FELL FROM THE PEDESTAL, RIGHT DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE || FRANK LANDON
summary: you trip in the shower and are forced to make the second visit of the week to the e.r. the only thing is, you didn’t tell frank about either accidents. [frank langdon x clumsy!reader]
cw: none really. possible concussion? first time writing langdon so i apologise if he’s ooc i’m still getting used to him. oh and medical inaccuracies (not a doctor nor from the us so i have no idea how the healthcare system works there)
word count: 2k
a/n: uhhh this turned out a little angstier than i imagined lol i wanted to do something cute but idk it turned into this so whatever. this was also supposed to be part of a much bigger fic w this dynamic but i was really struggling to write it so i think i’m gonna write all those moments separately instead of compiling everything into a huge fic.
The emergency department is loud. There’s lots of beeping, nurses and doctors yelling at each other, gurney wheels squeaking along the floor, painful screams and moans, a cacophony of different conversations and you can even hear an ambulance siren approaching.
It makes the pain in your head throb as the nurse guides you to the examination room. She takes your vitals once more. While she slips off the cuff she used to check your blood pressure from around your arm, the doctor that will oversee your case steps into the room.
It’s a young woman, her mousy brown hair up in a braid. She adjusts her glasses. “Hi.” The way she speaks is soft, a stark contrast to the deafening sounds outside the room. She gives you a small smile. “Um, I’m Dr. King. What’s brought you here today?”
“I, uh, I fell and hit my head,” you point to the left side of your temple. “It’s been hurting a lot.
“Okay,” she nods and slips on a pair of blue gloves, approaching the side of your bed. She feels along your temple, feeling the bump that has formed there. She sits down on a rolling stool. “How long has it been hurting?”
“Like nine hours? A little more, I think.”
Dr. King hums. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“I was a bit dizzy at first, but then it went away.”
“Did you lose consciousness when you fell?”
You open your mouth to answer. Before you can even make a sound there’s a knock on the door that is more a formality than asking for permission and the curtain is drawn just so that a head and half of a torso can poke in and say, “Mel, our patient from North 4 is back from his MRI, he’s–”
Frank freezes when his eyes finally stray away from Mel and he realises that her patient is not a random person. The change is barely noticeable– his back straightens, shoulders rolling back and gaze sharp as he analyses every inch of your body in a matter of seconds. He checks you for any obvious life-threatening injuries from head to toe, stares a moment too long at the ugly bruise that peeks out from the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and then his eyes finally go up to your sheepish smile.
“Hi, Frankie,” you say quietly. Frank’s jaw relaxes the tiniest bit.
Mel looks uncomfortably between the two of you, eyes going back and forth between her coworker and patient. “Oh, um, do you have the results?” she asks. Frank hands her the tablet he was holding without sparing her a glance. “Right…” she mumbles.
She taps and looks at the screen for a few seconds before looking between the two of you again. “Um, I’ll just…” she makes a weird gesture to the door and gives you an awkward smile. “I’ll be right back,” she tells you, though you both know she won’t be coming back now that Frank is here.
She cradles the tablet against her chest and fumbles with the curtain in her hasty getaway. She practically scampers away, closes the door behind her with a tight smile and then it’s silent.
Frank stays rooted to where he’s standing for a long, tense minute. You gnaw at the inside of your lower lip and watch him near the hospital bed you’re sitting on. His fingers brush along your exposed thigh on his way to grab your hand. In a hushed voice, he asks, “What happened?”
“I…” You look everywhere but his face– the ceiling, the floor, the rolling stool Mel had been sitting on. You settle on the wall, but Frank moves his head so that you have no choice but to look at him. “I fell. In the shower,” you mumble, embarrassed.
His hold on your hand tightens. “Baby,” he sighs. “I told you to get a shower mat,” he scolds lightly.
“I haven’t found one in the shade I want,” you explain for the fight time with a whine. The high-pitch of your own voice makes your head throb and you wince.
Frank catches onto your grimace immediately. His hand cradles the right side of your head and you lean into his touch. “D’you hit your head?”
You nod. “It’s been hurting since I fell.”
“Okay,” he sighs. “You might have a concussion. I’m gonna do some tests, all right?”
He lets go of your hand and head and you already miss the warmth of his touch. He takes out a small flashlight from the pocket of his scrub and turns it on. He points the light tight at your left eye and then switches to the other side. “Okay,” he says and turns the flashlight off. “Follow my finger.”
You follow it dutifully. He moves his finger up and down on one side, slides it along the other side and repeats the same motion. “Good, now stand up, honey.” You get up from the bed, but the small jump to the floor makes the bruise on your hip flare up and you grimace. Frank’s eyes are already on your side, calculating. “We’re gonna do an x-ray,” he concludes.
He then moves to the other side of the room and stands against the wall. “Walk towards me in a straight line.” You do as he says. Every step makes you wince a little, but you’re 98% sure it’s only because of the bruising and not because a concussion has altered your facial nerves.
Once you reach him, you smile at Frank. “How did I do?”
“Too slow. We might have to open up your skull to fix it,” the corners of his mouth twitch. Knowing you’ll worry too much until he confesses he was only joking he assures you, “Everything looks normal. I’m still ordering an MRI to make sure there’s no damage inside, though.”
His hand gently goes to the back of your head and he uses his hold on you to bring you closer to him, his lips brushing against your forehead. You sigh. “Is it gonna take long?” Frank raises an eyebrow questioningly. “It’s just– I have my ceramics class in an hour,” you explain.
“It’ll be at least an hour, maybe two. We’re a little backed up today.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds with a pointed look, “If you had come in earlier you wouldn’t miss your class.”
You have the decency to look ashamed.
“I didn’t want to be a bother,” you whisper with a small shrug. What you really mean is ‘I didn’t want to be a bother again’. You’ve been to the ER twice this week. Four times already this month, and you don’t even want to think about how many times you’ve ended up in the hospital the past year.
It’s no secret you are a clumsy person. When you were younger, it was endearing. Now, it’s embarrassing. Annoying. You try your best to avoid potential accidents: you wear flip flops instead of slippers so you don’t slide along the floor and use oven mittens every time you bake to avoid burning your hands– just to name a few adjustments you’ve made to your everyday life. But no matter how hard you try, you still trip over your own shoes and cut yourself while cooking and bump into tables and doorways and hit your head when kneeling down to reach something under the dinner table.
You hate it. But Frank, oh sweet caring Frank who understands and tries his best to help. He’s switched most of the glass bottles and tuppers and glasses for plastic or aluminium so that when you inevitably drop something while cooking or setting the table you don’t cut yourself. He’s added padding to the legs of the couch and bed to protect your toes. When you go out, he pays close attention to you and your surroundings: he steers you away from a light pole you would’ve hit and stops you from crossing the street with a red light on.
He’s done all that and much more. Without you even asking. And he’s never once complained about your penchant for unfortunate mishaps. He never got mad at you. How could he, when it’s your own clumsiness that brought you to him in the first place?
He knows you don’t do it on purpose, that it’s not something you do because you think it’s cute and fun, nor an elaborate plan to sneak into his workplace. He doesn’t enjoy the fact that you get hurt so often, of course he doesn’t, but he understands that it’s not something you can control. And what is he to do but take care of you when you need him?
Frank exhales sharply. “You’re not a bother.” You try to say something but he cuts you off before you can make a sound, “You’re not. Not to me.”
“Frank, it’s the second time this week I’ve come here,” you deadpan.
He blinks, baffled. “What do you mean second?” Shit. His face turns serious, really serious, and you know he’s angry now. “When the hell were you here?”
You scrunch your face at your accidental confession. “Tuesday,” you mutter.
“Tuesday,” Frank parrots. “And why am I finding out 3 days later, exactly?”
“Because I didn’t want to bother you!” you exclaim, but your loud voice makes your head throb once more. You clutch your temple and close your eyes, the fluorescent light suddenly too bright.
Frank combs his fingers through his hair in frustration and pulls at the roots. His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Come here,” he mumbles. With a hand on the small of your back he leads you back to the bed and, once you’re sat, he turns the light off and sits down on the stool. “Better?”
You nod. He stares at you, elbows on his knees, and licks his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” He’s talking about your Tuesday visit to the ER, but he also means why didn’t he know you were there today.
You shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you repeat. You play with your fingers as you speak. “You are so busy and I don’t want to annoy you with my silly stuff when you have patients that really need your help. Like, right now, you are here with me and there’s somebody out there probably dying that needs you.”
“You need help too, you might have a concussion.”
“Yeah, because I fell in the fucking shower like an idiot,” you scoff. “It’s always something stupid that happens to me and those people out there are actually sick and I take up your time because I’m too stupid to even shower by myself.”
Frank sighs and gets up, hands reaching for your face. He cradles your cheeks in his palms, heart twisting at the angry tears gathering in your waterline. “You are not stupid,” he says firmly. “You just have a… particular proclivity for accidents involving stationary objects.”
You snort. The corners of his mouth tick upwards, satisfied that his comment managed to cut through the tension.
His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Softly, he tilts your chin up and leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss that makes the pain in your head subside. When you part, you rest your forehead against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, one of his hands gently massaging your scalp while the other rubs your back up and down. It’s the first time since your fall this morning that you feel any sort of relief.
“I’m serious,” his voice rumbles beneath his sternum. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And I want to take care of you when you need me. You could never bother me when you’re in pain.”
He’s been your doctor for almost a year, even before you started dating. He’s not planning on stopping taking care of you, especially not when it’s one of the things he knows how to do best.
He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Next time you get hurt, come find me, okay?”
You wrap your arms around his middle and burrow your face into his chest, the top of his scrub scratching your skin a little. “Okay.”
