still no reason to take it out on me

Abby shifted, rolling over and taking half of the covers with her, blinking sleepily over at him, “Who is calling you at midnight?”

Frank froze, snatching his buzzing phone off of the nightstand before Abby could catch a glimpse of the contact ID flashing on his screen: Mel PTMC

“... It’s the hospital. I better take this. Could be an emergency.” 

Abby shrugged, too tired to argue, and went back to sleep. 

As cautiously as he could, he crept out of the room and shut the door before answering the phone. 

“Mel?” He asked, voice low, concerned.

There was a sniff, then a sound like she was clearing her throat. Oh, shit, Frank thought, she was crying.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

A moment of silence, and then she finally said, voice hoarse, “Um, hi, Dr. Langdon. I’m sorry for calling so late… you were probably sleeping! I’m so sorry!” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, hey,” He tried to assuage her, “I never sleep, okay? You’re fine. What’s up?” 

“I just, um,” More sniffing, he could imagine her wiping her face off with her sleeves, her red-rimmed eyes, “I wasn’t feeling great today at work. And, I didn’t want to go home, so Dana tried to give me some Zofran, but, you know I hate taking medicine— sorry, hold on, I’m rambling,” he could hear her take a big deep breath. 

“It’s okay. Just, say whatever you need to say.” 

“Um, anyway, she asked me if there was—” Another big, shuddery breath, “any chance I could be pregnant." 

Frank stopped cold, back against the wall. 

They weren’t even dating. This wasn’t an affair. It was one time in the back of his car after a particularly rough shift. It wasn’t romantic, it had actually been kind of desperate. And afterwards, he had said she could call him any time if she needed him. 

He supposed she had come to collect. 

“I’m sorry,” Mel began to cry again, “I didn’t know what else to do!” 

“Slow down, slow down,” he said after a moment of recalibration, mind going a thousand miles an hour, “Did you take a test at home?” 

“Um, yes, I got about twelve of them–” 

“Twelve? How did you have enough pee for twelve pregnancy tests?” 

“I put them all in the same cup!” 

“Sorry, Jesus, Mel, I’m just— I’m processing this,” 

“I know,” She said miserably, “I’m sorry. It was my fault, I thought it would be okay.” 

“It is going to be okay. No matter what, it’s going to be okay. And it’s not your fault. It’s my fault, for sure.” He was the one who had touched her leg in the passenger seat, had taken her face into his hands and kissed her.

“It’s just something that would happen to me. My first time ever having sex, and,” A puff of breath, dejected, “Of course.” 

“Hold on, that was your first time? In the back of my car?”

“Is that bad?” 

It’s mostly breathing. But sometimes - sometimes, he makes little sounds. Tonight, he startles her: she thinks he’s crying. It’s a shallow whimper, something desperate sounding. But then, right as she’s about to ask if he’s okay, he makes a low-pitched, filthy moaning sound. 

It’s suddenly, marvelously clear: he’s touching himself. 

“Oh!” Mel squeaks, surprised. 

“Ah - ah, fuck,” he whines. 

She can really hear him now. For the first time, Mel can hear the wet pumping sound of his hand on his cock. His groans crackle down the line, into her ear, through her entire body. She wonders if he’s done this every time that he’s called, and if he has, why he’s being so much louder about it now.

She presses her thighs together and squeezes her eyes shut. They won’t ever talk about this - they never do. So she slips a hand under the waistband of her sleep shorts. 

She has two fingers on her clit for maybe five seconds before she’s mewling. He’s grunting in her ear and she’s rubbing circles, her hips rolling, her fingertips getting wetter. Maybe he can hear it, the slick sound of her teasing. 

He’s never spoken aloud on one of these calls before, but he’s full of words now: “Oh, yeah, God, Mel, fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

She doesn’t know if he’s in bed with his sleeping wife, or if he’s cooped up in his bathroom, or if he went out to sit in his car. She doesn’t care. Right now, he’s with her. 

“Are you - can you - I’m gonna come, baby, I’m gonna come,” he says, his voice hoarse. He lets out one loud gasp, and then goes silent. Or maybe Mel just can’t hear him for the way she cries out, the way her head goes fuzzy and her whole body trembles. 

By the time she stops shaking, he’s hung up. 

In the light of day, Mel thinks that maybe she imagined the entire thing. Then they’re weighing their options on a treatment plan and she says, “It’s your call,” and he startles. 

 He is tired, she’s tired as well, he can tell. They are sitting on a bench in the park, the one in front of the hospital. And they both know it’s late, it’s stupid. There’s no phone, no break of reality here. They are facing each other, knees touching, she’s moving her hand over his legs, telling an anecdote, and the hand is part of it, and he pretends he hasn’t heard the story before, because of course he did, because they have been speaking every day for months and there’s a limit on how many stories they have, but he’s enjoying himself too much, and the hand on his leg, the bare touch of her fingertips, sends chills through his whole body, and still not cheating. Still not cheating when he says “Fuck it,” and grabs the wrist of said hand and pushes her body against his, not cheating when his other arm hooks her waist. Not cheating because she pushes her arms against his chest and grabs him by the collar. Not cheating because his face is so close to her lips can feel the warmth of hers, but she’s keeping one fisted hand against his jaw, the other on the nape of his neck, leaning in and refusing at the same time. Not cheating because his eyes get obfuscated when trying to look at hers, and she's so close, but not touching yet.

“Langdon,” she whispers, “ask.”

It’s not cheating because he hasn’t voiced it yet, he hasn’t said the words he hopelessly has been thinking, over and over, ruminating at the end of each nightly call, always at the tip of his tongue, touching his teeth, keeping it mouth close, surrounded by darkness, keeping it in his dreams.

“Mel,” he grunts, desperately, “please.”

“Just ask,” she’s desperate too, voice dripping with heat. 

“Kiss me, please?.”