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When the doorbell rings, Samira is curled up on the couch, laptop screen dimmed, her reading interrupted by a yawn every few sentences. Jack told her not to wait up for him while he was tugging on clothes, hair still wet from the shower, curls dripping down his neck, but here she is more than five hours later. Sue her; she wants to spend time with her boyfriend. Even if he's probably dead tired after whatever insanity Shen's bachelor party entailed, she wants to see him come home. She knows how much she appreciates Jack sitting on the couch when she comes home, eyes immediately snapping to her, going soft and fond. "Hi, honey," he'll say and ask her how her day was. Will tell her if he made dinner or what restaurant he's thinking of ordering takeaway from if he didn't. She adores it, is quietly but fervently thrilled that there's a reason for her to hurry out of the Pitt, a reason for her to stop pulling quite as many doubles as she used to.
Somewhat confused as to why he would be ringing the doorbell instead of just using his key, Samira gets up and tiptoes to the door. Jack told her to stop opening the door without looking through the peephole first, and although Samira privately thinks the chance they're going to get robbed is close to zero considering the doorman to Jack's building and the numerous alarms installed, she doesn't mind accommodating him.
It's Jack's grey head of curls that she sees first when she looks through the peephole. He's standing in front of the door, but he's not alone; Ellis is standing next to him.
Samira, properly confused now, unlocks the two locks, opens the door, takes a closer look at Jack, and says, "Ah."
Ellis nods, something between a grimace and a laugh on her face. "Yeah, it's exactly what it looks like."
"Right," Samira says haltingly.
What it looks like is a series of bad decisions, because Jack looks very, very drunk. His cheeks and ears are flushed bright red, his eyes are screwed shut, there's glitter in his messed-up curls, and he seemingly can't stand on his own, because Ellis has her arm thrown across his shoulders, solid as a rock, while Jack is swaying, most of his weight leaned on and supported by his former resident turned close friend.
"Wha's it look like?" Jack slurs, brows knitting together. His eyelids flutter open—pupils wide, eyes glassy, Samira notes—to look at Ellis, confused and pouting about it. Then his gaze trips and stumbles until it inevitably lands at Samira's feet before slowly traveling up her body to her face. Jack's expression goes bright in an instant, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hiiiiiii, swee'heart," he drawls.
"Hello, Jack," Samira replies, failing to shove down a grin. She's never seen Jack drunk before and isn't quite sure what she's in for, but he looks cute, all red and messed up. He seems happy enough, too, but who knows? Maybe he'll spiral into a sad drunk. She doesn't think he would turn into an angry drunk, but that's about all she can wager in this specific scenario.
Jack grins at her, says, "Hi," again, then hangs on a drawled-out, slurred-out "Honey," and Samira looks to Ellis, who just shrugs. "He was very excited to go home," she tells Samira.
Jack nods, too fast and too strong, swaying out of Ellis' grip and towards her. Samira takes a step forward and catches some of his weight with a huff. He smells like his laundry detergent, his deodorant, and a fuck ton of tequila. Seems about right.
"I love bee—bee'n home," Jack mumbles into her sweater. "I 've so much to tell you.
For a beat, they stand in a weird amalgamation of two bodies tangled up in supporting a third one, who is desperately trying to crawl into the ribcage of one of the two people holding him up.
Samira laughs awkwardly, kind of overwhelmed, while Jack paws at her sweater until he manages to slip one warm hand under it and settle it on her waist.
"Can I give him to you?" Ellis asks. "No, don't answer. I'm giving him to you. I trust your expertise in handling this patient, Dr. Mohan."
Samira nods, gathering more of Jack into her arms, who just keeps muttering his joy about being home. "Do you think he's going to throw up?" she inquires, sending the top of Jack's head a suspicious look.
Ellis waves her off. "Nah, I told him you wouldn't like that. Rest assured, not puking is definitely in his top 3 on the priority list."
"Okay, well—thank you," Samira starts, interrupted by Jack's own very enthusiastic, "Thank you!"
"Get home safe?" she finishes, because Ellis might be walking, but she also looks slightly drunk.
"Do not even worry about me," Ellis tells her. "My girlfriend is waiting downstairs and she is not impressed by this detour, so I gotta head out."
"Thanks for bringing him home," Samira calls after her.
"Thank'u for bringing me home," Jack follows, face no longer buried in her sweater. "Woop, woop!"
Ellis, already walking down the hallway to the elevators, just sends them a peace sign over her shoulder and a bright laugh that bounces off the walls.
"Jack," Samira hisses. "It's 2 am; don't yell."
His gaze snaps to her, face falling. "Shit, I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so—Holy shit, so drunk. I don'—"
Samira sighs, feels how her insides turn all soft and gooey. She surrenders to the feeling. "I know, Jack," she soothes, petting a hand over his stubbled cheek. "You're okay."
"Promise?" he asks, looking abashed.
Samira nods. "Yes."
"Pinky promise?"
She raises her hand with a forced sigh that definitely doesn't fool Jack, pinky extended.
He grins, linking their pinkies, and tips into the wall left of him with a low thump. "Oops," he whispers, and Samira can hear the laugh he's trying to hold back. "They played my favorite song," he tells her quietly, proudly.
"I'm glad to hear that," Samira whispers back, fondness creeping up on her. She carefully nudges past Jack to get to the door, keeping her hands on him because she doesn't trust him not to just slide down the wall to the floor in this state. He's still talking about all the songs he recognized.
When she's shut the door, deadbolt slid into place now that Jack is home, she turns back around in what has transformed from her holding him upright to him clinging onto her like an octopus.
"They also liked s'me other songs I chose," Jack tells her, beaming at her. "Like—uh, like Poison, for example. And the rest I'll remember tomorrow. Maybe. Anyway, it was fun."
Samira smiles back. "I'm really happy that you had a good time." She knows how stressed he's been recently. He had some really bad shifts back-to-back and then there was the fight with Robby last week, which she's definitely not going to bring up now but can't help but think of.
"Thank you, sweetheart," Jack says, voice raspy and gentle. "I—hm, Samira, I wanna kiss you," he admits a beat later. "Real bad."
Well, Samira can probably live with the taste of however many shots of tequila he's downed tonight. Doesn't seem like a big price to pay for a kiss from Jack, so she leans in, expecting him to meet her halfway.
Instead, he rears back. "Wha' the fuck are you doing?" he asks, eyes wide and brows furrowed. "Don't kiss me. I taste—godawful, man, it's like bad-bad."
Samira's brows tick up, then she snorts, patting Jack's cheek. "God forbid I try to give my boyfriend a kiss when he asks for one."
"I me'n it," Jack says, words falling all mushed and rumbly from his lips. "I drank an entire—like at least fourteen—so much—Samira. Samira, are you listening to me? It was crazy. So crazy."
Samira hums. "I'm sure it was, baby."
Jack goes heavy and pliable in her grip, melting under the warmth of the pet name. Big mistake; she knows what calling Jack baby does to him. She should have known better, but she didn't, so now she's stuck trying to keep them from spreading to the floor in one big puddle of disgustingly sweet affection.
"Don't kiss me, honey," Jack whispers, gaze fixed on hers.
"You don't want me to kiss you?" Samira faux-pouts, figuring she's allowed to have some fun if she's looking after this wobbly mess of a man Ellis has handed into her care.
Jack gapes at her, eyes shiny. "Oh, you—" he says, freeing a hand to tap his index finger accusingly to her upper chest. "You d'not play fair, like, at all."
Samira offers him a smirk and adds, "So, we agree? No kissing?"
Jack looks thoughtful and desolate, then, all at once, his mouth forms a silent o and his brows tick up. "Mouthwash!" he exclaims, like he's just found the solution to every single one of earth's problems. "I love wh'n problems have solutions. So cool, baby, don't you think?"
Samira allows him the win and nods, giving his cheek a gentle parting tap. "Bathroom it is."
Jack hurriedly turns around in her hold like he's a dog and she's just thrown his most favorite ball. Samira stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "Shoes off," she responds to his confused look back at her. She likes his combat boots, likes how they make him look, but she doesn't really need him to drag all the dirt of a bachelor party into the apartment. Normally, he would have taken them off already.
Jack groans, dropping his weight onto the small bench that sits just after the entrance to his apartment. It's one of the only surfaces that isn't covered in various items and stacks of paper. Samira has been very tidy by necessity these past few years. Her shoebox of an apartment does not lend itself to messiness. As small as her life might have been, as small as she—consciously, entirely on purpose—might have made it, she did have some things: cutlery, the odd piece of furniture, a truckload of books, a respectable amount of clothes. Jack isn't as neat. He doesn't care if she also spreads her stuff all over his apartment and he certainly has the space for it. Samira feels safe in this apartment, but most of all she feels like she has room to breathe here, room to live and grow.
Noticing Jack struggling to untie his laces, Samira folds down in front of him with a soft, "Let me."
Jack sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his head back against the wall.
"Is the room spinning?" Samira asks, tugging the double knots loose.
"No, jus'," Jack begins. "I'm kinda ache-y all over."
Samira hums, wondering what exactly they got up to at that party. She expected it to be his residual limb specifically that was to blame for the slight tightness in his expression, is glad to be proven wrong. Because he can recover from a physically exhausting day when he's just generally sore, but if he really overdoes it with his prosthetic, it takes more than a night of sub-par sleep to get him to feel better.
While she's untying the laces of his right shoe, Jack tells her about a new drink he discovered tonight. Apparently, Moscow Mules are going to be his new staple for any and all bachelor parties. Samira isn't quite sure where Jack is getting the idea from that bachelor parties are a monthly occurrence, but she doesn't point it out. Instead, she listens to him ramble and tugs off his right shoe before moving onto the other side.
"All done," she announces when she has the left shoe off too, straightening up with a small click of her left knee. Maybe Jack is rubbing off on her.
"Up?" the man in question asks, hands held out towards her.
Samira smiles and takes his hands in hers. "Of course, baby."
Jack's lips curl into a small, private smile and he lets himself be tugged up to her.
They somehow manage to stumble their way through the living room and to the bathroom, with Jack bravely tanking the odd hit from thumping into furniture or the wall. He doesn't let himself get interrupted by any of it and continues his next monologue: a recounting of the darts tournament that was apparently the beginning of the end. Samira listens to him, tries to follow his twisting and turning story as well as she can, and feels very lucky that Jack didn't lose his leg somewhere along the way.
"Yanno, I always liked darts, but if you—well, if asked by you or anyone—although of course yo'are number one—just I mean, uh…" Jack trails off, lets out an inquisitive noise aimed at his own story he's seemingly forgotten, then opens the bathroom cabinet. He fumbles his way through it, holding himself more or less steady with one hand braced on the sink. Samira takes a careful step back and watches, like she's trying to see if the house of cards she's just built up is going to come crashing down or not. There is no crashing down; Jack stands on his own, mouthwash in hand. There's still some swaying, but all things considered—all the tequila considered—it's going pretty well.
"Right, so," Jack says, unscrewing the lid and taking a big gulp.
Samira watches him spill half of it down the front of his shirt, unimpressed but, horribly, also kind of charmed.
"I'd've said I like pool more," Jack gargles through the mouthful of peppermint-scented liquid he's got in his mouth. "But there's something about darts. A certain je sais pas."
Samira bursts out in laughter.
"Wha'?" Jack asks, voice still wet and muffled by that fucking mouthwash.
"Spit it out, Jack," Samira admonishes. She doesn't want him to choke on mouthwash. "Stop talking with your mouth full."
Jack giggles, bends over the sink, and spits out the green liquid. "Us'ally, you don't tell me to spit," he says, flashing her a smirk and dissolving into laughter.
Samira rolls her eyes, grin on her face, and takes a step closer so she can wipe away the traces of mouthwash on Jack's chin and lips.
"Kiss now?" Jack asks hopefully.
Samira nods. "Kiss now."
"Yay," Jack says, quietly this time, and leans in to kiss her.
The taste of tequila is still very much there, but Samira doesn't mind, and she is definitely not going to tell Jack.
When he pulls back, he's looking at her in that way of his that makes her feel appreciated in her entirety. Like he's seeing and loving all of her.
"We should to'ally have sex," Jack suggests, breaking the silence. "It would be, like, so good—"
"Absolutely not," Samira cuts in. First of all, they never had a conversation about consent when one party is this drunk and second, she is not going to turn up at work with some kind of stupid sex injury.
Jack's face falls.
"I would be very surprised if you could even get it up right now," Samira points out.
Jack's mouth falls open and he looks downright offended. "That ish so fuck'ng rude, baby."
"I didn't mean it that way. I'm sorry," Samira hurries to apologize. "It's not your fault. I didn't want to imply that. Alcohol-induced erectile dysfunction is very common and normal."
"What?" Jack asks, confused. "What, no! Not rude to me. Rude to yourself. You—" He crowds close, settling his hands on her waist. One of them is wet from the mouthwash. Lovely. "You have to believe in yourself more. Everyone—Every single p'rson on this planet could get it up for you in any possible situation. Trust me, sweetheart. Because you're the most beautiful person on earth. Trust me. It's true and you have to always believe it, okay?"
Samira nods, somewhat speechless for the moment and amused.
"Lemme show you," Jack decides suddenly, pulling back. His hands go to his jeans and Samira watches him clumsily pop the button. He fails at the zipper, letting out a frustrated noise as it gets stuck halfway down.
"Let me help," Samira offers, gently slapping Jack's hands. He gives her a defeated okay and lets his hands fall away.
Samira tugs the zipper all the way back up and buttons his pants again before Jack notices anything is amiss.
When she steps back, he looks down to his crotch, brows knitting together. "Wha?" he asks, realization flooding his expression. "Hey!" he complains. "You're being so sneaky and smart t'night."
"I have my moments," Samira hums with a satisfied smile.
"I really, really think we should fuck," Jack tells her, looking hungry and petulant. "You tricking me isn' helping."
Samira, animated by curiosity and amusement in equal parts, considers Jack for a beat, then goes, "Alright, let's go back to the living room."
"Why?" Jack asks, tipping his head at her. But he looks vaguely hopeful, obviously interpreting her 'Alright' positively, obviously underestimating her.
"Indulge me," Samira says.
Jack does.
This time, Samira walks a step behind Jack, making sure to have her arms ready in case he stumbles and sails towards the floor. He does a pretty good job, though, steadying himself with one or both hands pressed along the hallway's walls.
"What now?" he asks, standing in the empty space in the middle of the room, socked foot digging into soft, ancient carpet.
"Come to me," Samira says, directing him over with one curled finger.
Jack does as told, sailing right into her arms. He nuzzles his face into her neck, breathes her in for a long moment. Then he nips at the sensitive skin under her ear and Samira shivers.
"Still got it," Jack drawls, pressing the smug words to her skin.
Samira swallows, knows Jack will feel it. "Your former resident had to bring you home," she reminds him, pointedly.
"Tha's exactly right; former," Jack shoots back. "When was the last time you were drunk?" he inquires, voice muffled as he starts laving wet, bitey little kisses down the length of her throat.
Samira has to think for a moment, hand absently scratching her boyfriend's back, who makes a happy noise.
"I'm not completely sure," she admits.
Jack pulls back, a distraught look on his face. "I've n'ver seen you drunk," he realizes.
Samira doesn't get drunk often. There's no specific reason as to why she abstains; it's just that she's never had a compelling reason to drink. Maybe at Dana's last birthday party? They had those really good drinks. But no, that was still more tipsy than drunk. "Why is that a bad thing?"
"I want to see you in all—" Jack gestures, apparently trying and failing to come up with the right word "—states of being," is what he lands on. Impressive, considering his state of being. "Drunk, sober, high, happy, sad—bring it all in, baby!"
Samira's mouth curls into a smile and she presses her lips to Jack's with a giggle.
"Yeah, bring that in, too," Jack sighs against her mouth.
"Enough of that," Samira decides when Jack tries to turn the kiss wet and dirty. She pushes him back a bit. Jack whines unhappily.
"You think you're doing well enough to have sex?" Samira asks. "Sober enough to consent?"
Jack nods immediately, looking hopeful and already crowding close again. "I'm good to go," he assures. "Soooooo good to go."
"Walk to the couch and back to me in a straight line," Samira tells him.
Jack gapes at her. "What? But—"
"If you're not too drunk to have sex, you're not too drunk to do it."
Jack lets out an annoyed huff, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't wanna."
Samira waits him out.
"Okay, Jesus," he says finally, rolling his eyes, and Samira is surprised he's not angrily stomping the ground. "I'll do it."
It's a pretty bad attempt.
Samira walks next to him, arms at the ready in case she needs to catch him, confident in her ability to bring both of them to the floor gently enough to walk away from it without any bruises. Jack is chattering about the party again on his way to the wall, about how cool Ellis' girlfriend is, about Shen wanting to take him on a fishing trip even though he has no clue about fishing, about his favorite gossip of the night, and that he hated the second bar's lighting until he was about five to fifteen shots deep. Samira does point out that that's a pretty wide range, but Jack just shrugs, eyes fixed on the floor with renewed focus.
He's definitely not walking in a straight line, but he does reach the wall after passing the halfway point and taking a few careful seconds of rest, standing in the middle of the room with his eyes closed, mouth unmoving for the moment, seemingly recuperating his balance.
The trouble begins when he's so close to the wall his nose is nearly touching it, hands braced next to his head. He spins around too fast, intent on proving Samira wrong, very, very interested in having sex with her, or both, and gets himself all out of balance. He takes a step in an effort to catch himself, wobbles for a second during which it almost looks like he's going to make it, then tumbles away from Samira's held-out arms. With a thunk and a noise of surprise, his flesh and blood shin meets the edge of the couch table, he tips over it and tumbles onto the sofa in a heap of disorganized, wildly fluttering limbs.
"Oh my God," Samira says, slapping a hand over her mouth. Jack rolls over onto his back, almost falling into the gap between the couch and the table. He looks to her, holding onto the back of the couch desperately, grip white-knuckled, and the second Samira catches his eyes, she can't keep it in anymore, dissolving into hysterical laughter.
"It's not funny," Jack insists, petulantly, dragging himself up the couch like a drowning man might drag himself to shore.
Samira snorts, keeps laughing, shoulders shaking.
"I think I'm hurt," Jack lies. "I deserve a kiss. I actually need one. I really need one."
"You didn't even make it to the wall," Samira points out between bouts of laughter, one hand on her stomach that's starting to ache.
"Yes, I did!" Jack protests.
"Not in a straight line, you didn't. Don't lie."
"Samira! Stop laughing!" Jack exclaims again.
Samira cannot. "I'm not laughing at you! I'm laughing—" Another giggle. "—at the situation."
"Now you're the one who's lying!"
Samira doesn't answer, bracing her hands on her thighs and trying to take deep breaths, cheeks smarting from the laughing.
He huffs, scoots further up the couch to prop himself against the pillows. "This isn't even fair." He crosses his arms over his chest, looking annoyed. "I'm disabled, you can't make me do this shit."
Samira takes another few breaths, then fixes Jack with a look, laughter finally melting away. "What did I promise you when we started this?"
"For as long as we want each other, we will have each other," Jack recites dutifully from his place on the couch.
Samira nods, walking over to him without taking a swan dive over the couch table. She pushes Jack's messy curls off his forehead. He looks up at her, eyes wide and pleading.
"There you go," Samira croons. "I never promised to be fair, did I?"
"You're being mean," Jack whines. "First you make me do sobriety—field—ugh, whatever tests, and then you laugh at me."
Maybe this is where he starts getting sad, where his hazel eyes start shining with tears, Samira thinks.
Instead, he just keeps looking at her, eyes wide and dopey. "You're so eff— effvesc'nt when you're being mean," he breathes. "Can I please eat you out? As reparations."
"I haven't decided if I'm in the mood yet," Samira lies.
Jack groans as if in pain, screwing his eyes shut. "I'm gonna starve," he complains. "To death."
Samira rolls her eyes at him even though he can't see it, lips twitching. "Don't be dramatic," she chides. "You're not going to die."
Jack opens his eyes and points a finger at her. "You did this to me," he accuses. "You woke some—some hungry beast in me, and now I'll die of hunger."
Samira snorts, patting Jack's head. You'll be fine, she wants to say, but Jack is faster.
"You know, that reminds me of a movie I saw," he says. "I don't know the name anymore, but it was really good. I think I told Parker all about it tonight... I think. Have you seen it? I—" he trails off, brows knitting together. "Maybe I made that up just now. Or—I—What were we talking about?"
There's something about him like this. All whiny and confused, needy and small. "We were talking about a movie you may or may not have seen," Samira reminds him.
"Right," Jack says, not really looking convinced. "Did I tell you about the darts?"
"Yes, you—"
"So, basically, this bar for some reason—not the first bar, the third one, maybe. Or the fifth one? Some odd number. Not odd as in bizarre, but as in—you can't divide it by two. That one."
"Jack?" Samira cuts in.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Let's go to bed."
Jack sits up immediately. "To bed?" he asks hopefully, arms winding around her waist, chin resting just above her belly button as he looks up at her.
"Yes," Samira confirms.
"To…" he asks, waggling his brows.
Samira noncommittally tilts her head this way and then that, letting Jack interpret whatever he wants into the gesture.
When Jack makes a beeline for the bed, Samira twists him in the direction of the bathroom again, using his own momentum against him.
"Go brush your teeth," she tells him. "I'll be here."
She can hear him puttering about in the bathroom, can hear him yawn, while she tugs off her sweatpants and shirt before settling on the edge of the bed on Jack's side.
There's a quiet click as Jack rolls his neck, emerging from the bathroom and padding over to the bed. Samira watches him approach, now the one looking up.
"What ya doing all the way over here?" Jack asks, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Then he comes to rest next to her with a huff, lets his head roll in her direction, eyes slowly growing heavy-lidded. He looks more tired than drunk now.
"Let me check your leg," Samira offers in place of an explanation.
Jack doesn't decline what wasn't a question like he would have a year ago, doesn't sigh like he would have six months ago. He merely nods and tugs off his pants before letting himself drop backwards onto the bed, bouncing a bit as Samira folds down in front of him for the second time this evening.
There's something about this, something about her kneeling, unshielded and folded up small, while gliding gentle hands over Jack's residual limb, his most vulnerable spot.
"Looks good," Samira tells him quietly, clearing her throat, somehow caught up in it all. She's glad she waited up, can't find even a shred of annoyance in herself at having to have dealt with a very intoxicated Jack Abbot. Maybe they should get drunk together. They could be needy and rambly together.
"You were telling me about the third bar?" Samira prompts.
There's no answer.
She lifts her head and searches out his face. "Jack?"
That doesn't get her an answer either.
Her lips twitch, a suspicion forming. She gets up carefully, tries not to make too much noise, but when she sees the peaceful look on Jack's face, she lets out a fond sigh. His eyes are shut and he's very much asleep, breathing slow and even.
Bending down to heave Jack's legs onto the bed, Samira lets out a quiet laugh when the first snore rings through the room. He doesn't wake up while she manhandles him, but she's not surprised considering the time and his BAC. The blanket gets caught under Jack's weight, so Samira circles around to her side to tug it out from underneath him.
She curls up next to him, tucking him in with her. His foot doesn't quite make it under the blanket because he's lying there all stretched out instead of tangled up with her as he usually does, but she figures he's going to be fine. He runs hot anyway.
Samira falls asleep to the thought of telling Ellis about Jack's tumble over the couch table, is sure that particular piece of gossip will help their budding friendship along. Maybe enough for her to not only be invited to the next party—be it bachelor or not—but to also feel comfortable going. Especially now that she knows that getting drunk with her boyfriend could be fun. Something to think about tomorrow, when Jack will inevitably be cranky and hungover and she will be as fond of that version of him as she is of every single other version of him she's met. Every single one she ever will meet, she wagers.