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It all happens so fast.
One moment, he’s walking back to his and Dennis’s apartment after a long shift, hands stuffed in his pockets to protect them from the biting November night air. The next, some guy smelling of stale beer is shoving him up against the railings of the Clark Street Bridge, waving a knife in his face, demanding his wallet.
John, feeling relatively calm about the situation, all things considered, had quickly reached for his back pocket.
But the guy hadn’t liked that. At all.
An almighty shove, and John felt himself tumbling over the railing.
A tangle of limbs, hands awkwardly and frantically fumbling around, desperate to find purchase.
And now he’s here. Clinging to the railing. On the wrong side. Hanging.
His heart is pumping fast, his pulse thunderous behind his ears. The metal taste of adrenaline floods his mouth and rushes through his veins.
Jesus. Jesus Christ.
Distantly, he hears screaming. The metal bars of the railing are slick and wet from that afternoon’s rainfall. He feels his hands slipping. He desperately tries to hold on.
“Hang on! Hang on, man! Help is coming!” Someone is shouting at him from the street above.
John glances down, at the sparkling waters of the Chicago River below. It must be a fifteen, twenty foot drop. It’s a very long way down.
Oh my god, he thinks to himself, as time seems to slow down. Every heartbeat, every moment, stretching like elastic. The way his legs feel, dangling, kicking the empty air. He imagines himself falling. Hitting the water. Will his head hit first? Will his neck break? Will his organs explode? I’m going to fall, he thinks. I’m going to die.
His fingers are cold, cramping. He gasps, the strain on his arms tearing through his body. An unfamiliar face peers through the bars above, eyes wide and scared. Warm fingers meet his own – someone is trying to hold onto him.
“Don’t let go! Don’t let go!”
Jesus. Jesus. Just fifteen minutes ago, he was doing sutures in Curtain 1. Making small talk with Carol on his way out. What happened, he thinks, dazedly. What the hell happened?
More voices above, like a crowd is forming.
His fingers are seizing up. He’s slipping. He can’t hold on.
This can’t be how it ends, he thinks to himself, dumbly, a terrified gasp loosing from his lips. There were things I was supposed to do.
One hand slips. His body swings. A gasp ripples through the crowd.
He tries to hold on. He really does. He really tries.
But he can’t.
His fingers slide off the bar. And he falls.
The moment he spends falling through the air feels like it lasts a lifetime. And then he hits the water, pain explodes through his body, and everything gets very, very dark. And quiet. So quiet. He’s underwater.
His mind goes blank. It’s cold. Way too cold. Icy, murky water fills his nose, his mouth. He does not know which way is up, and which is down. Everything is cold. Everything is pain.
And then he surfaces, and every sense returns in full, disorienting force. The sounds of the city. Some screaming. Sirens, far away. He’s gasping, choking, treading water like a madman. He can’t breathe. It’s cold. It’s so damn cold. He tries to breathe, but his lungs feel frozen. He’s coughing, spluttering. He wants to scream for help, but the words seize in his throat before he can get them out.
Alive, he thinks. I’m alive.
He desperately tries to keep his head above water. He feels clumsy, heavy, from the weight of his clothes and his shoes.
Swim, it occurs to him. He can swim. He can… he can swim to shore. Right? There’s a shore. Right? Somewhere he can drag himself out of the water?
He tries to kick up, so that he can see above the water, sloshing around, obscuring his vision. It’s so dark. His eyes are burning. His vision darkening around the edges. He’s still coughing. He needs to get out of this water. He needs to be able to breathe.
His mind is going numb. He was just thinking… he was just thinking he had to do something. The thought had slipped away from him. It’s so cold.
Swim.
It occurs to him again.
He’s going to swim. He tries to strike out, but he quickly realizes that he doesn’t know which way to go. He looks up, trying to identify where the bridge is. And then, he doesn’t know how it happens, but he’s falling under the water.
Water fills his mouth. He kicks himself back up, choking on it. More screaming, from up above. Oh god. Oh god. It’s getting harder to tread water. His hands and feet are numb. His kicks are getting weaker. He can hardly keep his head above water as he wheezes in between coughs.
There’s a strange buzzing in his ears. Everything is dulling. He’s supposed to cover the ER for Benton tomorrow. What is the surgeon going to think when he doesn’t show up?
He slips below the water again. Pushes himself back up.
Everything is going gray. He can’t think. He can’t see. He can’t breathe.
He’s so heavy. Everything is so heavy. His legs, his eyelids. His thoughts. So cold… He can’t remember. Can’t remember what he needs to do… so tired… his brain feels like mud…
Consciousness slips away as John Carter bobs up and down in the water a few more times, then sinks beneath the surface.
The rescue boat arrives a minute and a half later. The boneless, sodden young man they hoist from the river is not breathing.
John comes back to himself all at once – choking, unable to breathe. Lungs screaming for air. He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know what’s happening. All he knows is that he can’t breathe.
Hands on him. Touching him. Shoulders, hips. He’s being rolled over. Someone is pounding his back. His chest hurts. He’s cold.
He coughs and coughs and coughs. He’s coughing, he’s vomiting. His cheek is pressed against something cold and damp and metal. Loud voices surround him. He can’t see straight. He gasps for air. Chokes again. Coughs. Vomits. Shakes. It’s so cold.
He tries to open his eyes. They’re so heavy. Nearby, someone sobs. Maybe it’s him.
Distantly, almost as if it’s happening to someone else, John feels hands tugging at his clothes, at his sopping coat.
I fell in the river, it occurs to him. Someone pushed me.
What on Earth.
He feels himself sinking. Some unknown current is pulling him away.
“Jesus, he’s freezing.”
“You think he was drunk?”
“We need to get these clothes off.”
“Ambulance is almost here, they’ll take him to County.”
County. Good. Safe.
John drifts.
Mark closes the door of Exam Room 3 behind him and lets out a long sigh. What a night.
He’d been about to go home when an ambulance rolled up with a drowning victim.
This wouldn’t be the first time Mark had had to treat a drunk they’d pulled out of the river. The last thing he was expecting to see when they rolled the gurney out, though, was John Carter, gasping and thrashing and shaking. Eyes wild and terrified.
Mark had been frozen, for just a moment, his brain trying to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. And then he’d sprang into action.
It had taken a lot of hands, and a lot of time, to get the boy settled and fully worked up.
Concussion. Broken ankle. Broken ribs. Hypothermic.
What the hell happened? Mark thinks, not for the first time. Carter had been on shift not even an hour ago. He’d been fine. He’d waved at Mark on his way out. How the hell had he ended up in the damn river?
He doesn’t have much more time to linger on this question, though, as an angry voice breaks him out of his musing.
“Greene!”
Mark would recognize Peter Benton’s bark anywhere. He’s surging down the hallway, blue surgical gown flapping behind him like a bat. Face set in a fiercely angry expression.
Mark meets him wearily. “Peter. I was going to call you.”
“What the hell happened?” Benton snaps. His eyes fix on the door behind Mark. “Is he in there? Let me through.”
He tries to force his way past Mark, who doesn’t budge from the entrance. “Jesus, Peter, just hang on a second-”
“He fell in the river? He was just here!”
“Yeah, we’re not quite sure what happened yet, but listen-”
“Unbelievable,” Benton growls, interrupting him again. “Only Carter. For God’s sake.”
“Look, Peter, he’s a little beat up, and pretty out of it. It might be best to wait a little while before visitors-”
“Mark. Get out of my way.”
Benton’s voice is quiet. Not quite aggressive. But the order has an edge to it.
Mark sighs, again. And slowly steps out of the way. “Go easy, okay?”
Benton isn’t listening. He pushes through the door.
He stops dead in the entranceway, leaving Mark lingering behind him in the hallway.
“Jesus,” Mark hears the other man sigh.
Peter enters the room, and Mark trails behind him.
Carter is as Mark left him.
Propped up in bed, swathed in a thick cocoon of blankets. Monitors and IV lines snaking beneath. A cannula under his nose. Face pale, hair flat. Trembling and shivering.
“Carter, what the hell happened?” Benton asks.
Unsurprisingly, to Mark at least, the boy does not respond.
Benton frowns as he approaches, taking him in. “Carter?” he asks. Still no response.
Carter’s eyes are completely glazed over in a drug-induced haze. He blinks languidly, not really tracking the movements around the room. His face is completely slack, his mouth slightly ajar. Technically awake, but not really aware at all.
Benton looks at Mark. “What did you do to him?” he asks, looking almost offended at the state of his intern. He snaps his fingers in front of Carter’s face, garnering very little reaction. “He’s drooling, Greene.”
It’s true. Frothy spit bubbles at the corners of John’s mouth. A steady stream of saliva is dribbling out, running down the boy’s chin and dripping onto the blankets and the collar of Carter’s hospital gown, where a large dark patch has emerged. Completely undignified. And yet, Carter appears completely oblivious to all of it. Unsuspecting and unembarrassed. Utterly zonked out.
Mark sighs, again. Scrubs his face. “Yeah. So. He was pretty agitated when they brought him in. Shivering so much he was practically convulsing. We gave him lorazepam to calm him down so we could get him into CT.”
Benton nods slowly. “…and?” he prompts, waving his hands impatiently.
“And CT confirmed a bunch of broken ribs, a concussion, and a broken ankle. They’re taking him up for surgery for the ankle in a few hours. We’ve loaded him up with morphine in the meantime.”
Benton blinks. He’s silent for a moment, looking at Carter, taking the information in. Then he speaks. “Benzos and opioids,” he says blankly, narrowing his eyes at Mark.
Mark shrugs. “He’s not reacting great to the combination, as you can see. Totally out of it. But we’re keeping a close eye on him. He’ll be fine.”
Benton scoffs. “You’ve turned him into a damn vegetable.”
Mark rolls his eyes. “Like I said, he’s fine. Better this than being scared and in pain. Which is how he came in.”
This quiets Benton. “Broken ribs, you said?” he asks quietly, examining Carter, who continues to stare blankly at the wall in front of him while he drools.
Mark winces. “We’re, uh… We’re not a hundred percent sure if they’re from the fall or the CPR.”
Benton’s head snaps towards him. “CPR?” he asks, nostrils flaring, the corner of his eye twitching.
Mark nods. “He, uh. He wasn’t breathing when they first pulled him out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Benton snaps, beginning to pace. “He drowned? How long did it take to get him back? What did the head CT look like? Did you even bothering doing a neuro exam before drugging him up?”
Mark bristles. “Yeah, Peter, somehow it did manage to occur to me to do a neuro exam on a drowning victim. Lucky for Carter here, I didn’t miss that day in emergency medicine 101.”
He glares at the other man. Who glares back. “And??” Benton demands.
“And he’s fine, Peter!” Mark snaps, exasperated. “Cognition completely intact. In between the coughing and the gagging and moaning, he was able to tell me his name and the president and the day of the week. Happy?”
Benton continues to glare at him for a few moments, chest heaving. Then he looks away. “Good,” he says gruffly. No thank you, no apology. Mark rolls his eyes.
“He’s lucky,” Mark remarks finally, after a minute. “He fell off the Clark Street Bridge. According to Jerry, that’s like a twenty-foot drop. It’s a miracle he didn’t break his neck or damage any organs.”
Benton grunts. Mark isn’t entirely sure he’s listening to him at all. He rummages around in one of the drawers. Mark watches as he pulls out a washcloth.
“Hey, Carter,” the surgeon says, his tone suddenly soft and patient. He grabs John by the chin and looks the boy in the eyes. “I’m going to help get you cleaned up a little bit, alright?”
John lets out a small noise, some kind of cross between a hum and a squeak and a whimper. He’s still trembling from cold.
“Good boy,” Benton murmurs. Mark raises his eyebrows as he silently observes the way Peter Benton tends to his student. Dabbing at the corners of his mouth with the washcloth, wiping the drool from his chin.
“I’ll check back in in a little while,” he says.
Benton doesn’t respond. He’s speaking quietly to Carter, words that Mark cannot hear.
Bemused, Mark takes his leave, shutting the door behind him quietly. He has a strong suspicion that Benton will not be leaving his student’s side for the rest of the night.
Hours later, after the surgery team has finished with the quick open reduction on Carter’s ankle, Peter sits in the recovery room, waiting. Irritated. At what, and at whom, he is not sure. But he’s definitely irritated.
Maybe it’s because his intern has a broken ankle that will keep him off his feet for at least a month. Maybe it’s because just a few hours ago, Peter had to clean the kid up after he drooled all over himself like a baby.
Or maybe it’s because he’d been really fucking worried, and that’s the kind of thing that tends to piss him off. Carter almost died. The whole situation was ridiculous. Unbelievable.
The cops had come by, hours before, wanting to talk to him. He’d been so drugged up at the time, there wasn’t a chance in hell. But the cops told Peter that multiple eyewitnesses on the bridge saw a man push Carter over the railing. Which of course made Peter see red. Who the hell would do that? To Carter?
The kid is coming out of the anesthesia slowly. Slower than Peter would have liked. He starts shivering first. His body temp is back to normal – slightly elevated, if anything – but Peter knows it’s normal to feel cold long after the effects of hypothermia have been reversed. Or maybe he’s running a post-op fever? Peter feels a spurt of concern.
When the boy’s nostrils start flaring around the nasal cannula, and his fingers start twitching, Peter leans forward. Close to Carter’s ear.
“Hey. Carter. Wake up.” His order is firm and direct, but also, he’d like to think, gentle.
John moans softly, lips forming a pout. He sighs.
Feeling a little awkward and unsure of proper conduct, he reaches forward and gives Carter’s shoulder a squeeze. Then pokes at the side of his neck.
This post-op, coming-out-of-anesthesia business was usually a nurse’s job. But in this case, Peter had volunteered. Now he’s cursing himself and deeply regretting that decision. He has no idea what to do. But he can’t leave now. It’s too late for that. Carter is waking up, and he can’t be alone when that happens.
Patients are usually very confused coming out of anesthesia, Peter reminds himself. Carter will probably be confused. Maybe scared.
He leans forward again. “Carter. Wake up. You’re in the hospital. But, uh, you’re okay. You had surgery.”
At this, Carter’s eyes finally flicker open. Glassy and dazed looking. He opens his mouth. “Sur’gry?” he slurs, voice raspy and ragged. He flinches, a little, after the words come out. “Oww,” he moans. His eyes track across the room before they land on Peter. “D’ct’r Ben’n?” he whispers. His lips form an ‘o’. His eyes are wide. He looks childish. Helpless.
But at least he’s not drooling on himself anymore.
Good grief, Peter thinks.
“You broke your ankle. They did an open reduction.”
Carter stares at him. Blinks slowly. Swallows. “Feel sick,” he says hoarsely, eyes widening
Peter raises his eyebrows. “You gonna puke?”
Carter nods quickly, and Peter curses, whirling around, looking for an emesis basin. He sees a pile in the corner and dives for them, getting back to the bedside just in time to shove it under Carter’s chin as the boy begins to expel bile. Peter grabs him around the back of the head, keeping him tilted forward so he doesn’t make a mess all over himself.
“Get it out, Carter. Get it out. That’s it. It’s okay.” He awkwardly pats him on his back.
By the time he’s done, Carter is pale and sweating and panting. Involuntary tears streaming down his face.
Peter’s heart clenches as Carter collapses back onto the pillows, still slightly green in the face, shaking and shuddering. His teeth chatter.
“Water?” Peter asks.
Carter nods stiffly, wiping at his face.
“My throat really hurts,” he says hoarsely. “ ‘s I intubated?”
Peter shakes his head, holding up a cup of water with a straw for Carter to sip. “No,” he says, “but you swallowed half the water in the Chicago River when you fell off the Clark Street Bridge.”
Carter stares up at him, eyes still streaming a little. “Fell off…” he trails off. Swallows. Winces. “Oh. Yeah.”
Peter scoffs. “Yeah, man. What the hell?”
The boy looks away. Coughs wetly, painfully. “Someone pushed me. They wanted my wallet and then they pushed me.”
Peter closes his eyes. “Jesus, Carter. What the hell were you thinking, walking home at night? You ever heard of the train?”
Carter scowls. “Train broke down. Figured it was only a… a thirty minute walk. Not… not my fault.” His voice is gravelly as hell. Slightly slurred. Every syllable sounds painful. He coughs again. His breaths are more like wheezes.
Peter doesn’t say anything. Looks out the window. “I know it’s not your fault,” he says finally. Then, after another minute: “You sound like shit.”
Carter hums. “Feel terrible,” he whispers. “ ‘m really cold.”
“Greene says your body temp was 90 when they brought you in.”
Carter seems to think about this for a second.
“Thas’ not good,” he rasps.
“No. It’s not,” Peter replies. “But you’re, uh… you’re back to normal now. But you’ll still probably feel cold for a while. You’ve also got broken ribs and a concussion. We’ve got you on warm saline, as well as some morphine and broad-spectrum antibiotics.” Peter gestures vaguely at the IV lines connected to Carter’s arms.
Carter stares at them, seemingly noticing them for the first time.
“Ow,” he says.
Peter shifts uncomfortably. He thinks he’s been doing a pretty good job with the bedside manner so far. But he doesn’t really know a good way to say what comes next.
“Carter. You, uh, you weren’t breathing, when they pulled you out of the river. Just so you know. They had to give you CPR.”
Carter blinks. He looks… disturbed. “Oh,” he says, sounding rather dazed. “Oh.” He goes quiet. Peter feels a flare of anxiety.
He kicks at the bed, gently. Enough to get his intern’s attention. “You good, man?”
Carter closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. Tiredly. “Just, uh. It’s just a lot. Everything was fine, you know? And now this.” He swallows. “Broken ribs. Broken ankle. Don’t think I’m gonna be a very good intern with a broken ankle.”
Peter’s heart pangs with guilt. Carter looks so downcast. He’s avoiding Peter’s eyes. Like he’s ashamed. Christ.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” Peter tells him, trying to make his tone sound reassuring. “I’m sure Anspaugh’s already working on a plan. And you can work on my charts until you can bear weight on both feet. Do sutures.”
“Yeah?” Carter asks, eyes glistening. Looking hopeful.
Against his will, Peter feels a surge of affection towards the young man. “Yeah. Of course, man,” he mutters. Pointedly avoiding eye contact.
John lets out a long exhale of relief, blinking rapidly, He coughs, then coughs again. “Fucking ow,” he says.
Peter almost laughs. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard John Carter swear before. “You want some more morphine?” he asks instead.
“Yes please,” Carter mumbles.
Peter clicks the pump connected to the IV port a couple times. Watches as Carter lets out an extended sigh, as his face relaxes in tandem with the surge of opioids.
“You should get some sleep,” Peter says, folding his arms. “They’re gonna move you to a step-down unit soon. You’re gonna have to be monitored for a few days. Can’t have you dying of pneumonia from dirty river water.” He shoves Carter’s arm softly.
Carter blinks slowly, then gives a weak smile. “M’kay,” he murmurs, shivering a little.
It’s the last thing the kid says before drifting off.
As soon as he’s sure that Carter is fast asleep, Peter makes a quick exit. He’s going to steal some of the nice blankets from the nurses’ supply before they transport Carter out of the surgical unit.
And then he wants to talk to the doctors in the step-down unit. He wasn’t kidding about that pneumonia thing. He wants Carter monitored closely for the next few days.
Only because Carter is his best intern, of course. That’s the only reason he’s so invested in the boy’s recovery. It will be a huge inconvenience to be without him for any longer than what is completely necessary.
He thinks this to himself, almost as a mantra, as he returns to Carter’s room, diligently taking the time to tuck the blankets in around him, snug and warm.
When he’s done, he leans back to admire his work. Carter looks peaceful in his drug-induced nap. Feeling completely unselfconscious for once, knowing that he is completely alone, Peter reaches forward to give the boy a tender pat on the head. He takes the opportunity to wipe some locks of sweat-slick hair away from Carter’s forehead.
He doesn’t think he’ll end up going home tonight. He’ll sleep in an on-call room. Just so he can keep an eye out. Just in case.
Just to be safe.