Work Text:
Samira is 3 episodes in to Season 5 of Criminal Minds, and she has no idea what is going on.
Hotch was in the hospital, he got stabbed. She can’t remember by who. She really shouldn’t take such long breaks in between episodes and seasons, but by the time she settles down to watch it again after work or on her rare days off, she has no idea what had happened previously.
But now, with Jack’s feverish, sweaty head resting in her lap as he sleeps, completely worn out and exhausted and showing no signs of waking anytime soon, it seems like she has all the time in the world to catch up.
Today is Thursday, their day off thankfully. Jack and Samira had been working together on the day shift yesterday, after he swapped shifts with someone else who had plans they couldn’t get out off. He usually hated working the day shift, but working it with her made it worthwhile, and he had Dana and Robby.
It had started as a dull headache at around 11am, which he blamed on the agitated drug addict in North 4 and the screaming toddler in Chairs.
It then led to surges of nausea deep in his gut that made him skip lunch out of fear that he might end up seeing it again, and stomach cramps that felt like his stomach was trying to rip itself apart. He knew he had a fever too, he was freezing one minute and then so hot the next that he swore that he was starting to get dizzy.
He had barely seen Samira, but he could tell by the quizzical, concerned look on her face that she knew something was going on with him. Robby had attempted to be subtle and offered him breaks or drinks. Dana had outright told him that he looked like shit, and said that he should go home. Repeatedly.
Spoiler alert: Jack did not go home. He worked the rest of his shift, managed to annoy Walsh twice when she came down to the ER and had narrowly avoided throwing up in the shitty staff room toilets after a particularly rough bout of nausea.
He remembered meeting Samira by the car after work, and her helping him into the passenger seat. The ride home was a blur, he was in and out of sleep.
He didn’t really remember her getting him inside. Or how she sat him on the bed. Or her undressing him, and pulling a fresh pair of basketball shorts over his legs and up his hips. Or her gently taking off his leg, and carefully massaging what was left of it. He just about remembers holding the thermometer in his mouth for a few seconds, and her helping him swallow meds. What he does remember is the relief he felt after she pulled him against her in bed, and held him as his head rested on her chest, limp and sleepy. What he really remembered, and hoped he would never forget, was the soft, steady beat of her heart as it lulled him into a feverish sleep.
Samira hoped that he didn’t remember the carnage that followed. The nightmares that made him scream and cry out. The whimpers at the pain in his stomach. The fevered mumbling about his time in the Army. She’d always remember the wild, feverish look in his eyes when he woke up, drenched in sweat and shaking as he mumbled about his past patients or his fellow soldiers, his brothers, who hadn’t come home.
By 3:20am, his fever had shot up to 103.8, and he had thrown up 3 times into the basin that Samira thoughtfully put on the nightstand. There seemed to be nothing left in him but bile now, but it didn’t stop the forceful retching that tore his throat apart and made him struggle to breathe. Tears steadily flowed from his eyes and fell down his cheeks and dripped down his bare chest as he cried from the pain and the memories that ripped his feverish mind apart.
She’d never seen him like this. He was deathly pale, making his freckles stand out in stark contrast. No matter how much she held him, or rubbed his back or whispered sweet nothing soothingly in his ear, nothing seemed to calm him down. She knew he had to be exhausted, he looked exhausted, but his body wouldn’t let up.
So she resorted to the bottle of Ativan in his bathroom cabinet.
She managed to coax him into swallowing it, and he melted against her when she pulled him close, his head resting just under her chin. She played with the sweat-drenched silver curls at the back of his head, rubbed his back gently and whispered to him as his breathing began to even out, his eyes started to droop and the whimpering and crying started to lessen.
He was asleep within 20 minutes, and didn’t stir awake again. Samira didn’t take her eyes off him once for the rest of the night. Just watched the even rise and fall of his chest until the sun started to rise outside their bedroom window.
He woke up on his own just after 10am. He was quiet, and clearly still sleepy. He cuddled closer to her as she held him tighter. They stayed like that for a little while, before she got them both up and they carefully made their way towards the shower.
He was quiet as they showered together, as she washed his hair, her hands gently massaging his scalp. His eyes drooped as she helped him change into his softest pair of grey sweatpants and a navy t shirt. He was barely awake by the time they hobbled to the couch, as she checked his temperature again and forced more meds into him. 102.4. So much better than last night, but not great.
He was asleep again before his head even hit her lap.
Now, here they are. Samira trying to take her mind off of the sick man on her lap by watching Criminal Minds, of all things.
She was definitely going to have to change it when he woke up. He had seen some shit throughout his life, and so had she. But for a widowed veteran with a high fever who had flashbacks nearly all night, Criminal Minds was probably not the best comfort show.
She’d worry about that when he woke up though. For now, she was more intent on watching him than the show.
The way his freckles seemed to dance across his body and coat him from head to toe. She traced the ones showing on his arms gently, her fingers only dusting his skin. She never realised how attractive freckles were until she saw his, and now she couldn’t get enough of it.
His hair was still damp from their shower and a little sweaty as she played with his curls. They were so soft and smooth.
His face was fully buried in her stomach, like he was trying to hide, or mold into her. She didn’t mind. She never would.
He was so still. So calm. So completely exhausted. It isn’t often that he is this vulnerable or quiet or open. So she set out to make sure that he knew that it was okay, and that she would always be there for him.
And if that meant that she’d be sitting on the couch with his head in her lap on a rainy Thursday whilst she half watched Criminal Minds, well there was no place she’d rather be.