Disclaimer: "They're not mine, but they're not yours either, so back off, biatches." (You can thank Andrea for that.) Or, you know, I don't own 'em. Way to burst my bubble.

The song used is 'Love's Recovery' by the Indigo Girls.

A/N: Sorry for the delay – so much to do, and not enough time in which to do it. Here's chapter two…mostly Abby's thoughts, so not much real action, but it lays the foundation for the action in the next few chapters (which hopefully won't be as long in coming).

 Big thanks to Alex for her "encouragement" and reading. Thanks, babe – you rock my world.

CHAPTER 2: LOVE'S RECOVERY

"During the time of which I speak, it was hard to turn the other cheek

to the blows of insecurity.

Feeding the cancer of my intellect, the blood of love, soon neglected,

lay dying in the strength of its impurity…"

*~*~*

Nights off have become a double-edged sword.

Granted, she is always grateful for time away from work, from the screaming and complaining of patients, the harsh flourescent lights of the ER, the frustrations of her co-workers. The whole place seems to have a sense of irritability.

Still, this leaves her home alone, sitting in the dark with little but her own ideas to occupy her time. And this means that thoughts better left alone occasionally float to the surface of her mind, frightening her with their presence, reminding her of their existence, and she has to fight to regain control.

She always does.

Always has.

But in the weeks since Susan's miscarriage and her run-in with Carter on the roof, she's found it harder and harder to get rid of the pesky thoughts, to go on pretending that nothing has happened. And what makes her even more nervous, even more uncomfortable in her own mind, is the rush of emotions that comes with those thoughts – the flood that's become all-too familiar lately, haunting her as she tries to sleep, blocking her escape from reality.

And it infuriates her.

Particularly tonight. She's just come off of a double shift, and she's tired. Tired in that bone-weary, even-her-hair-hurts sort of way; she'd arrived home wanting little more than a hot bath and a soft pillow. And yet for the past hour and a half, according to her alarm clock, she's been lying in bed, unable to sleep, her mind still busily plotting ways to further complicate her life.

And without meaning to, even though she knows that she desperately doesn't want to go here, she finds herself wondering when her life became such an unholy mess.

Dammit.

*~*~*

"There I am in younger days, star-gazing,

painting picture perfect maps of how my life and love would be,

not counting the unmarked paths of misdirection.

My compass, faith in love's perfection –

I missed ten million miles of road I should have seen…"

*~*~*

She'd spent nearly an hour working to save a little boy tonight, a three-year old abuse victim whose mother had pushed him down the stairs, and despite her best efforts, she'd lost him. She winces as she remembers Luka's entirely innocent parting words, called over his shoulder as he'd left the room, completely oblivious to the blow he'd just delivered:

"I'll never understand how anyone could not want their child…"

Ouch.

Of course, he'd never been married to Richard. Or been an alcoholic. Or been the product of a broken household, privy from childhood – if it could be called that – to the bipolar escapades of Maggie, and now Eric.

So really, he had no idea. None whatsoever.

Except…it wasn't a matter of not wanting. Because God knows she'd wanted it. Wanted it more than almost anything. The very thought of the baby growing inside her, the idea of being a mother had thrilled her. She remembers it with startling clarity, as if she were watching someone else playing the role of herself – sitting on the edge of the bathtub, holding the test, smiling. The picture of a happy family of three creeping into her vision, from the dark recesses of her mind where she usually  kept it hidden, labeled 'unlikely.'

And then the terror of reality had set in. The cheating husband, the crazy mother, the drinking.

Thus, the secret appointment. The abortion. And more drinking.

Looking back, she finds that the actual process was frighteningly simple, quick.

Easy.

The easiest part of the whole fucking thing.

She's suffered, to be sure, even beyond the simple denial of what she wanted. She's made herself pay for her decision every day of every year that's passed. She closed herself off even more, worked in OB, threw herself into what she saw as her penance, her private act of contrition.

She knows she made the right decision – her belief in this has never wavered, that it wouldn't have been fair to anyone, especially not the baby. She knows this, is secure in this, holds firm in her belief of the right to such an option.

But that knowledge doesn't stop the wisps of what-might-have-beens that sometimes wander through her thoughts, the wistful feeling that hits the pit of her stomach when she sees mothers with their children, families on outings, newborns.

And it doesn't make the memories any less painful, doesn't numb the sting of wishing, doesn't lessen the choking in her throat as she hides from herself.

*~*~*

"Rain-soaked and voice choked, like silent screaming in a dream,

I search for our absolute distinction.

Not content to bow and bend

to the whims of culture that swoop like vultures.

Eating us away, eating us away,

eating us away to our extinction…"

*~*~*

She curls up on the far side of the bed, and she bites her lip at the sudden realization that this was once his side, and cringes further when she recalls how often she's slept here since 'their' bed became 'hers' once again.

He's been occupying her mind more and more lately, something she is loathe to admit.

For the most part, they've been working different shifts, their interactions limited to a quick greeting in passing as she comes off and he comes on, or vice versa. She thinks that this is probably a Good Thing, because she doesn't want to deal with the repercutions of her slip on the roof, though she knows that sooner or later, she'll have to.

And for once, she's not wishing for the latter, because she's tired, so very tired, of the unsaid eating away at her.

She remembers the scene, mostly their parting (why is it, she wonders idly, that her focus is always on his leaving?), the familiar tone in his voice. Concern, caring. And she's not sure what to make of it.

"If you ever need to talk, Abby…" She's glad he hadn't continued, because in that instant, she'd thought of so many ways in which to fight his possible choice of words:

'Just let me know'…Yes, now that you have time again. Now that the latest 'wife and kids' dream is gone – well, hey, Abby, what's up?

'I'll be glad to listen'...And pass judgment and try to fix everything that isn't broken, just to make it up to your standards.

'I'm here for you'…Uh huh, and where were you all those months ago, Carter? You know, after you promised that you weren't going anywhere?

Bullshit.

She's startled at herself, at the degree of the anger that swells within her. She'd thought she had moved beyond this point, had exhausted her ample rage at him long ago. She's been working overtime at moving on from this.

Though, if she is honest with herself, she knows that there is no way of entirely moving on. That their lives had, at some point, become so inextricably entangled with each other that there's no chance for true separation. Even if it's just in her mind, she knows she will always be surrounded by him – he's ingrained in her. And although something tells her that she's not alone in this, that he's probably feeling the same way, she is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with regrets, drowning in shattered hopes, littered with pieces of her broken heart.

And it hurts; it hurts so badly that sometimes she feels as though she can't breathe. She dreams of what she's lost, cries in the dark over what could have been, should have been. She divides the blame between them, cuts herself to the quick with her share as she remembers.

She's angry with him, fascinated by the intricate complexities of their relationship, unnerved by their incredible ability to hurt each other. But mostly, she misses him.

*~*~*

"Oh, how I wish I were a trinity, so if I lost a part of me,

I'd still have two of the same to live.

But nobody gets a lifetime rehearsal;  as specks of dust, we're universal.

To let this love survive would be the greatest gift we could give…"

*~*~*

She's not sure why she's doing this – not now, at least. Surely his offer to talk doesn't extend to these early hours of the morning, when he's bound to be exhausted from work. Certainly she's the last person he'll want to deal with right now.

And yet something tells her that this might be okay, that he won't really mind, and that maybe she owes this to herself. And to him.

To them.

As she dials, she recalls how he used to push her to talk, how she resisted, terrified of what he might see, or what might come pouring out of her mouth. What might happen if she let herself go.

As it rings, she finds it sadly ironic that it took losing him to make her willing to open up.

And as his sleep-laden voice answers, she feels a fleeting moment of panic rise in her chest, an urge to slam the phone down and return to bed, and push these thoughts aside, yet again, for another day.

"Abby?"

How did he know, she wonders. Had he acquired caller ID? Or  was it something more, some remaining trace of what had been?

And she makes a mental note to ask him about this someday, once the more basic things are put right between them again. Because they will be – this she promises herself.

"I need to talk."

*~*~*

"Tell all the friends who think they're so together

that these are ghosts and mirages, these thoughts of fairer weather.

Though it's storming out, I feel safe within the arms of love's discovery…"

**********

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