Something about the way she kissed him was still overwhelming. Perhaps it was how she leaned in against him. How she let her tiny frame press against his. Just slightly, just for a moment. It could have been an accident. He knew that it wasn't. She kissed him and he knew the time for questions and doubts had passed. Because he couldn't find it in him to consider such things any longer. Because his lips were bruised and sore from the force of hers against them. It made him want and need. Made him lose whatever control he had convinced himself that he still possessed. It made his whole body ache, the sheer intensity of it all. There was no room left for waiting. Before he knew it, his hands were on her and hers on him. Buttons and clasps being undone, flesh exposed. Fingertips deftly sweeping across her bare skin. Her lips pressed to his neck, the last of their clothing falling to the floor. She allowed him that moment. Allowed him to get caught in the recklessness of what they were doing, to forget their qualms, if only for those seconds. Another kiss here, a brief touch there. For a moment he thought he could hear it- his heart beating wildly, arrhythmically, as if threatening to leap out of his chest. Warning him of the danger of what they were about to do. But it was the dizzying, mad rush and whirl of it all that was pounding in his ears. Every sensation, every taste. The smell of soap and cigarettes and perfume that still lingered on her. The feel of her skin, soft and smooth. Warm against his palms as he explored her body, taking everything in. Things he thought he would never know again. His hands on the small of her back, pulling her towards him. She could feel him pressing against her, making her shiver unwittingly. And he was absolutely vulnerable, in a way it seemed he hadn't felt in years. Completely exposed, in every way a person ever could be. Neither knew when or how they had ended up on the bed, but there they were. It seemed new and familiar all at once. Comforting. Terrifying. She clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer. Feeling his weight against her. Feeling him touching her, feeling him inside of her, deeper and deeper. Suddenly, she was unsure. Her hands came to rest on his chest as she looked up at him. Stopping him. Hesitating.
"Abby." He spoke in barely a whisper. Forced the words out, unwilling to let slip the low moan that rose in the back of his throat. "Trebam te."
He knew. He knew that she didn't understand. The sentiment, yes, perhaps. Hopefully. The urgency might have been there, but of that, he was unsure. Many times before, he had spoken to her in his native tongue, never giving in when she would ask what it meant. That way, he could say anything. It felt safe. The one and only thing that was still his when they were together, and he needed it. He hung onto it, because he had always been just as afraid as she was. He didn't want to be anymore. Just say it. Say it again, get it right. Why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he make her understand the importance of it all? Luka wasn't completely sure that he understood it himself. That, he realized, was a good deal of the problem.
"I need you. Please. Abby, please. I need you."
She had needed to hear it. Needed to know that he wanted it the way she did. That he wanted her, needed her the way she needed him. That he hadn't meant what he said before, he hadn't meant it when he said he was done with her. With them. If he had, nothing mattered. It would have meant that they had both wasted their breath on every word they had ever said to each other, and that their relationship had always been little more than a lie. One she had lived and loved and wanted more than she ever thought possible. One she had felt the loss of. But a lie all the same. There had been too many of those in the last weeks when they had been together. Longer than that, maybe. She didn't know. It didn't matter. That time was over and she didn't want to dwell. Abby wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body to his, and allowed him to take her again.
"I'm here. I'm right here."
As he pulled himself up from the bed, peeling off the damp t-shirt that clung to his skin, Luka felt dirty. Inexplicably dirty. Filthy, even. The clock showed 5:42 and it would be some time before Joe would wake, but he stumbled through the dark room anyway. Headed for the bathroom, fumbled with the faucet. Hoping all the while that a shower would wash away the lingering feeling of her hands on him that he couldn't seem to ignore. The water was so hot that it turned his skin red. Left every surface in the room covered in steam. His stomach was in knots, his head spinning with the realism of the dream that had disturbed his sleep every night since the day she had returned. It had been almost a week. But it wasn't the dream itself that would wake him. It was the way he felt so empty realizing she wasn't there. The way he could swear that the scent of her and the Hanae Mori perfume she wore was on his sheets. It was knowing that all of it was possible, remembering the night it had happened. That night, logic had failed him. If there was one thing he couldn't bear, it was seeing her cry. Seeing her in pain. She had felt like such a failure. Blamed him for it. Blamed Clemente, blamed the man who had taken the little girl. Blamed herself, mostly. It made him feel as if he might just dissolve into tears as well, seeing her that way. Made him hurt in the same way she did. And suddenly he had walked across the room and his lips were pressed to hers and she thought she might lose her breath. He was hardly aware of what he had done until after it was over. Until she was looking up at him, confused, caught off-guard. Out of nowhere, he was unusually self-conscious. It had been years, yet he wanted her so badly. Had she leaned in, reciprocated, lessened the space between them as he had kissed her? He wasn't sure if she had, or if he'd only imagined it. Wished for it.
Of course she had wanted it too. The moment he'd taken her face in his hands, she had known what would come next. That part was simple enough. She had even done some wishing of her own. Her head tilted back somewhat and she waited. Those seconds had felt like hours. Finally. Finally, he was kissing her again after so long. As her eyes locked on his, she tried to read him. But she couldn't determine why he had done it. The room was silent. His face was flushed, red with embarrassment over what he had done. Only when she leaned in again did it subside, replaced with the thought that maybe, just maybe, she had spent all those years missing him. Those years that he had missed her, no matter how hard he had tried not to. He had wondered, yet she had known where he stood all along. Ever since the Christmas party at Susan's, when he had told her. 'I miss you, Abby.' He couldn't remember it, he'd had too much to drink. An utter lie. He knew; he was mortified. If he had known how her breath had hitched in her throat as he ran his hand along her arm, he wouldn't have been. There they were again, but she couldn't walk away. She couldn't hide behind excuses, or alcohol, or Carter. Didn't want to try. Instead, she leaned in to kiss him. They fumbled their way to his bedroom somehow. The in-between was lost. He was gentle with her, in a way that had surprised her when they first were together. And he told her that he needed her, although he hadn't realized just how much. Or maybe he didn't want to admit it, not to her or to himself. That night, he had started out thinking that he was comforting her. She was doing the same for him without even knowing it. He was tired of missing her, of being alone. Tired of feeling alone even when he wasn't. With Gillian, with Sam, with women whose names and faces he had long since forgotten.
It scared him, admitting to himself just how much he wanted it to be real, if only once more. Even though he hadn't let go of their past, even though they could hardly speak. The time they had been spending together in those past days, he had kept to the background, save for their arguments, while she had played with Joe. Yet he contemplated it while he dressed, just like he had done every other morning. Weighed the pros and cons as he stood in the kitchen, making coffee. He sat on the couch, flipping the channels on the television, hoping he would find something sufficiently distracting. No such luck. Luka knew what would come of it if they were to be together again. The way everything that happened, everything that came afterwards, would break his heart. Just like before. Not Joe, not the things they had tried so hard for. Those things, he would do all over again, given a choice. But the fights, the lies, the way everything had fallen apart- no, imploded. There was too much tension and pressure behind it all to refer to it any less violently. The way it had all gone wrong, it would have been a devastating thing to endure again.
"Shit. Jesus Christ." he cursed out loud as the phone rang, startled back into reality as he reached to pick it up. Waited to see if it had woken the baby. "Hello?"
"Luka, it's me. It's Abby." she said, immediately wishing she hadn't stated such an obvious fact. He knew her voice. "We need to talk."
"It's a little bit early, you know. Not really the best time for this." he spoke, suppressing a yawn. The truth was that he couldn't think straight yet, let alone carry on a conversation.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." The line went silent. He didn't respond. "Did I? What about Joe, is he sleeping?"
As much as she might have meant well, her questions only managed to upset him. All of that concern and sincerity. The tone of her voice, the way she genuinely seemed to care not only about their son, but about him. Seven months too late. It made him want to cry. It made him want to scream at her. To tell her that he would never, ever forgive her or let her anywhere near his son again. To ask her how she could be such a horrible person and how she could possibly have left them, regardless of what had happened. But he wouldn't do any of it. Thinking it had been enough. He didn't dare show anything but indifference or anger towards her. He would rather have died, right then and there, than cry in front of her. Rather than letting her know how much she had hurt him. Once, he had grown comfortable with the strength and depth of everything she could make him feel. The good and the bad and everything in between. Not anymore. Especially not things like that. It made him uneasy to realize, though it was not the first time he had done so, that she could still evoke such emotion in him.
"Don't worry about Joe, it's my job to do that. What do you want, Abby?"
"Stop that! I thought we weren't going to fight anymore. God, Luka."
"What to do you want, Abby?" he asked again, impatient. Placing such emphasis on the words that he practically spat them out. "It's early and I'm tired still, I don't want to have this conversation. Hurry up and say whatever it is that you have to say."
"We need to talk and we need to do it alone. Because of this, you know?" Her voice wavered. All at once, her confidence was gone. "We just argue every time and we don't need to get into screaming matches in front of our son."
"And what do you expect me to do, just leave him alone and run off? It's not like there's anyone else here to take care of him." He hoped that it hurt her. He wanted it to, so badly. But he felt guilty for it already. "You can't expect me to always be around for you. Not anymore."
"Well, you're the better one here, remember? The good one." she spoke, sarcastically. Bitterly. She hated how much truth there was to it. "I'm sure you can figure something out if you try to. I'll be at the hotel all day, just meet me there once you've taken care of things."
Silently, he set the receiver down, hanging up the phone. And she couldn't help but remember a time when he never would have done so without saying he loved her, let alone without saying goodbye.