When You Think You're Alone
A post-Season 8 Carby romantic thrill ride.
Chapter One: Hospitality Suite
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, but the story and dialogue are.
Summary: Transport yourself back to the finale of season 8, when all possibilities awaited Carter and Abby, and we all knew that the long-awaited first kiss would lead to many more. Here's one take on what could have happened in those first few hours after The Kiss. They had so much to say to each other—but it's hard to confide when you're busy being afraid.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoy it—but if there's been too much "water under the bridge" since then for you, it's OK to say so. It's fun hearing from you either way. Doctors, nurses, med students may notice that I have taken liberties with the science, though if I did my job well enough, you won't notice.
Dedication: For my Carby friends—new and old. Enjoy.
Anyone watching them would have thought they were 12 years old . . .
She's still standing here. That's a good sign. Carter surprised even himself by stealing a kiss from Abby. He had been waiting to do that for so long. Though why he chose today—when they were on the brink of the biggest public health crisis in 50 years—he'd never know. He just couldn't help himself. She stood before him—a little nervous, a little frightened—yet focused on making him comfortable by pressing a cool compress to his burning neck. She looked to him for reassurance. "Tell me we're going to be okay," she pleaded, her eyes round, brow furrowed, mouth pouting. He wanted to comfort her, but at the same time, he wanted to find out what her lips tasted like.
Eyes open? Eyes closed? Where do I put my hands? For Abby, it felt like the first time she'd ever been kissed. She fought to keep her composure and finally understood what they meant by "swooning." His kiss took her by surprise, but nothing made her feel safer than hearing him say they were going to be okay, followed by his arms on her waist and his mouth on her lips. She was a little flustered and didn't know how to respond. But as it turned out, there was no time to wonder.
Gallant knocked on the window and spoke through the glass: "Dr. Carter, the little boy's sats are dropping. We can hear the alarms out here."
They ripped themselves from their embrace and raced for the doors to the adjacent room where 10-year-old Adam lay.
Adam's father worked for the U.S. State Department, and the family recently spent time in Central Africa. Not long after returning, their 5-year-old daughter developed flu-like symptoms. Within a week, she was overcome by a faceful of white pustules that Carter thought could only be one thing—smallpox. Trouble was, even though the disease killed millions over the course of history, everyone thought it had been eradicated in the Seventies.
The 5-year-old did not survive, and now her 10-year-old brother was dying, too.
"Stay out!" Carter and Abby shouted in unison to Gallant, who attempted to follow them into the room with the child.
Inside, Adam's parents were sobbing.
"Help him, somebody!!" his mother cried.
Carter burst in without a mask and Abby followed. The trach tube Carter put in Adam's throat to help him breathe was clogged with blood and impacted by the encroaching pustules inside the boy's windpipe.
"Abby, help me clear it, damn it," he said desperately.
Earlier she had watched him perform the tracheotomy on the little boy in a daring surgical procedure that left her in awe of his abilities as a doctor. At that moment, Abby thought Carter was the closest thing to Superman that she'd ever meet. Right there in ER, he cut open the boy's trachea and was confronted with a sea of blood pebbled with pox. He ordered her to remove his mask and protective glasses to clear his vision. Risking his own exposure to save the child's life, Carter managed to insert the tube. And when air started flowing into the boy's lungs, Abby thought her own heart would burst right out of her chest. His effort was heroic, and she could not take her eyes off him.
Now Abby suctioned the fluid from the trach tube, but it filled faster than she could pull it out. She turned the suction up high, and the fluids splashed onto them both. And that's when Carter realized she was unprotected.
"Where's your mask?"
"You needed help!" she responded.
"Abby, get a mask now! "
"You, too!"
"I'm trying to save this kid's life."
"What do you think I'm doing?"
He glared at her with an anger she'd rarely seen in him.
Only it wasn't anger—it was fear.
Beep! Beep! Buzz! Brrrring! It seemed like every alarm in the room was sounding and Carter and Abby could not keep up with them. It didn't matter, though. Adam's heart, deprived of oxygen, arrested.
The boy was now the second fatality from a strain of orthopox that resembled smallpox at best—and at worst was the insidious disease itself. But how could that be? No one in the U.S. had seen smallpox since 1949. The thought that there may be people who could engineer the virus and use it for their own agenda was in the forefront of everyone's mind.
Now all eyes were on the ER at Chicago's County General Hospital, where the two children succumbed to the virulent strain. Steps needed to be taken.
They all waited while the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and other public health entities planned the next move. In Kerry's absence, Susan ordered Abby and Carter to remain secluded from the rest of the ER as they had the most direct exposure to the sick children. Chen and Pratt, who developed fevers, were already quarantined, as they treated these same children when they were brought to the ER with flu-like symptoms a week prior. Stan, an alcoholic "frequent flyer" in the ER, was quarantined with them since he was present the previous week when the children were first brought in.
But they weren't the only ones affected. Today, the ER was bustling with patients—all of whom were now at risk to catch or spread a virus that could potentially kill millions if unchecked. There were the lawyers burned at the feet during a corporate bonding exercise, a group of senior citizens in a bus accident and the epileptic driver who caused it, a young man in a high-speed MVA, and an assortment of uncomfortable people with colds and flu. They included a mute 4-year-old little John Doe whom Chen was treating, and behind him were a young pregnant woman in labor and a girl in a schoolyard skateboard accident.
Behind closed doors, Abby and Carter waited for the next steps.
It was more than an hour when the gentleman from the CDC approached their room. He instructed them via hand signals to listen on the speakerphone on the wall. Susan and Luka followed but hung back.
"Dr. Carter, we still don't know what we are dealing with here," the CDC official began. "It may be smallpox, it may be something else. Our records show that the incubation for an orthopox strain like this is a week, and it looks like direct exposure to bodily fluids is the critical factor. We are going to evacuate the hospital to protect the patient population."
"How're you going to do that?" Abby asked.
"After vaccinating the entire ER, we'll let these people go home. The parents of the deceased children show no sign of disease and are way beyond the incubation period, so they, too, will be allowed to leave. Doctors Chen and Pratt, who treated the two youngsters a week ago when they presented with flu-like symptoms, show no signs of orthopox in their blood and will be allowed to leave—as will the gentleman who was treated here near the children a week ago for alcohol intoxication."
"Sounds like you've got everything under control," Carter said.
"Well, not exactly." The CDC man looked at Susan and Luka and then turned to Carter. "That leaves you and Miss Lockhart. You've both been exposed to the deceased—direct contact with bodily fluids in both cases. You're below the incubation period. You need to stay here—for the sake of the community."
"Stay?" Abby asked.
Susan jumped in. "You're being quarantined in the ER for a week. I'm sorry you guys."
Abby and Carter made a leap for the door that separated them from the CDC official.
"Quarantined?" Abby couldn't believe her ears.
"A week?" Carter shrieked.
"You'll be left with the emergency generator only," the official explained, looking down at his notes. "The building cannot remain fully powered without a maintenance staff—state regulations. The telephone switching system runs on the main electrical current, but it should be offloaded to the emergency generator overnight, which means you may have sporadic telephone service for a few hours. A doctor from the CDC will stay on call for you at our headquarters in Schaumburg 24/7 in case you become si—. In case you have any questions."
He looked up from his notes: "I realize this is awkward—male and female co-workers. I could have my people set up two separate quarantine sectors if you'd like."
"No, that's okay," Carter and Abby recited in unison. Susan smirked.
"I'd rather have the company," Abby explained to the man.
"Yes, ma'am. It's your call," the official said. He went back to his notes: "On the seventh day, you'll be visited by a CDC employee, who'll draw your blood, which will be tested for the presence of an orthopox virus. If there's nothing, you'll be free to go."
"And if there's something—"Abby began to ask.
"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," the man interrupted. "If you don't have any other questions, we'll begin the vaccination and evacuation."
Carter and Abby shook their heads "no."
"Okay, then." He went to drop the receiver but changed his mind. "Oh, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you two how critical this is. If we are dealing with the likes of smallpox, we could have a disaster of immeasurable proportion on our hands. Do not attempt to leave. Do not let anyone in. Two dead kids are enough. It could be two million before you know it."
He went to hang up the phone, but before he could, Abby asked a bit sarcastically, "What if there's a fire?"
"Stop, drop, and roll," he said. He hung up the phone without another word and walked away.
Somehow, they didn't think he was kidding.
"I'm sorry you guys," Susan yelled through the glass.
Luka caught Abby's eye and gave her a nod of confidence. As he walked away, he momentarily rested the back of his hand against the glass in a message to her of solidarity and strength. Carter caught her appreciation of the gesture.
One by one, the patients and staff left the premises—the lawyers, the car accident victim, and all the others.
When the last patient was removed, electricity was turned to the emergency generator, which fed the exam rooms but didn't do much to power the hallways. The air remained off.
Carter and Abby were left alone in an eerie silence.
With everyone gone, they pushed through the double doors of their confinement area and began to stroll the dim halls of the ER. Every movement they made echoed through the empty building.
"I need a cigarette," she announced when they reached the Admit Desk.
"How about a magazine?" he suggested instead.
"It'll do."
He reached under the desk and offered her a choice of the New England Journal of Medicine or Entertainment Weekly. Abby went Hollywood.
Drained by the day's events, she took her hair down from its tight clip and let it glide around her shoulders. She hopped up on a gurney in the long hallway, lay down on her side, rested her head in her hand, and perused the magazine by the light of the nearby trauma room and the glow of an exit sign.
Carter, on the other hand, found himself invigorated by their strange predicament—or perhaps it was the company. Like a child locked in a candy store, he explored draws, bins, cracks, and crevices that he never before took time to inspect.
"Hey, look what somebody left out in chairs," he said gleefully a little while later. He held up a well-worn red skateboard. He got on and proceeded to glide past her.
Still flipping through the magazine, she said matter of factly: "Don't crack your head open. I never made it to my neurology rotation before I got kicked out of med school."
He glided up and down the hall, trying his skill at a variety of skateboard tricks—on one leg, backward, with a handstand. She pretended not to notice him, but she'd occasionally peek out the corner of her eye and smile to herself at his boyish antics.
But the next time he sailed past her, he got her full attention: "I'm sorry about before," he said and continued rolling down the hall.
On his way back, she inquired, "What?"
"For kissing you like that. I'm sorry," he said on the following trip.
She stopped turning the pages and sat up.
"You're sorry you kissed me?"
He stopped short when he reached her by leaning on the back of the skateboard until it popped out from under him. He stood in front of her and picked up the board, embracing it like a shield in front of his heart.
"No. I'm not sorry I kissed you. I'm sorry that it wasn't the best time to do it. Why? Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Are you sorry that I kissed you?"
"Did I seem sorry?"
"I don't know. You tell me. Is that a yes or a no?"
She was cool and unflinching on the outside, but on the inside . . .
He shook his head at her inability to answer. "I never know what you're thinking, Abby—ever. " He let his frustration show through.
"That goes double." Two can play at this game.
"You want to know what I'm thinking?" he asked her, his head bobbing up and down inquisitively.
"Yes."
"You really want to know?"
"Yes, I really want to know."
"Because if you really want to know I'll tell you."
"Carter!"
"Okay." He stared at her and took a nervous deep breath. "I'm thinking that since I met you, I've wanted to . . . be with you."
His candor stunned her.
"For two years, I have thought about nothing else but you," he continued. "When I wake up in the morning, I'm thinking about you. When I'm working during the day, I'm always looking for you, and when I go to bed at night . . ."
He paused, staring at her.
"Yes . . . ?" she said, with a little nervous anticipation.
"When I go to bed at night . . ."
"What?"
"When I go to bed at night, I think that you'd still rather be with Luka, so what's the point?"
He dropped the skateboard to the floor and propelled himself down the corridor.
She sighed.
"Luka and I haven't been together since last year, you know," she yelled over the echoing rumble of the skateboard wheels. When he reached the end of the dim hallway he jumped off the board. She hopped off the gurney. They stood looking at each other in silence from opposite ends of the corridor.
She broke the stalemate. "And for the record, I wasn't sorry." She grabbed her magazine off the gurney and retreated into one of the exam rooms.
If she'd waited around, she would have seen the tiny smile that crept across his face.
They occupied themselves separately for quite a while, each finding their own place to wash away the day's perspiration.
It was about 10 o'clock at night when Carter rolled the bed from Trauma 1 next to the one in Trauma 2 and positioned the two parallel to each other but a few feet away. She got the clean sheets from the supply closet and set about making them up. And when they were done, there was nothing left to do but go to sleep.
She jumped up on one bed, he on the other. They sat facing each other with their stocking feet dangling off the sides like new bunkmates at sleep-away camp.
Though they felt like the last two people on earth, they were keenly aware of the bigger issue that surrounded them. "Why would someone do this? Why would someone spread a virus?" Abby asked, finally allowing herself to speculate on the potential tragedy that was unfolding.
"We don't know anyone did anything," Carter rationalized. "The family was living in Central Africa for a year. God knows what viruses lay dormant in the jungle."
She couldn't decide if his cool-headedness was comforting or maddening.
"But if it's smallpox, and smallpox has been eradicated, then the only way—"
"I don't think they think it is smallpox. Smallpox is airborne, I don't think they'd have let everyone go so fast . . ."
"But whatever it is, it killed two children—quickly."
She was right, but he didn't want to let his mind go there. He didn't want to think about the danger they were probably in, and he didn't want her to worry more than she already was.
"So if someone did this," she wondered aloud, "didn't they realize that little kids could die?"
"Those kids didn't have to die today."
"That's what I mean. It's so senseless—"
"No, I mean those kids didn't have to die today because I should have . . . done something."
His comment took Abby by surprise. She looked at him. His head drooped between his shoulders, he gripped the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth with frustration and disappointment.
"What? No!" she said. "If some group did this, then they killed them, not you. And like you said, it's more likely they just picked it up somewhere and there was nothing anyone could do."
He didn't look at her.
"If either one of us is responsible, then it's me. I should have gotten to them sooner."
She could tell his mind was busy replaying the moments leading up to each child's death.
"Carter, are you all right?"
She slid off her bed, stepped in front of his dangling legs, and rested her hands on his knees.
"Look, it was amazing what you did today—how you tried to save those kids. I was there, remember? I saw what you did. For God's sake, you trached that boy here in the ER without a surgeon. It was . . . brave."
She cupped his cheek in her hand, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I mean it."
Her touch alone filled him with confidence and shook the self-doubt from him. Oh, that face!, he thought. When she looked at him like that, he found it hard to control himself. But he always did—until now.
Carter stood up very slowly, reached for her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and kissed her very softly, tentatively. Neither of them was sure where they stood, and the doubt was palpable in the room. But when he felt her lips part slightly and press back against his, he relaxed, slid his fingers into her silky hair, and pulled her mouth closer. He nudged her gently backward toward her bed, and when she felt the thin mattress behind her, she hopped up onto it, and he followed.
They lay on her narrow bed sharing the deep kisses they'd suppressed for ages. He'd waited two long years, and despite the uncertain circumstances of this strange day and the unromantic surroundings of Trauma 2, he wanted to get as close to her as two people can be. Tonight.
But over their breathing, Abby thought she heard something.
"Carter, did you hear that?"
"Nope," he said, busily kissing her mouth.
Abby heard a noise again.
"Carter, you didn't hear that??"
If she was going to use her mouth for talking, he may as well move his lips to her ear or her neck . . . or elsewhere.
Clang!
Carter didn't hear it. Well . . . actually, he did. However, he pretended not to because he was too engrossed in what he was feeling, and where his fingers were touching, and whom his lips were kissing.
CRASH!
This time there was no denying it. A loud sound came from outside the swinging doors and down the hall in the area of the Admit Desk.
Sobered by the noise, Carter got up from the bed and tried to peek out the glass windows.
"I don't think we're alone," Abby whispered.
Next
Knock, Knock. Who's There?