Work Text:
He could feel it creeping up on him. Frank Langdon had never been described as a calm person. If anything, he was described as too active: by teachers, by his mother, by his long-suffering sister. The drugs hadn’t helped. They’d made him tense, paranoid, a fight-or-flight response being wired into his very bones. Some of that he’d lost in rehab, but some of it had stuck on him like a fly caught in syrup. Like a bug clawing under his skin. When Al-Hashimi checked in with him–
“Doesn’t seem like Robby’s all that happy I’m back.”
“Well, he’s not going to be here, and I’m happy you’re back.”
–when she asked him if he was okay, despite not even knowing him, he’d had to fight the urge to clench his fists and press until it hurt, had to make a conscious effort to loosen his jaw and make sure his eyes were alert, because if anyone caught his hands shaking today, or saw him in the slightest state of disarray, there was no saying how–
“What else can I do?”
“I think you’ve done enough.”
–fuck. He knew he hadn’t made a mistake. He’d treated cellulite like anyone would have, and he knew that Robby knew that. If he’d missed something, he’d have been sure to lay it on him as well, focus on the mistake he had made and torture him over that, he wouldn’t just have dismissed him as if – as if it was somehow his fault that this patient was suffering, perhaps even dying. It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. But the fact that Robby wanted to pretend, wanted him to doubt – the fact that this Robby barely even resembled the man he’d come to know during his residency – was painful, frightening, and made his eyes burn and his lungs work overtime.
“You okay?”
Whitaker’s voice almost made him jump out of his own skin. He fiddled with his surgical glove for just a beat too long, and managed to avoid his eyes. “Yeah, fine.”
“You don’t, uh, look fine.” The kid had changed. He wasn’t exactly a beacon of confidence here – while Frank was avoiding his gaze, Whitaker wasn’t trying hard to catch it, and his fingers beating a rapid pattern on his crossed arms betrayed his nerves.
Frank wasn’t sure what the kid expected of him. He’d made it quite clear that he didn’t trust him, not completely, which was fair enough given what had happened and he fact that they’d barely met, months ago. That also meant that if he was going to have a heart to heart with anyone, it would not be with beanstalk boy. “Yeah, well…”
“I’m sorry,” Whitaker said, the words rushing out as if they were unwanted, but a weight lifted off his chest nonetheless. “I… overstepped earlier. It was shitty. Won’t happen again.”
He coughed, a tick more than anything, because why was this kid apologizing when Robby couldn’t even–
“A little shaky.”
“I’ll put in the order.”
–and he couldn’t even be angry because by rights he shouldn’t even be able to order any meds right now, and yet it made him feel so… inferior, and so small, and now Whitaker was here apologizing while Robby couldn’t even talk to him and–
“Dr. Langdon?”
“It’s fine. I get it,” Frank said, trying to keep the wheeze out of his voice. He was leaning against the nurse’s station, flexing his arm muscles and breathing as evenly as he possibly could. He needed someone who wouldn’t– somewhere where he could– where was Dana when he needed her?
Whitaker looked like he was about to argue, but thought the better of it. “How’s Louie?”
“Still alive, despite his best efforts.”
“Louie, wake up.”
“I’m not getting a carotid.”
“I’m glad,” Whitaker said.
The unspoken hangs between them – they’d been the ones handling this case. One of them must have missed something, or this wouldn’t just have happened. If he’d lost Louie today – he didn’t know what he’d do. He knew they’d lose him one day. Back in therapy, he’d talked about Louie. At length. About what his apology should look like, and if he should try to convince Louie to maybe… lay of the booze, try to get into the steps. But he knew it’d be useless. Louie hadn’t ever responded to their gentle ribbing, and he couldn’t force him to get help if he wasn’t ready, even if he would never be ready and inevitably end up in a coffin long before his time, just– just not today.
Santos throws them a look from where she’s hunched over her desktop, a stare that seems to make Whitaker shrink upon himself and quickly backed away, mumbling something about a patient.
“Langdon, Trauma Two!”
“I’m coming with.”
“Suit yourself.”
“What happened?” The leg, it looked…
“Ask Robinavitch,” Garcia said.
The leg… fuck… Nec fasc was– this woman might lose her leg, if not her life, and Robby was going to–
“She needs to go to the OR–”
“No fucking shit.”
He felt the air rushing to his lungs, but never hitting home. This woman was going to die and Robby would blame him, and then leave, and–
“Wait, if you have a second, I–”
“I don’t.”
He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t. It was only 11:30 and he had already failed. He might have garbled a sorry before inelegantly speed walking the hell out of there, passing Whitaker and McKay, the last of whom he was pretty sure addressed him but the words weren’t registering, not when he had to focus on breathing, and his hands were shaking, and they shouldn’t shake because if his hands were shaking then (he could only think of Louie, and he last time he’d seen him conscious, and how Whitaker had ordered for him and he–
“Take a breath, kid.”
Frank closed his eyes, exhaling shakily and trying to focus on the sweltering lack of morning breeze. Outside. He was outside. Dana standing over him and he was… on his knees? He didn’t remember how he’d gotten there.
“That’s right. In now.”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The slow pattern cleared his head, relaxed his muscles, and he was finally able to open his eyes again.
“Fuck.”
“That’s right,” Dana said, a smile in her voice. “Don’t think I’m coming down to your level. I feel like I’d never get up again.”
He laughed. “Neither might I, back’s still fucked.”
Dana held out a hand, and he took it gratefully, finding his footing in her gentle hands. “If you need another minute–”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Dana said, a steady hand on his shoulder. “But that’s okay too. One day at a time.”
He leaned into her touch, stupidly wishing that she would hug him, maybe touch his hair like his mother used to do when he got sick as a kid. It was a silly notion, but one he couldn’t help entertaining yet.
“Ready to face the music?”
He wasn’t, not really. But who ever was? He nodded, meeting her grounding gaze. “One day at a time.”