Chapter Text
In and out.
Deep breaths.
His eyes haven’t left the doorway, where Robby stomped back inside, cursing him out along the way. Shit. He went too far, too cruel, too… too much.
He finally looks away as the wind whips at his pin straight hair, and he promptly digs his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t know what to do. How to fix everything. How was he supposed to go back home? That’s what Robby kept chanting, Go home. Home to what? His beautiful wife who already works too hard to deal with his bullshit? To his son or his baby girl? Neither of whom even know their alphabets let alone fucking benzodiazepines.
No. Robby was right. This was on him, not on Santos (But if she just would’ve shut the fu-). Just him. He was the one who decided to avoid his doctors after his physiotherapy sessions, even when Abby begged him to just go for one last session, Frankie .
So, what to do? He can’t fix this; that much has been made clear so far. He actually seemed to make it actively worse. Every time he opened his mouth to just explain, swear I'm not an addic- The point is… what even is the point?
The funnier part of all of this was that Langdon considered himself to be pretty smart. He could look at life and whatever bullshit it threw at him and turn it into something tolerable. Something that he could tease and prod. But this was an equation he couldn’t flip into something he could tolerate. So, he did the next best thing: he walked.
He grabbed his backpack which was haphazardly thrown on the ground, and threw it (gently) on his back.
Thus began his trek through Pittsburgh. With no goal destination in mind, he wandered the streets. The chill penetrated his bare arms while his legs were unstopping. As his legs wandered, so did his mind. Self-loathing seemed to build up with each and every step. Oh god. What the fuck was wrong with him? How could he jeopardize his children’s future, Abby’s future, like that? The leftover benzos he hid in his backpack (because of- fucking -course he had more than one stash) made his bag infinitely heavier.
None of this began with the benzos. No, it began in his first year of residency. When he first fucked up his back permanently. After so much time, money, blood, sweat, and tears, what did he get? Never-ending pain. He just wanted the pain to stop, he wanted everything to just stop. He wanted to pick up his kids without wincing, he wanted to help his partner around the house, he wanted the world, and the world was more selfish than he ever imagined it to be.
The weight of his actions, past and future, weighed on him. What does he even do now? I should just fucking kill myself
He skids to a halt, slightly tripping on a loose brick from the sidewalk. His mind was finally silent. What else could he possibly lose? His life? That had no worth to him already, his body was nothing but an inconvenience to him. He already lost his life, hours ago when Santos decided to go behind his back to Robby.
He was only relieved when he turned back hastily to find a good spot to….leave. He was leaving, that was all. He didn’t want to be found in an alleyway, like a junkie who took more than they could handle (what the fuck was he doing that was so different?).
His legs decided the route, as he sped up to the hospital. With each step on the old sidewalk bricks, his decision became resolute. He wouldn’t dare to do it near the ER, he had done enough damage. But he couldn’t do it out in the open either.
No, he went through the main entrance and walked briskly to the stairs. Ignoring everyone he passed by as they looked at him either confusion or a greeting stuck in their throat. He beelined for the staircase.
After a 5 minute climb, he pushed the door open to reveal the rooftop. It was quiet, almost serene even. It was perfect. No one would find him soon enough, but someone would eventually find his pathetic self. He took his time, breathing in the fresh cool air. The tightness was still there, ever persisting, but the cool air helped loosing it up. The height blocked out almost all of the chaos going on downstairs. There were only faint sounds; occasional yells and sirens. It was more peaceful than what he deserved.
He approached the ledge cautiously, he wasn’t planing on jumping. That was just too messy and frankly a bigger inconvenience to everyone. He just wanted to see view as he stood 2 feet away from it. It was stunning, the city seemed to calm down, a little bit at least.
Fucking coward a voice rang out in his head, and he couldn’t disagree. So instead, he walked to the closest wall to lean on. He didn’t even feel the cold as he slid down on to the ground.
He knew time was a construct and nothing mattered blah blah blah, but…..he believed it for the first time. Time seemed to stop as he took out the benzos from his bag to his empty hand. He stared at the little pills, feeling their enormous weight on his palm. There were more than enough to kill him. He was a pretty muscular guy, but the math never lied. It was enough.
So he swallowed them all, dry. He winced as the pills struggled to go down. But he made sure all of them were down. Not wanting to leave it to fate, since she hates him apparently.
He went back to his loathing as time went on, listening to his conscience, his guilt, his mind. You should have done this years ago , they were pretty easy to agree with. Just because something hurts doesn’t make it untrue. He forgot that little fact. Sensitive fucking asshole
10 minutes, his body started to relax. It became easier to breathe.
45 minutes, his body started going lax against his will.
1 hour.
The stars were beautiful.
He started to sink into the ground. Feeling oddly floaty. How long has he been here? He felt cold.
The pain was back. He deserved it, fuck it needs to be more even.
What was he doing again?
Something was hurting. He was laying on something harsh. His bed was supposed to support his back not hurt it.
His eyes finally closed as hands desperately grasped at him. Not that he realized, nor cared.