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It’s fine.
Everyone with eyes thinks Samira Mohan is breathtaking. Every person who looks at her is hit with a wave of infatuation that turns to admiration and then, eventually, veneration. Everyone stands in awe. Patients flirt with her constantly. Jack doesn’t know how she stands it all. The attention, the lingering touches, the terrible jokes.
He has been awake for fourteen hours, and it’s only 10:00 AM, but it’s fine. Jack is fine. Everything is fine.
“You look pathetic.” Dana’s voice startles him from his attempt at compartmentalization. She shoves a protein bar into Jack’s hand before following his line of sight to Central 7, where Samira has her head thrown back in a laugh, her gloved hands attending to the laceration on his calf. “You can’t run recon on your crush all day.”
Jack straightens his spine, shifts back on his heels. His residual leg aches in his socket already. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, you’re just staring daggers at Mr. Hancock for unrelated reasons?”
“Mr. Hancock got a first name?”
“You could go ask him,” She offers. “Or you could do your damn job and look at the board.”
In Central 7, Samira smiles. Then, Mr. Hancock smiles. Two big, perfect, matching smiles. Jack grits his teeth, winces at the grinding of bone against bone, but doesn’t stop himself.
Jack buries his hands in his pockets. He pushes down the envy clawing up his throat and banishes it to the pit of his stomach. Jealousy is embarrassing and useless. Even if it wasn’t grossly unethical and in violation of HR guidelines, Jack is not as tall or as broad or as charming as the man in front of Samira right now. He’s certainly not as young. Who the fuck did Jack think he was, pining over a resident 15 years his junior anyway? What made him think he was the person most deserving of her attention? Jack tears his eyes away from Central 7 and surveys the board for the grizzliest case he can find. His gaze rolls over the column reading Brian Hancock. July 4th is their busiest day of the year. He will treat countless explosive injuries. He will see at least one traumatic amputation.
It’s fine.
Jack resets a dislocated shoulder in Central Six, the placement of which is incidental and unimportant. He hears Brian ask for her number, the details of which are familiar and not any of his business. He runs into Samira as she’s leaving the exam room, the timing of which is coincidental and not worth noting.
“How’s your leg lac?” Jack finds himself asking for reasons that aren’t worth examining.
“Ready to be discharged,” Samira says, tucking her pen into her scrub pocket. “How’s your dislocation?”
“Relocated.” He says it too quickly, too forcefully. “Reduced, I mean.”
Samira nods. “Good,” she says.
“Good,” Jack echoes.
And it is good. Everything is good. Everything is fine. Jack keeps his head down. He does what he does best: work. He barely flinches at the sight of mangled fingers that remind him of what it looks like when someone doesn’t let go of a grenade in time. He does not dwell on just how much it reminds him of close-quarters combat. He watches as Jesse cuts the dog tags off of an MVA victim.
He works and he works. If he happens to be on every code that Samira is not, it’s likely nothing of note. If he takes the long way around the department to avoid saying something odd and stilted, it’s merely professional. Jack is her supervisor, he is her friend, and he is not young and charismatic anymore.
July 4th is the busiest day of the year, so Jack works until Robby tells him he has to take five or else he’s going to sic Gloria on him.
Samira Mohan is waiting for him at his usual work station, which is also fine. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and he’s sure that’s fine too. “Have I done something?”
He blinks hard. Jack has been awake for twenty hours. “What?”
“Robby is breathing down my neck, and Dana keeps looking at me over her glasses. I can handle that,” She moves to the right as he does. “But you’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Most days, when I look up, you’re already looking at me.”
“It’s the busiest day of the year.” He’s been repeating it in his head like a mantra. It’s fine. It’s busy.
Samira takes a sharp inhale. Jack cannot help but wonder what her heart rate is. Can’t stop himself from imagining pressing two fingers to her wrist and taking her pulse. “Right,” He watches as her brown eyes shift into something more solid. “Sorry, Dr. Abbot.”
The change in her posture isn’t something he should read into it.
He works a double. Always has on the 4th of July, always will on the 4th of July. It’s the easiest way to keep himself sane. It’s the safest place to be if sanity escapes him. Samira also works a double. She likes working doubles. She said once that working twenty-four hours in a row is one of the only ways she can prove her worth to herself. Clearly, neither of them should be here. They both are.
From 5:00 PM to 7:00 AM, they don’t speak. It’s fine.
Jack weathers the night. He box-breathes, grounds himself with all the stupid exercises his therapist taught him. He watches the fireworks from the roof because it’s easier when he can see them. Jack watches the fireworks. If Samira watches him, he doesn’t notice. He’s busy. He’s watching the fireworks.
If they don’t talk much over the next week, when they would typically be attached at the hip during a shift, he doesn’t think about it. If she sends him a journal article titled ‘Unexpected Challenges: A Case Report of Hantavirus Infection in a Pregnant Patient in a Rural Emergency Department’, along with a text that says ‘Thought of you!’, he must have just missed it. If Jack pushes down something heavy and clawed that crawls up his throat, it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter until he spots her blinking back tears by the Hub at handoff. She turns and walks the second her tablet has landed in McKay’s hands. Jack tracks her brisk steps up 12 flights of stairs. He follows her. It probably matters. Even Jack can admit that.
“You alright, Dr. Mohan?” Samira is a less frequent visitor to the roof. This is a place for people like Jack and Robby. People with their glory days behind them.
“Don’t do this.” Samira is turned away from him, her back to the door. Her voice is choked.
“Do what?”
Samira looks at his approach over her shoulder and huffs. He imagines brushing her hair out of her face, carefully tucking her curls behind her ears. “Just leave me alone, Jack.”
His boots crunch against the detritus below. “You’re in my spot.”
“I need some air.”
A stalemate. If they were merely colleagues, it wouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter, because Jack is 15 years older than her. He is someone with all his best days behind him. He is not bright or promising in all the ways that she is. He could walk away. He probably should. Jack places himself beside her, feels the frighteningly familiar presence of her infiltrate his system. “Did something happen?” Samira’s eyes are red. Her face is wet. Her jaw is set with frustration. Even if she wasn’t crying, he would know something was wrong based on her posture alone.
“This is the first time you’ve looked me in the eye in days.” Samira wipes at her cheeks with her sleeve. “I’m not crying about you, by the way, I’m just,” she huffs, exasperated. “I have had a terrible week, and I lost a patient, and I had to take a cold shower because my water heater is broken.” She lets out a focused exhale. “Usually, I would tell you that, but you’re not talking to me, and I don’t even know why you’re upset.”
He speaks before he thinks. Moves forward just slightly so he can get a better view of her face. “I’m not upset.”
“I’ve been Dr. Mohan all week. I’ve been Samira for months, and now I’m Dr. Mohan again. You’re like my only friend here,” her laugh is wet and disbelieving. “And I don’t have any hot water.”
“I can fix your water heater.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Samira,”
Samira rolls her eyes, seemingly at herself, but he’s not entirely sure. Just feels the deep sting of a mistake. A searing, stumbling away sort of pain. “This whole thing is incredibly stupid. I already feel stupid, so you’ve succeeded, if that’s what you’re here to do.”
“Why would I want to do that?” He asks. Jack stands with his hands in his pockets, his eyes trained on Samira. “I figured if you were seeing someone, you wouldn’t want me hovering. I didn’t mean any—You’re not stupid, Samira. God knows, you aren’t stupid. You’re the—”
“The smartest one here? Well, if I’m seeing someone, it’s news to me.” Samira examines him through her tear-wet lashes, her cheek pinched between her molars. “Can you shut up for like, two minutes, please?”
Before Jack can finish nodding, Samira is on him, her face buried in his neck, arms curled in towards her chest. He stands shocked-still for a moment, then two, before one of his hands finds the back of her head, thumb brushing back and forth against her hair. Her tears come harder and faster before her breathing evens out. The scent of shampoo fills his nostrils. Samira told him to shut up, but he can’t stop himself from saying, “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.”
And yeah, it matters. Samira matters.
“I’ve really missed you,” she confesses into his shoulder. Jack considers that his chest might crack open from the sheer weight of his own foolishness.
Jack presses his lips against her temple. He stands there as long as Samira allows him to stand with her. He watches the sun rise over Pittsburgh through Samira Mohan’s curls. Jack is silent for so long that he has to clear his throat before he says, “I have hot water.”