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Frank, despite his history, loves weddings.
When he was in college, he was the life of the party. He drank kegs of beer and was always the last to leave. He was desperate to seem cool and ready to do anything for attention. Growing up a scrawny kid with nerdy interests in the South made him want nothing more than to be seen as cool. He spent all of his freshman year trying to impress the people around him, joined a frat to fit in.
Before his addiction—before the back injury and the pills and rehab, he saw weddings as just another way to party. He drank copious amounts of alcohol and stayed on the dance floor until the whole venue closed.
The entire experience is a bit different now. No alcohol, more water, and less dancing— mostly out of fear his back would act up and take him out for a week . They’re still a party, sure, but more grown up now. Younger Frank would’ve called it boring. Right Now Frank just calls it life.
Nothing can be boring when there’s Mel King next to him.
They’re at the wedding of Dr. Sharma, one of the night shift residents, along with the majority of their coworkers. In all honesty, he doesn’t know this couple very well, but they (very kindly) invited the entire ED and Mel had been adamant that they needed to go, lest they accidentally offend anyone with their absence.
The ceremony is beautiful, much nicer than his own wedding. An outdoor affair with white linen and archways of flowers. The bride and groom both look stunning, a complete turn around from the way he usually sees them—worn down and haggard in the ED. Though, he supposes his was a shotgun courthouse wedding in the middle of COVID, so his perspective is skewed. It’s a short ceremony, maybe twenty minutes. Mel is crying a stream of tears the whole time.
“I didn’t know you felt so deeply for Dr. Sharma,” he whispers.
“I don’t,” she sniffles. “I just love love.”
Her strong emotions are one of his favorite things about her. Her sensitivity that he noticed on their first day together is something he still looks up to her for. She’s taught him so many things since that first day. He pulls her in closer to him by her waist and presses a long kiss against her hair, the corners of his lips upturning against the crown of her head.
Watching the bride and groom kiss, he thinks about Mel, about the future. Truthfully, he’s always thinking about Mel and their future, but now they’re at a wedding, and it makes everything have a romantic filter over it. His mind wanders to Mel in white, walking down the aisle, Becca standing next to her at the altar. It makes his heart clench in his chest, makes him dizzy with want.
She’d probably want it to be small, just their closest friends and family. She wouldn’t want a big venue, maybe they’d even do it in their backyard. They’ve been landscaping and gardening out there, planting a multitude of native species. Becca would do her hair and makeup. Her dress might be the one thing she could be convinced to splurge on, because she’s always wanted a medieval style wedding dress.
Buried deep in the back of the highest cabinet in their house is a small, velvet box that he’s had since the three month mark of their relationship. (He’s surprised he was able to hold off that long, honestly.) Inside is Susan King’s engagement ring that Becca stole out of Mel’s room for him while he distracted her with a trip to her favorite boba place.
The problem is not that there is no perfect time to do it, or rather that every time feels like the perfect time. He wants to do it every morning when he wakes up to her golden hair tangled up and in his face. He wants to do it every time they’re sitting on the couch doing the Times Crossword. He wants to do it every time she looks to him after a good save at work, like she’s proud of herself and wants him to see it, too.
After the ceremony is cocktail hour while the bridal party takes pictures. He orders a Diet Pepsi, Mel orders some fruity mixed drink. The choice of drink makes him laugh, but it’s a solid choice.
The two of them find their seats, at a table full of their coworkers. The reception is in a massive atrium, with entire walls of windows to let the sun shine in. There’s tables lining the floor, covered in white tablecloths and the centerpieces are lanterns with tea candles flickering inside. Yo is next to him, teasing him. “Wow! Langdon put on some big boy pants for this.”
Samira is next to Mel, complimenting her dress, telling her she looks beautiful, sitting under Abbot’s arm. Santos and Javadi are turned towards each other, the former with a look on her face that Frank doesn’t want to investigate, Whitaker watching the two of them interact with a nervous look.
“So when are you having one of these, Abbot?” Frank asks. He’s teasing, but it’s a risk. He and Abbot’s relationship isn’t one of jokes. Frank’s a little scared of him, if he’s honest.
“Don’t throw stones at glass houses, Langdon,” he quips back. Frank laughs, and looks to Mel at his side. She’s blushing, her cheeks a deep red. She’s also on the last sips of her second drink and has now reached tipsiness.
She’s remarkably good at hiding her inebriation. If he didn’t know her so well, he doesn’t think he’d be able to tell. But he does know her, down to her split ends and bitten nails, so he sees the way her eyes squint at Samira while they converse, even though she’s wearing her glasses. He sees the way she sways a bit in her chair—it’s not the same as when she’s self-soothing. He hears her say things she’d usually never say in public—she and Samira literally start talking about their sex lives, in front of the men they have the sex with.
After they have their dinner, and Mel downs another drink, everyone moves to the dance floor. Watching her jump around, massive smile on her face, curls bouncing with the movement is something he thought he’d never see. In this context, at least.
They spent so long tip-toeing around this thing between them. This kindling of something—friendship, yes, but something different too.
It took him nearly two years to convince himself to kiss her. A late night spent watching movies on her couch, so late it was morning. He’d been working himself up to do it all night, through three movies and four buckets of popcorn. There was nothing particularly special about that day, he just felt like he couldn’t hold it in anymore and told himself he had to do it that day. Then, while the credits rolled on Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet, he did. Mel smiled when he pulled away and just said finally.
Now, they’re together at a colleague’s wedding, and he gets to dance with her and watch her fall further into oblivion. Uninhibited and completely at ease—something she doesn’t get to be very often.
“Are you having a good time?” he asks. He secretly loves when she’s drunk, always following her around, never without a hand somewhere on her body. Watching Mel King lose all of her inhibitions and anxieties is one of the great joys of life. He almost feels selfish for having it all to himself.
“Mhm,” she hums, eyes heavy lidded, arms wrapped around his shoulders while they spin in slow circles. The song they’re playing is certainly not a slow dance song, but they tend to play by their own rules.
“I love you,” she hums contently. His heart stutters in his chest, the way it always does when she tells him this. No matter how many times he hears it, he’ll never tire of her voice saying those words. On the phone, on the way out of the door, in their bed late at night. He doesn’t know how he (self-described arrogant asshole with some colossal fuck ups under his belt) got to be the one to have this.
Mel King, the kindest person he’s ever met, fell in love with him and all of his regrets and mistakes. She’s seen the worst of him, the ugly parts sitting below the surface. She’s seen him breaking down on the bathroom floor, seen him in need of a meeting, seen him buzzing with rage. She’s seen it all and still loves him, reminds him everyday. It’s something of a miracle, he thinks.
“I love you,” he tells her back, brushing a curl of golden hair behind her ear. She looks so beautiful it almost hurts. Becca did her hair before they left–old Hollywood waves swept over one shoulder. Her makeup brings out the green in the hazel of her eyes, making his joints loose and a little unsteady. Her dress is a butter yellow satin that hangs off of her shoulders and compliments her skin so well she looks like she’s glowing.
“Are we gonna get married?” she asks.
“Of course we are,” he grins. He knows she would never say any of this if she wasn’t drunk, but that doesn’t mean he can’t humor the fantasy.
“Yay,” she smiles, wide and bright and unguarded. Then she gasps. “Wait! You have to ask Tanner and Penny first. You have to make sure it’s okay with them.” Her voice is very serious, as serious as it can be while she’s heavily intoxicated.
“You know they love you,” he tells her. His heart might explode in his chest.
“I know,” she agrees astutely. “But I want them to know and be okay with it.”
“They will be,” he assures her. “But I will ask for their blessing anyway.”
“Thank you,” she smiles triumphantly. He’d do anything she asked.
She presses up on her tippy toes to kiss him softly, happily, like she’s grateful she gets to kiss him whenever she feels like. Which, she always is after a few sips of alcohol.
“You look so hot,” she tries to whisper, but it comes out far too loud.
His cheeks flush then, a grin blooming on his face.
“Frank,” she whines, pressing her face into his neck. He trails a hand down her back and hums, waiting for her to go on. “I think I got too drunk.”
He laughs and brushes her hair behind her ear. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll take care of you.”
“You always do,” she smiles.