Chapter Text
When Frank does finally hit the ground, no one is in the room to witness it.
It’s a blessing in disguise. He doesn’t fall with the grace of an actor knowing that there’s a crash mat waiting, he falls like an overtired toddler attempting to walk three steps forwards. A step, a sway, and lights out.
Then the seizing begins, and Frank starts to wish that someone had been in the room with him.
He can’t think for a while, and when he finally feels coherent enough to link words, his first thought is a hearty what the fuck?
He pushes himself to sit slowly and painfully, piecing together the lead up to his… seizure?
Okay, fine. He’s been feeling crappy for a few days. Headache, backache, nausea. The lights in the ER are overwhelming to most and honestly are the reason he had no complaints about being stuck on charting all day. Robby is testing him, forcing him into jobs he knows that Frank would have bristled at the thought of doing a year ago.
Regaining the trust he had lost was taking some time and Frank spends most of his evenings eating gas station sushi against his own better judgement while he ponders what the hell happened to his life.
Still. He has his job, no matter how shaky the linoleum tiled ground is.
It feels real solid right now beneath him. He’s down for a few minutes, fuzzy and soaking in the chill of the floor.
It’s only when he hits the 5 minute mark that he decides he needs to get himself up. He sends another thanks to the gods that he had no witnesses, and he pushes himself up just as Santos walks into the patient room he’s claimed for the day. She levels him with a look that he’s nowhere near comfortable with. He’s seen it before and it ended up with him in rehab.
“Are you okay?” It’s not hesitant, per say, but he does think that maybe she doesn’t actually want to know. Just professional courtesy.
“I’m good.” He mumbles back, praying that his chair is behind him when he sits down. So his tongue hasn’t quite found its place yet, big deal.
“Did you just… fall over?” She questions, skeptical. He kind of hopes she never loses the level of suspicion she has, though he does prefer when it’s not directed at him. There’s only so many jobs a man can lose.
“Fell off my chair.” He lies, like a liar. No brain power left over for a better excuse.
“Like an adhd riddled school boy?” She questions again.
He hums, lacking the energy to defend himself any further. She’s kind of right mostly.
Trinity shakes her head, clearing the situation away.
“Robby wants you in five, big MVA coming in, all hands on deck.” She tells him. He nods, grimaces in a way that could be a smile.
“….okay..” Trinity taps the doorframe twice, before walking away. She checks over her shoulder once before she’s out of sight.
Frank groans loudly into his hands. He’s sore all over, partly from the seizure and partly from the fall. He’s not sure he trusts his hands to help people.
But if he doesn’t turn up when Robby needs him, well he may as well just hand his badge over and piss on the guy’s jacket before cartwheeling out the door.
Dragging himself out of the chair is pain. The lights are still too bright. His head aches like a bitch. He stumbles out of the room like a newborn fawn, all leg no balance. Finds the huddle. Manages to gown and glove up with minimal effort, and snaps his brain back into place the second the doors fly open.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s carnage.
Not on the level of pittfest, but not far behind. There are far too many bodies in one room yet every body is needed. The accident was a nasty one, and it’s certain that not everyone is making it out.
Frank pulls saturated dressing away, replacing it with fresh faster than seems possible. The amount of blood this guy is losing can’t be replaced; he was dead before he hit the doors.
Grim tension settles in the room, everyone too tired for hope. They make it another few minutes before the flatline is too monotonous to ignore.
Robby calls it.
Frank’s gloves make the most disgusting squelch as they peel off, finding a new home in the bin. It sets his stomach off a little, unusual for him except for how it isn’t now that he’s juggling new meds all the time to find balance. He swallows back the nausea, turning back to face Robby.
“This was a tough case. Some things we just can’t control, no matter how hard we try. All we can do, is find some peace in the effort we made.” Everyone looks solemn, nodding minutely. Frank is going to throw up.
He channels all he has into not vomiting on his trainers. They’re new, he’d hate to see them ruined.
“Does anyone have any words they’d like to share?” Robby asks, like always. Frank never does. He’s never been a words person, too technical to create comfort instead of providing facts. If he did have any words, they would be that he was going to die anyway, and they all knew it.
Nobody likes a realist.
“Take a moment to sit with yourself before you carry on. The world still turns, but we can afford the pause to reflect.” Robby finishes.
It’s good timing. The nausea has transformed into full blown sick, acrid and coming fast.
Frank’s new trainers squeak along the floor as he rushes to the bathroom, barely hitting the floor before he’s violently retching. He throws up a couple of times, panting heavily into the bowl. The door behind him swings open, followed by heavy steps and an all too familiar sigh.
“You need to be admitted or sent home?” Robby asks, clearly disinterested.
“I’m not on anything Robby.” He defends, knowing what his attending thinks. What he’ll always think whenever he looks at Frank.
“Fucking hell Frank, I’m trying to throw you a bone here!” The voice is tighter, angry, and oh so venomous. Robby’s never faked his feelings about Frank since his first day back.
“Not a big fan of bones. Would be in the wrong specialty.” He forces out, still clinging to the toilet like a lifeline.
Frank swears he can hear Robby’s disappointed look.
“Talk to me. Don’t talk to me. Whatever. I’m done trying.” Though his voice is loud, it’s completely devoid of any care. Either Robby is a better actor than they think, or he’s genuinely done with Frank. He doesn’t know which is worse.
“Ha. That implies that you tried.”
The sound of the door slamming shut cuts into the end of his sentence, his audience gone halfway through the show. Frank slumps into the bowl. Tears drip into the water below, from the strain, and he waits a few minutes before deeming it safe to move.
Baby fawn Frank stumbles out of the bathroom, makes it over to Dana’s land where he knows they’ll be a chair for him to die on. She hums thoughtfully as he approaches, crosses her arms at how heavily he hits the chair.
“You look rough.” She starts, eyeing him inquisitively. Frank sighs.
“Headache. Nausea. Pretty normal in my life at the moment.” He doesn’t mention the seizure, because he’s honestly not sure what happened. Or if they’d believe him.
“Water?” She offers, reaching for what he knows is the coldest water on earth. It could save him.
“Please.” He tries not to beg, but he’s always been Dana’s yappy puppy.
“Robby looked pretty pissed when he left the bathroom. Guessing you didn’t grovel at his feet today?” Dana asks, passing him the cold bottle.
“I can’t spend my every day waiting for him to forgive me, Dana. My well is dry.” He laments. The water is good, soothing. Almost makes him believe in higher power.
“It won’t be forever Frank.” She tries to reassure him. She knows Robby well, probably has an insight into his head that Frank doesn’t have.
He can’t shake the feeling that she’s wrong though.
“It might be. Something’s got to give.” He replies, hopeless.
She looks sad for him, reaching forward to stroke at his arm. Dana pauses a second, lets her hand linger.
“Go and take a minute honey,” she suggests, “you’re a bit too warm to be well.”
It’s funny. Now that she’s mentioned it, he can feel the sweat.
Frank never feels normal anymore. He’s still trialing new mediations, switching every few weeks. His stomach has been messed up for months, he’s barely sleeping. He can just about choke down whatever toxic rubbish he picks up for his daily meal. Actually being ill wouldn’t even register in the way he’s feeling all of the time.
He spins on his chair to face the desk, only intending to rest his head for a few seconds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He can’t call it waking up exactly, but when he’s aware again, he feels extremely bad.
Worse than the time that he drank his roommates' criminal concoction of several spirits and a bottle of coca-cola older than their fathers.
He drags his head up in a daze, aware of three faces staring down at him, one hand insistently rubbing his back.
“Frank…” Dana calls, all knowing. He shakes his head, hoping the fuzz will fall out with the action.
“I’m fine.” He insists. Has to insist. He doesn’t know what he’s worth anymore if he can’t even be a body in a room.
“Go home Langdon.” A voice that is usually Robby demands.
God no. Home is boring. Home is not stimulating enough to keep him from crying all the time. He shakes his head again, forcing himself to his feet.
“It’s just a headache, I’ll look down instead of up. You got a case?” He grunts out.
Robby must be really over him, because he doesn’t even call out the obvious lie. He just shakes his head in disbelief, turning away again.
“Santos and Whitaker have a case that I want you on.” The doctors look sheepish, kids between their unamicably divorced parents.
Frank forces himself to stand, heavily relying on the desk in front of him to stay up. He fakes competence, strolling around the station with a false level of enthusiasm. He pulls the tablet from Robby’s hand, swiping through, when it happens.
Dread settles into his stomach like a wave. Not the kind he gets when he reads a case and knows the outcome; it’s foreign. Unfamiliar. All consuming.
His body has done some wild things recently, but this is by far the scariest.
He must wobble a little, tipping towards Whitaker who quickly braces his arm. The kid glances up at Frank’s face as his hand makes contact, concerned.
Ah, he must still be a little bit warmer than usual.
“Are you okay?” Whitaker asks him, hesitantly.
“No, he’s not.” Trinity begins before he can even open his mouth. She stares at him, eyes narrowing for a beat before they widen dramatically.
Oh, he’s falling again.
Santos gets to him just in time to soften his descent, but she isn’t quick enough to stop the first jerk from slamming his head into the floor.
Luckily for him, he gets to check out of the panic.