bitch

Baran had loved this museum since she was roughly fourteen years old and miserable on her middle school trip to D.C. She had gone to a nice enough school that they could afford to do an afternoon stop in Pittsburgh on the way home, and Baran had wandered into the museum half-asleep and walked back out feeling rearranged. There were many things about Pittsburgh that, now 40, she tolerated rather than loved. But this place had stayed in her bones.

Kaveh, unfortunately, was seven. He was usually a fantastic sport, but there were only so many oil paintings a child could stare at before he felt he'd seen them all.

Still, every Saturday Baran asked, “Do you want to come with me today, joonam?”

And every Saturday her sweet boy said yes.

She always let Kaveh lead when they visited the museum because there wan’t a single exhibit she didn’t enjoy and she had learned really quickly that if he felt he had control over what they were seeing, the longer he was able to last. 

Usually, this meant they ended up in the sculpture hall. Kaveh adored the tall, skinny statues there with his entire little heart.

“They look silly,” he would whisper loudly, staring up at the long bronze limbs and dramatic poses with complete delight.

And every single visit, without fail, he would eventually turn to Baran with barely-contained excitement and say, “Māmān, take a picture.”

Then he’d plant himself beside the statues and imitate them as seriously as possible, long face, arms thrown awkwardly into the air, knees bent at impossible angles as Baran gleefully snapped his photo.

Kaveh was bounding back to her side and standing up on his tip-toes to see the fruit of his photo shoot. She was showing him the latest one, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at his own performance, when his head snapped to the side with the speed of a small animal catching a scent.

Baran had about half a second of confusion before he pulled in a breath and used every bit of it:

“DOCTOR Y/N!!!”

Baran jolted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

“Kaveh—”

Too late.

Across the gallery, you turned around and Baran’s heart sunk through every floor of the museum. It seemed like an awful collision of her two worlds that she very carefully kept separate.

She knew you in fragments that didn’t belong in a place like this, your scrubs and tired eyes after a long shift that always softened when you saw her, you padding through her kitchen at night, stealing water from the fridge like you lived there too, you half-asleep against her shoulder, breath warm.

She also knew how your voice sounded when it went all high-pitched and breathy, whimpering pleas of her name in her ear as your hands scraped down her back, her kissing your neck—

And now there you were. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a tote bag from a college Baran had never heard you mention, rings stacked on your fingers that caught the gallery light. Your hair was different than she'd ever seen it. You looked soft.

She watched your expression move through confusion and arrive at something warm and surprised and delighted.

"Hi, Kaveh," you called across the gallery.

Kaveh was already moving. He crossed the room at a pace that was technically not running because his feet were not fully leaving the floor at the same time, but was in every other sense running. You crouched down to meet him and he wrapped his arms around your neck without preamble, without hesitation, the way children do when they've decided about a person.

"You're here!” he beamed.

"I am here," you laughed, settling back on your heels with your arms resting on your knees, completely unbothered by the contact with the museum floor. "What are you doing here, little dude? Are you an art guy?"

Kaveh pulled back and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Māmān likes it a lot more than me though. But she says it's good for my brain."

"Smart woman, your mama."

Baran had crossed the gallery at a more appropriate pace and arrived to find you already looking up at her, easy and warm, not making anything of it.

"Dr. Al-Hashimi."

"Dr. Y/L/N." She heard how formal it sounded and internally winced. She cleared her throat and softened her tone. "Small world. I'm sorry about the ambush."

"Please don't be," you beamed, standing. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all morning."

You had met Kaveh twice before and Baran had kind of freaked out both times (you knew good and well she didn’t really want you two interacting, didn’t want to blend whatever fuck-buddy situation you had going on with the version of her life she was presenting to her son) but both interactions had been really, really lovely. You’re not sure what you did to earn Kaveh’s adoration, but you were glad you had it as the adorable little boy beamed up at you, staring at you like you hung the stars.

Baran, standing slightly to the side, was also looking at your face. For completely different reasons. She took in the different style of your hair, the jewelry she hadn’t seen because it was kind of a pain to wear rings at work, the tote bag with your college insignia — a school Baran had not known you attended, had never heard you talk about, another piece of the woman she hadn’t had yet.

There were so many pieces.

“Are you here alone?” Baran heard herself ask.

You smiled. “I am, embarrassingly enough. I just like it here.” You paused. “Mom-son date?”

“We come most Saturdays,” Baran said. “When Kaveh is persuadable.”

“It’s an awesome hangout spot,” you nodded warmly, trying to will your heart to stop fluttering. Baran looked so… touchable? Something about her was calmer, more settled, and you wanted to soak it in like a sapling begging for just a drop of water to sustain it, but she was here with her son. And you were just a friend. Barely even that.

“Well, it was lovely to see you both,” you started to turn, “I hope you—”

Kaveh latched onto your arm, eyes going big with sudden sadness. “Wait, are you going?”

You froze, mouth falling open a bit, and your eyes shot to Baran. Sure, you liked her company and loved her son, but you knew this woman had boundaries and you never took that personally. 

“Um, well, Kaveh—”

"Don’t go yet because we are looking at statues and you can join us," Kaveh said excitedly. "Do you want to see?"

You blinked. Your eyes still searching Baran's face. 

It was sweet, Baran realized. She allowed her head to tilt, a warm smile to come across her face.

"Yes," she said warmly. "Join us. We could use the company."

Huh. You shook of your shock and replaced it with an eager nod of your head.

"I'd love to," you replied, a similar smile pulling at your lips. "Show me."

—

You fell into step beside her at an easy distance, and Baran noticed that too — the careful inch of space you maintained, not crowding her nor presuming that the invite meant she, all of the sudden, wanted you on top of her.

You talked to Kaveh mostly, crouching when he pointed at things, asking him questions that took his opinions seriously, which made him stand a little taller each time.

"That one is super sad," Kaveh pointed at a bronze figure with its head bowed.

"Hm," you studied it. "What do you think he's sad about?"

Kaveh thought about this. "Maybe he lost something."

“Lost something?” Baran prompted.

“‘Cause his head is down, Māmān,” Kaveh replied. “He’s lookin’ for it.”

It surprised a laugh out of you — real and unguarded, bubbling up from your chest and floating out into the high-ceilinged room — and Baran's eyes went straight to your face.

She'd heard you laugh before. But not like that. Not with nothing behind it but the simple fact that something delighted you.

She looked away before you could catch her looking.

She was noticing things she had no particular right to notice. The way you paused longest in front of the landscapes. The small private smile when something caught you, unannounced and unperformed. The fact that you knew which paintings were which without looking at the placards.

Initially she had been bracing herself for some level of awkwardness bred from the reminder that you existed in a different compartment of her life, one that didn't belong here under the high windows with her son. But you hadn't made it awkward. You just looked very content not to be alone on a Saturday, and it made her heart twist.

She felt herself begin to unknot.

"You come here often?" she nudged you with her hip as you walked again, and didn’t miss the way your eyes twinkled at the contact.

"Most weekends I'm not working," you tilted your head at the room around you. "There's a painting in the next gallery I've been coming back to for about a year."

"Which one?"

You smiled a little. "I'll show you when we get there."

In the decorative arts wing Kaveh grabbed your hand to drag you toward a suit of armor, and you let him, and Baran watched your face when he pressed his small nose against the visor to peer inside. The expression you wore was so soft, so unself-conscious, that it caught her off guard.

She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare. 

—

They reached the end of the last gallery with the slow inevitability of a good afternoon running out. Kaveh had gone boneless against Baran's side around the second hour mark, dragging his feet and clinging to her arm, suddenly non-verbal.

You crouched down to him. "It was very good to see you, Kaveh. Thank you for the statue tour."

"You can come next Saturday," Kaveh offered, hand reaching out to fiddle with the neckline of your shirt.

Baran watched your face. She saw you almost smile  and then she watched you catch it and smooth it over.

"That's a very kind invitation," you said carefully, to Kaveh, but you were still looking at her.

The restraint of it was so practiced and so deliberate that it nearly hurt. She had put you here  in this careful, curtailed space  and you had stayed in it without a word of complaint, because she'd asked you to a few months ago. Please don’t ask about my ex-husband, please don’t ask about my son. You had nodded and respected it ever since, because that was the kind of person you were.

She had an empty afternoon ahead of her, but you were full of so many little pieces that had started to crack away from your skin and fall into her palm just over the course of an hour. She wanted more. She wanted every shard until she could build your full mosaic.

"We were going to get lunch," Baran said. "There's a place around the corner Kaveh likes."

She paused, small and deliberate.

"I would like it if you came."

Baran watched the surprise dance across your eyes even though you tried to remain nonchalant. You were a very smart girl and she knew you understood exactly what she was actually saying. This was very different from when you would brush shoulders in the hospital, or when your phone would buzz with a "Are you free tonight?"

"Are you sure?" you asked softly.

"Very sure," she said, then raised her brow with a smirk. “Do I have to say please?”

You looked at her for a beat longer, something soft and open moving through your expression, and then you smiled so large it changed your whole face.

"Okay," you said. "I'd like that."

Kaveh grabbed both your hands at once, one each, and lurched forward without ceremony.

Baran let him pull her out into the light.

—

Your deadline is two days from now. You'd been pestering the asshole to finish his part for the past week, and, lo and behold, here it is—poor grammar, sixth-grade-level vocabulary, every word pulled out of his ass. You'd scrounged for all of the necessary references yourself. You'd divided the work, reiterated—multiple times—the structure of the paper, your thesis statement, the point each of you would be arguing—and yet.

You laugh again, your eyes hot with tears and the glare of your laptop screen. It's like you're frozen in time. You can't move, can't do anything but read the words on your screen, over and over.

Jesus fucking Christ. Amir could write you a better paper if you'd asked.

Your eyes are still stinging when you finally get yourself to look away. Exhaling, you close them and rub hard, trying to dispel the burn. Surely it's not too late to contact your professor. You're two days from the deadline, yes, but you'd finished your part weeks ago, and you have the proof in your document logs. And your text threads. You didn't work your ass off the entire semester for some fucking idiot loser—

You take a deep breath and sit up in your seat. The leather creaks around your movement, protesting the hours you've spent there. (God, how many has it been already?) 

You don't even want to know.

You drain the last of your ice-cold tea and set your shoulders, cementing your decision with a nod of your head. Just as you're pulling up your student email, a sudden sound breaks the stillness you'd been sitting in.

Footsteps. Going down the stairs. You go still, eyes darting to the clock in the corner of your computer screen.

1:53. 

Surely not Amir. The footsteps are too heavy. You crane your neck towards the door just in time to see Baran flinch as she shuffles into the kitchen, her eyes squinting against the bright lights. She raises up a hand to shield them, rasps out your name in a voice that has you shivering.

"Shit, sorry." You slip out of your seat and switch off the overhead lights, leaving only the warm, soft glow shining down on the stove top. "You okay? What are you doing up?"

Baran lowers her hand and blinks against the new light. It does her wonders, you notice, bathing her in gold, softening her features. Her scrunched brow loosens, the creases on her forehead smoothing out. 

You fight against the urge to peek down where her robe has split open.

"I could ask you the same thing." She sighs, turning to the cupboards and grabbing a glass. Her eyes dart to your laptop on the counter. "Working?"

Trying to.

"Yep."

She fills her glass and takes a seat next to you. You allow yourself a closer look at her—not the thin, comfortable cut of her nightgown, but her face, the darkened half-circles under her eyes. Her hair is distinctly rumpled, frizzier than it was earlier, tight curls losing their shape; there's a weary exhaustion to the way she moves, controlled posture gone. She looks like she'd been fighting a war with sleep and lost miserably.

You're still staring as Baran takes a slow sip of her water. Her eyes flick to yours just as you raise your gaze from the glazed, wet shine of her lips. 

"What are you working on?"

Jesus, you've never heard her voice like that. A little rough, grating. It chafes against your skin.

"Oh, just an essay. It's a joint project, unfortunately." You minimize the tab, bright white light zapping out into the darkness of your wallpaper. "More of a headache than it's worth."

Baran's eyes track across your face. "Looks like it's been giving you trouble."

You smile wryly. "Can you tell?"

"It shows on your face," she hums, entirely serious. "Here." She leans in closer and lightly grips your chin between her fingers, ghosts her thumb over the corner of your mouth. Then she trails it up, to the tail of your brow. "Here." A soft rub, her voice draping over your skin. "You hold a lot of tension here. In your body, in general. It's not good for you." She says softly, taking her hand back. Your throat is tight even after she settles into her seat and laces her fingers together, leaning her cheek against her knuckles, her eyes pinning you down despite their bleary exhaustion.

You wet your dry lips. "From a physiological perspective, or…?"

Her mouth quirks. She sits up straighter again, her robe whispering in the silence. "It starts in your muscles," she explains. "They lock up tight. Let that fester long enough and it'll start to give in to tension headaches, migraines." Again, her touch flutters over your skin. She lightly touches the hinge of your jaw, traces across, up, to your scalp, skates her fingers down to your shoulder. 

You feel the breath hitch in your chest. 

Baran gently presses down with her fingertips, as if testing for something. "All of this, just constantly squeezing around your head. Perfect pressure cooker." Her tone goes wry. "Never mind, of course, the damage to your digestive system, your cardiovascular and immune systems…" 

"Yikes."

"Your body remembers everything that happens to it. It keeps score." She says quietly. Her smile fades, eyes sobering. "Nothing is worth it, Y/N. If it's at the cost of your health…" she shakes her head, "fuck it."

You briefly jolt, hearing her curse. It's far more attractive than it should be, a little raspy, the sound sharp from her teeth. 

The words ring in your ears. Exhaling, you slump against the counter, eyes darting to your computer screen.

"It's not always that simple, Doc."

"I know, honey. But you come first." She squeezes your arm. Her touch is warm, the silk of her robe like water on your skin. You're in a strange limbo; you've gotten used to her touches, easy, comforting—motherly. Because you know that's how she means them. You're just a kid to her. Nearly two decades older than her son, yes, but all in all, a kid. She doesn't mean anything when she does this. You know she doesn't. Sometimes, you don't feel anything out of the ordinary when she does.

And sometimes, her touch is like a bolt of lightning through your skin.

You set your chin in your palm, her hand slipping away as you eye the exhaustion on her face. You've seen her tired. You know what she looks like when she's barely holding herself together at the seams. 

"And do you follow that example?" Your voice is quieter than you mean for it to be.

Baran inhales, her chin dipping. "I try to." She says earnestly. "I don't always succeed, but…I try to not let it get too far out of my control."

Your laptop goes dark, stealing some of the light from her face. The shadowed half-moons stand out under her eyes, dragging harshly into the cool brown of her skin. Your chest tightens at the sight.

"So," you glide your fingertips over the smooth granite of the counter, "what's keeping you up?"

Baran's lips thin as she shrugs. Her eyes dip back down, her hands wrapping around her glass, fingers knitting together where they overlap. Here, on the island, you're further from the stove top light. There's just enough for you to see her gnaw on her lip, a small crease forming between her brows. 

She doesn't often hold back. Hell, she's probably the most forthcoming person you've ever met. You don't expect her silence, but you sit in it, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in, out, rubbing her thumb along the length of the glass.

"It's a combination of things," she finally admits, surprising you. "I've…I have trouble sleeping, sometimes. I've struggled with it on and off since I was a kid."

You feel your mouth open and close, silence grabbing your throat. Jesus. You're horrible at comforting people. You never know what the situation calls for, what to say. If someone like Baran even needs it from someone like you, if she'd want, accept it. 

You pick at your thumbnail, cringing as you settle on: "That must be exhausting."

Baran smiles at you, beautiful, exhausted, and you figure maybe you didn't fumble it so bad. "Sometimes. But," she gives your shoulder a little nudge, "having company is nice."

Your own brief smile falls away as you notice the heaviness of her eyelids. "How are you gonna go to work in the morning?" You ask softly.

Baran tucks some of her hair behind her ear. "I'll manage." She says, setting her cheek in her palm. Her mouth twists wryly. "I know it's a bit hypocritical of me after that whole"—she waves a hand—"spiel, but." 

"C'mon," you murmur. "You're not exactly in a forgiving field."

"No." She agrees.

But she's only human. A 12 hour shift isn't anything easy on its own, but a single lapse in judgment, one overlooked mistake can result in a dead patient on her hands. The weight of it slams heavily onto your shoulders, dropping into your gut. It's laughable compared to a college project gone awry.

"Can't you at least go a little later?" You go back to picking at your thumbnail. "Or take the night shift for today or something?"

"I can't take the night shift," Baran exhales, quite docile. "And going later would mean having an attending stay overtime for me, which is…" she shrugs, shaking her head, "I'll manage. It's not anyone's fault but mine."

You frown. "It's not your fault if you can't help it."

She gives your hand a squeeze. "I'll be fine." Her voice is gentle.

You gnaw on your lip. The wheels turn in your head, a little slow with her too-close proximity, the skip of her thumb over your hand.

Finally, you ask, "You leave at 6:30?"

"6:15."

You nod, hook your thumb into hers, push away the regret you'll feel in the morning. "I'll take you tomorrow."

Her eyes soften. "Azizam, no."

"Yes." You insist.

"You don't even have classes tomorrow—"

"Exactly! I'll drop you off then go back home and crash, easy."

Baran frowns. "No."

"Yes. I'm setting my alarm, you can't stop me." You reach for your phone, but you stop when you see her purse her lips. 

You know it's unwarranted, ridiculous, but her displeasure settles heavily in your stomach. Jesus, she'll be the death of you. 

You put the phone down. 

"Come on," you coax. "Is my driving really that bad?"

"You know that's not it."

Before you can think it through, you're wrapping your arms around her in a sideways hug, setting your chin on her shoulder like Amir does when he's begging for something particularly hard. "Please," you say quietly, giving her a little squeeze. "Just let me do it, Baran. I want to."

You realize you've fucked up when you find her mouth in your direct line of sight—and right below it, when you try to hide, the loose neckline of her nightgown. The swell of her chest. You only see a blur of freckles before you force your eyes up into hers—another mistake, Jesus, what even possessed you to do this—

Baran sighs, and you feel it go through you. 

"Fine." She says reluctantly.

You beam and hurry to let go. She shakes her head at you, but you can tell there's no real heat to it.

"Excellent."

"In that case," her eyes dart to the clock on the oven, "are you going to bed?"

You nearly wince at the thought. You idly drag your fingertips over your laptop's mousepad, coaxing it awake. "I should, but I want to take care of a few things first. Gonna move over to the couch," you find yourself saying, "if you want to join me."

You tentatively look back at her. She pauses for a split second then nods, resigned.

It's somehow more still in the living room, but Baran lights the lamps, and the darkness shrinks back. The distance between you and the night shrinks, too. The warmth of her body is a tangible thing on the other end of the couch, a blur in the corner of your eyes as she lays down, sits up, discards her robe. 

Your poor self control gives; you look up as she's tugging a blanket off of the back of the couch, not before she unfolds it and settles it over her bare legs, tugs it up to her chin.

Writing a simple email takes you a lot longer than it should. Your brain stutters through half of it, the words coming out clumsy and stiff—or not at all.

"I guess we can leave 6:30," Baran says suddenly. "If you're still intent on driving me."

You look up from your laptop, flashing her a grin where she has her face half buried into the cushions.

"Sweet."