angels don't work the day shift
a flirty white lie to escape a creep gets out of control when you grab the nearest man... unfortunately, that man is dr. frank langdon. now you're stuck pretending to date the hospital's scariest ER doctor, who plays along a little too well.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: frank langdon x er!barbie!reader warnings: fem!reader, barbie!reader, admin assistant reader, workplace harassment, unwanted attention, fake dating (impulsive af), protective langdon, kinda enemies to lovers, however they don't quite reach the lovers part, implied past addiction (langdon), sexual innuendos, langdon making a comment about ur ass, one-sided pining (or so she thinks), workplace romance, literally just one big HR violation <3 wc: 2.3k
You have a deep love for your office. It’s not far from the pit itself, just a left turn down the hallway, and it’s not necessarily impressive, a shoebox filled with paperwork, cute pens, and arranged trinkets.
However, it might as well be Nirvana in the way it shelters you from the fluorescent lighting that makes your temples throb. From the metal-on-metal shriek of trauma carts. From the constant, looming threat of someone bleeding out within splatter range of your vintage suede ballet flats.
And you really hate blood. It hates you back, with passion.
An unfortunate dynamic for someone working as an administrative assistant in one of the busiest emergency departments on the eastern seaboard. But fate has always struck you as the kind of entity that laughs after delivering the punchline.
Today, the pit is practically foaming at the mouth. Before noon, someone’s child launched a juice box at you, the phone has been ringing off the hook with people demanding to speak to someone with actual authority (rude), and the discharge paperwork that you printed, you stapled (with a bow sticker, for morale), and you left in the outbox is apparently missing.
Which is how you find yourself back in the belly of the beast, bracing yourself as the noise and motion crash over you all at once.
You spot Dana’s blonde ponytail across the sea of moving heads. Your girl. Your one-woman who once stitched up a guy with a fork sticking out of his thigh while telling you your blouse looked cute and asking if you brought cupcakes again.
If anyone will know where your papers went, it’s her.
You take two steps toward salvation.
You do not make it to her.
“Hey there. You just gonna walk past without saying hi?”
You turn around with your usual default smile (the one you save for lost visitors and mildly terrifying surgeons), expecting someone familiar, or semi-familiar, or at least someone you’ve exchanged passive aggressive breakroom eye contact with once or twice.
But the man’s face that greets you doesn’t ring a bell. He’s got that aggressively forgettable look, like if you asked someone to draw a generic white guy from memory using only vague guesses and sad lighting. Pale. Tired-looking. Baseball cap pulled low over dull eyes. He could be someone’s uncle. He could be someone’s tax accountant. He could be a ghost.
You blink at him, brows drawing together.
“Sorry — do I… know you?” you ask, like maybe you forgot a name or an appointment or an entire conversation, which, in your defense, does happen.
“Nah,” he says. “But I swear, I’ve seen you in my dreams.” His smile widens, showing slightly uneven teeth. “I didn’t think angels worked the day shift.”
You laugh, because honestly, what else are you supposed to do? It’s not the worst pickup line you’ve heard. Not even top ten.
This place is practically a petri dish for bad flirting and worst timing, a simmering stew of hormones, narcotics, and people who’ve been sitting in plastic chairs for six hours with nothing to do but stare and develop confidence they did not arrive with.
You’re pretty sure there was a study about it. Or maybe that was a tweet. Either way, it feels peer-reviewed by lived experience.
“That’s sweet,” you say, defaulting to sugar-coating like your life depends on it, even though it’s not sweet. Not at all. It’s weird. It’s deeply un-sweet. And you would very much like to disintegrate into a puff of strawberry-scented vapor and waft gently toward Dana’s desk. “But I’m pretty sure dream-me doesn’t work doubles. She’s probably napping. Or retired. Or, I don’t know, on a yacht somewhere with a pina colada.”
“Doubles, huh? I can tell,” he says, eyes dipping, just briefly, but long enough to make your skin prickle. “You’ve got that worn-in look. Real cute on you.”
Is that supposed to be a compliment?
Because worn-in sounds suspiciously close to run into the ground, and you’re not entirely convinced real cute is strong enough to save it. It’s like being called brave in a dress you didn’t realize was see-through.
You force a light laugh.
“Well, you know what they say,” you chirp, breezy, harmless. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Maybe what you need is a little after-hours entertainment.” Then, casually, “What time you get off tonight?”
Your lip curls before you can stop it, and you have to mentally smooth it back into submission. Gross. The hospital air isn’t even sterile enough to filter out the way it sours between you, something rancid creeping in where banter (if you can even call it that) used to be.
You don’t want to imagine what after-hours entertainment means to him, don’t want the visuals nor the explanation.
But you do imagine what happens if you tell him to back off. Best case, you’re a bitch. Worst case, he follows you into the staff lot.
So you give him an out. Wrapped in politeness, sealed with a smile. Just enough plausible deniability to keep things from tipping. You tilt your head, shrug like it’s nothing.
“Tempting,” you say. “But my boyfriend’s already booked me for after-hours entertainment.”
You do not say that your boyfriend lives in your imagination. That he’s cobbled together from soap opera plotlines, your worst instincts, and a half-formed mental sketch labeled man who could end someone.
“Yeah? Where’s he at then?”
You should have expected that response. Men like this only register rejection if it arrives somene else’s fists.
So you switch tactics. Fast. Panic jumps a little in your chest, but you press it down. Flatten it. Replace it with a square of your shoulders.
“He — he’s around,” you say, lifting your chin. “He works here. In the hospital. You know. With the… medicine.”
Smooth. So smooth.
And of all the people in this very large, very populated hospital, your brain reaches into its little Rolodex and picks Dr. Frank Langdon.
Mr. Monosyllabic Trauma Bay. ER Ken with rage issues and cheekbones that could slice steel. Professional proof that repression is alive and well in the greater Pittsburgh area.
Probably the single worst option for a fake boyfriend. He’s the guy who barely looks at you unless you’re blocking his path, and even then it’s just to sigh like you’ve personally ruined his afternoon. He’s moody. Dry. Practically allergic to small talk.
And yet somehow your brain plasters his face across your internal romance billboard like he’s the star instead of a guy who once told you to “get off the gurney, it’s not a toy.”
You tell yourself it’s because he’s convenient. Because no one would question a man like that defending you. He looks intimidating enough to scare off someone with a single glance.
But that’s not the truth. The truth is you’ve always had a thing for fixer-uppers, for a challenge.
And Langdon is the epitome of a challenge: rehab, recent divorce, a kid he only sees on alternating weekends because addiction rearranged his life into neat, painful compartments.
He’s locked behind walls you’d very much like to scale, if only to prove you could.
And despite your charm, your wit, your general tendency to leave people a little bit in love with you after three sentences, he remains immune.
Still. Imagining him as your fake boyfriend has a certain appeal.
The man’s gaze sharpens. “Must not be very good at his job if he lets guys talk to you like this.”
You open your mouth to respond, something feminist and devastating in a fuck-you sort of way — something about how your boyfriend respects your boundaries and believes in your agency and doesn’t need to play caveman to prove his love — but then the universe does what it rarely, rarely does for you: it delivers.
A miracle in navy scrubs appears to your right. Langdon.
You seize him. There’s no other word for it, treating his bicep as your personal stress ball. You worry you might be a second away from popping a blood vessel.
“He’s excellent at his job,” you blurt.
You are so going to hell for this. Straight to HR medical prison. Is that a thing? Doesn’t matter. You are definitely not passing Go, not collecting Frank’s approval.
He looks down at you, startled. “What —”
“Aren’t you, honey?” you chirp, turning to him with the most desperate approximation of casual affection, your eyes doing all the heavy lifting as you beg him, silently and with every fiber of your being, please don’t ruin this, I’m in too deep, I’ll knit you another scarf, I’ll stop calling you Doctor Daddy in public (for a week), just go with it.
Langdon looks at you, then over at the guy, then back at you.
“I mean,” he finally says, in that same begrudgingly-human tone he uses when you ask him to open your pickle jars, “I’d like to think so.”
He’s still frowning. You’re not sure he understands what’s going on.
“Well, aren’t you a lucky bastard,” The man says, loud enough for the entire nurse’s station to hear. His voice is thick with something slimy, all false cheer and veiled challenge. “Good for you, man. You’re really punching up. Hope you’ve got a good grip on her.”
Langdon blinks once. Then again, slower. You can almost hear the internal gears clicking together, the pause where he reads between the lines and then draws a big red circle around the situation.
His head tilts, just barely, but enough that it radiates condescension, surgical grade.
“Yeah,” he says, voice dry as bone. “I’m still adjusting to the burden of being this blessed.”
“See? This is why I keep him around. The self-awareness. The humility.” You turn to the guy. “And the sarcasm? Complimentary. Limited time offer.”
Langdon doesn’t say anything at first. Just shifts his weight a little closer, the edge of his arm brushing yours, hand drifting to the small of your back like a warning, you’ve made your point, Barbie, let’s not give this creep another reason to open his mouth.
“Alright,” he says, “Let’s head back before I start living up to the reputation.”
You nod like you’ve been programmed to obey, limbs still buzzing with aftershock as he guides you down the corridor.
Your heart’s doing that fluttery, hummingbird thing it does when you almost trip in front of someone hot, or when Langdon says your name with too much gravel in his voice. You’re riding the adrenaline high and trying to walk in a straight line, which is difficult because your knees? Fully made of Jell-O.
Then, from behind, sleazy and absolutely not whispered enough —
“She’s even prettier from the back.”
Before your brain can register rage or disgust or a comeback involving a clipboard to the jaw, Langdon’s arm wraps around your waist.
He pulls you directly in front of him, his own body suddenly a full barrier between you and the hallway. Between you and that guy.
“Boyfriend privileges,” he says without looking back, “That’s a restricted angle.”
Interesting. Because that sounds a lot like proprietary language for someone who doesn’t notice you and definitely isn’t interested.
You try not to smile. You’re a mix of emotions right now, a contradiction in every right of the word. Angry with the stranger, a little hot for Langdon.
Once you’re finally out of sight, and earshot, you let go of the breath you’ve been holding. It escapes out of your lungs all at once, dramatic and overcompensating, and you immediately try to reel yourself back in.
You slow your steps, glance at Langdon, and smirk. It’s shaky at first, but you smother it with sheer willpower.
“Punching up,” you repeat, “Wow. I mean, congrats. That must be exhausting for you. Dating someone this far out of your league. I’m sure you’re doing your best.”
He side-eyes you, brow ticking up like he’s debating whether you’re worth engaging or just tolerating.
You can see the exact moment he gives in.
“You’re right,” he says flatly. “I should’ve gone for someone more attainable. A woman like you is not worth the stress.”
“That sounds like an admission that I’d ruin you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“So you think you could handle me?”
“I could handle you without breaking a sweat,” he says, too sharp, too fast.
“Prove it.”
Langdon goes still. The only part of him that betrays any reaction is his throat, tightening around a swallow so slow, you swear you can hear it. Like he’s physically pushing the words down. Forcing them back.
And for one single, stupid second, your heart dares to hope. You swear he just might do it. You imagine him stepping in, crowding your space, that unreadable look in his eyes sharpening into something hungry. You imagine his hand braced your head and his voice wrecked when he says, “Fine.” You imagine a lot of things. Because you are you, and your brain is an unmedicated place set to a Lana Del Rey soundtrack.
But none of that happens.
Instead he swallows again. Clears his throat. Refuses to meet your gaze. “That… was hypothetical.”
You don’t let him off so easy.
“That’s crazy, because it didn’t sound hypothetical.” You lean in. “But if you want to pretend you’re not tempted, that’s between you and your therapist. Assuming you have one. Which… mm. Might explain a lot.”
His jaw flexes. “If I needed a therapist, it’d be because of you.”
You beam at him. “Aw. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Didn’t say it was. You can insult me as long as you’re thinking about me afterward.”
He mutters something under his breath.
“I’m not participating in this conversation any longer.” He turns like that’s the end of it, then pauses. “And if that idiot tries something, come get me. You’ve got the situational awareness of a soap bubble.”
Another insult. You can recognize that. You can also recognize that your whole body is doing that glittery, fizzy thing it does anytime he’s around.
Because he just exists like that. Hot, mysterious, fundamentally allergic to saying what he means.
Anyway. Lost discharge papers. Terrible lighting. Emotional whiplash. Show must go on.