Tags: ex!reader, injuries (reader has a fractured rib), unresolved tension, probable medical inaccuracies (i tried my best), v brief non sexual nudity, mild angst, softness (it’s there, trust), they're still in love your honor!
Summary: You end up in the ED with none other than your ex-wife as your physician. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Word count: 2.9k
It seemed inevitable. Not because you're particularly accident-prone, but because you're not usually in the universe's good graces, and if your ex-wife happened to be working at the closest emergency department to your home—well, then, you'll just so happen to be delivered right to her doorstep. That's the way of things. Distance tries to separate you—it puts up a mighty fight—but eventually, one way or another, you'll chase Baran. Baran will chase you.
It's a loop you've come to rely on.
You sit yourself in the seventh circle of hell, get your vitals checked, get sent back to the waiting room, follow a young nurse into a fluorescent-lighted maze, behind a curtain, and onto a bed—all without seeing her. But you know you will, sure as the sharp throb that echoes in your chest. Some delusional part of you thinks you can feel her, distantly, moving from room to room, skirting the space around you without her feeling it.
"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
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