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Samira suddenly wishes she’d closed the door.
It’s loud, is the thing. There was a lot of beeping and yelling and shuffling that came through the open door and it was hard to hear Dr. Abbot, who was practically whispering.
The door was wide open and the curtain was pulled back. Anyone could peek in and everyone was not-so-subtly. She tried to pretend that Robby’s drive-by hadn’t bothered her—Abbot hadn’t reacted—but it had made her acutely aware that she’d left the door open and she really wishes she hadn’t.
Not that there was anything wrong with it, it was just that people liked to gossip and create narratives. She’d seen it happen; seen the way an innocent interaction had been spun into a salacious affair in real time. So, Samira just wanted to get ahead of it really. There was no reason to give Princess and Perlah more to gossip about.
Dr. Abbot hisses as she brings the swab closer to the centre of his wound and she tries to lighten her hand.
“I’ve heard tennis is a great way to burn energy,” she murmurs, attention brought back to the man rather than the department.
He shrugs his shoulders, “I don’t have the coordination.”
Samira smirks as she moves away from him, discarding the swab and snapping off her gloves. “I’ve heard,” she teases. She stands in front of him, unsure of what to do.
He laughs, moving to start cleaning up the tray he’d used. He doesn’t put his shirt back on, or even think to, Samira notices. She can’t stop noticing now, actually.
“I guess I shouldn’t be one to discuss hobbies,” she says, trying to distract herself. Her eyes flick away and back.
“Research is a hobby,” he rebuts immediately. He says it in the same way he’s reassured her in the past—words slow and practiced, carrying an air of serious consideration. She realized quickly that nothing about Dr. Abbot was flippant; no comments, no compliments, and no actions.
Samira looks at Dr. Abbot and finds he’s already looking at her. He looks painfully sincere for a moment before his mouth pulls to the side and he looks back down to the tray. Samira opens her mouth, prepared to respond, but she’s interrupted again by her phone ringing. Dr. Abbot’s hand jumps to his own pocket, checking his phone. Her fists clench briefly, the frustration simmering through her. Again. Again her mother calls her, interrupting her work to speak about the same ridiculous thing.
“It’s mine,” she says lowly, shoving her hand in her pocket, fumbling briefly, before spam clicking the volume button, hoping to silence it the way Mel had shown her. The ringing cuts off and Samira releases a heavy breath of relief, her shoulders slumping.
It’s only when she looks back at Dr. Abbot does she realize how dramatic that might have looked. He watches her with a raised brow, eyes flicking over the tense lines of her body, and settling on her frown.
“You dodging somebody?” he asks, voice gritty and low. Does he always talk like that, Samira wonders. She can’t remember, suddenly.
“My mom,” she answers simply, taking a step forward and reaching towards the tray that Dr. Abbot didn’t really need help with. She felt restless and her anger was slowly creeping back to the front of her mind.
“It’s just—“ she says, before she can stop herself. She looks up and Dr. Abbot is still there, looking at her like he cares about what she says. Like he wants to listen, even. In this moment, it was enough.
“She’s dating this guy. She’s been dating him, I guess, for a little. And suddenly she wants to go on a cruise around the world and sell our house and she won’t stop calling me to talk logistics as if she hasn’t destabilized my whole life plan,” she rants, getting her words out with a stilted meter, words jumping over each other and falling around in careless frustration. Dr. Abbot just nods slightly throughout, but Samira doesn’t doubt that he’s listening. If there was one thing she’d learned is that he was always listening somehow.
“I’m sorry, Samira,” he starts, voice so incredibly quiet and slow. She leans slightly forward to hear it over the buzz of the ED that filtered through the door. He says her name so delicately, she finds. With so much care. “I can’t imagine the feeling, I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”
The words are simple, but they sit warmly in her chest. Samira watches him for a moment and in this light, he looks almost pained. The expression flickers away quickly enough and Dr. Abbot stands. He rolls his shoulders, testing, before putting his shirt back on. Samira doesn’t look away.
His mouth is twisted again, pulled to the right. He looks out the door once, then back at her. He looks restless in a way she’s grown familiar with, the sort of awkwardness that he never seems to shake.
“Did you plan to move back home, then? Back to…”
Samira doesn’t know why, but her response lags on her tongue. She hadn’t gotten around to explaining the applications she’d sent out—she hadn’t asked Dr. Abbot for a recommendation, either. “Jersey, yeah. I wanted to be close to her. To care for her.”
She watches him nod once, acknowledging, before turning back to the tray, disposing of the cover. Samira suddenly feels like she’s missed something as she watches the squirrelly way he was acting; foregoing eye-contact to instead begin quietly turning the room around. The energy was tense in a way she couldn’t place. She wants to say something, but she’s not sure what would be right. She’s spared the choice when Princess pops her head in, summoning Samira to check on another patient.
She looks over her shoulder, a parting glance at Jack that she can’t resist, and he’s already looking at her. He smiles at her and she smiles back quickly before rushing out.
Fifteen minutes later, she’s standing in front of a computer near the hub, charting franticly. Inexplicably, she feels his presence as he approaches, looking up as his hand makes contact with her elbow. He squeezes once, then drops it.
“Dr. Abbot, perfect!” Samira greets, pulling Orlando’s chart up on the screen, toggling to his home address. She turns to him, meeting his steady gaze. “This is Mr. Diaz’ address for the Uber.”
Jack nods, reaching to grab his phone out of his back pocket. His eyebrows shoot up, hand patting with increasing frantic energy. After a few moments he sighs, arms coming up to cross around his chest. Samira wants to laugh at the almost-petulance on his face.
“I think I dropped it in the chaos,” he concludes, humming before dropping his arms. “Do you have the app?”
Samira looks at him for a moment, confused, before she grabs her phone. She has the app, but she rarely uses it; she’ll open it, browse options, and her stomach would turn at the way the price would rack up. She has to log back in before entering Orlando’s address and navigating the settings.
“Here, let me put in the payment details',” Dr. Abbot finally interjects, holding his hand out. Samira passes her phone over, turning back to the computer to provide a facsimile of privacy.
“I know this isn’t a solution for a very real issue, but I appreciate your help regardless,” Samira says after a beat of silence. She doesn’t look, but she can feel the air shift with Dr. Abbot. She can imagine the way his body resettles and redistributes its weight whenever he fidgets.
“Every little bit counts. This is life saving intervention for him.” His voice is pitched low again, colouring his words with an intimacy she's sure she imagines. His head is still turned down, fingers tapping away on the app. Her cheeks feel hot. Her whole body does. She tries not to think about it; about how nice it feels to be trusted in her choices as a Doctor so implicitly. How validating.
In another minute he clicks her phone off and looks back up to her. She’s already been watching him. “It's all set.”
Samira smiles brightly, feeling truly happy for the first time this shift. “Thank you,” she says, voice tremulous and whispered. She clears her throat, trying to swallow down the embarrassing emotion threatening to bowl her over suddenly. Being able to see this through meant the world to her.
Dr. Abbot watches her for a beat before he matches her smile. It feels like they're back in the privacy of West 6, and no one can see them.
“Well, I’m full of great ideas,” he says with a blank face, mouth pulling up slightly.
“Including those that get you shot?”
“Shot at,” he clarifies, eyebrow raised. “It’s very different.”
Samira’s eyes trace the expression, suddenly caught by how handsome he looks. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind.
Dr. Abbot’s eyes flick away before thrusting his hand out, offering her phone back to her. She startles slightly, grabbing the phone. She ignores the heat of Jack’s fingers as they graze her own.
“I’ve never seen someone get shot at while knitting,” she says after a moment.
Dr. Abbot smiles then, humour colouring his eyes. His eyes that are—have they always been that colour? Has she ever been this close? She’s not sure.
“Oh, I’m sure I’d manage,” he jokes while moving away, pulling a startled laugh from Samira.
She ducks her head while laughing, hand shooting out to slap his arm lightly, mumbling “Not funny!”
She doesn’t speak to Dr. Abbot again, only catching glimpses of him in passing. He stays on shift, working in and around her, and they pass words over shared patients.
She hardly notices, in truth. The shift devolves quickly from that point; the systems are offline and the temperature seems to raise 5º every time she laments how hot it is. She’s working at a constant state of stimulation and can only focus on her patients, the only thing that truly matters.
The last 5 hours of her shift were a slow dissolution of Samira’s mind; the sweat coating her skin felt like it was slowly drowning her, pulling her lower and lower under the tide of her exhaustion. Except, there was no breath of air to relieve her, only another patient waiting on her.
By the end of it, Samira is wrung out beyond belief.
She leans her forehead against her fridge, fatigue leaving her muscles heavier than she can yet handle. She’s gotten better about shifts like this, gotten better about putting that battered part of her away and making space for Samira. Or so she tells herself.
She needs to eat something. Her stomach is cramping, it has been for a while, but now it’s reached a fever pitch. She can hardly think. Her phone rings again.
She lets it ring and ring and ring.
The sound ricochets through her head, bouncing against the dura, shaking any semblance of humanity—tenuously attached, hanging on resolve alone—free, leaving it to fall flat at her feet. She’s beyond caring.
She doesn't bother to check the texts she knew would come through. Instead, she finds herself opening UberEats. She scrolls no longer than a second before the app is suggesting a repeat of her favourite order. She doesn’t hesitate to click order, shutting her phone off and resuming her measured breathing.
When the food comes, she pushes the thoughts of her credit card bill out of her head, unbothered in the face of the clawing hunger in her stomach.
A week later, Samira is working another stretch of doubles that, she hopes, might give her leeway to take time off. Her amma had begun calling her at increasing frequency and intensity, letting her know she didn’t have time to consider her options anymore.
Nights have always been enjoyable to Samira. The pace was entirely different than days. A steady stream compared to a tempest. When the majority of the city slept, only the truly critical or emergent came through the doors. So there was plenty of work—interesting work—but there was time to breathe as well.
Her time on nights had also taught her about some of their own rituals. She’s not quite sure the occasion—she never truly is—but Dr. Abbot had decided to order food for the whole crew this shift. This itself wasn’t a particularly unique occurrence. Dr. Abbot was generous in many ways; with his time, his advice, and his care. It was one of the reasons that night shift was enjoyable. He wasn't harried in the same way Robby was, he wasn’t frantic, or often haggard. His energy was a balm to Samira, something that only worked to make her better.
This particular Wednesday night, Samira was caught up with a patient who needed a Psych evaluation, but she was unable to pin down a single psych resident who could help. It had taken her several repeated phone calls to see anyone from the department; some combination of short-staffing, slow movement overnight, and a patient emergency. She chooses to stay through to intake, unwilling to let her patient, who’d been admitted alone, be left without anyone.
Samira makes it to the break room an hour later than anyone else and expects to pick over the scraps. Instead she finds John who directs her to the fridge.
“We saved you some,” he assures her as he steps away from the table. She watches as he finishes the rest of his coffee on a large gulp before saluting her and ducking back into the fray. Samira looks inside and finds a styrofoam box with her name on it.
She didn’t have the time to eat, really, but the curiosity was winning out. She brings the box over to the table, sitting down for the first time in a few hours. Her back was killing her.
What Samira notices first is that the hand-writing is familiar, but she can’t quite place it. She opens the container and finds a loaded salad that has her mouth watering. She closes the container. She needs to check on Amelia in North 4; her chem panel might be back.
Dr. Abbot strides into the break room right as she steps away from the table. He stops short, watching her from the perimeter of the room. He jerks his head towards her, “No good?”
"No time," she says. "I have a patient."
"I can cover."
Samira looks at him, startled. "What?"
Dr. Abbot fidgets under her attention before sighing. "Eat," he adds, head turned away from her, looking at the food, then at the table, then her. Samira, internally, likes to take a tally of the amount of mouth and neck movements he makes per conversation; it was always a number that amused her greatly.
They stare at each other, Samira trying to formulate a rebuttal, before she realizes. There was no one here she'd trust with her patients more. She knows, instinctually, that he would care in the same way she did.
"Amelia Crawford in North 4, complaining of mild but persistent abdominal pain with eating."
Dr. Abbot nods at her once, twice, but doesn't move. She watches for a moment before walking back over to the table. He nods again, shooting her a thumbs up, before leaving.
On a random Saturday in September, Samira’s phone updates while she’s sleeping. This isn't something Samira notices, but the next time she opens UberEats—bone tired, limbs immobile and useless beneath her— the app prompts her to re-enter her cards security code.
She very quickly realizes that the card on file, marked Default, is not her card. She can’t quite understand how that’s possible. She’d been ordering food with no problems for a while, there hadn’t been any issues with payment.
The memory pops into her head randomly; a flash of Dr. Abbot’s hand shooting out, offering her phone back to her. Oh shit. Oh shit.
Samira’s been robbing Dr. Abbot for months. She's going to get fired. She’s going to jail. She’s— She feels vaguely sick at the thought, any hunger dying within her.
Samira looks down at her phone, poking around her settings. She can’t seem to find her own card to switch it back. She turns her phone off. She can’t think about this. Samira walks to her bedroom, collapsing onto her bed. She’s working a double tomorrow and she’ll have to deal with this.
When Samira wakes up, she continues not to think about it. She ignores the way her stomach grumbles as she chews a crumbled protein bar on the bus. She badges in, ducking into the restroom during handoff, and ignores the weight of guilt in her chest.
The shift passes quicker than she’d like; it felt as if she blinked and suddenly the night crew was starting to filter in. Dr. Abbot appears in the ER as if he’d never left, practically materializing beside the hub. She casts furtive glances at him as she moves through the space, catching his eyes more often than she’d like. Was he watching her? Was he mad?
She manages to avoid Dr. Abbot for another hour before it begins to hinder her work flow, at which point she decides to bite the bullet. Samira finds him near the hub and asks to speak with him. Her heart rate is tachy and she can feel it thumping its overly-fast rhythm heavily in her ears. She tries to focus on her breathing to help her find the courage to have this conversation.
Dr. Abbot trails after her quietly, stopping in front of her and staring when she leads them into the break room. He raises a brow, eyes flicking around before settling on her. She doesn’t speak for a moment, unsure of what to say. She watches Dr. Abbot shift his weight restlessly, arms crossing his chest before dropping to his sides.
“I wanted to apologize, Dr. Abbot," she starts, voice halting. He tilts his head to the side, confused. Samira can’t look at him, afraid of the moment he’d realize what she was referring to. She looks at his chin instead.
“I seem to have been using your credit card since you helped me out with a patient. On, um, Uber?”
Her eyes flick up to his, trying to assess his reaction. He watches her for a moment before her posture softens and relaxes into a slouch.
“Oh.”
“I had no idea Dr. Abbot. I’m so so—”
“Just Jack, please,” he interjects, mouth quirked to the side. He looks.. amused.
“Jack,” she says, testing the name in her mouth. She unlocks her phone, “I'll pay you back and I’ll take your card off before I forget again—”
“No need,” he says, cutting her off. Samira blinks at him, uncomprehending. She looks down at her phone. She looks at him.
He’s staring back at her calmly. “I left it in case you needed anything else,” he says, arms crossing in front of his chest. What?
“What?”
She looks at his chin again, overwhelmed at the sentiment.
“And I didn’t,” she tries to explain. “I’m sorry I should’ve been more careful.”
Her heart is still racing in her ears, a beating drum that made it harder to think of anything beyond her mortification. She looks down at her phone again, her order history staring back at her.
“Samira,” he says, voice projecting louder than before. “What’d I say?”
She looks up, scrunching her brow. “But it wasn’t patient related. Mr. Diaz got his supplies and I’ve ordered a bunch of food on your ca—”
“What did I say?” he repeats, interrupting her.
She frowns then, crossing her arms in front of her chest. They stare at each other, until she hesitantly repeats his words, “If I needed anything else?”
“And did you?”
Samira shrugs.
“Yes you did,” he answers for her. Jack steps closer, squinting at her. “And have you eaten today? You look pale.”
Samira shrugs again. She’s not sure what’s happening anymore.
“Order something right now, please.”
“What.”
“You look like you might drop,” Jack explains, words slow and measured. “Order yourself some food and eat it.” He punctuates the request by walking over to the little table and pulling out a chair for her.
Samira watches him, unsure of what to do. Her stomach grumbles lightly and Jack raises an eyebrow at her. She approaches the table slowly, stopping short of the chair and unlocking her phone. Her eyes jump up to Jack and he nods encouragingly. The options flash at her, but her eyes hardly register them. She clicks onto a previous order, changing the address to PTMC. She looks at Jack again, a quick glance, before she places the order.
“Good,” Jack remarks, stepping away from the table. "Take thirty when your food comes.”
He stays for another moment before nodding and walking away, leaving Samira staring at his back. What the fuck?