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Peter Benton is sick.
It's the type of thing that never happens. His immune system stands strong through the toughest of winters and the most allergy-inducing springs.
Ever since John first locked eyes with the man on the colored hallways of the ER, he seemed indestructible. And as time passed, that theory was proven truer each time. John had tripped, slipped, fallen over, puked his guts out in fear. He had done anything that could possibly cause harm to himself. But not Benton. His antibodies fought day and night for him with no surrender. A man of exemplary health
until this morning
He woke up with a flu, and Carter was awakened by his hoarse coughing.
In the end it was a good thing. If he didn't, that stubborn mess of a surgeon would have gone to work anyway. But with John awake to put some sense into his concrete skull, he decided to use his yet untouched sick days—decided is an understatement; John forced him in actuality. But sometimes that's the only thing you can do. Sometimes harsh is the only way to stop someone from taking the hardest path
peter did for him countless times and now it's the time for John's retribution
force him to actually use up all the privileges switching to private practice and joining the dark side gave him. make him learn some patience in order to be a patient. make him stay in bed, rest comfortably, take his medications on time, and get better. to care for his own health instead of others.
Peter is sick. John is neurotic
he is overthinking it. Peter doesn't expect or want anything special. He probably would get annoyed if he was nursing him around—he already was this morning when John made him call Northwestern explaining why he wouldn't come to work. So anything besides that would be too much for a self sustained man like Benton
but this isn't about his wants it's about his needs.
Peter was always there for him when he was sick—sick being a sanitized version of the truth. Peter helped him when he was at rock bottom. He stayed night after night at his bedside after the stabbing, he took him to Atlanta for rehab, he scrubbed in for his liver transplant, and even kept making out-patient check ups at his post op period.
He was always there for him. but during all these years John was never given the chance to do something remotely close. but today he does. and yet he will waste it at county's emergency department of all places. currently half working and half obsessing over the fact that he's on exam 3 instead of home. doing a H&P while mourning not caring for the love of his life the same way—a man who is just as sick as his patients. who also needs treatment and care. someone to time his med and holds his hand while he coughs.
It 's just the flu. He repeats it.
the same argument Peter gave him when John tried calling in sick as well. He wishes he had never listened to him. Now standing here at his shift, he despises just how much control Peter has over his decisions. How even sick he can convince John with that authoritarian tone.
but he isn't going to let this opportunity go by that easily. His shift is almost ending and he has the perfect idea of what he could do to save the day. show off all his own caretaking abilities in one big bedside master move.
he'll make him soup.
He will make soup for Peter who is sick. a statement so unusual saying it sounds illegal. Two things that never happen. two lightning bolts that struck twice at the same spot. and yet for some reason that doesn't seem to stop him.
but that doesn't matter.
Even if his past cooking adventures should prevent him from even entering a kitchen, he will do it this time—and he will excel at it. he'll make Dr Weaver eat her words even. He will make the most life changing sickness healing soup for Peter Benton. because all his life has been like that—trying to achieve the impossible for him.
After all, he became a surgeon to impress him. so how hard could boiling some vegetables in hot water really be?
harder.
it's definitely harder—John thinks, as he frantically searches for the cutting board at his home kitchen. Hunched over opening every counter he had for years yet never paid close attention to.
he just never had. Peter is the one who organizes it since he is the one who cooks and god knows he is too anal retentive to allow anyone to mess up his possessions even a little bit. John organizes the rest—dishes, cutleries, cups, the object that the eater's class is given permission to use and tasked to wash after.
at last, he finds it. the cutting board standing hidden at the back. a sight similar to an oasis at a desert. John picks it up, setting it with the rest of his work materials at the countertop.
The ‘Mise en place’ should make him feel a bit more secure—more like a chef. But it's quite the opposite really. The sight of the sharp utensils standing there, lined up, waiting for his uncoordinated clinician's hands makes his stomach churn.
so many options, so many possibilities for error. At least there's a limit he reminds himself.
Cooking comes with steps to follow. and if theres one thing that John learned when working under Peter is that he is great at that. He hated surgery—every single aspect about it. but he placed it aside, he learned the skills and he aced every single time. So much so that the look of shock on his superiors and colleagues when he said his goodbye's was never forgotten to this day.
So why should cooking be any different? He skins the recipe with a faint hint of relief.
Start by cutting the vegetables in small cubes.
His eyes move back to the display of utensils. A ray of light reflects on the knife's powerful steel catching his sight—a request for his grip that burned his eyes with anticipation.
but first, like any good doctor would, he washes his hands.
the nostalgic feeling of his surgical residency overflows him at that moment. so much that it makes him want to give it up as well. The fear of failure ran through his veins as the cold water ran through his hands. The sheer knowledge that once he grabs the sharp object there's no going back.
The comparison is ridiculous and he knows. But right now John fears cutting a carrot like a surgeon fears the same for his patient. He tweaks at the mere thought of bringing his likely mediocre dish to Peter's bedside. Terrified of having his work judged as if he was back in 1998 presenting a case on his weekly rounds.
he takes a breath and wipes some of the sweat under his bangs. and gently with a surgeon's precision makes the first incision.
The vegetable barely bruises.
At that moment he realizes that maybe he needs more strength to cut the carrot than he would for human flesh. so he places his palm at the outer edge of the knife pushing it down with all his strength.
clank—thud
The sliced carrot dramatically rolls over the cutting board. John opens a proud smile. exhaling in relief. freeing the air on his chest and lowering his tensed up shoulders.
Maybe he can do it after all.
He cuts the assembled colorful vegetables into nutritious shapes—the carrots, potatoes and zucchini are far from perfect geometrical cubes. but they are definitely smaller. maybe not as millimetrically measured as Peter would do it, but decent enough for him to excuse as a first timer's work.
He slides them into the pot with boiling water.
The rest of the recipe goes as well as expected. He reads it out loud, then he sets up the materials, then he re-checks just to make sure, then he does what it asks of him. repeating it again and again following each step as if it's a religious text.
John is not a faithful man but for Peter he learns to be. For him he will follow the rules and stay on the line. No crossing over, no chery picking. For him he prevents the ER doctor spirit from getting high on the adrenaline, missing the details of it all. for him he ignores the want to explore the cracks in the established rules, because in the end he knows there is no better feeling than the final destination—-Peter's approval.
a static noise clicks when he lowers the burner's heat. He is about to open the pasta box when suddenly the front door opens. John looks over his shoulder and sees Reece back from school with his backpack falling off his shoulder.
he looks shocked—very few things can shock teenagers enough to remove the stoic look on their eyes
Reese stands straight in the hallway. His gaze fixed on John while his mouth hangs half draped. “you're cooking” he signs—its more of a statement than question. still digesting the sight in front of his eyes
“yeah.” John signs back nodding his head.
“you never cook” Reese eyebrows lowered and clenches his mouth slightly. Carter can feel that undoubtable judgement exhaling from the way he stares at him. Definitely Peter's son. he might not be able to use his words sharply like his old man but his stare can gut John just the same
“ Well peter is sick so i thought—” he stops mid sentence his hands refuse to move. When did that kid grow up to be a carbon copy of Peter? staring at those eyes makes his brain more and more into mush “i dont know. i wanted to make a surprise” he adds defensively. justifying his grounds to why he decided to invade a space of his own home
" well it's for sure a surprise” reese signs, his gaze moving from the pot to John's face with a hint of worry he tries to hide out of politeness.
Does it look that bad?
a question that surrounds his head filling him with fear. Instead he signs “I mean you don't have to eat it. If you don't want to”. terrified of the answer.
Reese takes a minute to look at the liquid in the pot with fear then moves to John's frightened face which fills him with guilt. He tried and that is an effort on its own. However, his efforts aren't enough to shake the suspicion from the meal in front of him.
“Well, I just don't think you made enough for the three of us” he signed in dishonesty, forcing an overcompensating smile to John who forced another one back in a copying motion. the worst is that he is right. he did in fact get the measuring wrong. “and there's leftovers on the fridge—"
john knows a white lie when he sees one. the stiffness, the justifications, the pitying gaze. He always hated it—the type to prefer people being straight to him even if it hurts like hell. He still prefers to feel immeasurable pain than to feel belittled.
But for some strange reason, right now he prefers the lie. He prefers to be disillusioned in this more digestible bite-size version of the truth. Maybe he agrees with Reese even. It won't be good. He knows because he tasted his cooking and Peter's enough to know beforehand that it wont even come close.
his eyes divert back into Reese's. now his expression is more soft almost pitiful. john doesn't know if said pity is from him or Peter. if he feels bad for the one who tried and still failed or for the one who will have to endure it.
“you know you don't have to lie—I know I'm not a cook.” John signs. smiling sympathetically at his own defeat. Reese's body unclenched in real time, his shoulder's dropping into a more relaxed position.
he takes a minute to breath before signing "Well, you tried. even if it's not very good im sure dad will like it”
John nods in agreement. but even so John isn't as sure as he should.
he looks at the pot again. the once proudlike feeling he had for his work changed into a need to run from it. to dump the boiled water down the drain in a haste, like an absent father abandoning his own creation. What was he even thinking? He can't do this. He can't force this monstrosity of a dish down the throat of a loved one. Especially when Peter is feeling awful and probably wants to enjoy the very feel things he still can. he should be there trying to make him feel better not forcing him to do what no one would willingly do
he should just order takeout. he almost asks if he should. but before he can Reese hobbles upstairs to his room. Maybe a part of him waited for him to go upstair. Maybe a part of him knew that no random pizza place could ever replace a homemade meal.
so he finishes the dish.
hesitantly placing the contains on a bowl and bringing it up stairs. carrying the dish on a tray like a servant which when considering for who he's doing it for feels quite fitting—something about being Peter's loyal subordinate always made his heart flutter a little more than it should.
But alongside the reeling of his head there's still the constant undertone of fear—after all the one who has his head in the clouds is the first to see the thunder strike. Every step was heavy, almost like the soles of his shoe's stick to the staircase. imaginary hands grabbing him down by the ankle pulling him back to square one. convincing him to not do it, to go back, to just order somewhere capable.
In spite of it all he heads countercurrent.
he just had to listen to John, didn't he?
sure he wouldn't even be able to enter an OR because of contamination risk, but he could be doing something else, like case studies or adventuring on the pile of unfinished charts at his desk. something actually productive with his day instead of just rotting under the covers.
The worst is he knows John is right about making him stay home. He's well aware that rest is needed in order for him to get better.
But something in Peter's mind can't shake the feeling of impotence of his current state. Healing is never passive for a surgeon. All his career was trained on said basis. He saw an issue and jumped to fix it. but all the sudden he is supposed to just forget all that? to just wait for the agents on his body to do it for him? to just exist with himself for whoever long his body takes
It's all so nonsensical. He knows that if he was working today, he would be complaining about wanting to be home. But when he has the opportunity to do so it suddenly becomes the last thing on his list. rest transforms into an obligation rather than leisure. and that leaves Peter, bedridden with nowhere to run, forced to face his own pessimism
Maybe everyone around him is right. Maybe he really is this resentful bitter guy who nitpicks at everything. because who else wouldn't be able to enjoy this? People all around the globe fake sickness all the time just to miss work. and not only he gets to do it, but gets to do it without any risk of getting caught, and still finds a way to complain about it. As each second passes his title of asshole is beginning to make some sense.
he coughs and turns his body around a bit trying to find comfort and yet somehow failing to do so in every position he tries. everything is either ache or utterly disgusting.
Everything in his room feels just as sick as him—like a reflection of his body and mind. the dirty tissues by the bedside, the half open window, the lack of sun illuminating the space. all working along to paint this depressing picture of his current state, it makes him want to close his eyes, and reminisce about the days before. Those beautiful moments where he, unaware of his own happiness, just lived through it with frivolously.
The few seconds of staring at the nothingness behind his eyes is enough to make him grunt. Peter opens them in defeat.
The boredom is what really kills him.
besides watching tv and trying to itch the irritated back wall of his throat there's really nothing else he can do. Peter isn't used to that—he always has something to do. His need to occupy his mind is not being fulfilled and that is a much bigger problem than the congestion on his nose. Every single thing he can think of to clear his mind falls into the category of ‘not resting’. and even if he was able to win over his fatigue and somehow get up and do them. He wouldn't be able to stand Carter lecturing him after. so he doesn't even try.
Some fights just aren't worth fighting for
In reality the one thing he can think to do is thinking itself. which is going as terrible as expected. somehow in between all those thoughts the one he really can't shake is Where the hell is John?
sure he could just be late. It's normal and expected in his line of work. There is no predictability when working in Emergency medicine and Peter is well aware of that fact. things tend to go wrong, because an ER is the place people run to when things do go wrong. so shift hours are more of a suggestion than rules.
But normally John makes sure to at least text him that he'll be late.
because John is caring like that. He knows your worries before you even realize that you have one. That's one of the reasons why he is such a great doctor. He cares to a ridiculous degree. and it's strange that he doesn't right now.
Obviously John would know that Peter is bored out of his mind and just waiting for him to come home—even though he would never admit that out loud. and he wouldn't need to because he just would be ahead of it. he just would yet he doesn't today. and this exception to the rule sends worried shivers down his spine
he should send a message. If Carter can't for whichever reason that may be, he should. just to make sure everything is ok. It's the obvious choice knowing his partner's luck—or lack thereof.
So he turns his body fully stretching himself to reach the bedside table, in order to grab his phone. When out of nowhere a footsteps sound catches his attention. the padding down the hall breaking the deadly silence of their home.
the handle turns and from the doorway appears a delightful surprise.
John's figure emerges from the slit. a tall and handsome slender build—albeit both his arms occupied holding a dish that only peaks Peter's curiosity. He's joyful but with a hint of nervousness that is less frequent these days, a quality lost in between the growth of vulnerability. He enters the room, stumbling his elbow at the half open frame out of carelessness for the space around him.
slightly peeved, he kicks at the door with his heels cracking it open—allowing himself and the fresh air to help convalesce Peter's sick body like a character in a romantic novel. Although the air is far from being the most important remedy to enter said space.
" I was beginning to worry,” Peter says, with his usual nonchalance. contorning over the elephant in the room. not addressing the soup directly although occasionally glancing at it.
“about what?" He smiles when asking. He knows very well what Peter meant by it, but theres some part of him that craves recognition in an almost childlike sense. needing to know—and said knowledge must come expressed with no room for error. He wants to hear that he was worried, that he did notice, that he remembered his existence.
John places the tray by the foot of the mattress, sitting by it's side at the edge. but he doesn't stay far away for very long, scooting closer to Peter's body until he is basically draped on his thigh. Only an arms reach from his touch. at one point Peter almost wonders if he is going to kiss him as he keeps smiling hazely at his lips. he doesn't—which is probably for his own good considering the infestation of bacteria that is Peter's current mouth
"that you wouldn't come. got injured on the way home or something like that.” peter says
"oh cmon” he scoffs sweetly “you think a few road rashes would be enough for me to miss my favorite patient?” john forges his head leaving a gentle seal on Peter's cheek's—his lips affectionate and soft reclaiming his ownership.
It is sweet, too sweet.
John is a very clingy guy. Everything with him ends up bordering onto a territory of cheesyness that makes Peter's heart warm up so much, it becomes impossible to overlook. making it impossible to deny the fact that he does also love it in spite of how lovey dovey it is. sometimes it makes him even question himself about the fact he even maybe enjoys the lovey dovey things. So he pushes his face away from his—removing the contact, stopping the giddyness of it all. and more importantly preserving his dignity as the one who isn't clingy
john dose’nt buy his act of non challance. giving a soft mourningful whine as Peter's palm part his face from his. but instead of removing it, he keeps the hand on his cheek—cupping his face, creating a comfortable nest, while also caressing the beginning of his scalp. and for a moment it's as if john completely forgotten where he was first abandoned, because Peter's palm becomes his new settling ground. he throw his weight at it making himself at home.
John closes his lids completely relaxed, he could fall asleep in Peter's hand like a baby on a crib "I made—” he stops himself even opening his eyes “well—i tried making soup.” His vision escapes sideways, almost fearing to look at Peter “i dont think it is any good. but it tried.”
"Did you burn down the house?” he jokes, with a serious front on his tone that is only accompanied by a hoarse cough
john opens a boyish grin, shaking his head in response to the question
“ Well then it can't be that bad right?" Peter says, to which John's glossy brown eyes light up like a christmas tree. Peter is always amazed by how well he responds to anything related to praises and comfort. the smallest things that remind him, exactly why he loves to spoil him. Especially on days when he isn't bed bound.
He brings the tray closer to Peter. placing it in between the two of them, making their little dinner-in-bed adventure look akin to a formal date. just the two of them, separated by the table—seating just far enough to delegate the kiss and yet still close enough for their knees to caress each other under it. The picture of them tangled on sheets adorning the bed with their imaginary candlelights brings a smile to his face. the definition of love
. “Just promise me that if it's bad you'll tell me.” John asks,swirling the spoon on the oily yellowish brew instead of looking at him. He takes a minute to watch the vegetable synchronized swimming. “I don't want you to feel forced to be nice to me or whatever. specially when you're sick—-”
“—-carter it's soup”
he cuts him off, his tone is direct—stating the obvious to someone who's too thickly skulled to get it “it's just adding things on water. Not even you can mess that up.” Peter adds
“oh, you are underestimating just how dumb i can be in the kitchen" he laughs in between the sentence and Peter does too. and for a moment they just stay like that. brewing into each other's gaze, forgetting that tasting the dish is the end point, and not just staring lovingly at each other. They do that from time to time—love melting the wires on their head delaying any rational thought.
so Peter takes the spoon by force from John's grip because he just wont cave in. maybe out of fear to do so. or maybe still pondering feeding him by mouth like a baby. He isn't sure, understanding the mind of John Carter is something he might never fully figure out. It doesn't matter though he takes the spoon himself and dips it in the water.
John's eyes follow him like a hawk as he takes the spoon to his mouth. watching from when he first tastes it until the lump travels down his adams apple into the void of his gut. he tries reading Peter's expression but it shows to be a much harder task than it appeared
"so?” john asks, his voice cracking a bit out of nervousness.
“it's good”
Carter stares back at him with a face that wonders about the ‘and's and but's’ he will add. Instead he is met with nothing but silence
“just good?”
“not enough for you?” Peter mocks, words intoxicated with irony
"there's gotta be more than that” his eye's screaming his thought's for him. cmon you know i can take it Dr Benton. he has need for criticism that waits for Peter to be taken care for
“ok, i'll be honest—”
"Hit me” John says biting his cheek in desperation.
“It's fine. a very normal soup” the moment those words left his mouth Carter felt his world shatter. bed loosing it's balance deepening his body down into nowhere. he looked up at Peter from the underworld waiting for more harshness.
he can take it. It's not as if he could hear anything worse
“—which when we are talking about soup is hardly enough to make the cut. It's a very hit or miss dish, you know? it easy for mistakes to be more prominent on the more simpler meals” john nods back, barely holding back tears. His face burns in embarrassment becoming a shade of scarlet that might be even more humiliating than the dish itself “it could have a bit more seasoning and many other things could also be improved.”
john takes a minute before saying anything. words running away from his brain, so he resorts to the only thing he can feel
“im sorry—”
"Now that's what I would say if I was a bitter cuisine critic with no personal life.” John is taken back. swallowing back the glitz in his teary eyes.
“The truth is soup doesn't have criteria.” Peter continues “ it has but it doesn't need to in order for it to be good. The only thing it really needs is to be made with love–and that part you aced it john. There's not a chef in the whole world that could have made me something better”
Right when Peter finishes sweet talking, John jumps at his lap like a puppy whose owner came home. hovering over the tray to hold his lover by his back. Arms entrelancing as he pushes his body forward in a need for closure. a need to express the amount of pent up love built on him.
so much love in fact that when moving, he does so too abruptly hitting the bowl in a haste and spilling some of the contains over the white sheets
but it's fine, he doesn't care about the mess right now.
not when the nape of his lover's neck molds his face into a perfectly inviting shape. not when Peter pulls him back by his waist accepting the invite, and especially not when he can't decide between kissing him or talking his ear off about ridiculously loving things.
The mess is the last thing on either one of their minds. because in the end, that mess was the secret ingredient all along.