summary: you try to hide from langdon and yourself, and nobody will leave you alone
tags: m!reader, langdon/reader, langdon x m!reader, mlm, age difference, toxic relationship
You felt strange watching them all cry or become varying levels of sad. Louie was always probably going to die. Perlah was so sad. Langdon and Robby had done all they could and Louie had died anyway. That was the nature of the job. Did it make you a monster that you didn’t care? Or maybe you did care. Did you? Something twisted in your chest and you couldn’t put a name to the feeling. Normally, you would have asked Langdon. You can’t do that now. Instead, you scurry away, not sure if anything that came out of your mouth would be worth someone listening to.
You hide, a natural instinct when things got too much. You find yourself sitting next to the little baby that Lonnie had found. Its tiny face was crunched up, mouth smacking. It wasn’t crying anymore, which was good.
“I’m afraid of new places, too.” You say to the baby, peering over the small bed at it. “And this one, this new place, is so loud, huh? You’re alright, I think. You’re a baby so you’re supposed to cry. You know, I was twelve and still crying when places got too loud.”
The baby blinked up at you. You blink back down at it; she, your mind reminds you, sounding suspiciously like Langdon, call the baby ‘she’, you’re not a monster.
“You wanna know something?” You say, reaching down to touch a finger against a soft cheek. A giggle, no, more of a gurgle. “I know it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, but this might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“Hell of a thing to say.” Robby says, standing at the door. You turn slow, eyes unblinking. “Shut the owl eyes down for a second.” You blink.
“Santos isn’t calling me that anymore. Owl.” You say, not moving. Robby wanders in closer, eyes trained on the baby.
“I heard, Lector.” Robby says. You study him for a moment. Robby was always an edge, something sharp you could cut yourself on if you were on the wrong side of the knife he was holding but he’d never really been outwardly mean. He was now. Had been for a while. “I also heard you’ve been sitting in here instead of seeing your patients.”
“Tall Whitaker wanted the experience, I let him have it.” You said. Robby’s eyebrow raises but he doesn’t make a comment, although his mouth slowly forms a silent Tall Whitaker? to himself. “This is a teaching hospital, right?”
“Don’t be a smart ass, it doesn’t suit you.” Robby says and it sounds like actual advice.
“I’m trying things out.” You shrug. You had once been the quiet child in the background, the small and strange shadow in the corner of every room until Langdon had smiled at you, had turned on the tiniest light and you’d ran to it, made a whole personality for yourself out of it.
“What you should try,” Robby says. “is doing your job. You have been sulking all day. I give you patients to distract you, you hand them to med students. I give you space, you hide.”
“I’m not hiding.” You drawl, lying. “I’m checking vitals.” you look at the monitor and then back and Robby. “They’re fine.”
“Is the attitude a new thing you’re trying out, too?” Robby asks and you straighten up. Robby sighs.
He looks more tired than you’ve ever seen him. You stare at him, wondering what would be the right thing to say but Langdon wasn’t here to tell you so you don’t say anything at all.
“You know,” Robby starts, crossing his arms and wandering over to the other side of the intermittently giggling baby. “these past ten months…”
You prepare for the worst. These past ten months you’ve been distracted. These past ten months you’ve been half the doctor you hoped people saw you as. These past ten months you’ve been listless and lifeless and weird—
“… you’ve grown in ways I didn’t think was even possible.”
What? You blink. Your heart soars. “What?”
Robby quickly cuts you down by following that up with, “You were never a good intern.”
“What—“
“Truly one of the worst I’ve seen.”
“Oh—“
“Your bedside manner still isn’t great—“
“This sucks.” You interrupt. “This is the worst pep talk ever, man. What the fuck?”
Robby sighs, the way he always did when you stopped the weird act and just went straight to teenage dirtbag. “This isn’t a pep talk. I’m trying to tell you that… that I used to worry about you, thought maybe you… you couldn’t function if you didn’t have eyes on you. But you don’t need me anymore. You don’t need Langdon. You don’t need anyone.”
That makes you pause. You wondered if everyone saw the pedestal you put Langdon on, if everyone laughed at you or pitied you, cringing whenever you used to trail after him. The last part of Robby’s sentence, however, is what makes you frown.
You say, “But I do. Want someone, I mean. Isn’t that… good?”
Robby immediately retorts, “No. No, you— relying on others, being someone that needs people, it wrecks you. It all does. This life, this job—“
“So be alone?” You cut in. “That’s the solution to this job?”
“Don’t rely.” Robby says and it sounds fake the way he says it, like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth, like the truth in his gut is trying to pull the words back in. “Not on anyone, or anything.”
“Oh… kay.” You say, slow and a bit stunned. What the fuck? For once, you marvel inwardly, you are not the saddest person in the room.
“You don’t need me anymore.” Robby repeats, looking at you.
You blink, thrown. Sometimes you could vaguely tell when turns in conversation became important, like you’d memorised the pattern of it. This felt like that. You say, “This is a big city, with lots of people in it. I’m sure, uh, they’ll be more… weird bad doctors for you to try and force in the right direction.”
Robby hums, seemingly already lost in something else, like he wasn’t even looking at you anymore, like you could have easily not even been there. Just when you’re about to register the conversation as over in your brain, Robby throws out a, “Did you mean it?”
“Yes.” You say quizzically. “This is a big city, objectively; many people do live here.”
Robby gives a half sigh, half grunt; the noise commonly reserved for when you didn’t understand something. “No. I meant— what you said about baby Jane Doe, how this could be the best thing that could have happened to her.”
“Oh! I mean, sure.” You say, lifting one shoulder. Robby watches you lower it. His eyes flick back up. He seems displeased with your nonchalance. You grasp for an emotion, one that would fit the moment. You can’t find it. Not for the first time today do you wish Langdon was here to point you in a direction. You just stay you. “Sometimes getting left behind is a hell of a lot fucking better than ending up where you were heading.”
Robby copies your shrug, “Can’t outrun it, though; where you’re going.”
You blink. The Langdon in your head says, an important turn, tread carefully. “Where… where are you going, Dr. Robby?”
Something in your tone must match close enough to comfort, to the sound of someone working up to give advice. Robby gives you a flat look, as if to say you? Really?
“Fair.” You concede, thankful you didn’t have to stumble your way through trying to talk Robby off whatever ledge he was flirting with. “Don’t go too far.” You try a joke out. “Wouldn’t want another father figure to disappoint me.”
Robby gives you a flabbergasted look. Now who was the Owl? “Langdon was— I thought you two were—“ Your eyes widen.
Someone pokes their head in, looks right at you and you know whatever they’re going to say is going to be bad but you also can’t help but feel the urge to fall to your knees and scream in joy. “Your infected leg patient is crashing.” You could have wept. Saved by the deafening sound of the Pitt.
“No.” Mel says, sounding concerned. You kind of thought she always sounded like she was about to cry, was crying, and had just finished crying. “Your eyes are completely dry. Is something wrong?”
“I’m trying to look weepy.” You xplain. “My patient died.”
“Oh!” Mel gasps, scooting closer. “You couldn’t have done anything more than you did. Nobody could have.”
“I know.” You say, poking under your eye to make it look red in the small mirror you have Mel holding in front of your face. “I’m a great doctor.”
Mel looks puzzled for a moment before she offers, “You could try practicing a sad face.” You make one and Mel hums in a way that doesn’t sound like great feedback.
“You are so fucking weird.” Santos snorts, swivelling back around to her charting.
“You’re weird, you know that?” Langdon tells you and it’s two years ago, the second shift you ever worked together.
“I was trying not to be.” You say and you’d only been two years younger but it seems like a lifetime ago.
You remember the way Langdon had laughed until he clocked your earnestness. Maybe that’s the moment he decided you needed him. Always too late to the party, the last horse and all that; you’d decided you needed him that first shift when he’d touched your hand to help you along and maybe that had been the first time someone had ever helped you; or maybe that’s just how you’re choosing to remember it, your life, mundane and unimportant twisted into something obsessively precious. A new reason to get up in the morning.
You’re hiding in the stairwell next. Dana sits down next to you and you help.
“How did you find me?” You ask, hunched over.
Dana snorts. “You don’t own the stairwell, kid; and I happen to have a sixth sense for sad little doctors hiding out here.”
“Nothing is original.” You say. Dana sighs. Everyone always seemed to be sighing around you.
“I only got about one more pep talk in me today.” Dana informs you. Her hands twitch and you know she wants a cigarette. She’s trying to quit. You almost ask her if she wants one just to see what she’ll do but even you recognise pretty quickly that’d be more mean than interesting, no Langdon needed.
“I already got one from Robby.” You say. You think for a moment. “It kinda sucked.”
Dana doesn’t looked surprised. “Anything worth mentioning?”
“Just that I should never rely on anyone and be alone forever.”
Dana makes a sound. I nod along. “And what do you want?”
You blink. Whatever everyone else wants. To know what everyone else wanted so you knew what to want too. You wanted Frank Langdon to love you, to ruin his life for you. You wanted to feel like you were really someplace, doing something, making things happen and not just having them happen to you. To be a real person.
“I just want to be happy.” You say, suddenly miserable. “I don’t think, uh, I can live like people do.”
Dana doesn’t even ask what that means. She says, “Well, kid, I guess you better live like you then.”
Something tight unfurls in your stomach for a brief second before startling tight again. “I think that’s bad.”
“I think,” Dana says. “that if that’s the case, you’ll find out pretty quick.“
“Have you ever, like, wanted something you shouldn’t?” You ask after a beat, attempting casual.
Dana’s look is sharp, a sort of warmth still covers it but she definitely doesn’t look happy. Score, you think to yourself, figured out that one too. She says, “I like you, kid. Please don’t make me not like you.”
She touches your shoulder and then heaves herself up. When she leaves, you think to yourself that that was a pretty shitty pep talk, too.
“Hey,” McKay says, catching you on your way from slipping out of Al-Hashimi’s sight so she doesn’t blink disappointedly at you for absolutely not doing your charting. “you’ve been looking… down today. Is there anything you—“
“Absolutely not.” You reply in a drive-by flit around. You would not be caught a third time.
You don’t even ask how he found you. You already know. Langdon showed you every inch of this dumb hospital. There wasn’t a room or corner to hide in that a phantom memory of you and Langdon weren’t already in.
“I don’t want to talk right now.” You say.
Langdon looks at you. He sits down. He doesn’t say a word.
Mayfield!OC x Steve Harrington - SEASON 3 - Series Masterlist
Word Count: 5.7k
Summary: S3 EP3. The girls have a sleepover and get up to mischief — what exactly does Steve do when he goes home after work? The unsettling feeling of Billy continues to linger and Luce has a lapse in judgement that could have been worse if the situation turned south.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, allusions to sex but barely mentioned, period-typical language, emetophobia warning!!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“—and there we go…” Luce murmurs, brows pinched in concentration as she finishes the last stroke of nail polish. El’s fingers splayed over hers to help with the application while Max reads one of the magazines from the goodie bag Luce packed.
“Pretty…” El smiles, looking up at the older teen for confirmation.
Luce nods, “purple is a great colour on you, hon. Now don't touch anything, blow on them like this—” she lifts the girl's hands and gently blows air across the curing nail polish, “it'll take forever but you’ll look cute! See?”
It was the perfect dusty shade of purple that really went well with her brunette curls and golden skin. Compared to last year, she looked like more life had been squeezed into her. Freedom often had that type of effect on people.
Including girls who had superpowers, apparently.
While the nail polish dries, the steady flow of music on the radio filled the silence with ease, pages of magazines rustle when the girls flick through their respective issues on the bed together. And when boy talk began, all eyes were on Luce.
Her fault really, for opening her mouth and even thinking neither of the girls would care much when she mentioned in passing that Steve had asked her out. Max never cared about her older sisters dating life before, even with Lucas around she showed little interest.
Maybe it was El’s excitement that beckoned forth such eager reactions, or maybe it was just something about Steve. Whatever the case, Luce felt the metaphorical spotlight shining hard on her and a grave being dug for her to lay in if she wasn’t careful.
The conversation seemed easier when Max and El were talking about Ralph Macchio, but now they wanted to talk about Steve Harrington and that felt a little more difficult to navigate.
She hadn’t had a lot of time to sort out how she felt about the situation. Steve was incredibly sweet and lovely but above all he had become a good friend. Not that she found herself concerned that their friendship could potentially suffer, no. Being at a sleepover also wasn’t the best place to unpack the feelings that came with a date on the horizon.
Especially not with the barrage of questions being slung.
‘Where is he taking you?’
‘So lucky! He actually has like… Money to buy you things — wait, is he gonna buy you anything?’
‘Have you guys kissed yet?’
‘Was it romantic when he asked you out?’
It was all very overwhelming, piling question over question and shoving Luce deeper into a sharp undercurrent. When the silence felt appropriate she tried her best to catch up, “I’m not sure, he’s picking me up at seven. I don’t… I don’t want him to buy me anything I have plenty of things—”
“What? That’s bullshit, Adrian bought you shit all the time. Oh my god, El. So her ex always got her these really good cookies for her birthday—”
Adrian wasn’t a bad boyfriend by any stretch, but cookies? He most certainly did not get her anything like that. More like her friends Sylvia and Mikayla did and he was grouped into the gift.
“Mike’s never gotten me anything…” El murmurs thoughtfully.
Luce could see in real time the downside of sleepovers, comparison being the death of joy and how easily it was to slip into spirals of doubt and self pity. She reaches out and twirls some of the girls hair gently, “hon, unfortunately for you both right now boys are still kinda…” No eloquent word could came to mind, “... Fartfaces. And they’ll get worse before they get better.”
“Get… worse?” El whispers.
Max flops onto the bed beside her sister, “like Billy worse?”
“No, gosh, Billy is…” Complicated? Different? Hopefully not a representation of the majority of boys? “He’s been let down a lot by people who shouldn’t have let him down. And he’s angry at the world for it. He’s not the first guy you’ll both know to be that way…” She considers her words carefully, because his behaviour is never okay and needs to change.
But how can one offer grace and patience to someone who makes it damn impossible to give it to?
Billy’s been let down by Neil, by his mom and every friend that hasn’t told him no. Horrifyingly in the moment she sees such a parallel between him and Steve. Another boy who has (on all accounts) been let down by his parents and up until a point hadn’t been told no. So why are they so different yet so similar?
Nancy Wheeler might have been a wake up call for Steve but there was absolutely no way that she’d have been a catalyst for Billy to change.
The difference has to be that Steve wanted to change so he did.
Maybe after all the head and heartache, Billy really is a lost cause until he decides he wants to change.
“I meant worse as in, they become confusing and they change a lot. Sometimes they get angrier, sometimes they don’t… They have a lot of things to say about girls being confusing but being honest on how you feel is never wrong, okay?” Luce looks between the two girls, who were hanging onto every word like it was gospel.
Like she was the grand messiah on boys after only having had one boyfriend and a potential second one soon. Not to get ahead of herself, of course.
“See El, Don’t worry about it, he’ll come crawling back to you in no time.” Max’s takeaway from the chat was so adorably simple. At that age, everything usually is. And with that the attention shifts off Luce, and onto the boys they broke up with earlier in the day.
Which she’d heard all about in great detail while painting nails. It was amusing, if only a little concerning as she tries to figure out if her and her friends sleepovers were this drama riddled back home at their age. Not that she’d comment on it to the girls — boys, after-all, had a tendency to drive girls insane without trying very hard.
But then again, her friends back home never had the human equivalent to a surveillance system and suddenly it was a very exciting prospect to spy on people with her.
Being the oldest present and therefore the voice of reason, Luce attempts to dissuade the girls from spying (not very effectively considering she was curious herself) and cautioned to at least be careful. Was it because she watched Nightmare on Elm street recently and was terrified for the girl that some scary claw wielding psycho would come after her? Yeah a little.
Anything was possible now, after all she’s seen (even if she didn’t believe it at first).
Despite kind of wanting to be nosy and listen in, she did opt to be on Hopper lookout. Cops unnerved her at the best of times considering her history with them, she couldn’t imagine the Chief of Police liking the fact that the Mayfield sisters were using his pseudo-daughter as a spying radar dish.
Even then, she heard bits and pieces from what little El was relaying back despite trying not to be nosy about it. Female Species? Acting emotionally not logically. Very much having heard all of those before and then some.
Sometimes those things stack and over time wear her down, like it wears down all of her friends. Max was incredulous at the notion of being called a species and that fiery look in her eyes indicated that she’d let Lucas know at some point that it wasn’t okay to say that.
Luce admired that about her sister, that outspoken strength and combativeness made no room for argument. Her sister was no-nonsense and direct about certain things. Clearly this was one of those things. Any boy would have a hard time pulling one over her.
For a faint moment Luce wished she could be more like Max. Somewhere in her hardwiring just defers to avoid conflict at all costs and while that seems like the better option, it never feels like the right thing in the long run.
A fun girls night was not the time or place to be psycho-analyzing her non-confrontational nature. So she lets the moment pass. No sooner does the sound of a car pulling up alert her to the fact Hopper was home.
“He's home,” she turns back into the room, shutting the door for extra time while crouching down on the floor by El and wiping the blood from her nose. “You okay, hon?”
“Yeah,” El nods, smiley and giddy for doing something she probably shouldn't be doing.
In the time it takes Hopper to make it inside, the girls all situate themselves, pretending like they weren't doing something bad. Max lays across the floor with one of Luce's Cosmo mags, and El is sitting cross legged between Luce's on the floor while the eldest braids her hair.
Barely a moment later, Hopper bursts through the bedroom door like a bull in a china shop. Even though it was expected, the sheer ferocity of it startles Luce, which only served to make the whole thing less staged. Thank goodness for jumpiness, she thinks.
He processes the room slowly, eyes flitting between the three girls as it dawns on him how it must look. Dressed in tight pants and a holiday shirt, he looked less like a small town cop and more like some hollywood actor pretending to be one.
Max calls out the intrusion first with a backhanded comment, because of course she would — not even the Chief of Police could deter her fiery spirit. El simply mimicked her though the words come out less convincing to the point it nearly made both Mayfield girls laugh.
El shifts in her seated position, already picking at the nail polish on her fingers, “Max wanted to have a sleepover… Is that… okay?”
“Yeah… Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your parents know about this?” His eyes flicker up to Luce’s, the figure of responsibility in the trio as if he’s never had a nineteen year old girl lie to his face before.
Good thing she didn’t make a habit out of being dishonest.
“Yes sir! The landline is written down on the counter if anything happens,” she smiles, continuing to braid El’s hair in no particular pattern.
“Great,” he’s lingering by the door and none of the girls can really tell if he’s in awe that Mike isn’t present or that his ward is having a normal night. There’s a twinkle in his eye that indicates giddiness about the latter, but the hovering felt a little more than awkward.
A few more beats passed and it went from awkward to uncomfortable. Luce’s hands dropped from El’s hair and twisted anxiously on her lap, Max strains a sigh, placing the magazine on the floor pointedly, “did you… need something?”
Sharp enough to slice through the tension, but not rude enough to warrant rebuke, it was just the right thing to shock him into realising his presence was overstaying its welcome. And he leaves the girls without further incident, shutting the door behind him which felt more significant than it did based on El’s look around at the sisters.
Five minutes pass to make sure he’s not lingering nearby and potentially eavesdropping, then another five minutes go by again to be safe.
Luce doesn’t recall agreeing to this playful game of ‘spin-the-bottle-and-spy-on-whoever-it-lands-on’, but she sits on the edge of the bed anyway and decides now wasn’t the best time to impede on someone’s very first sleepover in favour of being responsible.
Even if she really wanted to step in when Max wrote Steve’s name down with a smug little smile. The thought of spying on Steve was invasive and weird and even if the bottle didn’t land on his name like it didn’t the first spin, Max would be determined to see it land on it.
Sure enough, round two favours whatever fates looked over her sister's shoulder because now she’s pacing while the girls untune the radio. Then prepare El for the interdimensional prodding she does to fight monsters but also for spying on boys.
“Lu, relax. It’s gonna be fine.” Max attempts to soothe though with little success.
“He won’t see. Promise.” El reassures and it was so earnest, that alone eases Luce enough to sit down on the edge of the bed but not enough to stop her nervous fidgeting.
The static from the radio relaxes her wayward thoughts from spiralling into how weird and wrong it was. The guilt alone would follow her into the morning and until she saw him next, then it would explode out of her in some word vomit style murder confession.
Her fingertips press into the beads of her bracelet, as if feeling hard enough would somehow telepathically send him the frantic apology she’s saying over and over again in her mind.
“Quiet… Very quiet.” El murmurs, an observation if anything, not a request for the sisters to be quieter.
He could be sleeping, Luce thinks that it's the best case scenario.
“He’s… In bed…”
Relief that he’s asleep being more likely began to ease the rigid tension in Luce’s shoulders a lot more.
“Sniffling… I… He is crying?”
Max snorts which earnt a swift and gentle flick on the knee barely half a second later from Luce. “Is he okay?” She’s torn between desperately wanting to be the one seeing him and also wishing she left well enough alone.
“TV… He’s watching TV.”
“Holy shit, is he actually crying watching a movie?” Max tries to suppress her amusement, but the shake in her shoulders gives her away without so much as a look.
Sparing him the humiliation he had no idea was happening, Luce crouches down and taps El’s knee twice, “hey, maybe we just leave him be, okay?”
Thankfully, despite Max’s goading, El pulls herself out of wherever she goes to see people. “Was he upset?” She tilts her head inquisitively, looking to Luce as a source of truth.
“No… He probably was watching a sad movie. It’s good to cry while watching something — it’s healthy and cathartic.”
“Cath… artic?”
“Like… Relief. Less pressure.” Max slips down onto the floor beside the two with an impish grin. Clearly she enjoyed this far too much.
“Again?” El grins as wide as Max, that wide smile and wild eyes that was like coming down a fast ride and wanting to go again, an adrenaline junkie is what she looked like in that moment.
Luce tries not to feel the pit in her stomach open wider when they spin that bottle again and it lands on Billy.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Watching the sunrise peaking through a labyrinth of trees was usually a pairing that induced relaxation, peace, serenity. Normally it would be the perfect thing to wake up with, slowly and unrushed with nature.
El’s blanched face coming out of that mind place she goes to spy was burned into the back of Luce's eyelids. That was the countenance of someone who saw something horrific, brows pinched and high, mouth agape, wide shocked eyes.
But for Luce, she had slept fitfully and not because of the makeshift bed on El’s floor. After having a Van for a few years back in San Diego, she had become a pro at sleeping on a lumpy ill-formed floor.
No, something else was the cause behind restless sleep and the tossing and turning.
Luce knew then in that moment that whatever bad omen had been looming over her step brother was here. And that she had been right to believe that there was more doom rolling in addition to him crashing his car.
When Max convinced El that the only bad thing she'd stumbled on was Billy probably having sex, Luce knew better. At that age, it was more surprisingly disgusting to see. Not terror.
Whatever El saw, it terrified her enough that the mood died quickly after. Things were becoming normal again after last year, yet this blight settles large and uncomfortable around Luce.
The gate was closed, but maybe something got out? Something lying in wait until its strength was back to keep unleashing horros.
“Hi.”
She jumps at the voice, a yelp squeezes through tense vocal cords and for a moment the world tips with dizziness.
“Sorry,” she chuckles, a hand over her heart to ease the rapid beating, “was just thinking, got lost in thought, I think.” And you scared the shit out of me, she tacks on in her head but avoids saying because it was most definitely not El’s fault at all for moving like a shadow.
“You are upset?”
The statement comes out in a question, her curious gaze fixed as if deciphering the elder teens mood which had been sort of in a downward trajectory since they spied on Steve.
Jury's still out on how Luce was feeling about that, but it was entirely overshadowed by Billy and potentially what El saw in there. For now, she put a blanket label on her feelings marked with 'do not like the feelings that came from this’ and was reluctant to unpack that.
“Uhh… no not — not really,” she laughs nervously, a habit rather than actual nervousness. Her eyes drop to the ground, focused on a single point where bark meets dirt in random piles of natural detritus. “I was just thinking about Billy.”
It was plain enough, vague enough of a topic broach without unloading all these feelings onto the poor girl.
“Me too,” El twists her fingers, the mimicry of anxiety evident when the two stood side by side. She often shadowed others around her, a byproduct of spending substantial time during her core development period being prodded and poked at like an experiment.
Steve was her favourite to mimic, not by admission but by Luce's own observations. The hand through the hair, hands on hips, liberal use of the word ‘shithead’, but instead of using it in the right context El would just say ‘shithead’ under her breath with a coy smile after he says it.
This wasn't one of those times where she was expressing admiration through imitation. The shifting weight of her feet, the furrow of her brows and hesitant gaze was all natural anxiety.
But where does Luce even begin to unpack the complex paradox of Billy? What is relevant to the feelings now? Something had been settling poorly well before he crashed his car but the hackles raised in her body hadn't gone away since then.
So she starts there — talks about the last few weeks, how progressively there was this oppressive feeling of wrongness that got worse until Billy came home terrified and hurt. Then how the feeling refused to leave, an unwelcome guest in the sacred place of Luce's mind. Taking up space she didn't want to allocate to it.
El listened, nodding, through it all. Didn't ask questions though that didn't seem like a good thing, because the lack of them indicated what Luce already guessed since last night. Both girls were worried about the same thing.
Without saying anything, they'd silently come to the same conclusion that something was wrong and Billy had something to do with it.
Two of them teaming up to convince Max was better than just one and the other half on the fence. She wasn't pleased with getting coaxed out of bed, and hated the idea more of walking into town. Only reluctantly agreeing with the two since it was still early and the summer heat had yet to descend down on Hawkins for the day.
The heat simmers to steaminess as the morning fades and the day picks up. Along with it, angry dark clouds rolling in for a summer storm — Luce blanched looking at it as if it were a divine omen.
Any and all omens might as well be flashing bright red as a warning, and she felt idiotic for not saying anything until now.
Walking through town soured only at the sight of the impending storm, conversation going from light-hearted to serious. Max started to go down a reassuring deflection of what El did or didn't see last night when she realised neither her sister or friend seemed to be in a chatty mood.
Luce sighs, adjusting the heavy duffel bag on her shoulder, the pain that ached from such a long walk barely felt worse than the anxiety of going back home. “I wanna believe it's not a big deal — but shit I have such a bad feeling about all of this… He-He came home the other night like he nearly died and that… It felt wrong.”
“Sorry nearly died?” Max asks incredulously, stopping in her tracks instantly.
“No! Not… well not like that,” Luce shifts from foot to foot, his glassy eyes permanently fixed in her mind from that night and it wasn't something she could seem to shake. The fear in them felt bigger than Neil, bigger than any consequence he could dish out. “He said he um… Crashed his car and he looked so scared when I saw him.”
The significance of Billy crashing his car dawns heavily on Max more than it did for El, because if anyone knew him best; it was going to be his step sisters.
Billy Hargrove might have been a reckless driver but he had control over his car as good as any professional driver would. Crashing his car, his pride and joy and the only thing he smiles about wasn't a fluke. It meant something.
Something terrible.
And Luce felt more sick for not saying anything sooner. But it was simply a little too late to dwell on 'what if’s’ as the trio rounded onto Cherry Road with a little more tense urgency.
Urgency turned grim realisation after turning the house upside down for anything that seems out of the ordinary. His room had been normal but the bathroom was where the world shifted on its axis because of a little yellow whistle dangling in El’s hands.
A whistle mottled with dried blood and an accompanying lifeguard waist pack. Pointedly not Billy’s since he doesn't wear one.
“We should ask any of the other lifeguards at the pool… See if they know anything.” Max suggested, shifting her gaze elsewhere.
“I can wait around here, see if he comes back?” Luce was tearing at her nailbeds, pulling at the tiny strips of skin to quell the nervousness. She was terrified of leaving now, not wanting to see if her fears would come true.
It was cowardly beyond belief, sending her sister and friend out in a thunderstorm. The fear has been eating away at her for quite some time, longer than whatever predictions were made about Billy. Life hadn't quite settled properly following the events of last year and it was all coming to a head at this very moment.
She'd be very little help in this state anyway, a bad moment away from puking her guts from anxiety alone.
“Come straight back after the pool — oh and…” She adds, ducking out of the bathroom and down the hall to her room before reemerging with her red raincoat for El. “I don't like the look of those rainclouds… Be careful. Straight back here, okay?”
“Okay.” El nods.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
“Yeah.” Max says.
The last time Luce recalls hurling this much was when she was around twelve. It was one of those summer days out on the beach where the sun was too hot, the heat biting a little too hard over skin.
She had been out with Mikayla to look at the critters hiding away in the rockpools and then out wading shallow waters for pretty shells. From as early as eleven in the morning to well and truly into dinnertime they were out under sweltering heat.
Of course when she came home, nothing sat in her stomach, not even water. Anything that went down, came back up until it was nothing but bile. Heatstroke was one of the worst experiences she never wanted to repeat.
Yet here she was wearing down the floorboards of the house from pacing, bathroom light on to welcome her once again if she felt the need to kneel before cold porcelain. It was pitch black out, rain pelting against the roof and flashes of lightning cast harsh shadows through the half drawn blinds.
Her hand was cramped from gripping the landline after an hour of phone calls trying to track down El and Max. Not at the pool, not at Mike's or Lucas’, not at the arcade either.
Only when they stepped in the house drenched from head to toe, did the anxiety quieten and hand stop cramping.
“Oh my god,” both girls are pulled into an embrace immediately, whatever water sops onto Luce is no bother in comparison to the relief rushing through her. They’re okay. A startling worrisome oversight was letting them leave on their own in the first place. It was stupid and irresponsible of her to do that and she profusely apologises while checking them for any injuries.
Though neither were harmed and returned back unscathed they still divulged everything about the afternoon. The Pool, figuring out that the bloody whistle and waist pack belonged to Heather Holloway — a name vaguely familiar from Luce’s time at school but no face came to mind. Then what they saw at the Holloway's home.
Max was determined to write off the ordeal as concluded and all was well. After they tracked Billy to Heather's house and got eyes on him to confirm that everything was fine, that was as good as a crisis averted for her. El, though? Looked no more reassured now than she had the night before and that unease lands where the nausea is within Luce, churning her stomach painfully like it was trying to double knot and tie itself off.
When her sister goes to shower the rainwater off, Luce fixes El some dinner — even if it was just reheated casserole from the other night. Neither of them spoke while the microwave droned on in the kitchen, its monotonous humming provided much needed comfort to focus on while each girl stood in pained silence.
Steam curled off the food when taken out and placed on the counter, it didn’t look particularly appetising and without meaning to, El seemed to make a face at the sight of it.
Chuckling, Luce finally shatters the silence, “it tastes better than it looks,” then pauses. The words stuck in her mind and throat, they clumsily filter out through a quiet timbre and solemn look, “I’m sorry I didn’t go with you two—”
“—it’s okay.”
“No… No it’s not. You two could’ve been hurt and that’s on me. Billy is… Whatever is wrong with him aside, he’s still Billy. And he’s cruel without reason, I shouldn’t have let you two go out on your own.”
But what was there to do? If the situation escalated, what would little five foot one Luce do to big bad Billy? The last time she intervened in one of his explosive moments she ended up with a concussion and Steve was beaten within an inch of his life. She wasn’t even sure she knew how to punch someone properly let alone actually protect the girls where it mattered.
Despite the guilt, this was the best case scenario but it could’ve gone south in a flash. Whatever happens after this moment she needed to be on them like glue, until whatever nebulous feelings subsided. Which seemed counter-intuitive in letting her relationship with Max heal but whatever this feeling was trumped anything else right now.
El eventually stops picking at the food and finally digs in, pausing between bites with sullen eyes, “Billy was… not right.”
Not right.
And he hadn’t been since the other night. Max’s refusal to see what Luce and El were seeing didn’t seem to come from a place of ill will either. The relationship between her and Billy always required a lot more scrutiny than the surface level bickering would suggest. Denial was hitting the youngest Mayfield hard and fast, understandably so, it was an odd collection of events to go through.
Still, when she got out of the shower, no one was rushing to talk about the elephant in the room. Preferably, the elephant gets ignored entirely and Luce spends her night wearing down her nails and trying to ignore the painful churning in her stomach.
At the end of an exhausting day riddled with shame and guilt and fear, she gravitates toward the landline again. Hovering around its orbit, mentally talking herself into making the call she desperately wants to make and talk to the person she feels might understand the most. Or at the very least, he would be able to listen.
Eventually she makes the call, dialling the digits memorized from months of weekend calls and late night talks. It’s beyond late, offensively so but it wasn’t like his parents—
“Harrington residence,” the voice has a bassy, woody timbre that sounded more aged than the boyish one she was used to hearing on the other side of the line. Why was Danny Harrington up this late? Why was he even home? Mercifully, he doesn’t sound cross with the phone ringing late at night.
“I… erm.. Hi — Hello Mr Harrington, this is uhm.. Luce! I was wondering if Steve’s home?”
“Hold on,” there’s shuffling on the other end, a muffled shout then more rustling. Distantly a passive argument starts, hushed reprimand directed at Steve as to why someone was calling this late and how rude it was. She’d met his parents twice and both times they didn’t seem too interested in her, noses turned up at the sight of her and the occasional comments about how she dressed was uncouth.
Melissa was nicer, but much like Luce’s mom, she often retreated somewhere when Danny had things to say about Steve. It was never ‘bad’ either, much like how Neil would never hit Billy in front of anyone outside of the family. Luce imagines Danny is far meaner behind closed doors than what she’s glimpsed the two times they’ve been in the same room.
“Luce? Hey,” Steve’s voice fills the receiver. Already quelling the nervousness she had. Enough to let her draw out a long deep breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Everything okay?”
It’s not a loaded question without context, but to her it was ridiculously loaded. Where does she even start?
“Hah,” she chuckles humourlessly, coiling the cable around her fingers to keep her nerves in check, “no… I don’t… I don’t know… Today was weird and I just wanted to uh… y’know talk to someone—you, actually, talk to you about it.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, he usually doesn’t when it's these kinds of conversations. He likes to take a moment to take in words and information before speaking on it. “Talk to me,” he finally says, voice softer and coaxing in the way it gets when it's just the two of them.
At first, words elude her entirely, all jumbled in a traffic jam at the tip of her tongue so she takes a while to say anything at all. Eventually the silence stretches too long and she mumbles an apology which he quickly dismisses, gently reminding her to take her time.
“—oh my god… Did she… y’know? See anything?”
She starts with the other night, how weird Billy was when he came home, the weird predictions in the tea leaves and tarot reading from a while ago, then what El saw when she was spying on him which immediately derailed into her apologising about spying on Steve.
The topic of Billy disappears quickly after.
“Well… I mean you were watching a movie… And crying.”
“Fuck that is totally so embarrassing and super unattractive. God— and you still wanna go out with me tomorrow?” He chuckles, she imagines he’s running a stressed hand through his hair.
The talk and promise of a date tomorrow was doing wonders to not think about how awful the day had been, a nice respite amongst chaos, “I told El crying was cathartic and very healthy. I don’t think that's unattractive at all, honey.” She pauses and feels a smile tug at her lips that seemed hard to fight, “what movie?”
“Not information I’m willing to give out, actually. The mystery seems sexier, no?”
“Oh, well… I don’t know about that… I think context is sexier. How will I know what kind of person I’m going on a date with, if he doesn’t tell me what movies make him cry?” She says with a small chortle.
He laughs too, easy and effortless, “does it change anything if I say The Breakfast Club?”
She doesn’t laugh — not because she doesn’t think it’s funny but because that answer felt more heavy than it seemed. A movie with social commentary on being forced to fit a mold and how those rigid labels can be detrimental to relationships and teenagers navigating life outside of high-school.
By the time Luce had moved to Hawkins, the Steve she knew was three quarters through a chrysalis of shedding the old him. Old Steve was there in some parts, especially at the beginning of their odd friendship. Enough of him was left over that she could easily sit there and pinpoint the person he used to be versus the person he is now.
So, no, she doesn’t laugh when he says he cried watching The Breakfast Club. Because all she could do was imagine how important that movie must feel to someone who has moved on from the shadow of a different version and became someone better.
Steve was no more victim to a ridiculous square label than someone like Eddie Munson was — the difference was how it impacts both. Eddie accepts and welcomes the reproach for who he is whereas Steve spent a long time forcing himself to believe he fit a mold and couldn't handle any criticism.
“No… No it doesn’t at all,” she whispers and feels the weight of the day unfurl and ease up. Not all the way, just enough to breathe again until morning.
summary: the prodigal son returns. you just want to make it through the fourth of july
tags: m!reader, langdon/reader, langdon x m! reader, mlm, age difference, emotional cheating, mentions of addiction, toxic relationship/s, implied abuse
You felt nervous, a sick feeling that settled at the bottom of your stomach, making itself home in you, twisting you all up until the feeling became physical and you felt like you needed to hunch over, rip something out of you— Why?
Langdon was back. Or, well, he would be. Today. You almost bump into a patient on a gurney in the hallway, distracted by the thought of it. It takes you longer than usual to remember people were supposed to apologise for shit like that so you throw out a sorry! as you scuttle away. Your phone pings three times in a quick row. You ignore it.
It has been ten months since the day you’d found those pills in Langdon’s locker. Ten months, the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you started working here. It was pathetic of you to care about that, to have cared about it in the first place and especially to care about it still. You’d once been told as a child that you were too cold but whenever you tried for an emotion it came out all wrong, twisted up inside and out.
Whatever, you think, it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t your problem. Focus would be on Langdon and then that would die down quick enough when the craziness of the shift got heated. You were fine—
“Your work husband is back today.” Garcia quips, appearing out of nowhere. You jump in the air and turn around.
“Do we only have one surgical consult in this entire hospital?” You ask, tone too snippy to pass as banter.
“I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died but you should remove it and replace it with a dick.” Garcia snorts, moving along, swaggering off like she hadn’t almost ripped your belly open with a jagged nail, spilling out the contents of your shame and guilt for all to see.
You’re so dramatic, you could hear your mother’s voice say in the back of your head. Shut up, you think.
“You should—“ You start to call then stop, realising you have no comeback. Garcia laughs without turning back. Pouting, you watch her go.
Garcia was confident, sure of herself. She seemed it, at least. You wanted to be like that, not constantly unsure of your own personhood. You have only ever really felt like somebody while next to somebody else.
You slump off.
You first see Langdon during the night-shift hand-offs. You stare more than you should. You always do, always have even when you were a kid, unblinking and direct, enough to unnerve the parents at all your schools and cause ridicule from your peers. This time there was no ridicule, only Langdon’s shifting gaze and Santos’ side-eye. You valiantly ignore her.
Langdon looks good. But, you think to yourself, he looked good ten months ago. It didn’t mean anything. Change was bullshit. Everything else was, too. You look away. You had fallen for it like an idiot. You watch Mel skip over to him and your body explodes angry hot for a brief second. Guilt follows and that feels even worse.
Fuck this day, you think, and the morning rush hasn’t even started.
“Weird, right?” Santos slides to you on her swivel chair. You don’t look away from your chart. You hum, half listening. Wait. No. You have to fully listen. Connections 101, Active Listening, then Response. You hastily try to tuck the chart under your arm and almost drop it so you have to fumble for it awkwardly. Santos gives you a judging look.
“Weird.” You say, trying to stop the comment on the tip of her tongue. “What’s weird. Uh. What’s weird?”
“Riiight.” Santos says. “Langdon. You know, just showing up so casually, like he didn’t—“
“Trying to bond with me via talking shit about Dr. Langdon is not the route you wanna go.” You snap. You realise you should regret it immediately when Santos instantly shrinks back. You go to say something, maybe even apologise, but she beats you to the punch.
“I’d have to be pretty fucking desperate to try bonding wth you, Lector.” Santos says and then she’s gone.
Lector? “Oh.” You say to no one. “Hannibal Lector.”
You turn and Dana is raising an eyebrow at you from behind the nurses station. “Am I like Hannibal Lector?”
“Kid,” Dana replies. “you ain’t like Winnie the Pooh.”
Avoiding Langdon turns out to be extraordinarily easy. You could only guess Robby had sentenced him to triage hell. You want to feel satisfied, cruelly smug even but all you could think was— I miss him. And you did miss him, so much. He was the only one that laughed at your poor attempts at jokes, he’d always step in when you tried bantering with Garcia and fell behind because you couldn’t keep up with her sharp wit, but he never made fun of you for it. On her first day, Santos had jokingly called you Freak and Langdon had laid into her about it. That had made you feel warm in the moment but now you weren’t too sure. Had he only cared because Santos had been on his trail and he’d wanted to knock her down a peg? Maybe none of it had ever been about you. You’d let it go to your head back then, the attention of a married man. You were your mother’s son, you suppose. Had you been crazy, making things up that you were sure had meaning, the touches and looks? You—
“Doc!”
You whip around to find Louie, wheelchair bound and a bit slurring, grinning right at you. Louie, a repeat offender, has always tried to be decent towards you. He’d told you once that in all his time coming to the hospital, you had the worst bedside manner of any doctor he’d seen. He’d said it not unkindly, just a plain fact. Seemingly, Louie has made it a personal mission to make you more… personable. There has been very little progress. Still, someone smiling at you was nice.
Whitaker and his little med student ducklings were standing before Louie and Langdon behind him. Langdon. You don’t even realise you’re staring until Whitaker clears his throat, eyes darting between you and Langdon, the pair of you equally silent. Langdon was staring at you, too.
“Right.” Langdon says, shaking his head and standing tall again. “So, our friend Louie here—“
Langdon rattles off orders at Whitaker and his disciples, Whitaker growing more soggy in the face with every word. The kid might’ve been a doctor now, but his expression had stayed that of a scared mouse. He seems to know what he’s doing, better than you had been your first year as a grown up in the hospital. You had floundered, had clung onto the only person that seemingly hadn’t been perturbed by you. Langdon. Langdon, who has handed Louie off and was standing in front of you. You blink. No emotion came at first, not even anger.
“I think we should talk.” He says.
Now the anger comes. “I think triage is busy.” You retort. “And I have patients.” As a kid, you were all throw punches and bloody noses, action first with no follow-up. You were calmer now, better at holding it in.
“I really think—“
You cut Langdon off. “I have no fucking interest in being apart of your twelve step program.”
This time Langdon blinks, slow and stunned. Maybe he expected you to welcome him back with open arms, obsessive and devoted as you had been. “You’re meaner.” He observes.
You don’t really know what to say to that. “I continue to learn from you.” You eventually manage through gritted teeth, struggling all the way.
Langdon looks sad for a moment. “You don’t look happy.”
You snap, all quiet rage, “That’s because I’m looking at you.” Something tight and hot coils in your belly. You felt awful, dangerous.
Langdon looks at you a moment, gaze appraising. His hands twitch by his side. You catch the movement and your eyes lock in on his wedding ring for a second before you look away. He nods after a beat and turns on his heel, disappearing back to triage.
You deflate. Come back, you think desperately, come back and look at me, come back and smile at me, be angry with me, be anything at all, just come back. Your insides never matched your outsides. Your phone pings with another text message. You ignore it.
There’s a small pep in your step not too long after. A truly wicked incision and drainage has given you some life back.
“You are so weird.” Santos comments as you saunter by, humming. She seems at least semi over the small fight between you two, her tone not as mean as you’re sure it could be.
“You’re just mad I got to do something cool and you’re still charting.” You reply, a misplaced smugness.
“Yeah, sure,” Santos snorts. “I’m sooo jealous.”
Your next patient is decidedly less cool. Easy enough, cleaning and suturing was another favourite of yours. After the initial shock, staring a wound in the face was a morbid enjoyment; what a body go through and heal from, open and then closed. You knew enough but it was better seeing it on someone else. The patient, though. Well, he was mean. You feel stupid. The man, a Mr. Cartwright, wasn’t even saying anything. Mostly he was just grunting, but you still feel suffocated. The air in the room feels thick. Cartwright was the type of man that could be mean with just a look, a way of setting his shoulders. Your dad was like that, scary without ever raising his voice.
The patient moves his wrist in a way your brain perceives as too fast and you flinch. The patient hisses, sharp but steady, “That fucking hurt. Are you even a doctor? You look like you’re about to piss yourself—“
“Doctor,” Langdon peaks his head in and this time, you manage to hold back the flinch. “I need to speak with you.”
As if pulled by some taut string, you follow Langdon outside without a word.
“What do you need?” You ask, still dazed. So dazed that you don’t remember to be mad at Langdon.
“Nothing.” He says. “It just looked like you needed an out. You were done in there.”
Now you remember the anger.
“I don’t need your help.” You snap and ignore the few quick stares that are thrown towards you and Langdon. He looks around, moving closer so you lower your voice. “I was with a patient—“
“That was getting aggressive—“
“Which I can handle—“
“I know why you’re mad at me.” Langdon cuts you off again, his posture falling, as if the shame and guilt in him had a physical weight. “I didn’t even think— Everything with your dad—“
You laugh, sharp. More hurried, gossiping looks. You ignore them. “Is that what you think? Fuck, Langdon. I—“ You lower your voice again. “I am not angry at you because of my fucking daddy issues, I am mad at you because—“
You had trusted him. Loved him, even. Childish and delusional, you loved him. Confessions made after shifts too long, things that only Langdon knew; he made sure you were safe, a hand on your back if an older male patient got too much, leaning on him so you never learnt how to lean on yourself. He never made fun of you for it, never even brought it up. The pit grows ever larger in your stomach, swallowing everything.
“I think we should talk.” Langdon repeats, more pained than early. He looks at you like he knew what you were going to say, the way he always used to look when he knew what you meant before you said it. One half of the same whole, moving in sync as if born from the same impossible things. You still smile like him, even now. You never liked your smile so you borrowed his.
“I have nothing to say to you.” You sound like something is stuck in your throat; longing, maybe, thick desire to just forgive, to hold and forget because that was always easier, better at least than being alone. Why? Why couldn’t have Langdon stayed stuck in triage prison so you didn’t have to see him or deal with yourself.
Langdon, ploughing on, goes to open his mouth before the monitor in Louie’s room screams.
“You should get that.” You sneer. “He probably pulled off his pulse ox again.”
Langdon leaves again. You find yourself getting used to it.
***
you bet your ass i’m not adding in any detailed medical shit bc i would have no idea what i was talking about
Summary: Gator would soon rather cut his own scarred eyes out than apologise but this is as close as he'll get to doing it. AKA this is really just a talking about our feelings chapter sjdkf
Warnings: MDNI 18+, language warning, mentions of human trafficking, Roy Tillman gets mentioned so he's his own warning, misogyny, angst, hurt with a smidge of comfort I suppose.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Time was one of those things that had rules of its own when the universe decided upon it. Somehow an hour could stretch and feel like four, or a day would pass by in a single blink. In prison some days felt shorter than others, sometimes they felt excruciatingly long.
Three weeks pass by agonizingly slow at D-Division. Smoker is still deep in exposing that Drug Ring, moving into the last phase of that bust meant he was barely present. You still filed all the office work, not because there was respect behind Gator's decision to shaft you off field days or anything fun.
No.
If this was the work you'd been forced to do, then it would be done. Silently and without commentary. Everyday would go by, headphones on and nothing but the company of the eclectic mix of music you enjoyed. Sometimes Prince, sometimes Sabrina Carpenter, sometimes Metallica.
Leroy asked on day two of weaponized silence, if you were okay. No joke, no pretense of the sibling like ribbing masking his actual care or concern.
When the question was left out in the open, Gator had stopped working to listen to your response — not at all subtle in the way he turned his body, head tilting so that he could see out of the peripheral of his good eye.
You'd said one word; Fine.
Then moved onto working on the meeting minutes from that morning.
Three weeks since Gator threatened to send you back and without saying the word 'slut' had meant it, and you've said a single word. Fine. Ironic being that it was anything but fine.
And now you stand at his desk, dropping files on-top of whatever report he was writing up, or research or something. It was indignant, but D-Division became its own sort of hell since an ex-cop started ruling the roost.
"Y'finished with ya piss fit?" He doesn't look up, just ahead and works his jaw. It was ridiculous really, he was such an asshole but looking the way he did felt like karmic retribution of some sort.
Maybe torching teslas and mansions had more severe consequences than prison after-all. He was proof of that made in flesh.
When you don't answer, it was just routine at this point. However, it's when you remain at his desk with an expectant look which he actively avoids, that breaks the usual displeasure of recent days. Typically the paperwork you do sits in his desk or on top whenever he leaves to have his smoke break.
The less contact the better, in your opinion.
Today's atmosphere thickens when you look down at him, he feels it, stiffens a fraction but noticeable enough. Leaning forward to read the margin, something flashes across his face.
The twitch in his nose gives it away, and then he leans back, "this ain't the paperwork I asked for." Steady, factual and distant. As if that was enough to hide the fact his lips were pursed together in annoyance.
The answer is right there, sitting locked and loaded but you wait. Just to see if there was a hint of that barely concealed misogyny begging to slip out, like it had three weeks ago.
A moment passes painfully slow, then another.
Enough that Leroy had stopped typing at his laptop and the only noise layering the silence was the pathetic splutter of the desk AC the higher ups allowed to alleviate the summer swelter.
"No," you finally cut into the misery that was the awkward silence, "the top file is a really nice girl from long beach who embezzled half a million dollars from the insurance company she worked for."
Fingers graze the file and move it from the top, to the side. His brows furrow as you suspected they would, not quite clued on to what exactly you were doing. "This one was an ex-mormon family annihilator who was forced into marriage as a child and killed the whole family with a butchers knife and rope."
He sits there and lets you go through the stack of files, telling him about different women and their crimes. Five minutes of uninterrupted talking. The most words that came out in three weeks, and when you get to the bottom of the stack you pause to breathe.
He doesn't fill the silence.
"But if you're that much of a woman hater maybe you'd consider this guy to join the team. Real country man, thinks religion sits as the authority of the world and hates women as much as you."
Finally, he scoffs, "what's ya point?" He doesn't look at the file, just at you. Tongue jutting against his cheek as he smacks his lips together.
"You don't want me here, I've done my due diligence. Your options are right there, so you better pick before I'm gone by the end of the week."
"Yah? And where ya goin'?" Leaning forward, his amusement seems misplaced, like he was in on the joke before you had a chance to say it. Because men like him think women are stupid or inconvenient or liabilities.
He wants you to say that you're quitting so he can have the satisfaction of reminding you that it's either this job or back to prison.
At least prison had exceptionally less men to deal with.
"Taycheedah. I sent them my paperwork last week, told the higher ups here that I'm a flight risk and they handled it."
Because he wasn't expecting you to do that, and that dawns on him. His face is more expressive than he thinks even with the absence of proper eye movement.
"What?" Leroy stands up. The last person in the world you expected to show a fraction of feelings toward you of all people leaving. "C'mon Cherry — don't be like that."
"I didn't sign off on that." Gator deadpans.
Now that surprised you. He was watching you, head tilted to favour his good side so you knew his marred eyes were looking at you.
"According to the paperwork, you did." Now you're staring at him, this was an unexpected hurdle in getting the fuck away from him. It was supposed to be easy, he'd make a snide comment then let you walk through the door and not come back.
"Ya forged my signature." A statement, not a question. Half accusing, half musing out loud. The roughness to his voice is gone but don't get it twisted, it wasn't soft either.
"Not like you could fuckin' spot the dotted line now could you?"
He huffs, a sharp exhale of air through his nose and his lips twitch ever so slightly. He thought that was funny but doesn't let that overtake the seriousness of the moment.
"Leroy," he leans sideways, looking around you to Leroy's desk, "go away."
Not fuck off. Piss off. Get lost. Just a simple, final: Go away.
Halfway between comically simple and a smidge endearing. It was an order wrapped up in a suggestion, which meant it was intentional. Gator didn't strike you as the type to have much thought about how his words land, so when he finally looks back at you, the atmosphere in the room shifts.
Leroy lingers longer than he should, fist gently bumping your arm. Wordlessly signing off his support, a quiet reassurance that you acknowledge with a half smile.
Then he goes and now it's just the two of you in a stuffy shoe-box of a room with a shitty desk AC blowing tepid air around unhelpfully.
"You treat me like a fixture on the wall, threaten to send me back inside then get shitty when I do all that hard womanly admin work to make that happen?"
"Still stuck on that?" He scoffs, discarding the pen in his hands. Words finally acknowledging the argument from three weeks ago.
"Still stuck on that." You echo slowly, unimpressed, arms folded over one another to prove the point. "Better make a call by the end of the week or you'll be down a person. Don't think too hard, this guy seems really eager to work with you."
His lips smack together, tongue clicking as he mulls over the words. You hadn't yelled, hell, barely even raised your voice. The calm timbre that carried your words almost masks the wobble in them, giving away how angry you were about it. Like it was bursting at the seams and unable to contain itself.
Finally, he looks down at the last file, leaning forward just shy of his nose butting up against the paper and huffs. Leaning back and giving a slow nod of acknowledgement, a quiet concession that clearly showed in the curl of his upper lip and narrowed eyes; touche.
Roy Tillman's file sits at the bottom of the stack. Now, did you actually call the pig? No. His son didn't need to know that. What he did need to know was that you were so astronomically fucked off about his attitude that you've decided to threaten the hound with the hound-master.
His face twists into a grimace, bingo, tail slotting between his legs at the thought of his daddy being anywhere near him again.
"Whatcha want?" he asks plainly. A simple question that beckoned forth some type of negotiation, because he thinks thats your angle. That you want to negotiate with him.
Laughing humourlessly, you shake your head, "I wanted to kick a blind man where it hurts before I go. You piss me off, Gator."
“Ya got whatcha wanted, hm?” Still angling to get a better read of the situation, for a smart as he is and as dumb as he looks, you were confident all that equaled to was clueless.
“Just making sure you settle with the team you want, Gator. Processing is done, I'll be gone by Friday,” you smack your lips together and shake your head, the whole situation was ridiculous beyond compare.
And despite this whole mess and massive blow to your self worth, he's still fucking hot and distracting to look at.
“So that's it? You just quittin? Typical… Women,” he scoffs and shakes his head.
“Yeah, deputy dipshit? Well I fucking am one. That's not the insult you think it is. I'm sorry your mama walked out on you during the crucial years of your life and caused this resentment towards women. But hey, we're fuckin’ human.” It had been a remarkably long time since you felt your body shake with anger like this.
He works his jaw and looks away, distant, over your shoulder, “never said you weren't.”
“Didn't have to, because the moment you've met me I've been ornamental, a thing — not a person. Something to shut up and set aside. You-you,” it wasn't a good time for your voice to start cracking but you push through it. “Y’look at me like I'm nothing and somehow the dirtiest person in the room. What? Because I like to make jokes? I'm flirty? I'd rather you look at me like I was Leroy than whatever the fuck that look is… I'm over it. You win, asshole. So you're welcome, really. You got what you wanted without lifting a finger. I'm done.”
You laugh humourlessly and try to shake off the anger but it doesn't dissolve, it lingers and evolves into something else. Panic, maybe. Adrenaline, also. The regret doesn't settle because you don't feel that, you feel scared.
To go back inside? To prison? Yeah. But fear settles because you've lost your shit at a man who's taller and bigger than you. A wobbly sigh expels from your lips and you look up, trying extremely hard to keep the prickling in your eyes under control.
When it became clear it was impossible and the shaking wouldn't go away on its own, you take off. Fresh air, a breather, fifty cigarettes might just do the trick. But since you couldn't really have either, it was much easier to settle in the outdoor enclosed lunch area.
Built for purpose a year ago because the higher ups remembered that ex-con’s were people and needed fresh air too. But they didn't want you doing runners either. It's a poor excuse of an outdoor area, maybe more akin to a cage than a patio.
You considered reflecting on D-Division and if the time here meant anything but instead all you could think about was life before being so angry at the world. Gator had a real chip on his shoulder and in a way, so did you.
Regardless of if you were morally in the right for what you did before prison, the outcome was the same. That no matter which way someone twists it, Gator Tillman and you would be grouped together with the rest of the defunct and destitute of society.
Still — he could've been easier to work with.
Maybe you could be too.
You dip forward and hold your face in your hands, before even realising it, your shoulders are shaking and tears finally slip out from your eyes.
“Y’know my file was altered ‘nd all that shit. To make sure the feds could lay into Roy.”
His voice is startling against the silence, somewhere behind you, floating near the door in case you wanted to throw something at him.
He'd be deserving, that was for certain.
“Good for you. Wanted to make me feel better by talking about yourself?” You snap, wiping your eyes and casting a look out into the vast parking lot. You decided not to think about the fact he calls his own father ‘Roy’ and not ‘dad.’
Boohoo. He's got daddy issues, you all did and he wasn't special by any means.
“‘M just sayin’. Ya ain't gotta be—” he pauses to suck in a controlled breath. He's trying not to make things worse, you think. “Ya just ain't got all them facts, is all. I killed this lady, mindin’ her business really. Was an accident… Don't mean much either way, I almost lost my eyes ‘nd she's still dead in the ground.”
You consider being petty, adding a remark where it wasn't needed but instead, no words form and your silence becomes permission for him to keep going.
“Feds put that murder on his record ‘cause they couldn't fuckin’ stand him. A lost cause. A fuckin’.... ‘Necrosis on the constitution’ is what they called ‘im.” He sniffs and swipes at his nose, an attempt at nonchalance but what he says lodges deep inside him.
His head is turned away from you, bad side closest to you which means he can't look at you in his periphery. Or maybe he just doesn't want to. “Said they… uh… They couldn't add my ma’s death on there n’ all. 'No body, no proof' they said. But I know.”
“How’d you know she didn't get away?” You're asking before realising your voice cracked out. Pathetic really. The fact you're still even humouring him after what he's said and done.
“Just do — she wasn't ever like Nad—Dot. She weren't no fighter. Damn well ain't smarter than Roy either.”
Silence lulls between you two, filling the space with discomfort. Talking about feelings was always uncomfortable, but with someone you could barely respect? Harder than one might think.
“Is that all?” You clear your throat, trying to decipher why any of this matters or what it had to do with right now.
He finally turns to look, while not obvious, he's surprised at the response. Was he expecting more? More what? Pity? Empathy? A few months ago you'd gladly sit through this unsolicited therapy session and listen and nod like a good audience member.
Now, things were different.
“Yah,” clearing his throat, the silence suffocates the area. Thick and heavy between the both of you like an invisible polarity. “S’pose that's it.”
A humourless scoff tumbles past your lips, “you're a fucking asshole.”
Surprisingly he just hangs his head, “I know.” Does he? Did it matter? Did it change anything? “Spent most of my life tryna be like Roy… I don’... Anymore.”
That sticks.
Stubborn and heavy, barbed needles into words that suction straight into you. He's trying to be better. He wants to be better.
But do you have the energy to stick with it? Patience is a virtue and you don't have much of that at all anymore. It's a mental and emotional task beyond your capabilities. Being the only woman on the team is isolating enough, but this unique problem solely impacts you.
In not so many words this was an olive branch, an apology, a request to stay and be patient. And without looking too much into his eyes, they're silently begging for someone to remain and see this out.
Your silence unsettles him, enough that he shifts his weight and slips thumbs into belt loops. “Got a traffickin’ ring operatin’ near the boarder n’ all… S’good field job for ya. If ya stay.”
If you stay.
Shaking your head, your jaw works and what felt like a mountain an hour ago feels less daunting now. To give him a modicum of credit, he was trying. After you had to tear into him, sure, but it was more effort than you'd have expected.
“I resent that my first infiltration job will be that.” And without explicitly stating such, you're answering his silent prayers to stay, by wordlessly saying: Okay. I'll stay.
summary: transmasc! reader and dr abbot take a smoke break
tags: smut, 18+ minors dni, transmasc! reader, abbot/reader, abbot x transmasc! reader, age difference, oral (reader receiving)
“Those things will kill you, you know.”
You jolt, choking a bit on the inhale, and turn around. “Wow,” you reply. “are you a doctor?”
Abbot shakes his head, either really disappointed or just a faux sad judgement, you couldn’t tell. It was always hard to tell with Abbot. He sounded the same telling the truth as he did telling a joke.
“You’re a doctor.” Abbot reminds you, settling next to you against the wall in the ambulance bay. “Which is why it’s especially dumb for you to smoke.”
“Nobody yells at Dana.” You sniff.
“Dana could kill me.” Abbot says and this time you know he isn’t joking.
“What about me?”
“Your pout isn’t life threatening.”
You instinctively pout and then scowl when you see the amused smile start to raise Abbot’s lips. “Oh shut up.”
Shockingly, Abbot does. He even mimes zipping his lips and throwing away an imaginary key. You roll your eyes, taking another drag of your cigarette.
Working the night shift had mad your guilty habit of smoking into a full time hobby. Chaotic and intense, fast paced and scary; screw it, you needed a cigarette now and then. And anyway, it barely counted.
“It does count.” Abbot chimes in.
“Can you read minds now?” You snort. “And it doesn’t. Everybody knows a cigarette during work is basically a free smoke. Doesn’t count.”
Abbot smiles and his crows feet crinkle, his eyes shining. You stare. He laughs and then tells you, voice deep and steady, “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Oh so you don’t want one?”
“Well, I didn’t say that.”
You watch in bewilderment as Abbot plucks the cigarette out of your hand and takes a drag. Your lips part a little when Abbot closes his eyes on the exhale, tilting his head back.
Another reason the night shift enabled your smoking addiction— Dr. Jack Abbot. His seemingly endless optimism and the sheer volume of his voice, his presence, his chants and fist bumps, hoorah! He was intolerable for the simple reason of being the only thing you thought about. It seemed such a cliche, the young intern fantasising about the older attending. Fuck, well, okay it was a cliche. A pretty big one. Like, the big one.
“Those’ll kill you.” You croak, watching as Abbot inspects the cigarette, rotating his wrist before handing it back to you.
“Maybe that one will stick.” Abbot says and this time, you really couldn’t tell if it was a joke. “How much of a break are you trying to steal?”
You blink. “Uh. Enough for a cigarette? The witching hours about to start, you know. Bad vibes.”
“Don’t jinx it, kid.”
You blush and you’re sure Abbot notices. He hums, eying you. “Did you drive your car here?”
“Y-Yeah.” You answer, thrown for a moment.
“Anything wrong with it?”
You open your mouth to say something along the lines of what the fuck are you talking about? before you stop. Everyone always said you were a little slow when it came to flirting but this one was just a little too obvious. Play it cool, you think to yourself, be fucking cool.
Abbot gives you a look. “You don’t know anything about cars, do you?”
“I’m going back inside—“ You huff and when you make a go for it, Abbot catches you by the arm.
“I can fix your windshield… engine… fluid.” Abbot says, humouring you, something indulgent in his tone.
This time, you turn beet red. Was this actually happening? “We don’t have long.” You say, feeling faint.
“I don’t need long.” Abbot shrugs casually.
You lead Abbot to your car in relative silence. It’s awkward. Like, really awkward. Every time you sneak a glance to Abbot, however, he looks as casually calm as always. What the fuck? You scowl.
“If you do that enough, your face will get stuck that way.” Abbot quips and you immediately retort, “Oh is that your professional medical advice, Dr. I Always Have A Comment.”
“Kind of a long name.” Abbot says.
You arrive at the car, parked in a small dark corner. Still, it was surrounded by other cars. They were still in public despite the pitch black sky.
“This is a joke.” You say.
Abbot cocks his head to the side. “If you think so, kid.” He takes your keys as you fiddle with them in a shaky hand. Abbot opens the backseat door and gestures for you to climb in. You do. Because, you reason, you’re tired and you’re an idiot and ruining your own life has always been a side hobby of yours.
Abbot follows. It’s a smallish space. Not alot of great car option on an intern’s budget.
Abbot stretches his legs out. You wondered if the prosthetic was aching. You didn’t think it was appropriate to ask. Was it more inappropriate to not ask? Oh god—
“Calm down.” Abbot soothes, voice still twinged with amusement and you go to kiss him, feeling brave and stupid.
He stops you. “I don’t kiss smokers.” And he pushes you down on the backseat. You would have made a rude comment in return if he didn’t immediately tug your scrubs down and fit his mouth over your underwear covered cunt.
A small sound escapes your mouth and you feel Abbot grin against you. “Shut up.” You struggle to protest but Abbot only shakes his head. He runs his tongue up, up, up to the top of your boxers, tugging at the waist with his teeth. A silent request.
You nod and then whisper, “Y-Yeah”, when you realise he can’t see you, face buried against you. Abbot tugs your boxers down, the fabric bunched up around your hips along with your scrubs bottoms.
“Wet already.” Abbot comments and you swat at the top of his head. He catches your twist, taking a finger into his mouth to suck on for a moment.
“Jesus Christ.” You curse, twitching all over. Abbot hums.
When he pulls off your finger, he ducks his head down against. He presses a single kiss to your inner thigh and you gasp, loud and embarrassing. Abbot has the good grace not to mention it, or maybe he’s just distracted. He kisses you thigh again, then the other side, slow and wet before he bites a little. You jolt, hands flexing by your sides.
“You’re good.” He murmurs and licks up, his tongue catching your clit for a brief second.
“Fuck off.” You gasp again, hips jerking.
“Sensitive.” Abbot muses, the same tone he uses on the floor when observing a patient. You don’t say anything this time, just letting out a whimper.
Abbot licks up your slit a few more time, some strokes of his tongue deeper while others were barely there. He holds your hips down on the fourth stroke, right hand slapping just slightly against your skin. You swear under your breath. You were so wet, fucking soaking. You close your eyes, turning your head to the side.
Finally, Abbot swirls his tongue around your clit, slowly slowly, focusing on one side and then the other, back and forth, back and forth, side to side over and over again. Your hips jerk up again, a bit unexpected. Abbot keeps a tight grip on them.
“Good boy. That’s it.” He coaxes, running his tongue up the entire length of you again, the barest hint of harder pressure against your hole before he’s back on your clit.
“Oh fuck! Fuck!” You cry out, seizing up, a hand immediately flying out to grab at Abbot’s hair when he starts licks up and down, pressure suddenly all on you.
Abbot lifts his head and replaces his mouth with two fingers. His fingers jerk your clit, one either side.
“You good?” He asks and he sounds every inch a doctor.
“I’m going to kill you—“ You moan, unable to keep the sound back any longer.
“You’d miss me too much.” He says and shoves his face back down against your weeping cunt. He sucks, head going up and down, teeth gently scraping your clit every so often.
You sound obscene, moaning louder than the wet sounds of Abbot’s mouth. You must be being too loud because before you know it, Abbot has reached an arm up to cover your mouth with his palm. Your eyes rolls back, moaning muffled.
He’s slow with his tongue and then fast, edging you along until your hips rise rise rise, sweat sticky on your thighs, a squirmy feeling building in your stomach, your whole body.
“Tell me when you’re close.” Abbot says, pulling back to rub at you with his fingers. “You will, yeah?”
Abbot abruptly takes his hand away. You cry out, weak and pathetic, body twisting.
“Just thought you might like that.” He laughs and then his tongue is back on you.
To take precaution, you take back a fistful of his hair and push down, keeping him there until until—
“Ah!” You shudder, thighs closing around Abbot’s heads, hips jerking and back arching, the whole fucking deal. Real. Intense. He guides you through it, tongue still working over you until you push him away and even then he tries to keep at it. Finally, you pull his hair hard and he— moans, the sound half a whimper on the tail end.
You file that away.
“See,” Abbot says, sitting back up. His mouth his wet, his chin, too. “Not long at all.”
summary: after a too long shift of defending your mentor, you learn the truth
tags: m!reader, langdon/reader, langdon x m! reader, mlm, age difference, emotional cheating, addiction, toxic relationship
You stand at Langdon’s locker, twitching. Of course you knew his combination. You knew everything about Frank Langdon, how he liked his coffee, how he looked when he was about to get sick, the way his footsteps sounded walking down the hall so you’d always know when it was him before even needing to turn around; you knew all his jokes and childhood crushes, old dreams before medicine took him and ran, how he proposed to his wife— You knew everything about Frank Langdon. Or, at least, you thought you did.
“What are you doing?” You almost jump out of your skin when you hear Langdon’s voice behind you.
You turn, holding the baggy of pills. “I—“
“You broke into my locker?” Langdon asks. His face is too calm but his voice is thin, icy. He’s never sounded like that before. You twitch again.
“I know your combination.” You say, weak. “You told me. You— You always forget your water—“
Langdon darts forward and you could’ve flinched if he wasn’t so quick. The pills are out of your hands and in Langdon’s. You look at his hands, how they shake. He notices and that icy look gets colder.
“Don’t.” He says before you can get a word out. “Don’t say any— It isn’t what it looks like.” Desperate for a moment, the ice thawing.
“It isn’t a bag of fucking pills in your locker?” You ask sharply. You felt like maybe you were shaking too. “Do you know what Santos has been saying, the things she’s been implying? Garcia told me—“
“Santos doesn’t have a fucking thing to say,” Langdon snaps. “because it’s fucking nothing.”
“I defended you.” You sound mournful. “I always defend you. I trusted you—“
Langdon, who had always been there. On your first day a year ago, you had run to the nearest bathroom to throw up after seeing a compound fracture for the first time outside of a textbook. Langdon, albeit laughing, had followed you, had put a hand on your shoulder and told you you’ll be alright, kid. You’d never been big in believing people but you had believed him. You’d always been the shy boy, twitchy and strange, and Langdon had taken you under his wing, all charm and easy jokes, laughter that sounded like smooth honey. Like always, you’d gotten too attached but Langdon hadn’t seemed to mind, hadn’t called you offputting or weird. No. He liked that about you, your stare and quirks.
You weren’t crazy to think his touches lingered, his eyes following—
“Don’t play the weepy victim.” Langdon mocks. You knew him well enough to know he sounded frantic, scared. “I am not your fucking father. I can’t disappoint you.”
“You, need help, you’re an—“ You try, voice rising and Langdon takes a looming step closer.
“Lower your fucking voice.” He seethes. You shrink. “What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? What has always been wrong with you? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.” That panic again, Langdon’s eyes looking everywhere but your face. “The way you stare at me, follow me around like a puppy.”
“I don’t—“
“You do.” Langdon cuts you off. “And now you’re shifting through my stuff? For what, something to take home? You’re obsessed with me. Your little crush has gone too fucking far this time. I mean, what did you think was going to happen?” Langdon doesn’t yell but his voice twists, ending on a sneer and an octave higher, just slightly. For that second, you’re at home and your father is staring at you after you stupidly poured his beers out like that would save him, like you could save him, and right now… right now, you’re the little naive kid Langdon always made fun of you for being.
“Nothing.” You reply, too quiet and Langdon must sense it, that weakness. Addicts and the way they were sharks with blood in the water.
“Did you think I’d leave my wife for you?”
Your face crumbles, an awful frown taking over your expression, the twist of mouth you do when you’re trying not to cry. Your body feels hot and then cold and then both at the same time. You want to run but leaving Langdon would hurt, it would rip you apart. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want you here. It never mattered.
“I have a life.” Langdon continues while you internally breakdown. “A family. A wife and two kids. What do you think you are to me?”
“This isn’t about that.” You say, throat dry. “The pills—“
Langdon finally explodes—
It was hard to tell but both of you were breaking down right now. Langdon couldn’t tell in the moment that what he was saying to you to hurt you, hurt him too. But it did. It would. Months later, isolated and repenting, Langdon would be disgusted and horrified. He’d had plenty of reasons to be horrified at himself when it came to you, this was just the last one on a long list. He loved his wife, Langdon always reminded himself of that. But… you were something else. Different. You practiced your expressions in mirrors, copied ways of speaking you thought were better than your own, but god you were lightening quick, dangerously intelligent. Langdon felt like a twenty year old again when he locked his eyes on your lopsided grin, your crooked nose, the little scar under your left eye. Langdon hadn’t felt like that in a long time. Life, this job, it brought everyone down to its level, making you grovel and bleed just to live. Langdon missed being young and beholden to nothing.
You were brilliant, he thinks and still, he says, “You’re a child! You’re a child and an idiot, arrogant to think kissing my ass for a year would endear you to me. It hasn’t. You’re weird. And I don’t like you. I can’t stand you, your subpar medical skills and your creepy fucking tendencies.”
Shocked, unable to move, Langdon wiggles the bag of pills in front of your face. “This is nothing.” He repeats. “You saw nothing because you make shit up, for a fucking laugh.”
“Fuck you.” You snarl, finally growing a backbone. You’d told Langdon so much, too much. He’d invited you to his place once, a few months ago, when Abby had taken the kids for a vacation to her parents. It had felt weird, sitting on her furniture and drinking out of her wine glasses but it wasn’t like you had done anything, you rationalised to yourself. Langdon had never even touched you. What you done, however, was tell Langdon you’d been guilty of near pathological lies as a child to gain attention. Too much wine gone to your head. It was a low blow. It hurt and for a second you think to yourself that maybe you have made it all up and there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything. You weren’t big in believing people but you always believe Langdon.
“There’s that temper.” Langdon goes to say and you make an angry sound. “Don’t! Don’t call me angry, I’m not angry!”
Langdon gives you a look, a broken sort of smug.
“We’re not friends.” Langdon says.
“I never thought that.” You mutter, embarrassed at your outburst.
“No.” He snorts. “You thought we were something else. We’re not anything. Don’t you ever break into my property again or I’ll have to report you.”
You choke on a splutter. “You report me?”
“Are we clear?”
You felt dizzy. Upset. Everything hurt inside and out. “C-Clear.” You avert your eyes.
Langdon stares at you for a moment. He’d done that, made you shrink so small you were barely there. Langdon knew what it felt like to smile at you and know it had made your entire day. That felt good. This did, too, in a way before it feels like the worst thing in the world. He can’t take it. He wants to take your face in his hands and beg for forgiveness. He wants to do things he’d have to beg someone else for forgiveness for. He wants to hold you. He can’t. He doesn’t.
“I’m gonna tell Robby you asked to get sent to triage.” Langdon says, voice brittle. “Get out.”
