Chapter Text
Peter is sitting at the breakfast table, eating cereal, when John breaks the news. He’s just walked in the door after a night shift in the ER, and even though his shoulders are slumped with exhaustion, his eyes are bright and excited.
“Luka asked me to join him in Africa, and I said yes.”
Peter stares. Blinks. Slowly sets down his spoon. “Excuse me?”
John sets his bag down on an empty chair and comes up behind Peter, softly nuzzling Peter’s neck. There’s something frenetic about his touch – it’s obvious that he’s buzzing with excitement. Part of Peter melts at the contact, softening the hard edges of his reeling mind.
“Luka. He’s in the Congo with Médecins Sans Frontières. They’re short a person. They need help. I talked to him on the phone today. I said I’d do it.”
Peter closes his eyes as John peppers the back of his head with kisses. “Don’t be mad,” John murmurs. “I really want to do this. I think it will be good for me.”
Don’t be mad? Peter’s heart begins to pound. How can John expect him to not be mad? They’re supposed to make decisions like this together. After everything that’s happened. After everything they’ve been through. John’s just… volunteered to go to a warzone? John Carter?? It’s incomprehensible.
“Say something,” John says in Peter’s ear. “Talk to me.”
Peter sighs and shrugs John off of him. The younger man pulls out a chair and sits down next to Peter at the table.
Finally, Peter speaks. “How long?”
“A month. I leave Thursday.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
John pauses. “A little,” he admits, and Peter’s chest tightens.
“Why?” he asks. “Why this? Why now?”
John looks away, and Peter reaches over to take his hand. He squeezes, and after a couple seconds, John squeezes back. So much is unsaid. The last few years had been hell, and Peter and John were just coming out on the other side, stronger. John’s attack, his long recovery. Jesse’s death. Carla’s death. The custody battle. John’s grandmother’s death, just weeks before.
“I just feel…” John trails off, blinking rapidly. Peter stares at him, laser focused. Handsome as ever. But his expression troubled. John sighs. He turns to Peter. “I just feel like there’s something out there that’s important, that I need to find. I don’t know if that makes sense.” John scrubs at his eyes. “Gamma’s dead, and I’m in charge of this foundation and all this money, and I don’t… I don’t know anything about anything.” His voice cracks. “I’ve spent my whole adult life in Chicago, at County. I’m just… I’m ready to try something else. Something new. Something different.”
Peter’s stomach sinks. He gestures around. “This isn’t enough for you?” he asks quietly.
But John’s eyes widen, and suddenly he’s clasping Peter’s one hand with his two. “No,” he says hurriedly. “No. That’s not…” he takes a deep breath, kissing Peter’s knuckles. He looks Peter right in the eyes. “I love our life. I love you. I love Reese. I love our home.”
Don’t go, Peter wants to scream. This is a terrible idea.
“I think I can help,” John says softly. “People need help, and I can help them, and I think I’ll always regret it if I don’t do this now.”
Oh, John, Peter thinks. Sweet, altruistic John Carter. Even after everything he’d been through, all these years, he still had so much love in his heart. So much hope. Peter loves him for it.
He looks at John. “You really want to do this, then?”
John looks back, brown eyes shining and sincere. “I really do.”
Peter sighs, trying to will away the dread in his stomach. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
At the gate, the attendant makes the last call for boarding. Chicago to Frankfurt. Frankfurt to Kinshasa. Kinshasa to Kisangani.
John looks up at Peter with serious eyes. “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t go,” he says softly, playing with the fingers on Peter’s hand.
I don’t want you to go, Peter screams in his head. This is a bad idea. You are too naïve for this. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. It isn’t safe.
He doesn’t say that, though. He needs to be supportive. Peter needs to let John live. Gone are the days, after the stabbing, when Peter could hardly bear to let the other man out of his sight.
“If this is important to you, it’s important to me,” he says instead.
John blinks. And smiles. Part of Peter crumbles at the pure adoration he can see in John’s face. He loves him. God, he loves him so much. Carter.
John buries his face in Peter’s chest, and Peter wraps his arms around him, tucking his chin above the crown of John’s head.
“Thank you,” John whispers, voice muffled against the cotton of Peter’s t-shirt. “I wish you could come with me.”
Peter smiles wanly, rubbing the small of John’s back. “You call me when you get to Kinshasa, okay?”
“First thing,” John promises.
“And you take care of yourself, you hear me? You’re there to be a doctor. You’re not Rambo. Don’t do anything stupid. You stay safe. You come back in one piece, alright?”
They separate, and John slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be safe, Peter. I promise.”
Anxiety pulses under Peter’s skin. “And be careful with your back, okay? Don’t throw it out while you’re over there.”
John smiles, looking a little amused now. “I’ll be careful. Stop worrying. Everything will be okay.”
Peter swallows. “Okay.”
John leans forward, planting a light kiss on Peter’s lips. Peter’s chest tightens.
“I’ll see you in a month.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Peter watches as John disappears through the doors. He stands at the windows of the terminal and watches the plane take off.
He feels sick to his stomach.
Two weeks later
John is administering a dose of quinine when he feels a tap on his shoulder. It’s Luka. The other man’s expression is grave.
“What happened?” he asks immediately, standing up, murmuring an apology to the mother in sloppy French.
Luka looks away. “I have to go back to Chicago,” he says stiffly. “There, uh… Abby’s been in a car accident.” Luka’s jaw is tight. His hands are clenched.
“Shit,” John says, stomach dropping. “Luka. I’m so sorry. What happened? Is she going to be okay?”
Luka shrugs helplessly. “She’s got a pretty bad concussion, and she had to have surgery for internal bleeding. She has no one to take care of her while she recovers. We… we didn’t leave things off on the best note, when I left to come here…” Luka’s voice trails off as his voice cracks.
John’s heart breaks for the guy. He also feels worried about Abby. “You do what you have to do,” he says. “Do you have a plan for getting back?”
“There’s a flight out of Kinshasa tomorrow morning I’m going to try to catch,” Luka says. He looks at John seriously. “I think you should come with me. I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.”
John freezes. Leave now? He thinks about all the patients he’s been treating. The suffering. The fear. The lack of resources. The lack of help. He can’t leave the clinic short two doctors in a time like this. So he smiles and shakes his head. “No, man. I won’t be by myself. Angelique, Gillian, they’re all here. These people need help. I’m staying.”
“Carter…” Luka says. “I brought you here. I don’t feel good about-”
John cuts him off. “Luka. I’ll be fine. You go. Take care of Abby. Send her my love. I’ll see you in a few weeks, when I get back.”
Luka looks at him warily. “Are you sure?”
John crouches back down to stroke the feverish face of the child laid out on the mattress in front of him. “I’m sure,” he says firmly. “I’ll be okay.”
One week later
The day that Peter’s world comes to an end starts off pretty normal. He wakes up in an empty bed, missing John. He gets up. He makes coffee. He wakes Reese up. Feeds his son, drives him to school. Drives to County. Scrubs in for his first surgery of the day.
Four hours later, he scrubs out. He eats a salad in the cafeteria while making a grocery list in his head. He runs a trauma in the ER, then takes that same patient up to surgery. By the time that’s finished, he’s only got an hour left in his shift.
He wanders down to the ER. Notes, absently, that it seems pretty quiet. It’s unlikely they need his help with anything. He goes to check out the board, just in case, when Chuny walks right into him.
“Sorry,” she gasps out, then freezes at the sight of him. “Doctor Benton,” she says, lips parting, eyes widening. Peter sees that her eyes are rimmed red. He frowns.
“You good?” he asks, not actually caring that much.
She doesn’t respond. She stares at him. Before she speaks, another voice calls out his name. He looks over at the admit desk. Kerry Weaver is looking at him, summoning him. The strangest expression is on her face.
Peter looks around. It seems like half the ER staff is gathered at the admit desk. Half of them are crying. The rest look like they’ve been punched in the stomach. Haleh is hugging a sobbing Chen. Susan is staring off into the distance, a single tear glistening on her cheek. Jerry has his head in his hands.
Peter feels his skin prickling. A sense of dread welling up. He can feel eyes on him. The eyes of the entire ER. Something is wrong. Something has happened.
His legs carry him forward, phantoms. A hush settles over everyone. People see him, and they freeze.
“What.” Peter hears himself saying. “What is it.”
And then from behind the desk, Yosh moves out of the way. In slow motion, Luka is revealed. Sitting in a chair. He looks up, and he and Peter make eye contact.
Peter stops walking. His lungs stop working.
He knows.
In that moment, he knows.
It’s John.
Luka’s face is pale, drawn. His shoulders slumped. And his eyes, looking right into Peter’s…
They’re haunted. Devastated.
And Peter just knows.
He feels lightheaded. Cold.
Doctor Benton. He sees the words formed by Luka’s lips as the other man stands, as if electrified. But Peter doesn’t hear him. There is a strange buzzing sound in his ears. It blocks everything out.
Bud-um. Bud-um. Bud-um goes his heart.
Someone has a hand on his elbow. Weaver. Her eyes are sparkling with tears.
No. No no no no no.
“Peter,” he hears her say, distantly. “Let’s go somewhere private.”
But Peter can’t move. He can’t think. He can’t breathe. He can’t take his eyes off of Luka, who is staring at him like he’s about to be sick.
He is stumbling forward, then, wrenching himself from Weaver’s grip. He staggers up to the desk, feels his shaking hands curl around the edge of the surface, steadying him.
Luka stands, facing him, a phone clutched in his hands. Peter wants to lunge over the desk and take his shirt in his hands, shaking him.
“Don’t,” he hears himself say hoarsely. “Don’t you… don’t you… don’t say it. Don’t you fucking say it.”
Behind Luka, Susan is staring at him, so much pity in her eyes, Peter wants to puke. Kerry is back at his side, now, tugging at his sleeve.
“Let’s not do this here. Let’s go talk in the lounge,” she’s saying. Peter can hardly hear her.
Luka stares at him, his mouth slightly ajar. The other man’s hands are trembling.
“Don’t you say it,” Peter says lowly, desperately. “He’s not dead. Don’t you dare tell me he’s dead.”
But at his words, Luka’s expression crumbles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Kovac is saying. Peter doesn’t hear anything else. His legs take him through the doors of the ER. He’s stumbling into the ambulance bay. John. John. John. Brown eyes. Freckled skin. Hair dripping wet after a long shower. Pine scented shampoo, lingering on the pillowcase. The years flash before his eyes like a flipbook. A boy in a tailored lab coat. No. No.
He doesn’t realize he’s doubled over until he feels hands on his shoulders, guiding him to the ground. The faces of his colleagues looming over him. So many voices, talking all at once.
John, after they made love the first time, sated and flushed and grinning dopily up at Peter. Naked in Peter’s bed. Peter knowing, in that moment, that this moronic, privileged white boy had him wrapped around his finger.
Someone tries to wrap an arm around him. He shoves them away.
John, collapsed on the floor of their bathroom, sobbing from the pain in his back, the day he came home from the hospital. Peter holding him all through the night and into the next day.
“Peter, is there anyone we can call for you? Friends? Family?”
“Leave me alone,” he rasps.
John, laughing so hard he started crying, last year on their trip to Paris, when a pigeon pooped on Peter’s head.
Over. Over. Gone. John. No. No. No. John. John. John.
And Peter begins to cry.
Details come later. Peter can hardly bring himself to care. Rebel insurgents attacked the clinic where John was working. No survivors. The U.S. Embassy sends their condolences.
“I shouldn’t have let him go,” Peter remembers saying to Kerry at some point, numb, sitting in the lounge. “I should have told him not to go.”
Jackie arrives. She doesn’t try to get him to go home. She just holds his hand. He clings to it for dear life.
“They’re sure?” He asks Luka, sometime later. “They’re absolutely sure?”
Luka, nodding his head.
And then, maybe five minutes later, maybe several hours, something in Peter hardens. Desperation, curdling.
“His body,” Peter says, voice strangled. “Where is his body?”
Luka looks over at him, eyes gaunt. Abby is here now, stitches lining her forehead, a cast on her arm. She’s curled up next to Luka.
Luka says nothing for a few seconds. “I don’t know,” he says finally, hollowly. “It probably…” he trails off, looking mournful.
“What,” Peter growls. “Tell me.”
“The Mai Mai probably burned the bodies. They burned the whole village.”
Peter closes his eyes. Fights back nausea.
“I need to know,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else. “I need to know. I can’t… we can’t…” Peter chokes back a sob. Keep it together, Benton. He resolves himself. “I won’t leave him there. I need to find him. I need to bring him back.”
“Peter…” Jackie says softly, laying a hand on his elbow.
Luka looks at him warily. “Benton… it’s…. it’s highly unlikely that John’s body can be found. Or even identified.”
Peter shakes his head. “I want to try.”
The room is quiet. Peter knows he sounds insane. He knows he has no idea what he’s talking about. But he knows… he knows he has to do this. He has to bring John home. He has to try. Tears burn behind his eyes.
He waits for someone to tell him it’s not possible. That it can’t be done.
But then Luka leans forward. Looks him in the eyes. “Okay,” he says.
Heads turn. Peter swallows. “Okay?”
Luka nods. “We can try. I left him there. I will go with you. We will try. We… we will try to bring him home.”
Peter closes his eyes. John. John. They’ll try. They’ll try to find him. He stands, feeling galvanized. The grief that threatens to destroy him suddenly feels slightly abated. He has a purpose, now. A mission. Something to do.
He turns to Luka.
“How soon can we leave?”
A hundred million miles away
John knows he’s going to die. There is no getting out of this alive. There will be no tomorrow. Not for him.
Kneeling in the dirt, hands tied behind his back, in a war-torn country, seven thousand miles from home. An unexpected end for John Truman Carter the Third.
A single tear glides down his cheek. Down the line, the other white guy, the geologist, is dragged, screaming, into the tent. Two shots ring out, and the screaming stops. John flinches at every loud bang.
The heat bears down on his back. He can feel it burning his neck. Can feel himself sweating.
He’s going to die like this. Dirty and sweaty.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles to Patrique. “I’m so sorry.”
The other doctor blinks at him dully. “What is meant to be will be,” he murmurs.
Another man is pulled out of the line. Inside the tent, a single gunshot rings out.
A Mai Mai teenager turns on them, now. It’s just John and Patrique left.
Moments to live, it occurs to John. I have moments to live.
“Please,” Patrique rasps. “We are doctors. Nous sommes médecins. S’il vous plaît. Nous sommes ici pour aider. Nous sommes Médecins.”
The teenager scowls and strikes Patrique’s head with the butt of his gun, sending him face-first into the dirt. Several other nearby insurgents laugh and jeer.
Another tear escapes John’s eye. “Please,” he whispers. “Please.” He doesn’t want to die. God, he doesn’t want to die. Peter. They were supposed to have the rest of their lives. Why did he come here?
BANG. The shot is an explosion, and it’s right next to John’s ear, and he hears nothing but ringing as he watches his friend’s head explode right next to him. It doesn’t feel real. A horror film in slow motion. No. Patrique, no!
Someone is screaming. It’s Brigitte, slumped against a nearby tent, her sick child in her arms. What will they do with her? John wonders, dimly. They’d already raped her. They’ll probably do it again. And then kill her.
John’s seen so much death in his life. He’s around it all the time. He’s lost so many people. He nearly died himself, just a few years ago. But he’s never seen death like this. And he doesn’t feel ready. He doesn’t want to die.
“Please,” he whispers again, trying not to look at Patrique with his head blown apart and his brains leaking into the dirt. “I am a doctor. I have money. I can pay. I can help your wounded. Please.” The words tumble out. “In America, I am rich. Very rich. Let me live. Please. I can pay.”
The teenager leers. Says something in French that John cannot understand. He spits on the ground in front of John.
John looks up at the sky as he hears the sound of a gun cocking. He stares at the sun. He thinks about Bobby, and the last time they played together at the neighborhood park. It was sunny then, too.
“Wait.”
A voice rings out, heavily accented. A man emerges from the tent. John blinks at him through watery eyes. He is older than most of the soldiers. Maybe in his late 40s. He wears a uniform. He is cleaner than the others. People turn to him when he speaks.
He walks up to John. Roughly grabs his chin.
“American?” he asks.
John swallows.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“You are rich American.”
“Yes,” John repeats softly.
The man throws him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. He feels his chin scrape against the hard, rocky dirt.
The man kicks John in the side, hard, flipping John onto his back. John wheezes, defenseless. The man crouches down next to him.
“I hate rich Americans,” he says quietly. And then he’s shouting again, in a language John doesn’t understand. But suddenly there are hands all over him, dragging him into the tent. Brigitte is screaming. He is picked up, thrown in head first. With his hands tied behind his back, there is no way to break his fall. He crashes to the ground.
This is it, he thinks, heart beating a million miles a minute. His stomach sick from fear. Peter, I’m sorry.
But then nothing happens. Seconds pass. It is quiet. John lays there, eyes squeezed shut. Waiting for the bullet.
And then footsteps. He is hauled to his feet.
The older man stands before him, smiling cruelly. “I hate you rich Americans,” he says again.
John says nothing. He doesn’t know how to speak. He’s so afraid. The man starts talking to him in French, ranting. John closes his eyes. He doesn’t understand. He just wants it to be over.
He cries out in pain as he is slapped across the face, hard.
He thinks of home. He thinks of Peter. He thinks about walking along the lake, holding Reese’s hand.
And then the man grabs John’s face again, hard, forcing eye contact. “We do not kill you yet,” he says.
John’s stomach flips. Before he can react, before he can process, the man is turning away. A desk drawer is opened. Something is pulled out.
The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the man slowly walks back towards him. John’s eyes fix on the object in his hand.
It’s a cane.