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It’s sort of impossible, Samira relents, perfection . It’s the nature of the beast when it comes to live television. You’ll witness magic, brilliance on occasion, but never perfection.
It doesn’t stop her from reaching for it.
After all, a woman, when faced with the impossible, has two choices before her. She can spend the rest of her days forging a shiny suit of armor or she can jump straight into the fire and see what it might feel like to claw her way out while the flames lick at her heels. And while Samira may be predisposed towards the former, she’s come to realize she thrives in the latter, chases it even.
It’s why she still feels a little out of place in the studio as Princess impatiently powders her nose and smudges a glossy red against her lips. There’s never time for touch ups in the field.
“Morning, Mohan,” comes the greeting, deep and grizzled, as he takes his seat beside her. Well-worked hands ruffle through the neatly stapled stack of paper, squaring up the edges. Always good to have a back up , Jack Abbot, former war correspondent, had told her, with a half-smile on her first day. “No coffee, today?”
She shrugs, “I’m finally getting used to the hours.”
“Nobody gets used to the 4:45am call time,” he chuckles. She’s seen him throw back espresso shots like water.
“Well, it is only temporary.”
“What?” he smirks, “Nine more weeks together means nothing to you?”
“It’ll fly by,” she says, “Just watch.”
“You say that like it's a good thing.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks, not sure who she’s trying to convince more: him or herself. Because despite the sudden transition, in-studio anchor is the promotion she never thought she’d have, however impermanent it is. Samira will be thrilled, of course, when Heather and Robby are back from paternity leave, but now that she’s had a taste of opportunity, she knows going back will be its own heartbreak.
For the first time in her career, she’s actually calling shots and it's wickedly addictive. She’s not just telling stories. For once, she’s actually shaping the narrative of what gets told.
And that’s just the half of it.
The other half?
Well, it’s the man beside her. They’re good together. Like frighteningly so.
Like when-did-you-crawl-into-my-brain-and-establish-permanent-residence so.
Jack had been the immediate (and obvious) replacement pick for Robby when Heather’s pregnancy had been announced. He typically anchored the 11 o’clock show but agreed to pull double duty for the time being after a bit of cajoling and a healthy summer bonus. Samira, on the other hand, was one of many, many candidates considered for Heather’s position. And so, when faced with a challenge, Samira did what she always did when she wanted something: she came in on her off days, arrived early for all her screentests and fittings, and spent hours preparing and practicing. It wasn’t until Heather called her personally, did she realize the network had chosen her, or rather, he had chosen her. And god, was that feeling equally addictive, if not more so.
There was something about having Abbot’s seal of approval stamped across her chest that felt distinctly different from Robby’s or Heather’s. She likes how loose he is with praise around her, the way he hands it to her like it’d be more unnatural not to, rather than treating it like some sacred thing she has to plead for. He doesn’t reprimand her for spending too long on a single story, simply asks if or how he can help. Samira wouldn’t say she’s attracted to him, but she would be lying if she didn’t admit he’s exactly the sort of sexy a late night news anchor should be.
Which is to say, ridiculously sexy.
But it’s not about a crush on a coworker (or really, Samira must insist, a lack thereof).
She’s taken something from each of her previous mentors: Robby’s empathy, Heather’s conviction. But Jack? She thinks he’s teaching her courage. He brings something out of her: this version of herself that hesitates less, that’s fearless and resourceful and unapologetic about trusting her gut. Samira’s a better journalist now than she was twenty-eight days ago (she’s sure of it) but it’s a high with an expiry date and she, like everything that goes up, must eventually come tumbling down.
The broadcast light blinks on, red and unyielding. Quiet on set , Dana calls out somewhere in the murky darkness behind the camera. Samira sits up, spine straightening, her eyes settling on the slow scroll of the script at the teleprompter. Abbot opens up the show with the formalities before handing the headlines over to her, a routine they’ve fallen easily into. There are less nerves now, as what was once unfamiliar has turned into a habit, comfortable and unthreatening. When they wrap around to the final story of the day, he gives her a devastatingly playful grin, which she thinks must read to the audience as easygoing and lighthearted but all she can focus on is the devious glint in his eye.
“Actually, Samira, why don’t you take this one?” he says, like it’s exactly what he’s supposed to say. (It’s not, it’s really not.)
There’s a shocked ‘what’ threatening to fall from her lips but she swallows it with a smile, hoping her eyes don’t betray her as she assesses the situation, trying to ignore the soft shuffling going on behind the camera as the words on the prompter come to halt. It’s at this exact moment she knows there’s no graphic to cut to, no safety net segment to switch to, just the soft pivot of camera three as it cuts tight and zooms in on her close up. She doesn’t breathe, she can’t.
Oh, fuck him.
“Thanks Jack,” she grins, because she’s a professional. Because she’s prepared. Because she won’t sink, even if she has to doggy-paddle her way through whatever shitstorm this is. (Test? Challenge? Hazing ritual?)
“The numbers aren’t everything in today’s story. The CDC has released new data on burnout in healthcare workers–”
Samira finishes her off-the-cuff overview of the findings without so much as a hitch in her breath and when she finishes, she can feel his eyes on her. She won’t turn her head to look, not when she already knows what she’ll find: the usual respect and probably a little awe if she’s actually done as well as she thinks she has. Eventually, when they break for commercial and Samira decides the curiosity has gnawed at her for long enough, she does chance a glance in his direction, and she sees something much, much worse, something resembling hunger .
When they hand off the show to Shen and Ellis and the red light finally flickers off signalling the end of the broadcast, she rises from her seat without so much as a word. She’s a little pissed but mostly giddy when she looks in the mirror, her expression a touch off-kilter as she tries to reconcile the two emotions, wiping off her lipstick and lingering anxieties with a makeup wipe.
There’s a knock at her door.
“It’s open,” she says, assuming Dana’s come to debrief, except the door creaks open and it’s Abbot. She frowns, displeased.
“You were good, Mohan. Really, really good.”
“That was a cheap shot and you know it.”
“Actually, Santos charged me $40 to fuck with the teleprompter, if you can believe,” he laughs. “I’m joking, she only charged $20 and it was the network’s idea, not mine.”
“It’s really not funny,” she says, “Throwing me to live-broadcast wolves.”
“Come on, I knew you probably read the entire study cover to cover before you even got to set,” he counters. “And if you weren’t up for it, I had it handled.”
“I did. Still a shitty thing to do.”
“You were ready, Mohan,” he says, evenly, “More than ready.”
“So, it was all some network test, then? For what?” she asks, quietly trying to piece together a puzzle she’s seemingly lost the box for.
“You didn’t hear it from me but they are eyeing you for the 11 o’clock slot.”
“You're retiring?” she asks, a little bewildered.
“Mohan, seriously, I know I’m old but not retirement old. I’m forty-fucking-eight,” he grumbles, running a hand through his curls, “The network thinks you might bump late night ratings. Apparently, audiences are responding well to our…chemistry.”
“Oh, I see,” she says, keeping her face neutral. “I guess it makes sense to test how I’d respond to pressure but I’m still annoyed. I feel like there has to be a better way than on air blindsides.”
“You don’t feel a little good, right now? Like you didn’t just absolutely crush that?” he’s smiling fondly, like he can see through her front. Like he can see straight through her.
She breaks.
“Jack, I feel on fire .”
“Yeah?” he says. He’s looking at her with such earnest admiration she wants to bottle it up and inject it intravenously.
“Yeah,” she grins. “Who knew conquering manufactured catastrophes could feel so good?”
“I think only you could describe a situation as ‘conquering manufactured catastrophes.’”
She laughs. “I like big words. Sue me.”
He pauses, like he’s studying her, like he's deciding how he wants to play it.
“I like you, Mohan.”