Resolution
by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: I've brought Kerry and Carter this far, and so I've decided
that if I can't own them, someone should share them with me.  Come on
Warner Brothers.  John Wells.  Please?  I promise to play nice.  Well,
most of the time.

Rating: strong PG-13

Timeline: This story takes after the events of May Day, and has general
references to that episode. There is also a reference to All in the
Family, although I don't think it's anything that we all don't know
about by now.

This is the tenth in a series of Weaver/Carter stories I’m writing.
You should read the first nine in order to understand this one.  

Summary: Carter and Kerry talk things through, and try to resolve a few
issues.

To my faithful readers: I'm sorry to say this, but the series is nearing
its end.  There will be two more stories after this one. They are
already written and will be posted by early next week.  Never fear,
however -- I will have new Kerry stories coming soon, to a computer near
you.  And you can count on Carter making an appearance or two.  Or
three.  Or more.  :-)


***

"It's hot in here," Carter comments as we enter the house.

I don't let myself think about the double meaning of his words, and
instead switch the air conditioning on as I pass through the front
entryway.  "I know.  Even after dark, it's still so damn hot."  There's
a click, and then a whoosh as the cooling system rumbles to life.

Carter sets his bag down by the front door, where he always used to
leave it when he was living here.  The familiarity of this small action
puts a hint of a smile on my lips, and I set my purse down.

"You should get off that leg," he tells me.

"I'm just fine, Carter.  But we need to talk.  So -- " My leg is still
aching, and I know he's right; I need to sit down.  "The couch?  We can
kill two birds with one stone."

"Sounds good."

We head into the living room and I take a seat, propping my crutch up
against the arm of the couch. I stretch out lengthwise along the
cushions, which allows me to extend my leg, and Carter sits too, turning
so that he's facing me.

"You wanted to talk.  I'm listening," he says.  He has an expectant look
on his face, like he's waiting for good news and bad news.

You can't keep hedging and hiding forever, I tell myself.  I brace
myself, taking a deep breath.

"Where are the Vicodin?" I ask him, getting right to the point.

He looks confused.  "What do you mean?"

"You said that when you cleaned up, you took the Vicodin -- to be on the
safe side.  Where are they?"

"Why?" he asks.

"Just tell me where they are."

Carter gets up and walks to the front entranceway, bringing his bag back
with him.  He sits down again, opening the bag, and takes out the bottle
of pills, handing it to me.

"You shouldn't be carrying these around with you.  With you just back
from Atlanta -- it could be very bad if someone saw you with a bottle of
narcotics in your bag with my name on it."

He nods, sighs.  "I know.  I was going to get rid of them today.  But we
were so busy -- and then with what happened with you -- I got caught
up."

I open the bottle, my fingers shaking only slightly.

"What are you doing?" he asks me nervously.  "Kerry?"

I empty the contents of the bottle into my palm.  Three pills left.
Which means he hasn't taken any more of them.  So there's only one pill
missing.  Just one. I feel a measure of relief.

"There were seven pills in here originally," I explain to him, holding
out my hand to reveal the three pills cupped there.  "Seven.  I took one
the day after I got back from Atlanta, and two the night you were here.
Which means there should be four in here, not three."

"What are you saying?  What are you asking me?"

"Where is the other pill?"

He doesn't answer.

"Carter," my voice starts to break, "I've been tearing myself up because
of this.  You have no idea.  I need to know where that other pill is.  I
need to know."  Although I'm managing to keep the tears at bay, my voice
still sounds desperate.

"I don't know where it is."

I want to believe him.  I so desperately want to believe him.

"There were three in there when I found the bottle, when I was cleaning
up," he continues.  He runs his hand through his hair. "I'll be honest
with you -- I did think about taking one.  Just one.  It was a bad
night, as I'm sure you remember, at least the first part of it was
bad."  He catches my eye.  "But I didn't do it.  I put the bottle in my
pocket, and I was going to get rid of them."

"There were ten Darvocet missing at work today," I inform him, quietly.

"I didn't take them," he answers quickly, vehemently.

"I know.  Cleo forgot to sign them out."

"But you thought I did take them."

I look away, unable to answer.

"You were avoiding me because you thought I took one Vicodin from the
bottle?" he asks, and something in the tone of his voice forces me to
look at him again.  "You thought I took one pill from this bottle and
that meant I must have taken a bottle of Darvocet from the ER?" His
voice has risen with anger, frustration.  "Jesus, Kerry, is that what
you think of me?"

"Carter -- " Panic rises in my chest and it feels like the night of his
intervention all over again, the denial and anger taking up all the
space in the room.  I don't think I will be able to stand it if he walks
out the door.

"I knew something was wrong, but this? I can't believe you've been
acting like this because of one damn pill.  Why didn't you just ask me?
Why didn't you -- "

"Carter, just please, tell me.  I won't -- "  I swallow.  "I won't be
angry if you did take it.  I need to know," I plead.

His face has gone stony and cold.  "I'm telling you, Kerry, I didn't
take it.  You can either trust me or -- " He doesn't finish his
sentence, and doesn't have to. I already know the rest.  I can either
trust him, or not trust him.  My choice.

My own inability to do this one small thing upsets me and reminds me of
my own shortcomings.  I can manage an entire ER but not my own
feelings.  I can trust Carter to save a dying patient, but I can't trust
him to be honest with me.

I get up, reaching for my crutch, and head for the kitchen.

"Kerry," Carter protests.

Alone for a moment in the kitchen, I contemplate why this is so hard for
me to get past.  The issues are not small -- addiction and lying go hand
in hand and I know it. We've both have been to hell and back with our
respective recoveries.  It was easy for me to put those Vicodin in my
mouth, but harder to lie about it when Carter confronted me.  He knows
the nature of the addiction.  As awful as that night was, I didn't lie
to him.  Maybe he's being honest with me now.  Which brings me back
where I was only moments before: if he is telling the truth, why can't I
believe him?

Trust, of course.  My inability to trust him, or anyone else, for that
matter.

I'm leaning with my back up against one of the counters when he enters
the room.  We regard each other silently for a few long moments.

Finally, I speak.  "Mark knows about us."

Carter sighs.  "I had a feeling.  He looked like he was suspicious."

I could tell him the truth -- that Mark was suspicious, but that I
confirmed his suspicions, but I'm not there yet.  "Hard for him not to
be -- he walked in on you massaging my leg.  And you called me by my
first name, something you never do at work -- he knew something was
up."  My stomach is jittery.  I reach for a glass and fill it with water
from the tap.  "Do you want some?" I offer.  Carter shakes his head.

I take a swallow.

Carter doesn't seem to care about the situation with Mark and goes back
to the Vicodin.  "Kerry, I think -- I think you're overreacting about
this. "

"I'm not," I say, much more sharply than I had intended.  "I just don't
want you lying to me, Carter."

"I am not lying," he responds firmly, looking me right in the eye.

His earlier words come back to me.  You can either trust me or…

"Do you know what I told Mark?" I ask him, and he shakes his head.  I
need to change the subject, but I can't -- it's all part of the same
conversation, the same reality.  Something has to give, and it has to
come from me.  "We had a little talk.  I told him how I feel about
you."  I hide my face behind the glass as I take another sip.  It's hard
to describe the look on Carter's face.  It's a hint of satisfaction
marred by a mix of shock and fear.

"Why?  Kerry, it's only going to get you in trouble -- "

He's missing the point.  It's not why, but what I said that matters.  "I
told him -- " I interrupt, my voice catching -- "that I love you."  I'm
glad I'm still holding the glass; it gives me something to wrap both
hands around to stop the trembling.

Carter looks appropriately floored.

"Don't get jubilant on me," I caution him.  "I'm still trying to figure
out why I was able to tell him first and not you."

"I don't care," he answers.  "It doesn't matter.  You said it.  You feel
it.  That's all I care about."

"In order for me to keep feeling this way," I say, slowly, "I need to be
able to trust you."

"You can."  He steps closer to me, takes my hand.  "I'm not lying to
you, Kerry.  I swear it."

I set down the glass on the counter as I feel his fingers lace through
mine.  It feels easier now somehow.  Things aren't solved, but I've
opened up a little and I feel better for having done so.

"All right," he says.  "Let's go over what happened that night.  I came
into the kitchen to get you the scotch, like you had asked.  I saw the
bottle of Vicodin on the counter -- the cap was off.  I picked it up."
His face clouds slightly at the memory of how things were that night.
"I capped the bottle and brought it into the living room to ask you
about it.  We argued and I slipped the bottle in my pocket.  I didn't
count the pills until later, after you fell asleep.  I was trying to
figure out how many you had taken.  There were only three in there when
I counted."

"You couldn't have possibly figured out how many I took," I respond,
veering off topic. "The label said there were 30."

He nods slowly.  "I know.  It was why I was so scared.  Your pulse was
slow and your breathing was shallow.  I kept checking your vitals every
ten minutes."

I have a vision of him doing this, keeping a bedside vigil, and it makes
me want to cry.  What happened that night was because of the choices I
made, and there's no getting past that.

"I kept telling myself I should take you into the ER, but I knew you
would have had me killed if I took you to County."  He gives a wry
chuckle that comes out more like a rumble from the back of his throat.
"I think you would have killed me if I had taken you to any hospital,
actually."

He's right, of course.  I would have put him through the ringer.

Serious again, he goes on. "You were disoriented that night," he reminds
me.  "Maybe you took more than two."

I shake my head and release his hand.  "I only had one drink before I
took the pills.  I was upset, but I wasn't disoriented.  I know I took
two.  Just two."

He can hear my unspoken thought.  "I didn't take that pill.  I need you
to trust me, Kerry.  I'm not lying to you."  I pick up the glass and
take a sip, my throat dry.

I search his eyes.  "I want to trust you," I say, quietly.  "You have no
idea how badly I want to trust you."

Carter leans down and kisses me, gently, a slow kiss that is more tender
than passionate.  His lips linger on mine, and I realize dimly that I am
still holding the glass of water.  Without breaking I reach behind me
and try to set the glass on the counter again, but I miss, and it
crashes to the floor, startling us both.

Carter breaks the kiss and I look at him ruefully.  "If I keep dropping
them, I'll have no glasses left at this rate."

"Let me clean this up," he tells me.

"No, I'll help you."

I reach for a sponge and we both bend down, plucking shards of broken
glass off the floor. "Be careful," I caution him.  "I don't want you to
cut your hands."

He nods and I watch him soak up the water with the dry sponge.

And then I see it, under the edge of the counter, almost completely out
of sight.

A small rectangular white tablet.

"Oh," I murmur, and reach for it.

It's so convenient, so stupidly convenient that I would find it now.  I
had never checked around the house for the pill -- it would have been
like looking for a needle in a haystack.  Under the edge of the counter
like this, it might have gone unnoticed for weeks, even months.  It's
such a small space that even a broom can't completely reach into the
crevice.

"What is it?" Carter asks.

I hold it in my palm carefully, as if it's a time bomb, and stand up to
show him.  He eyes it and looks at me.

I'm not tearful but I'm on the verge.  "Go ahead," I tell him.

"What?"

"Say I told you so."

He plucks the tablet out of my hand.  "I wouldn't ever say that,
Kerry."  He leaves the room momentarily, returning with the bottle and
the three remaining tablets.  "This is something I should have done
before.  I was stupid not to."

I watch him as he takes the four tablets and puts them down the drain in
the kitchen sink, then turning the water on full force for a few minutes
to make sure they are gone for good.  He sets the empty bottle on the
counter and looks at me.

I feel horrible.  My actions, my stupidity -- if only I had looked for
the pill sooner, if only I had talked to Carter, if only I had trusted
him, if only…

"Hey," he says, kissing me again, lightly.  "Stop that.  I can see what
you're doing in there.  Cut it out."

"I -- I let my fears get in the way.  I didn't trust you.  I didn't even
think."

Frustrated at my actions, I turn and walk out of the kitchen, back into
the living room.  I sink down onto the couch.  Carter comes and sits
beside me.

"Kerry, you're a complicated woman.  You had your reasons."

"Yes, you're right.  I had reasons, but they were ridiculous.  I allowed
my insecurities to force us apart.  I am a complete and total fucking
idiot."

He raises his eyebrows.

"I've never heard you swear before."

I look up, surprised. "You've heard me swear plenty of times."

"Sure, a bunch of hells and damns have spewed forth from Mount Weaver --
but never fuck.  You just never struck me as the type to say that word."

"There are many things you don't know about me, Carter," I remind him.

"Kerry -- " he tells me, and he looks so utterly serious, "do you
understand that I want to know everything about you?  I think about you
almost every minute of the day.  I replay conversations we've had in my
head over and over until I have them committed to memory.  I think of
what it was like to hold you, to sleep with my arms around you.  Each
time I look you, I think of what you looked like when we made love."

I can't help it; I blush slightly, and my breath has caught in my
throat.

"Talk to me," he implores.  "Tell me everything.  Every fear.  Every
insecurity.  Every doubt."

"Why?  So I can reveal that I'm not the mountain I'd like the world to
think I am?" I ask.

"You're a mountain, all right.  A mountain of strength, determination
and fears, just like everyone else."  He touches my knee.  "I've gone
over it in my head a hundred times -- the reasons we shouldn't be
together, and the reasons we should.  Now I want to know what's going on
in your head."

"You first," I prompt.

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slow.  "This could be dangerous
-- for both of us.  You got past your addiction years ago."  He
hesitates, and sneaks a glance at me.

"Well, mostly," I interject dryly.  "I made a mistake the other night, a
big one.  And I know that although it affected me, it affected you as
well."

He nods.  "It's newer for me.  I feel like I'm just at the starting
gate.  Finishing rehab doesn't make it all go away.  I'm not
overmedicating anymore, but the reasons why I did are still there.  And
they aren't going to vanish.  Not for a long time."

I flash back to Carter and Lucy in my mind, their blood-drenched bodies
on the floor in Exam Three. I know that I have to live with what I saw
in that room forever.  Carter has to live forever with the actual
stabbing, and with the survivor's guilt that comes with it.  I can
grieve for Lucy, and I can grieve for what I saw happen to Carter after
the attack.

Carter has the weight of this on his shoulders -- he is the one who has
to live with what happened to him.  I know this all too well, because of
my own attack.

"I don't want to walk away from you, Kerry," he tells me.  "But there
are moments when I'm unsure of myself.  Not in regards to you," he
quickly clarifies.  "I'm very sure about you.  It's me -- my own
feelings, my own issues, that I have to deal with.  And I have to deal
with them.  I was abusing pain medication.  I lied and I hurt the people
that cared about me."

I know what he's trying to say and I know he's avoiding the actual words
to spare my feelings.  "I don't want to impede your recovery," I murmur.

"You haven't so far," he assures me.  "I just need you to know that I
have things I still need to work through.  I need to know that you
understand that."

I nod my head.  "You know I do."

He takes another deep breath.  "And then there's the issue of work.  As
much as I've tried to tell myself that it doesn't matter, I know it
does.  You're my superior, Kerry.  You had me move out of here when you
were made Chief, and for good reason.  Whatever is between us can affect
things in the ER.  It can affect you, if anyone in the hospital were to
find out."

"I've pretty much screwed that up by telling Mark."

"What exactly did you tell him?" Carter queries me.

"Just -- just what I told you before."  The words are still so
unfamiliar to me, and I'm not sure I can say them again.  Not yet.

"That you love me," Carter prompts, and I nod my head slightly.

"I told him I went to see you in Atlanta," I tell him.  "I didn't draw
him any pictures.  I didn't need to.  He pretty much figured things out
much without any detailed explanations."

"What was his response?"

"That's the thing --  he seemed almost, I don't know, relieved?  He
wasn't angry.  I'm not sure how to describe it."  I still don't know why
he didn't rake me over the coals and remind me how I was going against
policy.

"Well," Carter says gently, "it's your turn.  Why it could work and why
it couldn't.  Pros and cons."

The way he puts it makes me think of a spreadsheet, or a outline for a
meeting.  This I can handle.

"Work concerns me, of course," I start.  "For the obvious reasons.  Mark
may be fine with this, but if word of it gets back to Romano, it could
be disastrous." Visions of it cloud my thoughts for a moment.  He would
be ruthless, no doubt, and would not hesitate to ridicule me, suspend
me, fire me, even ruin my career.  God knows what he would do to Carter.

"That can't be the only thing holding you back."

I shake my head.  "It's not.  Carter, being with you," I pause, thinking
about all of the things that could mean, "forces me to face things in
myself that I've never faced before.  My weaknesses.  Vulnerabilities."
It's one of the hardest things I've ever said before, and amazingly, I
don't feel too terrible once I've said it.

Carter gives me a small smile.  "Oh, but I didn't think you had any of
those."

I punch his leg lightly.  "Shut up, Carter."

"Kerry, I don't know where this will take us.  I don't know what we're
in for down the road.  But I'd like to find out."

"What about -- " I gesture at him, then back at myself.  "Oh, damn it.
In case you didn't notice, Carter, there's a bit of an age difference
between us."

He chuckles.  "That hasn't ever stopped me before."

Before?  I feel a twinge of jealousy.  Stupid, really -- I know that
he's had relationships before, but it was never a problem because I
didn't feel this way about him then.

"Care to share the details?" I ask, trying to be casual.

"I think you remember my friend Elaine," Carter says, and I nod.  I
hadn't realized.  "And, well," he ducks his head slightly, almost
embarrassed, "you know Dr. Keaton."

"Dr. Abby Keaton?" I ask, incredulous.  "You're kidding me."

Carter shakes his head.  "I kid you not."  He gets a wistful look on his
face for a moment.  "She's a sweet woman.  I get postcards from her
every once in a while."  He glances up to see my face.  "She's in
Pakistan," he tells me.  "Which is very far away."

"I know how far away it is," I answer, slightly irritated.  "You loved
her," I guess.  "Were you were in love with her?"

He cocks his head to one side, thinking.  "I loved her, yes.  Maybe I
thought I was in love at the time, but looking back, I know I wasn't.
But I did love her.  We had a lot of fun."

I wince inwardly; I would never describe myself as being fun, and Carter
and I have not done one fun thing in the course of this strange period
of time.  Well, except for the sex…

I look up to find Carter's eyes locked on my face.  He couldn't possible
know what I was thinking.  "What's the look for?" I ask.

"You're blushing," he says.  "It looks good on you."

Of course, when he says it, I can feel the heat on my face get warmer.

"I don’t care about the age difference, Kerry," he says.  "Does it
bother you?"

"No," I answer truthfully.

"Well, there." He looks content for the moment. "We've at least gotten
one issue taken care of."

"If only the other ones were that easy," I lament.

"There's one other thing I wanted to bring up," Carter tells me, his
face serious again.

"What?"

"I've missed you, Kerry.  I've missed kissing you.  Touching you.  I've
missed -- "

"Stop," I manage to get out.

"I've missed making love to you," he finishes anyhow, ignoring my
request.

My eyes slip closed.  I've missed it too.  I can't lie about that.

"Look at me," Carter tells me, his voice low.

Reluctantly I open my eyes.  I know what I will see: passion and
longing.  And suddenly I have a moment of clarity, an epiphany of sorts.

Deep in my heart, whatever I feel for Carter, and whatever he feels for
me doesn't make a damn bit of difference.  This can never work, for so
many reasons.  We can rationalize it ten ways till Tuesday and it still
wouldn't work.  Not now, anyhow -- not when he is fresh out of rehab and
facing an uphill battle.  I remember all too well one of the first
things I heard at an NA meeting all those years ago: wait at least a
year until getting into a relationship.

In a year, Carter will be different.  I will be different.  It's not as
if we have loved each other for a lifetime and know that a year won't
change anything.  A year can change everything.

In my mind, I have to set aside the issues of work, discovery by Romano,
my career.  None of it matters in the long run.  Carter comes first in
this -- he has to.  His recovery must be top priority.  I don't think he
can stand another descent, and I don't think I can either.

But for the moment he is here, and he is looking at me with a look that
so few have given me before.  And I want him.  One night, I tell
myself.  You are allowed to be happy, even if it's only for one night.

"I want us to make love tonight," Carter says.  He may not know what I
am thinking completely, but he has read that one thought loud and clear.

This will hurt in the morning; it will hurt both of us.  But for now, he
deserves tonight.  And so do I.

"Yes," I murmur, my voice raw with emotion.  Tonight, we will make love
and we will be honest.  I stand up and reach for his hand.  "Come with
me."

END of Resolution