Title: Pause!
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Only in my (wildest) dreams
Spoilers: All of season 10.
Summary: Breakfast, movies and Cyndi Lauper, oh my!
Author's Note: I appreciate all the feedback I've been getting. I hope to keep the story up to your standards.
Chapter Three
"That's all they really waaaaaaant," he hummed, walking through the hospital parking garage.
"Some fun," he unlocked the door of his Jeep.
"When the working day is done!"
Safely inside the soundproof car, he bellowed the anthem.
"Girls, they wanna have fun, oh girls just want to have—"
Sam and Luka strolled past, laughing on their way to Luka's car.
"We can still hear you, Carter," Sam called. He grinned at her. The song wasn't entirely appropriate: his most recent patients had been a trio of drunk college girls, superglued together, apparently on a dare.
"Fun!" He tipped his head back shouting and started the car. In a surprisingly good mood, he hummed all the way to the Swissotel Hotel.
In the lobby, he met his father good-natured, and almost hugged him on an impulse. Just in time, he remembered to settle down and he shook his father's hand instead.
"Breakfast?" the elder Carter asked, by way of greeting.
Seated in the hotel's upscale café, both Carters inhaled the bacon-y aroma.
"This is a great place," Jack motioned to the restaurant.
His son nodded, studying the menu.
"My mother and I ate here often."
Both turned their attention to the waiter and ordered.
"You came here with her didn't you? I seem to recall a breakfast ritual you and your grandmother had?"
"At the mansion."
"That's right. She had an excellent chef."
"Jeffery."
"Jeffery. Whatever happened to him?"
Carter thought over his response carefully to avoid stepping into a trap.
"He works for the Amslers now."
"You didn't keep him after you sold the mansion?" Mentally, Carter groaned, trapped despite his efforts. Months later, his father still resented him for the sale of the family house.
"What for?" he asked, resigned, but was rescued from hearing his father's response by the arrival of the food.
Just before bidding his son goodbye, Jack asked after Kem.
"I haven't heard from her in a few weeks."
"No?" his father feigned sympathy.
"I sent her share of the money from our house when I sold it."
"Good," Jack said, "Now you can go back to normal."
Ignoring the latter remark, Carter said goodbye, wishing his father good luck at the meeting for which he was in town, and left the hotel. On the street he took a deep breath, relieved, and waited for the valet to return with his Jeep.
His happy mood returned as he navigated through rush hour traffic on his way home. Gradually, his thoughts shifted from his irritation towards his father to the better parts of his day, at the hospital. With a smile, he recalled one of Abby's patients whose chart he'd meant to sign. The woman, stricken with a bout of pneumonia, had balked when he entered her room.
"Get him out of here!" she had shrieked. "Scram!"
Containing his laughter, he exited, motioning to Abby he'd listen from outside the room to assess the case. Once he was gone, he heard the woman speak again.
"Man, that guy was a crackpot! I could just tell from looking at him."
"Mrs. Henderson," Abby tried to assure her, "Doctor Carter is—"
"A sleazebag!" Mrs. Henderson declared.
After the exam, he asked Abby, "Psych consult?"
"Nah," she smirked, "she's just got a case of woman's intuition."
A few hours later, Abby had come up behind him as he signed charts at the Admit desk. She'd tossed a prescription pad at his head and—
Driving past a movie theater, he had a sudden urge to call her. He resisted for a moment, predicting the awkward conversation that was sure to be the outcome of a phone call.
"Why'd you call?" she'd ask.
"Just stuck in traffic thinking about you," would be his inevitable embarrassing answer.
"Oh," she'd say. "Well if that's all I gotta go."
Turning up the radio, he laughed at himself. How pathetic it was to imagine conversations.
Two songs and one block later, though, he was still tempted to call her. More nervous than he should have been, he relented.
"Hey," she answered. "How was breakfast?"
"Bearable."
"He pestered you?"
"That's just how he communicates."
He heard a little laugh from the other end.
"When did you get off work?" he asked.
"Still on."
"And you're talking to me?"
She smiled again, he thought.
"Don't worry, boss, I'm on a break."
"Oh," he said, suddenly out of things to say. He switched the phone to the other ear.
"Listen, have you heard about that new Precinct movie?" He was anxious, for they had not yet discussed dating since their dinner three days ago.
"Assault on Precinct 13? I wanted to see that."
He caught a nervous tone in her voice too, and was reassured.
"Tomorrow?"
"I'm working."
"Me too. After, I meant."
"Okay," she agreed, "that'd be good."
"Yeah." A car honked behind him. "See you later."
Traffic easing, he drove the rest of the way home in a mood that was fully re-inflated.
The next day, his half-shift seemed longer than the full shift he'd worked the day before. He told himself it was due to a more difficult patient load, but he knew it was his anticipation for the evening that stretched the day longer. Just before the shift was to end, he got tangled in another trauma, and it wasn't until ten 'o'clock that he was finally able to meet Abby in the lounge.
"There's a later showing at the Webster," he told her, "but my car's in the shop so we'll have to take the El."
"Manly," she patted his shoulder. "I'm going to go wash up."
Minutes later she returned with fresh makeup and combed hair.
"Much better."
"Before was good too," he said with a smile, and together they ducked out of the hospital.
The bitter-cold air was a relief at first, but waiting for the El they both shivered.
"I like the El," he said stupidly, feeling the need for more impressive conversation since the date had begun.
"Reminds you of poor people?" She shifted the tone back to friendly; he laughed, relieved.
"No, it reminds me of people in general."
As the pre-movie ads flickered across the screen, they sat tapping their feet to the pop music meant to entertain them.
"Hey!" he exclaimed when strains of Cyndi Lauper absorbed the theater, "I was just singing this song!"
"Don't tell me," she snorted.
He began to sing along, until, after a few bars, she kicked his shin. Fortunately, his cry was drowned out by the booming start of the previews. Carter, not a fan of suspenseful crime dramas, braced himself, preparing for the next two hours. Several times he had to remind himself that Abby was an avid Ethan Hawke fan.
By the time the action sequences were in full heart-pounding gear, Carter was tense as a rubber band ball. At a particularly sudden gunshot, he jumped, and his hand flew into Abby's palm that lay on the armrest beside him. Immediately taken aback by the forwardness of his impulse, he watched her intently to gauge her response.
"Chicken," she laughed, but did not release his hand. Reassured, he reclined back into his seat. Minutes later, he swore she squeezed tighter, afraid herself.
He smiled at her, not wanting to damage her tough image.
"What? I was comforting you."
When the first credits flashed onto the screen, their clasped hands and now-interlocking fingers drew more of his attention. They stayed attached and seated until the final credits rolled.
"I want to see where it was filmed," he said, but even Abby knew he just wanted to stay relaxed like this for as long as possible.
At last, the theater lights were on bright and the teenage janitor was blocking the screen. Abby pulled Carter to his feet.
"So how'd you like it?"
He groaned.
"Not even a little?"
"Better question is how'd you like it?"
"Four stars, definitely."
On the El platform they froze—the tin roof of the shelter did little to shield the icy wind. To knock particles of ice from the tips of his hair, he shook his head. She made a move to stop him.
"Why'd you do that? You looked—"
"Like a frontiersman caught in a blizzard?"
She couldn't help laughing. "But not an ugly frontiersman."
Both noticed a man who really did look like a frontiersman—icy bearded and wrapped in a giant parka—ascend the stairs a few feet away.
"Anyway," Carter began, shifting the topic, but he paused, distracted by her hand that brushed the remaining sleet from his hair.
"I thought it was cute?" he laughed.
"But then you left the job half done," she mumbled, preoccupied by her swiping.
Soon, the swiping ceased, and he became aware of a hand delicately resting on his cheek. Suddenly serious, he felt himself drawn closer to her, admiring her eyebrows, the wisps of hair that had escaped her hat, her cheekbones.
"Abby," he whispered when he was completely absorbed by her presence, their mouths close enough to touch if their lips puckered.
"Shouldn't we discuss—"
She sat upright. "Not now, Carter, I'm tired."
On the El, they did not speak and, tired as she had claimed, she fell asleep against him. It was past midnight and she'd worked a full shift to his half. Carter remained awake throughout the ride, a knot growing in his throat as he watched her sleep.
"Abby," he disentangled the arm he'd wrapped around her.
"Yeah?" Her eyes remained closed.
"Here's your stop."
She sat upright. "Isn't your stop before mine?"
He didn't answer.
Gathering her belongings and rising, she bid him goodnight.
"Thanks, John."
"Thank you."
Smiling as she stepped off the train, she called, "See you tomorrow!"
Just as the doors shut, he said "Good—" but the rumbling of the El blocked out "—night."
At the next stop he got out and boarded the train traveling in the opposite direction, finally on his way home.