E-MAIL:
DISCLAIMER: It's so short if you blink, you miss it. So if you're here to be evil, blink and miss it.
AUTHOR NOTES: It only took two years to start making some progress on getting rid of a writer's block. That's good, right? Right? All credit for pulling me out of a hole and into the sunlight goes to Kitty for forcing me to write "a page a day", the first day of which produced this. Go check out her new fic "Words", too, for it's the product of her triumph toward overcoming writer's block. And because I say so since she's a Carby writing phenomenon not to be missed! Here's to "Abby smiled" dude.

====

It was mornings like this that made the day look promising. A blue sky, early morning sunlight, birds twittering about in high-pitched conversation, it was everything Abby expected to find in a "Leave It To Beaver" classic episode.

It was all the little things going right that made the day look positively auspicious. It wasn't often that Abby woke refreshed, and it was rare that the right song at the right time came on for her to sing in the shower, or the coffee pot made a perfect two cups, or the mail contained no bills. It was only more rare that today was her day off. And rarer still, Carter's too.

Good things do happen. Good things all happening on the same day, don't.

Abby didn't believe in good luck. Bad luck she was familiar with and an hour into her morning was enough for her to know today wasn't going to be fun. It was going to attack swiftly and viciously, catching her the moment she got too comfortable, too happy. And that's when it would hurt.

A coffee in her system for support, Abby turned to bring Carter his when he came stumbling through the doorway, sweatpants rumpled and twisted, hair matted on one side and wild on the other, and his eyes squinty with sleep. After a moment's pause to orient himself he made his way to her, wrapped his arms about her waist and snuggled her against him.

"You got up too early," he mumbled into her hair.

"You slept in too late."

Abby resisted the urge to pull him back into the bedroom. It was a bad luck day. She must remember that. She did, however, allow herself a consolatory prize of getting to remain in his arms. It was warm and safe and because she had to deny her immediate desires, not too comfortable. Just pretty damn close.

After a lingering kiss (his doing, not hers), she left him to drink his coffee and get around while she went down the block to buy breakfast. There was a short line, and Abby happily counted off each of the eight minutes she waited as evidence that the day was not entirely agreeable.

He was in the shower when she got back, humming along to a tune only he could hear. She sat at the table, listening to him and flicking through the newspaper, not noticing that she wasn't reading it.

Occasionally his singing stopped, and Abby would wait in breathless silence for him to resume, irrational panic climbing until he began again. Lonely, Abby wandered into the bathroom, content that he couldn't disappear so long as she was in the same room.

"Do you believe in bad luck?"

He stopped humming to think about her question. "I believe in good luck," he said evadingly.

At her pause he continued. "I don't like to believe in bad luck. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know."

"Do you?"

"Believe in bad luck? Yes."

He took this in, started humming, stopped. "Do you believe in good luck?"

She hesitated. Then, "no."

The shower door opened and before she could guess at his intention he was pulling her towards him.

"Carter."

He took no notice.

"Carter!"

She braced herself on the outside of the door. He unhooked her grip with his free hand and with a little more effort, pulled her inside and under the water.

Immediately she was soaked. "John! My clothes! I..."

"Bad luck." And with a mischievous grin, proceeded to show her how unlucky she could be.