my name is fern (she/her), and i'm melsfrank on ao3 and ferniealism on twitter.
this blog is not be spoiler-free, and it will occasionally be nsfw (more often than not because i'm a perverted mentally ill lesbian). but i welcome everyone to it and am very open to talking and being friends!!
i'm coming back to tumblr after ten years because langdonmel has bewitched and dragged me by my feet against my will, and i'm now forced to consume everything langdonmel that has ever existed since they occupy my every thought.
my asks are always open if you want to talk about anything really!!
mel’s 17th century french woman alter ego has bewitched me ⋆˙⟡
i feel like mel is definitely the type of person who is is very meticulous about her costume being historically accurate so i referenced some fashion illustrations from the 1680’s for this look!
That’s what they keep whispering. Well, about her, they only ever talk about her, not to her. They asked about the pain, they gathered her things from her locker, but they never really stopped and sat with her. Mel sort of hoped there would be some indignant uproar about it, like when Dana got punched or when Donnie got shoved into the wall by an agitated patient or when someone grabbed Cassie’s wrist so hard it bruised in a perfect purple ring or ororor.
She just wants people to be mad for her. Instead, she’s just been given this… pity that she doesn’t know what to do with it. Where they handle her carefully, but impersonally, like a child after they skin their knee on the playground. All hushed tones and ushering her up from the ground and away like she’d cause a scene if she wasn’t whisked away quick enough. Which, sure, she was close to tears, but she was too in shock to really do anything after the impact.
Even in the dark room, she kept waiting for her moment, where they'd sit down and complain about it with her, where she might finally be able to break through and be one of them instead of just someone they work with.
But it doesn’t come. Her coworkers flood out of the room as quickly as they ushered her in, leaving her alone with the monotonous beeping from a machine Mel knows they don’t even need to monitor her with.
If she keeps staring at the door, maybe Dr. Abbot would reappear. He’ll sweep in with his stoic expression and a changed mind and just let her go. Then she’d walk to her ancient Crosstrek, turn the key twice to get the engine to turn over, drive home through the slightly blurring traffic lights, and save herself the embarrassment of her coworkers knowing that no one was coming for her.
She wonders if they called the number in her file. Of course, they did; it was procedure to call emergency contacts, but she wonders what happened when they did. If anyone picked up or if whoever bought that old house got rid of the cream-colored landline and the nostalgic subway tile around it, because they wanted to open up the first floor. They probably ripped the wiring straight out of the wall, yanked it from behind the small wooden cutout in the kitchen, and with it uprooted the last vestiges of her old life. Did the number get disconnected right when that red SOLD sticker stuck on the sign in their front lawn, or did it stay untouched for weeks? For months? Could she have called it last week and heard her late mother’s voicemail, or would she have been met with a tri-toned drone and a chipper computerized voice that the number you’re trying to reach is unavailable?
She imagined Princess’s kind face downturned in a frown at the disconnected tone, pen hovering before striking through the number in a thick black line. Would she tell HR? Make a note of it in Mel's chart? Would she be asked gently to provide a replacement, even though there was no one else? Another fake number to complete her employee file. That was the reason she put it there in the first place, after all.
Or maybe, someone did pick up, and a kind Midwestern stranger sleepily whispered we don’t know a Melissa in Pittsburgh before hooking the phone back on the wall hundreds of miles away. Maybe they had kids that they’d drive hundreds of miles for in the middle of the night, rollers still in hair, robes half-tied at the waist. But not her. It’d been a long time since Mel had that for herself.
Her gaze falls to her personal items at the foot of the gurney — her messenger bag, folded glasses that are probably broken or at the very least cracked, and a folded, crimson-soaked cotton t-shirt. Mel slumps back against the bed’s raised back and her fingers blindly grasp at a loose thread on her sleeve to distract from the new wave of tears welling in her eyes.
Brave was a stupid word for this. What she felt was alone.
She felt the lingering throb of a disgruntled father’s fist against her septal cartilage; felt the crackling and then the release of pressure during and after his punch landed; felt the embarrassed tears rolling down her cheeks, mixing with dried blood and blooming bruises, as Samira palpated her sinuses as softly as she could without inciting a wince; felt the pity as she helped drag the blood-soaked shirt off and replace it with the worn sweater Mel kept in the back of her locker.
Her eyelids flutter closed, reviewing the laundry list of tasks she now had to do. Call the center first, then text Becca, she thinks there are still contacts in her medicine cabinet she could use while she waits for her lenses to be replaced, that shirt needs to soak before she can begin to get the stain out—
The door to her room gently swings open, flooding the dim room with light from the hallway. Mel cracks an eye lazily, expecting to see Samira checking on her again or Princess asking for any one else to call, but the blur in the doorway is too tall to be either of them. Straightening, she squints at the figure silhouetted in the fluorescent glow.
“They got you good, huh, sweetheart?”
“Frank,” she breathes, tension seeping from her body immediately, muscles pressing into the uncomfortable gurney. She lets out a sobbing laugh, more of a gasping exhale than anything. “You’re here.”
Something settles ever so softly in her. Perhaps it’s relief. Simple, bone-deep relief at the fact that someone came to her rescue. That someone did come for her. Maybe it’s partially that it’s him.
“In the flesh.” Mel can hear the smile in his voice.
As he approaches the bedside, Mel can see more and more of him through her blurry vision. He looks disheveled with his hair sticking up on one side, matted down near his ear, but poking up and out everywhere else. He’s in pajamas, which is strange because she’s never really seen him in anything but scrubs and the occasional off-shift outfit of jeans and a t-shirt.
It’s nice, she supposes in this delirious state, to see someone so vulnerable and domestic.
He seems panicked, eyes too alert for this hour, movements almost too measured, and it feels like he was woken up with the kind of bad news that shakes all sleep out of you before he shoved his feet into shoes, however he was, and ran to her. The thought stirs the butterflies in her stomach and she tries to smile up at him, but the pressure in her face makes her wince at the movement.
Frank hisses softly above her before taking her hand, his fingers swiping against her knuckles in soothing rhythm. He’s big and warm, and it steadies her the moment they make contact. Her eyes flutter shut once more, just absorbing the simple touch, letting out a small, pleased hum.
“They shouldn’t have called you,” she whispers, guilt threading with relief. He should be in bed right now, sheets still warm, recovering from the hellish day shift he complained about when they handed off patients. He shouldn’t be standing in a hospital room in the middle of the night because she misjudged a punch. Because she lied about her emergency contact.
“Hey, no,” he says, low and steady. His fingers curl around hers tighter, squeezing firmly once. It forces her eyes open, and he’s already looking at her. “I’m glad they did.”
Mel opens her mouth to apologize, but Frank drops his head, shaking it from side to side, hand still locked in hers. Mel’s really trying not to cry, but her bottom lip trembles so hard she can feel it.
“Princess said you got hurt. Said the number she tried didn’t work,” he says quietly. Mel's never heard Frank speak so carefully before, where she can tell he's thinking hard about each word he's saying and how they might sound together. There’s a tense beat. Oh, she wants to curl up in a ball thinking about the awkward, uncomfortable pause at central when the call doesn’t go through; the scramble of people who still knew nothing about her trying to figure out who to call. Everyone she knows is here already. They chose right, but was he the first person they called or just the only one to say yes? Mel knows that Frank always jokes about being the person she could call in an emergency, but she always thought it was just that: a joke. She’d never let herself take it seriously. That is, until he stood in the doorway tonight.
“It’s fake,” Mel admits, barely above a whisper. Frank’s mouth presses into a thin line, confusion maybe, she can’t make out the creases around his eyes without her glasses. “You need one to fill out the insurance forms, but it's just Becca and me. We didn’t know anyone in Pittsburgh when we got here. There wasn't really any option.” Her gaze drops to her hand still in his. She realizes distantly just how naive it was to assume she’d never need it.
He inhales sharply. “Jesus, Mel.” The way he says her name makes her sniffle, tears gathering once more despite her best efforts. It feels horribly exposing sitting in this hospital bed. He notices immediately, his expression tightening in response, jaw set tightly. “You should’ve asked me.”
“Didn’t want to bother you,” she mumbles, cheeks flush with shame.
“Hey, never a bother,” Frank moves his head to look at her straight in the eyes. “Never.” She feels pinned in his gaze, but also safe; the intensity making her squirm against the gurney. She’d been here too long; all she wanted was to go. “We look out for each other, yeah?”
Mel dips her chin hesitantly, thinking about their pinky promise in the stairwell on his first day back. Us outcasts, he teased under his breath, we gotta stick together.
“Good,” he nods once, the movement definitive and curt, before moving to gather her things from the edge of the bed. He slings her bag over his shoulder, draping the shirt against the strap. He carefully slides one arm of her glasses into the collar of his shirt, so they sit just below his Adam’s apple and just above his heart. Her things all balance in one of his arm, and he extends the other toward her to help her stand up from the bed, legs dangling over the edge. Everything feels strange; her face is numb, her legs feel woobly, her chest aches, but with her hand in Frank's, she doesn't feel so lonely anymore.
also i'm sorry i haven't been able to think of anything other than mel in a corset, boobs spilling out while she rides frank because he asked her to dress up for him so he could see her 17th-century frenchwoman costume
at this point pdeardz are OPPS of mine. the outright refusal to entertain anything langdonmel is so funny, like i promise talking about these two characters who are very important to each other will not mean you two want to bump uglies. matter of fact the denial atp is the one thing making me think u two wanna bump uglies cause why are u running from it like the devil runs from the cross girl
