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Fuck.
His head hurts. His stomach's cramping. He feels… sticky.
Fuck.
John doesn't need to open his eyes to know what he's going to see—a pool of red emanating from his boxers.
Thank God today's his day off.
He allows himself five minutes to wallow in his own misery and blood before he steels himself for the dash from his bed to the shower.
He strips himself down—avoiding the mirror—steps into the tepid spray, sits down, and sobs.
Peter wanted to surprise Carter, so he picked up an extra night shift so he could spend all day today with his partner.
When he walks in, he doesn't see him anywhere. "Carter?" He calls. No response.
He wanders through the living room and kitchen and finds no evidence he's been out yet. Pushing open the bedroom door, he's hit with several things at once.
Carter isn't in here, the shower is running, and the previously blue bedsheets are soaked and dark on his side of the bed.
Panic surges through him at first, but he forces himself to think rationally. If Carter's in the shower, he's clearly alive. So, Peter does what he does best: he cleans up.
He strips the bed, grateful for their mattress protector, and deems the sheets beyond saving. The protector goes into the wash on cold to avoid setting the stain, and he tosses the spare set of sheets into the dryer to freshen them up.
Bed taken care of, he focuses on his next task: clothes. He doesn't see Carter's pajamas anywhere, so he must have taken them into the bathroom with him. He tugs open the bottom drawer of their dresser, where he keeps his old med school gear, and pulls out the oversized UIC hoodie (Carter's favorite). He sets it on the dresser along with a utilitarian pair of briefs, a pad, and Peter's favorite plaid pajama pants.
He can still hear the shower running, so he moves on to his next objective: food.
Carter's either going to be nauseated or ravenous, so Peter takes the safe bet and starts on a batch of pancakes. Plain enough that he can eat it by itself or pile them high with various toppings to his heart's content.
He lets the batter sit while he makes the bed with the dryer-warmed sheets and listens. The water is still running.
He knocks gently on the bathroom door. "Carter, honey, are you alright?"
No response.
Peter pushes open the door to find Carter on the floor of the shower, knees pulled to his chest. His heart aches, and without thinking, he sheds his clothes and steps into the tub behind him.
"Hey, sweetheart…" he murmurs as he smoothes a hand across the back of his shoulders.
Carter lets out a thick sob and presses back into Peter's hand.
"Can you stand up for me?" He prompts, hauling Carter up under his arms. Red swirls towards the drain, washing away from where he was sitting.
"Oh, man… Just let me take care of you, yeah?"
His eyes are closed as he nods and presses his back into Peter's chest. Peter takes this opportunity to lather shampoo into his boy's hair, scrubbing at his scalp to relieve any tension he might be hiding. Once the suds have been thoroughly rinsed, he massages in the conditioner—detangling the russet strands with his fingers.
He can feel Carter's body pushing more heavily against him, tension bleeding out of his limbs. With a little prodding, he's able to get him to rest against the wall of the shower so Peter's free to soap up a rag and come around to his front.
Reverently, he takes one of Carter's hands in his and drags the cloth up his freckled arm. Washing away sweat and tension with surgical thoroughness. He sweeps across the breadth of his chest, down the soft plane of his stomach, over his sharp hipbones.
He kneels before him, a parishioner at the altar, channeling his devotion into the drag of his fingertips along his porcelain skin. The white cloth stains pink as Peter smoothes away the blood staining Carter's inner thighs; tangible evidence of his servitude. He drops the cloth to the shower floor in favor of gently, perfunctorily, rinsing away the blood matting down his pubic hair and coating his folds.
Carter makes a soft sound of protest, but Peter shushes him. "Please, John," he whispers against the skin of his hip.
Carter drops his head back into the stream of water and lets Peter finish his ministrations.
Satisfied with his work, Peter stands and shuts off the water. Carter is quiet and staring at him with wide, wet eyes filled with disbelief at the man before him. As if he doesn't deserve the adoration of a man like Peter.
Peter would argue he doesn't deserve a man like John.
He wraps Carter in a bath towel, drawing him in close. He lets Carter press his forehead into his shoulder and be held for a moment.
"You didn't have to do this," he mumbles against Peter's still damp skin.
"Yes, I did. Because I love you," he responds, easy as breathing. Carter lets out a little wounded sound, but Peter pretends he doesn't hear it, squeezing him a little tighter before pulling away to shake the towel through his hair.
His boy still doesn't seem up to talking, so he takes it upon himself to stick a pad to the gusset of his briefs for him, coaxing them up his legs and settling them on his hips. The sweatpants quickly follow—Peter makes sure to roll the cuffs a few times so they don't drag on the ground. He holds up the worn sweatshirt, and Carter raises his arms to let him slip it over his head—the sleeves brush the backs of his knuckles.
Taking him by the hand, Peter leads Carter over to the dryer-warmed bed and deposits him on top of the covers with a kiss to the crown of his head. "I'll be right back, honey."
Peter's skin is singing with the satisfaction of taking care of his John. He throws on a pair of his own sweats and fills a hot water bottle. While he lets that heat, he loads a plate with some of the fruit he'd cut up for the pancakes and a few slices of cheese; he's unwilling to be away from John any longer than he needs to.
When he steps back into the bedroom, Carter has curled in on himself, knees pulled into the hoodie. "Hey, Carter," he says, placing the plate on the nightstand.
Carter looks up and smiles when Peter brushes his hair back from his face. "You are a godsend, Peter," he groans, snatching up the hot water bottle to slip under his hoodie.
He lets a small smile onto his face, "I'd like you to eat something for me. It'll make you feel better."
Carter takes a peek at the plate and furrows his brow. He looks up at Peter, wary, but Peter doesn't budge.
"… Fine," he grumbles, popping a few strawberry pieces in his mouth.
"Good boy."
Carter blushes prettily at the praise and tugs on Peter's wrist. "Will you lie down with me?" He asks quietly.
His face softens, and he rolls his eyes at Carter's bashfulness. "Of course, baby." Peter climbs over his partner and settles behind him, slipping his hands underneath the hoodie to feel his warmth against his skin.
He tsks and pulls the hot water bottle away from his bare skin and slips it into the pocket of the sweatshirt instead.
"Hey! I was using that," Carter grumbles at him.
"Hush. You know you're not supposed to use it on bare skin; you're a doctor," Peter admonishes.
But he has mercy on his boy and lays his hands across his lower stomach, massaging slightly. Carter's head falls back to rest on Peter's shoulder, his eyes closed in contentment.
"Thank you, Peter. For all of this."
"Always, John. You deserve the world."
Peter lies there, happily letting his palms roam underneath his boy's sweatshirt as Carter dozes. He'll need to wake them up to eat real food eventually, but right now, he basks in the warmth of his partner in his arms and the trust he places in Peter to take care of him.
No place else he'd rather be.