Archive of Our Own ^beta

when forever was a sentence (2022)

The first time Samira Mohan ever spoke to Jack Abbot, she was crying. 

Sobbing, really. One of those awful, uncontrolled cries, where snot ran out her nose and she could feel the heat of a blotchy flush beneath her skin. So out of control, it doesn't matter how hard she shoves her hand against her mouth, how hard she bites at the skin of her knuckles – she can’t stop the heaving of her lungs or the tears wetting her cheeks. 

Samira sits, hunched and folded over onto herself, on the curb outside PTMC, the dark chill of October pressing over her, a pile of used PPE at her feet. She should have discarded it all in the biohazard bins that line every room of the pit. She broke at least six different rules when she shoved her way out of the ED into the fresh air still masked and gloved. But the man in South 9, who looked so much like… she chokes on a wail against her fist. 

She knows she should be naming five things she can see, four she can hear, three she can touch. Pysch was always her backup speciality, so she knows she needs to calm herself down – that she is depriving her brain of too much oxygen, only making her panic worse. She knows she’ll get a headache if she doesn’t stop. It doesn't matter what she knows, though, because every time she gets to the third thing she can see (an empty newspaper stand), the sobbing overtakes her again.

A ventilator that could no longer make up for lungs ravaged by viral load and pneumonia. A heart that couldn't keep up with the organs’ need for blood. Dr. Robby, 10,000 yard stare fixed on the wall, as he said, “Time of death, 5:26 PM.”

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. She was supposed to finish medical school, her intern year, and finally start her residency at PTMC, under both Robby and Adamson. She was supposed to be learning from the best there was, because she was supposed to be one of the best there was. 

Instead, Adamson was dead and Robby was a haunting spectre roaming the halls of the pit, occasionally remembering he was tasked with mentoring Samira through the transition from medical school to actual doctor. Tonight, he had laid a heavy hand on her shoulder as Perlah muted the alarms and the room fell into silence, one less soul breathing. And Samira had fucking lost it. 

Her breathing had pitched shallower and shallower in the moments of silence that Robby insisted on. Certainly, he could feel the insufficient expansion of her lungs beneath his palm as he held her there. Certainly, he could guess at why the body laying in the bed was so upsetting her. And yet, he had made her endure it, had made her stand there and look at the man who looked so much like-

A scuffle of shoes on the sidewalk behind her announces the approach of another person, footsteps tracking closer to where she’s hunched. She can’t make herself care enough to look, not even to lift her head from where her face is pressed to her knees. If it’s someone here to murder her, great. Hopefully, they have enough mercy in their hearts to make it quick. 

She’s never been very lucky, though.

A pair of feet come into view, left foot, then right, stepping off the curb and stopping in the grime of the gutter, toes shifting to aim towards Samira. Her brain notes the distance, an automatic reflex still from the days before vaccines. Less than six feet, certainly, but also not so close that she feels the need to move back. Just far enough that her shoulders don't tense and just close enough to make it clear they're here for her. Through the blur of her tears, she sees green trail runners, their sensible tread in a deep navy, and the hem of army green pants. 

“Here.” 

A water bottle and a scrunched gauze pad in a freckled hand enter her field of vision. 

“I don't have tissues, but, something seemed better than nothing.” 

The voice has a vague familiarity, and the curiosity is enough that she raises her blotchy, swollen, snotty face to look. 

A stubbled face looks back at her. It takes her a moment to place him. 

Jack Abbot. She knows him in theory, if not in reality – a night shift attending, who rarely subbed onto the day shift. Well liked, generally, and, if not liked, then respected. The only time she sees him is when he’s with Robby – propping each other up, clapping each other on the back, a low, earnest “Missed you, brother” said in passing. A deep well of understanding is shared between them that makes her a little jealous every time she witnesses it.

She doesn’t know if anyone has ever known her the way they seem to know each other. In this moment, she has her doubts that anyone ever will. 

To Samira, Abbot’s existence is largely tied to Robby and the confines of the hospital, like he materializes at the start of his shift in Chairs and vanishes back into the ether when he clocks out. Existing somewhere in her periphery – not four feet away on a dirty Pittsburgh street, head cocked as if he’s just as surprised to see her as she is to see him. 

He watches her back, his own assessment efficient and clinical, flicking first over her face, her neck, then her torso and folded legs. Looking for the source of whatever has her sobbing like she's sustained a mortal wound.

She takes the water and gauze, if for nothing else then as a reason to ignore his stare. Their fingers brush in the hand off, and she experiences the reflexive relief and agony physical human contact brings her these days. Her body, thrilled at any physical touch it can get. Her brain, insistent on avoidance thanks to the crash course in epidemiology and virology they all received in the past three years. Diametrically opposed desires she has no idea how to manage in this new life. 

“Thanks.” 

God, her voice. Ragged and raw, nearly unrecognizable as her own. She ducks her head back down in embarrassment. 

His feet shift, turning his body to face the street like she is, giving her privacy. But he doesn't step away, doesn't retreat, like she expects him to. Like Robby would. Robby, who can't even seem to look her in the eyes these days unless he's actively instructing her. Even then, all that's reflected back at her is agony. Abbot just stands beside her, there in the silence of the night, interrupted only by her slowing sobs and sniffles and a soft rustle of skin on fabric as he absentmindedly shifts to fidget with a ring on his left hand. 

Another reminder of just how profoundly alone Samira is in this city. This life.

A minute passes, before he finally speaks. “I can't tell you that it will get better, because who the fuck knows. These past few years have been exceptionally fucked.” 

The sentiment makes her want to scream, makes her want to claw at something, someone, maybe herself, stomp her feet in the slop of the gutter until something feels right or fair. But she can't, so she settles for hiccupping around another sob, digging the heels of her palms into her eye sockets until she sees stars. The thing that has been living inside of her for months threatens once again to crawl up her throat and strangle her. 

She wishes it would. 

She half expects Abbot to chastise her, to reprimand her for so thoroughly losing her shit that she can hardly breathe. For having a catastrophic crash out on the sidewalk in front of her place of employment, in front of someone who is her boss in rank, if not technicality. 

But he doesn't. He waits for another minute, patient and quiet, as she fights her own body for each breath. He waits until she manages to open the water and swallow a meager teaspoon down her ravaged throat. It’s enough to stop the air from wheezing out of her on every inhale. She uses the gauze to swipe at her cheeks.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him glance down at her, assessing again, before he continues, “I can tell you that you got dealt a shit hand for your intern year, and for that I’m sorry. There’s the fucking virus. Half the country is just… insane now, but still wants us to fucking fix them when they get sick. And, Robby…” 

He doesn’t finish. He just lets the name hang between them, because what really needs to be said, about Robby? He’s sometimes good and he’s sometimes bad. He’s the only leader they have.  

After a moment, it occurs to her that Abbot knows her. He must, if he knows that she's just an intern. The realization is enough to distract her from the yawning pit of grief inside her that her brain can spiral with a barrage of questions about this new information. (Does Robby talk about her? Does he tell the other attendings when she fails?  Does Robby even want an intern? Does he wish he had never agreed to an intern? Does he wish he had a different intern, one without so much baggage?) 

She had assumed that Abbot didn't recognize her, that he simply had seen someone in scrubs and checked in because he was an attending. Making sure the staff didn't throw themselves into traffic was one of the unwritten duties of the job. 

The thought that someone outside of Robby knew her, that someone, anyone else had taken notice of her, is a shocking relief. For the first time all day, she feels like she might be real.  

The feeling gives her the courage to extract herself from her hands. She turns her cheek onto her knee, taking the opportunity to study his profile as he looks out over the park in front of them.

OSHA approved footwear, but non-standard cargo pants, lumpy pockets clearly occupied. A camo backpack, that looks old and government issued, slung over his shoulder. A black thermal, probably just a touch warm for inside and just a touch cool for outside, stretches over muscles that are well used. Just visible above the collar, glinting under the bright light of the street lamps, a silver chain disappears beneath his shirt, hidden where it lays against his chest. A lightly stubbled jaw, tight, dark curls just starting to grey around his temples, deep, dark eyes staring back at her. 

His eyes crinkle at the edges, not a smile, not really, but something satisfied nonetheless. “There she is.” 

He’s right, she realizes. Her breathing feels almost normal and, while her eyes still leak at the corners, the snot seems to have subsided. 

“You done for the day?” 

The question has a bite to it, not just polite conversation – her status has become pertinent to his job, has come under the umbrella of his authority. The tone is demanding, expecting an answer, but genuine, seeking the truth. 

She nods, trapped under the weight of his stare. 

“You got anyone you can talk to? Friends? Family? Partner?” 

A flashing reel of memories plays through her head. 

She thinks of her few med school friends, people she loves but doesn't get to see or talk to much. Their schedules and geography continuously drive them apart and Samira’s own loneliness always feels too depressing to bring up when she does hear from them. 

She thinks of her mother, and their weekly, perfunctory phone calls (not even a FaceTime). Her mother, who undoubtedly loves her child, but has long since forgotten how to love Samira. 

She thinks of her Bumble profile, dormant to the point of near abandonment. The last set of messages must be months old, at this point.

Unable to verbalize the extent of her solitude, she shrugs back at him. She knows she should be embarrassed, but can't find it in herself to be anything but sad. 

Abbot hums next to her, dropping his backpack off his shoulder, into the crook of his elbow, rifling through the main compartment. Paper tears somewhere inside, before he extracts a piece. His free hand pats at several pockets before coming up with a pen. Samira watches, a little mesmerized, as he struggles to write on the scrap of paper in the palm of his own hand. 

When he finishes, he returns the pen to a pocket in his pants, then extends the paper out to her, head ducking once again to get her eye contact. 

“That's one of my night shift residents, Parker Ellis. An R2, just a year ahead of you. I'll give her the heads up but you should text her, or tweet, or whatever you kids are doing these days. You gotta talk to someone. You can't carry it all on your own.” 

Taking the paper, Samira swallows around a fresh lump in her throat, humbled by the generosity of the gesture. Even if she knows she won't be bothering the R2. She gives him what she hopes is an appeasing smile. 

Instead of the placid response she expects, his brow furrows down, in obvious irritation. A superior who knows their orders have been ignored swiftly and completely. It’s the first time she's seen anything other than earnest interest on his face. If she had any room left in her for empathy, she might have been upset. 

“You're not going to reach out, are you?” 

She rears back, nearly toppling off the curb at the shock of being so thoroughly read by someone she was certain barely knew her. He turns to face her fully again, hiking his pack back up his shoulder so that he can cross his arms across his chest.

He does that thing again, ducking his head to make sure he’s got her eyes on his, like he needs to know he's being heard. “Ok, then. We can play hard ball. What's your number?” 

“Excuse me?”

It comes out as an indignant squawk, her voice cracking. He doesn't flinch, just raises an eyebrow at her. 

“I'll bully HR into giving it to me if I have to, but it's easier if you just give it to me. And then I'm going to give it to Ellis, who will reach out, because unlike some residents,” he jerks his head in her direction, “she listens well to instructions that are in her best interest. And, because you want to be a good resident who follows instructions that are in your best interest, you will reply.” 

He says it like it's so simple. Like imposing herself on a stranger – a busy stranger already dealing with the grief and trauma of the job and probably doesn't need an intern whining about how sad her mentor is and how lonely she feels in her barely furnished studio apartment – is nothing.

It’s so preposterous she forgets, again, to defer to his authority like a good intern would. She tries to deflect once more. 

“I- I don't even know you.” 

He shrugs, like that detail is irrelevant. He reaches up to worry his fingers against a spot on his chest, where something hard sits beneath his shirt – maybe a pendant on the necklace she noted earlier, hidden by the fabric. 

“We’re the bees that protect the hive. We look out for our own.” 

What the fuck did that mean? Bees? Hive? What? 

“Alone, we die. Together, we can thrive.” 

As if that clarifies any of the nonsense he just said to her. 

She is so floored by the bizarre statements, she finds herself pulling out her phone, needing something in this exchange to make a singular ounce of sense. The paper in her hand shakes, but she manages to type the number in, saving the contact. She tips her phone forward, showing him where it now reads Parker Ellis, and she shoves the scrap of paper into the pocket of her scrubs.

His head jerks in a nod, satisfied. “Good. I will follow up, if Ellis says she hasn't heard from you.”

Samira can't do anything but stare up at him, utterly out of her depth with the way he treats her with such a strange familiarity. 

“Unfortunately, duty calls. You gonna be alright? For tonight, at least?” 

Ten minutes ago, she might have given a different answer than the one she gives now. 

“I- yeah.” A beat, then she adds, “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.” 

She watches him go, right foot then left foot up the curb. There’s a slight hitch to his walk, his right leg stepping a little slow as he finds his footing, but then he’s striding into PTMC. 

Bees? she thinks again, as she pushes herself to stand. 

Hive? she thinks, as she begins the trek to her sad, lonely apartment. 

honey it's starting to storm (2023)

Samira knew doubles were hard. The human body was not designed to function optimally for 24 hours straight. She just didn't realize just how tough it would be to fight through the periodic waves of exhaustion, each longer and stronger than the last. For once, though, she doesn't worry. She’s determined, and there is an inherent excitement to finally getting her first double, and there has been very little she could not accomplish with an iron will and a healthy dose of adrenaline in her veins. 

“Here.” 

A steaming paper cup enters her field of vision, a protein bar clutched against the side by a freckled hand. 

One of the few protein bars they stock in the vending machines that doesn't make her immediately gag, she notes. Lucky coincidence, she thinks, as she looks up. 

Jack Abbot looks down at her where she's seated in front of a monitor, fighting Epic Systems software in a valiant attempt to do her fucking job. Patient histories are always important, but even more so in the ED. Having details of previous treatment if a patient is re-admitted can be the difference between life and death. She would know. 

“First double?”

He gestures with the hand holding the coffee, making his intent clear. In other circumstances – certainly if it had been a year ago, when she was still trying so hard to not need anything other than instruction from her superiors – she would have refused. But her body feels like it's been run over by a truck, like her blood is slowly turning to molasses in her veins. 

So, she reaches out and takes it, giving him a small smile in thanks. 

“These are my favorite,” she says as she drops the protein bar in front of her, opting for caffeine first, calories second. 

Abbot makes a face then, the start of a smile that fractures quickly back into placidity. A strange sort of repression she doesn't quite understand. But she doesn't get a chance to observe further, to dare to inquire what, exactly, about her statement might have pleased him, because he turns suddenly on his toes. He turns away from her, towards where the board hangs above their heads – their all knowing god. 

“What mess did the day shift leave me, Dr. Mohan?” 

Dr. Mo-han. Very American, and very not right. 

Everyone else calls her Samira, unless they're in front of a patient, and then it’s Mo-han. Well, except when it's Garcia, or Princess, or Perlah, or one of the others that know. With everyone else, she insists on Samira, usually, because most of them can get it right and she'd rather be called by her first name correctly than her family name, her father’s name, incorrectly. 

She is fairly certain she has told Abbot he can call her Samira - they're cordial, now, if not out right friendly when they cross paths. And yet, Abbot insists on calling her Dr. Mohan. The wrong way.

And, maybe it's that she's running on the very last dregs of her sanity and patience, why she finally reacts to the stab of annoyance in her chest. Maybe that's why it bothers her so much more than normal that she opens her mouth. 

“It’s Mohan,” she says before her manners catch up with her instincts. She glances at him quickly, where he’s still looking up at the monitor, her heart thumping even though it shouldn't be. It's her name. She deserves to have it said correctly. He deserves the opportunity to do so. 

He tips he body towards her. “What's that?”

“It’s just that… Well, if you're not going to call me Samira – you're the only one who doesn't, by the way – you might as well say it correctly. It’s Mohan. Huhn, kind of like the start of honey.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, he stills, posture stiffening until he's just a tense line of muscle in her periphery. His face is still tipped towards the board, but she can tell he’s no longer reading it, eyes fixed on a distant point. 

Fuck. She should have just kept her mouth shut. What did it matter, after all? Half the staff says it incorrectly. Why should it matter that an attending she hardly knows says it right? 

He interrupts the spiral of her anxiety ridden thoughts, sighing out a disbelieving huff. His hands go first to his sternum, pulling at a flat object hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt. Then, like whatever token was hidden there is not sufficiently calming, they drop in front of him, the fingers of his right hand spinning the ring on his left.

She wonders if he even realizes he does that – if he even realizes he seeks the comfort of his spouse when something has rocked him off balance. 

Finally, he says, “Well, I feel like an ass.” 

There’s no anger in his voice, no annoyance, like she half expects. Reflexively, she wants to ease his obvious embarrassment. Upsetting a superior has historically not gone well for her, and she doesn't know why her stupid mouth is trying to get her in trouble now. 

“I should have said something sooner.” 

He snorts. “You've got a lot going on, being Robby’s and all that.” 

Being Robby’s. 

He says it so casually, even as the words tear through her psyche. Is she Robby’s? Is that how the other attendings see her? The other residents? Is she just Robby’s pet, somehow both neglected and overcorrected? How many night shifts would she have to work before Abbot might see her as just a resident, in her own right, not just Robby’s? 

Her silence must give her away, must make him realize he’s just found a festering wound she's been trying to keep hidden. He pushes a little harder, an exploratory look at the necrotic tissue, searching for a source. “R2 is a little early to be doing doubles.” 

She shrugs again, the weight of his observation making her want to squirm. Is he like this with everyone? She can't imagine Robby pressing in like this, both metaphorically and physically – seeking knowledge instead of projecting assumptions. Robby’s observant, of course, it’s what makes him a great doctor, but that observation seems to begin and end with his patients. 

She defaults to the answer that has gotten her out of everything. “Robby approved it.”

“I’m sure he did,” he chuffs, a sad sort of affection in his eyes. “So, does that make you a bad sleeper? Or a workaholic?” 

Jesus Christ, she thinks. No wonder the night shift seems so tight, if their attending is so… whatever the hell Jack Abbot is. She feels flayed open, off balance. She wants it to stop before he finds something she herself hasn't faced yet. 

Although, as she opens her mouth to deflect, she has a delirious thought. She thinks if there was anyone in her life she would want to talk her through the horrors that lived in her head, it might be Jack Abbot. Nothing she says seems to surprise him. Nothing she says seems to scare him. 

She is saved, though, from putting her foot further in her mouth, from having to come up with an answer to his question that won’t get her flagged for intervention by the worker welfare team, when Dana interrupts from the hub. 

“Jack. GSW incoming, three minutes out. Paramedics said they lost him on the drive but got him back a minute ago. Already called Walsh. Jesse is prepping Trauma 2.” 

Samira watches as Abbot transforms, posture straightening, gaze sharpening, hands gripping either end of the stethoscope that hangs around his neck. Not a man, but an attending. 

“Word. Thank you, Dana.” 

Then, he leans over Samira, voice dropping low, that all sharpened focus directed to her now.  “Finish your chart, then glove up. We got some life saving to do, Dr. Mohan.” 

The syllables, the right ones, said without hesitation or reluctance or annoyance, process in her brain, spreading through her neural pathways, repeating with the thump of her heart. She finds herself nodding, not really thinking about GSWs or treatment protocols like she should be, but instead that maybe Jack Abbot is the type of attending she wants to be. 

He starts to back away, but changes his mind mid-step, coming back to gesture once more to the desk in front of her, where the protein bar lays and the coffee cools. “And make sure to eat that, capeesh? You’re in my hive tonight and I want you sharp.” 

Hive? And then a memory surfaces, a bitter thing, where she’s 26 again, sad and lonely and defeated on a curb, looking up at the man who looks down earnestly at her now. 

She nods, speechless again, still completely off kilter. She’s unsure how to handle an attending that seems only concerned with her wellbeing – the way he completely ignores the way the board reflects her inability to turn over patients with any sort of efficiency. 

(She can’t be efficient. Because she can’t be the reason there's another 13 year old who leaves the ED without a father. So, she goes slow. She’s thorough. She drives Robby fucking crazy, as he’s reminded her. Repeatedly. But she's good, and, looking at Abbot, she thinks he knows that's what really matters.)

He taps the desk once with his hand, the click of his ring against the hard surface, lips quirking just barely, that same repressed smile. Then, “Trauma 2 in three, amiga. Hop to it.”  

let’s see where these wheels land (2024)

“Is this where the cool kids sit?” 

She hates herself a little as she says it, but Cassie’s “This job can’t be your life, Samira” has been rattling around inside her skull for the last hour. Now is as good a time as any to try socializing, she figures. Everyone is strung out in adrenaline, and probably a concerning amount of caffeine. The stakes are low – if it’s weird (if she’s weird), she can just head home like it was her plan all along. 

It turns out it is, in fact, quite nice to have something other than a silent, nearly sterile apartment around her as she comes down off the adrenaline high of the last fifteen hours. People who know her, even if they're maybe not quite her friends. They care for her, at least, as a colleague. She finds herself wishing Parker had tagged along, instead of agreeing to stay on for the night, missing the easy comfort of the other woman’s presence. 

In front of her, Robby slumps next to Abbot, like the bench they're sprawled on is the only thing stopping the Earth from cracking open to swallow him whole. Abbot, contrarily, seems relaxed, his prosthetic propped on the bench next to him. 

(She’s never seen it before today, never really thought about it at all until she looked down amid the chaos of the red zone to see a blood bag strapped to his left leg, her brain working over time to remember which leg was his good one - not good, whole, she had chastised herself as she thought it - the entire scene startling her so badly she blurted out a question when she should have been treating the patient on the gurney in front of her.)

The two attendings are certainly two halves of a whole… something. Alone, they might die. Together, they might thrive. 

She blinks to herself at the thought, something familiar in it that she can’t quite put her finger on. A memory that had mostly faded, the source obscured by time and how much she has been cramming for Step 3. 

As the group drinks, Samira stays mostly quiet, only interjecting where necessary to prove she is in fact paying attention to the others. Javadi is a nervous vibration next to her, blushing under the attention of Robby (normal) and also Mateo (interesting). Princess and Donnie have such an easy rapport with everyone – they have to, she knows – that Samira finds herself a little jealous, wondering if she is even capable of such casual intimacy. 

The chatter comes to a lull, and it’s not long before Samira is shifting on her tired feet, watching Robby stick AirPods in as he strides away. The normal worry and anxiety she feels when she looks at him is dampened by the exhaustion of the day, leaving her with only a tender sort of sadness.   

“Here, Dr. Mohan. Sit.” 

A freckled hand slaps at the area of the bench Robby had vacated. She’s too tired for polite refusal, or to tell him for the umpteenth time he can just call her Samira, so she makes her way over. As she sits, Abbot stoops, reaching between his legs, and she sees the chain he keeps tucked beneath his shirt swing loose, revealing a flat metal pendant. When he rises, he has a fresh beer in his hand, extending it to her. His eyes seek hers as he does, drawing her gaze away from where she tries fruitlessly to make out what’s embossed in the metal. 

His eyes just crinkle at the corners, like he’s suppressing a smile again. Like earlier, in Trauma One, the rush of saving a life warping reality, slowing time. Like a hundred other times over the last year of night shifts. 

Solid work. 

Take the compliment, Dr. Mohan.

A sudden thought, so sharp and clear it feels nearly hallucinatory, of a harsh “Take it ” in her ear, the hot weight of hands at her waist, the burn of stubble against her cheek. 

The same voice that’s been in her ear all day, guiding, encouraging, praising. The same voice that just instructed her to sit . 

What the fuck? 

It’s so startling, she blinks hard, like interrupting her vision might clear the thought from her mind. It doesn't, though – if anything it comes more into focus. The stretch of her adductors as she sits over a pair of thick thighs, spreading her open. The feel of coarse curls under her hands, the divots at the base of a skull. 

And, because he's staring at her, Abbot sees the startled shift in her. He cocks his head, curious. Panic flaring, her hand shoots out, careful to avoid brushing against his own, taking the beer. Grateful for the shock of the cold can, she tries to pull her face into something resembling a smile. 

He sees right through her, of course. “Alright? You looked a little…” 

“Yeah. Yes, of course,” she interrupts.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but thankfully drops it, murmuring, “Right. Ok.” 

Finally, he releases her from his scrutiny, shifting away to lean fully against the bench again. He tips his head back, exposing the column of his throat, and finishes the dregs of his beer. Samira watches the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows.

If he knows she’s still watching him, he doesn't seem to care. 

Her mind whirs for something to say, to fill the silence before he manages to read her mind. And because she’s Samira (socially stunted, chronically blunt), she asks the least casual question imaginable. 

“How do you move on after that?” 

His neck rolls, tipping his head to prop on his shoulder, so he can look over at her again - judging how serious she is, trying to determine if she's making idle conversation or searching for answers. Under the street lights, his eyes shine. 

“Wish I could tell you. You just… do. Or, you don't, but you learn to live with it, either way.”

He’s still watching her, eyes roving over her face, cataloguing her reactions, and she finds herself unable to be the one to look away. 

He adds, voice dropping into an emotional register she only ever hears him use with Robby, “If I could leave, I would have already left, I’ll tell you that much.” 

She's not sure if he means this job, or this life - the statistics support both. Either way, the thought makes her stomach churn. It’s the type of confession that requires a response, anything at all. 

“I’m glad it was you with me, today. I like working with you. You’re a good attending.” 

It feels almost glib, in its simplicity, but it’s sincere. Abbot seems to take it as such, his whole face twitched before he ducks his head, lolling forward to rest his chin to his chest. The curve of his body feels reverent, nearly prayerful. The sight of his blush, though, makes her turn away.

She raises her beer to her lips to take a few long, steadying swallows. 

His voice is rough as he answers, “Thank you, Mohan.”

A beat, his throat clearing as he rubs at the hard metal that sits against his sternum beneath his shirt.  

Then, “You’re… You’re not so bad yourself.” 

Samira is grateful he’s not looking at her, doesn't see her flinch as Take it, rattles through her skull again. As the blush on his face is unwillingly committed to her memory. 

Later, she’ll blame the effects of the singular beer in her belly as the reason she asks, “What’s that?”

Abbot glances over at her, sees where her eyes are trained on his chest. “This?” he replies, index finger tapping at the vague shape. 

Samira nods.

His hand drops away, back into his lap to clutch at the empty can. “Just a… Reminder, I guess, of the reason I keep coming back. A good luck charm, really.”

She almost asks to see it, because she cannot fathom what could possibly be so consequential on such a small surface that it kept Dr. Jack Abbot coming back to the ED. Even on days like today. 

But she doesn't, because she remembers she is a resident and this is an attending and she’s treading very quickly towards territory that feels too personal, even after the day they’ve just had together. 

She doesn't know what to say after that, and neither does he, for once. So, they settle into a mutual silence, both looking out at their coworkers, at the quiet of the park around them. No talk of bees, or hives, or any other insect metaphors. Instead, there’s just the motion of Abbot’s fingers as his hands come together, as they twist the wedding band on his finger, around and around.

It's endearing to her, the unconscious movement so clearly a reflection of the comfort he finds in his spouse. 

As she listens to the quiet buzz of conversation, Samira wonders if that kind of love might ever find her. 

real rich in my head (2025)

Abbot has caught Samira coming off the worst sort of double – night shift, followed by day. Not intentional scheduling on her part, but a norovirus strain was burning through the population of Pittsburgh and the PTMC needed a doctor. And Samira was available, because, even though she’s definitely more social than she was a year ago, her calendar isn't exactly overflowing with scheduled events. 

It was always so jarring, going from night shift with Shen or Abbot as the attending, to day shift with Robby. Going from the relaxed efficiency of the night to the panicked chaos of the day, when she was already running on fumes. Today, by 3 PM, she developed an eye twitch that she couldn't quite control, that she had to fight nearly every minute of the remaining four hours of her shift.

So, by 7 PM, she is practically sprinting from the building when he catches her on the sidewalk. She tries to just exchange quick pleasantries, tries to step around him, but he moves into her path of escape, face set in a grim determination she usually only sees when he’s about to head into the viewing room. 

“Here.” 

A freckled hand, something on a steel chain swinging from the fingers that extend towards her. She just sort of stares at it, dead brained and out of her body in a way that only a double shift in the ED can do. 

“Saint Gobnait,” he says, as if that nonsensical combination of syllables, a strange lilt to them, is meant to clarify things for her. 

In the dimming light of the early evening, she can make out a blush blooming high up on his cheeks. 

“What?” 

She can't help the incredulity, the impatience in her tone. She likes Abbot, she really does. Over the last three years, he has certainly become a solid pillar she relies on to hold up her life. She likes working on his shifts, likes talking about foreign case studies with him, likes just being in his general vicinity. She supposes she does even a little more than like him, because, for better or for worse, for the last year, her brain has been churning up HR violating dreams of him. They are sometimes so explicit she has a hard time meeting his eyes on the next shift they share (which he always notices because if there’s one thing Jack Abbot requires, it is uninterrupted eye contact).

But she’s exhausted, and he's being strange, barely meeting her gaze, instead looking at her forehead, or her ear, or the hollow of her throat. It all makes her very impatient. 

He scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing hard enough at his stubble that the skin there blooms pink, too. She thinks she hears him mutter a “fuck me ” softly into his palm. 

“It’s a gift. For, you know, congratulations.” 

And then she remembers. At the turn of the shifts tonight, she had, in hours and education and right, lost her title as an R3 and gained a new one. Senior resident. She had forgotten, but, apparently, Jack Abbot had not. 

He fidgets in her silence, uncharacteristically, shifting from his flesh and blood foot to his metal and composite one. 

“It’s just for luck. We’re the bees that protect the hive. She’s the patron saint of- Never mind. Just take it, please. So I don't feel stupid. You can throw it away later. Do whatever you want with it. Just… Take it. ”

Please. So I don't feel stupid. Throw it away. As if she would be so careless with something that clearly means a lot to him. 

She takes it, if only to give her something to do with her hands as she tries to sort out whatever the fuck is happening here. He’s never given her anything before, at least nothing tangible or non-consumable. 

Free of the necklace, he reaches down with his right hand, seeking his left, thumb and index making a strange motion around his ring finger. His ring finger, which is currently ringless. 

It’s not the first time she's seen him without it, but it is the first time she's noticed him without it anywhere outside the ED. 

Samira looks up at him, a bit startled, about to ask what happened to it, worried he's lost it somewhere. And that’s when her vision catches at the base of his throat, the skin around his collar. The silver chain, the one that is always there, is noticeably absent.

Time slows, like in the moments before a car crash, in the moments before an arterial spray ruptures from a damaged artery. A collision course that is already inevitable, the indomitable laws of physics bending the world to their will. She is powerless to do anything other than watch, lungs seizing as she holds her breath. 

Except, the car crash, the rupture, is happening inside her own brain, as she looks at his ringless finger, feels the weight of the pendant in her hand, warm even before it had been pressed against her palm. Like it had been tucked against the hot skin of someone's chest, then clutched in a freckled hand. 

Her brain synapses take the picture of Jack Abbot she has had in her mind for the last three years and dismantle it with the vicious efficiency of someone suddenly proven right. A hundred memories of him blur together, forming something new, something more than just an attending, something more than just a friendly camaraderie. A freckled hand reaching for her, offering her something, protecting her, guiding her, encouraging her. Countless almost smiles flickering across his face, when she surprises him, or pleases him, or thanks him, caught before they can give him away. 

Oh.

A cliched thought, but the only one she has. She feels a little stupid – definitely out of her depth. 

“Oh,” she repeats out loud. 

His fingers still work over his empty ring finger, but he stares back at her now, eyes dark, and serious, and a little desperate. Like he’s been waiting for her to find him out, but now that she has he doesn't know what to do.  

“What?” 

His voice is a croak, a crack, and she realizes with startling clarity they cannot do this right now. Whatever this is. Not with her frazzled and dead-eyed after a 24. Not with him walking into the pit for his own shift. She needs to sleep. He needs to be sharp. And she can see in his eyes that he’s losing it a little. She can see that this gesture has taken a lot, maybe too much, from him. 

“We should get dinner.” 

He blinks at her. “Dinner.”

“Or, breakfast, lunch, whatever. If this is…” 

She can’t bring herself to finish. 

After a beat, he confirms, “It is,” mouth twisting like it pains him a little, like it’s costing him something essential. 

She feels like she’s been punched straight in the solar plexus. Her body tries to curl in around where her weary heart beats in her chest. 

“I didn’t know.” 

It comes out a petulant sort of whine. She can’t believe how oblivious she’s been. She wonders how many signs she’s missed. 

“I didn’t want you to.” 

He gives her an out, a thing to blame for her stupidity. But looking at him now… It’s the first time she’s felt the nickname Slow Mo might have an inkling of truth to it. Because how could she have possibly missed the raw wanting staring back at her? 

“Breakfast. Tomorrow.” She won't be able to wait any longer than that. “I need to sleep. And think, just a little.” 

A startled smile flickers across his face before he catches it, mirrors his expression back into something matching her serious one. “Ok.” 

She looks down at her hand, the embossed pendant laying in her palm, a vague feminine figure there. She runs her thumb over the impression of her. 

“Mohan-” 

“Samira, please.” 

When she looks up, Jack is staring, of course, because he always is. His mouth twitches again, but he loses, this time, as crooked teeth flash in a wide smile. 

“Samira.” 

might loosen my grip (2026)

The bar would not be Samira’s first choice for a party, but it is centrally located, and not far from the hospital. And, apparently, people “would be mad” if they missed the party, because they “loved her” and “were so proud of her.” New things that Samira doesn't spend too much time thinking about, because she doesn't feel much like crying these days. 

“Here.” 

A sweating gin and tonic enters her field of view, a freckled hand holding a napkin to the glass to sop up the condensation. A hand that she knows – a hand that knows her. As she takes the drink, their fingers sliding together, then apart, she lifts her gaze. 

Jack looks back, steady and patient. Always patient. 

“Congrats, Dr. Mohan.” 

She takes a sip, for courage, and for a moment to collect herself. His eyes track across her face, as if they didn’t just spend the entirety of a rare, blissful shared day off together. As if they had not walked nearly the entire way to this bar together, only separating two blocks away so Samira could give Jack a three minute head start. 

“I'm an attending now.” 

He hums around a smile, crooked teeth flashing as he returns, “The new queen bee with her very own hive.” 

His eyes drop to her hands, where they're wrapped around the glass, and he extends a singular finger, tracing it across the back of one of her own. The barely there touch sends goosebumps racing across the exposed skin of her arms, giving her away. He retracts it, after a moment, giving them the plausible deniability they had agreed upon eleven months ago. 

Without his hands on her, he goes back to watching her, because he is Jack Abbot and he will take what he can get - he will take whatever Samira is willing to give. His eyes trace along the chain around her neck, not quite hidden by the collar or her shirt, to where it disappears between her breasts. A dimple flashes on his cheek before he finds her eyes again. 

“You don’t need it, but I’m proud of you, anyways.” A beat, then he adds, “Always.” 

Under the weight of his praise and his gaze, she thinks again to herself, as she had on the walk over, that she doesn't want to wait to have the conversation she knows they need to have. She knows it should be in private, away from the gossiping observation of their coworkers. Jack would wait as long as she wanted (maybe forever, if those were her conditions), but she wants it now. 

“HR has no rules against two attendings being in a relationship.” 

His face does that thing she loves – because she does love it, and lots of other things about him, and, just, him – a smile starting to pull at the corner of his mouth, the beginnings of a grin, before he catches it. 

“Do they now?” 

“Mhm. A little messier if you work the same shifts, but not expressly forbidden.” 

“Who’s the lucky attending?” 

She can't help the roll of her eyes. She knows, if they were alone, he would reach for her chin, steadying her gaze back to his. But they're not alone, so he settles for pressing forward until his knuckles rest against hers again. Leaves them there. 

There’s one person that has to know, that they have to tell before they tell the hospital. Even though Samira is certain, somewhere, in his heart of hearts, Robby already knows.

He must have noticed Samira and Jack’s carefully timed exits at group events. Must have noticed the way they migrate to each other in slow moments. Must have noticed the way Samira has been careful, over the last eleven months, to only take night shifts where Shen is the attending, unless absolutely necessary. 

Jack taps her hand, head dipping to catch his serious eyes on hers, wanting to not only be heard, but also understood. She knows if she tries to break eye contact, he’ll only chase her until she acquiesces. 

“Only if you're ready, Samira.” 

She has never been more ready for anything. Never been more certain of anything, she thinks. Not medical school, not emergency medicine, not PTMC. The certainty of him, of her feelings for him, buoys her mood until she can feel her face split to a grin as she beams at him. 

He fights it, for a moment, his answering smile, but eventually it wins out. They're standing, grinning stupid, dopey grins at each other, barely touching, and it feels like the most intimate thing in the world. It makes Samira feel wild and brave. 

“Robby!” she shouts, before she can think better of it. 

She’s an attending now – she’s allowed to order around other attendings. Probably. 

Jack’s smile drops. Not scared, though – she's seen him scared, now, a few times. That first breakfast, after he gifted her the pendent. Once, when they were both in the middle of a resuscitation, when Ahmed shouted, “GUN!” from somewhere inside the pit. And, the first time she had slept over, Jack jerking out of sleep, nearly vaulting from the bed, collapsing on the floor when the leg he had in his dream was no longer beneath him in reality.

This is not Jack Abbot scared. 

Instead, this Jack is anticipating a fight, the hardened lines of his face conveying he will throw or take a punch if it's what she needs. It makes her even more certain she has made the right choice. 

There's a telltale shifting in the room behind them, every single one of them attuned to Robby because they have to be, because it’s their job. Because he’s theirs as much as they're his. Jack’s eyes go over her shoulder once, tracking his friend, before coming back to hers, then down to where they still touch. She presses her hand harder into his in response to the implied question. 

Robby is there, then, coming to a stop between them. He’s red in the face – probably a little buzzed from both alcohol and the direct attention of others – and smiling big, until his eyes come to rest on where Samira and Jack are connected. The smile falters, eyebrows furrowing. 

Jack makes to step forward, like he might put himself bodily between Samira and Robby, but Robby beats him to it, taking a step back, raising his hands. 

He looks at Jack friend as he says, “As long as you fill out the paperwork yourself. And,” his brown eyes shift to Samira, a million things whirling there, “Just… Take care of each other, ok? You both are… You mean…” 

His lip actually wobbles, and before either Samira or Jack have a chance to react, Robby opens his arms and swallows both of them in his embrace. Her left side presses against Robby’s familiar, massive frame, her cheek against the soft material of the shirt over his chest. She can feel the thump of his heart beneath his ribs. Her right side presses against the hard lines of Jack’s arm before he shifts, slipping her under his arm and tucking her against his torso. 

She is engulfed both by the reason she decided to come to Pittsburgh, and the reason she has decided to stay in Pittsburgh. Her… hive, she supposes. 

“Robby, brother, come on. People are going to think someone died.” 

Robby does not let up though. Samira can feel him tuck his chin onto the crown of her head, as he growls at Jack, “Just give me a minute, you fucking asshole.” 

She can’t see much, in the shadow of both Robby and Jack, but she feels Jack turn his face into her shoulder, feels his mouth twitch where he hides it against her. A memory burns fresh and hot through her mind, of a few hours earlier.

Jack’s mouth panting against the same spot on her arm, open, teeth pressing just hard enough to leave an indent but not a mark. Propped up against the headboard, legs splayed, he could do nothing but grip at her waist and mouth at her shoulder as she took what she wanted from him. 

She tries to pull away from Robby instinctively, but both his and Jack’s arms tighten in response, holding her captive.

“Robby,” she hisses. 

“Ok, ok,” he finally says, releasing them from his bear hug and stepping back. Jack does the same, hand dragging across her back only a little slower than appropriate. 

A sigh heaves out of Robby as he scrubs at his eyes, but Samira can see there’s no tension in his shoulders. He is… relieved, she thinks. 

“Ok,” he mutters again, to himself, before dropping his hands away.

He trains his big brown eyes on Samira – they're already shining. She tries to stop whatever gutting thing he's about to say, but he beats her to it.

“Just let me get this out. I am very proud of you, Samira Mohan. And I hope you are proud of yourself. We are extremely lucky to call you one of our own.” 

Something in her chest gives way, a breath she's been holding for four years, perhaps. Her hand rises subconsciously, out of habit, rubbing at her sternum, digging the metal of the pendant into her flesh. 

Robby sketches a bow in their direction then. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll let you tell the rest of them.” 

As he walks away, hands carding through the thinning hair on the crown of his head, Samira hears him mutter, “As if we didn't already know.” 

Alone, again, she turns to Jack. 

“Want to get out of here?” 

She wants to kiss him, hard and long. Maybe ask him to push her up against a wall. The latent emotion of finally telling Robby needs an outlet. 

“This is your party, Samira,” Jack replies on a half laugh. 

“So, I should get to do what I want, is what you're saying.”

“Well, yes, but-”

She reaches out, twisting her hand into the collar of his favorite black t-shirt, using it like reins to haul his mouth to hers. He grunts a startled sound into her mouth, eyes still open. When she nips at his lip, they flutter shut, his body shivering against her as his hands find her waist. 

It takes a moment, but then someone is pounding against the bar, and then Donnie is howling, and she thinks she hears Dana whistling. Against her mouth, Jack grins, a wide, uncontrollable thing. 

won’t ever let her go (2027)

Samira’s body is weightless in the way it only gets from true exhaustion. She is only vaguely aware of the sensory input around her – soft sheets, the gentle weight of a duvet (only pulled up to her waist, the way she likes it), the deep ache of her overworked thighs, the slickness where her tired legs are pressed together. 

“Here.” 

She opens her eyes, seeing a freckled hand set a glass of water on her nightstand, next to where the chain of her necklace lays in a pile. A hand smooths over her hair and her eyelids instinctively flutter closed again, anticipating the press of lips against her temple that follows. 

There is a thunk that she knows is a crutch falling back to the floor, then a weight dips the mattress beside her. A body settles in next to her, adjusting her limp limbs until she is tucked against a hard torso. A hand taps against her outer thigh, then Jack’s low voice is in her ear, saying, “Open.” 

She makes a sound of annoyance in the back of her throat, out of habit. It's an old bit he does not fall for, tapping at her again. Her adductors complain as she lifts, but the effort is worth it for the relief of a warm, damp cloth passing over her cunt in a practiced movement, gently wiping away the last traces of her arousal. 

When he finishes, Jack taps her leg again, and she lets her body collapse back against him in a boneless heap. His muscled forearm wraps around her waist, pinning her there. As if she would want to go anywhere, except right here. 

Against her belly, the thumb of Jack’s left hand rubs at the ring on his ring finger, like he still hasn’t quite gotten used to the sensation of it since Samira slipped it on his hand several hours ago. The only light in the room comes from a lamp in the corner, reflecting off the polished gold of the band. 

Samira shifts, lacing her fingers through his, drawing his hand up to her mouth to press a kiss to the metal, warm from the heat of his skin.

At her back, Jack buries his face between her shoulder blades. 

It was a bit impulsive, the whole thing.

She had been off the day shift; Jack had been off the night shift. A whole day, just them. Almost like normal people. 

They had talked about marriage on and off for months, but neither had been in any particular rush. Occasionally, they’d check for available appointments at Pittsburgh City Hall, but there had yet to be any that fell on days where they both had off.

It felt like all they had was time. They didn't need two witnesses, a piece of paper, to tell them what they knew they had. 

That morning, though, Samira had opened her eyes to Jack settling into their bed, freshly showered after his shift, head propped on his hand, watching her pull herself from the vestiges of sleep. His mouth had twitched as she yawned. When she was finally somewhere near consciousness, he had, without preamble, reached between them and set two small boxes on the sheet in front of her. 

“If you feel like it, there’s an appointment open at 3 PM today.” 

He flipped open the smaller box, revealing a ring, a ruby set in gold, pairs of diamonds flanking either side. The one she had picked out after their last failed appointment scheduling. 

(“You should have a ring, if we’re doing this.” “I don't need a ring, Jack.” “Well, I want a ring. You don't have to wear one if you aren't ready-” “I want to marry you, Jack. I was literally just on city hall's website. Of course I’d wear it.” “Ok, then we’re getting you a ring.”)

Staring at him in the early morning light, Samira could not think of a singular reason why today should not be their wedding day.

So, they found clothes that seemed suitable for a courthouse wedding – Jack in a navy suit, a little tight around his thighs, Samira in a buttery yellow chiffon dress with tiny flowers, that looked cream in the right light.

Jack had wanted pictures, but Samira didn't want to tell anyone until it was finished. The compromise they came up with was calling the one person they knew could keep a secret. Emery Walsh had met them at Pittsburgh City Hall with her film camera in tow, an uncharacteristic, fond smile on her face. 

“The only people that could drag me back into this city on my day off,” she had said, punching Jack on the shoulder and winking at Samira. 

The ceremony was fast. They filled out the paperwork. The metal detector beeped over Jack’s leg. Emery magicked a bouquet of flowers from somewhere. They held each other’s hands – neither shaking, neither sweating, just a steady, warm grip. A judge, a kind woman that smirked at them from behind her bench, recited the words that would bind them together, for as long as they both shall live. 

And now here they are, married, in their bed. 

Jack’s mouth moves against her back, a familiar pull and pinch of his almost smiles, before forms the shapes of silent words. Something repeated into the notches of her spine. 

“What're you saying?” she says, voice sleepy and a little slurred in the dopamine induced haze of the orgasms he had just spent the last hour wringing from her.

He smiles, then, a real one, not bothering to hide it – she can feel his teeth, the wet of his mouth against her skin. 

“Samira Mohan, my wife.” 

There’s nothing but elation in his words, an almost laugh to them, like he still can't quite believe it. He tugs her more firmly against him, until their hearts beat into each other, separated only by bone and flesh and blood. 

“Love you,” she murmurs back, still holding his hand to her mouth. “Forever.” 

She knows, someday, he might leave her, in the irreversible way that all good relationships end. One person stranded in one existence while the other moves onto the next. Jack knows it, too, firsthand. But as she spins her ring on her own finger, as she kisses at the one on Jack’s, she feels the weight of the thing between them. And she knows she won't ever be truly alone for the rest of her life.