Vibes: porch-sitting while it rains, root for the underdog, cheese and crackers over the sink for dinner, night shift, doctors make terrible patients, diner breakfast beats brunch, if you hold your head high enough they won't even notice you're small
Currently: New to County General (ER 1994) and/or PTMC (The Pitt). Open to forming relationships of all sorts--platonic, professional, familial, romantic. No guarantee of shipping, but willing to explore!
"I thought therapists had an answer for everything," Carter teased, his tone gravelly with want as his teeth grazed the curve of her neck. Jo's fingers wove through his hair, both scraping and pulling as he groaned into her skin, though just as his tongue darted out against her pulse, she yanked again and dragged the slant of his mouth into her own.
Melting into her touch, Carter angled in with a harsh eagerness, the kiss wet and lacking finesse as she posed her not-quite-threat against his kiss-swollen lips.
"I guess I could stand to be eaten," he fired back, a breathless grin crinkling the corner of his eyes.
"Think I want too much," Jo confessed, causing a shiver to lance pleasantly up his spine. Her lips latched onto the sensitive spot beneath his ear, and he arched against her, his pants tightening as he sucked a breath. "Is it too much?"
Carter breathed a husky laugh. "Too much? No...but out here, maybe." Pointedly, he rocked his hips into hers, indicating the rapidly swelling arousal in his pants. "Have any other 'clever' ideas? I doubt your place is this close by..."
Chicago seemed to have a hotel on every street corner. The one they'd stumbled into was mid-tier--nothing to break the bank, but not as seedy as a truck-stop motel. She wouldn't have minded, though. They just needed a bed--hell, they just needed four walls and a roof, she didn't require the bed. But maybe Carter preferred it.
Maybe he'd lead her up to their assigned room and be precious about it, or methodical. Maybe there'd be a breather of a moment where they'd each wash up in the bathroom first. Oh, she couldn't stand that, she didn't want the heat they'd stirred up to dissipate. She might change her mind. He might change his mind.
So when they made it to the elevator and the doors slid shut, she threw caution to the wind again. Pinned him there against the wall, fists in his coat once more, and all but climbed him to get at his lips. "I really only thought we'd make out a little," she admitted, licking into his mouth. "Didn't think you'd like me this much."
John Carter x OFC (explicit, view tags and warnings on AO3)
Dr. Carter develops a big ol' fat crush on a terminally ill patient's mom. He's definitely not encountering his own childhood issues at all.
Read on AO3
--
Ms. LaMotte
God, she’s pretty.
Carter thinks she gets prettier each time she comes in. Even with her hair falling out of her ponytail and her eyes ringed with exhaustion, she’s a stunner.
Of course her visits make him feel like the world’s biggest asshole—he wants her kid to do well, to not need a trip to the ER. He’d take a miraculously cured kid over everything else. But he’d be lying if he said her presence didn’t make his day a little better. She’s just so sweet and so good with the boy and her rare laugh is like birdsong.
He buries the warped joy that’s definitely getting him a one-way ticket to hell, and steps into the room.
“Hey Mattie, I thought we agreed, no more visits til after the New Year.”
The boy shrugs, cannula tube catching on his shoulder and slipping off his ear. Carter adjusts it as he approaches and takes a look at the chart in his hand while the boy lays things out. “I said we didn’t need to come, but mom didn’t like the sound of my cough.”
“Smart mom. You mind if I listen?”
The boy is an old hand at this, breathing deep each time he feels Carter’s stethoscope shift against his back. For his part, Carter ventures a look at Ms. LaMotte, who stands on the opposite side of the bed, watching her son with worry and soft affection.
“I wanted to catch it before it settled into pneumonia. His pulmonologist is out of town, said I should come here. He’s been worried about antibiotic resistance.”
And for good reason. Mattie’s in a bad way. Carter knows it, mom knows it, even Mattie knows it. The only truly hopeful one is the little brother, and god, John knows that irrational sort of faith.
But today isn’t shaping up to be a tragedy, and Carter’s glad to deliver that news.
“Fever’s low, which is good. Pulse ox is good, too. But we’ll get a chest x-ray to be safe.” He ruffles Mattie’s hair, “sound like a plan?”
The kid was probably hoping to hear that his mom was blowing it all out of proportion, but he resigns to nodding his head. Usually, Carter spares children the really thorough explanation of things, but Mattie’s precocious, so he addresses him directly.
“I’m not hearing it down in your lungs yet. So while the coughing might drive mom nuts, you keep at it, try to keep the gunk from settling in your chest, okay?”
Ms. LaMotte laughs, a low humming sound that sends a shiver through Carter. “Doesn’t bother me one bit, you do what you gotta do. He complained about a sore throat last night, is there something I can do for that?”
The pleasant smile she wears is so disarming, he nearly forgets the question as soon as she's asked it.
“I’ll uh--I'll write up a scrip for chloraseptic spray, that should help a lot. Warm water with honey, too."
Her smile softens even more as relief settles across her shoulders. She leaves her eyes closed on the next blink for just an extra moment and why the hell is he clocking all of this?
"Thank you, Dr. Carter. I probably seem like a worrier, but--"
"No! No, better safe than sorry. All I see is a loving mother."
God, he was so full of shit.
He sees her a week later at the counter in Doc Magoo's, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at a cheeseburger like it might tell her how to fix everything that's gone wrong in her life. He's looked at a cheeseburger like that a time or two.
He should leave her be. Get his sandwich and coffee to go. But he's never been able to abstain.
"Ms. LaMotte?"
She whirls around on her stool and gifts him a sad, but sincere smile. "Dr. Carter, what a nice surprise. I should've guessed the doctors come here."
"Oh yeah, it's a regular haunt." The seat beside hers is empty and just far enough away that he allows himself to sit. "No Mattie with you today?"
He didn't want to ask. He cares about the kid, sure, but he knows that mentioning him will make her smile fade. Turns out Mattie came down with pneumonia after all and peds admitted him. She fled to the diner for a change of scenery, but the guilt of just ten minutes away is already eating her up.
"I'm not naive, y'know? I know it's coming to an end." She swipes a graceful, trembling finger under her eye and shrugs. "I'm sorry, you don't need this."
He's taken one of her hands between both of his before he can think of any words, he just needs her to know that it's okay. That she can grieve in front of him, if that's what she needs. And then--because he's lost his mind--he starts spilling his guts.
"My brother died of leukemia when I was eleven. And it isn't--it's not the same as what you're going through, being the mother. But you don't have to apologize to me."
Her face crumples, all full of sympathy or pity, and she lifts her free hand to his cheek, "you poor thing." It takes every scrap of willpower in his body to not lean into her palm, soft and soothing as it is.
"I worry about Dylan, about what this has put him through. He loves his brother, they have such a bond. But I wanna protect him from it. To make sure that he still gets to be a kid."
Maybe he's hallucinating. That seems more plausible than what's happening in the moment--this beautiful woman, this loving mother, caressing his cheek and saying the kinds of things that could have tempered his childhood traumas. He wants to take her face in his hands, put his forehead against hers, whisper that she's done everything right. In lieu of that, he smiles sadly.
"He knows you're trying."
He would've known if his own mother had tried.
It's 2:30am and the snow is falling steadily enough that Chicago has gone quiet. There's a frequent flyer alcoholic sleeping it off with a banana bag in Curtain 1. An elderly woman in Curtain 2 hooked up to dialysis. And Ms. LaMotte, fighting with the soda machine to return her change. He dips into the lounge for a moment, then heads out to chairs.
"Leave it," he advises, approaching without warning but keeping his voice soft. He holds out the can of cola he'd pilfered from the fridge. "On the house."
She accepts with the sweetest smile, he feels like he's won a prize. "I really shouldn't be having caffeine at this hour."
He bites his lip and flirts, such an asshole. "Secret's safe with me."
And he could catch up on charts, he could check in with either of the two patients on the floor, but he doesn't. He lingers and strikes up small talk and somehow they start meandering through the halls of the ER.
"Y'know, I came down here hoping to run into you."
Interest piqued, he slows his steps and waits on bated breath for her to continue.
"I think--" she shakes her head and covers her face as she frowns, "god, it's so silly, you've got much better things to do. But I think you've become a comfort in all of this. Your manner, maybe. How much Mattie likes you." She drops her hand, finally, and he sees that her cheeks are pink and the shallow start of smile lines around her mouth have smoothed for the moment. "When things are this dire, you cling to anything nice."
His ears are ringing, he's going to do something so fucking stupid, but she's close to him and they're alone and Exam Room 4 is two steps away.
He reaches for her hand--she could move away from that, if she wanted. He takes a step closer--she could move away from that, too. But she stays put, leans in, and he can't look her in the eye yet. "Ms. LaMotte--"
"Julie."
Oh god, "Julie." He looks up because he was gonna say something, but all that comes out is "Julie," again.
"Dr. Carter?"
And that's nice, it's always nice when she says his title and name, but she's Julie now, so he's "John."
She's staring at his mouth, there's no denying that her eyes are locked onto his mouth, and maybe he's not an asshole, he's not even the one doing this, she's the one calling him "John" in a soft, breathy way like it's a new secret and--
He whips her into Exam Room 4. Locks the door and leaves the light off and pushes her back to the wall. He's had an embarrassing number of daydreams about this moment, and it always moves slow and hesitant. But the real thing is frantic. 'Cause he's afraid it'll dissolve away, afraid she'll think better of it all and run off, afraid that his damn pager will call him away. So he can't waste any time. And she knows a thing or two about not wasting time. She's going head-to-head with mortality these days, so she doesn't wait for anything she wants.
Tonight, at three in the morning, she wants to eat him alive. Carter likes an indulgent, drawn-out makeout session when he can spare the time, but he doesn't mind this, either--the hungry way she bites his lips and drags her mouth along his jaw. He has to take hold of her disheveled ponytail to pull her away long enough to get his own teeth on her. She wears a thin gold chain and he's watched it glint across her collarbone so many times...he sucks against the hollow of her throat until it earns him a moan.
And all at once, he's like a goddamn teenager again, rutting against the soft warmth of her belly. She's got more important things to do in life than count her every calorie and god if that doesn't feel good. He gets both hands under her sweater and then down around her smooth back until he can grope her ass. It's good leverage for rutting against and he buries a groan against her neck and it's so fucking good, he can't believe it's this good.
But then she puts both hands in his hair and starts pushing. Down between the swell of her tits, his nose dragging against the cashmere of her sweater. Down past her belly so that he sinks to his knees and tucks his fingers into her waistband.
He's salivating. He's so fucking gone that his mouth is watering and his heart's like a rabbit in his chest. And when he bunches her skirt up around her hips, she smooths his hair back and pets his cheek.
The rest happens as hazy as a dream. Maybe this is his life's purpose--his family will be so glad to hear he's given up medicine. That's right, Carter Family Foundation--forget hospitals, he's going to spend the rest of his days on his knees, eating out Ms. LaMotte.
He's messy about it, head angled awkwardly as it is. But she doesn't seem to mind. When he puts his nose into it, she hikes one of her knees up over his shoulder and coos, "that's good...such a good boy, Johnny."
Oh fuck, oh fuck, he groans hard to distract from coming and she nearly rips his hair out for it. When he does this in a bed, he presses the heel of his hand low on the girl's belly and it sends her out of her goddamn mind. He tries it on Ms. LaMotte--"Julie"--and her knees give out. But his mouth continues, follows her as she slides down the wall until he's leaning back on his haunches and she's perched astride his waist.
She looks half-crazed, tastefully subtle lipstick bleeding outside of her lips' edge where she's bit and licked at them. Her hair's gone frizzy around her ears and the back of her neck where pressing against the wall has knocked it loose from her ponytail. He loves her like this, a little mussed and heavy-eyed. Her face goes slack, her tongue peeks out for a second when she lands her weight on his hard-on, and then she's beaming, almost blushing. "The baby-face had me fooled...you're a man full grown."
He'd usually goad that kind of talk on, "I'll show you full grown," but being a good boy was headier. "Yes, ma'am," he warbles, tugging her sweater's neckline down so he can mouth at her warm cleavage. "Grown enough."
She cradles his head close, almost dearly, while she grinds slow in his lap. "God, you're sweet. Always so sweet, even in my dreams."
She's dreamt about him? He shouldn't be so surprised, he's dreamt about her. But he's a hard-up resident with too much work and not enough free time and an unhealthy social life. But then she's an exhausted single mom without much of a support system.
He's gonna make her forget all that, at least for a little while. 'Cause she's making him forget that he's lonely. She's warm and solid and making pleased little animal sounds.
"Dreamt about you too." He goes back to kissing her mouth, messier than before, eager to see her lipstick on his face when they've finished. "So pretty, you're so pretty every time I see you, soft and pretty, gonna come in my pants like a goddamn teenager over you."
She makes a comforting, cooing sound, so maternal in tone that he almost feels guilty. "Oh sweet boy, do it. We'll do it together, hm? You got me off again that fast, Johnny, such a good boy."
Fuck, she's got his number. The warmth snaps in his belly before he feels it in his boxers, but he can hardly find the boundary 'cause he's gone. Moaning out and digging fingers into the soft love handles low on her back. His thighs are on fire now, but it's worth it to watch her grip his waist and fling her head back, "yessssss." She looks blissful. So happy. He made her forget that things were dire, just for a few moments. Made her happy. He feels drunk off of it.
But her eyes are clear as day when she rights herself in his lap and takes a steadying breath. She cocks her head at an angle, considering his face carefully. And she laughs, just once, warm and fond. "Oh honey, c'mere--" She licks her thumb and uses it to rub away the lipstick smear raying out from the corner of his mouth, onto his cheek. When she's satisfied, she finger-combs through his hair, too. "There. All better."
Even when covered in literal blood, sweat, and tears, it’s hard to miss the obvious fact that Dr. Carmichael is very much a lady, the sort you open doors for, pay for expensive meals, and buy her clothes and lacey little accessories she doesn’t need but would look so damn good on her.
Whoa. Slow down there, Robby. You’re in public here.
He watches as she meets him at the curb, her feet perched on the edge like an owl about to take flight to claim its prey. He might as well be a stupid, unassuming field mouse because he’s already (and willingly) caught in her talons.
“‘Course,” he clarifies with a hum as he gestures down the street, “Meet me at the lot there. There’s a decent bar just ‘round the corner.” Before she can potentially question why he doesn’t just give her a quick lift on the back of his bike, he snorts, “Terrible idea. These things are death traps.”
With irony served, he revs the engine and weaves back into traffic, parked and hoofing it to the end of the block in no time with one hand clutching his backpack and the other shoved into his jacket pocket, at least until they approach the bar door, its neon sign switched on for the quickly approaching dark that follows evening. Then he opens the door for her, like the lady she is, a lady who also gets to decide where they’ll be sitting.
“Friend of mine owns the place,” he muses aloud, “He’s had some legal troubles recently, so his sister’s been keeping the place afloat.”
He tracks her movements with all of the careful attention she's seen in him at work--eyes clear and sharp, crow's feet seeming to focus them. He's not a surgeon, but he's got the precision and eye for detail to be one. To have that awareness trained on her is energizing. A little terrifying. If he gave her more time to think about it, she might skitter off in fear.
She's about to rag on him for the bike when he beats her to the punch. He's quick like that, always seems to be one step ahead. But he's not mean about it, not trying to compete or prove himself. He stops and looks back and lets her catch up--in conversations, at work, just now as he holds the door open.
"Friend of mine owns the place..."
"In cahoots with the barkeep--so you're a local local." She leads them to the far end of the counter where they can perch and talk and tune out the rest of the bar if it gets rowdy. It's still early, but she's found the Steel City has a loud personality. "Did you grow up in Pittsburgh or just land here after med school?"
Per the norm, the day wears on his already aching back and just as equally on his withering old heart. I can’t do this anymore, he tells himself once again, knowing fully well he’ll be back tomorrow, only to repeat the process – a vicious cycle.
He spies her, Jo, on the corner sidewalk as he approaches the upcoming intersection on his bike. Maybe he should’ve kept driving, gone straight home to stew in his isolation and misery, the way he does every night, but instead he found himself pulling his Harley up to the curb, revving once to get her attention as he greets her with a nod.
“You’ve looked better, kid.” he teases lightly, lowering his shades, “Maybe a drink is in order.”
She knows her way to and from PTMC now. No more getting lost, no more padding her travel time to make sure she's not late in the event she gets turned around. It's just familiar enough that she can zone-out on occasion and not worry she'll forget where she is.
It's the sound of a revving motorcycle that snaps her out of her present pondering. But it's the voice that makes her turn around.
Dr. Robby.
“You’ve looked better, kid.”
Kid. Oh, she could just curl in on herself and die. She supposes it suits, what with the two decades between them. But it makes her feel small and young and foolish.
So she lifts her chin in an effort to fake a little more confidence. "Don't you know not to tell a lady she's looked better?" There's no real criticism in her voice as she walks the few steps it takes to meet him at the curb. "But a drink's not a bad idea...you buying?"
"I guess it wouldn't," Carter murmured, watching her closely while she smoothed his lapel. "Maybe it's not the ugly parts we need to be afraid of...maybe it's the beauty that's so deceiving."
God, how much had he had to drink? He felt both hot and cold, waxing poetic out in the middle of the frigid Chicago streets, and yet it was as though he were spilling over, incendiary, as Jo tilted her eyes up to meet his own.
See me, need me...
His pulse fluttered high in his throat. Perhaps what he desired was far too dangerous to put into words.
Without warning, Jo lifted on tiptoe. When her chin was upturned at work, it was often out of annoyance, or some stubborn effort to defy his suggestions, so that familiar lightning-whip of adrenaline crackled through him at the sight, preparing him to fight, clash, collide, until the heat of her mouth grew dangerously close to his chin.
"I'm on the tips of my toes here and I still can't reach you..."
Ah. Good point.
"Got any clever solutions, Dr. Carter?"
It was an invitation -- nothing could be clearer, and yet for just one moment, he hesitated. He'd never actually touched a colleague whom he deemed both friend and foe, so there was a hint of doubt amidst all the exhilaration. And yet the longer he returned her smoldering gaze, the more convinced he grew that he would rather burn in that fire than turn this all to ash.
Taking hold of Jo's elbows, he lifted her almost comically before swinging her around and crushing her between his own weight and the neighboring brick wall. His eyes met hers -- a vivid burst of desperation veiled with uncertainty -- and bunching his fist through her hair, Carter lowered enough to angle his mouth into hers, firm at first, then softer, warmer, while drinking of her with mounting enthusiasm. He tasted what had been on tap at the bar, as well as something else -- something that lit through him like a powder keg, and made him tug with far more persistence.
Smearing his lips from her mouth toward her pulse, he sucked against her neck and kept her supported with a knee between her legs, leaving his hands free to roam as he pinned her to the brick.
"Is this 'clever' enough for you?" he managed, his lips quirking into a smile against her skin. He certainly didn't feel clever; hell, she made him downright stupid.
Simple eye contact had never felt so loaded. His stare was so full of something that part of her felt compelled to look away for fear she'd combust. But the other part of her was desperate to see how intense it could get.
And then suddenly, he was hoisting her up, spinning her and pinning her against the wall, and her gasp was half laugh, half shock. "John!" His mouth was on hers without hesitation, and he didn't bother starting slow. But then it tempered into something delicious and indulgent and every bit worth the wait of awkward flirting in the bar. Exactly the sort of kiss that she could lose track of time enjoying.
But before she could settle into a rhythm, he was dragging his mouth down along her neck and tucking his knee between her legs and she forgot to breathe until her head started spinning. "Fuck 'clever,' just keep doing..." her brain had gone offline entirely. "Keep going." She cradled the back of his head with both hands and let him mouth at her neck until her own mouth started watering. And then she wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled his face back up so she could devour. "Could eat you right up," she mumbled, eager to taste him again. He was skin-sweet, under the malty taste of beer, and he smelled like antiseptic and faint cologne and the soap at work.
None of it satisfied her want--it only compounded it. The more he kissed, the more she craved. The more his hands wandered, the more she realized she was just a collection of places that craved touch. She longed to press herself against the leg he'd tucked between hers, but it felt like a point of no return. She'd gone without for too long and now she felt like a heart losing blood faster than it could be transfused. And she was just delirious enough to be candid about it.
"Think I want too much," she admitted, mouth squelching away from his as she sucked in a harsh breath and pressed a soft kiss beneath his ear. "Is it too much?"
🫣 for a "ALMOST" kiss. (also not friendzoning, but for the fun tension)
NEW YEAR'S EVE KISSES: Pick a place to kiss my muse / (no longer accepting) / @chorus-console-me
"Could you press any harder?" Carter grumbled, twisting away from the gauze Jo was dabbing against his swollen lower lip. "I think the idea is to stem the flow, not press my entire lip into my mouth."
He wasn't angry with her -- not truly. But the New Year's shift always tended to be over the top, and on this particular occasion, a feral patient had whacked him across the face with a bed pan. The only small mercy was that it had been empty.
Despite his surliness, Jo maintained the twinkle in her gaze, and unbidden, Carter breathed a husky laugh. "Okay, so I'll admit it: it's a little funny. Go ahead and make your wisecracks."
She was close now -- so close that he could discern the summery warmth threaded throughout her eyes -- and stricken, Carter quickly glanced over at the wall, the floor, the spot just above her eyebrows, before finally managing to hold her gaze.
Out towards the front of the hospital, an eruption of cheers rose above the low hum of the overhead lights, and his pulse fluttered high in his throat. "Um...it must be midnight," he stammered, his mouth inexplicably dry. "Have any traditions you feel like indulging, Doc?"
Yeah. 'Cause that wasn't an obvious come-on.
He arched a semi-challenging brow at her, and if it weren't for the rising heat in his face, Carter might have gotten away with his attempts at nonchalance. Jo set aside the gauze, and God, her breath was on his face, the ghost of a kiss whispering between them as he resisted the urge to take, pull, devour.
Just as he lifted enough to bump his nose into her cheek, and graze his sore bottom lip over the corner of her mouth, the door swung open and rattled on its hinges, causing Carter to jerk back as though stunned with a cow prod.
Cheerily blowing on a party horn, Chuny waved to them in the doorway while exclaiming, "Happy New Year, Dr. Carter!" Sly-eyed, she slid her gaze over to Jo before adding, "And you too, Dr. Carmichael."
Oh.
Great.
If no one suspected there might be something between them before, they certainly would now...
NEW YEAR'S EVE KISSES: Pick a place to kiss my muse / @faithhearted
Jo had rarely been one to celebrate the New Year in any conventional sense. She’d join a friend’s party here or there, but mostly, she treated it like any other night.
But she couldn’t say no when the Pitt crew invited her to their favorite watering hole. Or rather, the portion of the Pitt crew that had the night off. She was still getting to know them, still learning who gave her position real credence and who thought she was just a shrink with masochistic tendencies. And more importantly tonight, she was learning who she could get along with off the clock. Who she might someday call a friend.
It was a relaxing evening—not the sort of place that real partying types or club goers would frequent. But then Dr. Robby showed up—when she was three drinks deep and feeling lonesome—looking warm and soft in his sweatshirt and crow’s feet.
Worse yet, he sat down right beside her at the counter. Made charming conversation with the bartender that clearly knew him. Went quiet a minute before midnight and started glancing around as the countdown started. It was down to ten when she accidentally made eye contact with him. He was still holding it at five, raising his eyebrows at three, and on the pressure of one, Jo started to lean forward, was this happening or was she hallucinating?
Cheers rang out all around them, warbly to Jo’s ears as she realized that she was about to fucking kiss him. But then a hand was clapping her shoulder clumsily, and another landed on his, and sweet Victoria Javadi was wishing them a very tipsy happy new year.
Jo nearly jumped off of her stool in shock, but she kept her eyes locked on the man whose eyebrows were now encroaching on his hairline. It took every ounce of willpower to turn to the med student who was still gripping her shoulder. “Happy New Year, Javadi!”
😳 for a kiss on the forehead (not a friendzone thing, but an affection thing :' ) )
NEW YEAR'S EVE KISSES: Pick a place to kiss my muse / @hesjustcarter
Jo just hated New Year’s. It all felt so arbitrary. Starting a fresh year in the middle of winter when everyone was exhausted from the holidays and dreading months of cold weather? Nonsense. Everyone suddenly deciding to change their life for the better? Unrealistic.
She’d been happy to trade shifts with Dr. Deraad—he had a wife and a kid back home from college, people that wanted to ring in the New Year with him.
And her?
Well she had a pair of bridesmaids who needed a consult because they’d drunk themselves into alcohol poisoning.
Carter wasn’t even around to sneak a coffee break with. It was like the shift of misfits, with a moonlighter she’d never seen before and travel nurses and day shift folks who had traded with her usual coworkers in exchange for Christmas and were now paying their debt.
Jerry was a friendly face at least, nodding up at the TV as she walked up to rack a chart. “Auld Lang Syne” warbled from the distant speaker and he offered her a smile. “Happy New Year, Dr. Carmichael.”
She’d missed the ball drop—hopefully that wasn’t a sign of a frantic year to come. But the usual melancholy settled over her now that the build up was over. Maybe next year she’d have more to look forward to.
“And Happy New Year, Dr. Carter. Thought we weren’t seeing you til sunrise.”
Jo spun on her heel so quickly it should’ve embarrassed her, but Jerry wouldn’t be so cruel as to tease her for it. There was snow in his hair and on his scarf, but he was a sight for sore eyes.
“You sure you wanna ring in the New Year here? It’s the sort of night that leaves us running low on banana bags.”
His answer was a soft but lingering kiss to her forehead—so unexpected in the public space that her heart jumped up into her throat. She stood frozen in shock as he headed toward the lounge. But looking around, no one seemed fazed.
She lifted her chin as she fussed with the charts to look productive and tried not to smile. “Right well, those are tidy now. Happy New Year, Jerry.” If he judged her for speed-walking to the lounge, he didn’t say so out loud.
Jo's smile was soft, and her gaze low-lashed, heady...almost to the point where a shiver rippled up and down his spine. Carter was unaccustomed to softspoken intimacy -- gathered in close and lost to one another in a room full of strangers, it almost felt safe, but simultaneously untethered. Carter had never liked feeling out of control, and yet in this moment, he was oddly cavalier.
Following her lead when she rose, he placed a twenty onto the bar top, then slid back into his wool coat and leather gloves, his sweater briefly crackling from the friction. He could feel the spark in other regards too, and with a residual pink blistering across his cheeks, Carter buttoned up his coat and led Jo out into the biting Chicago air. He squinted against the buffet of freezing wind, the first gust briefly stripping the breath from his lungs.
"Home sweet home," he muttered to her, but there was an underlying hint of fondness. As cold and miserable as Chicago could be, there was level of truth and beauty...honesty in this place that he'd never found in the warm, airy climates of the west coast.
Jo's introspection snapped Carter back to the present, and somehow, her assessment shivered through him far more starkly than the nippy air.
He huffed, a silvery plume leaving his lips. "We are still talking about emotional stuff, right?" he teased. "'Cause when the phrase 'leaving things up to the imagination' comes into play, I usually think about...ah..." Here, he waved a gloved hand. "Y'know...bedroom fodder." Or, perhaps his mind was just permanently entrenched in that head space due to the past five minutes...
More earnestly, Carter offered, "Nothing is easily handled in relationships. I mean, if it was easy to talk, I think people would do it...'cause like you said, that's the most obvious way to patch things up." He frowned. "I don't think I've had a conversation with any of my girlfriends, like...ever. And by that, I mean in regards to our intimacy, or shortcomings, or anything in between. It's all been bam-bam-bam, here in the now...nothing to lose. Except in the end, we lose everything."
If he hadn't killed the mood before, he certainly did now...
Desperate to deflect, Carter reached down and idly skimmed the leather of his glove against Jo's inner wrist, a brief brush of his thumb over her skin. "I guess uncovering anything slowly has its appeal," he allowed, "but that 'grand reveal' can bring out a lot of ugly parts too..."
The cold had startled her at first, but it didn’t chill her like it normally did—there was a veil of irrational warmth all around her, blooming from the inside out. It was an unusual experience for Jo. The one long-term relationship she’d been part of had started so slowly, borne out of platonic friendship and complacency--not any sort of burning passion. The handful of dates she’d been on before and since then had felt staged and forced and entirely unsatisfying. She couldn’t remember a time when the chemistry had happened so naturally, without her even willing it. It was thrilling. And terrifying.
Then he touched her wrist, all soft and slow, and she could’ve crumpled. Did he know that it was her weakness? That it threatened to make her literally swoon? The leather of his glove was supple, soft as butter—Carter had good taste. And she was glad to benefit from it just now. She had to take a step closer just to keep from tipping forward.
She’d not brought gloves, so her free hand was bare when she brought it up to straighten the lapel of his jacket. “We’ve all got ugly parts. Doesn’t scare me.” It was everything else that scared her. Risking the one friendship she'd managed to make in this strange city on the hope that her desire knew what it was doing.
He was a foot taller than her, easily, but she didn’t mind looking upward. She just wished that her face was a little closer to his, like it had been inside the bar, when she was near enough to practically count his eyelashes. So she curled her fingers into the lapel she’d just straightened and pulled herself up.
“I’m on the tips of my toes here and I still can’t reach you. Got any clever solutions, Dr. Carter?”
Yeah, that was definitely something Carter tended to lack. No matter how hard he tried, there was always something left wanting in his relationships, and he had to huff at how true the idea of being seen, understood, was considered an aphrodisiac.
"The opposite can be appealing too," he pointed out. "I like to be seen, but not on like...Emperor's New Clothes levels, you know? The more I leave up to imagination, the better."
Jo's voice grew softer, barely discernible over the bar's casual ambiance of clinking silverware and chatter, yet Carter felt her every word like heated needles against his skin. He flushed a deeper shade of crimson, wondering how she could even believe that. Surely, locally lauded heroes like Dr. Ross were a better source of such admiration...
“I’m lucky to know you," Jo continued. "Lucky to know you better, after tonight.”
Carter hummed, praying that hadn't sounded more like a purr as her fingers wound through his hair. "Yeah? Well, the night's still young," he challenged. "I've been known to screw things up in more ways than one."
Case and point: he was flirting with a coworker. And poorly, if he said so himself.
But Jo surprised him when she crossed the distance between them -- a literal line drawn in the sand -- before her lips found his cheek, soft and warm...sensual, but balanced somewhere between chaste and purposeful.
Somehow, his face burned hotter beneath her appraisal. "I have many regrets, but this conversation isn't one of them," Carter murmured, his skin prickling once her nails dragged across his scalp. Swallowing, he teased, "Though if you're truly 'not going anywhere,' you might make 'last call' a bit awkward here..."
He leaned in on his elbows, feeling the warmth of her breath on his cheek. Jo's voice was low and painfully close, his fingers subconsciously digging into his forearms as he practically felt her mouth against his skin. Although her words were earnest, there was an allure in them -- in being told he wasn't useless; in being told he was liked, and wanted.
"Old habits die hard," Carter murmured, turning his head until their eyes were starkly locked. "I'm afraid that also means poor decisions...I'm not keen on kissing you here in a dive bar with an open floor plan -- unless that's your thing, of course -- but I think I need some air. If...i-if you wanted to take a walk?"
if you're truly 'not going anywhere,' you might make 'last call' a bit awkward here..."
He just couldn't help himself with the jokes and it charmed her. She gifted him a smile for it, but he was right. There was no more need for the bar--it had opened them up, provided its drinks, built up the surprising tension between them.
She didn't move her face right away. No, she kept their eyes locked long enough to appreciate the color of them, warm and earthy like coffee grounds or sunbaked soil. The sort of color that could get you through a cold winter. Oh, she was in trouble.
"A walk sounds nice." But it seemed a shame to back away from him, even just long enough to pay her tab and stand up and walk outside. Would the moment pass them by once they left the heady warmth of the bar? She had to put effort into not gripping onto his hair.
Instead, she pulled on her coat and scarf--it felt stifling just now, but Chicago's night air in December was vicious. Besides, it gave her something to do with her hands. Otherwise she was liable to grab onto him in some way as he led the way outside. To reach for his hand or arm or get her fingers on the back of his neck again. She was already fixing to make a fool of herself, wanting too much. Best to minimize her desperation until she knew how much he could tolerate.
As the cold air hit her face, she felt every nerve in her body come shivering alive. "What you said a minute ago? About leaving things up to the imagination? I can appreciate that too. I know I talk a lot about being open and communicating, but I think it's 'cause I think it's the easiest way most people could solve their problems. But in, uh...romantic pursuits?" God, she was talking too much in her attempt to explain this. Talking just to fill the silence until they could get their faces close together again. "A little mystery is nice. Maybe not gigantic things like 'I'm a convicted felon.' But the details, the personality bits...uncovering that slowly has its appeal."
Send " 📷 " for my muse to show you a picture they've taken of yours. @hesjustcarter
“Last softball game of the season. It was just supposed to be candid, I didn’t know what I was doing with that fancy camera, taking pictures of everybody. But I’m actually proud of this one. Suspected you saw what I was doing and started posing.”
Send " 📷 " for my muse to show you a picture they've taken of yours. @faithhearted
—
“Remember when Gloria managed to schedule that PSA filming for the same afternoon the double chainsaw incident came in? I caught you disassociating, all your ducklings in a row. Leave it to Santos to still serve face.”
