Summary: Frank and Tex are tearing the ER apart, and the whole hospital is waiting for the crash. But Robby sees the look in their eyes that the odds are missing—and he’s about to make his move.
Word count: 3.4 k
Warnings: I kinda went heavier on this one, sorry. After S2. Mentions of recovery and rehab (Langdon's on pobation), anxiety, work related verbal abuse and harsh language, humiliation, forced proximity. Contains graphic descriptions of medical procedures, I tried to stay as medically accurate as possible. A car crash is mentioned with a minor involved. Slow burn, unresolved tension, and a very very fed up Dr. Robby. She is referred as Tex, but has no description whatsoever (it could be you my dear). Long ass A/N and taglist at the end!
Dr. Michael Robinavitch—known simply as "Robby" to the entire ER, and the rest of the hospital for that matter—had spent twenty years at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, ten of them as Chief of Service. He had seen students cycle through their rotations like clockwork, and seen hardened residents either cross the finish line into emergency medicine or finally snap, surrendering to the relentless grind of the stress.
But never, in two decades of professional experience, had he witnessed a rivalry as mind-numbingly stupid and utterly draining as the one unfolding before him .
He didn’t regret pairing them up... yet. Tex was easily one of the most promising first-years he’d ever mentored. Fresh out of med school, she was bright, bold, and perceptive, with a memory so precise it made Robby’s own feel dull by comparison. But for all her brilliance, she lacked the edge—that raw instinct—and it showed in the way she’d second-guess herself during high-stakes procedures. She had the textbooks and the treatment algorithms memorized down to the last comma, but it was painfully obvious how anxiety would claw at her under pressure, leading her to make the kind of rookie mistakes that shouldn't happen on his floor.
Then there was Langdon. Frank was... well, he was Langdon. The best and brightest resident Robby had ever taken under his wing. An addict? Yes, a fact that had left Robby’s trust in him—and his own pride as a mentor—nothing short of decimated. He cared for the guy so deeply that the betrayal had felt like a physical blow to the gut. Firing him from his service had truly broken his heart. He still blamed himself for failing to spot the signs, for not stepping in to help him sooner. Yet, as much as it frustrated him to admit it, he couldn't deny that Frank was a phenomenal doctor. He was more guarded now, a sober, cautious shadow of his former self, but still an indispensable link in the hospital’s life-saving chain.
That was why he’d made them a permanent team. She would gain the experience she lacked and so desperately needed; Frank would be forced to reclaim the self-confidence he’d lost a year ago; and Robby would end up with a lethal trauma unit and a somewhat quieter conscience. It was a chance for Langdon to prove his worth, to the hospital and to himself. Forgiveness, served up Robby-style. A win-win for everyone involved.
At least, that was the theory. And yes, their results had been nothing short of spectacular. But never, in a million shifts, did he imagine their dynamic would result in a headache this monumental.
To say he was 'fed up' was the understatement of the century.
He watched them over the rim of his glasses from across the nursing station, standing with Dana—the head nurse of the morning shift—at his side. Both had their arms crossed, mirroring each other’s skepticism. The tension between the residents was thick enough to choke on, even from where they stood. The young resident was gnawing on her lip as if physically restraining herself from throwing a punch at Langdon. Stress and irritation seemed to radiate from her very pores as she sat at her monitor, her leg bouncing with restless energy. Langdon, meanwhile, sat with his shoulders hunched and rigid, jaw locked tight. He was staring at her with an intensity that could have bored a hole through her skull, yet there was a flicker in his eyes that Robby couldn't quite place.
Robby let out a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“Those kids are going to turn your hair white,” Dana remarked. “Are you sure pairing them up was actually a good call?”
Robby didn’t even turn to look at her; his tired eyes were fixed on the administrative satisfaction report Gloria had requested—the one he’d been putting off for three days. He gave a noncommittal shrug. “They function as a team. They get results.”
Dana gave a dry laugh. “That doesn’t necessarily mean it was a good idea.” She watched them with a hint of amusement, clearly enjoying the chaos more than she should. “You know there’s a betting pool on them, right?”
That got the attending’s attention. He arched a brow at her. “Oh, really? And what the hell are they betting on? Who chokes whom first?”
Dana shook her head, giving him a playful smile—the kind of look that only comes from years of shared shifts and genuine friendship.
“More like whether she’ll shoot him down or not when he inevitably confesses his love.”
He nearly choked on his coffee, staring at her as if he’d just been told the Steelers were moving out of state.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, utterly skeptical.
“Dead serious. The 'yes' is a long shot—it pays out triple,” the head nurse doubled down.
The doctor raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “And whose brilliant idea was this?”
Dana shrugged. —“No clue, but it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened this month since the blackout on the Fourth.” That comment made him let out a huff. That had been the worst Fourth of July he’d ever had, and the worst shift since the Pittfest shooting.
Robby turned his gaze back to the residents, his brow furrowed. The tension was still there. Langdon exhaled sharply, looking over a chart with pure exhaustion, while she didn’t even acknowledge him, focused entirely on her medical notes.
He didn’t consider himself a Sherlock by any means, but he was observant—especially when it came to his residents. And it was becoming impossible to ignore the way she looked at Frank. It wasn't with hate. Never hate. It was a look of resignation for being stuck in this mess—courtesy of her attending—but there was something deeper, too.
Something that, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, her eyes betrayed. At times, they glimmered with something like expectation. Robby could bet there was a trace of pain mixed with something else beneath that mask of frustration she wore whenever she was with her partner.
Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced.
He buried himself in his work again, scoffing.
“It’s a useless bet. It’ll never happen,” he said. His tone was a bit too forceful, his voice a bit too pensive, to truly believe his own words.
“So, you’re not in?” Dana asked, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Because my money’s on her telling him to get lost.”
The doctor sighed. He was about to reply, about to tell Dana she was wasting both her time and her money, when the ER doors swung wide. Two ambulances sat outside, sirens still wailing.
Three patients on stretchers, two of them critical. One was a little girl.
He stood up instantly, walking with a hurried pace but never running—never running. He swept past the pair he’d mentally dubbed 'Chernobyl.'
“Langdon. Tex. With me.”
He didn't even wait for them to react, rushing toward the paramedics.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded.
One of the paramedics looked up, the one manually bagging the woman he assumed was the child’s mother. “Some idiot on a motorcycle ran a red light. They swerved and slammed right into a light pole.”
“And the biker?” Langdon spoke up this time. He was already at the side of the stretcher, snapping on his gloves.
“In the second ambulance. He just has a broken leg and a guilty conscience. He’ll be fine.”
Robby nodded. “Fine. Get them both into Trauma 1. The girl is conscious; we’re not separating her from her mother.” He jerked his head, signaling the two residents to take the lead.
As they moved down the hallway, the contrast between them was glaring. Frank looked confident, hungry for another trauma—he hadn't had many chances lately, with Robby exiling him to Triage more often than he liked. He was in his element. Tex, on the other hand, was a complete bundle of nerves. Ever since Langdon had chewed her out in the middle of the ER two weeks ago over a chest tube suturing technique, she’d been on edge. She was drowning in the constant anxiety of feeling like she wasn't enough for the hospital, or for medicine itself.
Robby didn’t even need to ask to know what she was feeling. He’d been in those shoes more than once. Anyone who calls themselves a doctor has been there.
They burst into the room where both patients were being held, helping the paramedics and nurses transfer them to hospital gurneys. The girl, no more than six or seven, was calling out for her mother in a weak voice while a nurse started an IV. The interns—Whitaker and Javadi, inseparable as always—were trying to keep her calm enough to perform a neuro exam.
Robby focused on the mother, letting his residents take the lead. “Langdon, pupils.”
“Non-reactive,” Frank responded, tucking his penlight away. “Glasgow of three. We need to intubate.” His voice was steady, commanding. Robby watched as he stepped toward Tex so she could tie his surgical gown; she assisted him without a word.
Watching them was like watching a ballet—perfectly choreographed and coordinated. These were the moments where you could truly appreciate that, despite the friction between them, they were an elite team.
Unfortunately, and much to the attending's chagrin, that calm wasn’t destined to last.
Robby glanced at the monitor. Blood pressure 140/100. “Tex, the patient is hypertensive. What does that tell you?” Robby asked, slipping into "professor mode" with his arms crossed.
The resident looked up from behind Langdon’s back. “Intracranial pressure... could be a hematoma forming, given the rapid loss of consciousness. I heard the paramedics say she was still talking in the ambulance.”
Robby nodded. “What are you ordering?”
“Emergency CT as soon as she’s tubed.” She frowned, snapping on her gloves. “If it’s an epidural hematoma, we need to call neurosurgery for an urgent decompressive craniectomy.”
Robby nodded again, a ghost of a smile tugging at his serious, weary face. He felt that familiar spark of pride in his chest—the one he got every time a student nailed a question.
“Very well. Put in the CT order and get pre-op labs started now; better safe than sorry. Langdon, intubate. Have Javadi assist you.”
He stepped back into a corner of the sterile room, noticing how the fourth-year student’s face lit up at the prospect of assisting—or if Frank was feeling generous, perhaps even attempting—the procedure.
He watched Tex input the orders into the system. Her hands were trembling slightly—a byproduct of exhaustion and far too many hours on shift, likely without a meal. For a moment, he felt a pang of concern; that paternal instinct he felt whenever he saw his young doctors worn thin, their eyes shadowed by sleep deprivation.
He also noticed how, once she finished her task, her gaze drifted back to Langdon. There it was again—that look that baffled the old doctor. It made him think back to that stupid betting pool and how he should probably put some money down. He did, after all, need a new pair of Serengeti sunglasses for his bike.
The procedure went off without a hitch, and once she was hooked up to the ventilator, a wave of collective relief washed over the room. It wasn’t total—they still had to wait for imaging and notify the family—but it felt as though a thin, invisible veil of tension had been lifted, allowing everyone to breathe a little easier.
That lasted only until Tex spoke up again.
“Shit, she’s pulseless…” Her voice peaked with a hint of panic. Her gloved fingers were pressed to the patient’s neck, her eyes nowhere near the monitor. “Starting compressions! Someone get the crash cart in here!”
Robby’s head snapped up, his brow furrowed. He watched her movements—hurried, erratic, insecure.
He glanced at the monitor. There was a pulse. Faint, but there. She’d been too fast; she’d checked far too quickly. But before he could say a word, Langdon cut in.
“What? No, wait,” Frank said, stopping her before she could start. He verified it himself, his hand on the patient and his eyes locked on the screen. He let out a sharp, annoyed huff. “It’s sinus bradycardia, not asystole. She doesn’t need CPR; she needs a pacer. Perlah, prep the transcutaneous!” he barked, directing the nurse without so much as a glance at his partner.
Dr. Robby remained silent, ready to intervene if things escalated, but too invested in how this would play out to move a muscle.
Tex frowned in confusion. “But I checked. I checked twice—”
“Then you checked wrong,” Langdon cut her off, his tone like flint. “You felt for the jugular; if you’d gone for the carotid, you would’ve known instantly. Did you actually attend med school, or did you just breeze through with your eyes closed?”
That one even stung Robby. It was completely out of line. Still, he kept quiet; his craving for conflict outweighed his desire for peace in that moment.
When she spoke again, her voice was far too weak and unsteady for the attending’s liking. “But I felt for it and there was nothing, I was sure that—”
“Oh, for the love of—!” Frank interrupted again, exasperated. “You were ready to jump in and start breaking her ribs after five seconds! Five! You could’ve made her ten times worse than she already is.” Langdon took a step toward her, pointing a finger, refusing to let her speak. “You don’t check; you just guess. You act like a reckless amateur instead of stopping for one second to think and do your damn job.”
A deathly silence fell over the room, broken only by the rhythmic huff of the ventilator and the agonizingly slow beep of the heart monitor.
Robby shot Frank a warning look, but the resident ignored him entirely. He didn't stop the verbal onslaught; the words leaving his mouth were like daggers aimed straight for her chest, each one cutting deeper than the last.
“You’re careless and you’re arrogant, and that’s going to get a patient killed sooner or later. Do yourself a favor and quit now. Stop wasting everyone’s time, because you aren't cut out for this.”
Tex’s breath hitched. From his corner, Robby could practically feel her desire for the floor to swallow her whole as every eye in the room turned toward her. She was completely and utterly humiliated.
In the two months they’d been working side-by-side, Langdon had never spoken to her like that—and he’d certainly never told her to quit.
And if there was one thing Robby couldn't stand, it was someone being belittled just for their lack of experience.
“You are such a goddamn son of a bitch—”
“That’s enough. That is enough,” Robby finally intervened, cutting her off mid-sentence. In three long strides, he’d placed himself between them, establishing a much-needed distance. “Both of you. Hallway. Now! Out!”
The two residents locked eyes for one last defiant second before heading where their boss had ordered. Robby couldn’t ignore the way her eyes shimmered, glassy with unshed tears after Langdon’s outburst; nor could he miss the way Frank swallowed hard, looking nervous and—Robby assumed—already haunted.
As they filed out, Robby let out a long, irritated sigh. He turned to the rest of the staff in the room, who were slowly drifting back to their duties. “Whitaker.” The intern looked up. “It’s your lucky day. Go find Garcia; tell her I said she’s to show you how to set the pacer.” With that, he headed for the hallway, leaving a dazed but ecstatic Dennis with the patient.
A few minutes later, he found them leaning against the wall of the empty corridor. Tex was gnawing on the inside of her cheek—a nervous tic he’d picked up on during her very first week—with her palms pressed flat against the wall behind her back. Frank had his arms crossed, staring at the floor as if it had personally offended him.
There was something between them; Robby would swear his life on it. It was something more than frustration, something far more complex and deep-seated. It was all in their eyes.
It was in the way Frank watched her when she spoke to patients with that sweet, empathetic tone he so sorely lacked. It was in the way she looked at him whenever he’d slide a coffee across the desk for her in the mornings, never saying a word, just noticing when she was too exhausted to function. It was in how Frank’s posture relaxed whenever her name came up, and in how she looked at him with pure admiration, her eyes fixed on his expert hands as he sutured a wound.
And there it was, right now, in that hallway—the heavy silence, the stubborn tension, and the refusal to even look at one another.
They both looked up as Robby came to a halt in front of them, arms crossed, determined to finally put an end to this entire disaster.
“Listen up,” he began, his voice carrying that trademark weary rasp. “I’ll be brief. I am officially done with you two. You’re acting like spoiled brats and, frankly, I can’t stand it anymore. This—” he pointed between the two of them, “—whatever the hell this is, ends today. Right now.”
Neither of them spoke. They just stared back, brows furrowed, trying to figure out where he was going with this.
Robby sighed at their silence before laying out the plan he’d been mulling over for days—a 'break glass in case of emergency' plan that, given the recent fallout, was now very necessary. It also happened to align perfectly with the bet he now intended to win.
“You’re staying late today. You’ll be in the records room, filing charts.”
It didn’t take two seconds for the protests to start.
“Excuse me?! I can’t—”
“I’m not staying anywhere with this idiot—!”
“Silence! Both of you! Shut it!” Robby barked, and they snapped their mouths shut instantly. “This isn’t up for debate. You’ll stay in that room until you either fix this situation, or you fall asleep. But I am exhausted from playing babysitter and making sure you don't maul each other like rabid dogs.
The attending continued, rubbing a hand over his face with a weary sigh. It was rare to see him this fed up. It was common knowledge that he was always stressed, but for him to react like this meant they’d fucked up. Badly.
“You,” he said, looking at Tex. “You shouldn't be getting dragged into this kind of drama. You’re smarter than that. And you,” he turned his gaze to Langdon. “You’re still on probation after that little stunt you pulled a year ago. So you both better start behaving. Once you walk out of that room, I don’t want to see you arguing ever again—not in front of me, and especially not in my ER. Don’t make me file a formal report. Are we clear?”
The look they exchanged was so comically dramatic that, if the situation weren't so infuriating, Robby would have burst out laughing. The kids—because that’s what they were to him, young, naive, and immature—simply nodded.
“Good. Now get going before I drag you there myself.”
With that final, sharp dismissal, he returned to the chair he’d occupied before the whole fiasco started two hours ago, leaving the residents standing in the middle of the hallway, a mix of confusion, frustration, and resignation. The head nurse was still by the phone, chewing on nicotine gum to kick her smoking habit.
"How’s the betting pool looking?" he asked Dana, earning a mocking laugh in return.
"Well, after that little performance? The odds for a 'yes' just jumped from 3-to-1 to 5-to-1. Everyone’s putting their money on her original plan to ruin him."
He nodded, pulling two fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and sliding them across the counter to Dana. "Fine. Put a hundred on the long shot. I'm betting she says yes."
She stared at him, incredulous. "Do we need to get you a CT scan too? You’re throwing your money away, Robby. It’s a suicide bet. Langdon doesn’t stand a prayer."
His pager chirped. Trauma 3.
"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he said, hitting the mute button. "Duty calls. See you in a bit."
He walked away again. He was starting to make a habit of leaving people standing there alone, speechless.
Dr. Robby smiled to himself as he headed down the hall, already tasting the five hundred dollar win and thinking about the Serengeti sunglasses he was going to buy.
This is gonna be fun.
A/N: Soooo, this came out a little bit heavier than I expected. And I think I own you some context, haha...
It is, in fact, a common mistake the one that Tex made with the pulse. It happened to me once. I checked the pulse but just for five seconds instead of ten, and being one of my first times giving CPR, well, the anxiety is real. And I somewhat confused a hypoglycemia, that makes the pulse extremely low when on shock, with a cardiac arrest (we didn't have enough equipement in the hospital so the patient wasn't connected to a monitor because 'fonds'). We ended up entubating, but unfortunately, they were very ill and didn't make it. It was a very grounding experience and a very eye-opening one. So yeah, this fic was drawn from a personal memory of mine.
Also, I wanted to explore a different perspective from the story, this time from Robby's eyes. I think he actually knows more than what we see he does on the show, and I wanted to play a little bit with his POV of this strange and tense rivarly they have going on.
But anyway, I hoped you enjoyed! Let me know what you think in the comments and if want to be added to the taglist. As always, this was originally written in spanish so I just translated it.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
Sumary: It was supposed to be a boring desk job, but between Jane’s cryptic tests and his paper-folding habits, she’s starting to realize that "babysitting" is just a fancy word for joining the circus.
Word Count: 1.9 k
Warnings: None, just fluff, fluff, and more fluff... and really, really bad jokes. Based on that one scene of the Elvis stain. Third person narrator but she doesn't have a name (it could be you, my love). A/N and taglist at the end!
“Wow. There’s a stain on the ceiling that looks like Elvis, but today it looks more like a... basset hound.”
Patrick Jane had a small, persistent habit of thinking out loud—mostly when he assumed he was alone, or when no one was actually listening. Sometimes, he simply pointed things out because a detail struck him, regardless of whether it was appropriate or even relevant. It was all part of his 'charm.'
He was currently sprawled across the camel-colored leather sofa in the bullpen, a piece of furniture he’d claimed as his sovereign territory since his first day at the CBI. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone—except for the new agent tucked away at a desk she was forced to share with Van Pelt until a proper space opened up.
By default, she had been tasked with 'Jane-duty.' Her job was to ensure he didn’t pull any stunts while the rest of the team was in the field, spring a trap for a prime suspect in their current case.
She let out a long, jagged sigh. It was the third time this week she’d been benched to watch him. And while she didn't exactly hate the man, she wanted to be out there, in the heat of the action, not buried under a mountain of paperwork with a man who, despite her silent prayers, seemingly didn't know how to shut up.
"And?" she asked, not even bothering to look up. Her voice was flat, draped in boredom.
Jane turned to her, looking genuinely offended as he propped himself up on one elbow. "And? What do you mean, 'and'? You can't treat such a delicate matter with a simple 'and'."
She exhaled. Here we go again.
"It’s just a stain, Jane. I don't see the problem."
"The problem is that it isn't just a stain; we’re talking about the King of Rock and Roll here," he said, falling back onto the sofa. He studied the no-longer-Elvis shape with intense concentration before adding, "Besides, it’s not just that he’s gone—it’s about what his departure signifies."
She frowned, finally turning to face him. "I don’t follow."
Patrick offered a satisfied smile, his eyes sparkling now that he’d successfully baited her into the conversation. He watched her from the comfort of his perch on the sofa.
"Well, you see... it’s not just about the change in appearance. It’s a personality test. If you see Elvis, it means you have a messiah complex and a secret addiction to sequins. If you see a basset hound... well, then you’re emotionally constipated."
She tried to make sense of the consultant’s words, finding herself significantly more confused than she had been five seconds ago.
"Let me see if I’ve got this straight," she began. "You’re telling me that because you see a dog today instead of Elvis... it means you’re practically dead inside?"
Patrick’s smile widened, clearly entertained by the agent’s confusion.
"Ah! The rookie is a quick study. But no—it means you are practically dead inside."
She faltered, completely lost. She opened her mouth as if to ask something, then snapped it shut in resignation, realizing her best bet was to avoid falling into the mental traps of the man on the sofa.
Suddenly, Jane sat up, breaking the silence. "Come now, you’re a state agent! You should be paying more attention. You know as well as I do that the devil is in the details."
She let out a scoff. "I’m a state agent, exactly—not a psychic." She glanced up at the ceiling where the supposed Elvis-stain lived—a ketchup smudge that, to this day, remained a bureaucratic mystery—, then back at the sofa where Jane sat. An idea flickered in her mind. "Besides, hasn't it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, someone might have moved your couch?"
"Moved my couch?!" Patrick exclaimed, looking at her with a horrified expression, as if she’d just grown a third head. "I’ll have you know this couch has been in the exact same spot for two years. In fact, I named her: Betsy."
She fought back a smile. "Well, I think Betsy is cheating on you. Why don’t you move her about three inches to the left? I bet you’ll have your Elvis back before you can even say... 'Presley.'"
She met his gaze with a defiant, confident smirk. Jane arched his brows, suppressing a smile that threatened to break through, secretly impressed by the girl's quick wit.
He wasn't going to say it out loud, of course.
"So, you think you're quite clever, don't you, rookie?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "I hate to disappoint you, but Betsy has been faithful to me all this time. And you doubt her because of... what? Three inches?"
She rolled her eyes. "Just listen to me. I know what I’m talking about."
It was his turn to falter. She looked so certain that he found himself doubting his own argument—and Jane never doubted himself. "And you’re sure this will bring him back?" he asked, purely skeptical.
She propped an elbow on her desk, resting her chin in her hand. "Humor me, will you? Just move Betsy."
Resigned, Patrick stood up and shifted the sofa exactly three inches in the direction she’d pointed out.
"There. Now what?"
She let out a mock scoff. "Now what? Lie down, genius. Elvis has entered the building."
He settled back onto the leather, squinting at his favorite spot on the ceiling once more. "Oh! Well, look at that. The King has returned." The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a frown as he lifted his head just enough to catch her eye. "Wait. How did you know the sofa needed moving?"
She was already buried back in her paperwork when she answered, "It’s all about perspective. Besides, you said it yourself: the devil is in the details."
Patrick fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. It was rare to meet someone so observant. Not on his level, of course—no one was, in his mind—but someone who noticed things others missed. Like the fact that Betsy needed to move three inches.
He studied the young agent’s face: the way she moved with a slow, heavy exhaustion, the spark in her eyes, and how the midday sun streaming into the bullpen forced her to squint.
"Huh..." he drifted off, turning fully toward her, his gaze never wavering. "But you see, the problem with Elvis is that I’m no longer sure I even like him."
The agent let her head drop onto the desk with a little thud at Jane's indecisiveness, her forehead hitting the cold wood with a guttural groan of irritation.
God, this man's more stubborn than a mule.
"Would you be so kind to remind me again why I’m stuck here with you instead of out there with the team?"
"Because you’re the rookie, and Lisbon operates under the tragic delusion that I require a babysitter." Patrick shrugged nonchalantly. "Personally, I prefer to think of you as my protégée." He sat up abruptly, rising to his feet and drifting toward her desk. He plucked a stray piece of paper from the floor and began to fold it. "Besides, someone has to fetch my tea and marvel at my… eccentricities, after all"
She sighed again, the sound muffled by the wood of the desk. "Great. I went from state agent to babysitter and waitress. Fantastic..." she muttered sarcastically. She was exhausted, and truth be told, she felt pushed aside. She got along with the others, sure, but she was still the 'new girl,' the 'rookie,' the 'beginner.'
She knew integration wouldn't be easy, but it had been two months and she felt like she’d contributed nothing to the cases beyond case rehearsals and analyzing dusty files from the dark ages that even her boss's boss would never bother to read. She knew she could do more—that she’d be more useful out in the field than rotting behind a desk. She was beyond frustrated.
Then, she felt a light tap on her hair.
She lifted her head, finding herself face-to-face with a small, delicately folded origami swan. She took it between her fingers with a tentative touch, as if it were made of glass, tracing the tiny beak with her index finger. A small smile, nearly imperceptible, flickered across her face, cracking the facade of irritation she’d been wearing.
Patrick noticed. Because he never missed a thing. Not a single detail.
He caught that tiny slip of a smile on her weary face. He saw the way her gaze softened at the sight of the little bird. He noted how, somehow, that one small gesture had caused her shoulders to finally drop.
He had to summon every ounce of self-control to keep from pointing out the shift in her posture. He simply smiled, watching as she placed the swan on her desk next to a pipe-cleaner flower—another of his creations from his idle moments between cases.
He’d realized she kept everything he gave her. It started with the first thing: an anonymous beaded bracelet, a chaotic mess of colors and shapes that she’d hung from her backpack zipper like a lucky charm, wearing a smile very much like the one on her face right now.
Since that day, making her smile like that had become his personal mission.
Which brings us back to the paper swan.
"Looks like I managed to make the grump smile," he said with a smirk, looking a bit smug and deeply satisfied with himself for having accomplished his mission for the day.
"I’m not a grump," she protested. "I just detest being the new hire." She let out a long breath before adding under her breath, "I’d be much more useful out there than in here."
A lightbulb seemed to go off in Patrick’s head as he practically jumped to his feet.
"Well then, what are we waiting for?" he exclaimed, his tone far too upbeat and his smile far too wide—and attractive—for her liking. He began striding toward the office exit.
"Wait, what? No!" She stood up so fast she sent her chair toppling over, racing to stand in front of him with her arms stretched and block the door. "No, no, no. We are not going anywhere. The boss told me—"
"Yes, yes, I know, but I don't care. You said it yourself: you’re more useful out there. So, let's go." He sidestepped her, heading straight for the elevator. When he realized she wasn't following, he called back, "Are you coming or what?"
She watched him go, half-incredulous and half-terrified of what the consultant was about to do. Because with him, you never truly knew.
At that moment, she felt she only had two choices:
Option one, call Lisbon to warn her that the devil was off his leash and wash her hands of the whole mess.
Or option two, follow the very charming but very impulsive mentalist to try to minimize the blast radius of the walking nuclear bomb that he is.
I don’t think I need to tell you which one she picked.
"Dammit, Jane..." she muttered to the empty air before anxiously rushing after him. This man is going to get me fired one of these days.
Jane couldn't help the private smile that touched his lips when he heard her hurried footsteps behind him. He knew she was worried; he knew she thought her job was on the line. But he also knew he’d be the one taking the fall later, happily claiming all the blame. He didn't mind. It was worth it.
Anything to keep her happy.
But that’s something the great Patrick Jane would never, ever, admit.
A/N: Damn, I'm on fire, haha. I've noticed there are not a lot of fics for Patrick Jane, so I decided to write one. This is my first time writing any type of comedy (if you can call it that way), so bear with me... please? As always, this was originally written in spanish so I just translated it. Let me know what you think and also if you want to be on the taglist. I hope you enjoyed it.
No sofas were harmed (or cheated on) in the making of this fic.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
Sumary: A hallway half-lit by the morning sun and the heavy, lingering scent of things left unsaid. Frank Langdon is back, colliding with a mercy he didn't ask for and a girl who refused to be his collateral damage.
Word Count: 2.2 k
Warnings: Situated after S1 (haven't seen S2 so bear with me). Mentions of addiction recovery (he's back from rehab), divorce, legal custody issues, and medical-related stress. Kinda angsty. Self deprecation because of course he hates himself. Third person narrator but she doesn't have a name, just a nickname (it could be you, my love). A/N and taglist at the end!
By the time his first shift back after rehab wrapped up, Frank Langdon realized the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s ER had moved on without him. It had changed just as much as he had in those ten long months away.
Trinity Santos was a first-year resident now. Her mind was sharper, her tongue even more caustic—her attitude toward him was worse than he remembered, a jagged edge of resentment. He didn't blame her. He’d built that bridge just to burn it down.
Dr. Collins was gone—an attending at a hospital closer to home, the nurses whispered. She’d adopted a three-month-old boy the second he was born. The kid got a mother; she got the son she’d always dreamed of. He felt a rare, genuine spark of happiness for her.
Then there was King—sweet, incredible Mel King. She carried herself with a new kind of gravity, her confidence finally catching up to her knowledge. She was the only one who met him without a hint of judgment, welcoming him back with open arms. He didn't know what he’d done to deserve her, but he was goddamn grateful. At least he had one ally left in the trenches.
And Dennis Whitaker—yes, the same kid who’d killed a rat on his last day there and had to swap scrubs three times out of pure nerves—was an intern now. Confident. Faster on his feet. The new golden boy.
Dr. Michael Robinavitch’s new prodigal son.
Or, in plain English, his replacement.
He no longer fit. Not in the ER, and certainly not in the life he’d left behind.
He’d gone from being the reliable doctor, the perfect man, and the "ideal father" to a series of ugly labels: addict, divorcee, part-time dad. Now, his life was reduced to a court order that granted him custody of his son exactly one weekend a month.
Home was a bargain-bin apartment ten blocks from the hospital, with the dog he’d bought for Tanner—a gift they’d eventually shoved back into his arms—as his only company and his wedding ring, a gold plain band still circling his finger, as the only proof that his old life had ever existed. Evidence of a world he’d lost to his own stupidity.
He still wore it. Habit, mostly. But also as a penance. A cold, metallic reminder of what he no longer deserved to have.
A bit masochistic, if you ask me.
When the shift change finished and the patients were handed over, Langdon didn't linger. He didn’t bother stopping by the residents' lounge to talk, let alone say goodbye. He knew what was being whispered in the hallways; he didn't need to hear it out loud.
He went straight to the lockers, so buried in his own head that he didn't even notice the girl two stalls down, packing up her life for the day.
The screech of a locker door swinging open made him jump.
He snapped his head to the left, colliding with a pair of wide, luminous eyes. The same eyes that had been dodging him all afternoon, ever since he’d exploded at her during a messy chest tube insertion.
Great. The last person on Earth I wanted to see.
Frank closed his eyes for a second, pulling the scattered pieces of himself back together. When he spoke, he tried to reach for his old, reliable shield: sarcasm.
"Tex, you nearly gave me a heart attack," he muttered, forcing a ghost of a smile. "Is it that hard to announce yourself like a normal person, or do I need to buy you a bell?" His voice came out rougher than he’d intended. Sharper.
The first-year resident—everyone called her Tex for some reason, so he did too, even though he barely knew her—gave him a tight, guarded smile.
"Didn't mean to spook you, Doctor." Her voice was soft, carrying that faint Southern lilt that felt so out of place in the gray grit of Pittsburgh. Not that he minded it.
The "Doctor" part stung, though. Frank winced at the formality but didn't correct her. Why bother? It was standard protocol for interns, but after ten months in the wilderness and a forced repeat of his senior year, the title felt like a borrowed coat. Too big. Too stiff.
He was as new to this place as she was now.
He didn't feel superior. At least, not anymore.
He watched her take out her stuff from the locker with the mechanical precision of someone who’d been doing it for far too long.
He mapped the exhaustion in her features—the hollow circles under her eyes, the heavy, deliberate breaths that betrayed just how little sleep and how much caffeine was currently holding her together. Then he saw her hands. Her long, delicate fingers curled around her things, trembling ever so slightly. It was a tremor that hadn't been there during the procedure they’d shared earlier. In the OR, she’d been steady. Here, she was fraying at the edges.
A knot tightened in Frank's stomach. He knew he’d screwed up. Sure, he had to correct her—that was the job—but he had no right to skin her alive the way he did. Yet, he’d done it anyway.
The need to apologize hit him suddenly, regret gnawing at his gut like a physical ache.
"Hey, I..." he started. His voice came out thinner than he’d intended, stripped of its usual armor, revealing too much of what he was actually feeling. "I’m sorry. For earlier. For the shouting."
Short. No excuses.
She looked up, eyes wide with genuine shock. She clearly hadn't expected an apology this soon, let alone one that sounded so real. She swallowed hard, giving a small, stiff nod before she found her voice.
"It’s fine. I get it."
Her response mirrored his: short, clipped, and leaving everything else unsaid.
Langdon’s brow furrowed. "You get it?" he repeated under his breath, a mix of confusion and irritation bubbling up at her dismissive shrug. "Oh, come on. Give me a break. I barked at you in front of everyone, hell, practically humiliated you in public, and you’re telling me you just get it?"
She didn't even look at him. She just shrugged again, eyes fixed on her task at hand.
"I screwed up, and you corrected me. You were doing your job. There’s no need to apologize for that," she replied. Her voice was flat, exhausted, and to Frank’s ears, she sounded like she was already done with this conversation before it even started.
He stood there, stunned, watching her shove things into her backpack with a terrifying lack of emotion. He was more lost than he’d been five minutes ago.
"So, let me get this straight," he started again, desperate to make sense of her. "I yell at you in the middle of the ER, I dress you down in the worst way possible, and you’re just... fine with it? You forgive me?" His head was spinning. He couldn't wrap his mind around someone being that detached.
She let out a short, dry laugh. "Yes, Langdon. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Is it really that hard to swallow?" She finally turned to look at him. Finally, he thought. Her eyes were sharp with sarcasm as she continued. "What were you expecting? For me to scream back? To pin a photo of your face to my door and use it for target practice?"
He scoff at her retort. "No, obviously not. I just expected you to defend yourself. To push back a little. To not take this so... lightly."
"And what good would that do me? I have to look at your face tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that. Do you really want me to hate you?" She shook her head, her exasperation finally bleeding through. "Look, I just needed the apology. The rest? It doesn't matter to me. It’s in the past."
A knot formed in Frank’s throat, tight and suffocating.
It’s in the past. Four words that hit him harder than he was willing to admit. Because since the second he’d stepped back into this building, all anyone had done was drag him back to it, reminding him of the massive mistake he’d made, of how he’d let them all down. And here she was, talking about the past as if it were some forgettable thing you could just blink away.
It made his blood boil. He couldn't help the low, bitter laugh that escaped him.
"You really are naive..." he muttered, more to himself than to her, though he didn't much care if she heard.
The metal-on-metal bang of her locker door echoed through the sterile, silent hallway. "Excuse me?" she asked, bristling. Her arms crossed over her chest, her backpack slung over one shoulder as she glared at him.
"You heard me," Langdon snapped back, feeling the heat of frustration crawling up his spine. He took a predatory step toward her. "You’re naive if you think it’s that easy. That an apology fixes everything and the past just stays buried. Well, I’ve got news for you, darlin'—people don’t forget. Life’s a bitch that stabs you in the back the second you let your guard down. So I don’t buy that 'no hard feelings' fairytale for a second. That’s not how the world works."
The words were barely out of his mouth before regret hit him like a physical blow. He felt like an even bigger idiot than before—exploding at her again when all she’d done was accept his peace offering. He was projecting; he knew it. He was so used to his family and his colleagues throwing his failures in his face, nursing their grudges like a hobby, that he couldn't wrap his head around the girl standing in front of him.
He couldn't believe she’d just... let him off the hook.
The silence grew heavier, thicker with every passing second. The harsh overhead light flickered twice before dying out completely, leaving only the pale morning sun bleeding through the cracks of the staff exit. The hallway was left in half-shadow, bathed in a hazy, golden glow.
A single beam of light caught her face—the resident he’d just snapped at for the second time today. He was so close now he could see the light dancing in her eyes, which were beginning to glass over. It traced the delicate lines of her features and caught the sheen of her hair; it appeared so soft under that halo of light that Frank had to choke back a sudden, strange urge to tangle his fingers in it, just to see if it felt the way it looked.
She stared up at him, her breath hitching, lips parted. For a fleeting moment, they looked redder to him, flushed and inviting. He realized then just how much smaller she was compared to him. If he were to pull her into his chest right now, his chin would rest perfectly on the top of her head. He’d finally be able to drown in that scent—the faint vanilla mixed with burnt coffee and stale tobacco that had been clouded his senses since the moment she walked up to the lockers.
She looked beautiful. And he felt like a total prick.
He swallowed hard before breaking the silence, his nerves shot. When he spoke, his voice was softer than he ever thought himself capable of.
"Listen, I—"
"No, you listen," she cut him off. Her tone was low but deadly serious, dropping every ounce of formality. Frank caught the slight tremor in her voice. "I don’t know what happened to you to make you feel this miserable, Frank, but don't you dare take it out on me."
Hearing his first name on her lips tasted bitter, but it felt so right that he never wanted her to call him anything else. She took another step forward, closing the gap until the distance between them was so thin it would have been effortless to lean in and...
He had to physically restrain himself from doing something stupid.
"It’s not my fault you think life is shit," she continued, her eyes defiant, challenging him. Frank’s heart hammered against his ribs at the mere sight of her. "It’s your choice to see the world that way, but don’t you dare drag the rest of us down with you."
All he could do was nod. He was paralyzed.
"Good. I’m glad we understand each other." She glanced at her watch. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go."
She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his arm. The contact sent a jolt through him, making his skin prickle.
"Wait!" His mouth moved faster than his brain, calling her out before he could stop himself. She paused, turning just enough to look at him, waiting. "I— look, I just wanted to say—" Damn it, Langdon, just say it. "Thank you... for forgiving me. You know."
He waited for the fallout. He expected her to laugh, to mock him, to throw it back in his face. But she didn't. She just gave a weary, resigned nod.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
And with that, she vanished through the door towards the staff lot, leaving him alone with the fading trail of her scent and a heart beating so fast he thought it might burst out from his chest.
He closed his eyes, letting his head hang forward as he tried to catch his breath alone in the hallway, frustrated by his own reaction and trying to process the wreck she’d left behind.
Frank couldn't tell if he was shaking from the cold air that had swept in when the door opened, or from the conversation itself.
But one thing was certain.
That woman was going to be one hell of a headache.
A/N: Hey there. :) This is the first time I write for Langdon and let me tell I had so much fun with it. Writing his thoughts and how he would maybe act with a new resident is something I wanted to explore since they announced season 2. I wanted to take a romantic approach at first but didn't feel right, at least not in that moment, so it came out more of as an introduccion for the characters rather than a romantic fic. This was originally written in spanish so I just translated it. Let me know what you think! Would you like to read more about Frank and his journey to find self forgiveness while dealing with the menace Tex is? Write it in the comments, and let me know also if you want to be on the taglist. I hope you enjoyed it.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
I don't remember why I didn't post this then but hey! Better late than never... right?
Anyway, I finished med school (yei) and now that I'm replaying Moonvale for the fifth time I rememberd that I own you guys the last conversation with our baby hackerboy. I feel like I'm cheating but Eric is winning my heart ngl. Also, stay tuned (please...?) for more Moonvale highlights.
Hope you like it after all this years. Happy 2026, everyone. ;)
Sorry about that, but med school has just been soooo time consuming and wasn't able to play even a single minigame. But I'm on vacation now and I'm free as a bird, haha.
So, I'll keep posting this because 1) I love Jake, obviously, and 2) I've been waiting for Moonvale since they announced it and I just can't wait! Fingers crossed we'll see our favorite hackerboy again.
I swear, I try, it just doesn't come out and the language barrier is a huge problem. But I promise I will write at least once a month this year on my first blog
There’s a nasty winter storm that’s going to hit most of the central regions of the US tomorrow (21 December 2022), especially tomorrow night. Please check your local forecasts if you live anywhere west of the rocky mountains, even down as far south as Texas. In some areas of the Plains region, windchill is likely to be -50F to -70F. That is so cold that you will develop frostbite in minutes. You will lose extremities without protection if you are exposed to windchill that cold. -70F is “surface of Mars” cold.
My part of the US is going to be below freezing all next week. This is normal for some. Not so normal for others.
If your area is likely to be impacted by the storm, please prepare now. The most important thing is staying warm and staying inside until things warm up outside. Specific tips I can offer, as somebody who regularly deals with cold winters are:
Put blankets over windows and doors. This will help your house retain heat.
Stay well-fed. Buy food now. You will get hungry faster because your body will burn calories to stay warm.
Stay hydrated. If your lips are chapped you’re probably dehydrated.
Stay dry. Remove wet clothing as soon as possible. It is better to be naked than wet when it is cold.
If it is going to get below freezing for more than an hour or two, run your water at a trickle or drip to prevent your pipes from bursting. The colder it gets the faster your pipes will freeze.
B R O O O O I was literally in shock when I saw this like wtf??? It's been HOURS since the announcement and I still don't know what to feel about this, WHAT AM I SUPPOSE TO FEEL ABOUT THIS???
You're telling me the man who can sense the temperature of water just by radiant heat, who can determine the exact firmness of some cooking noodles from across the room, who can take a bite of an omelette and likely tell you where it was bought and how long it was cooked based on texture alone, the man who can detect the most perfectly ripe fruits and veggies by touch AND smell, the man who can sense exactly what and how many seasonings were used in a recipe he tastes and therefore replicate that seasoning blend, the man who can tell you exactly when your pie in the oven has achieved peak golden brown flakiness because he knows what perfect crust smells like... can't cook?
Horseshit.
Horseshit.
SHIRE HORSE HORSESHIT.
You want this man in your kitchen, even when his methods are unconventional.
He tends to pick ugly vegetables others skip over because he can't see color or shape but he knows they're ripe and flavorful.
He can't reliably flip pancakes or quesadillas on his bad days because he's tired and his radar senses are worn out and he's still blind afterall, but he can always make amazing soup instead because he can toss it all into a pot and rely on smell.
His cabinets have unusual ingredients until you realize it's because he can identify all the 'secret' ingredients chefs use to make their food taste amazing.
His plating methods are a mess but no one ever cares because in those rare times Matt can afford to cook for someone else, his food tastes too good to complain.
His cookies are mangled shapes, they look like mutated goats with 5 legs if he ever tries to do anything but round balls, but who gives a shit, you come to God when you taste them.
This man does not use a timer. He is a timer, and if you're willing to trust him when he says, 'it doesn't smell done, give it another 2 minutes' even when it looks done, you'll be rewarded with orgasmic level food.
Yeeeeessss finally!!! He's back!!!! And omg the struggle with the minigames, seriously I was so close to throw my phone against the wall because I just fucking hate them by now (I'm sorry Everbyte, I love you, but your minigames are impossible).
Anywaaaay here's our favorite boyfriend and some of other messages he sends that makes my heart skip a beat. ♡♡♡
Alsooooo, there's gonna be a part three, stay tuned! ;)
snowghoul
annaxmalina
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
