Chapter Text
Frank Langdon wakes before his alarm, and for a moment he doesn’t move.
It’s still dark, gray light leaking through the blinds, the city not quite awake yet. The quiet sits heavy in the room, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator, and the distant sound of early traffic.
And the pain.
Low in his abdomen. Deep. Not sharp, not the kind that makes him drop, but familiar enough that his stomach sinks anyway.
He exhales slowly through his nose, staring at the ceiling.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath. He knows what this is. He’s dealt with it before, far too many times. The dull, dragging start that sometimes stays manageable and sometimes doesn’t. Sometimes fading with heat and time, sometimes building into something that steals his breath, balance, and his ability to function.
He has a shift, he can't afford that.
Langdon drags a hand down his face, trying to wipe the feeling away. His body feels off, already tense, slightly nauseous. He turns his head, glancing at the clock.
Too early to call out. Too early to make that call at all. He lets out a short, humorless breath. “Not today,” he mutters.
He pushes himself upright, movement pulling at the pain, making it flare just enough that he pauses, one hand instinctively pressing low against his abdomen.
It’s not that bad.
He’s worked through worse. Worked through hangovers that felt like his skull was splitting open, through withdrawal tremors, and through exhaustion so deep it made his thoughts feel delayed.
Pain is nothing new, it's manageable.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. There’s a moment, just a for a second, where the room tilts slightly, and he has to brace a hand against the wall.
“I'm fine,” he says aloud, like that settles it, like saying it would make it true.
/
The bathroom light is too bright.
It hits him all at once, making him squint as he leans over the sink. His reflection looks… off. Pale. A little drawn around the eyes. Already a faint sheen of sweat at his temples.
He stares at himself for a long second. “You’re fine,” he says.
His reflection doesn’t look convincing.
He turns on the faucet, splashes cold water over his face, and grips the edge of the sink as another wave of that dull ache rolls through him. It’s contained, something he can breathe through, despite it lingering.
Langdon straightens slowly, jaw tightening. He doesn’t have time to overthink this. Overthinking leads to hesitation and hesitation leads to calling out and calling out leads to questions he absolutely does not want right now.
Not from Robby.
Especially not from Robby.
The thought of him settles heavy. Robby, standing at the nurse’s station with that unreadable expression, saying nothing but watching everything.
Langdon hasn’t missed the way things have shifted. Before rehab, Robby’s frustration had been sharp, direct. Cutting, but honest. Now it’s controlled, distant. Like Langdon’s existence is being measured against some internal scale, and still coming up short.
Calling out this early into being back? That’s not just a mark against him. It's confirmation.
Unreliable.
Again.
Langdon exhales sharply and reaches for his toothbrush, forcing his thoughts into something more concrete. His routine, following the steps, keeping in motion. That’s how he handles things. Keep moving, and nothing has time to catch up.
/
By the time he’s dressed, the pain has shifted.
Still there, sharper at the edges now, more present than background noise. He pauses by the door, hand resting on the handle. He considers it, for a moment, calling Dana saying he’s sick. Taking the day and managing this before it gets worse.
His grip tightens.
And then he shakes his head. He can already hear it. Not from Dana, she’d understand, or at least not push him on it.
But the rest? The looks, the quiet assumptions, the “timing” of it. Back from rehab, and suddenly he’s calling out. Yeah. That would go over well.
Langdon opens the door and steps out into the hallway.
/
The morning air is cool, just enough to wake him up as he steps outside. The city is in that in-between state of half asleep, half moving. A few cars, a few people, the world not yet fully up to speed.
He usually likes this part, today it just feels like something to get through. By the time he reaches his car, the pain has settled into something steady and insistent, not yet debilitating, but present enough that he notices every bump in the road.
Each and every pothole present on his route, through Pittsburgh.
He grips the steering wheel a little tighter.
“Seriously?” he mutters when a pothole hits harder than expected. The flare that follows lingers longer this time, sharp enough to make his breath hitch briefly.
Okay. That’s new.
Langdon exhales slowly, forcing his grip to loosen. It's still manageable, still workable.
/
By the time the hospital comes into view, a familiar structure rising into the morning light, he’s already shifting gears mentally. This part he can do.
The ER doesn’t care how you feel when you walk in. It cares how you perform once you’re there.
And Langdon?
He knows how to perform.
He parks, steps out, and straightens his shoulders as he heads inside. Each step sends a faint echo of discomfort through him, but he ignores it, focusing instead on the automatic rhythm of entering the building. Swipe badge, quick nod to security, the scent of antiseptic and coffee hitting him the moment the doors slide open. By the time he crosses the threshold, he’s already pushed everything else down.
The pain, the doubt. The lingering edge of exhaustion that never quite left after rehab.
He pushes through the doors
And immediately-
Chaos.
Voices overlapping, monitors beeping, stretchers lining the hallway.
Langdon doesn’t hesitate. The moment he steps in, something in him clicks into place, and he's back where he belongs. Whatever’s going on with his body can wait