#mowalsh

No one’s ever made her feel chosen. They all get bored of her eventually, find out she’s too much or not enough or some third thing she can’t name and then it’s over, leaving her back on her own again. She’s always known something’s wrong with her, like she’s just not destined to be loved or properly wanted even while everyone else finds their person. 

She’s only ever needed for her utility, only ever wanted when she has something to give. So she lets herself be sucked dry beyond the point of empty then thrown out, discarded and unneeded. So when Emery looks at her like this, like she fucking matters, it’s terrifying. Because Emery will eventually get tired of her too, will get bored of whatever it is they’re doing and decide it’s over. 

And she likes Emery. so much more than she should. But attachment has never gotten her anywhere good before, and so she shoves her feelings down and focuses on the way Emery fucks her, because that’s all they’re ever going to be. 

But she can feel the panic clawing at her chest in the way it does when things get too soft and mushy and close, so she sits up abruptly, forcing Emery backwards as their foreheads knock into each other.

“What -”

“I can’t do this,” Samira says, panic flooding into her voice and making the words come out rushed. “I need to go, I can’t - I’m sorry, I -”

“Samira,” Emery says sharply even as she moves off the couch to stand. “Hey. Talk to me.”

Samira can’t hear her through the buzzing in her head, rushing through her veins and making her hands shake as she grabs her bag from where she’d tossed it at the door when Emery had leapt at her an hour ago, makes her nearly drop her phone as she bends to slide her shoes on.

“Mira, honey, what’s going on?” Fuelled by her own panic at Samira trying to run from her, Emery reaches out and wraps her fingers around Samira's bicep, tugging her closer and away from where she’s got a hand on the doorknob. Except she underestimates her strength amidst her fear and tugs too hard, and then Samira’s falling forwards and knocking them both off balance and sending them crashing into the wall behind Emery. 

“I can’t -”

“Yes, you can,” Emery says firmly, cupping Samira's face with her free hand so she’s got no choice but to meet Emery's gaze. “Breathe. In. Out. Good. I got you. Keep breathing.”

She watches Samira suck in and release shaky breaths, waits until some of the panic has left her eyes and she’s no longer looking like she’s five seconds from bolting. Taking a deep breath of her own, Emery shoves down all the fear and confusion she feels and leads Samira to the couch, gently pushing her down to sit and taking a seat just a few inches away in case she tries to run again.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Samira nods furiously, shifting on the couch and twisting her fingers together. She looks so entirely the opposite of good that Emery can only raise an eyebrow. 

“Right,” she says skeptically. “Uh huh. Why were you trying to leave, then?”

“I wasn’t,” Samira says defensively. “All good.”

“Right,” Emery just repeats. If Samira could pretend everything was fine, then so could she. “Come here,” she says, lifting an arm in invitation for Samira to slide closer. After a second of hesitation where she glances between Emery's waiting face and her outstretched arm, Samira closes the gap between them, side pressed up against Emery’s and head just barely resting on her shoulder. Emery can feel the tightness of Samira's body as she leans back so they’re more comfortable, can feel the way Samira's holding herself stiff like she’s trying to limit the contact between them.

It all sends her mind spiralling; did Samira not want this anymore? Was Samira tired of her, or maybe of this thing they were doing? Had she suddenly realized that she wanted more?

Because Emery did too, so much it hurt. But she knew Samira would spook at the merest mention of commitment or labels, so she kept her mouth shut and took what Samira gave her, even if it was mostly in a physical sense. Because that was what they’d agreed on, and Emery would rather have Samira in a lesser capacity than not at all. 

So she just presses a kiss to Samira’s hair and tugs her the slightest bit closer, shoving all the anxious thoughts down for now. This wasn’t the time to deal with them, and maybe it never would be. But at her core, Emery was nothing if not a fixer, and right now it made her feel physically itchy to sit here and not immediately spring into action. Years of therapy had taught her that other people’s emotions and moods weren't hers to manage or fix, and she reminds herself of it again now, taking a deep breath and counting to fifteen before she speaks again. 

“Wanna finish the documentary before bed?”

Samira just nods, too scared that she’ll burst into tears the second she opens her mouth. It wasn’t that she really wanted to run from Emery, because Emery made her feel safe and wanted and cared for. It was just that all of it was too overwhelming simply because of how new and strange it was, and so she turned into a stray cat, biting and snapping at the hand that tried to pet it. 

She holds herself stiff even as Emery's arm shifts around her shoulders, pulling her closer until she’s securely tucked up against Emery's side. She can’t get comfortable, she won’t. They were quickly approaching the three month mark of whatever it was they were doing, and that was usually when people started to get bored of Samira, realized she wasn’t what they wanted. She’d be left to pick up the pieces and they got to walk away scot-free. So she wasn’t going to get comfortable with Emery, because losing Emery would shatter her in a way no one else had before. 

Because something about Emery felt different, the way it felt like she wanted to know Samira and not just her casual hookup, the way Emery would kiss her forehead as they settled into bed, the way Emery just fucking looked at her sometimes. And all this kept happening even when Samira tried pushing her away, when she’d snap or start fights just to see how far she could go before Emery gave up. But it was like Emery was immune to it, just let Samira hurl sharp daggers of insults and accusations at her and then held her when she finally collapsed, just murmured soft reassurances that hurt Samira to hear no matter how much she yearned for more. 

Emery deserved better than Samira dampening her mood all the time. And so she shifts to sit up and tangles a hand in Emery's hair, ignores the questioning glance she receives and just leans forwards to kiss Emery. She can feel the way Emery freezes for a second before kissing her back, soft and hesitant like she's waiting for Samira to push for more. 

Her hands land on Samira's waist, just lightly resting there but flexing like she’s fighting the urge to take. They stay there even as Samira swings a leg over Emery's lap to straddle her, not moving like she’s scared Samira might spook at any sudden movement. 

Because she’s terrified Samira will still try to run, even after she agreed to stay. She doesn’t know what to say or do because she has a feeling that it’ll be wrong either way. She doesn’t know what she’s done wrong, if somehow she’s managed to scare Samira away by getting too close or by breaking the unspoken roles of their thing.

She doesn’t want to, but she still pulls back slightly to get a good look at Samira, tightening her hands on Samira's hips just slightly as if to keep her in place. 

“Mira, hey.”

Samira just blinks at her, confused. She leans forward again, but Emery — in a surprising use of strength — keeps her in place, sliding her hands higher to splay over Samira's ribs and push her backwards.

“No, seriously, Mira. Fucking look at me.”

Samira blinks again, but more like she’s in astonishment that Emery's just spoken to her that way. She’s about to open her mouth to argue, but then Emery shakes her head and Samira's mouth snaps closed. 

“Good. Now, you wanna tell me what’s wrong? Because I can sense you spiralling and I don't know what I've done or what’s going on up there, so please. Just tell me so I can fix it.”

Something on Samira’s face tightens at that, and Emery can see the exact moment Samira shuts down and pulls away from her.

“I’m not your problem to fix,” she snaps, already trying to wiggle off of Emery's lap but unable to with how she’s practically held down in place. “Let me go, Emery.”

Except what Samira forgets is that she and Emery are the same kind of stubborn, unwilling to let go and leaving claw marks in whatever lands in their grasp. 

“No.”

“No?” Samira echoes. She untangles her fingers from Emery’s hair and crosses her arms, leaning back slightly in Emery's grasp like she knows Emery won't let her fall even with the anger thrumming between them.

“No,” Emery says again, firmer and sharper this time. “Something’s off. You’re -” she jerks her chin at Samira, “you’re all stiff even after you said you’d stay and I can’t figure out what’s wrong and I want to.”

“Why?” Samira raises an eyebrow in challenge, meeting Emery’s gaze head-on as she waits. “Why the fuck do you even care?”

“I - what?”

“It’s not that hard,” Samira scoffs. Except she and Emery both know it’s just a front to hide all the hurt and sadness she feels.

Emery frowns, nothing but confused now. It was a simple question, yes, but a loaded one at the same time. Why wouldn’t she care about Samira?

“Because,” Emery can only manage to get out before her throat tightens. It’s like she’s been dunked in a pool of sadness all of a sudden, torn apart by the revelation that Samira didn’t understand or believe that Emery could care about her. 

“Because it’s you, Samira.”

Samira just stares back at her, unflinching despite the glassiness of her eyes. “So?”

“What, you think I don’t? Or is it that I shouldn't?”

“Yes!” Samira snaps. “You don’t have to pretend to care, you're already getting in my pants either way.”

Emery flinches like she’s just been physically slapped, releasing her hold on Samira to cross her arms across her chest. “Right,” she says tightly. “If that’s how you feel.” 

There’s no longer any trace of the patience and pleading that had been in her tone earlier, just sharp hurt left in its place. She’s never been one to chase after people, has always let people leave if that’s what they wish to do. But it’s different with Samira; she wants to beg her to stay, tell her that everything will be fine and they can figure it out.

But she can’t do that if Samira won’t let her in, and so she just shakes her head, trying to stop her nose from twitching in a telltale sign that she’s upset. 

“Emery -” Samira starts before hesitating. She nibbles at her bottom lip, looking like she might say something but instead slides off Emery's lap so she’s standing in front of the couch. “I’m sorry,” she says instead. “That was uncalled for.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t - I think we should end things. This isn’t working.” Every single word that leaves Samira's mouth is a stab to her heart, but she pushes through anyway, ignoring the devastated look on Emery’s face. It was fine, everything would be fine. Emery would get over this and find someone who was good for her and wasn't constantly spiralling the way Samira was, someone who would stay. 

“Samira -”

Samira begins to back away, holding eye contact even though all she wants to do is hold Emery and take it all back, beg Emery to love her and keep her like a stray cat. “You don’t want me. I’m not - I don’t know how to do this.”

“It’s fine,” Emery says, standing up from the couch and beginning to walk towards Samira with her hands held out like one would for a scared animal. “You don’t have to.”

Despite everything she’d just thought, she finds herself practically begging Samira to stay anyways. She's desperate enough to leave her pride behind, is entirely willing to make a fool out of herself just this once. 

Samira shakes her head, almost at the door now. “You don’t really care, I promise. You’ll get bored of me and then you’ll regret it and wish you’d just let me walk away. Please, Emery. You don’t want me.”

“No,” Emery snaps, still walking towards Samira and backing her against the door. “Don’t fucking tell me what I feel. You really don’t want this, fine. But don’t run because you’re scared of what staying means.”

“I -”

“So?” Emery presses. “Which is it?”

“You don’t -” Samira starts defensively, but she’s cut off by Emery's palm pressing against her mouth.

“I should’ve remembered you don’t know how to follow instructions." Emery's tone has turned practically mocking, dripping with condescension. She cocks her head as if seriously considering something, lips curling into a smirk. “Right, baby? So now I talk, and you listen.”

As much as Samira wants to fight it, her body doesn’t, turning into an obedient mess like it always does when Emery pulls out that tone. So she nods instead and slumps back against the door. 

“Good. You think I don't really care about you, yes? That I’ll get bored of you?”

Samira nods again.

“That’s not true. I’ve seen every inch of you, Samira." Emery takes her hand off Samira's mouth and cups her face with both hands, achingly gentle as always. 

“You can’t have your coffee without some kind of syrup. You get grumpy when you haven’t eaten all day. You like when I play with your hair. You love so big and hard even if you refuse to admit it. You have a sixth sense for when I need a hug. You like doing a crossword every morning before you get out of bed. Your phone is constantly about to die because you forget to charge it. You smell like vanilla and freshly baked cookies. You love dad jokes and videos of babies falling over. You get sad over dead animals on the road.”

She teasingly raises an eyebrow at Samira, smiling slightly even as she risks rejection and abandonment again. “You want me to keep going?”

Samira sniffles, unable to form words amidst the tears streaming down her face. They refuse to stop and so she just lets them fall, lets Emery carefully brush them away. ‘I’m sorry,” she finally chokes out. “I’m sorry, I -”

“Shh,” Emery soothes, still brushing Samira's tears away. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“No,” Samira says thickly. “I’m so stupid. I was so mean to you and you’re still here and you don’t have to be and - I - why?”

Emery laughs gently. “Oh, sweetheart. Why do you think?” 

It’s not a real question, and they both know it’s not meant as one. 

“You scare me,” Samira finally says when her sobs have slowed to just quiet tears. “I don’t - I’ve never - I was waiting for you to get bored of me. To decide I was too much work.”

“Oh,” Emery breathes, feeling like her heart’s being ripped apart. “Never. You might just be the most interesting person I’ve ever met. And you will never, ever, be too much work, you hear me? I’d get you the fucking moon, if you asked for it.”

Tears are streaming down Emery's face now, but she ignores them and lets them drip onto her t-shirt, too focused on Samira to even care. It’s like Samira's the sun and Emery’s just a lowly planet that somehow has the honour of orbiting her. She would kill for Samira, if she had to. It should scare her, but it doesn’t, just fills her with a warm glow. 

“Yeah.” Samira says, wrapping her arms around Emery’s waist and pulling her in closer until there's barely any space left between them. “Yeah, I hear you.”

“So.” Even though Samira’s holding her and is smiling at her again, Emery's still bracing for rejection, is ready for Samira to decide she actually doesn’t want this after all. She clears her throat. “What now?”

Samira blinks at her, smile fading as she just stares at Emery. But then something in her face softens, and she nods to herself. “I want to try," she says quietly, still watching Emery as if trying to catalogue every miniscule shift. “I’ll probably fuck it up massively, but I think saying goodbye to you would hurt too much.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Samira confirms, sounding a lot more decisive now. “I think for the longest time I tried to pretend I didn’t, but I do care, so much that it scares me.”

“Oh, baby,” Emery murmurs, tucking hair behind Samira's hair and trailing her fingertips gently over Samira's cheekbone and down to her jaw. “Me too.”

She leans up on tiptoes, so close Samira can feel Emery's hot breath on her lips, before finally brushing her lips against Samira's. It’s slow and careful and hesitant, like she’s waiting for permission, and then Samira opens her mouth just a smidgen and Emery’s suddenly starving, pressing forward and licking and nibbling hungrily. She slides a hand lower over Samira's body, down her arm and along the curve of her waist and hip. 

She finally pulls back to breathe after god knows how long, resting her forehead against Samira's. “Come to bed with me?”

Emery was going to throw up. 

She knew it. The feeling engulfed her body, making her hot and cold and sick to her stomach. Normally, this wasn’t a problem. Sometimes, her stomach would get upset and she’d pop a Tums or on rare occasions, throw up. Then she felt better. It was great.

The issue with tonight in particular was that she was in her girlfriend’s bed. A place she normally loved had become a prison because moving would involve waking up her girlfriend.

And Samira rarely got enough sleep, so moving would be a dick move. She’d finally went to bed at a reasonable time and Emery refused to be the one to ruin her first full night of sleep in who knows when.

Her stomach did not care about this information. Her stomach was focused on expelling all of it’s contents. She swallowed hard against the saliva building up in the back of her throat and made a split second decision. 

Move.

Be quiet and as slow as you can manage.

It will be fine. She is being so quiet. Samira won’t hear a thing.

After pulling herself out of bed she makes a beeline for the bathroom because this is happening now. The saliva is too much and the contents of her stomach crawl up her esophagus. She really would have preferred to make it to the toilet but she gags hard and barely makes it to the bathroom sink. Her arms shakily hold her up and she is sweaty and gross as she retches. She feels a strange desire in her chest to cry, or to wake Samira like a kid telling their mom they “frew up” in the middle of the night.

But she is an adult so she keeps to herself, even as she feels herself sinking, even as another gag sends her vomiting again.

The only thing she can be grateful for is that she’s being quiet. Sure, her hearing aids were still in the bedroom, but she can’t even hear her gags or the vomit splashing in the sink, so the sounds shouldn’t be audible through the bathroom door. It’s sound logic. 

She’ll clean up the sink, try not to throw up again, and go to sleep. Samira doesn’t need to be the wiser unless she still feels bad in the morning. (Which she doubts she will, really.)

She’s thinking it through, confident, when acid starts crawling up her throat again and she finds herself leaning over the sink again, acid coasting through the back of her throat and falling off her lips.

(She wants her girlfriend. She doesn’t feel good.)

And then the lights flicker. The room is plunged into darkness and then immediately lights up again. And Samira is standing there looking at her with the saddest eyes possible.

“Hey.” she murmurs.

And because Emery is still trying so hard to figure out where Samira came from and why she was woken up when Emery was being quiet she responds with the only thing she can think of. “I threw up.”

Samira sighs in that sad way she does when Emery doesn’t take care of herself. “I can tell.” she articulates, because she’s perfect and knows it makes it easier for Emery to hear. “Not feeling great?”

Normally Emery would lie, but this is her girlfriend and she’s still caught in the whirlwind of “how did you know I was in here I was quiet,” so instead she just shakes her head. 

And then guilt creeps into her mind and she kind of feels like crying because Samira wasn’t supposed to wake up. “I was being quiet.” she whispers. 

A flicker of confusion takes over Samira’s face before she must realize what’s going on. She sadly shakes her head. “No, but that’s okay. I want to be here for you.”

Emery might genuinely cry because she had just wanted to do one thing right and she couldn’t even manage it. Samira must realize what’s going through her head because she opens her arms before she can think of what to say. 

Emery could have spent hours in Samira’s arms, but she doesn’t because Samira is pushing her against the counter before she knows it. She angles herself so her lips are visible and even starts a few shaky sign symbols. “Honey. You were being pretty loud. Probably because you couldn’t hear yourself. It’s okay. I want to be awake for you. Tell me next time.”

And it’s all Emery can do to shakily nod. “Just my stomach.” she manages. “Just gets like that sometimes.”

Samira frowns like she doesn’t believe her before reaching out her hand to feel for fever. “Yeah, you’re feverish.” she clarifies. “Like burning up. I don’t like it.”

Emery sniffs because she literally had one job, but then she gags again and Samira is manhandling her to her knees in front of the toilet to throw up the remaining contents of her stomach. 

“Oh, baby, you’re okay” she coos, as if saying the words enough will make it true. 

And it might be from stress or emotions, but either way when she’s done she makes eye contact with Samira and lets tears sneak down her face.

“Oh, no, hey, hey what’s up?” she coos, desperate to take the tears away. 

Emery must be feeling pretty bad because she opens up immediately. “Don’t feel good and, um, thought I was being quiet but turns out I just can’t hear and it’s,” she sniffs, “hard.”

Samira nods immediately. “That’s sounds rough.” She rubs Emery’s back because she’s perfect. “But next time, I really need you to let me know you’re not feeling good. Because right now you’re running a fever, throwing up, and crying. And I’d like to be there for you and fix those things. Okay?”

Emery nods, even though she looks like she doesn’t believe it.

Samira reaches down and lightly tugs Emery up. “I’ll clean the sink.” she whispers into Emery’s chest. 

Emery could cry again because her girlfriend is so fucking nice and looking at her and signing and everything. 

Samira continues to guide her to the bedroom and get her lying down before tucking her in with a few blankets and maybe even a kiss on the forehead.”

The minute they’d found out they were pregnant, Emery had been all over it.

Getting everything ready, she liked to say.

Worrying, is what Samira liked to call it.

Emery was good, really she was. She meal-prepped foods that wouldn’t make Samira nauseous, massaged Samira’s ankles before they even started to swell, went to all of her appointments with her, got everything ready like she said she would. Truly, Samira couldn’t have faulted her for it.

But it’s around week 36 that she goes too far.

It starts with a shadow, lingering in the corner of her eye, wearing blue scrubs, a huge pair of reading glasses and bright green sneakers.

Samira thinks he must just be a new guy in the ED, a new doctor she’s not been introduced to yet and keeps seeing around, but it’s when she can’t stop seeing him that she starts to take notice.

He’s not exactly malignant but he’s always just there, right in the corner of her periphery where if she turns to look too quickly, he might spook and disappear.

It lasts an hour before she confronts him.

“Do I know you?”

To his credit, he looks petrified. Who could blame him? She’s got a few inches on him and definitely more than a few pounds and with the way she’s standing, scowling with her hands on her hips, it’s probably best that he looks a little frightened.

Still, he has enough courage to shove a brown bag full of sandwiches into her hands. “Th-this is for you.”

She frowns and looks at his ID card.

Dr. Brandon Collie. Surgical intern.

Samira groans. “My wife sent you.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Uh, yeah, um, Dr Walsh asked me to, uh, keep an eye on you? W-while she’s, um, in surgery?”

Samira doesn’t miss the way his eyes take a nervous glance down at her belly, just barely covered by the maternity scrubs Emery had bought her two weeks ago and were already feeling a little tight. She sighs again.

“Well, thank you Brandon, but you can head back to Dr Walsh and tell her that I don’t need a babysitter until I’ve actually had this baby, okay?”

He nods but doesn’t move. He was gripping a notebook tightly between his fingers.

“Was there something else?”

“Um, yes.” He fidgeted awkwardly. “I, uh, I hear what you’re saying and I have to say I really respect what you’re doing, you know, it’s freakin’ badass-“

“Spit it out, Brandon.”

“Dr Walsh threatened to ban me from the OR if I don’t stay within fifteen feet of you all day.”

He says it so quick that Samira has to blink several times as she processes what he’s just said. Then she laughs.

“She threatened to ban you?”

He nods, a nervous smile on his thin, wiry face. “Yeah, she said, uh, if I couldn’t look after a pregnant lady for twelve hours then she didn’t want me anywhere near a scalpel until I could. I…um…I need all the time in the OR that I can get.”

Samira raised her eyebrows. No wonder.

She looked at Brandon again. He’s skinny and tall like Ogilvie, but awkward and mousy like Whitaker. The glasses that sat on his nose were huge, far too big for his face and fixed around his head by an elastic blue strap, making them look more like swimming goggles.

She tries not to laugh in his face.

“So I’m guessing I can’t Return to Sender then?”

“Please don’t.”

Bless him, he actually looked quite hopeful. He couldn’t have been much older than Victoria.

“Look, I’ll stay out of your way, Dr Mohan, I promise. I know it’s annoying and-“

“On the contrary, Dr Collie,” Samira smiles as she hands him back the sandwiches and claps her hands together. “I’m sure we can make you quite useful.”

_

Brandon, in the end, becomes a walking example of both abuse of authority and medical dedication within the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre.

True to his command, he stays within fifteen feet of Samira all day, parading as her shadow when anyone asks and her slave when nobody cares.

He does everything she asks without complaint.

Hell, he starts doing everything anyone asks, seemingly happy just to help out.

Dana jokes he would’ve made a great nurse.

He gets Samira water when she needs it, brings her a chair when her feet start to hurt, a stick of deodorant when she nearly starts crying over how bad she’s sure she must smell.

Worst of all, he does all of it with a smile.

“What’s your deal, Dr Collie?” She eventually asks when she decides to finish out the day in the break room.

He grins and hands her the tiffin box Emery had made her that morning. “My deal?”

He’d gotten more confident in the last ten hours, despite the terror he’s constantly in. It’s almost annoying, how nice he is, how good he is at helping her.

She’s starting to understand why Trinity regretted taking Dennis in, she’s already wanting to take Brandon home with her.

“My wife isn’t that scary of a surgeon. You can’t want to suck up to her this badly.”

He chuckles. “Dr Walsh is like…a god in the eyes of a surgical intern, Dr Mohan. If I can get in good with her, I’m set for life.”

Samira smiles, flattered to hear someone think so highly of Emery. He’s right, of course, but all of this seemed a bit extreme, even for her.

“Besides, I’m enjoying myself.” He says, tucking into his own sandwich. “I didn’t think I’d enjoy the emergency room but you guys are…”

“Hard-core?”

“Interesting was the word I was going to use.”

She smiles again and shakes her head, going back to her sandwich. “That’s a good word for it.”

“But I would say it’s hard-core to be doing it all eight months pregnant. I’m tired just following you around.”

“Believe me, you’re nowhere near as tired as I am.”

He chuckles. “Dr Walsh thinks a lot of you.”

“I should hope so. She did marry me, after all.”

“No, no I mean, she cares about you down here, more than most people would. I know she’s your wife and everything but really, how many people would send their colleague down to look after their spouse at work? For ten hours straight. She really loves you.”

“She really worries about me, more like.”

“Isn’t that one of the greatest forms of love? Worrying?”

Samira blinks and watches him for a couple of seconds, surprised at the authenticity of his words. She’s barely known him for a day and they’re already having intimate conversations.

“What magazine did you pull that out of?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I took a philosophy class in highschool. Guess it stuck.”

She laughed. “I guess so.”

They went back to their food, an amused and strange sort of silence settling between them. Samira hated how much she was enjoying herself.

They did not need a Dennis.

They did not need a Dennis.

She eyed the packet of chips on the table. “Can I have those?”

As if he could read her brief inner panic, he simply grins and pushes them towards her. “Sure.”

“Thanks, Brandon.”

Samira winced as she heard another round of coughing through the wall. She had slipped out of the bedroom to make Emery tea a few moments ago, but she felt guilty for leaving already. 

She had caught a “cold” around a week ago, but being Emery, she refused to take a break or a nap until it had morphed into bronchitis. Samira had dragged her to her PCP when she’d realized Emery was running hot and couldn’t make it through a conversation without a coughing fit. The doctor had recommended rest and a humidifier, but Samira was starting to seriously doubt its effectiveness. 

And being a doctor herself, she reserved the right to say that. 

She shook her head as a physical way to shake herself from her thoughts before crossing the living room and slipping into the bedroom. Emery was propped up against pillows, hair down in a way that made her look like a wet cat, and clearly throughly miserable. At least the coughing fit had resolved itself, even if Emery was still mildly gasping for breath.

“Deep breaths.” murmured Samira as she set the tea down on the nightstand. “In.” She took the breath with Emery. “And out.” she sighed. “Good girl.”

Emery blinked up at her through sleepy eyes. “Hate this.” she spat.

“Yeah, I know.” replied Samira, because what else could she say? She crawled under the covers and gently slung an arm around Emery and pulled her into her side. “Want to try some tea?”

Emery whined from where her head was tucked into Samira’s neck. “Tired.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Samira tried not to let fear creep into her voice. She really shouldn’t be worried, but bronchitis didn’t usually present with this much fatigue, or this much mucousy coughing, or this high of a fever. Sure they were all symptoms, but to this extent?

Regardless, she tried to take a deep breath. She was a doctor. She could figure this out. It was probably just bronchitis like Emery’s PCP had said. Yet, the itch to check for herself still wriggled in Samira’s mind, thoughts repeating until she found herself reaching for the thermometer on the bedside table and her stethoscope from med school that she kept in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. 

Emery whined again as she moved, limbs seeming to fall with Samira’s movements, reaching for her like she was a lifeboat. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she murmured against Emery’s hair. Logically she knew Emery probably couldn’t hear the apology, but the urge to do something to make up for the guilt swirled in her conscience. 

Emery responded by tucking her face back into Samira’s neck, and then immediately having to pull it out in response to a coughing fit.

The coughs were wet and gravely, and Samira found herself reaching for a tissue to catch some of the mucous with one hand and rubbing Emery’s back with the other. “That’s okay,” she tried to comfort. “In and out.”

The coughing fit lasted a solid minute or so. Every individual cough had pulled at Samira’s heart, urging her to do anything, as long as it was something. Even after the fit, Emery continued to gasp for air as if she couldn’t get enough. Even Samira’s urges for deeper breaths didn’t help much. 

She grasped her hands around the thermometer, praying it gave her a lower number. She was mostly just glad it was an ear thermometer and she could avoid having Emery hold her breath.

“Touching you.” she murmured as acknowledgement before tucking the thermometer into Emery’s ear. Emery gave barely any sign that she’d heard her at all. (She probably hadn’t.) Samira groaned when she saw the number, mostly because she had really been hoping the fever had gone down and it simply had not. 

Next, she poked her old med school stethescope into her ears. Emery finally acknowledged her from where she was propped up against Samira’s shoulder: a simple glare as if to say “Really?”.

“Yes, really.” muttered Samira, even though Emery hadn’t actually said anything. She’d really prefer to make a preliminary diagnosis right now before she dragged her very sick wife out of the house and to a doctor’s appointment the next morning.

“Sorry, sorry,” she hissed when Emery flinched back at the chill of the bell of the stethoscope. She had already been freezing all day, and it broke Samira’s heart to know she’d made it worse.

She was kind of glad she had though, because now she could hear Emery’s chest perfectly. Her breathing was labored in a way that Samira very much did not like, and the crackles through her breath was obvious. Not to the point where she would need an ER visit right now, but definitely at the point where Samira was already reaching for her phone to make a doctor’s appointment.

“Think you’ve got pneumonia or somethin’” she hummed, even though Emery probably wasn’t processing a word she said. “Gonna get you some antibiotics tomorrow, sound good?”

Emery just made a vague whimper against her chest.

—

The pneumonia diagnosis hadn’t really surprised Samira, but she was still quite worried about Emery. Her wife was curled up in the passenger seat of her car on the way home from Walgreens. Samira had allowed her to bring a blanket, giving her normally scary wife the look of a particularly miserable toddler.

As they shifted inside to the bedroom, Emery did not succeed in looking any less like a miserable toddler. Her hair was still down (Samira needed to figure out how to put it up and brush it without triggering a coughing fit), she was still paler than the moon, and her limbs sank into the bed in a way that let Samira know she was bone-dead tired.

“Emmy,” she murmured, tapping her cheek as she poured out her first dose of antibiotics. “Take these for me?”

Emery blinked up at her with the kind of face that suggested she would really like to commit murder. Samira took it as a yes, especially when Emery sluggishly obliged.

What was horribly ironic was that the second Samira pulled out the good cough syrup the doctor had gave her, Emery let out a small cough. And then another. And then she was in the middle of a full blown coughing fit, causing Samira to ignore the medicine and turn her attention completely to her wife.

She used one hand to rub her back and the other to grab a tissue for her to cough into (the mucous-cough situation was not great), while she started on her affirmations for what felt like the billionth time.

“That’s it. You’re okay.”

When Emery finally looked up from the fit, Samira couldn’t help feeling bad for her. (Not that she’d tell Emery that, she’d kill her.) But she still looks like a sick puppy and she’s gasping for breath in a way that makes Samira want to cry. So instead of crying, she busied herself with dishing out prescription cough syrup. Emery finally takes it, and Samira felt something heavy soften inside her.

“Tea?” she asked, because she hates feeling helpless and that seems easier than doing nothing.

But Emery shook her head. “Just wanna fuckin’ sleep. And it’s nice to sit against you ‘nstead of pillows.” And then she tipped her shoulder to Samira’s.

And really, who is Samira to say no to that?