Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Carter sat on the edge of the bed, her legs trembling as she glanced at the clock. 3:17 AM. The room still smelled like sweat and sex, a heavy musk that clung to the air, making it hard to breathe. She could still feel him—his hands on her thighs, his breath hot against her neck, the way he’d pressed her down into the mattress with a force that was almost suffocating. She’d been so naive. So stupid.

Her parents' voices echoed in her head like a broken record. “If you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back.” She’d slammed the door so hard the frame had rattled, her heart pounding with a mix of rage and defiance. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need anyone. And then he’d been there, waiting in the shadows of the parking lot, his blue eyes gleaming like a predator spotting prey.

“Hey,” he’d said, his voice smooth, low, and far too confident for someone who should’ve been a stranger. “You okay?”

She hadn’t been okay. Not even close. But something about the way he looked at her—like she was the only person in the world—made her nod. Made her follow him to his car. Made her let him take her to his place without a second thought.

And now, here she was, sitting on the edge of his bed, her body aching in ways she hadn’t known were possible. She glanced down at the mess between her legs, the sticky evidence of what they’d done smeared across her thighs. He hadn’t used a condom. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, and she felt a wave of nausea roll through her.

He was in the bathroom now, the sound of running water muffled behind the closed door. She should’ve left. Should’ve gotten dressed and bolted before he came back. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. All she could do was sit there, her mind racing with a million questions she didn’t have answers to.

The bathroom door creaked open, and he stepped out, a towel slung low around his hips. His blonde hair was damp, curling at the ends, and his chest glistened with water droplets that caught the dim light of the bedside lamp. He looked like some kind of god, all hard lines and perfect angles, and for a moment, Carter forgot how to breathe.

“You okay?” he asked again, his voice softer this time, almost gentle.

She nodded, though the word caught in her throat. “Yeah.”

He crossed the room in two long strides, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly tender, almost at odds with the roughness of earlier. “You sure? You look… pale.”

“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a smile that felt anything but genuine.

He studied her for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as if he didn’t quite believe her. But then he shrugged and dropped onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Good,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “Because that was… something else.”

Something else. That was one way to put it. Carter swallowed hard, her throat dry as she replayed the night in her mind—the way he’d kissed her, rough and demanding; the way his hands had explored her body with a confidence that left her breathless; the way he’d pushed inside her, filling her completely until she thought she might break apart. It had hurt at first—god, it had hurt—but then… then it had been something else entirely. Something she couldn’t quite put into words.

“You’re a fucking virgin,” he’d muttered against her neck when he realized, his voice thick with something like awe. “Jesus Christ, I fucking love virgins.”

She’d wanted to tell him to stop, to slow down, but the words had died on her lips as he’d thrust into her again, harder this time, driving all thought from her mind. And then it was over almost as quickly as it began, his body shuddering above her as he emptied himself inside her with a groan that sent shivers down her spine.

Now, sitting beside him on the bed, she felt a strange mix of emotions—shame, confusion, and something else she couldn’t quite name. She didn’t like how she hurt. T
How her folds were red and swollen. How she had bleed after it happened. He had said he had “popped her cherry”. The thought made her nauseous and squirm.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, watching as he reached for a cigarette on the nightstand and lit it with a flick of his lighter.

“You smoke?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He took a long drag before blowing the smoke out in a slow, lazy stream. “Only after sex,” he said with a smirk that made her stomach flip.

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just nodded and looked away, her gaze falling on the mess between her legs again. She needed to clean up. Needed to get dressed. Needed to leave before she did something stupid—like ask him to do it again.

But before she could move, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She froze, her heart skipping a beat as she turned to look at him. “I… I should go.”

He shook his head, his smirk widening into a grin that made her pulse race. “Not yet,” he said, pulling her closer until she was practically on top of him. “We’re not done.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words never came out. Instead, he kissed her—hard and deep—his tongue sliding against hers in a way that left her dizzy. And just like that, all thoughts of leaving vanished as she melted into him, her body responding to his touch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He flipped her onto her back with ease, his hands sliding up her thighs as he positioned himself between them. She could feel him already hardening against her, and a part of her—a wild, reckless part—wanted him inside her again. Wanted to feel that same mix of pain and pleasure that had left her trembling before. He put his cigarette against her inner thigh causing her to yelp and flinch. But his hold had tightened around her.

“You want this?” he asked, his voice rough with desire as he pressed against her entrance.

She didn’t trust herself to speak, she didn’t know what she wanted. God she wanted to say no. But a part of her wanted it. The part that wanted love and to be held… so she just nodded, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he pushed into her again, filling her completely until she thought she might scream from the sheer intensity of it.

And then he started to move, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through her body until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but cling to him and hope she survived the ride.

Carter startled awake. Her chest heaved, damp hair sticking to her forehead, that lingering, awful feeling of phantom hands sliding over her skin making her shiver. Her fists clenched the sheets before she forced herself to breathe.

“God,” she muttered, rubbing her face, trying to chase off the memory. “You’ve been an idiot, Johanna. A total idiot.”

She ticked off the list in her mind, because her brain never let her forget:
— Ran away from home, check.
— Fell into a terrible relationship, check.
— Gotten pregnant
—three times, check, check, and check.
— Alone now, abandoned, used up, but…

Her eyes softened.

She had them.

Three beautiful boys. They were the reason she dragged herself through med school on fumes and coffee, why she tolerated the icy glares of surgeons who thought she didn’t belong, why she kept standing back up when Benton cut her down with that terrifying calm.

She didn’t tell anyone about them. Not Benton, not the residents, not her classmates. She wasn’t sure why. Shame? Pride? Fear someone would use them against her? Maybe all of the above.

Her spiral was cut short by the sweetest sound in the world—little feet on the creaky apartment floorboards.

“Mamaaaa!”

Andrew, the seven-year-old, came barreling in first. Tall for his age, brown hair sticking up every which way, his big doe eyes full of sunshine. Behind him came Jackson, five and chaos in human form, dragging a stuffed dinosaur by the tail. He flung himself onto the bed like a grenade.

“BOOM!” he announced, flopping across his mother’s legs.

Johanna let out an “oof” and started laughing despite herself.

“Jackson Carter, you’re gonna break my ribs one of these days.”

He grinned like that was the best compliment he’d ever gotten. “Then Dr. Benton can fix you!”

Her laugh turned into a groan. “Please don’t say his name before I’ve had coffee.”

And then, right on cue, a smaller, quieter set of footsteps pattered toward the room. Vincent. Three years old. Silent as a shadow. He padded in, clutching his blanket, thumb halfway in his mouth, gaze flicking toward his brothers before climbing up with her help. He curled against her chest, sighing softly, eyes half-lidded.

Johanna wrapped an arm around him, kissing the top of his head. “Good morning, my sweet boy.”

Andrew leaned over, smoothing Vincent’s hair with the careful touch of an old soul. “He had another nightmare.”

Vincent gave the tiniest nod, not speaking, just burrowing closer.

Her heart clenched and swelled all at once. “It’s okay. I had one too.”

Jackson squinted at her. “Did the monsters get you, Mama?”

“Yes,” she said with mock solemnity. “And they looked exactly like you when you don’t brush your teeth.”

Jackson gasped. “That’s terrifying!” He rolled dramatically across the bed, flopping over Andrew, who shoved him off with the weary patience of a much older brother.

Johanna chuckled, pulling the covers around them all like a cocoon. “Alright, gentlemen. No more monsters. No more nightmares. Just us.”

The three of them giggled, the sound filling the little room. For a moment, she forgot about the hospital, about Benton’s sharp tone, about her classmates whispering that she wasn’t strong enough. For a moment, she was just Mom.

Jackson poked her arm. “Mama?”

“Yes, bug?”

“Are you gonna cut people open today?”

Andrew smacked his forehead. “She’s not a surgeon, dummy. She’s still learning.”

Johanna hid a smile. “Andrew’s right. No cutting people open today.”

Jackson frowned. “But if you did, I’d help. I’d hand you the scissors. And the ketchup.”

“Jackson!” Andrew groaned, launching a pillow at his brother.

Johanna laughed so hard she nearly cried. “God help me if I ever have to operate with you in the room.”

“Don’t worry, Mama,” Andrew said, puffing up proudly. “I’ll protect you from Benton.”

Her heart melted at that. The way he said it—serious, resolute—like he already understood that his mother faced battles every day.

“I think Benton could use some protecting from me,” she muttered, then kissed the top of his head. “But thank you, sweetheart.”

Vincent stirred, his tiny voice barely above a whisper. “Mama stay home?”

Her throat tightened. She kissed him again, holding him close. “I wish I could, baby. But I have to go learn so I can take care of people.”

He nodded, not arguing, just pressing closer.
Jackson, never one to miss a beat, grinned. “Don’t worry, Vinny. We’ll take care of Mama.”

Andrew added, “Always.”

Johanna looked down at her three little shadows—Andrew with his steady heart, Jackson with his wild spirit, Vincent with his quiet soul—and her eyes stung. She smiled anyway, stroking their soft brown hair.

“You already do,” she whispered.

The boys giggled again, tangled up in her sheets, their warmth surrounding her. For the first time that morning, the phantom hands were gone.

Chapter Text

“Shoes. Where are the shoes?”

Johanna Carter’s voice was a mix of desperation and drill sergeant as she darted around the small apartment, trying to juggle her own bag, three packed lunches, and two missing sneakers.
“Mama, I can’t find Vincent’s blanket!” Andrew called from the couch, already dressed, hair smoothed neatly, backpack strapped like a soldier ready for deployment.

Vincent sat on the floor silently, wearing one sock and clutching his stuffed bear instead of his blanket. His thumb was in his mouth, eyes following the chaos like he was watching a movie.

“Blanket’s not important right now,” Johanna said, nearly tripping over Jackson as he zoomed past half-dressed. “Shoes. Jackson, pants. For the love of God, pants.”

“I don’t like pants!” Jackson shouted, skidding into the kitchen.

Andrew sighed, sounding forty years old instead of seven. “Mama, he’s gonna be late for school if he doesn’t wear pants.”

“Thank you, Andrew,” she muttered, wrestling her white coat over her arm. “Jackson, if you don’t put pants on in the next ten seconds, you’re going to school in your Spider-Man underwear.”

Jackson popped his head back out, grinning. “Cool!”

Johanna rubbed her temples. “Why me.”
In a miracle of small family logistics, she got them wrangled: Andrew double-checked everyone’s bags, Jackson finally pulled on his pants (backwards, but still progress), and Vincent quietly let her slide shoes onto his feet while keeping his bear clutched tight.
She crouched down, kissed each of their foreheads, and whispered, “Be good for me, okay?”

“We’ll take care of each other,” Andrew promised.

Jackson grinned. “And if anyone’s mean to you, Mama, I’ll punch them in the butt!”

“Jackson!” she exclaimed, trying not to laugh. “Please don’t assault anyone’s butt.”

Vincent said nothing, but he hugged her leg fiercely before toddling after his brothers.

By the time she locked the door and sprinted toward County, Johanna already felt like she’d survived a 12-hour shift.

The fluorescent lights of the ER felt too bright, too cruel. She ducked into the lounge, trying to compose herself. Coffee. Coffee would fix everything.
“Rough night?”

Doug Ross leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, grin annoyingly charming. He gave her a once-over, eyes catching the dark circles under hers.
“You look like you wrestled a pack of raccoons,” he said lightly.

She glared half-heartedly. “Children. Not raccoons. Although the distinction is minimal at six in the morning.”

He chuckled. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She smoothed her hair into something resembling professional. “Just tired.”

Doug raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Mmhm. Well, let me know when you collapse, I’ll be sure to tell Benton you were just lazy.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Unfortunately, Benton arrived before she could get that life-saving coffee.

“Carter!” His voice cut across the admit desk like a scalpel.

“Yes, Dr. Benton!” She snapped upright, instantly alert.

“Round on these charts, and then follow me. We’ve got a trauma coming in ten.” He shoved a stack of folders into her hands without looking. “And don’t be slow today.”

“Yes, Dr. Benton,” she muttered under her breath, juggling the files like flaming torches.

“Good,” he said, already walking away.

Two hours later, she was knee-deep in charts when Mark Greene strolled by, Susan Lewis on his heels.
“Hey, Carter,” Susan said, too sweetly.

Johanna narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“No, nothing,” Mark said innocently. “Just wanted to let you know Benton’s looking for you. Something about… the suture cart?”

Her heart skipped. “What about it?”

Susan bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “He said it needed to be restocked. Right away.”

“Oh, crap.” Johanna bolted, dashing down the hall, searching every corner until she found the cart. Fully stocked. Perfect.

She turned, only to hear laughter behind her. Mark and Susan leaned against the wall, smirking.

“You guys are evil,” Johanna said, glaring.

“Consider it a rite of passage,” Mark grinned.

Susan patted her arm. “At least you ran fast.”

Johanna groaned. “I hate both of you.”

She collapsed at the admit desk a while later, finally grabbing a cup of coffee. Carol Hathaway slid a chart toward her with a knowing smile.

“They get you?” Carol asked.

“Of course they did,” Johanna muttered.

Carol chuckled. “Don’t worry, they got me too when I started. Everyone gets hazed by Mark and Susan.”

“Well, they’re lucky I don’t have the energy to plot revenge.”

Carol raised an eyebrow. “You look dead on your feet. When’s the last time you actually slept?”

Johanna took a long sip of coffee. “What is sleep?”

Carol gave her a look—the kind of look only another woman could give, one that said I see through you, even if you won’t admit it.

“Don’t burn yourself out,” Carol said gently.

Johanna gave a small smile, even though her chest ached with exhaustion. “Too late.”

From down the hall, Benton’s voice barked again: “Carter!”

Johanna closed her eyes. “Here we go.”
She set down the coffee, squared her shoulders, and went to war again.

Chapter Text

Johanna Carter dropped onto the couch in the lounge like she’d been shot out of a cannon. Her scrubs were wrinkled, her ponytail was sliding sideways, and her white coat was decorated with three different shades of hospital stains she wasn’t going to think about too hard.

“Coffee,” she mumbled to herself, digging through her oversized bag.

The thing weighed as much as a small child because, in many ways, it was her entire second life stuffed into one canvas sack: med school notes, half-empty juice boxes, random toy dinosaurs, bandaids with cartoon characters, and her stethoscope wedged at the bottom like a cherry on top of chaos.

“Lose a small country in there?”

Doug Ross leaned in the doorway, smirk firmly in place. He had a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and the smell wafted over like a cruel reminder.

Johanna didn’t even look up. “If you’re not here to give me that coffee, I don’t want to hear your voice.”

Doug chuckled and came closer, setting the cup down in front of her. “Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood.”

“Bless you,” she muttered, taking a greedy sip before going back to rummaging.

Doug’s eyes flicked down as something slipped from her bag, fluttering onto the floor by his foot. He bent down, intending to hand it back without thinking.
But when he picked it up, he froze.

It was a photo. A slightly crumpled, clearly well-loved snapshot of three little boys piled together on a blanket. The oldest had his arms wrapped protectively around the younger two, grinning at the camera with a gap-toothed smile. The middle one was wild-eyed and holding up two peace signs in opposite directions. The smallest had big brown eyes, thumb halfway to his mouth, leaning into his brothers with quiet dependence.

Doug blinked. He knew Carter was guarded, sharp-edged, always hustling like she had more on her plate than anyone else. But this? This was…
“Uh… Carter?”

She finally looked up, saw what was in his hand, and her face went pale.
“Oh my God—give me that.” She snatched the photo, shoving it back into her bag like it was classified information.

Doug raised his brows, trying to keep his tone casual. “So… you got some nephews or something?”

“Something like that,” she said quickly, eyes avoiding his.

Doug tilted his head, watching her too carefully. “Cute kids.”

“Mm.” She busied herself with rearranging her bag, even though nothing in it would ever be organized.
There was a beat of silence, the kind where Doug’s charm turned into sharp perception.
“They yours?” he asked softly.

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“The boys,” he said, nodding toward the bag. “They yours?”

Johanna laughed—too quickly, too loud. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a med student. Do I look like someone who has three kids at home?”

Doug gave her a slow, knowing grin. “Honestly? You look exactly like someone who has three kids at home.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Drop it, Ross.”

He held up his hands in surrender but the grin stayed. “Fine. But for the record, I have an excellent eye for these things. And those kids had your eyes.”

Her chest tightened, but she forced a smirk. “Maybe we just shop at the same eye store.”

Doug chuckled, backing toward the door. “Alright, Carter. Your secret’s safe. For now.”

When he left, Johanna sagged back against the couch, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. Her heart was hammering.
She whispered to herself, “Damn it, Jo. Careless.”

Meanwhile, out in the hall, Doug leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee. He wasn’t going to push—not yet. But something told him Johanna Carter wasn’t just another med student hustling through Benton’s torture chamber.

She had something big going on.

And now he was curious.

Chapter Text

Johanna Carter was running on fumes.

Not metaphorical fumes. Actual, bone-deep, hallucination-adjacent exhaustion. Last night had been a war zone: Jackson woke up at 1:15 a.m. insisting there was a monster under the bed, which turned out to be Vincent’s missing blanket. Then Vincent started crying because Jackson “stole” it back. Andrew, bless his old-soul heart, tried to referee before climbing into her bed at 3 a.m., whispering, “Mama, just let them fight it out. I can’t keep doing this.”

By 5 a.m., nobody was asleep, everybody was cranky, and Johanna was running on cold coffee and pure maternal stubbornness.

Now, as she shoved her locker door shut in the lounge, she mumbled to herself: “Benton’s gonna eat me alive today.”

Meanwhile, just outside the lounge, Doug Ross leaned casually against the admit desk, watching Johanna dart past with an IV kit tucked under her arm. She didn’t even glance his way. He frowned.

Carol Hathaway appeared with a clipboard, flipping through charts. Doug nudged her elbow.

“Question,” he said in a low voice.

Carol looked up, wary. “That tone means trouble.”

He grinned. “What do you know about Carter?”

“Johanna Carter?” Carol’s brows knitted. “The med student Benton’s been torturing?”

Doug nodded. “Yeah. You know anything about her?”

Carol tilted her head, thinking. “She’s… quiet. Polite. Doesn’t gossip. Never eats lunch with anyone. Keeps her head down. That’s about it.”

Doug sipped his coffee, still watching the hall where Johanna disappeared. “So, nothing personal? Family, friends, pets, random hobbies—anything?”

Carol shook her head. “Not a thing. Why?”

He hesitated for a second, then leaned closer. “She dropped a photo yesterday. Three little boys. Cute kids. I asked about them, and she practically ripped my arm off getting it back.”

Carol’s eyebrows shot up. “Kids? As in, hers?”

“That’s what I thought,” Doug said. “But she denied it.”

Carol crossed her arms, frowning now. “Huh.”

“Exactly.” Doug smirked faintly. “Kind of weird, right? Nobody knows anything about her.”

Carol glanced toward the trauma rooms, thoughtful. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Doug nodded. “Mark.”

Mark Greene was halfway through a cup of lukewarm coffee when Doug and Carol cornered him at the admit desk.

“Uh-oh,” he said, holding up a hand. “Whatever it is, I’m innocent.”

Doug leaned an elbow on the counter. “What do you know about Carter?”

Mark blinked. “Johanna Carter?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s a med student,” Mark said slowly, like that explained everything.

“Besides that,” Carol pressed.

Mark shrugged. “Works hard. Benton likes her—well, likes her enough not to publicly eviscerate her every hour. Never calls in sick, never complains. That’s it.”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “So, no personal details?”

Mark gave him a look. “She’s a med student, Doug. You guys are expecting her to have a personality?”

Doug ignored the jab. “Ask Susan. She knows everybody.”

Susan Lewis was charting in the corner, a pen dangling from her lips. Doug approached casually, resting an arm on her desk.

“Hey, Lewis,” he said, charming smile in full effect.

Susan didn’t look up. “Whatever it is, the answer’s no.”

“You wound me.” He clutched his chest theatrically. “I’m just asking about Carter.”

Susan finally looked at him. “What about her?”

“Anything personal. Anything at all.”

Susan frowned, tapping her pen against the chart. “Honestly? Nothing. She doesn’t talk much. Never hangs out after shift. Doesn’t even join us for coffee runs. She’s polite, though. Smart. Fast learner.”

Doug exchanged a look with Carol. They were officially zero-for-four.

Mark wandered up behind them. “So basically, we know nothing.”

Doug nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

Meanwhile, Johanna was living a completely different nightmare.

“Carter, focus!” Benton barked from across Trauma 2, sweat beading on his forehead. “He’s hypotensive! What’s your plan?”

The patient, a twenty-three-year-old car crash victim, was bleeding out fast. Johanna’s hands shook slightly as she passed Benton instruments, her brain fogged from exhaustion but refusing to shut down.

“Two large-bore IVs, start fluids wide open,” she said quickly, grabbing supplies. “Type and cross for four units—”

“Good,” Benton cut in, his hands deep in the wound. “And Carter?”

“Yes, Dr. Benton?”

“Try not to look like you’re about to pass out on me.”

Johanna bit back a retort, jaw tightening. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She steadied herself, wiping sweat from her temple with the back of her sleeve, and refocused.

Two hours later, the trauma was over, the patient stabilized, and Johanna leaned against the wall outside the room, breathing hard. Benton appeared beside her, glancing at her briefly.

“You still here?” he asked flatly.

She shot him a look. “Where else would I be?”

He studied her for a beat, then said, “Get some water before you fall on your face. We’ve got rounds in twenty.”

“Yes, Dr. Benton.”

When he walked away, Johanna slid down the wall and let her head fall into her hands. Her pager buzzed, making her groan.

From the admit desk, Doug watched her for a moment, his smirk fading. There was something in the slump of her shoulders, in the quiet way she gathered herself before forcing her expression back into neutrality.

“Something’s going on with her,” he murmured to Carol.

Carol crossed her arms, following his gaze. “Yeah,” she said softly. “And we’re gonna find out what.”

Chapter Text

Johanna Carter sighed softly as she scrubbed down the OR table for the third time that morning. Her shoulders ached, her eyes burned, and her back screamed at her to sit, just for five minutes, but Benton had given her yet another “character-building task.”

Translation: dumb, pointless busywork.

Upstairs, Peter Benton was performing a string of complicated surgeries—stuff she would kill to watch. Stuff that would actually teach her something. Stuff she was here to learn. But no. Instead, she got to mop, wipe, restock, and fold gowns like a glorified janitor.

She muttered under her breath, “He probably lets the other med students watch, but not me. Nope. Gotta break Carter down until she cries.”

Right on cue, her pager went off, buzzing angrily at her hip. She glanced down, frowning when she saw the numberVincent’s daycare.

Her stomach sank. She snatched the nearest phone, already bracing herself.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Carter?” the daycare director said gently. “It’s Vincent. He’s… um, he’s not feeling well. He’s running a fever of 103 and he’s refusing to eat or drink anything.”

Johanna closed her eyes, her free hand gripping the edge of the counter. “Okay. I—I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“We understand,” the woman said softly. “He’s resting right now, but he’s asking for you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, then hung up.
She stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the wall, her throat tightening. Vincent. Again.
He’d been having so many medical issues lately. Chest colds that never seemed to go away. Ear infections. Weight loss. Always something new. And the bills were piling up like a mountain she couldn’t climb.

She worked three jobs on top of med school and rotations.
— Waitress at a 24-hour diner three nights a week.
— Cleaning rooms at a hotel on weekends.
— And, when things got really bad… she danced at the strip club downtown, or took private calls when the rent was late.

She hated it. God, she hated it. But the boys never went without. Not ever. She made sure of it. She could stretch a dollar until it screamed. Half the time, she skipped meals just so they wouldn’t have to.

Their apartment was small, cramped, and freezing in the winter. Two bedrooms: one for the boys, one for her—but only the boys’ room had heating, so she piled herself under blankets and pretended not to notice.

Her boys never complained. Andrew called it “camping.” Jackson thought it was “cool.” Vincent… well, Vincent just curled up against his brothers and stayed quiet.

Johanna rubbed her face hard, trying to shove the tears back down. Not now. Not here.

“Carter?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see Doug Ross leaning casually against the OR doorway, coffee in hand, smirk firmly in place—until he saw her face.
“Whoa,” he said quickly, crossing the room in three long strides. “What’s going on?”

She shook her head, trying to pretend nothing was wrong, but the dam cracked anyway. One tear slid down her cheek, then another, and before she could stop herself, she was crying.

Doug froze, blinking like he’d just seen a unicorn burst into flames. Sure, he’d seen med students break down beforeBenton had a knack for breaking them like wild horsesbut this was… different.

Carter wasn’t the type to fold. She didn’t whine, didn’t complain, didn’t even ask for help when she was clearly drowning. And now she sat there, wiping at her big doe eyes with the back of her sleeve, looking like someone had kicked her puppy and set fire to her house in the same breath.

Doug’s stomach twisted.

“Okay,” he said softly, sitting beside her on the supply cart. “Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing,” Johanna croaked, shaking her head. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You’re definitely not fine.”

She gave him a watery laugh. “You sound like my seven-year-old.”

Doug tilted his head, filing that away but not pushing—yet. “Then your seven-year-old’s probably smarter than me.”

She sniffed, managing a weak smile.

Doug hesitated for a beat, then said carefully, “If this is about Benton, I’ll handle him.”

That startled her into a laugh that came out half-sob. “It’s not… it’s not Benton.”

He frowned. “Then what is it?”

She hesitated, staring down at her hands. Her fingernails were chipped, knuckles raw from constant scrubbing, and there were faint red indentations where she’d been biting at her skin without noticing.
She wanted to tell him. God, she wanted someone to know. About the bills. About the jobs. About Vincent’s endless illnesses. About the constant, gnawing fear she wasn’t enough for her boys, no matter how hard she tried.

But the words caught in her throat like glass.
“I just…” She shook her head again, forcing herself to swallow it all back down. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

Doug studied her face, his jaw tightening. He didn’t buy it—not for a second—but he also recognized that pushing her now would only make her retreat further.

“Okay,” he said finally, standing up. “Then I’ll be around. Just… don’t let Benton see you like this, alright? He’ll use it to chew you up.”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the out.

Doug paused at the doorway, glancing back one more time. She was already scrubbing again, wiping down the OR table like nothing happened.
But her shoulders were shaking.

He made a silent promise to himself right then:
I’m gonna figure out what’s going on with Carter.
And God help Bentonor anyone elseif they were the reason she was breaking.

Chapter Text

Johanna Carter was sick. Not just the sniffles or a head cold—sick sick. Her chest ached, her throat burned, and every joint in her body groaned like she’d been run over by a truck. She had probably caught whatever bug Vincent had been carrying, though in her son’s little body it had passed quickly. In hers, with no sleep and too much stress, it clung like glue.

The apartment was quiet except for the low whir of the ancient radiator in the boys’ room and the occasional cough from the couch. Johanna had tried to make it to her bed, but the living room seemed closer, easier. She’d curled up on the couch in sweats and a hoodie, a blanket wrapped around her.

Vincent, her quiet shadow, had tucked himself against her side like he always did when she wasn’t feeling well, one small hand resting protectively over her hoodie pocket, as if holding her there.

Andrew, the eldest at seven, was perched on the armrest with a solemn face, watching her. Jackson, five, had been running laps around the couch with a blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape, but after catching sight of his mother shivering and hacking into the pillow, he had slowed down and joined his brother in serious mode.

“Mom’s not doing good,” Andrew whispered.

“She’s okay,” Jackson whispered back, though it came out more hopeful than confident.

“She didn’t eat dinner,” Andrew pointed out.

Jackson frowned. “We gave her soup.”

“You ate the soup.”

“She didn’t want it!”

“She couldn’t even sit up, Jack.” Andrew’s tone carried all the worry of a boy who had already learned too early how to keep track of things grown-ups should have been handling.

The boys turned back to look at their mother, who let out another deep, rattling cough and curled further into the pillow. Vincent’s head popped up from where he’d been burrowed, eyes wide and worried, then settled back down against her.

The shrill beep-beep of Johanna’s pager went off suddenly on the coffee table. All three boys jumped. Their mother didn’t stir—just let out a tired groan and shifted, her hand tightening weakly on Vincent.
Andrew picked up the pager and squinted at the little glowing numbers. His heart thudded. Mama had shown him how to read the numbers once, how to call back if it was important. He slid off the armrest, went to the phone on the counter, and stood on tiptoe to dial.

The voice that answered was sharp and irritated. “Carter? Where the hell are you? You’re late, AGAIN. Get your ass in here—”

Andrew froze, clutching the receiver to his ear. Jackson had crept up beside him, frowning. Andrew didn’t know what to say, so he hung up.

The two brothers looked at each other.

“He’s mean,” Jackson whispered.

Andrew’s jaw set. He flipped through the worn little contact book his mother kept by the phone. It had messy scribbles, crossed-out names, notes in the margins. But one name stuck out to him: Dr. Doug Ross.

“I know that name,” Andrew said, pointing.

“How?” Jackson asked.

“Mama’s said it before. He’s a doctor.”

“You think he’ll help?”

Andrew glanced back toward the couch, where Vincent had practically glued himself to their mother, his small face half-hidden in her hoodie. Johanna stirred and coughed again, but didn’t wake.
Andrew nodded firmly. “We have to try.”

He lifted the phone again, slowly dialing the number with the concentration of someone who knew mistakes weren’t an option. Jackson bounced on his toes nervously.

The line rang once, twice, and then a man’s voice, warm and a little tired, answered. “Hello? Ross.”

“Um… hi,” Andrew said, his voice small but steady. “My name’s Andrew. I’m… I’m Johanna Carter’s son.”

There was silence on the other end for a second, then a sharp inhale. “Her son?”

“Yes, sir. Mama’s sick. Real sick. She won’t wake up good and she keeps coughing and her pager went off and the man yelled at me on the phone. And—” Andrew’s words were tumbling now, panic pushing them out faster.

“Okay, hey, hey,” Doug’s voice cut in, calm but firm, the kind of tone he used with scared parents in the ER. “Slow down, buddy. You said your mom’s sick? And you’re… Andrew?”

“Yes, sir. I’m seven.”

“All right, Andrew. You did the right thing calling me. Where are you right now?”

“Our apartment. On Oak Street. Number 2B.”

“Good. I’m gonna come by, okay? Stay with your mom. Don’t let her be alone. Can you do that?”

Andrew swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Good man. I’ll be there soon.”
The line clicked dead.

Andrew put the phone back in the cradle with a shaky breath. Jackson’s eyes were wide. “Is he coming?”

“He’s coming,” Andrew said, trying to sound confident.

The two brothers went back to the couch. Jackson fetched the half-empty water glass from the kitchen counter and set it by the couch like he was offering some great medical cure. Andrew tugged another blanket over his mother and Vincent, who stirred and blinked sleepily at them.

“Mama’s okay,” Andrew said softly, more for himself than for his little brothers. “Help’s coming.”

And for the first time that night, the tight knot in his chest loosened, just a little.

Chapter Text

Doug Ross was not exactly known for his patience behind the wheel, but that night he outdid himself. The Jeep roared down icy Chicago streets, skidding around corners as if the traffic lights were mere suggestions. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw tight, his stomach twisted. He had half a mind to throw his pager out the window and curse Benton for ever letting Carter work herself into the ground—then again, it wasn’t like Benton forced her. Carter had always been too damn stubborn for her own good.

But Doug wasn’t prepared for the sick, gnawing feeling in his gut as he thought about her kids. Three boys. Alone with their mother when she was too ill to move.

He pulled up to the sagging apartment building, tires screeching against a patch of slush. Doug slammed the Jeep into park, leapt out, and locked it in one swift motion. He took the crumbling steps two at a time. The hallway smelled faintly of stale cooking oil and radiator heat. His heart was hammering so loudly he could hear it over the clatter of pipes in the walls.

He knocked once—firm, quick. Before he could try again, the door creaked open.

Two little boys stood shoulder to shoulder like sentries.

Doug froze.

The older one had Carter’s sharp eyes and a steady, measuring look for a kid barely seven. The younger, maybe five, had a mop of dark hair sticking up in every direction and was practically vibrating with restless energy, his arms crossed in an exaggerated attempt at toughness. Both boys stared at him with suspicion, like a pair of guard dogs sizing up an intruder.

“Who are you?” the older one demanded, voice serious but soft.

“I’m Doug,” he said, crouching a little, trying to seem less threatening. “Dr. Doug Ross. I work with your mom.”

The two boys exchanged a glance. Clearly some silent debate passed between them. Finally, the older one gave a small nod. “I’m Andrew. This is Jackson.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes, leaning in like he was sniffing Doug for lies. “You’re loud. I don’t like loud people.”

Doug almost laughed, but stopped himself. “I can be quiet.”

Another long moment, and then Andrew stepped aside, motioning him in. “Okay. But don’t make her worse.”

Doug stepped through the door, tugging his coat off. The warmth hit him, though the place was drafty, worn. He barely had time to take in the cramped apartment before his eyes locked onto the couch.

Carter.

She was sprawled across the cushions, pale as parchment, her dark hair sticking to her damp forehead. She looked thinner than usual, cheeks hollow, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her lips… Doug’s chest tightened. They had a bluish tint, spotted faintly with what looked like blood.

A tiny body was curled protectively against her. A boy. Must’ve been Vincent—the youngest. He was pressed so close to his mother it was as though he was trying to keep her alive by sheer force of will. He lifted his head when Doug entered, big brown eyes wary but not unkind. Unlike his brothers, Vincent didn’t speak. He just blinked up at Doug, holding tighter to Carter’s sweater.

Doug’s throat went dry. He hadn’t been prepared for this. He thought maybe she’d have a fever, maybe be run-down. Not this. Not Carter barely clinging to consciousness with three little boys standing guard over her like soldiers.

“Mom?” Andrew whispered, walking to her side. He put his small hand on her arm. “Dr. Ross is here.”

Carter stirred. Her lashes fluttered, heavy and slow. She coughed, the sound rattling in her chest, and for one terrifying second Doug thought she might not wake up at all. Then, finally, her eyes opened.

“Doug?” Her voice was a rasp, barely there.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, kneeling by the couch. He reached instinctively for her wrist, feeling her pulse—fast, thready. Too weak. “It’s me. Don’t try to talk. You’re sick, Carter. You need a hospital.”

Her lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “Figures,” she whispered. “You’d show up when I look like hell.”

Doug huffed out a breath, half laugh, half broken sound. “Yeah, well, you’ve never looked worse.”

Jackson bristled instantly, his little fists balling up. “Don’t say that about my mom!” he snapped.

Doug blinked at him. “Hey—no, I didn’t mean—”

Andrew put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “He’s a doctor, Jackson. He’s trying to help.”

Jackson crossed his arms, still glaring at Doug with all the fury a five-year-old could muster.

Doug refocused on Carter. Her skin was clammy, her breathing uneven. She wasn’t just fighting off a cold—this was something deeper, something dangerous. Pneumonia, maybe. “You need to go in. Tonight.”

“No,” she rasped, shaking her head weakly. Vincent whimpered at the movement and clung tighter. “Kids—”

“I’ll take care of the kids,” Doug said firmly, not even thinking about it before the words left his mouth. “We’ll figure it out. Right now, you need help.”

Her eyes fluttered, exhaustion dragging her back under, but she gave him a tiny nod. The fight in her was fading.

Doug stood, rubbing a hand down his face. “Alright, soldiers,” he said, turning to the boys. “We’re getting your mom to County. Grab your coats. You’re coming with me.”

Andrew nodded instantly, already stepping into action. “Jackson, Vincent—coats. Now.”

Jackson groaned. “I don’t wanna go to a hospital.”

Andrew gave him the sharp look of an older brother forced to grow up too fast. “It’s not about you.”

Doug scooped Carter carefully into his arms. She was so light it startled him. She made a faint sound but didn’t fight. Vincent gave a soft, distressed cry as Doug lifted her, but Andrew soothed him, rubbing his brother’s back.

“We’ll be okay,” Andrew said quietly.

Doug carried Carter toward the door, the three boys trailing like ducklings behind him, and he realized something that made his chest ache: they weren’t just good kids. They were warriors. And they’d been fighting this battle alone for far too long.

Chapter Text

The sliding doors of County General burst open with a hiss, and Doug Ross strode through like a man on a mission. His arms were full—Johanna Carter slumped against his chest, head lolling against his shoulder, skin a frightening shade of gray.

Behind him, three boys trailed in a ragged line, coats half-buttoned, hair wild from being rushed out of bed. Andrew, serious and sharp-eyed at seven, walked tall and tried to act older than he was. Jackson, five, bounced nervously on his heels, alternating between tugging on Andrew’s sleeve and glaring at the fluorescent lights. Vincent, the youngest, clung silently to his oldest brother’s hand, wide eyes darting around the ER.

The triage nurse looked up from her chart. “Dr. Ross—” She stopped mid-sentence, her mouth dropping open. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Doug barked, his voice hard with urgency. “Med student. She’s burning up, lips are blue. I need a bed now.”

The chaos of the ER froze for one surreal second. Susan, who had been giving instructions to a nurse, turned and went pale. “Oh my God—that’s Carter.”

Doug was already moving toward Trauma 2. “Clear it out. Now!”

Mark Greene appeared from around the corner, coffee in hand, eyes going wide. “Doug—what the hell—”

“She’s sick, Mark. Bad.” Doug shifted Carter carefully as he laid her down on the gurney a nurse had wheeled in. Her head lolled to the side, and a faint streak of blood painted her lips from her coughing fit.

Carol Hathaway came rushing in, her voice sharp. “What happened?”

“She’s got pneumonia,” Doug said, already pulling at Carter’s hoodie and tugging the blanket off her. “She was half out when I got to her place. She hasn’t been able to breathe right for God knows how long.”

Susan pressed the stethoscope to Carter’s chest, her brow furrowing. “Crackles everywhere. Pulse ox is in the low 80s.”

“Get her on O2, draw labs, CBC, blood cultures,” Mark ordered. His voice was brisk, but his eyes betrayed his shock. Carter was their med student—quiet, stubborn, too eager to impress Benton—but none of them had imagined this.

The boys had clustered at the door, frozen by the scene. Andrew’s hand rested protectively on Vincent’s small shoulder. Jackson fidgeted, trying to mask his fear with bravado.

Carol glanced at them and softened. She crouched down, her nurse’s instincts kicking in. “Hey, you three—hi. I’m Carol. I’m a nurse here. You must be Carter’s boys, right?”

Andrew straightened, wary but polite. “I’m Andrew. That’s Jackson. And Vincent.”

Carol smiled gently. “It’s nice to meet you. Your mom’s in good hands, okay? We’re gonna take care of her.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes. “She looks really bad. Don’t let her die.”

Carol blinked, then nodded firmly. “We won’t. Promise.”

Benton swept into the room, scrubbing his hands with a towel, clearly irritated from being pulled from surgery. “What is so urgent that—” He froze mid-step. His sharp, cutting expression melted into stunned disbelief as his eyes landed on the gurney. “Carter?”

Doug didn’t even look up as he adjusted the oxygen mask over her face. “Yeah. She’s septic, probably. You want to stand there or do something?”

Benton moved quickly, stepping to the bedside. His hands were steady, professional, but his jaw had gone tight. “How long has she been like this?”

Doug shot him a glare. “Too damn long. You didn’t notice?”

Benton ignored him, leaning down to listen to Carter’s lungs himself. The sound was awful—wet, rattling. He exhaled slowly, straightening up. “She needs fluids, broad-spectrum antibiotics, and a bed upstairs. Now.”

Mark gave him a sharp look. “That’s what we’re doing.”

For once, Benton didn’t argue. His eyes flicked to the doorway, where the three boys stood clutching each other. He blinked, then turned back to Doug. “Who are they?”

Doug glanced back. His voice softened. “Her kids.”

The room went utterly still.

“Her what?” Susan blurted, almost dropping her chart.

“Kids,” Doug repeated, steady but tired. “Three of them.”

There was a collective intake of breath. Mark’s brows shot up, Carol’s eyes widened, and even Benton’s composure cracked for half a second. No one had known.

Andrew stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. His small voice was quiet but firm. “We’re her sons. Don’t tell her secrets. She doesn’t like people knowing.”

Carol crouched lower, her heart aching. “Sweetheart… sometimes people need to know. So they can help.”

Andrew shook his head, the set of his jaw startlingly similar to his mother’s. “We help her. We always help her.”

Doug stood at Carter’s side, one hand on the rail of the gurney. He looked at the boys, then back at Carter—frail and small against the white sheets. His chest felt tight, his throat burning with a mix of anger and worry.

The truth was out now, whether Carter wanted it or not. And Doug couldn’t shake the feeling that they had only just scratched the surface of how much she’d been hiding.

The monitors beeped steadily in the dim hospital room, casting green glows over the walls. Carter lay under a thin blanket, IV lines snaking into her arms, oxygen hissing softly at her bedside. She looked small—shockingly small—in a way that made Doug’s chest ache. For the first time, she wasn’t the med student trying to prove herself. She was just a woman, a mother who had run out of fight.

Carol sat in the corner with Vincent asleep against her shoulder, the little boy’s thumb tucked into his mouth. He hadn’t left his mother’s side until exhaustion finally dragged him under. Jackson had conked out on a recliner, still clutching a juice box he’d refused to let go of. Andrew sat upright on the other side of the bed, stubbornly awake, his hand wrapped around his mom’s fingers like he could tether her to the earth.

The door cracked open and Susan slipped inside with a tray. “Soup,” she whispered, setting it down. “For when she’s up.”

“She’s not gonna want soup,” Andrew muttered, surprising her. His voice was sharp, protective. “She hates soup when she’s sick.”

Susan blinked. “Oh. Well… I guess you’d know better than me.”

Before Andrew could answer, Carter stirred. Her breathing hitched, a sharp cough tearing from her chest. Andrew shot forward instantly. “Mama? Hey, Mama—wake up.”

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and disoriented. “Andy?” Her voice was a rasp, but the panic was immediate. She tried to push herself up, weak arms trembling. “Where—where are they? My boys—where—”

“They’re here,” Doug said quickly, stepping into her line of vision. “They’re all here. They’re safe. Just breathe.”

Carter’s head turned frantically, eyes landing on Andrew, then darting to the sleeping forms of Jackson and Vincent. Tears welled up fast, hot and silent. “No—no, they shouldn’t be here. They—”

Andrew grabbed her hand tighter. “It’s okay, Mama. You got sick. We called Dr. Ross.”

She froze, her gaze snapping back to Doug. The look was wild, almost accusatory. “You… you weren’t supposed to—” Her chest heaved with the effort of words, another coughing fit shaking her frail frame.

“Easy,” Carol soothed, shifting Vincent carefully so she could lean forward. “Carter, you’ve been very sick. You need to rest.”

Carter’s breathing came ragged, her doe eyes full of fear and shame. “No… they can’t… they’ll take them away…”

Susan frowned. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Carter tried to answer, but her throat closed up, her words dissolving into a weak sob. She turned her face into the pillow, trembling. Andrew looked stricken, his grip never loosening.

Doug sat on the edge of the bed, his voice low but steady. “Nobody’s taking your boys, Carter. You hear me? Nobody. They need you, and you need them. That’s all that matters right now.”

Her glassy eyes lifted to him, desperate. “Promise?”

Doug’s chest tightened. “Yeah. I promise.”

Behind him, Susan and Carol exchanged looks—quiet, heavy ones. For the first time, the staff of County General began piecing together the truth. The long hours, the constant exhaustion, the way Carter always brushed off questions about her personal life. The bags under her eyes that never went away.

She wasn’t just a med student trying to survive Benton’s wrath. She was a single mother of three, clawing through every day on fumes and grit, too proud or too scared to ask for help.

And now her secret wasn’t a secret anymore.