Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Like a lot of stories, it starts with a phone call.

Samira can’t even blame alcohol for her mistake. It’s barely eleven in the morning, and she doesn’t day-drink, unless it’s mimosas at brunch, but she hasn’t been to brunch since she moved to Durham for her fellowship. She’s simply not paying attention, juggling a storm of documents across her desk, a dozen tabs screaming for focus on her laptop, and the thick patient file in her hand. She’s running on too much caffeine and not enough sleep, trying to compile the data efficiently while barely glancing at her phone before pressing it to her ear.

It takes four long rings for the call to connect.

“Robert, finally,” she says immediately. “Are you in the building? I really need you to send me the—”

“Dr. Mohan?”

She freezes. That voice. She hasn’t heard it in months, but she recognises it instantly.

“Robby?”

She pulls the phone away from her ear. Instead of the familiar “Robert DUMC” caller ID she was certain she’d dialled, the screen glows with “Robby PTMC.”

“Mohan?” Robby repeats, cautious now.

“Shit,” she mutters, then quickly brings the phone back. “Robby. Hi.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks right away, concern threading through his tone.

“Yes. God, sorry. Everything’s fine. I didn’t mean to call you.”

“Figured,” he says, and his tone in that single word makes her want to drop her forehead onto her desk. In the background, she can hear a familiar chaos: distant sirens, muffled voices behind him.

“Fuck, are you on shift?”

There’s a brief hesitation, the kind that tells her he’s deciding whether to lie. “I stepped out. Thought it might be important if you were calling out of the blue.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, leaning back in her chair, eyes closing for a second.

“It’s okay. I’m just glad it wasn’t an emergency.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and awkward. Samira stares at the blinking cursor on her document, the unfinished sentence waiting for her. Instead, she listens to the faint rhythm of Robby’s breathing on the other end of the line. This is the first time they’ve spoken since she left Pittsburgh, and she honestly hadn’t thought they ever would again.

“Sorry again, Robby. I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I should go… Have a good day, then.”

“You too. Well, as good as a shift can be.”

She hears the small puff of a laugh escape him. It’s familiar somehow.

“Bye, Mohan.”

“Bye, Robby.”

She hangs up and sets the phone down on her desk like it might burn her. For a long second she just stares at it, then lets her forehead drop between her arms with a low groan. It’s fine, she tells herself. These things happen. At least it wasn’t a butt dial; she could have embarrassed herself so much worse. Yeah…Could’ve been worse. She exhales, straightens up, and forces herself back into the data. When she goes to make another phone call later, she double-checks the contact before calling. Her eyes still linger on “Robby PTMC” in her call history for one extra second.

That night, after a day spent burying herself in work, Samira comes home to her barely furnished apartment and decides she’s earned a glass of wine. She reheats the leftover Chinese takeout and carries her plate and laptop to the couch, putting on a mindless TV show for background noise while she finishes editing the day’s notes.

Her phone dings halfway through the episode.

She sits up straighter, staring at the notifications. She turns the phone face down on the cushion beside her and tries to focus on the show again. After realising she has no idea what happened in the last two minutes of dialogue, she sighs and turns the TV off.

She makes quick work of the dishes, then goes through her bedtime routine on autopilot: a fast shower, skincare, teeth brushed, work bag packed for tomorrow. Only when she’s finally under the covers in her sleep shirt and shorts does she pick up her phone again.

She ignores the little red badge on her messages app and checks her two alarms and email one last time. Then, almost reluctantly, she opens the text.

She scrolls up through their old message thread. There’s almost nothing there, just the occasional logistical messages about shift changes or meetings they both had to attend. They had never used this chat for anything outside of work.

Samira types, deletes, types again. Finally, she sends:

It’s a good message, she thinks. Neutral. It doesn’t ask anything that forces him to reply if he doesn’t want to. He does anyway. The response comes in under two minutes.

Same tone she used. Short and professional. She didn’t expect anything else. Still, it feels strange hearing him mention the fellowship after everything that happened last year. She decides not to dwell on it. She’s spent enough time on that already.

She sets the phone down, turns off her lamp, and goes to sleep.

That should have been the end of it. But a week later, while she’s eating lunch on a bench outside the Duke Medical Center, her phone vibrates.

Samira is surprised he reached out again. She had filed their brief exchange away and told herself not to think about it. She’s always been good at compartmentalising after all.

She hesitates, then adds, for no reason she can name:

He doesn’t reply right away; he’s probably still on shift. It surprises her that he even took the time to ask. He never used to take breaks during a busy stretch when they worked together. Maybe he’s changed. Four months is a long time after all.

His reply comes at the end of the day.

Samira stares at the two words for a long moment. It’s been weeks since she’s really talked about herself,  about anything outside of work updates. She hasn’t made any real friends since moving here. She has colleagues she likes, but nothing that’s grown beyond polite hallway conversations. She barely talks to her mother anymore, and she grew distant from most people back during med school. Mel is still her closest friend from the Pitt, but as a new senior resident, she’s swamped, and now that she’s dating someone seriously, she’s even less available. Samira doesn’t blame her. She’s happy for Mel, and her friend still sends the occasional meme or quick check-in. It’s just different. Lonely.

So she tells the truth. Because she needs to complain to someone, and if that someone happens to be Robby… well, that’s how it’s going to be tonight.

She supposes he must be home now, because his reply comes quickly.

Samira raises an eyebrow, surprised. She stops stirring the sauce on the stove to respond.

He adds a second later:

She smiles despite herself, turning the stove off before typing back.

By the time she settles onto the couch with her plate balanced on the coffee table, his reply is already waiting. She doesn’t bother turning on the TV like she usually does.

This time, she can’t help it, a small laugh escapes her. It feels strange. She’s grown so used to associating Robby with heavier emotions: annoyance, frustration, anger. Laughter feels almost foreign in this context. Her phone buzzes again.

She reads the last line twice. Talented. High praise from a man who has never seemed quick to give it, at least not to her face. She hates how warm it makes her feel, even now, even when she is no longer his student.

Weirdly, she can tell he means it. She finally sets her phone down and turns on the TV. Her dinner has gone a bit cold, but she doesn’t care.

A few days later, Samira steps out of her fellowship director’s office and opens her message thread with Robby without even thinking about it. Her thumb taps across the screen as she walks back toward her own office.

The three dots appear almost immediately. She tries not to stare at them. Unless it’s his day off, he should be on shift right now. A strange warmth spreads through her chest at the thought that Robby might be stealing a few precious minutes just to answer her. He must already have his phone out. She pictures him leaning against the hub desk or tucked in the break room, typing while the ER bustles around him. Dana is probably barking orders like always. The image is bittersweet. She misses them. All of them.

Samira is busier than ever. With two, sometimes three extra shifts added to her calendar, she practically lives at the hospital now. She doesn’t mind. She has never done well with boredom or empty time. People used to call her slow, but no one could ever call her lazy. She has always hated monotonous days, and that is exactly why the ER has always pulled at her, every shift different, every patient a new puzzle. Now that she sees more of those, she feels sharper and more invested even on her research days. Gideon cannot complain; she is producing better work. He even complimented her latest draft last week.

So when she and Mel finally manage to find time for a call, it feels like a rare gift. Samira is walking home from the hospital while Mel gets ready for a night out, holding the phone up as she changes outfits off-screen.

“It’s this new bar Trinity keeps pushing everyone to try,” Mel explains, shimmying into a different top. “She basically forced most of us to come. Said we deserved it after today.”

“Bad shift?”

“Kinda. But I think she’s mostly pissed at Garcia again.”

Samira laughs softly. “I can’t keep up with those two. Every time we talk, they’ve ‘broken up’ again. Can you even call it breaking up when it’s the world’s longest situationship?”

“Yeah, well, at least you’re lucky you’re not stuck in the middle of their drama anymore. It’s been tense around here the last couple of days.”

Samira tries not to let the words sting. She hasn’t told Mel how lonely she has been, how she would gladly take the chaos and awkwardness if it meant being surrounded by people she actually cares about. How much she wishes she were getting ready with them right now. She misses Trinity’s dramatic love life and her terrible drink tolerance, the way Dennis always makes sure everyone drinks water, and how Mel always demands “text me when you get home” texts. She misses all the small quirks she had finally started to learn once she let herself have a life outside work. Now she is back at square one.

“I can imagine,” Samira says after a beat, swallowing the ache. She focuses instead on Mel, who finally steps fully into frame. “Oh, Mel… you look gorgeous.”

“Really?” Mel beams, doing a little spin. “Not too much?”

“Definitely not. I love it when you wear your hair down like that. If a certain someone wasn’t already wrapped around your finger, that look would make him fall in love all over again.”

Mel’s blush is visible even through the screen. Samira loves how easily she still gets flustered when her new relationship comes up.

“Is he coming with you tonight?”

“No, not tonight. He’s having dinner with Abby and the kids. He’ll pick me up later, though.” Mel’s expression softens into something so purely happy it almost hurts to see.

“What a gentleman,” Samira sighs wistfully. “Well, say hello to him from me. And to everyone else.”

“I will. What about you? Any plans tonight?”

“A hot date with my couch,” Samira jokes, the self-deprecation landing a little too sharply. She doesn’t add the rest, that it’s the same as every other night. 

‘That’s nice !” Mel says, and Samira forces a smile because she knows her friend is being sincere.

They keep chatting until Samira reaches her apartment building. Before they hang up, she makes Mel promise to send pictures, even though she is sure she will see the whole night from every angle on Instagram later.

She is proven right the next morning. While the coffee brews, Samira scrolls through her phone, telling herself it is a bad idea even as her thumb keeps moving. Story after story from the night before fills her screen.

Dennis shared a ridiculous photo of him and Trinity sharing a drink with two absurdly large straws. Princess posts a close-friends story of everyone taking shots with the caption “these are your doctors, people.” Javadi shares a sweet group shot of the team crammed into a booth, captioned with a simple red heart. Then Santos posts several stories in a row: first a stunning, confident photo of herself in an outfit that would make anyone who ever let her go instantly regret it. Next, a cute shot of her and Mel laughing, a bright lipstick stain clearly visible on Mel’s cheek, captioned “finders keepers 💋”.

The ache in Samira’s chest grows heavier with every swipe. God, she misses them. She glances around her apartment, bare walls, empty boxes she hasn’t thrown away, still stacked in the corner, nothing that feels like home. She never bothered to decorate. Her mother would call her childish for this, for refusing to move on, for looking backwards when she should be focused on her future. But letting go has always been hard for Samira. Even before her father’s death, she struggled with it. Her mother still loves to tell the story of how Samira cried for weeks after her favourite plushie was thrown away as if it were funny instead of something Samira still thinks about twenty-five years later. Every time her family moved cities for her mother’s job, Samira had trouble adjusting. And of course, she became a doctor because she could not let go of the injustice that failed to save the person she loved most.

And now here she is, questioning whether this prestigious fellowship she fought so hard to get was even the right choice, all because she is drowning in FOMO for people who probably do not think about her nearly as often as she thinks about them.

She knows she should put the phone down and get ready for her day, but she cannot stop scrolling.

Javadi just posted another story, only five minutes ago. It is a short video of Santos groaning dramatically, head buried between her arms on the hub desk in the Pitt, clearly hungover. But Samira’s eyes narrow as she notices what is happening in the background. Robby stands near the board, Dana beside him. He is looking up at the patient board with a tense expression. She can’t hear what he is saying, but Samira can tell he is unhappy about something.

She replays the video one more time, just because.

Seeing Robby in his element stirs something complicated in her chest. As much as she misses the people, she does not miss every part of working at the Pitt. Especially not working under him. She does not miss the weight of his gaze, the way it always seemed to linger on her, catching every hesitation, every small flaw, every extra test she ordered just to be sure. She does not miss the sharp reprimands about her pace, her thoroughness, the way she “wasted time” verifying histories when there were sicker patients waiting.

His words had a way of wrapping tightly around her insecurities, precise and cutting, yet they never seemed to find the same eloquence when it came time to praise her.

And yet… she also cannot forget the rush of working alongside him. The intensity. The thrill of watching Dr. Michael Robinavitch do what he does best. The rare, heady moments when she got to stand right beside him, learning. The humiliating thrill of wanting so badly to impress him.

During her four years at the Pitt, she often wondered what kind of doctor she would have become if Robby had chosen to see her potential before her flaws. If he had decided to mentor her the way he mentored Langdon, and later Whitaker. What it would have felt like to be the one he called first when a major trauma rolled in. To earn his approval without feeling like she was constantly begging for scraps of it. 

Would she have become the kind of doctor who didn’t need his validation at all, because it would have been given freely?

She tries not to dwell on those questions anymore. Everyone knows “what if” never helps. She still earned this fellowship on her own, without his recommendation or his blessing. She is a good doctor. She knows that. Patients tell her so, her satisfaction scores please the administration, and she sees the difference she makes.

Still, a quiet part of her wonders if things could have been different between them. If maybe, they still could be.

Samira closes Instagram and opens her messages with him. She has no real excuse to text, but she finds herself wanting one anyway.

Luck is on her side because, late morning, during a meeting with Dr. Gordon, Samira finds the perfect excuse. She sits there half-listening, two fingers tapping restlessly against the phone in her pocket while he rambles about deadlines she already knows by heart. She has never given him a reason to doubt her; her reports are always on time. He worries that her extra ER shifts will slow her research, but the truth is the opposite: more time with patients has made her sharper and more productive. She is actually ahead of schedule, mostly because she works late into the night in her empty apartment, but it's not like she had anything better to do, right?

When Gordon mentions wanting her to have something ready to present at a medical conference in Washington in a couple of months, her attention snaps back into focus. She knows the conference well, as she attended it as a second-year resident. It is exactly the excuse she has been looking for. 

His reply comes a couple of hours later, while she is deep in compiling treatment variables on her computer.

Samira blinks at the screen, surprised. She didn’t expect him to know the topic of her research. A year ago, when the current administration cut funding for her study, she had only told a handful of people. She had been too exhausted and defeated to talk about it, especially not to Robby. She hadn’t wanted his pity. That same project was what eventually helped her secure this fellowship; she had submitted it hoping someone would see its value. Robby had never been deeply involved in her fellowship process, so the fact that he knows about it catches her off guard.

He takes nearly an hour to reply.

Samira smiles despite herself as she reads his message. She knows exactly how much he hates paperwork. She can easily picture the look of pure annoyance on his face at the thought of having to network, schmooze, or “kiss asses” just to get a paper accepted. 

She is in the middle of typing her reply when a new message appears.

Samira stops typing. Of course, Abbot would be the logical suggestion. His name appears on more publications than almost anyone in the department. But the idea makes her stomach tighten. She hasn’t spoken to him much since she left Pittsburgh. Their relationship had always felt… different. Special. He was the one mentor who truly saw her, who took the time to teach her. And she had let herself develop feelings for him, a hopeless crush she once believed might be mutual. Silly, really. At least she never embarrassed herself by telling him. Thank God she overheard him talking to Dana one morning about his late wife, how he still couldn’t bring himself to take off his wedding ring, how he probably never would. She had respected that about him, even as it quietly broke something inside her. Being in Durham had helped her move on. Mostly. But she is afraid that if she starts talking to him regularly again, the old feelings might creep back in.

It is far too complicated to explain to Robby, though. 

She stares at her short reply, thumb hovering. She doesn’t want the conversation to end yet, even though she knows she should get back to work.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to scramble for another excuse. Her phone vibrates again.

Samira sits up straighter in her chair, a spark of energy cutting through her fatigue. She starts typing a long message. To most people it would probably sound dry, but she knows her work is good, important, too. And for once, she has the chance to show Robby exactly how far she has come. She is not going to waste it.

She explains her latest findings in detail, the progress she is making on her proposed changes to the national triage protocol, and how the data is starting to support broader implementation. It takes her longer than usual to get the wording right, but she feels reassured knowing he is probably busy enough not to notice how long she has been typing.

When she finally hits send, she feels strangely energised. A quiet buzz runs through her chest as she turns back to her computer and dives into the next set of data with renewed focus.

She works straight through the afternoon. By the time she packs up and heads home, the sky is already darkening.

As she climbs the stairs to her apartment, her phone vibrates again. If she pulls it out in a hurry before she even reaches her door, well, there no here to witness it.

A small, satisfied smile tugs at her lips. She is doing great, yes. And now he knows it too. She types back quickly once she’s inside, her door clicking shut behind her.

She hesitates, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The apartment is quiet around her, like usual. Before she can overthink it, she adds:

She winces the moment she sends it. Maybe he was only being polite. He never really cared about her work before; why pretend now? Will he think she is still chasing his approval as she used to, even now? Does she? She hates that the question even crosses her mind.

Three dots appear almost right away.

Samira stares at the sent message for a long moment, double-checking the link even though she already opened it three times before sending it to Robby. Two days ago. He still hasn’t replied. The little “Read” mark that appeared barely an hour after she sent it has been mocking her ever since.

It’s fine, she tells herself. Maybe he wasn’t actually interested when they talked about it. Maybe he was just being polite, and now he’s trying to figure out how to let her down gently. Or maybe he doesn’t care at all. He probably hasn’t even thought about the draft since it landed in his inbox. Why would he? He never really cared about her work before.

It’s fine. It has to be.

She drops her phone into her locker and slams the door a little harder than necessary. At least today is an ER shift. At least here she can focus on what actually matters.

The moment she steps onto the floor, her mind narrows with familiar precision. Patients keep rolling in — a two-car MVC, a baby with a strange rash, a severe pneumonia, a teenager with a baseball bat injury to the shoulder, three STEMIs, one of which doesn’t make it. They come in waves from triage and the ambulance bay. Samira gloves up again and again, moving from procedure to procedure. She offers calm smiles to worried families, steady hands during intubations, and she knows she is good at this. She doesn’t need anyone to tell her that.

By the time she finishes her ten-hour shift, Samira is running on fumes. Her legs ache, every limb begs for her bed, and her once-tight bun has mostly collapsed, strands of hair sticking to her damp neck. She moves on autopilot, shoving her things into her bag and heading home.

Only once she is back in her apartment, hair freshly washed and wrapped in a towel, does she remember her phone. She picks it up, a bunch of notifications waiting for her. Work emails, a bill reminder for a streaming service she barely uses, one Instagram message from Jesse asking if she has watched the latest episode of their show… 

And seven messages from Robby. 

All sent at different times throughout the day, as if he had grabbed every spare minute between patients to text her.

She sits slowly on the edge of her couch, towel still twisted on her head, and opens the thread.

Samira stares at the last line longer than she should.

You’re good at pushing through when it matters.

The words sit strangely in her chest. Part compliment, part reminder of all the times he made her feel like she wasn’t pushing hard enough. She doesn’t know whether to feel warmed or irritated.

She settles somewhere in the middle, not ready to face everything she is feeling right now.

Instead, she reads every message again. And again.

He is impressed.

Has he ever been? She remembers making a strong impression during Pittfest, and he was definitely surprised, but she cannot recall him ever saying he was impressed by her. He never once mentioned her having the highest patient satisfaction scores in the department in her four-year residency. Not even once. 

Even though it is late and she is exhausted, a quiet satisfaction blooms in her chest. She finally managed it. After all this time, he sees that she is not in this field for nothing. That even if he had trouble with her pace, her thoroughness, her way of doing things… he has to admit now that she is doing work that matters, and she is doing it well.

She is not even annoyed by his notes. The draft is far from finished, and she still has months to refine it. She is not too proud to accept help, especially not from someone who has spent years in the trenches of the ER. Robby is exactly the kind of doctor she wants her work to reach: the seasoned ones who have been doing this so long they no longer notice their own biases, the unintentional ones they carry without realising. Those are the ones who need to read her study and acknowledge that they can be better.

And God knows Robby can be better.

She decides not to reply to Robby tonight. She is not sure what to say, and a quiet, petty part of her thinks: He left me on read for two days. He can wait one more.

Her mind is too full of conflicting emotions she does not want to examine. She goes to bed early, telling herself she has earned her day off tomorrow with no alarm. Sleep finds her faster than usual.

The next day, Samira moves through the world lighter than she has felt in weeks. The sun is warm and bright, so she walks to the small café near her apartment for breakfast, then does her weekly grocery shopping. She lets herself indulge; overpriced fancy granola, fresh strawberries, and a single pint of expensive ice cream she knows she does not need but buys anyway. For once, she does not calculate the cost in her head. Tomorrow is also an ED shift, and she is already looking forward to it, eager to see patients, to be useful, to lose herself in it. She should dread going back to work after a day off as most people do. But Samira has never been good at multiple days off in a row. The stillness always makes her restless, like she should be out there helping instead of sitting in her half-empty apartment. Some part of her always feels guilty for resting, and she loves her work, so is it really bad that she feels happy about it?

She refuses to think too hard about why she feels this good. It is definitely just the sleep. Definitely not the messages still waiting for her reply.

Later, back on her couch, she looks at the photo she had taken earlier in the café; her coffee and croissant with the sunlight spilling across the wooden table. On impulse, she posts it to her Instagram story — a rarity. She doesn’t use social media that much; her profile is nearly empty, with only three pictures posted years apart. She tells herself it is just to let people know she is still alive. The responses come quickly. Mel replies almost instantly: “This looks amazing!! we need to come try this place when I finally visit 🥹” (They have been talking about that weekend trip for months. Samira knows it is more wishful thinking than actual plans, but the words still make her feel less alone.) Trinity reacts with a fire emoji and writes: “cute but would be cuter with your face in it!!!” A few other Pitt people like the story, Jesse, Victoria…Then she sees it; @jck.abb0t liked it too.

Her chest tightens. She misses him more than she wants to admit. It would be so easy to open their old chat and say something. Too easy. But she knows exactly where that path leads: straight back into heartbreak.

Instead, she closes Instagram, opens her messages with Robby, and finally replies.

The message is marked “Read” almost instantly. The three dots appear right after.

The thumbs-up emoji pulls a surprised chuckle out of her. It feels less professional than their usual exchanges till then, but strangely… very Robby. The tiny crack in their polite formality loosens something in her chest. If he’s willing to step over the line first, she can’t help but follow.

Samira rolls her eyes, smiling.

A beat passes, then another message appears.

She stares at the message for a second, unsure why she felt the need to say it. Maybe she just wants to keep the conversation going. Before she can overthink it, she sends another.

The moment it sends, she second-guesses herself. That feels too personal. She never used to ask Robby about his days off when they worked together. She also never really cared. Back then, Robby only existed inside the walls of the Pitt, a figure impossible to impress. But now she is curious, and it’s just small talk. If he doesn’t want to answer, he can easily change the subject… or stop replying.

He doesn’t.

Samira blinks. A 10K? She tries to picture it. She remembers Langdon talking about his college track days, but Robby? She can’t recall him ever mentioning exercise once. She supposes he is a man in decent shape, though she’s never really let herself think about it. Is she supposed to be impressed? Congratulate him or–

Samira smiles, warmth spreading across her face.

She lets out a genuine laugh in the middle of her quiet living room. She’s seen Robby be funny with other people, a sharp, dry humour that made the team crack up during slow moments, but she had rarely been on the receiving end of it. She is about to ask what kind of gossip he has, if he truly has any, when another message appears.