Chapter 2
Rating: R, for this chapter.
Spoilers: Through Season 7 and "Rampage."
Disclaimer: All characters herein are the respectful property of Warner and his Brother's.
Author's Notes: My English teacher believed in always finishing what you started... so, I've finally written a second chapter. Two season finales later. I like to build up the, uh, anticipation and suspense. Not that would I recommend her reading this, because her dear old heart would probably give in – mostly for all the grammatical errors I'm sure exist, not the R rating.
Thanks to Charli for tolerating me (barely) and also for Annie, who issued forth the challenge for C/A "smut," and who's wonderful story inspired me to write this. She also read through this, helped every time I begged her to and issued me a thousand Hail Mary's for using the f-word. I'm up to ninety-nine.
***
*
Then suddenly, he's against her and they're kissing. His hands frame her face, holding her there, inhaling her, inhaling him. She kisses like someone who's learned not to waste time, pressing against him and pulling him closer. They move and spin, winding through the tight area, slamming into cabinets, IV stands and other exam room paraphernalia.
He kisses like someone who's forgotten the rest of the world exists beyond this. He kisses her like a man in love.
And for moments it's only them. His hand on the slope of her neck, the other cradling the small of her back, her hands around his shoulders, underneath his scrub shirt, cold and fast, reminding him that time isn't something that he can waste either, that time has been something they've wasted.
Right now, she's almost his and only his and it's all he needs.
*
Stolen moments in the dark, stolen moments in the cold light of day. At best it's the petty theft of a lingering touch that stays almost too long, at worst it's hundred dollar kisses that last for days.
*
She pours herself the fourth coffee of the morning. Black. She's punishing herself today.
She hasn't spoken to him in days. And pretends she hasn't been tallying them up in her head. Whenever their eyes catch in trauma rooms or in hallways she has to look away, because her guilt is written in the darkness in his eyes. She's always surprised that nobody else sees it there too, that no one catches her looking away, or sometimes how they don't, how they forget these are things they're not supposed to be doing, how dangerous these things are.
She's overly sensitised to his presence, her Spydie senses will flair up and she'll know he's entered a room.
It's arguments about nothing and everything now with Luka. Everything she hates about herself is amplified around him. He hasn't done anything wrong, but she keeps hurting him anyway.
What kind of a person is she? A cheater, a liar, a slut. She isn't used to all this soap opera infidelity.
But – she's not cheating on him, not if cheating is defined as sharing what you have with someone with someone else, because what she has with Carter she's never had with anyone else. This can't be cheating when they're barely on speaking terms at the moment, let alone managing to enjoy this. This can't be cheating when she's not gaining anything from this. It can't be cheating when all she's doing is losing.
*
"Wait," she calls out to Carter's back, following behind him into an empty exam room.
He does, taking a breath, standing with his back towards her.
Another trauma had just ended, another life wasted away. It's almost the end of another shift, another eight hours with him barely being able to look at her, barely managing to say anything to her other than a string of medication orders and surgery appointments.
They used to be able to talk, really talk. It was one of the things she would look forward to most during her days, knowing that they could talk. Now when she's near him she doesn't know what to say, if there's anything she can say.
Do you know lately, we've been kissing?This thing between them hangs loosely, barely holding them up at all, and any sudden movement could break it.
She's waiting for him to turn to her and when he doesn't she tries smiling, "You're not talking to me?"
His fingers are busy peeling at a box of gauze, fixated on it. "I'm talking to you. I'm talking to you right now, aren't I?"
"You're just not looking at me."
Unwillingly, he brings his eyes up to hers. Her expression is earnest, almost sad.
*
Suddenly, she's pinned to the counter, his body hard against hers. He moves down to her neck as his groin grinds against her, his hips meeting hers with unleashed passion. It feels so good to have him touch her, she doesn't mind the smell of antiseptic, the cold sharp surfaces. She doesn't care that anyone could walk in right now, that anyone could find them like this. Nothing in her life feels right, nothing in her life has ever been right, she doesn't know why this is supposed to be any different; she doesn't know why this is different.
She doesn't know why the warmth of his mouth on hers is different; why there's a difference in the way her arms tremble when his hands are on them, why the feeling in her stomach is different, the burning in her lungs.
But then he's murmuring her name on her skin; her hands tracing his on his back, and the feel of him against her, the way his mouth fits against hers is something that's, almost, almost right.
*
"This isn't fair," he's saying, "For him, for me. It's not what I want and it shouldn't be what you want either."
She's shaking her head at what he says, at him, at this mess. "None of this is what I want."
*
A sigh, a sip of bitter coffee and she continues trying to pick at this lady's chart, going over her ailment at least five times before it sinks in.
There's a small tap on the locker room door. It's already open and Luka's leaning against it, watching her.
"Hmmm?"
He smiles, "There's a GSW coming in. ETA's six minutes."
She sighs; looking back down at the chart she's already read through six times, as though expecting something new to have happened to it. "I'll be right there."
He's still standing there when she looks up; his fingers peeling at a poorly painted corner, his eyes down.
"Talk to me, Abby."
She crosses her arms over her chest defensively and shrugs. "This isn't talking to you?"
He wonders if it's overreacting to think that this statement sums up their entire relationship.
"I'm sorry," she says after a pause.
He waits, expecting something else, something more, and then gives in to being the one to speak, trying to smile. "We could get something to eat, after work?"
She can count the number of times she's kissed him on one hand, but knows the way he touches her, the way he tastes. The way his eyes take her in just before he leans down and she doesn't know why she keeps finding herself like that, when she doesn't mean to, doesn't want to hurt Luka, hurt anyone.
So she smiles at him, "Thai?"
There's a pause before he grins slowly, nods, and then she watches as he leaves.
*
He chews at his bottom lip, "I don't want to be... some guy you come running to whenever you have a problem."
She can't meet his gaze, "You're not some guy."
"Sometimes it feels like I am."
*
It's the first time it's happened like this. The first time she's pulled him against her and pressed her hand between them, between him, until the zipper of his pants surrendered, and he's sighing against her, his breath hot and thick. She's almost shaking as her own underwear scrunches at her feet, almost shaking as he kisses her roughly, desperately, like this is the last time he's ever going to kiss her, the last day he has to live, everything between them urgent, fatal, finite.
His breath on her neck, her legs around his waist. "I hate this," he tells her hair, and she doesn't say anything but arches her back against him, pulls his head towards her and kisses him hard before he's inside her. There's the tiny violence in the way he pins her to the wall with his hands, presses against her, moving roughly, urgently, it's fucking and her legs are tight around his waist and this feels so good, and his mouth is on her neck, and her eyes are closed and she's facing the ceiling almost in prayer, almost praying, their breaths short and fast.
She kisses him like this, like it's all going to end, which it is, it is, her lips are bruised bruising his, and she tightens her legs around him, until he finally collapses against her and there's nothing, nothing other than the sound of their breathing.
*
His voice is low, gentle, "It doesn't have to be like this."
They seemed to be leaning in closer together, as though the world was bending between them, pulling them together – because she knows that it's not them moving, that they don't want this, wouldn't do this again.
But he's standing so close to her that she can smell his fading aftershave, mixed in with the sweat garnered from another shift, can feel the warmth of his breath, can't seem to shift her gaze from his, everything turning into a jumble in her head as their lips meet.
*
He moves away from her, breathing hard, his sad black eyes as sharp as the edges of broken glass in the dim light.
This – this isn't how it was supposed to be. He's never meant for them to be like this.
He keeps backing away, shaking his head in denial, in refusal. He can't look back at her, his guilt written in her eyes; in how vulnerable she looks, letting the door fall shut behind him.
The silence he leaves echoes, leaving her abruptly aware of how cold the room is, how cool the counter is beneath her.
She wonders if she should feel shame, dirty, cheap, as she replaces her clothing.
Wonders how this can be cheating when everything they have together is stolen, when everything they have together is a forfeit and a cheat, and almost doesn't count, almost never counts.
