a familiar bruise
w/c: 2.5k
It’s 2011. Two people meet in a bar. Baran Al-Hashimi is an R2, still 3 years away from laser ablation of her left temporal lobe, from control over her seizures. Cassie McKay is 1 year away from getting pregnant with Harrison, 5 years away from her longest stint of sobriety yet, and 7 years away from med school. They’re both at a breaking point.
warnings: depictions of alcohol use disorder and (less so) narcotics use and the conflicts that arise from them. i’ll add specific warnings on a chapter by chapter basis.
notes: did a timeline map for this fic. for it to work, assume Baran graduated high school and undergrad a year early, which I think tracks for her character anyway. i’m writing with the weight and care this subject deserves
—
2025
The first time Baran sees Cassie McKay in the PTMC emergency department, her knees nearly buckle. She has bangs now, and she’s walking with a nurse across the ED, handing over a tablet and asking him to monitor the patient’s mental status and vitals closely and to grab her if anything changes. Then she stops at the nurse’s station, sighs, and leans over the counter, brushing a loose strand of reddish hair that had fallen out of her pony tail back behind her ear.
“Can’t be tired already, McKay. It’s only 7 a.m.,” Dana protests, amused. “Bad for morale.”
“It’s just this patient,” Cassie groans, pressing her palms into her face and shaking her head. “This is gonna be a long day. I can already tell,” she says, letting her hands slap to the counter. Dana — who Baran had met 30 minutes prior but can already see the mother hen tendencies in her — eyes Cassie’s weary shoulders.
“You want a cigarette?” she asks, tilting her head to the ambulance bay. Cassie gives her a look like she’s considering it. Something twists in Baran’s gut, painful and nostalgic, flashes of her and Cassie splitting one in front of that dingy bar one summer, young and lost and hurting.
“No, I don’t smoke,” she says, pulling herself upright. She taps the counter once, pressing her lips together. “Keep an eye on North 7, please? I’ll be around, but —”
“Grab you. Yeah, I heard,” Dana chuckles, her eyes crinkling in a sad, careful way.
“Thank you,” she breathes, pushing herself off the counter and checking the board before swiveling to see another patient.
Baran doesn’t think of Cassie often anymore — her life filled with so many other big, complicated, pressing things — but when she does, it’s to a regretful tune. Cassie, in all her sharp edges and shadowed corners, is still a familiar bruise. And it shocks Baran to realize it. It shocks Baran to see her here. Dr. Cassie McKay. All in one piece. Declining a cigarette.
. . .
2011
The bar is loud to Baran’s tired ears, but the clamoring of voices and clinking behind the bar and the snapping of pool balls against each other has the dissociative effect she’s looking for. She can let her eyes unfocus and her brain relax until the din becomes a weighted blanket on her thoughts.
“Another?” the bartender asks, and her eyes refocus, fluttering up.
He looks expectant but bored, and she nods, sliding him her glass. He pours her a second serving of wine, and the sounds of the bar come back into sharp focus.
“Jesus, fuck me,” someone nearly shouts, and Baran turns.
There are four pool tables in the bar, and the felt combined with countless spilled drinks makes it smell sort of musty underneath the sweet stickiness of alcohol and the woody tar of cigarette smoke. All four are occupied, and at the one closest to the bar is a man with a buzzcut and a shit-eating smirk on his face, tall and bulky, a biker maybe. The woman with him is shorter, a hand on her hip as she hangs on the cue stick like a crutch. She has shoulder length brown hair, the waves parted haphazardly to the side and falling in her face, and she’s wearing torn shorts and cowboy boots and a band shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Nose scrunched, she eyes the table. She must have been the one to yell because nearly all the stripes are still on the table with only the eight ball left. Baran’s lips quirk up.
“You’re cheating. You’re a fucking cheater,” she says stepping forward to poke him deep in the shoulder. He laughs and steps back, hands up.
“Scared you can’t come back from this?” he asks, challenging, glancing at the abysmal-looking table. She takes a big step toward him, opening her mouth.
“Hey!” the bartender shouts at her. “Don’t be a sore fucking loser, Cassie. It’s not cute.”
“I haven’t lost!” she exclaims defensively as she motions to the table. The bartender scoffs, and Cassie’s eyes drift slightly over to Baran. Something lights in her eyes because she strides toward her so fast her hair is brushed out of her face. “Hey, can you play pool?” Taken aback, Baran blinks. “You look like you can play pool. Help a girl out, would you? I’ve got 50 bucks on this game.
Her eyes are wild, a little unfocused, and entirely capture Baran in their snare.
“And that wouldn’t be cheating?” Baran asks, tilting her chin down.
“It would be,” Cassie’s opponent calls to her, and Cassie, looking desperate, presses her lips together and looks to the bartender.
“Ref?” He rolls his eyes.
“As long as you don’t punch Ricky out again, I don’t give a shit,” he shrugs, and before Baran can feel any sort of alarm at that, Cassie is grinning and pumping her fist.
“Yes, alright, come on,” she says, grabbing Baran’s wrist and dragging her to the table. As she stumbles forward, Ricky looks to the bartender, outraged. He does nothing in response. Baran is quickly gathering that Cassie is somewhat of a wild child, ungovernable but charming.
Ricky sighs heavily, shooting Cassie a weary, disapproving look before leaning over the table.
“Side pocket,” he calls dispassionately as he lines up the cue stick under the crook of his finger, closes one eye, and shoots. The eight ball hits the corner of the pocket and ricochets off, clicking off of a stripe. Cassie lets out an audible sigh of relief, sagging, and shoves her cue stick in Baran’s direction, clapping her harshly on the back. Baran, not accustomed to being manhandled like this, isn’t prepared for it, and the breath is knocked out of her.
“You’re up, champ. Do me proud,” she says encouragingly.
Baran, not sure what she just got herself into, chalks the cue and assesses the table. Cassie’s in a bad spot, but Baran sees an opening with the eleven ball. She rounds the table, facing Cassie across from her, and leans over, lining up the shot. Cassie’s watching the table more than she is Baran, her eyes darting as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, chewing a nail. Baran takes a breath and shoots. The ball disappears in a pocket, and Cassie raises her arms. “Yes! Ha! Yes!” she claps.
Baran sinks the thirteen ball. Then the nine ball. Then the twelve ball. Cassie already sank the fifteen, so only ten and fourteen are left. Baran doesn’t have a clear shot or really anything viable left. So, she lines up and taps the cue ball into the ten ball. It bounces lazily off the wall, but it has the desired effect of trapping the cue ball in a position that would make it nearly impossible for Ricky to sink the eight ball on his turn.
“Fuck you,” Ricky scoffs when he sees what Baran did, but there’s little malice to it. “And fuck you, too, Cassie.” There is malice to that.
And Baran just finds herself smiling as Cassie comes up next to her to wrap an arm around her shoulders and shake them excitedly. And she holds Baran against her, fingers digging into the top of her arm as Ricky eyes his options. Cassie is warm, a little sweaty, and she smells like fresh-cut lilacs, earthy and grounding. After the day Baran’s had, it’s a welcome pressure, a welcome comfort to have a stranger so enthusiastically on her side.
“Corner pocket,” Ricky calls. Predictably, he misses the shot, and Baran pushes down her smile. It’s not very sportsmanlike. Cassie has no qualms, however, about whooping.
The final two stripes are easy, and she sets herself up for a straightforward eight ball shot.
“Corner pocket,” she calls, centers herself, and shoots. As soon as the eight ball clatters in the pocket, Cassie is practically on top of her, wrapping her in a tight squeeze and then pulling back to hold her out at arm’s length.
“You are a pool shark. Oh my god, that was fucking hot. I’m keeping you around,” she grins, giving Baran a quick once over. Baran feels heat rising to her cheeks, a small smile blossoming. Before she can wrap her mind around that, Cassie is rounding Baran to confront Ricky. “You’d think we were hustling the way we wiped the floor with you,” she gloats, leaning forward on one foot.
“We?” Baran asks, folding her arms over her chest.
“The way she wiped the floor with you,” Cassie corrects without turning back to acknowledge her.
“I’m not paying you,” Ricky shakes his head. “You can’t change the terms of the bet halfway through the game.”
“Dan?” Cassie calls back to the bartender, who’s barely paying attention as he pours an ale on tap.
“She’s not worth the trouble, Ricky,” Dan just warns, and with his lip practically curled, Ricky shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out his wallet, roughly counting out $50.
“You’re a pain in my ass,” Ricky tells Cassie before shoving the money in Baran’s hand. “And you didn’t beat me. She did, so she gets the money.”
Feeling suddenly like she’s in the middle of something a little too heated, Baran shakes her head and attempts to give the money back.
“I really don’t need it…”
“You won it fair and square,” he insists, putting his wallet away. “She did not.” He points to Cassie, who’s got her hands on her hips.
“Ah, come on. Don’t be like that,” she says, canting her hips back and leaning forward with an open-mouthed smile.
“I’m serious, Cass. Pretty soon you’re not gonna have anyone to shoot pool with,” he says, brushing past her and out the front door. Cassie’s smile flickers and fades, and she straightens, blinking. But it’s quickly shaken off when she notices Baran with a wad of cash in her hand.
“You’re one lucky duck,” she breathes, raising her brow. Baran feels a little guilty the way Cassie’s eyeing the money. She looks like she needs it more than Baran does, a vague sort of hunger in her eyes. For what, Baran isn’t sure. And the way Dan and Ricky treat her — like a pest they’re fond of — makes Cassie feel a little dangerous, a little reckless.
“Buy you a drink?” Baran asks, holding up a twenty. The corner of Cassie’s lip quirks up until it breaks to a full blown grin. She shakes her head a little.
“Thought you’d never ask,” she says, her eyes sparkling as she turns back toward the bar.
Baran watches as she runs her fingers through her hair, a little wavy and unruly, and flags down Dan. Her shirt rides up as she leans on the bar, exposing the soft skin of her lower back.
“Shot and a beer please, Dan,” she says, drumming her fingers on the counter, and glances over at Baran with searching blue eyes.
“Oh, the same is fine,” Baran says quickly and hands over the cash. Cassie’s presence is commanding, wild, and Baran finds herself surprised and disarmed whenever its focus is turned to her. A moment later, Baran’s given her change, and two tallboys of Modelo, two lime wedges, and shot glasses of what she can only assume to be rail blanco tequila are placed in front of them.
Cassie picks up a lime wedge and a shot, and Baran follows.
“To Ricky, may he rest in peace,” she says solemnly, glancing to the ceiling, and Baran laughs for the first time that day, light and easy.
“To Ricky,” she mirrors and downs the shot, wincing as she bites into the lime, feeling as it burns down her throat. Cassie recovers quicker and settles down onto the bar stool.
“I’m Cassie McKay,” she says, holding out her hand.
“Baran Al-Hashimi,” she replies, brushing her curls behind her ear.
They’re frizzing in the early summer humidity, and she keeps forgetting to buy curl cream. Baran has also just come straight from work, meaning no makeup, no tamed hair, and no fancy clothes, just some jeans and a light shirt. Not what she’d usually wear to go out.
“Baran. That’s a great name. Say your last name again. I bet no one gets it right,” she says, leaning forward, and Baran does because Cassie’s correct and most other people don’t put in the effort. “Al-Hashimi,” she repeats, and Baran smiles and corrects her. “Al-Hashimi. Baran Al-Hashimi.”
“There you go,” she encourages, and Cassie takes a satisfied sip of her beer, eyeing Baran.
“So, do you hustle pool for a living, Baran?” Cassie asks, swaying playfully, and Baran wrenches down a smile.
“No, I’m a doctor. An emergency medicine resident,” she offers, folding one leg over the other and nursing her beer. Cassie’s brow rises, and she leans back a little.
“What the hell are you doing in this piece of shit bar? No offense, Dan,” she says quickly to Dan who doesn’t even blink.
It’s a Wednesday night — Baran’s weekend is Thursday and Friday right now — but the bar is loud and full of what she would guess are mostly regulars. It’s a dim place with a few stained glass ceiling lamps and wooden booths, a jukebox in the corner. The main attractions are the pool tables and the slot machines near the front. A few people are smoking in the back, and it makes Baran’s fingers twitch.
“I had a bad day,” Baran relents, refocusing on Cassie.
“This is a good place for a bad day,” she says, her knees falling apart as she props her boots up on the foot rest of the barstool. “I could never be a doctor,” she shakes her head.
Baran hums, taking a drink. Cassie moves on quicker than any of Baran’s friends would from that admission, who are always happy to hear her vent. But she doesn’t want to vent tonight. She wants to be distracted. So, Cassie’s sidestep — though more just an awkward avoidance of a potentially heavy topic — is appreciated.
“It’s definitely not easy,” she admits, and Cassie scoffs.
“It just sounds like hell. Dealing with the worst day of someone else’s life every single day of yours? Uh uh. My nerves would be fried after a week,” she mutters, rubbing a hand soothingly down her own arm, her expression twisted up. The way she says it makes Baran think her nerves are fried from everyday life already.
“You have to have strict boundaries. And a lot of empathy.”
“Two things I don’t have,” Cassie jumps in as if to prove her own point, and Baran furrows her brow, an amused smile on her lips.
“I don’t believe that at all.”
“Well, you don’t know me, Dr. Al-Hashimi,” Cassie retorts, taking a long drink. But Baran thinks she might want to. She considers Cassie for a moment and sets down her beer.
“You want a cigarette?” The relentless pace of Baran’s R2 year, combined with more frequent seizures, has her turning to something for stress relief.
“Fuck, yes,” Cassie sighs, deflating, and Baran laughs again, biting her lip.
