Title: And You'll Know Me When I'm Gone
Author: Mandy
Genre: Angst, Carter/Abby
Rating: PG-13. Sure, it doesn't seem so bad now. You just wait. ;)
Spoilers: Know your Season Nine. :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I got some new clothes for Christmas pictures on Sunday though. And I can sign that. (ha ha.)
Author's Notes: I have an idea, stored somewhere in the back of my head, as to where this is going. With all of my other stories, length has never been. lengthy. It has never been a big issue. I'm going to go ahead and put more effort into this one. Hopefully it shows, although I say that with every fic. So much for that. Gah, let's see how it goes. I've always written with whatever music I can find playing in the back. Molly asked me to note which song I might be listening to (because she's a loser and wants to play it while she reads ;) Foolio.), so I'll do so.
---
Chapter One - Things Dark and Deeper
---
"So," he says across the table from me, his finger steadily contemplating the ring of the plate. "Tell me. What do you want for Christmas?"
My short laugh was directed toward my own breakfast, speculating just the same. "All I want for Christmas is you."
The familiar smile filtered through his cheeks, and his glance wandered toward the window. Its heavily smudged glass sat bluntly, serving its own single purpose. Carter finally reached for his fork, the stem of the utensil in his hands as he replied. "Really?" He shrugged and speared the mess of eggs below his face. "I'll be saving money this Christmas season."
"Well," I answer, my face twisted into a wry smile. "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to bribe two front teeth from the Tooth Fairy."
He chuckles with his mouth full. "That was lame."
"Lame?"
"You're losing your sarcastic touch, I believe." A look of concern takes over his façade and he sets the fork into the stained napkin. I question this; his hand reaches across and he plants a palm to my forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"
I muster a sardonic "Ha," and shove his hand away. "When are you off tonight?"
The side of the silvered tool in his hand scrapes against the surface of the cheap ceramic. "Late."
"Time?"
"Eleven."
I slide my plate to the side, dab the paper supplied against my face gingerly, and throw it to the dish's palm. "Eleven? Why so late?"
"I have to pay for that half-eaten breakfast?" He smiled. "And ever since Weaver's been, well, drifting in and out of her own job."
"She's an attending."
"What difference does it make?" he laughed. "Less doctors. Not to mention that Luka's been out also."
"Luka?" I reach across the table and steal some of his food. Mine wasn't exactly satisfactory. "What's up with Luka?"
He shrugs. "You want eggs?"
"Sure."
He spins the plate slightly, allowing me access to the eggs, and he permission to the rest of the meal. He scoots it closer to me, ending up in the middle of the table. "I'm starting to wonder what's up with Weaver, rather."
I swallow hard. Maybe the eggs aren't really destined for any appetite of mine this morning. Then again, nothing seems to agree with me lately. I haven't really had an appetite, I remind myself. "Please tell me you're not serious."
"Hm?" he asks, request muffled through his entrée. "What?"
My hands fold, lead to rest in my lap modestly. "I thought you knew."
He raises his eyebrows, inviting the rest of my story.
"About Weaver?" I suggest, waiting for recognition to beam across his face.
He sits and stares.
I wave my hand in the air, symbolically erasing the conversation from our slate. My hand returns to my lap, clasping the other and I grin toward the window. "Never mind."
He heaves a sigh. "This is what I get for dating a nurse."
I smile. A real smile at his playful quote. "What do you get for dating a nurse?"
His eyes recommend another smile. "You gossip, and I hang in suspense."
I giggle. "Oh, please, Carter."
"Its true," he defends. "I wouldn't have cared before us."
Before us.
The words echo in my mind. "Us," its now an era. An era in both of our lives, and not just mine. My body, the entire inside smiles. My eyes fix on his glance, his two eyes wondering if perhaps he has food on his chin.
"What?" he asks. An true to my thoughts, his hand travels to his face briefly.
"Nothing."
My elbow leans onto the edge in front of me, and I reserve myself in thought again as he finishes. It's snowing outside, I notice. I watch as the flakes float downward, in all their feathery beauty. They're falling to a dirty pavement though, becoming the Chicago slush I'll walk through in ten minutes.
What an awful fate.
"What is this song?" Carter interrupts.
My eyes tear away from the pane and I find him deep in thought himself. I look around, as if I could see the music, and struggle for my own answer. "I don't know. Never heard it." I can't help but join in on listening, though. Something about the music grips me for a second, as it runs through the clatter of the restaurant.
He sighs. "Either have I." He brushes the papery cloth against his mouth and snatches his coat. Offering his hand, "Ready to go?"
Once again, I have to pry my glance from its subject. "Yeah," I answer.
He reaches deep inside to his pocket, gathering his wallet. "And I'm forced to pay for a waste of food."
"You didn't eat much either," I remind him, hooking my arm around his waist. He responds straight away, his hand brushing mine slightly. My view touches the windowpane once more. The snow's descent is as promised; flowing into the inevitably obvious already. Feet shuffle across the smudged tile while we make our way out. His faint smile still painted, and I doing my best to hold mine still.
--
The soles of two feet, soft in socks, press into the couch cushions. My chin rests between two knees, pulled up with my legs into my chest. I breathe into them heavily, hoping that with the breath I release, that my troubles travel with. Right into the notch where my chin sits; and venting no further than that.
"Hmm," I sigh again. I escape my perch on the sofa, my glance shifting all around the room. The phone, the television, the walls. The refrigerator.
I sit back down again. Without even recognizing it, I was making my way toward the appliance. I know inside there's a bottle of unopened wine. Filled almost to the rim, the cork still tantalizing me with some invisible scent that draws me nearer every time.
Each time I look at it, the same feeling resides in my throat. It doesn't feel good. And it shouldn't; it brings back solid, painful memories. But I know it tastes good. It's the same feeling of washing everything away. Bitter, but resolving. Bitter resolve.
I'm convinced to stay in this one spot, staring at the glass television screen. My eyes are focused so intently, that in the dim spare I can see my reflection. I pout, two somnolent eyes fixed to an infinite picture. I shake myself away, staring out over gaps to the refrigerator again.
The phone rings.
It takes every bit of strength to walk over to the phone. It was expected, though, that with every step I wouldn't feel a sense of accomplishment.
"Hello?" I moan, the receiver pressed to my ear. My hands are cold.
"Hi," the voice says sweetly. Carter.
My mind hums.
"What're you doing up this late?" My voice quivers slightly as I dust my sweatshirt with a lazy hand. His sweatshirt.
I fold a foot underneath my body and plop back into the couch. Safe in the corner, where I hope I'll talk to him forever. So I can't move or drink or do anything else. Not tonight.
"Missing you."
I toss a cutting giggle, quite character to myself. "Flattered, really."
There's a keen pause. My fingers twist the material impatiently, the silence too awkward or uncomfortable for me.
"When do you think we're going to see each other?"
I swallow. I hope he didn't hear it.
He knows there's an expanding space in the middle of this relationship. I know I'm contributing to it in the biggest way.
Sarcasm won't solve anything right now. But maybe my next comment won't be so sarcastic, at least not as much as I figure.
"Our shifts both start tomorrow morning."
I was right.
That wasn't sarcasm; that was just bitter. He sighs into the phone, his breath drawing back with a shattered, fatigued melody. "That's not what I mean."
I could use him tonight. I just wish I had a reason for it, other than to keep me occupied. I know I love him, and I'm sure he loves me. I just wish things weren't the way they were with my family. The strain its birthed is incredible.
"You can come over tonight," I say, hoping it either comes out seductively or happily. I don't care. I really just want him here.
"Really?" His impression is that of a little boy. Another factor of his being that draws me nearer. That childish exterior.
"Yeah," I chortle, my laugh a lump in my throat. "Bring your stuff over."
He mutters something to me, something about how its going to be fine, the entire issue. It stings when he mentions it, and I long for everyone to skip over the particular chapter in my life. I glide past it as far as I can mentally and force another smile for the third time today. To him, anyway.
"I'll see you in a little while."
"Okay," I whisper. I'm happy. I'm sure I'm delighted.
--
My nose buries itself into his chest as our tender encounter ceases. We lower ourselves into a new mode, huddled into one form into the bed. I push two lips to his skin and hold them there. The kiss ends, but he tastes raw from these past moments. I don't let him go.
A thumb caresses my side. So gingerly, I can barely feel it. Like silk, though, it crawls up and down. I whimper into him.
I'm not sure why I did it, but he notices. His touch's cessation causes me to freeze for a instant. Eyes open, I bare into him. My muffled vision ponders his reaction. After I contemplate speaking, his thumb iterates its past wonders.
With my reserved lips, I pucker another kiss. We both sigh heavily, simultaneous and light. Zephyr-like, it washes over us. A mind draws a blank and my hands crawls to the stubble of his face.
He feels beautiful.
He is beautiful. Every time I touch him, the same "butterflies" return.
A tear is born. It sits below my eye as I think of how to throw it away. Out of my way. His thumb still gamboling across my skin - now across my back - distracts me from anything. I pray that it dries there, or comes to another astonishing fate, while I fall asleep to this song he's playing. On my skin.
It's on fire.
With the single romantic emotion I'm feeling, I attempt to reciprocate. The tips of my fingers massage skin on his back. I wish it didn't have to be this way with us. We're better at this then most people, I thought. We're weaker apart, and stronger together.
That was always my theory.
It was just one of the things that made us so great together.
But now I'm starting to wonder where they're all going. We're still good together. But we're not the same.
"Relax a little."
I pick up my head and stare upward to the under of his chin. "What?"
"You're really tense," he explains, indicating with a finger trailing my spin. I restrain from shivering. I'm chilly, still. "Let go a little bit."
My hands ease, sliding off of him and resting on the sheets. I'm so weak.
"Not of me," he whispers shakily. He looks down at me, my beady eyes to him. "You need to talk to someone."
I don't feel up to arguing. Partially because of the event we've just shared. But I don't want to fight with him.
I guide my arms around his waist once more. "Are we going to talk about this again?"
"Are you going to let us?"
I groan. "Let's just go to sleep."
His breath is heavy. I know I've made him upset. I think for some crazy reason that I can fix it before its too late now.
"Fine," I surrender. My fingers start his back again. "What do you want to know?"
A hiatus braves.
"What happened?"
I haven't planned much of this out yet. "They're going to take care of themselves from now on."
The L runs quietly in the far, remote to us. We're only two lovers enveloped in three blankets, I tell myself.
"What did they say?" His whisper resounds from the midst of his throat, appearing huskily in the dark.
I think to turn back, figuratively speaking. My feet touch his miles below the surface. "They're living together. Eric's out of treatment. Maggie thinks she knows everything about this."
His feet respond briefly, then all of his motions come to a halt.
"She doesn't have the best past record with this disease, for Christ's sake," I mumble, the noise within my cold body rising. "I don't know why they're resenting me now. Of all times."
"Because he doesn't think you're being fair."
I back away slightly. "What?" I'm almost surprised.
He closes his eyes, pulls me inside to his embrace again. I allow him to; its not like I'll put much of a battle up tonight anyway.
"I mean," he says, "he doesn't trust you have any idea what he's feeling."
I listen further.
"Why would you?"
"Because I've seen what its done to Maggie," I say, promulgating. "And so has he."
"But its not the same."
"Why are you taking his side?" I ask. This time I consider leaving his side tonight for good, but his hand on my back doesn't permit it. He gathers me next to him, so that his cheek finds support against mine.
"I'm not," he insists. Another sigh. "He knows that you're the only one who *doesn't* know what its like to have the disease, Abby."
My side, naked, is teased with his thumb again.
"He doesn't trust you to know anything about him unless you've experienced what he and Maggie have."
My brow furrows mightily, trying to clear the word "disease" from my mind. Its plagued my entire family now. Everyone but me.
"Doesn't that make sense?"
"Yes," I lie. Of course *that* part makes sense. He doesn't even know any of the rest. What Eric said to me.
He doesn't want me in his life anymore. He doesn't need me.
"Alright," Carter offers, a soft smile on his exhausted face. A drowsy yawn, and I collapse against the pillows completely. He holds on to me and we drift into another sleep.
My eyes catch a few forlorn flecks of snow soar past the window.
Eventually down to the street, I presume.
--
The midst of our argument. I feel it nearing its end.
My back, my neck aches. I long for a mattress to curl into.
Sleep to lull the world out of view.
"I'm only asking you to get him treated, Mom," I protest, my tone intensifying. My palms grasp the caps of my knees and I lean forward, adding as much drama as I can to convince her on this issue. "Securely treated. Its for his own good."
She looks at me without a word and stands. Sulking, she meets the pane of the window and gazes outward. Two fingers meet the glass in front of her nose.
I fall back against the couch. Hard. Sighing aloud, I refuse to get up. Not in a compromise at all.
"Why can't you just take my advice on this one, Maggie?"
Her eyes, her stare hardens. The frown I wear is only an angered crease now; the attitude she fights has gone far past annoying.
"He's scared, Abby," her lips stutter. "He feels unsure right now. He's lonely."
"Which is weird," I interrupt, "because you two seem like two peas in a pod right now."
She looks at me, just watching. I maintain my expression; I'm committed to keeping this face.
"You haven't made any effort to understand this - "
"What's to understand?" I shout, my hands hitting the air around me. "I know *exactly* what this disease is like! I watched it tear you apart, and tear our family apart!"
I breathe out, but I'm not finished. "He's twenty-seven years old!"
"I'm aware," she says smartly, dropping to my opposite. Across the coffee table, she waves her hand in front of her nose.
"He can still be helped," I argue. "Why isn't that any kind of vision to you two? Like you just don't care."
"Both he and I have seen what its done to you, Mom."
Breathe in.
"We watched you fall down." Breathe out. "And you're barely back up."
"It's not easy - "
"But its possible!"
"Not as easy as you think, Abby," she starts.
"All I'm asking is for him to go through simple treatment."
"Easier said than done," she spits.
I collect every emotion I have inside into one, and set them aside. I could walk out of this apartment right now.
Furious. That's one word. Worried, scared, alone, helpless. a million more I'm feeling right now with her in this room.
Eyelids come to a gentle close, shutting the rest of the world from view. A hushed whisper grows from somewhere in my throat. "Nothing with this has ever been easy." Hands search for comfort at the sides of my thighs. "It never will be." My eyes raised to level with hers, she reaches to her left.
Her hands pull her coat into thin arms, and she escapes the seat.
"What are you doing?"
"Leaving, Abby." She steps to the door.
"What?" I get up. "Just like that?"
She glares to her side, carefully making sure not to make contact with me. Her glower continues in an anonymous silence, then she leaves.
When the door gently comes to its close, I frown at it. Deeply. I sit there for a full minute, and start to the bathroom.
Once inside, I strip off my clothes and toss my tired body into the shower.
I want to rinse it all away.
--
"Abby?"
A cloud lifts from my mind, awakening me from the position I've waited for since the entire mess began.
"Abby?"
"In here," I say into the cloth over the pillows. A spread of hair flows over my face, single spears covering my eyes.
"In here," he repeats, lowering himself onto the bed. He fires up already; he speaks of something at the admit desk, something I can't hear.
When he notices, he stretches out onto the bed next to me. He breathes close to my face, running fingers through my hair.
"Something wrong?"
I don't respond. I try my best to forge a nap. His lips give a short peck into my tangled ringlets, then scoots up as close as he can. He lies over the covers, and holds me as close as he can.
I inch one hand near his torso. I pray he doesn't know I'm moving.
---
Noise Therapy's "Star 69 (Wait for Nothing)" flowed throughout the room and graced my fingers while I typed this. ;) From their debut CD "Tension," of course. ;)
-mandy
Author: Mandy
Genre: Angst, Carter/Abby
Rating: PG-13. Sure, it doesn't seem so bad now. You just wait. ;)
Spoilers: Know your Season Nine. :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I got some new clothes for Christmas pictures on Sunday though. And I can sign that. (ha ha.)
Author's Notes: I have an idea, stored somewhere in the back of my head, as to where this is going. With all of my other stories, length has never been. lengthy. It has never been a big issue. I'm going to go ahead and put more effort into this one. Hopefully it shows, although I say that with every fic. So much for that. Gah, let's see how it goes. I've always written with whatever music I can find playing in the back. Molly asked me to note which song I might be listening to (because she's a loser and wants to play it while she reads ;) Foolio.), so I'll do so.
---
Chapter One - Things Dark and Deeper
---
"So," he says across the table from me, his finger steadily contemplating the ring of the plate. "Tell me. What do you want for Christmas?"
My short laugh was directed toward my own breakfast, speculating just the same. "All I want for Christmas is you."
The familiar smile filtered through his cheeks, and his glance wandered toward the window. Its heavily smudged glass sat bluntly, serving its own single purpose. Carter finally reached for his fork, the stem of the utensil in his hands as he replied. "Really?" He shrugged and speared the mess of eggs below his face. "I'll be saving money this Christmas season."
"Well," I answer, my face twisted into a wry smile. "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to bribe two front teeth from the Tooth Fairy."
He chuckles with his mouth full. "That was lame."
"Lame?"
"You're losing your sarcastic touch, I believe." A look of concern takes over his façade and he sets the fork into the stained napkin. I question this; his hand reaches across and he plants a palm to my forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"
I muster a sardonic "Ha," and shove his hand away. "When are you off tonight?"
The side of the silvered tool in his hand scrapes against the surface of the cheap ceramic. "Late."
"Time?"
"Eleven."
I slide my plate to the side, dab the paper supplied against my face gingerly, and throw it to the dish's palm. "Eleven? Why so late?"
"I have to pay for that half-eaten breakfast?" He smiled. "And ever since Weaver's been, well, drifting in and out of her own job."
"She's an attending."
"What difference does it make?" he laughed. "Less doctors. Not to mention that Luka's been out also."
"Luka?" I reach across the table and steal some of his food. Mine wasn't exactly satisfactory. "What's up with Luka?"
He shrugs. "You want eggs?"
"Sure."
He spins the plate slightly, allowing me access to the eggs, and he permission to the rest of the meal. He scoots it closer to me, ending up in the middle of the table. "I'm starting to wonder what's up with Weaver, rather."
I swallow hard. Maybe the eggs aren't really destined for any appetite of mine this morning. Then again, nothing seems to agree with me lately. I haven't really had an appetite, I remind myself. "Please tell me you're not serious."
"Hm?" he asks, request muffled through his entrée. "What?"
My hands fold, lead to rest in my lap modestly. "I thought you knew."
He raises his eyebrows, inviting the rest of my story.
"About Weaver?" I suggest, waiting for recognition to beam across his face.
He sits and stares.
I wave my hand in the air, symbolically erasing the conversation from our slate. My hand returns to my lap, clasping the other and I grin toward the window. "Never mind."
He heaves a sigh. "This is what I get for dating a nurse."
I smile. A real smile at his playful quote. "What do you get for dating a nurse?"
His eyes recommend another smile. "You gossip, and I hang in suspense."
I giggle. "Oh, please, Carter."
"Its true," he defends. "I wouldn't have cared before us."
Before us.
The words echo in my mind. "Us," its now an era. An era in both of our lives, and not just mine. My body, the entire inside smiles. My eyes fix on his glance, his two eyes wondering if perhaps he has food on his chin.
"What?" he asks. An true to my thoughts, his hand travels to his face briefly.
"Nothing."
My elbow leans onto the edge in front of me, and I reserve myself in thought again as he finishes. It's snowing outside, I notice. I watch as the flakes float downward, in all their feathery beauty. They're falling to a dirty pavement though, becoming the Chicago slush I'll walk through in ten minutes.
What an awful fate.
"What is this song?" Carter interrupts.
My eyes tear away from the pane and I find him deep in thought himself. I look around, as if I could see the music, and struggle for my own answer. "I don't know. Never heard it." I can't help but join in on listening, though. Something about the music grips me for a second, as it runs through the clatter of the restaurant.
He sighs. "Either have I." He brushes the papery cloth against his mouth and snatches his coat. Offering his hand, "Ready to go?"
Once again, I have to pry my glance from its subject. "Yeah," I answer.
He reaches deep inside to his pocket, gathering his wallet. "And I'm forced to pay for a waste of food."
"You didn't eat much either," I remind him, hooking my arm around his waist. He responds straight away, his hand brushing mine slightly. My view touches the windowpane once more. The snow's descent is as promised; flowing into the inevitably obvious already. Feet shuffle across the smudged tile while we make our way out. His faint smile still painted, and I doing my best to hold mine still.
--
The soles of two feet, soft in socks, press into the couch cushions. My chin rests between two knees, pulled up with my legs into my chest. I breathe into them heavily, hoping that with the breath I release, that my troubles travel with. Right into the notch where my chin sits; and venting no further than that.
"Hmm," I sigh again. I escape my perch on the sofa, my glance shifting all around the room. The phone, the television, the walls. The refrigerator.
I sit back down again. Without even recognizing it, I was making my way toward the appliance. I know inside there's a bottle of unopened wine. Filled almost to the rim, the cork still tantalizing me with some invisible scent that draws me nearer every time.
Each time I look at it, the same feeling resides in my throat. It doesn't feel good. And it shouldn't; it brings back solid, painful memories. But I know it tastes good. It's the same feeling of washing everything away. Bitter, but resolving. Bitter resolve.
I'm convinced to stay in this one spot, staring at the glass television screen. My eyes are focused so intently, that in the dim spare I can see my reflection. I pout, two somnolent eyes fixed to an infinite picture. I shake myself away, staring out over gaps to the refrigerator again.
The phone rings.
It takes every bit of strength to walk over to the phone. It was expected, though, that with every step I wouldn't feel a sense of accomplishment.
"Hello?" I moan, the receiver pressed to my ear. My hands are cold.
"Hi," the voice says sweetly. Carter.
My mind hums.
"What're you doing up this late?" My voice quivers slightly as I dust my sweatshirt with a lazy hand. His sweatshirt.
I fold a foot underneath my body and plop back into the couch. Safe in the corner, where I hope I'll talk to him forever. So I can't move or drink or do anything else. Not tonight.
"Missing you."
I toss a cutting giggle, quite character to myself. "Flattered, really."
There's a keen pause. My fingers twist the material impatiently, the silence too awkward or uncomfortable for me.
"When do you think we're going to see each other?"
I swallow. I hope he didn't hear it.
He knows there's an expanding space in the middle of this relationship. I know I'm contributing to it in the biggest way.
Sarcasm won't solve anything right now. But maybe my next comment won't be so sarcastic, at least not as much as I figure.
"Our shifts both start tomorrow morning."
I was right.
That wasn't sarcasm; that was just bitter. He sighs into the phone, his breath drawing back with a shattered, fatigued melody. "That's not what I mean."
I could use him tonight. I just wish I had a reason for it, other than to keep me occupied. I know I love him, and I'm sure he loves me. I just wish things weren't the way they were with my family. The strain its birthed is incredible.
"You can come over tonight," I say, hoping it either comes out seductively or happily. I don't care. I really just want him here.
"Really?" His impression is that of a little boy. Another factor of his being that draws me nearer. That childish exterior.
"Yeah," I chortle, my laugh a lump in my throat. "Bring your stuff over."
He mutters something to me, something about how its going to be fine, the entire issue. It stings when he mentions it, and I long for everyone to skip over the particular chapter in my life. I glide past it as far as I can mentally and force another smile for the third time today. To him, anyway.
"I'll see you in a little while."
"Okay," I whisper. I'm happy. I'm sure I'm delighted.
--
My nose buries itself into his chest as our tender encounter ceases. We lower ourselves into a new mode, huddled into one form into the bed. I push two lips to his skin and hold them there. The kiss ends, but he tastes raw from these past moments. I don't let him go.
A thumb caresses my side. So gingerly, I can barely feel it. Like silk, though, it crawls up and down. I whimper into him.
I'm not sure why I did it, but he notices. His touch's cessation causes me to freeze for a instant. Eyes open, I bare into him. My muffled vision ponders his reaction. After I contemplate speaking, his thumb iterates its past wonders.
With my reserved lips, I pucker another kiss. We both sigh heavily, simultaneous and light. Zephyr-like, it washes over us. A mind draws a blank and my hands crawls to the stubble of his face.
He feels beautiful.
He is beautiful. Every time I touch him, the same "butterflies" return.
A tear is born. It sits below my eye as I think of how to throw it away. Out of my way. His thumb still gamboling across my skin - now across my back - distracts me from anything. I pray that it dries there, or comes to another astonishing fate, while I fall asleep to this song he's playing. On my skin.
It's on fire.
With the single romantic emotion I'm feeling, I attempt to reciprocate. The tips of my fingers massage skin on his back. I wish it didn't have to be this way with us. We're better at this then most people, I thought. We're weaker apart, and stronger together.
That was always my theory.
It was just one of the things that made us so great together.
But now I'm starting to wonder where they're all going. We're still good together. But we're not the same.
"Relax a little."
I pick up my head and stare upward to the under of his chin. "What?"
"You're really tense," he explains, indicating with a finger trailing my spin. I restrain from shivering. I'm chilly, still. "Let go a little bit."
My hands ease, sliding off of him and resting on the sheets. I'm so weak.
"Not of me," he whispers shakily. He looks down at me, my beady eyes to him. "You need to talk to someone."
I don't feel up to arguing. Partially because of the event we've just shared. But I don't want to fight with him.
I guide my arms around his waist once more. "Are we going to talk about this again?"
"Are you going to let us?"
I groan. "Let's just go to sleep."
His breath is heavy. I know I've made him upset. I think for some crazy reason that I can fix it before its too late now.
"Fine," I surrender. My fingers start his back again. "What do you want to know?"
A hiatus braves.
"What happened?"
I haven't planned much of this out yet. "They're going to take care of themselves from now on."
The L runs quietly in the far, remote to us. We're only two lovers enveloped in three blankets, I tell myself.
"What did they say?" His whisper resounds from the midst of his throat, appearing huskily in the dark.
I think to turn back, figuratively speaking. My feet touch his miles below the surface. "They're living together. Eric's out of treatment. Maggie thinks she knows everything about this."
His feet respond briefly, then all of his motions come to a halt.
"She doesn't have the best past record with this disease, for Christ's sake," I mumble, the noise within my cold body rising. "I don't know why they're resenting me now. Of all times."
"Because he doesn't think you're being fair."
I back away slightly. "What?" I'm almost surprised.
He closes his eyes, pulls me inside to his embrace again. I allow him to; its not like I'll put much of a battle up tonight anyway.
"I mean," he says, "he doesn't trust you have any idea what he's feeling."
I listen further.
"Why would you?"
"Because I've seen what its done to Maggie," I say, promulgating. "And so has he."
"But its not the same."
"Why are you taking his side?" I ask. This time I consider leaving his side tonight for good, but his hand on my back doesn't permit it. He gathers me next to him, so that his cheek finds support against mine.
"I'm not," he insists. Another sigh. "He knows that you're the only one who *doesn't* know what its like to have the disease, Abby."
My side, naked, is teased with his thumb again.
"He doesn't trust you to know anything about him unless you've experienced what he and Maggie have."
My brow furrows mightily, trying to clear the word "disease" from my mind. Its plagued my entire family now. Everyone but me.
"Doesn't that make sense?"
"Yes," I lie. Of course *that* part makes sense. He doesn't even know any of the rest. What Eric said to me.
He doesn't want me in his life anymore. He doesn't need me.
"Alright," Carter offers, a soft smile on his exhausted face. A drowsy yawn, and I collapse against the pillows completely. He holds on to me and we drift into another sleep.
My eyes catch a few forlorn flecks of snow soar past the window.
Eventually down to the street, I presume.
--
The midst of our argument. I feel it nearing its end.
My back, my neck aches. I long for a mattress to curl into.
Sleep to lull the world out of view.
"I'm only asking you to get him treated, Mom," I protest, my tone intensifying. My palms grasp the caps of my knees and I lean forward, adding as much drama as I can to convince her on this issue. "Securely treated. Its for his own good."
She looks at me without a word and stands. Sulking, she meets the pane of the window and gazes outward. Two fingers meet the glass in front of her nose.
I fall back against the couch. Hard. Sighing aloud, I refuse to get up. Not in a compromise at all.
"Why can't you just take my advice on this one, Maggie?"
Her eyes, her stare hardens. The frown I wear is only an angered crease now; the attitude she fights has gone far past annoying.
"He's scared, Abby," her lips stutter. "He feels unsure right now. He's lonely."
"Which is weird," I interrupt, "because you two seem like two peas in a pod right now."
She looks at me, just watching. I maintain my expression; I'm committed to keeping this face.
"You haven't made any effort to understand this - "
"What's to understand?" I shout, my hands hitting the air around me. "I know *exactly* what this disease is like! I watched it tear you apart, and tear our family apart!"
I breathe out, but I'm not finished. "He's twenty-seven years old!"
"I'm aware," she says smartly, dropping to my opposite. Across the coffee table, she waves her hand in front of her nose.
"He can still be helped," I argue. "Why isn't that any kind of vision to you two? Like you just don't care."
"Both he and I have seen what its done to you, Mom."
Breathe in.
"We watched you fall down." Breathe out. "And you're barely back up."
"It's not easy - "
"But its possible!"
"Not as easy as you think, Abby," she starts.
"All I'm asking is for him to go through simple treatment."
"Easier said than done," she spits.
I collect every emotion I have inside into one, and set them aside. I could walk out of this apartment right now.
Furious. That's one word. Worried, scared, alone, helpless. a million more I'm feeling right now with her in this room.
Eyelids come to a gentle close, shutting the rest of the world from view. A hushed whisper grows from somewhere in my throat. "Nothing with this has ever been easy." Hands search for comfort at the sides of my thighs. "It never will be." My eyes raised to level with hers, she reaches to her left.
Her hands pull her coat into thin arms, and she escapes the seat.
"What are you doing?"
"Leaving, Abby." She steps to the door.
"What?" I get up. "Just like that?"
She glares to her side, carefully making sure not to make contact with me. Her glower continues in an anonymous silence, then she leaves.
When the door gently comes to its close, I frown at it. Deeply. I sit there for a full minute, and start to the bathroom.
Once inside, I strip off my clothes and toss my tired body into the shower.
I want to rinse it all away.
--
"Abby?"
A cloud lifts from my mind, awakening me from the position I've waited for since the entire mess began.
"Abby?"
"In here," I say into the cloth over the pillows. A spread of hair flows over my face, single spears covering my eyes.
"In here," he repeats, lowering himself onto the bed. He fires up already; he speaks of something at the admit desk, something I can't hear.
When he notices, he stretches out onto the bed next to me. He breathes close to my face, running fingers through my hair.
"Something wrong?"
I don't respond. I try my best to forge a nap. His lips give a short peck into my tangled ringlets, then scoots up as close as he can. He lies over the covers, and holds me as close as he can.
I inch one hand near his torso. I pray he doesn't know I'm moving.
---
Noise Therapy's "Star 69 (Wait for Nothing)" flowed throughout the room and graced my fingers while I typed this. ;) From their debut CD "Tension," of course. ;)
-mandy