#jadefics

This was brought to you by my love for snarky, competent assholes, who just so happen to have really pretty eyes. Very unfortunate for everyone else, but Langdon fits the bill to a T.

This is also known as the “Shit, Langdon’s hot” fic, aka the “Robby fell first but Abbot fell harder” aka the “Robby’s in over his head in denial, while Langdon’s just living the dream; everyone’s miserable but Langdon, and the only person enjoying this more is Walsh” fic. OT3 Endgame.

For more details, check out the masterlist

He had tried once, early on, to apologize to Langdon for leaving him behind. For Whitaker. But the younger man hadn’t been upset, or even cared. No, Langdon had laughed, as if the mere thought was ridiculous. “I really don’t care, Abbot,” he had said, an almost mean twist to his smiling lips. “You and Robby have made your positions quite clear, and as far as I’m concerned, we no longer owe each other anything.”

Jack nodded slowly. “I agree.” He searched those blue eyes for something, anything, that would indicate Langdon’s true feelings. But there was nothing—only a frozen lake of emptiness.

“Good,” Langdon had said, clearly more than done with this conversation. “Besides, I’m not the one doing anything illegal,” his head cocked like a predator, something sharp gleaming in the lupine angles of his face. Jack froze, his instincts screaming at him to run. “I’m not the one who’s sleeping with their resident. Again.”

Langdon had leaned in then, so close his breath tickled Jack’s hair, “Does poor Whitaker realize he’s only one mistake away from getting dropped like a broken toy?”

“Is that what you call stealing benzos? A stupid mistake?” Jack had scoffed, stepping away.

“Call it whatever you want, Jack,” Langdon said almost earnestly, the way he used to, nearly a year ago. And then the smirk came back, twisted and snide, and so, so very cold, “But we both know Robby was already looking for one reason or another to drop me.”

“What was it again?” He tapped his chin faux inquisitively, eyes lighting up with a fire so cold hell would freeze over. “Oh yes, ‘He’s getting too close. It’s making him act out, Jack’,” Langdon quoted, rolling his eyes. “I’m not deaf, Abbot. And I didn’t hear you deny it, either.”

“So you can take your apologies, and shove it up your ass.”

(also known as the time Frank Langdon got divorced, and his lawyer made it everyone else’s problem)

*written in the tone of a crackfic narrator + outsider POV

Snippet #1

All will be fine, Dana thought to herself, one fine, sunny May morning. Six weeks out from the end of the residency year. Both R4s set to return as attendings, and three brilliant MS4s—practically homegrown with the amount of time they spent at the Pitt—beginning as interns. Robby was finally starting to get over his negative issues regarding a certain blue-eyed resident, and back to his other set of issues—the kind involving praising the man’s work like he was the second coming of medicine Jesus.

Seriously. Sugar would melt at the sight of those two hopping around each other like a bunch of high schoolers.

All is well, she chuckled to herself, as the day passed by with minimal fanfare.

Poor, stupid, optimistic Dana, she’ll think to herself later that same afternoon, watching the scene unfold with growing horror.

Because the Pitt was a self-sustaining system, both its own savior and damnation. Where every decision can make or break a whole year and all the people around it, like a figurative meteor dropped from the sky.

And nothing could have prepared them for the day a certain handsome blond lawyer came to their ED, declared Langdon a free (divorced) man, and planted a passionate kiss on his lips right in the middle of the Hub.

“Oh, this is not going to end well,” McKay groaned from her spot right next to Dana, eyes roaming a mile a minute.

For this little smooch happened during a lull. In Robby’s direct line of sight. While he had a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

TW: self-harm scars

Scars:

Jack knew scars. Had no shortage of his own, nor treated any less than tens of thousands in his years as a doctor. As a soldier, exposed to the worst dredges of humanity. He could pinpoint exactly what tool was used to make a wound; be it a razor or a knife, needles or a gun. Suffice to say, there was no wound or scar too macabre for one Jack Abbot.

Not until Frank Langdon.

Not until that night, two months after Langdon’s return and 3 weeks before Robby’s; sitting across their ex-lover, strewn papers and signed NDAs aplenty—a keyhole to a world he had never known existed—when the glamour faded away like night faded to day.

He had never understood till that moment why Walsh had taken one look at Langdon the morning of the 13th—his first ‘official’ day back, with his freshly trimmed hair and the tattoo peeking out of his shirt sleeve—and cackled. Like a witch who had eaten a baby, or a cat that killed a mouse, Walsh had crowed in his ears, “Oh, you and Robinavitch are in for it now. Little Langdon’s finally decided to stop hiding.”

Not till the stars rippled out of dead night to shine their light, everything that was once dulled and blurred screamed out of the younger man like a spotlight. Oh, Jack had seen the scars on his right bicep—straight, symmetrical lines faded without so much as a keloid bump. Frank had never said, and Jack never asked, but he knew those lines could only come from a knife—military grade knives. And he could see those scars now, peeking out of his right sleeve like a macabre symmetry to the tattoo armband on his left.

But it was his neck that caught Jack’s attention.

A single line of white, vivid between the creases of his neck, yet glowing with some kind of spectral light. Thin as a whip, and deep enough to scar despite being at least a decade old, running across the entirety of his throat before disappearing underneath the shadows of his shirt.

Jack’s breath hitched.

He had kissed that neck; licked and nipped it, sucked bursting purples into it with reckless abandon. Frank always bruised so prettily, even if they faded twice as fast. It was once his and Robby’s favorite thing to do to the younger man, to mark him as theirs.

He didn’t know what broke his heart more—that he never noticed the scar, vivid and angry as it was, or the knowledge that someone had once tried very, very hard to kill his boy.

*hcklrbby mentions

Wolves:

Robby came back from his first trip out—the Badlands—to a city overrun by wolves.

Well, wolf-dogs. And there were only three of them, really. But three was more than enough, especially when they spent most of their time stalking him. And only sometimes at the same time.

The biggest was pale gold, almost tawny in color. Always sat in the middle, with steady blue eyes. Black was slightly smaller and significantly leaner, closer to a coyote than a wolf really, with green eyes far too intelligent for a dog. Brown was shortest in build, but no less wide than the alpha, and soft gold eyes of a lupine.

The worst part was that no one else seemed to really notice them; like their existence was simply bent out of reality until they deemed themselves seen. He just doesn’t know why they chose them, of all people.

Robby would be at home, reading on the porch, only to look up and see those massive figures watching him from where they sat calmly across the street. Whitaker had reported seeing them at the park, across from the ED like watchful guardians. Robby would go on a ride, only to find the black one following him from behind the treeline. Or Whitaker would leave for his shifts only to find glowing eyes watching him like prey. Abbot would come home to the sight of a black wolf, nearly invisible in the shadows, parked by their front gate.

But there was a pattern to them. Gold was around the most often, and Black the least. And Brown never showed up alone.

Not until the one time Robby came back early from his most recent trip, decided on a whim to pick up his lovers from their shift at the Pitt—and it was…nice, to say lovers again; even if the ex he was avoiding like the plague was also there—only to come face to face with the brown wolf.

The smallest of them, the runt of the pack, fluffy like an actual dog—and the one that hated him most. Brown had growled at him, fangs bared and bristling fur, stalking forward with a menace not shared by the other two, and stared him down with those golden eyes until Robby had turned tail and scrammed.

(Heart beating nearly out of his chest, hands sweating and shaking with primal fear, Robby hadn’t dared look into his rearview mirror. If he had, he would have seen Langdon poke his head out from the back door, giggle like a kid, and give the wolf a sweet kiss and cuddle.)

Months later, the incident still made his skin crawl every time Robby walked past the parking lot to work. Brown never showed up alone again, nor did the others ever deign to step foot on PTMC grounds. And when they did meet, Gold kept Brown and his snarling fangs away. But Robby was too careful now, cautioned against a repeat performance, and poor Dennis had to make his own way home now, or with Jack—who’s been acting rather squirrelly lately.

Really, the only person who might hate Robby more than the wolf was probably the Night Shift’s newest RN, Alec.

And he had no idea why.

*Unfortunately Robby, those were actual wolves. Well, were-wolves 😂

*for context: Alec’s the kid Scott and Argent rescued at the end of S6. In this series, he becomes part of the McCall Pack, and another kid for Frank—only child by birth, and notorious baby sibling hoarder—to dote on. We’ll be seeing more of the others real soon.

Frank Langdon knows death.

In fact, he would say he and Death are old friends.

Death is a thousand things all at once, and nothing at all; a tree of life, or humans chasing immortality in the name of science.

Death is here, in this room, watching Robby die.

(A purely self-indulgent fic set in the nothing gold can stay verse. Absolutely no prior knowledge of like a tree needed.

This was brought to you by me listening to drag path by twenty one pilots over and over again, and kinda just over-relating it to Langdon’s life in this fusion world. The other song is shogeki by yuko ando, because it contains the lyrics “I will live on long after my bones are dust” and that’s just Langdon’s future here 😅. )

*this was brought to you by the image of Langdon and Abbot slowly falling in love through their own love for Robby, only for it to fall apart before they really had enough time to figure it out. This is Abbot, realizing that the love was here to stay, but finding out the man they both loved was long gone; someone else had came back.

Marked:

“Who the hell are you?” The question came as no more than a whispered breath, almost drowned underneath the AC sounds. Yet despite the frigidity, Jack was sweating up a storm; rivulets of sweat dripped down his goosebump laden neck.

Because Jack knew Frank Langdon the Doctor. Had worked with him long into one day or another; had stood side by side with him, as they tackled one horrific MCI after another; had laughed and shared camaraderie; had kissed him sweetly in the evenings, and fucked him senseless in the mornings. And sure, their relationship—for however little it lasted—had never been as emotionally charged as Langdon and Robby’s, but love had been there, in whatever capacity Jack allowed.

And though Langdon was not carved out of Jack’s rib the way he was created out of Robby’s, theirs was the kind nurtured in endless terrible experiences; shared and understood only by those adrift on the same, shitty boat.

But this man—the one who wore combat gear and carried a rifle like it was second nature; who moved so quickly even shadows didn’t ripple in his wake; the one who was shot right in front of him yet simply walked it off—Jack didn’t know.

Langdon watched him with those startling blue eyes—almost silver underneath the swaying hazard of a chandelier that haunted Gloria’s office, the dim light casting great shadows upon his sharp cheekbones.

He never looked more beautiful.

He never looked more dangerous.

A slow, lupine smirk crawled on his face. Like a predator sizing up his meal, Langdon leapt off his seat and crossed the table with the grace of an encroaching panther. Tilting his head up gently, Langdon placed a single kiss on Jack’s forehead. His lips were like ice, burning a spot on sweat-warmed skin, and Jack involuntarily shivered. His hands, where they stayed on his thighs, clenched tight over nothing.

Langdon murmured onto his skin, and though his voice was hard, it was tinged with the kind of sorrow that only came with regret, “Someone you’ll soon dearly wish you never met.”

Langdon pulled back, icy eyes blazing like twinkling stars for a split second—and Jack could have sworn he saw something splinter in the set of his rigid jaw, in his pink lips—and then he was gone. Leaving Jack with nothing more than a heat burned like a brand on his forehead, and a deep, terrible ache in his chest.

*this is the second to last snippet (for now)

Of brothers:

After he caught the 7th glare in forty minutes the new nurse threw at him with the intensity of a nuclear bomb, Robby decided enough was enough. Night shift was already trickling through, and he thought he heard Shen earlier. His charting could wait till tomorrow, when he didn’t have a child glowering at him from across the Hub.

He packed his bag quickly, stripped his scrubs, and changed shoes. In and out of the locker room in less than five minutes, only to run right into the current bane of his existence.

“Leaving already, Dr. Robinavitch?” Nurse Alec asked, with a docile look and enough fake sweetness to gag over. But his dark eyes remained flat and cold, like a shark honed on his prey; not even butter would melt in his mouth. And though Alec Turnbow was no giant—he couldn’t be any taller than Dennis, and of similar build—he carried himself with the weight of one who knew just how dangerous he could be.

Robby racked his brain, searching for whatever offense he must’ve caused for a Night Shift nurse—one he’s only interacted with maybe five times so far—to hate him so. But for the life of him, he couldn’t even think of one. Not unless this was about Jack, or Dennis—who’d been on Nights for the past three weeks—and he was just thrown into the mix by association.

But something in the kid’s hard gaze and poorly disguised sneer made it absolutely clear that whatever this was, it was personal.

“Yeah, figured it was a good time to clock out,” Robby said, backing away quickly with a hastily thrown, “See you all tomorrow,” over his shoulders.

The last thing he heard, before the ambulance bay doors closed behind him, was Lena’s loud, “What the hell was that?”

And, “If you thought that was bad,” Garcia, who was still hanging around for one reason or another, snorted, “Wait till you meet the sister.”

(Later, Robby will turn that statement over and over again, before concluding that he had no idea whose sister Garcia was talking about. But he sincerely hoped he would never meet them.

Luck, of course, was never on his side.

And Garcia was right—the sister was so, so much worse.)