The Words

by Lisa16

Carter says what he needs to say

TITLE: The Words

AUTHOR: Lisa

EMAIL: Saturn_girl19@yahoo.com
CATEGORY: AL/JC Romance and Angst

RATING: PG

SPOILERS: An itty bitty one for episode 9-9 "Next Of Kin."
ARCHIVE: Please just let me know.
DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine. That's all there is to it. THANKS: To Kate. Thanks for the beta!!!

SUMMARY: Carter says what he needs to say.

*~*

And you can use my skin

to bury secrets in.

And I will settle you down.

And at my own suggestion,

I will ask no questions

while I do my thing in the background.

But all the time, all the time

I'll know, I'll know.

And when the crowd becomes your burden

And you've early closed your curtains

I'll wait by the backstage door

While you try to find the lines to speak your mind

And pry it open, hoping for an encore

And if it gets too late, for me to wait

For you to find you love me, and tell me so

It's ok, don't need to say it.

-Fiona Apple, "I'll Know"

 *~*

She is bent forward, squatting on the steps in front of her apartment. She is a mere shadow outlined in dusty light cast by the street lamp. Cars are passing, "swish, swish, swish," fast and steady. Her left hand is clutching her knee, the index and middle finger of her right hand suffocating her cigarette. She is most obviously intense and strong.

He walks up behind her, lightly brushing her shoulder. She sits up a little, with an almost inaudible sigh, giving into his touch, but she does not turn around, not yet. So he sits down beside her, not wanting to intrude upon her silent reverie, but soon the silence is broken.

"Abby."

He speaks to her in whispered tones, so soft you'd think he was afraid he'd startle her with the wrong word, the wrong inflection. But it really doesn't matter how he says it, as long as it is said. It is time. Of course, maybe he doesn't have to say it at all. So much of their relationship is made up of the spaces between the words, between the obvious. But it is too late. It ascends out of his throat, past his tongue like a tiny waterfall.

"I love you."

He does not say it expecting a returned sentiment, not yet. Words for her always come later, after her feelings settle and after silences prove the truth.

So of course, she does not respond. She takes a long, luxurious drag off of a perfect cigarette, as a perfect ring of smoke curls gray around her, supple and sound like his fingers. She pretends she does not hear, but he knows that she has because there is a subtle arch to her lips that was not there before. And he is not quite surprised to find her leaning closer to him, leaning in so light she thinks he does not feel it, but he does. And he is not quite surprised to find her lips hot and parched on his, the ambivalent, bittersweet taste of nicotine, fused with a flavor distinct, dark, and strong that carries her name.

When she extends her hand, he finds it effortless and natural to let his hand fall into the curve of her fingers. He finds it simple to follow her up the steps, to the door, across the threshold, to her bed and to the easy bend of her skin where her untold, quiet secrets lie like land mines. He is careful not to set them off as he strokes her sweetly.

He knows there have been others, distant, insensitive ex-husbands, serious, brooding Croations, of the tall, dark and handsome variety. Words were exchanged between them, of course, lines read off cue cards and scripts etched haphazardly in the air, never even gracing the exterior of their consciousness, the core of their passions. Those empty words never filled those vacant spaces. They were mere shapes and curvatures, mechanical, bland, soon to be forgotten as soon as the wind blew.

With them, it is different. Each word, each movement, each gesture, is branded like an inerasable emblem on their skin, always to be remembered. He asks no questions, she offers no answers, and when a slight sound runs past the barricades of her lips, he whispers, "Hush. You don't need to say it. I know. I know."