Simon Riley feeling like shit because he just returned home to find his lovely bird sick to hell, shivering under the blankets they share.
He would get mad because she didn't mentioned it days ago when he got a single phone call to home.
Noticed something was odd just from her voice but thought she was holding tears as usual. Not to worry him.
Well, now he was fuckin' worried.
—I'm okay Si, it's just a silly fever.
—…could be a fricking scratch and my heart would still die with you— he mumbled in a grunt while putting some of his big-ass socks into her cold feet.— Thought we promised not to hide a shit to each other
—Yeah but this was nothing…— she weakly reached his chin to make him look up.. — this is nothing sweetboy…
Simon sighs before pecking her now covered toes. Giving a long loving kiss at her knee while sweetly lookin' up at her.
—I know u think I'm a big tough bastard… but i hate to see you in pain too…
____ draws a small smile.
—You are too sweet when I'm vulnerable. It seems… maybe I should get sick more often..
—Not fun— he hisses before settling next to her on bed. Tenderly caressing away the wet hairs off her forehead.—…called Price to stay a week.
She hums in both contentment and ache as he caressed her warm reddish face.
He coos sweet little nothings.
About how she didn't have to worry anymore…that he was there and wouldn't leave until she was healthy and happy.
That he loves her and will take care of the most valuable soul in HIS world…
And after so many sleepless nights, ____ finally found the security and care she had been craving.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.
I wrote this while desiring to be yn while shivering like a chihuahua T_T. Being sick makes me so emotional guys.
[btw I got so enthusiastic I animated the drawing jsjsjss MARRY ME SI!!]
synopsis: it was already lunch time and you still weren't bugging zanka out of his wits end. so naturally, he goes to your room to check up on you, only to find out you were sick
— something short and sweet for Zanka <3
— tags: zanka nijiku x gn! reader, denial of feelings, feeling realisation - kinda, romance, fluff, a sprinkle of light angst if you squint hard enough ig, zanka really doesn't wanna face his feelings for you lol, sick! reader
— consider this my first torpe! zanka fic hehe
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
YOU WEREN'T PRESENT during breakfast, which was perfectly normal considering you usually sleep in during your day off—and Zanka was fairly certain today was one of those. So, he didn't mind your absence, no matter how much it left a rather large void in his heart.
Nope. He wasn't about to unpack those feelings. Not now. Not ever. Abso-fucking-lutely not. Thank you very much.
But when lunchtime started to creep in and there was still no sign of you, he was willing to admit that his stomach churn uncomfortably.
By now, you should already be up and about, annoying him with that sickly sweet smile of yours, walking down the hall beside him with arms just a bit too close to his, and staring at him with those pretty eyes of yours like he was the only damn person in your line of sight.
Yeah. Safe to say he didn't like not having you around.
Not that he was going to publicly admit that.
And so, he steeled himself with the only excuse he could muster: He was just doing a teammate wellness check. Yeah, one of those stuff. Not worrying, or panicking. Just a good old checking on why you weren't present during breakfast and still not by his side right now. Repeating over and over again that he was just doing a wellness check on a teammate.
There wasn't any other reason as to why he hurried his way down to your room, heart beating loudly against his ears as his chest heaved in and out of exhaustion. There wasn't any reason why he stood frozen in front of your door just a second too long because he hesitated on knocking.
Would it be respect to only knock once, or should he do the standard three times and then, calling out your name? But, what if you had a particular set of knocking you liked done to announce a person's presence?
Damn, he was overthinking all of these too much.
He knocked, three times before calling out your name in a hushed tone. "Ya there?" he asked, pressing closer to the door with a hand resting on the knob. "Ya weren't at breakfast, an' it's already lunch. Riyo's been buggin' me to fetch ya or else Rudo's gon' eat yer share of the sweets."
There was no reply, only suffocating silence that weighed heavily on Zanka's shoulders.
He tried again, voice pressed through clenched teeth. "[Name], ya still asleep or what?" Again, you didn't reply, which only deepened the gnawing worry inside him.
Zanka's jaw tightened as he dragged a hand through his hair, one foot mindlessly tapping against the floor.
He should probably report this to Semiu. She would know what to do since she handled stuff like these with Gris and Enjin, whenever the two men drink too much on a workday. On the other hand, the itch inside him was relentless. It glued him to the floor, wouldn't allow him to take even a step away from your door which was starting to look rather menacingly in his eyes.
His hand twisted the knob, and your door creaked open.
Instantly, worry flooded his chest, colder than anything he'd expected.
His eyes immediately zoned to your bed. You were curled awkwardly around a pillow, hair plastered messily to your face, body swallowed in thick blankets as your chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern.
It was odd, definitely odd. You weren't the type to bundle yourself up even in the dead of a winter night.
He stepped inside, the noise echoing hollowly as dread coiled in his gut, clawing at his skin and nerves like parasites. "[Name]...?" he called softly. "Hey, you okay...?" He finally went over you, gently pushing away strands of your hair, only to jerk back at the blistering heat of your skin.
"Shit! Yer burnin' up!" he hissed, eyes widening. He didn't bother hiding his panic as he carefully rolled you onto your back.
Your cheeks and forehead were flushed red, beads of sweat rolling down to your damp duvet. Uneven and shallow breathing left your pale lips, like each one hurt a little more than the last.
Your eyes cracked open, hazy and unfocused as you squinted at him. "Zan... ka? What're... you doing... here? What time... is... it?"
“The better question is why in the hell ya didn't tell anyone ya were this sick?!” he snapped, pressing a hand to your forehead again. Fuck, it was honestly a feat on how high your temperature was. "Damn it—ya could fry an egg on yer face!"
Zanka's sharp words betrayed his panic-soft hands, gently fixing your blankets and lifting your head just enough to support you. Carefully, he sat the edge of your bed, just close enough to feel your immense warmth through the layers of fabrics. He scanned the room, cursing quietly at the overturned, dried-up cup of water on the floor.
"...How long've ya been like this?"
"...Since morning, I think..." you murmured. "I tried to... get outta bed for breakfast, but... got too dizzy... and just collapsed on bed again..."
You then chuckled, voice hoarse. It tugged something inside Zanka. "Think I stayed too long in the polluted zone yesterday... I'll be fine... just gotta... sleep it off, that's all..."
Zanka nearly choked on his saliva, eyebrows raised to his forehead. "Sleep—?! Yer as red as Rudo's beady lil' eyes an' ya think sleep's gon' help ya?!"
You nodded, a small smile plastered on your lips. "Mhmm... just like old times..."
He shot up, heart beating way too loudly in his ears as he moved with a burst of frantic energy he didn't quite understand himself. He fetched a small bowl of water from your bathroom, soaked a clean towel, wrung it out, and returned to your side in record time.
"Hold still," he mumbled, gently pressing the cool towel to your forehead. Your body relaxed instantly, breath easing through your nose as you sighed, falling deeper into your bed. Zanka let out a sigh of his own—full of relief that he didn't realise he'd been holding this entire time.
For a moment, the room fell still.
Zanka's knee bounced restlessly, the small bowl of water splashing against his pants. His fingers tapped against the bed. His lips parted and sealed again. His eyes were locked onto your face, intently watching your content smile while he ran the cool towel on your reddish skin repeatedly
Again, that same large void gnawed inside him like a beast. It twitched and turned at the unfamiliar sight of you—like everything about this was just wrong. You weren't supposed to look like you've just returned from a dangerous battle involving some kind of poison. You were supposed to be smiling by his side, the only redness on your face meant to be on your cheeks when he finally humoured your oh-so-delicious compliments—
Nope. Nuh uh. He refused to acknowledge it. Not a chance. No way.
He huffed, finding himself ridiculous before his eyes returned to your face.
"...Ya know," he started quietly, "yer real annoyin' when ya get sick."
He paused, sighing, as he dragged a hand through his hair again. "Yer annoyin' when yer healthy too, but... this is worse. A lot worse." He grimaced at himself, the honesty slipping out faster than he could filter it. "'Cause I don't know what the hell to do with myself when ya ain't 'round with that smile of yers," he muttered, voice barely audible as his finger mindlessly traced from your forehead to your cheek.
Zanka then froze, brain buffering, trying to digest his own words. Mortified, his eyes flicked toward you—luckily, your eyes were shut, chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm that soothed his fried nerves.
Good.
Thank the sky.
He'd sooner throw himself back into that damn well than let you hear that. No doubt you would be teasing him about it for three to five business weeks.
He leaned back, staring up at the dull ceiling as he silently cursed himself for not having enough self-control. Yet, despite that, he knew the softness in his expression was completely betraying him right now.
A soft sound escaped you as you shifted, and instantly he was leaning forward again—one hand fixing your blanket, adjusting your pillow, and brushing gentle fingers across your temple while balancing the bowl of water on his lap with surprising precision.
His stare lingered on your face for a moment, taking in your peaceful expression. The way your complexion slowly returned to its original warmth, your lashes resting softly against your cheeks, your cute nose, and your partially-opened lips with soft snores whispering out of them.
Zanka let a small, relieved smile tug his lips upward. The void in his heart was no more, instead, it was thrumming with loud drums and a roaring engine. It filled him with lightness—like his world was back to its original axis after a devastating fall. Like seeing you breathe easy again let something inside him breathe too.
"...I'll stay 'til ya wake up," he whispered, voice unnaturally soft in the silent room. "I'll be here to help ya get better an' better, jus' like yer always there for me..."
⤿ DAMIAN WAYNE loves how strong-willed you are, except when you decide not to tell him you're feeling sick. But once he finds you sickly and asleep, he won't let you lift a finger.
!! fluff. established relationship. damien being soft in his own way. mentions of sickness obviously. nothing but typical fatigue type of sickness fret not. female reader. no real warnings. fever reading is in fahrenheit i realized that when i gave the fic a little read. SUCH A GOOD REQUEST ANON!!! ENJOY.
You weren’t sure when the fever had started — somewhere between the dull ache behind your eyes that morning and the full-body shiver that hit you mid afternoon. At first, you’d brushed it off, chalking it up to Gotham’s damp chill or the stress of the week. You’d been running on fumes, not eating proper meals, and your only sleep being random naps throughout the day.. so it was bound to catch up eventually. But by the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, your limbs felt heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and your skin too hot beneath your clothes.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the library. You’d curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book, hoping to ride it out quietly, maybe nap for an hour before Damian got back from patrol. But the fire was warm, the room quiet, and your body betrayed you fast. The book slipped from your fingers somewhere around chapter three, and the blanket tangled around your legs, and you didn’t stir again.
Damian found you just after ten.
He’d been looking for you for the better part of an hour, irritation simmering beneath his usual calm. You hadn’t answered your phone, hadn’t responded to his messages, and Alfred had only offered a vague, “She mentioned needing rest, Master Damian,” which did nothing to ease the tight coil in his chest. He knew you and knew how you minimized things, how you brushed things off until it became a problem. At this point, your silence was too long and too loud.
The moment he stepped into the library, the irritation vanished.
You were curled up on the couch, half-buried in the blanket, one arm draped over your eyes like the light hurt. Your skin held that fragile glow that came with being sick, lips dry, and your breathing was shallow — too shallow. Damian crossed the room in seconds, kneeling beside you — having already shed his gloves — the back of his hand brushed your forehead. That's when he felt the heat radiating off of your forehead, and his stomach dropped instantly.
“Beloved,” he murmured, voice low but urgent. “Wake up.”
You stirred faintly, a soft groan escaping your throat as you tried to lift your head and swatted at his hand. “M’fine,” you mumbled, but the words were slurred, your voice hoarse and thin.
“You are not,” he said matter-of-factly, already reaching for the blanket. “You’re burning up.”
You tried to sit up, but the motion made your head spin. Damian caught you before you could fall forward, one arm sliding behind your back to steady you. You blinked at him, dazed, and he could see the fever in your eyes—glassy, unfocused, too bright.
“Don’t argue,” he said, more gently this time. “Let me help you.”
You didn’t have the strength to fight him. He lifted you with ease, cradling you against his chest as he carried you out of the library and up the stairs. You felt the shift in temperature as he moved through the manor, the cool air brushing your overheated skin. You buried your face in his shoulder, too tired to be embarrassed, and he held you closer, jaw tight with worry.
By the time he reached his room, you were half-asleep again.
He laid you down carefully, pulling the blankets back before tucking you in. Then he disappeared for a moment — a moment that was far too long in your opinion — long enough to grab a thermometer, a glass of water, a cold compress, and a packet of cold medicine from the bathroom cabinet. When he returned, you were shivering, curled into yourself like you could pack away the heat.
“Here,” he said, pressing the thermometer to your lips and brushing damp hair from your forehead. “Just stay still.”
You obeyed, eyes fluttering shut as the device beeped quietly. When he checked it, he swore under his breath.
“102.9,” he muttered, setting it aside and scoffed though it was more of a deflection of his worry than a true scoff. “You should’ve told me.”
You cracked one eye open, your voice barely audible. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”
He gave you a look that was sharp and incredulous, but softened by concern. “You are never a bother. You need to always tell me when something is wrong.”
You tried to smile, but it came out crooked and tired. “You’re sweet when you’re worried.”
He rolled his eyes, but his hand was gentle as he pressed the cold compress to your forehead. “I’m always sweet. You’re just too stubborn to notice.”
A weak laugh escaped you, followed by a wince as nausea rolled through your stomach. Damian noticed instantly, helping you sit up just enough to sip some water. His hand was steady at your back, his voice low and soothing as he coaxed you through it.
“Small sips,” he ordered. “Slowly. You’re dehydrated and running on an empty stomach.”
You did as he said, grateful for the coolness on your tongue. When you finished, he eased you back down, adjusting the pillows behind your head with quiet precision.
“Stay awake a little longer,” he said, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “Just until the medicine kicks in.”
You blinked at him, confused. “You gave me medicine?”
He held up the empty blister pack. “While you were half-awake. You mumbled something about riding a dragon.”
You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Kill me.”
“Not a chance,” he said, and there was something fierce in his voice now. “You’re mine. I don’t let what’s mine burn out.”
You stared at him, throat tight, and he didn’t look away. His eyes were steady, unwavering, and full of something you couldn’t name—something that made your chest ache.
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he said quietly, fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. “You’re always so strong. This is unsettling.”
You reached for his hand, your grip weak but steady. “I’ll be okay.”
“I know,” he said, squeezing gently. “But I’m staying here. Just in case.”
You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Not when he looked at you like that—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
He stayed by your side all night, changing the compress when it warmed, coaxing you to drink water, brushing sweat-damp hairs from your face with a tenderness that made your heart twist. He didn’t leave the room once, not even when you drifted in and out of sleep, you felt the weight of his gaze, the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside you.
At one point, you woke to find him reading beside you, one hand still resting on your arm. He’d pulled a chair close to the bed, legs stretched out, posture relaxed but alert. You watched him for a moment, chest full of something soft and aching.
“Dami,” you whispered, voice barely audible.
He looked up instantly, setting the book on the arm of his chair and straightening his posture. “You need something?”
You shook your head, eyes heavy. “Just wanted to see you.”
His expression softened, and he leaned forward, brushing your hair back again to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Eventually, the fever broke. You felt it in the way your body stopped shaking, in the way your thoughts began to clear. Your skin was still clammy, your muscles sore, but the worst had passed. You woke near dawn, the sky outside pale and quiet, and Damian was asleep in the chair, your hand still cradled in his.
summary; your best friend theo takes care of you while you’re sick
warnings; childhood friends too scared to admit their love, fluff, very soft theo
notes; yk that one scene from people we meet on vacation?
Some say that a connection that transcends feeble emotions is rare, that being able to completely understand another is a gift.
You didn’t remember when Theodore Nott, the quiet boy your parents would force you to play with while your families had dinner, became Theo, your best friend. But between the quiet moments of comfort he’d provide after another year of not receiving a Christmas gift from your parents and the careful one-sided conversations where you would listen to his worries about his future; that fickle bond strengthened into a friendship that fueled you like the blood coursing through your veins.
Perhaps your two beings were always meant to find each other. Maybe the universe had welded your hearts to beat in sync and curated your very souls to perfectly align. Like when you’re studying late one night and Theo immediately knows you don’t understand the Potions assignment but refuse to ask for help, so he calmly slides his notes across the table without even looking up from his own work. Attentive, careful, but inadvertent, as if his brain was wired to care for you.
Or how you can spot the clench of his jaw from a mile away—a telltale sign that he’s overwhelmed or that his social battery is just drained. You immediately latch onto his side and plan the smoothest exit possible, all while tracing your nails up and down the inside of his arm because you know it soothes him.
This silent understanding between the two of you stemmed from being around each other your entire lives.
You distinctly remember running around important galas with him, dirtying up the dress your mother told you not to. You two would play in his mansion’s garden until you’d get a rose thorn stuck in your skin and you’d both cry all the way back to his front door—you because the thorn in your finger would surely kill you, and him because seeing you in pain would surely kill him.
Your first couple years at Hogwarts, you’d think your souls were chained together the way you two refused to leave the other’s side. He was your anchor in a sea of change that you thought you’d drown in. You were his lifeline, his comfort, his reason to stay level while the world around him fought to turn him upside down.
Things never changed between you. Not when you got older and started going to parties, where he would drag you up to bed after and take off all your makeup because he knew you hated sleeping in mascara. Not when you’d hide his cigarette packs to slowly start weening him off of it, even when he grumbled about wanting a smoke.
Not even when your friend group, and potentially the entire school, constantly pondered when the two of you would get together.
That wasn’t usually a topic you two talked about. It only made your stomach churn and your feet tap with restlessness. Why would they think that?
“I swear, I tried to come sooner but these bloody chocolates are a pain to find.”
You blinked groggily, lifting your head up from where you were curled up in a mountain of blankets that had become your temporary home.
Summer break couldn’t have come quicker, but unfortunately, you had spent the first couple days of it feeling a sickness building in your system. Even worse, you’d spent the last few hours dealing with the brunt of it. Your parents condemned you to your room with some sour smelling potion and a notice that they’d be gone for the night at the gala that you had once been excited to attend.
Theo dusted off his pants as he stepped out of your fireplace, Floo Powder still clinging to his brunette strands and a paper bag clutched in one arm. When he looked up, the annoyed furrow of his brows immediately softened, and he lowered his voice slightly, waking over to your bed.
“Oh, cara mia,” his voice was gentle in a way you rarely heard anymore (or were sober enough to register) as he crouched beside your bed, lowering the bag in his arm to the floor. He reached out, gliding his knuckles along your cheek, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. “How are you feeling, hm?”
You could only stare blankly at him, partly because you were basking in the softness of his touch against your skin and partly because you don’t even remember telling him you were sick. Maybe you had and the hazy sensation that riddled your body was messing with your memory. It sure was messing with your vision, or had Theo always looked so soft and blurry around the edges?
The Italian accent that coated all of his words was a saccharine melody that trickled into your ears and down your body, sending tingles all the way to your fingertips. The daze that clouded the world was definitely toying with your thoughts and making you think ludicrous things like how soft his lips would feel against yours or if he would taste like the minty toothpaste he always left in your bathroom during sleepovers.
Slowly, as if scared to mess with the contents of a dream and watch it all vanish before you, you reached for him.
“Teddy? You’re here?” you murmured as your fingers made contact with the soft skin of his cheek. You felt it ripple beneath your fingertips as he cringed at the childhood nickname, though he still allowed your touch to linger.
“You know I hate that name, but yes, I’m here. Are you that out of it?” he smiled softly at you, teasingly, and you couldn’t help but trace the dimple that bloomed beneath his skin.
But then you frowned, retracting your hand and burying your face back into the blankets. “Haven’t had anything to drink tonight, seriously,” the words were jumbled and muffled into the thick cotton wrapped around you, your attempted eye roll turning into a prolonged blink.
Theo, sickening grin still painting his features, just shook his head. He gave your head a comforting pat, ruffling your hair, and stood, placing the bag he brought on your nightstand. He mumbled something about the foul potion that you’d drank but you couldn’t comprehend it over the deafening crinkle of the bag.
“Would you stop making all that noise, please?” you sniffled out, coughing between a few words.
“M’sorry, tesoro, but I brought your favorites,” he carefully pulled out an assortment of items, throwing the empty bag to the floor. “Cauldron Cakes, had the elves make your favorite soup, and…”
Theo trailed off, narrowing his eyes at you as he carefully nudged the blankets off your face to press his palm to your forehead. He frowned immediately, eyes flashing with concern.
“And that hoodie of mine that you like, but I’ll only let you wear it once this fever’s down, got it?”
You huffed, eyes half lidded and tracing the hard lines of his face only softened by your current state. You’d always known your best friend was attractive, how could you not? With the amount of girls that approached you each day asking if you were dating him, why you weren’t dating him, and if they could date him; it was hard not to notice.
Right now, though, he looked like the boy no one else got to see. The Theo that you didn’t have to share with the entire girl population of the school or pretend didn’t exist when he put on his indifferent mask to others.
This Theo was just for you. This Theo made it nearly impossible to control those ludicrous thoughts.
“Still with me, amore?” he asked, thumb brushing along your temple with a reverence one would save for fine china. He leaned in closer, jaw clenched in the way that told you his brain was working overtime to process all the thoughts he was sending it.
“Mhm. You?”
He chuckled, a sweet sound that, if supplied more often, probably could’ve cured your sickness right then. “You making fun of me?” his voice dropped an octave as his fingers began to run carefully along your scalp.
You just sniffled, barely managing a sleepy shake of your head that pulled another fond laugh from Theo’s lips.
“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten today,” he murmured, almost to himself, one hand still gently massaging your head and the other finding your own to fold your fingers over his. “Can you sit up for me, tesoro? You need some food in you.”
His voice, dipped in sweetness and with that gentle rasp, coaxed you to finally pull the blankets lower, allowing him to take in the red rim around your eyes, dark circles, and the coloring of your irritated nose.
“There you are,” he cooed, squeezing your hand once before letting it drop to slide his arms under yours, helping you sit up.
“Theo…” you huffed, blinking groggily at him, body limp in his arms. “You’re s’posed to be at that party…” Finally able to get a good look at him, your eyes trailed over his figure.
His hair was disheveled and you knew he’d been running his hands through it in that way he always did when he was stressed. He had a dress shirt on but the first few buttons were undone and the sleeves were wrinkled from where he’d pushed them up to his elbows. The soft pink of his lips tugged up again, pupils dilated and trained on you with quiet fascination.
“I was there, but I couldn’t find you. Talked to your parents and they said you were home with a fever,” he tilted his head closer, propping you up against your pillows. “What fun are those silly things without you, anyway?”
If your entire face wasn’t already warm from the fever, it scorched as his soft words hit your ears. He sounded so real and it shot a shiver down your spine. Quiet confessions like that, the ones he easily gave you like they were written in a constitution, nearly broke you every time. They made you spiral, made you rethink your decade long friendship.
They made your heart soar up to the clouds but made your stomach plummet. If he said those things to you so easily, how was he saying them to other girls?
Before you knew it, a steaming thermos of your favorite soup was below your nose as Theo stirred its contents. You frowned at it, not feeling an appetite at all but wanting to taste the savory soup that you cherished.
“I can’t…m’not hungry,” you grumbled sadly, fingers toying with your blankets.
“Just a few bites, per favore?”
You wished you could say no to him.
Theo spoon fed you nearly half of the soup before he finally closed it and put it back in his bag. Then, being the overbearing and protective best friend he is, he forced you out of bed and into a slightly cold shower.
“Leave the door unlocked,” he’d said, and when you asked why, he only smirked. “Can’t have you collapsing in the shower with no help, right, principessa?”
You merely rolled your eyes but obliged, returning a few minutes later to him cleaning your messy nightstand. Not only that, he’d replaced your sheets and left only one blanket from your previous pile.
“My blankets, Theo…!” you whined, throwing your dirty clothes off to the side.
He straightened up at your voice, taking in the sight of you, standing and less flushed after a refreshing shower. He smiled, reaching for a bundle of fabric and tossing it to you. “Speaking full sentences now, I see. Feeling better?”
The piece of clothing hit you square in the chest, and upon unfolding it, you smiled as you saw it was your favorite hoodie of his. It practically belonged to you with the amount of times you’d stolen it from his closet and kept it for weeks.
“I will get snot all over your hoodie, Nott,” you scoffed, pulling it over your head and watching it fall to your thighs.
Theo merely laughed as you trudged over to your bed and sunk into the fresh sheets, immediately curling up under the blanket and letting your eyes flutter shut.
When your best friend spoke again, his voice was gentle and right in front of your face. You kept your eyes closed, swallowing hard. “Need anything else, cara?”
You shook your head and felt him linger for just a second longer before footsteps retreated from your bed. At once, you snapped your eyes open.
“Where are you going?” you asked him, sounding almost panicked as he stopped in his tracks and turned, book dangling from his left hand.
“Letting you sleep,” he responded in a questioning tone, brows furrowed in confused amusement.
You shook your head, opening up your blanket. Maybe the haze that’d fallen over the world since you’d been sick was truly messing with your brain, but you knew for sure that you wanted him close. You always wanted him close. It wasn’t like you and Theo hadn’t ever shared a bed or anything, so there was no harm done.
“Tesoro…”
“Teddy…”
He scowled at you and you only gave your best desperate smile, patting the empty space beside you. “Please?” You added on, the juicy red cherry on top.
With a dramatic huff, Theo strode over to your bed, kicked off his shoes, and huddled under the covers beside you. He held out his arm expectantly and you immediately nestled in, cheek smushed against his chest, leg thrown over his waist, and arm splayed across his torso.
“I just can’t say no to you,” he mumbled, the arm around your shoulders pulling you in tighter while his other one reached for your thigh, dragging you partially on top of him.
“You love me, Theo,” you mumbled sleepily, already halfway into a deep sleep. “And I love you. Please don’t love anyone else.”
Theo’s breath hitched, arm pausing on its way around your shoulders, but you were already asleep.
“Ti amo anch'io, tesoro,” your best friend mumbled, lips pressed to your hairline as he slowly relaxed with your weight against him.
What you didn’t see was Theo’s fond gaze soaking in the sight of you so comfortable against him, the pads of his fingers tracing along the shell of your ear and down your jaw, rubbing your collarbone and finally finding a home in your hair. He soothed your scalp, fingers carding through the strands in that careful way he knew would only send you deeper into sleep.
The book he was supposed to be reading sat on your nightstand collecting dust. He knew he wasn’t going to so much as open it while you were in his arms. He’d stop the world from spinning just so you could rest uninterrupted a few minutes longer. Because his usually loud brain was silent when you were near. Because his future didn’t seem as daunting with you in the picture.
Just as long as you stayed there, by his side, like it always had been.
☄︎ Warnings: not proofread & idk my tenses
☄︎ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x F!Reader x Beau Maxwell
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 2760
☄︎ AN: Written for this lovely anon, i hope you enjoyed, i actually cannot remember the last time i was sick so please ignore the creative liberties i have taken lmao
Beau (established relationship) & Dean (no labels) look after you when sick
It started as a blocked nose. Every time you breathed in, you only managed to pull in a uselessly frustrating amount of air. No matter how much your nose ran or your head began to pound, you absolutely refused to believe you were sick.
It was a reality you firmly elected to ignore.
The denial became harder to maintain when the next day, it developed into a sharp pain at the back of your throat. Every swallow felt like you had deepthroated some sandpaper. You kept deliberately swallowing, desperately testing to see if the pain would just disappear. It didn’t.
Still, you refused to give in. Delusion had to carry you through as surely the universe wouldn’t align like this.
You had plans, very hot and sweaty plans, with your boyfriend and Dean, who didn’t have a label because what do you call the man who you and your boyfriend would spend many a night with and were most definitely falling for.
So, no, you weren’t sick because you just couldn’t be.
By day three, reality was quickly catching up to you. You were half-way through your morning lectures when suddenly you were seeing double of your lecturer. In your mind, Beau & Dean would still be able to come over tonight, you just needed a heavy nap. You refused to be the sole reason that everybody had to stay clothed.
Packing up early, you abandoned the rest of your lectures and slipped back to your apartment, determined to sleep it off.
Your body, however, had other plans. By the time you unlocked your door, you were so dizzy that you had to steady yourself on the wall as you stumbled into the bedroom. You had just enough energy to pull off the clothes you’d been in that had hit the lecture room air.
With a heavy thud, you collapsed onto the mattress. The tissue box on your bedside table became your lifeline, they were on rotation. One snotty tissue out and the next one immediately in.
Shakily, you reached for your phone, fully intending on admitting defeat and messaging Beau. You don’t remember how you drifted off, but the sound of a distant door slam jumped you out of your sleep hours later.
As you rolled over to face the bedroom door, the entire room span around you. The sleep had done nothing for you, in fact, you woke up feeling worse. Your head was pounding and, clearly, you’d been breathing through your mouth as it was dry, your tongue feeling thick in your mouth.
“Babe?” Beau called from the hallway, his footsteps getting louder as he approached the bedroom. “Are you okay? You’ve been silent all day, that’s not like–.”
His voice died as he rounded the corner into your bedroom. You watched as his bright smile instantly faded into pure concern.
“Don’t come any closer,” you croaked, your voice raw from how dry your throat was. “I’m really sick.”
Completely ignoring your ask, Beau pulled off his jacket and threw it onto your desk chair. “You say that like it’s going to stop me.”
He crossed the room in two long strides, sinking to his knees on the side of the bed. A cold palm was pressed against your forehead as Beau took you on. “Oh, baby, you’re burning up.”
Despite you wanting him to leave, you pressed your head into him, sighing with relief when his other hand came to your cheek.
“Beau, go, I’m probably contagious and it’s a bio-hazard in here,” you grumbled. Your arm felt like it weighed a tonne as you weakly lifted it to gesture toward the pile of tissues you’d discarded onto the floor.
Beau looked down at the mess on the floor, as if he hadn’t even noticed in when he walked in. Your heart squeezed with a mixture of shame and appreciation when you realised there wasn’t a single hint of judgement on his face. The past few days had taken a toll on you and your room bared the brunt of that.
Beau stood up and began cleaning up your room. He gathered the snotty tissues from the ground but didn’t stop there; he organised the books on your desk and wiped down the messy surface.
Picking up the clothes you had discarded, he tossed them into the laundry basket. Seeing that it was full; he disappeared with it down the hall, and soon you heard the washing machine click to life.
You drifted in and out of sleep as he worked, cleaning and putting things away as he saw them. He knew you would have been restless knowing that things were untidy, even if you didn’t have the energy to do it yourself. You felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for having someone like him.
When Beau returned to your room, he was carrying a fresh washcloth and a tall glass of water. Kneeling on the floor by the bed, he gently slipped an arm behind your head to help you sit up a little. The water felt so satisfying as it ran down your throat, soothing the fire there.
Once finished, he gently guided you back to lying. He unfolded the damp cloth and gently pressed it to your sweaty forehead. You hadn’t realised how badly you needed that until he was pressing it against you.
“Can you text Dean?” You looked up into his eyes, they’re gentle as always. “Tell him I’m sorry for ruining tonight?”
“He won’t care about that,” Beau murmured softly. He stayed in front of you on the floor, patiently wiping your neck with the cloth. And when your nose ran, he used the tissue to wipe that too.
“Tell me about your day, missed you,” you slurred.
His laugh was soft but he told you about his day. The soothing sound of his voice and how he wiped you down until the cloth was no longer damp acted as a sedative, it pulled you into another sleep without you even realising your eyes were closing.
When your eyes finally opened again hours later, the room had gone completely dark save for the warm light coming from the hallway. Beau was no longer knelt in front of you. You gave a discontented mumble, slowly rolling to get your bearings, careful to avoid moving your pounding head too much.
“Hey there, sleepy.”
Arms came to wrap around you from the bed, but the voice hadn’t come from there. You blinked against the shadows, tired eyes straining to see the figure in front of you. “Dean?” you whispered, your brows furrowing in confusion.
He was sitting in the desk chair, leaning back very comfortably.
The way Dean said your name back to you had your heart skipping a beat. You hadn’t expected him to be here when you woke up. Of course you cared for Dean, you loved the wicked things that he did with you and Beau in the dark, but this was territory you hadn’t crossed before.
He had never seen you look this snooty, miserable, or unglamorous. You didn’t like how vulnerable you felt at that moment, how your mind wondered if he’d still find you attractive if he saw you at your, arguably, worst.
Standing up, Dean came to sit on the edge of the mattress next to you. He didn’t look at you like he was uncomfortable or seeing a side to you he didn’t like. He simply gave you a soft smile and began pressing the cool washcloth over your face, wiping away the fresh layer of sweat that was a mixture of fever and the furnace that Beau was next to you.
He then reached over, popped open the lid of the Vaseline that was on your bedside table, and used the pad of his thumb to spread it over your chapped lips.
“What are you doing here?”
“Beau texted me,” he explained softly. “Said our girl was out of action.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” you protested weakly. You wiggled in Beau’s hold as he stirred beside you. “You both shouldn’t be. I’m gross and you’re going to get sick.”
“You’re not gross, you’re beautiful,” Beau mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep.
“I can be both,” you said defiantly.
“Here,” Dean said, ignoring your protest as he picked up the glass of water to offer it to you again. It was warmer than when Beau had given it to you, but still deeply needed. He held it to your lips, forcing you to take a few small sips.
“I think I’m fine now, you both should go.” You weren’t fine. Every move you made hurt. Your throat was burning and your teeth was beginning to hurt. Your muscles felt like they needed a good stretch.
Dean let out a soft huff, fingers brushing your face. “I’m not going to be present only for the good times, you know. I’m here for it all. You’re sick, so we take care of you.”
It all sounded so amazingly simple when it came from his mouth, but your fever ridden bran kept thinking about getting them sick. They were in varsity; they couldn’t afford to be knocked out by the thing that you knew would claim you for days. They had training sessions to attend, strict schedules to keep, fans they couldn’t disappoint, probably scouts that would watch them play their respective sports. It was a lot of pressure and you couldn’t be the reason they missed a game.
The hours of sleep you’d had did nothing to restore your strength, but that didn’t stop you from trying to argue. “But I–.”
“Do you really want to use the little bit of energy you have left arguing with us?” Dean interrupted.
“Yes.” You immediately responded, a weak grin on your face.
“All in favour of us staying and taking care of our girl?”
Both Dean and Beau raised their hands, shouting and very rehearsed sounding, “Aye!”
“Looks like you were outvoted. Sorry.” Dean does not sound the least bit sorry.
“That’s not fair,” you whined. “Have you no shame, ganging up on a girl when she’s vulnerable?”
Beside you, Beau laughed, a chuckle that vibrated through your body. He leaned forward to press a kiss to your neck, “Brat.”
As if on cue, a harsh cough ripped out of your chest. Then your nose began to run. You body really was being your own worst enemy. You pressed your eyes closed, willing the ground to open up beneath you and swallow you whole.
“Just leave me here, the death will come swifty.” With how you were feeling, it wasn’t the least bit dramatic a thing to say.
Dean laughed, the sound rumbling into the quiet room as Beau chuckled beside you.
“It’s a hard no on that one, but thank you for the suggestion. We’re going to take care of you, starting with me making you some soup.”
You opened one eye, looking at him sceptically. “Oh, so you do want me to die.”
Dean had the audacity to look offended, scoffing and placing a hand over his chest as if the last time he attempted to cook didn’t nearly give you all food poisoning.
Beau’s arms tightened around you. “I will do the cooking,” Beau intervened smoothly, pressing another kiss to your neck. “Dean will do the supervising.”
“Hey, I resent the implication that all I’m good for is standing there and looking pretty,” Dean defended himself, tossing the washcloth onto the bedside table.
You rolled your eyes and scoffed; entirely certain that Beau was doing the exact same thing.
With a reluctant groan, Beau unravelled his arms from around you and slid out from under the duvet.
The bright light of the hallway flooded in as Beau left the room. You instantly closed your eyes to avoid the harsh glare. The moment the door clicked shut, you blinked them again, fumbling weakly toward the bedside table for the new tissue box that Dean had brought.
Dean beat you to it, smoothly pulling a tissue free and leaning across the mattress to help you clen up with an unbothered hand.
“Gross,” you whispered, cheeks burning from more than just the fever.
“Firstly, grow up,” he teased gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Secondly, trust me, you have no idea what gross is until you’ve spent a season in a men’s locker room.” He set the used tissue aside.
Reaching over, Dean clicked on the small lamp you had on the bedside table, bathing the room in a soft glow. It made his face look so warm. “Let’s get you to sit up, Beau will be back soon.”
He slid his hands under your arms, his touch careful as he helped you to sit. He plumped up the pillows behind your back to keep you comfortable. You leaned back wit a soft sigh, the physical effort making your head swim just a little.
Dean stayed next to you as you heard Beau working in the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the bed, tracing gentle patterns over your knuckles. For a while, you just talked. You fever ridden brain had your thoughts going crazy. You told him how you felt guilty about ruining the night and that you didn’t want to ruin the season for either of them. Dean, of course, told you you were being ridiculous. They wouldn’t choose anything over being here with you.
It wasn’t long before the rich aroma of chicken broth began to drift into the bedroom, making your mouth water despite your lack of appetite.
The soft click of the door came not too soon after. Beau walked in carrying a tray, carefully balancing the streaming bowl of warm chicken broth, another glass of ice-cold water, and a small bottle of medicine.
He set it down on the bedside table before moving the pillows you were popped up against to replace them with himself. He sat with his back propped against the headboard. Dean helped as Beau pulled you into his lap, rearranging you so your legs were hanging off of the bed and your head was tucked into his neck.
You grumbled. Beau began rubbing slow soothing circles into your back, putting pressure on the right points to have the muscles relaxing slightly. “I know, my love. Take some medicine first.”
Dean handed you with some medicine and you swallowed it with the glass of water.
Once you finished with your glass, Dean reached for the bowl of broth. He sat beside you both and gently blew on the spoonful to cool it down before bringing it to your mouth.
“Dean, you really don’t need to feed me,” you said.
“Let us have this,” Beau whispered against your ear, he continued rubbing perfect circles into your back. “Just relax and let us take care of you.”
There was no real point in arguing, you didn’t hate that you didn’t have to make much effort when there were two athletes more than willing to do this for you. Dean fed you a few more spoonfuls before you pulled back, shaking your head. You had managed about half the bowl, and you couldn’t do anymore.
Dean set it back onto the bedside table.
“You did well,” Beau said.
“Better?” Dean asked, his voice a low murmur.
“Much better,” you breathed, your eyelids already growing heavy again.
“Good, let’s put something to distract you while the meds kick in.”
10 minutes later, the three of you were sitting against the headboard watching one of your comfort movies on your laptop. You were sat in between them, both having a hand on you in different ways.
Slowly, the weigt of the medicine kicking in took over. Your head began to droop, eyes shutting for longer and longer periods until you could barely open them at all.
Sensing your exhaustion, Beau slid down the bed until he was on his back, brining you with him. Sleepily, you crawled completely on top of him, your body sprawling over his. Your cheek rested over his heart, the sound soothing you to sleep easily.
Dean reached over to close the laptop, setting it on the floor before sliding back under the duvet. He scooted closer to where you and Beau were, draping a large, heavy, arm over your back.
“We’re definitely catching this flu, you know,” Beau chuckled quietly, his chest vibrating beneath you.
“Likely,” Dean murmured back, his eyes blinking shut as he rested his chin near Beau’s shoulder. “Worth it, though.”
completely understand if you don’t want to do it, but male!reader being a dick and ignoring his medication, until bruce forces him to take them, rough love thiihii, a good jaw grab perhaps
𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑
bruce wayne x gn!reader
𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── 1.1k words. established relationship. when bruce tries to get you to take medicine you’re very adamant about not taking any. that is, until he forces you.
You wake to the sound of measured footsteps outside the bedroom door, each one too calm, too controlled. It irritates you instantly.
The light filtering through the curtains feels too bright, drilling straight into your skull. Your body is heavy like your limbs don’t quite belong to you today. There’s an ache behind your eyes, a burn in your chest, and that familiar nausea curling in your stomach.
You already know what today is going to be like. You already know you don’t want to deal with it.
The door opens without a knock.
“Good. You’re awake,” Bruce says, voice even, firm.
You roll onto your side, tugging the blanket higher. “Congratulations,” you mutter. “Want a medal?”
Bruce doesn’t rise to it. He never does. He steps into the room, takes in the untouched glass of water on your nightstand, the small pill organizer beside it—still full. His jaw tightens just slightly.
“You were supposed to take your medication an hour ago,” he says.
“And you were supposed to mind your own business,” you snap back, sharper than you mean to be, but not sharp enough to stop yourself.
There’s a pause. Bruce exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s counting down something dangerous. When he speaks again, his tone is stern, edged with something heavy underneath.
“This is my business,” he says. “You’ve been pushing yourself for days. You didn’t sleep last night. You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” you lie, even as your hands curl into the sheets to steady themselves.
Bruce crosses the room and pulls the curtains back just enough to let in softer light instead of the harsh glare. It annoys you—how he notices things, how he adjusts the world around you without asking.
“You’re not fine,” he says. “And being unpleasant doesn’t change that.”
That does it.
You sit up too fast, the room tilting for a moment before settling. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you bite out. “Did my tone offend you? Must be hard, being Bruce Wayne, savior of idiots who won’t listen.”
The words land hard, even in the quiet room. Alfred would have scolded you gently. Dick would have cracked a joke. Bruce just looks at you, expression darkening—not with anger, but with something closer to disappointment.
“You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”
You laugh, bitter and short. “Scared of what? Taking a stupid pill? Lying in bed like I’m useless?”
“Yes,” Bruce says immediately. “That. Exactly that.”
He reaches for the pill organizer, turning it in his hands. “You hate feeling out of control. You hate needing help. And when your symptoms get worse, you lash out instead.”
You look away, jaw tight. The ache in your chest flares, half physical, half something uglier.
“Get out,” you mutter.
“No.” He said flatly.
Bruce sets the organizer down and pulls a chair closer to the bed, sitting so he’s at eye level with you. His voice lowers—not softer, but steadier, grounding.
“You don’t get to skip your medication because you’re angry,” he says. “And you don’t get to tear into me because I won’t let you make yourself worse.”
“I didn’t ask you to babysit me.”
“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t. But you need someone to make sure you rest, and right now, that’s me.”
You feel heat prick behind your eyes, and it makes you furious. You clench your fists.
“I hate this,” you say, voice rough. “I hate feeling weak. I hate that my body can’t just—do what it’s supposed to do.”
Bruce watches you carefully, then reaches out—not touching you yet, just close enough that you feel his presence.
“Needing medication doesn’t make you weak,” he says. “Ignoring it doesn’t make you strong.”
Silence stretches. Your breathing is uneven. The room feels too small, too full of everything you don’t want to admit.
The pill stays on the nightstand. Your chin lifts in quiet defiance, eyes sharp despite the tremor in your hands. “I said no,” you mutter, turning your face away. “I’m done being managed.”
Bruce goes still.
The air changes—heavier, colder. When he moves, it’s deliberate. He steps in close, blocking your retreat, and his hand comes up to your jaw. Not gentle. Firm. Fingers spread along the hinge, thumb pressing just enough to make you look at him.
“Enough,” he says, low and unyielding.
You scoff, but it falters when his grip tightens a fraction. He angles your face back toward him, forcing your attention to look up at him. “You don’t get to punish your body because you’re angry,” he continues. “And you don’t get to gamble with your health to prove a point.”
“I can handle—”
“No.” The word cuts clean. “You can’t. Not like this.”
He takes the pill, brings it to your lips. When you refuse to open them, his thumb presses at your jaw, firm pressure at the hinge until your mouth parts with a sharp breath. It’s not cruel—just efficient, practiced, the way someone handles a problem they refuse to let get worse.
“Swallow,” he orders.
You glare, heat flaring in your chest, but the pill is already past your teeth. He keeps his hold until you do it, until your throat works and the resistance drains into a bitter, exhausted compliance.
Only then does he let go.
Bruce steps back, watching closely as you cough once and scowl at him like you might bite. His voice doesn’t soften, but it steadies.
“You can hate me for this,” he says. “That’s fine. But you’re taking your medication. You’re resting.”
You don’t answer. You just turn your face to the wall, jaw still burning where his hand was.
Bruce pulls the blanket up anyway.
A few moments pass in silence.
He exhales, slow and tired, like he’s finally letting something slip. “You know,” he says quietly, “I’m aware I can be… harsh. I don’t always say things the right way.” His voice tightens just a little. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”
You don’t turn around. You don’t give him the satisfaction.
Still, he continues. “You matter to me. More than you realize. And seeing you in pain—watching you fight your own body—” He stops for a moment. “I don’t want that for you. Even if you’re mean. Even if you push me away.”
The mattress dips as he leans in. You feel the warmth of him before you feel the kiss—gentle, lingering, pressed to the top of your head like a promise rather than an apology.
“I’ll take tomorrow off,” Bruce murmurs. “No board meetings. No calls. I’ll stay with you.”
Then he straightens, footsteps retreating toward the door.
summary Fevers spike, the hospital is short-staffed, and you're not exactly in the best shape to take care of your son. Dana steps in just when everything's about to hit the fan.
soft baran ˖⋆˙ fem reader ˖⋆˙ kidfic ˖⋆˙ sickfic ˖⋆˙ family fluff ˖⋆˙ worried baran ˖⋆˙ cold/flu symptoms ˖⋆˙ caring dana ˖⋆˙ domestic fluff
wc: 5k
part 1 here | huge thank you to @oldermenfucker for helping me with the culture and translations on this fic! 💜 | read on ao3
// read part 1 first //
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You wake to a tiny ball of fire pressing against your side.
“Maman,” Kaveh whines, burrowing in between you and Baran. “Mommy… I don’t feel good.”
You blink sluggishly, trying to orient yourself. There’s a burning heat behind your eyes, and the rest of your body feels freezing, as if the room temperature has dropped thirty degrees.
You sit up, automatically pulling Kaveh into your lap and starting to rub his back. Baran stirs, turning on the lamp.
“Oh, honey. What’s wrong, Kavi?” you murmur, brushing back Kaveh’s curls so you can feel his forehead.
You shoot Baran an alarmed look. “Babe, he’s burning up.” Your voice comes out as a croak, and you turn to muffle a rattling cough into your shoulder.
Despite the early hour, Baran looks fully awake now, a calm, focused expression on her face that means she’s worried. She reaches out to feel your son’s forehead, frowning.
“I’ll get the thermometer,” she says, her voice clipped, already getting up. Kaveh coughs into your shirt and whines, clinging to you. Your heart practically breaks, and you kiss the top of his head, shushing him softly.
Baran returns in record time. “Let me see your ear, joonie delam,” she murmurs, gently coaxing Kaveh to turn his head so she can put the thermometer in his ear. She stokes his hair and murmurs to him in Farsi while the thermometer works. Then she checks the number when the device beeps.
“102.3,” Baran mutters, frowning. “Poor thing. Let’s get some medicine in you, sweetheart.” She sets aside the thermometer, and reaches for the bottle of children’s Tylenol.
“Don’ wan’ medicine,” Kaveh whines, clinging harder to you and coughing on a sob. “Feel yucky, Maman.”
“Oh, azizam, I know, I know,” Baran murmurs sadly, rubbing his back, leaning down to kiss his hair. “I know. Man khoobesh mikonam, I’ll make it better, promise. I just need you to take your medicine.”
“One quick sip and then we’ll get something cool for your head, honey,” you encourage, rocking Kaveh slightly. “Can you be a brave boy? Your mamas will be so proud.”
Kaveh looks up with big, watery eyes. After a pause, he gives a tentative nod. You kiss his warm forehead, and Baran pours the medicine into the dosing cup, holding it to Kaveh’s lips. He swallows the medicine, making a face afterward, and Baran hands him some water to wash it down.
“I’ll get a cool cloth,” Baran says.
You nod, coughing sharply again. Baran’s eyes linger on you for a moment, but then she slips off to the bathroom. She returns with a damp washcloth, and you position Kaveh so that he’s laying between the two of you. Baran tenderly lays the cloth across his brow and he gives a happy hum, his eyes fluttering shut. You cover him with the blanket, tucking him in.
“Just sleep, sweetie,” Baran murmurs, smoothing the covers over Kaveh. “Your mamas are right here.”
You both watch him until his breathing starts to slow and the fist he has bunched in your shirt finally relaxes.
“Will he be alright?” you whisper, once you’re sure he’s asleep. He still looks so fragile, his brown cheeks flushed a dark, angry red.
Baran nods, still rubbing the little boy’s back. “High fevers are common in young kids. It’s unsettling, but not usually dangerous. The acetaminophen should bring it down. I’ll check again in an hour.”
You nod, feeling yourself relax slightly. Then you have to turn away when you’re hit with another coughing fit. You do your best to muffle it into the pillow, not wanting to wake Kaveh.
When you finally catch your breath and turn back around, Baran’s gaze is fixed steadily on you.
“Your turn, azizam,” Baran says quietly, holding the thermometer up.
“I don’t need –” you start to protest, but she raises a hand up to stop you.
“Please don’t argue, sweetheart. I can see your flushed cheeks from here.”
It’s the quiet, tired, resignation in Baran’s voice that has you tilting your ear toward her. The thermometer beeps and she pulls it out, giving a disapproving hum.
“101.6. You need another dose as well,” Baran says, reaching for the bottle of adult Tylenol. She shakes two pills out into her palm and holds them out. “You’re doing a covid and flu test in the morning. I’m worried this is more than just a cold.”
You sigh, accepting the pills. You know she’s right, and you’re too exhausted to feign wellness anymore. Baran refills your glass of water in the bathroom and you swallow the medicine and drain the glass. She nods approvingly, although you can still see the concern lingering in her eyes as she watches you.
“Let’s get some sleep, honey,” you say croakily, laying back down and tugging her down to do the same. “Maybe we’ll all feel better in the morning.”
Baran hums noncommittally, tugging the sheets up over your shoulder. You all cuddle together, two of you burning hot, one quietly with worry.
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Baran peers at the rapid test in her hand, shining her phone light on it to look for a line.
“Negative for flu, covid, and RSV,” Baran says, quiet relief in her voice. She sets the test aside. “Good.”
“What does that mean?” Kaveh asks stuffily, looking up from his Switch. He’s propped up in your bed on a small mountain of pillows, his dark curls messy and his cheeks still pink from the lingering fever.
“It means you have a bad cold, joonie delam,” Baran says, brushing a curl out of his eyes. She looks up at you. “And you both need to rest.”
You sigh, slumping back against the pillows and crossing your arms. “I could probably still get a few things done, babe…”
“No, you cannot.” Baran gives you a firm look. “You’re exhausted and running a temperature, sweetheart. The only thing I want you doing today is resting and hydrating.”
You intend to protest, but you end up sneezing instead. You groan afterward, rubbing your nose.
“Bless you,” Baran says crisply, handing you a tissue with a tiny smirk. “And that’s why you’re resting today, azizam.”
You blow your nose, grimacing at how congested you are already. “Maybe the little guy and I should go hole up in the guest room,” you say, looking at your wife. “So you don’t catch this, babe.”
Baran smooths a hand over your hair, her expression fond and slightly amused. “We’ve been over this, sweetheart. I haven’t had a cold in several years. I want you right here where I can take care of you.”
You sniffle again and Baran patiently hands you more tissues.
“You know, you say that,” you croak, wiping your nose. “But one of these days you’re going to catch something and then it’ll be you here sneezing every five seconds.”
Baran gives you a small, amused smile. “Well, then you can take care of me. Until then…” She settles back against the headboard, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you to rest against her chest. “I’m calling the shots.”
“Bossy,” you mutter, but your voice is fond. You relax back against her.
“You need it.” Baran kisses the top of your hair. “Esterahat kon. Rest, azizam.”
You rest.
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The morning is cozy and slow. Baran insists on you and Kaveh staying in bed. She brings breakfast to you, checks your temperatures occasionally, and just generally dotes on you. It’s a gray, cloudy day outside and rain drums faintly against the windowpane, making the bedroom feel extra cozy and warm.
It isn’t long before Kaveh drifts off to sleep again, curling up between you and Baran. You take the opportunity to switch the TV channel, since you’ve had Bluey playing all morning. You and Baran settle in for an episode of Bridgerton, Baran holding your hand and running her thumb absently over your knuckles.
But then the peace of the moment is abruptly broken when Baran’s phone starts buzzing. She frowns at it, hesitating before picking up.
“It’s the hospital,” she mutters, swiping to accept the call.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi,” she answers, sitting up straighter. Her frown deepens as she listens to whatever the other person on the line is saying. “Can’t Dr. Shen take it? I’m unavailable.”
There’s more silence as she listens, shaking her head. You can tell she’s getting frustrated. “I have a sick partner and kid at home,” Baran says curtly. “I really can’t come in unless there’s no one else who –”
The person on the other line interrupts, and she goes quiet again.
We’ll be fine, you mouth to her, having figured out what’s going on. She looks at you, shaking her head faintly with a frown.
Baran sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I see…” she exhales, rubbing her eyes. “I…yes. Okay. Until seven? Yes, I’ll take it.”
She hangs up, sighing again.
You give her a sympathetic look. “You need to go in?”
“Apparently Robby has norovirus and is currently vomiting in one of the exam rooms. John is in California. They need me to cover,” Baran says, looking frustrated. “I really don’t want to leave you when you’re ill, but there’s no one else. They have an incoming trauma in twenty.”
“Go.” You lean in, kissing her cheek. “Babe, we’ll be fine. It’s a cold. I can handle things here until you get back.”
Baran bites her lip, her gaze bouncing between you and Kaveh. “You’ll rest?” she asks, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead, and you nod.
She hesitates. “You’re still so warm, sweetheart. I don’t know…” she frowns, dropping her hand and studying you.
“It’s a fever, Baran. I’ve had one before. I’ll live,” you say, giving her a firm look. “I know you don’t want to go, but they need you more than we do. I promise we’ll be fine, babe.”
Baran gives you a long look. “You promise to call me if you need anything? Or if anything changes?”
“Promise.” You give her a gentle nudge. “Go get changed, babe.”
You can tell that Baran is still conflicted about going in, but she changes into her scrubs quickly and pulls her hair back. She gives both you and a sleeping Kaveh a kiss on the forehead, then lingers by the bed for a moment, just watching you.
“We’re fine,” you repeat firmly, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “It’s a cold. We’re resting. Go save lives, baby.”
“Call me,” Baran stresses, glancing at her watch and making a face. “I mean it, azizam.”
“I will,” you nod. She sighs, giving you one final kiss before rushing out the door.
You snuggle up with Kaveh, letting your own eyes fall closed. You figure the two of you will nap most of the day, maybe you’ll reheat some soup for lunch. There won’t be any reason to call Baran.
At least, that’s what you thought would happen.
But two hours later, you’re not coping quite as well as you had hoped.
“Mommy, I’m bored,” Kaveh whines, tugging on your shirt sleeve. “Can we play a game, Mommy? Pleeease?”
Kaveh’s fever dropped significantly after his nap, and with it came a surge of energy. You’ve been desperately trying to keep him entertained despite the fact that you are definitely not feeling any better. In fact, quite the opposite.
“Don’t you want to watch more Bluey?” you suggest weakly, rubbing your eyes. There’s a pounding in your head that just won’t abate no matter what you do, and you're laying on the couch wrapped in two blankets and somehow still shivering.
“I’m tired of Bluey,” Kaveh whines, bouncing on his feet. “Can we play outside?”
“I don't feel very good, sweetie,” you croak, grimacing at the pain in your throat. “Maybe you could do some coloring? Or play with your dinosaurs?”
“Okay,” Kaveh says, pouting a little. He dumps his box of toy dinosaurs on the floor and plops down in front of them, starting to play.
You’re happy he’s occupied, but the fake roaring noises he starts making, and the clash of the plastic toys against each other just make your head pound harder. You pick up your phone and squint at it. It’s too soon to take more Tylenol, but maybe you could have some ibuprofen? That’s okay, right?
You cough, your chest aching with it. You try to Google the answer but your eyes are watery and your head is woozy, so it’s hard to make sense of what you’re reading. Kaveh gives another dinosaur roar and it sends a stab of pain shooting through your head.
Before you have time to question it too much, you swipe to your contacts and tap Baran’s name.
She answers after exactly two rings.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, her voice sharp. You can hear the distant sounds of the emergency room in the background, the beeping of machines and overlapping voices. You already feel guilty for calling.
“I…um,” you cough, clearing your throat. “Can I take ibuprofen if I had Tylenol an hour ago?”
“Why do you need ibuprofen?” Baran asks immediately. The background sounds become muffled. She’s probably stepping into the breakroom. “What’s wrong?”
“I just…” you mumble, feeling tears burn your eyes. “I don’t feel very good? I’ve got this bad headache...”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Baran lets out a soft breath, and you can hear the concern in her voice. “What’s your temperature, azizam?”
“I haven’t checked it.”
“Check it, please,” Baran says. “Right now.”
You fumble the thermometer off the coffee table and clumsily put it in your ear. When it beeps, you squint to read the number.
You stare at it, biting your lip. You don’t say anything.
“Tell me,” Baran orders, her voice sharp again. “Sweetheart. Tell me the number.”
You hesitate. “...103.1.”
Baran swears quietly. That surprises you more than anything, because she so rarely swears. You know if she’s cursing, it’s not good news.
“Okay,” Baran says, letting out a soft breath. Even though her voice is still calm, you can tell she’s trying to steady herself. “Okay. I can’t leave right now, but I’m going to have someone check up on you. Don’t take any more medicine just yet. Just rest, okay? Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
Her tone is gentle, coaxing. It makes your eyes water again. You really do miss her.
“Okay,” you mumble. “But I don’t need anyone –”
“You do,” Baran interrupts. “I’ll handle it. I need to make a call, azizam. Your only job is to rest right now, okay? Is Kaveh alright?”
“He’s fine, he’s playing.”
“Good. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Everything will be alright. I love you, eshgham.”
You mumble an I love you back then hang up. It belatedly occurs to you to ask who exactly will be coming over, but the thought of looking at your bright phone any further sounds like torture. So instead you curl tighter into your blankets, closing your eyes.
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You wake up to the sound of someone fumbling with the front door lock. The moment your eyes snap open, you immediately scan for Kaveh, your heart racing. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. What if he got into trouble, or his fever rose or –
“Someone’s here!” Kaveh chirps, setting down his miniature t-rex. Your shoulders drop with relief. He’s in the same spot you left him, playing with his toys.
“Is it Maman?” Kaveh asks, jumping to his feet and running to the door.
“Wait – Kavi, don’t –” you call weakly, trying to push yourself up, but your arms are as limp as cooked noodles.
“Woah, hey there kiddo,” says a familiar voice, and you immediately sigh with relief. It’s not some stranger at the door. It’s Dana.
“Auntie Dana!” Kaveh cries, and you hear Dana give a soft oof as the little boy throws himself at her.
“You’re pretty chipper for a kid who’s supposed to be sick,” Dana chuckles, picking Kaveh up and settling him on her hip. “How ya feeling, little guy?”
“I feel better. Mommy’s still sick though,” Kaveh says, and Dana looks over at you, her expression softening. You give a weak wave from the couch.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Dana says, walking over with Kaveh on her hip. “Guess we better take care of her, huh?”
He nods, wrapping his arms around her neck and hugging her. You smile at the sight. But then you break into an inopportune coughing fit, burying your face in the blankets.
“Uh oh,” Dana says. You’re vaguely aware of her putting Kaveh down and handing you a glass of water, but you’re too distracted by trying to stop coughing to really pay attention. By the time the cough settles, your cheeks are wet with irritated tears. You realize Dana has joined you on the couch, sitting next to you and rubbing your back.
“You’ve definitely got the plague, honey,” Dana says, her tone wry but her hazel eyes sympathetic. She hands you a tissue, still rubbing your back. “I can see why Baran called.”
“Sorry,” you croak, cleaning up your face and sipping the water. You squint at her, confused. “Aren’t you on shift?”
“Nah, today’s my day off,” Dana says, already reaching out to press the back of her wrist to your cheek. She lets out a low whistle, frowning. “But looks like I’m gonna do some nursing anyway. You are on fire, hon.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, right.” Dana shakes her head at you, giving you a no-nonsense look. “Let’s get your temp, sweetheart. I need to see what I’m working with here,” she says, reaching for the thermometer.
“I just took it,” you grumble, even though you let her stick the device in your ear anyway.
“Yeah, 103.1. Baran told me. Several times, in fact,” Dana says, checking the number when it beeps. “That’s about as close to losing her shit as I’ve ever heard her.”
“Dana.” You give a pointed glance at Kaveh, who luckily is distracted by his dinosaurs again. “Language.”
“Ah, right,” Dana chuckles, setting the thermometer aside. “Sorry, potty mouth. I’ll try to keep it in check but no promises,” she grins. “Comes with the package.”
“I really appreciate you coming over,” you say. “Sorry to ruin your day off.”
“You’re not ruinin’ nothing, hon,” Dana says, giving you a firm look. “I don’t want to hear any more of that ok? We’re family. That means we look out for each other, ‘specially when someone’s running a fever of 103. Speaking of –” she reaches for the bottle of Tylenol on the table, checking the dosage. “When’s the last time you took something? We gotta get you cooled down, sweetheart. That fever’s no good.”
“Um…” You think back, trying to get your sluggish brain to cooperate. “I had two pills about an hour ago? Or maybe two.”
Dana nods, listening. “You take anything else? DayQuil, Advil, Motrin?”
You shake your head, then wince when the movement aggravates your headache.
“Okay, I’m gonna get you some ibuprofen and an ice pack, see if we can’t bring that temp down a bit,” Dana says, pushing to her feet. “Be right back, hon.”
Kaveh watches her get up, sticking his bottom lip out. “I thought we were gonna play, Auntie Dana.”
“We are, kiddo, promise,” Dana smile, crouching down to ruffle his hair. “I just gotta take care of your mom first, ‘kay? Then I’m all yours.”
Dana returns with a bottle of pills, a fresh glass of water, and a couple bags of vegetables from the freezer. She has you take the pills first and makes you drink all the water. Then she wraps the makeshift ice packs in dish towels. The frozen peas go behind your neck, the corn on your forehead.
She starts to peel one of your blankets off but you clutch at it. “I’m freezing,” you complain, snuggling further into the blankets.
Dana just shakes her head, giving you a sympathetic look. “That’s the fever talking, sweetheart. I gotta take at least one of these. Baran is going to skin me alive if your temp climbs any higher. And you’ll be looking at a nice trip down to PTMC for an ice bath.”
You sigh, but reluctantly allow her to take one of your blankets. You know your wife really is worried, and you don’t want to give her any more reason to be so.
Then you sneeze, not just once, but several times, covering as best you can with an elbow.
“Can’t catch a break, huh?” Dana says, giving you a fond smirk and passing the tissue box. “Bless you, hon.”
“Do you want me to put on a mask?” You belatedly realize that you should have asked this ten minutes ago and wince. “God, I’m sorry I didn’t even think –”
“It’s fine,” Dana interrupts, squeezing your shoulder. “Germs see me and run the other way. As long as it’s not flu or covid, I’m not worried about it.”
You grab a handful of tissues, blowing your nose. “You sound like my wife,” you grumble.
Dana laughs. “Comes with the profession. We’ve all caught everything there is to catch by now. Except I definitely do not want whatever Robby has now…yeesh.”
“Thankfully there have not been any upset tummies with this bug,” you say, sighing as you lean back against the couch cushions. Your gaze drifts to Kaveh, who’s playing by himself and you note his still faintly pink cheeks.
“Do you mind…?” you ask, looking at Kaveh, and Dana nods.
“That was going to be my next step right after you,” Dana says, cleaning the thermometer with an alcohol wipe. She kneels next to Kaveh, holding it up. “Quick temp check, buddy.”
He complies easily, used to this routine by now.
“99.7,” Dana reads, putting her palm to Kaveh’s forehead to feel for herself. “Not quite normal but pretty darn close. I’d say you’re on the mend, kiddo.”
“Yay!” Kaveh grins, looking up at her with big, round eyes. “Can we play now?”
“Sure can,” Dana smiles. She sits back on her heels, surveying the toys. “What do you wanna play?”
“I have a basketball hoop in my room!” Kaveh says excitedly. “It’s on the door, Maman hung it up. Wanna see?”
“‘Course I do,” Dana grins, letting him tug her to her feet. She glances back at you, giving you a soft look. “You just rest there, okay, hon? You need anything else? I’ll be back to check your temp in a bit.”
“I’m good. Thank you, Dana,” you say, seriously. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She just gives you a warm smile and follows Kaveh down the hall to his room.
Now that you know Kaveh’s being looked after, you finally feel like you can relax a bit. The ice on your head feels amazing, already starting to quieten the pounding in your temples. You sink into the couch, letting your eyes close again.
Thank god for your PTMC family.
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Baran rarely has a problem focusing when she’s on shift. Her work requires precision and her full attention. Even minor oversights can mean the difference between life and death in emergency medicine.
But today, her family is on her mind. She keeps thinking back to how she left you and Kaveh, both of you in bed wrapped up in blankets, with matching flushed cheeks and dry coughs. How she wanted nothing more than to stay there all day, making sure you had enough to eat, to drink, that you were taking your medicine at the right intervals.
And when you had called her with that fever – 103.1, she still can’t get the number out of her head – her heart had nearly dropped to the floor. It took all of her self-control to not just hop in the car and speed home, PTMC be damned.
She’s so thankful that you befriended Dana all those months ago, and that the charge nurse has long since become a part of the family. There’s no one else she would trust to look after you when she can’t. No one else whose medical knowledge and love for her wife and kid that she has more faith in than Dana’s. The fact that Dana is there taking care of you is a huge comfort, but she still can’t wait to get home.
Baran pulls her phone out of her pocket, checking for any updates. Her eyes immediately scan the text from Dana that lights up her screen.
Dana: Fever down to 102.2 after 400 mg ibu. Will continue PRN. Kid and I are playing. Don’t worry doc. ❤️
Baran lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. 102.2. That’s manageable. Definitely still a fever, but not panic worthy. Not anything that will land you in one of her triage rooms, or that means she needs to drop everything and speed home right this second.
She quickly types out a text back. Thank you so much. ❤️ Please give 650 mg acetaminophen at 5:00.
Dana responds immediately with a thumbs up emoji, and Baran smiles. She knows that Dana has this handled, that you and Kaveh are going to be fine. The worry that’s been clenching her chest like a vice loosens a little, letting her breathe again.
Then Dr. Santos calls her name and she pockets her phone. Taking a centering breath, she shifts her focus to the patient being wheeled in from the ambulance bay.
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You wake up slowly, groggily. There’s a hand in your hair, short nails scratching gently at your scalp. The sensation is so soothing it makes you want to drift back to sleep.
You blink your eyes open. Baran is crouching next to the couch, smiling softly at you.
“There you are,” Baran murmurs, kissing your forehead. Her brown eyes are as warm as sunshine as she looks at you, still carding her fingers through your hair. “How are you feeling, azizam?”
“You’re home?” you ask, pushing yourself up slightly. Baran puts a hand on your back to help, then eases a pillow behind you to prop you upright.
The light has shifted now, shadows coming through the windows instead of gray daylight. The lamp is on in the corner of the living room, the room quiet with the kind of hush that falls over the house once Kaveh has gone to bed for the night.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Baran hums, touching the back of her hand to your cheek, her skin cool against yours. “You’ve been sleeping.”
You blink again, suddenly feeling guilty. “Kaveh –?”
“Is asleep,” Baran says calmly, returning to stroking your hair. “Dana left a few minutes ago. She said to tell you to keep your butt in bed for the next few days.”
You chuckle, then cough. “Sounds like her.”
Baran nods. She reaches for the thermometer, holding it up. “May I?”
You sigh and nod, knowing there’s no point in arguing about it. Baran gives a thoughtful hum once she reads the number. “Better. But still elevated.”
You glance around the room, realizing that the toys have been put away and the mess of tissues and cups on the coffee table have been cleaned up.
“I didn’t mean to sleep so long –” you start, but Baran shakes her head.
“You were doing exactly what you needed to be doing. Resting,” she says, smoothing a hand down your side. “That’s why Dana was here. And now I’m home.”
“I missed you,” you say honestly, looking at her.
“I missed you too, sweetheart,” Baran murmurs, kissing your temple again. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
“Sorry,” you wince.
Baran’s lips curve into a small smile, and she cups your cheek. “Don’t apologize for spiking a fever, eshgham. It’s not your fault. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be here to take care of you.”
“How was your shift?” you ask, sitting up further. Your head feels a lot clearer than it did earlier, you realize, and the pounding ache is gone.
“It was fine,” Baran says, handing you a glass of water. “I gave Robby an antiemetic and sent him home. A few traumas. Nothing major.”
“Just saving lives, no big deal,” you say, giving her a teasing grin.
“You’re my big deal,” Baran says tenderly, tucking some hair behind your ear.
“Babe. You can’t just say sweet stuff like that,” you complain, even though you’re smiling. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Well, let’s try to avoid the tears for the sake of your sinuses,” Baran chuckles, giving you a fond look. She takes the glass from you when you’re done, then laces your fingers together. “How does some soup sound? My beautiful wife made ash restesh yesterday.”
“Did she?” You smirk. “Sounds like a keeper, if you ask me.”
“Yeah. I think I’ll keep her around,” Baran grins. She tucks the blanket over your shoulders, then kisses both your cheeks. “Rest here, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”
Baran heads off to the kitchen while you relax back into your blanket nest. You listen to the distant sounds of her getting the soup ready, the clink of dishes, the beep of the microwave. As the microwave whirs, you can just faintly make out the sound of her humming something in Farsi, an old favorite song of hers perhaps.
Your chest fills with warmth, like a small fire igniting under your ribs. You love your family so much, enough to make your heart ache with the ferocity of it.
The world outside will keep turning. But here, in the cocoon of these four walls, you have everything you need.
baran always notices when you're not feeling well, even when you try to hide it...
tags: fem reader, sickfic, soft baran, fluff (900 words)
You should probably clean the apartment before your girlfriend gets home from her twelve hour shift. That had been your plan for the day after all, and you still want to do it. You know that working in the ER all day is exhausting, and you try to make everything smooth and easy for Baran when she gets home, if you can.
The only problem is that your arms seem to have been replaced with limp spaghetti.
You groan as you struggle to push yourself up on the couch with shaky arms. You can’t remember the last time you felt this awful – pounding head, throat on fire, full-body chills, the works. Whatever you’re currently sick with hit hard and fast, and you’ve pretty much been camped out on the couch all day. Much to your dismay, as you hate being unproductive.
You’re just considering whether you have enough energy to get some sort of dinner started when you hear the front door unlocking.
You use your last dregs of strength to get up from the couch, trying to hurriedly smooth the wrinkles out of your hoodie and sweatpants. Your girlfriend doesn’t need to know you’re not feeling well. She’s just coming off a day dealing with Pittsburgh’s sick and injured. That last thing she needs is more of that when she gets home.
“Hey, honey,” you greet, coming over to Baran and helping her out of her trench coat. You give her a swift kiss on the cheek and hang up her coat. “How was work?”
“Long,” Baran answers, kicking off her sneakers and then neatly lining them up by the door. She straightens up with a sigh and tugs the elastic out of her hair. Her honey-brown curls fall in a wave to her shoulders, and you reach up to card your fingers through her hair, admiring – not for the first time – how gorgeous your partner is.
“How’re you, azizam?” Baran asks, heading toward the powder room off the main hall to wash her hands. She always insists on washing her hands after coming home from work, even though you know she washes them untold times when she’s on shift.
“I’m good,” you lie, and immediately have to choke back a cough. You grab a pillow off the couch and muffle a few small coughs into it, hoping it’s quiet enough that Baran won’t hear. You clear your throat afterward to get rid of the scratchiness in your throat. “What should I get started for dinner?”
Baran comes out of the bathroom, drying her hands on a paper towel. Her brown eyes are sharp as she glances over you. “Are you alright? You sound a little hoarse.”
“Fine,” you say breezily, heading into the kitchen to avoid any further questioning. “I was thinking stir-fry, maybe? It’ll be quick.”
Baran calls something back but you miss it, because you’re suddenly ducking away into your elbow to sneeze. It makes your head spin and your throat burn, and you lean back against the counter woozily afterward, trying to steady yourself.
When you look up, you see your girlfriend standing a few paces away, giving you a knowing look. “Bless you,” she says, crossing her arms and studying you. “You don’t sound well.”
You wave a tired hand. “It’s nothing.”
Baran sighs, coming over to you and running a hand down your arm. “Sweetheart. Don’t lie to me. You’re pale, you’re clammy, and you can barely stand.”
You deflate a little. “It’s…mostly nothing?” you try, wincing.
Your girlfriend’s hand comes to your forehead, her cool palm pressing against your overheated skin. Tenderness shines in her soft brown eyes. “This is a lot more than just nothing, joon-am. Come, let’s get you sitting down.”
She guides you back over to the couch with a hand on the small of your back. Once settled, she strokes your hair behind your ear, frowning at you. “Why didn't you tell me you’re sick?” Her lips curve in a half smile. “I am a doctor, in case you forgot.”
You roll your eyes, falling back against the cushions. “I didn’t want you to have to come home to another patient. I know this is the one place you can get away from all that. I want this to be the place where you can get away from all that.”
Baran considers your words for a moment, playing with the ends of your hair. “I love my job, my patients, the work I do,” she says finally, cupping your cheek. Her eyes shine with conviction. “But it’s also that – work. You,” she presses her lips to your temple, “are never work. You’re my heart. Taking care of you is something I choose to do, not something I’m paid to do.”
Something thick lumps in your throat at that, and you blink quickly. “Sappy,” you say, choked up, with a teasing grin.
“And true,” Baran says, kissing you again. She pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and carefully wraps you up in it, tucking it warmly around you. “Now, I’m going to get the thermometer, you’re going to tell me how you really feel, and we’re going to cuddle the rest of the night.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Al-Hashimi,” you smile, accepting the tissue box that she hands you. “But…thank you.”
Baran smiles at you before getting up and disappearing into the bedroom. You curl up on the couch, settling further into your blanket – warm, loved, safe.
