my cat had no teeth (sort of) @gummy-cat-writes - Tumblr Blog

hot blooded

dr. langdon doesn't necessarily approve of you, the new hire. that doesn't mean he won't drop everything to help when you stumble into the ER, bloodied and disoriented under the unforgiving light.

frank langdon x girly!wardclerk!reader warnings/tags: reader is attacked but shes fine, hurt/comfort literally, langdon plays doctor, unidentified yearning, inappropriate workplace crushes being violently suppressed, Langdon in extreme denial, age gap but nothing has technically happened, blood duh hospital medical stuff Girl its The Pitt. wc 5k a/n: I am fucking crazy..... but I am free

Frank Langdon didn’t think that they needed another ward clerk. Lupe was more than adequate, splitting her duties with that older woman—the one with the gray ponytail and the purple framed glasses—and then there was that balding, lanky young gentlemen… Harold, maybe? Harlan? Hardy?

Point being, he’s not sure why anyone felt the need to stretch the already sheer budget by onboarding someone who looks too young to have any relevant work experience. Nurses, is what they need. More nurses. Or better paid nurses. Definitely more security. The luck they’ve had avoiding any assaults for the past few months is sure to wear off soon.

So yeah, it irks him a little when he comes in through chairs in the mornings and you’re already there behind your plexiglass shield, typing on Lupe’s computer in Lupe’s seat. Always with your hair done. Always in some new blouse you’d bought with a paycheck that could’ve gone toward, oh—another nurse, maybe? Frank begins to resent those little blouses of yours. Each polka dot, each cluster of ditzy flowers, every single stripe and every lacy neckline representing vital cents that Gloria might as well toss down a wishing well.

Today you’re sunshine, butter yellow and cream stripes curving down a fitted cap sleeve number. Mother of pearl buttons and the tiniest hint of sugar-white lace, bridging the gap at your sternum where you stopped buttoning the shirt up. Frank wonders how many stylets they could’ve ordered with the amount of money you paid for this top. Then he wonders how long it took you to get your hair like that, with the tendrils curling just so, complimenting the soft line of your jaw and the shape of your mouth. The hair in question is pushed behind an ear as you look dutifully between your computer screen and a sour-faced man with a turgid beer belly, on whom your charms are entirely lost. He’s already taking up an attitude with you, at seven in the goddamn morning, and you’re utterly serene. That’s another thing you ought to work on—the way you look at these people, so openly, so receptively, as if it is your greatest, most earnest desire to get each and every one of them seen as quickly and attentively as possible. With your lips slightly parted, and your brows almost imperceptibly raised. It’s just a little too kind. You give these people an inch, and they’d be happy to use you as a rug between here and those all-powerful double doors.

Frank eyes the man, assessing for any hint of aggression in his body language, and then looks back to you. Only sets his eyes squarely ahead when he’s sure you’re not going to look away from your charge and in his direction—in which case he’d be forced to offer a flat little smile and an indifferent nod of greeting. That happens some mornings. Most, probably. Other than that, and some brief parlay when he’s needed in chairs and you have the relevant patient information, the two of you don’t often have occasion to speak. And so he doesn’t have occasion to think about you. Or how whoever hired you was practically setting you up to fail. To be emotionally scarred for life, at the very least, and to have your confidence slashed in a million different ways. Ward clerks don’t need to be especially kind, or accommodating or pretty, or make every patient feel singularly special with that solicitous look in a set of sparkling eyes. In fact, they should be more like drill sergeants. They should lay down the law, and never take any bullshit from anyone. Frank has seen what scorned patients do to even the most hardened hospital staff given the chance. Putting you in chairs and saying manage these lunatics is like setting up a lightning rod on a roof and expecting it to clear up a storm.

It’s irresponsible. And, mostly, an egregious waste of money. But he clears the double doors, and the antiseptic fluorescents embrace him like a weary partner, and there is no more cause to think about you.

Not for a while, anyway.

Not for a few hours, until he’s peeling off a pair of soiled gloves and absently catching a handful of sanitizer, and someone opens the doors to the waiting room and someone else’s angry words slide through the gap.

His feet are moving before his brain has made any logistical decrees.

Instead of the double doors, Frank takes the direct route to your little box office. It feels smaller than he remembers, and smells a whole lot sweeter, which is very odd until he realizes that it’s you, and then he’s inexplicably embarrassed at having considered what you smell like. And by taking note of the fact that it is rich vanilla and an almost arresting hint of lavender. It gets worse when he leans over your shoulder—the scent gets warmer, and a little disarming, the way a good fragrance always does when it sits flush to the skin and invites you to come closer, to try and parse the difference between synthetic and organic. He braces a hand on the desk next to you. No way you should be allowed to wear such a distracting perfume to work. It’s out of place. It’s just not what a hospital is supposed to smell like.

This whole thought process unfurls in a matter of about three seconds before he’s cutting off the man who’d been yelling at you—the same one from earlier, he realizes with distaste.

“No yelling in the waiting room. It’s distressing to the patients.”

“I am fucking distressed. I am a distressed fucking patient!”

“Sir, lower your voice or you’ll be removed by security. We have a zero tolerance policy for aggressive behavior.”

For good measure, Frank points to the sign by the nearest pillar. You look in that direction too, like you hadn’t know it was there. Seriously, did nobody fucking train you? Did you wander in off the street? Or maybe out of a perfume commercial?

“Are you going to treat me or is she just going to keep giving me the same bullshit line?”

You begin: “Sir, there are people ahead of you who need—”

“I wasn’t fucking talking to you!” the man explodes, hitting the glass with a meaty palm. Frank looks around for security, but there’s nobody to be found. Fucking budget cuts. Fucking ward clerks.

“Dr. Langdon doesn’t decide who goes back. I decide who goes back,” you shoot, and while it’s not entirely truthful, Frank is caught off guard (and a little impressed) by the quick, clean jab. “Have a seat or I’ll call security and you’ll have wasted everybody’s time here today.”

The man looks at you, dumb and red as a brick. Then, he chuffs under his breath. That laugh does little to set Frank at ease—in fact, it has him tensing up. It’s a reckless laugh. Like this guy might be about to do something stupid.

But he just turns around, shaking his head as he walks down the aisle of chairs toward the exit.

“Unbelievable,” he laughs again. Langdon is pretty sure he’s actually burning holes through the back of this guys jacket as he tracks his flight path, still not quite believing that he’ll leave so peaceably.

He’s proved right, at the very last moment, when the man is at the threshold of the door. Clearly a coward who knows he’s on the precipice of escape, he looks over his shoulder and yells: “Dumb fucking bitch!”

Frank immediately straightens, rigid with an innate impulse to chase this fucking guy down—but ultimately, is bound in place. Just barely. Just by nature of knowing dealing with assholes is a part of your job, and beating them up is not a part of his. Violence is not exactly endorsed in the Hippocratic oath.

“Dr. Langdon?”

“Hm?”

He’s aware that he sounds disinterested, that he hasn’t looked away from the rectangle of bright midday light which beckons him in search of retribution. He’s also aware that he might break off a piece of this desk with how hard he’s gripping it.

“Should I call security?”

“Uh…” he’s drawn back to you, briefly distracted by your proximity when he looks down. You’re expectant looking, eyes clear and wide as usual, combing for information and ostensibly unrattled—but your lips are pressed together somberly. Like you’re keeping something in. “Uh, no. No, if we had security chase down every disgruntled patient there wouldn’t be any left. I’m sorry about that, though. Guy was an asshole. You okay?”

A little nod. One of your earrings catches a drop of light, twisting and arcing brilliantly. Distractingly.

Jesus, he’s out of it today.

“I’m good.”

Unconvinced, he does another quick scan of the room.

“Are you sure? How about you take a break, where’s, uh…”

He draws a blank.

“Honald? He’s on lunch, I think he’ll be back soon.”

“Okay, why don’t you take yours when he gets back? Just, you know, take a beat. Relax for a minute.”

It’s ridiculous for him to be telling you how to take your break, and he has no idea why he’s doing it, but you nod.

“Yeah, okay. I will.”

“Good.” Frank straightens fully, pats your shoulder even as he’s already turning around to leave and immediately wonders if that’s something he usually does with his coworkers. “You’re doing great.”

The door is closing behind him before he has a chance to hear your reply.

Frank is visibly shaking his head and muttering to himself as he walks past central, where Robby is consulting over some files with Dana. He feels Robby’s eyes catch on him and follow his path for a moment before calling out, “Alright?”

“Alright,” Frank mutters uselessly, and goes to make himself useful. Hopefully someone is on the precipice of death via massive internal bleed. That, at least, would make sense to him. There’s an area in which he can demonstrate absolutely competence.

-

No internal bleeding, but a couple of burns and concussions need dealing with. He handles them quickly and is sauntering up to Dana for something a little more challenging when the door opens again—and there you stand, cradling one limp arm against your chest, and Frank can’t quite make sense of what he’s seeing at first, but he’s aware that Dana is exclaiming in that jaded way of hers, already making her way toward you.

You—looking out of place as you blink against the white light, dazed, glancing around furtively, uncertainly.

Blood, oozing from your cheek and arm, matting your carefully styled hair to your face and ruining your brand new sunshine-yellow shirt. Frank is in action, beats Dana to you, calling over his shoulder for assistance as he takes you by the shoulders and guides you to a nearby chair before kneeling in front of you.

“I don’t need—I can walk,” you insist, a little breathless. He sees your gaze drop to the floor as you speak, and your brows furrow a little—surprised by your own pain.

“What happened?”

“Um, that guy—” you wince as Mattheo, who seems to have materialized out of nowhere, dabs at your bloody cheek with gauze.

“Hey, woah, no,” Frank interrupts. “Don’t touch her face. Look at the arm, I got her cheek. Which guy?”

“The guy who was yelling at me earlier, I guess he waited in the staff parking lot, and, um, I went out to grab my lunch from my car, and I saw the tires were slashed, and then, like, he just—I don’t know, someone just grabbed me, I don’t even know what he was holding—”

“He attacked you with a blade? Did you call—”

Frank is forgoing his own sentence, rising up and shoring in a sturdy breath to yell for security, but your hand catches on his forearm and it jars him enough to stop him clean in his tracks.

“It’s fine, Orlando was right around the corner smoking. I think he got the guy, I don’t know, I just turned around and came right here, I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure what I supposed to do.”

“No, you did great. You did good, you did the right thing. Did you at any point hit your head?” He takes your face in his hands and turns you this way and that, searching for any signs of head trauma.

“No. I don’t think. I mean, I staid on my feet.”

“Ooh, making me look bad,” Dana mutters, fussing in her way as she sets up makeshift first aid station.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Frank insists as he very carefully slides your sticky hair off your cheek and smooths it out of your face. “You didn’t see what he used?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Woah, ward clerk,” Robby says, and Frank is inexplicably annoyed by his presence. “What we got?”

“A low patient satisfaction score, I guess.” You wince even as you say it, and Frank grimaces in sympathetic pain, hand darting back from where he’d been trying to assess the wound.

Any humor melts from Robby’s voice. “Are you serious? Where the fuck is security?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Frank murmurs to himself, impossibly gentler this time as he dabs away the blood.

“They got him. Right away. It was my fault, I—”

Frank cuts you off. “No it wasn’t. That’s all on me. I should have taken that asshole seriously.”

“Arm lac is superficial and clotting,” Mattheo reports. “How’s the cheek?”

“Ah… can’t tell. We need a bed.”

“What? No, we don’t, I’m genuinely fine.”

“South 15 is open,” Dana barks. “You’re gonna want that bed, Scarface.”

Robby slams a folder on the counter. “I’m going to find Gloria.”

“Gloria?” You frown, twisting to look at him.

Frank gently redirects your head and puts a square of gauze in your palm. “Right here, just look forward. Can you hold this to the wound?”

“What does he need Gloria for?”

He’s up and wheeling you with purpose toward the south wing. “How’s the pain?”

“It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“When was the last time you received a tetanus shot?”

“Uh… I don’t… remember?”

“Okay, we’re going to need to administer one just in case. Mattheo—”

“I’ll put in the order. Analgesics, too. Any allergies?”

“Not to medicine.” You slump fractionally in your chair, still holding the gauze dutifully to your head. “Fuck.”

“Still doing okay?”

“Yeah. Pretty embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. This happens all the time.”

“What—patients attacking staff?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shouldn’t we have more security, then?”

We should, Frank thinks as he wheels you into South 15 and cranks the bed up to 45 degrees before guiding you to lie down. But we have you instead.

“I think Dr. Robby is on his way to make that case as we speak. Can I see?”

Carefully Frank pulls your hand from your face, taking the bloodied gauze with it and does a quick visual examination. The bleeding has stopped and all signs point to a shallow wound. He begins configuring the setup for a quick irrigation and primary closure. Realistically, he doesn’t need to be the one handling such a simple case—in fact it would be a better utilization of resources to have a nurse handle the whole thing so he remains free if he’s needed—but Frank can’t help but feel a little responsible for the whole thing. It was him who said you didn’t need to call security, he who sent you on your ill-fated lunch.

“Fairly clean job,” he mutters as he irrigates the wound. “Almost incised.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the wound edges are straight enough that we can use glue instead of staples or sutures. Better outlook in terms of scarring, too.”

“Oh, god. I didn’t even think of that. Is that gonna happen?”

“No damage to the dermis, and it’s a low tension area. I can’t make any promises, but scarring should be minimal.”He sets the irrigation tub and syringe on the cart before patting your cheek dry with sterile gauze. “No foreign material in the wound. Cut and dry.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Only if it was funny.”

Frank allows himself to examine the rest of your face for any cue that he might’ve offended you, just in time to watch as you huff a quiet laugh. The corner of his own mouth tugs in response and he focuses on the cut once more—setting aside the shimmer on your eyelids, and the way you haven’t totally eliminated all the stray hairs around your brows. He wonders for no particular reason if you matched your blush and lipgloss on purpose.

Up close and personal, he finds himself searching for indicators of age. Crow’s feet? Smile lines? The working theory is late twenties. Not that it matters. But it could clue him into how much work experience you might have. If you’re in school, and this is just a job to pay for ramen, or if you’re an over-qualified graduate trying to afford downtown rent.

Probably he could just ask, he realizes as he breaks open an ampoule of skin glue. It might even be appreciated—the silence is getting increasingly sticky.

“Alright, we’re gonna do three coats of Dermabond with thirty second intervals for drying. It may tickle a little, but no glue is getting in the wound itself. This method should minimize scarring. Sound good?”

Frank has the applicator poised above the cut and is about to begin before he realizes you haven’t responded. He leans back to catch your eye, and notes the vacant gaze, set astray at a waxed tile floor.

“You okay?”

Finally you stir, eyes widening as they meet his and you realize you’d tuned out. “Sorry. Yeah, that sounds great. All good.”

“You heard what I said?”

“Yes. Three layers and it’s gonna tickle.”

“More or less.” Satisfied, he straightens once more, and very carefully, begins applying a thin layer of adhesive over where he’s pinched the wound shut.

More silence. Adrenaline crash, probably. Someone will have to bring you a juice box.

“Remind me. How long have you been here?” Frank asks, more in an attempt to make sure you’re not internally spiraling over the moral failure of humanity than because he wants to know.

“About a month.”

Frank whistles. “Didn’t make it very long, did you?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t really expecting to be attacked, period.”

His hand pauses, and it’s good a time as any to let the first layer dry. Most normal people are pretty upset by witnessing violence, let alone experiencing it. Especially ones who haven’t worked in the field long enough to anticipate the accrual of a few battle scars.

“I’m sorry this happened to you. For what it’s worth, I can guarantee that guy is already on his way to jail if Orlando caught him at the scene like you said.”

You pick at your white nail polish without moving the injured arm. “Mhm.”

Another silent beat. Frank is about to apologize for not doing more to prevent the whole thing when there’s a knock at the open door. Without looking, he’s sure it’s Dana.

“How you doing, Doll? Langdon’s taking good care of that pretty face?”

“Yeah, thanks. We’re all good.”

It could be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure he feels your cheek heat under his gloved hand.

Probably a physiological reaction to pain.

He swallows. “Where’s Mattheo, Dana? We need those painkillers.”

“Backup at the ADC. Shouldn’t be much longer. The cops want to talk to you.”

You hesitate. Langdon chances a peek at the rest of your face as he brushes on the second layer of glue.

“Do I have to do it right now?”

“No,” Frank interjects, though he doubts Dana would’ve pushed you on it either. “We need to finish this, get to your arm, and then administer your tetanus shot. After that you’ll need at least fifteen minutes of observation in case of any adverse reactions. Dana, can you get someone to bring her a drink?”

“You got it.” Then, very obviously aimed toward you: “Do you need anything else?”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

“Of course. Keep me posted.”

“Always,” Frank assures, and Dana moves along.

A quiet moment.

“Does this actually happen all the time?” you ask without warning. “You guys seem really chill about it.”

“Not really, no. But pretty much everyone has a story.”

You hum absently, and Frank senses something about his answer needs amending.

“It’s rare for clerks. You guys get that fancy plexiglass.”

“Have you been attacked?”

Memories stir loose, and Frank huffs a quiet laugh. No sense in scaring you with horror stories involving scalpels.

“It’s pretty easy to win a fight when you have a syringe full of heavy duty sedatives.”

“Maybe I should keep one of those up front.”

“You won’t need it. Today was…” he swallows back ‘my fault’. “Atypical. Lupe’s been here longer than I have and I’ve never seen her get hurt like that. It won’t happen to you again.”

Because I will personally start beating asses if these people want to keep it up, is what he doesn’t say. Anyone who picks on the twenty-something glorified secretary at the front desk is a bully, and there’s no room for that in an ER.

Frank carefully, unblinkingly watches the final layer of glue set. Wonders what would drive anyone to attack you. You, with your cheerful yellow shirt and that delicate necklace—the dragonfly pendant that dips into the hollow of your throat. The way your hair curls at the ends and dances when you move. Everything about you seems engineered to elicit positive reaction. No, not engineered—that connotes some sort of farce, or mistruth. The pleasantry that you inspire is one hundred percent you. All the pretty trappings just signal your expectations for how you’ll be treated, and consequentially, your inherent nature.

Or—he assumes. He doesn’t actually know you.

Regardless, you didn’t deserve the attack. Nobody would’ve, of course. But seeing your shirt all ruined, and the even finish of your face contorted by this long cut, drains Frank of a little of his belief in the goodness of humanity. There wasn’t much to begin with.

Somewhere in this wash of pointless musing, he’s begun work on your arm. He’s distantly aware of your watching this work, and that you’re holding yourself a little differently with the pain. If Mattheo doesn’t come back soon, he’s going to have to get to the cabinet himself and find you some acetaminophen.

Suddenly, you’re speaking: “I don’t know if…”

And just as quickly, the sentence tapers off. Frank looks up at you as he works, and then back down. It’s pretty easy from the pensive look on your face to determine your train of thought.

“I promise you it’s not going to happen again. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t even like getting yelled at.”

“You are on the wrong career path, then.”

“I was waiting for it to get easier.”

He risks another glance. You’re fixedly watching rust-colored saline trickle from your arm into the collection tub.

“It will. If you stick around.”One last push of saline gurgles from the syringe and into the tray. Clear, now. He sets the tools aside and finds more gauze to pat the wound dry. “Are you thinking of quitting?”

“Can’t afford to,” you say, all too quickly, like you had pursued the idea and run into this immovable wall minutes ago. “I’m very much in debt and looking to get into more.”

“Oh, yeah? Considering med school?”

“Maybe. Or a PhD. Not sure if I want to get into psychology or psychiatry. Now I’m wondering if this is, like… a healthy environment for me.”

Frank half-smiles. “Well, if you did go the med school route, you could probably avoid rotations in emergency medicine. Or—hey, you could come back here. Barring death, I’ll still be around in four years. It’d probably be less intimidating if you knew your attending.”

“Alternatively I’d be so preoccupied with trying not to look like an idiot that I’d accidentally kill a bunch of people.”

“I’m confident that you’re not an idiot. In practice or appearance.”Frank can hear you swallow as he dispenses a small amount of antibiotic ointment into his gloved hand and carefully goes about working it into your skin. “Sorry. Tender?”

“A little.”

“Mattheo should definitely be here by now. If he’s flirting with that intern again I’m going to kill him.”You laugh half-heartedly. Frank smooths a 4x4 over your arm, tapes it in place, and leans back, peeling off his gloves. “Should be good as new in a few weeks. When do you work next?”

“Monday.”

“I’ll find you Monday for a check-in. Until then keep it clean and dry. Princess or Perlah will put together a kit with everything you’ll need, and Mattheo will be here eventually with that other stuff. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

“Uh—”

An intern sticks his head through the door—evidently one who hasn’t made an impression on Langdon.

“Code blue in chairs.”

“Then you should get to chairs.”

“Right.”

The intern disappears and Frank stands, taking longer than he should to walk to the door and grab some hand sanitizer.

“All good here?” he asks, giving you a once over as his hands rub together. With an air of self-consciousness you smooth your skirt. It’s a nice skirt. Untainted by blood, as far as he can tell.

You nod once, decisively. “Yup.”

“Good. I’ll make sure someone calls a tow truck and a car so you can get home. But don’t leave until you get that tetanus shot, okay? I’m serious.”

“I won’t.”

Frank nods slowly, and feels like there’s something he should say. He skims his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Nothing comes to him. He knows he’s wasting time. And probably making you uncomfortable—you, just sitting there, back rod-straight and ankles crossed, hands folded politely in your lap. He’s been told he has a tendency to stare.

In the end, all he can think to say is, “Take care of yourself.”

Again you nod, and Frank is pulled by duty down the hall, leaving you there in your ruined sunshiney shirt, and with your hair streaked in drying blood.

A strange image threatens to stop him in his tracks—one he hadn’t thought about in the moment, but now sticks to the inside of his retinas at half-opacity. Blooms in full, violent color when he blinks.

A drop of your blood, tracing its way down the dip in your cheek, clinging to the hollow beneath your jaw. Tracing slowly, all the way down your throat. Catching on the dragonfly pendant, as had the quick, covert trail of his gaze.

That’s weird, he thinks. An odd image to fixate on.

Frank shakes his head like he could dislodge the memory. Snaps the edge of a fresh glove extra hard against his skin as he comes up to the edge of the heart attack’s gurney and someone fills him in.

Yeah—the last thing they needed was another ward clerk. Broader, wiser coverage could’ve stopped the events of the day. More nurses. More security. Shit, you wouldn’t have been attacked if you weren’t ever hired.

The heart attack is caused by a complete blockage in the left anterior-descending artery. A widowmaker. They stabilize the man, and get him up to an OR without a hitch.

Afterwards, Frank finds himself passing by South 15. Casts a quick look inside, and finds the room completely empty.

Good—room for another patient. The whole thing shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Shouldn’t have taken up time and space.

We don’t need an extra ward clerk, he thinks for the millionth time.

Then remembers the way the dragonfly had collected blood and smeared it in impossibly fine lines across the expanse of your chest every time you moved, tracing linked and overlapping circles, like a Spirograph on your skin. The gentle rise and fall of you.

He comes to a standstill in the empty hallway, an unwilling hostage as something else hijacks his brain and projects the image onto the sterile white wall. Baffled and fruitlessly willing himself to move on. Flexing his hands in time with his own breathing.

They don’t need an extra ward clerk.

But the damage is wholly done.

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