Chapter Text
Carter wakes up suddenly. There is a pounding in his head like nothing he’s ever experienced before, the worst hangovers of his life not even coming close. His body feels like it’s been hit by a truck and then rolled over again several times for good measure. The worst is, of course, his back, which feels almost as bad as it did during those early days in the hospital right after the attack. He catalogues these pains quickly, within seconds of coming into awareness. Before he can begin to make sense of his surroundings, he moves to take a deep, steadying breath. That’s when he becomes aware that there is something inside his throat.
Any sense of reason goes out the window as panic seizes John’s body. And then he is choking. All Carter can think is I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. His limbs are heavy beyond belief, but a surge of adrenaline has Carter clawing at his neck desperately, trying to free himself, trying to dislodge whatever is in his throat, oh my god he’s going to die, he’s going to suffocate, oh my god oh my god –
The world around him is a blur of colors, a cacophony of unintelligible sounds. Perhaps – perhaps – is that a heart monitor?
And then there are hands on his hands, pulling them away from his neck. He fights them, he has to fight them, has to breathe, he can’t breathe!
“Calm down, Carter, calm down. Don’t fight the vent man, let it breathe for you. Come on. Calm down. You got this. Calm down.”
The voice is in his ear. Dark skin, brown eyes, inches from his face, Carter can see it now. Dr. Benton, it registers to Carter. Their eyes lock. “Are you hearing me, Carter?” Benton says loudly, hand on John’s forehead. “You’re in the hospital. You’re intubated. You’re going to be fine. You have to let the machine breathe for you.”
Weakly, Carter feels some of the struggle leave his body, the panic abating ever so slightly as he tries to process this information, process Dr. Benton’s instructions.
I’m in the hospital. I’m intubated. I’m going to be fine.
I have to let the machine breathe for me.
Okay. Okay. Eyes still fixed on Benton, Carter gives in. Lets his hands, his body go limp. Against every instinct in his body, he stops trying to breathe. Miraculously, he feels his lungs inflate, then deflate mechanically. Again. Again.
“Good boy, that’s right. Good boy, Carter.” Benton murmurs softly.
Carter understands now. He is intubated. He’s on a ventilator. He feels panic begin to rise in him again. What the fuck happened, he thinks, desperately trying to remember how he ended up here. His heart begins to pound. Was I attacked again? Did anyone else get hurt? How bad is it?
Carter tries in vain to talk around the vent, the only sound that comes out being muffled grunts, whines.
“Cut that out, Carter,” Benton says to him. “You can’t talk right now. We can’t take the vent out yet. Do you understand? You’re not triggering the vent yet. Your brain is still catching up to your body, okay?”
He can’t remember anything, can’t remember how he got here, can’t remember the last thing he remembers…. Desperate, Carter widens his eyes, willing them to express every question he has, his fear, his vulnerability, his confusion. He does this, trying to regain eye contact with Benton, only to find Benton deliberately avoiding his gaze.
Carter grabs at Benton’s arm, weakly shaking it. Look at me! He wants to scream. All that comes out is a pathetic groan.
“You’re going to be fine, man,” Benton says, but Carter is afraid, afraid that Benton is lying, or hiding something, because why won’t he look at him? “You should try to sleep, your body’s been through a lot. We should be able to take the tube out soon.”
Frantically, Carter shakes his head. He knows Benton is at least partially correct – his head feels like it’s going to explode, his body about to implode, and he is so tired – but he can’t sleep yet. Not like this. He tugs desperately at Benton’s arm. Please, he tries to say through the vent. To his embarrassment, two tears leak out of his eyes. Panic is rising, the heart monitor is speeding up.
Finally, finally, Benton looks at him, and Carter is alarmed by the look of dismay and uncertainty on Benton’s face. “Carter…” Benton says. “We don’t have to talk about it now. We’ll talk about it when you’re off the vent. It wasn’t your fault. I’m going to make sure the hospital knows it wasn’t your fault.”
If possible, Carter’s heart beats even faster. John lets out an involuntary, strangled moan as the pain in his chest surges. Oh god, did he have broken ribs? Carter panics. What isn’t my fault? What happened to me?
Desperately, Carter tries to convey to Benton that he does not know what Benton is talking about. I don’t remember, he wants to scream.
“Sh, sh, sh,” Benton says, lightly squeezing Carter’s hand before placing it back on the bed. “If you can’t calm down, the nurses are going come in to poke and prod at you. Just try to relax.”
Carter shakes his head again, pouring every ounce of fear and confusion he has into his gaze. Benton meets his eyes for several moments as a frown begins to form. And then his expression collapses, his face suddenly looking ten years older. “Aw, man. You don’t remember what happened at all, do you?”
A single tear escapes Carter’s eye as he once again shakes his head.
“Oh, man,” Benton sighs, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you what happened, alright man?” Carter nods frantically. “Stop moving, you’re going to fuck with the vent,” Peter snaps at him. Benton lets out a big breath as Carter stills. “I will not have you go into respiratory failure on my watch, Carter. Not again.”
Carter just looks at him with wide eyes, heart pounding. Whatever had happened, Carter was realizing… it had been bad. It had been really bad. John thinks of his aching ribs and is hit by another horrifying realization. CPR. Someone had done CPR on him. Jesus Christ.
Benton sighs. Again. “I will tell you what happened. But you need to promise that you won’t freak out. I am telling you now that you are fine. You are going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine. I need you to promise, Carter. Promise that you’re not going to freak out on me.” Benton fixes him with a piercing stare. “Nod – slowly – if you understand.”
Very slowly, despite already feeling halfway to a complete freak out, Carter nods.
“Ok.” Benton says. Carter watches as Peter pulls out his doctor face, the stoic, professional performance he puts on for patients. He looks Carter directly in the eyes. “You are in the ICU. You’ve been here a little less than 24 hours. You were hurt while working a trauma in the ER on Saturday night. Are you remembering anything yet?”
Carter shakes his head.
Benton sighs. Lays a hand down on Carter’s wrist. “The trauma was very physical. The patient was on drugs, and violent. It was a big guy, too, nearly 300 pounds. And he was fighting anyone who tried to touch him. You were there, you were trying to hold him down.” Benton pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. “While about to administer 350 mcgs of fentanyl, Malucci got headbutted by the patient. He stuck you instead, by accident, in the arm. You got the full dose.”
There’s a roaring in Carter’s ears. The tube in his throat suddenly feels ten times bigger, ten times more intrusive. Don’t panic, don’t panic, he tries to tell himself as he is hit with the full force of the implications. Oh god, he’d essentially relapsed in the middle of a trauma. He’s going to lose his job, he’s going to lose his medical license, he’s going to lose everything-
Carter’s spiral is cut short by fingers snapping directly in front of his face. Benton is glaring at him. Over the sound of Carter’s heart monitor going crazy, Benton snaps, “No panicking, Carter. I told you everything was going to be okay, remember? So just chill out and let me finish. Okay?”
John doesn’t feel like he can calm down. He wants to sob, to hit something, to scream. All that work, all the agonizing work in rehab. Those long, painful, sleepless nights detoxing. All for nothing.
But Benton’s grip on his wrist tightens, squeezes. “Everything is going to be fine, remember?” he repeats. Something in John’s chest loosens ever so slightly. Benton’s eyes are piercing him. In that moment, Carter chooses to believe him. To trust. He nods, slowly. Everything was going to be fine.
Benton pauses for another couple moments, as if to evaluate Carter’s constitution, before continuing. “It was a massive overdose, Carter. A dose meant for someone over twice your size, and on drugs. It could have killed you… honestly, it probably would have killed you, if not for… well, if not for your existing tolerance.” Benton clears his throat. “You still almost died. We immediately intubated you and started administering Narcan, but your blood pressure bottomed out too quickly. You went into cardiac arrest. We were doing CPR for over five minutes. Defibrillated six times. It was… it was close, Carter. But we got you back. All your vitals are good. Your labs are good. As soon as you start breathing on your own, you’ll be well on your way to a full recovery.”
Carter closes his eyes, trying to process. Trying not to think too hard about how completely and utterly fucked he is. Full recovery, Carter thinks bitterly. This has completely obliterated his recovery.
The weight of the situation hits Carter like a ton of bricks. Everything hurts. He feels like he’s been physically and emotionally run through a meat grinder. He screws his eyes shut, unable to bear the sympathy and concern in Benton’s eyes. He just wants everything to go away.
Releasing his wrist, Benton seems to read Carter’s mind. “I’m going to give you point five of dexmedetomidine to help you sleep, okay?” Carter nods without opening his eyes. “When you wake up, we’ll work on getting that tube out of your throat, alright?”
Carter doesn’t respond, embracing the tiredness that weighs down his entire body. Distantly, he recognizes the calming effect of the sedative as it hits his body, feels his heart rate slowing down, eyelids growing heavy. And then he sleeps.
When Carter wakes up again, he’s in no less pain, and now feeling slightly dizzy and feverish. Weak. Lethargic. Blearily, he opens his eyes, groaning at the sight of Mark Greene and Kerry Weaver looking down at him. The humiliation ritual continues.
If they’re bothered by his less-than-enthusiastic reaction to their presence, they don’t show it. In fact, they appear to be… beaming at him?
“Good to see you awake, Carter,” Mark says, upbeat. “Benton’s going to be here is a minute – we just got word that you started triggering the vent. He’s going to take it out as soon as he gets here.”
Carter blinks at them owlishly. Despite everything that had happened, Carter liked Mark and Kerry. It was Carter’s own fault, anyway. His own bad decisions had led to the breakdown in trust in his relationship with them. And he couldn’t help but wonder why they were here, now. As friends, as colleagues? Or as his career executioners?
Mark squeezes Carter’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine, Carter. We’ve already talked to hospital administration. This is not going to affect your employment at the hospital or your residency. You’re going to have to go to a couple mandatory counselling sessions once you’re back on your feet, but that’s it. You’ll be back to work in no time.”
If Carter could have, he would have let out a massive breath of relief. Instead, he just nods at Mark, blinking rapidly.
“It was an accident, John,” Kerry says from behind Mark. “We’re just glad you’re okay. You were very, very lucky.”
Intubated and practically immobile, Carter doesn’t feel particularly lucky. He sees Kerry’s point, though. Somewhat.
“We’ve got to get back to the ER, Carter, but Benton will be here soon to take the tube out. I’ll come check on you at the end of the day, alright? Take it easy.” Mark tells him before leaving with Kerry.
Alone now, Carter closes his eyes, trying to wrap his head around everything that had happened. It’s going to be fine, he tells himself. It’s what everyone had been telling him. His heart clenches painfully. He felt like a liar, like a fraud. Everyone had so much faith in him, so much trust that this was just going to be a speedbump. Carter wasn’t so sure.
Every day of recovery was a struggle. Every day he woke up, wishing he could use. Wishing for the physical and mental relief that the drugs gave him. And now… now he could feel the lingering effects of the fentanyl in his system, taunting him. Reminding him. Luring him back. His addiction was like a wound that had scabbed over ever since entering rehab. That scab that had now been picked off. The wound was fresh again. Carter’s heart hammered. He hated it. He hated how scared he was, that he was going to have to start all over again. He hated how scared he was that he might not be strong enough. He hated that he could let everyone in his life down, again.
“Carter.”
It’s Benton – of course it’s Benton. Benton, who’d been there for Carter through everything. Who had stood by him. Who had saved his life, what – three times now? John’s insides clench. He can’t let Benton down, not after everything.
“Carter.” Benton says again. John feels a finger prod his arm.
Carter groans, eyes flicking open, swatting Benton’s hand away. There’s a nurse with him.
“Good, you’re awake,” Benton nods, seeming satisfied. “We’re going to take the tube out now. You know how this works.”
Beside him, the nurse adjusts the bed, moving Carter into a slightly more upright position. Silently, Benton suctions out the ETT tube. “Alright, man,” Benton says quietly. “Cough for me when I say so…. Now.”
Carter coughs as hard as he can, a strangled sound coming out of his mouth as he feels the object in his throat being pulled out. For a moment, Carter is unable to take in any air. He chokes. But then the tube is gone, and Carter is gagging, coughing, gasping for air, his mind completely blank. Distantly, he registers the nurse swiftly situating a cannula under his nose, appreciates the cold flow of oxygen entering his system.
“Nice, deep breaths, Carter,” Benton instructs, a damp cloth materializing in his hand as he gently wipes various residues off Carter’s face. He frowns as Carter continues to wheeze. “Clarke, grab me that oxygen mask,” he orders the nurse.
John tries to wave him off, tries to tell him that he’s fine. Predictably, Benton ignores him completely, strapping the oxygen mask over Carter’s face and holding it there.
Carter tries to feel annoyed, but finds that he can’t, really – he is too busy eagerly sucking in breaths full of oxygen. In and out, he reminds his lungs. In and out.
Several minutes pass like that – Carter just focusing on breathing through the pain, and on the mechanics of breathing in general. Benton offers the occasional small, quiet reassurance.
Finally, Carter relaxes. His head clears. He moves to take the oxygen mask off, and Benton lets him.
“Fucking…. ow.” Carter finally rasps, words like sandpaper in his throat.
Benton smirks. “Yeah, well, maybe this will teach you a lesson about nearly dying in the ER, again.” His words are light and teasing, but Carter detects a degree of seriousness in former teacher’s tone.
“Not… my… fault..” Carter croaks, wincing at the strain to his vocal cords.
Benton frowns at him. “Stop talking,” he orders. “Give your throat time to heal.”
Carter glares at him. “Don’t.. tell me… what to do.” He manages, grinning slightly in reaction to Benton’s expression darkening. He feels tired again. His head hurts. His ribs hurt a lot.
Benton rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man.”
Carter is quiet for a minute. There’s so much he wants to say – if only talking didn’t feel like an exercise in respiratory torture.
Finally, he just says it. “I’m…. worried.” Voice like a chain-smoker.
Benton frowns at him. Considers him. “About the fentanyl?”
Carter nods. Benton sighs.
“You’re not going to lose your spot in the program. Mark and Kerry have worked it out with the administration. Everyone knows it was an accident, Carter.”
John shrugs, helplessly. He looks away from Benton, trying to hide the way his eyes are smarting with tears.
“Hey,” Benton says. “Come on.”
Carter takes a stuttering breath.
“Is this about more than the fentanyl?” Benton asks quietly. “You’re worried about your recovery? About relapsing?”
Unable to look anywhere near Benton, Carter turns his entire body away, ignoring the pain in his back, his ribs, so that he’s facing the wall. “…yeah.” Carter whispers, hoarsely.
Benton is quiet. Finally, he says, “You got clean before, and you stayed clean. Most people… most people, Carter, it takes them years to get clean. They relapse again and again. This is not a relapse. The fentanyl is already out of your system. You’re clean. And you can stay clean again. Everyone in this hospital wants you to succeed, wants to support you. You… you’re not alone in this, is what I’m saying, Carter. Not this time.”
Carter sniffs. “….okay,” he whisper, closing his eyes.
Benton stands, rests a hesitant hand Carter’s shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, man.”
And in that moment, feeling the warmth of Benton’s hand through the thin material of his hospital gown… Carter really believes him.