Chapter Text
“Huckleberry, if you tap that pen one more time, I’m gonna fuck you up.” Samira overhears Santos threatening Whitaker as he looks up with a guilty expression, his fingers immediately seizing.
Samira stared at her chart, words blurring into one another due to her eyes sinking further. She was usually ready to offer herself up to work a double, but this had been a brutal, brutal shift. Robby was on her ass about her time with patients, and with Dr. Heather Collins gone, she didn’t have her usual defense which made it especially hard. And Langdon was practically useless in that situation, as was trying to get back into Robby’s good graces again.
She tried to remember the last time she felt liked by Robby. Adamson had brought Samira into the Pitt as an MS3, and Robby was one of the senior attendings at the time. He had liked her. She remembers he would walk her out to the bus stop at the end of the shift, lecturing her on whatever new procedure they had worked on that day. He would call her Samira, in a fatherly way, she thought, but also avoid dissecting that whole mess. And don’t get her wrong, he still calls Samira, but it’s always accompanied with a deep sigh, like he knew she wasn’t going to change but insisted upon it anyway.
He would prompt her to describe surgeries, ask her questions and expect to hear the correct answer, because he knew she would never not know. He took care of her in a professional way and saw her potential. She theorized that before Adamson, Robby was fond of her, as a person. The difference between Robby and Adamson is that Adamson was equally fond of everyone he handpicked on the floor of his ED, and fond of them as doctors. And to reflect on it, it made sense. How could they be doctors, save lives everyday, and not have reliable people around you?
It’s a cruel thought and she would never say it out loud, but she despised Robby as Chief Attending. Adamson’s absence still lingered in the Pitt, even if it had been years, and Samira thought (more than she cared to admit): Why am I still here?
“See ya, Samira.” Santos sang. She threw a silent wave out, quickly glancing up to see her walking out with Whitaker. She wondered what it would be like to walk out with someone from this place. To share the heaviness at home.
As those two walked out, the night shift attending walked in, holding one hand on his camo backpack strap. She saw him look around the hub, probably trying to figure out where Robby was for handoff. And there it was: The reason she was still here.
Here is a truth that Samira knew about herself: She was attracted to older men. Psychoanalyzing herself, it was probably to seek validation from her dead father who could never give it to her, but she genuinely didn't think it was so. She was a sucker for a sophisticated man, and that rarely ever came from guys her own age, so what was she supposed to do?
She knew what she definitely wasn’t supposed to do: have a crush on her night shift attending. But as he strolled into the hub, nodding at Santos while clutching his camo backpack strap, silver hair gleaming against the fluorescent light, her heart couldn’t help but pick up a few extra beats.
Samira didn’t know what it was about him that crept up on you. She was definitely intimidated when she first met him. When she was introduced to him, he looked at her with wide eyes and straight lips, nodding once before walking away, muttering something she couldn’t make out. Meanwhile, she watched him walk away, admiring his salt and pepper hair (more pepper at the time), looking down quickly at his uneven gait (totally not his ass).
He was a different kind of attending than Robby, and she knew it within a week. Robby taught by pressure, by silence that stretched just a second too long, by letting you feel the weight of a decision before confirming whether you were right or wrong. Abbot didn’t do that. He asked questions like he was already certain you’d get there, like the answer was sitting just behind your teeth and all you needed was a nudge. It wasn’t that he was easier; if anything, he expected more. But he expected it like it was already yours.
And for some reason, with Samira, he went further.
It started small enough that she could pretend she was imagining it. The first time was months ago, after a double on nights that ended with her losing a patient she’d been quietly rooting for. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even realized how obvious it was until Jack set a paper cup down next to her without a word. The chai was objectively disgusting, too sweet and vaguely burnt, something he’d clearly dug out of the break room machine like it was an afterthought. But he lingered just long enough to make sure she noticed, eyes flicking to her face, taking in the swelling, the exhaustion, before moving on like it hadn’t meant anything at all.
After that, he picked her for traumas more often than made sense, calling her name over others with more experience, like it was instinct. Once, Ellis nudged her after Jack did it again, a grin tucked into the corner of her mouth as she said something about having a favorite. Samira brushed it off, rolled her eyes, but she felt the quiet, steady pull of his attention landing on her and staying there just a second longer than it should.
She didn’t even let herself think about the comments. Never anything big, never anything that would draw attention, but they stacked up in a way that made her chest feel too tight if she thought about it too long. “Solid tube, Mo-han,” tossed over his shoulder like it was nothing, like it didn’t sit with her for the rest of the shift. There was a gleam in his eyes—something warm, almost proud, threaded with a kind of fondness that made her stomach flip in a way she didn’t have a name for. It lasted maybe a second before she looked away, suddenly very interested in the chart in her hands, pulse loud in her ears.
It would have been easier if he treated her like everyone else, so she didn’t have this impending crush on him.
“Dr. Abbot! Nice of you to join us while the sun is still out,” Dana called out, half turned already, one arm stuck in her jean jacket.
He gave her a small, unimpressed smile, lifting his hands slightly like he was surrendering. “It’s the night shift now. What’re you still doing here?”
Samira kept her eyes on her monitor, clicking through her chart like she hadn’t already noticed him the second he walked in. She didn’t need to look at him more than she already did. Dana clicked her tongue, tugging her jacket the rest of the way on. “Bout to head out, boss.”
He nodded once in approval, attention already shifting past her. Samira expected to feel him pass behind her, the usual quick brush of movement and then gone, but his footsteps slowed. Hesitated. Then, changed direction right toward her. Her chest tightened just enough that she had to force her head up slowly, like she wasn’t already anticipating it.
“Dr. Mo-han,” he said, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, “working another double?”
And that’s when she knew she was in trouble. Her brain flooded immediately, unhelpful and loud. Yes, whatever you want. I’ll stay. I’ll do anything you ask me to.
She pressed her right hand under her chin, grounding herself, forcing her head to stay steady as she met his eyes. She gave him a quick smile, small enough to pass, letting the slight pressure of her fingers guide the subtle shake of her head. “Long shift already,” she said, exhaling lightly. “Maybe next time.”
She dropped her gaze back to her chart like that was the end of it, like she hadn’t just had to actively choose that answer. A quick glance up, like she couldn’t help it. Was that— was that a pout? He pushed off the table he’d been leaning against, letting out a quiet breath as he turned away, heading toward the lockers. “I’ll hold you to it, Mo-han.”
Something about it was almost disappointed. Her brain immediately went into overdrive. Stay. Work for him. With him. It’ll be worth it. When has it not been worth it? Just go after him. Tell him you can.
“No, no, no,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head once like she could physically knock the thoughts out. She couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep picking up doubles just to work with him, couldn’t keep burning herself out for moments that meant more to her than they probably ever did to him. So what, he made her feel alive. Competent. Smart. She could feel like that somewhere else.
In fact, she would. She reached for her phone, already opening her messages with McKay. Hey, what’s that bar you were talking about last week?
Within the next hour, Samira lasted a grand total of seventeen minutes and two drunk guys attempting to talk to her at the bar top before deciding she was leaving as soon as she finished her drink. She pulled out her book, placing her bookmark carefully on the table in front of her, brushing her hand over the page she’d been on like that would somehow make her blurry eyes focus better. She held it lower, half under the table, trying to block out the noise just enough to read.
She was a few pages in when a strong, jean clad thigh knocked into her book, pushing it closer to her without warning. She blinked, looking up. A man had taken the seat next to her, one of the only two open spots at the bar. He shifted immediately, dragging his chair back a few inches like he’d realized how close he’d gotten. “Sorry,” he muttered, low and quick, already settling forward with his elbows on the bar.
She studied him from the corner of her eye. Silver hair, almost white under the warm, low lighting. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms tanned and lined with veins that stood out when he flexed his hand against the counter. No ring. And there was something about the way he held himself, shoulders slightly slouched, head dipping forward, exhaustion that rivaled hers.
And he smelt of— of olive oil?
“Whatever you think is the best beer on tap,” he said, voice rough, cracking just a little at the end like he used it enough today. “Please.” She noted his manners.
This could be her chance, she thought suddenly. Which was stupid. But still. What was the worst that could happen? She cleared her throat lightly. “You can put that on my tab.” She looked at the bartender as she said it, not at him, catching the small, knowing smile they gave her before nodding.
“You don’t need to,” he started, turning toward her. And then he paused. She felt it before she looked. His eyes dropped briefly to her book, like he was placing her, and then moved back up, slower this time. Not in a gross way. Just taking her in. He looked between her eyes for a second, then flicked up to her hair, like he was trying to figure something out.
There was a shift in his expression. Something quieter. Almost amused. He nodded once. “On her.”
She slid her bookmark back into her book, closing it as she turned slightly to reach behind her chair for her purse. The movement pulled her top up just a little, a sliver of her midriff showing before she even registered it. She felt it, his eyes, just for a second. He picked up his beer, taking a sip like nothing had happened, humming low under his breath at the taste.
“Tastes better when a pretty lady buys it for me, I think,” he said, almost to himself, but not really.
She smiled despite herself, turning fully toward him now, elbow resting against the bar. “Samira Mohan.”
He looked at her, really looked this time, and finally, there it was. A small smile, easy, like it didn’t cost him anything. “Grant Reilly.”