TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (9/12)
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: Fate is so cruel. Carter, Abby, Luka, Susan, and the rest of the ER all belong to TPTB; Phil Weston and Jake Carter, however, belong to meee.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
First things first. Heartfelt thanks go out to everyone who reviewed Chapter 7: noa4jc, jakeschick, Lesbiassparrow, flutiedutiedute, JD, Emma Stuart, Kate, kenderbender, Lana, Jackie, BeckieB, Elisa, ceri, carolyn, not-so-dumb-blonde, Mealz, KenzieGal, ILoveCroatia, Sandy, Rebecca, Ella, Elisa, and sunshine. I hope that's everyone and I'm really sorry if I missed you--email me and we'll talk.
To say that it's been awhile would be the understatement that ate the ER fandom so I'll just say thanks to everyone for their patience. I hope this chapter was worth the spectacularly long wait. More notes at end.
As a reminder, this fic is AU for the end of Season 8 and for all of Seasons 9 and 10--no "Lockdown", no Eric on or off his meds, no African safari with Gillian and Debbie. For better or for worse.
SUMMARY: Luka pursues Abby, Abby finally admits her feelings for Carter, Carter treads water with Phil, Phil asks him to move in anyway, Susan eats a pretzel, and Santa Claus makes an appearance. Welcome to November sweeps.
* * *
for jakeschick, who never let writer's block get me down.
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paper Boats
as the express
train passes the local
it moves by just like a paper boat
although it weighs a million pounds
i swear it almost seems to float
and as we pass by each other
our heads all full of bother
we can't look, we can't stop
we can't think, we can't stop
because we're stuck in our own paths
and it's the way it always lasts
but i need
something more
from you
* * *
There was snow in the air, stillness in the room, and if he shut his eyes long enough he thought he might hear a voice in his ear. Her voice.
He had held her. It had seemed a long time to her, but it had seemed an even longer time to him. For she measured the time they had spent together but he measured the time they had spent apart--that was time he could measure, that was time he could count, like small birds perched on a wire. He could not, however, place a measure on the time he had spent with her. He had been too busy trying to live, trying to hold on, to even think about scoring his survival skills.
So even as he had watched her walk away (watched the door fall shut behind her), it was not the ever-increasing distance that he kept for memory but the absence of space between them. And as he stood there on a sidewalk (the middle of a room) wet by streetlight (candlelight), he knew he would wake the next morning and find himself loving her all the same. As if she had never left, as if she had never left him. As if he had never lost her. It was the way he loved, the only way he knew how to hold on to the things he could not keep. It was the way he still loved Danijela, and Jasna, and Marko; the way, he imagined, he might always love her. As a memory, a homesickness.
So Luka held his breath--and for a moment, he thought he heard her presence in the room. But when he opened his eyes she was only a memory.
* * *
The curtains were open. He had left them like that in the night. Sleep came, as it had not in weeks, but still he could not bear the darkness of rest, that desolate expanse of death that greeted him when he dreamed. So the curtains stayed open, and when morning came day threw a pale square of light on his face and he opened his eyes. He was aware of the snow falling outside the glass, and of the stillness in the room, and of time--passing, passing him by--aware of everything but the presence of another in the room until she shut the door behind her.
Startled, Carter turned over in bed. "Did you just get in?"
Hand still clinging to the knob, Phil looked exhausted. "Graveyard shift," she said, letting her hand fall.
"I didn't know you still had those at Northwestern," he joked, and he got up and out of bed to help her with her coat.
Phil flopped down onto the bed. "Now you know."
"I thought it was just something we did at County," Carter teased as he hung up her coat. "Like alchemy and leeches."
"Oh, go play with your abacus," Phil mumbled, but she was smiling as she buried her face into a pillow. "You're up early."
"Early bird gets the worm," said Carter, sitting himself on the side of the bed.
"I'd rather get the sleep."
"I think I'm with you on that one," Carter said, and he smiled at her over his shoulder.
Briefly, Phil raised her hand to touch the side of his face. "Are you still having trouble sleeping?"
"Not as much," he replied truthfully, although he often thought of his brother and of Lucy. That was nothing new; they would always be at the back of his head.
"Are you still getting phone calls from that woman?"
Carter tensed. "What woman?"
"Alicia Holbrooke," said Phil, her eyes full of sympathy. "She called again when you were out yesterday."
At the sound of her name he turned so that he was facing away from Phil, and the window. "I didn't know you knew about those phone calls."
"Well, she's been calling almost every day for the last month. It's kind of hard not to know about those phone calls." Phil got up, throwing her weight and her shadow across his back. "I live here too, you know."
"I know," Carter said, and he closed his eyes as she leaned into him, her breath warm on the side of his neck.
"How's your dad?" she said.
"He's starting treatment," he replied.
"Where?"
Carter paused. "Northwestern."
"Oh," Phil said, stiffly. "I didn't know."
Carter sighed; it hadn't even crossed his mind to mention it to her in the midst of all the arrangements he had had to make over the holiday weekend. Arrangements he had had to make right away so his dad could start treatment on Monday. He had been so busy…
He was so good at hurting her, when had he become so good at hurting her?
"I'm sorry," he said. "I meant to tell you."
"It's okay." Phil planted a quick kiss on the side of his ear. "Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about something."
Carter tilted his head so that he could see her out of the corner of his eye.
"I've been thinking," she said, and he could detect a little seriousness in her voice, "We should move in together."
* * *
"This," Abby announced, on her way to the ER, "Is not cool."
"What's not cool?" said Susan, momentarily distracted by the smell of coffee from a street vendor.
"This," said Abby, sounding irritated as she flipped her cell phone closed. "Some jerk keeps calling me and hanging up when I answer the phone."
Amused, Susan's gaze flickered back to Abby. "How do you know it's the same jerk?"
"I don't," said Abby.
"Maybe it's a different jerk every time," said Susan, helpfully. "A jerk du jour."
"Your mastery of the French language never ceases to amaze me." Abby stopped and stuffed her phone back in her bag. "Speaking of the French and by that I mean French roast, I need coffee."
Susan sidestepped her way in line. "Maybe he's got the wrong number," she said, returning the conversation to the mystery caller.
Abby glanced back. "Or maybe he's an asshole."
"Or maybe," said Susan, as they approached the head of the line, "I want a pretzel."
Abby looked skeptical. "It's too early for pretzels."
"Pffft," piffled Susan. "It's never too early for pretzels."
"I'll pass," said Abby, as Susan paid for her pretzel and offered to share. "Thanks."
"Your loss," shrugged Susan, and she stepped aside to let Abby place her order. "So how was your holiday weekend?"
"I worked."
"On the biggest shopping day of the year? For shame, Abby."
"Shut up. You worked, too."
"Half shift," Susan said breezily as she bit into her breakfast. "I forgot to ask--how was painting with Luka?"
Abby handed some money over to the vendor. "He kissed me."
Susan choked. "He kissed you?"
Cradling a cup of coffee, Abby nodded.
"Gah," said Susan, speechless. "And you didn't tell me?"
"Well, I didn't get a chance to talk to you on Saturday." Shrugging, Abby stuffed the change into her wallet and began walking rapidly towards County. "Weren't we supposed to be at work ten minutes ago?"
"Phones!" Susan said from behind her, trailing behind as they crossed the ambulance bay. "They're called cell phones!"
Abby ignored her. "Carter!" she called, spying his tall figure in front of the ER.
"He kissed you?" Susan persisted determinedly. "I can't believe he kissed you. Was it good? Did you kiss him back? What about Carter? Hey, I thought you loved Carter."
"Hey," said Carter, waving at them, thankfully out of earshot. At least of Susan. She hoped. "You two are late."
Abby rolled her eyes. "Who died and made you hall monitor?"
"Given the fact I just saved you from the wrath of Weaver, I think the word you're looking for is 'thanks'." Carter paused. "Is that a pretzel?"
"Yeah," said Abby.
"Have it," said Susan, having lost interest in her breakfast.
"Thanks," said Carter, taking a large bite. "Great pretzel."
"I thought so," said Susan.
"What'd you tell Weaver?" asked Abby, sipping her coffee.
"You guys were with Romano."
"Brilliant," she declared. "Thanks."
"Yeah," Carter said modestly. "I try. Anyway, it'll be a long time before Weaver asks for either of you so enjoy your latte, you bourgeois pig."
Abby nudged him. "Pots and kettles, Rockefeller. I take my coffee black."
Susan rolled her eyes. "I'm going to go put my stuff down." Then, under her breath, "Not that either of you will notice."
Carter grinned as Abby gave him one of her patented eye rolls. "Ignore her. How was your weekend?"
"Busy," he said.
Abby watched as the snow began to collect on the tops of his head and shoulders. "Right. Is everything ready for your dad?"
He nodded. "I think so."
"How's he doing?"
Carter shrugged. "Hard to tell."
Nodding, Abby grew quiet and waited for him to say more. But that was it. "And you?"
"I'm fine."
Unexpectedly, Abby laughed.
"What?" The ghost of a smile was on Carter's face. "What's so funny?"
"You sound like me."
The smile hovered on his face. "Do I?"
"That's not a good thing," Abby reminded him. "Really, how are you?"
Ruefully, Carter laughed. He had heard that question so often over the last couple of months--from Phil, from Gamma, from his father, from his friends, and he had never stopped to really think about the answer.
"I don't know," he answered truthfully, and he jammed his hands into his pockets. She watched him frown and pull something out. Obviously, something he had forgotten.
A folded piece of paper.
Abby looked at him questioningly.
Carter unfolded the paper, gave a brief laugh, and glanced at her sideways. "It's my letter of resignation."
Abby glanced down at the innocuous sheet of paper. "It's unsigned."
"No," said Carter, and he folded it back up to slip inside his pocket. "Not yet."
"So you've decided."
He shook his head, snow shaking off him like ash.
"Come on," said Abby, taking his arm and steering him towards the ER. "It's freezing out here. Let's go inside and get you some coffee."
Carter smiled, the warmth of her hand tucked around his arm oddly reassuring. "Can I make it a latte?"
Abby looked up at him. When he smiled at her, her heart gave a quick throb, the kind that would have been painful if she were not used to it by now, the kind that made her want to throw caution to the wind.
* * *
"First nutcase of the holiday season," said Susan, handing out charts. "Needs a work-up. Can you get him started for me, Abby?"
Abby flipped through the chart. "First name Santa, last name Claus? You owe me."
"There's still twenty four shopping days left until Christmas," Susan reminded her. "Plenty of time for material thanks. Oh, and we've got another winner: guy with syphilis in curtain area three. Says he knows you, Gallant."
"Not in that way," said Carter, looking up from his first chart of the day. "I hope."
Abby snickered as she watched a reluctant Gallant take the chart from Susan's hands. "Man, this is the third time this week he's been in to see me."
"Maybe he'll grow on you," Susan said helpfully.
"He's growing something, but it's definitely not on me," said Gallant, as he made his exit.
"Way to do the exit line," Abby remarked, and she nodded as Susan said she'd be along soon.
Pushing open the door, Abby wasn't surprised to find an older man dressed head to toe like Santa Claus. She supposed the ER did this to her, warped her conceptions of what normal was supposed to be. She didn't mind too much as long as it didn't warp her paycheck.
But the man was visibly shocked to see her, and she watched as he struggled to control the tidal wave of emotions crossing his face.
"I didn't know you worked here," he managed to say.
"I'm Abby," she said, still confused. "I'm a nurse. Are you okay?"
Santa gave her a quick, jerky nod.
"Let's see," Abby said, flipping through her chart. Probably a mental case. "First name Santa, last name Claus, huh?"
"Ho ho ho," Santa said weakly.
"It says here you've got chest pains."
Santa nodded gravely. He seemed to have recovered from his minor…whatever. "I do."
"How old are you, Santa?"
"Not a year over twenty-five."
Abby smiled. Apparently, whatever had bothered the man about her when she walked in wasn't bothering him anymore. If this man wasn't so weird he'd make somebody's nice grandfather. Or maybe it was because he was so weird that he'd make somebody's nice grandfather. Not that he looked old enough to be a grandfather. Maybe.
But Santa broke off her train of thought. "How old are you, miss?"
Reaching behind her for a chair, Abby pretended to think about the question.
"You don't look a day over twenty," Santa declared.
"Thanks, Santa," said Abby, with a wry smile. "But I need to know your age for your diagnosis."
"Not a year over twenty-five…twenty six years ago," he said promptly, but he was smiling.
"Thank you. Do you smoke?"
"Like a chimney."
Abby couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing at the idea of a chain-smoking St. Nick.
Santa decided to lob the question back at her. "Do you smoke?"
"I'm trying to quit," Abby smiled, as she scribbled some notes on the chart.
"Nice girls don't smoke," Santa pointed out as the door opened and Susan came in.
"I guess that makes me one of the naughty ones," Abby said, and she winked at him before handing the chart over to Susan. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Claus."
* * *
Several hours had passed by the time Susan managed to catch up with Abby. She found her friend in the lounge, pouring over what looked like a stack of nursing schedules, looking irritable with a pen tucked behind an ear and a cup of coffee in hand.
"So," said Susan.
Abby looked up blankly. "What?"
"Nursing schedules?"
"Weaver," Abby said glumly. "Sometimes I hate being Nurse Manager."
"Nurse Manager?" said Susan, surprised. "When did this happen?"
Abby made a dismissive gesture with a wave of her hand. "Doesn't matter since there's no pay raise."
"Ouch."
Susan watched her friend work for a minute before clearing her throat. Loudly.
Abby tapped her pen against the table. "What?"
"He kissed you," said Susan, crossing her arms.
Shaking her head, Abby looked back down at her papers. "It didn't mean anything."
"Yeah, but you brought it up."
"Yeah, well maybe I shouldn't have," Abby suddenly snapped.
Susan looked taken aback. "I'm sorry. I thought you wanted to talk about it. I'll leave it alone."
Inwardly, Abby cursed at herself. She didn't mean to snap at Susan, she just didn't know how to talk about what happened with Luka. Didn't even know why she brought it up in the first place. She hated this about herself, hated the fact that she could hold back from the people who loved her most. Sometimes she wondered what the hell anyone ever saw in her when all she ever did was fail--as a friend, as a lover, as a daughter.
"Sorry," muttered Abby, not daring to meet her friend's eye. "I didn't mean to."
Susan looked unperturbed. "Abby, it's okay. If you want to talk, you know where I am. And if you don't, that's fine too."
"Thanks," said Abby, mostly to her paper.
"So you must have made a hell of an impression on St. Nick, because he couldn't stop asking about you after you left," said Susan, a smirk on her face as she changed the subject.
"Asking about me?" Abby smiled. "What, in a dirty old man kind of way or a kindly old man kind of way?"
"The latter."
"It must be the winning personality," Abby decided. "So should I make Malik work three night shifts in a row?"
"Why?"
"Or I'll have to do it."
"Do it."
"You're evil."
"Yeah, but I'm also pretty," joked Susan. "Is Carter ditching us for greener pastures?"
"Dunno," Abby replied, the pen between her teeth as she poured over some numbers. "I think he's still deciding. He's got a few options."
"God knows I'd do it if I had the chance," said Susan, sounding bored. "Actually, what the hell am I saying? I love this place. I came back from halfway across the country for this place. I must be crazy."
"No arguments here."
"Yeah. But at least I'm in the right place for people like me."
Abby looked at her curiously. "What, a hospital?"
"No," Susan gave her a crooked grin. "County."
* * *
It eventually got around to Weaver that Susan and Abby were not, in fact, in a meeting with Rocket Romano in the morning, and Abby found herself spending the rest of her shift doing an inventory of the drug lockup. She was pretty sure Carter and Susan managed to escape (pleading ignorance and first-time offense, respectively), but she didn't mind her punishment so much. She was in the middle of some very important Luka-avoiding and the inventory was a convenient excuse to hideout.
"Abby?"
Or not.
Abby nearly dropped the box of gloves she was holding. She hadn't seen Luka since running out of his apartment on Thanksgiving and a thousand replies ran through her mind, ranging from "can't talk--very important inventory, rubber gloves to be counted and needles to be accounted for" to "how dare you track me down, I am not an animal to be hunted".
Instead, she decided to settle for the very lame but very safe--"Luka. Hi."
Luka shifted in place. Previously, she thought he just looked awkward but now he looked downright embarrassed. "Hi. I didn't know you were working."
"Well. I am. Working." Privately, Abby marveled at her ability to speak with a minimum of effort from her lips. Someone should give her an award, or just the cash prize.
"Excuse me," he muttered as he ducked inside, presumably to get what he had come for.
Obediently, Abby scooted aside to give him room. To give her something to do instead of look stupid she began counting the number of rubber gloves. Again.
"Kerry?"
"Yeah."
"Inventory?"
"Yeah."
"What did you do?"
"I was late."
Beside her, she heard him heave a deep sigh. Oh, that Luka. Always so good about being the martyr.
"We need to talk."
"We've nothing to talk about."
"I kissed you."
"I remember. I left."
"You kissed me back."
Abby drew in a sharp breath. She hated the way he got the better of her, hated the way he made her feel like the sinner to his saint. It would be so easy to do it all over again--and that was the problem, that was why she kissed him back before her survival instincts kicked in and she fled. It would be so easy to fall; she knew exactly where she'd land, and she knew how much it would hurt. The first time may have been an accident, but the second time around would definitely be a mistake and it would be her mistake. She was smarter than this. She was more than this. She was above this.
He was kissing her.
It was a chaste kiss, over before it had even begun, but it left her body shuddering all the same. Abby stared down at her shoes, unsure what to say, if anything could be said, when she had no place to run.
Finally, Abby looked up. But it was not Luka whose face she saw. Instead, she saw Carter, standing at the door to the drug lockup, staring at them both, looking ashen.
Abby felt her throat constrict. Carter.
"John," Abby blurted, before she could help herself. "This isn't what it looks like--"
"I didn't mean to interrupt," Carter muttered, cutting her off, not looking at her, not looking at Luka, not looking at anything.
Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.
Luka turned to her. "Abby--"
"Luka, I can't," Abby cut him off angrily. "Not now."
Frustrated, Luka followed her out of the drug lockup. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to find Carter."
"Why?" he demanded.
"He might have the wrong idea about us!"
"Is there something going on between you and Carter?"
"What?" said Abby, her face growing hot. "Me and Carter? No!"
Luka persisted. "Then why are you running after him?"
Why am I running after him, why am I running after him as if my life depends on it, does this question even matter? "Keep your voice down," Abby hissed. "That's not the point."
"What is the point?" asked Luka, not bothering to keep his voice down.
The point, the point. What was the point of anything? Way to go post-modern, Abby. Really the time and place for it, too. Sometimes she really hated herself.
Frustrated, Abby stopped in her tracks. "The point is that I don't think we should be having this conversation right now."
"When?" Luka demanded. "Then when should we be having this conversation?"
"How about never?" Abby spat, as he blocked her way. "That works for me."
"We need to talk," Luka said firmly.
"We don't need to do anything," retorted Abby.
"I kissed you."
"I know! I was there, remember?"
"And you don't think we need to talk?" asked Luka, incredulous.
Frustrated, Abby tried again to get past him. "What could we possibly have to talk about?"
"You kissed me back!" Luka yelled at her.
"Temporary lapse of sanity!" Abby yelled back at him. "Now will you move out of my way?"
Luka looked mutinous. "Are you sure there isn't anything going on between you and Carter?"
"I'm sure!" Abby yelled. "That there is absolutely nothing going on between us! Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?"
A dreadful silence followed. Abby dared to look around her and immediately regretted it when she did: doctors, nurses, and patients alike were staring at her and Luka. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Santa Claus lean forward in curiosity, and Susan's head slowly gravitate towards her clipboard.
"Well," Romano broke in, his tone sarcastic, "Someone's grapes are a little sour and I'm pleasantly surprised to find they're not mine."
* * *
If there ever was an excuse for that emergency cigarette, thought Abby. She sat in the ambulance bay with a coat wrapped around her frame and a cigarette dangling from her lips, trying to banish the day from her memory. Specifically, Carter--and his open, honest, heartbroken face.
Open.
She struck a match.
Honest.
She lit the cigarette.
Heartbroken.
She inhaled.
"Never," she said aloud, holding her rumpled pack of cigarettes in front of her face with a reverence bordering on the maniacal. "I will never, ever leave you again."
"I thought you said you were trying to quit."
Abby looked up at the voice she didn't recognize.
"I may be a lot of things but I'm not a quitter," she declared when she saw who was speaking to her.
Santa Claus smiled back at her. "That's the spirit. Mind if I join you?"
Abby shrugged, and brushed off the snow from the seat next to her. After the day she just had she didn't think things could possibly get worse.
"Brrr," said Santa. "Kind of cold. Not sure if reindeer will fly in this weather."
Weirder, yes. But not worse.
"It was a joke," he assured her, at the look upon her face.
Abby stared at him. Whatever. She had her cigarette. She was in the zone. She was above it all. She was--
Offering Santa a smoke.
"Thanks," he said, lighting up. She winced; offering a cigarette to a Santa Claus with chest pains was possibly the fastest ticket she could get to hell. "You're a doctor, shouldn't you be advising against this sort of behavior?"
"I'm a nurse," Abby clarified, and she tapped the ash off her cigarette. "So, no."
"A bright person like you not a doctor?"
"Ah," Abby interrupted him. She waved her cigarette around when she spoke. "I was second in my class when I dropped out of med school and chose to be a nurse."
"Impressive." Santa did sound impressed, and he took a drag off his cigarette. "My mom was a nurse."
"Really?" said Abby, with some interest.
"Damn fine one, too." Abby blinked; was that a twinkle in his eye? "Was rightly disappointed when one of her boys didn't want to go into the medical profession. I'm sure she'd have been proud to know someone like you."
Abby felt oddly pleased by this revelation.
"Anyway." Santa rose, dusting the ash and snow from his red velour. That was the fastest cigarette she had ever watched anyone smoke; she had to admit it, she was impressed. "Thanks for the cigarette but I've got to get going. Gift-giving and reindeer-rearing to get to, and all."
"Of course," Abby smiled. What a weird guy. "Must be a busy time of year."
But he didn't leave. Instead, she watched as he rummaged through a plastic bag she hadn't noticed he was carrying. When his hand emerged there was a sealed card with her name on it, and a candy cane.
"Merry Christmas," he said, giving her a tender smile, and for a moment she could've sworn he was going to cry. But he blinked, and the moment was gone. "For the record, I think you're one of the nice ones."
"Oh." A flood of sympathy overtook her. "I can't accept this."
"I know there are rules," he said, "But it's just paper and sugar, and I promise there's no money inside."
Reluctantly, Abby smiled. "Okay, but this is between you and me or it's to the unemployment office for me."
He looked at her and smiled before walking away.
Abby watched him go, his red suit a swipe of bright paint against an otherwise black and white backdrop. When she was fairly certain he was gone, she glanced down at the front of the card and at her name. On the back of the envelope was written, in an annoyingly almost-familiar script,
Do not open until Christmas.
Smiling, Abby stuck the card in her bag and finished her cigarette.
* * *
The cigarette was on the ground and Abby was watching its last embers fade into a too-cold night when the double doors opened and Carter walked out.
She didn't stop to marvel at her dumb luck, that after having searched all day for him and after having given up he would just appear in front of her with that look on his face, that heartbreakingly open look on his face. She didn't stop to question the forces at work, that strange mix of fortune and happenstance that seemed to govern the absolutely wrong and absolutely right timing of their lives.
She didn't stop because she didn't have the time--he had seen her and he was walking away from her.
"Carter!" she called, her voice ringing out like a bell in the cold air.
Carter stopped. He turned and looked at her, his face drawn and weary under snow and streetlight. "I've got to go. My dad."
Abby got up and walked over to where he was standing.
Carter looked at her. "You smell like smoke."
Not a great way to start the conversation.
She grinned at him weakly. "Would you believe me if I said it was hickory?"
He gave her a look.
"Stop," said Abby. "Spare me the lecture, okay? I know you've got to go, but you have to have ten minutes."
Please, she prayed. Once upon a time you had all the time in the world for me. Please have ten minutes now.
"Depends." Carter shifted his weight--she had forgotten that he was still on crutches--and she held her breath. "Do you have another cigarette?"
Abby blinked. "Sure."
So they huddled together in the snow like conspirators, Abby rummaging through her pockets until she emerged with her crumpled pack and Carter coming up with a match to light his cigarette.
"Five minutes," said Carter, exhaling a lungful of cigarette and checking his watch. "I can't be late."
Abby exhaled. "Thanks."
"By the way, that was some show you put on earlier in the ER."
She stared at him, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "You saw that?"
"No." Carter looked at her quickly, and then looked away. "I think I'm the only one who didn't see it. But Romano seemed to like it."
He paused. Abby looked at him; he still wasn't looking at her, and he had this pained expression on his face.
"So. You and Luka, huh?"
No, Abby wanted to scream. There is absolutely nothing going on between us.
Instead, she said nothing. Why was she saying nothing?
"I see," Carter said abruptly, interpreting her silence for consent. He glanced up at the headlights of an approaching car. "That's my taxi. So what is it you wanted?"
It was dark now, but she could still see him clearly in the snow that swirled around them both. The headlights of the cab illuminated his appearance to a study in darkness and pallor: the burnt-dark eyes, the eyelashes flecked with bits of ice, the dampened hair mussed appealingly around his face. Not for the first time she understood the look on his face, the look he wore all the time without knowing, the look that said he loved her. It was one of the few things she understood because she didn't understand much else. What he meant to her. How he managed to become so unexpectedly important to her. The way he always wanted things from her that she wasn't sure she knew how to give--things like honesty, and effort, and the meaning that came from them both. And the way that made her want things with him that she had never wanted with anyone else--and the way that scared the hell out of her--
And the way she wanted to try, with him, for him, anyway.
She knew that he loved her. She knew that now; it was written there all over his face for her to see. But there was no way for her to know if he wanted her, and those were two different things.
Carter was staring at her; intently, determinedly. "Abby?"
Tell him, she screamed at herself. Tell him because there are no second chances, tell him because if you don't you'll regret it for the rest of your life.
Tell him.
"John…"
The cab honked its horn.
"Call me," Abby blurted, a burst of fear stabbing at her chest. "If you need to talk later."
"Yeah," Carter said, and as he got in the cab he gave her an odd look. "Thanks. I'll give you a call if it's not too late."
With a sinking feeling, Abby watched as his cab drove away.
* * *
It was late by the time Carter accompanied his father back to the mansion and made his way back to his apartment. Gamma had come to the door, muttering about insolent grandchildren and shooting little death stares in his direction (all of which he ignored because he knew she was just tired and worried about her son), and his dad had left but not without first saying thank you and last asking him if he had given any thought to the Foundation (to which he still had no answer). Carter had bade them both a polite goodnight and then headed over to his apartment. To say he was exhausted would be a gross understatement of the facts.
"Hey," said Phil, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek when he came in through the front door.
"Hey," said Carter, half-heartedly patting the back of her head in return.
"What took you so long?" she began conversationally.
"Well, the man is dying," Carter said carelessly as he tossed his coat over the sofa. "These things take time."
"John," said Phil, her voice quiet. "I didn't mean it like that."
"I know," he said, and he chastised himself again. "I just had a long day; I'm sorry."
Phil followed him into the kitchen and watched as he poured himself a tall glass of orange juice. "Want to tell me about your day?"
"Sure." Carter loosened his tie and sat back in a chair, the image of Abby and Luka in the drug lockup burned into his mind as it had been all day. "Not much to tell."
Liar, he whispered to himself.
"Well," Phil began, "Then I'll start. I've got a surprise for you."
Carter raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing big," Phil called from the other room as he heard her open some drawers. "It's just--our article."
She walked back into the kitchen with a medical journal. "Ta da."
Carter's eyes lit up and he smiled in spite of himself. It was their article all right, the one on doctor exchange programs between intercity hospitals, the one they worked on all autumn.
"Hey," he said, obviously pleased. "This is great."
"I'm glad you think so," Phil said, her smile matching his. "Does it make your day a little better?"
"It does," said Carter, still smiling over the article. He took a long swig off his orange juice. "I didn't know they'd publish it so quickly."
"They wanted to make it by the end of this year," Phil explained.
By the end of this year. Carter shut his eyes. The same words his father had said to him, except his father was talking about the Foundation and a successor.
Phil watched as the smile on Carter's face disappeared, replaced by a look that was as tired and as haunted as the one that greeted her at the door.
"You look tired," she said, her voice quiet.
"I am tired," said Carter, and he pushed the journal and his glass of juice away from him.
And when he shut his eyes, he saw Abby as he had seen her today--her pale face, her body caught in the track of headlights--John, she had said, she so rarely called him that, what was it she wanted to say, what was it she couldn't say?--and he saw his father, his pale face, his body also caught, but in his own blood and genetics, and the disease that ran through them both, and his voice--John, he had said, as he had always said--
It hurt, so much so that he felt dead inside. He hadn't expected it to hurt like this. Any of it.
"I'm tired," Carter repeated. "I'm tired of everyone expecting something from me."
"John," Phil said gently, "Nobody expects anything of you except for you to be happy."
That's not true, Carter thought. Everyone needed something more from him, something more than this, and there were things more important than his happiness at stake. If it was up to him, the world would be a different place; if it was up to him…
"I don't expect anything from you."
Everyone needed something more from him. Especially Phil.
* * *
Abby had taken her time getting home, swearing viciously to herself, kicking herself, but she still managed to make it home exactly ten minutes before Luka came knocking at her door.
That was twenty minutes ago.
"Come on, Abby," Luka yelled through the door. "You can't be mad at me forever."
"Oh yeah?" Abby yelled back. She was sure she had enough self-loathing and fury at Luka to take her through the next millennium. Or at least through the next couple of hours. "Watch me try."
Seething, she grabbed her pack of cigarettes and parked herself on the couch in her apartment. Her eyes narrowed as she struck a match and proceeded to methodically smoke the rest of the pack. She was, after all, nothing more than the person she thought she was, the person her mother had shaped her to be: stubborn, willful, emotionally stunted and doomed to be alone for the rest of her life.
By the end of her fifth cigarette, though, she could still hear Luka shuffling in the same place he had been for the last half hour or so--on the other side of her door.
She stomped up to the door. "What do you want, Luka?"
"I want you to open the door," Luka muttered, feeling incredibly stupid at having a conversation with a block of wood.
"So we can have another conversation about me and Carter? I don't think so."
Annoyed, Luka kicked at the door. "Don't you think you're being a little irrational?"
"Don't you think you're being a little too single white female?"
"What?" Luka yelled.
"What?" Abby yelled.
"What?" Luka yelled back.
"Oh, this is ridiculous," Abby muttered, disgusted at the entire situation, and she flung the door open. "What?" she yelled into his face. "Sorry."
"Thank you," said Luka, looking harried.
"So what is it you wanted to say?" spat Abby, looking hostile. "Or did you just want to kiss me again and get it over with?"
Luka stared at her. She was crazy, absolutely crazy, she smelled as if she had just smoked half a smokestack, and god, she was irresistibly pretty.
"Well, I don't remember hearing you complaining," he shot back.
Abby turned a bright and unnatural shade of red.
"That's not what I came here to say," Luka muttered, his eyes nailed to the floor. "Look. Can we talk?"
"I'm not falling for that one again, thanks," Abby began icily as her hand made a move for the door.
"No." Luka caught the door before she could shut it. "Really."
"What?" Abby demanded. "What could we possibly have to talk about?"
Luka stared at her. "I want to take you out."
Not exactly what he was planning to say.
Abby stared back, astonished. "What?"
"I said," repeated Luka, more slowly, and for lack of anything better to say, "I want to take you out."
"You want to what?"
"Out," Luka enunciated again, growing more confident. "Can I take you out?"
Abby found herself at a loss for words. "Out?" she said, stupidly. "Like on a date?"
"Yes," said Luka, patiently, echoing her choice of words, but he was smiling. Like a maniac, thought Abby, and she thought of her mother not for the first time this evening. "Like on a date."
She shook her head. She felt dizzy, muddled, as if she was looking at him from underwater. "Luka, we broke up."
Luka looked injured. "That doesn't mean we still can't go out."
"Well, yes," she said, patiently, "That's exactly what it means."
Then Luka said something in Croatian that Abby didn't understand but whose meaning was perfectly clear. She couldn't help but smile; it sounded exactly how she felt.
"I brought something to show you," he said at last, frustrated at his inability to articulate himself in words. "Can I come in?"
It was the painting. Her painting.
It was covered, but it was the right size and shape, and he was treating it with the right amount of care. Wordless, Abby watched as he grew tired of waiting for her to answer and welcomed himself inside, carrying the painting carefully into her apartment and setting it on her table.
"I thought you said you weren't done," said Abby, now grown quiet.
"I'm not," said Luka, and he drew back the sheet.
They were silent for a moment, and she felt as she did the first time they had kissed. Not the time in the ambulance bay, or in the bar--chaotic, fleeting moments born of impulse and curiosity--but the time in his motel room. She felt the room close in around her, felt its breath on the back of her neck. She was acutely aware of herself, and of his presence all around her, enclosing her, like the room, like the darkness in it. The past loomed, the present broke, the future fled--all assailable, all unattainable--so they had held on to what they could, and they had held on to each other.
She stared into herself, into someone who was her but who was not her, unfinished but undeniably her, and it was surreal, and it was strange, and it was fantastic--
"Abby."
And after all this time she was amazed to find out that he still loved her.
"Abby?" he tried again. "Do you like it?"
"I thought you said your father did abstracts," she whispered. She was afraid to speak above a whisper, she was afraid her voice would break.
"He does," Luka said gently. "But I don't. Do you like it?"
"I do," said Abby, her voice quiet.
"It's yours," he said.
A moment passed.
"How do you know it'll be better the second time around?" said Abby, not daring to look at him, not daring to even think about what she was considering.
"Practice makes perfect?"
Abby snorted. "Please. Spare me the platitudes."
"We'll fight less."
"I hope so."
"Talk more."
"Good idea."
"...do other things."
Abby couldn't help herself; she laughed.
"Like watch movies," Luka finished blandly.
"I like movies," said Abby, the corners of her mouth quirking.
"Listen," Luka began gently, and when he turned to face her he touched his hand to her face. "I don't know if things will be better the second time around. But I do know that we're different people than we used to be, and I know that I was wrong."
Abby was silent for a moment. She was still staring at that likeness of herself, at herself.
"Wrong about what?" she said at last.
"You are that pretty," said Luka, his hand warm against the side of her face. "You are that special."
Carefully, Luka tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. He liked her this way, disheveled and dreamy; he didn't notice when she flinched, he didn't know it was because in that moment his simple gesture had reminded her of Carter.
"You know I would never let anyone hurt you."
Abby shut her eyes. For a moment, she stood there in the circle of his half-embrace with her eyes closed.
You know I would never let anyone hurt you.
She opened them.
"Except for you, right?"
* * *
CREDITS: Thanks go to JD for the opening lyrics from Nada Surf. There are a couple of lines in here that aren't originals but I wrote them so long ago I can't remember what they are or where they're from. E-mail me and I'll attribute them.
If you want to know where the hell I was for the last couple of months or why the chapters are taking so long or if you just want to throw things at me: www.livejournal.com/~cmidori.