Author's Note: Ahem. Ok, post ep for "Saint in the City." Umm, with a slight difference that is unlikely to have happened afterwards, but in my little world it did, and that's enough.

Umm, hope you like it. If you have an opinion on it, review, I still have some lollies left for bribery purposes….

Special thanks and free kisses to: Charli, my girl, for beta-ing and general goodness (quick plug for her fic "Better By Far You Should Forget and Smile" – read it, 'tis magnifique!)

Also to IAS, who, like a good playmate, has learnt to share Carter and his inner world, although she still snatches sometimes ;o) , and Sunni for creative input, if you haven't read their post eps, where have you been?

And, last but not least, to: Brookestar, dreaming, Taylor Wise, Lesbiassparrow, kla, CARBYfan, maven, Megan Star, Jess, Mealz and hottie for their lovely reviews. Mwah.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There's a lady who's sure

All that glitters is gold

And she's buying a Stairway to Heaven.

Led Zeppelin.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"You'll make a good servant yet!" McNulty calls after me, and I wave my hand in the air, without turning around, to indicate that I heard him. He laughs slightly, then I hear the clinic door slam and I find myself alone on the street, next to my Jeep.

I knew he wouldn't take the cheque, he's too stubborn, and I think too proud to, but I'm glad he let me do something. Even if it was just cleaning. I climb into the jeep, falling tiredly into the driver's seat and rubbing hot palms over my face.

Pride. That's something I'm not sure I have right now.

Not in relation to my family; at least, my background. I wish I could feel proud of it, of what they did, of how they earned their fortune, but I can't, and I won't. I'm not ashamed of who I am, or even who they are, but I'm ashamed of why they are.

I look at someone like McNulty, who's putting his whole life, his own money, and so much effort into something he obviously believes in, and he'll make no profit from it, he'll simply struggle through life, if he doesn't go bankrupt, and only have the help he lets people give. But he still does it.

Gamma sits back on her couch for an hour and makes a couple of thousand.

This isn't a fair comparison, and I don't begrudge her the money, it was her legacy the same way she wants it to be mine, but the unfairness of it all is astounding to me.  I never thought money was the answer to most things, the answer to anything really, all I know is that money has always brought me misery – a bullied and lonely childhood, a mother who never cared the way she should have, and a life I've tried my best to avoid. I go to a charity gala twice a year, compliantly sign a few cheques, but that's the most I have, the most I want, to do with it.

I want people to see me, John Carter, not a rich guy with more money than he can count. Because I don't want to be dismissed like that, I want to mean something in my own right, not mean something due to an inheritance.

I don't envy me, I pity me.

Even now I look back in anger at the sexual harassment seminar we had to sit through last year, the way they all sat and judged me, even Abby, and dismissed the idea that my childhood may have been painful, because I had money. Yes money. After all, that's what makes the world go round.

So I'm told.

I'm quick to offer it, because it means nothing to me, it's almost a guilty reaction, throwing money at people, to placate them, to try and make amends. Now more than ever I know that money is the most and least valuable thing in the world. I still believe what I said to her this evening, I give my time at County, and that's more valuable than a ten million dollar cheque. Our last conversation haunts me.

"I feel passionate about what I'm doing, okay? I feel passionate about working at County."

"Who says you can't do both?"

Why can't they realise I don't want to do both? I want nothing to do with the Carter Family Fortune, I'd rather burn it to heat the boiler in McNulty's clinic right now, but Gamma's always pushed me, and pushed me, and now Abby's doing it too. And that makes me madder than anything else, because she doesn't have any right to do that.

She knows me, she has the courage to call me on things other people never have, and she makes more sense to me than she knows, but she has no right to do that. Not when she consistently fights to keep me in the shadows of her family.

I hope it feels good to be in my shoes.

I realise I've been sitting here longer than I should have, and I trigger the engine, letting it roar into action. This is accompanied with the blaring beginnings of a song I can only presume is part of Abby's CD collection, though I've never heard it before. I hastily eject the disc, and shift the Jeep into drive.  My bed has never been as appealing. The rest of my journey is spent shaking off any thoughts of the disaster tonight turned into, and planning out in my head how many shifts I could take on with McNulty if he'll let me. Two or three a week, I think. Or maybe more.

For the first time in a long while I'm excited about something work related, eager to help out with this clinic. He thinks I'm trying to drown out the demons that come with 'white liberal guilt'. I'd like to prove him wrong.

I reach home before I realise it, and drag myself up the steps, searching for my key. I stand on something before I reach the door, and lift my foot up curiously. It's something that was left there a few days ago; the last time my apartment saw life. Her rose.

How symbolic.

Picking it up, I rest it on the wall, I'm not sure why, I just don't want anyone to stand on it. It's as good as dead anyway, three lone petals gasping for life amidst tens of dried, weather beaten ones, but the sadistic part of me wants to see how long they last.

I push the door to my rented two bed-roomed apartment open, and contemplate calling her, something I should have done after the way I unceremoniously dropped her off at her place, but my cheap watch tells me its past 2am, and I don't want to wake her.

Flopping onto my bed, I hope that sleep will drown my bitterness away. It's been visiting me too much for my liking lately.

~ * ~

I'm rudely awoken by a sharp, impatient knocking, and after stumbling out of bed and failing to locate a t-shirt, then hitting my toe on the door frame, I wrap a sheet around myself and hobble painfully to the door, cursing people who choose to call at this hour.

9am. Well, that's still early. The knocking persists. I might as well have stationed a small woodpecker outside for all the noise they were making. That'd be a way to spend Gamma's money. "Coming!" I mutter grumpily, and practically fling the door open, adopting as unamused a face as I can muster. It's not difficult.

"Morning," she looks me up and down with a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow, apparently amused by my ensemble, and squeezes herself past me, scooting over to the window and dragging open the curtains, which gave way easily to a blinding beam of sunlight.

"God, Abby, it's early," I moan and turn to her, covering my face and gesticulating with my hand for her to shut them again. She refuses, so I pad back to my bedroom, and indicate for her to follow me, locating my elusive T-shirt on the way. "It's my day off," I continue to grumble, pulling the cotton over my head, and running my hands over my face.

"I love to see you too," she deadpans, and throws over a pair of my pants from their messily folded pile on the floor. "It's our day off," she qualifies to my bemused face. "We have plans."

I'm not even sure why she's so eager to see me after last night, but she seems to have forgotten about the fundraiser, and my muttered explanation about visiting McNulty instead of the coffee she offered, and is in good spirits, which is infectious. I guess last night can be struck off and never mentioned again. Forgotten. I think this is the way these things work, but you'd have to ask her about that. "Where are we-"

"Surprise."

"What's in your hand?"

"Umm, you'll see." She glances over at me cautiously. "You awake yet?"

I nod, and lazily extend an arm, pulling her over to me and onto my lap. "Hi," I reply, flashing my eyes up to her in what I hope is an alluring manner and tilting her face to greet her in the welcome kiss we should have begun with.

"Mm, hi," she repeats, running a hand through my already messy tufts of hair. Catching her off guard, I haul her backwards onto the bed with me, and snake my spare arm round her waist.

"'S early," I mumble, giving her little chance to protest between kisses. "Too early to go out yet."

"We're going."

I nestle my head between her neck and shoulder, a place particularly susceptible to this form of bribery. "Ten minutes," I promise.

"Get up," she nudges me, and tries to sit up herself, tugging on my arm. I ignore her, and continue my trail of lazy kisses. "JOHN!"

"Okay, okay." I raise my hands in defeat. "But we have to do what I decide later," I add, pulling on the khakis she'd thrown at me.

"Deal." She certifies this by locking our hands, and pulls me up, picking up the package she'd hastily dropped on the floor a moment ago.

"What is that?"

Continuing on her path to the door, she pulls out a slightly scruffy, obviously well loved teddy bear, and I shoot her a confused glance. "We're returning it," she answers before I've formulated the question.

"To whom?"

"To Lewis."

"To Lewis?" I repeat, reaching behind me to pull the door closed and fumbling with the lock for a moment. I look over at her, and she nods, taking the hand I offer when it becomes available again. "He's a kid I treated two days ago. Left his teddy. I'm returning it."

"When did we become delivery men?" I question, still wary of this little trip.

"He's five, he misses his teddy bear. Have a heart," she adds with a smirk.

We come to the outer door and I nod a greeting to the janitor, happily running his brush along the hallway and whistling a vaguely recognisable tune. He returns the gesture. "Goodbye, Abigail," he adds, and she flashes a smile over at him.

"Thanks Mr Dresler," she calls back, and he returns to his sweeping. "He let me in," she adds, her gait pausing slightly when she catches sight of the dying flower on the wall and a small smile creeps across her mouth, but only for a second.

I pretend not to notice. "So he's the one I have to thank for my lack of sleep…"

~ * ~

It's unusually warm today, particularly for January, and the sun is shining down quite heavily, though the slight chill in the breeze remains. Her hair's tousled and a little unruly, but in the rays it's never really looked more beautiful to me. She notices me staring and hides a grin. I continue to be baffled about Lewis and the lost teddy bear.

We've hit a part of the city I'm not wholly familiar with, but she seems to know it well, and after various twists, turns, and one wrong street, we land outside a large looking building, grubby from the outside, but containing colourful pictures inside what look like classrooms.

Children are congregated outside in excited and colourful little huddles, some laughing and talking, and others playing with a small, dirty football. I shoot her my third quizzical glance of the day. She points over to a rather grubby five year old with a fat face, a plaster cast wrist and blue jumper, which, as we get nearer I notice sports a large hole in the sleeve. "Lewis," she mouths at me.

"Abby!" He sees us and runs over excitedly, the friends he was with looking curiously on, pointing in our direction.

"Hi," she continues, dropping my hand and kneeling beside Lewis, drawing the soft toy from her bag. She's a natural.

"Dimples!" he shouts, lunging for it and holding it triumphantly into the air for his companions to see. A few older boys laugh at his eagerness over something so babyish, but he doesn't seem to hear them, or just ignores them.

He looks up at me and flashes another broad grin, which I return easily. "Hey Lewis. That's Dimples?" I ask, motioning to the bear.

"Dimples Brennan," he answers importantly, reaching out a chubby arm. "I'm Lewis Brennan."

"I'm John Carter, Abby's friend," I reply, holding my hand out to him, which he takes and shakes hard, smiling proudly at exchanging such a grown up greeting. An older looking woman shouts at him from across the yard, and with one last grin and a hearty 'thank you' he is gone, running back off in the direction of the building. "Where are we?" I ask Abby, who is distractedly gazing into the distance.

"Greenacres Centre," she mumbles. "It's run by that woman over there, Mrs Hare," she nods towards the older woman who shouted for Lewis, now seeing to a young girl who appears to have wounded her knee. Pieces of the puzzle begin to formulate in my mind. I don't like where this is going. "It's kind of a place that kids from broken families can come, to hang out, to play after school. She looks after about 50 children in the afternoon and all day Saturdays, has volunteer teachers who help her. Gets donations which keep it running."

Ah, Contrivance, and Abby is thy name. "She does?" I ask mock enthusiastically, the situation now all too apparent. It wasn't forgotten, it was just brushed under the carpet for twenty-four hours, waiting to come back and bite me. 

She notices me stiffening because she deflates a little. "Lewis came in with a broken wrist two days ago. I was talking to Mrs Hare." She pauses. I just look off into the distance, fumbling in my pockets. "I just wanted you to see there are worthwhile projects out there…" she attempts to explain, then trails off.

"So you thought you'd guilt me into giving out my money?" I ask incredulously.

She looks taken aback, then infuriated. "No! How can you- No. All I wanted to do was to show you that there are some causes out there." She states her case adamantly, and struggles to keep defiant hair tucked behind her ears.

"That I can pawn my soul and become treasurer for?" I snap unnecessarily.

"That you can use your wealth to fight for," she corrects me, turning away in disgust. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, because this was obviously a bad idea."

"Obviously," I agree.

"Why don't you want anyone to know about your wealth? Why don't you want to use it?" She's exasperated now, although I don't think she has any real right to be. This is my business, my 'inheritance'.

"People know I'm rich."

"And it doesn't change their opinion of you."

"It does," I state flatly and quickly, biting my lip.

"Not mine." Stopping in my tracks, I shift to face her. "It's never changed how I felt; it's just a part of you. I care about you regardless of the money, John." I know. I never doubted that, I didn't. My silence and the nod that follows it is an immature attempt to end the conversation, but she doesn't want that yet. "Why do you think that money is automatically negative?"

Because it is? Don't preach to me Abby, don't do it. "I don't think that. I just don't want that to be my life. Could we leave this now please?" I ask rudely, heading back across the yard.

"You never talk to me about your family."

"That's because we're so busy talking about yours," I retort sarcastically, without turning round. "You know, the times you confide in me." I cringe inwardly, well aware that that was off the mark, but unable to apologise for it.

"So this is punishment?" she mouths in disbelief. I shake my head, then walk out of the gates, back onto the sunlit street.

"You were right," I call behind me bitterly, turning to face her again. "It bothers me. My wealth bothers me, and you called me on it, good for you!" I punctuate the congratulations by kicking the empty soda can in front of me, and it bounces mercilessly off the fence.

"Grow up, John."

"Why did you bring me here, knowing what I said last night? Did you listen to what I said?" She nods defiantly, arms tightly crossed across her chest. "I'm proud of what I do, Abby. I don't want to be a treasurer, or a secretary, or a chairman, I want to be a doctor, and I want to do it well. That's all. That's it." I venture another look across at her, still quietly angry, but listening. We come to a halt against a cold stonewall, hidden from the warmth in the shadows. It seems appropriate.

"They'd be grooming Bobby for the chairman role" I add after a beat. "I think he would have been better at this than me, he'd be the one who would take over." Things would be different. I freeze a little. I rarely mention Bobby, remember him a lot, but never talk about him, something I learnt growing up. His name was greeted with a stony silence or an unhappy glance, and we were all quickly trained not to bring the subject up. But it's true. He was easier around the charity work and the money than I ever was.

She reaches an arm out to me and strokes down my own gently, changing tack. "This wasn't the first time? The first time she asked you, I mean. She asked you before?"

I nod. "Almost every time I see her." When I speak again, it's tiredly, resigned, and aimed at the dirt. "I am ashamed of it. I'm ashamed of the way they got the money, I'm ashamed of the way they parade it." That's not true, I know Gamma uses the money for charity, for her worthy causes, but you mention the name Carter and any Chicago native immediately associates you with vast wealth. It's infuriating, you're not really a person anymore.

"Why?" I thought we'd been through this. That at least I thought I'd explained eloquently enough; they prospered while the poor got poorer and children shivered in the cold. She's persistent, I'll grant her that, but her questions are ones I can't, or don't want to answer.

"I went to see McNulty." She nods, she knows this already, and I consider telling her about the cheque, but I don't, instead choosing to ramble for a little while about McNulty, how he made me sweep, and the kind of place he has there. She surveys me with interest, and I change my mind. "I offered him a cheque." She shoots her head up, and watches, waiting, but it's my turn not to look at her. "For equipment. He ripped it up."

"You gave him a cheque," she repeats, unsurprised, but thoughtful.

"I wanted to help him. Something you said last night, it made sense. I could make a difference, I could have made one to McNulty." I flicker my eyes over to where she is, leaning against the gate and examining her foot, but looking secretly pleased with herself. I shouldn't encourage her; she might make a habit of interfering.

My next statement is measured, but I hope adamant, because it's something she just has to accept. "I can make one. But I don't want to be part of some old boy's club. I've resisted Gamma on this so far, and she's a more…" I struggle for the word, and try to get her to help me out, turning my hand in circles until I find it, "frightening prospect than you," I finish, chuckling slightly.

"Thanks," she mutters in a mock hurt tone, still banging her heel against the ground, but looking up for long enough to study my face. I make no further attempt to answer, and a silence descends, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Seeing she'll get no further in her inquiries, and apparently accepting my statement, she smiles. "C'mon," she beckons, reaching out a hand.

"Where are we going now?" I ask warily.

"You said you got to pick what we did later. Here's your chance." I take her hand now, palms loosely linked and suddenly steer her in the opposite direction, heading further to the outskirts of the city, scanning the buildings for some sign of recognition. "What are you doing?" she asks.

"If I remember rightly, there's a nice little café round here somewhere…" I mutter, raising up on my toes a little and continuing until I see a corner house I recognise, standing proudly on it's own, a small garden that was once blooming now slightly less so, and a view that I envied as a child looking out onto a park, where a cluttering of children screamed and giggled. My grip on her hand tightens. "That way," I nod, bringing her with me.

"You want coffee?" she questions, disappointed. "I have coffee at my apartment…"

"You're going to love this place," I promise her. "It's quirky, friendly and inexpensive," I add with a smirk.

She fakes a smile, and rolls her eyes, then studies me for a moment. Lifting up onto her toes, she cups my face in two small hands and leaves a lingering kiss on my mouth. We fit together too easily, because now I no longer want to move.

"What was that for?"

She shrugs. "I don't do it enough." We continue our slow walk down the hill, and I wonder how long this respite will be, before we return to the family sticking point. Then I realise that it doesn't matter. I don't want some perfect Brady Bunch existence.

I'll just take her.