Work Text:
“Oh….sorry.”
Samira turns to leave, but a gentle tug at her wrist pulls her back, spins her around. Jack reaches past her to draw the curtain closed.
“No, you’re not,” he teases, stopping inches from her nose.
“Shhh,” she whispers. “Someone might hear you.”
“Oh, come on. Admit it! You’re enjoying the show.”
“John Patrick Abbot,” she scolds, “hush your mouth.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at her with that impish grin she knows too well.
“Say it, baby,” he smirks.
She sighs, the corners of her mouth betraying her as her eyes track over his chest and down his torso. “Fine,” she murmurs. “I’m enjoying the show.”
She presses both hands to his chest and guides him back until he’s sitting on the exam bench.
“What I don’t enjoy,” she continues, jutting out her lower lip in exaggerated pity, “is this abrasion forming on your shoulder blade.”
“Yeah,” he says with a sigh, angling himself so she can see it. “Hence, the shirt coming off. I was going to put something on it, but…” He shrugs. “Can’t reach.”
He angles his shoulder so she can see it better. The abrasion is angry red. A shallow scrape dusted with grime, already starting to welt.
Samira clicks her tongue softly. “You’re lucky it’s superficial.”
“Lucky’s kind of my thing,” Jack says lightly, but there’s a tightness at the edge of his smile she’s learned to notice. Especially today.
She reaches for gloves, snapping them on with practiced ease, then holds out her hand for him to drop the tube of bacitracin into. “You do something heroic,” she murmurs, digging through the drawer for gauze and Tegaderm, “or just stupid?”
“Eh. Little of both.” He pauses, then hisses as she gently cleans the wound. “I had the vest on too long, so it was already getting irritated, and then I—oof—”
“Sorry,” she whispers.
He shakes it off and continues. “I swooped in front of a little girl who was toddling way too close to the fireworks station, tripped on a curb, and went down hard on my side.”
“Yeah…that would do it,” she hums, more to herself than to him. “I’m going to put some bacitracin on it and then cover it up, okay?”
“Whatever you say, Dr. Mohan.” His smile is easy. “You can do a full head-to-toe assessment if you need. I can bend and cough—”
He starts to turn, but she catches his chin and nudges it back, firm but gentle, making him face forward.
“If you keep this up,” she warns, “you’re getting a prostate exam.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
She snorts softly and reaches for the gauze.
“How’s it going here today?” he asks, casual, like he isn’t watching her in the reflection of the stainless steel cabinet.
“It’s all right. Everyone’s a little jittery with Robby leaving and Langdon being back. Dr. Al seems nice, though.” She rubs slow, careful circles of ointment into the scrape.
“And how are you?” he asks, quieter now.
She exhales through her nose. “I’m fine.” Then, more honestly, “My mother is driving me crazy.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t joke. Just waits.
“She’s packing up her whole life,” Samira continues, the words spilling now that she’s started. “Selling our house. Going on some months-long cruise with her boyfriend like she’s twenty-five again.” Her mouth quirks. “She keeps calling–”
She stops herself, realizing how much she’s said, and shakes her head as she presses the gauze to his back. “Sorry. You don’t want to hear me complain.”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle, steady enough to make her look up at him. “I do.” His eyes soften. “I want to know everything and anything you’re willing to share.”
For a second, she just holds his gaze, surprised by how much that simple certainty settles her.
The silence hangs between them, delicate and charged, broken only by the soft rasp of the Tegaderm wrapper being peeled open. Samira smooths it over the gauze and presses firmly, her thumb lingering a fraction longer than necessary.
“There,” she says. “All done. Good as new.” She means it to sound confident and reassuring, but it comes out a little hoarse.
She steps in front of him. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands settle at her waist, warm and sure, drawing her closer until she’s standing between his knees. It’s instinctive, the way they fit.
“Thank you,” he says, looking up at her with gratitude. Admiration. Awe.
She swallows. “How are you doing today?” she asks, fighting the urge to card her fingers through his curls.
“I’m…okay.” A pause. Then, more quietly, “My leg hurts, though.”
Her gaze drops to his thighs. “Which one?”
He exhales, the humor tired but familiar. “The one that doesn’t exist.”
Her expression softens instantly. “Do you want to take it off for a few?”
“No, it’s okay,” he says automatically, reflex before honesty. Then he falters.
“May I?” she asks gently.
He nods.
She kneels slightly, hands warm and deliberate as she palpates the muscle, pressing slow, soothing circles into his thigh. Not rushed. Just present. Clinical, but in a way that makes his heart skip a beat. His breath eases with a quiet sigh, shoulders lowering as the tension slips its grip.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That helps.”
She keeps her hands there a moment longer, as if it's grounding both of them, the world narrowing to this small act of care.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks as she stands, her hands settling on his forearms, thumbs brushing warm skin.
“Oh, I can think of plenty of things you can do to me,” he says, smirk firmly in place as he takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.
She scoffs softly. “You’re absolutely ridiculous. You know that, right?”
“But you can’t get enough.”
She doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t disagree either. The small smile she tries to hide and the flush warming her cheeks give her away.
“You sticking around?” she asks.
“Yeah.” His grin softens. “You’re pretty fun to work with.”
“Well, thank you, Dr. Abbot.” She bats her eyelashes, exaggerated and teasing. Then, more quietly, more honestly, “But seriously, are you okay?”
“I am, Mira.” His voice drops, fond and certain. “I am.”
She nods, satisfied but still lingering. “If you need me, I’m here.”
“What if I just want you?”
Her breath hitches, just barely. “I’m here for that, too,” she whispers, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m going out first. Wait a few minutes, then go.”
“Samira—”
“Please.”
And God, how could he ever say no to her?
He nods, shaking his head with a quiet, helpless smile, and watches her slip out the door. The room feels different after. Lighter somehow. Looser. Freer.
Like she can look at him, every scar, every absence, every wound inside and out, and for a moment, all of it fades.
He stays seated for a long moment after she’s gone, hands resting loosely on his thighs, like he’s forgotten what it feels like to brace himself.
He’s spent years learning which wounds can be survived, sometimes healed, and which ones just get carried. Samira doesn’t ask him to explain them or justify their existence. She just tends to them, careful, patient, until he realizes some of the damage he assumed was permanent is slowly, impossibly, beginning to mend.
He takes a breath and stands, pulling the curtain back to peek into the hallway, scanning both directions before stepping out. He thinks he’s in the clear until a firm hand lands on his shoulder.
“Abbot. And just what do you think you’re doing?” Dana’s voice is sharp but amused as he spins around.
“I was just…hiding from you,” he offers, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, I might buy that if it were just you,” she says, wagging a finger, “but Mohan would never.” Her eyebrow arches, daring him to argue.
He freezes, caught between defensiveness and amusement. “Don’t be so sure, Dana.”
“Enlighten me, then. What exactly were you doing in there?” She tilts her head, a sly sparkle in her eye, as if she already knows more than he thinks she does.
“Wound care.” He answers honestly. In more ways than one.