Archive of Our Own

“So, who exactly is this Dr. Mohan?” Dr. Shaw shot as soon as Jack settled onto the divan opposite his armchair. 

Jack heard papers rustling, the stack of notes that Shaw so carefully tended to every session — Jack’s psychiatric record, an initial guide to his personality. He didn’t pause as he answered, fixing the pillows behind his back with practiced calm.

“What?”

“Dr. Mohan,” Dr. Shaw reiterated. “You talk about her so much and yet I just realized: I have no idea who she is.”

Shaw had his chin tipped to the side, a crooked smile plastered on his face. Amusement seeped in his eyes, in the lines around his mouth. He was just a few years younger than Jack, and with his auburn curly hair and freckled skin, looked like a brother—the one Jack could’ve had if his parents hadn’t stopped at the first son.

“I don’t talk about her,” Jack tried to keep an even tone, but felt he sounded more like a petulant child. 

“But you do mention her. Quite a lot, actually.”

Jack tilted his head. He felt the familiar overwhelming urge to stare at the door, to check if it was locked even though he was the one who closed it and tried to fight it. He tightened his grip on a yellow, fluffy pillow instead, and studied the patterns of cracked brown leather on the armchair. The carpet’s green wool threads sprouted from the tapestry like weeds.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a lot.”

Dr. Shaw huffed a laugh. 

“I keep track, Jack. Her name has been popping up quite often in our sessions. Even if she’s not a subject.”

Jack suppressed the instinct to twirl his index finger on his wedding ring. Pretended his frown was caused by the pain in his leg radiating from the prosthesis. Shaw still smiled, seeming really pleased today, even though he was particularly pleasant every other day. It’s just that, there was an air of confidence now, the haughtiness of someone who knows they are right and will find a way to prove it.

Dr. Elliot Shaw didn’t usually start his sessions with inquiries. Most times, he just let Jack talk, allowed him to ramble his thoughts about his past week: work related things—specific, remarkable cases he encountered on his shifts, patients that stuck with him even after their discharge, the triggering thrill of performing successful and failing procedures that Jack liked doing either way—, or personal ones—like the ever present pain on his right leg or his inability to sleep for more than four consecutive hours. 

Sometimes, they delved into the dark, murky waters of the past, drifting ever further to Jack's time in the army, and before that, to his youth and childhood. It had become less of a suffocating dive in the past years, as Jack had learned that sharing his stories was usually less troublesome than keeping the burden to himself. 

They also talked about Mary, Margaret and Michelle, their respective husbands and wife, their boys and girls, and recently, grandchildren. They discussed their expectations regarding Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, about how they always sent summonses, not invitations, and how that was not a problem, because the six-hour trip back to Virginia was always worth it even if Jack did not admit it to any of his sisters.

They used to talk about his and Cathy’s tempers and how the constant misalignment of their schedules was often a matter of discussion, but that they had lived on opposite schedules for so long that the prospect of changing always seemed worse than remaining. That they loved each other, deeply, but got along better with the distance. 

Now, they talked more about how the taut stretch of space between Jack Abbot and Catarina Muñoz simply did not exist anymore. Of how odd it felt, for Jack, to feel himself being pulled under by grief, rather than guided forward by her hand.

There were sessions where Shaw led, conducting the conversation for the theme he wanted to work on. He revealed a piece of his mind, something he’d been thinking about for a while, and asked what he wanted to know, and most of the time, these were the questions that Jack did not want to answer. 

They traveled down this route many times before. Shaw has let Jack get off the hook in some of them, but something told him that mercy wouldn’t be shown today. 

Even so, Jack didn’t answer him, shrugging and crossing his arms as he leaned further back on the sofa. Shaw mirrored him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Anyway, I know she’s a doctor, a resident and, therefore, your mentee. Even if she works on days. I know she’s extremely intelligent and, as you put it, ‘smarter than all of us’.”

Jack’s grip on the fabric tightened. Shaw kept on. 

“She’s meticulous, sweet and kind to her patients and, for that, she has the highest satisfaction scores at the ED. But she’s slow, and that bothers your friend and her actual boss, Robby. It never bothered you however, because you actually like that kind of style. Admires, even.”

Jack did not recall saying any of these things. He didn’t doubt he might’ve done it, however, because even though Jack wasn’t particularly prone to confiding, Shaw always had a way about him, a peculiar manner of prompting Jack to open up. 

It was an unfortunate, accidental slip of tongue that caused Shaw's instincts to hone in on Dr. Mohan. 

It happened last summer, on a particularly hot and aggravatingly humid day. Water particles suspended in the air clung to Jack's shirt as if he had spent the entire day working under the sun, clothes stuck to his body like tree sap. He had  spent the entire afternoon pacing around his living room after he’d organized Cathy's donation boxes and swept the house. He’d tried, for the last few hours before his therapy session, to find something to do and failed, because nothing could keep his attention long enough to make him just stop thinking. When he finally barged into Shaw’s office, there was a storm brewing outside in the early evening sky, and another boiling inside him.

After he managed to mumble a greeting, Jack simply sat there, at the couch, spine straight and neck taut, maintaining a tight grip on his own fist. He did not utter a single word. Did not raise his gaze above the old leather armchair.

Shaw had said he looked uncommonly uneasy that night, that he wore a restless, guilty frown he hadn’t seen in a very long while, and asked: “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he’d answered. But as the session progressed, Shaw had somehow managed to back him into a corner, a state of utter helplessness that just made Jack spill like an open, tipped bottle. He asked if Jack was developing feelings for someone. Not if he was in love, per se, but if someone had catched his interest as of late and if that was making him feel bad, to which Jack had said, with every drop of conviction: “No.”

That same session, however, Jack had spent quite a while rambling about this resident that he never really had much contact with, but that ever since she’d started a two-week rotation on the night shift, had become practically the only positive aspect of Jack's life during those days. He named her without actually meaning to. Shaw held on to that, though, like a dog with a bone.

“All of this I gathered from your passing comments on our previous sessions. What I don’t know, however, is who she is. What’s she like? What else does she do outside of work? What are her hobbies, her tastes? Did you—”

“I don’t know,” Jack cut. “I don’t know her that well.”

The admission hung heavy in the air, and as Shaw chuckled, Jack contained an eye roll.

“But you like her, don’t you?”

Shaw stared at him intently, eyebrows arched in a challenge. Jack sustained the contact—he would not give him the satisfaction of wavering.

“Of course I do.”

Shaw smirked.

“In what sense?”

Jack fell back to the cushions with a huff. “You know what,” he said, rubbing his eyes. 

“No, I don’t. You never told me.”

Closing his arms over his chest, Jack shrugged. And then, Shaw gave a pointed look towards his foot, rhythmically tapping the carpet.

“Is there something else bothering you today?”

“No, I—”

“What did you do?”

An ironic echo. Jack felt himself starting to vacillate, and tried hard to keep his voice steady as he admitted:

“It’s just,” he sighed. “I sent her an article this morning. That’s all.” 

“Oh, the medical journals,” Shaw’s smirk grew into a smile, “I had almost forgotten about that. She hasn’t replied to you yet?”

Jack shook his head.

“What did you send her?”

“Just a case report about point-of-care lung ultrasound. Since she’s still in doubt about her fellowship.”

Shaw nodded.

“She’s in a tough spot, I imagine.”

“Yeah.”

“You did mention this before, that you didn’t know whether she was staying or not,” it was Jack’s turn to nod. “Did you write her a recommendation letter?”

“Of course I did,” Jack shot with more intensity than he planned for. A flicker of surprise—not the sardonic, cool raise of eyebrows, but actual shock—crossed Shaw’s face. “Spare me the speech. I know.”

He raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Okay, okay,” and then, a pensive halt, as if he’s weighing down a question he just came up with. “Did Robby write her one?”

That gave him pause. Jack’s mind came up oddly blank, because he realized for the first time that:

“I don’t know.”

What he did know for sure was that it only complicated things further. Because it wasn't enough that there was a huge conflict of interest in him writing a letter to Dr. Mohan; if Robby, the head of the department and her direct superior wasn't going to write her one, her situation was far more serious and delicate than Jack had imagined.

He always knew that Robby and Mohan clashed, similar but opposing forces. He knew that, sometimes, she would walk over him and not listen to what he had to say—and that sometimes it wasn't even worth it if she did so—, but he thought the conflicts had eased, especially after she worked on the aspect that Robby complained about most: her speed.

It was a very unpleasant surprise when Jack discovered that on day four, on top of everything else, Robby had snapped at her. But Robby had left, leaving Jack hanging by a thread, anxious and scared, and Dr. Mohan hadn't shown a thing when she returned two days later for a double. No trace of the shortness of breath, sweat, or chest tightness he’d heard of a few days earlier, only a hesitant smile and an opaque stare as she asked him for the letter.

Only a sharp, sudden palpitation as he said that, of course, he would write it to her, and the soreness in his throat as he swallowed, because he shouldn't do any of this, even if the risk of him not being objective in what he wrote was, in his opinion, remote. 

And also the urge to ask about what happened, to know how she was, what the hell she was going to do with the letter—crushed by Dana’s raised eyebrow.

“She doesn't want to talk about it,” she'd told him. But Jack had the faint suspicion Dana herself didn't want the subject to resurface either, and, if he was honest, neither did he.

So he let it go, filing the information away for when Robby returned sound and safe. Which was taking a long fucking while, now that Robby had postponed his comeback for two weeks, and Jack was starting to believe that he might never return.

Shaw already knew all of this, of course. Whenever Jack told him something, he’d save the judgment to reveal it at the most inopportune times, usually when Jack was on the verge of doing something he really wanted to do but knew he shouldn't. 

This often reminded Jack of his mother's grip on his wrist, preventing him from reaching for an extremely sugary and expensive tub of ice cream. His favorite flavor was chocolate, and it had crushed brazilian chestnuts sprinkled over the top. Jack's favorite part was feeling the topping’s crunchiness  along with the icy candy, melting on his tongue. He was allergic to chestnuts, however, and the last time he had devoured a tub behind his mother's back, she had to rush him to the hospital as he wheezed, face red, in the back seat.

Jack allowed the quietness to sit in the office with them for a moment, buzzing like electric static, before Shaw cleared his throat.

“Anyway, it’s… interesting to see you like this, not to say funny,” he laughed, dry. Jack did not. “Last time I saw you this nervous, you’d had that big fight with Cathy because of Robby. This means that, whoever this Dr. Mohan is, whether you know her well or not, she has taken up a lot of space inside your mind. Along with everything else, of course.”

Jack could only tilt his head. 

“I mean, between Robby’s sabbatical, Baran’s taking over and Dr. Mohan’s leaving—and their complicated relationship with him—, I imagine you’re walking on quite a tightrope now, Jack. That’s not to mention your leg.”

“Yeah, I mean—” he shrugged. It wasn't as if the world was not spinning according to the natural state of things. Residents left and attendings arrived, and sometimes they got along with their bosses, sometimes they didn't. Sometimes those bosses were their best friends and they went on sabbatical trips with no return date. These things happened. “But I'm managing.”

He had no choice but to. 

Shaw nodded again, understanding. “How much do you like her?”

“What?”

“I mean, we’ve already established you have feelings for her,” the words hit like a punch. “But how deep do they go? What do you feel around her?”

Before Jack could help himself, he was glancing over to the window by his left. He caught a glimpse of the sun setting behind the dark grey and brown buildings outside, light grazing over the edges and intricate balustrades of its windows. A few orange dry leaves helplessly twirled in the pull of a particularly strong wind current, brushing against the glass.

He felt his therapist’s stare sink into his cheek, the thin skin of his earlobe starting to burn, and gulped. 

“I don’t know, like…” a heart palpitation, an arrhythmia. “A flutter.”

His eyes burned from staring at the light. He could feel the heat crawling up his skin at the sound of his own ragged voice, settling at the base of his neck. The same damned flush Dr. Mohan bore witness three months ago, and had done the kindness of not giving an apparent single fuck.

“And does she like you back? Has she ever given any indication that she might reciprocate your feelings?”

Another hit, another gasp of air in the pit of his stomach. Jack looked away from the orange tinged sky and scoffed. 

“Hell, no. I mean, I don’t think she dislikes me, but it’s not in the same way I like her.”

Besides, it wasn't as if Jack hadn't tried hard not to give anything away. As far as he knew, he’s done a pretty good job of hiding from Dr. Mohan the hitch in his breath every time he saw her. He traced the rim of his wedding band with his nail. 

“But she respects you, right?”

“Yeah. And I think she listens more to me when I’m teaching her than Robby, maybe. I don’t know,” another circle, the tip of his digit marring the glistening metal. “He always says she’s stubborn and pushes back. I never had that problem with her, though.”

Jack stilled his fingers, keeping his hands interlaced.

“But I don’t think it’s because she necessarily likes me. I just think our styles work better together.”

“You have more professional affinity with her.”

“Exactly. But I’m not the only one. Baran has it, too. And so does Ellis, I think.”

“I see. So, what you have is, essentially, a crush.”

Jack couldn’t help but cringe at the word. “To put it mildly,” he said, frowning. 

To belittle it, he thought. Even though Shaw was, in theory, correct. It was something akin to an infatuation, a little burst of obsessive fascination for a brilliant mind, a beautiful face and a kind smile. 

Or that’s what it was supposed to be. 

Jack was not supposed to feel so taken over by this feeling, so overwhelmed by the thought of it. Was not supposed to shiver by the mere flicker of her laugh, or the warm ensnare of her eyes. To spend twelve hours under those bright lights startled by her following shadow, to be haunted by the ghost of her touch over his shoulder under a fucking glove.

“I’m glad,” Shaw said. That made Jack raise his eyes to him again. His therapist was already waiting. “I mean, it could be a lot worse,” he drawled. “You could be in love.”

At that moment, it almost seemed like he was serious. Jack laughed, shaking his head, and Shaw huffed as well.

“What I want to say is, a crush is a perfectly fine feeling to have. It’s healthy, especially for you, who are just starting to open up to something new again.” 

Jack gulped again. God, his throat was dry. He reached for his water bottle.

“Even if you’re developing them towards a coworker, the biggest issue, to me, is just the hierarchy of your positions, you know, the power dynamics that occur between the two of you. But you’re well aware of that already. You know exactly the potential problematics of you ever trying to engage in a relationship with her right now. There’s no problem in feeling attracted to her, though. You can like her as much as you want, you know, as long as you don’t do anything to jeopardize her career.”

“I know,” Jack has lost count of how much he’s uttered these words inside this office, outside of it, even. 

It's bad for you, you know, his mother would always say in her thin, firm voice.

I know, mama. I know, I know, I know.

“I would never do anything like that,” he cleared his throat. “I will never cross that line. It’s just, it took me by surprise, that’s all. She kind of just snuck up on me.”

“That’s what feelings do. They just creep up. Like ghosts.” Jack let out a dry chuckle, and Shaw kept on, glancing swiftly at his watch. “You look particularly… haunted, these days, you know?” 

Jack contained an eyeroll. If Robby thought his lyrical tendencies were shit, he had yet to meet Dr. Shaw. He eyed his therapist up and down. Shaw stared at him right back. 

“I’m serious. You look tired, Jack. Too tired. You’re overworked and you’ve lost weight and you’ve lost energy, and I don’t think you should keep working days.” He raised his hand. “Let me finish. I know you want to help Baran and Ellis, I know you want to keep things in order for Robby’s return, but I think you should prioritize yourself right now.” And then a pause, a change of tactics, “Have you been sleeping?”

“I have,” Jack contained the urge to avert his gaze again.

“How much? How well?”

Jack let out a scoff. Shaw knew the answers to these questions already, because in five years, nothing had changed about the patterns of his sleep. Ever since he graduated high school, and before that, even, Jack Abbot did not sleep much and when he did, it was not well.

“And what about your dreams? Are they still the same? Have they changed?”

Right in their very first session, about five years ago, Jack had been forced to tell Shaw about his dreams in graphic detail. Not by choice—Jack would never discuss this with a complete stranger given the option—but because Dr. Martin had shared her notes with him, carefully compiled over nearly another decade of meetings, in theory, for Jack's benefit. 

He had consented with reluctance. It was Cathy who convinced him that he needed the “complete package” of mental health, and so Jack had found himself compelled to describe his rawest and truest dreams and nightmares, to recite every word he had extracted like gravel for his psychiatrist to a man who he had previously only heard about. Shaw had read page by page, annotated in the margins, and tended to the papers ever since.

He used to ask more about the dreams, but he’d stopped a couple of years ago, when Jack had put his foot down and declared that they had always been the same for over twenty years and there was nothing he could do, because they never revealed anything new but they also didn't go away.

He must have sensed the change since Cathy's stroke. It was quite obvious when she started to haunt him, hovering in the living cemetery inside his head along with his colleagues and victims, another lead ball chained to his ankles.

But Dr. Shaw always had good instincts, so of course he saw beyond that.

Like a scent hound, he must have smelled the pungent shame in the air, as vividly as Jack Abbot could taste Dr. Samira Mohan's sweat on the tip of his tongue.

He hadn't slept a full night or day since Cathy's funeral—the last time he'd been so exhausted that his brain simply shut down. Before that, he'd slept for three, four, at most five broken hours in the morning. The only other time he'd slept for more than eight hours straight up was when he'd taken a higher-than-recommended dose of trazodone. He'd woken up to Cathy’s cries and screams.

Jack had grown accustomed to the fact that he slept little. He never knew if it was a natural trait, if he was always the type of person who didn't need much rest to operate or if it was a direct consequence of depression and PTSD, but at the end of the day, it didn't matter. The result would always be the same, so he just accepted it. He would be lying, however, if he didn't say that something had changed  in the last two years. That lately, he wished he could sleep more. 

Five more minutes, then ten, twenty, thirty. An hour, then two. A whole day.

Because for the first time in years, he’d finally found something to pull him into slumber.

It started with a yawn, then a stabbing pain behind the eyes, followed by a flicker in his vision. His head would pound while he bathed, and then he’d throw himself onto the bed without even putting on a t-shirt. He’d rub his face in his pillow, try to capture the faded smell of Cathy’s hair cream—he knew he wouldn’t feel it anymore, but still, it was a difficult habit to break.

His mind would race in that relentless pace he’d never learned to tame until all thoughts and images faded into white noise, and then, when he’d be just about to give up sleeping at all, it would come. 

The lull of the dream, born when he was still half awake, lost inside the hazy threshold of near-sleep. A fairytale his mind conjured during a somewhat inopportune period of his life. Jack used to think it was a nightmare, at first, the sight of her spine, strung taut in attention as she scanned the patient chart at the start of her shift, hands tucked in her pockets, the corner of her mouth pulled back in that lovely grimace she did whenever she found something strange. 

Jack felt the urge to put his hand on her shoulder every time he passed by on his way home. He would do it, when the dream was good, wishing her a good shift. She would turn with a start and smile, saying, “Sleep well, Jack.”

The sound of his name sliding off her tongue was honeyed and muffled. She had never said his first name in the four years they had worked together, so his brain could never quite reproduce the exact cadence of what she would actually say. He had also never laid a hand on her, not even when they were crammed into a trauma bay, so he had no idea what the fabric of her scrubs felt like against the skin of his palm.

When Jack met her at shift change the next day, his hand would itch to touch her. And when she neared him beside a gurney, he’d suppress a flinch.

It got worse after they started swapping articles. The dreams became more specific, and if before he imagined the glimpse of the curve of her jaw, now he could picture the shadows over her cheekbones as the trauma bay’s white light fell over her, and he watched, mesmerized, as she slipped a needle into a vessel or cut an incision before placing a tube. He would relish in the heat emanating from her side. That proximity, at least, he could remember with starkling clarity.

And then the scenery changed, and Jack found himself sitting beside her on the bench near the parking lot, seeping a beer and massaging his stump, while she stared up at the starless night sky. He chanced a glance at her, only to find her already staring back. Mouth pursed, and those dark, bright eyes fixed on him with a question. A glimpse of that sheepish smile she’d offered him when they parted ways back on the PittFest night. She’d given that same smile to Shamsi’s daughter and everyone else that was with them at the time, of course.

Jack knew better than to dwell into these memories, these crumbs that his brain couldn't stop collecting and storing, like the shells Cathy liked to pick up on the beach. But, just like her, he couldn't help it. I don't have that one yet, Jack, she'd say. I need it.

And so, instead of fighting, he decided to let it be. In the silence of his bedroom—once so noisy, Cathy used to talk non-stop—those were probably the best thoughts running through his head, the only ones who didn’t involve the urge to feel the ground falling off his feet and gravity pulling his heavy body down.

But then she’d found him back in July and dressed his wound, as fickle as it was, with the care and gentleness he’d only watched her offer to her patients, while she herself was so worried about someone else. She did not make a chart, and then called it their “little secret”, and from then on, his imagination ran riot. 

By the morning of July 5th, Jack had developed another secret of his own. And that one, he would never share. Would not let it slip under any circumstance anything that could give away the images racing behind his eyelids whenever he closed them. The hunger that would overcome his whole body, bigger than himself, as he laid in bed always in hope to see her there, someplace other than inside the hospital, a place where they were not bound by any hierarchy, code of conduct, or simple moral sense.

A place where he could stare at her without swerving his gaze, or rather, examine her, like he’d been aching to do for months, like he’d learned as soon as he got into medical school, and before that, even, when he was tasked with caring for a fallen soldier for the first time.

He dreamt of laying in bed beside her and taking her in, looking for any abnormality. Of feeling her, holding the curve of her neck, gripping  the back of her knee and joints, placing his thumb over the pulse in her arm, pressing the flesh of her abdomen with his palm over her shirt. 

He dreamt of gluing his ear to her chest, straining for the sound of her lungs, of her heartbeat reverberating through her sternum. Of laying his cheek on her breast tissue, and then of trailing down to rest his head over her lap. Dreamt of dreaming there. 

But that was not all. 

Sometimes, he dreamt of kissing her. Of licking into her mouth and biting her bottom lip, of trailing the column of her throat up to the hinge of her jaw with his tongue. Sometimes, she would let him hook his index finger on her belt loop and pull her hip forward, closer. Would let him shed her clothes and drag his teeth across her chest, allow him to nuzzle into the underside of her breast, to sink his nose into the crevices of her groin.

He could feel her warmth as if she were there, taste the smell of her skin beneath the antiseptic as if he’d taken a bite of her flesh. It was pure bliss, a luminous tranquility flashing in his empty brain. Something naive and lukewarm sat inside his ribs, and he thought of nothing but the sensation of his fingertips—the impression of it. And then his heart started to slow, and it was absolute darkness.

When Jack woke up, his body would be burning hot and his lips cracked dry with an unquenchable thirst he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He’d step into PTMC before the sun set and find himself searching for a glimpse of an unraveling bun or a colorful claw clip as soon as Dana ambushed him, would make a conscious effort to keep his gaze fixed on Baran’s wide eyes as she briefed him before handoff. 

To Dr. Mohan, he’d spare a “Hello” or “Will you be joining us?” when she worked a double, and kept their interactions within the hospital to the minimum necessary. He’d try not to look her way for too long. He didn’t trust himself not to stare straight at her lips if that were the case. The first time he saw her after the first of those dreams, he’d halted on the linoleum floor with such abruptness he lost his balance. When Dana asked, he told her it was just his prosthesis. But he’d wanted to crash his mouth into Dr. Mohan’s every time she was in vicinity.

Jack could’ve told Dr. Shaw the truth. Could’ve let it wash away his conscience, come clean about it like he used to when he confessed to the priests back home, when he was still a devoted young boy and believed he could be saved by His grace and forgiveness—and also thought he should do it because his mother was waiting right outside and she’d know if he lied.

Jack should’ve told him the truth, and yet, he shook his head and said “No.”

Shaw arched his brow. “Really? In two years?”

Jack shrugged. Shaw scoffed, running a hand over his eyes, and pursed his lip in that resigned pout of his because he knew this would happen. Jack let him straighten himself on his seat in silence, flipping through his notes, and stared at his watch. Time was running out, and they were reaching the end of the session. 

And then…

“Are you feeling guilty, Jack?”

There it was again.

Jack sighed, but did not look up. He let the silence fester inside the office like he’d been meaning to ever since he set foot there, and reveled in the restraint. He knew he looked a hell lot like Robby right now, that if his friend ever bothered to learn about his behavior during therapy sessions, he’d burst out laughing with the irony of Jack ever asking him to open up and face—or rather, admit—what sat right in front of him.

Jack had come to terms with that leaden weight ever pulling him down and under, had managed to live not despite it, but because of it. Because of all the people trashing in the water, he was not the one allowed to drown. If he’d been granted permission to live, then that’s what he should do, in honor of all the people he’d stepped over in order to do so. In honor of mama and the sacrifice she’d made to keep her family together under the same roof as her husband. Of his peers and the damage they’ve done in other countries in the motherland’s name. Of Cathy and her fierce, infinite patience and love, because that’s what tied her to him long enough she died before she could think better of it.

It’s just, he didn’t expect it to get so much heavier. He tried his best not to add anything else to the pile—he’d wake up everyday and go straight to work. He’d scan the board and help day shift during shift change and rally his residents and interns and guide them in the darkness. He’d be their teacher and mentor, and he’d do it with excellence and efficiency. He’d care for his patients the way his mother taught him to care for his little cousins during family gatherings, would watch out for his nightcrawlers like his father told him to do for his sisters. He’d check on Dana when he could and take care of Robby even when he wouldn’t want to. 

He’d drink less and workout more. He’d take walks around his neighbourhood and find himself a hobby on his days off. He’d hang out with Robby and Dana, maybe Parker or even Walsh, whenever it felt like his life was too empty without talking to them. He’d meet the vets he kept contact with and entertain an evening with them. 

He’d do anything to prove himself to Dr. Shaw.

“You know, of all the things that could pull you down, I never imagined it would be this.” That made Jack look up. Shaw’s smirk was as sharp as a scalpel. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re a natural flirt, Jack. And I know you loved Cathy and still love her greatly, but you never struck me as the kind of guy that’d be opposed to the idea of moving on. Of course, you never thought you’d have to, but still. You said so yourself, a year ago. What’s holding you back now? It cannot be just a simple crush.”

“It’s not.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Perhaps it’s the person? Maybe you’d be more open to it if it was with someone more age appropriate? Ranking appropriate?”

“I don’t know! Probably. Maybe. Yeah.”

“Aren’t there other options at the hospital? Or out of it, even?” 

Jack opened his mouth to answer, and closed it.

“Really? Isn’t there anyone else that you would see yourself taking things more seriously? Further than a simple flirtation? Maybe a date?”

Jack actually took his time mulling that down. Shaw was right, he wasn’t exactly against moving on. In fact, he was open to flirting and dating, and there were many other people he could get to know, less risky women to try to explore the new path ahead of him with. But—

“I don’t really see myself in another serious relationship so soon.” A drop of honesty. “But sexual, maybe.” 

“With who?”

“I don’t know. There’s no one in particular other than Dr—” He  shook his head. None of that. “Dr. Baran. Probably.”

“Why her?”

Jack shrugged again. Did not think too much of what he said. “She’s a lot like me, and we get along well. It could be fun, and not too much of a headache.”

Shaw nodded, appearing satisfied. If Robby thought his lyrical tendencies were shit, he had yet to meet Dr. Shaw. Jack took a sip of his fresh water as he looked at his watch. 

with his answer for the first time in a long while. “Yes, she could. And you two have a similar background, similar personalities, and, most of all, she fits all the criteria we mentioned before.” To Jack’s silence, he added: “You don’t need to marry her, Jack. Just to give her a shot when you feel like it. Or anyone else you like.”

Jack nodded.

Shaw sighed again, clasping his hands over his lap. The papers ruffled and he held Jack’s stare, probably waiting for him to waver again, but the sky was already darkening and Jack was starting to feel more like himself as the clock hands pointed toward the end of the session, focus narrowing on the physical world he was inserted in—the softness of the seat against his aching lower back, the roughness and rigidity of the prosthesis against his irritated skin even through the protective fabric. And then the straightening of his spine, the sudden urge to stand up and cross hands behind his back, chin held high.

When Dr. Shaw spoke again, Jack was ready to bolt.

“Something else you can’t do, Jack, is let it all consume you, you know. The attraction, the euphoria and frenzy and all of that—and then the guilt. You’re not doing anything wrong.” Jack arched his brow. “You got me?” Shaw demanded.

Jack nodded one last time. “I do.”

“Good”, he looked at his watch. “It was good to see you, Jack.” Jack was already closing the door when he heard, “See you next week.”

When Jack stepped out of the building, the late afternoon greeted him with the sweep of a current, ruffling his curls. They looked a mess, for sure, and Jack remembered why he usually kept them so shortly trimmed by this time of the year, and wondered, for the first time in a while, why he hadn’t gone to the barber yet. No wonder Dr. Shaw thought he looked like shit. He was becoming careless.

He resisted the urge to stay planted on the sidewalk, inhaling October’s crisp, cool air like he’d been holding his breath. It was no longer late afternoon, in fact. Night had already fallen like a dark cloak over the busy street, the lights of the lampposts and windows dotting the sky with a warmer hue, and a similar image of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center flashed, brightness shimmering on the intricate architecture of the imposing building all too familiar to him.

Jack felt the tightness in his chest ease as he crossed the street over to his car, puffing air into his cupped hands. He sat down in front of the dashboard, absorbing the sudden trapping of heat inside the vehicle, cell phone sitting idly in hands.

He opened the screen to find dozens of notifications—his mother's Facebook post; Michelle asking what he was doing tonight; Jimmy, a vet, wanting to grab a beer; Mrs. Muñoz texting to know how he’s doing, and also, if he still has Cathy’s sewing machine stored somewhere—but none from Robby. None of Samira, still. One from Baran, however, something about the dayshift residents rotating with him.

He thought of replying to the message and, since he was there, asking if maybe she wanted to grab a beer tonight. That Fourth of July beer. They'd talked a lot during the past three months, but nothing as personal as what he'd proposed with a touch of dry humor at the time, which she had immediately gone along with.

She could say yes. She would be leaving soon, but depending on what they arranged, he would have time to go home and tidy himself up a bit. Comb his hair, shave, put on some cologne, take another shower if necessary. 

It could be fun. She was a beautiful woman he’d become fond of, and they could chat until the early hours, drink a lot or not drink at all. He could look into her eyes and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, invite her to his house or vice versa. Any of them could take the first step to anything and it would feel amazing, he was sure of that, and, most of all, there’d be no consequences to any of their careers unless they were very reckless. And Jack wasn’t reckless, nor was Baran.

It could be great if it ever happened. He’d like it if it did. The thing is, with Baran, it would never go past that. Because they might be good colleagues, friends even, but Jack knew himself enough to understand that that was the kind of friendship he could not—did not want to—tarnish with something else. Besides, Baran had a family of her own, and for some reason, Jack just couldn’t picture himself being part of it. 

He sighed, deciding to open the GPS instead. He didn't need to do anything about Baran right now. He could keep amicably flirting with her like he did with everyone on the staff and see where it led them. Keep talking to her, smiling at her, joking around with her—like he wasn’t prone to do with Dr. Mohan.

He’d flirted with her, once. But even then he managed to deliver it so smoothly only Walsh had noticed what had happened. And even then, she couldn’t accuse him of anything. They had saved the patient after all, and wasn’t that Jack’s default mode of operation? Emotions and nerves ran high during Pittfest, and no one could blame him for trying to take the edge of doubt off a resident’s shoulders when she needed to be her most incisive.

But even after that, their interactions were purely professional and polite, with that distant niceness you reserved to someone you respected but wasn’t close to. And yet, how he ached to wake up at five P.M. to see her sitting by the dining table, thick eyebrows furrowed and lip trapped between her teeth as she flipped through the stapled pages he had indicated for her to read, unruly hair curling at the nape of her neck—just like Cathy used to.

And that was a shame, wasn’t it? Because she could never replace Cathy, no woman could, but she might as well carve a completely new space in his life he’s unable to picture accurately, but knows it will be excruciating, exhilarating. 

And she also might not. She might eye him up and down as soon as she catches a whiff of his interest and feel utterly disgusted, or, worse than that, betrayed. Or she might do nothing, and just keep nodding at him from across the hub and smiling when he ever manages to crack her a decent joke, and he’ll feel his cheeks hurt and his chest full like he’d never been happier. 

On second thought, Dr. Mohan will do that. She will take a fellowship in any good program she’s accepted into and she will leave PTMC by June, and leave him by default, with a “Thank you and take care, Dr. Abbot” if he’s lucky—and that will be it. 

She’ll leave him wanting, hungering for what’s not there, for what has never been there, the unfinished idea hanging like flat metal attached to the collar around his neck.

And he’ll weather through it, like he’s always done. He’ll get used to her absence, or at least to the feeling of it, like he’d gotten used to the empty spot beside him on the couch. He’ll move on and find someone else to “crush on”, like Nazeely liked to say, and, eventually, might even fall in love again like Cathy would not have wanted to with another nice woman, closer to his age and predicament and build a life with her, and welcome in her kids or just settle for his sisters’.

He’ll move ever forward, like his mother used to say, and a few years from now, he’ll still lay on his pillow at night, beside someone else's head, and he’ll dream. Of big, shiny brown eyes and soft smiles on plump lips. Of long, thin fingers wrapped on blue gloves steering scalpels. Of covered shoulders brushing his, and elegant necks glistening with sweat and lean, brown thighs wrapped around his head. And he’ll resign himself to it, because, as he once told Dr. Shaw, his dreams never changed. At least, those will be better, and Jack will crave for them like he used to crave for his sleeping pills. Dr. Mohan will forever be his favorite one. 

Jack was about to type in his address when he started thinking of just showing up unannounced at the ED to help Shen and Ellis, even though Shaw had explicitly told him not to cross his days off. And then, as his fingers hovered over Home and PTMC, a balloon popped up the screen—the only one he kept the setting that way.

The contact read: Dr. Samira Mohan Senior Resident. The message, a: 

Thank you so much for the recommendation, Dr. Abbot!

The other one you sent me was also such a great read, I did some additional research myself and there’s just so much I wanted to talk about with you!

Are you working today? I'm taking a double tonight, and I thought we could catch up at some point!

Jack stared at it for longer than he was willing to admit. An embarrassing amount of time, actually, but it was enough for him to make up his mind. He typed with automatic motions. Fastened his seatbelt and turned his keys as swiftly as always. He drove the ten minutes with an ever growing eagerness to arrive at his destination.

On the dashboard, the GPS read 5246 Wood St, Pittsburgh, PA 15219.

Jack Abbot was off today. But he would make an exception for Dr. Mohan.