Work Text:
Carter didn't feel well. Headache, stomachache, backache, everything about him just ached.
There was a lull in the constant thrum of the ER, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl onto an unused gurney in a dark exam room and take a nap. He looked around and spotted Dr. Benton, hunched over the admit desk, scanning through charts with a furrowed brow.
"Hey, Dr. Benton?"
"What is it, Carter?" He rumbled, distracted.
"Can I go lie down in Exam 4? It's not that busy, and I swear I'll put my pager right next to my ear, you won't even know I'm gone." He pleaded, desperate for some relief.
Benton flicked his eyes up to his student, looking him up and down. "Don't you have work to do?"
Carter looked around at the empty beds pointedly.
"If you don't have any patients, you have charts. If you don't have any charts, you have my charts," he handed Carter half of the stack he was reviewing and waved him off, expectantly, "Get to it."
Carter took a deep breath and did as he was told.
Two hours, 500mg of ibuprofen, and 17 charts later, Carter was finally done with Benton's busy work. He stood up to return the charts and immediately doubled over in pain.
"Jesus, what the hell," he groaned, wrapping his arms around his cramping midsection and falling back onto the couch. It felt like hundreds of tiny, angry knives carving out his gut. He curled up on his side with his eyes shut tight, nauseous, just trying to breathe through the pain.
Hopefully, I'm not coming down with anything; I can't afford to take any time off. Not with Benton's schedule.
The door to the lounge flew open, and a trauma gown was tossed on top of him. "MVA incoming in five!" Malik warned, gone as quickly as he arrived.
Carter took 90 seconds to breathe and wallow before he shoved his pain to the side and did his job.
"What the hell is your problem today, Carter?" Benton scolded him after the disaster of a trauma.
Carter just couldn't get anything right; it was like he was only half there. The bright lights of the trauma room only amplified his headache, and the cramping in his abdomen inhibited his movement, making him gasp and stumble. It's a miracle the patient survived at all.
"I told you, I don't feel well!" He snapped, suddenly angry at Benton for not letting him rest earlier.
Benton gave him a long, unimpressed look. "Watch your tone," he chided, "I don't care if you didn't sleep well or if you have a headache or if your damn grandmother died; If you want to be a surgeon, you need to learn how to step up to the plate and perform under pressure."
Tears were welling in Carter's eyes. That was odd; he hadn't cried in years. Alarmed, he turned his back on Dr. Benton and sniffed, "You think I'm not fucking trying? Not everyone can be a surgical robot like you!"
Peter didn't react, refusing to give him the fight he was looking for. "Appendectomy. 2 o'clock. Scrub in," he ordered, brushing past him into the hallway.
"Could this day get any fucking worse?" Carter moaned as he tore off his gloves, wiped his cheeks furiously, and followed his mentor back to admit.
The OR was heaven to Carter; it was all of the hands-on experience of the ER without the unpredictability and chaos. He could focus on the procedure, memorizing the way organs looked outside of a textbook, the surgical jargon, the hierarchy of every specialty in the room.
If only he knew what he was supposed to be doing. Dr. Morgenstern didn't even seem to notice he was there.
He just wanted a closer look, to get some acknowledgement or purpose, to learn. He was so excited to finally be standing in an OR with the best surgeons he knows that he forgot about sterility and etiquette and tamping himself down to not be too much in the quiet, almost sacred, space.
Before he even realized he had touched Benton's shoulder, Shirley was dragging him out of the OR by the collar and forcing him to scrub in again.
Face hot with shame and head pounding, he regowned and regloved and was pushed into a sharpie circle, hastily drawn on the floor.
Shirley shoved her finger close to his face, like she was disciplining a naughty puppy, and snarled, "Don't. Move."
At least he'd finally been given a task.
Carter had been standing in the corner of the OR, wringing his gloved hands for no more than ten minutes when he felt it—that telltale shift.
No, no, no, not now, oh god, not now.
It's been so long since he last had a period that he'd ignored all the warning signs. He attributed his roiling stomach to nerves, his headache to the exhaustion of med school, his mood swings to the high-pressure environment of County.
But after shifting his weight one too many times, he felt a warm slickness pooling in his underwear. Undeniable.
He coughed once, twice. Hoping to get Dr. Benton's attention. He only succeeded in getting a warning glare from Shirley.
"Uh, Dr. Benton?" He tried again, voice cracking.
"Tbilisi. Türkiye?" No indicated he'd heard him.
"Nice one, Peter," Dr. Morgenstern muttered, "Ankara. Luxembourg?"
"Dr. Benton," Carter called with a bit more force.
"Ha. Nice try, Luxembourg," not even a glance from Dr. Benton.
"Very good!" Dr. Morgenstern praised, tickled.
Carter took a step forward, only trying to get his mentor's attention, but Shirley caught the movement.
"Aht!" She scolded, pointing to the circle.
Effectively cowed, Carter dropped his head and retreated to his time out.
Five minutes.
He was bouncing on his toes, heart racing, sweat building on his temple.
You can wait the five minutes until closing, John, it's no big deal. Not like this is your first time. You're less than 20-feet away from the closest bathroom, no one will see. No one will find out.
He held his thighs pressed as tightly together as he could, trying his best to obey. To not fuck up one thing today.
Dr. Benton hadn't even acknowledged his presence since he'd scrubbed in. It made his skin crawl. He was used to scrutiny, undivided (albeit critical) attention; he'd never been ignored by his mentor before. Carter wasn't sure he liked it.
Maybe he knows. He's being so cold because he knows I'm lying. I wasn't convincing enough with Ms. Colton. I did my best not to show any emotion. I knew it wasn't safe to sympathize with her, I didn't want to out myself, and she died for it. I deserve so much worse than this.
A trickle down his left thigh shocked him out of his trance. Staring at the back of his resident's head, he could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks and ears.
"May I be excused, Dr. Benton?"
"No, Carter," he dismissed.
"It's really important, I can scrub out and scrub in in like, ten minutes," Carter pleaded.
"I didn't hear a pager, must not be that important," Morgenstern chimed in, "We'll be wrapping up soon. This is a good opportunity to work on your patience, Mr. Carter."
Carter waited.
There was a complication. Some abnormality they found and decided to biopsy, maybe; he wasn't paying attention. All Carter knows is that it's now thirty minutes past the anticipated closing time, and he feels numb.
He'd resigned himself to standing and waiting, abandoned in the corner for the unforgivable sin of being too eager.
If you were better at your job, you would've been able to excuse yourself. Dr. Benton doesn't care what happens to fuck-ups. I bet he's thinking about how he's going to fail me, report me to the Dean for falsifying my application, and presenting as a man.
He felt disgusting. Mentally, physically — a fraud.
He should've listened to his father.
"You are a young lady, Millie. That's all you will ever be. Get your head out of your ass and act like it."
He was right; no amount of surgeries or hormone therapy had been enough to stop his own body from betraying him.
He knows the blood has started to seep into his scrub pants, but he doesn't move. It's his penance.
Peter gives a weary smile to Dr. Morgenstern as he leaves him to close up on his own. A simple appendectomy ended up becoming a 2-hour exploratory surgery after finding abnormalities in the bowel.
Without Dr. Morgenstern's constant chatting, the only sounds were his own sutures. Peaceful.
"Alright, we're done here. Carter, scrub out." He barked as he ripped off his gloves and raised his arms to stretch out his muscles.
"Looks like someone's a little spaced out," Shirley quips as she clears the equipment and readies the patient for post op.
Peter turns his head curiously to his med student. Carter is standing perfectly still, hands at his sides, staring through the floor tiles.
That's odd. Carter was never still, especially not in the OR. You'd think his shoes were on springs with how much he bounces and fidgets.
He snaps his fingers, "Carter. C'mon on."
Carter slowly lifts his head, and Peter can see his eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks damp. "Thank you for the permission, Doctor," he sneers before storming out of the OR.
Peter stands there, shocked, "What the hell was that about?"
There's a small smattering of blood where Carter was standing.
Carter barely remembers the walk to the bathroom. The stall door is cool against his forehead as he stands there and sobs.
The door swings open, "Carter..?"
"Go away," he grits, hackles raised.
"Hey man, you alright?" Benton's on the other side of the stall now, "I saw the blood on the floor; you didn't tell me you were hurt. Will you come out and let me see?" His voice was measured, calm. Which made it worse.
"'m not hurt." He sniffed.
"Blood doesn't come from nowhere, Carter. C'mon, let me help."
Carter sobs, "You can't. No one can." He hears the doorknob jiggle and the lock click before the door swings open.
In all the scenarios Peter had imagined finding his student, it wasn't like this. Carter was curled up on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest. His scrub pants were soaked with blood, centered on his groin. His fingers were threaded through his hair, tugging, as tears streamed down his face.
He couldn't quite hide his shock, "Carter, I… what?"
Carter didn't even raise his head to look at him. "You're not stupid, Dr. Benton." He mumbles miserably.
"You say you aren't injured, but you are bleeding. Profusely."
He let out an acerbic laugh, "Gee, thanks. I hadn't noticed."
Peter took a moment to assess him. Diaphoretic, pallor, avoiding eye contact, full body tremors, self-soothing grip on his person; Carter wasn't just embarrassed, he was downright terrified.
Symptoms from earlier: fatigue, headache, stomach cramping—
Oh.
"You're menstruating."
Carter froze and eyed his mentor warily. "You… you can't tell anyone," he pleaded, "I-I can transfer off your service, try to switch my rotation, but you can't report me. Please. No one knows that I'm not—" he chokes on a sob, "not… a man."
Peter furrows his brow and crouches down to meet Carter's eye. "Have I ever lied to you?"
He doesn't hesitate, "Never."
"Then believe me when I say that you are immature, reckless, and lack common sense at the worst times. You are also highly intelligent, empathetic, and the most challenging and rewarding student I've ever had. And you, Carter, are most definitely a man. A great one." He held his gaze firmly.
Carter swallowed and let out a shaky breath, "I thought I was done with all of this. I haven't had a period in years since I started testosterone… I guess I forgot what the warning signs were." He shrugged and hugged his knees to his chest tighter, "By the time I realized what was happening, you were already so angry with me for trying to get out of work and for fucking up the sterile field in the OR, and I just wanted to do something right for once."
"So you just stood there and bled onto the floor for hours because you thought I didn't care about you."
Carter didn't respond.
Peter let out a slow breath and stood up. "Alright, stay here, get cleaned up. I'm going to get you a pad and something to change into."
Luckily, Carter had learned to keep a full change of clothes in his locker— underwear included— after his first few ER shifts. He dropped his soiled scrubs and underwear into the biohazard bin and entered the lounge, not surprised to find Dr. Benton there waiting for him.
He coughed, "Uh, thank you for grabbing my clothes for me, Dr. Benton."
"Carter."
He looked at his mentor and was surprised to find him not angry, but upset.
"Why didn't you tell me?" He murmured, clearly bothered.
His audacity sent a rush of anger through Carter. "Frankly, it's none of your business. I show up, I do the work, that's all that you need to know."
"It's my job to manage you, to make sure you're able to perform at your best—"
"And I can't be the best if I'm a girl? Is that it?"
Benton was taken aback. "Wh- Carter, no. I need to know that you're in pain. I need to know that you aren't able to function because of that pain." He took a step towards Carter and put his hands on his shoulders, forcing him to meet his eye.
"Malik told me how he found you in the lounge earlier. It's unacceptable for me to have you assist with a trauma and scrub into a surgery in that state."
Carter looked away, "It's not that bad, I can handle myself. Like you said, I need to learn how to perform under pressure." He protested, unconvincingly.
Peter sighed, "Carter. I want you to do well, not because I'm your resident, but because I care about you." He shook him gently to get the point across. "I want you to be able to tell me what's going on with you, especially if it affects your work, you understand me?"
Carter gave him a long look. He saw the affection underneath the hard exterior, the way his hands— heavy and capable— held him gently. Thought back to every punishment and chastisement, the lessons they taught him, the care Peter takes with his instruction, no matter how stern. How Peter always seems to be there when he needs him, how much leeway he has compared to some of the other med students, and even doctors. How much Peter trusts him.
He smiled, soft and slow, "Yeah, I get it." I trust you, too. "Thank you, Dr. Benton."
Peter's lips quirk up just a tad, and he rolls his eyes, "Yeah, alright, kid. You've still got charts to catch up on." He ruffled Carter's hair and headed out into the hall.
Carter, with a warmth blooming in his chest, followed his mentor back into the fray.