@kingdonmicrofic - july 21 - wc: 212

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Mel almost throws up right in the middle of the break room.

She kicks her heels into the tile, sending her chair slamming into the cabinet behind her. A mug smashes to the floor, but the words on her screen are much more alarming. She pinches the screen to enlarge his name.

Frank Langdon? As in Dr. Frank Langdon? Why is he on a dating app? Isn't he married? Isn't he--

The man himself flies into the room, and his worried eyes land on her like an electric blue spotlight.

"Mel? You okay? I heard a crash."

She nods, but doesn't speak, so his stare flickers to the phone in her hand. She tries to close it in time, but there's no way he doesn't see his own name with how close she'd zoomed in.

For a moment, he says nothing, mouth open in an 'O.’

Then, he slowly retrieves his own phone from his pocket. And though she can't read it from where she sits, she knows exactly which notification is lighting up his screen.

Kingdon microfic (but it’s 579 words, womp womp)

Day 22: Connect

PTMC has implemented the new M.E.L. (Medical Evaluation Liason) AI system. Frank is lonely.

“Abby, what the fuck?”

That’s the last thing she hears before everything goes dark. When she comes to, she finds herself in Central 16. She squints as she wakes up, even though the lights in the room have been dimmed. As her eyes adjust, she finds Frank in a chair next to her bed, eyes closed. Even in sleep, there’s a frown on his face.

“Frank,” she calls, her throat slightly scratchy.

He blinks his eyes open immediately, glancing around the room and then, finally, at her.

His frown deepens when he sees her face.

“Do I look that bad?” she tries to joke, wincing when she tries to smile. The left side of her face aches. “Don’t answer that.”

He rolls his eyes playfully.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her. “You always do. But her palm did connect with your face pretty well.”

He moves to sit on the side of her bed, brings his hand up to grab her chin, tilting her face to the side slightly so he can better examine her cheek.

“You’re gonna have some swelling there for a while.”

She hums, reaches and wraps her hands around his wrist, her thumb stroking over the beat of his pulse.

“Where’s Abby?” she asks.

“North 4. Don’t worry – Ahmad is outside her room,” he sighs. “She…told me not to come home tonight. And to lawyer up.”

She bites down on her lip before speaking.

“Do you want to stay with me?”

And, despite everything, he grins.

Prompt: Connect @kingdonmicrofic | 500 words | Rated G | 22/31 | Birthday Buddies (this takes place in the Birthday Buddies universe (Confetti, Laughter), no need to read beforehand, but it does help!)

“You’re getting married?” 

She only just got Frank back—after ten years of phone calls and facetimes and rushed visits and being on opposite coasts for undergrad and med school and early residency, he’d finally moved home, she’d finally gotten him back. 

And now he’s getting married? 

“Abby’s pregnant,” he says, running a hand through his hair and pacing. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“I don’t know,” she squeaks. She always thought someday they’d figure it out, that all his girlfriends were just temporary, and that maybe he’d figure out that he loved her too. But now his girlfriend—his supposed to be temporary girlfriend he’s only been dating for six months—is pregnant and they’re getting married? 

That’s not how this is supposed to go. 

“Do you even want to get married?” Mel asks, grasping at straws. They’re twenty-eight today, she supposes it’s not a bad age to get married, but they’re still in their residency for god’s sake. She couldn’t imagine getting married right now, let alone having a kid. 

“I don’t know,” he answers, exasperated. “I always thought I’d get married, someday, I just didn’t think—” He looks away from her and puts his hands on his hips. “I didn’t think it’d be now. With Abby.” 

“You don’t have to do anything,” Mel points out. “You don’t have to—” 

“What would you have me do, Mel!” Frank yells. “Abby is having a baby, my baby, and I’m just supposed to not be a part of the kids life? Or figure out custody and only see the baby a couple weekends a month?” 

“No, of course not,” she agrees. “I just…I don’t know, we’re in residency, we’re so young, I didn’t think—” 

“Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t marry Abby?” 

Mel’s eyes snap to his. The question comes out of nowhere, but there’s weight to it, desperation to it. Frank’s looking at her like he’s waiting for something, like he’s waiting for her to connect the dots, to say something specific, but her mind goes blank. 

Everything Frank’s said makes sense. He likes Abby, she’s a kind and loving woman who is having his child, why wouldn’t he get married to her? And he’s always wanted kids, why wouldn’t he want to have a baby, this baby, with Abby?

So what if she loves him? So what if she’ll never love anyone else as long as Frank Langdon roams the earth? Frank wants this, and Mel could never take this from him, not ever, no matter how much she loves him and always has. 

“No,” she says softly, shrinking away from him. “No, I can’t.” 

Frank’s face falls. He puts a hand over his mouth in disbelief, his eyebrows raising, the breath huffing out of him like he’s been punched in the gut. 

“Okay then,” he says after a long moment, refusing to look at her. “If that’s what you want, Mel, then okay.” 

“Frank, what do you mean—”

read on ao3

“I’m done talking about the hospital, Frank,” said Abby, carefully applying her lipstick in the car mirror.

He sighed, one hand on the wheel as he connected his bluetooth and began tapping his fingers along to the beat.

He’d made a great save during his shift earlier, maybe the best of his career, but she wouldn’t want to hear about that. Abby tended to prefer conversation topics on which she was the expert; contemporary literary fiction, Michelin star restaurants, designer runway collections.

“I mean it,” she said, “it’s the first date you’ve taken me on in months. No patients, no procedures, no nothing. Please.”

Normally he conceded to his wife, concealing whatever problem she was finding in him at that moment until she moved on to the next one. Today, he was ready to press it, tired of walking on eggshells and feeling like a squatter in their home. It was foolish of him anyway, to think his display of heroism would change her opinion that he was irredeemable.

He was about to fight back when his phone rang, blaring over the car’s bluetooth as her contact photo appeared on the screen. It was from the picnic they went on last week, Mel’s hair in two braids instead of one with a tall glass of lemonade held up next to her beaming smile. In the reflection of her sunglasses you could see Frank, smiling back.

“You’re kidding me,” Abby said, her arms crossing over her chest as he moved to answer it.

“Hey, Mel,” he said, tentatively.

“Hey, Frank. Where are you?” said Mel, sweetly.

Drops of cold sweat congregated on his brow bone as Abby angled her body towards him with accusatory raised brow, silently mouthing at him: “Frank?”

“I’m in the car. On the way-“

“So you told her? How’d it go?” said Mel.

Frank was in a full panic now, white-knuckling the wheel and staring straight ahead, ignoring the red-hot rage steaming off of his wife in the passenger seat.

“Mel. I’m, uh, on the way to dinner. Now. With Abby,” he said, throat tight.

The line went silent, his gaze triangulating between the road, her photo with her name underneath, staring at him from the center console, and Abby; the deliberate tap of her nails, the narrowing of her eyes.

“Oh,” said Mel, “Um, I’m sorry. I’ll call—or you can—ok bye bye.”

Frank let the remainder of their ride be awkward and silent and painful after she hung up on him. He let Abby seethe, let her brain conjure up whatever elaborate revenge plot her and her friends (that he’d never gotten along with) would inflict upon him.

“Abby?” he asked as he pulled the car into the restaurant parking.

She didn’t speak, her red lips sealed shut as she raised her eyebrows, daring him to continue.

so don’t get me wrong: the fact that the first case mel and frank ever work on together is a marriage collapsing due to drug use is… already just insane work. but i rewatched this episode recently and i can’t get it out of my head that this couple mirrors frank and abby more than we even think.

obviously, franks addiction is heavily foreshadowed through his patients in season one. once it’s revealed that the little boy accidentally got into his father’s marijuana gummies, we see this subtle undertone in pball’s performance as frank where, in my opinion, he’s facing the reality of how his behavior could have (or could in the future if he doesn’t get it together) effected his kids and the foundation of trust in his marriage.

however, even before amanda (the mother) finds out that drew’s irresponsibility is technically the reason why tyler is ill, she assumes it anyway. she’s very snarky with mel and frank as they ask her about tylers routines, and when they ask about recent injuries she immediately throws drew under the bus and complains about his actions/parenting/responsibility by saying “but he roughhouses with drew all the time” (paraphrased). drew shoots back with something like “but he never gets hurt.” very defensive, an argument that seems like it’s been had many times.

combine this with the fact that she didn’t even know her husband was using weed recreationally (which i assume is because he knew she would take issue with it) makes it clear that there is already tension, mistrust, blame, and resentment between them. the accident with their son only brings to the surface what has been concealed or hidden in passive aggressive quips.

i believe this is a direct insight into frank and abby’s marriage. we are supposed to gather from everything explicitly stated about abby (wanting a birkin?, frank getting her a dog, frank overcompensating all the time) that they fundamentally do not understand each other. but i think amanda and drew tell us that langdon, even before his addiction, felt like he couldn’t do anything right in abby’s eyes.

@kingdonmicrofic - july 21 - wc: 368 - cw: mature

There's a problem with the hotel.

After two flight delays from the winter storm and an Uber ride from hell where the driver missed the exit several times, there's now a problem with the hotel booking. Of-fucking-course.

Their reservations apparently do not exist.

Mel is right behind him at the hotel's front desk, rubbing his back up and down as if to soothe him. It's not lost on him that it’s the first time she's ever touched him like this, but it was supposed to happen behind closed doors, where we can groan a little if he wants.

The conference was supposed to bring them closer and provide him ample opportunities to be all over her. He had it all perfectly planned out and even drafted a list of excuses in his Notes app to knock on her hotel room door later. He imagined her answering in a fluffy white robe, his hands untying the knot, watching it pool at her feet.

But there's no available rooms, no white fluffy robes. All they can do is sit on the couch in the lobby until the hotel eventually kicks them out.

Mel digs into her suitcase and pulls out her toothbrush. Frank can do nothing but stare at her with his hands cradling his chin.

It’s the least sexiest trip ever.

"You look like someone kicked your dog," she says. "Or however that saying goes. I think I'm using it right."

He's so sleep deprived from the long day that he doesn't stop himself from answering, pretty miserably, "Just wanted to spend time with you, and it's ruined."

"We're spending time together right now," she says.

"I wanted..." Oh, God, is this really where he tells her? In a fucking hotel lounge? "...to spend time together more... privately."

He watches her reaction carefully. She swallows, fiddles a little with her hands, and then she's standing.

"Well, I'm going to go brush my teeth," she says.

He deflates.

"Sure," he says.

She's still not moving and clears her throat. "In the family bathroom."

He straightens, gives her wild-eyed look as she wheels her bag away towards the public restrooms. He waits sixty seconds, grabs his own, and races after her.

+ Bonus screenshot of Frank's Notes app because he's a loser:

He took her stargazing on their third date.

More accurately, he took her camping. They had both, miraculously, had the same two-day period off. So they drove about two hours outside of Pittsburgh and spent their “weekend” together, just the two of them. Just Mel and Frank.

She found somewhere for them to sit at night, somewhere they could see the sky unimpeded, and told him that her dad always used to stargaze with her on summer nights in their backyard, pointing out comets and planets and galaxies. She asked him if he knew any constellations, and he pretended to point out Ursa Minor to impress her. She called him on his bullshit immediately with a giggle, and then took his hand, using his finger to trace the pattern of the real Ursa Minor in the air.

It was the first time he knew, unequivocally, that he was in love with her.

He guesses that’s why it’s one of the last memories to go.

When Shen first suggested the procedure to him, he had outright refused to even consider it. It was an experimental procedure, first of all, and the last thing he needed was to screw up his brain and not be able to remember his kids, or something.

Plus, he didn’t want to forget her. He wanted it to stop hurting, but he didn’t want to forget her.

Did he?

“I’m just saying, dude,” Shen said, taking a long sip of his iced coffee. “You’ve been moping around here like a kicked puppy for months. I know some researchers at the Cleveland Clinic who specialize in it, and they say it works fucking wonders.”

It only takes seeing one picture of Mel, with someone else’s arm around her shoulders, on Becca’s Instagram for him to tell Shen to schedule a consultation.

The doctors in Cleveland describe something that seems too good to be true. Completely safe, ninety-seven percent effective. It’s an outpatient procedure, they tell him, with minimal recovery time.

The best part? He wouldn’t even realize it was happening. He wouldn’t miss the memories, because he wouldn’t even know they were gone in the first place.

In the end, it’s different than they describe it.

He doesn’t miss her, per se. And in a few weeks, he doesn’t even know who he’s supposed to be forgetting. She’s like a dying flame, flickering less and less brightly with each passing day.

He just knows that, suddenly, he can’t get the color of her eyes right. Or the sound of her laugh.

It’s around the time he can’t remember her name that he thinks he might’ve made a mistake.

So, when he startles awake one night, trying to decipher if the feeling of her hand around his pointing out constellations was real at one point, or was always just a dream, he does something he hasn’t done in a very long time.

He prays.