⋆˚࿔ gen .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

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synopsis: Frank notices that something is off about Dennis, but he can't quite figure out what it is. Dennis, usually calm and naturally empathetic in the ER, starts showing subtle signs of distress-trembling hands, flinching, fatigue, and distraction during procedures, small inconsistencies that don't add up, no matter how closely Frank watches.

[observant!langdon x vampire!whitaker]

@enbloop on tumblr and twitter <3

this fic is crossposted on ao3!

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Ever since the day he followed Dennis to the church, Frank found it increasingly difficult to ignore him. He didn’t speak much to Dennis beyond what was necessary for patient care—orders, clarifications, or supervision when needed. All of that felt insufficient, like he was only seeing a fragment of something larger he couldn’t assemble, just a small piece of a puzzle without the picture on the box.

Frank's mind repeatedly revisited the image of Dennis in the church pews, with his head bowed, eyes closed, and lips silently praying. Moonlight seeping through the stained-glass portraits. It didn’t match the version of Dennis that Frank saw in the ER today.

Today, he was moving with efficiency. There was no tremble in his hands, no hesitation on his face when he treated patients, nothing. It was like he was back to normal.

Except he wasn’t back to normal at all.

He tethered what seemed normal and what was normal. It was like he existed in the space between the two and refused to fully settle into either.

Frank told himself it wasn’t his business. That was the professional answer—the correct answer. The answer should have put an end to the thought, but the truth was that he couldn’t be professional; he had already ventured too far. He knew he crossed the line yesterday, and he couldn’t excuse his worry as merely professionalism.

Whitaker was across the ER, charting something at the counter, posture straight, and expression neutral. He looked exactly like what an attending hoped for in a resident. He was focused, composed, and reliable. He—

“Langdon.”

Frank glanced up. Perlah slid a chart toward him, eyebrows raised slightly. “Trauma two just discharged. You still need to sign off.”

“Thanks, Perlah." Frank said automatically, taking the pen. But even as he signed, his eyes drifted back. Whitaker hadn’t moved. He was still at the counter, still writing. Still not looking at him. And that, more than anything, unsettled Frank because avoidance was never random; it always had structure. Purpose. Meaning. And Whitaker’s avoidance of him felt practiced like something he had decided on. But why?

Frank capped the pen and exhaled through his nose. He should’ve let it go. There were always a dozen explanations for behavior like this—stress, sleep deprivation, burnout, or something administrative he wasn’t aware of.

Except none of those explanations explained the church or the way Whitaker had looked there when he thought no one could see him. Frank pushed away from the counter before he could talk himself out of it.

He crossed the floor of the ER with controlled steps, slipping into Whitaker’s peripheral space without announcing himself. Close enough to be unavoidable, but also far enough not to be intrusive.

“Charts okay?” Frank asked.

Whitaker didn’t look up immediately. He stopped typing. “Yes,” he said. “Just catching up.”

Frank nodded slowly. “You’ve been catching up a lot today.”

That earned him a glance. “I’m not behind,” Whitaker replied.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Silence settled between them, brief but heavy. Whitaker closed the chart. “I need to check on a patient,” he said, already stepping away.

Frank watched him go.

He noticed the timing again. The precision of it. The way Whitaker never lingered long enough to be questioned twice. It was a rapid escape. And Frank, standing there, realized something with uncomfortable clarity: Whitaker wasn’t trying to get away from everyone. He was just trying to get away from him.

Suddenly Frank’s mind was ambushed and bombarded with so many thoughts. Did he know about the incident last year? Frank had heard from McKay that Whitaker and Santos were roommates and had been living together for over a year. Maybe he heard about it from her? Or perhaps he heard about it from Dr. Robby?

But Robby wouldn’t tell anyone anything like that.

“Is there a reason you keep watching him like that?”

Frank stiffened slightly, glancing to his right.

Santos.

She didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the screen as she typed, but her tone was sharp—flat in a way that made it clear she wasn’t asking out of curiosity.

“I’m not watching him,” Frank said.

Santos huffed quietly, like she didn’t believe him for a second.

Frank’s jaw tightened. “He’s been off.”

That made her pause. Slowly, she turned her head, finally looking at him. There was no warmth in her expression—just pure scrutiny. “He’s doing his job,” she said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

Silence stretched between them, thin but tense. Frank glanced back toward where Whitaker had been standing, only to find the space empty again. “Look,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “if something’s going on with him—”

“Then it’s not your business.” The words landed clean.

Frank blinked.

Santos leaned back in her chair, arms crossing loosely, gaze still fixed on him. “He doesn’t need you hovering over him.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quieter—but somehow sharper: “Just… leave him alone, Langdon.”

Frank didn’t respond. He couldn’t be mad at Santos because she was right. Instead, he pushed off from the counter and moved away, Santos’ words following him whether he wanted them or not. The rest of the shift passed in fragments. A wrist fracture, an elderly man with chest pain that turned out to be nothing more than reflux, and then—a kid.

He was small, around seven, maybe eight. It was heat exhaustion that had tipped too far, skin flushed, breathing shallow, small body curled in on itself like it was trying to disappear from the pain. Frank worked automatically. He reassured the parents. “You caught it early,” he told them. “He’s going to be okay.” And they nodded like they believed him.

The kid looked at him, eyes glassy. The thought came uninvited; he was the same age as Tanner. Frank swallowed. Fuck.

He finished the case like he always did, but something about it lingered more than it should have. It followed him out into the hall. It sat heavy on his chest while he updated charts, while he signed off on orders, and while he moved from one patient to the next like nothing had changed. He hadn’t seen his kids in weeks. He missed them most after caring for cases like these. The fact that he couldn’t be there to protect them pained him.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. Frank forced himself through the rest of the afternoon, stacking one case on top of another until they blurred together. By the time there was finally a lull, the ER had quieted just enough to breathe.

Frank rolled his shoulders, tension settling deep in his muscles, and turned toward the hall. He just needed a break. Five minutes. Coffee, maybe something to eat.

He grabbed the door handle and pushed it, the hinges letting out a loud creak.

Whitaker was inside.

He had his lunch out on the table, just rice and chicken. His posture was looser than it had been all day, shoulders slightly slouched, gaze unfocused, like he’d allowed himself a moment to drift. But he hadn’t taken a single bite out of his food. He instead was blankly staring, hands tucked under the table, fidgeting with something small—a bracelet, perhaps?

Langdon walked to the cupboard to get a mug; he was trying his best to ignore Dennis. He wasn’t here for him. But still his eyes flickered; he was also trying to figure out what he was holding in his hand.

Frank reached for the coffee tin, unscrewing the lid. “Didn’t take you for someone who actually takes breaks,” he said, tone casual. Too casual.

Silence.

Whitaker frowned. Frank glanced over quickly. Dennis’ hands were gone from the table. Their eyes met. And then Whitaker stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the tile. He muttered something, but Frank didn’t hear it.

“You just got here," Frank said.

He grabbed his food, hesitated for half a second, then shoved it straight into the trash can—container and all.

“Whitaker—”

As he passed Frank, something small slipped from his pocket. A soft clatter against the tile. Whitaker froze for a split second but kept going. The door swung behind him. Frank looked down. A string of beads lay scattered near his feet. Frank stared at it. It was dark, word, looping into a small metal cross.

It was a rosary. He didn’t move it at first. Then he crouched slowly, picking it up between his fingers. The beads were smooth, warm—like they’d been handled too often, too tightly.

His jaw tightened before he even realized it.

People didn’t carry things like this unless they needed them, unless they were trying not to fall apart. Frank exhaled through his nose and set the rosary down on the counter like it might burn him if he held it too long. Don’t jump to conclusions. That was what they told you in rehab.

Not every tremor meant withdrawal. Not every avoidance meant relapse. Not every behavioral shift was chemical. But his mind was already moving anyway. He’d seen this pattern before.

High-functioning cases were the hardest. The ones who still showed up. Still performed. Still smiled when they needed to. The ones who could hold everything together just long enough for everyone else to believe they were fine. Until they weren’t.

Frank rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking back over Whitaker’s day.

The way he kept leaving situations abruptly—too clean, too rehearsed, like he was avoiding being perceived for too long. And the exhaustion. Not the obvious kind, the kind you couldn’t sleep off.

Frank’s fingers tapped lightly against the counter as his thoughts tightened into something more structured. Then the control made sense. The withdrawal from people made sense. Even the church—Frank’s mind snagged on that again. People did that when they were trying to quit something. When they were trying to replace one dependency with another. Something cleaner. Something they could justify.

It was a grounding mechanism, a substitute.

Frank let out a quiet breath. “Functioning,” he murmured under his breath, almost to himself.

He looked down at the empty space where Whitaker had been sitting. Then at the trash can.The untouched food, the abrupt exit.