Chapter Text
Samira
There were two universal truths Samira Mohan lived by: the Steelers sucked, and their fans sucked even more. The latter was on full display tonight on the T—a horde of fans bombarded the subway, decked in gold and black and reeking of stale beer and failure. Not that a bad game ever stopped them from being obnoxious. If anything, a 10-0 loss just spurred them on.
Samira clutched the black purse settled on her lap. Her matching dress felt too tight, her hair still too wet from her shower, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy with the broken arm from her shift. His eyes were so sad and so tired.
As the doors to her car sighed open, more Steelers fans rushed their way in. Soon, they were all shoulder-to-shoulder with each other, laughing and shouting and lamenting the game. Samira was thankful she had been able to snag a seat before it got too busy, but now she found herself eye-level with dozens of sweaty asses. Great.
Samira checked her phone. There was no word from Andrew, her date, since this morning. After two months of chatting on Blindr, he finally asked her out for dinner. He seemed pretty perfect—he worked at a non-profit, he was a vegetarian (not that it was a deal-breaker), and he had a decent sense of humor. The only problem was…she had no idea what he looked like.
Samira’s phone buzzed with a text. Good luck tonight!!! It was from Perlah, the only work friend she confided in about the date. Though by now, Princess probably knew, too. And maybe Santos. And Whitaker. Fuck. The gossip train in the ER was quiet but effective. Samira chuckled to herself and shook her head. A girl goes on one date (in six months) and suddenly it’s front-page news.
A glimmer on Samira’s left caught her eye. A man wearing a silver Rolex and a fetching peacoat stood next to her, holding onto the railing along her seat. Her eyes traveled up his frame, and when she saw his face, she frowned. The man was about her age with chestnut hair and a strong jaw. He was smiling—no, smirking —at her with a look she had seen from men periodically since she was 12. Like she was a wounded gazelle on the plains in Africa. Like she was something to devour.
Samira looked away and shifted in her seat. She typed out a quick thank-you to Perlah and clutched her phone tightly. There were no shortage of creeps in Pittsburgh and she had grown accustomed to assuming the worst. Better to have her phone ready to call 911 than be sorry. Samira had seen too many young girls come through the ER because of entitled men to play it safe.
The man with the Rolex lurched closer to Samira as the subway swayed. He took his other hand from his coat pocket and inched it towards the front of his slacks. Samira kept her eyes forward. Her peripheral caught him grabbing his junk. The man made a low groan as he fondled himself. She looked up at him again, shocked, and he was still smirking, still staring at her like she was a piece of meat.
Samira’s heart raced. The man seemed a little tipsy. His actions were shrouded by the rowdy Steelers fans around them. The car was so packed, she couldn’t stand even if she tried.
The man pawed at himself faster. “You like that?” he murmured.
Samira shuddered. She looked over at the seat next to her, but the man was asleep. She started to dial 911, when the subway came to a squealing halt. The doors opened and a faction of the crowd disappeared to the platform outside. The Rolex man stopped touching himself, winked at Samira, and left.
Jack
Boy’s Night (Robby’s phrase) came once in a blue moon—that rare time when Jack had a night off and Robby was conscious enough to join him for a drink after his day shift. It was a small but sacred event, where “doc talk” (Jack’s phrase) was strictly verboten and Kentucky whiskey was the drink of choice.
Jack stood outside Emilio’s, a swanky-ish restaurant downtown, and texted Robby to let him know he was there. He wore a little gel in his salt-and-pepper hair and donned a white button-down with clean black slacks. It felt nice to be wearing something other than pajamas or scrubs.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck as he read the news on his phone. Most people were anxious reading about the tragedies of the world, but Jack found a strange sense of comfort in the chaos. No matter how bad it was in the ER, it was equally bad (if not worse) outside. What Jack didn’t like were surprises. Things he couldn’t control in the moment. Nightmares where he forgot how to heal.
Just as he was putting his phone away, someone bumped into him—his own fault for standing slo close to the doorway.
“Oh, I’m so sorry—“ the woman stopped and smiled.
Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. Samira.
“Hey,” she said to him.
“Hey.” He nearly shook his head, confounded at the coincidence. Jack and Robby had been coming to this place for years and they had never once seen Dr. Mohan. And now here she was. Smiling at him. Absolutely stunning in a tight black dress. An unbearably hot sweat broke out across Jack’s body. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
“No, my fault,” Samira said. “I was miles away.”
Jack studied her. She seemed distracted, like someone had insulted her mother for not answering a riddle fast enough. Jack itched to know what she was thinking. He was also dying to know—
“What’re you doing here?”
Samira’s smile waned. “Oh, uh…I have a date. Well, a blind date.”
The ground shifted and Jack felt his tongue swell. Of course she had a date. Beautiful women like her didn’t get dressed up just to hang around a bar. Well, maybe some did, but Samira’s life seemed to revolve around work almost as much as Jack’s. He always thought she was gorgeous—even covered in blood and bile and exhausted from a 15-hour shift—but seeing her now, dressed to kill for some other guy…Jack felt a flame of jealousy ignite in his chest.
“Oh,” he responded. “That’s…that’s great. You said it was a blind date?”
“Yeah,” Samira smiled and ducked her head in embarrassment. “Not something I’d usually do, but my friend convinced me to try this dating app a few months ago, and…” Samira looked away, her grin fading, then she shook her head. “Sorry, I’m just a little…There was this guy on the subway, and he was being a total creep.”
Jack took a step towards her, his eyes darkening. “Are you okay? Did he touch you?”
“No, he just—" Samira stopped and barked an unconvincing laugh. “Never mind. Just one of those things you have to get used to in the city. I’m totally fine.”
Jack cocked a brow. She most certainly was not totally fine. He had known her long enough to tell when she was truly shaken by something. And it took a lot to shake Dr. Mohan.
“Brother, are you a sight for sore eyes.”
Samira turned to the voice. Robby was walking towards them, hands in his fall coat with his glasses perched on top of his head like the dork he was.
“Hey, nice of you to dress up,” Jack teased. He knew Robby had gotten off his shift hours ago, but the man was still in a Pirates shirt and a worn pair of denims.
Robby stopped when he noticed Samira. “Hey. Dr. Mohan. Nice to see you outside the bowels of the Pitt.”
“Likewise,” Samira said.
“Are you joining us for Boy’s Night?” Robby asked.
Samira smirked at Jack. “‘Boy’s Night’?”
Dr. Abbot rolled his eyes. “Yes, we are 40-something frat dudes at heart.”
“Speak for yourself,” Robby mumbled, checking his phone.
“Samira’s here on a date,” Jack announced. He couldn’t hold in the dry bite to his tone.
Robby looked up from his phone, brows raised. “A date?” he goaded. “Anyone we know?”
Samira’s cheeks were beet-red. She gave Jack an irritated but playful look. “No, and I’ll thank you not to embarrass me when he gets here.”
“No promises,” Robby said.
“Y’know,” Jack sang, stuffing his hands in his coat, “we should probably hang around and introduce ourselves. Make sure this guy’s up to snuff.”
“‘Up to snuff’?” Robby murmured.
Samira put on an exaggerated smile and said, “Please don’t do that.”
“Alright, alright,” Robby said. “Let’s give Dr. Mohan her night back.” He started to walk past her towards the door. Jack head him whisper to her, “Seriously, if you need us, we’ll be at the bar.”
Samira pursed her lips and nodded as Robby headed inside. She looked up at Jack through her eyelashes, a question etched on her face that Jack couldn’t read. He swallowed, briefly considered pulling the restaurant’s fire alarm, but saner heads prevailed.
“Have a good night, Samira.”
She gave him a small smile. “Thanks. You, too.”
Jack opened the door for Samira. As she walked inside, he caught a whiff of her perfume—lavender and something earthy—and the world spun just a little faster.