10. I don't know if I should stay or turn around and run; I know that I hurt you, things will never be the same

Notes: This was the first Scorpius/Rose thing I attempted. I'm still not 100% sure I like it (I was contemplating not having a happy ending, too) but it's certainly not the worst thing I've ever sent out into the ether. I sort of tried to do one of those one-scene-per-year stories (though I cheated and added a couple extra bits) but, uh, yeah. It was mostly just a first try at the next-gen kids. *shrug* Also, it could use a title.
Disclaimer: Characters mentioned are used without permission; they are owned by J.K. Rowling and are trademarks of Warner Brothers. I do not own them and am simply borrowing for my purposes. Please don't sue.


First Year

Nobody had been surprised when Rose Weasley was sorted into the Ravenclaw house. She was as bright as her mother and as stubborn as her father. Determined not to live her life in the shadow of her large family, she'd decided long before boarding the Hogwarts Express that she would not be in Gryffindor. From there, it had been a simple process of elimination.

Slytherin would have peeved her family, she knew, but that alone wasn't enough to knock it off the list. In the end, it was her lack of cunning and the fact that she was a completely rubbish liar that spurned her from the snake house. Hufflepuff was easier to cross off. Simply told, she knew the amount of teasing she would have to endure from her family if that was her house. It would be foolish to give them such an easy and permanent excuse.

Ravenclaw it was. The sorting hat barely had to touch her head before it agreed. The cleverness of her thinking was all it really took to sway the magical singing hat.

On the other hand, nearly everyone had been shocked with Albus Severus Potter was sorted into Ravenclaw. It wasn't that he wasn't clever—he was. And his aptitude for magic came almost straight from his father. But with his older brother in Gryffindor and both of his parents as honored graduates, everyone had expected the Potter legacy to continue in the lion's den.

The fact that James was a Gryffindor was the precise reason that Al didn't want to be in that house. He loved his brother, grudgingly, but he was something of a bully to Al. His silent chant of, Not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, made the sorting hat's decision rather easy. (It still remembered his father's sorting, after all.) The fact that his cousin and best friend, Rose, was sorted into the same house was just an added bonus.

There wasn't much comment when Scorpius Malfoy was sorted into Ravenclaw. His parents had made it clear that they were more interested in him assisting in the resurrection of the so-called family name than plebeian things like house sorting. Though he figured they were relieved he was in neither Hufflepuff or Gryffindor—for vastly different reasons, of course.

Truthfully, Scorpius wasn't surprised, either. He didn't have the constitution to be a Slytherin, the bravery for Gryffindor or the good heart of a Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw was all that was left. It probably didn't hurt that he'd found his father's library more enticing than the Slytherin spawn his parents had tried to make his friends, either, though his self-deprecating attitude hardly considered that factor.

Rose elbowed Al pointedly when Malfoy was sorted into their house. "My dad told me to stay away from him," she whispered, brown eyes wide. Then she smirked. "Maybe we should make friends with him instead."

"Rose," Al chided. "You can't make friends with someone to anger your parents."

"Not anger!" she objected. "Just… rile." She nudged her cousin. "Things are always so much more interesting when there's a little drama in the Weasley house."

He shook his head but didn't comment further. A determined Rose was impossible to deter.

She stood up and made for the other end of the table where Scorpius was starting to tuck in. "Oi," she called with a smile and a wave. "I'm Rose Weasley." She offered her hand to him.

Giving her a funny look, he shook her hand once and released it. "Okay," he said, obviously a bit bewildered. "Scorpius Malfoy."

Despite his lukewarm reply, she pushed on. "Want to come eat with us?" Rose offered, gesturing toward where Al was pointedly ignoring her.

There was a pause where he tried to discern if she was sincere or not. His father had warned him that the Weasley and Potter children might try to exact some sort of retribution against him due to his parentage—he just hadn't thought they'd do it on their first night! "Um, no, that's all right," Scorpius replied, choosing caution over politeness. "I'm fine here."

Rose, whose temper was not unlike her father's, was decidedly put out. "Hmmph!" Hands on her hips, she was like a tiny, red-haired version of her mother. "My father was right about you," she declared, wagging a finger at him. "Rude little ferret spawn!" Then she spun around and stalked back to where Albus was sitting, fuming all the way.

Pausing in his shoveling of food into mouth, Al pat her on the shoulder. "Come on, hurry up and eat. When we're done, we can visit Hagrid and Uncle Neville."

That thought cheered Rose up considerably, though she continued to mumble about blond gits who were bloody unfriendly wankers periodically.


Second Year

Quidditch tryouts were generally only for third years and up. That's why, when Scorpius Malfoy was announced as the new Ravenclaw seeker, Rose Weasley led the charge against him. She marched up to the sixth year captain and poked him sharply in the chest. "Oi, Musgrave, what're you playing at?"

The tall blonde boy, over a head taller than Rose, blinked down at her. "Can I help you, Weasley?" he asked in a tone that implied he'd rather she buggered off than continue the conversation.

"What did he do?" she spat, raising herself to her full height. "Get his daddy to buy him a spot on the team? The rest of us—" now she gestured toward where Al and several other first and second years were sitting, "weren't allowed to try out but somehow Scorpius Malfoy becomes the new seeker?"

Now Ralph Musgrave laughed, something that only served to enrage Rose further. "Look, Professor Flitwick called me into his office and suggested Scorpius for the position when he learned our try-outs had been for naught."

Rose sneered. "And why did he do that?"

"Because Madame Hooch told Headmistress McGonagall who told him about the incident during flying class last year," a new voice spoke up. It was Scorpius Malfoy himself.

The incident he was referring to involved her falling off her broom while goofing around with Albus. (She had, sadly, inherited her mother's flying skills, which was to say none.) It had been Scorpius who caught her by the robes, just above the ground. She had grudgingly thanked him after prodding from her cousin and sworn off brooms for life.

Her ears burned bright red at the humiliating memory and, "Oh," was all Rose could come up with. She looked up at the tall Musgrave again. "Well, it's still not fair." Then she stalked over Al and plopped down beside him, seething.

Al turned the page of the book he was reading. "Told you not to push it," he said with a sigh, eyes never leaving the page.

Rose blushed more furiously. "Shut up, Al."


Third Year

Rose Weasley, Karen Stafford and James Potter all raced down to the Quidditch pitch at the end of the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match. "Great job, Al!" Rose cried, throwing her arms around him.

James grinned proudly at his younger brother. "You were bloody brilliant, mate," he said, ruffling his hair. (Not that it made much of a difference—he followed his father and grandfather in having unflattenable hair.) "Not that it'll make much difference when you face my house…"

Pushing his brother away, he grinned. "You are so full of shite, James."

"Care to put your Quaffle where your mouth is?" the Gryffindor seeker asked, eyes bright behind his glasses.

Albus snorted. "You are a nutter," he commented with a long suffering sigh. There was a grin on his face, though, as the boys had bonded over their love of the game when Al was named the newest chaser on the Ravenclaw team.

James waved him off before sauntering over to his housemates.

It was then that Karen, a blonde muggle-born member of their house who Rose had become friendlier with that year, stepped forward. "It was an impressive display," she complimented diplomatically.

Furrowing his brows, Al cast a quick glance at Rose before replying. "Er, thank you, Karen."

Smothering a laugh, Rose thread her arm through Karen's and prepared to be off. Her bright eyes darkened perceptibly when Scorpius Malfoy came up beside Al to say something to his teammate and she stalled taking leave. Al listened intently, shooting Rose a look that clearly told her to be nice.

Pursing her lips, she finally acquiesced just before the pale boy left. "You were good as well, Malfoy," she offered quickly.

He paused, visibly surprised. "Thank you, Rose," he said, bowing his head slightly before heading off.

Shaking her head, she tugged on Karen's arm and they headed off. The blonde glanced back at Scorpius then looked at Rose. "He's a bit odd, isn't he?"

Rose laughed all the way back to their common room.


Fourth Year

"I can't believe it!" Rose cried, throwing herself onto a couch in the common room.

Albus didn't look up from where he was playing chess with Victor Carmichael, used to her antics by then. When she huffed loudly enough, he threw her a bone. "What happened now?"

Sitting up, she scowled at the lack of attention her best friend was paying her. "I'm second in Defense Against the Dark Arts," she said quietly. "I asked Professor Flitwick—I wanted to see if I was on track for my prefect badge. I'm first in all my classes except D-A-D-A."

"Okay, so?" Al prompted, taking Vic's Bishop violently.

"So?" Rose repeated. "So? So, I'm never second! I'm the smartest witch in our class! I can't be second!" She threw herself down against the couch again, moaning. "This is horrible."

Al rolled his eyes and mouthed a, "Be right back," to Vic. Standing, he crossed to Rose and pat her on the back. "First of all, this is not that big of a deal. You're still the smartest witch in our class, regardless of your standing in one class. Secondly, you could always study harder." Here, Rose glared at him. "Or you could ask the student ahead of you for help."

Now Rose avoided his gaze.

"What?" Al asked.

She mumbled something into a cushion.

Nudging her, he frowned. "What is it, Rose?" he pressed.

"It's Scorpius," she mumbled, pouting.

Al rolled his eyes. Of course it was. He thought she'd finally let go of those prejudices she'd made in her younger years. "What about him?"

She threw her hands up in defeat and sighed. "He's the top of our Defense Against the Dark Arts class!" she all but wailed. "I can't ask him for help."

That was about all Al could take. "Then settle for second best," he said with a shrug. "I'm going to finish my game now. If you want to whine more, find Karen or Lucy."

"You suck, Albus Severus," she grumbled, sitting up again and crossing her arms.

Al's smile was lopsided. "Yeah, but who else would put up with you, cuz?"

That was when Rose decided that the Potter family was not allowed to go on holiday to America again. What kind of word was ‘cuz'? Honestly.


Fifth Year

It took a lot for Rose Weasley to admit she needed help. It took even more for her to do it with someone she disliked so incredibly. But desperate times and all that. Unfortunately, his opening greeting saw that he didn't appreciate just what a sacrifice it was for her to come to him. "So you've finally swallowed your pride and come to ask me for help?"

She glared at the side of Scorpius Malfoy's head, crossing her arms defensively. "Hmmph, I see your oversized pride has finally grown in."

Scorpius's pale eyes flicked up to meet her darker ones. "You may be clever," he drawled, "but your delivery leaves something to be desired."

"Argh!" Rose cried, stamping her foot. Her famous Weasley temper was coming out, despite her attempts to quash it with her logical side. "You-you're infuriating."

He smirked. "Only to you, Weasley."

Taking a deep breath, she forced her anger down. "Yeah, yeah." Rose sighed. "Malfoy, would you please help me study for the Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s?"

For some reason, it was hard not to squirm under his gaze. That only served to irritate her further. "What do I get out of it?" he asked casually.

"The pleasure of my company," she offered with a sickeningly sweet smile.

He gave her a once over, then shook his head. "Pass."

Rose rolled her eyes, ignoring the injury to her pride as best she could. "That was sarcasm, Malfoy," she pointed out condescendingly. He returned her gesture but said nothing. The urge to squirm grew again. "Fine, what do you want?" she asked.

There was a bit of a pause as he mulled it over. "Introduce me to Lucy Davies," Scorpius answered finally.

She blinked. Then she blinked again. "That's it?" Her tone was incredulous, as was her expression.

He nodded. "That's it."

"But you're popular—practically a shoo-in for Quidditch captain next year—and smart—why else would I ask you to help me?" Rose admitted grudgingly, ignoring his grin, "—and, well, you're good-looking for an albino." Here Scorpius scowled. "Why would you want me to introduce you? You don't need it…"

Shrugging, he looked back at his books. "That's none of your business," he replied stiffly. "Those are my terms. Do you accept them?"

Rose considered for a moment, swallowed her pride again, and nodded. "Yes, I do. You help me and I'll set you up with Lucy next Hogsmade trip." Suppressing a sigh, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "When do we start?"

"Thursdays after Quidditch practice, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom," Scorpius said easily.

"Classroom?" she repeated skeptically.

He shrugged. "We're both prefects," he pointed out. "I doubt we'll get in trouble for studying."

Despite herself, she found she had to agree. Besides, despite Al's practical nature, they did have a habit for finding themselves on the other side of the law. As far as rule breaking went, this was practically benign. "Fair enough. See you Thursday."

"See you then," Scorpius agreed.


Summer Between Fifth and Sixth Year

Scorpius—

Thank you so much for the help last year! I got an O in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I know I couldn't have done it without you. Really, I'm quite indebted to you. Expect a large bag of sweets courtesy of me sometime in the near future.

If you're interested, I'd like to continue studying together. I was sorry to hear about you and Lucy—she's always been a bit of a tart. Just remember what I told you: popular, smart and good-looking. You'll find someone new. Someone better.

If you want something else in exchange for studying, let me know. If you like, I could tell you the secret of nicking food from the kitchen…

Your stubbornly reluctant friend,
Rose W.


Rose,

You know your achievements are your own. I played only a small role. However, I will happily accept your sweets as they include all of my favorites. Thank you kindly.

Lucy and I were a poor match from the start. I should've realized it sooner, but I was taken in by those innocent dark eyes. Once I finish licking my wounds, I'm certain you're correct. There are most assuredly girls I will be better suited to out there. As of now, though, I am happy to have the reprieve of summer.

I will take your assistance in Arithmacy in exchange for our continued study sessions in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I found myself floundering toward the end of the previous year. Though, I would not be opposed to learning the secret of entering the kitchen.

Your proudly awkward friend,
Scorpius M.


Sixth Year

"Lazlo Zambini? Really?" Albus shook his head at his best friend. "I thought you had better taste than that prat, Rose."

Rose made a face at him. "Said the boy who snogged my friend!" she shot back. "Don't think I didn't hear about you and Karen on the Quidditch pitch last month."

Al's cheeks colored and he scowled. "Damn James and his big fat mouth." Rose gave him a look that said that reply wasn't going to cut it and he ducked his head. "She really came into her own over the summer," he mumbled. "And, anyway, we're not talking about me."

"Agreed," Scorpius piped up from where he was sitting nearby. "My dad is good friends with Lazlo's dad and I hear he's busy ‘sowing his oats'—whatever that is."

Now Rose rolled her eyes. "Honestly," she said, hands on hips. "You two act like I've accepted an offer of marriage or something from the boy. All we're doing is going to Hogsmade together."

Al and Scorpius exchanged a look, then the former took his cousin's hand in his. "Rose, he's just using you. Can't you see—"

Suddenly, she burst out laughing. "What am I—new? Of course, he's just using me. And as all I want is a fling, that's just fine with me." She grinned at both boys, reaching to pinch their cheeks. "You two are so cute when you're overprotective."

Scorpius swatted her hand away, returning his attention to the potions essay that was due the next day. "You owe me a knut, Potter," he said as an afterthought.

Now Rose's dark eyes were flashing dangerously. "You bet on me?" she asked in a slow tone.

Both boys eyes widened perceptibly and began moving away from the irate red head. "If it's any consolation," Albus offered, hands up in an innocent gesture, "we hexed Flint for what he said about this development…"

It wasn't but, lucky for Al and Scorpius, the majority of her rage was taken out on revenge against the Slytherin seventh year once she heard just what he'd said. The two Ravenclaw boys were just glad to escape with the majority of their pride in tact.


Seventh Year

Rose threw down her book and get out an aggravated growl. "That's it, that's it! These damn N.E.W.T.s are trying to drive me insane!" She rubbed her eyes and slouched into the chair. "And I think they're succeeding…"

Al, who was sitting on a loveseat beside her with his girlfriend of over a year, Karen, gave her hand a comforting pat. "Don't worry," he said easily. "They're taking us all with you."

"Yeah," Lucy agreed from the other side of Karen with a sigh. "We'll all have brilliant company in St. Mungo's."

Standing up and stretching, Rose began collecting her books and parchment. "I should probably get back to the Head's Common Room before I really am committed," she told the others. "Same time tomorrow?"

Karen nodded, smiling at her friend. "Scorpius said he'd bring snacks, too," she said with thinly veiled excitement.

Absentmindedly, Rose frowned. Where was Scorpius, anyway? Al had muttered some excuse but she couldn't recall what he'd said now. She had a fleeting thought that he had snuck out to meet some chit but that thought was quickly quashed, if only to maintain her sanity. "He only knows that trick because I showed him," she tossed out, joining the conversation again with a small smile. "See you all tomorrow."

Her housemates called various good-byes as she headed out of the tower. She yawned as she wandered down the steps at a lazy pace, hitching her bag higher onto her shoulder. Another yawn had her colliding with a wall.

A wall that caught her with a grunt?

Looking up, she saw Scorpius peering down at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. "Better watch where you're going, Rose," he teased, helping her straighten again before releasing her. (Strangely, she felt cold when he did.) "Next time you might hit someone with worse reflexes."

"Lucky I ran into the Ravenclaw seeker then, isn't it?" she tossed back with a grin, shrugging off her odd feelings. "Speaking of—where have you been hiding yourself? Don't you know we have N.E.W.T.s to be studying for?"

He gave a dramatic gasp complete with over the top gesticulation. "You don't say! Well, damn, I wish I'd known sooner…"

Rose socked him in the shoulder none too gently. "I'm so pleased you're finally learning the finer points of sarcasm," she commented dryly, "but I never would've spent so much time teaching you if I'd known you'd use it against me."

Holding his hands up in surrender, Scorpius smiled genuinely. "I was down in the dungeons tutoring Callie Warrington in Potions."

For some reason, she felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her. "Oh." She forced a smile, though it was more of a quirk of her mouth, really. "What'd you get from her for that?"

Scorpius shrugged. "Nothing. Professor Hobskins asked me to, since I've got such an aptitude for it."

And because you like her, was Rose's irrational thought, not that she'd admit that. Or say it aloud. Instead, she smirked dangerously. "Figures. You never could deny a compliment to your vanity." There was a distinct undercurrent of anger in her tone, which took away from the teasing nature of their conversation.

Unamused, he frowned at her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Rose?"

"Figure it out yourself," she shot back, voice raising just a hair. "I can't stand to be in this stairwell another moment—your ego is suffocating me!" Then she turned and raced off, ignoring his shouts echoing after her.

Furious tears raced down her cheeks and she had no idea why. Her dad had always claimed her mum was crazy but never before had Rose felt so completely out of control of her person. If this was growing up, she wanted no part of it. She had no idea why she felt this way; what it meant. No idea why she'd overreacted so totally and completely at someone she now considered a valued friend. None of it made sense.

It wasn't until she was back in the Head's common room, bawling her eyes out that the truth revealed itself. She fancied Scorpius Malfoy.

"Fuck."


Graduation

Despite Al's questions and prodding (especially after he and Karen broke up), Rose continued to make excuses about why she was so scarce their last months at Hogwarts. She claimed Head duties and studying—anything to avoid the Ravenclaw common room. Anything to avoid Scorpius.

She knew she should apologize—it wasn't his fault she'd gone off her rocker and had a minor meltdown at him—but her pride and humiliation was just great enough to keep that from happening. He didn't seem too keen on seeing her, either, so she figured it was mutually beneficial.

Soon enough, her time at Hogwarts came to a quiet, if anti-climatic, close.

To celebrate their achievement of matriculation, there was a lovely ceremony during which Rose tried desperately not to fall asleep. It wasn't that it was boring, really, she was just seated between two dreadfully dull people. It was moments like these that she longed for Al, Karen or Lucy's company. Even Scorpius would almost be welcome. Well, maybe not.

They received their magical diplomas, marching up one at a time so parents could take pictures and cry. Both of Rose's parents had glistening gazes as they watched her, though her mother was more outright in her emotion. It was all very lovely. Once it was all over, Rose put up with the dull conversation and generic congratulations for as long as she was able.

When her tolerance was reached, though, she made her brilliant escape. Racing from the magically altered Quidditch pitch, she took refuge by the greenhouse. She knew she should spend her time saying farewell to classmates and the like but it wasn't like the wizarding community was so overly large she'd really lose touch with those she cared about.

Feeling more exhausted than she remembered, Rose lay back in the prickly grass and gazed up at the clouds in the sky. The sun felt lovely on her face and she sighed contently, closing her eyes. They opened again when a shadow fell over her. There, towering above her in all his spiky pale blond glory, was none other than Scorpius himself.

Rose immediately sat up, ignoring the way her stomach dropped. "Hi," she said quietly, looking down at her hands.

Sitting beside her, Scorpius didn't reply at first. He glanced at her, then looked away. He repeated the process a few times. Finally, he settled for looking over her shoulder at the castle. "You should have never been nice to me at all," he commented casually, as if they were discussing the weather.

"What?" Rose spluttered, too surprised to remember to be mortified. She looked at him as if he'd grown a second head.

Scorpius gave her the famously condescending Malfoy look. "If you'd never been nice," he explained slowly, "then I wouldn't have missed you when you went all lionel richie on me."

Temper rising, Rose glared ferociously at him. "I did not go lionel richie on you," she hissed angrily. "And you—you have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Then enlighten me, please," he retorted, arms crossed. "I think you owe me that much."

Rose felt herself deflate. "I-I can't," she stuttered, looking away from his icy gaze. She wanted to say more—to apologize but the words wouldn't come.

Jaw clenched, Scorpius shook his head. "That's not good enough, Rose. You may not be a Gryffindor but I'm not going to let you take the cowardly way out. You're better than that."

"I'm sorry," she whispered to her lap.

There was a long pause before he replied. "Fine. Consider this friendship dissolved." He started to rise but Rose latched onto his wrist. He growled in frustration. "Rose—"

She cut him off by placing a finger on his lips. Kneeling, she moved her hand to cup his cheek and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. It was warm and sweet and made her stomach flutter in a way it never had before.

When she pulled away, there were tears in her eyes. "Now do you understand?"

"No," Scorpius said, leaping to his feet. He began to pace furiously in front of her, running an agitated hand through his hair. "You-you can't just…" Suddenly he stopped and faced her, gesturing wildly between them. "That doesn't fix this."

Rose nodded solemnly. "I know." She should've never done it. She should've let him walk away, friendship be damned. But if she was going to lose him anyway, her gut had told her to just go for it. It would be too ironic otherwise. Unfortunately, now she just wanted to crawl in a hole and hide until the whole thing was forgotten.

He was pacing again, brows furrowed. "Did Albus tell you? I told him about my feelings in confidence!" He began to slow, fixing her with a serious look. "You can't just use people, Rose. You can't kiss me when you know it means more to me than you."

"What are you on about?" she asked incredulously. "I was trying to—" Well, hell, it wasn't like she was going to escape this with her dignity in tact. "I fancy you, you prat! Why do you think I reacted like a complete nutter when I found out you were tutoring Callie? Why do you think I couldn't muster up an apology? I was embarrassed! I knew you wouldn't feel the same. I knew it would ruin our friendship. And look at that—it did!" Rose wiped her eyes and tried to pull forth all her remaining stubbornness. "Ugh! I should have never—"

It was right about then that Scorpius cut her off with another kiss. This one was hot and urgent and caught her completely off guard. When he pulled away, she blinked up at him in surprise. "I've fancied you ever since the first time I saw you angry." He smiled. It was just a little bashful and completely lovely. "You're beautiful when you're angry."

Rose's cheeks were warm with flush, but she shot him a dubious expression. "Then why did you ask me to set you up with Lucy?"

"Well, I could hardly expect you to want to date me when you were so keen on hating me, could I?" he pointed out. "So I put those thoughts out of my mind."

Fair enough. "But what about when we became friends?" she pressed.

Scorpius had the good grace to look abashed. "Would you believe I didn't want to ruin our friendship, either?"

Now Rose laughed. It seemed like she hadn't smiled—really smiled in a long time. It felt lovely. "We really are quite the pair, aren't we?"

He took her hand in his and gave it a kiss. "Yes, we are." There was more in his words, though, than a simple agreement.

Needless to say, when Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy returned to the graduation celebratory chaos hand-in-hand, more than one parent blanched. Albus, however, grinned proudly at his friends. And Harry thanked Ginny for waiting to give him a daughter.

08. and as the years go by; boys, our friendship will never die

Notes: So, I have to admit, I was pretty moved by the ads for Benton (and Carol's) return to ER. But I always really liked Carter and Chen's friendship, so I wrote a little something before that episode about what I thought it'd be like if she returned, too. Because it was prior to the episode's airing, there are a few canon mistakes (most notably, the location of Dr. Carter). However, since it's basically AU territory (though only slightly), I forgive myself. ;) It's not a romance, just a nice friendship fic about the ER family that I remember.
Disclaimer: Do not own ER. All rights are solely those of NBC or whoever owns/produces the show. Please do not sue.

then is heard no more

It's been the better side of five years since Jing-Mei Chen stepped through the doors of Chicago's County General hospital. It only figures that when she finally returns to the place she learned to be a doctor, she does it with the same brazen attitude she carried the first time she returned after a long absence.

Passing the threshold, she stalls momentarily. All the faces she doesn't recognize stun her—because it's so different but still the same, too. That's the emergency room, though; always changing, always in flux. And, with that thought, she picks up her pace again.

Spotting a familiar face, she marches straight to him. "Jerry," is her only greeting, face tight and serious. This isn't a time for pleasantries. She's on a mission—one that predicates everything, even politeness.

The affable admit attendant gapes at her for a moment, obviously surprised by her sudden appearance, before a familiar smile falls into place. "Dr. Chen, what brings you back to County?" he inquires in his typical friendly fashion.

She rolls her eyes. As if they both don't already know. "Jerry, where's Carter?"

His smile is instantly replaced by a worried expression, hidden partially by his ridiculous beard. "He's been given a room in the ICU."

With a nod, Jing-Mei is about to make the short walk upstairs but pauses. She has always been determined and headstrong but this—this isn't something she can just plow through, no matter how much she may want to. "How is he, Jerry?" she asks, concern leaking into her tone.

Jerry meets her gaze evenly and she doesn't miss the sadness in his eyes. "Unless he gets a kidney, he hasn't got long." He shrugs, shoulders hunched. "Maybe a few weeks if he's lucky."

Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, she nods again. "Thanks, Jerry," she say, a ghost of a smile on her face. "And—it's good to see you." Because it is and she probably owes him the courtesy of saying so. She turns on her heal, then, and marches toward the elevators. She still has her mission, after all.

-------------------------------------------------

Cowardly, that's how Jing-Mei feels. She's been standing outside the room belonging to Dr. John Truman Carter III for a good ten minutes and is no closer to entering than when the nurse pointed it out to her upon her arrival.

It's ironic, she thinks. She spent the entire train ride from Cleveland psyching up for this moment and now that she's arrived, she's stuck in her head. Second-guessing herself and what she's even doing there. Because it's John. (She wouldn't have come for anyone else. Except for Greg and she really missed the boat with that one. But now isn't the time for thinking about that.)

The problem is, she still doesn't know what to say. He's always had such an easy way about him (not like her at all) and now… now they're different—older, maybe wiser if they're lucky—but what does that really mean? She has no idea. Just like with her internship at County, she's starting to realize that all the prepping the world isn't ever going to mean she's ready.

Biting her lip, she takes a deep breath and pushes her way into the room. John is there, of course, lying in the ridiculously white bed and looking paler than she ever remembers him being. Christ, he looks worse than when he was a med addicted junkie.

And just like that, reality crashes down around Jing-Mei. She doesn't move or speak, her eyes locked on his prone figure.

She didn't know how long she stands there before John's eyes flutter open. When they do, though, she can practically feel time starting again. Despite the obvious pain he's in, he smiles at her. "Deb," he says, knowing she hates the nickname and loves the familiarity, "long time no see."

"John," she replies, mouth dry and eyes drier, "it's been a while." She tries to smile but it's pained, and she knows it. There's a moment of (not entirely comfortable) silence between them as their eyes meet and she looks away first. Taking a breath, she dives right in. "You could've called." She looks at him again, hurt. "I would've come."

John's smiling, though. It's sort of bittersweet, she thinks, and she doesn't like that. It feels too much like he's resigned—like he's given up. "I know," he tells her and she believes him. "Got a long line of people who probably would've come if I called." And she knows who he means—Peter, Susan, Kerry, Abby and Anna to name a few. They weren't just co-workers here, they were a family.

Family. It still hurts her to think. Because it reminds her of all she lost—and all she gave up. She ignores those feelings and takes his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over the edges of tape holding a needle in place. "They would," she assures him. And she is sure. She's there, after all, and she's always considered herself tenaciously stubborn.

He nods, though she isn't sure if he's dismissing her or agreeing. "But after everything with Mark—" here, she winces a little, "I didn't want to put them through that again." He catches her eye and gives her hand a weak squeeze. "I don't want you to have to—"

"You're going to be fine, John," she interrupts, mostly because it feels like the right thing to say. She knows his prospects aren't quite end stage yet but they also aren't anything to be overly optimistic about, either. Still, he didn't survive everything he's survived over the years just to die now. He's got many more years ahead of him and far too much potential to be taken now. It's just fact—it has to be.

He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he pushes himself up on one elbow and gives her a full once over. His expression is shrewd and she knows what's coming next. "Deb, how'd you—?"

Again, she doesn't let him finish. "Does it really matter?" she asks him, eyebrows raising high with the question. She moves her hand from his grasp to his shoulder. "You were there for me more times than I can count," she continues, eyes glittering just a little with the memories; "let me be here for you this time." She can see he wants to object and she squeezes his shoulder. "Please, John. Let me do this."

This is important to her. Throughout her pregnancy and with her father, he was there. Her rock. Even when she quit, his memory kept her grounded. And, despite what she likes to believe about her abilities, she's never felt like she's fully reciprocated. But this time—this time, she's going to do her damnedest to hold strong. To be his rock for a change.

He deserves at least that much. He deserves the support of those who care about him.

-------------------------------------------------

Jing-Mei isn't the least bit surprised to see Peter Benton when she returns from one of her numerous coffee runs. She's never been particularly close to the surgeon, but she acutely remembers the way Peter handled himself when John was losing to his addiction. More than that, though, she remembers the way John looked at Peter that night. It's something that always stuck with her.

"Dr. Benton," she says, alerting him to her presence. Her voice is low so as not to wake John but it carries over the beeping of the various machines in the room. She can't think of how to continue, so she just leaves it there.

Peter has that arrogant amused expression on his face and it's enough to remind her what she hasn't missed about him. "Chen," he returns easily. "Thought you quit this place."

Nodding absently, she moves closer to John. Her eyes sometimes play tricks and she wants to be sure everything is as well as it can be. "I did. I'm here for John." Her gaze flicks over to Peter and she gives him a pointed look. "Just like you."

It's the truth and he doesn't argue with it. "Haleh call you, too?" he questions instead, obviously curious.

"Chuny, actually," she replies. She still isn't sure how the nurse knew where to find her (maybe Greg's brother?), but she doesn't care. She's just grateful she did.

Since her answer doesn't require a response, they lapse into silence. They're an unlikely pair but both have their attention trained on the sleeping Carter heir, so the oddness is lost on them.

After a spell, Peter stands and stretches. "Think I'll get some coffee," he comments off-handedly. "You need a refill?" She's almost surprised by the courtesy—almost but not quite. (Doctor's bedside manner and all that.)

His tone has her smiling a little. "No, thank you," she replies because 1) she still has half a cup left, 2) it tastes as stale and disgusting as when she worked there, and 3) if she has any more caffeine, she'll probably have to run laps around the hospital later. It's still a nice gesture, though, and she thinks more than his hair cut and her job title have changed.

Which, actually, worries her a little. What does this change mean for John? Could he be in more danger than she originally thought? She doesn't think so—she's still a doctor in her own right, after all, capable of reading his charts and diagnosing his symptoms—but there's always the chance…

No, no. She's not thinking that way. This is only temporary until John finds his donor. He's her rock and she still needs him, even if it's only to know that he's out there holding strong. She'll do it for the time being (she's always been good at picking up his slack), but she won't reconcile herself to having to hold up without him. Not yet.

Not ever if she has her way.

-------------------------------------------------

It's a full three days before Jing-Mei finally confronts Peter about his continued presence. It's not that she thinks he has any ulterior motives—quite the opposite, really—but John's condition is in steady (if slow) decline and she refuses to just stand by for any longer. That's not the way she's built. It's not how she operates. Period.

"What the hell are you doing here, Peter?" she asks him outside of John's room as he returns from a coffee refill.

He's obviously not expecting her ambush because he looks torn between confusion and irritation by it. "What are you talking about, Chen?" he responds brusquely, irritation clearly winning the battle.

She points toward the room, eyes angry slits. "You've been here for three days!" Her hands move to her hips. "When are you going to do something already?"

Now he looks more confused than frustrated. "Do?" he repeats, brows furrowed. "What, you think I'm just sitting on a kidney or something?"

Rolling her eyes, she growls a little in frustration. "Of course not," she snaps.

Peter crosses his arms, one brow raised in a way that again reminds her why she loathed being his intern. Arrogant ass. "Then what is it?"

There's a pregnant pause between them until she suddenly throws her hands up in the air. "I don't know!" she cries finally and her expression cracks. She holds her ground, though, refusing to be cowed. "But you have to fix him, Peter."

His face softens and he puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. It's then that she realizes she's crying. "It doesn't work that way, Jing-Mei," he tells her, much calmer than he has any right to be. "You know that."

She shrugs off his hand and crosses her arms, trying to be angry again. Anger is safe. "I don't know that," she says, shaking her head a bit wildly. "Don't tell me I know that!"

"Jing-Mei…"

"Damn it, Peter, you save him!" she cries suddenly, interrupting whatever he'd been planning to say to placate her. She shoves his shoulder, her own shaking with repressed sobs. "You have to!"

His hands are on his head and he looks almost as distressed as she feels. "I don't know if I can!" he shouts back, a pained expression on his face.

She can tell it hurts him to admit it, but she doesn't care. "You have to, Peter," she pleads, visibly deflating. Her eyes are wide and filled with an innocence she doesn't normally possess. "I know you; that's what you do for him—what you've always done!"

There's an apology written all over his face but he doesn't say the words. (Not his style.) "He's not my student anymore, Jing-Mei," he says instead, voice tight with unexpressed emotions. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. "And there isn't anything anyone can do without a kidney."

"I know," she admits quietly, gaze dropping to the floor.

They're both silent, lost in thought, until she breaks it with a sniffle. A loud sniffle.

Eyes shining, she turns to him again. "I'm just… it's so…" She bites her lip, then the bullet. "I don't know what I'd do without him." And it's true. Because she needs him—period.

Peter pulls her into a hug, uncharacteristic but comforting. "Me either," he murmurs above her head.

A few tears leak out and she sniffles again, wiping her cheeks behind his back. "Yeah." They stay like that for longer than either will admit later.

-------------------------------------------------

If there's one thing people know about Jing-Mei, it's her dedication to the job. She's always tried for first (because second place is the first loser). And, even though she doesn't have anything to prove to anyone anymore (except herself, of course), she's still driven. So driven, in fact, that she's in line to be Chief of Medicine at her hospital.

It's not decided yet, though, and she knows it will be (in a way she does not want) if she stays in Chicago too much longer. She's torn between her loyalty to John and the aspirations she has in the life she's built for herself since leaving. In the end, it's really no contest. She sits beside John and knows she'll never begrudge him for her choice to stay until they find a kidney. (Because they will, damn it.)

But he's perceptive—always has been. And he doesn't miss the terse conversations she has about PTO and her career just outside his room. Eventually he confronts her and insists she go back home. She tries to convince him it's no big deal—that she wants to stay and he shouldn't be alone, anyway—but he won't hear it. He has rebuttals for all her arguments.

And suddenly she's in his room with her tiny suitcase and a train ticket back to her life, not sure what to say. Not good-bye—that's too final. "It's good to see you," is what she settles on eventually, kissing his cheek gently and giving his hand a squeeze. She smiles teasingly and adds, "Maybe next time you'll even get out of bed."

"I'll do my best," he promises and she believes him. He gives her a squeeze back and they share a smile.

Then she turns to Peter, giving him a quick (if awkward) hug. "Look after him," she instructs sternly, tossing a teasing look at John. She sobers quickly, meeting the surgeon's gaze. "And let me know…" she trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence. She can only think of negative ways to go from there and that's not the attitude she wants to leave with.

Peter places a hand on her shoulder and smiles. "I'll keep you updated."

Visibly relieved, Jing-Mei nods. "Thank you." She picks up her bag and shrugs. "I guess I better get going. I'll call you tonight, John, okay?" Partly to let him know she's arrived home safely and partly because she still feels horribly guilty for leaving.

He's smiling from his bed and raises a hand in a wave. "Sounds good." She's still lingering, though, so he makes a shooing motion. "Go on, Deb, or you'll miss you're train." She moves to the door but hesitates again. "I'll see you soon," he adds for assurance.

She smiles, then, and nods. "See you soon," she replies as she finally leaves the room. And, for the first time since she arrived, she believes it. It may not be a kidney but it's enough to get her home.

04. anyone can find the same white pills; it takes my pain away

Notes: I was thinking about the five stages of grief and, well, Dani's my girl so I tossed her in. (I've been trying to do FanFic100 with her. *shrug*) Continuity is vague in so far as it's set pre-Secret Invasion but obviously AU as to what's really happened. Things may seem vague but it should all be explained by story's end. Umm... I guess that's about it.
Disclaimer: Do not own the X-Men or any of their off-shoots. All rights are solely those of Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Please do not sue.

Five Stages

I. Denial

"I don't believe you." The words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them in an angry hiss.

She didn't miss the hurt flash across his face but she ignored it. She didn't have a choice. She loved him, she did—he was like a brother to her!—but this… there was no way. It wasn't possible. It wasn't allowed.

She loved him but she could never, ever believe him.

His expression was set but there was sadness in his dark eyes. They were so different from his cornflower blue. "It's true, Dani," he said sternly. "Sam—"

"Shut up!" she yelled, interrupting. "You are so full of it Roberto Da Costa and I—I refuse to play this game with you any more! It's not funny, 'Berto! It's not!"

There was sympathy in his gaze now as he put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. "I know," he insisted in a gentle tone, continence betraying an unusual amount of patience. "But—"

Again, she didn't let him finish. "But nothing," she said harshly, pulling out of his grip. "I don't believe you." There was not even a hint of question in her voice.

"Dani—"

"No!" she shouted suddenly, slapping him across the face. Then she turned and ran. He probably could've caught her if he'd tried—he was taller and fit, after all—but he didn't chase her. Apparently she needed time on her own to digest. And he… well, he didn't need a set of red handprints on his cheeks.


II. Anger

"Uhn!" she grunted, giving Viper a roundhouse kick to the chest. The green haired woman stumbled back for a moment before leaping toward her. Dani managed to duck aside in time to avoid the attack aimed at her face and had rounded again when the villain suddenly flickered out of existence.

Growling, she looked toward the control booth. "What the fuck?" she shouted in what might generously be called an unfriendly tone. When there was no answer, she proceeded to seethe. "Ooh, someone is just asking for a fight…"

"Yeah?" a familiar voice prompted from behind her. To his credit, she hadn't even heard the doors open, let alone his entrance. "That someone you?"

With an inelegant snort, she turned to face the intruder. "Sounds more like you, don't you think, Logan?" she sneered. "What're you doing here—I have the Danger Room reserved for another half hour."

One eyebrow rose at her tone. "Just thought you might like a real fight," he offered casually, as if they were discussing the weather or something equally mundane. "From someone who can handle it, that is."

Her arms were crossed now as she eyed him up and down. "You that someone?" she asked with an ugly look of contempt on her face. "I'm not stupid, Wolverine, I know you can kick my ass five ways from Sunday."

"And I know that you want someone to feel the pain you're feeling," he countered in that same neutral tone. "Might as well be me seein' as I can actually take the heat you dish out."

For whatever reason, that only served to make her angrier. "Well sor-ry," she snapped, dragging the second syllable of her questionable apology out. "Not all of us can heal our wounds as easily as you."

He just smiled in a slightly disconcerting but mostly kind way. "Can't rile me up, darlin'. This is about your anger. So how 'bout you get it out before it destroys everything you care about?"

She was stiff for a moment, considering, then nodded. "Fine." And the next second she was in the air, lashing out angrily toward him. She hated admitting it but it felt good. Anger was safe like that. She knew she'd have to let it go eventually, but for the moment she was happy to revel in it.


III. Bargaining

It was weird, being in a church. She wasn't Catholic or even Christian but there was something so peaceful about the space. She felt like if the gods were going to live somewhere, it'd be places like that.

Her face was lifted toward the sky, specks of color dancing over her closed eyes as she tried to find something resembling peace. "Isn't there something I can do?" she asked softly, startled by the sound of her voice in her ears.

"Ah but that it were that easy, lieb," a gentle German accented voice responded. It didn't surprise her, exactly—she knew this was his sanctuary more than most—but she also hadn't heard or seen him since her entrance.

Opening her eyes, she saw he was standing not too far from her, straightening up. "Kurt," she said quietly after a long moment of watching him, "why would God—any God—let this happen?"

There was something decidedly sad in his smile. "That's not how it works, Dani," he answered slowly. "You know that."

"I don't know anything!" she burst out suddenly, only slightly mortified by the loudness of her voice. "I would give anything—everything—to fix this. To take his place. Something. Please, there has to be something. It's just—it's not fair that we're all so helpless!"

There were tears running down her cheeks and he was hugging her but she didn't notice either of those things just then. "What can I do?" she asked. "What can I do to make this better? How can I—" here, her voice cracked, "how can I save him? Please, there has to be something…"

He knew she wasn't asking him, so he only held her and whispered comforting words in German. It wasn't much but it was all he could do for her just then. This was something she had to face on her own.

Eventually, she sniffled and pushed away slightly. Now, she looked at him with wide brown eyes, red-rimmed and glistening with still more unshed tears. "Why can't I do anything?"

"All I can think," he said slowly, "is that there is some plan out there." He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "And remember, lieb, it may be his fight but there are things you can do. There are always things we can do."

She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly and he wondered if she truly believed his words at all.


IV. Depression

She was sitting, pouring over a box of pictures when he found her. There were tear tracks on her face and tissues littering the floor around her. He didn't say anything until he was crouched beside her. Turning the photo in her hand so he could see it, he smiled a little at the image. It was him and Sam horsing around with a guilty-looking Doug and innocently mischievous Warlock—classic.

"Soon there'll only be you left," she whispered, bypassing the usual pleasantries. Fresh tears sprang from her eyes and it hurt to see her so very broken. "The other two are already gone…"

His heart constricted as he released the picture and put his hand on her back instead, rubbing circles gently. "Dani, you shouldn't think like that. The doctors—they say he has a sixty percent chance of finding a match."

She was silent for a moment, leaning into his touch. "You know it's a bunch of bullshit," she said quietly, no malice in her tone. There was only heartbreaking sadness to be found there. "He's going to die. Everyone we love does—Illyana, Doug, Warlock, Kitty, Jean…"

"On multiple occasions," he tried to joke.

"'Berto!" she admonished, though there was a watery smile on her face. It dimmed almost as soon as it appeared, though, and she covered her face with her hands. "Everybody dies and there's never anything we can do to stop it."

He pulled her into a hug then and she curled against him, body shaking with silent sobs. "We can be there for them," he whispered into her hair, holding her tightly. "We can let them know we care for them."

She let him pet her hair comfortingly for a minute before shaking her head. "It's not enough. Nothing can ever be enough. And I just—I can't…" she trailed off into hiccupping sobs.

Murmuring words of comfort in both English and Portuguese, he rocked her gently back and forth. "Just be honest with him. Tell him how you feel." He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead as he extracted himself from her. "It will be enough. For him, that's always been enough."

Unfortunately, the truth of his statement only served to draw her deeper into her despair. Whether it was because of how it spoke volumes about Sam's kindness or guiltily reminded her that she'd rarely been able to give him that, even after all these years, she wasn't certain. In the end, she decided it probably didn't matter. In her state, little felt as if it did.


V. Acceptance

The first thing she noticed about the building was how white it was. Floors, walls, ceiling—even the curtains were white. They tried to break it up with touches of color here and there, a peaceful and utterly non-offensive painting in each room, things like that. She knew they were meant to calm the patients and visitors but it had little effect on her. Mostly, the mediocre art just served to irritate her.

She let herself into his room—number six-one-three, quietly closing the door behind her. If he was asleep, she could just come back. Yeah. That's what she told herself. And she'd make sure she didn't wake him, if that were the case. Out of respect. Uh-huh. Not because of any sort of guilty feelings because she hadn't visited him at all since he'd been admitted. No, no. That wasn't it at all.

"Hello?" his voice called, a bit horse but still distinctively Southern. "Someone there?"

The curtain (white, of course) was hiding her. It took all of her courage to push away from the (also white) door and walk fully into the room. Somehow she managed, though, the small bouquet of lavender in her hand feeling woefully inadequate.

It could've been her imagination but he looked tired to her. His blond hair was a bit stringy, as if it hadn't been washed for a few days, and there were wrinkles around his blue eyes she'd never seen before. She stopped a good distance from his bed and waved bashfully with her free hand, a light blush covering her cheeks. "Um, hi."

His face instantly softened, and he smiled. "Hey there, Chief," he said kindly. He eyed her for a long moment, then waved for her to come closer. "Whatchu doin' all the way over there, girl? Get over here!"

That was all the prompting she needed. She dropped the flowers on the foot of his bed and all but flew to his side, hugging him tightly (but carefully). "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry," she breathed as she pulled away. "I know I should've been here, but I just didn't want to believe it because—because, well, you're Sam and this isn't supposed to be happening. You were gonna outlive us all. And I—I just…" Tears were racing down her face but she paid them no mind. "I'm so sorry. You deserve better."

"Hey now," he replied softly, reaching up to grab her hand in his and pull her closer again, "don't say that. You're one of my best friends, Dani. Who cares if it took ya a while to come? You're here now, ain'tcha?" His free hand wiped away some of the tears on her cheek. "That's what counts."

Sniffling and swallowing hard, she shook her head. "You're too nice to me, Sam. You've always been too nice." That was why women walked all over him and how he was patient enough to be best friends with the likes of Roberto Da Costa. "I just couldn't take it, you know? I didn't want to admit…"

Here's where she drew on her last reserves of strength, hoping beyond hope that she could find it in her to be brave. It was easy to face things she could fight; things she might fear but could still beat. Facing her feelings, though? That was a whole other ball game.

She sat beside him and took both his hands into hers. "I love you, Sam. You always believe in me and are such a good friend… I hate to think of my life without you. Even when we were apart, I always knew that if I needed you, you'd be there. That's what brought me back. That's what keeps me fighting." She gave his hands a gentle squeeze. "Not the other New Mutants, not Xavier's dream, not the next generation—you. And I just don't know where I'll be if I lose that. If I lose you."

And there it was. Her deep, dark secret. The truth of how she felt about him—the truth she'd never shared. The real reason she didn't want to accept his diagnosis and the finality of what it could bring. She just hoped it was enough. Because that was really and truly all she had left to give him. The only help she could think offer.

He nodded once and then his face broke out in a smile. "Thank you." Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close so their foreheads were practically touching. "But you know I'm gonna live to a ripe old age, just to tease ya 'bout your big emotional display." Impulsively, he gave her a wet smack of a kiss on the cheek.

"Ugh, Sa-am!" she cried, rubbing the spit off as best she could. "I swear, even after all these years, Roberto still hasn't managed to get any manners into that thick skull of yours." She shook her head, then snuggled against him a little. "Guess I'll just have to whip you both into shape once you get outta here."

Pulling her shoulder tightly, he reached up to give her a noogie. Still, there was nothing but warmth in his tone as he agreed, "Guess so."

02. and its your final last call (why'd you have to let it go)

Notes: Very unedited by anyone that isn't me. Completed short story. Characters portrayed are all my own; inspiration comes from a POSTSECRET card I once saw about someone not telling his (or her) family that he (or she) was still alive. Oh, and ::this:: means the person was speaking in another language, though it should be obvious. Also, the title is work-in-progress.

Serenity

Every day started the same. She woke up on a straw mat that didn’t do much to add to the comfort of her little room but it gave the illusion of keeping her off the packed dirt floor. There was a small bowl of dirty water (and a few pieces of hay) sitting on the lone piece of furniture in the room—a wooden bench. The scarf she wore in her hair became a makeshift washcloth used to wipe off her arms, legs and face. It didn’t do much to clean but it was all she had unless she made the long trip to the river.

Once that was done, she wrung the scarf and used the damp cloth to pull back her stringy blonde bangs. Then she changed her clothes (though they weren’t really her clothes). Today she wore a dark dress-like set made of thin cloth that was designed to keep the wearer from suffering in the heat. (She thought if that was truly the intent, the cloth would’ve been a paler color.) As was her daily wont, she wished for a change of unmentionables but settled for what she had.

After that, she’d shake out her mat before rolling it up and storing it beneath the bench. It was a cleaning habit she couldn’t help, even now. It wasn’t like it made a difference—there wasn’t anyone who cared or such a lack of space to necessitate it. Honestly, she wasn’t even sure she cared most days. But just like the washing, the cleaning added some semblance of normalcy to this life she lived. (If it could even be called that.)

It was around that point she usually made her first choice of the day. She could spend some time making marks on her bench—words and sentences if she was lucky (she only had her nails to use as tools, after all). If that wasn't appealing, she could close her eyes and travel inside herself to visit her "special place". Or, if she had the energy, she could take venture out of her room and into the real world. Usually she did some combination of the three, depending on how tired she was.

Today started slowly. She spent a couple of hours scratching at the bench, managing to make a whole sentence: Give me strength. With that in mind, she decided it was time for her outside adventure. She slipped on the pair of leather sandals by the door, though they little to assuage the blistering heat and often made rocky ground slipperier. Then she dabbed a bit of the dirty water on the back of her neck in a vain attempt to keep cool for at least a short amount of time.

Pushing open the poorly constructed wooden door, she stepped the main room. It was larger than her room with a worn wooden table that had bench seats not unlike the one in her room on both sides. There was a bowl of something on the table and she assumed it was for her. The room also passed for the kitchen with an old Dutch oven in the corner. There was an old woman at the stove who only gave her a peripheral glance before returning to her task of stirring the pot.

It was silent as she ate her food. She took the time to eat slowly, savoring every watery bit and undercooked vegetable there was to be had. It wasn’t every day she had something warm—it wasn’t every day they had wood for the fire. Hell, on the bad days, she often wouldn’t eat at all. (Thankfully, those days were mostly few and far between.) It wasn’t like she could complain, anyway—she wasn’t contributing much of anything to the home.

Useless, that’s what she was. How she felt.

::Thank you,:: she whispered, the strange language still tasting wrong in her mouth. Her accent was rubbish, too, she was certain. But she did what she could. It was all she had to offer.

She spread her dark scarf to cover her hair and stepped out into the blinding sunlight. The winds were blowing strong today but she hardly noticed the thin fabric of her sort of dress brushing against her legs. She’d grown used to the desert by then. She shielded her eyes and glanced around. There were a few people out and about, several more working and still more she knew remaining inside. That was the safest place to be, after all.

A boy a few years her junior came to her when she stepped into the light. ::Why do you stay here, outsider?:: he asked, tone accusing. ::You are not welcome.::

::No home to go,:: she replied slowly, aware her words were broken. ::You want me go; why?::

He sniffed, expression disdainful. ::Outsiders do not belong here. You should have never come.::

Suppressing a sigh, she looked away. “Believe me, I wish the same thing. But I’m here now and there isn’t anything that can be done about it.”

The boy shook his head, muttering choice words in Arabic as he moved away from her. She ignored him in favor of a brief trip into her happy place.

“Darling, it’s so good to see you again,” her mother cooed, reaching forward to gently tuck a stray blonde hair behind her ear.

Her father grunted his agreement, turning the page of his paper.

Her brother poked her in the side. “It’s always so boring without you, kiddo,” he complained with a teasing grin.

Squirming out of the way, she glared. “You’re just sore that you can’t pester Mom and Dad.”

“Well, duh,” was his intelligent response.

She gave them a sad smile. “I have to cut it short. I’ll be back soon, promise.” One last fond look, then she closed her eyes…

Blinking her eyes open, she saw a young girl looking at her with a curious expression. ::What are you doing?:: she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

::No thing,:: she replied, trying to force a smile. ::I think.:: She pointed to her head to emphasize.

The little girl grinned. ::Boring!:: she announced. ::Come play with me, pale skin.::

Now her smile came easier, though she hated to disappoint the girl. ::I no can, child. I want to sleep and your father no like.::

Pouting, the child gave a nod and raced off.

She wondered how it would feel to be young and innocent again. How it would be if she could see her family in the flesh instead of in waking dreams.

An older woman carrying a heavy burden passed. She moved forward and took the basket from her, waving off her objections with a kind smile. ::Help?:: she offered in a placating tone. It would be so nice to feel useful, if only for a minute.

The woman smiled, nodding her consent. She followed the woman to a hut in the outskirts of their village, placing the burden on her small wooden table inside. ::Thank you,:: the woman told her sincerely.

It was the sincerity that touched her the most. ::You are welcome,:: she said quietly, uncertain why her eyes were suddenly tearing.

She was about to leave when the old woman grabbed her wrist suddenly. ::Why did you come here? Does your family not miss you?::

Again, the sincerity moved her. ::I no have family. Family think…:: here, she mimed that she was dead by a shot to the head.

The horrified expression on the woman's face was all the confirmation she needed that the message had been received. ::And you do not tell them the truth?:: the woman asked curiously.

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? She didn’t want to burden the lady but it seemed wrong to lie to her. She was just so tiny and kind. Reminded her of her grandmother, if not a bit younger. ::I am to be soon. Want hurt them less.::

Now the woman appeared concerned. ::You are dying?::

She looked sadly at her hands. “Sometimes I think I'm already dead,” she whispered as she nodded.

The old woman placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ::I am sorry to hear that,:: she said kindly. ::Is that why you came here?::

She froze momentarily, memories racing through her mind. ::No, I come…:: She shook her head. ::Tall story.:: She emphasized its length with exaggerated gestures.

There was an understanding in the old woman’s eyes that more than crossed cultural lines. ::You will tell me some other time, then,:: she replied easily. ::Thank you, child, for all your help.::

Forcing a smile, she nodded. ::Happy to be helping. Very.:: She was surprised to find she actually meant it, too. The woman had shown her something she’d sorely been missing—kindness. With a wave, she headed out into the hot desert again.

The hike back to her hut wasn’t too long but it gave her time to think. About how she’d been in Mumbai when terrorists attacked. About how she’d landed in the hospital only to find out she was dying. Inoperable brain tumor with no hope. “You could go to America,” the doctor’s interpreter had offered kindly, “but they will tell you the same.” It was then that she’d decided it’d be easier to let her family off the hook than go home only to let them see her die again.

And then she’d come here. Come to this backwards place where she was as much a prisoner as a guest. No money, no language skills, losing more to the tumor each day… there were times she’d questioned her sanity for coming. She never would’ve come herself—never. But at the hospital, she’d had a roommate. A girl her age who went by Gia and they’d bonded over their similar circumstances. Gia was worse off, though (suffering from end stage throat cancer), and soon she was hardly able to speak.

One of her last days in the hospital, Gia had grabbed her urgently. “Find her,” she’d begged. “My father’s mother—tell her of my fate. Please.”

She hadn’t thought much of it when she promised to do just that. She’d wanted to comfort her friend. And she was glad she had, too, because just three days later Gia was gone. The next day, a letter came to her. It was from Gia explaining where to find her aging grandmother and how to get there. How to get to Afghanistan. It even had the Arabic words she was to say spelled out phonically for her. That was the moment she realized how much the promise had really meant.

“Well, shit,” were the first words she spoke as reality sunk in.

Soon she was discharged with explicit instructions to come back for pointless chemotherapy and radiation treatments. She spent what little money she had remaining—because a dead person can’t access ATMs—to travel to the small town in Afghanistan, no questions asked. There were risks, sure, but it wasn’t like she had anything to lose. Her days were already marked. More than that, she’d made a promise to Gia. It was only right that she keep it.

The traveling was rough, getting to the grandmother’s village. There weren’t always roads to travel on or vehicles to travel inside. Food was scarce, water scarcer. And it was so hot but she had to stay covered. Always covered from head to toe. It was the law. (If sweat marks were the new fashion statement, though, she was going to be riding that wave in.) Eventually, she’d arrived. Dehydrated and dirty, exhausted and broken but she made it.

A few words of broken Arabic were all she knew then but, somehow, she found Gia’s grandmother. Then the moment of truth—she read the lines. She read them slowly and carefully, certain the grandmother wouldn’t be able to read them herself. The old woman’s crumpled form was all the confirmation she needed that her message had been received. All that work and for what? Destroying an old woman’s last hopes? Part of her wished she’d never come.

She’d intended to leave then—to leave and never return. She didn’t know where she’d go or to what end (she had no money and she was dying, after all) but there was no reason to stay. Three steps away from the hut, she collapsed. Days later, she woke up on the mat she now called her own in the room that was once Gia’s. Understanding she was ill, the grandmother took her in. No words were ever exchanged, nothing discussed. It just was.

Now the room was hers. She was fed, given water regularly. She tried to contribute—tried to do her part. It was easy at first. She cleaned and lifted things, got water daily and even worked in a field. And she would listen, trying to pick up the language. As the days wore on, though, she grew weaker. She wanted to be strong. Wanted to help because that was what she was sure she was meant to do. But more and more she was a burden. The tumor was winning. And she—she had little fight left in her.

It was strange, she mused as she ducked into the hut that was her home now. Strange to by dying at only twenty-five years old. Strange to be living with strangers in a foreign land. Strange to spend every day trying to speak a language so different from her own. Mostly, though, it was strange to know that she would live out her last days alone. Not physically alone, not really. But she wouldn’t be with her family, the people she loved. And she always thought she’d have more time…

The hut was empty inside, so she headed for her room. Sometimes she wondered where the clothes came from. Were they Gia’s? They couldn’t be the grandmother’s—they were far too big to fit her. And the food—how did she pay for it? Especially now that she had an extra mouth to feed. She’d never seen the old woman work, not once. And there were rarely visitors to their hut, though she attributed that more to her presence than anything else. (People fear what they don’t understand, after all.)

Weeks bled into months and still she didn’t understand. Didn’t know how the society worked. Didn’t know why they were so anxious about her or if they’d ever trust her. Mostly, she wondered where all the fabulous U.S. aid and military assistance was. They were in the deserts of Afghanistan. Wasn’t there a war here? If there was, she couldn’t see it. Sometimes she wondered if anything had even changed for this village when the Taliban were kicked out.

Occasionally she’d have dreams about her cousin the marine suddenly appearing. He’d be handsome in his regimentals, she was certain. Probably all business with shorn hair and a burned nose. (He was fair skinned like her, after all.) She wondered what he’d say when he saw her. If he’d recognize her. If he’d believe it was her. And what would she do? Would she hide from him or embrace him? Would it even make a difference, either way?

He never came, though. No one did. No one searched for her, no one visited. No one except the woman she’d helped. Her name was Karimah and she was a mother of two men around her age who’d run off to join the fight years before. She didn’t know if they were alive or dead, but Karimah was optimistic. That was her way. Full of hope and kind words. Always had something to say to bring up the spirits of those around her.

Even as she lay growing sicker, Karimah would visit. The grandmother, too, began bringing food into the room. It was hard to sit up. She was in pain, so much pain. There were no drugs, no help. ::I feel to die,:: she told them softly one day. ::Sorry to hurt me but more sorry if to hurt you.:: She knew full well what it was like to feel helpless. That was what it had been like in Mumbai. What it felt like as her body began failing her. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Then one day a new person came to visit her—a man. He was dressed oddly, she thought, though her pain made it difficult to open her eyes for long periods of time. The man spoke in a language she didn’t know—maybe French, she thought. He gave the grandmother something and left. Later, Karimah and the grandmother argued. She wanted to stop them but her voice wouldn’t come. Her throat barely opened wide enough to breathe.

She coughed and they stopped. Karimah brought her a bowl of broth and helped her eat. Her expression was sadder than she ever remembered seeing it before. Even the grandmother had a forlorn look on her face. She cracked a smile to ease the tension—her first in days, maybe even weeks. The pain made it hard. But the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. In fact, she felt tired. Karimah laid her head down gently and both women bowed before exiting.

That night she slept a dreamless sleep. The morning came and she didn’t wake up. She never woke up. The grandmother had her buried properly. There was only a stone to mark it—no one knew enough in the village to read her name off the items still on her person. They were stolen and sold quickly, anyway, their value being great on the black market. Soon only the rock and the bench she’d carved remained to show that she’d ever been there.

Not long after her death, soldiers came into the town. Routine check, they called it. The villagers had more colorful words. They visited several of the huts, including the grandmother’s. The bench in one of the small rooms caught one’s eye and he gave it a closer look. “Huh,” he muttered, heading to the main room. He tried speaking to the grandmother in English but she only scolded him in Arabic, clearly not understanding a word he said.

That night, one of his buddies asked him what was bothering him.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, eating his rations and dreaming of a filet minion. “There was just this bench in an old woman’s hut and it had English words carved on it. It was weird, y’know?”

The men agreed it was weird. One wanted to know what it said.

He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning the words. “There were lots of random words and sentences ‘bout strength and shit but there was one part...” He could see it in his mind now: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. “It was the Serenity Prayer. I realized I hadn’t thought ‘bout it since I last saw my cousin Dana.”

“Yeah? Been a long time since you saw her?” another soldier asked.

He glanced back down at his rations. “Yeah an’ it’ll be longer still ‘til I see her again.” The questioning looks were all it took for him to elaborate—“She died in the Mumbai attacks.” His friends muttered apologies and condolences, then they went back to eating. He lost his appetite. Cleaning up, he wondered if his cousin ever found her serenity, in this life or the next. He hoped she did. Later, before bed, he prayed for that very thing.

That night was the first sound sleep he had since coming to the desert. In the morning, he thought Dana might be smiling down on him from somewhere up above. And that made him walk just a little bit taller.

Some end thoughts:I purposely didn't name the character until after her death for two reasons--style choice and to separate her from her surroundings. She's nameless to all that know here kind of thing. Also, the ending feels a bit weak to me but I had to stop it somewhere. Maybe earlier? Also, the title feels a bit weak but I really like the serenity prayer (and that's coming from a non-Christian).