Chapter Text
It started small. Real small. Barely a whisper.
Doug noticed it first. Carter had that look. That look that wasn’t just tired or stressed or “I’ve-been-in-surgery-for-eight-hours,” but that weird haunted thing, like he was trying not to be. Trying not to be seen. Head down, stethoscope all tangled like he didn’t have the energy to fix it. Caffeine on his breath, skin pale, lips just a little too blue.
Doug leaned against the admit desk, arms folded, watching Carter as he shuffled by with a chart.
"Hey Carter," Doug called.
Carter glanced up, blinked like he just woke up. "Yeah?"
"You sleepin' in the morgue now or just auditioning for the part?"
Carter gave a half-smile. "Long shift. Trauma last night went on forever. It's nothing."
"Yeah," Doug muttered, watching him walk off. "It's always nothing with you."
That was day three.
By day five, Doug was officially tracking him.
He told Carol. Carol, naturally, rolled her eyes.
“Doug, he’s Carter. He’s always twitchy. He probably just hasn’t pooped in a week,” she said, sipping her coffee.
"You're disgusting," Doug said.
"You're obsessed," Carol shot back. "Let the guy live."
But Doug saw him. Noticed when Carter leaned against the wall too long after a code. When his hands trembled during a suture and he dropped the forceps. He’d laugh it off, say he hadn’t eaten, say he was fasting, say he had a headache, say anything. Doug saw the lies stack up like empty coffee cups.
So one night, close to midnight, the ER mostly dead, Doug cornered him. Literally. In the supply closet.
Carter had been grabbing gauze. Doug slipped in behind him and shut the door.
“Jesus Christ,” Carter snapped, jumping.
"Not quite. But close. Sit." Doug gestured to a crate of saline bags.
“I’m busy.”
“You’re sitting.”
“I’m not sitting.”
“You’re about to pass out. So sit.”
Carter hesitated. Doug didn’t blink. He had the Dad Face™ on, the one that even worked on Mark some days. Carter caved, sat on the crate, breathing shallow.
Doug squatted in front of him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
Doug raised a brow. “Wrong answer.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that fourteen times this week and I counted.”
“I don’t need—"
“Carter. You have a murmur.”
Carter froze. Mouth open like a deer mid-hit by headlights.
Doug nodded slowly. “I heard it. Few days ago. Heard it again tonight. You’ve been skipping beats. Your nails are pale. You’re short of breath after walking. You couldn’t even hold a retractor yesterday without shaking.”
“You—” Carter shook his head. “That could be anything. It’s not—”
“You look like shit, Carter. And don’t say it’s because of your hair or your schedule. I did this job at your age and I never looked like I was about to die trying to tie my shoes.”
Carter sucked in a breath and exhaled shaky. Then again. He swallowed. His eyes got glassy.
Doug’s voice dropped. “Hey. Hey. You can tell me.”
Silence. Then…
“I got diagnosed three months ago.” Carter didn’t look up. “Cardiomyopathy. Dilated. Idiopathic, they think. Maybe viral. I don’t know. I ignored it for a while. Thought it’d go away. It didn’t.”
Doug blinked. “You’ve been working like this?”
Carter laughed, but it sounded like a cough. “What else was I supposed to do? Quit? Tell Weaver? She’d bench me in a second.”
“She’d save your life in a second.”
Carter rubbed his eyes with his palms. “I feel like if I stop moving, I’ll fall apart. You ever feel like that?”
Doug didn’t answer for a minute. Then he sat beside him on the floor, legs stretched out, arms across his knees.
“Yeah. Once or twice.”
Carter looked over, surprised.
“Listen,” Doug said. “You wanna keep this quiet, I get it. But you can’t keep hiding it. You’re gonna crash. And someone’s gonna have to intubate your ass and explain to Weaver why you coded in the middle of a pelvic exam.”
“That’d be one hell of a chart note.”
Doug smirked. “It’d be long. And Weaver’d staple it to your forehead.”
Carter wiped at his nose. “I’m scared, man.”
“I know.” Doug nudged him with his shoulder. “You should be. But you’re not alone.”
They sat there in the closet for a long time. Someone knocked eventually. Malucci’s voice called out, “You two makin’ out in there or what?”
Doug rolled his eyes. Carter laughed softly, and it turned into a cough.
Doug stood up, held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you a real checkup. Blood work. EKG. All the crap you’d order for someone else but won’t do for yourself.”
“Fine,” Carter muttered. “But you’re buying me lunch.”
“Deal. As long as it’s not that gas station sushi again.”
“It was one time—”
“One time too many. Your farts cleared trauma two.”
“Shut up.”
They walked out of the closet together, Carter a little slower than usual, Doug keeping close just in case.
They didn’t say much. But something had shifted.
Doug would keep tracking him. Only now, Carter would let him.