Chapter Text
"Can I come with you guys?" The words escape Samira Mohan's mouth in a rush, a split second decision activating her sympathetic nervous system for no discernible reason. She can write it off as exhaustion from another night shift, she decides, if they say no. But the way the two women stare at her - Trinity with barely concealed glee and Dr. Ellis with a curious appraisal - makes her think a 'no' isn't necessarily a concern.
Better to keep your expectations grounded, though. You never know.
"You wanna come with us to...a lesbian bar?" Trinity asks, nearly a whisper.
"Yeah, yes." Samira nods. "I'm not working Sunday."
Trinity takes a step forward, than another. Samira's attention is drawn away from the awed look on her face as Dr. Ellis scoffs, rolls her eyes at the dramatics.
"I knew it." Trinity's hands come up, cup Samira's face gently. Speaks so reverently. "I knew you were one of us."
Samira knocks her hands away, glances between the two of them helplessly. "If you don't want me to come -"
"I'll text you the details, Samira." Dr. Ellis interjects smoothly, yanking Trinity back by the handle of her bag with one hand as she holds out the other expectantly. She makes grabby hands when Samira doesn't immediately move. "I'll give you my number."
And how it's taken so long for this exchange to happen, she's not entirely sure; they've been scheduled for nights together, and Samira's no stranger to working the double. But as she cradles her phone back in her fingers, as she saves Dr. Ellis - Parker it says, written clearly, right there - into her contacts, Samira feels warmth in her chest. Another number saved. Another relationship formed.
See, she can be good at this.
The warmth dissipates as soon as she steps into the bar on Saturday night, overcome with a chilling anxiety that there is a glowing neon sign above her head indicating the honest truth: Samira Mohan, you do not belong here.
It's crowded and Samira is startled by the people she has to fight through to get to the back: beautiful people, eclectic people, queer people. Samira's never been to a lesbian bar before; not because the space didn't entice her, but because she didn't really...go out.
You need to know when to turn it off.
Dr. Ellis' voice echos in her mind, alongside a flash of Dr. McKay's face when she had looked at Samira with such sympathy, with such pity. Samira still didn't believe her goals were laughable or unattainable, still didn't fully believe she was missing out on much by pushing dating and relationships to the wayside until after she made attending.
But, well.
Sitting on that bench after PittFest, commiserating with her coworkers after a shift from hell - she wouldn't lie and say it didn't make the come-down a little easier.
Baby steps. She could do that.
Finally, she spots Trinity and her shoulders drop. Trinity's hair is down, straight and shiny in the tea lights strung up around the bar. She's put some makeup on, from what Samira can ascertain, and her outfit is exactly what she expected from the woman as soon as she had an opportunity to shed the scrubs.
Samira smiles and when her eyes slide to the left, the smile freezes on her face, painted on.
Dr. Ellis leans easily against the edge of their small table. She's got a pair of tan carpenter pants on, a loose button-down open enough to show off the richness of her collarbone, of the gold chain that stands stark against her skin. Her arms are bare and Samira's mind goes a hazy sort of blank as she takes in the sleeve on her left arm. She can't make out any of the tattoos in earnest, but their simple presence makes her swallow, harshly. Her hair is still tied back, but in a loose ponytail at the base of her neck rather than in her work bun. The effect is -
It's something. Samira shakes her head.
"Samira!" Dr. Ellis calls out as soon as she spots her, pulling her in for a quick hug that Samira does not expect and she tries to give as little thought to as possible. Trinity's grabbing at her arms when she's free.
"You came, you came!" The genuine excitement of the two women shocks Samira. She assumed when she got the text from Dr. Ellis - a time and location, that's it - it was a perfunctory invitation. But now, it -
It sort of feels like they've been waiting for her.
"We were waiting for you to get another round. It's Trinity's turn - whatta want?" Dr. Ellis rests her forearms on the table again and Samira keeps her eyes up, on her face, very purposefully. Very intentionally. The confirmation makes her head spin.
"Uh, I -" Samira almost says she doesn't know what she likes and that's too embarrassing a sentiment to admit. So she goes with the first drink she can think of. "A gin and tonic?"
Trinity doesn't hide her disdain and Dr. Ellis takes a long drink of her beer.
"Ugh, whatever. Another of yours, Parker?" Dr. Ellis nods and before Samira can blink, she is alone at the table with the other resident.
Samira takes the time to dump her bag and jacket onto the other chair already commandeered by the other doctors. She had stood in front of her closet for far too long, lamenting her monochrome wardrobe, her inability to uncover anything that wasn't plain casual or business professional for conferences. Had landed on jeans and the softest tank top she had; felt a bit silly next to the style of Trinity and Dr. Ellis.
"You nervous?" Dr. Ellis' voice jerks her from her musings, that signature smirk working its way onto her face. Samira swallows at the way it tugs the corner of her lips up, the way her perfect, white teeth gleam in the dim lights.
"No." Samira says, sitting up straight. "Why would I be nervous?"
Dr. Ellis gestures around to the people, the music, the vibe around them. One eyebrow arches.
Samira frowns. "I'm not new to being queer, Dr. Ellis."
And it's the truth. Samira had known she was bisexual since college, after the disintegration of a close friendship with a woman she had realized she had wanted to be with not be like. There was some spiraling, sure, but once Samira had kissed another woman for the first time - drunk, at a classmate's party that she had only agreed to go to because she'd finished all her finals early - she'd felt relatively settled about the whole thing.
For the time being.
So no, Samira is not nervous. Not in the way that Dr. Ellis thinks, at least.
"Please don't call me Dr. Ellis when we're at a bar, Samira." She clutches at her chest and that drags a slight smile to Samira's lips.
"No, I'm not nervous. Parker." Samira says carefully and she only gets a quick glimpse of the way Dr. Ellis' - Parker's - eyes widen incrementally before there is a drink placed in front of her and Trinity is demanding they cheers.
Here's what Samira remembers after that:
At some point, to Samira's surprise - but not, apparently to Parker's - Dr. Garcia appears suddenly at her side and it is the last time she sees her or Trinity for the rest of the night. When Samira tries to ask a single question about the situation, Parker shakes her head mournfully and mimes zipping her lips.
At some point, Samira hears herself saying the words, "I've kissed women before. I've just never had sex with another woman and virginity is a complete social construct, of course, but still, I feel like they'd know, you know? They'd know that I - that I don't know what I'm doing, or that -"
At some point, a group comes over to chat the two of them up and Samira feels a twisting in her gut as Parker's intense focus shifts elsewhere. But Samira is kind and the whole point of this endeavor was to shut her brain off, right? So she listens, and she laughs, and she lets a woman - a beautiful woman, Samira thinks - touch her bare arm with gentle caresses.
At some point, a hand encircles her wrist and she is dragged onto a dance floor and Samira does not dance except there's a lot of gin in her system presently. So she lets her body go pliant, lets her fingers intertwine with another's, rests her hips into the curve of the woman behind her. Likes the way she grasps her waist and moves them together, likes the way she can feel lips at her throat, likes the gleam of perfect white teeth in her periphery.
At some point, Samira feels an impatience start in her core, work its way up her stomach, her chest, her lungs, her throat.
You need to know when to turn it off.
At some point, Samira turns around, wraps a hand around her neck, and tugs her down. She can feel breath hot on her lips, can smell a woodsy men's deodorant, can feel the tightening of fingers at her skin. But there's a lingering at Samira's consciousness, a hesitation that not even the gin can fully disintegrate. Samira waits because she cannot make the decision on her own.
Lips, on hers. Lips, soft and insistent and Samira breathes out through her nose in one, strong huff.
At some point, Samira is kissing and kissing and kissing. At some point, Samira is licking into her mouth. At some point, Samira is being led back to the tabletop where her bag hopefully still rests. At some point, Samira is being hoisted - hoisted - onto a stool, her legs wide to accommodate for the body between. At some point, there is a hand in Samira's curls and her own are at a compact stomach. At some point, Samira's brain shuts off completely and all Samira does is feel, feel, feel.
At some point, she is being helped into an Uber - and this part she remembers vividly because she had rolled down the window and felt the air hit her face, sobering her up slightly. She hears the low rumblings of a radio, feels a hand gripping her thigh.
At some point, she hears a familiar voice saying, "I'll give you 25 bucks cash plus whatever the app wants if you wait here for me to come back down. Ten minutes, tops. Just need to make sure she doesn't puke."
At some point, Samira is staggering up her third floor walk-up, giggling and shushing, hands on her waist, on her back, and Samira feels giddy and alive.
At some point, Samira is unlocking her apartment door while she says, "I bet you could teach me." Samira is being given a glass of water, made to drink, while she says, "I bet it would be just like when we work together." Samira is stripping herself of her jeans - hears a cough behind her - and then there are blankets around her, while she mumbles, "Fuck, I want it to be you, Parker."
And then Samira remembers nothing after that.
Samira Mohan is throwing up. Samira is on her knees, puking from a hangover for the first time since she was in college. If anyone were to see her right now, they'd shake their head in pity. However, when Samira rests her head against her hand on the edge of the toilet, she's wearing a crazed smile.
She went out, with maybe-now-friends, and got really fucking drunk.
Baby steps, her ass.
It isn't until an hour or so later, when Samira remembers to plug in her long-dead phone, that the manic energy leaves her body in one, stomach-twisting swoop. Samira sees one text from Trinity, a slew of emojis that she doesn't even attempt to decipher. And Samira sees three texts from one Parker Ellis.
if you were serious about your proposition last night, text me
if you don't remember, consider it a moot point and we'll chalk it up to drunken exhaustion
your call
Samira stares at her phone for a minute longer before returning to her position in the bathroom, knuckles white as she empties her stomach and seriously considers every decision in her short life that led to this moment.
Samira Mohan does not avoid. She gives herself time to process. They are different things.
In fact, Samira gives herself exactly ten hours to pace her apartment, to eat greasy food and nurse her throbbing headache, to shower and rinse off the sweat, the alcohol, the memories -
Not all the memories. That’s the rub.
Samira knows - on the most intellectual of levels - that the next chain of events should go as follows: she should text Trinity and make sure she got home safe. And then she should text Dr. El- Parker - and say that no, unfortunately, she did not remember much from last night and she hopes she didn’t do anything too stupid and she’ll see her at work in a week or so when they’re on the same rotation!!!
(The three exclamation marks are necessary.)
Except.
Except, Samira sits down to eat her bacon, egg, and cheese and she remembers, in a flash, the feeling of Parker Ellis between her legs on that bar stool. Samira rests her forehead against the shower wall as the water beats against her side and remembers the heat of Parker Ellis behind her as they swayed on the dance floor, a rhythm so in sync she couldn’t dream of making it up. Samira sits cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her laptop for something mindless to put on, and remembers the weight of Parker Ellis’ hand on her thigh in the car ride home.
Remembers lips and mouths and fingers and strength and -
Samira knows - on the most intellectual of levels - what should come next. And yet, when Samira finally opens her phone and she rereads Parker Ellis’ messages for the twelvth time that evening, what she types instead is,
When can we talk?
You need to know when to turn it off.
Samira was never very good at doing things half-assed.
Their schedules don’t link up until a week later and Samira grips at the edges of the counter, knee bouncing a staccato beat. The coffee in front of her - her second - isn’t helping much with that.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Samira hears behind her and pretends she doesn’t jump out of her skin as a hand lands on her shoulder, a weight she now knows intimately. (But that isn’t a fair assessment, is it? Because she’s felt Parker’s hands before - over a patient’s body, fingers moving so skillfully and flawlessly together, you’d think they’d been doing it for years. She already knew their weight, their strength, their expertise. The context, though. That’s what’s different.)
“Oh, you’re fine!” Samira says, trying for light. Thinks she lands far from it, from Parker’s expression. The woman sits down next to her, still wearing her scrubs and that sends a pang through Samira, that she made time for this even after a night shift. Something shifts, and Samira takes a deep breath.
Parker eyes her as she orders a decaf coffee for herself, smirk flitting but with a wary undercurrent. “Nervous?”
The familiarity of it sends a shiver down Samira’s spine.
“No.” She says, all false bravado, and Parker’s smile turns real before falling into neutrality.
“So you texted me and we set up a time to meet, which either means you want to talk about last Saturday. Or you want to make sure we never talk about last Saturday again.” Parker states, hands cupping the hot mug. “Whatta thinkin’, Mohan?”
And it’s impressive, really, how direct Parker can be. She has such an ease to her; it's something Samira has admired since the first time they worked night shift together. Parker exudes a confidence, not only in her professional skills but it's as if she feels comfortable in her own skin, at all times. She radiates a deep, unshakeable knowing about herself that Samira can see, can feel, palpable.
Samira's not jealous. She just wants to taste what that feels like, to really know yourself - in its totality.
“I don’t like not knowing things.” Spills from Samira’s mouth and she wants to sigh as all of her carefully prepared speech flies right out the window.
Parker’s brow furrows. “Ok…ay?”
“I’m pretty sure I told you this, from what I can remember.” Samira winces a little. “That I’m not…experienced, when it comes to women. So that’s, I think - well, that’s probably why I - I threw myself. At you.”
God, this is painful.
Parker cocks her head, her mouth does a funny thing. “Ouch. Can’t say it’s not the first time I was someone’s experiment, but it doesn't -”
“Wait, no.” Samira interjects, hand coming up and then promptly retracting when she realizes she’s not sure what she wanted to do. Reassure, of course, but she second-guesses herself. Samira hates second-guessing herself. “It wasn’t an experimental thing.”
“I was kidding, Samira.” She says, except Samira’s not so sure.
“But it wasn’t.” Steadfast, adamant. “I wanted to -” Samira cuts herself off, tries to ignore the way Parker leans in, eager and curious, by taking another sip of her coffee. It’s not helping the jitters.
Parker decides to shift gears, brings one foot up to rest on her knee. “You said you don’t like not knowing things. How are you supposed to know something - sex with a woman, since that’s clearly what’s got you in a tizzy - if you’ve never done it before?”
Samira looks around furtively, lowers her voice. “How am I supposed to have sex with a woman if I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“That’s not - what, you think you need to be an expert in fucking in order to fuck?”
“Will you -” Samira hisses and that makes Parker grin. “Not an expert. Just...better. And I’m not a prude, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Not what I was thinking at all.” There’s something in her tone that makes Samira squirm in her seat. Something in her tone and something in the way her eyes don’t leave Samira’s face. “The problem is, Mohan, you think sex is something to accomplish, something you can win at. That’s not how sex, not how relationships work.”
"You don't think romantic or, or interpersonal relationships don't require skills that you need to work on?" Samira pushes back.
"Aht, not what I said." The smirk returns. "But when you treat sex or a relationship like a scorecard, like a game to be won, what do you think is gonna happen?"
"I'm going to win." Samira says plainly and Parker laughs, loud, tipping her head back with it. It starts in her belly, shakes her whole body. Samira's own stomach clenches in response.
"You're funny." Ellis gives her an appraising look. "And you're kinda insane."
Samira's brows jerk up, mouth dropping open.
"You can't win at sex or relationships, Samira, because there's no objective assessment. Everyone is different, every relationship is unique, distinct. What works for one person won't work for someone else." Parkers says. "And relationships with women? That's a whole different ballgame."
"Why is that?" Samira asks, genuinely curious.
Parker’s mouth twitches up, eyes growing sharp. "So you really are curious, aren’t you?”
“Like I said, I like research. I like learning.” Samira says and in an instant she realizes she may actually be flirting, just as her words from the previous weekend ring in her mind,
I bet you could teach me.
Parker wets her bottom lip. “I’m sure you do.”
The two of them pause, and Samira doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. There’s a vibration happening under her skin, a thrumming starting in the core of her and emanating outward. She’s not sure what she’s doing, exactly, but Samira remembers one stark feeling from the previous Saturday: the feeling of being alive. She wants to harness that, in whatever way she can.
And she thinks Parker might be willing to help her.
“What are you looking for, exactly?” Parker asks, carefully. Her foot comes back down and she’s inadvertently bracketing Samira again, her knees outside of Samira’s own. Clocks the second Samira notices, eyes dropping down to her lips.
“A teacher.” Samira breathes out and wants to swallow the words back immediately until she sees the way Parker’s throat works over, the way her fingers twitch against the coffee mug at her side.
“A teacher.” Parker reiterates.
“I want to be good.” And what Samira means, is that she wants to be good at everything. What Samira means, is that she doesn’t want to feel anxious about another thing in her life. What Samira means, is that she took Parker’s advice to heart and seems to have found a way to turn her brain off. What Samira means, is that she likes feeling accomplished and this is simply another avenue of that.
But it comes out a little more choked than she intends and she hears the connotations. But she really, really can’t bring herself to feel too embarrassed when the words hit Parker like a slap to the face. When her lips part, when her nostrils flare, when her eyes twitch and narrow.
When Samira feels that pulsing aliveness, once more.
“Okay.” Parker says. “Alright.” Breathes in deeply, huffs out a sound of pure disbelief. “Didn’t think you’d be the dangerous type, Samira Mohan.”
The grin fights to emerge, dimple fights to make an appearance. Dangerous, she thinks. Never been a word used for her before.
Samira finds she doesn’t hate it. Not one bit.