Chapter Text
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It’s a fairly standard shift for Baran, insofar as any shift can be standard at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. She treats a handful of respiratory and stomach viruses, investigates a couple of abdominal complaints, and oversees a complex trauma from a motor vehicle collision. She’s on her feet the whole day, but she’s used to that after years spent practicing emergency medicine. She likes the constant pace of it, how she’s never sure exactly what she’s going to be encountering next, how she always has to keep her medical knowledge current and extensive. It’s a challenge, and she’s someone who likes challenges.
What is unexpected, however, is the text she gets at 1pm, exactly halfway through her 12-hour shift.
Baby 🩵: Kaveh isn’t feeling well 😞
Her heart squeezes before she can formulate a more logical response. Of course it’s probably nothing to worry about, her son is seven years old, and it’s the middle of cold and flu season. Plenty of bugs are going around – she’s seen them in the ER today herself. But her lips press into a thin line anyway and she ducks into the nurse’s station, frowning down at her phone. She sits down, texting back immediately.
Symptoms?
Baby 🩵: headache, runny nose, sore throat, won’t eat anything
Baran reads the text twice, her mind already running through a list of differential diagnoses. She forces herself to take a deep breath, then lets it out. She’s on edge because the cases she sees at PTMC are generally serious. A runny nose and a headache do not warrant anything more than some children’s Tylenol and a nap. She sends another text.
Fever?
Baby 🩵: no, I just checked. 98.7
Baran lets out another breath, her shoulders dropping slightly. Good. It’s just a cold, most likely. Nothing to worry about. The instructions come easily.
Give him 10 mL of children’s acetaminophen. Try to get him to drink some juice and rest. I’ll be home as soon as my shift ends.
Baby 🩵: Okay 💕
Baran studies the text for a moment, something nagging at the back of her mind. She can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s off. The texts are too short, devoid of the bubbly language and ridiculous number of emojis that usually litter your texts.
She types again. How are you feeling?
Baby 🩵: I’m fine, don’t worry. Just looking after our little guy ❤️🩹
She frowns at that, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard as she thinks of what she wants to say. But then Dana enters her field of vision, finishing a phone call.
“We got a trauma incoming, ETA 2 mins. Diving accident, adolescent male. Vitals are shaky,” Dana says, squinting up at the giant screen that shows all the patients. “We’ll put him in Trauma 2.”
Baran nods, pocketing her phone and rising from her seat. There’s still a quiet worry in the back of her mind, but she pushes it to the side as she focuses on the task at hand. She sanitizes her hands, grabs a gown, and heads out back to meet the ambulance.
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“How’re you feeling, sweetie?” You sit down on the couch next to Kaveh, your hand automatically coming up to feel his forehead.
He doesn’t look up from the Nintendo Switch in his hands, his thumbs flying over the controller buttons. “Good. I just found a new sword upgrade and got to the next shrine!”
You chuckle softly, stroking his dark curls. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m glad. Is your head still hurting?”
He shakes his head, then turns to cough briefly. He covers the cough perfectly with his elbow, a hygiene habit no doubt instilled into him by his physician mother. You smile, kissing the top of his head.
“Good. I’m going to make some soup, ‘kay? I know you’re not hungry, but I want you to at least have a little bit,” you say, rubbing Kaveh’s back. “You need to keep your energy up.”
“Mmkay,” the boy hums, still distracted by his game. You can’t really blame him. Sick days are a rare exception to his screen-time limits, and he’s clearly soaking up as much as he can get.
You watch him play for a moment, trying to make sense of the flashing characters on the screen. “Which game is this one again?”
“Legend of Zelda,” Kaveh says. He looks up at you with his big brown eyes that look more like Baran’s every day. “You want to try?”
You smile fondly and kiss his mop of curls again. “Nah, you go ahead. I’ll get dinner started.”
You start to stand up, but then the blood rushes from your head and you wobble, suddenly feeling dizzy. You sit down heavily, rubbing your temples and trying to catch your breath. Then you sneeze. You sigh, grabbing a few tissues from the box next to Kaveh, and blow your nose.
Kaveh turns to you again, peering at you. “Are you sick too, Mommy?” he asks, his expression pure and earnest.
Your heart warms. The fact that this sweet little boy calls you Mommy still makes you feel so happy, even though it’s been over two years now since you married Baran and officially adopted Kaveh.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” you assure, standing up more carefully this time. Your vision goes a little spotty but then clears thankfully. “You want chicken noodle or ash reshteh?”
“Ash reshteh,” Kaveh grins. You chuckle, nodding. You expected him to pick the Persian noodle soup that is both his and your wife’s favorite comfort food. You finally got a hang of the recipe after Baran showed you how to cook it a few times, and now you can make a fairly decent pot of it.
“Kavi, drink your juice please!” you call over your shoulder as you head toward the kitchen, and you see Kaveh take an obedient sip.
When you first started dating, Baran had been worried about how the three of you would fit together as a family. But once you met Kaveh, everything slid into place as easily as the final piece in a puzzle. Kaveh wasn’t hard to fall in love with. He’s kind, funny, and crazy smart, just like Baran. It wasn’t long before the two of you were best buddies, and when Baran finally asked you to marry her, you were over the moon to form your new, beautiful family.
In the kitchen, you start pulling ingredients out of the fridge. You normally love the opportunity to greet your wife from a long day at work with a hot meal. But today, everything feels ten times harder than usual. Your body is heavy and sluggish, and even the simple act of pulling out the cutting board and mincing some herbs feels like a monumental effort.
But you power through anyway, getting everything into a pot on the stove and bringing it to a simmer. While the soup cooks, you make yourself a cup of tea and add a generous splash of honey to it. You hope that the tea might be able to soothe the irritated scratchiness that is gradually building in your throat.
You sit down at the kitchen table with a sigh, taking a long sip of tea. You’re exhausted, even though it’s Saturday and the most strenuous thing you’ve done all day is look after a kid with a mild cold. You shouldn’t be this tired, or achy…and why won’t your head stop pounding?
There is, of course, a logical answer to all these questions. But you don’t want to even entertain the idea. You are not getting sick. Definitely not.
Ever since you moved in with Baran and Kaveh, there’s been one small downside to sharing a living space with a school-aged kid: every bug he picks up at school, you seem to get, also. You honestly thought you had a pretty strong immune system until the first cold and flu season at his elementary school hit hard and fast.
It’s not that you mind dealing with a cold every now and then, that’s not the issue. The problem is that your wife – your endlessly attentive, devoted wife – always ends up having to tend to Kaveh and you for days, essentially bringing her hospital work to her home life. She always says she doesn’t mind, but you hate feeling like a burden on her, especially when she already has to deal with so many sick and miserable people in her day-to-day.
Not to mention the fact that, somehow, Baran never seems to get sick. She claims it’s due to the immunity she’s built up from her many years working in hospitals. She never gets so much as a sniffle, while you and Kaveh are hacking up a lung for days.
But you’re determined to stay healthy this time. You are not sick. You’re just…tired. You need more sleep, that’s it.
And maybe some extra vitamin C, just to be safe.
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You and Kaveh are cuddled up on the couch, watching an old episode of The Magic Schoolbus when Baran gets home. You can tell she’s tired just from the slump of her shoulders and the low ponytail she’s pulled her curls into, something she does on busy days at the PTMC.
You come over to her, resting your hand warmly on the small of her back and pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.
“Hi honey,” you say, taking her work bag from her and setting it aside. “We missed you.”
Tired as she may be, Baran’s eyes are fond as she smiles softly at you, cupping your cheek. “I missed you too, azizam,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over your cheek.
You love the way the word rolls off her lips. Azizam. Her favorite term of endearment for you, something Persian and soft.
“Maman!” Kaveh exclaims, running over and wrapping his arms around Baran’s middle. “You’re home!”
Baran’s face lights up the same way it always does when she sees her son. She scoops him up to rest on her hip, kissing his forehead. “Joonie delam. Halet chetore?” she says in Farsi, then translates immediately, something she automatically does when you’re around. “How are you feeling?”
“My throat hurts,” Kaveh pouts, sticking out his lower lip. “But Mommy let me play the Switch. I got to a new shrine!”
Baran casts an amused glance in your direction, and you give a shrug to indicate you don’t know what he’s talking about either. She talks softly to him as she carries him back to the couch, settling him on the cushions. “I’m glad you had fun, sweetie. Bezar negat konam. Let me have a look at you.”
She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, her expression turning slightly clinical in the way you’re used to by now. “No fever, that’s good,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. “Were you good for Mommy and took your medicine?”
“Yup!” Kaveh nods, looking very pleased with himself. “Even though it was yucky.”
“Afarin. Good job.” Baran smiles, rubbing his back. “Ghorboonet beram.” Kaveh wraps his arms around her, cuddling up to her side.
“What’s that one mean?” you ask, when Baran doesn’t translate the latter phrase. You join her on the couch, gently tugging the elastic out of her hair and carding your fingers through her curls.
Baran hums contentedly, her eyes fluttering shut as you scratch at her scalp.
“Mmm. It doesn’t translate well. It literally means ‘I will die for you’. It’s something parents often say to their children.” She cracks her eyes open, giving you a lopsided smirk. “Farsi is a very dramatic language.”
You chuckle softly, pulling her closer so that she’s leaning against your chest. “I’m aware. Dooset daram.”
“Mm, very good,” Baran smiles, relaxing back into you. “I love you too, sweetheart. How was your day?”
“Fine,” you say, continuing to stroke her hair. “We just relaxed, mostly.”
“Mommy made ash reshteh!” Kaveh pipes up. “Is it ready yet?”
“Oh, did she?” Baran turns to look at you, her eyes warm. “She’s spoiling us today, huh?”
“It’s good for colds,” you say, grinning. “I know these things.”
“My mother would be so proud,” Baran smiles, kissing your temple. But then she stills. A tiny frown creases her dark eyebrows, and she sits up a little straighter, touching your cheek with the back of her hand. “Azizam. You feel warm. Are you sick too?”
You duck away from her hand, scooting back a bit. “What? No, I’m fine!” you say, trying to sound lighthearted.
You spring to your feet. “I should go check the soup, actually. You two relax, I’ll be right back.”
You scurry away before your wife can ask any further questions.
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The rest of the evening is busy in the way it often is with a sick seven-year-old. You and Baran spend most of dinner trying to coax food and fluids into Kaveh, and then you handle bathtime to give your wife a chance to shower and decompress from her shift.
Baran gives Kaveh more medicine before bed, and then the three of you pile in his bed to cuddle up and read a story. He finally starts drifting off after that, and Baran stays with him a while, singing to him softly in Farsi and stroking his hair until he’s fully asleep.
You lean against the doorjamb, watching the two of them, something tender aching in your chest. You love both of them so much, more than you ever thought possible.
“I think he’s finally out,” Baran whispers, glancing back at you with a tired smile. She leans down and kisses Kaveh’s forehead before turning off the light and getting up. She threads her fingers through yours and tugs you down the hall toward your shared bedroom.
Baran disappears into the ensuite to brush her teeth, but you’re too tired to do anything but plop down on the side of the bed. It’s like the weight of everything you’ve been trying to ignore all day is hitting you all at once.
You feel achy all over, there’s a sharp throbbing behind your eyes, and your throat is on fire. You swallow experimentally then grimace, immediately regretting it. A cough slips out, making your chest burn.
You curl up on the bed, burying your face in your pillow and closing your eyes. You just need a couple minutes to pull yourself together, then you’ll get ready for bed.
“Hey.”
Baran’s voice has gone all soft around the edges the way she only is with you and Kaveh. You squint your eyes open and see that she’s kneeling next to the bed, her purple toothbrush sticking out the corner of her mouth. There’s a deep furrow in her eyebrows as she traces her gaze over you, clearly studying you.
Baran plucks her toothbrush out of her mouth with one hand, the other coming to stroke your side. “Oh, eshgham. You’re not feeling well at all, are you?” she sighs, her chestnut-brown eyes full of concern.
“I’m okay,” you mumble, even though it’s obvious you’re not.
“You’re a terrible liar, sweet girl,” Baran says, giving you a sad half-smile. She leans in to press her lips against your forehead, lingering against your skin. You know her well enough by now to know that the gesture is both a comfort and a fever check.
Baran makes a thoughtful noise in her throat, sitting back on her heels. You can practically see the wheels of her physician brain turning. “I need to take your temperature. How long have you been feeling sick, azizam?”
A heavy stone of guilt drops in your stomach as you take in Baran’s soft concern. This is exactly what you didn’t want to happen. For Baran to take care of your son all evening, and then to have to turn around and do the same for you. You swallow thickly, blinking away the sudden burn in your eyes.
“I’m not sick sick,” you protest croakily, pushing yourself up on shaky arms to a sitting position. Your head swims at the movement but you ignore it. “I just might be getting Kaveh’s cold. I’ll be fine, babe.”
Baran gives you a look that clearly conveys her disbelief. “Kaveh doesn’t have a fever. You, meanwhile, are burning up.”
The statement that you do in fact have a fever makes your eyes burn harder. You sniffle, rubbing a hand over your eyes and looking away. Everything just feels like too much right now, and you can’t stop the tears from sliding down your face.
“Hey…hey.” Baran gets up to join you on the bed, immediately pulling you against her side. “Oh, sweetheart. Come here.”
You bury your face in her neck, feeling your hot tears dampening her shirt. She starts stroking your hair in long, soothing strokes.
“Shh, eshgham,” she murmurs, kissing the crown of your head. “You’re alright. You’re alright honey. I’m right here.”
You sniffle thickly, pulling back slightly. Baran hands you a tissue, her worried gaze fixed on yours. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Baran asks gently, running her hand in circles between your shoulder blades. “Was it something I said?”
You shake your head, blotting your eyes and nose with the tissue.
“No, no it’s not that,” you say, taking a shaky breath. You look down at your hands, playing with the edges of the tissue. “I just…I’m sorry. Sorry you have to deal with this.”
Baran is quiet for a moment, still rubbing your back. “Deal with what, azizam?” she asks softly. She tips your head up to meet hers. “What do you mean?”
You sniffle again, sighing. “Just…this,” you say, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “Me. Being sick. And a mess. Again. You shouldn’t have to deal with me being sick on top of Kaveh too. I’m sorry.”
Baran tilts her head, frowning as she studies you. You can tell she’s choosing her words carefully. Then she cups the back of your head and pulls you into her, her lips meeting your forehead.
“Sweetheart,” Baran murmurs, holding you close. “You are not something I ‘deal with’. You’re my wife. I love you more than anything. You think I don’t want to look after you when you’re sick?”
You pull back, wiping away another tear. “No, that’s exactly the problem,” you say, sighing. “You do. You always do. You spend all your time taking care of other people, when I should be the one taking care of you.”
Something shifts in Baran’s eyes.
“Ah. I see,” she says, her voice thoughtful. She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, her touch endlessly gentle. Then she turns so that you’re sitting facing each other, clasping both your hands in hers. “Okay. Sweetheart, look at me. I need you to hear me when I say this.”
You blink, staying silent as you look into those familiar, warm eyes.
“You are not responsible for the career I chose,” Baran says. You open your mouth to protest but she cuts you off.
“Ah, let me finish, azizam. No one forced me into emergency medicine, okay? I chose this. I love my career. And yes, it makes me tired sometimes, and some days are awful, but that’s not your job to fix. And it’s definitely not your job to hide your own needs to try to make my life easier.”
She studies you, squeezing your hands. “We’re a partnership, yes? You take care of me in so many ways, sweetheart. You make me dinner almost every night. You take care of Kaveh. You hold me when I’m exhausted. You listen when I need to rant. You make me laugh harder than anyone ever has. That’s what matters. Not who takes care of who more. We’re not keeping tally, we’re married. I look after you, you look after me. That’s it. Understand?”
She pauses, waiting for you to nod. Then she thumbs a tear off your cheek, and continues.
“And for the record, taking care of you is nothing like taking care of my patients. Sure, I’m glad I have medical knowledge so I can keep an eye on things, but it’s not the same at all. Making sure you’re okay, bringing you soup, medicine – all of that, that’s love. Not duty. So don’t try to take something away from me that I love to do, okay, azizam? I love taking care of you, even if I wish our little guy didn’t get you sick so often.”
You sniffle, wiping away more tears before they can fall. Your heart is so full as you look at the woman across from you. This beautiful, amazing woman, who you still can’t believe you get to call yours.
“Do you…” you trail off, swallowing. “Do you really mean all that?”
“Every word.” Baran cups your jaw. She leans and slowly kisses both your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose, and finally, your lips. “Don’t ever doubt it for a second, my love. Never.”
“I love you,” you say, wrapping your arms around Baran and hugging her. “So much.”
“Me too, sweetheart.”
You give your wife a watery smile as you pull back, and she lets her eyes drift over you, her lips curving into that soft, familiar expression you know by heart.
“Now. Can I take care of you properly?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. “Because I’d really like to.”
You sigh, but you’re still smiling. You grab some more tissues, cleaning up your face. “I suppose.”
“Good. How are you feeling?”
“Um…” you sniffle into your tissues, trying to think of how to word the general everything-is-awful feeling that’s currently taking over your body. “I’m getting congested.”
“I can hear that,” Baran nods, smiling slightly. “What else?”
“Throat, head, body aches,” you exhale, gesturing to your face. “Just overall blah, y’know?”
“I know,” Baran says sympathetically, stroking your hair. “...even if I can’t quite treat that,” she adds, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Hey,” you give her a flat look. “You asked, babe.”
“I did. And I’m glad you’re telling me,” Baran affirms, kissing your temple. “Let me get you some medicine and take your temp. Do you want to get changed, azizam? You need sleep.”
You nod tiredly, suddenly feeling like you could fall asleep any moment.
Baran goes to the dresser and brings you your favorite pajama set. After you get changed, she takes your temperature and gives you two Tylenol pills.
“Drink the whole glass, please,” Baran says, handing you some water. “You need to hydrate.”
You make a face. “Then I’ll have to pee in the middle of the night.”
“Upper respiratory infections need lots of fluids,” Baran says patiently, giving you a look that tells you she won’t be changing her mind on this anytime soon. “Humor me, sweetheart.”
“Fine,” you sigh, sipping on the water. She gives you a pleased smile and gets up to finish getting ready for bed.
After you both have brushed your teeth and finished your night routines, you slide under the sheets together. Baran wastes no time wrapping her arms around you and pulling you into her, so that your face is nestled warmly in the crook of her neck and your legs are intertwined.
“Khoob bekhabi. Sleep well. Wake me if you need anything, eshgham.” Baran murmurs into your hair, her breath warm against your scalp. She rubs your back in slow circles. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you mumble. And before you can say anything else, you’re asleep.
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