Obligations
Chapter 3

Category: Angst.
Summary: Luka. Luka. Luka.
Disclaimer: Don't own Luka/ER.

Happens around Season 9.

A/N: Carter and Abby have broken up some time ago in this story, because I didn't like that. So they're just friends.
A/N: I think that I've been bitten by the fan fiction bug. I've now written this whole story, there'll be 5 chapters in all, but I'll have to check and double-check and triple-check them first so it might take a day or two for me to add the chapters. Or something. Thanks for the reviews, Amy and Peaky! I really appreciate it. Really.

-Virva

The weakening sunlight is bouncing on the kitchen table. A bit further up, then down again. I shift my eyes a little left from my refrigerator. It's so close. I'm just about to get up, when the doorbell rings.

I wasn't expecting anyone.

It's Abby. I wasn't expecting Abby. I tell her that yes, she can come in.

She comes in.

Sits on the sofa. I wait for her to speak. She takes her time.

"Umm… have you eaten yet?" No, I haven't eaten anything if you don't count that coffee on the morning.

"Yes." Where did that come from?

"Luka, are you… are you seeing that therapist?" So she is here to check if I've been a good boy. That I haven't taken any… sleeping pills? Painkillers?

I sit on a chair opposite the sofa, hoping that she'll forget her question. When did I become like this?

She's still waiting for my answer. "Yes." I shoot her my end-of-discussion-yes.

"Has it helped?" She isn't intimidated.

"Uuh… I guess." Not.

"That means no."

I shrug.

"Well what if you changed the therapist?"

"I don't think that'd really make a difference." I am not having this conversation.

"Well why do you go there if it isn't helping?"

"Weaver makes me." I am answering in full sentences now. She is enthralled.

I am silent. She looks down her hands. She is silent.

"Luka… are you… sad?"

I look at her for a while, my finger making patterns on my palm. I stand up and go for the cupboard on the left side from the refrigerator. To hell with it all.

I come back with a vodka bottle and one glass. I'm feeling much better already. Hell, I'm ecstatic.

"No. I stopped being sad a long time ago." I pause. "You don't want any?"

"No." I pour my glass full to the brim. "Why did you stop?" The heavenly liquid flashes a bit in the evening sun. I can almost imagine it smiling at me.

"It didn't matter really." I gulp down a considerable amount of alcohol.

"If you're not sad then what are you?"

I shrug. Again. "Nothing really." The alcohol seems to be doing its tricks. For a moment I consider arriving drunk at the next therapy session. Dr. Spencer would be rapt with my amount of co-operation.

"If things aren't working out at the therapy, what did you tell Spencer? I mean, didn't you talk at all or…"

"I told him that I woke up one morning, went to the shower, got dressed, was on my way out of the door when I turned around, went back to the bathroom and swallowed all the painkillers, left my apartment and went to work." I need more vodka if I really am discussing this. With her. I pour another glass. She doesn't seem to notice.

"I guess he was thrilled." Her voice sounds so small.

"Ecstatic. That was the culmination of our sessions."

"Haven't you been in therapy before?"

"No."

"Not even after-"

"Not even after." I fill my glass.

We sit in silence for a while. It isn't that bad. I am comfortably intoxicated. I don't know what I'm thinking when I open my mouth.

"A mortar shell hit the apartment when I was at the store. I found my son first. His bloody hand was sticking out of the. The crib." More alcohol. "He was dead." I come back to my senses. I stare at the wall. She is watching me. I can tell. I turn my head a bit so that I can see her. She has a peculiar expression on her face. Her hand is folded under her chin.