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Carter’s hand is hot through his shirt where it rests under Peter’s lapel.
He’s trembling against him, curling into Peter as he chokes on tiny, heartrending sobs. Peter can’t do anything but hold him through it, try and keep him in one place for long enough to untangle him. He’s always seemed so much smaller up close.
Peter scrubs his hand compulsively over the back of Carter’s greasy hair, and is all at once reminded of that morning– of glaring at Kovac through the barrier of the helicopter door. The helplessness he felt, coding a patient so far from his operating room.
John was so pale, when it was him on that table.
Peter breathes out, a steadying huff of air. “It’s alright, Carter,” he says, and it’s nowhere close. The right side of his face is throbbing from Carter’s left hook, but he knows fractures and he knows bruises, and can tell the difference between an ache and a break.
He pulls Carter closer with a hand between his shoulder blades, and presses a kiss to that brilliant, idiotic head of his. Errant tufts of hair tickle Peter’s face, but he keeps his head down and close. Breathes in the sharp smell of stress leaving the body– cortisol and adrenaline.
A train arrives in a clamouring rush overhead, and Carter takes the opportunity to pull away, harshly rubbing at his wet cheeks. Light filters in shuttering blinks through the tracks, illuminating the man’s jerky movements in flashes.
He’s not yet out of arm’s reach, and Peter is aware of how rare that is these days. Knows he can’t afford to let him slip out of range again.
The train passes, and Peter reaches out again to catch Carter’s shoulder, an almost-friendly gesture if not for the strength of his grip. John’s eyes are clenched shut, brow furrowed.
“C’mon Carter, please.” Peter lets a little desperation leak into it, and he gives his shoulder another squeeze. It’s his last card to play– the hope that somewhere, deep down, some of that puppy-like eagerness still lingers in the heart of his old student.
Carter looks like he’s going to protest again for a moment, but his fury has faded into a dull despondency, and instead he nods.
Familiar with the man’s flighty mood swings– that which have only been exacerbated since the incident– Peter knows to take advantage of his acquiescence. He nods, allowing himself an affectionate shake of Carter’s shoulder and ducking in close to press another fleeting kiss to his feathery head. Never in his life has Peter been known to squander an opportunity.
Opening the passenger side door to Mark’s van, Peter ushers a pliant Carter inside. He stops short of buckling Carter’s seatbelt for him, an instinctual gesture borne of his years with Reese. He tries very hard not to look too closely at anything that implies about himself.
Carter’s quiet, now, looking up at Peter with those huge sad eyes of his. It’s borderline unbearable, the way they swim with grief and unshed tears, magnified by the dark circles that have been deepening steadily over the past few months. Angry splotches of red colour his cheekbones, and he looks so fucking lost that Peter has to stamp down the urge to wrap him up in his arms all over again.
He closes the door, getting into the driver’s side with the sharp kind of efficiency he’s always used as a buffer.
“You my chauffeur?” Carter asks, managing an air of battiness even now. Unbelievable, this man.
“Carter, I’ll strap you into that plane myself if you’re not careful.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Carter sink lower in his seat, crossing his arms petulantly and staring out the window like an irritated child. He’s here, though, which is something. Peter wouldn’t put it past him to jump right out of the moving vehicle if he’s changed his mind.
That’s the thing that Greene and Weaver never seemed to understand about John. This kid would gnaw his own leg off if he felt, even for a second, like he was being backed into a corner. It’s how he got into this situation in the first place, isn’t it? A body that no longer does what is asked of it, what is required of it. Carter, reaching inwards instead of outwards, just like he always has.
Peter pulls onto the I-90 West with a careful acceleration. He checks in on the man in the passenger seat in the same gesture that he checks his blind-spot.
Carter is fiddling, picking at his cuticles. Peter briefly entertains the thought of grabbing one of those hands in his own. Delicate musician’s fingers– a surgeon’s hands. He thinks of the consequences– of Carter cracked open and bleeding on the asphalt– and keeps his hands to himself and his eyes on the road.
The rest of the ride is silent but not suffocating– the two of them using the time to decompress, as much as they can. Peter knows, logically, that he should be icing his face to insure it doesn’t swell, but that’s so far down on his priority list it barely registers.
When they pull up to the airport, he throws the van in park and re-evaluates his passenger. He takes note of the beads of sweat along Carter’s hairline, and the way he’s taken to sniffling, slightly. He’s not yet diaphoretic, but well on his way. Probably hypertensive, too, and Peter itches to grab his wrist and measure his radial.
“Let's go, Carter,” he says, not without effort, and exits the van. He rounds the side to open Carter’s door for him, feeling a little bit silly for it.
Carter stumbles out, and looks up at Peter warily. “You’re coming in with me?”
“Yes.”
“That- uhm. Okay. Whatever,” Carter shrugs, an utterly unconvincing display of nonchalance, given the circumstances.
They walk into the terminal together, no doubt making for quite a sight. Peter’s got a hand over Carter’s back, who is in turn hunching in closer, keeping his head down and steps small. Nauseous, probably, Peter thinks, running through his mental checklist of symptoms. Redundantly compiles differential diagnoses given how unavoidable Carter has made the answer.
It hits him, and not for the first time, how obvious Carter was making his addiction in retrospect. How the hell Peter could have missed it is beyond him. It’s unacceptable for a man of his education to have let something like this happen to someone he cares about.
“I’ve gotta pee,” Carter says, suddenly. They’re just approaching the check-in gates, throngs of people milling about, maddeningly unaware. It’s absurd that they could be so calm when Carter is starting to shake under Peter’s hand.
“Fine, Carter, but be quick. The next flight out isn’t until the morning.”
“Yeah, God forbid I miss it.” Carter skulks away, out from under Peter in the direction of the men’s room.
Peter watches him go, considering his options. It’s unlikely that Carter will have anything on him, but even if he does… it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing for him to kick those withdrawal symptoms a little further down the road. It’s different for everyone, of course, but with Carter’s build Peter worries about his condition deteriorating before he reaches Atlanta.
What would happen if the flight got delayed? If Carter was stuck shaking and vomiting, alone, in the airport lobby? The plane itself? He wouldn’t disclose what was happening, Peter was sure of that. Nobody would know how to treat him, if Peter wasn’t there.
It suddenly seems absolutely necessary for Peter to buy an additional ticket. Damn his fear of flying– his fear for Carter makes it pale in significance.
He’s purchased a flight, checking in for Carter while he’s at it, before a glance at his watch reveals just how much time John’s been taking in the bathroom. Even if he was shooting up, however doubtful, he should be out by now.
Peter heads in after him with a head buzzing full of worst-case scenarios. He curses his lack of preparedness, and prays that whatever medical professionals work at the airport have naloxone on hand, and that Carter remembers to lay down on his side when he gets dizzy, and that he hasn’t hit his head and isn’t bleeding out with Peter too late again.
To see John standing upright and leaning against a sink is such a relief that Peter is momentarily stunned by it. “Jesus, John, what the hell is taking you so long?”
It’s then that he gets a better look at the man, who is white-knuckling the porcelain with one hand and biting at the palm of the other. His face is once again red and wet with tears, and Peter’s heart lurches up into his throat.
He reassesses his approach accordingly.
“Okay. Okay. C’mere, Carter.” Peter approaches the man slowly, cautiously, wary of his position between him and the door. He grips Carter once again by the vulnerable expanse of his neck, and tugs the boy firmly against him in a gesture designed to comfort them both.
Just like before, it doesn’t take any more effort than that for Carter to fold, muffling his sobs into Peter’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, oh God. Oh God. I’m so sorry,” He wails, and it’s heartbreaking in its veracity.
“You’re okay, Carter,” Peter rocks him, slightly, at a loss for anything more meaningful.
Carter shakes his head against him, mumbling incoherently into his jacket. Peter doesn’t press, just holds him until his tremors start to abate. He massages the back of John’s neck, where he’s certain the myalgia will have started to set in from the withdrawal. It’s all he can do, in this moment, to treat the physical.
Carter’s sobs die down to sporadic sniffles, and Peter feels as he tilts his head in even closer, sharp little nose brushing up against the skin of Peter’s neck. It’s an unbearable intimacy, but Peter will allow it. So much of this has been unbearable.
“I keep hearing her,” He chokes, soft and wet. Peter doesn’t need to ask who Carter is referring to. “It’s like I’m still… Like she’s still there in front of me. She looked so scared.”
Peter knows– with the same certainty with which he can call to mind Carter’s blood type and his coffee order– that there’s nothing he can say to ease this particular burden. Nothing he can do but nod and hold him close, be a steady place to hide in.
He holds him there until the worst of Carter’s grief seems to have passed, and then pushes him lightly away towards the sinks, where he urges him to sit. He wordlessly goes about wetting a bundle of paper towels with lukewarm water, and returning to wipe the tear tracks from his face. Peter knows that cold water would be better, would reduce the puffiness of inflammation, but he can’t bear to subject Carter to anything that would cause him further discomfort in this moment. It’s the kind of emotion-driven caretaking that few people still inspire in him, and he tries not to dwell on it.
He throws the paper towels in the trash, and uses his shirtsleeve to wipe the remaining dampness from Carter’s cheeks.
“Thanks,” Carter mumbles, looking a little embarrassed but mostly just exhausted.
“Of course.”
This close, Peter can see the freckles scattered across Carter’s face, accentuated by his reddened skin. His lashes clump together, wet and dark, and Peter has to take a step back before he does something incredibly stupid.
“Let's go, we don’t want to miss our flight.” Peter’s hands itch to straighten Carter’s collar, and he stops himself with effort.
“Our flight?” Carter asks, hopping down from the sink without further prompting.
This must be handled delicately.
“Yes. I’m going with you.” Damn.
Thankfully, Carter is out of it enough that he doesn’t protest with the usual amount of bitchiness. He just tilts his head, a tired sort of acquiescence, and scrubs a hand over his eyes and down to his jaw. “Fine, sure, of course you are.”
From there it’s no fight at all to get him out of the bathroom and through security. He’s seemed to slip further internally in a manner that concerns Peter deeply, and simultaneously makes his job a hell of a lot easier.
The waiting area by their gate isn’t too busy this time of night, and Peter leads them towards an empty section of chairs near the back wall. He wishes he could give Carter, who’s still red-eyed and sniffling, more privacy– but this will have to do.
An irrational, traitorous part of him wants to take the man back home with him and let him detox on Peter’s couch. The safety of his bedroom.
He shakes his head at himself, depositing Carter on one of the hard plastic chairs. The boy immediately hunches down low in the seat, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Pater gives the back of his neck a final, reassuring squeeze.
“I’ll be right back, Carter,” he says, trying to infuse something soothing into the tone. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
Carter nods, wordless, and Peter figures that’s the most he’ll get from him right now.
There’s a gift shop nearby that he heads to for supplies. Running through Carter’s withdrawal timeline in his head, he knows that the man will soon be too nauseous to eat anything at all. Things are going to get a lot worse for him before they get better, and Peter is going to do everything within his power to make it easier where he can.
The airport selection is sparse, but he manages to find a half-decent protein bar and a can of ginger-ale from the beverage fridge. There’s a spinning magazine rack with a handful of bestseller paper-backs, too, and Peter grabs one on a whim. The cover features a wave crashing down over the text, and something about it tugs at Peter. He brings his items to the counter and pays, not dwelling on it.
When he returns to where he left Carter, he’s momentarily struck with a disorienting sense of familiarity at the rows of travelers waiting in chairs. Carter looks the worst off by far, and would be triaged first. Peter wants to be the one to administer his I.V. and check his vitals– wants to handcuff him to a gurney and close the curtained partition.
He takes a deep breath and returns to Carter, who is slouched and sweating in his seat. He’ll do what he can for him, under the circumstances.
“Here,” Peter stops just in front of him, holding out the protein bar, “eat this.”
Carter blinks up at him blearily. “I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care, Carter, eat it anyways,” Peter sighs. “You’re not going to be able to keep anything down for much longer, and you’ll need the nutrients.”
Grumbling, Carter takes the bar. Unwrapping it, he takes a small, careful bite and grimaces. Peter rewards him by lifting the cool ginger-ale to his forehead, resting it lightly against Carter’s sweaty temple. The boy sighs in relief, and leans into it. He doesn’t make any move to hold the can himself, and so Peter keeps it there for him. He likes this position, anyways, standing in front of John like this. It settles something that’s been buzzing in the back of Peter’s mind, being able to act as a barrier between him and the rest of the world.
When the protein bar is gone, Peter cracks open the lukewarm can of soda and places it in Carter’s hands. He briefly entertains the thought of bringing it up to his lips for him, and his heart does something concerning in his chest at the idea. He sits down next to Carter, instead, and keeps his hands to himself. Peter pulls out his new book from his jacket pocket for something to do, and is surprised to have Carter’s attention pulled back towards him. The food and drink must have done him some good, as he seems to be a little more alert and responsive.
“What’re you reading?” He asks, soft and gravely between sips. Peter hums noncommittally, tilting the book so that John can see the cover.
“I haven’t started it– just picked it up now.”
“In the Heart of the Sea,” Carter reads aloud in a lofty sort of voice. “Not the kind of thing I would have pegged you for.”
Peter glares at him, but his heart isn’t in it. It’s unfortunately relieving, that Carter is feeling himself enough to be annoying.
“It’s about a shipwreck,” Peter shoots him a pointed look. “It felt relevant.”
Carter barks out a startled laugh, shaking his head. He pushes the hand not holding his drink through his tousled hair, staring off into the middle distance thoughtfully.
“I was never any good at sailing.”
“You’ve been sailing?” Peter raises an incredulous eyebrow at him. It always surprises him, in moments like these, when the breadth of difference in their upbringings is thrown into the light.
“Yeah,” Carter replies, “We used to go out on Lake Michigan in the summer– it was sorta like a tradition, I guess.”
He turns to look at Peter with a half smile, tired eyes livened for a moment by a conspiratorial glint. “I used to make Chase do all the work while I tanned in the back.”
The image of Carter stretched out, sun-warmed and unburdened in the summer heat, hits Peter like a gut punch. It was almost enough for him to miss the way the boy’s face immediately fell at the memory of his cousin, joviality gone as suddenly as it had returned.
Peter reaches out unthinkingly, free hand squeezing Carter’s knee.
“Look, Carter, what I said earlier-”
Carter cuts him off with a violent shake of his head. He grabs Peter’s hand where it's resting on his leg, grip tight and silencing. Those long fingers, cold from the drink and torn around the cuticles, curled around Peter’s. They look good together, came the thought, unbidden and entirely inappropriate.
“I don’t want… Can we not talk about it?” Carter asks, pleading. “Let’s just- Can we just- I don’t know.”
Peter takes mercy on him, nodding. He takes a chance, pulse gone tachy with a rare bout of nervousness, and turns his palm around in Carter’s grip. Their hands interlink fully, and John sighs, as if it’s a relief. He scoots closer in his chair, pressing his shoulder up against Peter’s. He’s so brave, this boy.
They’re silent for a minute, and Peter looks around them subtly. Nobody seems to be paying them much mind, tucked into the corner as they are, so he ducks in closer to press a reassuring kiss to the top of Carter’s head.
“You’ll be okay, Carter,” Peter mumbles into his hair, and can feel the way John shudders, head twitching in a half-nod.
Pulling back, Peter gives his hand another squeeze and settles into his seat, letting Carter lean his weight against him more securely. It’s going to be a long night, and longer still for Carter. Peter will take the opportunity, while it still presents itself, to bear some of that weight.
He runs his thumb in a soothing kind of motion over pale knuckles, flips open his book with the other, and begins to read.