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Well and Good

Fandom: The Pitt Pairing: Jack x Samira Rating: E Word Count: 4667

Summary: Dr. Ellis tasks Jack with doing something about Dr. Mohan's end-of-shift adrenaline. As always, he's here to help.

The heft and swing of the glass door as Jack leaves his last patient feels like flirtation. It’s like this sometimes, coming off executing another procedure he can’t quite believe he was allowed to do here. He can pack an abdomen like a motherfucker, but in this hospital, the maneuver has a bad-boy cachet equivalent to stealing a sportscar. It’s both fucking stupid and energizing, giving him a last hit of adrenaline as the day finally seems to be approaching its end.

He pumps sanitizer into his palms, working them together briskly as he nods at Dr. Ellis, getting her attention with a quick, “Hey.”

She halts her swift stride and turns to him, eyebrows raised inquiringly.

“What’ve we got?” he asks.

“We’ve got nothing,” Ellis shoots back. “You’re done for the day.”

“I can do one more.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. The look on her face still says go home, but Jack can’t let himself, not yet, not when he had his hands in a guy a minute ago and he can still feel the weight of the door until it gave way under his push. He crosses his arms too, staring Ellis down.

“Seriously,” she says. “There’s nothing urgent at the moment. Get out of here before that changes.”

“If there’s nothing urgent, where are you going in such a hurry?” he demands with a frown.

Ellis laughs.

“The bathroom. It’s been a little difficult to take a break the last couple of hours.” She starts to continue on her way, then stalls. “If you really want a job, you can go up to the roof. We’ve got more blood coming in by helicopter.”

Not exactly thrilling, but…

“I’ll take it,” Jack tells her.

He’s about to head off before Ellis beckons him closer and lowers her voice.

“Take Mohan, would you? She’s as bad as you—won’t leave.”

“You mean as dedicated as me,” Jack jokes, though he’s straight-faced.

“Whatever. Just take her. Get her outta the ER for a few minutes.”

“Can do.”

Of course he agrees. What else can he do? Not mention that whatever similarity between himself and Dr. Mohan that Ellis is picking up on isn’t even the half of it, that he felt more than that when he and Mohan were working in proximity earlier? There was something there, as they moved around one another—sometimes at the same patient, sometimes at neighbouring gurneys—that made him feel like he was getting away with something. Even though he wasn’t doing anything but his job. He thought maybe Mohan felt it too. It was similar to the feeling he got during his latest procedure: everything going off without a hitch, yet some sense of flying in the face of the rules, or else far above them. Whatever it is Jack feels around Dr. Mohan, it’s nothing he can solve with the contents of his go-bag.

He’s heading into the situation unprepared, but it doesn’t slow him down. Jack’s not really wired like that.

He finds Dr. Mohan beaming up at the screen, and it’s so incongruous after the night they’ve had that he just blinks at her for a second. To snap her out of it, Jack gives her a quick tap on the shoulder.

“You’re with me,” he informs her.

Right away, Mohan nods.

“Where to?”

“Up top. Receiving blood.”

Jack begins to lead her towards the elevator, but her walk is practically a bounce, the ends of her neck-slung stethoscope clutched giddily in her hands like a roller coaster harness, so he adapts, altering the plan.

“On second thought, let’s take the stairs.”

“Ok.”

They head that way instead. It’s hard to steal glances at her from the corner of his eye when she’s walking slightly behind him, deferring to seniority, but he can almost feel her smiling. Not that it has anything to do with him. The ways chaos lingers are personal. If Mohan’s still hyped up, feeling invincible, Jack has patience for that. He’s certainly seen uglier reactions to blood and noise and violence. He’s seasoned enough to know it won’t last, and he’s glad to be with her in case she crashes soon. Solely for her well-being. Nothing to do with liking her smile.

Jack arrives at the door to the stairwell first and reaches out to push it open for her. Mohan keeps looking at him, keeps smiling at him, as she steps through the opening. She’s close enough to brush against him if she wanted to, without anyone seeing, but of course she won’t. Never mind her manic smile; of the two of them, she’s probably got a tighter grip on her sanity. Before he follows, Jack takes a steadying breath through his nose.

As soon as the closed door shuts them in, it’s quieter. Jack’s leg was already beginning to ache from standing, so taking the stairs probably isn’t the best idea, but he’ll deal with it later, knead his thumbs into the muscle for relief. Sometimes, keeping future relief in mind is enough to get him through the present. Mohan helps with that too. Though he’s chosen the more physically strenuous path, she’s here next to him. He can tell she’d like to bound up the stairs at a quicker pace, but she’s restraining herself. Barely. Jack watches her as he grips the railing to turn and mount the next landing. Her hair’s been disheveled for a while and she hasn’t fixed it. He doesn’t want to point it out because it looks good. If anything, he’d be interested in seeing her a little more disheveled.

Over and over, Jack tempts fate by looking at Mohan a little too long, daring her to catch him. He knows he needs to fucking back off; if she really was feeling what he was feeling before, there in the thick of things, it might’ve only been adrenaline. Changes how people think. Changes their impulses.

They’re three floors up when Mohan brags, “I bored a hole in a patient’s skull with an IO drill.”

“No shit?” Jack remarks, staggered.

He steps down a little harder on the next stair, trying to produce a dull pain in his leg that convinces his cock not to get hard right now. His body’s sore and exhausted and he saw some really bad shit today, but that doesn’t seem to matter. The thought of Mohan revving that drill, untethered from convention and, probably, from permission (off the top of his head, Jack can’t think of anyone who would’ve approved that, except himself, and he only wishes it’d been him), turns him on immediately.

“Jealous?”

He’s very careful with his face.

“Of you or the patient?” he jokes dryly.

“Either,” she decides with a nod, and then a grin.

“Of you then. Not every day you get to poke around in somebody’s head.”

Mohan makes a slight hmm of agreement, then seems to speak before thinking through the words: “Would you ever wanna poke around in mine?”

The crude jokes are there in the seconds Jack doesn’t speak. There’s silence, because Mohan isn’t speaking either, just panicking beside him (if he’s any judge of body language) as their shoes continue to hit the steps. He wants to help her out of this. All of him but his cock. He hopes she keeps her eyes trained straight ahead.

He fails as soon as he opens his mouth.

“Anything in there you think I should see?” he asks, and there’s no question the tone is flirtatious.

If he’s counting on Mohan to pick up the slack on responsibility here, she’s ready to teach him he shouldn’t.

She says, “I’ve got stuff you’d wanna see, if you’ve got the balls to look.”

That’s more than he can ignore, even clenching his jaw as he tries. They’re rounding another landing, and Jack rounds on her instead, turning his body to block the path of Mohan’s, still in motion. She jerks to a stop, expression flustered. That could be from the climb. He’s been waiting for one of them to surrender, but not like this. He just thought Mohan’s adrenaline might have died out by now. Looking her in the eye, he can clearly see it hasn’t.

“Sorry!” she blurts immediately. “Sorry, I-I…”

He stares while she stammers, and when no more words arrive, he gently asks, “Are you sorry? Because it seemed like you were making a pass at me.”

Jack doesn’t do anything to make Mohan retreat the way she does, doesn’t get any closer to her as she backs herself into the wall on the landing, here between the third and fourth floors, nobody coming or going but the two of them. They hold each other’s gaze, Mohan wide-eyed.

“My mouth got ahead of my brain,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Ah. That’s something: shouldn’t have said that isn’t the same as didn’t mean it. And he really thinks she did. She’s clinging to that wall like he’s pinning her against it and all he has on her are his eyes.

Subtly, Jack shakes his head.

“Own it.”

It doesn’t come right away. That’s alright. He’s never thought it was a bad thing that Dr. Mohan takes her time. His gaze drops for a second to clock the visible rise and fall of her chest. Her chin ticks up.

“I was making a pass at you.”

He makes a face like this is mildly interesting, like she proposed a patient treatment and he’s weighing it in his head.

“It’s been building for hours,” she adds, voice now bordering on defiant. Jack can feel the tug at the corner of his mouth.

He asks her, “What has?”

“This.”

He asks again, “What?”

When Mohan bites back, “You know damn well,” Jack finds himself full-on grinning.

Instead of pressing her on the diagnosis, he wants to hear more about the symptoms.

“Good,” he gives her, taking a step forward. Her gaze sweeps over him. “Based on what.”

“Proximity?”

“Couldn’t be helped. What else?”

“Eye contact,” Mohan says with greater confidence.

“More than just checking in?”

“Extended,” she confirms. “We were looking at each other almost as much as at some of those patients.”

“Good,” he says, nodding, stepping forward again. “And?”

“Praise. Compliments. Credit.”

“All deserved,” Jack clarifies, so she knows he isn’t mixing up this undefined thing with his belief in her skill as a doctor.

“The rest of it I don’t really have a word for, but it’s there.” She’s staring him down and the hair on the back of his neck is standing up.

“Trust your instincts,” he says, like he’s still teaching her and not out of his depth but continuing to wade in. He stops in front of her, heart thudding heavily. Delicately, he reaches to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Mohan’s head comes off the wall, and since she’s leaning in, Jack leans too. He’s angling his head—glance at her eyes, glance at her parted lips—when she leans back abruptly.

“Wait. What about Dr. Walsh? What’s the deal there?”

He could never be offended by her straightforwardness.

“She asked me out once,” he says. “I said no. I could say she’s still pissed, but I don’t want to sell her short on her ability to just be pissed in general.” Jack smiles to emphasize that there are no hard feelings between him and Walsh. Only when they butt heads over procedures.

Crossing her arms, Mohan studies him.

“Why’d you say no?”

Jack raises his eyebrows.

“I think people should be able to stand each other.”

“What about chemistry?” Mohan parries.

Alright, this? This, he’s happy to answer for her.

“Swapping insults isn’t chemistry. Chemistry is having blood under your fingernails and still wanting to tear the other person’s clothes off because they’re alive.” He concludes with a whispered assurance: “And because you can.”

He watches as Mohan swallows.

“And that’s…?” she tries. “You want…?”

“To tear your clothes off? Yeah.” Mohan’s still pressed to the wall, but it’s more like she’s melted against it now, so Jack closes nearly all of the distance between them before adding, “And I’ll give you another reason, Dr. Mohan: because you want me to. Do I have you right?”

She’s always surprising him, so he should know better than to guess she’ll come back with something ironically clinical like, I suppose that’s an accurate assessment, Dr. Abbot.

No, what she does is confess on a breathy exhale, “You could have me even if you were wrong.”

Her mouth goes for his like she could snatch it off his face, and she fists the front of his scrubs with both hands, yanking his whole body as close as it can get to hers. So, against. After careful taps to let each other know their movements around a surgery, after the accidental grab of fingers while passing a scalpel or forceps, after the shushing brush of their scrubs every time they nearly made contact, Dr. Mohan’s body is pressed against his. Samira.

He knows she knows how ready he’s been for this because she gasps when their hips meet.

As they kiss—demanding, single-minded—Samira’s hands smooth over his ribs, up his back. Jack’s land on her hips, and when they don’t rove the way Samira’s do, he starts to worry that’s where they’ll stay. Chrissake, he isn’t shy. And he shouldn’t be nervous—not when Samira’s hand skates down to his ass to encourage him to push his erection harder against her. And he’s not. Just. Usually, the punches life makes him roll with hurt. Kissing Samira Mohan is like getting tackled flat without ever feeling the fall.

Jack breaks the kiss, panting. He releases her hips so he can go for the tie on her scrubs.

“Yes?” he asks, hand poised above her loosened waistband.

Samira sighs out, “Yes,” and grabs his hand to guide it into her pants.

He’s lucky. The adrenaline doesn’t make her rush him. The exhaustion hiding just beneath doesn’t seem to dull things for her in any way. Jack caresses between Samira’s thighs over her underwear, then inside it. His jaw and neck are tensed so he doesn’t lose his shit, but she starts kissing him there, up and down his throat. His fingers quiver against her with a little of his own adrenaline, and when he turns his head to compose himself, Samira bites his earlobe, groaning through her teeth.

Jack snaps his head forward to stare her down, the motion of his fingers rougher as he plunges them inside her, then withdraws from her underwear to rub the cotton into her clit, a little extra friction. Samira rocks against him, head lolling back against the wall. Her grip is firm though, there, squeezing his upper arm. He can feel her name, her first name, in the back of his throat, but it won’t come out—not when Samira begins to gasp and shudder, not when he shoves a leg between hers to make her finish by grinding herself across his thigh. He thinks he might need a head scan because the impatient ache of his erection feels like it's putting pressure on his fucking brain. Either that or the sight of Samira post-orgasm makes him lightheaded.

It takes both Jack and the wall to keep Samira on her feet after that, and he thinks he might’ve wrung her out, the hours finally catching up. The look in his eyes is tender as he seeks hers, hunching a little to look at her square. She watches him for a few moments, then tips her face up wordlessly, a request. Jack kisses her, keeping it gentle even when he feels her tongue.

Samira pulls back with a lazy smile, and here he is, nervous again, even though the fingers he’s digging into her waist to hold her up are the same ones that were just inside her. She’s incredible. He’s a mess. Thank god he’s gotten good at not showing it.

“Why don’t you go home,” he suggests.

Samira is immediately focused and frowning.

“But we aren’t done.”

“It doesn’t take two people to receive a blood delivery,” he points out. “I’ll take care of it.”

But Samira says, “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m still waiting to have my clothes torn off.”

Jack laughs thinly in surprise.

“Circumstances were hardly conducive,” he offers, gesturing around them at the empty—yes—but not defunct stairwell. Someone could come. Anyway, when he told her he wants to tear her clothes off, he meant it, but he meant it against the backdrop of a bedroom, of his big, soft bed, where he could toss her down and strip her bare and lap her up. He tries to tell her with the hot look in his eyes.

She just levels him with a stare and says, “They never are, and I don’t need them to be.” She throws up her hands. “Honestly, the way you always just do what needs to be done no matter what the circumstances are is really, really sexy. You know that, right?”

“This a performance review?” he jokes.

Samira smirks and reaches between them. Jack grunts.

She says, “Not yet.”

He cocks his head and plucks at her shirt, lifts it up her stomach to reveal the blue t-shirt beneath, lifts it up her chest so he starts to see the shape of her the scrubs hide, lifts it to her armpits, where she’s forced to quit handling him through his pants so she can raise her arms and let him whisk this first layer off. He tosses it aside. In Jack’s opinion, tearing clothes off doesn’t have to be violent—it just has to feel inevitable. The look he gives her promises he will get down to skin.

Her t-shirt’s snugger, but he peels that away too. He stares down at Samira in her bra, breathing through his nose. She makes no move to remove this last item, reaching for his hem instead, divesting him of the top half of his scrubs. It’s still dangling from her fingers when he strips off the t-shirt he was wearing under it and her expression goes slack. Yeah, he knows how she feels.

They grab for each other greedily, hot skin in contact as he holds her against him. But it’s not enough now. Samira’s hand down the front of his pants, stealing into his briefs, confirms that. His ability to find a way despite the circumstances turns her on? Ok. He can do that.

Jack pulls out of the kiss, out of her touch (regretfully), so he can snatch his scrub shirt from the floor. With his other hand, he grabs Samira’s, towing her over to the steps leading up to the fourth floor. A few steps up from the landing, he spreads out his shirt.

Samira says, “Huh?”

He drops her hand to undo his scrubs. Standing in front of her, Jack shoves pants and underwear down and takes a seat on his shirt. He offers a tight shrug she probably doesn’t notice, since she’s staring at his flushed cock.

If only everyone who’s ever called this woman Slo-Mo could see how fast she yanks her own pants and underwear off—completely, right over her sneakers—then makes the no-nonsense announcement, “I’m on birth control, plus Princess was giving everybody condoms earlier. Don’t know what that’s about.”

Jack knows he started it, but being presented with Samira’s almost entirely naked body still gives him whiplash. He’s glad when she retrieves the condom from her dropped pants and passes it to him; it gives him something to do, a task that steadies him. As soon as he gets it on, she gets on him, straddling his lap on the stairs.

“Balance is a little tricky,” she admits, holding his shoulders.

Eyes all over her and hands eager to follow, Jack vows, “We’ll make it work.”

Then he tries to hide his grin because he sees how it affects her, his tenacity. It’s sweet that she’s easy to read. He can’t relate, but maybe he appreciates her all the more because of it. Jack holds the underside of Samira’s thighs as she spreads them wider to get closer to him. She rolls her hips, playing with angle, and he makes a low sound, kneading her legs with his fingers. Because it’s Samira, she’s quick to show mercy, just not before making sure the length of the condom’s good and slick.

Jack keeps one hand under her thigh as she presses his cock inside her, but the other finds hers on his shoulder and holds it.

Samira seats herself, eyelids fluttering and mouth open but still waiting on sound. Jack has plenty that could fill the silence, but he keeps them in, focuses on her. He shifts and she sinks a little deeper, and then the sound comes, the cry that cracks in the air.

“Sorry,” she says with her eyes closed. “Shit.”

Seated yet out of breath, Jack insists, “Never apologize for that. Holy fuck, never apologize.” There’s sweat rolling down his spine.

Samira’s moving, swaying, ramping up to a pace that makes Jack rest his forehead against her, where it gets knocked repeatedly by her clavicle. Even so, he kisses across her upper chest. He lets go of her hand to slip his inside the cup of her bra. Samira moans when he tugs her nipple.

She rides him fast, and he thinks they’re doing pretty goddamn well until she pants, “I’m getting a cramp in my leg.”

Jack adapts by holding her still and thrusting up into her instead. This makes her scratch her nails through his hair and groan, giving in to the manipulation of her hips in his hands. He doesn’t think he can do this endlessly, but long enough. He wets his lips in preparation for telling her to touch herself, to do what he’d do gladly, except he’s got her hips in a ruthless grip now and won’t let go, won’t let go, driving up into her body.

Somewhere above them, there’s the bang of a stairwell door. Quick steps.

Samira’s gasping, scrambling off his lap, and Jack’s tugging his pants up, fumbling the tie. He still has the damn condom on.

“This was so reckless,” she’s hissing at him, but he’s grinning, and it makes her smile too as she hops back into her underwear, scrub pants temporarily abandoned in a tangle around her shoes.

While she tries to pull them up and he glances around for his t-shirt, he stops to listen. When Samira notices he’s stopped his frantic redressing, she pauses too. Listens.

“They went up,” Jack interprets. “They’re gone now.”

Unlike his erection which, like him, knows how to pitch a sturdy tent. Samira can’t miss it when her assessing gaze scans over him. She continues to study him as she gets her pants up, as she picks up her t-shirt, then doesn’t get any further than holding it in her hands. She almost speaks before pulling her shirt over her head instead. When it reemerges through the neck hole, she looks like she’s decided something.

“We can’t,” she announces.

Jack just looks at her, apparently prompting her to say, “Don’t.”

And he doesn’t. He isn’t. He puts his shirt on too, which very entertainingly makes Samira sigh.

Only then does he say, “I trust you, Dr. Mohan. And I defer to your call.”

His smug smile is mashed under her incoming lips, which is fine by him.

“You did that on purpose,” she accuses.

“Respect you?”

“I’m giving you three minutes.”

“And I’m grateful.”

Under Samira’s parameters, Jack takes control, managing the situation. He kisses her again, deeply, then firmly turns her towards the stairs. She gets the idea, leaning forward, even bracing her hands directly on the edge of a step instead of his scrub shirt so they won’t slip. He undoes her scrubs first, letting them drop from her hips, then hooks his fingers around her underwear and drags them down past her knees. This forces Jack to crouch, and he looks at her, looks up between her legs to where she’s still wet from how they left off. He hesitates.

“Two and a half minutes,” Samira says shakily, like she knows just what he’s thinking, but there’s no time for a detour.

“Are you counting?”

“Just in the back of my head.”

“Your brain is fucking incredible,” Jack says admiringly, then pushes down on his knees, forcing himself to stand.

Which is hardly a terrible option. He’s less distracted undressing himself than he was with her, pushing back inside in no time to a soft moan from Samira and a rougher groan from his own mouth. He can’t believe he’s done this twice today: entered her. Moment to moment, things aren’t always so bad.

In efficient strokes, Jack fucks her from behind. He slides one hand up the back of her t-shirt, instinctively grasping the band of her bra; it stretches as he snaps his hips forward, but still provides some leverage.

“You like that,” he says. Not a question. An evaluation based on the way her body clutches his cock. “How’re we doing for time?”

Samira moans.

Jack’s lips tick up and he wraps his forearm snugly around her hips, feeling his way to her clit. He’ll get her there—not just because of the time limit she’s wisely imposed, but because he’s too fucking close to draw this out much longer. He feels flushed with heat, ready to blame it all on Samira, the warmth radiating off her. She’s… she’s…

“Jack,” she whines, hanging her head. He spies her fingers white-knuckling the step.

He rubs her clit like it’s a lifesaving measure. He rubs until her thighs are quaking. He rubs until she gets so tight around him that he reimagines what his death will look like. He rubs until Samira comes, then he slides his hand lower, framing the place where his cock shuttles in and out, fingers soaked in her. Jack clamps his eyes shut and feels Samira cover his hand with hers.

“Fuck, that’s good,” she mumbles, sounding wiped-out and content.

Jack twists his index finger around her pinky and lets go.

—

Ellis stops midstride to narrow her eyes at them. Jack already has his bag slung over his shoulder, but he’s walking Samira to the lockers, the pair of them loping along. She’s let her hair down. He’s resisting finding out how it feels.

“You’re looking calmer,” Ellis remarks to Samira.

“Blood’s with Lena at the nurse’s station,” Jack informs Ellis, so Samira doesn’t have to answer.

“Uh huh,” Ellis replies flatly, shifting her gaze to him. “Windy up there on the roof?”

Jack and Samira glance at each other. Even with the events of today, they might need an excuse for looking as rumpled as they do.

“A little,” Samira pipes up. “Plus, we took the stairs.”

“You took the stairs?”

Jack nods and doesn’t clarify that they only took them to the fourth floor, where they exited the stairwell in favour of riding the elevator the rest of the way up. It’s a lot of stairs.

“Alright,” Ellis allows slowly, still looking at them with suspicion. “Thanks. Have a good night.”

“You too,” Jack says.

In the locker hall, he leans against the bank of doors and watches Samira’s profile as she enters her code. She gets the door open, then flashes him a quick sideways look, catching him staring.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

And he isn’t.

Samira glances at him again, then faces forward, stuffing a sweatshirt into her backpack.

“Fine,” she tells the inside of her locker. “But we’re just going to sleep.”

Later, sprawled naked on her creased sheets, Jack reflects that he has nothing but respect for Samira’s ability to reassess a situation, then proceed with a revised course of action.

He’d like to think she learned it from him.

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