Baggage Claim
by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: I'll keep this short and sweet.  John Carter and Kerry
Weaver. Sitting in a tree.  K-I-S-S-I-N-G.  Oops, sorry.  Here's what I
meant to say: John Carter and Kerry Weaver.  Not mine.  No infringement
intended.  Don't sue 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 late season 5.

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

Note:
This is a follow-up story to the five earlier challenge stories I
wrote.  My buddy Shannon decided that five were not enough.  Personally,
I think she just wants me to get Carter and Kerry into bed.  Sorry,
Shann -- no sex in this story.  Not yet, anyhow.

Who knows?  This may take on a life of its own and turn into a whole new
series.  I'm not ruling anything out.  For now this is a one part story,
no sequel.  Yet. <g>

This story contains:

Kerry/Carter UST (unresolved sexual tension), and the following
elements:

1) Carter takes a trip out to O'Hare Airport to pick Kerry up.
2) Kerry has been somewhere long enough to warrant 3 suitcases.
3) Something unusual gets stuck spinning around and around on the
baggage carousel.
4) Carter can't remember where he parked when they try to leave.
5) Someone says, "Airports are so romantic because of all the reunions."

6) A limo driver with a card labeled "Dr. Robert Romano" proves to be a
conversation piece.

Now, for the sake of continuity: this story takes place after the events
of the last story in the Challenges series (which you might want to read
if you haven't read this -- it will give you an understanding of where
Kerry and Carter are in their relationship, and besides all that,
they're fun stories!).  To refresh your memory: Kerry and Carter have
been doing a lot of household tasks together, have been doing a lot of
flirting, and in the last story of the Challenges series, shared their
second kiss; and Carter seemed to be getting a little more serious,
giving Kerry an antique diamond necklace he found while digging in her
backyard.

And now, on with the story.

***

"Kerry?"

"Carter?" I ask, looking up as I come out of the jetway.  I'm surprised
to see him.  "What are you doing here?"

He looks shy and ducks his head like a little kid who just got caught
with his hand in the cookie jar.  "Well, I knew you were coming back
today, and I figured -- why make you take a cab back home when I could
come and pick you up?"

There's an awkward moment where we just look at each other.  How do we
greet each other?  I can't very well kiss him, not here in public, and I
feel suddenly too shy to hug him.

Instead, I say, "You really didn't have to do this."

"Well," he offers, "I can leave, if you want, and you can just get a cab
downstairs and -- "

I shake my head.  "You're here already, Carter."

He smiles.  "Do you have luggage to claim?"  I nod.  "All right, then.
Let's go."

****

We make our way through the congested corridor at O'Hare.  People are
coming and going, some hurrying to make their flight, others leisurely
headed in the direction of baggage claim.

The strap of my laptop case slides down a little from my shoulder; I
hitch it up.  The smell of french fries from a nearby McDonalds hits
me.  God, I'm hungry.

"Carrie!"  A voice, right behind me.  I stop and look, as does Carter.
A young man rushes towards a woman in her early 20s.  She's wearing
jeans and a beige sweater, and carrying a small bag over her shoulder.
She drops the bag to the ground just as he reaches her, and they
embrace.

She's crying, although she's trying to hide her tears.  But she's
smiling.  His hands cup her cheeks, wiping away the tears, kissing her
on the mouth, then on the nose.  She runs her hands through his hair.
Finally, he releases her, and picks up her bag from the floor.  Hand in
hand, they start to walk towards baggage claim, their eyes locked on
each other, both of them talking excitedly.  From the moment they've
seen each other, they've become oblivious to everyone around them.

"Wow," Carter says.  "I never realized it before, but airports are
really romantic."

I glance at him as we start to walk again.  "How so?"

"All the reunions," he says, gesturing at the happy couple who are
walking a few paces in front of us.  She has her head resting on his
shoulder as they walk; he's got his arm slung around her waist, his
fingers hooked in the belt loop of her jeans.

I suddenly feel badly; I should have hugged Carter at the very least, or
done something.  I sneak a look at him and he's still watching the
couple in front of us.  I feel like I should say something, but nothing
springs immediately to mind.

The days we're spent in the house together, the days of planting in the
garden, painting in the bedroom, and putting up blinds in the bathroom,
feel very far away, and it makes me feel a little melancholy.  For some
reason, it all felt so charmed when we were alone, away from everyone.
Now, here, with hundreds of people milling around, swirling around us, I
feel like we're at work.  Just Dr. John Carter and Dr. Kerry Weaver.

I sigh.

****

Downstairs, in baggage claim, I watch as the carousel goes around and
around, bringing bags of all shapes, sizes and colors.  I see one of my
bags and push my way through the crowd to get to it before it passes out
of my reach.  People see the crutch and are polite enough to back away,
giving me space, but not polite enough to keep from staring.

I retrieve the one bag and bring it back over to where Carter is
standing with my laptop case.  "Just one more," I tell him.

"Point it out to me, and when it comes around I'll get it."

I look up at him.  "I can get it myself, Carter," I tell him, a little
peevishly.

"I just thought -- "

"What?  That I can't manage a suitcase?"  I lift my crutch a few inches
from the ground and then set it down again, swiftly, hearing the
metallic click.  I haven't said the words but they're hanging in the air
anyhow.

You think I can't manage to get a suitcase off the baggage carousel
because of this damn crutch?

He looks down.  "No, Kerry," he says quietly.  "I just wanted to help."

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.  On a good day, I'm not the
greatest traveler -- I hate to fly, and I hate to fly even more when I
have to go to a five day conference in Orlando, of all places.  I was
starting to feel like I should be wearing Mickey Mouse ears by the end
of the damn thing.

"I'm sorry," I tell him.  "I didn't mean to make assumptions."

"We can fight the crowd at the baggage carousel together," he suggests.
I take my laptop case and he shoulders the smaller bag and we work our
way back into the mass of people.

They move aside, some of them.  Others just stand there.  Carter and I
are pressed close together, and at one point, his hand brushes against
my arm.  The next thing I know, he's slid his fingers around mine and
holds on.

"Oh, my," I breathe, suddenly looking at the luggage going around.
"Carter, look."

He chuckles, low and deep in his throat.  There are a few other giggles
from people nearby, along with some frantic whispering.  Stuffed in
between two suitcases is a blond-haired, full-sized blow up doll.  Fully
nude.  And completely anatomically correct.

The doll's legs are sticking out from in between a black suitcase and a
blue one.  Red patent leather shoes are on each foot.  As the legs swing
around towards us, we back up, as do a few other people.  One of the red
shoes falls off, right at my feet.

Carter looks at me, giving me an "I dare you" look.  I lean down and
pick up the shoe, examining it carefully.  It's a red stiletto,
expensively made, a size 8.

I shrug at Carter as casually as I can.  "Not my size," I remark, and
bending down, I delicately put the shoe back on the luggage carousel so
it can make the rounds again.  Carter's eyes twinkle and he breaks out
into a full laughing fit.  It's contagious: I only stay serious for
another moment, and then I start to laugh too.

****

Ten minutes later, most of the crowd around carousel number 2 has
thinned out.  Most of the bags have been collected.  I peer anxiously
down the long thin conveyor belt.  "I don't think it's here," I tell
Carter.

"They can't have lost one of your bags and not the other," he tells me.

I shake my head.  "Sure they could have.  It happens all the time."  I
tip my head to one side, trying to work out the kinks in my neck.  I had
fallen asleep on the plane and my neck is still sore.

"You said it was black, right?" Carter asks.  "On wheels?"

I nod.  "With a small piece of purple ribbon tied to the handle, like my
other bag."

"Uh, Kerry," Carter says.  "Take a look at what's coming down the line."

I look.  And I groan.

My suitcase, black with the purple ribbon tied to the handle, is coming
closer and closer.  Sitting propped up against it is the blow-up doll,
one shoe still on her right foot.  The other shoe is sitting atop my
suitcase, like a store display.

I glance at Carter, who is desperately trying to smother his laughter.

"Don't say a word," I tell him, but I'm smiling.

****

"Oh my God," I murmur, stopping dead in my tracks.  Carter, who is
pulling my suitcase behind him, bumps into me.

"What?"

I point.  A smartly dressed limo driver is standing by the exit, holding
up a cardboard sign.  On it, in neat black magic marker, is printed,
"Dr. Robert Romano."

"Was he at the conference?" Carter asks me, mock-stage whispering.

I shake my head.  "I didn't see him there, but there were a lot of
people there.  Has he been at the hospital this week?"

"I haven't seen him in a few days.  Maybe he wasn't at the conference.
Maybe he was just on a different flight and happened to be coming back
at the same time you were," Carter suggests.  We exchange a glance.
"All right, so maybe that's a little too much of a coincidence," he
amends.

"We should get out of here," I say, looking around for any sign of
Romano.  He's the last person I want to run into right now, especially
while I'm standing here with Carter.

"Let's go," Carter agrees, echoing my sentiments.  "Can you imagine if
he saw us here, together?"

The word "together" tumbles around in my brain for a moment.

"I can imagine he would have a few choice comments," I finally respond.

"I'll bet."

"And if any of them were out of line, even in the slightest -- "

"Everything that comes out of his mouth is out of line," Carter reminds
me.

"Well, then I would just have to whack him with this," I say, lifting my
crutch just slightly.  "He'd need sutures by the time I was finished
with him."

Carter chuckles.  "You should have that thing registered as a weapon."

"I've thought about it once or twice," I say, laughing.  "Lead the way
to the parking garage."

****

We're standing in front of a bank of elevators.  Carter's peering down
at the parking ticket.  In the background, "Take me out to the Ballgame"
is being broadcasted very loudly over the PA system.

"They have this musical parking for a reason, Carter.  To help remind
you what floor you parked on.  This floor -- take me out to the ballgame
-- is the Cubs."

"I know," Carter says impatiently.  "And I could swear I parked on this
level.  I could swear I saw the Cubs logo when I got on the elevator."

I sigh.  "But we've walked the entire level.  Your Jeep is not here."

"Maybe it was the White Sox level I parked on."

"Maybe you should have written it on the parking ticket," I suggest.

Carter gives me a look.  "I was preoccupied."

"By what?" I ask.  Two men in business suits step off the elevator and I
move my suitcase out of their path.

Carter shrugs.  "You know, just preoccupied."

"Carter.  It's just a quick drive out to the airport.  It's not -- "  I
trail off.  Suddenly it hits me.  He wasn't sure if I would be upset to
see him, or elated, or --

God, I feel like an idiot.

I touch his shoulder.  "Let's go up to the White Sox level.   Maybe the
Jeep is there."

"All right," he says.  "But I can tell you this -- I didn't park on the
Bulls level.  I know that.  And I know it wasn't the Blackhawks either
-- that's the level where they have the play-by-play with the announcers
on the PA system, and I defnitely remember that there was singing."

"I hate this airport," I tell him, pressing the "up" button near the
elevators.  "The parking lot is the size of three suburbs.  And I think
I've heard about enough of Take Me Out to the Ballgame for one day.
Perhaps even for a lifetime."

"Hate is a very strong word," Carter points out as we wait for the
elevators.

"Fine.  I'll revise that.  I hate not being able to find your Jeep when
all I want to do is get home, get out of these clothes and -- "  I stop
to find Carter staring at me, his mouth open slightly as he is pondering
the image I've just created for him.

Oh, what I wouldn’t do to kiss that mouth right about now.

I should apologize, but I don't.

There's a tiny ding as the elevator announces its arrival.  We step
inside, and just as the doors are about to close, Carter finally closes
his mouth and swallows.  Then he speaks.

"I'm glad you're home, Kerry.  I really am."

****

The Jeep, Carter finally remembers, is on the Bulls level.

Carter has gallantly offered to take all of the bags, in a kind of
silent apology for having dragged me all over the various levels of the
parking lot.  He's pulling the rolling suitcase with one hand, and has
the smaller bag over his shoulder.  My laptop case is also on his
shoulder.

"Carter, you've atoned enough," I finally proclaim as we get off on the
Bulls level.  "Let me at least carry the laptop."

He surrenders it quietly, but gratefully.  No one should be forced to
carry that many bags at once.

"So," he says conversationally, as we walk towards the Jeep, which is
parked in a far corner, "you're still wearing the necklace, I see."

My fingers touch my neck, where the tiny diamond butterfly rests at the
base of my throat.  I don't say anything, though.  The afternoon has
been draining.  Hours of walking through the airport in Orlando,
followed by an uncomfortable nap on the overcrowded plane, and now, an
hour and a half of walking through the parking lot at O'Hare.  I feel
like all the energy has been sapped out of me.

"It's not like you to forget something like where you parked the car," I
finally say, as we approach the Jeep and Carter puts the bags inside.
It's the wrong thing to comment on, and I know it, but I'm tired, and
the words just slip out of my mouth.

"Well," Carter snaps, "next time I'll save us both the trouble and let
you get home from the airport on your own."  He goes around to the
drivers side and I stand on the passenger side for a moment, hurt.

When I finally get in the car, Carter is sitting, staring straight
ahead.  He hasn't turned the engine on.

"I'm sorry, Carter," I tell him, putting one hand on his forearm.  "I'm
just -- I'm tired.  I'm worn out."

He turns in his seat, and looks at me.  "I'm sorry too.  I didn't mean
to snap.  I was just -- I don't know, nervous, I guess.  I couldn't
decide if I should come and pick you up or not.  You left the flight
information on the refrigerator, so I thought maybe that was your way of
saying you wanted me to come and get you.  But then I wasn't sure."  He
chuckles softly.  "I was going to bring flowers, you know."

A smile spreads on my face.  "You were?"

"But then I realized I didn't know what your favorites were."

"For future reference, I like white roses," I tell him, putting my hand
on his cheek.  "You're a wonderful man, Carter.  A very sweet and kind
and wonderful man."

"Is this where you tell me that it's just not going to work out between
us?" he asks, turning serious.

"No," I protest, "I wasn't going to say that.  I just -- I don't know
what to tell you, Carter.  I honestly don't know.  I don't know what
we're doing, or what this all means, or -- "

He silences me by leaning over in the cramped space and kissing me.

I can't help it; I try to get closer to him.  We've only kissed twice
before, and the last time was months ago.  But my mouth remembers him.
His fingers are already threaded through my hair, holding my head, and
his tongue slips into my mouth easily.

One minute we're kissing and the next minute his hands are slipping
under the jacket I'm wearing.  My head starts to spin as I realize that
he's finally touching me, after all these months of innuendo and joking
around.

And I realize with a start that the kiss is getting out of control
quickly.

I pull back hesitantly, reluctantly.  "Carter," I breathe, into his
mouth.  "Carter, we're in the car.  In a parking lot."

He releases me and grins.  "It's a shame I don't have a backseat big
enough for this kind of thing."

I blush furiously, in spite of myself.  "I haven't done that since I was
in high school."

"Let's go home," he tells me.

The word invokes all kinds of feelings in me.  Before Carter moved in,
home was the place I kept nicely decorated and furnished, but it was
just a place where I went at the end of the day to sleep.  Since Carter
came to live with me, home has taken on a whole new meaning.  Meals are
infinitely more enjoyable with someone looking at me across the table,
sharing conversation.  And it's not just someone -- it's Carter.

Every night, I go to bed knowing that Carter is climbing between the
sheets in the bed in the basement.  Every night, I wonder what it would
be like to share a bed -- his or mine, it doesn't much matter.  I wonder
what it would be like to feel his body pressed up against mine in the
throes of passion, in the warmth of afterglow, in the peace of sleep.

I don't know what all of it means, and I don't know what is going to
happen between Carter and I, but I do know that something has sparked
and taken life.  And I'm not willing to let it flicker and go out.

"Home," I murmur.  "Yes, let's go home."

END / Baggage Claim