Clarity

by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: Kerry and Carter are not mine, and yes, I'm bitter about it.
And I don't own any of the other ER characters either. Damn.

Rating: PG-13

Timeline: This story takes place a little over a month after the events
of May Day, and has general references to that episode. There is a teeny
tiny reference to The Peace of Wild Things in this story.

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

Summary: Kerry has a minor medical crisis of her own and opens up to the
last person in the world she would expect she could talk to.

Note: This story picks up literally, right where story #7, Duplicity
ended (I took a little break with the eighth story to write a little
humor/parody). To refresh your memory: at the end of Duplicity, Kerry
was walking towards the desk in the ER to talk to Carter, after being
told by Mark that there was a vial of ten Darvocet tablets missing from
the drug room.

***

"Dr. Weaver?" Carter asks me, his voice steady. "Is everything all right?"

It takes an enormous amount of inner control to keep from unleashing
what I am thinking at this exact moment.

I want to haul off and ask him what the hell happened to the missing
Vicodin from my house, and if he knows anything about the missing Darvocet.

I especially want to tell him to stop calling me Dr. Weaver. I want to
tell him that because the way he says it hurts my ears. I can still very
clearly recall the exact tone of his voice when he moaned my first name
just the night before last when he was making love to me. After that,
hearing him call me Dr. Weaver just doesn't do too much for me.

I love the sound of Dr. Weaver. I spent many years waiting for people to
call me that. And I hear it so much that sometimes, when someone calls
me Ms. Weaver I think they must be talking to someone else and I don't
answer right away.

But when it comes to Carter, I only want to hear him say Kerry.

"Everything's fine, Carter," I tell him, but my voice catches a little
on his name and I'm not sure if he notices. I can't possibly say any of
the things I want to say, not with both staff and patients milling around.

I turn and walk down the hall to the bathroom, my leg throbbing. I want
to hide for a few moments to collect myself. It's the one place I know
Carter can't follow me.

I haven't called him John since right before he left for Atlanta. That
day I went back and forth between calling him Carter and John. For the
most part before that, I had always called him Carter -- instinct, I
suppose, but I was careful and conscious to call him John as much as I
could after Abby told Mark and I that she had seen him injecting the
Fentanyl.

I wanted him to know that I cared. That he wasn't just Carter the
resident. That he was a person, John Carter, and that he mattered to me.

Of course, it didn't matter -- nothing did that night. He didn't hear or
see me that night, or anyone else. He wasn't capable of it. He had dark
circles under his eyes, and he looked so weary. And so angry. He tried
to walk out of the room more than once, and more than once I stopped him
by touching his arm or stepping in front of the door.

That night, I was the one who pushed him the hardest; I was the one who
told him to show his wrists and take off his watch. I was the one who
turned away after he stalked out and faced the door so no one could see
my face, and I was the one who began to cry.

Now, standing here in the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. The
relationship between Carter and I has changed over time. First we were
colleagues, then he was my tenant -- I always hated that term -- and
then I was his superior. As much as I relish being in charge, there's a
part of me that has always hated that word too, but it's the truth.

And now -- what is he now, and what am I?

Carter has been my confessor; I have told him my secrets. I have let him
see me unbound, unraveled, unhinged -- emotionally and sexually. The
role reversal has left me shaken and inexperienced, and yet breathless
with desire. I still want him, with everything inside of me. And yet he
is lying to me, I am sure of it, and I don't know what to do.

Haleh comes in, startling me.

"Dr. Weaver, there's a phone call for you."

"Thanks, I'll be right out."

She leaves and I look at myself in the mirror one more time. What do you
want Carter to be to you now? I ask myself. And then, not waiting for an
answer, I hurry out to the desk to take the call.

***

"Kerry?"

"Jeanie. How are you?"

She is wonderful, she tells me, and her voice proves it. I've never
heard her so peaceful, and it relaxes me. I slide into a chair for a
moment, taking the weight off my leg, letting the world of the ER fade
out and letting the sound of a friend's voice ease in.

"Are you all right, Kerry? You sound tired."

"I'm fine. Not sleeping too well, I guess, but it's nothing."

"Are you sure?"

For a moment I wonder if there is a guardian angel watching over me.
Jeanie has always been perceptive, and her call has come at a time when
I could use a friend.

"Things have been a little -- difficult lately," I admit.

"Do you want to talk? Reggie has the day off tomorrow; we could go get
some lunch or coffee. Are you working?"

"Things are hectic right now. I'll have to check my schedule and call
you back."

"All right. You know Kerry, I miss you."

The emotion wells up in me and I struggle to keep my voice even. "I miss
you too, Jeanie."

"Just call me and let me know when you have some time. We can catch up."

After I hang up, I wonder how on earth I can catch her up. Well, Jeanie,
a lot has happened since you left. Carter was stabbed. Lucy was stabbed
too and died. Carol had the twins and moved to Seattle to be with Doug.
Carter got addicted to painkillers and went to rehab, and we slept
together numerous times. And I don't know how to admit what I feel for him.

"Hey, Kerry, can I talk to you for a minute?" Mark walks up.

"Sure."

We head down the hall towards the lounge, my leg still aching. It
started raining a few hours ago, and that's likely why. I'm going to
need some Tylenol.

I am starting to hate the lounge; every time I walk in there it's to
have some secret meeting about Carter and as we near the door I realize
that I want to run in the opposite direction.

Mark pushes the door open and holds it; I enter first with him right
behind me. As the door swings closed, I feel a sudden, fiery jolt of
pain shoot down my leg and my knee buckles from the force of it. If it
weren't for the crutch I would likely crumple to the floor, but I brace
myself up on the metal pole and hang on.

"Kerry!" Mark exclaims, rushing to my side and wrapping an arm around my
waist, helping to hold me up. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I tell him, leaning heavily on the crutch, my head lowered.
The pain is so severe that everything in my vision is red and black and
I wonder for a moment if I'm going to pass out.

"Kerry, can you sit down?"

I shake my head. The pain is so sudden, and so painful, that I am unable
to speak. Tears have sprung to my eyes unbidden and I blink rapidly.

"Can you say stay standing without me holding you up?" Mark asks. "I
want to get a gurney."

"No," I manage to get out. "No gurney. I don't need it."

The pain is so abrupt that it is scaring me a little. My pride is the
only thing keeping me from accepting Mark's offer for a gurney, but even
my pride has its weak moments. A fresh wave of pain rushes down my leg
and I can't help it; I let out a little cry.

"That's it, I'm getting you into an exam room," Mark mutters, and I'm in
no shape to protest. He lifts me up and actually carries me out of the
lounge, and if I weren't in such agony I would be humiliated.

"Oh my God, Dr. Weaver!" I hear Randi exclaim from the desk, and Haleh
rushes over. Mark sets me down on a gurney that is in the hall and he
and Haleh get me into Exam Three, which is empty.

I'm waiting for Mark to ask me about my leg, but he doesn't. "Get me
five of morphine," Mark tells Haleh and I shake my head.

"No," I tell him. "No morphine."

"Are you allergic?"

"No. Just -- no morphine."

"Kerry, you're in pain. You need something for the pain."

"No," I repeat.

"BP is 90 over 50, pulse is 110," Haleh tells Mark.

"Can you give us a minute, Haleh?" he asks, and she casts him a
questioning glance, but nods and leaves the room.

I can't hide the truth from Mark, not now, not while I'm in such
excruciating pain. "I -- I've had problems with narcotics in the past."

"Some kind of medical problems? Bad reaction?"

I close my eyes briefly, then open them. "No. An addiction kind of problem."

He takes it well; with only the briefest of hesitation. "What do you
usually take?" he asks me.

"Extra strength Tylenol," I tell him. "Oh, God." Another vicious stab of
pain passes through my leg.

"That's not going to do it this time, Kerry. I'll get you 30 milligrams
of Toradol and we'll see how that works."

I nod at him gratefully and he goes to leave the room, colliding with
Carter at the door.

"Kerry," Carter says, his voice tinged with panic. The sound of my first
name makes me want to cry; not just because I am so happy to hear him
say it, but because Mark is looking at him like he has just spoken Latin.

"I'll be right back," Mark says, and leaves the room.

Carter comes to the side of the bed. "Randi said Dr. Greene carried you
out of the lounge -- that you collapsed. Are you all right?"

The pain is constant now, and I tighten my jaw. "I didn't collapse. It's
just my leg," I get out between clenched teeth. "I don't know what
happened. It just got so bad suddenly."

Carter rests his hand on the part of my leg that he knows is hurting; he
knows because he has seen the scars and he knows where the pain is when
it is bad. I flinch at the touch of his hand.

"Shhh," he tells me. "It's all right. I won't hurt you."

He gently massages the area where the nerves were destroyed years
before. At first it only makes it hurt more, and I squeeze my eyes shut,
but then after a few moments it gets a little better, and I open my eyes
to find Carter looking at me intently.

"All right, I've got the Toradol -- " Mark says, coming in the room and
stopping short at the sight of Carter with his hand on my upper leg.
Haleh is right behind him.

Carter draws back, as if he were touching a hot stove.

"Carter, I think I've got this," Mark tells him.

"Sure," he answers casually. "All right." He leaves the room in a hurry.

"I need to give you this injection in your hip, Kerry," Mark says, "so
I'll step out and let Haleh get you into a gown -- "

"No, into the arm is fine. It's just as effective. I've had it before."
There's something about the idea of showing my bare bottom to Mark
Greene that makes me feel a little awkward. The pain is already easing
up a little, thanks to Carter's ministrations, and I am able to think a
little more clearly.

"All right," Mark acquieses, and helps me roll up my sleeve to give me
the injection. The needle stings but I don't care; all I want is for the
pain to recede.

"BP's a little low," Haleh says after checking it again. "80 over 40.
I'll be back in a few minutes." She leaves the room.

"That's normal for me," I tell Mark.

He pulls up a chair and sits at the side of the bed. The pain has eased,
just slightly, and is no longer all consuming, but is still quite
present. I don't think I could stand yet even if I wanted to.

I take a deep breath. Mark has his talking face on.

"What were you going to tell me in the lounge?" I ask him.

He doesn't hesitate. "It was Cleo forgot to sign out the Darvocet."

A weight lifts from my shoulders and I smile, even with the pain. "Thank
God," I breathe.

"It was for a patient with a bad ankle fracture who was being
discharged, and she was going to go back and sign it out, but she got
caught up in a trauma that came in the door a little earlier than expected."

"So it wasn't Carter."

Mark shakes his head. "No, it wasn't Carter."

We sit in silence and I contemplate this in my mind for a few moments.
If Carter wasn't responsible for taking the Darvocet, does that mean
that there's an explanation for the Vicodin? He's not off the hook yet;
after all, he hasn't told me what he did with the Vicodin bottle yet and
for all I know he's taken them all, not just the one missing pill.

"Toradol kicking in yet?" he asks.

I nod my head. "A little."

"Sorry I carried you out of the lounge like that. It was either that or
just let you down onto the floor, and I didn't really want to do that."

"I'm sure everyone will be talking about it for the rest of the day. You
were very chivalrous."

"I think that title goes to Carter. He's keeping everyone away from this
room," Mark tells me. "He told Malucci that if he breathes a word to you
or anyone else about it that he'll take him out in the ambulance bay and
rearrange his teeth." He chuckles softly. "I think he was kidding."

Regardless of how schoolyard it sounds, I'm actually touched by Carter's
protective streak.

"Kerry," Mark says, quietly, seriously, "do you want to tell me what's
going on with you and Carter?"

I look him right in the eye. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"I think you know what I mean."

I fall silent and turn my head away from him. I don't know what to say
to him. If I tell him I have no idea what to expect. He didn't say
anything when I told him about my past addiction, but he hasn't always
been supportive of me -- the situation with Gabe comes to mind.

"You have to fire him," Mark had said to me that day, and when I told
him why I didn't think I could, near tears, he didn't say anything -- he
just walked away. I don't know how he would react if he knew Carter and
I were lovers.

I just can't tell him.

"Sometimes," Mark says very carefully, when it becomes clear that I'm
not going to answer him, "things happen between people that aren't
planned. Things happen that maybe no one planned to happen."

Oh God. I don't have to tell him anything -- he's figured it out all on
his own.

"Things happen, Kerry," he reiterates, each word loaded with meaning.

I turn and look at him.

"I care about him, Mark," I tell him, simply. It's the truth; the
shortened version, definitely, but the truth nonetheless.

"We all care about him, Kerry."

I shake my head. "This is different."

Mark regards me silently for a few moments.

"I just hope you don't do anything you might regret later," he finally
tells me.

I almost laugh at that; it's far too late for that. "I don't have
regrets," I answer. "There are moments -- when I don't know what to do.
But I have no regrets."

Mark sighs. I know him well enough to know that he has questions but
will not ask them.

The pain is slowly starting to subside. "I went to Atlanta to see him
before he came back home." Mark actually looks surprised at this. "I
went down there because -- " I hesitate. "I didn't have any ulterior
motives. I just wanted to see him. To see how he was, to make sure he
was all right."

My mind drifts back to the two nights I was in Atlanta. The night Carter
held my wrists so firmly in his grasp and I was terrified by the fact
that for a reason that was not clear to me at the time, that I wanted
him. The night we made love -- and that same night, when I fled in the
darkness back to Chicago.

"I didn't plan on anything happening," I hear myself say. "I didn't go
down there with any other purpose except to make sure he was all right."

"His feelings for you are pretty obvious," Mark tells me. "If he's
trying to hide them from everyone here, he's doing a lousy job."

"I don't know what to do," I tell Mark, surprised by my candor. "I just
-- I can't say that it's nothing. I can't just walk away from it. Or
from him, even though I should."

Mark looks thoughtful. "Do you love him?"

I look up, startled. "What?"

"I asked if you love him. It's a pretty straightforward question."

There's a part of me that can't believe I am having this conversation
with Mark Greene. Not at all.

"I --" I hesitate.

"Just yes or no, Kerry. It's not hard."

But it is hard. He doesn't understand that because he doesn't know me.

Regardless, the answer is clear in my mind, and although I haven't
wanted to admit it to Carter, and especially not to myself, I know it's
true.

"Yes," I finally answer, simply. "I do love him."

Mark sighs heavily. "I don't have to tell you -- "

I raise a hand, palm out, to silence him. "No, you don't."

He nods. "All right." He stands up. "I want you to stay in here for the
next few hours -- stay off your leg. I can give you another 15 of
Toradol in a few hours if the pain is still bad."

I want to protest, but I know it would be useless. Mark has a tone in
his voice that says that there's no room for discussion, and I have a
feeling that Carter is posted outside the door, ruining my chances for
an escape back to waiting patients.

"And Kerry -- " he says, before he leaves.

"Yes?"

"About what you told me earlier, when I wanted to give you some morphine
-- "

"It was a long time ago, Mark," I tell him.

"All of this -- it's between you and me and this room," he assures me.

I nod gratefully, because it's all I can do.

Mark leaves me alone. I realize what I have done -- finally admit that I
love Carter -- and the irony is that Mark, not Carter, is the one who
was the first to hear it. There is still the issue of the Vicodin to
deal with, but I tell myself, firmly, that I am going to resolve it,
that Carter and I are going to talk, sooner rather than later.

And then I think about what Mark said -- between you and me and this room.

This room is forever marked for me; it is the site where I found Carter
and Lucy bleeding in the dark, and now it is the site where I have
spoken aloud the words that have the potential to change my life. An
unspeakable crime and a declaration of love, all within the same four walls.

I close my eyes and lean back into the pillow, letting the rest of the
Toradol work.

***

Sometime later, I open my eyes to see Carter sitting in the chair next
to the bed, bent over a chart. His eyes light up when I look at him and
he sets the chart down.

"Hey. You're awake. I was just doing some chart review."

"How long did I sleep?"

"Almost three hours. Dr. Greene said that when you woke up he wanted you
to go home."

I struggle to sit up. "I don't need to do that. My leg is feeling much
better. I just need a few minutes and I can get back to seeing patients."

Carter puts a hand on my arm. "You're not going anywhere."

"Carter," I warn him, "don't tell me what to do."

I move my legs over the side of the bed and start to stand. As soon as
my foot hits the floor and I put a small amount of weight on it, the
pain comes back and I wince. It's not anywhere nearly as bad as it was
before, but it still hurts. Regardless, I've worked in pain before; this
shouldn't be any different.

Carter, however, has caught my facial expression and quickly moves to my
side. "I don't think you're ready to be back on your feet yet, Kerry."

"Damn it," I mutter.

"I know you don't like to accept that there are things that even you
can't do, but you have to at least accept that you're human, Kerry. My
shift is almost over. I'll get the other 15 of Toradol from Dr. Greene
and then I'll drive you home."

"I don't need -- "

"Do you want to be in pain for the rest of the night?" Carter asks, and
I have to shake my head. "Then take the Toradol, and let me drive you home."

I look at him.

"I'll just -- drop you off. I don't even have to come in if you don't
want me to."

Oh, I think to myself, but there's the problem -- I want you to come in.
I want you to come in and never leave.

"Let me just go get the Toradol. I'll be right back."

***

An hour later, I've had my second dose of Toradol, and a few extra vials
that Mark insisted on sending with me, and was on my way home. "There's
no reason for you to take Tylenol and then suffer if it's not working,"
he reasoned before I left. "The Toradol worked, and it's not a narcotic.
It's the perfect solution. Just take it -- "

"I know, 30 milligram loading dose, then 15 every six hours," I responded.

"Carter driving you home?" Mark had asked then, casually, his eyes averted.

"Yep. He's just finishing up with a patient. We should be leaving in
about 20 minutes," I said, and Mark looked up.

"I'm glad he's taking you home."

He didn't say anything more, but his eyes were warm.

"Thanks Mark. For everything."

"You're welcome. Tell Carter to drive carefully."

And so Carter and I set off in his Jeep, navigating the roads towards my
house.

"This isn't exactly the most comfortable car for your leg," he apologizes.

"It's fine. The pain is much better," I tell him. "The second shot of
Toradol really helped."

We pull up at a red light and Carter brakes gently until we came to a
full stop.

"So," he says. "Are you going to tell me why you were avoiding me last
night? Or are we going to pretend that didn't happen?"

I look at him, the slight remains of the setting sun coming in from the
window, backlighting him and throwing shadows over his face.

"I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it yet," I tell him. Honesty:
I'm going to make a good solid effort at it, instead of avoidance.

The light changes to green and he accelerates, seemingly accepting my
answer. "All right."

We drive in silence the rest of the way, and I turn my head away from
him, thinking. There is so much that I keep to myself, I reflect. My
feelings, my emotions -- I have worked long and hard to keep them hidden
deeply away, stuffed into a corner of my head.

It's like the lab coat I wore the night I found Carter and Lucy. There
had been no time to gown up when I first found them. I didn't actually
get a gown on until Mark and Elizabeth got there. By that time it seemed
pointless, because I was already covered in blood. My lab coat was
soaked in it, the lapels, the front, the sleeves -- all the way from the
hem at the wrists to the upper arms.

I had leaned over Lucy in Exam Three, trying to assess her, and by the
time someone came in I practically had Carter on the gurney, having
lifted him almost fully by myself, although I don't know where the
strength for that came from. They lifted him the rest of the way, and
then I went back to Lucy. My lab coat was already drenched at that point.

The splatters, the fine droplets that had gotten on my sweater which was
under my lab coat, had come out in the wash.

The blood on my lab coat, however, had not.

I washed it over and over, but the dark stains remained. I got a new
one, but couldn't bring myself to throw the old one away, so I put it in
a plastic bag, and shoved it deep into the back of the closet in my
laundry room.

I can't hide my feelings much longer. Any of them.

"We're here," Carter says quietly, interrupting my thoughts, and I look
up. He's pulled up in front and put the Jeep in park.

I turn to look at him.

"Can you come in for a few minutes?" I ask.

He takes a breath. "Yes," he says, and turns the engine off.

END of Declaration