Coping with All 


AUTHOR: Kacey Linden
EMAIL: entenebris@yahoo.com
CATEGORY: JC/PB
RATING: PG-13 (a little bad language)
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: "ER" doesn't belong to me; I'm doing this for fun, not money. No, wait, I'm doing it so that Carter can get out of a burning building! 
AUTHOR'S NOTES: As I'm sure you're all aware, Kristen reverse-blackmailed me into writing an additional scene for "All Evil Chances". I was quite happily not doing a thing about this until this morning when I discovered she had finished her end of the deal, at which time I promptly shrieked: "What?" and started seriously thinking about going on hiatus again and hiding out from a vengeful cliffhanger-writer. Anyway, this is not very well-written because I only spent about an hour and a half on it and I don't care because I got what I wanted. Blackmail does pay! :-) Also, I didn't send it to Debbie, because I didn't have enough time so I'm completely vague today and all errors are mine alone. (So don't touch them!) 
SUMMARY: Add-on scene for "All Evil Chances" 



Peter Benton had never been a patient man. When he wanted answers, he demanded them and God help the poor soul who could not immediately produce them. But for this, he waited. 

The first time Carter had regained consciousness, he had been too bewildered and in too much pain for Benton to push anything other than sleep. The second time, Millicent Carter had been in the room, and Benton was still too uncomfortable with the elderly woman to speak of anything aside from Carter's physical recovery. The third time, most of the ER staff had been visiting, and Benton had been unable to do more than swap pleasantries with Carter. 

So he waited, and thought, and thought harder, and tried to remember, and tried to forget. Shots, shrieks of deranged enjoyment, sirens, "You okay?", Carter, blood, blood, blood... In the dank light of the streetlamps, it had looked black, like a pool of darkness opening beneath Carter. Benton was sick of reliving it, sick of trying to figure out something that he knew he could not figure out until he had spoken with his former student. 

He stood outside Carter's room, observing the younger man. The resident was pale, but he looked much better than he had yesterday. He lay silently, television and lights off, and he was staring out the window at the sunset. Benton might have left him alone for another day if his expression had been peaceful, but there was an air of disquiet about the younger man, even in his stillness. 

"Carter, we have to talk," Benton stated flatly as he strode into the room. 

John looked away from the window and up at his former teacher with a small, worried frown. "All right, that sounds ominous." He waited a moment while Benton paced at the foot of his bed, tracking the surgeon's backwards-forwards movement with his eyes until it made him feel slightly ill. "What?" he asked finally. 

"What happened that night?" 

Carter's look of concern changed into one of confusion. "What happened?" he repeated. 

"Yes." 

"You were there; you know what happened." When Benton didn't respond to this, Carter sighed. "I locked my keys in the car and we got... mugged." He didn't look at the surgeon as he spoke; he watched his right hand pluck at the edge of his bedsheet. 

"And then?" Benton pressed. 

"And then what?" asked Carter, genuinely perplexed. 

"Carter, you got shot." 

Again there was a silence. Benton started to pace again. Carter watched him, his expression troubled. The room had darkened considerably; he could barely make out Benton's facial features, especially with the only light coming from the window behind the surgeon. 

"Okay, I got shot. Duly noted. And?" 

"And I didn't." 

Carter hesitated for a moment, then slowly said, "Right." 

"Why?" Benton stopped abruptly, facing Carter; his countenance was unreadable. 

"What?" Carter still didn't understand what Benton wanted to hear. It was evident that something was bothering the other man, but he couldn't figure it out. For the past couple days he had been thinking over what had happened, and he had expected to have some sort of conversation with Benton, but this was not what he had pictured. 

Benton reined in his frustration with an effort. They were beginning to sound like a bad comedy act. He knew Carter wasn't stupid; he obviously wasn't making himself clear. So he took a deep breath and repeated, "You got shot, I didn't. I want to know why." 

"I'm unlucky," Carter replied promptly with a shrug. 

The surgeon shook his head; if there was even a hint of smile on his face, it didn't show in the dim lighting. "You landed on top of me, Carter. That wouldn't've happened unless you were standing in front of me." Benton paused, but Carter said nothing. "What happened?" Benton asked again, quietly. 

Carter cleared his throat, and focused his gaze on the dark form standing at the base of his bed. "I don't know." 

And there was Benton's answer. Carter had stepped in front of him, and he had done it deliberately. A myriad of emotions flooded through the surgeon's mind, most of them indefinable. At a loss momentarily, Benton latched on to the most familiar one. "How could you do that?" he practically shouted at the younger man. "What the hell were you thinking?" 

Carter shrank back slightly. He had been expecting anger, but he never could prepare himself for a true Benton tirade. "I don't know." 

"You don't know? You could've died, and you don't know?" demanded Benton, subconsciously happy to have an outlet for his pent up anxiety. His voice rose a few decibels. "How can you not know? You don't just step in front of a fucking bullet, Carter! Not without - " 
      'I locked my keys in the car and we got mugged.' Benton frowned as the resident's version of what happened suddenly registered. "A reason," he finished softly, all anger forgotten. He glanced down at Carter, noticing the apprehensive look on his face with a twinge of guilt. "John, you don't... I mean, you know what happened wasn't your fault, right?" 

"Sure." 

The answer was a little too quick, too smooth. "Carter - " 

"How could it not be my fault? I took you there in the middle of the fucking night, knowing it wasn't a good neighborhood! I locked my fucking keys in the car! How moronic can a person get? I mean, who the hell - " John stopped with a gasp that turned into a groan. He had been sitting up a little more with every self-loathing word, and the movement pulled against his sutures. 

Benton was instantly at his side, forcing him down gently. "It's okay, Carter, take it easy, breathe." 

A minute passed with only Benton's reassurances and Carter's ragged breathing. Then the pain subsided, and the younger man relaxed. He silently submitted to the surgeon's checking the wound, apparently embarrassed at his outburst. 

After determining that Carter had done no further damage to himself, Benton sat down on the chair beside the bed with a sigh. "Carter, I've locked myself out of my car plenty of times. Everyone has. What happened was not your fault. If they hadn't found us, they would've just attacked the next people they saw." 

"But, Dr Benton, I took you there. You would've never been in that area, at that time - " 

"Yeah, you dragged me kicking and screaming to buy a present for my girlfriend," Benton interrupted. "You were trying to do me a favor, right?" 

"Doesn't matter; it's still my fault - " 

"It's your fault I got a great present. What happened afterwards was beyond your control." 

"I just feel... I feel like it was worse for you than it was for me. What they said, what they did," he gestured slightly at Benton's cheek, careful not to move too much. 

"Which one of us is lying down?" countered Benton. "Yeah, okay, I probably haven't been that angry for a long time, but... sticks and stones, Carter. So some skinheads call me a nigger," he watched Carter flinch at the word, "that doesn't mean you should step in front of a bullet." 

"I didn't step in front of a bullet, I stepped in front of you." The words were quietly spoken but they resonated in the small room. 

Benton stared at him, but said nothing. Then he stood and walked away from the bedside to the window, leaning his hip against the sill as he gazed out at the city. "When I was eleven, my best friend and I got jumped by three college students, looking for some fun. They grabbed me first. And my best friend ran away. I yelled for him to help me, but he was too scared, I guess. He just ran. He didn't even look back. After that, I never really trusted anyone to... Look, Carter, what I'm trying to say - " What was he trying to say? Benton wasn't sure he knew the words. Or maybe he did, and he wasn't ready to say them. He turned around. "I never doubted you would stay." 

Carter accepted this with a wordless nod and a slow smile. It wasn't simply a tacit declaration of friendship; Benton had just opened a little of his personal life to the resident. "Thanks." 

"Of course, I realize that part of your incentive was the gun at your back," Benton added with a slight smirk. 

"Obviously," agreed Carter, recognizing that Benton's emotional quota had been filled. 

"And thanks for stepping in front of me but don't ever do it again," the surgeon said in a rush. 

"Did Dr Finch like the bracelet?" Carter asked instead. 

"I mean it." 

"Yes, yes, no more stepping in front of you. Like I'm going to do that again. You yelled at me," Carter pointed out, a little reproachfully. 

Benton looked properly ashamed for a whole second. "I'm sorry about that." 

Carter gaped at him. "Did you just apologize to me? You really should wait until I'm feeling better, Dr Benton. Falling out of bed might kill me right now." 

Benton rolled his eyes. "I seriously doubt that, Carter." 

"Okay, maybe not," the resident conceded with a grin. "So, did she like the bracelet?" 

"Yes." It was the truth. He had heard Cleo admiring the bracelet on Elizabeth's wrist this morning. He hadn't really spoken to her since the shooting, and was unsure of what to say after four days of silence and neglect. If he wanted to salvage the relationship, he'd have to find something spectacular. But that wasn't Carter's problem. Carter's problem was not looking after himself well enough. Benton could plainly see that the resident was exhausted, and yet he was doggedly staying awake, chattering away about jewelry. If Carter wasn't going to look out for himself, someone else would have to do it for him. It seemed only fair, thought Benton with an inward sigh. 

He stopped Carter mid-ramble by pulling the bedsheet up to the younger man's chin. "Get some sleep," he ordered. 

"Did you just tuck me in?" Carter asked. 

"Yes." 

"Do you remember what I said about falling out of bed?" 

"Go to sleep," Benton said again, trying, unsuccessfully, not to smile. "And Carter?" he asked, pausing in the doorway. He waited for his former student to look at him. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome." 

the end 




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