Chapter Text
Frank Langdon – doctor, he reminds himself, Doctor Frank Langdon – is not scared. He can’t be. He’s about to start his intern year, and interns have no time to feel things like scared, or tired, or – well. Or anything. But this conversation will dictate how his internship, and then the next three years, and then possibly the rest of his life will go, so he allows himself the luxury of exactly fifteen seconds of anxiety before packing it away to deal with later and opening the door.
The staff break room is empty except for Dr. Robinavitch, who looks up when he hears the door but doesn’t stand. Good. This isn’t a formal meeting, or Dr. Robinavitch doesn’t care.
“Langdon, right?” Dr. Robinavitch asks as Frank walks to the table with, he hopes, the confident steadiness of someone who’s known how to walk for almost thirty years instead of almost three.
“Dr. Frank Langdon,” he replies as he sits, immediately realizing how immature that is.
“Robby,” says Dr. Robinavitch, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Fuck.
“I just wanted to go over some things before next week.” He puts his bag down and unzips it.
“So you said,” Dr. Robinavitch – Robby – replies, leaning back slightly. “My shift starts in” – he checks his watch – “twenty, so that’s what you’ve got.”
Frank has rehearsed this conversation more times than he can count – every time he’s on the bus, or in the kitchen, or lying awake in bed waiting for exhaustion to win out over pain. He knows how he’s supposed to start this conversation, and he knows the twelve different ways Robby can say no, or make a face, or – anything that means Frank might not survive the next year or the next four.
He also knows that he has to say something, because not having this conversation is still worse than having it.
“You know about my medical leave during school?” Frank asks, pulling out the massive black binder he’s taken to carrying around. Robby nods – he’s obviously seen Frank’s med school records – and Frank pushes The Binder across the table. “So, this is – these are my medical records.” There was supposed to be another sentence in there, but he can’t remember what it was. He hopes it wasn’t important.
To his credit, Robby doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t even break eye contact, just waits for Frank to continue.
“The blue tab – that’s my original x-ray, MRI, surgical plan, everything. Then green is the first surgery, red is the second one, and the last page is medications. You can look at it, if you want, but that’s why I’m here.”
Robby reaches for The Binder now but still doesn’t look at it, doesn’t open it. “What do you want me to know?” he asks, which is really unfair because Frank doesn’t want him to know any of it.
“The medications,” he says instead, “it’s mostly all standard, but I do take morphine for breakthrough pain, usually not more than once a week, unless that doesn't work for you – on my rotations, I would tell my attendings and then they would check in every half hour to make sure I wasn’t impaired – but if that’s an issue I can probably manage.” He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, and goes to rub his palms against the bands on his thighs before remembering that the entire point of this is to look normal and confident and unaffected. He settles for folding his hands in his lap.
Robby finally opens The Binder, just to the last page, and reads the pain management plan and medication list. It takes long enough that Frank feels his anxiety from earlier start to edge back in. Finally, he looks back up and nods, closing the binder.
“Okay.” He frowns, rubs the side of his neck, and does something with his fingers that Frank can’t follow. Frank can’t read Robby at all. “The first time, I’ll want more than half-hour check-ins. We’ll work something out. Is that a problem?”
Is that a problem? Is he actually asking? Robby hasn’t said no. At this point, they’ve passed seven of the twelve places where Frank assumed Robby would say no. Frank doesn’t trust himself to say anything, so he shakes his head.
Robby nods. “Right. Is there anything else I should know?”
This is the part that really sucks.
“I can do ten hours. I’ll – I might need to sit down more for the rest of the shift.” It’s a lie, an obvious one, but he doesn’t know how to tell the truth. He knows he can probably push through for the first week without anything else. Maybe. He needs Robby – everyone, but especially Robby – to trust him, to see that he’s competent. No one wants a disabled doctor, a disabled intern, especially in the ED, and Frank knows that eventually he won’t be able to hide it, but he can’t afford to give anything away on his first few shifts.
Robby’s face does something complicated that Frank can’t hope to decipher before breaking into a grin, and Frank wonders what Robby thinks he’s hiding.
“If everyone would sit while seeing patients, maybe Gloria would get off my ass about patient satisfaction scores.” Gloria? Probably administration. No one else cares about patient satisfaction scores. “Anything else?”
Frank knows that he’s supposed to say yes, supposed to give a full summary of The Binder, but he’s just transferred his files over to the Pittsburgh system, so if Robby is feeling particularly nosy, he can check later anyway. Attendings tend to stick their noses into everything he does – although he’s a doctor now, he reminds himself again, so maybe Robby won’t do that.
“I- no. Thank you.” Robby nods. His face changes, and Frank can’t tell if it’s pity, or curiosity, or something else.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “We’ll sort it out.” His eyes harden. “If anyone gives you shit – for anything – let me know. I’ll handle it.”
Frank has no response to that. They’ve departed from his script entirely – he missed the parts where he was supposed to apologize, he thinks, and Robby was definitely not supposed to say that. What the fuck. He nods, not trusting words again. Robby watches his reaction, and Frank would really love to know what he’s seeing, because he has no idea what his face looks like now. Robby must find what he’s looking for. His face softens again.
He pushes The Binder back across the table. Frank takes it, not saying anything. He breaks eye contact to put it away in his bag, takes his time zipping it up, making sure it’s closed all the way, until he feels sure that he won’t crack. When he has his expression under control, he looks back up and sees that Robby hasn’t moved, hasn’t looked away.
Get out now, he thinks, before he says something he’ll regret.
Frank knows that when he stands up, Robby will keep watching. He’ll track his gait, maybe even note the way his pants don’t quite cover the hinges at his knees, or the way his ankles don’t move right. He doesn’t – can’t – care.
“I’ll,” he starts – swallows – tries again, “I’ll see you next week.”
Robby grins, and fuck, that’s beautiful – his whole face crinkles.
“Bright and early Monday morning,” he replies. Right.
Frank leans down to pick up his bag, then stands up as smoothly and normally and painlessly as he can. He walks to the door, feeling the weight of Robby’s gaze on his back. Opens the door. Starts to step through, then pauses, turns around.
Robby still hasn’t moved. He’s still smiling, but expression is hard to read; he looks unnaturally still, which is odd, because Frank has only seen him a handful of times ever, he shouldn’t know what looks unnatural. He shakes off the feeling.
“Bye,” he says. Robby’s face softens.
“Go, get out before we throw you into a trauma room,” he says, and Frank laughs and steps outside.