Chapter Text
The first time an e-vite popped up, he dismissed it the way he ignored half of admin’s policy memos - another number in the ever growing red notification bubble that he wished could be as easily resolved as draining a subungual hematoma. As satisfyingly.
Unfortunately Gloria’s press crusade put a swift end to his willful ignorance. Every Tuesday when her chipper little PR consultant popped up to corner him at the end of his shift and discuss new publicity opportunities Abbot cursed Robby’s mood on PittFest day; that their world shattered deep into an already challenging shift; that he’d been working the day he swore he wouldn’t to begin with. Another day, another Robby and maybe the chief would respond to journalists with something other than thousand yard stares and a tic in the corner of his mouth. Another Robby and Abbot wouldn’t have been relieved those were the only responses.
The MCI response was a team effort, but Gloria wanted a face for the Pitt’s triumph. Robby wouldn’t be it - was smart enough to leverage their work for base departmental benefits, but wouldn’t go further. And so here was Abbot, the ER Primary of the MCI, painted as the charismatic veteran amputee who could transform a crowded ER staffed with first-day trainees into a world-class MASH unit on the turn of a dime. The narrative grated on him. Losing the freedom of his night shifts and a handpicked team grated more - Gloria’s threat could barely be described as thinly veiled - and so he grunted along to a to-do list and gave the endless interviews his six or seventh best shot. Which seemed to keep the people upstairs happy enough.
He couldn’t really fault Robby. Robby got the paperwork, led the after action report, was the first in line for any lawsuits, stressed about the police reports in a way that Abbot didn’t - just another conversation with his brothers after another terrible day. Robby spent his days off - Abbot hoped, anyway - finally giving therapy a fighting chance, rebuilding his relationship with Jake, healing a friendship with Collins before she would leave to chart her own path as an attending. A path, she had been clear, that was not in Pittsburgh. Abbot spent his time off staring at an occasionally functional police scanner he’d been repairing and wondering if the work-from-home crowd clogging his once quiet grocery store and gym hours actually did anything at all. He could keep some pressure off the man who had helped him through more than one crisis.
This, however. This seemed a bridge too far.
“Let me get this straight. A month after the deadliest mass casualty we’ve seen here - a month when a half dozen of our nurses haven’t come back, when my doctors are still having nightmares, when admin hasn’t even approved the restock orders to get our supplies back up for the next one, and the next one will come-“ Jack took a breath. “Instead of drinking bourbon from the bottle, or working to save the people I can save, you want me to put on a money suit and celebrate with a damn plaque.”
“It will be a very moving moment,” assured the man in front of him, dripping in the same faux sincerity as always.
“A moving moment with canapés.”
“Probably hors d’oeuvres.” The PR lackey blinked back at him as the elevens on Jack’s forehead grew deeper. “Canapés are just the ones with crackers.”
“And to think they don’t teach that in med school.”
“Look, people care about the work you’ve done here. Foundations care. The immediate support was nice but we need legacy. You want to fund fellowships, building repairs, FTEs - you need the big fish, and you need them on the hook for a long time. These board members, these donors,” he jabbed at the tablet eternally tucked into the crook of his elbow, where a gala invite flashed on screen, “they’re the big fish.”
Jack leaned against the charge desk. “And what percentage of that will trickle down to actually making a difference down here? After what, 50% overhead these days? Emergency allocations to whatever new pet project-“
“This is the pet project.” The consultant paused, and Abbot almost saw something human creep into his face. “What you did here was generational. The people you saved. How you gave hope. How you came back the next morning and kept treating people. It deserves to have a generational impact on your funding.”
Abbot wondered what it would be like, for admin to look out to Chairs and see people and not dozens of little funding leaks; maybe a few streams on a lucky day. But he also looks around and wonders what it would be like to regain full staffing levels. To have another CT. To have proper HVAC in this damn basement, with a functional HEPA system. As his eyes land on Samira Mohan clocking in, to fund more fellowships. To fund more doctors like her, doctors who would make a difference. Being trotted out for money for a failing hospital system feels a little too close to honorable discharge; to becoming a voice for the military after he’d seen the ugly tracks in the desert and their mirror in homeless vets on the Pittsburgh streets and in his ER. And yet, beneath all the cynicism and sarcasm, he was an eternal optimist. Maybe they could change something.
“You’re lucky I’m free.” It’s an overstatement. Admin approves his schedule, and all he does is work.
“Good. You’ll be the guest of honor. Bring a date. Your short speeches are good, attention grabbing. I can reserve a tux for you.”
Jack pushed back up off the desk. “I have my own tux.”
Thursday. Rest day. Restless day.
Jack’s eyes kept gravitating to the police scanner, but he stayed focused. There was a new routine in these last weeks - leave the Butterfly ultrasound in Dr. Mohan’s locker for the street medicine team. Get a few hours of sleep; whatever pitiful number his body and mind could agree on. Go meet the street medicine team around 4; reclaim his ultrasound and drive Dr. Mohan home, if she let him.
She always let him. Had finally started tapering down on the hemming and hawing even, as the weather grew crisper.
He’d nearly gifted her - in the form of a gift to the street medicine team, he wasn’t far gone enough to link a $4,000 paper trail to a resident gift - a Butterfly of her own, but the excuse to see her, to spend a few minutes every week with her outside of the hospital, was too good to give up.
“You did something,” she said, walking up to him leaning on the hood of his car. Big, brown eyes traced his skin. He opened the door for her before rounding back to the driver's seat. “You… got a haircut. And you shaved.”
“Not a fan?” He asked, turning over the engine as she continued to soak him in.
“I like the scruff. It’s very…” Mohan cleared her throat and snapped her eyes away. “Night shift.”
It clearly wasn’t what she had planned to say, but he didn’t push it. “We’re getting an award tonight - for handling PittFest. Not sure if they’re honoring heroism or desperation. It’s a gala. Black tie.”
“One month,” she whispered.
“Thirty days,” he echoed, drumming his fingers on the wheel and sneaking a glance at her. “How are you coping?”
“It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.” She rested her head against the window. “I’m glad today was an outreach day. It was good to be with people.”
He nodded. “Are you going to be with anyone tonight?”
“Ah, no, not tonight.” She picked at a fray on her sleeves, rolled up her forearms. “It was hot today, and busy. Hoping that’s enough to tire me out.”
He’s seen her work doubles, her steadfast energy. He knows what nightmares are like, how cunningly they sneak in. It won’t be enough to tire her out.
“Or you could come with me. I’m supposed to bring a date.”
Mohan looked dumbfounded. He waited for one of her quick recoveries.
“I-I don’t even know where to start with this one.” Great, on a day when she needed more support, he broke their smartest doctor. “Have you SEEN me?”
Jack’s eyes flicked back over to her, travelled appreciatively down her mussed, thick hair, her bold eyebrows, now scrunched with skepticism and concern; her nose, broader at the end with a slight upturn, her full lips, her defined jaw and long neck, where it met purple undershirt; glistening sweat disappearing under the neckline. Anyone in their right mind would be salivating over her in a dress.
He hadn’t thought about her wearing a dress.
His gaze shifted between the road and catching her impossibly deep brown eyes. “I have. I’m not sure I follow, Mohan.”
“I haven’t washed my hair in three days. I’ve been out treating people in the sun for hours with hardly any resources, I’m probably sunburnt and covered in gods know what. My nails are all cracked. I haven’t waxed in -“ her face flushed as who she was talking to caught up with her. “My legs. Haven’t waxed them in a while.”
We could go right now and you’d still be the loveliest person in the room, he thinks about saying. The nurses call him a flirt; Robby always shook his head at Jack’s need to get in the last joke. Why was it he could never figure out where the line was with Mohan? “You always look.. nice.” he finishes lamely instead. “We have three hours. Look, I get it if you don’t have anything to wear-”
“I have plenty to wear. Three hours is the problem. You know I can’t just rinse all this out and let it air dry?” she asked, hands unwinding her thick hair.
He doesn’t know. He wishes he knew.
“How do you not have a date for this, anyway? You’re…”
He glanced back at her, eyebrows raised, not sure where she is going with this but hopeful. “Going to finish presenting your diagnosis, Dr. Mohan?”
“Never mind. The cockiness explains it.”
He gave her a crooked grin, “I asked my sister, but she said she’d rather be my patient.” He turned serious. They were on her block now. “I may have downplayed it. Didn’t want to spend this charming anniversary with someone who didn’t go through it. And didn’t want to drag someone who went through it to this dog and pony show.” He glanced sideways at her. “You were the first person I thought of. We worked together almost the whole night. You deserve this honor even if the wrong people are giving it in the wrong way. But just because you can handle one jackass-“ he gestured at himself, “doesn’t mean you want to be in a room with 400 more.”
Those deep brown eyes on his again. Something in them he couldn’t discern, but would gladly get lost trying to.
“I’ll come. Next time ask me earlier.”
His heart jumped at her agreement, and at her ‘next time.’
“Good. I need to run an errand but I brought my tux with me, I can come inside and -“
“Absolutely not. Pick me up as late as you can.” She flicked down the sun visor as they pulled to a stop and began studying herself in the mirror. His grin widened. He’d never seen her have a moment of vanity, thought he was alone in it. “Scratch that, I’ll get an Uber. I need 15 extra minutes.”
“I’ll pay for it.” He pulled out his phone, scheduled an Uber Black as if this was something he did. As if the last Uber he ordered wasn’t also for her, when a torrential downpour came to wash away the detritus of Pittfest and the resulting flooding kept him past shift. He’d had to tell her that it was for him, his car was in the shop but he couldn’t duck out like he thought he could and would get hit by a cancellation fee unless someone got in and changed the address to convince her to accept it.
“Text me the details,” she responded, laying her phone on top of his for a moment. “samira mohan” flashed on the screen as her contact card saved.
Abbot excused himself from a conversation with the effusive head of the Board and an event coordinator as a buzz in his pocket let him know Samira was near. Walking back out of the still sparse Pennsylvanian Grand Hall and into the rapidly filling rotunda, he nearly unconsciously clocked the exits and choke points while scanning for the drop off point -
And there she was. Framed through one of the arches, a spot of light. Someone, an usher or another guest, was helping her out of the car. She straightened and he hissed a breath in.
He hadn’t expected Mohan to wear a saree. All the tamped-down, overactive imaginings of the last three hours had not even come near the way she looked now, slicked back hair and dangling earrings highlighting her long neck, an elaborately beaded shear cloth obscuring the stretch of her midriff exposed between pleats and -
Down, boy. National anthem lyrics. It didn’t help. Jack tried to subtly adjust his pants as he strode to meet her. Aspiration, Bronchitis, Cardiac Tamponade… he alphabetically listed cases from last night’s shift.
Samira charmed the pants off of everyone. They charmed the pants off of everyone - she made it easy, pulling him in through an anecdote, setting him up for a punchline, slipping in a few of her own. She turned small talk into the same easy banter they shared with the Pitt Crew. The normal easy, flirty responses came to his lips, practically a rote response bypassing his short circuiting brain as he tried not to stare at her, made up like she was stepping out of the cover of a magazine. The centerfold came another unbidden thought. He redirected the flirting to an older woman on his left, the CEO of a cosmetics company with a nine figure annual gifting budget.
He had been briefed by the PR consultant on who mattered and guided her gently around the room from conversation to conversation through a light touch to her elbow, her back, her waist - somehow always brushing against skin, warm and tight and alive against his fingers.
Her saree was driving him crazy. He wondered why anyone wore anything else. He wondered how he could stay focused for even a moment longer.
Mohan listened. She connected. When attendees brought up friend’s kids, practically passing acquaintances lost at PittFest, she responded with compassion, echoed their grief; honored their loss. As if they weren’t hypocrites, weren’t surrounded by a different kind of live music, drinks in hand, here laughing and celebrating just weeks later, when the veil was still thin. A fucking show for more blood money.
She was good at this. He didn’t know why he was surprised. She connected easily with patients, with students and interns. She had doubtlessly been interviewing for fellowship, or at least preparing to. Free of the life-or-death decisions of the ER, her ease and confidence was radiant.
If Gloria could see this, she’d sink her claws in and never let go.
The event coordinator reappeared quietly, signaling that they’d start seating people for speeches. He turned to Samira, pulling cue cards from his pocket and offering them to her. “Come up with me?”
It was a half-strategic ask - he was certain that if she was in the audience, he’d be unable to draw his eyes away, unable to shepherd even the modicum of focus a few words at a podium required.
Her fingers brushed against his as she took the cards, flicking through them. “It’s a good thing I have practice with your handwriting.”
“Because yours is so much better?” he shot back, recalling the first time they exchanged notes in the margins of a journal article. I didn’t know chicken scratch could be loopy, he’d scrawled, watched her roll her eyes across the charge desk as she read it later that night.
“It’s a good thing we’re both doctors, then. I’ll jump in here and here,” she had pulled what he suspected was an eye pencil out of a hidden pocket and dotted two lines. It didn’t matter that everything was shorthand - it was like working around a gurney with her. Just a look, a nudge, half a sentence and they could find a rhythm. “Is this all you wrote?”
“They said they appreciated my flashes of brilliance, and that I should leave some air for the next speaker.”
“Or that your scathing wit is best enjoyed in small doses.”
“Wouldn’t want anyone to end up overserved. God only knows who they have on shift tonight.” He mentally apologized to Shen, but not much. “Add whatever you like. I trust you.” And if he hadn’t with the thorny politics of the hospital before, he certainly did after watching her all evening.
He watched that trust settle into her expression, first a near deferral of the offer, then a glint of steel in her eye. “I will.”
She does, and she’s brilliant. The stuffy emcee emphasizes their titles - an attending and his resident - and so Abbot starts by breezily reintroducing them, the smartest woman in the room and the man who occasionally signs off her paperwork. He can see them projected on screens in the back of the room, sees the slight flush that comes into her cheeks and delights in it. He is a good speaker; he knows it. Knows the healing they do is made possible though communication and the power of the right words at the right time. Chafes at an audience who, for all he knows and suspects, are more part of the problem than the solution.
Mohan steps in naturally, delivering her first phrases almost exactly as he’d written them. The second, she changed for the better. And then, when he’s about to wrap up, balancing sincerity with levity, she takes over.
“In a mass casualty incident, everyone who comes through our doors is equal. We triage - patients are treated in order of severity of condition, but all are treated. There is no time for stereotyping, no insurance checks, no second guessing or prior authorizations. Equipment and medicine are made instantaneously accessible. Our after action report showed 106 people stabilized -“ she paused for applause “- and in eventually matching these Jane and John Does to existing medical records, it also revealed a 92% reduction in the racial inequities of ED treatment we see across Pennsylvania. People of color injured at PittFest did not face significantly longer wait times, more limited treatments, or insurance-related modifications.
To paraphrase author Arundhati Roy, PittFest was a portal. A gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice, our avarice, our data banks. Or we can walk through lightly, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.
PTMC showed what our team is capable of in the face of nation-wide health worker shortages and understaffing, with limited resources and still facing the run-on effects of COVID-19 that have permanently altered our healthcare system. Imagine what we could do with your support. Imagine bringing this level of focus, service, and equity into the everyday. Imagine another world with us, and let PTMC lead the charge on showing what trauma care can become.”
Abbot joined the raucous applause, turning from the projected Mohan at the back of the room to the real woman, standing close at the small podium. She’d foisted the blame to the system in a way that let her critique the hospital, twisting Gloria’s ever-present excuse that these problems were everywhere without going so far as to risk censorship. And done it off the cuff.
Brilliant.
People kept approaching their seats with hushed voices as the next few speakers rotated across the stage, whispering compliments, pledging meetings with Gloria and conversations with financial consultants. Too many men touched Mohan’s bare shoulder while leaning down to talk to her. He watched her shift, her smiles and nods becoming more fixed. He used leaning in to hear some start-up COO ramble about health tech as an excuse to drape an arm around the back of her chair, hoping the proximity would dissuade more contact. Instead, a woman came up to his right and touched his hand on the table. He pulled away as he turned to face her.
“Wonderful speech. I wish you were my doctor,” she winked.
He forced a smile and lifted the beer in front of him back up to his lips. As if every person in this room didn’t go to Presby or some private neighborhood clinic. “I sincerely hope you never have to be my patient.”
If it were just him, Jack would have slipped out after the speeches; his obligation met. Now he stays, taking as many minutes of Mohan’s company as she’ll tolerate. Either she doesn’t mind the socializing or she’s serious about not wanting to be alone, because they stay until the band winds down and the bartenders start counting their tips between the last few swaying requests for a top off. He swipes a Diet Coke from behind the bar and turns to take her in, finally just the two of them.
“Dr. Mohan,” he drawled, dragging his eyes up to her face. “Three hours looks good on you.”
Her face twists, and he creases his brow back, wondering what he’s said wrong. “No—sorry, thank you.” She adjusts the sheer fabric draped over her shoulder and grimaces a smile. “I thought a Slo-Mo joke was coming.”
Now it’s his mouth that twists down. He’d told Robby that he should squash that one the second he heard it; hates the way the man is loath to intervene in anything he deems personal. “I hope it’s clear I’ve never thought of you that way. Besides,” he sniffs, “I have higher standards for my humor.” He glances down. “You’re stunning. And through. You even did your nails.”
She actually smiles this time, wiggling her fingers. “Nail rings. Some Muslim women use them to pray, you can’t use normal acrylics because-“
“-they block the ablution barrier,” he nods, capturing the hand she offers to look closer.
“Exactly. So it’s acrylic on a ring. An auntie showed me. They don’t mess up my nails when I have to rip them off in a few hours. Instead in a pinch -“ she slipped off the thumb and forefinger, took the can of Diet Coke he’d palmed from behind the bar and flicked the tab open “-full functionality.” She took a sip before handing it back to him and slipping the nails back on, a lipstick stain smudging the edge of the can. He took a sip, keeping eye contact until a harried cater-waiter rushed over with a glass and ice to hide their uncouth behavior.
A woman was sitting on a bench on their way out, head in her hands. Mohan stopped to kneel beside her. “Everything okay, ma’am?”
“Ah- yes. Headache. Waiting on the tylenol to kick in.” Mohan “mm”ed compassionately.
“Is it okay if I go ahead and take a quick look at you? I’m a doctor.” The woman nodded and she gently took her hand, turning over the wrist to feel her pulse. “What’s your name?” the woman muttered a low response. “Could I borrow your watch and your keys?” She tossed over her shoulder at Abbot. He unwound the Ultra from his wrist and shrugged his keychain out of an inner pocket.
“Of course, Dr. Mohan.”
“Your heart rate is normal. I’m going to put this Apple Watch on you for a moment so we can look at your blood oxygen level, is that okay?”
The woman murmured her assent again and Mohan wound the watch around her wrist, then fiddled with Abbot’s keychain to twist on the micro flashlight he kept on hand to a low setting. He wasn’t sure if she’d noticed it before or just guessed that his keyring was a pocketable version of his go bag.
“May I take a look at your eyes?” she asked, flicking the light. “Pupils equal and reactive. And blood ox…” she tilted to see the screen. “Good.” She unstrapped the watch, catching the back of the woman’s hand in the strap momentarily. “Ah. See how your skin here stays up?” She gently pinched again and showed the slowly fading ridge. “Sign of dehydration. Probably not helping. Hold on, I think I can find you some electrolytes.” She handed Abbot back his things and strode to the other side of the rotunda. The woman who had flirted with him earlier was there, leaning against a column. She straightened as the doctor approached, and after a few words handed her a small package. Mohan grabbed a bottle of water from a basket by the door and mixed while walking back.
“Here you go. Watermelon flavor.”
They stayed with her impromptu patient until her husband pulled their car around, apologizing for the delay.
“How’d you know she’d have electrolytes?” Abbot asked after handing a slip to the valet.
“She was wearing a migraine awareness pin. I noticed it when she came up to you earlier. And the next three times she was lurking around.” She smirked. “Actually, she thought I was coming over to tell her to lay off my man.”
He barked a laugh. “I feel objectified.”
“Me too, after all of it,” she waved a hand. “Like I need another shower.” She shifted. “You’re good at this. And to think I thought you were all cynical bad boy.”
“Cynical bad boy and consummate professional,” he corrected. “Did you ever read Wolf Hall?”
She cocks her head, surprised at the seeming non sequitur. “I did. Never thought I would be so invested in the inner life of a British statesman.”
He chuckled. “Arrange your face. Remember that line? Always stuck with me. I do these things that are supposed to lead to better outcomes; I’ve seen the reality and I have my doubts. So I arrange my face.”
She looked thoughtful but not convinced. “I know what you mean. But I’m not sure that’s my experience of working with you,” she challenged, thinking of a hundred eyebrow raises, tight smirks, pointed glances.
“You can handle honesty.” He cleared his throat. “The other docs. The students need to learn to. Patients, civilians…” he shrugged. “A little more complicated.”
Abbot’s car pulled up. He tipped the valet and opened the door for Mohan as she gathered her skirts.
“What about you? I didn’t expect you’d have that much patience for the rich and marginally famous,” he asked as they settled in, pulling out to the street.
“Do you believe that people are fundamentally good?”
He laughed. “Depends on if you ask me at the start or end of shift.”
“I do. I think people do stupid things, and that cruelty can be rewarded by this… fucked up system we live in. But I also think that most people want to do good and try to act with the information at hand. I can help give better information, and people are most open to receiving that when delivered in a non-threatening way.” She trailed off. “You probably think I’m naive.”
“I was naive enough to go to Afghanistan and think we were doing the right thing. No, I don’t think you’re naive. Or maybe you are, but naivety will save us all.” He paused. “I think you understand people better than any of us. The way you connect with your patients, catch things no one else does. That normally takes years to develop. You’re barely halfway through residency.”
She allowed herself a small smile. “I prefer to think of it as nearly in my final year.”
“And then you’ll lead us through the portal.”
“I’m pretty sure I butchered that quote.”
“The original was a bit Marxist for that crowd, if I remember.”
She really smiled then, turning to him. “Just anti-imperialist, Major Abbot.”
“That’s Lieutenant Colonel to you, Doctor Mohan.”
She looked impressed, he thought smugly. But still ready to challenge. “Too far?”
“No. Not too far. Everything I’ve seen…” he shook his head. “I’d probably be labeled a sympathizer if anyone tried to rescreen me at this point.”
A few minutes later, he parked in front of her walkway. “Give me a second.” He came around to her door and opened it, offering his hand, and walked her to the entry.
“You’ll be good tonight?” He asked. “Otherwise we can go find a diner. Get some real runny eggs-“
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I really am tired now. It was a kind of closure at least. You’ll be alright?”
He smirked. “I’m always alright, Mohan.”
Again, that dubious flicker on her face. She looked like she may say something, but arranged her face instead. “I’m glad I’m your date of last resort. I had a good time. Goodnight.”
She leaned up to kiss his cheek as he turned his head to correct the record. Her lips caught the corner of his mouth. It would be so easy to turn further and capture her lips with his own, to press her back against her front door -
He settled with allowing a hand to trace along the exposed skin of her back, pulling her forward slightly before letting go reluctantly. One month after her first MCI. The one they’d worked shoulder to shoulder through most of. The whole team was still in mandated therapy, for christsake. He didn’t need to take advantage of her mistaking intensity for intimacy.
“I’ll let you know the second admin forces me back in front of Pittsburgh’s most gullible and affluent,” he promised, stepping back. “If you promise to wear your hair down?” Fine, he wasn’t a big enough person to take no advantage.
Her eyes widened slightly. “Deal.”
When Jack opened his locker the next day, a copy of My Seditious Heart fell out. His mouth twisted into a small smile as he slipped a copy of The Sympathizer out of his bag and opened Mohan’s locker.