Disclaimer: See last part, if you are in any doubt as to whether or not I own the fictional characters created by TPTB. ;o)

Spoilers: For Next of Kin.

Author's Note: Ok, so I swore I would never do another of these, and at the time, I really meant it, but Next of Kin inspired me, then It's Always Something (aka Kenzie Gal) and Charli (aka soulofanangel – why can't these people stick to one name each?) sort of coerced me into doing another one. So if you don't like it, it's their (collective) faults.

This isn't going to be a Carter post ep for every episode thing, I'll leave that to the professionals, like Kenzie Gal, who do it so well, but when the mood hits me, I'll write another one. Umm, read and enjoy? :o)

Fawning Gratitude and Kisses to: Charli and IAS, aforementioned, for beta-ing and being generally grand, and to Brookestar, MeganStar, sam baker, CARBYfan, mealz and poby, for reviewing, thank you all, I'm very grateful. 

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"Cancel Christmas!" she punctuates this by forcefully stamping out the remaining stub of her cigarette, the only remnants a thin line of smoke rising up into the crisp night air.

The smell that reaches my nostrils sends me a sudden urge to smoke one, but I realise she's taken the box with her. Following her might be the sensible thing to do, but my feet don't want to move, and instead I watch the couple walk past me, pram clattering along with them, no doubt housing an obscenely beautiful baby inside, oblivious to the big wide world waiting for it.

I wait for her slamming of the outer door, bracing myself, but it never comes, the only sounds that echo through the night are the faint rattling of an incoming el train, and fading footsteps.

And maybe the sound of the cogs turning in my mind.

Oh, I'll cancel Christmas. If that's what she wants, I'll cancel it, I'll cancel the small tree I have on pre-order, I'll take the gift I happily chose out a month ago back too, the one I coerced Susan into showing me how to wrap. We can have a nice non-Christmas, with the spirit of non-joy and non-cheer.

I had better hopes for this December.

Gazing out into the Chicago blackness I've come to almost love, I make myself a mental list of things to do; meet Gamma for lunch tomorrow, buy new light bulbs for my living room, remember Abby isn't broken and doesn't need fixing, doesn't need my interference. Be supportive because I love her, whilst simultaneously wanting to scream that I want to be part of her, and this ritual retracting into herself doesn't help my quest. Scold myself for being so selfish at a time like this.

In this moment, I could cry. I know she doesn't realise she's doing this, realise how many arrows she's shot through my heart in the past few weeks, because they're unintentional wounds. I know this, but it hurts like hell.

Part of me wants to grab her, to shout. Poor Abby! Poor, poor you. Yes you have a bipolar mother, a bi polar brother, and they're being shitty to you. But I'm not. I'm trying so hard to love you, I do love you, but you don't even see it. Or want to, I think. Just look through me, forget about me, and keep shutting me out, in case this gets too difficult, too real. In case it goes wrong, and you get hurt.

All things I'll never say.

A larger part of me feels like crap for thinking these thoughts, for being mad at her whilst she's going through something so huge. But I'm still waiting for her to tell me that this, her and me, is doing her some good. That she's here because she wants to be. She tells me she is, in so many small ways, when she absentmindedly buys full fat milk because I like it, when she snuggles into me instinctively when she's cold, but I need to hear it, I need to be told, because no-one's ever told me they need me. Not like that.

I want them to.

I want her to.

Is that so wrong?

To want to be put first, before her mother and the brother, however unfair and inappropriate it is to think that way? To want to be thought of before she decides to move her brother into her flat, and forgets I might have some input? To want to feel important to someone who's my world, someone who makes me matter?

The air around me has become colder, but I feel like I should sit this out, my punishment. What for? For thinking of myself? She does that too, it's basic human instinct, one we all bow to at some point.

For not being the boyfriend she wants me to be?

I want to ask if this is what happened with Richard, with Luka. If she pushed them, and pushed them, until they couldn't take it anymore. I know she pushed Luka away, pushed him until he gave up. I think there's a difference here though. I know I'm not going to let her.

The door's open for a reason, I realise. She's not shutting me out totally. Some comfort.

Some days I hate this idealised view of the world I get, the one where we live happily ever after, get married and have babies, but my optimism has to be enough for the both of us. I think that's maybe the part of us that works so well.

Two halves of a whole.

I drag my tired body up from the steps, feeling a sharp pain shoot through my back. Great, it's back. Just what I wanted. My hands are chapped and raw, the Chicago weather obviously disagreeing with them, but I didn't feel it until I hit the warmth of the building.

I've done this walk before. Forty five steps up, three paces forward, and a ninety degree turn left. I counted one day when I was bored, and she was taking far too long getting ready to go out. Today my legs feel heavier, my mind slightly number. Words are failing me; I don't know what I can say now, to make this better for her. Even if only for a second. I'm inwardly cursing Maggie and Eric, and their little club of two; Maggie of all people should realise how tough this is on Abby, how much she's hurting.

I hate the way this works, the way this is turning out for her. One gets better, and another has to become ill? Even trying to imagine how bad it feels that yet something else is going wrong, that the kid you thought you got through childhood is turning into the one thing you tried to protect him from, is impossible.

I reach for her door tentatively, slightly ajar, and push it open. I don't want to fight tonight, but I don't know how long I can dutifully ignore the fact that she's hurting the both of us, not just herself. How long I can neglect to tell her that, as painful as it is, she can't put her life on hold forever for them. How I can tell her this without being an insensitive jerk.

She's assumed a common position on the couch, legs curled tightly to her chest, with her chin rested atop, small sniffles she's trying to hide, the product of wounded pride, and as I move nearer she flickers an apologetic glance over to me.

That's the moment my heart will always melt.

I almost fall onto the cushions, grateful for the relief it gives my back, and immediately extend my arm. She's memorised my movements too well, because she's there almost before I offer it, head nestled into the familiar space between my jaw and shoulder, gently kissing any patch of available skin she can find there. A small hand searches out my fingers, and twines them with hers, her thumb running the length of mine.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, barely audible over the gentle stirring of the heater and the patter of small raindrops forming on the window across from us. "I'm so sorry, John." She punctuates this apology with another kiss, this time to my chest. "I didn't want you to have to deal with thi-"

"Don't do that," I snap, annoyed, untangling myself from her. Her eyes seem to swell further, a tear finally relenting, running the course of her cheek, and I immediately berate myself for the harsh tone I used, catching the droplet with the pad of my thumb.

"Don't apologise for them," I clarify, this time more gently. "It's not your fault." She shakes her head adamantly, swiping at her eyes with her left hand. "It's not," I repeat more firmly.

Her expression has morphed from one of sadness to a picture of mild amazement, and she struggles with a smile. "Why do you stay for this? What do you get out of this John, what do I give you? Apart from a permanent headache-"

"Stop with the self pity," I half plead, sighing and running an exhausted hand through my hair, then venture a look at her, a mixture of emotions. "Come here," I beckon in a whisper, pulling her back towards me, as much for me as for her, and kiss along her forehead.

"I thought I told you, you're my gift."

"I thought you knew I didn't believe you," she retorts, a slight humour returning to her, and she squeezes me gently, resuming the path she was kissing.

"I did. I'm going to make a point of saying it until you believe it," I offer by way of an answer, and feel her lips smiling on my skin. It feels good. Carefully removing a hand from around her waist, I raise it higher, tangling fingers in her hair and running my hand outwards, examining the locks.

"What are you thinking?" she hums, watching me with a smile.

"That you looked better brunette."

I brace myself for an assault of some kind for her direction, but it doesn't come. She makes a soft 'humpf' sound into my shoulder, and then withdraws herself, pulling back on to her heels. I miss the contact as soon as it's broken, my mouth letting out a small protest, and realise this is her payback.

"Ouch," she offers dryly, making a point of standing and stretching slowly in front of me, before padding off to the kitchen. It's an agonisingly long walk, and she relishes every second of her teasing. My head flops back onto the couch, and I surreptitiously try to massage my back, the pain increasing, perhaps because my distraction has gone.

She notices, I know she does, because she returns from the kettle she was boiling, and crouches beside me, concerned. I'm supposed to take care of her tonight. "You ok?" it comes out in a soft breath, and is emphasised by little hands creeping behind me to knead at my back. She pushes me forwards to allow herself room to slide down behind me, and braces her legs either side of my body, hands still working their magic, something I'm more than happy for her to practice.

"I stay with you because you look after me?" I mumble, although I'm not sure if it's coherent.

She laughs a little. "Not well enough."

"Better than you think," I correct her firmly, but not unkindly. At this she lowers me backwards and leans across to kiss me, stray hair floating over my face like a golden curtain. Or a semi-blonde curtain. I manoeuvre her around to lie on top of me, taking better advantage of that mouth, and she hovers slightly, holding her weight on the hands placed at my sides. I shoot her a questioning look.

"I don't want to hurt you," she smiles, biting her lip. I wonder if she knows what sort of a hold she has over me. That lip running through her teeth is all I can think about, and I manage to mumble disjointedly that she couldn't hurt me before closing the gap between us. "I don't want to hurt you," she repeats, making herself heard between feverish kisses, her face very much serious, and I realise she's talking about more than a repetitive back pain.

I haul myself back up into a sitting position. "Abby…" I begin hesitantly, unsure of what to say, stroking a palm down her cheek, and bringing it to cup her chin. "You don't."
Her head shakes slowly. "I do. I see it, I hurt you tonight, when I left you, I…I don't mean to do it…" she trails off, clutching at the hand I was barely aware she was holding until now. I think to deny it again, but I made her promise not to hide, and I think that means I have to be honest too. She struggles to say something; I can hear the words catching in her throat.

"You don't have to say anything," I offer, calmly.

That line catches her like a startled rabbit, and she jerks her head upwards. I pray that she will tell me, but resign myself to the fact that she won't. Maybe she will one day.

"I'm going to lose you," she says, all in one breath, seemingly shocked herself that she said it. She looks to the ceiling, and takes a calmer breath. "I'm so scared I'm going to lose you, and I'm just trying not to get…hurt when you go."

I'm conscious that I'm trying to speak, but I'm choking on the barrage of words battling to escape, fighting for prominence. I'm aware of a sigh escaping, but my mouth is dry, and for a moment I'm too shocked to even articulate my thoughts. The realisation of how much it took for her to say that, and the adorably unsure look she wears, through which I can already see her backing away slightly, shock me into action, and I shake my head.

"I'm not going anywhere, I don't want to go anywhere. I told you, I meant it-" my voice becomes quicker with each attempt to reassure her, I can see where this is going, and I think by the nervous expression plastered on her face she can too, so I search for a better way to do this. To do this right.

Too late.

"I love you," I splutter, less confidently than I intended, and she begins to shake her head, whispering sad little 'no' sounds, perhaps from years of what she thinks is experience, but I find my voice is louder, and force her eyes to mine.

"I love you, and I don't contemplate a time when I ever won't love you, Abby. I stay because I want to; I get you out of this, because you is what I want. You don't have to understand it, but I need you to accept it, because that's what hurts me most of all. Your denial hurts me." I take her hand and rub it between my own. "I don't want to have to keep giving reasons why."

She nods. "I just want you to be happy. You mean too much to me to be miserable." She shoots me a nervous little smile. I think my heart just tried to escape my chest. It probably could if it tried hard enough, and it doesn't matter that I was pissed off with everything thirty minutes before, because moments like this are worth our journey. A part of me wants her to say the words, wants to be told, even though I know, because in front of me I can see a face that I think is mirroring mine. I realise she's not going to, but I can wait.

I will wait.

I'm only vaguely aware of the arms pulling me upwards, and my legs are in automatic mode as she returns to my mouth, biting gently at my lip and expertly tugging at the buttons on my shirt. I follow as she walks backwards across to her room, softly correcting her path with my hand to avoid her walking into the doorframe, and she giggles.

"You know your way around," she observes in between muffled breaths and wandering hands, a jumble of clothes floating to the floor one after the other, slow and unhurried, a pattern I'm more than comfortable with.

To my annoyance and disbelief, although I should come to expect it at times like this, the phone shrills out a greeting, and I pause my kisses, groaning loudly. "Abby?"

"Mmm," she offered, apparently uninterested in the intruder.

"Phone?"
"Leave it?" she suggests, rolling her eyes, and trailing warm lips down my chest.

"It might be them," I point out; unsure of why I'm protesting so much.

"It's nothing that won't wait 'till morning."

"And if it's important?"

"It's not. You," she smiles definitively, "are."

I've been awake for an hour, long since the sheets settled, feeling strangely liberated. Finally able to say things I've kept hidden for longer than I cared to. Abby lays on my chest, breathing softly, reverently, but I know she's still awake because she's drawing gentle circles along my shoulder, barely there, like a whisper. The arm wrapped around her squeezes her in tighter, like a reflex, and I continue pretending to be asleep, because some moments shouldn't be ruined with words.

I feel less pressure on my chest, and realise she's raised up from her resting place. Momentarily, I worry that she's leaving and I stiffen, but the hand still remains, drawing those little circles, so I relax. "You're quiet when you sleep," she whispers to no one, and I wonder how often she talks to me while I'm not awake. "Peaceful," she continues, and I swear I feel her smile.

"'Night John." Her finger pauses for a moment near my collar bone, and she breathes in deeply. "I love you."

This information startles me, and I have to mentally restrain myself from grabbing her and repeating tonight's ending, hoping she didn't notice me move. She kisses my temple, and breathes again, before snuggling back to me, an arm lazily snaking across my stomach. "I wish I could say it when you can hear me."

My face remains motionless, but when I'm sure her head is back against my chest, I allow myself a smile.

My last lucid thought is spent hoping she makes a habit of this sleep talking.

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A/N: So, that's pretty much it, I'd be mighty grateful if you reviewed, good or bad, and for a limited time I'll throw in a free lollipop!