A Rush of Blood to the Head

Back in the ER

The car stopped sharply at the hospital's loading and unloading zone. Peter rushed out and darted to the other side to help John.

He couldn't understand anything; Peter's actions and reactions, where they were or why they were there. John's shrunken eyes stared into his. "This is– What are we doing?" he asked, voice slow and slurred to a degree.

"C'mon. Work with me here," As gently as possible, Peter pulled John towards him. "I've gotta get you inside."

Once again, his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Panic engulfed him and he wasn't even sure why. The primal fight or flight kicked in without reason. "Don't touch me!" he snapped at him. John gripped at his tightening chest. His left arm became virtually useless, aching and numb.

"Carter, I think you're having an MI," In hindsight, Peter knew full well it was a dumb statement — of course, John knew he was having a heart attack, he wasn't stupid — but regardless, he had to say it, if for no other reason than to tell himself that it was nothing that couldn't be easily remedied, but only if they hauled ass into the hospital.

Reluctantly, John agreed to get out of the car, on the condition that he did it himself. It was a huge endeavour, but he managed it in the end. Both he and Peter walked through the sliding doors, then stopped at multiple rows of chairs.

"Okay," Peter put his hands on John's shoulders and intently looked him dead in the eye. "You stay here. I'll park the car," His instructions still fell on deaf ears. "Carter, go to the admit desk."

John stood there, eyes narrowed, struggling to comprehend. "What?"

"Oh, God," he uttered in a tone that suggested he had about enough of this. "Okay, um," Spotting an admissions desk clerk, he rushed up to them. "Excuse me. My, uh... friend is having a heart attack. He–" Peter pointed at John, only for his finger to brush against something right behind him.

"Owwuch!"

Peter whirled around and was startled and then irked to see John right there. "Carter, what the hell are you doing?"

Rubbing his cheek, barely concealing the deep, red mark that had already formed on his face, John said in a hurried, pained voice, "Can we go? I'm better now."

"You're friend here says you were having a heart attack," the lady behind the desk responded. "What's your name?"

"John Carter," Peter answered for him, while John kept talking over him, making justifications.

"What?" he wheezed out in disbelief. "No, no, no. I didn't. It was just stress. I'm fine."

"Oh, yeah?" Peter asked. "How do you explain not being able to be roused? Or losing your hearing?"

John counted on two of his fingers. "High blood pressure," Lingering on the second excuse, he had troubles actually coming up with one. Then a light bulb flicked on. "Deep sleep."

That's... all you could come up with?

I'm sure they'll buy it. Right?

Both of them slid John a gaze of scepticism.

The corner of John's mouth twisted and down-turned, forming a half-frown. Nope.

"Still," the woman said. "I don't like the sound of those symptoms. Just have a seat over there," She gestured to an empty bed and gave Peter a clipboard with some forms. "I'll have a nurse and doctor come and look him over."

Following a curt nod, Peter took John by the arm and led him towards it. It wasn't long before he pulled away from his grasp. "Carter, don't do this. You're obviously not well."