Chapter Text
Frank had practiced the words in the mirror of his rehab room for weeks. He’d rehearsed them during the long, silent bus rides into the city, and whispered them to the empty walls of his rundown studio.
I’m sorry for hiding it from you. I’m sorry I broke the trust. I’m ready to earn my way back, Sir.
He walked into the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center with those words sitting like heavy stones in his mouth, desperate to spit them out and let Robby help carry the weight of them together. He expected a confrontation. He expected the Dom to unleash his temper, a lecture that would peel the paint off the walls, or even a cold, formal dismissal. He was prepared for anything except what he actually got: professional indifference.
Robby was at the central hub, leaning over a telemetry monitor with Dennis Whitaker. He looked every bit the Chief Attending—composed, brilliant, and utterly unreachable.
"Sir?" Frank’s voice was thin, catching in his throat. He used the name that only belonged to them tentatively, testing the boundary of their old intimacy.
Robby didn't look up immediately. He finished scribbling a note on Whitaker’s chart, then slowly straightened his posture. When his eyes finally met Frank’s, there was no spark of recognition, no flash of the old heat. There was only the cool, flat gaze of a superior officer looking at a subordinate who had become a liability.
"Dr. Langdon," Robby said. The formal title felt like a physical barrier dropped between them. "You're late for the shift change."
"I... the bus was delayed. I wanted to talk to you, Robby. About the last ten months. About why I—"
"This isn't the time or the place for personal history, Langdon," Robby interrupted, his voice clipped and efficient. He didn't raise his tone, but the lack of warmth was deafening. "We have a department to run. You’ve been cleared for light duty. You’re on the Triage desk for the foreseeable future. You’ll be supervising Emma, a new training nurse. Show her the intake software and keep the waiting room moving."
Frank felt the apology die in his throat, turning into something bitter and cold. "Triage? Robby, I’m a senior resident. I should be in the bays—"
"You’re a resident who has been out of the loop for nearly a year," Robby countered, finally looking at him, though his expression remained unreadable. "You’ll stay where I put you until I decide otherwise. Whitaker, let’s go. Incoming trauma is three minutes out with a penetrating chest wound. I want you on the airway."
Robby turned his back on Frank, his hand landing on Whitaker’s shoulder in a firm, guiding status check. As they moved toward the ambulance bay, Whitaker said something that made Robby give a short, appreciative nod, followed by a quick pat on the back as a vote of confidence.
Frank watched the gesture—a simple, professional acknowledgment that used to be his—and felt the first shudder of a massive subdrop. The grounding that usually held his world together had vanished. He wasn't being punished; he was being ignored. He wasn't a "pup" who had messed up; he was just a resident on light duty.
Without the intimate touches he’d been craving for ten months, Frank felt as though he were physically dissolving.
The hours at the Triage desk were a slow-motion torture. Frank sat in a cheap, ergonomic chair that did nothing for the dull ache in his lower back—a lingering souvenir from the time he’d helped his parents move, the injury that had started his downward spiral into benzo addiction.
Beside him, Emma was a bundle of nervous energy. "Is it always this loud, Dr. Langdon? I feel like I can’t hear myself think."
"You get used to it," Frank murmured, his eyes fixed on the doors. "Just focus on the vitals. If they're stable, they wait. If they aren't, we find a bed to put them in."
He was trying to be the senior resident Robby expected, but his mind was a fractured mess. Every time the trauma sirens wailed, his body tried to lunge toward the bays, only to be pulled back by the reality of his exile. He felt humiliated, stripped of his skin, and every time Robby walked past the desk without a glance, Frank’s internal monologue grew darker.
He doesn't want you here. You’re a burden. You’re a risk. You deserve the silence.
"Dr. Langdon? That man in the corner... he’s been staring at the light fixture for twenty minutes," Emma whispered, pointing to Mr. Garrow.
Garrow was a large man, his frame filling the plastic waiting room chair. He was a known psychiatric patient, usually docile, but today his eyes were darting with a paranoid intensity. He began to mutter, his voice rising in a jagged crescendo.
"They're listening... I can hear the wires in the walls..."
Frank stood up, his back giving a sharp, warning twinge. "I’ll handle it, Emma. Stay behind the desk."
He stepped out into the waiting room, his hands held open. "Mr. Garrow? It’s Dr. Langdon. We talked earlier. I’m still waiting on a bed for you, but maybe we can move you to a quieter corner?"
"You're one of them!" Garrow screamed, suddenly lunging to his feet.
He didn't go for Frank. In his delusional state, he saw Emma as the threat—the one "recording" him from behind the desk. He charged with the terrifying, uncoordinated strength of a man in a psychotic break.
"Emma, get down!" Frank yelled.
As Garrow reached over, his massive hand closing into a fist aimed at the terrified nurse, Frank dove. He threw his entire weight into the patient’s side, tackling him away.
As Frank twisted in mid-air to pin the man’s arms and shield Emma, his lower back hit its limit. The old injury, already strained by ten months of tension and hours of sitting in the Triage chair, gave way.
POP.
The sound was sickeningly loud in Frank’s own ears. It felt like a hot wire had been snapped in his lower back, sending a blinding flash of white light across his vision. He didn't let go of Garrow, though. He used the last of his momentum to drive the man into the padded floor of the intake area, pinning him down even as his own legs went numb.
Security swarmed in seconds, taking Garrow off him. Emma was sobbing, her hands over her mouth. "Dr. Langdon! Oh my god, you caught him... he was going to hit me..."
Frank tried to breathe, but his diaphragm felt paralyzed. He pushed himself up into a kneeling position, the pain in his L4-L5 region so intense it made him nauseous. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, a cold, clammy sheen.
Across the room, the double doors of the ED swung open. Robby stepped out, followed by Dana. He took in the scene—the security team, the shaken nurse, and Frank kneeling on the floor.
From Robby’s perspective, Frank looked like he was grandstanding. He saw the "drama" of the tackle and felt that familiar, protective wall of anger rise up. He didn't see the way Frank’s left foot was dragging, or the way his pupils were blown wide with agony.
"Langdon!" Robby called out, his voice sharp and professional. "If you're finished playing hero, we have a line out the door. Emma, go get some fresh air, it will help you calm down. Langdon, back in the chair. Now."
Dana stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "Robby, he looks a little off. Maybe he should—"
"He’s fine, Dana," Robby snapped, his desire to avoid the "Frank problem" overriding his medical intuition. "He handled a psych patient. He’s a senior resident; he should be used to it. Langdon, I won't tell you again. Do your job."
Frank didn't say a word. He couldn't. If he opened his mouth, he was afraid he would either scream or beg. He forced himself to his feet, his spine feeling like it was made of broken glass. He leaned heavily on the desk, his knuckles white as he dragged himself back into the Triage chair.
I deserve this, he thought, the subdrop finally taking full control of his mind. The pain is the only thing that's real. Robby is right. I’m a liability. I just have to tough it out.
He sat down, and the world tilted. He looked through the glass at Robby, who was already turning back to Whitaker to offer a supportive shoulder squeeze.
Frank was alone in the noise, the fire in his back a constant, screaming reminder of everything he had lost.