All Evil Chances 


AUTHOR: Kacey Linden
EMAIL: entenebris@yahoo.com
CATEGORY: JC/PB
RATING: R
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: "ER" does not belong to me, it belongs to Warner Bros. Funny how I never get tired of saying that. Maybe it's the fear of prosecution.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is probably the most hateful thing I've ever written. I'm warning you now: there is a lot of bad and very offensive language, and a situation which makes me feel absolutely ill, but it was something I had to write for personal exorcism purposes. Anyway, I apologize in advance. This is set about a week after my other story "Getting Blood from a Rock", although you don't have to read that one to understand it. Hey, I'm getting continuity! No, not really. 

Huge thanks to Debbie for saying vague was okay, because as much as I'd love to be super-medical-knowledge-girl, I don't have the time these days, or the Internet connection.
SUMMARY: Carter and Benton run into a lot of trouble while buying a birthday gift. 

          "...to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief." - WB Yeats 


He stared at the bracelet, ensconced in a clear plastic bag. It sat on the table in front of him and he stared at it, his face impassive. It was stupid to hate a piece of jewelry, and it was stupid to hate the person you had bought a piece of jewelry for, and a part of him was well aware of both those facts. But he did hate it; and he had sent her away without a sideways glance. And now he was alone, glaring at the bracelet as if he could melt it with his thoughts. As if hatred could change anything. 

****
the day before 

"So, what're you going to get for Dr Finch?" 

Benton blinked, his eyes flickering around the hallway, as though he were uncertain he had heard anything. "What?" 

Carter, used to being ignored and now quite adept at getting attention for himself, prodded the surgeon on the shoulder. "What are you going to get her?" 

Benton sighed. "What makes you think I'm going to get her anything?" 

"Well, it is almost her birthday and you've been wandering around here looking like a monkey with a Calculus problem - " At the older man's frown of confusion, he clarified, "perplexed, and since I know nothing's wrong with Reese, I assume it's personal in the, you know, personal sense." 

Benton picked a chart off the desk, scanning it quickly without really taking in any of the information. He should have known this would happen. You tell someone he's your best friend and... It was like feeding a stray cat: it kept coming back. He stalked off in the direction of Exam 2; Carter followed, still yammering although Benton had tuned him out to some degree. 

The surgeon stopped abruptly in the doorway, bracing himself for the inevitable thump of the resident walking into his back. He didn't have to wait long. 

"Oops, sorry," Carter apologized, backing up a few paces so he wouldn't crowd the older man. "Why'd you stop?" 

Benton rubbed his forehead with his right hand, and turned to face his former student. "Carter, this is the hospital, remember? We work here - 'work' being the operative word. Gossip, personal lives, birthday presents... We don't do that here." 

Carter met his disapproving gaze without flinching, without any trace of fear whatsoever. Peter wondered again if he had done a good thing in telling Carter how highly he valued him. "Dr. Benton, I've been here for six years. I think I know what goes on in this hospital." 

Choking down a sigh, Benton knew the younger man was right. There was no way he could use work-place ideology against Carter; the resident fully understood how things worked in the real world already. And apparently he had learned a lot of it at the ER admissions desk: gossip, personal lives, birthday presents... "Fine," Benton conceded. "I don't know what to get her. I don't know where to look. I don't know anything. Now I've got a patient to see, so if you don't mind - " 

"Great!" 

"'Great'," echoed Benton in a much less enthused tone which indicated he saw nothing great in the situation. "What?" 

"I know what you can get her," Carter said, matter of fact but clearly pleased with himself. 

"Why didn't you just say so?" Benton asked, rubbing his forehead again in an attempt to assuage the headache-like sensation he got when people wasted his time. It wasn't a sensation he endured for very long, a fact Carter should have known. He was almost more interested in the answer to this question than the actual gift idea. 

"I wanted you to admit you needed me," Carter grinned. 

Benton dug into his forehead with the base of his palm. "I never said that." 

"I know," the resident commiserated, as if Benton had failed at a school project. "But you got close. You're off at ten tonight, right? Meet me at the front desk. Have a good day." Carter didn't wait for Benton to agree, he just waved good-bye and disappeared down the stairs. 

Benton watched him leave, shaking his head with the barest of smiles on his face. Sometimes stray cats made good company. 

**** 

"Carter - " Benton began warily. "Isn't this..." 

John waited for him to finish his question. When it became obvious that he wouldn't, the resident made a guess. "It's the happier part of town," Carter supplied. Benton rolled his eyes at the euphemism but said nothing. "The gay district," Carter explained bluntly, after he received no verbal response. 

"Yes, I understood you, Carter." 

"Don't worry, they won't try to convert you." 

"Why are we here?" Benton asked, ignoring the younger man's glib reassurance. He was not homophobic, just uncomfortable - the way he was uncomfortable in those all-white neighborhoods, where all the women would clutch their handbags a little tighter, the men would look at him a little longer and policemen seemed to sit on every corner. It was the unease of not belonging somewhere, and everyone knowing it. 

Carter paused a moment, squinting his eyes to read a street sign. "Ah, here it is." He made a sharp right turn, causing Benton to reach for the door handle. The Jeep came to a halt before a small store with some books and a few teddy bears in the front window. Benton looked at it, then looked at his former student. 

"Carter, does that bear's shirt say 'Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians'?" 

Carter had killed the engine, and was out on the sidewalk before Benton had even unclasped his seatbelt. He went up the glass, and then confirmed, "Yes, it does." He tilted his head to one side, observing the bear. "It's kind of cute. I wonder if Dr. Weaver would like one." 

The surgeon refused to comment on that remark. "What are we doing here?" Benton asked again, a little more forcefully this time. 

The shop door swung open to reveal a tall, slender woman with masses of dark red hair. "John! I thought you said around ten; I've been waiting for over an hour," she grumbled without any real disgruntlement. 

"I know, sorry," Carter glanced down at his watch with a grimace. "We got caught up in - " 

"If it's bloody I don't want to know," the woman declared, before he could go into more detail. She gave him a quick, hard hug, then noticed Benton. She extended her hand with an easy smile. "Hello, I'm Sam; you must be Dr. Benton." Her hand was slender, but her grip was strong and Benton found himself liking her without quite knowing his reasons. "I found what you asked for," Sam spoke to John. "Come on," she took Carter's arm and gestured with her head for Benton to follow them into the shop. 

"So, what do you think?" Carter asked, unaware of how hopeful he sounded. 

Benton was impressed, though it wasn't evident in his expression. The bracelet was perfect - a delicate silver chain, beautiful and simple. 

"You won't find it anywhere else," Carter continued in the face of Benton's silence. "Sam knows people who know people, right?" he grinned at the woman beside him. 

"You make it sound illegal," Sam protested, swatting him on the arm. She directed her attention to Benton, who was still studying the bracelet. "It's unique enough, but you can find them in a tiny coastal fishing village in Spain, if the place is still open. And I think there might be another one around here somewhere." She glanced about the cluttered shop, with a frown. "I'm sure I had another one. They look pretty much the same, though." 

"I'll take this one," said Benton, before she could start searching. Sam graced him with another brilliant smile, then disappeared to wrap the present. "Thanks, Carter," he added to his former student. Carter smiled back, relieved to know that he hadn't wasted the surgeon's time tonight. 

**** 

Five minutes later, he was less relieved. Bracelet paid for and handshakes exchanged, Carter had just waved good-bye to the redhead when he made the discovery. 

"You locked your keys in the car?" Benton repeated in a tone of withering disbelief. 

Carter held out a placating hand. "I'll call a locksmith." He reached into his pocket for his cellphone, feeling around again for the absent key-chain. "It'll just be a minute." 

Benton sighed, then half-laughed. Only Carter, this could only happen with Carter, he thought, conveniently forgetting all the times he had locked himself out of his own car. 

"Well, well, what have we got here?" a young, male voice intruded on them. 

The three boys looked strangely identical: almost exactly the same height and build, the same black leather jackets over black t-shirts and black jeans, their shaved heads gleaming under the streetlights. The only immediate difference was where their tattoos were placed: one had the Nazi symbol emblazoned on the left side of his head, one had it on the back of his left hand. The third man had one on each palm, an unholy stigmata. It was he who had spoken first, and it was he who snatched the cell phone from Carter's hand. 

Skinheads. White supremacists. Shit. Carter looked across at Benton, fear flashing across his features before he managed to hide it under a mask of aloofness. The surgeon had already sized up the situation; his eyes held Carter's gaze steadily, and he gave the younger man a slow nod of reassurance. 

"Looks like a couple of fags to me," the skinhead with the head tattoo replied in the same mocking tone his leader had used. 

"Hey, we don't want any - " Benton began to speak, his voice quiet and calm. 

"Trouble?" Skinhead 1 finished, with a smile so malicious it sent shivers up Carter's spine. "Too bad," he pulled a gun from his waistband and aimed it at Benton's head before moving closer to the surgeon. Carter started to intercept, but found himself pulled back by Skinhead 2, a gun pressed against his ribcage. Skinhead 1 walked directly up to Benton until the gun's muzzle rested against the surgeon's forehead. "We don't like faggots, do we?" 

"No!" chorused the other two, their loud voices seeming to echo off the empty streets. 

"What do we do to faggots?" 

"Kill them!" 

Carter inwardly winced at the demented catechism; they sounded like school children repeating a lesson. None of them was over eighteen, and yet here they were, roaming the streets at midnight, carrying weapons and looking for people to kill. It was a damn good thing Sam had left; if only he and Benton had arrived a little earlier... But there was no time to think now of "if only"s - Dr Benton was staring down a gun, and he was well aware of the weapon burrowed between his ribs. 

The leader stepped behind Benton, tall enough to see Carter over his shoulder but not quite as tall as his captive. "In love with a nigger... Of all repulsive things, that is the worst," Skinhead 1 grated out, running the nose of his gun down Benton's cheek. 

Carter shot a helpless glance at the surgeon. Their many years in the ER had brought them face to face with people who could not be reasoned with - these were definitely some of those people. "Look, we're not - " 

"Shut up, fag!" Skinhead 2 shouted, jamming his gun into the small of Carter's back. "I'll bet you're the bitch, huh? You look like a bitch, you disgusting piece of shit." 

Carter said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. He knew what they wanted from him: humiliation, degradation. He straightened a little, feeling the gun dig a little more into his spine, and remained silent. 

Benton cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him. "We aren't - " 

Skinhead 1 slammed his gun against the side of Benton's head, effectively silencing the surgeon. "Keep your fucking mouth closed, nigger!" 

Carter shifted to help the older man, but caught Benton's slight, warning headshake. 

"Let's just do it and get out of here," Skinhead 3 said, his eyes darting around the deserted street nervously. He had neither spoken nor acted since the question-and-answer session. 

Skinhead 1 looked as if he wanted to disagree, as if he were having too much fun to leave. Carter's eyes strayed from the bleeding cut on Benton's cheekbone to the euphoric expression on the youth's face. He would have lost control but for another small headshake from Benton. The surgeon's face was as impassive as ever, only the tightness of his mouth hinted at his fury. 

A moment passed before Skinhead 1 spoke. "Empty your pockets," he ordered. Both Carter and Benton hesitated a moment, unwilling to look like they were scrambling to obey. 

"He said empty your pockets, cocksucker!" Skinhead 2 reinforced the demand with a vicious jab of the gun. 

Beepers, wallets, then watches, one cell phone and one bracelet - the two doctors handed everything over wordlessly. 

"Keys, where're your keys?" Skinhead 1 asked. 

"In the car," Carter replied flatly. 

Skinhead 1 stared at him a moment, then started to laugh. It was mirthless, abrasive, disdainful. Without another word, he roughly shoved Benton into Skinhead 3's arms, walked up to Carter's Jeep. He shattered the driver-side window with one well-placed, obviously well-practiced elbow jab, then opened the door. Brushing aside the broken glass, he settled into the driver's seat. "Nice," he commented with a sneer, arranging the rearview mirror. He was fiddling with the side-mirror when his entire body stiffened. He tilted his head to one side, listening carefully, and Carter flashed on the ludicrous similarity between his expression and that of a deer hearing a hunting horn. 

A few seconds later, the police siren was evident to them all. Skinhead 3 shifted from foot to foot, his eyes searching for the approaching vehicle. Carter could feel a slight waver in the gun at his back; the sensation was not reassuring. 

"Get in!" Skinhead 1 commanded, unlocking the door for his cohorts while keeping his gun trained on the two doctors. The Neo-Nazi's rushed to the car. "You," he nodded to Skinhead 3 in the backseat, "you do them." 

"Wh-what?" stammered Skinhead 3. 

"It's your initiation night, man, what the fuck did you think was gonna happen?" Skinhead 1 mocked him. 

The sirens were getting closer. If only they could get Skinhead 3 to hesitate a minute longer... Benton gave his former student an encouraging, though almost imperceptible nod. The boy, despite his shaved head, was evidently not eager to take the final step of his initiation. 

"It's just two fags, man! Worse than fucking rats! Just do it and we'll get the hell out of here! Do it now!" 

Benton could never clearly recall what happened after that. He heard the shots, he heard the shouts of victory, he heard the engine start and the squeal of tires, he heard the sirens. But it was only a jumbled mess of sounds. The first thing he remembered clearly was a police officer standing above him, looking down at him in concern. 

"You okay?" The question seemed to come from far away. 

The next thing he became aware of was Carter, lying on top of him, not moving. Then he noticed the blood. 

**** 

"What the hell happened?" Mark Greene demanded in a barely restrained bellow. Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Lydia: "CBC, chem panel, type and cross for four, portable x-ray and call the OR now!" She nodded, scribbling his directions as she hurried away. 

Benton was unaware of Dr Greene's query, being completely submerged in dealing with Carter's plummeting blood pressure. 

"What do you have here?" Luka glanced down at the patient, then swore in Croatian. "Again?" he asked, looking at Mark almost angrily. Dr Greene glowered back at the foreign doctor, his own anger simmering dangerously near the surface. 

"You, take him," Mark stabbed a finger at Benton, "and get that head wound tended to. Malucci!" he yelled, spotting the younger doctor standing aimlessly in the hallway. "Get in here and help!" 

"What's up - shit!" 

Four doctors hovered over Carter, three of them desperately trying to ascertain the extent of the damage the bullet had made, one trying unsuccessfully to remove Dr Benton. Luka had only to touch Benton's arm for the surgeon to start growling. 

"I'm fine, back off!" Benton wasn't even aware who was trying to pull him away, only that someone was impeding his ability to help Carter. 

"Dr Benton, we need - " 

"Get away from me!" Benton lashed out with one arm, the other hand was busy attempting to secure an IV. He caught Luka full-force on the chin, causing another string of Croatian profanities. On the third effort, Benton turned around, and grabbed the other doctor by his lab-coat lapels, physically lifting the man a few centimeters. "I told you - " 

"Peter!" Mark shouted authoritatively. "Let Dr Kovac go *right now*! Either you let him check you out or you get the hell out of my ER!" Benton's enraged gaze met Mark's immovable one. Then the surgeon blinked, released Dr Kovac and stepped away from Carter's side, giving the unconscious resident a quick squeeze on the arm. 

He muttered a vague, rather ungracious apology to Dr Kovac, his eyes never straying from the activity in the middle of the room. Later he had no recollection of how the ten stitches in his cheek got there. Luka did: he was nearly unseated when Benton rose suddenly, intent on following Carter to the OR. The surgeon would have undoubtedly left, needle dangling down from his face, even if Luka had not finished. It had taken thirty seconds of quick talking to make Benton wait for him to tie and cut the thread. 

Dr Corday met him at the door of the OR, hands held up in warning. "Romano says you can't come in." 

"WHAT?" thundered Benton, so obviously outraged that even Elizabeth flinched. But she didn't back down. 

"Look, Peter, you're in no shape to perform any kind of operation right now, and you do *not* need to see this. You're tired and you're angry and you're on edge..." She gave him a sympathetic smile that did nothing to improve his mood. "I'll tell you as soon as we're done. Carter will be fine." 

Benton studied her hard, then admitted softly, "I don't even know what's happening, where the bullet went or how extensive the internal damage is." 

Elizabeth smiled again, reassuringly. "He'll be fine, Peter. Let us do our job, all right?" 

"I have no choice, right?" Benton asked, defeated. 

"No." She gently touched his arm, then moved to re-enter the scrub room. Benton reached out, snagging her elbow. 

"Be careful," he half-ordered, half-pleaded. 

Dr Corday nodded, eased out from his grip and entered the OR. Benton watched the door shut behind her and briefly entertained the thought of ignoring Romano's command. He should be in there; he needed to be in there; Carter would want him to be in there. Screw Romano. 

He had pushed the door open an inch when a voice called his full name. 

Benton turned to find himself faced with two detectives and a tearful, trembling Sam. "What happened?" she asked, just as the suited men said, "We need you to answer some questions." Peter wavered; he still wanted to in the OR with Carter, but he wanted answers too. No, not answers; he wanted retribution, vengeance. With one last regretful glance at the OR, he nodded at the policemen and let himself be led down the hallway to the waiting room. 

**** 

Benton stared at the bracelet, hating it. He had actually taken a step back when Sam produced an exact double of the one he had purchased from her purse. He didn't want it anymore. But she insisted, telling him that Carter had been quite emphatic about its importance. So he accepted it silently, dropping it on the table almost immediately. 

The detectives departed after an hour; Benton had run out of patience with their redundant questions and stopped responding. Sam had sat with him for awhile, neither of them saying anything, although Benton had the feeling she wanted to speak. As it stretched, the silence grew oppressive and eventually she walked out, muttering something about coffee and phone calls. 

As soon as she was gone, Cleo stuck her head in the door, full of platitudes and consolations he did not want to hear. He didn't even glance at her, certain that if he did, he would start to blame her because it was her birthday that had started this whole mess. And the detached part of his mind which was functioning rationally knew that was ridiculous, and it would be a mistake he could not rectify if he voiced it aloud. So he spoke in clipped, unwelcoming sentences, his attitude bordering on rudeness. With an odd, hurt look, Dr Finch had departed also, leaving Benton alone with the bracelet and his thoughts. 

It wasn't "survivor" guilt; he could not honestly say he was sorry he hadn't been shot. What was really bothering him was that Carter had landed on top of him. They had been standing side by side. In theory, Carter should have landed on the ground beside him. But it hadn't happened that way. Somehow Carter had been in front of him when the bullet struck. What had happened? As many times as he had run through the events, he could not get past the facts that Carter had been standing between him and the gun, and that Carter was shot and he was sitting here with only a few stitches. Had the resident stepped in front of him? Had he done it deliberately? Benton pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped his head into his hands with a low sigh. 

It had been a quite a while since he had encountered a full-blown racial attack. And he had certainly never been accused of homosexuality. He wondered what the Neo-Nazis would think if they found out that the person they had hurt was like them: a white heterosexual. As soon as the thought entered his mind, Benton extinguished it violently, shaking his head as though trying to physically expel it, furious at himself for equating Carter with the men who had assaulted them. 

Peter had been at County for many years; most people accepted his unapproachable air and left him alone. Only a few people had attempted to get to know him beyond the cool, confident persona. Only one had really become a friend. And that one was lying on an operating table, getting a bullet extracted from his body. A bullet that had been intended for Benton. 

He lurched to his feet, unable to sit around any longer. A woman gasped, startled, since he barely missed head-butting her as he rose. He glanced up, expecting to see Sam. But it was Dr Corday, with an unmistakably relieved smile on her face. Benton sat down again, abruptly, the release of tension momentarily sucking all the energy out of his legs. He looked up at her in mute inquiry. 

"Well, he lost a lot of blood, and he's spleenless, and he won't be able to eat solid food for a while, but he will be fine. He's in Recovery, you can go see - " 

Benton was already gone. 

**** 

She found him in Recovery fifteen minutes later, lounging back in the one chair in the room, apparently comforted by the cacophony of machinery which disturbed most people. One of his arms lay beside Carter, not quite touching the unconscious man, the other was flipping through the resident's chart. 

"A woman called Sam told me to tell you that she reached Carter's grandmother in England and she'll be arriving later tonight, and she wants you to tell Carter that she'll come herself tomorrow afternoon, and then I believe she asked me out on a date." Elizabeth's voice was a little perturbed, but mainly amused. "Oh, and you forgot this." She held out the bracelet, adding, "It's beautiful." 

Benton wanted nothing more than to stomp the bracelet into a little piece of scrap metal, but he couldn't. Not because he wanted to give it to Cleo, but because Carter had wanted him to give it to Cleo, and had made a special effort so that he could give it to Cleo. It was the first sign of friendship outside the workplace between the two doctors, and he would not toss it out, tempted though he was. But neither could he give it to Cleo, and watch her display it like a romantic trinket. 

"Peter?" Dr Corday waved the bracelet before him, as if baiting a kitten. 

"Keep it," he said. 

"Me?" Elizabeth's disbelief was almost comic. 

"You saved his life, keep it." The words came out so hurriedly that Elizabeth had to think a moment before they made sense. 

"He means a lot to you," she observed quietly. 

Benton stared at Carter's pale features. Friendship was something he had very little experience with - in his life he had been in love with people, and he had definitely hated people, but the act of simply yet truly caring for another person was unknown beyond his immediate family. At the moment, he was uncertain how much he enjoyed it. "Yes, he does." 

Elizabeth placed her hand on his shoulder, but before she could say anything, Carter moaned slightly. Benton was instantly alert, leaning towards the younger man with an anxious expression. 

"John?" 

Corday's eyes flickered in surprise at hearing Benton use Carter's first name. She didn't think she had ever heard that before. But Carter responded to it, eyelids fluttering, then suddenly opening wide with confusion. Beneath her hand, she could feel Benton heave a sigh of relief. The surgeon leaned in closer, speaking in a soothing undertone she felt she had no right to eavesdrop on. So she patted Benton lightly on the back, aware that he didn't notice the gesture, and she left the two friends alone. 

the end