happy. Another thing I lied about tonight.
So what went wrong? Was it a case of too many personal demons we were dealing with? Surely it wasn't because we work together. It really wasn't Carter, was it? The doctor in me wants to find the cause and fix it right away. But the rest of me feels hopeless, and I go to sleep, memories haunting even my dreams.
END part 1
