Wires and Waves Chapter 1: Hear Me Out, an er fanfic

Title: Wires and Waves
Author: Ella
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: We'll say "Skin" is the last episode that pertains; the rest of this is relatively spoiled speculation - but it kind of veers from the spoilers we've got for the remaining part of the season.
Disclaimer: My mother never trusted me with sharp playthings, either.
Summary: They're still dancing.

Notes: There's a saga behind this story, there is ;) It has vaguely to do with a monkey, several unfortunate incidents involving magnetic poetry, and general procrastination at 3:00 AM. Basically, I was sitting in Calculus class one day, not paying attention (as per usual), and I started formulating scenarios based on the premise that NW could be essentially absent for all of S12. Then it sort of took on a life of its own, and this is what I turned out with ...

My particular story of Carter, Abby, and the dance they do is a tribute to a few very special people in my life. I would name each one of you individually, but that might take awhile and you already know who you are. I feel privileged to know you girls; you make fandom worthwhile. And, of course, my fabulous beta Kessa without whom I would never actually get anything written.

Chapter One: "Hear Me Out"

I'm a slow motion accident
Lost in coffee rings and fingerprints
I don't wanna feel anything
But I do - and it all comes back to you

i.
March 2006

John Carter leans his whole weight against the railing, looking out at the city lights reflected in the water passing below him. He resists the urge to check his watch, shivering more from nerves than exposure to the bitter evening air.

He's always been impatient - especially when it comes to her.

He's not sure what to expect, whether he should expect anything at all. He has this image of her he's kept close in the forefront of his mind for the past ten months, the memory of their last conversation still vivid upon recollection. It occupies his subconscious violently, until it can no longer be contained; it seeps through to his conscious without want of warning or explanation.

That's how he chooses to remember her, the way she looked the night he told her he was leaving. The split second when he swears a light flickered somewhere in her eyes. She told him that she understood. Even when she couldn't find the words.

And somehow, it was enough.

Lost somewhere between nostalgia and exhaustion, he jolts back to reality only when the memory blurs to the indistinct colors of the river. In the subsequent lack of worthy distractions, temptation wins out too quickly. He sighs, watching the second hand tick methodically onward.

Maybe it's too late.

Maybe she isn't coming.

The automatic doors of the emergency room slide open and shut around her petite frame as Abby Lockhart steps out into the ambulance bay.

She's late, she realizes. Of course she's late. Sometime long ago, in the inexact period before child became caregiver, definitions of "prompt" fell on deaf ears; her chronological aptitude has since been lacking.

She's always been punctual, but punctual according to her means.

Confronted with the choice, she opts for the longer route to the river. It's neither avoidance nor apathy. At one point in time he would have argued both, but in truth, it was the lack of apathy that assumes responsibility for the avoidance.

And that is why today is different.

She moves purposefully, compensation for lost time evident in every step. Yet still, she won't rush. Past haste allowed her to slip away, unnoticed until she was already long gone.

She continues along the sidewalk, making her way through the remaining small patches of snow and ice - a subtle reminder of the winter that stubbornly refuses to let go.

It's almost eerily silent. She passes no one as she moves onward, notices nothing akin to motion in the path ahead. At just shy of 8:20 pm, the city appears to be shut down for the night. She's almost surprised to see his figure in her peripheral vision, surprised by her own progress.

There's a picture she keeps tucked away in a drawer, one Susan snapped on a coffee break well over two years ago. They're standing much like he is now, bodies propped against the steel railing. Together. Happy?

And that is why today is different.

Still she keeps the photograph close by, refuses to let the memory fade into obscurity. A three by five keepsake of another time. The frame came crashing to the ground in some freak accident. Hit the floor of her living room before she knew what happened. She knows it should have shattered, broken by the force of the fall.

Instead, the frame is a little rough around the edges. A few pieces are missing, but the photograph remains intact. As alive today as the moment that is forever etched in her memory.

She's close now, approaching quickly; anticipation verges on sensory overload. It's been almost a year since she's seen him, but it feels like longer. And she's well aware of this as she progresses toward his figure.

Fifteen feet separate the two when he finally hears her footsteps. They announce her arrival quietly; he's the only one allowed to know her proximity.

He turns to face her straight on. Relief evident in his eyes, his face lights up in greeting. His words are barely audible, but she hears them without difficulty.

"Abby Lockhart makes an appearance."

And that is why today is different.

ii.

"I was afraid you weren't coming."

His admission comes quickly. He turns his head away, won't meet her eyes to risk the embarrassment. He's still the same man he always was, and that knowledge reassures her in some small way.

She, too, wants him to feel comfortable in her presence.

"And miss this party? Are you kidding me"

He doesn't skip a beat.

"You always were one for the sad and dark."

She laughs and meets his eyes.

Success.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, bringing her body forward to rest next to his. He breathes deeply, unsure of what to say or how to say it. If this were any other night with any other woman, it might be awkward. Despite this fact, the moment feels oddly calm and almost intimate.

"How long have you been back" Her voice is steady in a way that her mind is not.

"Oh, all of five hours now."

"And you're ..."

"... back for good. Yeah, I am."

She lets out a breath that she didn't know she had been holding, rubbing her arms protectively against her body. "It's been forever since the last time we were here" she comments. She regrets this a second later, though. She let her guard down and now she is vulnerable.

Carter feels her muscles tense beside him, but he's not going to let her go easily this time. "I've missed you, too." And like something of long-forgotten reality, she relaxes once again.

"Carter ..."

"How are you, Abby" At this she almost laughs. "No, really. How are you"

"How am I? ... That can't possibly be why you asked me to meet you here."

He might be surprised at her words, but she wouldn't know. "It is. I just thought - well, I really did miss you this year; I've missed out on everything. And maybe the past means nothing, but if we're still friends ..." He almost doesn't complete the question for fear of a negative answer, but curiosity compels him. "Unless, of course, you don't ..."

"I do."

"Good. I do, too."

She wonders what to tell Carter about the past year, briefly acknowledging the notion that perhaps his inquiry spans a period of time longer than his recent months' venture. She dismisses this possibility without much consideration, but her train of thoughts continues along this path in spite of her supposed dismissal. She racks her brain for stories that could illustrate the highs and lows of their many months apart, and though dozens come to mind, none seem quite appropriate for the occasion.

Instead, she quips that things are going well when she gets a full night's sleep.

It's just as he opens his mouth to reply that his cell phone breaks their quiet conversation. He retrieves the phone from his front jacket pocket to check the caller ID. He heaves a deep sigh and apologizes verbally for the interruption before answering his mother's call.

Abby watches his body language throughout the conversation, combining her aptitude for psychology with her innate ability to read Carter's facial expressions. Granted, it didn't take a rocket scientist to determine that John and Eleanor Carter remain somewhat at odds with each other. The thumb and index finger of his left hand massage his temples during his periods of silence; when he speaks, his voice is wrought with frustration. In these moments, he seems older and vulnerable. She wants, as always, to ease his pain however she can. Although she doubts the comfort her presence may bring, she cautiously extends her arm until it is resting on his shoulder. When he does not back away from her touch, she finds herself wondering if Kem used to console him in a similar manner and if that is why he does not back away.

She often finds herself wondering about Kem. Every time Carter looks to her as a friend, she considers herself runner up, a would-have-been good substitute for something he loved so dearly and desperately that he was willing to sacrifice everything for.

If she had, at that moment, been as focused on his body language as she was on suppressing the twinge of jealousy that her self-doubts prompt, she might have noticed his suddenly calmer, more collected appearance.

And she might have known she no longer had anything to be jealous of. For there are only two women on John Carter's mind at that moment, and for him there would never be any comparison between Eleanor Carter and Abby Lockhart.

Throughout the entire cab ride home, Carter's mind buzzes with the freshness of the evening's memories. He wants to remember the sound of her laugh, the way the lights reflecting off the water framed her face, the feeling of her hand resting on his shoulder, soothing him as he argued with his mother. He wants to remember the feeling of her lips as they brushed against his cheek in farewell. And most of all, he just wants to see her again.

Abby captivated him in a way no woman ever had before. When he first noticed her, it was as the nurse turned med student who had captured his attention with her genuine affection for her patients and her self-deprecating honesty. Upon his return from Atlanta, he was surprised to see a familiar face at the required AA meetings; he was more surprised that the familiar face belonged to the woman who was responsible for turning him in to his superiors.

While Dr. Greene and Dr. Weaver were generally supportive, they were, after all, his superiors. Their role as friends was secondary to their jobs in the ER, and this fact was glaringly obvious to Carter. If he wanted the support that he knew he would not find at home, he would have to go elsewhere. It might have been crossing a line, but Abby was the clear choice. She was not completely unlike him; unhappy with the cards she had been dealt and struggling to make sense of her disastrous personal life. While her childhood and marriage left her embittered and cynical, she was the light on an otherwise dark and desperately dreary horizon. Their connection evolved from coworkers to friends to best friends before summer had completely faded into autumn.

From that point forward, she would remain a part of his life wherever he went or whatever he was doing.

For these reasons, it should not come as a surprise that his first thoughts upon arrival in O'Hare were of the petite brunette who continued to confound him even six years after that fateful AA meeting.

Unpredictable she is, a butterfly undergoing constant metamorphosis. He regrets that in his absence he missed watching these changes, although part of him realizes that they are all the more significant because they came from no one but herself. Where the Abby he once knew would have been restrained and guarded this evening, a new prototype came in her place. Still the self-deprecating, sarcastic woman who first caught his attention, though the edge has vanished from her words and new levels of sincerity are present in its place. At times he recalls she had even seemed vulnerable, although he never really takes these thoughts into serious consideration.

The cab jerks to a halt outside the grand palace that had once been home to his beloved Gamma and, in turn, been the closest thing to home he had ever known. Though no outward change is evident to the casual passerby, Carter knows the importance of the transformation that should be nearing completion on the interior. This is his undertaking, the result of over a year's worth of careful planning and research. Excitement builds a spring in his step as he proceeds along the front walk, in spite of the fact that he knows he will have to face his mother when he enters. And even though his parents may have originally disapproved of the plan, Gamma would have been proud.

Across town, Abby climbs the stairs to her apartment, key in hand. After all, she remembers affectionately, she would never know who might be lurking, and never once has she risked it since.

Once the apartment door is firmly shut and locked behind her, there is little disruption to the path between front door and bed. Charts and journals are placed on the kitchen table; coat is hung on the closest corresponding chair. Before she answered a cryptic message to meet an old friend at their bench by the river, she worked two shifts to cover while Neela took a personal day.

As she putters around the bathroom, she cannot form a coherent thought for all the intense emotion she is feeling.

And it's only when her head hits the pillow does her mind begin to process the events of the evening: John Carter is back in Chicago.

Oh, right. The title for this chapter is taken from the song at the beginning"Hear Me Out" by Frou Frou, and the name of the fic is from the Rilo Kiley song "Wires and Waves" - which will be incorporated later on. Chapter Two is complete and nearly edited, so let me know if there's interest. (And yes, that's my nice way of asking for constructive feedback).