Archive of Our Own

1 — 4th of July

The shift had been long. Longer than any she’d worked in her career, but somehow it’d only been 15 hours. There hadn’t been some great disaster, really. Nothing to warrant her world flipping on it’s axis, and yet here she was.

The breeze on her face was the only thing keeping her feet firmly planted. Or maybe her coworkers all around her. They’d thrown her some furtive glances, still on eggshells after her panic attack, unsure of what to say, but mostly had left her to sit alone on a folding chair pointed out to the horizon. She doesn’t want to be here.

She wanted to clock out and rush home, as usual. To call her mom back and talk to her. And to finally try to figure out what the fuck was going on, but Cassie had given her that look when she saw her breaking away from the group. The look that said ‘I see you trying to sneak away, Samira’

"Not joining in on the festivities?”

Samira looks up and sees Dr. Abbot approaching. He’s got his scrubs on and badge clipped at his hip, ready for his shift. She makes a face, shaking the beer in her hand as if saying 'Of course I am.’

He chuckles lowly and drops into the chair he was dragging beside her. “Yeah, I’m not a big fan either.”

Samira tries for a smile, but only feels her mouth pulling limply. They sit watching the rest of the department be merry. Distantly, she wonders if this is what it was like to be at a kids baseball game. It’s a ridiculous thought, but it’s almost domestic, this moment.

Abbot bumps his knee against hers, “So, what’s going on with you, should I be keeping you away from the railing?”

Samira stares back at him blankly, blatantly unamused. “That’d be a terrible way to go. If there was ever even a good one,” she muses after a moment. She looks out into the horizon, eyes tracking the fireworks that would sporadically burst in the distance.

“Depends on how desperate you are, I guess.”

Samira snorts at that, “not desperate enough for that or whatever it is that has you catching fire.” She turns to look back at Abbot and sees the put-open offense, his eyebrows raising and mouth gasping comically.

“That’s a hobby,” he rebuts, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

“That’s a hobby?” she laughs outright, sending him another look before settling back into her folding chair. It creaks a little under the movement, but holds solid.

“I’m helping people, aren’t I?”

“Were you planning to work all day and night, then? How does that schedule even work.” Samira can understand his desire to work obsessively, to give every part of himself over, and she respects it as much as she resents it.

He sighs and she can hear the way he slumps into his own rickety chair. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, really.”

“Yeah and I’m doing perfectly fine right now.”

“Seriously, Mohan. What’s up?”

“I’m fine! I’m okay,” she reassures. Samira likes Dr. Abbot, but she’s acutely aware of how few allies she truly has here, she’s been reminded enough today. Even though Dr. Abbot seemed to understand her patient care, she doesn’t want to be inappropriate.

“Don’t bullshit me, Mohan, c’mon,” he replies gruffly. She looks at him and finds that he looks incredibly concerned.

She takes a deep breath to steel herself. This would be the fourth person she’d tell today and every response has sent her spiralling further into her upset. “My mom, I guess,” she starts, not looking at him. “My mom and my future and my career.”

“Whew,” Abbot whistles, amused or defeated or she doesn’t know. “Tough combo.”

“I was going to move to Jersey. To be near my mom.”

He hums. “And now?”

“She has a boyfriend and plans for her life that don’t involve me.”

Neither of them speak, instead staring out into the sky.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. She can feel his eyes on the side of her head. She doesn’t turn to meet them.

“It’s just—,” she starts, suddenly renewed in her anger. “When did everyone decide to go get a life? Did I miss that meeting?”

Jack laughs, though the sound is bitter, something harsher that tells Samira it isn’t ridicule towards her. “Don’t ask me. I know nothing about having a life.”

“And is that really so bad?” she replies immediately. “Mckay’s been on my case about it, but fuck I’ve tried!” she whines, finally turning to look at him. “I dunno, I thought I had more time. I thought I just needed to get through the journey and then take a breath.”

Abbot’s still looking at her, eyes lasered in. It used to be disconcerting, when they’d first met, but now she think she’d be adrift without the focused attention. “There’s no one right way. or enjoy the journey. or something. I don’t think I’m qualified for life advice, kid.”

He’s turning pink by the end of his sentence, words rambling a little. His eyes flick away and Samira laughs. He looks back at the sound, smiling at her. It’s quiet again.

"It’s not even that, really,” she adds, after a moment. “I’ve just been feeling like— like I don’t belong here anymore.”

She watches the way his spine straightens in alarm, eyes squinting at her. “You’re crazy. You’re the smartest one here,” he says, voice low and serious.

Samira snorts a laugh in response, “right.”

"Mohan,” he faltered. “You’re not serious, are you?”

"I’m not anything. Well, maybe the slowest one here,” she responds, words tasting bitter on her tongue. “New Jersey’s out, so is the only family I have. And there’s no reason to stay here, no matter how much I might wish there was.”

He doesn’t speak, instead electing to just stare at her. She feels goosebumps trailing her arms despite the warm air.

Samira sighs, fidgeting with a strand of hair, before dropping her hand back to her lap. “God knows I’ve been looking all day for a fellowship or anything— anyone to tell me that I should be in the ED.”

She can’t stand to look at him suddenly. Her eyes were burning.

“Listen to me, Samira,” he says into the still air between them. She jolts a little. It might be the first time he’s said her name.

“You’re the best resident we have, you understand the calling for what it truly is. Your empathy is probably the only thing that’ll save us all. It’s the system that’s broken, not you, never you.”

She finds herself near mesmerised by him, his voice is low and raspy, but deadly serious, and his eyes are almost overwhelmingly intense. He doesn’t look away from her as he speaks, simply searching her own eyes.

“You are, without a doubt, the future of medicine.”

Her mind quiets at that sentence. She’s not sure what to say or how to even begin to react. She nods meekly, barely able to handle the depth of feeling in her body. She might be crying, she can hardly tell.

Samira looks away, into the sky again, and they sit in silence. She can feel the weight of his stare on the side of her head. After a minute, she can’t help it. “The SWAT thing is ridiculous, you know that right?”

Abbot collapses back into his chair, pulling another squeak from it. “I’m no good at tennis,” he says dryly, taking her deflection in stride.

“Neither am I, I guess.” She’s not good at a lot of things, and she has the sneaking suspicion she’s really only good at one thing.

Abbot blows out a deep breath, the noise distinctly defeated. “It’s not easy to stop. To be normal.”

She nods into the night air. Her eyes flick to her colleagues—to Victoria, Dennis, and Trinity huddled up playing with sparklers. She hadn’t held a sparkler since the last Diwali she’d spent at home, a decade ago maybe. “Every moment focused elsewhere feels like wasted time.”

Samira’s embarrassed, suddenly. She knows it’s not a common sentiment, that it was the antithesis of McKay and everyone’s advice. The embarrassment is gone as quickly as it comes. This was Dr. Abbot. There probably wasn’t another person who would understand it more.

“It wasn’t always like that,” he muses, fingers drumming again.

Samira hums her agreement. No, it really wasn’t, though she can hardly remember it.

“You should come up here more. It’s nice to get perspective after spending 12 hours burning under LEDs,” he says, tossing the suggestion towards her casually, but Samira knows the depth of it. She’d seen the way Robby would sneak up here, the meetings they’d have. It was an offer at reprieve, but also companionship. She wonders, distantly, if he’d offered it to anyone else.

“It’s really beautiful,” she agrees, unsure of what exactly to say. How do you respond to that, to the enormity that a simple sentence could contain. She was no good at camaraderie.

They continue to sit, staring out silently. Eventually, Dr. Abbot has to head back down to the ED and Samira uses it as an excuse to sneak home.

2 — August

“You stealing my spot, Mohan?”

Samira turns her head and finds Dr. Abbot walking towards her. It feels almost wrong to see him in the daylight, or outside the ED for that matter. Though, she supposes, they hadn’t gotten very far. The roof is sacred space, at least in her head, but she’d taken to it enthusiastically. It was nice to look out into the city and be reminded that the four walls of the ED weren’t the entirety of the Earth.

As he gets closer to her, his hands come up to grab at the railing, leaning and settling beside her. The waning sunlight is catching on the contours of his face in a way she’d never seen. He looks softer.

“You’re early,” she remarks, letting her eyes sweep over him once more before turning away. He had his scrubs on and badge clipped and it wasn’t even 6:30pm.

He hums. “Mel told me about your patient,” he prompts, turning his head to look out into the sunset.

She doesn’t respond. In the past month, she’s found herself on the other end of his probing more than usual; his and Dr. Al-Hashimi’s. When Robby was around, all she wanted was a shoulder or an ear or something, but now in the face of it, it’s almost stifling. Being understood was terrifying.

“It wasn’t your fault, from what I heard,” he continues, going for casual. He’s far from it.

“It wasn't, I guess. Not technically. I was just the witness.”

“I’m sorry.”

Samira’s sorry too, for an innumerable amount of things.

“Sometimes I really feel like the undertaker,” she says, voice growing a little quieter. “Like nothing I do really makes a difference at all.”

In her periphery, she sees Jack pull himself closer to the railing, leaning harder and ducking his head. “Yeah. God I get that.” He pulls himself back upright, turning his whole body towards her. “But the whole point, I guess, is to try try again,” he concludes, mouth twisting in humour.

She looks at him, staring blankly. She wants to smile, maybe, but she can’t bring herself to try. “It’s exhausting and it feels like. I don’t know, like being a bystander.”

His brows furrow in that particular way that makes him look indignant. He shakes his head once, “I’ve been a bystander before. Overseas, it was— it was a shit show, and yet I was there.”

Samira continues to stare, unsure of what to say. She knows about his time serving and, frankly, tries not to think about it too hard. “I can’t imagine,” she says, apropos to nothing.

“My point is. That’s being a bystander, that’s being the undertaker who can’t make a difference, struggling to balance the scale. What we do here— what you do? Especially the way you do it? That’s always going to be a net positive. Always.”

“I watched him die, Abbot. I could’ve done something, I could’ve— I don’t know.” She huffs a frustrated breath. What were all those years of school for, what were all the nights for, if death still won in the end? “Robby’s probably right. I need to be— better somehow.”

Abbot doesn’t respond and the silence eats at her. Doubt overtakes her entirely; self-doubt, career doubt, every kind of possible doubt.

“I know. I know. It just all feels so pointless sometimes,” she continues, drumming her fingers against the railing.

He laughs in response. Laughs. Samira looks back at him with a frown.

“Sorry. It’s just— to me, you are the future of medicine. I wasn’t joking. You’re a shiny bastion of hope in the ED and it’s truly terrifying to hear you say that.”

Samira doesn’t really know what to say. Dr. Abbot has a habit of leaving her a little speechless.

“Plus I think you’ve already broken the ceiling on it. There’s not much better you could be.”

She looks away, away from the earnest praise in his eyes. There was something wrong with her, because it was making her skin itch a little. She coughs. The sun is almost fully set, she’s gotta catch the bus.

“Thank you,” she says after a long moment. She turns back to him, awkwardness building in her chest, and he nods, once, decisively.

“It’s important to remember why you keep coming back, why you started on this path in the first place.”

He continues to look at her, as if trying to burn the advice into her skin. She doesn’t know what to say, really. She can’t think of a single reason in this moment.

“Have you heard back yet?”

Samira dreaded the question, but she knew it’d be coming. Ultrasound in Baltimore, Education at Presby. More options than she thought she might have, but, somehow, they weren’t comforting like she’d thought it would be.

She nods and watches the happiness bloom in his eyes. “Interviews for both,” she reports, pulling her lips into a smile that feels tight.

“I knew it,” he says, voice steady. Always so steady and confident, as if her abilities and value was an immutable truth.Dr. Abbot raises a hand, aiming for her shoulder, maybe, before dropping it. She pulls herself forward without hesitation, closer to his orbit. She wants to hug him, she thinks, but settles for sharing his air. His excitement is infectious.

“I didn’t,” she says, truthful to a fault. Her smile shrinks to something more sincere. “Thank you.”

“Of course—,” he says, reflexively. He raises a hand and this time clasps her shoulder. He’s looking right into her eyes now, “Of course.”

She looks away before he finishes the words, overwhelmed at the sentiment. Sometimes, she thinks Dr. Abbot might be her only friend. She doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“You must feel better, hm?” He’s still looking at her, she can feel it, but she doesn’t look at him. “I told you. They’d be stupid not to want you,” he adds after a moment.

It’s hard not to feel swayed by his confidence. To feel as if she really was good at what she did, but if that was the case, then why was her PTMC application wait-listed. She steps away from him, a small back-peddle, a crack in her facade. Being near him was like being near the sun, but rather than comforting, now it stung a little. Maybe she was Icarus and as much as she wanted it, it would only destroy her.

He must sense her unease because he takes a breath, “Make sure you get some rest, yeah?” He knocks his knuckles against the railing once before walking away.

3 — September

September has been especially humid so far, as the tail end of the summer always is. Her hair clung to the back of her neck and her scrubs were beginning to stick. The roof is a paradise in comparison; there’s a wind that feels like a balm. It creates a feeling of a true oasis, so far removed from the ED and from any problems. It also helps that she always finds him here.

“Dr. Abbot,” she greets, voice carrying in the cooler air.

“Jack,” he corrects immediately.

“Jack,” she amends with a small smile.

“Is it 7 already?”

Samira hums, nodding her head. He can’t see her from where he’s staring off into the horizon. The morning light takes away any of the paleness that the LEDs bring, making him look more alive. She sees him in the daylight more often these days; she sees a lot more of him in general.

“You’re free,” she teases.

He barks a laugh, harsh and bitter, “am I?”

She watches his face, the way the lines deepen near his mouth, eyes, and forehead. Frowning off into the open sky. Her mind flashes to Atlas.

“Tough shift?”

He responds in a bland way, voice detached, “kid died. 3 years old. drunk driver.” His face hardly moves as he delivers it, the only sign of his feelings shown in the death grip he has on the railing. He’s still on the right side of it, at least.

“Jesus. That’s terrible,” she says. There’s nothing more to say, really. Nothing to explain it all or soothe. Samira puts both of her hands on the railing and leans forward.

Jack hums. “Life is like that, I guess. No way to control it.” His eyes trace the skyline slowly, landing somewhere off in the distance. “Chaos reigns free.”

Samira wants to laugh and she almost does. She turns towards him, eyes tracing the lines deepened by his upset. “That’s the job isn’t it? Trying to control that chaos— or master it, I don’t know,” she says, voice stumbling slightly. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have the words nor the answers.

“I didn’t realize I signed up to be Sisyphus.” He looks at her then, finally. His mouth is pinched into a half-smile, but his eyes are just tired.

“Yes, you did.”

“Yes, I did,” he replies, mouth pulling to the left in a more amused smile.

They stare at each other for a moment, amusement slipping away completely. Jack looks away first, off into the sky again. “My wife and I were trying before she died. But she was diagnosed at stage 3 pancreatic, so it was always too late.”

Samira reaches a hand towards him, grabbing his shoulder. He startles slightly, but leans slightly into it.

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

“It’s been a long time,” he assures, resting a hand on top of hers. She doesn’t believe the nonchalance one bit. He squeezes her hand before gripping the railing again.

Her hand feels burned. “Still,” she adds insistently.

“Thank you.” His voice is quieter. The air between them feels warmer.

“How do you deal with it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that I do,” he says slowly.

Something about the moment makes Samira feel like she needs to match his confession. She’s had the urge before; to share. Something overtakes her sometimes, when a moment is still and she feels vaguely comfortable, she wants to immediately spill her guts and hope that someone might tell her that they understand.

And there was something about the roof that made things seem less risky; as if you could be excused for oversharing with your attending, or feel a level of comfort you hardly recognize, and it would be okay.

“My dad died on our living room floor, 30 mins after he was prescribed an antacid,” she says, turning to look at the sky as well.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice soft and sincere. She can feel his eyes on her briefly, but doesn’t look.

"Do you ever— and I know this is going to sound fucked up, okay, but do you ever feel… angry? For leaving— or dying.”

Jack sighs, “yeah… yes.” His hands move again, readjusting his grip. “Therapist said it was normal, but I still feel like a complete asshole.”

“Yeah,” she commiserates. She won’t admit it, but the confirmation is more relieving than she could imagine. “But I also can’t imagine who I would be otherwise. It’s this fucked up balance of fear and anger and more fear.”

Jack laughs at that, leaning his weight onto the railing.

“Despite that, it’s what brings me back here everyday, even when it feels pointless. We can’t conquer death, obviously— I can’t bring him back to life.” Samira looks back to him, “—but we can… what was it that you’d said? try try again,” she adds with a crooked smile. “Help another person, at least,” she concludes, feeling awkward. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, too personal, too self-centred, too pointless, but she feels lighter still.

Jack smiles, “cute.”

She looks away. She finds that she can’t look at him sometimes, not for too long.

“So, what keeps you pushing the bolder, Sisyphus?”

He laughs at that, drumming his fingers on the railing, “it’s in my DNA, I think. There’s nothing left for me but this bolder and this hill.”

“I don't believe that,” Samira scoffs.

He looks at her, eyes burning the side of her head. “Maybe not,” he concedes after a moment. “But it’s better than the alternative, I think.”

“Hm?”

“Chaos reigning free.”

Samira looks at him then, catching his eyes. He looks tired still. So tired.

“Sounds more like giving up,” she says, trying for kind, but it sounds harsh even to her ears.

“Is that more or less healthy than trying to control everything?” He squints at her and raises an eyebrow.

She smiles, coy and small, “I don’t know what you mean, I’m extremely laid back.”

Jack smiles again, but it’s bitter in a way that makes Samira want to cringe.

“And so am I,” he volleys.

They turn back to the skyline, shoulder to shoulder, and watch the clouds drift slowly. She usually feels a little sick after talking about herself; as if it were a grand and debasing thing, but Samira finds herself content to stand, slightly in Jack’s space, and exist. She feels changed, almost. They were friends, for sure, but there was an intimacy now. She edges slightly closer.

Eventually her watch beeps and Samira needs to return to the floor. She leaves feeling lighter than she had in a while.

4 — October

“Why didn’t you take today off?”

She’d heard him approach. At some point in the last few months she’d become well-acquainted to the sound of him; the uneven rhythm of his gait, the heaviness of his steps, the sound of his breath. His presence had become so obvious to her, so easy to pick out and follow. Sometimes, she’d track him through the ED without realizing it.

Samira waits, feeling him approach and settle beside her.

“You worried about Robby?”

Jack huffs beside her and she smiles to herself. “He checked in, he’s fine. It’s your birthday, why are you here?”

She turns to him. He’s already looking at her. “Where else would I be?”

“Celebrating? Friends?”

“Birthdays have always felt pointless to me,” she explains. In the past few months, sharing with Jack has become one of the easiest things to do. It felt almost natural.

He raises an eyebrow. Always astute, always listening to the unsaid. “Always?”

Her mouth flattens. Normally, she’d brush it off, but this was Jack. Apparently, in the past few months, he’d become an exception. “Anything past 13,” she answers, turning away finally. She won’t give him the eye-contact he wants, she decides petulantly.

“That I understand. Survivors guilt?”

His answer makes her shoulders relax, ever so slightly. She knew he would understand or at least try, but found it terrifying all the same. “No. Maybe. I don’t know,” she says in a rush. Her eyes are on the sky, eyes tracing the shape of a fluffy cloud. “I just had too much to worry about, too much to achieve, I don’t need the constant reminder of time ticking on my life.”

Jack huffs. It sounds amused and Samira’s eyebrows furrow in insult. “Celebrating what you’ve achieved—which is plenty—isn’t wasting time.”

She doesn’t respond for a moment. She wants to yell at him, suddenly. He makes everything sound so cut and dry, as if all the shades of grey were in her head. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Listen,” Jack says then, grabbing her attention. “When I lost my leg, the physio would throw me a party every time I could get to the bathroom without an accident.”

“Jack—,” she gasps, eyes widening in surprise. She takes a step forward, unsure of what to even say. She’s not given a second to think because he continues to speak.

“Naturally, I wanted to strangle him. What kind of thing is that to celebrate? A grown man, a widower, a veteran, a doctor, a loser— handed a fucking balloon for not pissing myself. It was humiliating—”

“Jack—,” she tries again, louder. She brings a hand to his shoulder, squeezing hard.

“Hm?”

“What you’ve been through and survived— every moment is worth celebrating, no matter how small you think it is.”

“...yeah?”

“Of course!”

He’s looking at her now, making an annoying face; one eyebrow raised and his mouth twisting to the side. “And what do you think I want to tell you right now?”

She scoffs at him, pulling her hand away from his shoulder. She crosses them across her chest. “How is it even remotely the same? Because I had to get a job young? Because my mom was a little distant? That’s not anything.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

Samira stares at him, angry and overwhelmed. Jack reminds her of a tree sometimes, a solid and sombre presence. She hates it.

“I should be stronger than that. I shouldn’t—”

He cuts her off with an unimpressed look, “you shouldn’t what? Be human? Because, sorry to break it to you, but we’re all human. No matter how much we might want to pretend otherwise.”

He’s staring at her with a challenging look. She breaks the eye-contact first.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re really annoying when you’re sanctimonious?”

“If you’re calling me sanctimonious that means you think I’m right, so, win for me,” he responds with a smirk, before throwing her two thumbs up.

Samira sighs. “I’m not ready to celebrate anything. I don't even know if I have somewhere to be next July.”

“Samira.”

“Nothing is for certain,” she insists. She can’t fathom the kind of confidence he seems to carry, especially the confidence he has in her.

“No, I guess not. But why is that always a negative? A rejection isn’t for certain either.”

She can feel his eyes on her. She can feel his righteous energy hitting her in waves through the air between them.

“When I have an offer letter in hand, I’ll celebrate.”

Jack scoffs. '“Somehow, I don't believe that.”

Samira nods absently. She’s lying and she knows it, and it’s almost comforting that he does to.

“Seriously, Samira.” His voice is raspier, suddenly. “Being an R4, having a fellowship, being the best doctor in the ER— you have those things, and they’re great—”

Samira looks at him with a raised brow, but he doesn’t acknowledge her incredulousness.

“—but even those are shallow reasons to celebrate. You should be proud of the person you are; kind, generous, empathetic, smart. It’s not an easy world to be any one of those things and you are all of them and more,” he concludes with a huff.

“Jack,” she responds. He watches her, waiting for her to continue, but she realizes she’s got nothing to say. She stares at him, more than a little confused. Confused or blind-sided or terrified or exhilarated, she’s not actually sure.

“If you’re not worth celebrating then I’m really scared for when my birthday comes around,” he jokes, eyes darting away. He scratches the back of his head, and that’s when Samira realizes how pink he’s become. He’s flushed all over and his hands have begun fidgeting again.

She starts to feel bad and tries to help him deflect, “Oh and you like to throw a rager? Walk around with a birthday sash?”

She feels her own shoulders drop at his laugh. She watches the way his face transforms with it, the man looking so much younger and lighter. Her eyes dart away and back, embarrassed, but still selfish with her desire to observe him.

“Do as I say… not as I—”

“That’s what I thought,” she glibs, crossing her arms across her chest.

“I never said it was easy, just that it was healthy.”

“When was the last time you celebrated your accomplishments? Or even told anyone anything about you— I don’t think I even know when your birthday is.”

Jack’s mouth pulls to the side, twisting in displeasure. “I had to find out about yours from Dana,” he complains.

Samira frowns. “Why does Dana know?”

He raises a brow at her and she sighs. “Is it pathetic to say I’m just not used to.. I don’t know... friends? Or talking about any of it. I’ve always just managed myself, really.”

“You’ve gotta try to share the weight, Samira. Before it crushes you,” he says, voice pitched low.

Samira watches him skeptically, waiting to see if he might see the irony in his statement. He shoves his hands into his pockets after a moment of silence, mouth twisting again, this time in defeat.

“My birthday is in August. The 16th,” he offers then, waved at her like a white flag.

She gasps, “you didn’t tell me!”

“You know now, don't you?”

Samira scoffs, frowning at him again, “Inspiring.” She can’t help the smile that grows on her face after a moment.

“Does this mean you'll go get a drink to celebrate?”

Samira sighs again. She knows he won’t let it go, she knows how stubborn he can be. “Drinking alone is just sad,” she concludes, trying in vain not to succumb.

If she’s learned one thing about him, it was that he was always going to surprise her. This doesn’t stop her breath from hitching when he smiles, crooked and genuine, and responds, “Who said you’d be alone?”

5 — November

Samira feels her body relax as she crosses the threshold; never had she felt more relieved at the sight of that hair and those shoulders. She approaches him with a quickened step, ignoring the way her stomach seems to drop.

He turns to smile as she settles beside him and she finds it difficult to match the expression. There’s been something on her mind for the past few weeks and she finds it impossible to silence the thoughts anymore—especially after yesterday.

“It feels weird up here now. It’s like I’m invading,” she admits after a minute of silence. It holds the weight of a confession to Samira, just barely encapsulating the depth of her despair.

Jack laughs, light and amused. “Not at all, trust me,” he assures. His eyes were twinkling almost.

She takes a breath, steeling herself. She looks away, “Is it horrible that I don’t even want to come back here? I’m kind of terrified I’ll bump into him and I really don’t know what I’d say.”

The air is quiet for a second and then Jack huffs a breath. “I can run defence, don’t worry.” His tone is a little flatter, significantly less amusement.

Samira doesn’t want to act dramatic, doesn’t want to unload the weight of her unsurety onto him. It wasn’t his responsibility, was something that she’s had to remind herself ad nauseam.

"Happy Thanksgiving,” she wishes, trying to steer them back to safer waters.

“I didn’t know you celebrated,” Jack remarks, voice soft. So soft with her all the time, Samira thinks bitterly.

“I don’t, really,” she admits.

“I don't either. Anymore. My sister does with her family and I get the invites, but. No, I don’t.”

He offers her so many pieces of himself, she’d realized, pieces that she didn’t quite know what to do with. They're precious to her, a little token of his trust, something to prove that she exists in his world. So, she holds them, all these little pieces, and gathers them close to her, keeping them safe against the world. And it was only in finding the space to hold them, did Samira realize how many pieces she’d given away too.

“My dads family still sends invites, but I just can’t look at them,” she offers. “Something about them being happy always sets me off.” It’s a selfish thought that might paint her in a terrible light, but she’d lost her sense of propriety with Jack months ago. On this roof, it was okay to be honest; the real kind of honesty, the kind that pulls the facade away. On this roof, it was okay that Samira really-actually-definitely did enjoy Jack’s company, it was okay that she’d taken his friendship and wrapped herself in it, turning it from innocent to all-consuming.

Jack hums his agreement. “I thought I might get over that feeling, but god. I still find myself bitter.”

“Well. It’s a terrible holiday anyway,” she concludes.

Jack huffs a laugh in response.

“What bring you out here, Samira? Thought you had a good shift.”

“Habit. You?”

“Same.”

A familiar feeling creeps on her skin; it trails up her arm like a wave of goosebumps leaving her close to shivering in the humid air. She could recognize the feeling instantly. She knew it intimately, this melancholy; as closely as one knew their own face. She felt acutely alone, even here, beside Jack. Beside the one person who she’d call a friend.

For the first time in a while—in the few months of their friendship, the brief amount of time that she’d been able to shed the unsurety that usually kept her apart—Samira didn’t know what to say. She wanted desperately to fill the space between them with words, any words at all, but her mind was empty of anything useful.

All she could think of was the shape of his smile; the unabashed, real smile that would overtake his face when he laughed.

Samira likes him, is the thing. Or likes this, whatever this might be. She’s yet to really understand the shape of it; she’s too close, too effected, to have the right perspective, to see the whole thing. Right now, she can only see the small parts; the chats on the roof, the iced coffees at the hub, the check-ins, the occasional drinks, the texts. She can't begin to fathom what it might look like zoomed-out, what kind of shape it might take. She has a visceral fear that it looks like Samira falling into the trap of love-sick puppy and Jack, the mentor sparing her feelings.

She needs time, is her conclusion, but she’s running on no time at all. Four months of happiness have passed and now Robby is back and she’s got two fellowship offers burning a hole in her pocket. She has no time at all and she knows exactly what the future holds for her.

“I’ll miss this,” she blurts out, unable to stop herself or temper the words at all. It felt raw and painful and she wants to cringe.

Jack turns to her. “What do you mean?”

Robby’s back, you don’t need me anymore.

“The view is so beautiful,” she says instead. She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn’t look.

“Samira—” His voice is quiet and low. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, getting existential on a roof can be really healing,” she jokes, finally turning to look at him.

His mouth pulls to the side slightly, a little hesitant. He observes her for a moment, eyes roaming her face slowly. She’s not sure what expression she’s wearing, she can hardly feel her face at all. After a few stale seconds, his mouth twists hardly before settling into a neutral pout.

He breathes a deep breath in, turning away from her before letting the air out heavily. “It's going to be different now, isn’t it?”

Samira doesn’t respond. Of course it is.

Jack laughs suddenly, the sound bitter and sharp. She watches him cross his arms and turn to her, eyes flinty and challenging. “Why do I feel like I did something wrong?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not saying much of anything, Samira. Talk to me,” he insists. All the hardness in his eyes had broken away and all that was left hurt to look at.

“There’s nothing to say,” she says quietly and she truly means it, in that moment. There’s nothing to say, no words that could adequately put a voice to these feeling in her chest.

Samira doesn’t shy from his eye contact. She stares back at him with a perverse sense of finality, as if this truly was goodbye. Practically, it was far from it: it was only November and she had half a year before she was no longer a PTMC resident. Their shifts would overlap, their gazes would meet. It wouldn’t be the same. She’d realized that the second she’d seen Robby, back from his sabbatical, back in the Pitt.

“We’re friends, right?”

I thought we were, Samira thinks uncharitably.

“Of course,” she reassures instead, a wooden smile fixed on her face. Maybe it was her and her sensitivities. Maybe she was unreasonable for immediately withdrawing into herself at the sight of Jack and Robby sharing space again. It’s just that, she’d forgotten.

Samira had been so quick to forget the status quo; to forsake the reality of her life for the fantasy world she’d existed in this summer. A world where she was a valued physician who belonged in the ER, someone who could still work at Presby without the shame climbing up her throat. The fantasy had crystallized in her mind each passing day, of this person she’d be and the life she’d live, only for it to shatter when Robby had nodded to her in passing, tossing her a ‘Hey Mohan’ carelessly. Somehow, the part that had grated the most was the pronunciation.

He didn’t know her name, even after all this time, and all the assumptions about her capabilities, he still didn’t really know her.

“Of course we are, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t smile back. He stares at her with a certain intensity she recognizes.

"Okay,” he nods, turning to look out at the sky before back at her. His eyes look for resolved, then. “Then you can talk to me, right?”

Samira sighs. If there was anything Jack was, it was stubborn to a fault. She could tell him. She could. She can’t.

She clears her throat, “Robby’s back, you know?” She’s not sure how to voice her thoughts somehow. She knows them, as truly as anything else, but looking into his eyes was making it impossible. “It was nice knowing you and working with you, but you have a life to get back to and I have—,” she says before cutting herself off. Does she have anything, truly?

“Fuck Robby, he has nothing to do with us,” Jack scoffs, neck jerking in emphasis.

Samira’s stuck for a moment. Us. Realistically, it’s just a word, it’s literal more than a plural pronoun, but it encapsulated so much to her. Did it mean anything to him?

“He has everything to do with it,” she explains quietly.

“What does that mean? Please talk to me, Samira, I can’t—”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me,” he blurts out, finally.

A laugh bursts out of her, unbidden. She stops the noise quickly, but can see the way it deflates Jack’s posture. She can’t bring herself to feel bad. “Jack, there’s nothing you can do,” she responds honestly.

“Tell me anyways.”

She looks away. The eye-contact was killing her, he was killing her and he didn’t realize it.

“Y’know, for a long time I’d convinced myself that I was being dramatic. That I was too sensitive. But it’s not that. It can’t be that because everyone else loves him— you love him.”

She turns her head and meets his eyes. The allure of catharsis was making her brave, maybe, but she can’t stop herself now.

“You know what he told me, Jack? I was having a panic attack and he told me to leave because I was a liability—,” she scoffs. “And when all I needed was a smidgen of reassurance he told me that geriatrics suited my pace… I know he was having a shit day but so was I!” She exclaims, huffing out a breath of frustration. Her fingers were buzzing.

“I’ve had a long line of shit days and they can all be traced back, someway, somehow, to one man. Take a guess who, Jack!”

He looks… sad. Samira feels deflated at the sight. He wasn’t Robby, he wasn’t— And he was and he wasn’t. She doesn’t know anymore.

“All I know is that I don’t need to be up here anymore.” Samira sighs.

He doesn’t respond, simply looking at her. She can’t read his expression. "I gotta badge in,” she says. It feels stilted and awkward and she hates the sound of her voice in this moment. “I’ll see you later,” she adds.

He turns to her, watching her with a smile. “Have a good shift,” is all he offers, continuing to watch as she turns and leaves.

+1 — January

The past few months had been an exercise in patience, or perhaps a return to patience; Samira’s whole life had been defined by it. By ignoring the constant simmering desire in her chest, pressing down the aching in her chest in service of the greater good.

She had months left here and then she’d be somewhere new. She’d be someone new too, hopefully.

Staring at the walls of her apartment, Samira felt her hungry like a pit in her stomach. She wanted more than this, she knew that she did, but she know how. The walls are bare, the furniture sparse. There was nothing here to miss and maybe everything to gain in Baltimore.

She could be a woman self-possessed; a woman with hobbies, with a future. A real person.

Samira could be a real person—even if she wasn’t exactly sure what it meant.

A knocking pulls her mind back to the present. She sat on her couch, staring down the barrel of a bottle of wine. She hadn’t even opened it yet.

Samira stands, moving towards her front door. The knocking sound is foreign; has anyone ever visited her, knocked and asked for her, in the years she’d lived here?

The sight of him makes the simmering want come to a boiling point, pinpricks of pain splashing against her, making her take a staggering step back.

“I heard you’re moving to Baltimore,” he says. He’s wearing scrubs still. His badge is still clipped to his hip. She almost believes it to be a mirage: the exact approximation of who she’s been missing.

“It’s a good opportunity,” she responds, feeling almost defensive. Of what she’s not sure. This misery of hers was a friend, she supposes. Something that’s lived with her, that’s chosen her, and it is now the only thing she has for her own.

He takes a step forward to match her second step back. He’s past the threshold now.

"It’s a great opportunity where you will flourish, without a doubt.”

Samira stares at him, at the furrow of his brow, at the intensity of his flinty gaze, at the shoulders set strongly back. She hadn’t taken him in like this in months. It feels like a breath of fresh air just to see him again.

"Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice breaks as he speaks. She doesn’t know what to think anymore.

The feeling returns; the itchiness in her skin that makes her want to hide herself away. “I thought I’d said enough,” she says finally. She looks away, eyes tracing the mat beneath his boots. “Every time I thought about it I just got so— sad.”

He doesn’t respond. He shifts his weight a little and she watches his feet shuffle. She can feel that same sadness still, she can hardly remember what it felt like not to carry it.

“Is that why we haven’t had a single conversation in the past two months?”

Her eyes flick up to his face. He’s looking at her so intently, as if he could pierce through her skin and look right into her brain. Maybe then she wouldn’t have to actually find the words. “When Robby—,” she tries before her voice trails off. “When Robby came back— I just,” she whispers. “This summer, I just—”

“—Samira,” he interrupts, taking another step forward.

She takes a step back, painfully aware that her foyer wasn’t particularly large. “I didn’t what to say, okay? And I had— have time! I’m not even moving til June, Jack.”

His face screws up, confusion, anger, upset, she’s not even sure. “You ran away from me at shift-change. You still haven’t texted me back about the case-study on vestibular rehab and we haven’t— you haven’t—” He stops himself suddenly and cuts his eyes away.

She feels bad, worse by the second. She can hear the deep breath in that he takes, and the second, too.

Finally, he looks at her, this time his expression is blank. She feels vaguely sick at the sight of it.

“You don’t owe me anything, but I thought we were friends.” He sounds defeated. So defeated.

She meets his eyes, imploring him to understand, “We are friends.”

He nods, once, twice, then thrice. He’s no longer looking at her. “You didn’t even give me a chance to respond.”

She feels cracked open, suddenly. Samira’s not sure what was the last straw—the pout of his lips, the line between his brows, the way his hands have yet to stop fidgeting. Maybe the fact that he was here at all, sounding like he really cares—but she could feel all the restraint in her body snapping. All of the emotion, all of the want and desire that she thought she had firmly gripped and hidden away, felt like it was about to drown her.

“It hurts,” she confesses, her voice a whisper. “It just hurts so much I can hardly look at you.”

“Samira—”

She sniffles, realising how overcome she’d become. “There’s nothing for me in Pittsburgh, as much as I may have wished there was.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

She doesn’t respond for a moment, instead just looks at him. “I love Pittsburgh, but I was never meant to stay here, clearly.”

Jack nods rapidly, agreeing readily. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. He’d always make excuses of tough love, and it was easier to accept that then really notice how harsh he was.”

Samira tries to smile, but instead her mouth pulls weakly. It’s nice to hear, nice to be acknowledged, but what’s done is done. She thought it would feel like vindication, but instead she’s just tired.

"Thank you for saying that,” she responds, earnestly thankful for him and everything he’d given her. It was more than she thought she would get from anyone at PTMC. “Thank you, truly, for what you’ve given me. Without you, I wouldn’t even have somewhere to go. But all I know now is that I need to go, if not for a job, but for myself. I think a fresh start will be good, I think Baltimore will be good,” she adds, not quite smiling. She sounds like she’s trying to convince both herself and him.

"Does it have to be a fresh start?”

"What?”

Jack sighs then, deeply. He brings a hand up to his face and rubs at his eyes. Then he runs the hand through his hair, tugging at the strands.

"I told myself a long time ago that I wouldn't do this. That it was selfish and wrong and inappropriate.”

"Jack—”

”I don’t care anymore... I really don’t.” He takes a big step forward, pushing closer into her space. She doesn’t take a step back.

"I tried. I did. But you said it yourself: you’re leaving,” he explains. His hands stuff themselves into his pockets, then out again. He reaches an arm forward before dropping it. He’s looking right into her eyes again.

"Let me come with you. I’ve got nothing to go back to if you’re not here,” he says.

Samira is stunned for a moment, without a single thought in her mind. What?

"Jack— that doesn’t even make sense, why would you do that?”

He laughs in reponse; a deep, rumbling chuckle. “Isn’t it obvious, Samira? You’re it for me. I know it’s unrealistic and probably insane but you’re a sure thing. You’ve always been—”

"Do you feel guilty? Because of Robby? Because it’s okay, really. I—”

"I came here ready to beg for your attention,” he admits with a smile. “I can still drop to my knees, but you’ll have to help me back up,” he jokes.

Samira can’t stop staring at him, looking for a single crack. “You’re serious?”

"As a heart attack.”