Something had been bothering John ever since he and Dennis were intimate; something nagging. He couldn't do anything about it now, though, while he saw to a patient. Not that he paid much attention. All he could think about was the urine sample he had stored away and getting some privacy.
"You know, it wasn't until a night ago, when I noticed was still a bit sore," the man said. "It was cold, too, so it could have been that."
"Mm-hm..." John droned, with a lack of interest, his focus fixed on a random spot on the floor.
"In fact, I think–" He noticed his doctor appearing as though he might pass out. "You alright, doc?"
Sharply, John inhaled and he widened his eyes, hoping it would somehow keep him from falling asleep, giving him his full, undivided attention now. "Yeah," he lied as a hot flash surged through him, starting at the crown of his head and stopping at his chest. "Let's not worry about me, though. What seems to be the problem?"
The man stared at him as if he'd just been insulted. He was, slightly. "My knee?"
John's sights were once again shifting elsewhere, this time trying to think back to a point where it was mentioned. "Yeah...?" he drew out in question.
"I had surgery done on it two weeks ago, and it still hurts."
"Okay, well, mister..." He struggled for a while to remember the guy's name.
"Johnson."
"Johnson," Vaguely, John gestured at him before grabbing the patient folder and using it as a make-shift fan. "Right. Well, it's only been two weeks, give it time, and I'm sure it'll stop."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Come back in and we'll take another look."
John was halfway out the door when Lydia grabbed his attention. "Doctor Carter?"
He whirled around, his expression as manic as a med student ten minutes before final a assessment from their resident. "Yeah?"
"Is that it?"
"Yes," he answered, irritation in his voice. "but if you want a second opinion, by all means, go for it!" John burst through the door and stormed away. Seconds later, he came back and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, but I really need to take care of something."
Minutes later, John rushed into the medical cabinet, frantically searching for something. Vials clanked, pill bottles rattled. Eventually, he spotted it. He stood on his tiptoes to reach the very top of the shelf and grabbed a small, skinny box. In the process, he lost his balance and stumbled backwards against the metal grated wall.
Carol saw it happen and rushed to help. "You okay, Carter?"
As soon as he heard her, he hastily stuffed the box in his doctor's coat, hoping to God she didn't see him do it. He felt his chest pounding, scared and worried out of his mind. It was a full five seconds before he finally responded. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he said, so nervous that his voice went up a few pitches. A clear of his throat and he tried again, this time sounding less apprehensive. "Yeah. I'm good. Just looking for the..." John faked a glance at the medications and plucked up a random bottle of pills. "Ah! Morphine."
"Okay. Except that's Vicodin," Carol tilted her head to one side, sliding him a sceptical gaze. "Carter, what's going on?"
"Nothing!" His utterance spiked again.
She then reached a level of incredulity that she didn't know was possible. Carol glanced down and saw a strange bulge. "Uh-huh. What's in your pocket?"
"I'm not stealing drugs if that's what you're thinking."
"I wasn't."
"Good."
She folded her arms and leaned against the doorway. "I am now."
"Well, I'm not. You'll just have to take my word on that. Now, if you'll excuse me," John put the pills back, then squeezed past her. "My shift is over."
Carol turned and watched him walk away, silent for all but a millisecond. "Carter."
He stopped, never turning around to face her.
"You know you can talk to us, right?"
At last, he spun on his heel. "Yeah. I know. Thanks."
With that, he left her once more. Once he got clear of other's eyes, John just about ran to the nearest, empty exam room, all the while clutching his cramping stomach. It felt as though something was stuck inside him somewhere.
After pushing the door open, he slammed it shut and locked it. John ripped open the box and pulled out a few things; an information sheet and a couple of test strips. He laid both on a sterile tray. John went over to a small refrigeration unit, reached deep into a compartment and brought out a plastic cup half full of urine.
While putting his hands up in front of everything, as though it would keep the already stationary items from moving, John mumbled to himself, "Okay..."
***************
Approaching the admit desk with an introspective look, Carol asked Jerry, Lydia and Luka, collectively, "Have you guys seen Carter lately?"
"Not since this morning," Lydia replied. "Why?"
"Did he seem off to you?"
"Maybe a little distracted."
"A little distracted?" Jerry echoed. "I was watching him read charts earlier and he was so into it, he stopped breathing."
"Somehow I doubt it was the charts keeping his interest," Luka bobbed his head in the direction of Carol. "Is there something we should be worried about?"
"I don't know. He just seems... preoccupied and stressed. He has been all week."
"I've noticed that too," Lydia jerked her thumb behind her. "Yesterday, I found him in the lounge, staring in the fridge."
"Should we be talking about him like this? I don't think he would–"
Carol cut Luka off. "The point is, he can't be this distracted while working on patients."
"I'm sure it won't be an issue," Luka's eyes locked on to Kerry for a second, and he then walked off to work up a few patients. "Just let him be."
Meanwhile, in the exam room, an alarm on John's wristwatch went off. Ten minutes passed. The test was finished.
John stood up and grudgingly leaned in to see what the results were. Tightly, he shut his sights, and chanted, "Don't be blue."
With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at the tests strips. Soon after, he covered his mouth and nose, holding in a half-gasp, half-laugh. It wasn't long before reality had set in, and his enthusiastic expression fell, conveying utter fear.
In a panicked drawl, he moaned, "Ohhhhhhhh, shhh–"
************
"Shots?"
Mark gazed at the patient he was checking over with narrowed eyes. "Pardon?"
"Am I gonna need shots?"
"Probably, for tetanus, Mister Johnson," Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of John quickly tearing his way through the ER with a panicked demeanour, hurrying past him; this snagged his attention. "Whoa, whoa! Carter? Is everything okay?"
"Huh?" John stopped long enough to reply. "Y-yeah. I just, uh– Is Benton down here?"
"OR, I think."
A long, trembling sigh escaped from his lungs. "Why is he never here when I need him?" John muttered.
"Maybe I could help?"
"No!" John snapped. A few seconds later, he calmly reiterated with a shaky voice, "No. Sorry, no. It... should be him. No offence."
"None taken. I get it," Mark waved it off. "but... are you okay?"
"What? What, do I look puffy or something?" he blurted out.
"More like panicked. Plus, aren't you supposed to be leaving?"
"Yeah. Yeah, in two hours."
"Alright, go. Go," After John bolted, Mark went back to what he was doing, only for a moment. "Hey, Carter?"
Gradually, he veered around and stared at Mark with a blank face, staying silent.
"Merry Christmas."
John half-smiled and joylessly chuckled when he thought about it. It was certainly going to be a weird one. Weirder than usual. "Yeah, you too."
***************
John came into the surgical ward in a frenzied panic, screaming, "Doctor Benton!"
"Doctor Carter," Shirley rounded the corner of the desk and approached him. "Settle down. What's going on?"
"I need Doctor Benton," he replied, nearly weeping.
"I gathered that, but–"
"Well, where is he?" John lost every bit of his mind in that instant.
"Carter, settle down," she said in a calming mantra. "Settle down."
But he was too far gone to relax now. John's chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as he paced back and forth from the desk to the seats across the way, moaning anxiously.
At that moment, Peter stepped through the swinging doors, and after a double-take, he saw John shaking and tearing up. "Carter?"
A harsh exhale came bursting out of John, forced and trembling.
"What's the matter?" The closer Peter got to him, the more he could just how worked up John was. He did his best to get him to relax, even though it wasn't his strong suit. "Hey, hey, hey. Carter, talk to me. What is it?"
He tried to reply but his words came out clipped and in a rush. "I-I don't– I'm– There's–"
"Carter?"
Another explosion of air left him, and before long, John started hyperventilating. A panic attack hit him in the gut, head and chest, leaving him with a headache, chest pain and a queasy feeling.
"Alright, why don't you sit down?" Peter helped him down into a seat, and he sat beside him. He looked at Shirley and asked, "Can you get him some water?"
John tried to tell them there was no way he could keep anything down right now, but all that shook out was an anguished moan.
"Just breathe, man. Just breathe. I've got you. It'll be okay," Repeatedly, Peter rubbed the upper portion of John's back. He reiterated once more, "I've got you."
Almost instantly, John started to feel a little calmer. He rested his head on Peter's bicep, eyelids becoming increasingly difficult to keep open.
Shirley came back with a small paper cup of water and gave it to Peter. "Here you go. Anything else?"
"Thanks. I think we're good," A sudden flash of heat swept through John and crossed Peter. Soon after, he started to hyperventilate again, and Peter found himself murmuring, "Maybe not."
It was getting harder for John to swallow. Every time he tried, he gagged. He throat felt two times smaller and tighter than usual, which didn't help his anxiety.
"You alright?" Taking in the dirty look Peter received, he quickly got his answer. "Right, right. Sorry. Can you move?"
The only response he gave was a whimper and a nearly imperceptible shake of the head.
"Okay, I'll help you," Peter rose to his feet and held out both hands. "Here. Give me your hands."
For a long time, John just stared vacantly at them, at Peter, then back to his hands.
"It's alright. Take your time."
Shakily, John clasped on and tried and failed to stand almost instantly.
Going on instinct, Peter caught him before he could fall, wrapping both arms around his stomach and holding him backwards. "I've got you, Carter. I've got you."
John put his hand over Peter's forearm, lightly tapping and urging through laboured breathing, "Careful."
"Sorry. You've probably gotta throw up, right?"
"Not exactly."
"What do you mean?"
As he straightened himself up with a grunt, he replied, "Not here."
Now Peter was really getting concerned. He'd seen John worked up before, but this was new to him, being asked to have a private chat with him. Peter surmised it must have been serious, and told him, "We can go to the locker room."
Peter peered into the dark, almost eerie room, making sure it was empty. The minute he believed it was, he helped John inside with him, who was practically fused to him by this point.
It took but a short time for John to let go, stumble in and latch himself to the nearest sink he could find in the dark. He started to breathe heavily again, his upper body lurching with each inhale and exhale.
"Alright, alright. Easy, man," Peter said in a soothing tone. "Breathe."
"I am breathing!" he flung at him, his voice somewhat echoing inside the sink and cracking under the weight of his anxiety.
"Slowly."
Over and over, John murmured, "Oh, God."
Peter's hand hovered over the back of John's neck, nervous to touch him. It was clear something had him hysterics, and the last thing he wanted to do was make it worse. In time, however, Peter thought he might want some form of human contact. He couldn't just stand there and do nothing while he became more and more panic-stricken. Finally, he put his hands on him, prompting a sharp inhalation and a small flinch. "It's okay, it's okay," Stroking him, Peter could feel John's tense, almost rigid muscles beneath his fingers. "Try to relax. Just keep breathing, alright? Nice and slow."
A breath as shaky as his limbs escaped his lips. Little by little, it slowed and became less unsteady.
"There you go. That's it. Just breathe. Breathe, breathe, relax..."
John relaxed so much that his knees buckled underneath him. He found himself crumbling but was caught by Peter, bringing him down with him, knocking the wind from both of their lungs. He was now on Peter's lap. He didn't hear him complain. Even if he had, John was too out of it to notice, staring off into the distance, disassociating, leaving all reality.
"Carter, what's wrong?"
The sound of his voice brought John back, only just. "I'm screwed," he replied, slurring slightly. "I'm so, so, so–"
"Hey. Carter, I'm here, man. Talk to me. What is it?"
He stayed silent, waiting for the right words to come to him. A straight answer would be sufficient, but then he'd have to explain how it happened. He'd have to, anyway; there was no avoiding it. His breathing hitched once and then sputtered out in a rush. It was time to rip off the bandage.
John crawled off his lap, grabbed on to a bench and pulled himself up. He flopped down on it, frowned thoughtfully and asked, "Have you heard of the term 'intersex?'"
An undecipherable expression stuck on his face for a long time. Where is he going with this? he wondered. Going along with it, he answered at last, "I have. I've never met or operated on anyone like that before."
John raised his hand and waved. "John Carter, nice to meet you."
At first, his words didn't register with Peter. He was too busy getting up from the floor and dusting himself off to even notice his gesture. Eventually, it hit him. "Wait, you're–?"
"Ovotestis, with vaginal opening and canal, cervix... uterus," Clocking Peter's gawk of unmitigated bewilderment, John smiled softly and knowingly nodded. "I figured I would get that reaction. Still, better than how I pictured it."
"But you look–"
"I know. I look and sound masculine — even have a penis, which is next to useless — but I'm technically not," John stared at Peter, taking in the subtle shock in his expression. "You can say it."
"Say what?"
"That I'm a freak of nature. I mean, my parents think I am. I think that's why I was thrown by that one patient. I'm conditioned to think this is wrong, but they didn't let that stop them. Not until I–" John paused to gulp down his emotions over the loss of his patient from five years ago. With a clear of his throat, he continued, "I wasn't disgusted, just... didn't know there were others like me out there. It wasn't the same, I know, but similar. And I didn't want to say the wrong thing– Anyway, my folks kept wanting to 'fix me.' I kept saying no. At eighteen, I finally got the legal rights to refuse. Still, I can't help but wonder if they were right."
"I don't think they were," Going on the dubious gaze Peter was given, he reassured him, "I don't. It's your body, you should be proud of it."
His body slowly twitched from a stifled, mirthless chuckle. "I'll get there."
"Carter, don't get me wrong, I'm honoured that you'd trust me enough to tell me, but... why are you telling me?"
"Because in a few months, I'll look a bit puffy, for lack of a better term, and I thought you should know why."
"What are you trying to say to me?"
"You're really gonna make me say it?"
Peter was about to say yes when it became clear. His hardened features seemed to fade, turning into a shocked expression once again. "Ohhh, shit. You're– That can happen?"
"Evidently."
"And you're sure?"
John nodded. "Two positive test strips sure."
"Oh, God," Peter murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand came down to his hip with a slap. "When did it happen?"
"Six days ago."
There must have been something plugging up his ears, making him misunderstand, because he swore he could have heard him say six days. "What?"
"I said six days ago. Six days and seven hours."
"That's what I thought you said," he mumbled. "Carter, look, six days is too early to determine whether or not you're... you know."
"Knocked up?"
"Yeah," Peter answered. "At this point, you're probably going through the implantation stage, you're not technically pregnant yet."
Hearing this, a part of him came to be disheartened. He was so certain, so secure in the notion that he was expecting. Scared, but excited at the same time. "Oh," John hung his head down, slumped his shoulders and looked straight at the floor. "Yeah, right. You're probably right."
"Carter, I'm just saying it's too soon to tell. Give it a few more weeks."
He looked at Peter with tears forming in his eyes once more. "What if I am? I mean, I've been on testosterone, I haven't menstruated in years, so it's unlikely, but... what if?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, alright?"
John's chin vibrated while he stared into the sink. "I'm going to be doing this alone, aren't I?" he asked in a soft moan.
"No, you're not," Peter said, which seemed to bring him to tears. He brushed back a rogue lock of John's dark brown hair. "You're not."
Though he gave his silent assent, his focus remaining ahead, John had a hard time believing in his words. Something would happen along the way would leave him on his own, trying to swim to the surface of the choppy waters of parenthood with a lead weight tied to his ankle.
He finally turned his attention to Peter, his eyes still wet with tears and the side of his hand covering his mouth. John then removed it and ran his fingers through his hair, letting it fall to his side. "There is one thing you can do to help."
"Which is?"
John drew in a huge, deep breath before answering with a question. "Can you draw some blood?"
Peter stepped back a bit. A knowing look came over his face, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. "Yeah. Think I can manage that."