Chapter Text
"What is this?"
Ogilvie twitched the handles of the plastic bag aside and peered at its contents. Samira had spent the past half hour hiding her trove in various nooks and cubbies as she was called away to see patients, but this latest spot happened to be right near the Charge Nurse's station. She glanced over and blanched at the thought of having to explain herself. With how her shift was shaking out so far, Robby would be likely to overhear and come scorching around some unforeseen corner to upbraid her about going above and beyond when the ED bar was already in Hell.
"Hey Ogilvie, stop ogling and get a move on," Santos called placidly. Ogilvie gave an incurious shrug and walked away, and was soon replaced by Trinity gliding over on a roller chair. "But seriously, what is that?" she asked Samira.
"It's—"
Before she could deliver what Santos was sure to find a boring itemization of her care package, Abbot flashed his phone at her in passing. "Uber's almost here."
Santos raised a faint eyebrow at the exchange, and Samira ended the one they were already having with a hasty "never mind." Better not to hang around and risk Trinity's speculation.
For her part, Samira was moderately thrilled about the little mission they were undertaking. She had been prepared to find herself alone in her crusade on Mr. Diaz's behalf. But a secret, unsanctioned operation that required surgical precision? She and Abbot had proved more than once a good enough partnership to pull that off.
One that required hasty extraction from her patients? There were many of her coworkers who would have despaired assigning her the role. But it was with uncharacteristic momentum that Mohan now ducked patients along the wall and made for the ambulance bay, the recycled grocery bag she had cobbled together knocking against her knee—and yes, she had filled it with a few more items since that morning, and snatched a few more things now on her way out.
"I'm here," she announced before she had fully alighted beside Abbot. She was surprised to find the Uber wasn't. Could be holiday traffic, or had he engineered the timing just a little to give her a break from her hectic day? From what she knew about him (relatively little), she guessed she wouldn't put it past him. Dr. Abbot always made sure everyone around him was solid—it was one of the first things she noticed upon first meeting the enigmatic night attending. Game recognizes game, Santos voice echoed inanely inside her mind. Samira had definitely heard the second year say something like that before in a completely different context, but maybe it still applied here. She thought maybe she and Abbot were, in some ways, kindred spirits, but it was hard to know anything about the man outside of the more outlandish rumors about him that passed from night shift to day. Even though a lot of that intel had turned out to be true in the end.
"How's the shoulder?" she asked, unable to take a break even when it was offered. She tried to play it off the next instant, maybe in a doomed effort to convince one or both of them she really could clock out. "Still carrying the weight of the world?"
The overburdened bag at her side chose that moment to tear poetically and spill its contents out on the pavement. Samira swore in Tamil.
"I've had worse," Abbot said as he immediately squatted to help her gather her supplies. Samira also dropped down beside him, mortified. Her first instinct was to apologize, maybe even offer a volley of excuses for why she had selected each item and couldn't find a better bag, before she heard his calm voice and remembered which attending she was dealing with. Relief flooded her; she hadn't realized how tense she had been holding herself until she was released.
"I'm sorry," she said anyway. "I think I overdid it. I just—I don't know if or when he'll be back. And I didn't want to waste your Uber."
Privately Samira wondered if she had already seen evidence of some of Abbot's "worse." She had tried not to let her gaze wander too much as she stitched him back up earlier, but she had been aware of more scars than she could count outside her peripheral, and those were only the ones visible to her above his combat fatigues.
And there was his leg.
Both their hands fell on the same packet of glucose powder, and Samira gave a startled laugh, relinquishing it. "Not a waste," Abbot said mildly as she withdrew.
"Your go-bag is better, at any rate," she said as she rose to hunt for a replacement sack. "I still want to see everything you've got in there."
The doors hissed open again as she returned with four bags this time, two doubled-up. She helped Abbot portion the supplies in an order that made sense, and tied each off with rabbit ears just as the Uber pulled up. They gave the driver instructions, and stepped back as he pulled out to make room for any arriving ambulances. Samira watched him drive off, hands hooked in the pockets of her scrubs, her momentary satisfaction inevitably giving way to worry that the Diaz family still wouldn't be alright in the long run. She turned to Abbot to distract herself with something actually within her control.
"Hey, I just wanted to say—"
Her gratitude shouldn't have stuck in her throat the way it did. A simple "thanks" felt insufficient somehow, but what else could she give him? Would he know everything she intended to load into that single word? Even if he shrugged it off with that injured shoulder of his, it still needed to be said. Maybe she only hesitated now, knowing if it was Robby, he would dismiss her with a flippant it's what we do.
Just as she decided to forge ahead anyway, Samira's eyes widened at something clocked over Abbot's shoulder. "Hey!" she shouted. A group of youths were gathered in the bay, unseen until the Uber pulled away. One of them fished what looked like a taped-together incendiary device from a Jansport backpack. Samira's heart lunged in her chest—Pittfest wasn't that far removed, and the ED received bomb threats all the time—before she noticed the bundle's bright Crayola colors and remembered what day it was.
Are you fucking kidding me? she despaired. Why would anyone bring their illegal fireworks here, unless they wanted to escape parental oversight and still be within screaming distance of the ER if something went wrong?
A spark flared, and the youths whooped and hollered and scattered, several with their phones out to record over their shoulders. Samira's hands hovered helplessly outside her scrub pockets, but there wasn't much they could do now that the fuse was lit.
Abbot's hands were more efficient in the seconds that followed. One arm lashed around her shoulders, the other hand cupping the back of her skull, as he yanked them both back down behind the barrier. Samira cringed into his chest as the ambulance bay erupted, eyes shut, gritting her teeth. Fireworks squealed and shrieked and shot free of their constraints, the lightshow branding itself on her eyelids, it was so bright and immediate. Abbot shielded her in his arms, and Samira thought, am I going to have to dress your burns if you catch any strays for me?
When the impromptu show ended they stayed hunkered down. Samira fought to catch her breath, then opened her eyes and looked up when she realized Abbot was breathing even faster than she was. "Dr. Abbot—?"
"I gotta go."
Suddenly his arms were gone. He rose before Samira could even pull herself upright by the banister and disappeared back inside the ED, the doors closing over him. Up until that moment, in the aftermath of saving Hiro, Abbot had been carrying himself like he had all the time in the world for their errand. Now he suddenly had somewhere to be? Samira stared after him, expression bewildered. She had felt this way increasingly all day, like any move or decision she made was liable to be the wrong one—
Then she snapped out of it. This wasn't about her.
"If any of you idiots blew anything off, just... come inside!" she shouted anticlimactically at the scattered teens. She was concerned for Abbot now, even to the momentary exclusion of Mr. Diaz and his family. There was still a cloud of smoke adrift in the ambulance bay, the smell of sulfur hanging heavy in the air, as she darted inside after him. One thing at a time, she tried reasoning with herself, knowing that approach was completely antithetical to working in the Pitt. She moved quickly, not only to keep pace with Abbot, but to avoid anyone who might flag her down. She saw him vanish through a door and moved to follow, accidentally making eye contact with Whitaker on her way, who was approaching with a concern and immediately silenced by her expression. He backed off, clicking his jaw shut. He looked haggard already and it wasn't even 2PM. Samira tried to convey her gratitude to him in a parting glance as shoved into the stairwell after Abbot. If he could just buy her a little more time—
She found Abbot pacing at the bottom of the staircase like a cornered animal preparing to claw its way out. She hung back a moment; then when he appeared aware of her presence she approached and laid a feather-light hand on his shoulder. She felt his back muscles bunch beneath her touch. She knew already this wasn't the prescribed way to handle something like this. In his present state Abbot might lash out, maybe not even knowing where he was or who he was with.
"Dr. Abbot? Jack?" She didn't know which was more likely to penetrate. Something was very wrong. With a quick glance around to confirm they were alone, Samira guided him toward the alcove behind the stairs, where the shadows pooled and the thick concrete base offered the next best thing to a partition. She would have rather seen him in an exam room—maybe even the same one she had discovered him in before—but the chances of being found there or pulled away were too great. So the stairwell it was.
When she finally got a good look at his face she was shocked by his drained complexion. She lowered them both to the ground, mirroring his crouch. "Okay. Are you on any medications? Has anything like this ever happened to you before?" She kept her voice steady, her questions formal and anchoring. If she could distract him from any interior war zone playing out that was still progress. Gingerly she took hold of his forearm, reestablishing eye contact every few seconds, feeling his tendons strung as taut as if he was in the middle of a cage match. Her fingers found the pulse point in his wrist practically slamming against his skin. She then located the one in his neck to confirm, foregoing her stethoscope, completely forgetting its existence when she normally treated it as an extension of herself. His skin was cold and clammy and covered in sweat. Her own thoughts raced as fast as his pulse.
"Sertraline. Prazosin."
"I'll go get your bag." Samira rose, but was arrested by Abbot's hand. The pressure was almost enough to grind her wrist bones together. She turned back to him and he released her quickly.
"Okay," she said. She dropped back down, and Abbot closed his eyes.
Of course it had happened before. After the combat he had seen, and with how freely he offered the number of his therapist, of course this wouldn't be the first time. Had she underestimated him, seeing him only as a rock in the stream that always threatened to pull her under, never guessing there was more? Samira had always found it so easy to fall into step with him, but what was their relationship, really, when they were little more than acquaintances?
Robby should be here. Not me. The thought came in a hopeless burst, the day's doubts threatening to swamp her all at once. The two men had a history that went beyond mere colleagues or anything doctor-patient. But Robby wasn't here.
Samira removed her stethoscope from around her neck and hooked it, not into her own ears, but Abbot's. When she pulled back she saw his eyes were open again, glassily staring at her like maybe he thought she'd be occupying the involuntary psych hold next door to his own in the future. Maybe he wasn't wrong.
She passed the diaphragm of the stethoscope over her own heart and fixed it there firmly. Breathe, she willed herself, for her own benefit first, which she knew would translate between them. She communicated her intent with her eyes and saw when he understood. Abbot's gaze flickered down to her chest. He listened intently. His chest, no longer heaving like a bellows, began to slow to match her breathing.
The door to the stairwell slammed open, almost the same instant a clatter of New Balances could be heard descending the steps above. Samira threw herself against the wall beside Abbot with the stethoscope still connecting them. She gazed upward and prayed the peace wouldn't remain broken for long. Now there was no way to talk him through it—nothing but the rhythm of her heart, which might have been doing anything for all she knew. She closed her eyes. Their knees were bent, legs touching, her scrubs riding up one calf. She wondered if she had remembered to shave that morning, then realized it didn't matter, considering which side of his she was on. The flurry of activity petered out and passed back into the unforgiving fluorescent rooms outside, leaving them alone again.
Eventually the weight of Abbot's head settled against her shoulder. Samira felt the warmth of his ragged breathing, and the spring of his curls against her neck. She wished there was room between the wall to thread her arm around his shoulder, then hated herself for wishing it. The moment was already too fragile to hold. She didn't dare budge an inch, didn't dare breathe.
But of course, she had to keep breathing, for both of them. So she did.