#youokaymel

[youokaymel]

how not to comfort your coworkers 101

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we love a silver goose fox

[youokaymel]

MEL, LANGDON, & BECCA'S INNER DIALOGUE | 2x10

becca king the wingwoman of the century

[youokaymel]

FRANK LANGDON'S INNER DIALOGUE | The Pitt 2x09 3:00PM

"Mel says nice things? like i'm a good mentor or like she'd want to hold my hand forever?" - dr. frank langdon, probably

[youokaymel]

nothing says "i'm so into you" like a tetanus shot <3

[youokaymel]

MEL KING x FRANK LANGDON | The Pitt 2x09 3:00PM Feat. Mel's first smile all shift and intense eye contact <3

[youokaymel]

hazard pay | a mel king x frank langdon drabble

Mel thinks he’s just being professional; Frank is just trying to remember how to breathe. Or, the one where they're both idiots in love..and in a supply closet.

The supply closet is the only place in the ED where the air doesn't vibrate. It’s a four-by-four vacuum of sterile plastic and industrial bleach—a momentary sanctuary from the screaming chaos outside the door.

Mel is on the step-stool—the one with the cracked wheel she’s been "meaning to report" since her residency started. She’s reaching for a box of 4x4 gauze, her scrub top riding up just enough to catch the cold draft of the vent. She’s five-foot-nothing and eighty hours into a work week; her center of gravity is currently a suggestion she’s failing to follow.

She slips.

She doesn’t hit the linoleum. Frank is suddenly there, a solid wall of navy scrubs and caffeine-jitter stillness. He doesn’t grab her—because that would be a Boundary, and Frank is a man made of boundaries—but he steps in close. Close enough that the heat radiating off his chest is a physical weight against her shoulder blades.

His hands are the worst part.

They’re up, hovering exactly two inches from her waist, fingers twitching like he’s trying to memorize her shape through the air alone.

He doesn’t catch her. He just jams the heavy toe of his surgical clog against the base of the stool to lock it.

"Careful, Mel," he grunts.

His voice is too low, vibrating in the narrow, breathless space between them. He’s staring at a stack of saline flushes like it’s a surgical site, his jaw clamped tight enough to crack a molar. That little dimple in his chin is deep—hollowed out by the sheer, bone-deep stress of not closing those last two inches.

Mel doesn't move. She stays on the stool a second too long, convinced he’s just being a very efficient human safety net while she’s over here practically evaporating. He’s so steady, she thinks, bitingly jealous. He probably does this for everyone.

"Thanks," she breathes, her voice a little too airy.

Frank doesn't look at her. He just nods, his face a mask of professional neutrality, and steps back to let her pass.

As Mel scurries out into the hallway, she risks a glance back over her shoulder. She sees him standing there, staring at his own hand. His fingers splay wide, trembling slightly, before curling into a tight, strained flex—the kind of movement someone makes when they’ve just burnt themselves on a hot stove.

Must be a cramp, she thinks, a little pang of sympathy hitting her. Poor guy. He’s probably been doing chest compressions all morning.

She turns the corner, mourning the fact that he’s just tired, while Frank stays in the closet and tries to remember how to breathe.

[ao3 link]

[youokaymel]

kiss it better | a mel king x frank langdon drabble

Frank Langdon is a man of science, but there is no clinical protocol for the way his chest tightens when Mel gets hurt by a patient. Or, the one where Frank loses his cool when he thinks about Mel getting hurt.

The heater in the car is broken, blowing a lukewarm breeze that does nothing to cut through the damp chill of a Pittsburgh night.

Mel is curled up in the passenger seat, staring out at the blurred neon signs of a 24-hour diner. Her neck is stiff, a faint purple bruise already blooming where a panicked patient had grabbed her while she was trying to get him onto a gurney. It was a messy, loud, standard-issue ED disaster—until Frank had vaulted over a gurney to get to her.

Now, Frank is driving like his life depends on it, but his eyes aren't on the road. They keep flicking to her, checking her pulse point, checking her breathing, checking the way she’s holding her shoulder.

"Frank, watch the light," Mel says quietly.

He doesn't answer. He just swerves a little too sharply into her parking lot. When he kills the engine, he doesn't move to get out. He just sits there, his hands still locked at ten and two, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.

"I'm fine," she tries again, reaching out to touch his arm. "He was just disoriented. It happens."

"It shouldn't happen to you," Frank snaps. His voice is jagged, stripped of that steady, practiced calm he tries to maintain in front of the senior doctors. He turns toward her, and in the dim light of the streetlamp, he looks young and completely wrecked. "I was halfway through an intubation in Bay 2 and I heard you scream. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

Mel reaches over, prying his right hand off the steering wheel. His fingers are stiff, and as she pulls them toward her, his hand does that signature, rhythmic flex against her palm—a desperate, grounding movement.

"I didn't scream, Frank. I just shouted for security."

"Same thing." He leans over the center console, his large frame crowding her space until the car feels tiny. He doesn't touch her face this time; instead, he just grabs the front of her hoodie, his hands shaking just enough for her to notice. "You’re the only thing in that building that makes sense to me, Mel. If you... if something..."

He loses the words, his jaw working as he fights the surge of adrenaline that hasn't quite left his system.

Mel doesn't wait for him to finish. She winds her fingers into his hair and pulls him down, meeting him halfway over the gear shift. It’s a clumsy, desperate kiss—one that tastes like hospital coffee and salt—but it breaks the tension.

Frank groans into her mouth, his hands sliding from her hoodie to her waist, pulling her as close as the bucket seats will allow. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, right next to the bruise, his breathing heavy and hot against her skin.

"Don't go back in tomorrow," he mutters, his voice muffled by her hair. "Call out. Say you’re sick."

Mel laughs softly, her fingers tracing the tense line of his spine. "You know I can't do that. Who's going to make sure you actually eat your lunch?"

Frank huffs a dry, shaky breath, finally pulling back just enough to look at her. "I'm serious. I'll forge a note. I’m a doctor, I can make it look official."

[ao3 link]