A Jar of Olives
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 first 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 #1.

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) Carter and Kerry unpack groceries in Kerry's kitchen.
2) Carter uses his manly strength to open something (jar, bottle,
whatever).
3) Kerry bends over, giving Carter, um, a view.
4) Someone says, "What should I do with this whipped cream?"
5) Someone says, "All this food is making me hungry."
6) A reference of any kind to Noah Wyle's Got Milk ad (without
mentioning Noah).

Start time: Sunday, October 1, 2000, 9:30pm
Finish time: Sunday, October 1, 2000, 11:30pm

And now, on with the story.

***

"You're back," Carter says, opening the front door.  "Let me help you
get these inside."

"I can handle it," I snap impatiently.

I'll admit it: I'm in somewhat of a bad mood.

Grocery shopping is not my favorite thing in the world to do.  I hate
fighting with other people for a parking space.  I hate how people leave
their shopping carts in the parking spaces.  I hate the long lines at
the checkout.  I hate the way the bag boys put the bread at the bottom
of the bag and then pile heavy items on top of it, crushing the loaf
into something oddly misshapen.

Carter doesn't say anything about my attitude, but he does pick up six
of the plastic grocery bags, three in each hand, and carries them to the
kitchen.  Men: they all think they're so macho.

I always used to bring the bags in myself, before Carter lived here, and
I always did fine.  I sigh and realize that having him here to help me
bring the bags in is much faster, although I won't ever admit that out
loud.

"Are you having a party?" he asks, hoisting the bags up onto the
counter.  "You never shop for this much food."

I glance at the white plastic bags covering the countertops.  I didn't
realize I had bought this much.  It'll teach me to go grocery shopping
on an empty stomach. No wonder the bill was so much when I got to the
checkout.

He starts to unpack the bags.

"You know, I can do this, Carter," I tell him.

He keeps unpacking, and throws me a smile.  "I know you can, Kerry.  And
I know you've already dressed me down about my lack of cooking skills.
However, I am capable of unpacking a few grocery bags."

"Just get everything out on the counter.  I'll put it away."

"Afraid I don't know where things go?" he asks, taking the eggs out of
one bag and opening the carton.

"No," I tell him, only slightly irritably.  Of course he knows where
everything goes.  He's lived here long enough.  It's just that after a
frustrating trip to the store, I was hoping to regain a little control
over things in my own kitchen.

Carter opens the refrigerator and one by one, places each egg in its
little slot on the inside of the door.  I catch myself staring at him,
at his hands.  "Something wrong?" he asks.

"Oh," I say, tearing my eyes away from his long fingers.  "No,
nothing."  I turn away and unpack crackers, cans of soup, a jar of
imported manzanilla olives.  I stare at the jar for a moment.  Why on
earth did I pick these up?  I don't even like olives. Especially not
these olives, floating in a jar full of brine, green with red pimentos
stuffed inside.

"Ah!" Carter exclaims, taking the jar from my hands.  His fingers brush
against mine, and I remind myself to breathe.  "I love these.  How did
you know?"

I stare at him.  How did I know?  I shake my head slightly.  I'm not
sure how I knew.  Actually, I don't think I knew at all.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Fine, fine," I tell him.  I put away the soup and the crackers.  I
reach into another bag.  I knew it: the bread is at the bottom, crushed
by the weight of a quart of milk.  Who hires bag boys these days?

Carter chuckles when he sees the look on my face.  "I have a trick for
that."  He sets the jar of olives down on the counter and takes the
bread from my hands.  "You just kind of," he squeezes the bread gently,
puffing the sides back up, "do this, and it kind of gets back to its
regular shape.  Well, kind of."  He hands the bread back to me.

I take the loaf of bread from him, wondering what else he can do with
those hands.

Stop it, I tell myself.  Just stop that right now.

I open the refrigerator, putting the bread and the milk inside.  I turn
around and reach for another bag, finding that Carter has reached for it
as well.  Our hands touch again, inside the opaque white plastic, and a
flush of heat works its way across my face.  I yank my hands out of the
bag, dragging the yogurt out.

"Sorry," he says.

"It's all right."

He's in my personal space all the time lately.  And when did this
kitchen get so small?  I feel like we're on top of each other.

Wrong turn of phrase.  Very wrong.  Just put the yogurt away, I tell
myself.  Keep it simple.

"Damn," Carter mutters.  I turn around.  He's struggling with the lid on
the jar of olives.

"Can't get it open?" I ask, glad to finally have something to smile
about.

"I can get it."

"Let me try," I offer.  He shakes his head.

"Carter, don't be -- "

"I can get it," he insists.

I lean back against the counter and watch him, amused.  He struggles
with the cap for another minute.

"You know, if you tap a knife against the lid, it will release some of
the pressure -- "

"I said I can get it."  He takes a deep breath and then grunts as he
tries again.  For some reason, the noises he's making take my mind
somewhere it shouldn't go -- somewhere dark, lit by candles, with Carter
wearing very little clothing and me wearing less, and --

"Got it," he says, a look of triumph on his face.  The lid of the jar
pops and he unscrews it.  Some of the liquid inside sloshes out and onto
the floor.  "Damn," he mutters. I have to smile; the look on his face
when he finally succeeded in getting the jar opened was priceless.

He dips his fingers into the jar and pulls out two olives, popping them
both into his mouth, then sighing in satisfaction.  His eyes roll back
slightly with pleasure and then he blinks and looks at me.  "I love
these.  Want one?" he asks, holding the jar out to me.  I shake my head,
wondering if I'll actually be able to speak.  Want one?  An olive?  My
mind is all over the place.

"I'll, uh, just clean up the mess you made on the floor while trying to
show me how strong you are."  I reach for the paper towels.

"Well, I drink a lot of milk," he jokes.  "You know.  Doctors agree; it
keeps you strong."

I bend over to wipe up the olive juice on the floor and realize a moment
too late that I have just given Carter a very nice view of my backside.

"Let me help you," he murmurs, leaning over, his body bent over mine,
curving against my shape, his weight pressing against mine comfortably.
Too comfortably.

Danger, Kerry Weaver, I think to myself, imagining my arms flailing
wildly in some bad imitation of Robbie the Robot from Lost in Space.

I straighten up hastily, and Carter backs up.  I turn to face him.  "You
know, Carter," I tell him, covering my heightened arousal by getting
testy, "I can do things by myself.  I'm a grown woman and I managed
pretty well around here before you came along."

He holds up his hands in a mock "I'm backing off" gesture and takes a
few steps back.

"So let's just get the rest of these groceries put away," I suggest,
lightening my tone a bit.

We work in silence for a few minutes.  I finish with the perishables and
Carter handles the items that need to be put in the cabinets.

"Kerry?" he asks.

"What?"

"Uh, what should I do with this whipped cream?" he asks, hesitancy in
his voice.  I turn around, trying very hard not to laugh.  The look on
his face doesn't help much.  He's eyeing the can, then me, then the can
again, then me again.

I can't help it.  "Well, what do you think we should do with it,
Carter?" I ask, trying to keep my expression serious.

His eyes widen a little.  "W-what?"

"I said, what do you think we should -- "

"No, I heard what you said, I just -- I mean -- " he sputters.

I laugh.  "You can put it in the refrigerator," I tell him.  I head over
to the counter, brushing past Carter on his way to the refrigerator.  I
peer into the jar of olives.  Maybe I should try one.  I pluck one out
and examine it.

"Hey, Kerry," Carter says, and I look up, still holding the olive
between my thumb and forefinger.  He has a silly look on his face.  "You
haven't told me what you were going to use this for."  He shakes up the
whipped cream can and aims the nozzle in my direction.

"Don't you dare," I warn him, and before he can do anything crazy, I
pitch the olive at him, aiming for his head.  He opens his mouth and
swoops quickly, catching it.  Damn, he's good.  I watch as he chews and
swallows it.  He gives me a look which I'm not sure how to interpret.  A
cocky sort of "do you like what you see" look.

Oh my.  All right, there's no question about it now -- the kitchen is
too small and it's hot in here.  Very hot.

"Don't -- don't spray that at me," I tell him, indicating the can of
whipped cream still in his hand.  I can't think of anything else to say.

"You're no fun," he sighs, and puts the can away in the fridge.

"Well, that's it," I tell him, and he takes the empty bags from the
countertops and puts them in the garbage.  Carter comes close, too
close, his eyes on me the whole time.  My heart quickens.  "Carter -- "

He doesn't say anything; instead he takes from my hand the jar of olives
I've almost forgotten that I'm holding.

I look down, hesitant to meet his gaze.  I can't get rid of the nervous
smile that plays on my lips.  Carter takes an olive out of the jar and
looks it over.  "So," he says.  "Were you going to try one of these or
not?"

I look up slightly, enough to see his face.  He's standing just a foot
or so away from me.  I was complaining before about him being in my
personal space and now I can't remember why.

"I've never been a big fan of olives," I confess to him, my voice low.

He matches my tone.  "You might be surprised.  Maybe you'd like it."

I get the feeling we're not talking about olives anymore.

I lift my eyebrows slightly.  Carter turns the olive slightly between
his fingertips. He edges closer, and without taking his eyes off mine,
he brings the olive to my mouth.  My lips part; I'm still staring into
his eyes.

Carter's fingers are on my lips.  My tongue darts out and tastes the oil
and salt of the olive and the sweet skin of his fingers.  I take the
olive into my mouth, and Carter draws his hand back.  I chew and
swallow.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"I think," I say, choosing my words very carefully, "I think that all
this food has made me hungry."

"Interesting," he says, setting the jar down on the counter, his hand at
my waist.

"Oh?" I ask.

"I was thinking the exact same thing," Carter tells me with a smile.


END / A Jar of Olives