Title: Leave a Light on for Me

Description: Post-ep for "Kisangani." Fifteenth (and final!) chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall." Carter's POV.

Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me – they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Kisangani." (#9-22)

Summary: Carter feels Abby's palpable presence during critical junctures in his two-week stint in the Congo and returns home with renewed determination to make things right.

Parting Shots: This is the last installment in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed. Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Night Sessions" (Chapter 20), her post-ep to "Kisangani," which closes the book on "Reflections." Once again, kudos to Lanie for crafting another fabulous crossover scene.

As the train at long last approached the station, I found my post-ep folder littered with a number of unused song titles, many of which I had reserved as possible lyrical inclusions for the finale. Since I had such a hard time deciding among them, I opted to cue up pertinent snippets at the outset of each of this chapter's eight vignettes. As an added treat to this veritable cornucopia of '70s musicians, "Leave a Light on for Me" is bookended by excerpts from Dan Fogelberg's "The Long Way" (from his album "Souvenirs"), a ballad that harkens back to my high school days and the tune that inspired me to write this series.

Song lyrics used (in order of appearance) are from…

*           The Long Way, Dan Fogelberg

*           Africa, Toto

*           Learn to Be Still, The Eagles

*           The Girl From Yesterday, The Eagles

*           The Rebel Jesus, Jackson Browne

*           Peacekeeper, Fleetwood Mac

*           The Girl From Yesterday, The Eagles

*           Learn to Be Still, The Eagles

*           The Long Way, Dan Fogelberg

Please see Author's Notes at end for a final salute to the wonderful cadre of carby aficionados and reviewers who made this exercise such a uniquely gratifying "once upon a time."

* * * * *

She was lost and I thought I was found

Even so I tried to bring her in

She was young and I had just begun

To learn that even losing men can win

We went the long way

We went the long way

We went the long way

Or maybe just the wrong way

I'll never know

* * * * *

Day One: Travel

Ten hours into the flight, the drone of the engine in the unintelligible night sky offers soothing reassurance as my body presses against the window and I slowly turn the pages of the two-day-old copy of The New York Times I had picked up at Heathrow.

I glance at my watch. By my calculations, allowing room for further ministrations to the international date clock, we'd be arriving in Johannesburg by daybreak.

My seatmate, a nattily dressed gentleman carefully sipping a club soda, tries to strike up polite conversation with me in perfect French.

"Sorry, I don't speak French."

"Long journey." His voice is deep and low as the words barrel out in unfaltering English.

"Yeah, I started yesterday. In Chicago."

"Chicago….Michael Jordan…right." He lets out a laugh and I turn to face him, amused, suddenly starved for idle chitchat.

"Yeah." I suppress a chuckle, almost choking on my gum.

"You going to the Congo on business?"

"I'm a doctor." I fold my newspaper.

"Where will you stay in the capital?"

"I'm not going to Kinshasa. I'm going on to Kisangani."

"Kisangani." He rolls the word around on his tongue, enunciating it more clearly. "In the east."

I look up, surprised he had heard of such a remote outpost.

"A doctor in Kisangani. You will be busy. Very busy." His voice sounds ominous.

We continue our respectful exchange for a few more minutes, until he gets up to use the lavatory.

I slip the newspaper into the seat pocket in front of me and reach into my backpack, rustling around until I find what I'm looking for. I pull out the spiral journal, by now a familiar appendage to my on-the-run existence. I open it to the last page and stare down at my deliberate scrawl. I had penned the eighth and final entry in the American Airlines' Admirals Club at Heathrow.

I glance out the window and pop another stick of gum into my mouth.

She was out there somewhere.

Pivotal Moment # 8: First Kiss

Abby –

I'll bet you're wondering why I chose to bookend this, the eighth and final pivotal moment, with the one I chose to start it all.

It's not as though it's a complete set.

So many other moments have dotted the landscape that I wonder if the freeze frames I've selected can aptly capture the sum total of our relationship between these two points.

Still, I felt I had to draw some lines in the sand.

For safekeeping.

So that we would be sure to remember.

After all, we are responsible forever for what we have tamed…

And herein lies the method to my madness.

At the outset of this exercise, I came clean on the question of when "it" happened for me.

Undeniably, unquestionably, unequivocally, up on the roof on a fateful Valentine's Day more than three years ago.

But as our ever-changing dance unfolded, sometimes a halting minuet, occasionally a saucy rumba, other times a roiling tango, it was lived in the abstract, in the dark reserves of our hidden hearts.

It never seemed real to me.

It never had a face.

Nor a name.

Not until the night of the lockdown in trauma yellow, when your lips met mine, and I touched it.

One chapter ended.

And another began.

Winging my way to Africa, I'm trying hard to wrap my arms around the second series of pivotal moments that followed our first kiss.

Two weeks held captive in the ER, discovering and exploring boundaries, poking and prodding fledgling emotions.

Line dancing at Navy Pier.

A rooftop declaration.

A question that somehow missed its mark, followed by days of slow unraveling.

Gamma's death.

Eric's reappearance.

A lunar eclipse.

And a kiss at the airport as the curtain fell on the second act.

Is this the end of the line?

Or another beginning?

How can we be sure?

I think I know.

It's all in these two notebooks.

Everything we need to figure it out is right in here.

In yours.

And in mine.

To take us there.

To the next place.

As soon as I get home.

We'll find out together.

Leave a light on for me.

Yours,

John

* * * * *

I hear the drums echoing tonight

But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation

She's coming in 12:30 flight

The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation

I stopped an old man along the way

Hoping to find some long forgotten words or ancient melodies

He turned to me as if to say, "Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you"

It's gonna take me a lot to drag me away from you

There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do

I bless the rains down in Africa

Gonna take some time to do the things we never had

* * * * * *

Day 3: Kisangani

I listen to the raspy sounds rumbling from the young boy's chest, his skin flinching, despite the heat, against the icy silver of the stethoscope.

A French-speaking Congolese nurse named Basinake is my translator du juor. After conversing with the boy's mother, she offers, "He's had a fever for a week."

The boy emits a series of raspy coughs as I complete my examination. "Tell her that he has pneumonia and that we're going to make him better."

I can feel the sweat drip down my back marinating against the light gauze of my shirt, sending a stinging sensation to an area of my lower extremities that had already been pummeled by two days in a cramped airplane, a flimsy cot and an endless sea of patients. I arch my back in a futile attempt to stave off the pain. When that fails, I cup my hands behind my head and twist my body from side to side.

Still no relief.

As I numbly step around Basinake to tend to my next charge, the boy's frantic mother secretes a low-pitched wail. "Merci, doctor, merci."

The Congolese people are nothing if not unfailingly polite. At this point, three days into my mission, a crash course in the horrors of a medically ravaged nation, it's probably the only thing that stands between my present overwhelmed state and total despair.

For the first time in my life, I feel completely helpless as a doctor, as a healer of the sick. Luka is still off administering a round of immunizations in Matenda, leaving me under the watchful eye of a small tribe of jungle docs to endure my baptism by fire.

Still, taking my cue from those around me, I soldier on.

"You're welcome."

I meander over to an elderly couple, the man wearily propped up against the wall, a frail woman, her forehead covered by a dark bandana and her face burrowed into his shoulder, slumped against him.

"Hi." I give the gentleman a tight-lipped smile as I squat down in front of him. "Who's sick…you or…"

He pats her hand lovingly.

Instinctively, I reach for her pulse, only to find that there is none. I have to steel myself against recoiling my hand in shock and dismay.

How to break the news to him? I'm flying blind.

Something deep inside of me is working overtime to anesthetize my psyche against the horrors of all that flies in front of me, a seemingly endless succession of sights a thousand times worse than anything that had ever blown through the doors of County General.

"Basinake." My voice morphs into a hardened bark. "This woman is dead." I fold my hands together in silent prayer.

"Papa…" And so begins her translation.

Surprisingly, the man speaks halting English with a gravelly intonation.

"I know. She has been very ill."

Now I'm even more confused.

"Why didn't you tell us she was so sick when she came in…" Still, under the spell of my old mindset, I think that maybe there's something we could have done to save her, that somehow I had failed her.  Both of them.

"She has had AIDS for many months. I did not know where else to go."

I bow my head, overwhelmed by a feeling of emotional destitution as excruciating as any I had ever known.

Haunted by the heartrending image of the man adoringly stroking his wife's limp body as he sob-sings to her in French, I step out into the stifling heat, hoping to catch an intermittent breeze, anything to dull the pain in my gut and the ache in my soul from the surreal scene I had just witnessed.

A scene I sense I'm doomed to witness a thousand times over during my stint here.

Salty tears prick at my eyelids, threatening to commingle with the sweat-soaked grime that covers my face.

I grieve silently for a woman I had never seen alive, a life cut short, a love silenced.

I picture her laughing, dancing, smiling.

Massaging my back, I tentatively twist my torso from side to side, hoping to assuage the kinks that have crept into my muscles and taken them hostage. Satisfied with the outcome, I relax my body and lean back; turning my face up to the scorching rays emanating from the radiant sky.

I draw a hand up to my forehead to shield my eyes from the familiar image exploding across the firmament.

Suddenly, her face is everywhere, blinding me with its aching simple beauty, teasing me with the hint of a faint, upturned smile.

For miles and miles, it's all I can see.

All I want to see.

Amidst the chaos that rules my life.

Like a landmark payday in the rich bank of memory, one I knew I'd be drawing mightily on in the days to come.

* * * * *

We are like sheep without a shepherd

We don't know how to be alone

So we wander 'round this desert

And wind up following the wrong gods home

But the flock cries out for another

And they keep answering that bell

And one more starry-eyed messiah

Meets a violent farewell –

Learn to be still

Learn to be still

* * * * *

Day 6: Kisangani

I enter what passes for the staff lounge only to be greeted by the sight of Luka massaging his temples and smoking a cigarette, still haunted, as was I, by the aftereffects of the unspeakable multiple traumas we had just witnessed and tried mightily to reverse.

I'm still haunted by the image of a young boy who I had tried valiantly, but unsuccessfully, to save.

Grabbing a wooden chair, I drag it over across from him and prop the back towards him, leaning my upper body against its rickety frame. The air in the room is thick and close, singed with the unsettling aroma of ash, sweat and sand.

I serve the first volley. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Oh, I don't." He examines the cigarette with exaggerated intensity, apparently fascinated by its inner workings.

I fold my arms across the top of the chair, resting my chin on them.

"When did you get here?" He lobs the conversation back into my court.

"Six days ago." I look at him pointedly. "How much longer are you staying?"

"I don't know. I'm going back to the clinic tomorrow. I have patients there who can't be moved. I came back for some supplies." He grounds his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray, a tiny sardine can peppered with rust.

My head swings around as I hear the door hinge squeak.

Enter Gillian, a voluptuous nurse from Montreal, almost two weeks into her annual pilgrimage to the bowels of the Congo, a time set aside to repent for her self-described "wanton ways" in the real world.

She waltzes into the room almost as if on cue, in search of a geometry lesson of the most sensuous variety. I suppress a chuckle envisioning "The Triangle Goes to the Congo," a macabre modern day remake of a vintage Bob Hope-Bing Crosby-Dorothy Lamoure road movie.

She heads over to the table and joins the party, resting her backpack on the chair next to her. I subtly try to gauge Luka's reaction to her arrival, but he continues to romance his cigarette. A lonely stout-bodied moth circles the lantern that sits in the center of the table, drawn to the intoxicating light that ominously envelops its immediate horizon. I rub my head in a vague attempt to ward off the pulsating crescendo that's beginning its dance behind my temples.

"Welcome back." Her tone is terse and laconic as she zips open her bag.

"Thank you." No need to mince words. Luka rubs his eye debonairly and extends his cigarette like a prop, as if rehearsing for an imaginary audience.

My eyes dart from side to side amused and fascinated as my companions ponder their next move. It ends in a draw with Luka licking his lips before biting down on them and Gillian rising to fetch two bottles of cola from the refrigerator.

Suddenly, it feels like I'm the only other person in the room as she extracts a bottle of vodka from the deep recesses of her knapsack and pours a smattering into two plastic tumblers, more for her, less for me.

"I thought you might be upset about that boy."

"I'm OK."

She smiles as she pops open the soda cap with a bottle opener and pours the dark liquid into each glass. This time, it's more for me, less for her as she pushes my portion toward me. Luka continues his ministrations to the cigarette with a series of perfect smoke rings as I shift in my chair, trying to get a bead on the unsettling silence that casts a pall over our smoke-filled hell.

I grab my glass and raise it to hers in a silent salute. Lifting it to my lips, the unfamiliar taste burns a hole in my throat.

After downing the contents of her lopsided concoction, Gillian lays down her glass with an inflated thud and a pronouncement of the obvious. "I'm exhausted." My eyes follow her as she returns the vodka to her backpack and rises, slinging her precious cargo over her shoulder. Luka's mental whereabouts are still unreadable as ever as I bury my head in my arms, intrigued by the evening's unfolding drama.

But she's not done with us yet.

With one fell swoop, she truncates the tense ambiance with a startling proposition. "I'm going to bed and uh…I hope someone will join me." Halfway across the room, she turns around one last time as if to savor the mental image of two men blown away in a forever freeze frame.

Suddenly it's just the two of us.

"How's Abby?"

Ah, Abigail Lockhart makes an appearance. Still between us. Front row center.

A waft of smoke suddenly jars me back to the present. He seems to be testing me somehow by tossing her name into the mix, clearly marking his sexual territory, stretching the boundaries of the triangle into an scintillating parallelogram.

Although Gillian's offer seemed largely to be lobbed at Luka, she had clearly reveled in the provocative sparks that asphyxiated the air between us, picking up on the kinetic tension that invisibly radiated between her two would-be suitors, exploiting it to her advantage. Not having been privy to whatever had transpired between them before Luka's pilgrimage to Matenda and my subsequent arrival, it's hard to guess her ultimate motive, but I sense that my presence somehow gave her the opening she craved to pique Luka's interest and get him right where she wanted him.

"Look, I'm not sure how much of this I'm supposed to tell you without breaking every rule of feminista solidarity, but you have her right where you want her."

I mentally swat Susan's words away like an annoying insect as they suddenly loop through my head.

For some reason, though, I feel the need to brandish my enduring fidelity.

"I didn't do anything with Gillian – I swear."

He stares at me in obvious amusement. He's clearly enjoying our strange little verbal tête-à-tête. "So you don't mind if I…"

"No." Make that hell no.

He stands and grinds out his cigarette, saddened by the sight of its crushed remains.

I feel the need to have the last word. "Knock yourself out."

"See you in the morning." His fingers linger briefly on my back.

I raise my glass to my forehead, a cooling elixir for the longest ten minutes in recent memory.

I sit upright in my chair and gaze up at the ceiling where a group of gnarly moths have congregated pondering their next move. I close my eyes, trying to instill my lifeless limbs with the limberness required to make their way back to my lonely cot. When I open them, the moths have once again embraced the light. I remember reading somewhere that even though they might be eaten, it's the visual impression of a deeper darkness beyond the light that draws the moths in.

And, just as I knew I would, staring at them melting their bodies against the lantern's scorched glass, drowning in inquisitiveness, all I could see was her face.

* * * * *

It really wasn't sad the way they said goodbye

Or maybe it just hurt so bad she couldn't cry

He packed his things, walked out the door and drove away

And she became the girl from yesterday

He took a plane across the sea to some foreign land

She stayed at home and tried so hard to understand

How someone who had been so close could be so far away

And she became the girl from yesterday

* * * * *

Day 11: Matenda

Trapped in a whirlpool of suspended reality somewhere between wholesale watchfulness and a catnap, I feel my torso fitfully shift its weight on the creaky old cot, searching for a comfort zone. I involuntarily swat an insect of underdetermined origin through the thin protective sheer of the mosquito netting that envelops me.

Despite the burgeoning toll the ordeal was wreaking on my body, slumber had thus far eluded me tonight, especially now in the unfamiliar surroundings of the makeshift immunization clinic in Matenda. If possible, the heat here seems even more oppressive than in Kisangani, where the sleeping quarters had occasionally been treated to gentle middle-of-the-night breezes.

Eyes still closed, I tiredly resist the increasing consciousness that begins to seep through my body.

To thwart the process, my mind replays a mental montage of faces, which had peeked out from behind lines that stretched several city blocks. Congolese children in all shapes and sizes, fear dancing in their eyes as they bravely stuck out malnourished arms, trailed by grateful family members incessantly murmuring "merci," hopelessly dazzled by the endless possibilities of the western world.

And there I sat, a white, sweaty messiah with a syringe and a dream, sent from a far-off land, attempting to heal and soothe them in woeful French.

A precious few would make it out alive.

But, to the vast majority, the damage had already been done. They wouldn't be so lucky.

Medicine men with our fingers stuck in the dike.

Who were we kidding pretending to save them?

I had said as much to Luka afterwards as I had brought two ice cold beers to the lakeside knoll where he sat perched, deep in thought, mesmerized by the sounds of nearby gunfire.

"Sounds close."

"Yeah, a mile, maybe two."

"Pertussis and we don't have anything stronger than amoxicillin. Did you tell that boy's father that we could save him?"

"We can."

"Whopping cough's gonna eat that amoxicillin for lunch. He's going to die. Die from a disease that we could wipe out with a ten dollar course of erythromycin …"

"We vaccinated two hundred children today. When was the last time you saved two hundred lives in an afternoon, huh?"

As Luka's words ring through my head, they collide with a juxtaposition of eerily similar nouns and verbs, filed away in a nearby reservoir of thought, triggering a rash of suppressed memories.

Suddenly, all I can hear is the sound of her voice, soft and sultry in the spring night air.

"How many lives do you think he saved?"

And the loneliness tears me apart, ripping through my gut, prickling my loins, sending shivers of fear and trepidation down my spine as I brace myself for another day without her.

Reflexively, I reach out my forefinger to touch her imaginary face, trying desperately to close the distance between us. As my hand gropes through the darkness, it knocks into a bedside lantern, illuminating the room.

There would be no more sleep to be had tonight.

In the far off distance, my ears unexpectedly fixate on the strains of a mournful ballad and the low sounds of hushed conversation. After disentangling myself from the clutches of the cocoon-like netting, I wander outside toward the medical tent, wiping the sleep out of my eyes and rubbing my hands together.

The tune was unmistakable now.

Willie Nelson's "Willow Weep For Me."

The last song I had ever expected to hear piping through eastern Africa.

Sad as I can be,

Hear me willow and weep for me.

Whisper to the wind,

And say that love has sinned

To leave my heart a breaking

And making a moan,

Murmur to the night,

To hide her starry light,

So none will find me sighing

And crying, all alone.

Patrique, a fellow physician, ambles toward me, offering me a drink.

I don't answer, too enthralled by the sight of the medical tent. It's been transformed into a makeshift nightclub, replete with a dance floor where Charles, another doctor, dances with Basinake while Luka and Gillian huddle closely together, slowly swaying to the music, one hand on his shoulder while he rubs her arm.

"Willie Nelson?" I smile goofily.

"Charles went to college in Texas."

My eyes are riveted to the starry-eyed image of Gillian gazing up into Luka's eyes with unbridled hunger. I'm charmed and deeply touched by this little bit of normalcy amidst the chaos.

Now, Gillian's cheek is pressed to Luka's shoulder, her arm reaching up so she can fondle his neck. His cheek rests against her hair, and he's stroking her upper arm. They're barely breathing, much less moving.

I'm consumed by a feeling of complete and utter longing, my body gripped by a lust so flagrant it reaches up and presses against my insides. I have to shift my stance a little to steady myself.

Where was she at this very moment?

Was she thinking about me?

Or had she already written me off, wiping the slate clean with an invisible eraser etched across the star laden sky?

"You ever take dance classes?"

"No. Have you?"

"Uh huh. Yeah. Actually I have a few moves."

"I'm sure you do."

"Care to give it a whirl?"

"Nah, I don't know."

"C'mon. Just follow me."

"I'm not sure that I can."

"I've got you."

As the song ends, Luka languidly dips Gillian, much to her surprise and delight. It's a snapshot so rife with courtly, quixotic charm, so uncannily out of character for my dark and brooding one-time romantic archrival, that I respond with a chivalrous gesture of my own, an exaggerated grin and bow, as if to request the pleasure of the next dance.

My gaze is still fixed on the star-crossed duo as I straighten up and they continue to shuffle their feet, oblivious to their surroundings.

Until an explosion rocks the heavens and illuminates the sultry sky with a fireball of light, leaving us little choice but to belly-flop onto the ground, waiting for the attack to subside and a chance to assess the damage.

* * * * *

But pardon me if I have seemed

To take the tone of judgment

For I've no wish to come between

This day and your enjoyment

In a life of hardship and of earthly toil

There's a need for anything that frees us

So I bid you pleasure and I bid you cheer

From a heathen and a pagan

On the side of the rebel Jesus

* * * * *

Day 13: Matenda

A labyrinth of emotions swell inside my chest as I stare up into the barrel of the gun that sits cocked in my captor's hand.

I can feel my knees begin to buckle under the scorching rock-tinged earth and my arms cramp from their position behind my head, as if I'm about to do sit-ups instead of take my chances at the mercy of the rebel Mai Mai cabal.

I close my eyes and watch the whole cast of my life parade before them – grade school teachers, summer camp bunkmates, nosey neighbors, and a host of people I hadn't thought much about in years – peering at me in wide-eyed wonder, almost like they're bearing witness to the adventures of a hapless extra who's found himself permanently sentenced to the wrong movie set.

As I squint up into the blinding light, my heart thudding wildly, I search the sky for a sign, a remnant of hope, anything to believe in the rock-ribbed clarity of faith that has temporarily deserted me.

A sign that she's still there.

Waiting up for me.

With the light on.

But try as hard as I might, I can't quite delve deep enough in the reservoir of memory to give her a bird's eye view of the unfolding drama.

The fiery light partially obscures a familiar profile that I can't quite place as his compatriot jams his gun to my forehead.

An exchange ensues, their words encased in a torrent of French that pierces the tense standoff.

I struggle to find my voice, directing my inquiry toward Patrique who kneels beside me, his body slumped in similar formation. "What's he say?"

"That you tried to save his brother. That you tried for a long time."

Suddenly, I remember. The boy whose heart I had massaged in a last-ditch effort to save him the night Luka had returned to Kisangani.

Unfortunately, I had failed.

And it looks like I'm well on my way to meeting a similar fate.

I peer back up at the sky as the sun attempts to extricate itself from behind a cloud cover, searching for her face.

Still nothing.

A child-like voice pierces the thick hissing wall of silence that resonates in my ears.

"Hello."

"Hi." I'm touched by his attempt to address me in my native tongue.

The boy nods.

My eyes flicker, stunned by my startling reversal of fortune, as I feel the soldier release the gun barrel from my temple, but not before leaving an imprint, whether real or imagined, that I would carry with me to the end of my days.

"Merci." The boy's tone is contrite and rimmed with a note of finality.

"You're welcome." I offer a nod of gratitude, my blank stare belying the actions of my still-thudding heart.

* * * * *

We make all our suns the same

Every one will suffer the fire we've made

They all explode just the same

And there's no going back on the plans we've made

Peacekeeper take your time

Wait for the dark of night

Soon all the suns will rise

Peacekeeper don't tell why

Don't be afraid to fight

Love is the sweet surprise

* * * * *

Day 14: Matenda

I unwrap a piece of gum and pop it into my mouth as Charles and I wait in the van for Luka and Gillian to finish their last round of goodbyes.

I can't help but watch them locked in a steamy embrace; his lips tenderly mingling with a tangle of hair and what I can only surmise are her salty tears.

Staring at his profile, I know I'll never look at him the same way.

Not after yesterday.

Not after the soldier who had spared my life retraced his steps and jostled Luka and Gillian to the ground.

Not after three gunshots rang out behind him, falling an enemy soldier execution-style.

Not after, failing miserably to compose myself, my heart laid bare by the experience, I had looked him squarely in the eye.

And all I had found was steely nerve and a bulls-eye calm.

Fear seemed the farthest thing from his being.

Finally, their bodies disengage. Luka rubs her cheek affectionately, but Gillian will have none of it, ripping his hand from hers as she stalks off toward the waiting vehicle. I get out, letting her slide into the seat next to me and then climb back in, grabbing the window and looping my hand through the opening.

"What should I tell Weaver?" The gum feels comforting between my teeth. I'm suddenly confronted by a mental image of Abby blowing bubbles at Wrigley Field. I wonder if she's still managed to lay off the nicotine.

"Whatever you want." He shrugs, hands protruding on hips.

I kick at the ground and nod my head. "Tell her you're coming back?"

Luka opens his mouth to answer, thinks better of it and closes it, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head. "I don't know."

I wonder if I'll ever see him again. If anyone at County ever would.

"Don't do anything stupid."

Like that's enough to stop his death wish. I climb in the van.

He smiles widely, his eyes twinkling. "Like what?"

"Like getting yourself killed." I slam the door shut.

I tap the window as the van pulls away.

As the rush of countryside dabs at her glassy eyes, Gillian turns around for one last look, waving through the back window as Luka's image shrinks in the distance, before emitting a low, painful sob.

She rests her head on my shoulder and I absently wrap an arm around her. But the weight of her watchfulness is too much to bear and she tumbles into my lap with a graceful thump. I place a hand on her head and clutch the other, burrowing my palm into hers.

Suddenly it hits me.

I was going home.

Wherever that was.

And whatever I would find there.

* * * * *

She doesn't know what's right

She doesn't know what's wrong

She only knows the pain that comes from waiting for so long

And she doesn't count the teardrops

That she's cried while he's away

Because she knows deep in her heart

That he'll be back someday

* * * * *

Day 15: Chicago

The water cascades in even-tempered torrents against the windshield as the cab sails over rain-drenched pavement, making a rhythmic whooshing sound that's like music to my ears in the darkened night.

I glance at myself in the driver's rear view mirror, hoping the shower and quick change act I had pulled in the Admiral's Club at Heathrow had erased some of the stubble and grime that had followed me like unwanted souvenirs from the first leg of my journey. Hell knows it couldn't expunge the nagging terror that still cloaks my heart like death.

As the cabbie pulls up to the curb, I quickly pull a few bills from the pocket of my denim jacket and politely thank him for his patience when I hastily scuttled my original destination midway through the trip from O'Hare.

Hauling my gear up the steps, I eyeball the second floor window.

Pitch black.

My excitement is tempered by a gnawing uneasiness that begins to second-guess my split second decision as I wonder what I'll find behind close doors.

Other than simply the absence of light.

I recall the conversation that had steered me here as the cab had circled the shores of Lake Michigan.

"Chaos theory?"

"Yeah, a virus mutates in the Congo, we evacuate an ER in Chicago, Romano gets his arm cut off."

"You lost me…"

"Seemingly random events, all part of a larger equation."

Breathing deeply, I enter the apartment building and mount the staircase, prepared to take my chances.

I remove the shiny sliver of the key from my wallet, fresh from its journey halfway around the world, and slip it into the lock. I give the knob a gentle tug as the door squeaks open, silently praying that the chain is unlatched.

It is.

Perhaps she was expecting company?

My eyes adjust to the incandescent blue-black beams from an outdoor street light that wafts through the room to greet me.

I notice the bedroom door is slightly ajar. Dropping my bags, I tentatively tiptoe towards it, crossing over the threshold and rounding the edge of the mattress to the side of the bed where she snuggles on her right side, mouth upturned demurely, curled in the child-like innocence of sleep.

Before my eyes can fully drink her in, they're captivated by the images on her pillow.

Butterflies.

"You know a butterfly flaps its wing in China and creates a tornado halfway around the world."

"Are you hot?"

"I'm just saying there's an inherent unpredictability about everything: evolution, life, love, relationships…"

"So what am I? The butterfly or the tornado?"

Which one, indeed?

On one hand, toil, toil, work and trouble. 23/7.

On the other, in the day's final hour, without a doubt, the sweetest feeling I would ever know.

I reach my hand into the satin darkness, touching her face with my forefinger, tracing an imaginary line down the side of her cheek. Its finely chiseled contours are no longer the object of my fantasies, an image amorphously embossed across the African sky; this is for real, this is genuine, this is unavoidable.

This is my destiny.

Time for the cards to fall into place; time to pick and choose.

"No, you're chaos in general."

"Thanks."

"No, I'm just saying, you're chaos to me…the unknown…I'm chaos to you…"

"You are hardly chaos, Carter."

"I'm just saying there's a risk in anything you do, right? But don't you want to stack the odds in your favor?"

My eye trains itself on her bare arm peeking up from under the blanket that's tossed casually around her waist. I'm overwhelmed by the sudden urge to run my tongue across the chaste hollow of her throat, coming to rest on her exposed shoulder and a little dent, scalloped in the bone, that dips languorously beneath moon-kissed skin.

Instead, I lean over and kiss her forehead, my lips lingering just above her brow, lost in her scent.

Lowering my body to the foot of her bed, I look upward for a sign, anything to tell me we were going to be okay.

I gaze back at her sleeping form.

And suddenly it hits me.

Her face.

Instead of its usual position tucked under the corner of her pillow, nestled in the crook of my shoulder, it's turned in the opposite direction, just beneath the window against which tiny droplets of rain continue to fall.

Turned toward the light of the street lamp.

"I mean, I'm drawn to you, it's kind of that simple. I've been drawn to you for two years, but chaos always seems to rule and I don't want it to rule. I want to know where it's taking me."

Home.

Home was wherever we were.

* * * * *

There are so many contradictions

In all the messages we send

We keep asking

How do I get out of here?

Where do I fit in?

Though the world is torn and shaken

Even if your heart is breaking'

It's waiting for you to awaken

And someday you will –

Learn to be still

Learn to be still

* * * * *

Day 16: Chicago

I emerge from the bathroom, clad in the last clean t-shirt and boxer shorts from the bottom of my duffel bag, my muscles and joints tingly and invigorated by the afterglow of a thirty-minute shower.

There's a light on in the living room.

"Abby?" I call out her name before I can make an appearance on the outside chance she doesn't know she has unexpected company.

I stop suddenly when I see her lying sprawled on the couch and lean heavily against the doorframe, casually rubbing my hand across my stomach and pretending that my presence is the most innocuous thing in the world.

I rack my brains for an icebreaker, a witty quip to toss into the awkward air that hangs between us.

I come up empty.

"Why are you sitting out here?"

She shrugs, staring down at her hands, then drawing her head upwards.

I tepidly take her nonchalant gestures as my cue to enter the room rather than head for the door.

Suddenly, she bolts upright and I stop dead in my tracks a few feet away from her, searching her face for a signal that she wants me to stay. I'm rewarded with a lopsided smile and a gentle nod as she pulls a blanket away from her feet and I ease myself onto the cushion next to her, taking the hem of the sheet that rests under it and draping it across my lap.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her journal lying facedown on the coffee table in front of us.

"When did you get in?"

"Midnight." My mind is still transfixed on the well-worn notebook, suddenly curious about the sentiments that lie pressed between its pages.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

There's an imploring drone in her voice as it begs the question and I begin to sense that something fragile may be slipping between us.

Instinctively, I reach out to grab hold of something to steady the moment, sneaking across her knees to drag a hand into my lap, intertwining her fingers with mine.

My tone is conciliatory, barely more than a whisper. "You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to interrupt your dreaming."

"I wouldn't have minded." Her eyes bear into mine, and she smiles. "Really."

I offer her an exhausted grin before taking a deep breath.

Time to face the music.

Time to come clean.

Time to tempt fate.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"It's just that – "

"Carter, don't."

"Don't what?"

She shakes her head. "Don't…don't do this. No excuses, okay? Not tonight."

I stare at her, flummoxed for a brief moment before emitting a soft chuckle.

She cocks an eyebrow. "What?"

"How do you know that's what I was going to say?" I smile knowingly.

She bites her lip, trying to suppress a grin of her own. She shrugs, feigning innocence. "Three years of experience?"

I drop my hand, opting instead to wrap an arm underneath her legs, swinging them across my lap. She shifts her position on the couch to face me. I smooth the blanket out around the two of us, turning my attention back toward her. She reaches a hand up to my face, gently grazing her fingers over my unshaven cheek.

"So…"

I smile again and lean over. "So…"

She draws her body into mine, until our faces rest mere inches apart. Reverently, I loll one hand across her back as the other slides its way up her thigh. Despite the emotional ignominies of the past month, our bodies still bristle with surprising synchronicity.

I want to tell her everything. Already, there've been too many words unspoken between us, enough to last several lifetimes.

"Abby?"

Her eyes flick upwards, melting into my gaze.

I open my mouth to speak, but the question slips just beyond my grasp, lost in the gentle exploration of fingerprints that cover my face, finally coming to rest at the corners of my upturned mouth. I blink once, then twice, as she feather dusts my cheekbones and I feel a slow rise between my shorts. Her fingers travel up the bridge of my nose, across my eyebrows and to my hairline. She draws in a shaky breath as she threads her fingers through my hair, finding that spot on the back of my neck where she knows her hands fit perfectly.

I lean forward and sigh, resting my forehead against her head. The spot where the gun had been pointed was still sensitive to the touch.

"Abby…"

She licks her lips and whispers, "Welcome home."

There's a low groan in my throat as I grip her thigh, squeezing it a few times before sliding my hand up her body to cup her cheek.

"God, I missed you."

She laughs lightly. "Good."

I draw a line across her jaw. "I should have woken you up."

She rolls her eyes playfully. "I'm awake now."

"Are you sure?"

She thinks for a moment and smiles. "Well, if I'm not, this is some kind of cruel dream…"

It's my turn to chuckle. She leans into my embrace, her hands tightening their hold around my neck.

"John?"

"Hmm?" I close my eyes. My contentment is evidenced by the widening smile creeping across my lips.

"Tell me about Africa?"

I can feel an involuntary intake of breath hammer against my chest as the smile quickly disappears and my eyes flutter open. I slowly pull away.

She frowns in confusion. "What is it?"

I glance over at her and then down at the blanket. "Not now."

Her eyes remain fixed on me as she lets out an exasperated sigh. "Fine." She rests her back against the side of the couch and examines her fingernails.

I shift toward her again, plopping a hand down against hers, her fingers warm to the touch.

Where to start? I felt stymied, at a loss for words. I needed time to sort it all out, to probe my feelings, make sense of what I seen, of what I had changed.

And what had changed me.

"I'm just…tired and…not ready yet."

She looks at me through naked eyes as their weary counterparts plead for understanding. She bites her lip and nods quietly as I flash her a look of gratitude and settle back against the cushions. An uncomfortable silence fills the room.

She makes the first move, lifting her legs from their perch across my lap. I watch intently as she stands and grabs the blanket, tossing it toward the other end of the couch.

"I'm going back to bed."

I stare up at her. "Want some company?"

She offers her hand out to me. "I was hoping…"

I smile and take it gladly, giving it a playful squeeze. As I slowly rise off the couch, my eyes once again rest on the journal lying on the coffee table. She squeezes my hand to divert my attention, winking and turning around, leading us both back to the bedroom.

I pause in the doorway, looping my arms around her shoulders, pulling her backwards into my chest. From there they fall into the soft curve of her waist as I graze my lips against her ear.

"Been doing a little writing?" I whisper the words into the curve of her shoulder, still thinking about having my way with her sweet spot.

She bites her lip and smiles. "Maybe a little…"

"Hmm…" I raise my head again, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. "You'll have to show me someday…"

She twists around in my arms and looks up at me.

"Well…" She smiles coyly, drawing a line up my arm. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours…"

Before I can respond, she snakes one hand around my neck while the other grasps the front of my t-shirt, dragging me down to her level. Her mouth finds mine a moment later as I clench her hips and pull her towards me. Her tongue begs entry and is warmly received, sending electric pinpricks skyrocketing into the shadows.

"I missed you. So much."

I can't quite tell where her voice begins and mine ends.

Hopefully I won't have to.

Looking out across the room, I see the first mid-blue touches of dawn blink through the panes of the bedroom window.

The journey isn't over yet, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Looks like we'll take the long way.

Again.

It doesn't matter much to me.

It can take forever as far as I'm concerned.

What's important is where we are. 

Here.

In the light of day.

As good a place to start again as any.

* * * * *

Overnight we were shown the light

Neither of us knew to look away

So we burned and far too late we learned

That lifetimes can't be lived out in a day

So, goodbye

At least we made the try

Something can be said for love that's pure

If and when we ever try again

One thing will be known to us for sure

We'll go the long way

We'll go the long way

We'll go the long way

Or maybe just the wrong way

I'll never know

I'll never know

* * * * *

Author's Notes

I recently opened a fortune cookie after take-out Chinese food and found the following message, "When you come to the last page, close the book." (I kid you not).

As far as the post-ep series goes, I've reached the end of the line. It's been a fun and wild ride, but one I probably (never say never) won't continue in Season 10…there's just not enough room in my life right now to churn out 22 post-eps and expect them to all be homeruns (though I'm tempted to try some cork in my keyboard).

For those of you who may be disappointed by this turn of events, there's some good news: Lanie and I are planning a short epilogue to tie up some loose ends from the crossover chapters, namely the exchange of journal entries. And we may have a few other surprises up our sleeves. It'll be written under an as-yet-to-be-determined pseudonym and set in an alternate universe that picks up right where we left off.

Since I'm bumping up against 8,000 words here, I'll try to be brief in my accolades for the readers and the betas who've made it so worth my while.

Like Carby, my fan fic adventures have been more about the journey than the destination…and the beauty of what the road has passed by.

For starters, thanks to everyone who visited this site (according to Pay Pal, nearly 4,500 hits since Chapter 8).

Bouquets of thanks to the faithful who reviewed each and every single chapter: Starbright and MBooker.

And to those who came darn close: Taylor Wise, Anna, Spooky Anne, MeganStar, lilyhead and flutiedutiedute.

Heartfelt gratitude to writers much more talented than I for correcting my memory lapses/errors in judgment, tweaking my ramblings and reining me back in when I wandered off the reservation: Lesbiassparrow, Anna, Taylor Wise and of course, Lanie.

A permanent seat front row center will always be reserved in my heart of hearts for Pemberley whose amazingly perceptive postings during the bleakest hours of Season 8 restored my faith in Carby.

And lastly, for someone who needs no introductions, I'll simply repeat what I said somewhere around Chapter 10 since it still holds true a hundredfold.

Once upon a time last fall, I found myself drawn to the Abby-centric writings of a fan fic author by the pen name of Sunni. Somehow, I sensed this amazing person peeking out from underneath the lilting cadence of Abby's musings. On a lark, I sent her an e-mail challenging her to do a Carter POV post-ep for "Walk Like A Man." She painted me – and her many fans – the Mona Lisa of post-eps. And slowly drew me into the magical world of fan fic (though at times it's felt like I've been sucked into a vacuum cleaner). And so, Lanie, for that – and the warmth and understanding and friendship you have extended to me through cyberspace – I am unabashedly grateful.

One last wish: here's to Carby finding their way back home.

* * * * *