Chapter Text
Carter's mother tongue is apology.
The first word he spoke to another human being was not ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada’ but a tiny, terrified ‘sorry’ after he accidentally broke his mother's favourite vase. He was four. His delayed development had been a topic of contention at the dinners he was already attending at that point, and most assumed he was simply stupid, a defect to be rubbed out of the family records.
“Your eldest is a bright spark, though.” Relatives commiserated while Johnny poked at his vegetables and pretended not to hear them. “And he'll be the one to head the foundation, after all.”
What they didn't understand was that Johnny could comprehend them perfectly, and when he sat alone in his room with his toys and his books, he often talked to them. He babbled on to Mr Rabbit about his dislike for green beans, and enjoyed the way his stitched mouth never curled up in disdain at the comments. He read passages from the picture books Bobby decided were too boring and sounded out the words on unsure lips.
But in front of his mother and father, that ‘sorry’ was where it all began. A desperate attempt to keep the hand from clipping him around the ear that ended up failing anyway.
They didn't acknowledge his speech at all. Still, he knew that ‘sorry’ was perhaps the one safe word he had.
It might not shield him, but at the very least it wouldn't get him in more trouble.
Over the next two decades, the word slipped out too many times to count. He apologised for his bow tie being askew, he apologised when he broke his wrist falling out of a tree (Bobby pushed him, but it didn't matter), he apologised when his brother died and his mother spat in anger that it should've been him instead.
Her apology hadn't included the word ‘sorry’, of course. That was Johnny’s to wield. His father never touched it either.
And he apologised tonight, for returning home late from the hospital, but as always it hadn't been enough, so now he stands in front of the bathroom sink and wipes at the weeping indent of his father's nail on his cheek. He doesn't cry anymore when he's hit- he's stronger than that now.
It's not as bad as the one on his other cheek, the one that left a scar. It'll stop bleeding soon and tomorrow he can tell the folks at work that his hand slipped with the razor while he was shaving.
His clumsiness has always been fantastic cover.
Next time, his father pinches him on the back of the neck for missing dinner. He makes sure to pull the collar of his lab coat up further than usual.
In February, Carter makes a near-fatal mistake. He messes up a dopamine dosage, and it's only thanks to Peter Benton’s sharp eyes that the error is rectified before it harms the patient. Afterwards, Carter is dragged into the hall. The surgeon’s eyes land on him with a visceral anger he's felt many times before.
“What the hell is wrong with you?! In what world would it be 10ml, Carter? In what world?”
He feels himself shrink back, chest tightening.
“I mean, Christ, are you stupid? Because that's a stupid thing to do, and your ineptitude could've cost that woman her life!”
Carter nods, but his mind is long gone. He's five foot four and backed up against the wall, his father towering over him with a hand raised in preparation for a blow. He's little and he's frightened and he knows he's been bad and stupid and all those other words that describe Johnny to a tee.
Benton lifts his hand slightly, finger pointing at his chest, and Johnny flinches. He takes a stumbling step back and nearly barrels right into one of the nearby crash carts, and that's when the apologies come.
“Sorry, Dr Benton, I’m- I’m sorry, I didn't- I shouldn't have-”
And Benton is frowning, the anger flattening, and he's withdrawing his hand away slowly, but before he can make another comment, Johnny turns away and excuses himself quickly. His heart hammers in his chest, his feet carry him down the yawning corridors until he's able to slip into the drug lockup and slide down the wall, hugging his knees to his chest.
He doesn't cry. He's stronger than that now.
Following a particularly nasty trauma, Jerry finds him outside, offering a reassuring smile and a cigar. He thrusts it towards Carter, arching a brow.
“You look like you need one.”
Carter laughs weakly and gestures for Jerry to take it instead. He does, puffing away at it from a short distance, the open air swallowing most of the smoke scent. Carter still gets a whiff of it, though, and he closes his eyes against the sudden nausea it evokes.
Cigars are his father's weapon of choice when he's feeling particularly lazy in his punishment.
He only has to reach over when he's smoking one, yank Carter towards him, and press the butt of it against the nearest available portion of bare skin. Arms are a favourite, but they're not the only target. If Carter has royally fucked up, he'll get one at the base of his spine or his sides- a reminder whenever he turns over in bed of what Jack Carter is capable of.
Jerry moves past him once the cigar is mostly finished, ready to dump it in the trash can, and the smell is briefly so potent that Carter has to surreptitiously cover his mouth and nose.
“Still feeling queasy?” Jerry asks.
Carter forces a small smile, heart still hammering a mile a minute, muscles tensed with the expectation of an incoming burn. “A little. I might… I might stay out here for a few minutes. Get a bit of fresh air.”
Jerry nods understandingly. “No problem. See you back in there, Cartére.”
The nickname tickles Carter, as it always does, and it's a helpful reminder that right now, he isn't Johnny. His father isn't here.
The cigar, this time, is just a cigar.
After another couple of minutes, he brushes himself off and wanders back into the ER.
Over the course of a few weeks, Carter finds his voice growing fainter and fainter. His father has been at home more frequently. The fear bleeds into work.
“You’re quiet today, Carter.” Doug remarks partway through one shift, flashing a small, reassuring smile. It's the same grin he uses for the timid pediatric patients, but Carter tries not to think about that too much.
“I’m okay, Dr Ross.”
Doug’s gaze slips towards the student's wrist, and Carter has to quickly tug the sleeve of his lab coat further down to hide the new Chinese burn on his forearm. He had to forgo wearing his watch today but it's fine. He's fine. Doctor Ross really needn't worry.
“Hurt your wrist, bud?” Doug says anyway, gesturing towards the injured arm.
Carter's mouth goes dry. He feigns nonchalance with a shrug.
“It’s nothing. Burnt it on the stove back home. I ought to get back to Dr Benton before he realises I'm missing.”
He's gone before any further inquiries can be made. His alibi is secure.
It's May, nearly a whole year now since he started at County, and Carter is late for dinner. The weather has been nice and, surprisingly, a great deal of minor injuries can be sustained at picnics, so he's been treating them. His shift ran over.
He's late for dinner.
The moment he steps into the dining room, the atmosphere shifts into unseasonable frost. Everyone pauses in speech. His father's eyes land on him, icy and deeply angry.
“John. You're late.”
Carter swallows, twisting his hands uncomfortably in front of himself, throat bobbing. His bowtie is probably crooked like before, too, considering how quickly he tied it in the doctor's lounge.
“I’m sorry, Sir.” He says, dipping his head slightly. Reverently. “I got… held up.”
His father seems to scrutinise the words, inspecting them and him for any visible flaws. When he finds no ounce of insincerity, he sighs deeply anyway and throws down his napkin.
“At the hospital, I take it? The place that seems to take precedence over your own family now?”
Carter feels himself shrinking again.
“Y-yes, Sir. I mean- not that it takes precedence, Sir, but it was there that I was-”
“Sit down. Now. You've interrupted our meal enough. I will speak to you later.”
Chastised, Johnny slips into his place at the table, cheeks burning with shame. Gamma’s eyes are softer when he meets her gaze, but even she doesn't open her mouth to defend him. He picks up his knife and fork slowly, silently, and starts to slice a piece of meat.
The dinner is excruciating. Chatter flits across from one side of the table to another, the speech often monotonous and filled with financial terminology, but in the mundanity Johnny is all the more aware of his father’s simmering wrath. Even with his eyes averted, he knows he's being watched. Assessed for further mistakes.
Still, the end seems to come too quickly. The plates are cleared away, conversations tied off in neat little bows, and before Johnny can even consider slipping away unnoticed, his father orders him tersely to go upstairs and wait outside his office.
Johnny's stomach plummets right down to the polished floor. He dips his head and walks the staircase like a man on the way to the gallows, and when Jack eventually meets him outside the office, he squeezes his eyes shut and steps back against the cool wall behind him. His father takes him by the shoulder and turns him harshly to face the other way, the tip of his nose pressed against floral wallpaper.
“Stay there.” He's told. “Wait for me, like we all had to wait for you.”
Johnny blinks, nods, and flinches as his father strides into his office and slams the door behind him. This part is always the worst.
More waiting. Always more waiting.
He shifts on his feet, aching as they are from hours spent standing and rushing from one side of the ER to the other. He counts the petals on the wallpaper flowers, a tactic he learned when he was younger that's still surprisingly effective to this day. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Twenty eight. Twenty nine. Thirty.
Fifty. Fifty one. Fifty two.
A hundred and thirty three. A hundred and thirty four. A hundred and thirty-
The door clicks open, and Johnny loses count at once, his blood running cold.
His father is holding his cane.
He sleeps on his stomach, pillow soaked with tears- not of injustice or childish sorrow, purely stinging pain. This doesn't count as crying. He's stronger than that now.
The welts on his back smart with every move he makes.
A few weeks later, with another family dinner to attend in an hour, Carter has been informed he'll be working past his allotted time. Benton doesn't express the news with much care, merely stepping away from the suture room the moment the news reaches Carter's brain.
He's going to be late. He's going to be late again.
His father will-
He stands up immediately, apologising to the patient and nearly bumping into the tray beside him as he hurries out of the room to catch up with his mentor. Benton doesn't pause the first few times his name is called, but when Carter finally reaches out a desperate hand to his shoulder, he whirls round, brow furrowed.
“What, Carter?"
He sounds pissed, exceptionally so, but Carter has started to learn that this anger isn't as brutal as Jack’s. It holds no real danger.
“I… I really need to get home on time tonight, Dr Benton.”
Peter’s lip curls in scornful amusement. “Sorry, Cinderella- you'll have to be late to your ball.”
He turns around again, but Carter’s voice pulls him back.
“Please, Dr Benton, you don't- you don't understand, I- I have to get home. My father will kill me if I'm late this time.”
This only results in an eye roll.
“He'll have to learn that the world doesn't revolve around the Carters- just as you need to, apparently.”
And as Benton sweeps away down the hallway, Carter has never felt more afraid.
He gets home two hours later than he's supposed to, drenched in sweat that exists partly from fear, and partly because of his desperate sprint from the L station. He ought to have driven. God, why didn't he drive this morning?
When he closes the front door behind him, all is quiet. He removes his lab coat and tucks it over his arm, then decides to hang it on the nearest hook instead. The grandfather clock tick tick ticks to remind him of his folly.
You are late. Whatever will your father do this time?
Carter swallows thickly and takes a few steps forwards, polished Oxfords clicking on the hardwood. He winces at the sound, tries to lighten his gait, tiptoeing towards and up the stairs with a rising hope in his chest that maybe tonight he might actually make it, turning at the top of them in the direction of his room and-
“John.”
He flinches, then freezes. Carter slinks back into the ID tag on his lab coat, hanging limply from the hook downstairs. Johnny blinks awake, nauseous with fear.
“Is this some sort of joke to you?” His father drawls, hands in his pockets, emerging from his office. Johnny should have known better than to think he'd be let off scot-free. “Do you take pleasure in flaunting the rules, boy?”
Of course not, Carter yells from downstairs. I'm late because I was needed at the hospital- do you really think I'd willingly avoid coming home on time when I know the sort of punishments you'll inflict? Do I look pleased to you, father? Do I look pleased?!
“No.” Johnny murmurs, voice wobbly. “No, sir.”
His father walks slowly towards him, so quietly Johnny can hear the squeak of his shoes. He pauses only inches away, then leans down, whiskey breath ghosting against Johnny’s forehead.
“Then why,” He whispers. Hisses. “Are you continually LATE?!”
The last word shoots up in volume and Johnny flinches again, LATE ringing in his ears as though he's standing in the aftermath of an explosion. His shoulders lift to his earlobes, head ducking down, a decades old technique of making himself a smaller target. It doesn't work.
His father's hand grips him by the collar and in one quick movement hurls him into the wall next to the office. This time, the petals are spinning too quickly to be counted, and even if they were stationary, Johnny is not. He is whirled round to face his father, nose stinging, and then that hand is curling around his neck.
A different sort of collar entirely.
A noose.
The breath is involuntarily squeezed from his lungs and he gasps, only to find his airway entirely blocked. His hands shoot up from where they were pressed against the wall, attempting to claw at his own neck, scrabbling in the open space in front of him as though he can catch the oxygen he so desperately needs.
His father cuts short his struggle with another sharp, time-honored movement. He yanks his hand back, pulling Johnny with him, then slams his son’s head into the wall again. Hard.
Johnny’s vision cuts out like a broadcast interrupted, but the audio continues. The sensation continues.
He's reeled in, flung back, reeled in, flung back, reeled in, flung back. Over and over and over until awareness starts to leave him, at which point so does his father's hand. He crumples, choking, wheezing, gasping, retching. Curls up in a ball that doesn't stop his father from reaching for the scruff of his neck, hauling him up, and pushing him forward again- this time, further away.
His skittering feet meet the precipice of the staircase.
Whether his father intends it or not, Johnny falls.
Carter wakes in a flash of pain, limbs heavy, head pounding, and when he opens his eyes the room around him takes a few seconds to settle. Except no, it's not a room at all, in the traditional sense of the word, it's a hallway. He's on the floor at the foot of the stairs. The chandelier sparkles above him, so bright that when his eyes fall directly upon it he has to quickly close them again to avoid the nausea.
His father is gone. The house is quiet. He has no idea how long he's been here, or what injuries he might have sustained during the fall. Was he unconscious for a matter of seconds? Minutes? Longer? Has he been bleeding?
Gingerly, he lifts his right hand and passes it over the back of his head, fingers trembling from shock and discomfort. Fine… fine… okay…
Sticky.
Fuck.
He draws his hand away and holds it aloft, squinting at it and verifying that yes, it's blood. Fairly dark. Too dark to have only been shed a few seconds ago. He absently wipes his fingers down the front of his shirt, then curses internally when the action catches up to him, looking down to find…
Oh. There's already blood on it. Fresher blood. He follows the trail up, up, hand drifting from his chest to his collar to his neck to his chin to his upper lip, where he finds yet more stickiness. A little further up and he recoils at the pain.
His nose. Broken? Maybe.
He adds it to the tally- head, nose. There's likely more.
His suspicions are confirmed when he attempts to sit up and finds that trying to put any weight on his left hand is futile. The agony is blinding. He looks down, and sure enough his wrist is marbled with purple bruises.
Broken too, perhaps. Or maybe it's his hand. Either way, it's going to make working tomorrow rather difficult. Benton often seems to despair of him when he has two working hands, let alone one. Is it possible to do stitches with one hand?
He sighs. No. Probably not- or, at least, not possible for him.
Okay then. It looks like he's going to have to explain his predicament.
With a sharp inhale beforehand, Carter pulls himself up onto shaking legs, leaning against the wall for support until his surroundings yet again stop spinning. He cradles his injured wrist against his chest, rolls his shoulders, tests how it feels to press down with each foot. Left leg isn’t bad. Right leg isn’t good. At all.
Regardless, he manages to set off at a sluggish limp, inching forwards, gaining pace as he grows to understand his new limits.
Well, new on this occasion. The process of feeling his way through fresh injuries is not a novel one. He's had to piece himself back together too many times to count.
Click. Drag. Click. Drag. Click. Drag.
His footsteps are hardly quiet, but nobody else seems to care. He pauses, glancing back around in case Gamma is just round the corner, hearing his distress for the first time and rushing to him with open arms. She isn't. All he sees is the smeared mess of dried and fresh blood on the floor where he lay, and the stained shoe prints growing fainter each step. It looks like a crime scene.
With great effort, he turns to the front door again and hobbles closer to further punishment.
The L is freezing. He is freezing. He wants to go home. Where is home? Has he just left it or is he approaching it now?
The train screeches to a halt at yet another stop and he winces as his back slams into the cold, hard seat. He wraps his uninjured arm around himself and shudders. Mechanisms grind and the doors slide open. A few people file on, some frowning in confusion at his obviously dishevelled state, some pausing as if to ask if he's okay.
“I’m fine.” He tells them through teeth that taste of iron. “Ran into, uh- ran into a door.”
They don't seem convinced at all, but they swallow the lie for his sake and leave him alone. Until, of course, one refuses to let sleeping dogs lie.
Her name is Dottie, and he's seen her on the train before a couple of times in the past- a retired old woman, by the looks of things, who sometimes gives him a conspiratorial wink as she boards. Like they're two spies crossing paths, unable to acknowledge each other openly but both aware of the other’s secret.
Today she stops in her tracks down the aisle, a flurry of pink faux fur freezing as an animal caught in the sights of a predator.
“Oh goodness.” She exclaims, a perfect imitation of Gamma in her softer moments. “What- what's happened, darling?!”
Her hand reaches out, lands upon his shoulder, but when he flinches she doesn't draw away in fear. Instead, her thumb brushes against the trembling fabric of his shirt, smoothing it down in slow circles.
“Oh dear. Oh, dear.”
He sinks under the touch, unsure how he even managed to get here without it, and for the first time has to chew on his lip to keep from sobbing.
He can't cry. He doesn't cry anymore. He's stronger than that now.
“We need to get you to the hospital, hm?” She says, voice like silk. Gentle. He can't help glancing up, expecting the dagger she’s surely concealing beneath this cloak of kind words, and only finds the same affectionately crinkling eyes he's met before.
She leaves the train by his side, one hand at the small of his back, the other hovering by his arm in case he stumbles. When the cold starts to creep further into his bones, she immediately shucks her furry pink coat and hooks it over his shoulders instead.
It must be an absurd sight to any onlookers- a small old woman guiding a limping, bleeding, fur-coat-clad man- but Carter is too cold and too tired to care. He murmurs his thanks and wraps the makeshift cloak tighter around himself.
Together, they manage the stairs and the streets that lead to County, and soon she's guiding him through those familiar whooshing doors, hand never leaving his back.
“That’s it, darling. Just a few more steps and we're there. One at a time. Nice and slow.”
His vision is heavily blurred by the time they're in front of admit, his hearing slightly muffled. Johnny shivers beneath the coat. Leans more heavily against Gamma.
Voices call his name, incredulous. Clipboards clatter and multiple figures flit quickly into view, palpating the underside of his jaw, their own hands brushing against the sticky blood on the back of his head.
“I found him on the train, poor dear. I’m not at all sure what's happened to him but I thought I better make sure he gets here.”
“Yes, yes, you did the right thing,…?”
“Dottie. Just Dottie.”
“You did the right thing, Dottie, definitely. Carter? Hey, bud, can you tell me what happened?”
He opens his mouth to explain, to reassure them that really, he's okay, he's just here to inform them that he might not be able to do stitches during his next shift, but his lips refuse to cooperate. All he manages is a weak whine of confusion and pain.
“Carter?” The smudge of green in front of him bobs left and right, swirls, disintegrates and rebuilds. “Hey, it's alright, buddy, you're safe now. We're going to look after you, okay?”
Then, quieter-
“Lydia, could you grab me a gurney, please? I think he's about to go.”
Go? He thinks sluggishly. I’m not... where would I go?
The coat is carefully removed from his shoulders by warm hands. He stumbles, trailing vaguely after it because can't you tell I'm cold?, but similarly warm hands take him by the shoulders.
“Hey, it's alright, Carter, you just try to relax. I know you're cold, we'll get you some nice warm blankets in a second. How does that sound?”
He tries to nod. His head is too heavy- it lingers on the incline, dipping downwards, downwards, downwards, and his eyes are rolling upwards, upwards, upwards, and he's surely about to hit the floor hard enough to break something else, but he doesn't. The impact never comes. Those warm hands hook under his armpits, others at his waist, and though he hangs like a discarded marionette, he does not fall.
“It’s okay, Carter, we've got you. We've got you…”
Another shout from a distance. “God, is that Carter?”
“Yeah, looks like some kind of mugging, poor kid’s been beaten badly.”
A mugging? Johnny tries to shake his head, the truth at last bubbling out of him like blood at his lips, and as he's lowered onto the gurney the voices soften, attempting to soothe him with an answer to his assumed request.
“Shh, it's okay, Carter. We'll make sure your Dad gets here, don't worry. Just relax.”
He feels a last, icy wave of terror before he slips away completely.