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Carter doesn't quite realise how little his parents care for him until he's gasping for air on the second floor hallway of the house, cheek flush to the hardwood, rasping and gurgling like a fish out of water. He can't breathe, and he needs them, and they are downstairs sipping cocktails and pretending he doesn't exist. He's frightened. He's really fucking frightened, and they're here, but not here.
The asthma attack started about an hour ago- he's been sick for a few days, but it's only recently that his breathing has started to take a dip. His asthma is controlled. Has been since he was a child.
It never gets this bad, except now it is, and he's spent the last sixty minutes taking puffs from his inhaler, waiting for the effects to properly kick in only to find that things are getting worse rather than better. His chest is tight, tighter than 1983 when he fell down in gym class, wheezing and rattling. His lungs aren't expanding at all.
He can't breathe. He can't breathe and he's alone, eyes starting to roll back as he writhes in the hallway, too far gone to even really control his movements anymore. The air hunger is taking over, every action a desperate plea for oxygen.
“Christ, John, if you're going to be dramatic about it I'd rather you perform away from our guests.”
A performance? Is that all his father thinks this is?
It certainly seems that way. He was the one who sent him upstairs midway through the event, after all, even though he'd also been the one to initially insist Carter attended, sweat-soaked and shaky as he was. His bow tie was too tight around his neck. The tux was too hot, the rooms too crowded.
He must have looked pretty awful when he tugged on his father's sleeve, looking far closer to 9 than 24, but either Jack Carter didn't notice or (more likely) didn't care.
At least, perhaps, he'd been kind enough to send a maid up to check on him regularly. Speaking of…
“Mr Carter?!”
His vision is greying out by the time she falls to her knees next to him, her hand squeezing his shoulder, shaking him urgently. He tries to tell her that he's okay, but he can't speak anymore. She moves in close, her touch gentle, eyes wide.
“It’s okay, Mr Carter. I’m calling an ambulance.”
Her footsteps recede, and his consciousness quickly follows.
Mark whistles as they pull into the gravel driveway of the mansion, craning his neck to see the rows and rows of cars parked outside.
“This some kind of public event space or…?”
The driver of the ambulance leans back, turning his head ever so slightly so Mark can hear him over the crunching of the tires.
“Nah, just home to a very wealthy family. Looks like they've got an event on.”
Mark nods, mouth forming an ‘o’ of understanding. Their ‘shortness of breath followed by blackout’ patient is likely to be a guest who over imbibed on champagne, then. These things happen- so he's heard. County doesn't get many incidents like that.
Today, though, it's in luck. And Mark is too, considering the fact that he's on his paramedic ride-along rotation to witness it.
“Who called it in?” He asks.
The driver shrugs. “Household staff, I think. Pretty sure it's actually the host’s son we're dealing with.”
Mark raises his eyebrows. “Would’ve thought private ambulances more their style, but alright.”
“I don't ever pretend to understand these people.”
They roll to a stop outside the front steps, and Mark quickly gathers his things- prepare for the worst, hope for the best. That's what his Mom always used to tell him. Is it bad, though, that he's half hoping this is an interesting case? Something he can share in the lounge the next time gossip falls quiet?
Huh. Maybe.
Zadro, the one paramedic on the three-person team that Mark actually knows, hops out in front of him and walks briskly towards the front of the house. Mark follows, unable to keep his eyes from drifting upwards, jaw hanging at the impressive façade. What a life you must lead living in a place like that.
The place is thronging with people, all dressed up in tuxedos and gowns, and they frown in vague disapprobation at the gaggle of medics daring to intrude upon their soiree. Eventually, a rather terse looking man sweeps through the crowd and demands to know what they're doing here.
The host, presumably.
Zadro clears his throat. “We got an alert, Sir- shortness of breath? I believe a member of your staff called it in.”
The man rolls his eyes and drags a frustrated hand down his face. Clearly the patient isn’t his son.
“Of course. Look, he'll be upstairs, but would you please remind him while you're there that this sort of attention-seeking behaviour won't get him anywhere in life.”
Mark blinks. “Tell who?”
The man turns to him abruptly. “My son. John.”
And with this, he disappears back into the watercolour, indistinguishable from the rest of the partygoers. Zadro shrugs at Mark, then makes his way up the stairs. The doctor follows.
He glances at the walls as he goes, littered with paintings- evidently expensive pieces, judging by their frames as well as their surroundings. One of them, though, catches his eye. It's a young man in a suit, his gaze cast forward, sober and sharp in every respect. Not recognisable in manner, but in figure…
“What?” Zadro asks, seeing him pause on the stair.
Mark frowns, shakes his head. “Odd. Just looks a lot like somebody I know.”
Zadro nods, then turns his gaze forward and shouts into the emptiness that awaits them past the top of the staircase.
“911, ambulance! Anybody up here?”
A woman in a neat black dress bounds into view.
“Please, come quick- I'm not sure he's breathing.”
Well, shit. This just got a lot more urgent.
He flashes Zadro a look that he hopes adequately conveys “I thought we were just here for a simple shortness of breath”, before both their steps speed up and they trail the frantic footsteps of the woman. They turn a corner at the end of the long hallway, and are met with another- in the middle of which, their patient is sprawled.
He's in a tux, and would be indistinguishable from the rest of the throng downstairs, except Mark gets an odd twinge in his gut the closer he moves. The dark hair. The painting. The lanky frame. The painting. The polished black shoes he's sure he's seen before.
The painting.
“My son. John.”
And then, when he's close enough, the realisation hits him full force.
“Oh my God, Carter?!”
As he scrambles to get to the medical student's side, Zadro frowns, speed quickening too. “You know this guy?”
Mark nods, feeling sick. There are so many thoughts fluttering about in his mind- fancy house, unimaginable wealth, uncaring father- but he pushes them all aside the moment the two of them roll Carter onto his back and see the bluish tinge to his lips. His eyes, rolled back, unseeing.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Zadro’s the one to immediately press his ear to Carter's chest. The one to rear up, shaking his head.
“He’s not moving any air.”
Mark blinks, and suddenly remembers he's the doctor here. He tugs at the sweat soaked bow tie around the student’s neck, tearing it away before his hands drift downwards and pull open the top few buttons of Carter's dress shirt.
This must be some kind of practical joke, he thinks. Zadro is in on it and there's no way Carter actually isn't breathing except…
Stillness. No rise. No fall. Just a faint, barely there wheeze.
No. No.
Mark closes his eyes briefly, swallowing back the urge to throw up.
“Zadro, I need you to draw up etomidate and sux now, and get me an 8-O ET tube.”
“You're intubating?”
God, he wishes he weren't.
“He'll die if I don't.”
The procedure isn't an unfamiliar one. He's performed it, assisted on it, too many times to count, and yet when the medications are in and Carter is slack-jawed dead weight on the floor in front of him, it feels like something entirely new.
He sucks in a deep breath. Tilts the student’s chin back.
“Laryngoscope.”
Sweeps the blade in, feels the resistance, sees the tightness in Carter's airway that he recognises as the marker of a severe asthma attack. How long was he lying here, ignored by his own parents, drowned out by the sounds of clinking glasses and monied laughter?
“Alright, Carter. I've got you, bud. Zadro, I'm gonna need a 7 and a half instead. He's almost completely obstructed.”
Mark has to tilt his chin back further, Zadro applying cricoid pressure, for the faintest glimmer of cords to appear. He seizes the moment, aware that if he doesn't he's going to have to place a crike, and advances the tube.
There.
“Alright, I'm in. Bag him.”
Zadro attaches the bag valve, and Mark’s eyes don't leave the impossible image before him. Carter, half dead, in a tux with a dress shirt that's now missing a couple of buttons. Carter, alone in a hallway, choking and rasping until a maid fetches help.
“End tidal CO2 is yellow.” Zadro announces.
Mark swallows. He can't think straight. He feels deeply nauseous.
“Good… good. Uh, epi. Sub-Q.”
As the paramedic nods, rifling around in his bag to draw up the medication, Mark reaches for Carter's limp hand and squeezes with all his might.
“You’re gonna be alright, Carter.” He whispers to closed eyes and deaf ears. “We’re looking after you now.”