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Mark doesn't set out to avoid Carter, but it happens all the same. Each time he finds himself outside the ICU room door, feet itching to push forward and finally enter, he's pulled away by the beeping of a pager or the memory of a chart he forgot to follow up on. A day passes, then another, and still Mark hasn't been in to see him. The guilt is starting to gnaw at his gut. Another failure to add to the list he's been accumulating recently.
On the third day, he steps into the suture room for a kit and finds Peter Benton on the floor, arms wrapped around tented knees, head bowed. His stomach drops.
Oh God. Did something happen with Carter? Has he deteriorated?
“Peter?”
When the surgeon looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with tears. Tracks of moisture glisten on his cheeks.
It's such an unnerving sight that for a moment, Mark is convinced his resident has surely died- until, that is, Peter opens his mouth to speak.
“He said he's done, Mark.”
Done?
“Done with what?”
Peter gestures vaguely, shoulders shaking with barely restrained emotion. The furrow in his brow deepens. “With- with everything, Mark. Medicine. He doesn't-” A hitching breath, a nervous laugh that disintegrates into a weak sob. “He doesn't want to be a doctor anymore.”
Having worked in the ER for years now, few things shock Mark anymore. But hearing that one of the most promising young doctors he's ever seen is ready to leave because of Mark’s own, flawed actions? It leaves an acidic burn in the back of his throat and a gaping pit in his stomach.
And he knows he has to fix this.
Without another word, he breezes past Peter and out of the suture room, heart thrumming in his chest like the fluttering of a hummingbird's wings. Something about his mission feels urgent. As though, if he doesn't convince Carter to change his mind within the next hour, he hasn't got a chance at all. Time is of the essence now.
Kerry spots him from the admit desk as he skids round the corner, and soon she’s crossing into his path, confusion written all over her face.
“Mark? What is it? Is something wrong?”
He asks her where Carter's room is. When she hesitates, he asks her again, voice firmer, and she gives him a hurried direction before reiterating her question. He doesn't have time to answer it. As soon as he has the information he requires, he's off again, racing up the stairs while she calls out after him.
Up. Left. Right. Down the hall. Left again. Right again. He's dizzy, but determined. A nurse asks him to slow down and he barely registers her presence.
By the time he reaches Carter's room, he's out of breath, skin slick with perspiration, and the adrenaline still flooding through his veins urges him to open the door and plead his case. Still, though, the paralysis he's been plagued with before doesn't release its grip on him. He stands outside, breath fogging the little window. Watches the boy in the bed, turned away from him, curled so tightly on his side he looks like a frightened child.
His fingers twitch towards the door. His foot taps impatiently. Behind him, a nurse asks whether he needs any assistance, and he quickly dismisses her.
Closing his eyes, he counts to three, and finally forces himself forwards. The door yields beneath his touch. He's enveloped by the artificial quiet of a hospital room, punctured only by the beeping of monitors.
Carter doesn't acknowledge his presence at all. Mark takes a few steps, sneakers squeaking on the tile, and prays that the boy will roll over and look at him, but there's nothing.
“Carter?”
Another step. He eyes the chair beside the bed, then grips the back between thumb and forefinger and gently lifts it, carrying it round slowly to the other side. When he sets it down, he dares to look at the sick resident. Carter is awake. He's pale, wan. He looks absolutely exhausted.
Still, he doesn't say a word, so Mark lets his voice fill the empty air instead as he sits down.
“Hi… Hi, Carter. Hi, bud. I’m… I’m sorry I haven't come to see you yet. I just-”
The muddy pools of his resident’s eyes remain on his face, wet and mostly unblinking- though Mark could swear he sees them widening faintly in surprise when he realises who it is that's addressing him.
“Things have been a little chaotic.” He continues, hating the way the lie slips through his teeth and immediately jumping to rectify it. “No, I- to tell the truth, I've been anxious about seeing you. After what happened, I’d- well, I'd understand if you never wanted to talk to me again.”
Carter's nostrils flare gently. He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, and though it isn't much, it's something.
“But I… I needed to speak to you, for a few reasons. Firstly because-” He closes his eyes briefly in an attempt to keep the emotion from overwhelming him. “Because I am so, so sorry about what happened, Carter. Nobody deserves to be judged the way I judged you, especially not somebody who has spent months showing his resilience and reliability to all of us here. I fucked up, Carter. I fucked up massively and I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
The boy in the bed swallows convulsively. When he finally speaks, it's so rough it sounds as though he's been gargling shards of glass.
“S’ alright.”
The platitude makes Mark's stomach sink.
“No, bud, it- it really isn't. And you don't have to forgive me. Not right now. I'm not here for me, I'm here- I'm here for you.”
Carter frowns ever so slightly, but then the topic of conversation seems to dawn on him, and he averts his eyes. Picks absently at a thread in the hospital blanket as Mark continues.
“I know… I can't begin to understand how you feel right now, and if- if what you need is to be finished with all of this, I- nobody is going to force you to keep practicing medicine, Carter.”
Something in the boy’s expression softens minutely. It's as though he hadn’t even realised that his compliance wasn't compulsory before this point, and even this fact is heartbreaking. What kind of teacher is he that his student doesn't know his own freedom?
“But,” Mark says, taking a deep breath as Carter’s eyes meet his again. “I really, really hope you carry on. Because the world needs doctors like you, John. Don't let me ruin that. Please.”
Carter’s gaze grows misty. “I’m not sure I can.”
The uncertainty in his voice is uncharacteristic enough that Mark can't help shuffling forward, placing his hand on Carter's shoulder. Beneath the thin hospital blanket and the gown, he can feel the tiny vibrations of shivers.
“Carter, you are talented, and kind, and tenacious. You can.”
But the boy shakes his head, choking back a sob. Mark is reminded of Peter back in the trauma room. The reason why he's here in the first place.
He knows that if he loses one, he loses the other, too.
“‘S not just you.” Carter rasps. “I can't-” His knuckles blanch as he grips the blanket. “I can't trust ev’n myself anymore. I don’ know what's real. What's not. In- in rehab, they…”
He trails off, shaking his head again, squeezing his eyes shut, but even the brief look in his eyes when he mentioned the facility makes the hairs on the back of Mark's neck stand on end. What the hell did he endure there? What did they do to him that's so bad it eclipses his ill-treatment here?
There are so many things the attending wants to ask, but the almost-whimper that leaves John's throat cuts all questions short. Mark shifts his hand from Carter’s shoulder to his hair, carding gently in the way he's seen Benton do before.
“Hey, it's- it's alright, buddy. It's okay. I can- I can get somebody to come speak to you about that if you'd-”
Before he's even finished the proposition, Carter's eyes burst open again.
“No. No, please- please don't. Don't make me talk to somebody, I'm- I don't want to, I-”
Mark tamps down his surprise and lets his hand drift gently back and forth over the boy’s crown, shushing gently.
“Okay… okay, Carter. I won't. Let's keep it just you and me for now, hm? Is that okay?”
A small nod as eyes fall closed. He'll take what he can get. The silence shudders between them, broken only by Carter’s laboured breaths, until at last Mark forces further words from his throat.
“Do you- do you remember on your first day at county, when I spoke to you outside because you weren't feeling well? And I told you that there are two types of doctors?”
Another tiny nod.
“Well, I… I'm beginning to understand that there are more divisions. Within the doctors that keep their feelings, Carter, there- there are those that let their feelings sway them in such a way that they become biased and bitter, and there are others that let their feelings guide them towards compassion wherever possible. You're the latter, Carter. The world has thrown so much at you but you meet it with love anyway, and that's what makes a good doctor.
Whereas I… For… for a long time, I thought I was the latter, too, but I think now that I slipped up a while ago. Don't… don't let my failures pull you down, John. Please.”
When he looks down this time, Carter’s eyes are open, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks.
Three weeks after he's been discharged from the hospital, John wakes from a nap on the couch to Benton gently ruffling his hair.
“Dinner’s ready, man.”
He blinks. Swipes clumsily at his eyes as the blur that must be Reese races past him on his way into the dining room. When he sits up, the stitches in his abdomen pull a little, and he winces- the residual pain, it seems, doesn't want to disappear just yet.
“Y’alright?” Benton asks, setting down a dish in the other room and glancing over at the elder of his two charges (trying not to look concerned, of course, though his tone of voice gives him away). John nods and stands, stretching his arms. The blanket that Benton must have draped over him tumbles softly onto the couch.
They prepare for the meal, just as they have done for the last few weeks. John tries to help Reese into his chair, only to be hastily brushed aside by Peter (“C’mon, Carter, you know the drill. No lifting until you're fully healed.”) and directed to the cutlery instead. He lays the table. Peter brings out the rest of the food. They sit, this odd little Frankenstein family, and they eat.
“How’s Reese been?” The surgeon asks, scooping some Mac and Cheese onto his son’s plate.
John gives the little boy a grin. “Great. He wanted to play motorbikes again today.”
Peter chuckles. “That the one where he gets you to lay on the ground and drags his toys all over you?”
“Yup.”
“Sorry, man. I did tell him not to use you as a prop.”
John shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of green beans. “Not at all. The little wheels are actually pretty therapeutic for my back. We ought to institute him at County.”
Reese claps as if in agreement, and, in the process, sends mashed potato flying at Mach speed. It never ceases to amaze John how the little guy can get food anywhere but his mouth. Peter leans over the table and scrubs at his hands with a napkin, then safely positions the toddler fork in his grasp.
“How’s work?” John ventures once clean-up has been concluded. Peter’s been bringing it up almost every day (naturally, it gives them topics of conversation), but it's one of the first times John has initiated talk about it, and judging by the momentary lifting of Benton’s brows, it catches him off guard. As always, though, he recovers quickly.
“It's been good. Everyone’s been asking after you, wanting to know how you're doing. Kerry just about talked my ear off when we ran into each other.”
John snickers. “Really? She's usually all business.”
“Not today, she wasn't. I swear, man, I was two more questions away from giving her a detailed copy of your care plan. And the nurses are just as bad. Like a bunch of mother geese all pecking at me for information.”
He laughs again, but within, a small flicker of warmth tickles his ribcage, and he feels a now-familiar tug. A longing for the days of sharing snacks in the staff lounge and exchanging glances at the admit desk during Weaver’s rants. Things are more complicated now, of course, but still… still…
He clears his throat. “How's, uh, how's Mark?”
The attempt at brushing aside his feelings only leads him in an unexpected direction, and his cheeks momentarily flush at the words leaving his lips. Thankfully, if Peter notices the awkwardness, he doesn't draw attention to it. Simply takes a sip from his glass and replies,
“I didn't see him today, actually. He’s working less frequently, spending more time with his daughter, working on things.”
John frowns gently. “Working on things?”
“Yeah,” Peter affirms, tone slipping into something softer. “Y’know, he's been talking to someone. Trying to improve himself, the way he approaches things. Deconstructing biases.”
“Like a sort of disciplinary thing?”
The surgeon shakes his head. “All voluntary. Just like yours, man. ”
And that, it seems, is the end of that. The conversation shifts again, tending towards the kinds of gross surgical tales that would put a layperson off their meal but that are simply polite dinner chatter for medics. Then, Benton asks about John’s pain levels, how he's coping, and John assures him that he's doing well. Better every day, honest. More medical chatter. A plan for the next few days- is John still okay with babysitting Reese? Perfectly. All good, then.
As the meal draws to a close, though, wrapping up with one final ridiculous medical anecdote on Peter's way to the kitchen, the request simply falls from John’s lips.
“Dr Benton?”
“Mhm?”
“Do you think… Do you think that maybe next week I'd be able to go in for the morning? Just to see?”
The surgeon pauses before he reaches the doorway. John can't help averting his gaze.
“I mean, I know it's probably too early to start thinking about actually practicing again, but maybe I could observe? Or-”
“Of course, man.” Benton says, half an exhale. As though he's been praying for these words since the moment John came home with him.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think that'd be great- and everybody would be so glad to see you.”
John sighs, relief coursing through his veins, and sits back in his chair. “Good… good. I can- I can get the El. From my place, I mean. I'm sure it'll be easier for you when I'm out of your hair.”
Benton’s expression flickers. A faint frown forms in his brow that he can't quite mask. “Carter, if you want to go back to your apartment, I'll drive you there, but I'm not in any rush to get rid of you, man. As far as I'm concerned, this place is yours too.”
There's that feeling again, the flicker of warmth that rises until it heats his cheeks too. “Oh.”
He wants to say something more substantial, to offer up his thanks for Peter's hospitality and kindness and endless badgering, but his mouth is suddenly dry and his eyes are starting to burn, and the surgeon is already halfway into the kitchen.
“Entertain Reese for a few minutes, would you? His ice-cream is way too frozen so he’ll just pick it up and use it as a weapon if I give it to him now.”
John blinks past the emotion and clears his throat. “Sure.”
And, as Benton disappears from view, he turns to the little boy grinning at the table and appreciates at last what he's been lacking for so long.
Acceptance.