Chapter Text
Claire knows that Dr. Jed Bishop is a smart man. He’s a fantastic doctor; that’s why he’s the Chief of Emergency Medicine. Using his own words, Dr. Bishop will “only hire the best!” So why did he let a strange man waltz in and attend to a patient? Mags tells the man that he can’t volunteer as a doctor, to which he responds that he’s not. June is watching the exchange in confusion.
The man is familiar, though Claire can’t quite put her finger on why. In a heavily accented voice, he rapidly fires off what the patient needs. So, he’s foreign but he seems to have no problem with English. He steps back as Mags takes over, eyes never straying from the patient on the gurney.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Atwater demands. The familiar man lifts his head, showing dark eyes framed by long lashes. Claire instantly recognizes him; Mr. Hamed. The man who had drilled a hole into Dr. Bishop’s head, thus saving his life.
Mr. Hamed’s confident stance shifts to an insecure one; he curls in on himself slightly. He glances around the room, taking in every detail. He appears to recognize Claire and he unconsciously angles himself towards her.
“His job,” Dr. Bishop cuts in. Dr. Atwater stares at him as if he has ten heads. He stares back before turning his attention to the now-screaming patient.
“Wait!” Mr. -or is it Dr.? – Hamed cries out. “He has a ruptured spleen.” A doctor, then. Claire’s eyebrows raise in bewilderment along with everyone else’s. How did he know that? She turns to him and he shrinks under her puzzled gaze.
Mags rushes to take an ultrasound. “He’s right,” she says in disbelief. Everyone turns to Mr. -Dr. Hamed. He shifts uncomfortably, reaching up to play with a worn stethoscope around his neck unconsciously.
Dr. Bishop breaks the awkward silence. “You may remember Dr. Hamed from two weeks ago when he drilled a hole into my head,” he declares.
Claire certainly remembers. Dr. Bashir Hamed, age 29, had been wheeled into the trauma bay after a truck had crashed into the restaurant where he worked. He saved everyone before finally collapsing, not that anyone knew. They all assumed Dr. Bishop had saved the others.
“The doctor needs to know that the woman’s heart stopped,” he had gasped, pain etched on his face with the effort.
“These patients are not your responsibility,” Claire had tried to assure him, laying a hand on his shoulder. She had pretended not to notice his minute flinch.
Bashir Hamed also ran away from the hospital to find his sister, gaining suspicion from the police. Claire almost had a heart attack when she walked in to take some blood, only to find an empty bed.
Her trip down memory lane is cut short when Dr. Bishop speaks up again. “He’s one of you now.”
June scrutinizes the doctor. She is the only one who had not directly interacted with him before. This is the man who had saved Dr. Bishop? She had expected someone super confident and kind of old and experienced. This man literally looks like he’s never set foot in a hospital before. He seems to be younger than her own 30 years. He briefly meets her eyes and she stares, trying to intimidate him. Oops. It works too well. Now he looks like he’s going to pee himself.
Claire notices this and laughs at June’s mildly panicked face. She pats the surgeon’s shoulder before heading back to work.
During the day, Claire spots Dr. Hamed shadowing Mags. She occasionally works with the two doctors. She starts to notice a pattern. When treating patients, he transforms into a confident doctor who knows exactly what to do. He is not afraid to fight for permission to treat a patient. And he is never wrong. However, he reverts back to the timid man who practically hides behind Mags the second he is done treating the patient.
She idly wonders which one is really him: the self-assured doctor, or the lost man? Each time she sees him, Claire gives him a reassuring smile, trying to ease his tension. It never works, but he always smiles back gratefully.
Hours fly by, and soon it is the end of Dr. Hamed’s shift. Claire herself is almost done hers. She makes her way to the information desk to fill out some paperwork and notices the newest doctor already there, absently tapping his fingers on the desk as he reads.
As she approaches, she hears him mumbling to himself, a mixture of Arabic and English.
“Didn’t your shift end twenty minutes ago?” she asks lightly, trying not to spook him.
Dr. Hamed jumps anyway. “Oh, I was just…” he gazes at the closed door to Dr. Bishop’s office.
“Waiting for Bishop to tell you if you still work here?” Claire finishes for him, tactfully ignoring how the paper trembles as he flips it.
“Something like that.” The doctor chuckles humourlessly, feigning nonchalance. His tense shoulders tell Claire otherwise.
“He’s gone for the night,” she says, mentally cursing Dr. Bishop for leaving. It’s his first day, Jed. You should be there for him. He has nobody else. Mags clearly does not trust him, leaving the poor man with no support. “That means you can spend all night dreaming up Plan B.”
Dr. Hamed swallows uneasily. He inhales deeply then exhales, perhaps to calm himself. “This is Plan B,” he responds flatly. He lets out a weary sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Amira’s not going to be happy with me for getting fired on my first day…”
At that moment, Claire is painfully reminded that this doctor – no, this man is raising his sister alone in an unfamiliar country, that he may lose his job and be unable to pay his bills. That he’s a person, just like everybody else, who is struggling to make ends meet.
Her heart clenches painfully when he returns to his paperwork, tenser than before.
“Dr. Hamed… Bash,” she begins. His name feels comfortable on her tongue already. Bashir startles a bit and meets her eyes. Claire detects confusion, frustration, and guilt before he looks away.
She smiles at him, which increases his confusion. Claire files this away to ponder later. “Go home. Get some rest.”
He bites his lip but nods and finishes his paperwork under her watchful eye.
Bashir disappears in the lounge room for a few minutes. He returns wearing his day clothing. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says, voice small and unsure. His knuckles are white from gripping his go-bag.
Claire’s smile softens. Bashir truly seems like a child who desperately needs guidance. And if no one else will, she will guide him through this crazy adventure called York Memorial Hospital.
“It’s Claire,” she corrects. The young doctor blinks, clearly not expecting her to be so casual, so familiar.
He opens his mouth, hesitates, then ploughs forward. “Thank you… Claire.” She puts an arm around him and walks him to the doors. He gives her a smile that lights up his whole face. And then he’s gone.
---
The next day, Claire checks in with Dr. Bishop. She doesn’t bother knocking since his door is ajar. If it were closed, she would.
He’s sitting at his desk, already working. He doesn’t even look up. “Dr. Atwater thinks he saved that man’s life.” It goes without saying that ‘he’ is Bashir.
“Really?” Claire had been working with Theo yesterday, but she knows that Bashir had gotten in trouble with Dr. Atwood. She leans in closer, interest piqued.
Dr. Bishop looks up now. “He used the Blakemore.” Here, Claire gasps. The survival rate of a Blakemore isn’t great.
“Without permission, I presume?” she enquires.
Dr. Bishop’s face becomes grave. “He listens to his instincts and catches things we may miss. He’s too skilled to serve food.”
“He has a sister, right?”
“Yeah. Raising her alone, I think.” He shakes his head. “Life has thrown him some curveballs. He’s a great doctor. I think he deserves a break, don’t you?” With that, he returns to his paperwork.
Claire departs from the office, deep in thought. She’s not paying attention, which costs her dearly. She crashes into someone’s back and spills her coffee all down her front.
“Oh!” she gasps. The person whirls around; it’s the man of the hour, Dr. Bashir Hamed.
“I’m so sorry!” he exclaims, even though he had done nothing wrong. He kneels down and gathers the papers Claire had dropped.
“Thanks, Bash.” She takes the offered papers and watches Bashir. Again, he seems surprised at her level of familiarity. Dark coffee stains her entire scrub top. “Shoot. That’s my last top,” she groans.
Bashir eyes her carefully. “I have a few extra tops,” he offers. “It’s only fair, since I was the one to cause the spill.”
“I’d love that.” Claire is touched. Here he is, not even knowing if he’ll keep this job, offering his scrubs to a strange nurse. “Lead the way.”
The young doctor heads to the lounge room. Once inside, he enters his combination and fiddles with the locker door for a minute before giving up and whacking it heartily. “Dr. Hunter advised me to do that,” he explains at Claire’s amusement.
She chuckles. “I bet he did,” she agrees.
Bashir hands her a neatly folded top. “It’s clean,” he assures her.
“I’m sure it is.” Claire gently lays a hand on Bashir’s arm. He stiffens, then relaxes under her touch, which causes tears to spring to Claire’s eyes. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
Bashir blushes. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“Claire,” she reminds him over her shoulder as she makes her way to the washroom.
“Claire,” he corrects himself, a small smile playing on his lips.
Once in the washroom, Claire is quick to remove her wet clothing. She shoves them in a plastic bag, then picks up Bashir’s scrub top. It's so long that it could be a dress.
Her arms go first, then she brings the top over her head. The warm scent of unfamiliar spices and the flowery aroma of fresh laundry detergent reaches her nose. Of course, the smell of the hospital envelops them both.
Looking in the mirror, Claire almost laughs. The top tumbles down to her mid-thigh. She bunches it up and ties it with an extra hair elastic, hoping it won’t wrinkle the top. No matter. She’ll wash the top before returning it to Bashir.
Nobody questions why she’s wearing a scrub top that is at least five sizes too big. Except Mags.
“Bash lent it to me after I crashed into him and spilled my coffee,” Claire explains.
Mags’s face goes blank. “Bash?” she asks, having no idea who that is.
“Dr. Bashir Hamed.”
Mags’s eyes widen in realization. “OH!” Her brows furrow; she’s likely wondering why she didn’t connect the dots between ‘Bashir Hamed’ and ‘Bash’.
Claire laughs softly and wraps an arm around Mags’s shoulders. “Never change, Mags.”
Much, much later, Claire plops herself on a chair in the loungeroom, completely and utterly pooped. She pulls the hair elastic out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders in loose waves. Claire yawns widely and leans back to rest her eyes.
The door opens and a few people enter. Their steps echo in the otherwise silent room. Through the chatter, Claire picks up the distinctive clang of fist meeting metal, telling her that Bashir is here. The locker creaks as it closes. The other staff members are still talking, so she doesn’t notice as Bashir approaches her until he’s right next to her. A light jacket is thrown over her. Bashir leans in and gently brushes a lock of hair out of her face.
“Thank you, habibti, for being the first person I can trust. Thank you for your kindness.” His cool breath streams over her face. Bashir tenderly lays a hand on her cheek, then leaves silently.
Habibti. She had heard him use that word before on a phone call to his sister. Claire had sounded it out and typed it into Google Translate.
My love is what it means. Bashir had spoken to her the way he speaks to family. A tear escapes her closed eyes and starts its long journey down her face.
At this moment, Claire desperately prays that Bashir Hamed is here to stay.