Chapter Text
"Samira, you are a great doctor," Ellis speaks, her back to Mohan as she surveys the patient, passively herding the other woman out of the room. When she turns, headfirst to look back at Mohan, body following to face her fully, "But you need to know when to turn it off," Ellis continues, meeting Mohan's wide-eyed stare head-on, "Go home."
Mohan opens her mouth to argue, but Ellis' tone is firm, and she's moving down the hall before Samira can muster any argument.
So, Ellis is off, and no matter how much psychic stress Samira had put into asking Ellis where she needs her, she has a shift she’s only just settling into and far more important things to deal with than a characteristically keyed-up Samira. When Samira sees her talking to Mel, hears her saying that their measles patient is ready for an LP, she’s crossing over to them quickly, only just offering her help when that impatient but frustratingly well-meaning look crosses Ellis’ face again.
“We got this. Go,” she insists, sparing Samira half a glance for emphasis before following after Mel.
Samira watches her go, biting the inside of her cheek and shuddering through a purposeful inhale. Her shoulders slump, and then her neck follows, head ducked through the exhale. ‘What if I can’t?’ she imagines asking Ellis, ‘what if I don’t know how?’
Samira indulges, for one long moment, the way Ellis would let her face twitch into a slow smile, the way her gaze would rake over Samira and find every last ounce of truth in her words. She doesn’t know how to turn it off, she doesn’t know how to make her mind quiet, she doesn’t even know how to get her body to sink into the worn springs of her mattress without waking up with a crick in her neck or lower back. Ellis would see that Samira is not only unwilling to quieten her mind, but needs her hand forced at a chance of it.
Samira, fixing her gloves with determination, sure she’ll find another resident who does need her, tries not to consider Ellis realising it’s her who Samira envisions forcing her hand.
---
Samira gets home at eleven thirty.
She kicks her apartment door open, the swollen wood from years of use no longer giving way with ease and hangs up her coat in the dark. She toes her shoes off under the bench in the entryway and finally flicks on the lights. The mirror she hung beside the door catches her weary expression, but she dutifully keeps her eyes averted as she starts towards her bedroom at the end of the tiny hallway, dropping her bag on an armchair and ignoring the dishes in her sink as she passes the kitchen.
Her bathroom light is still on from this morning and so she’s happy to disregard any of her bedroom lamps, sure that if she stays enshroud in darkness for long enough, she might just never have to be seen again. She strips her clothes off till she’s just in her underwear, pins her hair up and away from her neck, curls knotted at the ends and matted by her nape from walking home in the wind, and knows she’ll suffer for it come morning. She crawls under the blankets on top of her duvet and turns her face into the pillow. She doesn’t cry, but her eyes, screwed shut, and mouth open against the cotton quickly turn it damp with her hot breath and salty tears. It only ceases when she passes out, the exhaustion drawing her under.
She wakes up exactly six hours later, the digital alarm on her nightstand rousing her as it has done almost every morning of the past year. There’s nothing romantic about her morning routine. She finally showers, brushes her teeth and moisturises while the condensation melts from the mirror. It’s only then that she looks at herself. She can’t help how she grinds her molars as she begins picking at the knots in her hair, smoothing them out with her fingers first before reaching for her brush. She doesn’t look great. Not well rested, or refreshed, like she should. There’s still a stubborn line on her cheek from the crease of her pillow, and her hair frizzes up as she brushes through it briskly. None of that matters, she reasons, her hair will be pinned up, and she’ll fix her face into a smile kind enough to distract from the tired circles under her eyes. She’ll get back to work, and nothing else will matter again.
---
By the time she gets through the strikingly sparse triage, only halfway to the staff changing rooms, she’s met with a frowning Dana stepping in her way.
“Whoa, what do you think you’re doing here, young lady?” Dana asks, hands on her hips and eyes mirthful, concealing a quiet annoyance.
Samira blinks at her, opens and shuts her mouth in confusion, “I- My shift,” she manages, face setting in a frown.
Dana matches her expression, cocking her head, suddenly unabashed in how she seems to be running a psych assessment. “You’re off shift. Shen is pulling a double for hours. I texted you,” she glances over Samira pointedly.
“I’d really rather—”
“I know you’d rather be at work, honey, but you haven’t had a day off in over three weeks. And you’ve gone into overtime already,” Dana interrupts before Samira can even begin to wonder how she missed the text in the first place. “It puts a red flag on you in the system, hon, my hands are tied,” she dusts her hands off with a slightly startling clap for effect.
Samira bites the inside of her cheek, her frustration mounting as she feels her cheeks heat with something akin to shame. How embarrassing.
“But I’m already here,” she reasons, but it's empty if the patient looks on Dana’s face is anything to go by. Dana gives her a clap on the shoulder, pushing her back towards the direction of the exit.
“Go,” she says, her hand giving Samira’s shoulder a pitiful squeeze before she lets go and makes herself scarce. She’s probably busy; handovers should be starting soon, but Samira feels a little like she’s been abandoned.
She shoots a glance around the E.D., stubbornly trying to identify where she might be needed despite knowing better than trying to override Dana’s wishes. When she finds less than nothing, other than Robby ducking in, she follows suit, figuring if she’s off shift, she really, really, has no intention of even meeting his eye.
She shows herself out through the ambulance bay, blissfully empty, though Samira can’t imagine for long and pulls out her phone to call an Uber. It’s a splurge. She takes the bus most days, carpooling occasionally with McKay, who miraculously lives in her postcode. Cassie is nice, and she never pushes Samira to talk. She’s happy to let her own mouth run, allowing Samira the bliss of staring out the window and picking at her nailbeds. But now that the adrenaline she expected from the work day has spoiled, she reckons the bone-tired ache in her bones, and the subsequent aloneness to follow once she reaches home are ample rationale to spend the 40 bucks. She crouches to sit on a lip of pavement round the corner, her knees tucked up close to her chest and her bag tucked by her side as she draws her phone close to her face, determined to ignore the WhatsApp notifications. Except it doesn’t turn on. She taps at the screen, knowing that her temper is bleeding into the way she fumbles with the power button.
“You’re gonna strain your eyes, Doc,”
Samira’s head snaps up; her eyes finding the sudden voice beside her and feels that red-hot shame return to her cheeks. She hadn’t even done anything this time.
“Dr. Ellis,” Samira says, lips pulling into an uneasy smile, feeling especially silly sitting on the curb as she stares up at the other woman. Ellis is changed into a pair of loose cargo pants and a deep purple tank stretching over her chest, the black straps of her sports bra sticking out, framing the muscles of her trapezoids.
“Samira,” Ellis says, slow and easy, giving Samira a look.
“Parker,” Samira mirrors, ducking her head briefly, feeling ridiculously caught out just at the sound of her name.
“Did you come in for a personal issue?” Parker asks instead, tilting her head as she shifts on her feet before she sits down beside Samira, propping her weight up on one hand half behind her. Samira does not watch her tricep shift and bulge, does not even register how her long fingers curl around the edge of the curb.
Samira thinks she’s imagining the tinge of worry in Parker’s voice, but the way her eyebrows draw together reminds her she’s weak and will read into anything.
“No, I didn’t get Dana’s text about not having to come in,” Samira answers, her phone, off, still clutched in one hand. She glances down at it, then back at Parker. “I was just going to get an Uber,” she adds, waving the phone around a bit, feeling her stomach coil tight.
It’s absurd. Samira realises. She doesn’t have a handle on a single thing. She’s disappointed, more drained by being sent away from work than she’s ever been known to feel after a shift. She feels pitied, first by Dana’s herding, and now by Parker looking over her in a frustratingly clinical manner, unbefitting of two doctors decidedly not working. Her heart has been in her throat since she started at the Pitt, and no amount of swallowing has eased it.
“I’ve never heard of you missing a text from the boss.”
Parker might have been hired for her secret x-ray vision, Samira thinks, not sure how else to make sense of the way the other woman’s voice softens, extending the most tentative olive branches as she leans her shoulder into Samira’s for a beat.
“I forgot to put my phone on charge last night, apparently,” Samira says with a frown, glancing down at her phone and giving it another measly couple taps. “I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before,” she says as if she’s in confession.
Parker laughs. Samira’s heart swells up till it sits in her oesophagus.
“Come on,” she says, already pushing herself to stand with a grunt, before holding out an open palm to Samira. There’s a ring on her index finger, a simple silver band, and Samira likes to think it glitters in the rays of the sun that spill over the bay. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Samira shakes her head immediately, auto-cue kicking in, I don’t want to be a nuisance, that’s okay, I’ll take the bus—
“Samira,” Parker interrupts, kind of lilting her name as her fingers flex and curl. Samira’s mouth runs dry, and she takes Parker’s hand, mostly for fear of collapsing the moment she tries to stand.
She does not. Collapse, that is. She gets to her feet, only wobbling a little, dutifully letting go of Parker’s hand and hauling her bag over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” she settles for, knowing more than one syllable will get her sent to H.R.
Once they’re rounding the ambulance bay to the staff parking, Samira reminds herself of her manners.
“How was your shift?” she asks, hurrying her steps to put herself at Parker’s side.
A smile twitches at the corner of Parker’s lips. Samira only sees it from her periphery, but she suddenly thinks that collapsing isn’t all so impossible after all. “You’re baiting me,” Parker muses, then Samira hears the chime of the car unlocking, her eyes skittering till they find a dark brown Chevy K10. Samira, shameful as it is, salivates a little. Suddenly imagining off-roading, doing some cross-country road trip, napping in the cargo bed and pressing her face into the side of Parker’s neck—
“What?” Samira asks, head turning slowly towards Parker, where they’ve come to a standstill, feeling oddly like she should be reaching for her holster or something.
“You’re baiting me into talking about my shift so you can get the second-hand hit of the chaos,” Parker elaborates easily, already sidling up to the passenger door and pulling it open, nodding her head at it in a way that reminds Samira that she’s totally staring at the column of Parker’s throat. “And I don’t indulge addicts. Let’s go,”
Samira feels a bit woozy. She stumbles into the seat, climbing into the truck by boosting herself on the running board. Parker seems to hover behind her, her hand never quite touching Samira’s lower back, but it’s a close enough thing to force Samira to squeeze her eyes shut and take five deep breaths as the door shuts and Parker rounds the bonnet.
Parker drops her phone into Samira’s lap, then busies herself with putting her seatbelt on and sliding the keys into the ignition. “Put your place in,” she says, but Samira is already busy, always knowing when something is expected of her. Parker smiles, and Samira doesn’t turn her head to look like she wants to, because only half knowing allows her to complete the picture herself, pretend Parker is proud, in some ridiculous way, of Samira for knowing what to do without being told, for being good.
When Samira slides the phone into the mount on the dashboard, she catches a glimpse of the way Parker’s knees are spread, her feet smooth on the ignition and clutch as she pulls out of the parking spot, thighs flexing as she shifts in the seat to get a better look in the mirror. Samira swallows again and again, willing the desperation pooling in her mouth away.
What she’d do to slide into Parker’s lap. To use the plush and muscle of her thigh as a pillow. To watch Parker’s face from below, as she’d done on the curb and to hide in the crook of her hip when she’d, undoubtedly, bring heat to Samira’s cheeks.
“There’s a power bank in the glove compartment,” Parker’s voice interrupts Samira’s fantasies, but the warmth in her core is far from subsiding.
Samira shakes her head, shoulders slumping as she forces her gaze ahead, settling into the seat with a sigh.
“It’ll only be my mother bombarding me with messages. I think I’ll go a little longer living in peace,” Samira laments, fingers twisting in her lap as they peel out into the traffic.
“That’s the spirit,” Parker says, only one hand on the wheel now (maybe Samira is peeking), elbow on her thigh and hand lazily guiding the wheel like she’s whipped it into shape, trained it to always know how to follow her.
Samira sighs again, feeling suddenly like she’s never getting enough air into her lungs. But rather than curdling anxiety clawing at her windpipes, it’s a little greedy, like if she breathed in enough of the alpine air freshener and Parker’s body wash, she’d be cured. Of what, brilliant as she is, she has no clue.
“I know you’re bummed about not being at work, Samira, but if anyone deserves it it’s you,” Parker adds breezily as she’s checking her mirrors, like the words aren’t pulled right from one of Samira’s post-shower fantasies.
You did good, Samira. You did, baby, so good. And you deserve this
Imagining Parker mouthing shamefully pretty words into Samira’s skin is one thing when her blinds are drawn and all the lights in the apartment are off. It’s another at 7:30, practically soaking through her underwear into Parker’s upholstered seats. Samira wonders if she did it herself. Applied the leather treatment, her hands glazed with the oil and fingers diligently rubbing into the creases.
Samira’s head falls against the window with a thunk, her subconscious kicking in and activating the closest thing to a contingency.
“Whoa, easy,” Parker says, voice drawn out, only half amused as she does a double take over at Samira. Her hand stretches across the gear stick and clasps over Samira’s knee, fingers fitting against her, her thumb pressed to a divot in Samira’s patella from a childhood injury, and all Samira can do is turn her head further into the window, grinding her browbone against the cool glass, inwardly begging for salvation.
“Samira,” Parker insists, voice taking a deliciously uneasy edge as her fingers squeeze Samira’s knee.
“Sorry,” Samira mumbles, but doesn’t turn, doesn’t open her eyes, and doesn’t lift her head, her breath hot against the window and cycling right back down her lungs.
“You’re good,” Parker says instead, because damn her, “Come on, stop that, you’re hurting yourself.”
It’s an order, like before, when she asked Samira to put her address in, but this time, clearly, Parker doesn’t trust her to listen. Samira has half a mind to chastise herself for it but then Parker’s hand, fingertips cool as they leave Samira’s knee, and instead wrap around her nape, thumb gently pressing behind her ear and slowly pulling Samira’s head from the window till it settles back against the headrest. Then her palm slides down the back of her neck, massaging the tightness where Samira’s shoulders slope. Samira exhales, long and shaky, feeling her jaw tremble as she watches Parker from the corner of her eye. Her fingers twist together again in her lap, trying to find something to say, to excuse her bad behaviour, to make some joke to ease the tension she can see in Parker’s jaw, but nothing comes out.
“You’re good,” Parker says again, still rubbing Samira’s neck. She turns her head, and her fingers tighten against Samira’s skin, forcing Samira to look at her. She doesn’t say anything, just gives Samira a meaningful look, which Samira is too glossy to decipher, taking a steadying breath in, which Samira instinctively mirrors. Parker smiles, and Samira, dazed and weary as she is, knows is one of pride. Then Parker slowly lets go of Samira’s neck to bring her hand back down to the gear stick. Samira suppresses a sound at that, biting hard enough on the flesh of her cheek to taste blood.
“I’m sorry, I’m just,” Samira shakes her head, voice a little hoarse as she tries to focus her eyes, the familiar sting a telltale sign she’s losing whatever little grip she had on herself rapidly.
“Samira, none of that,” Parker interrupts, fingers flexing as she turns the wheel. Samira has stopped pretending she isn’t watching. Parker tilts her head, sucks her teeth quietly like she’s thinking of saying more. Samira deliriously feels her mouth watering again, eagerly awaiting all the delicious words Parker could say, the way she could make Samira’s mind quiet. But nothing comes. Parker doesn’t even take another look at her before she’s taking the turn onto Samira’s street and silencing the satnav with her free hand.
Samira blanches, feeling ridiculous, her shame mounting to such delirious levels that the second the car is parked in front of her building, Samira is unbuckling her seatbelt with one hand while the other claws at the door handle.
“Thanks for the ride,” she rushes out, throat tight and head ducked to avoid Parker’s eyes. She’s nudging the door open with her foot and practically throwing herself out of the passenger seat, forgetting, of course, how high the truck, foot slipping past the running board, and with her hands occupying her bag and phone she realises she’s going to fall flat on her face out of Parker Ellis’ sexy truck and will have to resign if she ever gets put on nights again.
“Samira,” Parker’s voice rings out, and Samira doesn’t hit the ground. She’s got one leg hanging out of the cab, her hand, which she uselessly stuck out to catch herself, dropping her phone as her fingers reach for the door handle. She whimpers a little, embarrassingly, as she hears the phone clatter to the floor. Parker’s hand, tight around her elbow has loosened now that Samira isn’t halfway to horizontal. Her shoulders tighten up, her body hunching over as she feels the cry crawling up the back of her throat. It’s only when she lifts her head to look back at Parker, apology formulating on her tongue, when a warm hand settles on her wrist, peeling it away from the door handle.
“C’mere,” Parker murmurs quietly, having moved around the car amidst Samira’s ongoing breakdown. Parker brings Samira’s trembling, clammy hand to her own bare shoulder and Samira, feeling suddenly very fragile, curls her fingers around the fabric of Parker’s tank top and lets herself cling. Parker’s hands find either side of Samira’s waist, firm as they lift Samira out of the seat. Samira’s knees buckle a little as she finds her footing, but Parker is right there, holding Samira to her chest, arms sliding around her waist with an almost frustrating familiarity.
“There you go, I got you,” Parker’s voice comes out, slightly muffled where her cheek is pressed to the side of Samira’s head, her arms curling tighter around Samira’s waist, palms sliding up her back.
And Samira really, really cannot be blamed for how quickly she folds, her face tucked into the crook of Ellis’ neck and already letting out a stifled sob as her arms loop around the other woman’s neck. Her mouth opens and closes, tears wetting her lips as she tries to muster some feasible explanation for any of this.
“Shh, shh, Samira,” Parker beats her to it, one hand coming up to cradle Samira’s head, fingers, lithe and sure, threading through where her hair is pinned up. “Don’t worry about it. I said I got you, didn’t I?”
Samira lets out another sob, because what does that even mean? Samira wants to ask, but every thought is far too jumbled. How long? How much is Parker willing to take before it’s too much?
She doesn’t ask, and Parker doesn’t elaborate, just holds Samira close and rubs her scalp with her fingertips until her breath steadies. When Samira finds the courage to lift her head and sniffle, Parker pulls her own head back enough for their eyes to meet.
She seems to take a second, her brown eyes warm and eyebrows drawn together in concern. Samira only wants to smooth her thumb over the crease between them.
“I’m gonna walk you up,” Parker says, slowly but surely herding Samira away from the door and to the side. She bends over smoothly, retrieving Samira’s phone, unharmed from the fall, and then shoulders the bag still sitting at the foot of the passenger seat. The door is shut and the car locked before Parker’s free hand finds Samira’s nape again, a comforting weight against her flushed skin, steering the other woman towards the building’s entrance.
Samira kind of just … lets herself fall into it. She offers no rebuttal, even if it feels like she should. She doesn’t even shy from Parker’s grip, just relishes in what she’s allowed and unclips her keys from her jeans, passing them to Parker as they approach the door.
When Parker takes the keys, the hand on Samira’s nape gives a squeeze, lighting Samira up from the inside out, feeling like she did well. Parker ushers her to the elevator, and Samira, still eager to please and still not ready to speak, presses the button to her floor before tipping her head to the side, letting it rest against Parker’s shoulder for her next breath in. Parker’s hand slides down her spine, mapping every notch down to her tailbone, and she lays her head against Samira’s.
Samira desperately wants to know why Parker is doing this. Where its coming from, where it’s going. But more than anything, she doesn’t want to scare Parker off. She said she’s got Samira. And Samira, unwilling to let anything jeopardise that, wants to make Parker keep her forever.
When the doors open, Samira waits for Parker's hand on her back to give a little push before she turns towards her side of the hall. They walk till Samira stops by her door and Parker, smart and dutiful, gently crowds Samira against it, her hand on Samira’s hip as the other reaches past to unlock the door. It’s far from the pushy shoves she’s received by lovers in the past, always trying to enforce Samira’s acquiescence. No, Parker keeps Samira between herself and the door like she’s shielding her back, wants Samira inside first, like she’s promising to be ready to steady her if being home finally means falling apart.
Samira’s half tempted to force her legs to give out, just to feel Parker catch her.
They shuffle inside, and Samira wants to begin her routine, but feels awkward suddenly, in no state to be a doting host, but entirely unsure of what’s supposed to happen now.
Luckily, apparently, Ellis knows. She always knows.
“Come, sit,” she mumbles softly, steering Samira to sit on the little Ikea bench in the entryway that Samira got off Facebook Marketplace. It creaks a little under Samira’s weight, but she hardly notices, eyes wide and still a little wet as she watches Parker sink to her knees, lifting one of Samira’s feet onto her thigh. She deftly unties the laces and slips the shoe off, before doing the same with the other. Samira can only watch. Parker’s hands are broad and her fingers long, thumbs giving her ankles satisfying little rubs before her socked feet settle back onto the carpet. Parker sits up enough to peel Samira’s coat off, a small smile on her lips as she and Samira meet eyes, Samira’s cheeks flushing warm.
Then Parker sits back on her haunches, her hands lightly curled around the back of Samira’s ankles, as if to keep her in place. Samira has nowhere she’d want to go anyway.
“You need rest,” Parker murmurs eventually, eyes flickering between Samira’s, as if cataloguing every inch of her tear-tracked face. “Are you hungry?”
Samira frowns a little at the unexpected question. “I’m okay,” she mumbles, glancing down at her hands.
Parker shakes her head, drawing a little closer as her hands squeeze around Samira’s ankles, able to wrap around them completely, and palms warm through her socks. All of it is enough to make Samira dizzy.
“I ate before my shift,” Samira elaborates, meeting Parker’s eyes as she forces her hands still in her lap.
“Good,” Parker smiles, easy. Her shoulders relax a little. “If I take you to bed, you think you’ll be able to fall asleep?”
Samira bites the inside of her cheek, eyes growing a little shiny again at the prospect of returning to her lonely bed. It’s so devastating that she has to ask now.
“Will you stay with me?” She whispers, the little crack in her voice not nearly as embarrassing as the way she feels her bottom lip tremble.
Parker seems momentarily genuinely taken aback. Samira is unsure if it’s the question or the wet, needy look which accompanies it. Samira is close to begging.
“Course, ‘mira. Let’s go.”
Parker is standing and toeing her shoes off before offering Samira a hand up, and it's all so easy, Samira feels turned inside out. She feels emboldened, finally, instead of embarrassed, but still a little wobbly-kneed at getting what she wants without having to be put on her knees first.
Parker's eyes turn over her room with the same reverence as she’d given Samira’s face, and the younger woman buzzes a little, watching Parker’s profile. “It’s a mess,” Samira mumbles under her breath, the bed unmade from the morning. Parker only shakes her head, turning to face Samira, her hand coming up to lightly graze Samira’s back, before her finger tugs lightly on a loose curl.
“Want to change in private?”
It’s a reasonable offer, but Samira’s eyes widen, eyelashes still wet with tears and she shakes her head firmly. She takes a half step closer and reaches for Parker’s other hand, pressing it, a little clumsily, against her belly.
Samira’s lip wobbles again, mouth forming around a broken ‘please’ which is cut off by Parker’s hand smoothing over her belly, thumb sliding up under the fabric of her shirt.
“Whatever you want, Samira,” Parker says, seemingly a little breathless in a way that makes Samira’s stomach clench. Both Parker’s hands settle on her waist, turning Samira towards her before slowly peeling her shirt off. She tosses it onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed before letting her eyes drop to Samira’s body, the plain, pragmatic black bra hugging her chest, straps digging in a little over her shoulders. Parker sighs softly, and Samira shudders, spine straightening a little. Parker’s hand rubs down over the soft curve of her stomach before her fingers make work of the button of Samira’s jeans. Samira’s hands hold onto the other woman’s shoulders without any preamble, shifting on her feet as Parker pushes the denim down and helps Samira kick it aside. Her panties are black cotton boyshorts, and Parker smiles at the little button sewn to the waistband. Her thumb smooths over it as her eyes flicker up to meet Samira’s watchful gaze.
“Cute,” she murmurs, purposefully a little teasing and Samira revels in the attention.
Samira shifts on her feet, rolling her eyes, only to stop herself from crying again, happy tears or not. Instead, she hooks her finger under the strap of Parker’s tank and tugs.
“Yes, ma’am,’ Parker chides, and Samira swears she doesn’t miss her hands half as much as she wants to see more of Parker's bare skin. Parker slips her top off over her head, and Samira is unabashed as she ogles the curve of the other woman’s abdomen, the soft pouch of her belly, the fine, dark hairs trailing from her belly button down to the hem of her boxer briefs, which, oh, there go her pants, kicked aside with Samira’s. Her thighs are better than Samira imagined, thick and strong, and Samira has half a mind to drop to her knees and bite into one.
“Bed?’’ Parker asks, interrupting Samira’s little daydream. The word alone, and the inviting stretch of abdomen and chest, render Samira speechless again. She nods, happy to be led.