Say Anything
hold me when i'm here
I.
She wanted to go and see him – honestly she did. That damnable letter Carter had so kindly written her didn't change; he was still upstairs, still there, still her former lover and still in Chicago for the first time in weeks.
"I'm going upstairs to see Luka," she announced.
Kerry, who had been limping by, slammed a chart into her hands.
"No, you're not," Weaver countered. "Trauma one."
II.
She should have realized that proclaiming her intentions so boldly was a bad idea. With this knowledge under her belt, she decided to wait until her shift was over to see him.
This course of action was much more efficient. She changed, said a few brief good-byes, and then, instead of heading for the ambulance bay door, she careened off to the side and headed to the elevators.
III.
She took a minute or so outside of his room to compose herself. The woman that had arrived with him was gone; she didn't choose to dwell on her whereabouts. The blinds were partly open, and she could see that he was awake – probably waiting for the woman's (Gillian, she reminded herself) return.
There would be no better chance.
Tugging fruitlessly at the collar of her shirt, Abby walked into his room.
IV.
"Hey, Luka," Abby said with a wary smile.
Her hands were plunged into her jacket pockets, and her neck was hidden under the high collar of the coat. Luka levered himself up slightly, squinted as if he didn't recognize her, and uttered a short, harsh laugh.
"You look like a turtle," he replied, voice hoarse.
She started, glancing down at herself. She realized that his statement was very astute for a man with malaria, and inwardly she laughed, too.
"Yeah," she muttered, pulling down the collar of the coat. "I guess I do."
V.
"Did you get Carter's letter?" Luka asked after Abby had made her way to his bedside. She froze in the process of removing her coat and forced herself to nod and smile.
"Yeah, I did," she said, pulling up Gillian's abandoned chair.
"Did it make sense? I caused them a lot of problems. He was probably only half-awake when he wrote it," he confided, sounding half-guilty and half-amused.
"No," Abby assured him, shaking her head. "It made sense. It all made perfect sense."
VI.
"Where's Gillian?" she asked after an awkward moment of silence. Luka shifted slightly, looked around, as if afraid the other woman was spying on them.
"She went back to the apartment to get a few things. She also promised food, but that might be stretching it a little," he said, and couldn't help but laugh a bit. Watching him with her own empty smile, Abby wondered how the ER had gotten on so long without his rich accent, without his smile, without his laugh. Feeling suddenly cold, she pulled her coat from the back of the chair around her shoulders.
"Something wrong?" Luka asked, smile evaporating.
Abby looked up at him, saw how pale and gaunt he was, how red his eyes were and how long his hair had gotten, and couldn't even bring herself to shake her head.
"No," she said.
There were so many things wrong.
VII.
"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly, almost inaudibly.
Abby looked up at him. "What?" She was tired – more tired from this visit than her shift.
"Does it hurt," he repeated, sitting up more and looking hurt himself, "to know that the one you love is far away?" Abby blinked and folded her arms against her chest. He turned head away. "For me it did."
VIII.
He looked back, and she was standing again, arms hanging limply at her sides.
"What do you want me to say, Luka?" Abby asked, voice quavering. "That I love Carter? That I'm sorry about all that you've been through? That yeah, it hurt like hell, and it still hurts even though you're home again?"
He was silent for what felt like an era, and Abby was having an increasingly difficult time keeping her composure.
"Home?" he finally questioned, his dark, tired eyes meeting hers.
IX.
Gillian stepped off of the elevator, fed and satisfied, heaving the comforter from Luka's bed and a paper bag with jeans and old, soft T-shirts. She had eaten at a diner a block away from the hospital, but it had taken the rest of her cash and she didn't want to leave Luka long enough to find an ATM.
She headed to his room, beaming, and was about to cheerfully announce herself when she saw, through the blinds, the nurse – Abby, she recalled – who had been the recipient of Carter's letter. Gillian had met her briefly in delivering the letter; she had seemed nondescript.
Gillian couldn't hear what was being said – or maybe she was telling herself that she couldn't hear it – and could only watch, transfixed, as he tucked his head under her chin, as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his hair.
The sack she'd been holding fell to the ground with a deafening thump, but no one heard it but her.
X.
"Yeah, Luka," Abby said, tired and defeated. She brushed away her tears on her sleeve, and when she drew her arm away, he was standing up. He was so much taller than her, and yet he looked very small, very fragile, standing with tubes in his arm and ashy rings beneath his red eyes.
With something between a sigh and a sob, he closed the distance between them and carefully put his head on her shoulder. His breath seemed to penetrate the cotton of her shirt, warming her more than her coat ever could, and without hesitating she enfolded him within her arms. She could feel his bones, all but bursting out of his skin, and kissed the crown of his head as the last few stray tears escaped her.
"I'm glad you're back, Luka," she whispered, her throat tight. "I'm so glad you're back."