Hi!! I'm Liza, I'm mostly here for fandoms and memes. And for posting art occasionally.
The list of my fandoms includes, but isn't limited to: classic rock; Detroit Become Human (I'm only here for Hankcon tho); The Pitt (robbylangdon mostly!); Sherlock Holmes (acd, granada, soviet); Raffles; Discworld; Dwampyverse; Good Omens (I'm a s2 hater+denier tho. Not sorry); Rope 1948; etc etc.
If you want to see my art, the tags are:
#liza does stuff for all of it, including anything not covered by the tags below;
#liza draws for drawings;
#liza glues for all paper collages;
#liza cuts paper for cut paper collages specifically;
#liza scraps for scrapbooking collages specifically;
#liza cuts pixels for digital collages/moodboards;
#liza plays with dolls for doll photography and any other doll-related stuff I might do;
+ bonus #liza says for text posts/shitposts
And I guess I'll add to these eventually :^)
You can find me on Ao3 (most of my fics are in Russian, but I'm currently writing a dbh au in english in fact!) and I also have a Last.fm (literally no one asked but I just want to include it lmao).
If you want to talk to me, always feel free to dm/send an ask/whatever!!! :)
people don’t enjoy shipping anymore. the point of shipping isn’t the catharsis of watching them kiss onscreen, it’s grabbing the characters and mashing their faces together like you’re five years old playing Barbie in your room again. it’s to take one moment of eye contact in canon and read that over and over and over again with twenty different writers’ interpretations of the characters internal monologues if they were in love. it’s to see the characters interact and cheer because you know that’s another moment to add to your list of canon compliant fic ideas. you’re stressing yourself out, this is supposed to be fun!
translating my written speech patterns into english is such a struggle 😩 a humble "хд" that you can put 10 times in one sentence easy versus an obnoxious demon of "xD" that you use one time and it's too much
or should i say is the evilest person to ever live because he is actually not dead and he lives in antarctica. i have the truth actually he is still alive and is peacefully enjoying retirement with the real paul mccartney who actually also did not die
have a little santos & garcia & langdon interaction, witnessed by our pal robby
--
There are hushed voices muffled behind the door to the women's restroom on the 4th floor near the surgery center. It's a relatively quiet area of the hospital at this time of night, as most outpatient surgeries have long since been discharged, and those with complications have been admitted. The restroom itself is for patients, not staff, so when Robby passes the door and hears voices, he slows the speed of his steps, curious. Dubious.
He stills at the door. The voices continue, but they're pitched low enough that he can't discern any words. At least one woman, maybe two. And also a man, voice sporadic, short, and clipped, but decidedly there. At first Robby wonders if this isn't just an ill-advised amorous encounter in an even more inappropriately chosen location, but nothing about the voices sounds lustful. Someone does sound mad, though. And that gives him pause. Surely, he couldn't leave something that might turn into a fight in a bathroom in an unoccupied area of the hospital alone, could he?
He knocks.
"Fucking occupied," a very familiar voice shouts.
Robby would know that spitfire ire anywhere: Trinity Santos.
"I'm coming in," Robby announces.
"How about don't?" Santos is saying, as Robby pushes open the door, unhindered by her complaint.
He's not surprised to find Santos and Garcia in the bathroom, tucked up near the mirror. He is, however, surprised to find Frank Langdon there too, sitting on the counter of the bathroom between them, looking abjectly miserable.
The first thing Robby notices is that Langdon's clothes are on. It's a relief, given the location, the implications. The second thing Robby notices is the dark bruise blooming around Langdon's eye.
Anger blooms so easily in his gut. His stomach clenches and his veins go hot. Langdon looks at him, and then quickly looks away, cheeks flushing an embarrassed crimson.
"What the fuck is this?" Robby asks.
There are makeup brushes scattered around the counter. There's a compact and brush in Santos' hands.
"None of your business is what it is," Santos tells him. Her tone is a surprise, honestly. Her hackles are up, and normally that's a constant when it comes to Langdon, directed at Langdon, but now Robby's startled to have it pointed at him. Away from Langdon, perhaps even in defense of him.
Before Robby can bristle too much, Garcia speaks: "We can't find the right shade for Ken, here," she says simply. She crosses her arms and leans against the paper towel dispenser, ignoring Santos' anger and Robby's too.
Langdon's off today. He shouldn't be in the hospital at all. It's an hour past the time Santos and Garcia should have clocked out, but here they are. In an abandoned bathroom with Langdon between them, bruised and in the fucking makeup chair.
Did Langdon come in just for this? How did he get the bruise? Did someone punch him in the face? Someone must have. It's bad, dark and blue and black. Robby's mind spirals, jumping from one bad conclusion to the next, each one worse than the previous.
"Look, it's fine, I'm just going to go," Langdon says, clearly aiming to slide off the bathroom counter.
He doesn't get far. Santos stops him with a hand on his shoulder. The touch looks surprisingly gentle.
"Stop moving. You're not going anywhere, we're not done."
Langdon sighs, but he relaxes. He looks at Santos, at Garcia, at the floor. He doesn't look at Robby again.
"Try that one," Garcia says, pointing at a compact on the counter. "No, the other one," she adds, when Santos grabs the wrong one. Both of them ignore Robby completely.
He feels out of place, out of sorts.
"Who punched you?" Robby asks Langdon.
Langdon makes a noise at the back of his throat.
"It's not relevant," Santos says.
"He's here. It's relevant," Robby says.
"It's not workplace relevant," Garcia clarifies without looking at him. "He's here for makeup advice." Ruining date night, she adds under her breath. Frank winces, either at the words or at the press of Santos' makeup brush, Robby can't tell which.
Robby would bet real money that the makeup advice followed a medical assessment of Langdon's injury, either that or Robby's not training good doctors. Another glance to the counter shows him a floppy ice pack, which lends him to believe that Langdon's been assessed for any skull fractures or any other complications.
"Where did this happen?" Robby asks
"Not here," Santos says.
"Where?"
"My apartment," Langdon says, like it's a foregone conclusion. Like maybe Robby will go away if he answers.
Last Robby checked, Langdon lived in a house with his wife, two kids, and a hastily acquired dog. Last Robby checked was over a year ago, though, and it's only now just occurring to him that he might be behind on the times. Another covert glance tells him that Langdon isn't wearing his wedding ring. When had that happened? Robby tries to steer clear of the rumor mill, especially where Langdon is concerned. He doesn't want to know. Now, he wishes he had been paying slightly more attention.
"Your apartment," Robby parrots. This is somehow worse than Langdon getting slugged in a back alley, the aftermath of a drug deal gone sour.
Langdon just nods.
"You got punched in your own apartment?" Robby says, almost-sarcastic disbelief coloring his own words.
"Are you safe to go back there?" Santos asks.
It's a better question, the right question to ask, and the way the silence hangs in the air afterwards means that every person in the bathroom knows it. The correction stabs a blade of guilt through Robby's chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
Veering sharply away from that feeling, Robby tells himself that of course Langdon is safe in his own apartment. Of course there's nothing to worry about. That's not a question for someone like Frank Langdon, whose problems are of his own creation, his own doing. Robby knows that's true. He needs it to be.
Instead, Langdon just shrugs and keeps his eyes on the floor. He looks, if Robby were to put a name to it, almost scared. The sight of it leaves a bad taste in Robby's mouth.
"Wow resounding affirmation there, ER Ken," Garcia says. "So, you're going to sleep on my couch tonight."
Robby watches as Langdon glances up at her. He waits for Langdon to demure, to brush it off. To laugh, even.
He doesn't.
"You sure?" Langdon asks, instead.
"Wouldn't offer if I wasn't. We can postpone date night. And you can buy us a giftcard to make up for all of the foundation we're wasting on your pasty ass."
Robby watches as Langdon looks at Santos. She nods an affirmation.
"Done," Langdon says. "Two giftcards."
Robby feels even more out of place. A strange afterthought, not important or integral to whatever is happening here. What world is this, where Santos and Garcia are helping Langdon? And what world is this, where there's someone in Langdon's apartment he's afraid of? Is it a roommate? Or is it something else entirely? Robby wants to know more. He desperately doesn't, too.
"What are you still doing here?" Santos asks Robby.
She doesn't look at him. She's apparently decided whatever shade Garcia picked out is good enough, because her eyes are trained on Langdon like this is an operation. His bruise is almost fully covered. It's good work, Robby can't help but notice. Langdon looks better. Even the circles under his eyes look less pronounced.
Robby swallows. He doesn't like this. He has a bad feeling about all of it, but he's not sure it's the worst case scenario he thought it was when he first started running through conclusions. He's not sure that's actually better, though.
"Finish up quickly," Robby warns. "I'm dropping something off with admin. You'll be out of here by the time I'm back."
"Sir yes sir," Santos says.
Robby leaves. When he loops back, the bathroom is empty.
When Robby catches sight of Langdon on their next overlapping shift two days later, Langdon looks normal. As normal as he ever does, these days. A little washed-out, a little tired. But fine. If Robby hadn't seen him that night, if he didn't know what to look for underneath the carefully applied makeup over his eye, he'd be none the wiser.
He does know, though. And he wishes he didn't, because now he can't stop looking at Frank.
