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 'And So It Goes' by Billy Joel.
The idea of being 'royally pissed' was (initially inadvertently) borrowed from my favorite book, Primary Colors, by Joe Klein.
A/N: So that whole 'getting the chapter out sooner' thing clearly didn't work. Sorry about that. In an effort to avoid taking the blame, it was all because of school, work, various maladies, etc etc etc…oh, and a whopping case of writer's block. I owe getting through that to the fabulous and talented BROOKESTAR. Thanks for the awesome belated review – you really pulled me out of my funk, so it's definitely because of you that this got written at all.
Translation: If you hate it, it's all her fault. ;)
Also, I suck at writing dialogue, so let me just apologize in advance. And the site was being weird when I tried uploading this, so the formatting might be a little off...sorry.
And please let me know what you guys think – in-depth reviews are great because they give me ideas of what to work on (you know, in case I ever manage to churn out chapters in a timely fashion or something). But I digress…
CHAPTER 3: AND SO IT GOES
"In every heart, there is a room,
a sanctuary safe and strong
to heal the wounds from lovers past
until a new one comes along.."
She is sitting on the couch, hunched over, eyes closed, when she hears the knock. She finds herself surprisingly wistful as she moves to answer it, remembering the days when he came and went as he pleased, and how mostly what had pleased him was staying there with her. He'd always said 'Home is where the heart is.' And she'd smiled and maybe rolled her eyes out of habit.
She'd never caught the implication behind those words until he was gone, and her small apartment was no longer home or, she figured, where his heart was.
Still, she is grateful to open the door and to see his kind – albeit worried – face. She smiles inwardly at his disheveled appearance – he'd clearly come as soon as they'd hung up, and she absentmindedly reaches up to smooth his tousled hair.
She stops, catching herself as her hand is about to touch him, remembering that she no longer has the right to touch him in such a comfortable, possessive way.
He's not hers anymore.
She knows this – has known since he'd left her standing in the ambulance bay that afternoon – but it still takes her by surprise, makes her breath catch in her throat as she tries to ignore the familiar stinging behind her eyes. She won't cry in front of him, can't allow it. She's working on things, taking baby steps, and calling him, admitting that she needs to talk – well, that was a pretty big leap for her. She doesn't want to push her luck.
Because really, luck hasn't exactly been a close companion in her life. Kept at bay, she supposes, by Loneliness and Fear, and perhaps by Stubbornness making frequent visits.
She understands. It's a tough crowd, after all.
"I spoke to you in cautious tones.
You answered me with no pretense.
And still I feel I said too much.
My silence is my self defense…"
Their backs against the armrests, they face each other from opposite ends of the couch – the symbolism of this is not lost on her. They've been talking idly, chit chat: the weather, patients, Weaver's new cane.
Clearly, the stuff which constitutes earth-shattering, worth-getting-out-of-bed-at-ungodly-times-of-the-morning exchanges.
She knows he wants to ask what's going on, why she called him at this hour, and of course, what she needed to talk about so badly that it couldn't wait until they were, say, well-rested, or maybe not so over-worked and over-stressed.
Good luck there.
And while she realizes that she at least owes him this – he had rushed over, still in sweats and the t-shirt she recognizes as his favorite one to sleep in – well, she doesn't know where to begin. How do you do it, she muses.
How do you go about explaining that you don't even want your own life anymore? That you feel like you're drowning and you've been trying to keep treading water to stay afloat, but at this point, the current's so strong and the pull is so forceful, you realize it might just be easier to stop?
How do you tell someone that you can't seem to remember how to be happy on your own, and that you're starting to wonder if you'd ever really mastered such a skill in the first place? That you have this mountain of regrets, a stack of worries, and an overflowing inbox of issues marked 'to be dealt with'?
So to speak, of course.
She feels overwhelmed all of a sudden, as if her emotions have come to a final boil, and she's not sure she can hold on much longer. She wants to tell him to forget about it, that she's sorry to have bothered him but really, she's fine. Truly, just peachy.
But before she can open her mouth to tell him this last bit, she feels his hand on hers, and looks up to see he's moved closer to her, and that his face is etched with a look she's never quite seen before. Warm and inviting and compassionate, like the night her brother was arrested, only with a hint of something more.
Comprehension strikes her, filling her with fear, tinged with an unusual sense of relief: he knows.
And she understands that he knows what it's like and how it feels – to essentially have nothing left to lose – because he's been there himself.
"Talk to me…"
"And every time I've held a rose,
it seems I only felt the thorns.
And so it goes, and so it goes,
and so will you soon, I suppose…"
She is struggling.
She knows what she wants to tell him, but somehow can't find the words. She wants to apologize for all she has done to him, and at the same time, wants to use that same breath to scream at him for hurting her, for making promises he wasn't prepared to keep.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Ha. Good one, Carter.
She feels his fingers on her cheek, and is horrified to realize that she is crying, that those odd little choking noises weren't coming from the air conditioning, as she'd previously thought, but from her own throat.
Shit.
"Don't," she snaps, swiping at his hand, which has begun to catch her tears. She fights to hold them back, but dammit, they won't stop. She stands, desperate to put distance between them.
This is not happening.
Not even when Eric was missing or when Maggie overdosed on sleeping pills had she let him see her cry, and she didn't want to lose that record now.
"Abby…it's okay…"
"NO, Carter, it's not okay. NOTHING is okay. And you…you don't…" she's choking on her own tears now, fighting for breath, her words tumbling out faster than she can register them— "You don't get to tell me that anymore."
He looks startled, confused, but she keeps going, like pouring salt on a wound, picking at a scab. Time to air out the emotions; do it quick, like ripping off a band-aid, maybe it won't hurt as much.
"You lost that right when you left…when you left me…"
"What, for Africa? To go help people? Come on…" He's rising to face her, indignant, and this only fuels her release of all those long months of pent-up worry, anger, and lost hopes.
"For HER!" It explodes out of her, and she sees his eyes grow wide, pained, like she'd slapped him. This was an area neither had dared to go, and as she feels the wetness on her cheeks, she knows why. And still, can't stop – she's on a roll now, almost manic in her anger, like her mother, loose and fierce, royally pissed and rising to the occasion.
"You sat there—" jabbing her finger at the kitchen "—and promised me you wouldn't leave, and I trusted you. I TRUSTED YOU! Do you know how hard that was for me? And then you…you just left. I asked you to stay, and you didn't even stop to say goodbye—"
"Now hold on! That's not fair, Abby, and you know it. You—"
"You can't have it both ways, Carter! I blamed myself and you got mad. I blamed you and you got mad. And I told you…I warned you that you didn't want to get involved with me, but you wouldn't listen to—"
"I WANTED to be involved! I wanted to help you, but you wouldn't let me!"
"Dammit, John, I didn't want your help. I just wanted YOU!"
There's a pause, and she realizes that this must be what poets mean by 'deafening silence'. Her heart is pounding, chest heaving, mind racing over all she'd just let come pouring out – oh, holy shit – as he slowly sits back down, eyes softer, voice gentle.
"Well, why didn't you just say so?"
"But if my silence made you leave,
then that would be my worst mistake.
So I will share this room with you,
and you can have this heart to break…"
"I'm sorry."
She whispers it, breaking the quiet, but she knows he heard. He raises his gaze to meet hers, sitting before her.
"It's not…we weren't your fault. I never...I pushed you away, and…it was like we were a time bomb or something. I was just waiting for you to realize you could do better."
"Ab…"
"No, I'm serious. This isn't self-pity, John. This is how I think. You've got to understand that."
He nods slowly. "I don't agree, but I'm…I'm glad I finally know. And I'm sorry too. I should have been more understanding."
She pauses, the question on her mind making her hesitate. He senses this, and motions for her to continue. With a deep breath, she nervously asks, "Did you mean what you said, about our always being wrong for each other?"
He cringes. "No," he sighs, ducking his head.
"That letter…Jesus, Carter. It was like kicking me when I was already down."
"I know…I know. It was…cruel. And wrong. And I'm so sorry. Please…know that." When he looks up, she sees he now has tears in his eyes. "I wanted you to feel…I don't know, some of the pain I did…God, that sounds horrible."
"I understand."
"You shouldn't. It was a terrible thing to do."
"It's okay, Carter. Let's leave it in the past, okay? Move on, put it behind us?"
He nods slightly. "Deal. And…thanks." He pauses, smiles. "You know, it wasn't all that bad, right? I mean, I like to think that there was a little good to 'us' too."
In spite of herself, she finds that she is smiling back. "Yeah. Yeah, there was." She is relaxing slightly, sinking to her side of the couch.
He sighs. "I missed you, you know."
She bites back a snort and a self-deprecating comment laced with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Instead, she continues to look at him, waiting for him to go on.
"Even with…even with Kem—" Did he notice her wince at the name?—"she wasn't…well, she wasn't YOU." The last part comes out in a rush, like a long-awaited release. She sees that his eyes have gone sad, although over which memory, she cannot tell.
She cracks a weak grin, tries in vain to lighten the mood. "Well, thank God for that, right?"
A brief smile flits across his face, sad and wishful.
"Never."
"And this is why my eyes are closed;
it's just as well for all I've seen.
And so it goes, and so it goes,
and you're the only one who knows…"
"I'm glad you called," he tells her, sincere in the quiet.
He's putting his coat on, preparing to head back home to get what little sleep he can before his shift. She looks on, pondering all that has passed between them, and all that is left to say.
She can't help but feel somewhat relieved, as if the top layers of her heavy load have been lifted.
And she knows that there will be time to deal with everything else later, and that it will all be addressed; it must – too much has already been laid out not to finish the job.
And that's okay by her. Somewhere within, she feels slightly more at peace – not able to rest yet, but getting there.
She sees this in him, too. His eyes, less troubled than they've been in – what? Months? Since before his grandmother died, surely.
Out of habit, she begins to internally chastise herself, heap on the blame for not having been there – but stops herself. She's moving on, growing and changing –and the irony of this realization does not escape her, either.
So instead, she reaches out to squeeze his hand as he turns to leave.
"Me too."
"And so it goes, and so it goes,
and you're the only one who knows."
See that little button? Press it.
PLEASE REVIEW!
