world on pause | baran x r
there are very few things that can keep baran from her work...and migraines are one of them. but luckily you are an expert at taking care of your wife. ꨄ︎
tags: fem reader, hurt/comfort, baran needs a hug and she gets one, married au, soft baran, lot of fluff (2k)
You can tell the minute you step into the kitchen that something’s not quite right.
There’s nothing obviously wrong with the scene. Baran and Kaveh are seated at the kitchen table the way they always are on weekday mornings, the six-year-old chomping on his Cheerios, your wife scrolling emails on her phone while nursing a cup of tea. But you can still feel it instinctively, the not-quite-rightness of it, even as it takes you a few seconds to put your finger on what has your spidey-senses tingling.
“Good morning,” you say, voice still a little hoarse with sleep, coming over to kiss the top of Kaveh’s head, then your wife’s lips. Baran gives you a distracted kiss, humming slightly, eyes still on her phone.
You hesitate next to her chair, studying her for a brief moment. The early morning sun is streaming through the window, turning her curls a beautiful honey brown, lighting up the side of her face.
She’s pale, you suddenly realize. Someone who doesn’t know her as well as you probably wouldn’t be able to tell, not with the warm brown of her skin, but you’ve spent enough hours memorizing the crinkles in the corner of her eyes and the freckles dotting her nose to see it. Her skin isn’t quite as luminous as it usually is, a slightly ashen undertone taking its place. You notice the pinch at the corners of her eyes too, the small squint she’s doing as she looks at her phone. The realization is already dawning on you when Baran reaches up seemingly unconsciously and rubs at her right eye with her knuckle, a slight grimace passing over her face quickly before she smooths it out again.
Ah. You know that rub and you know that look.
You sit down next to her, putting a hand on her back, gently nudging her to look at you. “Migraine?” you ask sympathetically, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
Baran looks caught-out, eyes widening slightly. “No,” she says quickly, then hesitates. “A slight headache, maybe,” she concedes finally, letting out a soft breath. “Nothing to worry about, azizam.”
You quirk an eyebrow, dubious. “You sure about that, baby? You’re rubbing your right eye.”
“It’s not a migraine,” Baran says firmly, shaking her head. A wince follows the movement, and your heart gives a tug of concern.
“Any aura? Numbness?” you ask, not willing to drop the subject quite yet.
Baran gives another sigh, putting down her phone and looking at you more fully now. She bites her lip, hesitating before answering. “I… There might be a little numbness on my right side. Just a touch.”
You give her a look. “I’m getting your sumatriptan,” you say, already standing up. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay home today, baby?”
Kaveh looks up from the picture book he’d been flipping through while eating. “Can I stay home too, Mommy?”
“No one is staying home today, joonie delam,” Baran says, giving you both a quelling look.
You sigh, crossing your arms. “So you’re going to be stubborn about this, then. Kavi, honey – eat your cereal, we have to leave in ten minutes.”
Kaveh returns to his Cheerios with a disappointed pout.
“I’m not being stubborn,” Baran says stubbornly, then seems to realize what she’s doing and lets out a small huff of breath.
“I’m fine,” she says, more calmly this time. “But I’ll take the medicine. It can’t hurt. Thank you, azizam.”
You kiss the top of her hair, then head off to the bathroom to find her migraine medication, a lump of worry slowly taking shape in your chest.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
After you drop Kaveh off at school, you do a quick grocery run and return home. Baran has already left for work, and the house feels too quiet the way it always does when your wife and son are gone.
You roughly chop celery, onions, and carrots and throw them into a pot with some chicken. Baran may want to pretend she’s fine, but you know your wife better than anyone. If she has a migraine after her shift tonight like you’re predicting, she’s going to want something light to eat. Your homemade chicken noodle soup is something you can consistently get Baran to eat when she’s not feeling well, so you figure it’s a safe bet.
You keep an eye on the soup and throw in a load of laundry, then get to work at your laptop. Your career as a freelance writer allows you a lot of flexibility with your schedule, which you always appreciate. It usually means you can stay on top of things at home, so that Baran can come home to a warm meal and clean house after a full day of stress in the ER.
You’re deep into research for an article on hydroponic farms when your phone starts buzzing, snapping you out of your trance.
“Dana?” you answer, a frown already forming on your face. You know she’s working today, Baran had mentioned it, and Dana is usually way too busy to call you when she’s on shift.
“Hey, hon,” Dana says. You can hear the overlapping of voices and beeping noises that means she’s in the ER.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, because you know it’s got to be something. Your mind immediately flicks to the pinched look on your wife’s face before she left that morning, and something in your chest tightens.
“It’s Baran,” Dana answers, not beating around the bush. “She’s got a migraine, a real doozy. Abbott came in to take over her shift and I’ve got her resting in a triage room. Think you can come take her home?”
“Of course.” You’re already on your feet, closing your laptop and heading for your coat. “Is she okay?”
“She says she’s fine but she’d also say that if she were bleeding out,” Dana says wryly, and you give a small chuckle at the accuracy of the statement. “Looks miserable though.”
“Yeah, she wasn’t looking too good this morning,” you sigh, slipping on your shoes. “I’ll bring her meds and get her home. Thanks Dana.”
“Anytime, sweetheart,” Dana says. “Gotta go, trauma incoming. See you soon, kid.”
She hangs up and you put your phone in your pocket. You’re already going over the checklist in your head for what Baran needs when she gets a migraine: meds, water, eye mask, ice pack. Hopefully she’s somewhere quiet – or at least, as quiet as PTMC ever gets. You’ll get her home where she can be more comfortable as quickly as you can.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is a whir of controlled chaos, just as you expected. After getting buzzed in, you enter the double doors to the strong smell of antiseptic and the sight of about a hundred things happening simultaneously. Staff and family members mill about, machines are making a variety of noises, but above it all you can clearly hear Dana’s voice, issuing orders and complaints in equal measure. You make a beeline for the nursing station.
“Ah good, you’re here,” she says when her eyes land on you, her brusque tone softened by the friendly smile on her face. “She’ll be happy to see you. Follow me.”
You weave your way through the maze of equipment and staff, hurrying to keep up with Dana’s brisk pace. She leads you to an almost-hidden room just off the triage area. The lights in the room are dim, and you can just see the faint outline of someone resting in a bed. Your heart gives another pang of sympathy.
“Thanks, Dana. I’ve got it from here,” you say, and she gives you a warm pat on the shoulder and smile before disappearing back the way she came.
You knock lightly on the glass door, pushing it open. “Baby? It’s me.” You keep your voice low and soft as you enter, barely above a whisper.
Baran is stretched out on the bed, one arm thrown over her eyes, her curls spread out loose and wild across the pillow. She moves her arm to squint at you, something easing in her shoulders.
“Azizam?” she asks, her voice hoarse. She winces when she talks, as if even the sound of her own voice is too loud.
“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” you murmur, pulling up a chair so you can sit down next to her. You start threading your fingers through her hair, scratching gently against her scalp. Her eyes flutter shut.
“Not feeling too good, hm?” you hum, leaning down to press a featherlight kiss to her forehead. “When did it start?”
“Almost as soon as I got in,” Baran says miserably, knuckling at her right eye. “I tried to push through, but…” She trails off with a sigh.
“But you’re human and you can’t make a migraine go away by pretending it doesn’t exist?” you offer, kissing her cheek and suppressing a small smile. “Yeah, I know, sweetheart.”
Baran gives a tiny nod. There’s a moment of silence, then she adds, voice quiet – “I hate being like this. Especially here.”
“I know, honey,” you say sympathetically, reaching for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “But no one will think less of you for it. It happens. Remember when Robby got the stomach flu?”
A ghost of a smile curves her lips. “Indeed. What a sight.”
You laugh softly, reaching into your bag. “Speaking of, I brought your rescue meds. Do you want both the nausea and the pain one?”
“Yes please, thank you,” Baran sighs gratefully.
You help ease her upright with a hand on her back. You hate seeing your normally bright-eyed and energetic wife like this, pale and grimacing at every move of her head. If you could, you would take this pain from her in an instant, just to see her well again. But you know you’ll have to settle for the slow work of medication and rest instead.
Baran swallows the pills quickly, then takes a few sips from the water bottle you give her. You offer the sunglasses that you brought along as well, the dark ones that Baran wears when she’s light sensitive. Her shoulders drop an inch with relief when she puts them on.
“Better?” you ask, rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades.
“Much,” she says. She swings her legs over the side of the bed to sit up on the edge. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Good thing you don’t have to.” You give her a chaste kiss on the lips, then start gathering both your bag and hers. “You want to leave now, or wait a few minutes for the meds to kick in?”
Baran sits still for a moment, considering. “I think I’m alright to leave now. I’d rather be home, to be honest.”
“Of course,” you affirm. She gingerly gets to her feet and you move to her side, steadying her with a hand cupped to her elbow.
“Let’s go the back way,” Baran mumbles, pressing a hand to her head as the two of you make your way out of the room. “I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.”
You understand the immense pressure Baran is under as the only female attending in the emergency department, compounded by her being a newbie and a woman of color to boot. She has eyes on her from all sides, and the last thing she needs is for anyone to doubt her capability. You’re thankful that the two of you don’t run into any of her fellow staff members as you make your way out the side exit and to the parking lot.
Baran is quiet during the drive home, leaning against the car door with her head pressed to the window, sunglasses still on. You keep a hand on her knee for the whole drive, offering whatever small comfort you can. You silently curse every divot in the pavement that jostles the car, because it makes your wife scrunch up her face in pain every time.
Back at home, you help her slip off her sneakers and take off her Lululemon jacket for her. As you guide her down the hall toward the bedroom, she mumbles something in Farsi that you don’t understand.
“What was that, baby?” you ask, pulling back the covers on the bed. Baran sets the sunglasses on the dresser and sheds her black scrubs, changing into a loose lounge set.
“Is Kaveh still at school?” Baran repeats, in English this time. She comes over to the bed and climbs in wearily. You bring the covers up over her shoulders, helping her arrange the pillow behind her head.
“Yeah, honey,” you say, kissing her forehead. You glance at your phone. “It’s only eleven AM.”
Baran blinks, the words seemingly taking a second for her to process. Then she huffs through her nose, lips twitching up. “Oh. I’m all mixed up, aren’t I?”
“You have a migraine,” you soothe. You sit down on the edge of the bed, your hand back in her hair. “It’s okay, babe. Just rest. You don’t have to be on top of everything right now. Can I get you anything?”
“You’re too sweet to me, joonam,” Baran says softly, her chestnut eyes tired but fond as she looks up at you. “No, I think I’ll just sleep.”
“Okay.” You quickly change out of your daytime clothes and put on an old t-shirt and some sweatpants. Then you climb into bed from the other side, being careful not to jostle your wife too much.
She immediately cuddles up against you, her hand curling into the soft fabric of your t-shirt. You gently slip an arm around her shoulders so that you can hold her close, burying your nose into her hair, breathing in the familiar vanilla scent of her shampoo.
This is the version of Baran that only you get to see.
At work, she’s a force to be reckoned with – solid, unshakable, eternally calm. But here in your arms, she’s just quiet and in pain and trusting you to take care of her, and your heart feels full to bursting with love for her. You’re so glad that you’re the one she trusts that enough to fall apart a little with. That you’re the one who gets to stroke her hair and make her soup and bring her the medicine she needs to feel better.
Everything else in life can be so confusing sometimes. But this right here, you know how to do. You know how to hold Baran and rub her back until her breath starts to slow. You know how to keep your arm wrapped warmly around her for as long as she needs, even when your fingers start going numb. How to murmur soothing words when she stirs, encouraging her to rest more. How to make her feel safe.
And that’s a privilege you wouldn’t trade for the world.











