TITLE: Welcome To Paradise

AUTHOR: Ceri

EMAIL: ceriellis@yahoo.com

CATEGORY: JC

RATING: Universal

SPOILERS: Probably…

ARCHIVE: Sure, just ask

DISCLAIMER: Uh, yeah…so I may or may not have Noah Wyle in my attic…he's just so cute! Like a little toy! Oh…um…I mean, nope, I don't own them. Never have, never will. I'll be leaving now.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: You know it's a bad sign when you lose all faith in your original 'shipping couple, and turn to the dark side. And we all know what I'm referring to. But I swear to God, this is just a temporary thing. I'll be back Jinter-ing ASAP.

SUMMARY: It's the morning after the night before for Carter....

Welcome To Paradise

A single beam of sunlight filtered through the curtains, forcing his eyes open. He rolled over, the thick covers crumpled at his feet, sending cold drafts up his bare legs and arms. Shivering, he pulled the duvet over him, closing his eyes to the bright light pouring in from the window. Strangely, the band of light grew wider and wider, then stopped. He opened his eyes, trying to figure out how the curtains managed to open themselves, when a voice answered his questions.

"Time to get up, Carter."

It took a while for his sleepy mind to connect the voice with an identity. When he managed that small feat, he groaned, a guttural groan, and rolled over, eyes away from the burning sun.

"Go away."

Artificial light flooded the room, and he couldn't ignore it anymore. His eyes opened, and met with the figure he'd dreaded seeing. She stared back at him, relentless, her blue eyes boring in to his. He sat up carefully, his head swimming, and blinked a few times. The room came in to sharp focus, the evidence of his downfall painfully obvious on the chest opposite the bed. Her gaze followed his, and he heard her sigh.

"Get up Carter."

He climbed out of bed, his whole body shaking. With one step, he had tripped over a pile of clothes…shirts, pants, ties…he didn't even look at her, and he could feel her disapproving glare.

"This place is a mess."

He felt her eyes on him, unforgiving, as he moved towards the bathroom. "Welcome to paradise," was his mumbled reply, gathering all his remaining energy to open the bathroom door.

She caught up with him, entering the bathroom ahead of him and pulling open the cabinet. Methodically, she removed all the vials, all the boxes, all the packages, and bundled them in her arms. Without meeting his eyes, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

The water running over his body was a welcome relief as the memories flooded back to him. The intense heat couldn't rid him of the pain, but it was a useful distraction. His eyes clamped shut tightly, images burned on his closed lids like a slide show. There was no escaping it. He had to face it eventually.

But where was the remorse, the guilt? Was he desensitized to it now? Could he do this to himself, over and over, and never feel bad?

No. He didn't need himself to feel guilty, to feel bad. She was doing that for him.

Yeah. He blamed her. It was a hell of a lot easier than blaming himself. Maybe - just maybe - it was partly his fault…but she was the one who made him feel like shit, pushed him away, pushed him to do it. He hoped she felt guilty…sick with guilt.

No...no. He didn't blame her. He couldn't blame her. She didn't force him to do anything. She didn't make him pick up that phone…say all those things…

Christ. This really was all his fault.

He stepped out of the shower, drying himself quickly. He pulled on some sweat pants and a baggy sweater, the stained and ill-fitting clothes reflecting his entire life at that moment. He glared at his reflection in the mirror, and it glared back. His skin was pale, only darkened under his eyes where the effects of not enough sleep were evident. He was young, but he could swear he had wrinkles…not laughter lines, though. He didn't laugh anymore.

A soft tapping at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Carter? Are you okay?"

He paused, looking at his reflection once more.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he lied, "I'll be right out, Abby."

**********

When he had left the bathroom, the evidence of his downfall had been organized in to a neat stack, not looking nearly as destructive as it actually was. Abby's eyes were on his as he crossed the room, shut the curtains again, and collapsed on the bed, curling up under the covers.

"John…" she started softly, perching nervously at the end of his bed. He watched her curiously with dry, empty eyes. "What happened?"

What happened. What happened? His gaze drifted to the scene of the crime, the silence screaming at him so loud that he had to close his eyes.

"I don't remember."

Abby's laughter was harsh. It echoed around the room, filling it with melancholy, with bitterness, with hatred that already existed but never want to show itself.

"You can't just forget something like this, John," she told him after the laughter had died away. "How many did you take? The entire bottle? Or did you just finish off the remains?"

He shook his head desperately, eyes still closed. He couldn't bear to look at her, to see the disappointment, the pity. Strange - it was the pity that pushed him to it in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. Something this huge couldn't be dumped on one area of blame.

"I took…four…five…six…" he murmured softly, the words catching in his throat.

"Well, which one? Four, five or six?" she asked impatiently.

"…Seven…eight…nine…ten…"

He heard her get up, and his eyes flew open curiously. She was nowhere to be seen, but he heard her voice some way off, her soft, lilting voice…it could almost send him back to sleep.

"I called Weaver," she reported, appearing in his line of sight once more, "Told her you were sick."

His brow crumpled, trying to take in what she had told him. Whilst his mind worked a mile a minute, her voice continued to speak as she moved around the room.

"You're still high," she said calmly, gathering together some chipped coffee cups with an inch of stone cold coffee left in them - some even had green fur growing on top. "You can't work. We're gonna get you sobered up, then I'm taking you to a meeting."

A meeting…a meeting? His eyes narrowed as he considered what she meant by `a meeting`. Was it like the Brownies? Or maybe…maybe…

NA meeting. AA meeting.

Right. What else would it be, the morning after he had swallowed a bunch of pills, called Abby, told her what he really felt, and then fallen in to a dreamless sleep?

Told her what he really felt? Shit. He had forgotten that…but now it flooded back to him; the memory fresh like an open wound, and just as painful. Slowly but surely, he recalled taking the pills, picking up the phone. He recalled hearing her voice, filling him with a frightening, heady mixture of fear and desire. He recalled telling her that he loved her, that he had for a long time now, and that he was sorry he was such a burden on her. And most of all, he recalled the shocked silence. How she hadn't said a word, just put the phone down on him, cutting him off in the middle of his declaration. That had hurt more than being stabbed twice in the back with a six-inch butcher knife.

Now, she showed no sign of remembering what he had told her the previous night. Maybe she was in denial. He knew *he* was.

"John? Are you listening?"

He looked up at her. She was sitting next to him on the bed, clutching his hand with the saddest, tear-jerking expression on her face. It was enough to make him want to hug her, to hold her, to apologize, to promise he wouldn't do it again…but it wasn't possible. She wouldn't believe him. And he didn't think he would believe himself either.

"I'm listening," he whispered, unable to make his voice any louder for fear of disturbing her, of breaking the peace that hung over them in the stagnant air of his bedroom.

Her gaze met his, and she sighed. A deep sigh. A world-weary, `will this pain never end?` kind of sigh. He had made her sigh like that. He was heading down to the pits of depression, and he was doing his best to drag her down with him.

"I'm sorry."

He stared, intrigued. "What for?"

She broke the mutual eye contact, looking down at her hands, which had somehow clasped his. Carter's eyes followed hers, studying her hands with renewed interest. They were small, delicate - yet strong, unyielding. This woman was a mass of contradictions, all rolled up in to one beautiful, confused package that he couldn't resist. And now, she knew that. The ball was no longer in his court.

"I'm sorry for putting the phone down on you when you needed me to listen," she said at last, watching as he played idly with the ring on her finger. "I shouldn't have done that. I was - "

"Scared?"

She smiled unwittingly, one of those smiles that lit up her whole face, from her eyes to her mouth to her cheeks…even her nose benefited. His gaze left her hands and was drawn instantly to her expressive facial features, contorted in a mixture of happiness, sadness and fear. She was scared, he could tell.

"I guess," she admitted, meeting his eyes. "What you said…it would've meant more to me if you weren't jumped up on Vicodin."

He grimaced, letting go of her hands and running his own over his face wearily.

"I'm sorry too," he said at last, his voice still croaky from sleep. "I should've realized I had other options. But I was scared, y'know. Scared I had lost you. I just…I didn't know what to do. It was stupid, I know. But it felt…it felt like it was all I had left."

He paused, already feeling some of the weight lifted off his shoulders, the months of silence between them just melting away in to oblivion. She watched him silently, not wanting to interrupt, urging him to continue with her intense stare.

"…it was the only constant I had, I guess," he mumbled awkwardly. "I lost you, I lost the respect of my co-workers, I lost everything…except the drugs. They were always there, y'know? Like they were taunting me, and comforting me at the same time…"

Abby nodded, reaching over to squeeze his hand gently.

"And I just thought…why not? Just this once? I…I took five pills, then stopped. I think - I think I had some tequila, to numb the guilt. Then I knocked two more back, grabbed the phone…and called you. You were the only thing on my mind the entire time."

Relief was already washing over him, cleansing him, doing what a mere shower could not.

"And don't think that what I said was the drugs talking," he continued softly, "Because I do love you, Abby, and have done so for a long time…but it's okay…because I know, that before I can really love anyone else…I have to love myself…"

He broke off, chuckling slightly at the cheesy analogy.

"And right now…right now I really despise myself."

There. Finished. He had nothing more to say, and he could breathe again. Fresh air filled his lungs, breathing new life in to his body, in to his soul. He looked up at Abby for her reaction.

"I love you, John. I love you no matter what you do, no matter who you are. Remember that."

She pulled him in to a hug, her warm body pressed against his. His eyes fluttered shut, his arms reaching around her, relishing the feel of her in his arms. Or, rather, himself in *her* arms.

"Thank you."



**********