Merry Christmas, Doctor Carter

Not Here

"Two kids come in here, one ends up brain dead, the other needs a liver and they both have AB blood," John said, ignoring the look of disapproval from Lucy. "Tell me that's not a godsend."

"It's not," she replied. "The mother won't consent to–"

"She will when I get through with her."

Lucy rolled her eyes. This instrument of God thing is getting ridiculous, she thought.

The two burst into Stephen's room, the eighteen-year-old whose brain John had essentially turned to mush. Chuny was there with him, but not his mother.

"Where's his mom?" John asked.

"Not here," she answered.

No shit. He then heard the alarms on the monitor going off. "Is he throwing PVCs?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you get me?" he demanded. "Let's get the pacer pads on him."

"Can't," Chuny tersely said. "DNR."

Like a lead weight dropping in the ocean, John's hopes and his stomach sank. "What?"

"His mother said you talked her into it."

Muttering under her breath, Lucy spoke, "There goes your godsend."

John waved her words off like they were annoying mosquitoes. "Did she say where she was going?"

Chuny shrugged. "Not to me."

"If she comes back, keep her here."

With that, John pushed the door open and strode out in search for the boy's mother. Instead, he found a familiar face admidst a dozen other people in chairs who stopped him in his tracks. Dennis'.

Not again. Not now.

Despite the many alarms going off in his head, John still found himself drifting towards him, as if he were under some kind of spell.

When they locked eyes, Dennis rose to his feet, clutching a brown paper bag.

"What are you doing here?" John's question was flat and low.

Though the lump in his throat made it difficult, Dennis still attempted to respond. "I– I didn't like how we left things, and–"

Seeing people who didn't need to know what they had going on between them, on top of his colleagues right behind him, John quietly blurted out, "Not here," He motioned Dennis to follow him to the ambulance bay, side-stepping other nurses and doctors he hoped didn't recognise him. Once there, he said, "I do not have the time or the stomach for this right now, and I'd rather not freeze my ass off. So, whatever you want to say, say it."

For the third time that day, Dennis was rendered speechless. He knew he messed up, but this wasn't the John Carter he used to know.

"Well?" he snapped.

The corners of Dennis' eyes crinkled in reaction to the anger in his voice. "Sorry. Just never seen you like this before. Short-fused, pissed off... You been hanging around Benton too much?" His lips parted in a tiny smile, which faded after he realised John wasn't having any of it. "I wanted to apologise."

"Okay. You've done that. Now you can go."

"What happened to you?"

Just as John went to head back inside, Dennis' words forced him to turn around. "What happened to you?" he shot back. "Who the hell did we waste fifteen minutes of chest compressions on? Whose funeral did I go to?!"

"I can explain everything, if you'd let me–"

Quickly, John interjected, "Now you're here, back from the dead, two years later, and you have the audacity to be surprised that I'm pissed off?!" His heart seemed to be caught off guard, though. He could feel pain starting up in his arm and his chest tightening to a degree. Recognising the signs, John drew in a deep breath as best as he could and strived to calm down. "Listen, I have patients and..." Knowing that it didn't mean a damn thing what he had to do, he simply turned to leave, only to be stopped again. He felt fingers wrapped around his forearm and glared down at them, his darkened gaze trailing up the arm and to Dennis' face. "Let go of me," he said as evenly as possible.

Not wanting to be punched by the man, he backed off. "No problem. But John, I– I really think we should talk about this. I know you have questions, I can answer them — or I can try — if you want me to."

Talk? What could there possibly be left to talk about it. John had made his peace with his death, so-called as it turned out, just last year. What was he to say now? What was the point in rehashing it? In fact, as the years passed, it began to feel like the least interesting thing to talk about. He was sick of it and over it all by now. And yet, the whole time John stared so intently at Dennis, all he could think about was how he wanted to know exactly what had happened to him. How he could just leave him like that. He deserved to know that much.

Piercing the silence was an ambulance rolling up, its sirens wailing until the vehicle stopped. It snagged John's attention.

Considering this as his cue to go and let John be, Dennis nodded. "Got it," he said with a long exhale, then took his leave.

Scrunching his eyes shut, looking blindly to the cloudy winter's sky, regret flowed through John's body. But he had to know, and deep down, a part of him missed Dennis. An even larger part of him loathed himself for allowing that to happen.

John winced as he ripped off the metaphorical bandage and called out, "My shift ends at three in the morning," A Mona Lisa-smile threatened to flash upon his thin lips when Dennis swung around. "If that's not too late for you."

"No, that's fine. Uh, here," Dennis stuck out his arm and handed the paper bag to him. "Christmas present from two years ago. I hung on to it. You don't have to open it. Burn it, if you want. Though, if you do, I suggest doing it in a well ventilated area."

John closely scrutinised it with narrowed eyes, then held it out like it was a ticking time bomb. "What is it?"

"Guess you'll have to open it," he said, scantily smirking. "See you after three."