Helping Him
Chapter Five - Peter
By Joanne
bucklind@hotmail.com

This is my first published fanfic, so please bear with me. I appreciate any feedback you have to offer, at bucklind@hotmail.com
I recognize that this story basically quotes May Day, with some exceptions, but that is not the focus on the story.

Disclaimer: I do not own ER or any of it’s characters. Warner Bros., NBC, Constant C and the writers do. I also recognize that I did not come up with all of the dialogue used in this story, and credit again, goes to the above mentioned sources. My thanks to Megan, for editing!

"Is that it?" Anspaugh asked as Carter flew from the room. It had been as we thought. He kept on denying it, but when it came to the one burden of proof, he had nothing he could do.

"No," I said, jumping from my spot on the counter. No one moved. They all knew that I was the one to talk to him now. I walked into the lounge, where he was at his locker. "Carter, what are you doing, man?"

"I don’t need this. I wanted to be a doctor," he said his voice breaking. "I wanted to help people but I don’t need their damn job!"

"Carter, don’t do this!" I said calling after him as he left the room. He walked out the door.

"I’m not doing it. They are," he said flatly. He walked out into the ambulance bay.

"What are you going to do Carter? Piss it all away? Eight years of your life?" Eight years. And to think I’ve known him for six.

"They’re the ones handing out the ultimatums!"

"No ultimatums, Carter! You’re getting in that van!"

"Like hell I am!" He stopped at the corner and turned to me.

"They accuse me of being a junkie and you believe them? And then you come down and you ambush me!" He said, his sad, deep eyes looking into mine. So, it was me. He was hurt that everyone was doing this, but the one that hurt the most was me. It hurt him because he didn’t believe he was a junkie. He didn’t believe he was an addict. He thought he was a man in pain with the right to take medication. And suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

"You’re getting in that van," I said, pulling at him.

"No!"

"You’re getting in that van."

"Don’t touch me!"

"You’re getting in that..."

"Don’t touch me!" he said, pushing me away.

"Carter, where does it end? Huh? This week fentanyl, next week you end up dead. Or worse, you end up like your cousin, some babbling gork in a nursing..." His punch hit me with power and I felt myself fall backward into the van. When I looked up, I saw his scrunched-up face. It hurt him to punch me. He looked up to me, he knew that it was me who turned him into who he was. It was always me, Peter Benton, that he seeked the approval of. He always needed to impress me, get my permission, earn some sort of compliment from me. He always needed to be my friend, and I never gave that to him. And still, it was me who got to him. I had just gotten through to him.

He stifled a sob and looked down to the ground. He looked so vulnerable, so confused, so hurt. He couldn’t stop the next sob, or the next and I grabbed him and pulled him to me. He fell apart in my arms, everything of the past three months falling out at once.

"It’s ok, Carter. It’s ok, man," I said quietly. I gently kissed the top of his head, knowing that he was going to go to Atlanta, but I was not going to let him down now. Now was the time to show him I’ve always been his friend.