[softly]: it’ll pass.

A chiming bell assaults your ears.

Your head jerks up, an instinct to see who just came through the front door.

Your breath stops.

There, in all of his daylight glory, is Pretty Blue Eyes.

You know it’s him; remember him like a blurry painting. Strong hands and a bruising mouth and—

He’s got a stethoscope around his neck today. And a backpack over his shoulders. He walks to the front counter without even glancing in your direction.

It’s a small relief. You’re not even sure if you want to acknowledge him.

It’s been a week, long enough for you to fully accept that you wouldn’t see him again, much less in a coffee shop.

You hear him order his drink. You think about how you probably exchanged less than twenty words with him that night. He sounds like he laughs a lot.

He lingers near the counter as he waits. You don’t stare directly—but you don’t look away immediately. You decide that if he sees you, you’ll say something.

The barista calls his name—”Frank!”—and he grabs the drink with thanks.

You duck your head, the open notebook looking back at you. Not Pretty Blue Eyes anymore—Frank. The hot guy from the bar, here again, with a stethoscope and kindness to the barista.

Before you look up, there’s a sound of ice shifting and a thump of a cup sitting down on your table.

You look up.

He has dimples.

“Hi,” says Frank. “I don't think I caught your name."

You tell him.

He repeats it. It sounds like he’s testing the syllables. He makes it sound nice. Frank glances at the empty chair across you. “Mind if I sit?”

“You already put your drink down.”

There are 60 to 100 heartbeats in a minute, and in the elapsing of them, he hears every single one of yours in endured, melodic fashion. When the two of you pace the perimeter of your shared apartment, he relies on the metronomic passage of them to ground him in the moment. He uses it to luxuriate in the loveliness of your presence.

They document the moments enjoyed together as you rise in the early hours of morning for work—as the two of you return home to this safe haven—as you both make dinner crafted by combined efforts—as you return to bed to begin the cycle anew—

Your heartbeats demarcate every moment, lulling, encompassing—comforting. It reassures him that you are here, that you are with him. When he is summoned across the world to parts unknown for services yet rendered, if he focuses—

He can hear the rhythm of a heart that beats in anticipation for his return. And it reminds him of the necessity of his return.

And he appreciates it now, sonorous and mediated as you doze on the couch besides him. In the honeyed amber of this sterling moment, with soft dusky rays that stream through curtained window, with low ambience from the TV playing in soundtrack. Your heart sounds clear and true as it ever has, as he watches you sleep.

As he watches you in rest, the struggles of the day, the burdens of yesterday, and the promises of tomorrow vanished as you dream. You sit beside him but you are worlds away, the only piece of you tethered to him the pace of your heart.

You are so small in the vastness of the universe he is housed by, but contain multitudes that are so valuable to him beyond vocabulary. Beyond emotions.

He watches you sleep a moment longer before he turns back to the sluggish ticker-tape trail of the screen. Then it happens. Everything can endure in slow-motion to him, but he is distracted by the lull so it's less sluggish for him.

As you fall against the implacable slope of his shoulder in the doldrums of your sleep. As you take comfortable perch against him in the safest of havens—and he turns to look at you—

And your heartbeat, which is of invariable comfort to him, speeds up at the contact made between you. A sigh, tuneless and restful, hums through as you mumble something inaudible to anyone without accentuated sense—

"Love you, baby—"—You murmur through the veil of sleep—and then you are lost again, a quiet snore vocalized in addendum.

And your heartbeat restores back to homoestasis, reverberating in the walls that mark your home with him.

Clark doesn't realize the tender smile that breaks over his face as you recline on him. All he is aware of is the magnetic pull you draw him into, summoned into your orbit as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. Baptizing you with tangible enunciation of his fealty to you.

"Love you too, honey," he whispers. In answer, through the slumbering mists—the rhythm of your heart affirms the affection given. And all is well once more.

just needed a little pick-me-up to cheer myself up after yesterday, hope you all enjoyed :)

dividers and banners made by me :)

taglist: @colonelfish @just-peachy-babe @thescrawler @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @cassiecasluciluce @mortisetspei @lettucel0ver @paankhaleyaaar @lala131lsjsl @timetothirst @luvmailing @newangelle @iridescentlightshow @ella-rowen @ladamari68 @alyenna @pixie2k5 @leonieies

You ordered the food at 7 pm. Sat down on the couch at 7:30. Watched the first episode alone at 8. Picked at cold noodles at 9. Texted him "you okay?" at 9:15. Got "still here." at 9:45. The second episode ended at 10. At 10:30, you put the leftovers in the fridge. At 10:45, you took a shower. At 11 pm, Frank walked through the door.

Eleven. PM.

Instead of being a reasonable boyfriend, he thought it'd be smarter to be a reasonable doctor. Which you understood. God, you understood. You understood that Frank's job is literally about choosing other people over himself, and over you, every single day.

You would have understood if it hadn't been today.

"Night shift was already there, Frank," you finally said, and your voice came out more upset than angry. That was worse, probably. He could handle anger. Anger he could fight back against. But this was just hurt and you could see him not knowing what to do with it.

You walked past him and didn't touch him or look at him.

Frank would have preferred it if you had pushed him, because then at least he could feel like he got what he deserved. But you wouldn't do that, because you knew it would hurt him, actually physically hurt him.

He stared at you in the bedroom as you brushed your hair.

"It wasn't my fault," he finally said. "There was a car crash. I couldn't just—"

"You could have left at 7," you said quietly, still not looking at him. "You could have left at 8. You could have left at 9. Night shift was already there, Frank. They had it."

"They needed—"

"They needed a doctor. They didn't need you."

That landed. You saw it in the mirror and you finally turned around.

"You came home at 11 PM, Frank," you said, and your voice cracked just slightly on the number. "Eleven. PM."

You might sound silly to other people. Some of your coworkers, the ones with normal boyfriends who work normal jobs, they'd probably roll their eyes. Oh no, he was saving lives and you're mad about takeout?

"I'll make it up to you tomorrow." his voice softer now.

You looked at him standing in the doorway and you felt the fight drain out of you. "Yeah, yeah, sure," you mumbled, dropping the hairbrush on the dresser.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly and for a moment you almost believed he meant it, but then he kept going. "Really, but they really did need my help."

There it was. The but. He just couldn't help himself. Even now, he still felt the need to defend himself.

You stared at him. The silence stretched between you and you could see him wanting to fill it. Finally, you shook your head. "Good night, Frank."

You walked out of the bedroom, behind you, you heard him take a step forward, but you pulled the door shut between you.

Stay on your side.

Frank stared at the door. The guilt hit him tearing at all the walls he'd built. He felt sick to his stomach.

He knew following you wouldn't help. So he swallowed his guilt, grit his teeth and turned off the bedroom light. He laid down on the bed. The sheets were cold on his side as he stared at the ceiling.

The shadows from the streetlight outside made patterns up there. He'd memorized them months ago, back when you'd fall asleep with your head on his chest and he'd stay awake just to watch your pretty face.

He knew he shouldn't have stayed. Of course he knew. He wasn't stupid. He knew it the moment he watched Donnie grab his jacket at 7:30, clap him on the shoulder, and say "Night shift's here, Langdon. Go home to your girl."

He'd nodded, said he would and then he'd walked back inside instead. He knew it at 8 PM, when Samira gave him a weird look and asked if he was picking up an extra shift. He knew it at 9 PM, when his phone buzzed with your "you okay?" text and he typed back "still here." instead of "I'm sorry, I'm leaving now, I'll be home in twenty."

He knew it at 10 PM, when Abbott found him reviewing charts that didn't need reviewing and said "Langdon. Go home. That's an order."

But he couldn't help it.

Sometimes he just worried about spending too much time with you, especially ever since he'd come back from rehab. It was almost like he felt terrified to be with you. He brushed a hand over his face, groaning at his own stupidity.

It sounded horrible because he loved you so much. That was the whole problem. He loved you so much that the thought of losing you made him spiral and ever since rehab, that fear had gotten more insistent.

What if he wasn't the same as before? What if the version of him that came back from rehab wasn't the version you'd fallen in love with? What if you preferred the old Frank?

What if you didn't like him sober?

The thought had been eating at him for months. He'd convinced himself that you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to prove that rehab hadn't really fixed anything.

So yes, after seeing your sweet smile this morning at breakfast, he got scared. He got scared of being the reason it disappeared, so he backed off.

Guilt simmered in his stomach all night at work. He felt it with every patient he checked on and every minute that ticked past 7pm.

Frank felt sick. He felt sick at 10:15 and he especially felt sick when he'd walked through the door at 11 pm, already rehearsing apologies that he knew wouldn't be enough. He'd found you sitting alone on the couch, some movie playing on the tv that you clearly weren't interested in. You barely looked at him when he came in.

He felt sick then and he still felt sick now.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars wondering why he was the way he was.

An hour must have passed at that point. The clock on the nightstand glowed 12:47 am when he finally turned his head to look at it, and the numbers blurred for a second before he blinked them back into focus.

Finally, he got up out of bed. His back seized as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He'd been standing too long at work. His own fault, he shook his head. Karma for what he did to you. He stood up slowly, one hand braced on the nightstand, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

When it did, he opened the bedroom door quietly, just in case you were asleep.

You were curled up on the couch with your back toward the tv and your face pressed into the back of the couch. Your knees were tucked up toward your chest, dead asleep.

There was no blanket, just your sleep shorts and his old hoodie.

He stood there for a moment watching you before finally going back to the bedroom as quietly as he could, grabbing the blanket you both fought over when the apartment got cold and came back.

He unfolded the blanket and laid it over you. You stirred slightly but didn't wake up.

He hesitated, then settled down on the couch behind you, lowering himself slowly because his back was screaming at him now, every movement sending new complaints up his spine. He fit himself against the curve of your body anyway, his chest to your back, his knees tucked behind yours.

You didn't move, until he gently, put an arm under your waist and pulled you back to his chest.

You woke up startled. Your head lifted over your shoulder, hair falling across your face, eyes squinting in the dark. You finally saw his face properly, but Frank already had his eyes closed.

He didn't want to know if you looked angry or tired or disappointed or worst of all indifferent. He didn't think he could handle you looking at him like he didn't matter anymore.

"Frank," you mumbled groggily.

"I can't sleep without you," he whispered. He wasn't sure he meant to say the words at all.

He slowly opened his eyes. You had turned to see him properly now, your hair was a mess and you were staring at him as if saying that's it?

And then, like you couldn't help yourself, you pressed closer. Your hand came up to brush over his back, the way you always did before bed. He'd told you once that you helped with his back pain, made it disappear.

You weren't actually healing him. He knew that, but somehow, in some way he couldn't explain, it helped, even if it was only in his head.

"I'm really sorry for missing dinner," he whispered.

His blue eyes stayed fixed on yours, even though everything in him wanted to look away. He took a breath as his arm pulled you closer, his fingers pressing into the curve of your waist because he was getting nervous now. The kind of nervous he hadn't felt since rehab, when he'd had to sit in a circle of strangers and admit out loud that he wasn't okay.

His other hand came up to toy with your waistband, pulling at the elastic. It was a nervous habit you'd noticed months ago and never mentioned, because you knew pointing it out would only make him more self conscious.

You let him, smiling softly and that smile encouraged him to keep talking.

"M'worried about you spending time with me," he finally breathed out. Once he started, he couldn't stop. "I don't know how to act properly around you. What if I hurt you? What if you don't like me sober?" His voice cracked slightly on sober, the word feeling weird in his mouth. "What if all— my— what if all my charms gone?"

He grimaced at that. Charm. What a ridiculous word. What a ridiculous thing to worry about, like he'd ever been charming, like he'd ever been anything other than a mess in scrubs who happened to get lucky enough to find someone willing to put up with him.

"What if we spend so much time together and you realize there's actually nothing good about me?"

Yeah, there he said it.

He didn't think he was good.

He didn't think he was a good person. He thought he was someone who'd done good things, but that wasn't the same as being good.

Maybe that was why he overworked himself. Maybe that was why he stayed past his shift, because by forcing himself to save lives, he could pretend he was a good person.

Not a guy who stole meds from his own patients. No. A guy who saved lives. With every life he saved, that somehow had to be proof that he was good. Right?

You stared at him. The silence stretched between you for a moment, before you finally spoke.

"Frank, you could've told me all of this," you whispered gently as you kept brushing one hand along his back. His eyes flickered with surprise and shame, but he didn't look away. "You could've told me this the moment you came back."

You were slightly shocked, honestly. You didn't want to believe that he felt like this for so long. It made your chest hurt.

Frank dropped his hand from your waistband, instead he turned onto his back. His hands moved to his face, brushing up and down, fingers pressing into his eye sockets like he could push the thoughts out physically. He groaned lightly, while your hand moved from his back to his stomach, brushing softly there.

"I know, I know," he mumbled, voice muffled behind his hands. He dropped them finally and met your eyes. "And I know I hurt you by not telling you. And I'm so sorry." His voice cracked slightly on sorry. "God, you have no idea how sorry I am."

"I think I have some idea," you whispered after a while as you met his guilt filled eyes.

Frank swallowed hard and he had to blink a few times to keep his vision from going blurry. "I'll make it up to you. I swear to you—we'll do anything you want all week. I'll even—I'll even take the week off." He paused and then desperately added. "A month, even."

He wasn't sure if he could actually take a month off. The hospital would probably have something to say about that. Robby would definitely have something to say about that, but he'd try.

You giggled and the relief he felt upon hearing this sound, almost knocked the wind out of him. Your giggle was his favorite sound in the world and he'd been terrified tonight that he'd never hear it again.

"Frank, slow down," you smiled, brushing a hair strand out of his face. Your fingers lingered there for a second and he closed his eyes at the touch like a cat leaning into a pet. "First of all," you said gently, "you do not need to take the week off. It's fine. You'll make it up to me on your day off."

He opened his mouth to protest, because it wasn't fine, but you kept talking.

Your hand came up to his chest and you rubbed your thumb softly. "And you never ever have to worry about that other stuff." You knew he was too vulnerable right now for you to state everything explicitly again. You tilted your head slightly, making sure you had his eyes before you continued. "I love you, Frank. And that's never going to change. No matter what."

You could swear there was a sheen of tears in his eyes, but then his chin dropped toward his chest, and he nodded slowly.

"I love you too." was all he managed to say.

You smiled softly, and then you put your head on his chest and let your leg hook over his hip. He pressed a kiss to your head. His lips lingered there for a second, warm against your hair, and you felt the slight tremor in his breath.

"We'll grab breakfast tomorrow again," he whispered. "I'll wake up early. We can go to the diner a bit further away. Your favorite." Yeah. He'd shed a tear or two. You could hear it in his voice.

"And I'll come home early tomorrow," he continued, pressing another kiss to your hair. "I promise." He pulled you even closer to him. "And I'll even bring chocolate cookies with me."

Today's date stares back at you, the bright ink clashing against the plain white paper in your planner. Underlined and circled:

doctor's appt.!!

Not for anything serious, thankfully. Just a yearly physical that you felt annoyingly obligated to keep. Your doctor, all things considered, was nice.

Sadly, not a level of niceness that could completely absolve the fluorescent lights in the waiting room, or the truly unknown waiting time, or the awkward conversation about how and what your body was doing.

A necessary evil, you suppose as you change into a more comfortable set of clothes for the appointment.

You double check the contents of your pockets, making sure you have what you need for the trip. Phone, wallet, keys. A practical checklist that eased your mind some as you headed out the front door.

The lock clicks in place easily, and you feel a hum of happy energy that you believe is the house saying that it will stay protected while you're gone. It's a feeling you haven't gotten used to yet, and you wonder if that's something that the doctor will be able to see if they order a scan.

A connection to your house.

Your connection to Loki.

With a sigh, you remember that you haven't mentioned this appointment to Loki.

Not for any malicious reason. As you sit in the waiting room alone, you know that you would've preferred to have him nearby. Unfortunately, as the date drew closer, you found yourself thinking about how you're a strong, independent adult who's made it this long in life without needing someone. What's one more appointment?

You tell yourself that it'll be fine.

The analog clock ticks on in the waiting room. It's empty, except for you, making the sound seem larger than what it really is.

It's just ten more minutes.

You open your phone, swiping for a mindless app that can help you pass the time until your name would hopefully be called.

It is not lost on you that you think about calling Loki, just to know what he's doing. To hear his voice.

Since that would cancel the whole independence thing that you've built up, you decide against it. You focus on the phone, a simple puzzle game, occasionally glancing at the time in the corner of the screen.

Clearing the newest level, you hear the ding of the bell over the front door of the office. It’s mostly meant to alert the receptionist, but your head picks up to look, too. 

Very suddenly, you feel like a kid doing something they’re not supposed to be doing. Standing at the threshold of your - very normal, mind you - doctor’s office is the tall, dark form of Loki. 

He looks very at ease. Simple black pants and dark shirt, his hair behind his ears. It’s gotten longer, you think, probably due for a trim for the summer— 

You sink a little lower in your chair. This was supposed to be a solo mission, not an opportunity to consider Loki’s looks. 

Naturally, your reaction doesn’t phase him. He steps across the room, dropping himself in a chair next to you. 

“Hello, darling,” he says, lacing his fingers together and propping them against his sternum. He looks exactly like he’s determined to wait with you. 

“Hi, Loki,” you respond. You notice how despondent your tone sounds to your own ears and it makes you frown. 

Loki tsks, his torso twisting to face you. “I’ll leave if you want me to,” he says, finger raising to pause you when your mouth opens to protest, “But I would be remiss if I didn’t show up.” 

You feel a pang of earnest guilt. It’s different, feeling like you were looking through muddy water—and you realize that it’s not yours. 

It’s Loki’s, pulled through across whatever force connected your emotions to his. 

“How did you know?” you ask, intentionally to avoid the way the realization made you feel.  

“Dear mortal, there is little about you that I am not privy to.”

“The house told you?”

“The house told me.”

“Snitch.”

Loki scoffs. “You have no idea,” he mutters. He pauses, something softer crossing his face. “So?” 

The banter made you forget about his question. Your brain remembers, and you blink. Easiness had slipped so stealthily into your body, you hadn’t imagined that it’d go away. 

“Stay?” You answer. You mean for it to come out firmer, not like a question. 

Loki doesn’t tease you for it. He hums a quiet affirmation, finally settling into waiting chair that you knew wasn’t comfortable.