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In the ever-churning chaos of the Pitt, you take a moment to pause at the nurse’s station in North and collect yourself. The coffee in your hand is already half-drained despite having been there for no more than thirty seconds. It’s that kind of a day.
“You good?” Donnie asks, glancing up from behind the desk.
You suck your teeth and take another mouthful of coffee. “Just peachy.”
“Oh shit, that bad?”
That bad, you agree silently. You find it’s not uncommon for you to have days like this, but today takes the cake. You're not even sure when or why the tension with Langdon started, but after weeks or perhaps even months it's reached a point where you don't know how else to interact with him - sometimes it seems like one of you is finally going to relent, like you're going to admit that this is the last thing you want with him or he's going to back down from an argument he clearly doesn't even want to be having, but you're both too stubborn. You can't be the first one to give in, and definitely can't tell him you want to move on to become friends (or more, a thought you quickly silence) only to find out that he does actually despise you as much as he makes out. The thought of that is more crushing than the energy it takes to keep up this petty rivalry.
Sometimes, though, like today, it's not so petty.
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he snapped as he marched into the trauma bay.
You held up the tube in your hand. “Prepping to intubate, what does it look like?”
“No you're not.” He stalked over and snatched it from your hand. “This is my patient, and the last thing I need is help from you.”
“Oh I'm so sorry for doing my job,” you drawled, “next time your patient is bleeding out I'll just let them, shall I?”
Mel and the med students around the table eyed you both warily.
“Right, and how's your patient doing?”
You hesitated. You'd been so focused on jumping in, trying to get one up on Langdon for not being there, that you'd done exactly what you were calling him out for and dropped the ball. “I- He's-”
“His bloodwork has come back with muscarine and muscimol poisoning, which you'd know if you weren't so busy interfering, so maybe you should stick to sorting an IV and let me deal with this,” he snapped.
With a sigh, you discard your now empty cup in the nearest bin and slope away towards bay 5. The man inside, Harry Mercer, is, you hate to say, an idiot. During your initial checks, he informed you that he's recently made the decision to ‘rebel against consumerism’ and ‘return to his natural processes’ and has been growing his own fruit and vegetables. You were beginning to think of all the ways that could have caused his symptoms: nausea and cramps, salivation and sweating, slightly drowsiness… As soon as he mentioned that he'd also been foraging for mushrooms, alarm bells started ringing and you immediately sent off for bloodwork. That was when you got sidetracked. Now you’re back, with a tray full of more equipment than you think you will need. It should be simple enough: a mild benzo to help alleviate his symptoms but not enough to interfere with any sedation caused by the muscimol, and an atropine IV to neutralise the toxins, but you have everything from gauze to a scalpel to a nasal cannula and endotracheal tube. You aren't exactly sure what you’re walking into, but after being so thoroughly chastised you're determined not to make it anyone else's problem.
“Hello again, Mr Mercer,” you greet lightly. “How are you doing?”
He mumbles something almost unintelligible, half-slurred and completely unfounded in reality. You're pretty sure he mentions pixies.
“Okay, well the good news is you're going to be fine. Those mushrooms you ate were toxic but not deadly, so I'm going to give you some lorazepam and put you on a drip.”
The injection goes smoothly enough; he's a little jumpy, so you have to pin his arm down, but it works and you mentally high five yourself for handling it alone. You lay the needle down on the cart and turn, for the briefest of moments, to prep your IV. When you turn back, you immediately notice that something is wrong. The scalpel is gone. You blink. How did it-
“Get the fuck away from me,” Mercer mutters, levelling the scalpel at you.
—
Langdon is finally done in the trauma bay, and god does he need coffee right now. He skirts past Behavioural, trying to cut through North before he gets collared for another inane conversation that he does not have the mental capacity for. Not only is he exhausted, but he’s aware in the back of his mind that he’s still a little pissed off. It’s not even that he’s mad at you for screwing up - everyone makes mistakes, the still-unfamiliar sensation of where his wedding ring used to be is testament to that - no, he’s mad at you for putting him in a position where he feels like he has to be mad at you. You can do this, he knows you can, but to say so would be to risk the foundations of everything he has built. He keeps it up because it's better than you avoiding him entirely, but the truth is that for all the clashing, the teasing that turns to mocking, he still finds himself not hating you at all, not even a little bit. Quite the opposite.
Miraculously, he makes it around the edge of the Hub and through the double doors without being accosted. With a slow breath of relief, he glances around at the blissfully quiet corridor. Something catches his eye. It’s you, retreating backwards towards the corner of room 5. What the hell are you doing? He gave you one job: set up a line for Mr Batshit Bloodwork and get him started on atropine. Simple enough that a first year student could do it. So why is the guy out of bed? He watches you slowly raise your hands, his heart rate following suit.
He’s spotted the scalpel.
Coffee entirely forgotten, his rapidly spiking adrenaline more than compensating, he bursts back through the double doors. A dozen or more pairs of eyes swivel at the commotion.
“Robby!” he yells. “Dana, where’s-”
“Here,” his boss’ voice rings through the room. “What’s up? Mel said it went well in T2.” He eyes the resident warily, taking in his wild eyes and rapid breathing. Oh no. The trust he’s been slowly building back up threatens to give way beneath them. “Langdon?”
“It’s y/n,” he gasps out. Robby’s heart sinks a little more definitively. Oh no, indeed. “I sent them to check on our toxic mushroom case, and he’s- he pulled a scalpel on them.”
Robby feels his eyes grow as wide as the ones that are staring desperately at him. “Shit. Okay, Dana, get the cops down here, and have Ahmad on standby with a set of soft restraints in case things get ugly before they arrive.”
“Wait, no,” Langdon urges, “we can’t wait for the cops, we have to get them out of there.”
“And escalate an already volatile, armed patient before we can get to them?”
“We’re an ER, we can look after them. Please.”
Robby raises an eyebrow - not mocking, just assessing. Realigning. Filing away the slight crack on that last word with all the other evidence he hasn’t realised he’s been collecting. “You’d be willing to risk it coming to that?”
“I don’t know!” Langdon almost explodes, the words ripping harshly from his throat, but there’s no real anger behind it. It’s all nervous energy and frustration and fear. “Jesus Christ, I can’t do this, I can’t-” he breaks off, running his hands through his already messy hair and rocking up onto the balls of his feet.
“I know,” Robby says softly.
Langdon turns, and Robby is taken aback by the shock, but moreso the uncertainty in his gaze. He hasn’t seen the man look so defeated since that day by the lockers, and didn’t think he ever would again. “Then what do I do?”
“You follow your instincts.”
“And what if I don’t know what they’re telling me?”
Robby offers him a half-smile, a brief hand on his shoulder. “That’s the point of instincts, Dr Langdon. They just happen.”
Within 12 seconds, he's back in the North corridor with Ahmad in tow. 7 seconds later, the man is restrained. Less than 20 seconds and it's over. Yet again, Robby is right. It just happened. And yet somehow he also knows, that's not it. It's not really over. Not by a long shot.
—
You back away as slowly as you can manage, raising your hands in what you hope is perceived as a gesture of surrender and not aggression. In the state this man's mind is, you've no way of knowing if he's even perceiving you as you.
“Please, Mr Mercer,” you try to keep your voice level and calm, but it trembles slightly, “I'm here to help.”
He glances round frantically, wild eyes stuttering over your form tucking itself into the corner of whatever he's seeing. “I don't need help, I need to get out of here!” he roars.
Paranoia. Probable hallucinations. His movements are a little sluggish, though with how little time it's been you suspect that's from the toxins than the sedative. You should have used something faster-acting, shouldn't have trusted that he'd be cooperative. Should never have come in here by yourself. Should never have argued with Langdon. You don't even know why you do it - you never want to, but so long as he keeps picking fights and riling you up you can never hope for things to be any different. A cold weight settles in your chest, a despair that you know you have to fend off if you're to have any chance of making it out unscathed. Langdon certainly isn't coming to help, and he probably hasn't bothered to mention the diagnosis to anyone else either. If the man was unarmed, you could take him on, but you've seen how much damage something as simple as a scalpel can do and even as he slows there's no way you'd make it to the door before he inflicted some kind of injury. You just have to hope he stays distracted enough by his visions to leave you alone until the lorazepam kicks in.
A violent swipe of the blade makes you flinch, a high-pitched gasp escaping you as every muscle presses you further into the corner. He wasn't aiming at you, but that doesn't make the danger any less real. Your throat constricts, holding down the cry for help you want to let out, the tiny noises you dare not make again for fear of alerting him to your presence. It also holds back any reasonable flow of air, until all you can do is suck in faint breaths when you think he's not listening so closely. None of this helps your racing heartbeat, thundering so hard against your chest that you're convinced he'll hear that instead.
It feels like hours have passed before the man finally starts to succumb to the sedative. His movements become like he’s moving through molasses, slower and less coordinated. He stumbles slightly, his body tilting towards you, and you bite back a yelp at the wicked flash of the blade in the bright lighting. That’s when it happens. The door bursts open, a flurry of dark scrubs and dark hair flying into the room crying your name. The man starts to turn, but he’s barely halfway round before the scalpel is knocked from his hand and clatters to the floor. The figure, your saviour, moves aside to allow one of the security guards - Ahmad, you think, although your brain refuses to process his face enough to be sure - to sweep in and restrain the man. The pair of them are gone in seconds, and with them goes the roiling wave of adrenaline that’s been holding you against the wall.
You drop to your hands and knees with a shaking gasp. The thud of the impact is the first sound you’ve registered of the past few moments. The rest had been just a blur, as unfocused as the person who swept in here. They move closer, slowly and carefully, pausing a couple of steps away the moment they see you tense and retreat back towards the relative safety of the corner.
“Hey, y/n, it’s okay, it’s just me,” a warm, low voice soothes.
You look up to see concerned eyes like a storm over the ocean and dark hair combed through by distress, almost haloed by the stark white lighting behind him. Shadows gather beneath his eyes, in the lines of worry woven between his upturned brows, in the dimple of his chin. “Langdon,” you whisper. The word stutters from the back of your throat, like it’s been sitting there waiting to be spoken all day.
“Yeah, I’m here. You’re safe.” Monitoring your reactions, he lowers himself into a crouch. It’s less intimidating, but it’s also closer. Close enough to see the tears welling against your lashes, close enough to hear the staccato of your breaths. Close enough to not have time to react when you fling yourself towards him with a sob.
The rich, woodsy scent of Langdon's cologne is so familiar, but it's never been as comforting as it is when you bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” you repeat like a mantra, your tears soaking into the shoulder of his scrubs.
His hands hover for a moment, two, three, before settling on you, one on your arm and the other rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Whoa, no, hang on a second. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
You mumble something against him, the words broken and stilted.
“What was that?” he prompts.
You pull back. “I said I do because if I hadn’t been such an ass then we'd never have argued and I wouldn't have come in here without thinking it through and you wouldn't have had to fix my mistake again.” The words tumble from you almost as quickly as the tears flowing down your cheeks.
“You really think that's why I'm here?” His chest tightens painfully as he resists the urge to pull you back in before you're ready. God, if he knew that was all you thought of him he'd have said to hell with this feud weeks ago. None of it has been worth it; there's not a single moment of amusement he's got from your teasing that he wouldn't trade in a heartbeat for you to not be looking at him the way you are right now.
“Because I can't even handle a patient by myself,” you mutter.
“No, because I could never forgive myself if something happened to you because I was being too proud to stop!”
His words hang between you, combined with the sudden exhale that leaves your lungs. He lets out a shaky breath too, it mingling into the tension that it all at once too much and not enough.
“You…” you begin falteringly, “you were worried about me?”
He reaches for you now, arms open to allow you in if you want. He still isn't sure if you do. “I was terrified.”
You hesitate, only for a moment, before folding yourself gently into his embrace. There's less of the desperation of the first time, but the same need to be held. This time, his hands waste not even a second in wrapping around you, but the one that was on your arm moves to stroke your hair where your head rests against his chest. Through the soft fabric of his scrubs rustling against your ear, you can feel his heart hammering in tandem with yours. Together, you allow your breaths to slow, one following the other until you're both marginally calmer. The unison, the silent encouragement, says the words you both know the other is thinking. I'm sorry for making you worry about me. I'm sorry for making you think I wouldn't.
Eventually, you work up the nerve to speak again. Your voice is still soft, but slightly less shaky. Only slightly. “I never hated you, you know.”
“I know,” he murmurs, the words rumbling through his chest.
“You do?”
“Well,” he smirks, “you wouldn't be hugging me like this if you did.”
“Shut up.” You give his arm a light punch and let out the most delicate laugh. The sound almost makes him fall apart on the spot. “So does that mean you don't hate me either?”
“Oh, absolutely despise you, can’t stand the sight of you,” he teases as he hugs you closer with an arm around your waist. “No, of course I don’t hate you, and I’m sorry I ever made you feel like I did. I’m not… used to being genuine with people, and it was so easy to let things go too far until I didn’t know how to not be like that around you, but I promise I’ll try to do better.”
You glance up at him, a small smile on your lips and a glimmer of mischief in your eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t okay with the teasing.”
“Noted, I’ll add that to your chart.”
“You’re such an idiot,” you roll your eyes affectionately.
“That’s my way of telling you I want to make sure you’re really okay.” He pauses for a moment before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. You let out a tiny noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, and he laughs. “If I knew that was all it took to leave you speechless I’d have done it weeks ago.”
You sit back, just enough to see the smug triumphant grin on his face, before you place one hand on his chest and the other on his jaw and press your lips to his. The moment he tries to lean into the kiss, you retreat with a cocky raised eyebrow. He bites the inside of his cheek, all at once amused and unimpressed, but the shine in his rapidly darkening blue eyes tells you it’s more of the former. For a moment, you feel like you’ve reclaimed the upper hand, but only for a moment. He sits properly on the floor, hands finding your waist as he pulls you into his lap and kisses you properly, desperately, passionately. Every movement of his lips against yours eases a little of the tension from the coiled up spring that has taken residence in your ribcage where your heart usually sits, leaving only steady but elevated beating and excited breathing behind. His hands roam over your body: across your back, down your hips to your thighs, across your arms, round the back of your neck. The touch is tender but deliberate.
“Is this your idea of a physical exam?” you murmur against his lips.
“I’ll have you know,” he replies, breathless, between kisses that he can’t resist delivering, “that I take my job very seriously.”
You smile, giving your lip a playful bite which he mimics immediately. “Well then, you’d better be thorough.”
If anyone comes by looking for a spare room or two suspiciously absent residents, Robby and Dana are a little too quick to direct them elsewhere. They’ve both seen this coming for a while, especially after the way Langdon reacted, and if it’s helping you recover from your ordeal then it would practically go against their Hippocratic Oath to intervene now. There will be plenty of time to make fun of you both later.