listen how the heart beats, lying next to him
chapter three: familiar but foreign, a liminal feeling
frank langdon x ofc (reader)
cw: +18 PLUS, MDNI - soft smut, self pleasure
other cw: barely proofread because i don’t caaare, mentions of medical cases and injuries, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, post rehab frank, a frank pov chapter, insight into the male psyche (scary), a man down bad, everyone is threatening to jump off of very tall somethings, non-problematic age gap wholly unspecified tag list: @lunadi1una
previous chapter: chapter two: filled up to the brim, pour a little out each day
If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was feeling weak. He’d felt it too many times before. Each time it resulted in unprecedented levels of pain and discomfort. Pain, when he’d fallen off the monkey bars in grade school, landing hard on his arm, snapping the bone in half. His teacher had picked him up off the bark chips like a baby. He'd cried until his mom came to get him from the office.
Uncomfortable, when he’d been caught stealing benzodiazepines from the hospital, by a fucking intern no less, who he couldn’t bring himself to hate for figuring him out, for alerting others before he had the opportunity to fuck himself even more, who might have given him a second chance when he didn’t want it. Forced to attend rehab, mandated counseling, crawl his way back into something that resembled the good graces of Dr. Robby, and metaphorically eat shit for the rest of his life. And, do it sober, and stay fucking sober. When he attended those weekly meetings, the ones especially for doctors with addictions. Weak when admitting he was an addict, just like everyone else in the room.
There were also the boyish weaknesses. When he saw a strand of hair out of place, his deep desire to push it back behind the ear. The impulse to brush hand against hand, the dreams where he’s able to hold it. Simple fantasies of seeing eye to eye, being face to face, bodies pressed against each other.
The idea of sex, obviously, got him too. Base line attractiveness could get anyone going, he was but a simple man. At one point, he didn’t care where touch came from, only knowing that he craved it and could get it whenever he sought it out. He knew part of it was him, too, the way he looked. He’d been handsome since girls could tell him he was. He’d made several decisions, neither good or bad, when he’d been called it too. Older and wiser now, he wanted to focus on connection, whatever the fuck that meant. The intimacy of it all, being vulnerable with, not in the ideas of or in opposition to someone else, being soft in earnest. Giving more than he got. Showing, not just saying. Slowness, stillness, presence. Something he’d never done before.
That’s why he kept his jaw locked and eyebrows furrowed. He was reluctant to admit his wants, maybe even needs at this point, unsure how to cross the line, forge connection. Then there was the power thing, glaringly obvious to him from “direct superior” aspect. Senior residents should never display outward infatuation for a junior staff under his direct supervision. Unprofessional, he told himself, and stupid. Couldn't build a path to friendship easily, either- that risked the introduction of something in common, a mutual interest, connection.
And it had never affected him like this until you walked. Sure, he’d found plenty of women who passed through the Pitt attractive, it wasn’t that he hadn’t. He’d just never found the pull to move past his perceived faults. He’d never moved farther than labeling someone hot and moving on.
He’d never admit that that changed when he spotted you at the hub. A wildfire in his chest, burning his belly to a crisp. A familiar, foreign feeling of his skin tingling with the anticipation of something, destruction or domestication, he decided to choose the bliss of ignorance. An instant attraction, drawn to you by the cosmos.
When he saw you trying to sink into the ground, he’d never felt more akin to someone he’d never seen before. You were trying to disappear into the ether, mold into one of the pillars, become one with the wall. He tries telepathy - You’ll need to try harder to evaporate from me. Then Robby’s talking to you, laughing with you. Something about the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. So that’s where you came from.
During assignments, he’d tried to go unnoticed. He really had. It hadn’t worked, luck or Robby’s distrust of how he’d treated students in the past catching up to him, punching him in the face, launching him into something he time and time again, didn’t know if he could handle. He vowed then to steel himself against whatever you threw his way. Close yourself off, dude. Keep it in. No comments, no questions, no connection. This is a student. This is a coworker. You don’t know her, and you don’t need to.
The teaching part fucks him up, though. He’s obligated to talk, to inquire, pick your brain, to push you to understand more each day. He tells himself he has to. All business, no small talk. When the first trauma rolls through the door and he’s throwing out instructions, he hears you respond each time with a “got it” and a smile almost falls through the cracks. Your voice is soft and somehow commanding, like you really do have it down and appreciate his direction. She’s a student, that might be exactly what it is, he reminds himself.
The next week, and keeping himself upright around you appears in a fog. You’re quiet, sweetness seeping through every interaction. Talented, but uncomfortable. You’ve got all the right questions and he has to push you to ask them. Most of the right answers, too. You make decisions quickly and shoot him a glance for approval. Six installments of fifty-plus hour weeks together, He wants nothing more for you than to stand tall and assured, and he tries to remain unwilling to give in to the desire to lift you up far enough that you can get there.
He sees it though- you talking to other residents, making friends with Mel, making her laugh. He learns through her that you’ve got siblings and your mother somewhere out west. He refrains from mentioning he’s always wanted to go to California, or, if they aren’t there, whatever state you visit to see them. Talking quietly with Santos’ and Whitaker too, praying that the hushed conversation isn’t about him. Isn’t about how he’s being a dick, how he’s cold, how he’s continuously applying unnecessary pressure to keep the distance. He worries relentlessly about what Santo’s told you, if you’d become cold too if you knew his history. Even worse, if you were so offended that you’d begin to request other residents, ice him out of what little he allowed himself currently.
A week later, he’s thanking God or maybe just scheduling for his day off. His small circle of friends outside the ER, mainly a guy named Evan he'd met through a friend's ex-girlfriend and only saw in crowded places, had pushed him to go out to see a live band. You can’t stay in that apartment forever, man. You’ve gotta get out, meet a hot girl or some shit, fuck her and then you can go back to the ER tomorrow a brand new man.
Frank had physically shuttered at the message, incredulous that a man two years his senior could sound like he’d never left the frat house. He hadn’t even brought up that the last time he got laid was before rehab, just said that he wasn’t busy tonight.
Still, he’d been convinced to leave his two-bedroom apartment in the city to stand in a cramped, dimly lit room with a bunch of strangers, waiting for a band he’d never heard of to play. His tight grip on the only non-alcoholic option in the entire building, some fruity sparkling water blend, is unforgiving. Evan’s near him, in the way of nearly everyone else, motioning for someone to make their way over.
He’s going to crush the can, his grip has almost engulfed it whole. He’d contemplated wearing his Penguin’s hat, ever the conversation starter, eventually choosing against it - Another wrong choice, he could have flown entirely under the radar. He could have had the opportunity to just watch you. He curses himself.
He’s gotta let go of the can before the thin metal slices into his skin. Before you’re forced to triage him with bar napkins and whatever you might have in your bags. Before he embarrasses you both. He trusts, implicitly, that you have something for the injured in there. He’s got no reason to question why you’re here. He’d figured you were better connected and cooler than him, that there was no space for him in your orbit outside the ER.
Slowly, then all at once, you’re in front of him. Baggy t-shirt and baggy pants, something effortly cool and enticing happening right in front of his eyes. He knows, through the intimacy of even the loosest sets of scrubs, that there’s a figure underneath, one he’s silently happy no one else can see. He makes a mental note to bang his head into the wall as punishment for entertaining the thought. Evan gives you a side hug, something a step or two away from awkward. Are they together? Are they fucking? Has he… He’s spiraling. How the fuck do you know Evan? Hit your head against the wall when you get home, twice.
“It’s so fucking good to see you, dude,” He overhears Evan say. Dude. Not fucking. At least not right now. He files that away. There’s more he’s not listening to after losing himself in the opportunity to be in your presence without the fluorescent bulbs, bleeding patients or faint screaming in he background. Evan has turned his attention back toward where he’s standing. “This is Frank, I don’t know if you’ve ever met?”
He hears himself beginning to say you have, but you’ve spoken over him, like you’ve got a megaphone. He was unprepared for you to shut him down so quickly, to direct and demand control of the conversation. You were different outside the ER, a small blessing as he'd met hundreds of doctors who never found their "off" switch. You’re going to go through fake niceties, he can tell. You’ll tell him your name, say it was nice to meet, and he can already feel you slipping away. To combat your next move, he introduces himself by his first name. It’s a move meant to dominate, to dispel the illusion of professionalism around you that he shields himself with in the ER. Dr. Langdon is your asshole boss because he doesn’t know what to do around you, his brain quips, Frank is just some guy that wants to learn.
For the first time, he earns a genuine toothy-grin all on his own. Something he’s only seen reserved for the smallest of patients, or whoever on staff has told you the funniest joke. He vows to wear this moment, that smile, the gap between your front teeth like a crown, never to leave his head. He’s almost neglectful, tuning out the first word in your sentence. “Nice to meet you, my name’s…”
He’s got to have heard wrong. He knows your fucking name. He sees you every single day. Apparently, even days he’s not supposed to. He’s spent time reading over your file, checking your documentation,the meticulous charts. He was sure your name never appeared like that anywhere. This must be what it feels like to drown, to fall into quicksand or a grain silo. He’d lost the game he was playing without you.
He does mean it when he tells you it’s beautiful, but he hates that he says it. It shows his cards, playing the fool making it clear he craves this kind of information from you. Another grin from you, an acknowledgment of his loss, adds to the weight of his crown.
“How did you hear about this?” Making direct eye contact, initiating tje first real conversation. He lost control a while ago and knows he won’t gain it back anytime soon. Lose the battle for the potential to win the war, or something like that, he tells himself. Loser.
“Evan, actually, uh, hit me up about it. Told me I had to get out of my house for once.” He’s free-falling. Continuously revealing too much, but there’s a glimmer in your eye like you would have known he was a loyal man to the confines of his home.
“Did he also tell you you needed to fuck someone?” You say it so casually, he almost spontaneously combusts on the spot, not able to comprehend that you’ve used those specific words, that combination, in front of him, to him. If it weren’t for you quoting Evan, he’d repeat it to himself like a hymn later tonight. Still might. There’s sweat beading on his hairline. Searching his vocabulary for words, he fumbles with the sounds. “At least,” You’ve turned your head just a bit away from him, “That’s what he said to me. I was just wondering if he’s that brazen with everyone he knows.”
“He did, actually.” He finally spits out. “I, uh, can’t believe he used that line on at least two people in this room?” Another smile graces your face. His head is getting heavy.
“He’s been using it for years, at least since I’ve known him, I’m just always surprised to see who it works on.” It’s not a dig, but it slides through like one. Is she asking if that’s why I’m here? Is that why she’s here?
Before he can spiral out completely, he knows you’re beginning to pull away. He wonders if you think you crossed a line that no longer exists, if you’re feeling embarrassed by what you’ve revealed by showing up in the same room. He rolls the same thoughts through his head.
“Hey, Frank,” Your voice saying his name pulls him back to the surface, to the present, away from an opportunity to push himself into oblivion to never risk embarrassing you again. You say his name like it tastes as sweet as it sounds coming from you. He quickly concedes that he wants to hear you say it again, and again, in a never-ending loop. “It was great to see you - I’ve gotta go though - I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?”
He gulps whatever plea he’s planning to make you stay. “I- yeah, good seeing you. For sure, tomorrow.” Not a single fucking sensical word. He can’t think when he’s watching you walk away from him, out of the room, when you’d just shown up, when he’d just gotten you alone in a crowded room.
Somehow, Evan’s at his side, breaking the sullen wave that crashed when you walked away. “Dude, did I just hear her say she’d see you tomorrow?” There’s nothing more for him to do but nod and fake a laugh.
“Nice. She’s hot - super sweet too. Makes really good cookies, too, kicks my ass in Mario Kart each time.” Frank files this away for later - likes baking, video games. Discuss.
It feels forced, but he puts every last ounce of energy into channeling his innermost frat boy line of questioning.
“Did you guys fuck?” It’s supposed to be as casual as possible. In this alternative line of questioning, he doesn’t know you. He pretends that Evan knows nothing about where or who you spend your days. You spend your days with him, twelve hours of them, anyway. By his side. His right hand.
“No, man. We made out once at a party, but neither of us like, I don’t fucking know how to describe it, liked it?” Whatever beast lies within Frank Langdon quiets for a minute.
“You should go for it, dude, I guarantee she’d be more into you than she ever was in me”. There’s a break in the armor, a smile playing at his lips that he can’t control.
After the first band plays and you’re nowhere to be seen, Frank decides he needs to commit to the Irish exit he’d been planning before you arrived. He white knuckles the ten-minute drive home, trying to distract himself from whatever overcame him tonight. You, overcoming him tonight. Throwing him off, making him weak in front of you.
He’s been lying in bed chasing sleep for more than an hour. Trying to chase you out and count sheep instead, but you keep showing up, asking him if he’s there for the same reason you’re there. Your voice is sultry in his head, wondering if he'd come to fuck someone, touching his shoulder. Presenting it like a question, "Am I who you've been looking for?" Not how it normally sounds, or even sounded tonight, but his best guess on how you would sound if he had you alone. His voice, gruff, saying, "yes, baby, I've been looking all over for you."
It’s muscle memory for him now - at least, this part, not necessarily that you’re who he’s picturing. You’ve broken through the barriers of other things he’d forced himself to imagine, but he’s never let you appear so vividly, scared of what it meant. He rationalizes that letting this happen now, after he’s seen you out in the world, you’re just like anyone else he’d think of at night, you’re just a regular woman to him now.
He’s been half hard for the better part of the hour he’d been trying to sleep. He spits directly into his palm before thumbing through the waistband of his boxers and pulling them off. There’s a palpable wave of relief when he finally allows himself to run his hand over his cock, grabbing and stroking with his right hand. He starts soft and slow, the illusion that he can take his time if he’s careful with the imagery he conjures.
He’s almost instantly leaking when he imagines you on your knees in front of him. You hadn’t opened your mouth yet, his thumb is resting on your bottom lip while the rest of his hand cups your face. He’s broken your lips open with his thumb. You’ve allowed it into your mouth with the slightest bit of suction. You’re not begging to suck his cock, but your eyes are glistening. You’ve produced so much saliva swirling around, wet and warm, he knows you’re reading and wanting.
Then, he imagines the sound you make, the soft moan when he’s finally allowed to enter your mouth. Such soft “hmph’s!” as you bob up and down, how you’re swirling your fingers on your non-dominant hand around the base and down to his balls (the left, in this vision, he reminds himself to check) almost imperceptively to anyone but him. He hears himself speak, telling you that he never knew head could be this good, that he couldn’t believe you finally let him in. He'd wanted it for so long. How you're looking up at him, those big brown eyes, directly into his, as if all you want is to make him cum, make him happy. His mind lets you push him back onto the seat with a firm hand on his chest. He lets your hand wander up until it barely reaches and rests at the base of his neck.
He releases when, and it feels almost-real to him, he imagines you lightly squeezing. His legs go to jelly below him without warning - he didn't know choking could get him off - he'd never been on the receiving end.
He uses his boxers to wipe away the evidence of his transgression, working to come back to the world. You’re not next to him, you’ve barely even touched him. He’s alone, in his dark, in his kind-of-shitty-but-great-lighting two-bedroom apartment, where the second bedroom sat untouched, with nothing to fill it.
He might be ready to walk through the metaphorical fire to get to you.