Personal: ✧˖*°࿐
Hiya!!! My name is Scotti, I'm 22, and have been a longtime writer! I just recently got into FanFic writing because I wanted to just test my abilities and writing skills as I start to begin a manuscript for my first ever book trilogy / series idea <3.
I'm proudly Scottish American, and live in between Scotland and Illinois, and have a vast portfolio of things I'm very much interested in! So be prepared for this page to be wilding out on all my fav shows/movies/books/interests, yk how it is.
My fandoms: ✧˖*°࿐
✦ Teen Wolf ✧ The Pitt ✦ Pretty Little Liars ✧ The Hunger Games ✦ 9-1-1 ✧ The Good Place ✦ The Vampire Diaries ✧ The Morning Show ✦ Red, White & Royal Blue ✧ Criminal Minds ✦ Star Trek ✧ Matlock ✦ Marvel ✧ DC ✦ The Testing Series ✧ Maze Runner ✦
FanFiction Masterlist: ✧˖*°࿐ HERE
My Request a Fic: ✧˖*°࿐ HERE
Current Fics: ✧˖*°࿐
Brave New World - Thiam - 3/??
Echoes of the Deep - Sceo - 2/??
Moving into my mind - Langtaker - 1/?
Subtle Aromas - Langtaker - 1/?
I only want Sympathy in the form of you - Langtaker - 1/?
LANGTAKER ! Little comic based on this great fic by ScottHulinde on AO3
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I really enjoyed reading this even if it was a one shot, we need more fics like these where its not JUST angst and anger and stuff, kudos to the autor!
Hiya my beautiful wonderful people, apologies for not being active recently but I have some super exciting information!!!
Ya boy submitted his dissertation!!! Which means I now have time to crank out these fics that I've had to put on the back burner because I deadass only had time to be an academic god for the past couple of weeks, my brain is fried and incredibly drained, but trust me that creative sauce is locked and loaded and ready to get the next chapters of a few fics out soon!!
Love you all, langtaker is peak, and most of all...
Dennis just wants to cuddle his boyfriend's bare chest. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, yes, when Frank has been hiding his toasted skin syndrome for months.
I got this inspiration from @pghumfort
Credit to @uzmacchiato for the Dividers <3
The heavy thud of the front door closing was the only sound that broke the profound quiet of the apartment. Dennis let out a bone-weary sigh, shrugging off his hoodie and letting it fall onto the arm of the couch. His entire body hummed with the exhaustion that came from a sixteen-hour shift, the kind that settled deep in his bones.
Behind him, Frank moved with a similar weariness, but his path was more direct. He took off his boots by the door, not bothering to untie the laces, and gave Dennis a tired, fleeting smile. “I’m gonna grab a change of clothes,” he murmured, his voice rough from underuse.
Before Dennis could even offer a grunt of acknowledgment, Frank was disappearing down the hall, the bedroom door closing softly but decisively shut behind him.
Dennis stood in the living room, listening to the muffled whirr of the ensuite bathroom fan. Same as always. For the last eight months, since Frank had returned from rehab, since he’d traded his addiction for grim determination and a mattress that cost more than their dining table, Dennis had never seen him without a shirt. Not once. In the hazy mornings, Frank was always already dressed. On the rare humid nights, he’d sleep in a thin, worn cotton t-shirt. Showering was always a private affair, the door locked, the cloud of steam the only evidence he’d been in there at all.
Dennis had initially chalked it up to lingering body image issues from the weight he’d lost during his darkest days. He’d respected it, given him space, and loved him quietly from the other side of a t-shirt. But tonight, the exhaustion and the persistent, gnawing curiosity got the better of him. He just wanted to hold his boyfriend. He wanted to feel the solid warmth of Frank’s skin against his own, to rest his head on his bare chest and listen to his heartbeat, a steady rhythm that meant they were both okay, that they had made it through. He wanted the cotton barrier gone.
His feet moved before his brain could stop them, tiptoeing silently down the hall. He pushed the bedroom door open gently, the room dim and smelling faintly of the new candles Dennis had recently gotten. The ensuite light was on, the door open a crack. Through the gap, he could see Frank. He had just pulled a fresh white t-shirt over his head, the hem falling to his hips.
But Dennis saw it. In the split second before the shirt settled, the mirror above the sink reflected Frank’s. His lower back. It was mottled with a strange pattern of red and brown, like a web or a roadmap of something painful burned into his skin. It looked angry and scarred.
A strangled noise escaped Dennis’s throat. A sharp, high-pitched shriek of shock and alarm. “Frank?!”
Frank spun around, his eyes wide. The shock on his face instantly morphed into a thunderous scowl, his jaw tightening. “What the hell, Dennis?” His voice was a low growl. “Were you spying on me?”
“What? No, I-” Dennis stammered, his eyes still wide with a mixture of horror and confusion. “Your back, Frank. What happened to your back? It looks like… like it’s burnt.”
Frank’s expression shuttered. He brushed past Dennis into the bedroom. “It’s nothing. It’s none of your business.”
“None of my business?” Dennis followed him, his own shock turning to a flare of hurt and anger. “I’m your boyfriend, Frank. I’m your partner. Of course, it’s my business. What is it?”
“I said it’s none of your goddamn business!” Frank roared, wheeling around and getting in Dennis’s face. His breath was hot, his body rigid with tension.
Dennis flinched back, a flicker of something cold and unwelcome twisting in his gut. It wasn’t fear, but a deep-seated unease. The sight of that angry skin, the secrecy, the yelling, it was all too much. “It is my business!” he insisted, his voice rising to meet Frank’s. “I have a right to know what’s going on with you!”
With a frustrated growl, Frank shoved Dennis hard in the chest. It wasn’t a punch, but it was forceful enough to send Dennis stumbling back a couple of steps. “Just fuck off, Dennis! Leave it alone!”
The hurt, the confusion, the lingering disgust at the unknown, all crystallized into a hot, sharp rage. Before he knew what he was doing, Dennis’s hand connected with Frank’s cheek in a sharp, stinging slap.
The sound echoed in the room. Frank stared at him, stunned.
“You’re going to tell me what’s going on,” Dennis said, his voice trembling but low. “Right now.”
He grabbed Frank’s wrist, his grip surprisingly strong, and yanked him towards the bed. With a final surge of frustration, he pushed, and Frank fell back onto the mattress with a soft grunt. The sound wasn’t just one of surprise; a low, pained moan escaped his lips as his back absorbed the impact.
Dennis didn’t hesitate. He ducked down, his lips brushing the shell of Frank’s ear. “You’re a bad boy, you know that?” he whispered, the words laced with frustration. Then, with a surge of strength, he grabbed the collar of Frank’s pristine white t-shirt and pulled. The worn cotton gave way with a sharp, definitive rrriiippp, the sound ripping through the tense air. He tore it clean down the middle, peeling the two halves away to leave Frank bare from the waist up, clad only in his sweat shorts.
Dennis straightened up, his breath ragged. He looked down. The pattern on Frank’s lower back was even more stark in the dim light, a crazy pattern of discoloration, a lasting brand. Slowly, hesitantly, he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out, his fingertips grazing the marbled skin. It felt slightly different, a little more tender than the surrounding flesh. “Frank,” he whispered, his anger dissolving into a raw ache. “What is this?”
Frank’s body was shaking. He turned his head away, burying his face in the comforter, but not before Dennis saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. A choked sound escaped him, a sob he tried to strangle.
“Hot water bottles,” Frank whispered, his voice muffled and broken. “When you’re not here… the pain gets bad. Obviously my Doctor said no more pills, so… I use them. I fall asleep with them. It helps.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I didn’t want you to see. I knew you’d worry. I knew you’d look at me and just see… a broken mess…”
A wave of profound sadness washed over Dennis, followed closely by a surge of fierce, protective love. He leaned forward and delivered a sharp, resounding smack to Frank’s ass. Frank jolted, a yelp of surprise muffled by the blanket.
Dennis leaned down again, his lips next to Frank’s ear, his voice soft but firm. “I will always worry about you, you idiot. That’s what loving you is.” He pulled back, his hand gently stroking the toasted skin. “You didn’t think I’d understand? You’ve been hiding this from me, carrying it alone.” He stood up and gave his backside another, lighter smack. “Get comfortable Frank. On your stomach.”
Sniffling, Frank shimmied deeper onto the bed, his eyes red-rimmed and questioning.
Dennis reached for a bottle of lotion on the nightstand, the one he’d seen move around Frank’s dresser for the past few months. He squeezed a generous amount into his palms, rubbing them together to warm it. “I’m going to give you the best deep tissue massage I can,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he looked at the man he loved, at the marks of his silent suffering. “And then, we’re going to talk. No more secrets, Frank. Not about this. Okay?” He placed his warm, slick hands on Frank’s lower back, right over the damaged skin, and began to work.
Frank grunted, a low, guttural sound that rumbled up from deep in his chest as Dennis’s strong hands found a particularly vicious knot just to the left of his spine. His face was buried in the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut, but the sound was pure, unadulterated pleasure.
“Oh, God,” he mumbled into the fabric, his voice thick. “Right there!”
Dennis chuckled softly, leaning more of his weight into the heel of his hand, working the tight muscle in slow, circular motions. “Yeah? Feel that?”
Frank’s only response was another groan, his fingers gripping the edges of the pillowcase. The tension that had been coiled in his body for what felt like years was slowly, painfully, beautifully being unwound under Dennis’s patient hands.
“I’m sorry,” Frank choked out, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a bad boyfriend. Hiding this from you, lying-”
SMACK.
Dennis’s palm connected with Frank’s backside again, cutting off his apology mid-sentence. Frank yelped, then let out a surprised huff of laughter.
“You’re not a bad boyfriend,” Dennis said firmly, resuming his massage without missing a beat. “But you are a dumbass. A grade A, certified dumbass.”
Frank actually laughed this time, a real laugh that shook his shoulders and ended in a wince as it jostled his sore back. “Fair enough,” he admitted. “That’s… yeah, that’s fair.”
Dennis smiled, but his expression softened as he looked at the mottled skin beneath his hands. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the center of Frank’s lower back, right over the worst of it. Frank’s breath hitched.
“I love you,” Dennis whispered against his skin. “No matter what. You get that? No matter what your back looks like, no matter what you’ve been through, no matter how much of a dumbass you are sometimes.” He kissed the spot again. “I love you.”
Frank’s eyes burned with fresh tears. He swallowed hard, unable to speak.
Dennis went back to work, his hands gliding over Frank’s back with practiced ease. He found another knot near Frank’s tailbone and pressed in, and Frank immediately tensed, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth.
“Easy,” Dennis murmured. “Breathe through it.”
Frank tried, he really did, but every time Dennis’s fingers got too close to that hypersensitive area near his spine, his whole body would lock up. Dennis didn’t push too hard, just worked around it, coaxing the muscles to release gradually.
And then, slowly, miraculously, Frank felt something give. A release so profound it was spiritual. He let out a long, shuddering exhale, his entire body going limp against the mattress.
“There we go,” Dennis said softly, a note of pride in his voice. “That’s it. Good boy.”
Frank huffed a weak laugh. “I’ve never… I’ve never felt that before. That much release. It’s like… like something just let go.”
Dennis chuckled, continuing to work the now-relaxed muscles. “That’s the perks of having a farm boy as a boyfriend.” He dug his thumb into a spot near Frank’s hip, making him twitch. “Back home in Nebraska, you learn how to get a knot out of anything. The cows, when they’ve been standing too long, the horses after a long ride…” He leaned down, his lips brushing Frank’s ear. “Even the very stupid cow lying down in front of me right now.”
Frank snorted, then, with a surprising burst of energy, flipped onto his back. Before Dennis could react, he reached up, grabbed handfuls of Dennis’s scrubs, and yanked him down on top of him. Dennis let out an “Oof!” as he landed on Frank’s chest.
Frank ignored the minor discomfort and pressed a kiss to Dennis’s forehead, right between his eyebrows. “I am not,” he said firmly, “a dumb cow.”
Dennis giggled, actually giggled, and Frank felt his heart swell at the sound. It was so precious. Dennis wriggled, getting comfortable, and finally, finally rested his head on Frank’s bare chest, right over his heart.
“You definitely are,” Dennis murmured, his voice already getting sleepy. “But you’re my dumb cow.”
Frank snorted again, but his hand came up to cradle the back of Dennis’s head, his fingers threading through the soft auburn hair there. He played with it idly, twisting the strands around his fingers, watching the way the dim night light caught the reddish highlights.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were their breathing, slowly syncing up, and the distant hum of the city outside their window.
Dennis felt it then. The warmth. Frank’s body heat, radiating through without the barrier of a shirt, seeping into his own skin. It was better than he’d ever imagined. And underneath that warmth was the steady, reliable thump-thump of Frank’s heartbeat against his cheek.
He closed his eyes, a small smile playing at his lips. No cotton barrier. No secrets. No worry that Frank was hiding something in the dark spaces between them.
Just this. Just them.
Frank looked down at the auburn head on his chest, at the man who had just seen him at his most vulnerable, and responded with nothing but love and strong hands and a smart mouth. His own eyes grew heavy, a peace settling over him that he hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever.
“Hey, Dennis?” he whispered.
“Mhm?”
“I love you too. For the record.”
Dennis smiled against his skin. “I know, dumbass. Now go to sleep.”
Frank chuckled softly, his hand never stopping its gentle motion in Dennis’s hair. And for the first time in eight months, he fell asleep without a shirt on, without shame, without fear.
He just fell asleep, wrapping his arms around the man who loved him.
After a brutal fifteen-hour shift, exhausted resident Dennis Whitaker comes home to a dark and quiet apartment, expecting nothing more than to collapse. Instead, he finds his boyfriend, Frank, waiting with a room full of candlelight, a breathtaking blue suit, and a reservation at the most exclusive restaurant in the city. Grumpiness doesn't stand a chance.
Credit to @uzmacchiato for the Dividers <3
The key turning in the lock felt heavier than usual. Dennis Whitaker shrugged his shoulder against the door, nudging it open with a weary sigh that seemed to originate from his very bones. A fifteen-hour shift at Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Centre would do that to a person. His black scrubs were rumpled, his auburn hair was left, right, and sideways in dramatic wisps, and there was a faint but distinct smell of antiseptic and stale coffee clinging to him.
The house was dark and quiet. A grumble, low and pitiful, escaped his lips. Of course. Frank was off today. Frank was probably relaxed, well-rested, and had probably done something incredibly productive and wholesome like meal-prepping for both of them or finally reading that book that was stuck forever on his nightstand. Meanwhile, Dennis felt like he’d been wrestling cement mixers and a herd of cats.
He dumped his bag by the door, not caring where it landed. He was mentally composing a text to Frank, not even checking if he was actually texting on his phone. Something along the lines of I am a zombie. A very grumpy, hungry zombie. Please tell me you saved me some dinner. When all of a sudden, a soft click sounded from the living room.
The room was bathed in the warm, soft glow of a dozen flickering electronic candles. They were nestled on every available surface: the coffee table, the mantlepiece, the bookshelves. The air was sweet with the scent of vanilla and roses. And standing in the middle of it all, looking like he’d just stepped out of a sex dream Dennis didn’t know he was having, was Frank.
Dennis’s brain, sluggish from exhaustion, ground to a complete halt.
Frank was wearing a suit. Not his usual very casual off-duty wear, but a suit of the most breathtaking ocean blue Dennis had ever seen. It was the color of Lake Michigan he’d visited once when he went to Chicago; it was the exact shade of a summer sky just after dusk. And it did something incredible to Frank’s eyes. They weren’t just blue; they were the same deep, sparkling azure as the suit, reflecting the candlelight and looking at Dennis with such warmth and adoration that it stole the air from his lungs.
Frank grinned, a slow, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Farm Boy.”
Dennis just stared, his mouth slightly agape. All the grumpiness, all the exhaustion, had been zapped out of him, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming surge of heat that rushed to his cheeks. He could feel the blush creeping up his neck, painting his face a bright crimson. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled, flustered noise.
Frank’s grin widened. He loved seeing the formidable powerhouse of a second-year resident reduced to a speechless, blushing mess. He crossed the room in a few easy strides.
“You’re… you’re wearing a suit,” Dennis finally managed, his voice a whisper. “A… really, really blue suit.”
“I am,” Frank confirmed, his voice a low murmur. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Dennis’s face. “And you’re wearing the expression of a man who’s just seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” Dennis breathed, finally finding his voice. “Just… the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.” He leaned in, and Frank met him halfway. The kiss was soft, tender, a perfect antidote to the long, harsh day. It tasted of home, and mint gum, and the faint, expensive cologne Frank was wearing.
After a long, perfect moment, they broke apart, their foreheads resting together. Frank’s lips curved against Dennis’s skin as he whispered, his voice dropping to a low, sensual purr that sent shivers straight down Dennis’s spine, “I’ve got a little surprise for you, too. Why don’t you go check the bedroom?”
For a second, Dennis just blinked, lost in the proximity and that voice. Then the words registered. A surprise. The bedroom. He was off like a cheetah, his exhaustion completely forgotten. Frank let out a surprised, delighted laugh as Dennis nearly flew out of his arms and down the hallway.
He burst into their bedroom and stopped dead. Laid out on the bed, crisp and perfect, was a suit. It was a deep, rich indigo, his absolute favorite color. He reached out a trembling hand to touch the fabric. It was expensive, soft, and it was in his exact size. It was as if Frank had somehow stolen his measurements in the night and had it custom-made.
“FRANK!” he yelled, his voice echoing through the apartment. There was no response, only the faint sound of Frank’s chuckle from the living room.
Grinning like a maniac, Dennis tore off his grimy black scrubs, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He pulled on the crisp white shirt, the indigo trousers that fit like a glove, and the matching jacket. He spritzed himself generously with his favourite cologne, the one Frank had bought him for Christmas.
A quick glance in the mirror confirmed it: he looked good. He looked happy and undeniably in love, even if he was a little unrested. He rushed back out to the living room and launched himself into Frank’s waiting arms.
Frank caught him easily, laughing. “Someone’s happy.”
“Happy? Frank, I love it. It’s perfect. It’s my favourite colour. How did you even?!”
Frank shushed him with a gentle finger to his lips, his eyes soft. He then took a moment, his hands moving with the same focused precision he used in the ER. He gently adjusted Dennis’s tousled ducktail. Then, with meticulous care, he reached up and did up the top button of Dennis’s shirt, his knuckles brushing against the skin of his throat. The simple, intimate gesture was more romantic than any grand speech.
“There,” Frank murmured, his eyes scanning Dennis from head to toe with clear approval. “Perfect.”
Dennis felt the blush return, hotter this time. “You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, but his eyes shone with adoration.
Frank just smiled, his hands coming to rest on Dennis’s waist. “Now,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, excited pitch. “I know how much you’ve been wanting to try real sushi. The good stuff.” He paused for effect. “So I got us a five-course tasting menu at OTARU.”
Dennis’s jaw dropped for the second time that night. OTARU was the newest, most exclusive, and most notoriously hard-to-book Japanese restaurant in the city. People made reservations months in advance. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about date nights,” Frank said solemnly, his eyes twinkling. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dennie.”
Dennis just shook his head, a wide, incredulous smile spreading across his face. He was exhausted, he was flustered, and he was standing in his living room in a brand-new, perfect suit, about to go to the best restaurant in the city with the man who looked at him like he’d hung the moon. The grumpy resident was gone, replaced by the luckiest man in Pittsburgh.
HEAVILY INSPIRED BY THE I ONLY WANT SYMPATHY IN THE FORM OF YOU COMIC SERIES BY THE ONE AND ONLY @trickytrick
After earning his place in the ER, Dennis Whitaker thought he'd finally secured Dr. Robby's mentorship for good. But with a new intern on the scene, Dennis finds himself pushed aside, his attending's attention redirected to someone shinier. As he struggles with being replaced, an unexpected invitation from Frank Langdon offers a lifeline through the grey.
The August sun was a liar.
It streamed through the windows of the Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center, lobby, and through the Ambulance bay doors, painting bright squares of light on the polished floor. Outside, the city was enjoying a picture-perfect summer day, the kind that made you want to call in sick and find a rooftop bar with a cold drink. Inside, for Dennis Whitaker, however, it might as well have been a cold, Grey November mist rolling in from the Appalachians.
He sat hunched over a workstation in his wee corner desk of the ER, the glow of a patient’s chart illuminating his face. The usual hum of the department, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, the low murmur of consultations, felt muffled, like he was hearing it all from underwater. His mouse moved mechanically, filling in boxes, checking labs, the motions as familiar as breathing. But his mind was elsewhere, replaying a highlight reel that had abruptly stopped showing his best moments.
His eyes, without his permission, drifted across the bullpen. There, at the central station, stood Dr. Robby. He was leaning against the counter, a posture of complete, relaxed attention. His head was tilted slightly, listening intently to the new intern, Fletcher Ionadair, who was animatedly explaining something on a patient’s X-ray. Fletcher gestured, and Robby nodded, a small, approving smile playing on his lips. Then, as if to punctuate the lesson, Robby reached out and gave Fletcher’s shoulder a quick, firm squeeze. A simple gesture. A node.
Dennis felt the familiar, dull ache in his chest. He looked away, back to his chart, but not before catching the scene playing out a few feet away. Elouise Liberaté and Francisca Nyu, the two new students, were huddled together with Trinity, watching a procedure. They were eager, bright, and soaking up everything. They were the future. And somewhere in that future, Dennis felt like he was being written into the past.
He remembered his own first weeks. The terrifying chaos, the impostor syndrome so thick he could choke on it. And through it all, there was Robby. A quiet presence, a hand on his back as he’d fumbled with a central line, a low “You’ve got this” muttered in his ear during a code, a shared look of exhausted camaraderie after a particularly brutal night. Dennis had worked for those nods, those fist bumps. He’d stayed late, he’d read every journal article Robby ever mentioned, and he’d absorbed every piece of feedback like it was gospel. He thought he’d built something. A rapport. A mentorship. A connection.
He thought he’d been more than just another resident cycling through the program. He thought he’d become Dennis.
It was the little things. Or rather, it was the absence of the little things.
He’d walked in that morning with Trinity, coffee in hand, and passed Dr. Robby in the hallway. The attending had been leaning against a bay door, arms crossed, a small, genuine smile on his face as he listened to the new intern, Fletcher Ionadair, animatedly describe a patient presentation. Dr. Robby’s nod was the kind he used to give Dennis, one of quiet, focused approval. He hadn’t even seemed to notice Dennis walk by.
Then there was the central venous catheter in Room 3. A tricky one on a dehydrated, elderly man. Last year, Dennis should have felt Dr. Robby’s presence at his shoulder like a warm, steady force. He would have heard the low, encouraging, “You’re doing a good job, Whittaker,” before he’d even started. Today, he’d done it flawlessly, demonstrating it in front of the two new students, Elouise and Francisca, and when he’d looked up, Dr. Robby was across the room, showing Fletcher the nuances of a Capsule Endoscopy, their heads bent close together. The quiet approval Dennis had worked so hard for, the fist bumps that said good job, the brief, grounding touch on the shoulder after a tough case, it had all evaporated, siphoned away, redirected towards the new intern.
Dennis knew it was irrational. He was starting his R2 year. He was supposed to be more independent. He was more independent. But the transition felt less like a promotion and more like an abandonment. He had earned his place, proven himself in the trenches of his student years, bled tears and sweat on these very floors. He thought that bought him a permanent spot under Dr. Robby’s wing. Instead, it felt like the attending had packed up his mentorship, his support, and quietly vacated the premises of Dennis’s career, leaving behind a colleague in his place.
He wasn’t jealous of Fletcher, not really. The kid seemed sharp, if a little eager. He was just starting out. He deserved attention.
It was the loss that stung. The loss of something he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding so tightly. He had spent years proving himself, and he had assumed that would cement his place in Robby’s orbit. Instead, it seemed to have graduated him right out of it.
He sighed, a long, slow exhale that seemed to carry the weight of the entire week. The sorrow he felt wasn’t a sharp pain, but a dull ache, a cold knot of disappointment lodged right behind his sternum. He stared at the chart, the words blurring together.
“Dennis?”
The voice was soft, concerned. He turned to find Javadi, her R1 status still practically shining like the new badge on her scrubs. Behind her stood Langdon, now an Attending, whose calm, observant eyes missed very little these days.
“You okay?” Victoria asked, her brow furrowed. She leaned against the back of a nearby chair. “You’ve been staring at that lab result for five minutes.”
Langdon moved to his other side, his presence a quiet anchor. “You look like you’re a million miles away,” he said, his tone gentle but direct, like it had been since he had come back from Rehab last year. “And not someplace sunny, either.”
Dennis blinked, forcing a tight, unconvincing smile onto his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… a lot of charting.”
Victoria and Langdon exchanged a quick, knowing glance. It was the glance of two people who knew the bullshit of ‘fine’ when they heard it.
“It’s not the charting,” Langdon said. It wasn’t a question.
Dennis opened his mouth to deflect again, to retreat back into the privacy of his own misery. But the genuine concern in their eyes was a different kind of warmth than the deceptive summer sun outside. It was real. And in that moment, sitting in his self-imposed grey mist, it felt like a lighthouse beam. He looked from Victoria’s earnest face to Langdon’s steady gaze, and the carefully constructed walls he’d built around his feelings all week began to crack.
Dennis held their gaze for a beat longer than he intended, the urge to confide in them warring with the deep-seated need to handle his own problems. He was a resident now. He was supposed to have his act together. Complaining that his favorite attending didn’t pay him enough attention felt petty, childish, even if the ache in his chest was anything but.
He broke eye contact first, glancing back at the glowing screen.
“Nah, I’m good, really,” he said, his voice a little too bright, a little too quick. “Just didn’t sleep great last night. That’s all.”
Victoria’s worried frown melted into a knowing grin. “Ah,” she said, nodding sagely. “Let me guess. Trinity dragged you out to some club in the Gay District again and kept you out till two?” She laughed, a light, teasing sound. “She’s got that weird talent for that, doesn’t she? Making you feel like you’re gonna have a low-key night and then suddenly it’s lights on, and your feet are killing you.”
Landon’s lips curved into a small, warm smile. He reached out and gave Dennis’s shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze, as if to tell Dennis that he knew. “You know, Dennis, it’s okay to say no. Standing on business, as you kids say. You’re allowed to tap out and go home.”
A genuine, if tired, chuckle escaped him. The image of Trinity, all relentless energy and infectious laughter, trying to drag a reluctant him onto a crowded dance floor was a familiar one. And Langdon’s gentle, no-nonsense advice was a comfort in its own way, a reminder of the quieter support system that still existed around him.
“Yeah,” he agreed, the smile lingering for a moment. “You’re right. I should definitely start standing on business more. Draw a line in the sand.”
Before either of them could respond, a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise of the ER.
“Javadi! Whittaker!”
Trinity Santos materialized behind them, a wide, cheerful grin plastered on her face. She was shepherding two young women who looked around with wide, eager eyes. Elouise Liberaté, with her bright, inquisitive gaze, and Francisca Nyu, whose quiet composure seemed at odds with the department's chaos. Trinity was already tugging her sage jumper off, revealing the scrubs underneath.
“Alright, listen up,” she announced, slinging the coat over her arm. “Joy and I are grabbing a proper lunch for once. Off-site. No pagers, no interruptions, just greasy food and fifteen minutes of pretending we don’t work here.” She gestured towards the students. “So, I need you two to show doctors Liberaté, Nyu… and I guess Ionadair around triage for a bit. Give ‘em the lay of the land, show ‘em how we don’t let old Mr. Ventre convince you his chest pain is just ‘a touch of indigestion’ for the third time this month.”
Langdon nodded, his gaze shifting to the students with a practiced, assessing warmth. “Sounds good. Just make sure they check in with me, Dr. McKay, or Dr. Mohan after they’ve shadowed a few consults. We want them to make a variety of presentations.”
“You got it, Frankenstein,” Victoria said, already turning her attention to the students. “Alright, you two, welcome to the front lines.”
Dennis looked back at his charting, at the unfinished task that suddenly felt like a life raft. He could stay here, huddled over his computer, marinating in his own gloom. Or he could do what he was trained to do. Push it aside, put on a professional face, and do the job. It was only four more hours. He could be professional for four more hours. He was being dramatic, wallowing in a silly, self-indulgent slump. Time to snap out of it.
He pushed back from the desk and mustered a smile as he looked up at Elouise and Francisca. They were both smiling back, a little nervously, clearly grateful for something to do. They looked bright, eager, ready to learn. Just like he had been. Just like Fletcher probably still was.
“Alright, ladies,” he said, turning to Victoria with a forced lightness. “Should we show the girls how we properly handle triage? The sacred art of figuring out who’s actually dying and who just needs a turkey sandwich and some reassurance?”
Victoria grinned. “Lead the way, Huck.”
Dennis turned, gesturing for the students to follow, his smile still firmly in place. Then he saw him. Fletcher. Standing a few feet behind the two girls, hands in the pockets of his pristine black scrubs, with a tentative, almost apologetic look on his face. He’d been part of Trinity’s tow, apparently. Just standing there. Waiting.
Dennis’s stomach dropped. Of course. Of course, Trinity had brought him too. Why wouldn’t she? He was part of the new team now, the shiny new toy.
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he forced it back into place. He looked at Victoria, his voice carefully neutral. “And Fletcher…” he added, as if he’d just noticed him. “Looks like we’ve got a full house.”
He knew, logically, that he shouldn’t hold anything against the kid. Fletcher hadn’t asked for Dr. Robby’s attention. He hadn’t stolen anything. He was just an intern, trying to survive, trying to learn, probably just as anxious and desperate for approval as Dennis himself had been a year ago. But as Dennis looked at him, at his eager stance and uncertain eyes, all he could see was the space Fletcher now occupied. The space at Dr. Robby’s side during procedures. The space in the attending’s peripheral vision. The space Dennis had fought so hard for, bled for, and thought he’d finally secured.
Damn, he thought, the ache in his chest tightening again. He felt like he’d had his place stolen right out from under him. And the worst part was, the thief hadn’t even known he was stealing.
The walk to triage was a short one, but it gave Dennis a moment to realign his mental furniture. Push the Fletcher-shaped issue into a corner. Shove the Dr. Robby-shaped disappointment into a drawer. Focus on the task at hand.
Victoria, bless her, seemed to sense his need for space without him having to say a word. As they pushed through the double doors leading to the intake area, she naturally veered towards Fletcher, gesturing towards a triage bay.
“Alright, Fletcher, you’re with me,” she said, her tone all business but with an undercurrent of warmth. “We’re gonna start with the basics. Triage is ninety percent pattern recognition and ten percent trusting your gut when something feels off. You ready?”
Fletcher nodded eagerly, shooting a quick, almost apologetic glance towards Dennis before following Victoria towards the far end of the triage bay. The look said I don’t know why things are weird, but I’m sorry if I’m the reason. Dennis pretended not to notice.
He exhaled slowly, a quiet sigh of relief escaping him as he turned to face Elouise and Francisca. Good. Victoria had him. He could work with the girls. He could actually teach, actually focus, actually remind himself why he’d chosen this insane profession in the first place.
“Okay, you two,” he said, gesturing for them to follow him towards the intake desk. “Welcome to triage. This is where the chaos gets filtered into something resembling order. , Every walk-in, every person who waits in that room ends up here first.” He glanced between them. “Fresh off the bat, no charts, no history, no vitals yet, however, what are the signs you’re looking for that tell you a patient needs to be pulled out of the waiting room queue and sent straight to trauma?”
Elouise’s brow furrowed in concentration, her dark eyes scanning the room as if the answer might be written on the walls. “Uh, obvious internal bleeding?” she offered. “Like, if they’re actively hemorrhaging?”
Francisca nodded thoughtfully, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Visible dislocations. Or deformities. Things that need immediate reduction or stabilization.” She paused, then added, “Intense vomiting or diarrhea? Especially if there’s blood involved?”
Dennis felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. They were trying. They were thinking. It was more than he’d expected from students on their first real exposure to the ER.
“Okay, those are good,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Those are definitely reasons to escalate. Active bleeding, visible trauma, GI bleeds, those all need attention, and soon.” He let the pause hang for a beat. “But here’s the thing. A patient who’s vomiting blood? They’re still awake. They’re still telling you what happened. They’re still there. And that means you can still get a history, still start interventions, still have some semblance of control over the situation.”
He looked between them, making sure they were following. “The patient who needs to go to trauma immediately, no questions asked, no triage checklist required, is the one who’s unresponsive. The one you can’t wake up.” His voice dropped, becoming quieter, more serious. “An unresponsive patient is the hardest one to care for, because they can’t tell you what’s wrong. They can’t tell you where it hurts. They can’t tell you what happened. You’re flying blind, working off vitals and instinct and whatever story their body is telling you. And you have to be fast, because every second you spend guessing is a second they’re not getting the help they actually need.”
Elouise and Francisca exchanged a glance, then nodded slowly, their expressions shifting from academic curiosity to something more sober. They were starting to understand. Good.
The automatic doors whooshed open behind them, admitting a blast of warm summer air and the low rumble of the waiting room beyond, coughing, a crying child, the murmur of anxious conversations. Through the window in the doors, Dennis could see the rows of plastic chairs, the flickering TV mounted in the corner, the tired faces of people who’d been waiting too long.
Lupe caught his eye from behind the intake desk, her fingers already poised over the keyboard. She was a fortress of calm in the chaos, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. She’d been working this desk longer than most of the residents had been practicing medicine, and she’d probably forgotten more about patient flow than they’d ever learn.
“Whittaker,” she called out, not bothering with pleasantries. “You look functional. You taking someone?”
Dennis approached the desk, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, put me in, coach. Who’s up?”
Lupe’s fingers clacked across the keyboard for a moment before she pulled a patient's passport from the printer and slid it across the counter to him. The familiar form, name, age, chief complaint, triage notes waiting to be filled. A tiny sliver of order in the chaos.
“You teaching today?” she asked, glancing past him at Elouise and Francisca. “How long you gonna be out here?”
Dennis shrugged, picking up the passport. “Rest of the afternoon, maybe? Just getting the new student docs acclimated to triage on a busy summer day. Figured they should see the real deal before we throw them into the deep end tomorrow.”
Lupe’s weathered face creased into a rare, genuine smile. “That’s a good idea. Smart.” She nodded approvingly. “Wish more residents thought that way. A few years back, I had a senior just hand a student a stack of passports and say, ‘Figure it out.’ The kid was lost for three hours.” She shook her head, then gestured towards the waiting room. “Number 137. Middle-aged male, abdominal pain, came in by private vehicle. He’s been out there about two hours and forty minutes. Take Triage Room 2.”
Dennis felt something loosen in his chest. Lupe’s approval, small as it was, meant more than she probably knew. It was a reminder that he was good at this. That he had skills, instincts, a reputation that preceded him. Dr. Robby might have shifted his attention elsewhere, but Lupe still saw him. Still trusted him.
He turned, handing the passport to Francisca. “Alright, Doctor Nyu,” he said, the title deliberate, a small gift of respect. “You’re up. Go call out number 137, nice and loud so they can hear you over the noise of that room, and bring them back to Triage Room 2. Elouise, you’re with me. We’ll get set up.”
Francisca’s eyes widened slightly, the passport clutched in her hands like a sacred text. She glanced at the door leading to the waiting room, then back at Dennis, a flicker of nervousness crossing her usually composed features.
“Just… call the number?” she asked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Dennis confirmed, offering her an encouraging nod. “They’ll know the drill. Just lead them back. You’ve got this.”
Francisca took a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed through the doors into the waiting room. Dennis watched her go for a moment, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He remembered his first time calling a number from triage. His voice had cracked on the second syllable. She was already doing better than he had.
He turned to Elouise, gesturing for her to follow him towards Triage Room 2. “Come on. Let’s get the blood pressure cuff ready and show you how we separate real abdominal pain from ‘I ate a bad burrito and now I’m scared’ abdominal pain.”
As they walked, he realized something. For the first time all day, the grey mist in his head had lifted, just a little. Not gone. But thinner. Manageable. Maybe teaching was the distraction he needed. Maybe being useful was the antidote to feeling replaced.
Or maybe, he thought, as he pushed open the door to Triage Room 2, he just needed to remember that he still had a place here. Even if it wasn’t the one he’d wanted.
Three hours and eleven patients later, Dennis felt almost human again.
The rhythm of triage had worked its usual magic. It was familiar. It was comfortable. It was exactly what he needed to stop thinking about everything else.
Elouise had proven to be sharp, asking good questions about atypical presentations and picking up on subtle cues that most first-years missed. Francisca had a calm bedside manner that seemed to put even the most agitated patients at ease. They were good. Really good. And watching them learn, watching them grow in real-time over the course of a dozen sore throats, possible fractures, and one memorable gentleman who’d insisted his chest pain was ‘just gas’ until his EKG came back showing otherwise, it reminded Dennis why he’d wanted to teach in the first place.
He leaned against the counter in Triage Room 2, glancing at the clock. Almost six-twenty. His shift ended at seven. He could do this.
“Alright, you two,” he said, pushing off from the counter and stretching his arms overhead. His back cracked in three places. He was getting too old for this, and he wasn’t even that old. “One more. One more patient, and then I’m cutting you loose to finish your charting. Deal?”
Elouise’s face lit up. Francisca nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a small smile.
“One more,” Elouise confirmed. “We can do one more.”
Dennis grabbed the last patient passport from the small stack Lupe had given him and held it out. “Then get to it, Doctor Liberaté. Number 152. You’ve earned the final walk.”
Elouise took the passport like it was a gold medal, clutching it to her chest for a brief, dramatic moment before pushing through the doors into the waiting room. Dennis watched her go, a genuine smile tugging at his lips, before turning back to Francisca.
“She’s got good energy,” he observed. “A little theatrical, but good energy.”
Francisca smiled quietly. “She’s always been like that. It works, though. Patients trust her.”
They waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. The doors buzzed open and closed, open and closed, but Elouise didn’t reappear. Dennis frowned, glancing towards the window that looked out into the waiting room. He could see Elouise standing near some rows of plastic chairs, passport in hand, looking around with obvious confusion.
“That’s weird,” he murmured.
Before he could go check, the door to their triage bay opened again, but it wasn’t Elouise. It was Fletcher, his scrubs slightly rumpled, a crease of concentration between his brows. He spotted Dennis and Francisca and veered towards them, his expression shifting to something more tentative.
“Hey,” he said, slightly breathless. “Is, uh. Is everything okay? I saw Elouise out there looking kind of lost.”
Dennis felt the familiar tightness in his chest at the sight of Fletcher, but he pushed it down. Focus. Professional. “She went to get our last patient. Number 152…”
Fletcher nodded slowly, then his eyes widened slightly. “Oh. Oh, wait.” He glanced back towards the waiting room, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I was coming back from grabbing a patient earlier, and I noticed someone in the corner. The older woman looked really out of it. I thought she might be deaf. I saw her hands moving, like she was signing to herself, but no one was responding.” He hesitated. “I was going to check on her myself, but then I saw Elouise and thought maybe… maybe she’s the one who didn’t hear her number get called?”
Dennis blinked. Fletcher had noticed. Fletcher had paid attention. Fletcher, whom he’d been resenting all day, had spotted a patient that everyone else would have overlooked.
For a moment, he didn’t know what to feel. The minor resentment was still there, even though it really shouldn’t be. But so was something else. Respect. Reluctant, respect.
He exhaled, forcing his expression into something neutral, then warm. Professional. “Good catch,” he said, and meant it. “Really good catch.” He glanced towards the waiting room, then back at Fletcher. “Hey, can you do me a favor? Grab Elouise, take her with you, and go check if that’s our patient. If it is, bring her back here. I’ll get set up.”
Fletcher’s face brightened, the tentative expression melting into something hopeful. “Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. On it.”
He turned and pushed through the doors, disappearing into the waiting room. Dennis watched him go, the complicated knot in his chest twisting again.
“You okay?”
He turned to find Victoria standing in the doorway of Trauma Bay 1, arms crossed, head tilted. Behind her, he could see Dr. King already settling in. Victoria shrugged, a small what-can-you-do gesture.
“Dennis. You good?”
Dennis nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Fine. Just… Fletcher’s bringing in a possible deaf patient. Elouise couldn’t find her.”
Victoria’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Fletcher? He’s helping?”
“He noticed her first,” Dennis admitted. The words tasted strange in his mouth. “Good instincts.”
Victoria studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes seeing more than he wanted her to see. Then she nodded slowly, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Huh. Well. Good for him.” She jerked her thumb back towards the bay. “I gotta get back. Cassie’s about to do a fracture realignment, and I want to watch. Holler if you need backup.”
She disappeared back into the ward, and Dennis turned to Francisca. The younger woman was watching him with quiet, observant eyes, her expression unreadable.
“Okay,” Dennis said, pushing aside the tangle of emotions. “New plan. Francisca, do you know ASL at all?”
Francisca’s brow furrowed. She shook her head slowly. “I know English, Spanish, and Kriol. My grandmother spoke Kriol. But I never learned ASL. I’m sorry.”
Dennis waved off the apology. “Nothing to be sorry for. You can’t know everything.” He reached for the stack of completed patient passports on the counter, six of them, filled out neatly, triage notes complete, vitals recorded. He held them out to her. “Here. Take these, go finish your charting. See if you can get done early, and make sure to check with one of the attendings to give them a closing report.”
Francisca’s eyes widened. She took the passports like they were fragile, then broke into a genuine smile. “Really? But we still have-”
“Really,” Dennis confirmed. “You’ve earned it. Go on, get out of here before I change my mind.”
Francisca actually laughed and clutched the passports to her chest. “Thank you, Dr. Whittaker. Thank you so much.”
She was already heading for the door when it swung open, admitting Elouise and Fletcher, and between them, a woman, who Fletcher told Dennis was Miriam, looked to be in her sixties, her grey hair disheveled, her face pale and drawn. She moved slowly, carefully, one hand cradled against her chest. As she came through the door, Dennis could see why.
A deep, ragged gash ran across the palm of her left hand, still oozing blood through a makeshift wrapping of paper towels someone had given her in the waiting room. The wound was dirty, with uneven edges, clearly in need of more than a bandage.
Fletcher, his expression earnest and focused, signed something to the woman as they guided her to the exam chair. His hands moved fluidly, naturally, the signs crisp and clear. The woman’s face, which had been tight with pain and isolation, softened slightly. She signed back, a quick, jerky motion that Dennis couldn’t follow, and Fletcher nodded, signing an apology in return. His movements slowed, becoming more deliberate, more emphatic. Sorry, we couldn’t find you Miriam. Long wait. Sorry.
Dennis watched, momentarily struck silent. Fletcher wasn’t just faking it. He wasn’t just picking up a few signs to look good. He was fluent. Comfortable. The kind of comfort that came from real practice, real connection.
The resentment flickered, wavered.
Dennis stepped forward, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. “Fletcher,” he said, his voice steady, professional. “You good with translation? Full-time?”
Fletcher looked up, meeting his eyes. For a moment, something passed between them, an acknowledgment, maybe, of the strange tension that had hung in the air all week. Then Fletcher nodded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m good. My mom’s deaf. I grew up a CODA.”
Of course he did, Dennis thought. Of course.
But there was no time for that now. There was a patient, in pain, scared, and she needed them. She needed both of them.
Dennis moved to Miriam’s side, gently reaching for her injured hand. “Okay,” he said, looking at Fletcher. “Then let’s work. Tell her who I am, tell her what I’m doing, and tell her we’re going to take good care of her. Start with that.”
Fletcher signed, his hands moving in quick, graceful arcs. Miriam’s eyes, wary and exhausted, flickered between them. Then, slowly, she nodded.
Dennis began his assessment, Fletcher’s voice a quiet counterpoint to his own movements, translating each question, each instruction, each reassurance.
Dennis gently released the woman’s hand, satisfied with his initial assessment. The wound was deep but clean, no obvious tendon damage, no foreign bodies, just a nasty gash that needed careful closure. He glanced up at Elouise, who was hovering nearby, watching his every movement with hungry attention.
“Elouise,” he said, nodding towards the suture kit on the counter. “You comfortable doing basic stitches? Simple interrupted, nothing fancy.”
Elouise’s eyes widened, a flash of nerves crossing her features before being replaced by determination. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I’ve done them on Sims. Lots of times.”
“Sims are different from real skin,” Dennis cautioned, but he was already gesturing for her to move in. “But you’ve got to start somewhere. Prep your station, glove up, and let’s see what you’ve got. I’ll be right here the whole time.”
Elouise nodded, moving to the counter with focused energy. She laid out the suture kit, pulled on gloves, and arranged her instruments with careful precision. Dennis watched her hands, steady, deliberate, no wasted movement. Good signs.
While she prepped, Fletcher moved closer to Miriam and began signing. His movements were calm, reassuring, his expression open and warm. This is Elouise. She is a student here. She will fix your hand. It may hurt a little, but she will be careful. Okay?
Mariam watched his hands, then nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. She signed back, a short phrase Dennis couldn’t follow, and Fletcher smiled.
“She says thank you for finding her,” he translated quietly. “She was waiting for three hours. No one knew she couldn’t hear the numbers.”
Dennis felt something twist in his chest, but before he could respond, the door swung open.
Dr. Robby stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the small space. He moved with his usual calm efficiency, white coat crisp, stethoscope draped around his neck, eyes scanning the room with quick assessment. His gaze landed on Mariam, on Elouise preparing her sutures, on Fletcher standing close to the patient, and then, almost as an afterthought, on Dennis.
“What do we have here?” he asked, his voice casual, almost too casual. He wasn’t even really looking at Dennis as he said it, his attention already drifting towards the scene at the bedside.
Dennis straightened, slipping into professional mode out of pure habit. “Sixty-four-year-old female, deep laceration to the left palm. Came in by private vehicle, sat in the waiting room for about three hours before being identified as deaf by Fletcher and non-responsive to verbal calls.” He kept his voice even, factual. “No other apparent injuries, vitals stable, no signs of infection yet. Elouise is going to close it under supervision.”
As Dennis spoke, Fletcher gently touched Mariam’s shoulder to get her attention, then signed towards Dr. Robby. His hands moved in an introduction. This is Dr. Robby. He is the boss. He is here to assist.
Dr. Robby noticed the singing immediately. His eyebrows rose, a small smile curving his lips. “You sign, Fletcher?”
Fletcher nodded, looking almost shy. “Yes, sir. My mom’s deaf. I grew up with it.”
“Well, that’s fortunate,” Dr. Robby said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. “Good catch, by the way. Figuring out she was deaf, bringing her back here. That’s the kind of observation that saves time, and sometimes lives.” He reached out and gave Fletcher’s shoulder a brief, firm pat. “Nice work.”
Dennis watched the exchange, the pat on the shoulder, the warmth in Dr. Robby’s voice. It was the same warmth he used to reserve for Dennis. The same casual touch of approval. The same quiet acknowledgment that said you’re doing well, you’re one of mine.
For a moment, the grey mist rolled back in, thick and cold.
Then he shook his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. No. Not now. Focus. Patient first.
He turned his attention back to Elouise, who had just picked up the needle. Her hands were steady, but he could see the slight tremor of nerves.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low and calm, pitched for her ears alone. “You’ve got this. Start at one end, even spacing, bring the edges together gently. Don’t pull too tight, you want approximation, not strangulation.”
Elouise nodded, took a breath, and began.
The first stitch was a little shallow, the edges not quite meeting. Dennis murmured a correction, and she adjusted on the second, the needle moving more confidently through the skin. By the third stitch, she’d found her rhythm, steady hands, consistent spacing, the wound edges coming together like a slowly closing zipper.
Dennis leaned in, checking her work. “Good. Keep that angle consistent. You want the needle to go in perpendicular to the skin, not angled. There you go. Perfect.”
Behind him, he was dimly aware of Dr. Robby and Fletcher, their low voices, the occasional flash of signing hands. But he kept his focus on Elouise, on the wound, on the careful dance of needle and thread.
As Elouise finished the fifth stitch and reached for the sixth, Fletcher’s voice cut through quietly. “You might want to add an extra knot at the end,” he said, not quite meeting Dennis’s eyes. “Hands move a lot. Sutures there bear more stress than elsewhere. An extra square knot helps keep everything secure.”
Elouise paused, glancing at Dennis uncertainly.
Dennis felt a flicker of irritation, he was the supervising resident here, not Fletcher, but he pushed it down. The kid wasn’t wrong.
“He’s right,” Dennis said, his voice even. “Good call, Fletcher. Finish the last stitch, Elouise, and then do an extra knot to lock it.”
Dr. Robby, who had been observing quietly, nodded approvingly. “That’s a good practical consideration,” he said, his gaze on Fletcher. “Thinking about biomechanics, about how the body actually moves. That’s the kind of detail that separates good care from great care.”
Dennis kept his eyes on Elouise’s hands, on the last stitch going in, on the careful triple knot she tied at the end. He felt the praise like a sharp splinter, nothing major, just a persistent sting.
“There,” Elouise breathed, setting down the needle. “Done.”
Dennis leaned in, examining the finished closure. The stitches were neat, evenly spaced, and the wound edges well-approximated. For a first real suturing experience, it was impressive.
“Nice work,” he said, and meant it. “Really nice work, Elouise. You’ve got steady hands.” He reached for the roll of gauze on the counter and handed it to her. “Now bandage her up. Not too tight, but secure enough to protect the stitches. Make sure the dressing extends past the wound on all sides.”
Elouise took the gauze with a confident smile, her cheeks flushed with pride. She began wrapping Mariam’s hand with careful attention, her movements growing more confident with each pass.
Dennis stepped back, giving her room to work, and finally allowed himself to look at Dr. Robby.
The attending was standing near the corner of the room, partially turned away from Dennis, his attention fixed on Fletcher. The two of them were talking quietly, well, Dr. Robby was talking, and Fletcher was listening with that eager, attentive expression that Dennis recognized all too well. It was the same expression he’d worn himself, two years ago, when Dr. Robby had taken him under his wing.
Dr. Robby’s hand rested lightly on Fletcher’s shoulder as he spoke, a gesture of casual intimacy that made Dennis’s chest ache.
He looked away, swallowing hard. Focus. Patient first. Elouise needed supervision. The bandage needed checking.
He moved back to Mariam’s side, examining Elouise’s handiwork. The wrapping was neat, secure, not too tight. Good distal circulation, fingers pink and warm. “Perfect,” he said. “You’re a natural.”
Elouise beamed.
Fletcher signed to Mariam, explaining the aftercare. Change bandage every day. Keep clean. No heavy lifting. Come back if red, swollen, or hot. In seven days, we will remove stitches.
Mariam nodded, signing her thanks. She was relieved.
Dennis turned to Elouise. “Why don’t you walk her out? Get her discharge instructions printed, and make sure she has a follow-up appointment scheduled. You’ve earned the closure.”
Elouise nodded eagerly, gently helping Mariam down from the exam table. The two women moved towards the door, Mariam still signing her gratitude over her shoulder, Elouise nodding along as if she understood every word.
The door swung shut behind them.
The room fell suddenly quiet.
Dennis turned, expecting to debrief with Dr. Robby, to get that small nod of approval, that quiet good job that had once meant so much.
But Dr. Robby was already moving towards the door, his hand finding Fletcher’s back with easy familiarity, guiding him forward.
“Come on,” Dr. Robby said, his voice warm with anticipation. “Trauma’s coming in, diving accident, spinal injury, unknown internal injuries. This is exactly the kind of case you need to see up close.”
Fletcher’s face lit up. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Dr. Robby.”
They walked out together, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving Dennis alone in the suddenly empty room.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, the silence pressing in around him. The gauze wrappers crinkled under his feet. The suture kit sat open on the counter, with used needles safely contained. The faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air.
He reminded himself, as he had a dozen times that day, that he was being dramatic. That this was normal. Dr. Robby was focusing on the new intern because that’s what mentors did. That he, Dennis, was an R2 now, a resident, expected to function independently. That the attention he craved was probably supposed to fade, to shift, to make room for the next generation.
He reminded himself of all of it.
But standing there in the empty room, the grey mist settled back over him, thicker than before. And for just a moment, he let himself feel it, the sharp grief of being replaced.Dennis stood in the empty triage room for another long moment, the silence pressing against his ears like a physical weight. Then, mechanically, he began to move.
He gathered the used suture kit, depositing the sharps in the red bin with a practiced flick of his wrist. He wiped down the counter, balled up the discarded gauze wrappers, and straightened the paper roll on the exam chair. Small tasks. Mindless tasks. The kind of busywork that kept his hands occupied while his brain churned in useless circles.
What had he done wrong?
The question looped through his mind like a broken rhythm, relentless and unanswerable. Had he said something? Done something? Failed some unspoken test that would have kept him in Dr. Robby’s orbit? He’d worked so hard last year, stayed late, studied endlessly, volunteered for every tough case, every overnight shift, every thankless task. He’d thought he was proving himself. He’d thought he was earning something permanent.
But permanence, apparently, wasn’t a thing you earned. It was a thing you borrowed, temporarily, until someone newer and shinier came along.
He tossed the last of the trash and stepped out of the room, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. The department was humming with evening energy now, new shift, new faces, the familiar rhythm of handoffs and updates. The constant low-grade chaos that defined life in the ER. He moved through it like a ghost, unseen, unnoticed, until he reached his desk.
The computer screen glowed at him, patient charts waiting for final signatures. He sat down heavily, the chair creaking under his weight, and began to work.
Francesca’s charting was impeccable, neat, thorough, all vitals recorded in the right places, all assessments clearly documented. He approved it with a few clicks, making a mental note to tell her later that she’d done well. Elouise’s was a little messier, a little more scattered, but the information was all there. He tidied a few entries, added a clarifying note about the suturing, and approved it.
Then he finished on his own notes from earlier. The abdominal pain from room 7. The fork wound from room 4. The elderly woman with confusion who’d turned out to have a UTI. Patient after patient, case after case, the words blurring together as he typed, his mind only half-present.
The fog embraced him, soft and grey and familiar.
He was so deep in it that he didn’t notice Dr. Jack Abbott approaching until the attending physician was already leaning against the adjacent desk, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that was part amusement, part concern.
“Whittaker.”
Dennis started slightly, looking up. “Dr. Abbott. Hey. Sorry, I didn’t-”
Jack waved off the apology. “You plan on sitting there staring at those charts all night, or are you gonna clock out and go to bed like a sensible human being?”
Dennis blinked, glancing at the clock. Nearly seven-thirty. His shift had ended half an hour ago. He hadn’t even noticed.
“I, uh-” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how tired he was. “I’m almost done. Just finishing up.”
Jack pushed off from the desk and moved closer, peering at the screen with casual interest. “You know, I wouldn’t mind an extra pair of hands tonight. We’ve got a full house already and it’s only gonna get worse.” He shrugged, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “If you wanted to pull a double, I wouldn’t say no.”
The word hit Dennis like a slap of cold water.
Double shift.
Staying here. Another twelve hours in this building, in this fog, watching himself become more invisible by the hour.
No. Absolutely not.
He was already shaking his head, the movement quick and insistent. “No. No, I can’t. I’m-” He scrambled for an excuse, any excuse. “I’m waiting on Trinity. She’s got the car, so I gotta wait for her to finish up so we can head back to the apartment.”
It wasn’t even a lie. Trinity did have the car. They did live together. She was probably still somewhere in the bowels of the ER. But the truth was, he could have texted her, could have asked her to hurry, could have found another way home.
He just needed out.
Jack laughed, a warm, rumbling sound that seemed to cut through some of the fog. “Ah, the joys of the carpool life. I remember those days.” He reached out and placed a hand on Dennis’s shoulder. Firm, solid, the kind of touch that said I see you, you’re okay. “Well, clock out anyway, kid. Go find her, or wait in the lounge, or do whatever you need to do. But stop working. You’re off the clock, and you look like you could use some sleep.”
Dennis managed a small smile. “Thanks, Dr. Abbott.”
“Jack,” the attending corrected gently. “You’re not an intern anymore, Whittaker. You’ve earned the first name.” He gave Dennis’s shoulder one last squeeze, then straightened up. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
He walked off, disappearing into the chaos of the department, and Dennis was alone again.
He turned back to his computer, finished the last few notes with mechanical efficiency, and finally, finally, logged out. The screen went dark, and for a moment, he just sat there, staring at his own reflection in the black glass.
Tired eyes. Tense jaw. The ghost of a man who still loved this place, but felt like he was losing it, too.
He pulled out his phone, fired off a quick text to Trinity
Done. Ready when you are. No rush.
Then he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let the noise of the ER wash over him. Somewhere out there in the ER, Dr. Robby was teaching Fletcher something new, probably keeping him late, too. Somewhere out there, the world was moving on without him.
Dennis pushed himself away from the desk and let his feet carry him on autopilot towards the staff locker room. The familiar path, past the nurses’ station, through the double doors, down the short corridor, required no conscious thought, which was good, because his brain had apparently checked out for the evening.
The locker room was mercifully empty. He found his locker, spun the combination from muscle memory, and stared at the contents for a moment before his hands remembered how to move.
His bag first. Then his hoodie, the navy green one with Pittsburgh embroidered on the chest, soft from years of wear, the one Trinity called his “emotional support sweatshirt.” He pulled it over his head. The doctor’s badge went into his bag, zipped away in an interior pocket where he wouldn’t have to look at it. His wallet slid into his scrub pocket.
He closed the locker, leaned his forehead against the cool plastic for just a moment, and breathed.
The evening light slanted through the small window at the end of the corridor, warm and golden and beautiful. The kind of light that made Pittsburgh look like a postcard, like something people paid money to see. It fell across the floor in long rectangles, painting everything in shades of amber.
It felt like an insult.
How dare the world be so beautiful when he felt like this? How dare the sun keep shining, the day keep ending, the city keep humming along as if nothing had changed? The warmth of it should have been comforting, should have eased something in his chest, but instead it felt like a lie. A bright, golden lie that had nothing to do with the grey mist wrapped around his heart.
He pushed off from the locker and stood there in the middle of the empty room, letting the realization wash over him.
He wasn’t needed anymore.
Not by Dr. Robby. Not in the way that mattered. He’d served his purpose, filled his role, been the mentee, the project, the one with potential. And now that potential had been realized, now that he was actually useful, actually competent, actually capable, now he was being set aside. Released into the wild. Replaced by someone new who needed that attention, that shaping, that careful cultivation.
He’d thought earning Dr. Robby’s approval meant something permanent. A bond. A connection that would last beyond his intern year, beyond his R2 year, beyond whatever came next. But approval, apparently, wasn’t a destination. It was a transaction. You proved yourself, you got the attention, and then you graduated to make room for the next person in line.
The thought destroyed him. Quietly, internally, with no outward sign except the slight droop of his shoulders and the distant look in his eyes.
He was still standing there, frozen in the middle of the locker room, when someone came down the hallway.
Frank Langdon walked in, moving with the easy efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times. He crossed to his locker, spun the combination, and began pulling out his bag with quick, practiced movements. His street clothes were already on over his scrubs, he must have changed earlier, so all he needed was to grab his things and go.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, turned to leave, and stopped.
Dennis was still standing there. Still staring at nothing. Still wearing that expression that Frank recognized all too well.
It was the same look Frank had worn when Dennis first started at the Pitt. That lost, overwhelmed expression that every former mentee wore at some point. But this was different. This was hurting. More tired. More like someone who’d been running for so long they’d forgotten why they started.
Frank’s hand paused on his locker door. “Whittaker,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “You heading out?”
Dennis startled slightly, turning to face him. For a moment, his mouth opened and closed without sound, like a fish gasping for air. “Yeah! I mean… yeah.”
His voice cracked on the second yeah. Just slightly. Just enough for Frank to hear.
Frank studied him for a long moment, taking in the hoodie, the bag, the way Dennis’s hands hung uselessly at his sides. He knew that voice. He’d heard it in his own throat more times than he could count, usually around three in the morning after a code gone wrong or a patient he couldn’t save.
He let his locker swing shut and turned to face Dennis fully.
“You want to go for a drink?”
The question hung in the air between them, simple and unexpected. Dennis looked down at the floor, at the golden evening light painting his shoes. Then back up at Frank.
Frank looked tired. Not the good kind of tired, the satisfying exhaustion after a hard shift. The other kind. The aching kind. The kind that comes from carrying something heavy for too long without putting it down. His eyes held the same shadows Dennis felt in his own, the same weariness, the same quiet acceptance of a day that had taken more than it gave.
Dennis nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
The word came out softer than he intended. More honest.
He pulled out his phone, thumbs moving automatically over the screen.
Nevermind, heading out for drinks. See you at home.
He hit send, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and looked at Frank.
Frank nodded once, a small gesture of acknowledgment, and jerked his head towards the door. “Come on. I know a place.”
Dennis followed him out of the locker room, through the corridors, past the last few stragglers of the evening shift. The golden light followed them, warm and indifferent, painting their shadows long across the floor.
For the first time all day, the grey mist felt a little less lonely.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fresh from rehab, Dr. Frank Langdon reluctantly joins a bar night out with his residency friends. Sober and with renewed confidence and comfort, he’s shocked by his intense attraction to First-year resident Dennis Whitaker, who is dominating the mechanical bull.
The outfit was laid out on his bed carefully. A plain white shirt, a faded blue flannel, a denim jacket with a hint of fraying at the cuffs, and a pair of jeans that promised a level of ruggedness Frank Langdon hadn’t felt in years. He stared at it, his post-shift scrubs still on, as if the clothes might rearrange themselves into something less… blue.
A laugh from the doorway broke his paralysis. Samira leaned against the frame, her phone in hand, a grin splitting her face. “It’s a western bar, Frank! You have to dress Western. Be thankful I was able to pull this from the depths of your wardrobe. I was starting to think you only owned hospital scrubs and Penguins merch.”
Frank sighed, the sound carrying the weight of a more than twelve-hour trauma shift. A smirk tugged at his lips despite himself. Samira had a way of needling him that felt more like acupuncture than an attack. It was sharp, precise, and weirdly therapeutic.
“Now get changed,” she ordered, not moving from her spot. “Before you make us any later than we already will be, thanks to your post-shift charting crusade. I saw you lingering over that discharge summary for Mr. Williams. His gout really isn’t that interesting.”
She turned and strutted back toward the living room, already absorbed with her Instagram feed on her phone.
Frank shut the door softly, the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet of his room. He looked back at the bed. The plan had been simple. Delay, dawdle, and chart until the chance passes. He’d orchestrated his lateness perfectly, or so he thought, until Samira had simply told Frank she’d wait, scrolling indefinitely if she had to. This was his first time going into a bar since his old world had ended. Since rehab. Since sobriety. Since the divorce. The thought sent a cold, familiar trickle of anxiety down his spine. He would always be a recovering addict, a man who had supervised monthly visits with two kids who seemed to have no interest in him whatsoever now, walking into a temple of liquor and loose inhibition. He felt wildly, profoundly unprepared.
He stripped off his scrubs, the scent of antiseptic and exhaustion clinging to them, and tossed them into the hamper as he made his way to his ensuite bathroom. He quickly applied deodorant and a conservative spray of cologne, Jean Paul Gaultier, a scent chosen for its utter lack of association with his old life. Then he stopped, hands on the cool porcelain sink, and met his own gaze in the mirror.
The man who looked back was both familiar and a stranger. The gaunt, haunted hollows of his cheeks had softened. A few months of regular meals, of not substituting pills for food, had given him a slight, comfortable paunch, a dad-bod earned the hard way, through recovery, not neglect. His eyes were clearer, though the lines around them were deeper, etched by the fight with Robby after the stolen benzos were discovered, by Abby’s devastated silence the day she served him papers, by the grueling, soul-scouring ten months of inpatient rehab he’d chosen for himself.
He’d filled out. He’d filled in. Therapy had been less about excavation and more about reconstruction, building a new man on the unstable fault lines of the old. Frank Langdon was, by every measurable metric, a better man. He treated himself with a cautious kindness. He was learning the impossible calculus of atonement. But the reflection still held ghosts. The monthly visitation with Tanner and Penny, their distance a sharper wound than any, was a phantom wound that ached constantly.
Shaking the reflection out of his head, he grabbed his toothbrush, applied a ridiculous stripe of toothpaste, and scrubbed away the taste of hospital coffee and panic. The stubble on his jaw could stay. It suited the cowboy look, he reasoned. After spitting and rinsing, he worked a dab of hair clay through his hair, roughing it into the messy quiff that had been a reliable part of his charm arsenal. He examined the final product. Cleaner. Sober. Uncertain.
He gave his reflection a weak pair of finger guns. “Howdy,” he muttered, the word dying in the sterile air.
“Frank!” Samira’s voice, muffled by the door, was laced with mock exasperation. “What’s the holdup? You’re a man! You should take less time than me to get ready!”
“I’m getting changed! Slow your horses, Samira,” he called back, the forced chuckle scraping his throat.
He dressed quickly, deciding to leave the flannel unbuttoned over the white tee, the denim jacket adding a final, much-needed layer to the look. A quick glance in the full-length mirror on the back of the door gave him pause. The silhouette, the layered blues, the casual dishevelment… he looked like a watered-down Jack Twist. The comparison was so absurd that it made him smile.
He pulled on the jeans, and yes, they fit well. Samira wasn’t wrong. His ass had filled out. A small, ridiculous point of pride. He took a deep, steadying breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like his therapist taught him, and opened the door.
Samira looked up from the couch. Her critical eye scanned him from boots to quiff. A slow, approving smile spread across her face. “Well, look at you, cowboy. You clean up alright. Maybe we won’t get thrown out for bringing depressed doctor vibes after all.”
“You’re a menace,” he said, grabbing his keys and wallet from the bowl by the door.
“I’m your friend,” she corrected, standing and smoothing her own outfit, a badass combination of dark leather and denim that made Frank feel like he was her bodyguard. “And your friend is telling you that you’re going to have one non-alcoholic beer, you’re going to laugh at the terrible line dancing, and you’re going to remember that you’re a person who exists outside of the Pitt’s ER. Deal?”
The old Frank would have already been line dancing. While the new Frank saw the lifeline she was throwing. He nodded. “Deal.”
“Good,” she said, looping her arm through his and pulling him toward the door. “Now let’s ride. Mel’s been waiting on us at hers for some pre-party that I certainly don’t want to miss out on.”
As she locked the apartment behind them, Frank felt his energy shift as he felt Samira lean into him comfortably, and the hope that tonight was going to be a good night for him.
The late summer air was thick and warm, holding onto the day’s heat as Frank and Samira walked the few blocks to Mel’s apartment. The neighborhood around the Pitt was a patchwork of old brick and new construction, and the familiar walk from their place to a friend’s felt grounding, a tether to normalcy.
“You know,” Samira said, nudging him with her elbow, “you do look good. Seriously. If you set your mind to it tonight, I have no doubt you could find your cowboy. Or cowgirl.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
Frank chuckled, the sound easier now, warmed by the evening and her company. “I mean, you’re not wrong. Maybe I’ll finally play into that Brokeback Mountain fantasy I never got the chance to explore in college. Too busy memorizing the Krebs’ cycle to be herding sheep, you know?”
Samira stopped short on the sidewalk, turning to him with her mouth agape in delighted mock-shock. “Frank Langdon! I did not take you for a man with those kinds of fantasies. I thought you’d have been planning how to join the Mormon church with a wife who aspired to be on Real Housewives.”
“Ouch,” Frank said, clutching his chest dramatically as they resumed walking. “A direct hit. For your information, I was bisexual then, I’m bisexual now, and I’m definitely feeling like I need a man more these days than a woman.”
“Is that because you need someone who won’t beg for a Birkin bag?” she teased.
“No,” he said, his tone shifting to one of playful, weary wisdom. “It’s because I want to kiss someone and not have all my girlfriends gagging in the background.”
Samira opened her mouth to protest, then stopped, considering. A laugh burst out of her. “Okay. No, you’re right. Garcia and Walsh would absolutely be making retching noises. McKay would just stare, dead-eyed, analyzing your technique for clinical efficiency.”
“See? Exactly,” Frank said, a genuine, fuller chuckle escaping him. He felt a lightness in his chest, a muscle memory of banter that didn’t hurt. “I love you all, but I know my ladies well.”
“Well, aren’t you a charmer?” Samira said, grinning as they arrived at the familiar brick facade of Mel’s building.
They climbed the steps to the second-floor apartment, the sound of muffled music and laughter already spilling into the hallway. Samira gave him a quick, assessing look before knocking, her expression softening from teasing to something more solidly supportive. “Just remember,” she said quietly, the noise from inside covering her words. “One step at a time. And if it gets to be too much, we have a pre-arranged signal. You scratch your nose, I fake a bomb going off. We’re out.”
Frank nodded, gratitude swelling in his throat, making it hard to speak. He just squeezed her shoulder before Mel’s door swung open, revealing a cloud of warm, perfumed air and the booming voice of Parker Ellis.
“The cowboy cometh!” Parker crowed, holding a red solo cup aloft. “Get in here, Langdon! We’re doing pre-game shots of regrettable tequila! And for you and Cassie! Lemon juice!”
As Frank stepped over the threshold into the crowded, buzzing apartment, the anxiety flared, a bright spark in his gut. He was here. He was sober. And he was, against all odds, walking into the noise.
The wave of sound and warmth hit Frank as he crossed the threshold. Before he could fully orient himself, a whirlwind of floral perfume engulfed him.
“You made it!” Mel’s voice was a delighted squeal in his ear as she pulled him into a fierce, welcoming hug. She leaned back, her hands on his shoulders, her expression one of genuine relief. “I saw you hunched over that computer at the end of the shift, and I thought, ‘He’s gonna bail. He’s gonna pull a Santos and let his charting anxiety sabotage his fun.’ You looked so torn up!”
Samira, slipping off her jacket beside him, chimed in with a knowing smirk. “As if it was like he was scared of a night out.”
Frank felt a flush creep up his neck. He chuckled awkwardly, the sound too high, and scratched the back of his head. “It was… a lot of secondary review,” he offered weakly.
Mel swatted his arm. “You’re ridiculous. I would’ve helped you! You know I’m the queen of efficient charting. I use dictation software all the time. Just talk at it, it gets everything down, and Bam! More time for actual patient care. Or, I don’t know, talking to you and Samira.” She smiled, her tone shifting from teasing to earnest. “Seriously, Frank. You should try it. It’s a game-changer.”
The suggestion cut through his defensiveness. He’d seen Mel seamlessly wrap up notes while other residents were still staring blankly at their screens. It wasn’t a criticism, it was a suggestion. He mulled it over, the practical part of his brain latching onto the idea. A tool. Something to make the endless administrative drag… easier.
A real smile touched his lips. “You know what? That actually sounds brilliant. I’m gonna try it next week. I booked this weekend off specifically to… well, to not think about work.” He gestured vaguely at the denim jacket, at the party around them.
“A wise man!” came a boisterous declaration as Garcia swooped into their circle, her arm linked with Emery’s. She was already glowing, her movements looser and more fluid. Emery held a bottle of tequila and a stack of small plastic cups. “I did the same thing! Booked it off. Mama needs a weekend with her Santos.” She blew a kiss into the air.
Cassie McKay, leaning against the kitchen counter with her characteristic analytical detachment, snorted into her water. “And what does Dennis think of this planned weekend of debauchery?”
Garcia rolled her eyes with dramatic flair. “Pfft. Dennis? He’s probably finding some poor soul tonight to shack up with for the next forty-eight hours. He absolutely does not want to be in that apartment with me and Santos this weekend. He’d go psychotic.”
Mel’s brow furrowed. “Speaking of, where are the Pittlings? I invited Trinity, Dennis, Joy, and Victoria. Got a whole slew of ‘maybe next times’.”
A wicked grin spread across Garcia’s face. “They’re all over at Dennis and Trinity’s place. Pre-gaming their own little soiree, but by the way they’re dressed… We’ll be seeing them tonight. Which is why,” she said, turning and leveling a slightly unsteady finger directly at Frank’s chest, “you, my friend, are on sober duty. I need to drink away the absolute bullshit I dealt with today. A 3 PM necrotizing fasciitis, Langdon. On a Friday. The universe owes me.”
Frank couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing further. This was just… residency. The shared, surreal trauma of it all, turned into inside jokes and liquid therapy. “I’ve got your back, Garcia. No one will let you attempt line dancing tonight.”
“Perfect!” Emery chirped, having deftly poured a line of shots. She moved through the group, distributing the clear tequila. When she got to Frank, she pressed a different cup into his hand, this one filled with a pale yellow liquid. “Lemon shot for our designated sober cowboy,” she said with a wink. “Mel’s orders.”
Frank took the cup, touched. “Thanks, Mel. Really.” He peered into it and shuddered. “Though shooting straight lemon juice is its own form of masochism.”
“Think of it as a shot for the soul,” Parker called out, already holding her tequila aloft.
Emery finished her distribution and raised her own cup high. “Alright, you cowgirls… and boy! Gather round! A toast!”
The chatter died down as the group, Frank, Samira, Mel, Garcia, Emery, Parker, and Cassie, clustered together in Mel’s cozy living room. Emery’s eyes sparkled as she looked directly at Frank.
“To Langdon’s first night out in forever!” she announced, her voice bright and clear. “May the bull be mechanical, the music be loud, and the memories be… well, hopefully memorable!”
“To that!” Parker yelled.
Shot glasses clinked together in a chaotic chorus. Frank brought his lemon shot to his lips, meeting Samira’s gaze over the rim. She gave him a small, encouraging nod.
He tossed the shot back. The tart, bracing sourness exploded on his tongue, making his eyes water and his face contort. As the group erupted into laughter and whoops, chasing their tequila with lime wedges, Frank felt the sharp pang of the lemon juice subside, replaced by a spreading, unfamiliar warmth that had nothing to do with alcohol.
It was the warmth of inclusion. Of being seen, teased, and protected all at once. He was here. He was present.
The group settled into the comfortable chaos of Mel’s living room, sinking into couches and scattering across the floor. The tequila bottle made steady rounds, though Frank noticed Emery discreetly refilling his cup with lemonade from a pitcher in the fridge. The simple act felt like a hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady.
Samira swirled the ice in her glass, a thoughtful look on her face. “My mother just sent me another picture of the Greek islands. She’s still on that year-long cruise. I’m glad we’re talking again, I really am, but I still can’t believe she sold the house in Jersey to just… travel the world forever.”
“Sounds like someone’s a little jealous,” Parker sing-songed, kicking her feet up on the coffee table.
“No shit, Ellis,” Samira replied, but she was smiling. “I’m happy for her. Truly. I just wish she’d let me buy the damn house. If I hadn’t landed this attending gig at the Pitt, I would’ve moved back in a heartbeat. Had a garden. Maybe gotten a deeply inappropriate dog.”
Cassie chuckled into her water. “I get that. The fantasy of a fresh start somewhere else. I’ve looked at positions in Seattle, in Denver… anywhere with good schools and mountains. But joint-custody means I’m Pennsylvania-bound for the foreseeable future. Harrison’s life is here.”
“You could always move to Erie,” Emery suggested with faux-sincerity.
The room erupted in groans and laughter. “Who in their right mind moves from Pittsburgh to Erie?” Garcia cackled. “That’s not a fresh start, that’s a cry for help!”
Frank laughed along, but the mention of custody and kids sent a familiar, cold needle into his heart. The phantom womb ached violently. He saw Teddy’s wavering smile as he handed him back his backpack at the end of a visit, Penny’s reluctance to take his hand crossing a parking lot. He took a long sip of his lemonade, the sweetness suddenly cloying.
Mel, ever-perceptive, caught the subtle shadow crossing his face. She leaned forward, her voice gentle but deliberately redirecting. “What about you, Frank? Any big plans for the year? Now that you’re all settled in and thriving.” She gave him an encouraging nod.
Frank cleared his throat, pushing the thoughts of his children back into the carefully compartmentalized box he’d built in therapy. “Oh, you know. Open to anything, really. Maybe finally hit the gym with some consistency.” He gestured vaguely at his middle. “Try to turn this dad-bod back into a… regular bod.”
“No!” The protest came from Garcia, who was now leaning heavily against Emery’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare! Dad-Bod Frank is superior Frank! It’s approachable! It says, ‘I know how to fix your broken arm, and I also know how to make a decent meal.’ The abs Frank was… intense. This is better. It suits you.”
Frank blinked, surprised into a genuine laugh. He looked down at himself, then back at Garcia’s earnest, slightly sloshy face. “You know, I liked the abs,” he admitted. “But… yeah. Maybe this suits me too. For now.”
He quickly turned the spotlight back to Mel. “What about you, Dr. King? What’s on the docket?”
Mel’s expression softened, a mix of professional concern and personal excitement. “Well, on the doctor side, I’m probably going to get some diagnostics done on myself this year. Just some screening. My sister’s history has me thinking it’s better to be proactive, you know?” She shrugged, as if dismissing the weight of it. “But on the fun side… I finally saved up enough to take my sister to Disney World. We’re aiming for late summer. She’s never seen Cinderella’s Castle in person.”
A chorus of “Awws” and “That’s amazing!” filled the room.
“Hey, I’ll be down in Florida later this year too!” Parker added. “Going with some of my line sisters from Alpha Kappa Alpha. A little sun, sand, and sisterhood revival.”
Emery’s jaw dropped. “You were in a sorority? and AKA? How did I not know this?”
Parker took a slow, deliberate sip of her cranberry vodka, a sly smile on her lips. “Em, honey, I don’t tell everyone everything.”
Frank barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “Ain’t that the truth.”
The comment landed a little heavier than he’d intended. Samira and Cassie both swiveled their heads to look at him. Samira’s eyebrow arched. Frank immediately raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa, easy. Not that kind of truth. I just meant Parker’s a vault. We worked together for six months before I found out she was a competitive swing dancer.”
Parker winked, confirming the diversion.
Mel suddenly glanced down at her watch and gasped. “Oh, hell! Look at the time!” She scrambled to her feet, nearly spilling her drink. “We were supposed to be at Tequila Cowboy fifteen minutes ago! If we don’t get there soon, all the good line-dancing spots will be taken!”
The room exploded into motion, a coordinated scramble for jackets, purses, and one last gulp of drinks. Frank stood, the momentum of the group pulling him forward. The lemonade felt like a warmth in his stomach, and Garcia’s arm slung around his shoulders as they headed for the door felt like an anchor.
“Alright, Dad-Bod,” Garcia mumbled into his denim jacket. “You’re my rock tonight. Don’t let me try to ride the bull. I have a weakness for bad ideas and mechanical farm animals… and Santos.”
“I’ve got you,” Frank said, knowing that he was now on sober duty.
The Pittsburgh night had a sharp bite to it, a clean, cold wind cutting through the lingering humidity and sweeping discarded leaves down the sidewalk. The group moved in a loose, chattering pack, their breath forming little clouds in the glow of the streetlights. Frank walked with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, the denim doing little against the chill, but the motion of walking kept him warm.
Garcia, still attached to his side like a cheerful barnacle, tilted her head up to look at him. Her voice was a conspiratorial stage-whisper meant to carry over the city sounds. “So, Langdon. What’s the real deal with you and Dennis?”
Frank almost stumbled on a crack in the pavement. “The… what? Dennis? What about him?”
“Come on,” she nudged him, her grin visible in the ambient light. “I’ve seen you two lately. You get all… focused when you’re working a trauma with him. And you smile at your pager when his name pops up. It’s weirdly wholesome.”
Frank felt his cheeks warm, and he was grateful for the dark. He took a moment, his boots scuffing the concrete. “He’s… he’s been a good friend,” he started, his voice measured. “Especially since I got back. At first, he was… hesitant. You know, with the drug orders. Couldn’t really blame him.” He remembered the careful distance in Dennis’s eyes those first few weeks, the professional wall that was both painful and completely justified. “But he apologized. Actually sat me down and said it wasn’t fair of him to hold my past against my present. After that… things just got better. He started making sure I got pulled into interesting cases, especially when Robby was banishing me to triage purgatory.”
He found himself smiling, the memory shifting to better ones. “And when Robby left for his sabbatical… we just started talking more. Over lunch. Between patients. He’s just… a sweet guy. Thoughtful.” Frank’s voice softened almost involuntarily. “He brings in baked goods for the morning crew, did you know that? He’s started bringing me double portions.” Frank chuckled. “And I’ve… noticed he’s been staring a bit more lately. Not in a weird way. Just… looking. And I really like what he’s done with his hair since I’ve been gone. That little mullet he’s growing? It’s cheeky. Suits him. Gives him a… a fresher glow.”
He realized he’d been talking for a while and snapped his mouth shut, the cold air hitting his suddenly dry throat.
Garcia just stared up at him, her expression a masterpiece of gleeful vindication. Then she burst out laughing, a full-bodied sound that made a few people on the other side of the street turn their heads. “Oh my god! The baked goods! That’s why you’ve gotten soft! Langdon, it sounds like Dennis has a full-blown, oven-mitt-wearing crush on you!”
Frank shook his head, a defensive laugh escaping him. “What? No. That’s ridiculous. Just because the man makes a killer banana bread does not mean he’s… courting me. I would have noticed.”
From just ahead, Cassie McKay’s dry, clear voice cut through Garcia’s giggles. “Would you, though?” She didn’t even turn around, her silhouette a model of detached amusement. “Because historically, Frank, you are exactly the kind of person who would not notice. You have a talent for obliviousness.”
Frank’s jaw dropped. “I- what? That’s not...”
“It’s completely true,” Samira chimed in, falling into step on his other side. She reached up and patted his head, as if comforting a confused golden retriever. “You are a wonderful, deeply clueless man. It’s part of your charm. Remember when Abby had that ‘talk to me about our marriage’ Post-It note on the fridge for three weeks and you thought it was a grocery reminder for almond milk?”
Garcia howled with renewed laughter. “He’s like a puppy who’s lost his ball even though it’s right between his paws!”
“I would know!” Frank grumped, his shoulders hunching up around his ears. The combined assault was mortifying, but it lacked any real malice. It felt, strangely, like an initiation. “If someone was interested, I would pick up on it.”
“You wouldn’t,” Samira and Cassie said in unison, their tones identical blends of fondness and absolute certainty.
Before Frank could muster another defense, the glowing neon sign of Tequila Cowboy came into view, its cursive script buzzing against the night sky. The thump of country music pulsed through the closed doors.
“Saved by Kelly Clarkson,” Samira declared, linking her arm with Frank’s again as Garcia bounded ahead to hold the door open with a dramatic flourish. “Now, remember. One step at a time. And if you see a certain first year resident with a cheeky mullet and a tray of hypothetical brownies in there… try opening your eyes.”
Frank groaned, but allowed himself to be steered toward the booming music and the warm, beer-scented light spilling out onto the sidewalk. The cold night, the teasing, the terrifying, thrilling prospect of what was inside, it all felt overwhelmingly, vibrantly alive.
The wall of sound hit them first. Then came the smell of spilled beer, fried food, and worn leather. The Wrangler was a riot of neon, checkered tablecloths, and the determined energy of people trying to forget their week. Frank felt his pulse kick up a notch, but he tightened his grip on the sense of purpose he’d carried in from the cold.
He leaned in between Mel and Samira, raising his voice over the din. “First round’s on me! Consider it a… thank you fee for successfully extracting me from my apartment.”
Mel pumped a fist in the air. “Yes! Mission success!” Samira just grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
They shouldered their way towards the long, crowded bar, waiting for a gap to appear. As they waited, Mel nudged Frank, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, Mr. Canadian. You ever been on a mechanical bull before?”
Frank winced, a phantom pain twinging in his cheek. “Once. In college. It ended with me face-planting on a mat that smelled like regret and sporting a bruised cheek for a solid week. My date found it funnier than I did.”
Samira and Mel dissolved into laughter. “I haven’t tried yet,” Mel confessed, eyeing the churning machine in the corner with a mix of trepidation and excitement. “But I want to. It’s on the list.”
“We can learn the ropes together,” Samira offered. “Maybe in heels. For added chaos.”
They finally caught the attention of a bartender, a guy with a neat beard and shrewd eyes who wiped his hands on a towel as he approached. He looked at the three of them, his gaze lingering on Mel for a second before his face broke into a wide, knowing smile.
“Well, good evening, Doctors,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise with surprising clarity.
The three of them exchanged confused glances. Had someone called ahead?
The bartender laughed at their bafflement. “You don’t remember me, Dr. King? Six months ago? You spent two very patient hours digging a shard of pint glass out of my palm after a… spirited disagreement at my last job. I’m Leo. I told you about this place.” He gestured around the bar with pride. “Didn’t expect you to corral the entire ER shift to come, though. I appreciate the business.”
Mel blinked. “We just got here.”
Leo the bartender nodded towards a raucous booth near the dance floor. “Yeah, but your crew’s already here. Four of them rolled in about ten minutes ago, hollering for tequila. Guy with a mullet is already dominating the bull.”
Samira chuckled, leaning into Frank. “Looks like the Pittlings beat us. Typical.”
Frank smirked, a flicker of something warm and competitive sparking in his chest. He turned back to Leo. “What can I say, we’re dedicated. Okay, let’s get this round going.” He looked at the women. “Ladies?”
Samira ordered a Heineken. Mel, with a gleam in her eye, went for a Vodka Pineapple. Frank took a steadying breath. “Just a Diet Dr. Pepper for me, please. In a glass with ice.”
Leo’s smile turned into a full-on grin. He snapped his fingers. “A doctor ordering a Dr. Pepper. I love it. Classic.” He didn’t wait for a response, just turned to grab bottles and pour.
Frank stared after him, momentarily nonplussed. “Was… was that a joke?”
Samira patted his back. “Just go with it, cowboy. It’s bar jokes.”
Leo returned with the tab, and Frank handed over his card with a resigned smirk. “I got it.”
As Leo bustled off to make Mel’s cocktail, the three friends huddled at the bar’s edge. “Next round is on me,” Mel declared.
“And I’ve got the third, if we even make it that far” Samira insisted.
Frank smiled, the simple ritual of it feeling profoundly normal. “Are we doing rounds? Are we officially a drinking team?”
Leo returned, sliding Frank’s Diet Dr. Pepper across the polished wood. The fizz sounded reassuringly familiar in the unfamiliar chaos. “Thank you,” Frank said, his voice sincere.
He took a sip, the sharp, sweet caffeine a welcome anchor, and turned to lean against the bar while he waited for the others. His eyes scanned the room, the synchronized stomping of the line dancers in the center, the clusters of people laughing around high-top tables. Then his gaze landed on the mechanical bull in the far corner. It was just starting a new cycle, bucking with a jerky, mechanical fury.
The rider was a blur of focused energy, leaning back with an almost casual grace, one hand held high. The movements were fluid, practiced. A worn leather jacket, the sleeves pushed up. A cowboy hat was pulled low, obscuring the rider’s face in shadow, but the set of the shoulders, the confident curve of the spine…
Frank’s breath hitched. He knew that silhouette.
Before he could place it, Samira appeared at his elbow with her beer, and Mel joined them with her vibrant yellow drink. “Booth’s over there,” Mel said, pointing to a semi-circular leather booth with a reserved sign on it, already being encroached upon by a grinning Parker and Emery.
“Let’s go claim our territory before Walsh takes all the bar nuts,” Samira said, leading the way.
Frank followed, his eyes darting back to the bull one last time. The rider was still on, a master of the machine, a dark shape against the swirling lights. Frank took another long pull of his soda, the ice clinking.
They slid into the booth, the leather creaking under them. Emery and Parker were already deep in animated conversation, their glasses half-empty. Frank’s eyes swept the immediate area, his brow furrowing. “Where’s Garcia?”
Parker waved a dismissive hand, a sly smile on her lips. “Oh, she already found what she was looking for tonight. Don’t worry your pretty, denim-clad head about it.”
A flicker of concern crossed Frank’s face. “Santos isn’t here already, is she? I know she's still scared of me.” He left the implication hanging.
Emery smirked, shaking her head. “Langdon, don’t look like you just saw a ghost. It’s handled.”
Just then, a collective groan and then a roar of applause erupted from the direction of the mechanical bull. The thud of a body hitting the padded mats was followed by a familiar, determined shout that carried even over the music. “Again! Set it up again!”
Mel’s head snapped around. “Is that Dennis?”
Samira’s face lit up with pure, unadulterated glee. Her eyes locked onto Frank’s. “That was definitely Dennis,” she confirmed, her voice singsong. She bounced up from the booth, the party energy fully claiming her. “Say, y’all, should we go watch the first-year ride the bull?”
“Why not?” Frank said, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. He felt a strange, proprietary pride. He’d known. The silhouette, the aura, he’d known it was Dennis. The realization that he could recognize him from across a crowded, chaotic room, just by his shape and the way he moved, sent a warm, quiet thrill through him. He patted himself on the chest briefly, a private little celebration.
They weaved through the crowd towards the bullpen, the cheers growing louder. They found Garcia and Cassie, who had set up a prime viewing spot next to Joy, Victoria, and Trinity, all of whom were screaming encouragement.
“Oh, well look what the cat dragged in!” Santos boomed, emerging from the group to ruffle Frank’s already-mussed hair. “Look at you! You look Canadian.”
“Is it the double denim?” Frank asked, glancing down at his outfit.
Santos threw her head back and laughed. “Can’t believe you’re calling it out before I can comment on it! Good job, dad.”
“I can’t tell if that was endearing or not,” Frank said, feigning offense.
“You tell me,” Santos replied, pulling him into a brief, hard hug. Her voice dropped to a more sincere tone near his ear. “Can’t believe I can finally drag you bar-hopping with me. I’ve needed a sober soldier.”
“He’s already my sober soldier!” Garcia declared, appearing to sling an arm around Santos’s waist, her earlier search clearly successful.
Frank extricated himself, his attention drifting to the younger resident in the group. “So… how’s your first night out post-21st, Dr. J?” he asked Victoria.
She groaned. “I told you not to call me that around the others!” But she was smiling, her cheeks flushed with excitement and, likely, the good wine. “It’s been really good, though. Trinity, Joy, and Dennis have been taking such good care of me so far. Hell, I used my TikTok money to buy us some of that good wine.”
“She did, she did,” Joy confirmed, swaying a little. “And now look where it’s gotten our cowboy over here.”
All eyes turned to the bull. Dennis was climbing back onto the platform, accepting a hand up from the operator. He was hyping up the crowd, a wide, fearless grin on his face as he readjusted his cowboy hat. Frank’s breath caught.
If you want to read the rest of it, please do so on AO3 <3 (IT GETS FREAKY FROM HERE ON OUT)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I actually don't want Robby to be mad at Dennis. I want LANGDON to be.
I want him to be so heartbroken his friend is dead. I want him to blame Dennis for "killing" Louie. I want him to make him feel like he hasn't changed in the year he's been gone, I want him to remind him of Mr. Milton (a case so similar, coming to the ER for a different treatment, only to be found unresponsive under Dennis' supervision)
I want Langdon to shatter that boy's confidence he worked so hard to build.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This was a fic idea I got from the one and only @whoismartianfox!!! Because yes Frank tearing down Dennis for his mistreatment of addicts is going to happen, Frank's been through the ringer, and he's not taking this bullshit
The door clicked shut. Frank’s hand remained on the lock for a beat longer than necessary. The sound of it, that definitive, metallic click, echoed in the break room.
Dennis was mid-reach for the coffee pot. He froze. His hand hovered over the handle, then slowly retreated to his side. His back straightened, instinctively pressing against the counter edge. His Adam’s apple bobbed once.
Frank didn’t move from the door. He just stood there, chest rising and falling with a deliberate slowness that was more terrifying than shouting. His face was red, a deep, mottled crimson that crawled up from his collar and settled high in his cheeks. His jaw was set so tight the tendons in his neck stood out like cables.
And in the silence, his mind was a hurricane.
Ten months.
Ten months since Dennis had stood over Mr. Milton’s gurney, watched him seize, watched him go unresponsive under his watch. Ten months since the first time he’d proven he couldn’t be trusted with a patient’s life. Frank had been assisting Dennis on his first day as a student doctor and promised himself he’d deal with it later if it appeared again.
And now later was here.
Louie.
Frank saw him in his mind’s eye. The man’s alcoholic-breath, the apologetic half-smile when he’d come in with yet another infection, another excuse. Frank had spent years building that rapport. Years of not pushing too hard, of letting Louie come to him, of celebrating the small wins. He’d finally gotten him to agree to go to the same inpatient facility he’d gone to to address his Benzo addiction. I’ll go, Frank. I promise. Just get these kids done with my teeth and I’ll go with you.
And Dennis had left him. Alone. In a room. With his liver screaming its last warning signs that Dennis hadn’t even noticed.
Did you even look at him? Frank’s thoughts raged, the words piling up behind his teeth like bile. Did you see his eyes? Did you see the yellow? Or were you too busy being the smartest fucking person in the room to actually be a doctor?
Dennis shifted his weight. The faint scuff of his shoe against the floor. Frank tracked the sound, his gaze pinning the younger man in place. Dennis’s hands, Frank noticed, were trembling slightly at his sides. Good.
You should be scared.
Frank thought about the referral form. The one he’d filled out before discovered Louie unresponsive, in his neat handwriting, Louie’s name in all caps. He’d tucked it into his desk drawer, waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Waiting for Louie to be stable enough to make the call. He thought about how he’d have to shred it now. File a death report instead. Write another goddamn condolence card to a family that had already lost their father years ago to the bottle, and now had to bury what was left.
Your fault.
Dennis opened his mouth. Closed it. His back pressed harder against the counter. He looked, Frank, thought distantly, like a man who had just realized he was in a cage.
And you didn’t even check on him.
The thought scalded him. Not a single follow-up. Not one question to the nurses, not one glance at the chart after you rolled him to recovery. You just moved on. To the next case. The next chance to prove yourself. And Louie, kind, broken, trying-so-hard Louie, died on a bed with a failing liver you missed.
Cost him his chance.
Frank’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He could feel the old familiar heat in his chest, the thing he’d spent months in therapy learning to name, to cage, to breathe through. Anger is information, they’d said. It tells you what you care about.
He cared about this.
He cared about Louie, who didn’t have anyone else. He cared about the job, the one he’d nearly thrown away, the one he was trying so desperately to do right. And he cared, God help him, that the boy cowering against the counter had learned nothing.
Milton should have been your wake-up call. And instead you just… kept going. Like it didn’t happen. Like you didn’t almost kill a man.
Dennis swallowed again. His gaze flicked from Frank’s face to the door, then back. Calculating. Frank saw the gears turning behind those eyes, defense, deflection, some carefully worded justification already forming. He’d heard it before, in different words, different tones, from a dozen other doctors who thought they were above reproach.
Don’t. Don’t you dare explain this to me. Don’t tell me how busy you were. Don’t tell me you didn’t know. You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to know.
The silence stretched. Frank’s knuckles were white. He hadn’t moved an inch from the door, and Dennis hadn’t dared to step forward. The coffee machine gurgled softly, blissfully unaware, and somewhere in the distance a pager went off.
Frank stared.
And in his head, he said everything. He laid it out, piece by piece. The negligence, the arrogance, the second chance Dennis didn’t even realize he’d been given. He told him about Mr. Milton’s family, about Louie’s empty referral form, about the weight of a man’s life in careless hands. He told him what a disappointment he was. What a danger. What a goddamn waste of potential.
The words piled up behind his sealed lips until they had no room left to move. Until his chest ached with the pressure of them.
And then, slowly, very slowly, Frank let his fists unclench.
Dennis was still watching him, pale and rigid, waiting for the axe to fall.
Frank drew a breath. Steady. Controlled.
Dennis flinched at the sound. His back hit the corner where the counter met the wall, nowhere left to go. His hands came up slightly, palms out, a gesture that could have been surrender or self-defense.
“Frank…”
“DON’T.”
The word exploded out of him, raw and guttural, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest. Dennis’s mouth snapped shut. His shoulders hunched forward involuntarily.
Frank took a step. Then another. His shadow fell over Dennis, and the younger man pressed harder into the corner like he was trying to merge with the drywall.
“You absolute…” Frank’s voice cracked on the word, his whole body trembling with the effort of containment, but containment was over now. The dam had broken. “…fucking, PUNK!”
His finger stabbed out, inches from Dennis’s face. Dennis jerked back, his head knocking softly against the wall.
“I spent YEARS on that man. YEARS.” Frank’s voice climbed, ragged and hoarse. “You know how long it took to get Louie to trust me? To trust ANY doctor here? You know how many times he walked out because someone looked at his chart and saw ‘addict’ and decided he wasn’t worth the time?”
Dennis opened his mouth.
“NO. You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to FUCKING talk right now.”
Frank was closer now. Close enough to see the shine of sweat on Dennis’s upper lip, the rapid pulse beating in his throat. Close enough to smell the cheap coffee on his breath.
“I told you to watch his fluids. I TOLD you his gums were infected, I TOLD you he was immunocompromised, I TOLD you every goddamn thing you needed to know, and you just…” Frank made a disgusted, choking sound. ”…you just nodded. Like you do. Like you know better. Like you’re already ten steps ahead and the rest of us are just slowing you down.”
Dennis’s fingers curled against the wall behind him. His knuckles were white.
“And the benzos.” Frank’s voice dropped, suddenly quiet, which was somehow worse. His eyes were bloodshot, gleaming. “You really think I don’t know what that was about? You really think I didn’t notice you bypassing my orders? Undermining me in front of my own patients?”
His hand slammed against the wall beside Dennis’s head. Dennis jumped.
“I’ve been doing this job since you were still in HIGH SCHOOL. I’ve learned more about crisis intervention than you’ll ever LEARN. And you…”, He jabbed Dennis’s chest, hard, making him recoil, “You looked at me like I was some pill-seeking JUNKIE who couldn’t be trusted with a patient’s care plan.”
Dennis swallowed. His voice was barely a whisper. “That’s not…”
“I SAID SHUT UP.”
Frank’s face was inches away now. The redness had spread, crawling down his neck, his knuckles blanched white where they pressed against the wall. His breath came in short, ragged bursts.
“Ten months ago. Mr. Milton. You were supposed to learn something, Dennis. You were supposed to walk away from that and think, ‘Maybe I need to slow down. Maybe I need to actually LOOK at my patients.’ But you didn’t. You just…” Frank made a sound of pure frustration, his free hand raking through his hair. “You just filed it away. Another data point. Another case study. Another lesson YOU didn’t need because you’re already PERFECT.”
Dennis shook his head, barely perceptible. His eyes were very wide.
“Louie had sclera. Did you notice? Did you even FUCKING NOTICE?” Frank’s voice broke upward, cracking on the word. “His belly was distended OF COURSE from the ascites. His eyes were yellow BECAUSE of sclera. He was confused, he was fatigued, he had every goddamn sign of liver failure written all over his face, and you LEFT him. You left him alone in that room, and you didn’t check. You didn’t look at his GODDAMN charts PROPERLY. You didn’t ASK around.”
Silence. Heavy. Broken only by Frank’s ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent hum of the refrigerator.
“He was going to go...” Frank said. His voice had changed, not quieter, exactly, but thinner. More frayed. “I got him to agree. Me. After everything, after all the relapses and the missed appointments and the times he lied to my face about how much he was drinking… I got him to say yes. He was going to check in. He was going to get clean.”
His hand slid slowly down the wall, leaving a faint smear of sweat on the paint.
“And you took that from him. Because you couldn’t be bothered to do your JOB.”
Dennis’s lips parted. Frank saw it coming, the explanation, the justification, the carefully constructed defense that would make this not his fault. He saw it in the way Dennis’s brow furrowed, the way his mouth started to form the first syllable.
And he couldn’t bear it.
“NO!” The word was a roar, raw and desperate. “NO, you don’t get to explain. You don’t get to tell me how ‘systemic’ it is or how ‘overwhelmed’ you were or how ‘the signs weren’t clear’… they WERE clear, Dennis. They were clear, and you MISSED them because you don’t LOOK. You don’t see patients, you see CASES. You don’t treat PEOPLE, you treat DISEASES.”
He was shouting so loudly now his throat burned. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
“Louie was a PERSON. He had a WIFE, he had KIDS who hadn’t spoken to him in six years, he still had a DOG that he fed before every ER Visit he went to, even when he couldn’t afford his own groceries. He had a LIFE. And you just…”
Frank’s voice finally gave out, collapsing into something barely audible.
”…you just let him go.”
The silence rushed back in to fill the space.
Dennis hadn’t moved. He was pressed flat against the corner, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his eyes fixed on Frank’s face like he was watching something come apart at the seams. His lower lip was trembling, slightly, almost imperceptibly. His hands had fallen to his sides.
Frank stared at him. Through him. The rage was still there, a live thing coiling in his chest, but it had nowhere left to go. He’d spent it all. Every word, every accusation, every shattered piece of grief he’d been carrying since he heard Louie’s code called overhead.
Dennis opened his mouth.
“I SAID…”
Frank’s voice was a wreck. But his eyes were still blazing.
”…DON'T.”
Dennis closed his mouth.
Frank held his gaze for one more heartbeat. Two.
The first tear slid down Dennis’s cheek and dropped off his jaw, landing silently on the linoleum.
Frank saw it. He didn’t care.
“You think crying fixes this?” His voice was shredded now, barely holding together. “You think tears make it better? Make you look like you care?”
Dennis shook his head with small, jerky movements. His breath was hitching. His chest was caving inward with each sob he tried to suppress.
“You don’t get to cry, Dennis. You don’t get to feel bad about it now. Where was this ten months ago? Where was this when Milton was having a heart attack on your watch? Where was this when Louie’s heart stopped because you couldn’t be bothered to notice his goddamn LIVER was failing?”
Dennis made a sound. Small. Wounded. His hand came up to cover his mouth, but it didn’t stop the tears. They were coming faster now, tracking down his face, dripping onto his white coat.
“You don’t give a SHIT about addicts.” Frank’s voice climbed again, ragged and raw. “You clearly NEVER have. You look at them and see weakness. You look at ME now and see...”
His voice broke. He swallowed. Pushed forward.
“I see it in your eyes, Dennis. Every time. Every time I ask for something, every time I give an opinion, every time I walk into a room you’re in. That little flicker. That little disgust. Like I’m contaminated. Like I’m less than.”
Dennis’s hand slid from his mouth to his chest, pressing there like he was trying to hold himself together. His shoulders shook.
“You do it to Cassie, too.” Frank stepped closer. Dennis flinched but didn’t move. “Four hours. I’ve been back FOUR HOURS, and she already told me. The way you talk about her and me behind our backs. The way you go to other attendings because you ‘don’t trust her advice.’ On what? Pain management? Withdrawal protocols? Things she actually KNOWS because she’s spent YEARS working on her own battle with ADDICTION while you were in UNDERGRADUATE SCHOOL?”
Dennis’s face crumpled. His hands came up, not to defend, but to grip the front of his own scrubs, twisting the fabric.
“Victoria told her. Did you know that? That your student ductor is so concerned about your BIAS that she’s warning other attendings about it?” Frank’s laugh was hollow, bitter. “You think you’re so careful. So subtle. But everyone SEES it, Dennis. Everyone knows you think you’re better than us.”
A sob escaped Dennis. High and thin. His knees seemed to buckle slightly.
“And now Louie is DEAD...”
Frank’s voice broke on the word. His eyes were burning. His vision blurred.
“DEAD, Dennis. Because you couldn’t set aside your goddamn PRIDE for five minutes and just... just see him. Just treat him like a human being instead of a teachable moment.”
A tear escaped. Frank wiped it away savagely with the back of his hand. Then another. He was crying now too, and he hated it, hated how weak it made him feel, hated that Dennis was seeing this.
“Ten months ago. Mr. Martin.” His voice cracked on the name. “What was his name, Dennis? Can you even REMEMBER? Or did you just file him under ‘lesson learned’ and move on?”
Dennis shook his head. His eyes were screwed shut. Tears leaked from the corners.
“He came in with gallstones. A goddamn GALLSTONE. And you left him alone, and he seized, and he DIED under your supervision. And you CLEARLY learned NOTHING. You changed NOTHING. You just… kept going. Kept missing the signs because you were too busy being the smartest person in the room to actually BE A DOCTOR.”
Frank was shouting again. His throat was raw. His face was wet.
“I’m filing a complaint.”
Dennis’s eyes opened. Red-rimmed. Desperate.
“I’m going to Dana, and I’m filing a formal complaint about your conduct. Your negligence. Your pattern of bias against patients with substance use disorder.” Frank’s voice was steadier now. Colder. “And she AGREED with me. She said I could give you a piece of my mind. She wanted me to. Because she’s seen it too. We’ve ALL seen it.”
Dennis made a sound like he’d been struck.
“You’re a FUCK UP, Dennis. You’re a dangerous, arrogant, incompetent fuck up, and you have no business being a doctor if you can’t learn to give a shit about the people you’re supposed to be HELPING.”
Dennis’s legs gave out.
He didn’t fall completely, the counter caught him, his hip slamming against the edge, but he slid down, crumpling, his back against the cabinet, his hands clutching at the front of his scrubs like he was trying to tear his own heart out.
“This is going to keep happening.”
Frank’s voice was quieter now. Hoarse. Exhausted.
“Until you get your head out of your ass. Until you actually LOOK at your patients and see PEOPLE. Until you stop treating addiction like a moral failing and start treating it like the DISEASE it is.”
Dennis was sobbing openly now. His whole body shook with it. His face was hidden behind his hands, but his shoulders heaved, and the sounds he made were ugly and raw and completely unguarded.
“Louie trusted me,” Frank whispered. “He trusted me, and I trusted YOU, and you…”
He couldn’t finish.
Dennis’s hands dropped from his face. His expression was ruined, swollen, blotchy, his nose running, his lips parted and trembling. He looked younger than Frank had ever seen him. He looked like he was a freshman in college.
And then he moved.
Frank didn’t register it at first, his mind was still churning, still cataloguing every failure, every slight, every moment of disrespect that had led to this in just the few moments he had been back, but suddenly Dennis was there, against him, his fingers gripping the fabric of Frank’s scrubs at his chest, his face pressed into Frank’s shoulder.
He was crying. Hard. His whole body convulsed with it.
Frank blinked.
The fire inside him, the rage that had been burning since he found Louie unresponsive, since he saw Dennis standing in the break room like nothing had happened, flickered.
Sputtered.
Snuffed out.
He stood there, frozen, his arms at his sides, Dennis clinging to him like he was drowning. Like Frank was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis.
”What…”
Frank’s voice came out wrong. Confused. Lost.
Dennis just held on tighter. His fingers dug into the fabric. His shoulders shook. He was saying something, or trying to, but the words were swallowed by sobs, buried in the wet fabric of Frank’s scrubs.
Frank didn’t move.
He didn’t pull away.
He didn’t push Dennis off.
He just stood there, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, staring at the far wall, blinking slowly as the last embers of his rage guttered and died.
What the fuck.
Dennis’s grip was starting to weaken. His fingers, white-knuckled and desperate just moments ago, were beginning to slip against the sweat-damp fabric of Frank’s scrubs. His sobs had quieted from ragged, heaving gasps to something thinner, the sound of a man running on empty.
Then his knees buckled fully.
Frank watched him slide down, his back dragging against the cabinet doors, his hands leaving Frank’s chest and dragging down his sternum, his stomach, finally falling away altogether as Dennis crumpled into a heap on the floor. His legs splayed out awkwardly. His head dropped forward, chin to chest, shoulders still shaking.
Frank should have walked away. Should have unlocked the door, stepped away from the mess of Dennis on the floor, and left him there to marinate in everything Frank had just hurled at him. That’s what the rage wanted. That’s what the old Frank would have done.
But the old Frank had spent six months in rehab learning to be someone else.
He sighed. It came out heavy, weighted with something he couldn’t name.
Don’t give the kid a heart attack.
Frank lowered himself down, grunting with the effort, his knees popping in protest. He shuffled across the floor, ignoring how undignified it was, how this was absolutely not how he’d pictured this confrontation going, until his hip was against Dennis’s, until he could feel the younger man’s body shaking with each suppressed sob.
Dennis didn’t look up. His hands were limp in his lap. His chest hitched.
Frank hesitated. His hand hovered in the air between them, fingers spread, uncertain.
What are you doing?
He didn’t have an answer. His hand moved anyway.
His fingers touched Dennis’s hair. The kid flinched, but didn’t pull away. Frank scratched. Gently. Tentatively. His nails dragged slow circles against Dennis’s scalp, working through the gel-slicked strands, finding the warmth beneath.
Dennis’s breath caught.
Then, slowly, the shaking began to subside.
“I’m still mad at you,” Frank said. His voice was wrecked, barely above a whisper. “This isn’t over. This is so far from over it’s not even funny.”
Dennis nodded against his thigh. His forehead pressed harder into Frank’s pant leg.
“But you need to let this out.” Frank’s hand kept moving. Steady. Rhythmic. “You’ve been holding it in for too long. All of it. Milton. Louie. Everything you think you’re supposed to be. It’s rotting you from the inside.”
Dennis made a sound, small, wounded. His fingers twitched in his lap.
“You need to see the hospital psychiatrist.” Frank’s voice hardened slightly. “Not once. Regularly. You need to talk to someone about why you look at addicts like they’re beneath you. Why you think Cassie’s advice isn’t worth hearing. Why you can’t trust anyone else to be competent.”
Another nod. Slower this time. His body was relaxing incrementally, melting against Frank’s thigh like a cat settling into a warm spot.
“And you need to actually DO the work. Not just show up and go through the motions. You need to figure out why you are the way you are, and you need to fix it. Or so help me God, Dennis, I will make sure you never treat another patient in this hospital again.”
Dennis’s breath evened out. His shoulders, still trembling, began to still.
A wet stain was spreading across Frank’s pant leg. Warm and distinctly damp. He looked down and saw Dennis’s face pressed into his thigh, tears and snot and saliva all mingling together in an absolutely disgusting collage of human misery.
Gross.
He was definitely going to need new scrubs. His only clean pair. These were brand new, fresh from the pack, and now they were a biohazard. Dennis’s own scrubs weren’t faring much better, the front was soaked, dark patches spreading from the collar to his chest.
Frank kept scratching.
“I’m sorry...”
The words were muffled against Frank’s thigh. Mumbled. Slurred. Dennis’s voice was raw, scraped clean by twenty minutes of sobbing.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
Frank didn’t respond. His fingers kept moving.
“I didn’t want to be… I didn’t mean to become…” Dennis’s voice fractured. “…this. I didn’t want to be a monster.”
Frank’s hand stilled.
“I’m a monster,” Dennis whispered. “A monster. I killed him. I killed Louie. I’m a monster, and I didn’t even see it, and I’m sorry I’m sorry I’M SORRY!”
His voice cracked upward, rising toward another sob, his body tensing
“Hey.”
Frank’s hand pressed down, firm and steady, cupping the back of Dennis’s head.
“Breathe.”
Dennis gasped. His fingers clutched at Frank’s pant leg.
“Just breathe. You’re not helping anyone if you hyperventilate.”
Dennis breathed. Ragged. Shallow. But breathing.
Frank’s thumb traced slow circles behind Dennis’s ear.
“I’m sorry,” Dennis whispered again. His voice was so small now. “I’m sorry I disrespected you. I’m sorry about the benzos. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry I thought… I thought I knew better. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t… like you weren’t good enough. Like you weren’t a real doctor.”
Frank’s jaw tightened.
“I'm sorry...” Dennis breathed. “...You and Cassie. You both know things I don’t. You see things I don’t see. And I couldn’t admit that I needed help, so I pretended I didn’t. I pretended you were the problem.”
He laughed, a broken, hollow sound.
“I’m so stupid.”
Frank didn’t disagree.
Dennis shifted. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up from Frank’s lap. His movements were unsteady, his arms trembling with the effort. Frank’s hand fell away from his hair.
But Dennis didn’t stop. He kept rising, kept reaching, until his face was level with Frank’s chest, until his forehead pressed against Frank’s collarbone, until his nose was buried in the curve of Frank’s neck.
He was so close Frank could feel his breath. Hot and ragged against his skin.
“Can I make it up to you?”
Dennis’s voice was barely audible. Muffled against Frank’s throat. His fingers found Frank’s scrubs again, clutching at the fabric just below his shoulder.
“Please... Please tell me I can make it up to you. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Please...”
Frank exhaled slowly. His eyes drifted closed.
“Do what I asked.”
His voice was exhausted. Heavy.
“See the psychiatrist. Do the work. Treat your patients like human beings. Trust Cassie. Trust me. Actually listen when someone tries to teach you something.”
Dennis nodded. His face pressed deeper into Frank’s neck. His nose was cold against Frank’s pulse point.
“And stop being a fucking cunt to someone who’s trying to help you.”
Dennis laughed. It was wet and broken and barely recognizable as a laugh, but it was something.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
His head moved against Frank’s neck, nodding, nestling deeper. Seeking warmth.
Frank’s hand found its way back to Dennis’s hair.
“This doesn’t fix it,” he said quietly. “This doesn’t bring Louie back. This doesn’t undo any of the harm you’ve caused.”
Dennis nodded against his skin.
“I know,” he breathed. “I know.”
“But it’s a start.”
Dennis’s fingers tightened in Frank’s scrubs. His breath evened out. His body, still trembling, slowly began to still.
The wet stain on Frank’s pants was getting cold. His scrubs were ruined. His throat was raw. His eyes were swollen. He was sitting on the floor of the break room with a crying resident curled into his chest, and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to explain this to anyone who walked through that door.
He kept scratching Dennis’s hair.
Six Months of therapy, he thought. Six Months of learning to manage my emotions and not rely on Benzos. Six Months of promises I made to myself to be better.
And the first thing I do is scream at a kid until he breaks.
The guilt sat heavy in his chest, cold and familiar.
But he needed to hear it.
He wasn’t sure if that was true. He wasn’t sure if he was telling himself that to justify the explosion, or if it was actually, genuinely the right call. He wasn’t sure of anything except that Dennis was still breathing against his neck, and his hair was softer than Frank expected, and they were both sitting in a puddle of tears and regret on the break room floor.
Dennis shifted slightly. His voice was barely audible.
“Thank you.”
Frank’s hand paused.
“For what?”
Dennis was quiet for a long moment. His thumb traced a slow, unconscious pattern against Frank’s shoulder blade.
“For not leaving.”
Frank didn’t respond.
His hand started moving again.
Dennis stirred against Frank’s chest. His breathing had evened out, the frantic hitch of his sobs reduced to occasional shuddering exhales. His grip on Frank’s scrubs had loosened, fingers now resting limply against the damp fabric.
Slowly, he pushed himself up.
His face was a wreck. Eyes swollen nearly shut, rims raw and red. His cheeks were blotchy, tear tracks cutting pale lines through the flushed skin. His nose was running. His lips were parted, trembling slightly.
But he was looking at Frank. Properly looking.
“Frank.”
His voice was hoarse. Barely above a whisper.
Frank didn’t respond. His hand had stilled on Dennis’s head, hovering uncertainly above the disheveled hair.
“Can you…” Dennis swallowed. His throat clicked. “Can you help me?”
Frank frowned.
“I’m trying to. I literally just told you what you need to do...”
“No.” Dennis shook his head, a small, quick movement. “Not just that. I mean… can you help me? Be my mentor. The way I should have let you be. The way I should have treated you from the start.”
Frank stared at him.
“I’m an addict,” he said flatly. “I got out of rehab. You literally spent the last ten months talking about me like I was contagious.”
“I know.” Dennis’s voice cracked. “I know. And I was wrong. I was so wrong about everything.”
His hand moved. Slow, tentative. His fingers found Frank’s wrist and wrapped around it gently.
“You know things I don’t know. You see things I don’t see. You spent years becoming the doctor I claim I want to be, and I couldn’t admit that I needed to learn from you.”
Frank’s jaw tightened.
“So learn. Read the books. Talk to the psychiatrist. Do the work.”
“I can’t do it alone.”
Dennis’s grip tightened. His thumb pressed against Frank’s pulse point.
“I’ve tried. I’ve been trying. Every day I tell myself I’ll be better, and every day I wake up, and I’m the same person. The same arrogant, judgmental, blind person who misses the signs and dismisses the people trying to help him.”
His eyes were wet again. Not overflowing, but glistening.
“I don’t know how to change. I don’t know where to start. And I thought… I thought if I just pretended I already knew, eventually I would. But I don’t. I don’t know anything.”
Frank was quiet for a long moment.
Dennis’s hand was warm around his wrist. His thumb kept moving, that same unconscious pattern, tracing slow circles against Frank’s skin.
“You want me to mentor you,” Frank said slowly. “After everything you just admitted. After everything, I screamed at you.”
Dennis nodded. His jaw was set, even as it trembled.
“Yes.”
Frank scoffed. It was a dry, disbelieving sound.
“Kid, I don’t even know if I should be mentoring anyone. I just spent six months learning how to not rely on drugs for an escape from all of this. I’m hardly poster boy material...”
Dennis moved Frank’s hand.
Not aggressively. Not demandingly. Gently, he lifted Frank’s hand from where it rested on his shoulder and guided it downward. Past his collarbone. Past his sternum. Until Frank’s fingers met the sharp line of Dennis’s jaw.
Dennis tilted his head. Pressed his chin into Frank’s palm.
And leaned into it.
“Like a good boy,” he mumbled. His eyes fluttered half-shut.
Frank blinked.
Dennis grunted, a low, content sound, entirely involuntary. His jaw worked against Frank’s fingers, seeking pressure. His soft skin rubbed against Frank’s palm.
“What are you?”
“Head scratches were good,” Dennis murmured. His voice was distant, dreamy. “Chin scratches are better.”
“That’s not-”
“Please...”
Frank stared at the top of Dennis’s head. With the disheveled hair, the gel was completely destroyed, strands sticking up in every direction. The way Dennis’s entire body had gone slack against him, tension bleeding out through every point of contact.
“You’re weird,” Frank said.
Dennis grunted again. His eyes were fully closed now.
Frank shook his head. His fingers moved, slow, tentative, scratching the soft skin beneath Dennis’s jaw.
Dennis made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a purr.
“This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had,” Frank muttered. “And I once talked a man down from a ledge while wearing only one shoe because he threw the other one off.”
Dennis smiled. It was small and fragile and barely there, but it was a smile.
“Is that a yes?”
Frank was quiet for a long moment. His fingers kept moving, tracing slow arcs along Dennis’s jawline.
“It’s a ‘let’s see how the psychiatrist appointment goes’,” he said finally. “And it’s a ‘you need to apologize to Cassie properly’. And it’s a ‘you need to actually read the materials I give you and not just nod and pretend you already know everything’.”
Dennis nodded against his hand.
“And it’s a ‘you need to stop being a judgmental prick to every patient with a substance use history’.”
Another nod.
“And it’s a ‘this doesn’t erase what happened to Louie, and I’m still furious with you, and I don’t know if I can ever fully trust you again’.”
Dennis’s smile faded. His eyes opened. He looked at Frank, really looked, and nodded slowly.
“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”
Silence stretched between them.
“…But yes.”
Dennis’s breath caught.
“I’ll help you,” Frank said. His voice was gruff, reluctant, like the words were being dragged out of him with pliers. “I’ll be your mentor. God knows why. God knows if it’ll even work. But I’ll try.”
Dennis’s eyes welled up again. His hand tightened around Frank’s wrist.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you. I won’t... I promise I won’t waste this. I promise I’ll actually listen. I promise-”
“Yeah, yeah.” Frank pulled his hand away from Dennis’s jaw. “Promises are cheap. Show me with the work.”
Dennis nodded quickly. Too quickly. His whole body was vibrating with something that might have been relief.
He reached up. Caught Frank’s hand before it could retreat fully.
Pressed his lips to Frank’s knuckles.
It was soft. Brief. Barely a kiss at all, just a press of warm, dry lips against weathered skin.
“Thank you,” Dennis whispered against Frank’s fingers. “For showing me the errors of my ways. For not giving up on me. For being better than I deserve.”
Frank stared at him.
His hand was very warm where Dennis had kissed it.
“…We need to change our scrubs,” he said.
Dennis blinked. Looked down at himself. At the dark, wet stain spreading across his chest, the crumpled fabric, the general state of absolute dishevelment.
“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Right.”
Frank extracted himself carefully. His knees screamed in protest as he pushed himself up off the floor. His pant leg was cold, damp, and disgusting. He could feel the moisture seeping against his skin.
Definitely need new scrubs.
He limped to the door. His hand found the lock. Turned it.
The click was softer this time.
He pulled the door open and found Dana standing in the hallway, clipboard in hand, expression carefully neutral. Her eyes swept over him, the ruined scrubs, the red-rimmed eyes, the general air of having been through something, and then over his shoulder, where Dennis was slowly, shakily pulling himself up off the floor.
She raised an eyebrow.
Frank nodded once.
Dana nodded back. Her expression shifted, just slightly, just enough, from wary vigilance to something approaching cautious relief.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Frank turned back to Dennis.
“You coming?”
Dennis was on his feet now, swaying slightly. His scrubs were destroyed. His hair was a disaster. His face was blotchy and swollen and absolutely wrecked.
He looked at Frank.
“Yes,” he said. His voice was steadier now. Still raw, still fragile, but steadier. “Yes. I’m coming.”
He walked toward the door. Toward Frank.
Frank stepped aside to let him through.
“Scrubs machine is down the hall,” he said. “You still take a medium?”
Dennis blinked. Something flickered across his face, surprise, maybe. That Frank would remember.
“…Yes,” he said quietly. “Medium.”
Frank nodded.
“Try not to get snot on these ones.”
Dennis laughed. It was wet and broken and still barely recognizable as a laugh, but it was real.
“I’ll try.”
Frank started walking. After a moment, Dennis followed.
I was inspired by this wonderful artist's comic about Langtaker, and it really made me look at this ship in a new light, aaand I wanna say thank you for this 🖤 @trickytrick
hi here to announce something akin to an upcoming comic….might post it weekly or biweekly rlly depends on my schedule, but the story is written already (by me) so all is left to do is, well. turn it into a comic.
this story is particularly important to me, covers bases of replacement, belonging, comfort. it’s sort of a slowburn between two people who felt at the top of the world for a bit, only to crash spectacularly right after. it’s a quiet story, a lot of “almosts”, lots of shared looks. sitting next to someone instead of across from them. it’s about unlearning, changing, staying. and i like it a lot, hope you can like it too
set during season 2, semi canon compliant considering idk what’s gonna happen in s2 but here frank is divorced, and dennis isn’t involved with anyone. other than that i tried being as close to canon as possible
this is also available on my tiktok, twt and instagram, all links here
Scotti's FanFic studio @yahyuh - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
