Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CARTER

Up until he set foot in a hospital, John Truman Carter III had thought he stood a pretty good chance of being a doctor. Now? He's not so sure. 

Okay, so maybe that’s an exaggeration. Mostly, he only thinks that when he’s A) laying awake in bed at one, due in at five, B) being quizzed on the innervation of the adrenal gland or C) being yelled at by Dr Peter Benton. That one really does it.

Dr Benton rides him hard. He’s not sure what he’s like with other students - he’s not sure if Benton’s ever had one before, but if he has he’d put a whole lot of money on them having quit the medical profession as soon as they were able. He's tough to the point of unprofessional, arrogant, and seems to make decisions that Carter’s career depends on seemingly based on his personal whims. His teaching leaves a whole lot to be desired: he seems to favour - among others - the age-old tools of humiliation and degradation.

Strangely, though, Carter doesn't totally hate it. He does think he might already have kind of a fucked up relationship to discipline, between the public school and the absent parents -  and it pisses him off, sure, being barked at, carted around and spoken about like he isn’t in the room. Sometimes it makes him so mad he almost can't see. But it's not like he's totally unused to it - and at least this time there's a reason. At least this time he knows - can see - that it's for his betterment. Most of the time. The rest of the time, Benton's just an ass.

The high of snagging the surgical sub-I hasn't totally worn off, either, which helps. There's the jolt of excitement in his belly anytime he's asked to scrub in, and a good something for his ego to fall back on every time Benton berates him or he screws up a procedure. He clings to the fact that he’s earned his place here. He deserves to be here. So he can take it, overall. Whatever Benton throws at him. 

He's been thinking about Benton a lot lately. In a professional sense, sure - in the sense that he’s learning from him, that he spends every waking moment trailing him around, writing up his orders and mopping up his mess, but also in… other ways. In his weirdest moments, if he's being totally truthful, he's been thinking about Benton's sex life. Don't ask why, he just has. 

Okay, so he's been thinking about if Benton fucks - if he has the time to fuck, who he's fucking if he does. He thinks it's pretty understandable, given that where Benton’s at is where Carter will be in a few years - and it seems like he doesn't have a whole lot of time for a personal life. Or, to be more specific: fucking . Carter's just trying to see what his future holds, and how much sex is in it. That and he thinks jerking off might help Benton release some of that tension, for everyone's benefit. 

The thing is, the more he thinks about Benton fucking, the more he can't stop thinking about it, and the level of detail is what gets a little unnerving. When he finds himself with a minute to let his mind wander, he’s wondering how he fucks. What's his favourite position? Does he like it tender and gentle, or hard, fast and rough? Is he this much of an asshole to his lovers? Surely not. Or maybe he is . Maybe that's his whole thing . 

He’s been thinking about Benton’s hands, large and deft and steady, how he uses them on a woman: on her, inside of her, his fingers. He's been thinking (and this stays a strict and complete secret) about Benton’s cock. When the thought first entered his head, it was almost too much for his brain to handle, he could feel his cheeks heat up at the thought and his skull felt transparent, obscene thoughts on display. But the more it comes up, the more he can consider it, and the less sure he is that everyone around him can see inside his brain at just what insanity is going through it.

The thought (thoughts, rather: Benton’s hands, Benton’s cock, one particular one he seems to be stuck on of Benton fucking a girl from behind over the edge of a bed) is bouncing around his head on one such late summer day, as he spins on a chair at the ER admit desk, waiting for a surgical case to roll in. The object of his fixation is up in the OR, doing skilled things with the aforementioned hands, like saving someone’s life, and Carter was resolutely not invited. So he’s stuck down here, thinking.

It's gotta be decently sized, surely? His dick, that is. He thinks that might be, is most likely, actually is definitely a racial stereotype. Carter’s not a racist. He doesn’t think.

“Am I a racist?”

He’s not even sure how the question made it out of his mouth.

“Probably.” Malik says, brushing past him with an armful of orders. He appreciates the honesty.

Susan looks at him, sympathetically.

“You gave that kid the best treatment you could.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, right.”

She's talking about the latest teenage gang member to be wheeled through the door with a hole in his side and a bullet lodged up in his aorta.

Greene passes through admit and starts wiping a patient off the board.

“We've all got our own privileges, Carter. Our own ways of looking at the world that make it difficult to see other people's.”

It's a very wise and measured response, and so totally of no help to him at all. He doesn't know why he asked the question out loud, it should've stayed an inside thought, just like the ones of Benton's hands on his thighs. Christ. He didn't even realise he was thinking about that until he was. He spins on the chair a few times to clear his head.

He doesn’t think about Benton putting his hands on him that often. Definitely not regularly, and not in any kind of way that anyone should read into. It’s just the intensity of the environment, right? It's just the way Benton seems to like maneuvering him out of his way, like, with his hands , and sometimes - with the scrubs and the reprimands and the adrenaline, it kind of gets him going.

Carter's not racist, and he's not gay. This is just the product of 20 hours on call straight, the ramblings of a sleep deprived brain, and his need to get laid. So he kind of likes it when girls grab his ass - so what? The prostate is there for a reason. 

He tries to recall the blood supply to the prostate, gets stuck on the capsular artery and whacks his knee into the side of the desk on his next rotation. Greene stops the chair with a hand on the back of it.

He's only got one more year of this, until he’s free from Benton. Sure, if County’s where he’s staying he’ll have to see him every day, but he won't be under his thumb the way he is now - at his every beck and call. Maybe when they're out of this he won't think about his dick so much, and they can have something like a normal relationship between colleagues. Then again, he’d be hard pressed to think about Benton having any kind of relationship with any of his colleagues - lonesome and obstinate as he is. As it stands, Carter’s in pretty weird territory personally, emotionally and professionally. 

Three hours later, and he's half asleep over a copy of Foundations of Anatomy and Physiology in the surgical on-call room when he starts awake, with a deep and primal urge that he’s fucked something up. He checks his pager, sees STAT TRAUMA, and promptly launches himself out the door.

He trips on the way down, nearly takes out the nearest supply cart, only to enter the suspiciously empty corridor of the Emergency Department. He checks his pager. It's from an hour ago. Oh, he’s so dead .

As if summoned by his idiocy, Benton's stalking across the walkway and catches his eye.

“Carter!” he barks, and Carter's legs just about give way, “In here.”

He leads him into the drug lock-up, and shuts the door behind them. Carter stares down at Benton's shoes. He’s wearing the black and white basketball sneakers he got last Christmas. Carter's not sure why he knows that.

“Where's the trauma?” he asks, already knowing the answer, managing the confidence to meet Benton’s gaze. Benton looks unamused, gives him the answer he was expecting:

“Up in the OR. You missed it. Where the hell were you?”

“I– uh. Revising. Anatomy of the small bowel.”

It sounds like a lie, even though it's not. Benton folds his arms. The blue fabric stretches over his biceps and his eyes narrow as he looks into Carter’s face.

“What's goin’ on?” he asks, terse and impatient, like there’s nothing he wants to be doing less than asking Carter what his deal is. Carter thinks it might be easier for him if he didn’t have any feelings at all.

“Huh? You–  No, I mean, nothing.” Carter manages, eventually.

Benton's eyes flick up and down him. Carter smooths out the front of his scrubs.

“Who is she?”

“What?”

“Is it that student, Harper?”

Benton thinks he's stupid and lovestruck. It's not an unfair assumption, and half true - he does like her. Carter only wishes it were that simple.

“No?” he says, convincingly.

Benton stares him down. Carter stares back. Benton relents. He rolls his eyes, and steps to the side, clearing the route to the door.

“Go home, Carter.”

“What?”

“Your shift ended forty minutes ago, go home.”

Carter checks his watch. He's right, but he doesn’t want it to be over that quickly - his instinct to not let him down rails against the dismissal.

“I can make up the last hour!"

It’s bordering on needy. Benton fixes him with a hard stare.

“Carter. I don't know what's goin’ on with you, but you need to get a hold of yourself.”

“I–  I'm fine.”

“You're embarrassing me. I don’t appreciate being embarrassed."

With that, he leaves. The curtness of it makes his dick twitch. He’s gotta get a hold on that.

In an attempt to do just that, he decides to leave the Jeep in the parking lot and walk home. It'll clear his head, he figures, the chaos of the downtown Chicago streets and the clammy late summer air perfectly conducive to thinking logically. 

All that actually ends up happening is he gets really thirsty, really fast, and finds himself wandering off the route home with the aim of hunting down a decent iced coffee. What he gets instead seems to be the logical end to the kind of sticky, muddled day he’s had.

The shop is seedy, there’s no mistaking it - chain link curtain and neon lights. It's not subtle about what kind of place it is, glowing outlines of girls in heels and alternating exclamation of ‘SEX SEX SEX’ cycling over and over in the window. It’s too much like the narrative of Carter’s subconscious to ignore. He takes a look around him, thanks God he changed out of his scrubs before leaving work, and steps through the door.

There's a whole world here he didn't even know existed – who’s he kidding, of course he did, but previously he had no real reason to explore it beyond Playboy magazines passed around school locker rooms. He lingers by the “GIRLS ON GIRLS” section, but he's really only stalling before he works up the courage to make it to the back, to the section labelled “GAY”. It seems a little unfair - he's not an expert, but he's pretty sure that women can be gay too, or at least that their aisle should be called “LESBIAN”. Regardless, he now finds himself in an aisle lined by VHS tapes of men touching each other's dicks.

He's thinking about Benton, the severity of his tone, the way his hand grasps his arm when his arms are folded, flexing with frustration. He’s thinking about that hand on his forearm, yesterday, steadying and directing his scalpel. He wonders if the shop has anything that feels like that.

He glances over at the desk. The clerk looks probably younger than him, nose and lip pierced on both sides, hair a patchwork of green and black and buzzed, leaning on the counter and flipping through a comic. She doesn't give a shit about him, he affirms, why would she? She doesn't know who he is, doesn't know what kind of fantasies are bouncing around his skull. She doesn’t know he put in a chest tube yesterday that saved an eight-year-old’s life, either. He’s complex.

He picks out the first tape that remotely takes his fancy: the cover showing two shirtless cowboys and a badly pasted horse in the background, with the title “RAMMED RAW RODEO 3” hovering above in western font. Hey, Carter's always wanted to be a cowboy, ever since he was a kid doing dressage, so it seems like a good choice - and far better than any of the absurd hospital based ones he's seeing, that might be a little too close for comfort. He briefly wonders if he should start with RAMMED RAW RODEO 1, whether he's missing anything by jumping in at number 3, but he can't see the other two on the shelf, and he figures there mustn't be a whole lot of plot to it. Plus he's keen to get the hell out of there as soon as he possibly can.

He pays for a week rental, has the long suffering desk clerk wrap it in three paper bags and shoves it in the back zippered pocket of his briefcase, just in case he gets mugged. He walks home with sweaty hands, half an erection, and no iced coffee. 

When he gets back to his apartment, he cracks himself open a Diet Coke, liberates the tape from its brown wrappings and slots it into the VCR.

It’s not like Carter has never watched a porno before. He’s just never watched one like this - alone, in his own apartment, for his own and sole amusement. He locks the door and closes the blinds for good measure.

He figures that he’ll indulge the impulse, and get it the hell out of his system. He’ll conduct his own kind of personal study, and see if he really does want to have sex with men, or if this is just some new inadvertent kind of mental torture that Benton is putting him through. This will be a clarifying and enlightening experience, he thinks, as he nearly trips out of his pants.

There’s not a whole lot of preamble: the cowboys start the film shirtless, so there’s not far to go from there. The bodies on the screen are almost superhumanly tanned and oiled, sculpted abs that Carter’s not sure his physiology is even capable of producing. They don’t look like they’ve ever ridden a horse before, but Carter supposes that doesn’t matter all that much. Then there’s the below the belt: two stiff cocks rutting up against each other through tight denim. Carter thinks he might be experiencing an MI, his skin is so clammy and heart rate so insane. He palms himself over his boxers. It’s certainly doing something .

They’re in a stable stall, and then one of them - blond - drops to his knees between the others’ boots. Carter’s mind wanders disobediently back to the drug lockup, Benton’s disapproving expression, his hands and his sneakers. He reaches inside his underwear and tugs at his cock, watching the undoing of belts and buckles, thinking about the teal drawstring of Benton’s pants, how easy it would be to pull them down, just enough, just far enough to reach him out of them. The dark-haired cowboy tips his head back, and Carter pictures Benton doing the same - he knows exactly how he’d look doing it, too, eyes shut and jaw tensed. He’d push Carter’s head down, there’d be nothing tender about it, and Carter wouldn’t need there to be. He imagines weight on the back of his head, pressure, Benton’s hand fisting in his hair, making him work for it.

Carter imagines putting his mouth on Peter Benton's cock, and comes all over his hand and the hem of his t-shirt.

And he makes a pledge, then and there, to get a fucking grip.

Chapter Text

BENTON

Dr Peter Benton is trying to cut loose. 

It’s something that he’s been recommended at least once a month since he started med school, by various roommates, relatives and colleagues, and he figures there’s no better time than now to give it a go. He’s on a new lease of life type of thing, what with the extra-marital affair and his mother’s passing - everything seems to be turned upside down. He is less sure about how these factors have ended him up here, specifically, but in the short-term somewhere at the last bar Susan suggested this place, Carol seconded, and now they're here. In a gay club.

The thing is, the whole ‘cutting loose’ doesn’t exactly come naturally to him. The music is the worst part - trash pop and disco, so loud his skull is vibrating. Peter's posted himself up in a corner, and with nothing better to do his eyes have wound up fixed on Carter: wasted and damp, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead as he dances. Peter tries not to stare.

He deserves to let off some steam, too, Peter supposes - they all do after that trauma that the night shift has taken over mopping up. Carter had done a good job in there - barely balked at the thoracotomy, kept his relative cool, and they’d got the woman’s heart back beating after all. 

He's doing well. He hasn’t passed out in months. Peter knows he's been riding him hard, -he knows - but he doesn't particularly care when it seems to be rubbing off after all. After the ropey last couple weeks, Carter looks like he’s bucking up his ideas, and Peter is letting himself take a good amount of the credit.

And even when he does stumble, Carter seems to be made of rubber - pliable and bounces back. At least, that's what Peter tells himself.

He's tardy, and overzealous, and still doesn’t do his goddamn reading. But he's good, there's no denying it. And it takes adjusting, Peter knows that. He remembers his fourth year, the sleep deprivation, the learning curve. It weeds out the surgeons from the clinicians, lets you know who’s worth the time it takes reprimanding them. If there’s one thing about Carter, he’s worth the time. When he puts the effort in, Peter would be inclined to say he's brilliant.

Peter’s not sure that’s what he’s displaying now , drink in his hand, tossing his head from side to side. He’s still in his scrub pants, Cubs tee thrown on from his locker clinging to him as he gets progressively sweatier. He's not exactly sure how he got let in wearing it - but the rest of his clothes being soaked in blood he didn't have much of a choice. He'd just flashed his smile and big brown eyes at the doorman and they'd waved him through. Peter’s pants feel tight, and he’s not totally sure why.

Peter’s not into guys. Sure, the earring throws some people off. Some people can’t square that a successful black man can have taste (in clothing, interior decor or music) or be vegetarian without thinking he's a homosexual. And Peter Benton is not a homosexual. Peter Benton loves having sex with women, and he can pretty safely say he's never wanted to have sex with another man. Before he met John Carter, that is.

It's not even that he wants to have sex with him. That thought - though universe altering in its own way - would be a clear desire to understand. What Peter thinks he wants is to wrestle John Carter to the ground, and maybe hit him? Or maybe he wants to teach him how to repair an aortic rupture and watch his face when he does it right for the first time, feel the beam of light that practically shines out of him when that happens. Often he wants to twist his arm behind his back - this is when he's being particularly petulant or obtuse - and the desire is so juvenile that he finds himself having to shove his hands in his pockets to stop himself from acting on it. He wants to tell him he's doing a good job (normal) and he weirdly wants to lacerate his own forearm just so he can have Carter stitch it back up in neat knots (not normal in the slightest ).

Right now, as he's watching Carter's ass pull at his pants, he wants to rip them off him - but he's not sure whether that would be to humiliate him, or to see what kind of underwear he's wearing.

“Dr Benton!” Carter calls from the dance floor “Come on!”

Peter doesn't deign to give him a response. There's too much happening in his head for that to be wise.

So he bounces over, grinning, crooked front teeth on display. Peter can see why the nurses are so fond of him, why they think he’s the cutest thing since Doug Ross. The nurses do. The nurses.

“You want a beer?” he yells over the music.

“I don't drink, Carter.”

“No, sure, I knew that. Come dance, then.” 

“No, thanks.”

He looks at him. Carter takes a sip of his drink.

The problem with Carter is that -  upon interacting with him - pretty much every other opinion of him in Peter's head is replaced with overwhelming and inescapable aggravation. He's so fucking annoying. He bounces through life like an obnoxious pinball in a machine, knocking off the bells and levers until he winds up exactly where he's supposed to be, still 5000 points up. He's never had to work for anything a day in his life. Maybe that's why Peter's so hard on him - is he supposed to have spent the last decade getting himself to where he is just for some rich white boy to ride in on his coattails? Peter wants a different med student - truthfully, sometimes he wants one that’s less good at the whole thing, just so he doesn’t feel so bad crushing his spirit.

“C’mon,” Carter presses, knocking his head toward the floor. Peter doesn’t know what he wants from this or why he’s asking with such persistence. Regardless, Peter's sick of him getting his way. He shakes his head.

Carter looks at him for a second more. Then his eyes narrow, “Whatever.”

“What?”

“No, whatever. Suit yourself. Stand in the corner on your own.”

It's not like they're at work, so he can't get him on the grounds of insubordination, but it is downright rude, and his annoyance spikes into anger. Carter doesn’t even give him a second glance as he turns away.

“Excuse me?”

“Whatever!” he calls over his shoulder, cocky bastard.

“Hey! Carter!”

Peter’s always liked that he’s got a voice that carries. Carter turns back, and he’s not grinning anymore. He looks defiant, like he's daring Peter to say something. He’s such an asshole. 

“What?” he says, chin tilting up in an obvious challenge.

“Outside.”

He takes him by the scruff of the neck, without thinking about it. By the time the night air hits them Carter has wound his way out from underneath his hand and stumbled a few steps back, hackles raised.

“What the fuck is your deal, man?” he spits, voice cracking a little on the curse.

“What's my deal?”

Peter doesn't know what was in his club soda, but his heart is somewhere up in his throat. He heads around the side of the building, waits for him to follow like he knows he will. They’re not having this out in the open.

He could tell him an aspiring surgeon probably shouldn't be binge drinking like an undergraduate, could remind him of the hangover he’ll probably still have to drag into the night shift tomorrow. If he’s honest, he’s not sure why he even wanted to bring him out here - to get a break from the music, maybe, or just to ruin his fun.

“Carter, you've been living in the clouds the last two months. What the hell is going on with you?”

He looks caught out, then, brown eyes wide and then narrowed in confusion, that expression he makes when he can't believe someone hasn't already read his mind. Peter’s not sure why he even says it - he was great today, he’s been redeeming himself, he had flown through the last twelve hours focused and fine. But everything about him makes Peter's skin itch, and he can't help but scratch. 

“Yknow, I-I-I” he catches on the word like a record, turns away and out to the street, then circles back, “I really thought–”

“What, Carter? You thought what?

“I guess I thought I was doing better.”

Peter leans back heavily against the wall of the alley, and folds his arms.

“You’re doing fine.”

“Fine!” He repeats, incredulously, “Fine is all I get?”

He’s such a brat. Peter knew this from the moment they met: he's got this juvenile need for praise that he needs to get a hold of before he can be taken seriously. 

“What? You need me to praise you all day, every day? Tell you you’re gonna be the best surgeon in the whole wide world?”

“No!” Carter exclaims, "God, I just– I need– At least–”

He spins back to face him, loses his momentum, leans a shoulder against the wall that Peter’s up against, head hanging. Peter watches his own crossed arms. Carter leans. His head tips up, Peter can feel him peripherally, eyes on his face.

He's two inches away, and then one, and then he kind of fall-leans up and into him and Peter isn't a good enough person to stop him. His own face turns, almost without thinking, towards him, and their lips meet. He realises, maybe a good ten seconds after he should, that Carter is kissing him and the heat inside Peter's chest flares and then for some god forsaken reason he's kissing him back.

It's closed mouth and earnest and thrumming and Carter tastes like liquor, and sweat and like he’s holding himself back from taking what he really wants. Peter wants to put his hands on him, but whether to push him to the ground or pull him closer, he’s not sure, so he settles for neither. He kisses him, though. He's definitely doing that, and it's kind of taking the air out of his lungs. 

Carter pulls back, eyes still closed. He pauses for a second, like he’s bracing himself for Peter to hit him. Peter forces his hands to stay still, as he tries to breathe. He's not sure what happens now. 

Carter seems to have an idea, though. “C’mon,” says, insistent, with something glinting in his eyes, “Come on .”

“Carter–” Peter starts, but he's already being led back into the club, with a hand that drops his as soon as they make it back inside the door, and leaves it smarting. 

He's gone, down the side passageway, in an instant. Benton glances into the main space, sees Susan and Carol doing shots at the bar with the nurses, they haven't even noticed them leave, let alone return. He turns back and sees the restroom door swinging on its hinges. The annoyance courses through his veins in pumps of pure adrenaline. He follows.

Peter's not exactly proud of the decisions he's making on this particular night, but he saves himself by the assurance that he's not actually really doing anything . He's not the one sinking to his knees, unbuttoning another dude's pants in a bathroom stall. That’s all Carter.

He's kind of deep breathing as he does it, like he's trying to keep himself calm, and Benton is hard, realises he has been since he was watching Carter dancing, and Carter's clumsy hands on his belt aren't helping the situation. He wants to ask him what they're doing here, whether anyone will notice, or recognise them. He wants to tell him this is a stupid fucking idea, that he's not a faggot, that Carter has got the wrong idea completely. The only problem is, he really hasn't. Peter wants this.

“I haven't ever–” Carter says, and looks up with a nigh-on cartoon nervousness, mixed with this excitement, like he's vibrating. 

“No, yeah,” is all Peter can bring himself to say, “It's okay.”

He might as well be wasted, he's so out of it. He needs Carter to shut up before he loses whatever insanity has brought him this far down this road, needs Carter to blow him, if he's going to. 

“Just, if it's no good–”

“Shut up , Carter,” he grits out and then there's a rush of cold air, followed by the soft heat of his hands and damp mouth on Peter's cock and Jesus , this is such a bad idea, this is up here with some of the worst ideas he's ever had in his entire goddamn life, much less the ones he's acted on. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, like it'll make it less real, the fact that his med student is blowing him in a bathroom stall. His male med student. It's less gay if you're the one receiving, right?

He can imagine it's a woman. He puts all his energy into imagining. One mouth is much like the other, so he kicks his brain into play, pictures Jeanie, his bed, only it isn't as good, when he thinks about it. He realises it's the anger that’s making it feel electric - the sleaziness of the stall, the pulse of the bass outside the door, the threat of being caught - that one, at least, he knows.

He flexes his hands into fists - Carter's not good at this, not at all, really, but for some reason that's worse, makes him harder than he's ever been. It feels like being a teenager, the secrecy of it all, the way he's mouthing at him, his hands in the way of his lips, tongue, everything slick and eager and twined together. He bobs his head, then - hands gripped on Peter's hips, letting out these slight sounds of exertion or pleasure or concentration, Peter can't tell, but it makes his thighs clench and his dick kick in his mouth. He's close. The more terrible of an idea he thinks this is, the closer he gets. The angrier he gets at Carter for awakening this in him, the harder he bucks his hips up into his mouth. The more Carter chokes, the more lightheaded he feels. This is so fucked up.

“Carter, shit–” he tries to warn, and Carter hums, takes the next kick forward by gagging a little, taking a breath and taking him back in his mouth: eager - as ever - to prove himself. Peter’s hand betrays him by making its way to the back of Carter’s head, and he lets it rest there rather than press down like he wants to. He's still got some self restraint, at least. 

“I’m close, gonna–” he manages, but Carter keeps his head down and at this point Peter doesn’t get much chance to do anything other than let it happen: he comes, feels it kick through his gut, hot and crashing, straight into Carter’s mouth. Jesus.

It's the kind of orgasm that feels like being socked in the stomach . He lets the aftermath wash over him, and looks down to see Carter coughing and spitting into a wad of toilet tissue. He looks up, sheepishly, like he's expecting Peter to be offended, maybe - his hair hangs over his forehead, wetted dark falling in his dark eyes. 

“Sorry,” he says, and reaches past to flush the tissue. Peter thinks he might be hallucinating this whole evening. They need to get out of here.

“Get up,” he takes him by the arm and pulls him onto his feet, unsteady because of course, he's drunk , Peter, don't forget that. He's drunk and twenty-four and Peter's student and still Peter finds himself reaching down to his crotch to cup his cock through the stiff fabric of the scrubs.

Carter gasps, his eyebrows raise and his mouth, wetter and redder than should be allowed, pulls into a little O. 

He's not hard. Either that, or he's not got a lot going on down there. He screws his eyes shut. 

“I– uh. I'm good.” He says, after a second, stills Benton's wrist with a hand. “I'm… done.”

Oh, God. Peter realises what he means (drunk, student and twenty four) and pulls his hand away with a start. He wipes it on his jeans, and thinks about getting a new job.

Carter's eyes stay shut as he sways forward slightly, and he's either going to try and kiss him again or pass out. Benton  steadies his arm, and makes the call. 

“Jesus, Carter. C'mon, let's get you home.”

Chapter Text

CARTER

The whole thing sticks in perfect, play by play clarity in Carter's memory. In the middle of an otherwise hazy night, it's clear, like a panel wiped clean in a steamed up shower door. He can play, pause and rewind it in his mind - it's that clear - and he does. Oh boy, does he.

He’s not certain of what was said, before or after - he thinks there may have been an embarrassing amount of begging for Benton’s approval - whether in words or otherwise - but the sex, he remembers. This unfortunately means he also remembers creaming his pants on the floor of a public bathroom.

He thinks Benton dropped him off home, because he otherwise doesn't know how he got there. He'd woken at three in the afternoon in his bed with an anvil in his head, an ache in his jaw and a mess in his underwear, and had still somehow dragged himself in for his night shift, albeit on  maybe the worst game of his career so far. He doesn't know what he was thinking. But the thought of Benton in his apartment, Benton unlocking his door, Benton depositing him on the bed, knowing what a mess he’d made of him? The thought makes Carter’s head spin.

It wasn’t the hangover in the end, or the sleep deprivation; the thing that sticks in his brain, that he turns over - fast-forward, pause, play, rewind - is Benton's mouth on his. He hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t stopped him. Peter Benton had kissed him , and if Carter didn’t feel like a teenager about him before, he does now.

He goes to the porno store again, picks out another tape and takes it home. He fast-forwards to the kissing, tries to find two of them going at it in a way that feels like it did. He wants something scorching, but simple - something easy, brimming with potential and danger and need. Nothing in the movie measures up, though, so he just jerks off three times in a row before passing out, dreaming about the taste of Benton's tongue in his mouth.

It's almost two weeks of working with him every day before they even come close to being alone. Alone time at County is near impossible to come by anyway, he knows that, but it seems that any situation they run into - when a nurse leaves the two of them in a room, when they end up in the lounge as a pair, just them and the coffee pot - Benton avoids him resolutely. Sometimes he’ll leave the room, sometimes he’ll just treat Carter like furniture. 

Carter's beginning to doubt his instincts. He thinks he's pretty good at telling when someone's into him, and having sex with them normally puts them right up there in terms of likelihood. But Benton just had to be different about it, to break the mould. He seemed to want it, at the time, but the longer he avoids him the more Carter feels like he might have misread it. Sure, Benton blew his load in Carter's mouth, but what does that really mean in 1995? How does he know what Benton wants? How can he read him - this impasse of a man with the range to emote stretching from frustration to begrudging appreciation? Would it stretch any further for him?

By the second week, Carter's ego is on the rocks, and he's settled in being mortified at the memory of it, actually. The idea that he embarrassed himself so publicly, and - most importantly - has lost Benton’s respect - it sits underneath his ribs and hurts . He needs to talk to him about it. He needs to apologise, so they can get back to some modicum of normal.

He finds him at the end of a shift, on a Friday, because he figures if it goes badly he can spend the weekend stewing in his shame.

Benton’s in the suture room, bent over charts, blinds drawn to the corridor which Carter can only assume was to stop him from figuring out where to find him. It’s all very childish. 

Carter finds him anyway. He's got a sixth sense for it.

“Dr Benton?” he says, and Benton’s eyes snap up to him, caught out. Then, he sighs. Doesn't even try to hide it.

“I wanted to talk about–”

“No.” Benton says, firmly, turning back to his paperwork.

“It–”

“Will never happen again.” Benton tells him, with a tone of irrefutable finality.

The words do sound certain coming out of his mouth, but the way he's avoiding Carter's gaze says different. It's not like he would before the club, when he was genuinely indifferent - this is heavy, loaded with affectation. Maybe it makes Carter crazy obsessed, but he knows the difference.

Carter nods, rocking on his heels in an attempt to act nonchalant. He can tell Benton doesn't know what to do next, but he can also tell the undeniable markers of want rolling off him. He doesn't say anything. Carter's never wanted to crack open someone's skull more. 

At the same time, Carter thinks pushing any further might result in him getting forcibly removed from his sub-I. He tried, and a new skill he’s just now decided he wants to cultivate is that of knowing when to quit. 

“I– uh–” 

Benton reacts to him opening his mouth again like he's a particularly irritating mosquito, so he makes it quick, rattles off his words. 

“Dr Benton, I apologise for my conduct and anything I may have done to offend you. I’ve finished your last charts. I'm a half hour post-call, so if there’s nothing else you need, I'm going home."

Benton sighs, heavily, but says nothing.

Carter places the charts on the chair in front of him - like leaving an offering at a distance for a feral cat - and Benton inhales sharply at the intrusion.

He gives him another second for him to work out if he wants to speak. He knows sometimes he needs it, and - in his defence - Carter had three weeks of planning what he was going to say (and yes, that was the best he came up with in the heat of the moment). Benton still says nothing, but his pen scratches on the paper. It’s only when he’s halfway to the door that he hears Benton stand , shuffle, and clear his throat,

“Carter,” h e says, and he sounds a little unsure. 

“Dr Benton?”

“Stop.”

The way he says this is stronger, like he’s gaining confidence.

Carter stops.

“Turn around.”

Order, now. He turns. 

“Come here.”

Carter goes.

“Closer.”

He advances, until there's maybe only half a meter in it, waiting for Benton to tell him no, too close, get lost. It never comes. They're nose to nose, almost, Benton's eyes fixed resolutely on the front pocket of Carter's scrubs. One of his hands comes up to mess with the pen hooked there. Carter feels like if he moves it might break whatever fragile, thrumming spell has fallen over the place. Benton likes to set the pace, so he lets him do just that. Carter will fall in behind. 

“You just. Do as you're told, okay?” he says, eyes screwed shut against the sight of him, and Carter feels the blood pool in his crotch.

“I can do that.”

Benton's mouth catches on something that could be the beginning of a laugh. Something passes between them, and then Benton leans in, bringing their foreheads together, hands taking hold of him. Carter wants to close the distance and kiss him, wants it so badly he feels almost sick, but instead he lets Benton grab at his hips so hard it could almost bruise, letting him work it out with his body just what exactly he wants.

“Your hands,” he can hear himself saying, something about “The way you– grab me…” 

He's not sure when he got so honest, or so comfortable expressing it. Benton's brow furrows and he fists a hand in his hair, pulls his head back with a sharp tug. Holy fuck.

“Like this?” He asks, and sparks run down the length of Carter's spine. He's strung out and needs this so badly he could die .

“Yeah,” he breathe-laugh-gasps (mortifying) but Benton's mouth quirks up a little, and holy shit , that's new. That's new and fucking crazy. He's smiling, and Carter smiles back, and then they're looking at each other like idiots when they should be kissing. Carter tries to lean his mouth in, but Benton turns his face away, keeps him back.

“I can't believe that you–” He says instead, low in his ear, breaks off like he can’t quite bring himself to say it. Carter flushes, knows exactly what he’s not saying: wet heat in his pants like sense memory. 

“Shut up,” he bites back.

He can feel his own face, red hot burning. He gets another pull on his scalp for the retort, makes a note of how fucking good it feels.

He chases his mouth. He wants Peter Benton to kiss him, slip his tongue between Carter's teeth but he has to make do with the hand that isn't in his hair sliding up to his waist, which is new, and weird, and makes him feel kind of vulnerable.

Benton looks at him, tracks his eyes to Carter's lips, and licks his own, briefly. It's his call - they both know that - on what happens next.

“On your knees.”

Carter drops to the ground at a pace that is eager and embarrassing, Benton's hand still in his hair, one coming up to rest on the shoulder of his scrubs, thumb pressed up to his carotid. He knows he can feel his pulse jumping under the thin skin, pounding through the layers of dermis. Knows that he's being anything but cool about this, and he needs to tread delicately. 

“Can I– again?”

The question makes Benton grimace.

“Don't ask , Jesus, Carter.”

Carter makes the self preserving decision to just shut the fuck up and suck his dick. 

He's determined for it to be better this time. Like, okay, last time got the job done, sure, but he wants to be good. Wants to impress, to prove himself, and the parallel isn't lost on him in the slightest. He tries to put into practice what he's been watching, and feels the shape of him up through the fabric, gives a bit of the foreplay he'd neglected the last time. 

Taking him out of his scrub pants makes his own cock leak, the sight of his length flushed dark with blood and nudging up to the green blue fabric. It's obscene, and so so inappropriate, but he was too drunk to appreciate it the last time, and he doesn't know if Benton will ever let him do this again, so appreciate he does. He wraps his lips around him, ducks his head down and hollows his cheeks, moving up and down, verging on too keen. Benton's hand grips his shoulder. 

“Slower,” he says, “Use your hands, as well.”

It makes him prickle at first, like constructive criticism always does. It's not like he's ever done this before, so he can't expect him to be perfect, but beyond that the instruction is helpful, and hot, and Carter appreciates the guidance. He looks up at Benton, sees the underside of his jaw, the pulse rushing through neck, all the way down and filling up the cock in his hand. His eyes are closed. He's full of heat, tip to toe.

And if there's one thing John Carter knows how to do, it's follow Peter Benton's instruction.

He takes the head back between his lips, soft skin on his tongue, and goes slowly, one hand working what he can't fit in his mouth. The groan he gets in response is a good sign.

“ Shit , yeah, like that,” Benton says, and holds his head down for a long second, slight pressure on his skull, before letting him up to gasp for air. “Breathe through your nose” he says, and Carter nods and tries that, too. It's counterintuitive, and harder than expected, especially pressing up against the fabric of his pants, the thatch of hair around his crotch, but he tries. The deeper he goes, the heavier and faster Benton's breathing grows, and the sound makes him flush. 

When he grips onto his thighs for purchase Benton's hips buck up and he chokes - comes off his dick to get his breath back and cough up the spit-come at the back of his throat.

“C'mon,” Benton says, anyway, hand in his hair again, relentlessly nudging him forward, “You did this, you deal with it.”

Carter's brain short circuits at the implication. He takes in as much air as he can and does as he's told.

He puts it all into play - slow, both hands working, taking him as deep as he can manage before his gag reflex kicks in and he has to pull back a touch. It’s not far, but it does get easier - he can feel it. Can push a little further, hold down a little longer even when it feels like he's going to choke.

He almost forgets that Benton's there above him, he's so focused on the task at hand, at getting good at it. Whenever his throat spasms, Benton moans, and Carter's dick fills in response, in a fucked up kind of feedback loop. Like they’re some kind of conjoined thing.

“Carter, shit, I'm gonna–”

He tries to say that it's fine - maybe he's sex drunk or whatever but he actually didn't mind the taste so much last time, kind of liked how dirty it made him feel, but Benton's hand is still at the back of his head, now tugging him off his dick so he can - what? Come into his hand? A wad of paper towel? It seems like more mess than it's worth. Besides, this is Carter's mess - he's just said as much. He can deal with it.

“It's okay, just let me–” he tries to say, ducking his head back, but Peter's scrabbling around the counter for something appropriately disposable to finish into, and when he pulls forward again Benton's hand tightens in his hair and he can't help it, but he moans , like out loud at the sharpness and that tips Benton over the edge - not into his own hand, or toilet tissue, or gauze, but pretty much all over Carter's face.

It splashes over his cheek, catching him in the left eye, stinging and gross. His own cock throbs, heavy and neglected in his pants.

“Carter,” Benton says, still breathing hard, as he looks down and sees what's happened, “Shit, I'm sorry.”

He reaches behind for the paper towel he'd been hunting for. Carter tries not to blink, or laugh. It could be funny. It's a funny situation, like, objectively, but Benton isn't laughing, so he's not going to. He wishes he would. It might bring some levity to this heavy room.

“No,” he says, and sits back on his heels. He's not about to stand up in line with the windows, even if the blinds are drawn. “No, I mean, I've had worse.”

Benton's brow furrows.

“Huh?”

He realises how it sounds and scrambles to clarify. 

“No, I just mean, here, y’know?” He gestures to what he hopes encompasses the hospital at large, “Fluids.”

Benton raises an eyebrow and hands him the tissue.

“Fluids?”

“Yeah.”

He looks unamused.

“Sorry,” he says again, instead, tucking himself away. 

Carter wipes at his eyes, and cheek - it's grosser than he expected, and he feels kind of bad for every time he's fantasised about doing it to a woman. And still, at the same time, his traitorous dick leaks at the degradation.

“I would've,” he starts, “I wanted to–  So.” He loses whatever insanity empowered him to tell Benton he would've swallowed his come pretty quickly, and trails off. He feels Benton watching him as he gets the last of it out of his eyelashes. 

“Are you…?” He asks.

“What?” Carter glances down at his pants, tented and obvious. His crotch pulses. “Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

Benton pulls an expression adjacent to rolling his eyes.

“C'mere.” He says. 

“What?”

“Can't have you walking out there like that,” he talks about him like he's a necessary inconvenience, which isn't unusual, “Come here.”

Carter goes, anyway. Benton slips his hand down the front of his pants, wrapping it around Carter's cock, hot and pulsing, and tugging at him. His head falls forward on Benton's shoulder as he leaks into his hand, the other coming up to rest on the nape of his neck. It's so much bigger than a woman's hand, firm, warm, sure in its motion, driving him up towards the edge. 

“Ah–  there's, the tissue, down–  Shit–”

Benton doesn't go for that. Instead he keeps stroking him until light explodes behind his eyes and he comes, all over Benton's fingers and the insides of his underwear (again). He's not sure if it was deliberate, but it certainly felt like it. The humiliation of it makes him shiver.

“It's okay, c'mon," Benton's saying, Carter's legs weak as his heart rate slows to normal. 

There's a moment, afterwards - while he tries to remember how to breathe - when it's just the two of them. Benton's thumb rubs at his jaw, his face in his hair. Carter tries to come down with his nose pressed into the crook of his neck breathing in the smell of his soap and him at the end of a shift. He wants to taste the skin there. He wants Benton to press a kiss to his scalp. And then, the spell is broken. The one hand comes out of his pants, and the other lets go of his face. 

Benton heads over to the sink, and starts washing his hands, thoroughly. Carter grabs some more tissue and does his best to clean himself up with somewhat shaky fingers. 

“How was it?” He asks, because he's shameless, he figures, and there's no way he's going to improve without input. He thinks he’d also like Benton to say something nice to him, which isn’t a new feeling, but certainly more potent in this moment than it's ever been, “Was it good?”

"We'll work on it,” is all Benton says. He checks his reflection in the towel dispenser. He looks perfect. Carter feels decidedly dishevelled in comparison, somewhat offended and no less wanting . 

“What does that mean?” he asks, indignantly. 

Benton doesn't so much as glance at him as he leaves the room. 

“You can't be a natural at everything, Carter.”

BENTON

Somewhere along the way (he knows exactly where) Peter has made a terrible mistake. It turns out, sleeping with Carter hasn't done anything to help the feelings. It may in fact have done the opposite. 

Now that he's slept with him it's even harder to concentrate. He watches him walk, knowing the exact weight and shape of what's inside his pants. He watches him talk to patients knowing what the inside of his throat feels like around his dick. He has made a terrible error in judgement.

The phrase ‘sleeping with’ is maybe a little extreme for what's occurred, but the euphemism serves a distancing purpose. It helps him keep some separation from the act. In theory. 

Because if we're speaking non euphemistically, Peter's had his dick in his hand. The first dick outside of his own he's jerked off and it's attached to the spoilt human sized puppy that follows him around, who seems to think if he plays his cards right, he can have it again. Give him an inch, he takes a hundred fucking miles. 

He should never have let it into the hospital - he should've stopped it at the club, before he let Carter get on his knees and blow him, because now Carter thinks they've got something going on. And sure, twice is maybe leading into that territory, but there's still time to call it off. Peter needs to call it off. 

He doesn't know when he became this person - the person willing to put all he's worked for on the line for the sake of a personal indulgence, but it seems to be becoming a bit of a habit.

A reckless one. Because Carter's giddy. Bouncier than normal, if that's possible. He's looking at him across patients like they've got some kind of big secret. He's going up against orders like he wants Peter to push back at him - not in any kind of real, undermining way, but in a way that implies he likes it when Peter snaps at him, or puts him in his place. Peter doesn't like habits he can't control. He doesn't drink, and he doesn't smoke, and he's not about to get recklessly into John Carter as his next vice.

The decision to get a handle on the situation is confirmed the following Wednesday afternoon and comes in the form of a chart with a scrap of pink paper clipped alongside the documentation. Scrawled across it:

Was it that bad? You came back for seconds.

Carter's got the doctor's handwriting down, at least, nigh on illegible. He's across the admit desk, head down, pen working away. He glances up and over, and Peter makes sure to hold his eye as he crumples the note and tosses it in the trash.

He thinks that's dealt with the issue, until twenty minutes later when another chart comes his way, another scrap stuck into the clip:

We can practice. 

Against his better judgement, he looks up again, to see Carter - hair fluffing over his forehead and watching him with his lower lip between his teeth. He cuts his eyes away, pink dusting his cheeks.

Benton feels his face flush a mixture of rage and arousal. He signs off the orders, and shoves the chart back into the rack, heart going loud and tachy in his ears. He absents himself to the restroom, shoulders open the door and sets to washing his hands and finds himself going through the motions of scrubbing in. He hears the door open and close behind him. 

Carter's there, he can feel him, leaning up against the wall. Peter can feel himself soap between his knuckles. He's angry, furious with him. He knows Carter's followed him in here thinking something’s gonna happen, and he couldn't be more wrong. He can't blame him, really. This is mostly his fault, he's the one who's leading, now. Carter's here to learn from him, and he has to set a decent example, show him what they can and can't fucking do in this place. He has to nip this in the bud.

“Go away, Carter.” He shoots over his shoulder, counting onetwothreefourfive scrubs of his index fingernail.

And then, the nerve of him, he tries to reply:

“I–”

“Passing notes? What are we in, grade school?”

“Next time I'll page you.” he says, like it's a fucking joke. Peter can see him in the mirror without turning around, blue figure against the magnolia wall. He's decided he's not going to turn around, that turning around is giving in. It's these little rules that keep Peter Benton sane.

“Carter, I'm not one of your little girlfriends.”

Carter looks affronted. He pushes off the wall. 

“I never said you were.”

He looks as if he might be trying to approach.

“I'd lose my job , if anyone found out, do you realise that?”

At his tone, Carter stops in his tracks, the charm falls from his face and he slips back into his best presentation of Dutiful Med Student.

“Yes.”

“I mean it. I need you to understand.”

“I understand. I'm sorry.”

He sounds it, too. He's good at that: telling people what they need to hear. Putting them at ease. Peter feels his skin prickle. 

“This isn’t happening.”

“Peter–”

Peter. Peter. Peter doesn't know what to do with him. He turns from the sink, rounds on him where he stands with his hands behind his back. 

“I am your supervising resident , does that mean anything to you?”

It's harsh, and loud. Carter flinches a little. 

“Yes, sir.”

“I know you're used to getting whatever you want, but I hope you got this out of your system, because it is over.”

Carter doesn't say anything. He's staring at the ground, and his cheeks are crimson. Peter tries not to think about how that makes him feel.

“Do you understand ?”

“Yes, Dr Benton. I understand.”

And it satisfies Peter that it sounds like he really does.

He feels like he's running a fever as he shoulders his way past him out of the bathroom, and down the corridor. He doesn't even know where he’s going, but he walks, with an intention that he hopes means no-one is going to interrupt him, or realise that his hands are shaking. Taking the stairs two at a time, he ends up in the parking garage, then in his car, door slamming shut with a dangerous creak.

It's then that his eyes start burning, and the feeling is so singular and rare that it takes him by surprise. He presses the heels of his hands into the sockets and forces the drum of his heart to slow down, waiting for it to pass - that dangerous almost-crying feeling. 

He takes a look at himself in the rear view mirror, takes his right hand and slaps himself firmly, painfully in the face. The feeling smarts and grounds him.

And then he opens his car door, and goes back to work.