love takes miles

✨ call me h

✨ former poetry writer, working on developing fics

✨ who i write for: the pitt (specifically frank langdon)

✨ open to requests for blurbs/shorter fics

✨ share your thoughts with me!! if you have questions or anything about my lil' characters, i'd love to talk about them more! how they'd handle things, what they are thinking when they make their choices, etc!! always open to discussing more of their story!!

✨ and, as always, thank you for reading! genuinely cannot believe people are reading my works and am eternally greatful for anyone liking them at all

❌ 18+: MDNI - this blog will contain adult themes and smut! if i find you, i will block you and not feel a lick of guilt about it.

❌ no hate, no racism, no homophobia, no bigotry, no fucking around: this is an inclusive space, and i am working to make my fiction as inclusive as possible. i have many privileges in this world and the biggest one is to make my spaces safe. i will not stand for anything even resembling disrespect towards anyone else and will block you without warning.

chapter ten: the way you held my face, i swear i softened

frank langdon x ofc (reader)

CW: 18+, MDNI (I WILL BLOCK YOU), the beginnings of SMUT and smutty themes throughout, kissing, teasing, a handy 

other cw: barely proofread because i don’t caaare, mentions of medical cases and injuries, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, some smut, finally finally finally 

tag list: @lunadi1una

He doesn’t break the kiss for several minutes, but he doesn’t try to progress farther than consistent movement. He knows, somewhere deep in his belly, that if he moves too fast, letting his tongue swirl with yours, a deeper, undeniable connection will take hold of him and until you pull away, he wouldn’t either. He doesn’t want to deny wherever that would lead, but the water would get cold, force you out an into the warmth of your bed, the safety of each other. 

So, he’s the first to pull away and it causes him significant pain to do so. The way you look at him, confused, breathing heavily, wanting him back to his previous position. His hands, still wrapped between your hair and neck. 

“Gotta get out” He tells you, voice almost harsh, angry at himself for breaking the bond. You nod as he opens the door. He’s grabs the first towel to wrap around you, and the second for himself. Quickly, he’s exiting and digging in his duffle bag. He gives you a few minutes alone, at his mind and bodys protest, watching you brush your hair through the open door. 

By the time you exit, he’s carefully selected a shirt and sweatpants for you from his personal stash, and much to his detriment, thrown on his own clothes half-hazardly to hide how hard he’s been, continued to get, is. He took some liberty and grabbed underwear from your dresser. He would have spent more time assessing the options, but he’d stopped himself short. 

When you’re out and infront of him again, he gently removes the towel and instructs you to put your arms up again. He hopes it doesn’t make you feel like you can’t do it yourself, the truth being he doesn’t want you to protest against wearing his shirt. He needs to see you in it, to claim whatever part of this he can. It’s an old UPenn Medical School shirt, comfortably warn in from his own time sleeping in it. Perfect for you to do the same, he theorizes. When it’s on and your arms are through the sleeves, it fits exactly how he envisioned it would, too large for your frame, sleeves hitting your elbows and the hem resting near your thighs. Those thighs. 

He hands you your underwear and the sweatpants and you slip them on. You speak so softly when you finally look at the shirt, saying, This isn’t mine? And he counters with Is now, because its true. The minute he put it in the duffle bag, he’d already given it away. 

You climb into the bed and pat the empty space next to you, apologizing for the lack of seating options, the only real other spot would be your the dining chairs that were incredibly uncomfortable, according to you. 

“I’d rather be next to you, right now, too.” There’s a small smile on your lips as you tell him this, he returns it tenfold. 

“I won’t move from this spot until you want me to,” He says in earnest. He’d never dream of moving if life would let him. You’ve turned to him, into him, as soon as he’s finished talking. Staring back up at him with that same look you’d given in the shower. He, again, barely considers a protest towards waiting to eat first, waiting until it feels more right to explore what you both want, need. Conceding to himself that more right means missing the moment, denying you, something he refuses to do. 

Just like before, it starts soft, gentle pressing of lips together, gentle, still in an exploratory phase. Almost like his first real-life medical case, it feels real, vunerable, fragile. This time, he’s had a taste, but the link between you is still so foreign to him, unawareness forcing him to focus on the shape, the space where your bodies meet. But you pull him in, down to you, almost on top of you. The kiss becomes fast, feverish, a knot tying you to each other.  Like the pair of you are on fire, both refusing to find water. He drags his tongue along your bottom lip, this time allowing himself to beg to be let in. 

You grant his request, nearly the moment he makes it. His tongue moves in circles around yours, in time with you, in partnership. He places a hand delicately in the middle of your thigh, pulling it less than gently in between his legs, hoping or knowing you’ll feel what you do to him, how hard he is pressed against you, an idea of how he’d feel inside you. There’s a small break for air as he pulls away from your mouth and moves down the side of your face and towards your neck. At the separation, a soft moan escapes you and travels into his ear. He might combust at the sound alone, vowing to do whatever it takes to hear it again and again.

He dedicates himself to moving down your neck, alternating from soft to hard presses with his lips, giving his best attempts to not suck your skin red where somebody, mostly god forbid your coworkers, could see, despite a certain part of him desperate for that, too. He feels you move the hand on your thigh to your hip, considerate with your placement of it slightly under the hem. He moves his mouth back up towards your flushed cheeks and lips, and connects them again. This time, you open your mouth immediately, a display of trust, an intensive need to intwine your tongues again. 

He’s almost lost in it, the joy, the bliss of finally having you, when he hears you whisper for him to touch me, please, he realizes he’s been running his fingers over the hem mindlessly, never fully taking the hint to venture further, extend his offerings to you. He indulges, once he gains the necessary awareness of what he needs to do to satiate you, or at least the first of many steps he’ll travel to get there, almost embarrassed he made you wait for him to catch up.

If he’s honest, there’s a long list of things he’d like to do. Fuck, a lot, in general. Make her cum, make her cum multiple times in one day, in one session, one after another. Eat her out, as many times as she’ll let me, get her off with just my fingers, have sex in my car, have sex in my apartment, in the kitchen, with the curtains open, on my shitty couch, in her shower, wherever she’ll have me, until neither of us can stand. 

It goes on and on, diving into some options he doesn’t know if you’d be interested in, like some restraints, his hand around your neck, or if you’d be responsive to a select amount of bite marks. And he’s got the list of things he wants you to do to him - your mouth, your hands, every other part - But right now, he has to stay in the moment, before he moves forward into the possibilities to avoid the possibility he comes before you even really touch him, which, he concedes, is a very real threat from his body.

He focuses on the supple skin of your hips, moving slowly to feel your stomach and side of your ribs. His hand brushes the side of your breast, and he moves gently to cup it - fitting perfectly in his hand. He lets out his own whine as he locates your hard nipples, begging him to entertain them between his fingers. He squeezes, gently at first, then with only a little bit of roughness. You roll your head back with a much louder moan of his name, fuck, Frank, that feels so fucking good. Your hands are on his neck, pulling him even closer in, jaw loose and mouth open. He hears himself half demand, half beg for you to take the shirt off now. He no longer feels the deep desire to see you in it, his new urge to see it thrown across the room, tossed from a balcony, set on fire.

You comply, almost immediately, and he pushes you to lay further back, allow him to tend, to handle you, just a little more roughly than usual. He returns one hand back to your tit, palming it and reintroducing his finger tip to the delicate protruding bud. He examines the other, and with one precise movement, connects his mouth to the tender flesh. Between the two sources, the distribution of pleasure between a gentle twisting of one side and his tongue alternating between a suck and a rythmic flick, you’ve thrown your head back toward the pillow again, a song of worship escaping you.

His ability to physically register change has slowed down despite his heart pounding. He doesn’t immediately detect your hands, feverishly moving towards the hem of his shirt, still on for some reason, and the drawstrings of his sweatpants, of them moving seamlessly to untie and slide your hand below the fabric. When he notices what and where you’re moving toward, he releases himself from his current position, feeling guilty for letting go of your pleasure until your touch captivates him and shatters any sense of resolve he has. The rasp that he releases when you - the girl from the hospital who captivated him from the first glance - touch him, roll your fingers over the head of him, an immediate and gentle mastery of how firmly to hold him, how slowly to move your hand up and down, dedicated to the prolonged pleasure of touch, like you knew, or know, exactly what he needs sends him soaring. 

He’s back to his side and you’re facing him, studying his face as pure euphoria takes over his features. You almost appear to be making sure you know exactly what he looks like when he’s this close, that you’ll dedicate time to replicating this exact feeling for him, over and over. 

His eyes are half closed, he’s seeing what he assumes is heaven in the palm of your hands. He tries, half heartedly, to tell you how close he is, knowing you’re already aware of his predicament. When he finally manages to get the words out, you counter his endevor to last even a minute longer, to experience this version of bliss, with I want you to come for me, baby, let me - he releases into your hands before you’ve even finished the sentence. He concedes he wouldn’t have been able to wait and find out what let me even meant, it was already far too late for him. He vows for a next time, to wait and see.

When he finally opens his eyes, you’re grinning up at him, satisfied eyes and rose colored lips, slightly swollen from the moments leading up to this one. You’ve removed your hand from him, and he watches as you lift it to inspect the dripping, milky ropes left between your fingers. 

frank langdon x ofc (reader)

cw: barely proofread because i don’t caaare, frank was never married and has no kids, frank and reader POV, the beginning of the aftermath, just a lot of softness

authors note: re: true believer part one and two: didn't mean to publish part 2 of true believer in the same post as part 1 lol - but i did. i hope you enjoyed the double chapter!

tag list: @lunadi1una

Chapter nine: Come hell, or heaven, angels or devils, i won’t move 

He tells you to go out of the stairwell first, he’ll follow in a few minutes. Drops your hand right outside the door, you feel the instant cold of air hitting your plam. His fingers stay, barely connected until the tips of them part, a promise to come back together, that he doesn’t really want to let go. 

You’d asked about charting, his voice firm telling you that it could wait. He’d given you a short list of directions to ensure you didn’t lose yourself in the sea of patients, gourneys, bodies. Go directly to the break room, grab everything you need. My car is parked where it usually is, take the key and let yourself inside. I’ll tell Robby, Abbott, whoever, that you’ll chart on Monday when we’re back.

You’d sat in the car for just under five minutes before he he’s popping open the door, sitting down, and popping the key in the ignition. He’s turned out of his parking spot, through the lot, and out onto the street. 

He grabs your hand, then, making circles with his thumb, just like he always does.

“I just need to grab a few things, before we go to yours. Five minutes, tops. You can come in if you want?” You shake your head no, unable to imagine getting out until you reach your final destination, knowing if you set yourself down somewhere you’d be unable to leave. He pulls up to an old building, slides into a parking spot your almost convinced his car can’t fit into. “I’ll be right back.”

He’d said five minutes, but he’s back in his car in under three, having chosen to throw the contents of some of his dresser drawers into his duffle bag. A few of them were more conscious decisions, stuff he’d wonder if you accept as an offer to borrow, to comfort, to let him see you wearing his clothes. His toothbrush and toothpaste, contacts, glasses, a book that he doubts he’ll read, his melatonin supplement, the strongest sleep aid he was allowed to have anymore. 

When he gets back to his car, you’re leaving a voicemail for Jason, and he catches the end of it - let me know if you have time, on Monday, to talk. I have someone with me, at least tonight, so I’m good there. Just, uh, need to acknowledge that there’s elevated risk right now.  He really tries to not ask you about it, wanting to respect the boundary, but his one raised eyebrow gives him away. His desire to tell you he’d stay longer than tonight if you’d let him, he’d never leave if you wanted him to.

“Sorry,” You start up,

“Don’t even worry about it, I’m glad you’re reaching out to someone in your circle.”

“Not my circle,” you correct him lightly, “my sponsor.”

His head swims, just a little bit. Sponsor? Sponsor for what? He’s not stupid exactly, he just can’t figure out if you’re saying it in the way he says it.

You figure divulging more information about yourself, the stuff you’d kept close to the vest, was the right thing to do. He was coming to your house for the night. He was taking care of you, he had been all this time.

“I, uh, I went through a period of time, a long one, after everything happened in my sophomore year of high school,” You gesture, referencing what you’d said on the roof, and he nods, slowly. “Where I really, really liked alcohol, like way too much.” You want to slap yourself for how much you’re dumbing it down, downplaying the four years you’d spent as an inferno.

“I got sober at the end of my freshman year of college, I was being, like, incredibly unsafe with myself.” You end there for right now. 

“You know, there was a time when I really loved Benzo’s.” He’s smiling, kind of softly but without the usual air of pity that normally surrounds this kind of conversation. “I just mean, I get it, in my own way. You reminded me that I should probably call my sponsor, too.”

There’s a reprieve when says it - he’d told you some stories, mostly at the bonfires, about how he’d spent a lot of time working on himself, took some time away from work, had been searching in the wrong places for a comedown. A mutual understanding, of sorts. 

“We don’t have to talk about it today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon, just let me know if you need to have that phone call, go to a meeting, or anything, and I’ll leave.” You can tell he means it, cares about it, respects you and the process enough to let you work it. You pick up his hand, lacing your fingers together, bringing it to your mouth and placing a gentle kiss to it.

“Don’t wanna talk about you leaving yet, we aren’t even there.”

Taking that as a sign, he pulls away from his apartment, and takes the route back to yours, the one he knows like the back of his hand.

When you arrive, you’re barely able to feel ashamed of the state of your apartment - it wasn’t the worst it had ever been, but for the 650 square feet of space, it wasn’t looking great. Your bed somewhat unmade, a small pile of clothes near the hamper, and the things Shrimp had knocked over in your absence. You’d tried to explain Shrimp to Langdon in your car, 

“She’s my best friend, and my biggest hater, you know? I feed her, take her to the vet, make sure she doesn’t die, and she repays me by yelling and biting my face at five in the morning.” He nods,

“I can’t wait to meet her.” He laughs quietly, “she’s important to you, she’s important to me.” 

“Sometimes, though, when she wants to she kisses my face, which is nice.” You muse, half alive and thinking about the orange tufts of fur, part of the reason you woke up every morning.

“Oh?” His voice is soft, “I’ve got a lot in common with her, then.” He says it like it’s casual, like you wouldn’t react to his admission. You squeeze his hand, a quiet, “like you to,” and he squeezes back. An acknowledgement that the full scope of your lips against his lips had never fully happened, but neither of you cared about hiding the desire anymore, a promise that would be kept, both intent on keeping.

He follows you in, dropping his bag when the door is closed. You turn to him, exhausted, and he unzips your jacket, shrugs it from your shoulders and onto the hook. You lead him into the living room portion of the room, apologizing for how small it is. Shrimp, is rubbing feverishly at your legs. He’s taken your hand in the space between the door and where you stand now.

“Stop apologizing, please. It’s cozy, warm. Let me help you get in the shower.” If anyone else was telling you to get in the shower, you would have fought tooth and nail to do it on your own. Because it’s him, you don’t even utter a protest.

You point him toward the bathroom, he leads you in. He turns the shower on, swinging the knob. He says “Arm’s up,” and you comply, any fraction of self sufficiency having left your body hours ago, your scrub and undershirt peeled of of your body in the process. You undo the clasps of your bra, unsure why you’re missing the usual embarrassment of this part of the process. He’s moved down to your feet, lifting each and carefully removing your socks. Then back up to your waist, a hand resting on your hip while he undoes the bow on your scrub pants and you shuffle them down your legs. Before you completely step out of them, he’s hesitated only slightly before gently pulling your underwear from your hips, down your thighs and to the floor. 

It barely registers that he, Dr. Langdon, your senior resident, is seeing you naked. For the first time, in this state. You figured, maybe resigned yourself to the idea that this would have never happened, or maybe would have happened stupidly after one of those bonfires. You figured you would have felt nervous, anxious. Not unsafe, but certainly not as fine as you feel with him now, not as Dr. Langdon of the Hospital, but as Frank, the guy who picks you up and drops you off, holding your hand the entire car ride.

 He’s noticed the scar before his fingertips gingerly run over it. He doesn’t address it, doesn’t have to. He opens the the shower door and you step in, a gentle placement of his hand on your back to guide you in. You didn’t know what you were expecting next - for him to stand there while you stood under the water, for him to leave the room completely. Instead, he’s peeling his own shirt off, pants down, and stepping in with you.

Once he’s inside and half under the water, he doesn’t hesitate with his movements. He pulls you into his chest, wraps his arms around your waist as your head falls loosely into his chest. He brushes the hairs out of your face and allows the water to weigh them down. “Safe now, okay?” and you nod. 

His eyes wander through the mess of products that decorate a small metal shelf on the shower wall. He plucks the loofah of its hook and squeezes a bit of invigorating grapefruit and lemon body wash onto it, wondering to himself what the hell that means, acknowledging that it smells nice. He hopes you’ll let him do this for you, the routine, the intimacy of it. He starts with a gentle scrub of your back and shoulder blades, lifting the tendrils of your hair up and out of the way. He moves to your chest, a small case study happening in his mind of your figure, how your tits would fit perfectly in the palm of his hands, or in his mouth, or anywhere near him. How he’d really like to decorate them with red marks from sucking the skin. As he moves down to get your legs, he envisions how his his fingers, his face, his dick, would fit between your thighs. 

His body becomes a suction cup, an anchor, an extension of yours. He acknowledges that part of it is fear that if he lets go, you’ll fall apart again and he can’t risk it. He, also, just doesn’t want to leave your side, you’re warm and comforting and he’s been dying to be this close. The insane part of him, also knows, that two steps away from him would also mean seeing your entire body in a different light, no clothes hiding you, that would force him to run headfirst into a brick wall to stop from getting… Stop. He tells himself. Just stop.

He runs through your scalp and hair with shampoo. It lathers into a mess of bubbles, the water wipes them away as his fingers massage your scalp. He’s lifted your face up, head back for the rinse. When he looks away from your hair, you’re staring up at him, eyes wide with something resembling anticipation. 

It isn’t lost on him that a lot, and he means, a lot, of healthcare workers use sex as a vice in the face of near constant trauma. Garcia and Santos, you’d told him in the car, they’re fucking. Or having sex, I haven’t figured out which quite yet. He’d fought you on it, said no fucking way they’re together. Days later, when he overheard them making plans to go to an “actual ramen place, not just have it in bed,” He’d said he’d take you to dinner to make up for it.  Tonight, maybe even like them, he’d order dinner and if he was lucky, you’d both eat it in bed. 

He didn’t want that kind of relationship from you, or with you. He didn’t want to use you for his own satisfaction, perhaps his lifes purpose instead to satisfy you. After all, he’d decided, almost immediately, whatever he wanted was serious, whatever you’d give him he’d take seriously. He couldn’t invision you as a vice, an outlet for his own primal needs. He wanted you, an endless source of companionship and passion. 

And then again, you’re staring up at him, neck craned up, eyes wide and lips plump. He’s not entirely sure if it’s an invitation, but you’re both there, in the shower, naked and pressed together. He slowly moves his hand to cradle the back of your head, almost immediately tangled in your hair, to give himself just a second of what he wants if you return it. His other hand moves to cup your jaw, fingers somewhat splayed against your neck.

chapter seven: True Believer 

frank langdon x ofc (reader)

PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS - TW: MASS CASUALTY INCIDENT - mentions a school shooting, child death(multple), graphic description of wounds, discussions of gun violence, gunshot wounds, reader being a victim of an unspecified school shooting, yelling.

cw: barely proofread because i don’t caaare, little to no mentions of medical cases and injuries, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, post rehab frank, reader is (secretly) in recovery, a time jump (short), some sweetness happening here!! , angst and comfort, a frank pov chapter

authors note: I hope I was able to give this sensitive topic justice. I purposely did not include more graphic details than what is written here. It is not necessary. These very real events happen every day in America. You do not need more of my fictionalized version of these events than what I felt had to be included for the plot, if you, like me, witness these acts of violence as often as we do. And, yes, this is a political statement on how no child should ever be murdered while they attend school, while they learn, while they play. Do not come into my messages, reply, or read this work at all if you do not see it this way - i will block you, we will never see eye to eye, it is not important to me to see eye to eye with you.

“It’s slowing down. We can work on transferring our remaining cases to the night shift. All green are in family medicine already, so it’s just the yellow and red cases to switch over, some will head up to the pediatric intensive care unit. You did an incredible job with the hand we were dealt. I’m sure none of us had ever seen anything like it. I’m eternally grateful, and I know our patients and their families are too.” Robby’s voice gives out abruptly, astonished they’ve had to use this patient coding system again. There is nothing more to say.

Frank noticed it first, hours ago. You’d seen it click in his suddenly gentle eyes, observed his jaw tighten, and his shoulders go ever so slack, softer. You’re gone - not physically, you’re pushing the last of your strength through your legs to hold yourself against the wall. Your eyes, stuck wide, are so open. He’s noticed the flecks of green in them before, small stars in a sea of light brown, and he could get lost in them, but he’s staring and he can’t. He could tell your brain had stopped processing time, space, and whatever’s left after. He’d kept pushing, keeping you with him out of fear that you’d come to a complete stop. A part of him knew you would never do that, but he worried about it anyway.

He wouldn’t deny it - it was one of the worst shifts he’d worked. Worse than his first shift back from rehab. Worse or on par with Pittfest, he’d find out when he set himself down to sleep tonight. He’d heard, of course, of the scope of these kinds of events. How some doctors never came back after seeing them. Now he understood why they left and why a certain amount kept coming back until they finally broke. He didn’t want either of you to break, and god, he wanted you to come back. 

He’s thrown back into the room from the recesses of his brain. His coworkers, Mel, Whitaker, Santos, hell, everyone, have begun to move. You were right next to him seconds ago, and now you’re gone, slipping at a diagonal towards a door. The stairs, he realizes as the door quietly shuts behind you. He wonders, so briefly, if there are any repercussions of him following you, or any repercussions to anything that happened before tonight. He disregards the thought, an immediate decision that he doesn’t care.

The voice he’s been pushing down is a screech now, a noise he’s heard from himself only in his darkest moments, when he was responsible for fucking his life to high hell, the one he’d spent trying to quiet by escaping through a capped bottle. He decided in an instant to listen to it now. This was a responsibility of a mentor, to ensure safety, to comf - you’ve gotta go now, man. It’s fucking cold and raining, going up there alone. Follow her. Fucking go.

He tells himself he just doesn’t want you to do anything stupid. He’d seen Robby head up to the roof, Abbott too. He knew only a sliver of the things they’d seen over the years - likely stuff he couldn’t comprehend. He knew they went up to test themselves, to see if this was the final time. They always came back downstairs, never committing to fully flinging themselves, never forcing themselves to clock back into their shift on a gurney. 

But you, and this fucking day, and that roof. You didn’t strike him as a jumper, more of a woman with a shovel and a will to bury everything that risked you breaking as far below the surface as you could. He told himself it might be wrong for him to climb each stair - hell, maybe you just needed air. She could have gone to the ambulance bay for air. She chose the roof. Climb. He makes a mental note to punish his internal monologue if it betrayed him, if you didn’t want to see him, if you sent him away. Something like no Red Bull for a week, he’d force himself to sludge through shifts with no reserves.

He reaches the propped door leading to the roof. At least she left it open for you. No matter what state she’s in, she knew others were going to come here too. Before he pushes it open, a wave of heat, beads of sweat, stress, is pooling in his chest. If this is the worst case, I give permission to fuck your life up, just a little. 

He divided his brain. It wasn’t time for a slight obsession with the way your hair fell, a strand always out of place when you leaned over a patient, resting on your cheek. And your eyes. Fuck, those eyes, deep but not dark, like bark on a tree where the moss has spread all over. He’d need to see through them and not get lost in the depth this time. And that smile, a toothy grin when something made you outwardly feel, when you chose to be vulnerable to the fun of life. And the soft one you gave when things were going well, the glance to the patient first, then him with your mouth turned upward and eyes significantly brightened. 

And the smile plastered on your face when you saw him, after you’d granted his pleas for forgiveness, even if you’d remained a little guarded at first. He’d crawled his way back from the depths, his crown, weighed down with jewels.

Then there were the texts. A few hundred sent back and forth, recipes and activities the other might be interested in. Sending you a picture of a puppy at the park, you asking his prediction for your next shift. You asking for a ride to work, him blindly obliging and cradling you hand in his for the shortest leg of the trip. The set sent at 8:30 PM, every saturday,

Are you going to Evan’s thing?

I’ll go if you go.

Pick me up?

You’d both kept your word on those, arriving together. Laughing with him, even at the first one, when he’d only just finished his apology, promising to never force you into a corner if you challenged him. You had, rightfully, ripped him to shreds. You’d started the minute you’d gotten into the car, he’d kept it in park. You’d said he didn’t give you the opportunity to do tell him at work that he’d taken something from you - the opportunity to learn, to bring a concern to a superior, to be heard by someone you trusted implicitly. You’d quieted and told him, “What hurts, Frank, is that you refused to apologize to me, as a student, as a person,” your voice then cracked, “as someone who could have been your friend.”

He’d admitted to it, even more, that he’d bared his teeth after he’d lost focus on the patient, out of fear he’d be be responsible for losing the patient, all because he’d treated you like you didn’t know what you were doing. That he was distracted by his treatment of you, that it felt like his only option to push you away again. He’d called it misguided, a choice made for self-preservation, to not risk a personal distraction again. An action that had had caused harm, caused distruction instead of making him feel safe, instead of making you feel safe. That he’d been worse since he’d hurt you.Careful to include at home, and at work. It’ll never happen again, okay? professionally or personally.

You, laughing with everyone, whispered in his ear each weekend after. The drive, twenty minutes each way, a devotional exercise to knowing each other, sacred to him. Hanging out together, in a large group of people, both of you always picking seltzer. You’d always pick the one he didn’t and let him try it. Several times, you’d demanded a switch, and he’d allowed it. He hadn’t introduced you to all of his faults, but he’d tested the waters with different stories, ones that he thought would scare you away. You never stopped asking if he was going, if he’d pick you up, getting in the passenger seat of his car, belonging there.

The curl of your lips the one time every chair was taken and you’d sat over his thigh, unprofessional to let you do that, he’d thought at the time, smart enough to let you. He’d snaked his arm around your waist, you’d played with the hair at the nape of his neck, fingers warm, sending fire through his entire body. The second time it happened, he’d angled himself to allow you more space to fall into him, you dutifully resting your head on his chest, nearly buried into his neck. He’d placed his lips to your temple, just gently enough for you to know to stay where you were.

Workplace boundaries remained, but you’d both tested them. More than once you’d brushed your hand against his, he’d done the same. Once, when listening to a riveting Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbott joint lecture, stationed shoulder to shoulder against the wall, he’d placed his hand on top of yours. You’d allowed it to stay, neither assuming it was an accident. 

You’re wasting time, man. Go.

He’s only a few minutes behind you, he wouldn’t have lost you completely yet. He’s got a at least a foot on you and his legs are longer. You were fast and always kept up, and you may have had a head start, but he’d double-stepped some stairs. Reminded himself didn’t need a savior, someone to lift you out of this and promise to take you away from pain. He didn’t know if he was even capable of that. God, I want to try. 

He’d seen gunshot wounds, every ER doctor had. This, though, maybe even Robby or Abbot  hadn’t seen anything close to what he saw tonight - how big the bullets were that ripped through the flesh of tiny abdomens, effectively blasting the structure away. 

The two children who had been ripped through the neck, shoulder and arms, all interventions rendered useless, only the hospital sheet left to pull over. The three kids - all unintentionally grabbed by both of you, working in tandem, whose faces had disappeared into themselves, who’d have to be identified by dental fillings, fingerprints, or their bloodstained clothes. He hadn’t understood something you’d said to him before, how fragile a child was in the crossfire of the world. You’d said, They go at school. They love their class. I want to give them a chance to not die and do what they’re supposed to be doing. He’d never seen that kind of carnage.  

He’d wondered, in the thick of it, if you had before. Or something similar, maybe not bullets that big, maybe not small bodies broken like that. The way your eyes lost the brightness present early in the shift. Maybe, during your time on the twelfth floor, or when you were volunteering in the community. He’d never tell you he’d looked up your resume and research papers on child life, or he’d visited the floor, just to see, just to get an idea of what you loved so deeply. Just to respect her work, just to acknowledge her skill set.

 He comntemplated the crushing weight of imagining you walking away from him now. He resolved to be anything you needed right now, if he could be. If you gave him that honor, he promised not to ask for anything else. Even let you not need him, send him far away from you, banish him again.

He opens the door with a small push - he wants to make himself known but not shock you. Hell, if you’re on the ledge, that could be the undoing of everything. When he scans the area, deep blue sky as his background, you’re twenty feet away. Not even close to the edge of the building. 

The sight of you, all of you, might break him. You hadn’t been a simple fantasy since the night you’d both ended up at that makeshift concert, since you’d spoken to him like a person, and he’d spoken to you, no medical jargon, no sheild. In the week after his his apology, you’d had begun to use the ER as a place to discuss smaller things. You’d discussed weekend plans, what he’d be making himself for dinner that night, videogames you were playing. Your eventual trip to California to see your family. You’d chosen to put your armor down with his.

  Right now, He can’t figure out which part is worse. The beginning signs of you being soaked from the rain, the uncontrollable shaking that must have started at the first stair, your face, tears streaming, locked in a near-silent scream. The minute you look up and your eyes lock, he knows you’re deep in shock. A rocket, heading towards the sun. He doesn’t want you to launch, but he knows you can’t help it. He braces for impact, prepared to pick up when you land.

Your voice is louder than he’s ever heard it or could have imagined it could get - it’s careful too, ensuring he’s the only one that can hear you, to not make a scene where others need to intervene. She trusts you to take this from her, so take it and hold it gently. He listens.

“That was fucked, Frank.” Your use of his first name anywhere near the emergency room stops him cold. He’s heard it plenty of times now, over text and in person, but never here . Unlike the first time, at the show, you had sounded like you weren’t prepared to spit it out, you used it freely, confidently, assured he would answer. Now, his first name sounded intimate, like a language only you shared.

“I can’t fucking do that, ever again. I have no idea what the fuck happened down there. What were we doing? We didn’t even fucking do anything - nothing we did mattered, not the blood bags, not the fluid, not the god-damn gauze. Not even able to take a second to pretend to make their hearts beat again. No applied pressure was enough, nothing mattered! Is that how it always is? Is that how it’s always going to be?”

He’s still. There’s more coming.

“We lost them all. We couldn’t even save one. We couldn’t ensure one future, one semblance of a happy family.” 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing exactly. He’s flying toward you, a pace previously unseen even when a trauma is rolling in. He knows he’s making it up as he goes and only has an inkling of what this moment requires.

He wraps his arms around you the second he’s within reach. Pulling you in, close, against his chest. He’s warm and doing his best to hold you. 

“We couldn’t save them.” You’re quieter, but the edges are still sharp. Consistent sobs escaping, his shirt is getting wet from the tears where your face has been placed against it.  He’s got one arm wrapped, one snaked slightly over your right shoulder to rub the space his arm doesn’t cover.

“We couldn’t, not this time.” is all he has to offer.

Chapter eight:  True Believer, part two

It’s all he says for a while. Just his arms, wrapped tightly around you and rubbing intermittently at your shoulder blades. Splintered between comfort and the seconds he’s savoring the opportunity to touch you while he’s at work, even if under the worst possible circumstance. 

You welcome the touch, you want more. A string of demands drills from your brain - weighing what was considered harm reduction in this situation. A menthol cigarette. A sleeping pill. One dirty martini with kalamata olives. To pet Shrimp when you get home. To take him home with you. Sleep in his arms, if you can even sleep tonight. To not exist here, to remove this day from memory. A handle of vodka. Oblivion. 

You’re hyper aware of your body - still shaking, but the tears have subsided for now. You know they’ll come back when you feign sleep for a few hours.

He can’t know you’ve been through this before. It isn’t fair to what he just experienced. It makes you far too human, far too in need of care, far too in need of fixing. He’s your boss, direct superior. You’ve already broken about a hundred rules. You are just friends, not even dating, he’s just your best friend here, he’s just the guy who holds your hand in public, holds on to you, calls you on your day off just to talk. He can’t fix you. You feel yourself burying it, but it won’t go too far down. It’s a lump in your throat, a choking hazard. The scar, rippling across your thigh burns from the history of it being denied.

“I need people to be able to survive. I can’t do this with no hope for a future for someone.” Your voice is shaky, drier than expected.

You know he doesn’t know what the right answer is or if you’ve asked a question. When he does open his mouth, his voice isn’t sharp or jarring like it is when you’re downstairs, barking commands. It’s soft like when he’s oscillating between explaining the best marinaides for salmon, when he’s called you to let you know he’s outside. Quiet and wavering just enough, just how it sounded during the first car ride, when he’d made amends, when the dog in him stopped bearing its teeth and began to wag its tail.

“I know. I can’t either. Can’t comprehend what happened tonight, what happened to us,” Us. The dog in you has fully rolled over, showing it’s belly, begging. “I want to think, or to tell you, or force you to hold onto hope that there is a future. Maybe the potential for this, for us, to change it so this doesn’t happen again, so we never lose another single kid like this.” 

You try to bite it back, really. But it’s threatened to swallow you whole. This time, you don’t know if it’ll spit you back out. “Frank, what if it never stops?” You’ve begun to recite a list, something he thinks has lived in your mind far before today, “And these are just ones we hear about because enough children fucking died to make the news! And now fucking Pittsburgh.” 

He’s holding you a little looser now - not any less caring or comforting, like he understands a little more space to get your thoughts out. You’re surprised that he isn’t faltering when you’re yelling at him, that he’s the only one here who’s strong enough to take it. Like he knows you’d never survive this line of thought alone.

It’s no longer buried, but your voice is softer, threatening to snap in half and force you into a lifetime of silence. “I mean, it fucking happened to me, that didn’t stop anything, did it?”

Your eyes are big again, mouth slack-jawed at what you revealed. “Fuck!” In seconds, you’ve weaseled out of his arms, beyond where he can reach you again. You’re screaming into your hands. It takes him seconds to internalize what you’ve let slip - something he had feared hours earlier was true, now real and threatening to take you again.

He doesn’t need time to think before he’s cradling you again, he hears himself telling you to “Breathe in, Breathe out, Big breath in, Big breath out.” It comes out as a command and a suggestion at the same time. He notices you’re following it and continues his directives, his promises to protect.

“We need to get out of here.” He proposes, no idea what will come after that. No pressure can be used to stop the bleeding - he knows there is no bandage for your admission. You’re still shaking against him.

“Take me home?” You’ve become small. You’re begging someone to take care of you - you should know better. You should know it’s too personal, he’s too close to you every day, that you’d be dismissing a lifetime of forced self-sufficency and bulldozing through about a thousand professional boundaries. Fuck, you’d already crossed too many to count, texting him, seeing him outside of work, running your fingers through his hair. You need him to say yes, right now, no thinking, so you can say yes, right now, no thinking.

You don’t even register the second part slipping out. “and stay”. 

He nods, without a single second thought. He doesn’t have to think. Voice clear and unshakable. He doesn’t care, he’s taking you away. 

frank langdon

listen how the heart beats, lying next to him [a multi-part series] frank langon x ofc (reader) Reader is an R2 on a new rotation at PTMC's emergency medicine floor, where she's paired with aloof, short-fused Dr. Frank Langdon. They're both so good at burying their feelings, keeping any affection towards the other confined to their own bedrooms, late at night. They've only just begun to explore their feelings for each other, until a horrific shift at PTMC changes everything.

✨ open to blurb requests regarding these characters <3

✨ this fic has been published daily around 10 PM PST. I can't promise this will be true for everything i write, but this one has exploded out of my brain, so that is how I'm publishing it now

Chapter five: Armor's heavy, never suited me at all.

frank langdon x ofc (reader)

CW: 18+, MDNI (I WILL BLOCK YOU, soft smut, self pleasure

other cw: barely proofread because i don’t caaare, mentions of medical cases and injuries, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, the repair!!, frank and reader POV, a happier ending

tag list: @lunadi1una

previous chapter: in the wake of your sunshine, i've never felt so glum

Chapter five: Armor is heavy, never suited me at all.

In the two weeks after he’d kicked you from the trauma case, you’d banished him to the outskirts. He deserved it. You’d pushed yourself to work with other residents, even volunteered for Triage, stayed a few times for doubles to “experience what the night shift was like.” For nine whole weeks, he’d had you right next to him. Now, you were doing the professional thing - diversifying your interests, trying to see where you worked well in the mix. He’d unfortunately heard someone ask if you thought you’d extend your residency in Emergency Medicine, he’d blindly hoped you’d say yes, and fragmented when he heard you respond that you were thinking about the outpatient pediatric oncology when your six months were up.

He’d then vowed to crawl his way back, even lick the floor of the emergency room if it would make you talk to him. He never thought you would stay and didn’t expect you to - he didn’t even know if he’d want you to since he’d taken everything out on you, fractured the fragile relationship he’d been trying to cultivate.

He hadn’t been able to catch you long enough to apologize, learning that you were incredibly adept at escaping. You’d learned your routes around the ER faster than he’d hoped. When he worked cases with you, he’d listened more and tried to make sure his questions and answers circled back to what you said. He tried telepathic connection with you again - I’m listening now. I’m sorry I didn’t listen before. I’m sorry I became a bomb. Can you forgive me? But it doesn’t work.

He even offers to finish some charts for you on the cases you work with him. You, always saying no, that you’ve “got it”. The phrase sounds different now, in opposition to, not partnership with him. He brought coffee for the team - donuts too. While not directed only towards you, he had to remind himself to not show preferential treatment, he took the opportunity to learn your favorites. Glazed crueller or chocolate old fashioned. Black coffee. 

Dana, who probably caught on earlier than he'd thought she did. He’d figured she’d waited a while, given him time to make amends on his own before she cornered him at the hub

“Kid, where’s your right hand woman? You’re looking lost without her. Looking lost for two weeks, I swear.” He’d wanted to disappear.

“Not sure - might be in triage?” He’d offered. He knew you were in Triage, saw you setting up on your way in. “Working with Donnie and McKay, I guess.”

Dana saw right through him, her uncanny ability to know exactly what happened without knowing anything about what happened. 

“I could care less where she is today, make it right, get her back with you tomorrow.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but having someone else push him, someone else know who he needed you to function pushed him forward - he did have to make it right, he did want you back tomorrow. He’d never wanted you to walk away.

In the break room, he crafts a message to Evan. He knows he’ll regret it immediately, but it’s the only way he can think of that isn’t ambushing you at work to beg at your feet for forgiveness. Instead, he’ll white lie his way forward.

Frank: Hey, Evan, do you have the number for the girl from the show? She gave it to me and I accidentally washed the jacket it was in - can’t read it now.

He knows that this contradicts his own admission that he’d planned to see you the next day. He hopes Evan doesn’t remember, hasn’t asked you yet. Reducing her to nothing more than a girl - dick move, He pushes past the thought.

Evan: Rookie mistake man. Didn’t you make plans to see her the next day?

Fuck, he loads another lie.

Frank: Forced to ghost her, couldn’t get in contact. I would have asked sooner but got called into the ER. Need to apologize, she’s too pretty to not try, right?

He’s going to regret saying that someday, sounding like an asshole only interested in your looks. There’s a wave of relief when Evan sends the contact over a few seconds later.

Frank: Thanks man, I owe you one.

When he inspects the contact, your saved in Evan’s phone under your full name, saves it to the phone in the same way.

He’ll text after work, he decides. Gives him some time to think and some space for you. You’ll get the text when you’re safe inside your apartment, he’ll send it from his. His stomach churns throughout the rest of his shift, bile threatening to betray him at every turn.

By the time he’s sure you’ve left the Pitt and he’s given enough buffer time by reached his place, showering, thinking about what to order for dinner.

Frank: Hey. This is Frank.

Frank: Langdon. From work.

He sends both within seconds. Idiot, he thinks after the first, double text.

Frank: Can we talk?

Three texts. He’d probably send one with his full apology, if not for the three dots on his screen that indicates you’re typing back to him.

Yeah, but I’m about to head out for a bit

He sighs, remembering patience as a virtue, remembering bulldozing through you got him here. A second ping hits while he’s staring at the wall, trying to figure out what comes next.

Are you going to Evan’s bonfire thing tonight? 

He swore. Fucking Evan - not out of anger for not being invited, but he really could have used the invite as the opportunity to talk to you without jumping through hoops.

Frank: No, wasn’t invited, I think he thinks I’m working unless I tell him directly that I’m not.

Inside your apartment, you let out a little laugh. 

Of course he does. 

Well, now you’re invited.

His breath hitches, fully caught in his chest. He’d been mean, he’d kicked you from the room, from an learning opportunity. You should have been there, and you’re the one with the olive branch outstretched. The next ping sends him into orbit, into his closet, into his car.

Pick me up?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Across a satellite signal, you’d extended the invite out of guilt. Not for choosing to freeze him out of your emergency medicine circle - he’d deserved that. Anyone else would have taken space, needed a break. Not for avoiding him, either. That part was a given when there had been no apology. 

You wanted to invite him to force an apology, persuade him to do it in person rather than over text, like his messages implied he was seconds away from doing. It was easier to invite him back onto your turf, than risk a lifetime of re-reading a text, trying to figure out what went wrong. And that made you feel guilty, too, that you wanted to demand better treatment. In the past, instead of demanding it, you’d just walked out.

Part of it was professional, that you weren’t learning as much when you weren’t next to him. Still being challenged, sure, by Mckay and Santos, but it seemed like they trusted you enough to not pry, to let you complete actions without an entire act of questioning. When you’d floated to the night shift, Abbot and Ellis required about the actions they’d directed you to take, but they’d peel off when you explained you’d only be cutting skin centimeters deep, you’d be pumping O-neg because you didn’t know the blood type yet and the patient desperately needed it and the CBC was taking too long. They had assumed a level of competency that came with your training, with the R2 title you’d earned.

Langdon forced you to focus in a way no one else had before - to focus on the patient, to make him, the version of him known as Frank, the guy who was trying to learn more of you, dissapear. Listen to the patient, only the patient. 

That was what you’d been trying to do in the trauma room when you spoke up. The patient was no longer breathing on his own, no heart beat indicating life. He’d been pumped full of drugs, none of them working. Bones everywhere. You could’nt keep sending shock waves to a system cut from electricity. When you’d watched him continue to push the man’s chest, you’d realized he wasn’t listening to his own hippocratic oath to do no harm he’d given you, he didn’t know what careful meant, didn’t follow his own stupid warning to you to be careful.

Half of you felt that he would never see it that way - he would continue to be determined to do everything he could. But he didn’t know when to stop, when he was doing more damage than good. And while that was something you might had been able to move past if he’d stopped there, but he’d detonated at your expense, kicked you from a room you deserved to be in, stolen an opportunity, your trust, and your forgiveness.

Still, for the first time, you wanted better from him so you didn’t have to keep walking away.

Part of the invitation also came at great personal cost. It was a personal peace offering to yourself - the opportunity to look at his face, not just think about it.

Something between you shifted in the ambulance bay, then again when he’d chosen wrath instead of compassion. He’d ignited the piece of you, the one you always knew existed, that wanted to make him regret everything he’d chosen to say to you. The inclination to make him drop to his knees, beg for forgiveness, and fuck you until you couldn’t hate him anymore.

 You’d gone home after that shift, emotionally exhausted with a dull ache between your legs. You’d engaged in the usual routine, shower, cuddle with the cat, ate something, but it hadn’t relented with the regular self care routines, instead opting to intensify as you continually revisited the different versions of his face. The times when his sharp jaw, alternates between slack and taught throughout the day. Unusually soft hand, hitting against yours. Leaning over you in front of everyone. The look he gave you each time that one piece of your hair fell out of place, begging him to push it back. The intensity of his eyes, the way they softened momentarily before he forced himself to sharpen them again. 

And the way he’d looked at you, indignant that you’d deviated from him. Blue eyes, shining like sapphires on the blade of a sword. His voice, sticky and hot, forcing you away from him. The expression on his face, realizing that up until this point,  you’d followed his directions as if he was walking you like a dog. No barking, all soft belly showing. Heel.

You’re in bed, hand working feverishly between your thighs. You place him, the illusion of him underneath the top sheet, mouth and teeth playfully nipping at the soft skin as he’s working his way up from your knees. He’s separated you by your thighs now, giving himself space.

The first connection of his tongue against you is light, tentative, the definition of “just a taste”. He’s asking if you’re ok, you’re saying “yes, yes, yes, please, keep going”, begging him for what you want.

 In your mind, his mouth is bliss. He’s whispering a prayer, an apology, longing against you between each swipe of his tongue. He’s no longer playing games with you, he’s worshipping and repenting. He’s making you wetter than you’ve ever been, fingers threatening to slip and ruin your rhythm. Your fingers hit the most sensitive set of nerves but you don’t keep them there, hearing him say “Not yet, baby,” and moving on, deeper into you. He’s taking the time to give you what you deserve after his behavior, you’ll grant him that.

Your vision of him, lapping into you, using his arms to ensure you grind against him, with him, is clarity. It’s peace. He’s precise, just like you know him to be, but primal. He’s against the spot that threatens to undo you, he stays. Your pace stays exactly where you need it to until you’re breathing heavily, a wave washing through you, cleansing the ache. 

So, you’d gone to your next shifts dying for just a look, and denying yourself time and time again, trying to only glace when no one is looking. Just to get another angle, for the next time you’re alone. 

chapter four: in the wake of your sun shine, i've never felt so glum

frank langdon x ofc (reader)

cw: barely proofread because i don’t caaare, mentions of medical cases and injuries, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, post rehab frank, reader is (secretly) in recovery, he’s falling faster, frank langdon is a dick, he’s bearing his teeth, she isn’t, angst without a happy ending 

tag list: @lunadi1una

previous chapter: familiar but foreign, a liminal feeling

The next morning, you’re back under the ambulance bay awning, it’s just the two of you. He extends an unnecessary olive branch first, asking how you know Evan. You’re trying desperately to ignore him, that he’d ever seen you outside of here, that you had anything in common. He’d added, “since he’s so much older than you,” his mouth grimaces as he says this, still knowing it'll get you to talk to him.

While you’re waiting for the trauma to arrive, nearing five minutes out now, you tend to the budding understanding that whatever amount of professional boundaries you’d kept since you started - between the two of you, in private, during each shift, barely mattered. No one else around, they existed as mere suggestions, a guide to where the rules were if you were to follow them. So, you decide to play stupid, if only for a minute, if only for fun, at what you know will be the eventual cost of Langdon, of Frank. Even if it’s personal information being divulged, you’ll still get the prize of of a conversation, of staring into those blue eyes.

“How old is Evan, anyway?” you muse. You can tell you’ve elicited an almost primal response in the doctor brain of Langdon - deeply perturbed by the unlikelyhood of you not knowing, dying to blurt out the answer. The internal battle of people who went to med school, you thought, all of us dying to matter.

He throws a bone that Evan’s thirty five. For the fuck of it, you turn and ask, “Langdon,” forgoing the doctor is intentional, gives the illusion he’s actually in the hot seat. If you weren't at work, you would have used doe eyes and a frank, but you'll keep it in check.

“How old do you think I am?” You commit to the bit by batting your eye lashes. You try to remember the trauma has to be less than three minutes out by now. A 45-year-old man fell from his roof, three stories up, trying to clean a gutter. Dana had said, “Broken bones, number unknown, incoming!”

The answer to your question might be stuck in his throat, his mouth half open. “You-” A slight stammer spills out. “You’re twenty-four?” You can see him shudder, doing mental math on the age he’s proposed and your residency status - it’s the wrong guess, he’s low-balled, and he’s wrong.

“A 24 year old R2? Who do you think I am, Javadi?” Another grin, a jewel to add to his crown, one you planned to give away. You joked about her age from time to time, but he’d over heard you tell her that you’d wished you knew what you were doing when you were younger like she did - the genuine pride at her accomplishments, the desire for her to keep surpassing her own achievements shining through. He’d still been listening when Javadi asked what you’d meant by that, you telling her “I was young, and kind of stupid about what I was going through - made a lot of weird decisions. Got it back on track though, I guess.” He wasn’t sure you’d ever made a “weird” decision in your life. Not like he had.

“A wonderful guess and so kind, but so wrong!” You smile back to him.

The ambulance pulls in, and sirens blare out any reply he has. His mouth, half open, toned arms pushing the man into the emergency room with you. He's frustrated that he got the answer wrong, that you were playing a game he was losing, again.

“Trauma two!” He adjusts the direction. “You take his legs, and careful if there are any bones sticking out.” He says it without thinking. Of course, you’d be careful of bones sticking out, you always were. Why was he playing chess when you were playing jeopardy? What is a defensive animal? What is a man left wanting more and more?

It’s the slight scowl on your face as you carefully cut the clothes away from his body. Fuck. He’d fucked it up - said something actually stupid, that invalidated the work you did. The work you did with him, every day. The truth was, he’d really stopped cherry picking cases and had begun to just cherry pick whatever he could work with you. Sure, he jumped on any open traumas when they came through - but honestly, you were either right behind him or already in the room. 

And his breath still hitched whenever he saw you. Not just since last night, since he’d imagined you kneeling in front of him. Not since the early morning, sun just peeking above the clouds, when he’d wondered if he appeared in the same place for you when you were alone.

You struggle slightly when trying to cut through the belt and the top of of the pants, eventually getting there. His tibia is splintered in helf - the lower half sticking up at a near fourty five degree. His other leg, below the knee, is facing the complete opposite direction of how it’s supposed to go. This guy, Langdon knows, is in for a long recovery when he makes it there.

“Uh- Dr… Dr. Landgon-” You squeak out, looking up. He sends his gaze to you, noticing your hands are pushing down hard into the man’s pelvic area. “We… I think there’s a problem here.” Quickly, he’s directing Whitaker to take over his position - knowing you don’t pull him away unless you really don’t know the next step.

 He leans over your side, like he does when he stands over you when you chart sometimes. Those times are purposeful, and he always feels stronger and more protective when he does it. That you understand he wants to be that close all the time.

He usually notices the soft smile when he does it too, the one time he had accidentally grazed your shoulder with his pec, an actual smile broke past your lips. And, he’d heard you assert yourself for space from patients and other professionals endlessly since you got here - never rude, unless a patient was, just saying “I need a little space here,”. Like you let him be close. This time, you’re stiff where you stand, no smile to give. He wants you to be loose.

It’s a small gardening rake, deeply imbedded into the mans lower stomach, missed because the wooden handle had broken off. “We need to call Garcia, now, we can’t remove that. Or fix his legs.” You’ve already moved on to his other leg by the time he’s said Garcia.

“Aw, fuck,” you mutter quietly. “Garcia, anyone from surgery, now. It was a matching set. The trowel's embedded in the thigh. Handle missing, but there was a hole in the pants. It’s probably too close to the femoral. They must have just left them, from tending to the perennial flowers they were planting."

You’re going too fast, stating facts mixed with your inner monologue, the story you're creating. Distancing yourself from the fluorescent lights, the coldness of the trauma room, from Langdon. You don't know how mad you are, but you can’t focus. You were more than accustomed to constructive criticism from Langdon, hell, you even liked it now. You thought he provided useful information that often applied to other cases. On the days he was particularly harsh, he’d always come stand over you when you charted, if not even a little too close, to remind you that learning was a part of this process, day in, day out, and that he’d told you so you’d use the information the next time. Once, he’d even whispered, you’re probably going to be a pro at figuring out when it’s useful by the time I see you tomorrow. 

The stat monitor starts beeping rapidly. “He’s crashing, keep pushing epi, one of Kepra,” He directs Princess, who’s only just finished the central line. Perlah, ever observant, has rushed the crash cart in. “We are going to start chest compressions, get the paddles ready.” You’re across from him, applying the safety adhesive before he’s even remembered it has to go down first.

Across the gurney, His head is spinning. He’s focused on the patient. First, getting him bagged in seconds. Whitaker rhythmically squishing the bag between compressions, when both of them stop, you shock him with the paddles and step back.

“Push another epi!” Frank yells towards anyone. He’s also racking up the fucking-up-this-day-with-you points, out of fear or stupidity, he doesn’t know. He wants to stop, to make it right. But he knows that the more unstable this patient is, the faster he’s going to boil over. He should be able to keep the heart beating, at least until Garcia arrived. He wanted a win for you, a peace offering for his past mistake.

You are standing across from him, mouth slightly open in preparation to challenge, one he knows is coming but has never heard from you before. “Dr. Langdon, we’ve pushed five already. Shocked him who knows how many times. He’s…” 

“One more time, there’s still a chance. If you don’t think there’s a chance, out. You know what? Out, anyway. Come on, Whitaker, take over.” He spits at you. 

His tunnel vision barely allows him to register the way you’re looking at him now. Like you were a vase, he’d knocked over and broken beyond repair. How your shoulders had been slouching, how you’d had to consciously straighten out within seconds to hide any outward feeling. 

The final shock, administered by Whitaker, doesn’t bring the man back. He’s gone, you’d known. He’d wasted however much time yelling at you, barking out orders, and bulldozing whatever was left. You made a quiet exit. He'd have to resist the urge to run after you.

This time, there’s no repair - you don’t know if he doesn’t know how to offer it, doesn’t want to, or doesn’t see the need for it. There are too many people in this room to offer you another olive branch, anyway. 

Mel is the first one to speak to him after he ripped his gown off, breathed in and out. She somehow always understood that even when he’d been an unforgiving mentor, person, man, to give him a beat to come to that conclusion on his own before accusing him of it outright.

“Dr. Langdon, why did you do that?” She asks.

chapter three: familiar but foreign, a liminal feeling

frank langdon x ofc (reader)

cw: +18 PLUS, MDNI - soft smut, self pleasure

other cw: barely proofread because i don’t caaare, mentions of medical cases and injuries, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, post rehab frank, a frank pov chapter, insight into the male psyche (scary), a man down bad, everyone is threatening to jump off of very tall somethings, non-problematic age gap wholly unspecified tag list: @lunadi1una

previous chapter: chapter two: filled up to the brim, pour a little out each day

If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was feeling weak. He’d felt it too many times before. Each time it resulted in unprecedented levels of pain and discomfort. Pain, when he’d fallen off the monkey bars in grade school, landing hard on his arm, snapping the bone in half. His teacher had picked him up off the bark chips like a baby. He'd cried until his mom came to get him from the office.

Uncomfortable, when he’d been caught stealing benzodiazepines from the hospital, by a fucking intern no less, who he couldn’t bring himself to hate for figuring him out, for alerting others before he had the opportunity to fuck himself even more, who might have given him a second chance when he didn’t want it. Forced to attend rehab, mandated counseling, crawl his way back into something that resembled the good graces of Dr. Robby, and metaphorically eat shit for the rest of his life. And, do it sober, and stay fucking sober. When he attended those weekly meetings, the ones especially for doctors with addictions. Weak when admitting he was an addict, just like everyone else in the room.

There were also the boyish weaknesses. When he saw a strand of hair out of place, his deep desire to push it back behind the ear. The impulse to brush hand against hand, the dreams where he’s able to hold it. Simple fantasies of seeing eye to eye, being face to face, bodies pressed against each other.

The idea of sex, obviously, got him too. Base line attractiveness could get anyone going, he was but a simple man. At one point, he didn’t care where touch came from, only knowing that he craved it and could get it whenever he sought it out. He knew part of it was him, too, the way he looked. He’d been handsome since girls could tell him he was. He’d made several decisions, neither good or bad, when he’d been called it too. Older and wiser now, he wanted to focus on connection, whatever the fuck that meant. The intimacy of it all, being vulnerable with, not in the ideas of or in opposition to someone else, being soft in earnest. Giving more than he got. Showing, not just saying. Slowness, stillness, presence. Something he’d never done before.

That’s why he kept his jaw locked and eyebrows furrowed. He was reluctant to admit his wants, maybe even needs at this point, unsure how to cross the line, forge connection. Then there was the power thing, glaringly obvious to him from “direct superior” aspect. Senior residents should never display outward infatuation for a junior staff under his direct supervision. Unprofessional, he told himself, and stupid. Couldn't build a path to friendship easily, either- that risked the introduction of something in common, a mutual interest, connection.

And it had never affected him like this until you walked. Sure, he’d found plenty of women who passed through the Pitt attractive, it wasn’t that he hadn’t. He’d just never found the pull to move past his perceived faults. He’d never moved farther than labeling someone hot and moving on.

He’d never admit that that changed when he spotted you at the hub. A wildfire in his chest, burning his belly to a crisp. A familiar, foreign feeling of his skin tingling with the anticipation of something, destruction or domestication, he decided to choose the bliss of ignorance. An instant attraction, drawn to you by the cosmos.

When he saw you trying to sink into the ground, he’d never felt more akin to someone he’d never seen before. You were trying to disappear into the ether, mold into one of the pillars, become one with the wall. He tries telepathy - You’ll need to try harder to evaporate from me. Then Robby’s talking to you, laughing with you. Something about the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. So that’s where you came from.

During assignments, he’d tried to go unnoticed. He really had. It hadn’t worked, luck or Robby’s distrust of how he’d treated students in the past catching up to him, punching him in the face, launching him into something he time and time again, didn’t know if he could handle. He vowed then to steel himself against whatever you threw his way. Close yourself off, dude. Keep it in. No comments, no questions, no connection. This is a student. This is a coworker. You don’t know her, and you don’t need to.

The teaching part fucks him up, though. He’s obligated to talk, to inquire, pick your brain, to push you to understand more each day. He tells himself he has to. All business, no small talk. When the first trauma rolls through the door and he’s throwing out instructions, he hears you respond each time with a “got it” and a smile almost falls through the cracks. Your voice is soft and somehow commanding, like you really do have it down and appreciate his direction. She’s a student, that might be exactly what it is, he reminds himself. 

The next week, and keeping himself upright around you appears in a fog. You’re quiet, sweetness seeping through every interaction. Talented, but uncomfortable. You’ve got all the right questions and he has to push you to ask them. Most of the right answers, too. You make decisions quickly and shoot him a glance for approval. Six installments of fifty-plus hour weeks together, He wants nothing more for you than to stand tall and assured, and he tries to remain unwilling to give in to the desire to lift you up far enough that you can get there. 

He sees it though- you talking to other residents, making friends with Mel, making her laugh. He learns through her that you’ve got siblings and your mother somewhere out west. He refrains from mentioning he’s always wanted to go to California, or, if they aren’t there, whatever state you visit to see them. Talking quietly with Santos’ and Whitaker too, praying that the hushed conversation isn’t about him. Isn’t about how he’s being a dick, how he’s cold, how he’s continuously applying unnecessary pressure to keep the distance. He worries relentlessly about what Santo’s told you, if you’d become cold too if you knew his history. Even worse, if you were so offended that you’d begin to request other residents, ice him out of what little he allowed himself currently.

A week later, he’s thanking God or maybe just scheduling for his day off. His small circle of friends outside the ER, mainly a guy named Evan he'd met through a friend's ex-girlfriend and only saw in crowded places, had pushed him to go out to see a live band. You can’t stay in that apartment forever, man. You’ve gotta get out, meet a hot girl or some shit, fuck her and then you can go back to the ER tomorrow a brand new man.

Frank had physically shuttered at the message, incredulous that a man two years his senior could sound like he’d never left the frat house. He hadn’t even brought up that the last time he got laid was before rehab, just said that he wasn’t busy tonight.

Still, he’d been convinced to leave his two-bedroom apartment in the city to stand in a cramped, dimly lit room with a bunch of strangers, waiting for a band he’d never heard of to play. His tight grip on the only non-alcoholic option in the entire building, some fruity sparkling water blend, is unforgiving. Evan’s near him, in the way of nearly everyone else, motioning for someone to make their way over.

He’s going to crush the can, his grip has almost engulfed it whole. He’d contemplated wearing his Penguin’s hat, ever the conversation starter, eventually choosing against it - Another wrong choice, he could have flown entirely under the radar. He could have had the opportunity to just watch you. He curses himself.

He’s gotta let go of the can before the thin metal slices into his skin. Before you’re forced to triage him with bar napkins and whatever you might have in your bags. Before he embarrasses you both. He trusts, implicitly, that you have something for the injured in there. He’s got no reason to question why you’re here. He’d figured you were better connected and cooler than him, that there was no space for him in your orbit outside the ER.

Slowly, then all at once, you’re in front of him. Baggy t-shirt and baggy pants, something effortly cool and enticing happening right in front of his eyes. He knows, through the intimacy of even the loosest sets of scrubs, that there’s a figure underneath, one he’s silently happy no one else can see. He makes a mental note to bang his head into the wall as punishment for entertaining the thought. Evan gives you a side hug, something a step or two away from awkward. Are they together? Are they fucking? Has he… He’s spiraling. How the fuck do you know Evan? Hit your head against the wall when you get home, twice. 

“It’s so fucking good to see you, dude,” He overhears Evan say. Dude. Not fucking. At least not right now. He files that away. There’s more he’s not listening to after losing himself in the opportunity to be in your presence without the fluorescent bulbs, bleeding patients or faint screaming in he background. Evan has turned his attention back toward where he’s standing. “This is Frank, I don’t know if you’ve ever met?” 

He hears himself beginning to say you have, but you’ve spoken over him, like you’ve got a megaphone. He was unprepared for you to shut him down so quickly, to direct and demand control of the conversation. You were different outside the ER, a small blessing as he'd met hundreds of doctors who never found their "off" switch. You’re going to go through fake niceties, he can tell. You’ll tell him your name, say it was nice to meet, and he can already feel you slipping away. To combat your next move, he introduces himself by his first name. It’s a move meant to dominate, to dispel the illusion of professionalism around you that he shields himself with in the ER. Dr. Langdon is your asshole boss because he doesn’t know what to do around you, his brain quips, Frank is just some guy that wants to learn.

For the first time, he earns a genuine toothy-grin all on his own. Something he’s only seen reserved for the smallest of patients, or whoever on staff has told you the funniest joke. He vows to wear this moment, that smile, the gap between your front teeth like a crown, never to leave his head. He’s almost neglectful, tuning out the first word in your sentence. “Nice to meet you, my name’s…”

He’s got to have heard wrong. He knows your fucking name. He sees you every single day. Apparently, even days he’s not supposed to. He’s spent time reading over your file, checking your documentation,the meticulous charts. He was sure your name never appeared like that anywhere. This must be what it feels like to drown, to fall into quicksand or a grain silo. He’d lost the game he was playing without you. 

He does mean it when he tells you it’s beautiful, but he hates that he says it. It shows his cards, playing the fool making it clear he craves this kind of information from you. Another grin from you, an acknowledgment of his loss, adds to the weight of his crown.

 “How did you hear about this?” Making direct eye contact, initiating tje first real conversation. He lost control a while ago and knows he won’t gain it back anytime soon. Lose the battle for the potential to win the war, or something like that, he tells himself. Loser. 

“Evan, actually, uh, hit me up about it. Told me I had to get out of my house for once.” He’s free-falling. Continuously revealing too much, but there’s a glimmer in your eye like you would have known he was a loyal man to the confines of his home. 

“Did he also tell you you needed to fuck someone?” You say it so casually, he almost spontaneously combusts on the spot, not able to comprehend that you’ve used those specific words, that combination, in front of him, to him. If it weren’t for you quoting Evan, he’d repeat it to himself like a hymn later tonight. Still might. There’s sweat beading on his hairline. Searching his vocabulary for words, he fumbles with the sounds. “At least,” You’ve turned your head just a bit away from him, “That’s what he said to me. I was just wondering if he’s that brazen with everyone he knows.” 

“He did, actually.” He finally spits out. “I, uh, can’t believe he used that line on at least two people in this room?” Another smile graces your face. His head is getting heavy.

“He’s been using it for years, at least since I’ve known him, I’m just always surprised to see who it works on.” It’s not a dig, but it slides through like one. Is she asking if that’s why I’m here? Is that why she’s here? 

Before he can spiral out completely, he knows you’re beginning to pull away. He wonders if you think you crossed a line that no longer exists, if you’re feeling embarrassed by what you’ve revealed by showing up in the same room. He rolls the same thoughts through his head.

“Hey, Frank,” Your voice saying his name pulls him back to the surface, to the present, away from an opportunity to push himself into oblivion to never risk embarrassing you again. You say his name like it tastes as sweet as it sounds coming from you. He quickly concedes that he wants to hear you say it again, and again, in a never-ending loop. “It was great to see you - I’ve gotta go though - I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?” 

He gulps whatever plea he’s planning to make you stay. “I- yeah, good seeing you. For sure, tomorrow.” Not a single fucking sensical word. He can’t think when he’s watching you walk away from him, out of the room, when you’d just shown up, when he’d just gotten you alone in a crowded room.

Somehow, Evan’s at his side, breaking the sullen wave that crashed when you walked away. “Dude, did I just hear her say she’d see you tomorrow?” There’s nothing more for him to do but nod and fake a laugh.

 “Nice. She’s hot - super sweet too. Makes really good cookies, too, kicks my ass in Mario Kart each time.” Frank files this away for later - likes baking, video games. Discuss.

It feels forced, but he puts every last ounce of energy into channeling his innermost frat boy line of questioning. 

“Did you guys fuck?” It’s supposed to be as casual as possible. In this alternative line of questioning, he doesn’t know you. He pretends that Evan knows nothing about where or who you spend your days. You spend your days with him, twelve hours of them, anyway. By his side. His right hand.

“No, man. We made out once at a party, but neither of us like, I don’t fucking know how to describe it, liked it?” Whatever beast lies within Frank Langdon quiets for a minute.

“You should go for it, dude, I guarantee she’d be more into you than she ever was in me”. There’s a break in the armor, a smile playing at his lips that he can’t control. 

After the first band plays and you’re nowhere to be seen, Frank decides he needs to commit to the Irish exit he’d been planning before you arrived. He white knuckles the ten-minute drive home, trying to distract himself from whatever overcame him tonight. You, overcoming him tonight. Throwing him off, making him weak in front of you.

He’s been lying in bed chasing sleep for more than an hour. Trying to chase you out and count sheep instead, but you keep showing up, asking him if he’s there for the same reason you’re there. Your voice is sultry in his head, wondering if he'd come to fuck someone, touching his shoulder. Presenting it like a question, "Am I who you've been looking for?" Not how it normally sounds, or even sounded tonight, but his best guess on how you would sound if he had you alone. His voice, gruff, saying, "yes, baby, I've been looking all over for you."

It’s muscle memory for him now - at least, this part, not necessarily that you’re who he’s picturing. You’ve broken through the barriers of other things he’d forced himself to imagine, but he’s never let you appear so vividly, scared of what it meant. He rationalizes that letting this happen now, after he’s seen you out in the world, you’re just like anyone else he’d think of at night, you’re just a regular woman to him now. 

He’s been half hard for the better part of the hour he’d been trying to sleep. He spits directly into his palm before thumbing through the waistband of his boxers and pulling them off. There’s a palpable wave of relief when he finally allows himself to run his hand over his cock, grabbing and stroking with his right hand. He starts soft and slow, the illusion that he can take his time if he’s careful with the imagery he conjures. 

He’s almost instantly leaking when he imagines you on your knees in front of him. You hadn’t opened your mouth yet, his thumb is resting on your bottom lip while the rest of his hand cups your face. He’s broken your lips open with his thumb. You’ve allowed it into your mouth with the slightest bit of suction. You’re not begging to suck his cock, but your eyes are glistening. You’ve produced so much saliva swirling around, wet and warm, he knows you’re reading and wanting. 

Then, he imagines the sound you make, the soft moan when he’s finally allowed to enter your mouth. Such soft “hmph’s!” as you bob up and down, how you’re swirling your fingers on your non-dominant hand around the base and down to his balls (the left, in this vision, he reminds himself to check) almost imperceptively to anyone but him. He hears himself speak, telling you that he never knew head could be this good, that he couldn’t believe you finally let him in. He'd wanted it for so long. How you're looking up at him, those big brown eyes, directly into his, as if all you want is to make him cum, make him happy. His mind lets you push him back onto the seat with a firm hand on his chest. He lets your hand wander up until it barely reaches and rests at the base of his neck. 

He releases when, and it feels almost-real to him, he imagines you lightly squeezing. His legs go to jelly below him without warning - he didn't know choking could get him off - he'd never been on the receiving end.

He uses his boxers to wipe away the evidence of his transgression, working to come back to the world. You’re not next to him, you’ve barely even touched him. He’s alone, in his dark, in his kind-of-shitty-but-great-lighting two-bedroom apartment, where the second bedroom sat untouched, with nothing to fill it.

Chapter Two: filled up to the brim, pour a little out each day

frank langdon x ofc

authors note: from the bottom of my heart, thank you for all the likes. today has been a wildly shitty day in my real life and it has really uplifted my mood to see the likes roll in and conceptualize that people like this silly little thing. thank you all so much

tag list: @lunadi1una

cw: not proofread! and i don't even caaare, mentions of medical cases and injuries, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, post rehab frank, reader is (secretly) in recovery, reader only likes taking care of children, langdon is not nice to the new girl but he isn’t exactly mean either, she might not care how he treats her, he’s a stone in the face of vulnerability, small connections but they’re pushing it, she waaants him bad, background for my girl, an accidental encounter

When you finally fiddle your key into the lock and stumble into your apartment, you’re able to take a full breath in. You throw the backpack and your coat onto the rack and feel something brush against your leg, a small puff of orange hair directly underfoot. “Hi Shrimpy, I’m sorry I’m late.” The cat sends out a reply, one that tells you she’s expecting food, “You think I don’t set the timer on your feeder? I know you ate already.” You’ve reached down to pet her and she’s forcing her hand into your palm. “Maybe some treats, once I’ve showered.” 

In the short distance to the shower, you've stripped off your scrubs, tossed them near the laundry basket and find yourself turning on the shower. There’s a mandatory once over in the mirror - noting new bags under your eyes, nearly every hair out of place and the one that always falls out is dangling in front of your face. You cap yourself at two minutes - any more time thinking about your face or your body has never ended with a clear answer. If you spent too much time debating your own appearance, you’d give up and call yourself ugly, find the massive scar on your thigh, you’d tell yourself at least the outside matches the inside.

You use your shower to replay your day as if it was a diary entry. Didn’t want to be there, arrived scared. Huddle with the team, met Langdon. Hot? Mean? Unfriendly. Blue eyes. Too many questions and expectations. Completely overwhelming person. Multiple reasons. Followed him around all day. Woman, crushed by car. Lived, barely. No idea what happened after the OR. Remind self to check that. More Patients, more Langdon. Think he said “Great first day” when I left. Unsure if real or imaginary. Hasn’t left my head.

You’ve dried, applied moisturizer.  Picked out a set of sweats and too large t-shirt with Fire Department of New York pasted across it, a relic from the box of your fathers. You wished you could tell him most of the shit that happened today, expertly leaving out the Langdon of it all, but it is what it is. Impossible. 

Your phone’s buzzed several times during its precarious balancing act on the sink - a sound you always forget you hate, but never enough to change where you put it. 

Jason: Where are you? You said you’d be attending tonight. 

Jason: Are you not coming? 

Jason: We need to talk about what is getting in the way of your ability to dedicate your time to this.

Jason: Attend the meeting tomorrow. I understand you get busy, but you can’t get caught up in whatever is occupying your mind on any given day. That’s how you lose.

Fucking Jason. Every single Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Always a similar string of messages, always Don’t lose yourself in your work or the idea of occupying your mind. You never know when a trigger is right around the corner. You never see your next relapse coming, you need to keep gathering the tools to get ahead of it. You shoot back a short “First day on a new rotation - totally beat. I’ll be there tomorrow.” 

You keep your word and attend the next meeting. You never wavered on your dedication, the semblance of responsibility to yourself and others, your future. Well, maybe a few times, mostly early on and sometimes in the middle. You'd admit that you thought about it enough to warrant attending the meetings. But you also hated it, not keen to acknowledge a ghoul that threatened your body, your house, everywhere you went and everyone you met.

Over the first week, you manage to hit seventy five hours in the emergency room. Pediatrics had been a similar degree of brutal, long hours. This, you conceded, was an entirely different beast. Getting adults to divulge why their extremidies were burned to crisp, falling off, or an entirely different color than they should be was grueling. Medical histories of patients? Sometimes entirely blank. Some cases made time fly by - the teen who’d fallen on the cement stairs at her high school and broke her nose, easy, send off to be reset. The old men from the nursing home who took well to treatment were generally sweet and kind. There had been more bright moments, you appriciated the slowness that sometimes crept over. But it always sped back up.

By the sixth week, You’d begun to see yourself in mirrors, no longer a ghost in the ER but an unprepared girl. If you thought you moved flawlessly in the beginning, there was a quick humbling. You ran chest first into a crash cart, stupidly dropped a bag of blood when trying to hang it up. You could have sworn it made him crack a smile, almost worth it, even at your expense. 

You’d begun to form other relationships around the ER, too. Dana and Mel became streetlights - guiding you in the depths of the darkness when Langdon had chosen complete indifference. You loved Mel’s approach to explaining what came next - short, to the point directives that left you little room for error. You’d taken a chance when she talked about her sister and shared about yours, on the other side of the country, probably climbing trees or digging up slugs. “Why do they do that?” She’d asked, “Probably because it’s disgusting,” You’d laughed. 

Santos and Whitaker had been rocks for you too, especially when Langdon’s face only wore a scowl and he seemed like he would bite. Once, you’d met at the hub to chart and she’d commiserated with you about his treatment, fully aware neither of you were divulging the full truth. Whitaker had looked slightly embarrassed, maybe he knew something you didn’t, and told you that “He’s just like that. Slow to warm up, except with Mel, I guess.”

You had noticed that he was exceptionally in tune with her, hell, she’d even told you. Mentioned that he’d taken care of her sister when she was sick, saved her life - you appreciated being able to observe he might actually be human after all, with a soul and a soft spot for something or someone.

The shift before your night off, it’s clear to everyone that you’re beat. Langdon, aside from questioning your competency every chance he got, had even said you looked like you were about to topple. You believe it, but shot back an “In your dreams, doctor.” He refused to crack a smile, thinking to himself maybe in my dreams. You note that he’s silent in a way you don’t understand, but you see a widening of his eyes that wasn’t there before. Fuck, the blue eyes.

It’s nine at night when the unthinkable happens. You didn’t know you had the same day off - much less the same basic understanding of places and things that happened in the city. Especially things that happened in the evening, or at night, even more broadly, you didn’t know he had any actual preferences for activities at all. You had all but forced yourself to think of him as the type of man who sat in his shitty apartment, in the dark, staring at the wall until it was time to work again. It was silly, but it creates an explanation for why he was that way and why he spoke to you like that. He’s got no social life outside of the ER, no idea how to talk to people. That’s why he’s so fucking weird. 

Still, there he was, pushed up against the wall with a can of something in his hand. Wearing a big t-shirt and black jeans, hair just a bit messy. Conversing with a small group, maybe even shouting to be heard but you can’t tell because your feet are stuck in cement, frozen. He didn’t know it, but he had walked himself into your turf. You knew most of the people in this room - Jesus, you’ve made out with the guy he’s talking to. Last year! Your brain fills in, You could make out with anyone else tonight. Maybe even…” You work hard to shut it down, impossible magical thinking, you tell yourself. Your off-shift brain needs to get a job, too, you decide.

Next thing you know, he’s staring directly at you. Something like a dagger or a laser beam shooting into the middle of your body, you’re threatened by his gaze even more than his presence. You remember, suddenly, that you’re in your outside clothes, hair down, light makeup even. You don’t resemble anything close to a professional, much less a doctor. Your shirt is too big for your frame, your jeans delightfully baggy. Tennis shoes lacking any semblance of arch support that you desperately needed when you chased after him.

Evan is violently waving you over. I’ll kill him if he mentions we made out. I’ll kill him. A soft mantra playing in your head as you make the slowest journey of your life. Toward Evan, toward Beth, toward Micah. To Langdon. 

“It’s so fucking good to see you, dude,” Evan’s too loud. Dude. They are revealing little pieces of you life without your consent - dude is supposed to stay in the close friends circle, not out in the open as a name a respectable wanna be doctor wants her boss to hear her as. “Hey Evan, what’s up?” Theres an awkward side hug happening, you want to die. You’re sure your face is tomato red, you can’t stop it.

“This is Frank, I don’t know if you’ve ever met?” He gestures towards Langdon with the generality and urgency of a man who knows nothing happening here truly matters. He could not be more wrong, you will never correct him.

Your brain spins on it’s axis for several seconds too long. Frank. Langdon. Dr. Langdon. Frank. Doctor Frank Langdon, gorgeous aloof rude Doctor Frank Langdon, in the flesh. Across the room, you might have been able to feign ignorance regarding his presence. To pretend that was just another flash of a face resembling his. Plenty of men in Pittsburgh, plenty of dark haired, bright eyed fish in the sea. 

“Yeah, we’ –” There’s the voice you hear so often yet haven’t heard at all. You’re thrown off by knowing how he sounds in real life, outside the bright lights of the ER. It’s all too close right now, and there is no boundary for how far. The lines have blurred, even by the smallest fraction, now you’re both real people threatened by the possibility of normal conversation or even getting along.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You cut him off, he acknowledges and pivorts with a slight raise of his eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s nice… Frank - my names Frank.” You didn’t mean to throw him off his game, whichever one he might be playing, but you needed some semblance of control at the moment. His cheeks, ever so slightly pink in the dim light. Fuck. 

You introduce yourself with the long form of your name - not the short one you go by for ease, not the name you picked because it was easier for the kids on the floor to say. The one reserved for power moves, for situations like this. 

to be honest with you all, i'm having a lot of fun getting all of these thoughts that have existed in my head for months out and onto the page

frank langdon x ofc (reader)

cw: an introduction to the story, mentions of medical cases and injuries, first day jitters, probably not medically accurate in the slightest, frank was never married and has no kids, post rehab frank, reader is (secretly) in recovery, my girl is a pediatrician thru and thru, langdon is not nice to the new girl but he isn’t exactly mean either, she might not care how he treats her, mutual pining frogs in warm water vibes

  chapter one: something in the stillness

"baby take it easy, when starting something new listen how the heart beats, it always tells the truth baby take it easy, when following a whim and listen how the heart beats lying next to him" hayley williams, whim

You stood still, sucking air in. Breathe in through your nose, breathe out through your mouth, breathe in, breathe out. You wondered if the bodies around you could tell you wanted to be anywhere else than where you had planted your feet. Logically, those bodies were in too much motion to notice or care about your heart beating out of your chest, your world closing in on you, your body crumbling bit by bit. Unless, of course, you collapsed. 

That would be something you knew they would notice.

It wasn’t that you didn’t think emergency medicine would be useful - you knew it would. You knew you were young enough, still bright and shiny enough to adapt and learn. It was necessary to create well-rounded, trauma-informed care to reach your goals. Emergency medicine was crucial to your 10-year-plan, crafted carefully from the age of five. You would be a doctor. You would be a doctor. You would, someday sooner than yesterday, be a doctor.

It didn’t help that you’d found your specialty in your first rotation. Lucky that it worked out exactly how you wanted it, you always knew that you’d shine in pediatrics. A lifetime of taking care of your three younger siblings, several part time jobs and volunteering experience at summer camps only solidified your love for taking care of young humans. You understood, instinctively, that your job was to help make the cold world, the walls of the hospital, make sense in the moment. 

Another resident had said that you’d “made pedes your bitch” and while you wouldn’t phrase it that way, you did agree. Instead, you might have said you made it your home. Your ghost haunted a studio apartment less than a mile from the hospital, but you re-animated on the twelfth floor. Pediatrics had scrubbed the worst parts of you, the parts that nearly ruined you, from yourself. You were devoid of personal faults. The ones that remained could be corrected through experience, knowledge, and dedication.  

It gave you such satisfaction to be noticed and wanted. Reinforced everything that you’d worked for to be seen in such an intimate way. Now, on the cold tile and under the bright lights of the emergency room, that feeling disappeared. 

Once your breathing slowed to an acceptable pace and your legs felt less like steel beams that wouldn’t bend, you stepped toward the hub. The patient board glowed and made your eyes hurt. A blond woman in gray scrubs turned, looking you up and down, and said “Hey, hon, what or who are you looking for?”

You realized you may have looked like a lost child yourself. Like you’d fallen down and needed a bandaid, or were standing in the doorway of your parents bedroom, saying quietly that you’d thrown up.

“I’m the new resident, starting my rotation today. I’m not sure who to find or where to go, or what to do.” You’re talking too fast, saying too much, revealing that you were dealt an incredibly shitty hand and won’t win the bet.

“Oh, lady, don’t even worry. We see lost puppies in here all the time. Doctor Robby should be here in no time, to get you set up and following one of our shining stars.” She smiles, you note her white teeth, there is a shared understanding that lost puppy is not an insult but an accurate description. “The names’ Dana, hon. I’m the charge nurse, and this is Perlah and Princess.” She waves her hand toward two other women standing near her. You smile, wave, and introduce yourself quietly with an “It’s so nice to meet you, and thank you, for right now and the future.” 

They might not know what you mean and you don’t mention that your mother was a charge nurse for twenty-five years. Throughout your childhood, you’d seen her come home off of three twelve hour shifts, peeling off her scrubs and compression socks, scarfing down food after a day with no true break to sit. You hope that they understand that you mean it now and in the future.

Dana’s voice rings out, “Doctor Robby! We’ve got a fresh one waiting for you!” You smile, almost laugh, turning to meet The Man In Charge of you for the next six months. He’s tall, hair slightly graying on the sides. He reaches out a hand and you shake it, his skin rough in your outstretched palm. “It’s nice to meet you, welcome to the Pitt. We’ve got quite a day ahead of us, are you ready?”

It takes one beat for your mouth to catch up to your brain. You hear yourself answer, “You bet!” and him ask where you were before this rotation. “Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, for a year.” You have to hold back the smile to not give away that you miss it too much.

“Oh, nice. Some of those skills will transfer well over here. I’m assuming you are used to moving fast?” You nod. “By the time the kids were ready to step-down, I was basically running laps after them.” You feel a small smile breaking through, a glint in your eye that you bury with a blink. 

You watch his eyes dart around the room as he calls other residents and student doctors over to huddle. “Alright everyone - we have the whole day ahead of us. Cases have been transferred over from night shift and you can check the boards and the charts. Langdon, you’ve got our newest addition.”

You shift your eyes to the doctor that let out what could be considered the loudest sigh you’ve ever heard. You hold out your hand and smile, his lips remain pursed and his hands seem glued to his sides. Aside from the embarrassment of his clear disinterest, you find yourself thinking finally, someone who matches my level of excitement.

Within seconds, Dana’s voice is ringing out trauma incoming, five minutes! “What are we in for, Dana?” His voice almost shocks you to life. Deep, but not too deep - with a clear inflection that resembled something like joy and pure excitement. “Level two-” she says with the phone pressed to her ear. “Car accident - incoming is a 38 year old pedestrian that was trapped between two vehicles during collision.”

Your body fully tenses. You were never sure what it was about treating adults that set you off kilter, something about not knowing the full scope of their lives or what they’d be losing if the medical team didn’t make the right decisions. Something about how many connections they had to this world, to their community, the people gathering to sob over them at their funeral. Never getting enough information for the story of who you were saving. You supposed that the story didn’t matter and should never matter in medicine, but you were always drawn to a narrative. Adults died often, and the world kept turning eventually.

You’d liked pediatrics because the narrative was clear and simple. You understood a sick child - you saved them and were able to offer a full life ahead. It didn’t matter what they’d done so far or who they were connected to. Their lives was just starting and they always needed more time. If they died, the medical team couldn’t save them, everything went south - children died, the world and the future faultered.

You knew you were too soft, you just hoped those in charge of you couldn’t see it yet. You’d held too many tiny hands to become hardened by this part of the job. You’d seen parents scream in agony at the sight of their child connected to tubes, rejoice when their child opened their eyes. You’d applied chapstick and used swabs to wet the mouths of unconscious children. You had chosen everything good in your orbit and used it to remain soft in the face of pain and terror, to project a strong exterior for families at risk of falling apart.

Robby’s voice fills the space next, “Langdon, you guys got this?”

“Yeah,” His gaze finally averts to you, “Let's roll.” 

The next eight hours are torture. Second only to what takes place in hell. You moved fairly flawlessly throughout the space, around patients and other providers, the pediatric ICU having prepared you well for the potential for chaos to arise at a moment’s notice. The patient trapped between cars barely lived past her injuries - she’d been hit by a four-wheeler and a small sedan, effectively crushing her thighs and mid-section. She received eight units of blood, fluids, and was placed on around-the-clock antibiotics. You’d all been lucky to stabilize the bleeding from her wounds and get her on a breathing tube, injecting so much pain medicine in the process. When she was finally stable enough, she was rushed to the OR to address her internal injuries.

When patients were stable, Langdon asked you every question possible and expected the answer the second he’d finished speaking. He repeatedly tells you what you failed to consider and what could go wrong with your proposed treatment plan. He asks the menial questions you aren’t considering and pushes past the point where most would break down in tears, even when your answer is half right. 

Still, out of one hundred questions, you revel knowing that you haven’t heard a direct “What the fuck were you thinking?”. He takes extra time to point out other options, different courses of action that could dramatically alter the course of treatment. He questions your answers, your questions, and requires you to question his decision-making in return. You didn’t mind the constant quizzing, it kept you on your feet. You reminded yourself that he hadn’t actively reprimanded you yet, and acknowledged that his body language- inability to hold your gaze for more than a few seconds, conversations for several turns, and clear tensing on the muscles in his arm and jaw made it clear he wasn’t a supporter of your presence. The harshness in his voice as he asked question after question, like you'd fail and never try again. The mutual understanding that he did not trust anything you brought to the table. He ran paces ahead of you, a visual cue that you weren’t meant to keep up.

By the end of your twelve hours, your forehead is drenched in sweat. Your bag is heavy when you lug it out of your locker, weighing down your shoulders. At the lockers, Langdon brushes against your shoulder trying to get to his own on the bottom level. It’s the first human contact with someone even nearing your age range in months, and it sends a shockwave through your body. He mumbles something like “sorry,” and you return “no worries.” Finally, a chance at a closer, longer look at his face arrives. Chisled jaw, big eyebrows. Piercing blue eyes. Fuck. He needed brown contacts if he was ever going to come within ten feet of you.

Momentarily, your brain goes to mush and you try to reel it in - there’s still the mile home to trek, a shower to take and something that resembles a dinner to scarf down. There’s a Zoom meeting at nine you have to make it to - that or the one tomorrow. You’ll decide five minutes before but you won’t put yourself in jeopardy, not tonight. You’ll rest, somehow, then do it all again.

“Great first day today, see you again tomorrow.” He’s barely audible as you’re swinging open the door, praying you might not have fully heard him and simultaneously hoping you’d turn on your heel at the opportunity to return the invitation for conversation.