Frank overhears Mel telling a patient (who is hitting on her) about her boyfriend trying to get him to leave her alone. She’s describing him but they are NOT together 🤭
general | pre-relationship | 1.3k words
Mel was two hours into her shift, and she was already over it.
She didn’t know why she was feeling so antsy, but all she could think about was going home, ordering some takeout, and wrapping herself in the fluffiest blanket possible. She had hours left on her shift and patients to treat, still, so she had to pull it together. Even if she had particularly difficult patients who couldn’t seem to take a hint.
“The cafe around the corner has some really good coffee. You should come check it out with me.”
Mel bit back her sigh and bent over her patient’s forearm. Stanford Boone (“Call me Boone”), male, thirty-five, had fallen off his ladder while cleaning the gutters and had a laceration on his forearm and on his temple. They were keeping him for observation and CT, to ensure there were no signs of a concussion or brain bleeds. He’d been hitting on Mel since the moment she first checked on him, and he got more and more forward with each attempt. He hadn’t been all that subtle to begin with.
“I don’t like coffee,” Mel said, shooting for a firm but kind tone. Not that it mattered, because Boone hadn’t picked up on her rejection of his advances at all. It was a chaotic day, so there wasn’t anyone to switch with. Not that Mel usually asked for that, anyway. She didn’t want to saddle someone else with an annoying patient.
She only had to put fifteen sutures in, as the gash was only a few inches long but fairly deep. Including prep and clean up, Mel could get it done in about twenty minutes. She’d be free after that, as the nurses would continue to monitor him and Mel would only have to check in a few times.
“They have other things besides coffee. Tea, pastries.” Boone leaned closer, basically hovering above Mel with the way she was bent over his arm. She tried her best not to flinch back, lest she upset her neatly-aligned sutures. “Come on, go out with me.”
Mel went the route of out-right ignoring him now. She wondered if there was anyone available to pull onto the case with her. Donnie or Jesse would help out in a second. Mateo, back on day shift, would as well. She knew that Cassie or Dana could easily shut Boone down, but Mel didn’t think it was wise to give this guy another target. He was clearly looking for a reaction, so that immediately vetoed several of her coworkers.
(What Mel really wanted was to have Frank with her, but it seemed more than a little ridiculous to ask a newly-minted attending to be her bodyguard.)
This wasn’t the first difficult patient Mel had handled, and it wasn’t going to be the last. She could do this. It was going to be fine.
“Come on.” Boone gave a mean laugh, one that made Mel’s skin crawl. “It’s not like you have any other plans. I doubt you have a boyfriend.”
Something in Mel snapped. Outwardly, she remained calm. Professional. Her hands were steady as she methodically moved through the sutures. She kept her gaze focused on each stitch, preferring the sight of gaping flesh to this guy’s dumb face.
“I do have a boyfriend, actually,” Mel said calmly, even though she very much did not. Boone’s comment stung, mostly because Mel had been trying to put herself out there. She had a string of failed dates and was stood up a handful of times. It’d been three months since her last bad date.
The one thing that made it worse was that Mel was going on all those dates to try and get over Frank. She’d long since stopped trying to hide her feelings for him. To herself, anyway. He was so sweet after every failed date that Mel was pretty sure she only liked Frank more, now.
“Oh.” Boone snorted. The derision in his voice made her skin crawl. “You do? Really.”
“Really,” Mel repeated, trying to remain as unaffected as possible. “He’s tall. Dark hair, bright blue eyes. Big, strong hands.” Whoops, Mel hadn’t meant to let that part slip out. Oh well. “Likes crossword puzzles and history documentaries, especially about the Revolutionary War. Listens to divorced dad rock and consistently manages to tell dad jokes that are both awful and very funny.”
Mel finished the last suture and admired the neat little row. She covered it with a sterile bandage and finally looked up, staring Boone right in the eye.
“He’s a doctor in this hospital, too.”
Boone stared back at her, clearly trying to figure out if she was lying. He seemed to lose some of his bravado, though. Mel didn’t know if it was because she’d created such a clear picture of her imaginary boyfriend, or if it was because she’d spoken with such confidence. Either way, Boone was silent, which was a welcome relief.
“Hey, Dr. King. Everything good in here?”
Mel startled at the sound of Frank’s voice. She’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t even heard him pull the curtain back. She smiled up at him, feeling instantly better with him near.
Then she remembered what, exactly, she’d just described to Boone.
Mel’s jaw clamped shut and she knew her cheeks were bright red. “I’m fine!” she managed to squeak out.
How could she have possibly described Frank as her imaginary boyfriend? She knew she really liked him, but she thought she was at least a little better at hiding her feelings. Thank god no one else but the patient heard what she said.
Frank hadn’t heard what Mel said, right? Right?
And even if he had, there was no way he would know that she was describing him. Right?
Frank crossed the room to stand directly behind Mel. His arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked under his armpits. The short sleeve of his scrub top pulled tight across his bicep. Mel licked her lips. Frank looked down at her, smiling, before he turned his attention to Boone.
“You’re lucky that Dr. King was the one treating you today. She’s one of our best doctors. Really deserving of the respect she’s built here. But then again, isn’t everyone?”
Frank’s message was pointed. Boone deflated further and said nothing. Frank nodded once and looked back down at Mel, uncrossing his arms to briefly squeeze her shoulder.
“When you’re finished up here, I have another case I want you to jump on with me,” Frank said. “Donnie can handle this discharge.” Of course he’d been able to easily read the situation. It was more than a little ridiculous that a guy like Boone only stopped when another guy got involved. Still, Mel appreciated the support.
She nodded her head, smiling up at Frank. He squeezed her shoulder again and then left the room, letting her finish up with Boone on her own. All Mel really had to do was clean up her supplies and explain the after-care instructions. Boone took the information in without saying anything, and Mel gave him a perfunctory goodbye.
Of course, Frank was waiting right outside the room. His arms were crossed over his chest again, but he relaxed immediately upon seeing Mel smile up at him. He joined her as she started walking. Mel wasn’t quite sure where she was headed to, and that case Frank mentioned didn’t seem to actually exist.
They made their way out into the ambulance bay. It was still crazy inside and they were likely both needed, but Mel doubted that anyone would begrudge them a few minutes for a break. She breathed in the early spring air, looking up at the bright blue sky.
“Mel.”
She turned to Frank. He was gazing down at her, eyes soft. “Yeah?”
“Can I take you to get boba when our shift is done?”
Mel still had no idea if Frank heard what she said to Boone. He probably had, given the smile that was spreading across his lips. It didn’t really matter when he was looking at her like that. Mel beamed up at Frank, feeling like her heart was going to burst out of her chest.
A lil Mother's Day Kingdon oneshot.
TW for the mention of Mel and Becca's late mother.
Mel always wakes up before Frank, even when she tries very hard not to.
She slips out of bed, slowly, careful while she shifts her weight along the mattress. Frank mumbles, reaching blindly under the covers, then turns over.
She waits until his breathing evens out, smiles to herself about how broad his shoulders are, then makes her way to the bathroom. When she’s just about to cross the threshold into the kitchen, she sees it.
There, on the round wooden table, sits a bouquet of flowers in a vase. It’s a beautiful mix, in some peachy pastels and vibrant purples; roses, carnations, and asters. Pale dusty millers’ leaves and something variegated that she doesn’t quite recognize. Mel makes a note to grab her phone later and use the flora-IDing app Santos had told her about.
Beside the vase is an envelope that reads ‘Melissa’ in slanted handwriting she’s all-too-familiar with and a small folded sheet of lavender construction paper, also bearing her name, but it’s written twice. Once in a more concise scribble, and again in a scribble that’s less-legible.
She pulls out a chair and sits half-crosslegged on the cushion. She just stares, maybe a little too long, before she decides on opening the envelope first.
She adjusts her glasses and reads.
Mel,
Hi, sweetheart. I know you’re probably sitting weird while you’re reading this.
She smiles.
I know this day is hard for you and Becca, too. Originally, Abby had asked me to invite you to her place for brunch, but it was such short notice, and we hadn’t really talked about our plans today. I asked Becca what you both usually do today and she told me you like to look at old family photos and order takeout. She also told me if the weather’s nice, you’ll go for a walk together, and talk about your memories with your mom. I know Zamboni could always use some extra walks.
Mel glances up. The house is quiet. Even the dog is sleeping in.
I know this is your first Mother’s Day without Becca staying over, too. (It’s sweet she’s spending it with Adam and his mom.) I told Becca I'd take care of you. And I ended up telling Abby we were just gonna hang back for now and I hope it’s okay I made that call without presenting the case. I really want to hear about your mom, if you’re up for that. Whatever you want.
But because this is your first Mother’s Day as a Stepmom (the best ever, I’m told) the kids made you some gifts.
I love you,
So so so so so much,
F xo
That last part got a little blurry, so Mel wipes her eyes, pushing her glasses uncomfortably up the bridge of her nose while she does. She presses the card against her chest with a long, deep breath before placing it back on the table.
She reaches for the folded construction paper, momentarily startled by how heavy it feels, and lays it flat. There are three friendship bracelets taped to one side. She carefully removes them, reading each bead on each bracelet with an airy, out-of-body feeling she can’t quite place. Tanner, Penny, and Zamboni’s names.
There’s an ambitious and blocky drawing of Mel, which she recognizes as Tanner’s artistry. Above that, an angel flying in the clouds.
Her breath catches.
Mel,
This beautiful script is Abby’s handwriting, she realizes.
We love you and all that you do for us and our family. We would be lost without you and we’re thinking of you and Becca today. Happy Mother’s Day.
Love,
Penny, Tanner & Abby
(& Zamboni!!!)
“Morning,” Frank’s voice is low and gruff and Mel does her best to not get distracted by it. She likes his morning voice. A lot.
He shuffles into the kitchen, wearing only his sweatpants loose around his hips. Mel wants to tell him he shouldn’t be shirtless when she’s fighting back tears and feeling emotional, but she doesn’t mean that. Frank Langdon shirtless is, in fact, one of the best things ever. Offhandedly, she looks down at herself, content to be swimming in the exact t-shirt he’s missing.
“This is—” She starts, struggling to find her voice, embarrassed by how watery it already sounds. She doesn’t want to cry outright. It’s been years since she did that on Mother’s Day. It’s so tiring to cry on Mother’s Day, but this is so—
Frank pulls a chair close to hers and sits, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He tugs her closer and she leans in, melting into his warmth, readily accepting the kisses he’s peppering along the crown of her head.
“I love you,” he murmurs, voice still gravely, still his morning voice, just for her.
She breathes in the scent of him, closing her eyes. “I love you, too.”
“And I know, like, it’s not— legally binding, uh—” Frank starts, “the Stepmom part. But it’s not yet, is all. You know that, right?”
Mel nods against his shoulder. She does.
“The flowers are beautiful.”
“Yeah?”
“Everything is. You’re beautiful. Your family is beautiful.”
“Our family, Mel.”
She cries then; the floodgates crack open like flimsy glass. She lets it exhaust her. She lets Frank pull her into his lap to hold her.
And later, while they walk Zamboni, she tells Frank about her mom.
pregnant mel catches a stray elbow while on shift, how does frank react?
Langdon heard the code over the speakers the way he heard almost everything when he was in a trauma - distant, filtered through eight other layers of information, pushed to the side until the immediate emergency was resolved. His MVA victim was a fourteen-year-old girl with bleeding in her belly and no pulse in her left foot and she was screaming for her mother so no one in the room was paying much attention to anything else, really. It was only after she was partially sedated with less disastrous vitals that he processed the fact that there were cops out in the hallways herding patients away from the south side and that Dana was on the phone at central with a look on her face he hadn't seen in months.
"Langdon, East Five," she barked, before he even got all his PPE off.
"What's happening," he managed, before Perlah popped up at his elbow and grabbed his arm so tightly he almost jumped.
"I got it, Dana," she barked, pulling him off towards the east corridor. Dana opened her mouth like she was about to say something but a loud shout from chairs drew her attention and she whipped around, nearly pulling the phone off the counter as she strained to look.
"What's happening," he repeated, trusting Perlah enough to follow while he talked instead of demanding full details first like he would from someone greener. "I heard the gray code."
"Fifty-two year old male, deep laceration to his right arm," Perlah said tersely, grabbing new gloves off a wall and shoving them into his hands as she herded him through the chaos. "He didn't present with any signs of intoxication until he got into the room. He got pissed off and lost it."
"Who?" Langdon said, his pulse racketing up a notch.
"Emma's in here," Perlah said tersely, pulling him to a stop at East Four. Langdon frowned and then his head went quiet and tunneled again when he saw Emma Nolan crying on a trauma bed, holding Kim's hand as Carrie gently swabbed blood away from her eye. "He pushed her into the wall and she hit her eye against the edge of a sharps box. We're worried she might have punctured it." She squeezed his arm and then added in an undertone, "I need you to examine her, Dana wanted to send Santos and we both know why that's a bad idea."
"Shit. Okay," Langdon said, pushing inside with one shoulder. At his entrance, both Carrie and Kim looked up with identical, bullish looks on their faces, but seeing that it was him turned back to Emma without a word. "Aw, kid. Rough morning, huh?"
"Hey, Dr. Langdon," Emma said, shaky and tearful but relatively calm, considering, and Langdon resisted the urge to say something cheesy and condescending like atta girl before sitting down and getting to work.
Thankfully the source of the blood was a laceration just below the eye - small mercies - but he was worried about orbital fracture and she couldn't see out of it, could barely even keep her eyelid open for more than a second in fact, which was concerning. Langdon did his best to cheer her up and make her more comfortable - as much as one could after you were just violently attacked at work, anyway - and by the time he got her labs ordered and verbally threatened two different imaging technicians to get her moved up the CT list, she was at least laughing a little, which was a good sign.
"He just sort of flipped out, out of nowhere," Emma said, once she was calm enough to start explaining. Carrie had been called out of the room but Kim had planted herself on the bed with her arm around Emma's shoulder with a look on her face like she might physically attack anyone who asked her to leave, which was another reason why Langdon always trusted nurses way more than attendings. "We were doing an H and P and asking about what medications he was taking and he got very belligerent. Then Dr. King told him he needed to calm down so we could help him and he just lost it."
Langdon went still for a moment, freezing over the sterile waste bin for a second before taking a breath and disposing of the bloody gauze. When he turned back around Kim was biting her lip and watching him.
"Dr. King was in the room too?" he asked. Calm, he thought. Don't say anything. Don't react.
Emma shot him a stricken, one-eyed look. "Is she okay? I couldn't see what happened, they took me out of the room so quick, but - oh my God, I heard her yelling, and it was so scary - "
"She's fine, she just got a little banged up, like you," Kim said soothingly, with her gaze locked on Langdon.
East five, Langdon thought, and took a long, deep, box breath. Then he sat back down on the stool and reached up again for Emma's face, gently replacing the bandage with fresh gauze.
"You're made of tough stuff, the two of you," he said lightly, his heart twisting a little at the weak smile Emma attempted. She reminded him of his baby cousin, which was maybe why he was a little overprotective of the kid, which the other nurses had clearly noticed. "I'd put my money on Mel over a drunk angry guy any day."
Emma laughed, which was the point, but it sounded a little skeptical. Probably because not only was it not that funny, Langdon thought, but also the most obvious lie he'd told a patient all week.
-
It was nearly an hour before he managed to track down Perlah again, who was having a tense-looking conversation with al-Hashimi by the ambo bay and clutching a tablet at her side so tightly her knuckles were white. Not wanting to risk the wrath of the one attending who even mildly liked him (and even that depended on the day) he went around the desk the long way and caught her eye, raising his eyebrows at her until she nodded and gestured at him with the tablet.
"Thanks," he said, when Perlah extracted herself, meeting him at the cross-junction of the corridors, out of sight of al-Hashimi. "Thank you for that."
"Mel told me you guys were keeping it quiet," Perlah said in an undertone, matching his pace as they speed-walked towards the elevators. She handed him the tablet silently. "Black eye and a bloody lip but no signs of concussion. I pulled Ellis and Toomarian to take care of her."
Another bit of tension leaked out of his shoulders. Langdon concentrated on the chart, speed-reading the summary and trying not to react too violently to patient (medical resident) was assaulted by an aggressive, intoxicated male, pushed physically into the wall and then kicked once on the right side of her - "Jesus fuck, he kicked her?"
Perlah grabbed his arm. "She said it barely made contact, but that's why Ellis wants her to stay for observation."
Langdon shoved the tablet back into her hands, taking another long box breath. "Jesus. Jesus, Perlah." His voice cracked.
"What?" She slowed, by the observation window into Central Six, and tugged on his arm to make him look. "What is it?"
Langdon covered his face with his hands for a moment. He found, suddenly, that it was nearly impossible to speak. His throat just wouldn't open.
"Oh my God," Perlah said, much quieter. "She's - is she - ?"
He nodded.
"How far along?" she hissed, pulling up the tablet and tapping rapidly.
"Ten and a half weeks," Langdon said, so quietly Perlah had to lean in to hear. "The timing is bad, with the divorce, she wanted to... I don't know. We just found out like six days ago."
Perlah muttered a prayer under her breath and started walking again, nudging him hard with one elbow to follow. "Okay. She didn't say anything."
"No, she wouldn't," he said, a touch bitterly. "Probably didn't even occur to her."
"Someone should've asked, damn it, but everything was so - you know," Perlah said, frustrated. She twirled around and hit the door with her back, wrenching the door to the back stairs open, their trusty secret passage between the two sides of the ED without having to walk past Central. "Okay. I had to tell Ellis about the two of you, but Toomarian is probably clueless. I'll find an excuse to get her out of the way and I'll tell Dana that you're sitting with Mel."
"What'd you tell her anyway, about putting me on Emma?" Langdon asked hoarsely. His hands were starting to shake and he folded his arms tightly, pressing them beneath his armpits.
"That Mel wanted you to be her friend, not her doctor. But she's Dana, you know. You guys are probably gonna have to have that conversation sooner rather than later."
Langdon laughed without humor. Yeah, probably.
-
It was overly cautious of Perlah to intervene to keep him off Mel's case, but Langdon had to be overly cautious about pretty much everything, these days. Most doctors never thought twice about writing scripts for friends and relatives, starting charts for themselves to save a colleague the trouble, signing their name for friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, all of the above. Not Langdon. Not anymore, anyway. (Just another way he was now an extra time-sucking pain in the ass to everyone he worked with. Fun.)
"I didn't want you to get in trouble," Mel said tearfully, holding his palm to her heart, her bruised, beautiful face pressed gently against his shoulder. Langdon had his other elbow propped against the head of her bed, breathing box breaths against her hair and trying very, very hard not to either cry or yell or do some ghostly third option that was probably worse. "You know, later, when it comes out - "
"I know, baby, thank you," he murmured. To be honest he was relieved too. He didn't want to be her doctor anymore than HR probably wanted him to. "You did the right thing, it's okay."
Ellis shot them a sympathetic look from her computer, typing rapidly, ordering all the routine tests for a pregnant patient with potential trauma to the abdomen, plus an extra half-dozen for good measure, probably. She'd taken the news relatively coolly, though Langdon hadn't expected anything else from her. She'd keep a poker face, serene and professional, throughout the entire thing and then a week later he'd get a text at 3am that said, so about this Mel thing. Brother, you better tell me everything, and so help me God if you leave anything out I'll cook your balls and serve em a la mode to your mother. Cuz I have her number now, motherfucker!!!!
"It just happened so fast," Mel said, sniffling. She leaned back a little for air and Langdon cupped the back of her head, pulling back to look again at the bruising on her face. He felt like his esophagus was eating itself, tracking the darkening purple ring around her eye.
"You're sure you have no pain in your abdomen?" he asked for the third time, and obediently, she nodded. "Okay. Okay. Yeah, honey, it sounded terrifying."
"I still want to check," she said, turning slightly to Ellis. "Just to be sure, I mean - "
"Of course we're gonna check," Ellis said breezily. She came over to check Mel's IV bag - just fluids, of course she was fucking dehydrated, she never drank enough water - and paused to give Mel one of her trust me I know everything looks. "We're gonna check everything, Dr. King, if only because we like ya so much. How's the pain now, is the tylenol working?"
Mel nodded, and Langdon narrowed his eyes, examining her face for any hint of lying. "Yeah, it's throbbing less." She licked her swollen lip and curled into Langdon's side, making his chest twist again. "I don't need any pain meds or anything, I'll be fine."
"Well, nothing prescription, but I sure as fuck hope you'll keep taking tylenol, that's one hell of a shiner," Ellis said dryly. She sat down on the stool and huffed a little, addressing both of them. "Okay. We're gonna get a blood count, a coag panel, and I want urine and an ultrasound to be safe. Odds are you're probably fine, but I'm gonna want to talk to your OB, and if you start bleeding at any point, even minimally, tell us right away."
Mel was nodding earnestly, her hand twisting in Langdon's scrubs. "Yes, of course."
"You're sure there's no pain in your abdomen? No cramping, or - even a weird sensation? Butterflies in your stomach, nausea, anything?"
"No," Mel said, wide-eyed. Langdon let himself tentatively believe she was being truthful and not downplaying it for once, if for no other reason than because he knew the idea of losing the fetus terrified her. Even if she wasn't sure she wanted to keep it yet, he knew she didn't want that at all. "No. It didn't even make full contact with my stomach - his foot, I mean - my arm was in the way, so it mostly hit me there. It was just the - the force of it, it sort of pushed me backwards on the floor and knocked the wind out of me. But he was just trying to get away, he wasn't trying to kill me or anything."
Langdon closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, the vision of Mel crouched on the floor with her arms around her stomach, curled up to protect herself from an angry attacker - yeah that wouldn't be going away anytime soon. He squeezed her knee silently and she leaned into him a little more, her cheek resting against his bicep.
"Okay," Ellis said, nodding. "Then we'll still check. But we'll be optimistic about it." She shot Langdon a significant look and then stood up. "Your medical records are of course confidential, but you've worked here long enough to know how people talk. You'll probably get a visit from someone upstairs as soon as I send these orders up, so be prepared for that."
"Emma's okay, right?" Mel said anxiously. "She was bleeding."
"She has a cut on her cheekbone and possible trauma to her right eye," Langdon said. "I'm waiting on her CT to see if she fractured anything. I also put in a call to that guy over at Presby - "
"Oh, the ocular surgeon? The one you met at the MEDevice meeting?"
"Yeah. He's gonna come consult as soon as he gets an hour or two free."
Mel relaxed a little. "That's good. Good thinking. Oh, I hope her eye's okay."
Ellis shot him another look, and Langdon tensed. "Shitty day," she said. "Langdon?"
"Okay, okay," Langdon said. He squeezed Mel's knee and leaned in to nuzzle her cheek, feeling something delicate and powerful unfurling in his chest at the sensation of her breath on his cheek. She'd broken her glasses in the scuffle and they hadn't been able to find her spares in her locker - they were probably in his car, she was always forgetting him there because she wore them when they went jogging in the park - so she was squinting at everything, leaning in to read the forms Ellis gave her and looking smaller and younger than she usually did. And of course the black eye didn't hurt. "I'll be right back."
"You have patients, Frank," Mel said weakly, her grip tightening on his shirt despite the sentiment. "You don't have to sit with me forever. I'll be here all night, probably."
"I'll be right back," he said again, and kissed her eyebrow, right above the bruising. She smiled up at him, blushing despite herself, and he carefully did not look at Ellis as he walked past her out of the room, even though she was raising one eyebrow at him like a fucking cartoon character, leaning in the doorway and holding the door open pointedly.
"Okay," Ellis said again in the hallway, when they were alone. Thankfully she was very talented at talking very quietly in a busy corridor, unlike some other docs Langdon could mention. "So."
"I appreciate your discretion," he said pointedly, and she bit back a smile. "And - this is unrelated - what's your login for the EHR? Just in case I need it."
"Oh, fuck off," Ellis said, snorting. "I'll keep you updated okay? Pinkie promise. As soon as I know something you'll know it. But Langdon." She leaned in and held up her fist, which he stared at, unimpressed. "Nice one. She's way cuter than Abby."
"Fuck you," Langdon whispered, but then glanced again down at her fist, sighed, and bumped it. Ellie sniggered. "It's - they're different. They're both beautiful."
"Spoken like a true co-parent," Ellis said, laughing. She tucked the tablet under her arm and clapped him on the shoulder, going serious again. "I think she's good, man. Really. I don't see anything concerning, and you know I'm gonna test for everything I can before they cut me off for wasting resources."
"Thank you," he said, also more genuinely. He looked down at his feet for a second, closing his eyes, and took a deep breath. "God, I feel like I just survived a heart attack."
"Yeah," Ellis said. "Yeah, I bet." She eyed him for a second. "Pretty serious, then, huh? I mean." She raised her eyebrows, somehow communicating the word baby in a way that was both silent and, incredibly, sort of crude. "Serious serious."
"We're - it's early," Langdon stammered. "It was... we just found out. It's new."
"Yeah," Ellis said. She looked at him sympathetically for a moment, then blew out a breath and raised her eyebrows. Clapped him on the shoulder again, shaking her head like she thought he was crazy, which she probably did. "Okay, well. I won't tell Robby."
"Thanks, man," Langdon said. He knew she'd be solid, with something like this. Perlah deserved a raise.
"With Dana though, you're on your own," she added, already turning away, voice distracted.
"Yeah," Langdon said, resigned to it. He knew that too.
Kingdon prompt: Mel and Frank having what looks like to be a serious disagreement - but it's over something really silly like a book or tv. Maybe from someone else's perspective!
Have fun!
general | pre-relationship | 955 words
“That’s interesting.”
“What is?”
Cassie craned her neck, trying to see what Abbot was staring at. She didn’t have a clear line of sight to whatever had Abbot’s attention. He was blatantly staring at whatever it was and he leaned closer, like he was trying to eavesdrop.
“You’re so nosy,” Cassie said, shaking her head in amusement.
Abbot was covering a stretch of day shift while Al-Hashimi took her son on a vacation. He complained about the day shift of course, with his biggest gripe being that nothing was ever exciting enough. He ran a tight ship, though, and he seemed to be having fun with engaging in day shift gossip.
Ignoring that comment, Abbot jerked his chin somewhere to the left. “McKay, what’s going on with that?”
Standing, Cassie joined Abbot at the end of the central desk. Now she could see what Abbot had been watching so intently: it was Mel and Langdon.
Cassie could admit that she’d taken part in watching Mel and Langdon before. Once Langdon returned to the pitt and started spending a lot of time with Mel, either working cases or staying near while they got charting done, they’d become a topic of conversation. Not a main one, really. It was more of a passing thought, like, “Oh, did you see Mel and Langdon today? They got to work three cases together, so they’re in a good mood.” People noticed they worked well together and that they seemed to get along. It wasn’t thought about much past that.
Generally, whenever Mel and Langdon were spotted together, they were smiling at each other or staring or even laughing. When they were working a case, they spoke quietly, leaning together with little space between them. They were nice, sweet. They complimented each other in a way that everyone could see, even if they didn’t really talk about it.
This, though, was different. Langdon and Mel were so close, their foreheads were practically touching. Langdon had his hands on his hips but his back was to the central desk, so Cassie couldn’t get a good look at his expression.
Mel’s face was interesting. When Cassie worked with Mel or spoke to her, she was generally pleasant. Happy. Some might even say that Mel had a sunshine personality. Cassie had seen Mel be serious, especially when they were in the middle of a trauma.
Cassie didn’t know how to best describe Mel’s face now, though. Determined? Not angry. Definitely intense. Her eyes were wide and her eyebrows were scrunched as she waved her hands around. She got so expressive with her movements that she almost whacked Langdon in the face. He caught her hand easily, moving it safely away from his face. His shoulders were shaking, like he was laughing.
It made Mel exclaim, “Frank!” loud enough for everyone to hear. Her tone wasn’t angry. A little exasperated, for sure.
Still, Cassie asked, “Are they… fighting?”
“I don’t think so,” Abbot said thoughtfully, like he’d really spent some time on it.
“But the gesturing… and the closeness? What could they possibly be talking about like that?”
Abbot waved his hand, indicating that Cassie needed to stop talking. Amused, Cassie watched as Abbot draped himself over the top of the central desk, practically hanging over the other side in an effort to get close enough to hear Langdon and Mel. He didn’t need to exert all that effort, though, because everyone heard the next part of their conversation loud and clear.
“The Musketeers didn’t do all of that close-quarters combat!” Mel threw her hands up above her head and almost caught Langdon’s brow with the tips of her fingers. He leaned back just in time.
“I know.” They shifted a little, and Cassie was able to see that Langdon was smiling, his eyes bright as he gazed down at Mel. He was unsuccessfully trying to hide his laughter. “You’ve mentioned it multiple times.”
“They carried swords! And pistols! And muskets!” Mel crossed her arms over her chest, scowling at Langdon. “And they didn’t wear leather armor, either.”
Langdon took a step closer to Mel. His voice dropped, but Cassie and Abbot could still hear them. “Should we pick a different show to watch, then?” His hand came up to squeeze her shoulder briefly, and then dropped away. “This is supposed to be relaxing.”
Mel’s face melted into a smile, and her body swayed towards Langdon’s. “Picking apart historical inaccuracies in television shows is relaxing for me.” She peered up at him and bit her lip. “Especially when you’re there to do it with me.”
“Okay,” Langdon agreed with a grin.
They stared at each other for another long moment before they seemed to realize at the exact same time that they were still at work. Langdon and Mel jumped apart, heading off in opposite directions to go find something to do. Cassie predicted that they would be back in one another’s orbit within fifteen minutes.
“So,” Cassie amended. “Definitely not fighting.”
“No,” Abbot agreed. He had a small smile on his face. “Definitely not.” His head tilted towards where they’d been standing. “When do you think they’ll figure it out?”
It took Cassie a moment, because she truly had no idea what Abbot was talking about. It wasn’t until Abbot raised his eyebrows meaningfully that Cassie suddenly got it. Even then, she still couldn't quite wrap her mind around it.
Langdon and Mel, as a couple? They seemed so very, very different from one another. And yet… Cassie thought about how closely they’d been standing. How comfortable Mel was with Langdon, and how at ease he was with her. Maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched after all.
Cassie smiled. “If I was a betting woman, I’d say soon.”
Prompt: Mel being sick/hurt/midly inconvenienced about something (your pick!) and Frank insisting on taking care of her
I just cant never get over this trope
.....
This was fun. Inspired by my own migraines. But I don't have a Frank around. Universe you OWE ME A FRANK
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Weather changes sometimes really sucked. Mel flinched at a sudden squeak of a shoe against the floor. Whitaker really had the worst shoes. The incoming storm had clearly been enough of a trigger for a migraine. She absolutely should have been more aware of the pre migraine symptoms. Irritability, disturbed sleep, emotional dysregulation and the increased dyspraxia. Tripping over her own feet and straight into Frank... in the pre shift huddle had been mortifying at best. He’d just wrapped an arm around her shoulders with an easy grin. Making a random joke to get people to stop staring at her.
She really should have guessed what was coming when she snapped at Whitaker for cutting her off mid sentence with a patient. With an inappropriate treatment suggestion.
But it had taken to when the aura had struck for her medical training and experience to kick in. Meds really helped but people were giving her a wide berth. Sunglasses on and earplugs in. Mel was just trying to get her charting complete before ducking out early.
Frank placed something down gently next to her before sitting down at the PC just diagonal to hers. Topped up water bottle.
‘I’m fine.’
He didn’t look at her as he logged in and started working through his own paperwork. ‘Of course you are. Not like anytime Whitaker doesn’t pick up his feet your look like you want to stab him in the eye with a scalpel.’
Right on time his shoe squeaked again. One of her eyes shut in throbbing pain as the noise ricocheted in her head. It was like he was doing it on purpose. Frank didn’t hide his smirk at her reaction. The vicious glare she could stop aiming at the clueless interns face. No Trinity around to protect him today.
‘Whitaker pick up your feet.’ Frank muttered under his breath as the intern darted past. ‘Mel you need to drink some water.’ He was doing that thing again. Not quite mother henning but just a tidge underfoot. Maybe it the migraine talking but she was a little annoyed. Mel was fully capable of minding herself.
Typical doctor. Not able to stop himself. ‘He’s not wrong kid.’ Mel knew she was pouting. Really wasn’t fair when Dana was helping Frank out. Dana pushed the water bottle towards her. The expression only mothers seemed to possess on her face. Mel swallowed trying to ignore the slight pang in her chest. Mel always missed her Mom just a little more when she wasn’t well. A reminder that there was no one around to look after her any more.
‘Mel. Drink.’
Well maybe not. While Dana’s face was that of a mother being fondly wearisome. Frank’s was not. Mel couldn’t stop the rise and drop of her shoulders as she sighed if she tried. But she sipped at the water. Annoyed that it was actually making her feel better. It would only validate him. And give him cart blanche to cotinue on. She could see the smirk on his face. Urgh.
SQUEAK.
‘Whitaker!’ Mel snapped, eyes squeezing shut at the piercing noise. ‘Can you please pick up your fucking feet????’ She didn’t yell. But it was a much more forceful snap than anyone expected of her. Whitaker just stared at her all bambi eyed. Glancing down at his shoes like he’d never seen them before.
Santos who was behind Frank didn’t bother hiding her laugh. Earning a shocked and offended look from her room mate. ‘Those shoes fucking suck – if Mellifluous is snapping at you fucking listen.’
‘He needs to start listening to other people. Crawl out of his own ass. And Robby’s.’ Someone, one of the nurses Mel thought. Her brain was so muddled and the mutter so low that she couldn’t identify the owner. Not Frank. Though Whitaker was shooting him a look. One that Mel was getting very tired of seeing. Judgemental and mean. Even though Frank was being more accommodating than he probably should be, several months back in. Frank just lifted his eyebrows silently daring him to accuse him out loud.
Mel tried to drown out the noise. Laying her head down on her desk. Her brain humming uncomfortably. She needed out. And yes she was done with everything right now but her brain just needed to calm down. ‘C’mon lets get you home.’
She didn’t argue. Just let Frank guide her to her feet and out of the hospital. Mel had dissociated enough that she’d missed Frank getting up and grabbing both their stuff. When had she given him her locker combination?
At least the Pittsburgh air was cooling against her head. The window of Frank’s car opened enough to let the wind soothe her overheating head. She hoped that her dysregulation would settle now that she was out of the bright lights, the smells and the overwhelming number of people of the Pitt. Mel was used to dealing with her migraines alone. Becca knew to avoid her. Perhaps leave water and snacks outside her door but never really got in her space.
Frank was going to be different. She just knew. It wasn’t just that he was a father or a doctor. But he always took the time to take care of her. Tears pricked at her eyes. Oh god she was going to be a blubbering mess. He’s seen her cry. Over loosing a patient or a fight with Becca. But he hadn’t ever really seen her sob. And migraines sometimes, even with the best meds on the planet, just had her wailing for hours.
So an hour later she was sitting on the couch. Ice pack on her face and doing her best to not cry. Getting Frank to leave was a non starter. It was her first migraine in several months. Medications had helped but he was a doctor through and through. Unable to resist the urge to care. Mel was counting through all her usual coping skills. The ones that didn’t involve the use of her eyes. Counting. Reciting rap in her head. Making and remaking lists. None of it helped.
Her eyes burned. Throat felt like she was in the early stages of anaphylaxis. Pressure building up in side her chest. ‘It’s okay you know.’ Mel pushed up the face pack slowly. The room was cool and in shadow. Just enough ambient light to move around but no glares to set her off. Frank was squatting down near her. Giving her the couch to sprawl out on. Not that she had. Being a contained, barely held together mess of a ball in the corner. Her favourite water bottle on the table. And a large bag of cashew nuts on the table. And her favourite peanut butter protein bar.
Blinking took effort. Tears threatening to slip. But she couldn’t let go of them. Frank’s right hand twitched a little. Face furrowing a little. In the dark and her blurry vision she couldn’t make it out. He sat down gently on the couch. Careful not to jostle her at all. Always so thoughtful. The vice tightened a little but more. Her hands were then in his. Tingling with the sensation of fresh blood flow. Oblivious to how she had then scrunched tight. Nails leaving deep indents in the soft flesh.
‘Would a hug be too much?’ The offer. So kind, so gentle, almost fearful it was too much broke the damn. Mel buried her face in his chest as the sobs took control. He’d changed into one of his super soft t-shirts. The ones Mel always wanted to ask where he’d gotten but was still embarrassed it would come off as weird.
Her feelings so frayed by her overstimulated and sore brain that she couldn’t care about how quickly his shirt was becoming soaked. That the sobs shook her body as she crawled into him. He leaned back and let her just take what she needed. Hands undoing her hair, scratching at her scalp soothingly, rubbing her back. Maybe even a little press of something to her head.
Ask : patients that have both Mel and Frank keep assuming they’re married or dating. Ugh the pinning !
Oh this was so fun.
Only didn't a few snippets with changing perspectives but THANK YOU SO MUCH!!
Maybe unwise to post on A03 after only a little sleep but....
LINK!
Thank you anon!!!
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'God it must be so nice to work with your husband!' Mel blinked at the woman on the bed. Slightly older woman, artfully designed grey streak glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. Unable to stop herself from checking the patient notes. No not a concussion or other issue affecting cognitive function. Mild burn to be sterilised and bandaged.
Mel shifted in her seat taking a beat to find the words. ‘I’m not married.’
It was now Mrs Evans turn to blink. ‘Noooo – you and tall dark and handsome aren’t married? I don’t believe it.’ The tone in her voice reminded Mel of her grandmother. Slightly dismissive but in a way that felt more endearing than insulting. Mel started cleaning the wound. Trying to not let the words spiral in her head. ‘I know neither of you are wearing rings, but given the job that makes sense. What was his name... Lawson... The man with the devastating eyes?’
‘Langdon?’ The name popped out of Mel’s mouth before she could stop herself. Married? Where had Mrs Evans gotten that from. Mrs Evans bright grey eyes sparkled mischievously. Stupidly Mel could feel her cheeks heat up.
With her good hand Mrs Evan’s fanned herself. ‘Oh darling if I was any where near an appropriate age for that man I would be climbing him like a tree. Something about him. But then again he’s clearly taken.’ The sigh Mrs Evans was almost comical. Except Mel felt like she was in a dream. A very very weird dream. ‘I love my husband dearly. Except for the golfing habit but everyone has their flaws. You two meet at work?’
Mel’s jaw dropped and all she could manage was a weird gargling noise. ‘We’re friends, not married.’ Finally Mrs Evans seemed to register the strangled tone in Mel’s voice. Her brows knitting a little in thought.
‘But he’s not married?’ Mel shook her head. But words failed her entirely. Why she was answering her questions? Mrs Evans just had that way of getting honest answers. Against Mel’s better instincts.
Both women froze as Frank stuck his head in. Glancing over Mel’s work with a skilled eye. ‘You’re a lucky patient. Dr King is the best we have.’ In his typical boyish charm he winked at the older lady. Who tittered and pinked at his words. Mel was never able to clamp down on the glow from the complements he gave her, but she tried to be less obvious. Lest Mrs Evans make another comment.
‘Apologies for interrupting but lunch is in the breath room whenever you’re free Mel.’ Her voice failed her completely as Mrs Evans watch the interaction with sharp eyes. ‘Ladies.’
‘Friends my fucking ass Dr King.’
---------------------
Frank stretched as he removed the uniform. Reenactors took their stuff seriously. One of the younger guys, somehow there was someone younger than him after joining up. Brad? Frank was fairly sure that was his name. Brad approached him back in his casual clothes.
‘Langdon right? Brad Dalton.’ Frank shook the guys outstretched hand.
‘Frank.’
‘Welcome to the club not often there’s anyone else close to my age at these things.’
‘Thanks. Always been a massive history nerd and this seemed like good fun.’
‘And when you get to enjoy it with your girlfriend makes it all the better right? Wish my fiance would come along. But it’s not his jam.’
Frank’s brain shuddered to a halt. Brad was off talking about his experience with reenactors in his previous city. Girl-what? Brad led them out of the changing room and into the main hall of the museum. Several of the reenactors waving at Frank and giving him the thumbs up. They were a super welcoming group. Beat NA meetings that was for damn sure. But Frank’s brain was still processing the previous comment.
‘Sorry my girlfriend?’ He cut over Brad. Not that he had caught a single word of what he was saying. The word girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend playing on repeat.
Brad’s brown eyes widened then narrowed. ‘The other doctor... Mel? Super enthusiastic and beyond knowledgable? The veterans already love her.’
‘Oh Mel. Right. Not my girlfriend. I’m still getting used to be divorced to be honest never mind anything else.’ Half that comment was fair. The rest was completely unnecessary. Not that it seemed to phase Brad. Who brushed back his longer hair with an airy hand.
‘Oh honey I have been there. Woof. Did you meet Mel before or after the divorce?’
‘Before – but I think you-’
Brad brushed past Frank’s stammering. ‘Oh no judgement here. Me and Alex met through his ex and there was whole overlap. But we’re all friends now.’ It was like drowning on dry land. He was so out of his depth. And that relationship he was learning about? Fuck.
‘We work together, it’s how we became friends.’ Frank was trying to get back to a land mass he understood. And the right information out there. As far as he knew Santos was trying to set Mel up. And he was doing his best to support that without feeling weird about it.
‘Best way to do it.’ Somehow Frank got the feeling that Brad was inventing a story of him and Mel that was no where near the reality. Probably the TV version. ‘Mel!’ Speaking of Mel, she stepped up next to Frank. As was now her habit, laying a hand on his arm. Judging from the look on Brad’s face he was not buying anything Frank was selling.
Why did no one believe him?
Like Mel should ever date someone like him.
----------------------
Another day another IT outage. Mel had long perfected keeping on top of her charting. Better stay on it than be running five miles behind. Unlike Whitaker who was was complaining that it was impossible to stay of top of it. If Robby couldn’t than who could? After July fourth people had picked up tricks on dealing with it. But Dennis clearly hadn’t. And was wasting more time bitching.
‘Mel’s up to date.’ The snort erupted out of Trinity. Mel felt herself sit up straighter, a little taller. Frank was staring at Whitaker. They still hadn’t found a middle ground. Even after Frank and Trinity had found a mutual love of archery. The competitive nature combining with a sport to give them a common ground. Also the struggles of trying to teach Mel.
Was it her fault if she had to aim at 10 to 12 to hit the bullseye? Her brain just worked like that.
Frank leaned back as though on cue and rang the bell. ‘As am I.’ Dennis’s jaw tightened in irritation. Mel knew he was fighting back a smirk. Whitaker really didn’t have the witty banter to match Franks. Neither did Mel but it wasn’t like she tried. And Whitaker had developed a habit of acting like Trinity. Throwing out shots like he owned the place. And it didn’t suit him. Those bright blue eyes landing on her face. She could see him suppressing the sigh as he detached his dictation device. ‘Invest in a good one of these. I have a spare I can lend you until you get your own. But take this until you get caught up.’
The outstretched hand sat for a beat longer than was polite. Whitaker grunted as Trinity landed a solid kick to his shin. ‘Take the dictator and cut the shit Whitaker.’ The silent thank you was forced at best. Frank took it well, just standing and stretching.
‘It’ll save your life. Adamson swore by his from the late 80s.’ His face saddened for a moment. Frank never really talked about Adamson. Mel was always curious the former attending having left such a mark on the Pitt. Robby in particular. Maybe Frank felt like he didn’t have the right to talk about it. Not having have been as close as Robby apparently had been. Mel wasn’t sure, but wasn’t sure if she could ask.
Lena patted Frank’s arm as she stepped into the fray. ‘You can leave it with me Whitaker when...ever you finish. I know this one’s locked code.’ Frank wrapped his arm around Lena’s shoulders.
‘You are too good to me Lena.’ He really was like a beloved son to the senior nurses. The only one able to get away with his antics. But it was because he always gave them their dues and was careful to to show respect. They knew more than he ever would. According to him. Never fuck with a nurse.
‘Ain’t that the truth. Also Baran is looking to talk to you and Mel.’ Lena shoved him off with her deep booming laugh. Shooting a fake exasperated look at Trinity and Mel.
Frank’s eyebrows lifted curiously. Mel shook her head silently. She couldn’t think of anything that needed a conversation from this shift. Maybe it was just a check in after a crazy shift. Mel tilted her head at Dennis, who was still at his computer. The dictation device lying on a flat palm. Like he was expecting it to go off. He shrunk a little as Lena shook her head at him.
Lately he’d not been getting on with the nurses. He listened to them but there was a growing habit of him throwing his R2 status around. It wasn’t sitting well. Frank had tried talking to him but he’d been dismissed out of hand. Trinity had advised letting him learn that lesson. Her theory was he was trying to act like something he wasn’t. Something to do with Amy and his personal life. Trinity hadn’t divulged and neither had pried. Frank was trying to guide him however gently but was repeatedly rebuffed. Oh well.
Mel and Frank fell into their usual gait as they headed towards the senior attending office. One of Baran’s many excellent suggestions. Giving the senior staff somewhere to get paperwork and admin stuff done. And a private place to have a disagreement without everyone hearing the screaming matches. Mel always appreciated her practical approach to problem solving. His hand went automatically to her lower back as Shen and Abbot rushed to an emergency.
‘Mel, Frank! You guys have your charting in order? Excellent work.’ Baran was at her desk, looking a little shocked at the time.
‘Practice makes perfect apparently.’ Mel shuffled into the office as Frank closed the door. Baran pushed back her wild curls. Hands flicking through the stack of paperwork.
Her laugh at Mel’s comment was light and melodic. Mel threw a curious eye over the office. Hints of Abbot and Baran were scattered around. Photos of family and a couple of books. Not much of Robby. He was still avoidant of this change apparently. Mel did like Robby but she was beginning to see through the cracks. The man who made his work his life to his detriment but also didn’t leave a trace of himself in a space designated for him.
Interesting choice.
‘I’m sorry for leaving this so late, but the past few weeks have been insane with Robby on annual leave again. Hopefully we can fill that third attending spot soon on the day shift.’ Her large brown eyes twinkled as they landed on Frank.
It was common knowledge that both Baran and Abbot had gone to management to recommend Frank for the post. He was the natural choice for the role. A natural leader and a teacher. With his recovery Frank had made the choice to apply for a fellowship in a couple of years. Taking the time for him and Abby to work on their coparenting as the kids got a little older. And he needed the money. There was no denying that.
His hand dragged through his hair awkwardly. They’d had several conversation and he simply could not be told he had more than a scrap of hope at the post. Abbot and Baran in his corner? Mel could only hope. She elbowed him, silently scolding him for the negative look on his face.
Mel knew exactly what he was thinking. And she hated it.
‘If you two could have these filled in by the end of the week, that would be awesome.’ Mel grabbed the outstretched documents. Passing Frank one before she registered what the form was.
Declaration of Personal Relationship.
What.
She stared at the document confused. Why was Baran giving her this. And Frank? Neither of them were in a relationship. At least so far as she knew. Her gut clenched at the thought of Frank dating someone. Mel struggled to ignore the stabbing pain and swirling nausea.
‘Baran – what is this?’ Frank’s form flopped as he stared up at their attending. Mel typically had a read on Frank. The many variations in his voice. But this voice was new and alien to Mel. Very controlled and lacking any emotion.
‘Just a declaration form. Figured you guys hadn’t had the time to get it done.’
‘Us?’ They spoke in unison.
Baran blinked owlishly at them. Her large eyes looking all the larger as they flicked from one person to the other. Mel had gotten a little used to people making snap judgments about her and Frank. But typically they were people they didn’t know. Patients or people at random events. At least once a month someone thought they were dating or something.
It hurt.
Mel couldn’t like about that. There was also that little flare of happiness at people thinking that about her. Like Frank say her as anything but a friend or even a little sister. There were people like him and people like her. Yes they had a very special friendship. A bond that seemed to form instantly and even after his sabbatical hadn’t changed. It had just grown deeper. But there was simply no way he felt anything other than that.
Mel was doing her best to get over it. Struggling. Trinity and Samira had been pushing her to just talk to him. But she couldn’t risk it.
Frank as her friend was more important than her stupid feelings.
Baran’s face drained of colour as realisation hit them all at the same time. ‘Oh my god I am so sorry I just... Mel and Santos mentioned- and Frank you talked about- Oh fuck me. Can we just pretend this didn’t happen?’
It was as close to rattled as Mel had ever seen her. She placed her form back down on the desk like it was potentially infectious. ‘See you tomorrow Dr Al.’ Mel scurried out of the office, desperate to get out of her scrubs and get away from this moment.
Unfortunately this of course was the week Mel’s car was in the shop. So Frank was her ride. The car ride was as awkward as it could possibly be. Frank non stop drumming to a random beat in his head. Mel pretending to listen to the podcast. But not a single word was hitting her brain. Pity because she loved Sawbones.
Frank still walked her to the door. Despite the tension. Mel assuming he was processing the ridiculousness of someone thinking he was dating her. She’d met Abby for gods sake. Tall and stunning with razor sharp wit and biting tongue. Everything Mel wasn’t.
On nights Franks didn’t have the kids he’d come in for tea or even dinner depending on their shift. For the first time he hovered unsure in the door frame. He didn’t have the kids tonight.
‘Oh god this is dumb.’ He marched in, kicking his shoes off as he usually didn’t. Trying to shake off the awkward vibe. It wasn’t really working but at least it was an attempt. Mel nodded in agreement. Disappearing to get changed as Frank got the tea ready and opened up local delivery places.
So he was staying.
Okay. She could work with that. The panic attack could be shoved off until later.
So maybe she dressed in her slightly nicer lounge clothes. The ones that made her feel not just comfy but pretty as well. Little tighter in places and skimpier. Not OTT or anything but enough that Mel could feel it. Just a little spring in her step. She did take a moment to watch Frank as he pottered around her kitchen. Looking like he belonged there. Mel wasn’t delusional: she was fully aware of how hot Frank was even on his worst day. But him at home in her home, in his own clothes. It was almost too much.
‘I’ve ordered you some more tea.’ He passed over his phone so she could pick something. Mel shot him a look. He had a stupid tendency to buy things for her when she was perfectly capable of getting it herself. But he never listened to her.
Mel went with her usual safe choice foods. Trying to change the payment details before- ‘Nuh uh.’ -the phone was snatched out of her hand. His laugh was loud and bright as she aimed a middle finger at him.
‘You need to stop doing that.’
‘Eh I have covered a few extra shifts this month.’ Mel cradled the tea, watching the steam dance in the air.
The silence settled into something a little more comfortable. But there was a little hesitancy between them. Without looking up, for fear of what she would see Mel let herself ask the question. ‘Why do you think people assume...’ She couldn’t say it. Just couldn’t bring herself to say the absolute impossible. ‘... what they assume.’
Frank sat down at the island opposite her. His fingers tapping out another erratic rhythm. Like when he was working on a particularly tricky puzzle. Mulling over her question. Probably trying to come up with a gentle way of letting her down. He must have some idea that her feelings were less than platonic. Or more. Depending on how you looked at it.
‘People do assume things all the time. But how offended must you be at this stage.’ Frank was shaking his head with a deeply sad look on his face. Her own head shot up in time to catch it.
Confusion and hope bloomed dangerously. ‘Me being offended? What are you talking about? It’s ridiculous anyone would think you’d see me that way.’
Sometimes Mel’s honesty really was uncontrollable. Like the time she told Dennis that he needed to learn how to be an R2 before he became an attending. Or that Shen’s new cologne smelled like the microlab. Or that she really didn’t think well of Adam’s parents for having zero consideration for her not being in the loop.
Being honest was an advantage in many ways but with her social skills, she did end up in weird positions and no idea how to get out.
Frank’s eyebrows were twisting and dancing peculiarly. Like what she had said was in a foreign language. She was equally confused. Why would she be offended over the assumption? He was her best friend and one of the nicest people she’d ever met. Him being a truly talented and smart doctor with so many shared interests with her. Sometimes it felt like a big cosmic joke. Mel wasn’t oblivious to the startled and confused looks when Frank sought her out for things. Or saw them laughing and hanging out. Women like her never got to be seen with men like him.
Frank stood up, not rushing to her side but moving with determination. The sort he had when he knew exactly what to do in a trauma. Mel wasn’t sure what to do. It was startling having that intensity focused on her.
Her brain was telling exactly what was about to happen. But it still didn’t feel real. Not even as he gently took the hot mug of tea out of her hand. Again giving her space to pull back. Not moving fast like in a trauma. That silent understanding between them.
‘Is Santos still trying to set you up with people.’
What? ‘What?’ Yes she was an intelligent woman. The question came out of left field.
‘Is Santos still sending you out on shitty dates?’ Frank had quickly become her fake emergency person for those dates. So he’d been witness to her rants about Trinity’s weird choices or interpretations of what Mel would be interested in.
‘I have been dodging her attempts.’
‘Good.’
Before Mel could ask, his hand was in her hair and his lips were pressed up against hers. A part of her brain hoped that he hadn’t placed the order for the food yet. Her appetite was going in a complete different direction now and she would be tempted to cut anyone who would dare interupt. this.
a/n: this was meant to be like, a 1.5k word oneshot but turned into this. ideas kept coming to me...plus my day job is a historian, so I probably got a little too into it. I was gonna post this as multiple chapters, but I don't feel like it lol. if you all like it, I might continue it...
summary: You meet Frank when he visits the Fort Pitt Museum, but you don't anticipate his little visits would turn into more.
pairings: frank langdon x f!reader/curator!reader, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader
word count: 7.7k
warnings: angst to start, mentions of patient death, rehab, & divorce, mentions of Frank's kids, kind of a slow burn, then smut
You see him standing in front of a glass case labeled, “Medical Instruments of the 18th Century,” the polished brass plaque catching the museum’s soft overhead light.
Which, to be fair, wasn’t unusual. People linger there all the time, equal parts fascinated and horrified by rusted bone saws with wooden handles worn smooth from sweaty palms and crude syringes with needles thick as pencil lead that look more like medieval torture devices than tools of healing. What was unusual was the way he stood: still as the artifacts themselves, shoulders squared, head tilted slightly, studying each item with the intensity of someone deciphering ancient text.
You notice him because you’re supposed to be watching a group of fourth graders in navy blue uniforms pretend to be interested in frontier trade routes, their small fingers leaving smudges on the interactive map display, but instead find yourself watching him. Tall enough that he has to stoop slightly to peer into the case, with dark hair just slightly unruly, like he’d run a hand through it a few times in thought. He wears a black, unbuttoned peacoat despite the mild weather outside, the collar turned up against his neck, hands tucked deep into the pockets, shoulders slightly hunched forward as if carrying an invisible weight.
He leans in just a fraction closer to the glass, his breath leaving the faintest fog on its surface. Not with curiosity. It was recognition, like someone spotting an old friend across a crowded room.
That’s when you walk over, your museum badge swinging against your hip. “Most people don’t spend this long with the surgical tools,” you say, stopping a polite distance away, close enough to speak softly but far enough not to intrude. “They usually tap out at the amputation saw.”
He doesn’t startle. Just shifts his gaze from the display to you, slow and deliberate as honey dripping from a spoon. His ocean blue eyes look tired, rimmed with the faintest shadow of sleeplessness, like watercolor bleeding at the edges.
“I was just thinking,” he says, voice low and measured, each word carefully chosen, “how little the intent has changed.”
You blink, a little confused, your eyebrows drawing together. “The intent?”
“To help,” he clarifies, one long finger tapping against the glass beside a crude bone drill. “Even when it looked like this.” He flicks his eyes back to the case, where the brass instruments gleam dully under the spotlights.
“You’re a doctor,” you say, and it earns you a small, almost amused glance, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“Is it that obvious?” A hint of self-consciousness crosses his face.
You shrug, adjusting the sleeve of your cardigan. “Only to someone who’s spent a lot of time watching people react to that display. Tourists grimace. Medical professionals analyze.”
He huffed, barely a laugh, but close, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Frank,” he says after a moment, offering you his hand, broad-palmed with long fingers. “Frank Langdon.”
You take it. His grip is warm, firm, grounding in a way you don’t expect, like an anchor in deep water.
“I work here,” you add after giving him your name, gesturing to your badge with its faded photo. “The Fort Pitt Museum’s resident explainer of unpleasant historical realities.” The partially true joke earns you a chuckle, a real one this time, deep and resonant. “You come here often, Dr. Langdon?” you ask, tilting your head, a strand of hair falling across your cheek.
“No,” he says simply, his gaze following the movement. “Not since I was a kid.”
It should be the end of it. A brief conversation. A passing interaction between a museum educator and a visitor with a particular interest. But he doesn’t leave, and neither do you, both caught in the amber of afternoon light filtering through the high windows.
He comes back three days later. You notice immediately, though you pretend you don’t. This time, he doesn’t go straight to the medical exhibit. He walks the perimeter first - pausing to trace his fingertips just above the glass of a topographical map, leaning in to squint at the faded text of a yellowed letter - but eventually, he ends up in the same spot. Same glass case. Same stillness, his reflection ghostly against the polished surface.
“You’re developing a pattern, Dr. Langdon” you say, appearing beside him, catching a whiff of antiseptic soap beneath his cologne.
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. His shoulders remain perfectly still beneath the same black peacoat, now unbuttoned to reveal a deep blue sweater underneath. “Is that a problem? And please, call me Frank.”
“Only if you’re planning to steal the artifacts, Frank,” you reply, gesturing toward the case with a slight tilt of your head.
The almost-smile appears, just the barest upward curve at the corner of his mouth. But it’s quieter this time, like a secret. “I had a few hours,” he says, voice low enough that a passing family can’t hear. “Thought I’d come back.”
“For the bone saw?”
“For perspective.”
You study him more openly now in the amber afternoon light filtering through the high windows. There are faint shadows under his eyes, the kind that don’t come from one bad night of sleep, but many - purple-gray half-moons that make the blue of his irises seem more intense by contrast.
“You work at PTMC,” you say, more as a statement than a question, referring to the sprawling medical center just across the river, its modern glass towers visible from the museum’s windows.
His eyes shift to you, sharper now, like someone flipping a switch. “Yeah. In the emergency department.”
“I’ve seen that look before,” you add quickly, tapping just beneath your own eye. “Long shifts. Too much caffeine. Not enough daylight.”
“Observant.” The word comes out with a slight rasp, as if his voice hasn’t been used much today.
“Occupational hazard of museum workers.” A pause stretches between you. Not uncomfortable, just...noticeable, like the moment of silence between movements in a symphony. “Of course, my shifts admittedly aren’t life and death.”
“Do you always talk to visitors like this?” His fingers drum once, twice against the side of his leg.
“Only the ones who stop by three times a week.”
That earns you a real reaction, a quiet exhale, something softer than amusement - a small release of tension you hadn’t realized he was holding. People move around you - tourists with their squeaking sneakers, families herding children with hushed voices, students on their field trips clutching worksheets - but it feels oddly contained, like the space has narrowed to just the two of you, an invisible bubble in the current of bodies.
“I know you’re a doctor,” you begin, “but why this exhibit?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze returns to the gleaming metal instruments, focusing on something you can’t see. “It’s honest.”
“Honest?” You frown slightly, the word unexpected.
“No illusion of control,” Frank offers, running his thumb along the edge of his coat pocket. “No pretending things are cleaner than they are.” His eyes meet yours again, miles deep and steady. “People like to believe medicine is precise. Controlled. But it’s not. Not really.”
There it is again. That quiet weight in his voice, pressing down on each syllable. Not bitterness, exactly, but something close to it. Truth, maybe.
“History isn’t much different,” you say, reaching out to tap the information plaque beside the display. “We just have the advantage of time.”
It starts with small conversations. Frank asks questions that make your curator’s heart race - not the usual tourist inquiries about bathroom locations, but ones that probe the gritty reality of frontier medicine.
“How often were these tools reused?” he asks, his fingertip hovering a millimeter from the display glass above a tarnished scalpel.
“Did they understand infection at all?” His eyes narrow at the rusted forceps.
“What was the survival rate after procedures like this?” He gestures toward the amputation saw, its jagged teeth still carrying the shadow of old stains.
You answer, leaning slightly closer than necessary. It’s your job. But soon you start asking questions too, each one a careful step across the invisible bridge forming between you.
“Did you grow up in Pittsburgh?” you ask while reorganizing pamphlets, watching his reflection in the polished wood of an antique medicine cabinet.
“Where’d you go to med school?” The question slips out as you walk him through the Revolutionary War exhibit, your footsteps echoing on the worn marble floor.
“Do you ever sleep?” This one comes later, when you notice the deepening shadows beneath his eyes, like bruised petals.
The last one earns you a dry look, his mouth lifting at one corner. “Occasionally.”
“That’s reassuring,” you reply, your voice softer than intended.
There’s a rhythm to it. A careful dance between you, neither one pushing too far, too fast. Then one afternoon, he arrives later than usual, when the museum is bathed in the amber glow of sunset. You’re closing the west wing, flipping off lights one by one, your shadow stretching long across the floor, when you hear his voice behind you.
“Do you always stay this late?”
You turn, a little startled, your keys jangling against your hip. “Only when people linger after closing and someone needs to kick them out.”
“Am I people?” he asks with a slight smirk, his tall frame silhouetted against the dimming gallery.
You smile despite yourself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think you’re a category all your own at this point.”
He steps closer than usual, close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I was becoming part of the collection.”
“Another occupational hazard,” you joke, your voice steady despite the sudden dryness in your throat.
He glances around the dimming room, where display cases throw long shadows across the floor and the artifacts seem more alive in the half-light. “It’s different like this,” he says.
“Definitely. It’s so much quieter without bored kids getting yelled at by their teachers to care about history.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, “but it’s more…honest.” The word hangs in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
You laugh softly, the sound barely disturbing the hushed atmosphere. “You and your honesty.”
“Honesty matters.” His voice drops lower, intimate as a confession.
You meet his gaze, something in your chest tightening slightly, like a string being tuned. “Yes, it does.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of things neither of you have said yet, thick as the dust motes dancing in the last shaft of sunlight. And for the first time, as his pupils dilate slightly in the dimness, you wonder if he feels it too.
You’re elbow-deep in paperwork when a soft rapping shatters the silence. Your coworker’s head peeks around the door. “There’s a Dr. Langdon’s here to see you.” Her voice is low, cautious, as if questioning whether you know him without actually asking. You straighten your spine, run your fingers through your hair, smooth the crease in your skirt. “Send him in,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.
Frank enters with a slow, shuffling step - and you freeze. Something about him is off: the slump in his shoulders, the hollow set of his eyes. “Hey, you okay?” The words slip out before you can swallow them.
He stops halfway through the doorframe, jaw clenching. A beat of silence stretches. “Long shift,” he finally offers, voice tight.
You drop your clipboard and curl your arm into a silent invitation. He inches forward but halts at the threshold, as if weighing a lifetime of regrets against the risk of crossing that line. Then he exhales. “I lost two patients today.”
The words land like a fist to your chest. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper.
He nods once. “It happens,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the tile floor. “Part of the job.”
But you watch his jaw clench, see the tremor in his fingers. So you reach out, quietly. “You don’t have to make it small.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
“You don’t have to pretend the loss is manageable, just because it’s common.” Your voice is gentle but unwavering.
He blinks, confusion and relief warbling through his gaze. “It’s easier that way.”
“I know.” You lean back against the wall, letting your shoulders go slack.
Something inside him shifts, a flicker of connection softening his stance. You dare a small smile. “How do you carry this every day?”
He swallows hard. “I don’t always.”
Your brow lifts. “What do you mean?”
He folds his arms, as if shielding a wound. “Sometimes I compartmentalize so deeply, I forget where I hid the feelings.”
Your chest tightens at the image. “That doesn’t sound sustainable.”
“It isn’t.”
The rawness between you hums in the quiet. You clear your throat and offer, lighter this time, “Well, if you ever misplace something important, I run a very orderly museum.”
His lips twitch in the hint of a grin. “I’ll remember that.” He uncrosses his arms, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “So - what are you working on?”
You move to your desk and spread out a faded map. The paper crackles under your fingers. “A new exhibit on trade routes,” you explain. “Dangerous paths, unpredictable rivers. Yet people braved them anyway.”
He leans in, tracing the river’s winding curve with his eyes. “High risk,” he murmurs. “No guarantees.”
“Exactly.” You tap the route with a fingertip.
Frank’s gaze lifts from the map to your face, sharp and searching. Your chest contracts under his stare, a spark of something dangerous and alive. Before you can respond, your phone rings - too shrill, too sudden - causing you to jump.
Instinctively, he steps forward and his hands find your shoulders. The contact is firm, grounding, and warm. Neither of you breathes. Then, as if scripted, you both pull apart, creating space where none existed.
He clears his throat. “Sorry.” Broken, hurried.
“It’s okay,” you say, though your heart won’t settle.
As suddenly as Frank started showing up, he stopped coming to see you. No warning. No explanation. Just…absence.
At first, you tell yourself it’s a relief. One less complication. One less distraction from the career you’ve worked so hard to build. Yet you check your watch at 2:15, when he usually appears. You glance at the door whenever it opens. A few days turn into a week. Then two. Then three. You hate how much you notice.
The two of you aren’t anything. Not officially. You shouldn’t miss what never existed. Just conversations and shared spaces and almost-touches that you sometimes wish you could forget. But the museum feels wrong without him now. Too quiet, too empty. No, you tell yourself. It’s better this way.
Yet you find yourself lingering by the medical exhibit, then scolding yourself for the weakness. You straighten a placard that doesn’t need straightening. Dust an already clean display case.
“Waiting for your doctor?” one of your coworkers teases when she catches you there for the third time in a day.
“What? No,” you snap, then soften. “I mean, he’s not my doctor.” But the denial burns like a lie, though you’re not sure which part.
He comes back on a Wednesday, late afternoon light slicing through the windows like a blade. Your heart lurches violently in your chest the second he walks in.
“Hey,” you say, the word scraping your throat raw as you approach him. Anger pulses beneath your skin, but you suffocate it with the reminder that he owes you nothing. Not as a boyfriend. Not even as a friend. Yet the three weeks of his absence have carved a hollow space inside you that aches with every breath.
“You’ve been gone,” you say, each syllable tight as a wound spring.
“I know.” His blue eyes flash up to yours - electric, haunted - then away again, offering nothing more.
“Everything okay?” The question comes out softer, betraying you.
“Yeah.”
The lie hangs between you, toxic as gas. You cross your arms, studying the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “I thought you liked honesty?”
That ghost of a smile appears again - barely there, but real enough to make your stomach clench. “I do.”
“So, you want to try again, Dr. Langdon?” Your voice drops dangerously low.
He hesitates, something raw and desperate flickering across his face. For one breathless moment, you think he might crack open. Instead, he shakes his head slightly. “Just busy.” The words land like stones thrown into a pond. Heavy. Deliberate. Final.
“Okay,” you say, the surrender burning your tongue. Not because you believe him, but because the truth might hurt worse than the lie.
It happens a few days later. You slip into your usual spot beneath the harsh overhead lamps, near the sterile display of anatomical models in the medical exhibit. The glass cases gleam, and the faint hum of climate control and distant murmurs of visitors form a soft backdrop. The rhythm between you two has almost returned - light conversation, subtle glances, the quiet magnetic pull - but there’s an undercurrent you can’t ignore, as if an invisible boundary has been sketched in the air.
You steel yourself and lean forward. “Frank, why did you disappear before?” you ask, your voice low but steady.
He stays focused on the polished floor tiles. “I told you. Work got busy.”
You shake your head, shoulders stiff. “That’s not the real answer.”
He exhales, shoulders rising. “It’s the only one I have.”
You let out a slow breath, carefully smoothing away frustration. “Please don’t do that.”
He flashes a questioning look. “Do what?”
“Shut me out.” You keep your tone gentle.
His gaze snaps to yours - dark eyes blazing with something like regret. “I’m not -”
“You are,” you interrupt, softening your tone. “And I get it. But pretending you aren’t doesn’t help.”
A tight silence stretches between you, a taut wire. He rubs the back of his neck, then forces out a shaky breath. “This isn’t -” He pauses, jaw clenched. “I’m not good at this anymore.”
You let your expression melt into empathy. “What, talking?”
“Letting people in.” The words tumble out, raw and frank.
For a heartbeat you’re at a loss. Then you say the only thing that feels right. “You already did.”
He blinks, as though astonished by the notion. His eyes flick down, and when he meets yours again there’s a softness there, hesitant hope. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess I did.”
The certainty in his tone makes your pulse skip. You reach up unconsciously and tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You don’t talk about your life.”
He stills. The tension creeps into his jaw. “There’s… not much to talk about.”
You lean closer, voice firm but caring. “I know that’s not true.”
He closes his eyes, frustration flickering across his face. “I’m married,” he blurts, as though shocked by the admission himself.
“Oh,” you murmur, the pieces clicking into place: the distance, the careful restraint, the way he always seems half-turned, holding himself back. He’s never worn a ring, but trauma doctors often don’t, you remind yourself.
He waves a hand, distracted. “Technically, I’m still married,” he corrects. “I’m in the process of getting a divorce.”
“Okay…” you venture, heart fluttering. “Do you… want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” he says immediately. Then softer, as if surprised by his own tone, “Not because I don’t want to - but I don’t know how to say it without making it sound simpler than it was.”
“That’s fair.” You let the words hang, watch the tension seep out of his shoulders. Encouraged, you push a fraction further. “But you don’t have to simplify it. Just speak honestly.”
His eyes roam your face, vulnerable and uncertain. Finally he exhales. “I wasn’t good at being present. My work takes more from you than you ever expect. And one day you wake up and realize you’ve been choosing it over everything else, over and over.”
His voice is flat, without self-pity - just matter-of-fact.
“And she got tired of coming second,” you say softly. You slide your hand to rest on his forearm, gentle and supportive. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, Frank.”
He offers you a small, rueful smile. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t make me good at relationships either.”
“No,” you agree, your eyes warm. “But self-awareness is a start.”
He exhales, a humorless chuckle escaping him. “High praise.”
“It is,” you say, voice lighter now. “I’m very selective with compliments.” Your fingers squeeze his arm before dropping away, and you immediately miss the warmth of his skin beneath your palm. “Have you eaten?”
The question surprises even you. He tilts his head, studying you in the harsh museum light. “Not yet.”
You glance toward the exhibit exit, then back at him. “Um, there’s a café down the street - sandwiches are good.” He meets your eyes again, uncertainty softening into something like hope. “I mean, if you want.”
He hesitates, then nods. His lips curve upward in a tentative smile. “Okay,” he says finally. “Sounds great.”
Dinner is surprisingly easy. You slide into the burgundy pleather booth opposite him, the table’s candlelight dancing across your menus - menus you both abandon within minutes. Around you, the restaurant hums with clinking glasses and soft jazz, but in your corner the world contracts to just the two of you. Conversation unfurls as it always does - smooth in some spots, hesitating in others, each pause laden with unspoken thoughts.
“Wanna know a secret?” you ask, tearing the wrapper from your straw and flicking it like a tiny paper dart. It arcs through the dim light and bounces off his forehead. He blinks, then cracks the first genuine smile you’ve seen all evening, and your chest tugs in response.
“That sounds ominous,” he says, his eyes catching the flicker of flame as he watches you. He leans back, propping an elbow on the booth’s high backrest. “Should I be concerned?”
“Probably not. I actually think you’re gonna like it.”
“Alright,” he exhales, the single breath loosening tension in his shoulders. “Let’s hear it.”
You press your palms flat on the cool wood tabletop, adopting a solemn posture like a professor about to drop a bombshell. The overhead lamp pools soft light on your features. “I’m a doctor.”
The word hangs between you in the hush that follows; the waitress’s footsteps fade, the jazz turns muffled. His brow dips in thought, eyelids narrowing as if scanning your face for clues. “You’re a doctor,” he repeats, each syllable deliberate.
“Yep.”
Another beat of silence. “I feel like there’s a missing piece here.”
Holding his gaze, you let a half-smile bloom. “I’m a doctor of American history.”
His lips press together, then, with a theatrical huff, he gathers the discarded straw wrapper and catapults it back at you, where it lands on your plate with a soft thud. “That was so misleading.”
“It’s technically accurate,” you counter, tilting your head.
“That’s the most annoying kind of accuracy.” He shakes his head, amusement flickering at the corners of his mouth.
You can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips. “You didn’t ask for clarification.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask for clarification on that.”
“See, now you’re just making assumptions.”
His mouth quirks in a reluctant smile, the tension in his jaw easing. “You did that on purpose.”
“Obviously. The point is, you assumed I meant your kind of doctor.”
“Because that’s what people mean when they say that.”
“Not in my world.” You give him a playful wink.
He squints at you, amused and wary. “You’ve been waiting to use that on someone, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
At last, he laughs - a genuine, breathy sound that fills the space between your hearts. It’s brief and half-choked, but enough to send warmth spiraling through your stomach.
“Look, in all fairness,” you begin, sipping water through your straw and savoring the cool rush, “my dissertation was on medical practices in eighteenth-century military landscapes in North America.” You study his reaction, delighting in how his eyebrows shoot upward and his mouth parts in mock surprise. “Impressed yet?”
“Oh,” he murmurs, leaning forward until the candlelight softens the angles of his face. “I’ve been impressed for a while, doctor.”
You arch an eyebrow, fingertips brushing the table’s varnish. “You’re really gonna start calling me that now?”
“Absolutely, doc,” he teases, voice low and steady.
“You’re impossible, doctor,” you laugh, shaking your head as your shoulders shake with mirth.
“And yet,” he says, tone softening into something earnest beneath his teasing grin, “you invited me to dinner anyway.”
A hush settles over you both. You trace a finger along the wood grain of the tabletop, heart beat synchronizing with the flicker of the candle flame. “Yeah,” you admit, voice quiet but unwavering. “I did.”
Frank walks you back to your car after dinner, the museum’s shadows stretching across the empty parking lot. The night air crackles between you.
“I can’t be in a relationship,” he blurts out, voice raw.
You freeze mid-step, pulse hammering in your throat. “I...wasn’t asking for a relationship?”
“I know.” His fingers rake through his hair as he paces, shoes scraping concrete. When he stops, his eyes burn into yours.
You cross your arms against the sudden chill, studying the tension coiled in his shoulders. “Then what is it you think I’m asking for?”
His Adam's apple drags down his throat. “Something I’m worried I won’t be able to give you.”
The words slam into your chest, stealing your breath despite having no right to hurt this much. “Because you’re still married?”
“No,” he answers, the word like flint striking steel. “Not just because of that.”
“Then help me understand.” You’re almost pleading now.
“I don’t trust my own track record,” he whispers, voice breaking.
Something inside you fractures at his confession. “You think you’re going to mess this up.”
“I think,” his voice drops to a dangerous hush, “that I’ve already proven I’m capable of destroying everything I touch.”
You step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. “Capable doesn’t mean inevitable.”
“Sometimes it feels like it.” His voice breaks on the last word.
“I think you’re punishing yourself for something that hasn’t happened yet.”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, the words torn from somewhere deep.
“Then don’t,” you challenge.
“It’s not that simple.”
“No,” you agree, heart thundering. “But it’s also not as impossible as you’re making it.”
He stares at the pavement, rain-slicked and reflecting the streetlights like scattered stars, his knuckles white in his pockets.
“Frank, look at me.” Your voice drops to a command. His eyes snap to yours, dark and desperate. “You think this is a risk, and I understand that. But life is full of risks. And you’ll never know which ones were worth taking if you don’t try.”
He closes the distance between you in one violent step, his hand coming up to grip the side of your face - possessive, desperate, like he’s drowning and you’re his only lifeline.
“Okay,” he says, voice hoarse. And then he crashes his lips against yours.
The click of the deadbolt echoes in the quiet hallway, a sharp, final sound that seems to vibrate against your ribs. You turn to face Frank, your back pressing against the cool wood of your apartment door. The air in the hallway is stale, recycled building air, but inside, you know it smells like jasmine and the old books you keep neatly organized on your shelves. Frank stands close, closer than he has all night, his presence a sudden, overwhelming heat that blocks out the rest of the world.
His blue eyes are searching yours, darting down to your lips and back up again, filled with a hunger that looks terrifyingly new. You remember the way he kissed you by your car, hesitant at first, then desperate, like a man surfacing after years of underwater. That was the moment you decided to bring him here. Now, the reality of him - Dr. Frank Langdon, the man who has spent weeks alluding about his failed marriage over brief conversations - fills your doorway.
“You sure about this?” Frank asks. His voice is rough, scraping low in his throat. He lifts a hand, lets it hover near your waist, and then drops it, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.
You reach out, taking his fist and unfurling his fingers, interlacing them with yours. His palm is damp, sweating with a nervousness that makes your chest ache. You pull him toward you, guiding him over the threshold. “I’m sure,” you whisper, closing the door behind you.
The apartment is dark, lit only by the streetlamps filtering through the blinds in long, white stripes across the floor. You lead him to the living room, the carpet soft under your heels. When you stop, he’s right there, towering over you. He isn’t overly muscled, but you can feel the solid weight of him, the strength in his shoulders and the firmness of his chest as he crowds your space. He smells like the musk of his aftershave and the lingering scent of the whiskey he drank at dinner.
“I haven’t…” Frank starts, then stops, shaking his head. He looks down at your hand in his, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. “It’s been a long time. I mean, I haven’t been with anyone since my wife.”
You step into him, eliminating the last inch of space, and press your body against the length of his. You feel the hard ridge of his cock against your hip, an undeniable betrayal of his insecurity. “Shut up, Frank,” you murmur, leaning up to capture his mouth.
The kiss isn’t like the one outside your car. It’s messy and wet, teeth clashing briefly as you both scramble to take the lead. His hands finally settle on your waist, gripping you tight enough to bruise, pulling you flush against him. You sigh into his mouth tasting the desperation on his tongue. He’s tentative, exploring your mouth with a reverence that makes your knees weak, but you can feel the restraint in his muscles, the way he holds himself back.
You break the kiss, breathless, and reach for the hem of your dress. In one fluid motion, you pull it over your head and drop it on the floor. The cool air raises bumps on your skin, but Frank’s gaze is like a physical touch, scorching as it rakes over your black lace bra and matching underwear. His breath hitches, a sharp intake of air that sounds almost like a sob.
“God, look at you,” he breathes. He rashes out, his hand trembling slightly as he traces the strap of your bra. His fingers are warm, calloused from years of medical work, precise and gentle.
“Your turn,” you say. You start unbuttoning his shirt, your fingers working quickly down the front. You push the fabric apart, revealing the dusting of dark hair on his chest and the skin flushed with heat. You run your hands over his pecs, feeling the thud of his heart hammering against your palms. It’s racing, a frantic rhythm that matches your own.
Frank shrugs the shirt off, letting it fall. He looks at you, uncertainty warring with lust in his blue eyes, so you take his hand and place it firmly on your breast. He squeezes, experimentally at first, then harder when you arch your back and moan. His thumb finds your nipple through the lace, circling it until it pebbles into a tight nub. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to your clit, making you throb. You can feel the wetness soaking into your underwear, a slick heat that demands attention.
You reach for his belt, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet room. You unbuckle it, unzip his pants, and push them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, thick and hard, curving upward. Frank kicks his shoes off and steps out of the pile of clothes, standing naked before you.
He looks vulnerable, exposed, but the sight of him makes your mouth water. You drop to your knees, the carpet cushioning them. You wrap a hand around his shaft, feeling the velvety skin over the hard core. Frank gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Wait,” he chokes out. “You don’t have to -”
“Trust me, I want to,” you cut him off. You lean in and swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salty, bitter drop of fluid. His hands fly to your head, tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding on.
You take him into your mouth, sliding your lips down his length until he hits the back of your throat. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, and bob your head. Frank groans, a long, low sound that reverberates through his entire body. His insecurity seems to evaporate, replaced by instinct. His hips begin to move, a shallow thrusting motion that matches the rhythm of your mouth.
“Fuck,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “You mouth…it’s so good.”
You hum around his dick, the vibration making him shudder. You reach between your own legs, rubbing your clit through the lace. The tightness begins to build in your belly, but you want him inside you when you let go. You pull off him with a wet pop and look up. His eyes are dark, blown wide with lust, his chest heaving.
“Get on the couch,” you say, standing up and tugging off your underwear.
Frank doesn’t hesitate this time. He sits back on the sofa, spreading his legs. You straddle him, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs. You grab his cock, lining him up with your entrance. You’re dripping wet, ready for him, and as you sink down, the stretch is almost comforting. He fills you completely, inch by thick inch, until he’s buried to the hilt.
You throw your head back, a cry tearing from your throat. Frank’s hands grip your ass, fingers digging into your flesh. He holds you there, his hips twitching upward, seeking friction.
“Ride me,” he growls, the command surprising you with its dominance.
You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move. You rise up until just the tip is inside you, then slam back down, taking him deep. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, lewd and rhythmic. Frank meets your thrusts, his hips lifting off the couch. He’s found his rhythm now, the awkwardness gone, replaced by a raw, primal need.
He leans forward, capturing a nipple in his mouth, biting down gently before soothing it with his tongue. The dual sensation of his cock pounding your pussy and his mouth on your breast sends your hurtling toward the edge.
“You feel so fucking tight,” Frank rasps against your skin. “I’m not gonna last long.”
“Don’t have to,” you gasp, riding him harder and faster. The pressure in your belly snaps, and your orgasm floods over you. Your walls clamp down around his cock, rippling and spasming. You cry out his name, your vision blurring at the edges.
Frank groans, his grip on your ass tightening almost painfully. He thrusts up twice more, then stills, burying himself deep as he finishes. He collapses back against the couch, pulling you down with him, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
For a long moment, the only sound is your combined breathing, ragged and loud in the aftermath. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, slowing gradually. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, soft and lingering.
“Okay,” he breathes, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “I think I remember how to do this.”
You smile against his sweat-slicked skin, feeling the weight of him still inside you. “Good,” you whisper. “Because we’re just getting started.”
You've been seeing Frank for six amazing months - six months of late-night whispered confessions over wine that left crimson stains on both your lips, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine. He's told you everything: about his two children whose photos line his wallet, about his months in rehab, about the sobriety bracelet he never takes off. You've memorized the way his voice cracks when he speaks of his past, and you treasure the vulnerability in his eyes when he trusts you with these pieces of himself.
One Friday morning, you walk into the museum's frontier display, the scent of floor polish hanging in the climate-controlled air. You stand near the back, watching a sea of fidgeting third-graders in matching blue school t-shirts. Their sneakers squeak against the floor as they crane their necks toward your museum educator, whose animated voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling while she gestures at a diorama of pioneer life frozen behind glass.
As you pass the mahogany bench near the entrance, a snippet of quiet conversation from two of the parents cuts through the cacophony of children's voices like a knife, freezing you mid-stride, your clipboard clutched suddenly tight against your chest.
I don't know, Linda. I really think I made a mistake," a woman's voice says, soft enough that you shouldn't be able to hear it over the children, yet somehow it reaches you with perfect clarity. She rebraids a little girl's hair with gentle fingers you hate yourself for noticing. "Seeing him with the kids... it's different now. I'm rethinking the whole divorce thing. Maybe we can fix it."
The woman wears a designer coat that probably cost more than your monthly rent, a pink Birkin bag at her side. You want to find her ridiculous - this polished creature amid sticky-fingered children - but there's something in her careful movements that makes your chest tighten.
Your gaze drops to the sticker on her chest: “Hello, my name is…Abby Langdon.
Langdon.
You freeze as a little boy with a missing front tooth breaks away from the line and runs toward her, tugging at her coat with the easy familiarity of belonging.
Mom! Mom!" he yells, bouncing on his heels. "Can we stop by the hospital to see Dad after? I wanna show him the miniature cannon I bought with my allowance!"
Abby looks down at her son, her expression softening. She brushes his hair back, her hand lingering on his cheek in a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache with something you can't name.
"Of course, sweetie," she says. "We'll go see Daddy. He'll love that."
Daddy. Frank.
The realization floods you with heat, then cold. This woman with gentle hands who clearly adores her child - this is the woman from Frank's stories? The one who abandoned him when he needed her most? You search her face for cruelty but find only tired eyes and worry lines. She twists a diamond wedding band - the one he must have given her - and you wonder if he chose it with the same thoughtfulness he chose your birthday earrings, or if he was a different man then.
You want to hate her. You need to hate her. But watching her smooth her son's cowlick with such care makes something inside you splinter. You want to flee; you want to march over and claim what's yours; you want to ask her what went wrong. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and you decide to take a half day, claiming a migraine that's starting to become real.
You're pacing your living room floor, your bare feet wearing a path in the plush cream carpet, the adrenaline from the museum still curdling into a sharp, jagged jealousy that sits like broken glass beneath your ribs. Three quick knocks echo through your apartment - that familiar pattern - and you know it's Frank. When you wrench open the door, he looks tired, the skin beneath his eyes bruised with exhaustion, but he offers you that crooked, boyish smile that usually melts your resolve like butter on hot toast.
"Hey, you," he says, dropping his weathered backpack on the floor near your entry table with a soft thud. "Rough day?"
You don't smile back. You cross your arms over your chest, your fingernails digging half-moons into the soft flesh of your forearms. "I saw her today."
Frank unbuttons his dark coat to reveal his familiar black scrubs. "Saw who?"
"Abby." The name tastes like poison in your mouth, bitter and metallic. "At the museum. She was chaperoning your son’s field trip."
Frank freezes, the color draining from his face, leaving him ashen. He opens his mouth, then closes it, his blue eyes searching yours with the panicked darting of a cornered animal. "You... you met Abby?"
"I didn't meet her, but I heard her, Frank," you snap, taking a step closer until you can smell his familiar cologne mingling with hospital antiseptic. "I heard her telling her friend she's rethinking the divorce. I heard your son ask to go to the hospital to see Daddy."
Frank sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, suddenly looking older than he is. "What? I didn’t know they came in. I had non-stop traumas all day,” he sighs, before adding, almost to himself, “I didn’t even know he had a field trip.” He looks into your eyes then. “Look, Abby...she's been confused lately. She's just…she gets nostalgic. But it's over. We're done."
"Are you sure?" You challenge him, stepping into his personal space, your chest nearly touching his, forcing him to look at you. "Because she seems to think there's something left to fix. She's wearing the ring, Frank. She's wearing your ring."
He reaches for your hands. You jerk them away, tucking them behind your back. His fingers hover in the empty air between you.
"I don't want her," he says, voice dropping to that register that makes your skin prickle. "I want you."
"Prove it." The words escape as barely a whisper. Your pulse hammers in your throat, behind your eyes. "Right now."
Frank's pupils dilate until only a thin ring of blue remains. A muscle in his jaw twitches. His chest rises and falls once, twice.
He lunges forward. His fingers dig into your waist, yanking you against the solid wall of his chest. His mouth collides with yours, teeth catching your bottom lip. You taste coffee and mint. Your fingers find his scrub top, pulling it quickly off and over his head, palm flattening against the heat of his chest, feeling his heartbeat race beneath your fingertips.
Frank's mouth breaks from yours. "Fuck," he mutters, his breath hot against your lips. He spins you around, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades, guiding you down the hall into your bedroom.
You fall onto the mattress, and he's on top of you before the springs stop creaking, knees bracketing your hips. His fingers fumble with your blouse buttons, trembling slightly. He tugs sharply, and tiny pearlescent discs scatter across the carpet with soft plinks. His teeth graze the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, then bites down. The copper taste of adrenaline floods your mouth.
Your spine arches off the bed as your ankles lock behind his back, heels digging into the top of his ass. You twist your fingers through his hair and wrench his head up until his eyes meet yours.
"Look at me," you whisper, tightening your grip until he winces. "Only me."
He growls, a low sound in his throat, and yanks your skirt up around your hips. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, not bothering to take them all the way off, just enough to expose you. He undoes his belt with a sharp clink, the metal buckle jingling as he frees himself.
He doesn't wait. He lines himself up and thrusts into you, hard and deep, filling you in one stroke that steals the air from your lungs.
"God, yes," he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. "You feel so good. So much better."
He sets a punishing rhythm, driving into you with a force that knocks the headboard into the wall. The friction is intense, your body stretching to accommodate him, slick and ready. You meet him thrust for thrust, your nails raking down his back, leaving red welts on his skin.
"Look at me, Frank?" you pant, the words tearing from your throat between gasps. "Tell me who -"
"You," he grits out, his hands gripping your thighs hard. "Only wanna fuck you."
He shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes tingle. Your head falls back, a broken moan escaping your lips. The jealousy is still there, a dark edge to your arousal, but it’s transforming into triumph. He’s here. He’s inside you. He’s not thinking about her; he’s lost in you.
"Say it again," you command, tightening your muscles around him, feeling him twitch inside you.
"I want you," he gasps, his rhythm faltering slightly as he gets closer. "Only you."
The spring in your belly is ready to snap. You reach between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, rubbing frantically to push yourself over the edge.
"Cum for me," you tell him. "Fill me up."
Frank lets out a strangled cry and buries himself deep, his hips jerking as he spills inside you. The feeling of his heat flooding you triggers your own release, and you shatter, your body clamping down around him, waves of pleasure crashing over you.
You collapse together, skin sliding against skin. Frank's weight pins you to the mattress, his breath hot and damp against your neck. His heart hammers against your ribs—yours or his, impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. The ceiling fan clicks with each rotation, marking seconds in the silence broken only by your synchronized gasping.
He lifts his head, blue eyes locking with yours. The crease between his brows has smoothed away, replaced by something steady and unwavering. "I proved it?" The corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing that chipped incisor you've memorized.
Your fingertips find the raised lines on his back, still warm to the touch. "Yeah," you whisper, pulling him down until his lips hover a breath away from yours. This time when you kiss him, it's without teeth - slow, deep, deliberate. "You proved it."
Mel and Frank stared at each other, the air in the breakroom heavy and tense and somehow completely comfortable all at the same time. There was a weight to the space between them, and Mel knew that if she crossed it, something would change. She didn’t know what, exactly, and she wasn’t ready to name it anyway.
Frank came back. He was here. He saw her, and he listened to her, just like he had on that first day. That’s all Mel really cared about after the absolutely insane day she’d experienced. It wasn’t even over yet—there was charting to do, patients to hand off, messes from the day to clean up.
There were things to figure out. A quiet apartment to face. Interactions and words exchanged to go over and over again until they made sense in Mel’s mind. Maybe.
Yet here Frank was, offering Mel the one thing she hadn’t realized she needed.
Her first instinct was to gently brush it off, of course. She didn’t need a hug. She could handle what happened. She was a doctor and a caretaker and she’d been handling things since she was twenty years old.
And yet.
Frank offered to hug her and there was nothing Mel wanted more in that moment. There was so much she hadn’t let herself want, so much she’d thought about and pushed aside, and she’d been smacked in the face with that realization today. Mel was trying hard to push it down, given that she was still at work. It was easier to go after Frank and check in on him than it was to face her own feelings about the day
Frank saw right through her, as he always did. They hadn’t even known each other for a full twenty-four hours yet. He had this way of looking at her, though, a way of seeing right through her to the parts that she tried so hard to hide.
Even when he didn’t get right, he still tried. Mel couldn't remember the last time someone tried with her. Becca knew her, of course. Knew her and loved her and cared about her, because they were sisters. Mel thought they were best friends, too, and maybe they were. But maybe that meant something different to Becca than it did to Mel.
Having different priorities from people her age meant that Mel wasn’t involved with the same things as her peers. And for a long time, she had convinced herself that she was okay with that. She got to be a doctor, after all. That had been a risky choice to make, and it was one of the only times that Mel bet on herself. Most of the time, Mel believed she made the right decision.
It wasn’t any surprise that Mel questioned that path today. The deposition, Becca’s visit… it was a perfect storm designed to knock Mel off kilter. And there Frank was, checking in on her, sitting with her, giving her time. The least she could do was return the favor.
If he was offering a hug—an embrace, a connection—Mel certainly wasn’t going to turn it down. She wanted it. It felt good to finally let herself have something she wanted.
So she stood the same time Frank did, already moving towards him as he opened his arms. Mel tucked herself against his chest and immediately worried that it was too much, too soon, but Frank was already closing his arms around her, one hand on the small of her back to press her closer to him. The other came up to cup the back of her head, just like he had that morning.
Mel closed her eyes and linked her arms loosely around his waist, pressing her nose to his chest and inhaling. He smelled like hand sanitizer and sweat and something woodsy, a scent that didn’t overwhelm her nose or make her skin itchy. She was close enough to smell him. He was touching her. Mel felt like she had to pinch herself, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
She didn’t. She breathed in again and felt Frank slide his arm around her waist, anchoring her to him with a hand on her hip. The hand on the back of her head slid down, tracing over the bumps of her braid. His fingers reached the end of her braid, toying with the band for a moment before he slowly moved his hand back up.
Frank kept up the soothing motion and Mel leaned further into him, the tension disappearing from her body until she was practically smushed up against him. As he moved up and down her braid, Mel could feel Frank working those long, dexterous fingers in between the plaits, massaging at the base of her skull and the back of her neck. Pressed up against him as she was, she could feel the tension leaving his body, until the only thing holding them up was each other.
She had no idea how long they were standing there, holding on to each other. How long they’d been in the breakroom while the rest of their coworkers tried to clean up the mess from PTMC’s cyberattack. And really, Mel didn’t care. She was grateful for the few peaceful minutes she got with Frank, and she wasn’t going to question the fact that she got to have this moment. Not after months of not knowing anything when it came to him.
Having Frank hold her against him like this, with his fingers in her braid and his heart beating under her ear, helped Mel to believe that it was all real. That she hadn’t imagined any of this. The tips of his fingers rubbed over the bumps at the top of her spine, curling through the loops of her hair. She rolled her forehead against his collar bone, marveling at the solid strength of his body against hers. He wouldn’t let her fall, she was sure of it.
Mel didn’t have to second guess the trust she placed in Frank. He’d already shown her that he deserved it. He’d shown her on that very first day.
She felt him clear his throat more than she heard it. He didn’t pull back, exactly, but he did tilt his head down so he could speak into her ear. His left hand remained tangled in her braid.
“Thanks, Mel.” His voice was a deep rumble in his chest, and Mel shivered as she felt it against her own. His arm tightened around her waist. “There’s… there’s more going on. It’s not just… this.”
Unwilling to pull away just yet, Mel instead titled her head up so she could see his face. He was looking down at her, his eyes so blue and intent on her face. “Okay.”
“I want to tell you,” he implored. He was begging her to understand, but there was a sadness there, one that told Mel he expected her to push him away. “I just…”
“Okay,” Mel repeated. “So you’ll tell me. When you’re ready.” He was back. They had time.
Frank stared down at her for another long moment before he nodded his head. “Right. Sure.” And then he was tugging her close to him, hugging her tightly for another beat before he took a deep breath and began to pull away.
He angled back, looking down so he could concentrate on working his long fingers free from her hair. The tips of his ears turned red and the flush worked its way down his neck when his ring got tangled. Mel reached up to help, but he made a noise in the back of his throat that made her still immediately.
Frank was achingly gentle as he carefully untangled her hair. Mel remained still, selfishly drinking him in. It was a treat to be able to watch him so closely, see him so focused on taking care of her.
Once she was free, Frank ran his hand over her braid. “I messed it up,” he murmured.
You know its hard trying to come up with historical inaccuracies from a country you don't really know the history of...
Well he's a start on Frank finding a Mel in the wild.
Fort Pitt Wild?
-----
Some days just fucking sucked. Post a bad therapy session with Abby. The outcome of which had both spouses storming off in opposite directions. His mother in law was going to love this. Frank wandered idly around just trying to find some peace. A rare commodity these days. Yes he lived for chaos and thinking on his feet. He always had. But there was always that need for just a flash of quiet.
To simply be.
Of course he found himself outside Fort Pitt. Memories of his childhood immediately flooding back. Joy in it’s purest form. Abby hated the museum. She hated nearly all museums. Unless they were modern art. Which did not speak to him at all. The Pittsburgh Glass Centre was pretty bad ass. The injuries: intense.
Well Abby was already mad at him. And she wanted the house to herself so he was adhering to he wants. In the way that would annoy her the most.
She never really got into history. At best tolerating it. But she didn’t have that curiousity about the past like he did. Only looking forward. But Frank was taught that looking back was just as important.
Wasn’t that the point of fucking therapy???
But that seemed to just be escalating hostilities.
Well it wasn’t helping. Some of the peace and quiet he was looking for settled over him as he entered the museum. Snap judgments about people. Since college he’d felt the confusion and disbelief at his real nerd leanings. Unfortunately he had taken those judgement on board and adopted a rather particular personality.
Bit by bit he was letting that shit go. A largish crowd walked past. One of the tours. He’d seen it enough to be able to recite in his sleep. Apparently during his intern year: with all the stress he did. So he always wandered. Sometimes for hours. Kids were too young for this yet. He prayed at least one of them would love history half as much as he did.
A flash of blonde grabbed his attention.
Mel? Nah not every blonde was her. He turned back to one of the diorama’s. But his brain wasn’t focused. Something niggling at him.
Oh god he had to double check who this person was. Proof it wasn’t Mel. Seemingly the one person who always saw the best in him. And made him maybe believe it too.
Person on the tail end of the group. Hair in loose waves. Blonde was almost the right shade. But then again he rarely saw Mel outside of fluorescent lighting. This woman was on the outside of the group. Families and couples. Not many individuals in this batch.
He had no intent on gatecrashing the group. Especially as the tour guide got the year of Patrick Henry’s letter wrong. 1877? What the fuck. 1777. The blonde woman huffed a little at that proclamation. Turning and leaving the group. If he wasn’t a happily married man he’d have fallen in love.
Her eyes didn’t land on him as she walked away from the group. ‘1877? Is she mad or just stupid?’
Okay this was super super fun. Even if I have no idea how to write a six year old.
And I couldn't help but add the Kingdon twist. It called for it.
---------------------
Dennis bit down on a expletive. He couldn't swear in front of the very apologetic 6 year old. With an empty bottle of grape juice in his hands.
Why was it always him?
'I'm sorry!' Tanner's bottom lip quivered. His big blue eyes swimming with tears. Who could be mad at that face? Adorable.
'It's okay buddy. How about you go get some kitchen towels and I change.' Dennis squatted down and held his fist out. Tanner immediately brightened. Knocking his knuckles against Dennis's and making a little explosion noise as he wiggled his fingers. Dennis mimicked him, a step behind.
The young Langdon grinned even brighter. An exact replica of his Dads. A twinge of guilt surged in Dennis's gut at the thought.
But that was why he was babysitting. Trying to make amends. Doctor Langdon had been back a year. And Dennis hadn't exactly... been cool about it. He'd listened to Trinity more than he should've done. Yes Doctor Langdon had treated Trinity poorly that first day in The Pitt. Lashing out at her because she had figured him out. But he'd been different since coming back. Not just sober. There was a certain stability to him. One that calm from figuring something big out.
Dennis had been standoffish with him. Not going to him for advise, or when he needed help. Not loudly but he'd made his allegiances clear.
He quickly exchanged his t-shirt. Placing the soiled, sticky garment in a plastic bag. It was sad really how he had to be prepared for this. That he was always prepared for it.
Last week there had been... an incident. Trinity had made a serious mistake. Misdiagnosing a middle aged woman with an anxiety. Langdon had caught the patient before she crashed from a myocardial infarction. He'd been really nice about it. Telling Trinity it had been sheer blind luck. Just happened to see the case on the nurses desk. And just had a gut feeling.
Trinity had lost her mind. In the staff room. And only with Dennis. So they'd bitched and moaned. Completely missing Dr Kings entrance into the room.
Dennis had quipped about standards slipping in medicine. King had cleared her throat.
The housemates had frozen at the noise. Mel King was always positive. Bright and cheery. But the icy stare was anything but.
'Need I remind you Dr Santos that Dr Langdon saved your patient. He didn't make a big deal out of it. Even tried to explain his experience of a similar misdiagnosis? I understand you two got off on the wrong foot. And that's hard to get over Dr. Santos. But its in your own best interest to deal with it. Maturely. Something your not exactly known for.' It wasn't often Trinity didn't have a reply. A retort or a barb. 'Dr Langdon is trying to makes amends to you for his past actions. Even I can see that.'
Dr King's frown deepened as her still cold stare landed on him. 'As for you Dr. Whitaker. It would be lovely to hear your own opinions on something. And not just imitating your housemate. That's just boring.'
Obviously whatever she had wanted in the room wasn't needed anymore. Or the interaction had put her off. She froze at the door, turning back to them both with a disappointed look on her face. 'Just give him a chance. He's accepted the shit been thrown at him with a lot more dignity that most would be able to. Just try.'
Yeah her words at hit home. Trinity had acted like it didn't bother her at all. Her typical cool blasé attitude a mask. He knew her well enough to know when she was hiding from her feelings.
The same ones he was feeling. Shame, guilt. And the innate knowledge he'd been a dick.
So the next day when Langdon had had an family emergency. Taylor, his youngest had broken her arm. The senior resident had needed someone to mind his eldest. Dennis without even thinking had volunteered.
The relief in Langdon's face. His voice. It was visceral. 'Thank you so much Dr. Whitaker. I will cover any shifts you need.' Dennis wasn't going to call in that chit. This was his start of making amends.
Dr King's stony attitude had melted. At least towards Dennis. Trinity was still recovering from the well earned dent to her ego. It would take her a while to begrudgingly accept fault. But she would. Dennis would make sure of it. They had both been extremely immature.
So here he was. Baby sitting. Besides, Tanner was a delightful young boy. Bright, funny and hugely empathetic. It wasn't a hard job. With four brothers he'd been expecting worse.
But Tanner had spent the first hour asking detailed questions about his Dad at work. Which had made Dennis feel even worse. Then had decided to make his sister a get well card and a bracelet designed to fit over a cast.
He'd learned more about Langdon from his son than he'd learned in a year. But that was because he was actually engaging with someone who loved him. He was a devoted father. One who let his son be whoever he wanted to be. Dennis had assumed that Langdon would be the distant, alpha type of Dad. Distant with strict expectations of typical gender roles.
He should have known better.
The man proudly wore a bracelet made by his kids on a daily basis. Panicked when he thought he'd lost it. And showed off his successes no matter how insignificant to anyone who would listen.
Dennis's own biases had bit him in the ass.
'Do you want a bracelet?' Mid clean up, those crystal clear eyes stared at him. With that childish love Dennis missed.
'You want to make me one?' Tanner nodded enthusiastically.
'Dad says you're really good.' Dennis froze at the words. Mostly oblivious to the growing tackiness on his hands. Dr Langdon had mentioned him?
Tanner continued, missing his stillness. 'He said the thing with the rat was awesome. Why was there a rat? And what did you do? Dad wouldn't tell me. Was it gross?' Typical 6 year old. Wanting the gory details. He was going to assume that Langdon didn't want his kid learning about how Dennis had snapped its neck. So he opted to talk about growing up on the farm.
Dinner: dino nuggets and fries. Dennis figured the Langdons wouldn't mind. They'd had a bad day. But as time wore on, Dennis couldn't help but notice Tanner's increasing anxiety. Moving nonstop. Eyes glancing at the door. Fighting his growing tiredness.
'I'm going to call your Dad, think your parents will want to talk to you.' Dennis squeezed his shoulder. Trying to bolster him. But the door opened just as he unlocked his phone.
'MOMMY DADDY!' Tanner bolted for the door. Dennis dove to stop the glass full of grape juice from flying to the floor. Only a few drops hit him this time.
'Buddy!' Two tired adult voices and a third smaller girlish voice. A family reunion. Dennis didn't intrude.
'Dr Whitaker.' Langdon entered the kitchen, looking exhausted. Emotionally, not just physically. The three voices moved above them, growing quieter. 'Thank you so much for offering to mind Tanner. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.'
Dennis shook his hand. Langdon gripping his with both of his hands.
'I'm glad I could help Dr. Langdon.' Langdon sighed in relief. Pressing his hand to his temple. His ring finger bare. Dennis couldn't help but frown at the bare finger. There had been rumours swirling since Langdon had come back. But no proof just hearsay. Langdon noticed the look. Of course. He might be many things, not all of them good. But Dennis knew that he was really observant. Hence why he'd saved that patient.
Langdon looked at him with a rueful grin. 'By all means use this information to win the pool. But I expect a cut. It's amicable. A long time coming.' Dennis wasn't entirely sure he was joking. He wasn't going to lie, he was tempted to use this information to unfairly win the pool. Money was always nice.
'I'm sorry.'
'Ah.' Langdon waved him off. 'Not your fault. There's a lot of boring relationship shit that you don't care about. My addiction was the last straw. But not the reason for the break. So that won't be on Santos.' Langdon raised his eyebrows. A slight smirk on his lips. Ah so he knew.
Dr King must have had words. Or he was a man with eyes and sense.
'I mean yeah. I'm sorry your marriage is ending but I'm more sorry that I didn't give you a chance this past year. You've come back from something most people wouldn't. And you came back to the Pitt. I wouldn't have the strength to do it. It's admirable. I also took on Trinity's view. And I shouldn't have. Her issues with you are her own.' Langdon winced at the name drop. There was no malice or anger in his face. Just regret and shame.
'Dr King was right. I need to stand by my own opinions.' Something flittered in those bright blue eyes. It wasn't Dennis's business what it meant. 'She did tell you right?' Langdon opened his mouth, letting out a weird noise.
Clearly he was going to deny it but thought the better of it. 'Yeah she mentioned it. I don't think I've ever seen her so angry.' He ruffled his hair. 'I don't blame you. My treatment of Santos was unacceptable. For the most part.' Dennis raised an eyebrow. He wanted to jump to his friends defence but Dr King was right. He needed to listen to Langdon and make his own judgement.
'She has everything she needs to be great. But she needs the humility to know when you need help and the sense to follow protocols will save her 100 times more than it'll hinder her.' Langdon's face contorted. 'She's getting better but as someone who was just like her. ... I want her to get there so much faster.'
That Dennis could respect. There was also something in his voice that demanded to be believed. 'You were like that?'
Langdon laughed. 'Some would argue I still am. It's a lifelong struggle. Probably why I was so hard on her. Also I knew she'd caught me out. I was terrified, backed into a corner. And I did was all scared people do. I lashed out at her.'
Dennis shoved his hands into his scrub pants pockets. 'I am still sorry for how I've treated you. It wasn't fair. And it couldn't have been good for you. You've always treated me with respect. All of us. No matter how many times I got covered in crap. You never really made a mockery out of me. I appreciate that. I won't make that mistake again. So I apologise for my behaviour Dr Langdon.'
'Please call me Frank.' Dennis grabbed his backpack and jacket. Dr Langdon, Frank ignored all his protests and ordered him an uber. The least he could do. Frank laughed again, shaking his head. 'God knows how I'm going to thank Mel.'
Dennis turned thoughtful. 'Well if it works on Trinity.... well then I don't know how anyone could. She was really scary.'
'Scary?'
'Terrifying.'
Frank's head bobbed in thought. 'Kinda wished I seen it.'
Without a single rational, reasonable, self protective thought Dennis spoke 'I'm sure you will.' There was a beat of silence. Frank's face shocked before he burst out laughing.
'You know what I am sure I will. She scared Santos?' Frank scratched his scalp muttering under his breath. Dennis wasn't supposed to catch it. He tried to miss but he still caught the 'I bet it's fucking hot.'
That information he wasn't going to betray. Beside a blind man could see the undercurrent between those two. Except for Robby. And Trinity. But they probably just wanted to act like Langdon didn't exist.
Frank stared at his watch, wincing at the time. 'Sorry for having kept you so long. Again thank you for offering. It really means a lot to me.'
'Tanner was easy to mind.' Frank stared at the dining room table with the bracelet making kit.
'I can tell you made an impression. Tanner doesn't make those friendship bracelets for just anyone.' While his relationship with Langdon had turned to the positive. Dennis bit back a joke about how Mel had one. Best not to jump the gun.
He'd just keep that as an ace for the next betting pool.
He may be a farm boy but he knew how to play the game.
The picnic table that Frank and Mel were sitting at stretched between them like an ocean of silence.
He hadn't spoken for a minute. Actually, he hadn't even moved. His hands were clasped on the table and he was trying really, really hard not to think about anything besides the patterns on the wooden grain in front of him, which was difficult not only because of their current circumstances but also because the plank of wood where he decided to rest his hands was alarmingly sticky. Mel, in the meantime, had been cocking her head back and forth while glancing at him and then quickly looking away, opening and closing her mouth like a fish and occasionally offering a thoughtful “hm”.
Eventually, he squinted and said, "That was weird, right?"
"Yes,” she agreed, sitting up straighter at the sound of his voice, “that was super weird."
Frank sat up a little, too - mostly to pretend that things were normal again but also because his back was starting to twinge from slouching so low - and then ran a hand through his hair. "Y'know, you'd - you’d think they'd advertise that sort of thing better on the sign..."
"That's exactly what I was thinking!"
"I mean, how hard would it be to write something like... 'warning, ye who order this drink: it gets horny.'"
Mel shot a look over her shoulder to make sure Tanner and Penny hadn't crept up behind them. Which was good, because Frank hadn't looked at anything but the table since he sat down two minutes ago and for all he knew they could've been swallowed by the green and yellow wooden dragon they were climbing on. When she looked back at him, it was with a lot more concern than the situation probably called for, but he still appreciated it. "Do you want to talk to someone about it? Like - file a complaint, o-or something?"
"No, it's fine." Frank flipped up his eye patch and scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's my fault. And maybe I should've suspected that ordering "big boy grog" when everything else on the menu was labelled "beer" and "wine" was going to be a... a different experience."
"Well, there was "good girl mead"..."
Frank lurched forward in his seat the way he would’ve if someone punched him in the gut and hoped she didn’t pick up on it. "Yup. Thanks for the reminder."
"You know..." Mel leaned forward, too. "It's alright if you feel, um, violated or something? I mean, I-I know you don’t want to complain or anything, but still, that was... really weird."
Without her glasses on and with her hair pinned back from her forehead, Mel's face was so open and earnest that he felt like laughing, but he didn't, because he knew she would be hurt if she thought he was laughing at her. “Nah,” he said, waving his hand. “I’m a… I’m a big boy, right? I can handle it.”
“You’re sure that you’re alright?”
“Promise, Mel, I’m fine.”
He wasn’t lying. He was fine. Actually, according to the tent in his pants, he was fucking swell. He hadn’t felt so embarrassed about a boner since his mom’s friend Brenda made him a martini at her poolside bar for his 18th birthday. “I’m from Canada,” she said. As she handed the glass to him, she added, “Which means that, at 18, you’re legal.” He finished the martini in one sip and then insisted on diving into the pool after putting the glass down so he could one-up Brian’s swan dive, but the real reason was that he wanted to hug the edge of the pool and smother his dick against the concrete wall until the little demon in his swim trunks drowned.
He didn’t know what was most embarrassing about this one, though. That he had ordered it in the first place without putting two and two together - he was supposed to be smart, wasn’t he, and hadn't he watched a million videos this week to prepare him for what the faire would be like? Or was it that he opened his mouth when the tavern wench - when the barmaid - when the woman working at the bar told him to, and that he kneeled when she decreed that he was too tall for her to reach properly? Or was it that he almost let his kids watch until Mel understood what was happening and distracted them with the menu?Never mind that he could feel her watching the entire time, knowing to turn the kids' heads back to the menu whenever they tried to glance over not because but she was looking but because she was holding them by the neck, her eyebrows knitting together and her mouth dropping open as the woman working the bar went "oooh, yeah, take it, take it, mmm, I know you can do it, handsome, take alll of it for me, that's right" and not closing until he had swallowed both the grog and the lump in his throat.
“Do you want to go home?” Mel asked. He jumped back to attention. “Because we can, I mean - I got my wand fixed and my giant pretzel so I’m - I’m good to head out when you are.”
Honestly, he wouldn’t have minded going home. They’d already been there for six hours, and that combined with the incident gave him more than enough motivation to leave. But before he answered he glanced over her shoulder at Tanner and Penny, who were now climbing on top of the dragon - Penny had her hands in the air like she was on a roller coaster, and Tanner was pretending to steer the dragon using its horns as handlebars. They were whooping and hollering like there was real air beneath their feet and not a pile of wood chips.
It’d been a long time since they had this much fun; it was the first time they spent the day with Mel where they weren't hiding behind Frank's legs and pretending she wasn't there because they were too shy to do otherwise.
“Are you good to stay a bit longer?” he asked, glancing back at her. “We promised the kids that we’d take them to the jousting tournament…”
“Right! The jousting tournament that is innn…” Mel grabbed her heart-shaped pocketwatch from where it was sitting against her chest and checked the time. “Twenty minutes! So we should probably head over in… a few? Minutes? I-It’s all the way on the other side of the campground, and, um, if we want to get a good seat…”
“Yeah, yeah, sounds good.” Frank looked down at his thigh and pretended to brush something off his pants while he checked in with Frank Jr. It wasn’t too noticeable from this angle, which was good, but his beige pants didn’t do him any favours and he didn’t know what it’d look like standing up. “Can you, uh, get Tanner and Penny for me? I’m just gonna check my wallet to make sure I have enough for those t-shirts they wanted afterwards, or else we’re gonna have to steer clear of the merch tent on our way to the parking lot.”
Mel pushed back from the picnic table and stood up, the metallic stitching of her dress catching the light as she did. “I will gladly get the kids while you check your wallet.” She angled her head towards him and gave him one of those smiles that she gave him whenever she was about to do something she was proud of. “Big boy.”
She didn’t wait for his response before turning away and climbing over the picnic bench, which was good. Which was really, really fucking good, because it means she didn’t see the way his mouth fell open, nor did she see the way he winced when he semi-subsconciously ran his palm hand over his crotch for a millisecond of sweet, sweet relief. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this better be the best fucking jousting tournament the ren faire had ever put on, because if he didn’t see something interesting enough to distract him from his aching dick, he would be filing a complaint as soon as he could think straight.
notes: It didn't take long to get this out lmao! Hope it’s good enough so enjoy ☺️ I think i’ve done their characterisations right?
Mel sat twiddling her thumbs as the clock provided the room with some background noise to her beating heart. Today was the day, the day that she’d be judged for her resume and which college she went to, the gap between Sophomore and Junior year of college, when she had to drop out temporarily to look after her sister, but she prayed that the people doing the interviews were nice enough to let her get away with explaining.
Her hair was pulled back, and when she left her apartment, it was perfect, but by the time she reached the street, the Pittsburgh wind had made it too loose. She didn’t have time (or the mental capacity) to redo it, plus, how would it look to the employers? Her eyes roamed the room, bright and painted white with little pamphlets on every table and posters warning against cancer or diabetes, and it seemed fitting for the environment she was interviewing in. She wishes it had given her last-minute advice on nerves and how to ace her interview.
Her phone was tucked away in her bag, but she could feel the vibrations of the group chat she shared with her friends going off every two seconds, the girls going wild by the radio silence and demanding answers to how it had gone, as if she had been in already when she strictly told them that it was at 2 pm
There was a sudden breeze which made her look towards the door, to where a man was shaking out his hair and dusting off his coat. “Am I too late?”
The receptionist just smiled and waved him over, curiously watching him under the thin frames of her Jimmy Choo glasses and her thin, bony fingers typing against the keyboard. “Name?”
“Uh- I’m here for the interviews with Dr Robby?”
The woman presses her lips together and silently types and clicks a few buttons on the screen before gesturing for him to take a seat
Who was Dr Robby? Did he mean Robinavitch? Did he have someone else to interview with? She should’ve prepared more with Samira
“You’re looking troubled,”
It took a couple of seconds for her to realise he was talking to her, now sat a couple of seats down, and his leg hung over the other, and he was mindlessly scrolling on his phone
Was the man careless in making a good impression?
“You’re just furrowing your brow, and your hands look like they’re five minutes away from breaking with how much you’ve clenched them.”
She quickly unclenches her hands, shifting on the plastic seat and nodding. “I’m fine, just nervous.”
“You’ll be fine,” he waves off. “Management wants to hire anyone who breathes, so you’ll get the job, you’ll just have to get approved by Robby first.”
“Dr Robinavitch?”
“That’s his Sunday name, yeah. I’ve been here countless times before, and it’s been fine every time. They’ll ask questions, ask where you’ve worked before and all that bullshit, and soon you’ll be on your merry way with a new job and a start date.” He continues, “This is my fifth- wait, hold on.” He lifts his phone from where it had been left, abandoned on his lap, and groans. “I swear she just wants to annoy me,” he lifts it to his ear and mutters a couple of words- ones that she couldn’t make out despite the quietness of the room, but she gave privacy, checking the clock again on the wall
1:56 pm
Four minutes before she’s in their face-to-face with professionals and on the verge of a panic attack with every question
“As I was saying, this is my fifth time, and it’s a breeze now. I don’t even really need to say anything. They say a couple of things, ask if I'm good to go and give me a start date.”
“Fifth? Why fifth?”
He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “That’s to be unlocked with level five friendship, but we can unlock level one if you tell me your name, future coworker.”
Was he seriously that cocky?
“Yes, I am because you look brainy enough to be a doctor,”
Did she say that out loud?
Mel clears her throat and pushes up her glasses, hoping her voice wouldn’t shake as she spoke. “Only if you tell me yours first,”
“Nice, you’re going to be fine.” He laughs, but before he could say anything, the door opened
“Frank,” the man doesn’t look impressed and doesn’t say anything more as he steps to the side and waits for him to move
“Duty calls, I guess I'll see you later.” He shows a mock salute, grabs his bag and stands up, walking towards the door where the man was waiting, and it’s abruptly shut afterwards
Well, it’ll certainly be interesting if she does get the job
(Spoiler alert, she does and passes with flying colours according to Robby, but she’s still nervous about the first day with this Frank.)
summary: you bring your elderly neighbor to the ER after a fall, only to be faced with your high school crush - who is hotter, more capable and just as charming.
pairing: frank langdon x social worker!reader
tags: afab reader, meddling elderly neighbor, just some flirting, vomiting is mentioned but not described, frank langdon was a problem child in high school truthnuke, shen & mel mention, hospital setting, small miscommunication, divorced frank langdon
word count: 5.0k
notes: frank langdon i love u. one day i'll be able to write a small fic.
please reblog if you enjoy!
The emergency department is not where you thought you’d find yourself at four in the morning. Especially not after you had made such a fuss to your friends about getting home early and going to sleep immediately afterwards.
It had been such a nice night. You had had a nice dinner, ran yourself a hot bath for the first time in ages. Put on a matching pajama set that felt silky on your freshly-shaved legs, curled up beneath a fluffy freshly-cleaned blanket. Sleep had come easily. That is, until the vibrating of your phone woke you up.
Miss Robin had lived in the house next to yours for four decades. As soon as you had inherited the house you now lived in, she had waddled on over, a Tupperware of still-warm cookies in her hands and a bright smile on her face. You had returned the favor by bringing over some leftover lasagna and your friendship had only sprouted further and further.
She was widowed young, her husband passing away from cancer when they were in their forties. Her only son had grown up and moved out, now a lawyer in New York. He was only a six hour drive away, but his job and family seemed to keep him too busy to come and visit his mother. You thought it was bullshit, but Miss Robin had constantly reassured you that her son had reached out enough to keep her happy, so there wasn’t much more to say.
Over time, she had become a close confidant of yours. It was silly, especially with the drastic age difference between the two of you, but she was kind and had wisdom you couldn’t even fathom. It made the lonely nights in your large house just a bit less haunting.
Which is why her voice over the phone, wavering about how she had fallen and she didn’t believe she could get up, had immediately gotten you out of bed. You had slid a baggy hoodie over your pajamas, slid your socked feet into the ugliest pair of sandals you owned, and immediately raced over next door. Luckily, she had given you a key a couple of months ago when she had decided to go on a trip with some friends from her book club, so you were able to barge into her home and find her.
After sending her off in the ambulance, even as she had protested and ensured you that she was fine, you had jumped in your own car and driven to the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Ruffled, still donned in the rattiest clothes you own and hair entangled in a rat’s nest, you had been brought back to her room to wait until she got back from a CT, whatever that meant.
Luckily, Miss Robin’s doctor seemed to be nice. A bit ditsy and attached to the coffee in his hand, but competent and kind. She couldn’t stop gushing about how handsome he was, anyway, so there was no time to question his doctor-ing between her trying to play matchmaker.
The clock on the wall now reads seven-thirty in the morning. Three and a half hours of sitting in this room after being woken up and you’re feeling it in every part of you, your elbow perched on the railing of Miss Robin’s bed and your chin in your palm. Every couple moments, your eyelids drift closed without your permission, only to be jerked open again a second later at the beep of the heartrate monitor attached to her finger.
You sit up at the sound of the curtain rustling, squinting at the extra bit of light that streams into the space. All of their rooms had been filled despite the early hour the ambulance had come in, meaning that you and Miss Robin were occupying a make-shift room made up of three curtains and a dream. It was loud, especially with the man on the other side of the curtain retching every few minutes.
How lovely.
“Hello, Miss Sheffield. I’ll be taking over your care from Dr. Shen so he can head home.” A voice hits your ears, perking up for more news. Hopefully, that meant you could leave soon and catch at least a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow. “I’m Dr -”
“Frank?” His name spills out of your lips before you can stop it, shoulders tensing as you sit straight up.
“Dr. Frank? What a silly name.” Miss Robin muses playfully. You pass her a look and watch as she mimics zipping her lips closed.
Frank Langdon. Dimpled chin, thick eyebrows, blue-eyed Frank Langdon. He realizes who you are the minute you speak his name into the air, lips parting in surprise as his eyes flicker between you and Miss Robin. He’s frozen for only a moment, recovering with a shake of his head.
The corners of his lips tilt up in an almost sheepish smile. “Dr. Langdon.” He gently corrects the older woman as he looks at her. Then, he finds you again. “It’s nice to see you.”
It almost irks you, the professionalism radiating off of him while your heart thuds harder in your chest. You squirm as a blush naturally creeps up on your cheeks, reaching up to run your fingers through your hair. Your fingers snag on a couple of tangles on their way through and you make a mental note to shift into a ponytail as soon as possible.
Miss Robin’s eyes flicker from the both of you as you sit in an awkward staring contest, your words caught in your throat. “Do you two know each other?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Langdon speaks at the same time as you, although his voice is way less squeakier than yours. He gives you a crooked smile before looking back at the actual patient. “I shouldn’t admit this as your doctor, but I used to get the answers to my math quizzes off of her.” He moves closer to the bed, pulling his stethoscope off of his neck.
With intense focus, he presses the bell to Miss Robin’s chest, situating the eartips into his ears. He murmurs a quick “breathe deep” as he slides it along her chest and then back. His gaze flickers from where his hand is placed to her vitals, taking mental notes.
You stay quiet as he works, not wanting to interrupt. It was odd, seeing him after all these years. Taller, more muscle curving along his arms from what you could see through his scrubs. His hair had been constantly quiffed up as a teenager, but now it was settled into a mess of a middle part, loose strands falling over his forehead. Just as handsome as you had found him in high school, although manlier.
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Miss Robin sweetly responds, practically beaming as he gives her a soft laugh.
You’re not the only one that has been swooned by his charm, it seems.
“I appreciate that.” Frank looks between the two of you as he grabs a tablet off of a cart, gaze constantly moving. “How do you two know each other, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Your throat feels dry as you swallow nervously, clearing it before you speak. “She’s my neighbor,” you answer.
A loose string at the edge of your hoodie has become the victim of your nervous fidgeting, tugging on it and feeling the sleeve constrict just a bit. “And my friend.” You add, suddenly bashful about your friendship with a woman decades older than you. What if he thought you were a loser who couldn’t make friends your own age?
Robin hums her agreement. “She’s a darling,” she gushes. You pretend to miss the pointed look and smile she flashes at you. “She’s the one who called the ambulance for me today. Ran in there like Superwoman, you should’ve seen her.”
The urge to sink into your baggy hoodie consumes you, but instead you finally snap off the thread and turn it over in your fingers.
“It’s nice that you have someone to help you out, Miss Sheffield. Although I doubt you need it most of the time.” One eye closes in a quick wink and you’re pretty sure you see a blush on her cheeks. “Now, Dr. Shen briefed me quickly on your case, but I’d like to hear from you what happened this morning.”
Your neighbor gets into a way-too-peppy ramble of everything that led to her fall and happened afterwards, clearly inflating your role in this story. Despite her hyperbolic storytelling, Frank listens intently, nodding in response.
Once she’s done, he gives her a friendly smile. “Alright. Looking at your vitals, you’re looking good. Your heartrate is steady, your blood pressure is stellar, and you look great to me. We are still waiting on your CT results, but I know you two have been here for a while, so I’ll see about getting a rush on them so you can get home before our morning rush.”
You’ve dozed off without closing your eyes as the two talked, eyes hazy as they try to focus on him. You’re brought back by his attention suddenly turning to you, sitting up straight and glancing away for a moment to cover up the fact that you had been staring. Not on purpose, of course.
“Do you want me to show you where you can get some coffee?” He offers, brows raising. That crooked grin blossoms again. “You look like you could use it.”
Miss Robin answers before you do. “She’d love some!” She chirps.
She looks at you, swatting her hands to shoo you out. “Go. You heard the doc. I’m fine.” Then she gives Langdon a look, one that says “this girl, am I right,” like they’re good chums now.
You must’ve slept through the part where they decided to team up against you.
“Thank you.” You mumble as you stand up, legs stiff from sitting for so long. Curling your arm around your waist, you press your thumb into the small of your back, hoping to ease the dull ache there.
Frank holds the curtain open for you to step out into the hubbub of the emergency department, shutting it behind you with a swish. His hand curls gently around your bicep to pull you out of the way of an incoming gurney, the touch disappearing as soon as it’s there. “Your back hurt?” he asks.
Taking a look around the sudden busy state of the ER, you shake your head dismissively. “It’s just from sitting down for so long. I’ll be fine.”
Your next breath comes out as a long exhale as you walk beside him, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you’re a doctor,” you blurt.
“Why? Because I copied off of you in high school?” It’s a tease, but his face doesn’t change much. His hands come up to wrap around his stethoscope, pulling it flush against the back of his neck and letting his elbows swing.
You scoff playfully, shaking your head as you round the nurse’s station with him. A couple pairs of eyes follow the two of you, but you ignore it. “I didn’t think you’d willingly choose to do more school, is all.”
His shoulders raise in a shrug, releasing his stethoscope to push open a door and duck inside. There’s cabinets lining one wall, a sink and a refrigerator. A table sits in the middle of the room, looking lonely with only four chairs. The rest of the room is bare, off-white walls and all.
You freeze in the doorway. “Am I supposed to be in here?” you ask. “This looks suspiciously close to a breakroom.”
“Doctor’s lounge,” he corrects. “And you’re VIP. No need to go all the way to the cafeteria when I can just make you a cup here.” The door clicks shut behind the both of you, your shoulders relaxing at the sudden quiet.
Noticing your relaxation, Langdon gives you another soft smile as he steps towards the coffee machine. “Take a seat. Enjoy the quiet while you can.” He nods his head towards the chairs.
Flashing him a grateful smile, you sit down, even if your body still ached from being next to Miss Robin’s bed all night. You balance your chin on the palm of your hand, watching as he places the coffee pot into the machine and presses start.
“So,” you start, desperate to fill the silence, “how have you been in the last decade?”
His arms cross over his chest as he turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “You don’t have to say it like that, you know. Makes us sound ancient.”
“I feel that way,” you volley.
“Fair enough.”
Another crooked grin. He takes a deep inhale as he shuffles on his feet, looking up at the ceiling as if trying to remember everything that happened. “Well, I went to med school. Chose emergency medicine pretty quickly. I like the rush.”
You nod in response, eyes flickering down as he turns around to gather the coffee pot.
He carefully pours some into a singular mug as he continues speaking. “I married Abby.” He notes, octave raising as if waiting for your surprise. “We have two kids. Tanner’s four and Penny’s two. I got them a dog, too, which she wasn’t too happy about..”
Slight disappointment blooms in your chest at the idea of him being married. You’re not sure why you’re shocked, however, as Abby and Frank had been connected at the hip when they had started dating in high school. It had broken your little teenage heart to see them together, especially after pining for him all year and hoping that asking for answers would turn into more.
The two kids were definitely a shocker. You tried to imagine the Frank that you had known as a father, reckless and loose-limbed. Did his son have the same charm to him that made him get everything he wanted? Was his daughter as discreetly empathetic?
He gestures to the cream and sugar, in which you snap out of your imagination and nod.
“Abby and I officially divorced a few months ago, though.” He reveals as he pours, tongue darting out to stick between his lips in focus.
You can’t stop the unhinging of your jaw in surprise, his nonchalant tone throwing you off. Langdon looks amused as he sets your coffee mug down in front of you, settling into the seat next to you.
“Sorry. Uhm, I’m sorry to hear that.” The cup covers your blush as you bring it to your lips, taking a slow sip and trying not to wince at the sting on your tongue.
He shakes it off with a shake of his head, another strand of hair draping over his forehead. There’s no move to push them away from his eyes.
“It’s okay. It was for the best.” The reassuring smile he gives you doesn’t contradict his statement, so you allow yourself to relax again. After a beat, he speaks again. “What about you? Husband? Wife? Kids? Pets?”
A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, fingers tightening around your mug as you shake your head. “God, no. Not even close.” Your tongue runs along your bottom lip to catch a stray drop of coffee, ignoring the way Frank’s eyes flicker downwards at the movement. “I inherited my grandmother’s house here in Pittsburgh when she passed, which is when I moved in next to Miss Robin. Since then, I’ve just been focusing on work.”
“What do you do?” He asks, sounding so genuinely curious that your heart skips one singular beat.
The good news is that if you end up having a heart attack, there’s a doctor right in front of you. Did they still do mouth-to-mouth these days?
You squirm nervously in your seat, stretching out that one taut muscle in your back. “I’m a mental health social worker. I work at a community health center.”
That seems to sit with him for a moment, an unrecognizable emotion flashing across his face before he settles it. His eyebrows raise as he leans back more, a hand sprawled on the table in front of him. “Really?” he asks. “That means there could be a world where we ended up at a hospital together.”
There goes that heart fluttering again. You press the heel of your palm into the middle of your sternum to try and calm it, reminding yourself that Frank Langdon was just charming, not the prince of Pittsburgh. “What a world that’d be,” is the only response you can think of.
Langdon grins at you again, quiet for a moment. He goes to answer when the door to the doctor’s lounge creaks open, his attention immediately turning.
“Dr. Langdon? I was wondering if I could get a consult on the toddler in South 15.” A blonde asks tentatively, poking just her head in. Her hair is tied back in a tight braid, thick glasses perched on her nose. She looks at you, eyes widening before looking back at the man across from you. “It can wait.”
His hand raises to stop her from leaving, pressing his palm into the table as he rises to his feet. “No worries, Mel, we were just catching up.” He takes a couple steps until just his fingertips are resting on the wood, looking down at you. “Do you think you’ll be able to find your way back?”
Not wanting to take up anymore of his time, you stand up abruptly, grabbing the cup. “Oh, yeah, no problem.” Your feet carry you towards the sink, ready to toss out the rest of your drink.
Frank’s fingers close around your bicep before you can do so, still sporting a soft grin. “Take it with you. I can grab it when I come to discharge your neighbor.”
He lets go of your arm before heading towards the door, spinning around and walking backwards when he gets closer to it. His hand reaches behind him to grab it handle, pushing it down and opening without looking. “If you need anything, tell one of the nurses to get me, okay? I’ll be around.”
The door shuts behind him before you can finish saying “thank you,” leaving you stranded in the doctor’s lounge with a lukewarm cup of coffee in your hands.
Once you find your way back to Robin’s makeshift room, after fumbling around for way less time than you thought you would, you’re immediately greeted with a knowing grin.
“What are you smiling at?” You accuse, pinching your eyebrows at her as you hover near the wall. The idea of sitting down again makes every ache pulse.
A girlish giggle leaves her lips. “You have a crush on my doctor.”
The crochet hooks in her hands, produced from her stuffed purse, click together as she loops a green thread of yarn through a black one. Earlier, she had insisted that she was making you a scarf in exchange for helping her out this morning, but right now it just looks like a handkerchief.
An unattractive snort quickly spills out of you. “I had a crush on your doctor before he was even a doctor. Don’t act like you just figured out the secrets to the universe.” You tilt your chin up at her before pointedly looking at the project in your lap. “Get back to your crocheting, grandma.”
By eight-thirty, you’ve called into work with a lame excuse about how you were sick with some odd stomach bug. Still, the curtain doesn’t peel open until an hour later, Frank’s head popping through first before the rest of his body follows.
“Sorry for the wait,” he apologizes immediately. The muscles in his hand tense as he closes the curtain, the flex not lost on you. “We always get a morning rush from patients who forced themselves to push through their symptoms for the night.”
Unfortunately, the coffee from earlier hadn’t outweighed the exhaustion that stemmed from sitting in the emergency department longer than you had slept. You’re practically deadweight where you’re slouched against the wall, earning you an apologetic smile that you let yourself sleepily enjoy.
Pointer finger tapping away at a tablet, Langdon speaks without looking up. “Your CT shows no breaks or fractures. Your initial examination when you were brought in shows no signs that we should be worried for internal bleeding or head injury.” He glances up through his eyelashes at Robin, lips pulling into a friendly smile. “I’ll do one more exam just to make sure nothing’s shown up to surprise us, but we should be good to discharge you shortly.”
“God bless,” you grumble beneath your breath. It’s quiet, and meant to be private, however it’s obvious by the huff of a laugh Frank gives you that he heard.
Your focus is basically gone as he examines Robin, fingers gentle along her skin as he checks every spot she had banged and bruised. His hands press into her abdomen to check for sensitivity, those strands hanging in front of his face as he leans over.
You drift off to the sound of him and Miss Robin talking about what she was crocheting, your temple pressed to the cool wall.
An hour later, according to the clock on the wall, you’re roused by a hand on the shoulder. To your surprise, Robin’s standing above you, her other hand on her purse. “Sorry to wake you, but I do need a ride home.”
“Don’t apologize,” you rasp. You press your fingers into your eyes before standing up, jaw falling in a large yawn. “I’ll pull the car around for you.”
Glancing around at the emptiness of the room, the corners of your lips pull down for a moment. “Did I miss Fr - Dr. Langdon?”
She glances at you knowingly, lips pulled into a reassuring smile. “He hasn’t come back since he did my exam earlier. A nurse brought me the paperwork.” Her pointer finger pokes into your shoulder. “Guess he didn’t have much to come back for since you were asleep.”
You fix her with a grumpy scowl before swatting her hand away, rising to your feet with a soft grunt. “I’m letting you sit here alone next time.”
The older woman’s laugh echoes behind you as you step out from behind the curtain. You duck through the swarms of people that have suddenly flooded the place in the hours you had been there. Blinking through the sleepy haze over your eyes, you move towards the exit, stopped only by the sound of your name.
“Hey! Did Miss Sheffield get her discharge papers?” Langdon’s way too peppy compared to your exhaustion, a bright light in his blue eyes. “I meant to stop by to say goodbye, but then a trauma came in, and then my patient coded.” He trails off, obviously not wanting to bring the mood down.
He shoulders up beside you as you continue walking, an airy swagger to his walk. There’s no move to stop you from walking, just simply joining you in your stroll towards the exit.
“It’s alright,” you assure. “Apparently some nurse brought them by. She’s still in the room while I bring my car around, if you’d like to say goodbye now.”
Frank looks over his shoulder for a moment before back at you, head tilting thoughtfully. “I’ll walk you out first. I can get her situated in a wheelchair while you’re driving.”
Next to you, he’s the picture of nonchalance. Despite the crazy job he has and the lives that are constantly in his hands, there’s not a single wave of nervousness radiating off of him. His shoulders are down away from his ears, his arms swinging at his sides, each step sure.
He’s always been more confident. A chatterbox inside of class, sat next to the quiet students in hopes it’d quell his attention deficiency. The type to toss a wadded up piece of paper into a trash can and holler when it actually goes in, despite only being a few steps away. A loser covered up in a cloak of charm and confidence.
It’s odd to see it become useful professionally, for him to find the perfect place to turn that energy into something good. If someone had asked you what you thought his life-time career had ended up being before today, you would’ve guessed he had gone into real estate.
“It’s nice to see you again.” You repeat the same words he had said to you earlier, although there’s something gentler. “This job seems to really suit you.”
Frank’s head turns to pass you a grin, eyes flickering around at the emergency department like he’s looking at it in a different light. “I enjoy it,” he admits. “The rush of constantly moving, the ‘helping people’ aspect. There’s been more than a few bad days, but I try to remind myself that the good outweighs the bad.”
A smile plays on your lips without you even registering it there, chuckling lightly. “Never thought the day I’d see you serious about anything.” You note with a playful raise of your brow.
His lips part in a puckish gasp. “What? I was focused,” he insists.
“Yeah. Focused on Natalie Jefferson,” you shoot back.
That turns his mock surprise into his signature coprophagous grin, eyes rolling and head rolling with them. “I was not focused on Natalie.” His tongue touches the corner of his mouth for just a moment as he watches you, shifting around the people moving through the halls like it’s a second nature.
“You totally were!” Your energy has slowly returned, skipping your next step so that you could turn to face him more. “I’d turn around to look at you and you’d be staring directly at her when the board was in front of me. You stole her seat when she got up so that she’d talk to you when she came back.”
A laugh rumbles out of him, shaking his head again. He says your name with an emphasis, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. When he notices your pointed look, he exhales heavily, shoulders falling. “I wasn’t looking at her.”
You groan. “I may have worn glasses, Frank, but I could still see.”
“I wasn’t looking at her,” he insists. After a beat of you giving a blank stare, he tries to push down his smile. “I was looking at you. But then you’d turn around and look at me, so I’d look away. Usually at Natalie, who just happened to be sitting next to you.”
His focus moves to in front of him, giving a passing nurse a friendly smile. “And I’d sit in her seat so I could talk to you better.” Those blues return back to you, calmer and more knowing. “Because I liked talking to you, but could never find a reason.”
For a moment, you just stare at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. You try to make sense of what he’s telling you, but can’t seem to find what he’s trying to bring up.
Finally, the two of you breach the doorway leading outside, right in front of the crosswalk heading towards the parking lot. His fingers curl around your bicep to stop you, turning you to face him. “Confession time?”
A bit dumbfounded, and definitely stunned by the feel of his hand still on your arm, you dazedly look up at him. Slowly, you nod.
“I didn’t need your answers.” Despite the confession, he keeps his bright grin. The only evidence of his bashfulness is the pink on his cheeks, slowly creeping to the tips of his ears. “I thought you were pretty, so I needed a reason to talk to you. I figured you assumed I was a stupid annoyance, which you were right, so I thought that asking you for answers to homework and tests would be the easiest way to get to know you.”
Frank shuffles on his feet, looking over your shoulder to ensure none of his coworkers were around. “But then nothing ever happened, so I thought you didn’t like me and I tried to move on.”
Your jaw has been dropped for the last couple minutes, taking in everything he was telling you. Disbelief crawls up your body like a hot flash, along with playful annoyance at the way he just keeps fucking smiling at you. Finally, your hand whips out to smack his bicep, scowling at him.
“Frank!” You scold, because you’re not sure what else to do. “I had a crush on you, you idiot! I didn’t talk to you outside of schoolwork because I thought that’s all you wanted to talk to me for! You idiot!”
You slap him again purely because you feel like it, only letting a smile grace your face when he takes a singular step back and laughs.
After both of you finish laughing at the absurdity of it all, shaking off the remnants of your giggle, he raises his hand to rub it along his clean-shaven. “Wow. Teenage Frank really messed that one up, didn’t he?”
Rather than assure him, you purse your lips, nodding. “He did.”
He sighs, eyes caught on your face like he’s unable to pull them away. There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, softer. “Well, can’t repeat that, can I?” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders still low and relaxed. “Can I take you out to dinner sometime?”
“Depends. Are you going to look at another girl every time I try to make eye contact?”
“I promise you that my eyes will only be on you. And the server.” Langdon holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Sure another WIP - that's new and not what I wanted to be doing.
... I don't control these characters. They are the puppet masters.
People talked.
Frank understood this better than most. Especially after his not so glorious return. Whispers and side eyes followed him around. Mostly Santos and Whitaker. Earned and earned by association. But he still heard about other things. Abbot and Samira mostly. Santos and Garcia. Typical fucking Yoyo. Whitaker and that patients husband? Messy.
But then there were the... other whispers. The inadvertently pitying ones. The type that Frank hated. His marriage (ha) being one of affected topics. But he was catching a name more often than not. And it was pissing him off.
Mel.
July fourth had been rough for her. Impossible. Head injury. Deposition. Everything with Becca. Of course Princess had overheard the siblings arguing- about birth control. So the rumour mill was a live wire. Frank had been making use of his translation app whenever Mel’s name was dropped. Frank would swear that Perlah was giving him the nod.
He stared at the words on his phone.
She’s a virgin!
So fucking what.
Frank could kiss Perlah right now. Defending Mel. Though he didn’t really think it was anything that needed defending.
Who really gave a shit.
Virgin or perceived whore. Didn’t matter. He was an addict. He lied, stole, violated more oaths than he wanted to count. That was up for judgement. The ridiculous concept of virginity? Bullshit.
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Frank tried not to wince as the overly formal bite in the words. The Kings still weren’t back on track. He hovered for a moment in the shelter of the Ambulance bay. Watching as Mel resisted the urge to throw her phone away. Fingers bone white.
He leaned back against the wall. He knew that she knew he was there. Mel always seemed to have an awareness of him. Not non-reciprocal. ‘She’s still mad.’
‘So are you.’ Mel spun with a hard set of the jaw. He raised his hands up. ‘Just observing no judgement.’
Her eyes, which he had recently learned were not the dark brown he thought they were. Hazel green, which in the late July light lit up. Landed on the Pitt doors. ‘No not from you.’ Frank was as nosy as the next nurse. There was an innate need for him to know as much as possible. And he really fucking nosy. Mel had said on the fourth she didn’t listen to rumours.
Some instinct telling him she had been the subject of more than her fair share of stories.
‘You’ve heard them right?’ She shoved her phone in her pocked, sighing loudly. Frank straightened and moved towards her. Close enough to keep the conversation between them but enough space that she wasn’t crowded. Her voice was detached, resigned. This one was not new to her. ‘Mel The Virgin.’
He winced. The resignation, the hint of anger and lack of Mel-ness in it. It wasn’t the first time people made assumptions. ‘But then as Becca said I did the same thing to her.’ It was taking everything in him to keep his face in check. Which was not in the Frank Langdon top ten skill set.
‘In my defence she didn’t tell me!’ Mel threw her hands up in the air. Craning her neck for something incoming. It was a not so patient heavy day. Oglibe had been threatened with duct tape by Dana is he so much as twitched.
‘Did you tell her?’ For all the control he had kept over his face, he’d forgotten about his mouth. Mel’s eyebrows knotted together and danced wildly. ‘Thaaaaat was insanely inappropriate of me.’
He was so fired. Him versus Mel? He’d punch himself too. ‘No it’s a fair question but... you didn’t assume the same thing?’
At least there was a pair of them in. This? Frank crossed his arms thinking quickly. ‘I mean no... why would I assume such a very specific thing? It’s also a very weird thing to assume about someone.’
‘The biological imperative.’
He hoped that his voice crack was just in his head. ‘Right.’ Mel hummed a little. Thinking it over. How she managed to get the conversation somewhere in the realms of reasonable was a masterclass. And she seemed completely oblivious to his sky rocketing blood pressure.
He was married. Technically. So he really didn’t need to be thinking about any, especially co-workers who seemed to like him. People with blonde hair, big eyes and blindingly bright smiles. Things he’d been doing his best to ignore. However he couldn’t ignore how different she was. And even with his short time with her... how different he was as a result.
‘I’m not mad she’s got a boyfriend or is having sex...’ Mel sighed a little, hands twisting. Self soothing. ‘It just came out of nowhere. She never even mentioned his name? I had no warning. I had no way to...’ She winced, one eye closing at him. Her face betraying how foolish she felt.
‘Plan.’
‘Even though you can never plan at life. Not really.’
Wasn’t that the truth. He’d spent a lot of time wondering what his younger self would think of him now. Two kids before 35 – kids he loved more than life itself. Marriage on the rocks. Addiction. Work questionable. Not exactly what he’d planned.
‘But people act like sex changes everything. That there is something both precious and lame about being a virgin. Hypocritical. As if a dick entering a vagina changes the fundamentals of a human. Does anyone claim a “gold star lesbian” is an eternal virgin? Never had a dick change my life. No matter how hard they tried.’
Oh that was so much to unpack.
And he didn’t think he had the brain capacity to do that. Now without the chances of him doing something really fucking stupid being really fucking high.
‘I do see it like full body stimming but not many are able to get me there. Better by myself.’
It was official. He was in the some weird version of hell. Why else would Mel King be able to so frankly discuss her takes on sex with him without so much as a batted eyelash. The first person to really be a friend to him since his coming back. And he wasn’t sure what was happening.
‘Is this inappropriate? It doesn’t feel like it with you but I know my opinions tend to not be... typical.’
Frank shook his head. ‘Only if you’re okay talking about it. I mean sex hasn’t really been a factor for me in a while.’
Why did he just admit to that?
Something he’d barely admitted to in therapy. But it just fell out of him with her. Her eyes narrowed a little. Was he imagining it or did her eyes shift downwards? ‘Oh. The... injury?’
He choked on the air. Stammering and trying to find the correct words. Mel’s cheeks turned bright red. ‘No- no. Just... ammm benzo addiction and two small kids... and living in the guest room-’
Her jaw dropped. What his mouth doing?
‘Oh.’ If the moment hadn’t been so fucking awkward and tense. He would have been bent double laughing. ‘Oh.’
Hello! I saw that you write for langdon!! If you're taking requests could I ask for one where his partner comes to the ER, because of a burn or cut or something and she's not told him she's there so she waits until she's called cause she doesn't want special treatment and he's just concerned and wants to take care of her, pls ignore if you're not taking requests!! Love your work 💛
special treatment
pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: established relationship, blood, stitching, i am no doctor so i apologize for any mistakes :)
a/n: thank you so much for your request, i hope you like it, lovely :) my inbox is always open for langdon requests btw <3
You push the toe of your sneaker against the floor, back and forth, back and forth, watching the rubber squeak against the scuffed linoleum. It gives you something to do besides think about the hot throb in your hand, or the way your whole arm aches right up to the elbow.
The man next to you groans again, shifting in his chair. You try not to look at him. Try not to think about how you’ve been both just sitting here for hours.
You’re so tired. The kind of tired that makes your eyes sting and your thoughts go slow and syrupy. And the pain is worse now than when it happened.
You lift the edge of the bandage with your good hand, just a peek, and immediately wish you hadn’t. The gash is red, very red, maybe even too red. You drop the bandage quick, swallowing hard.
You shift in the hard plastic chair, trying to find an angle that doesn’t pull at the wound. But every tiny movement hurts and you can’t help the hiss that escapes through your teeth. You curl your hand against your stomach, hold it still, try to breathe through it.
All this because you wanted orange juice.
It’s almost funny in a stupid way. You’d been tired then too, stumbling around your kitchen at 8am, fumbling with the carton. The glass slipped right through your fingers. And when you bent down to pick up the pieces, because you’re not the kind of person who leaves broken glass on the floor, your palm found the sharpest piece of glass there was on the floor.
You could’ve gone anywhere. The urgent care across town, the little clinic near your apartment. But your boyfriend works here. And even though you know he’d want you to come find him, even though you know Dr. Robby would probably wave you straight back if Langdon just asked, you couldn’t do that.
Special treatment. You hate the thought of it. Hate the idea of people looking at you and whispering, oh, that’s his girlfriend, that’s why she got seen so fast. So instead you’ve been sitting here for two hours, watching the clock above the admissions desk tick so slow you’d think it was broken, watching the same people walk past with clipboards and coffee cups.
You know how bad the wait times are here. You’ve heard Langdon complain about it plenty. You know. And still, you sat down and waited. Your eyelids are heavy. You catch yourself nodding forward and jerk awake. The man next to you groans again. The fluorescent lights buzz.
But then you suddenly hear your name being called.
You blink, disoriented, like you’d been deeper in sleep than you realized. Relief washes through you as you clutch your makeshift bandage and push yourself to your feet.
The man next to you doesn’t look up. You give him a small smile anyway. Sorry for cutting in line and I hope you get seen soon.
When you reach the desk, Lupe is watching you from behind her glass. Her eyebrows are already up, perched high on her forehead. She knows you, seen you loitering near the exit waiting for Langdon to finish his shift.
“How long have you been waiting, honey?” Her eyes swept over your tired face, the clumsy bandage, the way you’re holding your arm so carefully.
“Not long.” You smile. It feels thin on your face.
Lupe gives you a look. She knows you’re lying. You can see it in the slight downturn of her mouth, the way her gaze flicks to the clock and then back to you. But she just looks down at her papers, shuffling them into neat alignment.
You hesitate, you're not sure if Langdon's working triage today, but still you'd prefer to be treated by any other doctor than him, not wanting to concern him. And you hear yourself speak before you can stop.
“Uh, could I—” You cut yourself off, but Lupe is already looking at you, waiting. Your face warms. “Never mind. It’s fine.”
“Dr. McKay will take care of you.” She nods at you as if knowing what you were going to ask.
You exhale. “Thank you.”
When you turn, Dr. McKay is already there, standing in the doorway of the treatment area with a warm smile. She lifts her hand in a small wave and you smile back, and it feels a little less thin this time.
Cassie was always kind to you. So when she smiles at you now, it's like a small weight lifts off your chest. Her hand finds the space between your shoulder blades, guiding you away from the noisy waiting room and down the hallway.
The treatment room is small and quiet. So quiet. You let out a relieved sigh.
"Loud, isn't it?" Cassie says, already pulling on gloves, smiling at you.
You nod, sinking onto the edge of the exam bed. The paper crinkles beneath you. "So loud."
She settles onto the rolling stool across from you, knees bumping gently against yours as she scoots in. She holds her hand out, palm up, and you place your injured one in it.
"Now," she says, tilting her head, "what happened to you?"
You open your mouth to answer, but then her fingers are very gently turning your hand over, resting it on your thigh so she can get a better look. The shift in angle pulls at the wound and you can't help the hiss that escapes.
Her eyes flick up to yours, apologetic. "Sorry, sorry." She lifts the edge of your sad little bandage, peeling back the tape bit by bit. When she sees what's underneath, she sucks air through her teeth. "Oh, ouch."
You grimace. "Yeah. It's—"
The door opens.
"—worse than it looks, actually," Cassie finishes for you, not looking up, because she's still peering at your palm.
"Hey, McKay, there's a—" Frank stops talking.
You watch his face cycle through about four different expressions in two seconds. Confusion first, eyebrows drawing together like he's walked into the wrong room. Then recognition. Then his eyes drop to your hand, cradled in Cassie's gloved fingers and the blood. Then it settles into something deliberately neutral.
Cassie's head has turned. She's looking between the two of you, her "oops" face already in place, clearly realizing Langdon did not know you were here.
"Crap," you mutter.
Frank is still holding the door open. He's not moving. Not coming closer, not stepping out. Just standing there, one hand on the frame and his gaze hasn't left your hand.
For a beat, nobody speaks.
Then Cassie clears her throat. "I should, um." She's already peeling off her gloves, already scooting her stool back. "I'll go check on that thing. The thing I was going to check on. Before I came here." She's standing now, edging toward the door.
Frank doesn't move to let her out. Doesn't seem to register her at all.
"Sorry," Cassie murmurs to you, and there's genuine apology in her voice beneath the sly curve of her mouth. She shoots Frank a look on her way past go easy on her and slips through the narrow gap between him and the doorframe.
The door clicks shut. And then it's just you and Frank.
For a moment he just stands there, hand still on the handle, looking at you. Then he takes Cassie's abandoned stool, rolls it close. His knees bracket yours. His fingers find your wrist gently, turning your hand over, tilting it toward the light. You watch his face as he studies your palm.
"What happened?" His voice is quiet. He lifts his gaze to yours and something in his expression softens like it always does when he sees you.
And when you meet his blue eyes, you suddenly realize how much you'd missed him.
You'd seen him three hours ago but still. You'd only gotten a glimpse of him in the early grey light. His early shifts eat up the best hours of the day, swallow him whole before the sun's even thought about rising. In the beginning you used to fight it. Set your own alarm, drag yourself upright, shuffle to the door to kiss him goodbye.
But after a while your body stopped cooperating. The alarm would go off and you'd burrow deeper into the blankets instead, surfacing just enough to feel the mattress shift as he stood up.
So, he started waking up ten minutes earlier just so you could have those ten minutes together. You'd lie there in the dark, your head on his sternum, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear. Talking sleepily about what you should eat tonight, if he was getting home early, what plans you had for his day off.
He'd, then, kiss your temple, untangle himself. You'd hear him in the bathroom and you'd drift. But you always woke again when the mattress dipped. He'd come back to the bedside, dressed, and face-plant into the curve of your neck. His breath warm against your skin, his body heavy. You'd lift your hand, stroke the back of his head, careful not to mess the hair he'd just spent five minutes gelling. Go to work, you'd murmur. And he'd groan, press one more kiss to your temple, and finally go.
Three hours ago he did all of that. Three hours ago his mouth was against your skin and his hand was in yours and now here you are, sitting on an exam bed in his hospital, bleeding into your lap.
You miss him. It's stupid, he's right here, his fingers circling your wrist, his knee warm against yours, but you miss him. The feeling sits heavy in your chest.
You sigh, and it comes out shaky. "Dropped orange juice," you mumble. "Tried to pick it up."
Your free hand lifts and your fingers find his hair, the strand that's come loose and you tuck it back. It's softer than the gelled parts. You let your hand linger.
Frank stares at you for a beat too long, his thumb still resting against the inside of your wrist. Then his gaze drops back to your hand.
"Does it hurt much?" His voice is like he's asking any patient, like he hasn't spent countless mornings with his face buried in your neck.
"No, it's not that—ouch, what the hell, Frank?"
You practically yelp, snatching your hand back on instinct. He'd pressed right at the edge of the wound.
His jaw is set, but there's something flickering at the corner of his mouth. "That's for lying."
"You—" You glare at him, fully aware that you look more pained than intimidating. "I wasn't lying, I said it's not that bad—"
His touch gentles immediately, fingers careful now as he turns your hand back over. He didn't mean to actually hurt you, you can see it in the way his brow pinches, the way his hold softens. But he's not apologizing, either. You keep glaring for another moment, then sigh, the fight draining out of you.
"Fine," you mutter. "Work your magic or whatever."
He releases your wrist long enough to stand, crossing to the supply cabinet. Your sad little bandage goes in the bin. He gathers what he needs and arranges them on the tray beside you.
"Why'd you wait?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.
You shrug with one shoulder. "Didn't want special treatment."
Frank's head turns. He gives you a look. The one that says are you serious?
"You were bleeding for two hours." His voice is quiet. He's making an effort to stay calm. "That could easily count as an emergency. 'Special treatment' doesn't matter."
He's mad. You appreciate the effort he's making to stay gentle. You also know you upset him, deeper than either of you are saying.
"I wasn't bleeding for two hours, Frank." You can hear how petulant you sound. You don't care. He looks up from the tray. "I had a bandage on!" You can feel your lower lip pushing out. Actually pouting, like a child, and you can't seem to stop. "A perfectly functional bandage."
"A bad one."
"You barely saw it. Cassie already took it off when you came in."
"I know you well enough to know it was bad."
That shuts you up and you look away. He pulls on fresh gloves and the sound of the latex snapping against his wrists is loud in the small room. He takes your hand again carefully, and positions the tray closer.
"Ready?" His voice is softer now.
You nod. The saline stings as it runs over the wound, and you hiss through your teeth. You can't see what he's doing, your view is blocked by his head, but you can feel it. Your eyes start to sting.
"Almost got it," he murmurs, not looking up. You don't answer. Your throat is tight. "Grip my arm."
He doesn't need to tell you twice. Your free hand finds his bicep, fingers digging into the fabric of his scrubs.
When he's done stitching, he snips the thread, discards needles, bloody gauze all vanishes into the red bin. His gloves come off with a loud snap, and then he's just standing there in front of you, hands empty, looking down at his work.
It's neat. You can see that much. Six tiny sutures, precise and even. He's good at this. "You okay?"
You shake your head. "No."
He exhales slowly, and then his arms are opening, just slightly. You fall into him. Your knees part wider and he steps into the space between, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through his scrubs. Your one good hand grips the back of his shirt. The other lies bandaged and useless against his chest. He wraps his arms around you properly, one hand spanning your shoulder blades, the other settling at your waist. You press your face into the curve of his neck and close your eyes.
"I didn't mean to upset you." Your voice is muffled against his skin.
His hand moves in slow circles on your back. "You didn't."
"I did." You pull back just enough to look at him. "You're upset. I can tell."
He doesn't deny it. His jaw shifts, that tell he can never quite hide. His hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing the curve of your cheekbones. He looks at you for a long moment.
"You know I worked my ass off to become a doctor." His voice is quiet. "The special treatment should be used."
You sigh, and it's mostly fond. "Come on, Frank. It's not fair to other people."
He opens his mouth, but you keep going.
"I saw a teenage boy in the waiting room. His ankle was the most purple color I've ever seen in my life. Like, eggplant purple." You shake your head slightly, his hands moving with you. "How is it fair that I just skip past him because my boyfriend works here?"
Frank's jaw does that thing again. He fixes a strand of hair behind your ear, tucks it gently, his fingers lingering. He doesn't say anything, but you can see him turning it over, weighing your words against his own stubborn concern.
"My point stands," he finally says softly. "Next time you come here immediately. Got it?"
You don't reply. He gives you a look and you give him a look right back. He makes a mental note. You can practically see him filing it away under Conversations To Have At Home, right next to Why She Doesn't Eat Enough At Work and The Thing About Leaving Wet Towels On The Floor.
But for now, he lets it go.
His hands are still framing your face and he smooths your hair again, tucking another stray piece behind your ear. His fingers trail down, adjusting the collar of your shirt, straightening it.
"When you get home," he says, his voice settling into doctor mode, "keep the bandage dry for twenty-four hours. After that, you can shower normally, just don't soak it." You nod. "The sutures need to stay clean. Watch for redness, swelling, any drainage." His thumb brushes your jaw. "If it starts looking angry, you come back. No waiting."
"I won't wait."
He pauses. Looks at you. "No waiting."
"...I won't wait."
He doesn't look convinced. But his hands drop to your shoulders, squeeze once, and then he's reaching for the aftercare sheet on the counter, scanning it. His other hand finds yours, holds it carefully, the uninjured one.
"Elevate it when you sleep," he murmurs, still reading. "Pillow under your arm. And take the ibuprofen before the lidocaine wears off, not after."
"Frank." He looks up. "I'll be fine."
After a while, your head drops against his chest, right over his heart. Your fingers find the edge of your new bandage, toying with the tape, pressing gently to see if it still hurts. It does, but less now. Clean and closed and taken care of.
"How's work going, by the way?" You tilt your head up to look at him, chin pressing against his chest. Your smile feels easier now, the tension finally bleeding out of your shoulders.
Frank glances down at you, and the corner of his mouth ticks up. "Oh, you know. Much better ever since my girlfriend showed up with a bloody hand."
You poke his chest with your good hand. "Very funny."
"Not trying to be funny." His voice is dry, but his eyes are warm. "Really brightened my shift. Nothing like a little relationship crisis to break up the monotony."
"Relationship crisis." You snort. "Is that what this is?"
He considers it. "Minor relationship crisis then." His thumb finds the back of your head, threading through your hair. You shove at his chest, but you're smiling now, and so is he.
The silence stretches again and his hand keeps moving in your hair. Slow strokes from your scalp to the ends, over and over.
To be honest, Frank is quite happy to have you here. Happier than he expected. He's missed you. More than he guessed.
Usually it doesn't hit him until later. Until he's finally walking through the front door after twelve hours. Until he sees you on the couch in your pajamas, some show paused on the screen, your face lighting up when you notice him. You always jump up, always wrap your arms around him like it's been weeks instead of just a day. And he holds on too long, probably, his face pressed into your hair, his arms locked around your waist. He gets clingy after long shifts. Terribly clingy. You tease him about it sometimes, but you never pull away.
That's when it usually hits him. How long the hours really are. How much of the day he spends without you.
But now you're here. Right here, in his hospital, with your head on his chest and your breath warm through his scrub top. And all he can think is that this shift, this shift that was already shaping up to be chaotic, already had him running from room to room, is about to become the longest shift of his life. Because now he'll get to wonder if your hand hurts. Wonder if you're eating enough. Wonder if you'll still be awake when he finally gets home.
He sighs and keeps brushing through your hair. His fingers catch on a small tangle and work through it carefully.
"Do you think it'll be a long day today?" Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. It's your day off, the whole empty apartment waiting for you, the whole afternoon stretching ahead. You'd been hoping, maybe, for something else.
He's quiet for a moment. His fingers still in your hair. "No," he says. "I don't think so."Something loosens in your chest. "I'll get dinner on the way home, okay?" He says it casual, like of course he'll be home at a reasonable hour, of course you'll eat together. "And please don't touch any more dishes today." He pauses. "Or anything made of glass, actually. Just to be safe."
He's grinning now, that particular slant of his mouth that means he's very pleased with his own joke. You shoot him a look. It doesn't land.
"Fine," you sigh. "But you're doing dishes for a week."
"I'll clear my schedule."
You shake your head, but you're fighting a smile. His thumb is drawing slow circles on your scalp now, and you could honestly fall asleep like this, right here, with your head on his chest and his heartbeat under your ear.
But you shouldn't. He has patients. He has work. You're taking up his time, his attention, his hands that should be on someone who actually needs a doctor—
"I should let you get back to work." You start to pull away, shifting your weight off the bed.
"Uh uh." His hand on your shoulder, easing you back down. "Nope."
You blink at him. "Frank—"
"We're going to the cafeteria." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. His palm is already open, waiting for yours. "We're making you eat something so you don't get dizzy from blood loss. Then I'm calling you a cab. Got it?"
You open your mouth and close it. He's watching you with that particular expression, the one that says I'm not asking. You've learned your boyfriend's antics well enough by now. A year of him looking at you exactly like this until you sigh and give in.
And you sigh and give in.
Once you had more than enough food in you, it was time to go back home. At the entrance of the hospital, Frank hesitates, his hand hovering over his phone. He has been thinking about driving you home himself, about having a few more moments together before the long hours of his shift swallows him again, but he knows you’d argue with him if he tried. With a reluctant sigh, he taps the cab app and summons a car. Leaning back against the wall, he gestures for you to stay close, and you do, yawning and pressing lightly against him as you fiddle with your bandage.
“Careful with that,” he mutters for the third time, snatching your hand gently from your bandage. You sigh and he just shakes his head, brushing the hair out of your face instead, letting his hand linger there as you waited.
Frank exhales slowly, feeling the warmth of your body next to his. It was the kind of warmth that made him painfully aware he wouldn’t see you for another seven hours.
You look up at him and smile softly. “Thanks for taking care of me, by the way.”
“No need to thank me,” Frank smiles softly, brushing his thumb lightly over your cheek. “Next time, you visit me without a bloody hand, yeah?”
“Will do,” you murmur, smiling back. You glance down at the street just as the cab pulls up, then back at him. “Take care of yourself, okay?” you say softly. “I’ll see you at home.”
Frank nods, reaching out to cup your hand gently, inspecting the wrapping one last time. “I’ll try to be home as soon as I can. Be careful, please,” he murmurs.
Instinctively, you lean in to kiss him, your good hand sliding up toward the back of his neck. Out of habit, you try to tug him down to you, the way you always do, but you forget about your other hand. The bandaged one presses a little too firmly against the side of his neck as you reach, and a small groan escapes before you could stop it.
Frank reacts instantly. “Hey—” His hands are already gently lifting your injured hand away from him. His brows pull together, concern flashing across his face as he cradles your wrist carefully. “Easy.”
He turns your hand over in his, brushing his thumb lightly across the inside of your palm. “Let me do the work, yeah?” he murmurs softly.
This time, he steps closer instead of letting you strain toward him. One hand slides to your jaw,the other still loosely holding your wrist so you wouldn’t forget and reach again. He leans down slowly and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. His mouth moves softly against yours and for a second you forget about the throbbing in your hand, forgot about the shift waiting to swallow him whole.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead brushes yours, his nose grazing lightly against your cheek. “See?” he murmurs quietly. “Much safer.” You huff out a quiet laugh.
He studies your face for another second, before finally straightening just enough to look at you properly. A teasing glint returns to his eyes.“No dishes tonight, yeah?” he says, the corner of his mouth curling upward. “No cleaning. No heroic attempts at doing anything one-handed.”
You roll your eyes at him, though your smile gives you away. “Yes, doctor.”
He shakes his head lightly, thumb brushing once more over the inside of your wrist before finally letting you go — reluctantly.
✶ a patient gets aggressive with you which leads langdon to step in your defence.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ you’re referred to as “Dr. LN” once. aggressive male patient. no actual physical harm happens, just verbal insults.
word count : 1,5k
gif from @rhaenyratargeryen
It isn’t uncommon for patients to be irritated by the time they’re finally out of the waiting room and into triage. Most of them have been waiting for hours—waiting and waiting until time blurs together.
Still, there are moments when that frustration turns into something uglier and whoever is standing closest ends up taking the hit.
Right now, that someone is you, stuck trying to manage a combative patient who refuses to cooperate, lashing out at the very person trying to help.
“Sir, please, you need to calm down and let me finish assessing you,” you say again, voice strained but measured, like you’ve been repeating the same sentence on a loop for far too long. Your hands hover where they’re supposed to, careful and clinical, painfully aware of every inch of space between you and him.
“No!” He snaps, jerking back on the bed. His voice is loud enough to turn heads. “I’ve been waiting for over eight hours, and all you’re gonna do is feel me up? That’s it? No labs, no tests, nothing?”
Your stomach twists, heat crawling up your neck despite the calm you force into your expression. “I am not “feeling you up”,” you say, a shudder slipping through before you can stop it while still trying to keep your tone even. “I’m doing an initial assessment so I can get you the best care possible and determine the next steps.”
He lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, eyes narrowing as he looks you over. “That’s just bullshit. Are you even a real doctor or are you just some stupid intern?”
“If you don’t let me conduct a proper physical exam, I can’t order any further tests,” you finish, forcing the words out evenly despite the tension coiling in your chest.
The man in front of you exhales sharply, a frustrated breath that sounds more like a growl, his anger vibrating just beneath the surface.
You reach for your small penlight, fingers steady by muscle memory alone. You don’t switch it on until it’s raised, angled toward his face to assess pupil response—and then the light is slapped clean out of your hand.
You flinch back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat as the flashlight clatters against the floor. Your gaze drops to it, your pulse roaring in your ears.
In what feels like a millisecond, Langdon is at your side.
He moves without hesitation, one hand guiding you back as he steps forward, placing himself squarely between you and the patient. The shift is immediate as the man’s posture falters when he realizes he’s no longer the biggest presence in the room.
“What seems to be the problem here?” Langdon asks, his voice unnervingly calm, all sharp focus and quiet authority.
You take a breath before answering, grounding yourself. “I was attempting to conduct a physical exam for Mr. Smith,” you say after a beat. “There’s mild upper abdominal tenderness and signs of respiratory distress.”
“I’m sure you’d like proper care, isn’t that right, Mr. Smith?” Frank says, the edge of his tone skirting sarcasm.
The man only hums in response, his initial shock at being confronted by a male physician quickly giving way to the same smug defiance as before.
Frank doesn’t rise to it. If anything, his expression hardens. “Then here’s how this works,” he continues evenly. “You behave, or I have security escort you out.”
He lets the silence stretch just enough to have Mr. Smith squirming on the gurney.
“You’ll go to another hospital, sit in another waiting room for several more hours—which I’m guessing you’d rather avoid. So, you’re going to let Dr. LN do her job. Or you’re leaving. Am I clear?”
“You can’t treat me like this—”
“Am I clear?” Langdon repeats, his voice sharper now, stripped of all patience.
“…Yes,” the man grunts out.
“Good.” Langdon turns to you, the edge in his tone softening just enough. “I’ll observe, just in case—but based on what I’m seeing in his chart, this could be pancreatitis or a pulmonary embolism.”
You nod, already back in clinical mode. “I was about to order blood work and imaging. Maybe a chest X-ray, too?”
Langdon considers it for a beat. “Best to avoid unnecessary radiation in a fifty-year-old if we can,” he says evenly. “But it’s your patient so do as you see best.”
You tap briskly at the screen of your tablet, ordering the tests—and a few more—partly for clinical thoroughness, partly to placate your patient.
“Can you tell me what’s going on,” Mr. Smith snaps, his voice climbing, “or do you think I’m dumb and won’t understand?”
You don’t look up right away. “I’m ordering the tests you asked for, Mr. Smith,” you say, lips pulled into a tight, professional smile. “Dr. Langdon is assisting me in considering all possible diagnoses. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Yes,” he huffs, then sneers, “but fix that smile, sweetheart. No one likes a sour-looking woman, right?”
He turns to Langdon, searching for validation only to watch the smugness drain from his face when he finds none.
“Mr. Smith,” your fellow doctor says coolly, irritation finally bleeding through, “you’ve already interfered with your physical exam by almost hitting your doctor. Now you’re harassing her. Are you that eager to stop being a patient here?”
“I didn’t hit anyone!” Mr. Smith snaps. “She didn’t warn me about what she was doing and caught me off guard. I’m hardly at fault if she’s incompetent and lacks basic manners.”
You take a slow, steadying breath.
“Alright, I’ve already ordered your labs,” you say evenly. “I’ll be back once the results are in. Please remain here while you wait.”
You and Frank step out into the hallway at the same time, the door closing firmly behind you.
“Could’ve moved him out here,” Frank mutters as he shuts it. “Freed up a room.”
“I think he would’ve charged at me if I tried,” you reply without missing a beat.
“Then we’d have had a great excuse to kick him out.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “That would’ve been nice.”
He steps closer and reaches out, fingers closing gently around your arm, stopping you in your tracks.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice lower now. “That was a close call. I know he only knocked the penlight out of your hand, but still.”
“Just another day on the job.” The joke falls flat even to your own ears.
“It’s not okay,” Frank says firmly. “Don’t hesitate to call for help—or even security.”
“I promise, I’m fine,” you mutter, suddenly aware of how close you are standing to each other. “But it’s nice seeing you worry instead of being all cool and collected.”
He tilts his head, a dumb smirk tugging at his mouth. “You think I’m cool?”
You slap his arm lightly and huff a laugh. “Only sometimes.”
“Oh, you wound me.” He presses a hand to his chest in mock pain.
“Your ego can handle it.”
“My ego can handle anything,” he says, then sobers. “What I can’t handle is one of the best doctors here being belittled—and you just taking it on the chin.”
You swallow, eyes drifting to the patient board glowing nearby, names and needs stacked endlessly.
“Langdon, I appreciate you looking out for me. Really,” you say softly. “But I’m fine. There will always be disgruntled patients. I don’t really mind it anymore.”
“Well,” he says, voice gentler than you expect, “I do.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. You can’t begin to explain the rush of relief you felt the moment he stepped into the room—how his presence alone steadied you after Mr. Smith had come far too close to hitting you. The adrenaline hasn’t fully faded, and a tangle of emotions curls tight beneath your ribs.
“I’m serious,” he says quietly. “Any day, something could happen—and I don’t think I could handle not having you around.” He exhales. “This place would be a lot more unbearable without you.”
“Didn’t know I was so special,” you joke weakly, unable to stop the small smile that breaks through anyway.
“You are,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. “More than you think.”
You hold each other’s gaze for what feels like far too long—long enough to forget where you are—until a voice cuts through the moment.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Dana says, barely masking her amusement, “but you two better get back to work before Robby scolds you.”
“Right.”
“Sorry!”
You and Langdon blurt out at the same time, then split off in opposite directions.
“See you around,” he calls after you. “And remember what I said.”
“As you wish, Dr. Protective!” You shout back, rolling your eyes—only to break into a wide, uncontrollable smile once he’s out of sight.
NOTE : got this req from the lovely syd so i hope i did it justice and you all like this! i’m very obsessed atm with the pitt so i don’t know if i should watch tell me lies or not, has anyone watched it? and is it good? one of my friends recommended it but idk if i should watch or not.
summary: your shift at the hospital seemed pretty normal until you get a call to come down to the er - because frank langdon, who happens to be the person who slept in your bed during med student years, needs a consult that ends with a thoughtful conversation about your lives.
warnings: angst, langdon is divorced, reader is obgyn, they used to be in love but he chose to marry someone else.
a/n: hi! this is my first time writing for the pitt tag! i hope you like my angsty fic! its my favourite type of fanfiction. i am already working on a prequel for this one! my request box is open! farewell!
PREQUEL
The OB floor always felt calmer than the rest of the hospital.
Not quiet - hospitals were never quiet - but calmer in a way that settled somewhere in your chest. The soft hum of monitors. The low conversations between nurses. The occasional newborn cry echoing faintly down the hallway like proof that sometimes things actually ended well here.
You were halfway through reviewing patient charts when someone knocked once on your office doorframe.
You didn’t need to look up.
“That sounds like bad news,” you said, flipping a page.
Marissa leaned against the doorway, arms folded, already smiling like she knew she was about to ruin your afternoon.
“Depends how you define bad news.”
You sighed. “Who is it?”
“…Langdon.”
Your pen stopped moving.
You stared at the same line in the chart for a few seconds longer than necessary before finally setting it down.
“He called?” you asked carefully.
“He’s downstairs. ER. Asked if you were working today.”
Of course he did.
You leaned back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose as your pulse betrayed you by speeding up anyway.
“What does he want?”
“Pregnant patient. Something about pain and he’s not liking how she looks.”
That immediately shifted your focus. Professional instinct kicked in like muscle memory.
“Okay,” you said, standing and grabbing your coat. “Did he say how far along she is?”
“Late second trimester, I think. He sounded…” Marissa tilted her head slightly. “Serious.”
That meant something. Frank Langdon was always controlled, always composed - the kind of ER doctor who handled chaos like it was just another Tuesday. If he sounded serious, there was probably a reason.
You nodded once. “Alright. I’ll go down.”
Marissa stepped aside, but as you passed her she added casually, “He asked for you specifically, by the way.”
Your steps faltered for half a second before you kept walking.
“Good to know,” you muttered.
The elevator ride gave you too much time to think.
You watched the numbers descend and tried very hard not to think about the last time you’d seen Frank outside of a hallway consult. Or the several years before that. Or the fact that you had once known exactly how he took his coffee and how he hummed under his breath when he was reading scans late at night.
The ER doors opened with their usual rush of sound and movement.
Stretchers rolled past. Nurses called out patient updates. Phones rang somewhere behind the desk. It was louder, brighter, sharper - like the entire floor was running on adrenaline and caffeine.
You spotted him near one of the bays almost immediately.
Frank stood with a tablet in one hand, talking to a resident, his posture still perfectly straight like someone had trained him to stand that way and he’d never unlearned it. He looked older - not drastically, just… more settled. A little more tired around the eyes. The wedding ring that used to sit on his finger was gone.
You hated that you noticed that first.
The resident said something that made him glance up.
His eyes landed on you.
And for just a moment, Frank Langdon completely lost his composure.
It was subtle. Anyone else would’ve missed it. But you knew him too well not to catch the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the quick blink before he smoothed his expression back into something professional.
“Doctor,” he greeted as he stepped toward you.
“Langdon.”
The formality felt ridiculous between two people who had once shared overnight shifts, cafeteria fries at two in the morning, and a complicated almost-relationship neither of you had ever fully defined.
“Thanks for coming down,” he said.
“You said pregnant patient with pain,” you replied, crossing your arms lightly. “That usually gets my attention.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
“Twenty-seven weeks,” he said, motioning toward the curtained bay as you both started walking. “Came in complaining of sudden, severe abdominal pain. She’s uncomfortable. Vitals have been… inconsistent.”
You nodded slowly, brain already shifting into assessment mode.
“Bleeding?”
“Not much,” he said. “But she keeps saying the pain feels wrong. Not like contractions.”
You glanced sideways at him. “And that’s why you called me personally?”
He hesitated for half a second.
“Yes,” he said simply.
The honesty landed heavier than you expected.
You pushed the feeling aside and stepped into the bay beside him.
The patient lay curled slightly on the bed, pale and visibly uncomfortable, clutching the hospital blanket like it might anchor her somewhere safe. A nurse adjusted her IV while another monitored the fetal heartbeat from a small machine beside the bed.
You softened your voice immediately, stepping closer.
“Hi, I’m Dr. y/l/n. I’m going to check on you, okay?”
She nodded weakly, wincing as she shifted.
You asked a few questions - when the pain started, how it felt, whether anything made it better or worse - while performing a quick exam. Nothing complicated. Just enough to confirm what your instincts were already whispering.
Something wasn’t right.
Behind you, Frank handed you gloves without being asked.
You almost sighed at how natural it felt.
After a few minutes, you stepped back, removing the gloves slowly as you glanced at the monitor, then at Frank.
“I want imaging,” you said quietly.
“Already called for portable ultrasound,” he replied.
You shot him a look.
“You always did like being two steps ahead.”
“You always liked pretending that annoyed you,” he said.
You opened your mouth to respond but the ultrasound tech arrived, wheeling the machine into place, breaking whatever fragile thread had started forming between you.
You turned your attention back to the patient as the screen flickered to life. The room grew quieter while you both studied the images, your shoulders almost brushing as you leaned closer to get a better angle.
After a moment, you straightened, tension settling into your spine.
“I think we should move her upstairs,” you said gently. “Just to be safe. I’d rather have surgical backup ready than risk waiting.”
Frank nodded immediately, already turning to relay instructions to the nurses.
You watched him for a second as he spoke calmly to the patient, explaining things in a steady, reassuring tone that you remembered too well. He had always been good at making terrifying situations sound manageable.
It was one of the reasons you had-
You cut the thought off sharply.
When he finished, he stepped back beside you.
“Good call bringing her up,” he said quietly.
“Good call asking me to come down,” you admitted.
Silence hovered between you for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just… loaded.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be on shift,” he said.
“I usually am on Thursdays.”
“I remember,” he said before he could stop himself.
Your breath caught.
Around you, the nurses began preparing the patient for transport, unplugging machines and adjusting lines. The organized chaos gave you something to focus on as you stepped forward to help guide the stretcher toward the hallway.
Frank stayed beside you, close enough that you were painfully aware of every movement he made.
At one point, your hands brushed while adjusting a blanket over the patient’s shoulder.
Neither of you pulled away right away.
You both pretended not to notice.
By the time you reached the elevator, your pulse was doing something extremely unprofessional, and the silence between you felt heavier than anything either of you had said out loud.
Frank cleared his throat softly.
“After this consult,” he said carefully, watching the elevator numbers tick upward, “I was hoping we could… talk.”
You stared straight ahead.
“About the patient?” you asked.
A pause.
“…Not just about the patient.”
The elevator dinged before you could answer, and the doors slid open onto the OB surgical floor, saving you from having to respond.
But the tension followed you both out anyway.
--------
The ER was even louder in the evening.
Shift overlap always turned the department into something slightly more chaotic - stretchers lining hallways, nurses juggling handovers, the smell of stale coffee lingering in the air like part of the building’s foundation.
You stepped through the sliding doors, still wearing your surgical cap pushed loosely back on your head, coat thrown over your scrubs. You hadn’t meant to come down personally. A page or message would’ve been enough.
But something about the way he had looked at you in the elevator earlier had stayed under your skin all afternoon.
You spotted him at the nurses’ station, leaning over a chart while one of the interns spoke rapidly beside him. He nodded occasionally, expression focused, jaw slightly tense in that familiar way he got when he was concentrating too hard.
You hesitated for half a second before walking over.
“Langdon.”
He turned immediately.
There it was again - that flicker of something unguarded crossing his face before he straightened.
“Hey,” he said, softer this time.
The intern beside him glanced between you both, clearly sensing something she couldn’t quite name. She cleared her throat awkwardly.
“I, uh… I’ll finish the discharge paperwork.”
Frank nodded without looking away from you.
“Thanks, Joy.”
You crossed your arms lightly, leaning against the counter.
“She delivered,” you said.
His shoulders dropped just slightly. Relief.
“Early?” he asked.
“Yeah. But stable. Baby too. NICU’s keeping an eye on things, but they’re optimistic.”
Frank exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That’s… really good.”
You watched him for a second, noticing how tension seemed to slowly drain from him now that the outcome wasn’t hanging in the air anymore.
“You handled it well down here,” you added.
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“You always say that when you mean you’re surprised I didn’t mess something up.”
You rolled your eyes faintly. “You’re still dramatic, I see.”
“And you’re still impossible to read,” he shot back.
There was a beat.
The noise of the ER buzzed around you - phones ringing, a monitor beeping somewhere nearby, a nurse laughing loudly at something across the station but it felt strangely muted standing there with him.
From behind you, a nurse - leaned toward another nurse and murmured something under her breath while glancing your way.
You pretended not to notice.
Frank absolutely noticed.
He shifted slightly, lowering his voice. “Want coffee?”
You blinked.
“…In the ER?”
“We have coffee,” he said defensively. “It’s… legally drinkable.”
You almost smiled.
“…Fine.”
The break area off the main ER corridor was barely bigger than a storage closet, but it had two chairs, a small table, and a machine that produced something vaguely resembling coffee if you didn’t think too hard about it.
Frank handed you a cup before leaning against the counter across from you, arms folded loosely. The space felt smaller than it actually was, like the years between you had compressed into the few feet separating you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“You didn’t have to come down yourself,” he said eventually.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
You traced the rim of the paper cup with your finger, pretending to study it.
“Professional courtesy.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve never come down personally before.”
You glanced up at him.
“You’ve never asked for me before.”
That landed.
He looked down at his coffee for a second, jaw tightening slightly.
“I probably should’ve… sooner,” he admitted.
The air shifted.
You leaned back in your chair slightly, folding your arms again, defense settling into your posture out of instinct more than intention.
“You were busy,” you said lightly. “Marriage. Promotions. ER hero reputation. I figured you had your hands full.”
His mouth twitched — not quite a smile.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That… didn’t exactly work out.”
You studied him carefully.
“I heard.”
“Of course you did. Hospitals are basically gossip factories with IV poles.”
You huffed a small laugh despite yourself.
“How long?” you asked.
“Almost a year now.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing that.
He shifted his weight, gaze flicking back to you, something uncertain flickering behind his usual composure.
“What about you?” he asked.
You shrugged, keeping your tone deliberately casual.
“Busy. Residency, then attending, then… more work.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched between you again, heavier this time.
“Are you… seeing anyone?” he asked finally, the words sounding like they had fought their way out of him.
You held his gaze for a long second.
“No,” you said.
Something in his shoulders eased - almost imperceptibly, but you caught it.
“You?” you asked.
He shook his head once.
“No.”
Another pause.
God, you hated how familiar this felt. The careful circling. The conversations that hovered just close enough to honesty without fully stepping into it.
“You know,” you said slowly, “we never actually defined what we were back then.”
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
“No. We definitely didn’t.”
“You just… disappeared,” you said, keeping your voice steady even though the memory still carried an edge.
His expression shifted immediately - guilt settling in like it had been waiting for permission.
“I know,” he said.
You stared at him.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
The word came out sharper than expected, and he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.
“I handled it badly,” he admitted. “I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve explained. I just-”
“You just got engaged,” you finished for him.
His face flinched like you’d physically hit him.
“It wasn’t like that,” he said quietly.
“It looked like that,” you replied.
He stepped closer without thinking, lowering his voice instinctively even though you were alone.
“I panicked,” he said. “Everything was happening fast. Residency placements, expectations, my family… I thought choosing something stable meant I was doing the right thing.”
“And I wasn’t stable?” you asked softly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean, Frank?”
Your voice wasn’t angry. That almost made it worse.
He looked at you like he was trying to find words that didn’t exist.
“You were the one thing that felt unpredictable,” he admitted finally. “And I was terrified of how much that mattered to me.”
Your breath caught despite yourself.
He swallowed hard.
“I’ve regretted how I left things with you every single day since.”
The honesty hit harder than you expected.
You looked down at your coffee, watching the liquid ripple slightly from how tightly you were holding the cup.
“You don’t get to say things like that casually,” you murmured.
“I’m not saying it casually.”
The break room door opened suddenly.
Two nurses stepped in mid-conversation, immediately freezing when they saw both of you standing far too close together.
“Oh,” one of them said.
“We’ll just-” the other added, already backing toward the door.
Frank stepped away slightly, clearing his throat.
“You don’t have to leave,” he said, professional tone snapping back into place like armor.
They absolutely did leave anyway.
The door closed again, leaving a thick, awkward silence behind them.
You exhaled slowly.
“They’re going to talk about this,” you said.
“They already were,” he replied.
You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve worked here long enough to recognize when the entire ER staff suddenly becomes very interested in my consult requests,” he said dryly.
That pulled a reluctant smile from you.
God, you had missed that. The way he could slip between serious and teasing without warning.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said suddenly, the softness returning to his voice. “I just… didn’t want you to think you didn’t matter.”
You looked at him carefully, searching his face for anything that felt rehearsed.
You didn’t find it.
“You mattered too much,” he added quietly.
Your chest tightened.
Outside, someone called his name down the hallway, followed by the sharp beep of a monitor escalating into something urgent.
Frank closed his eyes briefly, professional instinct already pulling him back toward the chaos waiting outside the door.
“Duty calls,” you said gently.
He nodded, but he didn’t move immediately.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured. “About wanting to talk. Properly.”
You hesitated.
“…Maybe,” you said.
It wasn’t a yes.
But it wasn’t a no either.
His eyes softened slightly, like he understood exactly what that meant.
“Okay,” he said.
Another voice called his name, louder this time.
He stepped toward the door, then paused, glancing back at you.
“I’m really glad you came down,” he said.
You swallowed.
“Me too,” you admitted.
And for the first time since he walked out of your life years ago, the space between you didn’t feel completely broken.
