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“Falling behind, Carter,” Benton says, weaving around him to hand off another chart.
Carter nods and lifts the new chart in brief acknowledgement before he pulls it to his chest, stacking it on top of the other patient chart he's let go too long. Any apology is trapped in his throat, which is burning with the past hour's length of forced-down tears.
He’s in pain. Has been, for the last few hours or the last few days, depending on how you count it. And for once, this has nothing to do with his useless sentimentality or self-pity over a personal weakness. He’s just reaching a point where ignoring it is untenable. Unhelpful, seeing as he doesn’t have another choice.
It's a persistent ache, crawling through his bones and spreading a tingling numbness to his hands. His fingers twitch around the hard plastic edge of the clipboard as its punctuated by a shooting pain in his wrist.
He needs them not to be understaffed on a day overflowing with minor cases, ones he's perfectly qualified to manage. He needs half the population of Chicago to go home and deal with it. He needs to suck it up and cope. He needs—
He just needs a second to sit.
“Carter.” There's a little more snap in Benton's voice when he calls his name this time.
Carter straightens on reflex, and his body protests by sending another spike of pain buzzing through him and setting his teeth on edge. He nods again so he doesn't have to reply, and takes off down the hallway to find Melinda Shrube and her persistent cough.
It's nerve damage, mostly. He knows that much. He’s a little short on more details, but he can’t even qualify it as stalling when he’s been swamped every day since with barely enough energy to make it home and crash into bed. Not wanting to see the results is secondary. Over-the-counter drugs aren’t touching it, but there’s not much else he can do yet.
He pauses a second outside of the door to compose himself, then pushes through with a neutral smile. His voice is rough and it takes him longer than it should to process what she's saying, but it's not Melinda's job to point that out, and he manages to squeak by.
He tells her they'll probably have her wait in chairs; a nurse will come by to take her back soon. He walks back to the admit desk and drops the chart back into the rack.
He flexes his fingers carefully, wincing. It even hurts to hold the goddamn chart. Which means that, probably, this is even worse than he thought, but the tumult from chairs is deafening and his head is spinning and he really can't afford to think about that right now. He can deal with his shakiness once he's off the clock — only two more hours; he can make two more hours. He's pulled off finals study sessions through worse.
He pulls the other chart, which he'd apparently been carrying this whole time, away from his chest to squint at the name and room. Easy. He shifts his weight, and tears prick inconsiderately at his eyes.
He's halfway to the right curtain when Benton crosses paths with him.
“Carter, c'mon, man, you're moving like you're divorced from the concept of urgency,” Benton says. He gives a half-breath for Carter to cut in, and after his failure to do so compounds, adds, “I don't know what melodrama you've got going on in your head that's preventing you from acknowledging me — nor do I really care — but I will not have you slacking on patient care because of it. Pick it up.”
“'M'sorry,” Carter says: automatic, flippant, dog with its tail between its legs.
And because today is determined to shape up to his worst day at County yet, it takes less than two full words to crack him.
If he were in any less pain, it wouldn't have mattered. He'd have put on the stoicism of the Carter Family Way and white-knuckled through it. Instead, he's being dragged backwards through the sharp edges of sense memory, and his throat twists with a failure in repression and there are tears running down his face.
Benton, even as a salt-blurred impression of the man, looks stunned. “Carter, hey—”
Carter's stomach drops even further, and he takes a step back. His back hits the wall. It's barely any impact, and it's still enough for another choked sob to escape him as his vision wavers. He is going to fall if he doesn't find a place to sit immediately, and he's going to live out the rest of his life in unbearable shame if that happens in front of Benton.
“I'm sorry,” he says again, and no one could claim he didn't mean it this time.
He makes it to the lounge in a daze of momentum. The chart misses the edge of the table and clatters to the floor. In the aftermath, it's dim and quiet, and as the couch rises up to meet him, he has the pathetic final thought that no one should be able to notice him cry in here.
When he wakes up, he’s met with the full body disorientation of a nap he didn't intend to take. Grogginess, then blurriness, then panic, then the slow realization of where he is and why he's here. The time is a less clear matter; he feels like he's been gone for hours, and something about the quality of the light tells him he may be right.
His gut dips with guilt and anxiety. But if they needed him, they would have woken him up.
The pain has receded into something gentler. The skin around his eyes stings, raw from falling asleep with his eyes still watering, and his throat still aches, but it's background noise.
He sits slowly, shivering, careful not to put weight on his wrists. His scrubs are plastered to him with dried sweat. He glances down, and sees the chart which he dropped is no longer there, which means someone — probably multiple someones, if he's right about the time — have been through here while he was asleep. His skin prickles.
The clock confirms that his shift is over by about an hour, and he swears under his breath. He's relieved, sure, but he has no idea how to face Benton at the end of this. He has no justification. Certainly not one he can say out loud, and he won't be able to get away with mentioning nerve damage without an explanation to follow.
He lets his head tip back against the back of the couch. He's too exhausted to start crying again. He closes his eyes and tries to make that true.
The door clicks open, and he flinches. He exhales slowly through his nose as he opens his eyes again.
“Oh, hey, you're up.” It's Mark. “How're you feeling?”
Carter hums a hello, stalling for time. ”Um, fine.” He winces and clears his throat. “Better. As long as Benton doesn't kill me.”
Mark snorts a laugh and moves into the room. “You mind if I turn on the light?”
Carter shrugs, but is grateful when Mark turns on a lamp instead of the overhead. Still, he blinks as his eyes adjust.
“I think you'll be spared,” Mark continues, walking over to his locker.
Carter's throat swells again. “Can never be sure,” he says, and he fails at keeping his voice light.
Mark sighs and turns around, crossing his arms and leaning against the lockers. “Don't tell him I told you this, but he's a lot more worried than he is angry. Frustrated, maybe, but he's not wrong about there being a communication issue. But you, y’know, you scared us.”
Carter can't maintain eye contact. “Sorry. It won't...” But he can't know if it will happen again, really, because he doesn't know how long it will take to heal or if he's going to be put back in the same stupid position that caused it in the first place.
“You wanna tell me what 'it' was?” Mark waits for a response, but grants him reprieve after a few gnawing seconds of Carter being unable to speak. He turns around and collects his things for the day and shrugs into his coat. “I'll send Benton in. Get some rest tonight, okay?” He doesn't give Carter a chance to refuse or beg off before slipping out of the door with a reassuring smile.
In the proceeding silence, Carter realizes his legs are drawn into his chest and he's shaking uncontrollably. He exhales, vexed, but his body won't relax out of the tremors wracking him no matter what he does. He buries his head in his hands and waits for judgement.
Benton bursts in with the momentum of typical of the ER, but slows once he sees Carter. He hesitates at the threshold for a moment, then lets the door swing closed behind him and walks in. He swivels a chair to face Carter on the couch.
He sinks in it slowly, brow furrowed. Carter is torn between desperately seeking answers in his expression and wanting to avoid being seen himself.
”That can't happen again,” Benton says, words just as slow and measured. “But I should've noticed something was wrong sooner.“
Carter shakes his head. This, at least, is intuitive. “No. I didn't want anyone to notice. Especially you. I was —”
“If that was your best attempt to hide it, then either you're an even worse liar than I thought or you were in too much discomfort to follow through.”
“I didn't lie,” Carter says, because he can't exactly refute the rest of it.
”Yeah,” Benton says. “Look, whatever's going on... That wasn't some emotional breakdown. I know that. So I need you to tell me what it was.”
Sharp pain is leaking back into Carter's feet. He readjusts how he's sitting, shifting his weight so he can tuck them to the side, and tries to ignore it. ”I really don't want to talk about it.”
Benton sighs. “Carter, it would be irresponsible for me to let you keep working under my supervision without knowing what the risks are.“ He takes him in, pulling his bottom lip through his teeth. “I can't force you. But I can and will bench you if I don't know what your limits are and I have to assume the worst.”
Carter tilts his head back, tears welling in his eyes again. Hell. Crying in front of him once was bad enough.
“If it was anyone else, you would talk them into treatment,” Benton says.
“Yeah, but it's not...” He shakes his head. Benton, for all his custom of impatience, seems to plan on waiting him out. And if there's a single person on this staff who could care less about digging into coworkers' personal lives, Benton would make the cut. Carter swallows. “It's acute compressive neuropathy. Ulnar and peroneal definitely, possibly radial and axillary. I don’t know what else.”
Benton nods slowly. “How did it happen?”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“When, then?”
“A few days ago,” Carter says. “I — I honestly thought it would've healed by now. Wishful thinking, I guess.”
Benton's gaze is tracking across him, landing on the affected nerves. His eyes narrow. “Okay,” he says. “Things have finally slowed down; I'm gonna get you in for testing.”
He straightens, and Carter makes an aborted movement to snatch at his arm. He pulls his arm back into him, ears hot. “I don't, uh. People are going to have a lot of questions and a lot to say to me and I don't... I'm not ready for all of that. I just... I need a second.”
A jolt of pain shoots down his arm and through his fingers, and he hisses through his teeth and clutches at his wrist with his other hand. “I appreciate you making the time, and listening, and not — not asking more,” he says at the accompanying surge of shame that even that was sharing too much. Someday he'll learn to stop pushing his luck. “Just a second, I promise, I won't take long. I'm sorry you've had to —”
“Take your time,” Benton says, and his voice sounds like he doesn't care, but he hasn't stopped taken his eyes off of Carter since he walked in. “We technically both got off an hour ago. A few more minutes won't make a difference.” He leans back in his chair. “Tell me when you're ready.”
Carter remembers Mark saying Benton was worried, and the realization that he stayed an extra hour to be there when Carter woke up slots into place. His face relaxes into a smile for the first time. “Thanks,” he whispers.
Benton stands up, and Carter’s convinced it’s to leave until he has a box of tissues in his hands and is holding it out without making eye contact. Carter takes it, delicate, holding it like the offering it is. Benton settles back in his chair and waits.