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“—and it’s just so sad because she’s been vilified and made fun of throughout history, but her life has been so tragic and she ended up alone and broke, and everyone—even her son—thought she was crazy. But she was just depressed and anxious and gosh, the deck was really stacked against her.”
Mel took a deep breath, slightly breathless after her explanation. The steady, soothing pressure of Frank’s hand on her ankle brought her back to the present. A furious blush spread across her face.
“Oh no! I did it again.”
Frank cocked his head at her, a bemused tilt to his lips, “Did what?”
Mel’s gaze dropped, focusing on the small tear at the collar of his shirt. It was loose on him—most of his pre-rehab shirts had the same fit and he kept making excuses to go shopping for himself.
A quick, light squeeze to her calf brought her back into her body, “sweetheart, what do you mean?”
“I rambled for too long.”
“What do y—”
“You just asked me what I was reading. That’s it. And I’ve been soliloquying for,” Mel checked her watch, offering an estimate, “10 minutes. You didn’t ask for all those details and I know I have a tendency to go on and on and not realize people aren’t as excited as me. I’m sorry.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, tears pricking her eyes.
“Look at me. I want you to know I’m serious when I say this next part,” Frank said softly. Fondness was written across his face, but there was steel in his eyes. Mel shivered as he continued, “I always want to hear what you have to say. I don’t care how long you go on. And if we’re at work and you get interrupted? I want to hear about it later. I promise, Mel. I always want to hear what you have to say.”
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It had been a hard day. One of those days where they lost more than they saved, when the ribs broken during CPR were for naught, how Mel could hear the echoes of the sobbing families ringing in her ears as she moved from room to room, trying to throw herself into her other patients because she had to keep going, had to be a good doctor, couldn’t cry, couldn’t throw up no matter how nauseous she was, couldn’t—
“We’re here.”
Mel tried to pull herself out of the haze. She squinted in the dark. She knew she was out of it, allowed herself to slip back into her head as Frank offered to drive her home but, “this isn’t my house.”
Frank’s face was washed in his apartment’s warm parking lot lighting. An unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes but Mel was too tired to decipher it.
“I’m not letting you go home alone after that shift.” She stared at him, buffering as she processed his words. His face softened, voice pleading, “Let me take care of you. Let me make sure you’re okay.”
She nodded wordlessly. In a daze, Mel allowed Frank to gently lead her to his third-floor apartment, let him untie her shoes with minimal protests, and guide her to his couch. She stared blankly ahead as he fussed with something on his TV stand.
The sharp snick of a lighter drew her attention. With great effort, Mel focused on the lighter in Frank’s hand, the waver of the spark of fire as he moved, the way it took a second before catching on the wick. As he tucked the lighter back in his pocket, Mel recognized the vessel.
By the time Frank turned back, tears were streaming down her face. The nostalgic scent of lavender and cedar filled the living room, the candle one that Mel pointed out once to Frank as reminding her of her childhood. She let herself sob, let Frank wrap her in his arms, and knew that he would take care of her.
It had been a hard day. One of those days where they lost more than they saved, when the ribs broken during CPR were for naught, how Mel could hear the echoes of the sobbing families ringing in her ears as she moved from room to room, trying to throw herself into her other patients because she had to keep going, had to be a good doctor, couldn’t cry, couldn’t throw up no matter how nauseous she was, couldn’t—
“We’re here.”
Mel tried to pull herself out of the haze. She squinted in the dark. She knew she was out of it, allowed herself to slip back into her head as Frank offered to drive her home but, “this isn’t my house.”
Frank’s face was washed in his apartment’s warm parking lot lighting. An unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes but Mel was too tired to decipher it.
“I’m not letting you go home alone after that shift.” She stared at him, buffering as she processed his words. His face softened, voice pleading, “Let me take care of you. Let me make sure you’re okay.”
She nodded wordlessly. In a daze, Mel allowed Frank to gently lead her to his third-floor apartment, let him untie her shoes with minimal protests, and guide her to his couch. She stared blankly ahead as he fussed with something on his TV stand.
The sharp snick of a lighter drew her attention. With great effort, Mel focused on the lighter in Frank’s hand, the waver of the spark of fire as he moved, the way it took a second before catching on the wick. As he tucked the lighter back in his pocket, Mel recognized the vessel.
By the time Frank turned back, tears were streaming down her face. The nostalgic scent of lavender and cedar filled the living room, the candle one that Mel pointed out once to Frank as reminding her of her childhood. She let herself sob, let Frank wrap her in his arms, and knew that he would take care of her.
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day 3: gala // wc: 467 // for: @kingdonmicrofic // ao3
“Jealousy is not a good look on you.”
Frank scowled at Yolanda over top of his glass, wishing that there was something stronger than Diet Coke in the tumbler. Yolanda laughed at him, leaning against the wall next to him. Frank let his eyes wander back to the dance floor, where they had been stuck for the past 15 minutes.
Across the ballroom, Mel King was being twirled by Dr. Henry Fremmer, a pediatric surgeon from Presby that she’d met at the conference in Baltimore several months ago. (Upon introductions, Frank immediately kicked himself for not going because what the fuck? Where did this guy come from?)
He’d been working up the nerve to ask Mel to dance. Frank had spent the whole night in her bubble (because where else would he want to be?), selfishly letting his fingers graze her bare arms and getting refills of her champagne and water.
But then came Dr. Henry Fremmer, with his big dark eyes and his stupidly dark eyelashes and the half inch he had over Frank.
Before he knew it, Fremmer was leading Mel onto the dance floor, his hand on her lower back. Mel gave Frank an apologetic smile over her shoulder but it didn’t soothe the sting.
“Jesus, did getting sober take away all your balls? Ask her to dance.”
Frank rolled his eyes, “It’s not that simple, Yo.”
“It is,” Yolanda snatched his glass from his hands. “You go over there. You said ‘excuse me, mind if I cut in?’ You waltz with Mel and you can wipe the hangdog look off your face finally.”
She continued, a smirk on her lips, “If you pulled your head out of your ass, you would notice Mel keeps glancing at you.”
Hope ballooned in his chest. When he glanced back to the dance floor, Mel was already looking at him.
With a clap to Yolanda’s shoulder, Frank let his feet take him across the dance floor, weaving through bodies until he was right where he was meant to be.
“Excuse me,” He said, trying to keep an easy smile on his face (but when Mel was beaming up at him like that, it was hard to keep the smile from growing into something giddier). “Do you mind if I cut in?”
Fremmer said something to Mel, she said something back, but all that mattered to Frank is that Mel was in his arms. This close, he could count every freckle on her cheeks, could feel the warmth radiating off her..
She shivered slightly when Frank bent down to murmur, “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“You did,” Her cheeks were flushed as she added, “But I’ll let you say it again.”
“Melissa King. You look absolutely beautiful. I’m sorry for not getting here sooner.”
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day 3: gala // wc: 467 // for: @kingdonmicrofic // ao3
“Jealousy is not a good look on you.”
Frank scowled at Yolanda over top of his glass, wishing that there was something stronger than Diet Coke in the tumbler. Yolanda laughed at him, leaning against the wall next to him. Frank let his eyes wander back to the dance floor, where they had been stuck for the past 15 minutes.
Across the ballroom, Mel King was being twirled by Dr. Henry Fremmer, a pediatric surgeon from Presby that she’d met at the conference in Baltimore several months ago. (Upon introductions, Frank immediately kicked himself for not going because what the fuck? Where did this guy come from?)
He’d been working up the nerve to ask Mel to dance. Frank had spent the whole night in her bubble (because where else would he want to be?), selfishly letting his fingers graze her bare arms and getting refills of her champagne and water.
But then came Dr. Henry Fremmer, with his big dark eyes and his stupidly dark eyelashes and the half inch he had over Frank.
Before he knew it, Fremmer was leading Mel onto the dance floor, his hand on her lower back. Mel gave Frank an apologetic smile over her shoulder but it didn’t soothe the sting.
“Jesus, did getting sober take away all your balls? Ask her to dance.”
Frank rolled his eyes, “It’s not that simple, Yo.”
“It is,” Yolanda snatched his glass from his hands. “You go over there. You said ‘excuse me, mind if I cut in?’ You waltz with Mel and you can wipe the hangdog look off your face finally.”
She continued, a smirk on her lips, “If you pulled your head out of your ass, you would notice Mel keeps glancing at you.”
Hope ballooned in his chest. When he glanced back to the dance floor, Mel was already looking at him.
With a clap to Yolanda’s shoulder, Frank let his feet take him across the dance floor, weaving through bodies until he was right where he was meant to be.
“Excuse me,” He said, trying to keep an easy smile on his face (but when Mel was beaming up at him like that, it was hard to keep the smile from growing into something giddier). “Do you mind if I cut in?”
Fremmer said something to Mel, she said something back, but all that mattered to Frank is that Mel was in his arms. This close, he could count every freckle on her cheeks, could feel the warmth radiating off her..
She shivered slightly when Frank bent down to murmur, “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“You did,” Her cheeks were flushed as she added, “But I’ll let you say it again.”
“Melissa King. You look absolutely beautiful. I’m sorry for not getting here sooner.”
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