Work Text:
The rain patters to an arhythmic beat against the window of the dimly-lit diner; the warm yellow light a stark contrast to the fluorescent hum of the busy ER. She sits in a booth in the far back corner, enjoying the solace of being tucked away from the crowd that—even at five in the morning—makes the venue buzz with energy. As one of the few places near the hospital that stays open twenty-four hours, it is often home to drunk college students, elderly folk who prefer rising before the sun does, and stressed-out medical residents seeking out comfort in creamy milkshakes and buttery pancakes after a long shift.
Samira Mohan was never one of those MS4s in her rotation—the ones that sat on the counter with their noses buried in medical textbooks as the clinical knowledge portion of the USMLE drew nearer with each blinking eye. She much preferred the quiet of her apartment (whatever her own definition of the word was, considering the walls of her room back then were paper-thin and her roommates weren’t exactly considerate of her studying—or anyone else’s, for that matter). If she felt like switching things up, or couldn’t find anywhere else where she could hear herself think, she sat on the stairwell of the hospital between the less frequented floors, accompanied by burnt break-room coffee and the chill of the cinderblock pressed against her back.
With her days of med school thankfully behind her, her reasons for being here now are much different than they once would’ve been—had she accepted the offer from the people that claimed this study spot four years ago. In the last few months she has become acquainted with the place; the bell that chimes above her head as the door swings open; the smell of freshly-brewed coffee that always seems to linger, even after the last pot of the day has been long gone.
There are few places in Pittsburgh that Samira frequents. It is a known fact that in her years living here she has made no efforts to put down roots, always considering it a temporary stop in the journey of her life. She has never felt the need to make the city a home, so when she isn’t at work or within the constraints of her rental one-bedroom, she doesn’t have many places to turn to. She likes the consistency of her routine sprinkled in between the chaos of working in emergency medicine, thank you very much.
But something in the air has been shifting lately, and maybe, just maybe, Samira Mohan has decided to take a different approach to life. Well, one step towards it, anyway. More of an attempt at a step, if she's honest. Whatever. This is a marathon, not a sprint.
Samira watches the rain outside, droplets of it still clinging to her unkept curls, which she wears down and loose over her shoulders. Strands of wet hair leave marks on her grey sweatshirt—the same one she has owned since her senior year of high school. The worn cotton hugs her in that reliable, comfortable way. Her rain jacket—navy blue, once belonging to her father; a piece of him she is intent on keeping, no matter the cost—stands to her right, hung by the hood on the coat rack set next to the table. She hugs a mug of already lukewarm chamomile tea between her hands. Her nails tap gently against the ceramic, almost unconsciously as her thoughts wander. She checks her phone on the table—5:03am; no new messages. She goes back to staring at the rain.
It doesn’t take long for the door to open again, a gust of wind announcing movement before the bell does; voices chattering as they find a table. She breathes in the sudden changes in the atmosphere; a sopping wet umbrella getting placed in the basket to the left, shoes rubbing against the carpeted entrance, the zip of a jacket coming undone.
Samira then hears uneven footsteps heading in her direction; the ones she knows so well she doesn’t have to turn to know who it is.
Jack Abbot slides into the booth across her, jacket ready in hand to be placed neatly beside hers. He’s wearing one of his black t–shirts—a too-tight short-sleeve that does little to hide what’s underneath. He runs hot; Samira remembers him telling her this when he forced her into a mandated five-minute break on one of her occasional night shifts. He had stepped out into the ambulance bay in nothing but his scrubs whilst she shivered under her jacket. The look on her face demanded an explanation.
His fingers comb back his peppered curls, all frazzle and frizz from the humid night air, and Samira can’t help but notice the way his freckled arms flex at the motion. Her eyes dart down before he can catch her, her interest seemingly suddenly piqued by her untouched beverage—the perfect opportunity to take a sip.
“Hi,” he croaks. His voice is hoarse and heavy with sleep yet to be had.
“Hi,” she echoes, revealing a dimple with the flash of a smile.
“You’re early for your shift,” he quips. As he leans back, the red cushion squeaks under his weight.
“Funny,” she replies with a huff.
Samira does have to be in the hospital in two hours. Jack is well aware of this fact.
She can’t explain exactly how, but the night shift attending has become one of the only constants in her life—ever since that shift on the Fourth of July. Though that day he’d been too busy chasing after Robby, trying hard to convince him not to head to his sabbatical-slash-suicide-mission to worry about anything or anyone else, once Robby left the department; once Samira was tucked in bed—eyes puffy and red from crying, heart sitting heavily on her chest, body and bones aching with exhaustion—she had received a thread of unexpected texts from an unsaved number.
[UNKNOWN] 11:39PM
Dana said you were looking for me?
She gave me your number when I asked her how I could reach you.
Her first instinct was to tell him it was nothing. Her self-esteem was so brutally wrecked, she couldn’t bring herself to ask him what she needed; what mere hours ago seemed like her last possibility at a shot at staying here.
Samira went to put her phone on her nightstand without typing a reply, but the familiar ding caught her before she could drop it.
[MAYBE: JACK ABBOT] 11:41PM
Sorry, this is Jack Abbot.
She also said you’d had a rough day.
She didn’t go into details.
Are you okay?
That was enough to make her break again, a response suddenly slipping from her mind as she cried herself to sleep.
The next time they ran into each other at hand-off, he pulled her aside, guiding her towards the break room with his hand placed on the small of her back. She went stiff with confusion before she realized she never texted him back.
He wore a concerned expression when he asked her, again, how she was doing. She knew he wouldn’t drop the subject until she confessed to something—anything—but the five minutes they had before she had to get to work were not nearly enough to cover the extent of what happened on the forsaken shift; though if she was being honest with herself, this had started long before that. She settled on telling him about her fellowship plans falling through and needing a letter of recommendation for a program, which he agreed to write for her.
That had started a trend of back-and-forth messaging, daily responses turning into hourly updates stringing into the natural flow and rhythm of a conversation. Samira hadn’t expected to find a good friend in Jack Abbot, whose aloof nature often kept people at bay. Sure, he was a charmer; he easily won over patients and staff with his natural charisma and friendly banter. He was cool and confident when leading a trauma; often a pillar of strength for residents to rely on. But he was private—surreptitious, even, about his life. The facts were clear, the details weren’t. People knew not to push things, taking whatever he offered without asking for more. So, before the friendly rapport started, Samira hadn’t known what to think of him.
It turns out she really likes Jack Abbot.
One of the waitresses—Judith, a woman of small stature with short black hair and thick, long lashes—comes over with a cup of black coffee, not bothering to wait for Abbot to place an order. His usual, she calls it.
Jack is the reason Samira learned about the diner in the first place, when he insisted on buying her breakfast after one of her many doubles that ended with her looking more tired than he’d ever seen her. Unfortunately, there had been no downtime for her to get a quick 10-minute nap, or even grab a bite of whatever she was carrying in her scrub pockets. It was one of those rare, incredibly busy nights. He feared she’d fall asleep before she could get some food in her, and—not knowing when the last time she ate was—decided to take matters into his own hands, for his own well-being. Belly full, she’d passed out in his car almost immediately after typing her address onto the navigation system.
Abbot thanks Judith before making a flirty comment that Samira can't quite decipher but earns him a giggle from her. She gives them both a quick smile before retreating, leaving them be until—or unless—she’s told otherwise.
“Isn’t it a little late in your day to be drinking caffeine?” Samira asks, noting how the steaming mug is already being raised to his lips.
A smirk draws on his face. “Decaf,” he explains, pausing to take a sip. “But I appreciate your concern, doctor.”
She rolls her eyes at the chosen emphasis. “You know about the placebo effect.”
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I do. You’ve sent me a couple of studies on this.”
As a chronic insomniac, he has long given up on techniques to help him fall asleep. He has tried everything from meditation to prescribed medication, all to no avail, but he still humours her from time to time when she suggests he limits his screen time and coffee intake before bed, even when he knows it ultimately won’t change things.
Given his circumstances, he is the only person she knows—aside from those currently working their shift, which is obviously not his case tonight—that is willingly up at insane hours of the night. She reasons it must not be easy to fall asleep when you feel the constant need to be vigilant, no matter how many years have passed since it was a necessity. She knows about the nightmares that make it that much harder for him to get continuous sleep for more than two hours at a time. And she knows that he will find every and any excuse to stay up when he doesn’t need to. Add in his nocturnal tendencies, and it is no surprise his sleep schedule is basically nonexistent.
Which is why, when she found herself unable to fall asleep tonight, he was the first, and only, person she could think to reach out to.
He’d offered before, when she told him that sometimes her thoughts get too loud as she lies in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to close her eyes; he’d said she could call, or text, any time (“and I mean any time, Samira”). She had never taken him up on it, fearing she’d be a nuisance even when he insisted she could never be one. But tonight, in between the tangled bedsheets from her nonstop tossing and turning, she finally allowed herself to accept his help (after debating if she should, wondering if she’d catch him on the night he had miraculously succumbed to deep slumber and ended up disturbing his peace).
His reply was immediate.
She felt a ripple of relief.
He asked if she wanted him to come over but she declined, telling him her apartment felt too suffocating and she needed to get out of there. He was hesitant about letting her drive anywhere—the storm outside only growing stronger by the minute—but Samira, ever so stubborn, was firm on her stance. They agreed, then, to meet up close to the hospital, so she could take the bus line that she knew would be running, and then be close enough to clock in at her shift by seven, like she needed to. He suggested this place without so much as a second thought.
“I heard Henderson got the ultrasound fellowship,” she says, breaking the seconds-long silence that had fallen between them.
Abbot nods. “I know. He told us yesterday. We had five minutes to celebrate the news before we were pulled back to work. Incoming trauma, drunk driver vs. pedestrian.”
She’d heard about that. They tried to save the patients, but the impact had been immediate; it left them both with extensive injuries. The crew knew before they even got to work that their chances of survival were slim. The pedestrian coded; the time of death was called ten minutes later. The driver was in critical condition, alive, being monitored upstairs as they hoped for a miraculous recovery.
She shifts awkwardly in her seat, granting him apologetic eyes. He brushes it off, clearly not wanting to dig into that conversation, so she swings it back. “Yeah. I’m really happy for him. I-I know he really wanted it.”
Another silence. She discerns he won’t interrupt her until she finishes sharing her thoughts, but she doesn’t know how to paint them without making herself sound either pathetic or desperate—or both.
Samira feels his gaze on her, urging her to go on. At this point, she thinks he knows her well enough to guess what she’ll say next, but will still go through the motions to get her to say it aloud. She sighs. “I just haven’t heard back yet. From any of them. I don’t know. I’m beginning to spiral, I think.”
Bingo.
He can tell she’s worried. Of course, she has been worried ever since her plans got completely derailed. Samira Mohan is a planner, an analyst, and a collector of data. She’s not an improviser. She loathes feeling like she’s lost at sea without anything to hold onto. Anyone who has ever interacted with her would know that.
Abbot shrugs, an attempt at cool casualty to reframe her line of thought. “You know how this works. The decisions will keep rolling out; you’ll get your answers soon.”
She lets out an exasperated exhale. “I know, I know. I just feel … itchy.”
At this, she begins to scratch at the sides of her neck, as if saying the word manifested it into a reality.
A smile threatens to tug at his lips. “You’re allergic to uncertainty.”
She glares at him. “I’m serious, Abbot.”
“So am I.”
Samira groans. “I think I’m going to break out in hives from all this waiting.”
He shakes his head, amused. “Patience is a virtue,” he declares with a grin.
Jack leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. He doesn’t mean it, but his eyes become clinical when they land back on her as he closes the distance. The bags under her eyes are more prominent than usual, an evident consequence of her lack of sleep; her skin is a little paler in colour underneath the red marks her nails have left.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, changing the subject as he reaches for the menu propped to his right; an extensive catalogue with just about anything imaginable.
Samira’s eyebrows raise. He extends the menu to her.
“You’ve gotta eat something. I’m not going to let you clock into a twelve-hour shift without food in your stomach. Knowing you, all you’re going to have for lunch is a chalky protein bar.” He makes a face that pulls a smile out of her. The one time he got curious enough to take a bite, he ended up practically choking on the chewy cardboard she had the audacity to call food.
She accepts defeat, taking the menu from him. Her eyes begin scanning the items before she can stop them.
“You seem to be pretty familiar with my eating habits. Careful there, I might start to think that you care,” she teases.
He is grateful she isn’t looking to see the blush that he is sure is spreading all over his face—right to the tip of his ears. He tucks his chin; his best attempt at hiding it from her. “Well, I can’t risk having an unfed resident circling the emergency department. We can’t let anything jeopardize our patient satisfaction scores.”
“How thoughtful of you.” Sarcasm coats her words as she sets down the menu. “I’m not hungry,” she decides.
His eyebrows knit with concern. “Samira–”
“I’ll be fine,” she brushes him off. “I’ll eat something when I get to the hospital.”
“I would really feel much better if you ate something now.”
Samira chews at her bottom lip. She despises feeling like she needs to be taken care of, always needing to be self-reliant so that others can lean on her. It has been her given role since her father died; so engrained in her that it is now part of her identity. She is still learning how to let others take the wheel every once in a while.
“How about we split some chocolate-chip pancakes, hm?” he volunteers, tenderly.
“You don’t like pancakes,” she points out with a raised brow.
He doesn’t seem to care. Before she can further argue, he’s already calling Judith over and placing their order—including a refill of his coffee, which Samira decides not to comment on.
It’s not long before Judith comes back, placing a plate between the two of them. Samira eyes it; three thick and fluffy pancakes oozing with chocolate and a side of fresh berries. Her mouth waters almost instantly, and her stomach growls so loudly she can almost bet the whole place has heard it. She sees the smirk Abbot is trying to hide as heat starts creeping up to her cheeks. God, she hates it when he’s right.
Ever the gentleman, he lets her do the honours, and Samira digs in unabashedly. As the chocolate melts in her mouth, she feels like, maybe, for a second, everything will be alright. Maybe she can be a person who just exists in the moment; who doesn’t think about her e-mails and obsessively refreshes her inbox hoping to see the bolded letters of a new delivery. Maybe she can just be a person who is enjoying some chocolate-chip pancakes.
Jack follows her lead. He takes a bite, immediately regretting it. He grimaces. “Jesus. This is too sweet.”
Samira can’t help but let out a tickled breath. He goes for a sip of coffee. She gives him a look that reads as an ‘I told you so’ as he pushes the plate in her direction. He doesn’t seem too bothered. After all, the pancakes were always meant for her.
“My mom is getting married,” she blurts out, unexpectedly.
He sits his utensils back on the plate; the clinking of the metal is louder than he anticipated in his slight surprise. This is certainly not on the list of things he was assuming she would say next.
“Next week. Before they go on their cruise. She said she wanted to get it done before they leave.” She forces out a laugh. “She called me to tell me, but—based on her choice of words—I’m not sure I’m even invited to the ceremony.”
She attempts nonchalance but he can see the hurt in her eyes as she moves the food around her plate; the fluffy mass disintegrating with each stroke of her fork. For who knows how long, Samira’s entire future has revolved around her mother. He doesn’t know whose idea this was to begin with, but he has always sensed it wasn’t hers. She must’ve been guilted into it due to her inability to say no when people expect things of her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in earnest.
She shrugs it off.
“She has every right to move on with her life.” Then, quietly, she adds, “I just didn’t think that meant also leaving me behind.”
The slight quivering in her voice does nothing to conceal her true feelings. She forces them back with a gulp, as if showing them was a sign of weakness; as if swallowing them will make them go away.
Samira often wonders what her relationship with her mother would be like if her father was still alive, or even if she’d been a little older at the time of his passing. Their relationship became strained after her father died, she’s certain of it. But sometimes, she doesn’t know if the ambivalence—the friction between them—existed even before then, just masked by the idea of a happy family.
If her father was still around, would her mother feel such resentment and vitriol towards her? Would she feel the need to leave the memories of a life once had? Would a fresh start mean a life without her? Would she be able to look at her, her father’s features spread across her face, without feeling the need to pull away?
She has never given voice to these thoughts. She has always been too scared of what the answer might be. Deep down, she thinks she already knows.
Abbot sits there, quietly still. His arms are crossed against his broad chest but his posture doesn’t read as defensive or defiant. His closed-off body language contrasts the unguardedness of his face, his hazel eyes tracing her with care as she speaks; as he takes in her every word like it matters.
Samira takes his silence as an invitation to go on, slightly flushed at the realization that he is giving her space to exist in a way that she barely ever gets to. She always feels silly and self-indulgent when she allows herself to wallow in her negative thoughts and myriad of parent-related issues; she tries to avoid it whenever she can, bottling up words and feelings that would be better shared with a therapist.
“It’s stupid, really, but I didn’t think this day would come; at first because she was grieving so hard it felt impossible for her to conceive a life without him. Then it just—it didn’t seem like an option, if that makes sense? It was like so much time had passed, I didn’t think rebuilding her life was something she was even considering. Not when she was making me feel like my life should revolve around hers, anyway.”
He nods along, sharing his wordless understanding.
“She made me think we’d continue our lives. Together.” An ironic laugh escapes her in between sentences. “For the first time, it felt like maybe she actually wanted me there.”
She tugs at the sleeves of her sweatshirt, pulling them over her hands; the hems of it are coming undone from all its years of life and use. Samira can’t help but play around with the fabric, twirling the loose strings around her fingers. Jack notes this as a sort of armour—a way to physically express her suppressed feelings without showing them on her face.
She sniffles, eyes watering; her line of sight is kept below her. “I don’t blame her for moving on, I really don’t,” she insists, though that sounds even less convincing than she anticipated. “I thought I’d also get there, eventually. I thought that it would eventually hurt less. Time heals all, or whatever. But sometimes it feels like I’m stuck. Time moves forward, but I don’t. And I’m wondering if I’m just going to be carrying this pain forever.”
She lets the words hang between them, plunging into a heavy silence as she begins to pick at her cuticles; her hands antsy for something to do.
Abbot sighs, his voice dropping low. “I don’t think it ever gets easier. Some days it’s more manageable, other days I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest and even doing the bare minimum requires effort that I don’t have in me. There’s this,” he pauses, thoughtfully choosing his words. “Tightness, I guess. This feeling that something is wrong or that something is missing.”
She nods. “Some days are definitely easier than others,” she mutters.
“We’ll always carry the people we love with us. That will never change. I guess eventually the joyful memories become more prominent than the pain, and that’s what people tend to keep.”
“Sometimes holding onto the memories hurts, but then I think of leaving them behind and I feel like I’m betraying him, somehow? Losing him and part of myself by acknowledging I can move on. I don’t know. I mean, do you think you’ll ever move on?” she asks.
He is taken aback by the question.
Her eyes widen with the realization that she must have crossed a line without meaning to. “Sorry, that’s totally invasive. Don’t answer that. Forget I asked.”
She waves her hand around dismissively and looks down in embarrassment, heat immediately climbing to her face.
He can’t help but search for her eyes—in the usual Jack Abbot way—as he leans forward and tilts his head in such a way she has no choice but to look at him.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he assures. His hand reaches across the table, his fingertips landing on the back of her hand for a whisper of a touch before pulling away, resting his hand on the table.
Samira allows herself to find his eyes, the crinkles around them soft with the drawing of a small, comforting smile that spreads across his lips. She feels soothed by the action. The knot in her stomach begins to untie, replaced instead by a slight feeling of flutter that makes her ponder which of the two options is worse.
She knows Abbot is an objectively attractive man—the rumour mill around PTMC has to ensure everyone knows it. She has tried to picture what he must’ve looked liked when he was younger; boyish features, freckles all over his skin, auburn curls. He must’ve been good-looking, yes. But there is something about his now rugged look that makes him unequivocally handsome. The lines on his face tell the story of a life lived; joy in his smile lines, pain in his furrowed brow, traces of his past that make him who he is and that he has come to accept—even if reluctantly.
But right now, she is sitting across from him, asking him about his dead wife. Now is not the time to feel any sort of way about him. She’ll blame whatever this is on her lack of sleep.
Her eyes travel down to his left hand; to the tight wedding band on his ring finger that he keeps spinning. A reminder of what's still there.
“I think my situation is a little more complicated,” he says without stopping the action.
“How come?”
“Let’s just say I don’t know if I have the right to move on,” he tries to joke, but the honesty in his voice makes it not land.
Samira’s gaze softens. Now it’s her turn to seek his eyes. He is good at hiding; easy, practiced; contrasting the openness he was offering her a minute ago.
Abbot sighs. “I wasn’t a good husband. I always thought we’d have more time, you know? When you’re young, you think you have all the time in the world.”
He clears his throat. “She always said it was stupid of me, joining the army. She was right; of course she was. But I didn’t want to hear that at the time. I needed a way to get through med school and I thought I was helping people. I didn’t think much beyond that.”
The way he speaks is detached, clean and cut-dry; like a third-party reviewing facts rather than as someone who lived them. Samira wonders if this emotional distance is curated by pain or experience; if it has been necessary for him to move forward or if it has come to a point where repeating the words has taken away their meaning.
“What I saw—what I did–” he amends firmly, “is something I can’t take back. I thought it was the best chance at the future I wanted—at the future she wanted. I talked myself into thinking it was for the better. In doing so, I didn’t realize I was neglecting the present.”
His words resonate with her, hitting like a punch to the gut.
He was leaving his life for later.
She has been leaving her life for later.
He continues at the lack of an interruption. “She always wanted kids, but it was something I was never ready for. It was something I couldn’t give her. There’s nothing I regret more. She would’ve made an excellent mother.”
He pauses, briefly; he leads himself through steady inhale and exhale.
“It took her getting sick for me to finally realize there would not be a later. Along with her diagnosis came the regret. That was the moment I started wishing I could go back and change things. But there was nothing I could do. I had made my choices and I had to live with them.”
Samira doesn’t know the full story, and she doesn’t have the gull to ask. She knows that after his wife died he refused to take the time off, and that every year, without fail, he works all the dates that remind him of her. He throws himself into the work to numb his feelings.
“Now I feel like I don’t have a right to move on. I have to deal with the consequences.”
Samira frowns. “Please don’t tell me you actually believe that.”
Her voice is barely a decibel above a whisper, light as a feather.
Silence.
“You can’t punish yourself for this. I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted you to live the rest of your life like … ” words escape her; all she can do is vaguely gesture at him to make her point.
He lets out a sad chuckle, low and resonant in his chest. “No. She always said she wanted me to keep living for both of us. I know she would be disappointed to learn I haven’t, but I’ve made peace with it.”
“Have you?”
“Well, I’m working on it.”
Samira takes a deep breath, slow and controlled. “She had a point, you know? You deserve to live a life, Jack. Even if it’s a life haunted by your past. We all have baggage.”
Her use of his first name is not lost on him. Even outside the hospital, he is regularly still Abbot. Samira claims the association in her head has already been established by neurological pathways she has a hard time rewiring, so the act of switching to his first name takes conscious effort that sometimes slips her mind.
“You’re just so … Abbot,” she once said, when he asked why they were still on a last-name basis. He’d chuckled, endeared by her in a way he probably wouldn’t have been with anyone else; cheeks aching from shared smiles and laughter; blood thick and heavy as colour rose to his face.
This conversation is perhaps the most raw and honest one he has shared with another individual outside the padded walls (in the metaphorical sense; the wording apparently creates a safe space for patients to crumble and fall without fear of getting hurt) of his therapist’s office in years. And yet all he can think about is the intimacy with which his four-letter name is spoken.
“Well, I might have to pay an overweight fee,” he jokes. His exhale reads as a failed attempt at a laugh. “A vet with a losing limb and a dead wife? Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”
“Don’t forget to mention that your idea of a hobby is getting shot at and listening to police scanners before running to your place of work—as an emergency medicine doctor,” she offers; a cheeky smile tugging at her lips.
That gets him to chuckle. “Yeah. I’m not sure anyone’s going to let me board with everything I’m carrying.”
“Then you try somewhere else,” she says with a shrug; like it’s easy.
Like she believes it.
“Can I ask you something?” she prompts after a short pause; the wheels in her head are churning so loud he can almost sense a question before she asks it.
“We both know you’re going to ask no matter what my answer is.”
“Shut up,” she tries to keep a stern voice, but the short breathy chuckle she attempts to suppress betrays her. It takes her half a second to compose herself before she continues.
“The tightness you feel in your chest sometimes, the one you were describing just now … I think that’s guilt. Not grief. I think you would feel much better if you forgave yourself. And maybe your baggage would become ten-percent lighter,” she adds, in a more playful tone.
He takes a beat to absorb the information, almost smiling to himself. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“No. This is me talking to you as a friend. You need to be kinder to yourself. You’re a good man, Jack Abbot.”
He doesn’t know if he believes that, but the way she says it makes him feel like maybe there’s truth hiding behind some of her words.
Samira has always seen the world with brighter, kinder eyes. The loss she suffered never dulled her light, and perhaps this is one of the reasons he is so drawn to her. Even when everything has been against her, she has fought for what she believes in. That’s what makes her a damn good doctor; her resilience, her advocacy, her strength; her belief in change and in making things better for others because she has been a victim of the system.
Jack is not like that. He doesn’t have her unwavering optimism. On his darkest days, he has wished ill upon everyone around him, just so that he wasn’t the only one feeling sunken and lost. Samira chooses to see the good; Jack chooses to see the bad.
“You’re good at this. Maybe you should have gone into psychiatry,” he quotes Robby’s words from a year ago back to her—sans the patronizing tone. He can’t believe he would ever suggest Samira Mohan find a different specialty; not psychiatry, certainly not geriatrics. Not after the mass casualty. Not after the burr hole with the EZ-IO or their procedure with the pigtail catheter. Not after proving herself an irreplaceable asset time and time again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?” he pesters. She knows he is the first in line to remind her the ED needs doctors like her to survive.
Samira lightly kicks his leg under the table—cleverly choosing the one that’s not made of metal. He laughs, knowing he deserves it.
“You’re an idiot,” she mumbles under her breath; the grin on his face only grows wider.
They fall into a comfortable silence; what always feels like a return to home base. He goes back to nursing his coffee as she takes a few more bites of the food in front of her—an easier task now that the bubbling anxiety in her stomach has simmered down.
A yawn escapes her as she settles back in her seat. Then another one, and another one.
Jack can’t stop the curving of his lips that turns into a half-smile as he watches her fight against the sleep that keeps calling her name.
“How about you let me drive you to the hospital and you take a nap in an on-call room?” he asks with a hum. He tilts his wrist to read his watch. “You still have a little over an hour before you have to work.”
“I’m fine,” Samira insists, mid-yawn, but the look he gives her is enough for her to go backtrack on her statement. “But it’s nice of you to offer. And I would appreciate that. Thank you.”
He nods, pleased. He takes out his wallet from one of the many pockets of his trousers and places enough cash on the table to cover the bill and leave a hearty tip for Judith.
She thanks him again. They do their usual dance—she offers to pay him back, he declines; she offers to cover it next time, he says maybe. They both know it’s not happening. He always says he’s old-fashioned; that his mother would not forgive him if he let Samira pay for anything, especially considering she’s not yet an attending. She eventually caves, even though her brain is constantly trying to find ways to make it up to him.
Judith is already at the back, likely getting ready to clock-out, when the pair walks out the door. The storm has settled into calm October rain and Jack keeps them both dry under his massive umbrella; she maintains they can probably manage just fine with just their coats in the short walk to his car—which she can see parked right outside the glass door. He groans, and she accepts that as a sign that, today, she’s not winning any battles, so she better stop picking them.
He opens the door to the passenger’s side for her. He proceeds to close his umbrella and sets it in the trunk of the car. He then leaves his jacket in the backseat, bare under the rain as he walks over and glides onto the driver’s seat. He takes Samira’s coat from her and places it next to—or on top of, she’s not quite sure—his. All she can do is thank him again.
She takes in the smell of air freshener, covering the notes of aftershave and hospital antiseptic that linger everywhere Abbot goes. It’s comforting, finding him under the artificial pine scent seeps from the bag that hangs from the rearview mirror.
The drive to the hospital isn't long, and despite being familiar with the roads, Jack still takes the extra precautions that come with driving in the rain, taking a measured speed that adds a few extra minutes to their journey, but he doesn’t care.
His attention is strictly on getting them to the hospital safely. It is not until they are finally in the staff parking lot, when he goes to unbuckle his seatbelt, that he notices Samira has fallen asleep, angled to the side with her head plopped between the seat and the window. He watches the even tempo of her chest rising and falling, finding comfort in the steadiness of her peaceful frame. A loose curl frames her face and, without thinking, he brushes it away with his right hand, feeling her twitch underneath his fingers.
She does not wake, so Jack decides not to wake her. He will let her sleep until it’s 6:45 and he has no other option but to gently shake her until her eyes open.
Jack opens his glove compartment to pull out a blanket—the one he left there just for her, just in case, neatly folded and tucked away. He unfolds it and carefully drapes it over her, right below her chin.
He can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks, even as her jaw hangs open slightly and hot breath pushes past her plump lips.
His heart skips a beat, and he realizes what he has been trying so hard to ignore; what he knows has been brewing deep within him for longer than he cares to admit, in spite of fears and protests and bargains with the universe; what is utterly, irrevocably, and irreversibly true no matter how hard he tries to deny it.
He’s in love with Samira Mohan.