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Obviously she hadn’t meant to shock him. She did feel bad about it.
By the time Haleh was down on the floor checking on him, saying he was fine with a very slight smile on her face, she let herself think yeah, it was a little funny. He did deserve a little shock, from the bits of gossip she heard flitting around the ER.
But she had been raised to be polite, and she had to apologize. Hours later, Haleh leaves the exam room after revealing the little prank they played on him and she thinks this is a good enough time. She waits until she gets her smile under control. His eyes are starting to soften from indignation to amusement, so he must not be that mad.
“I really am sorry.”
“I don’t know how you would even apologize for accidentally shocking someone with a defibrillator,” he replies. “So I guess I accept.”
She can think of one thing. “I don’t either, but I feel like I have to try. Let me buy you dinner.”
Oh no. He’s getting an infuriating little twinkle in his eye. “If I didn’t know any better Deb, I’d think you were—”
“Maybe it wasn’t that much of an accident.”
He’s the one smiling now. “Okay, okay. A free dinner is a free dinner.”
“Better.”
The thing was, she wouldn’t exactly mind if it was a date. Because despite the fact that he annoyed her and pushed her buttons, she couldn’t help but like him just a little.
She couldn’t stand it. The fact in itself annoyed her, that she wasn’t any better than any of the giggling nurses or frequent flyers that had a soft spot for him.
Despite herself, she keeps thinking about him. She noticed that she wasn’t necessarily his type. She wasn’t nearly blonde enough (she would rather shock him again than fry her hair with bleach for him) but she isn't blind. As bumbling as she is, as nervous as she feels, she knows she's beautiful. There's a flicker of interest trying to ignite into something more, but she's been stomping it out.
Under the petty squabbles and annoyances, another part of her thinks: Why not lean into it? A date isn't dating. It doesn't have to mean anything. Not that it can, anyway. Her parents have a man in mind for her, and John Carter isn't their type. She's pretty sure they're the only ones his charm can't touch (besides maybe Dr. Benton. But she suspects even he isn't immune).
Not that it is a date. It's more like…satisfying a curiosity.
As is their way, they bicker back and forth over potential dinner places.
“Last I checked, I asked you, so it’s up to me, isn’t it?” she says to him when they’re alone in the lounge.
“Well I thought it wasn’t a date? It’s an apology dinner, so shouldn’t I make sure I like the food?”
She takes the last sip of her awful burnt coffee. “Are you afraid I’m going to poison you?”
He tilts his head. “Well, you did almost kill me once, so you can’t blame a guy for being a little nervous.”
Her hand is already on the doorknob. Butterflies flutter in her stomach as she turns her head and says, “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
It turns out their bickering is for naught. Their schedules are too hectic and her grandpa's sick, so she visits her family on her days off. They settle on Doc McGoo’s after a shift. Which is fine. Because it isn't a date. And she's too tired to be nervous. If he sees her be nervous around him, he'll never shut up about it, and he doesn't need more material to tease her with.
Still, she brushes her hair in the bathroom before leaving and puts on a touch of lipstick. Nothing too noticeable (to a man, anyway. Haleh and Lydia tell her to have a good night a little too pointedly). So what if she wants to keep him waiting a little.
“Sorry,” she feigns a little breathlessness sliding into the booth across from him. “Had to finish some charts.”
“Sure,” he smiles and feigns looking at the menu. They both know it by heart.
Once she settles in properly, she notices he smells good. Too good after coming off a shift. Something natural, pine and sandalwood.
They order and sit in silence for a little bit, letting themselves slump in their seats. It should feel strange to sit there and just look at each other. Instead it feels like recognition. Yes, I’m tired too. Yes, I’m questioning my life choices. Today was so fucking hard. You’re here. I’m here. We made it.
Eventually, John says, “I forget how good it feels to sit down.”
“And breathe. Properly. Full inhale and exhale.”
“Does it feel a little selfish to you, too? Like someone’s gonna yell at you for it?”
Yes, actually. She knows the feeling too well.
Predictably, they fall into a rhythm talking about work, about school, and then where they had grown up, why they had chosen medicine. It feels almost too normal for them. Both of them coming from money, their childhoods share a similar outline. The strange insularity, the loneliness of it, despite having so much. The discomfort they both felt when they moved out of their bubbles for medical school and were confronted with how comfortable they really had been compared to some of their classmates (and now, patients). Of course, it was slightly different. No one in his family’s circle questioned whether the Carters deserved their money or were a little too interested in how they had ‘managed’ to get it.
She realizes she hasn’t really gotten to actually talk to someone properly in a while, her world reduced to fragments of conversation exchanged in the midst of crisis. As much as she enjoys their banter, this more serious conversation was nice too.
She notices though, that he gets a little too stiff when he brings up anyone but his brother or grandmother. Despite some teenage spats over the years, her relationship with her parents is quite good in comparison. Luckily, their food comes before he gets too uncomfortable and they’re able to change the subject.
“Sorry for almost killing you,” she apologizes before they start eating.
“To not dying,” he says. They toast their drinks.
After they eat, the waitress asks about dessert. She ends up getting herself a slice of cherry pie, and John declines. The waitress comes back with one plate and two forks.
She pushes the plate to the center of the table. “Since I feel so bad and all.”
“How generous,” he picks up his fork and they trade bites.
She’s not sure why she says it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, she doesn’t know. “I don’t think I can do it. Be a doctor,”
“I don’t think anyone does,” he says. “But you can.”
Like it’s that simple. When she looks at him, his eyes are sure. Serious in a way they’ve never been, and for a second she believes him.
“I don’t know that I want to be a surgeon,” he says, offering his own confession in return. “I thought I did. But I really like the ER. Interacting with patients.”
She knows that she should offer some sort of comfort back, but she can’t help herself. “Yeah, because patients really like you.”
When he smiles back at her, she knows that maybe reverting back to their usual joking was in itself comfort. “I do like a little bit of attention.”
“A little?” Never mind that she’s giving him some right now.
“Okay, a lot.” he plays with a bit of pie on the plate. “Benton said something about me not thinking like a surgeon. I still feel like I want to prove him wrong, so that could be a sign that I should stick with it? I don’t know.”
She raises her glass again. “To not knowing what the fuck we’re doing.”
After they leave, he insists on walking her to the El. She does not think about holding his hand.
They feel the train coming before they see it, the ground rumbling below their feet. She turns to say goodbye to him, pressing her hand to his chest.
It’s too loud for words. His eyes are fixed on hers, hypnotized. All she can feel is the quickening beat of his heart under her hand. A small bird trying to flutter into her palm.
Until: His lips are on hers, gentle as snowfall.
She thinks of Mary Poppins, a movie she loved as a child. She jumped into a beautiful painting that the rain will surely wash away.
The train stops, the doors open. She walks toward them. Her face is warm.
“Thanks for the dinner,” he tells her once she’s in the train car.
She smiles and gives him a singular nod before the doors close and she disappears into the inkblot Chicago night.