Chapter Text
Samira doesn’t know why it bothers her when Robby yells at her, at this point. She should be used to it by now. She should have developed a thicker skin. She should be confident in her own skills as a doctor. She should be a lot of things. But she just… isn’t.
What she is now is sad, and lonely, and maybe a little numb, so she goes and sits on the roof. She’s got her back to the railing, her knees tucked to her chest. It’s cold, and the wind whips against her spine and pulls her hair in every which direction, and she just doesn’t care. She doesn’t hear the roof access door swing open, doesn’t sense Dr. Abbot until he’s sitting next to her, draping a North Face coat over her hunched shoulders. It smells like him.
“Robby’s fucked in the head right now,” Dr. Abbot says. “It doesn’t excuse the way he spoke to you, but you should know that it’s got nothing to do with you.”
“If it has nothing to do with me, why is it always me?” She asks bitterly. She’d deflect, normally. Defend Robby, or insist that it didn’t matter. But it did matter, and it fucking hurt.
“I don’t know,” he sighs. “It’s been a while since we worked a shift together, Robby and me. I didn’t realize how bad it’d gotten.”
“How bad I’d gotten,” Dr. Mohan corrects.
“No. Not you. Never you,” he insists. “Come on. Shift’s over. Let me buy you a beer,” he says, standing up and offering her a hand, which she takes; crying on the roof of the hospital isn’t going to fix any of this.
“I’m just gonna go home, I think,” she politely declines.
“I’ll drive you.”
“I could use the air,” she tries to worm away, to retreat into her pain, but he’s insistent.
“I wasn’t asking,” he says firmly.
He manages to talk her into stopping for a pizza to bring back to her apartment, and sticks around to watch a movie. He didn’t want to leave her alone; he could sense that Samira wasn’t okay and something about that just felt… unacceptable to him.
He looks around the apartment as she fusses in the kitchen for paper plates and napkins. It’s not how he imagined it— not that he’d ever admit to wondering about it— but it was certainly her. There were leafy green plants draped from hanging baskets and shelves on the wall. The apartment was small and open-concept, but she made good use of space; there was a little table in a breakfast nook with a couple of comfortable-looking rattan chairs, a sofa in the living room adorned with fluffy pillows and a big, thick blanket draped over the back. She carries the plates and napkins to the living room and he follows her with the pizza, placing everything on the coffee table.
“Did you want a beer?” She asks him.
“If you’re having one,” he replies casually.
“Go on, sit,” she says, cocking her head towards the couch and taking a few steps back towards the kitchen. She uncaps two bottles of Sam Adams and brings them back to the living room. “This okay?” She asks, dimming the lights so they’d be able to see the TV screen better once they put the movie on, but the thought of being in near-darkness with her makes him start to sweat.
“Fine,” he lies, settling into the corner of the couch, as far away from Samira on the other end as possible. “Thank you,” he says, reaching for the beer and taking a pull, hoping to calm his nerves.
“Don’t mention it,” she says, flicking through the offerings on Netflix until she finds something she likes. Jack isn’t even sure what it is, he’s so focused on thinking about anything other than the way the light of the TV screen shimmers against the outline of Samira’s slender neck, how he could lean in and feel the press of her pulse against his lips and–
He forces his hand into a fist, so tight that his fingernails are leaving little white crescents against his palms. Counts to ten. Lets out a deep breath. He’s just about over it when Samira pulls the blanket from behind them both, unfurling it and draping it across the couch, so they’re both underneath. Jesus Christ.
At some point he decides that being as tense as he is is probably just as bad as trying to avoid the thoughts he can’t keep at bay. He makes the conscious decision to relax his shoulders, to sink into the couch cushion instead of sitting up ramrod straight like they’d trained him in the army. His hand, which had been tucked into his folded arms, finds its way under the blanket. It brushes hers. She doesn’t move away, and neither does he. It’s hardly anything, he tells himself, she must not even feel it, the light pressure of the tips of their pinkies against each other.
But she does feel it, and it’s not nothing. She’d trained her eyes on the screen, not wanting to be caught looking at him, but it was killing her. Had he moved his hand on purpose? Or was he just trying to get comfortable? It was a decent-sized couch, but he was a big man, stocky, with broad arms that she can’t stop thinking about sinking her teeth into— God, she was pathetic. Pull it together, Mohan.
“Thanks for sitting through that,” She says as the credits of 13 Going on 30 start to roll.
“It’s an excellent film,” he shakes his head at the implication that he hadn’t wanted to watch it with her.
He should be getting up off the couch now. This is his cue to pack up and go home. But instead, he turns his head towards her.
“You didn’t come here because you thought I had excellent taste in films,” she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes from across the couch.
“No, I didn’t,” he agrees. “I came here to make sure you were okay,” he says, trying to make it real that that was the only reason. That was the only reason, at first. But her presence was intoxicating.
“I’m okay,” she promises, her eyes wide and trusting. She looks convincing.
“Good,” he says. He can’t take his eyes off of her. And he hates himself for it, because he should know better, he should be better.
But Samira clearly isn’t interested in better, because she shifts onto her knees to get to the other end of the couch, bracing a hand on his shoulder and bringing her lips to his, kissing him without an ounce of hesitancy.
Jack responds on instinct, bringing his hands to her waist to stabilize her and kissing her back. The feeling of her lips against his, her frame in his hands, makes his head rush. How many times had he thought about doing this? And how many times had he reminded himself why it was unfair?
“Samira,” he breathes against her lips. “Samira, I didn’t come here for this, either. Are you sure?” He asks. He’s a coward, and he knows it. He’s the attending, he should be the one to stop it. But he’s gotten a taste of her, and it’s enough to get him hooked. He’s addicted, and he’d only be able to stop if that was what she wanted.
“I’m sure,” she breathes out urgently, dragging her fingers through his curls, pulling him back in, and it’s all he needs to hear. He rededicates himself to her like a man who has found religion, worshipping her face and her neck and the edge of her collarbone where it’s revealed from her sweatshirt. He slips a hand under the hem of the faded gray crewneck, finding the warm expanse of her stomach and spreading his fingers out over her, wanting to touch as much of her as he can reach.
“My bed is down the hall,” she mutters, moving to get them both up and off the couch. He has half a mind to pick her up, but his prosthesis is killing him after a long shift and he doesn’t want to stumble with her in his arms. She must pick up on it, because she looks up at him once she’s settled against her sheets, propped up on her elbows.
“Jack,” she says, trying the word out. She’s never called him that before. “You can take it off,” she encourages him gently. “It has to be bothering you by now,” she empathizes.
“You’re not going to turn and run?” he asks.
“No,” she shakes her head. “And I’m not making a rash decision,” she assures him, somehow able to read his mind. The same skill that made her an excellent doctor; when she looked at people, she really saw them.
He quickly unlatches the prosthetic and sets it against the wall, close enough to the bed that he’ll be able to reach it when he needs it. He manages to settle himself over her on the bed; he wouldn’t be able to sustain this forever, but right now he just wanted to devour her, and so he does, kissing her hungrily and running a hand down her sternum and reaching for the knot at the waistband of her sweatpants until Samira nudges him onto his back and takes over, shimmying her pants off her legs and reaching for his t-shirt, casting it aside.
He’s still in his jeans, but he feels every bit of it when she positions herself over him and rocks her hips.
“Shit, Samira,” he grunts out, reaching for her hips to hold her there.
“Want you so bad,” she mutters, rocking again.
“You have me,” he promises. “Any way you want me, you have me,” he insists, knowing it’s been true for longer than she realized.
She lowers herself to him, scraping her teeth against his neck, scrambling to grasp his sculpted shoulders for purchase. Her hips move on their own, on instinct, without her express consent, and it’s driving Jack mad.
He places his hands back on her hips, shifts her so that she’s straddling his thigh. “I won’t last if you keep going like that,” he explains. “I want to make it good for you,” he whispers in her ear, nipping at the lobe to punctuate his sentence.
“Yeah,” she sighs, unable to form a more intelligent response as she rocks against his thigh. This was somehow even better, the angle just right to create a delicious sort of drag.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers, snaking his hand under her sweatshirt and reaching for her bra, palming her through it, eventually tugging at the hem to encourage her to take it off.
She complies, pulling it over her head and tossing it in the direction of her sweatpants, snaking her hands behind her to unhook her bra before subjecting it to the same fate as the rest of her clothes. He smirks as he watches her, shifting his thigh as she rocks against it to make her gasp.
“You like that?” He mutters, placing his fingers over her ribs, brushing his thumb over her breast teasingly.
“Yes, Jack,” she pants out, leaning into his chest, trying to work herself into a better angle.
“Good,” he breathes out into her ear, his hands roaming over the expanse of her bare back, tracing gentle patterns like he has all the time in the world to map her freckles and sensitive spots out, to chart a bold course and conquer every inch of her.
“I need more,” she hisses out impatiently, the sound still ringing sweetly in Jack’s ears.
“I don’t think you do,” he shakes his head with a devilish grin. “I think I’m gonna watch you come before I even touch you. You gonna make a mess all over me?” he whispers into the skin at the junction of her neck and shoulder. She feels his lips brush against her with each consonant.
The thought of coming undone for him like this sends a volt of electricity through her body, and she whimpers, her back arching as the energy passes through.
“That’s it,” he hums. “Good girl, keep going,” he says, encouraging her to continue to rock against his thigh.
She looks down at him, and realizes he’s serious. He’s going to make her work for it. And goddamn, she never found an occasion that she didn’t rise to.
She wraps an arm around his shoulders to hold herself upright as she practically snaps her hips against his thigh.
“You want it, don’t you?” He asks, and it’s almost teasing.
“Yeah,” she whines. “I want it,” she insists, wondering if she can get him to relent if she sounds pitiful enough.
“Then you’ll get it, Samira. You’re smart and strong and tough,” he tells her, running his hands up and down her sides tenderly.
“I want it,” she whimpers, and he lifts his thigh just enough to make her cry out.
“That feels good, doesn’t it?” He asks, talking her through it, tracing a finger down her spine and making her shiver. “It’s good to want. Am I making you feel good?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the word tumbles out of her, her brow furrowed as she works for it.
“Relax, Samira. Let it happen,” he whispers soothingly. He watches her settle into it, the tension leaving her forehead. “There she is. There’s my girl,” he cooes. “Go ahead,” he encourages her. “Come. Let me see. I want to watch.”
The gentle command tips her over, and she cries out, tucking her face into his neck as she works herself through it, her hips moving more erratically until they finally slow to a stop.
“I knew you could do it,” he says, peppering little kisses against her face as she comes down, shifting them both so she’s laying against the pillows. “How was it? You okay?” He whispers as he licks the salty sweat away from her collarbone.
“Uh huh,” she tells him, settling bonelessly into the mattress, almost unaware of how he’s hoisting himself back up over her.
“You think you’ve got another one in you?” He asks, kissing down her chest before he starts to mouth at her breasts.
“Oh!” She cries out, bringing a hand to the back of his head, curling her fingers into his hair. “Keep doing that, and I definitely could,” she jokes lightly.
“Happy to oblige,” he tells her, and he was. He had worked her up so much on purpose, wanted to make sure she was ready for him and that she’d be comfortable. And for him, the foreplay was more than half the fun.
When he finally did sink into her, it was a blissful, full, perfect fit, like the last two pieces of a puzzle. It’s work, to make himself last after all that teasing, but he manages to get her to come again before he finds his own pleasure, completely spent once it’s through.
He topples over off of her once he’s finished; it took a lot of strength to hold himself up over her, but it was well worth it. They both take a few moments to catch their breath, their minds racing.
Shit, I just slept with an attending.
Fuck, I’m falling for the hospital’s best resident.
He’s in my apartment and I can’t remember the last time I cleaned the toothpaste out of the sink.
I’m in her apartment and she’s probably trying to figure out how to get me to leave.
He was never just an attending to me, was he?
She was never just a resident to me, was she?
A few minutes go by; the only sound in the room is their comingled breathing. Samira’s the first to realize how awkward it is. “Don’t feel obligated, but… you could stay,” she says, hating how unsure she sounds and feels.
“I could stay?” Jack repeats, turning towards her, propping his head up on his elbow, clearly skeptical of the way she’s phrased it. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks.
Samira thinks before she answers. She always does, it’s one of the things he admires about her. Sex was one thing… sleeping over was another. But hell, they’d already broken the rules, if there were any, really. “I do,” she tells him.
“Okay,” he says, treating her to a rare, crooked smile. “Then I’ll stay,” he says.