"Wind and Rain"

Chapter Two: There Are No Words

Authors' Notes: It's okay, Nikki and Hotti647. We're not really sure if we get it either. With many thanks to the encouraging reviewers, Red Bull and House of Pies.

The duration of this fic has yet to be determined but the writing staff asks that you stay in your seat with your seat belt fastened until the chapters have come to a full stop. Complimentary caffeinated drinks will be served in our first-class accommodation, we ask that those in economy smile prettily and prohibit kicking the chair in front of them if they are not partial to their five pretzels. Enjoy your journey and thank you for flying the friendly skies.

Edited to add: Heh, oops, this might help- the italicized scene at the end is a flashback.

==

Another night slips away. In other words I should say/there are no words he should say. There are no words.
-- Ben Kweller, 'In Other Words'

==

She doesn't think about what she will say until Susan is standing at her door.

Suddenly there needs to be a reason, a purpose to what she wanted from it all to begin with. She hadn't planned what to say, or worried about answering or explaining, because somehow Susan had just known, had taken care of it and whatever was wrong had been fixed.

So she says it in the doorway, giving Susan the chance to bolt before taking the final step inside.

She means to soften it with graceful words, with tact and delicacy. She means to be emotional and breakdown, means to pretend or forget all together that she ever made that phone call, but Susan just stands there with unbrushed hair and a hasty outfit, full of distress, unconcerned with the time or her appearance...waiting, and her decision to choose one of any possibility ends in a simple, "I'm having a miscarriage."

And for a moment the word sounds meaningless.

But it's not, and she knows because she needs to look away before she can read whatever is in Susan's expression.

She remembers walking back to the couch, trusting Susan to close the door whether she chose to leave or stay, remembers holding her warm mug between her hands, not wanting to taste so smelling her tea – peppermint - and then it all becomes twisted, what she did, what she said, everything mixed and muddled and she doesn't think too hard for order because she's not sure if she wants to discover that none of it ever happened at all.

Events might not be in sequence, but she knows she was in the kitchen, remembers the quiet questions, watched the tea swirl around the sink to stain the white sides before draining away.

"When did it start?"

"A few hours ago."

"How many weeks?"

"I'm not sure."

The silence is enough of a reaction and she's washing her hands just to hear something else.

"Have you called Carter yet?"

She says 'no' in the shake of her head, back and forth, slowly but continuously, as if repeating the answer might change it to something different. The implication in Susan's look is clear enough, but it's unaware, seeing only half the picture, so she fills her in.

"He didn't know."

She remembers the multiple trips to the bathroom and Susan's insistence on taking her blood pressure. She remembers the pain and the Tylenol and arguing her way out of going to a hospital.

She knows she talked, but isn't sure if she said any of it out loud. Because she remembers it all happening in one momentary flicker, seven hours somehow the length of a candle's last sputter.

She keeps telling her to leave, apologizing and saying she's okay now, that she can handle it...but Susan has stubbornly turned deaf and leaves only once to return with more sanitary pads and tea.

A new cup replaces the old beside her and she looks up because she finds 'thank you' in the gesture and hopes everything she says in her heart can fit in it, too.

"It's chamomile." But she sees the other answers in Susan's smile and is relieved.

"Taking the fun out of letting me guess?"

"...or I could be lying."

"Won't know 'til I taste, is that it?"

She remembers the calendar and Susan's help, the calculating, biting her lip at the discovery, and remembers going to take another shower, needing to be alone, to be refreshed and clean, but making it fast as if unable to be with only herself and the silence and the thoughts that filled it.

There might have been a book or a magazine. She can't remember where or when, can't remember reading, but had the sensation of paper on her fingers, felt as it was gently removed.

"I wasn't finished." And she grabs at it, momentarily on the brink of a child's tantrum before she recognizes the panic and labels it 'irrational'.

"Okay, tell me what you were reading about, then."

The blank makes her cynical. "Tragedy."

"And we're definitely moving to the TV now."

She doesn't need to ask Susan to call in sick for her, doesn't need to tell her to keep the miscarriage news private, and doesn't need to explain as she heads to the bathroom again, or abruptly stops in the middle of a sentence to wait out the sharp stabs.

And Susan doesn't ask if she's okay, doesn't ask if she needs another cup of tea or water- just always has a fresh cup waiting, and stays entertained by pointing out the gossip she finds in the random magazines laying around the apartment.

"JLo sounds like a sugar packet."

"Sweet and Low?"

"Exactly. Is it supposed to be a trend? SLe doesn't even work."

"And what if she gets married?"

"If it were Ben Affleck it'd be- JAf? Or would it just be a single syllable 'JAF'?"

"Or she could hyphenate."

"JLo-Af. Oh God, that sounds terrible."

She knows he called at 11:43, can still see the blinking light on the answering machine. It has been joined by other messages now, but she doesn't listen to them, remembers turning down the volume after she first started to hear his voice.

"...you're sick? Call me when..."

And she doesn't call him back, doesn't know what she'd say, and refuses to do so just because Susan's, "Abby" makes her feel she should.

She remembers looking at the clock when it read 10:20, remembers watching bits of 'The View' and listening as Susan informed the TV that Star should visit County before discussing biological weapon attacks and wondering aloud who this Dr. Nancy Snyderman was and why Susan had never heard of her.

There was the time when she slept, and the time when she woke. She knows she wasn't allowed to wash the dishes, gave up on the crossword puzzle, and failed to sweet talk Susan.

"You know, your tea is very good."

"I know."

"But you're not going to let me have coffee, are you?"

"No."

"You're going to give me tea again, aren't you?"

"Yup."

She doesn't have to explain how she's been sober, doesn't need to say that she's on the patch, doesn't have to admit to or discuss what was her fault or what she could have done differently because Susan never asks and never assumes.

And she doesn't know if she'd acknowledge the truth anyway.

She remembers spilling her tea, refusing to let Susan touch it, cleaning it up herself...but having to use more paper towels than necessary and finding the carpet refusing to dry and being unable to prevent the tears she didn't expect.

And then she remembers the harshness of light, remembers the shadows in the kitchen and the way she wasn't comfortable with either so stayed awhile in the bathroom, in the shower, wanting to leave but somehow at peace.

It's been over seven hours and she can almost believe that with a little more time she could get herself to forget it all.

"Abby." And she had been silent for so long that Susan has to ask the question again. "How are you feeling?"

She's not, but she doesn't understand it and hasn't figured out how to say it, the shrug and shaking of her head the explanation as both happen at once.

Apparently it's an answer because Susan doesn't ask a third time.

The tea is cool, but she refrains from comment, afraid of what even a simple conversation could lead to. She watches her fingers trace the edge of the kitchen table, unable to think of a safe topic, wishing she were alone, wanting to be far far away...

"You need to talk about it some time."

Does she? Would anything change? Would she roll out of bed one morning a better person, stepping with the right foot before the left, able to make the right decisions and think the right thoughts, able to be fixed and forgiven?

Because she's sure life doesn't work that way. Because what if she can never describe how her hands tremble over her stomach, or the way she can stare in the mirror at nothing at all?

How is she supposed to cry about something she can no longer control? How can she think anything, do anything different, when she still can't decide how she should even feel?

Because what if none of this is really happening in the first place?

====

He takes the steps to her apartment two at a time and he isn't sure why. He's almost out of breath when he reaches her landing and has his keys out, tempted to call out to her from here.

The silence when he enters her apartment unnerves him.

"Abby." He says her name so softly that he barely believes he's said it at all.

It's on the second time his eyes scan the room that he sees she's actually there and that someone else is with her.

Susan hesitates a moment before she smiles at him, as though having to remind herself to, remind herself which muscles to use. He can only stare at her blankly for a moment before his eyes flicker across to the back of Abby's head.

He feels as though he's just walked into the middle of a conversation that he wasn't meant to hear, the weight of the silence between them giving everything away.

"Abby," he says again as if reminding her of herself.

This time she turns to look at him, only she's forgotten to smile.

He holds her gaze, attempting to read her expression, read the red around her eyes and the damp in her hair as though she was ever that easy to read, when he knows that so much of what she says is in what she doesn't, or won't let herself say. He speaks Abby, but it's more of a second language.

Susan takes a breath, breaking the silence and his gaze away from Abby and onto the floor – something other than the darkness in her eyes, and stands up, reaching for a coat lying next to her. He notices she's only in slacks and a tee shirt, no make up.

She and Abby share a look and with concern she says, "If you need me just call, okay? It's not like I need my sleep or anything."

Abby smiles, looking away, "Thanks..." For everything. "For this. I mean it, Susan."

Susan dismisses her, giving a smile that implies she had already known what this meant to her and that she knew Abby would have done the same for her had she needed this, before wrapping herself up in her coat and moving to the door. She turns to look back at them both briefly before closing the door behind her.

"Abby."

He keeps saying her name and she's not sure if she likes being reminded. "It's okay," she says without meeting his gaze.

Lips pursed, he moves to stand directly in front of where she sits. He stands there uselessly for a moment. "I've been calling all day and nobody would pick up and then Weaver told me you were ill and Susan had called in and- I just- I was so worried."

His hand hovers above her momentarily before he brings it down to touch her hair softly. She looks up at him, smiling although it doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm okay."

She knows he's waiting for her to say something else, but all she wants is this moment. This moment when he doesn't know anything and she can almost pretend she doesn't ever have to tell him.

He only reluctantly removes his hand from her hair to sit down on the table in front of her, his hand instinctively going out to meet hers. She can feel the press of each cool finger.

"What happened?" She looks so pale and thin sitting like that, smudges under sore eyes that are unable to meet his.

She watches their hands together like this for a moment and then sighs. She doesn't know how to put their loss into words, how to put words into all the blood, into how sorry she is for what she keeps putting him through when he doesn't deserve any of it and deserves so much better than anything she could possibly give him, when she can rarely give enough for herself, when her body couldn't even give enough for this – "I miscarried."

He seems frozen for a moment and she's tempted to tell him again, wondering if she'd said anything at all. Part of her hoping that maybe he hadn't heard her and that she won't have to tell him, that he doesn't need to know about this because it's not as though there's anything he can do – and she, she wants this thing to work out with them, and she's failed him enough as it is.

He begins shaking his head, confusion in his eyes as he stares back at their hands, his fingers over hers, "I didn't know you were, uh-"

She can't say anything but nods softly.

He looks back at her, his eyes now seeming black and wet, like rain on roads in moonlight. "How long were you -did you know how long..."

She's been holding her breath and only realizes this as she finds the words and her voice again. "Eight weeks... Almost."

He's shaking his head, looking at their hands. "I was calling all day." Chewing his lip, fighting the burning at the backs of his eyes, "I tried calling all day and I –I was so worried. Why didn't you, call, or, or, tell me or... I could have been there..." and it occurs to him, "you called Susan-"

"There wouldn't have been anything you could have done."

He's hurting and this hurts him even more. He's still shaking his head. "...Not even for you?"

The room feels too small, he's too close and this all seems so surreal to her, even her voice feeling as though it's being broadcast from a distance away. The TV's still on and she wishes that she had access to the script of her life, knowing what to say and what to feel, a director standing by to tell her where she should stand, making her re-do everything again until she'd perfected it – if she ever could.

She doesn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

They're silent again for moments. He strokes her fingers softly, his voice just as soft as his hands, "And you're okay?"

When he looks up he sees she's nodding.

She takes a breath and stands up, beginning to move to the bathroom. He moves with her and by the time he's standing he already has his arms wrapped around her, his lips to her forehead, kissing her hair and mumbling the things he knows he's supposed to say in moments like this – the desperate things you say to hold moments together, mixed in with the things he doesn't know how to say, that he tries saying instead by pressing his lips to her forehead again and again.

She's stiff in his embrace for a moment, her back ramrod straight, before her arms reach around his shoulders and she's pulling him down towards her, hiding her tears in his sweater.

They could have been a family.

====

The hallways were bare. It was sometime past midnight and anyone with any shred of sanity was tucked away safely in bed.

She, however, was afforded no such sanity.

She peered into another maternity room searching for his familiar form, wishing that Randy could have been a little more specific with her message taking.

She was about to move along with her search when she caught a glimpse of him. She quietly opened the door all the way, her lips beginning to curl upwards.

John was talking to the small girl. There he was in a rocker, kid in arms, textbooks on his lap. His pens strewn about on the floor where he'd tossed them so that she couldn't scrape her face or an eye on any of them as he held her.

"Say 'I wanna be a tax-accountant.'" The baby's eyes widened at him, and she opened her mouth in a gurgled attempt. He grinned at her. "Say, 'I wanna become a bon vivant, courted by the elite and in demand at parties everywhere.'"

"Kid, you gotta listen to me," he said. "Listen, this is important. You can be a maudlin hippie chick, or an angry activist spouting canned rhetoric. Hang out in coffee shops and offer pretentious commentary on authors you've never read. Drop names like Wittgenstein and Camus. Whatever. Just please, please, don't let the great altar of passivity steal your soul."

She watched this amused.

He noticed her watching and looked back down at the small pink form, apologizing profusely and making promises to come and visit and discuss this whole Iraq crisis at some other point.

"Is that the girl you helped bring out in the E.R?"

He was smiling as he placed his hands in hers and they walked through the halls together. He seemed thoughtful – like he'd just arrived to a conclusion about something and was happy with it.

"Yea, not doing too bad considering her mom was high on crack at the time." He rolled his eyes before his grin returned, "She needed to be changed."

"Who doesn't?"

"Just sad, y'know."

She nodded, "I know."

"Feel like I should do more..." It was one of those things they always said and always meant.

She squeezed his hand softly, shrugging, "You do more."

He was quiet for a moment, with the same contemplative expression he'd had moments before, as they took the elevator down and passed through the Emergency Department, saying the occasional hello and goodbye to Susan, Randy and then Chen as they signed off and went to find his car.

"You want Italian?"

She shook her head, teasing glint in her eye, "Depends. Are you cooking it yourself or just ordering it?"

"I'll even go so far as to open the take out boxes for you."

She laughed, "Open them? All by yourself? You really are too good to me."

He turned to her when she'd buckled in, his expression hesitant. "I, uh, picked up some forms today, from one of the nurses. Adoption forms." She was startled and didn't hide it as he continued, "I mean, on paper I'm the perfect candidate... I have the money, I have the room..."

"What about the time?"

He turned to concentrate on something outside his window as he drove out of the parking lot. "I could figure something out." He shrugged. "I just... I think something like this... I could be good at it. I mean, I think I'm ready for it."

After a moment's pause, when she didn't say anything, he turned to gauge a reaction from her. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he was hoping for – maybe for her to think that this was something he could do too, he needed to know this from her and he wasn't sure why.

She smiled quietly and turned to look away. "I... think you'd be great with kids."

"Really?" His voice so earnest and unsure, like a child trying out something for the first time. Wanting to be capable of doing this new thing but so afraid of failing, of not being any good at it.

She met his eyes and nodded.

She sighed and reached for the play button on his stereo system. An angry man began yelling out something inaudible about something over the sound of a drum set being attacked. She knew all the words and started singing – or "calling out to mating wolves" as he put it, along with him. He found he also knew most of the words – not that he understood what they meant or why this angry guy was screaming them.

Impulsively he turned to her, "Abby, don't ever change."

She continued to hum the guitar solo to herself before turning to look at him; his eyes were on the road, his cheeks a little flushed, as though he'd just revealed too much.

She smiled, "Okay."

==