TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (5/12)
AUTHOR: C. Midori
EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel Through the Door.
ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oh, man. I'm so delinquent. I'm going to stop apologizing for the long wait between chapters. Chapter Four is a transitional chapter in which lots of people talk and not much happens, so bear with me. Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter Three: charlotte, Ashelle, jakeschick, noa4jc, Jane McCartney, flutiedutiedute, mandy, Carolyn, Lana, starbuckmeggie, Emma Stuart, KenzieGal, Ceri, CARBYfan, kristie, kate, eliza, sandy, Nat, lisa, charli, and Rebecca. Rock on. This chapter is dedicated to JD, charli, and jakeschick for their help with sorting out the birthday business over at the LJ.
SUMMARY: In which Abby receives a succession of visitors, Susan comes bearing gifts, asshole!Carter rears his ugly head, and Luka makes an unusual proposition.
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
Seventeen Against the Dealer
And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be.
* * *
Light came first, and then a pain, searing the insides of his lids like fire, until Carter was forced to open his eyes. The world swarmed in a kaleidoscope of colors in front of him. He blinked several times and, eventually, everything fell into focus: a table, a window, a sofa. None of it his.
He closed his eyes. Immediately, relief fell over him like the cool shade of leaves in summertime. His head was still muddy with sleep but for once it had been a sleep restful and reassuring; a sleep whose texture was woven with threads dyed not in nightmare but in pleasant memory. So pleasant, in fact, that the absence of this recollection left him feeling cold, as if he had been doused with ice water, and feebly he reached back into his mind for his dreaming.
He had been dreaming about the first time he kissed Phil. One afternoon in the summer of his seventeenth birthday, he found her lounged atop an old tire swing on the grounds behind her house, her face turned to the sun like a flower and her arms looped around lines of rope that spiraled around her like ribbons around a May Queen. He was backlit against the summer twilight, his tall and lanky frame splashing a taller and lankier shadow upon her face as he approached. Eventually, he drew near enough for her to note the determined line of his mouth, the anxious fidgeting of his hands, the grave seriousness of the expression on his face, and, worried, she slowed the tire swing to a stop.
But before she had a chance to say anything, before she could even let out a word, he leaned over and kissed her.
He kissed her in a tangle of hands and mouths and tongues; he kissed her in the sudden and messy and urgent way only a seventeen year old boy could kiss. She was surprised--so very surprised--that she tumbled right off the tire swing with an undignified shriek, landing in a spray of arms and legs upon the well-kept lawn. He felt his face explore about ten shades of red before he was able to compose himself. Apologies tumbling out of his mouth, he knelt down and extended a hand. In response, she grabbed his hand, yanked him down atop her, and, hooking one perfectly tanned and freckled arm around his neck, pulled him to her.
It was summer and it was sunset and it was perfect.
There was something about being seventeen and in love. He smiled at the memory. But the smile quickly vanished as he stared up at Abby's ceiling, other memories flashing before his eyes like the pale undersides of petals fluttering to the ground. Bobby, so thin and pale with disease that his bright dark eyes were the only color in his face. The shouting of his parents behind closed doors. Phil looking up at him with eyes the color of mirrors. The relentless and commanding voice of Peter Benton softened by ready encouragement from Mark. Lucy on the rooftop. Unbearable pain bursting in his back and the first guilty slip of needle under skin. Abby, her breath steeped in alcohol and her hand on his cheek. A face, white with fear, smudged against a black blanket of rain and night, threaded with headlights.
Carter closed his eyes again. When he was seventeen, he didn't have to know what he wanted and he was still a whole person. In fact, the beauty and wholeness of being seventeen was all about not knowing what the hell he wanted out of life but having all the time in the world to figure it out. But he couldn't say the same at thirty two. Somewhere along the way he had lost track of what he wanted and in doing so he had lost track of himself.
* * *
It was cold and unusually clear, as if a glass pane had pressed itself flat against the sky, when Susan left the ER. Her skin exploded in goosebumps as soon as the chill hit her face and she automatically let out a curse. Her body tired but her mind wide awake, she picked her way across the ice-encrusted ambulance bay, stopped briefly at Doc Magoo's, and ascended the metal-plated steps to the El.
Morning had begun to flood the streets by the time Susan glanced up at the windows to Abby's apartment. Drops of water beaded the windows where frost had visited the night before, but other than that she couldn't make anything out beyond the bright glare of light against glass. Annoyed, she balanced the cardboard box in her hands heavily against the side of a hip and, with a newly freed hand, reached for her cell phone. She was fumbling with the keypad when the door opened.
A man with a briefcase and a cup of coffee held the door for her. She thanked him under her breath and ducked inside. Cell phone dangling from an index finger and arms wrapped around a large box of coffee, hot breakfast, bagels, cream cheese, and assorted flu-fighting necessities, she trudged up the stairwell, made a sharp right, and, rather ungracefully, banged the door to Abby's apartment with the side of her foot.
Nothing.
Inwardly, Susan growled. The box slipping from her grip, she drew her foot back again--
--and nearly lost her balance as the cell phone fell with an alarming crack to the floor. Gah, Susan despaired to herself, prepared to launch into a parade of swear words--when the door opened, and every four-letter word died on her lips when she saw who had opened it.
"Susan?" Carter, dressed in his pajamas with his hair sticking up in a thorny crown of cowlicks, squinted at her with bedroom eyes. "What are you doing here?"
* * *
Luka returned to an apartment that was almost church-like in its hallowed, undisturbed silence, the quiet drawing apart like a heavy curtain to let him in and then dropping shut behind his weary figure. Yawning, he dropped his bag on the floor and deposited a backlog of mail on the couch, one hand loosening the tie at his throat. He walked over to the fish tank and peered into the glass-blue brightness, bits of flake crumbling absently between his fingers.
Afterwards, he threw himself onto his couch. It had been a long shift, made longer by the fact that Weaver had exiled Susan to triage and there was no one to distract him from the fact that Abby weighed heavily on his mind. In the week since the accident Abby had been distant and cold, like a blast of arctic air, and he knew enough by now to know that she was upset with him. In his frustration, he had tried to talk to Susan, but Susan merely remained evasive, advising that he talk to Abby.
Talk to her. Right. Easier said than done.
Methodically, he began to sift through his mail--a couple of bills, some advertisements, a free magazine--but his attention drifted. He blinked hard to dispel Abby from his memories, embossed into his mind she was, her face streaked with rainwater and shock when they rolled Carter into the ER, then tense and defensive as she snapped off a latex glove and walked out of the trauma room.
I'm done.
Were they? They didn't feel done, as much as Luka tried to will it, as much as he tried to tell himself over and over that he missed his chance to be right with her. Nothing faded from his memory. Not the way she held him, not the way she felt so small in his arms, not the way the dark used to set her skin alight when they made love. Nothing. In the end there was only a balmy night in Chicago, alcohol and regret coursing through his veins as he watched her walk away, his own words reverberating between his ears.
I'm done. I'm done, okay? Carter can have you.
Setting his jaw, he closed his mind to the memory and resumed going through his mail, disposing of the junk, setting the bills aside, and coming to the small parcel he had saved for last. Curious, he turned it over, his face relaxing into a smile when he saw who had sent it: his father.
The war had taken, but the war had given, as much as any war could give--it spared him the grief of losing his parents. They still lived in Croatia, as comfortably as Luka could afford to have them live, and they send him sporadic letters, all of which he saved in the same tattered shoe box which held a lifetime of memories. Photographs salvaged from the bombing, their edges all singled and curled from fire and destruction. A stone from the shore, its luster faded with time and rubbed away by the small hands of his daughter. A ring. Not much to show for an entire lifetime; not much at all.
All this passed like lightning across the insides of his eyelids. Luka opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them, and began to tear carefully at the brown paper.
Inside was a longish note enclosed with a small bundle wrapped in tissue paper and twine. Luka unfolded the note and savored its contents, which were written in the practically illegible scrawl his father passed off as handwriting. Happy Birthday, it began, before launching into a lengthy description of the weather, then telling him what he really wanted to know: your mother and I miss you very much but otherwise we are fine. A couple paragraphs down: I started a new painting the other day; your mother wasn't terribly happy to learn that it was her…
Chuckling, he wondered how his father managed to get his mother to sit still for one of his infamous portraits and moved on to the small bundle. His heart skipped a beat as the tissue paper fell away. Inside, against a bed of soft felt, was a set of paints and brushes. The same kind his father liked to use.
Luka's face broke into a grin as he examined each brush with care. He could almost remember the first time his father had let him hold the brushes; he could remember the reverence and awe that swelled up in his little boy heart. His father painted all the time but it had been ages since Luka held a brush; he picked one up now and wielded it clumsily, painting imaginary strokes in the air, and found that he was in desperate need of practice. That was okay. That would come in time. He had all the time in the world.
There was a small note wound around the handle of the largest brush. Unfurling it, he read:
Find something worth painting; these are expensive brushes.
Expensive brushes indeed. Find something worth painting? Luka glanced around his room. His fish, a bowl of fruit, his Sony Playstation--no, he shook his head, these he could paint any time with any set of paints or brushes (not, he thought upon a second glance, that he would want to paint his Sony Playstation, as much as he liked it). But these paints and these brushes were from his father, a birthday present, and they deserved a worthy subject, perhaps something he could even send back to his father as an appropriate thank you.
I started a new painting the other day; your mother wasn't terribly happy to learn that it was her…
The note caught in a sleepy hand. He let his eyes fall shut, a wave of drowsiness sweeping him away, memories swirling behind his eyes.
* * *
"Susan? What are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here?" echoed Susan, looking astonished. "What are you doing here?"
"Fashion tip, Susan," said Carter, deliberately avoiding her question, "Mouth looks better shut."
Obediently, Susan snapped her mouth shut. No sooner did she do so before a huge--and knowing--grin spread over her face.
"Stop it," Carter sighed, sounding as weary as he looked. "Abby's asleep."
"Oh?" Susan's eyebrows flew upwards at this pronouncement. "Still recovering?"
Carter was about to say yes when he caught himself. "Please," he snapped, hobbling aside to let Susan in, "I have a girlfriend."
"Like that's ever stopped a man before," Susan snapped right back. She tossed her head with such disdain that Carter was surprised it didn't fly right off.
In the time she took to recover her cell phone, lock the door, and start unpacking the contents of the large cardboard box in her arms, he managed to drag his broken leg over to the kitchen and collapse into one of the chairs. Curious, he opened one of the Styrofoam containers.
"Hands off." Susan snapped the lid shut in his face, cutting off his view of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. "This is for Abby."
"Susan," Carter fairly whined, "There's enough food here to feed a small country."
"Have you seen Abby eat?" retorted Susan, planting a bagel firmly in his recently emptied hands.
"I heard that." Seemingly out of nowhere, Abby appeared, hair flattened lopsidedly on one side of the bed and face full of creases from her bed sheets. She smiled appreciatively at Susan, who handed her a glass of orange juice, and turned to Carter. "Morning."
"Morning," said Carter, studiously avoiding Abby's eyes.
Looking somewhat put off, Abby rolled her eyes.
Susan watched the two with great interest.
"How was your shift?" said Abby.
"Weaver exiled me to triage," said Susan. She popped open the lid of a container and handed it off to Abby. "Flu shot duty."
"Triage?" said Carter. "What'd you do wrong?"
"I don't know." Susan looked annoyed. "Maybe in a past life I ran over a box full of puppies?"
Sputtering with laughter, Abby choked on her eggs.
"Speaking of the flu," continued Susan, unabated, "I was going to ask you how you were feeling, Abby, but since Carter's--ow."
On the other side of Susan, Carter glared at her, wielding the plastic fork he had just used to poke her hard in the ribs.
"Carter and Phil had a fight," explained Abby, sounding tired, as she wiped at her nose with her sleeve.
Susan looked surprised. "A fight?"
"I let him spend the night."
Now Susan looked positively amused. "You let him spend the night?"
"What, is there an echo in here?" interjected Carter, grouchily.
Abby rolled her eyes again.
Susan turned her attention to Carter. "What'd you two fight about?"
"Nothing," he said, listlessly.
"Was it over Abby?" wondered Susan aloud.
"NO," answered Carter and Abby at the same time.
They looked at each other then quickly looked away.
Susan sighed.
* * *
As soon as she finished her food, Abby retreated to her room. Carter looked as if he couldn't decide whether to look disappointed or relieved.
The rest of breakfast was a largely silent affair. Susan briefly considered going to talk to Abby but decided that she probably wanted to be by herself for a little bit. So, she sat across from Carter at the kitchen table and attempted to coax him into conversation. Which was a lot, reflected Susan, like forcing cattle towards slaughter.
"How's the leg?" she said, talking around a mouthful of eggs.
"Broken," said Carter, shortly.
Really fat cattle.
"Thank you for that bulletin from the Department of the Painfully Obvious." Susan yawned. "Can I sign it?"
"What?" Carter looked surprise. "My cast?"
"No, your amazing collection of thong underwear," said Susan, patiently. "Yes, your cast."
Miraculously, he cracked a smile. Susan gave herself a mental pat on the back as she got up to poke around for a permanent marker while Carter propped his cast up on a chair.
She found one and settled back in her seat.
Carter watched her scribble a short note. "It wasn't about Abby," he said, after a moment. "If that's what you're thinking."
"What wasn't about Abby?" said Susan, as she capped her pen.
"Fight," he said shortly.
"Hmm," was all Susan said in reply. "She loves you, doesn't she?"
Carter nearly choked on his bagel.
Belatedly, Susan realized her mistake. "Phil," she hastened to add. "Does she love you?"
Using the heel of his hand to rub at his eyes, he paused for a moment before answering. "Yeah." Abruptly, he sat up in his seat. "Can I see what you wrote?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Knock yourself out."
Twisting his neck, he leaned over and read, in Susan's familiar, loopy scrawl:
Break a leg. Susan.
Carter groaned. "That's terrible."
Susan looked stiff. "I'd like to see you do better."
"Break a bone," he grinned, "And then we'll talk."
"I'll have my people call your people," Susan assured him.
Carter made a noncommittal sound in reply. Thoughtfully, Susan watched him pick at his bagel until he looked up and smiled.
"What?" she said, blankly.
He nodded at her. "You've got pensive face."
Crossing her arms, Susan tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.
"Are you leaving County?"
* * *
Abby could hear the muffled tones of conversation but was decidedly at a loss as to what Carter and Susan were saying. For awhile she tried to lull herself to sleep but that didn't work. Finally, she sat up in bed, tiptoed to the door, and unashamedly attempted to catch snatches of their conversation.
She frowned in concentration, straining to make out the words, when Susan's voice came through.
…amazing collection of thong underwear…
Abby blinked. What were they talking about?
* * *
"Are you leaving County?"
Carter's eyes widened, just barely, before his face assumed a blank sort of expression.
"Well?" Susan demanded. "Are you?"
Restlessly, Carter drummed his fingers against the table. "Can we not talk about this?" he said, tiredly.
"Okay." He felt her eyes on him. "What do you want to talk about, then?"
Carter blurted the first thing that came to mind. "What do you think of Phil?"
Surprised, Susan looked as if she didn't know how to handle this swift change of topic. She glanced, however briefly, at the door to Abby's room, and then at Carter, who was fidgeting badly and avoided her inquiring eyes. Torn between her loyalty to Abby and her natural proclivity towards being honest, she finally let the latter win out.
"I don't know her very well but I think she's great," said Susan, as sincerely as she could. "I'm really happy for you."
To her surprise, Carter looked miserable. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Curious, Susan hesitated before speaking, but plunged ahead anyway. "Are you happy?"
Uncomfortable, he laughed. "You know, I don't know."
Idly, Susan began sketching random patterns on her napkin with a lazy fingertip. "How long have you guys known each other?"
"We grew up together."
Susan stopped drawing. "Really?"
"Our families have been friends for a long time," explained Carter. "Old money. That sort of thing."
Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he sounded just a little bit uncomfortable saying that.
"So how long have you guys been dating?"
Carter frowned in thought. "A couple of months…this time around."
"This time around?" echoed Susan. "There are other times?"
"We dated when we were in med school."
Interested, Susan regarded him curiously. "What happened?"
"I proposed."
Carter watched with amusement as Susan's jaw hit the ground for the second time that morning.
"You proposed?"
He nodded. "She turned me down," he added, unnecessarily. "I went to County, she went to Northwestern, we kind of lost track of each other."
"Until now," Susan supplied. Then--"How romantic."
"I guess so."
"You must've loved her very much."
"I did," Carter agreed. "But you get over these things." Phil wasn't the only woman in his life to ever leave him. She just happened to be the first in what would be a long line of deserters.
But he didn't say any of these things out loud.
"Do you still love her?" Susan blurted, before she could stop herself.
Carter hesitated, and Susan watched as his eyes flickered, however briefly, in the direction of Abby's room before coming to rest again on the table. Unexpectedly, Susan flashed back to the night of the accident, her thoughts and feelings a jumble inside her, watching Carter and Abby through a tiny square of glass and feeling almost guilty for it, as if she was spying on them.
Nothing good could come out of this…flowers never grew out from under rocks…
"I don't know."
Silent, Susan looked at him. When she spoke, she spoke as gently as she could. "You better make up your mind."
Carter turned to face her again, his eyes huge and lost in his pale face, and Susan was startled to notice the amount of weight he had lost in the past several weeks.
"I know."
* * *
Carter left soon after for a shower and a change of clothes, but Susan stayed behind. Despite having worked the night shift, she was wide awake, her mind racing a million miles a minute. There was something wrong with Carter she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something more serious than trouble with his girlfriend or the prospect of a difficult career choice; something darker that her good intentions and unfailing humor could not touch, and it worried her.
Susan sighed. She spent so much time worrying about everyone else's lives that it was no wonder she had no time for her own. For a brief, self-pitying moment, she wondered if anyone worried over her the way she worried over Carter, or Abby, or…
Speaking of Abby.
Checking her watch, Susan threw a glance toward the closed door. She grabbed a bag off the kitchen table, shuffled over to the bedroom, and rapped lightly on the door.
There was a flurry of activity, muffled by the door between them, and then Abby herself as she spoke up loudly. "Come in."
Susan opened the door. Abby was sitting in the middle of her bed, looking flushed and slightly defensive, and Susan had to choke down an urge to laugh.
"So you heard that, huh?"
Instantly, Abby looked innocent. "Heard what?"
"Carter and I are running away to Majorca."
Abby snorted with laughter. "No," she admitted, "I couldn't really hear anything--except something about thong underwear?" At this last part, she raised an eyebrow at Susan.
"Best not to know too much," said Susan, hastily, as she drew out a thermometer and placed it in Abby's ear. "We're on a need to know basis."
"And I don't need to know."
Susan nodded in confirmation. The thermometer beeped and, wordless, she turned the display towards Abby. Ninety nine.
"Congratulations," said Susan, holding out a glass of water and a couple of tablets. "You've won yourself a one way trip to the night shift at County."
"Return to sender," Abby coughed, as she swallowed the medication and leaned back against the pillows. "Thanks," she gestured widely, "For all this."
"Nah." Susan waved her hand dismissively. "What are friends for?"
"Holding our hair out of the way as we throw up massive amounts of tequila?" suggested Abby.
"Thank God you're sober."
Abby laughed.
"Really," said Susan, sounding bored as she examined her fingernails, "Just take a bullet for me and we'll call it even."
"Deal," agreed Abby. She took a tissue and blew her nose. "Really, what did you and Carter talk about?"
Susan considered the question for a moment. She couldn't very well tell Abby about Phil, so she settled for the next best topic.
"Carter's leaving County."
* * *
Thanks to his lack of crutches, Carter arrived at the ER fifteen minutes late for his first shift since the accident--a half-shift--but was thankfully spared from incurring the wrath of Weaver due to an incoming trauma and a good call on his part. Glancing at his blood-splattered shirt, Weaver nodded at him. "Good work, John," she had said, before adding pointedly, "Just in time."
He chose to ignore the last part.
Changing into a set of scrubs, Carter found a spare pair of crutches and made his way over to the front desk. Several people welcomed him back and Frank shoved several slips of paper in his direction while growling something about not being anybody's personal secretary. The first and most recent message was from a Phyllis Weston over at Northwestern, who was looking for Dr. Carter and would appreciate a phone call at his earliest convenience, if it wasn't too much trouble? The second message, also from this morning, was a reminder from Gamma that they were having dinner tonight and to please be prompt.
The rest were from the wife of the drunk driver.
Pocketing the first two slips of paper, Carter let the rest fall into the wastebasket.
"Ladies man, are we?" said Chen, with a tease in her voice, as she watched him toss the messages. "It's good to have you back."
"Just call me Don Juan," Carter confirmed with a wink. He pulled down the board. "Thanks, Deb--it's nice to be back."
"You're already in demand. Dr. Weston stopped by this morning looking for you."
"Did she?" said Carter, without much interest, as he grabbed a chart.
"She looked really great." Chen followed him, which wasn't too hard to do since he was moving considerably slower than she. "No scarring or anything."
"Yeah." Carter gave her a tight smile as he bumped into a bed. "Just some bumps and bruises."
"How are you doing?" She watched his face closely as she spoke. "How's the leg?"
Carter almost said "broken" again but settled for "fine" as he nearly knocked over an IV stand.
"Fine, huh?" she laughed, and patted his arm. "Right. You let me know if you need any help, Don Juan."
Carter waved her off. "I'm fine," he assured her. And I don't need any help, he thought, feeling unreasonably irritable, as he turned to treat his first patient.
* * *
To Susan's immense surprise, Abby did not seem moved by her pronouncement. "I said," said Susan, clearing her throat for emphasis, "Carter's leaving County. Or he's thinking about it, anyway."
"Oh," was all Abby said.
Susan looked incredulous. "And this does not surprise you in any way because…?"
"Carter told me."
Now it was Susan's turn to "oh".
"His Chief Residency finishes next month and there aren't any attending positions available." Abby paused to shrug. "I guess there's nothing left for him at County."
"Nothing?" Susan sputtered. "What about patients?"
"Call me crazy," Abby suppressed a grin, "But I think they have those at Northwestern, too."
"Northwestern?" said Susan, her voice full of scorn. "Is that where he's going? He'll see a tenth of the patients he does now at four times the pay. They don't need him as much as we do."
Looking amused, Abby broke in. "You sound jealous."
"Am not," Susan declared.
Abby looked skeptical.
"Okay, maybe just a little bit," conceded Susan, "But that's not the point!"
"That's entirely the point."
"No way," began Susan, tried to summon a modicum of dignity, "The point is…"
"The point is," interrupted Abby, smoothly, "That you'd do the same if you were in his position."
Susan looked mutinous.
"Besides, it's not like he's thinking about moving across time zones."
Susan looked at her, hard. "You're okay with this."
"Why wouldn't I be?" shrugged Abby.
"I--" Susan faltered and stared at her friend, who was staring back at her evenly, and wondered if it was only in her head that she had seen Abby look so vulnerable just a week prior. "I just can't imagine County without him," she finished lamely.
Abby said nothing.
"I'm going to miss him," Susan said in a rush, with a sudden stab of sadness. "I know he'll be in the same city and it's not like I'll never see him again, but it won't be the same, and he's my friend, and I'm going to miss him."
Abby swallowed a sour ache at the back of her throat.
"Me too."
For a moment, she thought that this would earn her an innuendo-laden comment from Susan, but all Susan did was join her in slumping against the headboard.
* * *
When Abby woke she saw that Susan was gone and the sky was rapidly darkening to the color of ink. Yawning, she slipped out of bed and her pajamas to take a long shower and only emerged after her fingers and toes had considerably pruned. Shoving wet pieces of hair behind her ear, she dried herself off and methodically began to get dressed for work.
She had just finished drying her hair when there was a knock at the door.
Curiously, Abby trotted to the door, her ear close to its flat plane. "Who is it?"
There was a pause before the voice on the other side answered. "It's Luka."
Luka? Unreasonably, some part of Abby bristled. They had not seen each other much since the accident--he worked nights and she called in sick the last couple of days--and so had not really talked since she stormed out of the trauma room a week ago.
Nevertheless, Abby took a deep breath and opened the door. "What are you doing here?"
Luka looked startled at her cold reception. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?"
"I've got a shift," she said tersely, and inwardly she winced at the frost in her voice. "What do you want?"
"I just wanted to see how you were doing." Awkwardly, he held out a bouquet of roses, the dark green leaves starred with yellow buds. "Susan told me I should talk to you."
I am going to kill you, Susan, thought Abby, as she took the thorny bouquet off his hands.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Can I come in?"
"I've got a shift," she reminded him.
"So let me take you," said Luka. "I'm on tonight. We'll talk on the way."
"Yeah," said Abby, finally, "Okay."
* * *
"You're still angry with me."
Surprised, Abby cut her glance sideways at him, the street lights throwing a pattern of lights on his face. "I didn't think you noticed."
"I'm used to it," said Luka, though without rancor, as he executed a slow right. "You like to get angry at me."
"I do not--" Abby began, indignation in the shape of her voice, before she cut herself off. "Okay, maybe just a little," she admitted, grudgingly.
The light turned red and Luka slowed to a stop. "Why?"
"Why what?" she said automatically.
"Why were you angry with me?"
Why was I angry? Abby considered. She thought about it and realized that, like many other times when she was mad at Luka, she couldn't remember the exact reason why--only that it somehow made her feel better to take things out on someone else and leave them looking as miserable as she was feeling.
"Was it because of Carter?"
"No," said Abby, gritting her teeth, "It wasn't because of Carter."
Carter, Luka thought grimly. Just as he suspected.
The light flashed green and the engine thrummed to life.
"Okay," Abby relented, and Luka imagined he could hear her defenses crumbling away. "Maybe it was because of Carter."
Absently, Luka tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "Is he doing okay?"
"Who?"
"Carter," said Luka, patiently.
"Yeah," said Abby, a touch of bitterness in his voice, "He's great."
"Who was that woman who came in with him last week?"
Abby shut her eyes, recalling clearly the image of the woman's face. Pale and oval, crowned with a head of hair the color of sunshine, and serious gray eyes. Beautiful, but not in the conventional or flamboyant sense; beautiful because Carter had obviously chosen for himself a woman who cared very much about him.
"Phyllis Weston."
"Really?" Now Luka sounded curious as they pulled into the parking garage. "Dr. Weston? From Northwestern?"
Abby looked surprised. "You know her?"
"Doctors Without Borders," he explained. "We met at one of the orientation meetings."
Well, Abby mused, without a small amount of bitterness, she sure knows how to get around.
Luka glanced at Abby's face, which was now fixed in a determined pout. "You don't like her," he said, with a rare amount of insight.
"I don't know her," Abby retorted, playing with the loose end of her scarf. "Do you know her?"
Luka thought about it. "Not really," he admitted. "We only talked briefly."
He parked the car.
"Thanks," said Abby, as she listened to the engine die.
He nodded. "Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Abby looked fine, Luka observed, apart from a slight flush in her face. He got out of the car and trotted to the other side to open her door.
The garage was cold and empty, and their footsteps rang against the concrete of the parking complex like rocks dropped into canyons.
Luka turned to smile at Abby as they walked towards the ER. "Are you still angry with me?"
"No," said Abby, honestly.
"Good. You're scary when you're angry."
Incredulously, Abby looked at him sideways to see if he was kidding. He was, and she let herself laugh a little. Relax, she told herself.
They walked into the elevator. Privately, Abby was amazed at how easy it was to talk to Luka once she stopped focusing her anger and frustration on him. But then again, Luka had always been relatively easy to talk to as long as she was willing. Not as easy as Carter, but easy nonetheless.
"Can I paint you?"
"What?" Abby stumbled out of her thoughts. Had she heard him correctly? "What did you say?"
"I said," repeated Luka, enunciating slowly, "Can I paint you?"
Abby was speechless. She stared at him as if he had grown a third eye. Not knowing what else to do, she laughed. "I didn't know you painted."
"You never asked," Luka pointed out.
Squinting, Abby looked at him hard in the eye. "You don't paint."
"Okay, I don't," admitted Luka, a smile on his face, "But my father sent me a set of brushes."
The doors to the elevator opened and Abby stared fixedly ahead as they walked out together, his hand guiding her lightly at the elbow. "Couldn't you just paint a bowl of fruit or something?"
"I want to paint people."
"Nice of your dad," muttered Abby, as they picked their way across the crowded hallway.
"It was a birthday present."
Abby stopped and bumped into a patient, who glared crossly at her.
She glared back.
Craning her neck, she turned around to face Luka. "It was your birthday?"
"Early birthday present," Luka corrected himself.
They walked into the lounge. "When's the occasion?"
"Next week." He was still smiling at her. Suddenly self-conscious, Abby kept her eyes fixed on the dial as she opened her locker. "So can I?"
"Can I what?" echoed Abby, absently.
The door to the lounge swung open.
"Can I paint you?"
Abby was about to answer when she noticed that it was Carter who had opened the door.
* * *
Catching a glimpse of Abby making her way through the crowded hallway and into the lounge, Carter signed off on his last patient and grabbed his crutches. He entered the lounge just in time to hear Luka say, "Can I paint you?"
What, Carter thought, annoyed, the hell is going on?
To his intense and further dismay, Abby seemed to glance at Carter before shrugging and saying, "Yeah, okay."
Then, turning to him, "Hey, Carter."
Carter plastered a fake smile on his face. "Hey," he returned aloud.
"Welcome back," added Luka.
"Thanks," said Carter, somewhat stiffly, and he turned to open his locker. He knew he was being a jerk, but it was rather like watching an oncoming train wreck he couldn't stop, and so instead of apologizing he concentrated on angrily shoving things in and out of his locker.
Out of the corner of his eye, Carter watched as Luka turned his attention back to Abby. "I'll talk to you later about it, okay?" Abby nodded back and Luka disappeared into the ER.
Carter watched him go before turning to Abby. "I didn't know he painted."
"Yeah." Abby laughed, sounding somewhat embarrassed. "I didn't either."
"Nude?"
"What?" She shut her locker door and scowled at him. "No."
Tucking his stethoscope away, he shrugged out of his white coat.
"You're off already?"
"Half shift." Clumsily, he donned an overcoat. "Weaver wants me to take it easy."
"Ah." Leaning against her locker, Abby glanced at him, noting how tired he looked. "Have you talked to Phil?"
Carter didn't look at her when he answered. "No."
"Why not?"
He slammed his door shut. "Can we not talk about this?"
Uneasy, she watched him grimace with pain as he shouldered his messenger bag then took hold of his crutches. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"Yes," he said, barely looking at her as he walked out of the room, "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know." Frustration welling up inside her, Abby watched the lounge door swing shut behind him. "You tell me."
* * *
Two hours later, Abby found herself wishing that she had called in sick. Not only were they backed up, but they were short a couple of nurses, and triage was overflowing with flu patients.
Sighing, she leaned against the wall and waited for social services to put her off hold.
"Abby?" Gallant materialized in front of her. "There's someone at the front desk asking for you."
"Yeah," she cupped her hand over the receiver, "I'll be right there."
"He says it's kind of urgent." said Gallant, fiddling with his clipboard.
Idly, Abby wound the phone cord around her finger. "Is he dying?"
"No."
"Then it's not urgent." Impatiently, she willed someone on the other end to pick up the phone. "Tell him to wait."
"I did. He says he can't."
Curiosity bloomed in the pit of her stomach. "Did you get a name?"
He shook his head.
Sighing, Abby handed the phone to Gallant. "Get social services on the line for the family in curtain three," she said. "Where is he?"
He took the phone. "Front desk."
"Next time, get a name," she called behind her.
No sooner had the words escaped her lips before she heard her own name being called above the din.
"Abby?"
Bristling, she felt something cold and hard crystallize in the pit of her stomach, as it always did when she heard her name shaped by that voice.
"Richard?" she said. "What are you doing here?"
* * *
CREDITS: "Seventeen Against the Dealer" is the name of a novel by Cynthia Voigt. The opening lyric is taken from "Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits. Carter's thoughts on losing track of what he wanted and therefore losing track of himself are borrowed from The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. "I'm done. I'm done, okay? Carter can have you" is a reference to the spectacular break-up scene between Abby and Luka in "The Longer You Stay". "Fashion tip--mouth looks better shut" and "You've got pensive face" are borrowed, of course, from Buffy. Oh, and I realize that Luka's father wouldn't write a letter in English, but I had no idea how to translate English into Croatian without making a massive mess of things. If any of you know Croatian and are willing to volunteer your services if I need to translate things in the future, drop me a line. Thanks.