Disc: don't own it

A/n: I've never written ER before, but after watching the christmas episode in season ten, this idea just hit me. I haven't seen all of season ten yet, so it might be a bit AU (in fact, I know bits of it are) and I'm going to be jumping back and forth between times and dates and stuff a lot, hence the subtitles. I have no idea where this story is going, or how often I'll update, or if I'll even keep the title I've chosen, but there you go. Hope you enjoy it!

But nothing seems to feel alright, I don't want your sympathy, I just need a little therapy. At least that's what they say to me. – The Art of Losing, American Hifi.

August 3rd, 2003. Chicago.

The streetlight slipped through a gap in the curtains, illuminating a strip of the dark bedroom. In the bed, the girl didn't sleep. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, the faint orange glow reflecting in their glassy surface. The voice was in her head again.

"You have to be honest with him. He has a right to know." Be honest She sighed, pushing the quilt back, exposing her skin to a wave of stuffy summer air, padding from the dark bedroom to the living room, where a paper and pen already lay on the table, discarded after earlier efforts. It was time to be honest. She began to write.

*

January 15th, 2004. The Congo.

      

John Carter sat back on his heels, wiping a hand across his sweat-laden forehead.

Man, it was hot. But then it was always hot in Africa, even during the rainy season the air was heavy, steamy. Hot.

He carelessly pushed another shirt into his bag with one hand, reaching for a book with the other.

Was he doing the right thing?

It's not like you have a choice, he told himself firmly. He had to go. Besides, it would only be for a few months. Not forever.

Part of him wished it was.

"Aren't you ready yet?"

The woman leant against the doorpost, surveying his things with a critical eye, a small smile playing around her lips.

Kem.

His own smile was involuntary; she had that sort of affect on him. She stepped into the room, shaking her head, dark hair swaying gently round her face, trying to look stern.

"We really have to go," she said.

"I know," he agreed, pulling closed the zipper on his bag. He stood up, glancing round the room

"There's something I have to do first."

"What?" she asked, taking a step towards him.

 "This." In a sudden movement, he grabbed her, drawing her close, kissing her gently. She laughed, pulling away, rolling her eyes.

"Now we've got that out of the way, can we go? We're going to miss the flight."

He kissed her again. "We can get another one."

"No," she replied firmly, extracting herself from his arms. "We can't. Come on."

He sighed and picked up his bag. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right," she said, taking his hand in hers. "I'm always right."

At the door he stopped for a second, looking across their bedroom. For a moment he felt a sort of…wistfulness fill him.

He shook his head.

What was wrong with him? He would be back soon. After all, there was nothing to keep him in Chicago. Not any more.

*

January 21st, 2004. Chicago. 11am.   

Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close.

Abby wondered exactly how long she could continue to stare at the doors.

Open. Close.

Maybe she didn't have to go in. Maybe no one would notice she hadn't turned up. Maybe-

"You going in?"

"Thinking about it," she replied, glancing briefly at the speaker. He chuckled.

"Dr. Pratt?" a voice called across the ambulance bay. Abby watched a woman run towards them. A nurse? "There's a call for you on line three. They said it's urgent. Leyton's? Something about a missed delivery?"

Pratt swore. "I told them a thousand times. Call first. Call first! Later Abby."

He ran toward the emergency doors.

Open. Close. Open. Close.

She sighed. She might as well go in now. Pratt had seen her, she couldn't just go home.

Eat the bullet, or whatever that expression was.

The noise, the chaos, the suffocation hit her like a tidal wave. She immediately wished she had stayed the other side of the doors.

She waded through the injured that were waiting, keying her number into the security pad on the triage doors, stepping inside.

And here she was again.

"Abby!" a voice cried out excitedly. "You're back!"

"Yep" she replied dryly. "I'm back."

"And I'm so glad!" The voice had a body to go with it: Neela.

Abby smiled, a genuine smile, she realised. "Thanks Neela."

"It's been murder here," the English girl commented, as she dumped an armful of charts into the post treatment slots. "Today is manic." She surveyed Abby critically. "Are you sure you should be here?"

"I've missed enough as it is," Abby replied. "Anymore will put my training in jeopardy, and we all know I'm bad enough already."

"You're a good doctor," Neela protested.

"Yeah, yeah. " Abby waved her hand impatiently. "Is Susan here today?"

"Exam four. Puncture would to the left inner thigh."

"Ouch," Abby felt a brief flash of sympathy for the patient. "Well, I'd better go get ready."

"Okay, I'll see you- Mr Collins! Don't eat that!" Neela cried, running down the hall toward a patient.

Abby walked slowly toward the staff room, where she shoved her coat and scarf into her locker, retrieving the white coat and stethoscope that hung there.

It felt weird, being back. Weirder than she thought it would.

I guess I'll just have to get used to it.

She stepped out of the staff room.

"Abby, you're back. Good. There's a broken collar bone in exam two, can you look at it, arrange for him to be taken up to x-ray?"

"Oh hi Abby. You couldn't take this patient for me, could you? Thanks, I'm on a break."

"Abby! Perfect cases for you. Sprained ankle in five. Mysterious breathing problem in eight. Little girl swallowed a coin in one."

Abby stared at the pile of charts in her arms.

Yep, definitely have to get used to it.

*

"OUCH!"

"Sir if you would just stay sti-"

"IT BLOODY HURTS!"     

Susan Lewis gritted her teeth.

"I know it hurts," she said. "There is a screwdriver in your thigh. If you would just stay still and let me examine you then we can give you something for the pain."

She reached cautiously toward the offending tool, but the guy howled and jerked away from her.

"Oh for heaven's sake," she snapped. "I didn't even touch you that time."

"I could imagine what it would feel like," he replied petulantly.

Susan clenched her hand into a fist.

"Jason- it is Jason isn't it?"

Jason nodded.

She took a deep breath. "Jason, if you don't let me examine you, you'll have to go home with that thing in your leg, and then -who knows- you might bleed to death. Do you want to die Jason?"

Jason shook his head, looking satisfyingly scared.

"Then let me examine you."

She carefully felt the inflamed skin around the screwdriver, checking the depth of the wound, ignoring the shriek that Jason emitted.

"Okay," she pulled back, snapping off her rubber gloves. "Give him ten of morphine. Should need about five stitches." She glared at Jason. "You're lucky it didn't pierce a blood vessel. Next time you and your girlfriend have a fight, keep the DIY out of it, okay?"

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped out of the cubicle, pulling the curtains closed behind her.

What a day.

She glanced around for any sign of Abby, wasn't her first shift supposed to start about now?

"Hey Susan, could you look at this for me?"

She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Finally off the phone, Pratt?

Pratt grinned. "What can I say? I love to talk."

She rolled her eyes, reaching for the chart in his hand.

"Where are her bloods?"

"They haven't come back yet," he replied.

"How long ago did you send for them?"

"About an hour ago. Do you know what's taking them so long?"

She shrugged. "Probably a backlog of work. Try calling them."

"Thanks." He took the chart back and moved down the hall.

Susan glanced at her watch. Surely it must be time for lunch? Nowhere near. Damn.

Glancing up, she caught sight of a familiar figure, recognition rushing through her.

"Abby!"

Abby stopped mid stride, arms full of charts, looking suitably harassed.

"Hey," she said, as Susan started towards her.

"Good to be back?" Susan asked with a slight grin.

"Thrilled," Abby replied, shifting her charts.

Susan took a step closer.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Abby's face, but it was gone so quickly Susan wondered if she'd imagined it.

"I'm fine," Abby said. "Just trying to get back into the feel of things."

Susan nodded. "What time do you finish?"

"Eight."

"I'm seven thirty. Do you want to grab something to eat?"

Indecision clouded Abby's face.

"I'm not sure, I should get back-"

"I know you don't have to be back until nine," Susan interrupted. "Come on. I feel like I haven't seen you for months. It would be nice."

Abby hesitated a moment longer.

"Please?"

She sighed. "Okay," she agreed. "But I can't be back later than nine, okay?"

Susan grinned. "Sure thing."

She turned and they began walking towards triage.

"Listen, I wanted to ask you, do you need any-"

She broke off as Abby suddenly stopped.

"Abby, are you okay?"

But Abby's eyes weren't on her, and following her sightline Susan understood why.

Standing in triage was John Carter.

*