What am I even doing

Frank made sure to scuff his feet as he walked closer, not that he had to try too hard. Nearly fourteen hours on his feet had his back aching so badly each step hurt, but he could handle a couple more.

Santos didn’t really do much when she heard him other than suddenly swiping a hand over her face, sniffing once. “I’m fine.”

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that?” He asked, tilting his a little.

He settled his hands on the railing, feeling the cold beneath his fingers. Honestly he probably shouldn’t be touching it, he had zero idea when the last time this was cleaned was.

This was awkward. It was going to be, but that didn’t make the tension between them less noticeable. He was pretty sure he could take its blood pressure if he really tried.

Regardless, Santos didn’t look back at hearing in. Instead she merely coiled tighter, and in the low light of the night, he could see her fingers dig into the cloth of her long sleeve shirt.

It was way too hot to be wearing those right now. She must be sweating bullets.

“Leave me alone, Langdon.” It wasn’t quite a growl, not that of a predator angry and aching. More of something frightened and cornered, prey imagining teeth.

God, he wished he could bare them here.

Frank sniffed, ducking between the bars and ignoring the spike in his back as he did. “Nah.”

Loose bits of rock shifted under his shoes once he got to the other side, rolling his shoulders back. He heard her scoff quietly as he put his hands in his pockets, leaning forward just a bit to see what was going on down there.

It was nearly pitch black. The sun was long set, and the smattering of street and trees weren’t particularly well lit.

Long way to go, and not a good view, either.

Tempting.

Frank sighed as he took a step back, resolving to just try and not touch his face as he found one of the posts of the railing and sitting down against it. It was a bit hard, but he managed, letting out a breath as he settled.

Knees up, elbows resting on them, hips and back against the rail. Comfortable enough for now.

Santos wasn’t visibly unstable enough to jump with him there. Not that he really thought that was a major risk, but, the idea of it still lingered. Always did up here.

This time she did look over, a kind of horrified disbelief woven across her face as she realized he wasn’t leaving.

He just tilted his head back to look, raising his eyebrows. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

It was spit back and forth like gunfire bursts, short and loud and just managing to miss them both. He wasn’t quite sure how, but hey, he’d take it.

He didn’t expect her to want to, but he had to ask regardless. Part of the job, he guessed.

Santos shook her head, exhaling hard. Maybe to steady the slight waver clear in her voice. “What are you even doing out here?”

“It’s kind of a rite of passage, having some stubborn jerk refuse to let you see if you’ve become a medical miracle and spontaneously grown wings.” He shrugged as if it really was that simple.

There wasn’t a point in properly answering the question. Not really, not without making this entire thing about him, and that wasn’t a bit he was interested in right now.

He could’ve heard her roll her eyes, shifting a little where she was standing. “Oh yeah? What, are you saying everyone stands up here? Just a, a roll of the fucking dice every twelve hours?”

All he did was shrug. “Pretty much. We all get bad days.”

Her laugh came across strangled, shaking her head. She looked like she should be shaking, nerves fraying, and instead wound herself into a knot. “This is not just a bad day.”

“We all get suicidal then, I dunno. Hard not to in this line of work.” He ran a hand over his hair, resting it on the back of his neck.

Santos shook her head a little, hand spamming where he could see. “Christ, just fuck off already.”

This is not a fight. This is not a fight. This is not a goddamn fight.

The automatic urge to defend himself was easy to grab on to, waved tauntingly in front of him. Old habits he’d tried to kill — a mix of a childish urge to explain himself and the desperate need to not be misunderstood — were still bleeding by his feet, bodies gently warm.

There was only so much he could do without bleed on himself for her. She didn’t need to see. She probably didn’t even want to, to be honest. It wouldn’t help.

Frank let his nails bite into his skin to keep himself grounded, pulling a tight smile. “I’m not gonna 302 you, but I’m not super keen on leaving while you’re standing on the edge of a building.”

He saw her shrug, weight transferring to one leg as she tilted her head back. Annoyance, plain as the moon on the horizon. “Genuinely, since when have you cared?”

“Believe it or not, always,” the scoff was expected, “but that doesn’t really matter right now. We don’t leave people up here.”

“We?”

“Yes, Santos. Solid rule of thumb. Don’t let doctors kill themselves at their own hospital, bad for press.”

That managed to tug a single reluctant laugh from her, swiping a hand over her mouth. “You’re really bad at this.”

It was his turn to shrug now. Fair enough, he wouldn’t argue. He didn’t go into psychiatry for a reason. Managing his own mental health was a steaming pile of on fire shit he ignored for too long, no way in hell he’d be able to help someone else.

“Good and effective aren’t synonyms.” He paused, tilting his head. “I’m pretty sure. Doesn’t matter.” He waved a hand to dismiss it, taking a breath, “Point is, I don’t think you’re shitty enough to jump with a witness, and I can’t really leave you here.”

She swayed slightly in an intentional way, more of hair visible proof of irritation than anything. “So what’s your plan, then?”

“You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?”

“Quite.”

He just nodded, not taking offense to it. They were never going to be friends, he was fine with that, but it didn’t mean he needed to just abandon her entirely.

Santos was not one to tell him of all people about what’s happened to her, but general observation gave you a metric shit ton of insight into someone who liked to pretend not to wear her emotions. Frank wasn’t particularly keen on adding another tally next to his name on her list of people that let her down.

Wordlessly, he just pulled out his phone, opening up messages. Either the silence or the light seemed to get her attention, glancing over with furrowed brows. “What are you doing?”

“Texting Whitaker to come up here.” He didn’t look up, keeping the text fairly bare. “Don’t talk to me? Fine, but you gotta talk to someone.”

There was a pause, long enough he was guessing she was thinking about arguing with him, before she just frowned further. “Since when do you have his number?”

Frank did glance to her here, dropping his hands to the side slightly in a ‘dude’ motion. “I’m in a group chat with you guys.”

“.. Right.”

He just huffed, regrettably amused, before pressing send before settling back against the rail. His back was fucking aching, hips stinging, ass cold from the roof, but he wasn’t moving from this spot until that door opened.

Until someone better equipped than him came to handle this.

He wasn’t good at this. Not like those that had come before, come for him. Cassie, recently. Abbot. Robby. Only once, a long time ago, and every time since a quiet part of him had longed for it again.

The gentle emotional care wasn’t his forte, but that didn’t make it unworthy of effort. Just meant it needed a little more. Like Santos, stood a few feet to his left, shoulders dropped in stark contrast to earlier.

Frank knew he should want to ask. He also knew Santos wouldn’t want him to. So, he sat.

He stayed, and eventually he heard the door open.

He stayed, and eventually footsteps came up behind them, a slightly timid voice asking after Trinity.

He had stayed, and now he stood, hiding a wince and ducking through the bars. He pat Whitaker on the shoulder as he passed, said nothing, and went right through the door he’d come out of.

Simple enough, and fucking anything but.