TITLE: Through the Door (4/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission, and notify when archived. Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Today's chapter is brought to you by a long list of credits that I have decided to place at the end because my author's notes are really getting to be too lengthy. ^_^ Chapter Three is dedicated again to everyone who reviewed Chapter Two: phoenix (your compliments are so lovely!), Songbird (I also thought that the writers cheated us big time by not showing us Carter's reaction to Abby's beating), Kate (I'm so glad you emailed so I could thank you properly), and Cat, who is a dear and deserves a plug because she is fabulous and so are her Carter/Abby fics (www.cat.cynicalgirls.com). Thanks and virtual cookies for all the reviews—it makes writing TTD that much more fun. *beams* Also, perpetual thanks to Neoxer and pix for hosting, as well. And, of course, I'm still a feedback whore, so all reviews are very, very appreciated! Review either on fanfiction.net under my pseudonym (C. Midori) or drop me an email at socksless@hotmail.com.

SUMMARY: In which Abby dreams, Carter moons, Abby asks Carter in on a non-date, and they spill their guts about relationships past. Also features the not-so-proverbial morning after and an Important Revelation by the long-suffering John Carter.

CHAPTER THREE

From Dawn to Dusk

and i'll always need her more than she could ever need me

*          *          *

THE DREAMS BEGAN IN SAND, soft, warm, infinite; unwinding like a spool of thread falling into the darkness. Swiftly, silently, they wrapped their arms around her hunched shoulders, telling her beautiful truths about the way he loved her laughter, dark and elusive like shadows along the periphery, loved the smell of her hair in the rain. The other world fell away as the dreams drew from her breath and lodged themselves in the very marrow of her bones, making promises she was sure would not keep outside of this blurred, hazy dream-world.

Startled, Abby's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed. She immediately regretted the action. Her head began to throb in short, sharp bursts of pain, and she flopped back between the pillows.

She blinked.

With a dawning sense of horror, she shut her eyes, and then dared to open them again. She lay spread-eagled on a bed that was not her own, placating a headache between pillows that she had never seen before. Turning her head sideways, she caught a glimpse of the frame propped up on the nightstand by the bed, and a glance of the young boy pictured in it.  

Shit.

In a half-moment of panic, her hands scrambled to her body, and with an enormous exhale of relief she found that she was still dressed, albeit in the same rumpled, rain-dried outfit of yesterday. Stifling a groan, she sat up again, rubbing her eyes tiredly and letting her hair fall like a curtain around her face.

"Abby?" Carter stood in the doorway. "Are you feeling okay?"

She looked up, a melancholic frown on her face and the comforter bunched up around her waist. Hair mussed and eyes still shiny with sleep, she looked different, somehow. Younger. Vulnerable, maybe. Not as battle-scarred.

He smiled. "That good, huh?" Amused, he walked over to take a seat on the bed.

"Not so much," she slurred, half-drunkenly, as the mattress gently sloped. She avoided his eye.

"Here, take this." Carter handed her a glass of water and a couple of tablets. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungover," she grunted, squeezing her eyes shut. "Could be better."

"Could be worse," he countered, taking the glass from her when she finished. Unthinkingly, he reached out, his thumb wiping a bead of water that collected near the corner of her mouth. His heart lurched at the contact. Giving her an apologetic smile, he withdrew his hand quickly; his thumb was still wet with the moisture on her lips.

Abby pressed her lips together and looked away, squinting as the early morning light slanted through the window and draped like fine cloth across her face. "I'm not sure what to say."

Carter smiled awkwardly. "You don't have to say anything."

"Carter, I barfed on you last night. I'm sure something along the lines of 'I'm sorry' would be appropriate for the occasion."

He shrugged. "Nothing I haven't seen in the ER."

It was as if she didn't hear him. She pursed her lips, fiddling with her sleeves. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here last night."

"You shouldn't have gotten drunk," he cut in quickly.

"Carter," she warned, annoyance creeping into her voice. Carter remained mute, and, Abby thought, rather moody. "Okay, you know what, this is not exactly how I envisioned it would be."

"Envisioned what would be?"

"The morning after."

Astonished, Carter began to sputter. "I…you…you've imagined…the morning after?"

"Yes."

"Waking up?"

"Yeah, well, one tends to do that in the morning."

"With me?"

"Maybe." She looked at him boldly. "What, like you haven't?"

"Imagined waking up with myself? Actually, no."

She glared at him.

"Ms. Lockhart," Carter tried but failed to smother the broad grin that spread across his face, "Well, well."

"Well, well, what?" she retorted, her cheeks very flushed.

He gave her an appraising look. "Tell you what. Let me make you breakfast, and we'll pretend like the whole barfing thing never happened."  He stood up and held out his hand. She hesitated only slightly before taking it, and followed him out of the room and down the hallway.

"So you fantasize about me, huh?"

"Shut up, Carter."

*          *          *

"Shut up, Carter," she laughed. "What, you don't think I can cook?"

Carter looked at her skeptically as they talked over the patient between them.

"Is this Abby 'Takeout Queen' Lockhart I'm talking to?" he snorted.

Abby smiled as she took the man's pulse. "I swear to god, I'm a pretty decent chef. Besides, I owe you."

"What'd you do?" Abe Bluth, aged sixty-four and suffering from severe chest pains, cut in with a wheeze.

"Nothing," Abby answered at the same time Carter replied, "She threw up on me."

She glared at him. Carter smothered a grin.

Abby raised an eyebrow. "So?"

Carter cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say," he admitted, jotting something down on Abe's chart. "This is so sudden," he joked.

"Well." Abby paused. "Most people like to say yes or no," she said solemnly. Carter made a face.

"I think you should say yes," Abe rasped to Carter, his wrinkled forehead crinkling in amusement. "It'll be like a date."

"It's not a date," they responded in unison.

"I said like a date," he roared, with a violent cough. "My heart." He hammered his chest weakly. Then, winking at Carter, "Anyway, it's not every day that a pretty girl asks you out."

"Oh, I'm not that pretty," Abby replied automatically.

"She's not asking me out," Carter added.

"Asking you in, asking you out, whatever." Abe grinned crookedly, and, with a loud gasp, passed out.

As they rushed Abe Bluth, aged sixty-four and suffering from a potentially fatal heart attack, to the OR, Carter looked over at Abby. "So what time should I be there?"

Abby smiled.

*          *          *

Carter fidgeted before her front door, clearing his throat and fumbling with the bouquet of dried flowers in his hand. He cleared his throat several times. "Hello, Abby…Good evening, Miss Lockhart…Hello, Abby…"

Scrambling in the kitchen, Abby suddenly paused. Was that…?

"Greetings, Abby." Inwardly, Carter groaned. "Ass," he said under his breath. He tried lowering his voice. "Hey, Abby."

On the other side of the door, Abby grinned.

Screwing up his nerves, he took a deep breath and raised his fist to knock.

The door swung open. "Hello, Carter," she said solemnly.

"Abby. Hi." He flushed. "You, uh, heard that?" he squeaked.

"Well, well," she drawled.

Swallowing, Carter became aware of the color flooding his cheeks. "I brought you flowers," he said dumbly, thrusting the bouquet in front of her.

She regarded him silently, amused. "Come in," she finally laughed, backing away from the door. "And, thanks."

"They're dead," he added helpfully, as she strode into the kitchen. He shrugged off his coat and threw it over the couch.

"You remembered. Would you lock the door for me?" she called over her shoulder.

"Sure." He stared warily at the line of deadbolts and intricate set of locks. "What's with the home security system?"

"Brian. Luka put the locks in for me."

"Oh." Immediately, Carter felt like an idiot.

"Sorry about the heat," he heard her say. "My air-conditioner's broken." He wandered into the kitchen, and something inside of him swelled to see her rumpled form, her face open and relaxed. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a messy ponytail, wisps falling softly around her eyes, and bare arms and neck slipped out of a cotton t-shirt. She was barefoot.

"What?" Abby raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

Carter blinked. "What?"

"You're staring."

"You've got flour on your cheek," was all he could say.

*          *          *

Wiping his mouth fastidiously, Carter leaned back. "So there you have it. John Carter's personal dating history."

"John Carter: Man or Animal?" Abby teased.

"Can't touch Howie Thomas, I'm sure," he kidded back. As she looked away, smiling, he took the time to study the line of her profile, clean and lovely against the sunset that blazed through open windows, the buttery light gilding her skin. "So what about you?"

"What about me?" Taking a delicate sip of her water, she raised her eyebrows over the glass.

"Abigail Lockhart's personal dating history. Talk."

"Too long to tell," she replied loftily.

"Well, give me the condensed version," he persisted. "Pick out the important ones. The special ones," he added meaningfully.

"Ah…well, Howie Thomas, of course. Can't forget the longest twenty seconds of my life. Then there were some guys in college, but I'd hardly call them special. And then Richard." She put down her glass. "He was special. Very special."

"Really?"

"A special kind of asshole."

Carter stifled his laughter. "And Luka?"

She laughed. "Yeah, and then there was Luka."

He cleared his throat. "What went wrong?"

"With Luka?"

"No, with Richard," he said sarcastically. "Yes, with Luka. I already know what went wrong with Richard."

"Oh yeah?" She arched an eyebrow. "What went wrong?"

"He did."

Abby's mouth curved into a very becoming smile. "Exactly right."

"And with Luka?"

She exhaled. "I dunno."

"Liar," he joked. "You're holding out."

"Well, you were there," she laughed. "Why don't you tell me what went wrong? And don't say Luka," she warned.

Idly, Carter traced random figure eights on the surface of the table. "I…I'm really in no place to say."

"Smart man. The non-answer answer. You should get a gold star for that one."

"Keep it. I learned it from you," he said, not unkindly.

Abby gazed at him thoughtfully. "From me, huh?" She chuckled. "I guess so."

He watched water trickle down the side of his sweating glass. "So why hasn't some guy on a white horse swept you off your feet yet?"

"Oh, I'm not in need of rescuing."

"What about some guy and a white picket fence, then?"

Embarrassed, Abby shifted her weight in her seat. "I don't think so. I'm not cut out for domesticity."

"Well, you can obviously cook."

"Told you so," she crowed, not bothering to hide the smugness in her voice.

"And I think you'd make a great mom…"

"I don't know…"

"…and a great wife."

Without meaning to, Abby laughed. "You volunteering for picket fence duty?"

"Just say the word," Carter smiled, only half-joking.

"Very funny." She pursed her lips, and then stared at him unflinchingly. "So what about you, Carter?"

"What about me?"

"Why hasn't some girl clubbed you over the head and dragged you to her cave?"

"Well, Susan wasn't the clubbing type," he joked.

Abby leaned forward, propping her chin on her elbows, tilting her head. "What happened with you and Susan, anyway?"

"What about me and Susan?"

"Now who's holding out?" Abby laughed.

Carter laughed as well. "Susan and I are just friends."

"Right."

"Mmm hmmm."

"Why'd you two break up?"

Startled, Carter reddened, remembering that midwinter night, the snow crunching beneath his feet as he kissed her, Susan.

"Come on, Carter, don't hold out on me now."

It was an affectionate kiss; it was an honest kiss. But when he opened his eyes the world was as it were before—no more, and no less, for it.

"Carter?"

You should tell her.

Who? Tell her what?

That you're desperately in love with her and can't live another moment without her.

Abby leaned in, amused. "Earth to Carter! You're a million miles away."

He shook his head. "What?"

"Aren't you even going to answer my question?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Carter hedged. "Because," he said finally.

"What are you, five? That's not an answer."

"Yes it is."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Carter."

"Okay." He stalled. "Uh…"

Abby looked at him expectedly.

"I…uh…she thinks I still have a crush on you," he confessed, in a rush.

"Oh." Abby drew a shaky breath and concentrated on keeping her tone light. "I've heard that one before. You say that again and I just might start to believe it," she joked.

"What if…" he trailed off, mustering his courage. "What if I did?"

"What, say it again?"

"No."

Startled, Abby swallowed, the silence stretching between them for several beats like a taut cord. She became increasingly aware of his eyes on her as he stared intently, reverently, at the waning light skating off her face, dipping into her laughing mouth, haloing her tousled head of curls.

"You're staring again," she said, a trifle too carelessly. Panic began to swell inside of her, balloon-like, and she rushed to rise out of her chair. "I—I'm going to get more water. Do you want anything?"

Growing increasingly determined, Carter stood up with her. "I want you to just listen to me for a moment."

He was standing at arm's length but to her it was as if there was no distance, no distance at all. He held her eyes with his gaze, impressing upon her the weight of knowledge inevitable, knowledge she simultaneously ached for and hated. She ached for it like she ached for him to touch her, unconsciously leaning forward so that their arms brushed and she shivered. She hated it like she hated herself for shivering when he physically closed the distance between them. She knew what they were approaching, what might come to pass, and the chaos in her head was unparalleled as the moment pivoted on a hot needle, sharp and dangerous. 

"Abby." Gently, he took her hands in his, selecting his words carefully, deliberately. "I…I've been waiting for something to happen—with us."

Abby squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of the familiar words, her words. Panic fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest; she heard its wings beat crazily against its cage. Dizzily, she opened her eyes again, and looked down at their hands, hands woven together like twine.

Carter searched her face, looking for something to grasp, his own expression heartbreakingly open. "You were right," he began desperately, his hands gripping hers, willing her to turn to him and to listen. "You were right."

She lifted her gaze to meet his. "Right about what?"

He stared at her, and released her hands, then smoothed her hair away from her face; let his hands frame her dark eyes, her flushed cheeks, her slight pout; let his fingers memorize the sweep of her eyelashes against her skin, the way her brow crinkled in fear and in expectation and in wanting.

"That night on the bridge. You told me I didn't have to settle for anyone. But you weren't over Luka; I know you weren't. And I was scared."

"Scared?" she said faintly, her heart pounding in her ears.

"I'm scared now," he laughed, nervous, but then sobered. "I'm scared about the way I feel…about you, Abby. I—I don't want to settle anymore."

She drew a long, shuddering breath. "The way you feel…about me?"

He gazed at her, intently, heatedly, and leaned in. She closed her eyes and trembled when his lips brushed against her cheek, dusty and petal-soft, then whispered notes of silence against the line of her jaw. And his mouth drew near hers, warm and inviting.

She jerked back. A blast of fear shot through her chest. Blindly, roughly, she pulled away. "I'm sorry," she croaked, looking down. She could not bear to look at him—she could not bear to see what she had done. "I can't do this."

Blinking, Carter felt something inside of him snap with great violence, as if a piano string had broken. He saw that she hugged herself tightly, like that day in the ambulance bay, her face cool and indifferent. Except her voice and her posture betrayed her. He winced—she looked like he had wounded her.

He found his voice. "You can't do what?"

She gripped herself tightly, knuckles turning deathly white. "You know what I mean."

"No," he said, frustrated, "I don't. I don't read minds, let alone yours. Why can't you just tell me what you mean?"

"I'm not asking you to read my mind," she spat, deflecting his question.

"Stop doing this." His voice grew louder. "Be honest with me, Abby, just this one time."

"Should I answer that or can I just glare?" Abby stared at him, offended. "I am honest with you, Carter. All the time."

"Not about everything," he challenged, frustration scalding white hot against his eyes. 

"Well, Carter, I'm sorry I don't tell you everything about my life."

"I'm not asking you to tell me everything that goes on in your life."

"Maybe I should start telling you what I eat for breakfast, or what new reality television show occupies my time, so I can be more honest with you."

"Look, Abby, that's not what I mean."

"Well, then, what did you mean? Because I certainly don't lie to you. I don't."

"I know you don't lie—"

"Well, then, what the hell do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything from you," he yelled. "I just want you."

They stood there in stunned silence, staring at each other. Unconsciously, Abby reached out and gripped the side of a counter. She felt sick. She felt like she was drowning, water rapidly suffocating her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

"Carter," she said helplessly, "I…"

"I want you," Carter repeated, his voice low.

She fell silent again. It was a simple statement, Abby thought hazily; simple, effective, got the point across without giving too much away. She let her hands fall to her sides, and she stood there, and she said nothing.

"I want to stop this—this dance we do. I'm tired of all these conversations…all these words that go nowhere. I'm tired of noticing the way you look at me when you think I don't see you—and I know I look at you the same way. I'm tired of feeling like there must be someone for everyone out there, but for me, that person may be you, and I know you're too goddamn scared to ever say anything to me and I'm too goddamn scared to ever call you on it. Except…I'm more scared now that we'll both just…settle…because we're too scared to do anything else."

They stared at each other. It was Carter who broke their eye contact when he stared at his hands, hands that were holding her mere minutes ago. When he spoke his voice was even, the anger gone from his words, now polished with a perfect restraint, though his eyes were enormous in his thin face. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry. I'll go."

A palpitation grew behind her eyes; it beat insolently against the livid brightness of the dying sun that smarted against her eyelids. "Where are you going?" He didn't answer; merely picked up his coat and headed for the door. Terrified, Abby called after him, her body rooted in place. "Carter."

When he turned around, her chest constricted. He was smiling, but it was an awful, horrible smile, the kind that made her look away, however briefly, to mute the flash of pain it caused.

"What?" The door was unlocked, his hand on the knob. "What do you want, Abby?" he said evenly. He stood there. For one, then two beats, then three.

Abby stared at him, at Carter, at her best friend, the silence pregnant and dark and unnerving.

Say it. Say it, Abby.

She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but no sound came from it. 

The door opened and he went through it. She stood there, motionless, as it shut behind him. Night painted long, artful strokes across her apartment, smearing its fingers across her face; she let herself sink to the floor, the room before her a flat, unlit land.

*          *          *

CREDITS: The quote prefacing the chapter is taken from the Smashing Pumpkin's "In the Arms of Sleep," off of their album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. As far as I'm concerned, Billy Corgan is The Man when it comes to songwriting, and I've been impatiently waiting to use one of his lyrics to jump-start a chapter. The dinner-date-that-is-not-a-date was inspired by Carter and Abby's non-date in Season 7's "Thy Will Be Done." (Carter! In a tux! *squeals with glee*) Some lines were lifted from the end of Season 8's fantastic "Secrets and Lies," and are indicated in italics to denote a brief flashback. An oblique reference is given to the website Noah Wyle: Man or Animal (http://www.btinternet.com/~orlando/wyle.htm) just because I think NW is fabulous (naturally!) and so are the photos on that site. Finally, Abby's comment to Carter, "Should I answer that or can I just glare?", is paraphrased from a quote on Joss Whedon's excellently-written Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And that's all, folks. Phew.