#parkdon

[inogart]

just wanted to see the babes standing next to eachother

[classic-rowyndodendron]

Bite The Hand That Bleeds You - Langdon/Park Fic

I literally don't know how this happened. Like I sneezed and then this fic was on my screen and now it's here. So. Have at it I guess???

Title: Bite The Hand That Bleeds You Fandom/Pairings: The Pitt. Frank Langdon/Park The Shark. Dr Robby/Frank Langdon (implied/past) Warnings: mild sexual references, non-sexual nudity, minor needle mentions. Summary: Langdon agreed to submit to the tyranny of notorious ortho surgeon Brendon Park 'The Shark' in hopes of helping his ongoing back problems. Just his luck, Robby happens upon him in a vulnerable, compromising position midway through this. Park absolutely doesn't make this hellish situation any worse for Langdon. At all. Link: AO3

Langdon moans before he can stop himself, gripping the side of the bed he's lying on until his knuckles bleed to white.

“Easy there, Frankie boy,” Park purrs above him, smoothing a hand up his back to soothe him, but sounding very much as though he's enjoying this a lot more than he should. “You're gonna make me blush if you keep that up, sweetheart,” the gleeful mockery evident.

Langdon's in the middle of growling at him to shut his fucking face, when a sound far, far worse than the ortho surgeon's taunting and teasing meets his ears. A brisk cascade of swiftly sliding metal, the unmistakable noise that informs him the curtains draped around the bed he and Park had impulsively commandeered are now: no longer around it. Frank's pretty sure it sounds almost identical to that of a guillotine blade falling, seconds before it takes his head off.

This cannot get worse.

“Langdon? Is that you? The hell are you doing up here? Where are those test resu- what in the fuck?”

Wow. He's a fucking moron! First rule of the hospital: never say it can't get worse. Never think it can't get worse. Never even entertain the vague notion that you're so much as aware of the concept of ‘it can't get worse’. It will. It will and you will wish you were dead. Every time.

Because of course, of course that's Robby's voice. Of course Robby is the one ambling around four floors up from where he's meant to be and happened to hear Frank's voice snapping at Park. Of course Robby's the one to find him spread-eagled on his stomach a narrow hospital bed, buck-ass naked save for the sheet draped over his hips, with Park flirting like a motherfucker and standing over him.

“Doctor Robinavitch–” Frank wheezes, thinking that in this most unprofessional set of circumstances, he should try to be as professional as possible, not daring to call Robby Robby right now, as he tries to push himself into a more dignified position, press-up style.

One of Park's ridiculously large hands (seriously, he is never letting the man operate on him, ever, he probably needs rib-spreaders to widen every incision so he can get those enormous sausage fingers into the patient – ooh, that's a good insult, he's filing that away when he next gets teased about his ‘tiny hands’) slaps down, palm first, between his shoulder blades, shoving his chest back down onto the bed, with enough ease that Frank knows he's going to be hearing about this for a while.

“Slow your roll, there, Langbrium,” he orders curtly, and it takes everything in Frank to bite his tongue and not point out that ‘Langbrium’ is the shittiest of the benzo-related nicknames Park has yet tried out on him, and he needs to try harder. “I got this.”

Oh wow. Frank doesn't think he's ever been this terrified in his life, as he hears Park turn slightly to face the direction of Robby.

“You–”

“Shut up, Frank,” is tossed almost lazily down at him.

Casually confident in its presumed effectiveness. It usually is, to be totally fair. This time, though–

“I don't need you to–” Frank begins, indignant, attempting to get up again, but Park apparently still has his hand floating just above him, anticipating this, and he's immediately slapped back down again.

“Don't need me to what?” Park demands, in typical brutal fashion, “remind you that you can't fucking move right now since I've just spent the last quarter of an hour turning you into an appetiser platter?” Well. He's been compared to worse. “Apparently you do, dumbass, so while I'm at it I may as well set your equally dumbass boss straight on why I've got you spread out in front of me in bed, naked as the day your mother squeezed you out, and moaning like a virginal whore.”

Yeah. That was clearly the best way to phrase that.

God Frank wishes he could reach his phone right now. That way he could Google a list of known deities from religions across the world and start praying to each and every single fucking one of them to get him out of this situation by whatever means necessary.

Robby is still silent as Park turns to face him, arms folded across his chest. Frank is actually pretty glad he can't see the other man right now, because he can feel the waves of barely contained anger radiating off him in waves right now, and that's bad enough.

“His back is fucked,” Park informs Robby with his signature brutality. “I am currently unfucking it for him. I am not currently fucking him in any way.”

Frank mashes his face down into the thin pillow in front of him, wondering if it's dense enough to smother him.

“Happy?” Park is asking now, and Frank neither knows nor cares if he's talking to him or Robby - the answer is the same either way. Before either of them can give it, Park commands, “now get the fuck out and let me get back to my patient.”

Frank hears Robby take a single step further into the room instead.

“What, exactly, are you doing to ‘treat’ him?” Robby asks, voice low and oddly dangerous, that way he gets when he comes over all protective of his people now and then. “Room doesn't look much like an OR to me, and this doesn't look much like surgery. Or did I arrive just before you got to the fun part of slicing him open?”

Frank frowns at that because this– This isn't fucking Dexter. Park isn't a sociopath who enjoys luring doctors up to the fourth floor so he can give them shitty nicknames while he kills them. He's about to say something to that effect, but sensing the tension in the room, decides it's best if he just skips to explanations.

“Robby,” he breaks in, turning his head so his voice isn't muffled by the, largely useless, pillow, “it's fine, okay. I put the time for this therapy into my schedule and your diary weeks ag-”

“Therapy?” Robby interjects, scepticism dripping from every word, “what kind of therapy is this?”

“Acupuncture therapy,” Park breaks in and oh, good, he's saying things again. Frank just couldn't be happier. “Just because you seem totally ignorant of the practice of shrinks you so desperately need, last I checked you were still a doctor and should still be vaguely aware of some of its other forms.”

“Acupuncture,” Robby repeats, tone frighteningly neutral and unreadable.

“Yup.”

"I wasn't aware the program for orthopaedic surgeons included training in a questionable pseudoscientific practice that involves sticking needles into my residents," Robby replied coldly.

'My resident', isn't a phrase Frank fails to make note of. Not least because Robby's been failing to say it about him since the whole benzo thing came out, not wanting to take responsibility for him, he assumes.

"Every man needs a hobby," Park replies, with a faux-sweetness Frank knows means serious trouble is on the horizon.

“I see. Tell me, does this 'hobby' of yours require him to be naked?” Robby demands, more coldly still.

“Nah,” Park shoots back sarcastically, “but he's got a sweet little ass and this gives me a great excuse to look at it every now and then.”

Frank groans with despair into the pillow, redoubling his efforts to suffocate himself with it. In spite of the fact Park is just being Park, and the fact his ‘sweet little ass’ is currently demurely covered with the crisp white sheet, he still swears he can hear the kill bill sirens currently blaring from the HR department.

Silence. Utter, pin-drop, breath-held, soul-shredding silence.

Til Robby breaks it with a very grim, “Frank, is everything okay here? Or do you need me to intervene?”

Intervene? What? Robby– Robby actually sounds like he's being protective towards him. That– Frank is touched, especially given how rocky their relationship has been lately, that he'd ‘intervene’ with him, with wall of muscle, shit-talking hotshot Park the Shark no less. Although he can't say he doesn't also suddenly feel a bit offended because what?

Park has a reputation around the hospital, sure. But does Robby really think Frank is so pathetic he'd just strip naked then get on a bed and let Park poke needles around his spine just because he ordered him to!? Granted that's…an unfortunately accurate description of exactly how this set-up came to be in the first place, if lacking some of the small print and the context, but that is not the point.

Park chuckles low, patting Frank lightly on the back in a way that feels at least slightly possessive, “don't worry, Robby,” he growls, “your boy's safe with me, in fact, I'd say he's much better–”

“I wasn't asking you, Park,” Robby interrupts, and Frank has a fleeting image of the entire ED clustered around the room, watching, all gasping and ‘oooh'-ing in awe at Robby's balls to take that kind of tone with the Shark, “so shut your fucking mouth for once and let Frank answer the question.”

Oh. Robby thinks Frank is exactly that pathetic. God fucking dammit.

“I'm a fucking adult, Robby,” Frank snaps. Then he takes a breath and says more calmly, “but yes, I'm good. Park is a prick,” Park snorts appreciatively, “but he's been great, and this really is helping. I'll be back downstairs in fifteen minutes for the rest of my shift.”

“He'll be down in twenty,” Park corrects grimly. Frank feels like he can somehow hear Robby's eyebrows crawl higher up his forehead with deep lack of amusement. “You wasted five minutes of his break time,” the surgeon huffs stubbornly, “no reason he should suffer for that.”

“Bren,” Frank growls in a low voice, turning his head so only he can hear. Then, to Robby once again, “fifteen minutes, like I said.”

Silence. Again.

Then Robby says curtly, “I expect to see you downstairs again at 3.30 sharp. Otherwise I'm coming looking for you.”

Then he leaves. Though probably not fast enough to miss hearing Park's unimpressed snort.

“Jackass,” he mutters under his breath, even though he smoothly returns to his work, plucking up another fine needle, deft fingers pressing and feeling for the correct placement.

“It's not as though I've never given him a reason to worry if I vanish and he can't find me where he thinks I'm supposed to be,” Frank notes dully.

Park scoffs impatiently, “pretty sure you never did, actually, Frankie boy. He never noticed you vanishing or not being where he thinks you're supposed to be. In fact, pretty sure he didn't notice shit.” He shakes his head, cutting off Frank's answer with the press of another needle.

“A little warning?” Frank snaps.

"Warning just makes you tense up,” Park dismisses casually. Then smoothly continues the conversation, “anyway, even if you were snorting crack cocaine off his favourite triage gurney while he was in the room, still doesn't give him the right to storm around the hospital hunting you down because you took four minutes to piss instead of three. He acts like he fucking owns you.” Another needle press, though he had given a soft double tap at Frank's side as a head's up this time. “And you let him.”

“We are not having this conversation again,” Frank growls, “we agreed no Robby talk when you're, what was it, turning me into an appetiser platter?”

“My little cocktail sausage,” Park coos mockingly. Frank chokes in protest.

Pointedly ignoring that, in the hopes it never gets mentioned again if he doesn't make a fuss, he presses.

“It's not fair if I'm in a position where I can't flip you off and storm out dramatically,” Frank reminds him, using the words Park had used when conceding this point in their last argument about it.

“Fine, fine,” Park huffs, rolling his eyes, “but the way he treats you makes it damn fucking difficult to be civil with him.”

“That was civil!?” Frank splutters.

“It was a lot more civil than I wanted to be,” is the defensive response he gets.

‘“His back is fucked,’” Frank starts repeating, with sardonic incredulity, “‘I am currently unfucking it for him. I am not currently fucking him in any way.’ How the fuck is that in any way civil?” He demands, knowing he's going to regret them as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“Because I didn't finish up by telling him that I wasn't fucking you currently, but I absolutely was fucking you last night,” Park informs him smugly. “More than onc-”

“Okay, okay, that's enough! Shut up and finish this, you fucking walking HR violation in human form,” Frank interrupts, banging his face down hopelessly on his emotional support pillow.

“Sure,” Park agrees, far too easily. Frank is suspicious at this capitulation until he hears, “whatever you say, my little cocktail sausage.”

[classic-rowyndodendron]

Jumping The Shark - Langdon/Park Fic

i bow to the whims of the masses and i provide the peoeple (y'all) with what they want: more park/langdon fic, apparently. Pls appreciate my punny title.

Title: Jumping The Shark Fandom/Pairings: The Pitt, Frank Langdon/Brendon Park The Night Shift Squad Warnings: None!

Summary: During an unusually slow night shift in the ED, John Shen returns from his break with his typical iced coffee and some spicy gossip hot off the press about none other than the myth, the man, the legend: Park The Shark, and who in the hospital may be currently jumping his bones.

Link: AO3

“The world has shifted upon its axis,” Shen announces mysteriously, drifting back into the ED from his break like the night shift poltergeist he was born to be, bearing freshly refilled iced coffee and gossip, it seems. “Did you feel a change?”

“Really?” Lena calls, obviously intrigued, from her desk, thirty feet away but still somehow catching every word, eyes sparkling with lively interest.

“Um–” Is the contribution from their newest nurse, a polite young lady named Emma, whom Dana had warned Abbot, in no uncertain terms, to ‘treat as if she were your only daughter and keep her clean of as much night shift shit as possible or so help me’ when completing her hand-off and Emma's rotation into nights.

“Do you guys need to have codes for everything?” Joy interjects, another day shift victim turned to the dark side, sounding extremely irritable. “Why can't you just say…whatever the fuck this one means straight-up, no bullshit?”

“Well then it's not a fun night shift secr-” Shen begins, but is cut off.

“It means that Park the Shark got laid,” Ellis translates for Joy, looking up idly from where she's cleaning the grit from under her nails with a loose scalpel blade, ignoring the wounded glare Shen fires off in her direction.

“Within these very walls,” Shen intones with a solemn nod, as if they've just been consecrated by some higher power. “Mere hours ago, according to my reliable source, who shall as ever remain nameless, some brave soul was briefly observed jumping the good shark's bones and riding him for all he's worth.”

“Your nameless yet reliable source the secret hospital pervert?” Joy demands, unimpressed, eyebrow raised. She's yet to have her first shark encounter. Though Abbot suspects she'd have the same scepticism even if she had.

“Uh,” Emma raises a hand to interject into the conversation, “why is it important to know this information?”

“All knowledge is valuable, young one,” Shen tells her, somehow managing to slurp on his coffee sagely. “We know not when it might benefit us, but it is always better to know than to not.”

Ellis snorts, “it's useful for us to know, kid, because it means we actually have half a chance of getting an ortho consult if we page the arrogant bastard now, since he should be in a good mood after splitting some poor son-of-a-bitch in half,” she explains bluntly.

And because Shen likes to get paid to pine longingly over his ex and the days when he used to jump the shark, and for making it everyone elses’ problem, Jack doesn't say, because he's in charge here and he's supposed to be above things like petty and sordid gossip. Or at least appear that way.

“Any ideas on who this poor, ass-raw martyr for our cause is?” Lena calls over, having seemed up to this point utterly absorbed in her work and unaware of the discussion, but Jack knows her better than that.

“My sources sadly failed to provide a specific identity for the brave rider.”

“Mm, which means speculation,” Ellis grins, arms outstretched, offering up the floor for any takers to open the bidding process.

Then Jack, because he loves his team and feels it important to contribute to their morale and team-bonding, and because he's never met a pot he didn't want to stir, notes lightly, “you know, I'm pretty sure I caught Langdon limping a bit when he came back from his break earlier…”

The man in question serendipitously chooses that exact moment to amble in from checking on his patient. He stops dead. Somehow sensing the moment that six pairs of curious, searching eyes turn in his direction and immediately lock onto him like homing missiles.

Jack almost feels bad for him. Almost.