Confession by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer: Why do the rich people get to own all the good characters? Rating: NC-17 again…and yes, I’m serious Timeline: This story takes place after the events of May Day, and has general references to that episode and All In the Family. This is the sixth in a series of Weaver/Carter stories I’m writing. You should read the first five, Disclosure, Revelation, Confrontation, Ecstacy and Disintegration, in order to understand this one, especially since this one picks up where Disintegration left off. Thank you: Shannon, for not letting me trip and fall into the plot holes. Summary: In the aftermath of Kerry’s self-destructive incident, Carter decides to let his feelings be known. *** “Kerry,” Carter says, trying to catch up with me in the hall, taking my arm. “Your feet – the glass…” I look down and see little smears of blood on the floor. I wince; not from the pain but from the memory. “Let me look,” he implores. “Let me make sure you’re alright.” I shake my head, already so dizzy. “The night – “ I manage to get out, “the night I found you and Lucy, I saw a bloody footprint outside the door to Exam Three. His footprint.” Carter pales, as if going back to that night in his head. “Ironic, isn’t it?” I ask; I am fading fast. The combination of the pills and the alcohol is getting to me. “I need to lie down.” He follows me into the bedroom and helps me into bed, and I am too groggy to stop him from examining my feet. “It doesn’t look like you got any glass imbedded in there,” he notes, “but these cuts – I don’t know how deep they are. You might need stitches.” “I need to sleep.” I don’t care of I get blood on the sheets. I don’t care at that moment if blood is splattered all over the walls of the bedroom. I just want to blot everything out. “Just go, Carter,” I tell him again. “Leave me alone. Let me wallow in this alone. I’ve done this to myself. Just let me be.” And surprisingly, after looking at me with pain-filled eyes, he walks out of the room. I’m too exhausted to feel anything, even the ache of his departure. I close my eyes and hear the front door open, and then close, and I slip into darkness. *** She's talking in her sleep, it's keeping me awake, and Anna begins to toss and turn, and every word is nonsense, but I understand and Oh, Lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing *** I dream that Carter is sitting at the side of my bed, his hands cool on my face, on my shoulders, my neck. He sighs deeply, pained, as he touches me, his fingers and hands gentle, peaceful. I turn over in my dream and his gaze is intense. “I need you so much,” he murmurs. “I wish you could see that.” And I do see, but I can’t answer him. My voice is silenced, my words cut off by something unknown, unexplainable. *** When I open my eyes, Carter is standing next to my bed. His eyes look haunted. The raw emotion that raged between us like fire in the kitchen earlier is gone. “What are you still doing here?” I ask, my mouth cotton-dry. “I thought you left.” “I went to the car. I got the first aid kit I leave in there. I couldn’t find yours.” My feet tingle, and I can feel the gauze he must have wrapped carefully around them. “I was worried about you,” he says, softly, and his face tells me that he is not lying. “I kept thinking that if your pulse stayed that slow, if you slept for much longer, that I was going to take you into the ER.” Thank God he didn’t, I think to myself. Then I remember my dream and wonder how much of it was real. I struggle to sit up. “I didn’t know how many of those pills you took. Or how much you had to drink.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “You scared me, Kerry. You really did.” “I wouldn’t overdose,” I tell him. “I wasn’t sure.” I shake my head. “I just wanted…to not feel anything for a while.” “Did it work?” he asks. I don’t know how to answer him. Instead, I check the clock. It’s past two in the morning. I’ve been sleeping for over six hours. I still feel vaguely groggy, but my leg isn’t aching and my head doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode from an overload of emotion anymore. “Do you remember what happened earlier?” he asks. “Of course I do,” I snap, slightly annoyed. “I wasn’t that far gone.” “I told you I was sorry. For what I said to you in the ambulance bay.” He sits down on the side of my bed, and I scoot over, not ready to be so close to him. “Do you remember that?” “You shouldn’t apologize. You had every right to say all those things. You have every right – “ “Why?” he asks, quietly interrupting me. “Why are we doing this? Why are we hurting each other like this?” “It was me,” I answer, my voice small. “I was the one who hurt you. You said it yourself. I destroyed you. The rest – I brought that on myself.” He looks away for a moment, then back at me. “Do you understand why?” “Why what?” I ask. “Why I destroyed you? Why I left? Why I took the pills?” “I know why you left,” he tells me. I shake my head. “You don’t know anything.” “I do, though. It was too much for you, wasn’t it?” he asks, but he is not asking a question. He is making an observation. “Too much of you opening yourself up to someone else.” I can’t answer him, because he’s right. “I won’t lie – it hurt me. More, I think, than almost anything has ever hurt me,” he goes on. I inch back into the pillows, wishing I could shrink into them and disappear. I can’t listen to this. I can’t listen to what I’ve done to him. “But I had something to figure out as well, Kerry. Why did it hurt me so much? Why did I feel like my world was over?” Because, I think to myself. Because I’m a terrible person, because I’m cruel and unkind and I don’t have the capacity for sensitivity when it comes to dealing with other people. Carter doesn’t answer his own question, and instead looks around the room. “You know, I told you last night when I got here that I had never felt more at home than in this place. And it’s the truth.” He pauses, looks back at me. “I looked around while you were sleeping. You haven’t changed much.” “You never knew me then,” I whisper. “I never gave you the chance.” “You didn’t have to,” he informs me. “I knew you. I have eyes. And ears.” I don’t understand what he’s talking about. “As scared as I’ve been in the last few hours, I’ve also felt comforted. By this place. By the books, the CDs, the art on the walls. Everything about this place reminds me of a time when I felt safe. And I haven’t felt safe, not really safe, well, since Valentine’s Day.” I stay silent through this admission. “I never would have guessed in a million years that I would have gotten through what happened. Never. It affected every part of who I am. Every part. And all those nights at Gamma’s, before Atlanta, I couldn’t help but think – I’d feel safe if I was at Kerry’s place right now. If I was still there.” Tears come to my eyes as I think about the space in between the attack and when Carter left for Atlanta – his attitude, his demeanor. I tried to reach him then on various occasions but he always pushed me away. And I stepped back – retreated – all those times. I didn’t really push him until the intervention. I never should have waited so long. I should have seen the signs earlier. But I was distracted by my own reactions to the attack, and its aftermath – the absence of Lucy in the ER, the absence of Carter’s spirit, memories of the scene I had walked into behind the door of Exam Three. “I’d lay in bed at night and imagine I was here instead,” Carter goes on to tell me. “You’d make dinner – tell me to stay out of the kitchen. I’d go to sleep downstairs and toss and turn on that horrible bed down there – “ At this I have to smile; I had been meaning to replace the bed before he moved in, but it had all happened so quickly. He had needed a place, I had a place. “And I could hear you at night. Through the floorboards, or maybe through the vents, I’m not sure. I heard you crying at night.” My eyes widen slightly. He heard? All those nights I had muffled my tears into a pillow, trying to keep silent. He catches my reaction. “It’s all right – it’s just me, Kerry. You’ve told me all your secrets already, remember?” Oh yes, I remember. I remember clearly. I take a deep breath. “Pain runs deep, Carter,” I tell him softly. “Sometimes it’s too much to bear.” The corners of his eyes crinkle at this. “I used to think that if I had stayed here, that maybe things wouldn’t have spiraled so out of control. I used to think that if I was here, maybe one night I would open up to you, tell you what was going on in my head, let some of it out…” He trails off, remembering, sadly. “At one point I had to face it – I wasn’t here. I wasn’t coming back here. And at that point, things were already, well – “ he glances at me, and I know we are both remembering the scene in Exam Three, the ganging-up, as he perceived it. The intervention. “I never told you how sorry I was about that,” I murmur, so softly that I’m not sure he hears me. But he nods his head. “You shouldn’t be sorry, Kerry. You did what you thought was best – you wanted to help. I didn’t see that then. But I see it now.” I nod my head. “I’m glad.” “And I’m here now.” And you’re alive, and you’re safe, and you’re not hurting yourself anymore, I think to myself, bitterly angry at my earlier actions. I can be so foolish. He reaches across the bed and touches my hand. The warmth of the action and of his skin reaches me deep down. “I – “ he stops, thinks, then goes on. “I think I understand why I was so destroyed when you left Atlanta. Kerry, I think – “ I hold up my hand, panicked suddenly, afraid that I know what he’s about to say. “Don’t, Carter. Don’t say anything else.” “Why not?” he asks. “Because. I can’t – “ I stammer. “I can’t hear it. I can’t.” “You can,” he assures me. I shake my head. “You’re wrong,” I tell him. “You don’t understand. I’ve never – never felt this way, this overwhelmed by my own feelings and by the intensity of yours. I don’t know how to deal with this. Or how to analyze it.” He smiles, slightly. “You don’t have to analyze it. It’s not something to be figured out. It’s just something that you feel. And I know you feel something – otherwise you wouldn’t have left Atlanta the way you did. You felt something you didn’t think you could handle, and so you left. I woke up alone – and I felt something I wasn’t used to feeling. I would have come to you sooner, so we could talk – but I had no choice but to stay there. And so my anger built up. But we’re not separated by a plane ride or thousands of miles anymore. I thought maybe I could deny what I felt if I was apart from you. But I wasn’t going to be in Atlanta forever. Eventually, I was going to come back to Chicago.” I pull my hand away from his. “You have to deny whatever it is you feel, Carter,” I tell him. “If not for your own emotional safety, then for mine.” “It’s too late for denial for me,” he says, gently. “I’ve learned all about denial.” I know what he’s talking about; my own time spent recovering from addiction hasn’t faded. “I can’t deny that I love you.” The force of it hits me in the chest and I struggle to breathe. The words he’s spoken fill the room. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Kerry – as a friend, mostly. There was something else there, too, but I don’t think I ever examined it closely. But after that night in Atlanta – the night you were sick, the night in the dark – I knew. There was no question in my mind. I’d fallen in love with you. I can’t erase that. And I can’t erase what happened the next night, when we made love. I can’t get past it, or move on. It’s why you devastated me when you left.” “You…” I stumble over my words, “you have to get past it. You have to get over it.” “Why?” he asks. “Because the feeling isn’t mutual?” The words that come out of my mouth are like tar. “No, it’s not.” “You don’t have any feelings for me beyond friendship,” he challenges me. My mind rolls over the night we spent in Atlanta. The way he touched me. The way my body responded. All of this, and I can’t say the words. “No,” I manage to get out. “You’re lying,” he says, confident in his words. “Why can’t you admit this? What is it that terrifies you so much that you can’t admit your feelings?” “I asked you to leave earlier, Carter,” I say, my words strangled, my throat tight. “And I told you I couldn’t do that. I won’t. Not tonight.” He comes closer to me on the bed, before I can protest, and wraps his arms around me. “Listen to me, Kerry,” he says into my hair. “I love you.” I struggle against him. “No.” “Yes. I love you.” “No,” I cry, but I know I don’t mean it. The words are like a balm to my soul, no matter how frightening. He pulls back and takes me by the shoulders and kisses me, hard. My body responds instantly, as if we have been apart for years and not just over a week. I can’t help myself; I pull him close, clutching at fistfuls of his shirt. My tongue traces over his lips, his teeth, the inside of his mouth. He tastes so good. I am doing this. I am instigating this. I want this. The thoughts ricochet in my head like ping pong balls that I’m trying to duck. Carter draws back and I practically sob from the loss of his lips on mine. “Say it,” he breathes. I look in his eyes. “I don’t know how to do this,” I tell him. “All you have to do is say the words.” “No.” I gesture at the two of us, our bodies, on the bed. I know how close we are, how dangerous this can be. “I don’t know how we can have this. It can’t work.” “Why not?” he asks. “There’s no reason why it can’t. And I’ve never known you to give up on anything, Kerry. Never. You’re too stubborn.” And he’s right, too – but I don’t trust myself in this. I don’t trust my heart. I don’t trust myself because although I can lie and tell him I feel nothing, my heart knows what it feels. I don’t want to accept this, for all of the ramifications it could bring, both personal and professional. Deep down I know I have no choice. “Talk to me,” he pleads. “Don’t play mind games with yourself. Talk to me.” I shake my head, stubborn. “I can’t, Carter.” “Yes, you can, or I’ll have to kiss you again.” The very thought sends a shiver of delicious chills down my spine. “That would only work if I was opposed to it.” He smiles. “I’m getting to you.” “You’ve already gotten to me, Carter,” I murmur. The smile widens. “So talk to me. Just tell me what’s going on in your head.” I sigh. “It’s too complicated.” “It’s only complicated if we let it be,” he says. “Carter, I’m your superior – “ He cuts me off. “I don’t want to hear about administrative bullshit. Talk to me about the complications you’re creating in your head that have nothing to do with work.” I take a deep breath. He looks so determined. “I don’t just give my heart away, Carter. I don’t think I ever have, not fully, anyhow.” He chuckles. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, Kerry. I’m asking you to admit your feelings for me.” “And then what? What happens from there? I admit how I feel and then you win?” “It’s not about winning,” he says, gently tracing circles on the palm of my hand, making me dizzy. “We take it from there. We see what happens next. Let the chips fall where they may.” “I’m not good at that,” I admit. “I like to plan for things.” He smiles again. “I know that – God, I know that. But this can’t be planned, Kerry. Love isn’t something you plan to happen for when you feel like it, or cancel when you’re not in the mood anymore. I didn’t plan on feeling this way about you. It just happened; it took me by surprise.” Suddenly it is all so much, so large and looming. I feel so small in comparison. Carter notices the look on my face. “What is it?” “Hold me,” I beg, starting to cry, unsure of why the tears are falling or where my words are coming from. All I know is that I need him, I need the safety he brings. “Please.” And so he eases me back down on the bed, curling up behind me, his body pressed close to mine, my good leg pressed into the mattress. He wraps an arm around my waist, his hand coming to rest below my ribs, and his face nuzzling into my neck. We lay like that for a long time, not speaking, and eventually we both drift off to sleep. *** If this is love, she says, Then we're gonna have to think about the consequences She can't stop shaking I can't stop touching her *** I awake to Carter’s gentle breathing against my skin. I feel safe and secure, the incident the previous night with the pills and the broken glass and the scotch forgotten. And then it all comes back to me. I stir slightly, wondering if I can get out of bed without disturbing Carter. His arm tightens around me. “Where are you going?” he asks, his voice sleepy. “I was just going to get up for a second.” “Please don’t,” he says, and so I curl back into his arms. I face the window and look out at the gray dawn, and we both lie silently, listening to the heavy rain just beyond the glass. The room is warm and muted. At one point while I was sleeping Carter must have turned off the lamp. Shadows from the clouds mix with the beginnings of the day and cast pigments of gray and blue across the walls of the room. His body is so close to mine, his breath in my ear, his hand flung so casually, yet protectively over my belly. I feel calm, clearheaded. At one point Carter moves his hand and gently, carefully massages my hip and my bad leg. “Does this hurt?” he asks. “No. It feels wonderful.” And it does. The Vicodin has worn off, leaving me with remnants of pain to deal with, and the slow movements of Carter’s hands over the sore muscles feels incredible. But then, after long minutes, his hand comes back up, his fingers hesitating, toying with the hem of the shirt I am wearing. He’s waiting for me to say something, something like, “Carter, no,” or, “stop”, but I don’t. I don’t say anything at all. He slips his hand beneath the fabric, gliding up my skin smoothly, finding the swell of my breast hidden beneath a bra, and he cups his hand around it gently, squeezing, then sliding his fingers around the nipple, which hardens to a sharp peak under his ministrations. I shift in his arms restlessly, feeling my arousal grow. He continues to caress my breasts, and then, too soon, drags his hand down, out of my shirt, his fingers fumbling at the waist of my pants, unbuttoning them, sliding the zipper down. He doesn’t wait this time, and slides his hand inside, cupping me through my panties, and I let out a moan. “Carter – “ He moves against me, and I can feel him, hard, nestled into my buttocks. I move slightly and am rewarded with a sound of pleasure from his lips; I smile. His hand hesitates as the satiny waistband of my panties, toying with it. “I want to make sure you want this,” he says softly. “I do,” I reply without hesitation. “I do.” How can this part be so easy, and the rest, the words that I know he wants to hear, be so hard? I wish I could see the smile that I know is playing on his lips, but I don’t think about it for long as his hand snakes inside my panties and his fingers find me, opening me, stroking me. I arch back, against him, whimpering, and he moves against me, more firmly. “You’re so wet,” he groans softly. I can’t answer that; I’m overwhelmed by feeling, by pure sensation. His fingers know all the right places to touch and I’m entranced by what he’s doing. One of my hands comes up to rest on his thigh, the only place I can reach, gripping him there, wanting to anchor him in place. I wouldn’t run away from him now if someone paid me. One finger hesitates at my entrance, not forcing, just testing. Then without warning, it slides inside and I buck up against him. “God,” I cry out. His finger is sliding in and out, in imitation of what his body did in Atlanta, and the memory of that combined with the feeling of the present moment floods over me. His finger slips free and slides over the spot where I’ve been aching for him the most, and I can barely keep still. “Carter, please,” I gasp. I want him inside me so badly I can barely stand it. “I want this to be for you. Just for you.” And he makes it just for me. It doesn’t take long – he makes slow circles with the pads of his fingers, picking up speed, maintaining just the right amount of pressure. I’m comforted by the fact that my back is to him; I’m less vulnerable this way. But it also is terribly arousing – feeling the rough stubble on his chin against the back of my neck, wondering what the look on his face is like. And so I twist my head, turning my upper body in his embrace, so that he can at least see me in profile, and he is looking at me, looking into me, it seems. His fingers are doing everything right, and it doesn’t take long after that. I feel it coming; I am unraveling in his arms. “Come for me,” he entreats, with one small thrust up against me. I can only imagine how much self-control he has, and it astounds me. But I can only think clearly for another moment or two. Then I splinter and come apart, crying out his name. I’m still breathing hard when he pulls his hand away, almost roughly, pulling at my clothes, trying to get them all off quickly. I’ve rolled over and am doing the same thing to him; I can’t undress him quickly enough. I need to see his skin, his body, desperately. He gets stuck with my pants and my bad leg; I grimace slightly, only for a moment, and so I wriggle out of them myself. He takes the moment to get up and peel his own pants off, letting them slide to the floor before getting back into bed. We don’t bother slipping under the sheets; instead, Carter drives into me in a smooth, deep thrust and I gasp. I’m still sensitive from the orgasm and he must know it, but he can’t seem to help his own actions as he moves in and out of me, almost erratic. “After you left.” In. “I dreamed about this.” Out. “Being inside you.” In. “All the time.” Out. Hearing these words makes me ready again, impossibly ready, feeling like I am standing on the edge of a cliff, poised to fall. The only noises in the room are the sound of his body against mine, our moans, the rain against the window. I tighten around him involuntarily and he trembles. He’s so deep inside me and it’s not enough, never enough. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want this to ever end. But he’s held off too long, and he can’t wait anymore. He lets out a shout and pounds into me hard, so hard that it’s exquisitely painful. I blink away the pain and focus on the pleasure, and my eyes feel like they can’t take in the sight of him enough. He throws his head back and empties himself into me, and I feel my own body react, and respond in kind. After long minutes, he moves to slip out of me and I feel a tug, a irrational desire to get up and run. What the hell is the matter with me? Carter senses my unease and touches my face softly, kissing my lips gently. “Don’t leave me again.” A pang shoots through me at his words. I shake my head mutely. I’m not going to, I tell myself, and him, silently. We rest in each other’s arms. *** An hour later, with rain still pouring down, I stir. “I’m going to get something to drink,” I whisper to Carter. He murmurs something, half-asleep, and I place a soft kiss on his forehead. Getting up, I slip my robe off the hook in the bathroom and head for the kitchen. The broken glass and scotch has been cleaned up – he must have done it while I was asleep. I take a glass and pour some juice from the refrigerator, marveling at how calm and peaceful I feel. I haven’t felt like this in many years. The knowledge of Carter’s presence in the bedroom leaves me feeling satisfied and safe, and I want to get back there, to him, to his embrace. It was a long night for both of us; maybe we can sleep through part of the day. I head back to the bedroom, setting the glass down next to the bed and watching Carter for a moment as he sleeps. He looks as peaceful as I feel. I can’t believe I left Atlanta considering how good this feels. I go into the bathroom and glance in the mirror. I recognize my image as mine, only a different me, someone who has been touched and loved, and I like what I see. Back in the bedroom, I decide to pick up some of the clothes scattered on the floor. I drape my pants and shirt over the hamper, and pick up Carter’s pants. Something falls out of the pocket and bounces to the floor. I bend down, somewhat painfully, to retrieve it from the rug near the bed where it has landed. Kerry Weaver. Vicodin, the label on the bottle reads. 1-2 tablets every 4-6 hours as needed. My heart filled with dread, I stare at Carter, sleeping peacefully. With shaking fingers I open the bottle. There are three pills inside. My mind races back. There were seven in the bottle when I found it. I took one after I saw Carter in the ambulance bay, and two last night. Which means there should be four left. Not three. How did the bottle wind up in Carter’s pocket unless he put it there? And where is the missing pill? A wave of pain blossoms in my chest, spreading down my arms. No, I tell myself, desperately. He didn’t. He wouldn’t have. But the contradictory evidence practically glows back at me in bold white at the bottom of the amber bottle. END of Confession Author’s Note: The song lyrics are from “Anna Begins” by the Counting Crows. My lovely editor Shannon is largely responsible for the musical selections and is actually making me a tape of songs based on this series of stories – side A is for Angst, and Side B is for Booty. I kid you not.