TITLE: Through the Door (5/10)
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: Super-sized thanks and a Chapter Four dedication to everyone who reviewed Chapter Three: Ceri, Raine, Alanna, Reza, and Cat! The reviews were amazingly insightful, generous, and kind—a constant source of encouragement as I wrangled with the monster that was Chapter Four. Virtual cookies also to Neoxer and pix for hosting—they've done a fabulous job being unbelievably prompt with updating. And now I'm going to soapbox for a bit. ^_^ Chapter Four marks the halfway point of TTD as it looks (tentatively) to be an eight-part story, book-ended by a prologue and epilogue. As such, it is a turning point in Carter and Abby's relationship—milk chocolate and a deliriously happy author for anyone who can explain it! Finally, all feedback is ENORMOUSLY appreciated (heh), especially for this chapter, which was on the receiving end of about two weeks of revision. o_O *wipes sweat from brow* Drop me an email at socksless@hotmail.com. You can also review TTD under my pseudonym, C. Midori, at fanfiction.net, although ff.net is currently down (again).
SUMMARY: It's sweeps week as Abby fights and Carter flees in an orgy of guest stars: Foreshadowing makes an appearance along with Big Suzie (back by popular demand ^_-), Luka, and even Frank makes a cameo. Also, a little Maggie, a lot of conversation, some soul-searching, Abby drops a bombshell or two, and everybody is miserable, of course.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the Arms of Sleep
sleep will not come to
this body now
peace will not come to this lonely heart
* * *
WHEN SHE WAS A CHILD there were nights, innumerable nights, spent standing barefoot on the front lawn, dew tickling the pink soles of her feet, a kind of primitive, innocent anguish twisting her lungs as she waited fervently for Maggie to return each time her mother disappeared. Maggie always disappeared at night, just as she returned: stealthily, guiltily, slipping through the backdoor, unmindful that someone was listening with tense, unhappy eyes.
These nights slipped by like pearls off a string, each exactly like the previous, each irrevocably lost and more precious for it. On moonless nights she let the incandescent bulb in the kitchen burn as she stood outside, her small frame backlit against the little square of light, her chin wobbling and tears threatening to spill over her fat cheeks as she waited, her face half-shrouded in shadows. But every other night she waited by the light of the moon, memorizing its path along the sky, its waxing and waning. She memorized the elegant crescents, the awkward half-bulges, the pregnant full orbs. The shape of each night was the same as the night before, save the lone bright circle in the sky, and she learned to measure lost time by this circle, wondering if her mother did the same.
After awhile she learned to stop waiting.
But at first it was waiting, only waiting. She could see herself clearly: the messy, uncombed hair pulled roughly back in pigtails; the dark, too-serious eyes even as a child; the lopsided pout tugging at her full mouth. She could see herself now as she saw herself then—frightened, agonized, head full of confusion and heart full of ache each time Maggie disappeared only to return a few days, maybe a week, maybe even two weeks later, with new scars on her arms and hands, and a greasy bag of fast food for penance. But then the apologetic kisses, and the pleading eyes, and the food left on the table, grease soaked through and through, staining the conventional brown bag. The nights of torment, of anguish, of waiting, swept away with the delirium of her mother's return, putting to rest her deepest fear that such a return would never come.
But now, the same again. Surely she had grown older, her face lengthening and her hair benefiting from the regular use of a comb. But still the same sad eyes, the same mouth wrung in the unhappiness of so many years ago, as she sat in the dark in her apartment, the phone resting by the table leg where she had dropped it and several empty bottles rolling over the hardwood floor in long, drawn out notes, like the touch of cello and bow.
She sat still, listening for the knock on her door. She waited for the soft turn of the knob, for his light, easy footsteps, his earnest gazes, his frank words; she waited half-hopefully, half-foolishly, as she did many nights ago, for some kind of retraction, for a voice to tell her that things were going to be okay, for his voice to tell her that they would be okay no matter what, even if this, this horrible thing, had happened.
Things had not changed, really. She was older, but she doubted much wiser, and still she waited, a thin beam of moonlight falling on her face as she let herself cry.
* * *
How far he had run he did not know. He only obeyed the command in his head to flee, as far as possible, and so his legs carried him. Out the door, down the corridor, and down the stairs, legs pushing forward. Always forward. Eyes never glancing backwards. Then, a burning in his lungs he tried to ignore and a scorching behind his eyes he could not.
Eventually he stopped, the pounding in his chest too painful to bear, his legs wavering under the strain of exertion. Perspiration trickled down the side of his face in infinitesimally small rivulets, his breath coming in sharp gasps and his mouth hanging open dumbly as he stood in the middle of an unknown neighborhood full of curious strangers.
Let them stare, he thought defiantly, bending over to rest his hands on his knees. When he stood up again he winced, the pain breaking paths up and down his back as he tried to trace the terrible sense of wrongness that tightened around her chest like a thread.
The sidesteps, the glancing touches, the fleeting looks—it was the dance they did to skirt the uneasy prospect of what loomed beyond friendship, this prospect wavering on the horizon like a mirage. And that's all it was, Carter realized. A mirage. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet he had himself believe it was something more, something real, and with folly he had pushed her hand to touch it, only to have them both grasping at air, their friendship perhaps irretrievably and irrevocably lost, like water slipping through their fingers and spilling to the ground. Lost like the tide that smoothed over her features, or the undertow that kept her emotions pulled tightly toward a vast, empty space, untouchable by man.
She was indecipherable, uncontainable, as blank and still as the sea from great distance; she drew him in with her complicated beauty and the dark, secret places that shimmered just below the cool, impassive surface. She cried when she thought no one was looking. She was strong. She never pretended to be anything more or less than who she was. She was vulnerable. She was generous with her time and with her friendship, but retreated far into herself. She hid behind her evasive turns of speech and her quick, lashing tongue. She made him laugh. She was complicated. She was difficult and goddamn frustrating at times.
She was beautiful.
He had never known a person quite like Abby, nor had he ever had such a good friend. But now he wondered if that was all lost, swallowed up by a squall of his creation; he wondered if she would now look at him with the cruel indifference of an after-storm calm.
Exhaling, he turned around and began the long walk home.
* * *
One week later.
Chicago lay like an animal stilled, cowering in the oppressive July heat. Light glimmered off the opaque surface of the river like the quiet murmuring of voices that shimmered inside the empty halls of County General. Behind the front desk, deep in thought, Abby stared at the clipboard in her hands. Susan regarded her seriously.
"I don't know." Abby smoothed her hair away from her face. "I just don't know."
"He's about to die," Susan said.
"God, it's hot," she replied gloomily, ignoring the observation and swiping at her forehead with her sleeve. "I hate the greenhouse effect."
"Keeps the freaks at home," Frank chimed in from behind a mountain of paperwork.
"Didn't you say that about subzero temperatures?" Susan retorted, good-naturedly. "Abby, hurry up."
Hands knotted in her hair and a pen caught between her teeth, Abby exhaled. "F?"
"Sorry, but thanks for playing our game." Susan smiled gleefully. "You lose."
"I told you," Abby laughed, "I suck at Hangman."
"Yeah, yeah you do. Rematch?"
"Maybe later." Elbows leaning against the counter, Abby pushed herself on her feet. "Sorry," she said automatically, holding her hand up to apologize, as she bumped against another person. She turned around to find herself locking gazes with Luka.
He touched her sleeve lightly. "Abby. Hey."
"Luka." Giving him a tight smile, she pushed her hair away from her face. "Sorry about that."
"It's okay," he smiled. "I don't mind bumping into you. How are you?"
"Uh, fine," she called over her shoulder, grabbing a clipboard and walking away.
He tagged at her heels. "Is everything okay?"
"Yep. Just peachy."
"I know how hard it can be to—"
"Luka, leave it alone."
"I'm sorry." Chastised, Luka held up his hands in mock surrender. "I don't want to fight with you."
Abby sighed. "I know you don't."
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay, even though…"
She cut him off. "Hey, you in charge of the patient in Curtain Three?"
"Yeah. Why do you ask?"
"You should probably go attend to him."
"Why?"
"Well, he's walking around naked, for starters."
Panicked, Luka spun around. "Very funny, Abby, but there's no—"
He stopped abruptly, blinking in surprise, for she had disappeared.
* * *
The room was empty and dark. Abby closed the door with a gentle nudge and leaned against the wall, rubbing tiredly at her eyes with the heel of her hand. She was exhausted. The predawn was quickly becoming her most hated time of the day—slumped in her bed, nursing a beer and a massive hangover, she spent the last week replaying the same words in her head in an endless repetition of cold cadences and heated words. Exhaling painfully, she examined these words again, straining for an ounce of falsehood stirred in with the truth—something, anything, to reassure her that they weren't anything more than hideous lies, disfigured inklings of truth.
But they weren't lies. None of them were lies. She clutched at her stomach, now churning and queasy, and sucked in a breath, sliding to the floor and letting her head slam back against the wall.
Abruptly, the door to the room opened.
"Luka," Abby groaned, "I told you to leave it—"
"Abby?" Started, she looked to find Susan staring at her. "You know, we have this thing called electricity. It's great. You should really try it some time."
She gave her friend a tired smile. "I like the dark."
"Okay." Susan closed the door behind her. Peering into the darkness, she frowned. "God, you look terrible. Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Some."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
Bluntly, "Did something happen with you and Carter?"
"No," Abby lied.
"Because you've both been looking pretty scary this week."
"Thanks."
"And you missed a couple of days of work."
Abby hesitated. "I wasn't feeling well."
"You work at a hospital, you know that. We're in the business of making people feel better."
"Hospitals can't fix everything."
"Depends on what you need fixed," Susan countered, joining Abby against the wall, who said nothing in response. Idly, Susan ran a free hand through her short, blond hair. "Jesus, Abby. Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall."
"Kind of talkative brick wall, don't you think?" Abby reasoned. "Some of my answers were a good three, even four words long."
"Now that's the Abigail Lockhart we all know and tolerate," Susan smiled.
"At your service."
A pause. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You're hiding out in an empty exam room in the dark. That must be some nothing you've got there."
"I'm meditating."
"Right. And meditating happens to look suspiciously like moping."
"What, like you've never indulged yourself in a good mope?"
"I thought you said you were meditating," Susan laughed.
"I lied."
"Abby…"
"I told you already, there's nothing to talk about."
"Right, then. Brick wall it is." Susan exhaled. "It's really difficult being your friend sometimes, Abby."
Abby glanced at her sideways. "So I've heard."
Susan smothered a smile. "So we are friends."
"Did I say we were?"
"You didn't say we weren't."
Finally, Abby smiled. "I guess so. I guess we are."
Susan grinned back. "So you wanna tell me what's going on between you and Carter?"
* * *
The moon shone full and bright in spite of the storm clouds that hung low and ominous in the overcast sky. Under the light of this full moon, Susan let Abby talk, the words falling from her lips in succinct succession—cool, rational and level. And when she was finished, Susan let out a long breath.
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"So he really is in love with you."
Abby shifted her weight. "Something like that."
Susan was dazed.
"You were right," Abby said, finally.
"I was guessing."
She laughed ruefully. "Well, it was a good guess, then."
Susan joined in the laughter. "Yeah, well, what can I say? I have a knack for reading our boy Carter."
"Must come with the burden of being his girlfriend."
"Ex," Susan corrected her. "Actually, as far as people go, he's pretty easy to read. Especially when it comes to you. Guy wears his heart on his sleeve, what can he say."
Abby said nothing, but fumbled in her pockets for a cigarette.
"You know, you can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?" She yanked a smoke from its pack, and brought it to her lips.
"Ignoring this. Ignoring him."
"Why not?"
"Have you looked in a mirror lately?"
"I try not to," Abby replied dryly, sucking at the cigarette at her mouth.
"Abby, I'm worried about you. And I'm guessing Carter is, too," Susan sighed. "You two really look like hell. Neither of you look like you've gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep in the last week, and you can't keep this up if you're going to work in the ER."
"Ah, the Think of the Patients angle."
Susan shrugged. "When all else fails."
Abby said nothing, but held the smoke in her lungs, exhaling slowly.
"Talk to him. We're all mature adults here. We can handle conversation, right?"
Abby shuffled her feet against the ground, a hot, humid air blowing in her face. "I'm afraid," she grinned mirthlessly, as a rueful laugh escaped her lips.
"So is he."
She shook her head emphatically. "You don't understand. There's…something else."
"Something else or someone else?"
Abby stared out into the darkness, letting her cigarette fall to the ground. "There's no one else."
The clouds shifted, revealing a small puzzle-patch of sky. Abby lifted her face sky-wards, and Susan followed her gaze. In that small space the moon shone full like the face of a lost orphan surrounded by a handful of stars sprinkled across the expanse.
They stood there, silently, looking out into the vast amounts of blackness, saying nothing.
"The ER is not my life," Susan began, slowly, meditatively. "I left it five years ago because I wanted to know what it was like to be Susan Lewis, not Dr. Susan Lewis of County General, because there was nothing left for me in Chicago except my job.
"But there was—something—left. Someone, actually. Someone I hadn't thought of, because he had been there for so long that I took him for granted. I don't think I've ever told you this, but when I was leaving, Mark"—here, Abby heard her voice catch—"Told me that he loved me.
"And as my train left, I told him that I loved him, too. I think that was the first time I ever said anything like that to him. And it was the first time I ever realized that I could, maybe, love him. I had just never thought of him in the way, before, until it was too late, you know?
"But once I said it, I knew I meant it. Then I left, and it was too late: when I came back, he was happily married. So I…settled for someone else."
"And the moral of the story is…?" Abby asked quietly.
"The hell if I know." Susan smiled. "What's Dr. Corday like, anyway?"
Taken aback, Abby laughed. "She's very…British."
"Yeah, I got that impression, too." Giving Abby a half-smile, she touched her friend's arm gently, then turned around to walk away.
Abby stared after her until the fair head disappeared out of sight. Sighing, she stuck out her hand and raised her upturned palm, feeling a few fat droplets splatter against her skin, then peered into the darkness below. She thought she detected a sudden movement; as her eyes grew accustomed to the pattern of shadows on the ground, she saw that she was right.
It was Carter. She watched him silently as he walked away from the ER, his hands shielding his eyes from the water that was beginning to descend rapidly from above. She saw him pause, suddenly, and turn around. For a fraction of a second, she could have sworn that he had seen her up on the roof, for a flash of recognition, then of inestimable sadness, crossed his face. But then it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a blank sort of tiredness as he turned back around and walked into the night.
* * *
It began raining. First slowly, than with a desperate sort of intensity until he was soaked, his shirt and tie plastered to his thin frame. He hadn't intended to take a walk, so he hadn't brought an umbrella; then again, he hadn't intended to work overtime, hanging around for a brief glimpse of Abby that never materialized, but he had. Pathetic, he thought, squeezing his sopping tie in a grim fist.
"Carter."
As always, he knew who it was before he turned around. He knew her voice like he knew no other; knew its low, subdued lilt, its wry good-humor, and now, curiously, its quiet sort of desperation. When he turned to face her, he felt his body ache with a kind of somber, age-old weariness at sight of her small figure. Caught in the rain, outlined in lamplight, she stood huddled under the water that pelted her body in sheets, her hair framing her face in thick, wet tendrils.
"Abby," he nodded.
It was the first time he had said her name aloud in a week, and its cadences sounded foreign and lovely to her ear. "You look like you need an umbrella," she blurted.
"So do you," he pointed out, raising his voice over the din of the storm. He heard the distant rumble of thunder as the droplets began to fall with an increasing frequency.
"I'm without."
Silently, they stared at each other for several moments.
"Look," Carter finally broke in, "I'm not really feeling up to shouting at each other in the rain, so if you don't mind I—"
"I was wondering," she burst in, haltingly, as she took several faltering steps toward his neutral figure, "I was wondering," she repeated, more quietly, as she stood an arm's length away, close enough so that he could feel her skin glowing warm and wet with summer and rain, "If we could talk."
"We don't have anything to talk about," Carter replied, a mirthless sort of smile crossing his face.
"Please—" she said, so weakly that she laughed at herself for sounding so pathetic. But she was beyond that, now. "If you could just—let me—talk—"
He turned to leave, but something in her face gave him pause, something so unfamiliar and alien to her—something like helplessness. So, instead, he folded his arms across his chest, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "I'm listening."
"I'm not sure where to start."
"The beginning is a good place for most."
"Right." She exhaled, bringing a hand to her eyes.
"What?" He looked at her expectedly as she remained mute, the old sort of frustration beginning to flare up inside of him again like a match brought to flame. He tried, but could not keep the edge out of his voice. "Abby?"
"My mother's dead."
The world held its breath as the rest of her words came to him as if in a dream, or, he thought dazedly, some horrible nightmare. Maggie Wyczenski was dead. Found half-dressed and overdosed in a Florida motel room by a hapless desk clerk who was just doing another routine room check. No possessions found on her body save two dollars, some empty prescription bottles in her pockets similar to the ones strewn around the room, and a slip of paper with a Chicago area phone number scrawled on it. The phone number was hers, Abby's; the phone call came exactly one week ago, at night, not twenty minutes after he had left.
Shocked, Carter felt himself start to gag. "Abby." Clumsily, he ran his hands roughly over her bare arms, feeling where the rain slicked her skin under the short sleeves of her thin shirt, and he was unmindful of the water that fell, if possible, even harder, like thousands of tiny daggers against their drenched selves. "You didn't say anything to me."
She looked up at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You were angry with me."
Immediately, he was ashamed. "No."
"Yes. You were angry with me," she repeated insistently, cutting him off, her voice distant and her eyes very faraway.
Carter felt his head begin to spin, blood and water roaring in his ears. "You should've come to me."
"I didn't know what to do."
"I would've helped you—somehow—"
"I went to Luka."
The streets were cold and silent, as they stood there, moon-stained, drenched in water and light. The moment pivoted on a prism point, sharp and acutely bright, and he drew a sudden intake of breath when it cut him, a crystal blade lodging itself between muscle and sinew, twisting mercilessly, and he couldn't breathe, for there was no air, no air at all, nothing but water and light, light and water, blinding him and crushing him, crushing him, blinding him, and only her voice, small and wretched, cutting through the haze.
"And I slept with him."
Then he was falling.
"Carter—" Vaguely, he could hear her voice and her composure cracking, and noted, dimly, that she was struggling not to cry, her eyes bright and full of tears. "My mother—is dead—I don't—I don't know—what I'm supposed to do—"
Unconsciously, he drew her to him, his chest unbearably tight.
"Tell me we're going to be okay. Tell me we're going to be okay."
There was a quiet—an aching, humming quiet—and a chill.
* * *
she comes to me like an angel out of time
as i play the part of a saint on my knees
* * *
CREDITS: The title of the chapter as well as the opening and closing quotations are once again taken from the Smashing Pumpkin's "In the Arms of Sleep" because they are so damn fitting and provide some heavy-handed symbolism. ^_^ Frank and his one comment appear courtesy of my recent multiple viewings of "Beyond Repair," IMHO one of the strongest episodes of Season Eight and a veritable Abby-palooza (huzzah). Carter and Abby's angst-fest in the rain is inspired by the scene in the Pilot episode of The X-Files in which Mulder and Scully (the original Power Couple of Unresolved Sexual Tension) scream at each other on a rain-soaked night in Oregon. *swoons* Lastly, Abby's final lines of dialogue are lifted directly from the tepid Season Eight finale "Lockdown" (which I usually try to ignore in hopes that it will Go Away) because MT can sell just about anything, even bad screenwriting.