Burden Of Guilt
Part Two
By Kristen
kdarganin@hotmail.com

JC/PB/MG friendship

Last eppy seen "May Day" takes place afterwards with a few minor adjustments.

DISCLAIMOR: I don't own them, please don't sue.

ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name is attached and you tell me.

NOTES: This story would not be possible with the help of my supper editors Lyss and Megan. They have provided me with a wealth of help and suggestions. Special thanks for her wonderful medical knowledge to Debbie. Also, to Sharon, Debbie, Cathy and to everyone who has supported me.

SUMMARY: Things don't go as planned on the way to Atlanta.

Carter shivered on the ground, wrapping his arms around himself as tightly as his broken body would allow. The shaking sent painful vibrations through him, jostling his destroyed ribs. Benton had warned him against getting up, not that he really could. He was having a hard enough time taking shallow, unfulfilling breaths, let alone attempt standing up, unaided. He closed his eyes to block the nauseating double images he was seeing. Another symptom of concussion, he mused. The pain was overwhelming, and, unlike his previous injury, he couldn't make himself slip into unconsciousness. When he tried to focus on internal thoughts, his mind drifted back to the incredible throbbing that threatened to overtake him. All that he had left to concentrate on were the loud, angry voices, engaged in a heated discussion a few feet away.

"Peter, you know we have to move him, and disagreeing in front of Carter is not going to put his mind at ease," Mark told the defensive surgeon.

"You want to talk about ease? How are we supposed to get him to the vehicle?

He has to stand and then walk the entire way there. It's gotta be at least a mile. No matter how much we help him, he's not going to be able to remain upright the entire time. We..."

"He's going to have to, we don't..."

"Don't cut me off, Dr. Greene!" Peter responded angrily. Peter fixed Mark with an intense stare that clearly communicated his intolerance for interruptions. Satisfied that the other doctor understood the message, he went on. "I am well aware of the effects of hypothermia. That water is not cold enough to put him in deep shock. I'm sure his core temperature is way above 97 degrees. That's safe. Moving him a great distance however, isn't, and will probably cause more damage. We don't know the extent of his head injury, and moving him around could aggravate a severe concussion, you know that." Peter's voice was stern and firm, and he hoped Mark would realize that he was correct.

"I appreciate your surgical opinion, Peter," Mark said, putting a slightly sarcastic emphasis on "surgical." "The problem is, we don't know anything.

He could be suffering cold shock; you know that can be the result of immersion in cold water. That could cause hyperventilation, which in turn might affect his broken ribs. We need to get him out of the street and into some warm clothes. Walking will help his circulation, and we can treat him better in the van until help arrives." Mark's words were spoken with calmness and determination.

"We'll move slowly and carefully to safer conditions. Now, rather than arguing over things out of our control, let's work on a situation we can do something about." Mark turned around and started back towards the injured man.

Carter listened carefully to their heated debate. As a doctor, he understood each man's opinion on the matter. Each option was not very desirable, and each one had its own set of problems. He didn't know whose side to take, but in the end, it probably didn't matter. It was going to hurt no matter what they did, and he rather be in the warm van than this cold, numbing puddle of water. His clothes were completely soaked through, and pressed down on his battered chest like an iron weight. He didn't know which was worse, the creeping numbness in his limbs, or the horrible pain emanating from his head and chest.

He opened his eyes when he felt both doctors kneeling beside him. Mark's concerned face was in direct contrast to Benton's angry scowl. Two expressions he was used to receiving, he mused unhappily. Just not in these circumstances.

"Carter, we're going to help you into a sitting position," Mark said gently.

"After you're acclimated, we're going to help you stand."

"I-I know. I can do it. I-I'll b-be able to walk." Carter looked to Mark, and then to Benton. "W-w-with some help fr-from the two of you."

Mark slid one hand under Carter's shoulder, firmly gripping it with the other. He nodded to Peter to do the same with the injured man's other side. Peter grudgingly placed his hands in the same fashion as Mark's.

"We'll lift you halfway; help you sit up," Mark told him. "Okay, on three.

One...two...three." Both doctors gently lifted Carter up, carefully supporting his shoulders. Mark kept his hands behind Carter's back, while Peter moved his left hand to the doctor's chest to keep him from falling over.

The movement took his breath away and he wrapped his arms around his body to steady himself. He waited a few seconds, then slowly opened his eyes. His vision was a little clearer, but the fire in his head had returned with a vengeance. It was as if all his injuries were competing for his attention.

"Carter, just give it a few seconds," Mark said warningly. He kept one hand behind Carter's shoulder, and with the other grabbed the jacket that had slipped off, awkwardly attempting to wrap it around him.

"It's alright. I-I think I can stand up now," Carter said in a weak voice.

"Carter, just rest a minute, we're not in a rush," Peter reassured him, glaring at Mark.

"Let's...just get it over with, it's freezing out here," the doctor whispered.

Carter gathered all his strength and began to stand. Both his companions held him underneath his armpits, just in case he couldn't make it all the way up. Carter was very unsteady on his feet, and wavered for a few seconds before Benton steadied him. Mark took Carter's left arm and draped it over his own shoulders so the young man could lean on him. Carter ached all over. He put most his weight on Mark, and wrapped his right arm around his middle. Benton kept one hand behind his back and the other on his elbow as he led him forward. Carter slowly dragged his feet in an approximation of walking and they inched their way up the road. His lungs screamed for more air, but all he could manage were short, shallow breaths.

His head felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to the inside of his skull. The pounding was increasing in strength and intensity, and he used it as a rhythm for his feet. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

After twenty painful minutes, the trio was still diligently forging ahead. It had had taken ten minutes to walk from the van, but a lot had changed since then. Now, their destination seemed to move farther away with each step they took. Carter's headache increased with every awkward step, and it was taking its toll on the rest of him. He was putting more weight on Mark, and was beginning to lose his sense of equilibrium.

Sensing that Carter was losing his balance, Peter tightened his grip on his shoulder. "Hey, Carter let's slow down. The van is only a little ways down the bend."

The group slowed their pace as the rain continued to pour down on them. Carter was beginning to feel very sick to his stomach as the dizziness increased. Suddenly, a wave of nausea crashed over him. "Hey, stop!" he said with urgency.

"What's the matter, Carter?" Mark asked with concern.

"I'm going to be sick," he managed as he bent down and let the nausea took over.

"Easy, man, let us help you," Peter said. Both doctors lowered him gently to the ground as the younger man began to lose what little contents were left in his stomach from lunch. "Try not to strain yourself," Benton remarked, noticing that Carter was throwing up nothing but bile.

"It's the concussion, Peter," Mark said rhetorically, as Carter to crumble to the ground, exhausted and in pain. Mark slowly rubbed his hand in circles on Carter's back to try to calm the tremors that rocked his young colleague's body.

"I told you this wasn't a good idea," Peter stated simply. Mark just knelt next to Carter in silence, waiting for him to recover enough to continue. The retching had destroyed what little strength he had left. Carter was miserable, and his chest was on fire. The strains of being sick seemed to rip him apart from the inside. Breathing was becoming ridiculously laborious. How had the simplest function of the human body become the hardest thing in the world to accomplish?

"I can't go on." His voice broke with pain and defeat.

"Yes, you can. It's just around the next bend. Then you can rest, and warm up, and we'll get help." Mark knew his words sounded hollow and unencouraging, but they were so close! He didn't look at Peter, whose eyes must have been smoldering with anger.

"No, I can't," Carter responded wearily.

"Carter, since when do you back down from challenges? Now that van is only a few steps away and you are going to get there. You understand me?" Peter added firmly.

It was that voice again, challenging him to overcome another obstacle. Carter had spent six years of his life trying to prove his mettle to Peter Benton, and he would not give up on that tonight. He wiped his mouth with his rain-drenched sleeve, and nodded to let them know he was ready, not wanting to waste his energy on speaking. Carefully he was helped to a standing position once again. Both men put an arm around his waist and they continued their trek to the inviting warmth and safety of their broken down vehicle.

Mark's van was a welcome sight to all three men. It was apparent that Carter was ready to collapse; he was basically dead weight in his their arms. Mark opened the back door and both men carefully lowered Carter onto the seat.

"We're going to keep you sitting up so we can get those wet clothes off, and then you can lie down," Mark said as he reached over him to scavenge for something for Carter to change into. "Is your suit jacket in the front seat, Carter?" Mark asked the shivering man.

"Yeah Think so."

"We need something more then his suit jacket. Do you have any other clothes in here?" Peter asked as he checked Carter's pulse again. It was getting a little faster. He frowned anxiously.

"Yeah. We need something warm; fleece or wool maybe," Mark called from the front of front seat. "I found his jacket. "Doesn't look too warm, but it's better then nothing."Mark used his penlight to search the dark car for clothing. He shoved newspapers under the passenger seat out of the way, and came across one of his white T-shirts. He checked underneath the driver's seat, finding some dirty sweat pants, probably stashed there after a long run. He crawled back to the other two men with the clothes that he'd found.

"Pulse is up to 100. When we get him dry, I'll re-examine him," Peter said, moving out of the way. "I'll get your medical bag while you help him take off those wet clothes." Peter got out of the car and walked around to the other side to find the much needed medical instruments. He avoided Mark's confused look, as he was left to the task of helping Carter change.

Mark sat next to Carter, who was resting his head against the inside wall of the van. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be oblivious to everything going on around him. His face was seemed contorted with lines of pain. Some people just never get a break, Mark thought sadly.

"I'm going to remove your shirt and pants, Carter. Try to help me if you can." Carter nodded vaguely. Mark slid his suspenders down, and unbuttoned his dress shirt, then peeled the damp garment off. He didn't want him to have to lift Carter's arms above his head to get his undershirt off, so he called for Peter to give him the scissors from the medical bag.

Peter rummaged through the medical kit, finally locating the desired tool. He wordlessly handed them to Mark, and watched the man cut the wet T-shirt away. Carter was shivering in earnest, so Peter handed the other doctor some paper towels that were lying on the floor of the van. Mark took them and tried to dry Carter's chest and arms. They were quickly soaked through. Mark began dig in his pocket.

"What are you looking for?" Peter asked when Mark came up empty-handed.

"My keys, so we can turn the heater on," Mark said, wondering where he'd left them.

"I've got them. Dammit, I should have thought of that earlier," Peter belated himself as he walked around to the front seat. He slipped the keys into the ignition and turned the heater on full blast. His fingers clumsily searched for the button to switch on the interior light. He finally located the knob and turned it, illuminating the cabin. When he returned to the back, he found Mark was having a difficult time getting the new shirt on their patient. Carter seemed to be struggling against him while Mark tried to slide the shirt on him.

"What's going?" Peter asked as he sat down next to them.

"I think he's disoriented," Mark responded as he tried futilely to get Carter's arms into the sleeves. Peter moved closer to Carter and helped slide the combative man's arms through the holes of the shirt.

"Hey, Carter, calm down, man. We're getting you warm," Peter told the struggling doctor comfortingly. Together, they completed the difficult task, then attempted to put the suit jacket on, too. Carter opened his eyes and looked wildly at both men, clearly having a hard time focusing on either of them.

"What's going on?" he asked in a worried voice. "Where are we?" The simple struggle he had put up seemed to have drained away what little energy he had left. Even in the dim light, his face looked pale and sickly.

"You were hit by a car, Carter. Do you remember?" Peter asked, a little nervously. Carter closed his eyes as if trying to recall the memory. When he opened them, it was evident that he knew what was happening.

"Yea, it-i-it took me a second to-remember it."

"Good, okay," Mark said, sounding relieved. "We need to get those wet pants off, now." He didn't need to confirm anything with Peter; both knew that severe concussions caused confusion and short-term memory loss.

"I can do it." Carter fumbled with the button of his slacks. He had a hard time getting his fingers to work. "I guess---it's a good thing I don't---wear a belt," Carter said jokingly, his voice shaking.

"I'll help." Mark quickly undid the button and slid the pants off. He gathered the sweatpants in order to put them on quickly, since wet boxers were next to come off, and he wanted to save the man as much embarrassment as possible. Mark heard Peter searching for medical instruments from his bag, a distraction scripted to give Carter privacy. To try to get his mind off the task, Mark asked him a question.

"Why do you wear suspenders, anyway?" he asked, trying to get Carter's leg into the sweatpants.

"My grandfather always wore them. And-well, when you have a high metabolism like my-m-me. Suspenders keep my--pants on--since most belts don't have enough holes." Mark chuckled at this answer, and Carter smiled.

"High metabolism, hmm, explains why you eat like a horse," he replied.

Carter shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position, and quickly regretted it. Blackness clouded his vision and pain ripped through his chest. He put his hand to his injured sternum in a weak attempt to alleviate the pain. Peter brushed past Mark and put on his stethoscope. Peter rubbed the end of the instrument to warm it before placing it under Carter's new shirt. He listened to his lungs, recognizing the sounds of harsh, labored breathing, and carefully repeated the procedure around his abdomen.

"Normal bowel sounds, heart rate up to 110, breath sounds are still shallow. Without proper tests I can't say for certain that you haven't lacerated your liver or your kidney, but I would say that you haven't puncture either of your lungs." Peter squeezed Carter's shoulder reassuringly and slung the stethoscope around his neck.

"Now, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Hmmm, four?" Carter answered woozily.Peter looked over at Mark, and they shared a worried glance. Peter put down the three fingers he had been displaying. "Alright, I want you to track my finger." Peter took his pointer finger and leaned in closer to watch Carter's pupils react to its movement. After a few minutes of very little response, he put his hand down and turned to face Mark.

"What is--it? What's wrong, Dr. Benton?" Carter asked his mentor.

"Nothing, Carter," Mark answered him. "We're just concerned about that bump on your head. You know the drill: you were a bit sluggish reacting to Peter's tests." Mark wanted Benton to understand that it wasn't a good idea to let Carter understand the severity of the situation.

"You don't need to hide anything from me, Dr. Greene," Carter stated through chattering teeth. "I can figure out o--o--on my own what the problem is. I--I was trained by the b--best."

"Obviously you weren't paying attention to the part about needing to finish an examination before making a diagnosis," Peter said, a bit too harshly.

Mark scooted over next to Carter and placed his hands on the younger man's neck, then went about feeling his face and hands. "Peter, could you find my thermometer and check if the heater is on its highest setting?"

"I already looked for one, and there aren't any in your bag. The heater's on full blast, this is as warm as it's going to get in here." Peter's voice was edged in defeat and anxiety.

Mark stood up as much as he could in the cramped car and climbed out and around to where Benton was sitting. "Look his skin is cold and clammy. We need to do something more to keep him from slipping into further shock. I know I overruled you out in the field, but this isn't the time or place to get angry about it."

"We compromised his health by moving him," Peter said tersely. "I will not let you question my judgment again."

"What happened out there, Peter? You usually like to redirect your anger at others." Mark looked intently at Peter.

"We don't have time to argue right now. How do you suggest we continue with his care, Dr. Greene?" Peter folded his arms across his chest.

"We don't have any blankets or anything. We'll use body heat." Mark turned away and sat down next to Carter. "We can take shifts. Do you want me to go first?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Peter said quietly, as Mark positioned himself behind Carter.

Mark sat behind Carter so he could wrap his arms around him. Carter leaned into the embrace for warmth, and Mark rubbed his hands over Carter's shaking arms. The younger doctor didn't say a word, resting his head on Mark's shoulder. Mark knew from experience that Benton was uptight because he felt helpless at the moment. They were both trained doctors, yet they couldn't do anything for Carter at that moment.

"Don't fall asleep, Carter," Peter warned. "You need to stay awake."

"I-I am awake," Carter whispered. "This is-humiliating."

"It's proper medical procedure, Carter, don't worry about it," Peter said dryly.

Mark was about to say something reassuring, when both men heard the sound of an approaching car. Peter awkwardly climbed over the front seat, since Mark and Carter were blocking the path out the back. He frantically yanked at the inside lever and released the door, then jumped out and ran after the sound of the retreating vehicle.

Mark strained his neck to see out the dark window. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear running footsteps. After a few minutes, the dejected doctor climbed back into the front seat. He remained still, his head bowed over the steering wheel, resisting the urge to take his frustration out on the instrument panel.

"The car was already driving past us by the time I got outside." Peter stared at the wheel for a few more seconds, only looking up when he heard Carter speaking.

"Don't worry, Dr. Benton, I'll be fine," Carter gasped. That word again.

"Fine." And once again, it was miles away from the truth.

It had been forty-five minutes, and no more cars had approached. Peter satin the front seat with the driver side door open a crack, waiting and ready to flag down an approaching vehicle.

Mark was beginning to feel cramped and uncomfortable, and the small talk he was making with Carter was becoming more and more difficult. Mark's fear of hypothermia was fading, as the younger doctor's skin felt warmer and his shaking had subsided. However, it was apparent that he couldn't string together complete sentences, and this had Mark very concerned.

Mark decided to break the silence with Peter. "I think I'm going to try to walk outside and use my cell phone. Maybe I can find an area where the signal might work."

"Isn't that how this situation was created in the first place?" Peter asked solemnly.

"Yeah, well. But I don't think waiting for help to find us is going to work. These roads probably get flooded during these intense storms and I doubt we'll be seeing any traffic anytime soon." Mark didn't wait for another rebuke from Benton. He carefully lowered Carter flat on his back feeling each and every grimace that spread across Carter's face as he was moved.

"I think letting him lie flat is the best thing for him right now. Normally, I would want to elevate his legs, but I think that would only put further strain on his broken ribs," Mark reasoned, not looking at Peter.

"Moving him around didn't seem to concern you too much earlier," Peter replied stoically as Mark opened the back door of the van to exit. Mark lingered for just a second, letting Peter's words sink into his already burdened conscience. Before he closed the door to keep the wind from blowing in he said quietly, "We all have regrets that cannot be undone, Peter."

The door was slammed shut, leaving Peter alone with Carter. Silently, Peter considered the regrets which weighed the most heavily on his heart at that moment.

"Why--do--you always--do that?" Cater asked without bothering to look up. Speaking was pure torture; the exercise of inhaling and exhaling was putting a tremendous exertion on what felt like the collapse of his chest cavity. However, the question was one that he often thought about, and always wanted to ask. No time like the present.

"Do what?" Peter asked, frustrated.

"Shut--yourself--down. You're ssssso--scared..."

"Carter, now's not the time to try to analyze me. There's more..." Peter was silenced, not by an angry verbal interruption, but by the feel of someone's hand squeezing his arm. It was not a signal of comfort. It was a gesture that clearly communicated "Shut up!" The grip loosened when it won its desired effect, then remained as one in need of human contact.

Carter could tell it made the surgeon slightly uncomfortable, but, for once, he didn't care what Dr. Peter Benton thought about him. He needed the reassurance of his presence. The younger doctor resumed his conversation, fighting for every word.

"You're scared to show--any feelings. T-t-that you're human. T-t-that you--care." Carter could feel the tide changing; the wave of pain was starting to take him under. His thoughts were muddled and it was hard to focus on talking. "Its--easier--for you to--be--c-c-cold--detached." Carter swallowed painfully, his chest compressed by an unbearable weight.

"Stop seeking my approval, Carter. You don't need it anymore." Peter lowered his head, his words soft and genuine. "You've had it for a longtime." Instead of seeing happiness, or at least ease, Carter's eyes seemed to be filled with even more sadness.

"I--I know. I-I-I j-just wanted your--friendship." Carter couldn't hold out anymore, finally letting the agony win him over. He groaned as the double images inside the car blurred into an unrecognizable montage of color.Then he closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him.

His hand slipped from Benton's arm and fell unceremoniously to the side. Peter was overwhelmed with an intense fear, and grabbed Carter's wrist to check his pulse. Relief flooded him when he felt it, weak but steady. He moved his hand to grasp the younger man's. He held it tenderly in his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Carefully gathering the unconscious man in his arms, he gently embraced him. His face moist, Peter whispered in his ear, "I've always been your friend."