Chapter Text
Six more hours.
Six more hours and then ten perfect, peaceful days.
It's the mantra John clings to as he moves through the day—when Lucy demands he comes immediately to see a gastroenteritis patient who just needs compazine and IV fluids. When Weaver takes the residents to task for letting the flu patients pile up in chairs. When they lose two out of the three kids involved in a gang shooting.
Six more hours, then ten days.
John stares at the chart, the numbers coming in and out of focus. He rubs his eyes and lets his head fall heavy in his hands. He can't remember the last time he'd slept more than two hours at a time—
"Already on island time, Carter?" Lucy materializes at his side, and he jumps a mile.
"Lucy, I swear–" He whirls on her, and she flinches, throwing both her hands up in defense.
"Sorry. Sorry. I thought you heard me come up." Her contrition is genuine, and John feels like he kicked a puppy. He sighs, the edges of an apology on his tongue, but his exhale turns into a rough cough—the lingering evidence of the cold he still can't shake.
Lucy's brow furrows. "You coming down with something?"
John shakes his head, clearing his throat. "No. It's the same cough I've had since December."
"You should get that checked out—I'd hate to see your trip get ruined. I can give you an exam—"
"Lucy, I'm alright." He turns to her with a weak smile that he hopes conveys how truly fine, good, okay he is. "Really. It's nothing that some extra vitamin D won't fix."
His words don't ease the worry on her face, but she picks up another chart anyways. "I'm serious, Carter. It sounds bad."
"Thank you for that expert medical opinion, Lucy." It's supposed to be a joke, but his tone is sharper than he intends and the retort lands with a thud. He sees the hurt flash across her face before the softness in her eyes hardens and her armor pops back up. "Fine. Sorry I asked. Whenever you're ready, I've got a patient in curtain two." She turns on her heel and marches off, and John feels the crater widen in his chest.
Great job, asshole. She was just trying to be nice to you.
He's trying. He's trying so hard to be patient. And Lucy's been doing so much better these days, even better than he's given her credit for.
But his fuse these days is just so short, compounded by the stress of R2 year, the ER getting overrun with its worst flu season in years, and the fact that this is the first winter he's realizing how much life costs when you're not living off a regularly refilled trust fund.
And the weight of it is crushing him. It's making him a bad teacher, a bad person, and the guilt of it sits heavy in the pit of his stomach.
He wishes he still had someone to talk to about it, even just to vent in the break room over coffee or Diet Cokes. Come to think of it, he hasn't really gotten much of anything off his chest since An—
Don't think about her, John.
Never mind. Maybe he could catch Benton later—he's never around for long in the ER these days, not like he used to be. But maybe Benton could explain what he was doing wrong, or why Benton was able to make something out of him when things with Lucy always fell apart the second it felt like he'd made some progress.
He shouldn't complain. John knows he's lucky to have what he's got. He's getting a check every two weeks, meager amount that it is. Dr. Weaver's charging him far less than she ought to for his basement room. She insists he earns the difference by helping around the house, but he knows she's giving him a sweetheart deal, and it makes him a little nauseous when he cuts her his paltry rent check every month.
It's because she feels bad. Because she knows you went from so well off you didn't need a salary to slumming it in a med school dorm. Because you're so pathetic—
John clamps off the thought like an gushing artery, and shakes his head again. There was time to wallow later. Ten days, in fact.
Five hours and 45 minutes.
Some time off will fix everything.
He peels himself away from the desk. Lucy's calling, and there are patients to see.
Despite his doubts, John makes it to 8 pm. Lucy's still giving him the cold shoulder, and Benton never came down, but he made it.
The thrill of freedom provides the last bit of adrenaline he needs to finish the shift strong. After signing his charts in record time, he moves faster than he has all day to the lounge to grab his things, but not before Chuny accosts him from the front desk.
"Hey Carter! Bring back the sun for us, will you?"
He mock salutes her. "Anything for you, Chuny."
She rolls her eyes. "Some Chicago kid you are, running off to an island while the rest of us freeze."
Her remark sends a pang of guilt through John's chest, but he keeps his smile lifted. "Keep the wheels on this place, will you?"
"I'll save a big pile of paperwork just for you," she says with a wink. He backs into the lounge, beelining to his locker, ready to make his great escape, when—
"Carter! I'm glad I caught you before you left."
John tilts his head back and sighs, stifling a groan. The longer you stay….
But he steels himself and turns to see Dr. Weaver sitting at the table. "Just barely."
She scribbles something on the pile of papers before her, then looks up at him. "Got all your charts turned in?"
"Yes."
"Patients handed off?"
"Done."
"All your paperwork—"
John raises his eyebrows. "Dr. Weaver, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were stalling me."
Weaver shrugs. "Ten days is a long time to be gone. We'll miss you."
The guilt coils tighter in his stomach, but he nods. "I know, and I'm sorry–"
She waves away his apology. "It's your time to use, and you've gotten everything done. Still planning on leaving tonight?"
He nods, crossing to his locker, grateful for the excuse to not have to look her in the eye. "Just stopping home, and then I'll be out of your hair."
Weaver pauses for a moment, like she's going to ask him something. He holds his breath. but her next words are benign. "Just make sure your basement window's shut. They're forecasting snow this weekend and I don't want to have to scoop a foot of it out of your room."
John's eyebrows raise, but Weaver doesn't crack. "Trust me. Past experience. Just check. And have good trip, Carter." He nods, and she waves him off with a small smile. "Go on. Get outta here."
After bundling up, he walks back through the entry and bids everyone one final goodbye. Chuny yells that she hopes his pale ass comes back sunburned. For the first time all day, John smiles for real.
Once he's on the El, he can finally exhale, letting his head tilt back against the cold glass. He coughs and pulls his coat tighter, rubbing circles against his aching chest.
Dr. Weaver had let him off easy, and he was lucky. He didn't think he had it in him for an inquisition about his upcoming vacation, his family, his plans, whether he needed anything for his cough to take with him. She'd been bothering him for weeks about that cough, just like Lucy had.
But doctors made the worst patients, and his pride was one of the few things John could truly cling to any more. And he wasn't worried. The cough had been going on too long to be pneumonia, anyways. He was functioning, and the cough would probably vanish after a little extra rest this week.
When John arrives at the darkened brownstone, he slinks in like a thief, only flicking on enough light to get him to the doorway. The trip down the stairs to his room leaves him winded, and he braces on his bedroom's doorframe for one, two, three breaths, coughing into his elbow before heaving the packed duffel bag off of his bed. If he didn't have places to be, he'd curl up right there on his bed for a quick nap. But he didn't trust himself to wake up before Weaver gets home, so on he forges.
As promised, he checks and locks the window. He casts a glance back at his room—the simple comforter, the rows of books on the shelves, the expensive stereo that was so out of place with the rest of the room's spartan atmosphere.
Just stopping home, he'd said. John hadn't corrected himself and Weaver hadn't flinched, but the word still felt like a line he wasn't supposed to cross, even four months on. John still felt the hot shame of it sometimes—the feeling of showing up on the doorstep and realizing it was her doorstep. There he'd been, scrounging around like a stray dog for a place he could lay his head, stupid enough to let hope bubble up and think maybe she'll let me stay.
She'd been buzzed that evening after what he presumed was a rough day, and John couldn't help but wonder what she would've said had he not arrived in a weak moment. But he'd done his best to be the perfect tenant ever since so she'd never regret her moment of mercy. Pity. Weakness. Whatever it was, it was far more than he deserved.
He trudges back up through the house and onto the snowy streets, gentle flakes wafting past the soft glow of the street light. His shoes crunch through the old snow. Chicago's hibernating tonight, the whole world nested away in warm houses until the pale sunlight returned.
Back on the El, the gentle rocking lulls his tired eyes closed. He turns the duffel bag on its end on the seat beside him to rest his weary head against it.
Just a little while longer.
By the time they reach his stop, he's practically sleepwalking, lurching along the sidewalks to his destination. It'd be a much faster and less exhausting journey if he still had his Jeep, but his Jeep was a pile of ash on the south side, and he had to make do until the insurance claim money came through.
After a quarter-mile walk down the front drive, he skirts the front gate—it's got a camera—around the bushes around to the side gate. He punches the last code he remembers into the gate keypad, praying that it hadn't been changed.
But the keypad chirps with an affirming beep and green light, and the gate swings open.
Before him stands the towering Carter mansion.
Dark. Quiet. A little foreboding.
His home for the next ten days.
It hadn't started as his plan. The Carters always took a yearly trip to St. Barts, regardless of what John was up to. The last couple years he'd forgotten to ask for the time off early enough and couldn't swing it. So of course, the one year he asked months in advance, he also decided to have a radical change of heart about accepting his family's money and support.
Not that it wasn't offered. The St. Barts trip twinkled in front of him, a promise of warm sun and luxury and an escape from Chicago's bitter cold, if only he gave in. But he didn't. He couldn't. Not now.
His own mother had called in late December, her honey-sweet voice asking why he didn't just give this whole rebellious streak up and come with them.
John tried to ignore the helpless little twinge he feels when he hears her voice, or the fact that he hadn't heard it for weeks before. On the tip of his tongue are all the neatly outlined arguments he's rehearsed in the bathroom mirror, about how this is about more than money, it's about forging his own path, making his own way, proving he can do something all on his own without strings attached or a safety net to protect him.
Instead, all that comes out is a lie—that he'd really love to, but it was too late to get vacation time off now, and maybe he'd catch them on the next trip.
Gamma would suspect it was a lie. But he knew she wouldn't say anything to anyone else, and his parents cared so little that he knew they wouldn't press. His father hadn't bothered to call him at all about it.
Come to think of it, Gamma hadn't explicitly told him he couldn't go on the trip. But it seemed like a violation of their unspoken terms, and it didn't feel particularly principled to go sit on a sunny veranda while claiming independence from the wealth that bought it all.
Anyways. He'd been so overworked these past few weeks that he'd forgotten he'd taken the time off until Dr. Weaver had mentioned it.
Carter, you should've started preparing for your time off last week at the latest. You've still got responsibilities that need to be delegated.
On the tip of John's tongue had been the truth—he wasn't going to St. Barts, not anymore, and she could got ahead and put him back on the schedule. But then, an idea bloomed.
He could still take a vacation.
Not to St. Barts, of course. But he knew of a big, empty mansion whose occupants were away on an island, and he knew the code to get in. There were countless beds, and certainly enough food to sustain one person.
The best part? Not a soul would know he was there, nor would they care. The staff were always furloughed with pay during the St. Barts trip. It wasn't breaking and entering if you knew all the home's secrets, or the staff by name, or the location of every Fabergé egg.
Would Gamma care that he was there? Maybe. He didn't know. But at this point, asking for her forgiveness instead of her permission felt like the path of least resistance.
So now he's here, snow-soaked shoes squeaking on the tile of the halls he hasn't visited in nearly ten months. John wondered if it'd feel different being back since he'd declared his independence. But it's the same cavernous house it's always been, his steps echoing through cold, empty rooms.
As a child, he'd often wondered if this house was haunted. His grandfather had shot down the idea, telling him to stop buying into childish nonsense and fairytales. But at night, when the winds howled and the branches tapped against the windowpanes, he would lie scrunched up in his bed, covers over his head, wondering if that noise had been anything.
It really had been childish. But now the lights are all off, and the shadows from the outdoor lights are longer than he remembers, and as the wind howls outside, the memory of it resurfaces.
There's no such thing as ghosts, John. Stop being foolish.
He shakes his head and scrubs his eyes. He needs sleep. He probably also needs dinner, but he's not hungry—hasn't been all day. So John crosses the foyer and takes the winding stairs that lead him up to the second floor bedrooms, pausing to stop and catch his breath every few steps.
He's really got to kick this cough.
It's his only goal for this little excursion of his. Rest. Recover. A few days of sleeping in, some time to eat three square meals a day again, and plenty of time curled up and off his feet—maybe with a book, maybe watching some mindless daytime TV.
There's the smallest twinge of guilt as he thinks of Lucy and Weaver and Mark and the nurses and everyone else working away in the swamped ER without him.
But the lie is done. There's no going back. And quite frankly, he's been so useless the past couple of weeks in this state that it's probably better for everyone if he's not there. Really.
Lazy. Spoiled. Lying your way unto a ten-day trip at your parents' house?
No. He wouldn't have done this if he hadn't thought he had other options.
You couldn't have talked it out with Weaver?
No. He couldn't. He'd used up all his goodwill begging for a salary and a residency position he didn't deserve because he couldn't make up his mind. To go to Weaver and tell her no, he couldn't hack his residency right now because he's tired and he needs time to rest? When he's the one who begged to be in the ER in the first place?
She had done too much for him. He had taken advantage of too many people already. This was the only way.
John makes the laborious trek up to his bedroom to find it lit by the moonlight reflecting off of the snow. There's still a bed in here from what he can see, so at least they haven't decided to erase him from the family house just yet. He wondered if they'd packed up all his things, confined all that's left of their remaining heir to a pile of boxes up in the corner of the attic, shuttled away until he can conform to the Carter family once more.
They'd practically turned Bobby's room into a shrine.
But in the dark, John can't see anything else, and he doesn't really care—just lets the duffel bag slip from his shoulder onto the floor, and lets his aching body collapse on top of the pillowy down of the duvet, falling asleep before his head lands on the pillow.
John's sleep is fitful. His dreams are full of twisting shadows and hospital halls and cavernous, empty rooms that go on for miles, and he wakes drenched in sweat and gasping—for a few moments, at least, before the gasping turns to a hacking cough.
Another night sweat. He can't count how many he's had these past few weeks.
It's still dark, and he cranes his neck to make out the red numbers on his bedside clock—2:28. With a groan, John pushes himself up on trembling arms, wincing as he massages his neck. He coughs again—a thick, rattling cough that makes his chest burn. The rest of him aches, too, and the chill of the room permeates his bones through his damp clothes.
He wants to crawl under the sheets and go back to sleep. But a shudder reminds him he needs to get dry and get warm, so instead he shoves himself off the bed and shuffles to the bathroom. You'll feel better after a hot shower.
When he flicks on the light, he's greeted by his own haggard reflection—shadowed eyes against pasty white skin, hollow cheeks, his too-long hair a tousled bird's nest he knows he should've gotten cut a week ago. He sheds his clothes, shucking layer after layer until there's nothing but pale white skin and limbs whittled down to bones.
Since when had he gotten so thin?
He averts his gaze from his gaunt frame and cranks the water as hot as it goes, but can't resist a second glance back at himself as the steam obscures his reflection in the mirror. Of course everyone had been pushing meds his way if he looked like this.
You're just overworked. You're fine, John.
Under the spray of the shower his head bobs, tiny micro-sleeps stealing away his seconds until his fingers are pruned and his bones are warmed. The trip back to bed feels miles away, but for now, he just sits in the glorious heat, head leaning against the tile.
His subconscious must decide to return to bed without the rest his body's consent, because one minute he's wrapped in a towel, leaning against the wall. The next he's half dressed in flannel pants, hands fumbling as he slips socks on to his damp feet. It's him, he knows it's him doing these things. But it's not, because he can't remember where he got these clothes, or how he got from the bathroom to his bedroom. But that doesn't matter. All he wants is his bed.
He feels himself crawling between the sheets, and the world slips away into nothing.