"Hey," He said, just loud enough for her to hear. He smiled
slightly, unsure of how to be, how she felt. When she didn't respond, the
smile fell and he raised one eyebrow, questioning her, wanting her to help
him, wanting to know if they were okay.
"Hey," she responded finally, the rhythm of their greeting returning to what it always was. She hesitated, not knowing where to go from there, but then an old instinct kicked in: run. "I--Carter, I've got to get to work. I'm on in 45 minutes, and you know Weaver, she'll kick my ass if I'm late, and I—"as she spoke, she moved forward purposefully into the room, looking for her bra. He stood up, moved towards her, wanting her just to stop, talk to him. He reached out and touched her arm, wrapping his hand around her wrist. She stood up and ceased what she was doing, looking out the window, away from him.
"Abby, please," he said, again just loud enough for her to hear. He waited for her to answer, and when she said nothing, he continued. "Please look at me, Abby. I missed you." Again, she said and did nothing, so he reached up and turned her face towards him, a face that was a conundrum of emotions: anger, sadness, confusion, and love. They stood like that for a while, his hand on her face, his thumb caressing her cheek, and she a silent statue, neither knowing how to speak to the other. After what seemed a lifetime, Abby finally spoke, her voice barely audible.
"John—Carter, I have to get to work. I know that we need to talk, but I—I just, I have to get to work." She turned away from him then, away from his soft hands and soothing eyes. She bent down to pick up her bra and started for the dresser to get her underwear when he again encircled her wrist with his hand, this time more firmly.
"Come on, Abby, don't do this—"he started soothingly, but she stopped him this time, turning back angrily.
"Don't do what, Carter? Don't walk away from you? Don't go about my life as if you weren't here?" She pulled her arm from his grasp and backed away two steps. "I know I've been putting my life on hold for my family for a long time, Carter, but you just told me to stop doing that. So, you know what? I'm not going to put my life on hold until you can find it in yourself to forgive me, or until you decide that this—us—can work." And with that, she turned to the dresser, pulled out her underwear, stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
"Forgive you?" Confused, Carter walked up to the bathroom door and knocked. When he got no response, he spoke to the wooden door. "Abby, I know that what happened with Eric is not your fault. And, I guess it doesn't matter whether I think you should have handled it differently...I—well, I was hurting, Abby. You have to know that. People do stupid things when they're in pain, like take it out on the people they care most about." He paused, listening for a response. Her only reply was the sound of her sitting down on the toilet, and clearing her throat. He could hear the faint rustling of what he assumed was her putting on her scrubs, so he continued. "I went to Africa because...I don't know how to explain it. I was mad at you, I was mad at my father--Hell, I was mad at Gamma for dying...but mostly, Abby, I was—I am—pissed at myself. I ignored her when she wanted to talk to me the day before she died, for God's sake. How am I supposed to deal with that? The woman who was more a mother to me than my own mother—" He stopped then, because tears were starting to fall down his cheeks. He wiped them away, taking a deep breath. He continued. "Abby, I don't know what else to say. Please come out and talk to me. I want to work this out with you. You can call Weaver, tell her you have a family emergency...Please, Abby." Again, he waited for her answer, and for a while it seemed he wouldn't get it. When, after almost five minutes, he didn't hear anything, he slammed his palm against the door and started to leave. He picked up his jacket from the sofa where he'd thrown it, and stormed his way to the front door. His hand on the knob, he hesitated, sensing movement behind him. He lingered briefly, and turned. Standing in the doorway to her bedroom was the woman he loved, the dearest thing to him in the world. She had the gleam of tears in her eyes, and she was looking right at him, in that way she had that always floored him, seeming to be so strong yet so broken, all at once.
And neither of them said anything, for what seemed a long time.
"Hey," she responded finally, the rhythm of their greeting returning to what it always was. She hesitated, not knowing where to go from there, but then an old instinct kicked in: run. "I--Carter, I've got to get to work. I'm on in 45 minutes, and you know Weaver, she'll kick my ass if I'm late, and I—"as she spoke, she moved forward purposefully into the room, looking for her bra. He stood up, moved towards her, wanting her just to stop, talk to him. He reached out and touched her arm, wrapping his hand around her wrist. She stood up and ceased what she was doing, looking out the window, away from him.
"Abby, please," he said, again just loud enough for her to hear. He waited for her to answer, and when she said nothing, he continued. "Please look at me, Abby. I missed you." Again, she said and did nothing, so he reached up and turned her face towards him, a face that was a conundrum of emotions: anger, sadness, confusion, and love. They stood like that for a while, his hand on her face, his thumb caressing her cheek, and she a silent statue, neither knowing how to speak to the other. After what seemed a lifetime, Abby finally spoke, her voice barely audible.
"John—Carter, I have to get to work. I know that we need to talk, but I—I just, I have to get to work." She turned away from him then, away from his soft hands and soothing eyes. She bent down to pick up her bra and started for the dresser to get her underwear when he again encircled her wrist with his hand, this time more firmly.
"Come on, Abby, don't do this—"he started soothingly, but she stopped him this time, turning back angrily.
"Don't do what, Carter? Don't walk away from you? Don't go about my life as if you weren't here?" She pulled her arm from his grasp and backed away two steps. "I know I've been putting my life on hold for my family for a long time, Carter, but you just told me to stop doing that. So, you know what? I'm not going to put my life on hold until you can find it in yourself to forgive me, or until you decide that this—us—can work." And with that, she turned to the dresser, pulled out her underwear, stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
"Forgive you?" Confused, Carter walked up to the bathroom door and knocked. When he got no response, he spoke to the wooden door. "Abby, I know that what happened with Eric is not your fault. And, I guess it doesn't matter whether I think you should have handled it differently...I—well, I was hurting, Abby. You have to know that. People do stupid things when they're in pain, like take it out on the people they care most about." He paused, listening for a response. Her only reply was the sound of her sitting down on the toilet, and clearing her throat. He could hear the faint rustling of what he assumed was her putting on her scrubs, so he continued. "I went to Africa because...I don't know how to explain it. I was mad at you, I was mad at my father--Hell, I was mad at Gamma for dying...but mostly, Abby, I was—I am—pissed at myself. I ignored her when she wanted to talk to me the day before she died, for God's sake. How am I supposed to deal with that? The woman who was more a mother to me than my own mother—" He stopped then, because tears were starting to fall down his cheeks. He wiped them away, taking a deep breath. He continued. "Abby, I don't know what else to say. Please come out and talk to me. I want to work this out with you. You can call Weaver, tell her you have a family emergency...Please, Abby." Again, he waited for her answer, and for a while it seemed he wouldn't get it. When, after almost five minutes, he didn't hear anything, he slammed his palm against the door and started to leave. He picked up his jacket from the sofa where he'd thrown it, and stormed his way to the front door. His hand on the knob, he hesitated, sensing movement behind him. He lingered briefly, and turned. Standing in the doorway to her bedroom was the woman he loved, the dearest thing to him in the world. She had the gleam of tears in her eyes, and she was looking right at him, in that way she had that always floored him, seeming to be so strong yet so broken, all at once.
And neither of them said anything, for what seemed a long time.