Summary: You’re married to Frank, and Robby is your uncle, but people in the ER don’t know this and it ends up causing some problems
Warnings: kissing, workplace romance, false cheating rumors, family relationships, workplace rumors, no use of y/n
Word count: 2.0K
Requested by @thecranberrypineapple
a/n: finally managed to get some writing done! I haven’t had much free time with the holidays, traveling, and everything else, but I promise I’ll get to all the requests in my inbox...eventually 🫠
You’ve known Frank for a long time—long before you ever stepped into the ER. You met in college, both bright and eager to learn. From the moment you first talked to him, you knew you wanted to keep him around, wanted to make him a constant part of your life.
Luckily for you, you managed to get your wish.
Years of friendship slowly shifted into something more romantic, and before you knew it, it had turned into a lasting relationship. And when Frank finally got down on one knee, there was only one answer you wanted to give him.
That answer was yes.
You loved being Frank’s wife—loved knowing that at the end of the day, he was the one coming home with you. But there was one small issue: you both worked together.
Even though you’d started working in the same hospital back when you were just dating, and there was nothing that explicitly prohibited coworkers from being in a relationship as long as it didn’t interfere with their work in the ER, you and Frank had decided to keep your relationship quiet.
Not a secret exactly—more like something you simply didn’t mention at work. The moment the two of you stepped into the ER, you both slipped into your “professional mode,” only interacting with each other in ways that could be seen as two coworkers who happened to be friendly.
People knew you were married. Frank wore his ring on his finger every day, and you always had yours hanging on a chain around your neck—so yes, people knew you were married. They just didn’t know it was to each other.
It was kind of funny, actually. You and Frank had turned it into a sort of game. He would talk about his wife, always praising her, knowing you were close enough to hear. His eyes would find yours, giving you that knowing look that never failed to make you smile. And you did the same—talking about how amazing your husband was, your eyes often catching the soft smirk that would grace Frank’s features as you did.
It was the way the two of you had found to still give each other love during your shifts without alerting the rest of the people at work that you were actually talking about each other.
But that wasn’t the only thing people didn’t know.
Frank turned off the car engine, the silence in the interior taking over for a moment. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath—this would be the last moment of peace and quiet you’d have until another twelve hours had passed, and you wanted to savor it.
Frank grabbed your hand, causing your eyes to open as you turned to look at him. You gave him a soft smile as he gazed back at you.
“Ready to march into battle?”
You nodded, giving his hand one last squeeze before reaching for the door handle.
“Hey, you’re forgetting something.”
You gave Frank a confused look, which made him pucker his lips, exaggeratingly tilting toward you.
“My goodbye kiss.”
You knew what he’d said, but with his puckered lips it sounded more like, “Mu gubye kisth.”
You rolled your eyes, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby before leaning over the center console and giving Frank a quick kiss.
“Come on, Langdon. We’ll be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As always, you and Frank walked in together. Nobody questioned the fact that you always arrived with each other—you’d given the bullshit excuse that you lived close by, and that it was easier for Frank to give you a ride than for both of you to drive to work. Plus, it was better for the environment. One less car on the streets.
Of course, people believed you. You gave them no reason not to.
When you made your way over to check the board, Robby caught sight of you. He smiled and made his way over with ease. You let him tug you into a quick side hug, your arm wrapping briefly around his waist.
“Hey, Honey. How you doing today?”
You pulled back so you could look him in the eyes.
“I’m doing good. How about you, Robby?”
Your eyes caught the bags under his eyes, and you immediately knew he hadn’t slept well the night before. But Robby hated people worrying about him, so when he said he was fine, you pretended to believe it.
“You searching for a target?”
At Robby’s question, your gaze flicked back to the board, briefly catching Frank disappearing into one of the rooms with Mel before settling on the writing on the screen.
“Gonna start easy, I think. A kid with a nosebleed might be ready for discharge. I’ll go check on him.”
“Alright then. The kid’s in good hands. See you around, Honey.”
You smiled as Robby gave your shoulder a soft squeeze before heading off, leaving you to make your way toward your first patient. You didn’t even notice the glances, didn’t hear the whispers as you moved through the ER. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
See, here’s the thing—people in the ER love to gossip. It keeps them entertained, helps keep the pain and sadness at bay as you all try to make it through your shifts. And when people don’t have all the information, they can come up with some pretty wild rumors.
The most recent one was that you and Robby were secretly married to each other. Which was absurd—not only because of the age difference, but because Robby was family. Literally family. He was your uncle. Biologically. As in, your father’s brother.
But people didn’t know that. Only a select few did—people who mattered, like Dana and Jack and the higher-ups. They knew either because they’d seen you grow up, in Dana and Jack’s case, or because they’d been responsible for hiring you and were aware of your family ties to Robby.
But everybody else?
Oh yeah. They had no clue.
Which ended up causing some… issues.
Because the Robby rumor was bad—but the Frank one was so much worse.
It started harmlessly. Frank bringing you coffee during a lull. Leaning against the counter beside you while you charted, shoulders brushing. A hand resting briefly at the small of your back as he passed behind you in a crowded hallway.
Normal things. Small things.
Things that meant everything to the wrong people.
They started noticing it one by one. Santos clocked the way Frank’s voice softened when he spoke to you. Javadi caught the way Frank’s eyes followed you across the ER when you laughed at something a patient said. Whitaker saw Frank step a little too close when you were visibly shaken after a bad case.
And then, to make matters so much worse, someone saw you and Frank in a very private moment.
You hadn’t thought anything of it—ducking into an empty break room, adrenaline still buzzing through you after a rough trauma. Frank followed, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Hey,” he murmured, hands already finding your waist. “You did good in there.”
You exhaled, leaning into him, fingers fisting in his scrub top as he kissed you—slow at first, then deeper. Familiar. Safe. His hand slid up your back, grounding you.
You were so caught up in Frank that you didn’t hear the door hinges open slightly. Didn’t hear the soft gasp, or the door shutting a little too quickly.
Someone had seen you with Frank. And because they thought you were married to Robby—and didn’t know Frank was married to you—the speculation took a sharp turn, fast.
An affair. A scandal. A nurse cheating with a married attending.
And somehow—somehow—people thought they’d finally figured out the truth.
They had no idea how wrong they were.
And because you had no idea these rumors even existed, you ended up unintentionally feeding into them.
When a tough case got to you, Robby had pulled you to the side, giving you a bear hug as tears swelled in your eyes. And when he left the room to keep working, and you started to take a breather, Frank had slipped in, his forehead resting against yours as he spoke comforting words.
And people saw it. They saw these small, soft moments—and twisted them into something they weren’t.
But like everything in life, there was a final straw.
It came as an accusation.
You were hunched over the chart, scribbling notes after checking on your patient, when a voice from the nurses’ station broke the quiet.
“You know… you should really own up to it.”
You froze, pen in midair. “Excuse me?”
They leaned a little closer, a smirk playing at the corner of their lips.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be coy. We all know you’re… you’re cheating on Robby.”
Your hand dropped to the counter. “What?!”
Someone else, leaning over nearby, snickered. You blinked, utterly confused.
“Cheating? On… Robby?”
The first person shrugged, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Yeah. I mean… it’s obvious. You and Frank, right? We see it all the time.”
You held up a hand. “Okay, whoa. You need to relax. You’ve got this all wrong. Completely wrong.”
By that point, movement in the hallway caught your attention. Robby and Frank had both emerged from different rooms, strolling in the general direction of the nurses’ station. Their heads tilted slightly, noticing you animatedly talking to someone, lips moving, hands gesturing.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath. “This is going to get worse before it gets better.”
As they approached, you straightened, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Okay,” you said, raising your voice just enough for everyone nearby to hear, “let’s get something straight. For everyone.”
The staff fell quiet, leaning in curiously.
“I am married—to Frank,” you said slowly, letting it sink in. “Robby is my uncle. I am not cheating on anyone. And yes, we all work together, but none of what you’re imagining is actually happening.”
A pause. Some eyes widened. Some shifted awkwardly.
And then there was Dana.
Dana had appeared quietly, arms crossed, a grin spreading across her face.
“Oh my god,” she said, barely holding back laughter. “This is gold. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Robby calls you ‘Honey’ nonstop. What’s the deal with that?” the accuser jabbed.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. God, people really liked grasping at straws.
“‘Honey’ is my middle name. Robby’s been calling me that since I was a kid.”
The accuser froze, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, go back to work.” You turned to glance around at the people still gawking at you. “Everyone, back to work.”
The staff reluctantly returned to their tasks, whispers and smirks lingering just a little longer than usual. And Dana? Dana lingered a little longer too, clearly planning to tease you about this for weeks.
That’s when Frank appeared beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, smirk fully in place.
“Well,” he said, glancing around at the still-whispering staff, “guess the cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”
“Yeah,” you muttered, rolling your eyes but smiling. “I guess so.”
Frank leaned closer, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone.
“So… what’s stopping me from kissing you right here? In the middle of everybody?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Decency.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly offended. “Decency? Since when have I ever been decent?”
Before you could answer, he tugged you gently toward him. Lips met yours in a soft, fleeting kiss. You laughed against his mouth, and he grinned against yours before pulling back just enough to whisper:
“See? We should have told them about us ages ago.”
You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours, “but you love me anyway.”
And you did.
You and Frank exchanged a look—quiet, silly, and utterly yours.
“Get back to work, Dr. Langdon.”
Frank gave you a mock salute. “Yes, Mrs. Langdon.”
You couldn’t help but smile and shake your head as he walked away. When he was finally out of view, you turned and stared at Dana.
“I hate you.”
She gave you a smile and pulled you into a hug.
“No, you don’t.”
You couldn’t hold back the smile that crept onto your face. Because yeah—you didn’t.
5 times frank langdon manhandles you and the 1 time you manhandle him back
bet u wanna read my masterlist! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: frank langdon x intern!reader
warnings: fem!reader, sunshine!reader, intern!reader, power dynamics, mild manhandling/rough physical guidance, touch-starved characters, mutual pining, mean!langdon, slow burn, frank langdon is grumpy asf, mild panic attacks and dissociation, caretaking to the MAX, i had my med student best friend proof read this so if it’s wrong blame her not me!!!!
wc: 4.4k
1 Unauthorized Draping in a High-Risk Zone
Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. It’s not a conscious thing you do, but you move anyway. You figure it’s your nervous system trying to siphon off all the anxious energy that perpetually resides within you.
This is just how your body chooses to cope, with tiny, repetitive motion, as if it can shake the dread loose before it calcifies into tears or sweat or both.
You make an effort to stop. To try and plant your feet, tell yourself to be good and normal and someone who belongs in this intimidating world.
But your brain pipes up with its favorite playlist: don’t touch anything blue, don’t lean on anything that costs more than your rent, don’t talk unless someone with a PhD says your name first, don’t be weird, don’t be you.
Not you-you. Not the klutzy, apology-powered wind-up doll who says “sorry” when someone else steps on your foot and once high-fived a paper towel dispenser by accident (don’t ask).
“Wrong hallway. Wrong badge.”
Shit.
Every neuron in your body slams on the brakes at once, and when you turn, it’s with the same slow, dawning horror of someone realizing they’ve just wandered into the morgue by mistake, except instead of toe tags and chillers, you’re greeted by six feet of brutal posture and eyes that look like they haven’t seen joy since the inventions of pagers.
You look down at his own badge and frown. Dr. Langdon. The senior resident with the god complex and the too-loud temper and the rehab stint.
He’s severe. That’s your first thought. Gaze that makes your mouth dry up and hate how immediately attractive you find him in that hyper-competent, morally disapproving kind of way.
You open your mouth to say something, anything, hi, sorry, I swear this was an accident, maybe even please don’t kill me but you don’t get the chance, because he’s already moving.
Coming close enough that you can see the indent on his chin, flexing with every angry breath he takes.
His hand then moves to your shoulder while the other catches the tie at your gown and tugs it with quick efficient impatient.
What is happening?
Your ears burn, heart going loud, obnoxiously so, like it’s trying to escape your ribcage and run laps around the hallway.
This is the part where you do something. Step back maybe? Speak? React? Anything that might come across to the effect of: hey stranger danger why are you touching me like that?
Instead, you freeze completely, letting him reposition you like an object with poor spatial awareness, standing there like the world’s most pathetic statue.
“I — wait, I thought —” you squeak, and it’s not a strong performance, not even close, just a frantic jumble of syllables strung together with the blind optimism that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let you explain yourself.
He doesn’t. He talks right over you, his words slicing through your sentence.
“You’re not cleared,” he says, cool and direct, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite conversation so much as it ends it. Then, as if the knife needed twisting: “No one told you to suit up.”
He undoes the final knot, as if he’s unwrapping an inconvenience instead of peeling the last bit of your dignity off your shoulders, and when you don’t drop the gown fast enough he just takes it from you, tossing it in the linen bin.
He shoves a chart into your hands.
“Triage notes need updating,” he says. “Do that.”
You’re still rooted to the spot, stunned into inaction, gripping the clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you upright.
You manage one step backward. Then another. It feels like learning to walk again.
Behind you, he adds, “And drink some water. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
2 Manual Dexterity: Failed Check
You’re staring at your hands. More specifically, the gloves that reside there. They feel weird on your skin, too loose at the fingertips, too bunchy on the palms.
There’s this awful puff of air trapped between your fingertips and the latex, and you keep flexing your hands like that’ll make it better, but it only makes the squish-snap worse.
You could take them off and grab a better-fitting pair, but that would involve drawing attention, and you’re already pushing the acceptable intern limit for “visible fumbling.”
Especially not with Dr. Langdon standing nearby. Dark hair, cutting eyes, that carved-from-contempt expression that already seems to say you’re wasting his time just by existing. His whole aura screams, I have better things to do than acknowledge your carbon footprint, and it works, you’re been trying to stay out of his way since the Gown Incident (capital G, capital I), but he has this unnerving talent for appearing exactly where you don’t want him to be.
And you could maybe cope with that, if your body didn’t decide to implode every time he got close. Five feet is the threshold, apparently. Any closer and all the blood rushes to your cheeks.
You’re so focused on pretending to be normal (chin up, shoulders back) that you don’t even realize he’s moved until it’s already happening.
A common theme, apparently.
His hand is around yours, lifting up your own like it’s some sort of misfiled lab result and brings it up under the light. He turns it over once. Then again.
You think for a second he might have forgotten it’s attached to a living, breathing person.
His brows furrow in what you assume is either concentration or deep disappointment. Probably the later.
“What are you doing?” you whisper, because that’s all your vocal cords will give you right now and you’re deeply afraid of drawing more attention than he already has.
He doesn’t answer, but rather just releases you hand. The loss of contact leaves a strange chill behind.
He stalks off toward a shadowy corner of the room that apparently hides a second supply cart.
A cart you’ve walked past, what, twenty times? He crouches, grabs a glove box from the bottom shelf, glances at the size like he’s memorized your hands from the quick thirty second glance over he gave them, and straightens in one fluid motion.
He’s back in front of you before you can fix your face, reaching for your hand to unpeel the glove in a way that makes your knees whisper things like maybe buckle now?.
The material slides away with a snap, leaving your hand bare and tingling in the open air.
“I can do it,” you hiss, “I knew they looked weird. I mean, not my hands, the gloves obviously, my hands are normal, at least I think they’re normal, unless you — no, sorry, what I meant was — I just didn’t know there were any smaller ones and I didn’t want to slow anyone down and —”
He positions the new, correct-sized, glove and slides it onto you, smoothing it down with expert hands.
He has really nice hands you realize. You mourn the second the go out of view.
“Wrong size compromises dexterity.”
“Oh,” you say, and then immediately regret it, because oh is not a real response to anything, so you tack on a breathless, “Thank you. I mean — for noticing. And fixing it. Sorry again.”
You’re smiling now. Why are you smiling?
“Don’t thank me.”
“Right,” you say, nodding. “No, yeah. I didn’t. I mean, I did, but… un-thank you. Consider the gratitude rescinded. Retracted. Gone.”
What a loser.
You wish the floor would do you a solid and just open up, suck you in, maybe relocate you to a dimension where you’re not inventing new ways to embarrass yourself in front of the grumpiest man alive. Preferably somewhere tropical and remote. With no gloves.
He looks at you like he’s deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response.
Then: “You done?”
“Uh-huh,” you say, “Done. Done talking. So done.”
He lifts his chin, gestures down the hall toward curtain three, and starts walking.
You follow like a kicked puppy. A very polite, professionally dressed, medically licensed kicked puppy.
3 Redirecting a Human GPS Malfunction
“She’s hyponatremic but still alert, which makes me think it’s chronic rather than acute, and the reflexes were intact except for a slight delay on patellar, so I’m leaning away from neuro, but if her cortisol’s low again I think we need to rule out secondary adrenal insufficiency, especially since her ACTH levels haven’t come back yet and nobody seems concerned about the mild orthostasis.”
Dr. Langdon hums low in his throat. It’s not disapproval. But it’s not agreement either. It’s a sound that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of try again, but smarter.
“And if the ACTH comes back low?”
“Then I’d want a CRH stimulation test to see if the pituitary’s response because if both ACTH and cortisol are low, we could be looking at hypothalamic suppression instead of adrenal failure, and at that point, imaging the pituitary would be the next step. Unless she’s been on chronic steroids, but I didn’t see anything in her med list to suggest that.”
“Good. But keep an eye on the sodium trend, if it spikes with fluids, you might be chasing the wrong diagnosis.”
Good.
It’s one word. One syllable. Not even said warmly, more of a clinical stamp of temporary adequacy. But your brain grabs onto it like a starved plant seeing sun for the first time in weeks.
You want to keep your face still. You really try. You train every muscle into neutrality, schooling your expression like a child behind glass. But inside… inside it’s glowing. Confetti. Champagne. Tiny internal high-fives.
You got a good. From him. From Dr. Langdon, who looks at most people like they’re bad test results. Who’s allergic to praise. Who speaks in critiques and glares and weaponized silence.
“Yep. Sodium. Absolutely,” you nod eagerly. “You know, I read this case study once where a woman presented with severe hyponatremia after a hot yoga retreat and it turned out she’d been drinking like three gallons of water a day because she thought it was detoxing her live, and her sodium dropped to 118, which is horrifying, but she was totally asymptomatic until she passed out in her car.”
He looks at you. “You ever do that?”
You blink. “Sorry, do what?”
“Hot yoga.”
“I have! Um, I went through this whole phase junior year where I was like, trying to become one of those ‘balanced’ people who wake up early and do gratitude journaling and drink matcha and just like, glow all the time? So I signed up for a free week at this studio that was supposed to be ‘soul-transforming,’ which in hindsight should’ve been a red flag, but I was optimistic, and kind of desperate — anyway, I made it halfway through the first class before I realized I’d accidentally worn fleece-lined leggings, and then I couldn’t leave because the instructor locked the door for ‘heat-integrity,’ and —”
His fingers close over your collar, tugging you just enough to redirect you a few steps to the left before you cheek meets drywall.
“— and I was already sweating like crazy but trying to act normal because everyone else looked so serene, and then —”
He stops walking. You stumble to a halt just behind him, trying to get a handle on your breathing and your mouth, which have both been sprinting ahead without a permit.
“Watch where you’re going,” he says, flat and unbothered. “I’m not doing that again.”
You’re not quite sure what he means, but apologize anyway, “Right. Sorry.”
He pauses. Glances over his shoulder. “And stop apologizing.”
“Mhm. Got it.” You give him a weird little salute. Loser strike two.
“Go check on your patient.”
“Going!”
You make it three steps before his fingers wrap around your elbow. He spins you back around with minimal effort. “Wrong way.”
You glance sideways. “Thought you weren’t doing that again.”
He doesn’t let go yet. Just raises one eyebrow. “Don’t be a smartass.”
His mouth twitches. A small, tiny flicker of amusement. It feels like a secret you weren’t supposed to see, so you pretend not to.
4 Medical Intervention (Sandwich Required)
You’re not even sure when you stopped standing and started leaning, all you know is the supply cart is cool and metal and solid under your palm, which is more than you can say for your knees.
Sixteen hours in, eight traumas logged, and your internal organs are currently operating on a diet consisting of two cups of hospital coffee (burnt and betrayal flavored) and a single saltine you found crumpled in your pocket.
You blink against the sudden fuzz crawling at the edges of your vision, but it’s no use, the black spots are doing synchronized jumping jacks now. Little warning flares that you’re probably pushing your luck. Again.
Dana steps into your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “You okay, kid?”
You slap on a smile like a band-aid over a bullet wound. Your special-sauce if you ever had one.
“Yup! All good. Just needed a minute. Long day. A lot of… exciting cases. You know how it is.” You do a vague jazz-hands motion. “Crushing it.”
Your vision pulses again. You do not, in fact, appear to be crushing it, you’re very sure of that. Maybe in the way a soda can gets crushed under a steel-toed boot.
“And I’m the Queen of England.” She takes one long look at your pale face and glassy eyes. “Sit. Before you faceplant and I have to explain to Gloria why we lost one to stubborn optimism.”
“I promise I’m fine! I just — stood up too fast.”
“Bullshit.”
His hand appears at the same time as his voice, both faster than your excuses.
One moment you’re vertical and the next you’re yanked with just enough force, like he knows how much pressure you can take without crumbling.
His grip is all calloused heat, palm pressing into your arm as he pulls you into the chair.
The world tilts once, then slams back into place. Cold metal bites into your thighs. His hand lingers a second too long, fingers flexing like he’s still gauging whether you’ll tip over again.
“I could’ve sat on my own, you know,” you grumble half-heartedly.
You glance toward Dana, hoping for backup, or at the very least a supportive eyebrow raise. She meets your gaze, chews her gum, and shrugs one shoulder in a perfect display of girl, please. Entirely unsympathetic. Possibly amused.
“Nope,” she says. “You were about one sway away from eating tile. Survival of the smartest, sweetheart. ”
“Don’t care if you could’ve,” he says as he crouches. “I’m not scraping you off the floor because you’re too much of a hard head to sit when you’re clearly crashing.”
Then, without asking (because when does he ever ask), he takes your wrist in his hand, thumb pressing gently into the inside. You try not to squirm.
“There’s a difference between committed and careless.” His brow furrows as he counts the beats under his thumb. “Right now, you’re leaning toward the wrong one.”
“I wasn’t trying to be careless, I swear. I just lost track of time, which is funny because I’m usually really good at that, like I even set alarms for hydration, but I ignored all of them because I didn’t want to miss rounds and then one trauma turned into five —”
You stop when you realize he’s still holding your wrist. And staring.
He exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head.
“You’ve got ten minutes here with food,” he says. He jerks his chin at Dana, who nods and heads for the cart without needing more. “Then fluids. Then, and only then, you can check on the lac in bay four.” His eyes cut back to you. “And if I see you wobble even once, you’re off the board for the night.”
“Yes. Yes sir – uh, not sir, just — yes. I’m staying.”
Dr. Langdon nods once, brushes his fingers briefly over your shoulder in what might be the lamest pat in human history (the universal ‘don’t make me come back’ signal), and walks off without another word.
Dana returns with a sandwich and a raised brow.
You unwrap it slowly. “Is he always so — uh — intense?”
She barks a laugh. “That was him being gentle.”
5 Objects in Motion (You) Meets Immovable Force (Also You, Apparently)
“—I’m telling you, he’s been on my ass before the sun even showed up,” Santos grumbles, tapping her pen against the desk. “I said good morning, and he looked at me like I suggested we kick a puppy together. Someone pissed in his Cheerios, and now I’m the one getting crucified for it.”
You tilt your head. “Maybe he just needs a snack. Or like… a hug.”
She snorts without looking at you. “I was thinking more along the lines of a double whiskey and a week locked in solitary with nothing but his own guilt complex, but sure. Hugs. Why not.”
“That’s so mean! Dr. Robby is not that bad. He just… glares at people like they personally ruined his life on occasion. He’s usually very kind.”
“Next you’re gonna tell me he’s just misunderstood and has a good heart underneath it all.”
“I mean… yeah. I kind of believe that about everyone. Doesn’t mean I’m right, but like… I’m not not hoping.”
Santo swivels in her chair, stares. “Even Langdon?”
You falter there. Step back. Physically, even, as if that’ll help distance you from the question, from the thought, because now it’s in there.
Dr. Langdon. Frank Langdon. The man who speaks in flat tones and judgmental silences. Who glares like it’s a sport and you’re always losing.
And now you’re thinking about him with… layers. Like, not just as a terrifying force of workplace intensity, but as someone who maybe carries all that stormy energy because he doesn’t know what to do with the softer parts.
Someone who maybe, just maybe, has a good heart buried underneath a mile of barbed wire
You chew on the thought like it’s an overcooked piece of gum — rubbery, bitter, sticking to the inside of your skull even as you try to spit it out — and you’re not even sure what part is more disturbing: the possibility that Langdon has hidden depths, or the fact that your brain insists on exploring them like a museum exhibit you weren’t emotionally prepared for.
But before you can get to the part where he maybe owns houseplants or secretly feeds stray cats behind the loading bay, the thought shatters, violently, like someone dropped a wine glass in the middle of your mental dinner party.
Noise. Sudden. Loud. A voice shouting something urgent, boots hammering the floor, movement that feels too fast for the space.
You flinch instinctively, start to pivot toward the commotion, but before your body can even decide what direction to go, a hand snaps around your waist and then you’re moving, pulled into something broad and unyielding and extremely human-shaped.
Specifically, Dr. Langdon-shaped.
Your cheek brushes the starchy edge of his scrub top. His arm curls in front of you, protective like a steel beam, while a crash cart screams past, inches from where you were just standing, the air it kicks up biting against your skin.
You realize, distantly, that you would’ve been directly in its path if not for him.
You can feel his heartbeat through the wall of muscle between you and everything else.
You can smell him, too. Clean, masculine soap invading your senses.
You shift, just slightly, enough to tilt your face upward.
He’s looking down at you like you’re a particularly complicated equation he’s trying not to solve out loud. And for a second, you don’t breathe. Not really. Because his grip tightens and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick down to your mouth.
“Jesus,” Santos mutters, breaking the spell as she peers after the cart. “You good? That thing was flying.”
You blink, realizing a second too late that Santos was talking to you.
“Huh?” You clear your throat, a sound that comes out way too dry. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
At the same moment, Langdon steps away. Lets go. And the absence is bizarrely loud, like someone hit mute on the part of your body that had been braced against him.
You’re suddenly hyper-aware of not being touched. Of gravity reasserting itself. Of how your arms feel too light and your chest feels too tight and none of it makes any damn sense.
“You could’ve gotten flattened,” he mutters, jaw tight. It sounds like criticism, but there’s something else under it. Concern, maybe. Or frustration aimed more at the situation than at you.
You rub at your forearm, pretending it itches instead of tingles. “Yeah, well. I’m thinking of investing in high-vis tape and a ‘please don’t run me over’ sign.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with that signature flat, heavy-lidded expression like even he can’t believe how often he has to save your life from your own proximity to disaster.
You can’t really believe it either.
“I won’t say thanks,” you say. “I know you hate that. And apologizing. But uh… I didn’t die. That’s… cool. For both of us. I mean, mostly me. But also you, probably, because paperwork would’ve sucked. I’m gonna leave before I say something dumber than that, which is a very low bar, so —”
“Do you really believe that?” he says behind you.
You stop.
“What?”
“What you said earlier. About everyone?”
It takes a second. He’d heard that?
You scratch your cheek, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Yeah,” you say finally. “I really do.”
+1 Please Just Stay
The stairwell is freezing, cement bones and rebar spine, and you’re crumpled against the wall like a misfiled piece of paper. It’s quiet here, except for the stupid way your breathing bounces off the walls and makes it sound like someone else is crying too.
But it’s just you. It’s always just you. The tears keep coming, hot and salty and mortifying. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, again and again, but they just keep returning, stubborn as guilt.
Everyone said it wasn’t your fault. In serious tones people use when they want to sound very sure. As if it makes a difference. It really doesn’t.
It was your first patient death.
He was somebody’s father. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s son. And in the end, you were the last person to touch him. You watched the monitors go still. You felt his hand lose its warmth.
Footsteps echo up the stairwell.
Your body reacts accordingly, jolting upright like you’ve been caught doing something illegal (crying isn’t illegal, you remind yourself, but it sure feels like it), and your hands fly to your face.
Both of them. Too rough, too fast, trying to erase the emotions by brute force.
Your shoulders curl in, chin tucking down so far it could hit your collarbone. Hide, hide, hide. You try to stop the sniffling, will it down your throat, but it stutters out of you anyway, weak, wet, pathetic. Perfect.
“Oh — shit. Sorry.” It takes you half a second to recognize the voice. A half second too long, because by the time it clicks, it’s already too late. Dr. Langdon.
Your stomach flips so intensely it feels like it’s trying to escape through your throat, a sudden swoop of nausea and disbelief tangled together. Of all people.
You hear the shift, his footsteps faltering, uneven now, breath snagging mid-step before everything goes still. The stairwell swallows the sound.
Then: “You’re crying.”
You let out a exhale that stumbles out halfway between a laugh and a cough.
It sounds pathetic, honestly, but you don’t have the energy to care. “That obvious, huh?”
Silence stretches long enough to get awkward, and you start to hope maybe he took the hint. Maybe he backed away, quietly, like a decent person who knows how to pretend they didn’t just catch someone crying their face off in a desolate place. Maybe you get to keep your breakdown private.
However, you aren’t so lucky.
“First time I lost a patient, I threw up in the supply closet.” He doesn’t sound embarrassed by it, just matter-of-fact, like he’s naming a side effect. “I told the attending that it was food poisoning. It wasn’t.”
You twist toward him, shoulders still hunched, face hot and raw. You’re sure you look like hell, and he sees all of it, but he doesn’t react. No flicker of discomfort. No awkward glance away.
“Does it… ever get easier?”
It sounds fragile on your tongue. Like you’re scared of the answer, but more scared not to ask.
He looks past you for a second.
“No,” he says. Then, almost like an afterthought, “If it did, that’d be worse.”
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
He nods and you see the look on his face that suggests maybe he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.
“Take a minute. If you need anything…” He hesitates. “Come get me.”
He turns, just slightly, like he’s giving you privacy. Respect. Distance.
And maybe that was what you needed. What you thought you wanted not even two seconds ago. But not anymore.
Because the second he turns, the second his body shifts and his presence starts to pull away even by the smallest degree, panic claws its way up your chest like a reflex, like a toddler reaching out in the dark, and your hands shoot forward without asking permission from the rest of you, both of them closing tight around the soft fabric of his scrubs. Clumsy and fast and maybe too hard.
You don’t even know what you're holding onto exactly, not really, except it’s him, and he’s warm and real and not going anywhere, not unless you let him, and for a second you just stand there like that, fists full of fabric, heart full of please don’t leave.
“Don’t —” you choke, the word cracking like it’s too big for your throat, and you bite it down fast, try again, quieter this time, like whispering might make it less desperate. “Can you just… stay. Just a minute. Please.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a terrifying, breath-holding moment, you think maybe you misread it, maybe he’s about to step back, untangle himself from your grip, do the polite thing and leave you to cry in peace like people do when they don’t want to deal with someone else’s damage.
His eyes drop to where your fists are bunched in his scrubs
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”
His arms come around you. Not expertly either. It’s real and maybe a little uneven, a little unsure, like he’s not totally certain where his hands are supposed to go.
But he does it anyway, one hand finding the back of your head, fussing with the tag on the back of your shirt, the other curling around your back.
And for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re falling.
Summary- No man has ever really treated you right. Frank Langdon vows to change that.
Contains- 18+ MDNI, straight up smut, oral, dirty talk, idiots in love, frank gets off from eating you out <3333
A/N- divider from @sweetmelodygraphics ! ps- this fic is coming from someone who's never come from oral and has dated lots of losers. frank langdon pls hit my line!!!
Frank is everywhere. His lips consume yours, large hands spanning your waist, the curve of your ass. The air is thick between you, your fingers lightly scraping against his stubble. It's prickly against your mouth. It's not enough to be rough, but a sweet sting instead. It moves to your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. He's insatiable, dragging his swollen lips over every inch of skin he can find.
His hand slips your cap sleeve down your shoulder, sinking his teeth in a light bite. You squeal, your hips hopping off his lap for a moment. He catches you, large hands holding you in place above him.
His long, dexterous fingers press into the plush of your skin, the pressure making you dizzy Your brows knit together, a small whine escaping your lips. You inch your face closer, trying desperately to capture his lips in yours once again.
He surprises you, ducking his head out of the way. Your jaw drops, huffing out a bratty exhale. He mocks you, his own jaw falling open, a small chuckle escaping. Your lips form into a petulant pout, which he kisses off.
He pulls back again, the intensity in his gaze completely swallowing the giggly butterflies of before. You have no choice but to stare back, jaw going slack at the sight of him- darkened blue eyes, mussed hair, kiss swollen lips.
You wiggle a little, trying your hardest to plop back down onto him. His grip tightens on your waist, and you whimper. He tuts in response, pinching the skin of your hip.
"Hey," he whispers, flipping a loose strand of hair out of his eye, "I wanna try something. Can we?"
"What-what is it?" You breathe, blood pumping, nerves swirling in your belly.
"Wanna taste you, 's that okay?" He asks, licking his lips at the thought.
You freeze, face going hot, body going rigid. He feels you, and it clicks immediately.
"What is it? You okay?" He asks, a shiver unzipping your spine.
"I just- I don't want to disappoint you…" you start, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip.
His brow furrows, and your finger pads the soft crease between them. "Disappoint me?" He breathes, incredulous. "How could you disappoint me?"
Your heart sinks, embarrassment creeping up your neck like a spider. Your gaze drops, focusing on your lap, still hovering above Frank's.
"I just-I don't really like it, is all," you admit, fiddling with your fingers.
"Like what?" He asks, cocking his head like a dog. "Wouldn't like it if I used my mouth on you? 'S that what you're saying to me?"
Your eyes fall closed, your lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks. A shiver runs down your spine, your face burning at the shame creeping up. You plop your face in your hands, a groan softly leaving your lips. You nod your head, confirming his suspicion.
"Hmm," he ponders, mouth twisted in that cute little way, "that's okay, honey. You never have to do anything you don't want to do. I just feel like there's more you're not telling me."
You grimace, because of course he noticed.
"I just-" you start, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. "Nobody's ever made me finish from it, is all. It's turned off almost every guy I've dated."
Tears burn the backs of your lids, eyes darting anywhere but Frank, whose grip on your waist tightens just slightly. Your heart leaps, despite the needy ache pounding through it.
You work up the courage to look up at him, his icy blue eyes squinted in concern. You bury your face in your hands, embarrassment burning through you.
"It's so embarrassing, I know. I get it if you don't want to, it's like there's something wrong with me-"
You're cut off by a quiet, sweet, 'shh,' his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists. He pulls them down, softly smiling at the sight of you.
"You think there's something wrong with you?" He asks, tone soft yet neutral.
You nod, your chin dropping to your chest. He crooks a finger underneath it, pulling you back up to him once again.
"Stop hiding from me," he commands. "I want to see you."
Your stomach coils at his words, that need from before throbbing between your legs. You involuntarily roll your hips against his, his eyes falling shut at the contact.
He grips your waist with his hands, stopping your movements, a hiss escaping his lips at the loss of friction. You wiggle a bit in his hold. He just grips you tighter.
"Hey," he says firmly. "You're not getting out of this conversation, I know you want to."
Your face heats at his accusation, how he can read you so easily.
"I'm sorry," you mutter. "I just don't want it to change your mind, about this. About me."
Things with Langdon are still new, his first relationship post-divorce, your first since your asshole boyfriend dumped you last Valentine's Day. He's someone who's approval you'd sought since your first day in the ER, even after he came back after a long, ten months.
To be on his lap now, with him looking at you like you hung the stars and the moon, it's almost too much to handle. You're not sure what you did to deserve his care and attention.
"I'd never do that," he mutters, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.
You melt into it, eyes squeezing shut, trying to drown out all the insecurities plaguing your mind.
"If you really don't want it, tell me, and I'll back off," he begins, eyes boring into you with the utmost seriousness. "But I want to taste you. I don't want to be deprived of that because some assholes before me didn't care enough to make you feel good."
His words light your skin on fire, goosebumps rising in their wake. You nod, eyes wide and pleading. He shakes his head at this.
"Nuh-uh," he taps your inner thigh, a sweet, mean scolding. "I need to hear it. What do you want?"
"I want you," you murmur, it's small and shy and utterly wrecked.
"You want me to what?" He prompts, and you grip his shoulders.
"You're so unfair," you whine, and it's a bit petulant. It earns a harder slap on your sensitive skin. You lurch into him, squeaking at the contact.
"Tell me," he commands, and you break.
"I want your mouth on me. I want you to make me come, please," you whisper that last part, desperation taking over the last of your resolve.
"See, that wasn't so hard, hm?" He asks, and you roll your eyes.
He adjusts your bodies so you're now resting on the couch, sinking to his knees between you. He looks up at you, his blue eyes round and wide, tongue darting out to lick his lips.
You clench around nothing at the sight, butterflies swirling in your tummy at his beauty. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip suppressing a whimper as his hands lift up your hips, sliding your sleep shorts down your legs.
"God," he whispers in awe, eyes almost doe-like. You've never seen him so wrecked, especially before your panties have even come off. "You're so beautiful."
He presses a chaste kiss to the damp spot on your light blue panties, a strangled whine wrestling from your throat. You feel him exhale against your core, a shiver unzipping your spine.
"Y'got this wet just from kissing me?" He asks, eyes sparkling as he slides his fingers under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs.
"Yeah," you moan out, resting your face in the palm of your hand. "Want you so bad."
"Fuck," he groans, whether at your words, or the bare sight of you, you're not sure. "You're so fucking gorgeous. Can't believe no one's taken the time to treat you properly."
"Please," you whine, head falling back onto the couch. "Please be the one, I want you to treat me right, please."
He nods frantically, his cow-licked strand of hair falling in front of his brow. He rolls his lips together, licking them with his tongue to prepare himself for you.
"Since you asked so nicely…" he mutters under his breath, inching closer and closer to you.
The sight of him is almost holy- on his knees, ready to worship. His devotion boosts your ego, confidence mixed with a burning desire making you arch your back, inching closer to him. You slink your legs over his shoulders, scooting your center closer to his face.
He inhales roughly, groaning as he takes in your scent. You clench again, and he licks a wide strip up your pussy. Your head falls back, a quiet moan escaping your lips.
"Oh, God, Langdon!" You whine, sinking your fingers into his hair.
He presses one, two, three kisses against your clit, taking it in between his lips and sucking with a force that has you keening.
Butterflies swarm in your belly at his movements, his sweet suckles, his harsh licks and soft kisses turn you into mush. Your head swims with the pleasure, your heart beating erratically in your ears.
"Feel good?" He mutters against your core, and the vibrations have you pushing yourself further into him.
He chuckles sardonically, hands coming up to push your legs further apart, sucking in your clit and letting it go with a pop.
"I'm making you feel good?" He looks up at you again for confirmation.
His thumb circles your clit while he waits for a response, and you nearly faint at the sight of him. His hair is mussed, eyes are dark, and the slick of you shines on his lips and chin. You feel the coil in your belly tightening, a burning sensation begging to snap.
"Yes, Frank," you blubber out, "God it's so good," you thrash, thrusting your hips up to get his mouth back on you. He obeys, squeezing his eyes shut as he takes you in again. "Never been this good before."
This seems to get to him, as you feel a certain rocking sensation beneath your thighs. You peer down to find him rubbing himself against the couch, brows furrowed in his unmistakable look of pleasure. You keep talking to him.
"You're going to make me cum," you whine. "Going to be the first one to ever make me cum with their mouth."
He whines against you at the reminder, picking up his own pace as you both near the brink.
"You like that, huh?" You ask, sinking your hands in his hair and tugging. "You like being the only one who's been able to find my clit?"
You hold back a chuckle at the absurdity of your words, but it only revs him up more. He lets a whine loose against you, slotting his entire mouth against you, trying to take in as much of you as possible.
You wind up tighter as he inserts a finger, moving in perfect time with his soft kitten licks and kisses.
"Oh, fuck yes. That's it, don't stop doing that," you instruct, rocking your hips against his face.
"Fuck yes," he moans out against you. "That's it, sweet girl, get yourself there. Wanna taste you so fucking bad, you're so fucking sweet, wish I could live down here," his words fly out of his mouth at record speed, in between kisses and licks and sucks that have your head spinning.
"Wish I could quit my job," kiss, "spend my entire life down here eating your pussy," lick, "you have no idea what you do to me," suck,
"those assholes have no idea what they're missing," he finishes, adding in another finger.
He moves them vigorously, right against your sweetest spot, takes your clit in his mouth once again. You finally snap.
Your orgasm rushes through you in waves, white hot pleasure burning through you with the intensity of a tsunami. He moans against you, and you can tell through your hazy pleasure that he's reached his brink too.
You tug his hair again, a soft pull that has him shaking against you, his body jerking with his own release.
"Frank," you moan, and he moans against you at the sound of his name. "So good, so fucking good. Can't believe it took me so long to find you."
He presses chaste kisses against your center, your thighs, down to your knees. He presses his sweet kisses back up your body, this time to your tummy, your chest, your neck, your cheeks, eventually finding his way back to your mouth.
He's tangy with the taste of you, tongues sliding together with a now relaxed passion, the languid warmth of your release taking over both your limbs. You guys slink together like pretzels, his legs tangling in with yours, his arms looping around your body, pulling you as close to him as possible.
"Worth the wait?" He breathes out, lips against your temple.
"Way worth it," you respond, pulling him in for another sweet kiss.
summary: For the pretty L and D nurse in the Pitt, everyday is a great day. But for Frank Langdon, it's only a great day if she looks at him. And he's trying to prove he's not just a pretty face with a bad past.
notes: just a short one this week. I've had a rough time with my job the past couple weeks (thank you understaffed department!) and so I've had a bit of a hard time trying to find the energy to write.
I just think the concept of ER Barbie and Ken is so cute! I know this has been done before but I wanted to give my own spin on the concept.
enjoy reading :)
Frank Langdon was no stranger to bad days. In fact, they'd become his closest and most reliable friend. A consistency that rivaled the ache in his back and the stress of his work.
His growing file of unfinished charts stared back at him on the screen in front of him, an unfinished granola bar held forgotten in his hand. It had been a rough shift- a car collision that sent twelve to their hospital, a pediatrics case that ended tragically, a couple with a diagnosis that left them in tears.
Frank had given up pretending to smile hours ago, a semi permanent pout etched onto his face.
"Aw why the long face Langdon?"
"Come on, cheer up kid. Don't let the hard stuff get you down."
He types a few more words into his chart, fingers moving half heartedly as he pretends to not notice the eyes on him. Whitaker glances at him from the other side of the nurses station, Cassie and Victoria trying to look interested in the lab work they were reviewing and not like they were whispering about him.
You would think after six months he would be used to it now. The stares. The whispers.
The constant lingering edge that surrounded his work, his practice. Like everyone was waiting for him to snap. To fall back into a bad habit he'd vowed to give up forever.
Frank knew.
He knew the way Trinity ignored him like the plague, rolling her eyes at his mere presence. The way Dr. Al Hashimi watched him like he was some problem child, a bad apple waiting to fall back out of the tree. The way Parker and Mateo sometimes watched him during handoffs, curious.
Like they were all waiting for him to screw up. To make a mistake.
To relapse-
“Hi Dr. Langdon!”
Frank looks up, his face softening as he watches you pass by. You give him a pretty smile, accompanied by a small wave and your signature pink scrubs. A very welcome sight amidst the grey and gore of the ED.
“Hey,” he raises a hand in a gentle reply, his heart flipping in that strange, stuttering pattern it always adopted when you came down from the L and D ward to provide a consult. He smiles when you pause, redirecting your path towards the nurses station. Frank sits up straighter, ignoring the twinge in his back as you lean over the station’s counter, eyeing him.
Don't stare like an idiot. Don't stare like an idiot.
But Frank is sure he's got that stupid smile on his face. In fact, he knows he does because Dana passes by and gives him a look.
He knows he does because Princess and Perlah are suddenly both hovering together over a computer, definitely not looking over a patient's labs by the way their shoulders press together and their low whispers become less coherent.
Frank clears his throat, elbows leaning on the charting desk.
“What brings you down here?”
You smile at his question, long lashes blinking slowly.
“Oh the usual. Al Hashimi wants me to show a couple of the med students how to detect gestational age by feel and not the monitor.” Franks nods, like that wasn’t the least interesting reason you could be down here in the Pitt.
“What, her Ai can't just tell us?” You giggle, glancing back to make sure the attending wasn't around to listen.
“I think the last hospital blackout finally got through to her about our over reliance on technology.”
“So she's overcompensating and teaching medieval practices now?”
“It's not medieval, Langdon,” you laugh. “I’m pretty sure they still teach it in medical school.”
“I must have skipped that lesson then. Right along with bloodletting and mercury poisoning.”
You give him a look, the one you'd give a puppy when it's done something stupid- like gnaw on its tail or trip on its own paw. A look that said “that’s cute” as well as “poor guy.”
But it wasn't pitying. Never pitying. You didn't treat him like he was glass or an infection you didn't want to catch.
You never did.
In the six months he's been back, the six months of knowing you, you had never once brought it up. Never made a jab or given him a side eye. You had come down to the Pitt that first week he'd returned, passing him by as he'd finished his urine collection with one of the nurses.
He remembers that first smile you'd given him, tired after a long day, but still oh so bright. Frank thinks he fell a little in love with that smile. Not that he believed in love at first sight. But this was pretty close to it.
Frank just swallows thickly, trying not to stare up into your pretty face and think about how that shade of lipgloss glittered beneath the ED’s lights.
Unfortunately for him he wasn’t given the chance to.
“Hey,” Trinity’s voice carries casually, her eyes darting quickly between you and Frank as she walks up.
She wore the same calculating look she always wore around him, like she was just waiting for him to taint you somehow. To ruin your bubbly persona and bright smile. The caution and hurt drawn between furrowed brows and a thinly pressed smile that matched the guilt and apology written in his clenched fist and deep lined frown.
Not that you notice. Or at the very least, you pretended not to.
“Hi Trin,” you smile, turning as the glowering R2 takes you by the arm, already pulling you away from Frank.
“Al Hashimi sent me to get you. Says she doesn’t want to keep the mom here any longer than she has to.”
“Oh okay-”
Frank watches as you glance back at him, barely getting out a rushed goodbye and an apologetic look before Trinity was pushing you over to a triage room where Victoria, Joy and Ogilvie were already gathered and waiting.
Frank sighs, not quite ready to get back to his charting, his blue eyes still tracking your pink scrubs from across the ED, watching as you move about the room with a calm patience and grace.
Frank knew you knew about his past. Knew why he'd had to redo his senior year. You had to... being friends with Trinity. And the fact you'd seen him with the drug test that first day.
But you never said anything about it.
You treated him like you treated every doctor down in the Pitt. With a radiant smile and kind heart. And a bit of admiration because you'd once told him, "you ER cowboys never fail to impress me."
That had been after he'd helped you deliver a pair of breech twins. He'd left work grinning ear to ear that day.
It was that smile.
That darn smile.
The one Frank could see you giving Joy now as you helped guide her hands over the patient’s belly. He lived to see it now, a tiny prayer said before every shift that he’d get a case needing your input.
That at some point in the miserable spread of his twelve hour shift he’d get to see your pink scrubs and pretty smile. Get to hear your bright laugh- maybe he’d even get to make you laugh. Or help you with a laboring patient when you needed an extra pair of hands-
“You ask her out yet?”
Dana’s voice startles Frank. He jumps in the chair, turning around like a caught child as he tries to remember he wasn’t currently elbow deep in amniotic fluid and helping you deliver a baby.
“What?” He asks dumbly. Dana snorts, eyeing Frank over her clipboard.
"Barbie doll over there. You just gonna sit there and daydream about her or are you finally gonna ask her out?"
"I wasn't daydreaming about her."
"Oh sure," Dana gives him an incredulous look. "And I'm gonna quit smoking."
Frank shakes his head, waving Dana away. She laughs to herself, pulling out her clipboard.
"What? I'm just curious."
"Yeah, well, it's none of your business." Frank huffs, and turns back to his chart, staring at the computer that had gone back to the main desktop. He stared, not signing in yet, his eyes drifting back up to you.
"I'm just saying kid," Dana continues. "You've been pouting all day, down in the dumps. And then she comes along, gives you a smile and suddenly you're grinning to yourself while charting? Hell of a coincidence if you ask me."
Frank shrugs. "I don't know what you're talking about." He shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek. Dana raises a brow. Frank continues, "And even if I did, it's not like I can just ask her out. She's friends with the girl who made me public enemy number one. There's got to be some kind of girl code about saying yes to a guy like me."
"So you think she would say yes. Given the right circumstances." Frank flushes.
"Well... I mean, she seems to like me. Enough at least."
Dana shakes her head. "Oh you kids. You always make this stuff more complicated than it has to be."
"Well it's not that simple Dana-"
Frank is cut off as Dana turns around and calls out a name.
Your name.
He looks up with wide eyes as you slow your steps out of the patient room, pausing your conversation with Al Hashimi. Dana waves you over and you approach the nurses desk curiously, looking between the charge nurse and Frank who is quietly telling Dana to stop.
"Hi Dana." Dana gives you a kind smile.
"Hey yourself. I've got a question for you."
"Oh sure. Shoot."
"You doing anything Saturday?" You stuff your hands in your scrub pockets, rocking on the balls of your feet. Frank gives Dana a look, horrified and wondering what she was playing at.
"Um, not really. I've got to walk my dog and pick up a dress from the dry cleaners, but that's about it really."
"What do you think about joining Frank at the movies? He's got an extra ticket and needed someone to go with. Figured you'd be the perfect person."
"Oh," your eyes widen with surprise. Frank's do too because he's almost hundred percent positive he does not have movie tickets. "What movie?"
Frank swallows, realizing you were pointing to question to him.
"Uh-" He looks at Dana like a fish out of water, silently begging her to not leave him stranded.
"It's the one with the scientist. He goes to space and meets a little alien friend. He's blonde, good looking-"
"Oh! I know which one you're talking about. That new one everyone's been talking about, right?" You say the title. Frank gives Dana a look and she nods.
"Uh, yeah. That's the one." You smile and Frank's heart flutters.
"Sure. That sounds fun. I could use a fun outing. What time is the movie?"
"Um... I have to double check my tickets-"
"3:00," Dana interjects. "I think Frank can give you a ride too. Right Frank?"
"Yeah, uh, yes?" He says unsure. You giggle.
"That's alright Frank. I can meet you there. Oh, hey maybe we could get dinner or something after. Movie theater snacks are ridiculously expensive and I'm always famished after a movie."
"Yeah, that sounds great," Frank nods, brain half functioning because WAS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?
"Perfect," You smile. "I'm looking forward to it."
You look down as your pager beeps, Frank blinking at you as he was still trying to compute what just happened.
"Oh shoot, I have to go... but I'm totally down for Saturday. Do you have my number?"
"Number?" Frank asks dumbly.
"No probably not. Here," You say quickly, grabbing the pen Dana holds out to you.
You reach over the nurses station, grabbing Frank's hand. The ballpoint pentip digs into the back of his hand as you quickly scribble down your digits. Frank is almost sure his brain has been fried.
"There. Sorry, I've got to run. Got an active labor upstairs who needs me. I'll see you Saturday though! Bye Frank!"
Your words trail off as you begin running down the hall, pink scrubs disappearing around the corner. Frank blinks, his hand still raised, skin prickling from where you'd written on it.
Dana smirks, taking back her pen from where you'd dropped it and putting the cap back. "I'm sure you're wondering about the movie tickets."
Frank hums questioningly, still just staring at the space you'd been standing.
"My husband and I were supposed to go this weekend, but he got called out on a work trip and I'm gonna cover for Lena so she can go visit her niece. Figured I couldn't let them go to waste.
"Uh huh," Frank nods. "Did that really just happen?"
Dana laughs.
"Sure did kid. I told you it was simple." Frank chuckles. A quiet huff that quickly devolves into a belly shaking laugh.
"I can't believe it. She said yes."
"Think you'll be okay with Barbie gone back to the penthouse for the day?"
"She said yes Dana. You could stab me with a scalpel or shave my head and I'll still say this was the best day ever."
From across the nurses station, Perlah and Princess giggle with each other, slipping a twenty between their hands as they watch Frank smile starstruck.
Oh yeah. ER Ken was absolutely smitten.
thank you for reading! if you're interested in reading more of my works for the pitt, here is a link to my masterlist :)
Imagine Robby and/or Dana clocking that reader is pregnant because of how hover-y Langdon is being around her and which patients she sees and such 😭🖤
dr.worrywart- f.langdon
summary: frank is not an openly affection man. what happens when that changes? the entire ER falls into the role of detective. robby and dana figure it out, of course.
pairing: frank langdon x fem! doctor! reader (probs late twenties/ early thrities)
warnings: litch nothing it's all just fluff and everyone in the Pitt being nosy as fuck
a/n: thanks for requesting, i LOVEEE this idea you're a genius! banners from my good friend @no-144444 !
Part two -> dr. worrywart returns
Langdon is hovering. That’s the first thing Princess notices. He’s always been the type to leave you to your work, mostly because you’d chew him out if he even dared step inside one of your trauma rooms, you’d see it as an offence. He had accepted that since your first days of med school together, he knew his place. You were Barbie, and he was Ken, just there. You two barely saw each other while on shift other than a few quick glances and waves or the occasional break room chat. Both of you were workaholics, and you both liked to go at it alone, so this was strange. You two walked in, and Frank had his arm around your waist. Regular-you would’ve hit his arm away. You just shrugged him off once you got to your station. She stared at you and you shrugged.
“He’s being clingy, I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” you shrugged, dropping your bag down. It was a partial-lie. You knew why he was being clingy, you were fucking pregnant. You did, in fact, not know what was wrong with him though. He was always a strange man. He stood beside you, looking at the board as he tried to cherry-pick, gaining a glare from Dana. He pretended he didn’t hear you two.
She chuckled. “He’s obsessed with you. It’s annoying to watch,” she shook her head. “Remind me again why you married him?” He sent her the middle finger behind your back. He lingered despite the fact that he had a case to work on, one he deemed interesting enough for him. His hands landed on your hips and he pushed his front against your back, acting like he was part of the conversation.
You rolled your eyes and pretended to think about the answer for a second. “I was in med school and needed someone to fuck so I could release the rest of my energy?” you joked and he rolled his eyes with a scoff. “What?” you looked back, smiling. “You should take it as a compliment, you’re so sexually talented, I’ve stayed with you all this time!” you sent him a bright smile and kissed his cheek as he rolled his eyes and removed himself from you. He walked off to his patient, mumbling something about ‘drive me crazy’, as Princess laughed at him.
“He’s hovering today,” she shook her head. “You’re not concussed again or something, right?” she questioned, referencing the time you got a concussion on shift and he wouldn’t leave you alone. It was the day everyone found out that you and Langdon didn’t actually hate each other, and that you actually shared the last name. You’d gone by your maiden name in your first year, mostly because you hadn’t bothered to legally change your name after the wedding for a long time (med school kept you busy), and also to avoid the awkward explanation.
You laughed. “No concussion yet, but the day is still young,” you smiled before walking off to your first case.
Princess shook her head. Something was up.
Mateo stared at Frank as he stared out the window. “You good?” he questioned. Everyone had been a bit nicer to Frank since he joined back to the Pitt after his rehab stint and sabbatical, so he didn’t go straight to teasing. Everyone knew it was difficult for him, and they understood that sometimes he might be a bit more snappy, or a bit dazed. They did their best to accommodate because, even if he was an asshole, he was an integral part of the Pitt, and people loved how happy he made you.
“Yeah,” he nodded, biting his lip and he didn’t take his eyes off whatever he was staring at. Mateo sucked in a breath.
“Dude,” he cleared his throat. Frank finally pulled his eyes away from whatever he was so entranced by. He faced Mateo. “You good?” He asked again, a hand on his shoulder.
He nodded slowly, then quicker. “Yeah, yeah,” he shook his head, like he was shaking off whatever was in his head. “Yeah I’m good. Just tired. Forget how hard these shifts are sometimes.” He chuckled semi-convincingly. Mateo just nodded, filling it into the back of his mind if Robby ever asks him about Langdon and how he thinks he's doing.
Frank left the room, pulling his stethoscope around his neck as he left. “He’s being weird,” Mateo shook his head. “Makes me nervous.”
Trinity let out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. “Right? Super weird, he didn’t even chew me out for making a joke about his hair today.” She stared at the spot he’d last been like he’d just disappeared into thin air. Mel looked between the two of them, it being an unnaturally slow (she knew she was jinxing herself by even thinking it) day, meaning both her and Santos were on a case together.
“I think he’s being normal,” she shrugged, confused by their reactions to him. “He’s just… getting his bearings. It’s his first week back and his first day was the 4th, and that was terrible. He’ll be back to normal in a few days.” She offered them her signature smile, and got nothing but shaking heads in return. She frowned.
“He’s being strange,” Mateo repeated. He walked up to the window, searching for him. “I mean, look, he’s filling up Y/n’s bottle for her. That’s weird.”
“Why would that be weird?” Trinity and Mel asked at the same time.
Mateo’s jaw dropped. “You haven’t heard of the bottle incident of 2022?” he scoffed. They both shook their heads. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, so back then, none of us knew they were together, and all they used to do was bicker, which we all now know is their foreplay, which is gross,” he made a face, then continued on. “And one day, it got so bad, Y/n spilled Frank’s bottle all over him when he’d asked her to refill it, in front of Gloria and a patient. Ever since they’ve literally been banned from touching each other’s bottles. It always ends badly,” he looked out the window again to see him hand you the freshly refilled bottle, with a quick kiss to the cheek.
Mateo knew he had to consult Princess’s sheet.
Trinity stared at Frank in the breakroom. He was looking at something on his phone, but he was covering it with his other hand, like he didn’t want people to see. She raised an eyebrow, and kicked him in the leg (softly). “Watching porn at work?” she joked, Frank quickly turning off his phone and sending her his signature glare. “Come on, I’m kidding,” She smiled. “It’s good to have you back.”
He nodded, rolling his eyes. “Weirdly, it’s good to be back,” he agreed. He looked down. “Look, I was a dick to you before-” “aw thanks-” “Not finished. You can still be a pain in the ass, but you’re a good doctor. You’re talented. I was… well I was fucked up before, and I’m sorry I treated you the way I did. It wasn’t cool.” He finally met her eyes, an awkward sense of accountability filling the air. She blinked at him.
“Thank you for apologising,” she said tentatively. “That’s really… adult of you, I guess.” She chuckled to try and diffuse the awkwardness of the moment. Maybe Dr.Abbot was right about her needing to switch to nights? Day shift was too personal for her.
“Yeah well, I have to become one at some point,” he huffed before walking out, and she stared as he left, her jaw dropped to the floor. Had Frank Langdon just made a self-depricating joke? ER Ken, ‘the chin’, handsome squidward (okay maybe she came up with two of those), had actually admitted to having flaws. She watched as he swung by your workstation, a granola bar in hand, pressing it into your palm as he kissed the top of your head.
She was adding it to Princess’s list.
Jesse hated it when Langdon interfered with your work, because you always let him. Langdon wasn’t the most openly affectionate husband, hell, no one had known you two were together for about a year. Neither of you had anything to prove, no PDA would change the fact that you two loved each other, and everyone knowing really just made things more complicated.
So why the fuck was Langdon taking all the good cases and Jesse was stuck with him for half of them? It was no secret that you were Jesse’s favourite doctor, you were cool-headed, always kind to nurses, and always in a good mood somehow. He’d seen you lose it once, and it was the day Langdon’s drug problem was uncovered by Robby, and then the mass casualty after it. You’d sobbed in the breakroom with Jesse and Yolanda at your side, emotionally exhausted from the toll of the day. As the months rolled on and Langdon started his rehab journey, you still stayed positive. You were still smiling, still updating everyone and telling them he was doing well, telling them he missed them, even though they knew he didn’t. He missed you, missed being at work with you. Everyone else was just a side-character to him, you were everything.
“What the fuck is going on? You’re taking all the good cases and leaving Y/n with the shit,” Jesse asked as he threw his gloves in the bin. “I mean, come on, she’s getting all the easy ones! I did CPR in there for 4 rotations before someone else came to help!” He scoffed as Langdon turned to him.
“She’s tired,” Frank shrugged, dropping his own gloves into the bin as he passed Jesse. “She asked me to take ‘em, I took ‘em.”
Okay, Jesse knew that was bullshit. You always thought about yourself last, it was always the patients first. You also wouldn’t let Frank have all the fun with the difficult cases.
Jesse stared at the sheet as he stood at the nurses station. He added it, just to be safe.
Perlah was appalled by the sight in front of her. She had half a mind to write you both up. Frank had his hand around your waist in the breakroom, a hand sprawled over almost your entire stomach, with his head leaning on yours, just listening to whatever story Jack was recounting. She watched him. Chewing slowly against you, a thumb running back and forth over your scrubs.
You noticed her staring and sent her a mouthed sorry and a shrug, like you had no idea what had gotten into him. Perlah decided to blame it on first week back-jitters. She just averted her eyes when he leant down and stole a quick kiss, shocking the both of you in the process.
It was the next line on the list by noon.
Dennis Whittaker took no pleasure in making the right call when it meant he would face the wrath of Frank Langdon. He’d made a quick save, realised something before him, and he’d ordered the correct meds before he could consult. He didn’t want to explain. He didn’t want to fight. He just wanted to calmly explain that technically, Frank had made the wrong call.
“You alright Whitty?” You called out, Frank at your side. Whitty was something you’d started to call him a few months ago after he’d made a witty joke out of nowhere, making you laugh so hard, you’d cried. “What’s up?” You questioned. Frank’s eyes snapped to him and he took a very sharp breath.
“Y’know Mr. Gregor?” he asked, you shook your head and turned your attention to Frank. He nodded. “Well I was going over his CT scan and I notice how close his bleed was getting to causing a seizure and I know you told me not to push Atorvastatin unless he was actually seizing, but I tried it anyway, and his BP went way down and he’s stable enough to go to theatre,” he blurted out. “Sorry, I know I should’ve told you, o-or gotten you, or-”
A smile bloomed on Frank’s face. “Good save, kid,” he smiled, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Go check on Mrs. Taylor, yeah?”
Whittaker walked away genuinely concerned that Frank had been replaced with a different person. He added it to the list after he told Trinity about it.
It took a lot for Mel to notice something. She usually just assumed everyone was alright, and if they weren’t, they could speak up and say something about it. She knew that Frank had been a bit… antsy since coming back. He constantly looked for you once he left a patient's room. He stared all the time. He kissed you whenever you got close enough to him. You just laughed it off. Called him clingy, or a big baby. He didn’t bite back. He just smiled. He didn’t argue, just tried to kiss you again before you pushed him off, warning him about being written up. You acted like this total 180 personality change was normal. She swallowed back her surprise when Frank had started rattling off facts about pregnant women, to the pregnant woman in front of him. Obviously, every doctor and nurse here had knowledge on pregnancies, but this was overkill. Random facts about fetal anatomy and positioning. Those ‘lovey-dovey’ (as Santos had so elegantly branded it) things about mothers and babies that he would’ve called bullshit a year ago.
She blinked when she started talking about various tracking apps he wouldn’t have known the name of a year ago.
The patient was discharged with a smile, and Mel turned to him. “Trying to get patient satisfaction up?” She asked incredulously, completely at a loss for words.
He shrugged. “No, why?”
She stared, mouth open and helpless, like she thought he should know what she was talking about. He just stared back. “But, you knew all that?” She chuckled, more surprised than laughing.
“You don’t?” he asked before leaving the room, probably off to find you.
She added it to the list after a talk with Dana.
Dana had been keeping an eye on the both of you all day. Princess had shared her strange findings on a small chart at the nurse’s station. Frank had gone to find you 18 times in 7 hours, when he could usually go the entire shift without looking for you. Dana looked it over, confused, what the fuck was he doing?
“How’s your resident doing?” Dana asked as Robby came up beside her. Her eyes stayed on the piece of paper. It had add-ons from Mateo, Santos, Jesse, Perlah, Whittaker, even Mel was in on it. He stared at Frank from across the room, talking animately to a patient.
He sighed. “I don’t know yet. Still wondering if we brought him back too early,” He shook his head and noticed the sheet of paper. Robby stared at the sheet for a moment, then ripped his glasses off his face. He huffed. “Fuck’s sake.” he breathed out, and she turned to him expectantly, then it dawned on her.
“We’re going to be losing two of our best Senior residents in about 8 or 9 months for paternity leave,” She shook her head with a smile, and Robby couldn’t exactly hide his own.
Of course.
He’d had his hands on you all day. He kept looking for you to make sure you were alright. He refilled your water without having to be asked. He gave you his protein bar. Come to think of it, he’d been taking the strenuous cases and leaving you with the easy ones. He even took Trinity off your hands so that you could take Mel and have an easier day. Robby chuckled, grabbing Frank as he passed by, his eyes set on one thing, you.
He didn’t notice the hand reaching out and grabbing the collar of his scrubs, so he kind of tripped into stopping. “Woah!” he scoffed, his hands up in air as he balanced himself, Robby’s hand retracting. “What the fuck was that for?”
Robby smirked as Frank turned his attention back to you, those tiny glances everyone had seen all day. “Y/n’s still going to be there in 4 seconds,” he shook his head. Frank looked at him, faking confusion. “What’s going on? How far along is she?”
Frank’s face went blank. Dana laughed, gaining the attention of Princess and half the nursing staff. Frank cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shook his head. Frank Langdon was many things. Blunt, rude, annoying. One thing he was not, was a good liar. Dana laughed into Robby’s shoulder as a chuckle left his own lips.
“Sure kid, just let me know so I can book off your paternity leave,” he clapped a hand on Frank’s shoulder, who quickly brushed it off, irritation surging through his body. Robby stayed smiling. “I’m happy for you two, congratulations.”
Frank gritted his teeth, stepping in closer, his voice cutting and final. “She is not pregnant. We are not pregnant!” He practically shouted, gaining the attention of nearly the whole ER. Everyone stared, he went bright red, he cleared his throat, and he walked.
Straight to you, of course. You laughed at him as he pushed some of his hair out of his face, following you around like a puppy. You hadn’t heard his outburst, but no doubt you’d hear about it.
“Nice catch Robby,” Dana smiled. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.” She shook her head.
He shrugged. “He’s such a worrier the second she gets sick, we’re going to have to deal with this for months now.”
The small group that had gathered all realised they’d have to deal with Dr. Worrywart for a whole 9 months. They quickly went back to work.
“I think everyone’s onto us,” You chuckled as Frank came up to you for the 24th time that day. He shook his head.
“No, I think we’re good. No one knows-”
“Everyone knows!” Both Robby and Dana cheered from behind you. Dana hugged you from behind as you laughed, Frank’s blank expression breaking into an annoyed squint. “Congratualtions,” she smiled. “You’re going to be the coolest parents.”
“I think you already fill that role,” you chuckled, taking her hand. “But thank you.”
“Congratualtions.” Robby smiled, shaking Frank’s hand and then pulling you into a hug as Dana pulled Frank into a reluctant hug.
They left you after a few more congratulations and you turned to Frank. “You’re totally right, no one knows,” you teased.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” he couldn’t fight the bright smile on his lips.
dr. langdon doesn't necessarily approve of you, the new hire. that doesn't mean he won't drop everything to help when you stumble into the ER, bloodied and disoriented under the unforgiving light.
frank langdon x girly!wardclerk!reader
warnings/tags: reader is attacked but shes fine, hurt/comfort literally, langdon plays doctor, unidentified yearning, inappropriate workplace crushes being violently suppressed, Langdon in extreme denial, age gap but nothing has technically happened, blood duh hospital medical stuff Girl its The Pitt. wc 5k
a/n: I am fucking crazy..... but I am free
Frank Langdon didn’t think that they needed another ward clerk. Lupe was more than adequate, splitting her duties with that older woman—the one with the gray ponytail and the purple framed glasses—and then there was that balding, lanky young gentlemen… Harold, maybe? Harlan? Hardy?
Point being, he’s not sure why anyone felt the need to stretch the already sheer budget by onboarding someone who looks too young to have any relevant work experience. Nurses, is what they need. More nurses. Or better paid nurses. Definitely more security. The luck they’ve had avoiding any assaults for the past few months is sure to wear off soon.
So yeah, it irks him a little when he comes in through chairs in the mornings and you’re already there behind your plexiglass shield, typing on Lupe’s computer in Lupe’s seat. Always with your hair done. Always in some new blouse you’d bought with a paycheck that could’ve gone toward, oh—another nurse, maybe? Frank begins to resent those little blouses of yours. Each polka dot, each cluster of ditzy flowers, every single stripe and every lacy neckline representing vital cents that Gloria might as well toss down a wishing well.
Today you’re sunshine, butter yellow and cream stripes curving down a fitted cap sleeve number. Mother of pearl buttons and the tiniest hint of sugar-white lace, bridging the gap at your sternum where you stopped buttoning the shirt up. Frank wonders how many stylets they could’ve ordered with the amount of money you paid for this top. Then he wonders how long it took you to get your hair like that, with the tendrils curling just so, complimenting the soft line of your jaw and the shape of your mouth. The hair in question is pushed behind an ear as you look dutifully between your computer screen and a sour-faced man with a turgid beer belly, on whom your charms are entirely lost. He’s already taking up an attitude with you, at seven in the goddamn morning, and you’re utterly serene. That’s another thing you ought to work on—the way you look at these people, so openly, so receptively, as if it is your greatest, most earnest desire to get each and every one of them seen as quickly and attentively as possible. With your lips slightly parted, and your brows almost imperceptibly raised. It’s just a little too kind. You give these people an inch, and they’d be happy to use you as a rug between here and those all-powerful double doors.
Frank eyes the man, assessing for any hint of aggression in his body language, and then looks back to you. Only sets his eyes squarely ahead when he’s sure you’re not going to look away from your charge and in his direction—in which case he’d be forced to offer a flat little smile and an indifferent nod of greeting. That happens some mornings. Most, probably. Other than that, and some brief parlay when he’s needed in chairs and you have the relevant patient information, the two of you don’t often have occasion to speak. And so he doesn’t have occasion to think about you. Or how whoever hired you was practically setting you up to fail. To be emotionally scarred for life, at the very least, and to have your confidence slashed in a million different ways. Ward clerks don’t need to be especially kind, or accommodating or pretty, or make every patient feel singularly special with that solicitous look in a set of sparkling eyes. In fact, they should be more like drill sergeants. They should lay down the law, and never take any bullshit from anyone. Frank has seen what scorned patients do to even the most hardened hospital staff given the chance. Putting you in chairs and saying manage these lunatics is like setting up a lightning rod on a roof and expecting it to clear up a storm.
It’s irresponsible. And, mostly, an egregious waste of money. But he clears the double doors, and the antiseptic fluorescents embrace him like a weary partner, and there is no more cause to think about you.
Not for a while, anyway.
Not for a few hours, until he’s peeling off a pair of soiled gloves and absently catching a handful of sanitizer, and someone opens the doors to the waiting room and someone else’s angry words slide through the gap.
His feet are moving before his brain has made any logistical decrees.
Instead of the double doors, Frank takes the direct route to your little box office. It feels smaller than he remembers, and smells a whole lot sweeter, which is very odd until he realizes that it’s you, and then he’s inexplicably embarrassed at having considered what you smell like. And by taking note of the fact that it is rich vanilla and an almost arresting hint of lavender. It gets worse when he leans over your shoulder—the scent gets warmer, and a little disarming, the way a good fragrance always does when it sits flush to the skin and invites you to come closer, to try and parse the difference between synthetic and organic. He braces a hand on the desk next to you. No way you should be allowed to wear such a distracting perfume to work. It’s out of place. It’s just not what a hospital is supposed to smell like.
This whole thought process unfurls in a matter of about three seconds before he’s cutting off the man who’d been yelling at you—the same one from earlier, he realizes with distaste.
“No yelling in the waiting room. It’s distressing to the patients.”
“I am fucking distressed. I am a distressed fucking patient!”
“Sir, lower your voice or you’ll be removed by security. We have a zero tolerance policy for aggressive behavior.”
For good measure, Frank points to the sign by the nearest pillar. You look in that direction too, like you hadn’t know it was there. Seriously, did nobody fucking train you? Did you wander in off the street? Or maybe out of a perfume commercial?
“Are you going to treat me or is she just going to keep giving me the same bullshit line?”
You begin: “Sir, there are people ahead of you who need—”
“I wasn’t fucking talking to you!” the man explodes, hitting the glass with a meaty palm. Frank looks around for security, but there’s nobody to be found. Fucking budget cuts. Fucking ward clerks.
“Dr. Langdon doesn’t decide who goes back. I decide who goes back,” you shoot, and while it’s not entirely truthful, Frank is caught off guard (and a little impressed) by the quick, clean jab. “Have a seat or I’ll call security and you’ll have wasted everybody’s time here today.”
The man looks at you, dumb and red as a brick. Then, he chuffs under his breath. That laugh does little to set Frank at ease—in fact, it has him tensing up. It’s a reckless laugh. Like this guy might be about to do something stupid.
But he just turns around, shaking his head as he walks down the aisle of chairs toward the exit.
“Unbelievable,” he laughs again. Langdon is pretty sure he’s actually burning holes through the back of this guys jacket as he tracks his flight path, still not quite believing that he’ll leave so peaceably.
He’s proved right, at the very last moment, when the man is at the threshold of the door. Clearly a coward who knows he’s on the precipice of escape, he looks over his shoulder and yells: “Dumb fucking bitch!”
Frank immediately straightens, rigid with an innate impulse to chase this fucking guy down—but ultimately, is bound in place. Just barely. Just by nature of knowing dealing with assholes is a part of your job, and beating them up is not a part of his. Violence is not exactly endorsed in the Hippocratic oath.
“Dr. Langdon?”
“Hm?”
He’s aware that he sounds disinterested, that he hasn’t looked away from the rectangle of bright midday light which beckons him in search of retribution. He’s also aware that he might break off a piece of this desk with how hard he’s gripping it.
“Should I call security?”
“Uh…” he’s drawn back to you, briefly distracted by your proximity when he looks down. You’re expectant looking, eyes clear and wide as usual, combing for information and ostensibly unrattled—but your lips are pressed together somberly. Like you’re keeping something in. “Uh, no. No, if we had security chase down every disgruntled patient there wouldn’t be any left. I’m sorry about that, though. Guy was an asshole. You okay?”
A little nod. One of your earrings catches a drop of light, twisting and arcing brilliantly. Distractingly.
Jesus, he’s out of it today.
“I’m good.”
Unconvinced, he does another quick scan of the room.
“Are you sure? How about you take a break, where’s, uh…”
He draws a blank.
“Honald? He’s on lunch, I think he’ll be back soon.”
“Okay, why don’t you take yours when he gets back? Just, you know, take a beat. Relax for a minute.”
It’s ridiculous for him to be telling you how to take your break, and he has no idea why he’s doing it, but you nod.
“Yeah, okay. I will.”
“Good.” Frank straightens fully, pats your shoulder even as he’s already turning around to leave and immediately wonders if that’s something he usually does with his coworkers. “You’re doing great.”
The door is closing behind him before he has a chance to hear your reply.
Frank is visibly shaking his head and muttering to himself as he walks past central, where Robby is consulting over some files with Dana. He feels Robby’s eyes catch on him and follow his path for a moment before calling out, “Alright?”
“Alright,” Frank mutters uselessly, and goes to make himself useful. Hopefully someone is on the precipice of death via massive internal bleed. That, at least, would make sense to him. There’s an area in which he can demonstrate absolutely competence.
-
No internal bleeding, but a couple of burns and concussions need dealing with. He handles them quickly and is sauntering up to Dana for something a little more challenging when the door opens again—and there you stand, cradling one limp arm against your chest, and Frank can’t quite make sense of what he’s seeing at first, but he’s aware that Dana is exclaiming in that jaded way of hers, already making her way toward you.
You—looking out of place as you blink against the white light, dazed, glancing around furtively, uncertainly.
Blood, oozing from your cheek and arm, matting your carefully styled hair to your face and ruining your brand new sunshine-yellow shirt. Frank is in action, beats Dana to you, calling over his shoulder for assistance as he takes you by the shoulders and guides you to a nearby chair before kneeling in front of you.
“I don’t need—I can walk,” you insist, a little breathless. He sees your gaze drop to the floor as you speak, and your brows furrow a little—surprised by your own pain.
“What happened?”
“Um, that guy—” you wince as Mattheo, who seems to have materialized out of nowhere, dabs at your bloody cheek with gauze.
“Hey, woah, no,” Frank interrupts. “Don’t touch her face. Look at the arm, I got her cheek. Which guy?”
“The guy who was yelling at me earlier, I guess he waited in the staff parking lot, and, um, I went out to grab my lunch from my car, and I saw the tires were slashed, and then, like, he just—I don’t know, someone just grabbed me, I don’t even know what he was holding—”
“He attacked you with a blade? Did you call—”
Frank is forgoing his own sentence, rising up and shoring in a sturdy breath to yell for security, but your hand catches on his forearm and it jars him enough to stop him clean in his tracks.
“It’s fine, Orlando was right around the corner smoking. I think he got the guy, I don’t know, I just turned around and came right here, I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure what I supposed to do.”
“No, you did great. You did good, you did the right thing. Did you at any point hit your head?” He takes your face in his hands and turns you this way and that, searching for any signs of head trauma.
“No. I don’t think. I mean, I staid on my feet.”
“Ooh, making me look bad,” Dana mutters, fussing in her way as she sets up makeshift first aid station.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” Frank insists as he very carefully slides your sticky hair off your cheek and smooths it out of your face. “You didn’t see what he used?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Woah, ward clerk,” Robby says, and Frank is inexplicably annoyed by his presence. “What we got?”
“A low patient satisfaction score, I guess.” You wince even as you say it, and Frank grimaces in sympathetic pain, hand darting back from where he’d been trying to assess the wound.
Any humor melts from Robby’s voice. “Are you serious? Where the fuck is security?”
“I’m wondering the same thing,” Frank murmurs to himself, impossibly gentler this time as he dabs away the blood.
“They got him. Right away. It was my fault, I—”
Frank cuts you off. “No it wasn’t. That’s all on me. I should have taken that asshole seriously.”
“Arm lac is superficial and clotting,” Mattheo reports. “How’s the cheek?”
“Ah… can’t tell. We need a bed.”
“What? No, we don’t, I’m genuinely fine.”
“South 15 is open,” Dana barks. “You’re gonna want that bed, Scarface.”
Robby slams a folder on the counter. “I’m going to find Gloria.”
“Gloria?” You frown, twisting to look at him.
Frank gently redirects your head and puts a square of gauze in your palm. “Right here, just look forward. Can you hold this to the wound?”
“What does he need Gloria for?”
He’s up and wheeling you with purpose toward the south wing. “How’s the pain?”
“It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“When was the last time you received a tetanus shot?”
“Uh… I don’t… remember?”
“Okay, we’re going to need to administer one just in case. Mattheo—”
“I’ll put in the order. Analgesics, too. Any allergies?”
“Not to medicine.” You slump fractionally in your chair, still holding the gauze dutifully to your head. “Fuck.”
“Still doing okay?”
“Yeah. Pretty embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. This happens all the time.”
“What—patients attacking staff?”
“Absolutely.”
“Shouldn’t we have more security, then?”
We should, Frank thinks as he wheels you into South 15 and cranks the bed up to 45 degrees before guiding you to lie down. But we have you instead.
“I think Dr. Robby is on his way to make that case as we speak. Can I see?”
Carefully Frank pulls your hand from your face, taking the bloodied gauze with it and does a quick visual examination. The bleeding has stopped and all signs point to a shallow wound. He begins configuring the setup for a quick irrigation and primary closure. Realistically, he doesn’t need to be the one handling such a simple case—in fact it would be a better utilization of resources to have a nurse handle the whole thing so he remains free if he’s needed—but Frank can’t help but feel a little responsible for the whole thing. It was him who said you didn’t need to call security, he who sent you on your ill-fated lunch.
“Fairly clean job,” he mutters as he irrigates the wound. “Almost incised.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the wound edges are straight enough that we can use glue instead of staples or sutures. Better outlook in terms of scarring, too.”
“Oh, god. I didn’t even think of that. Is that gonna happen?”
“No damage to the dermis, and it’s a low tension area. I can’t make any promises, but scarring should be minimal.”He sets the irrigation tub and syringe on the cart before patting your cheek dry with sterile gauze. “No foreign material in the wound. Cut and dry.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Only if it was funny.”
Frank allows himself to examine the rest of your face for any cue that he might’ve offended you, just in time to watch as you huff a quiet laugh. The corner of his own mouth tugs in response and he focuses on the cut once more—setting aside the shimmer on your eyelids, and the way you haven’t totally eliminated all the stray hairs around your brows. He wonders for no particular reason if you matched your blush and lipgloss on purpose.
Up close and personal, he finds himself searching for indicators of age. Crow’s feet? Smile lines? The working theory is late twenties. Not that it matters. But it could clue him into how much work experience you might have. If you’re in school, and this is just a job to pay for ramen, or if you’re an over-qualified graduate trying to afford downtown rent.
Probably he could just ask, he realizes as he breaks open an ampoule of skin glue. It might even be appreciated—the silence is getting increasingly sticky.
“Alright, we’re gonna do three coats of Dermabond with thirty second intervals for drying. It may tickle a little, but no glue is getting in the wound itself. This method should minimize scarring. Sound good?”
Frank has the applicator poised above the cut and is about to begin before he realizes you haven’t responded. He leans back to catch your eye, and notes the vacant gaze, set astray at a waxed tile floor.
“You okay?”
Finally you stir, eyes widening as they meet his and you realize you’d tuned out. “Sorry. Yeah, that sounds great. All good.”
“You heard what I said?”
“Yes. Three layers and it’s gonna tickle.”
“More or less.” Satisfied, he straightens once more, and very carefully, begins applying a thin layer of adhesive over where he’s pinched the wound shut.
More silence. Adrenaline crash, probably. Someone will have to bring you a juice box.
“Remind me. How long have you been here?” Frank asks, more in an attempt to make sure you’re not internally spiraling over the moral failure of humanity than because he wants to know.
“About a month.”
Frank whistles. “Didn’t make it very long, did you?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t really expecting to be attacked, period.”
His hand pauses, and it’s good a time as any to let the first layer dry. Most normal people are pretty upset by witnessing violence, let alone experiencing it. Especially ones who haven’t worked in the field long enough to anticipate the accrual of a few battle scars.
“I’m sorry this happened to you. For what it’s worth, I can guarantee that guy is already on his way to jail if Orlando caught him at the scene like you said.”
You pick at your white nail polish without moving the injured arm. “Mhm.”
Another silent beat. Frank is about to apologize for not doing more to prevent the whole thing when there’s a knock at the open door. Without looking, he’s sure it’s Dana.
“How you doing, Doll? Langdon’s taking good care of that pretty face?”
“Yeah, thanks. We’re all good.”
It could be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure he feels your cheek heat under his gloved hand.
Probably a physiological reaction to pain.
He swallows. “Where’s Mattheo, Dana? We need those painkillers.”
“Backup at the ADC. Shouldn’t be much longer. The cops want to talk to you.”
You hesitate. Langdon chances a peek at the rest of your face as he brushes on the second layer of glue.
“Do I have to do it right now?”
“No,” Frank interjects, though he doubts Dana would’ve pushed you on it either. “We need to finish this, get to your arm, and then administer your tetanus shot. After that you’ll need at least fifteen minutes of observation in case of any adverse reactions. Dana, can you get someone to bring her a drink?”
“You got it.” Then, very obviously aimed toward you: “Do you need anything else?”
“I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Of course. Keep me posted.”
“Always,” Frank assures, and Dana moves along.
A quiet moment.
“Does this actually happen all the time?” you ask without warning. “You guys seem really chill about it.”
“Not really, no. But pretty much everyone has a story.”
You hum absently, and Frank senses something about his answer needs amending.
“It’s rare for clerks. You guys get that fancy plexiglass.”
“Have you been attacked?”
Memories stir loose, and Frank huffs a quiet laugh. No sense in scaring you with horror stories involving scalpels.
“It’s pretty easy to win a fight when you have a syringe full of heavy duty sedatives.”
“Maybe I should keep one of those up front.”
“You won’t need it. Today was…” he swallows back ‘my fault’. “Atypical. Lupe’s been here longer than I have and I’ve never seen her get hurt like that. It won’t happen to you again.”
Because I will personally start beating asses if these people want to keep it up, is what he doesn’t say. Anyone who picks on the twenty-something glorified secretary at the front desk is a bully, and there’s no room for that in an ER.
Frank carefully, unblinkingly watches the final layer of glue set. Wonders what would drive anyone to attack you. You, with your cheerful yellow shirt and that delicate necklace—the dragonfly pendant that dips into the hollow of your throat. The way your hair curls at the ends and dances when you move. Everything about you seems engineered to elicit positive reaction. No, not engineered—that connotes some sort of farce, or mistruth. The pleasantry that you inspire is one hundred percent you. All the pretty trappings just signal your expectations for how you’ll be treated, and consequentially, your inherent nature.
Or—he assumes. He doesn’t actually know you.
Regardless, you didn’t deserve the attack. Nobody would’ve, of course. But seeing your shirt all ruined, and the even finish of your face contorted by this long cut, drains Frank of a little of his belief in the goodness of humanity. There wasn’t much to begin with.
Somewhere in this wash of pointless musing, he’s begun work on your arm. He’s distantly aware of your watching this work, and that you’re holding yourself a little differently with the pain. If Mattheo doesn’t come back soon, he’s going to have to get to the cabinet himself and find you some acetaminophen.
Suddenly, you’re speaking: “I don’t know if…”
And just as quickly, the sentence tapers off. Frank looks up at you as he works, and then back down. It’s pretty easy from the pensive look on your face to determine your train of thought.
“I promise you it’s not going to happen again. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t even like getting yelled at.”
“You are on the wrong career path, then.”
“I was waiting for it to get easier.”
He risks another glance. You’re fixedly watching rust-colored saline trickle from your arm into the collection tub.
“It will. If you stick around.”One last push of saline gurgles from the syringe and into the tray. Clear, now. He sets the tools aside and finds more gauze to pat the wound dry. “Are you thinking of quitting?”
“Can’t afford to,” you say, all too quickly, like you had pursued the idea and run into this immovable wall minutes ago. “I’m very much in debt and looking to get into more.”
“Oh, yeah? Considering med school?”
“Maybe. Or a PhD. Not sure if I want to get into psychology or psychiatry. Now I’m wondering if this is, like… a healthy environment for me.”
Frank half-smiles. “Well, if you did go the med school route, you could probably avoid rotations in emergency medicine. Or—hey, you could come back here. Barring death, I’ll still be around in four years. It’d probably be less intimidating if you knew your attending.”
“Alternatively I’d be so preoccupied with trying not to look like an idiot that I’d accidentally kill a bunch of people.”
“I’m confident that you’re not an idiot. In practice or appearance.”Frank can hear you swallow as he dispenses a small amount of antibiotic ointment into his gloved hand and carefully goes about working it into your skin. “Sorry. Tender?”
“A little.”
“Mattheo should definitely be here by now. If he’s flirting with that intern again I’m going to kill him.”You laugh half-heartedly. Frank smooths a 4x4 over your arm, tapes it in place, and leans back, peeling off his gloves. “Should be good as new in a few weeks. When do you work next?”
“Monday.”
“I’ll find you Monday for a check-in. Until then keep it clean and dry. Princess or Perlah will put together a kit with everything you’ll need, and Mattheo will be here eventually with that other stuff. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”
“Uh—”
An intern sticks his head through the door—evidently one who hasn’t made an impression on Langdon.
“Code blue in chairs.”
“Then you should get to chairs.”
“Right.”
The intern disappears and Frank stands, taking longer than he should to walk to the door and grab some hand sanitizer.
“All good here?” he asks, giving you a once over as his hands rub together. With an air of self-consciousness you smooth your skirt. It’s a nice skirt. Untainted by blood, as far as he can tell.
You nod once, decisively. “Yup.”
“Good. I’ll make sure someone calls a tow truck and a car so you can get home. But don’t leave until you get that tetanus shot, okay? I’m serious.”
“I won’t.”
Frank nods slowly, and feels like there’s something he should say. He skims his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Nothing comes to him. He knows he’s wasting time. And probably making you uncomfortable—you, just sitting there, back rod-straight and ankles crossed, hands folded politely in your lap. He’s been told he has a tendency to stare.
In the end, all he can think to say is, “Take care of yourself.”
Again you nod, and Frank is pulled by duty down the hall, leaving you there in your ruined sunshiney shirt, and with your hair streaked in drying blood.
A strange image threatens to stop him in his tracks—one he hadn’t thought about in the moment, but now sticks to the inside of his retinas at half-opacity. Blooms in full, violent color when he blinks.
A drop of your blood, tracing its way down the dip in your cheek, clinging to the hollow beneath your jaw. Tracing slowly, all the way down your throat. Catching on the dragonfly pendant, as had the quick, covert trail of his gaze.
That’s weird, he thinks. An odd image to fixate on.
Frank shakes his head like he could dislodge the memory. Snaps the edge of a fresh glove extra hard against his skin as he comes up to the edge of the heart attack’s gurney and someone fills him in.
Yeah—the last thing they needed was another ward clerk. Broader, wiser coverage could’ve stopped the events of the day. More nurses. More security. Shit, you wouldn’t have been attacked if you weren’t ever hired.
The heart attack is caused by a complete blockage in the left anterior-descending artery. A widowmaker. They stabilize the man, and get him up to an OR without a hitch.
Afterwards, Frank finds himself passing by South 15. Casts a quick look inside, and finds the room completely empty.
Good—room for another patient. The whole thing shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Shouldn’t have taken up time and space.
We don’t need an extra ward clerk, he thinks for the millionth time.
Then remembers the way the dragonfly had collected blood and smeared it in impossibly fine lines across the expanse of your chest every time you moved, tracing linked and overlapping circles, like a Spirograph on your skin. The gentle rise and fall of you.
He comes to a standstill in the empty hallway, an unwilling hostage as something else hijacks his brain and projects the image onto the sterile white wall. Baffled and fruitlessly willing himself to move on. Flexing his hands in time with his own breathing.
Synopsis: You’re the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of Doctor Langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. When a fellow resident’s unwanted attention starts crossing lines, Dr. Langdon begins to take notice.
Tags: Workplace Tension, Jealousy, Forced Proximity, Protective Langdon, Power Imbalance, Sharp Banter, Mutual Pining, Emotional Confrontation, Eventual Kissing
Warnings: **Unwanted Advances**, Workplace Stress, Cold calling, Power Dynamics, Emotional Distress, Medical Setting
Words: 10k~
A/N: I am not American and have the barely any knowledge of how US medical school works so please ignore any inaccuracies!!
You're a new resident in the ER, the bottom of the food chain, badge still shiny under fluorescent lights, white coat not yet saturated with antiseptic and exhaustion. Your handwriting is still neat, your pockets still organized: penlight, trauma shears, folded index cards with drug doses written in careful ink.
You don't report to him directly. Technically. But in the way gravity technically doesn't report to the sun, you still orbit Dr. Langdon. You work with him. Somewhat under him. He doesn't sign your evaluations, but he signs off on your decisions with a look. Working relationship? None in sight. In fact, there is no relationship at all.
Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.
"Hi, my name is-"
"I need an ECG for room 5."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.
You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal
Except with Langdon… it feels personal.
Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.
You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.
And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.
Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.
You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.
You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, “Diagnosis?” You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.
He's brilliant.
You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.
And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.
Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.
By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. You’ve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. You’ve learned how to move quickly without looking like you’re running.
What you haven’t learned is how to exist here as a person.
Because Langdon doesn’t leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.
So when someone finally looks at you like you’re not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.
The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.
It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
His chair nudges closer when you’re both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like you’re a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.
“Hey,” he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, “what did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?”
You blink at him. “Uh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemia… dehydration… PE because she’s on oral contraceptives and -”
He grins. “See, that. Your brain. I like it.”
You stare at the note you’re writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.
Dating is the last of your worries. You’ve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you can’t chew through or swallow, just carry. You’ve got skills checklists. You’ve got a list of procedures you’re terrified you’ll never get smooth at. You’ve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.
You do not have time for any of it.
“You’re doing fine,” he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. “Seriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.”
You snort despite yourself. “You?”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning in like he’s telling you a secret. “Because I couldn’t find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought I’d end up on the news as ‘intern who killed a man with incompetence.’”
Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.
He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced they’re dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.
You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. It’s not romantic, you tell yourself. It’s not like that.
It can’t be like that.
Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.
And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.
Dr. Langdon notices.
You don’t see it at first, because you’ve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because you’re terrified, though there’s a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.
Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.
It means: Why didn’t you order that? Why is this missing? What’s your plan?
It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.
It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.
So you adapt.
You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when you’re new and everything could be a mistake.
You make yourself smaller around him.
Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.
You do not look at him.
But you feel him anyway.
You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, you’ll find his eyes already there.
It’s subtle at first.
You’re at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.
Evan slides his chair closer.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.
His knee bumps yours under the desk.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t move away.
“Mm,” you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.
Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. “You’re writing like… a lot.”
“It’s thorough,” you say defensively.
“It’s pretty,” he says, too earnest.
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. “That’s not a word anyone’s ever used for my documentation.”
He shrugs, smiling. “First time for everything.”
You both laugh, quiet, contained, like you’re not sure laughter is allowed here.
It’s small. Harmless. Normal. And that’s why it stands out.
Because normal doesn’t live here very long.
Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.
You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.
He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.
And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.
You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.
"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.
Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.
"I- sorry," you breathe.
He doesn’t release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.
"Room five's ECG?" he asks.
Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.
"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"
"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.
"Go," he says.
You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.
Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.
But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.
He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.
And then he's moving again.
The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.
You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.
That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. It’s a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people don’t regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like it’s tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesn’t spiral.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? – Evan. You stare at the message like it’s a trick question, like there’s a correct answer and you’re about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you don’t have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like you’re about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because you’re lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and you’re new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that you’ve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didn’t know you were taking, while Evan’s attention feels easy. Dr. Langdon’s attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you can’t escape.
You type: Maybe. I’m still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. I’ll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you don’t have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.
You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like he’s been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. He’s in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask you’ve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.
“Busy?” he asks. You blink. “Uh… no. Just restocking.” Your voice sounds thinner than you’d like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how there’s nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. “I need a 20-gauge,” he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. “Top left.”
He doesn’t move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like he’s trying to read a label you forgot to attach.
“You’re doing a lot of socializing,” he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because it’s cruel but because it means he noticed.
Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. “I’m- what?” you manage. His gaze doesn’t waver. “At the station.”
Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. “We were charting,” you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. “And talking. It’s not, I mean, it’s not like I’m neglecting patients.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replies. There’s a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. “Though I can see why you’d jump to that conclusion.” Your nails dig into your palm. “Why are you even-”
He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. It’s on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.
You’re in his bubble. Or maybe he’s in yours. Either way, it’s too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesn’t rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, you’d…
You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.
“You’re new,” he says, voice quieter now, controlled. “Distractions don’t help.” You stare at him.
“So you’re what,” you say, pulse still unsteady. “Giving me advice?”
“I’m telling you to keep up,” he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.
He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, “Evan’s not as helpful as he looks.” You blink, thrown. “What does that mean?” His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.
“It means,” he says, voice flatter now, tighter, “that not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.” The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then he’s gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.
Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? – Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you don’t know why your hands are still shaking.
When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.
You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.
Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way that’s almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. “Just inventory,” you reply. “Thrilling stuff.”
He doesn’t laugh. He studies you instead. “Was he in there?”
You glance at him before you can stop yourself. “Who?”
Evan’s mouth tilts knowingly. “Come on.”
You don’t answer, which is answer enough.
He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. “Did he say something?”
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdon’s line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.
“It was nothing,” you say. “He needed a catheter.”
Evan’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Of course he did.”
There’s a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadn’t noticed it sitting there.
“Coffee,” he says. “I grabbed you one earlier. Figured you’d say yes eventually.”
You stare at it. You hadn’t agreed. You’d said maybe. There’s something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” you say carefully. “After shift. I have notes. And I should probably—”
“Study,” he finishes for you, smiling gently. “You always say that.”
You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But you’re tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didn’t quite say.
“Maybe,” you repeat, softer this time.
Evan’s smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. “I’ll walk you to your car at least,” he says. “You don’t have to decide about coffee yet.”
Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.
“Room twelve’s repeat labs?”
You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadn’t seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.
He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesn’t look at Evan. He doesn’t even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.
“They’re pending,” you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evan’s chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.
Langdon’s eyes lift then.
Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.
“Call the lab,” he says. “They’ve been slow all night.”
There’s nothing in his tone to object to. It’s practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.
Beside you, Evan shifts. “I can call—”
“I asked her,” Langdon replies.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.
Evan stills.
You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. It’s the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.
Langdon’s gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think he’s returned to the board. He hasn’t. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.
Then his eyes return to you.
“Room eight needs reassessment,” he says. “Now.”
You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove you’re not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isn’t irritation. It isn’t disappointment. It’s something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.
“Yes,” you say instead.
You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. “I’ll come with—”
“No,” Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesn’t fully face him. “You’re with me in bay three.”
Evan hesitates. “I thought I was—”
“You’re with me,” Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.
He doesn’t look back at Evan again. He doesn’t need to. The authority in his tone is enough.
You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didn’t accuse you of anything. He didn’t comment on the coffee. He didn’t mention Evan by name. He didn’t need to.
He simply rearranged the room.
And in doing so, he separated you.
Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when he’s instructing, when he’s teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.
But there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.
Evan listens, nodding stiffly.
For a brief moment, Langdon’s eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.
They find you. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t wandering. It’s deliberate.
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if he’s measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.
You look away first.
You tell yourself it’s because you have a patient waiting.
For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isn’t loud or explosive. There’s no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.
Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but there’s weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.
He doesn’t touch you again. He doesn’t mention Evan. But he watches.
And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.
Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they aren’t happening.
Evan’s chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If there’s an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort you’d already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume it’s accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize he’s angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that you’re aware of the contact even when you’re trying not to be.
When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like there’s nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you weren’t starting to feel the pattern.
He compliments your work constantly, and at first it’s harmless. “Your notes are always the clearest.” “You think through things better than most of us.” It’s validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdon’s scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.
But then the compliments shift.
“You know,” Evan says one night as you’re both reviewing labs, “you’re wasted trying to get his approval.”
You glance at him. “What?”
He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. “You work harder than anyone here. And he acts like you’re just barely keeping up.”
Your jaw tightens. “He doesn’t act like that.”
Evan raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t even look at you unless he’s quizzing you.”
The words hit closer than you want them to.
You turn back to your screen. “He looks at everyone like that.”
“Not like he looks at you,” Evan says quietly.
You don’t respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.
Langdon does look at you differently. You’ve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.
You tell yourself it’s professional.
Evan doesn’t seem to think so.
“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he continues, softer now. “Not someone who treats you like a project.”
The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadn’t agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. “I’m not looking for someone.”
“I know,” he says. “But still.”
There’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.
Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You don’t mean to look, but you do. He’s no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isn’t openly fixed on you, but it isn’t random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evan’s hand where it rests too close to yours.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.
When you’re presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to “add context.” When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like it’s instinctive. It’s subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.
One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but it’s firm enough that you stop walking. “You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”
You pull your arm back gently. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
“You always tense up when he’s around,” Evan says. “You don’t do that with me.”
There’s a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because there’s no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, you’re not constantly bracing.
With Langdon, you are always aware.
And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.
He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesn’t touch you, but the space between you shrinks until you’re hyperaware of the heat of him.
“Your interpretation?” he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.
You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.
Evan notices.
You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.
It becomes a pattern.
If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.
If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.
If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.
“Bay four,” he’ll say, not looking at Evan. “You’re needed.”
He never references you. He never mentions what he’s doing.
He just rearranges the board.
And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.
The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.
Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like it’s nothing. “You look good today,” he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.
You laugh it off. You tell yourself it’s harmless. But you’re aware of the way Langdon’s attention sharpens when it happens.
He doesn’t confront Evan. He doesn’t confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.
Because there’s no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.
Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.
And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdon’s silence grows charged.
The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. It’s that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.
You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasn’t stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.
You’re reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.
You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.
“Hey,” Evan says quietly.
You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.
“I just needed to grab something,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.
“Yeah,” he replies, stepping inside. “I figured.”
There’s less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.
You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. “Did you need something?”
“Actually,” he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. “I wanted to talk to you.”
You feel your shoulders tighten. “About?”
He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. “About us.”
Your stomach drops.
“There isn’t an us,” you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on. You’ve been giving me a chance.”
You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didn’t shut him down cleanly because you didn’t want to be harsh.
“I said maybe to coffee,” you reply carefully. “That’s not—”
“It’s not nothing,” he interrupts gently. “You didn’t say no.”
He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.
“You’ve been leaning in,” he continues. “Laughing. Staying. You could’ve walked away.”
Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadn’t realized you’d stepped backward.
“I was just being friendly,” you say.
“And I was being more than that,” he says.
There’s something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.
“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he adds quietly. “Not someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.”
Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.
“That’s not fair,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure who you’re defending.
“I see you,” Evan says. “I see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like you’re a problem to solve.”
You don’t answer. He steps closer again. This time, there’s no pretending it’s accidental.
Your brain blanks for half a second. It’s not violent. It’s not forceful. But it’s not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with what’s happening.
“You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
He leans in. You see it coming. You know what he’s about to do.
And still, you hesitate. Because you don’t want to make a scene. Because you don’t want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.
His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.
And then he kisses you.
It’s not rough. Not aggressive. But it’s claiming.
Your body doesn’t respond. There’s no spark. No pull. No answering shift. There’s only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.
In a spilt second you shove him back.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”
He stares at you, stunned.
“Why are you apologizing?” he asks.
“Because I didn’t—I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”
“You didn’t,” he insists. “You were into it.”
Your stomach twists.
“I wasn’t,” you say, stepping sideways so you’re no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. “I wasn’t.”
His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.
“I was tired,” you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. “And I thought we were just—”
“Just what?”
“Colleagues,” you finish.
Silence stretches between you.
You feel foolish. Guilty. Like you’ve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didn’t ask for his hand on your waist.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.
Evan exhales sharply. “I thought you wanted this.”
“I don’t,” you say. The words land heavier than you expect.
He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.
“Is it him?” he asks quietly.
Your heart stumbles.
“What?”
“Is it because of him?”
You don’t answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.
And when it opens, it isn’t a nurse who steps inside.
It’s Langdon.
His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.
He takes in Evan’s position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance you’ve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.
Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.
For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
Langdon doesn’t ask what’s going on.
He doesn’t look at Evan again immediately.
He looks at you.
“Room nine is asking for you,” he says evenly.
His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.
You swallow. “I was just—”
“I know,” he says.
The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.
Evan shifts beside you. “She’s with me.”
Langdon’s head tilts slightly, though he still hasn’t fully turned toward him. There’s a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you weren’t watching him.
“You’re needed in CT,” Langdon replies.
It’s the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.
Evan frowns. “We were in the middle of something.”
Now Langdon looks at him.
It’s not a glare. It’s not heated. It’s colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.
“She’s needed,” he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.
“Now.”
He says it to you, not to Evan.
The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction you’ll move.
You don’t hesitate this time. “Okay.”
The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, you’re acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.
Evan doesn’t try.
There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. “Fine,” he mutters.
Langdon doesn’t acknowledge the tone. He doesn’t need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.
You do.
The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.
No one says anything out loud.
But the shift is felt.
Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.
Except you were just inside that room.
You know it wasn’t ordinary.
“Room nine,” he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. “They’ve been waiting on reassessment.”
His tone leaves no space for debate.
You nod and move ahead, but he doesn’t immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.
Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t address him again. The dismissal is complete.
As you reach the workstation to pull up room nine’s chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
The question is almost clinical in delivery, but there’s nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.
It’s the first time he’s asked something like that.
You nod automatically. “I’m fine.”
His jaw shifts slightly, as if he’s weighing the truth of that statement.
“If I wanted to embarrass you,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the two of you, “I would have asked what was happening in there.”
Your breath catches.
“I didn’t,” he continues. “That was intentional.”
There’s no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.
Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isn’t humiliation. It’s something more complicated.
“I didn’t need rescuing,” you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.
His gaze sharpens slightly at that.
“I know,” he says.
The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.
“Ethan must’ve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.
He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.
A nurse calls his name from across the station. “Dr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopter’s arriving.”
His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.
Then his eyes return to you.
“Walk with me,” he says.
It isn’t a request.
He doesn’t wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.
You follow.
The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesn’t look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.
When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.
He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.
“Inside,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours.
You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.
Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.
“You can’t let people corner you like that,” he says, tone level, controlled.
It sounds clinical. Detached. As if he’s discussing airway management.
You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. “I wasn’t cornered.”
He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. “You were,” he replies. “And you didn’t shut it down fast enough.”
Heat flares in your chest. “I handled it.”
“You froze.”
The word lands hard.
You turn to face him fully. “You don’t get to dissect that.”
His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. There’s no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, there’s tension threaded beneath the surface.
“You’re here to work,” he continues. “Not to manage other people’s feelings.”
Something in you snaps.
“Why do you care?” The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t pull it back.
His expression doesn’t change. “I don’t.”
It’s automatic. Defensive. Too quick.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right.”
The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.
“If you don’t care,” you press, stepping closer despite yourself, “then why do you always target me?”
That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests you’ve struck something real.
“I don’t target you,” he says, but the certainty in his voice isn’t as solid as it was a moment ago.
“You quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like I’m constantly one mistake away from being exposed.” Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. “You humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like it’s teaching.”
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.
“I push you because you can take it,” he says quietly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You want an answer?” His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. “You’re capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.”
“You think I care about making people comfortable?”
“I think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.”
Your breath catches.
He steps closer.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.
The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.
You both feel it.
Neither of you mention it.
“You warned me about him,” you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. “Why?”
His gaze sharpens. “Because he doesn’t see you.”
The answer is immediate.
You swallow. “He does.”
“He sees attention,” Langdon corrects. “He sees access. He doesn’t understand what you are.”
“And what am I?” you challenge.
He hesitates for the first time.
The pause is small but seismic.
“You’re not naive,” he says finally. “But you don’t always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.”
The words hang heavy between you.
“You don’t get to decide who gets me,” you reply, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
His jaw tightens.
“I know.”
The admission is quieter than anything he’s said so far.
The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.
You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now there’s barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“You act like I’m incompetent,” you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. “Like I’m a liability you’re constantly monitoring.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“If you were incompetent,” he says, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”
It’s blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
Your breathing shifts. You’re aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.
He notices. Of course he does.
“I don’t humiliate you,” he says, voice lower now. “I refuse to let you hide behind being new.”
“And what does that have to do with him?” you press.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.
“I don’t trust him with you.”
The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.
The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.
“You don’t trust him,” you repeat slowly. “Or you don’t trust yourself?”
The question lands harder than you expected.
His hand flexes slightly at his side.
“You think this is about me?” he asks, but there’s no heat in it. Only tension.
“I think you care,” you say. “And you don’t know what to do with that.”
Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.
The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.
“You don’t get to claim me because you noticed first,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. “You don’t get to decide who gets close.”
He inhales slowly.
“I’m not claiming you.”
The lie is softer this time.
The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesn’t quite touch.
Your eyes drop to the space between you.
Then back up.
“You stepped in,” you say. “You redirected him. You separated us.”
“Yes.”
No denial.
“And you’re telling me that wasn’t personal?”
His jaw tightens again.
“It was necessary.”
“For what?” you demand.
His gaze burns into yours.
“For you.”
The word lands in your chest like a weight.
Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.
“I don’t need protecting,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.
The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.
"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.
His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."
He says it like it costs him something.
You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."
Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.
"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get to—"
He cuts himself off.
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.
The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.
For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.
His eyes drop to your mouth.
And something in him snaps.
His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.
The kiss is sudden.
It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.
It crashes into you.
His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.
For half a second, you freeze.
Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.
And then you kiss him back.
Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.
He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."
You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.
His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.
"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."
His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.
"Watching him touch you."
His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.
"Smile at you."
His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.
"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."
You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.
"Dr Langdon—"
The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.
It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.
The elevator dings.
The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.
Langdon pulls away first.
Not gently. Not reluctantly.
Abruptly.
His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than you’ve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and there’s something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.
“This is a mistake,” he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.
You don’t trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.
The doors slide open.
Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.
You step out first.
He follows.
For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.
You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.
You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.
Instead, you catch him watching you.
And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.
It’s subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isn’t anger anymore; it’s restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.
Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.
For all his talk of mistakes, he doesn’t look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.
The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.
Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.
A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.
No one around you notices.
To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.
But the axis has shifted.
He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.
“Helicopter’s landing in two,” he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.
You nod, pulse still racing.
Everything has changed.
And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.
★ summary: a snapped glove mid trauma announces your engagement to the whole ED, frank can’t help but be smug
★ pairing: frank langdon x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, fluff, implied smut, probably inaccurate medical procedures (s/o reddit), mentions of shootings, gsw, traumas, typical the pitt content
★ word count: 2.1k
★ notes: my malpractice prince i’ve been waiting for you
The weekend felt unreal. It was rare enough to get days off in this line of work, but a whole uninterrupted forty-eight hours was unbelievable. There was no trauma, no blood, no half-assed lunches.
Just you and Frank.
But, now here you were again, sitting passenger seat in his car, coffee in your hand, watching the sun rise over Pittsburgh. His hand was tangled with yours, his thumb absentmindedly catching on the new ring on your left middle finger. Like he couldn’t quite believe it was there, that this was real.
“You know,” He said, his voice still full of sleep. Raspier than normal, a voice that made your heart clench and legs tremble. “I could’ve used one more day.”
“You’re telling me.” You sighed dreamily, taking another long sip of your latte.
“We could always turn around, claim food poisoning, or something contagious.” He offered, “They’ll be fine, we have better things to do.”
“Like what?” You giggled, entertaining his rambling.
“Getting back underneath the sheets with you, my fiancé.” The word rolled off his tongue so softly it made your cheeks heat.
You held his hand tighter in yours, bringing up your conjured hands to kiss his knuckles. “You’re absolutely insatiable, Dr. Langdon.”
“Right,” He teased, “You weren’t saying that last night, or this morning-“
“Okay, okay.” You rolled your eyes, “Focus on driving, get your head out of the gutter.”
“I know where my head would rather be.” He hummed, PMTC appearing in the distance.
It was a familiar routine between the two of you; he’d grab your work bag for you while slinging his backpack over his shoulder. You’d hold your coffees and he’d open up the doors on the walk towards the ED.
“Why am I nervous?” He asked, scanning his badge to unlock the door.
“Because they’re our family,” You smiled, “And they’re super nosey.”
The ED doors slid open, and the quiet hope of a slow welcome-back dissolved immediately. The board was already full, gowned residents were running around, while patients were wheeled in from the bay. So much for a slow early morning start.
Frank was mumbling something under his breath, letting you know he was going to drop your bags off in your lockers.
Whittaker spotted you first, blood covering the front of his gown. “Thank god you’re here.”
“What happened?” You asked, throwing your drinks on Dana’s desk. She’d understand all things considered.
“There was a shooting downtown, three confirmed, maybe more on route.” He said, watching the night shift struggle to do hand off in the middle of the chaos.
“Welcome back!” Abbot spotted you, waving before he ran off.
“What a welcome back.” You grumbled, immediately moving to glove and gown up.
You didn’t even think about the new, very large accessory on your finger when you did. Your body goes into autopilot, stepping headfirst into the chaos.
You were assisting on the fourth patient by the time you saw Frank again. 19-year-old, GSW to the abdomen, unstable and combative.
“Pressures tanking,” Santos called out.
“I see,” You responded, adjusting your grip. “Suction, please.”
Frank’s voice cut through from the foot of the bed. “What do we have?”
You looked up for a second, your fiancés gown covered in blood, not unlike yours. His perfectly gelled hair was already falling against his safety goggles.
“Likely intra-abdominal bleed,” you said. “He’s getting rigid.”
“Nice of you to join us, Dr. Langdon,” Santos said, her voice deadpanned as she helped pass you more sterile gauze to pack into the wound. The patient groaned around the intubation tube as your fingers slid in deeper past the skin.
“Sorry, Mr. Evans. We need to get this bleeding under control.” You spoke, regardless if he couldn’t respond.
“BP sixty-two,” Santos said. “He’s crashing.”
“Push another unit of blood,” Frank ordered. “Get me a pressure bag.”
Everyone jostled around, Frank frantically rapidly entering more blood into his IV.
You slid your fingers further into the wound, bluntly exploring, feeling for pulsing, for the slick rush of his artery.
A surge against your fingertips, there. Not quite yet spurting, but heavy. Fast. Filling up his abdomen with each second that you waited.
“Got active bleeding,” you said. “Feels deeper than I like.”
“Can you compress?” Frank asked.
“Trying.” You hummed. You adjusted your stance, bracing your forearm against the patient’s abdomen for leverage. You extended two fingers further in, angling posteriorly and medially, pressing toward where the splenic hilum would sit.
Your ring stretched against the latex of the glove, not that you noticed. You were too busy focusing on isolating the vessel, applying pressure to a pulsating vein.
“Heart rate is back up, 150,” Santos said the ultrasound probe in her hand was helping guide you.
“Hang another unit.” Frank had said somewhere, while you shifted your body. Your other hand flattens against his torso to better change your angle.
“Wait, I think I got it.” You breathed out, right when you went to move to grab a clamp, there was a loud snap.
It wasn’t loud over the monitors and the suction, but you heard it immediately. Followed was cool air pressing against your bare skin.
“Damn it.” You seethed, while Whittaker paused beside you.
“Glove, your gloves torn.” He panicked.
The tear ran diagonally across your palm, latex stretched thin and split around the base of your ring finger. The diamond now poked out, loud and proud. And blood was spilling into your open palm.
Frank’s head snapped over to you, his brows furrowed in concern.
“Whittaker, we’re gonna switch.” You announced, guiding his gloved fingers exactly where yours had been. He moved without hesitation, heading your instructions.
“Maintain firm compression,” you said quickly. “Posterior and medial, feels like splenic involvement.”
“Copy.” He said, his eyes wide.
You stepped back cleanly, peeling the now ruined glove off, mindful of contamination.
“Should we let the OR know about the glove?” Santos asked, “Just in case there’s fragments.”
Frank nodded, “Just in case, how did it split?” He asked, his hands still pumping the pressure bag.
You held up the soiled glove with your still gloved hand, “Down the palm around my ring finger, it looks intact.”
That’s when the room went silent, your bare hand under the horrible hospital fluorescents. Which only amplified the very large glittering diamond that sat snuggly on your hand, in stark contrast to the specs of dry blood on your palm. The ring that was most definitely not there when you two clocked out on Friday night.
Santos paused mid-sentence, her eyes locked on the shine.
Frank checked you over quickly for injuries, something warm and familiar in his grin.
He heard one of the nurses whistle while she hung another unit of blood, only making his ego sore higher.
“Doctors, we have a patient.” He reminded everyone with a smug little smirk on his face.
That snapped everyone out of their staring while you regloved, helping Whittaker clamp the bleed and get the patient stable enough to transfer up to the OR. As soon as he was stable, the room exhaled as he was rolled out.
There was only a moment of silence before Santos spoke up, “We gonna talk about the elephant in the room? Or better, the very large rock in the room?”
Frank stood there with a shit-eating grin on his face, practically dancing on his heels as he washed up.
You threw away the towel you used to dry your hands, holding up your left hand proudly.
“And I didn’t even get a spec of blood on it.” You smiled proudly, her hand grabbing yours to get a closer look.
Whittaker just smiled warmly, “Congratulations, you guys.”
Frank clapped his shoulder once on the way past. “Thanks.”
You barely had time to breathe before Trinity dropped your hand and bolted out of the bay doors like she’d been shot herself.
“Oh no,” you muttered.
“There goes the soft launch,” Frank said under his breath.
Santos was already talking in tagalong very loudly to Princess and Perlah, with a wide smile on their faces. Everyone’s eyes turning towards your hand.
Frank's shoulder brushes against yours softly as you saunter up to the nurses' station. Dana was there now, her glasses getting pushed on top of her forehead in shock.
“Is it true?” She demanded, making you laugh.
You held your hand out, letting multiple hands grab onto you for a better look.
Princess gasped dramatically. “Oh my God.”
Perlah leaned closer. “I had fifty dollars on Christmas.”
Princess cackled. “I told you he couldn’t wait that long.”
Dana looked up at Frank with a slow, assessing nod. “You did good, kid.”
“Good?” McKay’s voice cut in as she approached. “That’s a fucking rock, Langdon.”
“Snapped a glove on our GSW,” Trinity added proudly. “Whittaker got his first feel of an aortic bleed because of it.”
Whittaker coughed. “Pretty sure it was splenic.”
“Semantics,” she waved him off.
Frank blinked. “Wait. You guys bet on our engagement?”
“Yes,” Ahmad groaned, “And Robby’s taking home the pot.”
Frank's brow furrowed, “But that’s not fair.”
“Tell me about it.” Princess sighed, tilting your hand around to make the diamond sparkle.
“Wait, it’s not fair because I told Robby I was proposing. For the time off, so you people wouldn’t call us.”
Everyone turned suddenly, eyes scouting for the Chief in question. No doubt, having ducked into a trauma room at the first mention of the bet.
“He played you guys.” Dana laughed, patting your cheek softly. “I’m happy for you guys. Really.”
“Wait, so it happened this weekend? How did he ask?” Javadi asked, setting down her tablet on the counter. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Well, we came in early, planning on doing that.” You laughed, “Instead, Whittaker was pale in the face, dragging me into trauma one.”
“Very on brand.” Frank laughed, Donnie coming up to hug him in congratulations.
“Oh my god, you did it?” Mel asked, her voice squealing halfway across the department. She was still in her gown and gloves, throwing her hands up. “I need all the details after this.” She pointed to the patient that Jessie was helping wheel into South 20.
“It was sweet, he took me out to our favorite restaurant on Friday night. He cooked me breakfast Saturday morning, which I knew something was up then because he never cooks.” You teased, recounting the last few days with fondness in your eyes. “I’m standing in the kitchen in pajamas, hair a mess, and I turn around to grab a cup of coffee, and he’s just there on one knee, ring in his hand.”
Awes echoed around the room, Princess putting her heart over her chest.
“I’ll save you the sappy speech to not embarrass him, but it was perfect. Perfect for us.” You beamed, letting Frank wrap his arm around your shoulder. There wasn’t much PDA between you two in the Pitt; professionalism came first. But if there was any time for him to press a kiss into the top of your head, it was now.
“What did you guys do after that?” Javadi asked, her eyes wide in joy.
“We didn’t leave the house much,” Frank smiled, “Too busy enjoying our time away from here.”
A few laughs before Donnie spoke up, “Yeah, define how much.”
“Okay.” You drawled out, rolling your eyes as Donnie shook Frank’s hand. “You guys are gonna get HR called on us, don’t you guys have patients?” You giggled, pushing Frank's shoulder away playfully. While the two men are having too much fun joking about your extracurriculars.
“Boys,” Dana mumbled, shooting you a playful look.
“That’s what I'm saying.” Robby’s voice spoke out from behind you, too, with a soft smile on his face. His hands in his pockets, rocking back on his feet. “Congratulations, you guys.”
Your friends were scattered around the ED, a few you still needed to tell, but for the most part, the large reveal was over. A promise to talk more over lunch, a plan to catch a beer with them across the street right after your shift.
“Thank you, man.” Frank smiled back, shaking his hand briefly.
“Oh, just a heads up. They found out you played them about the bet, so watch out.” You warned him, watching Ahmad start walking towards the man. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you!”
With one last brush of Frank's arms, the two of you were off again, splitting your separate ways. It was safe to say the ring was worn around your neck or shoved neatly into your locker for all future shifts.
