Title: Better to Burn
Spoilers: Till mid- season 8… I'm confident you've all gotten that far already. After that it's pretty AU.
Disclaimer: I'm not that pretty and I'm not that special, so please don't sue
Reviews: They make me so happy. Thank you to everyone!A/N: I added my lj link to my profile for those of you who might care to check on my status occasionally. I will also most likely post justification of parts of my writing that I think are weak, just because I am not a very secure person. Otherwise, it's not that interesting! The beginning and ending quotes are from Toni Morrison's Beloved-- I have a couple other allusions to that work in the chapter as well.
To W.C. - for stealing my quote, putting up with my bitching, and just for being a first-class fellow asshole.
Ch. 5: Beloved--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
" –Don't it hurt?
-Yes.
-Then why don't you cry?
-What?
-If it hurts, why don't you cry?"
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She had been beautiful.
The first time he had seen Danijela, she was laughing. A quiet laugh, its apparent shyness was belied by the mischievous glint behind her eye— that delightfully subdued intensity that he came to know so well as her perpetual backdrop. He had recognized it immediately as her unruly curls flew out behind her or whipped across her face, catching the sun's bronze glow and scattering it in all directions. He had been nine years old, and he had loved her.
This had come as no surprise to Luka. Naturally, he loved her. She was his mother's potica and the scent of the river, Christmas morning and his father's embrace. She was his summertime, and from that first frolicking encounter on the mud-soaked grass that flanked the Danube, Danijela looked to him as he had seen her that day.
He had never loved small.
When his children were born, he loved them as if he had done so all his life, as if they had been as much a part of that idyllic childhood summer as were the smoothed-down pebbles that they had skipped across the water that day, trying to see who could create the most splashes (Danijela had beat him; he had pretended not to care.) It was easy. It had always been easy.
Now, there was no potica, no Christmas morning. No Danijela. No Jasna. No Marko. Six-year-olds died under his care because of a careless driver's mistake. Nothing was easy; and still, Luka loved.
"You cheated."
The accusing words broke Luka's reverie. Across from him, strands of dark hair fell across a furrowed brow and half concealed two dark eyes that were deliberately surveying the table in front of him. He followed Abby's gaze to the board that was placed between them.
"No I didn't."
"Yes you did—you cheated!" she repeated defiantly.
Luka was amused. "Abby, no I didn't."
"Then why is your horse—"
"Knight." Luka interrupted.
Abby was unfazed. "Why is it right there? You just told me you can't jump over pieces."
"You were trying to jump me with your pawn. Pawns can't jump; knights can."
"Then give me back my horses."
"Knights."
"Give them back!"
"No, Abby, your horses are dead. They can't play anymore."
She scowled. "This game sucks."
Luka laughed, and Abby watched silently as he gathered up the sizeable collection of black pieces that had been placed triumphantly beside him and put them away.
"Luka?" She wasn't really looking at him.
"Yeah?"
She paused, her contemplative pout accentuating the worried creases in her forehead. "What do you think went wrong?"
Luka started. "What?"
Her pensive stare broke, and she continued quickly. "Today… the little girl. The MVA."
He frowned and shrugged his shoulders, standing up to clear their used glasses from the table and taking them to the kitchen. "Just… one of those things, I guess."
Abby was persistent. "Yeah, but this was so easy, and we did everything right. The hemorrhage wasn't even that severe. She should've gone up to surgery and recovered."
Luka could feel her stare following him relentlessly as he moved around the kitchen, so he turned around to face her and began to walk back to the table as she continued.
"Things go wrong, I know that. They go wrong all the time, and that's just the way things are. But… this shouldn't have."
He smiled gently and placed a loose arm around her shoulder. "At least we know there was nothing we could have done better."
"I know that." Luka found himself half expecting a derisive "duh" for emphasis. Instead, she finished quietly. "It still sucks though."
"I know."
He leaned in to place a reassuring kiss on her temple. A moment later, it seemed, his lips were brushing hers. He pulled back, startled by his own unthinking and uncalculated advance. Startled, also, by how good it felt.
Abby inhaled sharply.
It was hardly a kiss. A friendly peck at the corner of the mouth. Not even that…
"Luka?"
He had kissed her.
"Sorry…" he managed. He wished she would stop looking at him like that, wished he couldn't hear her nervous breath or see the conflict etched into every line of her face. She began to mouth a response but settled on a nod.
"I'm sorry." He repeated defensively. Abby straightened. Luka began to feel her silence weighing down on him. She's not twelve years old; she doesn't have to act like she's afraid of me. It was too much. Annoyed, he escaped to the living room and turned on the TV.
Luka wasn't sure how long he waited until some movement came from behind him. He had begun to think that Abby had somehow escaped the apartment unnoticed when all at once she was there, sitting next to him, staring at her hands. Luka did not budge and stared fixedly at the TV screen, even when he heard her take a breath to speak.
"I'm an alcoholic."
Her eyes were pleading. The television lost its appeal. "What?"
He could almost see her wince, and she began to play with her hands again.
"I've been sober… six years. I— I was sober when I was with you. But I, uh, I'm— a drunk."
Abby finally looked over at him to check for a reaction. She didn't get one, so she continued. "I should've told you…"
"I know." He knew?
Abby looked up, startled. "What?"
Luka watched her muscles tense and her eyes flash violently before dying down to an unyielding opacity. He had to admit, although he'd never actually thought about it, he believed he had known, in a way, why Abby never drank alcohol. Why she and…
"Carter told you?" She hissed.
Luka flinched visibly at the name, and Abby's countenance softened. She looked away. "Listen," she began quietly. "He wasn't supposed to know either."
He looked at her questioningly.
"I didn't tell him; he— saw me at a meeting."
She looked ashamed. For a second, Luka wanted nothing but to reach out and hold her. That second passed, and he felt himself grow tense.
"You should have told me though." He spoke quietly, but his voice shook.
"Huh. Thank you, Luka, I realize that. Which is why I just did."
"A little late."
Abby rolled her eyes.
"I'm glad to see how much you trusted me. That you felt you couldn't tell me this. Or maybe you just wanted to keep me at bay?" He hadn't expected to get angry, but his voice was rising, and he couldn't control it.
"How dare you?" Luka could see her cheeks flush with anger. "You know, this is not all my fault."
"Isn't it?"
"No, it isn't. Yeah, maybe I should have told you. But you know, you never bothered to ask—"
"Oh, so now it's my responsibility to inquire about these things? You're being ridiculous, Abby."
"—and never, not once, did you ever volunteer information to me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She was yelling now. "I don't know a thing about you, Luka! You accuse me of keeping you at bay when you've done a damn good job of keeping me in the dark."
"Maybe you'd like it better if told you I was shooting up? Sorry to disappoint you, Abby."
Her eyes were black ice. Her mouth twitched. She stood up. "Get out."
Luka was incredulous. "What?"
"GET OUT!"
"It's my apartment!"
He had never seen her this angry. Her mouth opened, then closed as she stared disbelievingly at him. She whirled around and almost ran towards the front door.
"Abby!" He grabbed her arm.
"Don't touch me."
He grabbed her other arm and made her face him.
"No!" Her voice was salty with tears; her eyes were dry. "You—let me go!" She pounded his chest, pushing him back towards the sofa, and he let go.
"Abby, I didn't mean that. I was— I'm angry, ok?"
"I hate you." She glared at him, and he almost believed her.
"Fine. Can you just come here so we can talk about this?" She turned to leave, and his voice rose again. "You're acting like a child! Can you just sit down?"
"Fuck you."
"Abby, SIT DOWN!"
Her back remained to him for what seemed like forever. Finally, she turned around, her arms crossed in front of her. "So?" The monosyllable dripped with defiance as she uttered it. Luka watched in silence as she made her way back to the couch and sat, squeezing herself as close as possible to one end, arms still wrapped tightly around her body. Luka followed her and sat down on the opposite end.
"So why won't you tell me?"
And after a long pause, he did. He told her everything, starting with his mother's sugar beet garden and her love for wild orange lilies. He told her of his father's art and how, at age eight, he vowed never to let his brother beat him in math again. He described how Danijela's hair glowed bronze on the first day they met and on their wedding day, and he attempted to articulate what he knew he couldn't: how he had watched his children being brought into the world and then watched them— let them leave it.
It felt like a lifetime, and Luka was exhausted. He didn't look up as Abby rose, walked dazedly to the door, and shut it silently behind her. He didn't move until its soft click registered belatedly in his consciousness. He wanted nothing but to sleep, and he still had dishes to do.
******
She couldn't remember having covered the distance from Luka's apartment to hers when she found herself at home with windblown hair, a lump in her throat, and the bite of Chicago's still-cold early spring nighttime lingering on her cheeks. Numbly, she found her way to the sofa and curled up on it, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. She'd known that he had lost his children. Why now did she feel that she was mourning them? She'd known that he loved his wife, so why did she suddenly feel as if she had as well?
It was wrong. Everything was wrong.
Abby got up and walked into the kitchen. Standing in the middle of the tile floor, she looked around and realized that her surroundings seemed unfamiliar. It was as if something had broken, and she had no idea what it was or how to fix it. She reached for a glass and filled it with water.
A second later, it had shattered at her feet.
Wordlessly, Abby bent over to pick up one of the larger shards and took a moment to gaze at the dim light from the living room, softened as it passed through the thick glass.
She felt the pain before her mind registered the action and before she realized that the blood flowing from her wounded forearm had released a torrent of tears, bathing her face in an equally soothing warm wetness. The second and third cuts came more deliberately but with increasing violence, and by the time Abby flung the glass hard against the opposite wall, pools of blood had formed on the floor beneath her, creating vivid red swirls where it mixed with the water that was already there.
After what seemed like forever, Abby blinked and realized that she no longer felt as if it were all a bad dream. Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. Her arm throbbed mercilessly. She still mourned Marko and Jasna; she still loved Danijela. She knew exactly where she wanted to be.
******
The knock was urgent, and Luka hadn't really been asleep. It came again as he threw off his covers, rubbing his eyes and calling out a semi-coherent response. He shivered as he entered the living room, wishing he had remembered to pull on a sweatshirt before leaving his bedroom. When he opened the door, he had only a second to register her presence when, a sob, and all at once she was in his arms, fingers clinging shakily to the thin cotton of his t-shirt. Abby was crying
Luka's first reaction was to hold her tighter, stroke her hair and shush her gently as he had when Jasna skinned a knee or had a nightmare. What he didn't expect was her hand on his cheek, tearful eyes looking straight into his. When they moved to the sofa, it was he who followed, he who laid his head on her shoulder and let her run soothing fingers through his hair. It was to her breath on his scalp and the rhythmic caress of her fingertips that, finally, he slept.
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"This is it. Next would be her arm, her hand, a toe. Pieces of her would drop maybe one at a time,
maybe all at once… she thought it was starting."
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