Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Carter’s apartment still smelled like grief.

Not in any literal way—he’d cleaned, boxed things, donated half the furniture—but the air held it. That quiet heaviness that followed you after a funeral, the echo of last goodbyes that didn’t say enough.

He ignored the knock on the door, but after the second one he sighs and heads to open it. Abby seems more surprised to find herself there than he does to see her.

She shrugs up her arm, showing a carton of takeout she’d picked up on the way over. Thai. She didn’t know if he still liked pad see ew, or if that was Luka’s favorite. They hadn’t talked about food in a while.

They hadn’t talked about much at all lately, but she'd heard a rumor and had to see for herself.

“You’re really going?” she asked.

Carter was sitting on the floor, surrounded by taped-up supply crates and a medical satchel half-packed with wound kits and lab slips. A worn WFP logistics binder lay open in front of him.

He looked up. “They’re short-staffed. And the last convoy to Kalehe got hit with small-arms fire. One of the trauma doctors bailed.”

“Jesus,” Abby muttered. “And you thought, ‘Sure, let’s head toward that.’”

“It’s not about that. It’s about going where I can do something that matters.”

She stepped closer, the scent of noodles and steam trailing behind her.

“I didn’t come here to stop you.”

He blinked.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You what?”

“Because you’re not the only one who needs to get out of here,” she said quietly. “Luka and I… ended. And I’ve been spinning in circles for months. My mom’s stable—for now. Eric’s been radio silent. There’s nothing holding me here except fear. And I’m tired of letting fear win.”

Carter stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Abby… it’s not like what I talked about before. The UN isn’t covering the whole corridor anymore. MONUSCO’s scaling back. There are places no one’s monitoring. If something goes wrong, no one’s coming.”

“I’m not asking for a guided tour.”

“I’m not trying to be noble. I just—this is a dangerous place.”

“I’m dangerous too,” she said flatly. “You know that.”

He gave her a look. It was half disbelief, half something softer.

“So,” she said, reaching for the takeout, “you gonna make me get my own visa, or is this one of those ‘rich boy strings’ moments?”

He gave her a dry look. “You’re carrying your own duffel.”

“Fair enough.”

“We leave in four days. First stop’s Bukavu. Then up the ridge to Kalehe. After that…” He trailed off.

“After that,” Abby said, “we start again.”

Chapter Text

Bukavu, South Kivu – Five Days Later – April 2024

They arrived in the early morning, just as the fog began to pull back from the hills.

Bukavu clung to the edge of Lake Kivu, its hills terraced with sheet-metal roofs, churches, cell towers, and half-built compounds that had been paused by budget cuts or sudden violence. From above, the city shimmered with the promise of order. On the ground, it buzzed with tension—motorbikes weaving through NGOs’ white Land Cruisers, WFP banners flapping on temporary aid stations, checkpoints manned by FARDC soldiers with dusty uniforms and twitchy fingers.

Abby stepped off the UNHAS plane into thick air that smelled of wet earth and engine oil. The tarmac was barely a tarmac—just gravel packed down hard and outlined with faded orange cones.

“You okay?” Carter asked beside her, his duffel already slung over one shoulder.

She nodded, rolling her shoulders under the weight of her pack. “Feels familiar.”

He gave her a look. 

“I mean this. The smell. The speed. The way people move like the ground might shift underneath them.”

He nodded once. 

Their ride was waiting: a patched-up 4x4 with a bent antenna and two fuel cans strapped to the back. A local logistics coordinator named Bernadette, maybe mid-40s and wearing a UNICEF vest over a Pink Floyd t-shirt, waved them in.

“You’re the doctor from Kinshasa? Worked with Beatrice?” she asked, switching easily between French and English.

“Chicago, technically,” Carter said, shaking her hand. “But yes. This is Abby Lockhart.”

Bernadette scanned Abby in one glance—boots, bandana, no jewelry, no nonsense.

“You’ll last longer than most,” she said.

The drive took them northwest, up a winding ridge road toward Kalehe, where their field site—a hybrid MSF-run clinic and UN-coordinated health post—was nestled near a string of internally displaced persons (IDP) settlements along the escarpment.

No road signs. No cell signal.

But the view—God, the view.

The mountains rippled in layers, thick with green and mist. Lake Kivu glittered far below like a broken mirror.

Abby sat in the back, windows down, arms braced against the frame as they climbed.

“Does it ever stop being beautiful?” she asked.

“No,” Carter said. “That’s part of the cruelty.”

They reached the site by mid-afternoon.

Three prefab structures. Two tents. A solar bank wired into an old satellite dish for intermittent internet. A wide field behind the clinic where goats wandered and children kicked a ball made of tied plastic bags.

A man in rubber sandals and a “Médicins Sans Frontières” cap approached with a clipboard and a handshake that nearly cracked Abby’s fingers.

Dr. Alain Kabamba, Congolese, ER-trained, fluent in five languages, and by reputation, the one person in camp who could keep Beatrice from quitting.

He looked at Carter, then Abby.

“You two came together?”

“We did,” Carter said.

Dr. Kabamba gave a brief nod.

“I hope you leave together, too,” he said. “Most don’t.”

Inside the main building, Beatrice was already prepping patient logs.

She glanced up when Abby entered, gave a subtle nod.

“You’re the one Carter wouldn’t shut up about?”

Abby arched an eyebrow. “That’s terrifying.”

Beatrice smirked. “Good. We need terrifying.”

She handed Abby a printout. “Prenatal triage starts tomorrow at 07:00. The latrine overflowed again last night. We have five cholera cases and a foot wound that might be necrotizing. Welcome to camp.”

That night, they slept in the same room. Two cots. One solar-powered fan that whined when the charge dipped too low. A mosquito net they strung up between them like a soft, permeable curtain.

Carter lay back with his hands folded behind his head, staring at the stars through the mesh window.

“You okay?” he asked.

Abby lay still, eyes closed.

“I’m not here to figure that out,” she said. “I’m here to be here.”

Carter nodded, even though she couldn’t see him.

“Fair enough.”

They didn’t speak again until morning.

Chapter Text

Kalehe Health Post, South Kivu – 06:38 a.m.

The generator wheezed to life like a dying goat, then caught with a groan that sent the string lights flickering on across the compound.

“Still better than County’s elevators,” Abby muttered, tying her bandana at the base of her neck.

Carter handed her a mug of instant coffee—lukewarm, over-steeped, and exactly right.

“Low bar,” he said.

“Sure, but at least nothing smells like bleach and shame.”

They sipped in silence while Beatrice stormed past them, muttering in Swahili and French.

“She okay?” Abby asked.

“She was up all night chasing a toddler with dysentery. I’d give her a five-meter radius.”

“Noted.”

07:12 a.m. – Cholera Tent

The boy on the cot looked small even by comparison to the foam mattress under him. His skin was pale and drawn, lips cracked, one arm twitching faintly beneath a thin gauze wrap.

“Dehydrated. No visible veins,” Abby said, crouching beside him.

Beatrice hovered. “Mother died two days ago. He hasn’t spoken since.”

Carter stepped in with a pack of saline. “Try subcutaneous?”

Abby nodded, already reaching for a butterfly needle.

The boy flinched once. Then stilled.

Fluid uptake was slow. But it held.

Abby let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“ORS packets?” she asked.

“In the fridge that’s definitely not a fridge anymore,” Carter replied.

Beatrice smirked. “We call it the warm box of lies.”

09:36 a.m. – Maternity Tent

The patient was young, scared, and two hours into a labor that was now clearly breech. Abby walked in just as Dr. Kabamba pulled on a fresh set of gloves.

“She speaks mostly Swahili, a little French,” he said. “First-time delivery.”

“I remember my first as an L&D nurse,” Abby said. “I cried more than the baby.”

Kabamba didn’t blink. “Please don’t do that here.”

Abby took her place. “No promises.”

The baby came out at 10:12. Screaming. Breathing. Whole.

When Abby stepped outside, covered in sweat, blood, and pure adrenaline, Carter was already on a crate nearby, drinking from a rehydration pouch like it was a juice box.

“Successful?”

“She’s fine. Kid’s fine. I might have a hernia.”

Carter handed over the pouch. “Want to trade jobs?”

Abby squinted up at the sun. “I’d rather be shot at.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” he said. “There’s still daylight left.”

12:25 p.m. – Lunch (loosely defined)

They sat under the eaves of the pharmacy tent, eating rice and whatever had passed for stew that morning. It was spicy, vaguely fishy, and not entirely distinguishable from the antiseptic smell wafting from the bucket near their feet.

“Remind me to never insult the cook again,” Abby said between bites.

“You insulted the cook?”

“I said the eggplant looked like it had trauma history.”

Beatrice passed by, snorted, and called over her shoulder, “He named that eggplant. You’re on thin ice.”

Carter sipped his water. “You always know how to blend in.”

“I try.”

15:17 p.m. – Triage Corridor

The machete wound wasn’t deep, but it was jagged. The patient—a wiry man in his late twenties—refused to lie down, clutching a backpack against his chest like it was currency.

“Can’t I just have pills?” he asked. “You cut it open, I can’t run.”

“We’re not cutting anything,” Abby said. “Unless it gets infected.”

“What if it does?”

“Then you’ll have worse things to worry about than running.”

Carter stepped in. “Let her clean it.”

The man stared between them. Then sat.

“You’re very calm,” he said to Abby as she worked.

“I save the panic for Wednesdays.”

19:42 p.m. – Outside the treatment tent

The sun had dipped behind the mountains. Everything was dipped in amber, warm and briefly quiet.

Abby and Carter sat side by side on the supply tent steps. Abby had her boots off, feet bare in the dirt. Carter offered her half a protein bar.

She took it without comment. Bit. Chewed.

“You ever think about what we were doing this time last year?” she asked.

Carter took a sip from his pouch.

“Avoiding each other?”

Abby grinned. “And probably yelling about a supply closet.”

“Don’t romanticize it. It was a very traumatic supply closet.”

From across the compound, Ruth lit a cigarette with the last match in her box. She looked over, exhaled slowly.

“You know what I like about Americans?” she called.

Abby raised an eyebrow. “We’re charming and well-hydrated?”

“You work hard,” Ruth said. “But you bleed so easily.”

Abby nodded. “We cry at dog commercials.”

Ruth puffed once. “That explains Carter.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m right here.”

“Exactly.”

Later – Quiet

As the camp settled, Abby lay on her cot under the hum of a solar-powered fan that was running on pure stubbornness. Carter was across the room, reading from a dog-eared field guide to tropical infection management.

She turned her head.

“I’m not ready to talk about us.”

He looked up.

“I know.”

“But I’m ready not to run.”

Carter nodded. “That’s enough.”

For now.

Chapter Text

Kalehe Health Post, South Kivu – Late afternoon

The storm didn’t hit until just after the baby started seizing.

The wind came first—rising up from the basin in hot gusts, tugging at the tarp lines and snapping the laundry into the dirt. A minute later, the rain followed, loud on the aluminum roof, sheeting off the eaves and drowning out the distant static of the radio.

Inside the maternity tent, the air was thick with heat and the smell of iodine. Abby was kneeling on the floor beside the mother’s cot, one hand pressed flat to the baby’s chest, the other holding an oxygen mask made from a water bottle and surgical tape.

“She’s hypoxic,” Abby said, without looking up. “And I think she’s aspirated.”

The newborn’s body was twitching—not violent, but rhythmic. Too fast. Too small.

Carter stood across from her, gloves already on. “We need diazepam.”

“We’re out,” Beatrice said from the entrance. “Next shipment’s held at the checkpoint in Minova. Solomon’s trying to push it through with a Médecins du Monde liaison, but it won’t get here before tomorrow.”

Abby swore under her breath.

Carter moved to the IV tray. “What about phenobarbital?”

“It’s locked in the drug fridge,” Beatrice replied. “Key’s with Ruth. She took the radio down to the lower post to charge.”

Another tremor wracked the baby’s body.

Abby gritted her teeth. “Then we go manual.”

“Abby—”

“We support until she cycles down. I can stabilize her heart rate if you keep the airway open.”

“Abby.”

She finally looked up.

Carter wasn’t panicked. But he wasn’t neutral either.

“You’ve been at this for almost two hours,” he said. “Let’s call Kabamba, get a second set of hands.”

“There’s no time.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do know that. She’s spiraling.”

“And if we push too hard without meds, we’ll burn her out.”

“I’m not letting her seize herself into arrest, Carter.”

The rain pounded the tent harder, muffling the silence between them.

“She’s a fighter,” Abby said, quietly now, hands still on the baby. “I just don’t want to lose her because we waited too long.”

“And I don’t want to lose you because you don’t know when to hand it off.”

Abby flinched. “You think I can’t let go?”

“I think you don’t want to.”

Beatrice stepped back from the entrance.

“I’ll try Kabamba on the sat phone,” she said. “I’ll come back when it’s quiet.”

She left without waiting for acknowledgment.

Carter walked over, crouched beside Abby.

“You’re not wrong,” he said.

“Neither are you.”

“I don’t want us to do the thing we used to do. Where we just get through it, and then carry the resentment like a backpack.”

Abby looked down at the baby. The tremors had slowed.

“I don’t either.”

“I trust you.”

“But you don’t always agree with me.”

“No,” he said. “And that has to be okay.”

She nodded. Swallowed. Adjusted the makeshift oxygen mask.

The baby gave a tiny gasp, then stilled.

Abby waited.

Two more breaths. A flutter under her palm.

“She’s cycling down.”

Carter exhaled. “Okay.”

They stayed like that—knee to knee, breath syncing to the newborn’s—until the storm passed.

Later – just before lights-out

The camp had quieted. Abby sat outside their room, feet in the dirt, a tin mug in her hand. Carter joined her, holding a packet of protein crackers and an unopened message on his phone from Ruth, marked “low priority.”

“You okay?” he asked.

She didn’t answer at first.

Then: “That fight felt too familiar.”

He nodded. “But we didn’t run from it.”

“No,” she said. “We didn’t.”

She handed him the mug.

He took a sip. Made a face. “What is this?”

“Rehydration salts and instant coffee.”

He laughed softly. “It’s awful.”

“I know.”

They didn’t touch. But they didn’t need to.

It wasn’t a clean moment.

It was a real one.

And for now, that was enough.