Archive of Our Own

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Samira looks up from where she’s sitting. The park bench, the sacred park bench, the one he finds her on after long shifts and bloody scrubs and tired eyes. He has the roof, she has the park bench. He settles next to her in the way they usually do, and she offers her drink to him. He waves it away.

“You working tonight?” she asks. The words float out aimlessly and find a home in the noise of lightning bugs and passing cars and honking horns. She’s not making eye contact. Instead, her eyes are lazily tracking a bug on the sidewalk, making its way back home, wherever that may be.

“Not tonight,” he tells her honestly. “I’m on call. Thought I’d stay close.” She pulls her eyes away from the bug to turn her head, looking at him in the deep dark of a city at night. He’s already looking at her. Like usual, he doesn’t ask her about the shift. Doesn’t ask her why she’s sitting on the bench, doesn’t ask why she hasn’t gone home like a normal, well-adjusted person should. He never does.

“You excited to start your fellowship?” he asks instead and she nods. 

“It’ll be a good, fresh start for me.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding so bitter— it is a fresh start. Only she thought her fresh start would be in Pittsburgh a few years ago. Only she thought she could triumph over Langdon, the Pitt’s golden boy, and stay in one place for more than four years. So it is a fresh start. Just not the one she wanted.

“Sometimes that’s what you need,” he says softly, eyes on her. 

And she hates it when he does that. Hates it when he treats her with kiddie gloves. It reminds her of Robby.

“Yeah,” she says faintly, standing up. “Nice seeing you.”

“Samira."

Her name always cuts deeper than any other word, coming from his mouth. 

“…Why won’t you talk to me?”

She’s looking at anything but him. The tree, the grass, the bug, the bug that has more of a home than she ever will, the bug that has a place to go back to. The words are trying to crawl their way out of her throat but she stops them, swallows them back down. Banishes them to her gut where they should stay.

“What is there to talk about?” she asks the open air.

“I don’t know,” he says from behind her, back on the bench. “I thought you’d have more to say to me on your last day.”

“I don’t.” She doesn’t soften the words and regrets it the moment they come out of her mouth.

“…Are you at least coming to the party?”

“No,” she tells him honestly. “No, I have to pack.”

“When are you flying out?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’re kidding.”

She looks at him. “I’m not.”

Immediately she regrets looking at him because she ends up watching Jack Abbot’s heart break in real time. It’s a small thing, you wouldn’t spot it if you weren’t paying attention, but it’s in his eyes, God, his eyes, which lose whatever little bit of light they had left in them. She turns away.

He springs off the bench and grabs her wrist when she starts to move, pulling her back so that they’re face to face.

“Are you serious?” he manages. He sounds— looks desperate. “Samira, you’re flying to fucking California tomorrow and you didn’t tell anybody?”

“I didn’t tell you,” she shoots back. “I told everyone that needs to know.”

“And I don’t?” he asks.

She bites her lip. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“Of course I fucking care,” he says, softer. “Fuck.” He lets her go, rubs at his face in that way he does when he doesn’t know what to do. “Fuck.”

“Abbot, I can’t—” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“Don’t. Don’t call me that. You— we’re not even in the hospital anymore. I’m not even your attending anymore. You can call me Jack.”

“…Jack,” she says, so soft she wonders if he even heard it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dropping his hand back down to his side and taking a step back, bumping into the bench and looking down to steady himself. She’s grateful because she gets a reprieve from those eyes.

“I really should go,” she says, putting distance between them and adjusting her hair. “I really… I really do have to pack.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says humorlessly, searching her figure like he’ll find answers there. His eyes snap back up to hers. “So this is it, then? This is all I get from you?”

“…I…”

“This is the last I see you? I get to see you here and then never again, I get to delete your contact in my phone and act like I never met you?”

“Isn’t that what you do with most residents?” she asks.

“You and I both know you’re not most residents,” he says, halfway between earnest and bitter.

Neither of them know what to say to that so it hangs in the air for a few more moments before she purses her lips and averts her eyes.

“I have to go,” she says again, quieter.

She hikes her bag up a little higher on her shoulder, like that’ll end the conversation, but he grabs her wrist again and pulls her close. He steps forward, an intrusion of her personal space, and sets his hands on her face before he kisses her.

She drops her can. It makes an ugly noise against the concrete. She doesn’t care. Her hands are in his hair, her bag strap is slipping off her shoulder, she doesn’t care, her mouth is on his and the can is rolling away but her mouth is on his and she doesn’t care. His curls, his fucking curls, she finally gets her hands on them, in them, and her fingers explore every single greying ringlet as soon as she touches them.

His hands are firm, strong like she expected, and she loves the way one cups her face and the other goes to her neck. He directs her in the same way he directs the ER, firm but patient, tilting her slightly with a press to the curve of her neck, coaxing her mouth against his. He opens his mouth and she accepts his tongue with the same eagerness she had when she first met him four years ago, bright-eyed and ready for whatever he could throw at her. Their tongues tangle, electric, and she barely has the strength to pull back for breath at the time she does.

He chases her mouth before realizing she doesn’t intend on continuing the kiss, settling instead for pushing her forehead against his and watching her breathe.

“Samira,” he says gruffly but she shakes her head.

“Don’t. Please. Just… just let me…”

Let me sit in this moment. Let me live here, in this kiss, in this park, in this city. Let me stay here and pretend it’s home, even if just for a moment.

“I,” she starts, but it doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t have any words to follow it. “How long have you wanted to do that?” she asks instead. Her eyes flicker from his mouth to hand to his chest back up to his eyes.

“…How long have I wanted to do that? Or how long have I seriously considered it?” he asks back.

“…Both,” she says, feeling more curious as the seconds tick by. A cricket chirps on in the background.

“…I’ve wanted to since I met you,” he admits, that hand on her face coming up to brush a curl out of her face. She blinks. “And I’ve been working up the courage to do it for two years.”

She bites her lip as they stare at each other. Since they met, she thinks. Two years, she thinks. Her hands slide down from his head to adjust her bag.

“Samira,” he says quietly. “Don’t disappear to California. At least… at least…” he trails off, not sure what he wants. “Don’t be a ghost.”

“I’m not a ghost,” she starts but he shakes his head.

“You are. You are. You’re packing up every trace of yourself without asking anyone around you for permission. You’re— you’re not even going to your own party.”

“That’s not just for me,” she tries to say but he only shakes his head again.

“It’s for you,” he says softly. “Of course it’s for you.”

“…Langdon’s—“

“Langdon’s not leaving.”

They’re both silent. His forehead is still pressed against hers, his hand is still on the back of her neck, his mouth is still wet and shiny from when they kissed.

“You know,” he starts quietly, his hand sliding down the side of her face to her neck, his eyes moving with it, “a going-away party without the person it’s for is just a funeral.”

She sucks in a breath and closes her eyes, trying not to let him get to her. “Don’t say that.”

“It is,” he says firmly, his hand settling now at her shoulder, squeezing her slightly. “Believe me, I’ve been to enough funerals to know.” His eyes meet hers. Sad, knowing, honest.

“…I don’t want to go,” she admits. “I— I don’t want everyone to… to throw some party for a life I— for a thing that didn’t work out.”

“Thing that didn’t work out?” he repeats, voice laced with disbelief. “Samira, you’re gonna change the fucking world. You’ve already changed the Pitt, and you were only there for four years.”

She scoffs, pursing her lips as she looks away, fighting back tears. Her face is making ugly expressions. She doesn’t want to cry. Not here, not now, not in front of him.

“I— I wanted it to be different,” she says finally, croaking the words out that usually stay at home in her stomach. When she starts, she can’t stop. “I thought it’d be different. I thought I’d— I thought I’d get the fellowship, I thought I’d be faster, I thought Robby would be nicer.”

“Robby?” Jack interrupts sharply and she shakes her head as she continues.

“I thought— I thought things would go differently. And they didn’t. And that’s fine. That’s fine,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself, not him. “I just— I don’t want to celebrate that.”

After the words have left her mouth, she feels lighter somehow. Like she’s been carrying that around, tugging on it like a thousand-pound weight, chained to her ankles whenever she tries to move forward. She doesn’t dare to look at Jack at the fear of seeing pity on his face.

“Samira,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” she says, voice cracking. “I really am. I just don’t want to go.”

“You don’t have to go,” he says reassuringly and she scoffs out a laugh, the tears starting to spill down her face now. She reaches up and wipes her eye with her sleeve, feeling frustrated that she’s breaking down in front of him like a baby and not a fully grown woman. 

“I know,” she says. He reaches up and pushes her hand away, wiping her tears away with his thumbs while he holds her face. She sniffs, feeling pathetic. She doesn’t want to be babied. “No, I know.” She pushes his hands away, taking a step back and wiping her tears herself, like a big girl. “I’m being stupid.”

“You’re not being stupid,” he says, taking that step forward, trying to get back in the moment even after she’s fucked it up. “Samira.”

“I’m fine,” she says again, even though the tears won’t stop running down her face. She keeps walking backward. “I promise I’m fine.” She hiccups.

“You’re not fine,” he says, heart breaking with every step, “Samira, it’s okay.”

“I know it’s okay,” she says, stopping when she realizes how far away from the bench she’s travelled. He stops in front of her, hands halfway to her face, hanging uselessly in the air. She realizes how she looks. She’s only 31 and having a midlife crisis. God, she knows how she looks. She sniffles and adjusts her bag on her shoulder, wiping her face again to try and reset herself.

“Samira,” he says quietly and she almost starts crying again at just the softness in his voice. “Why don’t you sit down,” he offers quietly, gesturing back behind him to the bench. The sacred bench. The bench of all benches. She sniffs.

“I’m fine,” she says weakly but he shakes his head.

“It’s okay to not be okay.”

Despite everything she laughs. “That something your therapist tells you?”

And despite everything he cracks a smile. “Maybe.” He pauses. "It might be a song lyric."

And damn it, despite everything, she smiles too. 

He offers her hand out and she takes it, letting him lead her back to the bench. The Bench. Their bench. She sits down next to him. She puts her head on his shoulder and he lets her. His hand comes up to run through her curls and she lets it. 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says softly. “No matter what that is. You don’t have to go to the party. You don’t have to go to California. You don’t owe anybody anything.”

“I know I don’t,” she replies quietly, closing her eyes. “I just… I had a plan for how things would go, you know? And things didn’t go that way.”

“Don’t you think it’d be boring if everything in life always went exactly to plan?” he murmurs into her ear. She shivers slightly at the sound of his voice.

“It’s different when it’s my plan,” she mumbles.

“I’m sure it is,” he murmurs. “But you shouldn’t beat yourself up over things you can’t control.”

She wants to say a lot of things to that. She wants to say that she did have control over how fast she was, or how she worded her application for the Pitt fellowship, or who she got her recommendation letters from. But she doesn’t. Because she’s tired, and that would feel like fighting, and she doesn’t want to fight, not when his hand is in her hair and his mouth is by her ear. 

“I guess,” she says instead, sounding immature even to her own ears. He smiles. She can feel it.

“You know, Samira, for such a smart person, you have some really dumb ways of thinking sometimes.”

“I know I do,” she admits. She’s been told that in therapy, the few times she’s gone. Been told that for being so exceedingly rational when it comes to everyone else, she just can’t apply that same logic to herself.

They sit in the silence for a bit. Samira’s turning over her plan in her mind, both the old one she abandoned and the new one she threw together when she applied for the fellowship. 

“…Are you really going to California?” Jack asks after a moment. She nods.

“Yeah. I am.”

A beat.

“Is there anything I could do to change your mind?”

She scoffs out a laugh and looks up at him, but there’s no smile on his face. He’s not joking. Her smile drops.

“…No. Not really,” she admits. She hates lying, but with him, she hates telling the truth because she has to see how it settles in his face. He gently lifts up a hand and turns her head away so that he can press his face into her hair. 

“Okay,” he says, muffled. She thinks he’s trying not to cry. Then he pulls back, taking a deep inhale. He is definitely trying not to cry. “Okay,” he repeats, like that’s settled. “Then I’ll see you, Dr. Mohan.” He stands. She gives him a confused look, bewildered even, as he nods at her like he’s made up his mind on something. 

“You’ll see me?” she repeats, confused.

“Yeah, Samira. I’ll see you.” He nods. He knows something she doesn’t know. He starts to walk away.

“Jack!”

He stops. 

“What does that mean?” she asks, voice tinny. “You’re not going to…”

He scoffs, rubbing at his face again. “No, I’m not going to kill myself.” She breathes a little sigh of relief and stands, starting to take a step but thinking better of it. 

“…Are you going to delete my contact from your phone?” she mumbles. 

He takes a deep sigh, his shoulders moving with it. She takes her eyes over his figure, his back, the poorly-coordinated outfit he has on. The stiffness in his right leg. 

“No.”

She breathes a quiet sigh of relief. There are a lot of words trying to make their way out of her throat but she can’t find it in herself to speak them. She can’t make sense of anything in her mind right now.

“Can I kiss you again?” she ends up saying and he stiffens so visibly she thinks he might say no.

“Yeah,” he mutters gruffly, turning. She can’t find whatever hope was in his eyes now. He takes a decisive step forward and reaches for her waist, tugging her close. She sucks in a quick breath, before relaxing when his mouth dips. 

They kiss like they’ll never kiss again. Maybe they won’t. Her hands claw their way back into his hair, his tongue forces its way inside her mouth, his fingertips press against the small of her back. She holds him tighter to her, dragging him in by the grey of his hair, and he groans softly into her mouth. He tries to pull back with a “Mira,” but she shoves her mouth over his again, trying to prolong the moment as much as possible before she has to leave. 

“Mira,” he gasps against her mouth but she doesn’t listen. “Mira,” he gasps again, trying to pull back but she keeps pushing. “Samira,” he hisses. She finally pulls back but her hands are still tangled in his hair, she doesn't want to let go.

"Please don't make me stop," she breathes, eyes still closed. "Please." She hates how desperate she sounds, how badly she wants to stay exactly where she is like a snowglobe.

"Samira," he says, sounding pained. "You have to pack."

"I know," she says weakly. "I know. But just…" She kisses him again and he lets her, but he pushes her back with two hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eyes. God, those eyes.

"…I don't know what to do with you," he admits quietly. She stares at him, unsure of what to say. She thinks he might be disappointed. She hates that she's disappointed him.

"Jack," she mumbles.

"Go home, Samira," he mutters, dropping his hands and looking at them like she's burnt him.

"I don't have a home," she admits, something she hasn't said to anyone but herself.

They both stare at each other. She doesn't have anything to add to her confession and she regrets the words immediately, wishing she could grab them right out of the air and shove them down her throat again. "Forget I said anything," she mutters, adjusting her bag. He watches, helpless, as she tugs her phone out of her bag and looks at the time. "Shit. I… I have to go."

She looks up at him. He doesn't have anything left to say to her. The corners of his eyebrows have tilted down and the creases in the corner of his eyes are crinkling. The lines etched in his forehead are more visible now, making it clear just how disappointed he is. She hates that she's made him look like this so many times tonight.

"I'll see you," she says weakly.

"I'll see you," he echoes. "Samira."

"Bye, Jack."

"Bye."

Samira turns around, clutches her bag closer to her side, and walks away. Walks away from Jack Abbot, the only thing that might have kept her in Pittsburgh. She walks away from the bench, which might have been the closest thing to a home she had in this city.

And Jack Abbot lets her.