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Baran Al-Hashimi takes pleasure in keeping busy. Never one to shy away from overtime to make night shift hand-offs easier, it isn’t uncommon for her to spend more time at the hospital than at her and Trinity’s apartment. By her second year at PTMC, Cassie convinced her to join the street team, which she makes a goal to help out with at least twice a week. The rest of her time is spent driving her son (and his friends) around the city—accompanying him to football practice, going to every public library in Pittsburgh, doing double features at the Harris Theater.
Her idea of a day off is reading medical journals until her eyes go red.
Which is why Trinity does a double take when, today, Baran informs her she will “take a twenty-minute nap”.
“At four in the afternoon?”
Trinity puts her book (science fiction, thank you very much) down, then squints to get a better look at her fiancée. Baran’s posture is a little less dignified than normal, her shoulders slumped against the doorway and her hands shoved deep in her pockets, like she’s hungry for warmth. The half-lidded eyes are her biggest tell.
“Not feeling well?” Trinity tilts her head toward one side. Her babysitting days and her young (but flourishing) career in pediatric emergency medicine keep her senses peeled for lethargy.
“Peachy,” Baran replies, a little too quickly. So she’s been feeling a little run-down ever since her shift ended last night (which is her polite way of saying Lena kicked her out at midnight). And her sleep debt is demanding interest. But that’s how it is, right? She chose this life.
Trinity suppresses a laugh.
“Peachy is not something you say. I’ve never heard you say peachy in our three years together.”
“Trinity, I have also chosen not to use other words—much less tasteful ones—around you and I think you would be thankful for that,” Baran shoots back.
Trinity claps her palm over her mouth.
“Stop laughing!”
“I’m sorry,” Trinity grins, obviously not remorseful in the slightest. “You’re so cute.”
Baran rolls her eyes. Another first in the relationship (on her end, of course—Trinity will die if she doesn’t do it at least a baker’s dozen times a day).
“Don’t diagnose me,” Baran warns.
“Sucks for you. You asked a doctor to marry you.”
“I can still take it back,” Baran threatens, but the fatigue has failed to give it any bite.
She leaves the room without so much as an “I love you”, which Trinity is taking personally.
“Good night,” Trinity calls out, to which she gets no response.
—
Trinity’s timer goes off a quick third of an hour later. She sets her book down and heads to the living room, where she finds Baran on the couch, phone in her hand.
Tell me this woman did not answer e-mails until she passed out. Trinity sighs sharply.
Baran is buried under a thick layer of blankets, and Trinity’s alma mater hoodie is haphazardly thrown over her stomach. Her breathing is deep, suggesting she fell into deep sleep without much effort. Trinity puts the back of her palm to Baran’s neck, for lack of a better gauge. She frowns.
She hastily assembles a care kit from the bathroom, foreseeing that Baran won’t let her leave once the two of them make contact.
Slowly, she coaxes the phone from Baran’s grip, unlocking it to delete the alarm before it has a chance to go off. But the phone has become an unfortunate extension of the attending’s self, and she registers the loss in a heartbeat. She stirs, brow furrowing as she opens her eyes. Well, tries to.
“Hey,” Trinity glides her knuckles over Baran’s cheek. “Go back to sleep.”
Baran shakes her head, face brimming with heat. “I just have to…” she pauses, clearing her throat. Then again. That’s new. Her voice is almost gone.
“You’re burning up,” Trinity informs her as she rummages through the kit for a thermometer. “And the last e-mail you sent has a typo.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Baran reaches for her phone, but Trinity takes her hand instead.
“It does. I know because you sent it to me, and it said, ‘Im dyingg’.”
“That was the fever talking…”
She realizes.
“Oh, so you admit it.”
Baran stares at her.
Then bursts into tears.
Trinity moves to the couch and wraps her arms around Baran. The latter is doing all she can to stop crying, to keep her body quiet. She hates this. She wants to make the most of her day off. She doesn’t want to spend it asleep. But she feels like a truck ran over her, and the driver realized he hit something, so he backed up, but he backed up too much and ran over her all over again. Then she remembers she’s had a patient who went through the exact thing. Several. She doesn’t deserve to break down over a little flu.
She cries even harder.
“Let it out,” Trinity rubs Baran’s back. “Don’t keep it inside.”
“Sorry I was snappy,” Baran buries her face in Trinity’s chest, desperate for pressure to alleviate the ache behind her eyes. Trinity dabs a few drops of menthol ointment on the tips of her fingers and slowly begins to massage Baran’s temples.
“Oh, babe, don’t be,” Trinity whispers, lips pressed against Baran’s hair. “You don’t have to be nice when you’re sick.”
Baran sniffles, muscles protesting when Trinity removes one of her blankets. She knows it’s to keep her from overheating, but the cold is almost too much to bear.
“What hurts, baby?” Trinity’s hands move gently, her palms kneading out the tension piled around Baran’s shoulders.
Everything, she wants to say, but words have abandoned her. She curls up further, all strength leaving, and Trinity understands. Trinity gets her to take ibuprofen, and that seems to settle her after a few minutes.
“For your throat,” Trinity unwraps a calamansi cough drop (and takes one for herself).
Baran hums gratefully, then leans her head against Trinity’s arm.
She’ll take the rest, she decides.
The sunlight touches Baran’s face as the day comes to a gentle close. Trinity repositions herself, turning Baran on her side so the light (though gorgeous) doesn’t aggravate her headache.
Trinity brushes her fingers across Baran’s eyelids, the slow rhythm quickly inducing drowsiness (as Trinity had hoped it would). They’ll have to migrate to the bed soon. Figure out dinner, figure out the logistics of a lukewarm bath. Trinity sets an alarm for the next dose of medicine. It isn’t like her to panic, or to spiral, but she knows Baran is more delicate than she lets on. Once Trinity’s on her phone, she checks it obsessively. How high does the fever have to be for an ER run to be warranted? (She knows it. She just needs the number in front of her. And she needs it not to change.) Does she have Dana’s number? Does she have Huckleberry’s?
Of course she has Huckleberry’s.
Through closed eyes, Baran mutters sleepily. Trinity thinks it’s just nonsense, or remnants of a dream, but then it comes out, clear as day:
“I love you.”
Trinity takes a deep breath.
Easy, Trinity.
She’s going to be okay.