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It is her own fault, really, that she finds herself in this situation.
To be fair, when she had speed-walked into the supply closet that morning to grab a few extra emesis bags for triage and chairs (re: the mid-August stomach bug making its yearly rounds that clearly did not skip a turn this month), she hadn’t expected them to be so high up on the shelves. In her defense, Samira thought she could reach them: if she just stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward; if she angled her body in such a way that her arm stretched out a little more.
She just hadn’t anticipated a box of flashlights and spare batteries would be placed atop it, falling off at the swift brush of her fingertips, and landing directly on her foot.
She also hadn’t expected that to feel so painful.
Samira had to bite down on her lower lip to swallow the noise that was rising to her throat; she squeezed her eyes shut and force herself to release the breath that had come to a hitch when contact was made. She muttered a curse under her breath. It was a little past eight in the morning—way too early for something like this to be happening. She waited a few seconds for the throbbing to stop before putting weight back on her left foot. She realized that, to her surprise, it was easier than she had imagined.
With a clear self-diagnosis, she meticulously stored the culprit of her injury on the bottom shelf. Then, she grabbed as many bags as her hands could carry and headed out to meet Donnie, who she knew would be anxiously waiting for the supplies.
Yes, she could feel slight discomfort in her movement—especially at an increased speed—but nothing that stole her focus or prevented her from doing her job.
Everything was fine.
Everything would be fine.
It just happened to be one of those days where the action didn’t seem to come to an end, and Samira found herself being pulled from one trauma to another, as both a performer and a supervisor. Over a month into Robby’s sabbatical (41 days, to be exact—but it’s not like she’s been counting), Samira had acquired a better footing in the ER again. Al-Hashimi trusted her senior leadership, only stepping in to ask questions about the choices that led to certain procedures; Langdon respected her as an equal, coming up to her when he needed an extra set of eyes on his cases; the interns, med students, and younger residents presented to her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and trusted her when she advised they take a different approach. It was an interesting new feeling, and somewhat unsettling. She couldn't help but wonder how long it would last.
Robby’s ghost still lingered, in the way she still doubted seconds before stepping into action, wondering if people had actually asked for her input or expertise or if she had been imagining things. But with the way everyone else treated her, she started to feel like maybe Robby’s words didn’t have to carry so much weight. She was grateful nobody walked on eggshells around her anymore—after her panic attack the Fourth of July, she felt as though she wouldn’t be able to come back from that; she would never be able to prove she was a capable physician, reputation tainted. Her colleagues proved her wrong. The way they relied on her made her feel important, eager to practice medicine again (for the first time in, well, longer than she even cares to admit).
Just like it happened on every other busy day, Samira had no time to stop and breathe. The adrenaline kept her spirits high, floating her from one room to another with light ease. It was a hell of a painkiller; she had almost completely forgotten about her bruised foot.
Until now, that is, as she sits herself down to chart and finally lets the day sink into her body.
Suddenly, she becomes aware of the tightness in her back, of the soreness in her hips, and of the pulsating ache on the inside of her foot—pricking like pins and needles, to the point where the sharp sensation makes her shift uncomfortably in her seat.
She tries to tame the pain through breathing exercises. She has read about the power of the mind, and she hopes that, maybe. if she tricks her brain into not feeling it, the pain will go away. It is to no avail, and she doesn’t know if it’s due to her lack of faith or concentration.
She looks at the clock. She still has over half an hour left on her shift, which is not terrible, all things considered. Her foot only just started bothering her, even after all those hours walking and working on it. The situation could be much worse.
She considers her options. She could ride it out, as she normally would; she could wait until she gets to her apartment to assess the damage, ice it, apply some sort of muscle relaxant, and put herself to bed. But the thought of taking the bus back, knowing she will most likely have to stand for the entire route, makes her debate if she should instead take action sooner rather than later.
She decides she might as well take an NSAID. By the time it kicks in, she’ll be on her way out of the hospital, and that will do the heavy lifting until she gets back to her living quarters.
Samira stands, wincing slightly at the newfound pressure despite her best attempts to keep the weight off her foot. She leans over her work station, breathing through the adjustment.
McKay glances over at her with an eyebrow raised in question, and possibly concern. Samira shrugs it off and mouths “my back is sore”. Cassie simply nods sympathetically and goes back to what she was doing—charting, probably, like the rest of them. The statement is not completely untrue, and it’s something they are all likely feeling. A shared sentiment; enough to not raise any suspicion.
Samira attempts nonchalance as she starts to make her way over to the break room, where she plans to grab an ibuprofen out of the first-aid kit. She tries to hide her limping leg, dragging it across the linoleum aisle in small, easy, careful steps.
As luck would have it, she is then intercepted by none other than Dr. Abbot, who shouldn’t even be here to begin with, but she’s not surprised to see; he always clocks into his shift earlier than most. They have that in common.
“Dr. Mohan,” he greets, casually. His arms are clasped neatly behind his back. Out of habit, Samira assumes.
“Dr. Abbot,” she supplies, matching his tone. She bobs her head in his general direction, as if to mark the end of their conversation, and she takes a step forward. Her focus is still on getting to the break room. But the sound of his voice stops her once more.
“I was hoping you would come look at a case with me,” he says.
Samira turns to face him. She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not on shift yet.”
The ghost of a lopsided smile plays on his lips. “No, not quite. But you are. So perhaps they should be your patient, then."
Every synapse in her brain is firing messages urging her to say no, aiming to get back on her mission, but the rational part of her brain (or perhaps irrational, considering what the responsible thing to do here would be) is telling her that, in order to sell her fine-ness, she must act in accordance to her normal behaviour. And when would Samira Mohan ever say no to seeing a patient?
“Fine,” she mumbles with absence of enthusiasm.
Abbot leads her towards Central 9 at a leisurely pace. Not once does he turn back to see if she’s following, he simply trusts that she is. He opens the door and slides the curtain open, stepping off to the side to let Samira walk in first.
It isn’t until she is inside the room that she realizes it is empty.
She looks over at Abbot with a puzzled expression. “So–”
“Sit on the bed, Dr. Mohan,” he says, in his attending voice, which means he is serious. He begins rubbing disinfectant onto his hands, then heads over to the glove box on the wall to grab a pair.
Ah. So she is the patient.
“No, I-I’m fine,” she provides, a little too quickly for his liking.
He eyes her, methodically. As stubborn as she is, she is not winning this battle, if she chooses to fight it.
She sighs, surrendering herself to the situation. She hoists herself up to the side of the bed, grimacing slightly at the action.
“Take your shoes off and put your feet on the bed.”
“Bossy,” she mutters, and he chuckles, not even having the decency to pretend he did not hear her.
She does as told, carefully sliding her sock off; it reveals a dark, purple bruise that spans across the instep and all the way to the bridge of her foot.
“Jesus,” he protests at the sight. “May I?”
She nods in agreement.
Gently, he begins to press along, watching her reaction to his touch from his periphery.
“When did this happen?” he asks, hands still steadily conducting his assessment.
“Um, this morning. Maybe at around eight?” It comes out as a question, though she didn't intend it as such.
“And you didn’t think to have it checked out until now?”
“It really wasn’t bothering me until about ten minutes ago,” she argues. She is being truthful, but he still seems unconvinced. After all, she would have avoided medical care had she not been caught by him.
“How did you figure it out, anyway?” she presses, clearly deflecting.
Abbot snorts. “You were limping. I happen to have some first-hand experience in that department.”
Right.
She has noted how, after a long day of wearing his prosthetic, his gait becomes noticeably uneven; it becomes harder for him to hide the discomfort the friction causes against his stump.
Samira shuts her eyes, embarrassment coating her skin at the stupidity of her question. If she is asked, she will just blame it on the pain—on the pressure of his fingers against her swollen skin. Although really, he’s being cautious, perhaps overly so, so her plan wouldn’t work. His touch is tender, in a way you wouldn’t expect from someone his age and size and years of experience. He is rough around the edges, and practices medicine as such. But his evaluation is careful, yet clinical. It unexpectedly makes her feel somewhat exposed. Her mind goes back to when the roles were reversed, just last month, when she was the one tending to his wound, without meaning to.
It helps to think that she has seen him in a vulnerable position.
She wishes it didn’t.
Her shoulders scarcely relax at the thought, then quickly tense up again when he reaches a particularly sore spot. She instinctively retracts her foot, and his hands fly away in sudden surprise. He whispers an apology and, when Samira gives him the okay, continues his assessment. When he is done, he takes off his gloves and disposes of them in the bin.
“Well,” he starts, pivoting back to her. “It seems to be superficial. Swollen and bruised. But I think we should get an x-ray, just to rule out any possible fractures.”
Samira opens her mouth to dispute. He stops her before she can say anything.
“Please. Just as a precaution. It would make me feel better.”
The statement of admission makes heat rise to her face. She accepts it, if only just to get him out of the room.
It works.
He goes on his way to find a portable x-ray machine.
Did she hit her head, too? Why is she overthinking this interaction?
He is speaking to her as her doctor. He is making sure she listens to his medical advice. That’s it. There’s no reason she should read into it.
God, she feels silly.
She leans back, finally allowing herself to fall back on the bed, resigned, once again, to being a patient.
Abbot returns sooner than expected, with Perlah treading behind him. The two begin to set up the equipment and prepping her for imaging.
“So, are you going to tell me how exactly you got injured?” he asks, hands fidgeting with the set up.
“It was an accident. It was stupid.”
“I still would like to know.”
She looks at him. Her brown eyes scan his face like they would a document—seeking information. His gaze is fixed on the machine, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Right. He probably just wants to take note of her history. For the records.
She’s a patient.
“There was a box in the supply closet. I knocked it over as I was trying to reach something. It crushed my foot.”
Simple; factual.
He hums in response.
The room falls silent, then, just the sounds of the velcro of the lead-lined aprons and the whirring of the machine filling the space.
It doesn’t take long for them to notice there’s a hairline fracture on her navicular bone once the scans are done. Abbot shows it to Perlah and she’s out of the room in an instant, already knowing what she ought to get.
Abbot pulls the swivel chair closer to the bed and Samira’s body angles towards him.
“So, no fracture, huh?”
His eyes roll back. “A hairline fracture is still a fracture. But if you mean you can get away with just icing it, applying pressure, and elevating it, then yes, no fracture.”
Samira nods. “Good.”
“But do try to follow medical advice. If it hurts, don’t try to push it.”
She scoffs. “You’re one to talk.”
“Do as I say and not as I do, Dr. Mohan,” he teases.
He stands up, pushing his hands against his knees, and makes his way towards the door.
“Come find me in the hub once you’re done here, yeah? Perlah will come back soon.”
“Alright. Thank you, doctor,” she says. Her sarcastic tone manages to get a flicker of a smile out of him, and she can see him shaking his head on his way out.
As expected, Perlah is back a few minutes later, helping her wrap her foot and going over the aftercare instructions Samira is all well-aware of. She nods along as she pretends to listen; the nurse’s voice is a low murmur in the background of her thoughts. She thanks her once she’s done and Perlah offers a small smile in response, leaving her to gather herself.
Samira sighs. She can’t believe she has yet again found herself on this side of the room. She feels less judged this time—still judged, but at least not humiliated—which must count for something. At least she knows the judgement comes from a place of concern, rather than whatever concoction of feelings Robby has harboured against her over the years. Dislike; possibly, hatred?
She ushers the thought away. She doesn’t want to think about Robby. Not right now. Or ever, if she’s honest. Unfortunately the latter seems to be unrealistic. His presence haunts her, no matter how much she wishes it didn’t.
The bandage is wrapped tight around her foot and it does aid in the discomfort as she slips out of the bed and onto the cold floor. She forgoes her left sock, shoving her foot back into her sneaker as is, and folding the black fabric neatly into her scrub pockets. Walking takes some effort, but it is much more manageable than it was before this.
Just like he promised, Abbot is out in the hub when she walks out of the room; he is leaning against the counter and making some sort of comment that has Dana’s attention and a genuine laugh cracking out of her.
“Hey kid,” the blonde nurse says when her eyes catch Samira behind her glasses. “How ya feelin’?”
Abbot twists to face her. Suddenly, Samira feels very observed; unnecessarily so. It makes her feel slightly uncomfortable.
She clears her throat. “Fine, yeah. Thanks, Dana. And thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
She allows her eyes to meet his. He makes a gesture of acknowledgement. His hand then dips into the pocket of his scrubs and, before she knows it, he’s offering his phone out to her with an outstretched arm.
She doesn’t immediately grab it, just looks at it curiously. “Wha–”
“Put your address in, Dr. Mohan. Your shift is over. It’s time for you to head home.”
Her eyes widen before she can stop them, as she’s hit with the realization of his offer.
“Oh. I’m fine to take the bus. Thank you.”
“Just type it in, Mohan.”
She begrudgingly takes his phone from him. He has it open to the Uber app. She bites the inside of her bottom lip; her incisors draw out hints of blood that leave her mouth tasting of iron, giving her something else to focus on, instead of whatever it is she's feeling right now.
He is being too nice, and Samira doesn’t know how to properly react.
She hands him back the phone after doing as she was told.
“Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”
He waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep yourself safe, okay?”
She notices he’s averting her gaze. Every fiber of her being tells her she did something wrong, that she is somehow taking advantage of him and should’ve declined his care and attention. This just feels like the confirmation she needs.
She says nothing, just nods before making her way to the lockers, knowing she will need the full eight minutes it’ll take for her ride to get here to find her belongings and then meet the driver outside. And right now, she wants nothing more than to scurry away from the scene.
Abbot can’t help but look at her as she walks away. He observes her limping, which is definitely less noticeable than it was when he last saw her walking, and he is struck by a feeling of relief that he shelves in his brain to analyze later, also known as never. He does not have the energy, nor the time, to evaluate what it might mean.
Instead, his attention goes back to Dana, who is looking at him with an expression he can’t quite read.
“Hey, can we make sure the supply closet is organized properly so this doesn’t happen again?” he asks, choosing to ignore whatever it is that Dana is thinking right now.
“Sure. Would you like to volunteer for the job? I certainly don’t have the time for it,” she replies with her usual snark.
He sighs. “Yeah, fine. I’ll take care of it.”
He taps against the counter, springing away from it as he rounds the area.
“Maybe one of these days you can take the time before your shift starts to do that, since you like bein' here so early. I would love it if you quit botherin’ me. Maybe Dr. Mohan would appreciate it, too.”
That stops him in his tracks. “Wait—did she say something?” he asks; his voice is a level above a whisper, and his eyes are assessing the room like he fears he might be heard.
Dana’s lips quirk, slowly shifting into a smirk. “No, she didn’t. I’m just testin' out a theory.”
Abbot doesn’t push further. “Right. Okay, then.”
With that, he finally walks away, intending to find Al-Hashimi so they can start the hand-off.
Dana shakes her head, amused. She quietly mutters to herself. “Oh, he really has no idea.”