Chapter Text
If Samira sees one more patient with some MacGyver-ed EMT treatment and vitals written in spiky sharpie on their leg, she’s going to scream.
Are they all (remotely) stable when they arrive? Yes.
Have they all made it to the OR safely? Also yes.
But it’s the principle of the thing. And whoever is trying to do her job in the field is seriously getting on her nerves. Even if they apparently know what they’re doing.
She watches one roll in from across the ED, thick black Sharpie scrawls against the patient’s thigh. That’s it. She storms past the patient, into the night air of the ambulance bay. They’re still parked, doors open. She stomps over to the open doors of the cabin, sees someone hunched over in the corner, reorganizing a cabinet.
“Hey. Are you the one doing DIY triage on my patients, or is that someone else?” The guy straightens, a hand running through his hair as he turns to meet Samira’s gaze. A sharpie sticks out of his front pocket. ABBOT is stitched across his left chest. She’s never seen him before – she would definitely remember if she had.
Heat flashes behind Samira’s eyes, smoldering more as she watches him take her in– hair unkempt from its clip, blood on the neckline of her scrubs. Her Hokas, which have started to wear through in the heel.
“You mean the one saving your patients in the field by whatever means necessary?” He smiles, frustratingly. He’s cute. Not that she cares. It’s just a fact. The sky is blue, and this annoying EMT is attractive.
“So it is you,” she continues.
“Jack Abbot,” he introduces himself, sticking a hand out. She stares at it, but does not shake it. He leans against the side of the rig, shoulder pressed against the door. He does not hop down, does not bring himself to eye level. If it’s a turf war, he’s refusing to step on Samira’s property.
“I sent a guy up to surgery last week with a boba straw trach in his neck. That’s unacceptable.”
“He live?” Jack asks, already knowing the answer. Of course he did. Samira grits her teeth.
“That’s besides the point.” He quirks an eyebrow, incredulous.
“Is it?”
“You can’t be shoving plastic straws in people’s necks.”
“I’m saving lives. Doing my job. Acting in the moment. Sorry if I use what’s around me.”
“You realize you put them at more risk for infection when you do this, right?”
“And they’d be dead if I didn’t do it. I sterilized the straw, by the way. I’m not an idiot.”
Samira huffs.
“It’s my job to assess the patient and make the save. You are supposed to get them here in one piece.”
“Oh yeah, I’m just the bus driver, right?” He rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
“That’s not what I said,” Samira groans. She’s used to handling stubborn doctors, cocky surgeons. Jack Abbot shouldn’t be able to press her buttons, and yet.
“You know, I took an oath to do no harm, too. Not the Hippocratic, but it still counts. We’re playing for the same team, doctor…” Jack’s eyebrow lifts.
“Mohan.” She responds, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Dr. Mohan.” He keeps staring at her like she amuses him. Like he knows something she doesn’t. It makes her feel like she’s walking a tightrope.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discount my efforts.”
“Is the Sharpie necessary?”
“Old habit. Was a combat medic for 6 years. Didn’t have iPads in the field.”
“And there’s no possible in-between for that.”
“If you want to do wrist charts in the field, be my guest. Pretty sure you’d end up begging for a sharpie.”
Samira should really get back to her patients. Should be concerned that Robby will be on her about her turnover times, but something is keeping her here, in this ambulance bay, craning her neck up to look at the EMT leaning against the ambulance door.
“I had to scrub it off a patient’s forehead last week. Took 15 minutes,” She eyes the offending marker, staring daggers. “No more faces, please.”
“No promises, sweetheart.”
“Doctor,” she corrects him, stone-faced.
“Sorry, doctor.” Her cheeks heat. The ambulance bay doors slide open, and Abbot’s partner approaches the rig.
“We gotta go, brother. MVC on the Highland Park Bridge.”
“Heard,” Abbot responds, hopping out of the rig and slamming the door. They’re finally eye-to-eye. He turns back to Samira like he’s going to say something, then abruptly turns away, jogging around the rig and hopping inside.
Samira spends the rest of the shift running between patients in various states of vitality, half of them with Sharpie charts on their calves. The last one arrives with a smiley face drawn next to their blood pressure.