His palms, equally dampened in sweat, reached for the phone together. He coughed aloud, still sickened by the unreal, but very real scenario. The receiver to his ear, he took a finger to dial the number.

Dial tone, then ringing. Once, twice, three times, and a fourth. The fifth, and then her voice.

"It's Abby. Leave a message."

Subtle. He felt a slow smile creep across his face, but it only soon became a frown. He swept a hand down a blank face, now a popular action/reaction to every move, ever decision he made. He dusted a hand on the legs of his pants and sighed.

"Abby." His eyes darted around the room, madly, searching for her. He was delirious. He was burning up. He was convinced she was going to show up.

"Abby." He repeated this a few seconds after the other. He imagined what it would sound like on the other side and cursed himself in his head. "Abby, I - " He sighed again and continued, "I'm calling you from, um, a hotel."

He couldn't tell her he'd gone all the way to San Francisco, could he?

"You have to know I'm sorry."

If you're so sorry, he thought for the umpteenth time, then what in the hell are you doing here? Without her?

"I hate the way I feel right now."

If he spoke anymore, he would collapse. But it was necessary. If he did indeed fall to the floor, so be it. He needed to hear her voice. Why wasn't it a possibility now? Why wasn't she home? Or, why wasn't she picking up? Didn't she want to hear from him?

No. Answering a real question.

"I want to cal you later," he said. To his surprise he added, "But I don't know if I could."

He shook his head and contemplated slamming down the receiver, cutting any remote communication between the two of them abruptly. How he wanted to do that very thing. Nothing was going as it was supposed to.

So, with a weak limb, he brought the phone to the hook. It wasn't slamming, but it was abrupt. He felt awful, but it was all that was important now.

Screw it.

--

"Abby."

He had said it aloud. He was getting worse, he knew. He'd thrown up four times in the last hour, each time making a weary trip to the bathroom and back, not caring about himself and the situation he was in. Oddly enough, caring about himself alone was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. And here he was setting it aside when it didn't do anything for him.

His eyes were barely open. They ached, and longed to close. But he fought against them, as if they were the enemy. Among many enemies.

Sleepy eyes, a churning stomach, loneliness, guilt, and a broken heart. Each he'd basically enforced on himself.

Broken heart? Was it possible? If any heart was broken, it was only Abby's. Whatever he'd done to himself was richly deserved. Everything he'd done lately was a result of stupid, horrible judgement.

He cursed at the sun making its generous way through the curtains. With sun, there was that feeling and those scenes. The scenes. Children playing in the park, butterflies dancing in the grass, a couple walking a dog. Or something like that. And no matter how phony, they tortured him.

He was dying in a hotel room in a city he didn't know. He wasn't dying. But his heart was torn and he wasn't feeling "swell." How the sun shone on a day like this was unbelievable.

He reached to his left to pick up the phone again.

Routine. The same routine. Dial tone, ringing. Once, twice, three times. That fourth and fifth ring. Her voice again.

"Its Abby. Leave a message."

He sighed into the phone.

"God, Abby." He covered his eyes with his hand. "Why won't you pick up?"

There wasn't an answer. Whether he was actually waiting for one or not... he didn't know. But there wasn't an answer.

"Look," he said. "I don't know what I'm going to say, and I don't know why, but I'm going to call you until you answer."

He waited - he knew - for a response.

Nothing.

"Please listen to me."

With this, he threw the device toward its rest on the nightstand. Whether it even landed near the phone didn't matter. He looked sideways, anyway, and saw that it hadn't. It was dangling from the stand, and at once, it fell. The cord held it from reaching the floor.


-


He considered turning on his side, but was afraid he'd throw up. He was unhealthy. He needed to see a doctor. When the maid had approached the door, he'd yelled at her furiously. When the hotel manager walked upstairs to "ask him if everything was okay," Carter had asked him to go away.

The gentleman had kindly informed him that he'd been in the room for four straight days. Carter only remembered waking up two or three times...

Hopefully, he hadn't done anything he'd regret. Anything he'd have to find of later.

He wanted to cry, but didn't have the energy. He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep. He couldn't think of anyone but her, and he knew he'd done it all to himself. Just the thought made him even sicker. So sick that he thought once if he stayed in bed, it would be punishment.

That way, he would be forced to grow worse, if possible. Emotionally, he was ripped limb from limb. Who cared about how his stomach and head were dealt with.

And again, he couldn't believe he'd done this to himself.

He remembered all those moments with her. Kissing her. For the first time.

It was the most beautiful thing. He'd gone home that night knowing he'd kissed her, but remembering small things. Her had had gently, and barely, cascaded downward across her cheek when they kissed, and had touched his skin.

Her hand had been firmly planted on the car seat. As had his. When she kissed him, one of her hands had crawled up his arm. He had secretly enjoyed it, and he knew she did as well.

He thought back to that day. She had been hiding something from him. It was the fact that she wanted to be with him, he'd realized. When he had indeed realized, he smiled to himself. By then, he was on his way home, savoring that past kiss.

Eyes fluttering happily, he'd soaked up everything about her. And they were perfect together. There was the major factor of him being with Susan then, but after that was over, he'd been lucky enough that it was Susan - someone who understood without a hitch. It was wrong of him nonetheless to do that to her, but it was Abby. No matter how cruel it sounded, he knew he was meant to be with Abby more than the chance of Susan and John Carter.


--


"Abby," he whimpered into the dark. He opened his eyes. Dark, it was.

There was a series of soft knocks on the door, that eventually became more demanding. He called out for whoever it was to stop.

"Dr. Carter," the voice said. "Could you come to the door?"

Carter shook his head against the pillow. Did he know that no one could see him through a door?

"We're afraid that something's happened to you," the man said. "You haven't left the room for a while."

"I'm fine," he choked. He wasn't though.

There was a full ten minutes of slight conferring between the two parties. The man reasonably talked through the door, but Carter murmured and muttered, "I'm fine, I'm fine."

He wasn't fine at all. He was sick. Terrible sick.

All he wanted was Abby. Abby who made his troubles dance away when he was with her. Abby who'd done so much for him. The same Abby he'd left for no reason. If he'd recognized this, yet he'd said nothing to her. Until it was too late.

He picked up the phone. He promised he would call her again, but he didn't like this, what he was doing. He didn't want to pester her, and he didn't want to put himself through anticipation. This was the last time.

Ever.

Here goes, he thought.

"Third time's a charm," he said weakly.

--

Remember! Drama = power. Us ER fictionists have power over dramatic stuff. When I say "Ever," I mean "Ever."

This chapter is for everyone who wanted a longer one. Its still short, but, hey, its longer than two pages.

-me