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roastedginger · 2 days ago

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you know how charlie reid finds you? it's because he's come to the conclusion that he hates brats. unfortunately for him, the age range he dates is usually filled with them. the girl he’s seeing—because dating is not accurate to describe whatever that was and fucking isn't descriptive enough since she was spending his money pretty freely—before he meets you fits into that category pretty well. he thinks he’ll give it a try because he doesn’t care about money or commitment or anything else in that realm. what he does care about, he learns, is making sure she listens. he needs a girl who listens to him, who doesn't make him repeat himself. a girl smart enough to pay attention but not enough to question him. that's just what he wants and he's patient enough to wait to find it. in fact, he makes a goal out of it.

when he stumbles onto you, he realizes he may have hit the jackpot. he's going to some event inside one of the rooms of the big public library and he holds the door open for you. and jesus, is chivalry really this dead? the way you beam at him like he's just saved your kitten from a tree or carried you out of a burning building, thank him twice and smile sweetly and politely. he thinks after all these years in the city he's pretty good at figuring people out from first impressions and what he knows for certain is that he wants to know more about you. people aren't just nice like that for no reason. when he follows you inside, you end up heading behind a counter because you work there. it's almost five, and he concludes this must be your part-time job. perfect, he thinks to himself, staring at you smiling at your coworkers and listening patiently to whatever they must be telling you because you're too sweet to not pay attention. part-time is perfect because convincing you to leave your job would be a lot harder if it was full-time and something you had already incorporated into your routine. you walk away with a cart of books to put away when he flags you down, this time to ask for your help finding the room he's supposed to be in.

charlie is not stupid—he could have easily found it himself. in fact, it would have taken much less time and energy to just find the room himself. but he wants to hear what your voice sounds like and see how sweet you are about helping him, particularly your reaction when he thanks you for your help and makes eye contact that he thinks will fluster you. you lead him to the room right away, abandoning your cart of books immediately and just like he thought, when he tells you thank you, sweetheart, your eyes get big and you look away and stutter out something like oh it's no problem. the correct answer, charlie thinks while watching you walk away and turn back once, only to see him still staring at you, is you're welcome. he'll have to teach you that. he'll get to it in due time.

there's no other reason for him to be at that library besides to see you—and yes, technically it might be a violation of your privacy to have someone in his office find the library's worker schedule, but that's besides the point—though he still 'runs' into you and has you track down a book for him. really it's just the first book that came to mind, but you had recognized him immediately and smiled brightly and it's almost as if you forgot to be nervous for a second there, leading him to the correct row and shelf. coincidentally, you start talking about how much you loved this book and that you can't recommend it enough. he doesn't even think he has a library card. from there on it's easy work to read the damn thing and come back to return it and then tell you he'd like to take you out to dinner so you two can have a proper discussion about it.

and you, poor thing, it's like the first time you've ever been treated right. you seem surprised when he knocks on your door, and you're scrambling to put your shoes on as if he expected you downstairs by now. your eyes are wide like coins when he hands you the flowers, expression shifting into something that makes an uneasy feeling spread throughout his chest. something he doesn't like—how reactive you are to things that charlie considers the bare minimum. he notices it for the rest of the night—when he opens the door to his car for you, when he pulls out your chair at the restaurant, when he asks you what you want to drink before the waiter gets there and then tells him your order for you. he notices it all night long—the fluster while you answer another question he's asked, the continual, repeated thank you to him, to the server, to the waiter, and how you look at him when the waiter hands him the check instead of putting it on the table. he stares back at you—because surely, chivalry can't be this dead, that you expect him to split the bill with you? it's then and there that charlie decides he'll have to teach you what a real relationship with a real man is supposed to be like, because you must not know.

it's just by chance that you also happen to be great at listening—the one thing he was looking for. he kisses you goodnight by your door after the first date, and on the second one, you bring up all the things he had mentioned on the first. you ask him about two different cases at work, another book by that same author he had said he wanted to read (not really, but if it's for you, he supposes he'll read it), and the fact that he said he liked this restaurant. the place he brings you is slightly closer to his side of town, and you thank him profusely for picking you up even though it's out of the way. charlie's a little confused—it's barely out of the way, and of course he's going to pick you up. but that's besides the point, the point being that he had a secondary reason for picking this restaurant. he wants to show you more of the area where he lives, get you more comfortable with it, since it'll be your area soon enough. at the end of the night, he kisses you outside your door again and he tells you that he'll call you tomorrow, and he does, another thing which confuses him about people your age.

on the third date, he gets an invitation inside. breathless from the usual kiss, you quietly ask him do you want coffee or something? when he accepts, you seem to regain your senses and realize it's almost ten-thirty and fluster while telling him you don't have any decaf. you offer to make him hot chocolate and he laughs, settling onto your couch while you come sit beside him, thinking of how you won't have this problem soon. he always has decaf and regular at his place, and though your apartment is charming, it's certainly not big enough for you both. he has a house and there's extra rooms, and that's exactly the sort of place you need. he even gets distracted looking around at your belongings—knick knacks and an overflowing bookshelf and all the other things he can imagine fitting in nicely with his own things. but you put your hand on his arm to get his attention and he forgets about all of it temporarily.

he doesn't actually sleep with you until two dates after—which is right around the time he starts spoiling you. he shows up with a pretty necklace for you and you try and fail to explain why you can't accept it, but when he says the magic words—let me take care of you—you give in easily. and right around that fifth date is when you've become a little bit needy, the result of one too many prolonged good night kisses and staying horizontal on your couch until he's hard and you're soaked. when he takes you back to his home, he gets hard just thinking about how perfectly you'd fit in here. he makes you cum once just against the door as soon as he gets you inside, and then twice on his bed. in the morning, you wear his button-up while he makes you both breakfast and it's a little too easy to imagine you there every morning.

but charlie doesn't just imagine things and leave it at that—he makes them happen. after the first night, it's all too easy to convince you to sleep over and start leaving things. you work short, periodic shifts, but his place is closer to the library anyways, so you really can't complain. besides that, you have a noisy neighbor and there's construction down the street and charlie's place is peaceful and quiet. perfect for sipping coffee and reading whatever book you've taken out from the library. he tells you he doesn't like all the rooms in the house and if you have any ideas to change it, he'd listen to you, and you do the thing you always do where you flush and pretend that he's just saying that to be nice, when really, he's not. it's going to be your house anyways, relatively soon at that, so you may as well decorate however you please. that's the sort of thing charlie knows to leave for his wife.

it's easy after that—you barely make enough to cover rent each month and when you get a letter from the landlord that rent is going up starting next month, well, it only make sense to move in with charlie. things have been going great for months and there's no use in wasting money. so the playing house gets much more intense after that—charlie has a strict routine and you blend in perfectly with it, though he could have guessed that. it's all the things he didn't expect, the things he's not used to, that take him by surprise. how when his alarm goes off—six fifteen sharp—and he goes to shower, you get up too. you make him coffee and breakfast like it's second nature to you, yawning and stretching in whatever one of his shirts you had slept in the previous night. how easy it is for you to remind him of commitments—a meeting or someone dropping by at his lunch or a friend's birthday.

it turns into a routine, one that he likes very much, and when he surprises you with a ring at the same restaurant he took you for that first date, it's ultimately so easy to say yes. to get compliments at the library on the gigantic rock on your finger—for people to wonder why you still work if your fiancé can afford something like that. and then it's way, way too easy for charlie to convince you that wedding planning and redecorating and thinking about what to do with those empty rooms in the house are going to take up more time than you have. to bid your job at the library goodbye, to focus on your future life as a housewife. one night charlie comes home to you debating between two wallpapers and you let it slip—well, i think this one would be nicer for the baby's room—and after that, it's like you've created a demon. and then charlie reid has a new goal, because he's always been like that, always been focused on a goal—meeting you, getting you on that first date, moving you into his home, making you his wife. the latest goal is to see how quickly he can get you pregnant.

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roastedginger · 4 days ago

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✍️ WIP Today ✨

Some more Mohabbot because I have like five different doc tabs with random snippets for these two

I am not immune to the Samira doesn’t know Jack is a widower and sees him fiddling with his wedding ring when he’s talking to her trope

Plain text below the cut:

“It’s okay to let your patients affect you.”

She can’t look him in the eye. Her gaze falls instead to where he’s twisting his hands together, the movement secondary like he’s not aware he’s doing it. It’s not often she sees his hands without them being covered in blue nitrile gloves and she takes in the freckles sprinkled across them, the sparse hair on the knuckles. Good hands. Steady. Hands that have saved more lives than she thinks she’ll ever see in the ED, hands that have probably lost more than he’d like to count.

Hands that, she realizes, are twisting around a brushed metal ring sitting snugly on his left ring finger.

She’s surprised at how that stings. Not because she thought there could be something between them, but because she thought they were cut from the same cloth. That they both see the ED as the only place they feel truly human, that they spend all their time and energy on pushing themselves to be better, to save more lives, to keep the cracks from spreading. That maybe he also goes home to an empty apartment, goes to sleep in an empty bed, and wakes up to come back to work and come alive.

The wedding band staring back at her shatters that assumption.

Dr. Jack Abbot is not like her. Dr. Jack Abbot has someone he loves, someone who put that ring on his finger and promised to love him back, who probably fills his house with light and laughter and conversation, who has dinner ready when he comes back from a long shift. Dr. Jack Abbot is not going home to an empty apartment with a single lamp in the corner and plain walls because he can’t be bothered to expend energy on something as trivial as decorating, not when there’s research to be done, data to collect, a future of medicine to chart.

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roastedginger · 4 days ago

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Attention!! If you are in line for hospital gala Mohabbot, stay in line!

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roastedginger · 5 days ago

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my humble contribution to jack abbot and samira mohan enjoyers on this day

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roastedginger · 5 days ago

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Hobby Girl - chapter 1

Fandom: The Pitt Pairing: Samira x Jack Rating: E

Summary: After Cassie gives her a rude awakening about her life choices, Samira throws herself into trying new hobbies in search of personal fulfillment. She doesn't expect catching feelings to be one of her extracurriculars. Is she doing this right?

Or; five times Samira found something to do with her free time, and one time she stuck with it.

It starts the day daylight savings time ends. Of course, Samira doesn’t realize it’s starting, and she doesn’t realize daylight savings time ended that morning at 2am. She misses a lot because she thinks she’s very late for work.

In reality, she’s twenty minutes early.

Samira believes she’s late so thoroughly, with such focus, that she misses other opportunities to tell the time. Because she knows the stops by heart and never usually looks up at the display, she doesn’t glance at the digital sign on the bus she takes in, tapping her foot anxiously on the tacky floor. She doesn’t ask any of the staff on her way into the hospital, not wanting to disturb their work when she can’t even make it to her own shift on time. She doesn’t check the clock on the wall, since she’s here now, and just needs to get her shit stowed and her head together as fast as possible.

When Jack Abbott leans casually against the locker next to hers as she’s yanking at her water bottle, caught in her backpack strap, she’s instinctively annoyed by how relaxed he seems, even in her peripheral.

“I’m in the staff lot, second level,” he whispers urgently, making her jump. “If we leave now, we can be on the highway in twelve minutes. We take the seventy-nine to the ninety, then cross the border into Canada.”

The moment he leaned in to speak, Samira looked over, but she’s full-on staring at him now, her hands motionless on the bottle, trying to sift any kind of sense from what he just said. He looks serious.

“What?”

“Somebody’s after you, right? Who is it? Disgruntled patient? The cops? Boy, Samira, I had a feeling you’d be trouble…” Abbott pats her arm. “Explain in the car.”

Samira’s expression must be telegraphing pure bewilderment because he cracks a smile and takes pity on her.

“What’s the rush?” he asks, a question that’s also an answer for the hasty plan he just offered her. His posture’s relaxed again and she wishes she knew how to do that.

She goes back to fighting her bottle out of her bag as she explains, “I’m forty minutes late.”

Abbott frowns and lifts his wrist to consult his watch.

“You’re twenty minutes early,” he counters.

Samira stops. Blinks.

“But it’s twenty to eight.”

“It’s twenty to seven.” When she practically glares at him in confusion, Abbott tacks on, “Clocks went back this morning.”

Suddenly the lights are too bright in here, the responsibilities too great. She is too much of an idiot to practice medicine; she can’t even tell time. It’s an oversimplification, but right now, there’s some perverse satisfaction in berating herself.

“Fuuuuck,” she groans.

Abbott laughs and offers a commiserative “Yeah.”

Samira winces.

“Sorry.”

“For swearing? Shit, I’ll try to forgive you, but you might have to give me some time.”

She sighs.

“You alright?” he checks.

He’s not leaning in anymore, but his voice is still tactfully soft. His eyes are sharp though, assessing her on their own before she can offer any input. Abbott and Samira are colleagues, they’re friendly, but this is the first time she’s felt he’s trying to administer care to her. She can’t exactly put her finger on what makes this different from his quick check-ins during the flurry of a procedure, but there’s a feeling. A feeling she apparently has a few minutes to analyze in her currently-rebooting brain, since she’s not late for work after all.

“Yeah, I’m just…”

She stops herself because she doesn’t want to bore him by going on. But then she looks at him, and he doesn’t look bored, or too busy to stand and talk for a minute. Though she prefers the day shift, her experience working nights has taught her the peaks and troughs of patient arrivals; things taper off after bars close, then pick up again during morning rush hour. The hour between 6 and 7 is part of the upswing, but not yet hectic. If Abbott’s lingering here, it’s because he has time to. He’s a very responsible doctor. And he wouldn’t, like, just hang out over here with her if he had something better to do.

“I guess I forgot about daylight savings and didn’t change the time on my clock last night. Analogue,” she explains.

“Retro,” Abbott comments dryly. “You know your phone transitions automatically, right? Coulda set an alarm on there.”

“Well, normally I do,” Samira assures him, turning away from her locker and gesturing for emphasis. “Normally my phone doesn’t die in the middle of the night.”

“Forgot to charge it?”

“It’s not that. It’s—” She hesitates, but Abbott looks interested. Still. Samira sighs and gives in. “I fell asleep watching a video. It must’ve drained the battery.”

Abbott gets a look on his face like he’s trying not to have a look on his face, which makes Samira realize he just wondered whether she fell asleep watching porn. Oh god.

“It’s something Dr. McKay said,” she stumbles out.

“What’d Cassie say?”

Told me I don’t have a life. But that’s too embarrassing to admit, so Samira euphemizes the sentiment into something that hopefully shows her in a less pathetic light.

“That I should cultivate my hobbies,” Samira lands on.

“And the hobby of choice is… spending more time on your phone?” Abbott ventures. He offers an ironic smile that happens to coincide with Samira going slightly weak in the knees. She blames the morning’s panic.

She rolls her eyes at his teasing.

“No. I’m trying beading. Making stuff with beads?”

“Beading?” Abbott shifts like he should probably move on soon, but he doesn’t go just yet. “What made you pick that?”

“Well…” Samira thinks about it. “The beads are small, so it promotes fine motor skills—good for surgery. Plus, it’s pretty methodical. You know, just feeding beads onto a line. So, I thought it’d be a good stress-relief exercise. In theory.”

“In theory?”

“Once you get good at it. Which I’m not,” she clarifies with a self-deprecating smile.

“Hence the video.”

Samira nods.

“But it’s just beads on a line,” Abbott repeats. “How bad could—”

Before he can finish, she tips her backpack forward in her locker and wrenches the zipper wide. He cranes his neck to look inside.

“Oh. Yikes.”

The bottom of her bag is strewn with tiny blue and purple beads, looking like the gravel at the bottom of a pet store fish tank. Some of the beads catch the light and shimmer up at her, as though winking mockingly at this lame misfortune.

“Yeah,” Samira agrees. “It was for my keychain, but I was in a hurry this morning”—Abbott is nodding—“and I guess I was a little rough locking the door of my apartment. The thing basically fell apart in my hand and all I could do was dump a fistful of beads into my backpack and keep moving. I don’t think I did the knots right.”

He smiles like he’s probably trying not to laugh at her. She doesn’t think she’d mind if he did laugh, knows it wouldn’t be cruel. She sighs loudly and her shoulders slump as she exorcises the morning’s misadventures. She realizes how much better she feels now, how the minor disaster living at the bottom of her bag is kind of funny.

“How’s it been here?” she asks as she zips her bag shut again and pushes it into the locker.

“Oh, cakewalk compared to your day, Dr. Mohan.”

He looks weirdly proud when she gets her water bottle free, which should make her feel even more pathetic, but instead is sort of nice. She digs her phone out too, planning to charge it at the nurses’ station.

“I’ve got a couple things to finish up before I head out,” he says, “so I should get back to it. Unless you need…”

Abbott’s hands snap up to mime driving, fingers locked as he jerks an imaginary wheel, forearm muscles tense and flexing as he pretends to shift. Does he drive stick? Not important.

Samira lets out a short laugh.

“That getaway plan was incredibly well-conceived,” she notes, sounding genuinely impressed—which she is.

Abbott shrugs off her compliment and starts walking backwards away from her, hands closed around the ends of the stethoscope that hang either side of his neck. She sees his slight smile. Pleased. Her stupid heartrate kinda likes that look on his face.

She’s looking forward again, ensuring her belongings are tucked within the confines of her locker so she can shut the door, when Abbott calls out, “Hey!”

Samira turns her head.

“When you figure out that keychain thing, make me one!”

She snorts and shakes her head at the silly request, and Abbott twists away to walk forward. She watches him until he leaves the hallway, out of her sightline.

And that’s how it starts.

—

text message exchange between Samira Mohan & Trinity Santos

Hey, why would somebody think I’d be trouble in the ER?

the fuck

who said that to you

by which i mean, who am i accidentally hitting with my car

No one!!!

I don’t think it was exactly a criticism. He was kind of joking?

fine

i’m reserving judgment on the vehicular manslaughter until you tell me the exact words

“I knew you’d be trouble.”

Something like that.

samira.

smh

What???

pull your hetero head out of your ass

respectfully

[Samira is typing]

ok no you’re actually so pathetic i’m going to translate

that man is flirting with you

you were flirted with

[Samira is typing]

now tell me who said that and when exactly you plan to bang dr. abbott

Trinity!!!

all that typing and that’s all you got?

and pls. with the scandalized triple punctuation

There’s no connection between Jack and I.

but there could be

a very literal physical connection

junk to junk

Romantic.

you know me

hey, you like magic?

I’m afraid to answer that.

Ok, sure. Why?

i pulled a quarter out of a dude’s ear today

That’s disgusting.

Did you get a picture?

—

Samira has her TV volume on low, humming as she sinks back into her couch, blithely feeding one bead after another onto the length of line she cut for her project. She’s telling herself she can do this, that right now her life is being a doctor and this, with this being the obviously easier thing to do. So.

She feels like she set herself up for failure last time by spreading the supplies out on her kitchen table. Too formal. The new tactic is to sneak up on competency by making the whole atmosphere casual: comfy posture, low-stress show on in the background, let her hands work without her mind getting in the way. Lots of people knit while they watch TV. Just clackin’ away, no sweat. Samira’s like those people. If she knew how to knit.

The show goes to commercial, so she hums louder to cover the ads. Hey, she thinks, I’m getting good at this. She smiles at the little shape she’s making, and it doesn’t exactly look the way she planned, but that’s alright. She’s a beginner. The thing is to keep moving, don’t let her brain catch up with her hands.

Samira hits the chorus and switches from absentminded humming to words, belting the lyrics to “Life is a Highway” into her apartment.

Don’t let her brain…

Highway. Getaway car. Abbott. I had a feeling you’d be trouble.

…catch up with her hands.

Samira fumbles her grip, overcorrects with a jolt, and sends little blue beads pouring across her lap, trickling down over her feet. It’s fine, it’s honestly fine, it’s just the sudden flare of heat up the back of her neck that keeps her flustered as she clamps her hand tight around the fragment she didn’t manage to scatter, then rises gingerly to her feet to keep the wreckage as contained as possible.

She’ll start again, just—

No fancy shapes.

And better knots.

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roastedginger · 6 days ago

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is it cool that i said all that? (5+1 times jack abbot almost confesses his love to samira mohan, pt1)

Flirting with journals is med school shit. Jack Abbot knows this. Nonetheless, he sends Samira Mohan yet another newly published journal as night shift quiets settles in, 2am yawning and stretching leisurely.

2:03AM

Me: Sickle Cell and colorism in the African American community: A rainbow of treatment outcomes.pdf

Me: Buddy of mine from the Army just published this

2:05AM

SAMIRA MOHAN *R3*: So cool!!!! Well, not, obviously. Thanks, Dr.

"Abbot." Jack jerks his head up like he's been caught watching porn instead of texting a resident. Ellis quirks a brow, her arms crossed as she scans him up and down instead of explaining why she's bothering him. "You busy?" He locks his phone and tucks it into his scrubs, the picture of nonchalance thanks to his Army education.

"Hit me." Ellis just squints, eyes full of suspicion as she stares at his phone burning a hole in his pocket. "Who were you texting?" Sometimes Parker reminds him of his nieces -- sticky fingered gremlins turned into nosy tweens in just a few years. She's got that look like she's about to tell the whole school how Jack Abbot has a crush, despite not even knowing who he was texting.

Crush isn't the right word for Samira Mohan anyway.

"Your phone is buzzing."

Shit.

He takes it out and sure enough SAMIRA MOHAN *R3* is buzzing on his screen. He turns it away from Ellis but not fast enough, her brows raising an inch as she seems to take stock of the situation. Of which there is none, obviously. It's probably a buttdial.

He goes to the empty staff locker room and answers it anyway.

"Mohan?" Jack's ears were never 100% after the IED that took of his leg, but they aren't that bad, which means he's not imagining the yelling and music in the background. Pounding bass turns into cackling female voices that become muffled after a few seconds. Samira breathes down the line and it's like one of those Dunkin atrocities Shen insists on. Sugar sweet like honey on his tongue.

"Mohan?" He says again, a little more forcefully. "Hi, Jack." Jesus Christ. He sits down so someone doesn't walk in and see his reaction to a simple breathy giggle after his name. He woefully thinks of the warm May night outside the Pitt doors, of how he should've taken this outside instead of the stifling stark white walls that backlight her curls everytime he sees her.

"Everything okay? It's 2am." Samira gasps in his ear and it goes straight to his cock, not the first time and certainly not the last that he can't control his body around her. "I didn't know it was so late. I'm sorry." She confesses, apologizing like she's kicked a puppy. "It's okay." He waits a beat, closes his eyes when she doesn't respond. He's trying not to imagine where she is or who she's with or the fact she's probably in one of those short dresses that flare at the bottom that she wore to Collins' birthday a month ago. He tries and fails.

"You gonna tell me why you called?" Jack prods when she doesn't answer. "I wanted to say thanks for the article." A frown takes over without permission, bringing out the wrinkles on his forehead. "I send you journals all the time, Samira." Unfortunately, it's true. He had to get one of those extra storage subscriptions after saving too many PDFs to his phone, despite having not published in years. They're all for her.

"I know but-" a gulp, almost a hiccup, "I wanted to say thank you. And I'm drunk, so I can't read it right now. I'll read it in the morning." Samira is drunk. She's drunk and she called him, of all people. He was an easy pick, most likely the first notification she saw on her phone. Drunk actions aren't always sober thoughts, this he knows.

"I don't expect you to drop everything just to read what I send you, Samira. I know you have a life." She snorts at the other end of the line. He imagines her nose scrunching, her doe eyes staring at the ground. "I don't have a life. I'm only drunk because Victoria is 21." Finally, it all clicks. The infamous Turning 21 party that Santos was talking his ear off about a week ago, something about turning Javadi into a real person. He appreciates her sentiment, even if the delivery feels a little childish. Or maybe he's just old.

"And I'm working a shift I wasn't even scheduled on. You've got more life between the two of us." He grins into the stale air of red-painted lockers, just to drop it when that med student whose name he still can't remember passes through. Something about his face must throw the kid off, because she immediately apologizes and hightails it out of there. He half wishes for a trauma just so he can put himself out of his own misery.

"You're so nice. You help me with my lit review and refuse to co-author and you're always answering my texts at 2am." He doesn't point out how usually he's either working or struggling to fall asleep at that time, because even if he wasn't doing either of those, he'd find a way to text her back. He opens his mouth to say a censored version of this but stops when he hears a little sniffle at the end of the phone. What he'd give for a full-functioning ear.

"Samira?" His chest tightens and his shoulders straighten, preparing to fight an enemy that isn't there. "I only have a year left, and you're so nice." She reiterates strongly, as if he's supposed to understand what she's trying to say. They're friends, that he knows, so she's probably just hoping they stay in touch while she's off doing some world-changing fellowship in a hospital that doesn't dub its ER the Pitt. He imagines smothering his amygdala with a pillow whenever the thought of her leaving crosses his mind and focuses back on the situation at hand.

"Of course I'm nice, Mohan. Trying to get my best resident on more nights before Ellis goes insane from boredom." She scoffs a little, and he practically sees her wipe a stray tear and give a watery game face like she does any other day in the ER. "You just want someone to race you in sudoku." She argues, clearing her throat. He imagines her straightening her shoulders and pushing off the wall of whatever hallway she found in whatever dive bar they chose. Pulling down her dress before it rides up over moisturized legs that shine under LED lights. Shaking her curls so they brush the tips of her shoulders like he's imagined in his wildest fantasies.

"Guilty as charged." He runs a hand through his curls just to have something to do, not wanting the conversation to end.

"You're a good friend, Jack." He blinks away the sudden rush of emotion that floods through him. Friends is better than nothing, he reminds himself. Friends can sustain him a year, and then she'll leave and he'll be here but at least they'll be friends. Right where she left him and he'll turn dusty with disuse, but he won't scare her off with the pure want that cracked his heart the moment he met her, a 28-year-old intern that wore her own heart on her sleeve and existed as Robby's worst nightmare. It's been almost three years since then, and ever since he hear she drilled a Burr hole with an easy IO eight months ago, his occasional dreams of her turned into fully formed fantasies. He's been tempted to call Pysch a few times, only stopped by the thought of his therapist shaking his head at his antics.

So he won't tell her. Jack Abbot has lived through earth-shaking loss and he'll live through it again. He can't imagine life any other way.

"You're a good friend too, Mohan. Go have fun with the kids and text me when you're home, okay?" He's tempted to call her a car now, but he doesn't want to ruin her fun especially when she probably took weeks of convincing to even go out.

"Okay." She murmurs, whisper soft, and ends the call with a click. He sits there for a moment, staring at the calendar tacked up in the corner by the trashcan. 14 months and she'll be done. And he can't tell her, because he won't ruin this for her. It doesn't mean he can't daydream about it.

The door bangs open and Bridgette, the night shift charge nurse, bursts in. "I've been paging you for a minute now. Five car pileup by that broken stoplight a few blocks down. Eight victims, two minutes out."

Jack Abbot stands up, shakes off his melancholy, and soldiers on.

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roastedginger · 6 days ago

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the concept of samira taking cassies words to heart and trying to get a life so she takes less doubles and jack thinks he's done something wrong and starts moping around the pitt

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roastedginger · 6 days ago

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I have spend the past 10 minutes laughing at the mental image of this moment.

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‘Like turn around and be like I know you are my superior but I need to fuck me into next week?’ Samira bemoaned throwing her back across the back of her chair. Staring up at the chandelier but not really seeing it.

'That would get any mans attention.'

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roastedginger · 6 days ago

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Risk Management: Charlie Reid x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

Summary: Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

You are Charlie’s downfall.

He didn’t know it when you first met but he knows it now as he stands before you in the Intelligence Unit. You have a deer caught in the head lights expression on your face and he’s trying to figure out how he missed the big fucking elephant in the room. His gaze strays down to the badge hanging around your neck, the gold shield glinting in the light.

Detective… he deduces before you turn your head away, swallowing hard.

You didn’t know he was a cop either, he realises.

You were just two lonely people who ran into each other in a bar, shot pool and then had earth shattering sex.

It was supposed to be one and done but you’d left your number on a post-it with a lipstick kiss by his coffeemaker. He hadn’t meant to call but he couldn’t get that night out of his head, your soft skin underneath his rough palms, the taste of you on his tongue, the way you said his name as you climaxed, gripping his dick so tight you’d wrung every single ounce of ecstasy out of his body.

He’s had great sex before but this was something different, he’d known it the moment you’d run your hands through his burnished silver curls in the aftermath, lips brushing over the love bite you left on his shoulder.

You’ve been dating for over a month now, you staying at his place, him staying at yours and he still didn’t click on. He wracks his brains for signs, something that he’s missed but there’s nothing. No pictures on the wall from your academy days, no essence of anything that ever indicated you were a cop. He’s the same with his brownstone. His home a sanctuary away from all of that, somewhere he can put on one of his records and enjoy a top shelf scotch.

“You told me you were an loss prevention.” He accuses later that evening. The two of you are standing in his kitchen, both badges tossed onto the counter, your Glock alongside his SIG. He’s still wearing his glasses because you’re pounding on the door had interrupted him scrolling through your file on his tablet.

“You told me you were in risk management.” You counter and he sighs because in a way you were both kinda telling the truth, you just didn’t fill in the details.

That’s the thing when you’re a cop, you don’t tell other people you’re a cop, not in today’s landscape.

It would be easier to just cut you loose, agree to go your separate ways but the problem is Charlie, he’s in love with you. He has been ever since the day you came over with that soup your mama used to make when you heard he was sick. He’d spent the entire day draped over you like a weighted blanket, his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat as the two of you watched old black and white movies like Casablanca and Brief Encounter. He thinks you might be in love with him too, which is the reason you came over here tonight instead of ghosting him like he expected.

“What are we gonna do about this Charlie?” You ask him, one hand on your hip as you look at him with those eyes, the ones he’s spent entire nights getting lost in.

Christ, he would give you the world if you wanted it, his clothes off his back, his heart torn straight out of his chest. You don’t realise the power you have over him, the lengths he would go to just so he could keep loving you.

“Nothing.” He says, his voice low and gravelly as his hands come to rest on the counter behind you, trapping you against it. His entire body presses against yours, chest to chest, hip to hip. He can feel your heartbeat thundering against his own, the heat between your legs as his hardening cock fits perfectly against the inner seam of your jeans. “Now come to bed with me, I missed you last night.”

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