Chapter Text
Carter sighed. Not like a “tired at the end of the day” sigh. More like the kind of sigh your soul makes when everything is too much. His feet were killing him. His head was pounding in this dull, nagging kind of way that made his vision blurry when he stood up too fast. And his stomach? Empty. So empty it was past hunger. It was like it gave up asking.
He groaned as he got off the couch. The springs creaked under his weight and the cheap fabric scratched at his bare arms. His back popped. His knees protested. And he muttered, "Twenty five ain’t supposed to feel like eighty."
The apartment was dark. Just a sliver of amber streetlight crept in from the window with the broken blinds. The smell of Lysol and leftover spaghetti—God, again—hung in the air. But it was home. Sort of.
Present-Carter was a med student. A broke, burned out, barely-holding-it-together father of two. Rotations was brutal. The hours were long, the pay was non-existent, and the patients kept bleeding, coding, and throwing up all over his scrubs.
And on top of that, he taught horseback riding lessons on the weekends for extra cash. Which was hilarious considering he barely had time to breathe, let alone saddle a horse. But the guy who ran the stables let him bring the kids. Joanna loved the horses. Theodore mostly just liked the way they smelled.
He stepped over a pile of laundry that he swore was clean when it came out of the dryer but now looked suspicious. Probably kid-snot. Maybe applesauce. Maybe blood. Unclear.
He made his way to the bedroom. It was small. Stupid small. The kind of place you don’t want to live in unless you absolutely have to. He had the couch. The kids had the room. Priorities.
He padded barefoot down the hall to the bedroom. Technically the bedroom. The only bedroom. The kids had it, of course. He’d never questioned that. The couch was his now. Always had crumbs in the cushions and springs in the wrong places, but it was his.
The door was cracked open. Ocean sounds played low on the white noise machine. The one he got at Goodwill for four bucks. Worth every cent. Just loud enough to cover the traffic outside, the neighbors screaming two doors down, and the fact that their walls were practically made of paper.
He peeked in.
Joanna was sprawled sideways across the bed like a little starfish. One leg kicked out of the blanket. Her stuffed T-Rex was tucked under her chin, her little chest rising and falling steady. She snored, kinda like a baby piglet, but Carter found it cute. Always had. Her curls were a tangled mess and there was dirt under her nails. Probably from the flower pot she had “replanted” earlier. She had her Spiderman pajamas on. Again. Even though they were two sizes too small and the buttons didn’t reach her belly anymore. Her inhaler was tucked under her pillow. Just in case.
Theodore—his baby boy, his gentle soul—was curled up in his own bed. His favorite stuffed bunny tucked neatly beside him, hands clutching the soft fabric of his pajama shirt. The medical-grade black-out curtains Carter bought secondhand were drawn tight. Not that Theo could see anyway. But Carter always worried about light hurting his eyes even still. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe guilt. Maybe instinct.
He was in a soft blue onesie and his little hands were clutched around Joanna’s leg. Like she was his anchor. His whole world.
His tiny glasses—the special kind for low vision—sat on the nightstand, even though he barely used them. He didn’t like them. Said they made everything feel “floaty.”
Carter smiled. Tired, pained, aching—but he smiled. He walked in on quiet feet and adjusted Joanna’s blanket. Then gently repositioned Theodore’s bunny so it wasn’t squishing his face. He kissed both of their foreheads. brushing curls off her sticky forehead. Theo whimpered softly. He leaned over to Theo next and whispered, “Daddy loves you, kiddo.”
He kissed the top of his son’s head, careful not to wake him. He was always careful with Theo. Gentle touches, low tones. The boy startled easy. Theo relaxed and curled into his sister.
Carter stood, his knees popping again, and let out a sigh that hurt his ribs a little. The air smelled like lavender and toddler breath and something faintly sour. He didn’t even want to know what.
“Goodnight, Jellybean. Goodnight, Teddy Bear,” he whispered.
He stood there for a second longer, just... breathing. Watching them. Letting the stillness of this one perfect moment fill him before the rest of the storm came back.
Back to work.
“Daddy’s gonna clean up the war zone now.”
The place had to be spotless. CPS was coming. Again.
He didn't even bother being angry about it anymore. His parents had money, power, and lawyers. And opinions. God, did they have opinions. About his life. His choices. His kids. His damn laundry.
He moved back to the living room, grabbed the broom, and started sweeping up goldfish crumbs and dried playdough bits.
He was exhausted. No. That word was too soft. He was wrecked. Burned out. Strung tight like a banjo string. He was a med student, still doing his rotations. He didn’t get paid for that. Hell, he paid for the privilege of being tortured daily in a white coat that never quite fit right.
And yeah. He was poor. But he gave his kids everything. He skipped meals for them. Skipped sleep. Worked himself to the bone. He knew what love looked like now. It looked like tiny socks and a fridge full of juice boxes and tearful bedtime stories and throwing up in your scrubs because Theo had the flu and you were too broke to take a sick day.
He dropped down onto the floor and started picking up toys. A Spiderman, two army men figures, and a random rock Joanna said was “magic.” He didn’t doubt it. That kid could charm a hurricane.
And when he wasn’t studying, caring for his kids, or in the hospital, he was teaching horseback riding lessons. Odd jobs on the weekends. Sometimes he helped fix bikes. Once he walked some old lady’s Pomeranian five days in a row for twenty bucks.
He was on food stamps. He knew which store took 'em without being a dick about it. Knew which clerk would bag things up without giving him a pity look.
He went hungry a lot. He didn’t care. He wasn’t hungry for himself anymore. He was hungry for them. For their safety. For their childhoods. For their chance at something better.
Carter picked up a toy truck and sat it on the shelf. Then he opened the fridge. Empty. A slice of American cheese and some leftover spaghetti in a stained Tupperware.
He laughed bitterly. “Guess it’s a spaghetti night for me too,” he muttered. “Again.”
He microwaved it, ate it standing up. Chewed slow. Thought about coffee. There wasn’t any.
He leaned on the counter, staring at the fridge like it might magically fill itself if he glared hard enough.
Because CPS was coming. Tomorrow.
His stomach twisted thinking about it. His parents had filed another petition. Again. Trying to get custody. Again.
It never ended.
He grabbed the spray cleaner—generic brand—and started wiping the counters. There were Cheerio crumbs in the corners. Crayon marks on the wall. One of the dining chairs was missing a leg and he still hadn’t figured out how to fix it. He barely had time to pee in peace, let alone play carpenter.
He moved onto the bathroom. Cleaned the tub. Scrubbed the toilet. Scraped toothpaste out of the sink. The whole time, his brain buzzing with everything he still had to do. Finish his case notes. Read for tomorrow’s shift. Try to find another odd job to cover next week’s electric bill.
He glanced at the fridge. There was a sticky note that read:
Food stamps refill on Friday.
And under that, written in Joanna’s lopsided handwriting:
Daddy don’t forget peanut butter again!!
He chuckled softly, then sighed again.
How far he’d fallen.
Once the golden boy of the Carter family. Rich. Groomed. Everything laid out for him. And now? A broke med student in a one-bedroom shoebox with two kids. Raising them alone. Half-starving. Moonlighting as a horseback riding instructor for rich suburban kids just to make ends meet.
And he’d do it all again. A hundred times over.
They were his. His babies. His heart. His reason for getting up every morning and pushing through even when his bones screamed at him to stay down.
He thought about Amanda.
They were both eighteen. They didn’t even know each other well. Their families arranged it. Some upper-crust society nonsense. He barely remembers the wedding, but he remembers the panic after.
Amanda got pregnant within the first month. She was scared. So was he. But he wanted to be a dad. Even if he had no clue how to do it. Joanna came in screaming and squirming and perfect.
Amanda cried when she heard it was a girl.
Carter didn’t care. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.
He didn’t blame Amanda. He never really had.
They were young, scared, impulsive. Got pregnant with Joanna just a month in. Amanda tried, she did. But she unraveled fast.
Joanna came into the world screaming. Perfect. Wild. Brilliant. But Amanda had looked at her and just... checked out.
“She doesn’t stop crying,” she said.
“She smells,” she said.
“She’s not what I wanted,” she said.
Carter had taken over everything after that. Every bottle. Every diaper. Every sleepless night.
Amanda, she couldn’t bond. Couldn’t connect. Said the crying made her feel like she was underwater. Said she didn’t want to be a mom. Carter had stepped up. Taken the brunt. Bottle-fed, rocked her, sang lullabies with a raw throat.
And Amanda never wanted to be a mom.
Then—bam. Pregnant again.
They didn’t even think it was possible to get pregnant so soon, but it happened. Amanda’s body wasn’t ready. And neither was she. And when Theo came along, Joanna barley a year old—so early, so blue—everything crumbled. Amanda screamed at the machines. Screamed at Carter. Screamed at God. And when she left… Carter let her. She needed to go. And those babies needed him.
Theodore was born early. Too early. They said he’d never make it. He didn’t breathe for two full minutes. But then he cried.
And Carter sobbed. Right there in the NICU, clutching that impossibly tiny hand, sobbing like a man who’d found God and lost Him all at once.
Amanda never forgave him for it.
She hated the crying. The mess. The responsibility. She wanted out.
So Carter gave her a way out.
He took the kids. Raised them. With his parents’ help at first. Until he found the bruises. On Joanna’s arm. Finger-shaped. Purple and dark.
For a while his parents helped. They called it “helping.” But he didn’t like the way they talked to Joanna. Told her she needed to sit proper. To stop getting dirty. To stop yelling. She was four. That’s what four-year-olds do.
Theo was even worse. They said he was broken. Called his blindness a stain on the family name.
He should’ve left sooner. He knows that now.
“She’s not acting like a proper lady,” his mother had said.
“She likes bugs and dirt and frogs and screams too loud,” his father had added.
They were worse to Theodore. Called him soft. Said he was broken. Said he needed to be fixed.
That’s when Carter lost it.
And when they started talking about some new experimental procedure to try to “cure” Theodore’s blindness—something risky, not even FDA approved—Carter packed a bag.
He had a bruise on his cheek. A busted lip. Two toddlers hanging off him like barnacles. He didn’t even take half their things. Had 20 dollars in his pocket. And just ran.
He should have done it sooner.
Now here he was.
Tired. Hungry. On food stamps. Sometimes going without food or sleep. Juggling school, residency, horses, freelance tutoring. Whatever paid the bills. A Tiny apartment. CPS breathing down his neck. Med school draining his soul. And two kids who looked at him like he was made of magic.
But his kids were safe. And happy. And loved.
Joanna had her Spiderman pajamas and her bug collection and her asthma meds. Theodore had his bunny and his music box and soft blankets.
Carter wiped a tear away he didn’t remember forming and went back to scrubbing the bathtub.
He thought about about the night he
left, he had Theo on one hip, Joanna on the other, and a busted lip. They were both screaming. Carter was crying too. But he didn’t stop walking.
He found a place. One bedroom. Cheap. Small. Crappy plumbing. But safe. And his. He went back to the kitchen, the microwave beeping. He sat down on the couch, head in his hands, spaghetti gone cold on the counter. He’d forgotten about. No longer hungry.
Nobody at County knew. He couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t risk it. People talked. They gossiped. And CPS would use anything to take his kids.
So he lived this weird double life. Dr. John Carter: charming, quirky, hard-working ER doc. Then: Carter, dad of two. Tired. Broke. Unshaven. Unshowered. Happy. So damn happy when they laughed.
He heard Joanna cough down the hall. That wheeze again. Shit.
He was up like a shot. Down the hall, hand on her back. She stirred.
“Daddy?” she croaked.
“I got you, bug. I got you.”
He gave her the inhaler. Sat beside her until the wheezing softened.
“I don’t like the man who comes and looks at us,” she whispered, half-asleep.
“Me either,” Carter said softly.
“Do we gotta be good?”
Carter hesitated.
“You gotta be you, okay? That’s better than good.”
She nodded, eyes closing again.
Carter kissed her forehead. “Sleep tight, bug.”
He slipped down on the ground and let himself lie down. There wasn’t time to sleep. But he’d close his eyes for a second.
One second.
Just one.
And in that second, he dreamed of a day when he wouldn’t have to hide. When his kids would be safe. When he could breathe.
For now, though…
He curled up on the floor next to the kids bed, under a blanket that smelled vaguely of peanut butter and baby powder. His whole life was chaos. His kids were wild. His body hurt.
But damn if he wasn’t the luckiest son of a bitch alive.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow was another monster.
But tonight?
He was still here.
And they were safe.