TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (8/12)
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: Thanks to everyone who reviewed TBTS7: Ceri, charlotte, KenzieGal, kenderbender, Lesbiassparrow, jakeschick, Klip, Anna, noa4jc, Carolyn, Lana, Elisa, Kate, CARBYfan, not-so-dumb-blonde, JD, Sandy, charli, and sunshine! As long as you guys keep reading, I'll keep writing and apologizing for the long wait between chapters. :D
SUMMARY: Carter repents at leisure, smokes a lot in the process. Luka whinges to Susan, paints Abby wearing this and only this. Carbyness and Lubyness and Susan, oh my. Thanksgiving Day, Part 2 of 2.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVEN
The More Things Change
Here I am again
Everything the same
It don't ever change
I'm back on the corner again
In the healing game
* * *
He asked her to come, and she said yes.
A faded house in Minnesota and a motel room in Florida, streetlights and rain on her face, the weight of the dark--she should have known better by now. But she didn't. So she cared. She cared about him even when she knew she shouldn't, she cared about him in spite of her better judgment.
It was the things he never said that came to matter to her, the things she came to know by the heat of a gaze or the glancing touch of skin. Better not to say these things out loud. Better to let their silences speak for themselves. He was too scared of what he might lose: her friendship, herself. She was too scared of what she might gain. In the end, too scared for anything more than a handful of stolen moments, clumsy and longing. The hands that clasped and the palms that touched when they danced. The heat shimmering off an asphalt road in Oklahoma. The tilt of his mouth as it opened under hers.
They were living on borrowed time, and she was sure one day she would pay.
It was night. The streets were deserted. Snow fell; a wet, slushy snow. The city huddled in the embrace of the cold. Still, Carter insisted on walking.
And, after a moment, Abby followed.
They were living on borrowed time, and she asked for a little longer.
* * *
They sat in their usual booth at Doc Magoo's. The window was blue-black with night, and cold with frost. The sun had gone down when Abby wasn't looking, the day passing like a ship in the night.
She watched as Carter rummaged through his pockets before producing a book of matches and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He fumbled through the first few matches before managing to strike a light. He offered her the first cigarette, scissored between his fingers in such a way that if she accepted she would have no choice but to touch him.
She hesitated only slightly before she shook her head.
"I quit."
"Really?" A thin line of smoke rose from the cigarette. "When did this happen?"
"When Maggie died."
Briefly, Abby remembered all the afternoons she spent in the ambulance bay. She sucked at cold turkey so she compromised: she smoked her cigarettes halfway. Then, she let them drop to the ground with the leaves. She remembered the way the smoke formed a tracery in the autumn sunlight.
"More or less," she amended, almost as an afterthought.
Carter looked at her curiously, his face pale behind a haze of smoke. "What brought this on?"
Abby watched the ash fall from the unsmoked cigarette. "I thought it was time for a change. Are you going to smoke that thing?"
Carter glanced down, then tapped the end of the cigarette over an ashtray. "Do you mind?"
Abby shook her head. She really didn't.
"Are you sure?" he said, a little bit of relief and not a little of anxiety in his tone.
"Be my guest," she said.
She watched his cheeks hollow out in suction.
"So you don't smoke," he exhaled. "You don't drink. Who are you and what have you done with Abby Lockhart?"
"It's the new and improved me." Abby folded her hands in front of her. Her hands felt cold from the walk. "Version 2.0. Now with less crashing."
"Well," said Carter, raising his eyebrows as the waitress came by with a couple of menus. "I don't know about improved."
"Hey," began Abby, slightly indignant, but he cut her off.
"There wasn't much to improve upon."
Abby stared at him, at the angle of his gaze as his studied the menu with what she assumed was feigned interest. She heard herself address the waitress (coffee, please--black) before she handed back the menu. After a moment, he did the same.
"A slice of banana cream pie," he added. "Two forks, please."
"Don't spoil your appetite," she warned him. "Susan'll kill you."
Shrugging, Carter tapped the ash off his cigarette. "I'm willing to risk it."
"It's been nice knowing you."
"I wish I could say the same--ow, hey, kidding, kidding. That was my good leg."
"I missed," she said, blandly.
Carter opened his mouth as if to reply but was cut off by a ringer. Reluctantly, he rested his cigarette against the lip of an ashtray and reached for his cell phone. Abby watched as an odd look crossed his face before he hung up.
"Short call," she commented, and her fingers pushed the ash on the table into a small pyramid. She imagined mirages, sand dunes. Women with veils over their mouths and too much eye makeup over their lids.
"They hung up," said Carter, still with that look on his face.
Abby exhaled, and the pyramid scattered. So much for Egypt. "Wrong number?"
He looked absorbed. "I don't think so."
An awkward silence settled between them. Bitterly, Abby remembered why she had taken great pains to avoid him since their conversation on her stoop, under the mindful glare of morning sun. It had reminded her of what she wanted but could not have, what he could have but no longer wanted. It was humiliating.
So she swapped shifts, worked overtime, attended meetings--did anything and everything to avoid another awkward confrontation. (Even if she couldn't control her dreams.) Until he called her today and until she came to him. In spite of her better judgment.
She wondered what that said about her. Probably bad things.
"So," said Abby, and her fingers worked on the reconstruction of her pyramids. The sooty ash; the cool, hard tabletop.
"So," said Carter, his voice smoky and warm. Like scotch. Or maybe it was just the cigarettes. "You've been avoiding me."
"No," Abby lied. Instinctively.
"No?" Carter looked like he couldn't decide between being angry or faintly amused. He settled for some uneven combination of the two. "I haven't seen you in weeks."
Abby watched him work through the smoke. He was getting to her favorite part of the cigarette. The end. The part that made her fingers burn and her teeth ache for that last mouthful of smoke.
"I've been busy."
"So it seems."
He studied her intently. She didn't like it. He was better at reading her than anyone else she had ever known. She didn't know when that had happened, but it worried her. Late at night, mostly.
"You're tearing me away from some quality turkey time," Abby said, to distract him from his vigil.
Carter finished smoking the rest of the cigarette before he replied. "I know."
For a moment, she was still. And when she spoke, she couldn't keep the anger out of her voice. No use in pretending. Not with him. "Why are we here, Carter?"
Carefully, Abby watched him ash his cigarette. When he was done, he looked up at her.
"I'm sorry," was all he said.
* * *
Abby left without making eye contact, promising to return in time for dinner with Carter in tow. Luka watched the door bang shut behind her. Susan watched Luka, his gaze wavering like a mirage, fragile and heated. The expression on his face made her chest tighten with sympathy.
"You look like you just watched your goldfish drown."
"I don't have goldfish."
"I was speaking metaphorically."
"Oh." Luka blinked and the expression disappeared, smoothed over by something more innocuous, less revealing. "I'm not good with metaphors."
"Right." Susan couldn't help herself; she snorted. "This from the guy who recites Hamlet from memory? Give me a break."
Luka rewarded her with a wan smile.
"Don't worry," said Susan, because he still bore a look of worry on his face. "Abby's a big girl. She can take care of herself."
And then he said the last thing she would have expected to hear. At least from him, from someone who guarded his privacy almost as well as Abby.
"Is there something going on between Carter and Abby?"
* * *
Carter was reminded of another time like this. They were younger, but not much more so; they were strangers, but not much longer; they had shared a cigarette and an addiction, but not much else. Things were simpler. Something he couldn't say about them any more. That simplicity was lost when he asked for a sponsor and he got a friend.
Now there were moments that turned on needle points, and long, pregnant pauses, and second chances. (For what, he wondered?) Now there was honesty and the vulnerability that came with the package. Now there were two categories of regret: the things he said (three weeks ago, in front of her apartment, after a little too much alcohol and a badly timed phone call) versus the things he didn't (the last two years, every conceivable moment, when Luka was not in earshot).
The waitress came by again. Two mugs and a sliver of banana cream pie. Two forks. He left it untouched. So did she.
"I'm sorry," he said again, when she gave no reply.
The expression on her face was unreadable. He knew, instinctively, what she was doing: she was closing herself up, closing herself off from him, like a flower in the dark. He bit his lip. He wanted to pry her open and see her, really see her, like he hadn't in months. But that would be asking too much. That would be asking her to be the one thing she tried to never let herself be. Vulnerable.
After the way he had been treating her, he didn't think he had the right to ask that of her anymore.
Carter went on. At least, he tried to, but he found it difficult. He hesitated, tried to find the right words; it had been so long that he was out of practice, and now he struggled with that which always came most easily to him: honesty. But it was time to try.
"I haven't treated you very well." His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. "Have I?"
Something in her gaze--that dense, unreadable gaze--flickered, but she didn't say anything.
He faltered. His speech, his carefully formulated apology, all flew to pieces in his head. He grasped at words. "I never meant to take it out on you."
Abby reached for her coffee. "Sure you did."
* * *
Luka could scarcely believe he had asked the question. But there it was, and Susan was looking at him with that look he couldn't stand to see--half-pity and half-sorrow. It was that look. The one people wore when they wanted to spare you.
He hated that look.
"I don't know," said Susan, finally, and she felt, not for the first time, like taffy being tossed into a sea of hungry kids. Pulled in all sorts of directions, mostly opposing. She didn't think the human body could bend like that but there it was. "You'd have to ask Carter and Abby."
Luka tried hard not to laugh at her answer. He could forget about asking Carter and he couldn't imagine asking Abby. In all their time together they never shared anything more than a bed.
Meanwhile, Susan offered herself a silent congratulations on her non-answer. She had missed her calling as a politician. Or a diplomat. They were the Bermuda Triangle of love triangles and she was beginning to feel like she would never find her way out.
Susan glanced up at Luka. She searched his face. It wasn't hard to do, at least when it came to Abby. "You miss her."
Slowly, he nodded.
* * *
It was too soon. Or maybe it was too late. Either way, it didn't matter anymore. In the end they couldn't even get by, couldn't do it on their own and couldn't do it for each other. In the end they couldn't even pretend. They weren't enough to save each other, she and Luka.
They settled. For the white of sheets with too much starch in them, moonlight too bright and blinding. As if they could find absolution in all that white noise. As if they could find salvation, when all they got were second bests.
So that was how Abby knew. She knew Carter meant it when he hurt her. She knew it because she recognized it in herself. In Luka. These were the things people did when they had nothing left. They lit fires, they burned. They watched the edges of old photographs curl, they hammered themselves into new and unrecognizable shapes. No matter if someone got too close, no matter if someone other than themselves got burned. This was trial by fire. This was their acquittal. The fact that she could recognize this in Carter--who had always been kind, who had always been kind to her--scared her more than she thought anything ever could. It wasn't a reassuring feeling, that the people she depended upon to be there for her could fall to pieces. Right in front of her eyes.
"Sure you did," she said again, mostly to herself.
"I didn't," said Carter. Quietly, stubbornly, as if he refused to believe in a person worse than the person he made himself out to be. "I didn't mean it."
Abby stared at him. It was the same man who had thrust those pills into her hand, so much time ago; his fingers wet and his palms clammy with sweat and toilet water. He had looked at her, his eyes wild and desperate and stubborn. He had looked at her as if he couldn't believe what he had done, as if she was the only one who could save him from it.
Nobody had ever looked at her like that before.
And nobody had never looked at her like that again. Until now.
"I would never hurt you," he said.
"Are you sure about that?" she said.
In a way, she knew they were both right. Because that person with the awful, hollow laugh, and the smile so sharp she could cut herself on it--that wasn't him, the Carter she knew. Because he had done those things to her all the same--that was him, too, for he was the man that his actions made him out to be, and he had hurt her.
* * *
It struck Susan that she didn't know anything about the man who stood before her, looking as he did, one word coming to her mind. (Defeated.) It was such a change from the person she knew by routine; who was light-hearted, thoughtful, impossibly stubborn, and, like Abby, tried at all costs to avoid being vulnerable. But he was much worse than she. He wore his heart all over his sleeve even as he kept a stiff upper lip. An impossible combination.
"You miss her." Susan's mouth was dry but she plunged ahead. "Does she know?"
Not quite looking at her, Luka shook his head.
"Are you going to tell her?"
The look on his face told her all she needed to know.
* * *
"Am I sure about that?" echoed Carter, in the tone of one who was confessing. "No."
Carter surprised himself. He had come prepared to do two things: apologize, and deny everything. He didn't know who he was or what he was doing but that didn't mean she had to know, right? Nobody had to know, not even himself. But here he was, spilling his guts all over the place, and who was going to clean up the mess?
"You're making it difficult for me to apologize," he said, only half-kidding.
"It shouldn't ever be easy to apologize for who you are."
Abby wasn't kidding at all. She didn't mean to be merciless; she didn't mean a lot of things. The problem was that there was very little she didn't mean when it came to Carter.
Also, she wasn't done. Apparently.
"If you're apologizing to make yourself feel better, don't."
"I'm not--" began Carter.
"Don't apologize to me," said Abby, her voice terse. "I'm not here to make you feel better about yourself. If you wanted that, you should've gotten a dog."
"I know--" Carter tried again.
"No. You don't know anything." Abby cut him off smoothly. The words tumbled out of her mouth without effort. Vaguely, she remembered other times like this: with Carter, with Maggie, in the rain, always in the rain. "But you think you know everything, and that's the problem. You think you know who you are, what you want. You think that gives you permission to act like you're so much better than everyone else. But you're not, and it took a stupid drunk and almost dying for you to realize that you're just as lost as the rest of us. And you know what? That's okay. That's okay, Carter. It's okay to be alive and not know everything. But it's not okay to act like you do."
He stared at her in what Abby could only guess was total fury.
* * *
Carter loved Phil. He loved her since he was seventeen years old, as much as a seventeen year old boy could love a girl. He loved her now, even if he couldn't figure out how or how much.
But he realized a long time ago that he was helpless when it came to Abby and Phil hadn't changed that one bit. Abby always kept him in line, kept him accountable, not just to her but to himself. He was at her mercy. Even when moments like these made him sure she had none left for him.
"I'm not apologizing to make myself feel better," said Carter, at last. "I'm apologizing because--I hurt you. And you're the last person I ever want to hurt. I may not know everything but I know that."
Carter rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out a crumpled cigarette and put it to his lips. His eyes narrowed to focus on a lit match before they returned to meet hers.
"You're wrong about one thing," he said, and he spoke a little faster. "I don't know everything. I know that I don't know everything. I've known it since Atlanta."
When Abby spoke, her voice came to her as if she was far away. "Why are you telling me this?"
"I told you once that you saved my life. I meant it. I guess I did a bad job with what you saved."
* * *
It wasn't always like this, thought Luka. There was a time in his life when his world went no further than the wife beside him and the two children before him, and when this world burned he was left with nothing but the ashes of his memories. There was a time in his life when his world was dim with perpetual twilight; the light had gone out a long time ago but not so long that he had forgotten it; its color, its heat, its radiance.
Then he woke up one morning to find that the world was beautiful, after all. Beautiful like the woman lying next to him. Her short, tousled hair stirred slightly as she exhaled in her sleep.
But not enough time had passed and it was much easier to resign himself to the beauty of dark things. The night, the lights of the city twinkling just over her bare shoulder. It was through these tiny pinpricks that light came again into his world, and eventually he came to live in a world where twilights yielded to mornings. It was like being thrown into the sunlight after a long time shut in the dark.
By then he had found himself but he had lost her. Some time between twilight and morning.
* * *
Everything about Carter was direct. From his apology to the way he looked at her.
Abby wasn't used to that kind of behavior. At first she was too young, and then she was too married. Everybody believed in lies, anyway; they were easier than the truth and a lot more attractive. Now she was too jaded and too smart. Too old and too alone for truth. Especially if it came this easy: sweet like pancake syrup, going down like vodka. She wanted to believe him, and that was the problem.
But maybe she could learn. That was a big maybe, but there had been bigger maybes in her life and they all had names: Maggie, Richard, Luka. Life had taught her differently but she did not always have to learn what she was taught.
She sucked at following directions, anyway.
"I told you once that you saved my life. I meant it. I guess I did a bad job with what you saved."
I'm sorry, he said. I mean it.
Abby looked up at him. She was unused to this; by now, she usually had the good sense to run away, far away. But she was here, and she knew why. It scared her.
"Carter…" she began, before trailing off.
He looked at her expectantly, his expression half-fear and half-hope. All longing. That look. The one he reserved for her, only her.
"You're a work in progress. But you'll do."
You owe me, she said. Big time.
And Carter smiled.
* * *
Snow salted the window, now blue-black with night and winter. Part of Susan wanted to reach out and press her palm against the glass, feel her skin flinch with the immediate shock. Remind herself that she could feel the cold--among other things--because she was human, too. Because she felt, needed, wanted, too. She just happened to find herself surrounded by people who felt a little bit more, needed a little bit more, wanted a little bit more than she did out of this life. All she wanted was a warm bed, a bonus at Christmas. They wanted love and redemption and all the big things in between.
Overachievers.
She didn't ask to be the referee. Judge, jury, or executioner. But it was too late for that. She was involved. She owed something to everyone even when no one owed her anything. Except maybe their thanks and undying devotion, maybe a drink or two on the side. (Don't forget the umbrella.)
"You're going to tell her," said Susan, reading Luka's expression correctly.
Luka was quiet for a moment before replying. "I think I have to."
They thought too hard, bled too hard, loved too hard, lived too hard. Susan wondered if they would ever learn when to quit. She had learned it in the middle of a desert. They weren't in the middle of a desert but sometimes she thought they might as well have been.
* * *
It was his smile that did her in, the smile that promised things like springtime and rain and presents under the tree. A heartbreaking honest smile. The likes of which she hadn't seen in a long, long time.
"I'm sorry for avoiding you," said Abby, before she had time to think better of it. It was the only way she knew how to apologize.
"Ah," said Carter, tapping the ash from his cigarette. "I knew it."
"What?" Abby gave her shoulders an elegant shrug. "A magician never reveals her secrets."
"Like disappearing on me?" he suggested.
"Like disappearing on you," she confirmed.
Carter reached for the pie and handed her a fork. "Great, maybe next time you can show me a card trick instead."
"Ask nicely and I might show you a lot more than that," said Abby.
He grinned. The cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips gave him a slightly rakish look. "Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?"
"Mrs. Robinson?" laughed Abby. "What are you implying?"
"You didn't answer the question."
"If your idea of seduction is a rabbit and a top hat, then I guess so."
The smile on his face widened. "Come on," he said, changing the subject. He pushed the pie in her direction and offered her the fork again. "It's a small piece."
"I'll wait for the pumpkin."
"You have to splurge with me," he insisted, holding out the fork again.
Abby felt an old ache stir in her chest at the familiar words. Her words.
She accepted.
* * *
"Well," said Susan, after a moment. "You know what they say."
Luka looked blankly at her as she checked on the turkey. A blast of heat escaped from the oven and painted his face in warmth. "What?"
"If at first you don't succeed…"
He almost smiled. "You fail?" he suggested.
Closing the oven door, Susan scowled. "Okay, you don't like that one. How about this one: second time's the charm?"
"Is the turkey done?" asked Luka, pointedly.
"No, wait, that's the third time," she corrected herself. She glanced at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand sweep along the face. "Almost. But if they don't get here soon, I hope you like your turkey Cajun-style."
Luka looked blank again. "Cajun style?"
"I got it," said Susan, with a triumphant snap of her fingers. "All's fair in love and war."
Luka shook his head. "Nobody said anything about love."
Denial, thought Susan with a rueful shake of the head. Not just a river in Egypt.
* * *
"They want me to head the Foundation."
Surprised, Abby looked up from the plate they just finished cleaning. Her fork scraped against the frosting. She didn't have to ask him who "they" were.
"So what did you say?"
"What do you think?"
"You said no."
"I said hell no."
Abby chuckled, and licked the frosting off her fork. "Really?"
"No," said Carter, and he brightened for a moment. "But it would've been funny if I did."
Abby smiled. "I've got a crazy idea."
Carter wiped his mouth carefully. "Don't keep me in suspense."
"Why don't take you take the position?"
Carter looked as if he would gag. He crumpled up the napkin and dropped it in the ashtray. "Yeah," he said. "That's pretty crazy."
"Well, it does run in the family."
"Speaking of families," said Carter. "You know how I feel about mine."
Abby made an impatient tapping sound with her fork. "So?"
"So…you know how I feel about mine."
"So…you need a job."
"Not that badly," said Carter. "Did you not get the memo? I'm rich!"
He smiled at her in that wry, self-deprecating way of his. She let that one slide.
"Look," Abby said, patiently. "I know you guys aren't exactly the Brady bunch…"
"That's the understatement of the year," said Carter, under his breath.
"…but every family's got problems," she ignored him. "Every family's got skeletons in their closet."
"Yeah, but ours is a walk-in." He sounded almost cheerful as he reached in his pocket and pulled out the last cigarette. "Abby, I'm a Carter."
"So I'm a Capricorn." Abby shrugged. "We all have our crosses to bear."
Carter almost smiled. He shook his head. "I can't."
"Can't?" Abby gave him an appraising sort of look. "Or won't?"
"Is there a difference?" Carter shrugged and lit the bent cigarette. "I wasn't aware there was one."
"There's a big difference."
"Not from where I'm sitting."
Abby raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I'm sorry." Carter had always been very earnest, and the line between earnestness and smugness was beginning to blur for him. "I really am."
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong or are we going to sit here all night not getting to the point?" said Abby, her tone blunt. He could tell she was getting fed up with him. "Because there's a turkey at Susan's house with my name on it."
The direct approach. Carter set his mouth in a stubborn line and shifted his gaze to the window. The smoke from his cigarette cast its likeness in the glass that held their reflections. They stared back at him, these specters of themselves, all shadow and light, translucent like parchment held up to a lamp.
Abby switched her gaze back to him. "Carter?"
He put his cigarette down. The low drone of voices faded into the background, the cigarette laid quietly forgotten on the lip of an ashtray.
"Carter?" she tried again.
Outside, the wind rattled against the windows.
Carter watched as the cigarette slowly burned itself out. "My dad has cancer."
* * *
She should've known.
No gift came without its price, and she had wondered what it was that had finally brought him around. (Brought him back to her, she almost thought, but that was before she caught herself.) He was good at hiding things by now, much better than he used to be and much better than he had any right to be. How this came to be, she had only a small idea. But she had watched it happen right before her eyes.
So this was growing old, growing up. She had an idle memory of it, from a long time ago.
The streets were deserted as they walked the short distance to Susan's apartment. Snow fell; a wet, slushy snow that fell white and turned a muddy gray in the streets. Carter smelled like smoke from his cigarettes, burnt sugar from the coffee he couldn't take black. He was still on crutches; his face drawn, his back forming a graceful arc as he huddled under the folds of a heavy coat. He walked as if he was shouldering a heavy load, and he was. She thought of his dad, and cancer, and the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. Everybody had a breaking point. Especially Carter.
"What happened to your coat?" said Abby.
Briefly, Carter saw the specter of Phil hovering before him, in the cold and with his coat draped over her thin shoulders. It was the first time he had thought of her since he left. "I forgot it. Thanks for bringing one; whose coat is this, anyway?"
Abby kicked at a loose chunk of ice with her shoe. "Luka's."
Carter looked slightly ill at ease. "Really?"
Abby shrugged. "You asked for a coat. And it's not like you and Susan are the same size, or you and me for that matter."
"I thought it felt a little big." Carter took the time to repent, however briefly, of all the ill fates he ever wished upon the other man while he was dating Abby. Even the one involving Romano and fifty feet of duct tape. "And here I thought you were eating your Wheaties."
"He's a good guy, Carter," said Abby, reading his evasiveness correctly.
For a moment, Carter looked guilty. "I never said he wasn't."
You didn't have to, thought Abby. Some things never changed.
"Are you sure you don't want to come in?" she said, as they reached the apartment. "I promised Susan I'd bring you back with me."
"I've got a shift," said Carter. "Besides, I'm not hungry."
Abby clucked her tongue in mock admonishment. "I told you not to eat that pie."
"You ate 'that pie', too," Carter pointed out, and he raised an arm to flag down a cab passing by. Miraculously, it slowed and pulled over to the curb.
"Let's not split hairs." Abby paused. "Or tell Susan."
"Tell Luka I said thank you," said Carter, shrugging out of the coat and handing it over to her as he opened the door to the cab.
Abby took the coat and held his crutches as he hobbled inside. She handed his crutches back to him when he turned to face her. Then, she shut the door behind him.
Carter rolled down the window. She saw, rather unhappily, how tired he looked. In the dimness of the cab, the night could not paint his face anything darker than pale. Still, he managed to sound light-hearted. "Happy Thanksgiving, Abby."
"You too," she said, and she hesitated for a moment as he looked at her oddly. "What?"
Carter looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead he just smiled--a sad, sweet smile--and shook his head as the cab began to pull away. Abby watched the taillights until they disappeared from view.
The snow slackened into a cold, freezing rain.
* * *
When Carter opened the door to his apartment, it was cold and dark and quiet. No Phil in sight. Some part of him was relieved, but a bigger part of him was disappointed.
He had lied to Abby when he said he had a shift. It had been a long day and he didn't think he could handle being around people right now, even if those people were Susan and Luka. He was too tired, too confused.
Abby was the exception to the rule; she always was.
Tiredly, he locked the front door behind him and dropped his keys onto the kitchen counter. But he didn't turn on any lights. He reached up and rubbed at his jaw; he needed a shave. He needed a lot of things. Mostly, answers. He didn't think he'd be getting those any time soon. He decided to settle for the shave. Quick, easy, painless.
All the rage and self-pity that had taken hold of him was gone. He had left it all behind, with Phil and a handful of footprints in the snow. In its stead was a strange need to set things right--as right as he could make them, anyway--starting with the person who mattered most even when she shouldn't. But that was the way things always worked out for him, didn't they? People mattered more to him than he did to people; that's why he stayed and they always, always left. It began with his brother, snaked through a half dozen women, and it ended--at least for now--with his dad, whose prognosis wasn't a death sentence (yet) but left far too much room for error than he would have liked.
E tu, Brutus? thought Carter, with a sad smile as his dad's face swam into view. The initial burst of anger and shock had passed with his flight from the mansion. He suspected he was too exhausted to put up a fight. Or too broken. Snapped in half.
He opened the refrigerator door. A flood of yellow light made him blink. He reached for a beer, changed his mind, and grabbed the milk carton instead. He'd go without a glass. That would satisfy the inner rebel in him.
"I can't believe you're drinking straight out of the milk carton."
Carter jumped, and a little of the milk dribbled down his chin and blotted his shirt. "Phil?"
"Got it in one." A pause. "Don't you sound happy to see me."
Carter blinked, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw her figure cut a lithe shape in the dark. She was curled up on one side of his sofa, wearing pajama pants and a black turtleneck (his, he guessed from the bulkiness of it). No wonder he had missed her.
"You scared me," he said, and he swiped at the milk on his chin.
She could've nodded, but he had no real way of telling. "I brought your coat."
"Thanks." Carter fiddled with the open carton in his hands. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Long enough," Phil replied. Long enough to listen to the rain. Long enough to listen to things fall apart. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever show up."
Faintly, Carter recalled their harsh words in the snow. The steeliness of his own voice, her shoulders shaking in rage. But now she just sounded sad. "Well, I'm here."
"Where were you?"
"I went to get something to eat," he said. Not entirely a lie.
"See, that's funny," said Phil. "Because you walked out on dinner."
Carter put down the milk. He stood awkwardly in place. "I know." He paused. "I'm sorry."
Phil laughed. Whatever he was expecting, he wasn't expecting that. "See, that's also funny. You didn't seem very sorry when you left."
"That's because I wasn't," said Carter, truthfully.
His comment was met with silence on her end. Not the stony, angry silence he expected. But a silence nonetheless.
Then--
"I heard about your father. I'm sorry."
Carter felt the color drain from his face. If he had any color left in his face, he was so pale now. "Oh."
"Millicent told me. After you left." He heard her sigh in the darkness. "If I had known…" She trailed off, then she cleared her throat and began again. "If I had known, I wouldn't have blown up at you the way I did."
"I'm sorry," Carter said again. He seemed to be saying that a lot lately. At least he meant it. That should count for something, shouldn't it? "I shouldn't have left like that."
Not "I should've told you," but "I shouldn't have left like that". Phil rose from her place on the sofa. Carter listened to the sound of her footsteps as she approached.
She stopped a few feet away. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't know," said Carter, honestly, and he really didn't. He suspected he was too much in shock to say anything at the time. Or maybe he just didn't want to tell her. He didn't know. His throat constricted all the same, and he found that he couldn't speak.
Phil stepped close enough so he could see her face. Her eyes were the color of wet cement in the dark, her hair falling across her face the way it did when she was a young girl. Before he knew what he was doing, he had closed the space between them. He shut his eyes as she wrapped her arms around him. He had meant to comfort her, but as he rested his chin atop her head he realized that it was she who comforted him. She still loved him, loved the feel of him after all this time.
As he held her, Carter realized that there was something breakable in her he had not seen or bothered to see or could not see before. But he saw it now, and he saw how much he had hurt her. So he held her tighter.
* * *
Darkness enveloped her tenderly like the hands of an old lover, but candlelight threw her face into sharp relief as she sat by the window. She listened to the fall of the rain, the sweep of his brush against paint and palette. She couldn't forget the way Carter had looked tonight--as if he had nothing, as if he had everything to lose. As if he was falling and she was the only one who could catch him. That was a lot of responsibility for someone who was afraid to fall as well.
Restless, Abby shifted in her seat.
"Don't move," said Luka, for what was probably the thousandth time that night.
"Sorry," she said, automatically.
She heard the creaking of his stool as he shifted in his seat and peered at her from the side of the canvas. "Do you need a break?"
"No."
"Are you sure you want to do this tonight?"
"I'm sure," insisted Abby, and she willed herself to sit still.
Luka looked dubious. "Okay."
They worked like this on many nights. Sometimes they talked but mostly it was just silence, the imperfect weight of silence marred by the passing of cars or the sweep of a brush against canvas. She found herself looking forward to these quiet sessions; she found herself looking forward to being in the company of a person who expected nothing more from her than herself and right now.
"What else have you painted?" said Abby, because she was tired of the silence. He was quieter tonight than he usually was, but she didn't stop to wonder why.
"Fruit," said Luka, thoughtfully. "The river. A bottle of wine. My Sony Playstation."
Abby choked on a laugh. "Your Sony Playstation?"
"Still life," shrugged Luka.
"I see."
"Just kidding." Luka put down his brush and smiled. "Can you move your head a little to the left? No, my left. No--here, let me help."
Abby watched as he rose from his seat and walked over to her. For a moment, she was content to sit in the comfortable embrace of his shadow. She shut her eyes.
His voice came to her out of the darkness. "Tired?"
"No," she lied. Old habits died hard.
He was still standing in front of her. He was standing close enough so that she could almost feel his breath stirring her cheek. She kept her eyes shut.
"Okay. Don't move."
Luka returned to his seat. He sat for a moment with his brush poised in the air. There was something about painting Abby that was a challenge, something about her expression that was unpredictable even though all her expressions were the same. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was all the stuff going on behind the endless series of identical expressions which interested him.
It always had.
"What?" said Abby, as she watched a slow smile spread over his face.
She sounded impatient and slightly defensive; she sounded like Abby. It made him smile.
"Nothing."
"You're smiling."
"I wasn't aware it was illegal to smile."
"It's not."
"I'm sorry, you sounded like you were accusing me."
"I didn't mean it."
Absently--"You shouldn't say things you don't mean."
Abby lifted an eyebrow. There was something in his tone that gave her pause and she swallowed involuntarily.
"A little more to the left," said Luka, interrupting her thoughts.
Obediently, Abby complied.
"No, that's too much."
Abby faked an exasperated sigh and moved back.
"No, that's--never mind."
Abby watched as he set his brush down and slid off the stool again. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and repositioned her. She heard him exhale. The flame on the nearest candle sputtered.
"Is this okay?" she asked, her eyes searching his in the darkness of the room.
Luka mumbled something she didn't quite catch. It didn't seem to matter. He was looking at her oddly, one hand on her shoulder and the other now angled her chin, his thumb brushing gently against the curve of her jaw.
Abby felt her breath catch. There was a long silence before she could speak, and when she did, it was only a whisper.
"Luka?"
He reached out and touched the edge of her face lightly.
"Don't move."
And she sat very still as he bent and kissed her.
* * *
CREDITS: Opening verse from "The Healing Game" by Van Morrison. "You have to splurge with me" is from "Sand and Water" (*loves*). "We all have our crosses to bear" is the obligatory Buffy line.
Can't buy me love--but you can read and review. ^_^