imani

Marcy is the first one in your eyeline. She's cursing repeatedly, sliding her hands under your back to help you sit up. You're dazed and in pain, eyes watering from the impact. She helps you sit up, facing the rink, and that's when you see Jay taking the stairs two at a time, barking at anybody in her way.

She first grabs the guy who must've knocked into you by his shirt collar.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she snaps at him. "What, is it your first day on earth? You hurt my wife, asshole!"

He shouts back something unintelligible, probably drunk. You really don't want her to get into a fight and kick anyone's ass. As annoyed as you are, you know he didn't push you on purpose.

"Jay," is all you can say, weakly reaching for her. Marcy's the only one keeping you from slumping forward like a sack of potatoes. There's a little blood on both of your knees where you scraped them.

"Jay," Marcy says urgently, drawing her attention. "She needs you."

Instantly, Jay lets go of the guy and kneels to your aid. Security comes quickly and pulls him out of the stadium. Now it's just the three of you... and about five thousand fans watching Jay fret over you.

"I'm fine," you say, but Jay ignores you, scooping you up and setting you down across two seats. Your legs are propped on the armrest. She checks your head first, hands going to your temples. Jay moves a finger in front of you, and you follow it a few times before closing your eyes.

"Jay—"

"Does your head hurt? Are you dizzy?"

"No, it's just my knees." Your ribs are definitely bruised, but that'll freak her out more. You try to use your more tender tone when you say, "Baby, I'm fine."

Jay cups the back of your knees, panic splitting her face. "That's blood." She looks absolutely devastated by this. "Let's go see the medic."

You wince, glancing at the three rows of people behind and ahead of you, watching in fascination. Many of them have their phones out. You'll probably see a clip and cringe at how you look in this moment while simultaneously adoring how concerned Jay is.

For now, you're just embarrassed. Marcy looks at you sympathetically, behind Jay.

"Jay, maybe we can wait till the crowd clears," Marcy suggests.

Jay stands, hands on her hips. "Yo! Is everybody gonna stay in their seats until she gets down the stairs?"

"Oh my God," you mumble as several fans nod, give a thumbs up, and yell back yeses.

Jay nods like she expected everyone to follow her lead without question, and if you weren't bruised, you'd probably dwell on the hotness of that. The thought still passes, though you're unable to give it its due diligence because Jay's sliding her hands under your thighs and back, about to pick you up again.

You quickly stand, face hot. "Jay, I can walk myself."

She looks you over. "Sure?"

"I am not some princess who needs to be carted around," you say, as tempting as it is to let Jay, who easily tackles women twice your size, carry you for the rest of the night.

But if you want to help prove that you really are okay, you need to walk. She's still looking at you like you might collapse any second.

You squeeze past her and begin to walk down the bleachers, holding the railing. Your knees sting, but it's not the end of the world.

"Simmons, on her back," Jay says, and Marcy obediently follows behind you. Jay jogs down to walk in front of you, hand outstretched in case you need it.

"Didn't know I had my own secret service detail," you say, laughing.

"If they were still out here, I'd get the whole team to walk you down," Jay says.

You roll your eyes. "For a couple of bruis—oh!"

Your left knee buckles, weak from the collision. Jay grabs you, arm around your waist. She doesn't let go for the remaining steps.

"I gotcha, sweetheart," she murmurs, voice slightly shaky. "Doin' great. Take it easy."

You finally make it off the bleachers, and Jay leads you through the players' entrance. You're about to ask if this is allowed, but it doesn't seem like anyone is going to try and stop Jay if it isn't.

"I'll go find Shauna and meet you outside," Marcy says when you get to the first aid room. She touches your arm. "You okay?"

You nod, smiling. "I'm tough. Tie my own sneakers and everything."

She winks. "Know you are. Jay?"

"Yeah," Jay says, still holding you close. "My phone's on, just call. Thanks, Mars."

Jay takes you inside and sits you down on a bench. She points out your bloody knees. An older woman in a paramedic uniform gets to work instantly.

"Some fuckin' bozo crashed into her on the bleachers," Jay says, arms crossed as she watches you both. "Can you look her over, Lu?"

"Of course I can," Lu—short for Lucy, as her ID badge shows—says, pulling up a chair to inspect you.

She does a few concussion tests, checks your head, your neck. Then she cleans your skinned knees and sticks on thick, rectangular bandages. You wince at the antiseptic and Jay takes your hand.

"Squeeze as hard as y'need, baby," she says quietly.

You're a little embarrassed in front of Lucy, but she just smiles, evidently endeared. Maybe it's well-known on the team just how much Jay Todd loves her girlfriend.

"You're okay," Lucy tells you. "No concussion. Ice the backs of your knees. If anything changes or if the pain worsens, go to the hospital."

"Y'sure?" Jay asks, chewing her cuticle. You want to reach over and swat her hand away.

"I'm sure, Jay," Lucy says, smiling. "It's good you brought her, but she's fine. Just monitor her for the rest of the night."

Great. You'll have Jay on you like a hawk today. She probably will herd you into bed and keep you there like the world's most annoying sheepdog.

"I'll watch her," Jay says. "Thanks, Lu."

Lucy smiles. "Anytime. Good game today." She looks at you. "Feel better."

"Thanks," you say.

She leaves, and it's just you and Jay. You crane your neck—she's on the Uber app.

"Jay, your apartment is a ten minute walk from here." It is, in fact, where you walked from, to the arena, earlier tonight.

"Yeah, and? You're not walkin' in your condition."

"In my condition? Baby, I got a few bruises, I didn't split my head open."

"You cut your knees. 'S not safe."

You sigh. There's no use arguing when she's like this. You're accustomed to Jay getting dinged up at games, and you've forgotten that she's not used to seeing anyone else hurt. Least of all you.

"That guy had something wrong with him," she says as she waits for the available drivers to load. "Sprintin' down the stairs like that. Fuckin' jerk."

"He could've been more aware, but it's not like he did it on purpose," you say.

She makes a noise that tells you she doesn't want to argue, but she also doesn't agree regarding who deserves the blame. Jay sits next to you on the bench, and you lean against her shoulder. She immediately puts her arm around you, then bends down and kisses the top of your head.

"You called me your wife," you say.

You feel her freeze. "Oh, uh, yeah." She clears her throat, rising. "I, um... sorry."

You pick your head up to look at her. "What're you sorry for, Jaybee?"

Her cheeks are tinged rose. "Just slipped out. Didn't mean to."

"Would you, though?"

"Would I what?"

"Make me your wife."

Jay drops her phone into her lap. Her eyes are wide. Your heart beats faster as you watch her watch you. Her mouth makes shapes as they find words.

"I—" She swallows. "Yeah. If you wanna marry me."

You lean in, glancing at her lips, then back at her eyes. Your voice is soft as you say, "I'd love to be your wife, Jay."

"Oh. Like... now?"

You grin. "Whenever you ask me, I'll say yes."

"Right. Okay. Cool." Jay's phone chimes and she almost smacks it out of her lap. She fumbles to unlock it. "Uber's here."

You stand, and she follows, holding your arm even though Lucy gave you the all-clear. She texts Marcy with one hand, letting her know where you'll be.

"'M glad you're okay," she says as you walk out and down the hall. "Was so scared. When I saw you on the steps..." Her voice trembles.

You rub her arm with your other hand. "I know, Jaybee. But I really am fine. It was nothing like any of your falls."

She pushes open the exit doors and letting go of you long enough so that you can go first. Jay immediately picks your arm back up when you're outside as you wait at the pickup stop.

"Yeah, but those falls are expected. This was..." She shakes her head. "Should let me carry ya 'round like a princess all day long."

You laugh, squeezing her forearm to your chest. "And how would you play hockey?"

"Well, I'd have to swap shifts with someone. Although..."

She turns to you and gently cups the small of your back, pulling you in so she can kiss you. It's softer than her usual post-game kisses. Jay especially loves to kiss you fast and hard after a win, a thrill that never gets old.

But she's careful now, wary of your bruises, like you are with her after games and practices.

You're still breathless when Jay breaks the kiss. She kisses your cheek and your jaw before pulling away.

"Although," she continues, looking at you like she sees nothing and no one else. "I'd get a little jealous of whoever got to carry my wife when I'm not around."

Your breathing hitches at my wife. You can tell Jay notices. Already, you can hear her saying hi, pretty wife and lemme eat my wife like she needs when she's sure you aren't hurt and can take her on top of you once more.

You want her on top of you right now, but aside from the fact that it's public indecency, Jay is not going to put all her weight on you and finger you until you cry tonight. Tomorrow, though... tomorrow, you'll have her wear the strap and ride her until your spine gives out.

"Well, I wouldn't let anybody's hands on me except for my wife's," you say, and that elicits a shiver from Jay.

"Your wife," she says, reverent.

“Don’t start.” You huffed, burying your face in the pillow briefly as you grumbled. “It’s been a week and nine days. You know how much I hate sleeping without you.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Oracle slipped away and it was just Babs, warm and velvety like home. “I keep reaching over for you at night,” she whispered. “Keep thinking about you. The way you kiss me… how your eyes get so teary when you need me.”

You bit your lip as it trembled. “Barbie… I’m aching for you.”

“Tell me where it hurts, sweetheart.”

You shivered. “Between my legs. I’ve been wet since I heard your voice.”

“Mmm. My poor girl. All worked up and no one there to take care of you.” Her tone shifted into that perfect commanding lilt she used when she was running point. “Tell me what you’d do if I were there right now.”

You shifted on the bed, already feeling warm under her imagined gaze. The ache in your abdomen grew hotter by the second, and you squeezed your eyes shut, recalling every curve and contour of her body as if she was right next to you.

“You’re so beautiful,” You breathed, a hand sliding down your stomach and under the waistband of your sleepwear. “I’d pull you on my lap… push those pretty panties down your thighs, and feel how wet you already are for me.” A palm hovered over your clothed cunt. “Are you wet, baby?

“I’m fucking soaked.” She exhaled slowly. “Been like this since you said you missed me the first time.”

“What are you wearing?”

Barbara stifled a giggle at the cliche, but it broke through and you scoffed in her ear. “Oh, fuck you, I’m working with what I have,” you complained. “Tell me, I wanna know.”

The smile remained in her voice, light and teasing. “That Gotham U hoodie you left here a while back.”

“Is your hair down?”

“Perv,” she huffed. “Yes. And no, I’m not wearing panties, I took them off. The glasses too.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers finally pressing down over your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. The relief was immediate but nowhere near enough. “Fuck, Babs… you’re killing me.”

Barbara hummed approvingly. “Good girl. Spread your legs wider for me. I want you to talk to me, okay?”

You obeyed, thighs falling apart. The cool air hit your soaked cunt and you whimpered, you folds weeping as you rucked your panties down to your ankles.

“Touch your clit, baby. Slow circles. Just like I do with my tongue when I’m teasing you.”

Your fingers slid down, slick and eager. The first gentle rub made you moan her name. “Shit— Barbie…”

“I know, baby. I can hear how wet you are.” Her voice dropped lower. “I’m touching myself too. Grinding my clit into my hand thinking about that pretty pussy. You always get so desperate when you’re away from me.”

One finger on your clit turned into your index and middle, rolling the sensitive bud in figure-eights then pinching it softly between the knuckles. “So good, baby, missing your cute little tits right now… so fucking soft…”

You trembled from the memories of your time together. Barbara beneath you, her pretty tits bouncing as you suckled a sensitive nipple into your mouth.

“I miss you so much,” she rasped, the faint wet sounds of her touching herself came from the other end of the line. “I’m so fucking wet thinking about you. My good girl, touching herself for me miles away. Such a needy slut for Oracle’s voice, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, rubbing tighter circles as your other hand slid up to squeeze one of your breasts as if it was hers. Your hips bucked forward to chase the stimulation.

Barbara’s breathing was getting heavier. “Let me fuck you, puppy. Come on, two fingers inside — stretch that little pussy like I trained you.”

You obeyed instantly, sliding two fingers into your dripping cunt with a wet sound that made Barbara groan softly in approval.

“That’s it… juuust like that,” she praised, her voice husky. “Curl them up, baby. Feel that spot? Right where you need me?”

A broken moan tore from your throat, tears leaking from your eyes as you followed her instructions, pumping slowly at first, then faster, the heel of your palm grinding against your swollen clit. “Babs—fuck, it feels so good… but it’s not enough. I need you.”

“I know, puppy.” Her breathing was ragged now, the faint rhythmic sounds of her fingers moving between her own legs filtering through the comm. “I wish I could be there to see you... Fuck yourself harder for me. I want to hear it. Let me hear how sloppy that pretty pussy gets from my voice.”

You cried, pumping your fingers faster, the obscene wet sounds filling the quiet safehouse as your other hand left your breast to grip the sheets, knuckles turning white. “Barbie… fuck, baby… wanna fuck you so bad— tell me you want it, tell me you want me inside you. Please, please…”

A low, pleased growl came through the comm. “I miss the way you fill me up— hah—! fuck, when you make me ride you til my thighs shake… wish I could bounce my pussy all over yours baby… need you to fuck me like that again.”

That needy, desperate switch in her tone that was almost begging, sent a fresh rush of heat through you. “There’s my girl,” you sighed in ecstasy. “Just needed to turn your fucking brain off for me…”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” she gasped. Her voice cracked beautifully, the wet sounds from her end growing louder and faster. “I need you, I need you so fucking bad, baby.”

You curled your fingers harder, thrusting deep as you took control. “Yeah? You want my cock stretching you open? Fucking up into that cute little cunt?”

“I’d be so good for you… riding you just how you like. Fuck, I miss you using me. Please, baby—fuck me...”

“Atta girl, Barbie….” You added a third finger with a moan, the stretch burning so perfectly. “Fuckin brat, you had your fun.”

Barbara whimpered at your tone.

“I know what you need.” You moaned. “Do it harder. Play with your clit for me.... Rub it fast while you finger that pretty cunt. I want you to imagine my cock buried inside you, pounding you deep while I hold your hips down.”

A high, broken sound escaped her lips, echoing in the tower’s halls that made your own pussy clench around your fingers.

“I’m—hah—I’m doing it. Feels so good… I’m so close already. You always make me lose it when you get like this.”

You fucked yourself harder, hips bucking off the bed as you withdrew your fingers and focused on your clit, chasing that edge right alongside her.

A sharp cry cut through the comm, followed by a string of breathy curses. “Baby—! I’m gonna cum—fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard—”

“Not yet,” you whined, even as your own breathing grew ragged. Then, softer, almost pleading, the plea in your tone clear. “Wait for me, baby. I wanna cum with you— I’m almost there, just hold on—”

The sloppy wet sounds of your arousal splashing and making mess from how rough you were made Barbara’s his shake with need. “You’re so good— so fucking good. Fuck yourself like that. Harder, baby— cum for me, cum all over my pussy.”

You shrieked, grinding faster, your poor clit throbbing from the overstimulation. “Babs—Barbie— fuck, I need you—”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, fingers pumping faster, each squelching sound making your eyes roll. “I’m yours— only yours—”

That raw, possessive edge in her voice mixed with total surrender sent you spiraling as you ground your palm against your swollen clit, thighs shaking violently as your climax began to crash through you. “Fuck—! Oh god, I’m gonna cum— cum for me, Barbie—”

Her orgasm hit her hard as you cried out her name, thighs shaking while she clenched around her fingers, hips jerking and voice hoarse with a low, throaty moan. Her head tipped back as she rode her own hand through it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” You moaned her name like a prayer, your pussy pulsing hard around your fingers as slick heat spilled down your thighs and onto the sheets, making a mess. “Jesus Christ— I’m shaking—”

“Ride it out, baby,” Barbara cooed, lightheaded and glowing.

For a long minute afterwards, the only sounds were your shared, ragged breathing and the faint city traffic outside.

Finally, she let out a soft, wrecked little laugh in your ear, the soft thump of her forehead hitting the keyboard making you smile. “Holy shit… I think I saw stars.”

You smiled, slowly pulling your hand away with a shiver, your body still tingling. “Mmm. Same. You sound so fucking pretty when you cum for me.”

“And you sound even prettier when you’re bossing me around,” she teased, voice warm and sated, full of affection. “Since when are you so mean to me?”

You chuckled, chest heaving. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Oracle. Can’t let you stay in control all the time.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She hummed happily, a faint wet pop sound on the other end. “I like it when you take care of me.”

The silence between you two settled with the warmth of the afterglow.

“You okay over there?” You eventually murmured, and she murmured an ‘mhm’ back to you.

“You should go clean up and get some actual sleep.” Barbara said, soft but firm. “You’ve got watch later.”

“Back to business even after you just came your brains out,” you murmured fondly. “How romantic”

“You love it.”

“I do. I really do.” You paused, heart full. You paused for a moment, then sighed. “I love you, Barbie. Miss you like crazy.”

“I love you more,” she whispered, soft and sincere. “Just hurry home to me, okay? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“...Right,” you laughed. “I’ll behave.”

The silence settled again, and neither of you spoke between the sounds of heavy breathing.

As the line remained open and the minutes passed, Barbara’s breath soon turned even and slow, her comforting presence in your ear taking you under as exhaustion finally settled over you like a warm blanket.

“...I’ll come home to you,” you whispered.

"Hi," she says, a little out of breath, a little surprised. It pisses you off even more. Why should she be surprised that you made dinner? You always make dinner. She’s going to come home two hours late and act like it’s out of the ordinary for you to go out of your way to welcome her home?

"Hello," you reply shortly, stabbing at your room-temperature asparagus forcefully, pushing it into your mouth without even looking at her.

"....It smells great in here,” she tries, setting her bag down on the counter slowly. The hair on the back of her neck sticks up as she senses your terrible mood. “I sent you a message."

You glance at your phone. The screen is still dark, as it has been for the last two hours. "That’s weird, because I didn't get it."

She pulls her own phone out and frowns at it, pressing something. A beat later yours buzzes on the table. You look at the time stamp: nine forty-one. Six minutes ago. Running behind. Don't wait up.

You scoff at it, tossing your phone back down on the table where it clatters noisily. Baran raises an eyebrow at your petulance, already unimpressed.

"What?"

"Well, it’s not really helpful to send a message when you’re six minutes away from home when I’ve already been ‘waiting up,’"

you say. Baran makes a throaty sound, pulling her hair tie loose from her hair, letting her curls, messy from a long shift, tumble down her back.

"I know. I'm sorry. We had a stroke victim and a polytrauma back to back and it just—"

"Compounded?" you supply.

Her hands come behind her back, fingers laced in that formal, slightly braced posture she gets. "Yes."

"Right."

You push back from the table and pick up your plate, crossing to the kitchen. Your food has gone so cold that there’s a chill condensation on all your vegetables, so you won’t even try with the microwave. Plus, the action gives you somewhere to go and something to do while the thing you're not saying works its way up your throat. You scrape the plate into the bin.

Behind you, you hear Baran open the refrigerator. The soft sound of a container being taken out followed by the microwave door. This is the part where you're supposed to ask her how her day was, where you welcome her home with softness and care, where she stands at the counter with leftovers and you sit on the other side and she tells you the anonymized, de-identified version of her day and you tell her about yours.

"You could've called," you say instead, to the sink.

She hums the same pitch as the microwave. "I’m sorry, I know."

"Before nine-forty-one, I mean."

"I know." A tightening in it. "It was a busy shift."

"They're all busy shifts, Baran."

The microwave beeps one high tone, followed by several staccato notes that are piercing and annoying as fuck, but neither of you move to kill it.

"What does that mean?" she asks, tone inviting conversation. She's being careful. You turn around. Baran’s standing at the counter with her arms crossed and her food forgotten in the microwave. Her face is wearing the same careful open invitation but careful blankness she brings to patient rooms and team meetings and it makes your blood boil that she dares to shut down her emotions at you.

"Don’t do that," you huff, "You know what I’m talking about. It’s always a busy shift. I have been eating dinner alone at that table for three weeks and you don't — you didn't even — you didn't call! You didn't text until six minutes ago. I didn't know if you were even okay."

Baran's jaw tightens. "I'm clearly okay."

"No shit, I can see that now." You gesture at her. "Don’t patronize me. I didn't know that at seven o'clock!"

"You know what my job is," she says. "You've always known what my job is."

"I know." And you do and have never once asked her to be anything other than what she is. But it feels like she’s issuing a reminder and it sinks under your skin in a way you can't talk yourself back from tonight. "I'm not asking you to quit your job, Baran. I'm asking you to send your wife a goddamn text when you're going to be two hours late."

"I sent you a text!"

"When you were basically already home!"

"I was in a trauma bay before then, Y/N!"

"You weren't in a trauma bay from five-thirty to nine-forty, when you could've—"

"I was managing a department," she cuts you off and you can hear the cold settling in, the temperature dropping in her affect as she start to feel cornered. "I was covering for a resident who called out, handling a consult that should have taken twenty minutes and took ninety, and then yes, a trauma at seven. So no. I didn't have time to provide a running update on my whereabouts."

"A text. One text. At some point before nine forty-one."

"I'm sorry I didn't send it sooner." Offered the way she'd offer a concession across a conference table.

"Are you?" you ask.

The blankness falters. "What?"

"Are you actually sorry? Because you sound like you think I'm being unreasonable and are just saying that to get me off of your back."

"I think," she says, and you can hear the aggravation rising in her voice, "That you understand the demands of my job, and that we've had this conversation a thousand times!" "

“That's kind of my whole thing, Baran! We keep having it!"

Baran's chin comes up a fraction in indignation. You've learned to read her the way you learn the layout of a house you live in, the places where the floor dips, the light switch that's around the corner instead of beside the door. That small upward tilt of her chin means she's about to defend herself. "I am doing the best I can," she says. "I work twelve, sometimes fifteen hour shifts in a department that is chronically understaffed and I come home to you every night—"

"Oh, right, I’m sorry that that’s such a chore.”

Her eyes swarm with anger and confusion. "That is not at all what I just said."

"Pretty damn close to it though, no? This is a thing you do for me? On my behalf?"

"I was not—" She stops. Presses her lips together. When she speaks again the careful management is fraying at the edges, like she's having to hold the even tone with both hands. "I was making the point that I show up. Every single night I'm here."

"Congratulations that you come back to your home to your wife," you snap. "Oh my god! What the fuck was that even supposed to mean!? You come home to the life you set up and you're pissed about it?"

"Y/N—"

"It doesn’t actually count because you're not even here."

Baran's eyes flash red. "You keep just throwing that type of shit out. What is that supposed mean? Use your actual words!"

"I sit across from you at dinner and ask you how your day was and you give me bullshit," you cry out, hands flying up. "You don’t trust me to help you carry any of it so you dumb it down. And take out names because you don’t trust me to hold them. I ask you about your co-workers and your friends and your highlights only for you to give me shit because you don’t want me to know them! You keep your whole job in a separate room and then wonder why I feel like I'm on the outside of your life."

She stares at you incredulously, eyes darting around your face as if looking for a sign you’re kidding. "Y/N, I am legally and ethically obligated to protect my patients' privacy.”

"I know what HIPAA is, Baran."

"Then you know I cannot come home and narrate my shift to you! I am not ‘keeping my job in a separate room’ from you. I have professional standards to maintain that exist for very good reasons."

You scoff and watch a stronger kind of anger wash over her face. “It does, Y/N!"

"I'm not asking for patient files when I ask you to tell me about your day." The shaking starts somewhere in your hands, but quickly reaches your voice. "I just want to hear about you because I fucking miss my wife. You come to bed after I'm asleep and you're gone before I'm up. I miss you, Baran. When you're right here I miss you."

Baran stays silent and you feel your stomach turn with rage and sickness. "Say something, Baran."

"I don't know what you are looking from me right now,” her voice trembles. "You want me to tell you things I can't tell you, and when I find a way to protect the people in my care while still coming home to you every night, you tell me I'm not present enough? What's the right answer? I've already cut down my hours. What exactly else am I supposed to be doing differently?"

"I know you're trying," you say. "I know you work incredibly hard, Baran, I see it. I have never once asked you not to, but there's a difference between being busy and making me feel like the last thing on your list."

Her face drops from frustration to hurt. You both stand in that narrow kitchen for a few moments, puffing out heated breathes. Baran gets her act back together first.

"Eshgham, you could never be the last thing on my list."

"Baran," you say her name and watch her stop. "When did you last ask me how I was doing? Not how my day was. How I am. When did you last ask me something about my life that wasn't perfunctory just to get through a meal?”

Baran looks at you with something that could be the beginning of understanding, but there’s still something missing from your usually so emotionally intelligent wife. Maybe it’s the late hour or the grueling shift, who’s to say, but you are stunned by what she replies: "I think we need to stop. We’re just exhausted and this is turning into something larger than it is."

You know that she knows that’s a fucked up cop-out. That chin rises again and she squirms (as much as Baran Al-Hashimi ever squirms, anyway) with a little readjustment of her shoulders, a slight turn of her head. You can see her looking at you out of the corner of her eye, watching the first flicker of shock morph onto her face when your eyes start to water.

"Right," you whisper.

"I'm not dismissing you," she adds, eyes going a little softer, a little nervous at your reaction. "I’m just saying we're both tired, and maybe this isn't the right time to talk about this."

"Maybe this isn't the right time to talk about this," you repeat, feeling a humiliating burn rise in your throat. "Uh-huh. You've said that before."

Baran's jaw tightens again, getting defensive. "Because you tend to have these conversations when we're both depleted and nothing productive comes out of it."

"Well you never start them at all! I always have to. And every time you find a reason the timing is wrong, and then the morning comes and you're gone."

Baran scoffs in offense. "That is not what I do."

"You just told me I was making it into something larger than it is," you say, and your voice breaks on it this time, actually breaks, and you hate it, hate that you've gotten here, hate that this is the version of you she gets right now. "You literally just said I’m blowing this out of proportion but you won’t even let me finish."

"I didn't—" she starts.

"Yes you fucking did."

The microwave has been done for ten minutes and the food you made for your wife is getting cold again inside it. You are standing in your kitchen with your wife and you have never felt farther from her than right now.

Baran runs an exhausted hand over her face. "I just came off a twelve-hour shift, I walked in the door ten minutes ago, and—"

"And I've been here all night," you shoot back. "Waiting for you."

"I didn't ask you to do that!"

You gape. You have absolutely no response to that, and she falters at your shock. Those lips part slightly, brown eyes go a bit wider.

You breathe out a laugh. "Wow."

"Hold on. I didn't mean it like that."

"Okay."

"I was just—I'm saying you don't have to wait up—"

"Believe me, I heard you." You reach up and press your fingers against your eyes for a moment, breathe in through your nose, drop your hand and turn away.

"Please, Y/N, just pause for a second," she straightens up to follow you, and it's the most raw she's sounded all night. "I didn't mean that you shouldn't—"

"I know what you meant," you say, picking up your phone and storming out of the kitchen. "I'm going to bed."

"Y/N," she rounds the corner and is immediately on your tail, tone edged with panic. "Wait, please. That was entirely out of line. I cannot believe—I should not have said that. Can we just talk for a few more moments, please?"

"I'm tired." And you are. Past words, past the point of anything useful. "We'll talk in the morning."

You hear the silence behind you. She knows that you've borrowed the line. You go to the hallway and pause at the linen closet, pulling out the extra pillow and the blanket from the top shelf.

"What are you doing?" Baran's voice is upset behind you, thready and raspy.

"Getting some things," you say.

You hear a sniff and see her shadow moving from its reflection on the wall in front of you. She’s either wiping her eyes or anxiously running her fingers through her hair. "Are you not sleeping in our bed?"

You look at her over your shoulder. She's standing closer than you expected with her arms crossed over her chest like she's self-soothing. Her hair is tousled and tangled around her worn face. Her lip is trembling slightly from where she’s moving her mouth around in that familiar fidget you used to soothe with your gentle thumb over her soft lips. The most familiar person in the world to you. But also the most painful right now.

"I think I need some quiet right now," you say.

She opens her mouth and closes it, and it's so unlike her, that small faltering, that your chest aches with it. "Y/N," she whispers, taking a half step toward you. "Please. Don’t— don’t go down the hall.”

“Why not?”

Baran looks crushed that you even have to ask her that. "Because I do not want us to go to bed angry, and I said some very awful things I need to apologize for. That I want to apologize for.”

You purse your lips partially to look tough and partly because if you don’t your bottom lip with quiver again. “So now that I'm threatening to go, you want to be around me?"

Baran’s face crumbles. “I always want to be around you, azizam. That—that was never what this was about. You have to know how much I love you."

It comes out almost like a beg, or maybe bewilderment, like she can't quite fathom that you might have lost the thread of it. "You have to — even tonight, even when I was — you have to know that. Right?"

"I know you love me," you sigh.

She takes another step toward you and then seems to catch herself, she's not sure she's allowed. “I want to be around you. I chose this life with you. I will always choose this life with you,” She swallows her words and it hurts your heart. Baran always knows what she's going to say before she says it. She usually doesn’t hesitate. "I’m sorry. I was just trying to get through the shift and get home and I forgot that getting home isn't the finish line.

Her voice dips into a fragile octave. "You're not just— you're not just the place I land."

You tilt your head, swallowing around the thick, burning clamp in your throat. "But I can be if you’d let me."

Baran shakes her head immediately. “No. I mean you’re so much more than that to me. You're not just some… I don’t know. Soft surface meant to absorb my stress when I need it.”

Her hand comes up and she presses her fingers over her mouth for a second. "That is a horrible thing for me to make you feel," she says softly. "You are the only place I actually want to be. I've done a terrible job of reminding you of that, honey. I am so sorry."

Her eyes hold a wet, heavy brightness. She reaches out, the backs of her fingers dragging high and light against your arm, leaving the exit wide open. She leans in when you don’t pull away, her weight settling against you as she pulls you into her arms, cradling you to her body. The familiar scent of her (hospital sanitizer and the faint, warm amber of her perfume) floats around you. You are exhausted, and you are still so hurt, but Baran exhales—a long, shuddering breath that deflated her entire posture against you:

"I'm so sorry, eshgham. Please, please come to bed with me. At least for a little while. And then after, if you decide you still want to sleep in the guest bedroom, I'll help you set it up."

You pull back just far enough to look her in the eyes, breaking the comfort of the embrace before it could soften you too much. "Okay," you finally say, your voice quiet, flat, and entirely unembellished. "But I need you to know that you’re not just dragging me to bed so we can pretend everything is fine."

Her eyes, dark and pooling with unshed tears, scan your face. The exhaustion was there, but so was the hard line you had just drawn.

"If I come with you, we are dealing with this right now," you insist. "For real."

"Yes," she promises, her voice rough. "I am not looking to dodge this conversation, aziz. All we'll do is talk. I promise."

But promises to talk are cheap, and you know it. She hasn’t promised to actually change her behavior, and the sting of how easily she had brushed your feelings aside for most of the night was still burning. Her fingers slide down your wrist to find your hand, her grip tight and pleading. You don’t squeeze back. You let your hand stay limp in hers.

"I was really lonely tonight, Baran," you say into the dimly lit hallway, "And I feel like I can’t talk to you about that without this happening.”

Baran’s hands come up to cradle your face, tilting it toward what little light there is, like she needs to look directly at the damage she caused. "I am so sorry,” she breathes, eyes full of molten sorrow. “You should never have to navigate my exhaustion just to tell me you miss me.” She’s quiet for a second, biting at her shaking lip. “I don’t think I have said it yet, but I missed you too. I missed you the whole day and the whole drive home and I walked in the door and just—”

“I want to believe you,” you interrupt like a plea, “But, Baran. You couldn’t even send me a check-in message? And now you’re saying you missed me the whole day? I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t know how to believe that.”

Her thumbs are still against your face, so very still that you can see her actually working through it. "I think I compartmentalize in a way that isn't fair to you. I tuck you away somewhere safe in my head while I'm at work so I can get through it."

“But I can’t see that," you defend, "I guess it’s sweet to know you do think about me, but if you just lock it all inside of you, how am I supposed to know about it? You’re asking me to trust something invisible and that just isn’t fair."

Baran closes her eyes for just a second. "I’m sorry," she says. "You’re right. I bring that same containment home to you. That’s—"

"Fucked up?" you suggest.

Baran laughs, watery and lovely and relieved that you're opening up to her once more, even just a little bit. "Yes, very, very fucked up."

Her head tilts down to look at you more directly. You let her do her little analysis. You know that beautiful, brilliant, spinning brain inside that gorgeous head needs a few moments to finish its churning.

You count to ten-mississippi before taping your fingers where they’re still around her neck into the base of her skull. "Talk to me. That’s kinda the whole point here."

She exhales, slow and shaky. "I wasted tonight," she says quietly. "Well. Not just tonight, but I think you know what I mean."

You nod. "I do."

“I am so sorry. You keep making dinner and waiting up and asking me how I am and I just…" her voice goes small, "I took all of it and I gave you nothing back."

Her eyes trial down to your lips and she tilts her head down ever so slightly, telegraphing every micro movement. Her kiss is as soft as rain, meant to reassure and also repent, before she pulls away and continues.

"I have been so careless with you," she whispers into you parted mouth, and her first tears fall. You let fall into your arms. You rub a hand over the bumps of her spine, keep your other hand on the back of her neck.

"Baran," you say, into the side of her head.

"Mm."

You pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are wet and raw with an openness she doesn't always let out of its enclosure, and on any other night it would undo you completely. Tonight you hold onto yourself.

"You know I love you more than anything in this entire world, but I'm not doing this again. I can't keep having the same fight and going to bed with the same apology and waking up to nothing having changed. This is — I need you to understand that this is me telling you that I'm running out of road here."

"I understand," she says seriously, squeezing your head.

"Do you?"

Brown eyes meet yours and they do not waver, they do not flinch. They bare themselves completely to you as she replies, firmly: "Yes."

You look at her for a long moment. "Okay," you say finally. "Then come to bed."

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