🐞 June Bug 🐞
Summory: Reader is a surgery resident, specializing in orthopedics. Who just happens to be Frank Langdon's little sister who he calls June Bug. But apparently that isn't common knowledge among the Pitt.
Warnings: slight medical inaccuracies.
June Bug Masterlist (1-14)
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The overhead cracks to life before the trauma bay doors even finish opening.
“Trauma incoming, five minutes out. Adult male. Construction site crush injury. Left leg pinned under steel beam. Hypotensive en route. Page surgery and ortho,” Robby barks, already yanking a gown over his scrubs like the room is an extension of his own nervous system.
Everything moves at once after that.
Dana points with two fingers like a field general. “Trauma One. Whitaker, you’re with Robby. Santos, airway side. McKay, lines. Mohan, chart and meds. Mel, get blood ready. Jesse, Mateo, set up Belmont. Perlah, Princess, clear me a path and call radiology.”
“Yes, mom,” Jesse says. Dana doesn’t even look at him. “Keep talking and I’ll put you on bedpan duty for the rest of the shift.” Dennis Whitaker is already gloved by the time EMS barrels in. He catches the first look of the patient’s leg and feels his stomach tighten anyway.
Middle-aged man. Filthy work boots. Orange vest cut open. Sweat slicking his face despite how pale he is. His left lower leg is grotesquely swollen from just below the knee down, boot half-sliced off by EMS, skin stretched shiny and angry over what looks like an obvious deformity through the midshaft tibia. The mechanism is ugly enough that everyone in the room knows the fracture is probably only part of the problem.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, beam collapse at construction site,” paramedic says fast. “Pinned approximately six minutes before extrication. No head strike witnessed, no LOC. Fentanyl one hundred en route, pressure trending down. Last BP eighty-six systolic. Distal pulse weak with Doppler, absent by palpation. Pain out of proportion, worsening swelling.”
“Great,” Robby says flatly. “My favorite words before seven-thirty in the morning.” The patient is groaning now, half delirious. “My leg—my leg—” “We know,” Robby says, surprisingly steady as he leans into the chaos. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch. We’re taking care of you. Deep breath for me.” Trinity is at the head of the bed. “Airway intact. He’s talking. Sat’s ninety-six on nonrebreather.”
“Me thinks that’s the only thing behaving,” McKay mutters, spiking fluids as she and Mateo work opposite sides of the stretcher. Dennis slides ultrasound gel across the patient’s abdomen with shaking fingers that calm the second the probe hits skin. Jesse threads a second large-bore IV while McKay hangs blood.
“Nice,” Robby says without looking, which somehow means more. FAST exam is negative. Chest x-ray is clean enough. Pelvis stable. The leg is not. The boot comes the rest of the way off and everybody in the room winces a little. The calf is hard. Too hard. The skin over the anterior lower leg looks stretched to bursting, and when Robby asks Dennis to gently palpate, the patient nearly comes off the bed screaming.
“Pain with passive stretch?” Robby asks. Dennis reaches for the toes carefully, extending them just enough. The patient howls. “Yeah,” Dennis says. “Yeah,” Robby echoes. “Page surgery again. And ortho again. Tell them this isn’t a courtesy invite.” Mohan is already on it. “Trauma surgery and orthopedics paged overhead and direct.”
Garcia gets there first, striding into the bay like she owns every trauma that ever bled in western Pennsylvania. “What do you have?” she asks, already pulling gloves on. “Crush injury, probable tib-fib, increasing concern for compartment syndrome,” Robby says. “Pressure soft but responding to blood. No obvious chest or abdominal disaster, which frankly feels rude because I like consistency.”
Garcia leans over the leg, expression sharpening. “When was extrication?” “About fifteen minutes from now to too long ago,” Robby says. She snorts once. “Fair. Has ortho seen him?” “Not yet.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ll call them myself. Park answers me faster than the paging operator.”
Trinity arches a brow. “That’s because you scare men for sport.” “It’s not sport if they deserve it.” Dennis is hanging on every word, every motion, every tiny clinical decision. Then Garcia says, “June Bug better answer. She owes me coffee.”
Dennis barely notices the nickname then because Robby is asking him for another pulse check and the room is surging again. The patient’s pressure improves with blood. X-ray confirms a displaced tibial shaft fracture, fibular fracture too, ugly and unstable. There’s no open wound, but the swelling keeps climbing and the calf is turning boardlike beneath the skin. Robby’s jaw sets. “This leg needs decompression before it decides for us.”
And then you walk in.
Dennis looks up because Garcia says, “There you are,” in a tone she doesn’t use for almost anyone, and for half a second all the noise in the room seems to narrow around the sight of you stepping into Trauma One in dark blue OR scrubs, hair pulled back, orthopedic pager clipped at your waist, trauma shears in one pocket, penlight in another.
You’re short enough that Park always jokes he can lose you behind a C-arm, but you move through the room with such clipped, unbothered confidence that everyone makes space without thinking. You take one look at the x-ray, one look at the patient’s leg, and your entire face changes from sleepy annoyance to razor focus.
“Mechanism?” “Steel beam crush at worksite,” Garcia says. “Time pinned?” “Approximately six minutes, maybe a little more.” You touch the calf, then the foot, then glance at the monitor. “Any palpable dorsal pedal or posterior tibial?” “Doppler only on arrival +2, weaker now,” Dennis says before he can stop himself.
Your eyes flick to him for the first time. Brown. Sharp. Assessing. “Passive stretch?” “Exquisite pain,” he says. “Great. Love that for us.” Garcia huffs a laugh. Robby’s mouth twitches.
You don’t waste a second after that. You examine the compartments yourself, then straighten. “This is compartment syndrome until proven otherwise. He needs emergent fasciotomies. We can temporize with reduction and splinting if you want while we move, but he needs the OR.”
Garcia nods immediately. “Agreed.” Trinity points at Dennis. “Huckleberry, hear that? This is what confidence sounds like when it actually knows what it’s doing.”
Dennis flushes. Robby smirks. “He’s trying, Santos”
You glance at Trinity. “He’s fine. Better than some off-service interns I’ve had try to tell me a cold foot is probably anxiety.” That gets an actual laugh from the room. Then your phone rings. You look at it and roll your eyes. “Park.” Garcia grins. “Put him on speaker.”
You answer anyway. “We have a surgical emergency, Brenden.” The voice on the other end is clipped and unimpressed. “Then why are you chatting with me instead of booking the room?” “Because Garcia made me call you like you’re useful.” Robby actually barks out a laugh. Dana, from the doorway, just mutters, “Jesus.”
You listen, then say, “Yes, obvious compartment syndrome. Yes, I know. Yes, I already told them. No, I’m not measuring compartment pressures on a leg that’s screaming the answer at us. See you upstairs.” You hang up. “Park the Shark approves of surgery.” “Shocking,” Trinity says.
The leg gets gently reduced under sedation, splinted, wrapped. You and Garcia coordinate transport upstairs with the ease of people who have done this together too many times to need full sentences. Before the patient leaves, you reach down, squeeze his shoulder, and say, “We’re taking you now so we can save your leg. Stay with us.”
It’s the first soft thing Dennis hears from you. It sticks.
By nine in the morning the trauma is gone to the OR, the blood is mopped, and the ER is already pretending none of it happened because two chest pains, one septic grandma, and a drunk guy who swears the stop sign attacked him.
Dennis is putting in orders at the station when Frank Langdon strolls in from a room with that polished senior-resident energy he wears even when he looks half dead.
He stops cold. You’re leaning against the desk beside Dana, finishing a note, and when you look up your entire face changes. “Frankie,” you say. It is not dignified. It is absolutely sibling. Frank groans. “Don’t call me that in public.” You grin. “What, too late to protect your brand?”
Dana hides a smile behind her coffee cup. Dennis glances between you and Frank because the shift has already been insane and apparently now the pretty ortho resident is on first-name, mocking-nickname terms with Frank Langdon.
Frank steps close enough to bump your shoulder with his. It’s small and automatic and weirdly fond. “How bad was it?” You shrug. “Bad enough. Fasciotomies, and ex-fix likely if the soft tissue looks as ugly as I think it is , should fix it.”
Frank tips your chin for half a second, checking for something only a sibling would. “You eat yet?” You swat his hand away. “Did you?” Dana finally cuts in, dry as dust. “I love this very creepy, very codependent little ritual, but one of you needs to move because I need the printer.” You and Frank move in perfect unison, still bickering. Dennis watches the whole thing in silence.
Then Jesse leans over from the other computer and murmurs, “So… are we all seeing that?” “Seeing what?” Dennis asks, too fast. Jesse gives him a look. “Langdon’s mystery girlfriend.” Dennis blinks. “What?” Mateo snorts into his chart.
Across the desk, Perlah and Princess trade one scandalized glance and slip into Tagalog so quickly Dennis only catches Frank’s name and the word for dating because that rumor apparently needs no translation. Dana does not look up from her tracking board. “You children need hobbies.”
Which, of course, only confirms it for everyone.
The day keeps moving. At ten-thirty you’re back for an elderly fall with a periprosthetic femur fracture. You arrive with the portable films already pulled up on your tablet, Park having apparently texted you three separate insults instead of hello. You stand shoulder to shoulder with Garcia and explain why the fracture pattern matters, why traction would be temporary, why the patient’s anticoagulation makes operative planning a little messier.
Dennis hovers nearby pretending to review labs. He has never in his life been so aware of how loud silence can be. He notices everything instead. The way you tuck a loose strand of hair back with the back of your wrist because your gloves are dirty. The way you explain complicated anatomy to the family without sounding condescending. The way you say “sir, I know it hurts” and actually mean it.
At eleven-fifteen Victoria corners him by the med room.
“She’s hot,” Victoria says, because Victoria has never met a social filter she couldn’t bulldoze. Dennis nearly drops a flush. “Vic—” “No, I’m serious. Like terrifyingly competent hot. Which is worse. You can’t even do a little personality devaluation to protect yourself because she’s also nice.”
“She is not nice,” Trinity says, appearing out of nowhere with a chart in hand. “She told Park to choke on his own ego once.” Victoria gasps. “So she’s perfect.” Dennis mutters, “Can you two not—” Trinity’s grin turns sharp. “Oh, Huckleberry, you have a crush.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do.” Victoria leans in. “On Frank Langdon’s alleged secret girlfriend.” Dennis closes his eyes. “Please stop saying that.”
By noon, the rumor is alive enough that Mel accidentally asks McKay if HR knows, and McKay says, “About what?” and Mel says, very sincerely and slightly jealous, “About fraternization with dramatic eye contact.” McKay stares at her for a long beat. “Mel, honey, that could describe half this department.
You come down again around one for a teenager with a displaced distal radius fracture and an elbow concern after a skateboard wipeout. Not technically an ortho trauma disaster, but Park is scrubbed into the crush case upstairs, and you’re the resident he trusts not to screw up his service while he’s occupied.
That alone tells the ER a lot.
Brenden Park himself finally appears at two-thirty, still in OR cap, mask hanging around his neck, expression exactly like a man offended by oxygen. He walks in with you while you’re both discussing the leg crush patient.
“Lateral compartment was worse than imaging suggested,” you’re saying. Park nods once. “Muscle still viable. Barely.” Garcia joins you near the board. “Vascular happy?”“Happy is a strong word,” Park says. “Not immediately despairing.” Robby appears from behind a curtain. “That’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard from you in six months.” Park ignores him and looks at you instead. “You’re with me for the acetabular fracture if it comes in.”
You tip your head. “Obviously.” His gaze flicks to Dennis, then back to you. “See? Favorite resident.” “You say that to all the women who tolerate you.” “I say that to all the residents who know anatomy.” Garcia laughs. Trinity nearly chokes on stale coffee. Even Robby looks entertained. Dennis, unfortunately, is now standing close enough to see you smile at Park in a way that’s easy, familiar, unimpressed. Not flirtatious. Just trusted.
Which somehow makes him like you more.
The afternoon slams the department.
A septic nursing-home transfer. A toddler with a coin lodged somewhere creative. A psych hold throwing urinals. Shen texts the group chat at three-forty-five that he’s “bringing Dunkin and emotional support,” even though night shift isn’t in for hours. Dana threatens to confiscate his phone when he arrives later.
Around four, you end up beside Dennis for the first time without a dozen people buffering you.
A middle-aged woman has a spiral humerus fracture after a horse throws her into a fence. Robby wants to know if she needs urgent operative management or if she can be immobilized and seen in clinic after pain control and neurovascular reassessment. You’re reviewing her films by the workstation when you glance over and catch Dennis staring at the x-ray instead of speaking.
You save him. “What do you think?” you ask. He startles. “Me?” “No, the ghost behind you.” His mouth twitches despite himself. “Midshaft humerus, spiral pattern. No obvious open wound. Radial nerve exam matters.”
“Good.” He swallows. “If pulses are intact and there’s no vascular injury or compartment concern, probably coaptation splint, pain control, follow-up?” You nod once. “Exactly. You can still have nerve injury without bone sticking through skin. Don’t let dramatic x-rays trick you into forgetting the exam.”
He looks at you then, really looks, and the nervousness he’s been drowning in all day gets shoved aside by the fact that you are talking to him like you expect him to keep up.
“I’m Dennis,” he says, because apparently his brain is twelve years old. You smile, quick and lopsided. “I know. Huckleberry.” His eyes widen. “You know that too?” “I know lots of things. Garcia talks. So does Santos. Mostly against everyone’s will.” Across the station, Trinity calls out without looking up, “I heard that.”
You lean a hip against the counter. “So, Dennis from Broken Bow. You always freeze up around consultants, or am I special?” He goes red so fast you almost feel bad. “Sorry,” he says, then winces. “I mean—not sorry, just— I’m not usually—” “That nervous?”
He gives a helpless little nod. You soften just enough to rescue him again. “You don’t have to be nervous. Half the time we’re making it up based on swelling and vibes.” He laughs then, unexpected and warm. “Pretty sure that’s not evidence-based medicine,” he says.“No, but it is orthopedics.”
That breaks the ice.
You spend the next five minutes talking through the humerus fracture, splinting, radial nerve checks, operative indications, when to worry, when not to overcall things just because they look ugly. Dennis is smart, quieter than most of the ER crew, but once he realizes you’re not going to bite his head off, he starts asking genuinely good questions.
You answer every one. Frank walks up at the tail end of it carrying a chart and stops dead at seeing you and Dennis leaning over the same films. Dennis straightens so fast he nearly knocks into a wall. Frank’s eyes flick from Dennis to you and narrow just enough to be sibling, not senior resident. “June Bug.” You don’t even turn. “Frankie.”
Dennis almost chokes. Frank sighs. “I need room eight signed out before Mohan murders me.” You finally look over. “Then maybe stop interrupting my educational outreach.” Frank stares. “Educational—” “You heard me.”
There’s a beat where Dennis expects annoyance. Instead Frank’s face does something strange. It softens. Totally, instantly, like all the edges got sanded down the second you looked at him.
“Fine,” he says. “But eat something.” You point your pen at him. “You too.” Frank leaves. Dennis watches him go, then looks back at you. “You two… really close, huh?” You snort. “Unfortunately.” That is all you say, and because Dennis is Dennis, he doesn’t pry.
By shift end, of course, the rumor has mutated.
Not only are you apparently dating Frank Langdon, but according to Jesse’s whispered update from triage, the relationship is “serious enough that Dana knows,” which is somehow both absurd and, from the staff’s point of view, compelling.
Dana hears that one and says, “I’m going to start sedating employees.”
Perlah and Princess look delighted.
At six, Brenden comes down with you again for one last consult—an ankle fracture-dislocation reduced in the field but unstable as hell, skin tenting, obvious operative case. Park is all brisk efficiency, firing questions at Dennis and Victoria like he’s testing whether they deserve to be allowed near bones.
Victoria, to her credit, fires back the classification correctly. Park pauses. “Disturbing.” “She’s a child prodigy,” you say. “She’s also twenty and says things like ‘it’s giving ischemia,’” Park replies. From the next bay, Shen arrives for nights carrying an iced coffee and says, “Honestly? She’s right.”
“Shen,” Robby says wearily, “you haven’t even clocked in and I’m already tired of you.”
Abbot shows up not long after, all night-shift ease and old-soldier steadiness, getting report while you and Park review post-reduction films. He glances between you and Frank across the station where Frank is leaning over your shoulder reading a note. “So are we all just pretending that’s normal?”
Dennis looks up too fast. Abbot catches it instantly and grins like a bastard.
Then Garcia breezes by, hears just enough, and finally says, “Oh my God, you idiots think she’s dating Frank?” Silence. Beautiful, catastrophic silence. Frank looks up from your shoulder. “What?” You blink. “What?” Garcia points between you two. “That. Everyone thinks that.”
There is one stunned second where the entire desk seems to stop breathing. Then you laugh so hard you have to grab the counter. Frank makes an offended noise. “That is disgusting.” You’re still laughing. “Oh my God.” Dana pinches the bridge of her nose. “Thank you, Garcia. I was enjoying watching this spiral.”
Trinity, delighted beyond measure, says, “Wait. Wait. You’re not—?” Frank and you speak at the exact same time. “She’s my sister.” “He’s my brother.” The station detonates. Victoria slaps a hand over her mouth. “No way.” Mel looks genuinely panicked. “I have said so many things out loud.” McKay starts laughing into her hand. Jesse bends in half over the printer. Mateo just goes, “Damn.” Perlah mutters something scandalized in Tagalog to Princess, who looks ready to ascend.
Dennis feels his entire soul leave his body and then slam back in when the world rearranges itself all at once. Sister. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Everything clicks—the softness, the shorthand, the protectiveness, Dana knowing, Robby not batting an eye. Garcia steps in with the final blow.
“She’s June Bug,” Garcia says. “His baby sister. Orthopedic resident. Try to keep up.” Abbot looks at Dennis and murmurs, “Well, that’s gotta feel like winning the lottery. Dennis nearly combusts.
Frank points at the whole group. “You people are freaks.” You wipe at your eyes, still laughing. “You’re the one who keeps hovering like a deranged mother hen.” “You’re five-four and choose to stand next to moving stretchers.” “I’m literally a surgeon.” “Debatable.”
Robby, who has watched this whole implosion with the exact expression of a man whose entertainment has finally arrived, folds his arms. “For the record, I knew.”
Dana deadpans, “No one likes you.” Garcia hooks an arm around your shoulder. “Come on, June Bug. Before these morons decide you’re secretly dating Park next.” From the other end of the desk, Park—who unfortunately hears everything—doesn’t even look up from the chart he’s signing. “I would rather walk into traffic.” You call back, “Mutual, Brenden.”
That gets another round of laughter.
The shift should end there, but of course it doesn’t. It’s the Pitt. A GI bleed rolls in. Shen steals someone’s pen. Abbot takes over resus with that calm, dangerous competence that makes night shift feel like a different planet. Frank gets pulled into a crashing patient. Garcia gets paged back upstairs. Park vanishes like an angry ghost.
And in the brief lull between disaster and handoff, you find Dennis again. He’s at the Pyxis, looking like he’s still recovering from the revelation that you are, in fact, unattached and not committing incest with Frank Langdon. You lean against the machine beside him. “You survived that well.”
He groans. “Please don’t.” “Why? It was cute.” He gives you a look. “I spent all day thinking I had a crush on a senior resident’s girlfriend.” “A crush on his sister, apparently.” He laughs under his breath. “That’s not better.” “No,” you say. “It’s definitely worse.” He closes the drawer with a soft thunk and looks at you, finally a little less scared than he was this afternoon. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think you two looked romantic.”
You arch a brow. “What did we look like?” He smiles, small and honest. “Like you’ve been annoying each other your whole lives.” Something warm settles low in your chest. “Accurate,” you say.
There’s a beat. The department hums around you—monitors, phones, wheels, Dana yelling at someone across the hall, Shen laughing too loudly, Abbot standing at the board like a goofy drill sergeant.
Dennis rubs the back of his neck. “I’m glad you came over earlier. About the humerus fracture.” You study him for half a second. Quiet. Sweet. Smarter than he gives himself credit for. Pretty in that open, earnest way people underestimate. “Dennis,” you say, “next time you have a question, just ask.” He nods. “Okay.” “Okay,” you echo.
Frank appears down the hall then, sees the two of you talking, and narrows his eyes with immediate big-brother suspicion. You sigh. “And there he is.” Dennis’s smile turns real this time. Frank calls, “June Bug, are you leaving or moving into the ER permanently?” You call back, “Only if Dana lets me."
Dana, without missing a beat, says, “Absolutely not. I already have one Langdon too many.” You push off the Pyxis and start backing away. “See you around, Huckleberry.” Dennis watches you go. “Yeah,” he says, a little stunned, a little hopeful. “See you around.”
You disappear back into the chaos beside Frank, tossing some insult at him that makes him roll his eyes and fall into step with you anyway.
Dennis stands there for one extra second, listening to the noise of the department spin on.
Twelve hours ago, you were just a name in a page overhead.
Now you are June Bug. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Park the Shark’s favorite resident. Garcia’s best friend. The kind of surgeon who can walk into a trauma bay half awake and make everyone trust her in under thirty seconds.
And Dennis Whitaker, against all reason and every better instinct he has, is already gone for you.
Thanks for reading. Let me know if this should become a series or leave it as a one and done. I'm happy with either.
