Context: this follows "Reconcilable Differences" and "Strings Attached",
connecting RD to its epilogue. RD was written before S9 so this is now
definitely AU. There is no Eric, no second Maggie arc, Carby happened but
not as it did on the show, Romano still has all his limbs and no-one went
to Africa.
And it's first person, Abby's POV which was a bit of a challenge because I'm very much not Abby! Oh, and the language is a little, erm, adult, at times.
Look out for a companion piece to this - "Once More With Feeling" by Californiagirl" - a parallel story written from Luka's POV and highly recommended!
The usual disclaimers apply.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
PART 1
You ever do that, look back and you can see those moments when things change, or when they don't, or when you can think "Yeah, that was good"? I never used to, never had the knack of letting myself just sink into the moment, not worrying about where it came from or what came next. I can look back and see where stuff changed, where things changed shape or direction. But the good stuff I kind of missed, waiting for the next thing to jump out at me.
I have a long list of "Moments That Were Never Going Anywhere Good", I could recite it in my sleep. Moments with my Mom, with Richard, with Luka, Carter, everyone really. I remember sitting in the bathroom and waiting, except not really needing to wait because I knew, and I remember saying shit out loud I don't know how many times. And when I finished doing that I picked up the 'phone but it wasn't to call Richard. Right there was the moment, not when I looked at the little plastic wand with its pink stripe, 'cause then it could still have gone the other way. But, you know, it didn't.
Sometimes things literally knock at your door, and you have the choice to open the door and let them in or shut it firmly in the face of whatever stands on your doorstep. My mother that night. Actually, I was more than half way to sinking into that moment, one of those rare times when it occurred to me that things might be OK for me. Fresh out of a warm bath, Luka cooking dinner, holding me, not wanting my thanks really but accepting them, a second or two when I let myself believe ... and then the knock at the door. I wish I could say that I made a decision to kill it all right there, but hey, I'm trying to be honest here, and I didn't. I just starved it to death, let it die of neglect. Oh, come on, you're not surprised are you? I'm an addict, stuff just happens to me, right? How sad is that?
It was a long time before it happened again for us. We'd eaten dinner and were doing dishes, a nice little vignette of domestic bliss. The light was on green again, and there was me, feeling kinda proud of myself because I'd owned up and it seemed to have worked. It was one of those half dozen "Hey, I'm happy" moments in my life. There have been more since and they're starting to overtake the memories of the moments when I made the crappiest decisions in my life - call the clinic, not Richard; talk to Carter, not Luka; take the beer, take another beer; take Carter; more beer and crash Luka's place. What the hell. You know, you want to be happy and you fight and strain for it but it's not a constant state, is it? It's episodic, and the trick is to recognise it when it's there. I'd not been there enough to recognise the landscape I don't think. Not like being miserable. But there - misery, people don't expect to be miserable all the time, do they, only they don't fall down dead if they're unhappy occasionally. Not normal people. Happiness is the same - you have to be on the look out for it.
Clever, huh? Well, yes, but not original. Luka's father said it to me as we sat on the stoop smoking after pizza. I just knew he'd be an extra anchovies guy. He'd said a lot to me that day. There, see - I remembered another one. I stood up to him and I forgave Luka. Just like that, let it go. I let it go instead of rolling it up and shoving it into my already over stuffed emotional backpack to haul around with me. Check me out.
It was about a month later, in the dark, that I made one of those decisions that ought to have fanfares and fireworks but didn't. Two security alarms were going off and there was a noisy fight going on in the apartment upstairs. He hated this stuff, I know he did, and he was real tense when he finally stopped sighing about it and spoke up.
"Should have stayed at my place."
"Next time."
"It's a nuisance, having two apartments. We should think about sharing." I didn't answer and he went on "I mean, we'll have to decide on one place when we're married." I still didn't say anything and this time he didn't break the silence, waiting. I found my voice eventually.
"Somewhere with a garden."
"You want a garden?"
"Well . . . we'll need somewhere for the kids to play, won't we?"
He got up then, pulled on some clothes and left the room and I waited but he didn't come back so I followed him. He was sitting at the table and he'd taken one of my cigarettes, and I sat opposite and watched as he smoked it right down.
There are some things in your life that are always in the present tense, and almost everything between now and then seems like that for me. I was real confused by that at first but then I figured it out. I was there, see? I mean, really there, not missing from my own life, however much it might stink, I was right there. Ivica would be proud of me. Hell, I was proud of me - and that was pretty much a first.
So anyway, I'm starting to feel a bit panicked, sitting here in the dark, and I'm cold, and still he doesn't say anything. Instead he reaches for the pack of cigarettes but I get there first and pull them out of his reach.
"Luka." Nothing. "It doesn't matter, I mean, if it's not what you want, I just always thought . . . " I'm rambling and I pull myself up short because I can hear how stupid I sound. How could this be something I just "always thought"? And shit this isn't what I expected. I'm not sure what I expected - him to gaze at me through a haze of unshed tears before finally releasing them in a torrent of love and gratitude?
Hell, yes.
"I'm sorry." he says. "I didn't . . . I wasn't . . ." Spit it out Luka
" . . . I didn't see this coming."
"You should blame your father."
"What?"
"He kinda laid into me . . . about being afraid, about just going for it, taking a risk if it's something you want . . . badly enough" I finish lamely.
"If it's what who wants?" and I can hear the scepticism in his voice now.
"Me. Me. But - " I don't finish because he gets up and makes for the bedroom. See a pattern developing here? My legs don't feel so good but after a minute I follow and find him sitting on the end of the bed, tying his shoe laces, and he's put on a sweater.
"I'm going out."
"It's after one."
"I need to walk."
And walk he does, right past me, grabbing his coat, out the door. I know that whatever else I can do I can't follow him.
An hour later I hear him come in but I don't open my eyes, I don't want to see his face. He sits cautiously on the edge of the bed and I can feel the cold coming off of him in waves, and then he's running an icy finger along my eyelashes. I can't not look at him now. The only light in the room is from the street lamp outside and I can't make out his expression.
"Hey." His voice is very soft.
"Hey."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - "
"It's OK. I understand."
"Yes?"
"It's all right. I should have talked to you properly, I just assumed . . . I never expected to want . . . but no, this is enough for me, us I mean, I probably shouldn't even - "
"How many?"
"What?"
"Children; how many?" Jesus, this is changing direction so fast I may throw up.
"Well, you know, I thought maybe we could start with one and see how that goes." He nods slowly and I know he's not looking at me. And then I know he is and that he's smiling a little.
"So - you want to make a start?"
And it's first person, Abby's POV which was a bit of a challenge because I'm very much not Abby! Oh, and the language is a little, erm, adult, at times.
Look out for a companion piece to this - "Once More With Feeling" by Californiagirl" - a parallel story written from Luka's POV and highly recommended!
The usual disclaimers apply.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
PART 1
You ever do that, look back and you can see those moments when things change, or when they don't, or when you can think "Yeah, that was good"? I never used to, never had the knack of letting myself just sink into the moment, not worrying about where it came from or what came next. I can look back and see where stuff changed, where things changed shape or direction. But the good stuff I kind of missed, waiting for the next thing to jump out at me.
I have a long list of "Moments That Were Never Going Anywhere Good", I could recite it in my sleep. Moments with my Mom, with Richard, with Luka, Carter, everyone really. I remember sitting in the bathroom and waiting, except not really needing to wait because I knew, and I remember saying shit out loud I don't know how many times. And when I finished doing that I picked up the 'phone but it wasn't to call Richard. Right there was the moment, not when I looked at the little plastic wand with its pink stripe, 'cause then it could still have gone the other way. But, you know, it didn't.
Sometimes things literally knock at your door, and you have the choice to open the door and let them in or shut it firmly in the face of whatever stands on your doorstep. My mother that night. Actually, I was more than half way to sinking into that moment, one of those rare times when it occurred to me that things might be OK for me. Fresh out of a warm bath, Luka cooking dinner, holding me, not wanting my thanks really but accepting them, a second or two when I let myself believe ... and then the knock at the door. I wish I could say that I made a decision to kill it all right there, but hey, I'm trying to be honest here, and I didn't. I just starved it to death, let it die of neglect. Oh, come on, you're not surprised are you? I'm an addict, stuff just happens to me, right? How sad is that?
It was a long time before it happened again for us. We'd eaten dinner and were doing dishes, a nice little vignette of domestic bliss. The light was on green again, and there was me, feeling kinda proud of myself because I'd owned up and it seemed to have worked. It was one of those half dozen "Hey, I'm happy" moments in my life. There have been more since and they're starting to overtake the memories of the moments when I made the crappiest decisions in my life - call the clinic, not Richard; talk to Carter, not Luka; take the beer, take another beer; take Carter; more beer and crash Luka's place. What the hell. You know, you want to be happy and you fight and strain for it but it's not a constant state, is it? It's episodic, and the trick is to recognise it when it's there. I'd not been there enough to recognise the landscape I don't think. Not like being miserable. But there - misery, people don't expect to be miserable all the time, do they, only they don't fall down dead if they're unhappy occasionally. Not normal people. Happiness is the same - you have to be on the look out for it.
Clever, huh? Well, yes, but not original. Luka's father said it to me as we sat on the stoop smoking after pizza. I just knew he'd be an extra anchovies guy. He'd said a lot to me that day. There, see - I remembered another one. I stood up to him and I forgave Luka. Just like that, let it go. I let it go instead of rolling it up and shoving it into my already over stuffed emotional backpack to haul around with me. Check me out.
It was about a month later, in the dark, that I made one of those decisions that ought to have fanfares and fireworks but didn't. Two security alarms were going off and there was a noisy fight going on in the apartment upstairs. He hated this stuff, I know he did, and he was real tense when he finally stopped sighing about it and spoke up.
"Should have stayed at my place."
"Next time."
"It's a nuisance, having two apartments. We should think about sharing." I didn't answer and he went on "I mean, we'll have to decide on one place when we're married." I still didn't say anything and this time he didn't break the silence, waiting. I found my voice eventually.
"Somewhere with a garden."
"You want a garden?"
"Well . . . we'll need somewhere for the kids to play, won't we?"
He got up then, pulled on some clothes and left the room and I waited but he didn't come back so I followed him. He was sitting at the table and he'd taken one of my cigarettes, and I sat opposite and watched as he smoked it right down.
There are some things in your life that are always in the present tense, and almost everything between now and then seems like that for me. I was real confused by that at first but then I figured it out. I was there, see? I mean, really there, not missing from my own life, however much it might stink, I was right there. Ivica would be proud of me. Hell, I was proud of me - and that was pretty much a first.
So anyway, I'm starting to feel a bit panicked, sitting here in the dark, and I'm cold, and still he doesn't say anything. Instead he reaches for the pack of cigarettes but I get there first and pull them out of his reach.
"Luka." Nothing. "It doesn't matter, I mean, if it's not what you want, I just always thought . . . " I'm rambling and I pull myself up short because I can hear how stupid I sound. How could this be something I just "always thought"? And shit this isn't what I expected. I'm not sure what I expected - him to gaze at me through a haze of unshed tears before finally releasing them in a torrent of love and gratitude?
Hell, yes.
"I'm sorry." he says. "I didn't . . . I wasn't . . ." Spit it out Luka
" . . . I didn't see this coming."
"You should blame your father."
"What?"
"He kinda laid into me . . . about being afraid, about just going for it, taking a risk if it's something you want . . . badly enough" I finish lamely.
"If it's what who wants?" and I can hear the scepticism in his voice now.
"Me. Me. But - " I don't finish because he gets up and makes for the bedroom. See a pattern developing here? My legs don't feel so good but after a minute I follow and find him sitting on the end of the bed, tying his shoe laces, and he's put on a sweater.
"I'm going out."
"It's after one."
"I need to walk."
And walk he does, right past me, grabbing his coat, out the door. I know that whatever else I can do I can't follow him.
An hour later I hear him come in but I don't open my eyes, I don't want to see his face. He sits cautiously on the edge of the bed and I can feel the cold coming off of him in waves, and then he's running an icy finger along my eyelashes. I can't not look at him now. The only light in the room is from the street lamp outside and I can't make out his expression.
"Hey." His voice is very soft.
"Hey."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - "
"It's OK. I understand."
"Yes?"
"It's all right. I should have talked to you properly, I just assumed . . . I never expected to want . . . but no, this is enough for me, us I mean, I probably shouldn't even - "
"How many?"
"What?"
"Children; how many?" Jesus, this is changing direction so fast I may throw up.
"Well, you know, I thought maybe we could start with one and see how that goes." He nods slowly and I know he's not looking at me. And then I know he is and that he's smiling a little.
"So - you want to make a start?"