TITLE: Fading Away (Part 7 of `In Spite Of Me`)

AUTHOR: Ceri

EMAIL: ceriellis@yahoo.com

CATEGORY: JC

RATING: Universal

SPOILERS: Probably…

ARCHIVE: Sure, just ask

DISCLAIMER: They don't belong to me. Just the ideas, twisted angst, and all the trappings of this particular Carby love-in - they're all mine, mua ha ha.

SUMMARY: "Is this it?"

Fading Away

The faint smell of burning greeted him as he woke up, and he sat up abruptly, clutching the covers around him. Somewhere between the projectile vomiting and waking up, he had discarded his sweater and shirt, sleeping in his trousers. His skin was cold and pale as a harsh wind hissed in through a small gap in the window. Water slashed against the glass, pouring down in torrents from a slate grey sky.

He looked quickly to his side, the empty space next to him glaringly obvious. It took a few minutes for the connection to register between the empty space and the smell of burning in his sleep-deprived mind, and he quickly clambered out of bed. His feet hit the floor with surprising force, a painful rush on `pins and needles` racing through his lower legs. Through glazed eyes he searched for his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head, not even noticing it was on backwards. By now, he was past caring.

He started the trek to the kitchen slowly, his head aching from the beers he had downed the night before. As his vision blurred and focused with violent precision, he made his way to the smoke-filled kitchen. That familiar figure stood by the toaster, fanning the thick grey plumes away from the metal casing. She turned and spotted him, frozen in place, like a figure through the mist. There was an awkward pause.

"I've heard burnt toast helps hangovers."

Carter nodded, staring at her silently as she turned back to the toaster, uttering a string of swears as the smoke alarm went off. The loud, shrill beeping did nothing for his headache, and he quickly grabbed the mop, swiping blindly through the smoke at the offending alarm on the ceiling.

Finally, there was silence once more. She stared back at him, dark rings under her eyes, her skin a whiter shade of pale, still wearing his Disneyworld Florida t-shirt. If it hadn't been such a serious situation, he would've laughed at the sight of her, the baggy t-shirt hanging off her slight frame, Mickey Mouse emblazoned across her modest chest. But there wasn't anything to laugh about.

"There's a meeting in an hour," he said quietly, straight-to-the-point for once, "Two blocks from here."

She stared at him, a bemused expression flashing across her face. "A meeting?"

"AA," he explained, despite the fact that there wouldn't be any other kind of meeting to go to the night after her drinking session. "I think we should go."

"You do, do you?" she questioned, an unsettling amount of sarcasm in her tone, "If anyone goes, it will be me. I don't need you to recover, John."

That hurt. Not only did she not need his help, but she was implying he was weak for needing hers. God, how did they ever get like this?…right. The whole accusing-of-an-affair thing. Great. It would've been *his* fault.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, eyes trailing down to the floor, "For yesterday. I didn't mean to…"

"Push me over the edge?" she asked, "Shove me, kicking and screaming, back in to alcoholism?"

"I didn't mean to say those things," he finished, meeting her eyes, "I didn't mean them. You never screwed me over, Abby, and I was dumb to think you would ever cheat on - "

"John," she interrupted, "You want to know why I picked up that wine bottle? Because I *did* screw you over, all those months ago, when you needed me. And…well, I should've been more sensitive around Luka." She paused, her face devoid of emotion. "But I'm not an alcoholic. A few glasses of wine doesn't set me back 90 meetings."

"But it does!" he protested, "Does that mean I can take one pill, and it'll be okay?"

She rolled her eyes, pulling the charcoal black bread from the toaster with her fingers, wincing at the pungent aroma escaping from under the toast. "It’s not the same."

"How is it different?" he asked, "They're both addictions - "

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," she stated coldly, striding past him towards the bathroom.

"You have to talk about it sometime," he called after her desperately, "Please, Abby, I - "

The sound of the bathroom door slamming cut off the rest of his sentence, the words on his lips but unable to occupy the space around them. He looked around him, looking for a clue, a sign that he was doing the right thing.

Nothing jumped out at him save the dense fog of smoke. And that was never a good omen.

**********

There was a deathly silence as Carter stepped out of the bathroom, towel clutched around his waist, tiny droplets of water inching their way down his upper body. He paused, taking in the surroundings. The lounge was tidy once more, the wine glass and bottles having been removed. The dented but otherwise fine copy of Dirty Dancing lay on the table, along with a TV guide, a bag of clothes, the broken remote…

Bag of clothes?

He did a double take, his heart pounding at the sight. It was all too familiar to him, the purple bag, a lacy black bra spilling over the top haphazardly. There was a sound behind him, but he didn't move. He didn't think he *could* move; his legs were locked, his feet frozen to the spot where he stood, just staring.

"I'll see you at work," she said softly, finally entering his line of vision and picking up the bag. She looked at him, and he looked at her. Years of chemistry just…fading away until all that was left was confusion, hurt, and despair.

"You're going?" he managed to get out, his voice croaky from a mixture of his hangover and the contradicting emotions racing through him.

Her eyes ducked down, studying her hands as if she had never noticed them before. "Yeah."

Apparently that was enough explanation for Abby. No more to say, no more to hear. What's done is done…

"Why?" he blurted out, "Are…are you coming back? Is this it?"

She finally looked up; her eyes, the portal to her soul, clouded with confusion and hatred. She awkwardly brushed her hair from her face, dropping her hand to her side as if something was missing from it. Carter didn't want to know what was missing…a beer bottle, a wine bottle, a vodka bottle…it wasn't worth thinking about.

"I think we rushed it," she spoke up, interrupting his thoughts, "I think it's time we realized…that it's not going to work. There's too much history, too much to contend with."

Carter didn't know what to say. His mind flashed back to all his previous break-ups, trying to measure how life-altering, heart-breakingly shitty they had been in comparison to this one. And they didn't even come close. He didn't remember feeling like this those times - like his heart had been ripped out of his chest, like his oxygen had been taken away, and there was nothing left to keep him alive.

Because she was the only thing keeping him alive.

"Sorry for breaking your toaster," she murmured, slinging her bag over her shoulder and starting towards the door. "I'll get you a new one."

Still nothing. Words, sentences didn't exist in his mind.

She paused at the door, turning to look at him one last time.

"Bye."

**********