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Frank thinks distantly that God is testing him. That he's committed great wrongs and is now condemned to suffer temptation named Melissa King until his poor, useless body turns to dust. Oh well, thoughts swirl around listlessly, unfocused in his head, Frank had never had much self-preservation anyway. Of all the temptations he'd succumbed to in his life, this one, he thinks, eyes focused on the narrow strip of smooth pale skin exposed as Mel reached for a glass on the second shelf and falls short, is worth it.
“Hey. Honey, I got it,” and the words are out before he can stop them, forming on his lips and tumbling out of his mouth on instinct, like he has any right to call her that. Like he has any right. Not when he can still see the pale line of skin on his fourth finger where his gold wedding band used to rest. Not when he's still on probation at work. Not when he still attends his weekly NA meetings (Thursday night at 8!). Not when she called him here as her friend. Frank was going to hell.
He moved around her to grab the glass just out of her reach, hoping her fever and most recent dose of meds were enough to keep her from questioning his Freudian slip. She was radiating heat, flushing his front with warmth despite the intentional inch of space he kept between them. He wanted to hold her, bring her to bed, and solve every problem that crossed her path.
She shivered, and Frank’s chest hurt as if something were pressing down on his lungs. Maybe he was experiencing a cardiac event? But… no. He surmised that was just the feeling he got when he was within a few feet of Mel King these days.
Mel turned around slowly and faced Frank, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Her eyes were clouded with fever, and loose strands of golden-blonde hair fell limply around her face, pulled free from her braid. Frank wanted to reach up and brush it back. Frank wanted.
He realized suddenly and with jolting clarity how close he was still standing to her. One intentional step back, and then he was filling her glass with water from her tap, wiping a stream of gathering condensation off the rim with the edge of his sleeve. He shepherds her from her cramped galley kitchen over towards her well-loved couch. Mel leans her body weight gently into his side as he does so, murmuring something about feeling exhausted, and Frank wonders distantly how he could have made so, so many mistakes in his life and yet this wonder of a woman still ended up pressed against him.
Mel collapses unceremoniously onto her overstuffed cushions, and Frank takes a moment to tuck a stray blanket up over her shoulders. He moves to pull away, thinking Mel probably wanted to rest without him looming in her space, but "Wait. Frank?" Mel's voice is rough, tinged with hesitancy. He pauses, waits for her to gather her courage. He focuses on the little mole right underneath her eye, and he wants to brush his thumb across her cheek. Her eyebrows pinch together gently, "Can you stay? Just here on the couch?"
Frank's brain takes a minute to process the request, and Mel fills that space with nervous chatter, "Of course, if you're not comfortable, I completely understand. You probably want to get home, and, of course, the longer you're here, the greater changes of contagion. But you would already know that becau-"
"Hey. Push over."
She makes room for him, and he settles himself down gently. His back has been aching all day, and it's the first moment he's had to ease some of the discomfort. Mel stays stiff straight on her bit of the couch, and Frank gives her a moment to acclimate before he moves slowly, projecting his reach, and wraps one arm around her shoulders. She settles after a moment and tucks herself into his side. Maybe Frank was wrong earlier and God is on his side afterall.
She smells like strawberry shampoo and hand sanitizer. Frank wants to press his nose to the top of her head and inhale deeply. He wants to pull the hair tie out from the bottom of her braid and run his finger through her loose hair. He wants to do a lot of things. Frank exhibits a monumental display of self-control.
Frank reaches for the TV remote and flicks through the Netflix movies for a few minutes, volume turned all the way down, before he finally settles on something, letting the low chatter of the characters on the screen dull his thoughts.
He often finds himself like this at the end of a long shift. Which is all of them, if he really thinks about it. Their lives in the ED are so fast-paced that all Frank ever wants to do at the end of the day is eat something and crawl into bed. It used to drive Abby crazy. She used to wait for him to get home and wanted to sit and chat all night long. Frank had never figured out a good way to explain to her that he had spent the last hour trying to save a 6-year-old boy, who reminded him so much of Tanner that Frank could barely think straight, from coding on the table, and that all Frank wanted was to eat his lasagna silently and disassociate in the shower. He supposed there really wasn't any way to understand his life unless you lived it.
But, well, Frank and Abby are now truly divorced, and she is nicely set up in a townhouse with his kids, and their dog, and she works her cushy marketing job, and her parents support any other need Abby might ever express.
And Frank? Frank has his apartment. And that half-eaten protein bar in his backpack pocket.
His quiet, empty apartment that echoes depressingly when he drops his backpack at the front door. Frank thinks sardonically that he can silently stare at the wall after work now whenever he wants. Even this, though, is better than the hatred and resentment that was brewing between him and Abby. And, God, even if he only sees his kids in person twice a week, at least he sees them at all. Frank knows Abby had nearly every right to cut him off entirely when his benzos addiction came out. She certainly had the legal support to do so, and Frank knew he could never have afforded to battle it out in court if it had come to that.
Mel shivers slightly under Frank's arm, and with a glance down, he confirms she's sound asleep. Frank runs his fingers over her blanket-covered shoulder up and down. Mel makes a small noise from the back of her throat, and it sends a strum of adoration through Frank that echoes around in his ribs. He's glad she's finally getting some rest. Glad she's here with him instead of alone. Glad she called him just as he was walking to his car, and asked in a raspy voice if he could stop by her place and drop off a new bottle of Tylenol and a box of tissues, but specifically ultra soft Kleenex brand, please?
Frank lets his eyes glaze over the television, the figures on the screen blurring into unfocus. And he's finally sitting down for the first time since he got out of bed this morning, and his back isn't killing him like it has all day, and he's warm, and Mel's familiar shampoo is filling his nose, and the dull buzz of the TV is drowning out the worst of his thoughts, and Frank thinks maybe he can just close his eyes and lie here forever. Maybe he will.
And then the blankets are shifting, and it's much darker in the living room than Frank remembers, and he’s suddenly very aware of the figure next to him sitting up and fumbling around on the couch for something. “Hey. Hey. Mel, are you okay? What do you need?” Frank's voice is gravelly and rough with disuse. He’s slowly registering that he must have fallen asleep.
“I think I need-” Mel cuts off, shoulders pulling up closer to her ears in a visible sign of discomfort. “I don’t feel well, and I don’t know where I left my phone and Becca- I didn’t call her earlier, and what time is it? I have to pick her up from the center.” Mel’s eyes are hazy, and her whole body is shaking with small tremors. Mel moves to stand up from the couch, and Frank, finally stunned out of his sleepy stupor, shakes the fog from his head and focuses.
He half stands to meet her, two hands covering her shoulder caps and pressing down gently. Her eyes are still glazed with fever. “Shh. Mel. Becca’s spending the night at the center tonight. Remember? It’s on your calendar. Today's Monday,” Frank reminds her gently.
Mel’s eyes focus and refocus on his face, and a stroke of understanding crosses her face. Frank reaches up and brushes his hand over her forehead, checking on her fever. She took a dose of acetaminophen when he’d gotten to her place, but they’ve both slept, and he’s not even sure what time it is now. Burning warmth presses against the back of his hand, and Frank pulls back against the heat of her skin. He ducks down to meet her gaze; her skin is wan and clammy, and Frank’s brows furrow.
He fumbles for his phone somewhere in the couch cushion, thinking it’s about time he gives in and starts wearing a watch. They’ve been asleep for nearly four hours. It’s the best sleep he’s had all week. Frank reaches for Mel’s water glass, finds it empty, and stands. “I’ll be right back.”
Frank fills the glass from the tap and deposits it in front of Mel, who has her eyes closed, head tipped against the back of the couch, breathing softly. He crouches down in front of the couch so he’s at eye level with Mel, who, he realizes, has actually dozed off again. “Mel?” Frank shakes out two tablets from the drugstore brand Tylenol bottle.
She blinks at him wearily but takes the pills when he offers them, takes Frank's hand when he offers that too, “Let’s get you to bed, honey.” He’d already used the endearment once today; might as well roll with it. “You shouldn’t sleep too long on this couch.” Mel stands, leaning against his side. Frank leads them both to her bedroom. Her bedroom, he marvels at briefly. Though of all the times Frank has thought about taking Mel to bed, this wasn’t the circumstance he’d had in mind.
Beggars can’t be choosers, Frank’s dad used to say. And damn him if he wouldn’t take whatever scraps Mel was kind enough to toss his way.