Title:
Different Stars
Author:
Ella (formerly known as aurora boreale)
Rating:
PG
Spoilers:
through 11.22; if spoilers aren't your thing, you might want to come
back to this later
Disclaimer:
I don't even have rights to the disclaimer.
Summary:
Carter, Abby, post Season 11 finale. A standalone in four relatively
distinct parts.
Notes: I'm quite sick of worrying about how
spoilers are going to turn out, thank you for asking ;). This is, in
essence, my solution to the spoilers that we have thus far received.
This is a one shot deal, so blink and you might miss it.
Also, this includes a couple of lines from my previous spoiled speculation and scenarios. When I started writing this, my idea centered around one that I'd already come up with. But as I wrote, I decided to take into account all spoilers from the episode in one way or another
Shout Outs: Jules, for entertaining me with that Rob Thomas song as I was writing this. It gave me a nice break from the Dido I'd been listening to for the past week. Em, for putting up with me as I incessantly bitched about how I am incapable of finishing anything and listening to me as I needed feedback on my random ideas. Allie, for just being Allie and kicking me when I needed it. Kessa, for ... dealing with me in general and beta-ing everything I ever write. Various members of C&P, for their feedback on my original spoiler-based scenario(s). All of my lovelies on AIM/MSN/LJ, because you are the reason I stay with fandom; you girls are my angels and, quite frankly, you rock.
Lyrics/Quotes Credit: in order of appearance "Pictures of Success" - Rilo Kiley; "Different Stars" - Trespassers William; "Love and Addiction" - Counting Crows; The Poisonwood Bible - Barbara Kingsolver; "Tracing" - John Mayer
These
are times that can't be weathered and
We
have never been back there since then
Monday,
July 11, 2005
Chicago,
Illinois
She had not been the only person whose presence was lacking at his farewell party, but hers had been the only he'd noticed.
He knows that she had a shift, that someone had to be there for the new students. But he also knew that things had not been that busy. She might have had a chance to make her way across the street if she had desired.
So maybe she did, and maybe she didn't. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
He ought to go home and get some sleep, he reminds himself; his flight in the morning is early. But the bright lights of the ambulance bay reflect in small puddles left behind by the morning storm, and he cannot tear himself away.
There had been a new sadness about her today. A melancholy he did not recognize. It might have scared him had he not been so preoccupied with his departure; his final shift, the closing of one door and the opening of another - as he liked to think of it.
In reality that thought is appalling. But reality is unattainable in a time when words are used and misused and pass between two people as though they did not need significance.
The only reality he allows himself is the fact that he's leaving.
He comes to her sometimes in her nightmares. But she never knows he's there and he leaves again before she has the chance to respond. This might be one of those dreams for all she knows. She isn't entirely detached from conscious thought though the evening air whips around her still form and she is unaware.
Everything in her world is backwards and upside down, and she is alone again. This afternoon she had cared; this evening she has settled for a somber acceptance. She cannot even be bitter for there is no one left towards which she could direct any hostility. And she no longer desires to draw up the energy.
She's been standing in solitary on the roof of the hospital for almost forty minutes at this point. Her original plan had been to head to his goodbye party the second she got a chance, but as the shift wore on and her nerve wore out, she found herself less and less anxious to participate in such an informal, impersonal farewell. The more her subconscious attacked the prospects, the more the decision to stay away solidified itself in her mind. Better to say no farewell at all than to casually drop words that would leave her more empty than before.
She is so completely and utterly alone, caught up in the volumes of people who pass her on the street below in a similar manner as life, which seems to have left her behind entirely. And so she is almost musing when she feels a hand on her shoulder, her head whips around to meet this intruder.
He hadn't wanted to startle her this way, but judging by her facial expressions there would have been very little he could do to prevent her reaction.
"Hey," he offers her coffee and she returns his gesture with a small smile. It's weak but it's there, and its presence does not go unnoticed.
Upon identification she seems more relaxed, but he still is not sure he is welcome.
"I'm sorry I missed the party. It's just that things downstairs were ..." she's faltering for lack of a satisfactory explanation "... and I couldn't -"
"You don't have to explain." Or he doesn't really want to hear it. There's too much risk of unidentifiable party food that has not yet settled in his stomach.
Yes, I do. I wasn't there and if I could tell you why, I would. She feels as though if she could find a tangible explanation - or even a plausible one - she might be able to find a sense of closure in his departure. As it is, it might be construed more as an open door with the glass screen blocking entry yet allowing the visual to remain.
And it does remain; closure looms so close on the horizon that she is acutely aware of it though she cannot quite define it.
"You didn't think I'd leave without saying goodbye, did you?"
Yes ... No ... Maybe? ... "I don't know what to think anymore."
At least she is being honest. She hugs her arms close to her body protectively, unsure of what to say next and unable to anticipate his response.
She wants to ask him if he's worried about being so far away from the brand new clinic, wants to tell him that nothing will be the same knowing that his time in the ER is over forever, thinks he should know that he will be missed. Then she thinks that if he cares, he probably already knows, and if he doesn't, there isn't a point anyway.
That thought does not bring her any great comfort.
As they stand in silence, he recognizes that her mind is moving a thousand miles a minute, and that knowledge the only thing of which he seems to be aware. His own mind is empty and blank, in preparation for the journey he is about to undertake. Her previous admittance gives him very little hope of forming a response, and he finds himself welcoming the inability to speak. The cheater's way out of a difficult situation, but in the absence of a referee anything goes.
"You were right, too." She finally breaks the silence. If there's something hidden in the depths of her eyes, he cannot find it and refuses to allow a continuation of the search.
"Hmm?"
"You want the good news, or the bad news?"
"Give me the bad."
"I'm still not used to it, either. I don't think I ever will be ..."
"You never get used to it. The good news is you never get used to it - at least I haven't."
"It doesn't get any easier."
"... So you may have come up here to be alone - but you're not."
Five years later, and she still has not figured out if this is the good news or the bad. But she realizes that it's not really important anymore.
He came to the roof tonight to say goodbye to her, and yet it appears as though it is only her as she learns to let him go. Neither one has yet to utter a goodbye; it's almost too much for him to absorb. She's falling away from him and he's leaving her behind, but she is the one in control. She holds a firm grasp on reality in a manner that she has never felt before.
And he cannot help but feel as though he has failed.
In spite of himself he forges onward and almost dares to meet her eyes.
"I have an early flight ... in the morning," he finally adds.
"You do." She nods in agreement.
He's not sure exactly what he was hoping for, but that reply wasn't it. He thinks he wants a reaction - any kind of reaction. An opportunity to know what she's feeling. A reason to stay or justification for his departure; something clear-cut, black and white. Not this ambiguous grey that resembles the dull storm clouds of the humid summer morning, yet matches nothing in particular.
"So ... See you later." As a statement, it made no sense; as a question, it made even less. But then, logic did not factor much into the equation whenever they were concerned.
"Good luck in Africa, Carter." She tosses her reply into the warm night air.
When she turns around he is gone, and she tries to discern if he could have heard her as he vanished.
So I will hum alone, too far from you
All that I say now is nothing to you
We will lie under different stars
I am where I am and you're where you are
Tuesday,
July 12, 2005
Paris,
France
When he greets Kem at the airport in Paris, she is beaming at him. A gesture that he returns without effort because that is simply how they operate.
He likes this, when everything is spelled out for him; even oxygen seems to come to him more easily when she is around. It seems less confusing, more certain. Certainty means simplicity and simplicity is much easier to understand.
They stop at a café on the way to the hotel because Kem has been craving pastries. As they stand in line together, Carter wonders how he is going to place his order due to his still-limited knowledge of French.
They're practically at the counter by the time he realizes that the café is, in fact, a multilingual café. Kem orders effortlessly in her native tongue while his eyes scan the many options. Though he is not hungry, he feels compelled to make a purchase of his own. Experience has told him that she feels more comfortable eating in company.
It's your turn, she reaches to tap him on the shoulder. "I'll ..." he hesitates, stutters. "... I'll have what she's having."
The pair receive their order and take a seat at the nearest available table. She makes idle chatter, preoccupied with her pastry. She does not even notice that his has barely been touched.
He smiles at her because it's the only thing he knows how to do when she's near him. But the more he smiles, the more he wonders what it means.
Chicago, Illinois
"I hate my life," Neela announces at admit the day after he left, to no one in particular and anyone willing to listen.
"Interested in a trade?" Completed chart to outbox, new chart from the ever-expanding files of modern medicine's least-wanted, Abby is on auto pilot as she calls out a response. "You'd love my credit rating."
"In that case, maybe I'll just keep mine."
Abby turns around to glance at her as they veer towards their respective patients, calling after her retreating figure, "Things have been looking up since that plumbing issue got sorted out two weeks ago."
She is lying through her teeth, but there is no crimson mark to announce this to the world. And so she continues because there is nothing to stop her, and it's none of their business anyway.
Paris, France
He wakes with a start a few minutes after midnight. Her body lies still next to him, in the exact position in which sleep had overtaken her.
He finds it almost disappointing, her lack of restlessness as she sleeps. Most of his past girlfriends have been just as sound in sleep, each one except Abby in fact. When Abby slept - really slept - she would toss and turn and throw limbs carelessly. He never once complained; in fact, he would welcome the uninhibited physical contact. In deep sleep, she might even cast out mumbled utterances. Nonsense, usually. But he never mentioned it to her just in case she could devise a method of re-establishing barriers even as she slept. She was, after all, a master architect. If there were walls to be constructed, she would have them up before you even had a blueprint.
With Kem there were no walls. Nothing to hide, nothing to lose. And yet, he finds himself wishing the sheets would be just a little more tousled, her hair even slightly disheveled when they awoke each morning.
But only at midnight do these doubts rush over him.
He's been conditioned to jolt back to consciousness between midnight and one on a somewhat frequent basis. Or, he may have been conditioned. For all intents and purposes, operant extinction should have occurred at this point.
But he clings to whatever of the stimulus remains, and does not attempt to understand why.
In turn he rolls over, readjusts the duvet before removing it entirely, and finally gives up altogether. He saunters quietly to the other room to start the coffee maker.
Still she sleeps.
When she wakes in the morning, he is sleeping beside her and she has no idea he ever left the bed. She shakes him with the excitement of a child and tells him she loves him.
And so he stays.
This picture you see
Is nothing like the one
I wanted painted of me
Sunday,
July 24, 2005
Paris,
France
He has been in Paris for almost two weeks when the subject of their son first surfaces.
She has arranged for the priest in one of the small local parishes to offer up the early Sunday Mass in his memory.
But he was raised in a highly Episcopalian family, and sitting through the Mass renders him confused and conflicted. To make matters worse, he grasps very little of French as the liturgy echoes throughout the nave and he comprehends even less.
He looks to her for guidance, when to sit or stand or kneel. She does not seem to notice his discomfort, or she chooses not to because it risked complicating things that neither party wanted to unravel. Instead he feigns interest that might actually exist in the face of comprehension.
She leaves the church satisfied. He does not really leave the church, but casts a part of himself off in the pew where he sat - in the hopes that one day it might learn to understand what he presently could not.
On their way to the airport that same fateful Sunday, they stop at another café for pasties one last time. Kem harbors a particular affinity for her usual, selecting it from the varieties before considering the alternatives. Carter is meanwhile struggling with the choice laid out before him. This is his lunch, and most likely his last elaborate meal for a prolonged period of time.
"Quelle ici, s'il vous plaît," he stumbles over his attempt at French, losing pronunciation entirely in the process.
Kem laughs weakly as he pays the bill. She appears embarrassed; he almost doesn't blame her. But he does, and he blames himself as well.
The hot sun pummels the back of his neck in the open-air terrace. He flinches because he thinks he should, notes that everything seems so dark despite the assorted flowers and bright colors of Kem's apparel.
She looks up at him as if to ask what's wrong, but he isn't disappointed when she does not speak.
He remembers that he is no happier today than he was upon his arrival two weeks ago. It bothers him, though he cannot remember why. The sun continues its assault at the base of his neck, and his food settles in his stomach. And he still cannot remember why.
Shoved up against the cab door, he remembers that he's left it in his pocket. It was an impulse buy in a tiny antique shop she insisted upon stopping in. He didn't understand the point, as a century-old rocking chair or a chest of drawers from the 18th century would do neither of them much good in Africa. He humored her whim, though; later he had been glad he did. He lacks a reason behind his purchase, decides that it's probably better that she doesn't know of its existence, silences the nagging whisper that reminds him that he did buy this barrette with any particular woman in mind.
Once the cab is unloaded and sent on its way, the pair makes their way along the crowded corridors of the airport.
He maneuvers himself around the young couples and distraught parents and wandering children. Kem follows in his wake because he offers her safe haven among the sea of utter strangers, and with him she does not have to feel alone unless she so chooses.
Security is an obstacle course that reminds him of the summer camps he attended as a young child ... Once through this, twice through that; excuse me, sir, we'd like to see what you've got in your bags ...
He discerns that things were probably easier at summer camp, but makes it through with only minor trauma and ego bruised no further. Kem, however, does not have similar luck and is forced to remain while the man in front of her gets the full attention of security staff.
While he waits, he recalls abruptly a dream of which he has vague memory. Neurons that have for two years been dormant surge with activity, attempting to fill in the pieces of his confused recollection. Accuracy might be altered in the burst of imagery that follows - but only within the allocated degrees of freedom.
He's standing ... somewhere. No longer afraid of being alone, but no longer in solitary despite that. Alert to the fact that a woman is near, and he helps her as she struggles to put on her coat because he's worried she might get ... cold?
He is almost to the point of visualizing the woman's face when a tug on his sleeve jolts him back down to earth.
"John?" her voice carries easily in spite of the circus around them, "John? ... You look a million miles away."
"I don't know, Kem. I was - I mean, I am." His stutter is slight, but present.
"What do you mean?"
"Let me know that you get there safely." He doesn't know what he's saying until the words have already left his lips. His statement lingers in the air; he has no regrets.
For the first time in over a year, she looks to his eyes for reassurance. She looks and she finds none. His eyes are distant yet resolute, his expression unreadable as far as she is concerned.
He looks down on her tiny frame and sees her as though it is the first time. Inauspicious honesty at its net worth.
If I asked you to come with me, would I change your mind?
Negation exists in congruence with her question, and it remains unvoiced. He pretends not to notice because he knows it's in both of their best interests.
"You should go," he says, "You don't want to miss your flight."
She resists the urge to throw her arms around him, instead choosing to kiss his cheek as an old friend would do. It's he who leans down and wraps his arms around her frame, and it's he who lets her go again.
She, however, is resilient. A quick breath, she squares her shoulders and readjusts her bags.
"Call me?" comes her docile inquiry.
"I'll leave a message when I get back to Chicago," he offers ... "Good luck."
She disappears in the multitudes before she mouths his farewell in return.
Watching after her general direction, he wonders at his inability to see that things were over when now he cannot remember a time when they weren't so.
She might have vanished now. Then, she vanished of their own accord many months ago. Before, when she had left, he'd felt empty, angry, sore. As though warm scarlet blood might be gushing from the wounds in his sides and his heart. Or perhaps she had cut into his right ventricle, and the blood that seeped from him was an unknown shade of blue.
Different, now it is irreversibly different. It mars, but it does not sting. This he accepts.
It isn't fair, neither to her nor to him. Yet this isn't a game and score falls irrelevant. And "fair" was never part of the equation.
Imagine a ruin so strange it must never have happened.
Monday,
July 25 - Thursday, July 28, 2005
Chicago,
Illinois
When he arrives in Chicago, night has long since cascaded over the city. Like him, it is weary. It smells of smoke and grime and exhaust fumes that have not yet lifted, but it can only be defined as "Chicago," providing some small comfort and reassurance.
It takes a great deal of self restraint to return directly to his home, where he knows everything is packed in boxes, haphazardly awaiting shipment or storage. But he returns to his lamp-lit street because he knows that it's going to require time and patience and strength of resolve. And before anything else, the jet lag must wear off.
Three evenings later, he finally gets up the courage to go by her apartment. His knock so cautious at first that his fist does not make contact with the wood of her door.
A woman answers the door, though he does not recognize her but vaguely. He thinks she might be a friend from her days in OB.
"Can I help you?" She, too, looks as though she almost remembers him.
"I'm, uh ... Is Abby home?" This is not how he wanted this conversation to go.
"She ran out to the store to pick a few things up." As an afterthought, she adds, "Do you want to come in?"
Nodding, he enters the living room of Abby's apartment. "Do you know when she'll be coming back?"
"She left just a couple of minutes before you got here, so it'll be at least half an hour." The situation screams an awkward irony different from the one he'd carefully anticipated.
"If I could maybe just, uh, leave a message?"
"Of course," she starts toward the kitchen, presumably for paper and pencil.
"Wait! You don't have to ..." he calls her back. "Can you just tell her that an old friend came by?"
"Are you sure?" She seems skeptical, and rightfully so.
He nods affirmation. "Thank you."
The door closes firmly behind his retreating figure before she realizes she never asked for his name.
"Gossamer," Abby exclaims, proud of her affinity for Scrabble.
"Gossamer?" Her friend Beth inquires, "Are you sure? ... Because I think you're just taking advantage of me since you were an English major."
"I never finished," she quips.
"Old habits die hard," Beth counters. "I challenge."
"If you insist," Abby extracts herself from the sofa cushions and moves to the bookshelf to retrieve her dictionary. As she fingers the books in search for the one in question, she hears Beth call out from behind her.
"You had a visitor while you were gone, Ab. He didn't leave a name, but he wanted me to tell you that 'an old friend came by'" Beth closes her air quotes, Abby rotates her neck skeptically. "I don't know ... I figured you would."
Abby shrugs her shoulders and returns to her quest for the dictionary. As she pulls the well-worn paper-bound book away from the others, she notices a small wrapped package that sits on the shelf below.
The paper is a shade of brown that blends in with her wood shelves almost perfectly. Who owns brown wrapping paper, anyway? She wonders. And then, who actually uses it?
She slips the parcel between her thumb and index finger and notices that it lacks any sort of identification tag.
It's either a gift or an explosive device, she decides. But I didn't think he'd been angry when I missed his party.
She discretely pockets the small parcel, not wanting to draw attention to it. Not, of course, that there was much chance of the gaudy wrapping paper announcing its existence.
"Abby? ... Abby!" Beth's voice sounds insistent. "Hey, I thought we'd lost you for a second there."
"Can't get rid of me that easily," smirks her reply.
"Any ideas about your mystery visitor?"
"Let's just say he's not as mysterious as he likes to think he is." She half sits, half flings herself back on the sofa, opening to the page her fingers marked. "Gossamer; adjective; light and flimsy ..."
"I'm sorry?"
"... also a noun; delicate filmy material. Here, look."
"I - oh, I give up!" Beth jokes exasperation. "You are impossible!"
"Your turn," she closes the dictionary emphatically.
Beth studies her tiles in a search for viable options.
While her friend isn't looking, Abby's hand finds the wrapping in her pocket once more.
Her heart skips a beat with the reassurance it's still there.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Chicago, Illinois
That next morning, he finds her bathed in the cool early sunlight as she sits by the river.
Though the sun has already risen, the sky seems in limbo. The pastels of sunrise have vanished in favor of a soft blue that appears blank and transparent against the flushed color of her cheeks or the deep brown of her hair.
He masks his disappointment that she is wearing her hair down.
Standing right behind the bench, he fears speech may activate a failsafe; he'd prefer not to wake up back in Paris. Not at this stage in the game, anyway.
He's not even sure she knows he's there until, at last, she speaks.
"What made you come back?" Her voice is steady as her eyes tilt up toward him.
I never really left, for all that matters.
"The pastries," he says, finally. He thinks she smirks at this.
"You've always had a weak stomach, Carter."
Feigned indignation is considered, then dismissed; they tend to work better without words.
He moves to sit beside her on the bench, and as he takes her hand in his, his skin comes in contact with something that cannot be explained as "Abby" or "Abby's clothes." Her head tilts again, instinctively; she found it last night and he found it that morning, whatever it is.
"The paper was a nice touch."
He wants to ask why it remains unopened, and she wants to tell him. But he doesn't ask and she doesn't offer and it's okay. Another time will arise and be, in its turn, just as appropriate.
It might be ten minutes later, maybe twenty to be safe, when he breaks his gaze from the horizon and looks down to her again, "I didn't want to be alone anymore."
She could be confused at this, or she could act it despite what she now knows. She could say anything at all and it would be within her rights. But she doesn't want to be alone anymore, either.
Instead she flips the small gift with nimble fingers, and she begins to tear at the wrapping.
And I'm okay
If you're okay with wasting time
But when you trace
You always see the bottom line
More notes: There's a major shout out to the X-Files fandom in there, but I thought it was appropriate in context. If you didn't pick it up the first time through, then you've probably never read any XF fic.
The definitions that I used came directly from my own dictionary, as well. I just thought it might be important to mention that.
You also have several fantastic and appropriate songs that I would recommend investigating.
This was a break while I struggle with my work in progress, Wires & Waves. Hopefully I'll be able to get back to that one soon, but in the meantime I'd really love to know what you think about this one. Thanks for reading, everyone :)