Archive of Our Own

eleven am

It's a widely known secret that Frank Langdon cannot stand you.

Understatement of the century, but Princess isn't one to judge.

Even though Ahmad runs a board every time there's an incoming trauma with a reported head injury, hidden in a corner so all the post-its are sorta piling on top of one another. Just in case. No one turns down a small bonus just for guessing whether or not the ED will explode when you and Langdon are put into the same room.

She's got five on fifteen minutes, patient care, she walks out.

It's just so unfortunate that Dr. Langdon can't get over the one neurosurgeon that'll zip down to the Pitt in five seconds flat if she gets called, but it makes for a great way to pass the time. Or that's what Perlah says after putting in ten with Ahmad: thirty minutes, snippy comment, Robby breaks it up.

Over the counter and pretending to charge the iPads in low, humming Tagalog: "And they'd look pretty together, if they weren't always at each other's throats."

"Maybe that's what makes them so pretty," Princess had answered. "It's spicy."

"And he's married."

"Right, can't forget that. Is she?"

"I dunno. Should we ask Dr. Robby?"

"If you're so curious."

But any other conversation dies as the doors to T2 are pushed open with a shove. The patient is already being wheeled to surgery right when Princess catches something an ischemic stroke turning hemorrhagic and a very pissed off neurosurgeon. There's a whisper of intercranial bleed and craniotomy as a flash of navy blue is followed by grey.

A cat and a mouse, constantly chasing one another.

She glances over her shoulder to catch the action.

"I can take it from here, Dr. Robby," you call, hands wrapped tight around the gurney rail. Down the hall, Mateo holds the waiting elevator open and Dr. Robby's planted himself at the head of the gurney, pushing with all his might as if that'll separate you from Dr. Langdon faster. Said Pretty Boy lingers by T2's doors, ripping off his gloves with a violent snap. "I would've preferred to avoid this."

"I know, Spider, I know."

But even Dr. Robby cannot pacify you. You twist at the waist, glaring at Dr. Langdon. "Keep a closer eye on your residents then so when they decide to administer t-PA for a patient with high blood pressure and a CT showing an aneurysm well on it's way to bursting—" the edges of your words are embittered and icy— "this doesn't happen again."

"It was, what, 7% chance? He had no blood flow—"

"—Do not worry, I will caution Dr. Langdon one more time about there being such a thing as too gung-ho."

Langdon looks more like a angry hound than the bright shining star as his head snaps to Robby. His eyes are wide and too bright under the pale lights, lips curled into an ugly snarl.

"You're welcome, by the way."

His voice carries across the hall, bouncing off tile and ceiling.

It's far too loud. Far too sharp. The sentence is strung all wrong, like a bone that hasn't set right and needs to be broken again. A silence plunges into the Pitt as Robby stops. He rubs his face into his hands, a muttered noise escaping through the crevices of his palms as his star pupil shoots his gloves into a waste bin and steps into line next to him. 

"Now you can clear your schedule on Thursday."

You pull the rest of the gurney into the lift with Mateo's help, your eyes, clever and cold, fixed on him. "Do you want to take me out to dinner, Hasselhoff?"

"I'd rather be beheaded."

You step into the elevator. A faint smile pulls at your mouth. "Too bad I'm fully booked in OR 3 and blissful silence, otherwise you and I really would have a date with the guillotine."

"Oh, you'd be lucky to even get an invite anywhere."

Your smile flickers. "What do you mean?"

"If you need me to spell it out for you: You. Do not. Get any."

For a moment, Princess wonders if you're going to leap out and strangle Langdon or turn on your heel, but you surprise them all with a slight laugh. "You'd be surprised, Dr. Langdon."

The elevator doors slide shut. The oppressive quiet seems to swell, pushing down onto all of their shoulders. Princess barely thinks to breathe. Perlah, leaning against the desk, meets her eyes with wide, dark eyes and a slight shake of her head.

Then:

"Freaky." Dana smacks Langdon in the back of his head as she passes and he frowns, cradling his skull. "What? Something I said?"

"Langdon," she begins, shoving the iPad back into the rack, "have you ever learned the phrase 'I'm sorry'?"

"Vaguely recall 'em." He draws up a chair and plops down, reaching over for a glob of sanitizer. He rubs his palms together, flashing a smile. "Why?"

"'Cause it'd be good if you remembered how to use them," Dr. Robby says, leaning in beside him. He smiles, but not with his eyes. A warning if Princess has ever seen one, "before you run off our one-way ticket to a neurosurg consult."

For a moment, Dr. Langdon and Dr. Robby's gazes meet, searching and fighting and running. The air fizzles and burns.

Then, Pretty Boy bows his head, the Big Boss claps his shoulder. "Good man," he says. "Now, let's all get back to work." Langdon eventually gets up with a groan, muttering something about doing a round. He grabs an iPad from the rack, and offers a grim half-smile at Princess as he walks past, shoulders slouched and a boy's pout on his lips.

The thickness in the air begins to melt away. The rush of the ER comes back—the clacking of keys, the sound of wheels running over linoleum tile and the muffled coughing between curtains and squeaking beds—and the world keeps on spinning.

You'll come down again with the good snacks from upstairs for the nurses and another one stuffed in your backpocket for Dr. Robby.

And Dr. Langdon will cause a fuss, like he does. It shouldn't be any different, but for some reason, Princess feels weirder than normal going back to work after that blown fuse.

Dana crashes into a seat next to her, but her body's still stiff like a live wire is strung throughout her skeleton, her feet never quite leaving the floor, always planted in case she needs to dash. It's the Q-word in the ED, which means the charge nurse eyes the phone with a wariness and a thumb flicking over a pack of cigarettes, waiting for the shoe to drop. 

"Fucking unbelievable," she mutters.

"I still stand by what I said last week," Perlah intones as Ahmad ducks into the office to read over the post-its. "We should get them both a shock collar."

"As much as I'd love that, I don't think Gloria would appreciate our doctors wearing collars on the clock." Dr. Robby slides along the counter until he's leaning over, head cocked towards the nurses and his voice lowering. "Do I even bother trying?"

Dana pulls on her glasses. "He's your puppy, not mine. Yank his leash a little. Throw 'im a bone. You don't have to make 'em get along. Just civil enough that a patient doesn't die."

"Or a patient doesn't complain." He buries his face into his palms. "Fuuuuuuuuck…"

"You could lock them in a room together," suggests Perlah.

"Nope. Will not be doing that."

Princess smiles sympathetically. She walks around the counter and pats Dr. Robby on the back. Her eyes catch something glinting in his back pocket. The trim of his hoodie lifted when he bent over, and it reveal the silver wrapper of a granola bar, untouched and a little bit smushed. "They just need to work it out."

His eyebrows knit together. "Work it out."

She nods. "Maybe you could promise a treat, so long as they play nice. You know, train them."

"Those two are not food-motivated," he answers. "Especially her. Trust me, I've tried everything."

"Well, we can't all roll over at the first sight of pizza."

Doc straightens up, frowning. "Wha—Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Means you're not you when you're hangry," Dana says as Princess leaves. "And you better try somethin' before they start blowing shit up."

twenty-three minutes later

"I thought we would have to duck for cover," McKay jokes.

Mateo blinks. He doesn't know how long he's sat in the break room. His legs are partially jelly, the heels burning up to the Achilles and pulsing in a way that makes him grieve the remaining time he has left to sit down. Very quickly he is realizing doubles are not his speed, especially not in the Pitt. That, and he needs a new pair of shoes. He's pretty sure the sneakers he's got on right now are so run-down that he can feel every bit of the floor.

McKay fixes herself a cup of tea into a to-go cup, sweeping her fringe with her fingers and collapsing into the seat across from him. She smiles sympathetically. "First time seeing them fight?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. "Why are they like that?"

"I know right," McKay replies, and doesn't elaborate. She looks like she doesn't see the need to. A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth and when her big blues catch it, she sighs. "Look, it's just how it is. I'm not saying it's right, but they're not out to kill each other, and a patient's never said anything. I don't think anyone takes it that seriously."

"Has it always been like that?"

"Always?" she echoes thoughtfully. She thinks about it for a moment, her eyes squinting, lips pursing. "Hmm, yeah. No." A beat. A reconsideration. "I don't know, actually. Probably, since Robby's never done anything more than a light slap on the wrist to stop it. He gets tired when someone plays the same song twice on the radio. I can't imagine what those two do to him."

"Doesn't explain why Langdon hates her guts."

"Because Langdon is Langdon," she says as if that explains everything, "and Spider is Spider. They're like oil and water, y'know."

Mateo does not know. The bite of Dr. Langdon's words echo in his brain over and over, like a sort of memory that wakes you up in the middle of the night. He shudders at the idea of one day that vitriol turning on him. "It's a miracle," he says carefully, "that she keeps coming. Normally, surgeons are too good to slum it with us. And for Langdon to act out that way—"

"Oh, yeah. Heard it's like a personal favour for Dr. Robby." McKay shrugs. "They've known each other for a while, and from what I've gathered, she's not going anywhere. No matter how hard Langdon tries to run her off."

"Whatever his deal is."

McKay's voice twinges. "Two kids under five does that to you. I have enough trouble with Harrison alone."

"That isn't solely a Harrison problem." Mateo doesn't need to add the Chad and Chloe of it all. "He's a good kid. The rest is something you just deal with."

She laughs dryly, tugs on the string of her teabag with long, graceful fingers. "I suppose. Then Langdon'll just have to deal with all of it, too."

"And 'dealing with it' entails…?"

"A very harsh reminder from Dr. Robby," she replies, "or going until one of them runs out of steam. But between you and me—" and she leans over conspiratorially, voice low and raspy— "I think she likes the fight. I mean, how often does someone get to tell Langdon that he's wrong?"

Mateo's gaze shoots to McKay. His lips press into a thin line, eyebrows furrowing. "You're being a little too supportive of those guys," he murmurs. McKay draws back, capping her to-go cup with a small, self-satisfied smile.

"Trust me, ordinarily, I grin and bear a surgeon's big ego because it gets them out of our hair and back up to their little glass pedestals faster. But Robby likes her. It's good enough reason for me."

four-thirty-six pm

Kim chews on her nails. She tugs at her hangnails. Given the chance, she'll pick at her cuticles if all else has been depleted.

It's a fucking really bad habit, but one that makes her look busy when she looks down at iPads. Gives the impression that she's reading really hard.

Ugh, who's she kidding? It's terrible. She's a pretty confident person, or so she likes to say, so biting nails feels a little out of left field, and she can't help it. It's not the high-stress situations that do her in but the feeling of doing something that she shouldn't be doing that makes her fidgety.

But when she bites at her nail and has a screen in hand, it makes her just perfect at standing in places she probably shouldn't be in. Even better at eavesdropping juicy gossip she can pawn off to Princess and Perlah for a small boon of her choosing. A favour here, a snack break there. Knowledge is power.

Which is why she's here, standing. Lurking, mostly, with her juicebox while she can get away, and her thumb picking away at a hangnail she gnawed at. Her feet are glued to the floor, and she presses herself against stairwell.

Above her, two voices come louder and louder, their footsteps slapping as they skip steps with practiced ease.

"I'm just asking to talk." Langdon.

"We're talking right now." The neurosurgeon from earlier. "Unless you want to say something specific, Dr. Langdon."

"Don't be—"

"Don't be what?"

"You're genuinely insufferable. Do you know that? Like really, really know that?"

"My father drilled that into my head. Anything else?"

"Yeah, but someone's deciding to be a—" He cuts himself off and groans. "Nevermind. Just stop."

Your little laugh barely conceals the slight shocked noise that comes out of Kim. Because as far as she's concerned, Dr. Langdon's never taken back anything he's ever said. Never stopped. Never backtracked. Granted, she's worked here for a little less than a year, so she doesn't know everyone all that well yet, but it's sort of obvious.

"Stop what?" you ask.

"Stop being that."

"Being what?"

"Being you. For just a second."

"Don't be stupid."

Langdon's voice scorches. "I'm not being stupid. You're being a bitch."

The word makes the air swelter thickly and feeling more increasingly like she shouldn't be here.

Kim glances at the door back to the Pitt, and debates the odds of her being able to sneak there without them seeing.

The two doctors stop at the landing. Her fingers tighten on her juice box, and it squirts, dribbles all over her fingers. With a quick shift of her foot, Kim snuffs out the possibility of her splatter making noise, and she holds back a wince. Her splatter. Not the best turn of phrase, but nonetheless, she's getting distracted from the gossip at hand.

"Is that so?" you're in the middle of saying, flat as still water. Langdon hitches a breath, then he lets out a long exhale, a soft muttered 'fuck'.

"No, well, yes, but I just—I just wanted to say that I rushed. With Mr. Harland. I didn't want to say... the other stuff."

You let out a small 'huh'. A few seconds roll past. Four, to be exact. The soft squeak of a shoe shifting against the floor. "And is this supposed to be some sort of apology?"

"If you let it. Can you just give me a fucking second? Please."

"Okay. Fine." No answer. "Langdon, we both have patients. Can we speed it up?"

"Yeah, I'm finding it."

"If you have to find it, I'm not sure you're ready to say your big boy words. In fact, you drain the satisfaction out of getting an apology in the first place. That's nothing short of a miracle."

With a sharp squeak of a shoe turning, the fuzzy shape of your shadow grows sharp and clear as you descend the steps, and Kim presses herself tighter to the white plaster, inching side-face and closer towards the exit to the ambulance bay. The zipper of her jacket scratches against the plaster wall, and she jolts to a stop, pricking her ears and glancing fearfully over her shoulder.

But Langdon, hot on your heels, has swallowed Kim's presence with storming footsteps. "It's easier when the person I'm trying to talk to gives me the time of day."

"You would know better than most that our time is valuable."

"And surgeons are worth more, yeah, yeah. I've heard that spiel before."

You reach the bottom of the stairs and turn around, mouth opening to reply, but for a split second, your eyes snag on Kim's, and you immediately snap it shut. She bites back a panicked scream at the slightest twitch of your eyebrows and instantly vows off eavesdropping anyone ever again.

"Dr. Langdon," you say as you drag your gaze up towards the doctor still higher up on the steps, "I don't think we have much more to say to one another."

You don't wait for an answer.

Instead, you walk swiftly towards Kim, and grab her by the arm. Wrapping fingers around your wrist, she tries to form an apology but no words can slip out of her mouth. You drag her around the corner behind the stairwell, and outside to the ambulance bay. The autumn air hits her face, cold against her flushed neck and chest, and she presses her knuckles to her cheek. She didn't realize how much she'd been sweating until now. Gulping down some apple juice, she glances back between her toes and your side-profile.

You dig your hands into your pockets, searching for something, and, with a pounding heart and a red stamp that reads TERMINATED in her head, she spins around to face you.

"I'm sorry! I am so sorry," she bursts. "I didn't know, I mean, I was just drinking my juice and I wanted to get away from the chaos for just a minute—"

"Let's wait a few minutes out here," you interrupt calmly. You don't even look mad. Maybe a little amused, but mostly nothing. A sort of indifference that comes across a little uncanny as you pull out a box of gum.

You offer her a stick.

She takes it carefully and squish the tiny little beast called fear that had been growing at an alarming rate inside her chest. The apple juice is gone by the time she's undoing the wrapper of gum and popping it into her mouth. The mint crawls up her nose, and makes her feel like she's actually breathing properly for the first time since she's clocked in.

"You probably shouldn't do that again," you say out of nowhere, pivoting towards her. Kim nearly jumps, her head snapping to you.

But you're not looking at her. You're looking back over your shoulder, at the doors that have clicked shut and there's a harsh line in your brow, a tiny squint to your eyes.

When you speak, it doesn't sound like those are the words you really want to say. "Dr. Langdon's not… he, ah, whatever he said, he won't appreciate that being spread around."

"It wasn't on purpose," Kim says guiltily.

"If you want something to bring back to Princess and Perlah," you continue, "just tell them that I've seen Dr. Robby naked or something."

No. Fucking. Way. She gawks. "Wait, is that true?"

You shrug. "Maybe."

and right after…

Donnie knows who's approaching him way before he turns around. Call him a bit of a genius, but the comings and going of the Pitt have become sort of his business. Whether it's the footsteps of a new RN trying to get a good footing, or the hurried skips of an intern, Donnie has heard it all.

Which is why he takes a deep breath, sends a quick prayer to Jesus for patience, and another to Mary for kindness, before Langdon speaks. He woke up late, didn't have a chance to shower, and has had vomit on his new shoes. Donnie's a saint, but even he runs short on patience.

"Do we have an update on Mr. Harland? Saw…" Donnie notes in the corner of his eye the way Langdon clenches his jaw. "…Spider down here just now."

Without looking up from the monitor where he puts in orders for Mrs. Gillian (food poisoning mixed with anaphalyxis is not something he wishes on his worst enemy), he snorts. "And World War Three didn't start?"

"We stayed out of each other's way."

Sure. If Kim's pale white face after slinking from the ambulance bay is anything to go by, 'staying out of the way' translates to minor casualties, but Donnie doesn't mention that, clicking enter and logging out. He tells Ms. Gillian to stay put until she feels better, and that he'll be back to check on her before walking to the next patient. Langdon trails after him.

"Mr. Harland got moved to the neuro ICU," he reveals at length. The doc runs a hand through his hair, but it only makes it fall back over his face in a super 90s hearthrob way. Talk about pissing him off. He shrugs and looks at him. "It's all I got. I don't know anything else."

"She didn't say anything about a prognosis?" Langdon prods.

"No, man, but if you wanna know so bad, you could ask her."

"Why would that ever be a good idea?"

"I don't know, but you're barking up the wrong tree. He's not my patient." And because Langdon's got the wide guilty eyes of a kid that dropped his lollipop, Donnie adds quietly, "Look, I can tell her to forward the results to you, or something. She's not gonna get pissed because you care."

"No, don't," Langdon blurts out. "She'll find a way to needle me about it, and…" Scrambling for words, he gestures with his hands. "I don't want her to… Agh, fuck, Donnie, just don't let her know. Please. I don't want to add more to her plate."

He can't resist saying, "More than what you've already given her?" Langdon shoots him a look. Donnie shrugs again. "Look, man, I like her. And I like you, too, so I'll do you this favour once. After that, you go straight to her for what you want. Okay?"

A quick nod. Langdon lets out a long, long breath, and squeezes Donnie's shoulder. "You're a good guy."

"Better than you."

The smile that appears on the doc's face is all that of dry humour. "On that, we can agree."

Truth be told, Donnie doesn't think about that conversation for the rest of his shift. An hour and a handful of minutes later, as the night shift begins to pour in, his glances at his watch grow more and more frequent. He signs half a dozen discharges, writes down notes, and overall just imagines coming home to his wife and a pint of icecream. The buzz has died down, chairs growing into a more containable mess, but never ending.

Never. Ending.

As he returns to the main hub from South, his eyes catch on T2. Within, two familiar figures are locked deep in a conversation—Robby and Langdon; the former stoic and gesturing emphatically with his hands, the other bouncing on the balls of his feet and scrubbing at his face in frustration. Tense and shifting, the man looks half-ready to bolt as he glances out the window. The only thing stopping him is Robby grabbing Langdon's bicep to make him focus.

"Poor Langdon," someone mumbles, a waif of a figure that brushes past Donnie. Craning his head, he recognizes the shape of your back as you pause on your way out to the ambulance bay, a hoodie pulled over your form. Hands shoved into the pocket, your gaze lingers on the window. "What's that for?"

"Probably defending your honour," Perlah replies as she hits the extension for labs. You frown, head jerking back minutely as if offended, and your expression, always neutral, always guarded, seems to flicker a little when you blink.

It's then that Donnie remembers his promise. "Hey, is there any update on Mr. Harland?"

When you turn to him, the mask slides back into place as if it had never shifted at all. "Uh, yeah. Made it through surgery, still checking for neural deficits. We won't know more until he wakes up. Why?"

"Just wondering. Caused a bit of a stir this morning. Thanks."

"Yeah... no worries." There's a tiny twitch to your brow, your eyebrows knitting together as you scan Donnie from head to toe. Then, you add, "By the way, if Robby asks, I'm outside."

"Y'got it."

"Thanks, Donnie."

You continue on your way out, a gusty autumn wind sweeping through the ED when the doors whirr open and shut. Shaking his head, he turns back to his clipboard and his iPad. More signatures. More orders to pass on to the night shift. The calmness of the ED, a warm buzzing feeling that settles deep into his lungs, reminds him of work again tomorrow. He just hopes that he'll be able to get the smell of vomit off his shoes.

"What are those two jokers doing?"

When Donnie looks back to T2, he finds two pairs of eyes fixed in his direction, or more specifically, towards the sliding ambulance bay doors. Lena, seated in the office chair before him, arches an eyebrow at him, but Donnie doesn't have the energy to give any sort of explanation. 

"Spider," is all he manages.

Lena nods sagely. "It always is."

"You're here early," he adds.

"Just to give Dana time to smoke," she promises.

five-fifty pm

"Got room for another?" Dana lifts the cig from her mouth at the sound of your voice. Dark craters for eyebags have landed beneath your eyes, but you don't look worse for wear as you peek around the corner. "Just needed some air."

She scooches over on the ledge she'd been perched on, and you sidle in next to her, pulling out your own box of Luckies. Your movements are slow, sure, but you run your finger along the side of the wrapping like you're contemplating actually smoking it.

Then, you pinch it between your lips and cup the end. The sizzle of the lighter fills their silence.

Dana breaks it. "You okay?"

"Hm, why wouldn't I be?" You take one long drag before glancing over. "Oh, with Langdon this morning? That's how we usually are. You know that."

"Yeah, I know, but you seem a little down. Not every day I get company on my smoke breaks."

"I can go smoke on the other side of the bay if you want," you say, a wry smile twisting your lips. "But I'm not gonna stop."

"I'm no hypocrite," is all she replies.

They smoke for a while in quiet. The wind is nice, but it stirs leaves up and over the pavement, the scraping hiss accompanying the soft cough that comes and goes with smoking. You somehow finish your cigarette before Dana, and are already on your way to lighting up a second one when she nudges you in the side.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

You look down at your unlit cigarette and laugh. "Sorry. It's gross, isn't it?"

"Only if you're hitting three."

"No, I… no." You finger the cigarette, then look at Dana, and make a judgement call. As you tuck the Lucky back into its box: "Fine. I'll stop. But you stop after yours."

"I only smoke one at a time, ma'am."

"What's that about keeping each other accountable?"

"Never heard of it."

This time, your laugh comes out sharper. You lean back into the pillar, kicking up your feet onto the ledge, and watch Dana or somewhere past her at the wall, but she doesn't care. Your stare wanders, like a weightless thing. Never quite tethered. She can't imagine what it's like in your brain. Bad enough that you see inside others and have to dig through all that grey matter to make sense of it all. Could be worse if you had to be inside your own head all the time.

Dana's of the belief that most, if not all, neurosurgeons are a sort of freak. To hold the one thing that makes everyone someone and stab into it, to dig through and be careful enough not to mess with it—to deal with the consequences when you do. Few things are worse than dying.

She doesn't shudder easily, but if she was the type of person to, her whole body would be shivering just sitting next to you.

"D'you think Langdon's actually good to go back to work?" you ask thoughtfully, suddenly. Dana's gaze could've cut air with how fast it darts to you. You're looking at the road now. It's dark, and the asphalt's grown shiny in the way that makes the streetlights smudge. The only light is the one behind them, but it eases the lines in your face. Makes you younger.

Reminds Dana, idly, of when you first came to PTMC, however many years ago.

"Sure. PM&R cleared him."

"Yes. I suppose." You fidget with the drawstrings of your hoodie. "But eleven weeks is not enough. A sprained back, sure. But it's not enough for what he went through. Langdon's good, maybe the best, but he's not invincible."

"No G.I. Joe."

"No Superman," you agree dourly.

Dana takes in your expression. It's a strange mix of frustration and something else. Your fists are clenched tight in your lap, your thumbs rubbing the sides of your hands as if you're trying to pry something sticky off. "You think they cleared him early?"

"I think doctors make the worst patients and that he's fucking stupid." Dana accedes to that with a duck of her head. "I don't… I don't hate him, you know."

"'s okay if you do. He rubs people the wrong way." You shoot her a look. "Hey, just because I work with him doesn't mean I sing his praises. Especially since he's come back. He's testy. Can't stand up for too long."

"You noticed that, too? I thought I imagined it earlier, but he's slower. More uncertain." You tuck your knees to your chest. "He's going to hate that more than anything."

"What?"

"Feeling incompetent." Arms draped around your shins, you look away. "Like he's in the way, or not good enough. It'll make him shake with how frustrated he'll get, and then it'll cloud his mind. Pain makes you sluggish. It distracts you."

"You know a lot about that, huh."

Your eyes dart to hers for a moment. There's a hard read if she's ever seen one. "Maybe too much."

The doors slide open and shut as a figure clears the corner, and you turn your head up, the storm clouds parting immediately once you recognize who it is. The change is immediate, and it strikes Dana suddenly that she doesn't know much about a doctor she's seen on the regular for eight years, give or take.

Only that you're quick on your feet, love a smoke.

"Hey, how was your, uh… craniotomy patient?"

"Harland? Fine. A simple craniotomy isn't out of my realm of expertise." Your smile is sly and small as Robby leans in on the pillar behind you. "Want a smoke?"

Dana rolls her eyes when he laughs, declining.

And her boss flails at flirting with you. It's hard to keep track with where you stand with Robinavitch. Some days, you look as if you hardly care whether he lives or dies. And other days, you stare as if he hangs the heavens.

But Dana has no stomach for those uncertainties tonight. "If you're gonna flirt, do it outta my sight. You're ruining one of the few safe havens I have left."

Robby shrugs. "I just wanted to talk."

"It's never 'just to talk' with you," you reply, giving Dana a look. Either way, you hop off the ledge and let Robby lead you a few paces away. Dana watches from her spot, feeling the cold, steady press of stone against her thighs and the hot thick cloud in her lungs.

The two of you walk far away enough that no one really hears if they're rushing in and out, which most people are, but Dana's standing still and the night is quieter than usual. Voices might as well bounce back right at her.

"Do you wanna explain what's going on with Langdon?"

"I've… got nothing." Your eyes flicker up from the asphalt, to Dana, and then to Robby again. "We just don't get along."

"That's sort of impossible. You get along with everyone."

"Just not Langdon," you say, shrugging, but there's a pang there. One that's confused, and a little hurt, and you stuff it down stubbornly if the set in your jaw is anything to go by. "I don't know. He hates me, and he likes seeing me mad?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he should be digging into you."

"It's just personal. As long as he doesn't do anything professionally, I don't care and… Robby. Don't give me that look. We agreed. No pity eyes."

"I don't have pity eyes." Robby's hand twitches up, fingers stretched out to touch you before he forces it up to rub at the back of his neck. You watch him, eyes narrowed, and then smack him in the elbow. He drops his hand. Dana snorts into her shoulder instead of laughing straight in his face. Just to be polite.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Uh, caffeine withdrawal."

"Right. Well, if you're here to ask me to play nice with Langdon in the name of patient satisfaction scores—"

"You know it's not that—"

"Not just that."

"—I need my team to work as a team."

"And I'm not part of your team."

"Honorary member," he proposes.

A beat.

"You just don't want to lose your neurosurg consult."

Robby's head swivels around like he's trying to make sure no one eavesdrop his secret before he mutters around a smile and a hapless shrug, "And I like seeing you at work."

Despite staring at the end of her cig, Dana knows you're smiling around your words. "Still haven't given that up, huh, Robinavitch?"

"Neither have you." A shoe scuffs against asphalt. "What will it take for you to tolerate him?"

"Tolerate's a strong word," you reply but by the reluctance laced through your words, you're already giving in. "He dishes out, I can't help but serve back."

"I know. I've talked to him about it, too." He steps closer. You don't stop him. Dana hides her scoff around another puff. These fucking kids. "What about dinner?"

"What, like a date?"

"Eh, could be."

You huff. "Smooth, but I'm on call for the next few days. I'm crashing when I can."

"Is that the only reason you're saying no?"

"This was a great talk, Dr. Robby."

Dana finishes her cigarette and looks down to make sure no ash got on her clothes as she gets up. She smacks at her legs, dusting her backside off and giving herself a shake, chasing the chill that's wrapped around her old bones out.

Robby's already walking back over towards the doors when she looks back up, some self-satisfied smug etched into his mug.

Dana meets you in the midst of trailing after him.

They both eye the attending in front of them, Dana's arm slung lazily around your shoulders. "Sayin' no takes a lotta willpower."

You nudge her back with your elbow. "I am never going out on a date with that man."

seven-twelve pm

Frank finds you in the hospital lot, on the other end of PTMC. The side of the bourgeoisie, as Collins likes to call it, as it's directly in front of the ivory tower of the esteemed Gloria Underwood, and the lot that's generally more empty because no one wants to staff the buildings—though, that might be more of Robby talking.

Still, that means he's able to snag a pretty good parking spot close to the ED, which saves him a couple of steps when his back keeps tweaking with that fucking pain that's been dogging at him all day. He can't think of anything other than something warm to eat and the feeling of his meds down his gullet. Maybe that's why his hands are so shaky as he fumbles for his car keys, backpack tight in his grip. Stopping beneath a street light, he squints, wrestling what he needs free from all the other shit he's got inside his bag before looking up with a relieved sigh.

Stepping off the curve, he wonders what Abby's made for dinner. Soup, or curry. She's been trying Asian cuisine lately, just to pass the time...

A slight figure catches the corner of his eye.

You sit on a bench parked right by a trashbin and just outside of a circle of lamplight, a cigarette half-finished and pinched between your lips.

And because he can't help himself, Frank calls out, "Don't you know those things kill you?"

"Had to go somewhere Dana wouldn't kill me first," comes your reply, and when you don't rip his head off or make a move to escape him, his feet take that as a sign to approach. You don't offer a cigarette to him. He supposes they've not yet reached such desperate times, and Frank's not sure he would've taken it in the first place. "Did you want something?"

"Uhhh, nope. I was heading home after this shit day." He hauls his bag onto his shoulder and shrugs. Your gaze flickers to him for a moment before cutting away. "Small mercies, and all that."

"Good for you." Your fingers brush over the buttons of your Spectralink, but it's not fidgeting. Langdon's realized quite quickly that you're not someone who fidgets. You simply find something for your hands to do, and that's decidedly different.

Or maybe it's just you don't fidget around him because he doesn't make you nervous, and that sort of peeves him. It roughens his voice when he, against his better judgement, asks, "You good?"

The cigarette is flicked into the trashcan. "Yeah. Long day." He nods. You kick your feet out, flexing your sneakers before letting them drop back down, heels scratching against the pavement. "I'll have to round with the night shift in the neuro ICU in…" A quick glance at your watch. "Fifteen minutes. I'd prefer to spend that time in silence."

Frank nods. "Right." He turns to walk to his car, his knuckles blanching and a crushing in his chest before he's spinning back around again. You arch an eyebrow at him.

"Mr. Harland's in the neuro ICU," he says. "Donnie told me you told him that he wasn't awake yet."

You eye him warily. "So what?"

"What's the prognosis?" Did I fuck it up? Do you hate me? Will he be okay?

"The same as I told him. Still tubed, and asleep. We still have to do tests and see if there's any neurological deficits."

"You don't sound hopeful."

"I don't get hopeful. It's not conducive to a healthy mindset to constantly be disappointed. But I do think we'll be able to wean him off vent." You shrug. "You would understand. Just living is the baseline. Anything else is more than we could want."

"Some would argue that's not much better than dying."

"What? Living?"

"Like that. Having those bare necessities and even that being forced on you," he corrects. "Staying afloat, but not exactly sailing. There's just no agency." He glances at the bench, then points because the stabbing in his back is a bigger problem than his pride. "Can I sit?"

You nod. They sit a respectable distance apart, each one leaning against the metal armrests. Frank puts his backpack down between them too, just for another barrier in case it really does come to blows. But it never does. Not really.

The silence that falls upon them is a fragile thing. The sharp prickling in his back and legs barely resolves as he shifts uncomfortably, and, between you and the dark lot, he cannot decide which he'd rather stare at. You're watching him, too, head angled just enough for their eyes to meet fully. A section of hair falls by your ear. He chews on his cheek, and holds his backpack tight against himself.

"Sometimes, you have to be okay moving without control," you tell him after a while. His eyebrows shoot up. "It's frightening, but it's too exhausting to think you can command every aspect of every thing, even if that means yourself. You just sort of hope that eventually the leaks in your ship patch up and you reach calmer waters. And sometimes that doesn't happen for a long time. With nerves and brainmatter, it takes its time to heal, and in that time, you have to accept and come up with a plan on what you'll do if it decides not to."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." You pick off a piece of stray lint clinging to your woollen coat. "You okay?"

"Didn't I just ask you that?"

You snort. "I'm a bit of a pain specialist, if you've forgotten. Your back is bothering you, and it's still getting to your legs. L4 and L5, if I had to guess." At his look: "It's most common for herniated discs. Not engaging the core properly when you lift, pulling beyond your weight. Both probably true for you because I know you, Langdon: if you can move it faster the wrong way, you won't bother with the right way."

Frank nods despite himself, hot barbs of shame latching onto his neck and laying like a snake down his spine. "I was helping my parents move."

You, at least, have the decency not to sound smug. "Yeah, and now?"

"Now? Now, it hurts like a bitch."

"I'm not surprised. Are you still on anything?"

"Dr. Hagan prescribed pregabalin. Robaxin."

"But if you're cleared, you're supposed to be tapering off."

"I know that," he mutters harshly. "I will. I just… need a little longer since the pain's lasting longer than it should."

"Normally a sign that you need to rest more," you reply. "Or that you're addicted."

"I'm not addicted." His words are serrated and spiteful, his head snapping to dig a hole into the side of your head. You turn slowly to meet his stare, blinking like he's a petulant child.

"Okay." You're so calm it pisses Frank off. Like you could've predicted he'd burst out. "I'm just saying dependency can happen easier than you think."

"I'd recognize the signs. I'm a doctor."

"And even doctors need to rest. The Pitt's not going to collapse if you leave it for a few more days. Everyone should take a few days off."

He scoffs, raking up and down your body. Scheduled hand off, yet you're still in your scrubs, your hair still pulled into a tight bun as if you're prepared to go back into an OR at a moment's notice. Your Spectralink in hand.

A sneer works its way onto his mouth. A workaholic cautioning a workaholic, pot calling the kettle black.

"Yeah, well, trust me, I don't get much rest at home with the kids and all," he continues acerbically. He watches your face closely, searching for a flicker, a crack, anything he can wedge himself into to split apart your stony mask. "They still ask for piggy back rides, and I just can't say no. That's the joy of kids, and family. They keep me young, don't let me feel so alone."

"That's nice."

Your mouth doesn't so much as quaver.

It only stokes the mounting heat inside him. "And I always insist to Abby that I should be the one taking care of groceries and all since she's doing all the housework. 'Course she tells me I'm doing too much."

"You should listen to her," you murmur. "You're a candle burning at both ends. And we delude ourselves more than you think." The fringes of your voice come jagged and raw, then. When you let out a soft breath, shoulders falling, facing frontward again, Langdon feels like there's a part of you he, of all people, shouldn't be seeing. "But even being aware of that is not enough to stop the habit. We think we know everything. We think we can push our limits because we know what the human body can and can't handle, but we truly don't."

A lick of fire rises, blackening his heart. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do," he murmurs, a shark sensing blood in the water. "I've got it under control."

"I'm not saying you don't. I'm just suggesting you go slower for just a second." There's a softness in you that makes his heart pound. Blood roars in his ears as you place a hand down on the space between them, lean forward. He squeezes his eyes shut. It's meticulously hidden but theres a knife's edge somewhere inside you. He just can't decipher where you want him to get cut on. "One moment, before you spiral out of control and the next thing you know, you're not just hurting yourself, you're hurting the people around you. It's not a crime to stop."

"It is when people need me," he spits, bright eyes flashing in the darkness. You have the gall not to flinch.

"Langdon—"

"My kids need me, my wife needs me. Which is more than I can say for you. Who the fuck needs you? You go home to your empty house and you can't stand it which is why you're always at work, so why don't you back the fuck off and stop trying to pretend to understand?"

His ears ring in the silence that descends upon them. Nothing but a high-pitched squeal just out of his grasp keeps pinging as he ravages your face for any glimpse of care. Any ounce that you even heard him. You stare at him in that way you always do—like you don't care about him; like there's a million other things you could be doing.

But if that were true, why do you keep talking to him anyway?

"Did that make you feel good about yourself?"

The first breath he takes in is cold enough to shock, and he flinches back. He doesn't know when he started leaning forward, his hand gripping the metal back of the bench so hard his skin has turned white. Blinking, he draws back, tucking his chin in and staring down at his lap. His backpack has fallen to the wayside, as you take a deep breath yourself, shoulders rising and falling evenly.

"You're not the first angry man who's raised his voice at me. And I've always wondered why that is. Maybe I've got the face for it. Or maybe because I'm an easy target." Your voice is tempered and quiet as you bundle your jacket closed down your front. "Maybe because it makes them feel strong, to scream at someone weak. So, does yelling at me make you feel good?"

Your name slips out between his teeth before he can stop it, and a light flickers in your eyes. He clenches his fists tight in his lap. If he focused, he'd hear the rapid thud of his heart, the trembling breath rattling against his ribs.

Your eyes glitter in the faint lamplight, lips a soft line, hair falling into your face from a long day. A longer day made by his mistake. Made horrible by his words.

His hands dig tight into his knees. There's a grocery list he needs to fulfill, and a tank of gas he needs to top up, and he needs to tuck his kids into bed at eight, which is a deadline he can still make if he leaves now, while the space between them has fractured, a chasm carved deep into the air too great to mend. It wouldn't matter, he knows, whether or not he tried to fix it.

But that doesn't mean he can't try. Part of being in EM is about trying, being a stubborn pain in the ass who sees insurmountable odds and straps on a pair of gloves. Gets to work. Day after day for a thankless task.

And it will be. Because you're too good to put whatever they have in the way of patient care. You're too good for Frank, and the taste of the dust you leave in your wake has been bitter ever since he's met you.

"Frank?" you prompt softly.

The sound of his name rouses him. It falls from your lips like a whisper, a word you can't retract. You swallow, and he meets your stare, shaking his head. "No," he utters at last. "No, it doesn't."

"Okay, then. I'll watch Mr. Harland tonight," you tell him quietly. It sounds more like a dismissal than anything, "and you just go home."

"Spider, I—" The words catch in his throat as you get up. With a cocked head, you stare down at him patiently. Always patiently. He works the muscle in his jaw, a thousand things he wants to say and none of them he can bring himself to. "Try to get some sleep. Alright?"

The corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile. "Get home safe, Dr. Langdon."

He makes it home at 8:12, with no groceries and a limp. Abby's torn between ushering him to bed from after seeing how he drags himself through the door and getting pissed that he missed dinner and forgot groceries.

But she relents once he's eaten and once he's showered and the meds have been swallowed down. He gives his kids their goodnight kisses, careful not to wake them up, before heading back into the bedroom and preparing himself for what he hopes will be the sleep that fixes him. As the mattress welcomes him, with his phone charging on his bedside, and Abby singing in the shower, he hears something buzz.

A text from Abbot.

9:32 PM

ABBOT:

A Mr. Harland fresh from a craniotomy is awake and responsive. GCS 11.

Spider wanted to tell you that. Said you were his doc when he came in?

LANGDON:

yeah.

thanks.

His fingers hover over the keys. A draft of a message (tell her that i'm sorry—) is put in and he stares at his screen until his vision goes blurry. He sees you, expression open and honest, voice ebbing with compassion and gentleness and your hand. You had reached out to him just for him to—

He tosses his phone onto the nightstand and buries his nose into his cupped hands.

Frank's only good at making a bad situation worse lately. 

Best, he thinks, to leave it all alone.