"A doctor will be with you in a minute." The nurse tells you. She props up the gurney so you can sit upright.

You nod as you lean back into it, managing a smile through the pain. It's already hard enough to breathe without the uncomfortably sharp smell of disinfectant, just barely blanketing the rusty scent of blood underneath. 

You've always hated that smell. Hated how it clung to her curls, how you'd find it burrowed deep under her skin long after she'd leave the wretched place.

Really, you hated all of it. But mostly how it called to her. How she couldn't stop herself from answering.

The curtains swish open, stirring air. You lift your head, unable to stop the twitch in your mouth when your eyes find hers. 

Bingo.

Baran's eyes widen, just the smallest bit, then dip down to comb over you. You feel every inch of her assessment as if her hands were prodding here and there, searching for wrongness she could fix.

"This is Y/N L/N." The nurse announces. "Came in for pain at the ribs, some trouble breathing."

Baran's gaze snaps back to yours. She blinks. You blink back. 

The doctor beside her gives her a sideways glance before she steps up to your bedside. "Hi, Miss L/N." She smiles. "This is my attending, Doctor Al-Hashimi. I'm Student Doctor Javadi. We'll need to take a look at your lungs, if that's okay."

You nod, pulling yourself straighter as she unwinds the stethoscope from around her neck. Discomfort prickles your skin, the kind that follows a heavy, prolonged stare. Your eyes dart to the figure still looming at the foot of your bed.

Baran clears her throat. You just barely catch the short breath she takes in, steadying herself. "Have you suffered a blow to the chest? A fall, maybe, or an—"

"I fell." You say shortly. Her head tilts, eyes sharpening. 

The silence grows. You reluctantly go on. 

"I was going down the stairs, my son's toys were everywhere. I slipped. Landed on my chest."

"Take a deep breath for me, please."

You take one and wince, the inhale cutting off midway through. Pain flares in your side, a sharp throb that lingers even after you breathe out. It beats white-hot. The med student apologizes, but she prods for another one, the metal of her stethoscope cold as she shifts its position on your chest. Your fingers curl into a fist.

"Anything to break the fall?"

You shake your head, your voice coming out wheezy. "It happened fast."

"No absent breath sounds." She says, leaning back. Baran's nod is stiff. 

"You'll need to check the area."

The med student turns to you. "Can I lift up your shirt?"

You do it yourself. The cold air of the ED is a small relief against your skin.

"Where does it hurt?" 

You don't know if it's the roaring in your ears, but Baran's voice is dulled. Softened. You don't look at her as you gesture to your side, careful not to touch the sore area. It doesn't matter anyway. The girl does it for you, feeling gently along your abdomen until her fingers find the spot. 

Your breath hitches. "Faint swelling," she murmurs, "…around the seventh rib… Let me know if you feel any tenderness." She hardly presses, but the pain responds anyway, too loud, too hot.

You inhale sharply.

"Stop." Baran's voice rings out. The girl snaps back on her heels, her hands raised. You sag back onto the gurney, letting your shirt down as Baran clears her throat and nods at the med student. "That's enough for us to know it's at least fractured." Her gaze shifts to you, not unkind. "We'll need to take you for an X-ray."

"Fun," you rasp. "Lead the way."

"I'll get you a gown." The nurse pipes up. The med student follows her out, saying something about coming back when the scan is done. 

The curtain swishes closed around them, leaving you alone with your ex-wife. She hasn't moved from her spot—still rooted to the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, like she's standing guard. There's tension along her shoulders. The familiar glaze of concern in her eyes.

Silence crowds, but you don't have the stomach for it.

"Hello." You say tiredly, a headache starting to pulse at your temples. This is not how you wanted today to go.

She seems to unfreeze with that one word. Arms dropping, she clasps them behind her back and takes two steps closer to your bedside. Her voice loses its edge. "How bad is the pain?"

"It's fine." You mumble.

She gives you a look.

"A seven," you relent. "…and a half."

A small fissure blooms on her face, faint cracks rippling through her composure. She sucks in a deep breath—quite mean to do in front of you, if you're honest—and swallows, her mouth set.

"Usually, for rib fractures, there's nothing we can do except prescribe medication. Your scan will tell us more, however the fracture will likely heal on its own. Extreme cases require surgery, but otherwise it's ice packs and rest—no heavy lifting, no lying down."

"Okay." You say blankly. "Good to know."

She continues as if you haven't spoken. "I can have them give you a shot of—"

"No." You shake your head. "No shots."

You have too much shit to do already. You'd planned on making use of your son's absence by getting the house in order, running the errands you've been putting off for weeks—but of course, of course, you had to end up here. The last thing you need is to have some medication messing with your head, slowing you down further.

Baran lets out a breath, her hands curling around the rails of the gurney. "The effect won't last long. Clearly, you're uncomfortable. You might as well take something while you're here." You stay silent, and she pushes, knuckles poking sharp through her skin. "Karim is with my parents, there's no reason why you should be refusing—"

The sigh is out of your mouth before you can stop it. "I have shit to do, Baran." You snap.

"How exactly do you suppose you're going to do anything if you can't even take a full breath on your own? What's so important, anyway?" Her eyes blaze. "Laundry?"

The curtain swishes open.

"Oh—" The nurse shrinks back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Baran lets go of your bed as if she'd been burned. Her eyes are still blazing as she turns and forces a smile, stiffer than the hand she lays on the nurse's shoulder. "Thank you, Emma." She says, deliberately even. "Please let me know when you get the result back."

She leaves without sparing you a glance.

-

You know the Pitt is notorious for its horrendous waiting times, but you still hadn't expected to wait an entire hour for the result of a simple X-ray. Hell, the actual scan itself had taken mere minutes.

You perk up when the curtain swishes open again, but Baran doesn't make for the laptop screen against the wall. Instead she approaches your bedside, a glass jar in one hand and a cup of tea in another.

"I don't suppose you've eaten." It's not phrased as a question. You hate that it's not, because she knows, and she's right. "The cafeteria food is terrible." She continues without waiting for your answer, her tone peevish. "Here."

You're not above accepting her offerings. The tea smells like the kind she used to make at home, minted and sweet. Its steam works up a lump in your throat.

It hurts, seeing her. It always does. Whether you've fought or not, whether you're civil or not. Just her presence is hard to swallow down. You still haven't gotten used to the distance, miles of oceans between you, no matter how physically close you are.

It's ridiculous. You've lived most of your life without her, and yet a decade and some have ruined you for the unforeseeable future.

The tea scalds your tongue. Baran is notably gentler as she sets the jar down on the bed along with a tissue-wrapped spoon. Overnight oats, if you had to guess.

"Thanks," you mutter.

She inclines her head in a nod and perches on the arm of the chair next to your bed. "I'm sorry you've had to wait so long. There's a holdup with the X-rays."

"I didn't expect to get special treatment." You give her a tight-lipped smile. She doesn't return it until you say, "This place seriously sucks, though."

"Yes, well." Her laugh is more of a huffed breath. "We're unfortunately not the most punctual." She frowns down at her hands for just a second before she looks back up at you. Her eyes dip to your gown.

"Do you need help getting that off?"

"I'm good."

Not.

She stands. "Baran."

"Button downs will be easier to wear," she says, reaching for your folded clothes. You'd managed your pants on your own, but you couldn't untie the gown without your vision flashing white. "Anything you don't have to pull over your head. At least for the first two weeks."

"Noted," you say, "but I can—"

"Can you stop," she breathes, fingers bunched in your shirt, "being so goddamn stubborn?"

Her eyes are always mesmerizing when she's angry. They darken several impossible shades, turn into shards of glassy obsidian. 

You drain the last of your tea, hand her the cup, and silently lean forward. Her exhaled breath hits the shell of your ear, low and desperately trying to stay controlled. You feel her finger hook into the messy bow at your back. Feel her tug it loose.

You peel the gown away. It's a scratchy, awful thing; you toss it further down the bed, quietly grateful as you turn back to Baran and take your bra from her.

"This could count as harassment, you know." You meet her eyes, hold the cups to your chest.

She only raises a brow.

It's enough to make you flush, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. Her hands are warm as they fasten your bra. The brush of her fingers nearly makes you shiver, but you hold it, force your shoulders back to keep the tingle from running down your spine.

And if goosebumps rise up on your flesh—well, the ED is cold. Your skin is sensitive. Baran's hands smell like sanitizer, harsh and clinical as she stretches out the collar of your shirt, helps you fit your head in. There's a brief flash of pain when you have to guide your arm through a sleeve, but it dissipates as you fully shrug the shirt on. You don't care to attribute it to the way her fingers linger on your abdomen, gently splayed over your side. They stay there even after you settle, fully clothed.

"Baran." You murmur, your heart kicking faster. Her head is ducked, eyes on your torso where her thumb draws circles.

"It will be…difficult to get around," she says, still looking down, "for a few days. The meds will only get you so far. You shouldn't overexert yourself."

"I won't."

"You could stay." The words are soft from her mouth, nearly mumbled. Baran doesn't mumble. "With me. Until it gets better."

She's looking at you now. You almost wish she isn't.

"Because that won't fuck with Karim's head."

Her lips thin. 

"You're hurt."

"I can manage."

"Karim can stay with my parents. They won't mind, they never do—"

"And when do you get home, Baran?" You wonder. 

She doesn't shy away from your eyes. "At least you'd have someone."

"I don't need someone." Your throat is unbearably scratchy. Your attempt at a laugh doesn't ease the ache—worsens it, actually, right where your pulse beats. "Jesus, you make it seem like I'm dying. I'll be fine."

Your conviction weakens with that last word, crumbling beneath Baran's gaze. Even years down the line, you could never quite get used to the intensity of it. She has warm, kind eyes—bottomless, all-consuming eyes; you've drowned in their depths, been warmed by their heat and burned from their fire.

Baran is unsmiling as she reaches for your face. She cradles your jaw in her hand—that rough, soft hand, antiseptic and long-washed lotion, cuticle oil rubbed around her short, clean nails, a freckle at the base of her wrist. Your breath hitches, comes out shaky through your nose.

You may be stubborn, but you're also unbearably weak. She's like a big, tender bruise imprinted onto your flesh. Just the press of a thumb—and you give, mouth open, gasping. It's been years, and the bruise hasn't healed. It hasn't shrunk. Sometimes you think it's only gotten bigger.

"Please." She says quietly.

Somewhere, beyond the curtains, you hear someone yell, "I need an attending!"

Relief and dread spread through you in equal measure.

You lean away from your ex-wife, tilt your head to the source of the sound. "That's you."

-

The med student comes back alone. You feel bad for not remembering her name.

"It's just a simple hairline fracture, so you won't be needing surgery or anything. Just ice it a few times a day for twenty minutes or so and make sure to rest, definitely don't lift anything heavy or do hardcore exercises."

You smile. "Got it."

She says a bunch of other things, only a few of which filter through. You thank her, pocket your prescription, and speed-walk out of the emergency room. You really almost make it, only three steps from the door when she calls your name.

And you, stupid you—you turn.

"Oh. Good," you blurt out before she can say anything. You take out her jar from your purse—emptied, the spoon rattling inside—and shove it into her hands. "Thanks for this, by the way. It was good. Didn't expect the chocolate."

"It balances out the acidity of the yogurt," she says, almost automatically as she takes the jar from you. It registers on her too late; she gives her head a small shake, a move that's, unfortunately, never stopped being endearing. "You have your prescription?"

"Yep," you answer, trying not to prickle. "We've got aspirin at home, so." You shrug, making room for a frazzled looking woman to pass through.

Baran nods. "Can I…" She pushes her shoulders back, the slightest bit. "Is it okay if I escort you out?"

You blink. "Sure," you say, too drained to argue.

She nods again. Holds the door open for you. You walk through, and despite your shallower breaths, you still smell the traces of coconut from her curl cream—the same one you'd lathered on your hands, raked through her hair when she'd be too tired to do it herself.

You rub a rough hand into your eyes, pressing hard enough to hurt, and make for the parking lot.

"Wait a minute—" Baran's shoes crunch on the gravel. "Did you drive?" She demands.

You let your hand fall. "Calling an ambulance seemed overkill." You say dryly.

Her face grows disbelieving. God, you wish she wouldn't do that, wish she'd stop caring, just stop it Baran, stop it, stop it, stop—

"I'll—"

"You'll what?" You murmur, pulling out your keys. "Take me home?"

She can't step out. You both know she can't.

"Call someone." She pleads. You can hear the underlying shake in her voice, you can feel it rattling your bones. She takes your hand, traps the car keys in your palm. "As your physician, I can't—Y/N, you shouldn't. You'll hurt yourself."

You let out a throbbing breath. Jesus, you just want it all to end. This day, this stupid distance between you that never seems to lessen, never seems to widen, never does anything but hurt. "There's no one to call, Baran," you say quietly. "I made it here, I can make it back."

She shakes her head. The sun catches in her curls, threads along her highlights and sets them on fire. You want them around your fingers. You want everything to go back to the way it was, but the closest you can do is say okay when she says she'll order you a car, because can you even say no? She's pulling the keys from your grip, her pleas warm against your face; she's saying azizam, azizam, come inside, I'll wait with you, and you feel your bones crumble and your resolve die and you do what you could never stop yourself from doing.

You follow her where she goes.

Hi, thank you so much for your support on my first Baran fic! If you liked this one, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging to lmk!! I'd love to know what you thought <3

Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. And you had been around the block a few times. You had been off when she started on the Fourth, but you had heard she was serious and, perhaps, too professional. You knew her type from a mile away.

“Baran Al-Hashimi,” she said shaking your hand. “You can call me Baran.”

“You can call me whatever you want, just don’t call me late for dinner,” you replied with a lazily smile on your face. You knew your accent was your best asset and worst enemy. But it was hard to drop the southern idioms no matter how far from home you’d ended up.

“I’d prefer your name,” Dr. Al-Hashimi said. Her voice was light but there was an unwillingness to joke in her affect. You suspected it was due to a combination of her position, newness, and her personality. Regardless, you looked forward to seeing her reaction to each of your bizarre sayings you’d adopted over the years.

Still, you gave her your name and a bright smile. Based on her expression, you suspected she thought you might be the dumbest brick outta the bunch—not uncommon with your heavy southern accent. It used to grate on you, the assumptions people made. During medical school and most of residency, you’d dropped your accent.

It wasn’t until you treated a patient who had been put at ease when your accent slipped out that you realized it was just as much of an asset as anything else. It took a while, but eventually you came to terms with your roots and how they served you. The south raised you. You mourned her and venerated her; you carried her with you in all the weird idioms you’d adapted from your grandmother.

So it was unsurprising that people in the Northeast were hesitant around you at first, especially those with names like Al-Hashimi.

“Do you mind if I shadow a couple of your cases to get a feel for how you work?” Baran asked you.

“Please. I’m lookin’ forward to having you on board. Your resume was impressive. Not to mention, I’m happy to have another woman as an attending. Gettin’ a bit too testosterone heavy,” you told her. A corner of her lip quirked and you felt a thrill of victory. You could get this serious woman to laugh at something you said.

“I also found your history interesting,” she told you. “Residency in a Houston level one trauma center and a fellowship in disaster and wilderness medicine. Why did you end up in Pittsburgh?”

Your lazily smile tightened a bit. “Age old tale, followed a man and then realized I did not actually like men.”

“Ah,” she said. There was a look on her face you could not quite decipher.

“I think I always assumed I’d end up back in the middle of nowhere workin’ on farmers and rural folk. But God works in mysterious ways. Not to mention, I get plenty of use out of those fellowships—I am part of a FEMA response team for disasters.”

“Dr. Underwood mentioned you’re the MCI coordinator for the ER,” she said.

“Yes ma’am. Though, Dr. Abbot also assists quite often. He’s an odd duck, But he’s got plenty-a sense.”

“So it appears,” Baran replied.

“Anyways, best get a move on. I’ve been slower than molasses in the wintertime. Eventually Dana will be on my ass,” you told her.

“Of course.”

Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi followed you through your first handful of patients for the day. She rarely commented or jumped in, instead opting to watch you interact with patients and make decisions. You had a disarming effect with difficult patients—it’s why Dana often saved them for you. Today was no different.

“Got a character for you in North 5,” Dana said as you finished discharging your stomach flu patient.

“Oooh, fun. What flavor, Miss Dana?” You asked.

“She’s a bitch,” Dana said flatly. You grinned.

“Think I’ll make it better or worse?”

“Dunno, but Jesse’s the nurse,” she told you.

You snorted. “That poor man hates me.”

“And why is that?”

“He dislikes my shenanigans and sayin’s.”

“Talk normally,” Jesse grumbled walking up behind you.

“Ya know, Jesse, opinions are like assholes—everyone’s got one!” You called after him. He flipped you off making you snicker.

“You enjoy bothering him,” Dana said shaking her head.

“Immensely.”

“Do you think that’s appropriate?” Baran asked. You didn’t think she was making a statement, instead, you thought she was genuinely asking.

“It’s all in good fun. Jesse and I work well together even if he rolls his eyes so much I’m on ophthalmology’s ‘Most Wanted’ list.”

Once again, you caught a small quirk on her lips. It was one step closer to an actual laugh. Al-Hashimi had sharp features and carmel colored hair with insanely defined curls. Curls that must take hours to upkeep. Her upright posture and squared stance all suggested that she was no nonsense and unwilling to compromise. And yet, you had also heard through the grapevine about how she and Dana manipulated some readings on an incarcerated patient and how she had wanted to call an attorney for the ICE detainee. You suspected she was not as square as she seemed.

“I’ll go have a looksie at North 5, and let you know,” you said to both women. To Baran you asked, “You are you still planning on shadowin’ me? Happy to have ya along.”

“Sure. I would like to see how you work with difficult patients,” she replied.

Walking into the room with Baran in tow, you immediately felt the shift in energy. The woman angrily waiting on the bed felt poised to attack the next person she spoke to. Despite being in clear pain, she seemed irate and venomous. Instead of letting her get the first word in, you said,

“Hiya, Miss Jenkins. Apologies for the wait, this heat makes the city crazier than a cat being baptized. I cannot thank you enough for your patience. Now, I know that you’ve explained yourself a million times over, but if you could do me a favor and do so one more time. I want to make sure I don’t lose nothin’ in a game of medical telephone. You deserve the best care we can offer ya.”

From behind you Baran watch silently, as the woman who seemed ready to spit and fight, wilted back into the bed and meekly began to explain her symptoms. It wasn’t something Baran herself could pull off, but you had such a strange way with words she couldn’t help but watch impressed as you de-escalated the tense woman.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi, we need you in Trauma One,” Joy announced.

“You go along,” you said. “Miss Jenkins and I are right as rain.”

“Thank you. Excuse me,” Baran said, taking her leave of the room.

You were an interesting character; one she wasn’t sure she had a clear read on yet.

-- -- --

For the rest of the summer, Baran worked with you seamlessly. For all the ribbing and joking you doled out on the others, you seemed to reserve a special kindness for her. She was not spared from your jokes and banter, but it was far softer than other who were more familiar with your antics. More than that, you seemed to be trying to make her laugh.

It took her awhile to figure out that’s what you were doing, but more often than not when you lobbed out a one-liner, you glanced in her direction to see what she did. If she let her composure slip, you built on the joke later. It was interesting. You never repeated anything but instead added to references and call-backs. Sometimes Baran felt like she was sitting at her own personal comedy show.

On a rainy September Tuesday, that indidcated Robby would be back in a few short weeks, Baran found herself up to her eyeballs in paperwork. Despite the morning hour, it was dark outside and thunder rumbled in the distance. The moral in the Pitt was low. The waiting room was overflowing, despite assurances from the C-suite, none of her ideas had even been entertained and without Robby to scapegoat, the blame was falling on her. It was a bad day mirrored by the bad weather.

“—Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, Miss Dana,” you grumbled.

“What does that even mean?” Trinity asked.

Baran had a hard time with Trinity. She was clearly a ferocious advocate for her patients but lacked some of the social niceties that had been bullied into Baran at a young age. Still, you seemed to connect with her in a way few people did. Under your tutelage, she watched at Trinity eased and relaxed, slowly coming to the realization that her coworkers were not her enemy.

“It means, that I hope it works out and nothing else goes awry,” you said. “A real roundabout way to say “hopefully”.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just say ‘hopefully’?”

“Sure, but I’m trying to confuse the universe into being kind to us. I can’t jinx us if no one understands what I’m sayin’.”

“No one does understand what you’re saying,” Dana commented.

You laughed. “Ain’t my fault y’all’s porch lights are on but no one’s home.”

“Oh my god,” Trinity moaned.

You snickered and Baran caught herself letting out a snort. Immediately, you zeroed in on her and exclaimed,

“I made Dr. Al-Hashimi laugh!”

“It was not a laugh,” Baran said quickly, neutralizing her expression.

Dana shook her head good naturedly. “Barely counted as a laugh.”

“Doesn’t matter. I got the most serious woman in the world to crack a smile,” you grinned. “I’m happier than a possum on the fence in the moonlight.”

“What the fuck,” moaned Trinity.

“Your way with words is disarming,” Baran said.

“I’ll tell my grandmother you said so. I got it all from her.”

“You didn’t come out of the womb speaking like a Matlock tribute act?” Santos inquired.

Baran snorted at that, too.

“I have been working to get this woman to laugh for months and I cannot believe you got it in a single one liner,” you complained, nudging Trinity’s rolling chair so she slid away from the desk slightly.

“It was not a laugh,” Trinity and Baran said at the same time. They barely spared a look at each other.

“Hmm, whatever y’all say,” you hummed. “Trinity, wanna help me with a cellulitis case in south something?”

“South Twenty,” Dana said without looking up at the board.

“Magical woman,” you replied in awe.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Dana said, though even Baran could see the sanctification on her face.

“But it will communicate the love and respect I have for the all powerful charge nurse Dana Evans,” you said bowing.

“You’re so odd,” Trinity state, standing with you.

You winked at Baran as you walked off. She felt a bit of heat flare along her chest and neck—well hidden by her undershirt. Although, the way Dana peered at her over the thin readers made her wonder if perhaps she was a bit more transparent than she feared.

“She’s a flirt, you know,” Dana said.

“I’ve noticed.”

“I’ve never seen her follow through.”

“Are you trying to protect me, Dana?”

“I’m just saying that she’s real friendly and not real vulnerable.”

-- -- --

“Can we carve out some time in the next week or so to go over my MCI report?” You asked Baran towards the end of your shift. The rain had not let up since the morning and it was still gloomy outside.

“Do you have time after shift today? My son is with his father this weekend.”

“Yeah, I do. Want to just meet at that bar the next block over? I’m starving.”

“That sounds like a smart idea.”

When Baran caught up with you after shift, you were in the locker room shucking off your scrub top. You had on a sports bra underneath she caught sight of before you slid on an oversized UT Longhorns t-shirt.

“Did you do medical school at Dell?” Baran heard herself asking.

“Nah, just undergrad. Did med school at UChicago. It was a unique place.”

“Unique place?” Baran parroted.

“Let’s just say I met some great people there and also the worst people I’ve ever met in my life.”

Baran nodded and gathered her bag from her locker. The next time she looked over you were pulling on a pair of jeans. She caught sight of your legs and found them covered in tattoos. You had a handful on your arms, but not super visible. It appeared that the way you were at work was not all there was to you.

“Ready?” You asked grabbing a ratty knapsack that seemed like it was hanging by a thread.

“Yes, lead the way.”

You wove out of the Pitt with Baran in tow. Baran couldn’t help but hear Dana’s comments in her head. She hadn’t really thought about you in any romantic way. You were a flirt, sure, but it wasn’t like you had expressed any true interest in her. Not that Baran thought you were unattractive. You were not. In fact, you were beautiful. She had been hesitant at first with your accent—no matter how kind they looked, the skin color they came with, people from the south tended to have a strong reaction to people like her.

You hadn’t mentioned it other than to ask where to emphasize the accent when saying her name—not something many other people had asked. As much as you were funny and irreverent at times, you were also brilliant and clever. More than once, Baran had watched you from the other side of the nurses’ station puzzle over test results until you could put together a differential diagnosis. Your bedside manner was enviable by most. More than that, you loved teaching. You loved working with students and the different patients you encountered every day.

A month or so ago Baran had over heard Joy ask you, “How do you keep yourself from getting burnt out. You care a lot…too much it seems.”

You had snorted and said, “I have really good friends and hobbies. I have a therapist. I have a really specific post-work routine that helps me leave as much as I can here and not take it home with me.”

“What’s that?”

“I pray for my patients.”

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Joy had said.

“I’m really not. But it makes me feel better that if a higher power that exists, it’s watching over people I finished treating and those I did not finish treating. It’s out of my hands at that point. Probably won’t work for everyone, but it works for me. Also helps me convince my grandma I’m still religious so she doesn’t keep harping on about how I’m going to hell all the time.”

So as much as Baran thought she had a good read of you on the first day: lackadaisical and slightly unprofessional. She discovered that you were passionate, clever, and cared very deeply for people. It was around that time Baran started to enjoy your flirting more than she should.

More and more over the past dozen shifts, she began to look forward to the silly things you would say to her, the way you would seek her out, the not-so-subtle winks and touches. She was beginning to mourn the ending of this job, but more than that, she was beginning to mourn not seeing you each shift. So she was more than happy to throw caution to her precarious work life balance and accompany you to a pub and talk about work for a few more minutes if it meant that maybe you would flirt with her one more time.

-- -- --

“How have you liked your time at the Pitt?” you asked her after the two of you sat down in a quiet booth near the bar.

“I really wish people wouldn’t call it that,” Baran sighed.

“You can pry the name out of my cold dead hands, Doctor,” you laughed, taking a sip of your water.

“Words are important,” she protested. “And you can call me Baran.”

“Well then, Baran. Good luck with that. I don’t disagree that words have power, but it’s tongue and cheek, ya know?”

“I think it hurt moral.”

“I think you need to lighten up, just a smidge.”

“Really?”

“Yes ma’am,” you said. “Look, you and I are the main two attendings on day shift. There’s no man we need to compensate for. Have a laugh, let loose.”

“I am…loose.”

“You are absolutely not,” you chuckled.

“Just because I’m professional at work?” She shot back.

“You know my New Year’s resolution is to make you laugh,” you told her.

“I started in July,” Baran commented.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t those normally occur in January?”

“I can change my mind.”

“You’re a smooth talker.”

“Honestly, I’m really not. You’re just easy to talk to,” you said.

“Well,” Baran said with far more confidence than she felt. “So are you.”

 More often than she cared to admit, Baran wondered why you flirted with her so much. She wondered why you cared about making her laugh so much. But as she watched you react to her words, it clicked. The bashful look on your face—even as quick as it was—was intoxicating. Baran found herself wanted to bottle it and save it forever.

“Now who is a smooth talker?” You asked clearing your throat. Baran couldn’t help but smirk just a little.

“Still you. But it was nice to try it on,” she replied. “I am glad you suggested we do this. Today was…a lot.”

“The rain really does make people crazy,” you told her.

“I think you described it once as a ‘cat getting baptized’, I believe?” Baran asked.

You laughed. “I sure did. That was the first day we met, too.”

“You have memorable sayings.”

“Thank ya kindly,” you laughed. “Did you hear about Whittaker’s influencer patient?”

“The one with a broken nose?”

“Hmm-mm,” you confirmed. “Her nose was so high, she would drown in the rain.”

Baran laughed quietly, not missing how your eyes lit up, and said, “My mother used to say, ‘Fekr mikone az damagh-e fil oftade.’ It roughly means they think they fell from an elephant’s nose. Persians also have a few of our own…unique phrases.”

“Are you fluent?” You asked. “I assume you might be with your employment history.”

“I am fluent in Arabic and Farsi. My family speaks Farsi but a lot of my friends spoke Arabic growing up.”

“I speak Spanish and a bit of ASL after a disastrous patient encounter during residency. Not well, but enough to communicate safely. Did you know Princess is learning Igbo?”

“Really? Why?”

“To prove she can to Ahmad. She’s scary good.”

“I’ve really enjoyed my time here,” Baran admitted. “I didn’t think I would…”

“Want to stay?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t think most of us expected that we would want you to. Clearly the board thought they could use you to push out Robby, but frankly, they’ve done such a bad job at it,” you told her shrugging. “I really don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“I feel a bit naïve, I think,” Baran admitted.

“Isn’t Dr. Underwood your friend?” You asked.

There was a pause, before Baran said, “...Yes.”

“I think it’s fair that you’re feeling blindsided. If my friend suggested an interim position with opportunities to exhibit my MCI strategies—well, I would assume it was good faith.”

“You don’t think it was?”

“No idea,” you said honestly. “Understanding the board is like trying to talk to a catfish about knees.”

Baran stared at you for a moment and then couldn’t help but snort. The snort turned into a giggle which turned into a gut-wrenching laugh. You stared a little gob smacked as she seemingly lost all composure.  

“Sorry,” she giggled, wiping moisture from her eye. “Sorry. I think it all just released for me.”

“Apparently,” you replied grinning. “Good see I’ve accomplished my New Year’s Resolution, though. I thought I was going to have to follow you to wherever you ended up after this and keep pelting you with stupid one liners.”

“Very dedicated to this resolution of yours,” Baran commented, a happy smile still sitting on her face.

“I am. Especially one that concerns someone as…interesting as you.”

“Interesting?”

“I’m trying to remain professional here, Baran,” you said with a tighter smile on your face.

“And if we were not trying to remain professional? Hypothetically?”

You blinked at her, perhaps surprised at the boldness in her words. Tapping your fingers on the table you finally said,

“Hypothetically, if you were not my boss. Like you won’t be next week, for instance. I might say that I find you incredibly beautiful. And I might say, hypothetically—”

“Of course,” she whispered just loud enough for you to hear.

“—that I really want to know what it feels like to be the person to make you lose your composure. Also, you smell really nice, like all the time, and I’m jealous of that.”

The intensity of the hypothetical broken by the frankness of the compliment once again made Baran laugh. There was so much stress and darkness in her head. She was worried about her career, she was worried about her son, she was worried that her brain was never going to be screwed on straight again. But when you were sitting across from her the laughter seemed to flow more freely than it had in years. She hadn’t laughed this much in this century, she was pretty sure.

“How about this,” she said. “We spend the rest of tonight finishing the MCI updates, so it’s one less thing Dr. Robinavitch has to deal with when he gets back. And when he returns and I’m no longer your boss, you call me and maybe we can spend dinner talking about something else.”

“Could I ask you another hypothetical question then?”

“You may.”

“At this next dinner, do you think I might hypothetically be able to kiss you?”

“Hypothetically...I might be more than amenable to that.”

“Alrighty then,” you drawled, grinning at the maybe not-so serious woman in front of you.

-- -- --

(Edit 3/22): Originally I had a nickname for Dr. Al-Hashimi as Dr. Al, but thanks to this lovely anon, I have been informed that not quite right and nor would she suggest people call her Dr. Al. I’ve adjusted accordingly!

-- -- --

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Baran hears the ping of two text messages from the end table, but it isn’t your text tone, so she ignores it. It’s a Thursday night, and she’s curled up on the couch with a blanket and a memoir she’s been meaning to read for a while, a mug of tea close by. 

The house is emptier than usual. Baran’s son is with his dad for the weekend, and you’re at a bar with Shen and Ellis. The three of you try to go out semi-regularly. First it was to blow off steam with fellow “night crawlers” — a name Baran found distasteful but liked the way you said it low in her ear. But then Shen and Ellis started dropping by for dinner, and Baran was grabbing lunch with Shen without you, and before any of you realized it you’d all become friends. 

Still, going out is more your thing, and Baran rarely drinks, so she gave you a lingering kiss goodbye and told you to be safe and have fun. 

Your text tone sounds in the quiet living room, and Baran sets down her book, reaching over to grab her phone. You usually send her a selfie or two when she’s not out with you, something Baran always looks forward to. Reading the texts on her lock screen, however, draws a frown. 

9:24 pm

John Shen: I fucked up 

9:25 pm

John Shen: It’s probably fine 

9:28 pm

Azizam: do you still love me? 

Worry and irritation well in Baran in equal measures. She taps the call button, feeling you probably need to hear the answer in your ear and not from a screen. 

9:29 pm

Outgoing call: Azizam

Call declined.

Baran’s worry grows, and her fingers fly. As an emergency medicine doctor, she’s adept at remaining measured and logical in almost any situation, but when it comes to you or her son, something much more urgent and primal fights for dominance. 

9:29 pm

You: You know I love and adore you very much.

You: Is everything OK? 

9:30 pm

Azizam: can’t talk they’re playing party in the usa 

9:30 pm

You: And that’s more important than finding out if I still love you?

9:31 pm

Azizam: needed to hype myself up in case 

This does not ease Baran’s worry. She knows you know, on some level, this is silly. If Baran were ever going to say something so devastating — and she had no plans to — she wouldn’t do it over text while you’re at a bar. But you are in your head enough to type it out and send it, which twists in Baran’s gut. 

9:31 pm

You: Please call me when your song is over, so you can hear me say it. 

Azizam reacted with: ❤️ 

Baran opens her thread with Shen, her irritation now simmering into something resembling a rubber band pulled taut right at his head. 

9:31 pm

You: Are you the reason my girlfriend is asking me whether I still love her?

9:33 pm

John Shen: Shit

9:34 pm

Incoming call: Azizam

“Am I being needy?” are your first words to her, nearly shouted over the club music blasting through the earpiece. 

Baran takes the phone an inch away from her ear, blinking, a weary hum catching in her throat. She’s not a fan. And neither are you — too chaotic and overstimulating. Probably Shen’s choice in venue tonight. 

There have been times that Baran’s had to keep a steady, grounding hand on the nape of your neck and another on your knee to keep it from bouncing. You’re a good sport — always wanting to be supportive of Shen’s favorite spots, a quality she loves about you — but there are nights the two of you just go home. And in the quiet car, you hide your overwhelmed and embarrassed tears in the window as Baran rubs the top of your thigh. 

It’s something you perceive as a contradiction to how cool and collected you are as an emergency medicine doctor. Baran recognizes it as rooted in control because she too needs it in certain ways to feel safe. You’re a skilled physician — you expect all possible scenarios, and you’re prepared for each one. You know how to mentor because you know how residents work, what they need, how they learn. It’s all planned and logical and built from years of experience and practice. Outside of work, things are more unpredictable. And loud crowds are one of your more sensitive spots. You’re ashamed of it, but Baran has never once made you feel that way. 

You sound anxious and unsure on the phone. Baran takes a breath and settles deeper into the couch. She wishes she were there with you. 

“Honey, where is this coming from?” she asks softly, carefully. 

“That’s not a no.” 

Baran presses her lips together. We’re not doing logic tonight, she sees. 

“Asking me one time if I love you does not make you needy. But it does make me worry,” she says with so much love and gentleness. It seems to break through to you. 

“I’m just anxiety spiraling,” you groan, the sounds of the club getting a degree quieter. Baran frowns and circles her fingers soothingly around her forearm, imagining it’s yours. 

“Walk me through it.” 

Talking through your thought process doesn’t always make you see a situation more clearly, but it’s the best Baran can do so far away. 

“It’s stupid. This club is too loud. It’s crowded, and I’m hot, and I’m, like, trying not to make the walls close in by taking shots. And I just…is me being on nights hurting us? Are we okay? I feel like you’ve been distant lately, and —”

“Azizam, pause. Take a breath,” Baran cuts you off, firm but tender. It’s exactly what she suspected was happening, minus taking shots to quell a panic attack, which is something she’ll address in more depth with you later. “If I weren’t happy with any aspect of our relationship, I would tell you. You’ve never had to guess how I’m feeling. That’s still true.” 

Baran pauses, listening, but you’re quiet, and she thinks there may be something hot clawing up your throat. So she just breathes evenly on the phone with you, and when she thinks you’re okay, she speaks. 

“I love you. More than words.” 

“I love you,” you sigh, the tension gone from your voice. There’s her girl. A small smile tugs at Baran, and she’s itching to hug you and kiss your skin where your neck meets your shoulder.  

“Are you satisfied?” she teases lightly. 

“Can you say it again?” 

Baran smiles lazily, chewing her lip. She likes when you ask for what you need. 

“Kheyli dooset daram. I love you very much. With all my heart.” 

“Mmm. Okay, I’m satisfied,” you hum happily, and Baran’s heart swells. 

“Enjoy the rest of your night, drink water, call me if you need me, and come home to me soon.” 

“I love you so much.” 

When you end the call, Baran takes a deep breath and opens her texts with Shen. 

9:41 pm

You: What the fuck did you say to her? 

9:43 pm

John Shen: She was saying how she wants to feel closer to you since you’re on opposite shifts, and I told her not to stress it. Everyone goes through rough patches

9:44 pm

You: Are you kidding me?

You: What would possess you to say that? 

Especially in a place already known to make you anxious, Baran thinks. 

9:45 pm

John Shen: Like I said, I fucked up

John Shen: I wanted her off the trail! 

John Shen: 💍💍💍

Baran laughs humorlessly, shaking her head as she types, a scoff under her breath. 

9:45 pm

You: ???

You: She wasn’t ON the trail.

9:55 pm

John Shen: I thought you were planning something or whatever??

9:56 pm

You: Yes, and I would prefer she not think I’m breaking up with her when it happens. 

Baran told Shen she’s planning to propose specifically so that he could tell her if you started to suspect — not for him to actively make you think Baran is harboring ill will toward you. Most of your shifts were together, so he saw you more than most. He would have a fairly accurate read on your mindset.

You and Baran have talked about your future together several times, and you’re both on the same page. A proposal wouldn’t be unexpected, but Baran wanted it to be a surprise. She didn’t want you coming home one day already knowing. None of this, of course, stops Baran from being terrified you’ll say no. She loves you so much it hurts sometimes, and she cannot imagine doing the rest of this life without you. And asking you to marry her puts that all on the line.

Baran takes a breath and tosses her phone to the other side of the couch. She tries to focus back on her book with little success and wonders if she should get Ellis involved to run interference on Shen. No, that would be an even worse idea. 

Her phone pings, and she grabs it. 

10:02 pm

John Shen: Well, she seems fine now

Baran rolls her eyes and stands up. She needs a long, steamy shower. 

10:35 pm

Azizam: parker is being disgusting

Azizam: she knows i’m yearning and she’s being cruel by making out with someone right in front of me

Baran sees the text when she’s doing her skincare routine and chuckles, the mirror still fogged up. She finishes rubbing lotion into her leg before replying.  

10:42 pm

You: I highly doubt it’s malicious, my love. 

You: You’re yearning?

You get cute when you’re drunk, clingy and sweet. A little too loud, a little chaotic, but you always come back to Baran and give her the softest, most pathetic eyes as your hand slides places it shouldn’t be in public and you kiss her cheek and her ear until Baran shivers and pulls you reluctantly away.

Your next text comes through as Baran settles on top of the covers, resolved to stay up a while longer and wait for you. She doesn’t always, but you’re dipping into a neediness Baran can never resist. 

10:47 pm

Azizam: can you send me a pic of your lips? 

10:47 pm

You: No?

10:47 pm

Azizam: pretty pretty please, sweetie

10:48 pm

You: You have many, many pictures of me on your phone. 

10:49 pm

Azizam: i want your lips

Azizam: i want to kiss you

Baran’s stomach flips, and when it settles, there’s heat swirling low in her core. She licks her lips, sitting up in bed. 

10:49 pm

Outgoing Facetime: Azizam

As soon as the call connects, Baran sees your flushed, grinning cheeks as they come closer to the screen. You give it several exaggerated, smacking kisses before pulling your phone back a respectable distance. Baran hums, a lovesick smile on her face, eyes hooded. 

“You know, you can come home and kiss me yourself,” she says, lolling her head to the side as she watches you. 

“You are so pretty,” you say, singular and simple and full of adoration. 

“You’re drunk,” Baran counters, taking you in, the haziness of your eyes, the sheen of sweat on your brow, how deliciously warm and soft you look. But it’s moments like these that Baran feels the weight of the ring box heavy in her work locker — the only place she thinks you won’t find it.

“Am not. Still true, though.” There’s a slight slide to your words that you clearly don’t hear. You frown. “Did you shower without me?” 

Baran’s hair is damp, and her skin is glowing with various oils and creams that you always tell her smell wonderful right before you dip your nose into the skin behind her ear, lips skating. And the only thing Baran can think about is how she wants you in her arms. 

“It’s almost 11 pm, azizam. Yes, I showered without you.” 

“Baby, no!” You look urgently devastated, a dramatic groan leaving your lips, petulant in a way you only are when you’re disinhibited. Like when you match her son’s early morning grumbles over a healthy breakfast instead of pancakes, Baran shouldn’t, but she finds it endearing.

You love showering with Baran — for more than just the obvious reasons. There’s something reverent in the way you often insist on taking a soapy washcloth to Baran’s body, trailing over her curves as you pull her close and leave delicate kisses to her shoulder. Or, you just watch her with the most loving, steady eyes. And when she lets you wash her hair, you dig expert fingers into her scalp, and she always leans back into you, humming contentedly. You don’t even have to touch her, and Baran has never felt more worshipped than when she’s naked with you. 

Before Baran can tell you she’ll shower again if it’ll wipe away that sad puppy dog look, Ellis is sliding up next to you. 

“You are bringing down the energy in this whole fucking club,” she accuses playfully, wrapping an arm around you and squeezing. “B, no offense, but your girlfriend is kind of codependent and sappy when she’s drunk.” 

“I am not drunk!” you insist, looking at Ellis, who raises her brow and glances between you and Baran as if looking for backup. 

“You are, eshgham,” Baran agrees easily. Ellis grabs the phone from your hand. 

“Byeee!” she grins at Baran. The call ends. 

Both Ellis and Shen have an ease to them that she doesn’t see in the day shift. They have their flaws — both a little too unsympathetic in the ED for Baran’s taste — but they have firm boundaries and shed their work personas like snakes each morning, something she respects. And around the dinner table, they’re funny and easy to be around, and Baran knows you’re in good hands. 

11:02 pm

Azizam: [image attached]

It’s a photo of you, Ellis, and Shen in a new, quieter looking bar. Shen is sipping something fruity looking, waving at the camera. You’re grinning, and Ellis is holding up two stiff-looking drinks. Baran knows without a doubt you’re going to be hungover tomorrow, all grumpy and far away and disheveled. Good thing Baran enjoys taking care of you. 

You reacted with: ❤️

11:07 pm

Parker Ellis: [video attached]

Parker Ellis: down bad

It’s a short clip of you talking animatedly with Shen. Ellis zooms in on your face and then pans down to your hand, where your phone is open to a selfie of the two of you curled up on the couch last month. 

Baran feels her heart swell and contract in her chest, and she pulls up the same photo on her camera roll. She’s molded into your side under a blanket, her head tucked under your chin, her hand around the back of your neck. And you’re smiling like you just won the lottery. 

11:21 pm

Azizam: i need you so bad right now

Baran’s scrolling through instagram, missing you next to her, when the notification appears. She smirks, wondering when you’d finally start getting like this. 

11:22 pm

You: Oh?

11:23 pm

Azizam: fuck

Azizam: what are u wearing?

Baran rolls onto her back, sighing, hair splayed out. She can picture you, breathing measured, maybe pressing your thighs together. Feeling hot and desperate thinking about her. And Baran loves making you ache. 

But you’re also out with friends, and Ellis has already ragged on you for being clingy twice tonight. Do you really want to do this right now? 

11:24 pm

You: Shorts and your t-shirt.

11:24 pm

Azizam: looking at a pic of ur neck rn

11:25 pm

Azizam: fuck you. sext me for real

Baran raises her brow and settles deeper into the bed, one hand skating over her belly absently. She knows what photo you’re probably looking at. It’s innocent enough. Baran wasn’t paying attention, smiling and craning her neck to look behind her at a dinner party. If she let you, she knows you’d leave dark marks up the length of her every chance you get. It does something maddening and insatiable to you. Baran, of course, uses this to her advantage. 

11:27 pm

You: You want me to tell you my fingers are on my neck, wishing it was your mouth?

You: Running over my chest.

You: Up my inner thigh.

11:27 pm

Azizam: yes

Azizam: are they?

They are. Dancing and light but enough to start setting Baran’s nerves on fire. She spreads her thighs and slides her fingers down over her underwear. 

11:27 pm

You: Maybe.

11:28 pm

Azizam: show me

Azizam: need your mouth on me

Baran hums. One hand slides under her shirt — your shirt — lazily, teasing a nipple that pebbles too easily. Her breath catches, and clarity descends on her. You’re out with friends. You deserve to enjoy it — while staying in the present moment. 

11:31 pm

You: You should focus on Parker and John. You’ll have me all to yourself when you get home.

11:32 pm

Azizam: [image attached]

It’s a photo of you in a bathroom stall. Your hand is holding up your shirt and bra against your sternum, chest exposed to the air. Your nipples are hard, and Baran’s lips part, her previous text completely wiped from her memory. On instinct or some base need, her fingers slide under the elastic of her underwear. Of course she’s wet. 

11:33 pm

You: Baby… 

You: You are so fucking gorgeous. 

She stares at the photo, jaw slack. What she wouldn’t give to have her hands on your breasts, your nipple in her mouth right now. Baran’s fingers circle her clit, gathering wetness, working herself up as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing. 

11:35 pm

Azizam: thinking about u

Azizam: [image attached]

Baran moans. It’s a photo of your hand in the low bathroom lighting. A stringy slickness connects your middle two fingers. She can practically taste you on her tongue, feel how your hand would grip her hair, feel the way your hips would rock into her mouth. And she can feel that familiar tension coiling in her, her muscles tensing. 

11:36 pm

You: Oh, sweetheart. 

You: That wet and desperate just from thinking about me? 

You: I’d get on my knees for you right there in the stall. 

You don’t reply right away, and Baran has a sinking suspicion you got pulled away from your phone. She groans, closing her eyes and feeling unfairly frustrated and horny. She should stop, wait for you like you have to wait for her. But you’ll be too drunk for her to fuck you when you get home, and you’re going to throw yourself at her anyway. And she’ll feel less pent up and guilty about it if she’s not hot and bothered when you walk through the door. So, Baran stares at the photo of your fingers and slides two inside of herself. 

Her phone pings again when she’s sweaty and twitching and catching her breath, fingers slick as they rest on her stomach, careful not to touch the sheets.

11:44 pm

Parker Ellis: stop engaging with her!!!! you’re intruding on girls night

Parker Ellis: whore 

Baran groans and closes her eyes briefly, embarrassed and just about fed up with Ellis and Shen. She just wants her baby in bed with her. 

11:49 pm

You: Inappropriate. I am an attending. 

12:03 am

Parker Ellis: rolling my eyes rn

Parker Ellis: not My attending

Parker Ellis: don’t be bitter. bar bathrooms are gross. i’m saving her from a yeast infection

Baran decides to ignore that and pointedly not think about what Ellis interrupted you doing. 

12:06 am

You: Isn’t John with you?

12:08 am

Parker Ellis: he’s one of the girls

Baran is drifting between waking and sleep when her phone pings and jolts her out of it, her face smashed into a pillow and her bedside lamp still on. She swallows and drags her phone to her face. 

12:39 am

Azizam: Parker found me texting :( 

Azizam: we’re at a new bar

Azizam: need you to fuck me slow to this song on repeat btw. it was on the radio

Azizam: [Spotify Link] Southland by Lindsay Lou

This wakes Baran up a little, and she’s selfishly happy to know you didn’t get too far in the bathroom. She opens the link and listens as she replies. 

12:44 am

You: Noted, baby.

You: Are you drinking water?

12:45 am

Azizam: i’m not a pussy

12:45 am

You: If you want me to go down on you when you get home, you’d better be drinking water.

It’s a ruse, and Baran thinks you know it, but your response is cute. 

12:45 am

Azizam: on it boss

Baran is woken up from a deeper sleep to another ping. The song you sent is still playing softly on repeat, and you stop it. Baran can see why it turns you on and already has plans on how she’s going to fuck you to it.

1:21 am

Azizam: r u sure ur ok that m on nights?

The spelling and insecurity in your text tells Baran you have not, in fact, been drinking water. She exhales slowly, an unfair sort of annoyance twinging in her sleepy mind. Not at you, with whom she’s never truly annoyed. It took a long time — some unlearning and careful assurances — for you to be so raw and honest with Baran about your more prickly anxieties. And she took that vulnerability very seriously. No, Baran’s just tired, impatient you’re not with her, and feeling a little needy herself. 

1:24 am

You: Yes. But if you want to talk more about it in the morning we can. 

1:25 am

Azizam: what if u stat reesnting me

1:25 am

You: Do you resent me for being on day shift? 

1:25 am

Azizam: no

Baran rubs her eye and yawns. You’re drunk, and she’s half asleep, and she doesn’t see the point in either of you pursuing such a delicate subject any further. 

1:26 am

You: I love you.

1:26 am

Azizam: I LOV Y

Baran smiles, her eyes dry. You’re easily distracted. Giving up on sleep until you’re home, she goes back to scrolling on social media, too tired to pick her book back up. 

1:47 am

Incoming Facetime: Azizam

“Baran!” you smile. 

“Hi, honey,” Baran coos, her voice raspy and low, her head resting on her bent arm over the pillow. If you were more clear-headed, you would have started fawning over it. Despite how tired she is, Baran loves that you want to talk to her so much while you’re drunk and away from her. It sparks something fond and possessive in her. 

“Would you love me if I were a worm?” You’re definitely slurring now. 

“What?” Baran is caught off guard. 

“If I turned into a worm, would you still love me? Shen said I should ask you.” 

She opens and closes her mouth, unsure what that even means, when a familiar voice drifts to her ears, the equally familiar face following quickly into view. 

“Dude, you can’t just leave me at the bar. You’re supposed to be my wingman.” 

“Dr. Santos?” Baran asks incredulously, shocked into formality. She’s wearing smoky makeup and a swooping top and talking to you with the ease of good friends — a connection Baran is sure just happened tonight. 

“Oh, shit,” Trinity hisses, ducking out of view. You blink at Santos, confused, and she slowly, sheepishly returns to the camera. “Hi Dr. Al-Hashimi.” 

More awake now, Baran raises an eyebrow. 

“How’s your 102-degree fever?” she asks humorlessly, sitting halfway up to offer herself some semblance of authority as she reprimands her resident while laying in bed at two in the morning. 

“Better, yeah,” she winces, and you laugh suddenly. 

“You didn’t tell me you called out sick,” you blurt, and Trinity glares at you. 

“I didn’t want you telling my boss I’m here,” she accuses, motioning to your phone. 

“So, you thought I’d go home to my future wife and not tell Baran I saw you and Whittaker at the gay bar?”

Baran’s ears ring, something sharp and hot shooting through her. She remembers the first time she brought up marriage to you, you were watching Bridesmaids together. You’re a few years younger than Baran, and unlike her, you’d never been married before. You didn’t have a kid to think about. Though, you loved Baran’s son dearly, and she loved that you loved him — and that he loved you back. 

Have you ever thought about it? Marriage? She asked carefully as your head lay in her lap, and she played absently with your hair. Your fingers stilled on Baran’s thigh, and in the few seconds of silence, Baran thought she might throw up. 

Are you asking? You murmured, turning to look up at Baran with unreadable, sparkling eyes. 

Yes, she said easily, and then blinked, understanding too late what you meant. I mean, yes, I’m asking if you’ve — 

Yes, you cut her off. With the right person. Yes. 

She can’t believe she ever for one second doubted you might say yes if she got down on one knee. Baran shouldn’t have then, and she certainly doesn’t now that you’d called her your future wife. The shock quickly melts to a steady warmth that seems to blossom throughout her entire body, an easy sureness she knows is there for good. 

“You’re really fucking irritating,” Trinity says to you emphatically, working her jaw, but she knows this situation is her own fault, so there’s no real bite to it. It brings Baran back to the present. 

“Whittaker’s there, too?” she drawls, knowing Dennis is definitely on the schedule tomorrow. 

“Ooooo, Dr. Santos, you are in so much fucking trouble. I gotta go, babe,” you say, pressing your fingers to your lips and then the camera before the call ends. Truth be told, Baran isn’t really irritated, but she can’t let Trinity know that. 

She looks back down at your contact card, a soft, sweet photo of you greeting her. A wave of affection sweeps over her so intensely it knocks the breath from her. Her future wife. Baran swallows down the lump of emotions building in her and focuses on texting you. 

1:52 am

You: Be safe. Make good choices. Come home soon. I love you. 

1:52 am

Azizam: 😍❤️👅🐱

Baran lays back down, setting her phone by her head and staring at your contact photo like a lovesick teenage girl. She doesn’t wake up this time when Shen’s text comes through. 

2:09 am

John Shen: ETA 20 min

John Shen: BTW, I think she’s onto you

Baran is stirred awake by the bed dipping next to her and quiet curses. A groggy noise rumbles in her chest, her limbs too heavy to move, her eyelids like lead. 

“Back to sleep, honey,” you whisper, your words coming out a little slurred still, unsteady as you crawl toward her on the soft mattress. 

Baran forces herself to turn over, another incoherent, almost whiny noise rising in her. She licks her lips and swallows, her eyes blinking open to see you settle next to her in a t-shirt and underwear. 

“Azizam,” Baran mumbles happily, and you grin, leaning over to kiss her. 

Instinctually, Baran fists the front of your shirt and drags you closer, her other arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your lips slide against hers, both of you uncoordinated and sloppy from alcohol and sleep but content in it. The thick, sweet smell of the bar lingers on you, along with the faint familiar tang of your sweat, and your tongue dips between Baran’s lips. She moans faintly, and you scoot closer so you can intertwine your legs, your hips pressing into hers. 

“I drank water,” you breathe against her mouth, sliding your kisses to her jaw and her neck, wet and open. Baran sighs, more awake now, her core muscles twitching. One thing that really gets Baran going is sleepy sex, and you are definitely using this to your advantage. She remembers her faux promise to you and smiles, tangling a hand in your hair. 

“Sleep, eshgham. We have three days together. Just you and me,” she sighs, tilting her chin to limit your access to her neck. You hum softly, dipping your face to her shoulder. 

“Dooset daram,” you mumble into Baran’s skin. You know a few phrases in Farsi now, but according to you, this is the most essential, the one you learned first. And every time you say it, it makes Baran weak in the knees. 

Her hand tightens in your hair, and she kisses your head, holding you firmly against her. She can feel you drifting off to sleep already, muscles relaxing, breathing even. And Baran feels that stubborn tightness in her throat again now that she finally has you in her arms. 

Baran could not stop thinking about you.

Ever since you’d showed up in the ED a couple weeks up, stitching up your own face, Baran found her thoughts constantly drifting to you. Your casual, flirtatious nature paired with competence and the obvious respect you garnered intrigued her. The more Baran thought about you, the more you became like a puzzle she was determined to solve.

When she had brought you up to Dana, the charge nurse simply waived her off. Thinking Baran had had a problem with your flirting, Dana told her, “Don’t worry about her. She’s a lover girl stuck on a surgeon’s schedule.”

Baran had asked a couple other people what they knew about you—subtly, of course—and the message was generally the same: you were a flirt, but a damn good doctor. She only wished you stopped by the ED more often so she could decide for herself.

As if you had heard her thoughts, your voice rang out, coming from the ambulance bay. “What’s open? I need a room prepped for a trach!”

“Trauma 2!” Someone yelled back, but Baran was focused on you, your crazed eyes and the way your entire front was splattered with blood.

Rushing over to walk alongside the moving gurney, already snapping on a pair of gloves, Baran called over McKay to assist.

“What do we have?” she asked as you entered the trauma room.

“Oxy overdose. Emesis and aspiration blocked the airway, so I went emergency circ,” you explained, barely giving her a second glance before turning to the paramedics. “On my count.”

As you transferred the man onto the trauma table, you started giving out orders, so naturally, Baran would have thought you were the trauma attending on call, not her.

“Somebody get Garcia in here,” you barked out to anybody who was listening as you readied yourself for a tracheostomy, putting on a gown, glasses, and gloves.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi.” Your urgent voice brought her out of her momentary shock from your commanding presence. “Lend a hand?”

As if like a switch, your tone changed from stern to flirtatious, and she wondered if this was how you always were. She ignored the slight coil in her stomach at the sight of the smirk pulling on your lips and stepped up to the table.

“So, you come here often?” Baran asked, trying to match your teasing tone, as she watched you carefully remove the emergency tube.

You laughed, looking up at briefly and wiggling your eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would actually,” Baran responded very matter-of-factly as she raised a challenging brow, her mouth forming a smirk of her own.

McKay snickered, causing you to glare at her.

“You ever do an emergency cric, Cass?” You put your friend on the spot, causing her to shake her head. “I’ll teach you,” you said slyly before looking back at Baran and winking. “You gotta be able to handle anything when you’re on street team.”

Baran’s eyes narrowed at this new piece of information about you. She’d thought learning more about you would help clear things up for her, but if anything, this only further confused her. Why would a plastic surgeon spend her off-time doing street team?

“Wow, you look like shit,” Garcia snarked, as she pushed open the door, hands already gloved and ready.

“All for you, Yoyo,” you replied smoothly with a flash of your signature smirk, earning an eye roll from the other surgeon.

Baran did her best to ignore the twisting feeling in her stomach as she watched the exchange between you two. You really were like this with everyone. Maybe your reputation did precede you.

“What’d I miss?” Yolanda walked over to stand by the patient’s head.

“Emergency cric conversion to trach,” you explained before asking Princess for a ten blade.

“First a slach trach and now this?” Garcia shook her head, clearly annoyed.

You looked up, your curiosity piqued. “Slash trach? Someone did a slash trach?”

Instead of responding, Yolanda transferred her stare from you to Al-Hashimi, causing you to do the same.

“You did a slash trach?”

Baran’s expression instinctively became defensive, which told you all you needed to know, and you let out a low whistle.

“Impressive.”

The warm hum of your voice caused Baran’s cheeks to warm, and she mentally chided herself. She was a middle-aged divorcée with a son, and here she was acting like a middle schooler with a crush.

“Dr. Mckay?” Your switched back into surgeon-in-charge mode as you addressed the resident. “Would you like to do the honors? I’ll talk you through it.”

“You never stop, do you,” Cassie quipped under her breath, picking up on your teasing suggestiveness that seemed never quite absent from anything you said.

You handed her the tube and moved to stand next to Yolanda.

“I’ve already created the window at the third and fourth tracheal rings,” you told McKay. “Now what?”

Cassie looked up at Baran, her attending, who nodded, giving the go-ahead.

“Insert the tube from a lateral position and twist in,” Cassie answered. You raised your eyebrow, prompting her to continue. “Once in position, inflate the cuff and insert the inner tube.”

“Good.”

As you observed the resident insert the tube, Yolanda leaned towards you, muttering in your ear, “I thought you hated the ED.”

“Street team,” you answered her unspoken question. Yolanda gave you a once over, and finally noticed you weren’t dressed in your usual scrubs.

“Missing your MSF days?”

This caught Baran’s attention, and she looked up from the patient and over to you. “You were with Médecins Sans Frontières?”

Everything she learned about you just continued to confuse her even more. Why would a plastic surgeon do a stint with MSF?

Tilting your head slightly, you met her gaze with a soft smile. “I spent some time with them in Yemen,” you replied curtly.

Baran could tell this wasn’t a topic you enjoyed discussing, and based on what she knew about the hospital airstrikes in Yemen, she could understand why.

“Tube’s in place, cuff’s inflated, and airway is sealed,” Cassie declared, bringing you back to the moment.

“Good work, Dr. McKay.” You nodded shortly, your words tired.

Yolanda noticed your shift in demeanor, and she could tell you were crashing. There was a reason you chose plastics over trauma.

“I got it from here.” She squeezed your elbow lightly as she motioned for transfer. “Go clean yourself off, Carrie.”

You took a deep breath and ripped off the gown. Following Yolanda as she escorted the patient out of the trauma room, you peeled off the latex gloves and threw them in the trash. Your hands were still caked in blood from your emergency procedure earlier, and you realized they were starting to shake.

Catching your faint reflection in the glass of the trauma bay, you saw your face was splattered with the man’s blood and your shirt was completely stained. As your mind caught up with what just transpired, you felt your anxiety start to crawl in your gut.

You rushed over to the nurses’ station and found the nearest trashcan before emptying your insides. The sight of your bloodied hands gripping the rim of the bin made you even more nauseous. Shakily, you pushed yourself off the ground and tried to ignore the stares, some of worry and some of disgust.

“I’m fine,” you announced to no one in particular, but you could see Dana’s motherly concern watching you, and you could feel a certain pair of brown eyes following you.

“I’m fine,” you repeated to yourself. Weaving through the ED, you were in a daze, your only focus being on getting this blood off of you, and didn’t hear Cassie calling your name.

Before the resident could chase after you, someone calling her name pulled her in a different direction. “Dr. McKay–” Perlah approached the station with a tablet in her hand– “x-rays are back on your CP patient in thirteen, and the mom is asking for you.”

Cassie sighed and took the tablet, sparing a glance back in the direction of where you had retreated, an imperceptible action that Baran had noticed.

“I’ll go check on her.” The attending gave the other woman a small, reassuring smile.

“Thanks.” Cassie nodded as she walked away.

When Baran pushed open the bathroom door, the last thing she expected to see was you without your shirt on using the article of clothing as a cleaning rag, but alas there you were. For a moment, she could only stare, letting her eyes linger on the way your back muscles flexed with each movement and on the few patches of scar tissue that contrasted against your smooth skin. Baran couldn’t help but wonder what your skin would feel like under her fingertips.

“You know, if you wanted to see me naked you could’ve just asked,” you joked weakly as you met her stare in the mirror.

“You’re not naked,” Baran deadpanned, causing you to smirk lazily.

“Maybe next time then.”

Taking a couple steps forward, Baran leaned against the sink next to you, the cool tile digging into the small of her back. She didn’t say anything, though, simply observing you.

“What?” you chuckled nervously, suddenly feeling very exposed under her watchful eyes.

Noticing the goosebumps that started to decorate your skin, Baran tilted her head. She had only met you once before today, but she couldn’t imagine you were one to shrink easily. Yet, she had to admit she liked seeing you squirm.

Deciding to put you out of your misery, she finally asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you answered reflexively. Both of you knew that was a lie, but neither of you said anything. “I just need to get cleaned off. I’m actually need upstairs in—” glancing down at your watch, you sighed and ran your hands over your face– “ten minutes ago.”

“You sure you want to work after that?” Baran frowned, and you smiled softly at her concern.

“I just have a cleft palate and a free flap reconstruction on my plate today. Then on-call for the evening,” you said flippantly, causing the other woman to scoff.

“You say that as if both those operations aren’t multiple hours long.”

“I’ve had worse.” You shrugged, and after all that Baran had learned about you in the last hour, she believed you.

“Uh—” you held up your blood-soaked t-shirt awkwardly— “thanks for, um, checking up on me.”

Baran didn’t need to know you well to see how uncharacteristic your stuttering was, and she bit back a grin. As you moved towards the door, she realized you were still clad in only your sports bra.

“Wait.” Her voice echoed lightly against the empty stalls as she slipped off her jacket.

“Woah,” you laughed, turning on your heels. “At least buy me a drink first.”

Baran merely rolled her eyes. You were relentless.

“As much as I’m sure many people would appreciate the view, I’m not sure HR would want you walking around the hospital without a shirt.” She held out the jacket, which you accepted with a raised brow.

“Are you included in these ‘many people’?” You lowered your voice as you put on the jacket, zipping it up in one motion.

Ducking to hide the tint on her cheeks, Baran shook her head. “You wish,” she muttered.

You let out a noncommittal sound before tugging at the sleeves of the jacket.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice returning to a gentler tone.

“You’re welcome.” Baran saw her opportunity and pushed herself off the sink. “Though, I think you looked better without it.”

Your eyes widened, visibly taken-aback by her forwardness. With a satisfied smile, Baran slid past you and exited the bathroom, leaving you to swallow a taste of your own medicine.

The sound of the door closing behind her shook you out of your momentary stupor. Taking a deep breath, you were immediately enveloped by the smell of the faint perfume that clung to Baran’s jacket.

There was something about the scent that exuded a quiet boldness, a scent so undeniably her, and you couldn’t get enough.

i. impressive first impressions

ii. more than meets the eye

You hated the emergency department—or “the pitt” as it was so fondly called by said department and trauma surgeons alike. It always amazed you how Walsh and Garcia so frequently made the trip down to the basement. You did your best to avoid emergency consults, often sending your residents down when you could, but being one of the best plastic surgeons, you couldn’t avoid the pitt forever—as much as you would’ve liked to.

It wasn’t that you were against emergency medicine or that you had some vendetta against the people who worked downstairs, but the chaos and frenzy of it all simply unnerved you. During your rotation at MassGen’s trauma center, you’d seen your fair share of MCIs and drunken accidents, too many for your liking actually. You also knew about the rising trends of violence in the ED, something you wanted to do your best to avoid.

Though, it would be just your luck that your first ED consult in months resulted in a laceration across the cheek, thanks to an unhappy—and misogynistic—patient, whose blood alcohol was definitely above the legal limit.

“Shit,” you hissed as one of the residents rolled a sodium-chloride-soaked cotton swab over your wound. “See, this is why I avoid it down here.”

“You got the right idea,” McKay huffed, and you could tell she’d already had a rough day. It was only ten, but that’s what emergency medicine did do to you.

As she draped a cloth over your shoulder, coming back with a needle holder in one hand and pair of forceps in the other, you frowned. “What are you doing?”

“You need stitches,” Cassie stated.

“I know,” you replied. You were the best plastic surgeon east of the Mississippi. Hell would have to have frozen over for you to let some resident do your stitches. “Hold the mirror.”

You lifted the hand-held mirror up for her to take. She gave you an incredulous look but nonetheless swapped her suture supplies for the mirror and held it up for you so you could stitch up your own face.

Across the floor, Baran walked out of a trauma room and approached the nurses’ station. Taking a quick scan of the department, her eyes landed on an attractive woman in Central 2 doing sutures on her own face. She watched as the doctor’s, the dark blue scrubs being a dead give away, hands moved expertly and swiftly, and she couldn’t stop the warmth from flooding her abdomen.

“Why is there a woman doing her own sutures in our emergency department?” Baran asked Dana, her gaze remaining on you.

The charge nurse bit back a smile at the single word choice, implying a shared responsibility, something Dana had come to admire—even like—about the new attending. Baran understood her rank and responsibility but never shouldered the burden alone.

“I doubt she’d let anyone else do ‘em,” Dana snorted as she quickly glanced up to see where Baran looking before returning to her tablet.

“Who is she?”

Dana told her your name. “Plastics surgeon,” she said with a certain tone as if to explain your actions.

Baran seemed to pick up what Dana was suggesting because she raised her eyebrows and nodded.

“Hey, hotshot,” Dana yelled over to you.

“Yeah?” You called back, still focused on your task at hand.

“When you’re done showing off, I got someone here I want you to meet.”

You chuckled lightly, careful not to disrupt your work. Baran watched as you smoothly tied up your sutures, exchanged a few words with McKay, a smug yet easy-going smirk on playing on your lips, and exited the trauma bay.

As you approached the central station, your eyes widened slightly at the unfamiliar woman who was leaning against the counter, her curly hair pulled back halfway so as to not get in her face. While you didn’t make frequent trips down to the pitt, you knew most, if not all, of the doctors and nurses—mainly through Emery and Garcia’s rants but that was a moot point—and you were sure you would remember a woman as striking as her.

“Barbie, this is Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi,” Dana said, motioning her hand between you and the other attending. “She’s here while Robby’s on sabbatical.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname the charge nurse had coined for you after you’d so generously fixed her broken nose, the first time.

Holding out your hand, you introduced your real name. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Baran shook your hand with a faint smirk, and you tried to ignore the way your insides fluttered at the feeling of her skin against yours.

“Impressive work,” she hummed, eyeing your sutures. She could see they were neat and precise. You’d be left with only a ghost of a scar.

“You should see what else I can do,” you replied with the arrogance of a surgeon, lowering your voice suggestively.

Baran raised her brow, struck by your forwardness.

“No flirting in front of me,” Dana snarked, shooting you a knowing look over the bridge of her glasses. You felt your cheeks warm, but your smirk widened.

“There’s plenty of me to go around, Evans,” you teased as you leaned forward against the station. She gave you a deadpan stare, used to your flirtatious remarks, and you snickered.

“Ignore her.” Dana turned to Baran, not giving you the satisfaction of a retort. “She’s not down here often anyways.”

As if on cue, your pager beeped against your hip. Briefly, you skimmed the message before looking back up at the new attending.

“Well, maybe now I have a reason to visit more often.”

You let your eyes linger in hers, momentarily getting lost in the warmth of her chocolate orbs, before pushing yourself off the station.

“Duty calls.” You held up your pager, which was buzzing again. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies.”

You glanced back at Dana, bowing your head slightly, and she simply dismissed you with a wave of her hand, but you could see a glint of affection in her eye.

“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Al-Hashimi.”

“Baran,” she corrected quickly, surprising even herself.

“Baran,” you echoed, a small and sincere smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

If she wasn’t enamored by you before, the way her name naturally rolled off your tongue surely did it in for her.

“Well, Baran, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said your name, and you decided you’d never hear it the same way again.

Turning on your heels, you headed back towards the elevator, the stinging in your cheek replaced by the tingling feeling of Baran’s gaze on your retreating figure. As you pressed the button for your floor, you caught one last glimpse of her and nodded with a faint smirk before the elevator doors shut.

Mrs. Kowalski hummed softly, but her eyes were wary. “I… I still don’t understand. How did this happen?”

Ogilvie leaned forward. “It’s emphysematous cholecystitis,” he said, and you felt your stomach knot. Hands going wild, explaining with gestures she didn’t ask for. “…Basically, your gallbladder is full of—well, not just pus, but gas. Gas-forming bacteria. If it ruptures—”

Javadi’s gaze snapped to him as she delivered a completely unsubtle kick to the shin, and you had to physically swallow your agitated sigh as you interrupted:

“That’s one possible outcome, but not the probable one. We caught it early, your infection is contained, and we’re treating it aggressively.”

Her hand trembled on the bedrail, and her eyes didn’t leave Ogilvie. “Aggresively means, surgery, correct?” 

“It does.” “… Today?”

“Yes,” you replied softly. “The sooner we remove the gallbladder, the better your chances. Javadi and Ogilvie will stay right here with you until you’re on your way.”

Ogilvie’s lips pressed into a line. He nodded once, the gesture small enough not to look like submission, but it was.

“We’re not leaving anything to chance. You’re in very capable hands,” Javadi piped up. “My Dad works upstairs, and, like, he’s really good. Kind of annoyingly so. But, he won’t let anything happen to you.”

Mrs. Kowalski offered a shaky smile at the attempted reassurance, but her eyes were glassy as she laughed nervously. “I’ve never had a surgery. Funny, huh? I’ve made it sixty-four years without one.”

“That is very impressive,” you replied softly, an encouraging smile on your face. “Of all the surgeries one could encounter in their life, this is neither the most invasive nor the most dangerous. I have the utmost faith in our surgeons.”

There was a moment of brief quiet as she fidgeted with the edge of her shawl. “ I don’t know if I should ask this, but, are you religious, dear?”

Caught off guard, you blinked. “I… grew up in a religious community, but I haven’t kept up much since college.”

She nodded slowly, as though weighing your answer. Her hand drifted to her chest, brushing against her collarbone. “I usually wear my necklace for… you know, moments like this,” she said, voice trembling. 

You frowned, slightly confused by where this was going. “I’m sorry. Maybe we can find something nearby for you? Something you hold, to… fidget with?”

“Not exactly. It’s my crucifix,” she said, lips trembling.

Oh. Right.

In a quieter voice, almost shyly, she continued, “I’m sorry. If— if it’s not too much trouble, do you think someone could pray with me? Before the surgery?”

Your mind blanked and spun out for a second, scanning the team in your mind. Who’s comfortable? Who could do this without feeling awkward? 

Your eyes briefly glanced at Javadi and Ogilvie who had both lost a bit of color to their faces. Not them, apparently. Fine. Who on staff—

Oh, duh.

“Our charge nurse, Dana, is Catholic, if that works for you. I’m sure she would be happy to pray with you? And if not, I’ll go find our Chaplain.”

Mrs. Kowalski’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She let out a small, almost inaudible sigh of relief, gripping her shawl a little less tightly. “Either would be so perfect. Thank you, my dear.”

“Of course,” you squeezed her hand. “Is there anyone we can call for you in the meantime, Mrs. Kowalski?”

She sniffed. “Um… my son, John?”

Javadi moved to the computer to pull up his number.

“We’re on it,” you winked. “Anything else I can get for you while we wait?”

“No, thank you, doctor,” she said, smiling through a glint of nervous tears. “You’ve been so kind. God bless you.”

Javadi’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up John’s contact information. “Got it. I’ll call him right now,” she said, glancing at you for a quick nod.

“Alright,” you patted your thighs, standing up. “I’ll be back to check in before they bring you upstairs, okay? Holler if you need anything.” “Will do,” she managed to copy your wink with a grin on her face. 

—

“Dana? Are you busy?”

“Forever and always,” she answered deadpan, voice working before her eyes did, taking a few extra seconds to drift up to you as she finished up a chart. “What good can I do for you, Doc?”

“Mrs. Kowalski in Central 5 is Catholic and would like someone to pray with her before her surgery,” you explained. “Is that something you’d be comfortable with? I can also go find the Chaplain.”

“Oh, please,” Dana waved you off with a quick flick of her hand. “Bless his heat, but that man moves around this hospital like a slimeless snail. I’m happy to help. What’s her problem?”

You jerked your head toward her room. “Gallbladder infection. Caught early, but she’s nervous with pre-op jitters.”

“Poor thing,” she tuts. “Yeah, okay. I got a few minutes. You wanna come?”

You considered for a moment. “I’ll wait outside the room.”

“Sounds good.”

Dana carefully opened the door to Central 5, giving Mrs. Kowalski a warm smile. “Hi there. I’m Dana. I hear you’d like a little prayer before surgery?”

Mrs. Kowalski’s hands twisted the edge of her shawl. “Yes… thank you, dear.”

Dana stepped closer, taking her hand gently. “No problem at all, hon. Let’s do a quick one together.”

Hands clasped, eyes closed.

 “Heavenly Father, we ask for Your protection and peace for Mrs. Kowalski…”

You stepped back a little, letting them have the moment, watching as her shoulders slowly eased. Religion wasn't the... easiest topic for you, per se. Between your own experiences growing up and what Baran had shared with you once upon a time about her youth, you felt you had severed a little bit from the traditions you hade once been so intimately familiar with. It ached, sometimes, but not as often now.

But this was still a sweet sight to see.

When they finished, Dana squeezed Mrs. Kowalski’s palms and whispered, “You’re in good hands, sweetie. Really good hands.”

Mrs. Kowalski exhaled, her shoulders easing. “Thank you so much,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost relieved.

Dana gave you a little look as you stepped closer. “See? Told ya. Chaplain optional.”

You smirked. “Loud and clear, Dana. Thanks for doing that.”

She just patted your shoulder warmly. “You have a good one, okay, Mrs. Kowalski? I’ll come check on ya once they wheel you back.”

“Well, I hope I’ll be here,” the older woman smiled softly. 

“No need for hope.”

—

Emma was panting as her arms worked, pumping the chest of a young man, maybe twenty-two, sprawled awkwardly across it, bones twisted terribly this way and that.

“Immediate triage! Airway, breathing, circulation—tell me what’s going on!” you called, jogging up alongside the gurney.

You pressed on the radial pulse, then the carotid, noting its weakness and irregularity: BP already trending down. “Two large-bore IVs, fluids now,” you said, sliding a line into the patient’s forearm.

Baran fell into place at the patient’s head. “The airway is patent but unstable. Let’s get a bag-valve-mask ready.”

“Mohan, neuro?”

She crowded over the patient, moving with the rushing gurney as she shined a penlight into each eye. “His pupils are unequal… right slightly larger than left, sluggish reaction to light,” she reported. She tapped gently on his shoulders. “Opens eyes to voice, withdraws to pain. GCS about 12. Likely concussion and head trauma; we’ll need imaging once he’s stable.”

“Good,” you praised. “Crash cart ready. Perlah, what’s open?”

“South 14!”

“Alright, let’s move him in. Whitaker, FAST scan once he’s secure. Santos, monitor ABCs. Mohan, stay with me on neuro.”

The stretcher rolled into the trauma bay. Dana ducked under IV poles and stepped up, connecting fluids, checking lines, and muttering, “Skateboarding accident, struck by an Amazon truck. No wonder he’s a mess.”

You winced. “Poor kid. Was he wearing any gear?”

“A helmet, according to EMS,” Baran replied. “Pelvic fracture, multiple long-bone injuries. Still stable enough for FAST.”

BP continued to drop — 82/55, HR 145 — and you exchanged a glance with Baran. “We need airway control.”

Baran nodded, gloves on, checking the bag-valve mask and suction. “Ready.”

Dana readied blood products. “Two units O-negative on standby. Lines flushed.”

Baran crouched at the head of the stretcher, following the steps out loud as the interns watched. “Stepwise: preoxygenate, induction agent, then paralytic, intubate.”

The tube slid past the vocal cords, and Baran inflated the cuff. The bag connected to the valve mask, squeezing gently. “Capnography positive, bilateral breath sounds.”

“Vitals?” 

“Sat’s up—97%. BP’s 78 over 50, and the heart rate’s at 150,” Samira called out.

You nodded, allowing a small approving smile. “Good. Translate that for the rookies, Trinity.”

She blinked, unsure whether to be offended at having to dumb it down or honored you were letting her teach. “Breathing is stabilized, but circulation isn’t. He’s still hypotensive and tachycardic, which means he’s losing volume somewhere. Likely internal bleeding.

“That’s right,” you encouraged. “So what’s the plan?”

Baran hissed your name as a nervous warning, eyes on the monitor. She didn't like how long this was taking.

You didn’t look away. “She’s got this. Santos?”

Santos immediately raised herself to her full height, eyes staring directly into yours. “He’s in hemorrhagic shock. We need a massive transfusion protocol. FAST scan to find the bleed. If he’s unstable, he goes straight to surgery.”

“That’s how it’s done. Everyone listen to Dr. Santos—MTP, now. Let’s move.” You gave her a proud wink and watched as Santos preened at the praise, a small proud smile gracing her face as she rushed back to work.

Baran squared his shoulders, pleased despite herself .“I’ll prep the airway for suction backup in case he decompensates again. Dana, check the lines and make sure we’re ready to push fluids fast.”

Dana’s hands were already moving, flipping clamps and double-checking connections. “Two units hung, running at 150 mL per minute. Whitaker, are you keeping an eye on the femoral line?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, glancing at the manometer. “No infiltration.”

You crouched by the head of the stretcher, scanning the vitals. “Trend?”

“BP creeping up—86 over 56,” Santos said. “Heart rate down to 142. Oxygen saturation holding at 98 on BVM.”

You allowed yourself a brief nod. “Perfect. That’s what we want to see. Keep monitoring. Fluids and blood are keeping him perfused for now. FAST scan next.”

Stepping back slightly, you let Santos, Mohan and Whitaker continue managing the lines and double-checking vitals. Baran lingered a few steps behind, gloves still on but relaxed. She exhaled and leaned toward you, lowering her voice. “That was impressive.” You quirked a distracted brow, eyes still fixed on the patient. “Hm?”

“The way you let her run the show there. She needed that moment.”

You turned to meet her eyes, noticing that little half-smile you remembered from years ago that usually meant she was both proud and teasing at the same time. 

“She earned it,” you replied quietly. “And she needed the confidence. You know how high-pressure this bay can be.”

Baran nodded, leaning slightly closer as if the patient, monitors, and chaos didn’t exist for a second. “Well. I think it still sends a good message. I didn’t expect that from you.”

You allowed yourself a small, amused smile. “See, you had me for a second there. I thought this was a compliment.”

Her brows furrowed in an annoyingly adorable pout. “What? It is a compliment.” “You didn’t expect me to be able to send a good message to my team?”

She huffed in slight anger. “Okay, grow up. That’s not what I meant. Don’t ruin the moment.” “Well, you’re making it a very confusing moment.”

“Maybe you need to listen better.”

“Maybe our two attendings could do their jobs,” Dana jabbed, stabbing you both in the ribs with her pen. “Break it up, whatever the fuck it is you’re doin’ right now.”

Baran blushed slightly in frustrated (and slightly amused) embarrassment, muttering under her breath. “Always getting us in trouble.”

You elected to ignore that comment despite how much it really did tickle you, already moving your attention back to the monitors. “Vitals check, Santos.”

Santos leaned closer to the screen. “BP 92 over 65, heart rate 132. stats stable at 98. Can’t you just read it yourself?”

“It builds character. Do as you’re told, Santos,” Dana quipped, Trinity immediately throwing her hands up in indignation as a response.

Samira flipped through her notes while keeping an eye on the patient. “Looks like the fluids and MTP are finally kicking in. He’s stabilizing. Should we still page surgery?”

Baran nodded. “Yes.We need a trauma surgery consultation. He’s stable enough for imaging first, but we can’t risk waiting any longer than necessary.”

You verbalized your agreement, rounding the bed to help Whitaker, barely noticing the way Baran absorbed that small gesture of respect. No overriding her orders, no second-guessing, no repeating them to ‘claim’ authority. Just acknowledgement and forward motion. 

She watched you for a moment, how you’d let Trinity take the lead, corrected without interrupting, guided without pushing. In the middle of a crashing trauma bay, it was a noticeable calm. 

In many ways, you couldn’t be more different from the version of you she had held so close to her twelve years ago. There were parts of you, brand new, still developing, that she didn’t yet understand and frankly couldn’t access. 

Yet. In many ways, you were just as she remembered. Just as she had said. Gentle.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖<𝟑.𖥔 ݁ ˖

"A doctor will be with you in a minute." The nurse tells you. She props up the gurney so you can sit upright.

You nod as you lean back into it, managing a smile through the pain. It's already hard enough to breathe without the uncomfortably sharp smell of disinfectant, just barely blanketing the rusty scent of blood underneath. 

You've always hated that smell. Hated how it clung to her curls, how you'd find it burrowed deep under her skin long after she'd leave the wretched place.

Really, you hated all of it. But mostly how it called to her. How she couldn't stop herself from answering.

The curtains swish open, stirring air. You lift your head, unable to stop the twitch in your mouth when your eyes find hers. 

Bingo.

Baran's eyes widen, just the smallest bit, then dip down to comb over you. You feel every inch of her assessment as if her hands were prodding here and there, searching for wrongness she could fix.

"This is Y/N L/N." The nurse announces. "Came in for pain at the ribs, some trouble breathing."

Baran's gaze snaps back to yours. She blinks. You blink back. 

The doctor beside her gives her a sideways glance before she steps up to your bedside. "Hi, Miss L/N." She smiles. "This is my attending, Doctor Al-Hashimi. I'm Student Doctor Javadi. We'll need to take a look at your lungs, if that's okay."

You nod, pulling yourself straighter as she unwinds the stethoscope from around her neck. Discomfort prickles your skin, the kind that follows a heavy, prolonged stare. Your eyes dart to the figure still looming at the foot of your bed.

Baran clears her throat. You just barely catch the short breath she takes in, steadying herself. "Have you suffered a blow to the chest? A fall, maybe, or an—"

"I fell." You say shortly. Her head tilts, eyes sharpening. 

The silence grows. You reluctantly go on. 

"I was going down the stairs, my son's toys were everywhere. I slipped. Landed on my chest."

"Take a deep breath for me, please."

You take one and wince, the inhale cutting off midway through. Pain flares in your side, a sharp throb that lingers even after you breathe out. It beats white-hot. The med student apologizes, but she prods for another one, the metal of her stethoscope cold as she shifts its position on your chest. Your fingers curl into a fist.

"Anything to break the fall?"

You shake your head, your voice coming out wheezy. "It happened fast."

"No absent breath sounds." She says, leaning back. Baran's nod is stiff. 

"You'll need to check the area."

The med student turns to you. "Can I lift up your shirt?"

You do it yourself. The cold air of the ED is a small relief against your skin.

"Where does it hurt?" 

You don't know if it's the roaring in your ears, but Baran's voice is dulled. Softened. You don't look at her as you gesture to your side, careful not to touch the sore area. It doesn't matter anyway. The girl does it for you, feeling gently along your abdomen until her fingers find the spot. 

Your breath hitches. "Faint swelling," she murmurs, "…around the seventh rib… Let me know if you feel any tenderness." She hardly presses, but the pain responds anyway, too loud, too hot.

You inhale sharply.

"Stop." Baran's voice rings out. The girl snaps back on her heels, her hands raised. You sag back onto the gurney, letting your shirt down as Baran clears her throat and nods at the med student. "That's enough for us to know it's at least fractured." Her gaze shifts to you, not unkind. "We'll need to take you for an X-ray."

"Fun," you rasp. "Lead the way."

"I'll get you a gown." The nurse pipes up. The med student follows her out, saying something about coming back when the scan is done. 

The curtain swishes closed around them, leaving you alone with your ex-wife. She hasn't moved from her spot—still rooted to the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, like she's standing guard. There's tension along her shoulders. The familiar glaze of concern in her eyes.

Silence crowds, but you don't have the stomach for it.

"Hello." You say tiredly, a headache starting to pulse at your temples. This is not how you wanted today to go.

She seems to unfreeze with that one word. Arms dropping, she clasps them behind her back and takes two steps closer to your bedside. Her voice loses its edge. "How bad is the pain?"

"It's fine." You mumble.

She gives you a look.

"A seven," you relent. "…and a half."

A small fissure blooms on her face, faint cracks rippling through her composure. She sucks in a deep breath—quite mean to do in front of you, if you're honest—and swallows, her mouth set.

"Usually, for rib fractures, there's nothing we can do except prescribe medication. Your scan will tell us more, however the fracture will likely heal on its own. Extreme cases require surgery, but otherwise it's ice packs and rest—no heavy lifting, no lying down."

"Okay." You say blankly. "Good to know."

She continues as if you haven't spoken. "I can have them give you a shot of—"

"No." You shake your head. "No shots."

You have too much shit to do already. You'd planned on making use of your son's absence by getting the house in order, running the errands you've been putting off for weeks—but of course, of course, you had to end up here. The last thing you need is to have some medication messing with your head, slowing you down further.

Baran lets out a breath, her hands curling around the rails of the gurney. "The effect won't last long. Clearly, you're uncomfortable. You might as well take something while you're here." You stay silent, and she pushes, knuckles poking sharp through her skin. "Karim is with my parents, there's no reason why you should be refusing—"

The sigh is out of your mouth before you can stop it. "I have shit to do, Baran." You snap.

"How exactly do you suppose you're going to do anything if you can't even take a full breath on your own? What's so important, anyway?" Her eyes blaze. "Laundry?"

The curtain swishes open.

"Oh—" The nurse shrinks back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Baran lets go of your bed as if she'd been burned. Her eyes are still blazing as she turns and forces a smile, stiffer than the hand she lays on the nurse's shoulder. "Thank you, Emma." She says, deliberately even. "Please let me know when you get the result back."

She leaves without sparing you a glance.

-

You know the Pitt is notorious for its horrendous waiting times, but you still hadn't expected to wait an entire hour for the result of a simple X-ray. Hell, the actual scan itself had taken mere minutes.

You perk up when the curtain swishes open again, but Baran doesn't make for the laptop screen against the wall. Instead she approaches your bedside, a glass jar in one hand and a cup of tea in another.

"I don't suppose you've eaten." It's not phrased as a question. You hate that it's not, because she knows, and she's right. "The cafeteria food is terrible." She continues without waiting for your answer, her tone peevish. "Here."

You're not above accepting her offerings. The tea smells like the kind she used to make at home, minted and sweet. Its steam works up a lump in your throat.

It hurts, seeing her. It always does. Whether you've fought or not, whether you're civil or not. Just her presence is hard to swallow down. You still haven't gotten used to the distance, miles of oceans between you, no matter how physically close you are.

It's ridiculous. You've lived most of your life without her, and yet a decade and some have ruined you for the unforeseeable future.

The tea scalds your tongue. Baran is notably gentler as she sets the jar down on the bed along with a tissue-wrapped spoon. Overnight oats, if you had to guess.

"Thanks," you mutter.

She inclines her head in a nod and perches on the arm of the chair next to your bed. "I'm sorry you've had to wait so long. There's a holdup with the X-rays."

"I didn't expect to get special treatment." You give her a tight-lipped smile. She doesn't return it until you say, "This place seriously sucks, though."

"Yes, well." Her laugh is more of a huffed breath. "We're unfortunately not the most punctual." She frowns down at her hands for just a second before she looks back up at you. Her eyes dip to your gown.

"Do you need help getting that off?"

"I'm good."

Not.

She stands. "Baran."

"Button downs will be easier to wear," she says, reaching for your folded clothes. You'd managed your pants on your own, but you couldn't untie the gown without your vision flashing white. "Anything you don't have to pull over your head. At least for the first two weeks."

"Noted," you say, "but I can—"

"Can you stop," she breathes, fingers bunched in your shirt, "being so goddamn stubborn?"

Her eyes are always mesmerizing when she's angry. They darken several impossible shades, turn into shards of glassy obsidian. 

You drain the last of your tea, hand her the cup, and silently lean forward. Her exhaled breath hits the shell of your ear, low and desperately trying to stay controlled. You feel her finger hook into the messy bow at your back. Feel her tug it loose.

You peel the gown away. It's a scratchy, awful thing; you toss it further down the bed, quietly grateful as you turn back to Baran and take your bra from her.

"This could count as harassment, you know." You meet her eyes, hold the cups to your chest.

She only raises a brow.

It's enough to make you flush, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. Her hands are warm as they fasten your bra. The brush of her fingers nearly makes you shiver, but you hold it, force your shoulders back to keep the tingle from running down your spine.

And if goosebumps rise up on your flesh—well, the ED is cold. Your skin is sensitive. Baran's hands smell like sanitizer, harsh and clinical as she stretches out the collar of your shirt, helps you fit your head in. There's a brief flash of pain when you have to guide your arm through a sleeve, but it dissipates as you fully shrug the shirt on. You don't care to attribute it to the way her fingers linger on your abdomen, gently splayed over your side. They stay there even after you settle, fully clothed.

"Baran." You murmur, your heart kicking faster. Her head is ducked, eyes on your torso where her thumb draws circles.

"It will be…difficult to get around," she says, still looking down, "for a few days. The meds will only get you so far. You shouldn't overexert yourself."

"I won't."

"You could stay." The words are soft from her mouth, nearly mumbled. Baran doesn't mumble. "With me. Until it gets better."

She's looking at you now. You almost wish she isn't.

"Because that won't fuck with Karim's head."

Her lips thin. 

"You're hurt."

"I can manage."

"Karim can stay with my parents. They won't mind, they never do—"

"And when do you get home, Baran?" You wonder. 

She doesn't shy away from your eyes. "At least you'd have someone."

"I don't need someone." Your throat is unbearably scratchy. Your attempt at a laugh doesn't ease the ache—worsens it, actually, right where your pulse beats. "Jesus, you make it seem like I'm dying. I'll be fine."

Your conviction weakens with that last word, crumbling beneath Baran's gaze. Even years down the line, you could never quite get used to the intensity of it. She has warm, kind eyes—bottomless, all-consuming eyes; you've drowned in their depths, been warmed by their heat and burned from their fire.

Baran is unsmiling as she reaches for your face. She cradles your jaw in her hand—that rough, soft hand, antiseptic and long-washed lotion, cuticle oil rubbed around her short, clean nails, a freckle at the base of her wrist. Your breath hitches, comes out shaky through your nose.

You may be stubborn, but you're also unbearably weak. She's like a big, tender bruise imprinted onto your flesh. Just the press of a thumb—and you give, mouth open, gasping. It's been years, and the bruise hasn't healed. It hasn't shrunk. Sometimes you think it's only gotten bigger.

"Please." She says quietly.

Somewhere, beyond the curtains, you hear someone yell, "I need an attending!"

Relief and dread spread through you in equal measure.

You lean away from your ex-wife, tilt your head to the source of the sound. "That's you."

-

The med student comes back alone. You feel bad for not remembering her name.

"It's just a simple hairline fracture, so you won't be needing surgery or anything. Just ice it a few times a day for twenty minutes or so and make sure to rest, definitely don't lift anything heavy or do hardcore exercises."

You smile. "Got it."

She says a bunch of other things, only a few of which filter through. You thank her, pocket your prescription, and speed-walk out of the emergency room. You really almost make it, only three steps from the door when she calls your name.

And you, stupid you—you turn.

"Oh. Good," you blurt out before she can say anything. You take out her jar from your purse—emptied, the spoon rattling inside—and shove it into her hands. "Thanks for this, by the way. It was good. Didn't expect the chocolate."

"It balances out the acidity of the yogurt," she says, almost automatically as she takes the jar from you. It registers on her too late; she gives her head a small shake, a move that's, unfortunately, never stopped being endearing. "You have your prescription?"

"Yep," you answer, trying not to prickle. "We've got aspirin at home, so." You shrug, making room for a frazzled looking woman to pass through.

Baran nods. "Can I…" She pushes her shoulders back, the slightest bit. "Is it okay if I escort you out?"

You blink. "Sure," you say, too drained to argue.

She nods again. Holds the door open for you. You walk through, and despite your shallower breaths, you still smell the traces of coconut from her curl cream—the same one you'd lathered on your hands, raked through her hair when she'd be too tired to do it herself.

You rub a rough hand into your eyes, pressing hard enough to hurt, and make for the parking lot.

"Wait a minute—" Baran's shoes crunch on the gravel. "Did you drive?" She demands.

You let your hand fall. "Calling an ambulance seemed overkill." You say dryly.

Her face grows disbelieving. God, you wish she wouldn't do that, wish she'd stop caring, just stop it Baran, stop it, stop it, stop—

"I'll—"

"You'll what?" You murmur, pulling out your keys. "Take me home?"

She can't step out. You both know she can't.

"Call someone." She pleads. You can hear the underlying shake in her voice, you can feel it rattling your bones. She takes your hand, traps the car keys in your palm. "As your physician, I can't—Y/N, you shouldn't. You'll hurt yourself."

You let out a throbbing breath. Jesus, you just want it all to end. This day, this stupid distance between you that never seems to lessen, never seems to widen, never does anything but hurt. "There's no one to call, Baran," you say quietly. "I made it here, I can make it back."

She shakes her head. The sun catches in her curls, threads along her highlights and sets them on fire. You want them around your fingers. You want everything to go back to the way it was, but the closest you can do is say okay when she says she'll order you a car, because can you even say no? She's pulling the keys from your grip, her pleas warm against your face; she's saying azizam, azizam, come inside, I'll wait with you, and you feel your bones crumble and your resolve die and you do what you could never stop yourself from doing.

You follow her where she goes.

Hi, thank you so much for your support on my first Baran fic! If you liked this one, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging to lmk!! I'd love to know what you thought <3

"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."

໒꒱ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

chapter one: the start

chapter two: reacquainted

chapter three: time

chapter four: execution

chapter five: she's got humor

chapter six: like a complete unknown

chapter seven: the truth is rarely pure

chapter eight: half return

chapter nine: crack, baby (you don't know what you want)

chapter ten + chapter eleven (combined for tumblr) : orbit

chapter twelve: well, you look like yourself…

chapter 13: you wear the same jewels (that i gave you)

chapter 14: my little hawk, why do you cry?

– coming soon –

chapter 15: what did you learn from the tillamook burn...

chapter 16: …or the fourth of july?

chapter 17: (just between us) did the love affair maim you too?

chapter 18: if you leave the light on

chapter 19: what a ghostly scene

chapter 20: everything, everywhere, all at once

chapter 21: in circles

chapter 22: you begin

𖥔 ݁ ˖<𝟑.𖥔 ݁ ˖

the playlists:

Everyone in the room spun to you in shock.

Cassie gaped at you. “You’re serious?”

You were already moving toward the head of the bed. “He’s in hemorrhagic shock from an upper GI source. We’ve got transfusion going, but we’re losing him faster than we’re replacing volume. EGD is definitive control.”

“That’s insane,” Joy said, in awe. “You’re actually insane.”

Cassie’s eyes flicked between you and Baran. “Even if GI is delayed, we still need someone to scope. This isn’t a one-person procedure.”

“I’m not doing it alone,” you said immediately, already reaching for the airway cart. “That’s why we’ve got the talented Dr. Al-Hashimi here to assist.”

“We’re all getting sued,” Joy said elatedly.

“No one is getting sued,” Baran replied calmly, hands fastening behind her back. “We have this procedure entirely under control.”

You nudged her with her shoulder. “I’m surprised you’re actually going for this. Is this you letting loose for the holiday season?”

You watched her physically repress the urge to flip you off, which only made you grin more as you continued.

“Jesse, we need a scope cart in here,” you said, not looking away from Baran. “Cassie, please call GI again and tell them either they haul ass down here or we get this show in motion.”

Cassie paused, sighed, then stepped aside to grab the phone.

“Suction ready. We preoxygenate, RSI meds drawn. No delays between induction and tube,” Baran replied.

You smirked.

“I’ll handle meds. Joy? Intubation is all you.”

The med student paled, head swiveling around to see if you were talking to someone else. When she realized you weren’t, her jaw dropped.

“Me? Why?”

“Becuase you are a student doctor here to learn,,” you raised a brow, already drawing up the syringe. “C'mon. It’ll be fun.”

Joy groaned. “Can’t I just watch?”

You gave her a quick, steady look. “No, you can’t. What's the issue? You’ve been doing intubations since internship.”

“But he’s puking blood!”

“The procedure remains the same,” you replied calmly. “We’re losing time here.”

Her eyes met yours, very clearly trying to beat you in the battle of wills.

You raised an expectant brow, and she grumbled in annoyance.

“Fine,” Joy rolled her eyes, coming around the bed. 

The induction meds went in fast. The patient’s eyes fluttered as his airway reflexes started to drop away.

“Bagging for apnea phase,” Baran called, squeezing the mask in slow, deliberate breaths as oxygenation was maintained.

Joy sniffed, nodding. “Laryngoscope.”

You handed it over immediately.

Her eyes locked on the cords, only taking one grounding breath before continuing. “Tube going in.”

The endotracheal tube passed smoothly through the vocal cords on the first attempt.

“Tube is in,” she said instantly, already withdrawing the scope, grinning when you gave her a high-five.

Baran confirmed ventilation as the bag re-expanded the chest. “Nice work. Let’s keep going.”

“Scope cart?” Jesse called from the hallway.

“About time,” you grinned. You missed this kind of energy in the ED, the adrenaline of knowing exactly what a patient needs and knowing exactly how to do it.

Cassie was still half on the phone, voice clipped as she tried again with GI. “Yes, I understand they’re in two rooms. No—no, I understand that. I am telling you we are actively in a third scenario that cannot wait ninety-five minutes.”

A pause. Her jaw tightened.

“Copy,” she hissed and slammed the phone down.

“They’re not coming,” she confirmed. “We are officially on our own.”

You flexed your fingers once inside your gloves. “Jesse, do we have what we need?”

Jesse pushed the scope cart in fully, wheels squeaking against tile. “We’ve got suction, light source, endoscope, biopsy channel—this is technically not an OR setup, just so we’re all aware.”

“We’ll make do.”

He rolled the cart into position. “Scope is live, but I need you to understand—this is not built for active hemorrhage control. This is—”

“—the only option he has,” Baran cut in.

He grinned, holding up his hands in surrender. “Gung-ho. I’m down for it.”

Baran stepped in closer to the bedside, eyes already on the monitor, then the airway, then the scope. “He’s intubated, ventilated, and sedated. We keep him slightly head-up to minimize aspiration risk. We keep the suction going, and we’ll be good.”

You moved to the head of the bed again, scope already in your hands. You turned your head to look at Baran’s whose gaze was already fastened on you.

“Ready?” you asked quietly.

Baran nodded once. “Ready.”

You guided the endoscope through the mouth, the mouth guard already in place. The moment it passed the oropharynx, the screen flickered into life.

What appeared first was a narrow, pale tunnel that pulsed slightly with motion and breathing, the esophagus collapsing around the scope until the air insufflation you puffed in began to gently inflate it, separating the walls just enough to see the anatomy.

Even so, blood coated the walls in uneven streaks, fresh and dark mixed together, sliding slowly downward with gravity and peristalsis. Suction cleared what it could, but more kept replacing it.

“Keep steady,” Baran said beside you. Her hand hovered near the tubing, not touching, just ready. “Do not chase the blood. Find the lumen.”

“I am in the lumen,” you said, adjusting your angle slightly. “Just buried in it.”

You advanced carefully, letting air open the folds just enough to distinguish structure from clot. The esophagus gave way into the stomach, and the density of blood increased immediately, pooling in dependent areas.

“Let’s try and position him slightly on his left,” Baran suggested. “See if we can get gravity to help us here.”

The bed shifted a few degrees. Immediately the field improved, not by much, but enough to see movement beneath the clot layer. You irrigated, suction following, clearing a small window of visibility.

“There,” McKay said sharply from the side. “I see active spurting.”

You angled the scope. For a second it was nothing but red turbulence, then a vessel came into focus, a pulsing point along the gastric mucosa where the bleeding was not just leaking but driving forward with pressure.

“That is so disgusting,” Joy muttered under her breath, then immediately went quiet when Baran’s eyes flicked up and Cassie shot her a warning look.

“Likely variceal,” you said, leaning in. “Given the alcohol history, I am not surprised.”

“Banding kit,” Baran said immediately.

Jesse already had it ready, sliding it into your field without needing instruction. “Loaded and primed.”

You advanced again, closer this time, until the source was centered. The suction kept the field barely readable though the blood never fully stopped.

You could feel the weight of everyone behind you.

“Okay,” you breathed, ignoring the thrumming of your heart. “I have it.”

Baran stepped in half a pace, eyes locked on the screen. “You are centered. Don’t lose that spot.”

You positioned the banding device carefully, aligning it over the varix while suction kept the field as stable as possible. You were lying if you said you weren’t nervous; everything depended on one smooth motion and nothing forgiving if you were wrong.

“Now,” Baran said.

You deployed the band.

It snapped into place with a tight mechanical release, suction briefly pulling the vessel into view before it collapsed under ligation. The spray of blood reduced into a controlled seep.

From your periphery, you could see Baran’s pleased grin. “Perfect. Do it again, in the adjacent column.”

You reoriented, hands steady now that the first band held. The second deployment was faster, cleaner. Another vessel captured, another collapse. The view on the screen cleared up marginally.

“Oh my god,” Cassie exhaled, eyes flicking between the monitor and the field with a kind of disbelieving relief. “Bleeding is slowing. Doc, how the actual hell—”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Baran said, but her expression had already softened with the beginnings of a smile. “Stay on the field, Y/N.”

“I know, I know,” you said, irrigating again. “Let me have this for one second.”

“You can have it after he’s upstairs.”

You tsked. “Bossy.”

Baran gave you a quick sideways look, the closest thing to amusement she’d ever allow mid-procedure. “Focus.”

The suction cleared just enough blood to expose the folds of gastric mucosa that had been hidden under the pooled blood. 

“Joy, McKay, look here,” you nodded your head toward the screen. “Left gastric curve.”

Another vessel came into view, smaller but still active, a thin line of red that flickered with each pulse.

“That’s our problem spot.”

Cassie whistled in shock. “That’s really small.”

“Small but enough to keep him bleeding,” Baran said immediately, already shifting her stance to get a better view of the screen. “It does not need to be large to be dangerous.”

Jesse leaned in slightly. “That one is going to be harder to seat a band on. Less surface area, more chance of slipping if your angle is off.”

“This is all really helpful commentary, guys, please keep it up,” you grunted as you carefully adjusted the scope.

The rest of the room went stiff, holding their breaths as you situated the tool in place.

“How am I looking, Baran?”

“Advance two millimeters,” she instructed gently. “Stop, right there. Hold steady.”

You obeyed, the screen stabilizing just enough to keep the vessel in view. The bleed flickered again, a thin but persistent jet that made the mucosa around it shimmer with movement.

“Got it,” you murmured.

“Angle down slightly.”

“Done.” “Go.”

You held your breath and deployed the second band.

This time it caught with less certainty, a fraction of hesitation as it seated over the vessel. For a second, nothing changed. Then the flicker stopped, the jet breaking mid-stream before collapsing into a slow seep and then nothing at all.

A breath moved through the room almost in unison.

Joy let out a low laugh of disbelief. “Holy fuck. That is actually controlled.”

Cassie made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shout, already turning to Jesse and slapping his hand in such a loud high-five it made Baran jump slightly.

"How's that for a pick me up, Doc?" Cassie beamed and Jesse laughed in joyous belief.

“That's the craziest shit I've seen in a minute. Did you take adderall or something before coming in today?”

You snorted at him as you guided the scope back with steady hands, clearing the esophagus in a controlled withdrawal until the screen finally faded to black. 

You set the scope down and rolled your shoulders once, feeling the delayed adrenaline finally catch up to you. “Patient’s stable. Let’s get him to the ICU.”

“Robby is gonna be pissed,” Jesse beamed as his hand hit your shoulder with a sharp, celebratory smack that sent a jolt straight through your already fried nervous system.

“Let him be pissed,” you hit back. You wouldn’t let Robby, even in mere invocation, ruin this moment for you. “Escalatoin was necessary, and the procedure was successful. Thank you everyone for the assist.”

Baran’s hand brushed the edge of your elbow as you stepped back from the bed, light enough that no one else would have noticed. There was a small, private kind of satisfaction in her twinkling brown eyes, in the soft upturn of her lips.

“Not bad,” she smiled softly. “When did you learn to do all of that?”

“Grey’s Anatomy.”

Baran’s expression slid into one of mild agitation at the joke, which only served to make you grin wider.

“Don’t laugh too hard,” you beamed. “Oh trust me, I won’t. Care to answer my question?”

You leaned back on your heels. “Robby taught me. Though the last time I did one was… what, nine years ago?”

Baran tilted her head, expression softening again. “That is remarkably impressive.”

“You are full of compliments right now,” you teased as you slid off your gloves. “Thanks for stepping in.”

“Of course,” she said automatically, her expression almost softened into something less guarded.

Then her lips pressed together, mentally clocking the potential implication in those words. 

“As in, that is my job,” she clarified.

“I gotcha the first time,” you winked. 

She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket as you two left the room, falling into step beside you. 

“I heard there was an incident with Robby,” she said carefully, leading you into a quieter section of the ER. “Everything okay?’

Your hand automatically found your necklace, not really wanting to think about Robby right now. You were in a good mood. You had saved that young man. You didn’t want to think about Robby, which meant you’d have to think about Louie, which–

Baran leaned forward, suddenly distracted by what you were holding, and also quick to recognize the signs of you shutting down. It was clear you wouldn’t — and couldn’t — talk about this right now, so she pivoted hard and gave you an out.

"What is your pendant supposed to be?"

Your expression morphed into one of shock as the question snapped you back into the room. “Oh. It’s the heart.”

Her brows drew together. “What do you mean, ‘the’ heart?”

You gave a small, nervous laugh, then turned slightly so the charm swung forward between you.

The pendant caught the fluorescent light in a dull, uneven shimmer, that same imperfect plum coating and thin silver tracing you’d defended in a frozen holiday market a lifetime ago. It looked smaller under hospital lighting. 

Baran quite literally locked up. The memory didn’t exactly arrive gently as her eyes fastened to the charm. She was shocked to realize that she did truly know this heart. 

She remembered your fingers cold from outside, the ridiculous satisfaction on your face when you had bullied her into buying it, the way you had insisted on wearing it immediately even though she had told you, very clearly, that it was absolute garbage and would certainly tarnish.

Her brain couldn’t quite reconcile two versions of you that were now standing in the same hallway, separated by nothing but time.

There was The You who had bought a ridiculous $9 charm in a freezing market almost a decade ago, and The You who now stood in front of her in scrubs, hair a little longer, a few more wrinkles near your eyes, lines from laughter, lines from exhaustion, lines from years well-lived.

Baran’s fingers curled slightly against her palm again. “Have you really worn it this entire time?”

You shrugged. “Just about. I forget it’s there most days.”

Baran couldn’t help the pang of disappointment she felt at that. She had immediately, ridiculously, assumed it was important to you in the same way it suddenly felt important to her. 

"I know how much you personally hate low-quality jewelry," you ribbed with a radiant smile on your face, “So I am sorry to agitate you again, but I won’t be taking it off.”

Baran forced her voice into a lighter tone, fighting the molten ache that burned within her. “I think calling it a dislike barely scratches the surface. Although, frankly, it’s ridiculous. You never want anything unless it’s ugly or cheap or juvenile."

“Comparatively, this purchase wasn’t so bad. It’s got heart, y’know?” “Don’t make me whack you. But, honestly, I can’t believe you kept it. That thing is practically a health hazard,” she scoffed, gesturing to the worn silver edge where tarnish had started to eat into it after all this time. 

“What can I say? It’s one of a kind,” you smiled, already heading back into the bustle of the room. “You coming?”

Her eyes followed the pendant as it disappeared beneath your scrub top again. Watched as you effortlessly rejoined the flow of the ER that you belonged to so much more than you belonged to the moment you had just pulled her into.

So why did she feel stuck?

.𖥔 ݁ ˖<𝟑.𖥔 ݁ ˖

“she went down the north hallway,” mel corrected kindly, eyes flicking toward the corner where you’d vanished down minutes earlier. “she is probably not close enough to hear what we say now.”

victoria leaned back against the nurse’s station, arms folding loosely. “louie died under her care. i think she’s allowed to look off.”

“under her and robby’s care,” mel added. “if they couldn’t save him, i don’t think anyone could. i definitely couldn't've.”

whitaker pushed his hair out of his face and ran a hand down his neck. “i know. it's just— i mean… she usually keeps it together. she’s not the type to get all… like this."

“that's because she’s an attending, huckleberry,” trinity said flatly. “that is, in fact, the job.”

victoria snorted. “well, it's supposed to be. not every attending manages that.”

santos shot her an amused look. they both knew exactly who she meant. robby was being a dick today, in her opinion. “yeah, well. different baseline.”

whitaker nodded, a little too fast. “but that’s what i mean! she wasn’t even unprofessional. it was just—” he gestured vaguely, searching for the word.

javadi finally looked up. “was she harsh on someone?”

“no,” whitaker said immediately. “no, nothing like that. she was just really quiet.”

trinity arched a brow. “quieter than usual or quieter-quiet?”

whitaker hesitated. “quieter-quiet."

trinity groaned. "i can't handle two crashout attendings today. i'm serious. i can't."

victoria glanced toward the hallway again, lowering her voice. “she's probably upset because she was the one who called it. samira said she did compressions almost the whole time. wouldn’t switch out.”

mel’s brows knit. “what, for the whole twenty minutes?”

"mmmhm."

“that’s stupid,” trinity said neutrally. “he was gone even before they would’ve gotten to compressions.”

“doc definitely knew that,” victoria said, the 'obviously' dripping from her tone, “but donnie mentioned she and louie were close. she probably felt like she owed it to him, or—” she stopped, shaking her head. “i don’t know. i’m just guessing.”

from down the hall, there was a blur of movement, some patients groaning, someone shouting, the fluorescent wash of the er spilling into the corridor. the place didn’t pause for anything.

whitaker shifted, biting the inside of his cheek. “do you… think we should check on her?”

santos stared at him, disbelief clear in the raised brow. “are you serious?”

“why not?”

“because she’s an attending,” santos hit back. “and because she didn’t ask for help. if she wanted company, she would've said that to someone, and it definitely wouldn't have been to us.”

javadi’s mouth curved. “you say that like you don’t spend half your shift following her around.”

“i do not—”

“you literally do.”

santos ignored that, flipping javadi off without taking her eyes off dennis. “point is, she’s not falling apart or whatever that poor huckleberry brain is telling you. she's only been gone for like, three minutes. can you chill out? or at least be all nervous wreck-y somewhere away from me?

whitaker just levelled her with a very unimpressed look, eyes disapproving from underneath his curly bangs.

“she’ll come back when she’s ready," mel chirped. "come on. rounds. and if she’s still out there when we pass by, we can… check in. y'know. casually.”

“casually,” trinity repeated, deadpan. “you’re all terrible at casual.”

“uh-huh. remind us how you feel about your plans with garcia tonight getting cancelled?”

“fuck you, whitaker.”

—

you were very aware that attendings were not encouraged to take breaks. you were meant to be accessible at all times, ready to jump in, help out a student doctor, assist with a patient. but you just lost a friend. a real, lovely, tortured friend. so. fuck the system. fuck all of it.

you hadn’t meant to make a big show of leaving louie’s room. you honestly thought you had totally nailed the quick, calm departure. you were almost proud of yourself for that. until someone started calling your name.

your brain couldn’t even sort out who it was at the moment. samira? dana? perlah? cassie? whoever it was, it didn’t matter. you barely registered it, your body on autopilot, fingers clutching your necklace for dear life as you slammed out into the secluded hallway.

oh, louie. some time ago, he had joked about cutting back even as he couldn’t hold his hand straight, even as you and robby loaded him up on lorazepam and librium, sent him out into the world like he wasn’t a powder keg. what the fuck were you thinking?

of course, he was later wheeled right back in. sidewalk. fine wine and good. emts shrugging at his vitals. that was just who louie was. the vodka, the shakes, the stolen librium pills and his endless parade of excuses.

“i’m not a quitter,” he’d said, grinning. it felt like a lifetime ago. “just let me be, doc.”

you swallowed hard, trying not to choke—

when you heard your name called softly from behind you.

fuck.

—

baran had watched with wide eyes as you shot out of louie’s room, dana calling after you. in the five hours she’d been at ptmc so far, she hadn’t seen your composure crack once at any of your colleagues (aside from her, and your little spat.) there had been no frowns, no clenching of your jaw, no scoffs at any suggestions. it was almost stunning, your sunny disposition, your absolute refusal to be brought down by the doings of the day.

apparently, she had found your kryptonite.

according to the board, the man’s name had been louie, and according to the gossip train, he had been a frequent flyer at ptmc. she’d only interacted with him in passing, enough to know the basics: his name, age, where he was from, his usual jokes, the easy familiarity with the staff. but she hadn’t expected the depth of… whatever this was.

that seemed to be a theme today, apparently. baran would never have claimed she wasn’t a person driven by her emotions. by god, she was. everything she did, she filtered through both her heart and her brain, taking both into equal consideration. she was driven by her empathy, her need to understand others, her desperation for them to understand her in kind. she was all for being in touch with one’s emotions. but so far, this staff was doing a hell of a lot of that—and not really in the way she was used to.

people’s jobs here seemed tied not only to perceptions of their competence but also to perceptions of their character. she was not blind to the animosity between langdon and santos; she could see the gentle warmth between mckay and javadi; she could see the nervous expression that had overtaken dana’s face when you had stridden out. the ed was tight-knit, she realized. maybe the whole line gloria had given before starting—“this emergency room truly is like one big family”—hadn’t been utter bullshit like baran had assumed.

but there was something dangerous to that emotional investment. in her opinion, anyway.

suffice to say, louie must have had a greater connection to this ed more than she had understood, judging by your gutted reaction alone. she had felt her eyebrows rise when she had seen you striding swiftly across the er and disappear through the glass doors, tears in your eyes, taking a sharp turn out of sight.

this was another problem. she watched robby and dana’s reactions carefully. sure, they both looked rattled, quite a bit upset by their own right — but neither moved to follow you! for such an obvious display of anguish from someone who so rarely cracks.

and yet no one went after you.

baran was stunned.

this behavior seemed true across the board. she had seen trinity turn to whitaker, who turned to victoria, who turned to mel. they too had seen you rush out, seemed sad on your behalf, but no one made any move to go see if you were okay.

what the hell?

baran realized she’d been holding her breath. letting it out slowly, she took a small step toward the hallway, toward the direction you had gone. maybe you wanted to be alone. maybe you needed air. maybe you needed to scream. maybe you needed to collapse against the wall and let it all go. or maybe you needed company.

was she the one who should've been giving it to you? probably not, she figured. she could've grabbed mckay — you seemed close with her — or maybe even pulled dana out of where she was cleaning louie’s body.

okay, well.

who was she kidding.

from the moment you marched out those doors she knew she’d be the one to follow you.

the hallway was quiet, save for the echoing of doctors marching between flights on the staircase overhead. she paused at the corner where you had turned, spotting your silhouette ahead, head tilted back against the wall and your hand clutching something around your neck.

—

you turned, to where baran was standing calmly right behind you.

“can we walk together for a minute?” her stance was steady and relaxed, her eyes calm, showing no hint of judgment.

you blinked away the burning in your eyes, head swirling. you couldn’t make sense of her words. “i’m sorry?”

“a walk,” baran repeated patiently. “just a lap.”

“around the hospital?”

“wherever you want.”

you probably shouldn’t have been as surprised at this offer as you were. in another life, back when your life was rooted in silicon valley on a college campus instead of pittsburgh in a hospital, you would always ask baran for walks, telling her they calmed you down.

before exams, presentations, any storm of expectation, you could be seen taking a stroll, be it around the dish loop trail or simply down the hallway. when you started dating, baran started joining you.

there had been something so comforting in those steps taken side by side, the quiet rhythm of movement allowing words to pause. you had been so close at the time, the two of you walking for hours without stopping conversation, or without ever having to start it.

your hand tightened around the charm at your throat until the chain bit into your skin. it had been a rare kind of company that you two had shared. a kind of company that you had lost.

a kind of company she was offering again.

“just a lap,” she repeated softly, a gentle hand coming up to squeeze your bicep the longer her question went unanswered. “just for a few minutes. please?”

you sighed. “just one.”

baran nodded. her hand sliding from your arm to wrap around your wrist, pulling you gently off the wall — gently, so gently — somehow aware that your legs were feeling strange beneath you.

you started walking with no exact destination in mind. after a few turns you were in a different section of the hospital entirely, though baran didn’t seem to mind. the noises dulled as you moved away from the main corridor: a distant monitor, the squeak of a cart, voices from somewhere deeper in the department, discussing cases that had nothing to do with you.

the silence was punctured after a few minutes.

“do you want to tell me why you stepped out?” baran asked, very gently.

you gave her a look, though it was probably ruined by how miserable you felt. “you saw the same thing i did.”

“i saw you leave.”

“you saw louie die.”

baran didn’t argue that. she just waited, keeping her eyes on you as you continued to walk.

that was the thing about her. she could be stubborn as hell when she wanted to be. but she had an uncanny knack for knowing when not to fight.

you rubbed at your face with the heel of your hand and kept walking. “he was not supposed to be a surprise.”

baran’s brow furrowed slightly. “what does that mean?”

“it means,” you said, voice rough, “that he kept coming back and promising he’d cut down — on alcohol, he was an alcoholic — and then he wouldn’t, and we’d do the whole song and dance again. and every time i thought, okay, maybe this time. maybe this time he actually means it.” you exhaled sharply through your nose. “he, evidently, did not mean it.”

baran’s eyes danced across your expression. “you sound angry.”

“i am angry.”

“at him?”

“no. maybe. i don’t know.”

she hummed softly at your response, gaze fixed straight ahead. her fingers were still curled around your wrist, her hand warm and solid, thumb tracing small, lazy patterns against your skin. you hadn’t even noticed, eyes shooting down in shock.

she just hummed, unbothered and dropped your wrist calmly. her pace didn’t even stutter.

you reached the corner and slowed, not really wanting to go back yet, not really wanting to stay still either. baran stopped with you.

“did you know?” she asked. it was an invitation to open up about every ugly little guilt you had shoved down in the last ten minutes. to put a name to the grief.

“i knew he was sick,” you said through an aching throat. “i knew he was lying to me. i knew he was lying to robby. i knew he was doing that thing where he laughs and acts like he’s fine while his hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold a cup. i knew all of that.” your throat tightened. “i just didn’t know it would happen like that.”

baran nodded once, slow. “that is not the same thing as causing it.”

“well. feels like it.”

“i know. but it’s important you recognize the difference.”

you glanced at her then, really looked. her face was calm, but not blank — such a uniquely baran expression you had never seen anyone else be able to pull off. in those dark brown, searching eyes was genuine empathy, a real desire to connect. you could tell she wanted so desperately to help. such was her nature.

the hallway ahead of you opened into a wider stretch with fewer people passing through, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

baran spoke after a moment. “you did everything you could,” she said, holding up a hand before you could interrupt. “no. you did, y/n.”

you rubbed at your face again, more frustrated now than before. “he was my friend. there should have been something else.”

“something else?”

“that i could have tried.”

“oh, y/n.” she was looking at you with that same expression of steady, unflinching attention she’d had since the two of you were twenty. “i’m so sorry.”

you were quiet for a second. then, because the silence was too big and you needed something else to hold onto, you muttered, “what made you follow me?”

that made her actually smile, small but real. “call it a gut instinct.”

she looked down the hallway, then back at you. “plus, you kind of looked like you were going to make a break for it if nobody followed.”

you couldn’t help the wet laugh that bubbled out of your throat. “ugh, i wish. dana would have me back inside by the collar within the hour.”

“hm. within a minute, more likely.”

despite yourself, you smiled. it was brief. weak. but real.

baran seemed to take that as permission to keep walking, and this time you let her lead you a few steps farther down the hall. when the silence settled again, it was less sharp than before.

after a minute, she said, “do you want to go back in?”

you had made it back to the doors of the pitt.

miraculously, you found, you didn’t want to go back in. not at all.

“not yet.”

“okay,” she repeated. “walk one more lap?”

you nodded once, throat tight. mindlessly, your fingers drifted to the charm around your neck. “yeah. one more lap.”

she nodded, then started forward again, and this time when you fell into step beside her, your shoulder brushed hers.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖<𝟑.𖥔 ݁ ˖

January 3rd, 2013.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s $9!”

“Yes, exactly. That’s part of why I want it. How is that a bad thing?”

Baran couldn’t help but huff at your insistence, watching her own exhale vanish into the cold. She was the first to admit that growing up in California had distorted her sense of cold, but this was honestly ridiculous. She agreed to come to Colorado with your family because she did like your parents and a holiday trip with her favorite girl did sound lovely, but 16 degrees was kind of pushing it for her. 

Skiing had already been a mistake. Her first time, and very confidently her last. She had lasted long enough to conclude that the sport was just controlled falling with outrageously expensive branding, and she had no interest in breaking anything that would interfere with her job. She was perfectly content to stay on the gentler slopes while you, both endeared and amused, helped guide her through. 

After that ordeal, she’d been very committed to the idea of a warm cabin, a blanket, and at least a two-hour nap in the comfort of the lodge your parents were renting. 

No. Of course not. Because you had found a holiday market twenty minutes away, and you had “had” to go. Which meant she had had to come too — why on Earth would she stand by while you went alone in the cold?  — even when you insisted you were fine.

So that was how she found herself standing in a busy market as cold wind and soft snow floated around her, scarf stolen from your sister, wind slipping through every layer she was sure had been sufficient at the lodge.

“Eshgham, this isn’t real silver. It’s going to turn your skin green.”

“No it won’t,” you said immediately. “It’s fine. It’s just… not fancy silver.”

“Babe. It is nine dollars.”

“So you’ve said,” you grinned, plucking it out of her hands.

She let you, though her eyes lingered on it a moment longer. “Baby, please. I can see the oxidation from here.”

“It’s cute!”

She just stared at you for a second with those big, deep, disbelieving brown eyes, which then drifted back to the charm. “Is it supposed to be a heart?”

From the dainty chain hung a small charm, about the size of the pad of her finger, three-dimensional and slightly imperfect in its shaping. What Baran assumed were meant to be the coronary veins were traced in thin silver lines that caught the light when she moved it. The rest of it was coated in a muted plum color, the paint uneven in places where the metal showed through. Her nose scrunched in distaste.

You reached out without thinking, adjusting her scarf higher above her reddening nose. “I’m not going to get contact dermatitis from this, scout’s honor. C’mon, B. We are going to lose feeling in our faces if you spend too long negotiating over jewelry that costs less than our coffee.”

“I’m not the reason we are freezing,” she replied without snark, hand coming up to graze your wrist as you fretted over the scarf. “This market was not my idea.”

“Okay,” you smiled, leaning in to kiss her cold cheek, “but you came.”

She gave you a look as you pulled back. “Of course I did, because I want to buy you something. I just don’t understand why won’t you let me get you something nice.”

That one landed softer. It was an old spat between you two. You were terrible at receiving gifts, rarely actually wanted anything, which was absolutely agonizing for her. She loved giving them. Every time you pointed out a pair of shoes, a book, even a restaurant, she would light up like she had already decided it was yours. And then you would gently shut it down. Always the same: I don’t need it.

So now, for the first time she could remember, you were actually asking for something. And it was a shoddily made charm.

“I do think this is 'nice.' I like that it’s a little fucked up,” you grinned, bumping your shoulders together. “I’ve shown you my little charm collection, no?”

She exhaled again, then reached out and adjusted your collar. You had mentioned a charm collection a few times. She remembered that. Of course she did. “The one from high school.”

You nodded, very pleased she remembered. “I won’t get the charm if you’re going to fret over me every time I wear it, but if my only real risk is just a little skin discoloration, I think I'll survive. Plus, it reminds me of that one little quote you told me.” She softened at that, eyes twinkling. You’d always had a knack for memorization, and there were a handful of short poems and proverbs she knew you always kept in your back pocket, mumbling them under your breath when nervous for the familiarity of the rhythm, or excited to share when they applied to something the two of you were discussing. 

She finished fixing your outfit, then took your hand, squeezing it. “Which one?”

“That one you were showing me before the OSCE in March,” you said. “I don’t remember the phrasing. He was talking about eyes and passions…?”

Baran’s eyes darted between yours in an expression that — you knew by now, after four years — was not judgment, but more of a physical manifestation of the cogs churning behind her head.

“Are you talking about Jalal al-Din Rumi?”

“I’m not sure,” you admitted, eyes flicking upward as you searched your memory. “I just remember it ending with something about the places you hurt being the places for introspection, except he phrased it, like, a-thousand times better.”

Baran had to pause to search her own memories. Most of those poems lived in her in a different form—rhythm, sound, memory of her mother’s voice more than meaning translated cleanly. Hearing you reconstruct it in English made it slightly more confusing, especially because she was relatively positive that she hadn’t directly translated the poem from Farsi when she was explaining it to you, so now she had to go back and see which could potentially line up. You shrugged, thumb rubbing back and forth over Baran’s gloved hand. “I just remember being moved by it. Doesn’t this remind you of that?”

You held up the hideous charm right in front of her face.

“Does this,” she said, a hint of amusement threading through her voice, “remind me of a thirteenth-century Persian poet?”

“Guess not,” you laughed. “Well, as much as I hate to say it: tough. I am going to get it, and you are just going to have to live with seeing me wear it.”

“You are going to wear this,” she said slowly, “and you are going to get bored of it in approximately three weeks.”

“I am going to wear it forever,” you corrected immediately.

“That is a lie, Azizam.”

“Oh, no it is not. I will wear it every single day.”

“Out of spite?”

“Well, in part, I guess. I do think it’s charming.” You then barked out a laugh so loud several heads turned your way. “Get it? Charming? Man, I’m too good. It just comes so naturally to me.”

She let out a resigned but fond breath through her mouth, glancing back at the vendor table. The charm sat there under the light, looking even more absurdly small and, frankly, ugly.

Then her gaze returned to you.

You were bouncing lightly on your feet to stay warm, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in that stubborn way that always undid her. She had never been able to figure out exactly how you always maintained such a steady light. Not even frigid weather, wet socks, or a stubborn girlfriend seemed capable of dimming it.

Baran reached into her pocket.

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at her hand like you could preempt the entire argument. “Put that away. You’re not going to do that thing where you pretend you are not going to buy it and then secretly buy it.”

“Oh, I’m not doing it secretly,” Baran corrected easily as she slid the bill to the pleased vendor. 

You made a noise of protest that got swallowed by the wind. “Baran.”

She just shook her head patiently, pretending to ignore you, but you didn’t miss the way her brown eyes kept flicking backward to make sure you were still there.

That did make you laugh, and you were frankly just so happy to be on a proper vacation with your parents — and the woman you loved — shopping with her in a holiday market, having her so close to hand, that you dropped the fake argument. 

The vendor handed her the small paper bag and change, and Baran immediately slipped it out of the bag, unclasping it. “Turn around.”

You obeyed, touched, as you shifted your hair off your neck and faced away from her. The cold brushed the back of your ears as she stepped closer.

Her gloved hands were infinitely gentle as she worked the clasp open. You felt the faintest tug at your collar, then the cool weight of the charm settling against your Her fingers lingered a moment at the back of your neck, just to make sure it sat right.

“There,” she said softly.

You turned back around slowly.

Her eyes flicked over your face first, not the necklace, like she was checking your reaction more than the object itself.

“Well?” she asked, eyes warm. 

“It’s perfect,” you smiled, lifting the charm between your fingers. “Do you like it?”

Baran glanced down again. The charm rested against your collarbone, small and slightly crooked, catching what little light the gray afternoon allowed. Then she looked back up at you, at the way you were watching her so openly, so sure she would answer honestly.

“I like it on you,” she admitted, pulling you in by your scarf.

Her hand slides from your scarf to your jaw, brief and grounding, her thumb brushing once beneath your cheekbone.

“Your face is freezing,” she tutted, low.

You just grinned, placing a gentle kiss on her freezing lips, sneakily pulling back before she could deepen it. She was about to drag you back in when her phone buzzed erratically in her pocket. 

Baran groaned, pulling it out as you came around behind her, resting your head on her shoulder.

“Who is it?”

“Soheil,” Baran replied, scrolling through the messages. “He wants us to finish the MSA by February.”

You nodded, pecking her cheek. You had met Soheil a couple times, what with him being Baran’s partner for the Mentored Scholarly Activity you were all required to do before graduation. He was a sweet enough guy, nice and respectful to Baran, and there was something warm in hearing them bicker in Farsi at your dining room table while they worked.

“Let’s go back to the lodge, then. You can work on it there,” you suggested easily.

Baran turned her head to you, brown eyes conflicted. She liked you like this: eager, clingy, with your arms wrapped loosely around her waist beneath her jacket. You had always been more handsy when it was cold, and she wasn't complaining. 

“I don’t want to take up our vacation time,” she said instead. 

“You aren’t,” you reassured her, coming back around to her front, taking both her hands. “You’ll still be with me, not across an entire campus. That’s all I want.”

She hummed softly. “If you’re sure. We’re still doing dinner tonight, though, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” you nodded, faux-solemn. “I think my mother would actually gut us if we cancelled on them.”

The mental image was enough to get a smile out of her, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

She squeezed your hands, and then, after a moment of hesitation, leaned in to brush a gentle kiss to your chilly nose. 

The cold didn’t matter very much at all when she got a moment alone with you, and so she lingered there longer than necessary, just to steal a few more seconds of closeness.

“Alright then, let’s go.” 

—

July 4, 2025

You blinked away the memory, forcing your fingers to stop fidgeting with the charm that you usually kept hidden under your scrubs.

“Dr. Ramiro is doing the surgery,” Dana said quietly to you. You had stopped at the desk between patients for an update on Ms. Kowalski, who was entering her second hour of surgery. Now noon, you were expecting her son John any minute. “They say she’s lookin’ good. It’s smooth sailing up there right now.”

“That’s good,” you sighed, resting your weight against the desk. “Would you let me know when her son gets here?”

“Of course, honey,” Dana nodded easily. “Anything else I can do? You look a little pallid.”

You shook your head kindly. “Just a busy day. Holidays are always a little crazy. Hey, have you seen Robby?”

Dana quickly checked her board. “Ah… he’s got Louie with Perlah and Langdon. He could probably use some hands.”

“Copy that,” you tapped your hands against the counter. “Thanks, Dana.”

“Anytime, kid,” she squeezed your arm affectionately. “Keep your head up. And keep an eye on Mohan, will ya?”

You turned back around, brows furrowing. “Did something happen?”

Dana shrugged. “She seemed a little off earlier. I think Robby’s been rough on her.”

You sighed in annoyance. You weren’t sure exactly what was up with Robby today, but he was especially irritable, causing many of the younger doctors and nurses to all flock to you to present their cases, to get help for a patient, to receive some reassurance that they were doing a good job.

Which, you should clarify, you were more than happy to give some kind feedback. Unlike Robby, you did firmly believe in consistent positive affirmation, even for the minor things. But you were also busy, navigating a power swap, and had patients of your own. It was getting a little taxing.

“I’ll keep an eye on her, and I’ll talk to Robby when I get the chance. Has he mentioned anything to you?”

Dana shook her head, passing some document to Emma who immediately scurried off with it. “Nope. I think he’s just ready to leave.”

You hummed. “Maybe. Kind of surprising.”

Dana turned her head. “Whadd’ya mean?”

You were about to respond when you heard Perlah shout from across the ER. From the glass, you could see they had the defibrillator out. Louie.

You ran.

—

“Over here, Doc!” Perlah shouted, immediately pushing some of the doctors away to make space for you on the bedside as you burst through the door.

You could feel your heart pounding in your ears. “What happened?”

“His lungs are filling up with blood,” Perlah supplied as you immediately began working.

“Langdon, suction that tube,” Robby commanded, barely even looking at you.

“Wait! Wait,” you interjected. “Langdon, you’re not in the esophagus, are you?”

“Definitely not. I passed right through the cords. Good breath sounds. End-Tidal CO2 confirmed.”

The monitor beeped a long, haunting note. The heart stopped beating.

“Asystole! Let’s push that epi!” you shouted, as Robby stepped back from the bed dragging a hand over his face.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“Robby,” you said in warning as you locked your elbows, beginning compressions in a rhythm so practiced it bypassed thought entirely.

“Epi’s going in.”

“We’ll cycle in two.” You shifted slightly, eyes never leaving the patient. “Robinavitch, are you good?”

“I’m fine,” he huffed, storming back over. “Keep compressions.”

You did. Every few minutes you paused, only to be met with the same flatline sound you had heard the second you walked in, so you continued pumping. More blood welled up through the tube, thicker now, pooling faster than suction could keep up.

“Another amp of epi?” someone asked.

“And more suction,” Perlah added, already reaching for it. “It’s not slowing.”

One-and-two-and-three-and-four, and somewhere in the background you could hear more bodies moving in and out of the doors, more instructions being exchanged, more hands working near yours, but it all flattened into a single continuous noise. It was all you could do to keep the rhythm. 

Briefly, between barking your orders, your mind betrayed you. It yanked you away from this room where Death stood with his scythe in the doorway, watching you desperately try to beat life into this man’s chest.

See this, you felt your brain offer, look to this instead, the swirling of cold air around you, shimmering brown eyes so close to your face, red hands not from pooling blood but your soft mittens clutching a new gift—

—The memory swam, confused and clouded; not a comfort. You bid it away. There was no space for anything that wasn’t the counting, the pumping, the praying.

Pulmonary hemorrhage from liver failure. That was what was happening. Even almost 20 years later you could remember the slides from your second-year pathology class perfectly: Hemoptysis from streaky sputum to massive bleeding; Severe Hypoxia, the pulse ox drops as the alveoli fills with blood. 

You knew this well. The second you saw the blood, you knew he was gone. 

“Doc, you need a switch?” Perlah asked softly as you stayed over Louie. Five-and-six-and-seven-and—

“No,” you panted. “I’m fine.” “Y/N,” came a softer voice. Dana? When did Dana get in here? “Step down, honey.” “I’m fine,” you repeated, sharper. “Sharon, more suction please.”

The room was quiet around you, save for the creaking sounds of the bed and the chiming of the monitor. It had filled up as more rushed to help, some stood to watch. A younger, aching part of you wanted to shout at them to get out. This wasn’t a fucking show.

“Should we give PCC?” Langdon asked.

“No. Too late for that, and he’s not an ECMO candidate,” Robby sighed. “Doc?”

There was nothing else you could do, but your body kept moving anyway, the rhythm of CPR so familiar to you you barely felt the burn in your shoulders and lungs. You knew. They were all waiting for you to call it.

Oh, Louie. 

You slowed, then stopped, then stepped away. The monitor’s whine was so fucking loud it almost sounded like a prologned scream. Though you swallowed thickly, your voice was still so rough. 

All you could manage was a raspy: “Perlah?”

 “12:07,” she replied with a quaking voice.

It was almost stunning how much silence followed in that crowded room. Your hand moved to clutch your necklace, but your gloves were covered in so much blood, thick and dripping onto the floor.

“Should we do a debrief?” Langdon asked, and you didn’t miss the way he looked directly at you, not Robby. As you lifted your head, you realized all eyes were on you, waiting. It snatched the air from your lungs. 

“We’ve got another motorcycle injury coming in, ETA 10 minutes,” Dana said softly, stepping forward. “Why don’t we get Louie cleaned up, move him to the viewing room?” You nodded, not trusting your voice right now. Robby, thankfully, stepped in. “Yeah. Anybody that wants to pay their respects can join us in there.” 

You sniffed, firming your resolve as you straightened and turned to the team — the people who had stayed with you in it—and forced your expression to settle. “Thank you, everyone.”

When you hurried out of the room, composition cracking, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop even as you heard the voices calling out your name.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖<𝟑.𖥔 ݁ ˖