"Wind and Rain"

Chapter Three: Ordinary Morning

Authors' Notes: None of those weird, italicized flashbacks this time, but they're going to appear eventually... love us, do. With many thanks to everyone who waited for us to figure some more of this out, Lufthansa Airlines and Highway 110.

For Mealz: We're trying to place the story in the current ER timeframe (about episode 15 on), so they're dating but not living together.

==

The walls have been talking
About me again
I'm good for a joke, but when I awoke
The dream didn't end
Now every time I turn around
I'm only sleeping, John, is anybody out there?
Don't the wounded birds still sing?

It's just an ordinary morning
It's just an ordinary day
And I'm just an ordinary woman
Slipping away
- Sheryl Crow, Ordinary Morning

==

Maybe grief is like a butterfly and I'm still in the cocoon.
-- Virginia Ironside

==

It was inevitable that one day he would wake up and find all the sheets and covers on the other side of the bed. It was part of being in a relationship, going hand in hand with the lacy things tucked back into the drawer and knowing the intimate.

He is surprised to discover that he doesn't seem to mind it.

Forming a cocoon of sorts, the bedding material is built up around and above her, new navy colored sheets managing to have freed a part of themselves from the carnage to rest on the floor. Her face is obscured from him by the slight tilt of her head into the bulky mass of the duvet, but at the foot of the bed, from under the tangle, peeks the delicate curve of her ankle.

It looks so small, so fragile to him, as though this bit of her wasn't supposed to have slipped out from under the disorder - a butterfly doomed because it tried to emerge too early.

She has slept so rarely these last few days, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling on most of the occasions when he wakes at night. He's never sure what to do, and doesn't think it matters anyway – she remains thoughts away, plagued into sleeplessness by her nightmares, or maybe her dreams.

He has had a few himself - the "what ifs" - the happy were no easier than the sad, and reality was always the brutal wake-up. But the dreamed possibilities were helping to heal his pain, to put his mind at ease, and he wishes he could do the same for her.

She wakes when, unable to restrain himself, his fingertips play in the key of Abby over the smooth softness of her foot. She gasps as her eyes fly open, but somehow he knows it isn't his touch that she's reacting to. A few heartbeats pass until she's awake enough to take in her surroundings, eyes still tired despite her night's rest, but she wears her lopsided morning smile for him.

"Your hand's cold," she mumbles as the lost bit of ankle slides back beneath the chaos on her side of the bed.

He indicates his sheetless self. "I wonder why?"

Eyes open wider as she takes in the covers heaped about her, and she gives a half-shrug of apology. "You were snoring."

"I don't snore."

"Sorry to break it to you."

"I was snoring?"

"Loud and clear."

Since that morning she's already out of bed and doing one of any possible things by the time he wakes, and though he worries it's because she was never able to fall asleep, his concerns and questions only lead to rapid fire changes in topics. This morning alone is so full of surprises, and more importantly - the much missed delightful surprises, that he can't properly keep up with the banter.

"It wasn't snoring." His response comes a beat too late and the thickness of awkward silence begins to crawl in. It's like a virus they've contracted – passing it back and forth between them – and he's afraid it'll mutate into something worse before they find the cure.

His hand makes it halfway to her, a desperate attempt to physically reach her before the clouds glaze over her eyes, until realization at what he's doing sets in and he stops, midair, staring at his arm as though wondering how it got stuck there and what precisely he was going to do to get it down.

The days have become a sterile dance of avoidance – of touching, of discussing what had happened, of dealing with it – and he is finding it hard to keep to this slow tempo of evasion when the need for closure seems more important. He isn't sure about the textbook recommendation, but he doesn't think Abby would fit into any of the timetables – she had her own plans for recovery and grief.

"You'll have to do more than that to impress me," she says, creating an excuse for his arm that still hangs in the air.

"Really? This doesn't do it for you?"

"Maybe I'm just missing something."

He pretends to look at it more closely. "No, that's about it I'm afraid."

"Nice try, though."

He doesn't quite know what to do from here... times like these haven't happened in a while, and he's prone to ask her questions because he's forgotten that he'd once been able to read her answers.

But habits kick in.

"How're - "

"I'm fine."

" – you feeling? Oh."

It happens a lot – his questions during the silences – sometimes he thinks of new ways to ask, but it comes out the same, as if he can't move forward to the next phrasing until he's satisfied with the answer he gets for this one.

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day."

He has no response, and the virus spreads again to attack what progress they'd made. It is a disease they can't seem to stop carrying – as though losing their baby isn't enough to handle, parts of their relationship might as well fall off, too.

Having no further reason to remain in bed, he climbs out as she untangles herself from the covers.

"Want the shower?"

"I've actually got one just like it, thanks."

"Go first. I'll make coffee." There would be time yet before they were back to suggestions of their other shower solutions.

"Tea." She hesitates in the bathroom doorway, one foot rubbing against the other, and he wonders if she's nervous about her first day back at work.

She preempts his usual question with a grin. "I'm fine."

"And ready for County?"

"Leave it to a doctor to underestimate a nurse."

"Nurse Manager."

"Oh, you remembered?"

"Tea?"

"Tea!"

And they are hollering across the apartment, he in the kitchen, and she in the bathroom, fighting a return of their incurable fate by filling her rooms with sound.

====

Trying to carry his coffee and bag in one hand he attempts to open his locker with the other. It doesn't work and he yelps as lukewarm coffee spills down his shirt, thankfully stopping before it reaches his pants. Normally this would be a sign that he might as well just turn back and head for home – but she's laughing. It's the first time he's heard her laugh in days.

He groans as he sets his things down onto the back of a chair, feigning annoyance at her as he begins to unbutton his shirt.

She grins, eyes sparkling, "You're an idiot, you know that?"

He smiles at her, for her. "In my own defense, I do know that."

The room door snaps open and shut and he turns momentarily to see Susan smiling at them, he doesn't return it and looks back at Abby. He watches as she and Susan exchange a good morning, before she turns back to him.

She's still smiling. "I'm going to get an 'I'm with stupid tee shirt.'"

He grins, "For me? Oh you really shouldn't."

Her face is upturned towards him, her eyes bright and he has an impulse to lean in and kiss her. He resists.

"Well, I have to get to work," she says after a pause, her eyes falling away from his like regrets, and the soft shadows beneath them remind him of the way he'd found her when he'd walked into her apartment two days before.

"Right. Me too," he replies lamely.

If he knew spilling coffee on himself was all it would take to make her laugh he would have done it days ago.

She turns to Susan as she begins to walk away. "What's it like out there?"

"Like you never left," she replies with a smile and Abby groans before closing the door behind her.

He turns back to stuffing his coffee stained shirt into his locker.

"I'm sorry," he hears her offer gently. He knows she means it.

He nods, reaching into his locker and trying to get his things out as quickly as possible. It's childish – he feels betrayed by her, when she hasn't deceived him, not really. Abby called her and not him. If anything Susan couldn't be faulted for that but he could – she hadn't wanted him there. And she was the one who had miscarried, bled for their sins, not him, and yet here he was wearing a crown of thorns.

"How are you doing?"

Well, besides the miscarriage, besides the fact that we'd never discussed children and now it seems we won't ever be able to, besides that she called you, besides that, things are pretty good. How are things with you? Had any miscarriages lately?

He finds his stethoscope, throws it over his neck and then reaches for his pens. "I'm-" he stops himself and then shakes his head, "we're going to be okay."

She reaches out, squeezing his shoulder firmly. "Yea, of course." Her hand prompts him to meet her soft blue gaze and when he does she smiles kindly at him. "You think she's really ready to be back at work?"

He turns back to his locker, offering it a cursory glance before slamming it shut. "Uh... she wanted to come back."

"And you as the over protective boyfriend, let her?" She says lightly.

He tries smiling for her, but it feels all wrong. "Turns out she's more stubborn than I am."
She grins, moving to go back to work... then turns to look at him, "Call me..."

I'm sure she will, he almost says, but instead smiles tightly and nods, watching her leave before he releases his smile and sighs.

He wants to shout back out to her that everything's good, everything's going to be just great, announce that he's been moved back up her speed dialing places to the number one spot, that the last time had been a fluke, a misdial, it wouldn't happen again because she was letting him in on everything this time around, let there be no mistaking it. Just because it would feel so good to yell right now, to anyone, and at the moment she's a better target for his anger than most.

Or he could yell out to her the truth - he doesn't know what he's doing, he doesn't know whether she's pretending nothing has happened and that nothing has changed between them, or if everything has changed between them and he's the one pretending that nothing has happened. That he's never been number one on her speed dial and only now is he realizing what number he is.

He wants to know if when you ask someone to marry you when they become pregnant with your child, do you also ask if the reverse is true?

They don't tell you these things in glossy pamphlets with photos of posed couples holding hands and holding on together, it's not something they have classes about in medical school. He's checked.

It's not one of those things you can ask friends (and what friends?), because he feels selfish enough as it is, when this isn't about him at all.

====

It wasn't though they'd get service any faster if they asked, but like a group of pigeons, each tottering about to follow another, they crowded the front of the admit desk in order to better convince her that their problem was definitely more severe than this guy's and would she please get them a doctor before they made a formal complaint to get her fired?

Handing three off to Pratt ("...and I was going to bring you a welcome back present.") clears a few seats, and without consideration to their babble, she points at the vacancies. "There, there and there. Sit or leave."

She walks away before their stunned silence wears down.

It is too loud, too busy, all day people around her in pain and worry – a tidal wave of troubles that she is supposed to know how to fix. She doesn't think she'd gain many points with her next patient if she concedes that she's been having difficulty controlling her own health but he should sit back and relax because he's in good hands.

"Giving yourself over to the job?" Susan asks as she passes in the hall.

A shake of the head. "Only if I'm paid overtime."

"You forget you work at County?" With a smile Susan taps her watch. "It's past seven. Go home."

And do what? "Right. Thanks. G'night."

The day hadn't been much different than she'd expected... a full patient load and a smattering of questions revolving around that 2-day flu – and as she lied about her sickness and the recovery that followed, she couldn't help but wonder how karma was going to materialize when it felt it was ready for its due.

That she feels the same now as she had before work is cause for concern – constant thoughts streaming through her mind despite her attempts to submerge herself in any number of duties in the hospital had not been planned for.

"Abby!"

She turns, and it's Kerry beckoning her to the admit desk.

"There's a management meeting tomorrow afternoon I need you to attend."

Hello to you, too. No, I'm fine, had a miscarriage. I know. It's a bitch, isn't it? "Okay."

"Just the basics, but we've had to postpone a few times," she explains. "I hear you're feeling better?"

Karma karma karma. "Yeah."

"Good. Welcome back."

Kerry bustles away, all business and unchanged, and there is no more a connection between them now than there ever was before.

Shared experiences are merely a coincidence of there not being enough experiences to share.

====

She tried calling Maggie while he was having a shower.

She'd spent the day mapping out the exchange in her head; the things she needed to say, the things she needed to hear, and then in this conversation inside her head, as soon as she put the phone down she felt better, all the metaphorical weight was lifted from her and she was left feeling as though everything was actually going to be okay.

Because she needed to hear someone to tell her it was going to be okay, not because she believed it, but because they did.

She's lying across her bed, this conversation playing out in her head as she watches the phone, watching it cautiously the way Anne Boleyn might have eyed an axe.

Her stomach has been aching all day and she can hear the muffled sounds of water turning off, then his wet footsteps as he walks out of the shower and finds a towel.

What if when she puts the receiver down she doesn't feel better, the weight still hangs across her, her stomach still aches, what if she finds she still has to try and live with the fact that it's herself on the other end of the line?

She shuts her eyes and feels him enter the room before she hears him. He's warmth; there's a heat that he brings with him whenever he walks into a room and it still surprises her.

She opens her eyes, trying to smile for him, trying to appear okay, hoping to settle for innocuous.

He returns the smile sincerely and it makes her stomach ache even more.

She hasn't expected him to be staying these past few nights with her; hasn't expected much of anything from him. He's been making her reluctantly eat take outs with him when he arrives home, despite of or in spite of her pleas of not being all that hungry, offering her time, space, a lack of questions about what had happened, a lack of anger or hurt, only allowing himself to ask how she is every few seconds or so and having to satisfy himself with her monosyllabic answers.

She watches as he pulls his towel off, catching a glimpse of his long white thighs, thin curls at his groin, the shape of his hip, before he steps into a pair of boxers.

He hasn't kissed her since and the nights they spend together involve layers of clothing that leave her feeling cold the next morning.

"How're you feeling?"

She shrugs, "You mean since you last asked me fifteen minutes ago?"

He smiles as he lays down next to her, almost leaning over to touch her but hesitating. His skin smells soft and warm. "Fifteen minutes ago I asked you if you needed anything."

"I think I need you to stop asking me how I am." He looks a little wounded until she smiles, closing her eyes, "It's late."

He gets up to switch the light off and somewhere underneath an old sweater of his she's wearing she hides the fact that she's grateful he's here.

"I'm okay," she says in the dark, feeling him crawl into bed next to her.

She waits to hear his breathing steady but it doesn't. After a silence of minutes he rolls close beside her, his warm breath caressing her neck along with a finger and whispers, "You know you can tell me anything, anything at all."

She gently rocks herself to sleep.

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