Chapter Text
Mel
Mel slowly became conscious of the quiet tick tick the same moment she realized she had one arm still in the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Sitting up from where she’d been slumped on the couch, she squinted at the clock. 3:52 AM. But that clock was actually 3 minutes behind. 3:55, then. Hmm. Worse.
I need to fix that. This was the 4th time she’d thought that in as many weeks. The problem was she rarely ever looked at it any time other than after passing out on the couch. Wasn’t exactly conducive to tackling such a task.
The habit was a tough one to break these days. Shifts at the Pitt were proving to be incredible trials of endurance for her and the interns. If it wasn’t the MCI, assaults, or the rats of their first day, it was a slew of other unpredictable and challenging hurdles. Add to that the commitment she made to herself and Becca that their routines would change as little as possible, and Mel was—3 months in—a barely functioning zombie any time she had a moment to herself.
With a groan, she stretched her legs out, feeling the stiffness of 12 hours on her feet in every cell. She was pretty sure she’d decided to shower before she fell asleep, but that wasn’t happening now. She’d have to get up early and do it, since she was back at the hospital at 7 AM.
Mel wanted to cry at the thought as she scraped herself off the couch, finally removing the rest of her sweatshirt and swaying down the hall to her room. She nearly toppled over the corner of her bed when she made it there. She kept forgetting to do herself the favor of leaving a light on before she left in the mornings. Coupled with the fact that she frequently abandoned her glasses on the coffee table during her accidental naps, the journey from couch to bed could be a treacherous one.
It was all she could do to kick off her jeans and discard her T-shirt and bra before falling into bed. She wasn’t generally the type to sleep in the near-nude, especially in late October, but the thought of fumbling around for PJs felt impossible in that moment. And what did it matter, she thought. It was just her.
Frank
Frank made it to 14 counts of box breathing before giving that up. He was starting to think his therapist was full of shit. He’d essentially told Frank to count sheep and then charged $250 for it. All of these fancy breathing techniques were nice and all but they were having no effect on Frank’s insomnia.
He’d tried all of his therapist’s suggestions and some of the internet’s, too. And it did soothe his nervous system, which was nice. But it didn’t seem to be leading to sleep.
He leaned over and stopped the white noise playlist coming from his phone with a sigh. The resulting silence was instant and jarring. He’d forgotten where he was for a minute. A pokey, under-furnished apartment with what the property manager had called “endless potential”. What she’d meant by that, Frank could only assume, was that it would need a great deal of work to feel like a home of any kind.
It was better than a lot of other places he’d looked at in the days following his exit from rehab and his separation. Certainly, his and Abby’s combined incomes hadn’t been anything to brag about. She was a freelance graphic designer for Christ’s sake. And even as a senior resident, med school was a cruel mistress with no qualms about taking its money back. Still, the cozy 3-bed they’d shared in Havertown was a far cry from his new digs. He’d liked it there. He’d liked living with the buzz of knowing there were other people in the house, two of whom were kids. He’d liked talking quietly to Abby after the kids had gone to sleep but before he had to. He liked getting up at the ass crack of dawn, tracking down tiny pairs of socks that fit Hazel’s 3-year-old preferences before he had to run out the door. And he really, really liked working in the Pitt. He’d liked his life and he’d fucked it all up anyway.
This was the real thing blocking sleep from coming, he knew. It wasn’t the anxiety, the twitchy muscles, or the low hum of back pain that sometimes appeared out of nowhere, though those things certainly didn’t help. No, it was the endless, torturous spirals of guilt, frustration, and grief as he replayed the events that led to his current predicament. Sometimes starting with his injury, sometimes with the moment he realized he’d been caught, and other times a feverish stream of consciousness dragging him from one to the next.
This pattern had been going on for months, and while it had led to some much-needed processing, most of it was an exercise in self-flagellation that he couldn’t seem to control. And without his kids, without his job, he had very little to distract himself from it. Although, he wasn’t entirely without those things.
Abby had made him agree to bi-weekly visits with the kids until he’d completed his rehab program and was cleared by an addiction specialist. She’d been very clear that she didn’t want to keep the kids from him, she just needed to be sure they were safe. That had killed him a little inside but he understood.
His job, however, remained to be seen. To come back to the Pitt, he’d had to complete 60 days in a certified rehab program. He’d also had to get written recommendations from several different people in his personal and professional lives as well as his addiction specialist before he’d be allowed back in the hospital in any capacity. When he’d finally gathered all of the necessary approvals, he’d learned that starting next week he’d be re-entering into a 90-day probationary capacity culminating in a final decision made by the board. The mere thought of it sent him into a fresh wave of panic. It would be like starting residency all over again, only worse because everyone already knew he was a fuckup.
Rolling onto his side, Frank glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table. 3:55. Fuck. Not early enough that he could still have a passible night’s sleep but not late enough to call it and just start the next day already. He’d had to make the rule for himself that he couldn’t give up on sleep until 5 AM. Still an ungodly hour but it at least was definitively morning.
He decided that what he hated most about his insomnia—aside from the mind torture, of course—was how boring and lonely the night could be. Just hours upon hours of being alone. He really hated being alone. Tossing onto his back once more, he let out another sigh. After a beat, he began a slow inhale to the count of 4.