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“Shit, this - this sucks.”
“Oh, it’s nothing -”
Jack tries to look humble, tries not to preen like a fucking peacock.
He wonders, vaguely, staring down at his kit, if his thumping heart is going to smack the gel right out of his hands.
“No -”
“No, don’t worry about me, I’m fine, seriously -”
“No, my patient -”
Oh, fuck.
He feels himself blink like a perplexed owl as Samira plops down onto the chair next to him, speaking softly about Mr Diaz, and yes of course he is listening to her - he always listens to her, actually, unlike some of his fucking colleagues - but god, the glimmer of hope he had just let burgeon up his throat is difficult to shove back down.
He loves that she cares about her patients so much. It’s one of his favorite things about her, honestly; it had hooked him and reeled him in firmly about a year ago.
Jack has been casually flirting with her for about as long - just a little, never predatory, just compliments her and praises her in the way she deserves, always restraining himself from falling prostrate at her feet like he actually wants to.
Samira, completely understandably, just smiles blandly, or flat out ignores him, or carries on talking as if he hadn’t just pulled out his most affecting smirk, then hurries away, leaving him open-mouthed and adoring in her wake. He is completely smitten. She has no idea.
He had wondered, in that brief shining moment just now, if this time might be different - he’s shirtless, for one, and his voice has gone gravelly in a way he can’t control, and if this were Grey’s Anatomy she’d be straddling him right about now, but - she’s Dr Samira Mohan, goddess and professional.
This is not Grey’s Anatomy.
What he’s trying to say is - it’s a familiar tale, this sort of exchange, but he’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel any less gutting when she glances over him in favor of her work each time.
“- he can’t afford his meds.”
Jack can’t look at her, because if he does, he knows he’d see her eyes welling with tears, and knows that would make him either barge out into the ED to drag this patient back to bed by his ear, or worse, scoop her onto his lap and try to kiss the tears off her cheeks.
Which, considering she’s left the curtain wide open and clearly is not registering his interest, might not be the best idea.
What he says aloud is, “Hmm.”
He glances briefly at the plastic bag at her feet. “What’s in the bag?”
Samira lists off the diabetic home care kit she’d put together and Jack aches, marvels at how tender she is. He’d have done the same for his patient.
In fact, he has, which is why he doesn’t even blink before saying, “So Uber it to his house,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
She lets out a resigned huff. “Is the hospital gonna pay for that?”
Jack feels his mouth quirk as he deliberates for half a second, trying to reach over his shoulder to hit the wound on his back. “I’ll pay for it.”
There’s a long silence.
He’s let his hand show, he’s sure of it.
He wants to glance at her, more than anything, but can’t bear to open the Schroedinger’s box of Samira’s reaction - she’s either disgusted by him, or she’s in love with him, and at this point either one of those options will just about ruin his life.
He likes to think he’d be like this with anyone. He probably would at least make the offer to any of the other doctors - if there’s one thing he actually likes about himself, it’s his moral compass - but, he knows he wouldn’t have offered in this way, like he’s whispering sweet nothings into her ear.
She’s suddenly on her feet - yup, there she goes, she’s getting up and leaving, and Jack can feel himself frowning, feeling weak and stupid, frustrated by his lack of grace and professionalism - he can’t even reach his fucking wound -
Samira is not leaving. She is grabbing gloves from the box, putting them on and walking to his side.
He looks at her, finally, curiosity winning out, needing to see the emotion on her face - her eyes have softened, and he can tell she’s stifling a smile. He’s seen it directed his way before, usually when he’s flirting outrageously with Myrna or praising Samira for her work, and it always buoys him for the rest of his shift. He can spot those smiles a mile off.
She’s way too close.
What is she doing? “What are you doing?”
“What you clearly can’t.”
Jack stifles a fond eye-roll, flattening his mouth, refusing to let his goo-goo heart-eyes make themselves known.
She asks him about charting and, god, there is nothing he would like less than a papertrail about this entire fucking ordeal.
He can feel her eyes on him and he burns.
“Our little secret.”
–
She’s waiting outside the ambulance bay doors when he finally leaves, arms folded, staring at the pavement with a tiny crease between her eyebrows, lips pinched, thinking.
He can’t help himself; he’s drawn towards her like a magnet.
“Why the hell are you still here?”
She jumps at his voice, and, inexplicably, for the first time since he’s known her, flushes, her mouth ticking up in a shy grin as he strolls towards her.
“I was waiting for you.”
Jack can’t stop the hope bursting up from his chest.
He lets himself grin at her, lets himself tuck a strand of hair behind her ear - she looks at him, and he thinks she’s finally seeing him as he replies.
“Oh, I’ve been waiting for you too.”