Family First
wc: 2,309 // tags: married baran al-hashimi x reader, fem reader, angst with a soft ending, neurosurgeon reader, samira mohan's sister reader
a/n: hey hi hello, this is my first ever fic on tumblr, so please be kind 🥲 if something's wrong or looks weird, just let me know. appreciate you reading.
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The ER is still chaos. The water park victims are upstairs now : the leg, the finger, the child with the slash trach that Baran did with her own hands, her first one, practiced in a sim lab at Stanford years ago and never thought she'd use. The computers are still down. The paper charts are piling up. The day shift is running on fumes and bad coffee.
You're on your way back from a consult. A patient in the ICU , post-op craniotomy, something leaking, something that needed your eyes on it. You're still in your navy scrubs, your hair pulled back, your badge clipped to your hip. You've been in surgery for six hours and you're hungry and you're tired and you want to find your wife.
You round the corner near the central computers.
And you stop.
Because Baran is in one of the small consult rooms : the ones with the glass walls, the ones where everyone can see you but no one can hear you. The door is shut. But through the glass, you can see your wife's face. Tight. Controlled. The kind of controlled that means she's barely holding it together.
Robby is in there with her.
You can't hear what they're saying. But you can see his hands moving, pointing, gesturing. You can see the set of his jaw. You can see her posture — shoulders back, chin up, the way she stands when someone is trying to push her down and she's refusing to let them.
But you know your wife. You know the micro-expressions. The way her left hand curls into a fist at her side when she's angry and trying not to show it. The way her nostrils flare slightly. The way her eyes go cold , not weak, never weak , but hurt. Beneath the armor, hurt.
Robby is still talking. Baran says something back. Short. Sharp. You can't hear the words, but you see her mouth form them: "All you fucking think about is yourself."
Then Robby says something else. Her jaw tightens. She turns. Walks to the door. Yanks it open.
She walks right past you.
Doesn't see you.
You watch her go. Watch her disappear down the hallway toward the break room. Her hands are shaking. You can see them shaking from twenty feet away.
You start to follow.
"Don"t."
Dana's voice. Low. Quiet.
You turn. She's standing at the nurses' station, arms crossed, watching you.
"She needs a minute," Dana says. "Give her one."
"What did he say to her?"
"Nothing she didn"t already know."
"That"s not an answer."
Dana looks at you. Really looks.
"He told her she can"t work in his department until she"s fully capable. That"s the short version."
"Fully capable of what?"
"That"s not my story to tell, babydoll."
You stare at her.
"He"s been treating everyone like shit today," she adds. "Mohan. Al-Hashimi. Half the staff. He"s not himself."
"This is exactly who he is."
Dana doesn't argue.
You look down the hallway where Baran disappeared. Your hands are at your sides. You want to go after her. You want to wrap your arms around her and tell her that Robby is an asshole and none of this is her fault.
But Dana is right. Baran needs a minute.
So you wait.
--
Ten minutes later, you find her in the break room.
She's sitting at the table. Alone. Her hands are wrapped around a cup of coffee that's probably gone cold. She's staring at the wall.
You don't say anything. You just walk over, pull out the chair next to her, and sit down. Close. Shoulder to shoulder.
"I saw," you say.
She doesn't respond.
"Through the glass. I saw the whole thing."
"Then you saw me lose my temper."
"I saw you stand up for yourself."
She shakes her head.
"He"s not wrong," she says. Quiet. "Not entirely. I had two seizures today. Two. I haven"t had two in a year. I told him I could still work , double coverage, no critical procedures , but he"s right. A five-second lapse could kill someone."
"That"s not what he said to you."
"It"s what he meant."
"No. What he meant was that he"s scared and he"s projecting and he doesn"t know how to handle his own shit so he"s dumping it on you."
She looks at you.
"You don"t know that."
"I know him. I"ve known him for years. He"s always been like this. Dismissive. Harsh. Threatened by women who know what they"re doing."
"But—"
"You just saved a kid"s life. A slash trach. Your first one. In a chaos situation with no computers and no backup. And the first thing he did was tell you that you"re not good enough to run his department."
Her eyes are wet. She doesn't cry. She never cries. But her eyes are wet.
"I"m scared," she admits. "I"m scared of what happens if the seizures don"t stop. I"m scared of losing my license. I"m scared of being stuck at home, useless, while everyone else—"
"Hey."
You reach over. Take her hand. Interlace your fingers.
"You"re not useless. You"re not going to be stuck at home. We"re going to figure this out. Together. Whatever the neurologist says, whatever the next steps are — we figure it out together."
"What if I can"t work anymore?"
"Then you don"t work anymore. And we figure that out too."
"I don"t want to be a burden."
"You"re not a burden. You"re my wife. That"s not the same thing."
She closes her eyes. Leans her head against your shoulder.
You sit like that for a while.
--
You leave the break room around 7:00 PM. Baran is still sitting there, but she's drinking her coffee now , you made her a fresh cup , and she's making phone calls. The neurologist. Someone about medication. You kiss the top of her head and walk out.
You're heading toward the exit when you hear voices around the corner.
"I"ve never seen her like that."
That's Javadi.
"She was shaking. Her hands would not stop shaking."
"Panic attacks are no joke. I had one in med school during finals. Thought I was dying."
That's Whitaker.
Trinity.
You slow down. Stop just out of sight.
"Did you hear what Robby said to her?" Javadi asks.
"Everyone heard," Trinity says. "The man has no filter."
"He called it 'mommy issues.' She was having a full-blown panic attack and he asked if it was about her mommy issues."
"He told her to go home," Whitaker adds. "Told her he didn"t need the liability."
"She"s one of the best doctors here," Javadi says. "She"s so careful. So thorough. She takes more time with patients than anyone. And he just..."
"He"s been like that all day," Trinity says. "Worse than usual. Something"s going on with him."
"Something"s always going on with him," Javadi mutters."
You step around the corner.
The three of them look up. Javadi's eyes go wide. Whitaker looks like he's been caught stealing. Trinity just raises an eyebrow.
"Dr. Mohan," Javadi says. "We didn"t see you—"
"My sister," you say. Your voice is calm. Too calm. "You"re talking about my sister."
No one says anything.
"Samira had a panic attack and Robby told her to go home because she has 'mommy issues'?"
Javadi nods. Swallows.
"He was really harsh," Whitaker says. "I"ve never seen him like that with her. She wasn"t even doing anything wrong. She just got overwhelmed."
"Where is she now?"
"She went home," Trinity says. "Robby made her. She didn"t want to go."
You nod.
You don't say anything else. You just turn and walk toward the exit.
But your jaw is set.
And Trinity, who knows a thing or two about anger, watches you go and thinks: Someone"s about to get it.
--
The night shift is trickling in. The day shift is trickling out. The ER is quieter now — not calm, never calm, but the chaos has settled into something manageable.
Robby is at the central computers, finishing his last chart before he leaves. His bike is parked outside. His bags are packed. He's supposed to be on vacation in a few hours.
He looks up.
You're standing in front of him.
Not next to him. Not across from him. In front of him. Directly in his line of sight. Arms crossed. Navy scrubs. Hair falling out of your bun. You look tired. You look like you haven't eaten in twelve hours. You also look like you might kill him with your bare hands.
"Dr. Mohan," he says. "Didn"t see you there."
"I know."
"You need something?"
"Yeah. I need to say something to you. And you"re going to stand there and listen."
"Okay."
He blinks.
"My sister had a panic attack today."
"Samira. Your resident. The one who spends more time with her patients than anyone else in this building. The one who actually listens to people instead of just running through the motions. She had a panic attack. And you told her to go home because she has 'mommy issues.'"
"My sister had a panic attack today."
He doesn't say anything.
"I—"
"You"re not done listening."
"She came to you because she was scared. She thought she was having a heart attack. And you made her feel like a burden. You made her feel weak. You made her feel like she doesn"t belong here."
He closes his mouth.
"That wasn"t my intention—"
"I don"t care what your intention was. I care about what you did. And what you did was kick my sister when she was already down."
His jaw tightens.
"And then," you continue, "you went after my wife."
"That was a medical conversation—"
"No. That was you projecting your own shit onto her because you can"t handle the fact that she"s competent and composed and doesn"t need you to hold her hand. She just saved a child"s life. A child who would be dead if she hadn"t stepped up. And the first thing you did was tell her she"s not good enough to run your department while you"re gone."
"She had two seizures today, Mohan. Two. She told me herself. She"s not—"
"She"s not what? Perfect? Neither are you. Neither is anyone in this building. But you don"t see her taking her issues out on everyone around her."
Robby is quiet.
"You need help," you say. "You"ve needed help for a long time. Everyone here can see it. Dana can see it. Abbot can see it. Langdon sees it. Even the residents see it. The only person who doesn"t see it is you."
"You don"t know what you"re talking about."
"I know that you"ve been running from your own trauma for years. I know that you"re terrified of falling apart so you hold everyone else to impossible standards. I know that you"re mean to the people who actually care about you because you"d rather push them away than let them see you struggle."
You step closer.
"But here"s the thing, Robby. You don"t get to treat my family like shit because you can"t handle your own feelings. My sister? Stay away from her. My wife? You don"t get to make her feel small after she just proved how capable she is. And you? You need to figure your own life out before you come for anyone else"s."
You turn to leave.
"Dr. Mohan."
You stop. Don't turn around.
"You"re right," he says. Quiet. "About some of it. Not all of it. But some of it."
"I don"t need you to agree with me. I need you to do better."
You walk away.
He stands there. Alone. The central computers beep softly. Someone calls his name from across the ER. He doesn't respond.
He just stands there.
--
You find Baran in the parking lot. She's sitting on the hood of her car. Not inside. Just sitting. Watching the sky.
"It"s almost dark," you say, walking over.
"I know."
"You okay?"
"No."
You sit next to her. Shoulder to shoulder.
"I talked to Robby."
She looks at you.
"What did you say?"
"The truth."
"He needed to hear it. Someone should have said it years ago."
She's quiet for a moment.
"He"s not wrong about me," she says. "I"m not safe to work right now. Not fully. I hate admitting it, but he"s right."
"He can be right and still be an asshole about it."
She almost smiles.
"Is that your professional opinion?"
"As a neurosurgeon? Yes. I"ve seen a lot of assholes. He"s one of the more complicated ones."
She leans her head on your shoulder.
"I don"t want to be a burden," she says again.
"You"re not."
"I can"t drive. I can"t work. I can barely—"
"You"re not a burden. You"re my wife. You"re sick. And we"re going to deal with it. Together."
"What if I never get cleared to work again?"
"Then you don"t. And we figure it out."
"What if I have another seizure and I can"t—"
"Then I"ll be there. I"ll always be there. That"s what married means."
She closes her eyes.
You put your arm around her. Pull her close.
The parking lot is quiet. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks start popping. The Fourth of July. Another holiday at the Pitt.
But you're both still here.
And for tonight, that's enough.
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