Antique Cream and Bisque
by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: Carter and Kerry are the creation and therefore property of
some big corporation.  They don't belong to me.

Rating: strong PG-13 for a little innuendo and a few bad words.

Timeline: This story takes place when Kerry and Carter are still
roommates -- so, sometime during mid to late season 5.

Spoilers: This story is 100% spoiler free. Isn't that refreshing?

Note:
This is the second in a series of what will be five separate challenge
stories.  Each one is part of the series, but can stand alone.  This is
Challenge Story #2.

All right, all right.  Calm down.  Let me explain.  Over in the X-Files
fanfic world where I used to write regularly (I've since defected and
come over to the ER side), there are things known as fanfic challenges.
A fic writer lets others know that they are willing to write a challenge
story, and several people provide "elements" that must be included in
the story.  The fic writer can then write about anything they want, with
any plot and any characters, as long as all of the elements appear
somewhere in the story.

So my lovely editor and friend Shannon challenged me to a story.  One
story turned into five (her decision and my acceptance) to keep me from
getting writer's block, and to keep her (and you) entertained.

This is what she asked for. (In other words, it's all her fault. <g>)

A short vignette containing Kerry/Carter UST (unresolved sexual
tension), containing the following elements:

1) Kerry and Carter re-paint Kerry's bedroom.
2) The word "latex" is used suggestively.
3) Someone ruins their clothes with paint and the piece of clothing must
be removed.
4) Someone says, "I'm getting lightheaded."
5) The trim and the wall paint colors get mixed up halfway through the
paint job.


Start time: Monday, October 2, 2000, 7:00pm
Finish time: Monday, October 2, 2000, 9:15pm

And now, on with the story.

***

"So what prompted you to do this, anyhow?" Carter asks me, leaning over
an open can of paint and mixing it with a wooden stirrer.

I shrug.  "I was tired of white."

"White is nice," he comments, drawing the stick out of the can and
looking at the color.

"White is sterile.  White reminds me of the hospital.  When I come home
after a long day at work, I want to come in here and get into bed and --
"

I look at him.  He's staring at me intently.

"Go on," he says.

"I just want to get into bed and not think about work," I tell him.  I
walk over and peer into the can of paint.  "I think you need to stir
that a little more.  It still looks thin at the top."

"It's supposed to look this way," he tells me.  "I've scraped all the
goop from the bottom and mixed it for the last five minutes."

I sigh.  "All right.  Pour some into the tray, and grab a roller."

He does, and I pick up a smaller brush.  We've already agreed: he's
going to do the walls and I'm going to work on the trim.  I do better
with detail work, anyhow.  He holds his roller up in the air in a mock
salute.  "Are you ready?" he asks.

I chuckle.  "Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

Carter dips his roller into the tray first, getting a good amount of
paint, and heads over to the far wall.  "Kerry," he says, as he attaches
the roller to an extension pole, "what color is this, anyhow?"

"Antique cream," I tell him.

"Hm," he says.

"What?"

There's silence for a moment as he brushes the roller in smooth strokes
up and down the wall.  I can see the muscles in his back under the
t-shirt he's wearing and I watch him.  I should be starting the trim, I
tell myself.  I should finish mixing the paint in the can and start on
the trim.  For some reason I keep staring at his back.

"Still looks like white to me," he says.

"It's not white, Carter.  It's -- "

"I know, antique cream.  I'm just telling you, Kerry, it looks an awful
lot like white."

"Just paint, please," I tell him, and start on the trim around the door.

****

"So if the walls are antique cream, what color is the trim?" he asks.

I check the can I'm dipping my brush into.  "Bisque."

"Kerry," Carter says, climbing down from the ladder.  "Bisque and
antique cream sound like they are the exact same thing.  Let me see
that."  He comes over and looks at the paint on my brush, holding it
close to his roller for comparison.  "See?  The same color."

"There are subtle variations, Carter.  You'll be able to tell once the
whole room is done."

But he's on a roll and he can't stop.  "I can't believe you would go to
all this trouble to paint the room the exact same color that it already
is."

"Carter," I groan.  "It's not the same color."

"It's almost the exact same color.  And then the trim the same color as
the walls -- I'll tell you, Kerry, you're the only person I know who
would do something like that.  You're something else."

I stop painting the windowsill for a moment and eye him.  "Oh really."

"Yes, really."

I dip my brush very casually in the can of bisque and smile sweetly at
him.  "Do you want to repeat yourself?  I'm not sure I heard you
correctly."

"I said," he says, taking a few steps closer, "that you, Kerry Weaver,
are something else.  A piece of work.  Hey!"

I've shaken the brush in his direction, splattering big drops of bisque
paint all over the front of the t-shirt he's wearing.  A few drops are
on his face -- one on his chin, and the other on his cheek.  He wipes at
them and only succeeds in creating two bisque-colored streaks.

He looks down at his shirt.  "I love this shirt, you know," he says.

"Then you shouldn't have worn it to paint in," I tell him, feeling quite
pleased with myself.  "That's why I wore this."  I touch the hem of the
oversized and faded button-down shirt I'm wearing.  "I don't care if it
gets paint on it."

"Really."  He takes a few more steps closer and wrenches the paintbrush
out of my hand before I can make a move to stop him.  He dips the brush
in the can swiftly and smears a huge line, like a road stripe, down the
middle of the shirt, right between my breasts, from the neck all the way
to my waist.

And then he stops and backs away.

I realize I've taken a deep breath and am still holding it.  I let it
out slowly.  "Carter?" I ask.  He has a blank look on his face.
"Carter, what's wrong?"

"I'm -- I'm sorry," he murmurs.  "I don't know what got into me.  That
was -- well, uncalled for."

Well, I think to myself, partially true and partially false.  I
splattered his shirt; I didn't paint a line down the middle of it.  He
did go a little overboard.  Maybe I deserved it.  But I didn't drag a
paintbrush in a line anywhere near, well, any of his errogenous zones.

The look on his face is one of incredible remorse, as if he's just
stepped way over the line and knows it.  I take the paintbrush from his
hand gently and touch his wrist.  "Carter, it's all right," I tell him,
and offer him a smile.

Is it, though?  Is painting a line down your landlady's chest all
right?  Well, I reason to myself, I'm not just his landlady.  I'm a
friend.  A colleague.  An… object of his flirtation.

Don't go there, I warn myself.  Stick with friend and colleague.  And it
could be worse.  He could have taken off all my clothes and then painted
an entire fresco all over me.

Whoa.  Slow down.  I've mentally created a scene from some erotica film
without intending to, and I need to get back to the moment, here, in the
bedroom, my bedroom --

Oh, damn, I can't get away from it.  My bedroom.  Of course we'd be in
my bedroom while I'm thinking like this.  At least we've moved the bed
out into the living room.  I don't need that additional distraction.

I nod my head at him, reassuring him and myself.  "It's all right,
Carter.  Really.  I can put a new shirt on." At this, he actually
brightens.

"Your dresser is out in the hall," he reminds me, a sly smile slowly
dawning on his face.

I give him a look.  "I'll change in the bathroom."

****

I'm gone for a while.  First, I'm unable to decide which one I should
wear.  The one I settle on is good, but it's pretty sheer -- I used to
wear it around the house to do household stuff all the time, but that
was before Carter lived here.  I find a tank top to wear under it.
Problem solved.

In the bathroom, I stare in the mirror at the paint stripe down my chest
for a long few moments.

It's a stripe of paint, I tell myself.  Nothing more.

Once I've changed, I come back into the bedroom and find Carter working
on the window trim.

"I could have finished that," I tell him.

"Consider it my apology," he tells me.  "It's done."

I walk over to the window.  "It looks good."

He smiles.

I look again.  "Carter."

"What?"

I glance at the walls, then back at the window.  "Carter, you painted
the window the same color as the walls."

He blinks.  "What?"

I point at the walls.  "Antique cream."  I point at the window.
"Antique cream.  It's supposed to be bisque."

"Damn," he says.  "Well, look on the bright side."

"Bright side?"

"The colors are so similar, I don't think you'll be able to tell the
difference."

"Carter!"

He laughs.  The paint on his cheek crinkles as he does.

I can't help it; I laugh too.  Without thinking, I reach up and touch
his cheek, tracing my fingers down the paint smear there. His face
relaxes and he watches me silently.

"The color looks good on you," I tell him.

"You think?"

I nod.  My breath is caught somewhere in my chest and it's hard to
breathe.  His skin is a wonderful mix of soft silk and rough stubble.

"So I guess I'm a bisque kind of guy," he says.  I can feel his jaw move
under my fingers as he talks and I'm fascinated by it.

Carter abruptly drops the paintbrush he's holding; it makes a clatter as
it falls against the tarp-covered floor.  I'm startled and I move to
draw my hand back, but he stops me, covering my hand with his.

He uses his other hand to pull me close to him, my body pressed up
against his, snug.  I inhale sharply at the contact, and he smiles.  I
can't remember what on earth we were talking about a moment ago.
Something about bisque?

He lifts his hand away from mine and moves to touch my face, his hand on
my cheek in imitation of what I'm doing.  I drag my fingers down the
arch of his nose, and he does the same to me.  I touch his lips,
lightly, and he does the same.

Unconsciously, I press a little closer to him.

This time, it's his turn to take a deep breath.  I feel it, his
diaphragm expanding against my chest, and I chuckle softly.

I slip my hand away from his mouth and he does the same.  His hands wind
around my waist, keeping me anchored closely to him, and I wrap my arms
around the small of his back.

"Kerry?" he asks.

I glance up.  "Yes?"

"Is this -- are we using latex paint?"

My eyes search his, perplexed.  "What?"

"I think I'm getting a little lightheaded," he tells me.

"Ah.  From the fumes.  Right?"

"No," he says thoughtfully.  "I don't think it has anything to do with
the fumes."


END / Antique Cream and Bisque