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He falls ill on a Sunday, which is inconvenient for the family because there's a dinner, and Carter is expected to attend. This is conveyed to him via a butler at seven in the morning, when he's so heavy with fever he can hardly lift his eyelids, and the poor man clearly doesn't relish his task.
“Your dinner jacket is hanging on the wardrobe, Sir. You're expected to be dressed and ready by six pm at the latest.”
Carter blinks, rubbing the grit of sleep from his eyes, and looks through the heat haze to where the butler- Harvey, he recalls- is standing. His throat bobs, and when he goes to speak he finds that it's painful to do so.
“S-sorry?”
“Family dinner, Mr Carter.”
He blinks again, forcing the information through his brain like butter through a sieve, and at last remembers: his parents are visiting. Jack and Eleanor won't stay for long (they never do), but while they're here, these dinners are a nightly occurrence. He must get dressed, sit at the table, and discuss matters of medical school with an appropriate level of enthusiasm- that is, a touch above none.
“Uh, right.” He manages, sinking back down into his pillow and giving Harvey a thumbs up. “Will… will do.”
His eyes fall closed again, and he expects to be promptly left alone, but instead-
“Is there anything I can get you, Mr Carter?”
He opens his eyes, looking blearily at the butler. “H-hm?”
“Is there anything I can get you? Perhaps some Tylenol? A glass of water?”
It catches him off guard, the subtle care of it all, even if he knows it's only because Harvey considers it part of his job. He almost declines the offer, but then, almost on cue, his head pounds and he hums appreciatively.
“That.. that'd be great, thanks, Harvey.”
“Of course. One moment, Mr Carter.”
He's deep asleep by the time Harvey returns.
At 5:45pm, he's woken by another reluctant butler who, perhaps rightly, doesn't stick around for long. Carter sits up in bed, the room spinning around him, mouth dry and skin tacky, before using all of his strength to drag himself out from under his comforter and into his evening wear.
The collar is uncomfortable, feeling tighter than usual, and as he slings the jacket over his shoulders he knows at once it's going to make him overheat.
He stands in front of his mirror, wiping sweat from under his eyes, and inhales deeply. Forces some Tylenol down his throat.
This is fine. He is fine.
By the time he gets downstairs, the rest of the family are already seated- Gamma, his grandfather, his mother, and his father. All eyes land on him, his father’s gaze particularly stony.
“Nice of you to join us, John.” He says curtly, taking a sip from his wine glass. “Please- take a seat.”
Carter does, feeling much more like he's joining a business meeting than a meal with relatives. This impression only grows stronger when the talk that must have started while Carter was away resumes, and it consists solely of economy and trade.
“The bottom line is we have too much money offshore now.”
“Right, but what are we to do about it? The government vultures want to pick us clean with all these tariffs.”
“Perhaps it might be worth investing in more local property.”
Carter listens to the chatter with his eyes glazed over, picking at his potatoes and struggling to swallow the thick, starchy mash he churns them into in his mouth. His throat is burning even more now, and his stomach turns at the thought of eating another bite. Still, he forces himself to keep chewing in the hopes that his efforts will be rewarded with indifference.
Clearly, he doesn't work hard enough- at least not where his posture is concerned.
“John, you're slouching. Sit up properly.”
His father's voice cuts through the conversation suddenly, so much so that Carter flinches, cutlery clinking against his plate. He meets Jack’s imperious glare and nods, pulling himself up like a puppet with a taut string.
“Sorry, sir.”
It’s sufficient for now. Jack turns back to the topic of bottom lines, and Carter returns to his rapidly cooling meal.
He spends the next thirty minutes or so in a feverish haze, staring at the contents of his plate and letting himself zone out, only occasionally bringing himself up from it to answer a question or nod politely. Only Gamma seems to notice.
“John?” She begins, and he braces himself for the impact. “You're not looking very well at all. Are you feeling okay?”
His shoulders sag a little. He opens his mouth to reply- to tell her that yes, if he's honest, he's been feeling awful all day and he'd like to be curled up in bed- when he catches the warning glint in his father’s eyes.
You are a Carter. Pull yourself together and don't embarrass me.
He sucks in a deep breath and nods, forcing a weak smile. “Of course, Gamma, just tired. Thank you for asking.”
When the meal is over, he excuses himself at last and barely makes it up the stairs to his bedroom. He doesn't bother to brush his teeth, to shower, or even to piss- too tired to delay sleep by a second. Only changes sluggishly into his pyjamas and crawls underneath the covers, shivering and aching.
In the middle of the night, he wakes up needing the bathroom, because of course he does. The weight of his limbs is so great that for a second he considers calling out for somebody, before he remembers that the only person who might come is Harvey, or one of the other staff. Not his parents. Not Gamma, or his grandfather.
So, exhausted and feeling sicker by the second, he pulls himself upwards in the spinning darkness and trudges slowly towards the bathroom. Places his hand on the wall to guide himself.
One step. Another. Then another.
His legs wobble ominously, and when he eventually reaches the bathroom, he's so tired he can hardly stay standing. He lasts just as long as he needs to, but even the thought of making it back down the long hallway to bed exhausts him.
Shuddering, he sits down on the closed toilet seat to regain his energy.
Carter wakes to dawn filtering through the blinds of the bathroom and an awful crick in his neck. He's still sitting on the toilet, head craned down awkwardly, and he realises with disappointment that he feels no better.
He takes more painkillers, stumbles back to bed, and buries himself under the covers once more.
An hour later, he awakes with a start to his father's voice.
“John! You've got work, haven't you?”
He does. He has a twelve hour shift and if he misses it Benton will be on his case. Somehow, though, he can't bring himself to care.
He's too tired. Too sick.
Far too sick.
“Not feeling well.” He mumbles into his pillow, head throbbing with every thump of his heart. “Could you… could you get someone to call in for me?”
The request is regretted the moment it leaves his lips. His father doesn't take kindly to being ‘ordered around’, and he makes his displeasure known immediately.
“What is it, you've had enough of the place already?” He begins. "This is your problem, John, you never follow through on anything. Take your riding, for example. You could have gone on to the nationals, but instead you decided to pursue this ridiculous doctoring whim and squander your chance at success. And now you've decided to give up on that too?”
Usually, Carter bears these lectures with an averted gaze and a promise to do better next time. Now, though, he experiences a wave of physical discomfort so great that he finds himself reaching out blindly for his father's hand.
“D-dad?”
His fingers graze against what must be the skin of his father's wrist (he's closed his eyes against the headache), but the touch disconnects almost at once.
“Dinner’s at 6 again. Be punctual this time, John.”
Footsteps recede, and the door closes. Carter is too tired to do anything but sleep.
The next time he wakes, it's from a series of vivid nightmares. His heart beats rapidly in his chest, lungs expanding and contracting at an equally increased pace, and when he does finally get his bearings, the first thing he does is stumble out of bed and find a thermometer.
Something- perhaps his colleagues’ faces in his dream, perhaps an innate sense that this isn't right- gives him enough urgency to reach the bathroom, and the strength to hold himself up as he places the thermometer in between his lips. His reflection in the mirror is pale, dark rings around his eyes, hair damp with sweat.
When he removes the thermometer a few minutes later and examines the result, it's with a vaguely boyish whimper.
104 degrees.
God. That's bad, isn't it? He's a medical student and he should know but he's sick and even just as a sick person that seems bad.
His addled mind is made up.
He pulls on some shoes and a hoodie from the back of his closet, aware that he probably smells awful and looks even worse but yet again unable to gather the strength to care about anything. That surely can't be a great sign either.
Nobody stops him on his way out. Nobody even notices he's leaving.
He steps into the cold, shivering, barely conscious, and trudges through snowdrifts until he gets to the L station.
On the train, people avoid him like he has the plague, which is more than reasonable. He sits slumped on a seat by himself, falling asleep and jerking awake every other second, eventually resorting to pinching the skin on his wrist to stay conscious. Mothers guard their children from him, presumably thinking him a dangerous junkie, and his heart aches when they walk past smelling of sweet perfume and the warmth of a hug.
Warmth. Too warm. God, he's boiling.
He shucks his hoodie and leaves it on the empty seat beside him, leaning back against the chair in only an old faded Northwestern tee.
His tactic fails. He falls asleep and wakes up five stops too late. Stumbles off, pinching his wrist in recrimination this time.
Waits for the next train in the other direction.
The last few steps through the automatic doors are the hardest of them all. He's soaking with sweat, legs trembling, the adrenaline of his escapades wearing off at last, and he has to keep inhaling gulps of air to stop his vision from blurring.
One foot in front of the other. Into the warmth.
Through the hustle and bustle, the coughing, the babies crying, the mothers now looking at him with sympathy and concern. Someone stands up to offer him their seat, but he dismisses them with a shaky hand and says something along the lines of “I work here”.
More doors. More steps. He's nauseous.
A blink and there he is, standing a few steps from admit, trembling in a t-shirt and sweatpants, dishevelled and not quite sure how he managed this journey.
Mark's voice calls out first, noting him quickly before his gaze averts.
"Ah, Carter, there you are- Benton's been looking for you and-" He trails off, eyes lifting from the chart he was examining, and absorbing for the first time the sight before him. "Christ, Carter?!"
Carter swallows, attempting a smile but finding he doesn't even have the energy for that.
“Dr Greene. Think I migh’ need t’ sit down.’
He sags forwards, knees buckling.
“Woah, woah- I need a gurney out here!”
Everything is dark. He can hear Mark’s voice, feel somebody keeping him from hitting the floor, hands on his head and his shoulders, but he can't see at all.
Wheels rattle. There's the familiar chorus of footsteps.
“God, is that Carter?”
“Yeah, he just dropped like a ton of bricks and he's super warm. Carter? Open your eyes for me, bud.”
Cold fingers tap his cheek. Oh. Are his eyes closed?
He tries to pry them open upon request, but manages only halfway before they fall closed again and he starts drifting. The fingers drift to his jaw, the underside of his chin.
“Lymph nodes are like rocks. I'd put money on this being mono.”
Mono! Yes, that's it! Of course it is!
He tries to tell Mark that he’s right, but only ends up murmuring incoherently instead. A hand squeezes his shoulder. Another brushes his hair back.
“Yeah, I know, bud. You're not feeling good at all, huh?”
“Want me to help lift him?” Ah. Carol.
“If you could. Alright, on my count. One… two… three.”
He's soaring, giddy, nauseous, faint, then just as rapidly he's back on solid earth again. Except no, he can't be, because he's moving, and the light that filters through his eyelids flickers. Wheels roll.
Right. Gurney.
The ride stops abruptly, a brake clicking into place, and something soft is draped over him and tucked in with care.
“Alright, sweetheart, I'm just going to take your temperature. Just bear with me a second.”
He lets the nurse take hold of his jaw and slip the thermometer under his tongue, relaxing when she strokes her thumb across his cheek. The reading completes. The thumb moves away, as does the thermometer.
“And?” Mark asks.
“105. How the hell did he even get here?”
“I have no idea. It doesn't matter. Wendy, I want him on IV acetaminophen and saline ASAP.”
“On it.”
“Carter?”
He tries to open his eyes again at the sound of his name, he really does, but just as before he manages only halfway before they roll back and he's forced to close them.
“You're very sick right now, but you came to the right place, okay, bud? Just hang on.”
Soon, a sharp scratch in his arm. A cool wetness on his forehead. Someone peels away the shirt and sweatpants to manoeuvre him into something lighter, and he murmurs that Harvey needn’t do it, he can dress himself.
“I know, just stay still anyway. Good boy.”
“Who's Harvey?”
“Not sure, but he's clearly a little delirious… you can sleep, Carter. We'll take care of you, I promise.”
He does.
This time, he wakes to a gentle light and someone stroking his forehead. He shifts- another hand is holding his. The cold, uncomfortable feeling shivering in his limbs is still there, but it's been dulled. Made manageable.
With a small, sleepy yawn, he turns his head. When he opens his eyes, his vision is clearer now. There is someone sitting with him.
Not Gamma. Not Grandpa. Not Mom or Dad.
Carol.
“Mark,” She says quietly, not pausing her ministrations. “He's waking up.”
Another face blurs into view, and the sight of the chief resident makes Carter’s stomach settle at once.
“Hey, Carter.” Mark greets. “You gave us quite the scare earlier.”
Sorry, Carter wants to say. I just didn't know where else to go. When he opens his mouth, he finds no words, though, and his throat burns with even the thought of speech. Somehow it doesn't matter to Mark.
“Shh, don't talk, your throat won't thank you. You've got mono, buddy. Pretty badly. Can you tell me, on your fingers, how many days you've felt sick?”
Weakly, Carter lifts a hand miraculously connected to an IV and splays two fingers.
Mark sighs. Carter worries he's disappointed him somehow, but the way Carol keeps stroking his hair and Mark reaches out to squeeze his hand tells him that this isn't the case.
“You've got a while to go yet, then. Another week at least of feeling this crappy, I'd imagine.”
Carter's stomach drops. A week? How's he going to feed himself? Go to the bathroom? Survive seven more days of family dinners and admonishments about his table manners?
“We’ll get you up to a nice, quiet room where you can rest, alright? IV fluids on the house and a nice view if you're lucky, since you're in it for the long haul. I can pull a few strings.”
A nice, quiet…
IV fluids…
Carter clears his raw throat, and murmurs through cracked lips, “I don't have to go home?”
Both Carol and Mark seem caught off guard by this, but the latter quickly resumes his composure.
“No, Carter. You don't have to go home, bud. In fact, we would really strongly discourage it- you're gonna need a lot of help these next few days, and it doesn't seem like you had that at home. Is it fair to say that?”
He wants to shake his head, to refuse the ridiculous notion that he might be inadequately treated, but as Mark keeps his hand in a firm, comforting grip, he remembers the hasty bereavement of his father's touch.
Tears cloud his vision, and he nods.
“Alright.” Mark soothes. “That's okay, Carter. We'll take good care of you now.”
Sleep is an insistent master, and Carter can only resist its pull for so long. He nods, eyes still stinging, and slowly lets himself drift off. The conversation carries on around him, but he doesn't pay it much heed.
“God, what did those people do to him?”
“I don't know. I don't think I want to know. Benton's on the phone to his folks now, and judging by the tone of his voice, it's not good.”
It doesn't matter anymore.
He is safe now. He has his people with him.