Author's name: Lin
E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org Title: Ten Green Bottles Category: Angst. For Abby and Kerry, separately. Rating: R for casual swearing
Spoilers: For 9.11 "A Little Help from my Friends"
Summary: Wherein I correct TPTB's inexplicable failure to make Weaver's miscarriage all about Abby.
For the avoidance of doubt: I actually like Abby, and I know that Dos Equies does not come in green bottles, though a silly song about throwing out the empties does. A big thank you to Rap for name checking the comestibles.
The characters and setting of ER are the property of NBC, Warner Bros., Amblin Entertainment and Constant C Television.
TEN GREEN BOTTLES
That meant she had to have been when
Explains all those days off.
Did she like, how did she?
Or * they*.
Must have been a clinic. Must have.
Because the idea of Weaver having actual sex with a guy was just, well, EWW. Waaay before she became a lesbian.
Or DIY. At home. Some friend of Sandy's maybe. Or a relative.
Sweet mother of god, don't let it have been that syringe.
OK, technically it was possible for Weaver to have friends. And a family. She must have one somewhere, right? Even Romano had a mother. If you believed Haleh.
The straightest gay woman since Janet Reno got herself knocked up.
That sentence makes perfect sense grammatically.
Maybe it was Weaver's biological clock ticking; maybe she was drinking in the last chance saloon.
Just like her.
She was starting to understand why Susan liked Dos Equies. OK it was weak, but not too gassy, and kind of more-ish. Went really well with the chimichangas she'd ordered in. The funky bottles were on the small side, but they made it easier to pace yourself. Especially further down the line.
Maybe she shouldn't be doing this. Wouldn't that be great. If she wasn't doing this.
If she didn't want to do it.
Wouldn't that be. Just. Fucking. Peachy.
Last time or the time before last, or the time before that - she'd called Susan who asked,
"Have you talked to Carter?"
And she snapped back,
"Have you listened to him?"
Because it wasn't like she'd ever stolen her booze or been drunk during a shift. It was different for Carter. Everything was different for Carter. She was a drunk and he'd been stabbed.
Like she needed reminding. Who did he think found the fucking knife?
Different for Carter - yeah, up to a point. Like, the point she busted him stealing Fentanyl.
Weaver hadn't wanted her to call Sandy, fine. Didn't make a whole lot of sense if they were still together, but hey, one more weird thing in the course of one weird day, who's counting? Weaver's call anyway.
She knew what Weaver would have done in her place. Get a private room, an OB consult NOW, call a social worker. Reach out. Get through. Her boss had the room already, and OB was on the way, but call a social worker on Weaver? She'd rather live.
Still, she had helped herself to Carter's Jeep keys to make sure Weaver didn't take the El home. Woman actually finishes her shift while she's losing her baby, anything's possible.
See, in her case, the whole point was Richard was never going to know.
And he never did. Nobody did, not ever, not until she blurted it out to Maggie. Who'd most likely forgotten all about it the next time she went nutso, so she figured she'd probably got away with it.
When Richard had seen the bathroom and her clothes afterwards, she'd just told him it had been the mother of all heavy periods.
Guys can be so dumb.
If you play them right.
There'd been silence.
And if Weaver couldn't find one -
They both knew.
On the monitor, anyway.
She could practically hear Weaver screaming inside.
Just as she screamed when she saw that goddamn blue line.
That time Maggie lost her heartbeat on the table every fucking monitor in the place had been shrieking full blast.
Whoa. Where was she? Slumped on her ashtray of a couch, lying on the ouchy pointy remote while some jumped-the-shark sitcom stunk the screen up.
The One With the Studio Audience Ripping These Over-Paid Smug Bastards Limb From Limb.
Shit. She missed Survivor.
She needed a show to lose herself in, something she could really get into, anything, well, almost anything, to wash out of her mind that image of Weaver in the drug lockup.
Last time she'd seen Weaver in scrubs was when precious Carter got stabbed and that med student had died. Weaver in scrubs. Omen of fucking doom or what.
And her face. Jesus, her face.
A hundred and fifty channels, something's gotta be worth watching.
Avril Lavigne does so look like a racoon.
Life's too fucking short for golfball personalisers.
Six channels of wrestling and one question: why?
Two weeks locked in the ER screwing Carter and not a single dollar overtime to show for it, so shut the fuck up about UN mandates.
Married at fourteen to my secret half-brother and pregnant by my transvestite junkie step-father who abused me: yeah, and your problem is?
It's raining in Seattle, what are the odds.
Where were we?
Weaver wanted a kid but couldn't have one.
She could have had that kid but didn't want one.
Luka wanted his kids but didn't have them anymore.
Nicole hadn't had the kid, which nobody would have wanted.
Carter wanted kids but wasn't going to have them with her, no way.
Richard never said he wanted kids and now he had somebody else's.
Miss anybody out?
Maggie wanted kids but they didn't want her.
She really should have wondered when Susan gave up on Carter so easily. Really.
She had, cautiously, probed why Susan had broken up with him.
There's no chemistry between us, Abby, and he really cares about you. He's a fun guy.
He is kinda sweet, she'd replied.
Meaning, He's not so much fun now I've stopped drinking.
Things she didn't miss about OB/GYN:
No 1 Vinegar Tits Coburn.
No 2 Doing med school at the same time.
No 3 The annual ritual grovelling to Mrs Minear in student support about Richard's annual ritual torture of paying her fees late.
No 4 Doing AA at the same time.
No 5 Doing AA and med school at the same time.
No 6 Newborns crying inconsolably like they knew they'd never be safe again.
No 7 Dead babies.
Too late now story of her life - but she wished she hadn't asked Weaver to pronounce that kid with sialodosis.
Story of Weaver's life?
She should have known something was going on. She'd gone into the on call room, she'd woken Weaver up, they were walking down the hallway, and halfway through ripping apart the NICU, when Weaver realised which patient it was, she froze up.
When did Weaver freeze?
She should have known.
Weaver could have known by then.
Weaver must be about the same age as the mother. Who'd signed a DNR.
Oh, real smart telling her that, Abby. Not.
Why the hell hadn't she got Luka to pronounce him?
Because she'd spent the entire shift royally pissed off at Dr Swastika, that's why, the son of a bitch.
*She'd waited so long, she was about to give up, and then suddenly he was here ... *
... and then he was gone.
Weaver hadn't said a word as she drove her home other than directions she'd needed bat ears to catch. That time of the evening it didn't take long: Carter had said he'd chosen it because it was close to the hospital. The downside was there was no parking space for three blocks.
She double-parked outside Weaver's front door. There wasn't a light on the house. Weaver's eyelids might have flickered. She hesitated.
When Maggie went into the ICU, Luka had sat beside her and asked if Maggie was going to be OK. He'd brought her a coffee. He'd worked on her mother, he'd known this could happen, she'd bitten his head off more times than she could count, and he'd brought her a coffee. She dumped it straight in the bin. It was just the way she liked it, and she couldn't stop herself. Straight in the bin. Yet he'd still asked about Maggie. Is she going to be OK.
Truth was, she was never going to be OK.
Which she'd known when she'd seen her shivering on the bench waiting for the El the first time she didn't go to Florida. All she could do was button her own coat around the woman from whom she hidden in a closet when she came after her with a knife, and listen to her promises. * I'll get better, I'll get better*. She didn't hate the woman even though she had every right. She just saved her money for her mother's bus ticket out of her daughter's life. Then Abby might - might - be OK.
She never tried to get better.
When Abby was born her mother thought she was the answer to all her prayers and that everything would be alright.
Weaver was standing by the side of the Jeep. How'd that happen. With her purse over her shoulder and her soiled clothes in a plastic bag in her free hand.
"You gonna be OK?" Starting yet another dance they did, doctors and patients. Of all the stupid stupid things to ask her, are you going to be OK. Poor Luka.
Weaver mercifully ignored it.
"I can't see a light on."
"Sandy's shift finishes in a couple of hours." They both knew how much that was worth.
"Dr Weaver ...".
"Thanks for the ride, Abby." She might actually mean that.
Abby didn't start the engine until she heard the door slam behind Weaver and saw lights go on.
She was never going to be OK.