Rowyn, 29, They/Them, Scottish. A collection of whatever I'm rotating like a rotiserrie chicken in my brain box. Atm Greek Mythology (esp The Iliad & The Odyssey), Critical Role, Wheel of Time, The Cosmere, Black Sails, amongst Others. Stay tuned.
okaaay so my dumbass managed to find my login details for my old blog so I shall presently be: migrating back there imminently lmfao. Follow rowyndodendron /pls dont be too confused by my dumbassery.
Introducing: my take on Abby Langdon and Abby/Frank. (Spoiler alert: she's a boss-ass bitch and very possibly the coolest human in existence. Frank is appropriately simping/wife-guying the fuck out over her. As he should.)
I just think...You know what? Dana told Frank his sobriety was a testament to his support system. And as we know the ONLY support system Frank has had over the last 10 months was: his wife, I decided she had to be appropriately baller. (And also there are a LOT of negative takes on Abby/her relationship with Frank, and I really just wanted to present a version where they're hella ride-or-die soulmates and in a v committed and happy relationship. So here it is!!!)
Title: 404 Professionalism Not Found (Chapters 1 &2)
Fandom/Pairings: The Pitt. Frank/Abby, Cassie & Frank, Cassie & Abby (this is the first time they meet but trust me. they're insta-besties)
Summary: Cassie's latest triage patient may just be the coolest and most beautiful woman she's ever seen in her life. But she is not going to flirt with her in any way because that would be deeply unprofessional and inappropriate. Ahem.
When she tells Langdon about this new patient any thoughts of professionalism immediately exit the building as he has a completely normal and proportionate reaction to the news...
AKA: my method of introducing y'all to my take on Abby Langdon as a character, her dynamic with Langdon, and also some solid Cassie & Langdon friendship/bonding/gentle bullying.
Teaser:
"I do have a patient who’s asking for you by name.”
“Uh-oh,” he joked, pretending to cower, “who have I offended this time?”
Cassie laughed, “not sure if you’ve offended her per se, though that’s probably a safe bet given it’s you,” they exchange a small smile at this easy, teasing banter they’ve adopted, as Langdon doesn’t seem to know where he stands in a conversation and is only sure it’s friendly if he’s being at least mildly insulted throughout, something she blames Garcia for, and is not at all sorry about. “But she definitely wants to follow-up with you on something. Not sure what, she didn’t specify, but she’s in North 2, name of Abby McCreary, I have her char–”
She was on the point of holding out her tablet so Langdon could review the patient’s chart. However she stopped midway, instead yanking it back to the safety of her chest and out of harm’s way, as Langdon shot up out of his chair as if it had just been electrified. All of the colour had drained from his, already pretty pasty, face at the sound of the patient’s name, and without a single word, either further questioning or some sort of explanation, he bolts down the corridor away from her in the direction of her patient’s room like his life depends on it.
hello i hate this show so much you have no idea i need to kill someone to calm down i am hyperventilating i dont even give a fuck anymore actually jesus christ i need john silver dead i need him alive forever i need to puke
I wish depression were an emergency. I wish someone could take one look at how sick I am and go “oh my god, we need to get you to a hospital!” and then when we get there I get rushed into surgery and the surgeons say “it’s a good thing you brought her here when you did, this is a seriously advanced case” and then they put me under and spend the next ten hours pulling metres of long, sticky black strands of gunk out of my body, throwing it immediately into an incinerator so that it can’t infect anyone else. And then they could stitch me back up and I could rest a few days, and when I leave the hospital everyone can see how much better I am and they congratulate me saying “well done, you’ve been so brave, I’m so glad you’re ok. I love you.”
listen y'all. i have not made clear enough how Deeply In the Jank (what i am choosing to call jack/frank. because it's: funny. and ultimately that is all that truly matters to me. it started as ironic but now I can't stop so I'm just committing) pit I am. But that shit is about to become fucking CRYSTAL. Let's goooo.
I think actually this thing originally grew out of a prompt for 'abbot/frank - forehead touch'. Then I decided to do it from Robby's POV. and then it became...what it is. Somehow. Anyway. I love these two so fucking much. Pls enjoy.
Title: The Eye Of The Storm
Fandom/Pairings: The Pitt. Langdon/Abbot, Langdon/Robby (can be read as platonic or romantic)
CONTENT WARNING: Depiction of surgery (vague/metaphorical)
Summary: Langdon is injured and Abbot's response to Robby and his team attempting to save his life gives him some insight on a relationship that's been brewing between the two people he feels he knows best in The Pitt but somehow never noticed. He has no jealousy or issues with it AT ALL.
Link: AO3
All the time they work on Langdon, a single figure in the corner stands in defiance against the prescribed chaos of an emergency room in the grip of a fresh trauma.
Jack Abbot watches over them, silent and still. The eye of the storm.
Untouched by the swirling, battering insanity that crashed against the rest of them, as the wild, storm winds of fate and life and the world and all its cruelties attempt to rip this life away from them. In answer they hold on with all their might. Jack stands apart, present but separate. A sentinel of light that looms against the shadow of a reaper, who is felt in the taut air by all. Poised. Patient. Waiting to see if this soul has met its end and will be his to take.
Yet as his eyes caught the corners of Jack’s stare, unflinching, unwavering, only for the man on the table between them, Robby is sure, in a way he cannot fully explain or understand, but would stake his entire ED on right then and there, that this soul is already claimed. And if Death wishes to have Frank Langdon he will not find him quite so easy to take as he might assume, as Jack Abbot has never let anything precious to him go without one hell of a fight.
No one calls on Doctor Abbot to join in or assist - they have plenty of hands, almost too many, more than Frank would ever have believed would be this desperate to get a hold on him and help to keep him up when he was falling. Abbot is not needed as a doctor here; nor is Jack standing there as one. That could not have been clearer. He also makes no move to get closer to the action, the heart of which he’s usually always so eager to dive into head first, heedless. Not this time. This time something restrains him. Like he knows that for all he’s suffered and survived, this– this would be too much.
His face is too calm to make Robby believe he actually is. Jack withdraws when things are bad. The harder he’s trying to appear calm, and unaffected, and otherwise ‘normal’, the worse his internal state is. Looking at him now, indistinguishable from a fucking statue? Robby feels he holds not one life in his hands in this room tonight, but two.
No time for that now. No time for emotion, no time for questioning, no time for thoughts and theories. Time for action. A man is dying, his man– But he can’t let himself remember that. Has to push that– all of that, all of that history, the love and the friendship, the pride and the pain, the trust and the betrayal, the highs and the fall. None of that can be here in this room with him now, because if he lets it close to him, it will break him, he knows it.
He must briefly remove his bloody, beating hard from beneath his ribs and set it off to the side in a kidney dish to wait. He cannot fall prey to its emotions and its panic. Just the medicine. Processes. Procedures. Don’t think, just do. Let muscle memory take over. Let instinct guide him, steady him, trust himself to his training, to Adamson’s teaching which has helped him save so many lives. Please, god, don’t let it fail him now, please. Not now. Not Frank.
A casual observer might mistake their work for play. Every person in that room moved with effortless, practiced, intuitive perfection. As if this were a stage production they’d trained all their lives for, rehearsed a thousand hours, each person in their role, their lines and movements so practiced and coordinated they could have done them in their sleep. All for this moment. All for this man.
When the surgeons descend like vultures, seeking stability only, speaking of safe passage, his team snap back.
No.
He is theirs. Theirs. This is where he belongs, with them, here, in Robby’s ER. They will not surrender him. The dice will be rolled, the fates will decide, and he will live or die in this place he has given everything to call his home. As he would wish. Garcia understands. Agrees. Scrubs up and steps in without hesitation. He is hers, too, her entrance to the stage as scripted and seamless as all the others. So far, his team have won their battle – Garcia’s war now begins.
Artistry comes in many forms. Adamnson had told him that once, and Robby had agreed, up to a point. But he’d always believed that what they did – that was science. It was logic. It was applying method and mathematics to madness and making miracles. There was a beauty in that, he allowed. What he witnesses in that room finally makes him see what Adamson had tried to tell him.
Yolanda Garcia is an artist in every way it is possible to be.
Crimson conductor of the bloody symphony they call life, her scalpel seems to sculpt masterpieces from once raw hunks of hewn flesh and torn skin. The Fates themselves have never woven anything so well as she sutures broken bodies, making them believe their sundered forms can be made whole once more. The monitor’s sinus rhythm obediently keeps time, captivated by her skill, and for a while his whole ER dances to her beat, until–
His heart stops.
Jack Abbot moves for the first time in hours. A single step out of his place. Towards the point where time has briefly come to a halt. The world is not ignorant of this shift. It shudders upon its axis. Realises its mistake. Sets it all to rights. Frank Langdon lives again. Jack returns to his place, and the vice-like grip that seemed to briefly hold time still, releases. The storm rages around them once more.
When, at last, it is done, Garcia sets down her conductor’s baton. The scalpel that has saved her friend consigned to the sharps waste to be forgotten, its part in this play done. Letting her shoulders sink and her heart feel the weight of the burden this room and all its eyes had placed upon her for the first time. She slumps in place. Exhausted but triumphant. Final orders given for Frank to be moved somewhere (somewhere in the ER, it goes without saying) so he can rest. Once he does, she will let herself join him in that rest, more than well earned.
Before she leaves to take it, she turns to Abbot, the first of them brave enough to acknowledge the force of calm, so intense at times it borders upon the violent, who has presided over this like a judge over a courtroom.
A soft smile, tired and wan, but genuine, graces Garcia’s lips for him. A rare thing, which makes it all the more valuable. She confirms aloud for him something that, with all his skill and experience he must know, but evidently still needs to hear: Frank is going to make it. He’s going to be okay.
For the first time in hours, Robby is sure, Jack lets himself breathe again.
Frank is moved by his team, who gather him up as if they were clouds, then set him down, gentle as a fresh blanket of snow falling to the earth. Once settled, they leave him. A moment of hesitation grips them, as they wonder who among them should stay, for one of their own will not be left long alone within these walls. Yet as one they, like him, feel Jack Abbot’s presence as he steps into the room, and as one they yield to it. None knowing or understanding what tether, hidden from them all in spite of their proximity to both men, exists between them, but feeling in their blood and bones that this vigil is his right, not theirs.
While all the rest depart, in the quiet of this hallowed space, set aside, separate from the chaos as it can be while still upon its fringes, Robby lingers. Drawn by something stronger than he can name or know, he stands on the outside of this hospital room, and watches these two men, the closest Robby has in this hospital, and in his world, and realises he knows neither of them as well as he thinks he did.
The look on Jack’s face, how every line softens into utmost tenderness, with which he beholds Frank, tells Robby so clearly that he had held Jack Abbot’s heart and world in his hands without knowing it at the time. When, and how, and why Frank somehow became Jack’s everything, he is not let in on. Then, nor now. He only knows it to be so, not how it came to be, or how he could have missed it when he’d thought himself so close to them. But then that was before– Before that night where everything changed, when everything true was made false, and everything right became wrong, and everything real became ash in his mouth as love soured to hate within his veins
Fractured and broken, Robby had ripped himself from Frank’s orbit, in gory imitation of the way he had ripped out his heart. But, of course, a man with Frank’s singular gravity would not long be left without some sort of celestial shepherd. Robby, so long his bright, intense burning sun, had finally burned out and left him. Only to be replaced by the quiet, gentle moon that was Jack.
With that circling and swirling in his mind, the intimacy with which Jack now bends down and touches his forehead to Frank’s makes Robby’s bruised, battered heart briefly shudder back to life within his chest.
He watches Jack hold there for a moment, sinking into that point of contact and letting the comfort of it cradle him. Watches him soaking in the warmth that still remains, thanks to Robby, the soft rhythm of his sleeping beloved's breathing. The moment suspends, as if for a fraction of a second, all the world contains is them. Only them. Allowed to have this moment of utmost humanity, and love, and life.
Then Jack withdraws, first pressing a soft kiss to Frank’s temple. Fingers trail through his hair as he pull back. Feather light, so casual, but so intent, carrying more words than any library could ever hold, unspoken but unnecessary. All felt in that simple touch. The weight of it, the familiarity of it, the ritual of it–
All at once, standing in this quiet, clinical hospital corridor, Robby is struck like a blow across the face by the certainty that he has just witnessed something not meant for him. Something holy, perhaps profane, but something that had not been made for him to see.
Season 3 at this point better just be an entire 15 hour shift except the entirety of it is spent: in group therapy. Bc idk how else we're gonna resolve all this shit in 2 eps. (We're not, I know. The season has been filling the powderkeg up and up and up and then it's gonna explode and we're all gonna have to just sit in the wreckage and stare despondently at each other Ogilvie ambulance bay style for the entire hiatus)
Ah, Mohan getting told Crus diagnosed via ultrasound (ultrasound being one of her possibly fellowship options she discussed with Al-Hashimi earlier this season).
Honestly my biggest issue with this season I think has def been Noelle. Like from a writing perspective there is no point to character. Like. We could've achieved the same purpose of her character (showing Robby's commitment issues) by just...telling us he'd had a relationship with someone in the past 10 months but it petered out.
I'd rather have had the time spent on her scenes watching: literally anything else. Including paint drying.
Which is nothing on her character/her actress, this is a 100% writing critique.
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