Bitter Circles

Rating: PG-13
Summary: Everything begins and ends in loneliness. Sometimes you find nothing in your loneliness, sometimes you find something only for it to go away again, and sometimes, if you wake up out of your sadness long enough to see, you find others.

3am
---
It's 3am I must be lonely
When she says baby
Well I can't help but be scared of it all sometimes
Says the rain's gonna wash away
I believe it
---
I gather up a few of my belongings lying in my locker and shove them into my bag. My shift is finally over, and everything just aches. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, doing this for so long. But I don't think you ever really get used to it. You just… burn out, eventually.

Pulling on my coat, I push open the lounge door and step out into the hallway. It seems pretty dead tonight; it always is around midnight. A dirty old man sleeps in chairs, ignored, a few people wait to be seen. The harsh yellow lights make everyone look jaundiced and gaunt. Everyone is ill here.

I head to the desk to sign myself out, and realize I don't want to go home and wallow in loneliness and try and force myself to rest. I need some sort of company, and I don't mean a bottle. I scan the board to see who's on tonight and Frank turns to me, saying gruffly,

"Are you going home or not?" I turn my back on him and start heading out when Carter crosses paths with me, heading into the lounge.

"Um, Carter, are you off soon?" He stops walking, one hand on the lounge door, the other on the end of his stethoscope around his neck. His forehead begins to crease and I can see what he's thinking. He's worried, because I never usually sound like I need to talk to him. He wants to know if I need to confide in him, or talk to him. One day I'll be able to smooth those creases in his forehead out, instead of cause them. It's on my to-do list.

"Yeah, a half hour ago. I was finishing up a patient," he cuts off, "Hang on a sec, I'm just going to get my stuff." I wait, patiently, untying my hair from its tight ponytail. The roots ache from being pulled back so tightly and I massage them for a second. I wonder if it's fair to make him give up sleep time just to keep me company. He comes back out without the white coat and stethoscope, carrying car keys in his hand.

"What's up?" We start walking together, out of the ER doors and into the empty ambulance bay. I shrug, and don't think he sees, so I start mumbling something about being hungry, or getting something to eat, and would he like to? It echoes down the silent street and I feel like I am disturbing something. He glances sideways at me, and smirks a little.

"I don't think you're going to find anywhere open at this time of the night." I shrug a little abashed at my idiocy and mentally hit myself over the head with something hard. He smiles suddenly, amused, and simply says,

"Come on."

"This is where I live when I need to get away from Gamma's." He switches on the dim lights, and I gaze around. It's a small apartment, neat and tidy, but looking as if no one has ever lived here. No belongings to make it personal, no photographs to make it home, no magazines thrown about the coffee table for bored guests… "Gamma's having a dinner-conference at the mansion tonight, and I don't think it'd be a good idea to bother her." I nod, and he throws his jacket onto the back of a chair, motioning for me to do the same. I take my jacket off, folding it over my arm and walk around a bit.

"It's nice," I say, feeling obliged to comment on the apartment.

He smiles apologetically, not fooled by my politeness, "Yeah, it's a bit empty at the moment, but I haven't found any time to really think about decorating it. It's just a place where I can be alone, when I need to be." I sit down on one of the sofas, and he disappears into one of the kitchen.

"Are you still hungry?" he asks, voice muffled in the kitchen, presumably from inside the fridge.

"Um, not, not really…" I feel bad for making him look for something to cook for me, when I'm not actually hungry, at all.

"A drink?" he calls again. My mind flickers to a bottle that sits inside my fridge, but then he interrupts, calling out again, "Abby? A coffee, or anything?" I figure asking him for some wine would just bring on awkward stares and silences, so I ask for just some water. He comes back out with it, hands it to me, and sits opposite me. I thank him, but instead of drinking it, I just stare at the water, watching my reflection gaze back up at me mournfully.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" I look up at Carter, and smile, "No, really, I'm fine now." I place my cup on the coffee table. "So. When's your next shift?"

"Tonight at 7. I get the whole twelve-hour shift." He pauses. "What about you?"

"Eight-hour shift from 6. You should sleep." He nods.

"Yeah, yeah… I should." I stare at that spot just above his forehead, and we observe the silence. It's quite an art, but I think I've kind of mastered it now.

And then it hits me. What the hell am I doing here? It's all so inappropriate. We're just sitting in the half-darkness of his dim lights, in his empty apartment, waiting for morning –or our shifts, whichever comes first- to arrive, or so it seems. And. I have a cup of water in front of me.

This is crazy. Or just plain weird.

I clear my throat, noticing how loud it sounds when no one's talking. So I open my mouth to say something and suddenly deciding to change my mind, end up with a half-strangled sort of grunt. He lifts an eyebrow.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh." I nod. Way to go, Abby. Talk about breaking the ice. Now, don't get ahead of yourself, but there are some great topics coming up here…

A kettle shrieks, and we both jump. "My coffee," he explains apologetically, getting up and walking into the kitchen. I think we're both a little too relieved for the interruption in the silence. I lean back into the sofa, and stare up at the ceiling. Mmm. Definitely some tension in here. But it's only Carter, I think to myself. Yeah. Maybe that's the problem.

He walks back in, holding his coffee, which I am sure is scalding him. "You shouldn't have too much caffeine, you're meant to be sleeping soon." He shrugs.

"I'll be fine. You're sure you're going to be okay?" This time he sits next to me on the sofa. He focuses on me so intensely it's difficult not to meet his eyes. Either he's trying to get rid of me, or he just wants to know why I'm being so strange.

"Yeee-ah." I draw out the answer in an unconvincing manner.

"So…" He smiles easily, "Did you want to talk to me about something, or did you just feel like sitting in front of a cup of water in an empty apartment?"

Smilingly, I say,

"I bet you have no idea of how weird that sounds."

"Oh, I have an idea of what it looks like." I become more sombre and shrug.

"It gets quiet when there's only me and four walls." He looks down for a second, lets a beat go by.

"I know." Then, he smiles a little. "They don't talk back, either."

"I'm sorry for taking up your time, too, I shouldn't have…"

"But you have." He doesn't say it angrily, though. Only as if he wants me to stop apologizing. "And it's okay. That's what friends are for."

I look away, conflicted. That's all we'll ever be. Friends. Because I ran away. Because I always run away, and because I always will. Are you happy with that? someone inside of me asks, annoyingly. But it works, I say, it works so I'm sticking with it. But are you happy with that?

"Are you happy with that?" I blurt out, half asking myself, and half asking him.

"With what, doing what friends should do? Sure." I shake my head, but I think he already knows what I mean.

"No, I mean, are you happy with being just friends?" The moment I say it, I know I should have kept my mouth shut. He shrugs, and looks away so that I can't read what he's thinking.

"What- What are you saying? You said you made a mistake when you kissed me. Are you going to make another one?"

In reply, I kiss him. It feels easier than the first time, like familiar ground. But this time, he pulls away, eyes full of confusion, and wariness, and maybe even with traces of anger. I answer his question before he even asks it,

"That wasn't a mistake."

A beat.

Two beats.

He doesn't say anything. I can feel my insides trying to implode and I imagine they look like an ER patient's stomach being butchered, though I have no way of knowing. I wait for the ominous black hole to appear in the ground to eat me up, but it doesn't come. As if to ask the same question, he looks at me again; and I can see he's just tired now, and he just wants me to tell him the truth, to stop playing with him. Because in the few seconds I've been sitting here holding my breath, I realize I've been playing with him, as much as I've been lying to myself. So I tell him, and the doubt growing in my head, something that I know for sure.

"I'm not running now."

I think I see a tug at the corner of his mouth, but I have no time to think about it before he mumbles, I know, against my lips.

And then I implode, as I feel his eyelashes on my skin and clothing becomes no barrier between us.

I wake up, grapple for my alarm clock and then realize: I am not at home.

Carter lies next to me, sleeping peacefully, an arm tucked around my waist, his other clutched in a fist. I watch his contours in the darkness a for minute, wondering whether I should wake him up and then decide it would be better to let him rest for his twelve-hour shift. I slowly lift his arm off me and lay it back down on the bed gently. For a second he murmurs, twisting, and then turns onto his other side, facing away from me. I fumble around his bedside table, wishing I could see in the dark, trying to find a clock, or something, before remembering that he said he hadn't really furnished the apartment. Still, he must have a clock or watch, somewhere. Pulling on some shirt and pants I find in the drawers, I creep out of the room and close the door behind me, heading for the sitting room.

I hesitate when I pick up my coat and look back to his room, but then slip my shoes on, wrap on my coat and let myself out.

I was never very good with the required post-coital lovey-dovey conversation thing. Even thinking about being trapped in that situation sometimes makes me feel nauseous. When I was younger it used to be a lot easier; you'd go behind a bush, pull down your pants, count to sixty and then it was over and you'd share a drink with this boy, who you'd probably never see again. And as I got older, the place varied, and the numbers I counted to varied, but it always ended the same way. It was the same with Richard after the first 6 months or so, he stopped trying to nibble my ear, or talk to me about something he probably thought was a cute thing to talk about after sex. It was the same with Luka, but I think we just ended up not even talking in the end. It was just bam, bam, bam, and I think we both hoped, or thought, it'd be enough, but…

I run down the last few steps, out into the street and walk under the streetlights so that I can glance at the watch in my pocket. It says it's 3:00am, and I reach back into my pockets for my lighter and a cigarette. Lighting up, I slow down and walk onto a bridge and watch the black waters swirl beneath me, tapping the ash down into that void. This is about the best it gets for me: my post-coital cigarette. And it's strange, because I'm not enjoying it, and the world's not falling away, because there's nowhere I need to be falling away from. I'm just worrying about Carter, and wondering if it was the right decision to leave him there, to have it look like I had run out on him. And I'm feeling dirty, like some sort of hooker, because I don't feel anything different to what I usually do, and… it was just the same. The same as everyone else, the same as Richard, Luka… I don't know. Did I expect the sex to be different with Carter? Did I expect it to make me feel perfect? Rain starts to fall softly and I throw my cigarette angrily into the river, because the answer is yes. Yes, I thought he could make everything better, yes I thought he was… Was what Abby? I can hear laughing in my head. Was what? Your problems are your own. No matter who he is, he can't fix them for you. It doesn't mean he's wrong for you, it just means you've been putting off that AA meeting for too long. And I want to shut it up, but this truth is ringing in my ears, forcing me to swallow it. I need to fix myself, because no one else can. And I know this already, what I can't seem to accept is that… I don't think I can fix myself by myself.

"You ran." I turn, and seeing Carter stand there, getting wet from the rain, I wish I had stayed in the apartment. He says it half-jokingly, but I still feel guilty.

"I'm sorry. I left my bag, though." He smiles a small consolatory smile and walks nearer. The rain falls into my eyes, so I turn back around and look down into the water. He comes and stands next to me, taking my hand and holding it in his, drawing imaginary lines over it.

"Were you going to turn into a frog?" I look at him, confused,

"Frog?"

"You know, Cinderella ran away because she was going to turn back into Cinders, and left her shoe." I shake my head,

"No. I just needed a smoke."

"Ah, so you stole my clothes-" I interrupt with a hoarse early-morning laugh,

"Well, what else did I have to wear?" He carries on, though, smiling just as I am,

"And then ran off to attend to your vices." We are silent, then, watching the rain fall down into the river, making it swell higher than it was yesterday morning, and I contemplate the difficulty of getting rid of a particular vice. He elbows me,

"What are you thinking?"

I take in a breath, and decide to start work on my vice of lying. He deserves some honesty from me, at least. He probably deserves a lot more than me.

"That I can't stop myself from drinking. That I can't fix myself. That I'm never going to get out of this on my own." He holds my hand tighter and starts drawing circles on it.

"You're not alone." We both mull over this for a second, before he starts to speak again, "You are the only one who can choose whether you want to try and get better or not, and I stepped out of this a while ago. I can't make you get better, you know that. But I can be here to pick you up if you fall. And if you don't, then it's all for the better. I'll be here when you need me." I let him squeeze my hand again and enjoy the warmth for a little while longer, before I feel the need to slip my hand out of his and into my pockets to reach for a cigarette. I think we both feel the significance of this action, although neither of us says anything.

I light up, noticing the rain has let up, and puff some smoke out into the crisp post-rain air. I elbow him this time,

"What are you thinking?" He looks sideways at me, and leans forward on the ledge of the bridge.

"You really want to know?"

"Sure." I blow out some more smoke, and suddenly feeling the cold, wrap my free hand around myself.

"I'm thinking that the Prince never gave up on his Cinderella, even though he only had one shoe and the entire kingdom to look through. And then even though when he found her, she was Cinders and not Cinderella, he still loved her the same. The Prince loved her anyway. And I'm just thinking. Maybe we have a chance."

I take in a lungful of nicotine and wrap my arm around myself tighter. Laughing dryly, and a little uncomfortably, I say,

"I guess you never grew bored of fairytales, huh?"

He doesn't say anything, and I can't help but think I may have spoiled something for him. He was being open with me, as much as he could, he was holding his hand out to me and I turned it away. I feel like a piece of sharp glass, that dug deep enough will make him bleed. And it makes me so sad I choke on the smoke I breathe in. I feel as if I already know our ending before we've even had our beginning.

So I take his hand, my fingers like ice over his, squeeze them tight and exhale my wispy insides.

"We'll be okay."

He caresses my hand with his thumb, and we stand side by side watching the current of the river swirl. However much it hurts, I tell myself, he will be worth it. I hope.

"This isn't the end, nor is it the beginning of the end. It's the end of the beginning."

Circles make the world go 'round.

And that isn't some sort of dumb pun I threw in just because it suits the occasion. It's just true.

I used to think my life was this never-ending circle of shit. That it would just go round and round, and bad things would go away, only to be replaced by worse things. The thing I never realized was that things were actually getting replaced. It all followed a similar routine, but things did change.

Bad things and good things come and go, and a lot of the time, they don't balance out. I know that, and I accept it. I get worried when things are too good for me, anyway.

I struggle with my drinking these days, there are so many meetings to go to, and so many 'top tips' and quotes that I am sure I know off by heart now. It seems to get me nowhere. But I still try. I suppose that accounts for something.

And I can see that being with someone doesn't mean you'll get better more quickly than you would have done, alone. Maybe you'd have more resolve from more support, but other than that, not really.

It's nice to have him come and wait for me outside the meetings after a shift, or to actually come in and sit next to me through a meeting, holding my hand. But I don't need it. Just as it's nice for him to hug me when I've had a bad day, or nice to get teased by the other nurses about him. But I don't need it. If he left me tomorrow, I'd be shattered, it's just part of the deal, the one which says you have to allow yourself to get a little hurt in return for everything you feel. The one that says you have to take a risk. I'd probably feel like dying. But I wouldn't die. I breathe him in because it's good for me, but not because it ensures my survival.

And so you see. Everything's separated from needing and wanting. I haven't quite figured out whether I want to drink, or need to drink more, yet.

But I do know that I want to be with him, or to kiss him in public, or to lie in bed next to him so close that I can hear his heartbeat.

Oh, occasionally, I need him.

When I need the garbage to be taken out, or my sock draw rearranged.

But only occasionally.