Disclaimer: See part one.
Spoilers: With a Little Help from My Friends.
Huge amounts of gratitude and free ice cream: To Charli and IAS, just because. To SK, MeganStar, AF, maven, Taylor Wise, dreaming, Ceri, Mealz, Cass and Carbyfan, and anyone else who read the last bit. Thank you, your reviews are very encouraging.
Authors note: Ok, so no doubt there are more interesting things happening in the American world of ER, but in Britain we are only up to #11, so this is what my post ep is for. Actually, it's more of a during ep, with added scenes, missed bits and elaboration, but hey….
This was quite a hard one to do – I wasn't going to post ep it, but my challenger (who by her own request shall remain anonymous) asked me to, and I never turn down a challenge.
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Honestly, I don't think I could be angrier at Pratt right now. A patient dies, bleeding and bruised, chest open on the table, feeling the last air he'd ever know, and he wasn't there to even try and help him live. Life is fragile enough as it is, and then sometimes somebody comes along and takes a hammer to it. Pratt's holding that hammer.
My fingers tighten round the suture kit in my hand, and I drop it quickly into the bag in front of me. Gallant wasn't very forthcoming with the information; I think he said the minimum amount a person could when torn between a teacher and a peer. I think it's the military man in him.
Am I a teacher?
It reaches my head as an afterthought, something I hadn't really thought of before, not since Lucy. I was a crappy teacher to her; I know I was, even though I tried not to be. It's easy to blame Paul Sobriki, to label him a killer, and to make her death and my eventual addiction all his own work. But he wasn't in control of what he was doing. He didn't know, and I did. I should have made sure psych came down.
Lucy would be here, a resident, telling me what I should be doing, flashing a winning smile at the patients.
But she isn't.
And I am.
For better or worse.
She creeps into my head sometimes, a painful barometer of all the things I did wrong. Times I was too sharp with her, times I just ignored her, like that fateful Valentine's Day.
Ignored her for Abby, Abby and the confusing force that seemed to physically draw me to her, a concept I never understood, still don't.
Abby, who I'm currently trying to teach to trust me, another thing that deep down I know can't be taught if the pupil doesn't want to listen.
Abby, who's presently standing just a few feet away, watching me curiously.
I lift my head up; more guarded than I mean to, and she fixes me with a worried stare, which makes me wince a little. Surely she doesn't suspect I'm stealing the drug supply, especially after all this time. I reopen the bag and hold the suture kit out to her, turning it over to both hands, somewhat immaturely, to illustrate my point. "Pratt has an emergency," is all I offer, all I know to offer.
She looks stung. Apparently I can't read her as well as I imagine, because her mind was somewhere else. "What, you think I don't trust you?" she asks guardedly, crossing her arms in front of her chest, eyes building up to a slow burn.
"I'm sorry. I didn't-" my eyes flicker to the floor guiltily, and when I look back up the stare is still there. My thoughts are poisoning me tonight.
"I wanted to borrow the Jeep," she shrugs quietly. "To-"
"Sure," I cut her off, though I'm unsure of why, I think I just want to get to Pratt and sort out whatever emergency is waiting for me, then slip into a deep and uninterrupted sleep. Selfish?
Yes.
She looks a little wounded, and I make a mental note to apologise for this later. "Keys," I offer, breaking the silence and dipping into my pocket, eyes avoiding looking at anything but the floor. After a moment of fumbling I brandish them, and pass them to her, giving her a perfunctory kiss, ending it quicker than I wanted to. "Got to go," I motion towards the direction of the door, and flash a well-meaning smile in her direction, though I'm not sure it reached my eyes.
Why am I hurting her?
Abby remains confused, and fiddles with her feet. She nods sadly. "You stopping by later?"
The self-pitying part of me wonders why she even wants me there. I shrug. "I'm not sure." I'm lying, my bed is going to see a person for the first time in weeks tonight, but I don't tell her that.
"Umm, ok." There's a residual feeling of awkwardness now, and I break it as quickly as I can. "Don't wait up," I punctuate with a wink that I hope is playful, and with that, I'm out the door.
I pause half way to wonder why she wanted the Jeep. Lost in my thoughts, I forgot to ask.
Without even thinking I pull my coat tighter around me and walk with my head down, the better for me to ignore the world and wallow in my thoughts some more. Strange how you can start a day feeling like everything's normal, and end it in a mess.
Thoughts breeze through my skull, seemingly in time with the wind, and drift back to Lucy. I haven't thought about her for months now, the small place reserved for her has been overtaken, by other people. One person really.
Should I feel guilty?
I do. About everything. I think I always will. People tell me it wasn't my fault. They told me every day for weeks after it happened, and a little voice in my head still tells me that now, but a louder one drowns it out.
I failed her.
And now, three years later, am I failing Pratt?
He's my responsibility, and I know I should be doing a better job of this. I think I can, I try to, but if somebody doesn't want to be taught, how far can you push them?
Seems I'm failing in a lot of things these days.
The bitter Chicago night draws around me, wind turning my nose red and stinging at my eyes, shadows hiding my inadequacies. It seems a perfect place to be with my melancholy. Me, me, me, poor Carter.
My pace slows the nearer I get to my destination. I'm slightly worried about what I'll find at Pratt's apartment, whether he'll be hurt, bleeding.
Bleeding like Lucy.
Or what if it's someone else? Maybe I should've just directed an ambulance to his house, played by the rules I like to bend.
To bend too much.
I forcefully shake my head, as if that would dispel the thoughts betraying my better judgements, but they still float around, taunting me with each stride down the path. I count the numbers on the buildings, suddenly aware that I have no idea where Pratt lives, just a hurried mental road map supplied by Gallant. I fleetingly wish I'd brought the Jeep.
This seems to be the place. It looks like he described, and I can see various lights in the window, some twinkling, others flickering into blackness. Briefly checking that he package is still in my hands, I start to climb the stairs.
Hey, Pratt, what the hell do you think you're doing?
Muffled sounds seep through the door, which I take to be his, and I pause, wondering how he'll react. He didn't seem very forthcoming when he hung up on me earlier. I knock a few times, and footsteps approach, only he's talking to Gallant, not me.
I brace myself. Hey, Pratt. I came to help?
"Running a little clinic out of the apartment?" That's definitely not what I meant to say, but I make no apology for it. Predictably, he starts to slam the door. The doctor in me reacts. "Who's hurt?"
He reluctantly lets me in, and my eyes adjust to the slight darkness. His apartment was obviously home to one of those dim lights from the street. He deposits that it's his brother, and I make some judgemental comment about him not being smart, which I don't apologise for either. It's not smart. But I guess we'll have to be stupid together, because with Pratt, I don't want to fail, I will make this work.
So I do.
Turns out his brother was stabbed, over the gun he brought in this morning. I find myself unsurprised by this information, and we exchange minimum words, only essential medical jargon, and a mutter of thanks from him, a rehearsed "You didn't have to," speech.
Leon is wailing, and I watch Pratt calm him, lead him and his freshly bandaged wound to a small room at the back of the apartment. I've never seen Pratt like this, sympathetic, affected, humane. Always wrote him off as a one-dimensional idiot, a burden I had to try and tame, to lift the best I could.
I never gave him a moment's thought once I got home, never wondered about him the way I wonder about others, the way I wonder about Gallant. Guilt cuts through me. All this time. No one's been thinking about Pratt.
He re-emerges, looking tired and a little broken, with shades of embarrassment at the fact he gave in to help. This is familiar to me. I smile awkwardly, and he shuffles past me, muttering something about needing air, and heading for the stairwell.
"Thanks," he mutters hesitantly between the slapping of his soles against the stairs, barely looking up at me. "You didn't have to stay."
I shrug, unsure of how to answer. "You needed the help," I finally reply subtly, and we exit the building, cold air hitting my lungs mercilessly. He seats himself on the outside wall sighing and rubbing his head, which I assume to be the bald man's equivalent of running his hands through his hair.
"Leon, he's your brother?"
We're sitting outside now, the last remnants of snow flickering about in the air, and he seems strangely calm. His brother's upstairs, sleeping. I wonder what sort of an effect this has on him; I'd have bet money on him being angrier than this, not…used to it.
"No, well, yeah, kind of…" he stumbles into a brief life story, Leon coming to them, his mother dying, Leon's bullet to the brain. I've never taken any interest in Pratt's non-medical life, but there's more to him than I gave him credit for.
Guts. Loyalty.
"I've been doing it on my own for years, I'm good at that," he continues, and in this he reminds me again of Abby, possibly the last person I would have connected him with.
Maybe he and I have more in common than I thought, because there's a loneliness there that I think I know about. I try to tell him he has to learn to trust people, otherwise no one will give the same trust to him; and think maybe this lecture could be stored and reused on another person too. Or recorded, so I can just repeat it to her whenever the situation calls for it. I suggest if he continues not to trust, he should think about becoming a surgeon.
Briefly, I realise that my intern also has shades of the man who taught me -- stubbornness, a belief he could handle anything by himself, when really he couldn't.
A harshness that covers his exterior, but gives way to something deeper on the inside, something more human. I wonder if he's happy where he is now. If he remembers me, how he remembers me. As a pupil? A drug addict? A friend?
How, in ten years time, will I remember Pratt? I hope to think I'll respect him, and he'll respect me, like I respected Dr. Benton. He tried so hard to make me a good surgeon. Only I was a better doctor.
I think Pratt will be too.
I fumble for some words of wisdom that might help him, or illustrate this notion, but they don't seem to vocalise.
He's wishing me away now, wanting me gone, I can tell that people helping him isn't something he's either used to, or comfortable with. "Asking for help when you need it doesn't make you weak," I finally and pointedly utter. He nods, listening, although I don't know whether I got through to him.
I resolve to keep trying, and take my leave. I think he watches for a while, but halfway down the street I hear a call of "G!" and the door closing hastily.
The Chicago wind always seems to know that I'm coming, because whenever I venture out, it hits me like a thousand icicles, seemingly taking pleasure in the discomfort it is able to cause, but, like any other night, I soldier on, tucking my scarf a little tighter to block out whatever cold I can.
The blackness around me is almost entrancing; it sucks me in, sometimes praying for me to join with it, so it can surround me with its misery. Walking, in spite of the wind and the possible chance of snow, brings a new sobriety to my thoughts, and I try to resolve them, let Lucy's memory find some peace. Because all I want to do is sleep now, sleep until it all goes away.
How did I even get here?
I pass her street without incident. I'm aware of it, aware of the faint lights dancing in the windows of her apartment block, but tonight the darkness wins, and alone with my thoughts I continue to my own, little used, apartment.
Very few places here have gardens. I've never noticed, or never cared to notice this before, but they don't. Two doors down from the entrance to my apartment, Mrs Farris' roses seem to be holding on as best they can in the current climate, it seems a pity that with possessions so simple and beautiful she has to be a miserable and resentful old woman. I allow myself a smile, scanning them, some wilting, some already dead, and one that seems to be almost alive. I absentmindedly pluck this one from the bush, turning it over in my fingers.
In the small beam of light emerging from the street lamp, the rose is nearly blood red, yet when captured by the shadows it shines a glorious burgundy colour, and is more entrancing. Some of the petals are wilting, slightly shrivelled into themselves, and a rebel thorn punctures the skin of my thumb. The pain subsides quickly. Seems I didn't pick the perfect rose.
But, then again, maybe I didn't want to.
I don't notice the small figure lurking next to my door until I'm much closer, and the appearance throws me completely, leaving me wondering what exactly she's doing here.
"You looked a little…weird, when you left," she shrugs an explanation without me asking, dark eyes watching me intently. In this moment she looks quite beautiful, dim light falling over her features, hair suffering the after effects of the wind that claimed my own, and mouth set in a strange shape, perhaps unsure of how to react.
"It's late," I offer, checking my watch in the hope that it's true. "I didn't want to wake you."
"I had to return your Jeep," she motions to the car parked a few metres away. "I don't think I hurt her," she continues with a little, unsure laugh.
"You should have kept her for the night."
"You might have needed her."
I jerk the hand containing the rose upwards, offering it out to her, a metaphorical olive branch, and she studies us both for a moment before she accepts, with a small smile. It twirls between delicate white fingers, skilfully avoiding the prickles. "Something tells me you didn't pick this for me," she jokes.
"I had you in mind."
"About earl-"
"Are you-" We speak in unison, which elicits nervous smiles, and she motions for me to go first. I rest myself on the small wall beside us, and she follows suit, hugging her arms to her body.
"I'm sorry, about today, I didn't mean to be…" I gesticulate with my hand, trying to summon the right word, but it doesn't come, so I let the sentence hang. She knows what I mean.
"You ok?" she asks with a tenderness that never fails to make me feel wanted, stroking a cautious finger over my hand, and then twining it with her own when she feels more confident.
I'm reluctant to meet her gaze, but it remains steady. "Tough day."
"Wanna talk about it?"
I shake my head. "I've just been thinking."
"About?" she seems reluctant to push this, but she does it gently, still running a finger lightly up and down my thumb, her hands now cold to the touch, but strangely soothing. Suddenly, and stiffly, she stops.
I shake my head. "Not that," I whisper, planting a small kiss on the hand that's calming me. She looks relieved, then a little embarrassed. "Just things."
We've done this before, a different setting this time, a switching of roles, but we've done it before. Perfected it nearly, the art of sitting and not talking. "Are we the world's most dysfunctional couple?"
"What?" she chuckles disbelievingly, regarding me strangely.
"Nothing. I didn't mean to say that out loud." I'm laughing now, shaking my head slightly.
She leans in to my ear, and whispers in it conspiratorially. "I don't think 'thinking's' good for you," she confesses with a smile.
"Lucy," I supply, blurting it out. "I was thinking about Lucy." Half of me waits for her to think I'm crazy, or at least a little odd, but she just nods and squeezes my hand a little harder, asking for no explanation, but I offer one anyway. "I remember her sometimes. The mess I made."
Silence.
I stumble for a moment. "Of teaching her. She was my responsibility; mine. I don't want to make the same mistakes again." Was she even following this?
"Pratt ok?"
She's following. "Mm-hmm. He's good."
"Good." Looking out into the night, she leans into me slightly, and I absentmindedly kiss her forehead. "You're a good man, John," she whispers seriously, tapping her fingers against my own. I want to agree with her, but I think this image she holds is exaggerated, even if it does feel good to hear her say that.
"She drive nicely for you?" I ask, motioning to the Jeep. "What did you want her for?"
She deflects the question nicely, in her usual manner, her mission a secret. Not that I blame her; I haven't divulged mine. "She? Does she have a name?"
"No. You going to offer one?"
"She's your baby." The involuntary shudder she lets out reminds me how cold it is, and I pull her upwards with me in one swift movement, nodding towards the door in invitation. My melancholy can enjoy the cold for a while; I'm taking a happy and warm break.
"I don't know," she sighs, raising an eyebrow. "It's nearly unchartered territory."
"My bed gets lonely?" I try my best cutesy voice, and run my hands down the outside of her jacket, tugging gently at the lapels.
I pull her the final distance to me, and, rolling her eyes, she meets my mouth gently in the middle, small hands resting on my forearms, rubbing tiny circles. She lets out a sweet little sigh, and my own hands enclose around her waist, laying claim to it. A loud cough disturbs us from the street, and we both turn to watch the unknown owner wander past with his dog, shaking his head and muttering something about couples.
Our foreheads reluctantly part, and I cast an amused glance at her as she nods, failing to suppress a small smile, and then looking down in dismay at her now crinkled and snapped rose. She holds the flower up to me and cocks her head, the flower dangling unhealthily to the left, petals squashed into an ovalish shape and looking particularly pitiful.
I pull a face. "It's the thought that counts?" She looks dubious about this.
"It'll grow back stronger next year," she whispers almost inaudibly from behind me, as I flick my key in the lock. Her sentence stops me, and I venture a curious look at her, trying to quell the smile building up inside of me.
"What?" I ask nonchalantly, pretending I didn't hear her.
She isn't convinced, because she pulls a disbelieving face, but complies anyway. "Roses." She motions with her hands distractedly, "Flowers in general. You grow them, they wilt, but you have a little faith and they come back stronger the next year." The last part is said with a cautious glance up at me, which fades into another little smile when she sees my own.
I continue with the lock and it gives way, I wonder what sort of a state I left my apartment in. I reach a hand out behind me and turn in time to see her placing her rose down on the ground, and watching it for a beat, the wind hitting at it unrelentingly. Then she slides a small hand into mine and follows me in.
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A/N: If you liked it/hated it/have an opinion on it, drop me a line!